Within five seconds, we were hovering outside of the back door of my house, and I was glad we were going back for the major. To the left of the door gunner was a steel-encased box with an open front and a computer screen inside. It appeared to be a part of some sort of infrared heat-sensing device. On it was a red outline of what was likely my house below. Inside the outline were several blurry, red figures. Soon I realized they were the major, the lieutenant who was laying spread eagle and was probably already dead, and their three SWAT-team-like enemies in the hall. In the front room was a prone figure, smaller than the others and a cooler orange and yellow. Michelle. Nearly two-dozen red blobs surrounded the house, their bullets riddling it.
“Get down and cover your ears, sir,” the gunner yelled into his microphone. At first, I thought he meant me, but then realized he was speaking to the major.
The gunner fired his acoustic weapon six times in the proximity of the house, and the results were incredible. First, the men in the backyard slammed to the ground as if they’d been thrown. Next, the guys in the front yard got their turn. The front porch collapsed. My garage exploded, and I saw that my car had been inside, because the Buick’s trunk flipped end-over-end through the air. Propelled by my car’s gas-tank detonation, the lug wrench shrieked by the chopper like a Fourth-of-July firework.
“My God!” was all I could think of to say.
One at a time, the police cruisers became fireballs.
I stood directly behind the gunner now, hanging onto a strap on the ceiling. I was within arm’s reach of the cockpit, and I could hear the pilot arguing over the radio.
“What, sir?” he yelled, seemingly in response to the major’s orders. “No, sir, I can’t do that Major Jax. No, sir. I won’t do that, sir!”
As bullets whined around us, the man who hauled me in yelled to the pilot, “He said, ‘Go!’”
It was only a couple of seconds before the pilot gave in, shook his head and finally responded. The chopper banked radically to the left.
I squeezed the handgrips and couldn’t believe we were leaving the major behind. You just don’t do that, I thought. Why was I so important?
As we sped away, a fiery stream came up from below. An explosion rocked the helo from outside the open cargo-bay door. A surface-to-air missile had hit our main rotor, directly aft of the right turbine nacelle. The whirlybird we rode pitched and shuddered. It then began to spiral — fluttering like a wounded dove — down to a deadly end.
Chapter 21
From three hundred feet, the helicopter whipped in a terrific helix on a rapid descent. I kept a grip on the hand loops, but the crew chief wasn’t as lucky, flung into the darkness from the open side door.
I held on for what I was sure would be a tremendous impact, and time stretched. Another flashback came. I remembered men, faces covered in war paint — camouflage grease paint — sitting on benches along the sides of a helicopter. I remembered standing and facing the lowered cargo ramp on the back of the thing and seeing only a shadowy nightscape hundreds of feet below. I remembered a man standing to the side looking wild-eyed and yelling, “Go!” And I remembered myself running off the end of the ramp and into the dark sky.
The flashback ended when we crashed into the trees. A jarring encounter, the chopper tipped to one side as it fell. The hand loops I held pulled loose, and I tumbled from the opening and into the bough of a large evergreen tree. What was left of the helicopter’s rotor blades shattered against the tree limbs around me, and the pieces became deadly projectiles, swishing through the air.
Although I held tight to the branches, my weight was too much for them, and I slipped to the next row with hands full of nothing but evergreen needles. As the chopper ignited into a fireball below, I rolled off of a second limb and fell, spread eagle to the next, felt the one below it swoosh by, landed astride the one after that, somersaulted toward the ground, finally slamming back first on the forest floor in a bone-jarring landing.
A long moment passed before I got my wind back, and I quickly checked myself for injuries, then looked twenty feet away at the helicopter. It lay an unsalvageable steel hulk like some sort of abandoned relic in a junk yard with several small fires burning around it. The door gunner was draped over his acoustic gun, his neck twisted grotesquely. For some reason, I found drawn to a brand name etched on the side of the sound cannon. It said McMaster Nonlethal Solutions, and my thoughts returned to Sunny and her husband Dan.
