Discarded

by Mark A. Ciccone

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Hargrove said, keeping most of the scorn from his voice. He touched the display once more, focusing on an area northwest of Minneapolis. ‘From our records, this is the only site where our targets can find fast, below-radar transport out of state. Based on our knowledge of this Mr Caswell, we can assume resistance, so your men should be prepped accordingly. Non-lethal takedowns if possible, but weapons-free clearance is granted if necessary.’

  ‘What exactly is the site?’ Costa pressed. ‘And why Caswell in particular?’

  Hargrove tapped at the highlighted area, bringing up a dark square patch. Two minuscule text columns appeared beside it. ‘Monticello Airfield. An abandoned site at the start of the ’40s, it was reopened as a private field in ’45, by some local air freight magnate.’ He looked slyly at both men. ‘Apparently the Army has arrangements with the owner – a Peter Caswell, formerly of Faribault, Minnesota – to deliver aid stocks to sites across Minnesota, the Dakotas and Montana. But he rarely manages the actual deliveries, or even coordinates with the local military authorities. That’s handled by the manager and security chief for the airfield itself… except there’s no name listed.’

  ‘And you think it’s the same guy?’ Patrick inquired.

  ‘Or a relative.’ Hargrove pulled himself upright. ‘Doesn’t matter either way. What matters is we have a bona fide destination for our targets, and a window to snatch them that’s closing every second we stand here chatting.’

  He glanced at the two guards. Load up. Non–lethal preferred, but prep for otherwise. They nodded and started for the doors. He looked back to Costa and Patrick. ‘My associates will precede us in the move on the airfield. The targets might’ve gotten lucky just facing one, but by the time we and Colonel Patrick’s men land, mine will have them – and the item – wrapped up and waiting for pickup.’

  ‘You’re sure that’s wise?’ Patrick asked. He stared after the departing men, both evaluating and uneasy. ‘My men have the most experience in rapid insertions of any branch, in this part of the world. I’m sure yours are well trained, but if the targets are as dangerous as you’ve indicated—’

  Hargrove waved a hand, smiling. ‘Your concern is appreciated, Colonel – but unwarranted.’ The predator’s smile returned. ‘The targets have only seen one of my men in action, and barely escaped. Now we’ll see how they deal with three – and on our terms.’

  Chapter 9

  Monticello Airfield, Outskirts of Minneapolis

  The car came to a halt in the first vacant space, just inside the entrance to the lot. The tyres spat bits of gravel and crumbling asphalt. Leah killed the engine. Greg’s hand tightened on the duffel bag’s straps. ‘You’re sure he’s here?’ he murmured.

  ‘No other place is likely,’ Cayden replied, in the same tone. The older Golem leaned forward in the backseat. ‘He was never the type to push paper from up high, or from some back-room office. So the official HQ for his operation might as well be right here.’

  ‘There’s a comforting thought,’ Leah said, with no trace of humour. ‘Next question: How’s he going to react to you, of all people, walking through the door? And what if he’s already marked by–’

  She got no further than that, for Cayden unlocked his door and stepped out. The car’s springs squeaked and groaned with the motion. Rising to his full height, he started off, his stride sure and unafraid. Leah and Greg shared a look, before getting out as well.

  In front of them was a large aircraft hangar, flanked by offices and storage rooms. The entire complex was composed of reinforced concrete and a metal roof and double doors; one glance told Greg they’d been strengthened against anything short of a Tomahawk missile. The main building looked as though it could hold a squadron of F-24s and all their accessories, or house a full infantry company without making them bump elbows. Keeping the duffel close, he set off after Cayden. Leah was a half a pace behind.

  When the taller Golem was within a dozen steps of the door, a low buzzer tone went off. Greg reached beneath his jacket, but Leah grabbed his arm. Cayden came to a halt, hands hanging at his sides. The double doors began to slide back, throwing up the occasional shower of sparks from the concrete. Peering past Cayden, Greg could see the silhouettes of several ancient prop aircraft, one or two that looked like two-seater jets – and a single human figure, approaching at a steady walk from the other end of the building.

