Vision back to normal, he looked towards Cayden. The older Golem had unslung his bag and was coolly repacking the various parts of his weapon. Leah had moved closer, eyeing him with new caution. ‘EMP rounds?’ she ventured.
Cayden nodded soberly. ‘A little upgrade I designed, to replace the more cumbersome rockets we were issued. Caswell showed me how.’ A dark look crossed his face, before it returned to its normal blankness. He stuffed the last component away and zipped up, sticking the pistol back in its clinger guard. ‘We’ve got maybe three hours of real daylight left. Assuming our watchers are on the ball, they’ll have another drone in this area in half that time – and they see far better in the dark than even we can.’ He met Greg’s eyes. ‘You two have the more recent experience in this area. What’s our best route to the “perimeter”?’
‘Depends.’ Greg looked southeast, towards the headwaters. He drew a map in his mind, drawing from the countless times spent checking and re-checking the GPS against the landscape out the window. ‘We’re in the last southern curve of the Puyallup – maybe six or eight miles from Rainier. We keep following the river, we’ll hit the old dam in Electron by 7pm, or a bit past that. Nobody’s been there since the Bomb, not even us on patrol, and it’d be easy for another drone or whatever else our trackers have handy to sight us along the river’s course. We’d eventually find somebody, but no guarantee as to when, in that direction.’
He faced southwest. ‘If we rough it straight from here, we’ll reach Eatonville and the 161 road inside of the same time, assuming the forest isn’t too thick and the trackers don’t have anything to cut us off with. Still not likely our friends’ll have sentries out in that area – they don’t stray much beyond the old Fort Lewis reservation. But we’ll be in spitting distance of home, and have a nice, warm, glowing spot to shield us from the hunt for one night.’
‘Straight it is, then,’ Cayden’s voice brooked no argument. He stood up, re-slinging his bag, then stopped, and went on more guardedly. ‘Where exactly is home, in all this?’
Greg could see where he was going. ‘Not… the Facility. Another site, one that a few of us set up in the second year after the Bomb. It’s isolated, but not completely. Enough for us to stay off the radar, and clear of the worst of the fallout.’
Cayden’s shoulders sagged, almost unnoticeably. ‘So none of you found—’
‘No – nothing.’ He peered at the other man. ‘You’ve been having them, too, haven’t you?’
Cayden’s face turned to stone. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ He turned away, and started stomping toward the line of evergreens. ‘We’re burning up clean air and sunlight. Let’s—’
‘Pine forest?’ Greg cut in. Cayden halted. ‘Constant rain? Quiet, sterile halls? Guys in surgical gear, holding blindfolds or knockout shots? A woman’s voice, always talking, from right above you?’
Slowly, Cayden turned around. Greg pressed on. ‘We’ve been having the flashes, too – sometimes in dreams, sometimes in broad daylight. They were always there, even when we were in uniform – but they started to hit harder, after the inhibitors began wearing off.’ He thought he saw a flicker of confusion in the older man’s look at that, but couldn’t be sure. ‘They’re all from the Facility, from the Project – that much we know. Maybe from between assignments, maybe from our early days. We know they can’t be from our old lives – we all came to the Project as infants. But we still have no idea where it all was.’
He took a breath; easier, with the ribs completely reset. ‘That’s why we were looking for you. Because we need answers. If we’re going to survive, let alone make our plan stick, we need to find the Facility – and whatever truth it holds for us.’
Cayden stood motionless, staring neutrally at them both. After a lengthy silence, he spoke, in much in the same tone, ‘What sort of “plan” are we talking about? How does it involve me – or the canister?’
Greg’s lips parted, but he found he couldn’t speak. We can trust him– but can he handle it? After his reaction at the cabin, and given his ‘detachment’ since, there was no guarantee.
Leah spoke up, to his relief. ‘The kind of plan we can talk about once we’re there.’ Nimbly, she tossed one of the other duffels to Greg. Catching it, he felt the canister through the fabric. She looked ahead, peering through the branches and underbrush. ‘The forest’s regrown since the Bomb, but a lot’s died off, too. We’ll have plenty of cover, but that won’t stop thermal imaging, at least out here.’
