Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (4 page)

—

Campion eyed the shepherds. There was something out here and they were starting to get a taste of it. But the wind blew east northeast; if their prey was in the wrong spot they could miss it, if only due to a poorly timed breeze.

Roberts and Wells were off to Campion’s left—to the south—creeping between bent and twisted cypress trees as they scanned the rim of a bog. To his right, Sawicki moved along the perimeter of the tall saw grass, careful to avoid the sharp edges—like teeth—on the blades. The stuff made Campion think of the legendary boscage in northern France that had tied down the allied breakout from Normandy in 1944.

He trailed the two dogs by a dozen yards as they trekked the open, muddy space between the two natural obstacles, searching the ground and the air for clues. The Eagle Eye had moved off to the west; the MH-6 was still audible but no longer visible.

"I’ve got movement!"

It was Sawicki. He had taken a step or two into the wall of grass.

Before Campion could move the soldier cried out, "Tango! Tango!"

Then something came out of the grass.

Campion got a brief look from a distance; Sawicki was up close and personal.

The creature shrieked and then Sawicki flew backwards through the air like a tossed toy soldier.

It came charging out, rushing headlong toward him.

To Campion, this was not a demonic-looking alien life form from another world; it was not a terrifying animal that had been cornered and now chose to fight. No, to Captain Campion this was the objective—the target—of their mission. And that mission was to capture it alive.

Despite the fact that it raced at him with the obvious intent to do harm, the idea of mowing the creature down with his HK MP5 never entered the captain’s thought process. Instead he immediately focused on finding a way to divert the creature west by northwest, closer to "Catcher’s Mitt" and closer to completing the mission.

Campion squeezed the trigger on his weapon, firing shots not into the pinkish, big-eyed monster but into the mud directly in the creature’s path. Globs of soft soil sprayed like shrapnel from the impact.

Instantly the fierce attack turned into retreat, with the devilish thing returning to the cover of the tall, prickly saw grass.

Roberts and Wells raced to his side while the dogs held their enthusiasm in check and waited for direction.

Campion knelt next to Sawicki. The man tried to shake away the cobwebs and sat with one hand on his ribs. He had been hit and thrown but not slashed or cut.

Campion transmitted coolly and professionally, "We have contact with target—repeat, contact at grid reference—" he paused and flipped open the computer screen to consult the map, "—9-4 south. Target is bipedal, five feet tall, aggressive, very strong, and heading west-northwest on foot and fast."

As Campion relayed the information he signaled for the attention of his dogs. He paused his transmission, held two fingers horizontally and wagged them in the direction their quarry had run, ordering, "Tyr, Phobos … flush, flush."

The two shepherds did not hesitate; they pursued the creature into the grass at a brisk pace.

Campion finished his communiqué, "Alpha team is in pursuit, target is heading straight for catcher’s mitt … repeat, target is heading straight for catcher’s mitt … ETA two minutes, tops."

Campion followed his hounds into the brush.

The hunt was on.

—

Gant received Campion’s transmission ,then sent one of his own to the circling helicopter: "Listen up, Van Buren. Get that gear working and get over to ninety-four south."

"Roger that."

"What about you?" the major asked Galati. "We hot yet?"

Sal did not answer at first. He flipped a switch on the power supply and the stunner hummed to life.

"Oh yeah, we’re hot."

"Good, because we have company coming."

—

The MH-6 "Little Bird" banked again and flew fast, keeping to a higher altitude. The job was no longer to pin or scare the target. Indeed, the chopper wanted to stay out of sight yet close enough to monitor the enemy's location with the infrared tracking gear.

"Okay … I think I’ve got it …" Van Buren spoke to himself before radioing his commanding officer. "Major, I’ve got a target—three targets. Two trailing the lead by about twenty yards. All three are moving pretty damn fast. I’m thinking the lead target is our friend, followed by the dogs."

Gant responded, "Distance?"

"Two hundred yards to catcher’s mitt. The guy’s headed straight for your front door."

—

The downdraft nearly forced Franco to his knees. The soldier walked—stooping—away from the area of effect around the gigantic HH-3E "Jolly Green Giant" helicopter’s single main rotor.

The extraction team was a mix of green-fatigued soldiers in bio warfare gear and technicians in white HAZMAT suits. They raced around the craft in search of points to affix cables.

Franco opened a channel to Major Gant: "Bravo here. The extraction team is on-site, expect e-vac of the property in about fifteen minutes. I’ve got the army engineers standing by. When the extraction is complete they’ll come in and doze over the skid mark. In about two hours CNN could have a picnic here and never know what happened."

Gant’s static-distorted answer came, "Understood, good job Bravo. Keep the inner perimeter secure until the job is finished."

Of course, I'm always left to clean up the mess.

—

Van Buren’s voice came over the headset: "Fifty yards and closing fast."

Gant to Galati: "Light her up."

Sal raised the heavy weapon to his shoulder, his eyes focused on the wall of grass.

The barks came closer. The sound of grass being trampled grew louder. And with it all was another noise; a combination of a grumble and a snort, perhaps meant as a violent warning toward its pursuers, maybe just the frightened ramblings of a trapped animal.

"Thirty yards," came the voice on the headset.

"Steady, Sal, nice and steady. You know what to do. Don’t think—just do it."

Gant had insurance in the form of his baton and his rifle. He glanced over at Twiste, who stood further back, away from the heart of the action. More doctor than soldier, Twiste preferred not to carry weapons and would be defenseless if the Taser failed. That did not sit well with Major Gant. Twiste was more than one of his soldiers, he was a friend. Sooner or later he knew he had to convince his friend to be better prepared for the threats Archangel faced.

