by S. M. Nolan
“What've you got going now, Ina?” Matthews asked.
“Ah, some civi-lupes, has us building some kind of super-boat for her. She wants to take it to the bottom of the Trench.” He laughed, ushered them into the cafeteria, “I told her good luck!”
Fresh seafood interspersed with heavenly aromas from every type of sustenance imaginable. They fused in one breath and Maggie's mouth flooded. Aarons loosed them to eat, talked with Matthews as they gathered breakfast.
They took a seat at an empty table, Russell and Maggie devoured their meals amid the low murmur of scattered sailors. They returned for a second-helping while Aarons and Matthews exchanged stories and Brown and Davis appeared to eat their fill.
Once satisfied, Aarons cleared the group for take-off. He gave Matthews one last bear-hug, and waved good-bye at their SUV as it headed for the refueled plane.
Maggie lingered just outside the cargo-bay for a final dose of the tropics before being urged up the ramp. She passed a Humvee freshly secured inside, followed the crew to the cockpit. The plane's engines revved up and into a wide, slow turn to come about. Brown eased the throttle up and galloped down the runway.
Maggie gave the island a final look before it sank beneath the clouds then turned away. She headed back to the bunks to find Russell studying a photograph. She sat on a cot across from him, “Ryusaki's tattoo?”
He nodded without answering, eyes transfixed. His mind ran wind-sprints for an answer to the madness around them. He inevitably followed singular thoughts before rounding back on confusion at square-one.
Maggie allowed him a few minutes to decipher his thoughts before speaking with a curious insight, “Its amazing how all of this has come from that. It's terrible mostly… but, it's amazing. All I keep thinking's how nice Ryusaki was. He tipped me so well, was nothing but compliments. I wonder if he knew what would happen. But then why drag me into this?” Russell watched her speak, soothed by her lilting tongue. “He didn't seem to have any ill intentions.”
She sighed, having expended her excess energy. It was moot, she knew; they were here, nothing could change that now. Russell looked sideways to consider her thoughts and keep her speaking, if only for the sake of his ears.
“Maybe he was unaware of them, or didn't think they'd come after someone he'd briefly associated with.”
She gave a small tilt of her head, “Maybe. But somehow I doubt it. He seemed smart enough to know what could happen.”
Russell was unwilling to push the subject for fear of upsetting her. An image flashed of her face after he'd first informed her of Ryusaki's death. She'd been heart-broken. For now it was best to keep things level.
His eyes fell back to the photograph, utterly perplexed that the simplistic symbols might be a key to some unknown, ancient weapon. The idea that the weapon was more ancient than Humanity, and its creators more capable and intelligent, plagued him.
Why build it? She-La's legend said to annihilate Humanity, but something felt off. Why expend the energy to build a weapon and never use it? If it was possible, both morally and technologically, why not begin on a smaller scale with simple defense?
It didn't add up; a puzzle whose pieces were not cut to fit. She-La's legends seemed just that, and legend was synonymous with myth. Russell's thoughts turned more practical; warfare.
Historically speaking, warfare was the greatest herald of new technology. Were it not for German scientists building V2 rockets, space travel and jet propulsion might never have emerged. In like fashion, this weapon certainly fit the part of advancement through warfare, but had supposedly been created at the end of a species' life-cycle.
If a war required a weapon of such power, it reasoned that more may have been built. If so, why protect a single weapon over others? And if only one truly existed, why not destroy it?
Russell drew a blank and his thoughts derailed. His assumptions were wild. Chances were, if more weapons had been created, more would've remained. Omega would already have what they sought.
Their ignorance to the ancient language seemed obvious now. If Omega had known of it from the weapon, they'd have wanted Ryusaki and Miramoto alive.
Maggie shifted on the bed, snapped Russell from his trance. “Well?” His brow furrowed. “I asked what you were thinking.”
“Oh. The weapon. Its purpose. If there are more.”
“What do you think?”
