Wings of Steele- The Series, page 163
part #1 of Wings of Steele Series
For his participation, although decidedly small, the Lance Corporal paid with his life. After a twenty-minute delay, Stephen searched for and found the Marine slumped over the keyboard of a computer in a small, darkened, unlocked office, a .22 caliber hole in his head behind his right ear, powder burns on his neck and collar.
“Son of a bitch,” Stephen hissed, quietly locking the door behind him. We have a mole. With a pen light in his mouth, searching for clues, he found a paper jam in the shredder; ten pages of the list, with the bottom of the pages sticking out far enough to see the names. Whomever killed the Lance Corporal didn't have time to erase their visit. Maybe they didn't have time to police their brass... He dropped to his hands and knees to look for the spent shell casing from the bullet that ended the Marine's life. No luck.
The click of the door handle shot a spike of adrenalin up his spine and he stuffed the pen light into his suit pocked and drew his .40 caliber Sig Sauer P-226 as the door handle turned. Did I remember to lock it? Did they see me come in here? The handle rotated to the lock stop then back the other way, slowly, quietly, meeting resistance. He could see shadows under the door from the light in the corridor as the person moved away. Letting out a long, slow exhale, Stephen wondered if the code had executed successfully. He prayed it had. Nudging the mouse cleared the screen saver from the monitor as it winked back to awake mode... the code's gear and wing icon at the bottom right hand of the screen told him it had successfully done its job. A sudden thought hit him. Holstering his Glock, Stephen reached around the Corporal's body and pulled up the network screen finding he had access to fifteen printers scattered throughout the facility. A wry smile crossed his lips as he sent the file to all of them and ordered ten copies printed at each. Someone's going to be very busy...
Noticing the Marine's 9mm Beretta M-92 was missing from his holster, Stephen pulled the USB from the computer and slid it into his pocket, being careful to leave no evidence of his presence. Great, now they have something bigger than a .22. Hopefully I can get my ass out of here without anyone seeing me...
■ ■ ■
“Sir! What are you doing down in this area? This area is restricted...”
Stephen spun on his heel, trying to maintain his composure, “Ah, Sergeant, good to see you, I've gotten a little turned around, I'm looking for a restroom,” he reached out and jiggled the handle of an office on the opposite side of the corridor.
“Sergeant Major,” corrected the Marine. “You're not going to find it here, these are all offices. This area is restricted.”
“Yes, you mentioned that,” replied Stephen coolly. “I was hoping to find one with a private bathroom,” he added rubbing his stomach. “A little bit of a bad lunch I'm afraid...”
The Marine scrutinized him momentarily before using a knife hand gesture to direct him in the opposite direction in a very regimented manner, “All the way at the end of this hall, turn left, half way down on your right.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” said Stephen, turning away. I bet this kid salutes the toilet after he takes a shit...
“Sir...”
Stephen turned back apprehensively, “Yes?”
“Have you seen a Lance Corporal?”
Stephen shook his head nonchalantly, “Sorry, no.”
The Marine turned sharply and marched in the opposite direction, mumbling. “I'm gonna kick his ass when I find him...”
Stephen headed back the way he came, No you're not, Sergeant...
■ ■ ■
“Signal up!” called an Air Force communications officer from the situation room. “We have a live drone feed!”
“Where's it coming from?!” shouted a four-star Air Force General, depositing his coffee cup on the nearest desk as he hustled toward the room, Stephen Miles close behind him.
“Andrews Air Force base, General.”
“Andrews is still up, that's a good sign...”
“Altitude?” asked Stephen.
The communications officer pointed at the flat-screen TV, indicating the lines of information along the edges of the video feed. “Ten-thousand feet, and climbing. The MQ-9 Reaper has a ceiling of about fifty-thousand feet.”
“That won't take it above the mushroom,” countered Stephen.
“He's probably not trying to,” replied the communications officer, “he's just going for operational altitude, about twenty-five-thousand feet...”
“I don't want to see the cloud, have him pan the camera below him,” ordered the General.
