by Tony Bulmer
It had to be so.
There was no other way.
Álvares took a step forward, followed by
another.
“On you knees,” screamed Heung, waving
the heavy caliber automatic wildly in the air. Get on
you knees now, or I swear I will kill you.”
Hell, this punk-ass little guy probably never
even held a gun in his life before, thought Álvares. Heung danced forwards, holding the big
automatic high and wild, in his left hand. He looked
crazy, maybe even dangerous.
Álvares moved fast—big strides—one, two,
three.
The big automatic exploded louder than a cannon, a deafening roar in the grey, metallic confines of the Bridge. The barrel of the gun reared, black and deadly, like a striking cobra.
No time to think, no time to feel, an eternal moment caught in the slipstream of time.
Bullets slicing through the dead air now— flying hot and merciless—cutting away everything before them.
Álvares impacted Heung with the force of a NFL linebacker. Using his full weight, together, they smashed into the steel-‐riveted bulkhead with bone crushing force. Álvares fought with the desperate fury of a man twice his size. Grappling close, the captain managed a hard right and a double knee strike to the lower abdomen. He struggled to take control of the gun, but Heung held it high, and as the captain’s desperate fingers struggled to grab it, more shots erupted—wild, dangerous,
uncontrolled shots, blasting into the roof of the bridge and ricocheting around the confined space, cutting through everything with white hot intensity.
Up close Heung smelled of cabbage and sweat, masked poorly with a mist of cheap cologne. As Álvares pressed in against him, staring into the mad eyes now, he could hear savage grunting breaths as his opponent struggled with the ferocity of a captured snake. Heung whispered, “You are going to die, you are all going to die.”
Álvares clawed for the big automatic, but his desperate fingers caught only air, as suddenly Heung wriggled free, and the gun arced
downwards. More shots, this time cutting downwards, into the floor. The reaction was
instantaneous. Captain Álvares fell away as though his legs had been cut out from beneath him; then as the furious reverberation of the gunshots mixed with the fearful gasps of the terrified crew. Heung stood triumphant, but unsteady, focusing down on the Captain, who lay sprawled on the floor, blood gouting from an ugly gunshot wound in his upper thigh.
“I tell you to obey—you obey,” hissed Heung, his eyes popping wide and deadly. The big automatic was pointing downwards now, wavering unsteadily as Heung mopped at a trickle of blood running out his nose. All of his attention focused on the captain now, Heung didn’t notice as Science Officer Sandy Kellerman moved in from his blindside and struck him hard in the temple with the base of a heavy metal fire extinguisher. The effect was dramatic and instantaneous. Kellerman felt his skull crack open, but she couldn’t hear it, as her ears were ringing with the furious energy of gunfire. She could see though, watching now, as Heung sagged to his knees, the big black automatic tumbling slowly from his fingers as he sank to his knees, his cue-‐ball eyes rolling back in their sockets. Kellerman hit him again, and again, bashing him in the side of the face, until he lay motionless on the floor.
Then, standing over him, holding the bloodied fire extinguisher high for another strike, she paused and turned to Captain Álvares. He looked a mess. His face desperate as blood pumped out between his rictus fingers.
“Get the hell out of here. Get below and stay out of sight,” He ordered, his eyes burning into her. “You are bleeding out Captain, you need
help and now…”
“You got your damn orders Science Officer,
see that they are carried out.”
Outside the rattle of heavy gunfire
resounded, short bursts getting closer all the time. “I cannot leave you Captain.
“You are going to have to. Secure the gun
locker, activate the emergency beacon, and find
Buchanan.”
“Buchanan?”
“You heard me Kellerman. Now get the hell
out of here.”
25
Oahu, Hawaii In the star–crossed night outside the Fountainhead Country Club, the police lights strobed blue and red in the darkness. To the many guests leaving the nights event, such a display would no doubt appear quite innocent, a medical emergency perhaps, or a show of ideological support from the uniformed protectors of the new and emergent order.
For Karyn Kane however, watching this display from the periphery of the bustling crowd, the flashing lights and sharp-‐eyed gazes of attendant shock troops, sent quite a different message. After the meet with Deng Tao, Karyn sensed, that a dangerous sub-‐game was in play. The frightening euphoria of the Deng Tao crowd had proven beyond doubt that a nascent power block, more dangerous than anything seen since the dark days of the 1930’s, was moving into place, so that it might seize the world stage. But this new
movement went beyond the ambitions of the old political orders—it transcended them—replacing their dark edicts with the madness of a new utopia. To Karyn, this new philosophy made no sense. On the flipside of every utopian dream there is a dystopian reality, borne out in the tragedy of murder, oppression and war. Threat level nine— Jack Senegar’s words reverberated through her head—an immediate threat to the security of the United States of America.
