The Dragon Factory jl-2

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Major . . . ?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes again.

  Chapter One Hundred Two

  The Deck

  Monday, August 30, 6:40 P.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 41 hours, 20 minutes E.S.T.

  I moved through the Deck quickly but casually. I found a clipboard on an unoccupied desk and took it. Every time I saw someone who looked vaguely official I studied the clipboard and mumbled meaningless computer words to myself. Bug must have heard me, because I heard him chuckling in my ear.

  SAM steered me through the common areas toward the research centers. His knowledge of the Deck ended there, but that was fine. I wasn’t going to stick around very long. The Deck was multileveled and I took a combination of escalators, stairs, and moving walkways to get around. A couple of times I thought I saw SAM again—or the kid who looked like him—but each time there were other people around and I couldn’t risk trying to make contact. It was another mystery to be solved later.

  I reached a level that was marked: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, which I thought was kind of funny since this was the secret lab of a maniac out to destroy the world. But I guess there’s bureaucracy everywhere.

  I used another of Bug’s sensors to reset my master keycard and then slipped inside the restricted area. Just inside was a glass-enclosed metal walkway that ran along all four sides of a huge room in which sat rows of big tanks in massive hydraulic cradles that rocked them back and forth. The tanks had glass domes with blue lights that filled the room with an eerie glow. There were at least thirty of the tanks connected to computers on the floor and a network of pipes and cables above. I leaned close to the glass and looked down to see a half-dozen technicians in hazmat suits adjusting dials, working at computer stations, or taking readings. There were huge biohazard warning signs everywhere.

  “Are you seeing this?” I whispered.

  Church said, “Yes.” He didn’t sound happy. “Walk around and see if you can get a better angle on the tanks.”

  I moved along, pretending to make notes on my clipboard, until I found a spot that offered the best view of the closest tank.

  “Whoa!” It was Dr. Hu and for once he seemed disturbed rather than jazzed by something science related.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Something that I’ve only ever heard talked about but never expected to see,” he said. “This setup is like a gigantic version of a vaccine bioreactor. But the scale!”

  “Bioreactor?”

  “It’s a device in which cell culture medium and cells are placed in a sterile synthetic membrane called a Cellbag, which is then rocked back and forth. The rocking motion induces waves in the cell culture fluid and provides mixing and oxygen transfer. The result is a perfect environment for cell growth. I mean, GE was making these back in the mid-nineties but for a max of like five hundred liters. Those things are the size of . . . they must be able to hold . . .”

  “ ‘Five thousand gallons,’ ” I said, reading it off of the side of the vat.

  “Jesus . . .”

  “I kind of doubt they’re making vaccines down here,” I said. “Could this be how they’re mass-producing the pathogens?”

  “It . . . could,” Hu said hesitantly, “but if so, whoever designed this is heading off into some new areas of production science. That’s some scary shit right there.”

  “Believe me when I tell you, Doc, I’m shaking in my boots.”

  “Captain Ledger,” said Church, “get out of there. We have enough proof to shut this place down once we secure that trigger device. Get out of the building and rendezvous with Echo Team.”

  “I want Echo Team to provide backup for Alpha when they hit the Dragon Factory.”

  “That depends on timing. Alpha may not be able to wait until you arrive.”

  “Copy that. I’m out of here.”

  I wanted to run, but I had to play my role. I slowly made my way to the exit but then turned and looked back through the glass at the rows of slowly rocking tanks. At the absolute proof that evil existed in the world. Not as a concept, not as an abstraction, but as an irrefutable reality. Right here, brewing in those tanks. And I knew that if the Extinction Wave was set to hit in two days, then the pathogens for that were already gone, already distributed to Africa and God knows where else.

  This . . . this was more of it. More evil, more danger brewing in a very real sense. Who was next? Who else were these madmen planning to kill? Was it to be all races except for some select few?

  God, the rage that burned through my veins was unbearable.

