The Thrice Born Page 22

  They strained to listen, the sound carrying across the sea.

  “Where’s your damn island now, Professor?”

  Corky frowned at the sound, recognizing the voice as that of the captain of the other vessel.

  Beside him, Mary Ann reached him the binoculars that hung around her neck. He took them and looked through them at the Sea Pilgrim.

  On it he could see Norwood shake his head, the Captain standing belligerently before him.

  Jason passed on taking the binoculars when Corky offered them to him. His gave was on the location where the island had been, the bright light slowly diffusing back to the spot, as if marking the area silently. It rose in a dome, the light changing to a mound of energy that had the unnerving qualities of an eclipse’s illumination. Suddenly the light was gone, leaving an odd darkness in the now semi-haziness of the stormy afternoon. A moment passed, and then the dark descended like a solar eclipse.

  For a moment no one spoke, the three of them watching the spot of sea wordlessly. After the silence, Jason sighed, and looked to Corky.

  “I need to see my wife.”

  Corky nodded.

  Chapter Nine

  “YOU ARE LIKE TOYS TO THEM”

  Jason’s flight home was unmemorable. Every thought was consumed by the island. The more time he devoted to the incident there, the more he realized he needed answers.

  Answers, regardless where they came from, which was what had turned him to Corky. Now, well, now he had more information, but he wasn’t sure he was any closer to actual answers. The visions – if he could even call those fleeting, streaming images of what appeared to be times past – coursing through his pseudo-conscious during the storm in the tomb were disturbing yet somehow familiar.

  The woman he’d seen in his mind, the winged woman with golden hair that resembled Estelle, haunted his flight, staying just out of any recognizable thoughts he could call real memories. Yet, at the same time, when he closed his eyes he could hear the woman wordlessly say his name.

  But it wasn’t his name on her lips; not his name, but somehow still him.

  He knew, on some level, that it was all connected to Estelle. She floated, levitated off the floor; he couldn’t deny that. She was transparent at times, with a past she wouldn’t talk about. More than ever the term Thrice-born seeped into his realm of acceptance.

  By the time he got home the next night, he was tired of running scenarios and justifying his ignorance, and her reluctance to clarify things for him.

  He entered the house by the front door, seeing the kitchen light on as he carried his few bags to the staircase. He paused, looking in the kitchen.

  There she was, the woman he’d married, the blonde in the angel photo, cutting up vegetables. What struck him as uncanny was that the carrots, celery and shreds of lettuce she’d already chopped were hovering over the wooden salad bowl on the counter near her. She gave a snap of her fingers and the vegetables obediently fell into the bowl.

  He saw her smile and sprinkle the new salad with dressing, noting she was also floating a few inches off the floor. And still very pregnant.

  Most men would have had a few stiff drinks at the sight, but Jason turned quietly and went upstairs. He was mentally weary, still with no answers and now more questions, and the brief tiff he and Estelle had had before he left was still in the air.

  He had just reached the doorway of their bedroom, welcoming the familiar scent of his house, their home together, when Estelle reached the top of the stairs.

  “Jason!”

  He heard the smile in her voice before he saw her, pleased she was glad he was back, yet still reserved with his personal turmoil.

  “You’re back,” she said, stopping with him at the door. She reached up, smoothing his cheek with her hand, her fingers soft and welcome on his unshaven skin. Her beaded bracelet rattled at his collar. “I missed you.”

  He nodded, relenting to the warmth in her eyes, her fingers pausing at his shoulder. “Are you feeling okay, darling?”

  She sighed, nodding. “I reserved us a birthing suite at the hospital for when the baby is due.”

  “Good.”

  “Oh, and I called Dr. Parker; he’ll be the pediatrician once the baby is born. He works closely with Dr. Bryant.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Did it help you to go, Jason? Do you know anything more than you did before you left?”

  He wasn’t sure how to tell her of his strange dream, if that was what it was, especially if it included another woman, despite that woman’s resemblance to her. “No, not really. It... it sank.”

