The Dragon Factory jl-2

by Jonathan Maberry

“Yes.” The word was as harsh as a fist on unprotected flesh. “There are a lot of us. That’s why my name is Eighty-two.”

  Rudy pushed the glass of ginger ale closer to the boy. He didn’t touch it. Rudy waited. The bubbles in the ginger ale popped. The second hand on the wall clock swept around in silent circles. Once, twice.

  “I guess . . . ,” began the boy. He coughed and then cleared his throat. “I guess my real name is Josef.”

  The boy wiped the tears off his cheeks with an angry hand.

  “Do you know who Josef Mengele was?”

  “He’s me,” said the boy.

  “No,” said Rudy. “You’re fourteen. Josef Mengele was born a hundred years ago.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re the same person.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Josef Mengele a good person?”

  “No!” the boy said as if Rudy was an idiot.

  Rudy smiled. “Well, we agree on that. Was Josef Mengele the kind of person who would have risked his own life to help other people?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Would that man have done what you did to contact Mr. Church—the Deacon—and ask for help?”

  No answer.

  “Would he?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  Rudy changed tack. “So there are eighty-two clones of Josef Mengele?”

  “No,” said the boy.

  “I don’t—”

  “There are a lot more than that.”

  “And you’re one of them?”

  A nod.

  “Are the others all like you?”

  “We’re all clones, I told you.”

  “No . . . I asked if they’re like you. Do they have the same personality?”

  “Some do.”

  “Exactly the same?”

  No answer.

  “Please,” said Rudy. “Answer my question. Do they all have the same personality?”

  “No.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How many of them would have done what you did? How many of them would have risked their lives to try and warn us?”

  No answer.

  “Are any of them cruel?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Are you cruel?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you enjoy hurting people? Don’t you enjoy inflicting harm and—”

  The boy gave him a sharp, hurt look. “No!”

  “You mind that I asked that?”

  “Of course I do. What kind of stupid question is that?”

  “Why is it stupid? You said that you were the same as Josef Mengele. You said that you were evil. And you said that you were going to Hell.”

  “I’m him; don’t you get that?”

  “I understand that you’re a clone. I admit I’ve never spoken with a clone before, and until today I would have thought that a clone might carry some of the same traits and characteristics as the person from whose cells they were cloned. And yet here you are, a teenage boy who risked his life on several occasions to help stop bad people from doing very bad things. A boy who attacked a big security guard in order to try and stop the slaughter of unarmed people. A boy who could easily have done nothing.”

  The boy said nothing.

  “You may be cloned from cells taken from an evil man. Our scientists will determine that through DNA testing. If it’s true, then it changes nothing,” said Rudy. “Josef Mengele was a monster. Is a monster, I suppose, if Cyrus Jakoby is really him.”

  “I’m pretty sure he is.”

  “He’s such a terrible person . . . and yet you risked everything to save the very people he wanted to destroy.”

  The boy looked at him.

  Rudy smiled.

  “You’re not him.”

  “I am.”

  “No,” Rudy said, “you’re not. You’ve just proven something that people have been arguing over for centuries. In fact, you may be living proof of the answer to a fundamental question of our human existence.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, there’s the question of nature versus nurture. Is a person born with certain mental and emotional characteristics that are simply hardwired into him by genetics? Or do environment, exposure to other thoughts and opinions, and life experience determine who we are? I’d say that you are living proof that there has to be a third element permanently added to that equation.”

  “What?”

  “Choice.”

  The boy looked at him for a long time and said nothing.

  “There has never been a situation like this before. We’ve never had the chance to observe a clone and determine if that person is, or wants to be, exactly the same as the source entity.”

  “They wanted me to be. Every day I had to learn about Mengele’s life and work. I had to learn surgery and about torture and war.” Tears streamed down his face. “Every day. Day after day after day.”

  “And yet you chose a different path than the one they intended for you.”

  The boy was sobbing now.

  “You’re not him,” said Rudy gently. “He would never do what you did. And you could never do what he did.”

  Rudy fished a plastic package of tissues from his jacket pocket and handed them to the boy, who pulled several out, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. Rudy did not try to physically touch the boy, not even a pat on the shoulder. It was an instinctive choice. The boy was solitary; comfort had to come from within.

  They sat together in the interview room as the silent minutes burned away.

  “There’s one more thing for you to think about,” said Rudy.

  The boy looked at him with red eyes.

  “Josef Mengele is one of the worst criminals of the last hundred years. A monster who has done untold harm to countless people and now wants to destroy a large percentage of the world’s population. The records we recovered indicate that he started the AIDS epidemic, and the new tuberculosis plague in Africa. Even if we stop him today, he’ll be reviled as the greatest mass murderer in history.”

  “I know.”

  “While you on the other hand . . . ,” Rudy said, and smiled.

  “What . . . ?”

  “You are very probably going to go down in history as the greatest hero of all time.”

  The boy stared at him.

