He got three nods back.
“Shooters lead the approach; the rescue team will shadow. Rescue-team assignments are as follows: Unger, you get Harris; Madden gets Major Fischer; and I’ll grab Dixon. The objective is to EXFIL all personnel from the BRIG while containing the object inside. We cannot under any circumstance let that thing get out. If I become incapacitated, then shooters have weapons-free authority.”
“Roger that, Major,” Unger grunted, still spinning the handwheel.
Legend glanced at the gap, and it was open enough now for even the barrel-chested lead guard to squeeze through. “All right, people, let’s go.”
“Major, if you don’t mind me asking before we go in,” the head guard said, “what exactly is that thing in there?”
Legend flashed him an ironic smile. “If I knew, I would tell you, boss, but unfortunately that’s what we were trying to find out.”
The head guard nodded and then squeezed through the gap, sucking in his gut and holding his M4 out with his lead hand. The other two guards, each armed with Mossbergs, went through next in turn. Legend went fourth, followed by Unger and a reluctant Malcolm bringing up the rear. The security team fanned out into a line and began advancing on a nod from Legend. Legend fell in behind the head guard in the center, Unger went left, and Malcolm went right. The guards advanced in a tactical crouch, their weapons up and trained on the fluorescing orb.
Light swirled and danced around the orb, making Legend think of ghosts. A memory of the final scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark percolated front and center in his conscious. Were lightning bolts about to strike them all down, melting their eyes and charring their flesh? That’s absurd, he told himself. But was it? What he was witnessing defied logic. Engagement with the object was inevitable, and he still had no idea what the hell they were dealing with.
All right, he thought, here goes nothing.
“I am Major Legend Tyree of the United States Army,” he announced, staring at the freak show in front of him. The ludicrous realization that he was talking to a floating orb occurred to him, and he decided to talk to it like he would any hostage-taking terrorist. “I don’t know what you want, but quite frankly I don’t care. Release my people, or we will use lethal force against you.”
Nothing happened.
He dropped his gaze to Major Fischer and the two other orange suits. Although Beth’s body was frozen in a hypnotic state, he could see tears running down her cheeks. Were they tears of rapture, tears of sadness, or tears of agony? What in God’s name was it doing to her?
I want to know you, Legend, an angelic female voice said.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
“Hear what?” the lead guard asked over his shoulder.
“It’s now or never, Major,” Unger shouted. “Do something or we’re next.”
Unger was right. Staring at the miraculous, glowing ball of light floating in front of him, he decided to give the order. In that instant, the light show stopped, and the orb disappeared.
“Fire!” he barked a split second later. Two shotgun blasts and a three-round burst from the M4 roared and reverberated inside the concrete room.
Major Fischer, Harris, and Dixon all crumpled to the deck like marionettes whose strings had just been cut.
“Where the hell did it go?” Unger shouted.
“I don’t know; it just disappeared into thin air,” a guard added.
The three shooters were scanning over their weapons, but no one had a bead on it.
“I don’t know what’s happening, but we need to get everyone out of here,” Legend shouted and raced toward Dixon. “Double-time it, people. Let’s go!”
He’d assigned Malcolm to haul Fischer out because she was the lightest of the group. Nevertheless, Legend had his doubts whether the scientist would be strong enough to drag her out without help. He quickly glanced at where she lay on the floor, but her head was turned the other way, and he couldn’t see her face. From the corner of his eye, he saw Malcolm just standing there, gazing around for the orb.
“Dr. Madden!” he barked. “Major Fischer is your priority. Grab her under the armpits and drag her out. Do it now!”
The scientist froze for a beat, then snapped out of his fugue. “Sorry,” he said, spun around, and ran to Fischer.
