Mosaic (Breakthrough Book 5)

by Michael C. Grumley

  Until 1968.

  Dugway’s extraordinary progress in modern biological agents was revealed unintentionally, and not by curious citizens or lurking investigators. But rather by thousands of nearby animals. Sheep. Who suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, dropped dead.

  The “Dugway Sheep Incident” could not have come at a worse time for the covert department. It came promptly on the heels of an already growing public resistance to the use of inhumane nerve agent weapons, with VX being one of the most abhorrent. The ensuing uproar, both domestically and internationally, nearly resulted in the disbanding of the entire U.S. Army Chemical Corps.

  The incident was a monumental mistake, quickly covered up by nothing short of a herculean publicity campaign, and a lesson the Army, and now the CIA, would go to great lengths to avoid repeating.

  As a result, Dugway would go completely silent for the next fifty years.

  ***

  If not for the lack of windows, the underground, brightly lit hallway would have appeared perfectly normal. With polished, marble tiles and light gray walls, the hall was long and wide––stretching out before General Bullman as he walked crisply forward. His dark shoes echoed with authority with each step.

  There were no breaks along the walls. Each extended ahead of him by almost an eighth of a mile, taking Bullman and his aide almost three full minutes to reach the double metal doors at the far end.

  When he finally stopped, Bullman faced a large panel to his right. A video screen and speaker sat just beneath a cylindrically shaped camera protruding forward. The general stared into it with a complete lack of emotion, waiting until he heard the familiar clunk from the door’s lock. The door swung outward automatically, revealing a large white room inside.

  “Wait here,” Bullman said dryly to his aide before walking through. Behind him, the heavy door slid silently and smoothly back into place.

  The area inside was enormous. Several sections were partitioned off by even more hallways, each lined by rooms with glass walls. Further away, above another large set of double doors, existed a sign which simply read Research & Testing.

  Bullman continued moving down one of the white hallways, where a younger man broke off a conversation and hurried toward him. His lab coat was sharply pressed, and a computer tablet was gripped tightly in his left hand. Pressing his square-framed glasses higher onto his nose, he then raised his eyebrows.

  Bullman continued walking past the younger man, forcing him to turn and catch up.

  “Good morning, General. I believe you wanted to see this one.”

  “I did.”

  “This way, sir.” The younger man, by the name of Rothman, quickened his pace. He resembled a scientist but moved and spoke like a soldier. In truth, he was both—one of the thousands enlisted over the years by the U.S. Military, and the CIA, for a multitude of high-profile missions requiring talent in cutting-edge sciences. The Government’s secret projects, with their funding and expertise, rivaled many of the very best technology corporations on the planet. And what they could not develop themselves, their specialists gleaned from public companies through the use of leverage, or what others might see more as extortion.

  The two turned a corner, and Rothman led the general through a smaller door and another hallway. This one resembled a medical lab, with more rooms and floor-to-ceiling windows for observation on both sides.

  The two passed several people, their heads down, before entering a larger research room. There, three rows of white tables complete with dozens of computers and giant monitors were housed. On the far wall sat what appeared to be two very large and oddly shaped microscopes. Bullman noted them as Rothman leaned down in front of a monitor.

  “What are those?”

  The younger scientist followed Bullman’s gaze. “Those are a new breed of microscopes from IBM, using something called AFM for imaging at the molecular level. We’ve had atomic microscopes for a while now but using the same technique on molecules didn’t work.” Rothman grinned as he turned back to the screen. “IBM was nice enough to, uh, donate them.”

  The general continued scanning the room, noting with amusement that several other researchers were purposely trying to avoid eye contact. Instead, they stared even more intently at their screens.

  Rothman began typing on the keyboard. He then used the mouse and navigated to a set of newly created research videos, opening the first one.

  The video began playing, and in it, the frame displayed another room. This one looked like a testing area with dark walls, marred and deeply scratched. In the middle of the video, the camera zoomed in on a tall, black metal apparatus, securing a set of clear glass slides in the middle of an open frame. A sample hovered in between the two pieces of glass.

  “These video files are internally classified, so I couldn’t send them to you.”

  Bullman nodded and continued watching the screen.

  “This is the latest sample. A graft of living tissue about two millimeters thick, similar to the outer layer of skin on our arms and legs.”

  Rothman straightened next to the general and continued watching. Soon there was a loud beep, and a digital display appeared in the bottom left-hand corner of the video, counting down from ten.

  When the counter reached zero, there was a sudden gunshot in the video and at least part of the glass panes instantly shattered. A whiff of smoke entered the frame as someone walked past the camera to examine the glass. The person removed the pane and carefully picked a few broken shards away. When all were gone, the technician brought the sample closer and then faced it towards the camera. After a few seconds observing the shattered front pane, they slowly turned it around to show the back pane of the glass, which was heavily cracked but still intact. More importantly, there was no hole in the second pane.

  When the image froze on the sample, Bullman turned and looked at Rothman.

