Skyfire (20 page)

Jack was the first to speak.  “Sir, I know the city pretty well, but I’m from Brooklyn.”  He glanced in Trent’s direction.

And here we go again. 
“Sir, I got this.  I’ve been to that museum a million times.”

“Please, Captain…  What was it?  Hughes?”

Trent walked up toward Ronak and the sphere.  “How’s everyone doing tonight?”
Seriously?  Come on, you’re better than this. 
“Alright, let’s all take a moment to recognize how awkward and uncomfortable that was.”  Some of his audience chuckled.  “I’m Captain Hughes.  I’m an infantry officer who wasn’t supposed to be at work today.  I should be watching Star Trek reruns half in the bag off Jameson, but now we’re air assaulting into Central Park and raiding the American Museum of Natural History to find some dude, because that’s completely normal.” This brought more chuckles.  “Is anyone here besides Ja-, ah, Major Rugerman familiar with New York?”

“Sir, I came here with my wife on our honeymoon.  That goddamn subway train smells like my dog’s asshole,” said Harrison.

“The subway’s fine,” said Trent.  “It doesn’t smell like anything.”
God, you sound like Emma.
Trent glanced at Jack.  “Sir, can you pass me that pointer please?”
I will NEVER hear the end of calling that shit-dick sir. 
“OK, moving on.  I count less than thirty minutes to get seven people ready to go on this.  I’m going to give you the down and dirty.  Prepare to copy.”

All the soldiers and officers in the tent pulled out small notebooks and pens.  Most of the notebooks were green, three inch by five inch ‘Rite in the Rain’ flip pads, with a slick film on each sheet that made it harder to write on than normal paper.  The sound of everyone in the tent tapping their government-issue ‘Skillcraft’ pens on their pads – necessary for the pen to write more than one word at a time - took Trent back to every operations order he’d ever given in Iraq.  He didn’t want to be in this position.  When he cut ties with the military in 2009, all he wanted was to distance himself from it as much as possible, but at times this seemed impossible. 

Trent continued his briefing.  “Let me orient you to the area of operations.  I’m not making up silly names, so just pay attention.  For simplicity’s sake, let’s consider our AO (Area of Operations) boundaries to be the following.”  Trent began tracing the low quality image at the front of the room with the stick Jack handed to him.

“Captain Hughes,” said Ronak, “would you mind if I interjected?”

Christ, what? 
“Sure. Be my guest, man.”

Ronak nodded in the direction of the sphere, giving it a peculiar look.  The dim lights darkened and an image of the immediate area around the museum projected onto the map boards.  The sphere’s display put the satellite imagery found on Google Maps to shame.

Wow.  Awesome. 
“Um, thanks, Ron.” 
‘Sup dude, I killed your friend.  No biggie.  FUCK.  This ghost is going to kill my ass when he finds out what I did.

“You’re quite welcome, Trent.”

“Anyway, back to the boundary orientation.  Consider your northern boundary to be West 81st Street, which runs east to west into the 79th Street Central Park Transverse.”  Trent used the pointer to trace the road that snaked along the northern edge of the property, into the park.  “West 77th is your southern boundary. It similarly pipes you into a road in the park called West Drive.”  Trent continued his trace, showing how 77th Street merged into West Drive at a perpendicular angle.  “Your eastern boundary is an unnamed access road bordering the western edge of a building called Belvedere Castle.  If you look a block west of the actual museum, you see Amsterdam Avenue, which is your western boundary.  If you cross either Amsterdam or this access road by Belvedere Castle, you’re wrong.”  Trent pointed to a network of walking paths on the map, 200 meters to the south of Belvedere Castle.  If you find yourself here, it’s an area of the park called ‘The Ramble.’  If you’re looking for a dude to blow, that’s your spot.  You might even get SVUed there - it’s awesome.”

A few in the audience laughed, but most were too shell-shocked from the last few hours to react. 

“Who’s our pilot and flight crew?” Trent said.  “Mr. Pilot, you here?”

“Hooah, sir, Chief Warrant Officer Rudich.  I guess I got this one.  Call sign’s Green Dragon 1-3.”

“Sweet man, we’ll talk more after.  This shit’s too bright for me to see you - do you have a good angle on this?  Can you see?”

“Roger, sir.”

“OK, cool,” Trent said.  “Not to insult your intelligence, but as I’m sure you all know, you need half a football field to land a bird.  We have one bird and plenty of space in the park.  From past experience I know the elevation is a little steep for a landing here, here, and here.” Trent pointed to three areas of the park closest to Central Park West, the main drag connecting the museum entrance with midtown in one direction and Harlem in the other.  “I recommend we use this little piece here. To the southwest of the Belvedere building.”