With the amount of adrenaline surging through his body, Legend felt like he had lightning in his veins. He flipped Dixon onto his back, scooped his right hand under the man’s right thigh, and executed a Ranger roll—rolling across the unconscious man’s chest back onto his knees while using the momentum of the sideways somersault to hoist the man fluidly up onto his shoulders into a fireman’s carry. With a grunt, he secured the man’s right arm and got to his feet. He glanced over at Madden and Fischer and saw that the scientist was still floundering and hadn’t even managed to move Beth a foot.
“You,” he snapped at the closer of the guards holding a shotgun, “help him.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said, shouldering his Mossberg by its strap.
Legend set off in a run toward the steel slider door. Beside him, he saw that Unger had Harris slung across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry as well. They reached the steel door at the same time and in unison stared at the narrow gap.
“How the fuck are we going to get them through that?” Unger asked. “They can’t even stand.”
Legend thought for a second. “All right, I’ll go through. You roll them on their sides, arms above their heads, and I’ll pull them through headfirst.”
“Okay, that should work.”
Legend took a knee and then eased Dixon off his shoulders and onto the ground. He turned back to check on Fischer’s evac and saw that the guard he’d told to help Madden was carrying Beth like an unconscious bride in front of him, one forearm under her knees, the other under her torso. From the strain on the man’s bright-red face, Legend could tell the dude was struggling. Beth was tall, muscular as hell, and as dense as a hunk of lead.
“Don’t you drop her,” he shouted at the guard.
“I won’t,” the man huffed back.
Legend quickly scanned the length of the BRIG, searching to see if the orb had reappeared. Seeing no trace of it, he turned back to the steel door. “I’m going through,” he announced, then stepped up to the gap and slid sideways into the breach. At that exact moment, with his chest wedged between the door and the frame, power to the facility restored.
The lights turned on.
A siren wailed.
And the colossal steel door began to close.
CHAPTER 13
Pitcher Residence
Watertown, New York
Josie was frustrated.
Her husband was on US soil, but for some reason, the Fort Drum Family Liaison Office wouldn’t tell her where. She couldn’t help but wonder: Was this government bureaucracy at work, or was it intentional? The pragmatist in her voted for the former; the investigative journalist presumed the latter and was already percolating a conspiracy theory.
She sat in her kitchen, mug of coffee gone cold in one hand, mobile phone in the other, debating whether to escalate. She was tempted to call the unit CO’s wife, Caroline. There was hierarchy among spouses, invisibly conferred from their husband’s, or wife’s, active-duty rank. In the old days, the wives of enlisted men and the wives of officers didn’t fraternize, period. In today’s Army, however, that barrier was beginning to erode. Josie had met Caroline during a spouse volunteer event at a local food pantry. Josie hadn’t known the woman was the CO’s wife at the time, and they’d chatted happily for several hours. It wasn’t until weeks later, when she’d seen Caroline standing with her officer husband in a picture, that Josie had made the connection. She wasn’t sure whether Caroline would help her, but at this point, what did she have to lose?
She made the call.
The line picked up after the third ring.
“This is Caroline,” a woman’s voice said.
“Hi, Caroline, Josie Pitcher ca
lling . . . We met at the Watertown food pantry last month during the spouse volunteer event.”
“Oh yes, Josie. How are you?”
“I’m okay . . . Actually, I’m not okay. I’m calling because I’m worried. Yesterday I got word that my husband’s been flown back stateside from Afghanistan. He’s not answering his phone, and he’s not responding to emails. I’ve tried talking with the Family Liaison Office, but they haven’t been able to give me any specific information. Nobody’s used the word CASEVAC, but I’m worried he was injured. Would you be willing to, I don’t know, maybe make a phone call or two to see what you can find out?”
“Your husband’s first name was Michael, if I recall?”
“That’s right, Staff Sergeant Michael Pitcher,” she said, her voice hopeful.
“Give me until this afternoon, and I’ll see what I can do,” Caroline said without pretense or promise. “We Army wives have to stick together.”
“We certainly do.”
Caroline ended the call first, and Josie gave a little victorious sigh. Thank you, thank you, thank you . . .
