The Moreau Quartet: Volume One: 1

by S. Andrew Swann

  It took an eternity for him to move down that darkened tunnel. Eventually, his progress was stopped. A carbon-black barrier walled off any further advance. The thing was louvered and spongy, and felt as if it was formed on a metal framework. Combination of heat dissipation and security. To keep people like him from wandering around the ventilation system.

  Nohar moved back until he was well clear of the barrier. Then he unslung the rifle and made sure it was on full auto. Then he emptied half the clip into the blockage. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space and his nose was seared with the smell of the gunfire. This rifle wasn’t caseless, and burning hot cartridges bounced all around him.

  In front of him, the black material tore away from a network of copper pipes. The pipes leaked cold water into the vent, and Nohar could suddenly smell salt.

  Nohar edged back up to the barrier. It was damaged enough that he could form an opening he could squeeze through. He bent two broken pipes back to the walls of the vent, and he forced the remaining horizontal pipes to bend up enough to allow him to crawl through on his stomach. It was a tight fit, and he had to leave the rifle behind until he made it through. Then he pulled it after him.

  Time was precious again. They might have missed his entry into the vent, but between the gunfire and the damage he had just caused, they were sure to know where he was now. He probably had only a matter of minutes to make it outside.

  Fortunately, the reason for the heat barrier was that he was within twenty meters of a vent to the outside. He only had to crawl a short way until the vent emptied into a concrete chamber that was topped by a square grate that looked up at the sky. Under the grate there was enough clearance to stand upright. The grate was heavy, iron, and padlocked shut. He didn’t know what was out there, but he could see the edges of the landscaping camouflaging the vent outlet.

  Nohar didn’t want to start shooting, alerting whoever was above, but he had to break the lock.

  He raised the butt of the rifle and slammed it into the lock. It took him five tries, and a split in the composite stock of the weapon, before the padlock popped open.

  He slung the rifle and started pushing the grate up. It was hinged at the base, and it was heavy. It took all of his strength to push it up with enough force that it arced over into the bushes.

  Nohar scrambled up out of the vent and crouched behind the bushes to get his bearings. He could hear alarms, and people running. He looked around and saw low military structures, and a lot of armed Marines running toward the building nearest him.

  Opposite the Marines was a concrete landing pad on which sat two of the black helicopters he had seen too much of lately. The twinned rotors on the one nearest him were starting to move. He could see a pilot seated, and the door in the side was hanging open.

  The copter had probably been all set to leave when the alarms sounded.

  Nohar sprang from his cover and ran for the helicopter. He heard commotion behind him, and a few seconds later he heard the sounds of gunfire. A few bullets tore into the asphalt as he ran, but the shooters were far enough away that the sight was completely disconnected from the sound.

  The pilot must have seen him, because the door on the helicopter started closing. It was too late. Nohar managed to dive into the body of the aircraft before the door had closed completely. He landed on his bad arm, and he roared in pain and dropped the rifle.

  The pilot stood, scrambling to get out his sidearm. Nohar grabbed the rifle and put a shot into the front windscreen. The broken stock hammered into his shoulder, but he managed to keep hold of the gun. The area where it struck the armored glass starred and rippled in rainbow colors where the bullet was suspended.

  “Take off now!”

  The pilot sat back down, and Nohar heard the obliging whine of the rotors picking up speed.

  Nohar looked around him. The rear of the copter was in disarray, as if its inhabitants had had to leave in a hurry. Probably bugged out to hunt me down, Nohar thought.

  The copter rose, and the adrenaline high finally began fading from his system. He couldn’t ignore the pain in his arm anymore; it was slamming him like a jackhammer.

  Now that he was aware of the future beyond the next thirty seconds, he began to think of Krisoijn.

  Chapter 26

  The helicopter levered itself into the sky.

  “Toss the gun back here,” Nohar said.

  After a few seconds, the pilot’s sidearm slid along the floor next to him. Nohar dropped the rifle and picked up the pilot’s automatic, checking to be sure it was loaded and the safety was off. He lay there for several minutes, the pain from his injuries racing through him in shuddering waves. He wanted to collapse. He couldn’t allow himself to do that.

  With agonizing slowness, one-handed, Nohar pulled himself up off the floor of the helicopter. It took him three tries before he could manage it. He made it to the front of the helicopter, and through the broken windscreen, he could see the skyline of Los Angeles scroll by as the helicopter banked over Long Beach.

  “East,” Nohar told the pilot. He collapsed into the seat next to the pink. It was too small and he was hunched over, giving him a chance to feel the bones grinding in his forearm every time the helicopter changed attitude.

  The pilot looked across at him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “What matters is what you think I’ll do if you don’t do what I say.” Nohar had to aim the gun across his chest, to point at the pilot’s head. “East, where the other helicopter was going.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Nohar put another shot, past the pilot’s face and into the side window. The bullet was suspended in the armored window, throwing rainbows across the surface of the broken glass. Nohar leaned toward the pilot. “I don’t like defeatist attitudes.”

