A Time to Die Page 6

  “Take us around to the dock on the east side,” she told the Boatswain and grabbed a handhold as the boat spun around and raced in toward the platform. Each leg was fifty feet across with four of them supporting the massive platform like the legs of a chair. A dock floated freely around one leg, held in place by cables to float up and down in the swells. She’d spotted at least one boat docked there on their first orbit. Each leg held ladders, secured at the bottom with chain link cages to avoid unwanted visitors. There was a pair of bolt cutters aboard, standard equipment. It would be better to gain access without resorting to that, though. The dock would have a door, probably controlled from above. At least they could knock.

  The dock came into view and she lifted the glasses for a better look. No longer racing laterally, it was a much clearer image this time. There was a small 10x10 shed (equipment office?) and a pair of metal lockers. A gas pump sat close to the central area closest to the leg where a ramp rested on wheels, moving slightly up and down in the afternoon swell. She was just wondering why someone would paint the door into the platform red when she realized it was splashed across the door, and not a shade of red you would use to color anything.

  “Boatswain, slow your approach and arm your men!” His head came around at the sharp order and he quickly had them slow and relayed her orders. All around her the men looked worried as they fitted magazines into guns and racked tubes to charge shotguns. The .50 caliber gunner knelt to open boxes and deftly began readying his instrument of destruction.

  The boat had slowed to maybe ten knots as she looked around and gave a nod before raising the glasses once more. Yeah, it was blood all right. Or someone was taking a joke way too far.

  “Body in the water,” the driver called out and pointed to a blue dressed pair of shoulders bobbing in the surf.

  “All stop,” she ordered and the boat drifted forward. “Get a gaff and check if that’s a live person.”

  One of the man put his rifle down and took a stick from its holder on the gunwale. As the motors idled and the drifted within reach, he gently hooked the blue shirt and pulled. Another man held his belt, just to be sure. As he pulled the body rolled over. Most of the face and neck were gone, torn away. Maybe eaten by sharks after he/she fell in the water. She couldn’t even tell the sex. One of the men gagged and held his face.

  “Steady men,” the Boatswain said. “Let’s get the body aboard.”

  “Belay that,” Grange said with a shake of her head.

  “Ma’am?”

  “It’s not going anywhere. You there, slip a life ring over that arm and we’ll come back for it.” She turned to the Boatswain, “I don’t want the men all getting freaked out with a damn corpse on the deck if we get in the shit.”

  “Aye-aye, Ma’am. You heard the Lieutenant, secure the body with a float and let’s move on.”

  The tenor of the motors changed as they were put in gear and the longboat crawled towards the dock. The delay had bought the gunner time to load his big guns, and for that she was grateful. For some reason now, ten armed men no longer felt like a force to be reckoned with. She remembered her own sidearm and quickly removed it from the holster, loaded it, and returned it.

  Another minute and they were holding a few yards from the dock. It was apparent to all of them now that a battle of sorts had taken place. There were blood sprays in a half dozen places, and two more bodies sprawled across the deck of a thirty foot Boston Whaler tied up a short distance away. It was listing to port badly and Grange figured it would sink soon. There were bullet impacts here and there from small arms. Not many, but a few had obviously found the Whaler.

  What was really getting to her was the two bodies in the Whaler. One was face down, only a leg sticking up over the side. The other was in the pilot’s seat, his face and jaw ripped completely away, tongue hanging down like a macabre red tie.

  “What the fuck?!” one of the men demanded, no longer able to keep his peace.

  “Dios mios,” another man said, reverting to Spanish. “El Diablo!”

  “That’s enough,” the Boatswain barked and the boat fell silent.

  “Let’s go in,” Grange said, unable to keep a quaver from her voice.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” the old Boatswain said and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The motors went into gear again and the boat slid forward.

  Despite her efforts the men were spooked pretty badly. Regardless, when they were a meter away two of them did as planned. Slinging shotguns they took ropes and leaped across to the dock. One quickly secured the rope to a cleat while the other unlimbered his weapon and went to one knee. The boat was made fast to the dock and the other six men swarmed over the side. Grange was last ashore, her sidearm held at her side in one hand and trying to control her breathing.

  No sooner did they hit the deck then the sound of the elevator came alive in the platform leg. Nine weapon muzzles spun around to cover the doorway quickly followed by the twin barrels of the big fifty.

  “Steady,” she said, then quickly glanced at the Boatswain on the longboat. “Be ready,” she said and glanced at the two lines securing it to the dock to make her thoughts apparent. “I want to get the fuck out of here, fast, if need be.” He nodded in clear understanding and had a big meaty hand on his own sidearm.

  The sounds of the elevator slowed and stopped. Safeties came off in a series of rapid clicks as the doors slid open with mechanical efficiency and a young black woman stepped out.

  “I’m Doctor Lisha Breda,” she said, a relieved look on her face, “and we’re very glad you’ve come!”

