Raising narrow eyes, recalling the unearthly supremacy captured on Cain's face, Soloman was silent. When he finally spoke his voice was subdued, uncertain.
"He said, 'Adversarius devicit leonem de tribu juda'" He paused. "That's exactly what he said, Ben. As Cain killed that second man he said. 'The Adversary has conquered the Lion of the Tribe of Judah.'"
"Well, Sol, what does that mean?" Hawken was pale. "I mean, what are we getting into here?"
After a long silence, Soloman replied, "I'm not sure, Ben. But I know the only man ever known as the Lion of the Tribe of Judah died almost two thousand years ago."
***
After Soloman s departure, General Benjamin Hawken entered a soundproof, electronically swept room located at the back of the bunker and activated a SATCOM access code that engaged the National Defense Secondary Imaging System. Screens came alive in three other offices located in distant sections of the nation.
He knew one screen was hooked into Langley and recognized the haggard countenance of Winston Archette, the CIA's Assistant Director of Covert Operations. Another was linked with the Pentagon and Army Brigadier General Arthur Thompson, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. And then the last screen blinked abruptly to lock on the face of Blake Hollman, Deputy Director of the National Security Agency.
Carefully, Ben typed: Genocide One: Trinity Failsafe, Code: K-101-G-101. Authorization: General Benjamin Hawken-PKA. 472.89.
The non-displayed characters were immediately routed through the Unified National Security Index Center, a highly classified complex buried in the hills of West Virginia that monitored all governmental transmissions color-coded RED or above.
General Thompson was the first to speak. "Have you completed your analysis, Ben?"
"Yes, sir, General."
"What is the operative's status?"
"Upon my judgment," Ben answered, "I believe we can grant full authority and command. Ghost is in operational condition and acquisition of the target is highly probable. He has competently translated messages left by target but has not completed evaluation. I believe we should authorize a green light and proceed with the Trinity Failsafe."
Archette broke in. "Are you certain of your analysis, General? If you don't mind, I would like for you to explain to me the grounds of your primary analysis."
"Ghost is mentally sound and has retained optimum weapons skills required for this operation," Ben answered, his voice flat. "There is no indication of debilitating habit. His mental acuity is superior, consistent with past operational levels, and he has adapted to civilian life without any untoward signs of delayed stress. So, in my judgment, we are operational."
"I see," Archette replied. "However ..." He hesitated. "I urge you to use caution, General. Ten hours may not be sufficient for this analysis. Especially since you are evaluating an extremely complex individual."
"I am familiar with this individual, Professor."
"Of course you are, General. And make no mistake: I also believe that Ghost is an excellent selection to fulfill the Trinity Failsafe, insofar as his mind is now sound. I only want us to be as certain as possible because Ghost's past is ... discomforting."
"I'm aware of that, sir." Ben stared, holding his ground. "But I believe my judgment is sound."
"We all do, General." Archette smiled briefly. "I have full faith in your judgment. I only wanted to remind you of the time constraints which we may confront, according to the latest reports on the experiment. As you know, there will be no time for reorganization once Trinity is dispatched."
Ben frowned, professional. "I can stress to this council, based on my long association with this operative, that he is stable. Further, that he remains loyal to his country. He also seems to have overcome past revenge motivations and appears highly capable of termination orders. I judge him militarily capable and physically and intellectually superior. And, most importantly, he has retained his most salient skill: intuitive evaluation. Therefore I deem him to be the candidate best qualified to fulfill the mission."
A hardened silence followed.
General Thompson stared for a long time, then reached out to touch a switch. "We'll make a decision by 1200 hours tomorrow, Ben." He gave no indication of direction. "Continue briefing. This communication is terminated."
Silence blanketed the bunker, and Ben didn't move for a long moment, staring at the blank screen. He felt he'd betrayed his friend yet he knew he hadn't betrayed him. Because betrayal came from impure motivations and his motivations, he knew, were pure. Just as he knew that he was over his head in this, and he needed him ... one last time.
