Objekt 221 Read online

  “Commander, this is Overwatch.”

  “Go,” replied Beef Scott into his throat mic.

  “Intel confirmed. Twenty active keycards in the building. Sending you the schematic now.”

  Commander Scott looked down at his wrist display and it came to life as the new information was uploaded.

  “Confirmed,” the commander said.

  It was four o’clock in the morning, roughly 24 hours since the assault on the repurposed missile silo at Port Radnovich. The facility known as Frenchman’s Flat.

  “Wraiths, we are a go.”

  * *

  Overwatch remained at the top of the waterfall monitoring both electronics and the visual area via autonomous drone. The remaining six members of the Wraith squad had infiltrated the lowest floor of the flak tower. Their plan was to move floor to floor silently, killing everyone in their path. Another two dozen men would show up after the facility was clear. Their job was clean-up and extraction.

  The plan, nearly immediately, went up in smoke.

  “Oh shit,” said Overwatch and Commander Scott simultaneously.

  “Everybody down,” Beef called to his team. Instinctively, all six men dove for cover in scattered directions.

  Scott had seen in person what Overwatch had seen on his surveillance camera feed at the same time—the glint of ambient lighting hitting both the acrylic face-shield of a riot mask and the barrel of a Metal Storm AICW assault rifle seconds before the room erupted in gunfire.

  The AICW—Advanced Individual Combat Weapon—was developed by the Australian company, Metal Storm. It was the latest refinement in stacked munition technology. Each bullet was lined up end-to-end in the barrel and the weapon was capable of firing at an incredible rate.

  As the Wraith team scattered for cover, Overwatch immediately keyed his mic—a direct link to the trailing support force.

  “Commander Bilkins, we need you here now,” he said. “Our team has encountered heavy opposition. An ambush.”

  “Copy that,” Overwatch heard over the radio and then, “Move out, double-quick,” before the support commander keyed off communications.

  When the first facility had been attacked, a defensive contingency plan was implemented. Structural strategies were employed—designed to swing the advantage and thwart an offensive force. Namely, there were four men lying in wait behind heavy fortifications brandishing the latest in prototype weaponry.

  Five of the six Wraiths made it to safety. The sixth man, Tim “Boss” Johnson, absorbed half a load of AICW bullets in an instant. Even with his body armor, Boss’s torso was ripped to shreds by the high-velocity rounds.

  Overwatch had immediately jammed Hochhaus’ signals—inbound and outbound. There would be no calls for help. He wanted to jump into the battle and fight alongside his team, but the mission parameters clearly stated that he must remain in position.

  The support force was five minutes out.

  “Inbound,” Overwatch said into his mission mic. “Team Juke. Four minutes, thirty-three.”

  “Copy that,” Beef said. “Cross, Truck, start working your way to the right. The rest of you stay with me.”

  Ben “Cross” Christianson and Mack “Truck” Miller worked quickly to the right, avoiding enemy fire. Beef, Evan “Lugnuts” Hapwell and Wilson “Dandy” Reid provided cover fire. They fired sporadically as they were instinctively concerned about outlasting an entrenched enemy force.

  The four Hochhaus men rotated to counter the natural flanking maneuver. Two fired in short bursts while the other two reloaded by changing the entire barrel of the AICW. Sparks flew around the room and chunks of concrete littered the air and fell harmlessly to the ground. The floor was slick with Boss Johnson’s blood, but none of the Wraith team reacted. They were all focused on the four defenders—and wondering where the rest of the eight-man security force of Hochhaus was hiding.

  For his part, Overwatch was simultaneously checking his weapons and scanning through the flak tower’s surveillance cameras.

  “Commander, four additional defenders on the floor above you,” he said. “They are holding position. Team Juke is out, three minutes, thirty.”

  “Copy that,” came the response from inside the flak tower. The commander’s voice was slightly obscured by static and the echo of gunfire.

