World Order

by David Archer

  They found it a moment later, and Sarah raised her hand to knock, but Renée suddenly grabbed it, her face deadly serious.

  "What is it?" Sarah asked as Renée inclined her head as if to listen through the door. Then she shook her head.

  "Something’s not right," she whispered. A couple of seconds later, she was proven correct. They heard a crash of something glass or ceramic breaking, and then they heard a gunshot and a scream. Both of them reacted instantly, drawing their weapons and stepping back from the door. Sarah nodded for Renée to try the door, and she put a hand on the handle, twisting to see if it would open.

  It did, and she pushed it open hard. It flew wide and Sarah hurried in, gun raised, closely followed by Renée, her own pistol held out in front of her. They found themselves in the living room, and the scene in front of them caught them both by surprise. Sarah shouted, “FBI, get down on the floor!"

  Renée followed her in, assessing the situation quickly. A woman she recognised as Lisa Branigan lay on the carpeted floor, bleeding from her shoulder, already unconscious and pale. Two men stood over her, both holding guns of their own aimed down at her. As Renée entered, they raised the weapons to point at the two women.

  Renée reacted instinctively, ducking to the side as a bullet whizzed past her. She snapped off a shot of her own, and the man gave a yelp as the bullet slammed into his arm, making him drop his weapon. The other man stared at his friend and then looked up at the two women, but it was obvious Sarah’s gun was aimed directly at his face. He dropped his weapon and slowly raised his hands to put them behind his head.

  “Now don’t move,” Sarah said. “Renée? You have handcuffs?”

  Handcuffs were part of their identity, so Renée pulled her own out and used them on the man Sarah was covering, then took Sarah’s to use on the man she had wounded. She kicked both of their weapons away out of reach, and made them sit down on the sofa nearby.

  “Keep them covered,” Renée said. She knelt down beside Lisa, checking for a pulse, then looked up at Sarah and nodded.

  "She’s alive," she said to Sarah. “But her heartbeat is fast and thready.”

  Sarah nodded, then took out her cell phone. She dialed 911, since Argentina uses the same code as the United States for emergency services.

  Renée shrugged out of her jacket and pressed it against Lisa’s wound, wishing she had a first aid kit. Sarah spoke rapidly to the emergency operator, and then turned as a man knocked on the apartment door. She held out her ID, and the man produced his own. He was part of building security, and it took her a moment to explain to him what was going on.

  As the paramedics arrived and took over, Sarah took out her phone again, dialing the number that would connect her to Allison Peterson. The director picked up almost immediately, and Renée heard one side of the conversation.

  "We located Lisa Branigan, only to find her under attack. She's been shot, but she's alive. Paramedics are here now, and they're taking her to a hospital. Police are coming to take the two men we caught who had shot her, and then we’ll head for the hospital to check on her. We'll call you when we have news."

  “Excellent work, Sarah,” Allison said. “I want a full report when you get back here, but make sure you stay with Lisa until I can get her transferred here to the base. We don’t want anybody else making another attempt to silence her. It could mean she actually has information we need.”

  "Okay. We'll stay with her to make sure nobody else can get to her."

  “Do that, but it won’t be long. Because she’s part of this investigation, I can get the MPs to come and take over pretty quickly.”

  Sarah looked over at Renée, who was watching Lisa closely. "I'm pretty sure we can handle it,” she said. “Just let me know when you get the transfer arranged.”

  She snapped the phone shut and watched the paramedics moving Lisa from the room, laid out on a gurney with an oxygen mask over her face. Renée had just finished speaking to them and came over.

  "You know," Sarah said, “we did pretty good for our first time out in the field alone.”

  Renée smiled. "I found out which hospital they are taking her to. I gather we are supposed to go along and stay with her?"

  Sarah nodded. "As soon as the local police get here, we need to head for that hospital. Allison wants us to stay with her until she can arrange to get Lisa transferred to the base medical center." She looked at Renée. “She’s afraid Lisa may know something that people don’t want us to find out.”

