The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (15 page)

She read it aloud, “
Enim Pietasque et Humanitas.
”

She ran a finger over the tattoo as Russell spoke, “For Duty and Humanity. Our unit motto.”

Maggie's professional curiosity got the best of her, “Who did it?”

“Guy in the unit worked on them before he enlisted,” he slid his arm away and into his shirt.

She straightened, stepped back, “You need to see him about a touch-up.”

“I would,” he draped a tac-vest over himself. “But he was killed during a patrol.”

Maggie's face blanked, “Oh. Sorry.”  

“It's alright, I wasn't there. From what I was told, there was nothing that could've been done anyhow,” he said, seemingly at peace.

“I never expected to see ink on you.”

He adjusted his vest, “Most don't. But most people don't know what to make of me.”

“You ever want a touch up, let me know.”

He managed a smile, “Maybe I'll do that.”

“Maybe if we survive, I won't charge you,” she joked dryly.

She headed outside, her clothes in her arms and her pack on a shoulder. She met She-La beside the table, tossed her clothes in her bag, and dropped it on the ground.

“Are you prepared?” She-La asked, arranging magazines into separate stacks on the table.

“I don't know if
yes
is technically accurate.”

She-La sympathized, “I felt the same when I first joined.”

“How
did
you end up in all of this?”
 

She did her best to reply succinctly, “My parents are investors in military technology. It brought them into the fold.” She hand-loaded rifle-magazines from boxes across the table. Maggie helped intuitively. “Many years ago my father's ethical integrity was questioned. Most of his peers had become convinced he was a warmonger.”

“He's not?”

“No,” she replied monotonously. “My father emigrated to America to invest in pharmaceuticals. After he amassed a fortune, he turned toward long-term investments; weapons-manufacturers, technological innovators and the like.”

“Like National Defense contractors,” Maggie guessed.

“Somewhat. By the mid-eighties, computers had already been integrated heavily in civil defense. My father's foresight made him billions. It is how he met Ryusaki, but I digress.”

“I'm guessing that's when the character-assault began?” Maggie asked, finding tranquility in the mind-numbing task.

“Yes.” The shack opened and Russell threw his duffel bag beside the table, tossed aside his empty pack. “With money came the image of malevolence. Under this impression, Omega attempted to recruit him. He declined and they sent an assassin after him.”

“But the Order intervened.”

“Yes, and as the only child not to follow my father's footsteps, my mind is not clouded with greed.”

Russell caught wind of the conversation and the women's task, began loading magazines.

“So the Order recruited him?”

“Yes, but not as with us,” She-La replied as she started on a second stack of rifle magazines. She passed a stack of pistol magazines to Russell, “My father's money is of great use to the Order. We rely on information trading to procure supplies and equipment—things that require incalculably vast sums at times. My father, like others, willingly funnels money to the Order in exchange for protection. These various transactions appear in company records, but occasionally disappear immediately after. He knows nothing of the workings of the Order beyond what I have told him.”

“So, how'd
you
end up involved?” Russell specified.

“As I said, my mind is unclouded. While running book-keeping for my father, I saw that large sums had disappeared. I confronted my father and accused him of embezzlement. In order to clear his name, he told me what he knew. Later, Miramoto came to me, recommended by my father, and involved me as Ryusaki has you. I was given a choice to join the Order or be killed for what I knew.”

“Sounds familiar,” Russell muttered.

“It is. Miramoto's association made me a target.”

Maggie scoffed sarcastically, “They need to find an in-house artist.”

She-La agreed with an eye, “I offered, but I never expected Ryusaki to go to someone, with all due respect, random.”

“Was it this bad?” Russell asked, curious how she'd established herself otherwise.

She-La shook her head, “No. Miramoto
was
being watched by Omega, and they
did
attack me, but I joined and hid away to train. After a few months, I was able to defend myself and eventually halve their numbers. After that, the attacks stopped. I presume that they thought of me as an annoyance—a part of the problem they sought to eradicate from the top down.”

“So what's different here then? Ryusaki?” Maggie asked, sliding a box of ammunition over.

