Hammerhead Resurrection

by Jason Andrew Bond

  “I thought you wanted to be back in South America before morning.”

  “We work with what we have.” Jeffrey clicked on his flashlight. “Let’s take a walk.”

  After an hour of searching, Jeffrey called them back to the transport. When they’d all come aboard, Jeffrey lifted the ramp a few feet off the ground.

  “That will keep the scorpions and tarantulas out. Now get some sleep.”

  After the pilots had settled down shoulder to shoulder, Jeffrey sat on the end of the ramp watching them. Some drifted off to sleep, others lay with the faint whites of their eyes glowing in the darkness. These were solid men and women, quick to settle down. Jeffrey stretched his shoulders as he considered that strength is as much the ability to stay calm internally, put emotions aside to find stillness, as it is the ability to drive forward and kill, perhaps more so. He lay down, drew his breath in through his nose, and let it filter out his mouth. His mind tried to draw him back to the Lakota, the Sthenos, Leif, Sarah, Stacy. Each time, he’d let his breath out and whatever it was on his mind with it. Soon he fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Leif sat in the darkness listening to the crick and drone of insects in the rainforest. Now and again, leaves shuffled in the darkness. He’d found that he preferred the late hours of the night. Only in the quiet darkness could he settle his mind. He was used to ice samples and metallic casings, not projects that screamed and writhed… and died. He’d found that the moment his father had assigned him to the Hammerhead project, he hadn’t been able to sleep well. He’d lay awake imagining all the things that could go wrong, and when those thoughts faded, he’d worry about what was happening to the human race. Every delay in his work felt as though he was responsible for the death or imprisonment of thousands if not millions more.

  In the heart of the rainforest, with birds singing and a breeze shifting through branches, he could feel the world ending beyond the hills. On the second day of their project, he couldn’t breathe. His hands went numb and he felt dizzy. Caterina had told him he was having a panic attack and given him a strong sedative. He’d woken at dusk drenched in sweat. How many had died from that delay? He spent the rest of the night working by the light of an electric lamp.

  The next day, Caterina told him to rest. He hadn’t stopped since the night before. He refused. There was no time. He woke to darkness, the pattern of the container he had passed out on stamped painfully into his forearm. Rubbing his arm, he stared into the darkness. A bat, pinging the air with sharp high-pitched cricks, flicked at his hair. As he breathed in the scent of rich loam, his heart stilled. His eyes became heavy, and he went to his tent, collapsed on his mattress, and fell into a dead sleep.

  Each night since that time, he’d waited until others had gone to sleep, before turning out the lights and sitting in the darkness, letting ancient rhythms slow his mind. He’d slept well ever since. At first he’d considered that it merely quieted his mind, but in truth he found a great comfort in the age of the things in the forest. Life had been going on for millennia, and it would continue to do so despite the Sthenos. Someday this would be studied by students as he had studied the sacking of Rome. He’d wake the next day feeling refreshed, but the thought of the Sthenos would immediately shove its way in and leaden his heart.

  Tonight, he sat in the darkness on a crate, the humid breeze carrying the scent of rubber tree sap and orchids. A shuffling of leaves came from far off to his left, growing louder and louder. A person walking.

  Moonlight, breaking free of the clouds, filtered in among the trees. He had the strange feeling he’d fallen asleep, that this was a dream. The figure of a woman came into the clearing, her hair in a pony tail. The moonlight glowed faintly on her white lab coat.

  Leif’s heart raced, and he felt cold despite the warm breeze. He could scarcely draw enough breath to whisper, “Sarah?” The specter shape of the woman continued toward him, seeming to float in the dim light on graceful, sweeping legs.

  “Leif?” Caterina’s voice, coming from the figure, shifted her into reality. What the darkness had allowed him to add, straight, red hair and a pale face where there were dark waves and olive skin, vanished. She sat beside him and put her hand on his back. “Why are you still awake?”

  “I have to sit and let the day go, or I can’t sleep.”

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “Should I go?”