“Sir, how do you know?” called a soldier from the darkness toward the tent’s entrance.

“I used to drink beers there when I was in high school, and I walked past that exact spot with my wife two weeks ago.” 
Think.  Don’t gloss over anything important.  These people are looking to you for guidance.  Don’t let them realize how much of a fucked up idea that is.  Think of that Star Trek episode where Captain Picard and Dr. Crusher read each other’s minds, and she realizes that ninety percent of his stuff is confidence and bullshit.  Exude confidence! 
“Mr. Rudich, when you come in, I want you to fly in from the east and land pointing your nose to the west.  Can you make that happen?  It’ll be a tight landing.”

“You got it, sir.”

“Awesome.  OK everyone, what does that mean?  Anyone?” 
Getting back into my groove.  Interactive patrol briefs with the soldiers, just like Kirkuk.  I got this shit.

“Means we walk in the same direction as the bird’s pointing when we get off,” blurted Harrison in an atrocious southern accent.

“Why?” said Trent.

“Because that’s the direction of the big-ass building we need to get the guy from.”

“Good, and why not the opposite direction?”

“Well, sir, I reckon that’s where you get duked in the shitter by queers!”

“Very good, Harrison.  I want you to come with me on this one.” Trentchuckled
.
“OK, we know where we need to go and how we’re going to get there.  Let’s talk key terrain.  For our purposes, just know every building is tall as hell.  If this were a normal operation, you’d have to think about snipers, potshots, and we’d probably have more air support.  In this case, however, I want to emphasize entry and exit.  My travel companion and I ran into a ton of barricades on the way into Jersey City.  I expect Manhattan and this building to be ten times worse.  I think the best chance we have is to stay together and start a methodical search upon arrival.  I mean old-school - room by room, floor by floor, using magic markers to mark searched rooms with an ‘X’ on the door.  We don’t have enough people to occupy every searched room, so consider absolutely nothing secure.  Stay on your fucking toes at ALL times.” 

Trent surveyed his audience; he had their attention.

“Key terrain piece number one is the subway station located on the corner of Central Park West and 81st Street,” said Trent.  “That’s what the map says, anyway.  The entrance we want is actually just south of the stairs heading into the front of the building.  This is the first option for a point of entry.  When you get there you have two choices - left or right.  Right will take you into the train tunnel for the uptown-bound B and C trains.  The left option takes you into the B1 (basement) level of the museum, which is the food court.  I like this point of entry because it’s a short distance to the interior of the structure, and we can search methodically, floor by floor.  We wouldn’t have to worry about finding our way through the parking garage.  Also, I think they have the last Sbarro on the planet down there; it’s awesome.”  This elicited a few more snickers.

“There are three more immediate points of entry,” Trent continued.  “I’m discounting the roof because we don’t have the right kind of helicopter.  I refuse to ‘Blackhawk Down’ this shit - it’s silly and ridiculous.”  Trent glanced at Karl. “My apologies, Major McMullin.  Not happening, sir.”

“All good dude,” said Karl.  “I’m down for whatever.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Trent, smiling.

Harrison piped up again with the obvious question.  “Sir, how the hell are you sure the guy’s even there?  C’mon, I can’t be the only one of ya’ll thinkin’ bout this!”

“We have been monitoring his correspondence,” said Ronak.  “He planned to use the museum’s facilities to study the phenomenon, whatever the cost.  He sensed its correlation to his work immediately.”

“Ronak, how have you not mentioned this?” said McColgan.  “Is this uncertainty not warranted?  Should you not have alleviated it?”                The audience grumbled at the thought of an alien species invading everyone’s privacy. 

“It is irrelevant,” Ronak replied.  Such a thing would be glossed over by those who exchanged privacy for evolutionary efficiency centuries ago.

Goddamn.  These ghosts have been NSAing us?  I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised. 
“Back to the other points of entry,” said Trent.  “We have a parking garage, which is likely a fruitless path.”

“Why?” asked Harrison.

“Why travel through a place where the objective is not located?  The less exposure, the better,” said Trent.

“Then why the hell are we going into the subway?”

“Dude, it’s literally twenty feet from the train staircase to the little area where you can either enter the museum or go through the turnstiles.  It’s our best bet and minimizes our exposure.”

“Not the front door?” said Harrison.

What a fucking pain in the ass.  At least he’s making me think about shit.
“Specialist Harrison, I apprecia-”

“Harrison, shut the fuck up,” said McColgan.

