Hallows Eve Page 4

Orlando smiled. “Yeah. Hard to find the right mix. Someone who can think on their own, be a pain in the ass, but in the crunch work with the team. A dying trait.” He got serious. “Sorry. No pun intended there. Did Moms retire Doc’s name?”

  “Yes. We have a new table. His name is on it.”

  “As long as we remember his name,” Orlando murmured, “he lives on.”

  Eagle squinted. “The back ramp is down. The grenade scenario?”

  “A version of it,” Orlando said. “I’ve been thinking about lose-lose.”

  “Is that why you said ‘supposed to the best measure of a man’?” Eagle asked.

  “Yeah. The Kobe Bryant Star Trek thingie you mentioned. Everyone acts like Kirk did the right thing by cheating. And we know cheating is important. If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying. One of the first lessons you learn in Special Ops. But it’s more important to evaluate how someone reacts to an unexpected situation. Some times you got to follow rules. Kirk essentially changed the scenario, therefore the scenario was no longer valid. The issue is that he actually didn’t take the real test.”

  “He did,” Eagle said. “According to Star Trek backstory. Twice. Failed both times.”

  “Failed which way?”

  “I don’t remember,” Eagle said.

  “Would be nice to know. Makes a difference. Did he follow the rules or break the rules?”

  People came off the back ramp as the C-130 passed overhead.

  “I count eleven jumpers,” Eagle said.

  “Hmm,” was Orlando’s response. “What makes you think they have parachutes?”

  “We’re not supposed to kill them,” Eagle said.

  “I suppose.” Orlando sounded disappointed.

  A parachute blossomed open. Then another. And another. Until all eleven were floating down to earth .

  The C-130 banked and lost altitude, lining up on the runway.

  Eagle was tracking the jumpers. “They’re going to land on the far side of the runway.” He turned for the Jeep.

  “Where you going?” Orlando asked.

  “To get them.”

  “Can’t fit all of them in there,” Orlando said. “They got feet. They can walk.”

  “All right,” Eagle said. “What exactly was the scenario in there?”

  Orlando shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “How can you evaluate them then?”

  “Already did.”

  The C-130 touched down. Sand and dirt blew about as it slowed, then taxied toward Orlando and Eagle. It came to a halt facing away at an angle, the back ramp lowering to touch the concrete, engines still running. In the distance, the jumpers were gathering their parachutes, rolling them up. The familiar smell of turboprop exhaust bathed Eagle and Orlando with its essence, eliciting subliminal memories.

  “Come on,” Orlando said. He walked toward the plane. Eagle followed.

  There was one person sitting on the red webbing along the outer edge in the large cargo bay. Orlando waved at him.

  The man didn’t respond. He was dressed in a dull gray jumpsuit. He sported long, disheveled gray hair to his shoulders, and a gray beard streaked with white. He appeared asleep, head lolled back.

  Or dead.

  Orlando had to shout to be heard above the sound of the engines. “End of the line.”

  “I’ll not be going anywhere with the likes of you, Orlando,” the man said with a Scottish accent. “Nothing good can come of that.”

  “Nothing good came of the last thing you did,” Orlando said, “considering I got you out of the Penitentiary.”

  “A temporary setback.” The old man opened his eyes and looked at Eagle, then back at Orlando. “I recognized your little game. All the little ducklings jumped. One was kind enough to offer to do a tandem with me, seeing as there weren’t enough chutes. I kindly thanked the lad, but told him I preferred where I was. Appears I was correct as to the status of the pilots and the plane. What a surprise the plane didn’t crash. I was quite terrified.”

  “Eagle, meet Angus. Angus, this is Eagle. ”

  “I presume that was not the name passed to you by your parents,” Angus said. He stood and offered his hand. “And it’s Angus. Never Gus.”

  Eagle took it and was surprised at the firm grip. Angus was solidly built, the same height as Eagle at six foot, but broader, with a barrel chest. He was old, but he was in shape. How old was hard to tell. His face was weathered, leathery, deep lines etched around the eyes. Anywhere from a hard fifty-something to an excellent seventy-something.

