Precipice: The Beginning (5 page)

7

T
he USS Roosevelt was a scientific vessel sent out on special assignment by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration to investigate some recent seismic activity twelve hundred miles off the coast of California. Captain Vladimir Mallard stood annoyed in his cabin, pouring himself a second cup of coffee. He took it black. No need for any artificial sweeteners or fake cream that can sit out for days and still be consumed. Whatever happened to expiration dates? Captain Mallard walked over to the large window that looked off the port side of the ship. The ocean was rough today, strong winds picking up and clouds seeming to form out of nowhere. Captain Mallard had seen weather like this before, but not so quickly. The sea was mysterious to say the least, but after spending thirty-seven years bobbing on it like a content duck in a pond, he’d grown to know and love it as if it were a part of him. He supposed in many ways that it was more a part of him than anything. Yet despite his deep love of the sea and his experience on its surface and below it, he couldn’t take his eyes off the growing cloud coverage. Heavy and black, stretching out like a vortex.

“Captain, you’re needed on the bridge.”

Captain Mallard nodded to the request from his executive officer. He took a sip of coffee and closed his eyes, enjoying the only vise he carried with him out to sea. The warmth rolled over his tongue and heated his stomach. With an exhale of content, he set the mug down on the table and left his quarters. He walked through crowded corridors of men and women bustling by. He took a flight of stairs and entered the bridge, nodding to the crew as they acknowledged his presence.

“Captain, we’re preparing to send out Blue Boy and Blue Boy Two.”

“Excellent. Anything coming back from the sonar?” the captain asked as he stood behind the long line of monitors.

“We’re sending down an active ping, but there are some unusual responses.”

“Meaning?” Captain Mallard looked up, his eyebrows furrowed.

“The imaging keeps shifting.” Tamara Brown rubbed the back of her neck, thinking of how to phrase her words. “The depth of the ocean’s floor has increased exponentially over the last few hours.”

“If the plates are shifting, we might be bearing witness to the birth of an oceanic trench,” Captain Mallard said as he straightened, losing himself in the light of discovery. “Send out the blue boys and keep active sonar. I’d like to know if we’re facing another earthquake.” Captain Mallard took a deep breath and looked down to the screen. “We need to know what’s coming before we lose something larger than a cruise ship.”

8

T
ravis and his unit had secured their mining equipment and took the mining carts to the elevator. They entered the elevator and stood slightly slouched, their bodies tired and exhausted. Ten hours worth of drilling away the thick iron within the Martian interior had taken its toll. One person within each cluster of miners took control of the strong arm, a large mechanical arm that picked up the large chunks of iron and ore that broke free from the wall and loaded it into the carts. The carts were then taken up the tracks and dumped onto a conveyer belt that pulled the heavy chunks through the belly of the facility to a large room where it’s dumped and sorted. It gets melted down and reused as needed throughout the facility. It’s too difficult and not efficient to wait for building supplies from the large cargo ship that made the long trek from Earth every six months with food and requested items, mostly machinery for the scientific division or replacement parts for the air purifiers. Aside from expanding the facility, the mining of iron and other useful ore was the lifeblood to their happy little world.

“Damn this shit makes me smell.” Jerome removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm while taking a deep breath.

“I don’t think it’s the suit that’s making that smell,” Christina said with a smirk.

“Laugh all you want. Ultimately you’re the one that really has to suffer from it.” Jerome lifted up his arm and took a whiff, pointing it toward Christina while exhaling.

The doors opened and the four men and Christina exited the elevator and entered the locker room, joining three hundred other miners stripping off their thin outer suits and setting their helmets back within their designated space in the locker. As they did every shift, the four men undressed shoulder to shoulder with Christina tucked away from the other men. The penalty for sexual assault within the facility, regardless of gender, was punishable by death. But still, it was never easy for Christina to be the only woman within the facility; all those men looking from the corners of their eyes, hormones coming off them in waves. But Christina was tough and they all knew it. Not chick tough, but military tough. In the sense that she not only knew how to defend herself, but she could be lethal with pretty much anything she could get her hands on. Her unit knew how dangerous she was yet they still stood shoulder to shoulder to keep her dignity in check.

