It cost me a lot to keep it off my face.
Chap. 3
Twenty minutes later I was in a Black Hawk helicopter, heading away from Baltimore’s sunny skies toward the coastline of southern New Jersey.
The rest of my team—all of the two-legged variety—were scattered around the country looking at potential recruits. We’d lost some players recently, and we had the budget and the presidential authority to hire, coax, or shanghai top shooters from law enforcement, FBI hostage rescue, and all branches of Special Ops. For guys like us it was like being turned loose in a candy store with a credit card.
We flew through sunlight beneath a flawless blue sky.
When the Koenig Group had gone private a few years ago, they moved out of a lab building on the grounds of the Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, an air force base sixteen miles southeast of Trenton, and purchased several connected buildings once occupied by a marine conservation group that had lost its funding. I pulled up the schematics of the place on my tactical computer. The place looked like it had been designed by whoever built the Addams Family mansion and the Bates Motel. The centerpiece was a faux Victorian pile that was all peaked roofs, balconies, widow’s walks, gray shingles, and turrets. Almost attractive but overall too austere and grim-looking. To make it worse, the conversion people had added wings and side buildings to the main structure, all connected by covered walkways that gave the whole place a haphazard, sprawling appearance. Unlovely, unkempt, and supposedly unoccupied. Seen from above via satellite, it looked like several octopi had collided and somehow melded, then were covered with shingles and paint. Charming in about the same way a canker sore is appealing.
The files on the research being conducted at the Koenig Group were sketchy. On the books, the teams were collating and evaluating data from several thousand smaller biological and genetic projects from around the world. Dead-end projects that had been canceled either because they were too expensive when measured against predicted benefits or because they’d hit dead ends. The Koenig teams had scored some hits by combining data from multiple stalled projects in order to create a new and more workable protocol, largely influenced by recent advances in science. A transgenics experiment that was infeasible twenty-five years ago might now be doable. The original hypotheses were often well in advance of the scientific capabilities of the day. The Koenig people sometimes had to sort through mountains of old floppy disks—back when they were actually floppy—or crates filled with digital cassette tapes, and even tons of paper to put a lot of this together. It was painstaking work that was often frustrating and futile…but which now and then yielded fruit.
Shame that those bozos didn’t share all of that fruit with the U.S. of A.
Dickheads.
The frustrating thing for us, though, was that we really didn’t know all they’d discovered. When the task force kicked the door in, they found a lot of melted junk and very little else. And the management team at Koenig apparently kept their employees compartmentalized so that few of them knew anything of substance. Probably because most of them would have made a call to Uncle Sam if they were in on it. Or they’d want the Koenig people to pad their paychecks. Either way, from what I read in the file, there were only three genuine villains, and they were under indictment and under surveillance.
So who was messing around inside the building? And what were they looking for?
Church didn’t think this was anything more than a look-see by someone who used to be a detective. He didn’t offer backup except for a Barrier agent who would liaise with me. Whatever that meant, given the circumstances. Maybe whenever she landed Stateside we’d compare notes over diner coffee and that would be that.
But as I looked at the satellite photo of the sprawling, ugly building I began to get a small itch between my shoulder blades. Not quite a premonition, but in that neck of the woods. What my grandmother used to call a “sumthin’,” as in “sumthin’ doesn’t feel right.” My gran was a spooky old broad. In my family no one laughed off or ignored her sumthin’s.
I gave myself a quick pat-down to make sure I’d brought the right toys to this playground. My Beretta 92F was snugged into its nylon shoulder rig; the rapid-release folding knife was clipped in place inside my right front pants pocket. There was a steel garrote threaded through my belt, and I had two extra magazines for the Beretta.
The sad part was that this was how I dressed all the time. I had this stuff on me when I went to Starbucks to read the Sunday papers. I would have had it on me at the ballpark watching the Orioles spoil the day for the Phillies. I would like to be normal. I’d like to have a normal life. But when I joined the DMS, I left normal somewhere behind in the dust.
The Black Hawk flew on through an untroubled sky.
Chap. 4
While I flew I read some reports from Dr. Hu. Even though he hadn’t yet gotten concrete information on the Changeling Project, MindReader had compiled bits of information that added up to a pretty disturbing picture of what they might be doing at Koenig.
Transformational genetics is a branch of science that scares the bejesus out of me. It has some benign and even beneficial uses, but the DMS doesn’t go after doctors trying to cure a genetic defect. No, the kind of scientist we tend to encounter is often best visited with a crowd of torch- and pitchfork-bearing villagers.
Here’s an example, and this is why palms were sweating as I read those reports. Hu found clear evidence of several covertly funded studies to create an “elastic and malleable genetic code.” One that was able to “withstand specific and repeatable mutagenic changes within desired target ranges consistent with military applications.” These programs have an end goal of “at-will theriomorphy.”
Yeah.
Short bus version of that—included courtesy of Dr. Hu, who has little faith in my ability to grasp basic concepts—is that the North Koreans and Chinese have been funneling money into research for practical science that would allow a soldier to change his physical structure at will and at need. To transform from human into something else.