I looked to the floor and saw the soldier who had boarded the rotorcraft after me lying with his helmet off, a huge gash in the middle of his forehead and his eyes open in a dead stare.
After managing to regain my feet, I stumbled to the cargo bay to check on the pilot and copilot. I climbed in, avoiding the searing flames now flowing out from the ceiling of the cargo bay like an orange waterfall turned upside down. The fumes were thick and noxious, and my only protection against the deadly smoke was my knit shirt, which I stretched up over my nose.
In the black haze, I found the copilot. A large shard of steel had torn through his throat and now stuck out from his chest. Although his upper torso was soaked in deep red, no blood flowed from the horrific wound. He must have died instantly. I turned to the pilot and saw his head moving. He groaned, and I grabbed his arm.
“Let’s go,” I told him, reaching for his safety harness. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
He winced in what must have been incredible pain. “No use,” he said. “My legs.”
It was easy to see what he meant. The control panel of the helicopter had collapsed, pinning the pilot at the knees. I even wondered if his legs were still attached underneath.
“We’ll find a way,” I said. “We’ll get you out. Maybe I can pry the seat back somehow.” I placed my hand on the belting across his chest and looked the seat over.
“No good, sir,” he said. “Save yourself. This thing is wired to self-destruct. Explosives are placed in a half dozen critical areas, set to detonate ninety seconds after a crash. We wanted to make sure it would clean itself up — the sensitive and top-secret gear — leave as little evidence we’ve been here as possible, if we failed. We didn’t want another Hainan.” He grimaced, and his voice came out slowly, exhaustedly. “You don’t have much time. Get out.” He brought his hand up clutching some kind of folded, laminated paper and slapped it against the back of my forearm. “Take the map and get out.”
“No,” I said. I’d never left a man behind in combat before, I thought, then wondered where in the hell an idea like that had come.
“Ten seconds, sir,” the pilot said as he looked at a digital clock on the dash.
It showed nine, then eight.
“May the Lord give you wings,” I said, and I pushed away from him. I leapt from the doorway and sprinted toward the safety of the woods. I stuffed the map into my pants pocket and, as I rounded the large coniferous tree I’d landed in earlier, a ground-shaking explosion came from behind, filling the air with jagged debris.
* * *
Two security guards greeted Xiang in the Biotronics parking garage as he got out of his limousine. He’d spent the past hour on the phone speaking to the Chairman and a number of high-ranking officials. After convincing them he had the situation under control, they had assured him he would get what he wanted — two of their most recent purchases, Boeing 747 passenger jets for evacuation of essential personnel, records and equipment. He would also be relocated in a new, secret facility and be able to resume his research with the condition no word of their project leaked out. They had come so far. They were so close to perfecting their methods, to putting into practice a weapon that was reliable, undetectable, and beyond suspicion.
“Sir,” one of the guards said as he stopped in front of the doctor and stood at attention. “There seems to have been a firefight at Subject 374’s residence.”
Xiang began a brisk walk toward the stairway as the guards followed one step behind. Yet another complication. “What happened?”
“They
had a helicopter, sir. They leveled the house. But we shot them down and wiped out their invasion force.”
Xiang stopped before the stairs and smiled at the security guard.
“But there is a problem.”
Xiang’s jaw muscles tightened involuntarily. “What?”
“The subject has gotten away. He is still in the town, they are sure, but he is loose.”
“Damn him.” Xiang held his temples. Weller was much more trouble than he was worth. “Cut the security force here in half. Get everyone else to Gold Rush and help Colonel Wu.”
The guard nodded and stepped back. “Yes, sir.”
“And get a clean-up crew down to the subject’s place.”
“As you command, sir.”
A number of the project’s essential scientists — the Alpha personnel — were at home sleeping in that area. As the first guard hustled away, Xiang told the second one, “Get Yumi to send out the reprogramming teams. I want this matter forgotten. Then tell Wu to have the Alpha personnel rounded up and brought to hangar four.” Bringing them to the airport early would ensure that part of the evacuation was completed and wouldn’t be a worry.
