Chapter 51: The Hand of God
2204 Hours, August 16th 1952 (Gregorian Calendar) Area 51, Nellis Range Complex, Nevada
"I found him!"
That was the first thing Fred heard. He opened one eye, the face of a young medic staring back at him, the hard ground of the desert pressing against his back. The pressure against his spine from the desert floor was discomforting, and he pushed the medic's hand away as he sat up. Fred checked his knuckles first, ready to grimace at what he saw. However, what had once been only bare bone, as white as the purity of a virgin on her honeymoon and as red as the aftermath of the sexual union with her husband, now had fresh skin grown over top of it. The Spartan raised both hands up to his eyes, marveling at what had occurred. The medic spoke again, but Fred did not hear him, his mind in some other dimension.
There had been a Spartan on the Spirit of Fire. A Spartan who had fought him. Fred had managed to get the better of him, but only because he had more experience, and in the end his opponent's comrades had managed to save him. One of the comrades had included John.
Why had the Master Chief done it? Surely, if his friend was alive, he would be with Fred now trying to find a way back to the UNSC. A way to go home.
"Jesus Fred," a familiar voice said, and the Spartan looked up. There stood Agent Smith, looking as average as ever, the clear black sky above him, absent of the storm cloud that had once disfigured its face. The constellations where in full force, unmarred by the pollution of light that plagued every corner of Earth in Fred's own time.
Smith took a shallow breath, allowing himself to reveal just how grateful he was for Fred to still be alive. "You've been missing for well over half an hour. For a minute I thought you went with the ship."
"The ship?" Fred asked, sitting up and looking around. He found himself just outside the massive hanger. He turned around, looking out towards Groom Lake where the UNSC war vessel was supposed to be. All he found was the pale face of the moon, and the soft breeze of the desert wind.
"It's gone," Smith said. "It vanished a few minutes after you went MIA."
Fred stood up, his feet shaking. Again the medic tried to assist him, and again Fred pushed him away. "It's not coming back."
Smith looked at the Spartan.
Fred explained what happened on the Spirit of Fire, did so in as a concise manner as possible. He explained how he heard over the ship's intercom that the nuclear reactors had been compromised. Explained how he had been ambushed by a group of Spartan like warriors. The only thing he omitted was the appearance of John.
Smith nodded. The ship had teleported just when the reactors were supposed to blow. Either to the world from which the ship came from, or into the space in between spaces. The Agent wished that this could be the end of it, the raid having already caused so much damage. The death of all the Nazi engineers, the destruction of their computer databanks, the loss of the Spirit of Fire, and of the longsword. Sadly this was not the case.
"I've gotten word from Black Mesa," Smith said, and Fred turned his head to look at him. Smith bowed his head. It was not often that he had to admit that he was wrong, and this was one of those times. "Turns out Freeman was right. It happened, the resonance cascade that he warned us about. A doorway has been opened, and creatures from some other world are pouring through." Fred clenched his fists. If Black Mesa went, than all of his hopes of getting back home went with it. Smith smiled apologetically at the Spartan, "Looks like the both of us have to take a trip to New Mexico."
"Seems like it," Fred said. A myriad of insults directed at Smith floated through his head, but his internal discipline kept them in check.
John had saved him yet again, but for what purpose Fred still did not know. All that he was sure of was that he and his old friend were now in opposition to each other. John was keeping him from going home, and more importantly he was keeping him from seeing Kelly again.
Kelly. Her fiery red hair, which was all too often imprisoned within her helmet, her blue grey eyes, and the soft comfort of her voice. Fred never stopped thinking about her. Never stopped hoping for a way to get back to her. Never even considered that she might not have survived Operation Discordia.
The next time he saw John, Fred resolved, he would ask him why he was keeping such an old friend from the person he cared about the most.
…
2449 Hours, August 17th 1952 (Gregorian Calendar) Lockheed C-121 Military Transport Plane, Enroute to Back Mesa Facility
The interior of the plane exuded military pragmatism. It was mostly unfurnished, the belly of the plane serving as either a cargo hold or a passenger area depending on the need. During this flight it was serving as both, the seats packed with sixty American soldiers, their gear at their feet, rifles pointed towards the ceiling. As the plane rocked with turbulence many of them fidgeted, their nervousness apparent.
Fred could not blame them. It was not just the bumpy ride, but the thought of what they were going to face when they landed.
