Standing the Final Watch Read online

  “You obviously expect me to ask ‘What are you talking about? Why me?’”

  Steeple rubbed his face with both hands. “What I’m about to tell you, very few people in the world know. Not the president, not the Secretary of Defense, Army High Command. You cannot tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. Nobody. I’ve been working on this project for more than twenty years. Now it’s nearly finished and the fate of our country, hell, the whole damned world may rest on the answer you give me right now. Do you agree to complete silence concerning what I’m about to tell you?”

  Angriff hesitated; none of this made sense, and he did not want to trust Steeple. The fate of the world at stake? Did he really say that? “If I say yes, if I agree to keep silent about whatever it is you want to tell me, there’s a price.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want everything you’ve got on my family’s murder, including the name of the informant.”

  “I can’t do that, Nick. For security reasons you’re not cleared for, I can’t do that. Especially if you’re retired, the potential blowback is off the charts.”

  “Then count me out.”

  Steeple held us his hands in a placating manner. “Maybe we can compromise. What if I promise to use the full force of my position to wipe these bastards off the face of the Earth? If you agree to silence, I will personally guarantee the death of the terrorists who killed your family.”

  Angriff leaned forward with elbows on knees, considering the offer. Steeple had the power to carry through on his promise, he did not doubt that. “I still want the name of the fingerman.”

  “And if I give it to you?”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “You can’t involve the Army. If you get caught, you’re on your own.”

  “It’ll just be me and these hands,” Angriff said.

  “So you agree to keep absolute operational security?” Steeple said.

  The two men locked eyes. Angriff then did something he never thought he would, he offered Steeple a handshake, which Steeple accepted.

  “I agree.”

  “Be certain. There’s no going back once you are in the loop.”

  “I said I agree,” Angriff said.

  “Then it’s a deal.” Steeple paused again. “What do you know about cryogenics?”

  “Cryogenics?” What the… “You mean like freezing Ted Williams’ head?”

  Steeple guffawed. “No, that’s cryonics. Different thing altogether. The cryonics people think they can freeze something dead, like Ted Williams’ head or a body riddled by cancer, and somehow bring it back to life later. Utter bullshit. Cryogenics, on the other hand, is proven science.”

  “All right…”

  “Cryogenics studies the performance of materials at very low temperatures,” Steeple continued. “For our purposes, it is the effect of very low temperatures on the living human body. I don’t pretend to understand how it works, that’s for the Mensa people to know. I’m sure you’ve seen movies or read books where people have been put into cryogenic storage, or, as it if often called, ‘suspended animation.’ Most people think it’s crap but it’s not, the science is quite real…”

  Steeple rose and began to pace, passing Angriff in the narrow space and bracing himself against the bulkhead whenever the plane jolted in turbulence.

  “The United States is not going to last much longer. It’s going to implode, explode, be overrun, or wiped out. Unfortunately, that’s a truth that can’t be denied or wished away. Islamic terrorism, bioterrorism, catastrophic economic collapse, volcanic eruption, plague, nuclear strikes, EMPs, our own government, or getting smacked by some asteroid we don’t see until three days before it wipes out most life on Earth, or some combination of all of them or some threat we don’t even know about yet.

  “NASA wrote a paper back in 2001 and put the damned thing on their website, predicting future war and collapse. Go check out Youtube if you don’t believe me, it’s still there, and then read what the crackpots have to say about it. But when you do, remember one thing: a lot of them are right. Most of them are using government reports as the basis for their predictions and theories, but the American public writes them all off as nuts. Some are, of course, I don’t think aliens really had anything to do with the Civil War, but who knows, could be they’re right about that, too.

  “At some point in the not too distant future our country will no longer exist, every simulation we’ve run for the past five years gives the same results, and there is nothing we can realistically do to stop it. We have grown weak and soft and we no longer have the national character to save ourselves, and there are just too many potential threats. We are dangerously dependent on energy for everything… shut off the power and we all starve. When the collapse happens it will take whatever is left of the Western World with it. Europe is already compromised by the Islamists, they have a unifying belief and when the collapse comes they will simply wipe out the Europeans.”

  Steeple braced himself as they hit an air pocket. “That’s why Project Overtime was green-lighted, because in the future our country is going to need to be rebuilt. For decades, ghost money has been diverted into this project, lots and lots of ghost money. And it works, Nick, by damn it works. We can freeze people then wake them without them having aged at all.

  “Project Overtime is our insurance policy against disaster. A battalion of hand-picked soldiers will be put into cryogenic storage to be awakened at a future time when an activation code is signaled. That might be ten years in the future, or twenty or two hundred, there is no way to predict. And if we’re wrong, and things stabilize, then we can wake everybody up and they will not have aged a day.

  “The idea is that when no more coherent military forces are left, we will have one extremely well-trained and well-armed battalion with which to restart the country. It may not seem like much, 1,000 or so soldiers, but they will have everything necessary to sustain them once they are awakened, including weapons and plenty of ammo. It’s an all-volunteer force of men and women with no family to keep them here now, no strings, people who can walk away and never be missed. It will have everything it needs to succeed, but it still needs one key component… a commander. That commander has to be one hell of an aggressive and motivated leader, capable of inspiring his soldiers to achieve the impossible. That’s where you come in.”

