Sequence

by Darren Wearmouth

  “Terrorist attack. Sit tight. JSOC are all over it.”

  “How long?”

  He received no immediate reply. McPherson repeatedly tapped him on the shoulder; he brushed his hand away.

  “You need to look at this,” McPherson said.

  “Ten minutes. Can you see anything?” Booth said.

  “Give me a minute,” Featherstone said.

  He set a countdown timer on his digital watch as he spun the seat, keeping the receiver in hand, stretching the coiled cord taut.

  “I’ve seen four in jumpsuits, none of our guys,” McPherson said.

  Featherstone placed his hand over the speaker. “You mean none alive?”

  McPherson nodded.

  One monitor showed the building entrance. A terrorist searched the desk, a body by his feet. Another monitor displayed the inner gates, wide open. Three bodies lay around it, two in uniform.

  Featherstone raised the phone. “Men down at both gates and the entrance.”

  “Don’t panic. The response team is coming,” Booth said.

  “Wait, missile area clear,” Featherstone said, after surveying the images.

  He checked his watch, nine minutes. The monitors flicked to new locations and he jolted forwards.

  “Two more down outside the main building. No hostiles in the lift or MAF corridor, clear outside the blast door,” Featherstone said.

  “Where the hell did they go?” McPherson said.

  “Keep the line open. I’ve got a link to JSOC. Anything you can give us?” Booth said.

  The monitors flicked to new locations. McPherson took a sharp intake of breath. Featherstone felt his heart rate increase. One intruder searched the topside building. Three stood fifty yards from the entrance, around the MAF escape hatch. One held a large industrial implement against it. A white glow shone from the bottom of the tool; sparks fizzed and spat around it.

  “Can the team get here any quicker?” Featherstone said.

  “As soon as possible, what can you see?”

  “They’re trying to break the escape hatch with a tool. Got no idea what it is, never seen one like it.”

  “Some kind of thermal drill, plasma cutter?” McPherson said.

  Featherstone shook his head. “These guys know what they’re doing. Who are they with? How did they know?”

  “I’m working on the same information as you—”

  As Booth was replying, the topside images cut to fuzz.

  “We’ve lost the monitors,” Featherstone said.

  After a short pause, Booth said, “Same situation here.”

  McPherson looked up. Featherstone listened. He heard a faint whirring overhead, like a distant jet plane coming in for a landing.

  Featherstone instinctively felt for the M9 on his hip.

  The buried capsule felt claustrophobic. Not like the enclosed yet exhilarating feeling Featherstone had first experienced when he joined the 319th. This time he felt trapped; leaving by the blast door wasn’t an option.

  “Are you still there, Captain Featherstone?” Booth said.

  “Still here. Weapons ready.”

  “The response team will be with you in seven minutes.”

  Featherstone placed the receiver on the desk and tried to think. Who had the knowledge and resources to strike with such a targeted plan? His watch seemed to be running at half speed.

  A low metallic clank broke his concentration; something dropped. His eyes immediately met McPherson’s. They moved to the internal escape hatch entrance.

  The whirring seemed slightly louder, ringing down the tunnel to the metal door.

  “Are they in?” McPherson said.

  “Don’t think so, might be debris, a bolt, part of the hatch. Sounds like they’ve punctured through.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down McPherson’s temple. He took two steps back, aiming at the gun-metal gray circular outlet. Featherstone noticed his shoulders flinch as another object pinged against the exterior.

  “Keep your cool. We’ll get through this,” Featherstone said. He rushed to the blast door, flattening a chair on his way. The locking mechanism was in place, he already knew it.

  The escape hatch jangled.

  Back at the console, Featherstone snatched the receiver. “Major, have you considered a conventional strike?”

  “We don’t know the status of our casualties. The president won’t sanction it, not when a team’s six minutes away.”

  “We’ve got debris raining on the internal hatch; they’re making progress,” Featherstone said.

  “They’ve still got to get through it, and you’re armed. The odds are still in our favor,” Booth said.

