In the main barracks of the society, hidden and far away from Sarzo, there was a certain absence of anguish, as if everyone was waiting happily and calmly for the massacre to begin. Thousands of soldiers were impatient, eager to kill or die, believing that freedom was incompatible with peace and that justice and revenge were sisters. And so it would go until the sun rose to end the night's celebration.
From his central hall, Wilker surveyed his accomplishments and waited anxiously for dawn. Behind him were several officers, including Blackburn, whose battered face bore witness to a particularly violent day. He watched from a corner, barely moving.
The stillness in the darkened building was so fearful and somber that even that could not comfort Caleb. He hadn't gotten used to it, even though he'd lived like this for most of his life. Unlike the rest of society, he enjoyed the last of the light from a terrace on the top floor of the old suburban building, far from the clutter.
***
Dusk was approaching when the Falconer finally arrived at Regional Headquarters 01—the rarely used official name for Diablo Two. The helicopter descended behind the tower in a hurry: the team had immediately noticed the frenetic activity in the capital and at the base. They looked at each other with raised eyebrows and shrugged.
There were military men coming and going in droves, sentries at every gate, trucks and vans that wouldn't stop passing, and a whole army of small utility robots racing back and forth. There was so much movement in such a small space that all the support drones had been deployed to help monitor and coordinate it all. And even though the hangars and runways were far-off, the buzz of aircraft had become a constant background noise.
“Hey, what's going on? You don't think this is all about Wilker, do you?” Burton asked, very worried.
Frances scanned the area for signs of an attack they hadn't seen from the air.
“The place must be on general alert, that's why there are so many soldiers and guards,” Gerard guessed. It lowered his pressure, because it ought to be because of his brother, who else?
“Let's hurry and get to Art,” Cam urged. “They should be in the boardroom.”
They circled around the tower, the slender form of which looked strangely sinister in combination with the rest of its surroundings.
The squad entered, dodging the departing personnel; and once inside, the feeling of anxiety eased somewhat.
“Stop. Identification, please.”
Everyone was busy, but that's what the virtual assistants were for. Cameras watched them from the ceiling, and the terminal was right next to it, a contraption reminiscent of the oldest ATMs.
“Fifth DOB Squad, Unit Code 445/OD. Captain's license CC501.”
“Identification successful. Proceed.”
“AV, request location: Arthur Ness. Subject: Report pending.”
“The General should be in the boardroom.” The screen displayed the tower map, pointing to the second-to-last floor. “I'll send a notification of your arrival immediately.”
“AV, request information: current situation.”
“The city has been on general alert since the seventeen hours and forty-six minutes. Cause: Impending war. Enemy Faction: Dragon's Society; Leader: Scott Wilker. No further details have been released.”
Cam nodded with some hidden unease.
“AV, maintenance request: our ship, the Falconer. Details: right wing is battered, and transmission systems are malfunctioning. AV, end of session.”
He walked away from the terminal and motioned for the others to follow.
They walked through the main lobby, spare and trapezoidal, pastel blue and cluttered with old photographs. It had five entrances, the main gate, two side offices, and two wide corridors leading to elevators and stairs. They went up one of them, along with a few other people who were in too much of a hurry to pay attention to them. Then, as soon as they got out, they looked in amazement at all the people working there, an unnaturally large crowd, but who, amazingly, managed to work quietly and serenely. And the control room on the top floor must have been just as crowded, if not more so.
Their leader sat in his chair, in the middle of the large, hoop-shaped table, staring blankly at the monitors on the walls. He didn't seem present, engrossed in something far away.
Cam rushed up to him.
“General!”
Arthur Ness looked away from the monitors and watched them with a sigh.
“Fifth Squad, I'm very glad you made it to safety. I have been informed of the pursuit.”
“It was an unexpected incident, yes,” Cam smiled a little. “We lost them right away,” he cleared his throat. “Boss, we saw medium transport dragonflies approaching Sarzo, what happened?”
“They didn't stop in the town,” he said emotionlessly. “They flew over the battle and continued north, not even bothering to drop ammunition or ask their officers about the situation. We know, we spied on their shortwave frequencies.”
