The Siren Project

by Renneberg, Stephen

  “Pain! . . . so much . . .” Prescott screamed as the memory of the pain flooded back.

  “Heart rate up thirty five percent!” the doctor called as the monitor spiked.

  The interrogator leaned closer to Prescott. “What caused the pain?”

  “The pictures . . . thousands . . . flashing . . . fast . . . “

  The doctor turned toward the observation window. “Images could be used to generate responses within the brain. That would permit brain function mapping. They'd have to map the brain before they could apply the Electro Neural Pulses to condition the brain’s electrical pathways.”

  The interrogator continued. “What happened after the flashing images?”

  “Telephone . . . Mitch . . .”

  “The next thing you remember is being back in your apartment, answering the telephone?”

  “Don’t know . . . headache . . . dizzy.”

  “Do you remember anything else about the place where they did this to you?”

  “. . . freezing . . . “

  Knightly turned to the Vice President. “The particle accelerator would generate a lot of heat. They must have to work in a low temperature environment to prevent it overheating.”

  “Why did you want to kill John Mitchell?” the interrogator asked.

  “No . . . Mitch . . . friend.”

  “Why did you try to shoot him?”

  Prescott’s head rocked sideways again distressed. “Pain stops . . . when . . . Mitch . . . dead . . . shoot pain . . . not Mitch . . .” Tears formed in his eyes as he became increasingly distressed.

  Mitch tensed, his anger rising.”That’s enough!”

  “He’s going into cardiac arrest!” an attendant yelled.

  The doctor pulled open Prescott’s shirt and listened to his heart with a stethoscope. “The drug is stopping his heart!”

  One of the attendants wheeled a machine close to the bed. The doctor grabbed the white handles of the electrodes, and yelled, “Charge!” A buzzing filled the room as the defibrillator built up a charge. “Clear!” The doctor said, then slammed the two electrodes onto Prescott’s chest. For a moment, his back arched, then fell back, lifeless.

  “Again!” the doctor yelled, and the buzzing filled the room a second time. “Clear!” And he sent another bolt of electricity into Prescott’s heart. The second doctor listened to his heart as the machines displaying his vital signs flat lined.

  “We’re losing him!” one of the attendants called.

  “Again!” the doctor called, then slammed the electrodes on Prescott’s chest for a third time, but all the monitors droned a single tone. The doctor studied the readouts, then shook his head. “He's had enough juice to put an elephant to sleep.”

  Mitch turned angrily on Knightly. “I hope that was worth a good man’s life.”

  “It was the first time we’ve got a report on the conditioning process,” Knightly said, as he stared impassively at the lifeless form in the surgery. “I'm sorry about your friend.” He turned away and approached the Vice President’s group, where he entered into a whispered discussion.

  Mitch watched as they pulled the sheet over his friend’s head, and wheeled him out. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. If I’d have known Knightly was going to kill him, I’d never have handed him over.”

  Christa struggled to find words. She went to put her hand on Mitch’s shoulder, but stopped at the last moment, uncertainly.

  Behind them, the Vice President and his entourage departed, then Knightly rejoined them, his hands plunged into his coat pockets and a look of apprehension on his face. “I know this will sound trite, Mitchell, but Prescott was a casualty of war. A very insidious war.”

  “I don’t know who’s worse, the brain melting spooks, or you.”

  “In all likelihood, Mitchell, we couldn't have done anything for him. If he'd escaped, he'd have come looking for you again, to kill you. Just because we had him sedated, doesn’t mean his conditioning was broken. It wasn’t.”

  Mitch bristled. “So he was expendable?”

  “His sacrifice didn't go unnoticed. The Vice President now believes something is going on, although I think he’s doubtful about Christa’s abilities. In any event, he'll work with us.”

  “And the President?” Christa asked.

  “The Vice President will refrain from discussing the situation with the President, until you can clear him, although he’s adamant, nothing like this could happen to the President. He's too well guarded, and his schedule is too tight for anyone to abduct and condition him in secret. I’m inclined to agree. Considering how unreliable this process is, a failure against the President would be a very public failure. They’re not ready to deal with that yet.”