  He wanted to be alone, but when she made no move to leave, he said, “No please stay, it’s fine.”

  “Still not sleeping,” Caterina said, brushing at his hair.

  “Better than before.”

  Caterina’s gentle, cool hands, took his face on either side. “You are working yourself too hard.” The softness of her lips surprised him as they pressed into his. Her nails traced up his neck into his hair.

  Leif took hold of her wrists and pulled her hands away, anger burning. He was a married man, at least he still felt like a married man.

  A flare of desire boiled up through the anger. He’d worked with her for the last two weeks day in and day out, and had found her to be a warm and intelligent woman. Younger than him, but mature, and he more than once had been caught stealing glances at her, which undoubtedly had lead to her boldness tonight. This weighted his anger and desire with heavy guilt.

  He folded her hands into her own lap. “You’re wonderful Caterina, really amazingly beautiful, but…”

  “But you do not like me? I do not believe I misunderstood how you look at me.”

  In that, Leif regretted not having told her about Sarah. He’d been unable to speak of her. Caterina knew only that he was Holt’s son, had led the development of the singularity warheads, and had been one of two men to survive Europa base.

  “My wife…” He fell silent, unable to say it.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, hands going to her mouth. “She was on Europa with you.”

  He looked at his empty left ring finger. “I forgot my ring on the bathroom counter that morning.”

  She let out a sigh, and he felt the flutter of the air from her breath on the backs of his hands. “Oh Leif.” She pressed her palm into his chest. “Your poor heart.” She took hold of the sides of his face again, and she leaned close. He closed his eyes, hoping she wouldn’t kiss him again yet wanting to feel that soft warmth at the same time. She tilted his head down, and her lips pressed into his forehead.

  As he opened his eyes, she smiled and said, “I’ve never know anyone like you.”

  “Not too many strange men around your home town?”

  “You are not strange,” she said, a strictness coming into her tone. “You are intelligent, gentle, handsome, ugh…” Her hand flicked toward the darkness as if shooing something away.

  “What?”

  She let out a small laugh. “I’ve held flames before, but you… you are something different to me. It seems the flame might burn my hands if I hold it too long. I feel rushed, as if I have no time.”

  Leif had no idea what to say to that, so he went with someone else’s words. “It can’t be rushed Caterina. Love’s not Time’s fool, and doesn’t change with its brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.”

  “Where does that come from?”

  “A hack job on Shakespeare.”

  “What does it mean to you?”

  “That I’ll love Sarah until the day I die, and when we fix this,” he held out his hand to the world beyond the dark forest, “there will be time for…” but he couldn’t bring himself to say more.

  She kissed the back of his hand, causing his chest to flush with heat.

  Standing, she said, “I hope you sleep well, Leif.”

  Caught between wishing she would go and wanting her to stay, he said nothing. As she walked away, he felt he should say something, something about how much he enjoyed her company, how beautiful… but every possibility seemed a betrayal of Sarah.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  At dawn Jeffrey sent one t
eam south and a second, which he joined, north. After they’d walked along the sandy floor of the steep-sided canyon a quarter-mile, Jeffrey stopped, crossed his arms, and stared at the wall.

  “That’s unnatural.”

  The cliff face, still in the cool shadows, met the canyon floor at a 90 degree angle. The wall had a huge, unshapely rectangular depression in it. As they walked up to the wall, the crunch of gravel vanished.

  Crouching, Kodiak touched the ground.

  “Concrete.”

  Jeffrey tugged at the leaves of a scrub oak. “These are artificial.”

  He pressed his hand to the cliff face. It was metal airbrushed to look like rock. He wrapped his knuckles against it. The surface gave the unyielding clack of blast-plate-thick steel.

  Marco ran his hand along the wall. “That’s an impressive paint job.”

  “I agree,” Jeffrey said. “Now we have to figure how to get it open.” Jeffrey went still. He’d heard the shifting of fabric. He looked up the canyon to where the western wall had collapsed creating a long scree slope spotted with scrub oak and mesquite.

