Doomsday Exam [BUREAU 13 Book Two] (26 page)

"Technical and vague,” Raul muttered, rubbing his jaw. “But maybe good enough for magic. Just maybe."

"We play the card we're dealt,” I said. If I was wrong, it meant the end of civilization, but I tried not to think about that possibility.

"Jessica, where was he stationed in the Navy?” I asked. “That should be the only location he has actual legal access to. Any other base the Reservist would have to be assigned to and register with the commanding officer."

"Fort Hamilton,” she replied instantly. “But his discharge papers placed him on the USS:
Intrepid
."

"George?” I snapped.

He shrugged. “Beats me. I'm Army."

"The USS:
Intrepid
is a World War II air craft carrier permanently docked in the Hudson River of Manhattan,” Father Donaher rattled off. “Moored near 42nd Street. The vessel has been converted into a Naval museum. Perfect place to find a librarian."

"How the hell do you know about the ship?” Mindy demanded.

Clearly amused, the big priest grinned. “I'm originally from Brooklyn. Faith n’ begorra, what New Yorker doesn't know about the
Intrepid
? Sweet Mary, the ship is bigger than the GWB!"

Whatever that was. “Raul?"

"I'm on emergency reserves,” the mage said wearily. “Only one medium spell remaining."

Medium, eh? Darn. “Okay,” I decided. “Then forget the van and take us back to Chicago."

Standing to his full towering height, Ken was scandalized. “Sir, we retreat?"

"Hell no,” I said, hefting my nearly empty assault rifle. “We attack!"

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"But not naked,” I amended sternly. Faces brightened as understanding came.

While George did the legal mumbo-jumbo with his FBI badge sealing the place as a crime scene, Raul drew a circle about us chanting constantly. When George was done, Raul gestured and we were back in our Chicago living room. Nine minutes to go.

"Katrina with me!” Raul cried stumbling towards his magic laboratory.

"I'll get the Healing potions,” Jessica said, going for our small medical theatre.

"Armory,” I cried and we stumbled off towards the kitchen. Not even George stopped to get a snack. There are priorities.

Two minutes later, everybody gathered in the living room, re-armed to the max and the broken pieces of our armor hastily replaced. We had a spare set of liquid nitrogen tanks for Katrina, and another for Raul. Mindy was dressed in her ninja outfit of solid black and I had a four-barrel HAFLA bazooka, plus my combo backpack. There was a spare liquid delivery system for Jess, filled with MSG/DMSO, but as a fillip we had hastily added every deadly poison we had in stock: arsenic, curare, potassium cyanide, strychnine, manticore venom and pure quill heroin. We had wisely omitted a dose of LSD as this guy was crazy enough to begin with. No sense priming the pump when the well was already overflowing.

Plus, each of us was carrying two satchel charges of high explosive C4 plastique, augmented with a minor flying spell to ease the weight. Our apartment wasn't Bureau HQ with miniature nuclear bombs, laser pistols or molecular disrupter wands available, but it was the very best we had on hand and we were going for a kill.

Marching into view, George and Sanders had replaced their dinky machine guns and now sported bulky backpacks which cushioned shoulder hooks, a chest harness and hip supports to distribute its awesome weight. From the top of the ammo pack then came a flexible, enclosed feed link that connected to the top of a squat, bulky rifle with a gaping pitted maw.

The weapon was a Masterson Assault Cannon. Designed by some mad genius at the Pentagon, the ammo packs of the dire weapons held 18,000 caseless rounds of 20mm, armor-piercing, high explosive shells. Almost too destructive to control, the Bureau had absolutely prohibited their use outside of an officially declared war.

"And where the hell did you get those?” I demanded.

"Got a friend in Ordinance,” George replied proudly, adjusting the waist strap. “You pissed?"

"Hell no! I wish you had four more of them!"

"What about regulations?"

"Screw ‘em. They can fire us later."

My wife was waiting for us with jugs of Healing potion. In scandalous waste we poured the magic elixir over us. Exhaustion disappeared, wounds closed, burns healed, hair was replaced.

The potion was beyond price. Money could not buy any of the elixir, you had to make it painstakingly, drop by drop, from blood, sweat and tears. Just like in the song. This little impromtive show was totally exhausting our ten-year accumulation of emergency reserves. If we lived through tonight, we would be without magical healing for months, maybe years! If we lived. But that was a big if. Between the Healing potion and the Strength elixir, in the morning we were going to be hospitalized for weeks.

