CHAPTER 34
Bauman
One man to rule them all, thought Bauman, and my private army will see to it.
Snuggling into his plush leather chair, he smiled at the man reflected in the wall mirror. He would soon be the most powerful person on Earth with an arsenal befitting a small country. He stood and checked himself in the mirror. Aside from his slight paunch, the maroon tunic and black pants made him appear strong and fit. He adjusted his wide ebony belt and straightened his sidearm.
Ready.
His walk down the long hallway past the crew’s quarters and the mess hall. He reached the lounge and stopped; his gaze went beyond the OPC and all the way into the cockpit. The ten men aboard were performing perfectly and, considering the minor setback, everything was going well.
“Sir!” said Rick, his voice up a notch. “Two G-5 Eagle jets are demanding we head for Area 51 in Nevada. What are your orders?”
“What?” asked Bauman, shocked. How in the world did they find us?
He furtively glanced between the portholes. The two jets were flying on both sides of them in escort formation.
Not me!
He hurried to the OPC and pressed a speaker button above Rick’s head.
“This is General Theodore Bauman, Secretary of Defense. To whom am I speaking?”
“Captain Brian Daniels, Sir. Our orders are to escort you to Area 51. Do you comply?”
“No!” said Bauman. “We do not comply! Our mission is of absolute secrecy, and you’re blowing it to pieces. Return to your base! That’s an order!”
There was silence. Were they onto him? It didn’t matter; it ended here.
“Our orders come directly from the President,” said Daniels. “We are to escort you to Area 51. Do you comply?”
Bauman refused to answer. He was aware of the procedure; they had to ask him three times for compliance, and if the response was negative or mute, they’d use physical force. He turned to Rick.
“Launch Streamer Jaunt.”
“Aye, Sir.”
Bauman heard the hum of the doors opening beneath the aircraft. Two thumping sounds vibrated the floor. Rick’s monitor showed nebulous yellow balls bursting from below the jet laterally. The Eagles tried to swerve away but were hit broadside. Sparks and bolts of electricity engulfed the vessels, then faded away in streaks of light.
Bauman went to the lounge area and sat in a chair, observing the two jets struggle in the air. Nothing would save them, not even their ejection seats. Rina’s virus was the best. The aircrafts swayed side-to-side, their engines sputtering to the many attempts by the pilots to ignite them. Slowly the noses of the jets slid earthward and they started their descent. Their speed increased as they plummeted towards the water below, spinning wildly. The high-pitched whirring sounds decreased with distance from the DD-10, until the two crafts crashed into the Caribbean Sea.
He rested back, concerned. Rick had initiated the jamming frequencies of this DD-10, yet no alarm sounded a breach. Was it sabotage? Did Larson know about Blythen? The Mariana?
“Sir!” said Rick, frantically typing. “The missiles have vanished!”
Bauman jumped out of his seat and dashed to Rick’s side.
“What is going on here?” he said, looking over Rick’s shoulder. “Four nuclear missiles just don’t disappear.”
Without any warning, the jet went dark; all power had turned off. Bauman heard the whine of the engines shutting down. Alarms and red emergency lights blinked on throughout the craft. Bauman grabbed a ceiling handle as the jet listed to one side. They were going down. Suddenly, the lights and power came back on and the engines roared again.
“Our course has changed, Sir,” said Rick. “We’re heading for Area 51.”
They knew! Desperate to stop them, Bauman drew his pistol and stormed into the cockpit with the gun hidden behind him.
“I did not give an order to change course!”
Both pilots were startled.
“The jet is being controlled, Sir,” said the pilot. “We can’t maneuver.”
“Liar!” yelled Bauman. “You’re working for them.”
He swung the gun out and fired into the pilot’s face. Blood and brains splattered the instrument panel. Bauman aimed the gun at the co-pilot.
“Turn this jet around now!” he demanded.
“Sir!” shouted Rick from the OPC. “We have President Larson on the com. He says it’s urgent.”
“You’ve got until the end of my conversation with Larson to adjust our course,” said Bauman, “or it’s over for you.”
“Yes, Sir!” said the frightened man, who started pressing buttons and flipping switches.
Bauman stuffed the gun into his holster and returned to the OPC. Rick moved to the next station and Bauman sat, pushing away the thin strands of tousled hair that had fallen across his brow. He nodded to Rick. Payton appeared, dressed in his blue Naval uniform. His silver hair was thick and wavy, almost bushy in appearance, as were his wild eyebrows.
“It’s over, Ted,” said Payton. “They got us.”