  “Let’s go,” Orlando said, indicating the ramp and the waiting Jeep.

  “Do I have a choice?” Angus asked.

  Orlando shrugged. “The plane can take you back to the Big House. Or you can get off and come with us.”

  “It’s peaceful back there,” Angus said, as if he were seriously debating the decision.

  “I’m sure it is,” Orlando said. “No demands on you. I’m sure the other fellows leave you alone, being as you’re such a manly man and all that.”

  Angus grinned, revealing terrible teeth. Revealing there wasn’t much of a dental plan in the Big House.

  “That I am, that I am. I’m getting quite a bit of reading done. Catching up on all those years I didna have the time. Books a smart person is supposed to read in their lifetime. I suppose you’ve already made it through the list, but I’m a bit slow.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you came,” Orlando said. “Eagle is the reader. You two can chat.”

  “And why would you appreciate it?” Angus asked.

  “You would add a voice of experience and reason to our organization,” Orlando said.

  Angus laughed. “Now you’re pulling my leg. And what organization will that be?”

  “Can’t tell you unless you come,” Orlando said.

  “If it’s got the likes of you in it, that’s not exactly sending the recruiting poster child out, is it now?” Angus asked.

  Orlando shrugged. “Maybe it is if we want the likes of you.”

  “Ah well,” Angus said. “I’m sure this promises to be some sort of grand adventure.” He held out his hand and Orlando produced the flask. Angus took a deep draught. “Still drinking swill. We’ll have to work on that.” He took another drink of the swill. “Let’s be off then.” He put the flask in his pocket and walked off the ramp.

  Possibility Palace

  The pneumatic tube behind Dane delivered a scroll with a resounding thump.

  A special sound, because the paper was a unique weight, extra thick, and rarely used.

  Dane opened the tube and retrieved the scroll. He placed it on his table and used some of the thick personnel files to hold it open.

  It was his equivalent of a Zevon; an alert of a pending attack by the Shadow. It listed the day of the year and the six years of the coming bubbles in time along with locations. Dane scanned it:

  31 OCTOBER

  1517—WITTENBERG CASTLE CHURCH, GERMANY

  1692—SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS

  1828—ZULULAND, SOUTH AFRICA

  1941—NORTH SEA, COORDINATES: 51.983°N 27.083°W USS REUBEN JAMES

  1984: PRIME MINISTER’S RESIDENCE, NEW DELHI, INDIA

  ZERO DAY—ZERO YEAR. 60 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NY

  He stared at the last line, trying to process it.

  The door to his office opened without a knock. There was only one person who would do that.

  “I saw it,” Sin Fen said.

  “I don’t understand,” Dane said. “What is Zero Day-Zero Year? When is it?”

  “I don’t know the entire thing,” Sin Fen said. “But I do know what a Zero Day is. It’s a computer term, which makes sense, since that address is a building that houses one of the world’s major Internet hubs. A Zero Day is two connected things: an unpatched software hole that the creator isn’t aware of; and the code a hacker will use to exploit that hole. Zero Day is the very first day that software is being used and the hole is there. ”

&
nbsp; Dane realized something. “Remember Y-Two-K? When we thought computer programs would crash because they could only used two digits for the year and when they went from nine-nine to zero-zero?”

  Sin Fen nodded.

  “What if a Zero Day leads to a Zero Year?” Dane asked. “Everything rebooting or starting over? That means this Zero Year could be any year in the past, but it has to be relatively recent, after the invention of the Internet. It might even be the year 1999. 31 October would be two months before then. Maybe something that sets up a deep problem on Y2K?”

  “Perhaps,” Sin Fen allowed. “Regardless, the bubble will open in whatever year it is.” Something occurred to her. “What is Ivar doing?”

  “Working on the Turing Time Computer in the Met secure room..”

  “He has to shut down now!” Sin Fen said.

  “You mean he’s getting hacked right now?” Dane asked.

  “No. But a hack is coming, or rather it came, unless it’s stopped.” Sin Fen said. “And if the Shadow is behind it and it’s a Zero Day, we can be sure it’s going to be a bad one.”