“What? So where were they going?”
“We don't know, we lost track of them after about twenty kilometers.” He leaned over the table, his eyes fixed on him. “Captain, the mission report, please.”
“Yes, General.”
He recounted the entire journey as best he could, emphasizing the internal structure of the church and the weapons they had seen them use. It was not enough, he knew. The ambush had ruined everything, and they had only picked up crumbs.
“What about Scott Wilker?”
“Haughty, sadistic and insane. And I get the impression that his people are a lot like him in that way,” he analyzed, his brow furrowed.
Ness pondered for a second, scratching his unshaven chin.
“Yes, here too we've noticed the hyper-aggressive behavior of the people of the society, that and it seems that their minds are deranged; values, priorities and moral sense: all altered and muddled. The Health Department has taken up the case.”
“I wish these things had cures,” he grunted. Then he remembered that they were on general alert. “Why did they go on alert? We're kind of… surprised they put it out, considering the numbers in Wilker's ‘army’.”
The other nodded sympathetically.
“Fifth Squad, these people are more capable than they seemed… The mole was only the first clue.” He frowned and gritted his teeth, his eyes on the screens. “Reports came in of sightings of armed groups all along the border; then more appeared in Kennéh, and even in Cephor! At first, we thought they were responding to the Society's activities, but upon closer inspection we realized that many of them were wearing the same emblem on their ‘uniforms’… that of the Society.”
The Fifth Squad was speechless: this was completely unbelievable.
“Oh, man. So, we're in serious trouble after all,” Burton muttered.
Cam glanced at his team and then at Ness.
“That damned…! How the hell did he get so many people? How-how did he get them in sync, outfitted, trained and…?” He lowered his voice and began to mutter. “He wasn't bluffing.”
“I don't know the answers yet, but I will.” He got up from the chair and pushed it aside. “Now you must return to your quarters and get a good night's rest. Tomorrow you will return to Sarzo.”
And again they all fell silent, looking foolish.
“Really?” Frances dared to ask.
“What are our orders?” asked Gerard more calmly.
“Your orders are to infiltrate the operations center and gather information on the Society's plans. The troops have Sarzo under siege and there are skirmishes every few hours. I have withdrawn half of the troops I sent to give them a sense of numerical superiority; we stand back to draw them out and make false attempts to advance, only to fall back again. And all this, all this! to keep them from panicking and destroying the information we need. We know they would do that if they knew they were lost, because they have done it before on various occasions… but now, now it is absolutely imperative to know how many of them there are, what weapons and equipment they have, who is helping them, and what exactly they want to do. And you've already been inside.” He pointed at them with his palm. “You have that experience on your side.”
They looked at each other. Of course, no one would have dared to disobey him anyway.
“So be it,” was all Cam replied.
“Excellent,” he replied. “What else do we need to talk about?”
Gerard remembered the conversation he'd had with Blackburn. He was curious, and there was a strange heaviness in his stomach.
“Permission to speak.”
“Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“I met an enemy soldier, one who fits perfectly into these cases that the Health Department is investigating. He told me that during our campaigns with the Kennéhsians, in the Border War, his village was destroyed by Cinian soldiers, a village of innocent civilians. He swore that those people were wearing our uniform, and I don't understand. I know those years were very turbulent and confusing, but what's the truth?”
Ness was puzzled. He had to think for half a minute before he answered.
“The military destroyed several villages, but never one that wasn't taken over by rebels. We didn't attack peaceful civilians, Lieutenant. However,” he narrowed his eyes, “there was a strange incident during that campaign, and I think you know what I'm talking about.”
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“The infamous Ghost Attack? Yes, I told you we'd been framed.” He was relieved: just what he suspected.
“Although neither they nor we could find the culprits, Kennéh forbade us to enter his country with a large force because of them.” He frowned, annoyed. “So ease your conscience.”
“Of course. I'd like to know one more thing, if you don't mind. We've known the name of m… Scott's group for years. There is something about the way this soldier referred to that dragon that concerns me and I would like to know if it is being investigated.”
