24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5

by Marc A. Cerasini

  “What exactly happened?” Palmer asked.

  “It’s very simple to put in laymen’s terms,” Dr. Toth said. “The motor cortex is a general term that describes several regions of the cerebral cortex. The motor cortex is that part of our brains involved in the planning, control and execution of voluntary motor functions.”

  “Yes,” Bascomb said, nodding. “The primary motor cortex is responsible for generating neural impulses that control movement. Then there’s the premotor cortex and the supplementary motor area—”

  “Too technical, Phillip,” Toth protested. “In laymen’s terms, we know that electrical impulses generated by the motor cortex control voluntary movement. What the Malignant Wave device does is scramble those electronic signals, throwing the entire brain into chaos—”

  “You see, the Malignant Wave induces a kind of instantaneous multiple sclerosis in those exposed to its waves, but without the multiple scars — or scleroses— found on the myelin sheaths of the victims,” Dr. Reed declared. “In fact, there is no visible physical trauma caused by the wave device, even on a microscopic level. Only the electrical functions are scrambled.”

  Palmer glanced at another monitor, this one displaying the pigs in their cage. The creatures twitched and rolled in their own feces. When they attempted to stand, their flanks twitched and their limbs shook violently.

  “The pigs have fouled their cages,” Palmer noted.

  Dr. Reed nodded, smiling. “Bowel and bladder control is voluntary, Senator. The animals have lost the ability control those functions.”

  Dr. Toth lifted a tent flap and gestured to a pair of men in spotless white lab coats. As one, the duo moved toward the cages. Palmer noticed the technicians were carrying hypodermic injector guns.

  “Those two men?” he asked. “Are they going to administer some sort of sedative, or perhaps the antidote? When do the waves’ effects wear off?”

  Dr. Bascomb looked away. Dr. Reed cleared her throat, then spoke. “Senator, those men are going to euthanize the animals. There is no antidote to the Malignant Wave effect, nor does it wear off.”

  Palmer turned away from the ghastly scene, faced the woman. He seemed to tremble with barely contained anger. When he spoke, Palmer’s voice was a low, threatening rumble.

  “Malignant Wave is supposed to be a non-lethal weapon system, Dr. Reed. That’s what the committee was promised.”

  “Yes… Well,” she stammered. “As I said, there is no physical trauma induced by the waves… Only—”

  “Only you render the victim helpless. Unable to control its most basic bodily functions — forever.”

  Megan Reed blinked. “Of course, Senator. Think of the disruption to the enemy’s ranks on the battlefield, as medics try to administer care to hundreds, perhaps thousands of soldiers so afflicted. The drain on the enemy’s resources would be catastrophic. In the end, they would be forced to resort to euthanasia, if only to be merciful. The enemy would have to kill their own troops! Think of the effect such dire measures would have on their morale. ”

  Senator Palmer shook his head.

  “No,” he declared. “I refuse to consider your logic. It is too terrible to contemplate. Malignant Wave is not non-lethal technology, despite what you say, Dr. Reed. In truth your team’s invention is one of the most vile and hateful methods of execution I’ve ever witnessed.”

  Dr. Bascomb rose, faced the Senator. “But, surely you see the value of such technology?”

  “Value! In this, this… abomination?” Palmer cried. “We asked for a new type of non-lethal technology. Instead, you’ve invented nothing more than a diabolical new weapon of mass destruction. Can you imagine this weapon in enemy hands? If we allowed this program to go forward to deployment, we would unleash a new arms race.”

  Once again, Senator Palmer shook his head. “If you think I or anyone on my committee will endorse such a weapon, you are sorely mistaken.”

  Palmer spied Corporal Stratowski lurking in a corner. “Corporal, I need to get back to Las Vegas at once. Take me to the airfield,” he commanded.

  “Right away, Senator. The Hummer is parked outside.” As Palmer crossed the tent, Megan Reed caught his arm. “Senator, please let me accompany you back to the city,” she pleaded. “I’m sure you’ve gotten the wrong impression of our work here. I think I can change your mind… Convince you to see things our way…”

  Palmer glanced at the high definition screens a final time. He watched a man injecting one of the monkeys with poison, looked away immediately.