  * * *

  At the FOB, Noah, Marco and Jenny went directly from the mess hall to the Medical Center, where Doctor Emerson had been provided with a room to use for the autopsy. The man Swaggart had killed was laying on the table, and had already been splayed open. Marco made a sour face, as if he was suddenly wishing he hadn’t eaten scrambled eggs. Jenny, on the other hand, was grinning.

  “Doctor Emerson,” Noah said. “You got anything for me?”

  “Well, I have a number of tissues that need to be sent back for Renée to examine,” Emerson said, “but the most important thing I have to tell you is that this man is indeed a hybrid. I don’t have to have a DNA analysis know that, because there have been subtle realignments of some of his innards that can’t possibly happen naturally.”

  “How do you mean? Subtle realignment?”

  “Oh, yes,” Emerson said. “For example, where our previous samples had smaller lungs and a more powerful heart, this man has lungs that are roughly ten percent larger than normal, and a heart that is smaller and more compact, but every bit as strong as the one in the earlier creature. Those are two examples, but the most telling modification is the attachment of muscles to bone.” He turned to an x-ray board and flipped the light on. “Take a look at the triceps brachii. This is the muscle that allows extension of the forearm, and it is normally attached here.” He pointed at a diagram showing the elbow. “In our friend, here, however, there is an additional growth of bone on the elbow that moves the attachment outward by almost an inch. The increase in leverage that this creates would mean that, should this fellow decide to throw a punch at you, he might conceivably take your head off.”

  Noah’s eyebrows went up half an inch. “He’s that much stronger than normal?”

  “In every possible way,” Emerson said. “Every muscle attachment in his body has been slightly altered to generate far more leverage, and thereby strength, than any normal man should ever have. No doubt you have seen weightlifters do a single arm curl with dumbbells that weigh as much as a hundred pounds? This man could easily handle three to four times that amount with each arm. He was probably capable of picking up nearly a thousand pounds, and I could go on and on.”

  “What about other changes? What other ways is he different?”

  “Why, physically, that’s about it,” Emerson said. “I find no significant difference in his other organs. His skin is perhaps slightly tougher than yours, but not to a degree that it would be noticeable. This is why a single bullet was able to kill him so easily.” He turned and looked at the body on the table again. “It’s a pity the man could not have been taken alive,” Emerson continued. “If we knew what was done to him to create these changes, it could easily become a treatment for many muscular conditions.”

  Noah was also looking at the body. “Or a process for creating the ultimate soldier,” he said. “Do these changes in muscle attachment extend to making him faster?”

  “Well, in essence, I would have to say yes. He has similar alterations to his legs, so he could conceivably run much faster by taking greater spans between strides. When a man runs, he actually leaves the ground for a short distance between steps. This man could probably sail a dozen feet between those steps, simply because of the strength of his legs. In practice, I would estimate he might be capable of running at speeds of more than forty miles per hour.”

  “But unless somebody were to examine him closely, he would otherwise seem normal?”

  “That would be true,” Emerson s
aid. “Unfortunately, there are a few potentially noticeable changes. Intellectually, I doubt he would be much smarter than the average person, and he would certainly be able to function in society. However, there are differences in his frontal lobe, particularly the areas used in decision making. I can’t be certain, of course, but other than in the most mundane circumstances, I suspect this man would have needed someone to tell him what to do, most of the time.” He looked Noah in the eye. “And then he would carry out those instructions, regardless of what it might cost him.”

  Noah looked at the body for a couple more seconds, then turned his attention back to the pathologist.

  “Doc, is there any possibility that those changes could be reversed? Could he be brought back to norm, if he were still alive?”

  Emerson shook his head. “Sadly not,” he said. “I think that there is probably no possible way to undo the damage to any of the bodies I have examined.”

