Overrun: Project Hideaway (18 page)

They both sprinted forward
through the flames and heat.

The black smoke thinned again
revealing the haggard and limping figure of Captain Michael Samuel running just
ahead of them. A black cable hanging from the air in front of him rose quickly
up and disappeared into the sky.

The smoke cleared enough so that
the burning dome could be seen less than twenty yards ahead.

Tuttle pumped his arms harder
trying to move oxygen through his body. His limbs screamed in pain.

Rockets exploded around them
tearing into the ground that separated them from the dome. Small weapons fire
spit at their feet. Larger rocket and mortar fire kicked up giant clumps of
destroyed earth which rained down around them.

Clouds from their impact further
obscured the view of the battlefield the Vulture soldiers dashed across. The
smell of burnt oil, spilled blood and seared flesh followed them as they went.

Tuttle thought about nothing
else other than just continuing to run.

Speeding trucks and jeeps roared
past them on both sides in the direction of the fallen dome. Covered with thick
metal armor, they were unaffected by the thick flames. Their weapons fired
continuously into the dome’s falling shredded steel.

Science Dome 15 was slowly being
battered to the ground ahead of them. Tuttle, Cranden and Samuel raced to get
in before it was all too late.

And then a force from behind
punched Tuttle hard in the small of his back and hurled him to the ground. A
raging gale of air from one of the choppers above flattened his body and buried
his face into the hot dirt.

The second Vulture chopper
roared over them. Its landing skids skimmed just across the terrain. Its
weapons thundered from its base. Rockets spewed from its underside transforming
everything in its path to flaming debris.

The landing crew from this
second chopper team twisted precariously from the zip lines beneath. The speed
of the helicopter pulled the rearmost soldier dangerously up towards the
chopping blade of its tail rotor.

Through a mist of sweat, Tuttle
watched the second chopper team in horror.

Beneath the air cleared by the
roaring helicopter, two dome-killer transports and a speeding J.G.U. jeep
appeared in the shrouded battlefield between Tuttle and the two men running in
front of him.

Tuttle cut hard to his right to
avoid being seen. Samuel and Cranden disappeared ahead of him in the flame and
smoke. Hidden and alone, Tuttle sprinted towards the destroyed dome for safety.

A convoy of trucks also obscured
by the battle smoke suddenly came into view.

More fired rockets from the
belly of the second Vulture chopper pounded across the ground. Their massive
might consumed the caravan of trucks blocking Tuttle from the dome and tore
huge holes into the burning terrain.

Firing all of its weapons, the
helicopter pilot continued to carve out a path of flame towards the dome.

The chopper rose up and then
dropped again close to the ground directly above one of the transports. The
momentum from its sudden descent swung the trailing zip cables towards the rear
of the transport’s solid steel frame.

Realizing his mistake, the pilot
pulled hard at the controls trying to bring the aircraft back up. This yanked
the soldiers hanging beneath back into the air and slammed the rearmost man
hard against the side of the transport.

The soldier’s body fell and was
quickly lost within the storming flames along the ground. His empty zip line
trailed beneath the chopper’s belly.

Tuttle forced himself to keep
running. The facility was only a few short strides away.

The second Vulture chopper
continued to race towards the dying structure. Only two soldiers remained
hanging on the zip lines beneath the aircraft. Their feet skimmed over the
heaviest yet set of flames. The pilot did not show any signs of pulling up or
changing course. The chopper charged straight toward the dome.

But the pilot was quickly
running out of room. The dome loomed large and dark straight ahead of him.
Cannons and rockets still roared from either side of his craft but there was
still nowhere to land his men.

The chopper dipped close to the
ground at each patch of clear terrain only to be chased back into the air by
additional dome-killer transports appearing from within the heat.

Almost to the facility, the
pilot dipped the dragging zip lines across the roof of one of the transports
dropping both men hard across its dark smooth metal. The soldiers tumbled
across its top. When they found their footing, both broke into a dead run.

Tuttle watched in horror as one
of the men tripped and fell across its deck. The chopper dragged him on his
stomach across the transport’s top surface until his harness ripped loose. For
a brief second, he laid sprawled across his chest while the man ahead of him
was snatched back again into the air by the helicopter’s zip line.

