Midnight Zone: a Cade Rearden Thriller

by JK Franks

  “Yes, Doris, what do you want?”

  “Are you having sex? I detect no other heat signatures around you, which would indicate you must be doing it alone?”

  “Doris, stop fucking with me, what do you want?”

  She laughed. Admittedly, arguing with a computer, no matter the intelligence, had more than an element of absurdity. Still, Doris was developing a truly wicked sense of humor, unfortunately not always expressing itself at completely optimum times.

  “Sorry, Cade.” She rarely used his first name, so he felt she truly was contrite…or one of her sub-routines told her it was an appropriate response to defuse any tension. Actually, not all that different from what most humans did. “This is not related to your current mission, but you know that I routinely monitor your old contact numbers, and my Prime entity handles switchboards for a lot of government agencies.”

  Prime had been one of the cover identities to a massively fucked up AI called Janus. As Prime, he had become the go-to digital assistant for most of the U.S. government departments and agencies. When Doris had finally defeated him, she had smoothly inserted herself into that role—partially to keep the fact that one of their own AIs had caused so much of the damage, but also to balance some egos and insanity regularly in play in Washington.

  “So, someone called in looking for me? Like an old girlfriend or something? “Cade asked.

  “You wish,” she said in a voice that was way more snarky than necessary.

  She was probably also right about Cade wishing. Truthfully, he was a ghost. There was no one from his old life, or childhood even, that would ever look for him. Other than a few Army buddies, his only friends were right here or inside his own head.

  “The man didn’t give a name but was calling from a very small island off the coast of Honduras.” She filled him in on the main points of the call.

  Cade was initially baffled but had managed to get the rest of the Battlesuit on and already felt the warmth spreading across his body. “I did a few missions down in South and Central America. How do you know this isn’t just someone fishing for information?”

  “His voice analysis indicated sincerity and distress. He was very upset but trying hard to mask it. Also, he asked for either Deuce or you.”

  Cade knew Charlie was also on a mission, so Doris likely wouldn’t have bothered him about it yet. Someone opened the outside door, and a blast of cold air hit him before the suit could compensate. “Damn, the Caribbean sounds really good, Doris. Can I just go ask him what he wants?”

  “I tracked his phone—it was never registered to an individual, which, on its own, isn’t very unusual in some areas. I am running a trace on calls registered to the number. Several to a local university. Most to another similarly unregistered number, and that is about it. We do have a potential image captured at an ATM outside a Utilla dive shop. According to the timestamp, the phone was in use at that time and in that immediate area. I will send you the picture while I run a facial match.”

  The feeling of being watched again was back, and Cade scanned the small group around him before pulling up the image on his SmartCom. The grainy black and white picture showed a compact man with dreadlocks and a complexion that was so dark that few features were even recognizable. Cade still knew who it was instantly. “Warlock,” he said. “After all these years, what are the odds?”

  “So, he is a friend?” Doris asked. “I have found a service record for someone named Kissa, but show no deployments that match your service record.”

  “You wouldn’t. All that was totally off the books. Illegal as hell to be honest, but…well, evil people were doing evil shit and had to be stopped. Yes, he is a friend, can you call him back? I don’t know what I can do to help him from down here at the ass-end of the earth, but I owe him. Charlie and I both do. He’s a good guy, Doris.”

  Cade held up the departing convoy for the call. Ten minutes later, Doris connected him to his old friend. “Kissa, how are you doing?” The man was way too smart to stay a soldier. Cade remembered him as resourceful, funny, and tough. One of the most capable people he and Charlie had ever worked with. To be honest, most of the rest of the Honduran squad were a joke, especially the commanders. But Kissa stood out, and over the months, a tight bond had developed between the three of them. Whatever had rattled this man was a cause for concern.

  “Cade?” the voice said uncertainly. “I was told you were dead. The woman, Doris…sorry, I mean...I assumed it would be Deuce that called. I hoped to reach one of you, I just didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “I was dead…but I got better,” Cade joked. “Look, friend, I am about to head off into the boonies, but bring me up to speed. What’s wrong, and more importantly what do you need?”

