Countdown Amageddon (The Spiral Slayers Book 2)

by Rusty Williamson

“What’d he say,” asked backseat.

  “He said,” Usher snickered, “shit.”

  Greenway proceeded down the steps then across the front lawn to the driveway where his car was parked.

  ---

  Noman Greenway was always running late, the only question each morning was, how late? He tried to look at his watch, but before the dial came into view, his coffee started pouring out. It burned his thumb on its way down to the driveway where it splattered his shoes and pants.

  “Shit.”

  The keys slipped from his mouth and landed in the puddle of steaming coffee.

  “Shit.”

  He paused and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

  Finally, he was on the freeway driving fast while watching for patrol cars. From his home to the factory where he worked was a 45 minute drive in rush hour traffic. He took another deep breath and refused to look at the time. It would only cause him more stress, and anyway, he was getting there as quickly as possible. Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of Tripper Enterprises and turned into his parking space.

  Briefcase in hand, he was rounding the back of his car at a brisk pace when a van pulled alongside him, actually rubbing his coat sleeve it was so close.

  “Shit.”

  The sliding door next to him slid open and two men grabbed him and pulled him inside.

  “What the shit?”

  A hand closed over his mouth and nose, holding a wet cloth that smelled strange and a buzzing started in his ears. It grew louder and louder, and as a darkness closed in from the corners of his eyes, the buzzing sound turned into a jarring vibration that shook his very soul.

  Seemingly, an eternity later, he opened his eyes. He was reclining back in an overstuffed chair. Sitting in front of him was a man in a black suite, white shirt and black tie. The man smiled at him.

  Norman blinked then attempted to jump to his feet, however, from behind him, strong hands grabbed his shoulders and kept him seated.

  “Mr. Greenway,” the man seated in front of him said, “please relax. I apologize for the way we…had to meet.”

  “What the shit is going on?” Norman demanded in a shaky voice.

  “Mr. Greenway, your government has an emergency, a crisis, and I’m afraid only you can help. Although you cannot be told everything due to the top secret nature of the…crisis, section 7024.14-A of the Emergency Appropriation Amendment authorizes this…well, this abduction of your person to help your government out.”

  “What?” Norman said in disbelief.

  “On the bright side, for your services, section 7024.14-A, subsection B states that you must be compensated, and I quote, ‘unusual and abundant compensation’. Starting an hour ago when we picked you up and for the week you’ll be needed, you will be paid,” the man handed Norman a piece of paper, “this sum per hour, twenty-four hours a day.”

  Norman looked at the slip of paper and nearly fainted. He looked back up at the man seated across from him with wide eyes, then looked back down at the paper again. It was easy to see that he and his family were going to be rich beyond their wildest dreams. “What do I have to do?”

  Blaine Usher smiled.

  ---

  Three days later, while Norman Greenway practiced walking like De Bella at De Bella’s mansion, Blaine Usher and his assistant hiked through the badlands of the Southern Continent. As Amular’s orange sun set over the distant Falkland Mountains, they topped a ridge and finally spotted the secluded cabin of Brigadier General Rodger Allen Whitehall.

  “Down,” Usher said and they both dropped behind the cover of bushes. Usher got out his binoculars and searched the cabin and its surroundings. No one was in sight. He was about to suggest they move in closer when a voice from behind startled them both.

  “Freeze.”

  They froze.

  “Let me see both of your hands now.”

  They both slowly raised their hands.

  Usher peeked back. Whitehall stood behind both men with a large hand gun. Not taking his eyes off the two of them, he addressed a second man behind him. “And, what do we have here, Francis? You have anything to do with this?”

  De Bella, sporting the same out-of-date battle dress as Whitehall, came up behind him, “Well, Rodger…” the spit of a tranquilizer gun snapped through the air, then the dull thud of Whitehall hitting the ground, “…it just so happens I do.”