Hu could only speculate on what that other shape might be. His speculations included an insectoid carapace, gills, resistance to radiation and pollutants, retractable feline claws, enhanced muscle and bone density, night vision. Stuff like that.
True super soldiers. But not entirely human super soldiers.
You see why I occasionally have to shoot people?
Before I joined the DMS this was science fiction stuff, comic book stuff. Now, it was nightmare stuff because the science was out there. All it required was enough funding, little or no oversight from either Congress or human rights organizations, and a flexible set of morals. Sad to say, all of that is possible.
We are living in a science fiction age. Or, maybe it’s a horror story.
Mad scientists like Frankenstein? That’s almost a joke. Frankenstein, at least, was trying to do some good for humanity. He was trying to conquer sickness and death.
Guys like the Koenig Group…well, what the hell do you even call men like that?
Chap. 5
I had the pilot do a slow circle of the Koenig place and then set me down in the parking lot. The building extended onto a wharf in the bay. There were slips for six small boats and one large one, but nothing was currently tied up. No cars in the parking lot, either. The left-hand neighbor was an industrial marina for craft that serviced the big dredging platform six miles off the coast which kept pumping sand back to shore to replace what Mother Nature and global warming were taking away. The right-hand side was protected marshland. A billboard proclaimed that an exotic animal park would be opening soon, but the paint was peeling and faded, and the board looked twenty years old. The only exotic animal I could see among the marsh grass was a Philadelphia pigeon looking confused and out of place.
There was a single car parked on the street, a dark blue Crown Victoria. It was unmarked but it was so obviously a Federal vehicle that it might have had FEDS stenciled on the doors. One of the
se days the government will grasp the concept that plainclothes and undercover should include a component of stealth. Just a tad would go a long way.
I jumped down from the open side door, bent low, and ran through the rotor wash as the Black Hawk lifted away. The pilot would take the bird to a helipad near the Cape May lighthouse and wait there. We have several Black Hawks at the Warehouse, and we used this one for jobs that required less of a shock-and-awe effect on the locals. It was painted a happy blue and had the logo of a news wire service on it. No visible guns or rockets. Not to say they weren’t there, but this was not a time to show off. We already had some rubberneckers slowing their cars down to look at the big blue machine.
I let the helo vanish into the distance and silence return before I approached the building. The ATF agents were standing beside their car, both of them in off-the-rack suits and wearing identical expressions of disapproval. They both began shaking their heads as I approached.
“You can’t be here,” said the taller of the two.
I held up my identification. The DMS doesn’t have badges or standard credentials. When we needed to flash something we picked whatever would get the job done. I had valid ID for CIA, ATF, DEA, FBI and every other letter combination. The one I showed them was NSA. It was as close to a trump card as you can get, and they were the only organization that didn’t have boots on the ground during the raid on the place. Church was working with the director to use them as referees for the jurisdictional dispute.
The ATF boys glanced at the badge and at my civilian clothes—jeans and an Orioles home-game shirt—and gave me looks that said they didn’t give a cold shit.
“Need to go inside,” I said.
“Show me some paper,” said the shorter of the two.
I dug into my back pocket and produced a letter Church had prepared for me. It was a presidential order allowing me access to assess the integrity of the scene. They read it carefully. Twice.
“You can’t take anything out,” said the tall one.
“Don’t want to,” I said.
“We’ll have to search you when you come out, you know.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Don’t fuck with anything in there.”
“I won’t.”
“We don’t want trouble,” said the short one.
“I’m on your side, guys.” I pasted on my most charming smile.
The short one gave me another up and down inspection. “NSA recruiting ball players now?”
“It was my day off,” I said, leaning on “off” enough to convey irritation. Not at them, but at the system. “I had tickets for the doubleheader.”
That did the trick; they relaxed and nodded.
“Sucks to be you,” said the tall one and gave me half a mean grin.
“We have the game on the car radio,” said the short one. He wore the other half of that same grin. “Phils are up by two in the second.”
“I’m from Baltimore.”
“Like I said, it sucks to be you,” said the tall one. Laughing, they turned and walked back to their vehicle.
“And a hearty fuck you, too,” I said under my breath as I headed to the building.
It was no less ugly from ground level and perhaps a little less appealing. It was bigger than I expected. Three stories in parts, with lots of shuttered windows and reinforced doors. A discreet sign on a pole read, THE KOENIG GROUP, with a phone number for information.
I removed a small earbud, put it on, and attached an adhesive mic that looked like a mole to the side of my mouth. Two taps of the earbud connected me to Bug, the computer über-geek who provided real-time intel for all fieldwork. Even though this was a low-profile job, DMS protocol required that I use my combat call sign.
“Cowboy’s online.”
“With you,” said Bug.
“What’ve you got?”
“We did a thermal scan on the place, but it’s cold. No one home.”
“That’s what I want to hear.”
