Protocol 7 at-1

by Armen Gharabegian

  Lucas turned back immediately looking past Rolfe through the dark interior of the vessel. “Yes, I’m-what the hell is that?” he asked, noticing the black med pack in the scientist’s hand.

  “I don’t know,” the scientist said, shrugging. “They left it behind. I thought maybe instruments? Comm gear? Maybe even money. Figured it might come in handy.”

  Lucas almost spat at him. “Give me that,” he demanded. In one swift motion, he lunged at the man and grabbed the bag.

  The timer inside the case continued. 1:16…1:15…1:14…

  Two seconds later, he was back at the opening. Without another word, he jumped out.

  Rolfe was the next man to follow after only a single moment of hesitation. The last scientist followed close behind.

  Less than six feet below him, Lucas hit the icy floor. The slippery impact immediately terrified him. He started to slide uncontrollably, even as Rolfe thumped down less than six feet behind.

  The ice felt like glass. Lucas couldn’t gain control as he desperately forced himself to gain friction, but it was impossible. He was sliding faster and faster and faster.

  His body spun violently. He was now on his stomach; his head was facing downward. Trying desperately to hold his head above the ice, he watched the frozen ground race by, inches from his eyes.

  His helmet banged against the glowing ice as he shook violently from the vibration. The light from his helmet caught glimpses of the glass-like shards that scraped his body. “Please god,” he begged. “I don’t want to die like this.” He was still holding on to the bag, though he had no idea why-reflex more than greed at this point.

  0:18 seconds…

  The world around Lucas sped by at an impossible pace, and the slope increased without warning.

  The others twisted and scraped against the ice, losing control of their belongings as the incline grew even steeper. Thirty-eight degrees…forty-two degrees…fifty-eight degrees and still increasing.

  I’m dying, Lucas thought. This is dying. One second later he lost contact with the ice and realized it instantly: he was falling. He was in horrifying free-fall, plunging into the blackness below.

  He still held onto the bag as his body went into shock. Then he was plummeting to the bottom of the fissure toward the blackness almost five thousand feet below.

  Four seconds…

  Two seconds…

  One…

  The black bag exploded.

  Lucas’ body and the men that fell with him were pulverized in an instant-so quickly that they didn’t feel a thing.

  The gigantic fissure lit up as if it were illuminated by a single massive flame. The explosion expanded outward in all directions.

  In less than a second, it moved the Spector a few inches, almost two thousand feet above.

  Down below, the generators that sat at the base of Central Command instantly shut down from the static shock. A third of the entire Vector5 network blacked out.

  All in a single flash of light.

  * * *

  Blackburn’s finger was on the trigger. He was still counting down.

  “Three,” he said, careful to hold the tip of the rifle barrel directly against Oliver’s skull. “Two…”

  Click. Everything shut down. Blackburn was suddenly, inexplicably, standing in the dark.

  “What the fuck…?”

  Zero time, Simon thought. It’s my only chance.

  “Hold tight,” Blackburn said to the man standing at the door-less than three feet directly below Simon. Blackburn sped down the hall cursing.

  Simon gauged the distance between himself and his opponent like a fighter in combat. He quickly pressed his body forward by another eight inches, and his legs dropped as he held onto the hanging ceiling.

  The man below him looked up for just a brief second-just before Simon’s legs wrapped around his neck. Simon locked his legs around the soldier’s head and twisted his torso hard, instantly separating the man’s skull from his spine. Then he fell on top of the soldier he had just killed.

  The floor of the cell was only slightly illuminated by the lights on the soldier’s mask, but it was enough. Simon stood up in the dark room and turned toward the shadow of the man that lay in the bed less than three feet away from him.

  Oliver had no strength to fight for his vision.

  Simon’s heart started pounding uncontrollably. He heard commotion outside, but it didn’t matter-his whole world was right in front of him.

  He moved closer until he was standing above his father’s head, even as Oliver struggled to identify the shadowy figure that hovered over him. Then Simon grabbed his father’s right arm and removed his mask with his left hand, inches away from Oliver’s eyes.

  His father quivered in pain as he squinted, trying to identify Simon. I must be dying, Oliver thought as he saw that wonderful, familiar face just inches away. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine that the strong grip on his shoulder was actually Simon’s-his son’s. His son.

  Simon searched for the words, lost in a world of emotion. “Father, it’s me,” he said softly.

  Just the sound of that unmistakable voice changed the old, broken man. Oliver felt as if he had been injected with a calming serum-a high dose of morphine that instantly took his pain away.

  He forced his eyelids open. “It’s impossible,” he whispered. “It can’t be. I’m hallucinating.”

  “Dad it’s me. I’m here. It’s me.” Simon told him. Then he felt his father’s body tremble.

  “Simon?” he asked, shaking. “Is that you?”

  The words cut through Simon as he remembered the voice of his father calling out his name a thousand times as a child. They locked eyes for a brief moment. Oliver wept as his only son held his frail body.

  * * *

  Nastasia had brought two explosive devices with her to Antarctica. She had assembled one on the Spector and left it there; she assembled and left the other in the scientist’s encampment. And they both had been set to explode at the same, special moment.

