Class Fives: Origins (47 page)

They both had performed well, he considered. Very raw, very lumbering, but that merely required proper training and some basic groundwork.

And he had to admit, they were a Hell of a pair of assets. Once properly honed, they would be stunning. He would have to carefully weigh the advantages of keeping them pure black, utterly unknown to the world, against the deterrence factor if a carefully controlled knowledge of their existence was allowed to reach certain parties.

But that was a long-term consideration, he told himself. That was grand strategic, and he wouldn’t have time to get around to making those kind of choices until he had something he could trust to function on its own, a system instituted and in place and working dependably.

And reaching that point would still take one Hell of a lot of work.  The appropriations had finally been approved out of some secret military budget, and by this time next year they would have their own private facilities, which he’d already selected. The cost would be staggering, but once completed it would be the most advanced, most secure and, he hoped, most effective agency in the world.

No one would know of its existence, save those unfortunate enough to require its services, and the very highest authorities of the administration.

And he would dedicate himself to honing it to a razor’s edge, able to address any mystery or horror a capricious universe could throw at the world.

But it could be done now, he realized. The seeds of some kind of new age had been planted, albeit behind his back by the forward hurtle of mankind’s own lust for knowledge and power, and he’d only stumbled upon the seedling. But he could work with that.

There would be new crises to face, composed of elements beyond the comprehension of those who saw the world and thought it unable to contain more than had surrounded them every day.

There were monsters hiding in the shadows.

And he would be the one dealing with them.

But it had to be done, if humanity were to survive.

And as there appeared to be no one else who even realized the threats existed, then he would take on that burden as best he could.

It was his duty, not just as a servant of his government, but as a man. He was nothing more than a soldier, charged to protect his fellow human beings from the caprices of nature, or the wrath of the universe. And, he realized a bit sadly, from their own foolishness.

A lousy job, he thought.

But he would do it.

He had to.

So, he considered, how to begin?

John opened his eyes slowly, feeling them sticky, resisting the command to admit the light, but finally they surrendered and parted.

He felt numb, a weird kind of tingling crawling over his skin.

With effort he managed to pull his head up and let his eyes sweep around him.

Hospital, he thought. White sheets, clunky looking machines, and that damned ugly-ass screen thing.

He lowered his head and drew in a deep breath, feeling the tingling begin to abate.

I didn’t die, he told himself. I really thought I was dead.

He pondered this a while.

Maybe I won’t die, he thought. Maybe it just makes me sick as a dog, no matter how far I go. Almost an hour this time, he considered. Maybe there wasn’t a hard limit after all.

He heard the scuffing of feet, and a nurse appeared around the end of the screen that was apparently masking him from more than half of the room.

She noticed he was looking at her, and she smiled as she moved around the bed to check him and scan the read-outs of the monitors next to the bed.

“Well, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

He felt a strange sense of exhilaration flow through him.

“Good,” he said, his voice harsh and croaking. “I feel good. I saved the world. Can’t bitch about that. I saved your life, you know that? That’s pretty good, don’t you think?”

The nurse seemed totally nonplussed, merely glancing down and favoring him with a warm smile.

“Did you? Well, thank you.”

She turned her attention back to the monitors.

“That’s right,” he went on, relaxing as he thought about the entire experience. “This mad scientist was trying to blow up the world, but this friend of mine, who can’t be hurt, and I, we stopped it. Well, he stopped it the second time, after I jumped back and gave him the information. The first time though, that was amazing. The whole world. Boom.”

“That’s nice,” the nurse said absently, her attention fixed on the screens.

“Yeah,” he replied, “It is. Very nice. Nice not to be dead.”

“Certainly is,” she agreed.

Finally she turned her full attention to him.

“So, do you need anything? Would you like a sip of water?”

“Yes, please.”

She poured some from the pitcher on the small table beside the bed into a glass, and fitted it with a straw. She held it out to him, he turned his head and sucked at the straw slowly.
It was wonderful, soothing and full of promise.

“So, your vitals look good. You should be out of here in no time.”

He swallowed and she removed the glass.

“Where is 'here'?” he asked.

“They didn’t tell you? Oh, well, you’re in Crush Mountain Memorial Hospital, Crush Mountain, Montana.”

“Where’s that?” he inquired.

She considered this a moment. “We’re about a hundred miles east of Glacier National Park.”

“Not much help,” he said. “I’m not from around here.”

She favored him with a warm smile.

“Well, don’t worry about that for now. You just get better, okay? And I’ll look in on you again later.”

She turned and moved around the end of the bed, disappearing behind the screen once again.

I guess they must have found me, he thought. That’s good. I need a vacation anyway.

He felt his eyes suddenly growing heavy again, the tingling slowly beginning to return and settle over him like a comforting blanket.

I want a goddamn medal, he thought sluggishly. Something big and gold and…

His eyes slipped closed and he drifted off into the blackness.

The nurse reached the end of the hallway, opened the door and stepped into the small office beyond.

The two men in dark suits turned to regard her.

“We need to transport, as soon as possible,” she said, her expression now flat and cold, as she reached up to remove the cardboard cap.

“He’s got a rather intemperate mouth.”

She placed the cap on the desk and turned to regard them.

“Did you find out how he was retrieved?”

One of the men seemed to straighten slightly, and spoke.

“Local resident saw him unconscious on the side of the road. Called the police. He was transported here.”

The nurse considered this.

“Where was he found?”

“About twenty miles from here,” the other man said.

“When?” she asked flatly.

“Last night, about midnight,” the man responded. “Why?”

“So he’s been here almost twenty four hours,” she said.

“About that, yes,” the man said, eyeing her suspiciously.

She turned this information over in her thoughts a moment.

“How far is the target from here?” she said quietly. “The bunker.”

