The Lazarus Protocol: A Sci-Fi Corporate Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga Book 1)

by Pourteau, Chris

  The Lazarus Protocol

  The SynCorp Saga • Book One

  by

  David Bruns and Chris Pourteau

  Welcome to the Boardroom…

  The Syndicate Corporation needs people like you to shape humanity’s future.

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  For our wives

  Christine and Alison

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Enjoy This Book?

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright Notice

  Chapter 1

  Remy Cade • Vicksburg, Mississippi

  The troop carrier lifted out of the landing zone in a spray of muddy mist. Corporal Remy Cade slogged through the soggy meadow with the rest of his squad. Although the rain had stopped for now, the Mississippi humidity made it feel like he was breathing through a wet towel.

  From desert to deluge. That’s how the reporter on YourVoice poetically described his unit’s new assignment. After eighteen months in the Sinai, the rep of Graves’s Diggers was solid gold. In the Drought Wars of East Africa, there was no problem too big or too small for Colonel Graves and his Diggers. Their battalion motto was “Consider It Done.”

  Private Allen James, Jamie to his squad, took a knee beside Remy on the berm of the asphalt road bisecting the water-soaked meadow. “Asshole pilots,” he muttered, wiping his face. “They sprayed us on purpose.”

  “Cheer up, Jamie,” said PFC Rita Holmes, the other member of their fire team. “Now you don’t have to take a shower this week. ”

  Remy chuckled.

  “Knock it off, both of you,” Second Lieutenant Raymond Zack interrupted in a harsh voice.

  Their squad was saddled with Zack, a brand-new butter bar fresh out of Officer Candidate School. Back in the Sinai, Graves would have taken a newbie officer under his wing and made sure he knew his ass from a hole in the ground before he threw him to the troops. But this was just a pissant little jaunt to the Deep South to prevent looters from trying their hand at a five-finger discount and help storm survivors stay alive. Easy duty compared to Africa. They carried small arms only, and that was just for show. Seeing real soldiers in the streets should keep the peace all by itself.

  Now that they were stateside again, things were changing. Promotions were happening, and people were leaving for new assignments. Good people. So many changes that for this last-minute operation, his platoon was operating well below half strength, deploying with only two squads of two fire teams each. The rest of the company was on leave or on loan to another unit. Even Graves himself, newly promoted to colonel, was in Washington for some high-level briefing. Remy knew he shouldn’t care, but part of him felt like his family was breaking up.

  Just as Jamie opened his mouth to deliver more colorful commentary, Staff Sergeant Hector Akito intervened with a curt, “Lock it up, people.”

  Remy elbowed Jamie to shut him up. Akito’s tone was a low growl, a familiar prelude to a full-blown ass-chewing. Sometimes Remy’s best friend failed to pick up on basic social cues .

  From what he could see so far, Hurricane Zoey, the second Cat 6 storm from the Gulf this year, had done a number on this place. Other Digger squads were being deployed to Red Cross camps all around Vicksburg to run crowd control and provide what aid they could to storm survivors until the National Guard arrived. As home to the only bridge for a hundred miles that wasn’t submerged by the swollen Mississippi River, Vicksburg was a gathering point for thousands of climate change refugees, as the media called them. To hear the news feeds tell it, the good people of Vicksburg opened their community to Louisianans fleeing their swollen bayous with the best of intentions, but things quickly went from how can we help? to keep your hands off .

  The feds made the call to use active duty troops to enforce law and order until the Guardies could get their act together. The public pressure to do something was intense with all the news drones, embedded reporters, and heartfelt interviews with little kids clutching soggy stuffed animals. So here the Diggers were, called back from well-deserved leave, to ensure disaster relief went smoothly.

  “Glasses on, people,” Akito shouted. “Let’s move out.”

  Remy suspected that even Akito thought this was bullshit duty, but he was putting on a show for the newbie platoon commander.

  Remy plucked his data glasses from his sleeve and slid them on. The two fire teams of three soldiers each, plus the sarge and the lieutenant, showed up as eight green bubbles in the lower-right of the display.

  Sarge’s no-nonsense voice whispered in his ear. “Corporal Cade, you have Fire Team One. Team Two, on me. ”

  Remy acknowledged the assignment with no small swell of pride. Here he was, only a corporal and commanding his own fire team. Temporary assignment, of course. Fire teams were led by sergeants, not corporals, but scarcity makes all things possible.

  Jamie crowded behind him as they shuffled to their feet. “What are your orders, oh most exalted one?” he whispered in Remy’s ear.

  “Don’t be an ass, Jamie,” Holmes muttered. “Remy earned it. He’s not a fuckup like you.”

  “Hey, I resemble that remark,” Jamie whispered back with giggle.

  “Stow it,” Remy said in his best impression of Akito. Jamie laughed harder.

  The two fire teams hustled onto the asphalt surface, Remy’s team on the right, Akito’s on the left, twenty paces between each soldier as they trudged after their platoon commander.