Thanks, sir.
  “Harrison, I like that you’re thinking about this stuff, but we’re hurting on time.”

“Roger, sir.” 

“In addition to our preferred point of entry are the front back and side entrances I just mentioned.”  Trent pointed to the south, west, and east entrances to the museum.  Since we are landing in the park to the east, our options, in order, are the subway, the eastern door, the southern door, the western door, and finally, the parking garage.  Harrison, you writing this shit down?”

“Roger, sir.”

“Good.”

Trent continued.  “Once we achieve entry, as I said previously, we go straight up to the top floor, where his office most likely is.  On the way up, we perform a cursory search of the less likely areas as we go.   From there we go top down.  Every room,  room by room.  I don’t care if it’s an office, an exhibit, an elevator machine room, whatever.  If you can’t get in, break the door down.  Speed is the key.  Once you enter and clear each room, the rear man marks it on the left side of the door frame with a magic marker.”

Jack made an inquiry.  “Captain Hughes, how is the building laid out?  Do you have any recollection?”

“I do.  There are four floors open to the public and an additional three above that are used by museum personnel.”

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Jack.

“Fuck man, I don’t know - offices and shit.  Labs.  Who knows?  It’s not open to the public. But if Dr. Kapur works there, he’ll likely be on one of the upper levels.” 

“Fair enough.”  Jack nodded in agreement.  “It’s all we got.”

“OK Captain Hughes, thank you,” said McColgan.  “Will you go on this mission?”

Good idea as any.  I can break off after we find this dude and get back to looking for Emma. 
“Yes, sir.  I will.”

“Jack, I want you to take the lead on this one,” said McColgan.   “I know you’re intel now but you’re what we got and you know what needs to happen.  This isn’t as cookie cutter as half the shit we did in the Middle East.  I’m trusting you to pick your team and make it happen.”

“You got it, sir,” Jack replied.

“If there’s nothing else, I suggest Major Rugerman chooses his people and we quickly rehearse Battle Drill 6A a few times before we hop on the bird,” said Trent.

“Don’t stand on formality this time, gentlemen,” said McColgan.  “Go get me Mahesh Kapur.”

RAMOS

“Si tu mal tiene remedio, ¿de qué te apuras?; y si no, ¿de qué te preocupas?” – Samantha Ramos’s mother, Lucinda
[If there´s a cure for your problem, why anguish? And if there´s none, why worry?]

             
Great.  What now?  I swear to God, the only reason people ask me to do anything important is because they think I’m all calm, cool, and collected.  I am freaking the fuck out right now!
  Sam Ramos straightened her Army Combat Uniform, trying to make it look as presentable as possible, considering it was covered in blood and dirt.  She tucked her tan t-shirt into her camouflage pants, re-zipped and velcroed her top. 
I better see who’s around and check for more ammo for this SAW.  Maybe I can find someone who outranks me and isn’t a complete ass-hat.  Tall order.  This is so fucked! 
To the rest of the world, Ramos appeared docile, motivated, and action-oriented. She was a woman of few words. 

              The night air was still, with little wind coming off the Hudson River.  The smell of expended artillery ammunition dominated the senses, along with the pulsating light over the city.  Soldiers stood around dumbfounded, acting more like dejected onlookers at the site of some horrible tragedy.  The sounds of the shrieking, screaming and general bedlam sprung up sporadically in the distance.  It all hit Ramos like a punch in the face. 
We got a break right now, but this is FAR from over.  I need to get these people moving!  We need security; we need a safe place for casualties; everyone needs to be in position with all their shit packed so we can move on a dime. 

              If the people around me aren’t trying to kill me, I’m going to assume a diagnosis of really butt-hurt and get them to move out.  Then what?  Who fucking knows?  I am such an impostor.  Everyone thinks I’m competent, but the only reason I get anything done is that I’m not afraid to look like an asshole.  Whatever, right?  Shit’s gotta get done!
 

              She noticed a private and a specialist.  “Hey guys, you OK?  I’m Sergeant Ramos from the Aid Station.”

“Roger, sergeant, we’re OK,” said the specialist.  “I’m looking for my other private right now.  I’m this guy’s team leader.  We lost one other man during the indirect fire.  My other guy’s on the gate detail.”

              “What’s your name?  Your nametape’s covered up by your body armor.”

              “Specialist Washington.”  Washington had skin blacker than the night sky, and an accent that sounded West African.  He looked to be in his late twenties, old for a lower enlisted soldier.