The General's eyes took on a strange glow.
“It is a creature from a fantasy story. And yes, Intelligence has a growing file on its origin and significance. Right now, our best guess is that the dragon is a symbol of the philosophy they follow.”
“Mmh,” he nodded thoughtfully, though not entirely satisfied. And maybe it was just a projection, but Art didn't sound convinced of what he was saying either.
“Okay,” he checked the time on his PCC. “If there is nothing more to say, go.”
And they walked out, straight to the elevator.
***
The Fifth Squad had finally been able to rest for a few hours in peace, although none of them were able to enjoy a full night's sleep, not because they needed to be awake, but because they felt too alert to relax. Burton eventually gave up and decided to go to the hangar where the Falconer was to check on the repairs, which were in their final details.
With an hour before dawn, the rest of the team got ready and went straight to the hangar. They would have loved to have prided themselves on their punctuality and prevention, but if they were there early, it was only because of insomnia and worry. And to tell the truth, they felt more comfortable next to their ship than in their quarters.
Burton saw them enter and went over to them. His clothes were a bit dirty.
“The Falconer is ready. It has a new wing airframe and a new transmission system,” he reported, glad to see them.
“You didn't have any serious problems?” Cam asked sleepily.
“Yes… but not with the Falconer. I couldn't sleep well: I closed my eyes and kept seeing the faces of the soldiers who mocked me when I left the old church, and Wilker. And I thought of the mole, and how many more there might be in the streets of the city.” He shivered and crossed his arms. He took a rag and anxiously wiped his hands full of oil.
“We can't watch everyone at the same time,” he agreed. “There may be spies, infiltrators, informing them of our movements. How I would like to personally interrogate all suspects,” he grunted, “I would make them talk quickly, perhaps painfully…”
“Cam,” Gerard interrupted. “We still have some time, calm down.”
“Yeah, I know… I'm just really stressed.”
“You should take a break. Do you want me to order some pills?”
“No, no, no.” He shook his head. “I'm fine. Burton, let's see what you've been up to.”
“Sure.” He scratched his head. “Maybe you should take the pills, believe me, I'm nervous about everything and I know they help.”
Cam sighed loudly and looked at his lieutenant.
“Okay, Gerard, order some.” His gesture of indifference was a little comical.
“Right now.” And he reached for his new PCC.
“Then,” he looked at the NCO again, “let's go to the ship.”
Gerard watched them walk away. He and Cam had been partners for a long time, and he knew well how moody Cam could be when he felt helpless or needed something for his health.
Frances had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, half thinking, half asleep. When she saw her companions walking away, she got up and followed them. Walking is good for waking up… and the coffee pot was over there.
***
Arthur Ness emerged from the tower to see off his officers and several members of the committee. The daylight made the gray hairs on his head, usually hidden beneath hazel hair and a dish cap, sparkle.
He looked at the soldiers and staff working outside: a quarter of those from yesterday. The others were already at their posts or on their way to them. And half of them would not be there by sunset.
Ness nodded and the committee adjourned. The military and the professionals left to continue their duties. He turned and went back in–it would come his turn to fire a gun.
One of the attendees glanced out of the corner of her eye to make sure no one was watching and motioned for her escorts to follow. They had their ship in the visiting officers' hangar section, but it wasn't their own hangar they were heading for.
They stopped in front of Service Hangar 05. The two escorts stood on either side of the gate, the woman entered at a brisk pace, careful not to be seen by anyone else.
Inside, the Falconer lay dormant, resting in the background; and next to it, its navigators, finishing their list of preparations.
“Wings cleaned and polished, ailerons tested and engines oiled. I put a new sticker on it,” Burton chuckled, pointing to the small picture of a uniformed shark with a wide, toothy grin.
“Inside, too. The radio and satellite transmitter are working perfectly,” Frances noted, jotting something down in a notebook: she liked retro stuff.
“And I replenished the ammunition,” Gerard said.
He always thought how ironic it was that life had made him the squad's weapons expert, even though he was the least likely to use them.
“Fifth Squad.”