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art

  New York City

  The door was shoved open and one of the guards came in, fast and hard, as they trained in the Kill House at Fort Bragg. Ivar was still turning in the chair when the man fired on full automatic.

  His bullets hit the computer linked to the Internet, blasting pieces of metal and screen.

  A piece of screen hit Ivar in the check, drawing some blood. Ivar belatedly dove for cover as the guard swung his weapon toward the other computer and emptied the rest of his magazine. The guard automatically pulled out another magazine and slammed it home.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said to Ivar, sounding not sorry at all. In fact, he seemed rather pleased to be able to shoot something. “Orders. ”

  And then he left the room, the smell of gunpowder heavy in the air, the floor and desks littered with the remains of the computers. Ivar reached up and felt his cheek. A scratch.

  At that moment Ivar’s Satphone alerted: Lawyers, Guns and Money.

  An Island Off The Coast Of Puerto Rico

  Neeley was the first to break the embrace. “I have to call Hannah.”

  “Okay,” Roland said.

  Neeley smiled and kissed him. “You are one of a kind, Roland.”

  He blushed. “Really? Is that good?”

  “I think you’re the only person who wouldn’t have asked me what I was going to tell her.”

  “It’s your decision,” Roland said, not understanding why it was so special that he hadn’t asked.

  “It is. Thank you.”

  Neeley pulled out her Satphone. Roland started to move away, but she reached out and took his forearm as the phone was answered on the first ring.

  “Yes, Neeley?”

  “I’m going,” Neeley said.

  “I will miss you,” Hannah said. “We’ve walked a long road together from St. Louis.”

  “We have,” Neeley agreed.

  “I’m glad you have Roland,” Hannah said. “He’s a good man.”

  “He is.”

  “If you ever need anything, well . . .” Hannah’s voice trailed off.

  “I know.”

  “I really don’t know what to say,” Hannah said. “I’ve never said good-bye to someone like this. Someone who I owe my life to. And more.”

  “Until we meet again is good enough,” Neeley said.

  “Until we meet again.” The phone went dead.

  Neeley turned to Roland.

  “I’m sorry,” Roland said.

  “For what?”

  “That you no longer work for your friend. ”

  Neeley smiled. “When you put it that way, perhaps I made the right decision.”

  “I think—“ Roland began, but then his Satphone chimed: Lawyers, Guns and Money .

  He pulled it out and looked at the screen.

  IS NEELEY WITH US? IF SO, WE NEED HER. IF NOT, NEED TO KNOW ASAP

  He simply showed it to her.

  They turned as a low-flying helicopter came swooping in.

  Airspace, United States

  “Right fancy bird this is,” Angus said as he settled into the co-pilot’s seat of the Snake. “Orlando is sleeping one off. Or two or three. Mainly sleeping off his previous life.”

  The Snake, a jet engine, tilt-wing prototype, that wasn’t even supposed to be built yet, was on autopilot, heading east over the US.

  “He’s a good man,” Eagle said, a bit defensively.

  Angus laughed. “Oh, laddie, you don’t have to tell me that. Do you know why he tips the bottle so much?”

  “Not the particulars,” Eagle said.

  “The devil is in the details,” Angus said. “He’s a better man than many a man.”

  “How do you two know each other?”

  “The devil knows those details,” Angus said. “This buggy of yours. Pretty fancy. No markings or tail number. Last I read, no one had a jet tilt wing operational. But we get the papers and magazines behind the times in the Big House.”

  “Are you talking Leavenworth?” Eagle asked, referring to that Federal Penitentiary.

  “No, they were going to send me there, but decided it wasn’t appropriate for a man of my, well, shall we say, resume.”

  “ADX Florence?” Eagle asked.

  “You are a knowledgeable man,” Angus noted. “Most call it simply Supermax, albeit there was nothing particularly super about it. The food is horrendous, I can tell you. ”

  “And what kind of resume requires the Supermax?” Eagle asked. “Prisoners are sent there either because they’re so dangerous, they’re so notorious, they’re an extreme escape risk, or they’re predicated to attacking guards in a violent manner.”