With the Colonel’s wife on the case, there really wasn’t much more she could do but wait. So she turned her attention back to Willie Barnes. She’d spent most of last night watching and rewatching footage from yesterday’s interview and silo tour. In doing so, a few segments stood out. She replayed the moment during the tour of level one of the LCC when Willie had slipped up.
The camera panned to his face, and she heard herself say, “Our bunk room? Wait a second—did you used to work here?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
She picked up her mobile phone and called DJ Mood, a strange dude she’d been introduced to while researching her anti-vaccination (a.k.a. “anti-vax”) piece for Vice. DJ Mood was not an actual DJ, although she wouldn’t be surprised if he hit the club scene. From their interactions, she assumed he was a gray hat—if not, he was at a minimum deeply plugged into the hacker world with its hats of many colors. DJ referred to himself as an informationist. She’d not heard the term before, but the word defined itself, and DJ’s persona filled out the context. DJ bought, sold, and traded information for cryptocurrency, favors, and other information. To Josie, he epitomized the twenty-first-century techno-mage, although instead of a white beard and a bag of runes, he sported a man-bun and a seemingly endless supply of ironic T-shirts.
She opened a Skype window on her computer and pinged him. DJ Mood did not take voice calls. It was either video chat, chat-room chat, or face-to-face chat. Chat was the operative word. He took the call.
“Josie, Josie, me so nosey,” he said in greeting. He was wearing a colorful knitted beanie that hid his man-bun, but she could see the hump underneath.
“You sound high, DJ,” she said with a hint more judgment than she’d intended.
“That’s because I am. How can I be of service, my pretty?”
“How much for a background search on an old geezer I interviewed?”
He bobbed his head side to side, debating. “Show me your tits and I’ll do it for free.”
She made the universal sound for disgust: “Ewwyuck. I’m hanging up now.”
“Relax. I’m just kidding,” he said.
“No, you weren’t. Call me back when you’ve come down.”
“Touchy, touchy,” he said with a huff.
“You know I’m married, right?” she said. “And even if I wasn’t, that’s just fucking rude. Do I look like I’m riding a Mardi Gras float? Just because I’m working from home doesn’t mean I’m not a professional. This is business. We’re supposed to have a business relationship.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry,” he said, then paused to take a hit from his bong. “Tell ya what, since I offended you, consider this one a freebie. Okay?”
She gave him the I’m on the verge of forgiving you stink eye, then, after a long beat, said, “Fine.”
“Friends?”
“Friends.”
“What’s the geezer’s name?” he said, turning in his seat to look at another computer monitor.
“Willie Barnes. He lives in upstate New York, and I’m pretty sure he was a Missileer in the Air Force when he was young.”
He laughed. “What the fuck is a Missileer?”
“You’re the informationist. I figured you’d know this one.”
DJ suddenly broke into song. “He’s a rocket maaaaaaaaaaan, a rocket man,” he sang, channeling Elton John and doing a pretty fine job of it actually.
“Old Willie was Launch Commander in one of those underground ICBM silos back in the day.”
“Cool,” DJ said, already tuning out as he went to work typing on the other computer.
She watched him work in profile for half a minute.
“All right, so you’ll get back to me when you have something?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, not turning to look at her, the work seemingly sobering him up. “Sorry about the show-me-your-tits thing,” he said, all business. “It won’t happen again.”
“Apology accepted.”
“It’s too bad, though,” he said wistfully. “They’re probably really nice tits.”
“They are,” she said with a satisfied smirk, “but you’ll just have to use your imagination.”
With a mouse click, she ended the call. The iMovie window reappeared front and center on her monitor. She cued up Willie’s rant on the Sixth Extinction.
“So that’s why you’ve built this place, because of the Sixth Extinction?” she asked.
“Were you not listening? Don’t tell me you’re like the rest of them?”
“The rest of who?”
