Just where I want you to go. Duncan thought. Just a few more feet.
“Come on, Duncan! Come out and fight!”
The cockpit of the stealth modified MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter was perfectly comfortable as Tom Duncan, callsign: Deep Blue, raised and fired the handheld laser target designator, painting Damien with an invisible beam of light that the Black Hawk’s systems could use to lock in on the man. He was standing no more than four meters in front of the helicopter, but he couldn’t see it because Duncan was running the controls in night-vision stealth mode.
“Haven’t you got anything to fookin say?”
Duncan toggled the loud speaker. “Yes, actually I do.” His voice boomed across the hangar and echoed hard, sounding like it came from everywhere at once.
Then he flicked open his night vision goggles and toggled the powerful klieg spotlights on the ESSS stub wings to either side of the helicopter’s body. The lights threw the entire hangar into a bright white wash. Even though the rotor blades weren’t spinning, the vehicle must have looked like doom to Damien with its four AGM-114 Hellfire missiles, two to a side.
“Goodbye,” Duncan said. He pulled the trigger, launching one of the Hellfires on the left port stub off its hardpoint. The solid-fuel rocket activated, propelling the missile forward across the 4 meters at a speed of 145 meters a second—Damien didn’t even have time for the thought go through his brain that he was about to die. The rocket blasted through him and into the steel door. Its 20 lb anti-tank warhead blew the door clean off the opening to the hangar and sent it blasting out into the daylight. The door slammed hard into the front of an Abrams main battle tank that was stationed just a few further meters away, where the steel door crumpled hard against the main gun of the tank, leaving a situation that looked like the tank had tried to drive through the door and failed miserably.
Tom Duncan exhaled and smiled.
“Ahh, Hellfire. Best damn $70,000 I ever spent.”
Epilogue
Deep Blue smiled. He was about to get a promotion.
They were at Keasling’s place in Virginia, enjoying another Chess Team barbeque—something that was turning into a regular event. A few team members were absent, but Jack Sigler, callsign: King, the leader of the field team was here. Knight and Bishop were also present, comparing notes on their recent missions in China and Iran, respectively. General Keasling was working the grill like a master chef of the macabre, ensuring that the burgers and hot dogs would be coated in a shell of black. Anna Beck and Matt Carrack were here along with Lewis Aleman and a few of the other support members of the team that hadn’t been with him when Gen Y attacked the base.
Duncan, Carrack and Beck had contacted Keasling on the satellite phone in the tank. The General had made some moves to send some good men to assist with the cleanup. The base was searched from end to end, and the few living salamanders left in the base were exterminated. The eggs were destroyed—even the one in Damien’s backpack, which he’d left in the hangar. And on Duncan’s orders—anything that smelled remotely like a computer component that came from Manifold’s time in the facility was destroyed. They’d already downloaded the sum total of manifold’s data from when they had originally captured the base. He didn’t want any more back doors or remote monitoring to occur in the future.
Now a few weeks later, Duncan eased back in his lawn chair and watched Sigler examine the chessboard on the table between them. Duncan’s pawn was a step away from reaching the 8th rank, which would allow him to promote that piece to a queen, which he’d had to sacrifice earlier in the game. The problem for Sigler was that Duncan’s knight had just put him into check.
“We’re going to need to discuss the Brainstorm situation.” King said, referring his latest solo outing in Arizona.
“Let’s finish the game and eat first. Then on to business,” Duncan looked down at the board. He had King just where he wanted the man. He pointed at the board and said, “It’s a shitty situation son, but you’ve got no move other than to step out of check. You’ve been playing sloppy, Jack. No way my pawn should have gotten that close.”
Sigler, in his customary black Elvis t-shirt and jeans, leaned forward and took a swig from his bottle of Sam Adams, before moving his king out of check. He placed the bottle back on the table by the pieces of Duncan’s he’d captured, and leaned back in his chair, letting his arms fall to his sides, as if in defeat.
Duncan leaned forward in his chair and moved his pawn to the 8th rank. Beck and Carrack stepped over to watch the game. “I’ll take a queen, I do believe.”
Sigler reached under his chair and produced a black lacquered wooden box. “I think I have a better piece for you.” He leaned forward and handed Duncan the box.
“What’s this?”
Sigler just smiled.
Duncan opened the box. Inside, nestled in a velvet-lined cutout was a small black wooden chessman. But it was unlike any chess piece Duncan had ever seen. It stood as tall as the king piece on the set they were playing with, but its head was hand carved to look like an eagle’s head in flight. The tip of the beak was even pointed and sharp to the touch. The whole thing had been hand carved, yet it was perfect in every detail. Duncan looked up and saw the smile on Sigler’s face. Keasling had stepped over with Aleman too. Bishop stood nearby with his normal solemn look, but Knight had a large grin on his face. They were all in on it.
“Thought you’d take all damn day to get that pawn to the back rank,” Sigler said. The admission that King had been throwing the game made Duncan laugh.
“Voluntarily throwing away your position as the president of the United States to lend them the support they need means a lot to them, Tom.” Keasling said.