Flames bit at the downed soldier
while he struggled to stand. Finally getting his feet, he grabbed his weapon
and started moving across its top.

He had almost reached its center
when a rocket blast lifted him from his feet and savagely tossed his body into
the air towards the vehicle's front. The soldier landed hard again across its
top. He stood once more and began firing his weapon forward into the flames and
dark.

Two rockets then whistled in
smashing into the topside of the transport’s impenetrable hull. Its entire roof
erupted into blazing flames. The vehicle continued to move, but the soldier’s
body was gone.

Tuttle looked away and continued
to run.

Science Dome 15 loomed dead
ahead.

Tuttle could hear the roar of
the helicopter not far overhead. The pilot stopped firing his weapons and began
to pull up. There was no more room left to fly and still nowhere for the last
man to be dropped. The chopper was less than ten yards from Science Dome 15’s
smoldering walls.

Red rockets blazed from the
transports and attack jeeps chasing from behind.

Through patches of thinning
smoke, more enemy vehicles came into view. Bullets tore into the ground at
Tuttle's feet sending dirt high into the air. For a brief second, Tuttle caught
a glimpse of one of his own men still alive and stumbling ahead of him.

Another rocket buried itself
into the earth just ahead of him. Its blast flattened him hard to the ground.
Its ferocity and heat pinned him there momentarily. A speeding jeep nearly
crushed him as it raced by his side.

He laid there for another few
seconds and waited for the rest of the jeeps coming from behind to pass.

Still sprawled on his stomach,
Tuttle watched ahead of him as the last Vulture soldier not able to detach
himself from the chopper’s zip lines was dragged into the air away from the
exploding ground. His body flew through the far-reaching flames towards the
walls of the overrun dome.

His body sailed higher as the
pilot jerked the chopper into a hard climb. The soldier’s body trailed
precariously beneath.

The soldier thrashed side to
side at the end of the line as the helicopter pilot tried desperately to avoid
the smoking ruined structure and continued to climb.

Tuttle leapt to his feet when it
crashed into the facility and exploded in a massive fireball. Flaming pieces of
its destroyed metal rained across the battlefield.

Ahead of him, Tuttle saw Samuel
and Cranden duck into what was left of the destroyed dome near one of the
gaping holes in its side. It was the same entryway many of the J.G.U. vehicles
were also using to get inside.

The wreckage from the destroyed
chopper pummeled the ground obliterating two jeeps into a fiery mass and
hampering the movement of an already slow-moving transport.

Tuttle ran harder trying to get
away from the mammoth explosion and falling debris.

Managing to stay hidden from the
J.G.U. troops on foot and in the vehicles speeding into the facility, Tuttle
reached the dome’s outermost wall. Sprinting along its perimeter of smoking
metal, his eyes darted around for a way in.

His body gasped for air, and his
eyes were almost too burnt to see. Still not yet finding an access point, he
sprinted faster along the outside wall of Science Dome 15.

He didn’t see the hand that
reached out from its twisted metal and pulled him roughly inside.

Tuttle's feet flew out from
underneath him, and he fell down hard across the smoldering wreckage littering
the ground. Broken metal jabbed painfully at his ribs, and the wind was knocked
from his lungs.

Before he could focus his eyes
and catch his breath, he felt his body being dragged roughly across the broken
ground.

Once away from the battlefield
and deeper inside the dome, another set of arms pulled him roughly up.

The arms turned him around until
he was standing face to face with Captain Mike Samuel in the dark. His eyes
were bloodshot, his face was bloody, and his body was badly torn.

Medical Captain Cornellius
"Corn" Cranden stood next to him. Cranden reached behind his back and
pulled a weapon from his gear. He stared past Tuttle down the passageway deeper
into the darkness of the destroyed dome.

Explosions from the outside
battlefield still made it impossible to hear.

Tuttle struggled to focus his
eyes.

Cranden walked up to Tuttle and
pulled bandages from his pack.

