Star Angel: Prophecy

by David G. McDaniel

  She picked a point at the end of the alley and started toward it.

  Earlier she’d puked. Just after she left the last field unit here in Hong Kong, the last contact with any friendly and she was finally on her own—entirely alone—her impossible solo journey about to begin; that moment, more or less, the official start of the end … the nerves had reached critical mass, her stomach knotted, and, standing alone in the darkness, in the rain, hood back and all by herself …

  She puked.

  There was no one to see so she let it go. Hurled, no holding back, and in fact once started encouraged it, like a purge, clenching harder, expunging the pain, the nerves, cleansing those negative emotions even as she cleansed her body, throwing out the bad, the doubts, the fears, and by the time she was done she felt truly …

  Free.

  An inversion of the terror, oddly; in its place an unwavering confidence, what she’d come to expect at moments like this, a rebounding against her core, and the effect was liberating.

  She looked up ahead at the next cross-street. In Hong Kong people were everywhere, but on a night like this, so late, in the rain and in this underused sub-alley, there was no one. Jessica, dark, hooded figure, walked alone.

  She smiled thinly at the thought of what she would appear, were there anyone around to see, American teenager from Boise, versus what she really was: a powerhouse, building strength, listening to the steady splat of her armored boots as she strode through puddles and over cracks and defects in the asphalt, pace patient yet relentless. After the purge she was amping. Nothing would challenge her this night.

  Time to pay her ancient betrayers a visit.

  She thought of them now, as she had been through most of her progress to this point, handing off between contact after contact in the remarkably complex network of spies and helpers that made up the fledgling human resistance. The Bok. Mixing the Then with the Now; a fascinating merger of memories and views; things she remembered of them as Aesha, mashed with her conflicted emotions of the present. Aesha, priestess who formed them; Jessica, teenager who crossed paths with them as a dangerous secret society and tried desperately to understand, then survive them.

  The Bok had wronged her. They’d wronged everyone, of course, especially under the stewardship of their most recent failure, Lorenzo, but her they’d wronged the most. She formed them a thousand years ago with a purpose. There was no excuse.

  They got greedy.

  Funny thing was, apparently she’d seen that future too. She’d laid in safeguards back then—she knew it, could feel it—only she couldn’t remember particulars. Details escaped her.

  Lorenzo would know. If nothing else he would at least hold that knowledge, even if he didn’t understand it. He, of all the Bok, would know. Lorenzo would have what she needed.

  She reached the end of the alley and slipped into another shadow, pausing to look up at the cloud-laden night sky. The overcast was unbroken, like a ceiling for the city, lit dully from below by the city itself.

  Driving her forward was less the emotion of that past time, more the heat of the Now. Yes, the Bok failed her back then. Betrayed her. But that time was so long past … it was more an exercise in analytics than passion. Yes, the Bok needed to be stopped and what they hid needed to be discovered, but that was merely the reality of it. The passion, the rage that came from what they’d tried to do to her was driven by the threats to Jessica. They would’ve killed her back in Boise if they had the chance. Lorenzo attacked her in the club and might’ve killed her then. His minion tried to kill her on the farm. After that the commando raid that failed. Then maps of her house and family and obvious plots. The hiding of secrets all these years, the learning of tricks from Galfar, planning to use what they possessed for their own ends, to enslave humanity. The usurping of Earth leadership.

  Yes.

  It was time to put an end to the Bok.

  **

  They’d decided to change up the schedule. Rather than stage the raid pre-dawn they were going in in the afternoon. This aligned with reports of Jessica’s progress.

  “Sure we can’t blow up one of the main storage tanks?” asked Pete. “I mean, if we can’t have some fun with this we’re doing it wrong.” He sat in the passenger seat of a nondescript truck beside Heath, parked along the road just outside the Scottish refinery, their target, windows of the cab open on the summer day. Heath was at the wheel.

  Pete had, ridiculously, called “shotgun”.