Travis was the last to step into the blue coveralls they were given from the facility. Each person stationed there was given five pairs. All of them identical blue overalls with a red circle over the right chest, their last names on the opposite side in black thread.

“Slush is on me tonight.” Morgan held up his hands like a high roller ready to share the wealth.

They followed Morgan out of the locker room and up a flight of stairs that took them to a smaller version of the cafeteria, called the recreation room by the company, the Pit by the miners. It had several pool tables, some pinball machines, two ping-pong tables and a few card tables. There were five identical machines set up along a table in the back of the room, each of them dispensing a different flavored slushed beverage they called the slush, for obvious reasons. They all took a seat at a table in the back of the room, wanting to be alone to hold private conversations.

“Man I would sell my very soul for a drink,” TJ said with a sigh.

“I think giving alcohol to a bunch of burly miners isolated in this facility might lead to some very bad things. Especially when I’m the only woman in this entire shithole.” Christina’s eyes went wide, thinking of all the savage men going after her goodies in a drunken brawl. She could kick some major ass, but not three hundred asses. Christina couldn’t help but crack a smile at the image. “Besides, the last thing you need is a drink. I don’t want to have to fight your pathetic advances all night.”

“Look who’s all high and mighty,” TJ laughed. “You might encourage a man to take a few sips, might make you look good.” TJ elbowed Morgan playfully.

Morgan excused himself and stepped to the back of the room, loading up the tray with five plastic glasses full of slush mixtures; the cups’ contents swirling with blue, red and white. Morgan carried the tray back to the table and set it down in the center.

“Excuse me, waitress,” TJ smiled. “I believe we ordered appetizers.”

“I don’t cater to small tippers.” Morgan took his cup of slush and took a sip, wincing from the cold as it ran over his teeth. Morgan was a very brave man, always willing to take point in dangerous situations or charge in blindly to protect a fellow soldier. But when it came to the dentist, Morgan was a scared little kitten.

“So what did the head shrink think?” Jerome spoke over the lip of his cup, letting out a refreshing sigh after his first sip. The taste brought him back to his childhood. So many summer days spent in the parking lot of the local gas station convenient store, sitting on the sidewalk with some friends while drinking a similar beverage of a much higher quality. The main difference to the drink in his memory and the one in his hand now was the sugar. He missed the sweet treats so badly.

“Same old garbage. Told me I need to get some more rest or I might go insane.”

“Has this quack ever tried sleeping in one of our beds?” Jerome laughed, elbowing Morgan with a wink. “Besides, might not be so bad going insane. At least a hallucination or two might make things a little more interesting.” Jerome set his cup down and looked forward with a cold expression, his eyes vacant. “I’ve gone crazy. I’m looking off into space. Looks like I need a transfer to the Bahamas.”

They shared a laugh, secretly wishing they could somehow conjure up a transfer. But they all knew they were most likely never getting off this red ball so far from Earth. So far from their home.

“How was your little phone call home, E.T.?” Sean Jeffries asked from behind Travis, his hands clenching in and out of fists at his side.

Travis turned his head slightly to speak over his shoulder, keeping his tone nice and level to avoid conflict. “It was fine.”

“Must be nice to be able to call home and speak to your loved ones.” Sean’s voice was heated.

“Please don’t,” Christina pleaded, tilting her head slightly to give Sean some compassion and understanding.

“Let’s not do this now.” Travis turned in his seat, holding out his hands to show he meant no harm. “Why don’t you join us for a drink?”

“Come on, Sean.” Morgan pulled an empty chair from the table behind them up to the table, patting the seat.

Sean reached out and knocked Travis’ drink into his lap. Travis stood and swatted at his blue jumper to alleviate the cold wetness spreading across his groin.