Tuttle tried control the rage of
thoughts racing through his head. He felt his own weapon lifted from the gear
across his back. As if he was in another world, he watched the medic bend at
his feet. He heard the sound of ripping fabric and felt something warm wrap
tightly around his left leg.

It was then Tuttle sensed the
pain above his knee and saw the trail of blood leading to where he stood.

With two quick jerks of his
wrists, Samuel readied his assault weapon next to him and threw it into
Tuttle's open hands.

Cranden stood up after finishing
bandaging his knee.

Tuttle could feel the frenzied
fog starting to detach itself from his thoughts. The sound of the outside
explosions had also started to lessen.

Until in the next instant, when
the wall shattered next to them. Its screaming twisting metal piled in on top
of them pushed in by an exploding jeep that had rammed into the dome’s side.

Tuttle sensed his body sprinting
again after the men who brought him in. They were all that remained of both
teams of the Vulture helicopter squads.

Tuttle felt the muscles of his
legs screaming in defiant agony as he ran further into the darkness and away
from the flames.

The three men ran deeper into
the dome. Tuttle could now feel more strongly the pain in his leg and the soft
ooze of blood running against his skin.

He followed the two soldiers
into the dark hoping the spirit of John Kirken would forgive him for not saving
his son and accompany him in.

Both men trudged wearily through
the sand. The Vulture squad captain was the furthest ahead. His communications
officer plodded behind him slowly. Neither knew were they were anymore.

The captain was only aware that
it was their second sunrise. His throat stung from the dryness of the desert
and the abuse of two days of sand.

His communications officer
adjusted the pieces of shredded bloody bandages on his hands and wrists. For
the moment, the throbbing stinging pain from where his fingers used to be had lessened
in his hand.

They were two of twelve men
captured by the J.G.U. while setting explosives in an occupied city. It could
have been the tenth or twentieth city his team had been sent to dispatch. It
was hard to even recollect their names anymore. The only thing that he was sure
was that the city was overtaken by the J.G.U., and its location was too close
to one of the domes.

Right now the captain only had
vague recollections of location coordinates on the map grids and a general idea
that they were somewhere in the northeast part of the country.

Their capture was unforeseen and
swift. The subsequent interrogations and torture were most oppositely not.

Three of his men died
immediately during the attack. The others were tortured in front of him while he
watched. The communications officer walking next to him had lost four fingers,
two from each hand, and his left ear before his session was completely through.
He wasn’t interrogated, only horribly tortured and abused.

Questioning was directed solely
at the captain. When he didn’t answer at first, they made him sit and observe
the torment and pain they inflicted upon his men.

It was only after watching
nearly half of them slowly die did the captain finally relent and begin
conversations with the interpreter regarding dome site data. He told them as
much as he knew.

Yet the tortures did not
immediately cease. Additional members of his team were killed in front of him.
The captain then sputtered and talked faster to no avail while he watched more
unthinkable horrors unleashed upon his crew.

When he ran out of information
he began to make up more. It still did not stop. Only when he and the man next
to him were the only ones left alive was it decided that what he had given them
was finally enough.

Then they were whisked from the
facility where they were questioned. They were brought back to the city in
which they were initially captured and thrown loose into the middle of the
street. The transport vehicle lingered for awhile while they writhed around in
the street’s warm dirt and then slowly backed away.

The captain waited there a few
long moments, his eyes and face sprawled across the dusty ground. When he
finally stood, he closed his eyes wanting and waiting for a bullet to slam into
his back.

Both men staggered silently
along. Both poured over in their heads the possible reasons they had been
allowed to escape and what from this point forward could not be undone.

They walked beneath a rock that
offered a bit of shade. They both stood there staring off into the distance
allowing their minds to briefly drift away.

It was then they saw the shapes.
Two of them moved forward. Jeeps came at them from the edge of the horizon
their forms blurred by the haze of the burning sun.

Both vehicles stopped just in
front of the rock. Men jumped quickly out. With no words exchanged, the men
helped the captain and his officer to board. While they drove away from the
rock, one of the men attended to their wounds.

Given food, fresh bandages and
clothes, they were left for more than half a day in the white barren room.

