by Mark Rounds
On this base, the only folks that knew had just left the room. It was Gen Antonopoulos’ intention to monitor the cell phone and e-mail feeds very carefully for the next couple of days, not that he would have to chide his staff, they were already very good. If that factoid made it out into the bigger world, it would only be through one of the officers in that briefing room, and Gen Antonopoulos would have his mole. He wasn’t ready to relinquish all the reins dealing with the intelligence operation quite yet.
Chapter 12
June 7th, Sunday, 10:43 pm PDT
Downtown Moscow, ID
Sayla came up from one of the side streets near Gritman Memorial Hospital. In his black tactical gear, it was almost is if a shadow moved across the moon and then was gone. The door was locked of course, but a few seconds with a specialized tool and it was no longer a problem.
Sayla went to the rear access stairway and slowly opened the door. Peering in, he saw no one. With patience that most would find maddening, he slipped in and let the door close slowly so as not to make a sound. Then he carefully worked his way up to the third floor, past the charge nurse who was fussing with some paperwork at her desk.
He then edged his way into room 321, where Connor Strickland, according to his mother, was supposed to be. He opened the door and saw the young man asleep amidst a forest of tubes. Sayla silently worked his way into Connor’s room and closed the door. It made a slight click and the noise roused Connor. Sayla’s hand was over Connor’s mouth in an instant and his arms pinned the high school athlete’s arms to the bed effortlessly.
“Do not fear me,” said Sayla quietly.
To Connor, whose recent dreams had been filled with images of this very man visiting various sorts of silent mayhem on himself and those he loved, it was a pretty tall order, especially since he had never heard Sayla speak. Nonetheless, he calmed his nerves and nodded to Sayla who released him.
“We need to leave now,” said Sayla. “Men come who would kill you.”
“Who? What?” said a confused Connor.
“Your mother gave me this,” said Sayla handing Connor a small knapsack. Inside were some dark clothes that belonged to Connor and Uncle Dave’s old .45 with a belt carry rig. He checked the piece to see that it was loaded and found that it had a full magazine but was without a round in the chamber. He was convinced.
Sayla nodded with satisfaction at the young man’s care with the gun, and then he expertly removed the IV’s in the young man’s arms, taping the wounds skillfully and surprisingly gently so that he wouldn’t bleed or get an infection.
Connor dressed in the clothes that Sayla had brought him. His wounds pained him some and he was a little weak from blood loss and the after effects of shock, but he was ready in short order. Salya peered out the door and then nodded to Connor.
The hall was almost completely black, but Sayla could see better than most under normal circumstances, so little clues that most would miss were all he needed. His hearing was also quite acute; a minute sound at the door of the stairwell had him stepping back and drawing his pistol. With the same motion he waved Connor into a vacant room next to the one he had been in. Sayla followed him and pulled the door almost but not completely shut to avoid making even that small sound and to allow him to watch the stairwell.
Three young men, who were obviously attempting to be silent, opened the door to the stairwell. After watching Sayla, Connor thought these guys sounded like a bunch of drunken frat boys trying to be sneaky. Amazingly, they checked a piece of paper with a flashlight, apparently to get the right room number, and then burst into Connor’s recently vacated room. Sayla exited the room where they were hiding and with an IV bottle stand, jammed the handle of the door to Connor’s old room so that the men inside were momentarily trapped. They immediately started making noise trying to force the door. Sayla and Connor exited down the stairwell.
The door to the room resisted and then opened at the worst possible time. The charge nurse had heard the noise and had become suspicious. She had sent the certified nursing assistant who worked with her for help, and since times were uncertain, this charge nurse carried a Ruger SR9c 9mm in her belt pack. When the door burst open and the first of the miscreants tumbled unto the floor, they were met by a very determined nurse pointing a 9mm at them.
“Boys, why don’t you get comfy,” said the nurse quietly. “Sheriff Barkley’s house is only a couple of blocks away and Beth runs really fast.”
Meanwhile, Connor and Sayla were walking quietly down the back streets of Moscow headed for the dormitory where the Strickland party was staying.
“How did you know they were coming?” asked Connor who had finally screwed up his courage to speak to Sayla.
“She knew,” said Sayla.
“You mean Amber?” asked Connor.
“Yes, you call her that,” said Sayla. “She knows some of what the Infected do.”
“Why didn’t you kill them?” asked Connor.
“She asked me not to kill,” said Sayla simply. “I would have, if they had actually been dangerous but …”
“Yeah, they weren’t … professional,” said Connor. As they rounded the corner headed toward campus, his face was pale and his breathing rapid and shallow.
“Look, can we stop?” he continued, “just for a sec to catch my breath. I am sorry to be so weak and slow but …”
“You haven’t made a sound,” said Sayla, “even though I shot you twice yesterday. There is warrior in you, like your father.”
June 8th, Sunday, 5:29 am PDT
An airfield north of Winifred, MT
Nergüi and Macklin got off the Beach King Air at a private airstrip in north central Montana near a town called Winifred. This was wheat and cattle country and the ranches were large, so having a private airstrip did not draw much attention. However anything flying these days was noteworthy so they had landed a little after five a.m. After they helped the pilot put the plane to bed, they went in towards the ranch house.