  “I think they’re in,” McPherson shouted.

  Featherstone joined him at the rear of the capsule. He heard a faint scraping noise, followed by two thuds against the internal hatch. He scrambled back to the phone.

  “They’re in the tunnel. Have you taken us offline?” Featherstone said.

  “We can’t cut the power. Something’s wrong. We’re working on the isolation process. Activate local procedures,” Booth said.

  A noise like a continuous shrill foghorn blast started above. Featherstone felt gentle vibrations below his feet. The surface of his cold coffee rippled.

  Just over five minutes, concentrate on procedures.

  A red light winked on the console alarm panel, the first missile jointly isolated. He locked the key switches and rattled the black safe-door, ensuring the authentication codes were secure.

  Two more lights flashed, two more missiles offline, seven to go.

  “Jesus Christ!” McPherson shouted. Featherstone turned to the young second lieutenant. He waggled his M9 in the direction of the hatch. “How long have we got?”

  A quarter of the hatch rim glowed orange. They were targeting the lock. Molten steel dripped into the capsule, hissing on the vinyl floor, quickly losing its effervescence. A thin crack of light appeared, followed by a partial blast of a white-hot beam, blackening the floor and burning straight through to the concrete below. The place filled with the stench of melting steel, the flavor caught in the back of Featherstone’s mouth.

  He gripped his watch. Four minutes, back to work.

  “Anything comes through that hatch, fill it with lead,” he said.

  Sweat dribbled down McPherson’s glazed face. “You can count on it.”

  Five lights flashed. Come on. Come on…

  Featherstone picked up the receiver. “Don’t know how long we’ve got. They’re melting their way in.”

  “That’s—”

  “Impossible? I’ve done what I can here. I’m joining McPherson by the hatch. We’ll hold them off.”

  “Good luck, Captain, the team—”

  Featherstone dropped the phone after hearing a loose metallic rattle. He twisted around the communications console, aiming his M9. White smoke swirled around the upper half of the capsule, shrouding the escape hatch. McPherson crouched on one knee.

  “How many do you think?” McPherson said.

  “No idea. Three? Four?” Featherstone glanced at his watch. Still over three minutes. “Goddamn it.”

  Rattling continued; sparks shot through the smoke. The atmosphere dried Featherstone’s mouth and throat. He swallowed hard, concentrating, finger on the trigger. The drilling noise abruptly stopped. McPherson’s hand twitched after a creak.

  “Wait for it,” Featherstone said.

  They waited. Shuffling and clicking sounds echoed above.

  “How long we got?” McPherson said.

  Before he could reply, the hatch wafted through the smoke on its screaming hinges, thudding open. Its red-hot edge hung below the veil.

  Featherstone fired three shots towards a darkened area. McPherson followed with a double-tap. A male voice screamed, and they saw a body drop to the floor, writhing in agony. Featherstone fired at his torso.

  Automatic fire rattled from the tunnel, striking the floor just in front of him. He kept his compo
sure, firing at the muzzle flash, edging away.

  “I’m hit,” McPherson shouted.

  He lay clutching his side. Featherstone reached forward, pulling him from the tunnel’s line of sight. A staccato burst echoed above. McPherson grasped his stomach.

  “I’m done,” McPherson wheezed.

  Featherstone glanced at the increasing red patches on the second lieutenant’s T-shirt. He held his M9 towards the escape hatch while putting his hand on McPherson’s cheek.

  “Hang in there, buddy. Don’t leave me.”

  McPherson coughed. “Patch me up later. Kill those bastards.”

  Featherstone glared across the room, squinting in the smoke. An object clunked to the ground. A blinding flash of light followed an earsplitting crack.

  No injuries… stun grenade… switch on, focus.

  He shook his head, vision blurred.

  Two figures dropped into the capsule, running for him, firing. He instinctively raised the M9 in their direction, firing four shots in an arc before collapsing backwards with searing pain in his right shoulder.

