Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Utopia Experiment (A Covert-One novel)

by Kyle Mills

  Suddenly the visual portions of the four men Smith had spotted were outlined in dull red. More interesting, though, were the things he hadn’t seen.

  “How many now?”

  “Six,” Pedersen said, sounding impressed. “And a hidden machine-gun placement.”

  “All right,” Bailer said. “Now we’re going to just plain cheat. I’m putting the chlorophyll filter on. This will highlight anything that’s not a plant.”

  “Jesus,” Smith heard himself say. Suddenly there weren’t six enemy combatants but ten. And at the very back, a tiny section of what looked like a piece of artillery was peeking through the foliage. “Will that work at night?”

  “No, it’s measuring light absorption. For night we have other solutions.” The lights went out, leaving them in the dim glow of artificial stars in the ceiling.

  “Here’s the light amplification overlay alone.”

  Everything turned a familiar hazy green. At that level, Smith could only make out the two men Pedersen had originally spotted.

  “What do you say we add a little smoke?” Bailer said. A quiet hum filled the room along with a billowing, chemical-smelling cloud that completely obscured the jungle. “Those mannequins are heated to ninety-eight point six degrees, so let’s switch to thermal.”

  The dull green faded and the smoke disappeared. All ten mannequins were visible again, as were the weapons.

  “Now everything together.”

  “Jesus,” Smith muttered again. It was almost overkill. The image took on false color with the enemy in red and weapons in blue. Outlines were bolded and the computer was now filling in sections that were obscured. So in a dark, smoke-filled environment, an opposing force might as well hold neon signs that said “shoot me.”

  Bailer seemed to read his mind and pulled two bizarre-looking assault rifles from beneath the table, handing one to Pedersen and one to him. They weren’t anything Smith had seen before—like M16s reimagined by Apple.

  “How do you aim it? There’s no scope or sights.”

  Smith suspected he knew the answer, but couldn’t bring himself to actually believe it.

  “Please put your fingers on the triggers.”

  He did but nothing happened.

  “I think mine isn’t working,” Pedersen said, obviously having the same problem.

  “Point the weapon in the general direction you’re looking.”

  When Smith did, a set of crosshairs appeared at the center of his vision.

  “The gun just needs to know its position in three-dimensional space. Where it is relative to your eye doesn’t make any difference. Combined with the Merge, it will measure distance and compensate for bullet drop. The only thing you need to worry about is wind and keeping it steady.”

  Smith held the weapon against his hip and swept it across the jungle, watching the crosshairs projected onto his mind move smoothly from mannequin to mannequin. It felt exactly like a video game.

  “Could I fire it around a corner, then?”

  “The programming wouldn’t be difficult, but it would take some training to counteract the vertigo of having your vision move independent of your physical position.”

  “And all the systems you’re showing us are exclusive to the U.S. military?” Pedersen asked.

  “No. We’re currently working with Mercedes to integrate the thermal imaging and night vision into their cars. The targeting system, that particular outline enhancement algorithm, and the chlorophyll overlay will be exclusive.”

  “So it’s the helmet cam that makes this work,” Pedersen said. “Not my eyes.”

  “For the most part, yes. We can process the pixels the human eye brings in, but we can’t create capability that isn’t there, like light amplification or thermal.”

  “What about the rear-facing camera?” Smith said. “I noticed there’s one included in the helmet.”

  “That’s actually just an artifact of earlier research. You might find it interesting, though.” He tapped a few commands into the laptop and suddenly Smith’s vision went to a full wraparound view. Bailer grabbed both him and Pedersen by the backs of their shirts, steadying them as both nearly fell.

  “Some insects handle this view very well, but the human brain can’t seem to assimilate it.”

  He returned to the laptops and Smith’s vision went back to forward only. A significant improvement as far as he was concerned.

  “We experimented with a semi-transparent rear view similar to a car backup camera, but then abandoned it when we discovered we could generate sensations. Let’s assume that you have two of your own men behind you, one right and one left.”

  A pleasant warmth suddenly spread across the back of Smith’s shoulders.

  “Now let’s say someone unidentified appears behind you.”

  He felt a sharp prick near his spine.

  “There are a lot more possibilities,” Bailer said, bringing up the lights and reverting their vision to normal. “Itching, cold, tingling. Each could mean something different. But that’s up to you and your people.”

  “What if someone gets ahold of one from a dead soldier?” Smith said as they removed their helmets and placed them on the table.

  “Every brain is unique in the way it communicates with the system, which is why you had to do the initial setup. It would be incredibly disorienting to try to use someone else’s unit. Of course, you could set up another layer of security through your military network if it makes you more comfortable, but it would be redundant.”

  Smith played with toggling through the various icons in his peripheral vision as he listened. He stumbled on one that made his vision zoom in on the tank in front of him and nearly pitched forward over the table.

  “So, Dr. Smith? What do you think of our system?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. The truth was that it was the most fascinating and promising technology he’d ever seen. On the other hand, when something looked too good to be true, it usually was.