  Nohar could smell the fear emanating from the pilot. He was another kid, barely twenty. Nohar remembered the kid on the stairs. He couldn’t get that image out of his mind.

  It was a good thing pinks were rotten at picking up emotional cues, or he’d know that Nohar wasn’t going to kill him. Nohar could tell he had the kid on the edge, so he pressed while he had the advantage.

  “There’s at least one helicopter that had a lead on us. It’s fully loaded. You’re not. That means you can catch up.”

  “You don’t understand what you’re asking—”

  “One more word, and I put a bullet through your cheek.”

  The pilot shut up.

  “I can read your radar. Follow him as fast as this crate can go.”

  The helicopter banked west, and the pilot didn’t say another word. Nohar watched for signs that the pilot was holding back on the acceleration. He knew less about helicopters than he did about aircars, but from the looks of the displays in front of the pilot, the speed on this thing was maxed out. Looking out the windows at the angle of the coastline told him they were traveling in the right direction.

  Once the towers of LA drifted behind them, Nohar lowered his weapon. He glanced down at the console in front of them.

  “You’re not going to see them on that,” the pilot said.

  Nohar looked up.

  “Go ahead, shoot me. Even if they were within short-range radar contact, they’ll only show if their FOF transponder’s on.”

  “How much of a lead?”

  He could see the pilot debating with himself over his cooperation. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Distance?”

  “Ninety to one-fifty klicks.”

  Nohar didn’t know whether to curse the distance, or be thankful that Krisoijn hadn’t reached his destination yet.

  The pilot looked at Nohar. “You know, I’m worthless as a hostage. They’re not going to hesitate shooting us down.”

  “Then get moving.”

  Nohar looked down at the console. His vision was blurry wi
th fatigue and pain. He switched the automatic to his other hand, clutched to his chest. He hoped the captive pilot wouldn’t try anything while he held the gun in his broken arm.

  Nohar began flipping switches on the helicopter’s comm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “How do you get a civilian channel on this thing?”

  The pilot looked at what he was doing. “They’ll be able to monitor everything you say on that.”

  “As long as the person I call can read me.”

  “The first dial to ‘CIV,’ the second to ‘DAT,’ and the third to ‘TRN/RCV.’”

  Nohar did as the pilot said. After going through an on-screen menu he managed to get the familiar blue AT&T test pattern logo. He was never happier to see that image.

  He slipped a ramcard—the one he had copied from the Bensheim database—into the comm’s data slot.

  “What are you doing?” the pilot asked. He still smelled of fear, but he had recovered enough for Nohar to trade the automatic back to his good hand. It hurt to move his broken arm toward the console, but he could move his fingers enough to operate the comm.

  “What are you doing?” Nohar said.

  “What?”

  “What is the mission of that military cabal you work for?”

  The pilot looked at Nohar as if he was nuts. “What do you think is going on here?” Nohar said.

  “You obviously escaped from detention . . .” Nohar would have laughed if his arm didn’t hurt so much. He began typing in Pacific Rim Media.

  “Why was I being detained?”

  “I don’t know.” The pilot paused. “You obviously are a morey terrorist—”

  “Why else would I hijack you, right?”

  The pilot nodded.

  “You don’t have any idea what their agenda is?”

  “Whose agenda?”

  “The people you work for.”

  “The Marines?”

  Nohar shook his head as a receptionist came on-line to take his call. The man on the other end of the comm was an immaculate Asian gentleman who was just imperfect enough to be flesh and blood and not a computer facsimile.

  Nohar knew he was a real person when he saw the expression of shock at the sight of his caller. Nohar didn’t know if the handgun was in the frame, but the man could certainly see the ragged blood-spattered clothes and the broken arm.

  “Pacific Rim Media.” The man announced it in such a way that Nohar knew in his secret heart he hoped the response would be, “Oops, wrong number.” The man never even gave Nohar the obligatory, “May I help you?”

  “Not the Marines,” Nohar said.

  “What?” said the man on the other end of the comm. The man’s movements were jerky with interference. Nohar stared into the screen. “Connect me with Stephanie Weir.” The receptionist looked unsure, so he added, “Tell her it’s Nohar calling. She’ll talk to me.”

  “Just a moment.” The receptionist’s face showed the relief he felt, putting Nohar on hold.

  Nohar hoped he was right, and Stephie would talk to him.

  “What are you doing?” the pilot asked.

  “You’ll see it on the news, if we live.”

  He shook his head and stared out the distorted windscreen. The eastern half of Los Angeles slid underneath them. Aircars passed above them as they flew illegally low over the suburbs. The helicopter had maxed out at about two-fifty klicks an hour.

  “Making demands to the media won’t help. They still won’t negotiate with you. If you gave up, they might not shoot. . . .”

  “No demands,” Nohar said. “No negotiation.” Stephie’s face replaced the Pacific Rim test pattern and she started off on him before the video had fully resolved. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, calling me at work like th—” When the video was fully on-line, Stephie stopped talking and just stared.

  “Get a blank ramcard ready to download.”

  “What happened? Where are you—”

  “Do it.”

