Read Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone Online

Authors: Myke Cole

Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Science Fiction, #Military, #General

Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone (5 page)

BOOK: Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone
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‘Stand by,’ Crucible said. There was a click on the phone, and Harlequin held while he answered the other line.

Crucible clicked back in. ‘That was the liaison officer in Midtown. They’ve got her, it’s fine. They’ll document the gap in coverage, but whatever. I won’t let it impact you.’

‘Thanks,’ Harlequin said. ‘Sorry to put you in that position.’

‘It’s okay. I’m actually hopping on a plane tonight. You and I are meeting someone tomorrow. Rep from a big pharma company up there. Apparently they’ve got some product in development that they believe can help control the brain’s emotional center, help us channel magic more effectively.’

‘Sir?’ Harlequin was a year into his detail supporting the NYPD in their hunt for the rogue magic users known as the Houston Street Selfers. This seemed well outside the scope of those duties.

‘Small corps. We don’t have the bodies to spare. It needs to be a SOC rep. You’re lucky it isn’t just you. They want someone field grade on the job, so I’m coming up.’

‘It’ll be good to see you.’

‘Nice break from the day-to-day. You go from beating up Selfers and hobnobbing with cops to brushing elbows with a corporate muckety-muck. We’re meeting her at a wine bar.’

‘I don’t even like wine.’

He could hear Crucible’s shrug over the phone line. ‘I’m sure they’ll have beer. If they don’t, you’ll figure it out. Just make sure to stick your pinky out while you drink.’

‘What are we doing, exactly?’

‘We meet her, get the lay of the land, make sure she’s got the facility locked down, and be points of contact if anything goes south.’

‘Will anything go south?’

Crucible laughed. ‘Civilians with more money than sense developing experimental drugs that affect the emotional center of the brain to control magical conduction? Potential to be one of the most lucrative government contracts we’ve seen to date?

‘What could possibly go wrong?’

Chapter Three

Operational Preparation
Of The Battlespace

On two separate occasions, Oscar Britton has shown himself to be the real agent, not just of Latent-Americans, but of the American people writ large. He has exposed the government as the corrupt and double-dealing entity it is and illustrated his own commitment to freedom and equality for all of us. We agree with Walsh’s impeachment. We want a new president. But not Howard Porter.

– Recorded message distributed on the Internet from the Consortium of Selfer Organizations (CSO)

Five hours after seeing Scylla’s picture on Crucible’s phone, Lieutenant Colonel Jan Thorsson arced across the sky over Sandy Hook. His flight suit rippled, the visor on his helmet keeping his eyes clear of bugs. A magically heated envelope of air kept him warm in spite of his speed and altitude. That same magic drove him forward at a pace the helicopters to either side of him struggled to match.

The Hudson River gave out into the Lower Bay beneath him, sparkling in the rising sun. He could see Coast Guard response boats cordoning off the river mouth, herding freighters and yachts alike back out to sea.

Ahead lay Manhattan, echoing out of his past.

The Blackhawks on either side held what he was told would be his staff. He’d had no time to select them or even meet them before taking off from Washington. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Even behind the tinted visors on the door gunner’s helmets, he could read the judgment, feel the disapproval coming off them in waves.

He’d busted Oscar Britton out of prison.
And killed eight Marines in the process.
The one thing the public didn’t know about was the one thing he truly regretted. For the hundredth time, he replayed the event in his head. Stepping out of the cell, the Marines kneeling, raising their rifles, fingers tensed on the trigger.

He could have ducked back in the cell . . . and then what? Bolted the door? Waited for them to bring reinforcements? They would have stopped him. Britton would have remained in Quantico’s brig.

And FOB Frontier would have fallen.

You traded eight lives for a division. You saved more people than you killed.

But the queasy feeling in his stomach still wracked him. He could still smell their charred flesh, still hear their screams. Eight men, doing their jobs.

He radioed his escort and indicated descent, then called the control tower at Fort Hamilton. The controller replied reluctantly, grunting approval. Harlequin sighed and began to circle down toward the baseball diamond that had been cleared as an impromptu airfield. The star-shaped stone walls of the old fort spun beneath him. Harlequin swallowed. The history and tradition of the army he loved was wrought there in stone, a reminder of what he had lost when he defied his president. He’d dreamed of touring this space at leisure someday. Maybe teaching at West Point, less than a hundred miles north of here.

But magic had changed everything.

Harlequin’s boots touched down on the grass just a moment before the helo wheels beside him. He was here to command, and he would do it. They didn’t have to like him, only respect and obey him. If he’d played the game the way they wanted, somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty thousand people would be dead, just so Walsh could get reelected.

Remember that. Remember that every time you think of . . . of what you did. Eight lives for thirty thousand.

A fire truck was parked beside two Humvees and a white sedan. A cluster of soldiers stood around the vehicles, arms folded. Their hard faces reminded him of the price of his choice and that he would never stop paying for it.