  The Wraiths were now in position, firing in a set pattern, but random so the defenders could not anticipate who would be shooting next. They were too close to safely use explosives, so it was a standard gunfight.

  Cross fired empty and ducked down to reload his SMG. Truck Miller immediately came up from cover to resume firing, but this action was anticipated by the Hochhaus defense. Mack was hit with a withering volley of Metal Storm bullets and his head simply evaporated in a pink mist. There was a stunned silence from all involved. A battlefield, by definition, is built on violence, but the sheer ferocity of the attack caught everyone off-guard. Now there were eight men in the room—four Wraiths and four Hochhaus – all ducked behind cover.

  There was, perhaps, 30 seconds of silence as all eight men took the time to reload and let the echoes of gunfire drain away.

  Suddenly, there was a voice over the Wraith comms.

  “Commander,” said Overwatch. “Get down.”

  Followed immediately by another voice.

  “Chaf,” announced Commander Bilkins from the support team.

  All of the Wraiths immediately lay prone on the ground, protecting their weapons and electronics. Suddenly, the exterior door was flung inward, followed by soft “whump” sounds. There was a half-second delay and then the room exploded with sticky chaf. It resembled tiny pieces of confetti, or glitter, that filled the room. The small materials drifted to the ground, catching the four Hochhaus men completely off guard.

  In fact, the chaf would attach to and jam the mechanics of the exposed weaponry. In an instant, the mighty Metal Storm AICW’s were 13-pound hunks of metal, useful only as clubs. While the chaf was still drifting to the ground, the remainder of the Wraith assault force—including their commander—was up over the barricades and set upon the Hochhaus force with knives.

  Bloodied and breathing hard from exertion, the four Wraith men stood, sheathed their knives, nodded their thanks to the support team, and took up position near the previously barricaded exit. The two commanders met briefly.

  “Gettin’ real tired of having to save your ass, Beef.” Commander Bilkins grinned.

  Commander Scott knelt to pick up his assault rifle and smiled.

  “About a dozen more times and we should be even, Bilkins.” Scott touched his ear to ensure that his receiver was properly seated after the action. “Overwatch, do you have eyes on the remaining Hochhaus force?”

  Five of the support team took up position near the main door of this floor of the flak tower. Two of the men set about stowing the fallen Wraiths in thick, black Mylar bags. The remaining men formed up with the Wraiths as they prepared to storm the stairwell.

  “Affirmative, Commander,” Overwatch replied. “Four more men on the floor above you. Nearly the same set-up. Debris and barricades all around the floor. They are at the far wall. The scientists are in a panic room. Same floor.”

  Beef Scott nodded at the response and then to Bilkins.

  “Copy that, Overwatch,” he said. “We’re Oscar Mike.”

  He walked over to his men.

  “We’re going up quietly. Stack up on the door.” He turned to Bilkins. “Bangers? Then we go loud.”

  Bilkins nodded. The four Wraiths took point with Cross, Lugnuts, and Dandy moving silently up the stairs followed by their commander. As they had taken losses, they naturally and subconsciously moved to protect their leader. When they reached the second floor, they paused—two men on each side.

  “Looks like they’re getting antsy, sir,” Overwatch said to the team, now patched into the Team Juke comms also.

  “Copy that,” Beef whispered into his throat mic. He gestured for each of his men to pull out a
flashbang—or stun—grenade. They would stagger throwing four grenades into the room, blinding and disorienting the defensive force. Two of the Team Juke men had grenade launchers at the ready. They knew that as soon as they opened the stair door, they would face an aggressive volley of gunfire from four more AICWs.

