Fireworks

by James A. Moore

  "Hi, guys." Now and then it was fun to leave a really righteous skid-mark, but it was always even more fun when you could scare a few people along the way. "How's things?"

  Mike just shook his head and grinned. Nothing ever fazed Mike. The two of them had a long rivalry to see who could be the most outrageous in their escapades. Much to Marty's chagrin, Mike still had him beat in their unofficial competition.

  Tom just stared at him, slack-jawed, as he always did when either of them pulled one of their stunts. Tom was pretty much in awe of both of the daredevils, but at least he was willing to play along from time to time. Andy, on the other hand, looked a little green around the gills and would surely complain about the whole scene when his blood pressure lowered itself down to the normal range. Andy wanted a world that was calm and serene. Marty often thought Andy was never really meant to be a youngster, but rather should have come out of the womb as a middle-aged man.

  Mike nodded his hello and ground out the cigarette butt under his Reebok. Tom was far more enthusiastic in his greeting. "Man! That was bitchin'! Geez, I wish I could do that, you musta slid a good fifteen feet! Hey, how are ya, Marty?"

  Andy just gasped like a fish out of water, reaching for his asthma inhaler and waving with his free hand. Andy didn't really have asthma, but he was allergic to damn near everything under the sun, and the only way he could do anything strenuous was to have his medication. Marty guessed that was a lot of the reason that he was always so pissy about everything; it was hard to be happy when you were allergic to every pollen and mold on the planet, especially when you lived in the south, and probably suffered from the allergies at least nine months out of the year. Marty watched Andy inhale the chemical mist that aided his breathing with the same fascination he always had. Even after being friends for the last seven years, Marty couldn't get over the sound of those chemicals going into Andy's chest. Andy sounded just like Darth Vader when he did that, and Marty tended to think of the wet, hissing noise as somehow sinister. It was like watching his friend inhale demons.

  The sun beat down on their heads, as the four young men turned and walked their bikes over to the bike racks not far from the picnic areas. The racks were placed out of sight, in the shade between two oak trees draped with Spanish moss, reinforcing the illusion that very little had changed in the area over the last hundred years. They had the bikes chained in place-it was summertime, and too many tourists came into the area for anyone to really trust that their possessions would remain unharmed like they did in the winter-and their street clothes shed before they reached the shore on the other side of the grassy knoll.

  The water was just cool enough to be refreshing instead of downright cold, the benefit of a few days of nothing but sunshine. Marty always loved the little undercurrents in the lake, though; the ones that carried waves of deeper water, water that was much colder than at the surface, upwards, shooting goose-pimple chills across his body when they touched him. The rest of the day was his, at least the remaining hours until dinner. His family ate later than most, normally around 7:30, so he still had plenty of time to enjoy the lake and the company of his friends.

  That would change soon enough, sooner than Marty knew. It was 4:02 p.m., and Collier was only thirty hours away from changing forever.

  4

  Durango Military Installation

  Sector 17, Arizona

  July Fourth

  Colonel Mark Anderson was not a happy man. The last four days had been spent either in his apartment, when he could escape from the pressures in the command center, or in his office. The majority of that time was spent in communication with various people he only knew by codenames. In less than three hours all of the years spent preparing for Project: Onyx would either bear fruit, or prove to a large number of critics that the money could have been better spent elsewhere. Thirty-seven years worth of funding and training, well over one billion dollars in funding siphoned away from every possible section of the United States government and the last twelve years of his life would either be a minor investment with much more to come, or would prove once and for all that the U.S. was pursuing a pipe dream. Anderson had a headache the size of Texas, and no amount of aspirin seemed capable of mending the problem.

  Anderson ran a hand through his silvering crewcut hair and tried to will his headache away. The pounding in his skull had grown harsher over the last few hours, and he was beginning to wonder if he would ever get rid of the vise-grip that had forced itself over his temples and mercilessly constricted. The tension was understandable enough. He was at the threshold of greatness, and the next few days would make all the difference in the world. There was no doubt in his mind that failure in his task would lead to his being buried alive by the people who knew what Project: Onyx was all about, and there would be absolutely nothing that he could do about the situation. Even thinking about the circumstances on a conscious level was enough to start his stomach acid rebelling, start his body breaking into a cold sweat, the sort that positively stinks of fear. Everyone in Sector 17 was suffering from the same symptoms. Everyone knew what was on the line.

  But, in all honesty, they didn't know the possible repercussions as well as he did.

  When his phone rang the noise made him jump in his seat, a luxury he only allowed when he was alone, much like the thick sweat that built on his brow. No sign of weakness was ever allowed in front of the troops, but here, in his office and alone, he could permit the reaction. He let the shrill buzzer drive spikes into his skull for another three rings before he finally answered the phone.

  "Anderson."

  "Mark, it's Steve. We have a problem."

  "Talk to me." Major Steve Hawthorne was not a man to mince words. While they were often together in easier times, when it came to business Steve had no time for anything but the task at hand. That was the primary reason he'd managed to remain Mark Anderson's second in command for the last ten years.