Cam looked over his shoulder. The woman stopped beside him. He looked at her insignia and stood up immediately.
“Soldiers, attention,” he called to them. “Line up beside me.”
“At ease, I don't need lines.” She waved her hand in front of them as if to stop the movement.
“Okay…” He shoved his hands into his pockets. He wondered if she would react badly if he did. “What does the Lieutenant General need from this DOB squad?”
“Lieutenant General Ponce.” She nodded, calmly, almost nonchalantly, but somehow the squad could tell she was uncomfortable. “And you are Captain Cameron, First Lieutenant Wilker, Lieutenant Lard and Non-commissioned Officer Burton. Please don't be offended if I skip the introductions and the formalities, but I'm in a hurry right now. I need to ask you a favor, but it's nothing that would require you to neglect the mission at hand.”
Frances narrowed her eyes.
“That's strange, wouldn't they have informed us if someone important was coming?”
“Good point,” Gerard echoed.
“I guess this is personal,” Cam guessed.
Ponce sighed impatiently.
“I'm glad you're using your observation skills, and it's true I'm here on my own, but I feel the good general wouldn't have allowed me to come had he known the favor I needed.”
His interlocutors looked at each other.
“What exactly do you need?” asked Gerard.
“I need you to use those skills of yours to find out if Scott Wilker is really the mastermind behind his ‘society’.”
“How?”
Ponce studied Gerard carefully: his confusion, his interest, his deep, clear voice, and above all, his blue eyes. He wondered if Arthur had been right to choose this squad, the one he was in.
“Would you mind sharing a little more, General Ponce,” Cam scratched his chin, which was full of two-day-old hair. “I mean, and no offense, this sounds a little paranoid.”
“I've been studying the evolution of this society for years. One of the defining characteristics of this group of paramilitaries is the incredible way they have adapted to us. And that was when we thought they were a small group and that the rest of the factious little groups were separate entities. We had no reason to make connections: everyone seemed to have their own way of doing things, some were the opposite side of the others. Well, all those differences turned out to be a disguise… Imagine the amount of work Wilker must have had to do, not only to coordinate them, but to come up with all those different strategies, many of which seemed to go against his ideals and personality, such as coward actions, of flight, even truce.” She began to open and close her fist. “Come on, everyone here has access to his file, and we can study his psychological profile and every video and recording Cinia ever made of him. He's feisty, conflicted and obsessive; of course, he's also an excellent war strategist and has the power of manipulation… We've seen him turn his followers into ruthless machines of aggression. However, I doubt that he is capable of such a task. How can he, so fanatical, maintaining such a variety of convincing appearances for so long?”
“He's got a bunch of trained defectors, I'm sure he's put them in charge of the other groups and let them run wild,” Frances explained. That lady must have been paranoid.
“Maybe,” Ponce glared at her. “I have more: there are several recorded instances where Wilker and his people were clearly following a set plan of attack and suddenly they did something completely different, a hundred and eighty degree turn; from attacking head-on to abandoning a quarter of their active soldiers so the rest could flee even if they could win; or from defending a valuable camp at dusk to abandoning and burning it at dawn without explanation… I have seen at least two videos where he is clearly talking to someone on the headset, and you can see him change his mood and just like that he abandons his plan and gives new orders.”
Ponce took off his PCC and activated a small pocket projector on the wall. The video they were watching had been taken by a drone, one of those that flew over the battles and did nothing but record everything that came in front of them. The video zoomed in on Wilker from a distance, but his face was clearly recognizable.
“Look at this: this is when they call him. If you pay attention to his gestures and body language, you'll see how he loses his vigor and just listens without question until they're done talking to him. And even then, he looks annoyed, but not furious, more like defeated, as if he knows he can't question what he's been asked.”
The Fifth Squad took a good look at the scene: Wilker was looking at the battle front with a blank stare, whereas a few moments ago he had been trembling with excitement, with rage. No one was supposed to be able to force him to go against his will, but there was something there.
“This is strange,” Gerard whispered, his eyes fixed on the video. “That kind of reaction…”
“Okay, I see what you're saying, General. But, well,” Cam scratched one ear, “even if Wilker's not the boss, why do we have to investigate this on the sly?”