But then, that was what an emergency reserve was for, and if this wasn't an emergency then Webster had changed the definition. Heck, I guess maybe it was war so George was safe.

Striding confidently from the lab, Katrina's eyes were rimmed with fatigue shadows, but her wood wand was rigid again, full of power. A moment later Raul walked into view, with a meager foot-and-a-half long stainless steel wand in his clenched hand.

"This is twice I've been reduced a level for a fast recharge,” he snarled, grabbing a jug and pouring the contents over his head, the burns and bleeding wounds washing away like common dirt. “The Bureau owes me big for this."

I acknowledged the debt. “Horace Gordon himself will put a gold paper star on your permanent record card."

"Oh, golly gee, really? Swell. Give me the damn travel book!” Raul snapped. Then for a moment, he seemed pained and Katrina went faint. George gave them each a candy bar. Poor kids must be near exhaustion from all the magic they were casting.

Without looking, Jessica opened the N volume to the correct page and handed it to him. Flipping through New York, the mage stared hard at the tiny photograph of the warship. Whatdayaknow, the Naval museum was a tourist attraction!

"Remarkable clarity,” he murmured in approval, choosing a picture.

As he started to cast the teleport spell, I had a brief worry wondering if the shot was taken on the shore, or from a flying helicopter.

Congealing from thin air, we stepped into the dark shadows of the elevated Henry Hudson Parkway in Manhattan. Before us loomed the mighty majestic outline of the
Intrepid
. Behind my team stretched the endless neon vista of 42nd Street.

Longer than two city blocks and tall as a skyscraper, the Navy war ship dwarfed the nearby office buildings and hotels into insignificance. Viewed edgewise, the massive vessel resembled an inverted metal mountain, with a small building set on top—the control island, i.e. bridge to us common folk.

Truly awe inspiring, the seemingly endless expanse of the ship was highlighted by a thousand lights strung along its colossal sides, spotlighting the control island, and bristling on the shore parking lot. A hundred assorted planes filled the flight deck of the floating city, yet the parking lot was empty. Thank god for small favors.

"What kind of armament does that thing carry?” George asked eagerly, his face a mixture of fear and respect.

"The
Intrepid
was an Essex class carrier,” Ken said, his eyes nearly closed. “She has four sets of twin five-inch cannon mounted two on the forecastle, two aftcastle. There are twenty-four 40mm rapid fire mini-cannon set in tandem all over the vessel and some hundred quadruple .50 machine gun nests."

I whistled. No wonder we had won the war against Hitler.

He continued. “Modern aircraft carriers also have Phalanx anti-missile cannon, nuclear missiles, Tomahawk anti-fort missiles, Amsterdam Mark IV all purpose missiles, anti-satellite missiles, anti-submarine missiles, anti-torpedo missiles, anti-missiles-missiles, and anti-anti-missile-missiles."

He drew in a breath. “Normally the
Intrepid
would carry some 100 planes of assorted design; bombers, fighters, reconnaissance, rescue helicopters. However, in museum format, it also has an additional forty planes, of varying age and condition on display. Corsairs, Hellcats, Delta Daggers, Bell&Howell gunships, Ashanti attack helicopters, AWAKS, Harriers jumpjets and so on."

"Armor?” Father Donaher asked in a small hopeful voice.

"The landing top deck is made of 12 inch thick layered teak wood, coated with a special non-slid, fire retardant chemical composition, but it can still be ignited with sufficient thermite or napalm."

"Yes!” Mindy cried raising a fist.

"Under the flight deck is the hangar deck with a 18 inch thick steel alloy flooring. The hull itself is 36 inch layers of multiple types of military armor, backed by decompartmentilized U-style frames and multiple ton H-formation brackets."

I raised both eyebrows. “Was that three feet of solid armor?"

He gave a nod. “Yes. She's an old ship."

Hoo boy.

"How many levels are there?” Jess asked gazing at the titanic vessel as if trying to hazard a guess.

"Fifteen,” Ken replied. “Eight below the flight deck and seven on the command island; from Crash Control to the crows’ nest beneath the radar antennas. Eight hundred and twenty feet long it can carry a crew of 3,500 sailors."