“In part. Ryusaki was an unknown until recently. It was my father's association that brought him into the fold, but his recent ascension to Keeper made Omega aware of his importance. Though Omega does not know of their knowledge of the language, we're certain they know the Keepers' significance. Moreover, Ryusaki and Miramoto's information might have prevented the Protectorate's systematic elimination. That is an unknown now. Since they believe you to hold some part of that information, they will stop at nothing to keep you from handing it off to the greater Order.”

“So, the Keepers' meeting was ultimately the catalyst to an escalation,” Russell deduced.

She-La affirmed with a nod, “Yes. Apart from eliminating the Protectorate, Omega's doubled their search efforts for the weapon. If they believed the Keepers' information had any relation to their search, they would have wanted anyone who had intercepted the message eliminated.”

Maggie found strangeness in speaking her next words, “So, Omega believes we're carrying information to save the Order
and
hide the weapon?”

“Possibly. They may attempt to capture you, but their prime directive will be to keep Ryusaki's information out of greater Protectorate hands.” She placed a final round into a magazine, stacked it with others in front of her. “Finish these and I will bring the other vehicle around. It will be faster than walking.”

Maggie threw Russell a casual glance, then eyed the plane, “You think we'll make it through this?”

Russell's voice was distant but hopeful, “We have to believe we will, or we won't. It's dependent on each situation and our actions therein.”

“You're really inspiring confidence, you know that?” Maggie said with a sarcastic eye-roll.

Russell shot her a look, finished loading the magazine in his hands, and slid it into his vest with the others. Maggie mirrored the move. Russell helped test the Lash-radio at her throat. The microphone was constricting, the bullet-sized speaker lodged in her ear didn't help matters.

Russell double-checked the strap on Maggie's neck as she spoke stiffly against his hands, “This is really uncomfortable.”

“You'll forget it's there soon enough,” He assured her. He loosened the strap, “Better?”

She swallowed hard against it, “Not really, but I'll deal.

A distant engine rumbled over. Russell shouldered his duffel bag. Maggie watched him pass; he vaguely resembled the strike-force in the alley. She wondered if she gave the same appearance of a modern warrior, clad in black with a rifle and ready for a fight.

She muttered under her breath,“This is mental.”

She shouldered her pack. The headlights from She-La's Humvee lit dirt as it rolled forward. The vehicle was a clone of the one beside it minus the canvas top. It had been stripped to its skeletal roll-bars.

Maggie hesitated to climb in.
An explosion rocked the night. The ground shook. A shock-wave rolled outward. Dirt pelted Maggie's face. She squinted toward the shooting range, ears ringing; flames licked through its missing roof. A rising plume of smoke billowed upward.
 

Russell shouldered his rifle, “Son of a bitch!”

She-La pulled Maggie in by her vest. Russell crouched and took aim in the Humvee's rear. The vehicle lurched forward, tore past the shacks, whipped around their far-side. They galloped for the awaiting plane. A dust-cloud formed in their wake, obscuring all but the red-orange glow of fire. The Humvee weaved and slalomed to dodge rocks, gained air over dips in terrain.

“Omega?” Russell shouted over the gurgling engine.

She-La focused ahead, “Just hope they haven't gotten to the transport!”

Secondary explosions erupted amid the blaze. Fountains of sparks and flames arced outward from the main stem of fire into a hellish fern.

“They hit the ammo cache!” Russell shouted.

The fire spewed heated ammunition that barked and whizzed outward as super-hot projectiles.

She-La jerked the wheel to avoid a boulder. Russell tumbled to one side. “They're destroying our stores, eliminating our resources.”

He grappled a roll-bar, “Two birds with one stone—it and us.”

Maggie glanced in a side-mirror. Another large explosion leveled the shack. Distant gunfire accompanied it. The C-130 drew nearer, loomed with prop-engines idling in dusty gusts.

Maggie righted herself, shouted, “What d'we do?”

“
You
are going to get the hell out of here,” She-La commanded.

“What about you?”

“
You
have to survive. Destroy the weapon.”
 

“Bullshit, we had a deal,” she yelled. “You help me, we help you.”

She-La skidded to a sideways stop near the transport's rear. “I can leave when
you're on that plane
!”
 