  “We had no idea of the Extinction Wave,” said Rudy. “No idea at all. If it had not been for your act of bravery, for the choice you made, millions—perhaps billions—would die. We didn’t even know we were in a war until a little more than a day ago. You changed that. You made a choice. You took a chance. And if we succeed, if Joe Ledger and Major Courtland and the other brave men and women who are fighting right now to stop this madness are successful, it will all be because of you.”

  “All I did was send two e-mails!”

  “The value of choice is not in the size of the action but in its effect. You may have saved the entire world.” Rudy smiled and shook his head. “I can barely fit my mind around the concept. You’re a hero, my young friend.”

  “A ‘hero’?” The boy shook his head, unable to process the word.

  “A hero,” Rudy agreed.

  The boy wrapped his head in his arms and laid them on the table and began sobbing uncontrollably.

  Mr. Church watched all of this on his laptop, which was positioned so that only he could see it. The noise and motion of the TOC flowed around him. He removed his glasses and polished the lenses with a handkerchief and put them back on.

  “Well, well,” he murmured to himself.

  Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

  The Dragon Factory

  Ten minutes ago

  Grace Courtland and Alpha Team moved quickly and quietly through the corridors of the Dragon Factory. They avoided people when they could, and when they couldn’t they killed. Redman and the others dragged bodies into closets or hid them under office desks. The team mo
ved on, searching for Cyrus Jakoby, driven by the certain knowledge that time was running out.

  They saw two more of the massive guards standing on either side of a huge hatch that was the size of a bank safe. The hatch stood ajar and the guards were alert. Grace crouched down behind a bushy potted plant at the far end of the corridor and studied them through the magnification of her rifle scope. The guards were unnaturally large, more muscular and massive even than steroid-enhanced bodybuilders. They had similar features: sloping foreheads with overhanging brows, blunt noses, and nearly lipless mouths. These had to be the bruisers Joe had encountered at Deep Iron, and she could well understand why Echo Team had thought they were up against soldiers wearing exoskeletons. The guard on the left had to have a chest that was seventy-five inches around and thirty-inch biceps.

  Redman leaned close and whispered, “What the hell are they?”

  “Transgenic soldiers,” said Grace.

  “They look like gorillas.”

  “No kidding,” said Grace dryly, and then Redman got it.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Fun with science,” Grace murmured. The hatch the soldiers guarded looked inviting, and she was willing to bet her next month’s pay that whatever was inside was important. She was also willing to bet that Cyrus Jakoby was in there. The guards were hyperalert, their posture absolutely correct.

  “I need to get in there,” she said.

  “We don’t have enough cover for two snipers. Have to take them one at a time.”

  She shook her head. “No. That’s not going to work.”

  She quickly outlined a plan that had Redman shaking his head before she was finished.

  “It’s not a suggestion,” Grace hissed. “Do what you’re bloody well told.”

  Redman nodded, but his face showed his displeasure.

  Grace faded back around the bend in the corridor and quickly shrugged off her combat gear and jacket so that she wore boots, pants, and a black tank top. She removed the rubber band from her dark hair and shook it out. She slid a knife into her pocket and tucked her .22 into the back waistband of her fatigue pants.

  “Be ready,” she whispered to Redman, and then she walked out into the center of the hall and strolled up to the guards.

  The guard on the left spotted her first and tapped his companion. They both turned to see the tall, slender, beautiful woman walking toward them. Grace put just enough hip sway into her walk to catch their attention, and as she drew close she smiled up at them.

  “This is a restricted area, miss,” said the right-hand guard.

  “I know,” she said. “But I wanted to tell you guys something.”

  “What?” asked the left-hand guard, but he leaned slightly forward, making no pretense of hiding the fact that he was looking down her top.

  “Look what I have,” Grace said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  The guards bent closer still.

  She drew her pistol and shot the left-hand guard through the eye. A split second later Redman put a bullet through the right-hand guard’s forehead.

  Grace smiled and waved her team forward, thinking to herself that men—even mutant transgenic ape soldiers—were all the same. Show them a little cleavage and they lose all sense.

  She stepped to the edge of the hatch and peered carefully inside. She could see a group of people standing thirty yards down a foliage-lined path. She recognized the Jakoby Twins at once.

  Suddenly warning buzzers began blaring overhead and a recorded voice blared from wall-mounted speakers, “Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!”

  Down the hall there was a rattle of automatic gunfire and immediately automatic fail-safes activated and the hatch began to swing shut. There was no time to think; Grace leaped through the hatch and ducked behind a thick shrub just as the huge portal slammed shut.

  OUTSIDE, REDMAN YELLED as the hatch clanged into place. Gunfire and screams filled the air and people erupted from rooms and side corridors. Some were unarmed staff; others had guns. Everyone was yelling, and then the guards spotted them and began firing.

  More gunfire came from behind.

  There was no more time to think. Redman and Alpha Team dove for what cover there was and returned fire.

  Chapter One Hundred Fourteen

  Above Dogfish Cay

  Five minutes ago

  We glided through the night, silent as bats, our night vision painting the world below us in shades of green and black. The three of us had tumbled out of the plane miles above the island, and for a long time we fell in total darkness. Skydiving at night is deceptive; after you become accustomed to the rush of air, all sense of movement ceases and you feel as if you’re floating. Without an altimeter to tell you the truth about how fast the ground is rushing up to meet you there is a very real chance you’ll find out in a last microsecond of surprise.

