The Alpha Deception (3 page)

The last occupant of the Tomb was Ryan Sundowner, director of the Bureau of Scientific Intelligence; BSI for short, but better known as the Toy Factory. By far the youngest of the group, Sundowner wore his brown wavy hair long and opted for a tattered tweed sports jacket rather than the traditional Washington suit. He looked as uncomfortable in the jacket as he did in the Tomb itself. This was his first visit ever.

“Mr. Sundowner,” the President said, “tell us about Hope Valley.”

Sundowner cleared his throat. He rose from his chair, holding tight to a black remote control device in his hand.

“I believe, sir,” he started, “that the pictures we’re about to see speak for themselves. If they don’t, there’s an accompanying narration that says it better than I can.”

Sundowner pressed one button on the remote and the Tomb’s recessed lights darkened. He pressed another one and the map in the center of the side wall parted to reveal a forty-five-inch video monitor. The device was familiar to him but had been custom-altered for the Tomb, and Sundowner had a vision of pushing the wrong button and sending missiles hurtling from their silos. He pushed a third button and the screen filled with a videotaped flyover shot of what had been Hope Valley.

Nothing but a black cloud. Everywhere, everything, from one side of the screen to the other.

“My God,” the President muttered, rising as if to gain a better view in the darkness of the Tomb, a dimness diffused only by the glow of the video screen and the light over the door.

Sundowner froze the frame. “The military alerted the BSI after being alerted themselves by a highway patrolman who saw the cloud. Thought it was smoke at first.”

“You mean he
entered
the town?” raised Secretary of Defense Kappel, aware of the possible implications.

“He came close enough. We’ve got him in seclusion now, more to keep him quiet than as an anticontamination precaution. There’s no danger of infection here,” Sundowner explained, pointing at the screen. “I only wish it were that simple.”

The scientist started the tape again. Different angles and views of the cloud were displayed, showing no trace of the town.

“What about the perimeter?” CIA chief Stamp wanted to know.

“Hope Valley’s as isolated as they come,” Sundowner told him. “Just a single main access road which we cordoned off and set the appropriate buffer in place. The military and BSI personnel are working together under Firewatch conditions. That much has been contained.”

“That much,” echoed Mercheson, mimicking the obvious understatement.

There was a brief glitch in the tape after which the screen filled with a moving shot down the road approaching Hope Valley.

“The thickness of the cloud made it impossible for any of our flyovers to tell us anything. Our next phase called for an observer to be sent in. The picture you’re seeing now comes courtesy of a camera built into his helmet. He had to look through the windshield of the van he was driving, so excuse the graininess.”

“Who made the decision to enter?” the President demanded as the murky mass loomed larger on the screen.

“I did, sir,” admitted Sundowner without hesitation.

“Rather large responsibility to take on yourself, considering the potential risks.”

“There was more risk involved, sir, by
not
investigating the scene itself. We had no idea what evidence might be lost on the wind and I was satisfied by on-scene reports that the biological reactions were of negligible consequence.”

“Meaning?”

“No dizziness, nausea, or wooziness from the soldiers enforcing the five-mile sealing and buffer zone. No symptoms of anything at all. Except fear.”

On the screen, the van had reached the outer borders of the cloud, headlights barely making a dent in the blackness as it crawled on.

“Nevertheless, the driver is wearing a POTMC suit,” Sundowner elaborated. “Stands for Protective Outfit, Toxicological and Microclimate Controlled.”

Sundowner paused long enough to touch a button that brought up the volume on the screen’s hidden speakers. “The driver’s narration begins here, so I’ll let him take over.”

The softly whirling sounds of an engine came on before the voice, words slightly garbled by the Tomb’s echo, forcing the occupants to strain their ears.

“Base, this is Watch One. I’m almost to the edge of town. Whatever’s in this cloud, it’s playing hell with the windshield. As you can see I’ve got the wipers on steady now but they’re not doing much good. A gritty residue full of flakes and dust is building up in layers, so whatever this cloud is it’s got plenty of solid makeup to it. It’s still hard to tell if—wait a minute. Jesus Christ
…
”

The picture on the screen buckled as the driver jammed on the brakes, seeing something his helmet-contained camera could not yet pick up. Remembering this, he accelerated the vehicle again.

