Whistling Past the Graveyard Page 7

  “All these years…digging…”

  His eyes were suddenly wild.

  “Has…has…the sound been getting louder all these years?”

  Granny nodded. “Every night.”

  “’Every night,’” echoed Joshua. He stood his ground, not knocked back by the ring of the pickaxes this time. Granny thought that either he had found his nerve or he had lost it entirely.

  “I ‘spect one of these days they’ll dig theyselves out of that hole.” She paused. “Out of Hell.”

  The picks rang in the night.

  Again and again.

  Then there was a cracking sound. Rock breaking off. Or breaking open.

  Joshua and Granny listened.

  No more sounds of pickaxes.

  There were just the moans.

  Louder now. Clearer.

  So much clearer.

  “God…” whispered Joshua.

  “God had nuthin’ to do with the collapse,” said Granny. “And I expect he’s got nuthin’ to do with this.”

  The moans rode the night breeze.

  So loud and clear.

  Author’s Note on “Flint and Steel”

  Max Brooks wrote one of the landmark zombie novels of all time, World War Z. I know Max and he’s a cool cat and a talented writer. When he reached out and asked if I wanted to write a story for an anthology he was editing, I said sure before I even asked what it was. Turns out he was not editing a zombie book. Max was editing an anthology of novellas set in the world of GI Joe. Yeah, that GI Joe.

  Understand, when I was a kid (I’m older than Max) GI Joe was twelve inches high, fought in World War II, and hadn’t even gotten his legendary kung-fu grip. I’d never played with the smaller and more sci-fi Joe characters. So I wound up getting a ton of toys and comics in the mail, and sat like a happy, overgrown kid playing with them and learning about the world of the Joes, while binge-watching the cartoons. I had a blast…and it was work related so, you know, it wasn’t me having a second childhood. Ahem.

  Max did not want kid stories, though. He wanted edgy, weird-science action thrillers. So that’s what I wrote.

  Flint and Steel: A Story of GI Joe

  -1-

  “The Island”

  High Security R&D Facility

  Near Area 51, Nevada

  It was all coming apart. Gunfire tore holes in the night. There were screams and the constant rattle of automatic gunfire. Fires burst through the roofs of a dozen buildings sending showers of sparks into the sky so that it looked like the stars themselves were dying and falling.

  Flint ran fast and low, using hard cover instead of shadows, moving from tree to rock to wall, his pattern random and unsymmetrical. He was hurt, he knew that much. The warmth running down the inside of his clothes wasn’t all sweat. He could smell the sharp copper tang of his own blood.

  His blood and the blood of others.

  Doc. Law. Scarlett, too. God knew how many others. In his mind all he could see was blood.

  Blood…and those things.

  He ran and ran, his breath burning in his lungs.

  He stumbled and went down, hitting chest-first and sliding, tasting sand in his mouth. He came to rest in the middle of the east parade ground. Exposed, vulnerable.

  The screams began to die away. They did not fade like volume turned down on an iPod. They were cut off. Sharply, abruptly, in time with new bursts of gunfire.

  Flint felt his consciousness begin to fade as fatigue or damage took hold of him.

  “No,” he mumbled, spitting sand out of his mouth. “No!”

  If he passed out now, he knew that he would never wake up. Not in this world. They would find him. Find him and tear him apart.

  He tried to get to his hands and knees, but weakness and nausea swept through him.

  “No!” he growled, louder this time, and the harshness in his own voice put steel into his muscles. He rose, inch by agonizing inch until he was upright on his knees.

  In the distance he could hear one of them coming.

  A metallic clang, the squeak of treads.

  How far? A hundred yards? Less?

  Flint set his teeth and tried to get to his feet. No way he was going to die like this. If this was his last firefight, then by God he was not going out on his knees.

  Pain flared in his side. He couldn’t remember what had hit him. Bullets? Shrapnel?