  * * *

  The F/A-18D streaked across the Mexican sky at just over a thousand miles per hour. At nearly 45,000 feet up, the computers struggled to balance the controls against the power flying at the very edge of the planes operational envelope. Andrew was breathing twice as fast as he should, partly from excitement and partly in fear. He was breaking international law and violating at least a dozen operational regulations.

  The fact that his CO had ordered him up here and provided aerial refueling was beside the point. An officer was obligated to follow both his commanding officers’ orders, and not violate his oath as well to not break civilian laws. The civilian chain of command had forbidden a recon run over the Mexican capital. Technically he was just ferrying a recon equipped fighter and taking a very long leisurely turn before coming into land at Fort Hood. A five hundred mile turn.

  His navigational system had told him an hour ago that he’d passed over into Mexican air space. The channels were dead, no one challenged him. The Mexican air force was hardly the envy of any other industrialized nation, though they did at least watch their borders. This was the first sign that the old man’s instincts, and those of his fellow co-conspirators, were good.

  According to the computer, he was passing within fifty miles of one of their military bases. Though it wasn’t on the itinerary, he activated the camera pod and programmed a run. Under the starboard wing, powerful cameras aligned and began taking digital images. A minute later, he was out of range.

  Another hour and he angled to the north. Still not a word from either military or civilian air traffic control. “What the hell is going on down there,” he wondered.

  His scrambled communication board came alive with a text message through tac-net. “Tightend-Switchblade. TOT?”

  Andrew consulted the computer and replied in kind. “Switchblade-Tightend, TOT forty.”

  “AK,” was the simple reply. He’d told the old man he would be over Mexico City in 40 minutes. Anyone monitoring the text channel would have no idea what was going on.

  The final minutes passed and the computer told him he was approaching target. He triggered the preprogrammed recon run, verified his position though the GPS transponders, and waited. Right on time, the cameras began to roll.

  This time he decided to watch. He knew there wouldn’t be much to garner from a small military base that was many dozens of miles to one side. This time he was flying dire
ctly over on one of the largest cities in the world. The images were wide angle, and unbelievable. “Oh my god,” he whispered.

  Vast areas of the suburbs were ablaze or shrouded in smoke. The first high-rise he saw looked like a matchstick blazing away, at least half its height completely engulfed in flames. And as his fighter raced north, it got worse. Huge tracts of the city were burned to cinders. Crisped buildings and toppled towers were everywhere along with the famous wide avenues clogged with crumpled and burning cars. It looked like pictures of Berlin after WWII.

  He passed downtown and continued north, and there saw some first signs of what was transpiring. Lines of tanks and APCs were firing madly as they withdrew… before a human tide. “I can’t believe it.”

  Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, maybe a million people moved like a slow-moving amoeba, continually trying to overwhelm the retreating force. He was only over the battle for a few seconds and he was sure he saw artillery land on the crowd more than once before he swept on past.

  Andrew had seen military weapons used on civilians, on tape and in person. You don’t serve for long in the Middle East without bearing witness to the depths of man’s soul. Some crowds, driven by religious fervor or righteous anger, could charge sporadic gunfire. But this wasn’t sporadic. He’d just witnessed a wave of humanity rushing massive confined weapons fire, and they kept on coming! More, they appeared to be winning in places, overwhelming the defenders and destroying men and equipment alike.

  “What am I seeing,” he asked the roar of the cockpit, and of course received no answer. Now miles north of the conflagration, he was over the more affluent suburbs of Mexico City and the wide highways leading north. And there he saw more surprises. The roads were clogged with a sea of people, cars, trucks, wagons, and whatever would move, all heading north. The army hadn’t turned on the populace here; they were buying them time to withdraw. But to withdraw from what? He desperately wished for more than a simple TV screen to view the images. It was intended for targeting, and had no image intensification or enhancement ability.

  And then, he was north of the city. Every mile showed fewer heading north and eventually he passed the chain of human refugees, even passing over one area where men and armor appeared to be gathering. Preparing another line of defense? Defense against what, damn it.

  “Tightend-Switchblade, what did you observe?”

  Andrew stared at the screen for almost a minute, trying to decide how to convey even the slightest impression to this commander without coming out with it. He finally decided. “Switchblade-Tightend. I saw Hell, and it’s coming north.”

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday, April 17

  The proliferation of drones has made them nearly ubiquitous. The military owns untold thousands, law enforcement legions more. Many drug organizations and gangs managed to get ahold of privately manufactured drones as well. But one of the most eager new users turned out to be news organizations. The market for unarmed, smaller drones proved extremely competitive, and the aforementioned news groups became much anticipated customers to drone manufacturers eager for customers.

  The news hounds weren’t picky, but they had certain specific demands. They needed to be able to carry good recording and transmitting technology, sport good loitering range, and be extremely stealthy.