  Through the transit window, looking into the back of the truck, were the ones who didn’t call shotgun; Zac, Willet, Steve and a few of the militia, crowded around boxes of gear inside the large cargo compartment.

  “Don’t even joke,” Heath admonished. He knew Pete, and his crack shot probably wouldn’t do anything that stupid, but damn if he wasn’t the one Heath had to worry about.

  Pete pushed back a little further in his already slouched position, slumping into the seat with one boot on the dash. “Talk about going out with a bang. Wouldn’t it be badass? I mean, you ever seen an explosion that big up close?”

  “Can we just leave him here?” Steve called from the back.

  “Fine by me,” Pete quipped. They were all nervous, the usual feeling you got before a mission, but this one was so different, just by its very nature and what was at stake … it felt uncomfortably like the first time. Heath felt like a newb, like he did in his first firefight, and he knew everyone else did too. Pete would, in fact, be more than happy to sit this one out. They all would.

  “Bigger than I remember,” one of the militia commented, and Heath realized the guy was talking about the refinery. Taller parts, cooling towers, stacks and piping could be seen ahead in the distance. A civilian from one of the towns back around the safe house, a Scotsman, the man used to work at the refinery years ago. “I mean,” he was leaning forward, looking through the transit window into the cab and out the windshield, “it’s not actually bigger,” he clarified in his thick Scottish brogue. “It’s just ... I forgot what a huge place it is.”

  Heath eyes roamed the breadth of their target down the hill. The refinery was indeed significant, lots of large industrial pieces, pipes and tanks and so forth, nuke-style cooling towers ... the works. The trucks of their little convoy sat patiently in a row along the side of the road, beneath some trees, a hodge-podge of what could’ve been anything, generic delivery trucks of any kind, single- and double-axle, each filled with guns and explosives, missiles and the men that would use them. Militia volunteers of all backgrounds, interspersed with bona fide operators; SAS, Delta, Heath and his guys. Willet.

  Superman.

  Zac sat among the rest, ready to go. Heath found him in the rearview, studied his face a few seconds and looked away. Zac had been tense since they left. Since Jess left. Quiet the whole long drive, a change for the usually easy-going big boy. Heath knew his mind was on his girl. Honestly Heath’s was too. Everyone’s was. As low key as her departure was, the whole spectacle of her going off alone wearing that crazy armor, sword at her back—she walked off to get the leaders of the world alone, carrying only a sword!—had them all wondering just what the hell she was about. Heath and Pete and Steve knew what she could do. No one else. And in that Heath was probably less curious, knowing what she was capable of, but still ...

  Fang and the smart guys were helping, of course. Others would get her there. But once she was in position it was all her.

  It hurt his head.

  For Zac, though, his suppressed intensity was clear, and Heath just hoped that, when the time came, Superman didn’t go berserk and spin out of control, no eyes on the mission but only on whatever drove his frustration. Heath resolved to try and keep him close.

  Just then the radio on the console clicked over. A tinny voice:

  “This is Drake.”

  Heath sat up. Thumbed the console.

  “Heath here.” He noticed Zac’s face was suddenly in the transit window, right there over his shoulder. This was the cal
l they were waiting for.

  “We’re up,” Drake’s voice came on and off over the small speaker. “The agent is in theater and at the final destination.”

  The “agent” was Jessica. This was the call they were—

  “She’s there?” Zac. “She made it?”

  “She made it,” Heath said over his shoulder, face to face through the window. Then to the console: “Copy.”

  “She’s okay?” Zac was leaning through, and Drake heard him as Heath spoke.

  “Last word she was fine,” came Drake’s answer. “Arrived at her destination and checked in.” Drake knew Zac needed this and took the time. “She’s offline and has gone dark. We’ll hear from her again at completion.”

  Heath watched Zac’s face as Zac stared at the console. Waited. Everyone waited. After a long pause Heath clicked the radio: “Understood. We’re moving.” Then: “Confirm.”

  “Confirmed.”

  Zac slid back into his seat in the back. Heath clicked off the console and, with a glance to Pete—who was leaning in right beside him—turned to the guys in the rear.