She shoved Maggie sideways and out of the truck. The trio scrambled for cover on its passenger side. She-La pulled a large, chrome revolver, from beneath her coat.

She touched her ear, “Flight; we have resistance on the field.”

“Copy that. Load the package. Flight is a go,” a pilot replied.

“You heard him,” she bellowed. “Get on the goddamn plane!”

Sporadic weapons-fire grew louder. Russell chanced a look over a fender, then sprinted for the plane's lowered cargo-door. He took cover behind an out-cropping of the fuselage and urged Maggie over with a hand. She hesitated. Bursts crackled nearby. She gave a concerned looked to She-La.

“Go!” She yelled over the Quartermaster's screams.

“Maggie,
now
!”
 

“Be careful,” Maggie pled.

She-La shoved her sideways. Maggie sprinted toward Russell. A rifle cracked. Her legs pumped. Dirt and debris pelted her from all angles. She scaled the ramp, threw herself inside. Russell shielded her from view as the door groaned to close.

She-La's revolver hammered at a figure across the strip. The last view Maggie had was of She-La reloading in a crouch beside the Humvee.

“Flight, package is aboard,” She-La shouted in their ears.

“Copy that.”

The engines revved. The plane rolled forward with the ramp partially open. The bird jogged to a run. Gunfire shifted toward them. Metal ammunition sparked off the closing ramp, forced Russell and Maggie deeper inside the plane's massive belly.

Light
clinks
of metal-on-metal sounded but failed to penetrate the fuselage. Russell pulled Maggie further in as the door latched with a hydraulic hiss.

The sensation of flight overtook them and the pilot radioed in, “Everyone alright back there?”

Russell panted, heart pounding, “Yeah. We're fine.”

“Good to hear. We'll be at a steady cruising altitude soon. Then it's about twenty-hours before our first stop. Sleep as much as you can, it'll be a while before we land.”

“Copy that,” Russell said.

“Bunks are up stairs,” the pilot said. “Enjoy your stay.”

Maggie looked to Russell with lingering fear and incredible exhaustion. With food and sleep now the only thing on his mind, he walked the length of the massive cargo bay to a set of stairs. Maggie slogged after him, up to a small area beneath the cockpit with two sets of bunk-beds on either wall.

She slid into a bottom bunk on the room's right side, Russell across from her. The incessant droning of the engines beyond the wall became a dull, hypnotizing roar of white-noise. Russell removed his earpiece, unzipped his duffel bag.

“Forty hours from here to there.”

“How do you figure?” She asked, hoping to defuse her fears.

“We'll stop to refuel mid-way.”

He tossed her a bag marked “M.R.E.” She caught it, removed her ear-piece, and loosened the Lash at her throat. She closed her eyes for a moment.

She reopened her eyes to direct a question at him, “Russell?”

“Yeah?”

“Think she'll be okay?”

He tore open an airy bag of rations, “She will.”

She sighed, “I guess that'll have to do.”

“Eat.”

Once more she closed her eyes, listened to the engines outside. She opened them only to pull open a bag of dried, stale food, and eat her fill while her mind slid inexorably toward sleep. Across from her, Russell watched, his mind playing-out battle scenarios, until at last, sleep overtook them both.

13.

Protectorate Airspace

October 2
nd
 

06:00 AM

Guam approach.

Russell was jostled awake from a dreamless slumber by a bout of turbulence. He sat up with a start and his surroundings returned. With an exhale of tension over the droning prop-engines, he edged to the side of the bed, shoved his earpiece in, and re-secured the Lash at his throat.

“Sit-Rep.”

“Closing in on refit and refuel sir,” one of the crew said.

“Where at?” Russell yawned.

“Just outside Guam.”

“Maggie?” He asked, noting her absence.

“I'm up here. You've gotta' see this Russell, it's
beautiful
.”

Russell followed the short staircase to the cockpit, emerged inside it. Maggie stood behind the two pilots at their large instrument panels. Beside them, the nav-officer charted across a map before a panel of switches and monitors.

Maggie motioned out the windscreen at Russell. A rising sun reflected off sapphire waters while Pacific white-caps curled around a massive island. Fishing boats of all sizes and colors dotted its surface.