Callsign: King - Book I (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy; Ellis, Sean

  # # #

  The twin-rotors lifted the massive Chinook into the sky above the Great Rift Valley and the site of the elephant graveyard. The helicopter circled the area, gaining vertical distance with each pass, until the pilot called back to let King know that they had reached the desired altitude.

  King flipped off the red safety cap on the remote triggering device, and then took Felice’s hand and placed her finger on the switch. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  He could see the hesitation in her eyes. Even though the cave had been the source of unimaginable horrors for her, the uncertainty of what might happen next probably seemed even more terrifying. But King knew well that the first step toward healing was to get some closure.

  He nodded to her. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She smiled weakly, and then pressed the switch.

  The device sent out a radio signal that was picked up instantly by a receiver unit on the ground. The receiver in turn sent a small electrical charge surging through several hundred feet of copper wire that disappeared into the cave opening. That charge detonated a small conventional explosive, which scattered a cloud of powdered aluminum high above the maze of elephant skeletons.

  A fraction of a second later, the fuel-saturated air ignited.

  The thermobaric bomb transformed the elephant graveyard into a miniature sun. The bones and ivory teeth of ancient elephants, crushed to dust by the initial blast front, were subsequently incinerated in a firestorm that exceeded 5,000° Fahrenheit. The force of the explosion hammered into the domed ceiling, opening enormous cracks in the stone. An instant later, the vacuum created by rapid cooling of the scorched air, caused the entire cavern to implode.

  From high above, King watched a cloud of dust rising, the result of the shockwave traveling through hundreds of feet of rock. When it cleared, a new crater was visible on the landscape of the Great Rift Valley.

  The elephant graveyard had ceased to exist.

  >>>Your services are required, General.

  I didn’t think I’d hear from you again.

  >>>The Brainstorm network remains operational.

  Sure. I just thought you would be keeping a low profile. At least until some of the heat dies down.

  >>>Recent events have not compromised operational efficiency.

  Maybe not for you. But I need to be very discreet. Everyone is under suspicion now.

  >>>There is no cause for concern. Key network personnel have been positioned to minimize the consequences of this investigation. However, no external action is demanded of you, General.

  What then?

  >>>Information about the man who caused the recent disruption. I want to know everything about Jack Sigler.

  Sigler? I didn’t realize he was behind all this. It makes sense now.

  >>>You are familiar with him?

  I am. Look, it’s not safe for me to do this right now, but I’ll put some information together. Contact me in a week to set up a dead drop.

  >>>There is a 93.9% probability that Sigler will pursue further action against Brainstorm. The need for this information is urgent.

  I’ll get it to you.

  Graham Brown read the text message reply. He deleted it without responding and put his smartphone away.

  A week after the destruction of the facility site in Algeria…a week after Jack Sigler had showed up to ruin the most audacious enterprise he had ever conceived…he found that he still could not keep the anger and desperation from creeping into his Brainstorm communiqués. He had spent decades cultivating the myth that Brainstorm was something larger-than-life; a sentient, even omniscient computer, and not just an ordinary—well, maybe extraordinary—gambler from Atlantic City with an uncanny ability to accurately assess the probabilities of almost any event.

  “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” he muttered.

  Like the Wizard of Oz, his real power wasn’t his genius, but the illusion that he was something more than human. Maintaining that illusion required him to behave like a computer, to be logical and emotionless when interacting with the men and women whose service and loyalty he had surreptitiously purchased over the course of thirty years.

  That kind of clinical detachment hadn’t been a problem for him until Jack Sigler entered into the picture. Fortunately, there was an easy solution.

  Kill Jack Sigler.

  # # #

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of eleven novels including PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler series. His novels have been translated into nine languages. He is also the director of New Hampshire AuthorFest, a non-profit organization promoting literacy. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.

  Click here for a sample of Robinson’s novel, THE LAST HUNTER

  Visit him on the web, here: www.jeremyrobinsononline.com

  SEAN ELLIS is the author of several novels. He is a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, and has a Bachelor of Science degree in Natural Resources Policy from Oregon State University. He lives in Arizona, where he divides his time between writing, adventure sports, and trying to figure out how to save the world.

  Click here for a sample of Ellis’s novel, DARK TRINITY - ASCENDENT

  Visit him on the web, here: seanellisthrillers.webs.com

  —SAMPLE—

  THE LAST HUNTER by JEREMY ROBINSON

  Available for $2.99 on Kindle: Click here to buy!

  DESCRIPTION:

  I've been told that the entire continent of Antarctica groaned at the moment of my birth. The howl tore across glaciers, over mountains and deep into the ice. Everyone says so. Except for my father; all he heard was Mother’s sobs. Not of pain, but of joy, so he says. Other than that, the only verifiable fact about the day I was born is that an iceberg the size of Los Angeles broke free from the ice shelf a few miles off the coast. Again, some would have me believe the fracture took place as I entered the world. But all that really matters, according to my parents, is that I, Solomon Ull Vincent, the first child born on Antarctica—the first and only Antarctican—was born on September 2nd, 1974.