  “Everyone ready?”

  Intent stares. The stares of men who were ready to die. Except Zac. His eyes held a subtly different look.

  Zac was ready to kill.

  “Your girl is badass,” Pete assured him. “Don’t you worry about nothing.” Then he was facing forward, hardly realizing that wasn’t exactly the thing to lift Zac’s mood. “I mean,” he mused, “I feel like we’re real life Agents of Shield or something. We got superheroes working with us and we’re about to throw the smack down.”

  Heath doubted Zac got any of those references but there was no time to explain. Nor did Heath think it would help. “Alright,” he fired the truck to life, reached a hand out the window and signaled the one behind. “Here we go.” He dropped it in gear and eased off the shoulder, the next truck pulling to the road in his wake then the next, following closely behind. They wheeled onto the pavement, the left side, Heath almost forgot—though he’d driven missions in left-handed countries before you had to get used to it each time—hugged around the corner and on down the hill. A car approached and passed. Business as usual.

  “Remember this first part should be easy,” he spoke over the noise of the diesel, the road and light wind through the windows. “Everyone stick to their designated tasks.”

  “I still think we should blow up a silo or something,” Pete persisted. Heath gave him a hard stare and put his eyes back on the road.

  “There’s gonna be enough fire and explosions.”

  Steve was leaning through the transit window now. Another car passed on the road going the other way. It was late afternoon, not quite end of second shift, and so at the moment the road was relatively clear in both directions.

  They followed the last curve to the main gate.

  “Here we go,” Heath said as he approached, slowed and pulled to a stop. Casually he leaned an arm on the window and looked down at the guard walking from the gatehouse.

  “Bonny day for a fire,” Heath told him.

  The guard nodded, confirmation of the code. Fear in his eyes. “Bonny day indeed.” He waved to his partner and that man buzzed open the gate. Slowly it began moving back.

  “Thanks,” Heath couldn’t resist. A human comment where none was needed. “Stay put,” he told the guard. “This will be over quick.” And he clutched the truck into motion and drove through. Behind him the others followed.

  “There,” Steve pointed. He and Heath were instantly assessing the scene, mentally taking stock of all factors in the current environment; a real-time situational assessment the likes of which they’d done time and time again. Prior planning had covered all fixed assets and laid out their objectives, but there were things that could never been planned and so live adjustments were made. Vehicles. People. Cargo containers. Other movable objects; things that had changed.

  Heath steered toward the indicated spot. “Deploy there.”

  Pete leaned out his window and made gestures to the two trucks behind, directing them accordingly. The plan was to do this right there near the front without penetrating the refinery too far, in a place with plenty of room for the Kel response. This spot was perfect.

  Heath stopped the truck and shut it off. Pete looked to him, then through the back window.

  “Let’s go make some noise,” he announced, opened his door and jumped to the ground. Heath followed suit, boots hitting the asphalt and jolting him to action. He jogged around back and met Pete there, popping down the back gate as the guys inside leapt clear. No one was rushing, there were no hostiles, but you could still cut the tension in the air with a knife.

  This was it.

  Zac was pulling out a crate with missiles. Two of the other guys were bringing down explosives. A few had grabbed rifles; the teams from the other trucks were out and moving in much the same fashion. Methodical, unchallenged prep. There would be no real firefight, but to make it seem as real as possible they’d left open the possibility of a staged one. The guards might respond.

  Then the demolitions groups had their kits and were off and running. Steve and Pete had both lifted shoulder-fired missiles from one of the crates.

  “We clear?”

  Heath scanned the scene, looking for potential targets.

  “Clear.” He pointed to a series of piping. “Do that one.”

  Pete raise his launcher, a standard LAW type, sighting the pipes in the distance.

  Steve raised his too and …

  There was an illusory silence, an anticipatory hush that fell over everything in the moment before they squeezed the triggers, almost in unison.

  Whooosh! twin streaks of flame popped from the ends of the tubes and the missiles were off with a trail of smoke, a drop and an upward arc, curving away at five-hundred FPS and impact an instant later.

