by E. R. Torre
One of the guards laid his automatic on his lap. He cracked his knuckles and stifled a yawn. It was difficult to stay awake. Then, something caught his attention.
“Did you see that?” he said.
The other guard scanned the long corridor and the crates before him.
“See what?”
“Right here,” the first guard said. He pointed to the indicator light on Joshua Landon’s crate.
“What did you see?”
“The light. It turned red.”
“It’s green.”
“It’s green now,” the first guard said. “It turned red for a second.”
“A second?”
“Yeah. Just a second.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
The first guard drew his weapon and aimed it at the crate. The second guard quietly walked to its side. He too drew his weapon and aimed it at the crate’s occupant. He then looked closely at the computer readout outside the small cell. All lights were green and the computer display stated all locks were engaged.
“Everything checks,” the guard said. He looked inside the metal crate but saw only shadows. There was no sign of Joshua Landon. He could not even see the lights on his shock collar. This didn’t alarm him. The lights on the collar were very small. Depending on how the prisoner was sitting, the lights might be hidden behind his body.
Then again…
“Step away from the door,” the guard said.
Somewhere in that darkness was Joshua Landon. The guard raised his weapon higher. He wanted to make sure the prisoner saw what he was carrying.
The guard reached for the crate’s outer handle. He grasped it. His intention was to pull at it, to make sure it was locked, just as the computer displays said it was.
But when he pulled, the door swung open…
9
Warden Manning dropped the microphone and returned to the monitor on Elizabeth’s desk. Chief Supervisor Rupert remained on that screen. There was a line of perspiration forming on his head.
“I’m not getting them,” Manning said. All attempts to reach the prisoner transportation craft so far proved unsuccessful. “How about you?”
Chief Supervisor Rupert looked to his right, at his secretary. A shadow fell over his face.
“We’re not getting anything either,” he said. “We’re not even getting their global position marker. It’s like the Desertland sands have swallowed them whole.”
“How is that possible?”
“Could be equipment malfunction, but I doubt it. There are too many redundancies. Then again, my job is to run prisons. I’m not a technician.”
For a second Chief Supervisor Rupert was silent. His eyes were cast down. He bit his upper lip and wiped the sweat away.
“This whole thing smells. It has to be about Joshua Landon. It has to be. The man was a military prisoner. I think it’s time to get them involved.”
The South West Military Base was the largest base in the Big City and one of the largest military bases left in the civilized world. Many in the business world correctly viewed it as a relic of the old world Government and therefore incorrectly felt it outlived its usefulness. The military remained one of the last public services still drawing public funds, sparse though they were and from what little remained of the old Government. These days, Government funded militaries were often supplanted with private mercenaries or Independents. These organizations had better equipment, better housing, and higher salaries. Unfortunately, like all big business, these outfits focused on profit and their loyalty was therefore suspect.
It was because of this the Government funded military still existed.
In the communications room in a building adjacent to the base’s airstrip, Communications Officer Julie Bishop sat with her arms folded over her chest and her well-worn baseball cap pulled over her eyes. Her breathing was deep and she felt the heavy pull of sleep.
She fought it off, letting out a mighty yawn while simultaneously sitting straight up in her chair. Her new position was very uncomfortable but necessary. It would help keep her awake. At this late hour, she was the only person on staff in the Comm Room. Her relief was due to arrive soon, though not nearly soon enough.
She smiled.
The last hour is always the worst.
She tapped her fingers against the desk and eyed the monitor to her side. There were no messages sent to the base in the past couple of hours and she didn’t expect any, either. The base was in limbo time. Unless, of course, there was an emergency.
When the message appeared on her monitor, the communications officer thought it was a joke. After she read the message, every inch of the weariness in her face dissolved. She reached for a phone and dialed a number.
“This is Comm Officer Bishop,” she said.
“What can I do for you, Bishop?” came her reply.
“We’ve got a potential prison break at Segmore,” she said.
“Segmore? Like in the prison?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry Officer Bishop. It’s late and I’m not thinking as clearly as I should. Exactly why should we care about this?”
“One of the escapees is listed as a military subject. He’s an Arabian War Vet. Class A13.”
There was a pause.
“You said A13?”
“Yes sir.”
Another pause.
“I’ll tell the General.”
“Better make it quick.”
The line went dead. Officer Bishop slumped back in her chair. She no longer had to worry about staying awake.
There was no way she’d get any sleep tonight.
A group of twelve soldiers carrying backpacks, duffel bags, and enough weapons to start a small revolution hurried to the waiting helicopter. The chopper’s blades were slowly rotating as the vehicle’s engine warmed up. The soldiers entered the chopper and stowed away their backpacks and duffel bags. Their focus then shifted to their weapons.
The last soldier to enter the craft, Sergeant Lionel Delmont, was the senior officer of the group. He was a giant of a man who stood over six feet five inches and was covered in muscle. The look on his face was grim. He put on his headphones and heard the voice of one of the helicopter’s pilots come through.