  Section C, page 7 of the Washington Times gave a paragraph to the disappearance of Lt. General Nicholas T. Angriff (Ret.), who vanished while skiing in the Austrian Alps. Despite massive searches, rescuers found no trace of his body. Angriff had just retired from the Army after the tragic loss of his wife and only surviving child in the tragic incident at Lake Tahoe while they were on vacation. Angriff was said to have been writing a book critical of his former commander-in-chief and, when asked, the president declined to comment. Angriff had no known living family, a childless sister having pre-deceased him. A memorial service was planned but arrangements were incomplete at the time the paper went to print.

  Several days later, a small article on page 12 reported that a Homeland Security technician had gone missing. Mustafa Mohammad left work around 8 pm, three days before, but never arrived at the home he shared with his brother in Arlington. Authorities asked anyone with information on Mohammad’s whereabouts to please call the Sheriff’s office.

  Chapter 7

  I lost my friend forevermore,

  My friend has passed beyond the shore;

  Beyond the mist, beyond the moor,

  My friend has passed through Heaven’s Door

  Roman funerary inscription for Centurion Septus Sulpius Vita on Hadrian’s Wall

  January 16th

  From 30,000 feet Diego Garcia appeared as a smudge of white paint spilled in the empty blue of the Indian Ocean. The Gulfstream G650 had lifted off from Nairobi less than five hours before and headed southeast. The sleek aircraft’s sole passenger knew his destination without being told. There was nothing else out there besides wate
r.

  Norm Fleming stared out the window. What the hell was up? Since returning from Virginia in early December, he had been de facto commander of Operation Wipeout, the secret Kenyan initiative begun by Nick Angriff before the death of his family. Along with that went command of Task Group Zombie, aka the Nameless. Fleming had always assumed Angriff would return someday, despite his assertions otherwise, until the fabled warrior went missing in the Alps. With search crews coming up empty and a fresh obituary in the Washington Times, the reality could not be dismissed. His best friend was gone.

  And now, with several critical ops in countdown to launch, Fleming found himself ordered away from the scene of action to the middle of nowhere. There could only be two possible reasons. Either he would get his third star and command of Wipeout, or he would be transferred elsewhere, with the clear implication that with Nick Angriff gone, his enemies would take out their hatred on Fleming.

  Just over one thousand miles south of India, Diego Garcia was less of an island than a thin horseshoe of coral atoll bent around a lagoon. Although it was a British protectorate with a grisly history of human rights abuses, the United States maintained a naval base there with landing strips capable of handling the largest aircraft in the U.S. inventory. The British zone contained a variety of installations.

  The unmarked Gulfstream touched down at 1541 hours local time and rolled to a stop near an enormous hangar. Hot winds blew over the tarmac. Fleming found a white Lexus sedan waiting at the bottom of the stairs, AC on high and an Army corporal holding open the rear passenger door. He snapped to a sharp attention as Fleming ducked inside.

  “Where are we headed, Corporal?” he said when the driver slipped behind the wheel.

  “British zone, sir. It’s about a fifteen minute drive. We’ll never be more than a few hundred yards from water.”

  Fleming was dying to ask the man if he knew what awaited him on the other end of their drive, but a general did not ask a corporal such questions.

  They drove south, away from the airfield at Point Marianne. The neat signs, trimmed flora, and immaculate roads all testified to an American military presence. Palm trees lined the road and provided a shady canopy. They passed a power plant, then a sign announcing the pistol range, before a long curve in the road bent north. Soon they came to a manned gate and a sign that read BRITISH ZONE. Showing his credentials, the corporal exchanged a casual salute with the gate guard and drove on. That area was far less developed.

  They had gone half a mile when the driver slowed and turned into a circular driveway in front of a two-story beach house facing the lagoon. The corporal grabbed Fleming’s bag and led the way inside. He set the bags down in a small, neat kitchen.

  “I believe you’re wanted on the beach, General. There’s a stone path just outside that screen door and there’s beer in the refrigerator.”

  “Who’s out there?”

  “I have my orders, General. Will there be anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Corporal. You’re dismissed.”

  Although tired from the flight and sweating in his heavy uniform, Fleming headed outside and down the path. He caught a faint whiff of smoke. Across the bay a plane took off, turbines screaming over the water. Fleming stalked down the crushed coral path and emerged from the tree line. Ahead in the sand, someone lay in a beach chair folded most of the way back. An empty chair waited beside it. He did not recognize the figure until he towered over him.

  “I should have known,” Fleming said.

  “Did you get a beer?” Nick Angriff used his right hand to block the westering sun. “I brought Newcastle, your favorite.”

  “That’s it?” Fleming said, visibly upset. “You let me believe you’re dead and think a beer makes everything right?”

  Angriff rose and adjusted his chair back to the sitting position. “Since when do you take military necessities personally? I let you know as soon as I could.”

  “There’s a dozen ways you could have let me know before this.”