“No direct communications yet, General, we're still rebooting and logging back into everything. Our stuff is shielded but the EMP from the blast still affected us... it must have been right on top of us.” Stephen and the General exchanged worried glances as other staff and officers filled the room.
I have a hard line to Andrews,” announced a Senior Airman, raising his hand. “Trying to get to flight control...” he added, cradling the phone receiver on his shoulder.
“Give me that,” growled the General angrily, gruffly snatching the receiver from under the Airman's ear. “You listen here...”
“They were transferring me...” mumbled the Airman as the General shouted into the phone.
“This is General Burton... Hello? Hello...?!”
“Still transferring,” commented the Senior Airman under his breath.
■ ■ ■
The situation room was standing room only, everyone watching the video feed from the drone, the Senior Airman back in control of the phone, directing the drone pilot, relaying the General's orders. Twenty minutes after the blast the detonation column had risen up into the mushroom cloud, the cloud spreading out, beginning its dissipation phase.
The epicenter of the blast was about a third of a mile across, featureless, black, smoking, the ground seemingly depressed, a stretch of Interstate 395 completely erased from existence. The blackened void was surrounded by a burning ring of near total destruction that extended outward, giving way to wind-blast destruction for miles in all directions, a black and gray landscape void of color.
“Mother Mary of God...” whispered someone.
“Sweet Jesus,” muttered another.
“It hit east and a little south of us,” observed Stephen.
“The Capitol Building is gone...” pointed an aide. “Library of Congress, Senate buildings... Smithsonian Air and Space is a loss...”
“Supreme Court is heavily damaged... Look, the Washington Monument is still standing!”
“My offices are gone,” noted Stephen, his lips tight. “And the White House is nearly totally destroyed.” He reflexively glanced upward.
“Smaller than I expected,” commented the General. “Does Andrews have an estimate on the size?”
The Senior Airman looked back over his shoulder, “Fifteen to twenty kilotons. North Korean Taepodong 2, or a variant as the delivery vehicle...”
Standing behind Stephen, Vice Admiral Cooke shook his head in disgust, “Never thought I'd see the day...”
“That a short, certifiably insane, megalomaniac with a bad haircut pushed the button?” interrupted Stephen. “Personally, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner considering his advanced level of crazy.” He wanted to pace the floor but the room was packed, the conference table and chairs empty, everyone congregated near the communications consoles and video screens. “I need to get out of here, I have teams in the field I need to contact.” His eyes swept the room, fully aware that somewhere in the facility was a murderer, likely an enemy alien sympathizer or traitor.
The General pointed at one of the screens that showed information from Strategic Air Command and NORAD, “One of our Minutemen made it through that dam screen up there; hit Pyongyang.” He turned back to Stephen, “Fifteen times larger than that one out there,” he indicated the live video feed from the drone, an evil smirk on his face. “Payback's a bitch...”
Stephen grabbed him by the elbow, “It's not a competition, General,” he hissed. “We need to stop throwing these things around or you'd better get used to living underground for the next thousand years.”
“It's war Mr. Miles - damn right it's a competition!”
Stephen reached back and tore a copy of the list out of the hands of an aide standing nearby, tossing it on the console in front of the General. “This isn't war General, this is madness, caused by the people on this list... and it needs to stop.”
■ ■ ■
With the Dragonfly's remaining maneuvering and braking thrusters in a constant burn, Maria fought with the vibrating controls, the rescue shuttle flying about as good as a one-winged potato, waddling down through the atmosphere in a semi-controlled crash-dive. The tilted desert floor rushed up at her as she worked to keep the crippled craft upright on its glide path; if it rolled on its side there would be nothing left but a smoking crater and scattered pieces. “Route all shield power to the nose and belly.”
“Aye, Skipper,” replied Myomerr, making the adjustments.
