"Colonel, I've reviewed the after-action reports. Now stop me when I am wrong, but it is assumed this entity was stuck in a portal between our world and another, um, another plane of existence. Is that correct?"
Something in his tone bothered Liz. This was General Albert Friez, at one time second only to Borman when it came to dealing in unconventional enemies, yet he seemed to struggle with the nature of the entity.
"That's the theory, yes. The V.A.A.D. expanded that rift and allowed the entity to come into our world fully. Very powerful. Even if Briggs had not been shot dead, it might have overwhelmed his ability to control it, although I think he believed otherwise. From what we can tell, the rift sealed behind it."
"I understand that, Colonel. Briggs's death released it and what did it do? It hovered here, at this place, for a short time and then disappeared into space."
"Were you able to track it?"
"You are not entitled to that information."
She stared at him and, to her surprise, he relented.
"No, we did not. It moved off-world. Given its nature, I think we have seen the last of it. But let's walk back to those few seconds that it enveloped Red Rock. Given how powerful it was, and given that it was a creature comprised entirely of mental, or for lack of a better term, psychic energy, it is reasonable to assume that it received thoughts from a greater area than this facility. Possibly the entire planet."
"I have not read any reports suggesting it influenced people outside this area, General."
"Influenced, no, but it is reasonable to believe it received information on a global scale."
She wondered whether General Friez thought the data captured by the entity could be used for intelligence gathering. If so, she wondered, how he intend to gather that data. The entity had fled, leaving this planet as any intelligent creature would.
It turned out, however, that was not his aim.
"Colonel, as I said, I've reviewed all of the after-action reports. Every soldier on this base reported experiencing visions during the two seconds the entity encompassed the complex. Those visions ranged from emotional responses to reliving past experiences."
Liz remembered that the entity had thrown a mirror up to her life and she had not liked the reflection.
She shifted uncomfortably and prodded, "General?"
"Every one of those accounts had one thing in common. One element that seemed out of place to the entirety of the experience. Do you know what that was?"
Liz did. Her eyes glazed over and she answered, "It asked if I could hear the screaming."
"Yes, Colonel. Every individual was asked a variation of the same question. Can you hear the screaming or if you listen, you can hear them scream."
"Who is 'them'? What screaming?"
"I don't believe it was related to what occurred here, at Red Rock. I think this is something else."
She tilted her head but said nothing.
"Colonel, an entity that was in touch with the thoughts of every living thing on this planet believes someone, or something, is screaming and it's important that we start listening."
They stared at one another for a moment. Liz felt an icy vine crawl up her spine.
Movement, however, turned her attention to a more immediate issue. A newcomer walked into the vault room, a young man maybe in his late twenties, dressed in a business suit with suspenders holding his tailored slacks in place. His perfectly groomed hair seemed frozen, his eyes were big and bright, and his smile was not quite warm but very friendly.
"Hello! Excuse me, sorry to interrupt."
"This is a restricted area," General Friez warned.
"Yes, yes, I know," the man said as he handed Friez an envelope. "This is for you. Oh, and here is my card," he said as he handed it to Liz Thunder.
Stan Goreman. Account Representative. The Tall Company. Sciences Division.
"My superiors have transferred the Briggs account to me. Messy business."
"This is a military facility," Friez said, but his attention was focused on Goreman's letter.
"Ah, yes, of course. But there are certain proprietary interests we have in Dr. Briggs's research. The lab was, you recall, leased to our company at the time of the experiment."
Thunder told him, "If you're looking for his laser contraption, don't bother. It was destroyed."
"Oh." Goreman's enthusiasm deflated. "What a pity. Still, I understand the good doctor's progeny called the lower levels home?"
Friez finished reading the letter and told Goreman, "Any specimens recovered from inside this facility are the property of the U.S. government."
"I suppose that is something my superiors can discuss with yours. In the meantime, as you can see, my company has been granted access to sublevel 8 of this facility."
"Yes," Friez said as he returned the envelope to the man. "Access granted."
Goreman turned and looked back the way he had come. A moment later a pair of burly men wearing Tall Security badges and carrying suitcases entered the room and headed into the formerly quarantined zone.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Goreman smiled. "We’ll do our best to stay out of your way."
The Tall Company's agent then followed his escort into the underground labyrinth, whistling some nondescript tune as he walked.
Friez watched him go as he asked Thunder, "Where is Major Gant?"
"He headed back west. Said there was something he had to do."
Thom parked his Buick sedan at the curb. It was a beautiful fall weekend in southern California. The type of day for families and picnics and friends. Not the type of day for this.
He exited the car, carefully swinging out his injured leg and struggled to rise from the car without sending a bolt of pain through his arm. He had discarded the sling against doctor's orders, and he eschewed his cane because he needed to stand tall today, if only for a few minutes.
The mailbox in front of the duplex listed a name he did not recognize, but he knew the mother of the house; her maiden name was Twiste and she had a young daughter of her own.
Thom stood as straight as he could and studied his reflection in the car window. Technically he should not be wearing his old blue dress uniform. In the Pentagon's eyes, he was no longer a marine; he was a member of Task Force Archangel, an organization that did not wear a dress uniform, displayed no visible signs of rank, and worked in the darkest shadows.
Not today. Not for Brandon. Today he was Major Thom Gant of the United States Marines. Proud. Honorable. And he was here to look a daughter in the eye and tell her that her father was the most noble man Thom Gant had ever served with; to tell her that he had died trying to save lives and trying to make the world — and the people in it — better.
When he was finished here, Thom Gant would go back to his job of fighting the nightmares. But if the Hell Hole had taught him any lesson, it was that many of those nightmares were of our own creation.
He stood as tall as his wounded leg and damaged shoulder allowed and marched across the sidewalk and up the concrete path, to knock on the door.
The rotors whirred, sending a constant gust of wind across the pad and down the path where Liz Thunder walked, bag in hand, with General Friez as an escort to her helicopter.
"Colonel, one more thing."
She stopped and faced him.
"You did a good job here, Colonel. You used your head. That's what a good soldier does. It's what a good commander does."
"Thank you, General."
"As you can imagine," he started, but the rotors were too loud, the wind too strong. He tried again in a louder voice: "As you can imagine, my area of responsibility is growing, due to the loss of Borman. That's created an opening back in California."
"Sir? Are you offering me a job?"
"Yes, Colonel, I am offering you a job."