A Time to Die (4 page)

Chapter 5

Friday, April 13

Jeremiah Osborne read the email one more time then sighed and sat back in his chair. He ran a hand through his fading red hair and sighed again. What could he do? His options had become increasingly limited as months went by without a launch. He looked out the window of his San Diego office and cursed at the sight. The two hundred and twenty foot converted freighter rested there near a small flotilla of other vessels and equipment, a self-contained orbital launch complex only needing to be towed into place and properly anchored before beginning operations. The problem was he couldn’t get a permit.

For his launch system to work, he had to be within service range of the coast, or about a hundred miles at the most. The American environmentalists, afraid his rockets would kill fish or something, had gotten an injunction against him so he’d moved from the sweet spot of ten miles to fifty, outside of US control. They’d gone to the UN committee in charge of maritime regulation and just succeeded there as well. In short, he was fucked.

One computer file listed a considerable number of clients, all ready to pay and pay well for launches of their satellites. For twenty years he’d sunk every dollar of his considerable inheritance, all the venture capital he could lay hands on, loans, and even internet money into his innovative launch system.

His system was revolutionary and largely reusable, a single stage to orbit, or SSTO. There was even a design he’d developed for using drop tanks to allow for a higher orbit, perhaps even reach earth escape velocity to go to the moon or Mars.

He reached down to his desk, a grey behemoth he’d gotten military surplus, and pulled out a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s and poured himself two fingers, adding a few drops of coke. Most evenings it was half a glass of coke with a few drops of rum. “Why bother,” he growled and held the glass up. “To Oceanic Orbital Enterprises,” he said and downed the concoction. “Gah,” he coughed and put the glass back on the desk. “May it rest in peace.” He was about to pour another when the phone chirped.

“Jeremiah,” he said into the speaker.

“I didn’t think you’d be there,” said a distinctive Southern accent. Theodore Alphonse Bennitti III was one of the most unusual people Jeremiah knew. He looked like Steve Buscemi, sounded like Slim Pickens, and had an IQ approaching 170. He went by Al.

“Figured I’d be out drowning myself, Al?”

“Don’t be an ass, Jeremiah. We’ve been through setbacks a lot worse than this when you were still with NASA.”

“I left, and they made you Director of Colonization. I’m not sure which one of us is wasting our time more.”

“Ya’ll break me up,” Al laughed from Houston, Texas.

“What do you want, Al, I’m trying to get drunk.”

“Before you climb into a bottle, I want to get you in on something.” Jeremiah put the glass down and leaned closer to the speaker and said he was listening. “That meteor storm back on March 31st may have been more than just meteors.”

Al explained that of the seventy meteors tracked over twelve hours, three displayed non-ballistic characteristics. This had been observed in the past, often attributed to out gassing, never that many in the same ‘storm’. NASA had scientists out looking for the meteors ever since the incidence. “We have found three attributed to the incident, all normal rocks, and we lost one scientist.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Geologist named Taylor, Ken Taylor. Been with the agency for about twenty years. He was searching the hill country of Texas around Big Bend.”

“Went camping there a few times back when I was at Houston. Is he lost?”

“According to a ranger, they were attacked by a pig.”

“Sorry, did you say pig?”

“Ya’ll heard me right. The pig attacked their jeep and Taylor was bitten on the nose. It quickly got infected. The ranger left to get help and when she returned he was gone. They’re still searching but one witness swears they saw him swimming across the Rio Grande River the evening he disappeared.”

“Holy shit!”

“Weird, right?” Jeremiah heard the sound of keys tapping in Houston for a moment. “We could use your help.”

“I wouldn’t know how to find a lost geologist if my life depended on it.”

“I’ve seen ya’ll’s desk, I’d have to agree.” Jeremiah snorted and looked at his desk covered in blueprints, letters, books and empty food containers. “I know you have a recovery team in place in case a launch goes wrong.”

“Little chance of that since we can’t launch.”

