Rage

  Rage

  Matthew Costello

  Matthew Costello

  Rage

  PROLOGUE

  APOPHIS 99942

  ONE

  THE HOOK

  Raine looked up from his beer as the bartender raised the volume of the TV.

  The newscast showed rioting in the streets of Kabul, then a jump to another reporter atop a hotel roof looking down at a Baghdad filled with fires.

  “The effect of the United States Armed Services complete withdrawal continues to destabilize the entire region. The violence now threatens to spread to neighboring states. Secretary of-”

  “Turn that crap off, will ya, Eddie?”

  The sound disappeared.

  Raine picked up the near-empty shot glass next to his beer and drained it.

  Funny, to sit here in this Red Hook dive appropriately named The Hook, just as his old man used to do when he retired to his old neighborhood in Brooklyn. His dad-a lifer in the Marines-was a man who had only one vision for his two sons.

  Not just to enter military service.

  Both would go into the Corps.

  No question about it.

  And Nicholas Raine didn’t even question the idea of following his brother Chris.

  Ultimately, that meant following him to the never-ending training missions and covert ops that made up the constant war of the twenty-first century.

  Then things changed.

  Probably on the day his brother got caught by an IED. The grim reality of these forever wars hit him.

  And worse, the old man died, his heart hitting him harder than any man would ever dare to. He hadn’t been well for a while, not after years of hard living and drinking and too much time on his hands. Chris’s death seemed to deal the final blow.

  That attack didn’t kill the old man. But the chaotic Veterans Hospital in Bay Ridge didn’t have any miracles in its pouch to save the old sergeant.

  Yet-he himself soldiered on.

  It’s what he knew. What he could do. It had become… all that he was good at.

  He tried to remind himself that his father believed in all this “serving God and country.” That “Semper Fi” was more than a gung-ho motto.

  So he soldiered on. That is, until the order came to leave. Seemingly out of the blue, whole units and commands vanished overnight.

  And now he bided his time here-holed up in a dingy one-bedroom in Red Hook, this bar his office -waiting to see if his country had any more need of him.

  “Goddamned soldiers just gave the hell up anyway.”

  Raine heard the words.

  Said too loudly to just be a private comment. The customer in broadcast mode apparently.

  Then again: “All those years, all our fuckin’ money, and then they just up and run? God-damn.”

  The bartender, Eddie, shot Raine a glance. Not that they had spent these nights sharing their life histories.

  Not that they were pals.

  But like any good bartender, Eddie had antennae.

  Eddie moved down to the end of the bar. To the customer with his loud opinions on the fighting men and women. On what happened and how they just left the area.

  The implication: like cowards.

  Raine turned to watch Eddie, seeing his head bob. Telling the guy, just barely audible, “C’mon, can that stuff, okay, Mikey?”

  The guy on his stool looked down at Raine, putting pieces together.

  “I’m entitled to my opinion. It’s my damn opinion. We went over there and then after decades, after freakin’ decades, we just leave? Tell ya, the troops, these new guys, they just couldn’t cut it.”

  Raine was already off his stool.

  Moving down the long wooden bar.

  Monday night. So quiet. A few people shooting pool in the back, oblivious.

  A couple sitting in a booth, talking, possibly taking note, thinking they should have selected a better spot for a romantic meeting.

  As Raine got close, he sized up the guy.

  A giant bowling ball of a head that melted into absolutely no neck, as if his skull had been glued to a barrel-chested body. Massive Popeye arms. Maybe a dockworker. Big powerful guy.

  Good.

  That would make this even better.

  Raine didn’t say anything. After all, what was there to say?

  Instead his right hand shot out like a projectile, targeting the man’s right hand as it closed around a beer glass.

  Raine’s grip tightened on the man’s wrist and squeezed. The guy’s glass rolled free as Raine pressed the hand flat, now splayed against the sticky wood of the bar.

  At the same time, his other hand went to just under the man’s chin. Because even though it didn’t look as though the man had a neck, of course he did. Sure. Buried somewhere in the jowly fat and muscle.

  Raine’s fingers closed tight. The man now had two amazing sensations of pain coursing through him at the same time: the hand, which was being squeezed so hard it felt like it would pop off, and the agony from his throat.

  The fat, drunken, self-appointed military historian couldn’t breathe; his eyes bulged out.

  Finally, Raine spoke.

  “Listen. If I ever hear you say a word criticizing our military-even a single word-then that hand you have there will become useless. And whether you will be able to speak-”

  A little tightening of his grip on the man’s fat-covered throat.

  “-that would be anybody’s guess.” He paused. “Got it?”

  The bug-eyed man nodded.

  Raine released him and walked back to his stool.

  The TV had been changed back to the Monday night game.

  Giants. Minnesota.

  His shot glass had been filled.

  But maybe he’d rather catch the game back in his apartment a few blocks away. Sitting here, tonight at any rate, had lost its appeal.

  He slid off the stool, threw a few bucks on the bar, and walked outside.

