by Scott Sigler
As the ramp lowered past the halfway point, a single man walked down its length.
Magnus Paglione.
Andy let out a triumphant “Yeah!” He gave Colding a now you’re in for it dirty look, then ran to meet his friend. Magnus and Andy reminded Colding of a man and a pet terrier. Andy was hyper, perpetually angry, and worshipped his master. Magnus obviously enjoyed Andy’s company, but never hesitated to dish out discipline as needed.
A large black duffel bag hung from Magnus’s shoulder. The weight of the contents pulled the canvas straps into taut lines that folded up on themselves, but Magnus carried it with the casual ease of a man carrying a loaf of bread. He walked up to Colding, surveying the people and the damage.
His gaze landed on Brady’s corpse. Magnus stared at it for a few seconds.
“Is that Brady?”
Colding nodded.
Magnus looked up, his expression blank. “Who did it?”
Colding swallowed. His heart raced. Magnus’s face showed no emotion, but his whole demeanor had changed—he radiated danger.
“It was Doctor Hoel.”
“You’re kidding,” Magnus said. “An old woman did all of this? Why?”
Colding glanced at Rhumkorrf, thought of lying to keep things as calm as possible, but there was no point. “She wanted to get back at Claus for getting Galina kicked off the project.”
Claus blinked. Snow stuck to his black-rimmed glasses. He looked down at Brady’s corpse, then looked up, taking a subconscious step away from the smoking body as if to separate himself just a bit more.
“That’s ridiculous,” Claus said. “Erika Hoel is a woman of science. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Jian said in a hoarse rasp. “She took out the off-site backup and all the data.”
Claus’s face blanched and his chest puffed up in panic. It wasn’t lost on Colding that Claus instantly seemed far more concerned about his project than the dead body on the ground.
“The data? She destroyed our data? How could you let her do that?”
Jian held up the petabyte cartridge. She looked scared, hurt and sad all at the same time, but Colding would have bet a hundo that a part of her bitterly enjoyed the panic she’d just given Rhumkorrf.
“I have it all,” Jian said. “And we have done it. Ninety-five percent viability.”
Colding felt a surge of excitement, yet another emotion joining the tumult ripping through his head and soul. Had they done it after all?
“Ninety-five …” Rhumkorrf said, his face shifting from bluster and anger to shock and excitement. “That is fantastic!”
“Go team,” Magnus said. “All’s well that ends well, right? As long as we have the precious data, I guess it’s all good.”
Rhumkorrf actually started to agree, then realized that Magnus was being facetious. Rhumkorrf stared at the ground.
Magnus turned his glare back to Colding. “Where is Hoel?”
“In the bioinformatics lab. It’s under control.”
“If you call my dead friend and millions of dollars in damage under control, Bubbah, then you and I use a different dictionary.” Magnus loved to call Americans Bubbah. Especially Colding. He seemed to find either great humor or great insult in the name.
“I know, right?” Andy said. “Looks like an assault team came in. But no, just some old nympho. Sure glad Colding is in charge.”
“Andy, shut up,” Magnus said. “We’re in a bit of a hurry here. Let’s get everyone onboard, we’re bugging out.”
A fresh gust of wind made everyone duck their head, shield their eyes and take a half step for balance. Everyone but Magnus. He stood still as a stone and stared at Colding. Colding stared right back, his best poker face firmly in place, suspecting Magnus saw right through it.
“Time to move,” Magnus said. “Doctor Rhumkorrf, you have enucleated eggs for all the backup herds?”
“Of course. They are in storage in the main lab.”
“Get them,” Magnus said. “Duplicates of your equipment are on the plane, including the God Machine. You don’t have to wait until we land, you can run the immune response during flight.”
Jian handed Colding the petabyte drive. “I will get the eggs,” she said. She raised an arm over her eyes to block the wind, then ran for the front airlock.
Magnus again stared at the tarp-covered Brady Giovanni. He looked up and nodded, as if he’d accepted the situation. “Colding, get everyone on the plane. We need to move. I’ll stay and get a medevac in for Doctor Hoel.”
