Pulling The Dragon's Tail (53 page)

Stirring a bit, the doctor said, “I smell
rain.”

Peering at the sky, Thatcher replied, “All I
smell is death and destruction.”

“So far, no bodies,” observed Campbell. “I hope
everyone at least had adequate warning time to get inland.”

Proving the doctor was an accurate
meteorologist, Thatcher felt the first raindrops. “I should have
never doubted the nose of the Alpha Group creator.” He assisted
Campbell in carrying Dr. Hilliard.

As they speeded up their walk to the damaged
house, Campbell observed, “At least it’s some shelter. I hope it’s
okay.”

Thatcher approached the stilts and gingerly
pushed on one. It didn’t budge and then he pushed harder. After
grunting for a moment, he said, “Seems sturdy enough.” Then he
cupped his hands to his mouth, looked up, and yelled, “Anyone
home?”

There was no answer. They moved Dr. Hilliard
underneath the house. Campbell sat down beside her grandfather.
Noticing Thatcher’s hesitation, Campbell said, “You going to stay
in the rain?”

“No”, said a wary Thatcher, eyes peeled on the
floor above him, “I’d rather sit under a precariously unstable
house and gaze at the destruction my father has wrought upon the
world.”

“Now it’s my turn to be optimistic,” responded
Campbell. “Es and Nate will find us after communications are online
again.”

“And,” responded Thatcher,” for a
dyed-in-the-wool atheist, you place a lot of faith out there. Have
you considered our predicament? We’re stranded with no food, your
grandfather’s very ill, and, in about two hours, Red Dawn’s tsunami
will devastate the eastern seaboard of the North American Union.
And we don’t even know if the others are alive.”

“The faith I have is in Es and Nate, not in some
higher power,” Campbell replied

Thatcher shivered and changed the subject. “I’m
starving.”

“So am I,” responded Hilliard, his head resting
at a forty-five degree angle on the hard, cold sand. He was just
inside the perimeter that the house formed, narrowly escaping the
rain now cascading in sheets.

Campbell offered her grandfather an energy
snack. “I found a stash in the robo-glider.”

“Gee, I see how I rate,” complained
Thatcher.

She then tossed one over to him, but quickly
turned her attention back to her shivering grandfather. She
snuggled closer to him. He affectionately put his arm next to her
head, which now rested on his chest.

“Do you know how I’ve longed to hug you again?”
she asked.

“Probably ever since that last day at the cabin
in Canada. Let’s see, what year was that? We’d just gotten you back
from the hospital after your concussion. That night at the campfire
we sang all your favorite songs.”

“Yes, I remember, Grandpa. The singing seemed to
take my headache away.”

“That was the medicine,” he teased. Turning
serious, he asked, “Do you remember anything else about that
time?”

“We took an extra long walk the next morning.
That memory has always been so evocative for me. We saw dozens of
birds everywhere, and you knew all their names. In our special rock
garden behind the cabin, we placed a rock you said you’d found on
one of your expeditions. We placed it on the top of the pile. And
then,” she frowned, “it seemed that you just disappeared.”

His face was lit up in the happy memory.
“Campbell, I’ve been so proud of you all these years, especially
the Moon colony mission you undertook.”

The rain had nearly stopped.

“That’s where I became intrigued with studying
brain wave patterns for homicidal intent. I’m still continuing to
refine the technology,” she said proudly.

“You’re not mad at the old man for faking his
death and playing dead all these years?” Hilliard tried to smile,
but then he sputtered and coughed. “Campbell, I’m going to need you
to help me with the stem cell patch. I won’t make it much
longer.”

He instructed her on how to attach a tube, which
ran from the stem cell unit that Hilliard was holding, onto a
similar tube attached to his helmet.

While she worked at this, Hilliard said,
“Campbell, there’s something I need to tell you about the
cabin.”

Thatcher interrupted. “Where are our weapons?
Did we leave them on the sub?”

“Don’t panic!” said Campbell, irritated that
Thatcher interrupted something that seemed important from her
grandfather. “If we left the weapons, we’ll go back and get them
when the rain stops.”

“Well, we could use them now! Look!”

Campbell now spied what Thatcher was talking
about.