  It didn’t matter; he forced one leg up, thumped his right foot on the ground, jammed the stock of his M5 on the ground, and pushed.

  It was like jacking up a tank.

  He rose slowly, slowly.

  The squeak of the treads was closer. All of the screams had stopped.

  Even the gunfire seemed to have died away.

  “No!” he snarled and heaved.

  He got to his feet and the whole world spun around him. He almost fell. It nearly ended right there, but Flint took an awkward sideways step and caught his balance.

  The world steadied.

  The squeak of treads was close. So close. Too close.

  Flint turned.

  It was there. Massive, indomitable against the firelit columns of smoke. It rolled to a stop ten feet away and with a hiss of hydraulics the black mouths of twin 7.62 caliber miniguns swung toward him. He raised his own gun.

  The miniguns could fire more than four thousand rounds per minute, per gun.

  He wasn’t sure he could even pull the trigger.

  Flint bared his bloody teeth in a grin that defied the machine, defied logic, and defied the certainty of death that towered over him.

  “Go Joe!” he yelled.

  And fired.

  -2-

  “The Island”―Conference Room #3

  Three Hours Ago

  “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  Dr. Allyn Prospero tossed the sheet of paper onto the table with a dismissive flick of his hand. The others at the table watched as the paper spun on a vagary of air and then slid halfway across the polished hardwood surface, coming to a stop almost perfectly equidistant between Prospero and the soldier. Then everyone looked from the paper to Chief Warrant Officer Dashiell Faireborn like spectators at a chess match.

  Faireborn―known as Flint among his fellow Joes―had a face like a stone. His jaw was square and set, his nose straight, his eyes as uncompromising as those of a hunting hawk. Flint did not look at the paper, but he tapped the table in front of it.

  “That’s an Executive Order,” he said quietly. “‘Comfort isn’t part of the standard phrasing.”

  “This is my project.”

  “That’s not what it says on the pink slip. The U.S. government pays for two thirds of this, and the rest of the light bill is paid for by NATO. You’re an employee,” said Flint, “not a stockholder.”

  Prospero was as resolute as Flint. “This project would not even exist without me. I am the project.”

  Flint almost smiled. Almost. “Well, that means you must have the same tattoo on your ass that I have on mine.”

  Prospero frowned.

  “‘Property of Uncle Sam,’” explained Doc Greer, who sat to Flint’s right. He grimaced. “A little military humor.”

  “I’m not a soldier. I don’t work for the Army, I don’t work for GI Joe, and I certainly don’t work for General Hawk.” He loaded that last name with enough acid to melt tank armor.

  “That’s true,” admitted Flint slowly. General Hawk had warned him that he and Prospero were old political sparring partners with a relationship closely resembling a mongoose and a cobra. “However,” he said, “you work for the DOD.”

  “I’m a private contractor,” replied Prospero sharply. “I am not a rah-rah supporter of the military machine. My work is designed to save American lives, not find new wars in which to discard them.”

  “You’re building war machines—” began Greer, but Prospero wheeled on him.

  “What I’m building will ultimately take humans out of the combat equation. Does anyone in Washingto
n actually read my reports?” When no one spoke, Prospero turned back to Flint. “Perhaps the real issue here is resistance in some quarters to projects that would deny certain persons the opportunity to pull triggers.”

  Flint said nothing for a moment. The small muscles at the corners of his jaw bunched and flexed. Before he could speak, Doc spoke. His voice was gentle, conciliatory.

  “This kind of debate isn’t productive, gentlemen,” he said. “Politics, ethics, and philosophy aside, the real truth is that we all answer to the man in the Oval Office. With the military budget coming under fire in the press and in Congress, the President needs to be able to justify the kinds of expenditures that have been allotted for Project Caliban.”

  “My reports are—”

  “Yes,” cut in Flint, “your reports are fine. Detailed, exhaustive, and to most of Congress, incomprehensible. There are no scientists in either the House or Senate, and what they don’t understand they won’t support. Sure, back in the Reagan years they’d line up to throw money at a project with a cool nickname, but nowadays everyone’s pinching pennies, and Department of Defense research projects are the first on the chopping block.”

