The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  Mouse brightened, vindicated.

  “I do this under protest.”

  “Noted.”

  Mouse checked the screen, satisfying himself they now had a secure connection to London. “What’s the Professor’s number?”

  “I’ll dial. I can’t give you the number.”

  “We aren’t going to be making crank calls to Knightly in the middle of the night,” Mitch said.

  “If one of you is captured, they’ll get the number from you. I can’t take that risk.”

  “And if they capture you, they will get it from you,” Gunter noted dryly.

  “No, they never could,” she replied with a certainty that struck Mitch as strange. “In any event, one security risk is better than four. The number stays secret.”

  Mitch hesitated, then nodded for Mouse to move aside. Christa typed the numbers into the keypad, shielding it with her body, then stepped back as the London relay began dialing.

  Mouse took his seat, pointing to the microphone beside his computer. “Talk in there. You’ll hear him through the speakers.”

  After a few rings, Knightly answered, “Hello?”

  Christa picked up the microphone. “It’s me. They believe this call is untraceable, although I have my doubts.”

  “I’m sure whatever method they’re using is unorthodox,” Knightly’s voice sounded over the speaker. “Remember Christa, the unorthodox will be unexpected by our enemies.”

  Christa ignored the smile that appeared on Mitch’s lips.

  “Did everyone make it?” she asked.

  “Yes. We’re not as comfortable as we were, but we’re secure. Our neighbors saw some visitors go to the house after we moved, but there was nothing left after the fire. How are you finding your new home?”

  “We’re not sure how to find my uncle,” she said, using the code word they had previously agreed upon for Dr Steinus.

  “You might try Cedar Sinai, he had a heart bypass operation there about three or four years ago. I’m not sure where the rest of the family is, but we’ll try to find out.”

  “Is there any confirmation on the deputy director?”

  Mitch thought he detected a fragile edge to her voice, but her face was impassive.

  “No, nothing definite.”

  “They may have tortured him before he died,” Gunter suggested dryly, his voice too low for the microphone to pick up.

  “Torture?” Mouse repeated anxiously. “No one said anything about torture!”

  Knightly continued, “Several of our cells have not reported in. It looks bad.”

  “Cells?” Mitch asked in a low voice.

  Christa whispered away from the microphone. “Covert teams. If they haven’t reported in, they’re . . . gone.” She turned back to the mike. “Are you able to conduct any operations?”

  “No, we’re locking down. You're our only field operation. We can’t risk anyone else.”

  “Nice to know he can risk us!” Mouse murmured.

  “I’ll call again when I have something to report,” Christa said, then nodded to Mouse.

  Mouse instructed the London relay computer to hang up the second line and run a quick check. “Clean as a whistle. No traces.”

  “You mean, no trace you detected,” Christa corrected.

  Mouse gave her a dark look, then terminated the connection to London.

  “Was that Cedar Sinai thing straight, or code?” Mitch asked.

  “Straight,” she said. “We have no code words for something like that.”

  “If someone was listening at the other end,” Mitch said, “They may try to beat us to the hospital’s medical records and destroy them.”

  “I’m on it.” Mouse said, already searching for Cedar Sinai’s phone numbers.

  “If the call was recorded, it will take time to break the encryption,” Christa said.

  “What was that thing about visitors to the old house?” Mitch asked.

  “Our neighbors is code for our satellite.”

  “You have your own satellite?” Mitch asked.

  “We share several. Gus must have had a reliable source put a satellite on the facility to see who turned up. Obviously someone did.”

  “Glad we missed them then,” Mouse shuddered, thinking of Gunter’s torture comment. “Sounds like these guys play rough.”

  “I play rough too,” Mitch patted the gun in his shoulder holster.

  “He’s not kidding,” Mouse said. “You should see him play checkers.”

  “I prefer chess,” Christa replied.

  “You would.” Mitch chided. “You carrying?”

  “No.”

  “Come with me.”

