Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone (29 page)

“Holy shit!” he blurted.

“At ease, Ensign Vogt,” Takayasu said in a calm voice without even looking up from the tablet.

“But ... but, sir!” the Ensign stammered. “That’s— that’s
Vortex
! Isn’t it ...?” The situation was so surreal, Takayasu was acting so calm about all of this, maybe he was wrong?

“Yes, it is,” the Lieutenant replied. “And I have signed him in as such.”

Vogt’s eyes were dancing back and forth, now taking in the whole fantastic party. They had another guy with them who was wearing tinted skiing goggles— wait, not goggles, it was another kind of mask. And a shiny white suit and a silver cape, for God’s sake?! “But— but, sir!”

“You already said that,” Shockwave commented with a smartass smirk.

“Please hand over the temp badges, Ensign Vogt,” Takayasu said as he pushed the tablet back across the desk.

A few other agents had entered behind the bizarre group and were gawking as well, and Vogt was pretty sure he heard whispering coming from behind himself to boot. He tried to take some form of control over the situation one more time. “Sir, I really don’t think ... I ... I think I should at least insist on the removal of the masks—”

“That will be all, Ensign Vogt. The badges, please. That’s an order.”

Vogt froze in indecision for a moment, then slumped and handed over the badges.

As Takayasu passed them back to his guests, he added, “I’m also ordering you
not
to call any other stations or sound any alarms. We’re all going upstairs, so the higher-ups will know all about this soon. Everyone is here on
my
authority, and you will not be held accountable for any lapse or wrongdoing, Ensign, provided you follow the orders I just gave to you. Is that understood?”

“Yeah— Yes, sir.”

“Okay, then,” Takayasu said as he headed around the desk. “Gentlemen ... shall we?”

PCA

Captain Brunn was in the middle of reviewing some critical reports — yet another rogue breakout attempt had occurred around dawn; thankfully, it was another failure, but how the hell were they
doing
this?! — when he slowly became conscious of Lieutenant Hart’s voice coming from outside his office door. Normally, Brunn tuned this out as simple office white noise, as Hart’s desk was in the anteroom, but this morning his voice was raised and sounded like he was standing literally in front of the door.

Annoyed, his concentration derailed, Brunn stabbed a finger down on his intercom button. “Lieutenant Hart,” he clipped, “why should I bother asking not to be disturbed if you’re going to throw a damn party right outside my office?”

Brunn expected the raised voices to desist, and in that he was satisfied, but he had also presumed that Hart would respond with an apology over the intercom. Instead, the office door opened, and to Brunn’s surprise, he saw Powerhouse standing at the threshold, with only Hart’s eyes and the top of his head visible over the paranormal’s broad shoulder.

“Captain Brunn,” Powerhouse said, “I need to speak with you.”

Brunn stared at him for a second before waving him in. “Of course, of course, Lincoln, come on.”

“S-Sir—” Hart stammered as Powerhouse stepped inside.

“That will be all, Lieutenant.”

“Sir—!”

“I said that will be
all
, Lieutenant Hart,” Brunn snapped, irritated at having to repeat himself. “And keep it down out there.” What had gotten into Hart today?

Hart shrank visibly as Powerhouse closed the door in his anxious face, and just before the gap was sealed, Brunn caught what might have been a chuckle coming from the anteroom. Was that Shockwave? Was he going to have to deal with that pain in the ass next? Christ, what a morning.

Powerhouse came to stand in front of Brunn’s desk. When Brunn gestured for him to have a seat, he responded, “No, thank you, sir. I’d rather stand.”

That gave Brunn a moment’s pause, but he quickly recovered. “As you will. Would you like something to drink?” Then he finally realized something. “Lincoln, it’s not necessary for you to wear your mask in here. I promise there are no paparazzi lurking behind my desk.”

“I’m here on official business, sir,” Powerhouse replied, as if that explained it.

“All right, then. What can I do for you, Lincoln? If you’re here to apologize about the mess you boys made of the gym, there’s no need. I’m sure we both know who started the trouble, and I promise you—”

“It’s not about that, sir, though I do apologize for it.” Powerhouse appeared to steel himself for a moment, then said, “I need a favor, sir.”

