Betancourt jumped up and began to run out of the building, weaving between the pillars and columns. Carl followed closely behind. They turned a corner and saw the street in front of them.
The street was lined on either side with one and two-level square structures jutting out unevenly with tattered fabric awnings. In the street was a traffic jam of burnt out shells of cars and trucks. It was like an automotive graveyard.
Betancourt nodded to Hill across the street, who began to lay down suppressive fire. Betancourt and Carl ran out amongst the wrecks, bullets flying around them and pinging metal.
Hill signaled to another squad, who then laid down suppressive fire from another angle, as his squad filed into the maze of cars. Then Hill’s team reciprocated while the other squad followed suit.
Carl felt helpless and foolish with his little pistol as he crouched behind a blown out BMW. He felt vulnerable without his drones, whom he had grown accustomed to.
Betancourt was entering coordinates into his mini-com multitasker. “Now we wait.”
Carl heard machine gun fire from the two friendly squads flanking them and the return fire from the OIL operatives. He tried to peek over, but Betancourt pushed him down. “Don’t do that. Hold tight. We’ll be out of here in a jiffy.”
Carl was wondering how they were going to pull that off. While the cars provided cover, they also obstructed their vision. He couldn’t tell where the OIL operatives were coming from.
Then he heard the Black Hawks. He looked up into the sky and saw one coming from behind their position and moving toward the center of the street. He grabbed a dangling side view mirror off the car he was leaning against and held it up, looking at the reflection. He saw another Black Hawk in the distance, coming from the other direction.
Bolts of red light began to shoot out of the Gatling guns on the Black Hawks and lit up the wreckage where the OIL operatives were positioned. Dust was kicked up everywhere, and there was wild gunfire from the opposition. Streams of light made Swiss cheese out of the dilapidated vehicles, igniting some gas tanks.
Carl looked up as a Black Hawk passed over them, the Gatling gun spinning, bullets flying out like a light show, the barrels buzzing loudly. He felt a stabbing on his thigh.
He looked down wondering how he was hit behind a car, but he saw a syringe sticking into his leg. Betancourt gave him a thumbs up when his vision shifted and he felt his eyes roll into the back of his head.
Chapter 2
Fort Bliss, Texas
Lieutenant Peter Birdsall stalked down the hallway towards Captain Fiona London’s office. Ever resilient, his recovery at the base hospital was brief and he was anxious to speak to her. When he arrived, he found her door uncharacteristically open. He let himself in.
He found Fiona standing behind her desk working at her computer. She looked up at him startled. “Peter.”
He looked around her office. It was empty and the therapeutic milieu program was deactivated. Normally, the retinal scan at her door would’ve registered his print and conjured up some fond setting from his memories in her office. However, the office was bare, and it was an unnatural sight given it was usually the only homey place on base.
“What’s going on, Fiona?”
“Peter, I can’t really talk now.”
“You look like you’re going somewhere,” he realized that she was deleting psychotherapy files, “and fast.”
“Peter, your brother opened up a whole can of worms with his broadcast. The Infantry Drone Program is being suspended, maybe even dismantled.”
“On whose authority?”
“One Colonel Betancourt.”
“Speaking of Carl, I heard he was picked up in Pakistan.”
Fiona ignored his remark and continued to delete files furiously. He noticed that she didn’t even flinch when he delivered the news about Carl, which meant she already knew.
“Fiona.”
“What?” She sounded impatient.
“You know something about Carl. He’s not in any trouble, is he?”
She stopped what she was doing and looked Peter directly in the eye. “Well, let’s just say that the brass weren’t too happy about his announcement to the world.”
“But his mission in Tora Bora was a success, wasn’t it? He has the Order for International Liberation scared. Have you seen the international press?”
“Peter, the world wasn’t supposed to know about our infantry drones just yet. Then there was Major Lewis and Sergeant Lorenzo. There are going to be questions, investigations. And not just from within.”
“What are you talking about?”
