Callsign: King - Book 2 - Underworld (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy

  With a sigh, King sank to his knees and remembered that there was, after all, an exception to the military “sir or ma’am” rule; it didn’t apply when dealing with prisoners.

  12.

  From almost a hundred yards away, Ivan Sokoloff watched King’s capture play out through his own PVS-7 device. This time, he didn’t give voice to his rage, but inwardly he was seething. He had stalked King and Pierce across the desert for hours now, eschewing the trail for a hard scrabble across the slopes of the mountain, just waiting for an opportunity to take the shot and fulfill the contract. When King had doubled back to help the woman—an unexpected player in the drama that Sokoloff had spotted early on—the hitman had thought that his chance had finally come.

  Although the desert trek represented a physical manifestation of his relentless pursuit, it was only the culmination of several hours of activity that had begun just a few minutes after he had delivered news of his failure in New York to his employer. He had no sooner arrived back at his hotel room when another text message had arrived, informing him of King’s next destination: Phoenix, Arizona.

  His mysterious employer seemed to know everything about King’s itinerary, and had already booked Sokoloff a seat on the same plane. There was a subtle hint of urgency about the communiqué. Sokoloff could tell that there was something in Arizona that his employer didn’t want King discovering before his death. Unfortunately, the rigid enforcement of transportation safety rules made it impossible for him to get a weapon on the plane. The new body scanning technology now made it impossible to bring even a ceramic knife aboard a plane.

  Not that Sokoloff would have made the attempt in so public a fashion. Even though he had sat only thirty feet away from the man whose death would net him more money than he could possibly ever spend, and even though he had walked right past the unsuspecting King on three different occasions during the course of the flight to Denver, and once more on the way to Phoenix, the thought of a quick strike—perhaps a knife-hand blow across the windpipe, or a rigid finger, stabbed through the man’s eye and into his brain—had never been more than an idle daydream. The problem with not being able to transport any weapons meant that, before he could go after King upon arrival in Phoenix, he had to stop and get some new tools of his trade.

  His employer had streamlined that process. “Arrangements have been made,” he had been told in another of the maddening text messages. His employer seemed to know King’s every move, and had supplied Sokoloff accordingly, with a set of desert camouflage fatigues, night vision optics, and most importantly, a used but serviceable, Smith & Wesson Model 4006 .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol and three 11 round magazines. All of this had been waiting for him in a Nissan Xterra that had been left at the parking garage of the airport.

  For a couple hours thereafter, he had followed King’s progress electronically. His employer had acquired the GPS tracking signature for King’s rental vehicle, allowing the Russian to reacquire his target and obviating the need to maintain visual contact, which might have risked exposure. It also represented one more opportunity lost; he could have pulled alongside King on the open highway and casually shot him as he drove, but no…a better opportunity would come.

  Yet as he had hiked across the desert, reminded with every arduous foot of forward progress that he had lived the soft life too long to be doing this again, he had been unable to get within pistol range. He needed to be close; if he missed with the first shot, there was no telling what might happen. And because King and Pierce had night vision as well, sneaking up on them was doubly difficult. The appearance of the woman, hiking along blissfully unaware of the deadly cat and mouse game, had added a further complication, but her fall and subsequent cry for help had finally given him the chance he’d been waiting for.

  And then the soldiers had appeared out of nowhere.

  As he ducked his head down to avoid detection, he realized that he should be counting his blessings. Had he been only a few seconds quicker, he would have given himself away to the patrol. But that was cold comfort. King was now in military custody, and Sokoloff didn’t have the first clue how he was going to overcome that obstacle.

  The soldiers didn’t question their prisoners, but quickly searched them, stripped them of their gear, zip-tied their hands and then ordered them to march down the trail in the dark. Sokoloff then heard one of the uniformed men speak into his radio. “Devil 2-1, this is Devil 2, over.”

  Sokoloff couldn’t make out the reply. Somehow, the electronic voice reproduced by the radio’s speakers didn’t have the same acoustic quality.

