Supercritical Page 8

  Nick was still for a minute, staring at the untouched coffee in front of him. Ross didn’t say anything, either. They just both sat, staring into the black liquid as if it held some sort of answer.

  “When do we go out, sir? When’s the counteroffensive start?” Nick finally said, picking up his mug and taking a long drink. It burned his throat, but he didn’t care. At least that gave him an excuse to let his eyes water.

  “Soon. You’ve already done a lot toward planning that counteroffensive by bringing Eaton back to us,” Ross said.

  “We’re ready on your go, sir.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second, Lieutenant. For now, go back to your unit. They’ll have questions about New York, and you need to debrief them. Then…well, try to get some rest. I have the feeling we’ll need your unit sooner rather than later. Dismissed.”

  Nick nodded and downed the rest of his coffee. As he stood to leave, his legs suddenly felt weak beneath him. He managed to walk out of the office, get on the elevator and walk halfway back to the 47 Echo bunkhouse before he sat down against a wall and let his head sink into his hands.

  Get it together, he told himself, pulling a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket and lighting it. You start crying now, and I swear to God I’ll kick the shit out of you.

  Chapter Ten

  God Save The Queen

  A week passed in relative quiet at Firebase Zulu. True to his word, Colonel Ross had set up training for Nick’s men, so at least they had work to keep them from thinking too much about New York. Word of survivors had filtered through, but there were less than five thousand. New York City was now a ghost town, with Civil Protection Forces guards at all entry points. But while Nick and his unit trained during the day, they had the nights to themselves.

  On the second night—or NY+2, as it had become known around the camp—Mary managed to get Nick access to his personal email account. Her Internet usage was supposed to be limited. Nick knew she could see how the lack of news was affecting him. She, more than anyone, seemed to be able to read him through the apathy he normally showed, so she circumvented the firewalls and content monitoring programs to get him unrestricted access. Nick started to say something, to try and put into words what her gesture meant to him, but she just shook her head and squeezed his shoulder, then left the room.

  Nick shot off a bunch of emails—to his brother at the DHS, his sister-in-law and his nephew. He received almost an instant response from Stan, who caught the email on his phone from the field. His flight had been in the air when New York was hit, and they’d made an emergency landing in Philadelphia. He was currently on the ground in Newark, trying to help in search and rescue efforts. Looking at the email, which was just a few short paragraphs (Stan was about as emotive as his younger brother), made Nick freeze for almost a full minute, a smile slowly creeping onto his face, his shoulder muscles finally loosening.

  Conversations around the Echo bunkhouse turned to New York almost immediately the first night. Martin, the oldest of the group at forty, brought up the September 11, 2001 attacks.

  “I thought that was the worst it could get,” he said, shaking his head. “Then the nuke in Los Angeles, and now this? What the fuck is wrong with this world?”

  Though the older man’s tone was level while he spoke, it was the closest Nick had heard to an emotional outburst from him in fifteen months.

  Nick was ten when the September 11 attacks happened, but he remembered the image of that second plane crashing into the South Tower perfectly. What he remembered more than anything, though, were the conspiracy theory documentaries that popped up on the Internet a few years later, catching Nick in his all-important cynical-teenager phase. Now that his mind was at ease about his brother, he was levelheaded enough to recall some of the stuff he’d read back then.

  “I remember one guy coming up with a whole boatload of ‘evidence’ that the jets that hit the towers were military cargo planes,” Nick told his people. “Of course, he never came up with what happened to the real airliners. Kind of an important detail to overlook.”

  Every night after training, Nick and his crew gathered back at the bunkhouse and tried to think of something other than New York to talk about, but the conversation drifted toward Gotham within minutes every time. Christopher was full of anger, like Nick—ready to go off and blow some shit up on the enemy side. Anthony seemed to have the toughest time dealing with it out of anyone in the group, since he’d been a New Yorker in the years before his arrest. He was quiet, staring off into space. His usual talkative, effusive self seemed to have left a stone-faced clone in its place. Anthony’s family still lived in Lincoln, Nebraska, but Nick had no doubt he’d lost friends in the attack. But Anthony said little, just listened to the others talk.