He only hoped, in the end, that it would be enough.
*
CHAPTER 3
It took less time than he had feared to blend into the world, running without fatigue through the scorched desert. He was amazed that it required less than two days to escape the huge shifting dunes of White Sands, the endless sandstone mounds so fine that the granules swirled like dust.
Now the long gliding red hills of the San Andres Mountains swept up at slow angles on either side of him, only to descend into jagged ravines and chasms that provided excellent cover from his hunters.
It was late fall but the heat was greater than he'd anticipated, perhaps because of the severe physical exertion required for moving ahead of the all-too-frequent formations of aircraft, or perhaps it was because he was not killing frequently enough; he did not know. He would adjust day by day because he was determined to win, his phenomenal sense of anticipation lending him a tactical edge these humans would forever lack.
He skirted the Valley of Death—it would have exposed him to aerial or ground sighting—and proceeded through the broken crags until he rose on the steep slopes of the Salinas, quickly changing direction to move west.
Life was scarce in the colder heights and he was forced to follow ledges and rarely used animal paths where he found little to sustain him. But he survived, feasting on rattlesnakes that he detected and snatched from beneath stones. It was here he killed a cougar with a single backhanded blow, ferociously hurling it from the ledge where it was poised to leap. Then feasted on it.
But he needed more blood, for what was harbored within his colossal form was destabilizing faster than he'd anticipated.
As the days wore, he began to move with more economy, always selecting the least difficult route that still provided concealment, conserving his strength. And then he descended the mountains toward a wide river flanked by towering red cliffs.
Yes!
The Rio Grande!
He smiled.
Now he would simply follow the river north into Albuquerque, and along its water he would find the blood he needed to consummate his strength. It would be necessary to hide the bodies in order to conceal his direction of travel, but he knew he could accomplish the task. Then, when he reached the city, the real game would begin.
As he eased cautiously down the mountain he laughed at his almost effortless success, feeling more and more of his cosmic mind return, shadow upon shadow, until he could almost remember so much . . .
But the true scope of his galactic knowledge would come slowly, he knew. It would take years to become what he had been, bringing all of that majestic might into this world, unless he could obtain the child.
For now, he only remembered specific things he had fiercely retained during the terrific seizure of this form, and even that much was uncertain. He could not remember his full plan, only faint shadows, ideas, the name and the locations of the documents.
Yes, he had retained knowledge of language and culture and law and the locations of those things he must acquire, but he couldn't remember well enough why he must acquire them. There was the castle, yes, the castle where he would ... organize?
No ... that was not the reason. There was something else, something the castle held. It was coming to him slowly as the moments passed, but then ... there was more, something he couldn't yet remember. He only sensed that it would give him the power he needed
to overcome his most hated enemy.
In time, he told himself.
Yes, in time ...
Yes, he would remember in time. And then, he knew, he would destroy them. He would decimate these sheep, would rule them, bring them into his fold; all of them together. Because they were merely mortal and he was far, far more than they could imagine.
Their faint lives, fading fast in the scope of this universe, were as chaff compared to the overcoming ecstasy of the vision and knowledge and insight that was his essence. No, he could never be less than they, and they could never raise themselves to overcome his place as lord and master, as he had almost been but for the wrath flung forth from that hateful arm ...
Moving with the deadly poise of a lion seeking prey, he entered Albuquerque, descending from the hills. With superhuman strength that seemed all but inexhaustible, he found the Luna exchange and moved immediately east, staying on the outskirts of the city to remain far from heavily patrolled roads, continuing his search.
His clothes were insufficient now. He needed new garments unstained by blood and untorn by combat. And then he saw it: a massive two-story military surplus building that stood vague and alone in the dry dirt between a deserted saloon and hotel.
He raised his eyes to the sun, frowning at the light, knowing he could not move until darkness. So he searched till he found a low hollow filled with crusted gray dirt and sage, and lay down. Concealed from view, he would wait until it was safely dusk and then he would descend to take what he needed: food, clothing, a vehicle, and possibly weapons.
