The Rift (18 page)

The rain had stopped a little while ago, so now it was just mud. Nice, thick, North Carolina mud.

The Nasty Nick was just a memory and the four Nightstalkers were in the midst of a long snake of camouflaged men, heavy rucks on their backs, marching down what once was a dirt road, now a mud river, through the pine forest that covered most of Camp Mackall.

No one knew how far they had to go, part of the mind games played in SFAS. This forced march could just be a loop back to Camp Rowe and chow, or it could last into the night.

Roland, Kirk, Mac, and Eagle had settled into the rhythm of rucking, which every experienced soldier has developed. They might be a bit older than the candidates around them, but they were more experienced. Some of those in the column, steam rising off of their drying fatigues, were not so fortunate. The obstacle course had taken its toll. Some with sprained ankles were fading through the ranks. Some, in not the best shape, were also fading. What the Nightstalkers knew, and what the others would learn, was that it wasn’t so much one’s physical conditioning that would make the difference but how badly one wanted it. Did they want to
wear
a green beret or
be
a Green Beret?

It was early enough in the selection process, still the first week, that their fellows sought to help the ones who were hurting. Weapons were taken to be carried by comrades, even some rucksacks. The Nightstalkers watched but didn’t contribute.

“They’ll figure it out,” Mac said, for once keeping his voice down so that only his fellow Stalkers could hear.

Roland laughed. “I carried three dudes’ rucks our first march here.”

“Figures,” Kirk said. “No one carried anyone else’s shit in Ranger school. Ever. We knew from the start.”

“Weren’t carrying anyone else’s by the end, were you?” Eagle asked Roland.

“Nope,” Roland confirmed. “Everyone’s got to pull their own weight.”

“They’ll figure it out,” Mac repeated.

“Company,” Kirk said, as always looking ahead.

The major, who had metal instead of feet, was waiting by the side of the road. He had on a freshly starched uniform that he’d pulled out of some magic bag and his boots were spit-shined, as if he walked above the mud, not through it. He held up a hand and Master Sergeant Twackhammer bellowed out, “Halt!”

The long line of camouflaged soldiers compressed unevenly to a stop. Several men leaned over, hands on knees, to catch their breath.

Twackhammer was walking along the line, making a mental note of those who showed weakness.

They’d be gone before the week was over.

The major came stalking over toward the Nightstalkers. He had a waterproof bag in his hand.

“Your phones are ringing, gentlemen.” He held it up and everyone could hear a cacophony of four phones blaring “Lawyers, Guns and Money” in sync.

“Thank you, thank you!” Eagle exclaimed as the four pushed their way out of the column.

Because even a Rift was better than North Carolina mud.

The major opened the bag and passed the phones out. “Learn anything?” he asked.

“One for all and all for one,” Mac said as he slipped the phone into his fatigue shirt. “Or something like that.”

“Didn’t that get you sent here?” the major asked.

Eagle nodded. “We learned what we needed to. There’s rules and there are rules.”

The major nodded. “There are indeed. A time and a place for everything. Good luck, gentlemen, and thanks for showing these”—he indicated the candidates—“that old men can keep it up.”

“I ain’t that old,” Mac muttered.

“And,” the major continued, “that brains count more than brawn.”

“I ain’t that brawny,” Eagle said. “But I got brains.”

“I’m brawny,” Roland threw in. He glanced at Eagle. “Right?”

“And”—the major wasn’t done yet—“that desire trumps all.”

When Doc left to go to one of the Porta Potties stationed throughout the Archives (no one ever had to go to the bathroom in the movies, Ivar reflected, and whoever designed the Archives hadn’t factored in that essential human element), Ivar ran over and opened his real target, a drawer labeled
THE FUN OUTSIDE TUCSON
. Ivar grabbed the hard drive that was sealed inside a plastic envelope. Someone had written
CRAEGAN
on it. He slipped it into his pocket and scurried back to where he was supposed to be. Deeper into the rabbit hole. Crossing the streams. His line of sayings was interrupted by a ringtone.

