Across the room, a consensus appeared to have been reached. Eight Escala left for one of the back storage areas. Zod made his way toward Quekri and Doug, while those who would be staying behind stood around the table looking dejected.
“We leave soon,” Zod said.
“Nine of you?” Quekri asked.
“Quark was right.”
“You’re goin’?” Doug said to Zod.
The big man turned to him and nodded.
“I should go in your place,” Doug said. “You got a child comin’, with Zeriphi. And if these Elite Ops are as dangerous as you say, you shouldn’t be out there.”
Zod’s eyebrows rose and a trace of a smile touched his lips. He spoke quietly, almost outside the range of Doug’s hearing: “Devereaux was right.”
Quekri turned to Doug and asked, “Do you want to die like your friends?”
“No,” Doug answered. “What makes you think I will? I survived the streets. Drugs. Prison. I think I can help fight for Devereaux’s freedom.”
Quekri slowly shook her head. “No normal human can beat the Elite Ops. Those Army folks out there,” Quekri waved her hand to indicate them, “are nothing compared to the Elite Ops. We’re the only ones who stand a chance.”
Zod looked at Quekri with a frown, as if something she’d said puzzled him greatly. For a moment, he and Quekri stared at each other, communicating silently. Then Zod turned to Doug and extended his hand. When Doug took it, the big man carefully increased the pressure until Doug winced in pain. “Doug,” he said, “I remember you.”
What an odd thing to say, Doug thought. “Me too,” he replied.
Then Zod loosened his grip, all the while looking Doug in the eye, as if saying goodbye to a fellow inmate just released, knowing he would never see that man again.
Doug stood with Quekri while the team prepared to leave. The fifty who would remain behind waited by the table. Temala, Doug noted, would be staying behind as well. She’d already been out on a mission, so he would have thought she’d be picked to go, and he’d seen her hand shoot up just like the others, but Zod had obviously decided against taking her. Perhaps she wasn’t very bright. Her dark face seemed more animalistic than ever. Yet she appeared calm enough. They all did: calm and somber. No one spoke, no one moved—not even the teenagers. It was amazing how quiet fifty people could be. It felt like a funeral.
When Zod and his team entered the room, dressed in camouflage suits, wearing weapons and smiles, a cry went up—fifty people roaring their approval. Zeriphi, Probst and Keelar emerged from the infirmary and joined them. People hugged one another. A few small items changed hands. A woman Doug hadn’t met—one of those who would be leaving—gave a ring to Dunadan, the big red-haired Escala who had seemed so close to Temala. Glancing over at Temala, Doug decided she hadn’t noticed, for she was talking with another Escala. Dunadan pocketed the ring, then stood with Shull and Warrow.
As those Escala nearest the stairs began to ascend, voices rang out:
“Garrad. I remember you.”
“Nall. I remember you.”
“Vona. I remember you.”
So this was how the Escala said goodbye.
The goodbyes went on for minutes, each person promising to remember one or more companions, until all the team members but Zod were on the stairs. No one looked sad. Yet if what they’d told Doug of the Elite Ops was true, this had to be mere bravado.
Zod stopped before Zeriphi, caressed her cheek with his massive hand. Then he leaned into her and they touched foreheads for a long moment. He said, “Zeriphi. I remember you.” She replied, “Zod. I remember you.” When he pulled away, straightening up, he nodded once and took the steps two at a time, disappearing into the darkness. Gradually the noise in the room died away until all that could be heard was the faint echo of footsteps.
“They ain’t coming back,” Doug said, “are they?”
Quekri looked at him, her face fallen with sad acceptance, then looked away.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Outside the shelter, Colonel Truman listened for the sound of approaching jet-copters. The overhead cloudbank, while still dark, had lightened with the promise of dawn. He wondered if Emily was awake yet. Probably not, even though it was an hour later on the East Coast: she wasn’t a morning person. Why had he suddenly thought of her? He had no intention of calling, though it would be nice if they still talked like they had in the old days. How he missed those quiet conversations. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so tired.