Fiona looked exasperated at his ignorance. “I am talking about the House Oversight Subcommittee for starters. The UN Security Council. I am talking prison time for those involved in the program and sanctions against the United States.”
“Sanctions? For what?”
“Peter, there’s something called the Geneva Protocol.”
“What about it?”
“There’s a provision against the development and usage of biological weapons.”
“The drones are biological?”
She finished deleting files on her computer and began to delete files on her mini-com unit, a cellular communicator the size of a stick of gum. “Let’s just say it’s a gray area.”
“So what’s going to happen to Carl?”
“Peter, you know he played a significant role in all of this. It wasn’t just his broadcast. It’s his…ability.”
“His link with the drones?”
“The brass doesn’t want word getting out about his ability. They are afraid of how the international community will react. Such power in the hands of one man is frightening.”
Peter read between the lines. “They’re scared, too. The brass, I mean.”
“Can you blame them, Peter? After what happened with Lewis, Lorenzo, and Lockwood? This project got way out of control. This is going to be worse than the Iran Contra scandal, or Fast and Furious.”
“You didn’t answer my question about Carl.”
She finished with her mini-com and stepped out from around her desk. “Peter, I have to go. Word came all the way down from General Ramses that I am to disappear. There is to be no record of my involvement with the Infantry Drone Program.”
Peter was stunned. “So you’re just skipping out when things are getting interesting and leaving the rest of us to hold the bag?”
“Not exactly, Peter. I really can’t tell you much.”
She began to push her way past him, but he grabbed her shoulders and held her in front of him so that they were face-to-face. “Fiona. Please. What about the trust you always talk about in our sessions?”
“I am no longer acting psychotherapist. I have been reinstated to an old role, but it’s nothing I can talk about. Please understand. I have my orders.”
When Fiona told Peter of the role she played in Major Lewis’ demise in collaboration with Carl, he realized that she wasn’t quite the Girl Scout as she presented herself. Now he really wondered. What was this ‘old role’ she was being so cryptic about?
“I want to know what’s going to happen to my brother. Fiona, I know you know something.”
She hesitated, torn between her apparent orders and something else…loyalty, honor?
“Let’s just say that my new assignment will serve to protect Carl.”
Peter squeezed her shoulders gently. “Protect him from what, Fiona?”
She looked deep into his blue eyes. “I really have to go, Peter. Let me go.” There was urgency in her eyes. “Carl needs me, Peter. Let me go.”
He released her shoulders and she left the office without another word. He stood there, his mind racing, wondering what was in store for Carl and how she was going to protect him.
Two MP’s barged into the office. One barked at him, “You don’t belong here. You have to…” they noticed Peter’s rank. “Excuse me, sir, but you have to leave the office.”
He stood there for a moment con
templating what was happening. They were going to clear Fiona’s office. Strip it clean. The brass wasn’t screwing around.
“Carry on, privates.”
Peter left the office. The hydraulic door closed behind him and he heard the digi-lock engage. He stood there dumbfounded, completely out of his depth.
His mini-com unit sounded off. He had a message. As he began to walk back towards the barracks, he called up the message:
AS MY LAST ACTION IN MY CAPACITY AS PSYCHOTHERAPIST FOR THE ID PROGRAM, I PUT IN FOR A REQUEST FOR SOME LEAVE TIME FOR YOU THAT HAD BEEN APPROVED BY COLONEL BETANCOURT. REST UP, SEE YOUR FATHER, PAY A VISIT TO YOUR LOCAL WATERING HOLE. BEST OF LUCK. FIONA.
Peter found this message to be strange. This was an odd time to be granted leave, particularly when the shit was about to hit the fan. Somebody wanted him out of the way.
It could have been for any variety of reasons. He was probably going to be excluded from any hearings. The brass was going to spin their version of what went down, and it was a good assumption that they didn’t want him getting in the way of a good lie. Maybe they didn’t want him around for what was going to happen to Carl.