Harlequin could hear his staff piling out of the Blackhawks as the rotors spun down. He raised the visor on his flight helmet and delivered a crisp salute to the garrison commander, a bull-necked, mustachioed colonel whose name tape read
HEWITT
. Hewitt returned the salute reluctantly. The garrison command sergeant major stood beside him, her hair in a tidy bun knocked slightly askew by the dying helo rotor wash. Her name tape read
KNUT
.

Harlequin saw Knut’s failure to salute for the challenge it was. It had to be dealt with immediately. He met her contemptuous stare for a moment before folding his arms. ‘Do we not salute officers on Tuesdays, Command Sergeant Major Knut?’ he asked. ‘Or was there some change in protocol that I’m not privy to?’

Knut glanced askance at Colonel Hewitt, who nodded. ‘Salute the lieutenant colonel.’

She turned and dragged a limp salute up to her temple, her eyes venomous.

‘You’ve got your salute,’ Hewitt drawled. ‘I got the word you were coming, but nobody said you’d be putting down on my fort. What do you need?’

‘That depends on what’s going on here,’ Harlequin answered. ‘The president has appointed me incident commander, I’ll need . . .’

‘We both know why he did that. This is my AOR, and
I
should be running the show,’ Hewitt said, a fat purple vein beginning to throb in his forehead, ‘but people like your pretty face on TV so much that they forgot what you did.’

They don’t even know what I did.

‘Colonel Hewitt,’ Harlequin said, ‘it isn’t our job to set policy. It’s our job to salute smartly and carry out the orders of our civilian superiors. That’s the oath we all swore when we joined up.’

‘Yeah, that oath meant a whole lot to you when you broke Oscar fucking Britton out of jail.’

I didn’t break Oscar Britton out of jail for giggles. ‘
Regardless,’ Harlequin went on, ‘your commander in chief has appointed me incident commander and sent me here to take charge of this . . . incident. This crisis is apparently magical in nature. Unlike you’ – Harlequin let his eyes move from Hewitt’s to Knut’s – ‘I am Latent, with long experience in combat operations in the arcane domain. And you’re right. The public-affairs aspect of this crisis can’t be denied. The public wants to be assured that someone they trust is in charge of what is shaping up to be the first defense against an armed invasion of the homeland since 1812. For better or for worse, they trust me and have no idea who the hell you are.’

He hated taking this hard line, but he’d dealt with dozens of Hewitts since he’d saved the FOB. Laying down the law early was the best way to secure cooperation.

‘Whether or not those qualifications satisfy you is irrelevant. The president is satisfied, and last time I checked, he’s in charge. So, my question to you is this: Are we going to sit here and argue about who is in charge, or are we going to get about the hard work of dealing with this crisis?’

With these last words, Harlequin pointed over Hewitt’s shoulder, where the East River divided Manhattan from Brooklyn. Even at this distance, he could see smoke rising, hear the faint thuds of ordnance impacting.

Hewitt turned purple. ‘You disobeyed orders . . .’

Enough.
Now it was no longer a matter of securing Hewitt’s cooperation. Now it was about setting the record straight. ‘I disobeyed illegal orders given by a morally bankrupt commander in chief that would have resulted in the destruction of an entire division,’ Harlequin cut him off. ‘People, Colonel. That’s who I joined the army to defend. And I will always put their needs first, before mine and, yes, before those of my superiors if they give orders that put those two positions at odds. You like orders? So do I. I’m particularly fond of the legal ones. The right thing now is to stop comparing dicks and deal with this crisis. If it’s all right with you, sir, I’d like to get started.’

The purple of Hewitt’s face began to border on black. Knut started to speak, stopped herself. The cloud of anger around him coalesced, and Harlequin got ready to Bind his magic to fight, wondering if he’d finally gone too far, if they’d throw caution to the wind and attack him.

But this time, like every other time, the anger finally deflated in the face of authority. Hewitt’s shoulders sagged. ‘Well, you’re lucky that
I
obey orders. Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the ops center.’

Harlequin shook his head. ‘I appreciate it, sir, but I’m going to set up on scene. This . . . breach opened up outside the New York Stock Exchange, am I right?’

It took Hewitt a moment to swallow his anger enough to answer. He nodded.

‘And you have it cordoned off?’

‘So far,’ Hewitt said, ‘but it’s touch-and-go. We’ve got it locked down along Houston Street all the way across the island. The enemy can’t move north, but it’s taking everything we have just to hold that line. We need help.’

‘I’m going to get you help. How far south have they gone?’

Hewitt turned to Knut, who shrugged. ‘Last report said Beaver Street, by the Bowling Green station, but only a few of them.’

Harlequin nodded, pulling his smartphone from his trouser pocket and checking over a map of Manhattan’s Financial District. ‘So . . . Battery Park is clear?’

