The Alpha Chronicles (5 page)

Stoke actually managed a convincing laugh and then became serious. “I don’t think so, Ditto. I think my men can kill you before you hit that button. Even if we are a little slow, we’ll just kick your dead body out of the way and close the gates before too much damage is done.”

Ditto peered around the machine, a genuine grin painted on his face. Without a word, the man held up a hand grenade being squeezed tightly in his right hand. “I don’t think so,” he touted. “If my grip leaves this device, the explosion will destroy the control panel. A wall of water will rage down the valley, and you’ll face the wrath of those who want your heads to balance the scales of justice.”

Stoke looked at the floor and pretended disgust. “Ditto, you know that’s not going to work. Even if I believed you, I can just pull back my men and wait you out. You’re bound to run out of food sometime.
You’ve got to leave eventually. We’ll just surround this place and wait out the siege.”

It was Ditto’s turn to laugh. “You take me for a fool. I have hundreds of men on their way here. They will kill you on sight. You should be running right now before they get here and skin you alive.”

“They will die, Ditto. Just like all the men you sent before. Why don’t you be a smart lad and just tell me where our machinery is? That’s the only way out, Ditto.”

“It seems we are at an impasse,” was the response from behind the console. “Perhaps I can offer an alternative that would be agreeable to all parties.”

“
Always the businessman
,” Bishop thought. 

“Go ahead. I’m listening, Ditto.”

“While I have sold the recovered equipment to my Russian colleagues, I have not delivered the merchandise as of yet. It is possible that I could cancel their order and accept equal payment from your firm. A sum of 50 million dollars US, wired into one of my accounts, would ensure I provided an address where the equipment could be found.”

The offer actually relaxed Bishop. Aiming a weapon at a man whose finger hovered over a trigger of mass destruction was wearing his nerves thin. The hope of a non-catastrophic solution lessened the tension in his shoulders.

Strokes’ response eased Bishop’s frayed nerves a bit more. “Ditto, $50,000,000 seems like quite a lot for a ‘finder’s fee.’ An arrangement like that is above my level of authority. I’ll have to contact my people before I can agree to anything.”

“Take your time…. I’m not going anywhere…
but not too much time. My soldiers will be arriving soon.”

Stoke whispered to his men, “Watch him. Don’t do anything unless he tries to leave this room. I’m going to contact Houston on the satellite phone and see what they want us to do.”

Without waiting on a response, Stoke left the room.

Twenty minutes later, the team leader reappeared in the machinery chamber. Without any word to his two men, Stoke began speaking. “Ditto, I have agreement from Houston for your proposal. I’ll need the routing information and account number for the bank where you want the funds transferred.”

Stoke then shocked Bishop. The team leader half turned and whispered, “Take him out. Do your best and try and knock him down.”

Bishop was stunned, his lips trying to mouth words of protest, but his tongue unable to form any sounds. Stoke grabbed Bishop’s shoulder and said, “Do your best, lad. Don’t forget to get out of the way of the grenade.”

Ditto began rattling off numbers, but Stoke interrupted him. “Ditto! Ditto! Wait. I’m not going to send 50 million dollars racing off into cyberspace based on my memory. Write the damn numbers down so there’s no mistake.”

Conflicting thoughts were racing through Bishop’s head a mile a minute, his logic reeling from the implications of Houston’s decision. Somehow, he focused enough to return his cheek to the stock of the shotgun and his finger to the trigger.

Ditto paused and then responded, “Pardon my lack of preparation Mr. HBR man, but I seem to have left my paper and pencil in my
other
office.”

“I’ll get you what you need. Hold on one second.”

Returning quickly, Stoke leaned his weapon against the doorframe and slowly stepped towards Ditto with his hands held high. He held a scrap of paper and a pen in one hand. When he was within reach of the bureau, Stoke carefully set the items on the surface and then began backing up.

Ditto’s eyes never left the team leader, a bare shadow of the man nervously watching from his cover.

Bishop was ready. Despite his shaking hands and churning stomach, the red dot of the shotgun’s optic never moved from the bridge of Ditto’s nose. When Ditto reached for the pen and paper, Bishop squeezed the trigger.

The single ounce of plastic-encased sand exited the muzzle traveling at over 1300 feet per second. After leaving the tight confines of the shotgun’s barrel, the un-aerodynamic projectile wobbled slightly but held its course, striking Ditto directly in the mouth.