Four days had passed since their
initial release.

Finally a tall grim looking man
made his way in and outlined his plan. He spoke of illegal military missions,
trespassing and unlawful entry into what was considered quarantined outer
space.

It was his intention that the
military captain and his communications officer be the ones to lead what he had
quickly outlined. It didn’t matter they had never trained for space missions,
the man promised them a competent crew.

He spoke of a new government
outside of the current Administration Dome. In bold whispers, he alluded to the
current President’s possible capture or removal from power and how the United
States domed nation as a whole would need to prepare a means to continue
through.

This man did not once falter,
show remorse, or display the least amount of fear at the treasonous scenarios
he laid out before them.

He knew what both of them had
done.

* * *

It had been more than two months
since that discussion in the white barren room.

"Anything yet,
RadCom?"

"Nothing so far, sir,"
the radio communication officer answered the captain of the first Vulture space
ship. "We're not reading anything. No sensor bounce. No signs of life. No
power readings. Nothing."

"No indication of any
system that might be operational?" the captain inquired while staring out
the main view window of the small explorer frigate.

Two additional command
crewmembers seated behind the captain stared intently over their equipment
panels. Both were completely still as they silently monitored the ship slowly
appearing in front of them.

"They're still down?"

"They’re still down,"
RadCom answered him.

Each man on the ship was only
referred to as their rank or job station. There were no names or other personal
distinctions. It was an unspoken agreement between every member as they came
onboard.

From what RadCom and the captain
had been able ascertain from small pieces of conversation before mission
launch, the crew was assembled haphazardly. No one said from where. The only
thing the captain had been assured was that they were technically qualified to
staff the ship.

The majority most likely were
military deserters. Signed on to the mission to escape the horror that had
befallen the planet. It didn’t really matter at this point. They were all
outlaws for what they were setting out to do.

That was why their launch had
been secret from a dome that had already been destroyed. They had traveled to
and boarded the ship over the course of several long days. Discovery by either
country would have brought a quick end to the mission and sure death to them
all.

"It still reads as a large
body of mass,” RadCom continued to report. “And nothing more. If I didn't know
what it was beforehand, I would have read it as a stray meteor or satellite
shadow. There are no signs of life or power."

"So, would you consider it
still safely hidden?" the captain questioned him again.

"If we weren't coming up
here with exact coordinates we never would have happened upon it, its orbit is
so obscure. Actually it’s not even in orbit. It’s just sitting there. Probably
on some sort of timed thrust just to make it do that. There's no way anyone
would have ever found it unless they already knew about it."

"Very good, RadCom,"
the captain said returning to his seat. He punched a series of numbers into the
holovid at his personal station. It glowed blue for a brief moment and then the
grim expression of United States War Minister Peter Faulken appeared on the
screen. His face looked weary, wrinkled and old. His expression brought a sick
feeling to the captain’s soul.

"War Minister," the
captain spoke quietly. His voice was barely audible over the quiet hum of
equipment and the men moving about the room. "We think we have the
Hideaway in sight. We should be upon it shortly."

"No signs of the ship or
crew being awake?" the war minister asked.

"None at all, sir,"
the captain responded. "We’re starting to be able to see it through the
viewport. If we can see the ship, then anyone onboard should be able to see us.
There's been no reaction. At least none that we can detect. The ship appears to
be still offline."

"That's good," Faulken
said. "Very good. That should keep everything quite simple. If the ship is
still dark, the pilots are most likely dead."

"Yes, sir," the
captain replied nervously. A slight furrow formed over his brow.

"When you board, separate
the cargo immediately from the command portion of the ship."

"What if we detect
life?"

"It’s not a possibility,
not anymore,” Faulken answered quickly back. “They’ve been considered dead for
more than two decades. Memorials have been made. Tears for their loss have been
shed. If you do happen to come across any signs of life, reset their navigation
system for deep space. Send them as far out as you can before initiating the
self destruct."

"Even up here this long,
there might still be a ..."

"There won’t be,
Captain," the War Minister interrupted him. "The command team is
dead. Just retrieve the cargo."

