The Susquehanna Virus Box Set

by Steve McEllistrem

  “Gonna be a long flight,” Jefferson spoke through the walkie-talkie comm system, his voice sounding strong. “Might want to relax.”

  “How do you know I’m not relaxed?” Payne said.

  Jefferson shrugged inside his suit. “Quite a death grip you got on that handle. Might need to save your strength to fire that particle beam cannon. They got a kick.”

  Payne stared at the little black man. “How would you know . . . who are you?”

  “Friend of the general’s.”

  “Special Forces?”

  Jefferson checked the instrument panel and adjusted a dial. Payne looked down and saw the lights receding. He realized they’d already climbed at least a mile. It was a beautiful sight from up here, so quiet and peaceful.

  “Check your systems,” Jefferson said.

  His eyes adjusting to the darkness, Payne found the helmet controls and made sure everything was working properly, then said, “So who are you really?”

  “Jack of all trades, master of none. Actually, I’m a friend of Jeremiah Jones.”

  Payne’s stomach dropped. His throat dried up. He managed to croak: “You’re a CINTEP ghost.”

  “I retired this year,” Jefferson said. “That’s a young man’s game. We just hit two miles, by the way. Might want to let them know.”

  Payne keyed the external link and gave the information to Adrian. Then he said, “Are you like Jones?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve been enhanced, but not to his level.” Jefferson adjusted the flow of helium to another balloon. Payne studied him, wondering if the man intended violence after the mission. Jefferson kept his attention on the console. After a time, he looked up at the balloons. Payne again looked over the side of the basket. Already the lights below looked incredibly far away. Payne thought he could detect the faint outline of a river. Then they hit the clouds, which blanketed the view. For a time there was only silence and a few faint stars in the distance. But as the clouds thinned the stars brightened, becoming multitudes.

  “Seven miles,” Jefferson said.

  Payne relayed the information to Adrian, then flexed his fingers inside their gloves as he contemplated the difficulty of the shot he’d have to make.

  As if able to read his mind, Jefferson said, “You ever fire a particle beam cannon without armor before?”

  “A couple times,” Payne replied.

  Jefferson nodded, said, “You can brace your shoulder against my back when you take the shot.”

  “Okay,” Payne said. “I’m sorry about what happened in Minnesota—with Jones.”

  “Not your fault,” Jefferson said. “We all know Carlton programmed you to attack those innocents. Besides, it’s not me you owe the apology to. It’s Jeremiah.”

  “I tried. Left a message for him with Elias Leach.”

  “I don’t think Jeremiah got it,” Jefferson said. “He left CINTEP before I did. In fact, that’s why I left. Don’t tell him that though. Wouldn’t want him to get a big ego. Eight miles.”

  “You think I’ll get the chance to say anything to anybody afterwards?”

  “We’re not going to die, Captain,” Jefferson said. “You just focus on the shot and let me worry about getting us down safely.”

  As Jefferson returned his attention to the console, Payne visualized the shot ahead. He pictured it in his mind, imagining himself braced against Jefferson’s back, using the particle beam cannon’s tracking mechanism to lock onto the electronic signal of the Las-cannon. It wasn’t a foolproof system, especially from a range of thousands of miles. He didn’t care how little atmosphere the ions had to travel through. A shot of 60,000 miles was a hell of a shot no matter what. Could he make it, even if he were wearing his armor? He wouldn’t want to take that bet.

  The miles dropped away beneath them. Twelve, then eighteen, which was as high as Jefferson said he’d ever been in a balloon. Jefferson kept his attention on the instrument panel, which at first seemed odd until Payne realized that he had to worry about their direction as well as their height.

  The miles passed more slowly as the atmosphere thinned—twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four. The suit kept Payne warm, but he sensed the extreme cold outside. Jefferson leaned over his console, studying gauges and dials. “Thirty miles,” he said.

  Payne relayed the information to Adrian.