Sigler grinned from ear to ear. “Plus, we figured that with you taking a more active role in things now, you needed your own symbol. It’s good to have you as a part of the team.”
Tom Duncan, callsign: Deep Blue, looked at the chess piece in his hand and felt a warmth in his throat. It was one of the best presents he had ever received, and as president, he had received gifts on a nearly daily basis. Most of them were status items or things designed to impress. But this small piece of wood wasn’t meant to impress. It was eternal gratitude, inclusion, loyalty and trust all wrapped up into one tiny symbol.
He looked up at everyone and smiled warmly. “It’s good to be a part of the team.”
###
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of numerous novels including PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler series, which is also the focus of and expanding series of co-authored novellas deemed the Chesspocalypse. Robinson also known as the #1 Amazon.com horror writer, Jeremy Bishop, author of THE SENTINEL and the controversial novel, TORMENT. His novels have been translated into ten languages. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.
Visit him on the web at JeremyRobinsonOnline.com
Kane Gilmour has visited over 40 countries around the world. When he hasn’t been pounding he keys until his fingers bleed, he has been rock climbing in Arizona, mountain biking in the Midwest, exploring ancient cities in Sri Lanka, hiking in the mountains of Western China, ice-climbing in Scotland, and exploring abandoned buildings in Eastern India. His first action/adventure thriller, RESURRECT, is available now. He currently lives in Vermont with his wife and son.
Visit him on the web at KaneGilmour.com
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SECONDWORLD by JEREMY ROBINSON
Hardcover and e-book editions available on May 22, 2012. Click here to buy!
DESCRIPTION:
Lincoln Miller, an ex-Navy SEAL turned NCIS Special Agent is sent to Aquarius, the world's only sub-oceanic research facility located off the Florida Keys, to investigate reports of ocean dumping. A week into his stay, strange red flakes descend from the surface. Scores of fish are dead and dying, poisoned by the debris that
turns to powder in Miller's fingers and tastes like blood.
Miller heads for the surface, ready to fight whoever is polluting on his watch. But he finds nothing. No ships. No polluters.
No oxygen.
Instead, he finds a cloudless sky full of red particles dropping like snow and coating the ocean with a thick film that stretches to the horizon. When a dead blue whale collides with Aquarius, Miller begins a harrowing race to escape the affected area. Cut off from the rest of the world and surrounded by death, Miller makes his way to Miami where he discovers just one survivor, and the awful truth: the strange phenomenon that robbed the air of its life giving oxygen was an attack by an enemy reborn from the ashes of World War II. And they're just getting started. Miami, Tel Aviv, and Tokyo have all been destroyed. Millions are dead.
And if Miller can't track down and stop those responsible in seven days, the rest of the world is next.
EXCERPT:
3
Nine Miles South of Key Largo, Florida – Atlantic Ocean
Saturday - August 11, 2012
Fifty feet below the surface of the tropical ocean, Lincoln Miller cringed as his eyes locked onto the cracked portal window. A spider web of fissures spread out from the center, reaching for the edge like desperate fingers. He knew the glass would give way at any moment and ocean water would rocket into the research station, drowning whoever was inside.
Despite the dire circumstances, he had more urgent needs to attend to. He picked up the TV remote and paused the DVD before heading to the bathroom. The picture froze on the screen, stopping the first jet of CGI water as it rocketed through the portal.
As a NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigation Service) Special Agent currently tasked with investigating recently reported acts of ocean dumping over the coral reefs, Miller was technically hard at work. There were only three other people in the world that knew he wasn’t—the Director of the NCIS, the Deputy Director, and the Executive Assistant Director for Combating Terrorism—his bosses. He had balked at the assignment when it landed on his desk. His skills were better suited to tracking down Navy criminals on the lamb or tracking down sea-faring terrorists. As a former Navy SEAL, now Special Agent, his skills seemed a gross overkill in the battle against glorified litter-bugs. It wasn’t until he arrived on site that he realized the true nature of his assignment—a vacation.
He was scheduled to spend two weeks in the NOAA’s (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) Aquarius, an underwater research station—the world’s only underwater research station. He was required to patrol the reefs surrounding laboratory twice daily, searching for signs of recent polluting, and if possible, apprehend the culprits in the act. As a SCUBA enthusiast and lover of all things ocean, he looked forward to each and every “patrol”.
Because Miller was an extreme work-a-holic, the NOAA assignment was the only way his superiors could get him to take his first real break in five years. It wasn’t that Miller was performing poorly; quite the opposite, they simply believed that no engine could run forever without a respite. In truth, their actions were selfish. Were Miller to burn out, the loss would be significant to the organization. Not only was he a consummate investigator, but his time with the SEALS made him a man of action as well. The NCIS had plenty of both, but rarely in the same package.
With his first week of forced vacation over and his second week just beginning, he was feeling pretty good. The laboratory was cramped, but he had traveled by submarine several times as a SEAL and had no problems with claustrophobia. The lab was well-stocked with every deep-sea movie and novel available. The lab’s full refrigerator, air conditioning, microwave, shower and high tech computer system, complete with video games, not to mention unlimited time to swim or even spearfish, made this place Miller’s dream come true. Of course, he’s spent the last few days lazing about, watching movies, playing games and reading books. He suspected the “ocean dumping” investigation was just a clever cover story for his vacation and had taken a break from his scheduled Scuba patrols. There was plenty of time left to dive, he just needed some couch potato time first.