  So it went until Friday afternoon. Nick and Christopher had just come back from hand-to-hand combat training with some elements of Marine First Recon. The intention had been to teach the two of them to fight in the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program (MCMAP) style, but it hadn’t quite worked out that way. The instructor, a Gunnery Sergeant named Hicks, hadn’t been too happy when Nick choked him out in less than four seconds. Nor had he been pleased when Christopher took out three of his men in what was supposed to be a demonstration. They’d been dismissed from training early and were sitting on the front steps of their bunkhouse, smoking cigarettes.

  The Puma helicopter flew directly over their heads. Nick noticed it wasn’t one of theirs—American Forces didn’t use them—but it wasn’t an enemy chopper. It had a Union Jack painted near the tail rotor. About ten minutes later, several men in gray fatigues walked by their spot on the front steps, all carrying heavy packs and assault rifles.

  “Oy. Help us out, yeah? Where do we find the Command and Control building?” one of them asked.

  “You’re headed right. Two more blocks that way, then right,” Nick said.

  “There’s a good chap. Mind if I get one of those off you?” the man asked, nodding to Nick’s cigarette.

  Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Dukats, which he tossed to the man.

  “Keep it.”

  “Much obliged, mate,” the man said, grinning a crooked smile and heading off toward C2.

  “Who were those guys?” Christopher asked.

  “My guess? 22nd Special Air Service,” Nick said.

  “British SAS?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Britain made a big deal about not getting into the war a couple of years back. What the fuck are they doing here?”

  Nick just shrugged. Off in the distance, he could see a few of his people walking down the street toward the house. He’d assumed they’d be in training for a while yet, but apparently they’d finished early as well.

  “What’s up, guys?” Nick asked as they got closer. It was Daniel, Bryce and Martin. They’d been at the helipad, getting familiarized with the weapons systems on a Black Hawk.

  “Thought you’d know,” Daniel said. “The CO out at the helipad just told us we were to report back to you ASAP.”

  “Haven’t heard anything,” Nick started, but his command screen flashed as he spoke. He tapped it and brought up a new message.

  “What’ve we got, Nick?” Christopher asked.

  “We’re being sent to the airport. The five of us, specifically. No other information, just to get there now. A ride should be showing up any second.”

  Almost as Nick finished speaking, a Cougar pulled to a stop outside their house. The driver was a convict Bravo, which meant that before the Convict Conscript Act, he’d probably gotten an assault charge or two. Now he worked the motor pool. It wasn’t the best job, but it certainly wasn’t the worst.

  “Lieutenant Morrow?” the Bravo said, sticking his head out the window.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’ve got orders to take you and your men to the airport, sir. Hop in and I’ll have you there in five minutes.”

  Nick and his men climbed into the ar
mored truck. He knew better than to ask the driver why they were headed there. The convict knew less than they did, without a doubt. Nick remembered what it was like being one. Any information beyond “go here, do this” was a rarity.

  Still, it didn’t seem right to just not talk to the guy.

  “So, how’d you get out here?” Nick asked him.

  “Smuggling cigarettes, sir. Got caught driving a van full of ’em up from Mexico. Four years.”

  “For that?” Christopher asked from the back bench seat. “That used to be six months, tops.”

  “It’s gotten a bit worse back in the States lately, sir,” the Bravo said over his shoulder. “Sentences are getting a lot stiffer. Got a guy in my unit doing six and a half years for getting into a fight at a bar.”

  “Repeat offender?” Bryce asked.

  “First offense, he says. Says they got him on a bunch of other shit that he ain’t even do. Assault on a police officer because he stepped on a cop’s foot when they put him in the car.”

  “That’s fucked up,” Bryce said, shaking his head.

  “Tell me about it,” the Bravo said. “Here we are, gents.”