Poor Carl. As far as Carl knew, Peter was missing in action in Mexico. He couldn’t wait to tell Carl that he still walked the earth. Somehow, he thought he wouldn’t get the chance. The whole program was going to be put under a microscope, largely due to Carl. He just hoped his little brother didn’t dig himself into a hole he couldn’t pull himself out of.
He found it interesting that Fiona referenced Frisky’s (the local watering hole). He remembered unexpectedly bumping into her there once before, when she delivered the news to him that he had been approved for the Infantry Drone Program. He remembered the sexual tension between them—you could’ve cut it with a machete. Then he remembered her conspiring with Carl behind Major Lewis’ back.
Did she want to meet him at Frisky’s? It looked like she was going to disappear off the face of the earth. Maybe that was the perfect opportunity for a secret meeting at an inconspicuous place.
The idea sounded ridiculous to Peter the moment it popped into his head. She obviously had more urgent things to do. She wouldn’t have the time to make a run to Frisky’s. He silently chastised himself for such a ridiculous thought and was convinced that he was reading too much into her message.
He decided he would take the opportunity to see his father, who also thought him MIA. Since his return from Xcaret, he was forbidden to contact him. If he only knew what his sons were up to, saving the world from terrorists and cartels using rejects from a B-rated horror flick.
Peter wasn’t sure how exactly he was going to break the news to his father that he wasn’t missing or dead. The poor man had already been through a lot.
And maybe, just maybe, he would have a beer or two at Frisky’s.
***
Barry Birdsall sat on his couch in his boxers and sweat-stained undershirt flipping through the channels. He settled on the Tyler-Skyler Show, the top rated docutainment show three years running.
The twins were sitting in their high chairs dressed identically with matching poufy hairdos and blond highlights. Barry thought they were so Nuveau Millenium.
“Skyler, word has it that the White House Press Secretary is going on the air in mere moments to make some earth shattering announcement.”
“That’s right, Tyler. And rumor has it that it has something to do with that mysterious broadcast from the Afghanistan-Pakistan border by that unidentified soldier.”
“Skyler, perhaps the soldier was found.”
“You mean apprehended, Tyler.”
“Skyler, are you suggesting that the soldier in question is some kind of criminal?”
Gasps and boos from the studio audience.
“Tyler, the man is obviously some rogue assassin tramping his death squad all over Afghanistan supposedly taking out OIL operatives. Honestly, OIL operatives hiding in caves. How ridiculous!” He looked down off screen and then smiled. “I just got one thousand and twenty-three hits on Skylerblog saying I’m right. What say you?”
Oohs from the studio audience.
Tyler flipped his hair back, looking perturbed for the camera the best way he knew how. “Brother, the soldier is a hero, risking life and limb to rid the world of those treacherous OIL terrorists.” Cheers from the audience. “And moreover, I wouldn’t be surprised if the soldier was one of ours…” Skyler gasped and fanned himself with his hand. “…and one thousand and thirty-seven hits on Tylerblog say I’m right. What say you?”
The audience erupted into a combination of competing cheers and jeers as Skyler dramatically tried to compose himself. Tyler began to pick under his well manied fingernails with a self-satisfied grin on his face.
“Tyler, I am horrified that you would even suggest that he is one of ours. He is clearly more of a terrorist than OIL. There are rumors in the international press that there is something quite…unnatural about this roving death squad. How else did they last so long in the Tora Bora caves? Those tunnels go on for miles and miles. Right? Oh, and Skylerblog just received eighteen hundred and five more hits that say I’m right. What say you?”
Shouts and hollers from the studio audience in response. Tyler wagged a finger at Skyler and then the audience. “Skyler, brother, I wonder if it ever occurred to you that our military may be unveiling a new technology of infantry that allows these men to wander the dark tunnels of Tora Bora for days. Perhaps they are some kind of robot or android. Nineteen hundred and eleven hits on Tylerblog say I’m right. What say you?”
