The Armageddon Directive

by Dayton Ward

  “Where do they go?”

  Sutherland replied, “They all seem to head in the same general direction, west of the base. We only just started putting it together a couple of days ago.” She paused, clearing her throat. “Phil Morehouse and I were going to check it out this weekend.”

  “Sorry.”

  Releasing a sigh, Sutherland said, “It’s okay.”

  After a minute, Tanner said, “This is what I was saying before. Walker had friends.” He pointed to the photos. “You knew about this. Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I didn’t know if I could trust you,” replied Sutherland.

  “And now?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Fair enough.” Tanner gestured to the photos. “In the spirit of that, let’s you and me go check this out.”

  Sutherland eyed him warily. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tanner was the first to exit the office, stepping aside so Sutherland could close and lock the door. He caught movement to his left and turned in time to see a figure ducking close to a large wooden crate. The figure’s right arm was rising to point in their direction, and an instant later a bullet whipped past Tanner’s face, shattering the office door’s glass.

  Son of a bitch!

  Chapter 8

  Drawing his .45, Tanner used his free hand to push Sutherland back into the office. He backpedaled after her, firing a badly aimed shot in the direction of their unwelcome visitor. Another round from the other side of the warehouse bored into the door’s wood frame as he ducked back from the entry.

  “Get down!” he hissed, keeping low and maneuvering to get a look through the open doorway. Behind him, Sutherland hunkered down behind the desk. A quick scan of the office told him it had only one exit.

  Damn it. Nice job, slick.

  Footsteps echoed in larger room beyond, getting closer. Tanner gripped his pistol with both hands, bracing himself for what he knew was coming. A shadow darkened the concrete warehouse floor a second before something darted past the open doorway, moving from right to left. Seeing the gun in the figure’s hand, Tanner resisted the urge to duck as he heard another shot zip over his head and hit the office’s back wall. Instead he returned fire, feeling the .45 recoil as he pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession before the figure disappeared from sight. Even over the sound of the pistol’s reports, Tanner could hear running footsteps outside the room, and what sounded like something heavy bumping into something else.

  Did I get him?

  Thinking that was too good to be true, Tanner pushed himself to his feet and edged toward the door, the muzzle of his .45 leading the way as he emerged from the office. A quick glance to his left gave him no sign of their attacker.

  “Stay behind me,” he said, before glancing over his shoulder to see Sutherland reaching into the purse she had grabbed from the desk to extract the compact Walther pistol she’d used the previous evening. “Of course, if you see something, feel free to shoot first.”

  “No problem.”

  Tanner stepped out of the office, aiming his pistol toward the warehouse’s back wall and the large garage door set into it. There was no sign of their assailant on either the main floor or the overhead catwalks. To his left, he saw Sutherland follow him, mimicking his movements.

  A brief flicker of shadow moving in front of a light or one of the windows made him look toward the chamber’s far right corner in time to see the dark figure leaning around one of the larger, taller crates. Tanner fired twice in that direction, and this time was rewarded when he saw the other person’s body jerk in response to one of his shots. The figure disappeared from view, stumbling into the edge of the crate as he went, and Tanner gave chase. The .45 pointed ahead of him, he paused as he reached the crate’s corner. A second later, Sutherland was standing next to him, her back against the crate. Looking down, Tanner saw that she’d doffed her shoes, allowing her to run while making almost no noise.

  She’s a natural at this.

  A bullet chewed into the crate’s frame near his head and Tanner flinched as he felt shards and splinters pepper the side of his face. His muscles tensing in anticipation, he drew a deep breath and pushed away from the crate, pivoting around to aim his pistol to where his target should be. Only the warehouse’s side wall stared back at him.

  “Up there!”

  Sutherland punctuated her warning with two shots from her own pistol, and Tanner’s gaze followed her pistol and outstretched arms up to the catwalk running along the warehouse’s north wall. He saw the figure, dressed head to toe in dark clothing, moving to avoid the gunfire and aimed in that direction. Their attacker paused in his retreat and Tanner caught sight of the pistol in his hands. The report from his own .45 echoed off the walls, the round just missing their adversary. Above them, the intruder fired again, forcing Tanner and Sutherland to seek cover. Then he heard a dull click.

  He’s empty?

  If that was true, Tanner knew the intruder might be trying to reload. Then he heard the sound of something heavy hitting the concrete to their right. He stepped around the crate in time to see that the attacker had dropped from the catwalk to the main floor with surprising agility. Tanner aimed and fired once at the quick-moving figure before he heard and felt his pistol’s slide lock to the rear.

  “Shit!”

  There was no time to reach his spare magazine before his assailant, apparently out of bullets himself, charged. Something slammed into Tanner’s hand and the .45 dropped from his grip, and then instinct took over. He punched his attacker’s head, receiving for his effort a low moan of pain. A second punch forced his opponent back a step and Tanner followed by planting the heel of his shoe in the other man’s chest. The intruder staggered backward but regained his balance before setting his feet and lunging forward with amazing speed. Tanner had but a heartbeat to react before his opponent was in his face. Light reflected off something shiny and very close.