At sunrise tomorrow the remaining citizens of Gold Rush would be nothing more than scattered ashes.
* * *
I didn’t remember being struck down by the explosion, but I came to consciousness while being dragged backwards from under my arms. In my blurred vision, the helicopter was now a pile of unrecognizable charred metal over fifty yards away. There were frantic voices in the distance.
I wondered who could be dragging me. None of the crew had lived through the crash and explosion. The only person I could think of was Major Jackson. Could he have survived the shoot-out at the house?
“Major?” I asked, my voice coming out groggily.
There was no response. It became a trying exercise to raise my head, and when I finally did, I saw the straining face of a dark-complexioned man.
We’d gone another fifty yards when the man stopped abruptly, his feet striking what sounded like something metallic, probably a piece of the helicopter, and he tripped. He fell flat on the ground, and I landed with my head on his chest.
“Oh, damn it,” he said, panting.
“Who? Who’re you?”
“You are alive!” he said in what I thought was a Pakistani or Indian accent. “That is good to know. I am Rajiv Shekhar. We met earlier today . . . although in your current condition . . . I do not fault you for not remembering me.” He stood up and took a deep breath. “Can you now kindly stand up for me . . . please?”
I did remember Dr. Shekhar, but I wasn’t sure I could stand for him. He held his hand down to assist me. It took several seconds, but I finally managed.
The familiarity of the short, bald man made me smile. I didn’t know why. This morning’s incident when I met him was the clearest memory I could conjure, for now. What seemed to be a warm and sincere grin spread his lips.
“I am so glad you have lived,” he said. “I have been seeing the whole thing. Frightening, very frightening. There are sure to be lawsuits. It is an iron-covered case you have.”
I frowned at him. He returned a sort of beaming smile that covered his entire round face.
I asked him, “What did you see?”
“I had come out of my home, two blocks away to see what the police were doing. Half of the neighborhood was there.”
“I didn’t see anyone but cops.”
“Yes, that would be correct. Before you arrived, the police ordered everyone into their homes. They said a man had gone berserk and was trying to kill people. They said he had the plague and was contagious or some such nonsense. They said his name was Robert Weller. That is your name also, is it not?”
“Yeah, that’s me. But they had the story all wrong.”
“That, I truly believe. You do not have to convince me of that. But everyone else was extremely afraid, and they all hurried behind their doors like scurrying little rodents. I am a more adventurous sort. I found concealment behind some bushes across the street. I saw you come up a few minutes later and hide beside the ambulance.”
“You saw when my wife died?”
“Yes, that is, I was seeing her when she fell down. I am sorry to hear she has died.”
“Then, why are you helping me?”
“I believe you are a fakir.”
I thought he was calling me names. “A . . . fakir?”
“Yes, an incredible fakir. A fakir greater than all fakir’s before.”
“If fakir means what I think it does, that’s not a compliment.”
“My friend, from where I come, a fakir is one who performs miracles. I must then trust in you to take care of us and keep us living. I have reason to believe you are not the one who is dangerous. Now, enough of this speaking,” he said. “We must get out of Dodge before the posse comes. The fan will soon sling out the cow pies, and I do not wish to be the one standing in front of it.”
As he grabbed my arm and pulled me away, I wondered if he might soon drop dead, as had several others who’d touched me. He hadn’t this morning. I prayed he would not be stricken, now.
He seemed to know some parts of the puzzle. As we walked briskly through the woods, I asked, “What in the hell is going on?”
“Strange happenings. Very strange.”
“What? Please tell me.”
“I am not for certain,” he said, pushing a branch out of our way. He had small hands, but his grip on my arm was tight, not restraining, but ensuring I wouldn’t fall. “I do not wish for you to think of me as a peeping Bob, but I have been conducting my investigations every night for the past month, and I have seen some things that are very strange, indeed. It started with Carmen Campa.”
“Carman Campa? Who’s that?”