Andy stepped forward. “Are you shitting me, Mags?” The C-5’s lights cast strange shadows on Andy’s eyes, under his nose, under his chin. It made him look a little demonic. “That bitch killed Brady, man. And when I tried to take care of it Colding drew down on me and even took my gun. He’s still got my fucking gun, right? You can’t possibly tell me you’re going to leave him in charge, he has no idea—”
Magnus’s left hand shot out and grabbed Andy by the throat, interrupting the smaller guard’s rant. The grab was so controlled it looked almost delicate—one second Andy was talking, the next he was choking, his eyes bulging in surprise, a massive hand completely wrapped around his neck.
“Andy,” Magnus said. “I thought I told you to shut up.”
Andy’s hands shot up, tried to isolate a finger and bend it backward. Colding saw Magnus squeeze, just a little bit. Andy’s eyes grew even wider, then he held his hands up, palms out. Magnus let go and again looked at Colding, as if nothing had happened. Coughing hard, Andy bent at the waist, hands at his throat. He stayed calm, dealing with it, but it was clear that Magnus could have crushed his windpipe with just a touch more pressure.
“Fischer’s on the way,” Magnus said. “We have a very limited satellite window and have to go right now. We’ve been calling you for thirty minutes, but …”—he gestured to the broken satellite dish—“looks like your phone is out of service. Our intel says we have about forty minutes to get clear. I want the C-5 airborne in five. Give Andy his weapon.”
Colding pulled the Beretta from his belt and handed it back to Andy.
Magnus looked back to the C-5. “Let’s move!” He waved his hand. Beckoning someone inside to come down the ramp.
Sara Purinam.
She stood at least five-foot-ten, maybe just a bit taller if you counted her crop of tousled, short blond hair. Light blue eyes were little pinpoints of electric light embedded in her freckled complexion. Just like the last time, Colding didn’t see a trace of makeup. Anything covering that skin would only detract from her natural beauty. She looked the very picture of a surfer girl gone air force.
She walked down and stood right in front of Colding. She looked pissed. From the mission? Or from the way he had treated her? Probably both.
He felt an instant and powerful sexual attraction, the same one he’d felt the last time they’d met. He had acted on it and betrayed the memory of his barely cold wife. The thought of Clarissa dredged up a fresh scar of guilt. He had more important things to do than ogle this woman.
“Mister Colding,” Sara said in an even tone. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Purinam,” Colding said, nodding.
Sara turned to Magnus. “So what the hell is going on? This looks like a war zone.”
Rhumkorrf stepped forward. “Yes, what happened? If Erika did want to hurt me, why now? Why is Colonel Fischer after us again?”
Magnus looked at everyone, one by one, seeming to weigh the value of spending more time on the ground. “Novozyme had a virus jump species. Seventy-five percent lethality.”
Rhumkorrf’s eyes widened. “Seventy-five percent? I always knew Matal’s method was flawed. That is horrible. Did the virus get out?”
“Contained,” Magnus said. “The Americans were on it fast. Fischer fuel-bombed the lab, then moved on to shutting down all transgenic projects. That includes us.”
Rhumkorrf shook his head. “No. No, not when we are so close. We have to keep going.�
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“So get in the fucking plane,” Magnus said. “We’re taking the project underground. All your competitors will soon be offline. All of them. If you don’t get out of here before Fischer arrives, your Nobel Prize will be forever lost in the mail.”
Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell is Colonel Fischer? Are we talking U.S. military? And there’s a fucking dead body right there. We didn’t sign up for this shit.”
Magnus turned fast and took a step toward her, the motion bringing him toe-to-toe with Sara. She had to look straight up to meet Magnus’s eyes.
“You signed up to do whatever we tell you to do,” he said. “You’ve certainly cashed enough of our checks. Now, unless you want to lose your business, get your crew moving and load this plane. You’ve got four minutes.”
Sara held his gaze for just a second, then turned away and shouted in a voice that momentarily drowned out the idling jet engines. “Let’s move, boys! Wheels up in four minutes!”
Three men wearing black Genada parkas descended the loading ramp. Colding recognized the short, Hispanic Alonzo Barella. Behind him, Harold and Cappy, the black and white “twins.”
