“They’re correct. Lab dissections verify advanced sensory structures. Keen hearing and sight. We have to assume they can detect seismic waves far more proficiently than most ground animals.”
Upshaw nodded, noting Pam’s strange smile. He couldn’t wait until she left the room.
“Then I think the area is safe for him to proceed,” said Upshaw.
“I agree. Let’s get Hassler moving. Also, pass word to Marcus. I want him to start tagging abbies. If Hassler makes good progress, we’ll detonate the test charges in two days. I want a good data set for Mr. Leven’s calculations. We can’t afford to underestimate the abbies’ acoustic and seismic detection capabilities.”
“Understood, Mr. Pilcher. I’ll notify Marcus immediately.”
When Pilcher turned to leave, Upshaw swiveled his chair and continued typing. He heard the door close, but sensed that he wasn’t alone. A quick glance backward confirmed that Pam had stayed behind.
“I thought I’d keep you company for a while,” she said, standing next to him. “It must get lonely in here all by yourself. Watching the world through a screen.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, I’d much rather experience that world from here. If you don’t mind, I have a lot of work to do.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before leaving.
What was that supposed to mean? Was that a proposition? Oh man, she was fucking creepy. Never in a million years would he consider what he thought she might be suggesting. Not with the possibility of her clown face appearing out of nowhere. Just the thought of it trampled his libido. Upshaw watched her leave, his eyes drawn to her streamlined figure and provocative walk. Then again, life in the superstructure didn’t leave him with many options.
Chapter 36
Marcus climbed into the passenger seat of the Mark23 MTVR and shut the door, nodding to the driver. The seven-ton, armored transport lurched forward, barely squeezing through the partially opened gate. One of the superstructure’s up-armored Humvees followed closely behind. Checking his side mirror through the thick ballistic glass, he watched the security team slide the deactivated fencing section along sturdy rollers to its locked position against the fence post. Back in hostile territory for the second time today.
His earpiece crackled. “Marcus, this is Wagner. We have inbound from the south.”
“Copy,” he said, turning to the driver. “Blake, whatever you do, don’t get us stuck. Stay on the path we det-corded this morning. There’s room for a tight three-point turn at the end, but not much more.”
“Got it,” said the middle-aged, goateed driver.
“Drive slowly no matter what you see. This glass will stop an AK-47 round. Nothing can get in here,” he said, knocking on the windshield and hoping he was right.
Marcus slid through the hatch connecting the cabin to the armored troop compartment. Inside the olive green box, eight nervous men watched him.
“Abbies inbound. Take your stations and fire at will. We keep shooting until the tracking darts are gone. Make each shot count,” he said.
The men split into two groups of four, each group taking positions on one side of the compartment. The armor kit resembled the same system he’d used with the marines in Afghanistan, with a few changes made by the superstructure’s welding team. The ballistic windows had been removed and replaced with reinforced metal bars spaced three inches apart.
The four windows represented the only breaches in the truck’s hull. Unlike this morning’s run, the turret hatch above the driver’s cabin would remain closed and locked. Their mission was to tag the abbies with transmitter darts, not gun them down en masse. Without the gun turrets thinning the herd, he expected this to be a wild ride.
“Here they come!” yelled one of the men on the starboard side of the truck.
The two starboard-side guns hissed repeatedly as the teams fired into the oncoming pack, chambering darts as rapidly as possible. A few seconds after the shooting started, the abbies struck the armor, slightly rocking the seven-ton vehicle on its chassis. A gray, black-taloned hand gripped the steel bars, immediately followed by the razor-teeth-infested face of a snarling abby. The shooter stepped back while the second man jammed a long-handled stun gun through the bars and shocked the creature until it fell from the vehicle.