Only small snapshots of time entered Bishop’s mind after his shot. Ditto’s head snapping backwards… blood and bits of flesh showering into the air… the hand holding the grenade instinctively moving to the pain tearing through his face… the explosive device coming loose and drifting through the air.

Spider had already lifted his boot to step when the metal case of the grenade pinged with impact on the concrete floor. Bishop watched his friend casually take two more, big steps and scoop up the ticking bomb. With a single motion, the contractor flung the volatile, incendiary device toward the far corner of the room.

It dawned on Bishop that he was still on one knee, and he twisted to dive for cover. There was just enough time to sense the cold surface of the concrete against his cheek before the room was filled with the violent shock wave of the grenade. Shrapnel whizzed through the air, the screaming slices of metal mimicking the sound of giant, angry bees. Pipes, walls, and machinery sounded with the impact of the deadly hunks of steel… pings, thuds, and rattles all around.

Stoke was up first, immediately moving for Ditto and the control panel. Bishop followed next, rising to his feet before Spider could recover from his less than acrobatic dive.

Bishop didn’t care anymore about the machinery, HBR’s investment, or Ditto. As he half stumbled through the fog of cordite smoke, his eyes were fixed on the handle that controlled the floodgates. It took a moment to figure out the controls. There were meters, slide levers, and several warning lights. Bishop finally found the gauge that was labeled “Gate 1 Capacity,” and then its twin, “Gate 2.”

Both indicators read 30%.

Bishop exhaled, closing his eyes and tilting his head skyward. The respite was short-lived as Spider began pumping him for information. “Did this fucker open them? Is the dam going to hold?”

“They’re fine,” replied Bishop. “No flood. He didn’t even touch the controls.”

Stoke spoke up from behind the control panel where he was bent over a groaning Ditto. “Come help me with our new friend, lads. He’s a little too unstable to walk on his own. Does anyone know a good local dentist?”

The hotel balcony was on the third floor and provided an excellent view of the pedestrian traffic plying the sidewalks below. Bishop sat with his bare feet soaking up the sunshine while he sipped a glass of real lemonade – the casual tourist, people-watching from his roost.

He was seriously considering another nap when three knocks sounded at the door. Cursing the interruption, he rose slowly and gingerly strode to the entry. Peering through the peephole, he immediately recognized Spider’s face behind the middle finger flipping an obscene gesture.

Bishop couldn’t resist. “Who is it?” he sang.

“You know damn well who it is, let me in.”

“I’m busy.”

“Bullshit…
quit fucking around and open up.”

“I’ve got two young ladies visiting right now, and they’re very modest around strangers.”

Spider paused as if he were actually considering the truth of Bishop’s claim. After some minor deliberation, he presumed the story was a stunt and began cursing at his friend.

Bishop let his
buddy generate a small head of steam before undoing the deadbolt and opening the door. He grunted when Spider stuck just his head inside, looking around to insure there weren’t any women.

“You fucker…
always a clown… one of these days that shit is going to come back and bite your ass.”

“Did you stop by to tutor me on the finer arts of social interaction?”

“No, asshole, I stopped by to tell you to pack up. The Colonel and his crew recovered the equipment and we’re flying out of this shithole in four hours. The truck is going to pick us up out front. Be there or be square.”

Bishop nodded, a deep grimace crossing his face.

Spider detected his friend’s mood and probed. “What’s wrong, Bishop? You’ve got that look in your eye.”

“I don’t know, Spider. I’m considering resigning. I’m not sure I want to work for someone who puts money ahead of human life.”

Spider’s head sunk, his chin resting on his chest. “I know, I’ve been thinking the same thing. Management’s decision to take that chance up at the dam versus paying some money has been bothering me, too. That whole thing could have ended in a huge cluster fuck.”

Stoke appeared in the doorway, his hand raised to knock on the still open door. “Oh hello, Spider. I was just coming by to give Bishop the word. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, sir. Everything is fine. Spider and I were just discussing our future.”

Stoke entered the room, closing the door behind him. He looked to each man, a fatherly expression on his face. “Now let me guess, lads. You’re both feeling blue about the gamble we took up at the lake. You’re both wondering if you want to work for such greedy bastards that would make a decision like that. Am I right?”

Spider nodded without making eye contact with the older man. Bishop remained silent.

“I’m not going to lecture either of you. You’re both grown men and in control of your own destiny. I
do, however, want to ask you both a simple question. Can either of you name me one potential employer who doesn’t do the same thing? When a bank repossesses a farm, aren’t they in effect putting money ahead of people? When a factory furloughs workers, isn’t that the same commercial sin of placing the corporate bottom line ahead of the needs of individual workers? What corporation would you go to work for with completely noble intentions? I know, you can go find a job for a tobacco company – there’s an employer who doesn’t put money ahead of life.”