  But Hayden was over a mile from either one when he pulled himself to a halt, confused and frustrated.

  Why haven’t I gotten there already? he asked himself, an equal mixture of annoyance and dread. He looked at the glassy ice and well-traveled permafrost beneath his feet, unaware he was a scant hundred yards from the point where the Spector had sunk into the ice. “Where’s Sam?” he asked the cold, empty air. “Where’s Ryan?” In his disorientation and anger, he had completely forgotten about the communicator strapped to his wrist. Samantha followed relentlessly two miles behind. She was exhausted and confused as she stopped for a moment and contemplated the unthinkable: going back without him.

  Where could he be? she asked herself, nearly breaking. There is nowhere to go! With all the strength she had left in her body, she screamed. “Hayden! Hayden, where are you?” Then she remembered it herself, for the first time. “Damn it,” she said, cursing herself for a fool. She put the watch close to her face, touched the edges as she’d been told to.

  “Hayden!”

  This time, Hayden heard the voice quite clearly, but he had no idea where it was coming from. He stopped instantly and turned back. “Samantha?” he shouted. The pressure from the sound caused excruciating pain in his head. He realized he had not fully recovered.

  Samantha heard him-thin but clear, coming from the wrist communicator. He’s alive, she thought. Alive! With newfound energy, she started running back the way she had come. Just around that bend…

  She had taken no more than ten steps when the timer set off the spot of gunpowder and broke the inhaler’s canister. In a fraction of a second, the gas hit the powder in the disguised protein bags, and the encampment exploded with a deafening sound that almost blew out her eardrums.

  The force of the explosion that followed pushed through the tunnel like a bullet from the barrel of a shotgun. Between one step and the next, Samantha found herself airborne, her body lifted ten feet into the air and thrown against a
n ice wall over fifteen feet away.

  The shock wave threw Hayden to the ground as well, but he was farther away-safer. He was back on his feet, unsteady as before, in mere moments.

  There was nothing left of the encampment. Bodies and equipment, food and clothing, the drones in search of the scientist, even the ice itself had been turned to dust and driven deep into the ancient ice.

  The scientists were dead. The camp was destroyed. And Ryan…

  Samantha pulled herself to her feet, more bruised than before but still alive, still able to move. She looked back in the direction of the explosion and somehow knew where it had come from-what it meant.

  Another friend was dead.

  Ryan…she thought. And then she screamed out loud, “Ryan!”

  THE NEST

  11:32 AM

  Gunshots and the sound of agony echoed in the dark hallway where Simon stood, but he barely heard it. He held his father’s frail and tortured body, thinking of nothing but this moment. He wanted it to last forever. It felt as if time itself had stopped for him; he was lost in his own world, with no regard for his own life.

  The dark interior of the room was lit only by splinters of light reflecting from the dead soldier’s helmet. He felt his father stir feebly in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” Oliver said, struggling to form the words.

  “Please, Father,” Simon whispered. “There is nothing you need to be sorry for.” He tightened his grip around Oliver’s narrow, shaking shoulders, filled with longing and remorse.

  “No,” his father said. “There is much to be sorry for, my son. There is too much I need to explain.” Oliver’s voice was thin as paper.

  “We’ve got to get out of this hell first,” Simon insisted. “I don’t care what it takes, I will take you back home, back to the surface. Then you can explain anything you want to me.”

  “I can’t move, Simon.”

  “Why?” Simon was confused. His father’s body was thin to the point of emaciation, but nothing was broken. There were no obvious signs of injury, just tremendous weakness.

  “I’m paralyzed,” his father rasped. “Too much radioactive exposure.”

  Simon’s heart sank. “Radioactivity? From what?”

  Oliver paused for a moment, gathering what little breath he could find. “I’m sorry, Simon,” he said again quietly. Then he coughed shallowly and swallowed hard before he continued. “I haven’t been honest with you all my life.”

  Simon pulled back, locking eyes with his father. “But-”

  “You don’t have much time. You need to listen to me carefully.” His hand stirred, but he couldn’t lift it to communicate the true importance of every whispered word. “Simon,” he grated, “first you need to get to the surface; if you have gotten that far you will be rescued.” He cleared his throat and struggled for the strength, just to express himself with a few more words. “Once you are rescued you need to hurry-you need to find-”

  The sound of gunshots was just outside-far too close-and it startled both men. Simon slipped into the doorway just in time to see soldiers running toward them; the sound of their footsteps echoed through the hallway, growing louder and louder.

  I have no weapons, Simon thought. Then he remembered the soldier lying on the ground. He turned the man over with a quick snap and found the holster strapped to the dead man’s side.

  Simon started to feel the vibration of the men running toward him. They were just outside the room. Several men, he told himself.

  He gripped the gun in the soldier’s holster and pulled it free with all his strength. He had no time to detach the buckle; the strap on the holster ripped from the force and suddenly Simon was holding the gun in his shaking hand.

  Three men, he realized. They were only seconds from Oliver’s cell. Have to think fast.

  He slammed the door shut, barely missing the soldier’s head where it lay twisted on the floor. That’s only going to delay them by a few seconds. Where the hell is Max?