Scoping the exit of the country club, Karyn was in no doubt—the police were ready; the willing
shock troops of the new and emergent order and they were waiting for her. No doubt they would pull her aside. They would be very business-‐like, even polite at first. They would ask her to come with them, make like she had a choice in the matter. They would keep up their public service
pretensions, until the takedown had been made. Then, when they had her, far from the public gaze, the turnaround would come. The service sector charm would disappear, replaced instead by the cold, machine-‐like world of nightstick justice. There was a myth, that such things no longer happened, that in a democratic and freethinking society there was no place for such wild injustices. Karyn knew this was a lie. She knew it first hand. She knew also, that in the runaway world of The Agency anything could happen, whether Congress sanctioned it or not.
Better turn to the shadows; move back into the clandestine world, where the blunt edged logic of cop thinking would struggle to find her. Karyn melted back into the crowd, retracing her steps into the dark interior of the club. She looked into her handbag now, as though she had absent mindedly left something of importance behind—a cell phone, a make up case, or a set of missing keys—
something that had fallen unseen from her purse during the great speech of Deng Tao perhaps? Karyn faked the body language quite easily. She moved like a short-‐con professional, changing through the g
ears of subterfuge with practiced ease.
As she moved backwards into the clattering depths of the great hall, Karyn’s mind ran through her earlier recon mission, pulling up a mental
image of every potential exit, and running odds on which would be the most useful. Almost on autopilot now, she upped her speed, moving fast through the swing-‐service kitchen doors and into a steaming, clattering world of stainless steel and china. The kitchen crew, were hard at work, busying themselves with a gargantuan cleanup operation. It would be hours before they would be through. No doubt they would still be toiling at the steaming industrial sinks, when morning came, blissfully unaware, just how the world was changing, with the new rising day.
Karyn moved forward, with ever-‐greater urgency, not quite running yet, but knowing as she moved through the dark belly of the beast, that the calls of discovery would come at any minute now. No doubt the shock troops imagined they had her hemmed in. There was after all only one road out. No doubt they would have a pinch-‐point roadblock set up down the mountain by now, primed to catch her should she attempt to slip through their perimeter.
As Karyn moved out back, security lights illuminated the rear lot with an eerie yellow light that projected long, fearful shadows over the hard ground. The BMW she had taken from Kibishi was compromised no question. She couldn‘t use it again. It had been a mistake to bring the Beemer out here in the first place. It probably had a tracker—a signal beacon that had zeroed in every cop on the island. Well, they might have the car, but they would never get her. The locals were playing a major-‐league game now, with little league players. If they wanted to play hardball with the Agency,
they would have to do better than run a time out huddle in the parking lot.
Keeping close to the shadows, Karyn walked past the kitchen dumpsters, her heels reverberating on the concrete. She would jack a ride. A ride without passengers would be better, but that might not be possible, she might have to kick ass to haul ass. Turning scenarios in her head as to how she was going to hookup with a set of wheels, Karyn heard a sudden squeal of rubber and she was caught in the headlights of a car moving in from behind her. She cursed. There was nothing this side of the clubhouse other than the staff only parking lot and it was too early for the help to be leaving.
Karyn didn’t look back, just kept on walking, like she owned the road. The car followed slow in her wake. Dribbling after her in first gear, like some playground pervert trailing the object of his obsession. Without warning, the car sped faster and pulled up in front of her, with a squeal of breaks. The car, a late model Cadillac Sedan in phantom gray looked like it had less than ten thousand miles on the clock.
Karyn pulled up short of the driver’s door, judging distances.
The passenger got out first, a thickset dude in a Government-‐issue windbreaker. He was holding a handgun across the top of the car in a shooting range stance that said he could pop off half a clip and make central mass with out so much as drawing a sweat.
“FBI. Hold it right there.”
Karyn, partially raised her hands and said, “What you going to do, shoot me?”
The driver popped his door, and began to get out. He looked nasty like he had been chewing over some kind of deep held resentment. As he swung his feet onto the concrete, he grunted with the exertion and raised himself out of his seat with difficulty—five-‐eleven and pushing two fifty, the driver was in shameful shape for a Federal Agent.
“You need a hand there big guy?” asked Karyn.
“Hey, shut up, don’t you say nothing,”
snapped Mr. Target practice, pointing the gun at
her head for emphasis.