Ivar looked to the right. Doc was striding down the aisle, pulling out his cell phone, which was blaring “Lawyers, Guns and Money.” A second later, the phone Ivar had been issued began playing the same tune.

“New guys always seem to be alerted a second or two later on their first mission,” Doc said, slamming shut one open drawer and spinning the combination lock on it. “Let’s go.”

Scout was crouched next to the seawall, sneaking a smoke and watching the river. The guys working on the barge across the way were done for the day and cast off their little boat and puttered away, leaving the barge and pile driver anchored to the far shore.

Now all was calm.

Or at least appeared that way.

Like in those horror movies where everything seemed just fine, right before all the really, really bad stuff happened, Scout thought as she finished the cigarette and then field stripped it. She ground what remained into the ground, then looked up at the sky, as if expecting to see the parachutes of the Nightstalkers floating down toward her.

Nothing.

Plus, she had a feeling they were going to show up in a way she least expected.

Burns stopped the car in the northern parking area designated for viewing. The Fort Loudoun Dam, the first dam along the six hundred fifty-two miles of the Tennessee River, stretched 4,180 feet across the river. It was at the fifty-mile mark from the origin of the river on the eastern side of Knoxville where the Holston and French Broad Rivers joined together.

Formed behind the dam was Fort Loudoun Lake, covering over 14,600 acres. Which was the purpose. All that water, massed seventy feet above the down-dam side, was power. Gravity translated through water, translated through the three hydroelectric generators built into the power station on this end. They produced—Burns closed his eyes for a moment and focused, accessing the Internet via the phone he’d taken off Neeley—slightly over 155 megawatts of power at peak capacity.

The phone was very good, being a Cellar phone. It was untraceable. It had classified access to the government’s version of the Internet. And it had more on it.

Burns shivered.

He opened his eyes, the pupils glowing gold, and analyzed the dam. That was peak
safe
capacity.

They were going to need more. And he had to figure out how to accomplish that.

He smiled as he saw that the answer was right in front of him.

He looked to the east. But first he needed to buy some time.

Because
they
were coming.

The Nightstalkers could come in heavy or they could come in light. Heavy was like Stephen King’s
The Dome
, coming down with a thud. Seal an area off, no one in and out, follow up with a good cover story (Oak Ridge being just to the north could provide a lot of possibilities), and then take care of business.

Moms decided on Nightstalker Lite to start, with heavy looming.

She made this decision for several reasons. First, the exact threat was unknown. They had Burns, or whatever Burns was, out there. But no Fireflies, as far as they knew. No Rift, although Burns did have the laptop from the Gateway Rift.

And, being honest with herself as she pulled up to Scout’s house, there was the Scout factor. Coming in heavy was disruptive, to say the least. And what Moms had planned was going to be rough enough on the kid’s family.

Moms parked the government car that had been waiting for her at Knoxville Airport, just five miles away. The airport was going to be their Tactical Operations Center, a hangar of the National Guard already having been commandeered, and that was where some of the heavy would be arriving.

It was late in the day, the sun hanging low in the west, just above the tree line. Lights were on in the windows of the house and Moms had noted the new construction in the housing development.

At least it wasn’t a gated community like Senator’s Club in North Carolina. That had been a pain in the ass. But this openness of the former farmland turned development didn’t thrill her. Lots of fields of fire for the bad guys, if there were any bad guys out there who wanted to shoot at her. Scout’s house was on a dead-end street, and Moms felt naked driving along the road, exposed to the entire area and the high ground across the river.

She was wearing a smart business suit for the moment, part of Nightstalker Lite. And something they’d included in their gear after having to improvise in Senators Club. She walked up to the door and pressed the small button. A chime sounded, loud enough she heard it through the door, some classical notes she couldn’t place but was sure Eagle could. A bit much for a doorbell, she thought. Then again, living in shotgun shack, the sheriff damn near broke your door in just knocking on it. A doorbell was a luxury that was pretty low on the priority list where Moms grew up. And visitors usually wanted something, like the title to the land.

