Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] (9 page)

Under a tarpaulin, we found cases of MRE packs, prepared and dehydrated food, dried meat, fruit rolls, canned bread, powdered milk, vitamin pills and fortified high energy snack bars, both vanilla and dark chocolate with almonds.

"Don't forget water,” Jessica advised, dragging a sack of mess kits over to the heavily laden cart.

George snorted and pointed. “Four ten gallon cans, one fifty gallon drum, water purification tablets and a small distillation unit."

"How the hell are we going to carry that load?” Richard demanded from behind a stack of mylar blankets.

"A second cart,” Father Donaher announced, pushing another wheeled platform beside the first.

Two sets of scuba gear and some mountain climbing equipment were added to the pile. The gang started to take a short breather when the building shook to its very foundations and we returned to work. Binoculars, infrared night scopes, two inflatable rafts and shark repellant. Lord, how much of this stuff were we going to need and what critical equipment were we forgetting to bring along?

Moving to a wall rack holding combat fatigues, Mindy ripped open her blouse. The contrast of the white sports bra against her dark skin was a lovely sight, but I stopped her anyway.

"Don't waste time,” I shouted. “We'll change on the plane. Just grab the correct size!"

As this was almost definitely a combat mission, not a simple seek-and-isolate, we started with army boots that had steel plates in the soles, toes and heels. A person could kick their way through a wall with these babies. Following Gordon's example, we appropriated military jumpsuits of bullet resistant cloth. Cushioned steel helmets were added to the growing collection, along with light cloth caps. It was George who tossed in socks, underwear and T-shirts, god bless him.

At last, the team turned its attention to weapons. Rushing to a nearby rack, Father Donaher grabbed a pump action 12 gauge shotgun and two loaded banderoles of shells. Moving quick, I slapped the ammo bands out of his hands.

"Stop thinking small,” I said, grabbing a carton of shells and tossed them to him. “We take a case, or don't even bother."

A grin exploded on his face. “Faith, its Christmas!"

"Hanukkah!” somebody corrected from behind a stack of wooden crates containing Claymore mines.

"My birthday!"

"K-Mart!"

We ignored that last remark.

A table full of Bureau wristwatches was cleaned in a second, with everybody taking spare batteries. Bypassing the full suits of medieval armor and shields, Mindy grabbed a brace of crossbows and two quivers of arrows. One standard, the other marked as Bureau Specials.

"Bracelets!” Richard cried in joy, displaying a small wooden box. The inside was lined with velvet on which rested six rather plain copper bands.

"Yeah?” I grunted, slinging a satchel charge of C4 over my shoulder. Damn thing must weigh 30 pounds.

He seemed surprised at my lack of understanding. “I'll explain later, but these are wonderful! Fabulous!"

"Great. Take all of them you find."

"I will!"

As for sidearms, I chose Heckler Koch 10mm automatic pistols, holding 15 rounds with combat triggers and ambidextrous grips. I decided five cases of mixed bullets was enough, then got smart and added a case of spare clips. I searched for silencers, but didn't find any for this type weapon, until I moved a carton of homogenized oil and there they were. They were acoustical, not material silencers, so I only took ten, along with a box of belts and holsters.

A third cart had been allocated and the pile of loot grew constantly. Ten cases of assorted grenades, a flare gun and a case of flares, two combo backpacks of LAW and HAFLA rockets, a mixed case of tear gas, BZ gas, vomit gas and garlic vapor canisters, a box of wire garrotes and a bundle of switchblades. We also took a crate of brand new Uzi 10mm submachine guns, as they accepted the same caliber ammunition as our pistols. The laser-guided Thompson machine guns were nice, but they only fired .22 rounds, meant to wound, not kill. Somebody had added a crate of M16/M79 combination rifles, along with cases of ammo and shells. I let them stay. The Kevlar vests we passed over, as our own body armor was better, lighter and we were already wearing the stuff. I only hoped somebody brought along deodorant as this might be a long campaign.

There was a rack of MR1 Delta Force rifles, and I plugged the cable from the stock into the goggles. The lenses glowed into life and now I saw a crosshair floating in the air before me, and it moved to wherever the barrel of the MR1 was pointed. Nice for shooting around corners, but the battery pack weighed a ton and those damn computerized helmets chafed like a bastard, so I decided to leave it behind.