  “Thanks for the lift, bro,” Christopher said as the five of them got out.

  The Cougar pulled away, and Nick and his men were left staring at an empty runway. It wasn’t empty for long, however. In the distance, they heard the sound of an approaching jet engine. A small dot on the horizon quickly became a large gray cargo plane.

  “C-17 Globemaster,” Nick said. “Airlift.”

  “We going somewhere, you think?” Daniel asked.

  “Or they’re bringing something to us,” Martin said.

  “Neither, really,” a voice came from behind them.

  Nick turned around to find Colonel Ross coming out of a small building near the runway.

  “Sir,” Nick said, snapping to attention and saluting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Christopher rush to do the same.

  “At ease, gentlemen. I called the five of you out here for special training, something you’ll need on your upcoming mission.”

  “Which is, sir?” Nick asked.

  “Not something I can tell you yet. But I can tell you what you’re doing today. You’ll be jumping out of that,” Ross said, pointing to the C-17, which was just landing in front of them. “Your instructor is on board. As soon as that gate drops, Lieutenant, get your men loaded and get airborne. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good man. See you at the drop point.”

  The C-17 rolled to a stop about thirty feet away from Nick and his team, and the back hatch slowly opened.

  “All right, boys. You heard the man. Let’s get moving,” Nick said as Ross walked away.

  He started in the direction of the plane and felt more than saw his men fall in behind him. He knew they had to be at least a little confused and disoriented—he was—but they still followed him without question or complaint. It never failed to surprise him when they did that. He didn’t know if he would have done the same.

  As they walked in through the C-17’s rear hatch, they saw six parachutes lined up along one side of the plane, and behind them stood a man in black BDUs. He was older, in his forties at least, and had an eye patch over one eye.

  “Lieutenant Morrow?” the man asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “Chief Petty Officer Roger Daniels.”

  “Chief. How’d a bullfrog like you get stuck babysitting a bunch of convicts?” Nick asked as his men filed into the plane.

  Daniels looked at Nick for a long moment and blinked his good eye. He might have winked, Nick realized. There was no way to tell.

  “You know SEAL slang, kid.”

  “My dad was on the Teams, Chief.”

  “No shit. That wouldn’t be Alex Morrow, would it?”

  “That was him.”

  “I knew him. He was my first team leader, back in the desert. Hell of a guy.”

  “I agree. He was. So, what are we doing here, Chief?”

  “Right. I’m only going to go through this once, so I need everyone to listen up,” Daniels said, raising his voice.

  Nick’s men stopped moving and turned their attention to the older Navy SEAL.

  “We’re doing what’s called a HALO jump. That’s High Altitude, Low Opening. It basically means you’re going to freefall for a while before you pull your chutes. Now, I know I’m throwing a lot at you here. But first, any of you ever do any skydiving back in the States?”

  Daniel raised his hand, but no one else did.

  “Y’all must’ve led pretty boring lives back home,” the young man said, shaking his head. “Okay. This isn’t going to be a whole lot different from a functional perspective,” Daniels said, picking up one of the chutes. “This is the ripcord. When the altimeter in your goggles turns green, you pull it. You should feel a tug as your chute deploys. If you don’t, you pull this one—it’s your backup chute.”

  “And if we don’t feel a tug then?” Christopher asked.

  “Well, then you’re going to feel a hell of a jolt when you burn in and get a nice case of dirt poisoning,” Daniels said, chuckling.

  “What’s that mean?” Martin asked.

  Nick mimed his hand falling fast, slamming into the other hand hard.

  “It means splat.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  * * *

  “Okay, Marines!” Daniels yelled.

  He had to yell, or Nick and his men wouldn’t have been able to hear him through the noise of the C-17’s engines and their thick helmets.

  “We are now at forty-five thousand feet! You’ll be jumping in one minute! Remember, trust your goggles. Red means don’t breathe, or you’ll black out. Yellow means it’s safe to take a breath. Green means pull your chute. Take your last hit of oxygen now.”