  There was almost no wind, so we deployed our glider chutes at ten thousand feet. There is a moment where the resistance of the chute jolts every bone in your body, and then the glider takes over and once more you feel like you’re floating rather than falling. The glider has its own dangers built in because it doesn’t feel like you’re dropping down at all. It’s so smooth and steady.

  I went through Airborne training in the Army, so you’d think I enjoyed throwing myself out of airplanes. You’d be wrong. I’m good at it, but I do not like it. Both Top and Bunny were more experienced at this sort of thing. Top used to teach it, Bunny did it on his days off. Doing it at night with no lights to steer by, having started seven miles up, isn’t my idea of a rollicking good time.

  On the other hand, a high-altitude low open jump means that the bad guys usually don’t know you’re coming, so there are fewer bullets to try and dodge while you’re in the air. Kind of a silver lining.

  We saw the landing point we’d chosen from the satellite photos and I tilted my chute forward to spill air out of the back and drop down, but suddenly I saw a ripple of bright flashes and heard the hollow pok-pok-pok of automatic gunfire. In the same moment I heard Church’s voice in my ear:

  “Deacon to Cowboy, Deacon to Cowboy, be advised, the island is under attack. Identity and number of hostiles unknown. Estimate one hundred plus hostiles. Confirm; confirm.”

  “Confirmed, dammit.” I tapped my earbud and identified myself. “Alpha Team, report location.”

  “Alpha Team is inside the complex and taking fire,” Redman said.

  “Hold tight,” I said. Back on the command channel I yelled, “Deacon, are any friendlies on the grounds?”

  “Negative. Alpha Team is inside, other assets inbound. No friendlies on the ground.”

  “Roger that.” I tapped the earbud once more as we circled around the line of trees and headed back to our drop site. “Echo Team, zero friendlies on the ground. Let’s rock and roll.”

  While I was thirty feet above the dark lawn I saw four men in the same nondescript BDUs we’d seen on the Russians in Deep Iron. They didn’t see me. Sucked to be them.

  I cut them down.

  Gunfire flashed from our right, but I was below the tree line now. I stalled my speed and dropped to a fast walk, hit the release, and ran from my chute. There was no time to be neat and tidy. I headed straight for the cover of a close stand of palms, and I could hear rounds burning the air around me.

  Bunny yelled, “Frag out!” and threw a grenade toward the muzzle flashes. I don’t know if he got any of them with the burst, but it gave him and Top a clear moment to land. They split up and went into the trees on either side of me.

  The main building was on our left, the lawn and another row of trees to our right. There was a stone path lined with torches nearby, but half of the torches had been knocked over or torn up by gunfire. I saw a dozen bodies littering the ground between here and the door, and more sprawled on the steps.

  I turned and headed toward the building, zigzagging behind trees and shrubs, firing at anything that moved. I killed a couple of exotic ferns that got caught in a breeze, but I a
lso took down several of the hostiles.

  “Grenade!” Bunny yelled, and slammed into me with a diving tackle that rolled us both to the foot of the stone steps as a blast tore a hole a few feet from where I’d been standing. I’d never seen the throw. Top spun and chopped up the hedges and a man screamed and toppled to the ground.

  The steps offered no cover, but the main glass doors were intact despite dozens of impacts from armor-piercing rounds. High-density bulletproof glass. I scrambled to my feet and ran inside, crouching instinctively as a line of heavy-caliber bullets whacked into the glass. It held. So I turned and knelt to offer covering fire as Bunny and then Top ran from cover and risked the open ground near the steps. A ricochet bounced off the open door and pinged around the lobby for a heart-stopping moment before burying itself in the wall six inches from Top’s head.

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  I held the door while they checked the hallway behind me. A crash door opened and six men wearing security uniforms rushed the hallway. Top and Bunny put them down with short bursts and I rolled into the doorway and put half a magazine in the next four who were running up a flight of metal stairs to this level.

  “Clear!” called Bunny, and I backed away from the doorway.

  I tapped my earbud. “Cowboy to Amazing, Cowboy to Amazing.”

  No answer.

  Then, “Headhunter to Cowboy.” Headhunter was Redman’s call sign.

  “Go for Cowboy.”

  “We’re hearing gunfire behind us. Sounds like M4s.” He described his location.

  “That’s a roger,” I said.

  “We could use a quarterback sneak.”

  “Copy that. On our way.”

  We ran down the hallway, passing several bullet-riddled bodies and the signs of mass panic. A lot of people had fled this way, dropping coffee cups and clipboards and trampling the dead.

  We slowed. If Redman had heard our gunfire and could tell the difference between M4s and either the H&Ks used by the Dragon Factory guards or the Kalashnikovs carried by the Russians, then so could whoever they were fighting. The corridor was a long curve and the ambush was exactly where you’d expect it to be—at the sharpest point of the curve where decorative potted trees provided cover.