“But, general, with all due respect, that would be in violation of the Supreme Leader’s memorandum. And we are at least several months away from achieving true weaponization. What we currently have is not controllable, and I don’t think you understand the danger it presents—”
“Cease your chattering and come to your senses! I am no man of science, but I am quite aware that you won’t have a longevity treatment for the Supreme Leader ready on time. This is your chance to perhaps placate him in an equally acceptable fashion.”
Park stammered before saying, “General, perhaps at one time, yes, but currently the Supreme Leader demands—”
“They all demand. You and I have risen to our present lofty positions by fulfilling those demands.”
“And the Supreme Leader demands longevity, General. He will accept nothing less.”
Anger flashed in the center of Moon’s brain. Why must you test me like this? He repressed a sudden urge to reach across the desk and slap Park with a hard backhand. “Do not do this, Dr. Park, I warn you. Be prudent. You haven’t survived for this long by making such obtuse arguments. Move forward with all emphasis on weaponization. You and I both know that is the most direct path forward. No white papers or computer simulations. I want lab testing increased, and I will continue to provide whatever test subjects you need, animal or otherwise. I grow impatient for something tangible from this project, as does the party. We have invested far too much to not deliver. A weaponized virus would give us a much-needed edge for our eventual showdown with the West. And the last thing you want is to offer the Supreme Leader nothing when he comes calling in two weeks. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, general!”
“Excellent. You will report to me again in forty-eight hours. Dismissed!”
Dr. Park executed an about face and marched stiffly from the office. Impressive, for a man who never served a day in uniform.
Moon hoisted his glass of scotch and drained it, then turned to gaze again out the window. If the fool knew, he would probably attempt to defect as his wife and daughter did. But Moon had read Park more easily than the memorandum—the man hadn’t a clue Moon had discovered his plot with the American CIA. Traitor! With a bit of luck, he’ll make a breakthrough in weaponization before he is remanded to a labor camp... after the Americans fail in their mission.
A part of him wanted to arrest Park and his assistant now, but he knew such a hasty move would be wrong. The CIA could perhaps have other moles in his organization and arresting Park would reveal his hand. Park was truly brilliant, and he doubted that other members on his team could easily take his place. He had seen such purges backfire in their nuclear weapons program.
And if Park failed to weaponize the virus or if the Supreme Leader was not satisfied with his work, what did it matter? Moon would simply tell the Supreme Leader that Park had defied the memorandum, and his own orders as well, to work on weaponizing the virus as opposed to a longevity treatment. To steal another phrase from the Americans, it was a win-win situation.
Perhaps even three wins: the virus weapon, longevity, and the package I will seize from the Americans. The latter excited him even more than the prospect of the weaponized virus. He had to grudgingly accept Park’s estimate of several months to achieve effective weaponization. But a miniature nuclear weapon could be used immediately if necessary.
In truth it would probably be handed over to state scientists, so they could reverse engineer the technology, the logical course of action. North Korea would possess nuclear weapons on par with the West within a couple of years. And with the virus as a fearsome biological weapon also at their disposal, North Korea’s army would become unstoppable.
Park had achieved much in the past months, for that he begrudgingly deserved credit. Perhaps down the road, a longevity treatment could be perfected, but Moon knew, despite that being Dr. Park’s true passion, it would take years.
Moon pressed the button on his desk to summon his aide-de-camp, Captain Dong-Min. Ten seconds later the captain stood at rigid attention before Moon’s desk.
“Continue to monitor Dr. Park and his assistant Dr. Yoon,” Moon ordered. “I want a daily written report of their activities on my desk by 1900 hours, and inform me immediately if either does anything out of the ordinary. You have served me adequately thus far, captain. Do not give me reason to question your judgment. Is that understood?”
“Yes, general!”
“Excellent. Dismissed.”
4
In the kitchen of his home in Henderson, Nevada, Max poured a can of diet Mountain Dew over ice and thought about his conversation with the agent who called herself Juniper Reyes. A year or two ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to call her despite the bullshit info she probably had to offer. How much could she possibly know about Banner? The old Max wouldn’t have cared; he would have charged in full steam and worked the angle for all it was worth, fruitless though it might have been. He’d lived by that old and irrefutable maxim: you miss every shot you don’t take.
These days he operated with a weary sense of prudence. The agents who tailed him whenever he left the confines of the gated community where he resided, had something to do with this apprehension. Alaska, however, was the true culprit. Max believed every man had a breaking point; he’d nearly reached his in the aftermath of that mission.
It had sounded easy enough, too good to be true: ten million dollars to investigate why a Greytech mining operation in the Alaskan wilderness had ceased operations. A magnetic anomaly disrupted communications from the site, and a Greytech security team sent to investigate had vanished. Elizabeth Grey hired Max to secure the site, rescue any survivors, and recover all data collected by Greytech’s researchers.
Back then Max employed a team of seven men culled from the ranks of elite military units and government agencies. They were the finest men he’d ever worked with, and that was saying something. He’d fought alongside a lot of brave men over the years, first during his time as a Marine Corps officer and later as a private security contractor. Between those stints he’d been forced to serve the CIA: it was either that or be executed for the murder of his former commanding officer, a crime he did not commit.