“Get your ass out of here!” Jerome pointed toward the door as he stood, his voice elevated.

“What? I can’t reach out and touch someone.” Sean took a step back, holding out his hands as if he were the victim. Everyone at the table were now on their feet, standing behind Travis with the same disappointed look on their faces. “How fucking typical. Travis and his faithful companions against Mr. Jeffries.”

“No one’s against you,” Travis said, absently wiping the uncomfortable dampness from his lap.

“Let it go, man.” TJ shook his head, feeling deflated from the same old scene.

Sean saw them all staring at him and felt his blood boil. None of them had even taken the time to realize what their great and powerful leader had done to them. Or the pain his decisions had caused him. They didn’t lose the only family they had. Having had enough, Sean punched Travis hard across the face, jumping forward to fall on him. He brought his fist repeatedly into Travis’ side as the rest of his unit gripped his jumpsuit to pull him off. To Sean’s surprise, Travis raised his hands to block his face but did not fight back. He winced from the blows to his ribs, but the pacifist routine was only fueling Sean’s anger. Sean thrashed furiously against the tight grip of TJ and Jerome, Christina standing beside the table shaking her head as Morgan wrapped his arm about his neck, cutting off his air as he pulled him back. But the disappointed look on Christina’s face hurt him worse than the stranglehold or the tight hands over his forearms.

“Break it up!” Homer Andrews, head of security, yelled from the doorway. “Stand clear!”

Sean released his grip on Travis’ shirt and allowed his former group of friends to pull him to his feet. He smoothed out his uniform and stood erect as if nothing had happened. Jerome took Travis by the hand and helped him to his feet, giving Sean an angry glare.

“Who started this?” Andrews asked, stepping forward with a shock-wand in his right hand, tapping it against his leg to call attention to its presence. “Well?”

They all stood stiff with their hands clasped behind their back, tight lipped and looking ready for inspection. No one moved an inch when Andrews asked for a culprit.

“Someone had to have started this.” Andrews paced before them, looking each of them in the eye. He stood before Travis and smiled. “Word is that your man here doesn’t respect you anymore. Is that true?”

“Just a disagreement is all.” Travis took a quick look at Sean, seeing the anger still clinging to his face.

“Just a minor scuffle?” Andrews nodded, turning his back to the men as he motioned for the four security officers standing in the doorway to come forward. “I guess we’re going to have to punish both of you tight lipped bastards. Take them both to solitary.” Andrews stepped aside as his officers followed orders. “A few days of peace and quiet are exactly what you need.” Andrews gave a wicked smile. “The rest of you, pick this shit up.”

The officers stepped behind Travis and Sean and followed them out of the room.

9

H
arold Dasher, or Dasher to his friends of which he had none, sat behind the wheel of an idling black sedan. The engine coughed and struggled but kept running. He would have opted for a quieter getaway car, but if he’d had the money to fulfill such requests he wouldn’t be in this situation. As it was, he didn’t have a choice. He’d borrowed twenty thousand dollars from Edward Dupree and the time for collection had come and gone. And Edward Dupree was not the kind of man to give extensions. But Dasher didn’t have a choice. He needed to borrow the twenty thousand to pay back the ten thousand he’d borrowed from Hector Gomez. With interest, his debt to Hector had increased from ten to eighteen. Dasher looked out the driver side window and watched the bank, wondering how such mindless thugs like Edward and Hector could be so good with math and figures. Dasher himself was quite intelligent, but not very good at following directions. His mother had called him too “jittery” for school. That was just a nice way of telling him he wasn’t cut out for a structured learning environment, so he’d left school in the sixth grade. After having it out with his mother for such a “stupid ass decision,” her exact words, she’d taken the cigarette from her cracked lips and pressed it to the back of his hand, leaving a scar he carried to this day. So he’d wiped away the tears and left home. Since then he’d had what many would consider a rough life. Hopefully all that was going to change in the next few minutes. One large score and he could not only settle his debts, but maybe have a little something extra to live on, to pull himself out from under the large rock God seemed to have set on him.

