The engine roared, prompting Ambassador Butler to hold on tightly to the handle mounted on the ceiling near the door of the police cruiser. He had been relegated to the entirely uncomfortable plastic back seat, General Tomlinson riding shotgun as a state trooper named Blake pressed the pedal to the metal. Radio chatter dancing atop the wailing of the siren gave him a headache to accompany the anxiety.
"He's a mile ahead." Tomlinson noted over the din as he examined the display of a GPS tracking unit he'd been cradling throughout the journey. "Remember, we must recover the payload -- at all costs."
Their early morning meeting at HQ had turned into a late-night goose chase on the highways of Mississippi. A long and heated conversation with The Council resulted in a new objective; the destruction of Polyphemus. Allowing it to fall into enemy hands was an unacceptable concept, and drawing Tomlinson's people into the war was something that Butler's contingent wasn't prepared to live with. The loss of the project would mean certain defeat, but that was more palatable than the alternatives. The potential cost of continuing with the mission as it was originally conceived was just too great to bare.
Tomlinson saw this change of intent as a defeat; something he wasn't at all used to. Although he was the most vocal about trying to see things through, he had to accept it and press on... no matter how much he hated the notion. The look and feel of success had been changed on him in the past, but accomplishing a secondary objective was never as satisfying as driving an operation through to its originally intended end.
After the video conference concluded, he and Butler had scoured the loading manifests in Oceanside to determine which of the fifty trucks on the road was actually pulling the payload. Once they had that information, they used data called in to Sunspot Logistics, a dummy company setup to facilitate the transfer, to locate the rig and the goods.
The driver in question had last checked in from a small town in Texas, but attempts to make further contact were unsuccessful. Luckily, the truck had been outfitted with an anti-theft system which allowed Tomlinson to track the vehicle via satellite.
They had boarded a Blackhawk and set out on a ride that terrified Butler, only to transfer to this super-charged police interceptor and continue the nightmare. The goal was to take Polyphemus into custody and to escort it to Keesler Air Force Base, where it would be meet with its fate; an underwater nuclear warhead 'test' off the Gulf Coast. It would be quite a show for the uninitiated... those who didn't understand what the explosion represented.
"Half a mile now." The General gave as an update.
Years of effort flashed before The Ambassador's eyes as he considered what would be the epitaph of a project meant to turn the tide of war. He hadn't been made privy to all of the details, as the threat of defectors was always real. What was public about the moment of discovery, though, had brought so much hope; a chance to survive where before there had been only the looming shadow of death.
The subsequent research had inspired the greatest minds to come together for the sake of their kind; a call to arms that rallied all who still drew breath. The birth of Polyphemus had been almost biblical in nature... an event beheld by millions of his people in the rays of a rising sun on the horizon of destiny.
They had been told it couldn't be stopped... that the pieces had fit together just as expected. The wheels were in motion, salvation at hand... but then it all came crashing down -- literally.
The Council said it was a simple miscalculation... a mathematical error made in the excitement of the moment that went unchallenged despite being checked, rechecked and then reviewed again. After all the struggle, all the secrecy, all of the promises... after all that his people had fought and persevered through, the whole thing fell apart at the stroke of a misguided pen.
There was little doubt that it would prove to be the final blow; the last nail in a coffin prepared ages ago for a corpse that simply hadn't been convinced that it was dead yet. They had sought to prevent the inevitable, and they had failed. There would be no eureka moment; no last hurrah to change the landscape. They had hoped to stand up and shout, but instead they would lay down and die quietly -- the only last words spoken on their behalf amounting to the whisper of didn't we almost have it all?
He didn't know whether to feel pride in the noble act of destroying it before it caused a larger problem, or shame at the knowledge that it could've gone so much differently.
"There it is!" The General exclaimed, pointing to a pastel blue trailer in the distance. "Let's get it pulled over. Ambassador, get on the horn with Keesler and tell them to be prepared to receive us within the hour. I want this thing in the Gulf and ready to blow within a half hour of our pulling through the gate."
Butler did as asked as Officer Blake raced the cruiser up behind the rig. He jumped one lane over to the left and pulled alongside the tractor, giving a few chirps of the siren before addressing the driver over the vehicle's loudspeaker.
"Pull over to the shoulder." He advised, his voice echoing through the clammy night's air.