  A chilly fall night, and Raine zipped his jacket tight, collar up. He didn’t even see the black vehicle, engine idling, sitting outside The Hook. Didn’t register it as something out of the ordinary until a window rolled down and someone called out to him from the passenger seat.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Raine stopped and turned around, now noticing the limo-like vehicle. Not exactly the usual wheels found in this neighborhood.

  He stood there while the passenger door opened and a man in a suit got out.

  “Yes?”

  Raine saw that the man held a large envelope in one hand.

  “Lieutenant, I have orders for you. Here.”

  Raine laughed. “Orders. From whom? I’ve been told that it would be quite a while before my country needed me. In fact, I was banking on it.”

  In answer, the man simply extended the envelope.

  For a moment he didn’t take it. But in the end he was a soldier, a Marine, and when a man said “jump”…

  He undid the clasp and took out a single piece of paper. The man from the black car helpfully pulled out a small flashlight and pointed it at the document.

  He looked up at the man. “Says here… I’m supposed to get in the car-right now, all due speed-and go with you to Floyd Bennett Field where a plane is waiting. And that’s… it?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Not one for talking, hm?”

  “Lieutenant, I’ve just been told to hand this to you and have you come with me. You can see that it is signed by General McWilliams. Everything is in-”

  “I know. ‘In order.’ I don’t get it. Can I at least go back to my apartment, grab a bag, some things?”

  The man shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. My orders are to see that you come directly. No stops, no bag.”

  “ Your orders? Who you wit
h? NSA? CIA? Any of the A’s?”

  Again the man said nothing.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, whoever you are. It’s something my dad drilled into me. Reason I joined the Corps. Stayed in the Corps. And that thing is respect for orders, respect for command. That’s how you save lives. So this-”

  Raine waved the sheet of paper.

  “-actually means something to me. And if I’m supposed to-God knows why-go with you, then that’s what the hell we will do.”

  Raine guessed he might still be amped by his bar scuffle.

  In answer, the man opened the back door.

  Raine got in, and with his escort sliding back in the passenger seat, the big black car pulled away from the front of the dive bar.

  Out to a sleepy Flatbush Avenue.

  It was getting late, so only a few places were now open as the dense area of Brooklyn gave way to open spaces near the Atlantic, places with tall grass, and what Raine thought had been the abandoned airfield named Floyd Bennett.

  Been a while since he’d been out this way. Back then it was to Riis Park and sunny days at the beach. When Brooklyn was at its best.

  At one time Raine knew there had been plans for housing to go up here, to transform the field-the historic airfield that once saw Amelia Earhart and Wiley Post fly away to smash world records-into a development.

  But the economy, and then the history of the place, saved it. No money for development, but enough for a National Landmark designation that preserved many of the hangars and even kept a few airstrips in place. But nobody-military or commercial-used it.

  Or so Raine thought.

  They passed the Belt Parkway, to the beginning of the field. The fence on the side of the road showed the lack of attention. Weeds, debris. No money or nobody cared? Both probably.

  “Why here?” Raine asked.

  The driver didn’t say anything.

  The escort did, though, turning around. “I don’t know, Lieutenant.”

  Great help, that guy. Loaded with information.

  He wished he hadn’t had that last beer. It would be nice to be totally clearheaded for whatever this thing turned out to be.

  They stopped and turned at the entrance off Aviation Road. A pair of army soldiers stood guard, the wide gates swinging open just as the black car reached it, then quickly shutting behind them.

  When they reached the runway, Raine leaned forward, looking for what he guessed would be a military transport. Instead, off at one end, he spotted the lights of a small jet.

  As they got closer, Raine could see nothing military or commercial about it. Rather, it looked exactly like some fat cat’s private jet. A jet a businessman might use to run down to Palm Beach. Catch some rays in January. Play with the mistress. Rub in a rival’s face.

  Not what he expected at all.

  The driver pulled the car up to the side of the plane. On cue, the door of the plane opened, stairs gently tilting down to the tarmac.

  The car stopped.

  “Here we go, Lieutenant.”

  The escort got out and Raine followed him.

  TWO

  WELCOME TO BUCKLEY

  The small jet seemed to leap into the night sky, then took a sharp angle that had it first racing out to the nearby Atlantic before banking and heading west.

  Not going to Lejeune, then, Raine realized, thinking of the base in North Carolina he had been stationed out of before being sent home. Interesting.

  He looked down and saw the lights of Coney Island. Another abandoned project. Somehow, the planned renovation of what they used to call “America’s Playground” never happened.

  When there’s no money, things don’t happen.

  Still, in the reflected glow of the lights left on at night, he saw the tall, always imposing spire of the parachute jump. Inactive for, what… sixty, seventy years? The once breathtaking ride had long been an inoperative landmark, a skeleton, a monument to times when such thrills could be created.

  A time of great amusement parks and world’s fairs. His father used to talk about a place in Coney called Steeplechase.

