A Temporal Trust (The Temporal Book 2)

by Martin, CJ

  The door of the building cracked open. Even after a few breathless seconds, no one came out. Dixon pointed to the right and then to the left, indicating they should spread out while approaching the building with caution. Each man shuffled in his respective direction while keeping low to the ground. The door opened more, but they still couldn’t see but a few empty inches inside.

  A bloodcurdling scream from behind the door made them jump to their feet.

  In a heartbeat, the four were sprinting again with their weapons up toward the dark, forbidding doorway ahead. They still couldn’t see anything, but the scream could have come from the package, and the package was everything.

  Then, they all stopped once more.

  In the distance, well lit by the building’s outside lamp, the Marines saw gloved fingers wrap around the casing of the door. Dixon noticed a boot carefully nudge the door open further.

  Strutting out of the building, through the opened door, was a woman wearing a bright red evening dress. Dixon lowered his weapon and held out his right arm bent upward with his fist clenched, commanding the others to halt—it was an instinctive decision. The woman had a disarming effect on him. Somehow her appearance and formal attire even made Dixon forget about the scream.

  The woman held out her hands to her side; she was not holding a weapon. She was so peaceful and full of grace. They were separated by more than thirty feet, but her face was captivating to the four young Marines. She was pretty, but there was something else about her that caused Dixon to fumble, to stare blankly. Her eyes—she had the most beautiful eyes. Dixon found it amazing he could see such detail and richness and yet be so far away. It was as if her eyes—but not her body—were directly in front of him.

  Then his attention dropped to her hands. She was now holding something and moving them, wiping her left hand with a rag held by her right. Dixon took a step forward, then stopped, raising his weapon as he realized what it was; it was blood. She was cleaning and removing blood off her hands.

  “You there—where is Ricardo?” Dixon heard himself shout the words, words he did not consciously speak. It was as if he was watching himself on television reading some line written by a nameless scriptwriter.

  Her response to his question was to smile. The upward curvature of that smile directed his attention back to her eyes, her glorious eyes. He was momentarily caught up again, but he forced himself to look down—to look at her bloody hands. She dropped the crimson rag and pulled both of her hands into herself. He continued to watch in fascination as she was appearing to go through the motions of flinging a Frisbee.

  But it wasn’t a Frisbee.

  His mind had barely a second to comprehend the meaning of the shiny, metallic blade as it sliced through the air and into his throat.

  Sergeant Scott Dixon found himself on the ground, unable to breathe and gagging on his own blood. His eyes only saw black but his ears roared with the sound of three M16s blasting dozens of rounds in the direction of the building.

  He could not see the others. He could not see the woman. He only saw black. But by the reduction of gunfire, he understood his fellow Marines were also falling. His ear picked up a scream to his right. There was a thud to his left. After an eternity, there was only one weapon firing. The three-round bursts of the single M16 were accompanied by the yelling of the Marine. He was screaming. If not matching the volume of the bullets, he at least was attempting to match their lethal intent. There was also a radio going off. It was the colonel ordering a retreat.

  Then Dixon’s ears registered a change in the sound—or rather, there was a lack of one of the sounds. It was the last marine standing attempting to fire an empty weapon. His screaming had not ceased. If anything, it only increased in volume. But like his weapon, it was an empty scream, powerless before whatever foe was approaching. But what force could survive such a barrage of bullets?

  Dixon, blind and immobile, continued to listen as he gasped and pushed what little air he could gather into his burning lungs. The screaming continued; but then he heard something else.

  High heels.

  Dixon understood the woman was walking toward them. He tried to move or turn his head, but he couldn’t. He still only saw the dark, richness above him. He saw that and felt the warm liquid ooze from his throat.

  The sounds abruptly stopped. The screaming and the woman’s high heels all stopped. All at once.

  After a few moments of silence, there was a new sound in the distance, someone shouting—it was the colonel exiting the plane. He heard something from the direction of the woman; it sounded like she had thrown something. The colonel went silent. Dixon knew what had happened.

  “Your superior wanted to be a hero.” The voice was calm, sweet even, and it had been directed at Dixon who was sure he was the only one of them still alive, even if barely. “He came out armed and, against impossible odds, daring to face me. Brave, wouldn’t you say?”

  He didn’t know which sound was more disturbing: the sound of her laughter or that of the plane’s giant turbines roaring to life. The two pilots were leaving and without him.

  And then, suddenly and without a cause that he could understand, his eyes could see. He saw the light from the building ahead of him and the light from the Osprey behind him. But most of all, he wanted to see his killer, the woman who had walked from that building. He jerked his head, somehow able to do so now, but his move was too sudden. He spat up blood, a lot of blood.

  But he could see her.

  She had turned her attention from him—it was a strange thought, but he understood despite the absurdity of it all that it had been the woman who had blinded and paralyzed him. With her attention on the plane, Dixon had freedom of movement and vision. He could control his muscles and limbs.

  With the movement, however, there was also intense pain and the realization that he would not survive the night.