  "The Target is already here, three days ahead of schedule."

  "What? You've got to be kidding me! We've been tracking the damned thing for two weeks! It can't be here already!" Colonel Anderson felt his stomach turn to ice for a moment, and then melt into a burning pool of lead. No one was fully prepared. The stations were all manned, but the orders had not yet been sent out to the numerous bases that they should ignore any bogeys coming their way. "This is bullshit, Steve. Absolute bullshit!"

  "Yes, sir, it is. But there's nothing to be done about it. The target is here and it's moving fast. If we want to net this bitch it's going to have to be now." For the first time in their long association, Anderson heard a note of panic in Steve Hawthorne's voice. The cold, efficient baritone he'd grown to depend on was shaking, ever so faintly, but shaking just the same.

  "Get it done. Screw the countdown and get it started. Send the message to all concerned bases and list it Priority Black One. If any news of this leaks I want the heads of whoever is responsible. Is that clear, Major?" Now that the worst was starting to happen, Anderson felt a flood of calm moving through his body. His headache faded instantly, followed by the burning in his stomach. He felt alive, invigorated and ready for action.

  "Sir, yes, sir." With the harsh tones from Anderson, Hawthorne's voice grew calmer, steadier. Anderson understood why: the burden was no longer his alone.

  "I'll be in Ops in three minutes. Brief me when I get there." Anderson slammed the phone into its cradle, grabbing his jacket at the same time. The corridors were empty of any other soul, and the only sounds were the muted buzz of the station's alarm and the sharp, measured slaps of his shoes striking the concrete floor beneath his feet. But in his mind, the sounds were much louder. They were the sounds of gunfire and fiery explosions. Deep inside, below the calm that surrounded him, Anderson was already running through every possible scenario for how this day would finish.

  It was the Fourth of July. Colonel Anderson, commander of one of the best-hidden government agencies in the United States of America, had no doubt that the fire
works were about to start.

  5

  Collier, Georgia

  July Fourth

  Bobby Carlson was once again floating on Oldman's Lake, his rowboat bobbing gently in time with the waves. The sky above Collier was clear and beautiful, a perfect night for a fireworks display. Bobby rechecked the connections leading from his fuses to the fireworks, fearful the water might have somehow ruined the water proof thermite strings. His fears were unfounded, just as they were every year.

  Artie waved with his flashlight to indicate that all was well on the far side of the lake, and Bobby flashed his own light three times to indicate the same. Artie was a good boy, better than most, but the spirits got to him now and then and he found himself in trouble with the law whenever he sucked down a little too much Jack Daniel's. Artie's fondness for the bottle would be the end of him yet, at least as far as Bobby was concerned. The good news was that Artie had managed to stay sober this year. That was almost a first for the man; he always drank himself into a stupor at any given chance. Obviously, he'd taken Bobby's threat to find a new assistant seriously.

  Bobby looked towards the shore, saw the numerous families situated on the sand of the artificial beach and planted in the picnic area on the grassy hill and smiled, "Best turnout ever, no doubt about it." The Coca-Cola stand had a long line of people waiting to get drinks and overpriced hotdogs. That was always a good sign. Several kids who should have known better at their age were sneaking around and throwing firecrackers of their own. He couldn't blame them. That was what the Fourth of July was all about. Emily O'Rourke was standing on the shore, resplendent in a long dress that showed off her figure. Too fine for a woman in the last year of her fifth decade, but she still managed to carry herself like a much younger woman. Her husband, the pastor of the Lutheran Church on Maple Avenue, was standing with his arm around her waist and looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. Had every right to feel that way, too. Emily was a fine catch, faithful, hardworking and still beautiful. She'd even managed to turn Bobby's head a few times, and that was no easy feat. He looked briefly over at Artie, keeping his face calm and knowing that his nephew was thinking dirty thoughts about Emily, just as he had since the first time he'd seen her. Twenty years separated his nephew and the pastor's wife, but the young fool still pined away for her. Bobby knew, because he'd heard his sister's son calling Emily's name in a drunken stupor on several occasions.

  As far as he could see, there were people gathered and waiting with fading patience for his time to shine, his little moment of glory for the year. His show; the fireworks display. Bobby made them wait a little longer, knowing full well that the anticipation always made the end results even sweeter.

  He flashed his light five times, the signal to Artie that it was time to start lighting fuses, and lit a Camel cigarette with his sterling silver lighter. The lighter bore the faint reminders of his time in the Second World War: a scarred, faded insignia of the battalion he'd been with when Normandy's beaches were stormed. The lighter was an old and familiar friend, and really the only one left around that remembered the war as well as he did.

  The Camel was in turn used to light the fuses. A brilliant spark danced and spit at the end of the long fuse that started the show for the people on the shore; Bobby Carlson smiled, proud, as always, to be an American.

