Area 51_The Mission

by Robert Doherty

  The chain passed through a ring. Harrison must have taken it off recently, as his body began to swell with the infection and his finger wouldn’t take the ring. Turcotte lifted the ring up and looked at it. The face was almost half an inch diameter, slightly bulging. Turcotte was looking at it for several seconds before he realized what the design was—an eye, pupil inside of iris inside of eye. It was the same design as the one that had left the mark on the tree near Duncan’s house in Colorado. Turcotte looked around. There was the smallest of indentations in the forward wood of the bridge. Turcotte checked the ring against it. It fit exactly.

  He ripped the ring off the chain and stuck it in his waist pack. He went onto the bridge. There was a leather-bound binder. Turcotte opened it. A map was inside, covered with acetate. Blue marking traced a route from Gurupa near the mouth of the Amazon, upriver thousands of miles.

  It passed by Vilhena and continued to the foothills near the border with Bolivia, where it ended. Farther to the west there was a small circle of yellow highlight off the south tip of a lake in Bolivia. Turcotte read the label: Tiahuanaco.

  He tucked the binder under his arm. “Let’s go,” he ordered Norward. “Back to the habitat.”

  • • •

  “What is that?” Duncan was staring at a large black helmet that had no mask or eyepieces. She remembered the photos Turcotte had brought back from Scorpion Base. She was trying to concentrate, to make sense of everything, but events hard outpaced her ability to keep track.

  “That’s our helmet,” Osebold said.

  “How do you see?”

  “It’s something that’s come out of the Air Force’s Pilot 2010 Program.” Kopina had walked up and heard the question.

  “So what’s this 2010 program thing?”

  Osebold answered. “The Air Force knows that their equipment, specifically their jet fighters, are outstripping the men who fly them. Most modern jets are capable of maneuvers that the pilot’s body can’t take. What good does it do to have a jet capable of making a twenty-g turn if the pilot can only handle half that before passing out?”

  Duncan thought of the pilots of the bouncers and how that alien craft was far beyond anything the Air Force could develop. How come Area 51 had not had access to this technology was the unspoken question that crossed her mind. Or had it had access to it?

  “Also,” Osebold continued, “another big problem is the time lapse between the brain receiving information, processing it, and then executing a response through the nervous system.”

  “You’re talking reaction time,” Duncan said.

  “Correct. Like the time it takes you to see someone jump out in front of your car to the time your foot is on the brake. In a jet going at several thousand miles an hour, even a tenth of second lapse can lead to a pilot missing a target by dozens of miles.

  “Pilot 2010,” he said, “is a program where the Air Force worked on both problems. The TASC-suit utilizes everything they’ve managed to develop, including the SARA link.”

  “SARA link?”

  “The SARA link is a direct link into the brain. It—”

  “Wait a second!” Duncan said. “How does it do that?”

  Kopina leaned over the helmet and pointed. “See here?” She was pointing to the interior. There was a black band. She pointed down. There was one around the back part of the head portion. “You can’t see it, but there are very small holes in that black band. Very small,” she repeated.

  “The SARA probes come through those holes. They are extremely thin wires that go directly into the brain and—”

  “Hold it.” Duncan held up her hand. “Directly into the brain?”

  “It’s perfectly safe,” Osebold said. “Scientists have been using thermocouples—which are very similar to the SARA links—for years to study the brain. We’re just taking them to a higher level of use. The wire goes into a specific part of the brain. It’s a two-way feed.”

  “Feed of what?”

  “Electrical current. That’s how the brain works. The SARA link can send coherent current in and can also read activity in the brain. It’s an extremely sophisticated device, built at almost microscopic levels.”

  “You’re putting electric current into the brain?” Duncan thought of the EDM—electrical dissolution of memory—research that they knew for sure had been done at Dulce on the second-to-last level—which had been done to Kelly Reynolds’s friend Johnny Simmons and led to his “suicide.”

  “We’re talking about less power than you would get from a double-A battery. It’s safe, I assure you,” Osebold said. “We’ve all been through it.”

  “I’ve never heard of this,” Duncan said.

  “Compartmentalization,” Osebold said. “No one can know everything that’s going on, especially when it’s covered under the Black Budget.” She reached out and felt the helmet. The black metal reminded her of the skin of the mothership. “Tell me more.”

  Kopina nodded. “Okay, what we do is two things. We fit the suit to the body using the impression tank, then we fit the SARA link array to the brain.” She held up a small black box. “This is SARA, which stands for sensory amplifier response activator. The box goes on the back of the suit. SARA is a very special computer. It adds sensory input to the brain and receives immediate commands back from it which it relays to the suit even as the body is still responding through its own nervous system.”

  Duncan stared at the black box. “You’re joking.”

  Kopina shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  “Have you used it?”

  “In the tank,” Osebold said, referring to the large water tank in the hangar. “It’s been experimental.”

  “But it’s not experimental now?” Duncan asked.

  “We’re operational,” Osebold said.

  Duncan looked at the members of the team. “Have any of you ever been into space?”

  “I have,” Kopina said. “Aboard the shuttle.”

  “Has this team ever conducted any sort of mission with these TASC-suits in space?” Duncan asked.