“Four hundred something miles. Other side of the state,” the first man said.

She absorbed this, her logical mind trying to fit it into the other stray facts she already had gathered.

She nodded briskly.

“All right,” she said, “Start arranging for transport. He’s sedated. We need to move him before sunup. And I need to talk to Crawford. Something doesn’t feel right.”

She turned back toward the door.

“What do you mean?” one of the men said tensely.

She stopped, a hand on the doorknob, and turned back to them.

“He was found within an hour after the strike team hit the bunker, which is about four hundred miles from here. I think this time, when he did what he’s supposed to be able to do… he moved. In space.”

She turned, pulled open the door and swept out, letting it slip slowly closed behind her.

Olga Nevski moved across her small cabin, setting the large pot of beets on the low table. If she managed to finish preparing them she could have borscht for dinner. But there was still the washing to take in from the line out back. And the chickens to feed. And they had been acting so strangely since that frightening light had burned over the horizon. Her mother had told her the stories about the bright, sudden lights she had seen when she was only a girl. They had something to do with the war, she recalled, or some war, a great while ago.

And indeed, ever since that light had flashed so briefly across the sky and made the earth shake, she had noticed many of those strange flying machines, like distant locusts, sailing overhead toward the place. But they only flew over occasionally now. Whatever had happened was already fading away into just another thing that had once occurred, temporarily disrupting the steady, daily trek toward survival.

She took a particularly large beet, turning it over in her hands, and noticed a soft spot at the bottom. She would have to cut that off, she thought, and turned to the other table where she kept the kitchen knives and buckets of water.

By chance she happened to glance up and out through the large window on the other side of the narrow table and froze, the beet slipping from her hand and clattering into the empty metal bucket that rested on the flat surface.

Outside, between the tautly stretched, thin ropes on which her washing was hung, she saw the man, carefully pulling down one of her worn shirts and a pair of battered overalls, her second best pair. At the sound of the clattering bucket from the open window he whirled and half crouched, his eyes finding and fixing on her looking at him through the small, square opening in the building.

Olga’s mouth parted slowly as her mind tried to make some sense of this strange sight.

The man was nothing special, looking like most men. His hair was cut short and nicely arranged, and he had no beard. A stranger from the city, she wondered. Lost?

But if that was the case, why was he completely naked?

He glanced around, as if searching for an answer to his current dilemma, then turned back to her and gave a shy, embarrassed smile, raising one hand in greeting.

“Hello,” he seemed to call in some strange language, and rattled on for a few moments, pointing back toward where the light had appeared those days ago, and at himself.

It sounded like English, she thought. Is he an Englishman? Or an American? He must be an American, she decided. They are all supposed to be crazy.

But what was a naked American doing here, she thought? After all, naked Americans didn’t just fall out of the sky. At least, she didn’t think so.

Dan felt the phone vibrate in his shirt pocket and he retrieved it, a tiny splinter of hope shooting through him. But when he flipped it open he saw that it was only Jim.

“Hey,” he said into the small device, his tone disappointed.

“How about it?” Jim said, “You coming or what?”

Dan glanced at his watch. He was running late.

“Crap,” he said, “Okay, I’ll be along in a bit. Just finishing up something.”

“You’re buying the first round,” Jim said, chidingly.

“Right,” he responded. “See you in a bit.”

He flipped the phone closed, paused a moment, then opened it again, dialing in the number.

It rang a dozen times before the voicemail kicked in. He waited through the outgoing message.

“Hey,” he finally said, “Roger, it’s Dan. I guess this thing you’re doing must be pretty involved. So, give me a call when you get in. I thought of a new experiment we need to try. What’s your capacity for Jack Daniels consumption? Okay, call me when you can. Bye.”

He slapped the phone closed and stood, feeling a little uncomfortable. It had been almost a month now, and he hadn’t heard from either John or Roger. Of course, it was possible whatever they were doing was something long-term, but somehow that didn’t feel right. After all, with what they could do almost any challenge shouldn’t take long to resolve, one way or another.

Then again, was it really any of his business? And would they even want him butting in on their lives, whatever they were at this point?

Maybe, he told himself, he’d just check around a little. After all, as a cop, wasn’t he supposed to investigate things?

Feeling slightly better, he scooped his jacket off the back of the chair, and was slipping it on even as he went out the front door and moved to his car.

Ten minutes later he was pulling into the parking lot of the small, neighborhood bar where he and Jim sometimes came to watch the games on the large assortment of televisions scattered around the walls.

He didn’t notice them until he was stepping out of the car and turning to push the door closed.

Jim was standing near the front door of the building, and beside him was Jones.

Dan was momentarily startled. He hadn’t seen Jones since the tests.

He moved over toward them.

“Hey, guys,” he said, “What’s going on? Something up?”

“Officer Sinski, we need to talk,,” Jones said, his voice the same flat, almost dead tone.

Dan stopped and looked from one to the other.

Jones was, as ever, totally impassive. Jim’s face was pulled into a tense mask.

“All right,” Dan said, “Let’s talk.”

Jones took a moment to glance around before fixing back on Dan.

“I don’t have to tell you the sensitive nature of the recent experiences you two gentlemen happened to stumble on,” he said evenly. “Nor need I tell you that everything connected with it has been classified top secret.”

Dan felt a stab of annoyance.

“No, we get that. So what?”

Jones seemed to regard him appraisingly before responding.

“You are not to talk about, refer to, discuss, disclose or otherwise make known to anyone the experiences you witnessed in connection with Roger Malloy and John Kleinschmidt. Do you understand?”

Dan felt a cold shiver that caused the hairs on his arms to tighten.

“No, we get that, too. What did you think, we were going to call the L.A. Times or something?”