Against the indigo sky, the black shape drifted southwest, hovering close to the treetops, the only identification a soft, whooshing thumpthumpthumpthump of nearly-silent helicopter blades. The converted Bell 412 utility copter bore no markings and was swathed in flat black, no indication of any military affiliation. The model 412 was chosen because it was not in active use by the United States military, and this offered one more step of deniability, a steep staircase of them down into the basement where the Shadows did their dirty work. The Shadows themselves were not connected in any official way to any world government or military institution, they were all independent contractors who worked together in an unofficial capacity. Their success rate was almost as impressive as their secrecy.
Chuck McLeod leaned out of the front cockpit of the 412, glaring down into a swallowing blackness revealing no shapes, lights, or hint of what lay below.
He flipped a switch on his headset and opened his broadcast to all channels. “At 2215 hours tonight, a military cargo train was lost from radar.” McLeod was reviewing the opened folder in front of him, held on his lap and flipped like a book. “The contents of this train are Classified Top Secret, and apparently we do not have a ‘need to know’.” Leaning back in his co-pilot seat, he thought of his kids, and the visitation he was supposed to have tomorrow morning. He truly hoped this was a quick op, but if they’d called in the Shadows, those chances were minimal.
“Mates, we are almost on site. We are the first responders. We take this clean, we take this quick, and most importantly, we take this quiet! Understood?” The sharp stab of McLeod’s British accent had been dulled by his ten years in America, but still poked through here and there.
The echo of shouted approvals came back at him through low static in his headset.
“Wilcox, proceed to two o’clock, then set us down,” he pointed through the windscreen to a small clearing, just becoming visible up ahead. On the fringe of the cast spotlight, a train car could be seen upright, but angular and twisted, the signature posture of being pulled off the tracks.
The dark aircraft lowered to the ground, long grass blowing apart in a reverse whirlpool, flattening into circles as the whipping blades set their cargo down gently. The wheels touched earth, and black shadows leaped from the cargo area striking the ground in near silence, moving out from the helicopters in well-choreographed fashion.
“Shadows, fan out!” barked McLeod. They spread out from the aircraft then stopped, forming a rough circular perimeter, weapons trained, night vision engaged, still and waiting.
“Landry, you and Wilcox fall back on me, we’re checking out that train. Tree, Inman, you have the perimeter. Keep an eye open, we’re still not quite sure what we’re dealing with here.”
Landry and Wilcox walked low and quick, joining McLeod on each hip, keeping crouched, the long grass snaking up above their knees. The two men and one woman held modified M4 Carbines tucked tight into their shoulders, tactical grip near the front barrel and advanced night sight mounted to the top of the weapon. A cylindrical sound suppressor was firmly attached to each barrel, creating a long, unbalanced weapon for which each well-trained operative was able to compensate. They wore black combat togs with a Molle tactical vest, hooked with several straps around the torso, pouches stuffed with extra ammunition. “Watchtower, this is Ground Team Alpha. The site is secure.” Motioning with his left hand, McLeod directed his two teammates to circle the train, weapons at the ready. The engine was upright, but pulled diagonal on the tracks, its rear wheels barely touching the metal rails as the front side leaned at a 45-degree angle as if a petulant child had kicked it out of frustration. The second car was leaning more steeply, nearly on its side, only held slightly upright by its connection to the engine itself. The third car stood upright, but slightly cockeyed, tipped as if it weighed ounces and not tons. Twisting, the rear car was almost the opposite of the lead car, pulled at a sharp angle in the opposite direction, its back wheels actually pulled up off the rails. McLeod focused his attention on the third car because nearly three-quarters of the entire side of that car was missing.
Layers of metal were pulled apart, peeled and folded back against the train car revealing a jagged, torn cave at the side. Cast in a wide arc from the ragged hole were several broken shards of various materials, most of which appeared to have come from some kind of containment cage inside the train car itself.
“Jesus,” McLeod muttered as he approached.
“Repeat that Ground Team Alpha?” a voice responded in his headset.
McLeod flipped on a tactical light below the gun barrel and raised the weapon in a firing stance, casting an eerie glow across the ground outside the car.
“What happened here, Watchtower?” McLeod asked, nervously casting his gaze across the wrecked train. “What are we after?”
“Need to know,” came the abrupt reply.
McLeod squinted, the only part of his face not covered by the knit balaclava pulled tight and tucked into the layered turtleneck of his commando sweater.
“Uhh... you want us to secure the area, Watchtower. We need to know what we’re securing it against.”
On a stretch of railway between New London and New Haven, Connecticut something had forced this train off the tracks, and it was only by sheer luck it had happened in a rural area. Here the tracks were surrounded by trees and rolling green meadows instead of brick and concrete buildings. Things were playing at least somewhat in their favor. That could change quickly.
“Affirmative, Ground Team Alpha. Advise we have representatives en route. They’ll be arriving in approximately fifteen.”
“Understood, Watchtower. What do you advise we do until then?” Fucking spooks. While he had been with the SAS, McLeod had dealt with his share of spy weenies, mostly from MI6, but these Americans had a special arrogance about them that rubbed him all sorts of the wrong way.
“Keep your eyes open, Ground.”
Click. The channel went silent.
“McLeod!” came a hushed voice from the closed channel. It sounded like Landry.
“Coming.” McLeod walked forward, “Team, report.”
“Tree, standing by.”
“Inman, ready.”
“Berger, five by five.”
“Williamson, here.”
“Schmidt, I’m here.”
“Landry, check.”
“Wilcox, ready.”
Everyone present and accounted for. McLeod didn’t know what was going on here, but something had vacated that train car post haste, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to meet what did it down a dark alley. Or the dark woods of rural Connecticut.
“What do we have inside?” he asked as he approached Landry and Wilcox.
“Take a look,” Wilcox replied, gesturing inside.
McLeod pulled his weapon from his shoulder and tucked it back into firing position, shining his white light into the car. He blinked several times into the darkness, trying to make sense of the scene inside. The interior of the car looked like the aftermath of a particularly focused and fierce tornado. Firmly attached to the floor of the train car was an empty metallic square, resembling a base or junction point attaching what would have been a containment unit of some sort. There was no unit visible, just the barrage of shattered glass and other material inside and outside the battered car. It had obviously been built to keep something inside.
It had failed.
Mixed within the sprayed explosion of broken polymer were scatterings of off-white shards, a different material than the containment unit itself, far thinner and broken into much larger chunks, fewer in number.
“What the fuck is it?” asked Landry, his own goggles pulled down over his eyes as if they might add some insight.