  Nohar saw Stephie fumble around her desk, eventually sliding a ramcard into her comm. “What’s going on?”

  “Something for your news division.” Nohar pressed the button for a burst transmit of the ramcard’s contents to Stephie. Once the data started shooting through the comm network, Nohar said, “Make copies of this. Transmit at least one overseas. They’re monitoring this comm.”

  Stephie shook her head. “What is this?”

  “A rogue military operation. An antiterrorist action gone out of control. That card you’re downloading is a database detailing domestic biological warfare experiments, using the North American Bensheim Foundation as a front.”

  “What?” The word came from Stephie and the pilot, they had almost the same expression. The display on the screen showed the card almost downloaded to Stephie’s comm.

  “No time. The database has enough for the story.” The display started flashing that the transfer was complete. Nohar swapped out the card, painfully with his broken arm, and slipped in the other one.

  “Get moving once this thing downloads. You aren’t safe until all this information is public.”

  “But—”

  The second card, the one that started all of this, didn’t take nearly as long to transmit. It was over before Stephie could ask him any more questions.

  Nohar cut the connection. He hoped that he hadn’t just condemned her like he had condemned Elijah.

  “We’re being ordered to land,” the pilot told him, holding a hand up to his headset.

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  “Look at the radar,” the pilot said. He flipped a switch so Nohar could hear the audio he was listening to.

  “. . . repeat, you are being ordered to land. Acknowledge, or you will be forced down . . .”

  Nohar glanced at the radar. There were two blips following them, both had the letters marking an active transponder. They were closing fast.

  “Those are two Vipers. Fully armed attack copters. This is a troop carrier. Which do you think’s faster?”

  Nohar gripped the gun tightly. “Landing isn’t an option.” In the background the commands from the Vipers continued in a monotonous litany.

  “Don’t you understand? They are going to shoot us down if you don’t let me land.”

  No, they would’ve already. For a moment Nohar wondered why they were still airborne—they were well within missile range. Then he looked down at the suburbs sliding by below them. They were waiting for them to clear the civilian population. . . .

  “Hug the freeway,” Nohar told him.

  “What?”

  “Get over the freeway, as low as you can without hitting any cars.”

  The pilot hesitated a moment, then he banked the helicopter down toward the Riverside Freeway. The Santa Ana Mountains filled the front of the windscreen as the copter dove toward Anaheim. As Nohar’s stomach dropped out, he looked in the rear video and saw the Vipers on their tail. The black copter he was in resembled a grotesque beetle under its counter-rotating props, the two Vipers were as narrow and lithe as dragonflies. Even at this distance Nohar could see their stubby wings, there to carry weaponry that couldn’t be attached to the Viper’s narrow fuselage.

  “We’re aiming right toward March Air Force Base—”

  Nohar didn’t respond. He watched as the mountains slid by the helicopter. Below them, traffic sped by in a blur, rolling along an endless ribbon of concrete. It felt as if Nohar could reach down and slap the roofs of the cars as they shot by beneath them. Air Force base or not, as long as they were so close to traffic, the pursuers wouldn’t dare shoot them down.

  The problem was going to come when they ran out of traffic. The freeway they were on would take them to I-10, which would take them all the way to the Arizona border, where the camps were. At some point, ove
r the desert, they would have to turn south, giving the Vipers a clear shot at them.

  Nohar didn’t know what he was going to do then. He hoped to catch up with Krisoijn before then.

  The copter blew past March on the northern turn up toward San Bernardino and I-10.

  “We’re headed toward Norton now.”

  “Just take Ten east.” Nohar stared at the radar, where other blips were joining the Vipers. They were far away, but from the speed he could tell that he was looking at a pair of conventional aircraft taking off from March, fighters. . . .

  The pilot looked at Nohar as he took the turn onto I-10. The traffic was lighter, and the population of Greater Los Angeles was now mostly behind them. Ahead lay mountains, desert, and a clear field of fire.

  “We have to put down,” the pilot said. “I can radio that we’ll put down at Norton Air Force Base—”

  Nohar shook his head; all he could think of was Maria. “How close are we to them?”

  “What? The other helicopter?” The pilot shook his head. “There’s still at least seventy-five klicks between us.”

  Nohar gripped the gun and pressed it into the pilot’s head. “We’re supposed to be faster—”

  “The jog north, following the freeway, it eats up time.”

  They’d never catch up with them at this rate.

  The board in front of the pilot started coming alive with red lights and buzzers.

  “What’s happening?”

  Over the speaker Nohar heard the tinny voice of one of the Vipers, “You are ordered to land now. This is your final warning.”

  “One of the Vipers has a radar lock on us.” The pilot turned toward him. “We have to land right now!”

  Nohar tasted copper on his breath, and felt the rush of his pulse in his ears and in his wounded arm. “No.” The word was almost a whisper.

  “Fuck this,” he said. “Shoot me, then.”

  The copter tilted and ducked toward a clear spot beside the highway. Nohar gripped the gun, but it was pointless to shoot, even if he could. There wasn’t any way they could escape the pursuit.