Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] (19 page)

"When we fought the Scion years ago in New York, and just recently in Ohio, they used Mack trucks, or tractor-trailer assemblies to haul weapons around."

"If you got a point, make it,” he said crumbling a sheet of paper and tossing the report into a wastebasket where it flared into ash.

"The Chicago underground,” I said succinctly.

Faces cleared in comprehension. When the City Council of 1871 was rebuilding Chicago after the great fire, they had a brilliant idea. The underground. Not to be confused with the underworld of which we had more than enough, thank you. The mayor at the time had summarily decreed that trucks would not be allowed in downtown Chicago anymore. But in order that business could get their shipments, a subterranean copy of the main streets was built, so the trucks could deliver their goods directly to the basement of a building or store.

However, since the trucking level was poorly illuminated at night and very isolated with few easy exits, the underworld was tailor-made for the Scion. Simply drive in a few hundred truckloads of explosives and blow up the city.

Pensively, Horace Gordon rubbed his chin. “Damnation, you could be right, Edwardo. Hey, ThunderBunnies!"

"Sir!” a busty blonde vision of loveliness responded, loading an ammo clip into a portable M-35 mini-rocket launcher. The damn thing resembled a honeycomb with a trigger, or an old-fashioned pepperbox packed with high-tech firepower. Nasty thing. I owned two of them myself.

"Go check the undercity,” Gordon said, jerking a thumb at the wall map. “I'll send along a dozen or so black-and-whites and a squad of Green Berets to assist. The ID code is: Krakatoa. Response: Vesuvius."

The blonde woman jacked her weapon into ready status and gave a dimpled smile. “Gotcha, sugar,” she purred, and turned for the exit.

Close behind followed the rest of the ThunderBunnies similarly armed with Atchinson automatic shotguns, Heckler Koch G-12 caseless machine guns, O'Neil coil rifles and their exotic goody bag of lethal ironmongery.

"Sir,” I objected. “Team Tunafish is perfectly ready to go."

"Have a rest,” interrupted the chief. “The Bunnies are gone already. You've been on this from the start. Take the next hot spot."

"Alert,” called out a voice. “There has been a perimeter breach at the Commonwealth Edison nuclear power station."

"A China Syndrome,” George growled, slamming a fresh clip into his Colt .45 automatic and racking the slide.

The dreaded China Syndrome scenario. A terrorist attempt to force a meltdown at the local nuclear reactor and smother Chicago in a deadly cloud of radioactive steam. A super Chernobyl! Yeah, sounded like something the Scion would go nuts over. Almost as good as nuking us, or poisoning the water supply. Thank God this wasn't Denver with a hundred billion gallons of Hoover Dam looming overhead.

"Henderson!” Gordon bellowed. “Who do we have on ready status?"

"Nobody, sir,” the young man answered from behind a humming array of laser printers hard-wired to a crystal ball. Hey, maybe that was how Wall Street stockbrokers controlled the market. “Macabees are out handling a disturbance at the City Armory, Angels are investigating a massive influx of burglar alarms at the Museum of Science and Industry."

Horace grunted. “Accepted. Tunafish, get!"

That ended our break. Hastily, we gathered supplies and I felt the first cold rush of adrenaline with the prospect of battle. Yet as I shouldered the massive Barret, I got a gut instinct felling that the attack on the museum was actually a greater threat to Chicago than the possible nuclear meltdown.

How is that possible
? Jessica asked.

Neither my mind or gut knew. Could another piece to the puzzle of the Scion have just dropped in our laps and we were too busy to see it? What could the Scion of the Silver Dagger possibly want in the Museum? On the other hand, what couldn't the enemy do with a warehouse full of technology and information?

Hmm.

Hmm
.

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An express elevator reserved for Bureau teams took us down twelve hundred feet to the parking garage in the sub-basement. Moving fast, we chose an El Dorado stretch limousine; eight tons of armor plate, and bulletproof windows. Painted a non-reflective dead black with all of the chrome removed, while not quite as impressive as our old RV, the luxury car would blend into the surroundings better. Stay low and keep moving, that was my motto for the month.