  ---

  By noon Norman Greenway’s wife, Beth, was frantic. She quickly discovered the two-day waiting period on reporting missing persons, but she had a close friend whose husband was a highly placed detective. Without missing a beat, Beth called her.

  “Gloria,” she said in a hushed, frantic tone close to panic, “Nor didn’t show for lunch. I’ve been unable to contact him all day. I…”

  “Slow down, honey,” Gloria’s calm voice cut in, “Are you saying Nor is missing?”

  “Yes. I found out that he never showed for work this morning.”

  Norman’s perfect attendance record—always late but there every day—was well known among all their friends, Norman had made certain of that.

  “I’ll have Paul call you as soon as he can.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

  Only ten seconds passed and she jumped when her com signaled. “Hello?”

  “Gloria? This is Detective Paul Tucker. Tell me what’s happened.”

  ---

  Pierce Everson had called Clavain, Scoot, Rod and Sharon into his office. Also present was the bureau’s accounting specialist, Agent Platter.

  Everson said, “We think De Bella might be moving his money.”

  Platter flipped through some papers in front of him, “De Bella’s container companies have paid back some old debts and a ton of seemingly unpaid invoices…that’s what I’m seeing.”

  Everson shot back, “The value of De Bella’s holdings have plummeted forty-three percent in the last week.”

  “The old debts are large but seem legit. The drop in business over the last three quarters is not something one can plan nor control. Still…”

  Clavain stood and walked to the window. “I do not like this. However, I do not want to bring him in yet. We don’t have any real evidence and right now we don’t want him to have any indication that we’re looking at him.”

  Everson asked, “You have him under surveillance?”

  “As of yesterday, twenty-four/seven,” Clavain replied.

  ---

  Clemet’s Airport was on a peninsula extending into the Eastern Ocean. Off the coast, the sea floor fell into one of the deepest trenches on the planet.

  This fact was not on the minds of the team that followed De Bella’s limo to the airport. His flight was logged—he was going to Axis on business. Another team was already assembling to pick up the tail on that end—business as usual.

  The two-man team pulled up outside the fence and got out to watch De Bella’s limo pull up to the twin-engine plane to let its passengers board. It was cold and the wind blurred their eyes, but they could definitely make out the stunted form of De Bella shuffling between the limo and the plane.

  The limo turned and drove away.

  “Let the plane take off then we’ll call the Axis team and confirm he’s left,” Agent Garland said to his partner.

  After several minutes, the plane started up then it slowly made its way to the runway. Finally, it took off without incident and climbed into the blue sky.

  Garland took out his com unit.

  ---

  De Bella’s limo climbed the steep mountain road away from the airport and pulled off at a rest area. De Bella rolled down the window and squinted into the sun, watching his twin-engine plane climb into the clear blue sky. He took out a small black box, pulled the antenna to its full length, and looked back toward the plane. He waited until it was well out over the ocean and over the submerged trench. After a few seconds, he grimaced and pushed the small red button on the black box—he’d liked that plane.


  ---

  “Okay, he’s on his way,” Agent Garlands said as he watched De Bella’s plane climb into the sky and level off. “He’s all…” his sentence was interrupted as his eyes went wide in disbelief.

  ---

  Clemet’s Airport recorded De Bella’s scheduled departure in his twin-engine plane. Security cameras recorded De Bella dressed in an off-white suite and hat shuffle out to his plane then board.

  At 2:18 PM, the twin-engine took off. As it leveled off just off the coast, airport cameras caught it as it was engulfed by a large fireball.

  ---

  Later that afternoon, De Bella looked up and nodded and the top of the custom life support capsule was lowered and locked into place. A moment later, he could hear the top of the cargo container being lowered into place, enclosing the Ex-Congressman.

  De Bella was in an overstuffed chair he had custom built for his escape capsule: a cargo container holding a comfortable, air-conditioned, acoustically sealed, self-contained compartment with its own power supply. It had elaborate entertainment and communication equipment. The entire enclosure was shielded and suspended on springs. It had a 30-day supply of food, water and air.