“Macklin, there is business I need to attend to,” said Nergüi. “That smaller building over there is the bunk house for ‘employees.’ Wait there. You will find showers and such to clean up. We may need to be able to travel in a couple of hours’ time.”
Macklin nodded and walked toward the building with growing trepidation. All of his experience with this shadowy organization had been remotely done through one man. Now, apparently, there was evidence of a pretty significant infrastructure. Intellectually, he knew that to be the case, but actually seeing this installation put that vision into perspective.
He entered the building and saw that there was a well-appointed sitting room with a bar and kitchenette. There was also a hallway leading to eight smaller rooms. Some had a red flag showing in the door which he took to mean occupied so he moved down until he found one that was vacant. There was a small but adequate shower along with a selection of toiletries which he made use of. Since all of his worldly possessions were now out of reach, he discreetly took a razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a few other supplies and hid them inside his vest.
Not knowing what else to do, he put on his old, soiled clothes and tactical gear, though he left the vest in his room. He also took his Sig Sauer P229 in .40 Smith & Wesson and kept that at his hip as a sort of security blanket as he ventured into to common room. He was famished so when he got to the kitchenette, he assembled a pretty impressive sandwich with two kinds of cheese and three kinds of lunchmeat, lettuce and fresh tomato slices. He eyed the beer in the fridge longingly but decided that he had better keep his wits about him and took a Coke instead.
He was just finishing his snack when one of the doors opened and out stepped an immense black man. He was clad in gym trunks, running shoes, and a wristwatch, with a build that would put most professional power lifters to shame.
“New here?” asked the black man as he began his stretching exercises. While his English was perfect, his accent was hard to place.
“Yeah, suppose it shows,�
�� said Macklin who, for once, decided not to lie, primarily because he didn’t know enough to come up with a story.
“Lose the pistol,” said the black man. “Stow it in your room. No guns in the common room.”
“Thanks,” said Macklin, who got up and stowed his pistol in his room.
When he got back there were two more men in the common area. Macklin was 6’ 1” and maintained an active program to keep in shape, but he felt decidedly small and soft among the others in the room. They were all magnificent physical specimens, the smallest of which was both taller and heavier than Macklin.
“Fresh meat,” said the black man who was still stretching.
“Looks kind of wimpy,” said a blond man who must have been 6’ 4” and had the physique you would associate with distance swimmers. The third man, who was dark haired and as hirsute as the others were clean shaven suddenly and without warning struck Macklin’s chest with an open palm strike that landed firmly and knocked Macklin off his feet.
“Not a fighter then,” said the black man.
“Must be smart,” said the blond.
“What the … “ said Macklin wheezing. as he tried to struggle to his feet. The blow had momentarily knocked the wind out of him.
“Look, Fresh Meat,” said the black man looking down at Macklin, “don’t take this wrong, but until we get to know you, you best keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. You must have some special talent or they wouldn’t have brought you here, but this is the big leagues now.
“Whatever your mind trick is, you best be really good at it or you won’t last long. I also recommend that you do your damnedest to get in shape and be as dangerous as possible. Some of us, like Carlos and Ölnirssen here, have lived over a thousand years by being tough and brutal, starting in the Dark Ages. Others have been brought in because they have skills the Masters need, but if you aren’t absolutely at the top of your game, physically and mentally, they will toss you out like yesterday's paper and in a week you’ll be dead as the Plague takes your mind. Do you understand?”
Macklin nodded.
“Good,” said the black man. “Here is the other side of the coin. The. Masters. Must. Win. There is no second in this war. It’s no game. If we lose, all these nice comforts go away and the Plague will run through our bodies unchecked and we will die horribly. Our Masters must win so that we can stay alive. Many of us have lived a very long time and we like it. If we think you are playing any games at all, being a double agent, or selling drugs or weapons on the side, we will gut you like a fish. Do you understand?”
Macklin had finally gotten to his feet and nodded again.
“I am glad we had this little talk,” said the black man smiling. “There are storage racks in the next building, go find some new clothes and toss those stinking rags out. Then we will start your conditioning program.”
Wisely, Macklin kept his mouth shut and ran to the storeroom.
“What do you think?” said the black man.
“I give him two months,” said Carlos.
“I bet a thousand that he’s dead before August,” said the other blond man who went by the name of Ölnirssen and came from Iceland where he had been born in the tenth century.
“I’ll take that,” said the black man. “This one is smart; he may just figure this all out.”
June 8th, Sunday, 6:50 am PDT
A compound north of Winifred, MT
Nergüi was visibly shaken by the man in front of him. For Genghis Khan’s war leader, that spoke volumes. He was old in appearance, with snow white hair and a salt and pepper beard. His body was thin, but not frail, and he moved more like a retired dancer than an old man. But as old as he appeared, he was incredibly old as measured by the calendar. He had seen the slowly flooding Black Sea that gave rise to the legends of the deluge common in many faiths. His eyes were cold blue pebbles without a trace of warmth.
