The Book of Truths

by Bob Mayer

  Nada was busy making sure the team box in the cargo bay of the Snake was fully stocked, directing each man to check their part: Roland weapons; Mac demo and engineering; Kirk commo; and Doc medical.

  Mac carried the heavy plastic demolitions case into the cargo bay and secured it next to the larger team box that stayed in the Snake at all times. That box held a wide variety of gear, from climbing ropes to arctic clothing to chemical/biological protection suits, parachutes, dry suits, spare radio batteries, two million in gold coins for barter, etc., etc.; someone with an extremely paranoid and inventive mind had packed it. And then repacked it. The contents changed slightly after every mission as they went through a detailed After Action Report.

  Doc was checking his med kit, making sure everything was up to date.

  Roland easily carried a machine gun in one hand and a Barrett .50-caliber sniper rifle in the other while his ruck bulged with ammunition for both, along with other deadly goodies. Roland slapped the machine gun into a mount that could extend when the back ramp went down. He slid the Barrett upright into a sheath along the forward bulkhead, then checked his MP5 submachine gun while Kirk dialed up the proper frequency, linked his PRT with the radio, and did a satcom check, locating the nearest Milstar satellite to bounce a signal off of. Then he found two backups, just in case. He updated the current set of codes.

  All they knew was that there was no time to go back to the Ranch. Wherever they were going next, they were launching from Area 51.

  “Better not be another nuke,” Mac groused as he flipped shut his pocket-size team Protocol, satisfied his gear was ready. “So much for peace on earth.”

  “I bet it’s not a Rift,” Kirk said as he looked over the latest frequencies and security codes, which changed daily. He looked up at Doc. “Right? You’re on top of everything that goes on in the Can,” he added, referring to the device buried deep under their feet that gave warnings of a Rift beginning to form anywhere on the planet. Kirk had his suspicions about Doc’s motivations regarding research into the Rifts, unsure what Doc’s end game was.

  “There has been no muonic activity,” Doc said succinctly, zipping shut his med kit. “I called Ivar and he said everything is quiet.”

  “So it’s not a Rift,” Kirk said, over-making his point, but that was lost because they were all a half step off, being pulled in from the points of the compass where they’d just been and the unusual circumstances in which they’d been involved.

  Eagle came walking up the ramp, satisfied the Snake was topped off. He gave a thumbs-up to Nada, who used his black felt-tip pen to make a check mark in his acetate Protocol. Those check marks accumulated until every box was checked and they were ready to lift and fly.

  “Where’s Moms?” Roland asked, frowning over the new M249 light machine gun resting on his lap. He missed his old one already. This one lacked the worn sheen of heavy action and hadn’t been test fired, coming right out of the crate. That made Roland very uncomfortable, as if he were going on a first date with a virgin. He was hoping for some action but uncertain how good it was going to be and what the results might be.

  “I don’t know,” Nada said. “All I got was the recall and nothing further.” He looked at the other five. “Any of you hear anything?”

  Five shakes of the head.

  This too was unusual.

  “Maybe she’s at the Ranch getting briefed?” Kirk suggested.

  “Then why are we waiting here to get briefed?” Nada asked. “We should be picking her up. Meeting at the Barn at least.” He looked at Eagle. “You guys didn’t come from the Barn, did you?”

  Four sets of boots shuffled uneasily on the metal grating.

  “What were you up to?” Nada asked.

  The speaker above them crackled and they all looked up, even though there was nothing to see. Ms. Jones’s voice crackled out. “They were up to no good. An indiscretion that will be dealt with later. Ms. Moms is in the White House.” She quickly briefed them on the little that was known:

  Cherry Tree. The president infected.

  “Moms has containment at the White House,” Ms. Jones concluded. “She’s also done a good job on concealment.”

  “But what about overall?” Doc asked. “How is this thing spreading? It had to come from somewhere.”

  “It came from the DORKA facility in Virginia,” Ms. Jones said. “How exactly it made the leap to the White House isn’t clear yet.”

  “I can research it en route,” Doc said. “If—”

  Ms. Jones cut him off. “By the time you get to DC, it will be too late one way or the other. Moms has the White House under control and is working with the Secret Service to ensure containment and keep up concealment. The DORKA facility outside DC that originated the pathogen has been externally locked down, so that’s contained.”

  “Fucking DORKA,” Nada muttered. There were several entries in the Nightstalkers’ Dumb Shit Scientist Protocol dealing with incidents initiated by a DORKA screwup somewhere in the world.

  Ms. Jones either didn’t hear or most likely pretended not to hear as she continued. “We’re uncertain how it made the leap to the White House but we’re checking on it. Another agency is also working on that.”

  Everyone in the cargo bay glanced at each other. They had a standing wager going whether there were other Nightstalker teams out there. If so, how come it always seemed this team got the crap missions? And then why were they being called in from leave? Then again, they knew there were other secret units who had different missions.

  “If you don’t need us for containment,” Nada said, “what do you need us for?”

  The Nightstalkers worked under the doctrine of the Three Cs:

  Containment. The first priority was to always make sure whatever the problem was, it didn’t spread.