The photograph bobbed in his hand, “Either there's only one weapon and we can destroy it, or there're more and Omega's ignorant of them. If Omega knew of multiple weapons, they would want the ancient language and wouldn't have killed Ryusaki.” He looked over the photo a moment longer, “So either these ten symbols are the information, or there's more information contained within them.”
“Like some kind of cipher?”
“Maybe, but if that's true, why kill two of only three people capable of decoding it?”
“They didn't recognize its significance,” she said, following his lead.
He spurred his analytical mind to action to anticipate Omega's next move. “So the issue becomes why kill the only people who may know the weapon's location when you're looking for the weapon?”
She nodded, “It would be like poking out your own eyes while looking for a needle in a haystack—the size of Earth.” She paused to consider an idea, saw where he was headed, “How could anyone ever hope to find it?”
“Exactly. Neither side has any idea where it is, but why's Omega spending so much energy to catch us?”
Her eyes widened with revelation, “You don't think—”
“We're leading them to the Protectorate. The only reason they engaged us after the blast on that strip was to try and eliminate She-La and maintain the ruse.”
Maggie felt a chill rocket down her spine, “How are we supposed to get away from them?”
Russell leaned back on his elbows, hitting a formidable brick-wall of facts that stopped his deduction in its tracks. A heavy weight in his chest forced out a sigh, “I-I don't know. We just need to move as fast as possible, get to the Protectorate, and tell them to close up shop.”
“There's no way to avoid them?”
“I don't think so,” he admitted with a look to the floor. “The simple truth is, if we want any hope of going home, the weapon has to be destroyed and the strike-force eliminated.”
“But there's no way we can do that,” Maggie said, thinking of their encounter in the alley. “They're too well trained. I've never been through anything like this. I can't guarantee I can hit anything under pressure.”
“We just have to hope we reach Nepal and find the Reverberant before Omega finds us. With or without the Protectorate, we can't let Omega have the weapon, not if it's really as dangerous as She-La believes.”
Maggie suddenly considered, for the first time, the sheer scope of their predicament. The weapon threatened more than they alone, and while Omega was certainly a hurdle, they were less of a threat than their target.
If controlled, anyone could enslave man-kind with the weapon. The Protectorate either didn't understand that, or had no true desire to prevent it. She and Russell were the only two even remotely capable of doing so, however slim their chances. There was no question now what needed to be done, only how they were expected to survive it.
A sharpened knife buried in her chest. She might never see her home or friends again. Sorrow further swallowed her hopes with each breath. She stared in silence, heartbroken that all she had worked for—all that she had been building—now might never see fruition.
She recalled her rush of emotions in the tunnel. Her body slumped but her mind was still. Through sadness, she found the way ahead clearer: survival at all costs to the destruction of the weapon.
She was quiet for a long while, memories playing behind closed eyes. Her mother, father, grandmother. Bristol and Oakton. College. Ashley and Mandy.
Part of her wanted her eyes to run with tears, wash away the memories to block out the pain, but they wouldn't. Ano
ther part felt dead, riddled with guilt from future actions that would kill it in time. Something new felt alive beneath the still growing fire though, deep, incubated by fanned flames.
She opened her eyes to see her warrior women's boots beneath a rolled-up shirt-sleeve, “I guess we're choice-less.”
“We are.”
Maggie eased back onto her bunk. Russell listened to her movements, transfixed on the image in his hand. He half-expected to hear her stir, but silenced dominated the air past the engines. A sharp pain emanated from Maggie, incised Russell's chest. His eyes narrowed against it, steeling him for the battle to come.
14.
Nepal
October 3rd
4:00 AM local time.
Somewhere near the Nepalese-Indian border.
“Russell, wake up,” Maggie urged, standing over him. “Now!”
She shoved him sideways. He rose with a start, clasped the pistol strapped to his leg. Maggie stilled him with a hand on his chest. He edged from beneath the bunk, “What's going on?”
Maggie wrung her hands, “I don't know. The pilots are intercepting a lot of radio traffic.”
She pointed to her ear-piece; Russell fumbled, pressed his in. An assortment of foreign syllables came through a tin-can.