“People. Everyone! Everyone who thinks that human beings somehow live in a magical vacuum where our species can flourish while all other species are dying. The Sixth Extinction is coming for us too. We’re not safe. We are not immune!”
Josie opened a new browser window on her computer and ran a search for the Sixth Extinction. The top hit was a book by the same title. Next she browsed articles in Time magazine, USA Today, the New Yorker, the Guardian UK, and National Geographic. What made the Sixth Extinction different from the previous five ancient epoch-ending planetary die-offs was that this time the culprit was humankind. Not hypervolcanic activity. Not an asteroid from outer space. Not a glacial ice age. No, this time the instigator was man.
Some of the alarm bells the experts were ringing Josie had heard before: global climate change; the overexploitation of animals for meat, ivory, and esoteric ingredients in Eastern medicine; the impact of pollution on animal health and reproduction; and habitat destruction from deforestation, farming, and urban sprawl. Other issues she was not as familiar with: the acidification of the world’s oceans, the destabilizing effect of loss of biodiversity, invasive species from the globalization of ecosystems, and the impact of environmental fragmentation on ecosystem stability. The more she read, the more she wondered if Willie Barnes might be right. Nature was dying a death of a thousand paper cuts. Each time a tree frog or cricket or some shark species went extinct, nature didn’t go into cardiac arrest. There was no planetary alarm bell that rang or even a drop in the Dow Jones Industrial Average. People simply didn’t notice. What were three paper cuts on a planetary scale? But when the butterfly and bee populations collapsed and the pollination mechanism for billions of tons of food crops disappeared, people would notice. And when all the world’s coral reefs bleached white as bone and died, collapsing the aquatic food chain, and the fishing boats returned to port empty, people would notice.
Some people were noticing already.
Some people saw the writing on the wall.
She played the third video clip, and Willie Barnes’s face filled the screen: “Did Noah wait to start building the ark until after it started raining? No, no, he did not.”
She felt a little nauseous.
Maybe a little bread will help.
She got up, walked to the bread box, and pulled ou
t a bag of bagels. She pulled the halves apart and popped them into the toaster. Back on the table, her mobile phone rang. She trotted to it and checked the caller ID. It was Caroline.
“Is everything okay?” Josie asked breathlessly. “He’s okay, right?”
“Michael’s checked into Walter Reed Medical Center in Maryland. I don’t have all the details, but I do know that they’re running some tests on him this morning.”
“Tests? What kind of tests? Was he shot? Did he get blown up by an IED?”
The calm in Caroline’s voice was the only thing that kept her from rushing out the door. “That’s information I wasn’t able to get, but based on twenty years as an Army wife, I think the answer is probably no. Now don’t hold me to that; I could be wrong, but reading between the lines, it sounded to me like he’s undergoing head-trauma protocol.”
“Head trauma as in a concussion?”
“Probably, yes.”
“When are they going to let me talk to him?” Josie asked, worry blossoming in her chest. “When is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”
“I asked that question, and I was told that someone will be reaching out to you very soon. I made sure of that. If you don’t get a call by the end of the day, then I want you to call me back. Okay?”
“Yes, I will. Thank you.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Josie? Do you need me to come over?”
“No, I’m . . . I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Thank you, Caroline, for doing that. It means a lot to me.”
After she’d hung up, Josie paced the kitchen, wringing her hands. Head trauma? That couldn’t be good. She walked to the toaster. Her bagels were up, toasted but cold now. She depressed the lever and started pacing. Should I drive down there? How far is Walter Reed? She pulled up Google Maps. Eight hours, maybe a little more with stops and traffic. I can do that, no problem. Okay, that’s what I’m going to do.
The toaster popped, and a beat later, the smell of char filled her nostrils. She turned and saw dual tendrils of smoke spiraling upward from two blackened hunks of bagel.
“Damn it,” she cursed, stomping over to the toaster. With an angry howl, she grabbed the ruined halves and threw them into the sink, where they hit, bounced, and then sizzled. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”
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