The Independent Worlds (The Sixteen Galaxies Book 2) Read online

  He smashed a fist into the tabletop. It buckled, but he didn’t notice. “They would have killed you! Alright?! They would have…they would have killed you, Mandy. Just like they killed your Mom and Dad.”

  Mandy got to her feet. She’d never felt so conflicted before. It was wrong to attack Jack like this, and she knew it. The rage, the hatred; it should be aimed, not at Jack, but at those that sent him. Her ability to reason lost the fight with her burning anger, and she leaned over the table at Jack, her eyes ablaze. “I want those flash drives, Jack. You’re going to give them to me. And then, I’m going to make them pay.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand, I can’t, I just can’t.”

  Mandy breathed hard, her face bright red. “Now you listen to me, you cowardly bast-”

  “I’m sorry, Mandy,” Truly interrupted, “but Jack must get to the portal room, now. We’re out of time. They have to leave, right now.”

  Jack got to his feet, his eyes averted from Mandy’s.

  “We’re not done, Jack!” she called out to his retreating back. “When you get back, I want those damned drives!” When he was gone, she sat back down and wept bitterly.

  *****

  Drifter’s home, Arizona

  The sunset was a glorious blaze of deep reds and purples. There was only a slight breeze, but the air already had a chill to it. Jack and Ron had appeared at what seemed to be an abandoned airbase. Carcasses of aircraft in various states of disrepair adorned either side of a weed-infested and potholed runway. A mangy Jack Russell terrier regarded them with mild disinterest from the top of a faded Cessna close by. The right undercarriage was collapsed, and the right wingtip touched the tarmac. The dog’s indifference gave Jack the distinct impression that people suddenly appearing out of nowhere happened so often here it was positively boring. The rusted hoop of an old windsock clanged against the weathered post it still hung from; the fabric of the sock itself rotted and gone long ago. Jack pulled the collar up on his jacket and hefted the large rucksack that had materialized beside him.

  “What a dump,” Ron declared. He lifted his own rucksack and they headed for the only light in the growing darkness. It glowed in the window of an old hangar twenty yards away.

  “You boys must be Jack and Ron.” The voice came from a nearby wingless fuselage of a DC-3. A man who looked to be in his sixties came out of the shadows of the rotting Douglas, a semi-auto shotgun held steady on them.

  “That’s us,” Jack replied. “How you know our names, then?”

  “A lady-friend with a strange name told me; you know her?”

  “Truly,” Ron replied, and the shotgun was lowered until it pointed at the ground.

  The stranger took the weapon in his left hand and offered them his right. “Dunstan Hall’s the name, but you can call me Drifter; all my friends do. Come and meet the boys, and then I’ll show you my birds.”

  Drifter led them into the old hangar adjacent to the runway. The exterior may have been dilapidated, but the interior was pristine. A small group of elderly men stood in the little reception area. To the right of them, photos of military helicopters hung behind a polished walnut counter top. Underneath the photos hung a large yellow shield. It had a black diagonal stripe and a black horse’s head in the top right. Below it, the motto ‘First Team’ was spelled out in big polished brass letters. The countertop was adorned with meticulously detailed models of helicopters. Jack had a gnawing suspicion he might know what they were doing here. Drifter introduced them to Magnus ‘Karl’ Marx, Graham ‘Bear’ Fullerton, and Robert ‘Bobby’ Markham.

  Jack paused as he shook Robert’s hand. “Markham, huh? Any relation to David Markham?”

  “He’s my boy,” Robert said, with more than a hint of pride.

  “I’m sorry about David,” Jack told him.

  “Not a problem,” Robert assured him. “We’re gonna get him out. Simple as that.”

  Yep, Jack thought, I figured as much. Truly, what have you gone and set up this time?

  Drifter introduced them to two more men, also in their sixties. “This here’s Mitchell Jackson; we just call him Mitch. His co-pilot/gunner is Timothy Cardwell, or Tiny, as in Tiny Tim. ‘Cept he ain’t, of course.”

  Drifter wasn’t lying; Cardwell had to be very close to 6’4”, by Jack’s estimate. That meant Tiny must have just scraped into the air force, as Jack knew the maximum height for the USAF was exactly that.