‘So far,’ Hewitt answered, ‘but I don’t know for . . .’

Harlequin cut him off with a wave. ‘Respectfully, sir, I’ll be setting up my incident command post there. I’m going to need to go in hot and secure it right now. Whatever you’ve got to spare will be greatly appreciated. You’ve got the best situational awareness of anyone here thus far, so I’ll need you to turn this post over to your deputy and join me there.’

Hewitt bridled, began to speak, but Harlequin was already turning, motioning his people back into their helos. ‘Or, you can stay here, sir,’ Harlequin added. ‘I’m trying to give you a role in this operation, but I’m in charge, and if you want out, you might be doing both of us a favor. I’m happy to pillage your resources using presidential authority with or without your consent.’

He Bound the magic and rose into the air as the helos spun their rotors up. ‘But if you’re willing to cut the crap and help me, I’d be glad to have someone who knows the lay of the land. Your call, sir.’

The words were a gamble. The truth was that he desperately wanted Hewitt at his side. Harlequin hadn’t been back to New York City since he was assigned there years ago, and Hewitt’s experience would be invaluable. But to win him, he’d first have to show him who was stronger.
Please, let that be enough.

Harlequin gave a parting salute and rose into the sky, the two Blackhawks banking to join him, racing across the East River, the smoke and chaos of lower Manhattan growing clearer by the moment.

Governor’s Island rushed by below, the abandoned buildings mostly cleared now, a scattering of rising I-beams hinting at the new structures to come. Harlequin jerked his thumb down and radioed to Captain Cormack, his aide for this operation, flying in the Blackhawk alongside him.

‘That’s our fallback,’ Harlequin said into the mic snaking along his chin, pointing to the island beneath him. He wanted to be closer to the fighting, but at least this was an option if they couldn’t establish a foothold in the park.

‘Roger that, sir,’ Cormack said. ‘Sorry about what happened down there. I understand why you did what you did, and . . .’

‘Appreciated, but let’s secure the chatter.’ It was encrypted end-to-end comms, so it was unlikely anyone else heard, but the last thing Harlequin needed right now was to be distracted by sympathy.

Get to the park, get it secured.
Harlequin tried to focus on the immediate. His mind turned over avenues of approach, supply lines, how quickly they could get comms going. Anything other than the woman’s face in that grainy cell phone video.

It’s not the woman you knew. She’s dead.
There was only Scylla now.

He shook his head, letting the wind strip the question away.

They moved out over the blue-green of the Upper Bay, where the Hudson emptied into it around Manhattan’s western coastline. The thick green of Battery Park stood in stark contrast to the haphazard gray grid of the buildings around it. Even from this height, Harlequin could see people thronging the edges of the park, fleeing the chaos to their north. Three white-hulled Coast Guard cutters were moored at South Ferry Terminal, with several smaller boats flashing silver and orange as they loaded refugees, shuttling them to safety in New Jersey. The highway to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel was a parking lot. The flickering colors of police lights indicated that some effort to direct the traffic was underway, but every car in the Financial District was trying to exit the island at once, and the snarl was inevitable. In the middle of the working day, it was the busiest part of an already busy city.

There was no way they would be able to get them all out in time. Harlequin had conflicting reports, but he knew that, at a low estimate, scores were dead already. There would be hundreds if not thousands more in the hours to come. The faster he moved, the better.

‘What’s that?’ Harlequin pointed to a gray circle amid the green, a low, brick structure rising out of it.

‘Castle Clinton,’ Cormack answered in his earbud. ‘Old harbor fort from back in the day. It’s a national park monument now. The Statue of Liberty ticket counter is in there.’

Harlequin let his eyes sweep the park and surrounding buildings once more. For all the chaos of the refugee stream, there was no smoke, no explosions, no sign of any enemy.

So far.

He gestured at the old fort beneath them. ‘That’ll be HQ. Set down and get it cleared. The rest of you, stay with me. I want to get a look at the fight.’

He put on speed and flew out over the park as Cormack’s Blackhawk peeled off and began to descend toward the castle. The other Blackhawk stayed with him, the door gunners watching warily as the wall of smoke rose to meet them.

They pushed out over the edge of the park and into stark reality.

Lower Manhattan had been sliced off by hastily erected cordons. Harlequin could just make out distant haphazard barricades assembled from parked police cruisers, National Guard Humvees, even stacks of tires and spare coils of razor wire. He put on speed, the blocks blurring beneath him. Closer up, he could see that police manned the barricades at each intersection, augmented by the sliver of national guardsmen who were in the city when the breach opened, choking off the major arteries north. An M1 Abrams tank had either fought its way through or been at one of the armories. It was drawn lengthwise across Broadway, flipped on its side and burning brightly.

BOOK: Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone
11.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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