The Spartan frowned. This was not the type of aircraft that would do well inserting an assaulting force. The plane would have to come to a complete stop before they could disembark, allowing plenty of time for the enemy to destroy them before they even managed to get off. What Fred would have given for just a single Pelican. Still, they had to use what was available to them, the concept of aerial insertion by helicopter still over a decade away, and the C-121 being the only aircraft left at Area 51 capable of transporting a large force. All the others had been destroyed. All except for the prototypes of the U-2. Amazingly, they had been left alone.
Fred looked over at Smith who was sitting by the window, both arms wrapped around his briefcase in the same way a fearful mother would hold a child. The Spartan supposed he understood. Relations with North Central had begun to turn sour ever since Smith had come back from his mission in New York. It was North Central who had compiled a list of all known psychics in North America. It represented years, perhaps even decades, of research. If they decided to terminate their contract with the Navy then the U.S. Government would have to figure out their own way to keep track of psychics in the country. Fred also knew that in that briefcase were the profiles of all the potential Subjects for Smith's pet project. America's own super soldiers. After what had happened back in Nevada, it was no wonder Smith was holding on to it so tightly.
Of course, unbeknownst to both Fred and Smith, they would not have to worry about North Central backing out of any contracts. Within ten years the company would be bankrupt, driven out of business in this world by the arrival of a new competitor, the Tet Corporation.
"Do you know what we should expect when we get there?" Fred asked. It was the first time he had spoken since they left Nevada.
Smith shrugged. "Not entirely sure. Reports have been sporadic at best, but it appears that an unknown alien force has occupied the facility." He smiled at Fred. "In other words, this mission is right up your alley."
"I'm overwhelmed by feelings of nostalgia," Fred said sarcastically. He took a moment to look at the rest of the soldiers, their faces still as nervous as ever. Depending on how bad it is, most of them won't make it out of there, he thought, thinking back to the beginning of the Human Covenant War. The fear and confusion on the faces of the young Marines when they first made contact with the Covenant. In the early years of the war very few images of the Covenant were circulated widely. Most soldiers had no idea what kind of enemy they would be facing, what tactics they would use and what they looked liked, until they were nose to nose with them. In the first few months of the war there were many who did not even know the Covenant existed until they were staring at the wrong end of a plasma rifle.
"What has been the response to this?" Fred asked. "You can't tell me that we're all the military is going to throw at this thing."
"No," Smith agreed. "Actually we'll be arriving pretty late to the party. Rear Admiral Richard Stout sent in the Marines several hours ago. Gave them a general kill order."
Fred sat up straighter in his seat, his mouth becoming a thin line. "And you waited until now to tell me?"
"Well, I did have a feeling that it would make you upset."
"Upset?" Fred asked. "The Director of ONI is trying to ensure that I'm stuck here for good."
Smith held up a hand, "I'm sure that's not what he was thinking." Fred scowled at him, and Smith put his hand down in surrender. "Okay, maybe that did factor into his decision. You're a valuable asset Fred."
"That's all I've ever been," Fred said resentfully, sinking back down in his seat. "If all the scientists in Black Mesa are killed where does that leave us?"
"Almost back at square one," Smith said. "Stout may decide to scrap the project all together."
"Unless a few of the survive," Fred said, mostly to himself. That's what I'll have to do, he thought. Save as many of them as I can. Many other thoughts clouded his mind as well. Was John a part of this? Was it just some unlucky coincidence that the resonance cascade would happen right after they had been attacked? When Fred landed, would he find John there in the middle of everything? Trying to figure out a way to stop the resonance cascade?
A feeling in his gut told him that John was at Black Mesa, fighting right now as Fred was stuck sitting on his hands waiting for the plane to land. If there was fighting, Fred was sure he would find John in the middle of it somewhere.
Fred stood up, is silver streaked hair grazing the roof of the plane. "Where are you going?" Smith asked.
"Talk to the pilot," Fred said. "I want to see how much longer it's going to be."
Fred moved up the aisle towards the cockpit, the soldiers peering up at him from beneath their helmets as he moved past. As he drew closer he could hear the pilot speaking on the radio.
"Black Mesa control this is Hotel 793." There was no reply, only static, filling up the small cockpit like the buzzing from a swarm of flies. "Black Mesa, this is Hotel 739, do you read?" There was more static, and the pilot set the radio down in frustration. The co-pilot to his right looked behind him, seeing Fred.
"Sir," the co-pilot said. "We've been trying to reach them for the past fifteen minutes. Doesn't matter what frequency we use, no one is answering."
Fred nodded, then addressed the pilot, "How far away are we?"