Peter Banner, his old CIA boss, had turned him on to the Alaska mission. That red flag alone should have made him refuse, but the team’s previous mission had gone poorly. They needed a confidence boost. A payday of $1,250,000 per man would be just the ticket.
Alas, it all ended with a bang—a fusion reactor explosion that attracted a lot of attention even though it occurred in the middle of nowhere. The various three-letter government national security and law enforcement agencies, as well as the EPA, debriefed him in the weeks after the mission. But the FBI and CIA still thought he harbored secrets, thus their relentless tailing of his movements. Inevitable security leaks occurred, and Max had to deal with harassment from the press for some time before it eased.
Max languished for a while, rudderless, wondering what to do next. To avoid going insane from idleness, he immersed himself in a new obsession. After a few months he started getting back into combat shape and seeking work again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find a job; no high-profile clients wanted to hire him in the wake of the Alaska debacle.
Max grabbed his drink and departed the kitchen.
He passed through the living room, taking a moment to admire the breathtaking view of the Las Vegas Strip through the floor-to-ceiling windows of smoked glass. He’d purchased the home in the Seven Hills section of Henderson shortly after his wife divorced him, hoping that it would come to symbolize the sort of stability necessary to win back his family. A vain hope at best, as it turned out.
There were thus no feminine touches evident in the decor. The sparse furniture was expensive and plush; the TV, a giant flat screen. And as much as he sometimes abhorred the duties of his profession, his home’s decor bespoke of his fascination with fighti
ng and warfare. A Spartan warrior’s bronze helmet sat square in the middle of his coffee table. A mannequin dressed in an authentic Crusader’s chain mail hauberk stood in the entry hall. And an antique gun cabinet of glass and ebony displayed his prized collection of WWI infantry rifles with fixed bayonets, the Allied and Central Powers both represented.
Max took a last glance at the distant city before moving along. He walked to his bedroom, which likewise afforded a fine view of Las Vegas. Until last year he’d conducted business in the smallest of his home’s five bedrooms. This had become impractical, however, as his personal mission objectives had changed after the demise of his team. Working for clients demanded the utmost discretion; working for his own ends demanded utter secrecy. Max would die if the agency goons tailing him decided to break in and actually found out what he was up to.
Cedar panels lined his walk-in closet. Max pulled a hidden latch on the cabinet with cubbyholes that housed his shoes. The cabinet swung away from the wall to reveal a narrow hallway ten feet long. He had to skew his body slightly to fit his shoulders into the low, narrow opening, his 6’4”, 240-pound frame never meant for such tight spaces. He crawled through, taking care not to spill too much of his drink, and arose from the hallway in darkness, fingers groping for the switches on the wall to his right. The first closed the cabinet back in the closet; the second turned on the lights.
Max shielded his eyes for a few seconds as the harsh overhead fluorescents winked into life. His hate flared when he opened his eyes.
“Max-a-million!” crowed the identical smiling faces tacked to one wall of the tiny room. Roughly the size of a jail cell, the space had been built as a panic room for his family. Peter Banner was dead, but his image would live on for as long as Max needed it to. Until I find the rest of them—the stooges you ordered to kill my family. Max’s wife and son had died almost a decade prior, allegedly in a hit-and-run accident with an unidentified drunk driver who fled the scene and was never arrested.
The Banner pictures grinned down at him and spoke as one in their collective Oklahoma accent: “That Georgia mission cost you a lot, didn’t it?” Though he tried to push it from his mind, the memory caused Max to drift back to the same haunting moment seared into his brain.
* * *
“Just my medic and my reputation,” Max had responded as they stood in the soft predawn light of Alaska. An arctic breeze blew steadily across the ice. Michael Stewart, Greytech’s tall and rigid chief of security, stood next to Banner. Both had their pistols drawn, and six CIA goons with assault rifles backed them up. They’d collared him when he exited the tunnel from the spacecraft, which could explode at any time.
Banner laughed, a false bonhomie that bored Max. “You never could see the big picture, Max. That wasn’t all you lost. You seem to forget what was not awaiting you when you got home.”
Max didn’t need to be reminded of what hadn’t awaited him: Janet and David. Though his disciplined mind shielded him from facing the agonizing truth headlong—rejecting the thought, shoving it from his consciousness before it could break him down—the full circumstances of his loss fell into place, completing the picture. He’d had suspicions that it hadn’t been an accident but never had any solid proof to act on. Banner’s revelation—his confession—sent Max into a quivering rage. His nostrils flared; red spots flickered before his eyes.
One shot!
That was all he needed. Max was dead already, no question, but damned if he wouldn’t take Banner to Hell with him. In that perfect moment, Banner’s vigilance slipped, his gun no longer trained on Max’s face. His jaw fell open as he yelled, eyes wide and white with fear. He gazed past Max; something else had caught his eye.
Max reached for his Glock with a gunfighter’s blinding speed. He pulled the trigger.