  “It’s just a small caliber,” he said. “But it’s a success.”

  Bullman grinned uncharacteristically, without taking his eyes off the screen. “Any downsides?”

  The younger man nodded. “As expected, we cannot reach this level of strength without sacrificing the cell’s molecular composition.”

  “English.”

  “Sorry.” Rothman thoughtfully rephrased, “It’s ability to regenerate. And given that skin is the fastest growing organ, that presents a serious challenge.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Well, if the skin stops regenerating, it creates all sorts of problems. And eventually kills the host.”

  General Bullman placed his hands behind his back and grimaced at the screen. They were close. Damn close. After years of research and thousands of trials, the elusive promises of genetic engineering were finally within reach.

  Transformation was the new mission of the U.S. Army. And prior to the 1968 incident, the Dugway Proving Ground had been at the forefront of the Army’s biological weapons development. At least until political pressure had deemed it “inhumane.” Thus the need to shift control to the CIA. It was always something.

  Of course, the pressure didn’t stop the development––but it did make it more difficult to eventually use some of the weapons they had just spent decades creating. Like those sheep that suddenly died in the nearby desert valley all those years ago, the problem with chemical weapons was that trace signatures could still be isolated and eventually tracked back. In this case, to Dugway.

  But now things were about to change. Now, thanks to the marvels of genome editing, Bullman’s newest biological weapon was not a chemical at all.

  33

  Two levels deeper and an hour later, Bullman found himself visiting his second secret, who could not have been more different than Rothman. Shorter and almost twenty pounds overweight, Dr. Janice Talbot stood next to Bullman without a word. Her heavy eyebrows and silent demeanor gave her an air of what to Bullman was somewhat of a reluctant tolerance toward those she was forced to work with.

  Talbot’s light brown s
kin reflected her half Puerto Rican bloodline, with the other half from her Caucasian father who had spent his career in the Army. The same father whom she had lost early and on whom Bullman pinned the woman’s lifelong obsession for medical research. Another doctor trying to help save the world after the loss of a loved one.

  General Bullman peered intently at a video monitor secured to the wall before them. The room was a small observation area with a large one-way mirror viewing the room next door.

  Containing two examination tables, both draped with clean linens and surrounded by hi-tech medical systems and monitors. Above each table were three large, round fluorescent lights. All of which were off, casting the room in a darkened and almost creepy glow.

  But the screen in front of Bullman and Talbot stood out in contrast. Bright and almost cheerfully lit, it gave a wide-angle camera view of yet another room. This one was smaller with exercise machines and more monitoring equipment. Near the edge of the video, a treadmill was being used by a young man. Next to him, one of Talbot’s team members studied a computer pad in her clutch.

  The man on the treadmill faced away from the camera as he ran. On the right side of their screen, a column of computer data overlaid the giant monitor being viewed by Bullman and Talbot, which was updated every few seconds.

  “How long ago was this?” he asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  In the recording, a large screen was positioned several feet in front of the runner. Most of the display showed a large yellow circle. Suddenly, a loud sound was heard, and the screen’s circle changed to green. Almost immediately, the runner lowered his head and increased his speed, matching the treadmill belt as it accelerated.

  On the monitor, Bullman watched the digital gauge increase from twelve miles an hour to thirteen, then fourteen. It continued steadily increasing through fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen.

  When the speed approached twenty, Bullman glanced at Talbot.

  “This is the upper limit of normal human range.”

  Bullman turned back to the monitor without a word. The speedometer continued counting upward. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

  On the treadmill, the man’s figure began to move so rapidly that Bullman could detect some blurring. At twenty-six miles per hour, he turned again to Talbot with raised eyebrows.

  She did not respond. She merely nodded back toward the monitor. The speed topped out at 26.9 miles per hour while the man, lean and muscular, continued running. Charging forward as if he were trying to break the machine.

  For several minutes, Bullman continued watching. Finally, Talbot reached forward and stopped the video in mid-frame.

  “Impressive,” Bullman said.

  “He’s almost as fast as the world record holder,” she responded dryly.

  “Jesus.”

  “Not quite.” Talbot remained staring at the screen. “He could be faster. He has terrible form, and increasing amounts of his energy at this speed are spent fighting wind resistance rather than propelling himself forward. With some modifications, he could be noticeably faster.” She moved her finger along the screen, advancing the video. “But the purpose here is not a demonstration of speed.”

  Talbot pointed to another counter on the screen that measured elapsed time. “The record holder runs slightly faster than this, for only ten to twenty seconds.”

  Bullman studied the screen. “Eleven minutes?”

  “He’s done thirteen.” Talbot stepped back and faced Bullman. “It’s because of his muscle strength, which we’ve more than doubled. Now they’re more efficient, taking less energy for the same level of exertion.”

  She promptly turned back to the screen and closed the video window. Talbot then navigated to another file and played it. The man from the treadmill was now positioned at a metal table, this time sitting and facing the camera. He was gritting his teeth with dark eyes focused intently on his outstretched hands.