  Oliver stirred, struggling to move, to regain the feeling in his limbs. He wanted to help-Simon could see that-but the effort was futile. Simon bent to push the soldier’s lifeless body closer to the cell door, leaning it like a doorstop against the aluminum in a vain attempt to delay the soldiers, if only for an instant longer.

  The soldiers were right outside the door. He was trapped, trapped like a-

  The ceiling, he thought in a sudden, jarring inspiration. Without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped up, high as he could, and grabbed the metal bars over his head, trying to push his body through.

  The soldiers were pounding on the door, and the sound of it sent a chill through Simon. The thin walls of the cell’s modular structure trembled and bowed under their blows.

  Oliver watched his son pull himself into hiding with a deep sense of desperation. I have so little time, he thought, too weak to speak. I won’t live long enough to tell him…tell him everything…

  The power outage had provided the precious few seconds that Simon needed. Once shut, and with the electric motors disconnected, the door could not be opened from the outside, and as the guards shouted and cursed, he used every ounce of his strength to pull himself high up into to the lattice work, holding himself tight against the ceiling itself. He spotted pinpoints of light reflected from the soldiers’ helmets into the darkness of the grid work, over their heads and directly on the other side of the wall. He only had to move slowly, silently to the right and over the wall.

  Eight more inches and he was above them. He looked straight down and watched the three soldiers as they pounded relentlessly at the door to the cell.

  He heard the chatter of automatic gunfire off in the distance, too many shots to count. Fifty, a hundred-he simply couldn’t tell. Something is happening to Max, he thought, and suddenly he was overcome by an unfamiliar strength, outraged by the torture of his father, driven by the will to survive.

  He held the gun in front of him as tightly as he could, both arms extended, pointing straight down. He gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger, and the sound almost shattered his eardrum.

  One of the soldiers flew away from the others and slammed against the wall opposite the door. The shot entered through the man’s collarbone and exited through his stomach; blood splattered on all three of them from the force of the exploding bullet.

  For a few brief seconds, panic rose inside him, filled his mind. It was almost a state of delirium. Too fast, he thought. There was no time to ponder what he had done. And it had been so easy, so-

  No, he told himself. It’s too horrible to think about. But something had changed in him-changed who he was. He didn’t feel like a calm and comfortable scientist from Oxford. He didn’t feel angry or afraid.

  He felt no remorse.

  The two other soldiers had no clue what had struck their companion. Simon didn’t waste time; he didn’t hesitate. He fired again, and the second bullet hit the next soldier the instant Simon pulled the trigger. The helmeted man fell instantly to his knees as the third soldier, panicking, started firing frantically in all directions. The automatic rifle exploded in a barrage of bullets that lit up the hallway and filled it with a deafening sound. Wild shots hit all four walls, pounded into the floor-and pierced the ceiling.

  Simon pulled back desperately, as fast as he could. He felt an ice-cold shock in his right shoulder as one of the bullets cut through his deltoid, and pain turned from ice to fire in a heartbeat. He bit off a groan, pushed himself back to the right, away from the gunfire. In mere seconds his arm failed him, and he lost his grip, falling heavily, slamming to the floor of the cell hard enough to knock the last of the air out of him.

  The sound of gunfire outside the room intensified as the frenzied soldier shot aimlessly, fearing for his life. Several of the bullets penetrated the door and the wall around it, cutting through the room, barely missing Oliver and Simon.

  And then it stopped. Suddenly. Completely. Silence assaulted them, somehow more solid and more terrifyin
g than the gunfire had been.

  Simon, still on the ground, gripped his throbbing shoulder and felt the blood well up between his fingers. He looked up at his father and saw the horror on the old man’s face.

  His son was right in front of him, lying on the floor, obviously in pain, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Simon,” he whispered, deathly afraid that whoever was outside could hear him.

  “I’m all right,” Simon said under his breath, struggling to fight the pain. He forced himself to stand, still half-blinded by pain, and tried to make a casual, comforting gesture to Oliver, using only his left hand. I’m fine, he wanted to tell him. Don’t worry. But he knew it was useless.

  He stood there for a moment feeling his arm shake, trying to control the adrenaline that surged through his body. Neither man spoke. There was a moment of silence that stretched on endlessly, though he knew it could have been no more than a few seconds.

  “Simon,” Oliver said, weak but clear. “You need to get out of here. You are in grave danger and there is no time. Leave me. Esca-”

  Simon cut him off with an angry, awkward, one-armed gesture. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t risk my life, I didn’t come halfway around the world just to leave you in this hell.”

  “You must,” Oliver said.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m in no condition to leave. I will not make it.”

  “I don’t care! You’re coming with me.”

  Amazingly, Oliver’s tone grew stronger, more certain. “Listen to me, Simon,” he said. Simon had heard that tone many times before as a child, but it didn’t have the same effect on him now. He was a man-a desperate, weary man, a man in pain-and the power of his father’s commanding voice did not sway him. He watched Oliver’s shadowy form, a shadow against a shadow, visible only from the meek light that reflected through the ceiling.