  For a moment she smiled as if he’d told a joke, and then laughed, not the reaction he thought she’d have.

  “You will only find what they let you find,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing more. Nothing less. For all your efforts, Jason, they still play with you.” Her tone hardened. “You are like toys to them.”

  He was in no mood to be toyed with. “Who are they, Estelle?” He dropped his bag, taking her arm in a firm grip as she smiled wider. “What are you talking about?”

  Her voice softened again, her hand pressing to his chest. “They are less than nothing,” she told him quietly, searching his eyes weary with recent events. “You look tired, my love. You had a long journey. Go to sleep,” she said, kissing his cheek lightly. “I will pray tonight that you do not get any answers,” she added, her gentle tone belying the magnitude of her words. “I will pray tonight that you will never know.”

  He shook his head, wishing he was privy to what she kept so secret from him.

  She turned and went back down the hall, leaving him with his worry and questions.

  Jason went into the bedroom and resisted the frustrated urge to throw his bag against the wall.

  What he wouldn’t do for a few answers.

  * * *

  Colonel Olafson didn’t wait for his American Army driver to open his door as the Hummer stopped at the unassuming outpost known as Operation Thermal Buffer outside Manhattan. It was a low-key program that was quickly gaining the wrong kind of notoriety among the United Nations water coolers despite its far-reaching benefits for mankind.

  Olafson was there at the request of General Scott to see that it didn’t get any more infamous.

  He straightened his ceremonial uniform that had become slightly wrinkled on his rail-thin form from the ride over, the medals and ribbons from Scandinavian deployment precisely aligned in rows on his chest, their Swedish lettering lost on most of the Army officers he’d already encountered. His sharp eyes went over the few buildings surrounded by high and tight barbed wire fencing. His eyes rested on the only officer present, one who he assumed was General Scott.

  The American general was in his early fifties with a high-and-tight cut to his graying hair and had seen enough conflict in Gulf Wars to pin a wide swath of medals on his own chest from sniper to airborne. He was without an adjunct, unusual for the meeting, but he was a man stuck on necessity, and right now his necessities were the unlit stogie chomped in his teeth and the Swedish colonel crossing the empty tarmac.

  Scott met him, extending a hand. “Thank you for coming, Colonel Olafson.”

  The visiting officer nodded, using his most precise English, still heavily accented. “I appreciate the call, General Scott, but I’m perplexed by your invitation.” He looked to the larger of the Spartan block buildings as several armed troops positioned themselves to watch, a few with their heads tilted to look skyward. Olafson’s attention turned back to the general. “We’ve been told that this is essentially a non-weaponized project.”

  The cigar Scott’s teeth flinched as he bit into it. “Yes, Colonel. Operation Thermal Buffer is a Top Secret Project designed to reduce global warming through advanced hyper-vacuum technology. That’s the official story.”

  “Why call UN Security Forces? Earth Defense is a purely American Operation, run by your Army.” Olafson’s sharp eyes searched the bright skies for signs of anything, see
ing nothing, making his curiosity in the behavior of the armed troops heighten.”

  “I want you to be a witness to a possible incursion,” Scott said carefully, choosing his words for their most neutral meaning. “We may need your help. We’ve been the object of some very strange assaults.” The first break of a grin came to his lips. “Similar to Panama and Miami.”

  Olafson raised a bushy blond eyebrow. “Same M.O.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those attacks seemed almost at random,” Olafson recalled. “But if there has been more than one assault here, I must ask what country would want global warming to continue? Why would they try to stop Earth Defense?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t add up.” Scott’s tone dropped, nodding as they began a deliberate walk to the smaller of the block buildings, joined by a few soldiers from his personal detail. “We at first thought it was some amateur group. Activists, hippy-types. The attacks here are preceded by an unnatural drop in temperature, unrelated to local weather conditions.”