  “No,” Osebold said, “but we’re ready.”

  “T-minus three hours, thirty minutes,” Kopina said. “They have to go suit up.”

  • • •

  “Someone’s alive.” Norward’s voice sounded weak in Turcotte’s earpiece.

  Turcotte had to turn his whole body to look at the other man. Norward had his arm raised, pointing at a small building to their right. A figure was standing in the doorway. The robes had once been white, but now they were badly stained with blood and other material that Turcotte had no desire to know. The woman wearing them was old, her white face lined and weathered.

  As he got closer Turcotte could see the trace of black lines on her skin, indicating she had the Black Death. Her pale blue eyes watched them approach in their protective suits.

  “I am Sister Angelina.” The old woman’s English was heavily accented. She looked up and down at their suits. “I see you are a bit better prepared for this than we are. Who are you people? We have not been able to communicate with anyone since this began.”

  “We’re from the CDC,” Norward said. “America. What’s the situation?”

  “Over half my staff is down,” Sister Angelina said. “High fever, headaches, bloody diarrhea, vomiting. We’ve tried to do all we can, but nothing works.”

  Sister Angelina led them into the building. Turcotte looked around. Through a curtain made of a sheet, he could see a ward. There were bodies in the beds and two nuns moved among the people, ministering to them. He felt totally immersed in a different world. The nuns didn’t have the slightest form of protection, not even surgical masks.

  “I was in Zaire in ninety-five,” Sister Angelina said. “This looks very much like Ebola.”

  “It’s not Ebola,” Norward said. “At least not one of the known strains.”

  “But it is a virus,” the nun replied. “Or else you would not be wearing those suits.”

  “Yes,�
� Norward confirmed. “It is a virus.”

  “Can you help us?” Angelina asked.

  “We have to track down the source,” Norward said. “I’ll have them send you some equipment. Gowns, masks. That will help.”

  “If it isn’t already too late,” Sister Angelina said.

  To that, Norward had no answer. Turcotte knew that she knew she was dead. “We would like to look at some of your patients,” Norward said.

  Sister Angelina pointed to the ward. “Follow me.”

  They moved through the archway, careful not to scrape their suits on either side. There were fourteen people in the beds.

  “My native support left when they first feared this was a virus,” Sister Angelina explained as they moved. “All that is left are my Sisters. And these are the only ones left in town alive.” She pointed at the bodies.

  “How many people used to live in Vilhena?” Turcotte asked.

  “That is hard to say. Maybe five thousand. Some have fled into the jungle or downriver, although I heard that the next town in that direction has set up a blockade on the river and is killing anyone who tries to cross it.”

  Turcotte knew that also meant the native support workers might have run away with the disease in their system. This was the horrifying danger of trying to contain an epidemic. Nobody wanted to hang around in the area where the sickness takes root, but by running they spread it to new areas.

  They walked down the aisle. Turcotte was glad that he had the suit. The smell must be horrendous. The overworked nuns were trying their best, but the soiled sheets from vomiting and diarrhea could be replaced only so often.

  They’d seen Ruiz’s body, but at that point the virus had been at full amplification, taking over the host completely. Here they could see what it did to flesh prior to death.

  “The rashes,” Norward said briefly.

  Turcotte had noted that too. Streaks of pustulant black cut across the skin of most of the victims. He leaned over one bed. Blood was seeping out from the patient’s eyes, nose, and ears. The eyes were looking at him, wide open, rimmed in black and red, fear and pain evident.

  Turcotte glanced about. There were no IVs or any other signs of modern medical procedures in sight. Just the nuns in their habits, using what they had to comfort the people, wiping sweat and blood from ravished flesh. Giving aspirin for the sickness and pain. In his time in the Special Forces, Turcotte had served on MTTs—mobile training teams—and MEDCAPs—medical civilian assistance programs—in several third world countries.

  “We have to go,” Turcotte said, tapping Norward on the shoulder.

  “Will you help?” Sister Angelina asked.

  “We’ll get you some help,” Norward promised.

  Turcotte turned for the door, then paused. “Sister—”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever heard of The Mission?”

  The nun stared at him for several seconds, then she nodded ever so slightly. “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  She lifted an arm under her stained robe and pointed to the east. “I have heard that The Mission has made a pact with the Devil where the sun rises out of the ocean.”

  “Where exactly—” But Turcotte was cut off as she asked her own question.

  “When will the others arrive?”

  “The others?”

  “Help.”

  “They should be here in the morning,” Norward answered, feeling Turcotte’s disapproving gaze upon him even though it was hidden by the plastic mask.

  She put out a hand and touched Turcotte on the arm. “There are no others, are there?”

  “It takes time to mobilize people,” Norward said.

  “You’re with the American army, aren’t you?”

  “I…” Norward halted.

  Sister Angelina was looking at Turcotte, her face calm.

  “Yes,” Turcotte answered.

  “There will be no others coming to help, will there? We’re on our own, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for being honest.” She looked down the row of beds, the sound of people vomiting and moaning in pain filling the air. “I need one more answer. Did your people cause this?” Turcotte blinked. “No. I think it came from The Mission.”