Stoke looked at both men, making sure his point was making it through. His tone softening, he continued. “I don’t know of any employer who doesn’t give money a high priority in any risk assessment. The problem might not be that of a weapon killing someone. The issue may involve closing a plant or reducing redundant staff and sending them off to the unemployment line.
It’s all part of life, gentlemen. If HBR had paid our friend Ditto those funds, who knows how many of your American mates they would’ve had to let go? Who can tell how many families would have suffered because of paying a criminal huge sums of money? Besides that, an “entrepreneur” who is willing to fuck the Russians after they paid for our merchandise might not be the most reputable business partner either.”

Bishop and Spider looked up at the older, wiser man, both of their faces indicating they were absorbing his message.

Stoke placed one hand on each contractor’s shoulder and continued, “Just think about it, lads. Give it few good mental cycles before you do anything rash. HBR is as good a master as it gets. They’re not perfect, but they get it right most times.”

Bands of color brought my eyes

From desert floor ‘cross cobalt skies.

Ahead stood stark, against the blue

A tree, smit by nature, grew.

Still green in spots from life persistent

Lightening had split the wood dehiscent.

Strong it stood as it long would

By God’s great hand,

Held straight to stand.

My eyes moved on and found their rest

Upon a wondrous eagle’s nest.

What else could this great land present,

To such a soul that must lament?

Looking deeply, inward most,

My view came upon The Host
;

The Holy Spirit dwelled within

This heart, this land, this gracious wind.

And
in my heart there came a peace

That only rests within the beasts.

To see the feathered eagle’s wings

Unfurl against the cobalt sky

And with it draw my eye once more

‘Cross bands of color to the desert floor-

Lament no more.

DALH
2013

January 8, 2016

Alpha, Texas

Diana blinked her eyes, wondering if she had been dreaming or had really heard the noise. Confused by her rapid transition from REM sleep, she wasn’t entirely sure where she was or why she was there. Something about a whistle. Something about that was important.

Her neck was stiff, one arm was asleep, and she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Commanding her body to shift for relief, the stack of papers on her chest fell to the floor and scattered. It all instantly came back - she had been reviewing the endless volume of paperwork when exhaustion had overcome her determination to clean out her inbox.

Sitting up on the office couch, she rubbed her eyes and threw a disgusted look at the chaotic mass of forms, requests, and status reports strewn about the floor.
No rest for the wicked
, she thought.

As she bent to rearrange the clutter, the distant whistle sounded again. The signal caused her head to snap up, energy suddenly surging through her veins. The whistle was a call for help…
an emergency… a rudimentary alarm system for a community that didn’t possess working telephones.

Half-stumbling
toward the office door, she was relieved to discover Nick snoring away on the reception area’s couch. With only a minor pang of guilt about waking someone who needed rest as much as she, Diana gently called out, “Nick…. Nick…. Someone’s blowing a whistle.”

Being a professional military man instills many small, hardly noticeable habits in a person. Long-time soldiers learn to eat quickly, sleep anywhere, and store their personal items in a regimented, efficient way. One such attribute developed over many campaigns in hostile lands is the capability to awaken quickly – to transform from a deep slumber to alert and ready faster than most.

While the question of “Whistle?” was rolling off his tongue, Nick’s legs were already sweeping off the sofa, heading for the carpeted floor. Before Diana could react, his right hand had touched the rifle leaning nearby while his left was reaching for socks and boots.

“I heard a whistle, twice I think. I’m sure of the second signal.”

Nick was tying off his boot when the third screech of alarm reached the couple’s ears.

“Something’s very wrong,” Diana announced as she pulled on her flats.

Two minutes later, the couple bounded down the church steps, unsure of what they were facing. While Nick and some of the men carried handheld radios for communication, the vast majority of Alpha’s citizens did not. No telephone service meant no calling 9-1-1. It had become common practice for the townsfolk to use whistles when an emergency required quick response.

The handy, little noisemakers provided a first-rate solution. The flat desert terrain, coupled by the still Texas air, provided an excellent environment for their effective use. Plentiful, cheap, and easy to use, anyone of any age could call for help with a single, strong exhalation - the only shortcoming being that the responders didn’t have any idea about the nature of the crisis. An elderly person may have fallen. Looters might be trying to break into a home. A child may have gone missing, or someone could be too sick to get out of bed.