“It doesn't sound Nepalese,” Matthews stressed.
“Bengali?” Davis asked.
“Possible. How far are we between the L-Z and the border?”
“Twenty minutes past Bangladesh. Forty-five to the Chinese,” Davis said.
“That's not Chinese,” Maggie said, her fingers on her throat. Russell cast her a glance. “I took Mandarin in high-school.”
“It's not Nepalese either,” Matthews added.
“It's a Bangladeshi Air Base,” Brown said with rigid certainty. “It has to be.”
“No,” Davis said, edging nearer to hysteria. “We're too far out. Unless—”
“They're patching through a fighter!” Russell said, his eyes fierce.
The tension mounted in the cockpit. A palpable stream of urgency flowed through the comm-link to Maggie and Russell, the two standing ineffectual in the neck of the C-130. The crew broke into a heated argument. Their voices apexed in Maggie and Russell's ears.
“Stop!” Russell bellowed.
“We have to try and contact them,” Matthews said.
“We can't,” Brown said shortly. “This is an un-ID'd military aircraft. We have have no way to verify anything.”
“You're missing the point,” Davis interjected.
“He's right,” Russell said. “If this is Nepalese airspace that fighter shouldn't be here at all.”
“We have to land before they take us out,” Matthews said with urgency. “Davis, find us a clearing. We'll set down in a damned field if we have to.”
A loud tone screamed through the aircraft, echoed over their radios. Maggie's heart pounded.
“Too late. They've got heat!” Davis shouted.
“Get ready to jump!” Brown ordered.
“We can't jump from this altitude,” Matthews ridiculed. “We'll never make it without O-2.”
Maggie's eyes were glazed in confusion at the chaos, “Russell?”
His mind snapped into action, “Ready the counter-measures. Set the plane into a shallow dive. We'll jump before it takes too much damage or stalls out.”
“Right, right,” Brown said, calming himself. “Get your gear. Meet us in the bay, A-SAP.”
“Two bogies on-screen,” Davis cracked.
“Move!” Russell grabbed his duffel bag, threw it over his shoulder.
He grabbed Maggie and passed over her pack, then drug her toward the stairs before she regained her muscles. She sprinted down to the side of the Humvee.
“Chutes?” Russell radioed.
“Back of the truck,” Davis yelled.
He slid down the staircase's railings and into the cargo-hold. He reached the bottom and an explosion rocked the plane. It threw him back onto the steps. Russell caught himself on the edge of the Humvee, grabbed Maggie before she could topple. He forced her up, drug a heavy parachute from the Humvee. He shoved it into Maggie's arms, grabbed for another.
“Put it on. Put your bag in front. Keep it tight.”
He affixed a harness over himself, the parachute at its rear. Maggie followed suit, her shaking hands fumbling with latches. Russell adjusted a few straps, secured a set of plastic goggles over his eyes. A second explosion sent the plane sideways, threw Maggie into the truck. Russell checked her straps, righted her.
“Last of the flares,” Davis said, hurrying past with his chute on. “The next will hit.”
He sprint-hobbled to the rear of the plane, slammed a panel beside the cargo-door with a heavy palm. Hydraulics sounded over rushing wind that whipped through the cargo bay, threatened to pull them out. The pressure equalized with a forceful intrusion of engines that drowned all but the loudest shouts.
The door fell open; distant smoke-trails formed an angelic visage, visible beneath bright moon-light. They drifted through nothingness above a forest surrounded by high-ridged cliffs crawling forward into mountains.
“C'mon!” Russell shouted to Maggie.
Davis urged them to the door. Brown reached it first, hurled himself out. Something impacted its side. The plane gave a terrible metallic shutter. A second wind jerked them backward. Flaming debris fluttered past outside. Maggie squeaked.
“Hull breach!” Matthews yelled.
Davis swore, clinging to a heavy strap beside the door. Two more impacts slammed the plane's side, deafened by a sonic boom from overhead. The debris intensified.