Three of his soldiers had begun to manifest symptoms of the Susquehanna Virus during the night—severe headache, weakness and excruciating pain in the joints. They were now confined under armed guard, frightened and confused. If they’d actually contracted the virus, they might be dead within the hour. The medics claimed that their illness had to be psychosomatic, that the virus’ incubation period was too long for them to be infected already. Nevertheless, Truman felt compelled to order the quarantine.
His mind flashed to the thirty-two corpses piled up in the woods—five of them children—all dead at the hands of the four Elite Ops who’d been sent here earlier. Weiss insisted on keeping the discovery of the bodies from the media, at least for the present.
And now more Elite Ops were on the way.
All this bullshit about them being the greatest advance in military history—as far as Truman was concerned, they were mutants: worse than the pseudos. Sadistic killers. Dead inside. These…things…were the future?
Truman contemplated calling General Horowitz—the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs—who had instructed him to follow the Attorney General’s orders. Doing that had already gotten a lot of people killed, including Raddock Boyd, whose death, to be honest, bothered Truman more than the others. Truman had killed before in service to his country but never that way—never a helpless man strapped to a chair. And it irked Truman that Weiss seemed to feel little remorse over any of the deaths. Was that due to his background with the CIA? Had the man seen so much death and waste that he was inured to human suffering?
The two jet-copters approached from the south. Their landing lights shone downward with such intensity that Truman had to look away for a moment. Although the machines were capable of traveling in silent mode, the roar of their engines sounded loud through the quiet morning. He wondered how many soldiers each copter carried. It took only a couple dozen Elite Ops troopers to equal the firepower of five hundred Army regulars.
At the edge of the parking lot, close to the encroaching forest, as if they were considering using the trees for cover, his soldiers watched the jet-copters land. When the engines powered down, six Elite Ops troopers jumped from each copter. They hit the ground heavily—all machinery and weaponry—and moved outward in a precise pattern, at the same speed, with identical spacing, aligning themselves in an oval around the jet-copters, weapons at the ready, examining their surroundings. Out of the woods, four Elite Ops troopers now emerged. They strode past Truman’s startled soldiers and joined their companions in the oval. So those four were the killers, not that they were distinguishable from their fellow troopers. Sixteen total, Truman saw. More than enough to handle every soldier under Truman’s command if it came to that.
The reporters on the scene began taking video of the Elite Ops. Surprisingly, no one stopped the cameras. Truman thought that odd: the Elite Ops were technically still a secret force.
From the lead copter, a man opened the passenger door and stepped down. He bent low, balancing himself against the rush of air from the great engines, and ran toward the shelter. Tall and lean, he wore a dark suit and, despite the pre-dawn hour, sunglasses. When he spotted Truman, he changed course and jogged over. The jet-copters powered up, their engines roaring louder. In unison, the machines lifted off the ground. At a hundred feet, their engines tilted and they shot away in a cacophony of thunder. After they were gone, the
man removed his glasses and spoke.
“Colonel Truman, I presume?”
“Yes?”
“Richard Carlton.” The man offered his hand.
Truman hesitated a second before shaking it. “What are you doing here, sir?”
“Where’s the Attorney General?”
“Inside the shelter, sir.”
“Very good, Colonel. I’ll see him now.”
Truman gestured toward the hole in the wall. As Carlton preceded him, Truman glanced back. The Elite Ops closed ranks, maintaining perfect spacing as they formed a smaller, tighter oval at the end of the parking lot where they could keep an eye on the road. Their gray armor absorbed light, making it difficult to get a good grasp of the scope of their firepower, but Truman knew that in addition to their Las-rifles, the troopers carried particle beam cannons and a variety of grenades. They looked menacing in the dim light—huge and robotic.
Weiss waited in the lobby. He stepped forward, hand extended, and said, “RC, it’s good to see you again.”
“Looks like you took one in the shoulder, Gray Velvet.” Carlton poked the bloodstain still visible on Weiss’ suit. “You’re getting too old for this sort of game.”