  “Don’t bother, Dr. Reed,” Palmer replied. “Nothing you say could ever change my mind. As of this moment, consider the Malignant Wave Project cancelled.”

  6:23:41 P.M. PDT Las Vegas Boulevard At the corner of Tropicana Avenue The Las Vegas Strip

  From behind mirrored sunglasses, Pizarro Rojas placidly observed the Las Vegas strip as it rolled past his windshield. The MGM lion blazed rose gold in the fading light, the sun a radiant ball of fire in the fast purpling sky.

  In the seat beside him, his twin brother Balboa snored quietly. But Balboa had been in America for months now. The Las Vegas strip was nothing new to him. In fact, his brother showed very little appreciation of America, or perhaps he merely missed his wife and family back in Colombia.

  For Pizarro this place was astonishing, a revelation. Though he’d heard about such luxury, never in his wildest imaginings did he envision the spectacle.

  Pizarro Rojas reclined his seat, stretched his short, powerful legs. The middle row of the sports utility vehicle was roomy and comfortable, the air conditioner flooded the compartment with cool filtered air, enough to stir his long, curly hair. In all respects, he decided this was a much better ride than the steel box he and his two bodyguards had ridden in across the U.S./Mexican border.

  “What do you think, Carlos?” Pizarro called to the driver. “Does this vulgar display of capitalistic excess offend your socialist sensibilities?”

  Carlos Boca, an ex-Cuban special forces commando, glanced at his young boss’s reflection in the rear view mirror.

  “What offends me is that Fidel was such an ass,” Boca replied with a sneer. “After the Revolution, in 1960, casinos like this… All this money… It could have belonged to Cuba. If Castro had nationalized the resorts, modernized them, then he could have used the jobs and the influx of foreign capital to benefit the Cuban people.”

  “If he catered to foreign economic interests, then our beloved Fidel would have been no different than that pig Batista.” As he spoke, Roland Arrias ran his fingers along the jagged scar that ripped a canal down the right side of his face. Like the driver, Roland had a powerful build, thick neck and a shaved head.

  “You are wrong, my brother,” Carlos replied. “Vietnam and China are models for the future. Not the economic cesspool Cuba has become.”

  Pizarro Rojas knew the two men were as close as brothers — with their powerful physiques and army haircuts, they even resembled one another. Only Roland’s grotesque scar set the men apart. The pair bickered constantly, usually over Cuban politics. Somewhere along the line, Carlos had lost faith in his Supreme Leader and the Communist Revolution, while his fellow Cuban remained a committed ideologue. The pair looked to be in their forties, but Pizarro didn’t know which was older, which the younger. All he cared about was the fact that both men were ex-Cuban Special Forces and trustworthy allies.

  Back at Big Dean’s Truck Farm, the Cubans had traded their dusty denims and work boots for dark suits and black silk shirts. Under the jackets, in shoulder holsters, each man carried a Russian-made Makarov PM. Carlos also had a long Spanish steel stiletto strapped to his leg. Stashed in a secret compartment hidden under the floor mats were their AK–47s, along with hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Somewhere along this route, another SUV with six other military trained Cuban expatriates was moving toward the same rendezvous — Bix Automotive.

  Roland Arrias snorted. “You are the fool, my friend. Russia lost the courage of the
ir convictions, turned to Western-style democracy — which there is no such thing. Now the Russian people live in a gangster state.”

  Listening to these men, Pizarro was reminded of the conversations he and Balboa shared with their youngest brother, Francesco. Little Franco never cared for politics. He loved music and women. Always a hothead, Francesco was beloved by their mother and doted on by their father. As leader of the cartel’s hit team, Francesco was also respected by the men under his command, some much older than he was. And young women could not resist his charms, either. When he was gunned down by an unknown American agent in Nicaragua, Francesco left two bastard children behind, from two separate mothers. At least his children would live on, under the care of their paternal grandparents.

