CHAPTER 20

Jack Darby had never known his father. His mother had few photos of him, and none featuring him and Jack. She never talked about him, and so Jack never asked. By the time he was old enough to wonder about the man-sized gap in his life, he knew that the silence meant suicide or abandonment—and so, knew better than to raise the topic.

Then, when he’d cleared Ranger School, the day he’d met Captain William Lennox, he’d been struck by a single, bright thought: that whoever his father had been, he hoped it was someone like him.

Lennox should’ve been a Major by now, but that was the sort of role that brought you to the strategic level and so, the way Jack understood it, Lennox had done everything he could to resist promotion. “Wild Bill,” they called him. Not a loose cannon, but perhaps one that might shake himself free if they pushed too hard. But he was a soldier’s solder, a leader who was there with his men in everything from dust to mud, who knew when to wield his authority, and when to drop it.

The sort of man whom, on some level, it really did feel like it’d take a giant alien helicopter to kill. But even that hadn’t been enough. Jack’s world swam, and all he could do was shake his head, as if it’d keep everything where it should be.

“Captain,” he said. “You’re alive?”

Lennox nodded, smiling like it was all a weird mistake. Like he’d taken a wrong turn and ended up on the opposite coast with a long detour to get back, not seemingly returned from the dead. He looked just like he’d stepped off the parade ground, excepting the dusting of dark stubble.

“Almost wasn’t,” he replied.

“How did you...” Jack trailed off. Part of him wanted to say resurrect yourself, but that didn’t make sense. Lennox hadn’t been dead. Which meant he hadn’t been the only survivor. Which meant there could be others. Which meant...

Lennox crossed to the interrogation table, took a seat in the chair opposite.

“Get out of there?” Lennox’s smile waned melancholic. “We ran for it. Donnelly, Fig, Epps, me. Grabbed that kid who was always slinging candy bars and soda, too—Mahfouz. That NBE ripped through the base in seconds. Almost crushed Epps on the way out. We spent the rest of that night and most of the next day hoofing it over to Mahfouz’s village without food and water—which was where we were ambushed by a second NBE.”

“A second?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. The meanest robotic scorpion you’ve ever seen. It took out Donnelly before we even knew it was there. If we hadn’t been able to roll in some air support, it would’ve got us, too. Small arms didn’t do a damn thing.”

Arcee hadn’t mentioned any robotic scorpions. But if Soundwave had subordinates, Jack supposed, then so could Blackout. Or perhaps he hadn’t been working alone, had a partner watching the perimeter for anyone who escaped the attack...

“That thing took some serious shooting to take out, Darby,” Lennox continued. “Two A-10s and an AC-130. And even then, the only weapons that worked worth a damn were the 105 sabots from the gunship. That’s not even getting into the fact that it was putting out enough noise that we had to lase the damn thing to let the flyboys get a clean shot at it. Didn’t help it against the big guns, though.”

Electronic countermeasures—ECM. Yet another trick the Decepticons had at their disposal. Jack said, “So, you killed it?”

Lennox laughed. “No way. Even with all that fire, all we managed to do was shoot off its tail. But it showed we can hurt them. The research guys say it proves something about high-heat rounds burning through their self-repairing molecular armor.” He shrugged, like it was beyond him. Or his pay grade.

“After that, we got brought home. Fig didn’t survive the ride back. As soon as Epps and I stepped off that plane, these Sector Seven guys were waiting for us. Didn’t even get off the runway before they made us an offer we couldn’t refuse—like, really couldn’t. And Epps and I have been here ever since.”

Jack glanced at Lennox’s black beret. “Doing what?”

“Learning how to fight these things,” Lennox replied. “Seeing where theory meets practice.”

Except three months wasn’t enough time for the government to marshal these forces. Simmons had made it quite clear that this fight had been brewing for longer than that. Those cryo-throwers, the null ray...

But that was all less important than—

“And no one told me,” Jack said.

“Hey, kid,” Lennox said, and leaned toward him, elbows on the table. “I pushed for it, argued for it. But we didn’t know you were alive until you got up on that stage, and the guys upstairs weren’t really big on vanishing the only known survivor.”

Jack frowned. “What do you mean vanishing?”

“Turns out when you work for an agency that doesn’t exist, then neither do you.”