  Kissa began to tell Cade what all was going on. The man’s voice cracked as he described the underwater encounter and not being able to find Thera afterward. Cade was saddened by the news but unsure what about this warranted some former SpecOps buddies. “Rearden, it was a monster, something out of a horror movie.”

  His girlfriend was missing, Kissa assumed she was dead, and the ‘monster’ that he described had pursued him. That had gotten Cade’s attention. He knew the man wasn’t one to make shit up. He’d been energetic and generally upbeat but certainly not one to exaggerate. He liked facts. “Kissa, are you or Thera working on anything…well, you know…anything others might not want you nosing around about?” He was thinking again of the gangs and drug trade coming out of South America.

  The sound of the connection went silent and Cade wondered if his friend had dropped the phone. Finally, Kissa said, “You mean something illegal? No, Cade, never. I’m an oceanographer now. I haven’t carried a gun in years. We both work with the university.”

  Cade swung his pack up off the floor and tightened the straps. “What did…” he stopped himself mid-sentence. “Sorry, what does Thera do?”

  “She is a geneticist specializing in oceanic life forms. Her official title is Doctor of Evolutionary Engineering. She is very good at it, did some really groundbreaking work right out of grad school with some major drug companies looking for new biological treatments for Alzheimer’s and such. Made a name for herself, and now she’s studying the ancient history of large invertebrates, but more recently, she’s been helping me track the decline of whale sharks in the Caribbean.”

  Cade could sense the analyst wanting more information and trying to take over, but he fought to maintain his internal control. Looking at a map on his SmartCom, he realized Kissa’s location was also not that far from the spot the sub had gone down.

  Cade could see McTee waving to him from the lead truck. No doubt, Judah was already giving them hell for wasting time and fuel. “Kissa, I have to go, I’m sorry. That does not mean I’m not interested, nor does it mean we won’t help. Hold on.” Cade muted the call and tapped his CommDot for Doris. “I assume you were monitoring the call. Can you get help to him, maybe get him out of there? Let Charlie know, they’re in the same area.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “Good, Kissa may be onto something related to this mission. Keep him in the area just in case we need his help. Doris, take good care of him.”

  “No problem, Nomad. Now run along and play in the snow. I got this.”

  Cade told his friend to hang tight, the cavalry was coming, as he planted a foot on the running board of the second MARs-1transport.

  27

  The MARs-1 vehicle was spacious. Cade rode with Alan, Alexandria ‘Cutter’ Osborne, and HiLo, the combat call sign for Bridget Maratelli. The Talon Teams were deliberately moving away from the various military ranks they held before joining TCP. More often now, they used only call signs, especially when on a mission. The exception would be up in MARs-2 being driven by the guide, Judah. Since they were ostensibly supposed to be research scientists, using combat call signs might raise the man’s suspicion even more, so they agreed to use only the cover names when speaking in his presence. McTee, and Jo
e, callsign Alias, filled out that crew. Their pilot, Brenda Morgan, or Chaps, as she preferred, had stayed back at base camp, just part of the ‘Oh shit’ scenario if everything went tits-up out here. Cade wanted a known friendly at least somewhere on the same continent as his team.

  “Everyone in the Rapide Tactical battle suits?” he asked. They all nodded. He pulled off his thick outer garments that were no longer needed. The thin Battlesuit provided a thermal barrier and a heat reclamation system that was damn near 100% effective. One of the only drawbacks to wearing them was Doris could no longer track them by heat signature. Ironically, another drawback to the system was that of the wearer potentially overheating. They all wore gloves, and the suit had a hoodie that could be used in a variety of ways, including as a full-face hood if needed. The material was laced with circuitry and nanoscale systems that even provided a level of resistance to projectiles that matched or exceeded most of the so-called ‘bullet-proof’ clothing options. Damn sure lighter than the massive ceramic plate carriers vest he had used in the Army.

