Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (31 page)

"He's dead. Your pets killed him."

The radio dial eased from red to green.

"No, Major, he is alive. And …" the voice paused, as if checking a fact before answering. "And in possession of the unit. That's unfortunate. Sometimes my children get overexcited and they can be difficult to control, particularly up there. It is their playground, of sorts. Still, I'll do my best to see to it he finds his way to us."
 

"Oh, now this is just fucking perfect," Wells reacted to the sight of a dead end illuminated only by the tactical and portable lights the men carried.

Office doors to the right, equipment cabinets to his left, yet nothing but massive electrical boxes and panels covering the wall where the corridor terminated.

"Then we have to go the other way," Galati said nonchalantly.

"Brilliant idea," Jupiter Wells responded. "That means trying to go through that bioweapons lab. I don't know about you, but I'd like to avoid anthrax spores or whatever shit they were cooking up in here."

"Relax," Campion said as he studied his wrist computer. "We’ve got a problem; we just have to solve it. Think."

Wells grunted but held his tongue.

"What does the map say, Captain?" Galati asked.

Campion squinted at the display. "It's not really complete for this section. Hard to make anything out. According to this, there is literally nothing in front of us. We may have to go back."

Wells complained, "Great. If those things don't get us, the shit in the lab will. We should have brought CBRN gear."

"Fuck that," Galati volleyed. "I'm not walking around down here with that shit on. Can't see, hardly can move, and sweat your ass off."

Wells, of course, fired back, and so it continued until the two men realized that Captain Campion remained silent. In fact, Campion appeared in a trance, staring at the wall in front of them, where a pair of big electrical boxes sat. Insulated cords exited the boxes and disappeared into the wall.

"Hello? Captain?" Wells called.

"Huh? What?"

"You with us? You look like you're sleepwalking."

Campion glanced at the two of them, then realized they were right. Still, there was something about this wall. He ran his hand over it, touching the flexible wire conduits sprouting from the electrical boxes.

Galati's head spun around and he said, "Um, I think I hear something coming."

A sound like shuffling footsteps reached them out of the dark. Something approached through the dark, and they had nowhere to run.

Campion, meantime, felt an idea bloom, although it did not really feel like his idea; more like someone else's finding its way into his thoughts. He saw the wall in front of him … and he also saw a maintenance chute inside that wall, something not noted on his map or mentioned during the pre-mission briefing.

Yet he
knew
it was there.

"Galati," Campion called, but Sal remained fixed on the darkness behind, waiting for an attacker to charge. "Salvatore!"

That worked. Galati faced Campion.

"You have a demo kit, right? I need to blow a hole in this wall right now!"

"A hole? You want to blow a fucking hole in the wall?" Wells griped.

"Do it. Now."

Galati shouldered his weapon and pulled the kit from his utility belt, producing three molded charges ready for use.

"Use them all"

"Where?"

Campion directed the soldier to three specific points along the dead-end wall.

"We’re running out of time!" Wells kept his voice as low as possible while his light searched the dark hall behind them, waiting for his spiders to return.

"Rig it up. Hurry."

Galati placed the charges and linked them to a detonating cord. As he worked—his fingers fumbling—he told Campion, "This stuff isn’t meant for taking down walls. It’s meant for popping open doors. It won’t even make a scratch."

"The wall is weaker here. They had to make repairs to the main lines in '87. They jackhammered through the concrete and got lazy patching it up. Most of what’s here is drywall."

Wells gasped, "How the hell do you know that?"

Instead of answering Wells, Campion asked Galati, "Are you ready?"

"Um … yes, ready to blow."

"Then back away. Everyone in there," and Campion directed them into a maintenance closet, where they took refuge among brooms, mops, and jugs of cleaning chemicals. Galati held the detonator.

"Fire in the hole!"

BAM.

Plumes of smoke rocketed along the hall carrying a shower of plaster. Before the debris even settled, Campion rushed to examine the damage, waving his hands to hurry away the smoke. After a moment he saw that the explosives, perfectly placed to take advantage of where the structure had been weakened during repair work more than twenty-five years ago, had done their job. The dead-end now offered a neat square hole where drywall had replaced jackhammered concrete.

Inside that hole ran a tangle of flexible, insulated wire conduits resembling vacuum hoses. Campion reached in and muscled them apart as if pushing aside curtains. Galati leaned over and used the tactical light on his G36 to illuminate a tight tunnel dropping down to the next sublevel.

"How did you know?" Wells's panicked tone added a dash of contrition.

"I don't know how I knew, I just did. Now get in," Campion ordered.

The soldiers barely fit through the hole, and the conduit was even tighter, particularly as they tried to transport the bag holding the V.A.A.D. Still, Sal Galati found a grip on tiny metal rungs embedded in the concrete wall to guide the conduits and began to descend, followed by Wells.

Before he followed them down, Campion turned his attention to the long dark hallway they had escaped. He heard the grunts and groans of something nasty, probably not the German soldiers he had seen before. Maybe the true nature of their enemy.

Whatever came, surely it could have rushed the small group by now? What held it—or them—back?

It's not my job to worry about that. I have only one mission: get the V.A.A.D. to the Red Lab on sublevel 8.

Captain Campion planned to do just that.
 

The light on the radio dial faded, but not entirely. Like the last glowing embers of an extinguished fire, the dial offered just enough green to make its presence known.

Gant found it difficult to track the passing of time. Of course, sitting in near-darkness did not help, but it was more than that. A cloud of uncertainty hung over everything; he could not trust his mind or his eyes.

