Control Point (11 page)

By the time he had signed all the documents in all the places that Kwan indicated, his wrist was cramping.

Kwan shook Britton’s hand. “On behalf of Entertech, welcome aboard.”

Britton turned back to Harlequin. “What happens to Mom?”

“Desda Britton will be well cared for,” Harlequin answered. “We have some questions for her about her son’s proclivities and upbringing, but I’m sure she’ll be more than cooperative once she’s recovered from the nasty shock you gave her.”

“You fucker. If you do anything to her…”

Harlequin dismissed him with a wave. “Whatever, Oscar. You stormed into her house and killed her husband. Something tells me that you’re probably not the best advocate for her interests just now. She’ll come to no harm. I’ve seen more than enough folks suffer over you.”

“What are you going to do to her?” Britton asked.

“Nothing,” Harlequin said. “We’ll just keep an eye on her. Should anything go south with the deal you’ve just struck with ol’ uncle sugar, we might need to call her in for additional questioning, and perhaps for her own safety. You with me?”

Harlequin let the threat hang in the air.
Oh, I’m with you,
Britton thought,
but only so long as I have to be and not one second longer.

The vehicle shuddered to a stop amid the hiss of the air brakes. The doors slid open, and two soldiers lowered a collapsible stair. Kwan hefted his briefcase and exited without another word.

“Time to start your new career,” said Harlequin, motioning Britton to the exit.

Thousands of brilliant stars winked at him from the cold night sky, outlining the tops of pine trees and a stretch of gravel road. Farther on, a Little Bird helicopter stood, rotors spinning up.

Britton accompanied Harlequin, the Suppressor, and one assaulter onto the bird. Kwan was already on board. They strapped in, and Harlequin held out the hood again. “Last time you’ll have to wear it. I promise.”

Britton shrugged and slipped it on himself as the helicopter lifted off.

He had no way to track how long they flew, but it felt like hours. Only the roar of the engine and the occasional unintelligible burst of static talk from the radio broke the quiet. The air intakes mere feet from his head drowned the pilots’ replies.

At long last, he felt the helicopter descend. Harlequin removed the hood, ushering Britton outside.

The rotors washed dust over him as the helo pulled skyward the instant its passengers had off-loaded. The dust gradually cleared, and Britton was able to make out a clearing.

The stars outlined a ring of tall trees enclosing three odd-looking tobacco barns. He thought of Nelson’s farm and gritted his teeth.

Apart from two run-down pickups, the space was bare. Two rifle-toting men leaned against the back of one of them. They were dressed to match the stereotype of New England farmers—denim overalls and flannel shirts, worn baseball caps with frayed brims; but their eyes were alert, veteran. They roved—lighting on Britton and moving on, searching for threats. Their guns were pointing at the ground in military fashion instead of slung over their shoulders. The huge scopes and black plastic stocks didn’t look like any hunting weapons he’d ever seen. A vigilant-looking German shepherd stood beside them, growling softly in the back of its throat.

Starlight bleached the area of color, cloaking all in gray shadow, but Britton could still make out the rough surface of the louvered clapboard slats, pulled shut against the cold night. It took him a moment to realize what was odd about the barns. The peaked roofs reared up past the treetops. Their length stretched out past his vision. He was no farm boy, but he’d been in rural Vermont long enough to know that no barn should be that big.

Harlequin led him to the first barn as a diamond-tipped breeze drilled between his shoulder blades. The Aeromancer flipped open a panel, produced a badge from his breast pocket, and swiped it, punching numbers into a keypad. A beep was followed by a click and a hiss of air.

The barn doors silently swung inward, then shut behind them, leaving them in darkness before harsh fluorescent lights flickered on. They stood in a featureless white room. Twin gray metal doors stood before them. Harlequin placed his hand on the knob, waiting a moment before another click sounded, and the doors swung open.

They entered a cavernous room humming with activity, lit by fluorescent globes suspended from the ceiling. The far end was taken up by rows of bunks and lockers and had an enclosed
shower. A small kitchenette stood beside a lounge, dominated by a flat-screen TV. Soldiers relaxed on couches before it, playing video games and napping.