A huge pentagram had been spray painted on the corrugated steel of the garage door. As we approached, the design shimmered into a picture of the Eisenhower expressway. With me at the wheel, we raced into the magical gateway and neatly merging with west bound traffic. I don't think anybody even noticed us.

At ninety miles per hour, we crashed through the flimsy toll barrier and rocketed along a secondary street, wildly zigzagging through traffic. Of course, we had wanted to teleport directly to the nuclear power station, but apparently defensive wards had been cast around the place sealing it off from intrusion. Our mages were trying to batter down the mystical jamming, but in the meantime we readied our weapons and put the pedal to the metal.

Taking another side road, we hurtled into the country. Farms and crops gave way to weeds and forest. A few miles later, the limo moved past the minor obstruction of some yellow rubber cones to find ourselves facing a more formidable barrier of a roaring assortment of construction equipment: dump trucks, steamrollers, graders, mixers, generators and the supremely important coffee wagon.

I slowed at the approach of a large burly woman in faded denims, a sweaty work shirt and an unbreakable plastic yellow hardhat. However, there was a suspicious bulge by her right ankle, almost exactly the correct shape and position for a .22 automatic pistol. The preferred weapon for undercover police officers.

"Road's closed, mack,” she yelled. “You got to circle round and take Hinkle Road."

Bringing the limo to a halt, Jessica and I exchanged smiles. It was a good lie. There was no such street as Hinkle and you couldn't circle round. Just trying would get anybody hopelessly lost. Which should deter any sane person, maybe even news reporters. But then I noticed the nervous look on many of the operators and that two had fresh bandages on throat and leg.

The Scion had been here.

As the annoyed foreperson stopped outside my door, I gave the woman a fast once over with my sunglasses. Through the Kirlian-sensitive lenses I could see that her aura was human. The matter had never really been in doubt, but when on assignment, its better to take nothing for granted. The ancient Scottish saying of, ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,’ only earned you a coffin in the Bureau.

With fingertip pressure, I hit the button to lower the slab of Armorlite which served us as a window.

A picture of impatience, she frowned. “Hey, jerk. I told you scram."

"Cerberus,” I said.

She paused. “Horatio."

"Balder."

Nodding, the foreman placed two fingers into her mouth and gave a sharp whistle. In ragged harmony, the motors of the trucks and graders started with a roar and dutifully parted to form a slim passageway between their amassed tonnage. Taking it slow, I eased the limo through the leviathan gauntlet and moved on down the road.

A few miles later was a squad of State Police cars in a standard broken-H pattern blocking the road. Maybe fifty cops were present, a good dozen of them in full SWAT uniforms of flak jackets, combat helmets and holding M16 rifles. Even the K9 Corp was present, hard-muscled German shepherds walking in tight formation at the heels of their human partners. Wooden sawhorses adorned with flashing red lights completed the ensemble of authority. There was a bomb disposal truck and a waiting ambulance.

On the berm were four smashed police cars that resembled the losers in a demolition derby. One had windows coated with something red. I decided not to look too closely.

Stepping in the middle of the roadway, a ton of muscle in a state trooper's uniform held out a palm to stop our approach. The other hand rested ominously on the scarred butt of his HK 9mm. Lowering the window, I extended an arm through the opening to display my commission booklet.

He was properly unimpressed. “Thanks for coming, but we already captured the escaped prisoners."

"Cerberus,” I stated impatiently.

His eyes narrowed. “Horatio."

"Balder."

There was a pause and he moved towards the HK.

"Right,” I hastily added, and he relaxed. Whew. Different checkpoints, different codes.

Removing his hand from the proximity of his gun, the officer took the mike from his shoulder rest and chatted for a few seconds. Three of the four cars in the H moved out of our way. In passing, it was plain that the fourth vehicle would never go anywhere again except the junkyard.

"What hit these guys?” George asked frowning.

Jessica was vague. “Somewhere between forty and fifty enemy troops in bulletproof fur coats."

"Bulletproof!” Father Donaher cried, touching his cross. “You mean the new plasma bullets didn't stop the werewolves?"

Holding the amulet of her necklace, Jessica listened to secret thoughts. “The rounds haven't arrived yet. Too many delivery points and only so many people who can be spared to do the task."

"Swell,” I muttered, stomping on the gas. “Just swell."