  Knife!

  Tanner blocked the initial strike with his right arm and punched the other man in the face. His right hand closed around the other man’s forearm and jerked it down and away, putting space between him and the very long, very sharp blade. Another punch to the side of the intruder’s head gave him an extra second, and Tanner used it to pull his KA-BAR from the sheath under his right arm.

  He plunged the blade into his attacker’s chest, hearing the gasp of pain and the hiss of escaping air that told him he’d punctured a lung, followed by a high-pitched shriek before his opponent’s body started to convulse. Jerking his arm free of Tanner’s grip, he tried to stab with his own knife, but Tanner pulled the KA-BAR free and plunged it into the other man’s abdomen. This provoked another eerie cry of pain from the intruder before Tanner wrested himself and his knife away. His opponent staggered and fell against a nearby crate, but to Tanner’s disbelief he seemed to rally, regaining his feet and raising his own knife as if readying to charge.

  Two pistol shots echoed in the warehouse at the same time that the other man’s body reeled from the impact of the bullets. His body went limp and fell to the floor, the knife clattering from his hand.

  “You okay?” asked Sutherland, stepping closer with her Walther aimed at the unmoving figure.

  Tanner could only nod as he used the sleeve of his suit jacket to wipe his forehead. “That’s twice you’ve saved my life.”

  “There has to be something you can do to make it up to me.” Sutherland bobbed her eyebrows at him.

  The impromptu moment made him chuckle, easing the anxiety of the past few minutes. His heart was racing from the brief yet intense bout of hand to hand combat and his left hand, still holding the KA-BAR, was shaking as he held it up to inspect the weapon. He hadn’t felt a sensation like this since. . . .

  Hello.

  “Look,” he said, hol
ding the knife so Sutherland could see the thick, bright-red blood coating the blade.

  Sutherland’s eyes widened in realization. “Just like Walker.”

  With new worry, Tanner pushed her away from the body before kneeling beside it. He pulled up the unmoving man’s black shirt and found a rectangular metal box affixed to the front of his belt. It looked identical to the one Walker had been wearing in Sutherland’s office, only this one appeared to be inactive. Not taking any chances, Tanner grabbed the odd device and removed it from the other man’s belt before crossing the room and dropping it into an empty steel drum.

  “I’ve seen this guy,” said Sutherland as he moved to rejoin her. She was bending over the obviously dead man, and had removed the dark ski mask covering his face. “He’s Lieutenant Martin Latham, one of the guys we were photographing at R-G.”

  Tanner now recognized the dead man’s face. “Well, I guess we know Walker definitely had friends, and they know about you.” He looked around the warehouse. “Does anybody else know about this place?”

  Shaking her head, Sutherland said, “He could’ve followed us.”

  “Maybe.” The thought made Tanner uneasy, but it was a likely explanation. For all he knew, he and Sutherland had been under surveillance since the incident at her office. With that in mind, they took several minutes after Tanner retrieved his pistol to make another sweep of the warehouse, verifying that no one else might be waiting to ambush them. Now satisfied they once again were alone, Tanner followed Sutherland to the exit.

  “Hang on,” he said, pausing after casting a glance toward the body of Lieutenant Latham. “Take a look at this.” Stepping closer, he studied the dead officer’s face, which looked to be . . . melting?

  “What in the world is this about?” asked Sutherland.

  The color was fading from Latham’s skin, which was beginning to turn a pale shade of gray, while sinking inward as though the underlying muscle tissue were dissolving. At the same time, his head seemed to be elongating, the skull bulging outward like an inflated balloon. In short order, the dead man’s face had become almost skeletal, and Tanner was sure he was seeing the contours of an oversized brain becoming visible beneath the skin atop Latham’s head. Looking away from the disturbing sight, Tanner met Sutherland’s gaze, and she raised an eyebrow.

  “Still think aliens aren’t real?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what to think.” Tanner swallowed a sudden nervous lump. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Sutherland gestured to the body of Lieutenant Latham, or whatever he was. “What about . . . him?”

  His attention shifting back to Latham’s body, Tanner reached beneath his jacket and extracted his KA-BAR. The knife’s blade was still covered in blood, and now he was applauding his decision to wrap it in plastic and preserve what he now knew was true evidence.

  Evidence of . . . what?

  “I’m calling this in,” he said. It was time to let Wayne Cushman know what he was doing. Regardless of whatever pressure Cushman might be enduring from their mutual superiors or even the military, he needed to hear it straight, and from Tanner himself, rather than being blindsided later. “Cushman can send some people to retrieve the body and take it . . . somewhere.” As to where that might be, Tanner had no clue, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “He’s going to be mad as hell when you tell him,” Sutherland said.

  Tanner nodded. “Probably, but it’s nothing compared to how mad he’ll be when he finds out what we’re doing next.”