Brunn reclined in his chair, mulling that over. This was unexpected; although the PCA had gone out of their way to make Lincoln happy, he rarely asked for favoritism outright — and when he did, it always involved those damned kids. But even then, he was very humble about the whole thing.

Now, though ... now he seemed different. His demeanor was courteous, yet somehow challenging, and Brunn didn’t like it.

At last, the Captain said, “ ‘A favor.’ I see.” He tipped a finger toward Lincoln’s mask again. “I thought you said this was official business.”

“It’s an official favor, sir.”

“All right, then, you know I’m more than happy to help you, Lincoln, whenever I can. But I’m afraid I’ve got a lot on my plate this morning, and, in deference to Lieutenant Hart, you did show up without an appointment. Since it’s an official ‘favor,’ what say you write it up for me and submit—”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait, sir.”

Brunn was getting really peeved now, but again, he reminded himself how valuable an asset Lincoln was to the PCA. “All right, then,” he said, keeping his voice casual and rocking very slightly in his chair. “Let’s hear it, Lincoln.”

“I need you to requisition a private jet for me.”

Brunn stopped rocking. “Excuse me?”

Lincoln repeated, “I need to requisition a private PCA jet.”

“I see,” Brunn said, unable to keep his tone warm this time. He needed to nip this in the bud, right now. With just a touch of sarcasm, he asked, “And when, exactly, would you need this private jet? And where, may I ask, would it be taking you?”

Unfazed, Lincoln answered, “Right away, preferably this morning. And it would be taking us to Washington, D.C.”

“Really?” Brunn responded, with more than a touch of sarcasm this time. “I notice you said ‘us.’ So you’re having a real party, are you?”

“No, sir. I’ll be transporting two other PCA agents, one civilian, and one foreign dignitary. I also suggest that you and Lieutenant Commander Panettiere may want to join us.”

“Oh, do you, now?”

“Yes, sir. But that would be entirely up to you and the Lieutenant Commander, of course.”

“My, how gracious of you, agent.” Brunn leaned forward, placing his palms on his desk, and stood. “And why, exactly, do you feel you can make such an outrageous request? I was just reflecting upon the fact that the PCA has been very good to you, Lincoln, out of generosity and gratitude for your paranormal services. But
this
...” He shook his head.

“I know that, sir. But I have to admit, I’ve been wondering lately ...”

“Wondering
what
, agent?”

“If I really belong with the PCA, sir.” Powerhouse folded his arms and gazed up toward the ceiling, as though deep in thought. “I got into this whole business on the wrong side of the tracks. Yeah, I was forced to, but I still felt really guilty about it. I did some things that I’m not proud of.” He snorted at that in self-depreciating humor. “To say the least. So ... I joined the PCA to make amends. Yes, you’ve been very generous to me and my family, but I’ve also toed the line for a good year now. When you said, ‘Jump,’ I jumped.”

“That’s the way the chain of command
works
, agent.”

Powerhouse looked down at Brunn. “I kno0w that. But this isn’t the military, is it? And I’m just a volunteer, aren’t I?” He dropped his arms, matching Brunn’s rigid posture. “So I’m asking for a big favor, Captain. Maybe it’s a little out of line, but you know what? I’ve earned it.”

Not backing down just yet, Brunn returned, “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that I agree with that, Agent. That you’ve ‘earned’ the right to ask me to requisition you a goddamn
private jet
 at the drop of a hat. Let’s pretend that’s all well and good, just for the moment. I still have to ask: Why the hell would you be taking that jet to Washington? And what’s all this ‘foreign dignitary’ business? Foreign diplomacy is a little out of the PCA’s jurisdiction, and it’s sure as hell out of yours.”

Powerhouse’s eyes crinkled, and though that’s all that Brunn could see of his face, he was pretty sure Lincoln was smiling under his mask. “That’s where I think you and Lieutenant Commander Panettiere may want to tag along. Trust me, sir, this is one sliver of foreign diplomacy that you’ll
want
the PCA to be a part of.” He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. “Want to see what got Lieutenant Hart all riled up?”

Brunn had to admit that piqued his interest; he had never known Powerhouse to stoop to melodrama. “All right,” he said at last. “But I’m telling you right now, Lincoln. I’m being truly honest with you. This had better knock my socks off.”