“Quit feelin’ sorry for yerself and listen. That team uses drones and magnetometers, right?” Jeremiah agreed. “We’d like you to pick up that meteor search for us in the Hill Country. At least we can hire your team as sub-contractors.”

Jeremiah thought it over for a second and shrugged. “Okay, sure. Send me the details.”

Chapter 6

Saturday, April 14

Lieutenant Andrew Tobin squinted against the harsh afternoon light of Riyadh Airbase, Saudi Arabia. The heat was hovering around one hundred, a fairly harsh blast after the cool interior of the C-17 transport for the last seventeen hours. He’d been lucky enough to catch a non-stop out of Fort Hood, refueling over the Atlantic Ocean. It made for a quicker transit time, but also a grueling trip on the notoriously uncomfortable seats of C-17 Globemaster.

The plane was configured for troops and cargo. Even with more than a hundred of his fellow soldiers, the interior was so god-damned noisy at 35,000 feet that most of them stuck in headphones and promptly zoned out. As soon as they hit the runway and began taxiing towards the huge military hangars, the soldiers ignored regulation and were on their feet gathering gear. Andrew went right along with them, if a bit slower. After so long sitting in the seat his stump felt like ground beef.

The ramp of the plane was already lowering and hot air flooded through the fuselage like a blast furnace. Many of the soldiers wore BDUs, combat armor, and were shouldering huge packs complete with M-4 rifles. Even in just his Air Force casuals he felt sweat burst out under his arms and start to drip down his back. How the hell the Army boys tolerated it, he had no idea.

Andrew shouldered his duffel after most of the others had filed down the ramp to the lower deck and followed them. Below, loadmasters were swarming over the six Humvees that were locked down to the cargo deck. He nodded to the airman in charge and headed outside into the full heat.

He lost a half hour finding a ride to the airbase headquarters, then sat outside the CO’s office for another hour waiting to meet his new boss. When the squadron’s commanding colonel waved him in, he was still on a conference call. Andrew did his best not to listen, and failed.

“…the over-flights are still pending authorization, Rick,” a voice from the phone said.

“I understand that contingency,” Andrew’s new CO replied as he nodded the pilot into a waiting chair. The name plaque on the desk read Col. Richard “Tightend” Sommers, and it was a tidy desk too. “We need additional details on the nature of the disturbance, and those flights can provide it, Ted.”

“I’ll see if we can push the SecDef on this, Rick, but the POTUS is reluctant.”

“He’s reluctant to do anything except play golf. Get back to me,” he said and pushed the button to end the call. “Lieutenant Tobin, good to have you aboard.”

“Thank you, Colonel Sommers.”

“Call me Rick,” the older man said with a sparkling smile, and offered his hand.

“Andrew,” he replied and took the hand into a firm shake. “Sounds like something heating up over here? Iran?”

“No, actually, this is a lot closer to home.” Andrew raised an eyebrow. The colonel glanced over Andrew’s shoulder to be sure no one was in the hallway before continuing. “This is all on the down-low, so I didn’t say this.”

“Understood, sir.”

“There may be an armed coup underway in Mexico as we speak.”

“No shit?!”

“No shit indeed. Official communications channels with Washington fell silent forty-eight hours ago, and at the same time Mexican air traffic control began refusing entrance to their country to all but a few of the western and eastern resort destinations; Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlán, and a few others.”

Andrew absorbed it all in stunned silence. Mexico had suffered from internal corruption and drug wars for years on end, but no one ever thought the country could fall from an internal conflict. They were, at least, a nominal democracy, and widely considered one of the strongest in the hemisphere behind the USA and Canada.

“We’ve seen some reports from people coming out of Mexico via ground transportation,” the colonel continued, “and those reports talk about crazy gun battles in more than a few larger cities, and government compounds locked down. An hour before you landed, they closed the Brownsville and El Paso border crossings.” Andrew’s eyes got even bigger. “And there are troops arriving in Tijuana.”

“Sounds like things are spiraling out of control.”