  “Do we continue to search for Dr Steinus?” Christa asked.

  Knightly nodded. “We need Steinus to unravel the technology for us, but stay in contact with this mole. If he can tell us who in the government is under their control, and where the key facilities are, then we can deal with the problem in a more direct way. Until then, we’ll keep a close eye on Senator Fraser, find out who he talks to. The problem is our people have a disturbing habit of disappearing, or changing sides.” He reached into his pocket and handed Christa a small card. “With Echelon on our backs, let’s stay off the satellites. Snail mail me letters to this post box. I’ll make sure we check it daily. You set up a safe box I can send mail to you, too. It’s primitive and slow, but under the circumstances, it’s the safest method.”

  Mitch glanced from Christa to Knightly surprised. “Aren’t you keeping Christa with you? You need her to give the President the once over, and she’s susceptible to this technology.”

  Christa opened her mouth to protest, but Knightly spoke first. “It will be some time before we can get Christa close to the President, and he’s too big a target for them to try for at this stage anyway. You’re still the main focus, so Christa will go with you.”

  “It’s too dangerous, especially with that bomb in her head.”

  Knightly looked surprised. “She told you about the implant?” He glanced curiously at Christa. “No matter, you need her to warn you of ENP conditioned agents.” Mitch began to protest, but Knightly was insistent. “I appreciate your concerns, Mitchell, but this is not negotiable. She goes with you.” He nodded farewell, then hurried from the room.

  When Mitch and Christa were alone in the observation room, he said, “This is nuts. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Maybe some of your recklessness is rubbing off on me,” she replied with a smile. “So, how do you plan on getting us back to the West Coast?”

  Chapter 9

  Christa watched the waves crash onto the beach from the Santa Monica pier while Mitch paced nearby. They'd been waiting only a short time, but were already growing apprehensive. The moment of rendezvous was always going to be the most dangerous time. Mitch had purchased their plane tickets to LA with cash and their false identities to avoid being traced. Once they arrived in LA, they took a cab to the pier. On the way, he'd called Mouse via the London relay, albeit without a scrambler, and spoke only one sentence.

  “I’ll be at the fishing spot in thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll bring the bait,” Mouse said, confirming he understood.

  Let their super computers decode that! Mitch thought as he stood on the Santa Monica pier, where once a month they fished for sand bass. He watched the approaches to the pier suspiciously while Christa leaned against the railing.

  “It’s pretty here. My mother used to take me to the beach when I was a little girl. We made sand castles.”

  Mitch tensed imperceptibly as two men jogged past the pier, relaxing only after they had passed. “Are you close to your mother?”

  “We were ... yes, very close,” she replied with profound sadness in her voice. “She taught me so much. She was a very unique woman.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Christa looked away, hiding her face. “I’d r
ather not talk about it.”

  Mitch let it go, as he resumed watching the approaches to the pier. He noticed a man wave to them from the road. Mitch slipped his hand under Christa’s arm. “There’s Mouse.”

  They hurried up the beach, then after a quick greeting, Mouse led them to a mobile home parked on the side of the road. Its motor was running, while Gunter waited patiently behind the wheel.

  “Traveling in style, I see,” Mitch observed.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Mouse said with a sly grin, “Because you own it! We used one of your offshore accounts to wire the money to the company we bought it from.”

  Mitch looked around, feigning disapproval. “Couldn’t you have picked a better color?”

  Mouse chuckled as they climbed aboard. “Okay G, let’s roll!”

  Before they had settled into their seats, Gunter had the lumbering mobile home moving forward onto the road.

  Mouse dropped into a chair and waved broadly at the well appointed vehicle. “It guzzles gas like a tank and handles like a pig, but we call it home! All we need is warp drive, and we could go where no industrial spies have gone before!”