At last, I found the Special Weapons cabinet I had been looking for and tore the doors open. Inside were four shelves, three of them empty. Damn. So much for the laser pistols and lightning wands. But there was still good stuff remaining. Snatching a box of Experimental class derringers, I also grabbed a leather briefcase tagged with the symbol for radiation. Pausing, I double-checked to make doubly sure the instruction book was still attached to the handle/trigger.

"What about this flamethrower?” Mindy asked, pointing to the backpack canister, hose and spray rod assembly.

"Is it charged?” George asked, fumbling with the lock on a wire enclosed area.

She kicked it and got an answering slosh. “Yep."

With a yank, George got the wire gate open and was inside. “Take it. We can always use the thing to toast weenies."

"Check!"

"Found the weenies!” somebody added gaily.

Sighing, I said goodbye to the Wichataw Thunderbolt pistol laying in plain sight on a nearby table. The single shot, bolt action, pistol fired a .569 Magnum Express round that could blow the head off an elephant. But the stupid thing weighed ten pounds and each bullet was an additional pound. Besides, I had never heard of anybody managing to hit their target because of the weapons incredible recoil. I decided to stick to the 10mm and a few grenades.

Wise move
, sent Jessica, busy in a cabinet.

Triumphantly, George stepped out of the wire cage wearing a bulky backpack, supported by padded shoulder hooks, chest straps and a belt about the waist. Whatever it was, must be pretty heavy. An enclosed metal belt extended from the top and curved down to enter the stock of a stubby machine gun with an oversized maw. From the grin on his face, I wondered if the weapon launched atomic missiles, or a disintegrator beam.

Father Donaher returned carrying an arm load of crosses, Holy Water pistols, wooden stakes and a Bureau standard issue shoulder bag that I knew held garlic powder, communion wafers, a Bible, wooden stakes and a scapula.

Jess appeared toting a Quija board, Tarot cards, candles, a crystal pyramid, a bolt-action taser rifle and a box of Bureau sunglasses. Then and there, I decided to marry the woman.

I added a stack of gold and silver coins and we were ready.

Under Richard's adroit direction, the team started securing everything into position with canvas and rope, making damn sure the wheels were free to turn. Having an ex-Boy Scout in the group sometimes came in handy.

"That everything?” Mindy asked, finishing off a clove hitch knot.

George jerked a thumb towards the wire cage. “There's still a Dragon missile system and a semi-portable, 40mm, Vulcan mini-gun in there."

"Why didn't you take them?” Richard asked surprised.

"The Dragon is too heavy and takes a trained four man crew two hours to assemble,” George explained. “And the Vulcan can empty a truck full of shells in less than a minute. Its a weapon for established ground fortifications, not field units."

The mage nodded, as if understanding the military babble.

"There's also an Atchisson, but I figured Michael would already have one."

The father straightened with a groan. “What is it?"

"An assault rifle system that fires 12 gauge shotgun shells,” George said impatiently. “ROF, 800."

"ROF, rate of fire,” the priest translated. “Eight hundred shotgun shells a minute? Can it handle stun bags?"

"Of course."

"Sounds mighty useful. Is there room on the cart?"

"No,” Richard stated, tucking in a flap.

Donaher pouted, then grinned. “Well, let's get another cart!"

The building shook again just then and the lights dimmed, returned, then died away completely leaving us in pitch black.

"Time to go,” I announced, clicking on a flashlight. The brilliant white beam illuminating half the team and only a chunk of the piled supplies. More flashlights came to life brightening the darkness. On the floor, a series of pale yellow arrows flickered into life indicating the direction of the elevator.

"And how do we find the transport tube,” Mindy asked, coming closer. As she spoke those words, the arrows changed direction and pointed towards a different wall.

"Come on,” I said glancing at my new watch. “The plane leaves in fifteen minutes. Let's skidaddle."

Richard had done a fine job of balancing the loads on the carts, and it was relatively easy for us to push the wheeled mountains along the path of the arrows. After about a hundred feet, they ended at a blank cinder block wall. Searching about, Jess found a card slot in the wall and tried inserting her FBI card. There was a hum, a click and a section of the wall disengaged and swung away on hidden hinges.