  6

  Durango Military Installation,

  Sector 17, Arizona

  July Fourth

  The Operations Center was filled with nervous people, all of them watching the same screen. A satellite set in orbit twelve years earlier beamed a direct, tight signal to the base, and everyone there watched the information that the Onyx V offered up. The grid squared laid out over the computer image of the United States were small, covering only one hundred square miles each. In one section, directly over a substantial stretch of desert inhabited only by animals and plants, the squares were enlarged, literally dwarfing the rest of the map. A tight V formation of jets moved slowly across the digital map in close pursuit of a single object that dwarfed them all.

  Colonel Mark Anderson watched the symbols move, and felt in his bones that something was wrong. The fucking bogey was toying with them.

  Onyx V had spotted the craft four weeks ago, literally remaining stationary in the shadow of the moon. For four weeks, Anderson and his crew watched the disc-shaped object, trying to make out details on something that simply should not have existed. Four days ago, the damned thing had moved. One second it was where it had been all along, and the next it was slipping out of the range of Onyx's sensors. Four days ago, Onyx had once again spotted the shape, this time on the other side of the moon, moving very slowly and all but drifting in space. Computers that would have shamed any mainframe on the market carefully calculated its every move, calibrating and readjusting estimates faster than even the creators of the Onyx V and its base computer could have imagined.

  Anderson knew where the little circle was going before whatever might be piloting the thing knew where it was going. As a test once, Anderson had ordered the satellite's human operators to aim at New York City with the array of sensitive equipment. He'd decided to see what Onyx could really do. Onyx transmitted pictures back to the station that were beyond belief. From a distance twice again as far away as the moon, the satellite successfully transmitted photos of a cafe during lunch hour. The images were clear enough to allow identification of virtually every item on the diners' plates, and precise enough to allow an accurate count of the number of hairs on each of their heads. Anderson was surprised by the clarity, but he shouldn't have been. He'd seen the craft the sensor designs had come from, and he had no doubt that the originals had done an even better job.

  Anderson focused his thoughts back on the task at hand, scolding himself for letting his mind wander. Not much had changed on the giant screen, the ship was still moving smoothly across the screen, with a series of arrows following close behind. The only difference was that the enlarged squares had changed, indicating a different section of the continent, east of where it had been seconds before. Again he suffered that flash of dread, that burning, falling sensation in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know yet what would go wrong, but he knew with a dreadful, sick certainty that all hell was about to break loose.

  ***

  Transcript of Radio Transmission

  Sector 17 and Onyx V flight wing

  07-04-95 21:43 Hours Eastern Standard Time

  Extremely confidential

  Onyx: Black Leader, this is Onyx One. Is Target Black in sight?

  Black Leader: That's affirmative, Onyx. Jesus, what a sight. I never imagined it would be so big.

  Onyx: Orders are as follows: Pursue Target Black for observation purposes. Do not, I repeat, do not attack unless there is no other course of action available, do you copy?

  Black Leader: Affirmative, Onyx.

  Onyx: Additional orders are as follows: Black Wing is to maintain radio silence with all bases, military and otherwise, with the exception of Onyx One. Do you copy?

  Black Leader: Affirmative, Onyx. Wait a minute, something… Sweet Jesus! Did you see that? Sonuvabitch! Uh, Onyx. Target Black has just accelerated, moving away from us like we were standing still. Orders?

  Onyx: Pursue to the best of your ability. Do not let Target Black out of your sight.

  Black Leader: Affirmative.

  Onyx: Black Leader, this is Colonel Mark Anderson. If Black Target proves impossible to follow, you are to bring the target down, do you copy? Repeat, you are authorized to splash the target, weapons free if you are unable to pursue.

  Black Leader: Affirmative, Colonel. Uh, sir?

  Onyx: What is it, Captain?

  Black Leader: Sir, I don't know if that's possible, sir. This thing is huge.

  7

  Anderson watched the map, knowing without a doubt that there was just no way for the Black Wing Squadron to match pace with the target. The damned thing was moving away from the jets at speeds that just shouldn'
t have been possible. Whatever was propelling the bogey was far beyond anything that the U.S. had, even with the projects they didn't want to mention. He'd never seen anything cross the map at speeds anywhere near what Target Black was reaching, nothing except a few missiles, at any rate.

  Without warning, even as he was preparing to issue the command to fire missiles, Anderson saw the disc symbol on the large screen connected to Onyx V veer sharply to the south. He felt his stomach do a few fast spins on an imaginary axis as the shape literally flickered across the Southern states, moving at speeds that were damned impossible. As far as he knew any craft moving anywhere near that speed would leave a friction trail of epic proportions. He cringed inwardly as the disk suddenly veered again, moving with amazing precision. The enlarged squares of the map grid were now separated by most of the southeastern states; Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama all blurred past, a kaleidoscopic flash of grid squares blasting to increased magnification and then dropping to their original size at a pace that the naked eye could not hope to match.

  Over Georgia, the disk ripped across the sky and then disappeared, dropping from sight and leaving a confused computer system unsure what to do about the enlarged map section. After a second the grid square vanished and took with it all of Mark Anderson's hopes for a quick retrieval. Twenty-five years of military training had become instinct somewhere along the way; he barked orders to scramble the retrieval team in Florida and the one north of Atlanta while his mind still refused to consciously acknowledge what had happened seconds before.