The Dragon Factory

by Jonathan Maberry

  “I have a bunch of questions,” I began, but he cut me off.

  “I’ll have a C-130 at the airport in forty minutes. I want every scrap of paper from Haeckel’s unit on that plane and heading my way asap. I want you on that plane, too.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” I demanded.

  “Remember when I told you that there was a worst-case scenario attached to the man in the video?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is it.”

  He disconnected.

  I HANDED BACK the sat phone. Okay, I thought, Church needed time to process things. So did I, and I was starting to see the shape of this thing. In a weird and thoroughly frightening way it was starting to take form, kind of like a monster coming slowly out of the mist. It would take a few hours for the C-130 to get us to Baltimore. Plenty of time to think this through.

  The things is . . . I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be right or wrong about my suspicions. If I was wrong, then we didn’t even have this thing by the tail and we were just as much in the dark now as we were before we came to Deep Iron.

  On the other hand, if I was right . . . dear God in Heaven.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C.

  Saturday, August 28, 5:23 P.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 90 hours, 37 minutes

  The President of the United States lay amid a network of tubes and monitoring cables. He was a tall, slightly built man who looked frail at the best of times, but in a hospital gown and with the aftereffects of surgery he should have looked much frailer. Instead rage made him look strong and dangerous. His dark eyes seemed to radiate real heat.

  William Collins stood at the foot of the bed—he had not been offered a seat—and endured that glare. It was nearly a full minute since he had completed his full explanation of his actions. Behind the bed a heartbeat monitor was beeping with alarming speed, but when a doctor poked his head in the President snarled at him to get out. The only person allowed to remain within earshot was Linden Brierly, Regional Director of the Secret Service.

  When the President spoke, however, his voice was remarkably controlled. “That’s your story, Bill?” he asked. “You’re comfortable with that?”

  “Sir,” said Collins, “that’s the truth. I acted in the best interests of the American—”

  “Skip the bullshit, Bill. Be straight or we’re done here.”

  “I told you the truth. My actions were based on information received that I felt was compelling and believable. I informed the Attorney General about it before I took a single action, and we agreed that it was the best and safest legal course.”

  “You honestly believe that Church has a leash on me?”

  “Based on the information I received, yes. How many ways would you like me to phrase it? Look . . . you can ask me to step down and I will. You can put me in front of Congress and I’ll do it without ever taking the Fifth. I’m willing to jump through any hoops you want, Mr. President, but my answer is going to be the same thing every time. The information my source brought me was compelling. It still is compelling.”

  “Are you willing to tell me what that information is?”

  “I’m reluctant to do so with Linden here.”

  “I can step out,” offered Brierly, but the President shook his head.

  “If there are any skeletons in my closet, Bill,” said the President, “then Linden already knows about them. I also think it’s important that there be a witness to this conversation.”

  Collins looked from one to the other, clearly uncertain.

  “Mr. President . . . are you sure there is nothing too confidential for—”

  “Nothing,” insisted the President.

  Collins blew out a breath. “Very well. My source told me that Mr. Church has evidence that you used government assets and personnel to squash a link between companies for which your wife served as legal counsel to misappropriation of funds during the first round of financial bailouts.”

  The President stared at him. Brierly’s face was a stone.

  “If that were to be made public,” Collins continued, “it would destroy your credibility as President, seriously undermine the economic recovery of this country, which could cause an even worse market crash than we had in 2008 and early 2009, and very likely result in impeachment. It would effectively kill your presidency and reverse any good that you’ve done.”

  “I see.”

  “What would you expect me to do? I saw a chance to get you out from under the control of a blackmailer and at the same time protect you and this country from a catastrophe. You want to fry me for that, then do it. I won’t even make this public if you put me on trial or before a hearing. What I also won’t do, Mr. President, is apologize for my actions.”

  The President nodded slowly. “Does the name Stephen Preston mean anything to you?”

  Collins stiffened.

  “I see it does. He’s your source, isn’t he?”

  Collins said nothing.

  “Bill, a few minutes before you arrived I received a call from the Attorney General. For the last eighteen months Stephen Preston has been the deputy information analyst for Homeland. His clearance is above Top Secret. He’s respected and well placed, and if anyone would be in a position to discover a scandal of the kind you’ve described it would be him. Likewise if anyone was able to crack MindReader and the DMS and learn of an ongoing campaign of blackmail it would be him. Agreed?”

  Collins said nothing.

  “So, if someone like Stephen Preston came to you with information of this kind it’s understandable, perhaps even imperative, that you would give serious credence to him. I can see that; Linden can see that. The Attorney General must have seen that, because he backed your play in this matter.”

  Collins said nothing.

  “Forty minutes ago a security guard found Stephen Preston at his desk, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”

  “What?”

  “He had a note on his desk. While not exactly a suicide note, it was nonetheless a very long and rambling letter about the corruption of the American system and the need for it to be wiped away so that it can be replaced by a system created by God and dedicated to His will. That sort of thing. Six pages of it. Superficially the handwriting appears to be his, but the FBI will run their tests. The entire office is now a crime scene, and I’ve asked the Attorney General to work with the Bureau to make sure that the forensics are done without bias and with no stone unturned.”

