Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection Read online

  Pope glanced at Pilcher, who broke out laughing. Even Pope joined in for a few muffled expressions of amusement.

  “No wonder you’re not the least bit interested in learning about the outside! You’re not convinced any of this is real!”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” said Hassler, balancing his muscles for the quick series of movements required to disable Pope.

  “Ha! I underestimated you, Adam. You’re far more intelligent than any of your test scores indicate. Everybody asked about the outside, but nobody demanded to see it with their own eyes.”

  “I think Mr. Hassler’s circumstances—”

  “Take it easy, Arnold. I’m not impugning your intelligence. You, of all people, had no reason to doubt my word.”

  Pope didn’t catch the insult buried in Pilcher’s words.

  “I’d like to see it,” said Hassler.

  “Of course. We can take a trip right now,” he said, turning to Pope. “Inform Alan that we are headed topside.”

  “Right away,” said Pope.

  Chapter 7

  A freight elevator in the warehouse took them to an interior hangar, where two men in grey coveralls worked on a partially dismantled, bronze-painted utility helicopter. He had no idea what type, but it looked familiar. Definitely not a military bird, but big enough to fly his proposed team around. Why the fuck was he conducting ground reconnaissance if they had a helicopter? Pilcher must have read the question on his face.

  “The entire superstructure was kept in as close to a vacuum state as possible for most of the eighteen hundred years, but certain materials still degraded. Petroleum-based products like rubber and plastic suffered some brittleness, which isn’t a big deal on something like a television set or handheld radio. A helicopter is a different story altogether. The failure of any single component in flight could spell disaster. I kept duplicate parts for the helicopter under a separate vacuum-seal system, to ensure we’d have backups. It could take a month or more to inspect the entire helicopter and make the necessary replacements.”

  “No hurry on that one,” said Hassler.

  “Precisely,” said Pilcher.

  He led them up a metallic stairway to a platform near the roof. A keycard-operated door stood in the corner of the platform. Once through, they climbed a short ladder to a circular hatch with a wheel. Pope spun the wheel several turns until the hatch hissed, and the green light next to the ladder turned yellow. He pushed the metal hatch open, bathing them in sunlight. Cold air rushed inside, and Hassler found himself instinctively hesitant to breathe. Releasing his paranoia, he took several deep breaths. Incredible.

  “A little windy and brisk, but otherwise a gorgeous day. Welcome to the year 3813.”

  They climbed into the open, buffeted by the wind. He’d never experienced acrophobia, but the combination of heights and a stiff wind caused him to tense. After a few moments, he realized there was no chance of the breeze carrying him over the side. He followed Pope and Pilcher until a sea of fog opened in front of them. Most of the Wayward Pines site was blocked from their view, with patches of dark green opening and closing randomly.

  “I’m afraid it might not be the conclusive proof you’re seeking, but I assure you that Wayward Pines is not down there. Unfortunately, we’re plagued by fog this time of the year. Warmer, spring air starts to push down the canyon,” he said, pointing southwest, “and hits the cold air pocket trapped in Wayward Pines. It typically clears up by early May, give or take a week.”

  “I believed you as soon as Pope opened the hatch. The air is different.”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “Will the surveyor be able to take line of sight measurements?” said Hassler.

  “Most of the fog occurs at treetop level. At least that’s what it was like before the final crew went into suspension.”

  “How much time do I have to train the team?”

  “The team has all the training they need. They were handpicked for this job. I need you on the ground tomorrow morning. We don’t have another day to spare,” said Pilcher.

  Of course. He didn’t like the idea of infiltrating an unfamiliar environment with an unproven team, but what choice did he have?

  “Was I handpicked too?”

  “You sort of fell in my lap. Let’s just say that I was pleased when you asked to come along.”

  I bet you were. It saved you from having to kill another federal agent.