“That’s exactly what the boys in intel said to the POTUS in a briefing this morning. Problem is, he doesn’t agree; says it’s just a hiccup down there. We tried asking if he had some diplomatic contacts we’re not aware of, but the President’s staff are playing it close to the cuff. We requested permission to do reconnaissance over-flights. It’s being considered.”

Andrew nodded in understanding. He hadn’t accidentally been allowed to listen in to the conference call after all. He knew what was coming next. “Andrew, you’re qualified on the ‘D’, aren’t you?”

“You know I am, sir.” The A/F-18D was the variant of his ride that was fit out for reconnaissance missions. It was actually the first version he’d qualified on right out of flight school. But with the never ending conflict in the Arabian Peninsula, he’d been called upon to fly combat missions from day one. He’d never flown the ‘D’ on a recon mission.

“We are not being given the go ahead for a flyover of Mexico from states side.” He glanced at a file on his desk and shook his head. “It’s a shame to put you to work so soon after landing here, Andrew. But we have an A/F-18D, one the boys say needs to rotate home. Maintenance issues, you know? And we need to run it through Sao Paulo so a specialist there can take a look at it, then into Ft. Hood for final routing. You up to a long run after a little sleep?”

“No problem,” Andrew nodded and smiled. “Anything you want, Sir.”

“Good, get some sleep. Your orders will be waiting in the pre-flight in six hours.”

* * *

Vance pecked away on his aging computer with aging fingers, typing with index fingers only in a plodding but steady pace. He spent more than a few hours every day blogging and making Facebook updates. It was his preferred combat venue in the patriot movement. With thousands of followers on his Facebook page and thousands more through the blog he ran on Wordsmith, whenever Vance did a post more than twenty thousand people often read his words from reposts and shares. He had never gotten the hang of the Twitterverse, as Ann called it. In truth, he really didn’t have the time to be a twit. Or whatever they called it.

Ann had left that morning for an OB appointment. In the days since he’d found out he was going to become a dad, Vance made some progress towards accepting the inevitable. The problem was his age, of course. Fifteen years’ difference between him and Ann was not insurmountable in the modern era. It would, however, turn heads. Especially her father’s head, and that was bad. Bad enough that he’d never approved of his darling daughter taking up with an aging divorcee. Add to that the fact that he owned about half of San Antonio and was a congressman, and it went from bad to worse. He’d have to tell the man he’d gotten his daughter pregnant. 

Turning to an update from a page called Truth_Underground.net, Vance hoped it would be interesting enough to make him forget the situation he’d gotten himself into. It was all of that and then some.

The story from Mexico had been simmering for a few days. The news was treating the situation as a drug fueled attempt to pull off a coup, thereby making themselves the legitimate government and thus able to terminate the Americans’ war on drugs.

“War on drugs,” Vance snorted as he followed the story, “more like a war on liberty and freedom.” He didn’t agree with some of his more radical Libertarian friends that all drugs should be legal. But he did agree that the drug war was being used as a straw man to assault patriotic Americans freedom.

This particular story was a first-hand account of a man stuck in Matamoros, Mexico and trying to get back into the United States. The border crossing had been locked down and he was sending streaming video across through a hacked connection every few hours. A new video was being uploaded, and it was going viral in a big way. Over a million views in less than an hour. It took Vance three tries before he even got the page to load!

At first it was just a POV shot from a crummy little hotel room as a man complained that the Mexican army was not allowing any of them to leave the building. Then shots could be heard outside, and the camera was carried out onto the room’s tiny balcony and aimed down to the street.

Troops had established a checkpoint less than a block from the hotel. Two armored cars were parked nose to nose, effectively blocking the street. In addition, sand bags were piled to create a pair of improved firing positions. Machine guns were set up in each. Vance watched intently. This looked more like Beirut than Mexico!