  “I’m honestly not sure. Ceding so much control to Dr. Dresner doesn’t excite me.”

  “Understandable, but unavoidable.”

  “And in some ways, it makes me think of da Vinci’s military designs.”

  “Interesting. How so?”

  “Great on paper, but not so practical when you’re standing knee-deep in the mud with people shooting at you.”

  15

  Hamgyong-Namdo Province

  North Korea

  THE MIST IS VERY BEAUTIFUL TODAY,” the young man said. His Korean accent was clearly audible but not so thick that his words weren’t intelligible over the flapping of the jeep’s canvas top. No doubt he recognized the importance of his mastery of English in keeping him from living at the edge of starvation like so many of his countrymen.

  Gerhard Eichmann nodded absently, and stared out the side window. It really was beautiful. Tall, jagged hills sprang up everywhere around them, emerald green where there was sufficient soil to support life and grayish brown where the rock had been laid bare. Hazy clouds, only a few hundred meters above, threaded through them, being pulled toward the vortex created by a massive waterfall to the west.

  It was easy to be lulled into a sense of contentment and peace. But it was there in North Korea that the contrasts nature had created were the starkest. It was a place that demonstrated with heartbreaking clarity the power of a small group of twisted men to create needless destruction and suffering for millions.

  The dirt road turned rutted as it detoured around a recent landslide. Eichmann looked past his driver, catching a glimpse of a large facility nestled into a deep canyon. It was normally invisible from the road but the diversion allowed for a brief flash of the fencing and heavily camouflaged roof. His driver, Kyong, suddenly stared straight ahead as though not looking at it could make it cease to exist.

  Odd, since two years before he had delivered Eichmann there for a series of meetings relating to the work being done behind its thick walls. Or at least, most of the work bei
ng done there. He twisted in his seat as the facility disappeared from sight, trying to pick out the west wing through the trees. Beyond the fact that it was called Division D, he didn’t know anything about it. Every query had been politely rebuffed and every request for access flatly denied. At first, he’d thought it was a mistake—one of the many edicts garbled in translation or subverted by the country’s dysfunctional bureaucracy. Further investigation, though, proved that assumption to be wrong.

  They turned onto a narrow dirt road and wound along it before finally parking at its end. The foot trail that started there, used only very occasionally to transport supplies and personnel, was virtually invisible. Eichmann had been up it once before, though, and vividly remembered the four hours he’d spent struggling along the steep, eroded path.

  He stepped from the vehicle and hesitated, looking down at his unsteady legs and the old hiking boots on his feet. There was no point in questioning this excursion now. He had spent three months begging for the opportunity and now here he was—about to personally witness the last, symbolic moment of his life’s work.

  The beginning of the end to a life that he never could have imagined.

  * * *

  THE YEARS HAD SETTLED in even harder than Eichmann realized and this time the trip took a full six hours. His exhaustion and the pain from his bleeding feet were so profound that he nearly cried when he saw the first hint of human inhabitation. Not in the form of buildings or roads, but in a bizarre image of farmers tending an expansive rice paddy. From a distance, it looked completely ordinary, deceptively idyllic. As they approached, though, the picture became more complex.

  While the tools were typically rudimentary and clothing traditional, the people were anything but. There were Africans, Hispanics, Caucasians, Arabs. Of the few Asians visible, none was Korean, instead having genetic origins in China, Laos, and Japan. Both men and women were represented in equal numbers and all were in their mid-twenties.

  Kyong chatted nervously as they passed, ignoring the farmers who had stopped to stare at the strangers approaching their carefully isolated village.

  The buildings were typical in design, with simple whitewashed walls and peaked roofs. What made them unique was their large size. There were no families here, only a group of guardians and teachers that had raised the children from infancy according to a rigid protocol Eichmann had designed. Housing was communal with people randomly assigned and reorganized at regular intervals to prevent the formation of overly strong relationships. Interactions with authority figures were limited to avoid favoritism. And outside influences were non-existent. A psychological experiment done with a level of control that the rest of the world’s scientists could only dream of.

  They entered a building that looked like all the others but was actually a school, and Eichmann followed the hallway toward voices at its end. His boots clacked loudly against the bare floorboards and the moldy scent of Asian wood filled his nostrils. He wanted to remember it all. Every detail.

  The girl twisted in her chair when he entered, her wide, pale face registering surprise and terror at the intrusion of an unfamiliar player into her meticulously designed universe.

  While it was unlikely that she would remember, she had seen him during his last visit to the village. It was hard to believe that had been seventeen years ago.

  The man sitting in front of her said something in a stern voice and she refocused on him as he began reading from a paper on the desk between them.

  Despite the fact that she was a blond-haired Caucasian taken as an infant from her home in Romania, the oral examination was being conducted in Korean—the only language she spoke. In fact, the only one she knew existed.

  The physical tests, blood workups, MRIs, and CAT scans had already been completed and the data transmitted to Eichmann. This intelligence test and the personality tests to come were the final piece of a puzzle so complex, he wasn’t sure he would ever fully understand all its facets.