  She stood there—Dixon could see her profile in the dim light—watching the aircraft build lift, about to take off. She had a calculated look on her face. From his perspective, it was hard to tell if her tight lips were forming a frown or a smile. But she was intently watching.

  Dixon rested his head on the hard tarmac. Somehow, between gasps and convulsions, he managed a smile of his own. His team was dead, but at least the pilots would escape. There was some comfort in that. She was several hundred yards from the Osprey and it was beginning to rise above the airstrip and away from the woman. They would be able to report the attack and warn others of this dangerous woman. It was obvious that she was too far away and her deadly Frisbees would do little damage to the aluminum and composite material airframe. He closed his eyes and began to drift into blackness.

  The sound of rapid movements and the feeling of displaced wind caused Dixon to open his eyes and turn his head. The motion hurt, but what he saw hurt more. The woman was no longer beside him. From the aircraft in the distance, his eye caught the flight of some rectangular object. It was the rear loading ramp. The woman was on the rear of the aircraft, entering.

  As the darkness once again began to overtake him, Dixon watched in utter horror and helplessness. The Osprey, having lifted only a few dozen feet off the airfield, tilted and then crashed into the ground in a blazing inferno.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “How’d they know?” General Gordon’s nostrils flared; his voice was a growl. Hartling and Cunnings, in contrast, were silent and just shook their sullen faces.

  Hearing the sound of raised voices, Marcus, who had returned with Lieutenant Harrison a few minutes before, walked in from the other room. “What’s going on?”

  The general was pacing behind the other two men, both of whom had broken out into a cold sweat. All three men had been at it for twelve hours straight. When eyes refused to stay open, Marcus took over a post while the worn-out man took a fifteen-minute power nap. The serious nature of the operation and lack of real sleep kept tempers short.

  “The operation has been compromised,” General Gordon s
aid as he twisted to face Marcus. His fist came down on the table with a terrible thud.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we’ve lost contact with two of our planes.”

  “Lost contact? Technical issues?” asked Marcus, trying to acquire information as quickly as possible.

  “Every plane is equipped with redundant systems. Satellite, radio, HF and VHF subnetworks—you name it...It would be improbable for one plane to have technical problems, but two means outside interference.”

  “And what of the people they were to pick up? Did this blackout occur before or after contact?”

  “At the time of contact.”

  “On the ground?”

  Before he could answer Marcus, Vice Admiral Cunnings raised his voice. “General! Listen to this…”

  Everyone turned as he tapped his screen, transferring the audio to external speakers.

  “She’s looking at us…”

  The audio had some static, but it was clear enough to send shivers down Marcus’ spine. He knew of whom the pilot was referring.

  “Can you confirm?”

  “Yes. All four marines—even the colonel. No...she’s just looking at us now.”

  “G2, who is looking at you?”

  “The...The woman who killed them all. The woman who is still standing even after hundreds of rounds. They are all dead!”

  “G2—get out of there. Now!”

  They could hear the roar of engines. The pilots had left the communications line open. In the background, they heard shouts from the two pilots as the craft was being readied for flight.

  Crack!

  It wasn’t loud on the recording, but by the pilots’ reactions, it was no minor bump in the dark.

  “What was that?” shouted the first pilot.

  “We’ve been hit?”

  “No, it’s the ramp. It was opened.”

  “Impossible. We are taking…”

  The speakers blasted with loud popping sounds before yielding to a permanent silence.

  The room in DC was also silent for a few moments.

  “How could this happen?”

  General Gordon shook his head and threw up his hands. “The only ones who knew all the locations are in this room plus your friends and…” His eyes grew wide. “And that weasel Bracker.”

  “But,” said Marcus, “Dr. Bracker didn’t have access to the locations, did he?”

  “Hartling, Cunnings—did either of you leave your posts while Dr. Bracker was here? Even to go to the head?”

  Both men shook their heads in the negative.

  “And no one gave him access to their files?”

  “Of course not!” Admiral Hartling was slightly flush at the accusation. “Bracker did come by earlier and he lingered a bit longer than he should have next to me, but I had my screen off. I’m sure of it. I intentionally logged out the second I saw him approaching. He couldn’t have seen anything.”

  “Then, perhaps, we can rule out Bracker. He left when we did earlier and hasn’t been back. General,” said Marcus, “the planes that are not responding, were they all from one branch of the armed services?”

  “No, sir. Two were under my control, and the one we just heard was under the Vice Admiral’s command.”

  “And you followed my instructions that each organizer only knows about his one pickup?”

  “Absolutely. Once it left this room, no single operation could have been traced to any other operation.”

  “Then the leak had to come from this command center.”

  “I’d stake my life on the integrity of these two gentlemen.”

  “I have no reason to doubt you or their integrity. But could the system here be compromised? Could someone be listening in?”

  The general swooped down and hit a button on the desk.

  “Sir?”

  “Get me a team to sweep the Joint Chief’s hall for bugs.”

  He lifted his head to Marcus and the others and said, “No talking. Follow me.”