“It’s nothing,” Weiss answered as he reached up to massage his shoulder. “I’ve already had it treated. It’ll be good as new in no time.”
Colonel Truman found himself immediately disliking Carlton. He looked around, saw no reporters and said, “Excuse me, but there are a lot of dead people here. Killed by your Elite Ops.” Truman pointed to Carlton, “What is your role, sir?”
Carlton smiled as if pleased by the death count, then replied: “As the designer of the Elite Ops system and the owner of the hardware, I’m here as an observer. The software has minor glitches, and we’re still exploring the limits of the systems’ capabilities. Until we have them perfected, we need to continue running field tests.”
“And was that a field test last night?” Truman asked. “When your troopers murdered thirty-two people?”
“Those people fired the first shots,” Carlton said. “My men responded with appropriate force.”
“Appropriate force? My God! None of their weapons could have hurt your men.”
Weiss said, “That’s enough, Colonel. RC, what’s the plan?”
Carlton said, “This was supposed to be a low-profile operation. But as usual,” he looked at Truman, “the situation is getting out of hand. Gun battles in the streets. Psuedos running free.”
Truman flushed with anger. “Are you saying that’s our fault?”
“No one’s blaming you, Colonel,” Carlton said, his lip twitching in a sneer. “But your soldiers aren’t capable of restoring order. My troopers can. The President has declared martial law for this area. We’re here to enforce that.”
He lifted his head and stared down his nose at Truman, whose anger rose, threatening to explode. The condescending prick!
“My priority,” Weiss said, “remains finding Devereaux. I assume your Elite Ops will be combing the woods looking for any sign of pseudos?” When Carlton nodded, Weiss continued, “Jones is still out there somewhere. And a woman posing as Dr. Mary McCaffery seems to have disappeared as well.”
Carlton lifted an eyebrow. “My men will keep a special eye out for them. We’ll make sure to take Jones alive.”
“The Escala,” Truman emphasized the word, “have sophisticated weapons, not just old fashioned guns like those fugitives your men slaughtered.”
“Escala?” Carlton’s face wrinkled in distaste. “They’re pseudos, Colonel. Sub-human.”
“Mr. Carlton,” Truman raised his voice, his body quivering with rage. “You are a civilian under—”
“Colonel,” Weiss said. “Control yourself.”
Truman leaned forward, jabbed his finger at Carlton. “And there won’t be any children among the Escala, either. They’ll actually put up some resistance.”
“Colonel!” Weiss spoke harshly. “Don’t make me relieve you of command. Those fugitives sealed their fate when they attacked his troopers.”
And the children? Truman thought. Did they deserve to die as well? Truman’s fists shook. Through the rush of blood in his ears, he heard Emily say, “Temper, dear. Remember, that’s why you didn’t make general.” He opened his hands, bile rising in his throat, and said: “I apologize. I was merely pointing out that the Escala will not fall as easily as the fugitives did last night.”
Carlton scoffed. “You can’t possibly think the pseudos are a match for the Elite Ops?”
“What about the Battle of Rochester?”
Carlton’s eyes narrowed. “How did you hear about that?”
Truman couldn’t stop his lips from forming the beginnings of a smile.
Carlton waved his hand dismissively and said, “We had them beaten. And if it hadn’t been for a disruption to the communications software, we would have eliminated them completely. We’ve rebuilt the entire communications system from the ground up. No one can penetrate it anymore. It’s completely secure.”
“And wasn’t there some flaw in the Elite Ops’ shielding?” Truman attacked again, careful to keep his tone neutral. “I recall hearing something about troopers blowing up because of defective shields?”
“Yes,” Weiss agreed, “I remember thinking it was ironic that the only weakness the Elite Ops had was their shielding.”
Carlton frowned. “We’ve strengthened those too. They no longer overload in close proximity to the power packs. They’re only susceptible to particle beam cannons now and…” Carlton pressed a button on his wrist-com, examined the screen, then looked back up, “apart from the sixteen cannons the Elite Ops have, I see none in the region.”