  Olafson glanced at him as they took a turn around the buildings to where several parapets were visible farther out overlooking the small towns in the distance. They were armed, alert to any disturbance under their watch, attention on the rise and fall of desert miles between them and civilization.

  “This happens minutes or even hours before the attack,” Scott said as they reached an observation tower. A sudden alarm shrilled into an ear-blasting siren.

  From seemingly nowhere soldiers rushed from the buildings and barracks beyond the block structures, calls leasing the air as men reacted.

  Scott didn’t fully smile at Olafson. “Looks like you’re right on time, Colonel.”

  Moments later Scott and Olafson were in the observation deck of the wide tower overlooking the sparser parts of the desert gullies and slopes. The outpost headquarters was mostly beneath ground level, but the compound above was a an emergency dispatch for FEMA and other Homeland Security maneuvers using joint military staff and intelligence. As advanced as the compound was, however, no one was ready for the unusual hybrid birdlike or insect entities that had been recently spotted on several alerts.

  “Our profile here has always been low, an emergency staff with a few birds and troops to loan out as the need arose,” Scott said as they took positions at the thick glass panes of curved windows that looked out over the dry area for miles. “We have our own research, naturally, but officially we’re back-up.”

  A droning sound joined the alarms and the general pointed to a far low building where a large dark blue Huey-type helicopter was hovering, moving at a sideways direction odd for the craft. It was encircled by large metal coils that appeared to have no attachment points to the craft’s body, giving it an otherworldly appearance.

  Olafson’s hands closed on the rail running beneath the window, interest piqued.

  “These are experimental crafts,” Scott told him, pleased with the Swede’s interest. Several more Hueys joined the first until there was a line of five, all carefully piloted to allow enough berth between the coils. “They’re equipped with powerful vacuums. They’re designed to suck in contaminated air, isolate the greenhouse gases and expel purified air. Every time we’ve tried to launch them, the vehicles have been attacked.”

  Suddenly on the horizon above a rise of dune appeared a line of dark objects moving swiftly toward the compound. Within seconds they had neared enough for the swarm of Nephilim to become recognizable.

  Olafson’s face registered surprise, but then was quickly masked by his years of training, leaving a hardened expression on his thin, angular features. “I thought this was a top secret installation.” His eyes flicked to the Nephilim growing larger as the raptor-like screeches penetrated the thick glass, lending a higher pitch to the wailing alarms.

  “This is what we’ve been up against,” Scott said.

  Both men fell quiet as the Nephilim descended on the hovering Hueys, diving down in so thick of layers that the launch area was covered by a black mass. There was the ground of the helicopters’ straining engines, blades trying to turn against the new, forceful turbulence caused by thousands of the Nephilim beating wings. The coils sizzled, burning up motors as they labored under the weight of the invading attack.

  A high scream of exhausted engine came from one Huey, and then it caught fire from the exertion. It fell to the pavement, exploding in a gaseous fireball, burning up every Nephilim in proximity. A moment later the other Hueys followed suit, slowly burning up engines and engulfed in the resulting fires. From the parapets, the soldiers on guard duty had opened fire, but the sky was dotted heavily black with Nephilim, their automatic weapons no match for the ageless fury of the fallen.

  A few dozen of the Nephilim, acting in an instinctive cohesion, pulled the parapets from the ground and tossed them toy-like to the ground, shattering the structures and men inside.

  It came at a cost, the Nephilim dying by the dozens, their singed carnage amounting on the ground and pavement with the smoke of the Hueys and blackened coils.

  In the operation room, both officers watched with concealed dismay.

  “It seems easy enough to kill them,” Olafson said, still in collected awe of the surreal sight.

  “Yes, but their numbers are immense.” Scott’s gaze went to the emergency vehicles emerging from a bivouac past the barracks.

  Even as the vehicles tried to approach the downed helicopters, the Nephilim were there, pulling the burning metal sides and skids apart with ease, flinging open the side doors and picking out the soldiers inside like so many helpless insects.