“Are we ready to leave?”
“Not yet,” Sgt. Delmont said. “We’ve got one more passenger.”
The helicopter pilots eyed each other and shrugged.
Hurry up and wait. Typical.
“Sgt. Delmont,” the other pilot said. “Should we power down?”
“No,” Delmont said. “He’ll be here in a moment.”
“Who we getting? A higher up?”
“Yes.”
“A Lieutenant? A Captain?”
“We’re waiting for the General.”
“The General?”
“Yes.”
“He’s coming with us?”
“Sir, I heard we were dealing with a prison break,” the other pilot said. “Why would the General care about that?”
“He does. That’s all that matters.”
“Who escaped? Genghis Khan?”
The Sergeant didn’t say.
“Come on, Delmont. You can tell us.”
Sergeant Delmont leaned forward in his chair. Weary eyes settled on the pilots.
“We’ll find out what’s going on the moment the General decides it’s time for us to know. Meanwhile, we keep our mouths shut and prepare for the mission. Right?”
The pilots nodded and Sgt. Delmont snapped his transmitter off. His eyes wandered to the tarmac. There, at the far end, he spotted movement.
A large military vehicle made its way to the edge of the landing pad and came to a stop some fifty feet from the helicopter. From within the vehicle stepped a slender, tall man dressed in battle fatigues. His face was hidden in the shadows, but each and every one of the soldiers within the helicopter recognized him. Their postures stiffened. They saluted the man as
when entered the helicopter.
The General carried only one thing, a computer pad, and calmly surveyed his team. His battle fatigues were crisp, his body rigid. The right side of his face was heavily scarred. The scarring continued down the side of his neck. His right arm bore similar signs of trauma and was also scarred and noticeably paler than his other arm. His right eye was covered with a black patch. His left eye, his only eye, was on the soldiers.
Sergeant Delmont stood and motioned for the General to sit in the seat closest to that of the pilots.
“We’re ready to go, General.”
The man in the fatigues nodded.
“Thank you Sergeant,” he said.
The General moved past the soldiers toward the indicated seat. He sat down and buckled himself in before putting on his headphones.
“Orders sir?” Sergeant Delmont inquired.
“We are to follow the Desertland road to Segmore,” the General said. “As I’m sure you know by now, there was a prison break.”
“We heard,” Sgt. Delmont said. He couldn’t quite keep his eyes from the pilots. “I’m to assume this was no ordinary prison break?”
“At this moment, intel is sketchy,” the General said. He pressed the computer pad’s screen. “I’m uploading the information on the prison transport and all people on it to your personal computers.”
The soldiers in the helicopter had computer pads similar to the one the General carried. They scanned the information that appeared on their pads. It was about the prison transport and the people on board. The General pressed a finger on his pad’s monitor. The image of Joshua Landon filled the screen. The General held his computer pad out so the soldiers within the helicopter could see it.
“Study this face,” the General said. “When we find the prison transport, and we will find the transport, you are to look especially hard for this man. As you can see, he sports a noticeable facial tattoo, three rectangular blue bars over his right eye. This gentleman is classified as an A13.”
The faces of the soldiers within the craft turned grim.
A13. Subject categorized as extremely dangerous. Has committed barbarous acts in the past and is likely to do so again if given the opportunity.
This designation was never given lightly. The General let the information sink in for a few seconds before adding:
“If you see this man, don't talk to him because he won't listen. Don't try to reason with him because he'll use that time to take you out. And pray to your Gods you don't come as close to him as we are to each other, because by then it will be too late.”
“Sir?” one of the soldiers said.
“Yes?”
“What should we do if we encounter this individual?”
“Fire on sight.”
The General eyed each of his soldiers.
“Am I understood?” he said.
“Yes sir,” the soldiers yelled back.
The General nodded. He motioned to the pilots to proceed with the take-off. No other conversation was needed.
No one dared question General Paul Spradlin’s orders.
10
The lights of the Big City receded as the helicopter flew deeper into the Desertlands. By air the trip between the City and the prison was relatively brief. The question was how long it would take to find the transport truck.
The pilots followed the faded desert road leading to Segmore Prison. Thermal readings and infrared monitors within the helicopter surveyed the terrain below. Somewhere between here and there was the missing prison transport truck and its crew and cargo. All they had to do was find it.
General Spradlin stared at his computer pad’s display. The picture of Joshua Landon was recent, only a few months old. The prisoner had aged since being imprisoned all those years before. The General swiped at the screen and the picture disappeared. Lines of information filled the screen. It was the complete details of the Landon’s bogus transfer’s order.
General Spradlin shook his head and scowled.