“Let’s milk this bitch!” Nick bounced anxiously in the passenger seat.

Dasher knew Nick as well as he knew any of the in and out people he’d met over the years, introduced as a friend of a friend, someone to snort some coke with on a Thursday night or shoot pool with at Finnegan’s. But he was a twitcher, bouncing and shaking as if his mind were a cell phone set to vibrate. Nick made Dasher nervous. He himself was a bit of a hothead, easily set off and always ready for a fight, but Nick was unpredictable—a very dangerous combination when he gets pissed off or drunk. Dasher remembers an incident three months ago behind Dugan’s Theatre in the downtown district. He’d gone with Nick and some really fat guy they called Butch to the alley for a score, supposedly an average pickup of some meth. Dasher found out that most normal things are always twisted to and fro when handled by Nick. So they’d met their contact in the alley and offered up the money in exchange for the goods, but the dealer had tried to pull one over on them. Weighing down the bag instead of the real deal. Without needing to confirm this, Nick grabbed a discarded beer bottle and beat the dealer to death, then proceeded to urinate on the corpse while humming “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” To say the very least, Nick made Dasher very nervous. Especially at this moment as Nick sat with the shotgun lying across his lap, petting it sensually.

The two men in the back seat were both friends of Nick, people Dasher had never met but were willing to do the job. Dasher shuttered to think what type of characters these two thugs were, but he let it go. He’d come up with a good plan, laid it out to Nick and was thankful for the help. At their level in society, any help was better than none.

“Are we ready?” Dasher spoke to the rearview, looking back at the two men as they nodded in unison, no real expression across their rough exteriors. “Nick?”

“Oh I was born ready baby. Let’s rip this whore apart!” Nick let out a little howl, mimicking an old horny fox from a cartoon he remembered as a child. “I want it. I want it.”

“Just stick to the plan.” Dashed poked Nick on the shoulder to gain his full attention. “Do you got it?”

“Don’t worry. Stick to the plan.” Nick nodded eagerly.

Dasher took a deep breath and put the car in drive and pulled up to the curb in front of the bank. He left the engine running and threw open the door, pulling down on the knit mask to cover his face. The men hopped out of the back, all four of them on the curb with shotguns in hand. Dasher led them inside, firing a little announcement shot into the ceiling.

“Everyone get down on the floor and stay cool!” Dasher yelled over the screaming customers. “Just get down on the floor and keep quiet. This money is insured by the government so there’s no need to risk your own lives.”

Nick ran up to the counter and pointed his shotgun at the young teller. “Get the fucking money out!”

“Where’s the manager?”

A scrawny man raised his hand from behind the counter, his arm shaking. He looked as if a strong breeze could blow him over.

“You’re going to take me to the safe,” Dasher ordered as he hopped over the counter, pressing the barrel of his shotgun into the middle of the man’s back.

Dasher followed the manager past the tellers into the back room, taking a brief look back over his shoulder to make sure his partners were doing their part. The two meatballs were guarding the entrance while Nick moved from teller to teller with his bag open, begging like a desperate trick-or-treater. Looked like things were actually going according to his plan.

“Just open the safe and lay on the floor, okay?” Dasher instructed the bank manager as they reached the vault door. Dasher saw the man’s body trembling beneath his black suit coat and it made him feel bad. “Look, just open the safe and lay down, that’s it. All we want is the money.” Dasher tried to reassure, but the manager’s shoulders continued to shake.

The manager pulled a plastic badge with his picture on it from his pocket. He waved the card before a sensor and entered a ten-digit code in the keypad beside the door. The light changed from red to green as the door’s numerous locks began to retract. With a final click, the thick door swung open.

“Get down and keep still,” Dasher ordered, pressing down firmly on the manager’s shoulders as he moved to the ground, lacing his hands behind his head like a child hiding from a scary shadow at bedtime.