Their robo-glider sat on the beach, directly in
front of them. About thirty meters down the shore to the right, a
mini-sub, positioned a bit offshore, bobbed up and down. The top
hatch swung open. Herschel Hatton popped his head up, and stared up
and down the beach.

* * * * *

Nate couldn’t ignore the acrid aroma of smoke
that permeated his clothing. He glanced at Es on his left who was
piloting the hyperjet. “Are you okay?”

“My head is fine,” she asserted. “It is not the
transhuman way to complain about pain. Dugan has already apologized
for squeezing into my circuitry and causing this headache.”

Three hours ago Es and Nate had lifted off from
La Palma, Dugan in tow inside Es’s implanted circuitry, after
barely escaping the fire which followed the detonations. Es flew
the jet at over 1000 KMH, more than the recommended maximum speed,
in a desperate effort to get to Bermuda as soon as possible

“How are we doing for time?” asked Nate.

“For the last time,” said Es with a note of
irritation, “even at maximum speed we are not able to fly ahead of
the wave.”

Nate tried once again to contact Campbell. Es
noticed his fingers tapping his wrist, but his dataport phone was
unable to connect.

Es sighed. “I have also been unable to establish
contact. It is a …powerless feeling.”

“Well, you do have feelings after all,” said
Nate, also irritated.

Es sighed, and rubbed her forehead. “You still
misunderstand me, Nate. I’ve never said I am not human. But the
transhuman ethos is to transcend our humanity through perpetual
self-improvement. I still have deep feelings, but they must be
sublimated and subdued and must be used to a purposeful end.”

Dugan interrupted, speaking into their
dataports. “Skip, I must apologize for any action of mine that may
have inadvertently given Chang Chuang-tze and Sheridan North
through my association with TOPIC any information about you.”

Es grew wide-eyed. “A CCR that feels remorse?
Amazing.”

“Dugan,” Nate responded, “there’s no need to
apologize. Since I program you, if anything, I would need to
apologize to myself.”

“But I am thinking now,” responded the CCR.
“That means taking responsibility for my own actions. I am
presently scanning the latest satellite imagery on the tsunami. It
has reached the halfway mark across the Atlantic, reaching speeds
of over 150 KMH with a maximum wave height exceeding ten meters. As
it approaches the continental shelf, wave height is expected to
exceed thirty meters.”

“How far is it from Bermuda?” asked Nate,
envisioning what such a wave would do to an island and to the North
American coastline.

“It is on course to hit in six minutes. However,
the satellite photos show Dr. Hilliard’s floating complex is broken
in pieces and sinking.”

Es was incredulous. “How can that be when the
tsunami hasn’t even hit yet?”

* * * * * *

With a freshness and vigor that belied the fact
that Herschel had piloted a strange submarine through a tsunami, he
agilely hopped out into the water in one smooth motion. A moment
later, he had inflated a small rubber raft from the side of the
sub, and climbed aboard.

With powerful strokes of the oars, he quickly
arrived on the beach and pulled the raft out of the water. He
brushed his hands back through his short-cropped hair and wrung the
excess water off. Faded blue jeans, wet and heavy, clung tightly to
his muscular thighs. He pulled off his wet T-shirt, revealing his
hair-free, body-build physique. Slowly, he wrung the shirt out and
slung it over his shoulder.

Thatcher froze. “Don’t move, Campbell,” he
whispered through pursed lips. “Maybe he won’t see us.”

Herschel scanned up and down the beach in both
directions. He turned and headed the opposite direction, then
suddenly turned around. He concentrated on an object and made a
beeline for it, picking his way carefully along the shore amidst
the voluminous debris. He looked at the storm’s damage around him
and shook his head.

Frantically, Thatcher grabbed Campbell’s
backpack and searched for a gun. “He’s getting closer!”

“Shut up, Thatcher,” she hissed. “Just stop
moving, you idiot!” She glanced at her grandfather. He had fallen
asleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

Herschel stopped and examined the robo-glider
which sat directly in front of him. He stood directly between the
shore and the dilapidated stilt house. He smiled. He scanned around
him once again, and headed directly for the house where a frantic
Thatcher and Campbell sat.

“Ha! Found one,” Thatcher said triumphantly. He
produced a small PPD. “Damn! Will this thing even stop him?”

Campbell didn’t take her eyes off Herschel, who
was now within twenty meters. “I don’t see any bulges on him, do
you?”