"Understood," the
captain whispered back.

"Return to Earth using the
flight plan you’ve been given. Keep your ship cloaked and your systems minimal.
Put some of your crew into hibernation if you have to. There is to be
absolutely no communication until you’ve docked. The J.G.U. will be looking closely
at anything returning to the planet. Keep the ship hidden and dark. If you’re
detected, I want them to think you’re just junk falling from space."

"Another question,
sir."

"Go ahead, Captain."
Faulken turned his face a bit. Closer to the transmitter and under a new light,
it showed a bit more wear. "I’ve read the mission background. How do we
access ship if they’ve already signaturized the controls? If they got spooked
and activated the War Procedures Defense Program, they could literally have
booby-trapped the whole fucking thing to blow the instant we brush against the
hull's surface."

"It doesn't work that way.
If they activated the WPDP, you can still access the ship," Faulken
answered condescendingly like he was trying to explain something to a small
child. "Once onboard, you can safely check systems from the pilot command
post. You can determine there if they activated the signaturization safeguard.
Though it’s highly unlikely."

"But what if they did? And
what if we don’t realize signaturization has been initiated until we’re already
inside?"

"The ship's signaturization
process only acts as a deterrent against unauthorized access to flight
controls, the rear cargo area, and activation of an unauthorized flight plan
back to Earth. If the Hideaway has indeed been signaturized, it will not
detonate as long as you don't try and move the ship."

"So then what?"

"We are at war, Captain.
You must prepare yourself and your crew to do everything that is necessary to
be done."

The captain waited for a minute doing
his best to control his voice.

"You didn't answer my
question, War Minister. What do we do if before the pilots put themselves into
hibernation they decided to signaturize the controls as an added precaution? It
was listed as a flight plan option. Rigging the ship to the brink of self
destruction before entering into hibernation is a disconcerting risk. But, who
knows what was going on up here and the level of concern they had of being
boarded? It’s impossible to tell."

"Captain, if that’s the
case, you and your crew are going to have to act accordingly. When the ship
went up, retina scan identification technology was not yet widely used by
artificial intelligence systems such as on the Hideaway."

The captain shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. The men around him stopped working. The room became
quiet like the ominous empty view of space before them.

"Palm scans were required
for ship ID at that time. Provided their hibernation systems are still intact,
you should have no difficulty disengaging signature controls with the palm
scanners. They haven’t hibernated long enough for deterioration to have set in.
At least not enough that a palm scan would be unrecognizable."

"And if the pilots are
alive? How do we convince them to do the palm scans?"

"Captain, they are not.
They died a long time ago. Do a systems check. If they did signaturize the
controls, raise the temperature on their hibernation units. Bring them up just
enough so that their tissue will be usable. And then make the removal."

"With all due respect sir,
what if during the reanimation process we find signs of life?"

"Jesus goddamn
Christ!" the War Minister's voice became wickedly short. “There won’t be
any goddamn signs of life. If the controls are signaturized, go to the
hibernation units, raise up their temps and have one of your men cut their
fucking hands off. Do you goddamn got that? Take their hands to the pilot
controls and disengage the signature controls.”

Faulken’s upper lip had curled
into an ugly snarl. His tone made the hair on the back of the captain’s neck
stand straight on end.

The captain absently rested his
hand on the large knife blade strapped to his leg next to his sidearm. His
fingers nervously worked the snap that held the blade in place.

"If you find signs of life,
do them a favor and put a goddamn bullet in their heads. Engineers on this
project have already confirmed that the lengths of hibernation as seen on the
Hideaway mission have been far too long. Full cerebral recovery is not a
possibility. Brain damage will be severe. They will be nonfunctional.
Catatonic. Of no use to themselves or us. Their families have grieved. There
would be no desire on their part or reason in this universe to bring them back
now.”

The captain sat forward. His
body shook slightly.

"Saving them now would not
be humane, it would be horribly cruel,” Faulken’s tone lowered a bit in fervor
and pitch. "If the Hideaway has been signaturized, shut off the oxygen
supply during the hibernation process. It will be the easiest way."