A door slammed behind her, and she turned.
Professor Amelia Gomez stood at the bridge entrance and yelled into the wind, “All clear?”
Tanya gave her a thumbs-up and walked to the stairs, careful not to lose her balance as the small boat swayed in the waves. She grasped the rails tightly and took the stairs one at a time as to not slip on the ice that had formed on the corrugated metal. She opened the door to the bridge, walked in, and fought the wind to close it behind her.
Her runny nose was greeted by warm air mixed with the ever-present smell of diesel exhaust and stale coffee. “How does anything live out there?” she said under her breath as she lowering her hood and pulled off her gloves. “Final stop, right?”
A large bearded man in a baseball cap rolled his eyes and nodded to Tanya from his position at the helm, behind and out of view of Professor Gomez. Tanya struggled not to smile.
“Yes,” Gomez replied. “Just wanted to check this area on our way out. Another vessel spotted whales here. It would be nice to identify a few more before heading home.”
Tanya had had about enough of her advisor’s intellectual curiosity. She hadn’t been warm in three months, and was sure her life had been shortened by a decade. It would take weeks to erase the taste of the brine and diesel that coated her throat day after day. They’d made some interesting discoveries about Sei whales, which were thought to be rare in Antarctic waters, and she’d accomplished enough to earn a doctoral degree in marine biology, but she wondered whether it was worth it.
“Turn on the microphones,” Gomez instructed.
Tanya sat behind a small consul and flipped open a laptop that controlled the sound equipment. She booted up the system and donned a pair of headphones. Professor Gomez sat next to her and did the same.
“Volume,” Gomez said and twirled her finger.
Tanya guided the cursor on the screen to a button labeled Amplifier A, and increased its setting from two to six.
They sat still and listened.
A strange noise filled Tanya’s ears. It sounded like someone was striking a high-tension cable with a hammer, about once per second. “Are the motors off?” she asked.
Captain Tom nodded and shrugged his shoulders. “Everything’s off,” he said.
Gomez tilted her head. “Then what the hell is this?” She pulled off the headphones and gestured to the captain to come listen.
Captain Tom walked over and slipped on the headphones. He crinkled his brow as he listened. “It’s not from the boat,” he confirmed.
“Any other vessels on radar?” Gomez asked.
“Nothing for 25 miles,” Tom replied.
He walked back to the pilot station, pulled a walkie-talkie from its holster on the wall, and spoke. A response came back as a voice-static mix, and he put the walkie-talkie back. “Jules says everything is off,” he said. “The sound is not from us.”
For the next half hour, they listened intently and recorded everything. Tanya knew they could do some filtering later if they got good data. But the frequency spectrum of the mechanical noise confused her: it was more complex than the usual knocks and ticks of a boat.
Her head jerked in response to a blast of high-intensity static, and she pulled her headphones away from her ears. Professor Gomez did the same, and Tanya readjusted the amplifier to bring down the volume.
Gomez tapped her on the arm and pointed towards the door. The sound of rushing water came from the boat’s starboard.
“Whales?” Professor Gomez said with hopeful eyes.
Tanya followed Gomez as she rushed up to the helm. They stopped at a large window and looked out over the water.
Tom, who had gone to the head, joined them and looked out the window. His face went blank, as if he saw something he recognized but didn’t expect.
The shadowy image of a submarine loomed in the dark, barely visible. It was impervious to the waves, like a boulder in a lake, about 100 feet to starboard and aft of the Yonkers Belle. It was enormous.
An amplified voice emanated from the direction of the submarine, but Tanya couldn’t understand it. When she turned to Captain Tom, he’d already grabbed a megaphone and made his way out to the upper deck. Tanya and Gomez followed.
The voice came again, louder this time, but still incomprehensible.
“English,” Tom yelled into the megaphone.
A blinding light blasted from the submarine’s conning tower, and Tanya shielded her eyes with her hands. The voice rang out again.
“You are in a restricted area,” it said, this time in English.
Tanya thought the accent was Russian.
Tom hesitated for a few seconds, and then replied, “Why is it restricted?”
“We are conducting military exercises. You are in danger.”
In her peripheral vision, Tanya detected movement near the lower deck. A rubber raft rammed the side of the boat and a rope flew over the rail. “Tom!” she yelled, and grabbed his arm.
His startled eyes met hers, and then turned to where she pointed. His face turned white, even in the bright light.
Four men climbed over the rail, two came toward them, toward the upper deck, and two disappeared down the stairs that led to the engine room.
The masked men rushed up the ladder and confronted them. One pointed a pistol at Tom, while the other went into the bridge. Tanya watched through a window as the man grabbed computers and audio equipment and put them in a bag. He searched through everything – drawers, cabinets, and clothing.
Professor Gomez moved towards the entrance in a rage, but stopped in her tracks when the man shoved the gun in her face. She moved to Tanya’s side.
As the man inside exited the bridge, the two that had gone to the lower deck returned with the boat’s engineer, Jules, at gunpoint. Everyone was now on the upper deck: four masked men, Tanya, Gomez, Jules, and Captain Tom.