Thumps against the sides of the armored vehicle grew louder and more persistent as the creatures frenzied against the impenetrable hull. He knew they couldn’t break into the vehicle, but the sheer volume of abbies striking the sides made him nervous. Marcus’s primary concern was the tires. The MK23 was equipped with a Central Tire Inflation System, providing continuous air to the thick tires in the event of a puncture, but he wasn’t sure if that system could overcome multiple punctures and slashes.
“Jesus!” he heard from the operator’s cabin.
Marcus looked over his shoulder to check the driver’s view. Creatures bounded onto the hood, pounding on the windows to get at Blake.
“How we doing up there?” he said.
“Fine, as long as you’re sure these things can’t break through. They’re hitting the windows really fucking hard.”
“Any signs of cracking?” said Marcus.
“Negative. I’m coming up on the turn.”
“Already? Shit. Looks like we might be making two trips. Take your time with the turn.”
“Got it,” said Blake.
Marcus turned his attention back to the troop compartment.
“Give me a count of estimated rounds fired!”
Each team reported between twenty and thirty darts fired, which should be enough to make an initial assessment of the operation. He switched channels on his radio and contacted Operations.
“Ops, this is Marcus. We’ve fired roughly one hundred darts, what are you seeing?”
“This is Operations. We’re picking up good returns on eighty-one transmitters. Looks like they’re starting to drop from the tranquilizer. I have thirty-three stationary or slow-moving tags. Can you tell if they’re cannibalizing?”
“Stand by,” he said, switching back to the convoy frequency. “Wagner, how are you guys doing?”
“Doing all right for now. These fuckers are strong, and they don’t seem to give a shit. They’re hitting the sides of the Humvee like battering rams.”
“Do you see any tranquilized abbies? Operations said we have thirty-three stationary,” said Marcus.
“Affirmative. They seem to fade from the MTVR and wander around a bit before falling.”
“Are the other abbies leaving them alone?” said Marcus.
“As far as I can tell, but the abbies are way more preoccupied with the vehicles right now.”
“Copy. We’re coming up on the turn. Wait in the turnoff until we pass you. Don’t try to squeeze by. I don’t want to get stuck out here in an armored coffin.”
“None of us do,” said Wagner.
Chapter 37
Hassler crouched low, letting his ears take over for a moment. The forest had been mercifully devoid of abbies so far, but he wasn’t about to stake his life on Pilcher’s diversions. A cautious, measured approach to the mission represented his best chance of survival. Murray Wagner, the only security officer on Marcus’s team that didn’t blatantly ignore him, shared what he had learned about the abbies from his four-day struggle outside of the hatch. The information had proven invaluable during his first two hours trekking through hostile territory.
Like animals, the abbies behaved instinctually, which made them easier to predict. They generally moved in packs, always preceded by scouts. Similar to the point-man concept used by military units, the scouts travelled alone and were typically the smaller, more agile members of the pack. They ranged ahead of the main group by a few hundred yards, which made the sight of a lone abby even more terrifying. The presence of a single creature could signify the immediate, unannounced arrival of a hundred abbies. A veritable death sentence for Hassler. Even a mini-pack of ten was nearly unsurvivable
. The things moved too damned fast.
If he spotted a lone abby, his best strategy was to immediately seek concealment and determine the pack’s travel path. A scout moving perpendicularly across his route was the best-case scenario. The packs traveled in relatively tight formations, unlikely to stumble across his position if they were far enough away. If Hassler calculated an intersection with the pack, he’d have to kill the scout and swiftly clear the area.
Killing the scout was necessary, because he wouldn’t have time to escape without attracting the scout’s attention. Fortunately, the abbies didn’t seem to investigate the sudden death of their own beyond a few quick sniffs and a glance around the forest. As long as he remained out of sight and downwind, he should be fine.
The basic tenets of human survival in the year 3813 AD had drastically changed. Life was different when you had natural predators in nature. Staying alive relied on stealth and avoidance, reserving the application of force for well-defined circumstances—exactly how he had operated for several years in 1st Special Forces Operational Group-Delta. Always outnumbered. Always outgunned. Always defying the odds and coming out on top. His margin of error was smaller in this hostile world, but the abbies appeared to be a manageable threat if he paid attention and played it safe.