It was not readily apparent where the shots were coming from and the camera kept erratically pointing here and there trying to locate where the sounds were coming from. Then a group was captured in the view running towards the blockade. Shouted challenges were issued but the men and women showed no signs of slowing. The image was of poor quality and Vance couldn’t tell if they were attacking, or fleeing something. It mattered not to the troops, who opened fired at fifty yards.

Vance jerked violently at the first shots – the chatter of an M-16 on three round burst. The bullets met flesh and bone with smacking impacts that even the tiny camera picked up. Two people went down, and the crowd staggered to a stop. Screams of pain and protest rose in the evening. He hadn’t realized the recording was shot at night until then. He didn’t understand any Spanish, but the word ‘No’ was yelled by the troops over and over again.

Several knelt down to see to the wounded as the crowd continued to grow from behind, more and more people rushing into the street. Vance guessed there were more than a hundred in just ten seconds and still more came, pushing up on the others from behind and forcing them all to creep forward. The soldiers were getting nervous and fired into the air over the crowd’s heads this time. More screams of confusion, but whatever drove them this far had them more scared than the soldier’s guns.

Then there came new screams. These were around the corner, behind the crowd, and it was like nothing Vance had ever heard. Visceral and primal guttural bellows that were barely human. A hellish grinding of rage and horrible, unspeakable need combined to make the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. The troops fell silent and the crowd roiled like a bucket of worms. Some kicked at locked doors, a few piled into alleyways jammed with overfull dumpsters. Another hideous scream sounded, and the crowd responded to the noise like a trigger, and exploded towards the troops.

A few small arms spoke immediately and people fell, but only a few. The camera focused on the road block, the machine gunners were looking back at their commanding officer and screaming, their faces a mask of fear and confusion. More orders were made, and one machinegun finally began to roar to life. But the crowd had already reached them.

“I don’t know what kind of riot this is,” the camera holder said, pulling back in shaky movements as the crowd enveloped the soldiers and their guns fell silent under screams. “Everything just went crazy a few days ago. I’ve been getting second and third-hand reports of riots all over Matamoros and other border cities. With the fighting in Mexico City, we think the legitimate government is hanging on by a thread. A friend thinks it’s Islamist fanatics, but there are no demands, and the Islamic hate sites are all silent. No one knows what to do, no one knows what the rioters want!” It was a plea for answers to the unanswerable.

The camera focused outside again, at the checkpoint. Some of the soldiers were fighting with the rioters, but most of the civilians were just racing past them on down the avenue. The border crossing was only three miles in that direction and more shots could be heard from that way.

The horrendous screams sounded again, this time by many more voices raised together. Vance turned the sound down a little: it was inhuman and difficult to listen to. Most of the crowd was past the troops now, who were trying to reorganize and treat their wounded. Vance was surprised to see the men all appeared alive and largely uninjured. A few guns were missing, and even one of the heavy machine guns had been carted off by the crowd. In fact, the mass of civilian wounded far outnumbered the military. They were once again organized enough that they were stopping the crowd. Using batons and tear gas grenades, the soldiers finally regained control.

That scream, close by now, and the camera moved to the end of the block where the crowd had first appeared. One young woman staggered around the corner clasping an infant to her chest. Blood covered her left side and she was having trouble standing. No sooner did she round the corner than a pair of bloody hands followed her and grasped the infant. She screamed “No, por favor, no!” and tried to hold on. The child’s tiny cries reached the microphone, but only for a second as it was snatched away from her.

“No!” she yelled again, and was tackled by a man. Vance watched, unable to look away as he suspected he was about to see a rape take place as the man tore at her clothes, exposing one breast and part of her wounded side. Instead the man fell to her and bit the exposed breast, tearing away a huge flap of bloody flesh!

“Oh,” Vance choked, “oh God what?”

The woman shrieked and tried to pull free, rolling under the man and pulling at the sidewalk. Vance could see her fingers nails tear away and leave bloody streaks on the cement. The man clawed again, and then bit. This time finding her neck from behind. Vance imagined he could hear the bone crunching as she spasmodically jerked and lay still.