  “Good . . . God. . . .” Collins looked stricken and Brierly pulled up a chair for him. The Vice President sat down with a thump. “I . . . I . . . don’t understand. He had records; he had proof. . . .”

  “Bill, there are probably very few people better suited to fabricate that exact kind of proof. Our biggest concern now is to determine if Preston acted alone or if this is part of some larger conspiracy. I am debating going public with this once we have the facts so that there is absolutely no stink of cover-up.”

  “I . . . don’t know what to say. Mr. President, I—”

  The President smiled for the first time. “Bill, I don’t like what you did. People were hurt, trust was broken, and tensions now exist between the NSA and DMS—two crucial groups that need to be able to trust one another and work together without reservation. And I’ll be straight with you . . . I’m going to look very closely at you. You’re going to be vetted all over again and if I find anything—anything—out of place I’m going to drop you into a hole and bury you with it.”

  Collins shook his head. “I believed—”

  “I know. I’m trusting you, Bill, but I have to be sure.”

  “But Church . . .”

  “Bill, if Mr. Church was really the enemy here he would destroy you. Don’t think I’m exaggerating.” He snapped his fingers, a sound that was as loud as a dry branch breaking. “Just like that.”

  “He . . . MindReader . . .”


  “Does Church know things about me, Bill? Things that I would prefer not be made public? Sure he does. Has he tried to use them as leverage? No. Not once. I won’t speculate on what happened during the previous administration. If Church had secrets then, and if he ever tried to use them, then I don’t know about it.” The President’s eyes were intense, his smile gone. “Does Church and his damned computer have too much power? Probably, and if I ever—ever—get a whiff that he has abused that power, lost control of it, or used it in ways that do not serve the mutually agreed best interests of this country I won’t bother with the NSA—I’ll send the National Guard against him and every one of his facilities.”

  Collins sagged back in his chair.

  “But I know the man. I know him very well, and I truly believe, Bill, that Church and his group are one of the strongest and most correctly used weapons in our arsenal. I’ve seldom met anyone in whom I place as much personal trust as I place in Mr. Church.”

  “You don’t even know his real name!”

  The President’s smile returned.

  “Yes,” he said, “I do.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER Vice President Bill Collins was in the back of his limousine, the soundproof window in place.

  “How’d it go?” asked Sunderland on the other end of the line.

  “He goddamn near tore my balls off.”

  “What happened?”

  “He bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.”

  Sunderland’s exhale was so long that it sounded like a hot air balloon deflating.

  “J.P.,” said Collins, “I don’t want to know how you stage-managed the suicide. We’re never going to discuss this topic again.”

  “We don’t need to. You’re out of it.”

  “I’m out of it,” Collins agreed. “Now you have to watch your own ass.”

  Sunderland made a rude noise.

  “I wish we’d never tried this, J.P.”

  “Little late to cry over it now . . . and we might still spin something useful out of it.”

  “You might. . . . I’m out of it.”

  Before Sunderland could reply, Collins closed his phone. He folded his arms tightly against his chest and crossed his legs and wondered if he had just jabbed a tiger with a stick. In his mind Sunderland was not the tiger. Nor was the President.

  The tiger was Church.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Deck

  Saturday, August 28, 9:46 P.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 86 hours, 14 minutes E.S.T.

  “We’ve located the facility,” said Otto as he tucked the Irish linen under Cyrus’s chin.

  “Where?”

  “In the Bahamas, those arrogant brats. They bought an island. Dogfish Cay. Thirty-eight acres, volcanic but with a solid bedrock base. Very lush, with several buildings and a lagoon that looks like it might have been dredged to take small cargo ships. My guess is that most of the facility is built down into the bedrock.”

  “My young gods,” Cyrus said with a smile. “They learned well.”

  Otto grunted and arranged the platter on his lap tray. “It gives them easy access to the states, they can hide small shipments among the tourists and pleasure craft, but they’re outside of U.S. waters.”

  “Which is why we couldn’t find them. I was sure they would build in one of the Carolinas. They bought property there under half a dozen names.” He paused and picked up his knife and fork. “Mmm, now that I see the whole picture I can see where the land purchases were misdirection. Good for them.”

  “What do you want to do now?”

  “Now I’ll eat. What is it? Not more dodo—?”

  “No, it’s Alsatian. Grilled with onions and peppers.”

  “Do I like dog, Otto?”

  “You requested it specially.”

  “Whatever could I have been thinking?” he said as he cut a piece of meat, speared a plump slice of green pepper, and ate it. He chewed thoughtfully. “Mm. This is a bit of a disappointment.”

  “What do you want to do about the Dragon Factory?”

  Cyrus cut another piece of meat and stabbed it with his fork, then waggled it at Otto. “Infiltrate it, of course. Send two teams in a look-and-follow pattern. The New York boys will do for the first-in. What’s the weather like on Dogfish Cay?”

  “Eighty-six degrees with light and variable winds out of the southwest. Cloud cover coming in over the next few hours.”

  “Are the teams ready?”

  “They were in the chase planes.”

  “Then go tonight.”

  “Very good.”

  “And Otto . . . ?”