  How do you reconcile yourself to a world in which monsters like Cyrus Jakoby can exist? I stared at the handiwork of this man and struggled to grasp the enormity of what he’d done and the horror of what he was on the verge of doing. This man was willing to kill millions—tens of millions—to infect whole populations, to try to eradicate entire races.

  How do you fight something like that? Hitler is seventy years in his grave and still the pollution of his dreams taints our modern world. What drives a man like Cyrus Jakoby to keep such an inhuman program going? The technology in this room spoke of enormous intelligence, imagination, and drive. He broke through barriers in genetics, virology, bio-production . . . aspects of science that could have benefited mankind, and why? To destroy? To exterminate people as if they were lice.

  Hate. Now that’s something I understand. At that moment, standing on the catwalk above the rows of bioreactors, I was filled with a degree of hate that took me beyond heat and into a strange cold space. I turned away and headed for the door. I needed to get out of here and into the air. I needed to be there when the DMS took Jakoby and the rest of the Cabal down, and if it was within my power I was going to see that it was taken down for good this time. Taken down, torn to pieces, and the bits scattered to the winds.

  As I walked the halls and climbed the stairs I thought about what we would do if we caught Jakoby alive. How do you punish such as person? A bullet seems so simple. Too easy. A bullet and he dies; he’s gone.

  Torture?

  Man, that was a can of worms. My personal politics are left of center, but I have my hardline moments. A guy like Jakoby, a man willing to slaughter every nonwhite in Africa . . . I hate to know this about myself, but I know that if I was alone in a room with that bastard I don’t think I’d be Mr. Passive. If I could make it last for a year, keeping him in screaming agony, would that offer an adequate redress? When the crime is so vast that it spans decades of time, crosses all national lines, changes cultures, and devours the weak and strong alike, then what possible form of punishment could be appropriate? Where is justice in the face of true unalterable evil?

  I could use his records, his confession, to launch a holy war against those who embrace the ideas of eugenics, ethnic cleansing, and the master race. I could light that fire—but what chance was there that the resulting firestorm would burn only the guilty? War is madness, and when bullets fly and bombs explode many people use the conflagration to settle personal agendas, or profiteer, or simply play blood games.

  No . . . I could not do that.

  But I had a better plan. It would bring neither peace nor closure to the victims of Cyrus Jakoby, but it would do something no bullet or hangman’s noose could do. It would hurt him.

  With those dark thoughts burning in my brain, I made my way carefully out of the Deck, crossed the obstacle course of cameras, and then ran the rest of the way back to where Top and Bunny were waiting.

  “The Brits are landing,” Top said.

  Chapter One Hundred Three

  In flight

  Tuesday, August 31, 1:27 A.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 34 hours, 33 minutes E.S.T.

  “Mr. Church,” said Grace, “I think we’ve found the Dragon Factory.”

  In Florida, Alpha Team had transferred to a Navy helicopter that was now sitting on the beach of a deserted cay fifteen nautical miles from Dogfish Cay.
They were waiting for pickup from the USS New Mexico, a Virginia Class submarine that was patrolling these waters. Her team waited in the forward cabin of a large fishing boat owned by the DEA. The captain, an agent two years from retirement, got a “no questions asked” call from his boss and was happy to oblige. All he had to do was sit at anchor and pretend to fish.

  “Tell me,” Church said. He was at the TOC and had spent an hour on the phone with the President. Church sounded uncharacteristically tired.

  “The Jakoby jet landed on Grand Bahama and they transferred to a seaplane which they flew to Dogfish Cay. There’s a dredged harbor and good deep water. The New Mexico will bring us to within a mile and we’ll go in by water at zero dark thirty.”

  “Good. Captain Ledger and Echo Team will be in the water about ninety minutes behind you. Do you want to wait for him?”

  “There’s no time. He did his part at the Hive and in Arizona. I’d like to tear off a piece of this for myself.”

  “Be careful, Grace,” Church said. “Joe had insider information; you don’t.”

  Grace was startled by Church’s use of her first name. He rarely did that and she found it both touching and mildly unnerving.

  “I’ll be careful. And I’ll get that sodding trigger device if I have to cut off Cyrus Jakoby’s head to do it.”

