Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (18 page)

Twiste did not have an answer.

In a softer tone she said, "He has that way about him, doesn't he? As soon as I met him, I knew this was someone I could rely on; someone who knows right from wrong."

"You'll find," Twiste said with his eyes drifting off, "that he has a strong sense of justice, even with the things he's had to do."

"Well, Captain, believe it or not, I'm not the bad guy here. Not this time. I've tried talking to Major Gant but he seems eager to march in like a good little robot. Maybe he'll listen to you."

He did not answer. Apparently her revelation had knocked him off balance. It seemed he had been sure of the devil, only to be mistaken.

Liz, however, was not ready to let it go. She stepped up to him and although he stood several inches taller, she seemed to dominate.

"One last thing, Captain. I don't care what you think you know or what kind of attitude you have. You think I was a coldhearted bitch a couple of years ago? Well you're right. I was that way because that's what the army wanted from me. But here it is … I'm done taking shit from people, especially subordinates. Go talk to Thom Gant; maybe you can help him. I hope so. But in the meantime, take the chip on your shoulder, the holier-than-thou attitude, and get out of my face."

Twiste hovered for a moment then retreated three paces. He cast his eyes around the hallway, first at each wall, then at the ceiling, and told her, "I'm glad you found a new home here, Lieutenant Colonel. But I'm hoping you don't find it as comfortable as your last one."

With that he turned and walked off, leaving her in control of the battlefield, but only after having inflicted a few wounds.
 

Gant tried to gauge the morale of his men as they filed out of the recreation room after a three-hour briefing. Certainly they were tired. It was late and they had just spent hours reviewing blueprints of the subterranean complex, including the stairways and elevator shafts that were designed to limit travel between the levels. As Franco pointed out, they would have to hump their asses back and forth from one end of each level to the other.

As for spirits, they were never a cocky bunch—at least not as a whole. There were never high fives or bouts of bravado, boasting of kicking ass and taking names. No, these were professional soldiers who understood that they handled the weirdest missions in all the world. Of course, Thom only hoped they would be staying in this world; it was quite possible that Briggs had smashed a hole into an entirely new plane of existence, or universe, or something.

And that was the problem. Too many questions.

The very nature of Project Archangel meant tackling the shadows, the unknowns, and the royal screwups. But their missions normally provided some parameters: Alien crash-landed in Everglades; go catch it. Lab animals went crazy, escaped, and killed a research team; eliminate them. Extraterrestrial spores have contaminated a hanger at Groom Lake; go burn it down and don't mind the slimy things that used to be Air Force personnel.

This time? We do not know what happened, why it happened, what the opposition may be, but we do have this fancy gizmo that you are supposed to activate at ground zero. It should clean up the mess but we are not going to tell you how it is going to do that.

Thank you, General Borman.

Still, if the questions bothered his men it did not show on their faces. Sawicki smoked, Galati and Wells yapped, Franco grumbled, Pearson seemed eager to return to his handheld gaming device, Campion showed no emotion, and the rest—Van Buren, Roberts, Moss—appeared unperturbed.

Well, except for Twiste.

As the last man filed out, Brandon Twiste voiced his concerns.

"Thom, this is FUBAR and you know it."

"Yes, but most of our missions are." Gant wandered back into the room to retrieve unfurled blueprints, computer printouts, and other briefing-related papers from atop the table or, rather, from atop the World War Two game board.

"This is different and you know it. Hell, I went to Tall, I trained on this V.A.A.D. thing."

"What does that stand for again?"

"Variable accelerator antimatter delivery device. Point is, even when I trained for this they didn't clue me in on the details. It's like we're being sent to detonate a nuke or something but they know we wouldn't do it if they told us. You know that Vsalov guy?"

Gant rolled up a blueprint as he answered: "He's the one you flew in from Tall with."

"Yes, he handled my training. He knows how to operate this thing. So why not send him?"

Gant raised an eyebrow. Twiste responded, "Not that I'm afraid, but why bother training me?"

"Doctor, that is a stupid question and you know it. I am past the time for questions, anyway. The general made it quite clear that no more questions will be answered."

"I know you're a good little soldier, Thom, but you have to think about the welfare of your men."

That sounded like a shot across the bow and even though it came from a man whom he considered a friend, it demanded attention. Major Gant put down his papers and marched over to Twiste.

"I know my job, Captain. I will do mine; you do yours."

"Okay, fine. I'm the science officer, I'll follow you into that hole with that thing strapped to my back. But I'm also your medical officer."

"If you have a point, get to it."

"I will review the medical condition of each of these men to make sure they are fit for tomorrow's mission."

Gant shook his head and smiled, but not in a friendly way, then replied, "I will await your reports, Doctor. And I will examine each and every one of them."

Captain Twiste raised his arm in a perfectly rigid salute.

"Yes, sir, major sir."

—

General Borman’s accommodations on sublevel 1 were small but not nearly as sparse as the surface cabins. A comfortable bed, a decent washroom with bath and shower, and a small living area with a sofa and entertainment center.

Yet there were too many loose ends to tie up, too many considerations left unresolved for Borman to relax and enjoy the evening. Two years of planning and preparation came down to a few more hours of waiting.

Dr. Vincent Vsalov from The Tall Company shared Borman’s uneasiness. He hovered by the door, puffing furiously on yet another cigarette, while Borman sat with a bottle of Dewar’s White Label within arm's reach.

"Relax, Vincent. Sit down. Have a drink."

"I’m not thirsty."