  Mitch led her back through the house to a narrow staircase down to his basement. It was a long narrow room running the length of the beach house, with sound insulation enclosing the room on all sides. On one wall was a large metal cabinet with locked double doors. He unlocked the cabinet, pulling the doors wide open to reveal an assortment of hand guns, rifles and automatic weapons. “Take your pick.”

  Christa’s eyes wandered across the selection of weapons in Mitch’s private arsenal. “You must be a card carrying member of the NRA?”

  “Nope, just careful. I don’t have anything for ladies. I prefer the heavy stuff myself.”

  “I’d rather a change of clothes, than a gun.”

  Mitch ignored her, selecting a weapon, feeling the weight. “This Beretta 21 is about the smallest I’ve got. Nice and light, twenty two cal, seven round mag. Safety here, bullets go in there, out there. The trigger I’m sure you know. Even an over educated Princess like you should be able to squeeze off a few rounds in a pinch.”

  He loaded the weapon, stepped away from the gun case, then turned to face down the length of the basement. At the far end of the room were three targets, one of a man and two circular target screens.

  “Hold it like this, for stability, squeeze gently.” He held the weapon two handed and fired off several rounds at the man-like target, scoring hits on the torso. “See, nothing to it. Going for center mass is your best bet. Now you try it.”

  He handed her the weapon. “Hold it up like this, you say?” She asked innocently, balanced it, then mimicking his two handed firing position.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Now inhale, let a little air out, relax and squeeze the trigger.”

  “Gee, so much to remember,” she said, feigning light headedness, as she sighted and fired four shots with lightning speed.

  Mitch studied the target with growing realization. Four bullet holes almost overlapped the target silhouette in the center of the forehead. He nodded wryly. “Ten years of target practice I suppose?”

  She allowed herself a slight smile. “Something like that.”

  “I guess they didn’t teach you, a head shot is a low percentage target. Too easy to miss.”

  “Not for me,” she said simply. She weighed the tiny Beretta in her hand. “This popgun wouldn’t stop a rabbit.” She returned the gun to the cabinet, then ran a professional eye over Mitch’s armory. “This’ll do.” She selected a larger pistol, and examined it.

  Mitch nodded approvingly. “Colt Combat Elite, bit on the heavy side for a lady...”

  Christa cast an amused look at Mitch.

  “... but I’m not going to argue with you.”

  She loaded the bullets into the magazine and returned to the firing position, this time taking aim on the right side circular target. She fired off the seven shot magazine rapidly, drilling the central dot with every shot. “It pulls to the left just a smidge, but it’ll do.” She turned and offered the gun to him. “Wrap it. And I’ll have a box of those little metal things. What are they called? Bullets?”

  “Okay Annie Oakley, I get the picture.” He said, passing her an ammunition box.

  She took the box, looking dubiously at the gun. “You know, this isn’t going to help.”

  “Maybe not, but if we go down, I want to take a few of them with us.” Mitch said, locking the c
abinet.

  She thought about the members of her organization already lost, especially the Deputy Director. “That’s the first thing we agree on.” She pocketed the gun, then slipped out of the room.

  Mitch stepped back up to the firing mark and studied the targets again, showing the results of her precision shooting.

  She’s a spoilt pain in the ass, but she shoots like the devil!

  * * * *

  “Nothing useful in the hospital records themselves,” Mouse said from in front of his computer to Mitch and Christa. “However, Steinus was brought in by ambulance, so I cross checked the logs and found where it picked him up. It’s a private research organization called the Newton Institute. I tried getting some background information on what they do, so I ran a search on every article published in a dozen scientific journals for the last ten years, and surprise surprise, zippo. Either they’re lousy scientists and haven’t made a single discovery of any kind in ten years–”

  “Or they’re keeping their discoveries to themselves,” Mitch concluded

  “When I cross referenced Newton Institute with the Defense IT contractors, I found the Institute purchased a high end computer aided design system about eighteen months ago. The IT company allocated the Newton Institute payment to something called the Siren Project, which was grouped with a bunch of other Defense projects with equally obscure names. I guess they like keeping Uncle Sam’s dollars in the same basket.”