She switched on the Geiger counter, salvaged from the plane. The device began clicking away at once, like sped-up Morse code. ‘The fallout’s still hanging over us. Wind’s dropping fast, too, which means this whole area’s going to be glowing in the next hour – possibly beyond even what our clingers can handle.’ She paused, letting the implication sink in. Don’t need any reminding, Greg thought. Not after spending half a month on my back,pumped full of antirads, when thejob in Lake Balkash went southin ’44– and after seeing what happened to Taylor.
He tried to hide a shudder. The other Golem had been a new addition—‘fresh off the line’, in Project jargon, an expression he still didn’t really understand. While he’d been skilled at explosives and tech in general, he hadn’t anticipated just how much shoddy work and neglect had gone into the Kazakh nuclear plant’s auxiliary reactor and power grid. Instead of only collapsing the wall needed for his exit to rejoin Greg at the recon site, the blast had torn clean through to the reactor’s pile itself. In a matter of seconds, Taylor, Greg, the smugglers they’d been tracking, the would-be black marketers among the staff, and the entire complex had been doused in radiation. Only the plant’s state-of-the-art suppression system – a first for the ailing country – and the lower-than-expected fuel reserves had prevented a combined Chernobyl and Fukushima.
Greg had managed to get them both to the exfil point, but not soon enough. Within a week, Taylor had died, languishing in hideous agony the entire time. Even the ARC hadn’t been enough. Hell, it just made it worse, wearing out his system byconstantlykicking in. And the burns and scars,reopeningevery time from the isotopes. Greg had been lucky, in more ways than one: after several more months’ recuperation and retraining, he was back on his feet, and partnered with Leah. But he’d never forgotten his last glimpse of Taylor, wheeled out of the ER with his few remaining tufts of blonde hair falling out, and the scars and sores still open over his body and face, struggling to close…
Shaking his head, he refocused, and realised the other two were staring at him. Pulling back his damp, ragged shirt cuff, he punched up the sleeve holo-interface. When the screen blinked on, he swiped to the GPS. A risk, given the likely taps on the few remaining satellites, but the masking programs should still be functioning even after dousing the whole suit.
He pointed west, at a slight angle from their position. ‘Straightest route to Eatonville’s this way. Nothing showing up on the scan other than trees and random wildlife, so barring another visit from On High, be it an assault team or more remote-control death’ – he gestured to the wreck of the Predator, barely evident through the smoke and flames consuming the isolated stand of trees—‘we’ll have nothing but a smooth fast-march to the Sanctuary.’
Cayden nodded, apparently willing to let the previous issue pass for now. ‘Is there any way for you to reach this – Sanctuary, or its patrols, before we hit its perimeter? Might shorten the march.’
‘Fallout screws with our comms, same as anyone else’s,’ Greg answered. ‘It’s less of a problem in most of the Sound’s coastal areas – a lot of the deposits get blown around or sent eastward. But anything beyond that is a crapshoot on the best of days. You’d have to climb a tree to even get a whisper, and that’s if there’s no cloud cover.’
‘Hm,’ Cayden turned away and strode toward the nearest tree, a near-dead evergreen. When he was about fifteen feet away, he broke into a sprint. At five feet, he bunched his legs under him and launched into a flying leap, landing with a s
ickening smack against the trunk. Without pausing, he shimmied out on the thickest available branch, crouched, and sprang out into space. His hands closed on branches of another pine. Using the half second before they snapped, he pulled his body forward, wrapping his arms in a death grip around the trunk, and sliding down to a halt on a thicker bough. He looked down at them with no sign of breathlessness or fear. ‘Then we’ll want to speed things up, and get that whisper.’ Not waiting for a reply, he crouched and sprang again, landing on another trunk further into the forest. A short pause, then another leap, with the same speed and grace.
Glancing at Leah, Greg could see she was equally surprised. All the talk about us being the ‘next generation’ – and yet somethings are still elemental. Adjusting the duffel’s strap, he sucked in a breath, and charged for the first tree. The crumbling bark rasped under his fingers, lacerating both palms. A sharp gasp said Leah had landed smoothly, too. Gripping the trunk, he began to climb toward the thickest branch, ignoring the blood seeping from his palms.