“But—” Jack paused. “Captain, don’t you have a wife, and a baby girl?”

Lennox nodded. “I do. And as far as they know, I’m MIA ever since the attack. It’s been three months, which means she probably thinks I’m dead. It’s a bad situation all round, Darby. But I swore to Fig that I’d stop these things. I have to tell myself that I’m doing my duty here. Hopefully, I’ll be able to explain things to Sarah. But the mission comes first.”

“He did push for it,” Fowler said. “So did I.”

Jack took a deep breath in through his nose, just like his counselor said, and let it out. How might things have been different? If, after that incident on stage, he’d had Fowler or Lennox or even Simmons come in and offer him one of those black uniforms, answers about Blackout’s rampage, a promise that they would fight back? Would we have met Arcee? Optimus?

Or would he have been one of those black-armored goons, hosing her down with cryogenic fire?

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Would he have been happier?

“I get it,” Jack said. “But you said there was some kind of explanation?”

Lennox glanced to Fowler, who nodded at him. “Tell him. If anyone complains, they can take it up with me.”

“Right,” Lennox said. “Look, I don’t know the full story. These Sector Seven guys love their need-to-know basis, and us grunts don’t need to know much. But what I do know is that there was a weapons test in SOCCENT’s vicinity about forty-eight hours prior to the arrival of that NBE.”

“Blackout,” Jack said.

“What?”

“The helicopter. His name is Blackout. I’ll... explain later. Go on, Captain.”

“Sector Seven has a prototype railgun—yeah, I know, wild stuff. They tested it on some old Abrams’ two days prior to... Blackout’s arrival. I’ve seen the photos. Punched a hole straight through four tanks in one shot—in one side, out the other. By the time Blackout showed up, the eval team had already moved on. But the connection is obvious.”

What was it that Arcee had said, about energon signatures? That if she was burning energon, the Decepticons could detect her. One of the ways she could burn energon was by firing her on-board weapons. Jack considered that. Considered Soundwave. Was the railgun their target?

Jack wasn’t sure. Railguns were sci-fi movie stuff (then again, Jack thought, so were alien robots) and while everyone knew that the government had shinier toys than they let on, something about it didn’t add up. There was a known unknown here but he was, at least, closer to the truth.

Jack turned his head, so he could look at Fowler. “Did your group lure him there?”

Fowler shook his head. “Not intentionally, which I know does not sound great. We had no idea of this Blackout’s existence until he destroyed your base. And since then, we have no idea where he is.”

The Decepticons had been hunting for him. Soundwave had sent Ravage after him because he was the only known survivor. Jack thought it through—the Decepticons had detected something, something they thought had to be an Autobot, and thought the only way to be sure was to interrogate the only survivor of the attack. Except the Autobots didn’t know anything either.

And how could the government generate an energon signature in the first place?

“Agent,” Jack began, “how many NBEs are you aware of? I know Blackout is the ninth, but how many are currently active out there?”

“As far as we know, and excluding the ones you were seen with and Lennox's scorpion, just the one.”

“Well, not to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s a second one in orbit.”

“I’m sorry?” Fowler asked.

“Soundwave. An electronics warfare and intelligence specialist. A giant walking AWACS platform. Well, I presume he walks. Either way, he’s almost certainly in communication with Blackout. He’s why they noticed the weapons test—and he has three buddies with him.”

“Jesus,” Lennox muttered.

“And he’s up there,” Fowler said, slowly. “In orbit, in range of every satellite that we have.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

“Sweet Lady Liberty,” Fowler murmured. “Is there anything else we should know about, Darby?”

“Just that the Autobots are here to help us. Not only is Soundwave monitoring our telecommunications, we’ve got no way of reaching him with our weapons. Between that, and Blackout’s firepower and covert mobility, we need every bit of help we can get.”

“I’m sorry,” Lennox said, holding up a hand. “Autobots, Decepticons?”

“Think of them as good robots and bad robots,” Jack replied, thinking of Arcee’s words. “That’ll do for now. Look, Agent, we’re obviously on the same side here. You have to take me to Arcee. We can explain this was all a mistake.”

“Arcee?” Lennox asked.

“Sergeant,” Fowler began, “Simmons may be... a little strange, but he’s not wrong. Interacting with any NBE is as bad for your future as he claims.”