He recalled the stories Liz told of self-mutilation, of voices calling from behind the vault door, of emotions running amok and officers acting irrationally.

She called them
influences.
He now stood at the core of their source and wondered if he could distinguish between his own deliberate actions and the persuasions of their captor. Of course his captor had demanded that he kneel and Gant had easily pushed aside that impulse.

Thom surveyed his surroundings. The two dancers stood on the far side of the room behind the radio, holding perfectly still with their eyes glued on the interlopers. Jolly hovered behind in the shadows, his breath occasionally whistling through his exposed teeth.

It seemed to Thom that the man and woman—the dancers—were likely a part of the original research team. As for Jolly, despite his horrid appearance he looked younger, probably one of the entry teams or a member of the base's garrison who fell under “God's” spell, serving as something akin to an attack dog.

As for the other, shorter creatures roaming the halls, he had no clue.

Brandon broke the silence, asking his friend, "How long do you think we're going to have to stand here?"

"That is a question I cannot answer. Why, do you have somewhere to go?"

"Yeah," Brandon swallowed hard and forced a brave front. "I want to go see a recruiter about re-enlisting."

Thom noticed a grimace run across Twiste's face and heard the slightest grunt.

"What is it? Your ankle, still?"

"All this standing isn't helping."

Gant spied a 1970s vintage molded plastic chair against one wall next to a line of cabinets and sinks. The major put an arm on Brandon's shoulder, led him over, and eased him into that molded chair.

Twiste showed his thanks with a nod and then removed his boot to examine his foot.

"Swollen like a son of a bitch," the doctor reported.

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Still better than third-degree burns, I suppose."

Gant looked around, half-expecting to see the big thing—Jolly—moving to disrupt Brandon's rest. But no, the giant stood in the shadows.

Of even greater importance, the radio remained silent despite a soft emerald glow coming from the tuner, and the mist in the observation window swirled unperturbed.

Thom decided to push his luck and spoke to the two dancers.

"So who are you two? Is one of you Dr. Briggs’?"

Despite asking the question, he expected the answer to be no. The man did not fit the description. But in fairness, twenty years underground with a psychopathic entity might deform the exterior as much as the mind.

Neither of the two moved, although he saw that the handguns they had taken from he and Twiste remained in their possession.

"I just want to talk," he said and stepped closer with his palms open in a nonthreatening manner.

They did not react, but he heard Jolly's breath grow more rapid, and that man—that thing—still carried Gant's HK MP5 as well as a pistol of his own. Of course, Jolly could probably rip Gant apart without the aid of any gun.

It made no difference, however, because before Gant could say any more the double doors opened and in staggered two of the pale creatures. As he watched them shuffle across the lab, Thom tried to understand what they were.

In many ways, they resembled human beings. Arms, legs, feet, and a torso. Two eyes, a pair of ears, a nose, a mouth, and all the right parts. The tallest was still a foot shorter than the average man, and their bodies seemed diseased and broken. Yet still, they were human in more ways than he would have originally imagined.

Whatever they were, they walked over to the radio and dropped armfuls of bounty in front of their idol.

Thom retreated to Twiste, who remained seated but alert.

The creatures brought backpacks, an assault vest, bags, knives, belts, and even boots. All possessions formerly belonging to members of the Archangel entry team.

After delivering their cargo, the things shuffled out of the lab, nipping and snarling at each other like a couple of nasty siblings.

Gant took notice that the man and the woman stayed at the back of the room. It seemed as if they, too, felt a healthy fear of the hall monitors.

Yet once the pathetic, deformed creatures left, the male disciple moved to inspect the gifts. Acting on impulse—the urge to do something to change the status quo—Gant stepped in front of the scarred bag of bones.

"Wait," Gant said as he looked at the sunken eyes of what had surely been a brilliant scientist or technician but was now little more than a walking corpse.

"Are you Ronald Briggs?"

Gant's boldness surprised the man to the point that he stumbled and nearly fell.

"Please. Listen. I mean you no harm. I can help."

The man shook his head and grunted. No, not a grunt. He tried to speak, finally moving his parched lips enough to say, "No help, I must do this now. Move."

Gant did not move.

"Please move."

"I will, if you tell me your name."

The man looked around in a near panic, first back across the room at Jolly and then to his companion. The poor fellow seemed overtaken with fear; Gant worried he might have a heart attack and drop dead.

"His name is Andrew," the woman spoke for her dance partner. "My name is Ruth. Now stand aside or you will anger
Him
. You do not want to do that."

To make her point, Ruth raised the pistol she had taken from Twiste.

Gant willingly stepped out of Andrew’s path, and the man then hurried to the salvaged goods and frantically rummaged through the contents.

Certainly the packs, bags, and belts came from his detachment, but the items Andrew pulled from those backpacks and pockets were surprising and out of place for a combat unit: a charcoal gray sport jacket and slacks with a matching black tie; a pair of leather dress shoes; a small plastic case; and several packages of Twinkies.

In addition to these oddities, Andrew found other, more typical items but seemed to discard these without much consideration: a pen light, knives, a box of flares, spare ammunition, a black cap, knee pads, a couple of MREs, and more of the equipment Gant had issued to his men for the entry mission.

Andrew gathered the important items from the first pile and walked to the door next to the observation window. That door eased open with a groan and Andrew disappeared inside for a moment, but his entry into that smaller chamber did not disturb the swirling mist.