  He lost control of his right hand, couldn’t grip his weapon. A terrorist collapsed through the haze next to him, a bullet through his cheek, vacant-eyed. Featherstone saw two drop from the hatch. Was the other hit?

  His question was quickly answered as a boot thrust towards his face, stamping on his nose.

  Somebody grabbed his hair, dragging him backwards towards the console.

  He tried to raise his hands. It felt like they were trying to rip his scalp off. The terrorist raised him by the hair, forcing him down in his chair. They jabbed something against the back of his head, probably a gun.

  “Do as I say and I’ll let you live,” a woman’s voice said softly.

  The voice surprised him, partly because of the strength, partly because he’d expected it to be male. He glanced to his side and couldn’t see anyone else alive in the capsule.

  “What do you want?” Featherstone groaned. “Are you the only one left?”

  She dropped a smartphone on the console in front of him. “That’s the launch code, use the coordinates below it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Featherstone said.

  The woman wriggled her finger through a small hole in the shoulder of his jumpsuit, forcing her fingernail into the bullet wound.

  Featherstone roared. He swung his left fist backwards. The woman wrapped her arm around his neck, squeezing tightly, choking him.

  The woman turned to face the escape hatch and shouted, “Come down; it’s clear. I need you to get information from the missileer if we require it. I’ll configure the launch.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Featherstone said.

  She yanked his chair and he tumbled backwards. The woman kicked his chest four times, grunting with every swing of her leg. It was like being trampled by an angry horse.

  Featherstone screwed his face up, clutching his ribs. He gasped with pain and astonishment as the woman systematically ripped the locks off the controls, ran her finger along the alarm panel, and input commands on the keyboard.

  He heard metallic echoes from the tunnel. Somebody was descending the ladder.

  “Hurry,” she shouted. “Once I get the authentication, we’re launching.”

  How did she know what to do? Where did she get the launch codes? He had to stop her.

  Featherstone thrust towards her, swinging his left fist, connecting with the side of her head. She screamed and her eyes filled with rage. She whipped her pistol across his face, sending him reeling back, knocking over two chairs. He leaned against the wall, panting, nursing his jaw. She raised the pistol towards him and he closed his eyes.

  When he opened them after hearing a crack, the safe door above the console hung open. How the hell did she do that?

  The woman input his authentication codes, activating the single missile that was yet to be isolated. She kept her weapon trained on him.

  He imagined the silo door sliding open. The weapon was primed for launch. He had to stop her.

  From the area of the hatch, rigid soles dropped to the ground with a thud.

  “Do you know what the hell you’re doing?” he shouted.

  “One more word and I shoot,” she said.

  He estimated he had thirty seconds to stop it. Featherstone picked up a glass and lunged towards her.

  Three shots split the air.

  Featherstone dove down. The woman clung to the console. Her grip weakened and she flopped to the floor. A man dressed in combats with a camera on his helmet crouched in the gloom.

  “Captain Featherstone, is that you?”

  “Oh, thank God. I thought you were never coming.”

  Featherstone hurriedly palmed switches and activated the abort sequence. He grabbed the console phone. “We’re okay, we’re okay,” he breathed.

  He replaced the receiver and slumped on the chair.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  11:23 a.m., Day 4, Seattle, Elliot Bay Marina

  The trunk popped open. Zoe squinted, shielding her eyes from the sun. A figure stepped towards her, blocking the light.

  “Time to go, Agent Vega,” Murphy said.

  He gripped her armpits and hauled her out, handling Zoe with the same ease as he would a bag of golf clubs.

  “Where are we?” Zoe said.

  “Elliott Bay Marina; end of the road,” Murphy said.

  Zoe didn’t recognize the name; she wasn’t familiar with the city. She surveyed the immediate area. To her front, a large parking lot shielded from the road by trees. Zoe turned and saw a marina, hundreds of boats. A few people milled around. Two men chatted next to an SUV, a woman fumbled with a set of keys, a large man carried a tatty cardboard box across the lot. To her left, downtown Seattle distantly rose into the sky.