  Chapter 9

  Wincing at the injection, Beloss Bel held his breath as the medication coursed through his system. There was the familiar, momentary burning sensation that accompanied the chemicals and the neutralizing effects of the compounds already present in his bloodstream. Within moments, he felt his skin begin to stretch and tighten, his muscles flex and constrict, and his very bones shift as they returned to their proper form. In the mirror, he watched the face of General Francis Crane contort until his own welcome, and yet oddly unfamiliar, visage once more stared back at him. Was it his imagination, or were the sensations cascading across every nerve ending during the transformation even more acute this time?

  “Beloss Bel! It truly is you.”

  Turning from the mirror, Bel saw Nodari Gryss, a member of the team he had assigned here for this mission, standing a few steps away. Bel recognized the younger soldier thanks to the large scar over Gryss’s right eye—a souvenir from his military training that he refused to have removed for some odd reason. Unlike Bel, Gryss was not concealed beneath a human disguise, and his Martian visage contrasted sharply with his surroundings. He wore a respiration unit of the sort normally required of any soldier, even though he, like the rest of the team, was routinely injecting the special chemical compounds that allowed them to survive here on Earth. Bel suspected Gryss wore the respirator for the same reason he would soon do so himself: to revel in the soothing embrace offered by the atmosphere of his home world.

  “Yes,” Bel said, nodding. “It truly is me.” He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that was trying to muddle his thoughts. Though momentary disorientation was a common side effect of the transition, it seemed not to be fading as quickly as it had when he had first started subjecting himself to the procedure.

  Gryss said, “I have heard many of the legends, but I never expected to meet you in person.”

  “Legends?” Bel scoffed at such notions. For whatever reason, the High Command had seen fit to broadcast details of his previous missions, including a few carried out here on Earth, to the military in the hopes of stirring greater motivation among the ranks. Under normal circumstances, wallowing in such attention was not conducive to a successful career as a spy, but as it was unlikely that humans would ever hear of such things, Bel dismissed the odd practice. The High Command and the military leaders needed accomplishments and victories in order to validate their existence; Bel required only an objective and the time to achieve it, and had no use for awards, recognition, or celebrations.

  “Has there been any new information regarding Ajahl Vin?” asked Bel. He drew a deep breath. The lingering effects of the transition seemed to have faded. For now, anyway.

  “No,” replied Gryss, shaking his head. “According to the news reports we have been screening, the humans appear not to have found his remains. It is our belief that his body was destroyed by the fail-safe protocol and resulting fire.”

  Bel believed that was the likely case as well. If anything more had been discovered, he—or General Crane, rather—would likely have been briefed on anything pertaining to Major Stephen Walker, the human Vin had been impersonating.

  “Continue to review those reports and broadcasts,” he said. Wrapping himself in a robe, he stepped away from the table where he had placed his medical kit and other personal items. “We need to be absolutely sure.”

  “Understood.”

  Gryss stepped away and returned to his duties, leaving Bel to move into the main room of the large barn. It was an old yet sturdy wooden structure, sitting on a parcel of farmland along with a small, unassuming house, and had proven to be a worthwhile location for the scout team’s base of operations. As for the owners of the house and land, disposing of them had been one of the team’s first priorities when they had established this headquarters.

  Studying the barn’s interior and what Ajahl Vin’s team had done to it, Bel determined that this had to be either a testament to ingenuity or a descent into chaos. The large room was a hodgepodge of scavenged and stolen electronic equipment, augmented by and connected through components of Martian computer technology. During his initial inspection, Bel had seen where the team had concealed the bulk of their own unearthly devices, in particular their scout craft. The saucer was tucked behind bales of hay and partially hidden by large canvas tarps, although it could launch within moments if t
he need arose.

  Positioned near the barn’s center was the team’s makeshift operations center.

  Here, Bel recognized several large, unwieldy display monitors and other computer equipment, much of it taken from military and civilian installations in or near the city. Rajan Dar, the scout assigned to this team precisely because of his engineering skills, had succeeded in linking the human and Martian systems together in this eclectic arrangement. There was a low, omnipresent hum of power permeating the room, and consoles and other equipment were making their own peculiar individual sounds, with rows of status lights and gauges indicating various activities taking place or being monitored. Bel understood little about the function of such equipment, and typically left such tasks to subordinates, but he was able to appreciate the effort Dar and the others had expended in order to construct this operations center.

  “Dar,” said Bel, seeing the soldier appear from behind a bulky and quite noisy computer tape drive. “Are you prepared?”

  “All of the components are working together perfectly.” Like Gryss, Dar also moved without benefit of a human disguise, and instead was dressed in his soldier’s uniform, though he was not carrying a respirator unit. He pointed to a piece of equipment that was obviously of Martian origin. “The hub is handling most of the work, but I have been able to redirect some of the power and processing demands to the other equipment. Considering how primitive their technology is compared to ours, it is actually very impressive.”

  Bel asked, “So you are certain this equipment will meet our needs?”