  “What’re we supposed to do when we find the refugees, Sarge?” Jamie called out as they walked.

  “We babysit them there until the Guardies get here, dipshit,” Holmes said. “Make sure they stay in their box.”

  “Cool it, Holmes,” Akito said. “These people are all just trying to get through another day. We’re here to keep the peace. That’s all.”

  The rain started again, and Remy could feel his wet armor starting to rub at the small of his back. Their gear was made for desert conditions, not this kind of weather. Water ran down Remy’s neck, creating a chill despite the muggy weather. He was so lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t see Akito call a halt.

  The road bent around a copse of dense trees where a pickup truck with Louisiana plates was stuck deep in a water-filled ditch. It was a beautiful machine, a custom diesel, with chrome everything.

  “A gasser,” Jamie said, pointing to the exhaust pipes extending over the cab. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  Remy nodded agreement. Only the uber-rich could afford a vintage gas-powered beauty like this one. It was mor
e a collector’s item than something you actually drove, though. For day to day use, they had their aircars. On the other end of the wealth spectrum, the truly poor had no other option besides nursing an ancient gas-powered wreck. Finding gas for them, though, was getting harder all the time.

  “Lieutenant.” Akito had his head inside the shattered driver’s side window. “Blood on the seat.”

  “So much for keeping the peace,” Holmes muttered.

  “Recommend we get to the camp before we lose the light, sir,” Akito said, looking at the gloomy sky.

  The Red Cross tent city was laid out on a neat grid, ten family-sized tents to a side, with the space between them churned to mud. A few dozen solar cars were parked haphazardly along the side of the road.

  And not a living soul in sight.

  Remy used the muzzle of his AR-21 to lift a flap leading into the nearest tent. The interior had a small rug in the entrance with muddy boot prints. Children’s toys littered the floor, and two narrow cots with mussed bedclothes were pushed up against the wall.

  Remy squinted into the still-weeping clouds. Maybe the squad could camp here tonight in one of these nice dry tents.

  “Sergeant,” Zack said, “let’s head into town. ”

  “Sir, it’s getting late—”

  “I’m aware of the time, Sergeant. Our orders are to find the refugees and set a perimeter.” He pointed down the road toward Vicksburg. “There’s only one way they could have gone.”

  The gloom deepened as they double-timed it down the highway, crossing into the suburb of Stout. The main street of the small town was lined with two- and three-story buildings, sustainable living structures with shops on the lower floor and apartments above. Despite the encroaching evening, no lights shone in any of the windows.

  Concrete planters with flowers and small, decorative trees dotted the pedestrian-only boulevard. After a few blocks, the street opened onto the glassy darkness of the Mississippi River, where a pair of floating casinos abutted concrete piers. In the distance, Remy could see rows of vehicle lights on the I-20 bridge and campfires dotting the opposite shore.

  Akito halted the squad at the end of the street.

  “What’s the holdup, Sergeant?” Zack called.

  “Sir, we expected to find thousands of refugees. Where are they? That many people can’t just disappear. This place is a ghost town.”

  The rain was falling harder, forcing Akito to raise his voice. Remy’s soaked uniform and battle armor felt like he was carrying an extra fifty pounds. He was tired, hungry, cold, and he felt a blister forming on his right heel.

  “There!” Holmes called out, pointing her AR-21 toward the casinos. The outside of the casino came to life with light. If he squinted, Remy could even see movement. That made sense. The refugees had abandoned the camps and moved onto the casinos .

  A swoop of movement halfway down the street caught Remy’s attention. “Sarge! I’m tracking incoming!”

  Jamie had his scope out scanning the street. “It’s a news drone,” he called, standing up in the pink doorway of a cupcake shop called Sprinkle Dome. As Remy watched, a second, then a third news drone dropped from the sky to hover over the street. Odd to have so many drones clustered in an area where nothing was happening.

  Jamie hooked a thumb at the sign above the cupcake shop. “This place reminds me of a strip club I used to go to called the Glitter Dome…” He paused in mid-sentence, the way he always did when winding up for the punch line.

  His head snapping sharply sideways, half of Jamie’s face evaporated into a red mist. A spatter of something dark splashed against the pale pink door. Remy saw a neat round hole appear in the jamb…

  “Take cover!” Remy screamed. His training took over, slamming his body flat against a concrete planter. Behind him, he heard Jamie’s body slap against the slick sidewalk. One green dot on the bottom of his field of view turned red.

  Remy barely registered the zip of high-powered rounds cracking the asphalt around him. Reflected in the shopfront windows, suppressed fire from the upper floors of the buildings along the street sparked like deadly fireflies.

  Jamie was dead. His best friend was dead .

  Rain mixed with the gore oozing out of Jamie’s head wound, creating little rivulets through the mess of clotting blood. He should cover his friend’s face with something. Remy started to reach out .

  “Don’t do it, Remy.” Holmes crouched behind her own concrete planter twelve feet of bare sidewalk away. It seemed much farther. “He’s gone.”