I walked around the building. It really was a large mess. The additions and walkways looked almost like they’d grown organically, expanding out of need like a cramped animal. The paint jobs didn’t match section-to-section, and for a company with a lot of private funding the exterior of the joint was poorly maintained. Weeds, some graffiti, trash in the parking lot.
“Place is a dump,” I said.
“Better inside, from what I hear,” said Bug. “Some cool stuff.”
A red DO NOT ENTER sticker was pasted with precision to the center of the front door. I ignored it and used a preconfigured keycard to gain entry.
“Going in,” I said quietly.
“Copy that,” said Bug. “Watch your ass, Cowboy.”
“It’s on the agenda.”
The entrance lobby was small and unremarkable. A receptionist’s desk, some potted plants, and the kind of framed pictures you can buy at Kmart. Bland landscapes that probably weren’t even places in New Jersey. The lights were out, which was surprising since the key-reader was functional. The entrance hall was dark, and daylight didn’t try too hard to reach inside. When I tried the light switches all I got was a click. No lights.
I tapped my earbud. “Bug, I thought the power was still on.”
“It is.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Let me check.”
I removed a small flashlight from my pocket and squatted down to shine the light across the floor. The immediate entrance hallway had a thin coating of damp grime on the floor—a side effect of the building’s position near a bay and a swamp. There were footprints in the grime, but from the size and pattern it was clear most of them had been left by responding police officers. Big shoes with gum-rubber soles. The prints went inside and then they came out again. If there were prints by an intruder, they were lost to the general mess left behind by the cops. Pretty typical with crime scenes, and pretty much unavoidable. Cops have to respond and they can’t float.
I tapped my earbud again, channeling over to Church. “Cowboy to Deacon.”
“Go for Deacon.”
“Did anyone have eyes on the cops who came out of the building last night? Are we sure they weren’t carrying anything? Or had something in their pockets?”
“The ATF agents on duty last night searched each officer,” said Church. “It was not well-received.”
“I can imagine.”
And I could imagine it—responding blues getting a pat-down by a couple of Federal pricks.
“Why didn’t the ATF agents accompany them inside?” I asked.
I could hear a small sigh. “The ATF agents had left the scene to pick up a pizza.”
“Ouch.”
“Those agents have been suspended pending further disciplinary action.”
“Yeah, fair call.”
“Which is why the ATF is rather prickly about your being there.”
“Copy that.”
I channeled over to Bug.
“Where are we with those lights?”
“Working on it.”
The lights stayed off, though.
There was a closed door behind the reception desk, so I opened it and entered a hallway that was as black as the pit. There was no sound, not the slightest hint that I was anything but alone in here, but regardless of that I drew my pistol. It’s hard to say if, at that moment, my caution was born out of a concern not to accidentally disturb any evidence left behind or because the place was beginning to give me the creeps.
The hallway hit a t-juncture. Each side looked as dark and uninformative as the other, but I took the right-hand side because that was my gun-hand side. I know. I’m a bit of a superstitious idiot. Sue me.
The side hallway wasn’t straight but jagged and curved and turned for no logical design reasons that I could see. Maybe there was something about the foundation structure that required so unlikely a design plan, but I couldn’t imagine what. The result was something that—as I walked through the shadows—trigge
red odd little thoughts that were entirely uncomfortable. The unlikely angles combined with the mildly curving walls and low gray-painted ceiling to give the whole place a strangely organic feel. Like a building that hadn’t so much been designed as allowed to grow. Like roots of a tree. Or tentacles.
Yeah, I shouldn’t be in here. I should be out in the bright sunlight watching a bunch of millionaires in white, black, and orange stretch pants hit a small white ball around a grassy field.
“You’re a fruitcake,” I told myself, and I had no counterargument.
I followed the flashlight beam down the crooked hallway until it ended at a set of double-doors made out of heavy-grade plastic. The kind meant to swing back when you pushed a cart through them, like they have in meat-packing plants.
A charming thought.
I pushed one flap open and peered into the gloom. The beam of the flashlight swept across a storage room stacked high with boxes of equipment and office supplies. There were bare patches on the floor where I assumed boxed files once stood, but they’d been confiscated by the task force. Motes of dust swirled in the glow, spinning like planets in some dwarf galaxy. They looked cold and sad.
As I began to let the flap fall back into place something caught my attention.
Nothing I saw or heard.
It was a smell.
A mingled combination of scents, pleasant and unpleasant.
A hint of perfume, the sulfur stink of a burned match, old sweat, and spoiled meat.
The movement of the swinging door somehow wafted that olio of scents to me, but it didn’t last. It was there and gone.
It was such an odd combination of smells. They didn’t seem to fit this place. And they were transient smells that should long ago have faded into the general background stink of dust and disuses. Except for the rotten-meat smell. That, I knew all too well, could linger. But this was a research facility not a meat-packing plant. There shouldn’t be a smell like that in here.
My brain immediately started cooking up rationalizations for it.
Joe Ledger Page 12