“What are you doing here?” asked the leader.
“We’re a science vessel,” Tom replied.
“We’re listening for whales,” Professor Gomez added.
“You are listening right now?” the man asked. “Recording?”
“Yes,” Gomez replied and pointed in the direction of the buoy and the line hanging over the rail of the lower deck.
The man nodded to one of his men who then went the lower deck, reeled in the buoy and microphone, cut the cable, and put the microphone in a bag.
The boss then blurted orders in Russian, and two of the men went back to the bridge. One smashed the radio on the floor and other hammered the navigation equipment with the butt of his gun. The GPS, sonar, and radar electronics were all destroyed.
While the other two worked inside, the boss said something to the man who had returned from the lower deck. The two Russians approached Gomez and Tanya. Gomez screamed as one grabbed her waist. Tanya went limp as the other man did the same to her. He dug at her pants – into her pockets. He pulled something out and handed it to his superior. It was her data storage device.
The boss examined the small storage drive, and then threw it overboard along with the two he’d found on Gomez.
Tanya was tempted to jump into the sea after them, but remained still. Her heart sank with the data on the drives. They were going to take or destroy everything. Months of work in the hellish cold would be lost. Her Ph.D. research was gone.
The men then searched Jules and Tom, but found nothing.
The other two men exited the bridge and joined them on the upper deck.
The boss directed his words to Captain Tom. “You have 30 minutes to get out of the area. I hope you understand the consequences of us finding you here again.”
Professor Gomez confronted the man. “Are you threatening us?”
Tom grabbed her arm and pulled her behind him.
The Russian boss ignored her. “I hope you can navigate the old-fashioned way,” the boss said to Tom and gestured towards the destroyed navigation instruments.
Tom nodded.
Th
e four men climbed down to the lower deck. Tanya watched in silence as they disappeared over the rail. A moment later their rubber boat sped towards the sub.
Everyone remained silent as they filed into the cabin. Tom started the Yonkers Belle’s engine, and Tanya braced herself as the big diesel grumbled and accelerated the boat. She walked around the mess of smashed electronics to the back of the bridge. She peered out the aft window just as the black silhouette of the submarine sank back into the deep.
5
Saturday, 21 February
(9:52 p.m. CST – St. Louis, Missouri)
Lenny Butrolsky stared at the two police officers crammed into the small hospital bathroom. They remained still and in unnatural positions, with limbs at awkward angles. They were dead. The eyes of one remained open, and the legs of the other twitched sporadically. The latter had released his bowels, and the stench diffused through the room.
None of it shocked him. On the contrary, he’d seen, and done, much worse. But this wasn’t his work. His attention turned to the man kneeling on the floor below him, tying his shoes.
“These are size 15 and your feet barely fit,” the man said. He was dressed as a doctor. “Can you pull the coat over your arm by yourself?”
Lenny nodded. It would be painful, but he’d manage. He slipped his right arm out of the sling and gingerly passed his hand through the sleeve of the coat. He then squeezed his shoulder blades together and fed his left arm through the other sleeve.
“I got the largest one I could find,” the man said. “Looks long.”
“Fits well enough,” Lenny replied. It was wide. If it were tight on the shoulders, the pain might be intolerable.
The man pulled a second gun out of his white coat and handed it to Lenny. He then reached into his inner breast pocket and handed him identification documents, an envelope, and a set of keys. “I’m connected with friends of the late Heinrich Bergman.”
Lenny flinched at the sound of the name. He was supposed to deny any connection to his former boss. He suspected that everyone involved in the program had fled, never to resurface. It now seemed that the network might attempt a recovery.
“There’s twenty grand in that envelope,” the man said. “Ten to get you reestablished. The rest is down payment for your first job. We’ll contact you in a couple of months. Should be enough time for you to recover.”
The man handed him a phone. “Use this for everything. It’s secure.”
Lenny pocketed it, and then grabbed a small duffle bag from a shelf. He forced open a locked cabinet, splintering the edge of the particleboard door, and filled the duffle with antibiotics and bandages. When he turned around the mysterious doctor was gone.
He had little time. If a nurse made a random visit, he’d have to kill her. The gun wasn’t equipped with a silencer so he’d have to use other means – and that would be difficult with one arm.
He walked to the door and peered out. He stepped back and into the bathroom, pulled a black knit hat from the head of one of the corpses, and put it on his own. He pushed on the bathroom door to close it, but a leg of one of the dead cops jammed between the edge of the door and the bathtub. He kicked the man’s shin and pushed the door closed. The body settled and thumped against the other side.
Lenny backed away and straightened his jacket. He started for the door, but then went to a tray near the bed and slurped down a few cubes of lime Jell-O, followed by a cup of lukewarm coffee. He didn’t know when he’d eat again, especially if there was a chase.
He exited the hospital room, walked down a freshly waxed corridor, and passed the nurses’ station on the left. He caught up to a man pushing an old woman in a wheel chair, and followed them into an open elevator.
As the elevator descended, he wondered about the man who’d just freed him. Was he CIA, or a part of an international network? All he knew was that he was again connected to the project.