  Jefferson grabbed Payne’s free hand and put it on the helium tank’s regulator. “Keep the flow at three.”

  “Is there a problem?” Payne asked.

  “We’re losing helium,” Jefferson said. “A small leak.”

  As Jefferson adjusted dials, he slowly rocked his head from side to side like a metronome. It was probably his way of panicking. Payne looked out over the basket at the stars, at the Moon, which was nearly full but partially hidden by the balloon. The kids were up there along with the pseudos. Was the blond girl one of them?

  “Windol,” Adrian’s voice came through the walkie-talkie, “you at thirty-four yet?”

  Payne asked Jefferson, who shook his head. “Thirty-two,” he said.

  When Payne relayed the information, Adrian said, “You should be at thirty-four.”

  Payne told Jefferson, who grabbed the now-empty helium tank and tossed it overboard. He opened his toolbox, pulled out a T-wrench and loosened the bolts holding the console to the basket. Reaching again for the toolbox, he found a wirecutter and clipped the wires leading from the console to the balloons, then lifted the console and dropped it over the side too. Finally he put the T-wrench and wirecutter back in the toolbox and tossed it overboard. Looking up at Payne, he said, “No more helium. And I never liked that console.”

  Payne jerked his head to indicate the lost items. “Does that mean we can’t take the balloon back down?”

  Jefferson grinned through his mask. “Getting the balloon down is easy. When’s the last time you parachuted?”

  “Four years ago.”

  “Don’t open the chute too soon. You want to be well into the atmosphere first.”

  “You think we’re going to survive this?” Payne asked.

  Jefferson shrugged. “I’m an optimist.”

  Payne laughed. “I like you, Ned.”

  Once again Adrian’s voice came over the walkie-talkie: “Where you at, Windol?”

  Payne looked at Jefferson, who said, “Tell him to give us a heads up when the XV4s are fired.”

  “Saronjini’s at thirty-eight miles,” Adrian said on hearing Payne’s report. “Escobar’s at thirty-seven. We fire the XV4s in twelve minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Payne replied.

  Jefferson shook his head. “We’re not going to make it above thirty-six miles. With the extra atmosphere to fire through, you’ll get about a two-percent greater distortion, which means that to maximize your chance of hitting the Las-cannon, you’ll have to adjust the dispersal pattern to approximately ninety-two percent of full scatter while keeping the power setting at full. And your aim will have to be perfect. No margin for error.”

  Payne stared at Jefferson, stunned by the man’s expertise. “Maybe you should take the shot. Jones was as good with a particle beam cannon as any Elite Ops trooper.”

  “I’m just the pilot,” Jefferson said. “You’re the marksman.”

  Payne nodded as he reached for the converter. Adjusting the settings on the particle beam cannon, he jacked open the back cover and began to take slow, even breaths, closing his eyes and again visualizing the shot while attempting to relax his muscles. He was too tense. He needed to reach that fine point at the edge of indifference where his muscles would respond almost instinctively, without interference from his emotions, aiming without guiding, letting the shot come of its own accord; that was the difference between taking the shot without armor and making it with the assistance of the mechanicals embedded in his Elite Ops exoskeleton.

  �
�XV4s are away,” Adrian’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. “Repeat, XV4s are away. Acknowledge.”

  “Copy that,” Payne replied.

  He slapped the converter into the back of the particle beam cannon and closed the cover. Jefferson clapped him on the shoulder and held him for a moment, nodding. Payne found that reassuring. He nodded back. Jefferson braced himself against the side of the basket, leaning into it hard. In the silent night, Payne knelt down, snugged his shoulder against Jefferson’s back and sighted along the weapon. It felt good in his hands.

  A small rushing sound announced the approach of the XV4s. Payne had been expecting a roar but they were almost soundless in the thin air, their exhaust flames piercing the blackness as they hurtled into the heavens. Payne swung the particle beam cannon through a lazy arc until the green targeting scanner light came on. At the same instant a red light shot through space, a narrow beam that originated in the exact spot the scanner had located. Before Payne could fire, the scanner lost its signal.