  The doors halted with a jarring thud. Bright morning sunshine spilled through the entrance, reflecting brightly off the various aircraft within. Stepping into it, the figure revealed itself: a stocky, grey-haired man, dressed in a white, oil-stained jacket and khaki cargo pants. Despite a pronounced limp in his left leg, he carried himself like a soldier.

  Halting, the stranger surveyed the trio. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Greg and Leah. His hand drifted towards the small of his back. Then he looked towards Cayden. For a moment, he seemed turned to stone. At last, his lips parted. ‘Christ… it really is you.’ His voice was croaky, but strong.

  Cayden stepped closer. One arm came up in a solemn, rigid salute. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’ The older man returned the gesture, then held out his hand. Cayden clasped it, tightly but carefully. ‘Good to see you again, Frank,’ he murmured.

  ‘Likewise.’ The older man stepped back a little, looking him over critically. ‘Never thought I’d see one of the original Five still walking around. Doc must’ve put a little somethin’ extra in your formula.’ He gave Greg and Leah another careful once-over. ‘Who’re these two? Later models?’

  Greg wanted to bristle at that, but found he couldn’t. He extended a hand, giving his name; Leah did the same. The older man shook, his grip strong yet still cautious. ‘Frank Caswell, Special Forces.’ He jerked a thumb at Cayden. ‘Used to work with this punk when he was still in diapers – in mental years, anyway. Stayed on as a “consultant” when my carcass picked up a few too many fractures and tears, which is probably why I never worked with anybody in your generation.’ He turned back to the taller Golem. ‘What brings you out from whatever rock you crawled under?’

  ‘They dropped in on me yesterday, with some info about the Project,’ Cayden replied. If any of the earlier turmoil over the ‘info’ still churned in him, he didn’t let it show. ‘Seems they pissed off a few people getting it, too, and need to get out West.’

  ‘So you figured some help was in order,’ Frank finished. He looked hard at all of them once more. ‘How’d I draw this particular honour?’

  One corner of Cayden’s mouth twitched, in the barest hint of a smirk. ‘I knew you used to live south of the Twin Cities, and I felt like a reunion was in order. Besides, let’s face it: a Green Beret quitting to work at an airfield? That’s bound to raise flags.’

  ‘It’s my cousin’s operation,’ Frank said, mock-indignant. ‘I’m more security than maintenance. I handle the planes, he handles the paperwork – which thankfully means I rarely have to deal with him.’ The seriousness returned. ‘If somebody’s after you on account of the Project, you’re gonna want to stay deep under – and that means getting out of here. They’re gonna mark down and watch anything that can get five feet into the air, if they haven’t already.’

  ‘Normally we would,’ Leah said. ‘But cars are too easy to track, and we can’t go incognito in crowds anymore in this area. Much as I loved the hikes in training, I’m not in the mood for a literal cross-country run.’

  Frank’s eyes crinkled in what might have been amusement. ‘Good to see they kept the techniques straight, at least.’ To Cayden, ‘In all honesty, this place is as good as flagged anyway.’ He waved toward the planes. ‘My cousin’s had some difficulties with keeping his birds in parts, much less in the air. So he’s been bringing in goods from certain folk across the border. Folk who’ve had plenty of run-ins with the Twin Cities garrison, and the Rangers out of Fort McCoy.’

  ‘Chance we take,’ Cayden answered. He eyed his old trainer. ‘If this place is flagged, they’ll be coming for
you, too. Since we’re still out of sight, they’ll switch to looking for Project contacts. How long until they connect the dots to this place?’

  ‘Let them.’ Frank set his jaw. ‘I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot harsher shit than any desk-bound spooks can dish out. They come here, all they’ll get from me is name and rank, same as they did when it all folded.’

  All three Golems looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’ Cayden asked. His voice was neutral, but Greg sensed the tension beneath it.

  Caswell grimaced, as though wishing he’d never opened his mouth. ‘Before the Bomb, the Doc had us packing up all our crucial gear, and torching or erasing any files we had on the – training programmes, outside of the main archives controlled by some AI system. Said it was a precaution, what with the riots in the suburbs, and the troops being posted downtown. Everything was going according to plan, until he shows up in the main complex, day before the detonation, half-out of his mind. Says we need to scatter, and go underground if we had to – all the trainers, the engineers, the nurses and support staff. Said that there was a good chance we could be hit inside of a week. When I asked him why, all he said was that “people” were working to shut down the Project, possibly Hiroshima-style. I thought he’d gone nuts, but I kept up with the evac. With what we were sitting on, we couldn’t risk doing anything else.