  “That feels better,” Alan said, pushing the bulky winter coats into a storage locker. Maratelli had done the same before returning to the driver’s seat.

  Cade stared out the thick windows to the bleak and unforgiving landscape. All that ice and bitter cold. What are we doing here? Cochise had whined when he’d told him he wouldn’t be coming. Cade knew that was the right decision, though. This was no place for a dog. But still, he had grown dependent on the animal. This was the first mission in months they wouldn’t be together. He looked around the small space, then made a decision and tapped his Comms, signaling his AI for a private channel. “Hey, boy. How you doing? You okay?”

  Alan watched the warrior, the leader, sitting back there looking out the window talking to himself again. How does someone get like that? Cade was a good guy, but strange, hard and obviously messed up in the head. Still, he had a goodness, something that Doris obviously saw as well. Rearden never made excuses for his problems, just accepted it as part of who he was. But now they were down here on the ass-end of the planet depending on him to be the leader. He felt the buzz of an incoming call and touched the dot on his cheek.

  “Hey.”

  Alan smiled at the sound of his friend’s voice. ”Hey, Riles, what’s up?”

  “I need your opinion on something. I just sent it through to your phone.”

  Alan pulled up the image, then zoomed in, wishing he had one of the 4D displays they used at The Cove. It was a high-altitude image of open ocean. One edge of the image showed a partial land mass, and a few islands dotted the far right portion of the picture. “This the Caribbean?” he asked, pretty certain of the answer.

  “Yes, Deuce and Bravo team are en-route. We’re pulling all the data we can from the satellites. At first pass, none of us saw anything. Mainly, they are looking for signs of the probe from Snowbird. Then your brother started applying various depolarization filters. Zoom in on grid H5.”

  He did as instructed. The image was obviously from one of TCP’s own Minisats, no one else had resolution this good. It took him a minute to see what had her attention. “Holy shit, that looks like…” He scrolled along, seeing the anomaly but uncertain as to what it could be. “What is the water depth here?”

  “In the lighter region up near grid H3, it’s around 2800 meters. About twice that on the deepest part of H5,” Riley answered.

  “What is that? A craft or animal of some kind traveling at that depth,” he said aloud.

  “I’m not sure, but whatever it is, there seems to be more than one,” she responded.

  The image he was studying was replaced by another with more dark blurry shapes moving about in deep water. “These are time-lapsed compilations. We aren’t sure what we are seeing or where they’re heading, but they tend to intersect along a common axis,” Riley said.

  “So, what is it they’re heading to? Like an oil rig, cruise ship…underwater habitat?”

  “That’s a good question,” said Riley. “But that area is in open ocean, deep water, too. We don’t see anything at that location, and if we’re right, the target is moving. The departing and arrivals reached a peak a few days ago. Once we had the satellites tuned to look for it, we ran it back a few weeks. For days, you see nothing, then a flurry of activity. We established a track on the coordinates, and whatever it is seems to be moving northwest past the Cayman Islands.”

  It was interesting, but most likely just another oil company trying out some underwater mapping ROVs. Alan thought briefly about what Cade had told him earlier. Just ask her out, doofus. “Hey, Riley, um…when we get back…”

  “Yeah?” she said before adding, “Hang on, Alan, something is happening. I’ll call you back.”

  28

  Caribbean

  Sergeant Charlie Taylor would have preferred to be accompanying Rearden, even if it was to the South Pole. Instead, he was knee deep in the carcasses of millions of dead, rotting fish. The shoreline of the small island in the western Caribbean was covered in the damn things.

  “So, what did she say?” the voice, muffled by the rebreather mask, asked.

  Charlie could tell the kid was grinning, even with most of his face obscured. He briefly lifted his own mask up and away to respond. The action caused his eyes to water and the urgent desire to vomit. “The director took my concerns into advisement and told me to let you know you can be put on the next bus home.”