The door swung open and a man wearing a sweater stood there, reading glasses perched on his nose. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Hello,” Moms said, taking a step forward. Lite didn’t have to mean slow.

“What—” the man began, but Moms slapped him on the side of the neck, short needle hidden between two fingers, and then caught him as he collapsed. She laid him out and then switched out the needle for a fresh one.

“Who is it, dear?” a woman’s voice echoed from somewhere inside the house.

The acoustics were terrible and Moms wondered why three people needed such a big house. Of course, it was smaller than Scout’s house in Senator’s Club, which they’d commandeered for their base of operations.

Moms waited and then heard footsteps.

“Dear?” The voice was already tinged with fear and Moms wondered how such a woman gave birth to Scout. She already didn’t like her from the little Scout had said about her. Moms immediately felt a rush of guilt for even thinking that and knew there were deeper—

A rail-thin woman came around one of the many corridors branching off the foyer and Moms strode forward.

“Who are—” the woman began; then she ducked as Moms slapped at her with the needle. Give her some points for speed.

Scout’s mother darted right, racing down a hallway.

“Frak,” Moms muttered as she took chase.

“Greer!” Scout’s mother screamed. “Get out! There’s a crazy woman here!”

Moms raced after the voice, noting out of the corner of her eye that the alarm had been triggered.

Which meant nothing since Ms. Jones already had this area isolated electronically.

Okay, Moms was beginning to get where parts of Scout came from as she turned another corner into the kitchen and Scout’s mother swung a butcher knife at her. Moms sidestepped, avoiding being sliced open.

It was close. Too close.

Then Moms pivoted, sensing someone behind her. Scout was standing there, an ax in her hands, ready to strike; then recognition flooded her face. “Moms?”

Moms jumped back again as Scout’s mother jabbed, almost gutting her. But this opened her up to a strike, and Moms slapped the needle on the back of her neck and caught her, lowering her gently to the tile floor.

She wasn’t heavy.

“What the hell?” Scout demanded.

“Sorry,” Moms said as she pulled out her phone. “We’ve got two for delivery and seclusion,” she called in. She turned the phone off. “We didn’t have time to be subtle. They’ll be fine. We’re just getting them out of the line of fire.”

“Same thing you did to me at Senator’s Club?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t nice.”

“It was necessary.”

“Right,” Scout said. “You guys couldn’t call? Just show up and knock my parents out?”

“Sorry,” Moms said. “We just got the message.”

“Took you long enough. But call next time. I can get out of the house and meet you. Whatever.” She sighed and looked down at her mother. “She was due for a little rehab soon anyway. The move really stressed her out. Her last rehab trip was a while ago. And Dad needs a break. He’s been working too hard. As usual. I guess you’re doing them a favor.”

Moms looked at the laptop on the kitchen counter. A boat was flickering on the display. She glanced at Scout.

“My dad wants a boat,” Scout explained. “Actually, he’s been wanting one for years, but now we have a dock, so he might actually get one, but I doubt it. I think not allowing himself one seems to make him feel better than having one would. At least that’s what Doc would say, right?”

Moms stared at Scout, with her calm acceptance of the situation and her accurate evaluation of her father.

Scout looked past Moms. “Where’s Nada? The rest of the team?”

“En route,” Moms said. “Anyone else in the house?”

“No.”

“Who is this Greer your mother was warning?”

“Me.”

“Oh.” Moms indicated a chair. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

Most people don’t realize you can get from Knoxville to the Atlantic Ocean by boat. And those who do realize it think in traditional terms: the Tennessee River, traversing all the dam locks, to Paducah where it joins the Ohio River, to Cairo (Illinois, not Egypt), where the Ohio joins the Mississippi and then down to the Gulf of Mexico and onward.