  “I’m okay with that scenario,” said Church, and disconnected.

  She went up on deck and then around to the wheelhouse where the captain was sitting with his feet up and a cold bottle of Coke resting on his stomach. He gestured to the cooler and she fished one out and sat in the co-pilot’s seat. The sea was gorgeous, streaked with purple and orange as the sun set with majestic splendor behind a narrow ridge of clouds. Seabirds flew lazily back to land, and water slapped softly against the hull. Grace twisted off the cap and sipped the cold soda.

  She said nothing and went into her head to prepare herself for what was to come. Her team was in peak condition and eager for a fight. So was Grace.

  The captain cleared his throat.

  “You call for a cab, Major?”

  “What?”

  He nodded to the waters off the port bow where a huge hulking shape was rising with surprising and eerie silence from the depths. She went out on deck and watched the 377-foot-long vessel rise so that its deck was almost level with the flat ocean. Only the conning tower rose into the twilight air like a giant black monolith. The displaced water from the submarine’s ascent rolled the fishing boat, and Grace had to grab a metal rail to keep her balance.

  “Big boat,” said the DEA agent. “But . . . I’m guessing that it’s just my imagination that’s making me see an attack submarine out there.”

  “Twilight over the ocean,” said Grace. “It can play strange tricks.”

  “It surely can.” He sipped his Coke. “Major, I don’t know what’s going on and I probably don’t want to know, but your team don’t look like trainees and they don’t send out brand-new attack subs for just anyone. So . . . I’m not asking for any information, but can you at least tell me if there’s something I should worry about?”

  Grace considered for a long moment. “Are you a religious man, Captain?”

  “When I remember to go to church.”

  “Then you might want to pretend this is Sunday,” she said, “and say a little prayer. The good guys could use a little help tonight.”

  He nodded and held out his bottle. They clinked and he went back to his chair and pretended he didn’t see all the weapons and equipment that were off-loaded from his boat to the waiting sea monster that floated in the darkening waters. Ten minutes later, he was alone aboard his boat and the sun was falling toward the horizon with such a spectacular display of colors that it looked like the whole world was ablaze. For the first time since he’d taken this job out here, he didn’t like the look of that sunset. The reds looked like blood, the purples like bruises, and the blacks like death.

  He keyed the ignition, fired up the engines, and turned in a wide circle to the northwest, back to Grand Bahama.

  Chapter One Hundred Four

  The Dragon Factory

  Tuesday, August 31, 2:18 A.M.

  Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 33 hours, 42 minutes E.S.T.

  Even though it was the middle of the night, Hecate walked arm-in-arm with her father as she gave him a tour of the facility she and Paris had built. Her brother walked on Cyrus’s other side but did not touch his father. Otto drifted behind them. Behind him were two unusual men: the cold and silent Conrad Veder—who had been introduced as a close advisor to Cyrus—and the hulking Berserker, Tonton. Though Veder was a tall man, Tonton towered over him, and reeked of sweat and testosterone.

  “Daddy,” purred Hecate, “we want to show you what we’ve done here. I think you’ll be so proud of us.” Since her emotional outburst at the Deck, Hecate had taken to calling Cyrus Daddy. Where this would normally earn a sharp rebuke, Cyrus seemed entranced by it. Or so Otto thought. All through the flight he had searched Cyrus’s face for some sign that he wasn’t at all taken in by the fiction of the Twins’ newfound and childlike devotion, but Cyrus avoided making eye contact with Otto.

  “Certainly, my pet,” said Cyrus in a soothing and—most shocking of all to Otto—a fatherly tone. “Let’s see what you rascals have cooked up.”

  Their first stop was the warehouse.

  “It’s empty,” said Otto.

  “Yes, it is,” said Paris with a proud smile. “The last shipments went out and everything is in place for your advertising campaign. It tickles me that your work is going to be largely funded by the sale of a legitimate product.”