  The only annoyance to De Bella’s first ride in his custom-built escape capsule was the sleeping form of Whitehall next to him. He checked the drip that ran into the General’s arm and the mask that fed him gas. The good general was fast asleep. He was also secured in case he did become conscious.

  De Bella fixed himself something to eat while the cargo container’s lid was sealed in place then turned on the video feed and watched the news. His exploding airplane and death was the top story.

  After the lid was sealed, he ran a system check then, assured that all was working, he dismissed his work crew outside that had been preparing the container. De Bella had even supplied lunch for the work crew, thus insuring they would all be dead before morning.

  Thirty minutes later, a truck arrived and the standard cargo container was trucked to the docks, processed in and scheduled to be loaded onto a ship headed for the Southern Continent.

  ---

  In the FCB’s situation room, the Director of the Federal Crime Bureau, Pierce Everson, stood behind his seat at the end of the conference table and summed up with his usual economy of words, “This…smells.”

  Besides the director, only two other people occupied the large room: Special Agent Carl Clavain and, receiving the report for the president, Secretary of Defense Barrington. All three stared at a large monitor. It showed the erupting fireball that had been De Bella’s plane. To the left, a smaller monitor showed an earlier scene of De Bella flanked by aides as he walked from his limo to the plane and boarded.

  The Secretary of Defense asked, “Pierce, how do we know that this is him?”

  “Sally…it’s most likely him,” Everson answered wearily. “However…why wouldn’t it be him?”

  Clavain picked up, “For the same reason De Bella’s companies moved eighty percent of their net worth in such complex ways that eventually the trail is just lost. If he ordered the hits then saw everything unraveling, he might have somehow faked his death.” He took a deep breath, “Certainly a preplanned escape taking a lot of planning, time, expense and unusual and seriously drastic measures.”

  “You really think that’s what he did?” Sally asked.

  “We’re seriously looking into it,” Director Everson answered.

  “Then…” Sally pointed at the smaller screen and at the man who looked just like De Bella as he vanished into the hatch of the plane, “who’s that?”

  ---

  A week later on the other side of Amular from Axis, De Bella lay naked on an operating table. He’d been tranquilized, otherwise he’d have been cold, embarrassed and pissed off. As it was, he had a pleasant warm feeling running through him and the entire world seemed right. All he could see were the florescent light fixtures in the ceiling.

  Ten feet away on another operating table was an unconscious Whitehall. Beside him, Blain Usher stood with three doctors. All wore operating scrubs but their masks were pulled down.

  One of the three doctors held a large PDA and was saying, “So a complete facial and neck transplant, including the eyes and voice box and also, both arms and legs—a full identity transplant.”

  “That’s right,” Blain said.

  “And, what about the penis?”

  “Excuse me?”

  The doctor looked up from his data entry with an annoyed expression. “The penis?” The doctor leaned in closer and lowered his voice, “It is…ah, larger.”

  Blain’s eyes got wider. “Oh. Ah, let me ask?” Blain walked over to De Bella and conferred in hushed tones. Then he returned, “How much larger?”

  The doctor held up the PDA and pointed to a flashing number next to a picture of a body. Blain’s eyes got wider still and he smiled. He returned to De Bella and again they conferred in hushed tones, however, the doctors clearly heard De Bella holler, “Well, hell yes! Why are you even asking?”

  ---

  Three months later, all hope of recovering any of the seven bodies was abandoned and services for passengers and crew were conducted.

  Due to De Bella’s decades in Congress, his service was held in the capital in the Axis Memorial Cemetery. It would have seemed to a by-stander that De Bella had a very good turnout. However, in reality most were staff, servants and business associates. Less than 12 were family and friends.

  It was partly cloudy—a cool and windy day. Buffeted by the wind, Investigator Carl Clavain stood off to the side. His team of six was spread out among the 50 or so in attendance. He turned as if looking around and said into his throat mic, “Anything?”