  It was those same American agents that stole back the technology his family had paid dearly for — in money and blood. The loss of prestige they suffered at the hands of these Americans shook the foundations of the Rojas’ once-powerful drug empire, made them appear weak and vulnerable to friends and enemies alike.

  Behind his sunglasses, Pizarro’s expression darkened. Ahead of them stood the many tiered tower of the Babylon Hotel and Casino. A banner fluttered from the building’s mammoth portico, proclaiming the resort as the site of the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. The Cubans also fell silent as they passed the target of their impending operation.

  In just a few hours Pizarro Rojas would return, along with his brother Balboa, and his team of Cuban assassins. He would return to this majestic place to exact a measure of vengeance for the crimes committed against his family — not just vengeance against America, but against other Latin American governments and law enforcement agencies who dared to oppose the Rojas cartel.

  After the daring assault and the multiple assassinations to come, the defeats of the past would be forgotten. With their honor and respect fully restored, the other cartels would clamor to join a new alliance forged and ruled by the Rojas clan. Soon his family would control all of the cocaine production and distribution in the Northern Hemisphere, just as the Saudi Arabian sheiks controlled the oil flowing out of the Middle East. Even America, with all of her military might, would be paralyzed with the dread of another cartel attack. Their leaders would make speeches, promise to wage yet another war against drugs, while sitting on their pristine, perfectly-manicured hands and doing nothing.

  6:48:17 P.M. PDT Tunney and Sons Quality Tool and Die Browne End Road, Las Vegas

  For nearly an hour, Curtis Manning saw no one enter or leave the multiple-block compound of Bix Automotive, though the mysterious activity inside the garage clearly continued. Occasionally Curtis would see the flash of a welder’s torch visible behind the garage’s oily windows, or someone would step outside for a smoke or a breath of fresh air, only to be ordered back into the enormous garage by Roman Vine, Bix’s strong-arm man. Manning noted that today Vine was carrying an illegal sawed-off shotgun, and he wasn’t shy about flashing it.

  Curtis was about to report in when he observed a Saturn minivan roll up to the garage door. Roman Vine spied the car and waved it forward. Curtis quickly counted four men inside the car before they drove into the garage. He didn’t get a good look at the faces, though he did notice that one man wore reflecting sunglasses. Curtis noticed this because the man stared directly at the abandoned Tool and Die factory as if he were looking right at Curtis.

  Dutifully, Curtis snapped a digital image of the men with his PDA, then forwarded it to Morris O’Brian at the Cha-Cha Lounge. While he performed that task, another SUV — this one a Chrysler — pulled onto the Bix lot. Curtis had no time to snap digital pictures of the men inside that vehicle. They all appeared to be Hispanic males in their late twenties or early thirties. Curtis counted six men in the car.

  Curtis had just pulled the cell phone out of his pocket when his PDA sounded. He checked the display and discovered his data drop to Morris had not gone through.

  Suddenly alarmed, Curtis then checked his cell phone and found he could not get a signal, no matter how hard he tried. That should have been impossible, because he’d used the cell phone when he last checked in with Morris, less than thirty minutes before.

  Someone was jamming the signals in the area, which meant that Bix or his men probably suspected someone was in the vicinity, spying on them. Curtis tucked the devices into his pocket, then reached for his jacket. It was time to go.

  6:55:57 P.M. PDT Bix Automotive Center Browne End Road, Las Vegas

  Carlos Boca looked up from the liquid crystal display screen. “You were correct, Pizarro. There was someone in that building across the street. I believe they are still there.”

  Pizarro stood in the middle of the crowded garage. Hugo Bix had come down from his tattered office to greet the Colombian brothers and their Cuban allies, only to be silenced by an angry Pizarro Rojas. Chewing his lip, Pizarro waited for the results of Boca’s transmission scan.

  “You’re certain there is a watcher?” Balboa asked, glancing at his brother, then at the Cubans.

  “You’re the jamming expert, Balboa. What do you think?” Carlos stared at the Rojas brother. Balboa nodded.