  “2-1, come up and sweep the area with your team. Let’s make sure there aren’t any more surprises out here, over.”

  There was another scratch of static.

  “Roger that. Meet you back at the FOB. Devil 2, out.”

  Sokoloff kept his face tight against the warm desert ground, but now he was smiling. Maybe there was a way after all.

  13.

  A High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle (HMMWV) more commonly known as a “Humvee” was waiting a short way down the trail. King noted that it was the M998 variant of the venerable military transport vehicle, configured almost like a pick-up truck with a soft canopy over the rear cargo area and wooden bench seats on either side. The three prisoners were bundled into the back of the truck—no simple feat with their hands bound, and two of the soldiers got in as well, keeping them covered at all times with their M4s. During the forced march, Nina had made a few indignant inquiries that had led to a threat of being gagged, and so all verbal communication had ceased. Nevertheless, as they were herded into the transport vehicle, illuminated by flashlights, King managed to give Pierce a confident nod that said: Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.

  Despite his reassuring demeanor, King was still mentally wrestling to come up with a solution that would not only get them free, but also advance his mission. The recent decision to sever Chess Team from military control had given the unit a great deal more freedom, but it also had its drawbacks. Where once, he might have been able to simply give the commanding officer in the field General Keasling’s phone number, and then at his own discretion, co-opt whatever resources he needed, now he would have to be a little more creative.

  The three captives spent the next half hour enduring a torturous ride, where every bump pitched them into the air and brought them down again painfully on the metal deck or, as was more often the case, on each other. Eventually, the ride smoothed out a little, signaling that they had turned onto a somewhat improved road, and the Humvee picked up speed until reaching its destination only a few minutes later. Bruised and battered, they emerged from the vehicle under the harsh glow of overhead Klieg lights, powered by portable generators, in front of a capacious olive drab GP medium tent. King noted other tents, a motor pool with several different Humvee variants and even a large satellite dish. He also glimpsed a triple thickness of concertina wire encircling the entire compound, before he was ushered into the tent.

  They were kept at gunpoint in a corner of the brightly lit tent for several minutes before being confronted by an Army lieutenant colonel whose nametape said: “Magnuson.” King noted the matching unit patches on either arm—the screaming eagle of the 101st Airborne Division—and the air assault jump wings and combat infantry badge on his chest.

  Magnuson didn’t bother to introduce himself, but instead made a show of studying their respective driver’s licenses. King’s license identified him as Scott Nicholson, one of the many thoroughly developed aliases that he now used exclusively, in lieu of his given name.

  “You’re quite a cosmopolitan bunch,” Magnuson observed. “A local, a New Englander, and a world traveler…are you actually a US citizen, Mr. Pierce?”

  Pierce was unfazed. “It’s Dr. Pierce, actually.”

  King jumped in quickly. “We’re all citizens, Colonel,” he said in a confident voice. “We’ve got a right to move freely about the country, but I’m not sure the same is true f
or US military forces. I think you owe us all an explanation.”

  Magnuson gave a short, humorless chuckle. “So we’re going to play games then? You were caught trying to sneak into a designated isolation area.”

  “Really? I didn’t see any signs.”

  “Cute.” Magnuson checked his watch, and King noted that his brow furrowed, as if he had just realized he was late for an appointment. “So what’s your story? Let me guess: you’re journalists, right? Here to discover the ‘real story’? Guess what? There is no real story. You put yourselves and my men in unnecessary danger by trying to sneak into the exclusion zone. Fortunately for you, no one is interested in prosecuting you for trespassing, so you’re all going to be loaded on that Humvee, and evacuated back to Phoenix. Immediately.”

  Nina seemed mostly relieved by the news, but something about Magnuson’s sense of urgency prompted King to stall for time. “Colonel, this is completely unacceptable. You seized our equipment…that’s several hundred dollars worth of stuff. And my rental car is back at the trailhead. How am I supposed to retrieve it? You can’t just swoop down and pick us up like this is some kind of conspiracy movie. We’ve got rights, and you’re trampling all over them.”

