Chapter 3 - Unidentified Craft

  “Dispatch, Unit 42, copy rush traffic.”

  A beat of silence crossed the band before the calm reply came through. “Unit calling rush traffic, go ahead.”

  “Dispatch, Unit 42. Shots fired. Officer down. South Annex, Terminal Forty-Seven. Actively taking fire from multiple individuals.”

  Mike Reyes threw the cruiser into park before the transmission ended. The door slammed open, rain hitting him in sheets as he stepped out onto the slick concrete. Lights from the pier flashed against the water. Smoke drifted low and heavy across the dock. He drew his weapon, crouched behind the open door for cover, and scanned the chaos ahead.

  He did not get a chance to move farther. The return fire hit like a physical blow. The air folded inward before the sound arrived, a concussive thrum that shoved his chest and made the cruiser shiver behind him. Each Eidolon pulse struck with a low, heavy vibration. Metal sang and glass spidered as holes blinked into existence where the beams hit, edges glowing and steam hissing in the rain. Sparks and ozone filled the air.

  The cruiser’s dashboard flickered and died as wiring burned.

  He saw them through the smoke, armored figures at the loading line, a transport groaning under the weight of its engines, Talon being dragged inside like cargo. Two of the Eidolon troops moved with machine precision. Their rifles spat blue-white bursts that burned clean coin-sized holes through the cruiser’s body. The rear quarter imploded, molten edges spattering across the pavement. Heat and smoke filled the air.

  He fired back on instinct. The radio crackled with his ragged breath between shots. His rounds sparked harmlessly against the rain-lit hulls, tiny sounds swallowed by the deep resonance that shook the pier.

  “Dispatch, they are taking 85,” he shouted, still firing. “Taking heavy fire, vehicle compromised.”

  Pulse fire hammered the dock again. The transport’s engines screamed higher, the craft tilting for lift. Reyes dropped behind his ruined door, pulled the shotgun from the rack, and braced it against the frame. He fired slugs in quick rhythm, three, then four, each one slamming into the underside of the rising craft. Sparks flared and streaked down into the rain, but the ship kept climbing.

  He reloaded, fired again, and watched the transport vanish into low cloud, leaving only the smell of ionized air and burned metal behind.

  “Dispatch, Unit 42,” he said, voice shaking. “Visual on hostile transport departing Terminal Forty-Seven. Metallic hull, dark surface, no rotors or wings. Blue-white light along the underside. Heading north-northeast across the harbor, altitude climbing fast.”

  He keyed the mic, breathing hard.

  “Dispatch, Unit 42. I need air support at Terminal Forty-Seven now. If Air Support is already in the air, get them on my channel.”

  “Copy, Unit 42,” dispatch replied. “Air Support One is airborne and diverting to your location.”

  “Copy,” he said, voice still shaking.

  “Dispatch, this is Unit 31. Visual confirmed, same heading, moving over Pier Six.”

  “Unit 18 here, confirmation from the west approach. Object is accelerating. Negative, dispatch. That is not any standard aircraft.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Copy,” dispatch answered. “Maintain observation. Do not engage.”

  Rain sheeted across the canopy as the helicopter banked north over the harbor. The pilot’s voice came through the radio, calm but strained.

  “Dispatch, Air Support One. Visual on the object. I have it at twelve o’clock, high. Metallic hull, dark surface, underside light. No rotors, no wings. Looks like a single-body craft. Heading north-northeast, climbing fast.”

  “Copy, Air Support One,” dispatch replied. “All responding units, Air Support One has visual. Hold position and advise.”

  “Unit 31 copies.”

  “18 copies.”

  “Air Support One, continuing pursuit,” the pilot said. “Attempting to maintain visual. Target accelerating.”

  The craft pulled into the clouds, blue light trailing off into gray. The pilot adjusted trim, trying to keep the shape in view. “Dispatch, I am losing it in the weather. Visibility is dropping.”

  He flipped a switch on the console, changing frequencies. “Portland Approach, Air Support One.”

  “Air Support One, Portland Approach. Go ahead.”

  “Approach, we are tracking an unidentified craft out of the harbor. No transponder, no beacon. Climbing north-northeast, altitude about two thousand and increasing fast. Can you confirm radar contact on that target?”

  “Stand by.”

  Static filled the line for several seconds before the controller returned.

  “Air Support One, negative radar contact. Nothing on that vector. Are you certain it is airborne?”

  “Affirmative. Visual confirmed. Object departed Terminal Forty-Seven, accelerating on climb. Lost sight in cloud cover.”

  “Copy. We will maintain sweep on that heading. Nothing showing primary or secondary returns.”

  “Air Support One copies. Returning to base.”

  He switched back to the police frequency. “Dispatch, Air Support One. Portland TRACON confirms negative radar contact. Object not appearing on their scopes. Last visual north-northeast, climbing fast through cloud cover. Breaking off pursuit and returning to base.”

  “Copy, Air Support One,” dispatch replied. “All responding units be advised, TRACON has no radar contact. Object is off-scope and unconfirmed.”

  Reyes stood beside what was left of his cruiser. Steam rose from the twisted frame, the metal still ticking as it cooled. The rain carried soot and oil across the concrete. The smell of ozone hung heavy.

  He pressed the mic key, voice tight.

  “Dispatch, Unit 42. My vehicle is wrecked. I have multiple vehicles blown out along the dock, container damage across most of the loading area, fire still active in several spots. Roll fire to Terminal Forty-Seven. Repeat, roll fire to Forty-Seven.”

  “Copy, Unit 42. Fire is being notified.”

  He moved through the wreckage, light cutting across warped steel and burned machinery.

  “Dispatch, have the watch commander respond to the scene. I need CSI and command staff on site immediately.”

  “Copy, Unit 42. Command has been advised and is en route.”

  The radio came alive again, the dispatcher’s tone calm and direct.

  “All responding units, establish perimeter at Terminal Forty-Seven, South Annex. Unit 31, set up at Pier Six access road. Unit 18, cover the north entrance by the container yard. Units 24 and 27, take positions on the east approach. Fire and medics inbound.”

  “31 copies.”

  “18 copies.”

  “24 copies.”

  “27 copies.”

  Reyes crouched beside a burned-out hauler, sweeping his flashlight beneath it. “Dispatch, negative on any wounded. Area is clear of personnel. Everything has been burned out or destroyed.”

  “Copy, Unit 42. Hold perimeter until additional units arrive.”

  He let the mic hang loose and turned toward the water. Rain mixed with black residue running from the wrecks, forming a slick film that slid off the dock into the harbor. The lights across the bay wavered in the reflection. Somewhere beyond the clouds, the thing that had taken Rowe was already gone.

  He took one last look across the broken port and whispered, almost to himself, “You are gone, brother.”

  The wind carried the words away. The only answer was the rising wail of sirens drawing in from the city and the steady rhythm of dispatch assigning the perimeter into place.