Inside was a well-lit cubicle of burnished metal, just barely large enough to take us and the piles of stuff. We had to hoist Mindy on top of a cart to make room, but the gang made it inside and I pushed the sole button on the wall. The doors closed with a soft hush and locked tight.

A steady rumble started below us and then suddenly we were floating in the air, the floor of the lift inches below our feet. There was an odd feeling in my stomach, and George looked as if he might toss lunch. Stretching an arm, Richard touched him on the head and the fat man visibly calmed, color returning to his cheeks.

"Thanks,” he croaked.

"No problem,” the mage smiled.

The rushing, falling, sensation continued and after a minute our feet returned to the floor in time for it to tilt slightly on an angle. Ugh. Now we were going sideways.

"Hey, this must be a pneumatic tube,” Richard exclaimed with a broad grin.

"Wow! Neat!” Mindy added, obviously enjoying the ride.

"Swell,” I contributed, meaning every word.

"Ed, I just realized something,” Donaher said, sounding very serious.

I swallowed lunch and focused my eyes on him. “What?"

"At present, we don't have a single functional weapon or defense prepared. Better do something about that."

Words of wisdom, indeed. In frantic haste, the 10mm pistols were retrieved and loaded. As we thumbed off safeties, Richard pulled a long, curved knife from out of the air. Our swift journey continued, and just as I was beginning to swear off food forever, the transport leveled, then slowed and finally started to rise upward like a proper elevator. Thank god. After a minute, the cubicle came to a gentle stop, the door separated and we stumbled into a dank, smelly garage, a horde of very startled rats scampering for safety away from the harsh light of the transport.

Fanning out in a standard pattern, we did a fast sweep of the place to secure the perimeter. It was clean, or rather the dump contained nothing more dangerous than rabid rats, broken glass and old copies of the New York Post.

Wiping the dirt off a window, I saw that the garage was situated on the waterfront, a battered wooden dock directly in front. Moored at the pylons, was an ordinary DC-3, twin prop, sea plane. Lounging by her side, smoking a cigarette, was a dark skinned man of average height and black hair. He was dressed in tan slacks, deck shoes and a white shirt that had been painted on by a close friend.

"Nice,” Mindy purred in frank appraisal.

"Yeah,” George agreed happily. “The DC-3 is a classic."

Donaher and I exchanged glances and sighed. Sometimes, our Mr. Renault was a bit of a muttonhead.

There were four doors leading from the place. Three were bricked closed, the fourth lined with steel plating and bolted shut. Trust Gordon to think of everything. Undoing the lock, the garage door swung noiselessly aside and we moved to the loading platform. An inclined cement ramp led to the dock and we forcibly pushed, pulled, and dragged our semi-portable department store of survival supplies to the waiting airship.

In the distance, the horizon was a featureless expanse of gray fog. But it behooved nobody to mention that.

As we approached the plane, the pilot ambled towards us, a hand dangerously near a holstered Wesley .44 revolver that I hadn't noticed before.

"Ah, raincloud,” I said hopefully.

At that, the fellow relaxed and offered his hand. We shook. “Mr. Alvarez? Captain Hassan, awaiting your orders."

"Howdy-do. Open the cargo hatch, and let's boogie."

"Fair enough."

Glancing at the team, he started for the front of the plane when he saw Mindy and gasped. “Good lord miss, are you okay?” he asked in concern.

Puzzled, Mindy looked at the guy as if he was crazy, but then noticed her ripped shirt and the amount of skin showing. He probably thought she had been saved from a fate worse than death. The white, seamless, sports bra only served to accentuate her trim figure.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks. Did it myself.” Openly, she looked over the man's square jaw, piercing black eyes and muscular build. Then she dimpled in a manner that almost made me jealous.

"But your concern is most appreciated,” Mindy smiled daintily.

He stepped closer. “My pleasure."

She stepped closer. “That can be arranged. Jennings."

The man blinked. “What?"

"Mindy Jennings."

A toothy smile. “Abduhl Benny Hassan."

"Hump later, work now,” I said from the end of the dock heaving a box of grenades towards them.

Mindy turned in time to catch the box and carried it inside the plane. The pilot went off to the cockpit and we got to work. Briefly, I wondered how she did things like that? Hear the air currents moving around the box, or what?