Segmore Prison was given very explicit orders regarding Joshua Landon. He was not to be released or transferred without very, very high level decrees. Somehow someone managed to do the near impossible: Not only plausibly falsify a transfer order, but also provide the proper key codes and, most remarkably, disable all communications across cell lines, land lines, and the Global Computer Network so that personal verification of these orders could not be made. While the escape required incredible hacking skills, it was this final element, disabling communications between Segmore and the Big City, which troubled General Spradlin the most. This element alone required skills that were almost…supernatural.
General Spradlin considered who had such skills.
He quickly narrowed down the possibilities until he was left with only one. He tried to argue against it, but there was no argument to be made. He reluctantly accepted his conclusions and the very dark implications from them.
He stared at the computer pad. This device carried priceless information gained over years of hard work and struggle. As a tool its value was incalculable. General Spradlin always carried it with him and even considered it as important as one of his own limbs.
Yet at this moment General Spradlin fought hard against the urge to throw the device out of the helicopter’s window.
Instead, Spradlin shut the computer pad down. His eyes scanned the soldiers around him and noted the tablets they carried.
How many are there on this helicopter? he wondered.
Their tablets, like his, were connected to the Global Computer Network. Almost every piece of electronic equipment, including many of controls within the helicopter itself, was also connected to the GCN.
Looking at the bigger picture, the Big City and all the remaining Big Cities of the world were connected to the GCN.
General Spradlin fought back a chill. If what he suspected was true, nothing was safe anymore. Things were about to change. Drastically.
Very drastically.
He forced those thoughts to drift.
For now, he had to find and neutralize Joshua Landon.
Nearly one hour later Sgt. Delmont spoke over the General’s headphones.
“General Spradlin?”
“Yes?”
“Port window.”
General Spradlin leaned back in his seat and stared out the window. A large cloud of black smoke rose from the ground west of the helicopter’s position. From this angle, it almost covered the full moon.
“Bring us in,” General Spradlin said.
The helicopter sped toward the source of the smoke. When it arrived, all eyes were focused on the ground.
“There she is,” the pilot said.
The helicopter swooped in and hovered over the wreckage. Powerful floodlights lit up the area around the transport truck, giving those within the craft a clear view of the destruction.
The truck lay on its side off a patch of the desert road. The smoke came from within the vehicle’s cargo hold. Several bodies, all dressed in prison transport officer fatigues, lay around the truck’s remains. The carnage, at least from this distance, appeared complete.
“Bring us down,” General Spradlin ordered.
The helicopter landed a little over a hundred yards from the transport truck. As soon as its landing gear kissed the sandy road, the soldiers within streamed out. Every one of them had their weapons drawn.
They set up a defensive circle around the chopper even though none of the onboard sensors detected living human heat signatures around the wreck.
The last of the passengers out of the helicopter was General Spradlin. He stared at the overturned prison truck and sighed.
“Bad things always happen whenever I take helicopter rides,” he muttered. He faced Sergeant Delmont and said: “We need a secure perimeter around the truck. I want to know if anyone survived the wreck and got away. If they did, I want to know in which direction they went. Leave me five men, including yourself.”
Sergeant Delmont nodded. H
e motioned to the group of officers and ordered a couple to stand guard by the helicopter and the rest to recon the area. The soldiers headed to their designated positions without uttering a word.
Satisfied the outer perimeter was contained, General Spradlin once again addressed Delmont.
“You and the rest of your men grab extinguishers and follow me,” he said.
The group of six remaining soldiers made their way to the transport, jogging quickly and pausing for a few seconds now and again to inspect the corpses littered along the way. Every time they paused, a soldier used his computer pad to photograph the faces of the fallen and scan their hands for fingerprints. He used this data to identify each body.
“What do you have?” Sergeant Delmont asked as they approached the overturned transport vehicle.
“So far, everyone out here was part of the transport crew,” the soldier carrying the pad said. “Sir, each of the bodies has two bullet wounds.”
“One through the head, one through the heart,” General Spradlin said.
The General’s words surprised the soldier for he never appeared close enough to see any of the corpses’ wounds.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“You’ve seen this before?” Sgt. Delmont asked General Spradlin.
“Yes I have.”
“Is this the work of Joshua Landon?”
“It is,” General Spradlin said. He faced the soldier with the computer pad and said: “Take a companion and check the other corpses. Everyone needs to be identified.”
“Yes sir,” the soldier said. He motioned to another of the soldiers and the two headed to the other side of the truck to investigate.
“The rest of you, follow me,” Spradlin said.
General Spradlin, Sergeant Delmont, and the two remaining soldiers approached the back of transport truck. The rear doors were wide open and thick smoke rose from the cargo corridor within.
“Get the fire under control,” General Spradlin said.
Sgt. Delmont and the remaining soldiers placed small, transparent oxygen masks over the lower half of their face and entered the vehicle while General Spradlin waited outside. He heard the sounds of the extinguishers spraying flame. In minutes, the smoke rising from the rear of the transport dissipated until it was gone. Sgt. Delmont reappeared. His face was black with soot.