  FIFTEEN

  Swaggart came into the morgue at that moment, prepared, like the E & E agent, to get every piece of information they could, and almost seemed to scowl when he saw Noah there ahead of him.

  “Noah,” he said. “So, what have we found?”

  Noah explained what Emerson had just told him, and Swaggart looked at the body with his own wide eyes.

  “Wow,” he said. “Branigan must have made some improvements to the cocktail.”

  “Yes,” Noah said, “it does seem that way. Have you learned anything from our prisoners?”

  Swaggart suddenly looked at him and grinned. “Yeah, you could say that. Turns out we had an imposter in the midst of them. One of those so-called security guards was actually, according to one of the prisoners, working with Branigan and other scientists. He seems to have missed the flight out, so he tried to hide among the guards. I guess he thought we would simply arrest them; he’s lucky you decided to take them alive instead of eliminating them.”

  Noah looked into his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Then let’s go see the man,” he said.

  “I was just waiting for you,” Swaggart said. “I figured you would want to be in on the questioning. Incidentally, the guy’s name is Derek Morris. He’s from Atlanta, or so he says. I took the liberty of putting a call in to your computer guy to see what he can find out about him.”

  “Smart thinking.” Noah led the way out of the morgue and they headed toward the building where the prisoners were housed. “I don’t suppose we have a regular interrogation room?”

  “We do, complete with one-way mirror and all,” Swaggart said. “I already had him taken there, so he’s waiting for us even now.”

  “Then let’s not keep him waiting,” Noah said. “I want some answers.”

  The stress levels in the interview room went up two or three notches when Swaggart walked in, closely followed by Noah. Behind the glass, Marco and Jenny exchanged a glance before turning to watch and see what was going to happen.

  Morris, who was nearly as tall as Neil, seemed to shrink back into his seat as the two men took theirs in silence. Both of them merely stared at him for several seconds, with Swaggart wearing a cocky half-smile on his face.

  Morris looked between the two of them, as if trying to determine which of them might be easier to handle. He turned to Swaggart, obviously thinking he would have more chance with the military man. Behind the glass, Marco and Jenny smiled.

  "I want my phone call," Morris demanded, making a show of bravery.

  “Phone call?” Swaggart asked, his eyes looking shocked. “Where do you think you are? This isn’t exactly the Los Angeles police department, you know. You were picked up in the middle of what can only be considered a terrorist compound. I think you can forget all about Miranda rights, my friend.”

  Morris licked his lips at Swaggart's tight response. "But I have the right to a lawyer," he pointed out, and Swaggart's cocky grin grew.

  "No, you don't,” Swaggart said. “Under the antiterrorism act, you don’t have any rights at all. The best thing you can do right now, if you have any hope of ever seeing daylight again, is be as cooperative as you possibly can.”

  Morris flicked his gaze over to Noah, who was still looking at his folder, and then looked back at Swaggart. "When the government hears about this…"

  Noah cut him off. "And what government might that be? I know you don’t work for the American government, and I’m pretty sure you don’t work for the Argentinian government, either."

  The scientist paled, leaning back in his chair. "I have information,” he said. He looked like he was going to say more, but Swaggart cut him off with a sinister chuckle.

  "Yeah," Swaggart agreed. "And that's why you are still alive." He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. "See, when you get yourself involved in extremely illegal experiments that involve stolen, top-secret material, you can pretty much kiss all of your options goodbye."

  The scientist glanced at Noah, and was startled when he found the assassin staring at him. Swaggart continued as Noah held the geneticist's eyes.

  "You want a lawyer? Too bad. You want a trial? Sorry, not going to happen. You want to appeal to a judge? We are probably the best you’re going to get. You want some kind of plea bargain? Now, that’s where we might be able to help. You talk, and maybe, and I stress the word maybe, you get to spend the rest of your life in some dark cell in the bottom of the super max prison. You don’t talk, and you won’t even make it out of this room alive.”