  “I would not have believed that answer if you had not told me you were with the army.”

  Norward was leaning over one of the bodies, staring at a young man through his thick plastic shield. The man suddenly reached up and grabbed his suit on the shoulders, screaming, blood pouring out of his mouth. Norward pulled back, the man rising off the bed.

  Norward threw his arms up to knock the man off and the man suddenly released. Norward staggered backward, minus the weight, and fell on his back, knocking over a table in the process.

  Turcotte reached down and gave Norward a hand, pulling him to his feet. “You all right?” he asked as he helped him get up.

  Norward didn’t answer. He was looking down at his suit. He reached up and pulled off his helmet.

  “What are you doing?” Turcotte was shocked by the other man’s action.

  Norward pointed to the side of his suit. A foot-long tear ran from his hip along to the middle of his back. The edge of the table that had caused the cut was covered with blood-soaked sheets.

  “I can feel the open wound.” He peeled off the space suit, and Turcotte could see the blood seeping through the jumpsuit he wore underneath.

  “Doesn’t matter what the vector is,” Norward said. “Air or blood. I’ve got it.”

  Sister Angelina pointed toward the door. “You’d better go back to your people.”

  Norward shook his head. “I’m going to stay here where I can be of some use. Since I can’t go back into the habitat without destroying its integrity, I’m going to remain here and lend a hand and try to learn what I can.”

  “What should I tell Kenyon?” Turcotte asked.

  “We just got a look at the symptoms,” Norward said. “I need to get an idea of the timeline of this thing. Interview some of the patients that are coherent.” He looked around the hospital. Sister Angelina had moved off to one of the beds. “Look at this. It’s the way it is all over the third world, where they spend more money in a day on bullets than on medicine in a year. And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t think our modern medical facilities in the United States are going to make much difference when the Black Death hits them.”

  “If we can quarantine this here, then—” Turcotte began.

  “It’s already out,” Norward said. “You heard her. People ran into the jungle downriver.”

  Turcotte thought of the Earth Unlimited rockets waiting to be launched at Kourou. He had a very good idea what the payload in those nosecones was going to be. “Nobody’s going to be safe from this if we don’t stop it now.”

  • • •

  “Why are they going armed?” Duncan asked.

  The SEALs had left for final mission prep before loading the shuttle. Kopina had led Duncan back into the large hangar, to an area in the rear. A table held copies of the weapons the SEALs would have with them.

  “They’re military,” Kopina said, as if that explained everything.

  Duncan was troubled by the advanced technology that was being used in the TASC-suits. She knew one of the biggest concerns of UNAOC was the discovery of Airlia weaponry—she wanted to know what Space Command issued in conjunction with the suits.

  “What kind of weapons are they using?” Duncan asked.

  Kopina turned to the table. “They didn’t have many options when it comes to stand-off weapons in space. The powers that be have always been more concerned with things like missile defense, Star Wars-type stuff, than actual combat in space. Space Command keeps an eye on all weapons-development programs and tries to see which ones we might adapt and use.”

  Kopina ticked off on her fingers. “We checked everything, and contrary to science fiction a lot of stuff just isn’t practical. Chemical lasers are out. They r
equire too much mass in terms of a laser reactant unit. Free-electron lasers offer more promise, but the current level of technology doesn’t give us a powerful enough beam to do more than blind someone if you hit them directly in the eyes. So that’s out.

  “Another exotic weapon that’s on TV shows but isn’t even close to being up to specs is the particle beam. Nice idea, but no one’s got it down yet to a workable size, or a beam coherent enough to be functional in combat.”

  She turned and waved her hand over the table. “So what we ended up with is here.”

  Duncan looked at the items laid out as Kopina picked up what appeared to be a jackhammer with an open tube where the chisel would be. About five feet long, with a thick cylindrical shape that tapered to the end, where the tube was about an inch in diameter. At the other end, there were two pistol grips, one about six inches from the flat base, the other eighteen inches in with a trigger in front of it. The nonfiring end ended in a flat plate. The entire thing was painted a flat black. There was some sort of sighting mechanism mounted on the top.

  “This is the”—Kopina paused, thinking how to describe it—“consider this the M16 of space.” She held it out to Duncan. “Its official designation is the MK-98.”

  Duncan took the weapon and almost dropped it. “How heavy is it?”

  “Empty weight is thirty-eight pounds,” Kopina said. “Each magazine adds about ten pounds.”

  Duncan hefted it, hands on the pistol grips. She knew Turcotte would find this most interesting, but it just seemed like a heavy piece of machinery to her.

  “It will be easier to handle in space,” Kopina said. “No weight there.”

  Duncan put it down on the table with a thud. “What does it shoot?”

  Kopina picked up a two-foot-long cylinder that was about the same diameter as the MK-98. She touched a button on the side and a two-foot-long section on the top sprung open. Leaning the end of the barrel against the tabletop, Kopina pressed the cylinder into the well. She swung shut the cover and it latched into place.

  She picked up the gun and aimed it at a six-by-six beam set inside of a concave concrete range against the wall of the hangar. The muscles in her arms bulged as she handled the weapon.