The facility was a forty-three foot long, nine-foot in diameter, 80-ton cylindrical steel chamber separated into two different compartments, each with its own air pressure system and life support. There were living quarters for sleeping and eating, and labs for work. At the far end, off the lab, was a wet porch with an open moon pool for entering the ocean. Miller had all of this to himself, plus—and this was the best part—not a peep from the outside world for three days.
It’s not that he didn’t like people. It’s just that people liked to talk, and after his first day aboard had decided the break would be good for him. Quiet was bliss. Years of pent up tension he hadn’t realized he carried began to melt away. So when the NOAA staff stopped checking in on their laboratory, he didn’t think twice about why. Instead, he allowed himself to undergo an emotional re-adjustment. He went over years of cases, of killers caught, of terrorists exposed, and the few who slipped away. Then he moved further back, to the SEALs, and the event that etched a long scar into his leg and left a little girl dead. The tragedy ended his career with the SEALs, but down there, fifty feet beneath the surface of the ocean, he thought he might finally make peace with his past.
After he finished the movie.
Finished relieving himself, Miller hustled back to his seat without washing his hands. Why bother? Urine was sterile. More important, no one was here to judge him. He’d let his appearance slide over the past week, as well. His black hair was uncombed, his face unshaven. Being half-Jewish and half-Italian, Miller’s week’s worth of facial hair was damn near a beard now.
The chair beneath him groaned as he leaned back and propped his legs up on a work desk. With the remote back in his hand, he waited, held his breath and listened.
Silence.
Wonderful silence.
No worried NAOO voices. No traffic. No cell phone calls. He thought about telling the Director that the time off had convinced him to retire. Sure, he was only thirty-nine, but life without responsibility was fun. He held out the remote, positioned his thumb over the play button and—
Thunk!
The noise wasn’t loud, but was so unexpected that Miller flinched, lost his balance and toppled over. He struck his head hard on the metal floor.
“Son of a bitch!”
He lay there for a moment, wondering exactly how he’d ended up on the floor, and then felt the back of his head. One area, the size of an apple, was swollen, pulsing with pain, but there was no blood. He wouldn’t need stitches, which was good because he couldn’t get them here. In fact, if there was any kind of emergency, he was pretty much screwed. A nine-mile boat ride, and a fifty-foot dive, did not make for an easy 911 rescue.
He was on his own.
With a sigh, he rolled his head to the side and caught his reflection in the polished stainless steel base of a workbench. He grunted at the sight of himself. He flashed what he thought was a winning smile, sharpening the fine spread of crow’s feet around his blue eyes, but his current disheveled appearance hid his good looks. He hadn’t seen himself look this bad since just after...
He pushed the images from his mind, still not fully prepared to deal with his past—not with a movie to finish, and a mysterious noise needing investigating.
He sat up. Pain surged through his head twice, following the rhythm of his heartbeat, and then faded away. When he stood, the pain rose up again, but only momentarily. Shuffling over to the fridge to grab an icepack, he passed by the small bedroom containing six bunks, three on each side, with a large viewing portal between them. He stopped suddenly, his eyes focusing on the glass portal.
Something wasn’t right.
It was a fish, not an uncommon sight, but something was odd about this one. Its movements were all wrong. He squeezed between the beds to get a better look.
Thunk!
The fish was back, this time smacking hard against the window.
Miller blinked a couple times. The fish, a black grouper, wasn’t moving on its own. The ocean’s currents were pushing it up against the hull.
Well, that’s damn annoying.
He was about to head back to the fridge when something else flitted by the window. It looked like a large piece of fish food. This time, Miller focused on the water beyond the dead fish. There were other fish out there—scores of them—and they zipped through the water in a miniature feeding frenzy. The fish, normally concealed by the reef that Aquarius had been built to study, had come out of hiding, drawn by what looked like a Jolly Green Giant-sized handful of TetraMin. Most of the fish snatched up the flakes with gaping mouths, then spit the reddish stuff back out. If they were smart, anyway. Many fish, dumb enough to swallow the ‘fish’ food, floated belly up. Poisoned.
Not seeing any large green legs in the vicinity, Miller searched his mind for answers and came up with only one—some jerks were actually dumping waste on top of the research station. Not only were they polluting and killing wildlife, they were also ruining his vacation. Why couldn’t you have waited just a few more days? He was as pissed at these polluters as he was the terrorists he helped track, and a piece of his mind was just the beginning of what he was going to give them.
Miller ran to the wet porch and hastily pulled on a full tank of air, dive fins and a mask. In these tropical waters, he didn’t need a wet suit, plus he was already dressed only in shorts—another perk of solitary living on board the Aquarius.
Callsign: Deep Blue - Book 1 (A Tom Duncan - Chess Team Novella) Page 12