  “Damn, I’m glad to see you, too. Go change out of the monkey suit, grab a beer, and let’s talk. We’ve got two hours until dinner and it’s make-your-own-pizza night at the O Club. I’ve got a lot to fill you in on.”

  Fleming wanted to be angry. But aside from his abiding weakness for Angriff’s boyish streak, it was hard to be mad when your best friend turned out not to be dead after all. Without another word he turned back to the house.

  “Don’t drink the water,” Angriff called after him.

  When his best friend settled into the chair beside Angriff, Fleming had changed into shorts and a T-shirt. The chair creaked under the weight of his muscled body. He drained a beer in one gulp, tossed the bottle aside, and rolled a second one over his forehead. The sun had sunk low enough for the trees across the bay to block it.

  Fleming closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “For the record, I’m glad you didn’t fall into some Alpine crevasse.”

  “Thanks for that heartfelt sentiment.”

  A comfortable silence fell. Angriff wanted to light another cigar, but he knew how much Fleming hated the smell and refrained.

  “Tell me about Austria,” Fleming said. “There’s obviously a story in this.”

  Angriff let out a loud breath, the way Fleming had heard him do many times before. “I’ll say a long one. Let’s see. You were right and Salzburg was perfect. I did everything you advised, ate all the stuff Nini wouldn’t let me eat, drank a lot of beer, smoked cigars…”

  “I didn’t say anything about cigars.”

  “Don’t interrupt a good story with facts. I even liked the weather. It snowed a lot but for some reason I found it refreshing. Anyway, I spent the week after Christmas seeing all the sites. I made it to Kitzbühel. On New Year’s Day I went up to the Hohensalzburg to look down at the Old Town. My God, it was beautiful. I was up there on the battlement, minding my own business, when four MPs showed up to drag me to a meeting.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “Stop interrupting and you’ll find out. First, they drove me all over western Austria into Bavaria, and after three hours we came to a stop in a valley surrounded by steep mountains. Turns out it was in Switzerland. The only thing in the whole valley was an airstrip with a single unmarked black airplane.”

  “Somebody has a flair for drama.”

  “Huh. Wait’ll you hear who. I was invited to climb into the plane or walk home. There was one passenger waiting for me. Care to guess who it was?”

  “The president?”

  “Shit, no. I was carrying a Glock. I might have shot him. But think of somebody almost as bad, somebody who’s got the juice to requisition an unknown aircraft, order it flown into Switzerland, then have a three-star general hauled to a meeting against his will?”

  “Tom Steeple.”

  “Bingo. Our illustrious leader wanted a man-to-man chat with me. Before I tell you what he said, I want you to know that if I didn’t believe everything he told me, now that I’ve had a chance to verify most of it, we wouldn’t be having this talk. I didn’t think anything could dissuade me from chasing my family’s killers to ground…” His voice dropped and Angriff turned away so Fleming wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand.

  “It’s okay, Nick.”

  “I tried to let it go, Norm, I swear to God I did, but it was still eating me up. I… I had to be honest with myself. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how long I chased them, I could never get all the bastards who wiped out my family. It was burning a hole in my gut. I wanted to kill them all so bad but I knew I never would. Steeple gave me an option I didn’t know existed, and in return he promised to kill the killers for me, to use the full power of the Army to exterminate them. And he gave me one of them, a guy who worked at Homeland and fingered my family. Him I took care of personally. So in a way, Steeple did me a favor.”

  “You killed him?”

  “With my bare hands.” Angriff looked him straigh
t in the eye and there were no tears.

  “I can’t blame you for that, if you’re sure he was in on it.”

  “Steeple said he was, even showed me his jacket. He trained in Yemen. I’m sure.”

  Fleming held up a hand. “Look, I’m the last guy to talk you out of dropping the vengeance crusade. My only question is, can you really do that? You got one of them. Is that enough? Do you trust Steeple enough to let it go?”

  “If I go through with it, I won’t have a choice. And that’s probably for the best.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Hang on, this is gonna get weird. What do you know about cryogenics?”

  Angriff told the story as Steeple had told it to him, leaving out most of their conflict.

  “I was skeptical when he offered me command,” Angriff said. “I asked him, command of what? If I believed him, which at that moment I didn’t, somewhere they had stored a bunch of frozen bodies accumulated over two decades. From what I could tell, most of those people never met each other before going under what they call Long Sleep, so at best you had a bunch of strangers packed away with some equipment. It certainly was not a functioning battalion. Steeple assured me I could see the whole thing, and he kept his word.

  “He showed me the whole process of freezing people, down to the tiniest details. I saw the security protocols. Hell, you even have to supply a middle name or the computer won’t accept you. I got a look at the equipment, all first rate stuff. We probably won’t have the latest toys, no Joint Light Tactical Vehicles. We’ll have to make do with Humvees, but that’s actually better. Plenty of surplus on those. I was impressed. This is a first rate operation.”

  Fleming didn’t speak for a minute or so. “What’s it called?”

  “Operation Overtime.”

  “Assuming this is all true, there has to be a base somewhere, some fortified position to store all of… well, the people.”