  If only someone could have warned me that, upon my return to the continent of my birth thirteen years later, I would be kidnapped, subjected to tortures beyond comprehension and forced to fight...and kill. If only someone had hinted that I'd wind up struggling to survive in a subterranean world full of ancient warriors, strange creatures and supernatural powers.

  Had I been warned I might have lived a normal life. The human race might have remained safe. And the fate of the world might not rest on my shoulders. Had I been warned....

  This is my story—the tale of Solomon Ull Vincent—The Last Hunter.

  EXCERPT:

  12

  My foot rolls on a bone as I kick away from the bodies. There’s so many of them, I can’t make out what I’m seeing. It’s like someone decided to play a game of pick-up sticks with discarded bones. I fall backwards, landing on a lumpy mass. My hands are out, bracing against injury. Rubbery flesh breaks my fall, its coarse hair tickling between my fingers. I haven’t seen the body beneath me, but I know—somehow—that it’s dead.

  Long dead.

  This is little comfort, however. After finding my footing, I stand bolt upright. My chest heaves with each breath. Each draw of air is deep, but the oxygen isn’t getting to my head. I try breathing through my nose, and the rotten stench of old meat and something worse twists my stomach with the violence of a tornado. I drop to one knee, fighting a dry heave.

  “Slow down,” I tell myself. “Breathe.”

  I breathe through my mouth. I can taste the foul air, but I force each breath into my lungs, hold it and then let it out slowly. Just like I learned at soccer practice. I only lasted a few practices before giving up, but at least I came away with something. Calm down. Focus. Breathe.

  My body settles. I’m no longer shaking. But when I look up I wonder if I’ve done somet
hing wrong. Stars blink in the darkness, like when you stand up too fast. But they’re not floating around. They’re just tiny points of light, like actual stars, but I get the feeling they’re a lot closer. The brightest of the light points are directly behind me, and to test my theory I reach out for them. My hand strikes a solid wall.

  Stone.

  The points of light are small glowing stones, crystals maybe. I’d be fascinated if I weren’t absolutely terrified.

  My hand yanks away from the cool surface as though repulsed by a magnetic force. For the first time since waking, a rational thought enters my mind.

  Where am I?

  It’s a simple question. Finding the answer will give me focus. I turn my mind to the task while my body works the adrenaline out of its system.

  The dull yellow stars behind me are large, perhaps the size of quarters. They wrap around in both directions, almost vanishing as they shrink with the distance. But I can see them surrounding me with a flow of tiny lights. There is no door. No escape.

  I’m in a pit.

  Full of bodies.

  Long dead bodies, I remind myself as my breathing quickens. It’s like looking at the mummies in The Museum of Fine Arts. They can’t hurt you.

  With my eyes better adjusted to the dim light, I crouch down to look at the bone I stepped on. What I see causes me to hold my breath, but I find myself calming down for two reasons. First, my mind is engaged, and like Spock, my emotions, which can overwhelm me, are being choked out. Second, the bones are not human.

  The nearest limb looks like a femur, but it’s as thick as a cow’s and half the length. I try to picture an animal that would have such thick, short limbs, but nothing comes to mind.

  I scan the field of bones. Most are similar in thickness and size, but many I can’t identify. Whatever these bones belonged to, I’m fairly certain they’re not human. In fact, they don’t belong to any creature I’ve ever seen before.

  Remembering the soft flesh that broke my fall, I turn around and look down. If not for the clumps of rough red hair sticking out of the sheet of white skin, I might have mistaken it for a chunk of rug padding. The skin is thick, perhaps a half inch, and hasn’t decomposed at all despite the bones beneath it being free of flesh.

  A scuff above me turns my head up as dirt and dust fall into my face. Someone is above me.

  “Who’s there?” My voice echoes.

  The only response I get is silence, which makes me angry. I’ve been beaten and kidnapped after all. “Hey! I know you’re there!”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  The sinister scrape of the voice makes my stomach muscles tighten. This is the man who took me.

  “Why?” I ask through clenched teeth, determined not to show this man fear.

  “Because...” I suspect his pause is for dramatic effect. When I feel the sudden urge to pee, I know it’s working. “...you’re not alone.”

  I spin around, forgetting all about my bladder. I can’t see more than ten feet of body-strewn floor. Beyond that it’s just a sea of light flecks. If there is someone down here with me, I’ll never see them.

  Then I do.

  In the same way we detect distant objects moving in space, I see a body shifting to my left, blocking out the small lights.

  “Who is it?” I whisper.

  “Not a who,” answers the voice.

  Not a who? Not a who!

  “What am I supposed to do?” My whisper is urgent, hissing like the man’s voice.

  “Survive. Escape.”

  “How?”

  “That’s up to you.” I hear him shuffling away from the edge. His voice fades as he speaks for the last time. “I will not see you again until you do.”

  A rattle of bones turns my attention back to the sneaking shadow. My eyes widen. It’s no longer slinking to the side. It’s growing larger, blocking out more and more stars. That’s when I realize it’s not growing larger, it’s getting closer.