  Greg grinned, “Sure she did, Deuce.” The sergeant was right, this was no assignment for a combat strike team. Hell, he wasn’t sure who would want to do it. Then he spotted them. Legions of the matching yellow t-shirt wearing Friends of the Planet, or Greenpeace, or something like that. They’d been showing up for the last few days. Most were from Miami or Belize. Unlike Greg, Deuce, and the rest of the Talon Team, they only had simple paper respiratory masks on but unbridled joy in their hearts as they swept tons of the smelly dead fish into biodegradable catch bags.

  “How are they so upbeat?” Charlie wondered aloud, watching a group of them moving nearby all talking and laughing. Greg just shrugged.

  “You know what, kid? I’ve had enough of this shit.” Charlie dropped his sample bag, the hooked scoop he was using, and walked back up in the direction of the road.

  Greg picked up the dropped items and turned to follow the man. He’d worked with the sergeant long enough to know something was wrong. Little things like this never bothered him before, but lately it seemed almost anything could set him off. Catching up to Charlie, he hesitated, then asked if everything was okay.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” came the cryptic response.

  Greg knew this assignment was disgusting, but at least no one was shooting at them. That has to be a good thing, right? Maybe it wasn’t if you were a professional soldier. Greg admitted that he was geeky enough to enjoy a mystery like this. After all, what could have killed this many marine animals at once? The fish hadn’t been poisoned either—most had been partially eaten, butchered even. It was puzzling, suspicious, and there was a definite answer hiding somewhere out there.

  He admitted, though, the assignment didn’t have a clear objective, no easily identifiable enemy, and most likely not the best use of manpower. All of the Talon Teams were tactical. They were mission focused and led by hardened warriors. That did not lend itself well to stuff like this. He’d have to talk this over with Riley and the others. They couldn’t waste their best people on missions that were purely scientific or investigative in nature.

  Greg had run all the tests Doris had wanted, ruling out all the most likely villains. The so-called red tide algae bloom, hypoxia from deoxygenation, localized toxic pollutants, and a host of less common issues. Charlie tapped at his CommDot. “Let’s load up, guys. We aren’t responsible for the clean-up, thank God.” A chorus of agreement came from the scattered voices up and down the coastline.

  Minutes later they were stripping off the white overgarments and loading gear back into one of their specia
lly equipped SUVs. “I got nothing, Sarge,” Captain Nance said walking up, her nose wrinkling from the odor.

  Charlie wasn’t sure if it was from his smell or from the miles of dead fish nearby, but was pretty sure they were the same now. Nance had been canvassing the locals to get more specifics on when the fish started showing up. “This mess started about two weeks ago,” she said. “It began with fishermen seeing the gulls diving on something out at sea. When they went to investigate, they found a floating carpet of dead or dying fish. Most are just mullet, snook, and such, but also snapper, several goliath groupers, a dozen dolphins, and one guy thought he saw a whale shark carcass floating offshore. A lot of sea turtles and a few manatees have died as well, all common to the area. Anyway, they began washing up on the beach a few days later. It happens, but more so on the windward side of the island.” She pointed back over the main road to the north. “They’ve never encountered a biomass this large nor one coming in from that side.”

  “Thanks,” Charlie said, then walked over and sat down heavily. “Greg is sending samples back to Riley to analyze, but this feels like nothing to me. Just a natural occurrence, nothing sinister going on.” He rubbed his face, realizing he’d forgotten to shave. “What’s next, Nance? Please tell me we will have something to shoot at.”

  “No, something a few islands over. A local doctor called it in a few weeks ago. We have some pictures.” Charlie bent over to look at the grainy photos. He tried to zoom in but found he couldn’t. As if expecting his question, Nance said, “Old flip phone, probably the only one on the island. Best they could do.”

  “Is that a body?” Charlie said rotating the phone. “I mean, I know it’s a body, but is it human?”

  “It is. The first washed up a month ago, and since then, seven more have shown up. All roughly similar with the same kind of wounds. At least this one has now been positively identified as Venezuelan.”