  Concealment. Keep the civilians, and in some cases the authorities, from knowing what was going on to avoid panic. Pretty much everything the Nightstalkers dealt with would cause panic if people found out about it. Nada always pointed out to each new team member the effect “War of the Worlds” had on citizens. And that was just a made-up show on radio. Nightstalkers dealt with the real shit.

  And finally, Control. Which had three levels: damp, dry, and wet. Dry was something that could be contained and concealed without the need to destroy it. Damp was something to be contained, and maybe even studied, but the decision was always made to err on the side of caution, so damp usually went wet, which meant that whatever the problem was, it was to be utterly and completely destroyed.

  Wet didn’t seem to be an option in this case since destroying the pathogen meant wiping out everyone infected, from the president on down.

  Ms. Jones continued. “The missile in Nebraska on your last mission. The ‘Clusterfuck in Nebraska’ as Mister Nada has so elegantly described it…” When Ms. Jones cursed, it didn’t sound like a profanity. Perhaps because English was her second language, perhaps because she didn’t put the proper emotional inflection in it. “It wasn’t a simple oversight that left it there. We believe it was deliberately left in that silo.”

  Nada frowned at the we. Ms. Jones never talked in the plural, unless including the team.

  “It also had two predetermined targets programmed in its guidance system back in 1962. Actually, it had a primary target before 1962, and then a secondary target was added that year.”

  They all waited, then finally Ms. Jones continued.

  “One, of course, was Cuba. That was the one added. The primary target was where you are standing.”

  Roland looked down, a frown on his forehead. “The Snake?”

  “Geez!” Mac exploded.

  Roland poked a finger the size of a baton into the smaller man’s chest. “Got you.”

  A flash of anger raced across Mac’s face at being suckered by Roland, but he got it under control quickly.

  “Who would target Area 51?” Nada asked, shaking his head at the two.

  “That does not make sense,” Doc adde
d. “There are nuclear safeguards, a nice way of saying bombs, already in place here. A self-destruct sequence in case of a catastrophic event.”

  “Like an uncontrolled Rift,” Kirk added, staring at Doc.

  “Yes,” Ms. Jones said, as if they were discussing the weather rather than nuclear weapons. “But that self-destruct is under my control.”

  “Fuck me to tears,” Nada said as he realized the implications and Eagle articulated them.

  “D-O-D.” Eagle said each letter clearly and with absolute certainty.

  “Very astute, Mister Eagle. We have known for a long time that there was an element in the Department of Defense that has been secretly stockpiling nuclear warheads. Whether taking ones slated to be destroyed or acquiring them by other means. The first known incident where we became suspicious was in 1950.”

  “The first nuke that went missing in Canada,” Eagle said. “Off that B-36.”

  “Correct. Your predecessors, on one of the early teams, jumped into Canada and investigated. They never found a trace of the bomb but they did suspect that someone got there before them. As if the entire thing were planned and someone was waiting for that bomb to be dumped and that plane to go down.”

  “Ten more warheads have been lost since then,” Eagle said. “At least that’s the official count.”

  “We believe they were not all lost,” Ms. Jones said.

  “Are there other missiles in other silos aimed here?” Kirk asked.

  “We don’t know,” Ms. Jones said. “We believe there is a central stockpile of most of these warheads.”

  “It does not make sense,” Doc said. “That missile was sealed in. It couldn’t have fired.”

  “We believe this program, code-named Pinnacle, has been so covered and compartmentalized that they’ve actually lost track of some of their own secrets over the years. Some secrets die with those who hold them tightest.”

  That might have sounded crazy to a normal person, but to the Nightstalkers, so immersed in the covert world, it had the perfect ring of logic to it.

  “‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead,’” Eagle quoted.

  “Didn’t Moms say that?” Roland asked.

  “Benjamin Franklin,” Eagle corrected.

  Nada, once again, more familiar with Ms. Jones than any of the others, sensed uncertainty on her part. An unwillingness to cut to the chase. “If we’re not joining Moms in DC, and we’re not going to the DORKA facility, can I assume we’re going after this stockpile?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “And where, exactly, is it?” Nada asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But we’re working on it.”

  We again, thought Nada. This was bigger than the Nightstalkers.

  The person who was supposed to find out that information was on board a Nighthawk helicopter, flying around Washington, DC, toward Pennsylvania. Neeley was seated in the back, peering at an iPad screen, scrolling through the scant amount of information Hannah had managed to forward her about Deep Six. An Asset was sitting next to Neeley, pointing at images, diagrams, and maps as they came up. He filled her in on what he knew about Raven Rock, having been stationed there for six years in the signal battalion that manned the main facility.

  Where Hannah had found him on such short notice didn’t matter. It was what Hannah did. Hannah had also made sure a duffel bag full of gear was waiting on the floor of the chopper along with the iPad.

  The Asset came to a halt as the scrolling did, when they were somewhere over Frederick, Maryland.

  “You’ve never been inside Deep Six?” Neeley asked.