  “Okay, so he’s working for the military,” Mitch said.

  “I’m thinking Siren, like air raid siren,” Mouse said. “That could mean they’re building a radical new bomb, maybe a gamma ray bomb. The military’s been working on that sucker for years, it’s a planet killer.”

  Gunter looked skeptical. “Siren could mean anything, from an early warning system to a sonic weapon. Or it could mean nothing.”

  Christa shook her head slowly, deep in thought. “It’s none of those things,” she said soberly. “It refers to the sirens of the sea, beautiful mermaids whose song entranced sailors, luring their ships onto rocks, so all aboard perished.”

  “I thought you didn’t know the name of the project Steinus was working on,” Mitch said.

  “I didn’t, but the analogy is perfect.”

  “What analogy? Sirens of the sea, and what? A new naval weapon?”

  “It’s not a naval weapon,” she replied, “But the reference to the sirens of the sea is appropriate. That’s all I can say.”

  Mitch made no effort to hide his irritation. “Mouse, find out what you can about Siren and any links to Steinus. While you’re doing that, we’ll take a look at this Newton Institute.”

  Mouse tore a sheet of paper off his note pad and handed it Mitch. “I thought you might. That’s the address, it’s north of LA.”

  Mitch turned to Gunter. “Get your stuff, and some fake plates for the van. I don’t want this coming back at us. Christa, you stay here with Mouse -”

  “No, I’m coming on all field trips. That’s why I’m here.”

  Mitch looked bemused. “And what exactly do you plan on doing?”

  “Protect you from the Sirens,” she replied in a tone that indicated she meant it.

  * * * *

  Mitch parked the minivan on the ridge overlooking the Newton Institute, where they had an unobstructed view of the complex. The Institute comprised a two story, glass walled building surrounded by neatly maintained lawns and a chain link security fence. Six smaller windowless outbuildings stood in a row some distance behind the main building, with six narrow concrete paths leading out to them. A small gate house, manned by a single guard, stood at the front gate while a bitumen road led up to a narrow car park which stretched the length of the building. The road forked just before the car park, the offshoot winding around to a small receiving dock at the rear of the main building.

  It was mid afternoon, and except for the security guard at the gate, there was no one in sight.

  “Seems quiet enough,” Mitch observed, as he studied the complex through binoculars.

  Gunter sat in the rear of the van wearing headphones. He slid the van’s darkened side window partially open and aimed a cylindrical listening device at the building. The listening device was supported by a small tripod, with a telescopic sight mounted on top for precise aiming.

  “I have the distance now,” he said, tuning the sensor’s controls and starting the digital recorder. “Tuning the top floor, first window.” He scowled. “Noisy up there.”

  Christa leaned forward to ask a question, but Mitch motioned her to silence with a finger to his lips.

  Gunter slowly turned the little wheels on the tripod head, making minute changes in the listening device’s direction. After a few minutes, he shook his head, disappointed. “Noise makers on every window. They are not amateurs.”

  “Can we listen too?” Christa asked.

  Without a word, Gunter threw a switch on the control panel to his left that filled the van with a repetitive low intensity buzzing.

  Mitch set down the binoculars, picked up the camera and zoomed the telephoto lens, photographing the Institute and its outbuildings. Through the lens, he saw two men walk out of the double glass doors of the main entrance.

  “Two guys coming out,” Mitch announced, snapping their faces. “Pick them up.”

  Gunter spun the wheels expertly, the buzzing disappearing to be replaced by the voices of the two men. Their voices were distant, faint, rising and falling in volume as they moved in and out of the sensor’s narrow target area.

  “ . . . it was her birthday, for God’s sake.”