  Chapter 8

  Hassler met his team an hour later in a vacant conference room within the operation section. Their guarded postures, reinforced by his observations in the cafeteria, gave Hassler the distinct impression that they were mostly strangers. Like him, they had all eaten alone, except for the middle-aged couple holding hands. Pilcher may have handpicked this crew for the initial site survey, but they weren’t a team. The word clusterfuck came to mind. Maybe he was letting too much of his military rigor bleed into the equation. All they had to do was hike around for a day or two and avoid being eaten by mountain lions. Not exactly a difficult task.

  Pilcher led him to the back of the room and asked everyone to take their seats. Pam and Pope, ever present whenever their master appeared, slithered into place next to the door. He surveyed the group and made some guesses.

  —Dark-haired, crew-cut guy with thick musculature is ex-military. Something on the fringes of Special Operations. Too many muscles for a Tier One operator. Possibly Tier Two. Security.

  —Shoulder-length, sandy-haired guy with angular face looks ex-military. Lean, muscular physique. Something about the intensity of his blue eyes confirms this assumption. Security.

  —Female. Late twenties with blond dreadlocks. Tanned, weathered skin. Thousand-yard stare. Climber.

  —Male. Hispanic, close-cropped black hair. Tall, thin frame. Technical support. Surveyor or biologist.

  —Male. Soft Asian features. Slightly overweight. Brown, thick-rimmed glasses strapped to head. Bored look. Biologist. Other guy is surveyor.

  —Male and female couple. Rings. Married. Late thirties with basic haircuts. Premature wrinkles. Worked outdoors. Sad, intelligent eyes.

  They had carried some serious baggage across two millennia. He didn’t like the idea of a damaged, married couple on the team, no matter how simple the operation sounded. Whatever they had done to wind up on Pilcher’s recruitment list would surface between them at some point—with devastating consequences. Pilcher kicked off the introductions.

  “Team, I’d like to introduce you to the team leader, Adam Hassler. Mr. Hassler spent ten years on active duty, split between the 75th Ranger Regiment and Delta Force. He might be slightly overqualified for the survey team,” he said, drawing out a few laughs from the group.

  “Everyone here received three weeks of tactical training before suspension, qualifying in small arms marksmanship, small unit tactics, cover and concealment—the basics. I don’t anticipate anyone will have to put those skills to use, but I feel more comfortable with enough ex-military to tip the balance in case the local fauna has taken on a more capable and hostile face over the past eighteen hundred years. Anything you bump into out there likely hasn’t come across a humanoid form in a thousand years. Their instinctual fear of humans may have long ago devolved, which is why I’m putting a former Delta Force officer, Marine Special Operations sergeant and a Green Beret into the woods with the rest of you.”

  “That’s an impressive lineup,” said the Hispanic man.

  “The entire team is impressive. Let me make the introductions. Raymond Diaz is our land surveyor. He has extensive experience laying out master-planned communities in southern California. Once you get to the former Wayward Pines site, Raymond will go to work on a rough orientation of the town. Five to six hours of work, you estimate?”

  “At the most. If we have more time at the site, I’ll keep measuring,” said Diaz.

  Pilcher nodded. “Perfect. You’ll work with Victor Nguyen, our resident geologist, to find the survey markers buri
ed under the school and determine the suitability of the various major building sites. Victor will utilize a modified Betsy Seisgun to map the subsurface. We can’t afford to drop a bulldozer through the roof of an intact, hollow structure from the past.

  “Dean and Kris Stewart will analyze the flora and fauna, passing on their observations. Kris has a Master’s Degree in Biology from Boise State, with an emphasis in botany. Dean has a biology degree from Washington State, focusing on zoology. The Stewarts have studied Idaho mountain biomes together for a decade. They’ll be your go-to source if you find any abnormally large footprints in the snow.”

  The room stayed quiet for a second before Dean Stewart chuckled.

  “I know. I have an extremely dry sense of humor. That was a Sasquatch joke. At least someone got it,” said Pilcher.

  “Next is Courtney Graves. She’s your climber. If you need to examine something in a hard-to-reach spot on the cliffs, I think you’ll find her skills infinitely useful.”

  Graves just nodded, seemingly uncommitted to her place on the team.