In the distance he heard low-flying helicopters, and he laughed. No, they were not wise enough to anticipate his movements. Because he knew their methods and technology, just as he knew that the wider the search perimeter became, the wider would be the gaps.
He had already fed, and even though he did not feel the burning deep thirst that drove him mad he knew he would have to feed again, and soon, because he had exhausted too much strength in killing the random soldiers who'd stumbled over him.
Yes, in time.
His joy, rising against the dying sun, was bestial.
Yes. . .
In time.
***
After finishing a meal prepared by the general's staff Soloman listened as Ben described how scientists at White Sands had taken Cain's body and rebuilt it piece by piece to make it superhuman, indestructible, immortal.
With distinct nervousness Ben recounted how Cain had died by electrocution in an apparent accident, even though the circumstances of the event were classified above Ben's "need to know."
Dead for more than fifteen minutes before his body reached a military hospital, Cain was quickly declared legally deceased and, through the intervention of unknown forces, immediately placed on life-support. Machines kept oxygenated blood circulating in his system, apparently to preserve the body as much as possible in preparation for this strange experiment.
"What was the stated purpose of Genocide One?" asked Soloman, referring to the experiment by its cryptonym. "Why did they want to take a man and make him unkillable?"
Ben released a heavy breath. "The purpose of Genocide One was to create a ... Sol, they wanted to create a super-soldier."
Soloman's mouth gaped. "Jesus Christ, Ben."
"Not hardly, Sol."
Silence.
"All right," Soloman said. "Tell me about it."
Ben shook his head. "I don't know everything, Sol. To tell you the truth, I wasn't even in on the get-go. I was brought in just before you as part of the containment plan. But I figure it's because these CIA morons wanted to genetically alter a soldier so he could travel a hundred miles in a day. I guess us regular grunts weren't good enough for them. They wanted a freak strong enough to carry armor and weapons that a normal man couldn't even lift."
Soloman noticed that Ben kept shifting as he continued. "But, damn it, Sol; these people were messing with Mother Nature! It makes me nervous as hell and that's why I need you! Think about it: Cain was graveyard dead! It ... I mean, it isn't like they took a warm body and rebuilt it, Six Million Dollar Man and all that! No! This guy was dead! How could they have brought him back to life?"
"I understand, Ben." Soloman was hit with a rush of compassion for his old friend. "Answer this: Just how were these supermen supposed to be controlled? We have enough trouble controlling regular soldiers, but superior ability breeds superior ambition."
"According to the specs," Ben answered, "there was supposed to be a device implanted inside their cerebrum so the white-coats and the commanders could track their monsters. They go off the reservation and you can tell them to self-destruct. Just a pinprick explosion, but it would cause instant edema. They'd be dead in three seconds."
"A device that was never implanted in Cain."
"Right. From what I understand, they never expected him to get up from the table."
Soloman pursed his lips in thought.
"The future of warfare," he said.
There was no true means of measuring the silence that followed. It was the kind of silence that a man holds when he anticipates horrible news. But the news had already been delivered so it reached beyond that.
"Ben," Soloman said, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. "What do you really think we're dealing with?"
Ben frowned, clearly disturbed. "I don't know," he answered finally. "Just ... some kind of freakin' Frankenstein or Dracula or something. Honest to God, I don't know. 'Cause I ain't no scientist. But one thing is for sure, Sol, even to a scientific flunky like me."
"What's that?"
"It sure as hell ain't Cain."
***
The large edifice was silent in gray light.
Dark, in shadows.
Somberly the priest inside St. Michael's Cathedral in Los Angeles removed the unfinished chalice of wine. Yet as he held the bowl he stared a moment, hesitating, before he drank what remained. Then he gazed downward, frowning.
A thunderous voice rumbled behind him.
"Sin is a beautiful thing."
The priest gasped as he whirled.
Seated in shadow upon the shadowed altar-throne, the bald man laughed. Seemingly gigantic in the gloom, his strength was obvious even in stillness. Then he moved a massive hand lazily through the darkness as if to caress it, or command. The gesture was vaguely ominous, threatening.