Powerhouse’s eyes squinted even further, and his voice sounded on the edge of laughter when he said, “Deal.”

Disgruntled but curious, Brunn rounded his desk. Powerhouse let him take the lead as he marched over to his office door. Throwing Lincoln one more look of annoyance, he opened the door to the anteroom ...

... and then Captain Brunn, the man in charge of the regional headquarters of the PCA, shared an experience in common with The Great American Bank employee Arturo Froment: He very nearly wet his pants.

PCA

Defense Secretary McDermott grumbled as he strode down the hall away from the Oval Office. “And they just showed up?” he grilled the Secret Service agent marching alongside him. “Without notice, without making arrangements, without the courtesy of a single damned phone call?!”

“Mostly, sir, yes,” the agent answered, and it annoyed the Defense Secretary further that the shorter man was keeping up with him without any visible effort.

“What do you mean, ‘mostly’? Did they make arrangements or didn’t they?”

“They did not make prior arrangements, sir. But they let us know as soon as they arrived in D.C., so we had some notice.”

“And why wasn’t
I
notified immediately?”

“Because they weren’t asking for you, sir,” the agent explained as they rounded the corner, heading toward one of the underground access points — the entries that the guided tours of the White House didn’t point out to the general public.

“Then why am
I
being bothered with this now?!”

For the first time, the Secret Service agent hesitated. Then he admitted, “You were the compromise, sir.”

“The
compromise
?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So if they didn’t want to see me, who were they here ...?” McDermott’s face reddened further as they entered the elevator. “They wanted to go to the
top
, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

McDermott stabbed the button and the doors closed. “This is ridiculous. Who do they think they are?”

“The ranking officer is Captain—”

“I understand that! But why are they here, bothering us, instead of back home dealing with those damn prisonbreaks?”

Again, the Secret Service agent hesitated. At greater length this time, he said, “I ... sir, if this is what I
think
it is, this might be ... bigger than that.”

“What could be ‘bigger’ than a bunch of super-powered freaks breaking out of jail?”

The elevator doors opened, and McDermott stormed out ...

... and ran straight into a cluster of people, a team of Secret Service agents (who looked far too nervous for his taste) and the visitors they were surrounding. He swore to himself then and there that someone’s head was going to roll, preferably this presumptuous Captain Brunn.

A middle-aged man stepped forward. “Thank you for seeing us, Mister Secretary. I’m Captain Brunn and this is Lieutenant Commander Pane—”

“I don’t give a damn,” McDermott snapped. “What I want to know is what you’re doing here without—”

“Mister Secretary,” Brunn cut him off right back, pissing off McDermott even more, “you’re familiar with the docket that circulated yesterday afternoon, highest security levels, codenamed ‘Arthian’?”

McDermott rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, the one about the little green men from outer space. Am I to understand that this has something to do with
that
absurd fantasy?”

Brunn glanced down at the woman with him. They exchanged the barest hint of a smile before stepping apart and looking to the core of their little party-crashers.

The first thing to catch McDermott’s eye was the man in the Halloween costume. It only took him a second to recognize the masked paranormal vigilante, Vortex — the troublemaker whom some idiots considered a “superhero,” of all things. And as he absorbed that, the vigilante (who was notably
not
in handcuffs) also moved aside for someone else to take the forefront.

A young man in yet
another
 Halloween costume stepped forward. McDermott looked at his odd face ... and then it sank in.

“Oh, my God,” McDermott whispered, his eyes wide.

The young man with the strange face, a man currently rumored to be an extraterrestrial, halted before him. He opened his mouth to speak, but then, appearing uncertain, glanced back toward one of the others.

“Come on,” urged another man in a crimson suit, with what McDermott would call a huge shit-eating grin on his face, “say it. You
gotta
say it.”

The alleged alien nodded with a funny little head-wobble, turned back to the Secretary of Defense of the Unites States of America, and requested in a completely serious tone, “Take me to your leader.”

COOPER

“I’m not turning myself in,” Cooper said out loud. “I’m just fixin’ to make some more noise.” This was probably the tenth time he’d said so over the past hour. The frustrating thing was, he had no way of knowing if his words were being heard or not.