  “That leaves your security crew. Seth King, Marine Special Operation,” he said, pointing to the muscle guy, “and Erik Larsen. Army Special Forces.”

  Both ex-military guys stared him down, as expected. He didn’t have time to earn their respect, so he would resort to rank if tested.

  “Thank you, David. You’ve handed me an extremely capable group,” he said, hoping everyone had caught the subtleties of this statement.

  “I’ll leave you to outfit the team. Plan for forty-eight hours out of the superstructure. The Stewarts can help you select weather-appropriate gear. They ran a mountain expedition guide operation up near Nez Perce. My assistants, Pam and Arnold, can fill in the gaps. Once you’ve selected and assembled your gear, stage everything in the bins near the entrance. Arnold will then escort you to the armory, which is at the far end of the storage room. You’ll select load-outs to be issued tomorrow morning. Final briefing is at 0630, at the entrance to the tunnel. Cafeteria opens at 0600. They’re all yours,” said Pilcher, abruptly walking toward the door.

  He stared at the faces boring into him and wondered how each of them had been “saved” by their new Messiah. Oddly enough, this crew didn’t look like they were ready to throw themselves at Pilcher’s feet. He detected something different. Sadness.

  “Lead the way,” said Hassler, nodding at Pope, who visibly bristled and glared at him.

  “To the equipment room. Please.”

  Chapter 9

  An unmarked door across from the Operations Center led to a sizable room. By Hassler’s calculation, the secondary storeroom occupied at least half of the length of the corridor. A rough pacing count along the dormitory and cafeteria levels indicated that each hallway measured a hundred yards.

  The ceilings matched the rest of the facility and featured the same unappealing fluorescent lights. Ten yards deep, the space held at least a dozen rows of warehouse-quality, floor-to-ceiling shelving units, each packed with neatly stenciled, clear plastic bins. Hooks affixed to the walls displayed an endless array of personal gear for any climate and condition—tents, backpacks, jackets, climbing gear, tools.

  “Why don’t we split into two groups? Arnold and Kris can take the military crew. Pam and Dean have the rest. Grab non-job-specific items first and dump them in your bin. Then go back for the tools of your trade. I assume everyone has a list of specific gear required for their jobs?”

  “My list is pretty extensive,” said Nguyen, exacting a nod of agreement from Diaz.

  “We’ll distribute your gear to even out the load,” said Hassler. “Everyone good?”

  Everyone looked agreeable, except Pilcher’s lackeys. Hassler saw a storm brewing between these two. One of them would have to play second fiddle to the other—eventually. He didn’t see either of them giving up the number one slot without a fight.

  An hour later, they gathered outside the armory. Pope eyed him warily and inserted his keycard, opening the door and activating the lights. King and Larsen crowded behind Hassler to get the first look at the superstructure’s arsenal.

  “Jesus Christ,” said King.

  “Whoa,” uttered Larsen.

  “Is Mr. Pilcher expecting an invasion?” said Hassler, stepping by Pope to investigate the arsenal.

  Steel racks mounted to the floor in the middle of the armory held a familiar array of assault rifles, divided evenly between .223 and .308 variants. Whoever selected the final weapons load-out had stuck to models readily available on the civilian market, though he suspected all of these had been converted to fully automatic. A quick examination of selector switches on the nearest rifles confirmed it. Without conducting a detailed inventory, he counted more than a hundred rifles nestled into place on the racks. A few were missing. King and Larsen slipped into the room and started inspecting the hardware while the others hung back in the storage area. The civilian types didn’t look comfortable crossing the armory threshold.

  “Everyone is trained in the use of these weapons?” said Hassler.

  “You heard Mr. Pilcher,” said Pope.

  “I was looking for more of a conversation. Courtney?” he said, sticking his head through the door.

  “What?” she said.

  “Which of these have you qualified to shoot?” he said, inviting her into the room.

  “All of them. It was a requirement.”

  “Even the .308s?” said Hassler.

  “I don’t think you’ll need the .308s,” said Pam.

  “Really? I didn’t realize you were a weapons specialist in a former life, Pam. I thought you were a college student. Northwestern?” he said, watching her confidence falter for a second.