  “You do know a lot,” Angus said. “I’d say I qualify on a few of those tick marks, although I wouldn’t harm a guard. Just doing their job, although some enjoy it a tad too much. However, there’s no upside to taking on one of those fellows, not when they have the key.” Angus sighed. “But enough about me.” He indicated Eagle. “You have no uniform. We were out in the desert, best I could tell, sitting in the back as I was, somewhere in Nevada. We have Orlando recruiting me and I’m not even a citizen of this fair country of yours. So perhaps you give me a wee bit of idea what I’ve signed on to?”

  “The devil would be in those details,” Eagle said, “and I’m not the devil to tell them to you. My boss will do that.”

  “Is he a devil?”

  “No, but he’s a driven man.”

  “Ah, those can be the worst of men or the best of men, depends on what direction they be driving.”

  “He’s good man.”

  “Hesitation in that,” Angus said. “You have doubts. That concerns me as it seems I’m part of this gig. What do you know about me?”

  “Not a thing,” Eagle admitted. “Orlando didn’t tell me a word. But you both made it clear you were in prison and your choice was come on this gig, as you call it, or go back. To the Supermax in Colorado.”

  “That is so,” Angus said. “And I be figuring you want to know why?”

  “Up to if you want to disclose,” Eagle said.

  “Don’t be coy, lad. That would be a natural curiosity. At least in the outside world. But it is a question that is never asked on the inside.”

  “So why?” Eagle asked.

  “I killed a man.”

  “Self-defense?”

  “Oh, no. Deliberate offense.”

  Eagle waited, but there was nothing else. Until his phone went off, playing the familiar tune: Lawyers, Guns and Money

  Angus was pleased. “Warren Zevon. I fancy his tune Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner . ”

  “We have a Roland on the team,” Eagle said, checking the phone. “Named for that Roland.

  “A Roland and an Eagle,” Angus said. “So you boys make up names for yourselves? Sort of like playing school or something?”

  “It’s a ritua
l. We leave our old lives behind when we join the team.”

  “Rituals can be useful,” Angus said. “But can one truly leave their old life behind?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Ever been to the pub in Spain run by the fellow Warren wrote it with? Ex-merc. Davey. Serves good scotch, not the swill Orlando carries. I passed through once when Warren was in residence. ’75 I believe it was. Ah, those were the days. Manly men and all that. And the sheep, right scared they were.”

  Possibility Palace

  Only someone with extreme focus of duty would have been able to pick up the ring tone through the medicated semi-conscious state.

  Moms was such a person. She fought against the chemical lethargy, struggling into consciousness.

  The phone went silent and she slumped back on the bed. She looked at the IV in her arm, then at the drip.

  “Frak it,” she muttered.

  With her other hand she slid the needle out of her arm. She slithered out of the bed, not quite able to stand, and crawled across to the closet that held her clothing and gear. She fumbled through her old, worn, combat vest until she found a small metal vial. It took her a while to unscrew the lid. Then, with a shaking hand, she poured the pills inside on the floor. She peered down, knowing she had to make sure she took the right one, or else she’d be comatose, if not worse.

  Reasonably confident she’s sorted it out and had the correct one from the small stash Doc had issued to each team member a long time ago, Moms put it in her mouth.

  **** *

  “Frak me,” Scout muttered as her phone Zevoned, the sound echoed by Lara’s.

  They were sitting cross-legged in a room next to the Team Room. This was nominally the ‘rec room’ although it was dominated by Roland’s weights. A piece of log was in one corner, set on end, with a dozen knives, hatchets, and other sharp instruments stuck in it.

  Scout and Lara had been watching the five years out of date flat screen TV. It only played DVDs—no cable in time travel.

  “We’re here already for frak’s sake.” Scout silenced the ring.

  Lara did the same.

  “We’ve got some time,” Scout said. “The bubbles don’t open right way. And the team is assembling. We can finish this episode. I just cannot believe you’ve never seen Buffy. I mean, seriously. They had Buffy in Wichita, right?”