“I’m going to try to rotate my head regularly to make sure everything I’m looking at comes through. I’m entering the town now … or what used to be the town.”

Narration continued and the men in the Tomb sat listening, looking, mesmerized. The tape was shot in color but it might as well not have been; black powder dominated what had been the center of Hope Valley. It lay in piles everywhere, all different sizes, no pattern whatsoever, and it seemed to shift in the wind even as they watched. It was so powdery that the van rolled easily over it. The narrator drew his vehicle to a halt to allow for the clearest possible picture.

“Checking instruments now,”
he said and for a time only engine sounds filled the speakers with the camera’s view of the town lost as the driver lowered his helmet. “
Instruments show only a slight flux in heat levels. I read no evidence of explosion. Repeat, no evidence of explosion. Whatever caused this wasn’t nuclear or even remotely fulminatory.”
Another pause.
“Instruments indicate the area of direct effect is cylindrical and, my God, symmetrical.”

“Symmetrical,” broke in Secretary of State Mercheson, “what exactly does that mean?”

Sundowner hit the
PAUSE
key and the screen froze again. “Any kind of ground-level explosion would spread outward like water spilled on a table. Ragged edges and a generally irregular pattern. Symmetrical means we’re facing an impetus from above ground level.”

“Push the
PLAY
button, Mr. Sundowner,” Lyman Scott ordered.

The scientist obliged and the narrator’s voice returned, the screen blurring as he lowered his head closer to the instruments.

“I’m checking the range finders now. I read no evidence whatsoever of any remains. Nothing’s even standing. It doesn’t make sense. Whatever happened here should have left residue I could fix on, yet there’s nothing except for that black dust. Sensors show no signs of movement indicative of life. I’m checking oxygen levels now… . Machines say the air’s breathable. They don’t say it’s sooty but I can assure you of that much. I’m going to start driving again.”
The screen grew dark once again, and the Tomb’s occupants squinted their eyes trying to see through the sooty cloud. “
It’s my estima—
”

There was a thud and the picture rocked.

“What the hell …”

“You’re not going to believe this,”
the narrator’s voice said as if in reply,
“but I just hit another car. I’m getting out to inspect the damage. Better take my lantern.
…
”

The screen blurred again, then filled briefly with a shot of the driver’s door opening out into the blackness. The narrator’s breathing quickened as his boots met the pavement and he started around to the front of the van with the lantern’s beam focused directly before him.

“What the hell?”

The car he had struck was missing all four of its tires.

“I hope it’s thieves because—wait a minute … I don’t know if you can make this out but I’m looking inside the car and the interior’s just a shell. No trace of cloth or plastic. Long as I’m out, I might as well take a little walk.
…”

Sundowner pressed the
MUTE
key and picked up the narration himself as the helmet-mounted camera looked into the dent carved in the sooty blackness by the powerful lantern.

“Two more cars here,” he started when the screen displayed them, “also missing their tires.”

“Busy thieves,” observed Stamp.

Sundowner’s words rolled over him. “Here we have a pile of bricks where a building once was.”

“Looks like it just crumbled in on itself,” said Kappel. “No semblance of structure, just like the instruments recorded.”

“There’s no trace of most other buildings at all,” continued Sundowner when the camera locked on what had been one. “Just holes in the ground filled with that black dust.”

“What about people?” the President wanted to know.

“None.”

“I was talking about traces, remains.”

“None,” Sundowner said without elaborating further. He hit the
MUTE
key and the narrator’s voice picked up again as he headed back for the van.

“…
now. I’ve got the layout of Hope Valley memorized and I want to check out the residential neighborhoods.
…”

Sundowner fastforwarded, watching the counter for the proper cue when to stop.

“I’m in what used to be a neighborhood. It’s the same as the commercial district
—
nothing left. But hold on. In the detailed maps I studied before entering there were plenty of trees and grass.”
He cocked his head to the left and held it.
“There was a park over there, I’m sure of it. But now, as you can see, there’s nothing but black dust. Looks like the stuff just swooped in and swallowed everything.
…”

The foundations of several houses were still visible, but nothing rested on top of them. There was just the black dust, rising up from the excavations and whipping about in the stiff wind. The scene looked to be that of a distant planet with a violent, unsettled landscape unfit for habitation. No plants, buildings, or life. Not even any death.

