Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle (33 page)

Twiste answered the question: "You break through to another apartment."

"Right."

"Right," Twiste went on. "So maybe Briggs ripped open a hole. Wow, now that makes some sense."

"Ouch! Mother—what makes sense?"

"Those two little puppets it’s got. I bet Roberts has a headache or something right now. I bet it went and got in his mind and copied what he knows about shooting a handgun and put it into Ruth’s mind and that’s how she could shoot you in exactly the right spot to damage you but . . . " and Twiste touched parts of the knee, considered, and told him, ". . . not cause permanent damage. You'll need surgery, but I think the bullet missed the good stuff."

"I suppose I should be thankful."

"It said something like it was going to completely—I think it said ‘fully’—come into this world. As if it’s not already here."

"I must have missed that part."

"You were busy being shot."

"Okay," Gant tried to recap through gritted teeth. "So this thing can put ideas into a person’s head or make a person see things or do things. You say it still has to come into our world. What do you mean by that?"

"I didn’t say it," Twiste corrected. "
It
did. Let’s say Briggs poked a hole into some kind of other dimension, some place where things are like pure mental energy, where things are made up of pure thought."

"The scientist we spoke with at Tall compared the infinite of space to the infinite of the small. She suggested that there’s an entire universe of the small."

"Jesus," Twiste said. "Now you’re talking over my head," and he chuckled.

"So this Briggs punches a hole into another universe or dimension or whatever."

"Maybe like the God particle is supposed to be, maybe this is a pocket of what was here before the universe, before the big bang." Twiste’s curiosity grew, and Gant saw that, despite the circumstances, he enjoyed indulging his curiosity, as opposed to locking the enigmas away in a containment cell. He resolved that should they make it home alive, he would push for Twiste to have more access to the fruits of their labors.

Brandon's theorizing, however, appeared on the brink of running amok.

"This raises a bunch of interesting theories about—"

"Doctor," Gant took one hand away from his knee and held it aloft in a "stop" sign. "I am more concerned with the theory of operational awareness. Let's call it staying focused on what is important to the mission. Theories are great, but I have a feeling time is short."

"Why’s that?"

"Because It seems really interested in the V.A.A.D. Campion is carrying."

Twiste asked, "Do you think he can get it here in once piece?"

"You have known Campion for a while now. He is a skilled and capable soldier. Besides, that thing appears to control those creatures. He will find his way here, sooner or later. My concern is that our host will grab the V.A.A.D. and dismantle it before it can reverse the situation."

Twiste shook his head. "I don't know about that, Thom. We may be better off if Campion doesn't make it down here."

"What are you talking about?"

"I think Dr. Briggs broke through those floorboards and this thing tried to crawl into our apartment, except it got stuck because the hole wasn’t big enough."

"I assume the V.A.A.D. is designed to repair that hole."

Twiste, however, saw things differently.

"I don’t think so. I think the V.A.A.D. is going to rip open that hole and let that thing all the way in."
 

It had taken all day, but Colonel Thunder finally reached Dr. Doreen McCaul.

Liz sat at her desk and after accepting McCaul's long-winded apology revolving around a research project that could not be disturbed, Liz dove right in to the particulars of her problem, without any concern as to whether the call was monitored.

"Yes, it’s called a variable accelerator antimatter delivery device—V.A.A.D. for short."

"You say it will bombard the area with antiparticles?"

Liz replied, "That's my understanding, yes."

"You think this is all about Briggs’s experiment. Maybe his experiment worked a little too well, maybe he created some sort of rift—is that what you're thinking?"

Liz rocked in her chair and said, "Based on what you told me and what I’ve heard, that’s what I’m going on. Is it possible he punched a hole into another dimension? I know that sounds crazy."

"The idea of multiple dimensions is far from crazy, Colonel. It is the basis for string theory. Of course, there is also the theory of a multi-verse: an infinite number of parallel universes where the physical laws are quite different from what we know here."

"Okay," Liz stopped rocking, leaned on her desk, and grabbed a pencil, which she proceeded to chew on. "It seems as if someone at Tall thinks this variable accelerator antimatter thing can repair the damage."

"Well, I don’t see how. What you’re describing is the idea of projecting antimatter at the affected area. Maybe an area as small as one atom, I don’t know."

"So what?"

"So when antimatter hits matter you get annihilation: the destruction of the particles when they collide. It will result in the release of gamma rays."

"Again I ask, 'so what?'"

"No need to be agitated, dear. As I told you and your major friend last time, you can’t expect me to boil decades of subatomic research into a few clever sound bites or a nice, tidily packaged metaphor."

"Yes, of course, I’m sorry. You were saying?"

"If you believe a hole has been ripped open at the subatomic level and you then bombard that area with antimatter, I can't see how you’ll have anything other than more destruction, not less."

Colonel Thunder summarized, "You mean the hole will be ripped open even more?"

"I suppose that could very well happen. That’s assuming your thinking is accurate. I’ve never heard of such a situation outside of science fiction stories."

Colonel Thunder said, "But no one ever thought they could do what Briggs was trying to do with his lasers either, right?"

"Not at that scale, no. I told you there is a project in the works to use lasers but on a much larger scale, with tremendous energy requirements. If his project worked, he accomplished a lot more with a lot less."

Liz tried to hurry to the point, saying, "Let's assume his experiment worked."

"Okay, if his experiment worked and he was able to tear apart the fabric of space at the subatomic level he’d be playing with the parts that make up the building blocks of our reality. Who knows what could happen or come of it."