  A single Trimark Model 11-B Nightwing drone flew along using its ground profiling radar to plot a course less than ten meters above the terrain that raced by at just over 100kph. Somewhat resembling a B-2 stealth bomber, the Nightwing had a short boom with stabilizers and a pair of miniature electric ducted fans extending from its rear. In its current mode of operation, it could stay aloft, unguided, for nearly twenty hours, thus giving the drone a nearly 2,000 kilometer range. When it passes over the Mexican border, an automated surveillance system notes the passage and sends an alert. The drone will be a hundred kilometers away before anyone can come to investigate.

  Sticking to rocky canyons and tree-covered hills, the drone makes rapid progress ever south and westward. It passes just to the south of Monterrey. The city is teeming with activity. Tens of thousands are packing cars, trucks, anything that moves and preparing to evacuate. The military is fortifying the western approach along Highway 40 that cuts through the mountains. The drone passes unnoticed through the mountain pass until it encounters the first camps. Valleys full of the remnants of humanity from Mexico City cover the ground from end to end, a small sea of survivors that number in the tens of thousands. Dawn is still an hour away as the drone spends vital time circling, its array of cameras recording and transmitting what it sees. Few in the valley look up at the buzz of the drone, many are too tired or hungry to wonder what it means. All they know is it isn’t screaming death from the south. After a time, the drone continues southward.

  More camps follow, steadily growing in size as it moved southwards and finally encountered the first military presence. The drone plays it cautious, answering to remote control relayed from satellites. The military presence was disorganized, almost as if they were refugees as well. They sat in camps centered around supplies or heavy weapons. Small vehicles moved between the camps attempting to coordinate and organize the ragtag survivors, with little success.

  After a short time, the Nightwing turned southward again. A low mountain pass caused more energy to be expended and the drone drew close to its range. But just over the pass, paydirt was found. Another army, only this one was not well organized, or even in uniform.

  The roadway was clogged with legions of men, women, and even children shambling along the road. The Nightwing orbited slowly, filming all the while the vast tide of humanity moving at a slow yet steady pace towards Monterrey only dozens of kilometers farther along.

  The drone continued to loiter, running dangerously past its point of no return. Its operators were mesmerized by the scene they were witnessing. A short distance in front of the advancing hordes were two aged station wagons crowded with at least a dozen people. They’d tried desperately for hours to get their cars running again and were about to give up when the first of the shambling mob crested a hill and spotted them.

  The drone’s high definition cameras caught in perfect detail a man in a tattered business suit, his face flaccid and expressionless as he walked, until he saw the pair of cars and the huddled refugees around it. His face instantly split into a horrendous mixture of rage and hunger. He shook his head violently from side to side before bearing his teeth. There were no microphones to pick up the primal scream or hear it picked up by the others behind him as dozens broke into a crazed headlong rush down the hill.

  The refugees looked up in terror, several instantly turning to run while others, struck with indecision, either jumped into the cars to lock the doors or continued to struggle with the broken engine in vain. As the cars were hit by the first of the runners, the people in the open were tackled by headlong leaps while others tried to use any weapon that came to hand to defend themselves. Brutal images were caught frame after frame as the hopeless battle proceeded, and the refugees were torn literally limb from limb. The scenes of people ripping men, women and children apart with hands and teeth were caught in shocking detail, and relayed far away to be recorded.

  The Nightwing continued to circle the action and follow the advancing mob mile by mile until it was almost within sight of the Army defenders near Monterrey. Just as the first artillery rounds begin to fall among them, sending torn bodies flying into the skies, the drone finally ran out of juice and spiraled into the ground.

  * * *

  “Jesus, Kathy!”

  Kathy Clifford sat staring at the monitor, unable to move. Even after the streaming video from Mexico City two days ago she couldn’t actually believe what she’d seen. The video had been taken down by the streaming service after only a few hours online. Maybe she’d made a mistake making it available live without first watching the content. She’d agonized over the recordings ever since, having experts review it same as the other news service
s who’d gotten ahold of it second hand. Of course their versions weren’t the original feed, like she possessed. Experts said they believed it must be faked. The ones who reviewed hers agreed with that assessment, only they could find no signs of tampering or FX enhancements.

  “Jesus Christ, Kathy!” the voice behind her repeated, louder and with an edge of insanity to it this time.

  “Shut up Marc, I’m trying to think.”

  In almost twenty years as a journalist Kathy Clifford had seen her share of death and crime. In the killing fields of the Middle East she’d watched Jihadists beheading women for secretly going to schools, and in Africa she’d photographed mass graves of villagers who’d taken help from Christian missionaries to feed their children. Nothing came close to matching the horror she’d just witnessed.

  Marc was whimpering and shaking his head, grabbing a tablet computer and doing something unknown. The question of some elaborate hoax or a government conspiracy through false flag operation was put to death as suddenly as those people she’d just seen die on a lonely Mexican highway. It was all in living color and now recorded on the hard drive of her laptop computer. She had what she’d gone out to get when she’d ‘borrowed’ the GNN Nightwing news drone. It could well be the news story of the year, of the decade, of the millennium! The drone, worth more than a million dollars, was now scattered all over the Mexican scrub.