  “.308 seems like overkill,” she insisted.

  “For what? A rabid fox? How about a bear? Ever see a bear up close? Tell her about it, Dean.”

  “A .223 would just piss it off,” said Dean Stewart.

  “Grizzlies were extinct in this mountain range,” countered Pam.

  “I wonder why?” said Hassler, turning to Dean.

  “They were hunted into extinction in the Sawtooth Ranges. A small population existed in northern Idaho in 2013.”

  “Guess who hasn’t been around to fuck with the bears for a couple thousand years. I thought they taught analytical thinking in college?” said Hassler.

  Pam was close to exploding. No twitchy eyes, clenched fists or murderous stare—just a palpable tension he’d learned to read after hundreds of military field interrogations and law enforcement interviews. He’d found her Achilles’ heel, which he’d use to unbalance her if they ever squared off.

  “I’m taking one of the MK12s chambered in .308. I’ll defer to Larsen and King for their own load-outs. Graves should take a short-barreled .223 for climbing. Diaz and Nguyen, I recommend a SCAR with folding stock.”

  “What about one of those?” he said, pointing to a wall holding a few dozen submachine guns. The rifles kicked the shit out of my shoulder,” said Diaz.

  “Me too,” added Nguyen.

  “They’re supposed to hurt. Imagine what it feels like on the other end. Submachine guns are for personal defense in my book,” said Hassler.

  “Tell that to a 9mm round hitting your head,” said Pam.

  “Try hitting me in the head with that 9mm round at 500 feet. Everyone but Graves goes .308. I suspect many of you couldn’t hit the broadside of Pope’s ass at 100 feet, so you’ll need to pack as much punch as possible into that one lucky shot.”

  Pam smirked in front of Pope, which reddened his mottled face under the harsh industrial lighting. Those two are going to kill each other before they get the fucking town built. He’d make sure of it.

  “Larsen. King. Full tactical rig with pistol. Max ammo. Medium-range optics. NVGs.”

  “Got it,” they responded.

  “The rest of you will carry four magazines in an easily accessible pouch. We’ll help you get that squared away. Pistols are optional. If you need
a quick refresher on how to work the action on any of this gear, please ask. A few days at Pilcher’s shoot ’em up gallery aren’t enough to create proficiency.”

  “We had professionals train everyone,” said Pope. “I was one of them.”

  “How many days did you spend on firearms, Dean?” said Hassler.

  The husband and wife duo stepped through the doorway like they expected to catch fire upon entering.

  “Four days.”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t expect trouble out there, but you might want to ask your questions now. Raising your hand in the middle of a grizzly attack isn’t likely to accomplish anything beyond getting your hand torn off.”

  He got a few nervous laughs from the group.

  “Ammo?” he said, directing the question at Pope.

  “Tell us how many mags you need, and we’ll provide them tomorrow morning at the exit hatch,” said Pope.

  Interesting. Pilcher doesn’t fully trust this group. He didn’t like the implications.

  “Wrong answer,” said Larsen.

  “Excuse me?” said Pope, taking a step toward the ex-Green Beret.

  Larsen cocked his head slowly, examining Pope with the kind of interest one devotes to a collection of shitty paintings at a local outdoor craft fair.

  “He’s one hundred percent right, Arnold. We load our own mags. End of discussion. If Pilcher doesn’t like it, he can survey the fucking site himself,” said Hassler.

  “I don’t see why this is a big deal?”

  “Ever pack your own parachute?” said Hassler.

  “No. I’m not into extreme sports.”

  “Neither am I. I did it for Uncle Sam. Once you pack your own chute, you never let anyone else pack it. Too much at stake. Am I right?” he said.

  Larsen, King and Graves nodded, smiling.

  “You don’t trust us to load your magazines?” said Pam.

  “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of assurance and confidence. Big difference.”

  “I’ll need to talk to Pilcher,” said Pope.

  “Do whatever you need to do. Shouldn’t be a big deal since nothing leaves the armory, right?”