Chapter 12
Fairchild Air Force Base
Outskirts of Spokane, WA
The conference room was quiet. On one end of the table stood Hargrove, Patrick, the blond and black-haired guards. On the other, a tall man with white-streaked black hair, in grey woodland camo with a colonel’s shoulder insignia and Air Force wings above his breast nametag: Flynn. Costa was watching from a screen as usual, though with a different, more austere background: a secure room that made SCIF look like an open school locker, maybe. The air was close and hot, made more so by the sunlight streaming in from the room’s single wide window. Outside could be seen the base’s main runway, the three main landing pads on the eastern side, the handful of personnel moving about prepping this or that jet or chopper, and the two lines of other such craft standing ready for launch or maintenance.
Hargrove kept his voice low and calm. ‘When we first spoke, Colonel, it was my understanding that you were clear on the nature of my assignment to your jurisdiction, and that discretion was an absolute necessity.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’ Flynn replied. He spoke robotically, with no sign of fear or apology. ‘I likewise made this clear to my staff, and those responsible for—’
‘And I was given to understand that any suspicious sightings within your jurisdiction – prior to and following my arrival – would be reported promptly, with all decisions also passed on within moments of being made.’
The colonel dipped his chin. If the interruption bothered him, it didn’t show. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘So when you detected the aircraft whose specifications matched those my people passed on to you from Minnesota, what was your first impulse?’ Almost meditatively, Hargrove began examining the fingernails on his left hand. The sleeve of his shirt receded, exposing the ends of a trio of pencil-shaped scars on the back of his hand, stretching up past his wrist. Noticing Costa eying them, he shifted his arm, letting the cuff fall back into place.
‘To ascertain whether the craft in question precisely matched those specifications.’ Flynn replied. ‘Most of the regions immediately south of the Contaminated Zone – chiefly those around Portland and throughout the Oregon Cascades – are still dependent on regular aerial deliveries for essential supplies: medicines, tools, rations, clean water. It would have endangered many lives had we destroyed the target without first endeavouring to confirm its course.’
‘But you were rapidly made aware of the target craft’s purported course – or lack thereof?’ Hargrove inquired.
‘Yes.’ Flynn’s tone now carried a hint of irritation. ‘And it was rapidly proven false. At which time my team followed protocol – ultimatum, warning shot, then interception.’
‘True.’ Casually, Hargrove stepped around the table, to the colonel’s right. ‘And under normal circumstances, you and your command would be receiving commendation for your careful maintaining of the CZ perimeter, and of procedure intended to interdict any potential smuggling or other black-market activity in this area. But as I already explained, both during my flight and here, these are far from normal circumstances.’
He studied his right hand, letting it curl into a loose fist. ‘You were instructed – clearly and repeatedly – to force the craft down, preferably without altogether destroying it, and corralling any occupants and cargo into a relatively small zone for pickup. However, your chosen course led to the craft’s destruction, and that of the drone – the only one within close enough range to track any survivors.’
He swung his fist down on the table with a bang. When his hand came away, there was a circular dent in the bare metal. The table, once rock-steady and anchored to the floor, sagged incrementally in the middle. He’d pulled the punch; no point to showing off, and better the table than any of the idiot faces around him. But oh, the temptation was so strong.
Costa’s eyes went large. Patrick backed up a pace, one hand close to his holster. The two guards just watched, silent as ever. Hargrove ignored them all, stepping closer to Flynn. In a low growl, he finished, ‘Which means you’ve lost them.’
Flynn’s legs shifted, leaving him ready to run or fight. He looked Hargrove straight in the eye. ‘We were unable to corral the targets per your instructions. But they’ve been brought down, and are now limited to foot travel – assuming they survived the crash. If they did—’ He studied the map again. ‘It’ll take time to bring in reliable satellite coverage, or another drone, but we will soon be able to track them again, and easily pinpoint where to—’
‘All of which does us exactly jack shit, Colonel,’ Hargrove cut in. ‘You had one task, and you failed. As a result, any survivors that we might recover will have taken steps to destroy the vital cargo you were also informed of, the second we come across them. Which leaves you – and whichever glass-eyed imbecile was piloting that drone – shit out of luck, as far as I and my superiors on the East Coast are concerned.’ He stabbed a thumb in Costa’s direction, making the agent start. A cold smirk flashed across his lips. The agent wanted full Langley control over this mission? Let him have it, then – on the face, at least.