  “Come and see my birds,” Drifter invited. He led them into the hangar proper. Drifter’s ‘Birds’ consisted of six helicopters, in various states of repair. Four of them were half-built, but closest to the big doors of the old building were two choppers in perfect condition. The closest was a Bell UH-1H Iroquois, the venerable ‘Huey’, that had served the US military, and many other armed forces around the world, for decades. The second one Jack had seen once or twice, but only from a distance.

  “Oh my God,” Ron breathed, “is that a Snake?”

  “Yup, sure as hell is,” Drifter replied. All three walked up to the second chopper. Ron reached out and touched the fuselage with reverential awe. Where the UH-1H was the workhorse of the airborne cavalry, able to fulfill any number of roles from fire support to medevac duties, the Bell AH-1G Cobra gunship had only one purpose; delivery of large amounts of ammo in a very short time. It was best not to be at the wrong end of one of these things.

  Ron pointed to the weapons mounted on both helicopters. “Those teeth are all real, aren’t they?” The answer was obvious; he could see the rails that fed into the 4 M60 pintle-mounted machine guns on the Huey were filled with ammo.

  “I should hope so,” Drifter replied, “I ain’t doing no drop and extraction under fire if they’re not.”

  Ron pointed to the four rocket pods on the Cobra. “And those rockets are real, too. Where the hell did you get them?”

  Drifter shrugged. “I know a guy that knows a guy; you know how these things go.”

  “Fell off the back of a truck, huh?”

  “Ex-Israeli stock; black market gear. There’s a ton of stuff out there if you know where to look.”

  Jack held up both hands. “Now hang on a minute, just hold your horses for a second, here. I’m no aviation expert, that’s for sure. But I know for a fact that this thing,” he pointed to the UH-1H, “has a range of a couple of hundred miles at best. David’s in Oklahoma, and that’s gotta be over 900 miles from here. Never mind that the second we hit a satellite covered area, all hell’s gonna rain down on our heads.”

  Drifter laughed. “Truly don’t tell you boys much, does she?” He went over to the side door of the Huey and hauled out two long pointed stakes with translucent orbs on them. “Truly tells me these are old school, but she obviously didn’t go to the same school I did. All I know is, we gotta slap these in the ground on either side of the runway. They put up a portal doorway thingy, and we go from here to Oklahoma in the space of a bee’s fart. It’s gonna land us right on top of their base.”

  Jack shook his head and held his silence.

  “Oh! I almost forgot,” Drifter exclaimed. I’ll be right back.” He raced into the little office and came back out with a small plastic bottle in his hand. It was tiny, and had a thin nozzle on it. It was filled with a jet-black fluid. “Truly said to be real careful not to get any of this on anything but the bird’s fuselages.”

  They all gathered around Drifter. “What is it?” Robert Markham asked.

  Drifter shrugged. “Beats me. She just said to run a bead of some of this stuff on both fuselages just before we prep to go. Let’s give it a try.”

  He went over to the Huey and carefully applied a small bead onto the aluminum. The black bead sat there for a minute, and then started to grow. As it expanded across the bodywork, it’s growth rate increased exponentially. A small area of the panel was soon covered in it, and Jack noticed the actual shape of the chopper seemed to disappear as the black stuff grew over it.

  Karl peered at where the edge of the bla
ck now literally raced across the sheeting. “Okay, that’s some weird kinda paint you got there, Drifter.”

  Drifter applied a bead to the Cobra gunship as well, and they all stood and watched as every external feature of both helicopters vanished from sight. When it was done, both machines seemed to form holes in the air. They all wandered around the choppers, rapt fascination on every face.

  “Light absorption coating,” Ron said. “No reflection at all. I’ll bet this stuff swallows radar signals, too. Talk about ‘stealth’ mode…”

  “Truly said we can touch it as soon as it’s done growing,” Drifter said. He reached out a tentative finger and ran it across the surface. “Okay, that’s some trippy deal right there,” he declared. “You can feel it, but it don’t look like it’s even there.” He waved a finger in the air. “I reckon I know what this is for.” He went over to the office door and killed the lights. Even when their eyes adjusted to the light from outside, both aircraft were gone. They simply weren’t there, except for the interior of the craft visible through the open side doors. The M60 ‘Pig’ and its ammo chute on the side door seemed to float in midair. The sight was very disorienting. Drifter snapped the light switch back on and everybody stood in stunned silence.