  Mitch looked up and down the vehicle, noting the cables that ran the length of the floor networking a chain of computers and electronic devices together and turning the Winnebago into an electronic nerve center. “Looks like you’ve replaced the stuff you lost when they stripped our houses.”

  “Better than before! Everything’s next generation, state of the art.” Mouse smiled proudly. “I paid for it, all mine.”

  “Good, because it’s time we picked some pockets.”

  * * * *

  Mouse parked the minivan below the crest of the ridge overlooking the Newton Institute, shortly before midnight. They had left the Winnebago in a trailer park, and switched to Mouse’s van, now equipped with a new set of number plates. With no houses or street lighting on the arid ridge, the van was lost in darkness to any observer in the valley below. Gunter climbed out first carrying the remote control, followed by Mitch with the drone and Christa with the crawler.

  Mitch set the drone down, then used his binoculars to study the well lit Newton Institute below. “The lights are directed from the main building, covering the approaches. No easy way in. The roof’s dark, except for a light over the fire stairs.” He swept the binoculars across the roof slowly, taking in every detail. “There's bound to be a camera covering the fire escape, but I can’t see it.”

  “I say we put the scope on the south west corner,” Mouse said, as he used his binoculars to conduct his own survey of the roof. “That’ll give us coverage of the main entrance and the southern access road to the rear. The crawler can look for cameras and tap one of the feeds.”

  “Agreed.”

  Gunter slid the strap attached to the remote control over his head, balancing the device on his chest, freeing both hands to operate the controls. “Mouse, you launch.”

  Mitch took the crawler from Christa and slid it into the drone's payload container. The drone was a miniature helicopter mounted above a metallic box equipped with a remotely controlled door panel that dropped down to form a ramp. When the crawler was snugly inside, Mitch locked the door panel shut.

  Mouse lifted the drone above his head. “Ready.”

  Gunter started the whisper quiet engine with the remote control, then the drone lurched into the night sky with only the beat of its rotors marking its movement. Gunter turned it immediately toward the Newton Institute, conscious of the fact the electric engine could keep the drone airborne for only thirty minutes. A miniature TV screen was mounted in the center of his remote, giving him a live feed from the miniature video camera mounted on the drone. While he controlled it with a small joystick, the drone had limited self guidance, only enough to keep it stable while in flight.

  Christa watched the toy helicopter disappear into the night sky, with a wry smile. “I’m sure the CIA would love to know how you stole one of their UAVs.”

  “How did we get it?” Mitch asked with a puzzled look.

  “Mail order,” Mouse replied with a grin.

  Gunter kept the unmanned aerial vehicle high in the darkness as it passed over the Institute's lights. When it was above the main building, he let it descend vertically onto the south west corner, until the payload container touched down.

  “Contact,” Gunter announced.

  Mouse hurried back to his computer in the rear of the van. It was connected to a small transceiver, which he used to send a signal that popped the container’s metal door, forming a ramp down onto the Institute’s roof. The crawler’s video camera came to life, which the computer displayed in a small window surrounded by digital controls. He activated the crawler’s tiny electric motor, which turned the vehicle’s eight wheels as one, and sent the diminutive machine rolling down the payload container’s metal ramp.

  When the crawler stood safely on the roof, he called to Gunter, “Payload's clear.”

  “Dusting off,” Gunter said, sending the drone and the empty container high into the darkness before summoning it back.

  “Thunderbirds are go,” Mouse grinned, remembering a TV show he used to watch as a kid.

  “Lay the scope in first,” Mitch said.

  Mouse maneuvered the crawler around to the south west wall. “F.A.B. Virgil.”

  Christa gave Mitch a curious look. “Who’s Virgil?”

  “It’s a cult thing,” Mitch said.

  When the crawler was properly oriented, Mouse directed its telescoping arm to attach a small clamp to the top of the wall. Mounted inside the clamp was a miniature video transmitter assembly, which now looked over the outside of the building toward the main entrance. He checked the reception from the spy camera, before instructing the crawler to release the clamp and retract the arm.

  “We got pictures,” he informed them as he rotated the crawler to get a complete view of the roof.

