“Even with his enhanced abilities, he’s quite alone, Captain. No drones. If he comes looking for his father, GITMO is completely equipped to handle him.”
“I pray you’re right, sir.”
“Keep me posted on any developments. In the meantime, keep Barry Birdsall comfortable. Give him the Club Fed treatment. This situation will resolve.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Betancourt terminated the call on the other end.
She couldn’t believe how short-sighted he was being. Carl was teetering on the edge as is. Now they pushed him over, and he’d be coming for revenge. With his knowledge of the RGT in his father’s television, her fingerprints were all over the ketchup bottle.
Betancourt had no idea how dangerous Carl really was, and Fiona had no evidence to support her instincts. It was in her dreams. He was a clinical, ruthless killer. The ultimate hunter and, worst of all, he may not be under his own volition.
By spying on his father and taking him into custody like a criminal, Betancourt may have just set off a doomsday machine…
…and he was going to start his Armageddon with Camp X-Ray.
***
“With all due respect, sir, what do you mean we may have to flip the kill switch?” Peter asked dubiously.
Colonel Betancourt stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s play out every scenario. Sergeant Birdsall is missing. He may have made contact with someone who somehow knew who he was, probably an OIL operative. He’s either been abducted, in which case he’s a potential security leak, or he’s gone rogue and he’s going to retaliate for your father being taken into custody.”
“Or he’s wandering around injured somewhere trying to turn himself in,” added Peter.
“The authorities found the bodies of the men you and he had an altercation with,” countered Betancourt. “Shot to death, all five of ‘em.”
“Carl wasn’t carrying a gun, sir, and I found his mini-com on the side of the road with its screen cracked. I think he’s in danger, and while we’re on the topic, sir, what was RGT doing in my father’s television?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, Captain. But I can say that it was for your father’s own protection. Your brother’s knowledge of RGT makes him even more of a security risk. No one knows about it. Did you think you were the only ones? It’s highly classified and well above your pay grades.”
“And now I know about it. So are you going to off me too, sir?”
“Watch your tone, Captain. There’s been a lot of heat on this Infantry Drone Program. With everything that’s happened, we will likely just shut it down. If you’re not careful, you may be reassigned to Afghanistan or some equally unpleasant hellhole.”
Peter sat forward in his chair. “Are you threatening me, sir?”
“I’m saying that the army needs to do what it needs to do in the name of national security. In the meantime, I am suspending all operations of the program. Your priority right now should be to reach out to your brother and get him to come in peacefully, so I won’t have to seriously consider using the kill chip in his head. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Peter stood, saluted, replaced his headgear, and left the office. He met Nolan Kettle in the hallway.
“What are they going to do about Carl?” Kettle asked.
“We’ve been disbanded. If we can’t bring Carl in quietly, they’re going to activate the kill chip.”
“Jesus. Do you think he murdered those men?”
“What do you think, Nolan?”
“No, that’s not him.”
“Damned right it ain’t him. Any ideas?”
“Well, sir, he doesn’t have his mini-com. We know that.”
“There was someone at Frisky’s, a woman he met.”
“A woman? Carl?” Nolan asked.
“I know. Stay with me for a moment. She seemed to know who he was, Nolan. She knew our father was being taken into custody. He went back to look for her.”
“Do you think he found her?”
“I don’t know. Last I heard from him, she wasn’t at the bar. Maybe she found him.”
“Well, if he’s being held captive, then we’re going to have to find him. If he went willingly, I think he would’ve contacted us by now. He knows he’s expected back at the base.”
“Right,” Peter said, “but we don’t know who took him.”
“What did this woman look like? Did she have any distinguishing feature? A tattoo, anything like that?”
“She was smoking hot,” Peter quipped.
“Are you sure this was the woman Carl was talking to? You really have to take me next time you guys go out.”
“I didn’t really hear her speak, so I don’t know if she had an accent. Then they danced for a little bit, and then she took him into the bathroom.”
“Holy shit,” Nolan exclaimed. “My little Carl’s all grown up. Big Pete Birdsall showed up by his egghead little brother.”
“You’re not helping, Nolan.”
“Right. Sorry. Was she with anyone else?”
“Two other women, but I don’t think they really knew each other.”
“Did you see who she left with?”
“No, we were thrown out of the bar for brawling with some townies.”
“Holy smokes!”
“Nolan…”
“Right. Sorry. Does the bar have any security cams?”
“That shithole?”
“Just asking. What about the bodies of your cowboys? If there’s a connection, she may have left something about her behind.”
“Local authorities said the bullet wounds were consistent with a professional hit. Double taps in the foreheads all around. Ballistics is running the bullets and casings.”
“Shoe prints? Tire treads?”
“Nolan, you watch too much bad television. This is Blueberry Hill. They don’t have sophisticated CSI.”
“How did this woman know Carl and his new friends were going to be at the graveyard? They must’ve been tailing them from the bar.”
“I find it hard to believe that Carl would’ve gone to a cemetery with those guys,” said Peter.
“Who said he went willingly?” Nolan pointed out.