             
Slow down.  Make him feel like I give a shit. 
“Great.  And you, private?”

              “Private Rogers, Sergeant.”

              “Cool.  Where you guys from?  Washington – is that an accent?”

              “Sergeant, I was born in Liberia.  I came to this country when I was nine.”

              “Holy shit, what a story I bet that is.” 
I am legitimately interested.  Ebola, cannibal rebels, poverty that makes Detroit look rich…

             
“Yes, sergeant.”

              “Rogers, what about you?”

              “West Virginia.”

              “Another southern white boy in the infantry?  Who would’ve thought.” 
Shit, he doesn’t get that I’m joking.
  “Relax, private, I’m messing with you.  Grab your gear and follow me.” 
Follow me where?

             
They walked for two minutes and turned around. 
Where am I putting these two?
 
Whatever, I’ll come up with something common sense.
  “OK, guys.  This is now the six o’clock of our security perimeter.  We will continue to place interspersed buddy teams facing outward at intervals of about fifteen meters.  We’ll adjust the intervals as needed when we get more people.  The ten o’clock is over by the gun-line where the grenade exploded, and the two o’clock is over there by the generator next to that Humvee. Understand?”

              Washington responded.  “Roger Sergeant, I’ll go toward the ten and you go toward the two.  We can place people as we find them and meet at the twelve. Sound good?” 

              He shows initiative.  Good.  Lift some of this burden. 
“Sounds perfect.  After we get security, I’ll plop the casualty collection point in the middle of the perimeter.  I’ll throw a chem light on the ground to mark it.  Put any wounded there; I’ll start triage after security is established.” 

“Understood,” replied Washington in his unique Liberian accent.

“Undah-stoood,” Ramos said with a smirk, imitating him.

Washington and Rogers both chuckled.

Ramos began walking around the perimeter, emplacing soldiers as she found them. At the same time, she looked for a more seasoned non-commissioned officer to take control of security so she could focus on her duties as a medic. 

Let’s recap what’s happened over these last few hours.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  People spontaneously developing mental illnesses is not something commonly seen in the medical community.  I’m starting to think I’m a little beyond my depth right now.  I’m a medic, not a doctor.  Would a doctor even know where to start in this situation?

“Hey guys, come here.”  Ramos found a few more lower enlisted soldiers that looked utterly confused and emplaced them twenty meters from the six o’clock apex of the security perimeter.

“Roger, sergeant,” responded one of the privates.

The first step in figuring out what’s happening is figuring out who it affects.  Why am I fine?  Why was that stripper chick fine?  What about the dude in the Yankee hat or his friends?  Why aren’t they batshit crazy like the people in the aid station?  Who is susceptible?  It’s got to be neurological, right?

              Ramos noticed a sergeant first class from 1-32; she recognized him from a previous deployment.  “Hey sergeant, here’s our security and casualty collection plan.  Want to take this, seeing as I’m the medic and you’re the ground pounder?”  Ramos explained the setup of the security perimeter.  As she did this, she walked to its center and popped a luminescent chem light, marking the casualty collection point.  It was only a matter of time before all the wounded were brought to the center of the perimeter for triage. 

             
Finally, a minute to breathe before this madness starts back up. 
Ramos lit a Newport Light cigarette.  She stared into the night sky, her back facing the phenomenon over the city. 
Let’s look at everyone who hasn’t been affected.  What do all of us have in common?  Maybe it’s a tolerance thing?  Maybe this thing digs into your brain – your consciousness - until you snap and have no idea what the hell is going on?  Why do some people last longer before turning?  Is it a mental toughness thing?  Shit, I have no idea.  Is becoming a raging, violent, crazy person directly related to how many shit sandwiches life can hand you before you say ‘fuck it’ and succumb to control?  Of course, I’m still under the assumption that the thing over the city has something to do with how people are acting.  It’s the only large-scale thing that seems to have changed in the last week.  I can’t prove anything, but my gut tells me that the tougher you are mentally, the harder it is for this… whatever to take root.  Fuck, I don’t know.  It’s all speculation.  We need to learn more as soon as possible. 

             
“Sergeant Ramos!  We got a few live ones here!”  Private Rogers was fireman-carrying a wounded soldier; two companions behind him were doing the same.

              “Put them all here in a row.  Leave one soldier to assist who doesn’t have a weak stomach.”

              “I hunt and process my own kills into usable meat.  This ain’t shit, sergeant.”

              “OK, Private Rogers.  Let’s get to work then.  Put these rubber gloves on.”

              “Yes, sergeant.”