“Hold on, everybody...!” Maria hauled back on the flight stick and applied full antigravity, the nose lifting slightly as the hull pancaked against the ground, bouncing upwards before slamming back down and skidding across the terrain, a cloud of sand and powder-fine dust exploding out in all directions. The deafening force of the initial impact bent the remaining wing down, the passing terrain tearing it off in a gut-wrenching scream of tortured metal and shattering composites, the hull banging and clattering along the ground for nearly a mile, groaning as it twisted and bent, half rolling as it came to rest in a depression in the desert, the nose crushing against a raised ridge of rock and sand.
A towering wall of dust and sand drifted slowly away from the jagged scar across the desert, about four miles east of Taybad, Iran, and four miles west of the Afghan border. A massive cloud of powder-like orange dust shrouded the alien craft, suspended in the air, drifting slowly across the parched terrain.
Myomerr shook off the stars in her vision, realizing her controls were dead and the door behind her, buckled to match the severely warped bulkhead. That wasn't opening without a boron cutter. “We've got smoke! Blowing the canopy...” she announced, grabbing and forcefully yanking the manual lever. The explosive bolts securing the canopy to the hull rippled off like a machine gun, the cracked bubble dropping loosely to one side. Ripping at the buckles of her flight harness, Myomerr cast them off and pushed upward on the bubble, rolling it off the cockpit, discarding it, letting it drop to the sand. “Let's go Skipper, get your ass up...”
■ ■ ■
The shuttle's waist door jammed partially open but it was enough for Dooby and Dan to get everyone out with a belly crawl. Free of their space suits, the astronauts wiggled out into the sunlight in little more than t-shirts and shorts, Dan helping them from the outside as best he could one-handed, his injured arm in a makeshift sling. “C'mon,” he urged, pulling the Russian free of the doorway, “we need to get clear, we're not sure where that smoke is coming from...”
Dooby half wiggled out, shoving an armful of pulse rifles into the sand,”Dan, take these, we might need them. I'll be right back...”
“Wait, Dooby, where are you going?”
“To find something to cover our guests, I'm guessing it'll get chilly real quick when the sun goes down.”
“But the smoke...” objected Dan.
Dooby waved it off as he retreated back under the edge of the door, “I'll be fine, I'll be right back.” With the emergency lighting failing, Dooby felt his way through the dimly lit interior, the tilted floor making it difficult to move around. He stumbled and fell over the heap of discarded space suits, cursing to himself. The moment the deck shifted beneath his feet, he knew he was in trouble, the slit of light under the waist door going dark.
“Dammit!” Dan Murphy put his shoulder against the shuttle's hull and pushed, his feet sliding in the powdery sand. “Dooby! Dooby!” He turned to the others, “Help me... Push! Push!” Even with them all working together, the hull remained unmoved, the bottom of the open door buried in the sand. “We can't leave him in there...!”
“I do not see what we can do, mon'ami,” shrugged the Frenchman, “we have no tools.”
“Dig,” shot Dan, dropping to his knees, attempting to dig one-handed, moving the pulse rifles out of the way. “We have to get him out before he suffocates...”
The Russian bent down and lifted one of the carbines off the pile, examining it, “Perhaps we can use one of dese, da?”
“NOooo!” shouted Dan, leaping to his feet, grabbing the weapon's forward hand guard and pointing its muzzle to the sky. “You see that yellow pudding over there?” With a nod of his head he indicated a small but growing pool of thick, oily fluorescent yellow goo behind the shuttle. “Fuel. And the word explosive doesn't begin to adequately describe that stuff.”
The Russian released the gun, “I am sorry, then I do not see how we can possibly...”
The explosion clanged loudly against the hull, making the entire group duck and cover, becoming fast friends with the sand at their feet...
■ ■ ■
Reclaiming control of the phone, General Burton ordered another round of Minuteman launches to strike high priority targets around the world. “If we've already hit something,” he shouted into the receiver, “then choose another target, dammit!”
“This is insane, General...” insisted Stephen Miles. “This has to stop...”
“Harlan,” called Vice Admiral Cooke, using the General's first name, “what the hell are you doing?” The Admiral brushed past Stephen, reaching out for the man he'd known for nearly two decades. “Harlan...”