The cause of tonight’s alarm became obvious moments after the couple pushed through the church’s front doors. A red glow on the horizon announced something was on fire, and it wasn’t a trash barrel. A telltale whiff of smoke, scorching plastic, and toxic fumes provided a confirmation that whatever was burning, it wasn’t inconsequential.

Nick
glanced down at his rifle and chest rig, sure he wouldn’t be needing the firepower, but not wanting to take the time to return the equipment to the church. He and Diana ran to the nearby golf cart and were soon speeding toward the firestorm.

On the way to the blaze, Nick pondered the cause of these random fires. Without the expertise and training of a professional investigator, there was
really no way to be sure. Alpha’s entire fire department had succumbed to the toxic cloud of gas released that fateful Sunday morning when the chemical plant exploded. 

There had been a rash of small blazes
after the power was restored. Appliances having electricity for the first time in months were no doubt the cause of some fires. Any electrical connection could short out. HVAC systems overheating and general wiring faults were probably as much to blame – but there was no way to be sure.

It was clear from several blocks away that they were approaching a full-fledged inferno. The red and yellow flames flashing skyward outlined the dark shadows of numerous onlookers. There were
a half dozen men with garden hoses trying to spray water on the blaze, but they were completely outmatched. The heat was so intense the would-be firefighters couldn’t get close enough for their weak streams of water to arch onto the flames.

Nick hopped out of the cart before it came to a complete stop, sprinting as close as possible to the firestorm to assess the situation. The clapboard-clad bungalow where the flames had begun was a total loss, already consumed by the roaring blaze. He prayed there wasn’t anyone inside. The neighboring, downwind Victorian would reach the same state in a matter of minutes. A dense cloud of dark, black smoke already enveloped the structure, intermittent wisps of flame visible through the windows.

“Forget about that house!” Nick yelled at the hose-men. “Move next door. That one’s gone, but we might keep the flames from spreading.”

Diana
was now behind him, quizzing several onlookers. “Where’s our fire truck?”

“It’s still inoperable. We haven’t got
ten around to having it repaired,” replied one man.

Nick hustled to Diana’s side and shouted over the noise, “Send someone to the fire station, and at least bring back some
serious hose.” He pointed to the fire hydrant in the middle of the block and continued. “Make sure and retrieve the tools to break that hydrant loose. If we can hook up the big hose there, we might be able to keep the blaze from spreading.”

Diana nodded, “I’m on it,” and then hustled off to organize some men.

Just as Nick turned to see how the small hoses were doing, a man raced toward Nick, grabbing him in a panic. “There are people in the second home. I just talked to the neighbors, and they’re sure. At least two adults and one child.”

“Are you sure? How can anyone be sure?”

“The neighbors and I have looked all around for them. I’ve circled the house twice and asked everyone. They have to be inside.”

“Shit!”

Nick ran to the golf cart where he knew Diana kept a blanket. Being cold natured, she often wrapped herself in the spread while riding in the open-air vehicle at night. Rushing back with the quilted wool cover, he approached one of the men using a hose and yelled, “Soak me!”

“What?” responded the surprised
man.

“I said, ‘SOAK ME!’ Spray me down with your hose. I’m going inside. Spray down the blanket, too!”

Shrugging his shoulders, the man turned the water on Nick and began drenching the big fellow from head to toe. While Nick was receiving his shower, Diana realized what he was going to do and scurried over.

“What are you doing? You’re not going in that house, Nick!”

“There are people inside, and I have to try and get them out. I need an axe or crowbar or something heavy.”

“I’ve got a big axe in my garage,” offered the man operating the hose.

“Get it, please, and hurry.”

Handing off his hose to Diana, the gent hustled off.

Nick, now dripping wet, pointed to the blanket lying on the ground and instructed, “Soak that, too. I’m going to use it as a cocoon.”

Diana could tell there was no talking him out of it. Shaking her head in disgust, she redirected the water. While Diana worked the hose, Nick ran dripping back to the cart and began digging around in his chest rig. He found his goggles, gloves, and baklava mask, quickly pulling the gear on.

By the time he returned, the axe owner was back, and the blanket was ready.

Nick looked like some sort of robotic mass murderer as he approached the burning home. With the pickaxe on his shoulder, blanket hood, and only a goggle-covered, masked face visible, Diana wondered if he wouldn’t scare the occupants to death before the fire could overwhelm them.