The truck continued on, showing no signs of slowing or adjusting its trajectory. General Tomlinson could only make out a faint silhouette of the pilot at the wheel in the darkened cab, the figure not so much as looking over at the speeding interceptor.
The traffic on the freeway was light, all of the other motorists slowing and moving aside to clear the path. It had to be clear to the trucker that the commands were for him, but he made no effort to obey.
"Driver of the blue truck!" Blake continued. "Pull your vehicle over to the shoulder immediately by order of the State Highway Patrol!"
"What the hell is he doing?" Tomlinson barked.
After rolling on for nearly another half mile, it was clear that something was terribly wrong. This driver wasn't waiting to find the safest possible place to move out of the path of traffic; he was blatantly disobeying the orders given to him in the name of the law.
The General rolled his window down, exposing the passengers to the fury of the air blowing by at seventy miles an hour. Unbuckling his seat belt, he lifted his elderly frame so that the majority of his torso was hanging out over the door.
"Pull over!" He shouted through the torrent of noise and whipping wind as he pointed towards the right side of the road.
"I don't like this, General." Butler shouted from the back.
Foregoing any further attempts at diplomatic persuasion, Tomlinson reached for the pistol he brought along and pointed it up to the sky. He squeezed off two warning shots before leveling the barrel in the direction of the driver.
"Now, driver!"
Suddenly the truck swerved towards them, the front quarter-panel of the cruiser being assaulted by the running boards of the massive tractor. Tomlinson dropped back into the car like a sack full of bricks to avoid being crushed, his arm narrowly escaping what would've been a horrific amputation. Officer Blake did an expert job in maintaining control after the impact, establishing a considerably wider buffer of space between the speeding missiles of steel.
"God damn it!" The General grunted, adjusting his position so that he could get a solid aim on their attacker -- from inside the car, this time.
"Dispatch, he's tried to take us out!" Blake cried into his radio. "We need more units now, request deployment of spike strips at the forty-eight mile marker!"
Four more rounds sounded off in rapid succession, the window of the truck shattering as lead violated the cab. The eighty-thousand pound death machine bolted towards them again, Blake yanking the car off onto the left shoulder to evade.
The trucker made his intentions clear, drilling them into the concrete barrier with the full force of his rig. A shower of sparks erupted at the sound of metal grinding against stone, Butler cowering in the back with his hands over his head. The car was forced up onto its two right wheels as the wall tried to steer it back towards its own side of the freeway, driving it against the truck with incredible force ins
tead.
Blake released the gas pedal, the cruiser slowing as the truck drug along the passenger side. Eventually they were free of the squeeze-play, the rear of the trailer passing by and allowing Blake an opportunity to regain control of what was left of the vehicle. Tomlinson leaned out the window once more, firing several shots at the back end of the truck as it whipped violently across all lanes of the road.
Both mirrors had been sheared off, and the cab seemed a bit more compact than it had been before. The ride was rough now, something in the suspension clearly damaged and making the vehicle difficult to handle. Blake was able to continue in the pursuit, but he wouldn't likely be taking any chances in getting near the truck again.
"He's trying to kill us out here!" The officer informed dispatch. "This son of a bitch is crazy!"
A second cruiser had spilled onto the interstate via an entrance ramp and took the point in the chase.
"Unit two-two-nine on scene, request permission to disable the vehicle." An officer called over the radio.
Tomlinson unceremoniously snatched the mic from the dash and shouted orders. "This is General Tomlinson of the United States Army - you have permission on my authority; stop that damned truck!"
An officer rose out of the passenger window in similar manner to that which Tomlinson had employed, sitting on the door as he took aim at the truck with a shotgun over the roof of his car. A brilliant muzzle-flash signaled his first shot, the deafening report coming after. It was a direct hit, one of the trailer's rear tires exploding and sending chunks of rubber flying through smoke, back towards Blake's vehicle. A second shot found its mark as well, the trailer dropping onto its rims and sending a golden halo of fiery rain out behind it.
The truck slowed, allowing the undamaged cruiser to gain ground on it until it was side-by-side with the tractor. The gunman prepared to fire on the steer tire when the trucker made another kamikaze move, slamming the rig against the pursuing vehicle. The interceptor was hurled off to the right like a fly swatted at with a heavy hand. Forced onto the embankment in the worst possible place, it met up with the lead-in to a guard rail that sent it up into an end-over-end cartwheel.