  “Nicky, I tell ya-you kids would’ve loved it. Crazy rides. Horses that raced around the perimeter. Made your heart race. And safe? Fugeddabout it. But now? All gone. Everything’s gotta be so damn safe these days.”

  All gone.

  One of his father’s favorite sayings.

  This restaurant, that movie palace, his favorite fishing boat in Sheepshead Bay.

  All gone.

  Then his wife-Raine’s mom-died, and he hit his ultimate “all gone.”

  Became a changed man. Quiet. Stayed to himself. As if he had given up. And when Chris came home in a box? The military escort. The salutes. The flags waving, and Raine fighting to keep from breaking down. His father had sobbed uncontrollably, showing Raine another part of what it meant to be a man.

  All gone.

  Raine had made a pledge to his brother then. A promise to keep fighting-to make sure that he never had to say “all gone.”

  I’ll keep on for both of us, Chris. I’ll go back. I’ll do what they sent us over to do. Don’t you fucking worry about that.

  And he would keep that promise until someone decided that whatever we were doing to keep the world free and safe was over.

  He had to.

  What was the expression? Ours not to question why. Ours but to do Coney and the coast faded into the background, the jet still climbing sharply.

  “Lieutenant Raine?”

  “Just Raine, Mister…”

  “Raine it is. I’m Jackson. The plane has sandwiches and beverages. Maybe a beer?”

  “Got any of those little packs of peanuts, Jackson?”

  The joke finally made the man in a suit smile.

  Barely.

  “Don’t suppose you can tell me where we’re headed?”

  “Actually, my orders allow me to now that we’re airborne.”

  Raine raised his eyebrows.

  “There really is a need for all this security, Lieutenant. I imagine it will be made clearer to you soon.”

  “I hope so. The destination?”

  “Buckley Air Force Base.”

  “Colorado? Really? Pretty damn far away.” He shook his head. “And what awaits me in Buckley?”

  Jackson stood up.

  “Let me check on those peanuts.”

  The night deepened. A moonless night, the stars bright and nearly unwavering in the cloudless sky. And every now and then Raine saw one.

  A yellow-red streak in the sky.

  For a week or so they’d been visible each night, this sporadic meteor shower connected to the asteroid-Apophis 96… 95… something-still way out there in space. Apparently a bunch of debris ran well ahead of it, hitting the atmosphere.

  It was a big asteroid, too-nearly the size of the city. Good thing it was going to give them a miss.

  There-another streak. This one turning fiery before it disappeared.

  Giving us a miss.

  Lucky thing. Because, after all… despite Hollywood’s mad plots of diverting a major asteroid, just what the hell would we really do?

  Still-he had to wonder why we were getting so many of these meteorites. Seemed strange. Then again, what he didn’t know about astrophysics could fill a lot of books. And had, he thought.

  He put his head against the porthole window, wedging a pillow into the crack between the window and the seat.

  The window-cold, but soothing.

  He shut his eyes.

  He felt a change in angle.

  He opened his eyes, and for a moment didn’t have a clue where he was. Totally disorienting, waking up on a plane. He wasn’t complaining, though-traveling this way was a damn sight better than bouncing around on a military transport.

  He looked over at Jackson, who was looking out a window on the other side. Raine looked out his own window and down. There wasn’t much out there. The dots of houses and lights on the roads took on an eerie yellowish cast when se
en from a few miles up. After a few minutes he could see an airstrip ahead.

  Had to be Buckley.

  Jackson looked over.

  “Seat belt on?”

  “Learn that in flight attendant school?”

  Another small smile. Maybe this guy enjoyed knowing things that he didn’t. Something that security and spy types liked. Secrets. They were all about their damn secrets.

  Raine wasn’t too big on secrets.

  “We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  “And my magical mystery tour continues.”

  “Right.”

  The smile on the man’s face had faded, replaced by something else, something in his eyes. Concern? Sadness?

  Raine had led men into situations that could only be described as hell. Into actual hell-no exaggeration-and he had brought a lot of them out again. In that time he had learned to check their eyes. To catch the fear sitting there. The concern. The telltale anxious signs that someone might crack. That someone might just freeze up.

  And a few words-of support, of connection-could make the difference.

  Humans are funny. They have a lot of needs. But maybe the one need they have above all is communication.

  Does someone understand me?

  Is someone listening?

  The plane leveled off some. Slowed.

  Raine stretched, arching his back to shake off the effects of hours sleeping crumpled up in a chair-albeit a fairly luxurious one. At least the beers and shots had lost most of their edge.

  Good. Especially if he was going to get his orders.

  He looked back out the window and noticed the planes on the tarmac getting bigger. The small jet circled hangars, some of them spilling out F-16 fighters into the early morning Still, it looked pretty quiet here, even if it was an hour or so before dawn.

  He guessed the time.

  About 4:30 A.M.

  He looked at his watch: 5:07.

  Not bad. Still, the sky should be turning light, no?

  Then he remembered the time difference. Mountain time here.

  He pressed a button of his watch and moved it back two hours: 3:07… 3:08 A.M.