  A fifth man kicked open the door and dove out of the way. As expected, a brutal volley of gunfire erupted all around them. Reaching around the protection of the door jamb, Lugnuts tossed his flashbang into the room. It popped in a brilliant flash of light designed to blind and disorient an opposing force. The Metal Storm fire slowed as one or two of the men took cover. In order, the three other Wraiths also threw their flashbangs. With the enemy position in total disarray, the two Juke soldiers crouched at the doorway and fired two grenades each at the enemy position. There were four, almost simultaneous explosions—deafening in the enclosed space. The floor must have measured nearly 20 meters square, but the walls shook with the force of the four grenades.

  Everyone’s ears were ringing.

  “All clear, Commander,” Overwatch’s voice came through slightly muffled. “Direct hit.”

  Scott nodded to his men who entered the room guns up. They were taking no chances and had each unholstered a fresh weapon that had been protected from the earlier chaf explosion. They cleared the room and formed up outside the panic room door. According to the intel, there were 12 scientists inside.

  “You might not want to watch this,” Commander Scott said to Bilkins, who then looked up at one of the surveillance cameras. “Hit it.”

  “Copy that,” replied Overwatch.

  Suddenly, there was a clunk deep inside the heavy steel door and then the entire fixture started to swing into the large room. The three Wraiths opened fire into the panic room as Alexander “Beef” Scott turned and walked away.

  * *

  Typically, the Wraith team would leave and allow the support team to extract whatever data they could before razing the structure to the ground. In this instance, the two teams blended together. As much as anything, it was a thank you to Team Juke for coming in and providing additional gunfire when the assault team needed it most. All-in-all, the 20-strong team made quick work of the flak tower research laboratory.

  Much of the finished space of the tower was devoted to fabrication, storage, crew quarters, and a gym. There was only one floor that needed to be carefully examined.

  “What the hell?” Cross Christianson muttered under his breath.

  One entire wall of this floor was covered by a lighted whiteboard. On it was an explosion of drawings, equations, taped computer print-outs, and printed screen-grabs of hazy video. One section of the whiteboard was dedicated to drawings of various reptiles with humans sketched in for size comparisons. One particular drawing seemed to show a human inside a reptilian body. It was impossible to understand the goal and scope of the research that was being performed at this facility and the Wraith team would usually be long-gone before the cleaners even started their work.

  Beef clapped Cross on the shoulder.

  “Button it up, soldier.”

  Cross nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” he said and walked back to the task he was helping with. Twenty minutes later, the soldiers all exited the building and walked to the extraction point—each with a huge canvas bag full of recovered computers, binders, charts, and anything that could be salvaged.

  They could all smell smoke from the burning facility.

  Chapter Eight

  The Drone Party

  THEY ALL stood motionless in the airlock. It was a cramped space for this many people, but Damon realized it would only be an uncomfortable situation for a short time. There was a large digital countdown on the forward wall, right above the door to the outside. The countdown, right down to the font used, was mimicked on the HUD screen of his faceplate. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears.

  “Calm down,” came the slightly synthetic but crystal clear voice of his friend Miles Lofton. “You’re gonna be okay.”

  Damon looked to his right and saw Miles staring at him, smiling. Damon nodded his head in response. The new addition to the team sighed and felt perspiration break out on his upper lip. The rational side of his brain realized this was just an autonomic response—a stressful new situation. Otherwise, he noted that the temperature was slowly increasing in the small room—as evidenced by his HUD monitor—supposedly to get them acclimated to the outside research area. New temperature, slightly different air composition, different relative humidity, even, possibly, a slightly different atmosphere.

  The countdown reached its short conclusion.

  3. 2. 1.

  The warning klaxons were loud, metallic sounds. As they started to go off, Cadey reached up and hit the large green button marked “Authorize.” There was a two-second delay and the big steel door started to open.

  “Whoa,” Damon said.

  * *

  The memory appeared out of nowhere and seemingly cut from whole-cloth. Damon, really, had no idea where it had come from and what had sparked it. There were no familiar sights, sounds, or smells to trigger such an odd episode from his past. Perhaps, it was just the fact that he was walking next to Miles Lofton again. Perhaps it was contextually driven.