  One of the XV4s blew apart—yellow and red and white fire that split the sky like some silent fireworks show.

  Another red beam just as Payne acquired another signal lock. One and a-half degrees higher, half a degree left of the previous one. Another XV4 exploded just as the signal vanished again.

  Damn! Too slow.

  Payne had to act more quickly. He held the weapon almost steady, moving it only centimeters to the left and upwards. Another red beam, another signal lock and Payne fired.

  The recoil would have knocked him backwards out of the basket if Jefferson hadn’t grabbed him. The shot made the muffled sound of mittens clapping in the snow. A searing bolt of red lightning struck the balloon and he began to fall, his sight suddenly gone.

  All he could feel was an intense burning sensation on his face, chest and arms. He thought he screamed but he couldn’t hear anything. The searing pain in his upper torso took every thought from his head. His face hurt like hell. Consciousness faded.

  He awoke, gasping, to the feel of hands on his body, the rush of air past his face. His helmet must have been damaged. Still no vision, but he heard a roaring in his ears. His face felt like it was on fire, his chest as if he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. Terror overwhelmed him. Payne fought against the creature holding him until he realized it was Jefferson. Somehow the smaller man had caught him in free fall and placed a mask over his mouth and nose, allowing him to breathe. But if he’d given Payne his mask, how was he breathing? Payne tried to relax as the smaller man clung to his suit—the two of them still falling, locked in the inexorable grip of gravity.

  “It’s okay,” Jefferson yelled. “Just relax and take a deep breath.”

  After Payne inhaled, Jefferson pulled the oxygen mask away. Payne almost panicked and grabbed for the mask. But he managed to control himself and a few seconds later it was clamped over his mouth again. They soon fell into a rhythm of breathing alternately. After a few minutes, Payne’s breathing grew easier.

  “Did I hit the Las-cannon?” he yelled as he reached up to feel his face.

  “Don’t know,” Jefferson replied. He pushed Payne’s hand away from his face. “Don’t touch it.”

  “I can’t see.”

  “The Las-cannon burned your face pretty badly. We’re lucky it was a glancing blow or we’d be dead. Don’t worry. They’ll grow you new eyes, better than the old ones. I’m more concerned with the damage to your chest and your suit.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “You’ll still get some flotation from the suit, but trying to swim will hurt.” He grabbed Payne’s hand and guided it to his parachute’s handle. “When I let go, wait ten seconds, then open the chute. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Payne didn’t want Jefferson to let go.

  “Remember, the chute will beep as you approach the ocean. The beeps will get closer together the nearer you get. When you hear a continuous tone, bend your knees and prepare for impact. Got it?”

  “Got it. Ned?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  Jefferson let go. Payne counted to ten and pulled the handle, feeling the lurch in his stomach as the chute caught. He was drifting in total blackness, a mote in the currents of the atmosphere.

  A beep sounded from his parachute’s harness. Then another. They began to come more frequently, finally melding into one continuous note. Payne felt for the release catch on the chute, kept his hand there, bent his legs in preparation for landing and braced for impact. When he hit the water, it took his breath away. He swallowed two huge gulps before clawing his way back to the surface, his arms and chest hurting so badly he thought he might pass out. Coughing up water, he popped open the release catch, kicked his way out of the chute and began clumsily treading water as the ocean rose and fell around him. He’d never felt such pain before. His face itched and stung, piercing him with a thousand burning needles, yet that pain paled beside the agony in every movement of his arms and chest.

  “Ned!” he yelled as a wave struck him. He swallowed more water. It was all he could do to stay afloat. No way would Jefferson be able to find him. He wondered if there were sharks nearby. When something brushed against his leg, he thrashed away from it before realizing it was just his parachute. He couldn’t recall ever being this scared before.