  “Wish we’d had that stuff in ‘Nam,” Karl muttered.

  The silence slowly dissipated and was replaced by idle banter. Jack looked around at the old war-horses, who chatted and laughed together as if they were at a barbecue. They should be sitting on a front porch sucking a beer at their age, he thought, not entering a literal war zone to rescue a prisoner from an alien who was protected by US government agents. Jack could see past the casual camaraderie, too. He knew the look in their eyes; he knew it very well. It was fear. Why the hell would Truly use old men in old helicopters? Then it hit him; of course!

  “So,” he said to Drifter, “these choppers don’t have any computer systems in them? No silicon chips or CPUs?”

  Drifter chuckled. “The closest thing these babies have ever had in ‘em is potato chips and SOBs. Truly says the alien guys can take over anything with a computer in it. David’s put some other gadgets in both birds to keep the alien’s computer thingy out of the electronics they do have. He reckons they’ll even survive an EMP attack.”

  “How long has Truly been talking to you guys?”

  “Oh, about six months or so, I reckon. She never talked to us direct, though. David used to bring these little devices with him all the time. We just sat them on the ground and she’d talk to us. Got me beat, but it was like we really spoke with her. Pity she ain’t a real woman,” Drifter mused. “She sounds smokin’ hot.”

  Jack laughed. He mulled the whole crazy deal over in his head. The use of old technology negated Kestil’s AI; it had no access to take down the choppers. They still had to contend with the troops on the ground, and the situation didn’t stop Kestil from calling in heavier support. He also worried about these old guys; what if one of them had a heart attack? Especially one of the pilots.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. “You need to trust Truly, Jack,” Ron said. “Sure, this is mostly duct tape and jam tins. But remember, Mandy found Kestil’s base on her own with no tech whatsoever.”

  Jack flinched; he didn’t want to think about Mandy right now. Ron patted his shoulder. “Think it over, Jack. You reckon Kestil will be prepared for an airborne attack? He doesn’t even know we’re coming.”

  There was a crackle of static from the headset of a helmet on the seat next to Drifter. He picked it up and listened for a second. “Copy,” he said into the microphone. He looked around at them all. “Saddle up, boys, we’re satellite clear in twenty minutes.” He saw Jack frown at the headset. “We got our guardian angel with us tonight, too.” He pulled a little cube out of his pocket and held it up. “David gave it to me just before he got caught.” He kissed it and put it back in his pocket.

  Jack grabbed his rucksack and headed for the Huey. Mandy’s last words to him echoed in his mind. He couldn’t give her those drives, that much was certain. But if he didn’t, there was no way in hell she’d let it go. Focus! he scolded himself. The past is the past, and you can’t change any of it. Get on with the job at hand, and leave the past where it belongs – and the worries of the future to tomorrow.

  18

  Chicago, Illinois, 2005

  A dark grey sedan pulled up outside the burnt-out shell of a four-bedroom two-story house. State Fire Marshal Louis Benton looked up from the set that had probably started the fire. He cursed under his breath when two men got out of the car. Both wore suits, sunglasses and an attitude you could smell a mile away. That’s the end of that, then, Benton thought.

  The first guy showed Louis a badge; FBI. “Mr. Benton, I’m Agent Donovan, this is my partner Agent Prentice.”

  Louis reluctantly shook hands with both. “I take it I’m leaving?”

  Donovan shrugged. “Very shortly, but first I’d like your opinion on this case.”

  “Well,” Louis replied, “without the dead body that was just over there, I would’ve said electrical fault in the power outlet that was here.” He pointed to the blackened remains of an internal wall. “Guy who set it was a pro, out and out. A fuse of sorts from the outlet to the cupboard under the stairs. Probably light accelerant on fast burning medium, possibly ripped cotton or screwed up paper balls. No remains of that, of course. Main point of combustion was the cupboard, well stocked with cleaning equipment and materials, much of it flammable. Judging by the hinges, the door to the cupboard was wide open.”

  He held up the twisted remains of a door hinge. “This is the only thing that would have given me any cause for doubt. Well, that and the fact that the glass sliding door to the patio was open, too. The cops tell me the body had one knife wound. Stabbed in the chest, one blow, fatal.”