  Cyrus smiled and nodded. Otto said nothing, but he wondered if the Twins had somehow discovered what was in that water. There had been plenty of time for them to have run DNA and biological tests on the water, but would they have thought to do so? He ran a thin finger along the scar on his face, making sure that Veder could see it. It was a prearranged signal to be extra vigilant. Veder scratched his ear. Message received and understood.

  The night was soft and vast, and billions of stars sparkled down on them as they strolled from the dockside warehouse up the flower-lined path to the main facility. The moon had not yet risen, but the compound lights had not been turned on. Instead the path was lighted by flaming tiki torches on poles.

  The main entrance of the Dragon Factory had a short flight of stone steps up to a glass front with ten-foot-high double doors. Berserkers in lightweight black BDUs stood at attention at the open doors. Cyrus gave them each a smile but made no comment as he passed inside, but Otto touched Paris’s arm.

  “These are the GMOs? Your ‘Berserkers’?”

  Paris nodded. “As is Tonton. These guards are from the second team.”

  “So, they’ve been field-tested?”

  “Several times.”

  “And the matter you came to the Deck to discuss?”

  “Oh,” said Paris, “that’s only a factor of fieldwork. During downtime they’re quite affable.” He gestured for Otto to enter the building. Veder, lingering behind Otto, caught the momentary flicker of a smile on Tonton’s brutish face.

  INSIDE THE FACILITY, Hecate led them through a series of labs, most of which held nothing new or of much interest to Cyrus, though he continued to smile and nod, as if this was all new and as exciting as a toy store. Several times he pointed to pieces of equipment and asked if he could have one for the Deck.

  Hecate promised him everything. Cyrus was extremely pleased.

  They passed through the main lab complex and Cyrus suddenly stopped, mouth open in awe at the statue that dominated the center of the room. A caduceus made from an alabaster pillar, hammered gold and jewels. Twin albino dragons coiled around the staff.

  “Beautiful . . . ,” he murmured.

  Hecate and Paris exchanged covert smiles.

  “Quite impressive,” said Otto with a total absence of reverence. He could have been appraising a broken clamshell on the
beach. His eyes were locked on Cyrus and doubt ate at him. Cyrus was unstable at the best of times, and now he seemed entranced by the wonders of the Dragon Factory. Did the betrayal of the Twins knock something loose in Cyrus’s mind? Otto wondered. It was always a real possibility. Otto carried a pocketful of pills to handle different emotional extremes, but quite frankly, he didn’t know which one would be needed here—or if a pill was needed at all.

  “And now, Daddy,” said Hecate as they stopped before a massive security door guarded by two more Berserkers, “we come to the real heart of the Dragon Factory. The Chamber of Myth. This is where we work our real magic!”

  Cyrus clapped his hands.

  Hecate placed her hand on a geometry scanner and waited as the laser light read every line, curve, and plane of her palm and fingers. A green light came on and a small card reader slid out of the wall. Hecate reached into the vee of her pale peach blouse and pulled out a swipe card on a lanyard. She swiped the card and heavy locks disengaged with a hydraulic hiss. One of the Berserkers gripped the handle and swung the door open. It was as thick as a bank vault door, but it opened without a sound.

  Hecate stepped through and beckoned her father to follow. The whole party moved inside and there they stopped. Even Otto’s cynical disdain was momentarily forgotten as they stared around them at the things the Twins had made. At the impossible brought to life.

  The room was designed to look like a forest from a fantasy story. The walls were painted with photo-real mountain ranges. Holographic projections of clouds drifted across a sky that could have been painted by Maxfield Parrish. Thousands of exotic plants and trees were arranged on hills sculpted from real rock and soil. On the branch of a nearby tree a winged and feathered serpent crouched, watching them with amber eyes. It was a perfect interpretation of the Quetzalcoatl of Aztec myth. In the distance a pair of snow-white unicorns nibbled at sweetgrass.

  Several tiny people walked by, none of them taller than two feet. They wore green clothing and had pointed ears. As they passed they tipped their hats to Hecate, who curtsied. There was a gruff sound and the party turned to see a horse trot by, tossing its head haughtily. A pair of golden wings were folded against the horse’s muscular flanks.