“He said treason. High treason. That implies they’re our enemies. With all due respect for your weird government black ops project, but she saved my life.”

“What’d you give them, son?”

Jack sighed. “Will you let the hostages go?”

“I’m sorry,” Lennox said, “Hostages?”

“I will do what I can, Sergeant. But the longer it takes for us to be playing the same ballgame, the harder it’s going to be to convince the Director.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “I gave them a journal. It belonged to an Archibald Witwicky. My friend Glen, he’s big into conspiracy theories. Witwicky wrote down these symbols that are alien—”

The door burst open. Another government suit stepped inside. Taller than Fowler or Simmons, and with an expression that was more dispassionate than either. Jack found himself wondering if Sector Seven had a strict six-foot height requirement.

“Director Banachek,” Fowler said.

Banachek’s expression did not shift. His face betrayed nothing. He was balding, with flinty blue eyes, and a neatly-trimmed brown mustache. He was staring at Jack, had been starting at him ever since he stepped through the door.

“All of you,” he said. “Come with me.”

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Simmons was still waiting outside. He fell into step with Banachek and the rest of them as Jack followed the Director out of the interrogation room and into a hallway. It was all concrete and metal, tight enough that the five of them felt like a crowd. It had the utilitarian feel of a nuclear bunker. Like Cheyenne Mountain.

“Just where are we?” Jack asked.

“That information is extremely classified,” Simmons hissed.

“Hoover Dam,” Banachek replied, without turning around.

“To be precise,” Simmons said, as if he hadn’t been overruled, “Area 50.”

Jack glanced at Lennox. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I really don’t know much more than you.”

They stepped into an elevator, rode it down. Banachek was silent and still, like he’d been carved from stone. If he noticed Jack looking at him, and Jack suspected he did, he gave no sign.

“Director, I’m sure you know what I’m about to ask—”

“We’ll discuss your motorcycle, Sergeant,” he replied. “But right now, there’s more pressing matters.” The elevator came to a stop and the doors hissed open. Banachek led the way out.

“All of you have had direct contact with the NBEs, which is why you’re accompanying me right now,” he said, walking through a wider, taller hall. Individuals in bright yellow hazmat gear hurried past them. Banachek paid them no mind, so, neither did Jack. But he’d never heard of a hydroelectric dam having hazmat teams.

They came to a heavy metal door. The sort of thing that reminded Jack of a bulkhead divider in a warship. Or from an old story, a threshold that separated worlds and not just rooms. Simmons stepped up and began entering a code into the keypad.

“What I’m about to show you is classified beyond Top Secret,” Banachek said. “Only the President, the upper echelons of Sector Seven, and those required to be in direct contact with what lies beyond this door know of its existence.” No threats, Jack noted, no warnings. The statement itself was danger enough.

The hydraulics of the door opening might as well have been a metallic scream. The first thing Jack noticed was the cold—a wave of frosty air swept over him, so cold that it felt just a few degrees removed from freezing the marrow in his bones. Like the door was a portal to the Antarctic. As he followed Banachek through, his breath frosted before him.

They stepped into a vast chamber, a flurry of activity and sound. Men and women calling status reports and checks, moving with clipped precision along gantries and catwalks. The mechanical hissing and grinding of machinery and power tools, and Jack caught the sharp tang of ozone in his nostrils, on his tongue. Like a whole hive of those yellow-clad hazmat teams, all of them working in the shadow of a pair of frozen-over pillars on the far side of the chamber. It was funny, Jack thought, just for a moment, those pillars almost look like—

And then he saw it, and he caught himself, and his blood froze over.

“Oh my God.”

Not pillars.

Legs. With massive, armored feet ending in two huge toes.

Jack turned his head upward, head spinning from the vertigo, the implication of what he was looking at. Like he was standing at the base of Mount Everest, and he’d felt the first tremors of an avalanche.

Sabatons, greaves, legs. A colossal humanoid form, armored and sleek and angular, wrapped in gantries and scaffolding, encased in what had to be a solid foot of ice. As if any of could bind him. A titan made for war, his right arm that harnessed the power of suns to murder gods of living metal...

A mind that would rule his world, or see it burnt to ashes around him.

"This," Director Banachek said, "is NBE-1."

Megatron.