  Morris inhaled sharply before looking between the two of them, doing his best to muster the courage to argue. "Wait a minute, what is this? I told you, I have information that you guys want, but I’m not giving it up unless I walk free."

  Swaggart cut him off once again with a laugh, while Noah simply stared at him. "What makes you think your information is that valuable?" Noah asked. “What makes you think we really care what you know?”

  "You see," Swaggart said, “we already know a lot about what’s been going on out there. Somehow, I don’t think you got anything to add that we really care that much about.”

  "That’s where you’re wrong," the man said. "You don’t know half as much as you think you do. You give me a break, I’ll tell you what you need in order to stop everything from happening."

  Noah shrugged, crossing his arms. “And what might that be?” he asked. “What is it we can stop from happening?”

  Morris stared at him for a moment, and then a grin spread across his face. “The end of the whole freaking world, man,” he said. “That’s what you can stop, but only if I talk. And I’m only going to talk if you guarantee me I’m going to walk out of here a free man.”

  Noah shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. The best you can hope for is to live out your days in a concrete room. You get one hour a day to come outside and see the sunlight through the chain-link fence over your head. You will be in a concrete enclosure, but you will still be all alone. That’s your future, which is a whole lot better than the one you’re going to have if you don’t talk.”

  "No, I know things that can help you," he told them. "If you cut me a deal, I'll tell you everything I know."

  Swaggart leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly. "Well, give us a sample," he told the man. "What have you got?"

  Morris shook his head. "First I want guarantees. No charges. I want to go back to Atlanta, and I don't want to do any time."

  Noah leaned forward and put his chin on his fists. “You’d have to have something awfully good to get a deal like that,” he said. “Give me something I can work with, and I’ll consider the possibility.”

  Morris swallowed, and then sighed, looking dejected. "I know where they were planning to set up next," he told them quietly, not meeting their eyes. "It's—it's another compound a few hours away, and it’s in the city this time. Some old warehouse building or something like that. I can give you the address."

  Noah smiled. "See, that wasn't so hard." He took out a sheet of paper and passed it over with a pen, and Morris sighed aga
in, rubbing his eyes. "Go ahead and give it to us, then."

  "You're going to need to protect me," the scientist told them. "They'll come after me."

  "Who are they?" Swaggart asked, glancing at Noah. "Got a name? An organization, maybe?"

  Morris shook his head. "I don’t actually know who they are, but I know what they’re capable of. I saw people who pissed them off disappear, I don’t want that to happen to me."

  "Well, when you're done with the address, maybe you can start writing down names of other people we need to look for," Swaggart suggested, leaning forward. "Maybe then you won't get that nasty concrete cell."

  Morris flinched before nodding, never raising his head. "I'll need a bigger piece of paper," he told them. "As long as you protect me, that is."

  Swaggart shrugged. "We'll do what we can." He grabbed the piece of paper before Noah could. "Take your time. Chances are we'll be rounding up your friends in any case."

  The two of them left the room, closing the door firmly behind them. Noah looked at Swaggart. “So, what did he write down?”

  Swaggart held out the paper. “It’s the intersection of a couple of highways, not far from Buenos Aires. He’s right, there’s an old rail terminal from the state Railway Company out there. It really would make a perfect place for them to set up shop again.”

  Noah looked at the paper and then raised his eyes to meet Swaggart’s once again. “Looks like we’re headed back to Donovan Range, then,” he said. “Get your people ready, and I’ll get mine. I want to be wheels up in half an hour.”

  Colonel Berkshire had sent a platoon of soldiers back to the compound to secure it, but it was beginning to look like the FOB was no longer necessary. Noah spoke to him for a moment to arrange a flight back to Donovan, and the Colonel confirmed that he had orders to strike the entire base over the next week.

  The plane lifted off forty minutes later, after Noah had called ahead to let Allison know what was happening. She had promised to arrange military backup for when he arrived, and Noah relayed the information to his team once they were in the air.