Two giant flags hung from the ceiling—The Stars and Stripes and the SOC arms, fringed in gold thread. Stitched across the Stars and Stripes were the words
PORTCULLIS—US ARMY LOGISTICAL STAGING AREA. A
desk stood beside the door, covered by computers and manned by a soldier who could have been the twin of the blonde Britton had seen in the vehicle in which he’d awoken.

“Hi, sir,” she said.

“Specialist,” Harlequin replied crisply. “Would you mind buzzing Don over here, please? We’ve got to get our guest here prepped and moved on.”

“Sir,” she said, picking up a black handheld radio from the desk and pushing the button on the side.

A moment later, a door at the far side of the structure opened and a smiling young man carrying a clipboard jogged over to them. He wore khaki cargo pants bloused into combat boots with a military web belt. A black compression shirt sported the Entertech logo with the words
LOGISTICS OFFICER
beneath.

“Oscar Britton, right?” he said, extending a hand and putting on one of the most corporately insincere smiles Britton had ever seen. “I’m Don, the logs officer here at LSA Portcullis. I’m also the admin officer for any Entertech internal matters. But I assume human resources has taken good care of you, and you’re ready to go, right?”

He clapped Britton on the shoulder, grinning. Britton looked back at him in silence.

“Don, if you’d dispense with the formalities, I’d appreciate it,” Harlequin said. “I need him to make a written statement, then the brass wants him suited up and off the Home Plane ASAP.”

The young man glanced at his watch and turned to the Suppressor standing behind Britton. “Sheesh, Plug. You’re about due for a break.”

Plug grinned and ran a finger around the collar of his uniform. “Hell, you know me, Don. I joined the army for that sweet overtime pay.”

Don chuckled. “Rampart! Would you please be so kind as to relieve your counterpart here before he drops dead?”

Engrossed in their video game, nobody on the couch moved. Yellow cars sprinted over a digital rise, accompanied by tinny rock music.

“Damn it, Lieutenant!” Harlequin shouted.

A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped brown hair stiffened and stood, letting his game controller fall to the couch. He turned, his rugged face sullen. He was clothed to match Don, save that his pants were digital camouflage. His T-shirt bore the SOC arms instead of the Entertech logo. The caption beneath read
SUPPRESSOR
above the armored fist clenching lightning bolts. A star above the badge marked him as senior in his school.

Rampart walked over and nodded to Plug. Britton felt the slightest flicker in the interdiction of his magic, his own tide surging at the momentary freedom, only to be blocked again.

“Got it,” Rampart said, folding his arms and moving behind Britton.

“’Bout damned time,” Plug responded, tugging at his uniform blouse and heading for the showers.

Harlequin nodded. “Let’s move it along and get him out of here.”

Don led Britton, Rampart, and Harlequin through a door at the far side of the room and down a short hallway to another massive room. The far end of the room contained a small firing range. One wall had been kitted out as an armory. Britton could see weapons lockers crammed with guns, ammunition, scopes, tripods, and other tactical gear. A soldier was cleaning a carbine at a small bench.
ARMORER
was written below the SOC arms over his breast. His enormous head looked mounted directly to massive shoulders. He worked with the bored efficiency Britton had come to associate with senior enlisted men.

Another set of double doors, painted white with diagonal red stripes, occupied the far wall. A yellow rotating light, dark for now, was mounted above them. A sign above read:
RESTRICTED AREA—VISUAL INSPECTION OF CREDENTIALS REQUIRED—21-FOOT APPROACH ZONE RIGOROUSLY OBSERVED. DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORIZED. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY AND COMPLIANCE!

Two SOC Pyromancers stood in front of the portal, eyes alert, slung submachine guns across their breasts. Their body armor read—
STATIC ELEMENT
—pyro above stylized flame bursts. Britton arched his eyebrows at the tremendous expenditure of firepower to guard a single door.

The armorer glanced up with little interest before returning to his work. “Hey, James,” Don said, smiling, “would you mind kitting our newest hire here for immediate pack out?”

“Where’s he headed?” James asked, sounding bored.