  Looking back to Marco and Kodiak, he slipped his fingertips across his neck to quiet them before focusing his attention higher up the scree slope. The sound had come from there. About two-hundred yards away, he saw a pile of mesquite and sage leaves—a gillie suit. In the center of the bush, muted by a high-end coating, he saw the tiny disk of a sniper’s scope.

  “I see you,” Jeffrey whispered.

  In a whisper, Marco asked, “You see who?”

  “Him.” Jeffrey waved his hand at the scope.

  A voice called out, echoing off the narrow cliff walls, “Pretty good old man, but see me or not, I still have crosshairs on you. Time for you and yours to leave.” The voice had a slow cadence and a depth that sounded Navaho to Jeffrey.

  “I’d like to talk. We need your help.”

  “There’s nothin’ here for you. Now go find someone else to bother.”

  Jeffrey called out, “We’ve come for aircraft. I’m Fleet Admiral Holt of the U.S. Navy.”

  “What ship?”

  “The last ship I served on was the U.S.S. Lacedaemon.”

  “Bullshit. The Lacedaemon was destroyed.”

  “I know,” Jeffrey said. “We rode it into the ground.”

  The sniper made no reply, the dark disk of his scope remaining absolutely still.

  “We need Lakotas,” Jeffrey called out. “We went to Turnbull airfield. All the aircraft there have been destroyed. How many are you here?”

  “Not going to give that up right now, sir,” the man said. “What’d you want with Lakotas?”

  “I’m willing to discuss that fully, but not in your crosshairs. Are you willing to assist us?” Jeffrey gave the man time to think. In the quiet, he heard a scratching sound at his feet. He looked down. A tarantula moved with slow, reaching legs over his boot. With a shudder he flicked it away.

  He called out, “I don’t have a lot of time, airman.”

  “Marine.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time, Marine. I need to get back to our center of operations with aircraft and fuel ASAP. Do you have fuel?”

  “Enough for me, sir.”

  Enough for me? “I take it you aren’t as willing to share as I’d hope.”

  “The world’s over, sir. I have water and food inside, enough to last me for years.”

  “So you won’t let us in?”

  “No.”

  “What if I give you my word that we won’t touch your food and water supplies?”

  When the Marine laughed, his scope shifted. “I won’t let you touch the fuel either.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s still time for you to leave. You’re in the scope of an AX50, sir. You’ll be the first to die.”

  “Easy Marine,” Jeffrey said, lifting his hands. “I know that this looks like the end of times.” Jeffrey actually had no idea what it looked like. The current moment appeared to be a peaceful southwestern day, aside from the fact that his chest was one finger pull away from being blown out.

  “Get the hell out of here,” the Marine said. “I won’t say it again.”

  “Look,” Jeffrey said, “do you really want to hide in this bunker and let the world burn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you say the world’s over?”

  “Everything’s gone. The fleets are destroyed. The military bases scraped off the face of the Earth. The aliens flicked ‘em away like a fly from their shoulder. It’s hopeless.”

  “It’s not hopeless.”

  “Sir,” Marco said, “Maybe we should back off.”

  “It’s okay, Fields,” Jeffrey whispered, “He doesn’t want to kill me. He’s talking too much.” To the Marine, he said, “I’ve seen them put in their place before.”

  “Yeah.” A nervous laugh echoed down the canyon. “You’d be just about old enough wouldn’t you? But I call bullshit. What would you know about the war?”

  “I fought in it.”

  “What’d you do? Wax floors? Admirals never worked for a living.”

  “I was a Hammerhead.”

  The scope shifted down. Through the leaves he could see a small portion of the anti-glare surface of sniper’s goggles.

  “Not buyin’ it. Next you’ll be tellin’ me… wait… did you say you’re name was Holt?”

  “Yes.”

  At that the pile of leaves sat up and resolved into the semblance of a human form. A tangle of sticks and leaves crowned the Marine’s head, and a tan rag covered his face. As he settled into a reclined shooter’s position, he retrained his rifle, draped with leaves, on Jeffrey. He lowered his head back into the scope. Jeffrey saw the rifle shift and stop, shift and stop.