Satisfied that he was alone, Hassler lowered his rifle and removed a laminated topographic map from a zippered pouch on the side of his vest. Using a black grease pencil from the pouch, he marked his estimated location. His pace count from the previous stop suggested he had arrived at the eight-mile point, which required him to plant twelve one-pound explosive charges, fifty yards apart on an east-west axis. The entire line would run nearly a third of a mile.
Two of the charges were part of the acoustics test. The remaining ten would play an important role in Pilcher’s plan to keep the abbies away long enough for the construction crew to build the primary containment fence. He carried enough explosives on his back to plant a similar string of ten charges at the four- and six-mile points.
The overall concept involved drawing the bulk of the abbies south with the charges buried at miles four, six and eight. Once the forest near the fence construction site was clear, the abbies would be pulled further away by the sequential detonation of fifty charges planted between miles ten and fifteen.
Setting this final series would take the better part of an entire day, possibly longer if he opted for more than one resupply trip. Hiking under the constant threat of attack, with more than a hundred pounds of gear, had taken its toll. He’d already fallen one mile behind the projection he had given Pilcher. Three hours to walk three miles and dig four holes—not exactly a record pace. At some point Pilcher would do the math and figure out that this wouldn’t be a two-day mission. More like three and a half.
“Hassler, this is Operations. Mr. Pilcher needs to speak with you.”
Speak of the devil.
“Standing by,” said Hassler, sliding his backpack onto a bed of pine needles.
“Adam, your last position report puts you at least a mile behind schedule. At this rate—”
“Good afternoon to you too,” he said, transmitting over Pilcher’s voice. “I’m moving as fast as possible without turning into a late afternoon snack. I just reached mile eight.”
“Mile eight?” said Pilcher.
“If you think someone else can do this faster, feel free to launch hang glider number two.”
“Is there any way you can pick up the pace? You haven’t reported any hostile contact, so I assume our diversions cleared the valley,” said Pilcher.
“I haven’t stopped to work on my tan, if that’s what you think. All it takes is one mistake, and you won’t have any choice but to launch another glider. I should be able to make up some lost time between here and the mile-four point. I’m still working out the bugs with the long-distance radio transceivers. How are the signals looking, by the way?”
“We’re seeing strong signals on mile ten and nine transceivers.”
“I’m about to plant twelve more. I should be an expert at this within ninety minutes.”
“That long?” said Pilcher.
“That’s a conservative estimate. I have to look over my shoulder every ten fucking seconds, or risk being eaten. Three days max and I’ll have this all wrapped up for you.”
Pilcher remained silent for several seconds. Hassler envisioned his cheeks turning a bright red as he stifled a scream.
“Operations, this is Hassler. Radio check,” he said, forming a thin grin.
“I’m still here,” barked Pilcher. “You have three days, including today.”
“Or what?” said Hassler. “Don’t answer that. I’ll have this done in three days. Out.”
He deactivated the radio, cutting off Pilcher’s reply, and turned his attention back to the forest. Ten seconds hadn’t been an exaggeration. He’d have to remain constantly vigilant to prevent an undetected attack. Racing at speeds in excess of thirty miles per hour, an abby stumbling across his scent at a distance of two hundred yards could be on him in less than fifteen seconds. After scanning the shadows under the trees for threats, he opened his pack and extracted one of forty olive green bricks stuffed in his pack.
In one of the larger external pouches, he removed a hard plastic case containing the long-range transceivers. Little more than the size of his thumb, a five-inch-long, fishing-wire-thin antenna protruded from its gray synthetic shell. He’d been skeptical about the devices’ maximum range, but Upshaw assured him they generated enough power to transmit a detectable signal. Another hi-tech marvel acquired after most of them had entered suspension, by the team Pilcher kept around to tie up loose ends and troll the markets for technology upgrades.