A crushing pain coursed through his right shoulder the instant the gun fired, the blow ruining his aim and knocking him to the snowy ground. His shot went wide past Banner’s screaming face. Banner’s men fired their rifles in blind panic, all guns pointed in Max’s general direction.
But Max knew damn well they weren’t shooting at him. He ducked and rolled past Banner a heartbeat before a spade claw would have taken his head off.
The CIA team forgot about him as the creatures poured forth from the tunnel and set upon them. Max had no intention of sticking around for the battle. Instead he rolled to his feet and sprinted from the melee. He found himself behind Banner and his men now, on the Base Camp-side of the glacier.
Time to leave.
Like Lot’s wife, he couldn’t resist a glance back.
Four creatures made short work of the CIA team. The primitive camouflage they had used to blend into the ship’s interior had evolved. Two of the beasts were snow white. A third appeared mottled white and gray, while the fourth blurred like a mirage distortion.
The creatures would eat Banner’s team for breakfast and have Max for seconds. Nevertheless, he stayed long enough to see the nearly transparent creature charge full-speed into Banner and knock him dazed and bleeding onto the ice. Banner shook his dizzy head, raised his pistol, and shot it several times in its sleek, armored pterodactyl head. Most of the bullets sparked and ricocheted away. Banner dropped his useless weapon and began to crawl away in terror. He wailed like a eunuch as the creature’s beak crunched down on his leg, severing it from his hip and sending it whirling off into the snow with one shake of its head.
“Max!” Banner yelled as the creature pulled him toward its open jaws.
Max had his weapon raised, finger poised on the trigger, ready to take his vengeance on Banner. Then he thought better of it. Son of a bitch deserves no mercy.
Banner clawed futilely at the ice, his screams filling the air.
* * *
Max snapped out of his reverie and back into the present.
Bastard. You deserved your fate.
Though Max had always harbored suspicions regarding the accident, Banner’s confession kicked into high gear the obsession that might have saved his life.
As Max stood—his head barely cleared the low ceiling—Banner continued to smile at him. The man had always been smiling, big teeth like tombstones in his creased and weathered face, which somehow never lost its youthful vigor through the years. To the layman, as Max had once been during his formative time in the CIA, Banner came off as a rough-spun, down-home cowboy from the Oklahoma prairies. His home state, however, was the only bit of truth in the assessment. Just another backstabbing Harvard asshole. The various government agencies teemed with them, and men like Banner inevitably climbed to the top, their boot prints on every corpse, friendly or hostile, who dared cross them.
Max crossed the room in two strides and seated himself at the laptop computer atop the small writing desk. Next to the computer sat a framed picture of Janet and David, taken several months before they were killed. Blond and spirited David wore a beaming grin. He was the spitting image of Max at ten. Janet wore the strained yet composed look of a typical military wife used to rarely seeing her husband. And when I did see her, all we did was fight. She deserved better than me. Taken just after they’d divorced, the picture always brought on guilt—perhaps the reason Max had put it there.
He knew he wasn’t entirely at fault for never being around during the final days of their marriage. The agency had him by the balls at the time and sent him whenever and wherever they needed him. Nevertheless, the picture served to remind him that he not only had to find their killer but also that he needed to become a better person after justice was served.
Max had a long way to go. He’d spent months searching the dark web for more info on Banner, his close colleagues, and the “accident” that had taken his family. Now he hoped the research was about to pay off. About a week before, Max learned that Banner had been married at the time; Max had never known he’d been married at all. In 2012 his wife vanished, however, and at first Max figure
d she’d likewise been killed. Loose ends frustrated Banner; he wasn’t the type to leave an ex-wife, someone who might know even one of his secrets, among the living.
Yet Max, after following up on a tip from one of his few remaining contacts in D.C., had uncovered information only two days before that she was alive and living in Australia. Also utilizing the dark web, he’d found a shady private investigator down-under and hired him to confirm the address Max had on her.
It was a long shot. Banner would have told her nothing regarding his shady dealings, Max was certain of that, but she might know something incidental that would bring him closer to the truth.
Let’s find out...
Max inserted a flash drive that contained the Tails operating system, which provided additional levels of security and made it impossible for others to tie his browsing history to his computer. It also enabled him to run the Tor browser, a necessity for exploring the dark web.
He logged into TorChat instant messenger and read the only message awaiting him: Proceeded to location. The object has moved. Have a couple of ideas. Rates remain in effect. Please contact with further instructions.
Max shook his head. “Mother fucker.” He had NetJets on speed dial to grab a flight to Perth. Not just yet. That was the problem when dealing with shady PIs met on the dark web: you never knew if they knew what the fuck they were doing. Was this guy even a private investigator at all? For all he knew, Max might have been paying a wannabe sleuth in a trench coat with a magnifying glass. Or you’re just paying for nothing, pissing away your money. He had contacts of his own who could find her, except they still worked for the agency.
Max responded: Proceed. Next installment forthcoming. He typed in a new web address for a bank in the Cayman Islands and transferred three thousand US dollars into the numbered Swiss account. If this guy’s playing me, I wouldn’t care to be him.
Undead Page 4