The officer hanging out the window was tossed into the sky where he put on a dismount that would impress the most notable gymnasts, his crazy ride coming to an abrupt end as he slammed to the ground head-first. A pillar of flame lit the night when the car exploded at its own impact with terra firma, Butler looking out of the rear window in horror at the scene.
"Target vehicle in sight." Another voice called over the CB. "Deploying spikes."
Blake slowed the crunched cruiser at the sight of another unit on the shoulder. A man near it made a tossing motion, a myriad of pops telling the tale of sixteen more tires deflating suddenly.
"He's over the strip, all tires down."
The trailer danced around the road like a drunken ballerina for a moment before it jack-knifed to the right, the rear end overtaking the front and folding the tractor like a piece of paper. The cavalry rolled in just in time, several more sets of flashing lights appearing behind Blake and the boys as they cautiously approached the crippled behemoth.
Tomlinson was out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, running faster than anyone would assume he could towards the wrecked truck. Butler watched from his seat as Blake leapt from the car as well, drawing his weapon and assuming an imposing stance behind the door. Through the smoke he saw the driver's door of the tractor swing open, a shadowy figure stepping out of the carnage and standing on the crumpled running board.
A beam of concentrated white light flooded the truck as several cars trained their spot-lamps on it. The individual revealed by the glow was the stuff of nightmares; a woman with a thick mane of curly hair accentuating a pale and haggard face. She smiled at the field of troopers as her eyes seemed to reflect the light, a pair of hot-violet beams bouncing back towards the gathered force of good.
She surveyed the scene from side to side, rotating her head slowly and menacingly with ill intent in her glowing eyes. When she suddenly spoke, her voice boomed over the smoky air as though amplified by the power of evil. The tone was feminine, but there was a sinister cackle to it as though she had gargled bits of broken glass and rinsed with caustic acid.
"You will not have Polyphemus!" She shouted. "You ALL shall DIE like the fleas that you are!" She spun around quickly, pulling a rifle of her own from inside the truck and taking aim at the crowd.
"Drop her!" The General barked as he opened fire, a hailstorm of bullets tearing flesh and sheet metal asunder through a salvo of booms.
The blue truck was painted red with her blood as she collapsed and took a tumble all the way to the concrete, where she lay motionless. More shots riddled her downed body, the General finally calling off the assault before pausing to see if she would rise.
With no signs of life, Tomlinson moved in hastily, his gun still trained on her body as he stepped over her. He used one hand to check for a pulse in her neck as the other remained poised to shoot, holding steady in a tense moment of uncertainty.
After what seemed like an eternity had passed, he holstered his weapon, looking to the sky with a sense of relief as he spoke. "She's dead... somebody get something to open the trailer with. Butler, get your ass out here."
The Ambassador was overcome with terror but did what was expected of him, moving into position at the rear of the truck as an officer prepared to shoot the bolt-seal off of the door. Once he had done it Butler surveyed the load, his heart sinking even further into his body than it had already been.
"Oh my God, Rich." He gasped. "This isn't the payload! We've got the wrong truck!"
"That's impossible!" Tomlinson returned. "This is definitely the truck listed on the manifest!"
"Then someone has unloaded it -- this isn't the payload!"
The General stormed over to examine the load as well, seeing only steel girders and hunks of rock strewn about under a heavy layer of ice chips. This was, indeed, a decoy. He picked up a piece of the seal that had been blasted off and examined the numbers emblazoned on it, comparing them to a note he carried in his pocket.
"It was the right seal -- no one opened this trailer. This is exactly the load that it left Oceanside with."
"So, what does that mean?" Butler asked, confused.
"Someone's been dicking around with the records, that's what... our operation has been compromised; they're working on the inside."
"Jesus, Rich -- does this mean that we don't know where Polyphemus is?"
"I'm afraid so, Ambassador... but what's worse is it means that they do!"
"If they get their hands on it, General..."
"I know, I know! We have to get back to headquarters and assess our situation -- see if we can salvage this God forsaken mission before it's too late." He marched back to the corpse of the woman and kicked her over, turning her body to look into her purple eyes. "At least we learned something valuable here tonight... we can kill them... in this form, they die just like we do."
Chapter 11