  Boom!Boom! twin fireballs and their concussion, the usual expected from the LAW missiles, those small explosions crushed instantly by the resulting secondaries, tremendous as the piping went up.

  BOOOOM!! BOOOOOM! BOOOOOM! BOOOOOOM! Erupting skyward, more than Heath had anticipated and he cringed and ducked reflexively as pieces of metal went shooting in all directions. The strike was far away but shrapnel made it to them, clanging to ground as the blasts multiplied and continued to burn.

  Pete looked at him, stunned. “You picked it!” He faulted Heath for the devastation. “Don’t blame that one on me!”

  Others were firing. The carnage had begun. Across the way a team of SAS with their own missiles let loose; more explosions, coupling, blasts out of sight within the towering pipes and tanks and industrial architecture of the refinery, fireballs both big and small curling into the air in the near distance, handiwork of the demolitions groups; louder booms and more chain reactions.

  The place was starting to burn.

  Zac watched all this in interest, it seemed, the rapidly developing scene of explosions and destruction. Expectedly a few guards appeared from nearby structures, they’d chosen to make a show of resistance—smart, to cover their defense during later Kel repercussions—bringing up their guns and firing at angles into the air over the intruder’s heads. Heath’s team fired back, rifles trained over the heads of the guards, adding the sharp sound of assault-rifle bursts to the alternating levels of boom and clap coming from explosions all around. Beyond one row of fuel tanks a series of piping collapsed under a particularly large blast, bringing down more structures around it.

  Heath began to think they might be going a little far. Was everyone sticking to the plan? In the heat of it it was hard to tell.

  The guards laid low then ran, having made their point.

  “The gate!” one of the militia was running over to Heath. One of the SAS guys was next, gun in hand, pointing back toward the gate with the other. He hollered over the crescendoing noises of destruction:

  “The lorry! Move the petrol lorry! Block the gate!”

  Heath saw where the guy w
as pointing. A tanker truck was there, parked along the entry.

  “We may have to hold position!” the guy was yelling.

  He was right, of course. There was no telling how quickly the Kel would respond. In the meantime they could not afford to deal with local response. Innocent people would die. Heath eyed the truck. Mentally he ran through recalls of hot-wiring.

  Then thought of Zac.

  He looked to their super-companion and pointed. “The gas truck!” No need to complicate things. “Can you move it? Use it to block the gate?”

  Without a second thought Zac was on his way. The truck in question was a semi-tanker, shiny chrome trailer and 18 wheels, sitting near the main gate as if it might’ve just pulled there temporarily while on its way out. No one was in it.

  Against the truck Zac was no bigger than a normal man, and for an instant, as he got close, Heath wondered if he could move it. Just how strong was he? That question was answered quickly. Heath felt his jaw go slack as the dark-haired youth was under it and pushing up, like a human jack—like it was nothing; though it was an easy forty tons if full—up and over, twisting onto its side with a groan and a crash, massive tire chirps as it slid with each slosh of the contents of the tank, just a little back and forth—that motion alone telling Heath it most definitely was full—and for the briefest of instants he absolutely could not believe what he was seeing. Thankfully the trailer didn’t rupture. Before it was finished with its tiny little sloshing movements Zac was bracing himself and shoving, metal on asphalt, the truck scraping with each slide, titanic groans that were loud even over the fireballs blowing into the air all around. Zac made it look easy. Moving the upended truck several feet with each shove, as far and as fast as the length of his body would reach then re-bracing and shoving again. Heath prayed against sparks. But then, did it really matter? One more explosion? Flaming wreckage to block the gate instead of a truck that wasn’t on fire? It didn’t matter, truthfully, but it didn’t explode. Zac just kept shoving. Shove. Brace. Shove. Brace. Shove. Brace. Shove again and it was all the way round and blocking the gate. That quick. A sixty-foot-long, forty-ton lock-bar snug up against the gate posts that would keep anything out.