  “Whoever’s spying, they have attempted to send a data transmission, either from a PDA or a laptop computer. Then, just now, the observer also tried to make a phone call. I blocked both signals with the jamming system,” Carlos explained.

  Pizarro Rojas faced Hugo Bix. The American cowboy was over a head taller than the squat, wide Colombian. “Have your men checked that abandoned building across the street?” Pizarro demanded.

  Bix pursed his lips and scratched his stubbled chin under the handlebar moustache. Then he glanced at his partner. “I reckon Roman here will know,” Bix replied.

  “No one’s been in there, man. What’s the point. Not even bums will sleep there ’cause the building’s full of rattlers,” Roman told the Colombian.

  Pizarro frowned. “There are more than snakes around. My man says you are being watched, which means that someone is inside that building across the street.”

  “If that’s true, then Roman here can deal with the situation,” Bix replied smoothly.

  Roman nervously wiped his upper lips. He hated snakes.

  Carlos Boca set the black box on the hood of a car. “My brother and I will take care of this.”

  “No,” Pizarro Rojas countered. “I need you both here, to examine the quality of the American’s work. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

  Carlos nodded, gestured to three men from the other SUV. He gave them terse instructions in Spanish, and the men retrieved AK–47s from their vehicle. Then they headed for the back door of the garage.

  “What if the intruder gets away?” Bix asked. “Out of range of that do-hickey of yours?”

  Carlos watched as the trio slipped outside, then split up. “Don’t worry. He won’t,” Boca vowed.

  Inside the garage, Pizarro Rojas peered at the sprinters lined up in a neat row. “The trucks are prepared, I see.”

  “Six of them, just like you ordered,” Bix replied. “They’ve all been stolen hundreds of miles from here, and we’ve supplied phony license plates and electronic key cards with the proper vendor codes. Each of these trucks has been customized to breeze right through the Babylon’s security without arousing suspicion.

  “Behind the wheels of these babies—” Bix thumped the hood with the flat of his callused hand, “—you and your boys can roll right into the underground delivery area and park where you want.”

  Bix’s homespun smile broadened. “Best of all. every one of those damn trucks is loaded for bear.”

  6:59:55 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas

  The bell rang and the doors opened. Lilly Sheridan’s daughter Pamela looked up, blinking with astonishment at the man stepping into the elevator.

  The new passenger was perhaps the largest man Lilly had ever seen. Not only tall — this man’s shoulders were as wide as the refrigerator back at her crummy rent-a-house. He wore a tailored s
uit that Lilly just knew cost more than she earned in a month, even counting her tips.

  He must be a pro-basketball star, she concluded. Or maybe a football player. But a closer inspection changed her mind. He’s too old to be a pro anything.

  The man’s face was a mask of concentration. Brows furrowed, he rubbed his chin. Suddenly, he seemed to realize she was there. The man’s face relaxed, his brown eyes met hers.

  “Hi,” Lilly said shyly.

  “Hello.”

  The man’s voice was deep, almost a rumble. He noticed Pamela then, and his smile became dazzling. “Do you like the ride?” he asked.

  Pamela nodded. “Makes me queasy, though.”

  He nodded. “Me too.”

  The elevator slowed. “Have a good evening,” the man said. “Enjoy your stay at the Babylon,” Lilly replied. He turned and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and the doors closed again.

  “Mom, who was that man?”

  “I don’t know,” Lilly replied, distracted. She was worried the banquet manager would be waiting at the entrance to the ball room. Evelyn did that sometimes, to make sure everyone had dressed properly. She didn’t want the woman to see Pamela. Too much to explain, and Evelyn would figure out her scam.

  “No babysitter, no job,” she’d say, sending Lilly home rather than letting her stash her daughter in the dressing room for a couple of hours, where the child wouldn’t do any harm.

  The bell rang again and the doors opened. The ballroom doors were open wide, but there was no sign of Evelyn or her assistant Janet.

  “Hurry, let’s go,” Lilly hissed, pushing her daughter toward the glittering banquet room.

  8. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  7:02:11 P.M. PDT Tunney and Sons Quality Tool and Die Browne End Road, Las Vegas