“That's far enough, Robert,” replied the General, turning to meet him, handing the phone receiver back to the Airman. He held a Beretta M-92 in his other hand, “What am I doing...? I'm doing my job. I'm eliminating our enemies...”
The Admiral waved off the noisy crosstalk in the room, “Quiet!” He calmly indicated the Beretta pointed in his direction. “Harlan, where did you get that?”
“It doesn't matter Robert... we don't matter. Nothing matters anymore.” He waved at the crush of staff around the room, “Because we're not making it out of here. No one is.” He pointed at the drone video feed, “We're under that. A thousand years of radioactivity.”
“But...”
“What matters,” interrupted the General, “is the mission...”
“What mission?” probed Stephen Miles, stepping forward. “Whose mission?” He pointed at the list of alien criminals still lying on the communications console, “Their mission?”
“Are you one of them?” asked Vice Admiral Cooke, coolly.
“No, I'm not on that list...”
“That's not what I asked you Harlan...”
“Something tells me he's not who you think he is, Admiral,” interrupted Stephen. “It's why he doesn't know about the emergency evacuation tunnels or the train.”
Vice Admiral Cooke hazarded a sideways glance at Stephen, “He's an imposter...” It wasn't so much a question as an educated guess.
“I believe so.”
“Can you prove it?”
The Sergeant Major, Stephen had encountered in the corridor pushed through the crowd, his Beretta M-92 clear of its holster, hanging in his hand, concealed at his side, the safety already off. “Sirs, I would like to ask the gentleman in the suit if he knows who might have killed my Lance Corporal... Since I encountered him outside the office where his body was found.” The Sergeant Major's gun hand came up, pointing at Stephen, the crowd splitting to be free from the line of fire.
Years of work as a field agent and seasoning didn't fail Stephen who didn't even blink, his eyes turning away from the Sergeant to lock with the General. “You might want to ask the General that question, Sergeant Major, since he's holding the Lance Corporal's sidearm.” His hand moved discreetly into his suit jacket, his hand on the butt of his Sig Sauer. “And I bet if we check the General's pockets we might even find the .22 caliber pen-gun he killed him with...”
“Put it down, Harlan,” commanded the Admiral. “Or whoever you are.”
The Sergeant Major's firearm transitioned smoothly to the General, “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put that down until we sort this out...” General Burton's eyes shifted nervously around the room, face by face. “Sir,” insisted the Marine Sergeant, “please don't do anything foolish...”
Having clearly made a decision, the General straightened, stiffening up, bringing his heels together, his eyes straight forward, the muzzle of the Beretta swinging up under his chin. It happened so quickly no one had a chance to react. The muzzle blast liquified much of the tissue under the chin and a portion of the neck, the bullet exiting the top of his head and lodging in the ceiling, painting the ceiling, the big screen monitor, the Senior Airman and the communications console with blood and brain matter. His body went momentarily plank rigid before toppling backward like a tree, crashing into the wall behind him. Crumpled against the wall, his heart still pumping, his lungs struggling to breathe, he gurgled through the crater in his neck, his eyes rolling around, perhaps looking at the faces around him. There was no way to tell if he could actually see or comprehend what was happening. In another moment he was still, his eyes vacant, unmoving.
Searching the interior pockets of the General's uniform jacket, Stephen retrieved a .22 caliber pen-gun, opened the breach and extracted an empty bullet casing, sniffing it, “Fresh.”
“But why?” asked the Admiral.
“We'll never know now,” muttered Stephen, waving his hand in disgust at the bloody corpse.
“How did you know it was him?” asked the Sergeant Major.
Stephen indicated the printed alien criminal list on the console, “It was the way he said he wasn't on that list. It sounded specific, like he'd read it already. I'd asked the Corporal to make copies and there were some jammed in the shredder. Makes me think he killed the Corporal, altered the list and tried to shred the present copies. When I sent electronic copies to printers all over the facility he knew he wasn't on them.”