  “Who are they?”

  “These are my Hammerheads.”

  The Marine came out of his scope. “No shit, really?” He brought the gun to bear on Jeffrey again. “So what do we do from here?”

  Jeffrey shrugged. “That’s up to you. You were protecting your installation as you should. You don’t know us from Adam. But now that you do, lower your weapon and come down here.”

  The Marine stayed in his gun.

  “Are you going to come down?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  “Okay,” Jeffrey said. The Marine didn’t want to kill him. Looking over his shoulder to his group, Jeffrey said, “I’m going up there. No one moves. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” came their replies.

  Jeffrey walked across the level area in front of the metal wall.

  “What’re you doing?” the Marine called down from his roost.

  “Coming up to talk.”

  “Stand down, sir. I will fire.”

  “I’m banking you won’t.” Jeffrey made his way up the scree slope.

  The Marine looked like a fat bush sitting upright in his gillie suit. Muttering something, he came out of his gun, the barrel lowering to the side.

  Jeffrey reached the Marine, who sat with his knees splayed and the rifle’s muzzle brake resting on his boot. He held his index finger on the trigger guard.

  “We done?” Jeffrey asked.

  The flat-black lenses of the Marine’s goggles stared at Jeffrey through errant leaves. With a shrug, he shifted forward, stood, and shouldered the rifle.

  As he began walking down the slope, the Marine asked, “How’d you see me, boss?”

  “I heard you first. Then I saw the end of your scope.”

  Jeffrey watched the mask of goggles and fabric, but he could see in the downturned head that the Marine was thinking through his art. “The end of the scope? Bullshit.” Appearing to realize the impropriety of his comment, he said, “Sorry, sir.”

  Jeffrey shrugged.

  “You got pretty good eyes, sir. That part of what they did to you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’d a’ had you if I wanted you.”

  “That’s a fact… What’s your name
?”

  “Corporal Tsosie, sir.”

  “Navajo?”

  “Yes sir.”

  When they reached the group, the Marine shifted his rifle to his left shoulder and pressed on the cliff wall. A panel turned over, revealing a touch pad. He pressed in a code and, leaning close, said something into the panel.

  “When the door comes open,” Jeffrey said to his people, “keep everything easy. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the men and women said.

  The panel rolled shut as Tsosie walked to Jeffrey, which Jeffrey took as a good sign. In an ambush, Tsosie would have stayed causally to the side, not joined them in the line of fire. Still he could bolt and run.

  A bedrock-deep thump came through Jeffrey’s boots followed by the low thrumming of a large motor. The wall split open along a vertical seam.

  Inside wire-basketed lamps hung from a high ceiling, illuminating the first ten yards or so of the interior. The lights beyond were switched off, and darkness reigned deeper in. In the deadness of the air beyond, Jeffrey sensed that the space went deep into the canyonside. As the doors opened further, they exposed several Marines wearing helmets and ceramic, dragon-plate body armor. The gray-haired Marine in the center held a rifle at his chest, muzzle down. The others had their rifles trained on Jeffrey and his group. The gray haired Marine walked out into the sunlight.

  “Master Sergeant Eric Mikelson, sir.”

  “Master Sergeant,” Jeffrey said with a nod.

  “So you claim to be Jeffrey Holt.”

  “I am.”

  He stared at Jeffrey, as if weighing him, before saying, “Not buyin’ it.”

  Jeffrey offered no response.

  “My father flew and died with Jeffrey Holt. If you’re Holt, you’ll know his call sign.”

  With that the name Mikelson shone in Jeffrey’s memory like sun through storm clouds. Of course he’d known Mikelson. They’d all known Mikelson. Anyone who’d fought with the Hammerheads for even a short period of time had had their ass saved at least once by him. How could a gray haired master sergeant be the son of Nate Mikelson? But it’d been so many years… so many decades and time slips by so damn fast. Sure his son would have to be about this guy’s age if he’d been born before the war.