  Magnuson checked his watch again, then answered impatiently. “You’ll be able to sort all that out with the public affairs officer once you get to Phoenix, but right now, you need to get in that Humvee.”

  “I’m not going anywhere tied up like a common criminal,” King pressed. He caught Pierce trying to hide a smile, while Nina looked completely shocked by his behavior. The lieutenant colonel frowned, and then fidgeted nervously with his watch. King could tell that the officer wasn’t used to anyone challenging him, and decided to keep pressing the man. “You owe us an apology for this treatment. And that man who accosted us out on the trail. I want an apology from him, too.”

  Magnuson seemed to be on the verge of acceding to the demand when the tent flap opened and a fully outfitted soldier, with captain’s bars on the front of his body armor vest, rushed in. “Sir, something weird is happening out here.”

  King craned his head around to look through the opening. “Weird” didn’t begin to describe it. The ground outside the tent was covered in a carpet of mist, but it was no ordinary fog. The thick cloud of vapor shimmered like silver foil, and every few seconds, it flashed with discharges of static electricity. The mist crept in through the open flap, and King noted that it was also starting to seep in around the edges of the tent.

  Suddenly, the sound of gunfire and shouting, interspersed with a shrieking noise like something from hell itself, shattered the quiet.

  King dropped all pretense of indignation and turned to Pierce. “Okay, I didn’t expect that.”

  INTRUSION

  14.

  East of Phoenix, Arizona — 0907 UTC (2:07 am Local)

  For just a few moments, the heavy canvas fabric of the tent seemed like an impenetrable barrier, holding chaos at bay. The illusion was tested when something big crashed into its side, sending a ripple through the taut material that set the upright poles rocking back and forth.

  Magnuson turned to one of his subordinates. “Keep an eye on them,” he said, pointing to the still handcuffed trio. The officer had drawn an M9 Beretta from a holster on his hip. Something told King the 9-millimeter rounds from the pistol wouldn’t make much of a difference.

  The side of the tent snapped again and this time the inward bulge was not turned back by the durable material. Tension ropes snapped, or the pegs hammered into the ground to which they were attached were ripped free, and suddenly the tent seemed to fold in half.

  King saw what was about to happen and shouted a warning: “Get down!”

  He dropped to his knees and then half-rolled, half-fell onto his shoulder. He saw Pierce and Nina doing more or less the same, and then the roof caved in. The heavy fabric pinned him in place like it was weighted with sandbags. A few glimmers of light crept under the folds as some of the soldiers caught in the collapse struggled to get free, but King remained still and shouted for the others to do the same. Over the din of shots and screams, and the rustle of the tent’s destruction, King heard the noise of something heavy, like sledgehammer blows, pounding the ground with a very familiar rhythm.

  Footsteps, King realized. Someone running.Or something…something that weighs as much as an elephant. Make that a lot of somethings.

  The olive-drab shroud grew tight around him as the steps began falling directly on the collapsed tent. One of the footfalls came down right next to his head, sending out a tremor that rattled through his skull. If the thing stepped on him…stepped on any of them…it would break bones or do internal damage.

  The heavy steps moved away, sparing King, but he didn’t know the fate of the others. With deliberate slowness, he began worming his way toward where he thought Pierce was, hissing his friend’s name in a stage whisper.

  “King? I’m here.” It was Nina. He kept squirming forward until he felt his shoulder bump against her.

  “Is George with you?” It occurred to King that Pierce had never actually gotten around to introducing himself to the woman they had met on the trail, but she seemed like a quick study.

  “No. I lost track of him.”

  “Are you all right?” King kept the disappointment from his tone.

  “So far. This would be a lot easier if I could get my hands free.”

  “We’ll do something about that soon.” King oriented himself toward what he thought was the shortest route to freedom. “Follow me.”

  A few feet from where he encountered Nina, King glimpsed a sliver of light. He cautiously poked his head out and tried to get a look at the mayhem that had descended upon the camp.