  Mounted on the fire stair’s concrete entrance was a small camera, high up and angled down toward the door. Mouse sent the crawler sneaking on a wide arc around behind the security camera, studying its installation.

  “The security camera cable is ducted. It enters the building where the camera is mounted. It's too high for the crawler to reach.”

  Mitch climbed into the rear of the van, to see the screen. “What else have we got up there?”

  Mouse moved the crawler past the fire escape entrance, behind the security camera to where it had a clear view of the rest of the roof, and several wide metal tubes emitting vapor streams.

  “Are they air conditioning vents?” Mitch asked

  Mouse zoomed and panned the crawler’s camera. “Looks like it.”

  “Can you climb them, with the arm?”

  Mouse grimaced. “Tricky.” He steered the crawler to the first vent, a snorkel shaped structure several feet high, then extended the crawler’s arm until it could clamp onto the lip of the vent. “I think we’re about to exceed the design parameters on the arm. This could snap it off.”

  “We have to risk it,” Mitch said. “We’ve got to tap their security system.”

  Mouse ordered the arm to retract. The image on the computer screen wobbled as the arm lifted the crawler off the ground and performed a slow motion back flip that landed the crawler inside the curve of the vent’s snorkel with a shudder. He angled the camera down into the dark vent tunnel, revealing layers of flickering light where air conditioning outlets let in light from each floor of the building below.

  “That's a long way down,” Mouse said.

  “Would it survive a jump?”

  “The optics wouldn’t, and I’d lose remote control.”

  They heard the drone land outside the van, then a moment later Gunter and Christa climbed into the minivan and locked the doors.

  “There’s a lot of moisture inside that vent,” Mitch said without looking up. “The rubber wheels may get traction if they can get enough pressure. How about using the arm to push against one side of the
vent, and let the crawler walk down?”

  “Let’s hope the CIA’s subcontractor makes strong arms.” Mouse retracted the arm, then swiveled and extended it until it was pressing firmly against the upper curve of the vent. He experimented with creeping the crawler fractionally forward but it failed to move off the bend in the inverted snorkel, so he tweaked the pressure of the arm. “It’s either going to walk down the vent, or fall to a painful and noisy death.”

  “Do it.”

  Mouse sent the crawler inching into the vertical shaft, while the arm pressed against the opposite wall, forcing the rubber wheels against the vent walls for traction. When the crawler was three quarters of the way over, it began to slide slowly down. “I’ve lost traction! The vent walls are too slippery.”

  They watched the screen as the crawler slid slowly down the shaft toward light emitted from a lateral vent.

  Mitch realized why the light appeared to be flickering. “Exhaust fans! Those vents are pumping heat out of the building.”

  “Increase the tension on the arm,” Gunter suggested.

  Mouse transmitted the instruction as the crawler reached the horizontal vent. Its wheels slid off the shaft wall and the arm expanded like a compressed spring, pushing the crawler into the lateral vent. The little machine skidded a few feet before landing upside down. The video picture distorted and hissed, threatening to vanish, then came back with periodic flickers of static. “I don’t think the transmitter liked that tumble.”

  “You must deliver my package before you lose control,” Gunter said.

  “I know, I know, but I wasn’t planning on this thing skating down an air shaft.” Mouse used the arm to right the crawler, then rotated the camera to observe the shiny metal sides of the tunnel. “It's just a ventilation shaft. No conduits in sight.”

  The crawler moved to the nearest grill, and looked through the slats. Below, was a large room, crowned with orange ventilation pipes that carried hot air away, while other pipes at floor level pumped in cool air. In the center of the room were four large machines, each similar to the other, except that each version was progressively smaller than its neighbor. Heavy power cables supported by huge glass insulators ran into each machine. Extending from each was a long chamber that ended in successively narrower tubes made from highly reflective glass. Beyond the long chambers were enormous stone blocks facing the complex glass structures, each block twice the height of a man and several times as thick. The surface of each block facing the machines was charred black, and deeply cratered.