  The two agents exchanged a brief glance at that. “Go on,” Donovan invited.

  “So, the dead guy must have been the arsonist, or he would’ve closed the door when he left. It was set to lock when closed, classic exit strategy for a quick burn like this.”

  “I see,” Donovan said. “How do you know it was a combat knife?”

  Benton pointed outside. “Cops got it. The assailant dropped it when he did a tumble off the roof. Looks like he went upstairs and got the daughter out through a window above the porch. He dragged her clear and got away.”

  Donovan pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Thank you, Mr. Benton. This is now a Federal case, so I must ask you to leave. No written records, please.”

  Benton sighed and started to pack his kit. Donovan lit a smoke and strode over to a uniformed policeman. “Officer in charge, please.” The young cop pointed to a burly plain-clothes detective. The agents introduced themselves and he told them he was Detective Monahan.

  “I understand,” Donovan began, “that the victim found downstairs was killed by a single knife thrust to the chest. Is that true?”

  Monahan nodded. “Incredible, but true. Probable cause of death was a precise horizontal blade, diagonally from right to left between the ribs and into the heart. Blade driven in up to the hilt and withdrawn to speed up death. Guy was dead in minutes, or asphyxiated from the smoke. Autopsy will tell us that, hopefully. Either the killer was lucky, or a real pro.”

  “How come the body wasn’t burned beyond analysis?” Prentice asked.

  Monahan gave him a shrug. “CSI said they had conclusive visual evidence. They wouldn’t have given me a PCD otherwise, would they?”

  “Do you have the knife?” Donovan asked.

  Monahan yelled out to one of the crime scene investigators, and the man brought the murder weapon over. He handed the weapon in a plastic bag to Donovan.

  Agent Prentice gave a low whistle. “KM2000; very nice.”

  Donovan nodded. “Polyamide handle, laser sharpened blade. German army issue. Our boy’s possibly German, then.”

  Detective Monahan cleared his throat. “Knife belonged to the victim, actually. The body
had the remains of a scabbard on his belt.”

  Donovan turned to the CSI. “How come the body was in good enough condition to get all the detail?”

  “Fire boys said most of the heat went up, concentrated around the stair well, until it hit the timber floor of the upper level. Your boy was over there,” he pointed towards where the glass door had been, “where a section of upper floor came down and kind of protected it. Hoses got to it before it could burn properly. It seems both men wore high-end surgical gloves; non-latex and thick enough to leave no prints. We’ve got plenty of blood samples, though, and DNA.”

  Donovan thanked him and the CSI picked his way back through the rubble.

  Agent Donovan nodded to Monahan. “Sorry, Detective, but this is now a Federal inquiry; I’m sure you know the drill.”

  Monahan strode away with a scowl on his face. Donovan turned to Prentice. “Pro hit gone wrong.”

  “Yeah,” Prentice replied, “but another pro took him out. Bet we get nothing from the blood and DNA samples.”

  “I bet you’re right,” Donovan replied. “Identifying the dead guy is gonna be tough enough, but we really need to worry about the one that killed him. He’s out there somewhere, and he may not be done yet.”

  “True that,” Prentice said. “But, why get the girl out? Second guy possibly connected to the victims somehow?”

  Donovan kicked at a piece of charred timber on the floor. “The girl may be able to shed some light on that. Twenty bucks says we’ll never talk to her, though. I’ve got a nasty feeling we won’t even get to lay eyes on her. This will be kicked across to the CIA, just you wait and see.”

  *****

  Drifter’s home, Arizona, Present Day

  They’d pushed the two helicopters through the big doorway, and they now sat outside the hangar, ready to go. They had a small window of opportunity before another satellite came into range and Drifter was yelling at everyone to get butts in seats, pronto. Jack buckled himself into a seat in the rear of the Huey. Ron dropped into the seat beside him. He could hear Drifter and Karl as they ran through the preflight checklist. Then he heard switches being snapped on, followed by the whine of pumps and various hydraulic gear being tested. Around him the chopper started to come to life; clicks, buzzes and other small noises. These soon faded as the Lycoming turboshaft engine whined into life.