Two men grabbed Payton’s arms and yanked him from his seat. President Albert Larson took his place, a perfectly groomed Afro-American who should have never made the Presidency. Larson knew nothing of how to run a country, how to enforce the laws, and especially how to reel the power he commanded. Why, he’d even appointed spics and chinks to his cabinet, saying a variety of different backgrounds would enlighten the decision-making process.
“We’ve received a report from Intel and it’s been confirmed,” said Larson. “You, the Admiral, and your men are facing serious charges of murder and treason. Why did you kill those men in the jets? They were acting on my orders.”
“I didn’t, Sir,” said Bauman. “There’s a logical explanation and it wasn’t us.” This is going to be easy. “We are not traitors and I can prove everything.”
“How is that possible?” asked Larson. “We saw what you did, Ted. You’re not the only one with a satellite uplink. According to this”—he skimmed through the pages in his hand, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his wide nose—“you and Payton collaborated with Hans Steinman to create over four hundred nuclear missiles, thus breaking all the laws of the Nuclear Arms Agreement. You hired Frank Bollen, the most notorious criminal of the century, to steal the plans for you and, thanks to your emails, he’s been arrested. Your days are over, General. You are hereby stripped of all command. Ten more fighters are on their way to escort you to Area 51. First sign of resistance and they’ll shoot you down.”
Bauman stared at Larson wanting to maim him. The thought of a man whose ancestors were slaves holding the highest office in the world was all he could take. His face flushed with anger, his fists tightening to the rage inside him.
“Nobody strips me of my command,” said Bauman, leaning into the monitor, “you lame, weak-minded nigger. You and your kind deserve to die. Only the white man has the right to live on this planet. My New Continuum has thousands of members. You can never stop us.”
“We already have,” said Larson. The connection was terminated.
“Hi, butthead.”
Bauman quickly straightened up, startled by the familiar voice. Rina was standing in the lounge.
Is my mind playing tricks on me?
His men were on their feet, gaping at her. They’re seeing her too. She was still wearing the same jean shorts and red T-shirt.
“You’re not real,” he said, staring with curiosity. “You’re dead at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.”
“Guys usually tell me I’m beautiful,” she said, laughing. “You’re the first fat oaf to say I look dead. So tell me, how does it feel to lose?”
Bauman shook his head. This can’t be real. He eyed the men standing around him. One of them is pulling this trick. They’ll have to be eliminated.
“Your men didn’t do this, Bauman,” she said, “so leave them alone.”
His breath stopped in his chest. She’d read his mind.
> “Your private Command Center back there has a nice log of everything you’ve done through the years,” she said, “including the names of all the people you’ve killed to cover up your plan. I sent the file to President Larson. The world knows what you did, Bauman. It’s over.”
Bauman quickly drew his gun and fired pointblank into Rina’s chest. The bullet passed through her, creating circling waves of white, then lodged into the far wall.
“You really are brainless,” she said. “I’m a hologram, and yes, I’m very much alive. Get over it, Bauman; you lost.”
The aliens, he thought with a sudden, pervasive sense of failure. Only they could have saved her, and their technology was assuredly too advanced for him. However, he was a general in this man’s Army and no one would ever take him down. He stiffened up and glared into her eyes. There was one last chance and distraction was the key.
“All weapons on this jet have been disabled,” she said. “Don’t even think of using the Keldin Pulse again.”
He raised his clenched fists and roared at the top of his lungs until his chest sank in from the lack of air. Rick and the other men vaulted from their seats and ran into the lounge. Bauman picked up the keyboard across from Rick’s station and bashed it through the monitor, causing smoke and sparks to shoot out. He shouted obscenities as he punched and kicked anything within reach, slicing his knuckles and bleeding profusely. Out of options, he leaned on Rick’s chair, heaving from exhaustion, succumbing to defeat. The flames behind him had subsided, leaving burnt, smoldering equipment.
“The President is anxious to arrest you so we decided to help,” she said. “We’re going to momentarily black out the lights of the Peace Conference and when they come back on, you and the hood will be standing on the main stage in front of twelve thousand people dressed only in your underwear and socks. The MPs and the Secret Service will be all over you like white on rice. How’s that for a grand ending?”
The holograms of Justin and Shiro appeared standing next to Rina.
“And if you’re not wearing underwear, so be it,” said Shiro, grinning wide, “commando makes a better comedy show.”
Bauman was speechless. All those who could’ve stopped him, did and for the first time in his life, there was nothing he could do. It was over. However, he would not be humiliated. He took the gun from his holster and raised it to his temple, closing his eyes.
“After your attempt to shoot me,” said Rina, “all guns were disabled. Suicide is too easy an out for a murderer like you.”
He opened his eyes in distress and pulled the trigger. An empty click sounded.
“And one more thing...,” said Justin.
The last thing Bauman saw was Justin’s fist heading for his face.