“Great, so Carl was abducted by one group and then rescued by a second abductor.” Peter rubbed his eyes in exasperation.
“Yeah, but the first abductors are dead and they had the bullets of the second abductor in them.”
“Well, until we hear from ballistics, we have nothing there. Besides, if we do find out what type of gun fired those bullets, how would that help us?”
“It might tell us something about our mystery guest,” Nolan said arching his eyebrow.
“You really love this shit, don’t you?”
“I just want to find my friend,” Nolan said gravely.
Peter’s multi-tasker went off. He looked at the screen. “Speak of the devil…ballistics got back to me. The bullets were fired from a Zigana M16 pistol.”
“That’s Turkish,” said Nolan authoritatively.
“How do you know that?”
“Sir, I’m a Texan. It’s my business to know my guns.”
Peter smiled at Nolan. “Kettle, you’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“If you’re right, then these were likely OIL operatives.”
“So where would OIL operatives be hiding in Texas?” Nolan thought out loud, stroking his chin.
“The JTTF,” answered Peter.
“The what?” Nolan asked as if Peter was speaking in tongues.
“The Joint Terrorism Task Force,” Peter said. “It’s a joint effort between the FBI and local law enforcement. They gather intelligence and move in on local terrorist cells. It’s been around since 9-11.”
“So how do we contact them?”
Peter put up a finger telling Nolan to wait. He dialed Colonel Betancourt. “Hello, Colonel. Ballistics came back saying the bullets i
n the bodies were from a Turkish handgun…yes, sir, they think it was a professional hit…yes, OIL…I need you to call ahead to the FBI. We need to talk to someone working in the JTTF…Yes, sir. We think they may have an idea where they took Carl…thank you, sir.”
“So, what did he say?”
“He’s going to call ahead to Dallas and get them to arrange a rendezvous with the right local law enforcement. If they have any hunches about local OIL dens, maybe we can check them out and see if Carl is there or left us a clue that he was there.”
“How many hunches do you think they have?”
“Doesn’t matter. We’ll split up into squads and check out each one if we have to.”
“Right. I’m already on it,” said Nolan as he got on his mini-com to raise the men.
***
Carl was led inside by Night Stalker and followed by Yvette. He had a sack over his helmet, but he could sense everyone in the structure by their heartbeat. Yvette’s was accelerating; she was nervous. Night Stalker stayed cool as a cucumber, heartbeat like a metronome.
He was guided into a room with two sentries on either side of the door and three men across the room. When Carl entered the room, the one in the middle became a little more aroused than the men on either side.
“Simon Belmont, I presume,” said Carl in a reptilian voice.
“The Automaton, in the flesh,” Belmont responded. “I am honored.”
Carl felt Night Stalker stir a little, his vitals fluttering. He likely had his finger poised over the button that administers painful shocks within his helmet. Someone pulled the sack off of the helmet. Belmont was a tall, older black gentleman sitting behind a desk with two bodyguards on either side of him.
“Forgive the helmet,” Belmont said, “but it is the only thing protecting you from the government’s signal to that kill chip in your skull.”
“I suppose I have you to thank for that,” Carl croaked.
“No thanks are necessary. Please, have a seat.” Belmont gestured to a wooden chair in front of the desk.
Carl looked around him and sat. Yvette nodded at Belmont and backed into a seat behind Carl. Night Stalker remained standing, but also behind Carl. Carl sensed that everyone in the room was nervous…except Belmont. He was anticipating.
“So, I’m told you can help my father,” Carl started.
“I think that I am one who can sympathize with your situation, Sergeant Birdsall.”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“I, too, was used by my government and then discarded. I am sure you are familiar with Darfur?”
“Yes. I am. Quite the genocide you guys had there years ago.”
“Yes,” Belmont looked down at his shoes. “There is great confusion over what happened there.”
“Not from our perspective,” Carl said.
“No, of course not. Let me tell you my perspective, Sergeant.”
“Please, all my friends call me Carl,” he said sarcastically.
“Yes…Carl. Have you ever heard of the Janjaweed?”
“Yeah, they were the Muslim fanatics who raped and massacred villages of non-Muslims.”
“Fanatics, no. I was Janjaweed when I was much younger. The Sudanese government employed us to deal with the rebellion, which was much like the South’s in your American Civil War. The rebellion was tearing the country apart. Animals not fit to live in the country. Pigs.”
“Non-Muslims,” Carl challenged.
“Trouble-makers,” Belmont countered.
“Oh, yeah, those Christians and animists are a brutal bunch,” Carl mocked.
“We were charged with keeping law and order,” Belmont continued, ignoring the sarcasm, “and we did so rather unapologetically, I’m afraid. That is, until the formation of the Popular Forces Group that subsequently denounced us as mercenaries who didn’t represent their cause. The Terejem, once our brothers, turned on us like we were enemies.”
“Well, you know what they say: no honor amongst thieves,” Carl taunted.
“I was driven out of my home,” Belmont continued, ignoring the remark. “Exiled.”
“You were murderers and rapists. I don’t see how any of that relates to me.”