Still, Gant hoped he did not have to use the rifle. Using the rifle meant another dead, useless carcass. Using the rifle meant another failed mission. He did not want to fail. They had come close twice before; he did not want to fail a third time.

"Twenty yards."

Twiste said, "Remember, this is a short range weapon but it needs a couple of yards of flight for the net to deploy."

They saw stalks thrash about as the target closed.

Galati gently touched the trigger. A single red laser target beam sliced forward with precision, its pencil-thin light ended at the wall of grass; a wall of grass that was like a curtain waiting to rise so as to start the show.

"It’s all yours, Chief," came Van Buren’s last update.

The grass parted.

The pink-skinned alien creature stopped dead in the gun sights of the hunter. Its black eyes rolled white in surprise, its big beastly jaw dropped open, aghast.

Galati fired.

A thick line shot from the fancy rifle, expanding in midair from a bundle to a wide, wiry net.

The quarry flailed its short, muscular arms in an instinctive flinch, only to be more thoroughly ensnared in the meshwork.

An electrical jolt enveloped the beast, burning the alien’s skin and eliciting a quick, haunting squeal. Sparks flew, a puff of foul-smelling smoke drifted in the morning air.

The shepherds emerged from the grassy curtain behind the thing but gave it a wide birth as they watched it twitch, cringe, then finally fall flat on its back.

Galati removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from his brow. Twiste patted the soldier on his back and said, "Nice shot."

Gant spoke into his headset as he stepped from the porch and examined the unconscious creature. Overhead the chopper hovered like a monstrous mechanical guardian angel.

"Mission accomplished. Target has been bagged intact. Repeat, target has been bagged intact. Bring in the retrieval units and let's head for home."
 

Liz tightened the belt on her white robe and reached for a mug on the kitchen counter. She paused as her hands touched the porcelain handle, her eyes transfixed on the strands of steam rising and twisting from the black liquid inside. What did she see? Two entwined dancers … a pair of missile contrails?

Is it possible to give oneself a Rorschach test?

Sometimes a cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee.

She grabbed the drink and forced herself to swallow a sip of the hot liquid in the hope that a little burning pain would chase away the introspection. The last thing she needed was to dive into the recesses of her own psyche.

Her mind found a new focus on a stack of file folders piled high on the kitchen table. Liz slipped into a chair, put her coffee down, and reached for the top file. Inside she found the same thing she would find in every file in that pile: sheets of paper containing background information, various test results, and all manner of data—both numbers and language—designed to boil a person down into neat columns of information that could be analyzed and reviewed.

Of course, she also saw a tracking sheet, and on that sheet were three lines. The bottommost of those lines would eventually receive her signature, after she had thoroughly reviewed the information therein and come to the conclusion that the person detailed in those pages was psychologically, socially, and mentally fit.

Fit for what? Well, that was not her concern. She was only a stop along the way. The signatures on the other two lines indicated that two others had already reviewed the file. Her job was to serve as a third level of redundancy.

She started to read, stopped, leaned back, and let her eyes wander to the bay windows on the far side of the living room. A long shadow stretched across the sidewalk outside, barely visible beyond the half-open blinds. She figured that by the time she reached for the last of those file folders the sun would be hanging just above the townhouse across the street before it disappeared for the day.

Liz sighed. She had thought working from home might take away some of the monotony. When she had cleared out her in-box before leaving the office last night she had actually looked forward to today. She had planned to sit around in her robe and alternate between work, television, and maybe a midday run when she could have the streets of the development all to herself.

It seemed environment made no difference. Those piles of files … that bottom line waiting for her signature … they were a prison regardless of whether she worked at home or at the office. Of course, a prison comprised of paperwork was preferable to the kind with bars, and there had been a time not too long ago that such a fate did not seem out of the question.

How the hell did I end up like this
was, perhaps, the more important question, one that had dogged her every day for the past two years.

She held her breath, closed her eyes, and then exhaled in the hope that the physical act of sighing would carry away all those pesky questions, the boredom, the bouts of self-doubt. When that failed, she tried to wipe them away by running a hand through her short blond hair, where she felt a few drops of moisture left over from the morning shower.

That did not work, either. Nothing ever did. At some point she must turn her attention to those files and begin another day of doing nothing noteworthy, of being the third signature.

The craving for a cigarette hit hard, more so than it had in the last six months. In truth, she wondered how she had staved off a return to that habit, particularly given the vast amount of nothingness occupying her days.

The house phone rang and she nearly jumped from her seat. It might have been the most exciting event at "work" in two years, although she did suffer a paper cut last week.

It rang again, as if urging her to act before the caller changed his mind.

Liz stood, returned to the kitchen counter, and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello? Yes, that's me. Sir, good morning, sir. Um, yes sir, I'm working from my home today. No, feeling fine, sir, just thought I could—okay. What's that? Oh, yes, well, I should point out that this is not a secure line. I … well, I'm not sure if I follow you, sir, that's not exactly my background. Yes, I was involved but I'm under orders not to … yes, I am familiar with your area of command, sir. Technically my last assignment was under your jurisdiction, if I remember correctly. What's that? Oh. No, I'm not familiar with that facility. Yes, I, well I would be interested, sir, it's just that, well, my understanding is that I've been restricted in my duties. The commission's final report—no sir, I'm not trying to argue. I would welcome the—yes, sir, I'll report this morning."