Doomsday Exam [BUREAU 13 Book Two] Read Online Free PDF

international NO symbol. The words ‘or else’ had never been deemed prudent, or necessary. Only Bureau personnel knew about the small thermonuclear bomb under the crossbar. It was our way of discouraging unwelcome guests. Worked just fine, too. Nobody we nuked ever returned again. At least, not in this life.
    Now surrounding us instead of the lush summer greenery of the Iowa farmlands, was a dead flat plain of sun-baked mud stretching to the horizon, the sky a featureless vista of gray. Ah, there was no place like home. And this was no place like home.
    Discernible solely by its lack of cracks, the slim roadway we were on was the only safe area to traverse. The rest of the landscape was a billion dollar deathtrap, littered with anti-personnel land mines, acid pits, napalm geysers, telescoping pungi sticks, nerve gas, lasers beams, and exploding cactus. Even touching the crossbar, much less going past it, would have flipped over the road and squashed us like bugs on a pancake. It was a toll few wished to pay.
    Ahead of us was a high stonewall topped with electrified, poisoned, concertina wire. There were angular turrets every ten meters crowned with rectangular missile launching pods, Gatling Guns, squat flamethrowers and who-knew-what-else. This was the secret location of Bureau 13's hidden training Academy and Holding Facility, code-named: Bangor-Maine, for some reason lost in antiquity. Knowing the gang at HQ, it was probably an obscene joke from the 1880s.
    Literally off-the-map, civilian drivers simply went past the appropriate milemarker. But with proper Bureau ID, approaching the sign would shunt you into a small pocket universe hidden between the front and back of the roadpost. Speed was not essential to traveling to this miniverse. I only did that to reduce our time in dimensional transit. For some reason, it reminded me of visiting Cleveland. Lord knows why, because I've never been there.
    Finding the correct signpost was always a pain. I had to call an ever-changing 800 number, at 13 past any odd-numbered hour, properly identify myself with half a page of code phrases and countersigns, to eventually get the current location of the milemarker. Being a pocket universe, the damn doorway was constantly shifting. Last time it was in the middle of a forest preserve in Colorado. The time before that it was in the washroom of a Tasty-Freeze in downtown Boston. Boy, the stares the seven of us got from the staff as we piled into the lavatory stall together! Whew, talk about embarrassing.
    Bangor-Maine was one of the few Bureau locations that survived the Slaughter of ‘87 when 80% of all the Bureau agents were killed within a four hour period by an unknown enemy. Our darkest day. Just recently, the legendary J. P. Withers himself had been assigned to the case. He would search forever until he caught and killed the people responsible. Since J. P. was immortal, when he said forever, Withers meant it. Nuff said.
    Checking on the trailer behind us in the rear view mirror, I released my safety harness and thumbed a transmit switch on the dashboard sending our recognition code. Unlocking the door, I climbed to the ground. Eagerly, the rest of my team scrambled from our armored vehicle.
    Ever the lady, Jessica daintily stepped out and straightened her white summer dress. Slim enough to do it, Mindy hopped through an open window. Fat boy George dramatically kicked aside the rear door, and Raul phased straight through the side of the RV. The big show off. He loved to play with new spells, the more dangerous they were, the better.
    Judiciously, I checked the load in both of my .357 Magnums and coldly scrutinized the battered yellow trailer hitched to the rear of our vehicle. Our guest had been suspiciously silent for quite awhile. I only hoped the tricky bastard wasn't planning something. Lumpy's last escape attempt had destroyed an overpass, an underpass, two off-ramps, and a tollbooth. While annihilating the latter was not an