Truman glanced over at Sergeant Mecklenberg, who stood by the side of the ruined doorway, Jeremiah Jones’ particle beam cannon strapped to his back. Apparently, without the converter, it didn’t register on Carlton’s scanner.
A member of the Elite Ops appeared in the ruined doorway next to Mecklenberg, one of the few invitees ever to have turned down the opportunity to train for the Elite Ops. Truman had never asked him why. The kid was deeply religious and, like most of Truman’s soldiers, rather poorly educated. Perhaps he felt some spiritual taboo over the mechanical crust he would have had to wear. Mecklenberg backed up a step, eyes widening in fear.
The Elite Ops trooper stood nearly seven feet tall in his armor. For a moment he remained motionless, then his huge gray helmet swiveled, his sun visor hiding his eyes. In each hand he carried a weapon—particle beam cannon in the left, Las-rifle in the right. Around his waist dangled several concussion and sonic grenades. Attached to his chest was a box that contained his shielding mechanism; on his back, he wore a nuclear power module that emitted a high whine. As he stood in the doorway, a stench emanated from him—a miasma of rotting flesh. Truman suddenly felt terrified. Instinctively he shrank back, noticing his soldiers and Weiss doing likewise: everyone in the room but Carlton. The Elite Ops trooper holstered his weapons, then pressed two buttons on his left wrist. Gradually the odor diminished, the fear melting away with it. Truman knew the horrible smell came from a neurotoxin each trooper could release to dull the responses of his enemy, giving him an edge in battle. The gas had no lasting effect, so it did not technically violate the global ban on chemical weapons, but it hampered thought processes so effectively that opponents who inhaled it often became powerless. The trooper must have disseminated a counteractive gas.
As his mind began to clear, Truman focused on the trooper’s helmet, which was the key to every system in the Elite Ops’ arsenal. It covered the entire head, including the mouth, giving no glimpse of the trooper beneath it. The dark visor reflected the room before it, the mirror image swiveling as the man inside the helmet surveyed the lobby.
Truman had seen an Elite Ops helmet a year ago, so he knew its large size was necess
itated by the protective padding, the heating/cooling system, and the circuitry and sensors that connected the brain to the computers that ran everything else—computers that also linked each trooper to his comrades and to ComSat (the satellite command center). Truman remembered picking up the helmet and being surprised at its lightness. He’d seen no visible connective points in the helmet, no wires or metal discs that affixed to the skull. Everything was internalized, of course. Still, he wondered what the troopers’ heads looked like under those helmets. Did they still appear human? When he’d been a student of military history, he’d been fascinated by the potential applications such technology offered. Now he fought down revulsion and fear at the sight of this creature. He hated that they were in the same military.
A faint aura surrounded the Elite Ops trooper: his shield. He stepped forward and saluted the colonel. His nametag read: “Payne” but his rank was not immediately identifiable. Truman stared at him, Weiss and Carlton by his side, looking on silently.
“Colonel Truman?” the man said.
“Yes?”
“Major Payne, Elite Ops.”
“Major Payne?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve heard all the jokes about my name, sir.”
“What can I do for you, Major?”
“My men are deploying now, sir. We’re keeping four men in town, two near the shelter. I just wanted to give you a warning to keep your soldiers out of our way.”
Truman clenched his teeth, biting back a response he might later regret. “Fine, Major. Anything else?”
“The pseudos. Do you have any idea where we might find them?”
“No. We searched all night and found no sign of them.”
“We’ll draw them out.”
“How do you intend to do that, Major?”
“The bio-signs of pseudos have a slightly different signature than humans. Actually, so do the bio-signs of enhanced humans. Our scanners are more sophisticated than yours. If we can get close enough, we can detect almost any modification beyond surgical repair or correction of a genetic flaw. They don’t work well in crowds, but out there—” Major Payne swung his arm in the direction of the woods— “we’ll get close enough. We’ll find them.”
The Susquehanna Virus Box Set Page 27