It was a play Karyn had planned from the
minute she heard the engine snap to life behind
her. She dipped low and spun a fast scything kick
below the level of the driver’s side door. The impact
caused the driver to stumble back against the roof
of the car. Catching his spine on the roof edge, he
cursed and struggled to regain his balance, but too
late—Karyn shoulder charged the door,
sandwiching the driver between the heavy
swinging door and the rim of the interior. The
driver flapped and cursed, his chubby arms trying
desperately to do three things at once.
The triggerman popped off two quick shots,
then two more. But Karyn stayed low, beneath the
edge of the roof. “What the hell you doing Lou, get a
hold of her already would you?” called the shooter. Karyn rose up fast, caught the driver hard
under the chin with the heel of her hand, snapping
his neck back so hard it impacted the roof of the
car, with a heavy metallic thud.
It was the shooters turn to curse now.
Dipping down, Karyn heard his feet coming around
the hood before she saw him. It was the only move he could make, and it was a bad one.
Before the shooter had chance to reach the offside headlamp Karyn rose up once again. This time, she swung the drivers door wide, allowing Lou the wheelman to slump outwards over the top of the door. She pressed in behind him, her Sig Sauer held shoulder high. As the shooter rounded the edge of the car he was presented with the sight of his partner hanging dazed across the door.
The shooter didn‘t know what to do, but he had his gun raised, so Karyn took him out anyway, popped him once in the upper thigh at close range. The bullet swung him off balance. He fell hard against the hood of the car squawking louder than a rainforest parrot. Karyn stayed hidden behind the driver, her forearm locked around his neck to keep him upright against the door.
“Unless you want me to blow the top of your ugly looking head off you might want to let go of the gun slow and easy,” said Karyn.
“You shot me in the goddamn leg, crippled me like as not,” whined the shooter, his voice thin and reedy as he stared accusingly across the hood, with wide fearful eyes.
Karyn kept a steady aim at the shooter’s head. In a righteous world this guy would be dead already, clipped down to the pavement as a reward for thinking he could kill her. Karyn didn’t like that kind of arrogance. The only thing that was keeping this goon alive right now was Jack Senegar and his warning words, No collateral damage to local law enforcement.
Karyn waited, then waited some more. Every instinct she had telling her she should waste
this guy and now. She kept the gun steady, said, “Throw it down and you walk away—or not. Your choice.”
She could see the moves telegraphed loud and clear in those greedy little eyes of his. It was no big thing. So when the shooter slipped quickly away below the edge of the hood and let off a fusillade of shots from beneath the car it was no surprise to Karyn. The whining little punk couldn’t have broadcast his next move any louder if
he had tried. No doubt the creep thought he would catch her in the ankles with a bullet, by way of payback.
Karyn wasn’t worried. She released the dazed driver, let him sag to the floor, then vaulted effortlessly across the hood of the car, catching the horrified gunman hard in the face with the heel of her shoe. He sprawled sideways, making a sick dead noise as his gun trickled helplessly though his fingers. He tried to right himself to fight back, but it was too late, Karyn was on top of him, pounding him repeatedly in the face with the butt of her automatic.
She kept hitting him again and again, until, bloody and lifeless he impacted the cold hard concrete and stayed there, with a lasting sense of finality. She took only a fraction of a second to admire her handiwork, before rising quickly and getting behind the wheel of the Cadillac. There were no emotions, no sense of compassion or regret. She was just doing her job, plain and simple. Nothing and no one could stop her now. Not laws, not men of violence and certainly not the dystopian dreams of some boy-‐like billionaire.
26
Mauna Loa volcano, Big Island, Hawaii Kāeo stood on the north side of the Mauna Loa volcano and looked down. Over nine miles below, the barren volcanic slopes disappeared into the morning mist shrouding the Northeastern rift valley. Up this high, the air was thin, so thin it hardly counted as air at all. Kāeo was a man of science, professor of environmental research at Mauna Loa Observatory. He knew that the physiological effects of working at such altitudes included diminished inspiratory oxygen pressure, a syndrome known as hypoxemia which caused headache, fatigue, nausea and dizziness— sometimes even death. But Kāeo was also a spiritual man, as he surveyed the endless rolling volcanic landscape, he had no doubt that the elemental energies of the spirit ancestors were watching over his affairs. He believed also, that the ancient omniscient gods governed the natural world in its entirety: Papahānaumoku the earth mother and Wakea the sky father. Living in such a place as this, there could be no doubt that the spirits governed the land. There were those who believed that the sickness brought on by the great altitude at the summit of Mauna Loa was a form of demonic possession—perhaps the spirit of Pele, goddess of fire, known to many as she who shapes the land. Kāeo rarely spoke of such spiritual matters to his fellow staffers; whilst they were most often respectful of Native Hawaiian beliefs, they regarded such stories as nothing more than