Dasher stepped into the vault, lowering his weapon to his side, temporarily forgetting it was even there as he became overwhelmed with emotion. Before him were tall stacks of hundred dollar bills sitting neatly on three shelves, just sitting there as if waiting for him to come and collect them. It was a thing of pure beauty, like a dream being placed inside a balloon and handed to you, something tangible. Time itself slowed to a crawl so he could process this range of emotion. This was his moment. The thing he dreamt about while sleeping on hard cement sidewalks in the rain or digging through the trashcans behind some random restaurant. Dasher felt as if he were hyperventilating. He took a deep breath and pulled himself back into the present, remembering where he was and the stakes at hand. Dasher pulled a canvas bag from the back of his pants and held it open, throwing in the stacks of money as neatly as he could despite the trembling of his hands.

Nick was growing impatient. Now that all the registers had been emptied, he had nothing to do. He set the bag full of money by the front door, maybe a few thousand dollars worth, definitely a nice haul. Nick began to pace, looking over the scared faces of the customers as they cowered on the floor.

“What are you cocks staring at?!” Nick screamed, his voice booming in the silence of the bank. “Listen.” Nick hushed the harsh breathing of the two morons behind him. He cocked his head toward the front entrance, cupping his ear with his right hand to filter out the everyday city noises. “Oh shit! The fucking pigs.” Nick paced frantically, shaking his head violently from side to side as the sirens grew in the distance. “Let’s go.”

“What about Dash?” Thug number one asked with a distant glare. From the vacant expression, one could surmise that it took all his knowledge to formulate such a simple question.

“Screw that bitch. I’m not getting busted for anyone,” Nick declared as he grabbed the bag of money on his way out.

With a slight hesitation, the two hired guns ran out of the bank and got into the car a second before Nick peeled away from the curb, turning the corner just as four police cruisers pulled up to the banks entrance.

Dasher crammed as much money into the bag as humanly possible. He had to press down on the cash while pulling on the zipper just to get it closed. He looked up to the two shelves and wished greedily that he could take it all, but he’d burned enough time in the vault. Dasher squatted down and gripped the bag, remembering a commercial he’d seen once of some fatty at work, telling him to lift with his knees so as not to strain his back. Dasher lifted up, shocked by the weight. He put his arm through the strap and swung the bag over his shoulder, stumbling backward a brief second as the weight pulled against him. Dasher picked up his shotgun and exited the vault, eyeing the manager as he passed. The man lay in the same position as when he’d entered, not daring to move even in the slightest.

“Freeze!” An officer yelled while aiming his gun at Dasher’s chest.

Dasher dropped his shotgun and fell to his knees, keeping his hands high above his head so as not to get shot. The bank was full of cops, fourteen by his count, unless there were more outside or hiding. The one nearest him took hold of his wrists and pulled his hands behind his back, slapping on a pair of cuffs. The tightness of the cuffs made him feel claustrophobic, bringing an uncomfortable dampness to his flesh and it became hard to breathe. As if he had to search for each breath and then pull it from wet sand. The officer behind him pressed hard on his back and forced him to lie on the floor, ripping his black ski cap from off his head to expose his face. The bank’s floor was freezing against his cheek, giving off a pungent smell of cleaning fluid, maybe some kind of polish.

“Looks like you chose the wrong friends, amigo,” the officer whispered into his ear, his breath reeking of pickles.

Dasher looked up, moving his vision between the legs of numerous officers until he caught view of the street. Their getaway car was gone and so was his crew. They’d taken off like panicked cowards and left him holding the bag, literally. Dasher felt like crying, pressing his face back to the floor as he knew he was beaten. The previous sensation of entitlement and prosperity was now overshadowed by a redwood of remorse and terror. He of all people should have known that there is no loyalty amongst thieves. And no matter how grand and glorious his dreams may be, he was in the end, nothing more than a common thief.