One kick from his size 14 boot made short work of the door, the breech greeted by a new column of dark, toxic smoke rolling from the top of the threshold.
Stay low
, he reminded himself.
Heat rises, and the poisonous air will go with it.

The living room was dense with confused clouds of brown and black haze. Nick dropped to his knees, the blanket-shield making it difficult to crawl. He guessed the layout of the two-story home would position the master bedroom on the first floor, the child’s room above.

Deciding to bend low at the waist rather than crawl, he could see flames spreading through the kitchen area and the back of the house. Despite his wrapping of wet cloth, the heat was intense. The rapidly spreading blaze suddenly illuminated the staircase, and Nick headed that way. His passage was blocked by a completely engulfed china cabinet that had collapsed across the hall, two of its legs weakened from incineration. Using the axe with one hand, he quickly splintered the blockage and then hopped over the smoldering remains.

He passed the door to the master bedroom on the way to the stairs. Peering inside, the smoke cleared just enough to make out the outline of at least one person lying in the bed. The curtains and part of the carpeting were already fueling the fiery beast, and visibility was degrading by the second.

Nick leaned the axe against the wall and moved to the bed. A man, probably in his early 30s, was lying in the hazy air, his mouth wide open as if grasping for breath. Nick pulled back the covers and watched for a moment, relieved when the fellow’s chest shuddered with a weak inhalation.

Nick scooped up the man, effortlessly tossing the unresponsive body over his shoulder. His intent was to return to the front door, but the living room ceiling was now engulfed and sagging. Turning back, he realized the back door leading from the kitchen was an inferno and impassable.

Using his left hand while holding onto his limp cargo with his right, Nick swung the blade hard at the bedroom window. The glass gave way without any problem, the remaining shards removed with a few circles of the axe head.

Nick started to climb out with his survivor, but a thundering collapse sounded behind him. Realizing he wasn’t going to be able to climb the stairs if he waited much longer, Nick lowered the rescued body out the window as far as he could and then flung it with a heave. The man landed with a thud, but Nick was sure the guy would prefer sore to dead.

Nick turned to find the firestorm had fully invaded the bedroom and was blocking his exit. The now open window was a magnet for the smoke, which blocked everything from view except the red-hot flames sprouting through the poisonous fog. Twisting low to the opening, he took two breaths of the cleanest air available and then held a final lung full.

Charging like a linebacker, Nick entered the inferno moving
as if he were being chased by hell’s hounds. It was only a few steps to the stairs, but those were some of the most frightening footfalls he could ever remember. Red embers filled the air, competing with hot whisks of fumes and boiling, angry spouts of flame. Foul, sulfuric-thick vapors swirled around his head, the venomous clouds riding the thermals generated by the incineration of tinder. By the time he reached the bottom step, his blanket was steaming, and he could sense the heat through the soles of his boots.

Taking the steps two at a time, Nick found himself in even denser haze. Going prone, he could barely detect four doors surrounding the small landing. Picking the closest one, he again held his breath and found the knob, feeling for the latch more from memory than being able to see in the dense, toxic fog.

The door yielded, but inside was a bathroom empty of inhabitants. As the smoke hadn’t filled the room just yet, Nick took the opportunity to exchange the air in his lungs, the effort burning his throat and filling his mouth with a foul, metallic taste.

Nick bent low again to get a bearing on the next entryway. As he attempted to stand, he became dizzy for a moment.
I’ve got to get out of this hell
, he thought.
The fumes are getting to me.

Heat wasn’t helping Nick’s body either. Even away from direct contact with the flames, the ambient temperature upstairs was approaching 150 degrees. Sweat streamed from every pore of his body, instantly evaporated by the super-heated atmosphere. He was being boiled alive.

He hit pay dirt inside the third room. Lying on the floor was a woman in a nightgown, her body acting as a shield while covering a small boy. Nick didn’t check to see if either was breathing – there just wasn’t time. Already his stomach was churning, and he had a headache unlike anything he’d ever felt. Throwing off the now dry, worthless blanket, he lifted the woman off the child and then managed to get both to his shoulders.

The trip out of the building was accomplished from memory without benefit of sight. Every cell of Nick’s body screamed with protest as he lunged down the stairs. Pain racked his chest and head, his muscles protesting the lack of clean, usable oxygen. The heat was overwhelming. The loss of vision reminded Nick of swimming under water in the dark. The roar of flames and blinding smoke deprived him of sensory input; the only thing registering in his brain was pain and heat.