"Worthy of the Russian fleet!” Katrina beamed, with a touch of patriotism creeping into her voice. Expelled for being a mage or not, home was in the heart, not under your feet.

"And how do you know all this?” I asked. “Ex-Navy?"

Lt. Colonel Sanders pointed a muscular finger towards the distant blackness. “There's a small sign giving the pertinent details over there by the ticket booth."

I tried not to show my astonishment. He could read a sign in the dark at over two hundred feet away?

"However,” Jessica added slowly. “There are only thirty guards on duty tonight."

"Are they alive?” George asked.

"I'm not sure,” my wife hedged. “I sense life, but not exactly in any form I am familiar with."

"Cocooned? Metamorphosing? Possessed?” Father Donaher asked in concern. “Zombies? Protestants?"

"Yes. No. I don't know!” Jess seemed uneasy, shuffling her shoes. “I can only say that the guard are conscious and hostile."

Checking the safety, I worked the bolt on the M16. “Then we have to count the sailors as dead men controlled by LaRue and kill them on sight."

This stratagem sat well with nobody. Reality rarely did. As I scanned the foredeck of the gigantic vessel, I noticed one of the jetfighters bend a wing to scratch its prow. Aw, shit.

"It is the exhibits that you sense, Jess,” I explained. “The planes are animate. Especially the jet fighters."

"Annoying,” George said confidently. “But as this is a museum, none of them have any ammo for their guns."

With a sweeping motion, I grandly gestured. “Then you go first."

He took a single step, and then smiled. “Ah, perhaps tomorrow?"

Five minutes to go. How could we get on without being noticed? The carpeted gangplank was extended, the sixty feet of roped off ramp well enough lit to read a book of regulations by. Ha. It made me laugh. Ah, we could just shrink down to mice size and run on board!

No, the gangplank and anchor chains had rat-proof baffles and sensors, sent Jessica. Ditto the mooring lines and power cables. Good security. Too damn good. Phooey on the Navy.

"Jess, can't you get a reading on LaRue?” I urged hopefully.

She shook her head. “Impossible. His mind is so jumbled between the alchemical potions, his new magic, the mixed personalities and the influence of the book, that he is nothing but telepathic hash. His thoughts blend into the background murmur of the city."

Boy, this guy was tough to find. Hmm, we could turn invisible and fly in past the planes. Wasteful of magic and extremely dangerous, between the sensors of the
Intrepid
and all those warplanes, we would almost certainly be caught. Make a magic door in the hull? No, too thick. Use a Meld? No, too many people. This was infuriating! Bureau 13 headquarters was situated somewhere in New York City. But if I used my wristwatch, the Tanner part of LaRue would know instantly. Briefly, I weighed surprise against a direct mass attack. We couldn't summon help once he started the spell, all lines of magical communications went down. What the hell, let's go for the gold. It would be nice to watch a battle from the sidelines for a change.

Stroking my necktie, I produced a quarter and handed it to Donaher. “We're gonna need an air strike. Father, go find a public phone and call the local FBI headquarters. Tell them we have a terrorist team onboard the
Intrepid
with biological weapons. Request an immediate bombardment. Blow the ship out of the water. The code is..."

"Faith, I know the proper code,” the priest said, and then he vanished by becoming one with the shadows. Eh?

"Mindy has been tutoring him,” supplied my wife.

Ah, that explained it. But a minute later, Mike reappeared.

"No good,” Donaher panted, breathless from his run. “Apparently the phone system is down."

"A la Tanner LaRue,” Mindy snorted, fingering the pommel of her katana.

Then to hell with security. I activated my watch. “Alert! This is a priority one call. The situation is Alpha Four, repeat, Alpha Four! Respond, please!” Static answered me. Not even a carrier wave signal.

With obvious intent, George primed the action on his Masterson, its bulky backpack making him resemble Donaher in the dark. “There's a bank nearby. Want me to rudely summon the cops?"

"Against this guy?” I retorted. “No. We got to take him ourselves."

"We did not fare well last time,” Ken reminded, his hands moving restlessly along the encased feeder belt to his Masterson Assault Cannon in a kind of military rosary.

On the port railing, the Harrier sharply whistled and a French Saber, a Delta Dagger and a Spitfire joined it at the gunwales. Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue. The four fighters watched the dock with particular intent. My radio broadcast had been heard.