  Gray slid out of the front passenger side, stretched and stifled a yawn. He gestured the two synthetics towards him. “Wait here till we’re in open water.”

  “What next, Doctor?” the pilot said.

  He glanced at Zoe, half closing his eyes. “See if you can find Mr. Miller.”

  “I’ll have someone monitor his financial transactions,” Murphy said. “Should put you in his direction.”

  “What else do you have access to?” Zoe said.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Gray said. “But I won’t. It’s irrelevant now.”

  Murphy untied the bootlace from Zoe’s wrists, then placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing two fingers into the pressure point above her clavicle. “A nice family stroll to the slip. Just try to run, Vega, just you try.”

  She caressed the sore red marks around her wrists, grimacing with the pain. It was the first time Zoe had seriously considered she might be leaving the country, forced or even tortured to work for XNA Industries.

  It was not lost on her that her window of opportunity to act was drastically diminishing. The fact that Gray had the nuclear launch codes was reason alone to do something, anything, even if it meant sacrificing herself. She couldn’t imagine the devastation that those missiles would bring. Could she reach the marina building, lock the doors? Dive into an open car or the water? She’d take the closest option available; the first issue was getting away from Murphy. He had latched onto her like a pit bull.

  As Gray led, Murphy released his grip on her just slightly. But it was enough for her to decide.

  Zoe thrust her heel into Murphy’s knee, breaking his grip. Her swinging elbow caught him flush in the cheek. As Zoe turned to run, Murphy jumped at her, snarling. He caught the back of her jacket, pulling her down to the graveled road.

  She aimed another kick, but he blocked it with a stiff forearm.

  Two powerful hands clamped around her elbow. Murphy dragged her towards him, squeezing her neck with his right arm, cupping her mouth with his left hand.

  “If you try that again, I’ll snap your neck,” he spat in her ear.

  Murphy shunted Zoe forwards, both hands firmly on her shoulders, c
ursing under his breath.

  Gray walked alongside her. “Don’t overestimate your level of importance. If I think you’re too much trouble, we’ll leave you behind.”

  “Leave me behind?” Zoe said.

  “Figure of speech. I’m sure you can work it out.”

  Zoe staggered across the parking lot under the force of Murphy’s hands, following Gray to the dock.

  Two seagulls stood on the stern of the second boat. One shrieked at Zoe as she passed by. She felt like it was mocking her, one final insult before she was bundled onto the submarine.

  They headed left, along a middle section with boats moored on either side. Halyards flapped against masts in the breeze, water gently washing against the structure, creating a mixture of metallic ringing and slapping noises.

  She glimpsed a shadow moving inside a cabin cruiser. Probably a person on a fun day out. Even if they saw her being manhandled along the dock, she wouldn’t blame them for not coming out and asking questions. Some people found it convenient to avoid confrontation or situations where they might bring themselves into harm’s way. Regardless of the situation, self-preservation was a strong impulse.

  A piece of tarpaulin flapping across the back of a boat ahead caught Zoe’s eye. Was somebody beneath it? Did she see a dark figure? Her body tensed; she broke step with Murphy. He shoved her forwards.

  A series of noises enveloped them. A low rumble of multiple steps on decking, doors opening, protective covering being thrust to one side.

  “Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head. You’re surrounded,” blasted from a megaphone.

  Armed men had sprung up from boats on both sides. Perhaps twenty, maybe more. At last.

  Twenty yards ahead, Gray spun, looking up and around. Murphy threw Zoe backwards; she stumbled to a crouch. He ran to Gray and stood with his back to him, circling with outstretched arms, peering into gently rocking vessels.

  A crackle of gunfire echoed in the distance. Zoe twisted around. Heads rapidly moved amongst vehicles in the parking lot.

  “Area one clear,” a radio crackled to her immediate right.

  Zoe looked to the side. Three yards away a man pointed an M4 in the direction of Gray and Murphy. He must have appeared from the cabin. Seconds ago the door had been closed, the interior hidden by dark-tinted windows.