“Robots, Tyler? Really? You should know that there is no such thing yet as robot soldiers or androids. But you do have a point about the unnatural part. Doesn’t he?” The camera panned to the audience stirring with excitement. “I think that there is something unnatural about the captain of that murder squad who made the broadcast. No human could be so cold-hearted and callous. Four thousand two hundred and nine hits on Skylerblog say I’m right. What say you?”
Some cheers from the audience. Tyler put his hand delicately to his chest and opened his mouth in an exaggerated expression of disbelief.
“Skyler, I shudder at the thought that you are suggesting that this hero is some kind of monster. Just what are you getting at? Six thousand four hundred and seventy-two hits on Tylerblog say we want to know.”
The studio audience murmured in anticipation of Skyler’s response.
“Tyler, what I am trying to say is that maybe this soldier is some kind of…freak of nature. An abomination to be condemned, not celebrated. New technology, my eye. Alternative infantry or crimes against nature? If he is something different, maybe I don’t want to know about it. He can keep it to himself. But he is no soldier in our army. Six thousand nine hundred and two hits on Skylerblog say amen to that.”
The studio audience was now on its feet, yelling in mixtures of support and condemnation of the statement just made. Studio security was standing by with tasers and itchy trigger fingers, not for the sake of safety, but the opportunity for even better television.
Barry rose from the couch shaking his head. They were talking about his youngest son, Carl, after all. He padded into the kitchen and pulled the refrigerator door open. He pulled out a cold beer and shuffled back into the living room, the refrigerator door half-closing behind him. He planted himself back into his seat.
Tyler was waving his hands to silence the audience. After a moment, the uproar began to die down and people began to sit back in their seats. When the noise dropped to dull murmuring, the co-host continued.
“We are going to our panel of celebrity experts to weigh in on this. This mysterious soldier: hero or monster? We go to hip pop music star, Murder Mouse, via satellite. Murder Mouse, are you with us?”
“Boo biggity, Tyler. You know the flow, son.”
The audience cheered in response as the visage of Murder Mouse popped up on screen in the studio. Now Skyler spoke.
“Murder Mouse, I think
that this so called ‘hero,’ likely the product of unnatural and horrifying experiments by our military, should be condemned and expunged. Ten thousand fifty-nine hits on Skylerblog say it is so. What say you?”
“Skyler, I say no frigiddy, you glean? This soldier of our fortune should be who he is, not who he is not, you feel my crux?”
Tyler applauded loudly, clapping his hands in a circle. “Words of wisdom. I give this man a round of applause.” The camera panned to a woman who was dramatically gesticulating in the affirmative. “Twelve thousand seven hundred and sixty-one hits on Tylerblog say they glean.”
Skyler pursed his lips sternly until the audience quieted down. “Well, I must say that I disagree most enthusiastically with Murder Mouse. So now we must hear from fashionista and heiress to the Mayberry snack cake fortune via satellite, Miss Glendella Mayberry.”
The audience applauded as her face popped up on the monitor. Her green hair was teased up in every direction, and her lips smacked as she sucked on a miniature couture lollipop.
“Like hi, Tyler. It’s great to be here.”
"It’s Skyler, and you aren’t actually here.”
“Totally.”
“Glendella, focus. What do you think of the mysterious soldier who broadcasted from Tora Bora? Friend or fiend?”
“Well, I think that any man who wants to wander around in caves all day is no real man at all. I mean, they’re all dark and damp and sticky.”
Skyler’s face lit up. “Caves aren’t ‘sticky,’ but you agree that this death monger is some kind of cretin, an atrocity against nature herself. Twenty-six thousand and four hits on Skylerblog say that you are right.”
The audience burst into argument as the twelve-year-old heiress smacked her lips on the lollipop. Tyler stood up in protest and nearly fell off the stage as the screen went off.
“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you an announcement from White House Press Secretary, Bill Sayers.”
A tall, balding man, thick in the middle, with round spectacles strode up to a podium bearing the White House Seal. His sandy hair stood out against the blue background.
I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising Page 2