“Ness doesn't like that theory. Every time I try to bring it up, he finds a way to push it aside. I wouldn't dare suspect him, of course not, but I feel annoyed because of him ignoring me, and if he's not going to help me find out what the hell is going on with Scott Wilker, then I'm going to do it myself.”
“Really? Doesn't sound like something Art would do, ignore something like that.”
“Well, you can ask him yourself when you get back from your mission, but not before: I have a feeling he'll change squads if he knows I asked for it, and if you do, be careful not to mention me at all. He has to think you've found clues on Sarzo, or he won't take you seriously. Please do this for me.”
Burton felt that his squad was at the center of the conflict, not only the usual one, but now an internal one as well.
Cam and Gerard exchanged glances: one asked, the other had no answer.
“We will do it, Lieutenant General Ponce,” Cam agreed seriously. “But no promises.”
“That's enough,” she nodded. One of her men stepped forward and pointed at his wrist. “Looks like we're out of time. I must go.”
“Will you look for us when we get back?” asked Gerard.
“Never mind the details: that's my job.”
“Mmh.”
Once alone, the Fifth Squad decided to continue their preparations as if nothing had happened, at least most of them.
Burton stood in front of Cam.
“I have a concern.”
“What is it?”
“What's going on is that we're now like accomplices in a… in an internal fight. I don't like it at all. That woman is doing things behind Art's back and Art could be, I don't know, hiding something? And we should just go along with that?”
The captain shrugged.
“I don't like it either, but we must do it to find out what's going on.”
“Yes,” Frances said. “First the facts, then we'll see what to do. Besides, this is no big deal, who the real boss is is of little importance in my opinion.”
“No, I guess it doesn't. It's just that, well, doing things secretly is inevitable, but it doesn't feel right if it's internal.”
“I'm sure it's a misunderstanding, Buck,” Gerard said, though that wasn't the reason he was so concerned.
Burton crossed his arms and looked down, pensive.
“Fifth Squad, ten minutes to departure,” a loudspeaker announced. The air traffic controllers must have been going crazy trying to figure out how to coordinate all the departing and arriving vehicles.
Cam stopped thinking about Wilker and smiled again.
“You heard him, guys.”
They boarded immediately and were off in no time.
Cinia looked still from the height they were flying at, for although it was windy, it was free of dust and sand. Below them, they saw the base surrounded by its protective fence, the hills and knolls far to the south, and the busy highway connecting it to the city to the southeast. On the outskirts of the base, local soldiers prepared their defenses. They had long, flexible, tank-like defensive vehicles scattered along the defensive line, ready to advance and crush anything put in front of them. Shift patrol aircraft flew overhead, monitoring all movement.
Most of the enemy was supposed to be on the border with Kennéh, but as the general had suspected when he ordered a defensive perimeter near the city, there were groups of armed people kilometers above, and they had everyone's attention.
“What are they doing here? There don't seem to be enough of them to mount an attack Burton observed as his ship passed nearby.”
“They're probably just trying to make the troops nervous so they won't send reinforcements to the border,” Frances guessed, glancing sideways at them without a hint of appreciation.
Cam sat in the back and crossed his arms nonchalantly, watching all these people with a furrowed brow.
“Looks like Art and his officers have them under control,” Gerard said. He studied the line of defense on one of the monitors; images transmitted by the Falconer's cameras. The soldiers wore the same colors as the sandy ground; if they weren't moving so much, they would have been much harder to see at this distance.
These were standard infantry outfits: heavy but flexible jackets over bulletproof vests, with heavy shoulder pads, elbow pads, and gauntlets; multi-layered polymer armored helmets (those were twice as heavy as the DOB's), armored pants (hardened plastic panels and knee pads), and boots of leather, steel, and more hard plastic. Any more of that plastic and they would have looked like armor instead of combat gear. And they all wore the same goggles, like the DOBs. The most common regulation weapons were rifles.
They left them behind and the Falconer dropped out of sight behind the hills.