“He was my neighbor. He had moved here from Spain. We both worked at Mount Rainy Biotronics. He resigned from his employment at a medical research center in Madrid. He came here to work, because, according to him, they made him an offer he could not refuse. He told me about some strange occurrences at the Biotronics facility. The next morning, he was gone — his wife and child, everyone. I asked Chief of Police Dailey if he knew where my friend had gone. He looked very sad when he told me that he had been transferred to the San Francisco office. Chief Dailey had no explanation of why my friend had left so suddenly. When I asked my supervisor about his transfer, he said it was true and that was all he knew, and that I should quit asking questions. Ever since that time, perhaps even before, I have felt I am being watched.”
“What kind of strange occurrences did your friend speak of?” I asked as he stepped over a fallen tree and then helped me over.
“Things have been moving at an incredible pace at work. All departments have been operating nonstop, seven-eleven, as they say.”
“Twenty-four, seven,” I corrected.
“Oh, yes. That is it. I seem to always get that one wrong. Anyway, they are experimenting with new concepts in memory to help people with brain damage, Alzheimer’s and amnesia. Carman said he had been on the east wing of the facility to deliver some pass cards — that was his job, making pass cards, identification cards and key cards. He had entered the wrong door. Inside was an entire room full of people, all sitting in chairs without life in their eyes, like vegetables, Mr. Potato Heads. He said he recognized several of them as fellow residents of Gold Rush he had not seen for some time. Dr. Xiang came in very quickly and took him away. That was the day before my friend moved without telling me.”
“Do you think Mount Rainy Biotronics is using Gold Rush residents for some sort of experiments?”
“I do not know. That is possible.”
“Dirty bastards,” I said. “My son is in their hospital ward. If they’ve done anything to him, I’ll kill every last one of them.”
“Let us not fall to conclusions. We must first determine what is going on exactly. We can go to Biotronics tonight, if you wish. I am to be at work in one hour. You
can come with me. Security is strict, so we will devise a plan to get you inside.”
“Where are we going now?”
“To my home. You will be safe there.”
“No,” I said. “I’d be endangering your family. Let’s go back to my place.”
“My friend, I have seen your place, and it is not very good. Many holes are in the walls there. You would find it to be incredibly drafty.”
“But we might have an ally. A man named Major Jackson. I think he might still be alive.”
“I will go with you as you wish. You will be my Lone Ranger, and I will be your faithful companion Tonto. But we must have much caution.”
I stopped and looked about. I had no idea where we were.
Rajiv said, “It is this way, Kimosabe.” He pulled me to the right of where we’d been headed, and we began a slow trot. Within a few minutes, voices came from in front of us and we slowed down. We skirted the clearing where the knocked down trees looked like matchsticks. When we came to my small backyard, I heard a semi-truck pull up in the front. Police had blocked the street in both directions and there were two armed men at my back door.
Staying out of sight in the trees, we made our way around to the side of the house as at least a dozen men leapt from the back of the semi-trailer and sprinted toward the front door. Some carried gurneys, some carried boxes, some plastic bags. Before long they were coming back outside, carrying loads from the house. I couldn’t tell how many bodies were removed in the confusion. I hoped the major’s wasn’t one of them.
Nothing more would be gained here.
“Let’s go,” I told Rajiv.
When we turned to go back, bright lights danced up from the direction of the crashed helicopter in the ravine. The high-pitched whine of a revving engine echoed through the woods. My first thought was a motorcycle or four-wheeler. The thing was hard to get a fix on, jostling up and down, from side to side, engine growling angrily as it leapt over rocky terrain and knocked down saplings. It had no lights, but a search light beamed down from the snow-filled night sky and illuminated the surrounding ground, revealing the noisy, rapidly approaching object as some kind of scintillating, blurred mass. Fire shot from the sky like lightning bolts toward the noisy thing on the ground, and I once again heard the beating of a helicopter rotor. It was as if some sort of apocalyptic beast were roaring up the gully.
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