  The shimmering mist was everywhere, hugging the ground and obscuring his view, but through it, King could see shapes moving—a few soldiers still standing their ground and firing their carbines, but many more running, pursued by enormous humanoid silhouettes. The air was alive with noise: the harsh crack of M4s, the screams of men dying and other inhuman shrieks, and in the distance, a deep bass rumble of thunder.

  A soldier had fallen only a few feet from where King now lay. The young man’s body was bent unnaturally; his upper torso had been twisted completely around. The heavy body armor had afforded little protection from the raw physical strength of the unknown attackers. King felt a pang of sorrow that another brave American soldier had fallen, but there wasn’t time for grief. He spied a familiar object on the dead man’s belt and scooted in close enough to grasp the hilt of the KA-BAR knife and draw it from its sheath.

  Working by feel alone, King slipped the razor sharp blade under the plastic zip-ties binding his hands and gave the knife a twist. The plastic parted with hardly any effort. With his hands freed, he rolled back toward the collapsed tent and cut Nina’s bonds as well. Only then did he poke his head above the blanket of mist.

  The camp was completely unrecognizable. All of the tents had been knocked down, as had the overhead Klieg lights and the satellite dish. A fire was raging in one corner of the compound, possibly from one of the overturned diesel-powered electrical generators. The mist emitted an eerie glow that gave little illumination, but off in the distance, brilliant tongues of lightning mixed with fast-moving orbs of ball lightning were stabbing down from the sky, revealing the scene in brief flashes, like a strobe light on a dance floor.

  In the surreal light, King saw a few soldiers still standing, but there were many more of tall, shaggy creatures identical to the one in the video Aleman had sent him. They seemed to be everywhere.

  King saw Nina gaping in amazement at the mayhem, and pulled her down into the relative concealment afforded by the mist. With the naked KA-BAR stashed under his belt, he checked the fallen soldier’s carbine.

  The bolt was locked back, the magazine empty. He checked the gear pouches attached to the man’s body armor vest, and found two full replacements. One went in the magazine well, the other in a pocket. If the s
oldier’s fate was any indication, the 5.56-millimeter rounds hadn’t been very effective against the creatures, but it was better than nothing.

  “Stay close to me,” he told the wide-eyed Nina. “And keep your head down.”

  His thoughts returned to Pierce, but a glance at the collapsed tent showed no hint of bodies—moving or otherwise—underneath the canvas in the area where he had last seen the archaeologist. He resisted the urge to start tearing the heavy fabric apart with his bare hands; it would have been a futile effort, for Pierce was plainly gone. He had either escaped on his own or…

  King shook his head, refusing to consider the alternative. George is here, somewhere, and I will find him.

  But even as he made that silent promise, he realized that the search for his friend could no longer be his first priority. He had come to Arizona to learn the truth about the strange creatures that had attacked the day before, and now, even though he was right in the middle of a major incursion by the same species, he still knew nothing about them, or what had prompted this attack.

  He recalled how Magnuson had repeatedly checked the time in the moments leading up to the assault. The officer had known that something was about to happen and had wanted to get the detainees out of the way before that deadline.

  No, I’m missing something. If Magnuson had known an attack was imminent, he would have been better prepared.

  A heavy thumping, reverberating through the ground beneath his feet, cut short his musings. Even through the mist, he could see the creature lumbering directly toward him, its red eyes fixed on him like targeting lasers.

  King didn’t hesitate. He stood fully erect, facing the charging creature in a slightly hunched over tactical stance, and with the carbine pressed against his shoulder, flipped the fire selector to burst. He pulled the trigger twice in rapid sequence, what range instructors called a controlled pair, though in burst mode, his double-pull let loose six bullets in less than a second. All six rounds hit their intended target; at about thirty meters and closing, it was hard to miss. The tiny bullets, each only a little bit bigger in diameter than a construction nail, perforated the creature’s broad, bare forehead in a tight grouping, right above the bridge of its all-too-human nose. Still the creature thundered forward.