“I’m not that kind of guy,” deadpanned
Thatcher.

“No,” she hissed. “I don’t think he has a gun.
Those
bulges.”

At ten meters away, Herschel stopped and
squinted his eyes, trying to see who was in the shadows of the
house. Then he spied the three. “Aha.” He smiled. “So we meet
again.”

“For the last time, sucker,” said Thatcher. He
stood up, aimed the PPD at Herschel, and fired. Shit! It’s not
working!”

Herschel saw his opportunity and leaped towards
them.

Campbell desperately lunged for the PPD. “Give
me that!”

Herschel was now at the edge of the house, a
mischievous grin pasted to his face. “The idiot brigade has landed;
Curly, Shep and Moe. I’m going to start with—”

Campbell found the on button. She aimed and
fired into Herschel’s mid-section.

Herschel’s body pulsed with electricity, he lost
his balance, and fell over face first into the sand.

Thatcher retrieved some rope from another
deserted nearby house. He and Campbell dragged Herschel to the
corner pole that supported the house and tied him securely to it.
They patted him down and found no guns.

“Wish it was a real gun,” complained Thatcher.
“The quicker he’s dead, the better.”

Campbell finished tying Herschel’s hands behind
the pole. “But I don’t want to see him dead quite yet.”

“What!” asked an astonished Thatcher.

“He’s gotta answer some questions first,” she
replied.

“Whew,” replied Thatcher. “For a minute, I
thought you’d gone soft on me, or joined the Church of
Abraham.”

Campbell rushed back to a still sleeping
Hilliard. Again, she attempted to install the stem cell patch onto
her grandfather’s helmet. Moments later, she succeeded. While
Thatcher stood guard over Herschel, Dr. Hilliard stirred
momentarily.

Hilliard woke up and smiled at Campbell. “Thank
you, my dear. I can already feel the difference. But it’s going to
take more time. I’m still very tired.”

“Grandpa, there’s something I need to tell you
about Beckett.” But he had already fallen back asleep.

Thirty minutes later, Herschel began to stir,
grayish wet sand still stuck to his arms, belly, and face. He spit
some sand out from the corner of his mouth. Gradually, he
recognized his captors and predicament. He tugged on his
restraints. Then he grunted and said to the slumbering Hilliard,
“Well, hello, gramps,”

“Leave Hilliard alone.” Thatcher stood a few
meters away, the PPD pointed at him.

“Know how to use that toy yet?” snarled
Herschel.

“Ya wanna find out,” Thatcher replied testily
back.

Herschel snarled defiantly. “Does that make you
feel manly pointing that thing, boy?”

Campbell sat on the ground two meters away.
“Thatcher, shut up!” Then addressing Herschel, she said, “Herschel
Hatton also known as Browning Watts. If you’re fortunate, we might
just let you live. They say PPDs are non-lethal, but I know exactly
where to aim it to kill. But first, I just really want to know why
you’ve been killing Alpha Group members?

Herschel grinned. “Me? You’re accusing me of
murder? Whoa there, missy. Before you go accusing innocent people,
you better…you can’t even prove my identity. What’s an alpha
group?”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said firmly.

He’s very good at it,” insisted Thatcher.

Herschel’s biceps bulged with the number ‘90’ on
his left arm. Meanwhile the number ‘10’ on his right bounced up and
down. Campbell recalled Nate telling her of these curious tattoos
aboard the ‘copter at Heaven on Earth
. With Gideon’s Army,
symbols are everything. What does this one mean?
she
wondered.

Herschel eyed Thatcher over carefully. “You talk
tough, little man, but I could snap you like a toothpick.”

“Why are you killing Alpha Group members?” asked
a persistent Campbell.

“It’s you again,” said Herschel with a sneer,
turning his attention back to Campbell. “I’m not going to explain
this any more. Skip was too stupid to understand and so are
you.”

Dr. Hilliard stirred. “He’s one of the sixteen
recipients of the anti-aging formula. He was known then as Browning
Watts. He disappeared from my detection in ‘46. Then apparently he
resurfaced a couple years ago as Herschel Hatton. He’s been
intimately involved in the Gideon’s Army group, which avows an
extreme Christian war-like attitude. And,” he said with his voice
cracking, “he turned my son, Beckett, against me.”