  The answers came back. All of them were negative. He continued to study the faces as well as the outskirts for anyone watching from a distance. He was not sure what he had expected—De Bella watching his own funeral from behind some tree. Pictures were being taken of each attendee. Later, unknowns would be identified and anyone suspicious would be looked into, but so far, this had been a waste of time.

  ---

  “We cannot begin surgery,” the doctor said as he pulled off his facemask and cap. “The donor must be brain dead and this man is not.”

  Blain rolled his eyes, “You were supposed to see to that.”

  The doctor looked confused then he took a clipboard from the operation room door and flipped through it. “Shit. This is supposed to be done prior to entry into the operation room.”

  “Your procedures are not my problem, doctor, they're yours,” Blain shot back. This type of problem had become common and Blain was getting very tired of it. Eventually, they proceeded with the surgery.

  The surgery for the full head skin, ears, eyes, voice box and teeth transplant took 22 hours.

  Three weeks later the arms, legs and penis were to be transplanted, taking an estimated 18 hours.

  However, learning to use these new appendages and organs would take considerably longer, years in fact.

  ---

  Meanwhile, in the town of Ruddock, on the northern edge of the Central Continent, Detective Paul Tucker sat at his desk sipping coffee, eating donuts and watching the news.

  The Norman Greenway case had grown cold and despite the extra clout it had due to friendships, it had reached a dead end days ago. There was nowhere to go on the case.

  On the news feed, a report on De Bella came on showing a picture of the late ex-congressman and Paul sat up, spilling his coffee. He looked from the video to the picture five feet away on the tack board of Norman Greenway. After a few seconds, he could see the differences, but damn, he thought, they looked a lot alike.

  He started cleaning up the coffee from his shirt with a damp cloth—this kind of accident happened weekly and he was prepared for it.

  He never gave the resemblance between Greenway and De Bella another thought.

  ---

  De Bella lay in his hospital bed. Pumped full of drugs, he slept peacefully. Su
spended in goose down pillows were his new arms and hands, and his new legs and feet. Also encased by these down pillows was his new face. The penis transplant was also incased in small pillows.

  They were done except for reproducing two old scars General Whitehall had on his chest and back.

  There had only been 18 whole identity transplants like this done in the last 120 years. The first four had resulted in death but the rest had been successful.

  Still, this was the easy part. The hard part was to come—three to four years of physical therapy and training. He would have to learn how to use his arms, hands and legs again, then how to move, speak, react and even think like the late general. This was where the success of those 14 previous whole identity transplants varied. With the potential power Whitehall could buy De Bella, De Bella had lots of motivation to master it all and he had no doubts in himself.

  ---

  The FCB had hit a dead end when the body of Jake Prosser was found and no new leads or evidence had come to light linking the assassination attempt to the late De Bella, and no evidence that De Bella was still alive had been uncovered.

  Director Pierce Everson reluctantly kept resources on the case, but as far as he was concerned, unless something new came to light, the case was dead.

  ---

  A year and a half had passed and De Bella was now Whitehall…almost.

  He had left the clinic where he had suffered long and hard, learning to use his hands and legs again. He had moved into a secluded mansion he had rented along with a full staff of nurses, therapists and servants. Though he missed his old estate, the place was nice. It was on the coast and contained many acres of forest with streams and quaint meandering paths.

  Through the forest he walked slowly and stiffly forward; his spine, neck, head, pelvis, arms, legs, feet, hands and even fingers locked down to a metal exoskeleton that controlled his entire body, his every move. It forced him to move like the late General Whitehall whose body had been cremated along with De Bella’s spare parts long ago. The exoskeleton had been programmed from the hours of video showing Whitehall walk, talk, exercise and interact with others.

  De Bella/Whitehall walked over a bridge, his steps loud on the wooden planks, muffled only by dried leaves that crackled under the combat boots the General had always worn.