  “Did . . . tell them that?”

  “Nah, you know what they’re like down there. They wanted me to fix . . . damned thing by Friday. Man, she was pissed.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “The usual cover story, that . . . to Chicago for a sale. Then she wanted to come with me, so we could do something in Chicago after my business was finished. She was real suspicious . . . her I wouldn’t have time.”

  “She probably thinks you’ve got a girlfriend in Chicago.”

  “If she only knew how much I hate the desert. Arizona sucks this . . .”

  There were metallic creaks of the car doors opening, and bangs as they were closed, then the engine roared to life, drowning out the men's voices.

  “Okay,” Mitch said, “There’s something in Arizona.”

  As the two men drove off, Gunter angled the listening device back to the building, systematically moving from window to window. “Something here . . . talking . . .”

  Mitch listened to the hiss of noisemakers, but couldn’t detect any hint of a human voice.

  “Nothing I can do with this sound,” Gunter replied, meaning his computer would not be able to pick out the voices above the background noise. “Checking the ground floor now.”

  The low frequency buzz filling the van was replaced by an explosion of high pitched static.

  “Ahh!” Gunter tore the headphones off his head and winced, holding both ears and swearing profusely in German. He turned the speaker volume down to bearable levels, and when his ears had recovered from the deafening blast of noise, he studied the sound.

  “Doesn’t sound like noise makers,” Mitch said.

  “Ya, not noise maker.” Gunter agreed. “Electrostatic. I do not know this sound.”

  Christa looked thoughtful. “That could be the . . . device, being tested.”

  “Device?” Mitch looked at her curiously. “What device? I thought we were looking for Steinus.”

  Christa remained silent.

  Gunter’s expression changed to surprise. “Did you hear that?” He strained for the sound he had caught for an instant, a sound that had quickly vanished beneath the electrostatic hiss.

  Mitch and Christa looked blank, having missed what Gunter’s trained ears had detected.

  “It sounded like . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly. “I will wash it through the computer when we return
to the beach house. It may be nothing.”

  In the distance, Mitch noticed a helicopter coming in to land at the Institute. “Incoming chopper.”

  The helicopter landed on the front lawn, then two men jumped out. Mitch clicked off a dozen shots of them as they walked toward the building. One was in his early thirties, well over six feet with broad shoulders and brown hair. He wore a shirt and trousers, but no tie or jacket. The other man was only a little shorter, close to forty with black hair and a sharp looking dark suit and tie.

  Gunter focused the listening device on the men, but detected no sounds. “They do not speak in the open, where they can be overheard.”

  When the two men neared the front entrance, the well dressed man in the dark suit stopped and took a long look around the grounds, his eye passing into the distance with professional care.

  Mitch put his camera down and leaned back away from the window. “Watch it.”

  Gunter pulled the tip of the listening device back through the window into the shadowy interior of the van.

  “He can’t see you from there,” Christa scoffed.

  “If I were him,” Mitch replied uneasily, “I’d notice this van parked on the ridge for no reason.”

  The two men hesitated at the entrance, the well dressed man’s gaze fixed in their direction, then they went inside. “That son of bitch made us.”

  “We don’t know that,” Christa said.

  “I do,” Mitch said firmly. “Time to get out of here.”

  Mitch started the engine and drove slowly off until they were over the ridge. Once out of sight, he picked up speed, putting distance between them and the Newton Institute. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the way the well dressed man had studied the approaches to the Institute had unnerved him. It was something he would have done in his Secret Service days.

  He’s a pro.

  * * * *

  Gunter had taken over one end of Mitch’s lounge room, setting up on a polished mahogany desk. He sat alone, in front of several decks of sound equipment and a computer, listening through his headphones to every sound on the digital recording of the Newton Institute. He adjusted one filter after another, washing away background noises and hissing static. Occasionally he detected muted voices, tantalizingly present, but always unintelligible beneath the buzzing from the window mounted noise makers.