  ‘The next day, right as I’m driving across the Portland bridges, there’s this crackling boom to the north. My comm link with the lab goes dead in the same second. Ten seconds later the satellite radio goes nuts, saying there’s a mushroom cloud rising from Puget Sound, that radiation’s blanketing the whole southern half of the bay, heading south and east. Then the Pulse hits – and it’s lights out across the planet.’

  A haunted gleam appeared in the old soldier’s eyes. ‘I kept going; eventually made it to a military camp in an abandoned business district south of the city. Far as I knew, my ID and everything else tying me to the Project went up smoke, leaving me as just one more soldier stationed in the Northwest, looking to report in. Nobody asked too many questions, giving me time to plan my next trip – wherever I could decide that would end.’ The gleam hardened. ‘Then, four days after the blast, this creepy bastard from D.C. shows up. Had a couple of big guys in brown coats with him; I pegged them for covert ops, of some kind. Says he’s with the DHS, that they’re debriefing all the personnel they can find that got out of Seattle before the Bomb, and—’

  ‘Wait,’ Greg interrupted. His blood ran cold. ‘The guys in brown? What’d they look like, exactly?’

  Caswell’s brow creased in thought. ‘Can’t remember their faces. They never talked either – that was what set off alarms for me from the start. They all had glasses, that I know – and some scars on their necks, like from surgery. Thought the bigshot might’ve been a relative, matter of fact; he was bulked up, and I thought I could see a couple of the same fresh scars on his hands.’ He looked suspiciously at Greg. ‘You know something about them?’

  ‘Somebody with that same get-up – maybe even the same guy – tailed us from D.C. to Chicago,’ Leah said. ‘He had Golem strength, maybe more – and ARC-ability, only better. And he had something that sedated us, or tried to, when he got close enough to use it. We barely made it out – and he was still alive when we did.’

  For a moment, Caswell looked dumbfounded. Then calculation returned to his face. His tone was quiet. ‘We went into this office building, beyond the base perimeter. His two boys stayed in front, on lookout. We chatted for a few minutes – low-key stuff, mostly dealing with my posting, any intel I had about the area in the path of the radiation, any suspicious sightings, etc. I told him I was a spec-ops trainer, providing advice to the Seattle garrison about counter-insurgent warfare in the Olympic Peninsula and north of the city – mix in a little truth with the cover.

  ‘Near the end, he asks me, real casual, why I was heading out of the city when it blew. I say I was given a new assignment by the garrison commander, outside the city – true enough, and the real man was ash by then, along with all his files. The guy thanks me, makes a note, then stands up to shake my hand and escort me out. Just when I’m opening the door, I see him pulling out the silenced pistol.

  ‘I dodged the shot, and started wrestling with him. Managed to get a punch in that put him out of it for a second, grabbed the gun and bolted. The guards didn’t spot me, though Christ only knows why not. Didn’t know what was waiting at the base, so I snatched a car from the refugee lot and headed south. Took me ten months, but I finally made my way back here, thinking I was free and clear – or at least not worth coming after.’ His mouth turned down. ‘Seems I was wrong.’

  Cayden stepped closer to the sergeant. ‘The “agent” – what was his name?’

  The old instructor frowned. ‘Name stuck ’cause I knew a kid with the same first name in boot camp; same hair, too.’ The frown deepened. ‘Shaun something, with an H, I think. But if he was high enough on the spook food chain to know about the Project, and to have clean-up orders for any survivors, he probably changes names like he does shirts. Why?’

  The older Golem shook his head a little. ‘Might be nothing.’ His features crinkled. ‘I remember the Doctor mentioning somebody he’d tangled with in the military over the Project – somebody who’d supposedly helped with the original ARC tests. Can’t remember his name – but yours rings a bell, somehow.’ The wrinkles went away. ‘If he was one of the brains, or just a gawker higher up—’

  Beneath his heavy tan, Caswell turned pale. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘If he’s after you, then it’s a lot goddamn more than just a clean-up. Whoever’s handling all this – him alone, or whatever bunch he answers to nowadays – they’re not after you three for the usual reasons.’ He looked hard at his former student, then at Leah and Greg. ‘You must have something this guy wants, for himself and or his bosses – and I’m bettin’ on the first one.’