"Father Lanester," he whispered, "your sins ... precede you."
"Wh-wh-wh ... Who are you?" the priest whispered.
Silence.
"Your friend."
"Yes ... Yes, of course. But the church is closing."
"As always." The man laughed again. "Long overdue, I assure you." Colossal, he rose smoothly and took a terrifying step forward. "You have sins, Father," he continued. "Yes – many, many sins. For I know of your fondness for the fruit of the vine. I know of your fondness for women – sins you hide because they belong only ... to me."
The priest staggered back.
"O, my God!"
Scowling, the giant bent his head.
"No," he growled. "Not yet."
***
Soloman revealed no surprise but he was, indeed, surprised as the conference room doors opened and she entered. Dark brown hair fell over slender shoulders as Dr. Martha Milton set a large black briefcase on the table and opened it with a curt smile.
"Good evening, gentlemen." She nodded to them.
Her face was angular and smooth. Her neck was also lean and strong and she moved like an athlete. She obviously kept herself in shape. Though she appeared to be no more than thirty, Soloman suspected she was slightly older, maybe thirty-five.
"I'm sorry I'm late," she continued. "Shall we begin?"
Ben blinked. "Of course," he said abruptly. "Yes, of course we should. Can I get you anything? Coffee?"
"Thank you. Black."
Ben retrieved a cup and Soloman politely removed his glasses. His eyes, the pale blue of the sea surrounding a Mediterranean island, narrowed at t
he room's bright fluorescent light.
Dr. Milton smiled faintly, glancing at the small round lenses laid on the table. Her own eyes were jade-green and clear. "I'm pleased to meet you, Colonel," she said with respect. "But please feel free to wear your glasses, if you wish. I won't consider it impolite. You're obviously sensitive to light."
"A little," Soloman conceded. "How good is your night vision?" "I'm at a Minus 4."
"That's as good as a cat," she said without expression. "But Cain's better. In fact, he's a lot better. His diopter reading is almost off the scale – Minus 60 or better." The sudden change in conversation startled Ben and he sloshed the coffee, scalding his hand. He didn't seem to notice. He came back quickly to the table.
She had gone into it so smoothly, Soloman thought. If I don't get geared up fast, she's going to leave me in the dust. He tried not to reveal that he was already intimidated.
"Just what exactly are we dealing with, Doctor?" he asked.
She handed each of them black files stamped TOP SECRET/BIOLOGICAL WARFARE. "Take a look at these, gentlemen, and you'll begin to understand that we are in a mortal situation. It is far more serious than anyone has told you."
General Hawken grunted at that, let it go.
Studying the file, it only took Soloman a moment to understand the medical jargon. Concentrating, he studied Cain's chart to determine what they had done to the man. He singled out factors that seemed particularly disturbing: anterior spinal cord amplifiers, orthopedic transplants, bio-polymer subcutaneous coating for titanium-reinforced bones, interior titanium implants and immunity-acceptance levels with a breakdown of projected HyMar viral layers on secondary stratum corneum— HyMar viral layers?
His attention was suddenly captured by a grisly color photograph of Cain on an operating table. Large metal plates of a strange curving design were carefully positioned on an instrument tray.
A team of surgeons bent over him. His chest and arms were laid open to the core as they apparently removed bones. Another surgeon worked on one of his knees, implanting what appeared to be a small titanium plate over the patella, or kneecap.
"That's a photo of the surgery where we implanted armor plating in Cain's chest," she said. "We also replaced his humerus, radius and ulna, and secondary skeletal appendages with cobalt-chromium-alloy bones. J Something like the artificial titanium sockets used for contemporary joint replacements but light-years ahead in design. They have a projected use expectancy of more than a hundred years instead of ten. Plus, we placed curving niobium-titanium shields between his pectoralis major and all the internal organs, armoring him between the clavicle and the eighth rib."
Cain Page 3