"I thought you dealt in the unknown. I thought your job was to figure these things out," Thunder said, sensing misgiving in McCaul’s voice.

"My dear Colonel, science is a wonderful thing, but it can be a dangerous thing, too. The more secrets of the universe we unlock, the more fragile and tenuous our existence seems."

Thunder fell silent and absorbed the whole of the conversation.

"Colonel?"

"Thank you, Dr. McCaul."

"Oh, don’t thank me, it wasn’t a bother at all."

"It may be. I can think of a couple of people who probably won’t like the fact that we just had this conversation."

"That’s okay." Thunder felt McCaul’s smile over the phone line. "Sometimes we scientists like to kick over a rock and watch all the slimy bugs go running for cover."

Thunder laughed, then said goodbye. She had to go confront one of those slimy bugs, but Vsalov—she felt—was not likely to go running for cover. He was more likely to turn and fight.

Liz remembered Major Gant, Campion, and the rest of the men, as well as the metal plate welded to the door to seal their fate. All the silver oak leaves in all the army could not erase her shame if she did not act.

Not again. Not this time.

She remembered Twiste confronting her, thinking her the devil pulling the strings. She remembered the way he had looked at her, threatened her, not knowing that she had already earned the wrath of General Borman for trying to derail this mission.

Maybe if she could find out more on this end—unearth the truth—it might help the men down below, or at least ensure that their sacrifice did not occur in vain.

Or maybe, Liz, you just owe it to yourself to do the right thing for once.

And it was not merely about the Archangel detachment. If her fears were correct, if Major Gant and his team accomplished their mission, things might get worse, and for a lot more people.

Liz stormed out of her office with long, determined strides. She rounded the corner and approached the elevator, using her access card to activate the car. A series of whirs and clangs announced the elevator's approach.

When the big doors opened a soldier in black BDU’s stepped out. She immediately sensed that something was wrong. He held one hand to his temple, while in the other he clutched a bundle of plastic-wrapped packages.

"Soldier? Roberts, right?"

The grunt tried to stand at attention and show the proper respect, but he was obviously bothered by something either emotional or physical—or both.

"What seems to be the problem?" she asked cautiously as her mind recalled twenty years' worth of incident reports at Red Rock.

"Well, I’ve got one hell of a headache," he answered. "And then there’s these. I just can’t figure it out."

He carried a number of Twinkie packages. Thunder remembered seeing Roberts pump quarters into the vending machine in the cafeteria.

"What can’t you figure out?" Liz shifted uneasily.

"Before the mission—I mean, before the other guys went on the mission—I had this incredible craving for these things. I just couldn’t get enough of them. But I wasn’t eating them. I just kept thinking, man these would be great to have on the mission, you know? Like I was going to need a Twinkie in the middle of all of that, you know?"

"And now?"

He looked at the packages and tossed one to her. She caught it with both hands.

"And now I realize I hate these things."

Liz probed, "Other guys on your team buy up a lot of Twinkies, too?"

Roberts did not need to think about that answer. He told her, "Twinkies, soda, candy bars, and I think Pearson took in a can of coffee. Just getting all this weird stuff like we were going to need it. I mean, we never stop for a snack when we’re in the field. Maybe an MRE if it’s an all-day thing, but not a friggin’ Twinkie. Other stuff, too. Moss took a package of light bulbs. I saw him, but at the time I didn't think it was weird. It was like, sure, we'll need light bulbs down there and I'll need Twinkies. Strange, you know?"

Liz’s attention wandered and she vacantly agreed, "Yeah, I know …".

She did not look at him again, so Roberts walked away, probably wondering to himself if the lieutenant colonel felt right.

Thunder no longer thought about confronting Vsalov; she had a much more pressing matter. She boarded the elevator but did not go toward the vault room. Instead, she stopped on sublevel four, home of—among other things—the records room.

—

Corporal "Sammy" Sanchez walked briskly along the corridor, his boots offering muffled thumps against the floor. He oftentimes mused that facilities this big were not meant to be so empty.

He came to the records room, saw the padlock Borman had placed there snapped off, and went inside, only to immediately wonder if the lieutenant colonel had succumbed to the same delusion-causing influences that had overcome his previous commanding officer.

The records room looked small, but was really quite long. Row upon row of shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, with only tiny pathways in between to create a cozy feeling. Yet those rows of shelves ran for great length through the shadows of the poorly lit area.

Thunder sat at a desk at the mouth of those pathways. A solitary lamp augmented the aging light fixtures drooping overhead from dust-covered cords.

Piles upon piles of folders surrounded the colonel, their contents scattered over the desk as well as over two old wooden chairs and even more were strewn on the cold concrete floor.

Without looking at him, Colonel Thunder said, "Glad to see you could make it, Corporal. Pull up a chair."

He strolled in cautiously, still trying to ascertain her state of mind. After all, there were no chairs available for the pulling.

"Colonel … um … ma'am, are you okay?"

She continued to shuffle through the reports, actually throwing two sheets of paper over her left shoulder in a combination of frustration and impatience. The pages—yellowed with age—fluttered like mortally wounded paper airplanes before hitting the deck.

"Okay? No, Corporal, I’m not okay. Why? Why do you ask?"

Sanchez remembered how comfortable she had made him feel on the surface. Now either she was intentionally making him uncomfortable or something was wrong. He quickly wondered again if this was one of her psyche tests, the type where he could end up transferred. He wondered if that was a bad thing.