Free Apocalypse Machine by Jeremy Robinson

pepper hair hidden by the short haircut, but visible in his mustache.
    “Your problem now,” the short secret service agent says, before doing an about-face and motioning to the woman pushing an equally stunned, but less indignant Holly. “We’re done here.”
    Without a word, Holly is abandoned and has to slow the wheelchair on her own.
    “Sorry about them, Mr. Wright,” the Air Force man says, then he nods to Holly. “Ms. Interlandi. I am Major David Gibbs.” He looks me in the eyes. “You’re not a light man, Mr. Wright, mind if I sit you back down?”
    Working together, we get me back into the chair. I’m able to walk some, but not without help. Another day and I should be fully mobile again, though it’s going to hurt, maybe even worse than today, but I plan on being medicated by then. I lean back in the wheelchair seat with a groan. “Where are you taking us?”
    “I’m going to tell you everything I know,” Gibbs says. “Everything. With the hopes that we can avoid further incident.”
    I can’t promise I’ll play nice without hearing what he has to say, so I just wait in silence for him to speak.
    “Deal,” Holly says for me.
    “Our destination is Washington, D.C. My mission is to fly you both there, where a second Secret Service team will pick you up.”
    When he falls silent, I ask, “That’s it?”
    “That’s it. That’s all I know, but given your recent experiences in Iceland, and the Secret Service treatment, my guess is that you’re both headed for the White House. The world is in a tizzy, and you both were firsthand witnesses.”
    While it makes some kind of sense, I don’t appreciate the surprise, or being torn away from my family. “My kids are out there. My family. They took me away before I could even speak to them.”
    Gibbs steps behind my chair and starts pushing, while the second, silent U.S. Airman pushes Holly. “Understand your frustration, sir. And I will look into it for you. But the situation is fluid. The death toll is climbing. And while the fallout is primarily affecting Europe, the whole world is going to feel it. I’ve been in the military for a long time, sir. Where you and I might see tragedy, others will see opportunity. If there was anything I could do to help avert further loss of life, I would do it.” He pauses to look down at me, his mustached grin upside down. “Wouldn’t you?”
    “They told me my family would join me later,” I say.
    “Like I said, I’ll look into it.” He wheels me into the plane, and we turn through a door just wide enough for the wheelchair. Two U.S. Marines salute the Major as we enter and step aside to reveal what looks like a plush corporate jet outfitted for Marines on the go. While the seats at the front of the plane are intact, the rear has been converted into a mobile weapons locker. A special forces unit could probably climb aboard and be ready for just about any mission upon landing.
    Then I realize where we are. A friend of mine wrote a piece about it years ago. But it had just been speculation based on rumor and legend. The story told of how the U.S. Marines adopted the luxurious Gulfstream IV, after it was damaged by a tornado. During its repair, some of the accoutrements were kept, but much of it was gutted and converted to a mission-ready plane that moved Marines, weapons and cargo during 476 sorties, without being identified as a military asset. Legend no more. This is the real thing. “The Gray Ghost.”
    “You know your planes,” Gibbs says, impressed.
    “I know a little about a lot,” I say.
    Holly stands from her wheelchair, takes a shaky step and slides into the nearest seat. “He knows a lot about a lot.”
    “I have a feeling that quality is going to be in high demand,” Gibbs says. “Now find a seat. We’re going to be in the air and back on the ground inside an hour.”
    “That fast?” I ask.
    “Let’s hope it’s fast enough,” Gibbs says with a deep frown, and I realize I’ve been