“Carl, you use the undead to hunt enemies of the United States. They are eaten alive. Some in your own country would call you a monster. And now that they’ve found the bodies of those men you had a problem with at the bar, you, too, are now a murderer.”
Carl felt his own pulse liven. “I don’t murder innocent people for religious fanaticism.”
“No, you do it for freedom, democracy, the American Dream. You are a killer, now more than ever. You are changing, Carl.”
“Call me Sergeant Birdsall.”
“Whatever. You lust for carnage. I can see it now. You want to kill me.”
“I am not the same as you.”
“You’re right, Sergeant. I’ve never used the living dead to eat my enemies alive. I’m not saying that I’m an angel, by any means, but we both did what our government required us to do. Now we are both pariahs, just for performing our sworn duties.”
“No one was killed who didn’t deserve it,” Carl said. “All terrorists. No civilians.”
“Sergeant, in a civil war, there are no civilians. I regret what I did for the Sudanese government. That is why I am doing what I am doing now.”
“OIL.”
“Yes.”
“Terrorism,” Carl pushed.
“To the oppressors in power, I suppose so. To those who are oppressed, disenfranchised, exploited, we are liberators. Hence the name, ‘The Order for International Liberation.’”
“That’s kind of vague for a mission statement, don’t you think, Mr. Belmont? That probably isn’t even your real name.”
“It is who I am now, Sergeant. A reinvention, if you will. Just like you.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me, pal.”
“On the contrary, Sergeant. As I am sure Yvette has explained to you, you are not the first of your kind.”
“Oh, yeah. She told me about the aliens. So what are you guys, some kind of homicidal Scientologists or something?”
Belmont chuckled at the reference. “All throughout history there have been leaps in cultural advancement.”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard this already,” Carl said impatiently, “and with those jumps, superstition. Boogiemen, monsters, yadda yadda yadda.”
Belmont smiled almost sympathetically. “During those times, there were singular individuals such as yourself who emerged with developing, extraordinary abilities. They became incredibly fast and strong, developing the ability to heal quickly, and they were the ultimate predators. Sound familiar?”
This got Carl’s attention. “Go on.”
***
Peter was stationed with a squad and local law enforcement just outside of an old farm in Blueberry Hill. The local sheriff was ornery. A federal agent, Grant, was en route.
“We’ve been gathering intel on this farm for almost a month. How the hell is it that you guys got wind of it and are horning in on our operation?” asked the sheriff testily.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” answered Peter. “Are your men in position?”
“Yeah, they’re ready. We were waiting for someone big to be linked to this site, a higher-up in OIL. This whole thing is damned premature. They’re going to pack up shop and run their operations elsewhere.”
If this townie asshole only knew the stakes, Peter thought. The reason why the U.S Army was now involved in such short notice, the reason why the FBI cooperated with Colonel Betancourt, was because OIL had kidnapped the Automaton himself. But this yahoo didn’t need to know that.
“Captain, we’re in position.”
It was Kettle. He was stationed outside an old house on the outskirts of Beeville.
“Copy that, Lieutenant. Stand by.”
“Copy.”
There was some movement on the farm. Sentries posted in strategic locations. Farms d
idn’t post lookouts. Something was about to go down. Maybe Carl was inside.
“When is this Agent Grant getting here?” Peter asked. Time was of the essence. Every minute Carl was with OIL, he was in danger. Not just from OIL, but from the army. They were nervous, and their fingers were poised over the button activating the kill chip in Carl’s brain.
“He’ll get here,” insisted the sheriff. “We can’t move until then.”
“We don’t have much time,” said Peter.
“We’ll wait for Grant,” reiterated the sheriff. “This ain’t your dog-and-pony show, Captain. You can’t just waltz in here and take over. Just what is it you expect to find anyway?”
“We may have a man in there,” revealed Peter reluctantly. “He may be in danger.”
“What do you mean a man? A soldier? Army?”
Peter nodded.
“Jesus,” hissed the sheriff. “What the hell is army doing in an OIL den? You guys doin’ undercover work now?”
“Not exactly.”
The truth was that Peter didn’t really know that this was an OIL den. Furthermore, he didn’t know that Carl was going to be here. He didn’t even know for sure that Carl was taken by OIL. All he had to go on was that those cowboys from the bar were shot with a Turkish handgun. Here he was, sitting outside a farm, hoping that his brother was inside and safe.
“So, do you know anything about those zombies the army’s using on the border?”
Great. Now the sheriff was making small talk.
“I heard something about it. A different unit.”
“I’ll say it’s different all right. Ain’t that the damndest thing you ever heard? Zombies patrolling the border. It makes sense though.”
“I guess.” Peter was counting the minutes to when this Agent Grant was arriving.
“Lieutenant,” Peter said into his mini-com, “any sign of your agent?”
“He’s en route.”
“Yeah, copy that. Same here. Over.”
Damned bureaucratic red tape. If they didn’t move soon, Carl was either going to be killed by OIL or by the army. Either way, dead was dead.
“You believe all that shit about the Automaton?” The sheriff was probing under the dubious guise of small talk.
“Don’t know anything about it, really.”
I Am Automaton 2: Kafka Rising Page 17