  “Sir?”

  “Have them kill either Hecate or Paris. One or the other, but not both.”

  Otto stared at him in surprise. “Are we having one of our episodes, Mr. Cyrus?”

  Cyrus smiled. “No, we’re not, and don’t be a smart-ass. God! Look at you—you’re white as a ghost.”

  “Kill one of the Twins . . . ?”

  “Sentimentality creeping in on you in your dotage, Otto?”

  “Hardly. I just don’t understand why you want one of your children murdered. What does it do for us?”

  “If we do it right, Otto, if we make it look like a government hit—which is easy enough considering where we get our equipment—then it will drive the remaining Twin closer to me. A family brought together in shared grief. Us against the world, that sort of thing. Instead of stealing the secrets of the Dragon Factory he—or, more likely, she—will beg us to take them.” His eyes glittered like black glass. “And then our real work can finally begin.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Private airfield, Denver, Colorado

  Saturday, August 28, 10:59 P.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 85 hours, 1 minute E.S.T.

  Jerry Spencer reached the airfield just as we were loading the last of the Haeckel records onto the C-130. I waved him over and we shook hands.

  “What the hell’s going on today, Joe?” he asked in his usual gruff voice. “You look like you just got kicked in the nuts. What is it?”

  I told him about the ugly secrets we found down there in the dark.

  He paled. “First Russians and now frigging Nazis? Are you shitting me?”

  “Wish I was. Look, we had to mess up the crime scene—Church wants those records back in Baltimore—but try to find me something to go on. We’re starting to make headway, but we could still use a few more answers. One of the Hub boys will run you out to Deep Iron. Go down there, man . . . do your magic.”

  Jerry took a pipe out of his pocket and tapped the stem on his thumbnail. He gave up smoking a couple of years ago, but he carried the pipe so he could fidget with something. It beat biting his nails.

  “You didn’t find any trace of Jigsaw Team?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Maybe you will. . . .”

  From the look on his face I was sorry I said it. At this point there was a good chance that anything he found would be bad news.

  “I’ll do what I can, Joe,” he said. “Call you when I have something.”

  He headed off, head down, his cold pipe tight between his teeth.

  I headed across the tarmac to the C-130. We were wheels up in ten minutes.

  Chapter Fifty

  The House of Screams, Isla Dos Diablos

  Sunday August 29, 12:43 A.M.

  Time Remaining on Extinction Clock: 83 hours, 17 minutes

  The compound was never silent. Even here in the middle of the night there was noise. Cries of the jungle parrots, the incessant buzz of insect wings, the rustle of leaves as the breeze pushed its way through the palms. And the screams.

  Eighty-two crouched in the dark and tried to remember if he had ever heard real silence here, if there was ever a time when someone wasn’t shouting, or weeping, or screaming. He was sure there must have been times, but he couldn’t recall. It wasn’t like living at the Deck. Sure, there were screams there, too, but not all the time. Eighty
-two had watched a lot of TV—even regular stuff he downloaded from satellite feeds—and he knew that hearing screams was not part of ordinary life.

  Then again, he already knew he was a freak.

  After he’d snuck out to recover the stone, Eighty-two had climbed back into his bedroom so that he’d be there for the midnight bed check. When the nurse and guard—there were always two of them—were sure he was in bed and asleep, they closed and locked the door. That left him four hours until the next bed check.

  Eighty-two lifted the corner of his mattress and removed a small tool kit. The cover was part of a leather work apron he’d picked out of the trash, and the individual tools were things he had collected over the last two years. None of them were proper tools, but each of them was carefully made. Eighty-two was very good with his hands. He had learned toolmaking by the time he was ten and had even assisted Otto in making surgical instruments for Alpha. It wasn’t something the boy enjoyed, but then again there was almost nothing he enjoyed. Toolmaking had been a thing to learn, and Eighty-two never passed up an opportunity to learn something. He believed that his willingness—perhaps his eagerness—to learn was one of the reasons Alpha hadn’t let Otto kill him.

  Alpha had hopes for him. Eighty-two knew that much, although he didn’t know what those hopes were or why Alpha held on to them with such aggression. It wasn’t out of love; the boy knew that much from long experience. There were a lot of other boys at the Deck, and Eighty-two had seen Alpha’s mood change from approval to disapproval of many of them over the years. Alpha’s disapproval was terrifying. Six weeks ago, Alpha had made Eighty-two and a dozen other boys sit and watch as One Thirteen was fed to Isis and Osiris. One Thirteen had not been clever enough at numbers, and his hand sometimes trembled when he held a scalpel. Alpha had been very disappointed in him.

  Eighty-two used a pair of metal probes to undo the lock to his bedroom door, slipped out, and relocked the door. Then like a ghost he drifted along the empty corridors of the main house and along an enclosed walkway that led to the guardhouse. Twice he passed crosswalks that had cameras mounted on the wall, but he kept to his memorized timing schedule and no one saw him. To get to the House of Screams he had to pass through the guardhouse or go outside—and that wasn’t likely with the dogs out there. From his window Eighty-two had seen four of the dogs—two big tiger hounds and a pair of some new breed he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. No thanks.