  Perhaps it was something he had heard earlier in the day.

  Save the planet.

  They were in Berkeley, California, a decade ago. It was a bright, sunny, late-fall day in Northern California. Damon Butcher and Miles Lofton had few actual classes together, but they were roommates in a scholarship dorm and had become quick friends. They had met up for lunch and were walking back to a common area where they would part ways until the foosball tournament that would start prior to dinner.

  What caught their eyes was a protest.

  The University of California Berkeley has always been a hotbed of free-thinking and riled-up students. During Damon’s time there, it seemed like there was some sort of rally or march or protest or event every week. This time, the peaceful protest included a couple dozen people milling about with signs. One folding buffet table filled with literature, manned by a single student. And one student with a megaphone, shouting a cadence.

  Save The Planet, said the banner across the front of the information table.

  “Jesus Christ soaked in butter,” Miles said.

  “Leave ‘em alone,” Damon said, smiling.

  Miles hefted his backpack from his right shoulder to the left.

  “No,” he finally said. “How else are they going to learn?”

  It was a 20-year-old blonde woman controlling the megaphone. She was wearing fashionable clothes that had been fashionably distressed. Her chanting started to break apart as Miles continued to approach her. He wore a friendly smile, but it was clear that he wasn’t there to sign up for their cause. Three young men abandoned the picket-line and came to stand behind the blonde.

  “Save what planet, exactly?” Miles said, still smiling broadly. He switched shoulders again. Damon stood a pace or so behind his friend, watching the show.

  “The Earth, of course,” she said. She was an economics major named Katie.

  “My position is that the Earth is doing fine,” he said. “Convince me otherwise.”

  Katie cleared her throat. Typically, she was always ready for a battle, but had somehow been thrown off her usual stance.

  “We have pamphlets and brochures available right here,” Katie said, gesturing to the table. “Feel free to take some and read them at your leisure.”

  Miles shook his head.

  “I’m here right now, with you. You seem to be the leader of this group, so I assume you are well informed. Convince me that yours is a noble cause and my friend and I will join your group. We’ll double the size of this event in an hour.”

  “Global warming is melting the polar ice caps and causing sea levels to rise,” she said. “We will lose many islands, and coastlines around the planet will be forever changed.”

  Miles on
ce again shook his head. The smile never left his face.

  “A 2014 report by the Global Warming Policy Foundation published findings that global sea levels have been rising slowly for more than 10,000 years. They explicitly stated that there is no evidence that rising sea levels have anything to do with climate change.”

  “The polar icecaps are melting,” Katie fired back. “Huge icebergs consistently break off Antarctica due to the violent climate change.”

  “I don’t think so,” Miles said. “Icebergs are calving from the Antarctic Peninsula, but this area only represents about two percent of the continent. It has consistently been reported in scientific journals that the interior of Antarctica has been getting colder—with the ice getting thicker.”

  All of the protesters had stopped and were watching this exchange. They were used to skeptics, and they were used to Katie and other members of the group winning their arguments.

  “In 2013, the IPCC released data that showed that ocean temperatures were rising at an unprecedented rate due to global warming.”

  Miles shook his head for a third time.

  “The IPCC used data largely generated from computer models. A computer model can’t be a proof or an accurate prediction of anything. Scientific peers, using strictly observational data, agreed that the IPCC’s projections were far too high.” Lofton paused for a second. Katie, it seemed, was gearing up for a rebuttal. “Listen, you’re doing good work. There’re a lot of areas in which we need to improve. Our reliance on fossil fuels. The protection of poverty-stricken coastal communities. Recycling. But, it’s important to remember that this planet hates us. It keeps things in perspective.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she said.

  “Earth is more than five billion years old and she has been experimenting since day one. Different environments. Different climates. Different species. We’re simply the latest in a long line of dominant inhabitants. The Earth doesn’t care about us and the idea of saving the planet is prideful in the extreme.”