  In the moment before it strikes, I hear it suck in a high pitched whistle of a breath. I duck down to pick up the thick bone that tripped me up. But it’s too late. The thing is upon me.

  13

  I scream.

  I’m too terrified to do anything else. My hands are on my head. I’m pitched forward. My eyes are clenched shut. Every muscle in my body has gone tight, as though clutched in rigor.

  It knocks me back and I spill into a pile of bones and old skin. But I feel no weight on top of me. No gnashing of teeth on my body. The thing has missed its tackle, striking a glancing blow as it passed, but nothing more. Perhaps because I bent down. Perhaps because it can’t see well in the dark. I don’t know. I don’t care.

  I’m alive. For now.

  And I don’t want to die.

  But I’m certain I’m going to and the events of the past few months replay in my mind. I can’t stop it. I can’t control it. And in a flash, I’m back at the beginning. A moment later, my mind returns to the present. I’m still in the pit. Still waiting for death. But I feel different somehow.

  My attention is drawn down. The thick bone is still in my hand. I stand, holding it at the ready like Hercules’s club or Thor’s hammer. What I wouldn’t give for an ounce of their strength right now.

  But strength is something I lack. I can already feel my limbs growing weak from fright. If this fight doesn’t end quickly I’ll probably lie down and accept death like a deer in the jaws of a mountain lion. It always amazes me how quickly prey animals accept their fate once caught. Will I be any different?

  The answer surprises me.

  A shift of shadow to my left catches my eye. But this time the fear is drowned out by a rage I have felt before, a rage that now has an outlet. I lunge for the shadow, bone-club raised. The thing flinches back, surprised by my attack. My first swing misses, nearly spinning me around. But I follow it up with a backhand swing worthy of John McEnroe. The impact hurts my arm, but it lets me know I’ve hurt the thing, too.

  The thing stumbles back, letting out a high pitched whine as it strikes the wall. I struggle to see it, but it’s backlit by the wall. I can, however, see its silhouette more clearly now. Its body is egg-shaped and maybe four feet tall, with short, thick legs. Its arms are almost comical—short stubs sticking out to either side as useless as a T-Rex’s tiny appendages. I feel emboldened by the thing’s size and awkward build. But I’ve underestimated its will to live. This thing doesn’t want to die as much as I don’t.

  It lets out a shrill scream and charges again. I start to duck, but this time it doesn’t leap. Instead, it lowers its top half—I can’t see where the head begins or ends or if it even has a head—and plows into me like a battering ram. It lifts me off the ground and carries me ten feet before slamming me into a stone wall. I hear a crack as my head strikes, but I don’t lose consciousness. There’s too much adrenaline in my system for that to happen.

  But when I open my eyes and look at the thing, I wish I had fallen unconscious. Then I wouldn’t have seen it. I wouldn’t be awake when it devoured me. But I am awake, staring into a set of jaws that looks like it belongs to a great white shark—rows of serrated triangular teeth set into a jaw that protrudes from the mouth. The entire top half of the creature, just above its pitiful arms, has opened up to take me in. I have no doubt I’ll be severed in half. I’ll spend my last living moments bleeding out in this thing’s gullet.

  I can’t die like this.

  “Get off of me!” I scream. My voice distracts the creature. Its jaws close slightly, revealing a pair of perfectly black eyes, like two eight balls jammed into the top of a killer Humpty Dumpty. Tufts of thick brown hair cover its milky skin.

  I’ve seen this before. The remains of these creatures litter the cave floor. These things aren’t killing people here, they’re being killed. It wasn’t put here to kill me, I was put here to kill it.

  “Get off me, I said!” I shout, further confusing the beast. I dive to the side, but it clamps down on my shirt—a r
ed, white and blue flannel that looks much more patriotic than any piece of clothing should. I spin around and lose my balance. The shirt rips as I fall away. My hands stretch out to brace my fall and I plunge into a litter of bones—the bones of this thing’s kin. But my right hand catches on something sharp. A hot burn strikes my palm, followed by a warm gush of liquid over my wrist.

  I’m bleeding.

  And the thing can smell it. I hear its quick breaths, sniffing as a dog does. Then I hear the smacking of lips and then it moves again, closing in on me.

  Ignoring the pain in my hand, I dig into bones and find the sharp object. Playing my fingers over it gently, I feel a large triangular tooth. Then another. And another. In my mind’s eye I can see its shape: a broken jawbone from one of these creatures. I find an end that has no teeth and grip it.

  I’m back on my feet for only a moment before the creature charges again. But I’m ready for it. Whatever this thing is, it’s deadly, but it’s not smart enough to realize I would anticipate the same attack.

  I step to the side and swing down. I feel an impact, and then a tug on my weapon as the teeth catch flesh. A sound like tearing paper fills the air and makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t see it, but I know I have just sliced open the creature’s back.

  It whimpers and stops.

  I step closer.

  It steps away.

  Some instinct I never knew I had tells me I’ve inflicted a mortal wound. The thing is dying. I see its form again as it nears the far wall—egg shaped body, tiny arms, squat legs, large eyes. And I recognize it for what it is. Not the species, the age.