“Weapons,” Sara said. “The only people armed on my plane are me and my crew, so give your weapons to Harold.”
Harold stepped up, hands out. Colding ejected his magazine, checked the chamber, then handed the Beretta and magazine to Harold. Gunther quickly did the same.
Andy laughed at Sara, then grabbed his crotch and shook it. “I’ll keep my pistol and give you my gun, flygirl. How ’bout that?”
Sara shrugged. “Then you’re not getting on the plane. Stay here and fuck a cow or something.”
“Enough!” Magnus snapped. “Andy keeps his weapon. Get this damn process moving.” He stared at Sara. “That okay with you, Captain?”
Sara glared at Andy, who was still laughing, then she turned back to Magnus.
“Fine,” she said. “You’re the boss.”
Magnus checked his watch. “You all have two minutes to grab any personal effects.”
Andy and Gunther sprinted for the main building. Colding didn’t bother. Neither did Rhumkorrf.
Jian came out the front airlock, night winds rippling her clothes as she struggled to push a dolly loaded with a thick aluminum canister. Alonzo ran to help her. Cappy got under Tim Feely’s arm and helped the drunk, sleepy scientist up the ramp. Gunther and Andy soon came back out. Gunther hauled a duffel bag stuffed with books while Andy carried a beat-up brown paper bag. Great. The Asshole thought to save his porno mag collection. The two guards ran up the ramp and into the C-5.
That left Colding alone with Magnus. “So where are we going?”
“An island in Lake Superior called Black Manitou.”
“Lake Superior? How in the hell are we going to get that thing,” Colding jerked his thumb toward the C-5, “through the Canadian air defense grid and then U.S. air defense?”
Magnus looked away, as if the questions annoyed him. “We have a contact at the Iqaluit Airport and a flight plan that shows us as a 747 cargo plane going from Iqaluit to Thunder Bay Airport. We have another contact at Thunder Bay—they don’t pay air traffic controllers that much, it seems—and he’s going to log us as landing. Flight is about three hours, Bubbah. Once past Thunder Bay, Sara puts the C-5 into night mode: no lights, she flies below the radar deck. There’s nothing between Thunder Bay and Black Manitou. It’s twenty minutes of low-level flying.”
Colding nodded. That sounded like it could work. “Still, isn’t Black Manitou a little close to civilization for what we’re doing?”
Magnus laughed. “Close to civilization? We’ll see what you think when you get there.” He unzipped the black canvas duffel bag a quarter of the way, reached in and pulled out a manila folder. He zipped the bag before Colding could get a look inside.
“Here’s everything you need to know,” Magnus said, holding out the folder. “There’s only five people on the island and they all work for Genada. Clayton Detweiler runs the place for us. When you see his son, Gary, tell him to make sure my snowmobile is ready.”
Colding took the folder.
Magnus continued. “You’re off the grid as of now. No outside communication of any kind, other than a secure comm link to Manitoba. No wireless security gear, no Internet, no nothing. You guys don’t exist anymore.”
As disturbing as that sounded, Colding also knew it was the only way to keep the project alive. Hell, the C-5 had been his idea, a way to keep the project going if anyone tried to shut them down.
He thought about the way Magnus had looked at Brady’s corpse, and the deadly vibe he’d given off when he asked who did it. If Colding flew off, he’d leave Erika alone with this man.
“What about Doctor Hoel?”
“You mean the old woman who single-handedly fucked up your operation and killed my friend?”
Colding let out a breath that clouded in front of his face, then nodded slowly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”
“Magnus, she didn’t mean to hurt Brady. Fischer got to her, she just wanted to destroy Rhumkorrf’s work and—”
“You think I’m stupid,” Magnus said softly. “That’s it, isn’t it? You think you’re smarter than me?”
Colding shook his head, a little too quickly.
Magnus smiled. “Sure you do, Bubbah. You think I’m dumb enough to kill a woman who works for Fischer. This conversation is over. Now get on the plane, or stay here and have a chat with your old buddy Paul Fischer when he lands.”
Colding paused one more second, unable to shake a feeling of dread. What choice did he have? If he wanted the project to succeed, he had to trust Magnus. Colding turned and walked up the C-5’s loading ramp.