  He bent forward and placed his forearms on the table.

  “Dr. Prospero, you’re not facing enemies here. I’m an advocate of your program. Hell, I’m an advocate of any program that will reduce the risk to men in the field. Cutting-edge drone programs like yours will save lives. American and Allied lives. Civilian lives, too. We all know that. But we need to have a clear evaluation statement that will convince Congress of that, or this program is going into mothballs. This isn’t a debate. The decision has been made by the President. NATO follows America’s lead when it comes to funding.”

  Prospero said nothing, but he pursed his lips, clearly thinking it through.

  “And more to the point, Doctor,” said Flint, “there is a long list of other projects begging for the kind of dollars you’ve been given. If there is any hint of resistance or obstruction on your part, the money train is going to get switched to a different track and within six months the only thing that will be in development out here will be tumbleweeds and cacti.”

  Flint knew that this had hit home with Prospero. This facility, codenamed ‘The Island,’ was really a bunch of buildings built into the unforgiving Nevada desert. Twenty years ago there were more than fifty active projects in development out here. Now there was Prospero’s team and a few ancillary projects. It was an enormously expensive facility to maintain and only results could keep the lab open.

  The doctor looked at the others seated around the table. There were three members of the Joe team present―Flint, team medical officer Dr. Carl ‘Doc’ Greer, and flame-haired Shana O’Hara whose call sign ‘Scarlett’ was hardly a ‘covert’ choice. None of them had shared their real names with the team here at the Island. Even though this was not a combat mission, General Hawk had ordered that only rank and call-signs be used. Part his policy of professional detachment.

  The others at the table were members of Prospero’s staff here at the Island. To his immediate left was Professor Elsbeth Miranda, once his most promising grad student during his days at MIT, then his protégé, and now the most valuable senior researcher on staff. Her knowledge of unmanned combat systems was only slightly less profound than his own. She was tall, slim, and had that blend of pale skin and foamy dark hair that usually made Flint’s heart flutter like a jazz drum solo. She wore a lipstick that was a shade too bold a red for this kind of meeting, and her blouse was unbuttoned one button too low to have been anything but a deliberate move to attract attention. At first Flint thought that she was a hot-blooded woman who was taking a rare chance to attract something other than lab-coated geeks; but as the meeting progressed he changed his view. Her attention was clearly―and entirely―focused on Prospero; and it was at once possessive and protective.

  Office romance, he wondered. A May-December thing…or a female predator laying claim to the alpha in her environment. Had to be something like that.

  And yet he knew that the lipstick and the abundant cleavage she had on display was for his benefit―his and the other Joes.

  A distraction? Sure. But to distract them from what?

  He quietly studied the other scientists. Like Miranda they were lions in their fields―microsystems, software integration, computer engineering, nanotechnology, artificial intelligence, and tactical weapons sciences. None of them, however, were on Prospero’s level, and probably not on Miranda’s either. They were strong members of a pack. And, like Miranda and Prospero, they resented outside intrusion of any kind, and evaluations in particular.

  However no one spoke. Everyone was aware of who the true alpha―at least in terms of scientific genius―was. Allyn Prospero had graduated from high school at age fourteen, college at sixteen, and had earned his first PhD at nineteen. Since then he had lost track of the many degrees, awards, and accolades he had collected in fifty years as the leading light in cybernetic combat. He had pioneered more new fields of study than anyone alive, and was named on over six hundred patents. He had four times been senior researcher on teams that won the Nobel Prize.

  Flint knew all of this. He had Prospero’s resume memorized. It was in the scary realm somewhere between ‘impressive’ and ‘freaky,’though Flint tended toward the latter category.

  Prospero sighed.

  “Very well,” he said heavily. “When do you want to begin?”