The plane's nose angled steeply toward the ground with a jolt. Matthews was thrown from the door. Terrified, Maggie looked to Russell. He slipped a set of goggles over her eyes, patted her on the shoulder. Davis sprinted past against the rising tail, leapt out.
She hesitated. Russell yelled, “Go!”
On instinct, she took a running leap, immediately overcome by free-fall. Adrenaline flooded her. Wind whipped her body. Strands of hair stabbed her face and neck as honed pins. A sonic boom and heat from an after-burner rippled through her over metallic tearing.
She shuddered in the freezing air, cheeks beaten red from the wind. Russell's Lash crackled, “The gauge… orange and black… needles!”
Her eyes watered beneath the goggles, hands fought for a gauge on her harness. She caught sight of the ground clenched her eyes shut. She took a deep breath, opened them enough to check the gauge.
“I can't see it,” she panted in panic, fighting to press the Lash.
“There's… a light.”
Maggie forced her arm against wind to feel for the switch. She threw it, tried to focus on the gauge. A black needle fell fast, already near a stationary, orange one. She waited for the two to meet. Her tense hands ached from her fingers' grip.
Black slipped over orange. She clenched her eyes shut, yanked a handle near her waist. The chute jerked her body as it whipped open and unfurled.
“Maggie?” Russell radioed, the crackling gone.
“What do I do now?” She squeaked.
“Look down.”
Maggie opened her eyes on the darkness beneath her dangling legs. A massive forest was perched beside a high, mountainous ridge. It spread like a giant horse-shoe to encompass a rear grove and a small clearing. The moonlight, suspended just over the mountain's right peak, reflected off stone and snow glimmering in the distance.
Maggie drifted nearer the ground and Russell radioed, “You see the silhouette?”
She spied a frenzy of movement below, “Is it you?”
“Yes. Take the handles. Steer toward me. Circle if you have to, but stay nearby. When you get close to the ground, pull as far forward as you can and be ready to catch yourself.”
Maggie clenched the handles painfully. She eased herself around, put the mountain and the moon at her left, Russell directly below. The tree-line drew closer.
Russell radioed in
, “If you get caught, don't panic. Stay calm and cut yourself from the harness. There's a knife in a sheath at the side.”
Maggie felt for the knife. The ground approached. Her trajectory was aimed at the tree-line. She angled around, came about. Then, with a tight grip, she strained her muscles to pull as far forward as possible.
Her feet hit dirt with the full force of her weight and her ankles buckled. She yelped, fell to her knees, the chute cascading over her. She groaned, uninjured, but fighting to crawl out.
“I'm on the ground,” Maggie radioed.
She emerged from the chute, struggled to stand and remove the harness. With an irritated growl, she pulled her knife and sawed through the harness. It fell free with a thud and clanging metal. She knelt to remove the knife's sheath, affix it to her vest. With a furious motion, she re-secured her pack and pressed at her throat.
“Russell?”
“Behind you,” he said without the comm.
Maggie turned with a start. He chuckled.
She shoved him backward, “Ass.”
He smiled, “Have fun?” She glared. He offered her a rifle, “Just thought I'd ask.”
Maggie jerked the rifle from his hands, hung it from a shoulder, “Most men want to remain in a woman's good graces. You seem to be doing everything to piss me off.”
He gave a dissenting look, “But it was fun.”
Maggie readied to scold him, but Matthews intoned in their ears, “Davis, you nearby?”
There was a pause before he replied, “Just hit the ground. Everyone accounted for?”
Maggie and Russell acknowledged with a word.
Another pause, this one slightly longer, then Matthews replied, “Brown's dead. Got tangled and couldn't cut himself free fast enough.”
“Shit!”
Maggie looked to Russell with shock. He placed a hand on his throat, “He must have panicked when the chute got caught.”
“Looks like it wrapped around his throat, hanged him,” Matthews said bitterly. “Poor bastard.”
“Where are you?” Davis asked.
“South, I think. Past the clearing. Check the tracker.”
“Everyone stay near your chutes. I'll collect you.”