  Nick took a deep drag from the oxygen mask strapped over his helmet and gave a thumbs-up. He saw his men do the same.

  “Masks off!” Daniels yelled as the back hatch started to open. “It’s going to be cold! Be ready for it, and don’t freeze up!”

  Nick looked over at Christopher. The taller man seemed solid enough, even though he’d confided to Nick as the plane climbed that he was scared shitless.

  “Heights, Nick. They freak me out,” he’d said. “Not, like, tall buildings or anything. But open spaces up high. They freak me out.”

  “Just break it down into steps. Try not to think of anything but the next step,” Nick had told him.

  “Right. Red, yellow, green. One after the other. Can’t be too hard, right?”

  Now, as Nick looked out through the open hatch and the first blast of icy air hit him, he felt the acid boil in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t been afraid of heights before, but if the sweat on his forehead was any indication, he’d developed that same phobia in the last couple of minutes. He couldn’t even see the ground from this height.

  “And…go! Go! Go!” Daniels yelled.

  Before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, Nick ran straight ahead. He took three large running steps before the deck ran out underneath him, and then he was falling.

  His helmet’s visor iced over almost immediately but strangely, Nick didn’t feel cold anymore. He felt hot, almost feverish. The edges of his vision started to turn black.

  Hold it together, Nick, he told himself. The altimeter clicked away in his left lens, the numbers getting smaller at a blinding speed. He wanted more than anything to take a deep breath, but his left lens still showed red. He tried to turn his head back to look up at his men, to see if they’d even jumped out of the plane with him, but he found he couldn’t even turn his neck past his shoulder.

  Yellow. Nick took a deep breath through his mouth, and his vision started to clear a bit. The air tasted sharp, full of ozone. It hurt the molars at the back of his mouth. He took another breath, this time through his nose. The air still smelled odd, but at least this breath didn’t hurt much.

  No
w he started to feel the air’s rushing chill, even through the pressure suit he wore over his BDUs. He guessed that was a good sign, as he no longer felt hot. And his vision was almost totally clear now. He could still see through his TotalVis goggles, but the ice was starting to clear from his helmet visor, as well. He could make out detail on the ground below him now, see the airport off to his left and Firebase Zulu past that.

  That means I have to be getting close to pulling the chute, right? What did Daniels say? No earlier than 3,000 feet?

  The altimeter still read more than 10,000. Nick worried for a microsecond that it had stopped working, but the numbers were still counting down.

  Don’t panic. Like you told Chris. One step at a time. Red. Yellow. Green. Shit it’s green how long has it been green pull the ripcord oh shit nothing’s happening pull the reserve —

  Nick suddenly felt the jolt of his main chute opening. It was almost as if he was attached to a high-tension rope that was suddenly pulling him up off the ground. His left lens was flashing green, and he was floating to the ground.

  As his boots hit the grass, Nick rolled on his shoulder as Daniels had told him. His hair was pasted to his head, dripping with sweat, and his heart hammered in his chest. Nick pulled off his helmet and tossed it to the ground as he got to his feet.

  Christopher and Daniel were just touching down, rolling as Nick had. Bryce followed a second later, and finally Martin, who landed hard on his right leg and flopped down, landing on his side.

  “Martin! You okay?” Nick shouted.

  “Twisted my ankle, I think. I’m fine,” the older man yelled back, shakily getting to his feet.

  “Everybody else? Five by five?” Nick asked.

  “Hey, I’m alive, and I didn’t shit myself. I’m calling that a win,” Christopher said, smiling as he took off his helmet.

  Chapter Eleven

  Forward to Death

  “Come in, Lieutenant,” Nick heard through the open door of Ross’ office.

  He walked in from the hallway, brushing a bit of dirt off of his BDU jacket. Firebase Zulu had a real problem with loose, blowing dirt. Nick guessed it was because the town used to mine…something. Gold, he thought.