  He was gripping something tightly, causing the muscles in his arms and shoulders to bulge and shake.

  Bullman squinted at the screen and tried to make out the cylindrical figure between the soldier’s hands. “What is that?” he asked, just before the object could be seen bending.

  Seconds later, the soldier relaxed, twisted his hand, and held the bar up to the camera. He slid away from the table and walked forward, sneering directly into the lens and then reaching out to slap it defiantly. The camera toppled over, causing the picture to go erratic. The video ended with the last frame showing the camera sideways on the floor.

  Bullman continued staring. “What was that made out of?”

  “Steel.”

  Fascination flashed in the general’s eyes.

  “And he can do more than that. It’s taken almost a year, but we’ve finally managed to remove all of the genes for myostatin. Which limits muscle strength. And recovery.”

  “What else can he do?”

  Talbot reached forward to queue up another video. “A lot. But reaching most of the genes, even using a genome sequencing process like CRISPR, takes a long time. Too long for your schedule.”

  She stared at Bullman. “What we need…is that sample.”

  34

  The Treasure Cay airport on Bahama’s Great Abaco Island was as cozy as a small airport could possibly be––comprised of only one large room with two small ticketing counters and three rows of plastic molded seats. Will Borger compared it in size to an average delicatessen back home in Washington, DC.

  He watched as several dark-skinned and very friendly Bahamian women passed back and forth, putting the room in order and arranging pamphlets and ticketing cards for the wave of morning passengers. Borger counted six people in the twenty minutes they’d been waiting. All the while, the Bahamasair ATR 72-600, a 70-seat airplane, sat impatiently on the small tarmac outside, waiting to depart back to Nassau.

  If he were completely forthright, given his dislike for flying, Borger was just thrilled to be off the plane. Somehow, boarding an airplane only half full and having the flight attendant instruct which rows to fill to better balance the craft had left him distinctly uncomfortable for the rest of the flight.

  He took a deep, relaxing breath, noting the old fan overhead, caked with dust and oscillating back and forth with a low hum. He glanced at his watch before turning to Lee Kenwood sitting next to him, his head down and typing away on his laptop.

  “You got signal here?”

  Lee replied, briefly slowing his hands. “Not a very good one. Fortunately, I don’t need access to the internet for this part.” He finished typing before scrolling up and down the screen, checking his code.

  “Does it work?” Borger asked.

  “This module does. Thankfully. But it still needs some tweaking.” He blinked and looked up. “Your friend still not here?”

  “Not yet.” Borger looked again at his watch and refolded his arms. He leaned back for a moment, abruptly leaning forward again when two wooden shutter doors opened in the corner of the room, revealing an attractive Bahamian woman. The airport snack bar was open.

  Borger wasted no time crossing the room to grab a soda from the small glass refrigerator. He paid the woman and returned to his plastic seat, falling into it with a satisfying thud.

  Lee Kenwood studied the can and glanced up at him. “You know it’s like 8:30 in the morning.”

  Borger took a long gulp. “Oh, yeah.”

  Lee returned to his screen. “And I thought Chris was bad with his coffee.”

  Several minutes later, an old Toyota Corolla appeared and stopped just outside the airport’s entrance. Watching through the glass doors, Borger suddenly stood up when a man stepped out of the driver’s side and looked around.

  When he saw Borger exit the building, the man smirked with a mix of humor and pessimism. He took a breath, shaking his head of thick gray hair, and rounded the front of the car before shaking Borger’s outstretched hand.

  “Roland! How the heck are you?”

  A six-foot-tall, sixty-
two-year-old Rick Roland nodded dubiously. “Borger, you do know I’m on vacation here, right?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. But I really needed to talk to you, post haste. And without a lot of ears around.”

  “Well,” Roland said, looking around at the empty lot. “You certainly got that.”

  “I need a favor.”

  Now the man frowned. “You always need a favor.”

  “That’s not true.” When Roland’s face did not change, Borger thought it over. “Okay, that might be true. But this is important.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both turned when Lee stepped outside, a computer backpack slung over one shoulder, and let the door close behind him. His eyes were squinting under the bright morning sun, radiating heat that immediately penetrated his dark T-shirt.

  “Rick,” Borger said. “I’d like you to meet Lee, a colleague of mine. He’s working with me on what I need to talk to you about.”

  “Hi, Lee. Did you have a hand in interrupting my vacation?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t tell him until we were on the plane,” Borger confessed.

  “Classy.” Roland turned and nodded to the car. “Get in.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, Roland sat forward with his arms resting on a plastic table, beneath the ramshackle roof of Junkanoo Javas. His hand was wrapped around a Styrofoam cup with steam rising from his black coffee. Behind Roland, just a few hundred yards away, sat a white catamaran sailboat resting at anchor in the narrow bay of Brigantine.

  Borger took a drink from a new can of soda and set it down, motioning to the boat at the same time. “Debra still sleeping?”