  “No one I know has been inside their vault door other than the contractors. Those guys are crazy. No one messes with them.” He shook his head. “You’re never going to be able to breach the security at the Rock in the first place.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  The Asset pointed at the iPad. “I can show you where the ventilation shafts are. You might be able to—”

  “Why would I want that information?” Neeley asked as she opened up the duffel bag, revealing all sorts of weapons and war gear.

  “To get in. As I said, security is very tight. Lots of armed guards at all the entrances to Raven Rock.” The Asset had seen too many Mission: Impossible movies.

  “I’m not worried about getting in the main facility,” Neeley said. “Raven Rock, the overall facility, is run by the Department of Defense, correct?”

  The Asset nodded.

  “Then I can get in,” Neeley said as she considered the various “covers” she had and which was best to deal with a DOD facility.

  “They closed Fort Ritchie,” the Asset said, “which used to be the supervising post for Raven Rock.”

  “Who is Deep Six’s higher command?” Neeley asked.

  The Asset frowned. “I don’t think Deep Six has a higher command; they definitely didn’t fall under the military. I’m not even sure the CIA has a handle on those people. It’s all foreigners. They never mingled with us. We provided logistic support as required but no one I know ever went inside and I never saw anyone come from DOD or any government agency to check on it.”

  Neeley had suspected as much. Deep Six was a top-secret facility inside of a secret facility, and to ensure deniability no one wanted command of it. After Abu Ghraib, no military officer in their right mind would want to be anywhere near this. And the CIA had Guantanamo, which allowed them to do as they pleased in Cuba. But here, on US soil, deniability ruled.

  “Deep Six is in what used to be the old reservoir, right?” Neeley said.

  The Asset nodded.

  “Let me see those schematics again. It’s a prison. It’s designed to keep people from getting out, not getting in.”

  Secure in his office, Colonel Johnston watched on screen what had gone from groping to a complete, naked orgy down in the lab.

  It was not a pretty sight watching a bunch of scientists go at it with their deepest and darkest fantasies freed of inhibition.

  Upton had joined in. Johnston shook his head in disgust. They all had nothing to lose down there. There was a good chance they might get wiped out when whoever was on the other end of the 666 line got here. It was why they all got paid the big bucks.

  But not Johnston. He got O-6 pay, straight up.

  He turned off the monitor.

  All his outside lines were dead, but not before he’d learned that Brennan had been taken to Deep Six, and it was highly likely the First Daughter and General Riggs were infected.

  Who knew how far Cherry Tree would blossom?

  There was no doubt that the cutoff was the result of the 666 call. DORKA was in external lockdown and when it was unlocked after Cherry Tree burned out here, he was going to be the one in the line of fire. He wore the rank, he was responsible. He’d lived his life by that code.

  The White House.

  The Pentagon.

  This was bad.

  Johnston hit the button on the side of his pistol, ejecting the magazine.

  He knew he’d never make O-7, get that star. When he’d been given this assignment, running herd on a bunch of geeks, it was implicit. This was a dead-end, an end-of-the-career, get-ready-for-retirement slot.

  All the years he’d given the army and this was his reward. To be undone by a bunch of geeks who’d never seen a day of combat.

  Johnston took off his coat and carefully hung it on the hanger on the back of his locked door.

  Johnston pulled open one of his drawers. He pulled out a single 9mm round.

  He’d saved it for more than two decades, from the First Gulf War.

  He laughed bitterly over the fact that it was now called the first. What had been the point if they’d had to go back and do it all over again?

  This bullet had been in his pistol when he’d left his company CP to take a leak during the heady days when they had the Iraqis on the run.

  But not all of the Iraqis had run.

  A kid in an ill-fitting uniform
, maybe seventeen, but no more, had run into the alley with just a bayonet in hand.

  Dick still hanging out, piss dribbling, Johnston had drawn the pistol, finger on the trigger, but not been able to pull it.

  It was just a kid. But he kept coming, screaming something, bayonet glinting.

  Johnston had still been frozen when the kid stabbed him, knife sliding off the body armor covering his chest and slicing into his arm, causing him to drop the pistol. As the kid stabbed him again, this time in the gut, just below the end of the armor, Johnston had finally reacted, grabbed a piece of cinder block and swinging it, hitting the kid in the head, stunning him.

  Then he’d kept swinging until the kid wasn’t moving anymore, his head a bloody pulp.

  Johnston had slumped against the wall, bleeding from two stab wounds, the kid’s mangled head cradled in his arms, weeping. For how long he’d never known, but it couldn’t have been long, because he was able to finally compose himself, stand up, zip up, and make it back to his CP, blood dripping from his wounds and his chest and face drenched in the kid’s.

  Johnston looked over at the rows and rows of medals lining the jacket chest.

  He’d gotten the Purple Heart for the knife wounds and the Bronze Star for killing an enemy combatant in hand-to-hand combat. He still remembered an interesting tidbit about medals, although he could no longer recall the source: Napoleon was credited with inventing the modern version of medals, pieces made of ribbon and metal, awarded for bravery. In medieval days, bravery was rewarded in real terms—with land, with riches, with titles that were worth something. But now a man was supposed to be satisfied with just a piece of cloth?

  Of course, it wasn’t that simple. It was what the cloth represented.

  Johnston stared at the two ribbons at the top of several rows of awards.