  He settled onto an empty bench, watching the desperate concentration on her face as the test conductor clicked a stopwatch and she began scribbling in the open notebook in front of her.

  No reward had been offered to her for excelling on the test, only the promise of severe punishment for failing. The stick without a carrot wasn’t an ideal motivator but the incredibly tight controls on the experiment restricted him in this area. Rewards were difficult to provide to people who had no knowledge at all of the outside world. She had no comprehension of, and thus no aspiration to, money or possessions or social status. Food was already adequate, as was housing. Medical care was provided in sufficient quantities to ensure that his carefully designed data set did not shrink unduly over the years.

  He had been forced to walk in because neither she nor any of the others was aware of the existence of cars. The only advanced technology she’d seen were the undoubtedly terrifying machines used to test her and the occasional airplane explained away as a kind of bird by the people running the experiment.

  Her twin sister, living with adoptive parents in France, experienced a very different world. She had, however, just completed identical testing—though through a much more complex process, and with a cover story created to satisfy her family and the French authorities.

  He watched the girl—Eun was her name—and she did the same to him out of the corner of her eye. Undoubtedly, his presence would skew her results slightly, but it didn’t matter. The conclusions of the study had been known for a long time. Perhaps even before they’d started down this path.

  Maybe he and Christian had just been unable to face it? Perhaps somewhere deep inside them they’d wanted to catch a glimpse of God, to discover that man really was set apart. That humanity would eventually find its way and fulfill its promise.

  He smiled sadly. It was hard to believe that they had ever been so young.

  16

  Khost Province

  Central Afghanistan

  TRACKING THE MOVEMENTS of both men through the starlight scope was impossible and Randi was forced to jump back and forth between them as Zahid fired uncontrolled bursts in their general direction.

  She flattened herself a little more against the ground, ignoring the sharp rocks cutting into her and nursing a grudging respect for the ruthless efficiency of the two remaining mercenaries. They hadn’t even bothered to see if the man she’d hit was dead, instead immediately widening their pattern and angling up the steep slope. Both moved with impressive speed and stealth, going from boulder to boulder in carefully coordinated bursts.

  She’d counted on them slowing from fatigue as they progressed, but it didn’t seem to be happening. Scoring another hit was unlikely and letting this come down to close-quarters fighting was probably not going to go her way. Whoever they were, they were worth whatever they were getting paid.

  Zahid rose over the low wall again and fired another poorly aimed volley. This time the men were ready for it and both leapt from cover with weapons shouldered. Her finger started to move on the trigger of the sniper rifle but then at the last moment, she abandoned it and dragged the Afghan from the path of the bullets spraying through the opening he’d been standing in.

  Zahid fought her as the rounds slapped the rock at the back of the small edifice, ricocheting unpredictably. He seemed less concerned that she was using him as a human shield than that she had forced him to retreat instead of facing certain death head-on.

  Knowing that the men below would use the opportunity to advance their position, Randi rolled back to her rifle and sighted through the scope again. She fired at the closest target, but the angle wasn’t there. The bullet did knock off an impressive chunk of rock half a meter from the Ukrainian’s head, though, and that proved enough to get both men to dive for cover.

  “Zahid,” she whispered. “Are you hit?”

  “Not badly.”

  It was too dark to see much more than the outline of him, but she watched as he teetered and sagged against the cave wall.

 
“Tell me what happened in Sarabat,” she said.

  The fact that they had distinctly different definitions of a successful conclusion to this evening was making an already disastrous situation even worse. She wanted to get the information she’d come for and beat a quiet retreat with all her body parts still intact. He, on the other hand, wanted a nice helping of revenge followed by his quota of celestial virgins.

  “We were paid,” he said as she began scanning the slope through her scope again. “I don’t know who it was and I don’t think the elders did either. They gave us new AK-47s and information on where men who guarded Sarabat were. They told us to attack in the middle of the day and that there would be no resistance.”

  He finally managed to get hold of her assault rifle and fired another burst, unconcerned that there was no visible target.

  “Stop doing that!” she whispered harshly. “You’re not even getting close and you’re going to run us out of ammunition. Why the middle of the day?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, sliding down the rock wall into an awkward seated position. His voice was already starting to lose strength. “I was skeptical, but the money was very good. And it was an opportunity to finally defeat Sarabat after so many years of insults.”

  She squeezed off a quick shot, kicking up some dust near the boulder the easternmost man was hiding behind. A reminder that they hadn’t been forgotten.

  As she chambered another round, he burst into view and traversed five meters farther east while his companion sprayed the wall she was lying at the edge of.

  They were going to keep spreading out until they could safely pass their position and get the high ground. If that happened, things were going to get really ugly really fast.

  “And was what they told you true? Was there no resistance?”

  “It was true,” he said at a volume that was hard to hear. She wasn’t sure if it was his injury or the memory of what had happened in Sarabat.

  “The men wouldn’t fight. The children and women did. But the men just stood there and died like sheep.”