  They were US soldiers in an American city. Easy-peasy, that’s how this was supposed to go down. He and his best friend were going on leave together in three days … Vegas. They had it all planned out…

  From the other side of the street, Zack shouted into his headset. “Overwatch, this is Digger Squad Bravo! We need immediate evac from this location! One soldier down!”

  The answer came back calm and cold. “That’s a negative, Bravo. We have multiple firefights in progress. Fall back and secure a defensive position—”

  The circuit turned into a hiss filled with static.

  Akito roared out a curse. “How are these fuckers jamming us on a military circuit? Remy, have your team lay down cover fire. Team Two, fall back.”

  Remy rolled to a prone firing position, switching his AR-21 to three-round burst mode. The butt of his rifle thudded satisfying three-beat punches into his shoulder. The enemy fire ceased, but he kept putting rounds into those shattered windows.

  Zack’s voice broke into the local circuit. “Fire Team One, fall back—”

  The explosion was so loud it made the rifle shots sound like puffs from a bee-bee gun. The heavy concrete planter next to Remy rocked with the force of the blast. He pressed his face against the wet sidewalk as chunks of dirt, asphalt, wood, and glass rained down.

  The row of green dots on his data glasses blinked and three more turned red. Three greens remained: Akito, Holmes, and some new recruit from the other fire team.

  Holmes flashed a thumbs-up to indicate she was okay.

  “Sarge! You okay?” Remy yelled into comms.

  A streak of light shot over Remy’s head and through one of the apartment windows. He pressed his face back into the dirty sidewalk, clamped his hands over his ears. It was too late to run, and he knew what an RPG could do. Another explosion lit up the night sky. More debris rained down on his back.

  He could hear Akito’s breathing on the circuit. “Sarge?”

  “IED, Remy. These assholes set a booby trap for us, and we walked right into it. It’s just me and Smithson left, and we are not mobile.” The green dots that represented Akito and Smithson shifted to blinking yellow. They both needed medical attention and soon.

  Three doors down, the enemy fire resumed. They were ignoring Remy and Holmes. All the fire was directed at the injured Akito and Smithson.

  Remy saw his chance.

  “Cover me!” he screamed at Holmes. Remy staggered to his feet, lurching across the pedestrian plaza toward the store below the enemy. Behind him, Holmes pumped out continuous rounds at the remaining enemy fire team.

  The storefront turned out to be an Italian restaurant. Images of small square tables laid with snow-white linen, silverware, and shimmering wine glasses flashed by as he crashed through the glass front door and rolled against the bar. Outside, Holmes switched to three-round bursts. Inside, the loudest sound was his own breathing .

  Headlamp on, Remy edged toward the kitchen, rifle up. He wished with everything he had that Jamie was covering his six.

  The cold light from his helmet flashed over a worn range and hanging pans. There were two open doors. One opened to the back alley, the second revealed a set of narrow stairs.

  The yellow dot that was PFC Smithson blinked red.

  He could hear his breath whistling through his teeth as he climbed the steps to a single door. Jamie’s killer was behind that door. Remy closed his eyes.

  “Holmes, cease fire,” he wh
ispered into the comm circuit.

  The incoming gunfire stopped immediately. And Remy listened.

  Two weapons in the next room started firing again. A pair of AR-21s, just like the one he carried. These guys, whoever they were, were using military grade hardware on his people. Their own goddamned soldiers.

  The ghost of Jamie Allen, fellow survivor of eighteen months in the Sinai, teller of dirty jokes, and the closest thing Remy had to a brother, stood beside him in the dark hallway, lop-sided grin and all.

  The grin slid off the spirit’s pale face like gravity had pulled it away. The image collapsed into half a bloody face melting into a dirty sidewalk.

  Remy kicked in the door. A shape to his left moved and he put it down with two quick pulls of the trigger. Another shift in the shadows, another pair of bullets. He swept the room again.

  “Clear!” he said.

  In the glare of his headlamp, Remy pieced together the scene. A red-haired boy with freckles wearing black body armor over a yellow t-shirt. A blonde girl wearing an LSU sweatshirt over her chest protector. Both held AR-21s. Neither looked older than Jamie.

  Both dead by his hand.

  His knees went soft and he found himself sitting amid a litter of glass and expended brass cartridges.

  “Why?” Remy said to the corpses. “We came here to help you.”

  A whirring noise drew his attention to the window. The red eye of a news drone stared back at him.

  Chapter 2

  William Graves • Phoenix, Arizona • Six Years Later

  Three days into the Phoenix Drought deployment, Colonel William Graves reflected on his time as the US military’s top disaster relief officer. He knew one thing for sure—he’d take a Category 6 hurricane over a drought any day.

  Sure, hurricanes were powerful, devastating events. What the winds didn’t rip apart, the storm surge drowned in brackish water and dangerous debris. Bacteria flourished, and diseases so long dormant people didn’t even know their names anymore resurrected with a vengeance. But hurricanes were defined disasters. They did their worst and moved on. Waters receded. People rebuilt.