"Then sit down," the general ordered.

Vsalov hesitated, then did just that.

"You know what your problem is, Vsalov? You lack nerve."

Borman eyed the Russian-American scientist. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie was loose, his hair had not been combed or corrected in hours, and his chewed fingernails sported nicotine stains. He looked nothing like a researcher—more like a used car salesman suffering a particularly bad day.

"You’re a mess," Borman sneered.

"I am what you have made of me."

"Oh no, don’t start with that," Borman shot back, then sipped a glass of scotch and water. "It was
you
that said the V.A.A.D. was ready to go—
you
are the one who’s been working on this solution for two years. If it had been up to me we would’ve gone in weeks ago."

"Yes, yes," Vsalov said, waving a hand, "and would you have gone in then? No, it would have been me. You have it easy, General. You order men to go—there is no difference which of your men go. But for me, for Tall, we could not send just anyone in there."

"Yes, you're all a bunch of spineless pricks. You should have just bribed some low-level tech into making this run. But no, you couldn't even do that. I had to put it all together. I had to find someone with enough smarts to operate the damn thing. It took two days to train him, Vincent. The V.A.A.D. is a piece of cake. What a waste of an asset."

"We are a civilian organization," Vsalov shot back. "This is a job for the military."

"Oh don't give me that shit. You're about as much a civilian organization as I am a Boy Scout. The bottom line is that you people don't like to make sacrifices unless it's on your terms. Look at this whole thing here. I'm throwing away one of the best units in all the armed forces. These are highly trained men. They will not be easy to replace and I'm sure that dick Friez will stir up a lot of trouble for me. What about you, Vincent? When this is all over, are you going to be called on the carpet, or will they give you a promotion?"

Vsalov and Borman both fell silent. Borman’s question pertained to the future,
after
the mission. For several years they had thought about the mission itself, but never about what came next.

A small voice in the back of Borman's head wondered why. What would happen after the V.A.A.D. was activated, successful or not? What would be their next move? And why was he so certain that the Archangel unit was going to its destruction? If they succeeded in activating the V.A.A.D., they would certainly survive.

Right?

Borman had tomorrow all planned out. But the day after tomorrow seemed unimportant.

Vsalov interrupted his train of thought. "Tall has called me on the ‘carpet’ enough this year to last my lifetime. Always questions. Always skeptics. I know I will enjoy proving them wrong."

Vsalov was not really speaking to the general. He spoke to his superiors who pestered him for details; he spoke to his colleagues who constantly questioned his theories regarding the V.A.A.D. He spoke to himself, telling himself that all his work and sacrifice would pay off when he could show those fools the results of—

—the results of what?

This puzzled Vsalov for a moment, but only a moment. Confusion … uncertainty … it all washed away in a flood of pride and satisfaction. Yes, he would enjoy rubbing the results of tomorrow’s mission in the collective faces of his superiors.

But what, exactly, would he show them? He had never thought about that; he had never considered what was to happen after the mission. He had been so focused on preparing the V.A.A.D. that he had not thought about the future.

Somehow, for some reason, the future did not seem important.

The two men sat alone in the VIP quarters, one deadening his conscience with nicotine, the other soothing his nerves with alcohol.

—

Campion entered one of the four restrooms on the surface level of the Red Rock complex. Inside he found one working light out of three fixed to the ceiling.

According to the major, nothing had changed at Red Rock in twenty years. So why were they on this mission now? What was the device Twiste had trained to use? What was The Tall Company's involvement?

Questions. One after another pouring into his head. He always had questions before missions, of course. But questions about how to complete the job, not about the bigger picture.

He finished urinating and moved to the sink. As he reached for the tap he noticed a tremble in his right hand. Just a little shake.

What the hell is that?

But he knew. It had been quite a long time but he did recognize that feeling; he knew what had caused the slightest of trembles in his hand.

Fear.

Through training and focus Captain Campion had managed to take fear and bottle it away where it could not interfere with the task at hand, whether that task be rooting out insurgents in Fallujah or redirecting a rampaging alien in the Everglades.

So why did it surface now?

Because this mission makes no sense.

Campion understood that his job entailed facing the unknown. So many jobs over the years came with far too many questions and the need to alter plans in midstream. This was different. Everything felt wrong.

Still, he would not retreat from his orders. He defined himself by following and completing just such orders. And if the fear would not go away on its own, then he would make it go away in the only way he knew how. The only way he had ever known how.

Fear could be trumped … by pain.

Campion punched the restroom wall with his left fist, cracking a slate of green tile. Then again. Then again. He struck hard enough to send stings through his knuckles and up his arm, but not hard enough to break bones. He cracked one tile, then another, then another. Drips of blood splashed into the porcelain sink.

Again and again he pounded the wall until he had beaten his fear into submission, chasing it back into its bottle.

—

Gant glanced at his watch: 11:30 p.m.

He should have gone straight to his cabin to get some sleep. Yet he was too restless to call it a night.

He wandered outside for a while, then found himself inside Red Rock again, meandering to the recreation room where he had held the briefing not long before. It felt like returning to the scene of the crime.

Gant decided to check Campion’s progress in their war game. Just as he came to the room out came Specialist Sal Galati holding a soda in one hand and two Twinkie packages in the other.

"Late-night snack?"

Galati appeared to be sweating, perhaps from embarrassment at his late-night craving. He answered, "Yes, sir," in a voice far too meek for a man who told the loudest, most incredible stories (fact and fiction).