The real question was whether they were going to try to revive it, or eliminate every trace. It could go either way. In light of them seeking his services, it was more likely the latter. Whatever they had in mind, it required the services of an assassin.
CHAPTER II
1
Tuesday, 31 March (7:23 a.m. CST – Chicago)
Will started the coffeemaker and began emptying the dishwasher. With the cast removed and two weeks of rehab, he could walk with only a minor limp and moderate pain. The soreness in his hips and lower back diminished daily, and the doctors had cleared him to start a walking routine. The apartment complex had a gym with a treadmill, and he planned to start immediately.
A knock on the door startled him out of his morning stupor. He set a dish on the counter and padded barefoot over the cold, hardwood floor. He looked through the peephole and his stomach twisted. How had they found him so quickly? He then realized he’d been out of the Red Box for eight weeks.
He’d been mostly confined to the apartment since his release from the hospital, and it wasn’t in his name. Denise did all the outside work – groceries and running errands. They still found him.
He recognized the men. Both were in their mid-thirties and wore dark suits. The taller of the two, with blonde hair and a millimeter of beard on his face, held a briefcase. The other, shorter and broad shouldered, wore a black knit cap.
Will opened the door and looked at the men.
“Do you remember us, Dr. Thompson?” the taller man asked.
“You’re Scott,” Will replied and then nodded to the shorter one, “and Carver.” The two FBI agents had made an unannounced, late-night visit to Will’s hospital room his first conscious night out of the Red Box.
“We’ve known your whereabouts for a while now, but gave you some time to heal,” Scott said, “and spend some time with your girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? Will thought.
Will led them into the apartment. The odor of cigarette residue followed one of them. They sat at a small square table in the kitchen. Scott sat directly across from Will, opened his briefcase, pulled out a file, and put it on the table. Carver sat to Will’s left.
“You know why we’re here,” Scott said.
Will responded with a shrug even though he remembered their conversation in the hospital.
“First,” Scott continued, “we need to get you into protection.”
“Am I in danger?” Will asked, not hiding his skepticism.
“We found you easily,” Carver explained.
“Am I in danger right now?” Will asked.
Carver coughed lightly and looked down at the table. “There’s been a leak – records, files, and video footage from your time in the facility,” he explained. “It doesn’t mean anyone has located you yet, but it’s possible.”
Will wasn’t surprised that the videos had been preserved after the collapse of the Red Box facility. Most likely all of the electronic information collected up to that instant was safely stored on another part of the planet. “What am I supposed to do?”
“We’ll relocate you,” Carver said, “but first you’ll go through some training. You’ll need to learn some habits of self-preservation. Once that’s completed, and you’re relocated with a new identity, we’ll integrate you into service.”
“Back up,” Will said and held up his hands. “I hadn’t planned on changing my identity and relocating. And I haven’t agreed to work for the FBI.”
“Regarding relocation,” Carver said, “you’re not the only one at risk. Those around you are also in danger.”
Will thought of Denise and he realized the quandary. If she or Jonathan were in danger because of him, then he’d leave. His parents could also be at risk. “When would all of this start?”
“Training starts next Monday,” Carver replied. “It takes six weeks or so, depending on how fast you learn.”
Scott pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Will. “Here are the details,” he said. “Firearms training, communications security, survival, driving, surveillance and avoidance, and self
-defense training.”
“A lot for six weeks,” Will said.
“Enough to keep you safe,” Carver said as he closed his briefcase. “The address on that form is your rendezvous point with a contact who will bring you to the facility. Be there at 6:30 a.m.”
Will walked the men to the door. As they stepped out, Scott turned to him “Take the training seriously,” he said. “My feeling is that you’ll be needing it.”
Will nodded and closed the door.
One lesson he’d learned during the past two years was that life could change in an instant. Now he had to abandon everything and live somewhere else as someone else.
Although the Red Box had changed him in the most profound way, he’d decided to try to live a normal life. He understood now that that was not possible. He’d always be looking over his shoulder. Someone would always be searching for him.
In the short term, he’d have to trust the FBI. After all, they’d helped free him from the Red Box and shut down the horrific program. His trust was limited, however. The FBI had internal problems: leaks and factions with their own motives.
He poured a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen counter. The effects of the morning’s events would ripple through the future and produce a wake of uncontrollable consequences. He felt as if he were being forced down a path that had the appearance of free will but was actually constrained. It was like floating on a raft on a slowly flowing river: you had some local control of where you were going, but the river determined your final destination. His river, it seemed, was heading for a waterfall.
2
Monday, 20 April (7:20 a.m. EST – Washington, DC)
Daniel Parsons cringed as he pressed his hand on the wall-mounted scanner pad, yellowed with the oils of thousands of hands. He nearly gagged at the thought of the germs passed to him during this daily operation.
A green light illuminated above the pad and a door slid open. He passed through a narrow entrance into a load-lock, and the door closed behind him. The stale air in the tube always reminded him of his flights between the U.S. and Pakistan when he was a CIA operative. It was amazing how olfactory-induced memories could compress time: the Pakistan assignment had ended twenty years ago.
EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum Page 2