Flynn’s eyes sparked. ‘If I may be perfectly frank, sir, I’ve been made aware of the previous difficulties your team has had in its pursuit of the individuals and cargo in question. Given those, I think there’ll be more than enough blame to spread around for any failures.’
Hargrove’s smile was colder than Arctic wind. ‘We’ll see.’ He stepped back a pace, putting on a less confrontational air. ‘In the interests of minimising said blame, Colonel, what intelligence do you have regarding the crash, and possible survivors?’
The colonel eyed him. With a few crisp motions, he stepped up to the chalkboard-sized smartscreen on the wall behind him. Touching a control, he cleared away the default image of the base insignia, then removed a thumbnail drive from his breast pocket, and slipped it into the reader slot. A map of the Cascade Line appeared, focused on the Mt Rainier region. ‘Based on the drone’s last satellite coordinates and video feed, we can say with certainty that the target craft went down in this grid, approximately ten miles east of the abandoned town of Eatonville, on the western bank of the Puyallup River,’ the Air Force colonel intoned. A bright red dot appeared over the location. ‘The evidence is spotty at best, but still shots from the drone’s last moments do indicate the possibility of at least one survivor – no information as to which one from the profiles sent to us in advance of your arrival.’
Another dot materialised, this one green. ‘The drone was brought down on the eastern side, roughly 300 metres away from the crash site. The radiation levels may have damaged its systems, though my technicians are still working on that. The persistent fallout from the Seattle Bomb – from the epicentre or other drift sites – is often dispersed by prevailing winds, throughout the Puget Sound area and into the mountains. This prevents deep recon of the entire zone, save by satellite, and the technologies we have are incapable of highly detailed shots – mostly very low-reso
lution images, compared to pre-Turmoil. This also means that we can’t send in a clean-up crew to safely recover any bodies or cargo, until the local radlevels decrease. Best case, midnight tonight.’
‘Unacceptable,’ Hargrove said flatly. ‘Any survivors – and there are, I assure you – will have made their way deep into the CZ by that time, along with their cargo. If we’re to have any chance of recovering either, we—’
Flynn cut him off this time. ‘Mr Hargrove, you’re telling me what you need. I’m telling you what we have, and how it can best give you that. My people are the best and most experienced in this area, but they and their equipment have limits. I cannot in good conscience send them out in pursuit of any material or persons within the area in question, even in full protective gear. To do so would only waste valuable personnel, and not bring us one inch closer to retrieving the targets.’
‘What about conducting aerial surveys, by chopper or Osprey?’ Patrick asked. ‘My boys could conduct the sweep; we’ve got all the necessary gear and transport, and the search wouldn’t have to wait until more arrived from FOB Yakima or elsewhere in the Northwest.’
‘A good thought, Dave – Colonel. But also not workable.’ Flynn pressed another control below the image, panning out to include the Puget Sound area. Another press of a button, and a multicoloured plume appeared: mostly red, with thin areas along the edge fading to orange and yellow, and stretching from the Kitsap Peninsula all the way to the fringe of the old Yakima military range. ‘The fallout from the Seattle area is staying some distance above the ground, primarily due to wind conditions. Your birds could fly higher and still make their sweeps, but they wouldn’t be able to pursue or recover anything. Plus they’d run the risk of more serious exposure if the wind shifts, which happens way too damn often around here. As for using the F-40s on station here, or additional craft from other Northwest or Plains bases, they’re needed for other missions – and even with them, we’d still have the same rad problems, and poor resolution.’ Flynn’s forehead creased in frustration. ‘Basically, they’re asking me and my men to stand guard over Fukushima with a slingshot, and giving us maybe half a dozen stones to do the job.’
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