But starting in 1972 and completed in 1984, the Tennessee-Tombigbee (Tenn-Tom) Waterway connects the Tennessee River to the Black Warrior-Tombigbee River system and then on to the Gulf of Mexico. It is still the largest earth-moving project in world history and few have ever heard of it, and fewer even focus on it, including federal law enforcement. This is just fine for a certain Mexican cartel, which began to use the waterway as a route to ship its various products into the center of the United States, avoiding the traditional drug corridors.

The Tenn-Tom is either a success (according to its supporters) or a failure (according to tonnage shipped, one-quarter of what had been estimated), but for the cartel, it was a blessing. Using a small fleet of luxury yachts, specially modified with hidden compartments, powerful engines to outrace ships at sea, and special armor plating secreted on board to battle off boarding on waterways (the cartel feared its competition more than the Feds), the cartel was enjoying two decades of safe travels, spreading its boats up the Tennessee, the Ohio, and the Mississippi along with its product.

The
Splendor
was a Bahamian-flagged fifty-six-foot yacht. Capable of carrying two tons of product and fourteen battle-hardened crewmembers. It had a helicopter on the rear deck underneath a tarp, a last-ditch escape device.

And zero women in bikinis.

It was the latter that was the oversight.
Splendor
had come up the Tenn-Tom, into the Tennessee River, up through the locks to Knoxville and off-loaded its cargo, all on schedule and according to plan. But now, giving in to the needs of the crew, the captain had the armored yacht anchored in a cove on the north side of the river while they took the two skiffs to a local marina, where they took limousines for a night on the town.

A successful mission deserved a reward.

There was one man left on board for guard duty.

Except as Nada would have told them, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings, or in this case, the boat is back home.

The one thing Ms. Jones had over Hannah was the ability to bring in the thunder and lightning. The Cellar always operated on the down low. The Nightstalkers often tried that approach, aka Moms going to Scout’s house, but when in doubt, they brought in the sledgehammer.

Elements of that hammer were now arriving in Knoxville

First in was an AC-130, which could be considered lightning. Based on the venerable C-130 Hercules airframe, the Spectre gunship was designed to rain hell down from the sky. Along the left side of the plane were a 40-mm Gatling gun, a 25-mm Gatling gun, and a 105-mm breech-loading howitzer. Crews boasted they could put a round in every square inch of a football field in five seconds. They’d backed up that boast on battlefields ranging from Vietnam to Grenada, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan, and several other lesser-known conflicts.

It wasn’t coincidence that the plane was the first to arrive. Spectre had been alerted earlier in the day out of Hurlburt Field in Florida by Ms. Jones as potential support for Neeley’s mission. Just in case. The reality was that Ms. Jones had scrambled the plane and other resources on the chance that Neeley didn’t succeed, which was likely, in her opinion.

She hadn’t, but in doing so they’d lost track of Burns, so the plane had refueled in the air and then spent time circling around over middle Tennessee, awaiting orders.

A half hour later, as darkness had completely settled over Knoxville and the vicinity, more support came flying in.

First, four Apache helicopters, loaded with live munitions, out of Fort Knox.

Then a C-130 full of Rangers from Hunter Army Airfield outside of Savannah, Georgia, in case the team needed the elite infantry and to provide security at the FOB. And then, as they had done last year in North Carolina, on board a lumbering C-5 cargo plane was a pair of M777, 155-mm howitzers. Packed along with their crews were a couple of pallets of M982 Excalibur GPS-guided munitions. These were laser-guided rounds, allowing for pinpoint accuracy, especially useful when firing around civilian communities. With a range of twenty-five miles, the big guns covered a lot of ground from the airstrip, from the foothills of the Smokies to the south to north of Knoxville and a good stretch of the Tennessee River east and west. As soon as they were unloaded, they were emplaced in a low field behind the hangar, out of sight of the civilian terminal, and readied for fire missions. Rangers were patrolling the perimeter, and the road that ran around the back side of the airfield had been closed off due to a “water main break.”