“Load him for bear,” Harlequin cut in gruffly. “I need him to hit the ground ready to shoot.”

James looked up with one eyebrow arched, then picked up the newly assembled carbine. He checked the magazine well and the chamber before sliding the bolt home. “He already qualified?”

“Our friend here is a former soldier of no mean accomplishment.” Harlequin smiled. “He’s qualled. Pistol, long gun, and grenades. No history of domestic violence. I’ll get the paperwork sent over from his unit.”

“This ought to fit him,” James said, handing the carbine to Britton. “Grab yourself a sidearm from the locker over there and a vest. The magazines are already full. Should be six mags for your long gun, two for the pistol. Two clips for grenades. Grab one smoke, one frag. Go bag should already be loaded and on your vest.”

While Britton selected his gear, the armorer fussed over the clothing rack, muttering about guys who were too damned big for their own good. His surly tone reminded Britton of his father and of Nelson, which in turn reminded him of Jake. He shook his head. The only way now was forward. He could feel the tiny ball resting in his heart, holding him fast on course.

Britton was soon decked out in khaki cargo pants and a black Entertech T-shirt. A ball cap with a subdued American flag topped the ensemble, reinforced sunglasses perched on the brim. Britton slung his body armor on over it all. He could tell by its weight that it was the heaviest rating, designed to stop even armor-piercing bullets. The tac vest fit over it, dripping with ordnance and medical supplies. Both legs were strapped with drop holsters—one for the pistol, the other for documents
and tools. Britton had been trained as a pilot, not a ground operator, and felt off-balance in all the gear.

It took him almost an hour to zero his weapon. When at last his groupings of three shots plugged dead center every time, Britton slung the rifle and turned to face Harlequin and Don, chatting in low tones behind him.

“You ready?” Harlequin asked.

“I’m ready for a nap, a shower, and to get this gear off.”

Harlequin grinned. “Gripes just like a real soldier. Very nice. You can shower and rack out at your new post.”

“And where is that?” Britton asked.

Don stepped forward with his clipboard and passed it to Britton along with a pen. “First, I’ll need you to sign this nondisclosure agreement. What you’re about to witness are proprietary processes and…”

Britton waved a hand at him and signed. Nowhere to go but forward.

Don handed Britton a plastic badge. “Hold your thumb against this please.” Britton did, feeling the space beneath it grow warm. Don took the badge from him and placed it in a slot on the front of Britton’s vest. It bore Britton’s old military mug shot above an imprint of his thumb, still glowing softly in the plastic.
LSA PORTCULLIS—GATE ACCESS
read the words beneath.

They approached the door.

One of the Pyromancers came forward and indicated a black pad on the wall. “Place your right thumb here, please.” Britton complied, and a spray of red light shot from the pad, streaming over his chest and neck. The thumbprint on the badge glowed, and a beep sounded. Both Pyromancers leaned in, visually inspecting the badge, then nodded to one another.

There was a click, and the striped doors slid slowly apart.

Beyond was another warehouse-sized room, pitch-black save for the opposite wall, where a single fluorescent bulb provided a disc of harsh light.

In the center of the disc stood a metal chair occupied by a man in a light blue hospital gown. Vacant blue eyes stared into the distance from deep-sunk sockets. Patchy, thinning black hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead. A day’s growth of stubble covered his weak chin. His head twisted back and forth, mouth working silently. Pink, fuzzy slippers covered his
feet. Medical leads sprouted wires trailing from his forehead, chest, arms, and thighs. Several more snaked from under his gown, trailing off into darkness.

Black letters were stenciled on the front of the gown:
PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY.

An older woman in a floral print housedress stood behind him. Her gray hair was cut short, and thick-lensed glasses in cat’s-eye frames hung around her neck. She gave them a genuine smile.

“Hello, boys,” she said, “you here to see my Billy?”

Harlequin clicked his heels and bowed slightly, smiling. “How are you doing, Miss Cartwright?”

“Tolerably well,” she answered in a thick Southern drawl. “Billy’s fine, too. Thanks for asking.”

Harlequin chuckled. “This is why I love talking with you, ma’am. You never cease to improve my manners.”