The road went serpentine for a mile, probably a landscaping ruse to help hide the evil power plant from rabid environmentalists, and then straightened. Now facing us was four mammoth Abrams tanks, their gigantic 120mm cannon lowered to exactly car height. The colossal military machines were backed by mobile artillery, TOW missile launchers, howitzers with crates of linked 40mm shells standing open and ready for immediate use, .50 machine guns, bazooka teams, LAV-25 APC, Bradley Assault vehicles and dozens of Hummers with stanchion mounted 10mm electric mini-guns.

I hit the brakes. Wounded troops were everywhere. Stumbling towards the waiting medical choppers with the help of a friend, or lying on stretchers and moaning in pain. Spent shell casing covered the ground like brass snow and the charred wreckage of two Apache helicopters lay partially hidden in the weeds.

Bright light bobbed in the sky as fully mobile sister gunships traveled low and steady along the outer perimeters of the barricade. Whew. On both sides of the roadway, the trees and weedy bushes were filled with the glittering strings of concertina wire. Miles of it. Nearby was a flatbed trailer truck half-filled with the plastic boxes the deadly stuff came packed in and drums of the chemical compound used to dissolve the wire. Not ecologically sound, but neat and fast.

Pushing back his cap, George gave a whistle. “They've got enough concertina to encircle the whole damn plant."

"Twice,” Katrina added, her face pressed against the Armorlite glass.

"It didn't help,” Jessica said in a small voice.

Just then a squirrel scampered out of the bushes and entered the clear band of burned grass. A guard shouted, others turned, and the arboreal rodent was hit with machine guns, grenades and then the deafening roar of an Atchinson rapid fire machine shotgun vomited a storm of lead and steel. As the smoke cleared, a team of soldiers in silvery, full body, Chemical Warfare suits moved in to cleanse the area with flamethrowers.

I heartily approved. The official orders were that nothing goes in, or out, without proper authorization. I was pleased to see that the troops were being so literal in their compliance.

At our approach, a heavy middle-aged man turned around from the group of bedraggled soldiers examining a M16 with a barrel bent like a pretzel. The general was a big guy, completely filling the combat green and black uniform of the 157th Illinois Regulars. The brim of his webbed helmet was mathematically straight, boots polished like ebony mirrors and pants sharply creased, but at his belt holster instead of the standard Colt .45 automatic was a mammoth blue steel .50 Desert Eagle. A nasty weapon suitable for killing rogue Buicks and assorted small buildings.

The two star general glowered at us. I glowered back and he started limping over.

I glanced at Jess.

Broken leg,
she sent.
He tackled a werewolf barehanded to hold it in place so one of the Abrams could shoot the beast.

Much as ex-PFC George Renault disliked brass, he positively shone at the officer in admiration. No wonder he was in charge. Briefly, I wondered if the general believed in magic. The Bureau could use a man like that.

"Did it work?” Raul asked curiously, leaning forward in his plush contoured seat. The motion made his shoes list starboard and the tiny crew started bailing to stay afloat.

"No."

Oh crap. “FBI,” I stated doffing my commission booklet and flashing badge. Dutifully, the rest of my team tried their very best to appear tough, alert and wary. The quintessential description of every federal operative in existence.

I let him have a good look at the badge and photo ID card. A bit dusty, it was my real badge. Edwardo Alvarez, FBI, Justice Department, sub-division Bureau 13. It wasn't often we got to announce the fact in public.

My badge glowed brightly as he held it, informing him that I was the real article and informing me that he was ditto.

In the distance, I could see the Commonwealth Edison power plant and faintly heard the crackle of small arms fire. It was infuriating to just sit here, but without proper ID, these troops would do their best to blow us into atoms. The perimeter guards were going nowhere.

After a moment, the general snorted his disdain and pushed away the proffered booklet. “Trust me, with that suit, you don't need a badge."

What? Oh yeah. I was still wearing my FBI clone clothes. A real plainclothes federal agent was as close to invisible as science alone could make them.

"What happened here?” I asked, sliding my commission booklet into a breast pocket so that the badge was on open display.

"Don't waste time dicking around with us!” he roared. “Get in there and frag those geeks!"