Hassler’s load out for the mission consisted of six boxes, each containing twenty-five transceivers. He’d seen hundreds of similar boxes in the technology storage pod. He had no idea why Pilcher would need thousands of these things, but he wasn’t complaining. They worked. After one of the superstructure’s electricians engineered a quick internal modification turning each transceiver into a remote detonator, all he had to do was connect a few wires and test the signal before attaching the modified device to a block of explosives. Once Operations confirmed that the charge was live, he buried the improvised explosive device in a sealed Ziploc bag, leaving the antennae exposed above the ground.
The whole process was relatively painless, except for the digging. The noise created by scraping a one-foot hole in the frozen ground seemed to amplify through the forest. Every time his hollow folding shovel thunked into the ground, he glanced around nervously. With ninety more holes to dig over the next few days, he felt certain the odds were stacked against him.
Chapter 38
Pilcher stepped out of his private elevator and walked toward Operations. The hippie-looking guard nicknamed Leo opened the door for him. Leo, formally known as Leonard Jones, had been one of the more eclectic additions to the superstructure staff. A washed-up forty-one-year-old musician in Portland, Oregon, Leonard had responded to one of Pilcher’s “End of the Line” employment ads. Created by a team of psychologists and behavioral specialists, the “End of the Line” series represented one of several highly targeted advertising campaigns designed to attract candidates with a high potential to pass the rigorous mental indoctrination process and ultimately join the Wayward Pines program.
The “End of the Line” ads served to identify candidates motivated by the chance to start over. People who would give anything or, more importantly, pledge anything for a meaningful life—unhindered by the black marks of past mistakes and the daily reminders of their failings. Leonard fell squarely into this category. With two jail stints on his record, one for impaling a man’s hand to a dartboard with a throwing knife while intoxicated and another for a parole violation, Mr. Jones’s future in the music world had dimmed to the point of collapse when he placed a call to Pilcher’s recruitment team.
Pope conducted a face-to-face interview with Le
onard in 2009, more or less dismissing the pale, Goth-looking guitarist until the very end of the interview. With little to offer Wayward Pines in terms of a technical skill set, and all of the superstructure’s basic labor jobs filled, Pope jokingly said, “Impress me. Give me a reason to hire you.” At this point, most applicants stared blankly at Pope, shrugging their shoulders in defeat. Leonard stood up from the desk and walked toward the door. While Pope closed his file, figuring Leonard was finished, he wheeled around and released a hidden throwing knife, uttering, “Miami.” When Pope examined the map, he saw that the knife protruded from the bottom half of Florida’s peninsula. He promptly stamped Leonard’s file “SECURITY.” Leo sailed through indoctrination, proving to be an invaluable, levelheaded member of Alan’s internal security force.
“Good evening, Leo. Pulling a double shift?” said Pilcher.
“We have three officers on loan to Marcus’s team. I’d much rather pull a double than take my chances on the outside. Too old for that shit.”
Pilcher laughed, disarmed by Leo’s candor.
“How do you think I feel? I’m nearly twenty years older than you,” he said, changing to a more serious tone. “Once we get the fence up, we won’t have to worry about those things. I promise you that.”
“I’m happy right here, sir. Someone has to hold down the fort,” said Leo.
“Indeed. Keep up the good work, Leo,” said Pilcher, patting his shoulder before walking into Operations.
Upshaw stood in front of the largest flat-screen monitor, pointing at a pack of icons superimposed on a map of the valley. Marcus, Elliot Black and Pope stood behind him.
“Starting without me?” said Pope, watching the four men scramble to offer an explanation.
Disappointingly, Pope was the slowest to show any form of regret or contrition. His smug look barely changed as he stepped away from the monitor. Not good. Pope seemed different after emerging from suspension. Maybe Pam was right. He’d have to keep a close eye on the sheriff of Wayward Pines. The last thing he needed was Arnold Pope challenging his authority.
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