  Leah started to speak, but Caswell waved her to silence. ‘Don’t wanna hear it. Less I know, the better, same as before.’ His hawkish gaze fell on Cayden. ‘So I’ll just repeat what I said a moment ago: Get Out.’ He motioned dismissively to the hangar. ‘Forget flying. Forget the Project. Forget whatever jaunt you’re on, and just go under again – deep under.’

  ‘We’re trying to,’ Greg broke in. ‘If we had any better options, we wouldn’t be here. There’s no other way we can stay ahead of whoever’s behind all this. How long would we last if we kept hoofing it, or swiped some other ride? You’ve been around the same block as us enough times. You probably know to the second when they’d find us, and bring in the Boys in Brown – or a Predator.’

  ‘Besides,’ Leah added, ‘what makes you think it’ll stop with us? You said yourself: this isn’t a sweeper operation. Whoever’s working the levers isn’t going to stop with what the Project turned out. They’re coming after everyone. We leave here without help, they’ll find us – and they’ll scoop you up as a bonus anyway. You help us, and go under yourself, there’s at least the chance we can all stay out of the dragnet. But either way, you stay here, you’ll end up the same way we will.’ She set a hand on the old man’s arm. ‘Help us, and we can help you—that simple.’

  Caswell didn’t answer. He looked at Greg and Leah, and at Cayden, who regarded him silently in turn. He turned and stared at the hangar. His shoulders sagged, almost imperceptibly. He let out a deep sigh, and looked down at the tarmac. When he lifted his gaze back to the three Golems, it was hard and direct. Making an abrupt about-face, he started back inside the hangar, motioning for them to follow. ‘What do you need?’ he asked tersely.

  ‘Fast, low-radar profile, and space for three,’ Cayden answered, in the same tone. ‘Doesn’t matter if it’s jet or prop-powered, but range is essential. At least to the Rockies, maybe more.’

  The older man’s mouth twisted. ‘I’ve got something, but no guarantees about quality.’ He came to a slow halt in the middle of the hangar, studying one plane after another.

&n
bsp; His eyes fell on a craft in the far-right corner. It was a single-engine prop, wings folded vertically and tucked in the shadows well away from the door. At first Greg thought it was simply painted dark, but when he stepped closer, he saw that the hull was in fact soaking in much of the light. Not enough to render it completely invisible, but plenty to obscure the lines and original white paint exterior of the craft.

  ‘C172V,’ Caswell said. His tone was part wistful, part annoyed. ‘Unofficial name is GreyWitch. Still technically a prototype – one its makers love to hate. Runs on long-term batteries, with two backups, and solar chargers in the wings. Maximum cruising speed 400mph, but I’ve hit 500 for an hour at a time – at the cost of the entire battery. Ceiling just shy of 15,000 feet. But even with the chargers, you’ll have maybe four hours – five at most – before the main batteries crap out, and the backups are iffy, to put it mildly.’

  He laid a hand on its engine. ‘Hull design absorbs light, like you can see. Also keeps out radlevels to the tune of 10,000 rems, though thankfully nobody’s had to test that yet. Shape and material also renders it almost completely radar-invisible – a little personal touch, added by a disgruntled engineer friend of my dear cousin. Emphasis on the almost, by the way – some poor sap flying this thing on Pete’s orders got spotted by trackers every time he flew “special assignments” over the border, and only managed to lose them by gaining altitude and practically gliding for long stretches.’ The sour grin told them exactly who that sap was. ‘Haven’t had to fly her in a few months, so there’s no guarantee on maintenance, but she should work for the distance you got in mind.’

  Leah moved closer as well. She brushed the propeller with one hand, looked through the cockpit windows. ‘Saw a couple of these on the Mexican border in ’49. The cartels loved them for running 74s and other gear to the Southwest militias. Even had the chance to fly one once. The end wasn’t pretty, though.’