This was the first time Nergüi was actually in his presence and he was quietly worried. Usually such a meeting meant either promotion or an ultimatum. You were not allowed many mistakes by this man, and Nergüi knew that his performance was not up to the standard he set.
“So the newly awakened woman escaped you again,” said the old man.
“Yes,” said Nergüi woodenly.
“What? No excuse, no complaints about resources?” said the old man.
“What good would that do?” said Nergüi.
“Still the fatalist oriental,” said the old man with a hint of a smile. “Even after all these years, you still have the mindset of a Mongol warrior. It may be the reason you are still alive. So you brought him then?”
“Yes, I sent him to quarters,” said Nergüi. “He has no idea what that means.”
“Is that wise?” said the old man. “Some of our followers are somewhat … direct in their methods.”
“I didn’t bring him along because of his muscle,” said Nergüi. “If he can’t figure out how to handle our followers, we have no use for him. There aren’t enough of us to run all the operations we need to have going. I have said this before. We need some ‘middle management,’ as the ephemerals say. He is mentally tough, smart, and morally … flexible. If he can survive, I can use him.”
“If the idea works,” said the old man darkly. “There have been reverses. Our attempt to control ADM Turner backfired. His mind was stronger than we thought. He is dead.”
“How?” asked Nergüi.
“Instead of going into Buckley’s office and simply assassinating him as he was instructed, he was still trying to do his job, however poorly. Those tasked with unbalancing his mind did their work well, but like many of these modern humans, he was complex in his thought patterns and hard to control. That’s why I am concerned about Macklin. He too will be hard to control.”
“I will not use the Chosen to control him,” said Nergüi. “I agree with you that the old methods are not as reliable as in times past. No, I will appeal to his enlightened self-interest. That’s why he is among the followers. If he has the potential I think he does, he will see how limited they are. His ambition will be the lever I can use.”
“I hope, for your sake, you are right,” said the old man ominously. Seeing that his comment had little outward effect on Nergüi, he continued.
“I have some other news for you,” said the old man. “It looks like both of the followers you had with you on this last expedition were captured alive.”
“I knew of Sayla,” said Nergüi, “and had reported that, but I saw Harðnefr cut his own throat with my own eyes. I was in his mind when the spark winked out.”
“I heard what you reported,” said the old man, “but my source is highly placed. It seems the Para Rescue soldiers of the U.S. Air Force are quite good at stabilizing even the most traumatic injuries. Our source vests them with almost superhuman powers.”
“He knows less than Sayla,” said Nergüi cautiously. “Harðnefr had a very simple world view and lived a very simple life. He trained religiously, drank and whored around prodigiously in his off time. He didn’t care where he went or what he did. Even though he was with us a great deal longer, I don’t think he retained anything of value to the ephemerals.”
“That is my estimation also,” said the old man. “Sayla, on the other hand is a problem. I regret that I did not listen to you when we recaptured him after his time with Little Bear. He thinks too much. We should have exposed him.”
“It’s not my place to question your decisions,” said Nergüi neutrally.
“If I wanted sycophants, I would bring in some followers,” said the old man, showing a trace of anger. “I need your support along with the others. The situation has become fluid. We need to rethink our plans and react to the actions of the ephemerals and the Others.”
“Do you have anything concrete on the Others?” asked Nergüi, showing signs of interest despite his resolve to remain in control.
“No,” said the old man. “It is my opinion based on hints and rumors that they are be
hind some of our setbacks. I have nothing to offer beyond that. But we need to move forward. I have a task for you. We need to form a real military formation; mobs of criminals and addicts aren’t working as well as we thought it would.”
”That will take time,” said Nergüi.
“You ask for the one thing I do not have,” said the old man, for the first time sounding tired and something like his apparent age. “Take as many followers as you think you need, comb the Infected in the Spokane area for veterans and recruits. We need results soon.”
“Then I can infer that we will be moving against Fairchild Air Force Base?” asked Nergüi.
“No, you may not,” said the old man with a hint of irritation. “This is just the highest local population you can draw from. I will inform you later of the target.”
“If I know the target, I can better tailor a force in a shorter time period,” said Nergüi. “I will do as you ask, of course, but I can be more successful if I have more information.”
“And we will be more successful if we can keep our secrets,” said the old man darkly. “We have our spies of course, but I am becoming more and more positive that they do too. But I will give you this, I need three or four hundred modern infantry that will be able to assault and take a defended target.”
“How long do I have?” asked Nergüi.
“I want them yesterday!” shouted the old man finally losing his temper. “You have a couple of weeks at most. Leave me!”
June 8th, Sunday, 11:05 am PDT
University of Idaho Campus, Moscow, ID
Chad and Dave entered Capt Nesmith’s office. They had been separately put off when they attempted to talk to the Captain about a collection of issues he had concealed from Col Antonopoulos in their initial briefing and about the mess that was student housing. It turned out that several of the Captain’s staff knew about some of what was going on, but their attempts to remedy the situation had fallen short, primarily because their commanding officer was focused elsewhere.