  The men entered the elevator and rode it one floor up. Without a word, they exited and followed General Gordon down an undecorated hallway and into a small room with a heavy door. Closing the door, he pressed a few buttons on a panel on the wall. A red light went off and a second lamp turned green with a beep indicating the RF signal detector and the spectrum analyzer were clean.

  “Now, we can talk.”

  “The walls are five feet thick and solid. Completely sound proof,” added Cummings.

  The walls were flat without any windows, pictures, or anything else that could house a microphone.

  “We must call off all other rescue attempts until we figure out who is behind this.”

  Marcus nodded. “I will contact all the Temporal and warn them to stay away. But I’ll need Sam. Have someone take me to the safe house immediately.”

  “Understood. We’ll call off the remaining planes from an alternate comm center and contact you after we learn something. But even if it was a microphone or camera, how much information could it have gleaned? It isn’t like we spoke the locations or made it obvious on the monitors.”

  “Perhaps someone has access to the same computer network?”

  “Impossible. It is a mostly closed system. Any access to the outside world is so heavily firewalled Fort Knox would seem an open buffet in comparison. And even if they could get in, they would have to have intimate knowledge of both the system and military code.”

  “Sam,” said Marcus, mostly to himself. “I must get to Sam now. General, can you arrange transportation back to the house?”

  “I’ll have Lieutenant Harrison escort you there directly.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Sam, are you all right?” Suteko had noticed that he was hunched over in the corner with an emotionless glaze. It was a look that was hard to read and this worried her. Sam was naturally an open book; she usually had no problem figuring out his inner thoughts and feelings at a glance. It wasn’t her gift; she was just a woman who cared deeply.

  He looked up at her, genuinely surprised by her presence.

  “Suteko...I’m trying to track the Temporal around the world as Marcus asked. Three have gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yes, I saw their signatures clearly earlier today, but now...I fear something has happened.”

  “Are you always a hundred percent accurate with your gift?” Suteko asked, hoping for any explanation beyond the most obvious.

  “No. I can’t say that I am. But lately, I’ve been much better at it, and with concentration, I’ve been able to amplify even faint signatures. For three of the Temporal, there isn’t even a trace.”

  “Let’s call the old man.”

  But before Sam could stand, they saw the door open and Marcus walk in.

  “Listen up,” said the old man as he slammed shut the door behind him. “I have some disturbing news.”

  “Let me guess,” said Sam, interrupting the old man’s report. “The bad news is in Greece, Moscow, and Finland.”

  “Yes. That’s part of it. Did you...do you sense something there?”

  “I’m no longer able to track Ricardo, Aeolos, or Nicolaos.”

  “They had lost contact with two planes and then a third was attacked just before I left.”

  “Attacked?”

  “Yes, attacked. Just before falling silent, the pilot reported seeing a solitary woman who had survived a barrage of bullets head toward the plane. He said all members of the strike team were eliminated.”

  “All?”

  “Yes, four Marines and their commander. All slaughtered with seemingly no effort. I’m afraid the pilots may have also suffered the same fate. There can be little doubt that Kaileen is responsible. She would not tolerate any witnesses.”

  “I can see everyone else.” Sam had his eyes closed and was visualizing the Temporal on an imaginary world map. “Some of whom are in transit which means at least a few were successful. Did you contact everyone?”


  “Nearly everyone. I started making calls on the way here. Most have been alerted to back off until further notice.”

  Suteko’s eyebrows crumpled. “How could Kaileen have known?”

  “It could have been anyone. There must have been a hundred people working on these operations up and down the chain,” said Sam.

  “No,” spoke up Lieutenant Harrison who had been listening without comment. “The only person privy to all the locations is Marcus. Even General Gordon has only a third of the list. And every operation was independently managed. That means the timing and final location was only known by one of the three generals here in DC and one commander on the ground.”

  “Yes. I further confirmed the three planes that were attacked were not coordinated by the same people.” Marcus was slightly panting from the excitement and having spoken to so many people in so short of a time. “We’ll just have to regroup and then get the planes back in the air as soon as possible.”

  “Wait—I just thought of something.” Sam exercised his eyebrows into a serious frown. “It is four-thirty here and that means it must be pretty close to midnight in Greece. It was dark during the attack. Kaileen may not be overly affected by light like the regular Nephloc, but she must at least prefer night.” Sam looked at Marcus. “I remember the lighter that you used the evening I first met you. She appeared at twilight and your tiny light frightened her.”

  “Or at least distracted her enough to cause her mask to fall.”

  “That and the only times we’ve encountered her have been at night or late in the afternoon,” said Suteko, understanding what Sam was thinking.

  “Right. Marcus, I think it would be a mistake to gather people at night. It would be nice to have everyone collected now, but I suggest scheduling pickups for daylight local time.”

  “Getting to everyone may be a bit difficult,” said Marcus as he pulled out his cell phone and pressed a few numbers. “But not impossible. They will need to be armed with natural light. Flamethrowers would be most helpful.”

  Lieutenant Harrison said, “Sir, would you like a ride back to operations?”