  Flint kept a smile off of his face. “Now would be good. Our weapons and equipment have all been off-loaded and should be set up out on the sand.”

  “What kind of equipment?”

  Flint spread his hands. “It would make a more effective and convincing test if you didn’t know ahead of time. And, let’s face it, the best way to guarantee the biggest slice of the pie from the budget committee would be for me to be able to tell them that I saw the system in full operation.”

  Professor Miranda shot Prospero a sharp look. “We’re weeks away from a practical test—”

  The scientist narrowed his eyes. There was some murmuring among his staff. None of them spoke directly to Prospero, though one or two bent close to whisper to Professor Miranda. After a moment’s consideration she and Prospero leaned their heads together and hid their mouths behind their hands to exchange a few covert words.

  Flint, Scarlett, and Doc exchanged quick looks, but did not comment.

  Prospero held up a placating hand. “If that’s what will get this over with and allow us to get back to work, Chief, then I think we can provide a demonstration that will satisfy any Doubting Thomases.”

  Miranda furrowed her brow at him. “You mean…Caliban?”

  Prospero smiled. “Yes,” he drawled. “I think Caliban would provide a very adequate demonstration of our potential.”

  Miranda studied him for a moment, and then she, too, smiled.

  -3-

  “What was all that about?” asked Scarlett once the team of scientists had filed out of the conference room.

  Flint leaned back in his chair and blew out his cheeks.

  “Hell if I know. Spooky bunch, every last one of them.”

  Doc said, “Prospero’s oddly aggressive for someone whose ultimate goal is the end of war.”

  Scarlett closed the door and parked a shapely haunch on the corner of the table. “Prospero would make a wonderful mad scientist. Give him a white cat and a hollowed-out volcano and he’s all set.”

  Flint grunted. “When you’re that far out on the cutting edge a little eccentricity is expected.”

  “Scary smart,” agreed Scarlett.

  “Speaking of scary,” said Doc. “Did you catch the mood dynamics of that team? There’s a weird pecking order there. Prospero almost never looks at them. He looks at Professor Miranda, and she relays Prospero’s moods through her own expressions and body language to the rest of the team. They in turn make quiet comments to her, and she conveys some of the comments to Prospero. Like a filtering
process.”

  “He doesn’t deign to speak to the little people?” suggested Scarlett.

  “So it seems.”

  Flint shrugged. “Runaway ego is also pretty common with guys in his class. I’m not really worried about whether he rules his staff with an iron fist. It’s an extension of the university model, so he probably picked that up at MIT. He was top dog there, too.” He glanced at the closed door. “No, what concerns me is how possessive he is about this.”

  “Surely that’s pretty common too among top researchers,” said Doc. “Especially guys pioneering their own fields.”

  “Maybe,” Flint said dubiously, “but it comes off more as arrogant and secretive. I could accept that a bit easier with an egghead running a software lab―you know, fear that someone else will copy the idea and rush another version to market. Happens all the time in the gaming industry. Can’t say I’m fond of seeing it in a weapons designer working for us.”

  Scarlett stood up. “I know what you’re saying, Flint. Prospero’s attitude has been noticed. Duke said as much during our briefing. It’s not just the viability of the program that’s under the microscope.”

  “No joke,” nodded Doc. “Last thing we need is an actual mad scientist going off the rails with forty billion dollars’ worth of automated killing machines that only he knows how to control.”

  It wasn’t meant as a joke, and no one laughed.

  Flint got to his feet. “Okay…we asked for a demonstration. Let’s go see what he has.”

  -4-

  “The Island”―Dead Lake Testing Area

  Dr. Prospero stood in the middle of the empty desert, surrounded by red flares that burst above him like fireworks and drifted down to encircle him like one of the rings of hell. As each new flare burst the scientist could see the clouds of white phosphorous smoke hanging in the sky, and then as the flares drifted down on their tiny chutes the sky above him faded again to utter blackness.