  Olafson swallowed forcefully. “Have you been able to track them?”

  Scott was not immune to the scene, but he’d seen similar spectacle before. “Not in the past, but now we’re somewhat more prepared.”

  The horde of winged invaders looked up as a fleet of stealth jets materialized quietly from the opposite side of the compound. As if taking silent commands, the Nephilim rose in the air, darting hastily from the vicinity. The jets gave chase.

  In the tower deck, Olafson watched the jets pursue the enemy horde. He looked to Scott. “Is that effective?”

  Scott’s jaw tightened. “It’s what we have at present, Colonel.”

  * * *

  Tensions were strained at the Newhart household the week after Jason had returned from the Caribbean disaster. It was time he and Estelle should have been of one mind, readying themselves for parenthood and the changes that would come with the pitter-patter of little feet.

  Instead, they were silent for long periods of time, awkward lapses of wordlessness that would dissolve into sighs and hopefulness to recapture what they both still wanted of each other.

  Jason took his frustrations out in the Crib’s dojo. He used up every guest instructor at his disposal, besting them in record time, still wanting more.

  It drew quite a crowd, up to seven at a time, the most he’d ever allowed watch his private practices. Pearl found it a treat to watch the matches, and Benjamin was there to narrate what she didn’t understand, which was a lot, at times.

  The morning of the sixth day, a new form of instruction took place. No one was expecting it, most of all Jason, and no one knew quite what to make of it.

  Pearl stood with Benjamin, watching the dojo floor as Jason finished a rousing spar with a Tai Kwon Do master. The match was just finishing as Estelle walked through the side door, keeping to the perimeter of the practice floor. She wore a white kendo shirt and black hakama pants, a black obi tied above her pregnant belly, knotted to one side.

  Every eye went to her, even Jason’s and the instructor’s who was also on the floor.

  In Estelle’s arms were two long narrow packages wrapped in sheepskin and tied with leather straps.

  The instructor stepped back from Jason, awaiting any signal.

  Jason watched Estelle for a long moment as the murmur of the small audience fell quiet. He couldn’t read the impassioned look on her face, so he turned b
ack to the instructor. Without speaking the other expert set both fists and made a stunted bow, and then backed from the floor.

  Jason turned to Estelle, his full attention on her as she stepped barefoot onto the tatami mat. She tossed him one of the packages and then ripped her own open.

  Jason frowned at the thick sword she pulled from the wrapper. He unwrapped the package she’d thrown him. In it was a broadsword with a wide cross-guard, the ends of which spread in a flange to either side of the blade’s widest point above the hilt. It was like others he’d seen from the gladiator and Roman eras, except this one was outfitted with two narrow jet-like pipes extending along the blade from the guard. Below the tang entry was a trigger-looking metal latch. He frowned at it, not only because he didn’t think his pregnant wife in her last trimester would be a candidate for any sort of swordplay, but that she had access to the weapon.

  He gripped the hilt, testing the weight and length, accustomed more to the katana than a broadsword. He looked back to Estelle watching him.

  She handled her sword as second nature, her look on his as a predator on prey. She raised the sword, aiming the tip of the blade at the cage-covered light overhead and pulled the trigger at the sword’s guard. A stream of fire flashed from the top jet of the sword blaster, burning a hole in the ceiling.

  A gasp went through the onlookers.

  Jason didn’t have time to react, astonishment swallowing any response.

  Estelle lowered the sword blaster and looked to him smugly. “Watch and learn!”

  She tossed the weapon into the air, easily catching it by the handle as it flipped, deftly angling it at the mat near him. A bolt of fire shot out of her blaster’s lower jet, a stunted shot that made the thin bamboo flooring smoke.

  He leaped away, sensing the serious nature of her antics.

  She smiled at him, the expression turning from challenge to something more pleasant. “You must attack or you will die!”

  He nodded, understanding more.