“What about the people, goddamnit!” the President blared suddenly. “What happened to the people?”

Sundowner pressed
STOP
. “They were attacked, sir.”

The President leaned over the table, the fear in his face caught by the glow coming off the screen. “You had better be prepared to explain yourself, Mr. Sundowner.”

“I’m not, Mr. President, and I’m not sure I ever will be able to do so satisfactorily, because what happened to Hope Valley
can’t be
explained.”

Lyman Scott moved back into the darkness, safe from the screen’s light. “Your report indicates otherwise. You said
symmetrical.
You said
attacked.
But there’s no weapon on this planet that could bring about what we just witnessed.”

“You mean, sir, there didn’t used to be.”

Chapter 3

BLAINE MCCRACKEN WATCHED
the Hind-D being wheeled down the ramp from the cargo bay of the C-130 transport plane that had flown it to the Air Force test lab in Colorado Springs.

“You’re late,” Lieutenant Colonel Ben Metcalf barked cheerfully, striding across the airfield toward him.

“Next time call Federal Express. They’re the only ones who’ll absolutely, positively do business with bastards like you.”

The two men met at the foot of the ramp and shook hands firmly. Metcalf’s eyes fell fondly on the Hind.

“I can’t tell you what it means to us to finally get our hands on one of these.”

“Forget the plural,” Blaine scolded. “I did this for
you,
Ben, you and you only. For services rendered, remember?” Fifteen years ago, Metcalf had run interference for Blaine with the brass back in Vietnam so that Blaine’s unit could cut through enemy lines instead of red tape.

“But in this case there’s the matter of the million-dollar bounty on this bird. That money now officially belongs to you.”

“Except I don’t plan on claiming it, not when it’ll probably mean having my picture plastered across the cover of some half-assed war-lover’s magazine.”

“Would probably boost circulation a bundle to showcase that beautiful mug of yours.”

“Yeah. People’d have to buy a copy to find out if I was human or not. If anyone asks, just tell them you inherited the Hind after it was left in a tow zone.”

They started walking down the tarmac.

“You still think about the war, Blaine?”

“Never stopped. Johnny says I’m obsessed with bringing things to a finish. Maybe in this case it’s because over there we never finished anything; we never really knew we started.” Blaine gazed at the Hind as it was towed toward a hangar. “You gonna keep her here awhile?”

“Couple months at least. I’m going to take care of the flight testing myself, just as soon as I patch up the holes you put in her.”

“Wouldn’t mind sticking around for that myself.”

“You’re more than welcome to but there’s a message waiting for you in my office. From a woman.”

“And I told her never to call me at the office… .”

Metcalf laughed briefly. “Figured you’d be a harder man to track down.”

“Somebody needs me, it’s not that hard. That’s the way I want it.”

“Message said it was important. No name, just a number. Massachusetts exchange, I think.”

“Terry Catherine Hayes,” Blaine said, mostly to himself.

“Know her?”

“I used to.”

Ben Metcalf insisted on flying Blaine across the country in an Air Force jet. McCracken sat in the cockpit and tried to remember what piloting a jet was like.

And what Terry Catherine might be like now. They hadn’t seen each other in over eight years, almost nine, after a brief and intense romantic interlude that had been Blaine’s last. It had been quite an item for a month at least. The daughter of a rich Bostonian banker taking up with a mysterious government agent no queries could find any record of. They had met at a cocktail party when Blaine deliberately mistook her for the woman he was there to protect.

T.C… . He was the only one who called her that, and she pretended to hate it for those weeks McCracken had shared with her, shared more than he had with most women. Sustained attachments were impossible in Blaine’s chosen profession. Too easy for the woman to be hurt or used as leverage by an opponent seeking any possible advantage. And just as dangerous, attachments could provide too seductive a picture of what the other side of life was like. Normalcy, settling down, living under your real name and without the fear that anyone’s eyes you met might belong to a person about to kill you.