"Twenty minutes maybe," the pilot answered. "The instruments are acting strange. Making it difficult to tell if we're even going in the right direction." His eyes searched the black veil of night in front of him, looking for anything that would give him an indication of where he was at. "If we get to Black Mesa and there are no lights on the runway I'm going to have to turn us around. I'm sorry sir, but I can't land this thing in the dark with no one at the control tower to guide me in."
"Do the best you can," Fred said, tempering his frustration with common sense. "If it's not safe to land then take us to the Air Force Base at Kirkland. We'll figure out a way to get to Black Mesa from there."
"Yes sir," the pilot said. He looked at his compass, which was currently spinning around in circles. "Easier said than done," he mumbled. At least the attitude indicator and altimeter are working. If not I could be sending us face first into the ground and not even know it.
"Hey, I think I see something," the co-pilot called out, the other two searching the darkness when he did.
A speck of light emerged on the horizon several thousand feet below them, and Fred trained his eyes on it. That's Black Mesa, he thought, his heart beating faster. If the facility still has electricity, then the runway lights might be on after all. He turned his head to speak to the pilot, when suddenly he was blinded by a bright flash.
The light burned his eyes, lighting up the entire sky, turning night into day. Fred recognized the intense burst of light almost immediately. He had detonated his fair share of nuclear warheads during the war. The plane began to shake, and as the light receded Fred was able to open his eyes again, catching a glimpse of a giant mushroom cloud appearing where Black Mesa had once been. Those idiots, he thought. Smith didn't tell me nuclear weapons had been authorized. He squinted, the glare from the nuclear explosion dimming with each passing second, the plane shaking so violently that he had to spread his legs and hold on to both the pilots' chairs just to keep from falling over. Just how desperate were they to resort to this?
It felt as if they had been caught up in an earthquake. The pilot's arms were straining and the muscles in his legs felt as if they were on fire as he fought to keep the plane level. When the shaking reached its peak, all the instruments went dead, the lights in the cockpit going out and throwing them all in darkness. The drone of the engines died, and Fred felt gravity begin to pull the plane nose first back to earth. "We got caught up in the EMP!" His mind began racing. He was a Spartan, and every instinct told him to act, to do something. The sad truth was that there was nothing he could do, nothing to prevent an inglorious death amid the wreckage of a plane crash.
Another light appeared, and for a split second Fred thought that another nuclear bomb had gone off. But this light was different. It was coming from above them and was almost pure white. Brighter than the sun itself. Fred looked up, almost not willing to believe what he saw. There were fingernails, and knuckles, and long slender fingers. A white hand was descending down towards the plane, engulfing all of them in its brilliance. The hand opened, and the light grew even brighter, seeming to emanate from its palm.
Pain ripped across Fred's forehead as he looked into the source of the light, the migraine threatening to tear his sanity apart. He fell to his knees, casting his eyes down to the floor of the cockpit. "Don't look at it!" Fred shouted. "Whatever you do don't look into the light!"
The pilot listened to him, letting go of the controls and squeezing his eyes shut. The co-pilot, however, was not so fortunate.
"It's beautiful," Fred heard him say. The man sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "My God, it's so beautiful!" It was the last Fred ever heard from him. He felt the plane level out underneath him, and the engines kicked back to life. He opened his eyes, finding that all the instruments had turned back on, and were properly working. The pilot's hands were shaking as he gently took the controls. The white light was gone, and so was the co-pilot, nothing but his clothes remaining in the seat.
"Where is he?" the pilot asked, voice trembling.
"The hand took him," Fred said. It was the only thing that made sense. He reached out to touch the man's shirt, only to find that his own hand was trembling.
"That thing saved us didn't it?" the pilot asked.
"I think so," Fred said simply. "Take us back to Nevada. There's nothing left for us here." The pilot only nodded.
As Fred stood up, the voice spoke to him again, and in that moment Fred realized that it was the voice of the hand. (You must find Jack)
Where, Fred asked. It was the first time he had ever spoken directly to the voice, but his anger and frustration were at a point where he no longer cared to question his own sanity. I've been looking for him. How am I supposed to find if all you've given me is a first name.
An image flashed in his mind, the image of Smith's briefcase, and of a number.
117
Subject 117, Fred thought. John 117. Jack is a nickname for John. Fred felt like smacking himself hard in the forehead. You idiot. It was right there in front of you the whole time. It should have been obvious.
Of course it was obvious. Too obvious. That Subject 117 and John would share the same first name was too much of a coincidence for Fred to have ever considered.
Without speaking, he walked out of the cockpit and to Smith, determined to get answers.
His fists clenched.
He would get answers the best way he knew how.