  His face fell beneath the water and he swallowed another mouthful of brine. He fought back to the surface and coughed heavily. He kept treading water, his strength dissipating. Several times his face slipped beneath the waves, making him swallow more of the sea. Jefferson wasn’t coming to save him.

  He thought about the little blond girl he’d kidnapped a few years ago—how calmly she’d accepted her fate. How brave she’d been. Somehow that gave him courage to accept his death. He deserved to die for what he’d done to her and her family. “I’m sorry,” he yelled. “I’m sorry!”

  A splashing sound came from behind him. A shark? How much would it hurt to be killed by a shark?

  “I got you,” Jefferson called out as he grabbed Payne and wrapped his arm around Payne’s chest, keeping Payne’s head above water. “Took a while to find you. You’re doing great. Stay calm. The jet-copters are on their way. Can you hear ’em? They’re almost here. You made it, buddy.”

  Payne strained to hear their familiar whomping sound, and when he did, he began to cry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Curtik waited for the Earthlings to counterattack. And waited. And waited. As his orbiting Las-cannon passed over England, he fired a shot at Stratford-Upon-Avon. But it didn’t fill him up. He felt an uncontrollable hunger to kill.

  “What are you doing?” Aspen asked from her Las-cannon station.

  “Bloody Shakespeare!” Curtik said.

  Wee Willie chuckled.

  Aspen said, “Quit wasting ammunition. Your Las-cannon’s already down to thirteen percent.”

  “I’m bored.”

  “They’ll attack soon. Be patient.”

  Curtik glanced over at Wee Willie, who stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers, making Curtik laugh. “Whatever,” Curtik said. “I’m going to get something to eat. Let me know when they launch their rockets.” He went to the mess hall to get an ice cream bar, then wandered toward the hotel where the tourists were locked up, thinking he might kill a few after his snack.

  He walked past Shiloh and Phan, the cadets on guard duty, and down a long carpeted hallway, where he heard a dim knocking. It grew louder as he reached the end of the hall, coming from the last door. Excellent—someone to murder. Curtik’s pulse began to race. He searched his implant for the access code, unlocked and opened the door. A blond woman stood before him. “Please,” she said, “our daughter is sick.”

  “What? Are you joking?” Curtik took a bite of his ice cream sandwich, savoring the cold, sugary vanilla taste.


  “She’s very ill.”

  Curtik shoved the woman against the wall as he stepped into the room. He glanced at the bed, where a girl of about ten lay. Kneeling next to the bed, holding her hand, was a man with dark hair. By his side stood a younger girl. The man and the younger girl looked up at Curtik, their fear keeping them silent.

  Curtik glared at them.

  “Please,” the woman said as she struggled to her feet. “You can do whatever you want to us. But help her.”

  Curtik nearly punched her. But she presented no challenge. She just stared into his eyes and said, “please” over and over.

  “Shut up!” Curtik barked.

  The woman closed her mouth and cowered down next to her husband, wrapping an arm around the younger girl, who began crying. Curtik took another step forward, looked down at the girl on the bed. She had blond hair like her mother but dark eyes like her father. Her face was bathed in sweat, her face flushed. Her feverish eyes followed Curtik.

  I can kill her, Curtik thought, and Zora can’t blame me because I’ll just be putting her out of her misery. He snarled just a little to scare the girl. Her father cringed away; her mother moaned; her little sister cried even louder; but she didn’t blink. She just stared at him.

  Curtik shoved his half-eaten ice cream bar into his mouth as he stared back at the girl. His cheeks bulged with the frozen treat. The girl started to smile, then cringed in pain. Curtik quickly swallowed the ice cream, picked the girl up and pulled her away from her father’s grasp. She was lighter than he expected. Should he break her neck? Rip her arms off?

  “Can I go with you?” the mother asked, rising to her feet.

  “Down!”

  The mother sank to her knees, put her hands together in front of her as if in prayer. “You’ll help her, won’t you?”