The ramp led into a large cargo bay. At twenty feet across, it was almost wide enough for a two-lane highway. He’d reviewed the engineer’s schematics, helped design them, in fact, but he’d never seen the finished product. Once inside, all he could do was stop and stare at the cows. The cows all stared back at him.
He could see all the way down the long fuselage to the front loading ramp, now folded up behind the closed nose cone. Along most of that length ran just over a hundred feet of cattle stalls, seven feet deep, twenty-five to a side with a five-foot aisle down the middle. Clear plastic walls separated each stall. Clear plastic doors completed each cage, with a bin inside the door to hold feed pellets that were dumped in by an automatic system. The outside of each door held a flat-panel control monitor that showed the cow’s heart rate, weight and several other factors Colding didn’t recognize right off the bat.
Big-eyed black-and-white Holstein cows occupied the stalls, each partially supported by a durable harness that hung from the ceiling. Hooves still touched the deck, but the harnesses carried most of the weight—couldn’t have fifteen-hundred-pound animals jostling around during flight. The occasional moos helped reinforce the surreal scene. An overwhelming smell of cows and cow shit permeated the place. A labeled plastic tag hung from each cow’s right ear—A-1, A-2, A-3 and so on.
The animals seemed perfectly calm and happy. Calm, but big, standing five feet tall at the shoulder. Colding could only imagine trying to control fifty of them inside the plane if something caused a panic.
Just inside the ramp to his right was the aft ladder that led to a second deck containing equipment, computers and lab space for Rhumkorrf and Jian. Up there they had almost all of their equipment from the Baffin facility, just a lot less space in which to work it.
Past the cow stalls and on the right-hand side of the center aisle sat twenty feet of veterinary lab space filled with computers, supply cabinets and a big metal table that ran along the aisle’s edge. On the aisle’s left side was an open space where a ten-foot-by-seven-foot elevator platform could lower down from the upper deck. Past that were twelve crash chairs arranged in three rows of four. Beyond the crash chairs, the folded-up front ramp and a metal ladder to the upper deck.
Mil
ler and Cappy scurried about, checking readouts and testing the straps securing each cow. The men gave Colding several quick looks, as if they expected him to move forward, but the C-5’s interior held him awestruck. The two crewmen quickly walked over to him, both moving nearly in lockstep with the same quick gait.
“You need to get seated, sir,” Miller said.
“Yeah,” Cappy said. “You need to get seated.”
Colding nodded apologetically and walked deeper into the plane. “Sorry, guys, it’s just a bit … overwhelming. And don’t call me sir, call me P. J.”
“Okay, P. J.,” Miller said.
“Yeah, okay, P. J.,” Cappy said.
They led him to the crash chairs where Andy, Gunther, Rhumkorrf, Jian and Tim were already strapped in. Tim was asleep, a little drool trickling down from his lower lip.
The sound of heavy hydraulics whined through the C-5. The rear ramp slowly folded up on itself, tucking away for the upcoming flight. Two outer rear doors closed behind it, returning the plane to a smooth, aerodynamic profile. The C-5’s entire nose section could also lift up like a gaping mouth. With both front and rear ramps down, a fifty-seven-ton, twelve-foot-wide M1-Abrams tank could literally drive in one end of the plane and out the other.
Colding sat and reached for the restraints, wincing in pain as his sliced chest and shoulder burned with the new movement.
Sara dropped down the ladder from the upper deck. She turned and saw him fiddling with the restraints. “Let’s go, Colding. Buckle up, dammit, we’re taking off.”
“I, uh … I need some help.”
Sara walked up to him. In the C-5’s bright interior lights, she seemed to notice his torn jacket—and his blood—for the first time.
“That’s a mess,” she said. “Let’s see your wound.”
“It’s nothing. Can you just help me with the buckles?”
She ignored him, instead reaching out to open his coat and look inside. Sara took in a short hiss of breath when she saw the damage.
“What did that?”
“An axe,” Colding said.
Andy laughed his grating laugh. “An old lady with an axe, you mean. Better not let you meet my grandma, Colding, she might whip your ass for shits and giggles.”
