Project Apollo

by B. B. Gallagher

  In the end you will be faced with a choice, Xander. Did Project Sparta turn you into mindless soldier – a deadly machine, an emotion? Or did you maintain your humanity through it, objective and independent? There’s the choice, Xander, will you act on emotion or reason? I know that conflict is in you… And I really want to know the answer.

  An image of Ezra laying on the terrace, smiling up at Xander’s loaded gun flashed before his eyes. The creepy, maniacal grin. The blood pooling beneath Jooles’ temple.

  “Xander!” Fiona begged for him to return from his mental wanderings.

  “Sorry…”

  “You’re thinking about him, again aren’t you?” She sounded disappointed. Xander squared his eyes on his wife and explained.

  “It was all a test, Fiona. Ezra planned to kill Jooles all along. She was a friend and he wanted to see if I would let the emotion outweigh my reason. If I gave into the emotional response, I would have killed him. I took the reasonable response by arresting him. I passed his test. But what was he testing me for?”

  “What are you getting at?” Fiona sipped on her Pinot.

  “I’ve always had this little thought in the back of my head… and for some reason since these scientists went missing it’s been growing.” Xander exhaled a breath and shook his head. “I have a feeling that July Fourth was only the beginning…”

  Xander stopped shaking his head as he felt Fiona’s hand grasp his across the table.

  “He’s was just a crazy terrorist, Xander. Brainwashed like the rest of them. Let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight,” she smiled, showing her alacrity to return to being honeymooners.

  Xander’s eyes refocused on his date and inspected her hair and how it fell to her shoulders, a recent cut to appear older like her friends.

  “So, how is it?” Xander often asked – curious of what a day in the life of a civilian was like.

  Her life primarily consisted of attempts to domesticate herself through do-it-yourself projects, apple pies and book clubs, but she was a spy at her core. She was discharged at the request of Xander from the program. Colonel Jackson Hardy and Xander perpetuated a story that she escaped from the Compound and was found out to be a Russian double agent. This measure ensured that the other Spartans would emotionally let go of Fiona, leaving her to assimilate back into society. Xander saw very quickly the dangers and the injustices of the covert life and wanted to protect her from it. But it was too late, her training at Project Sparta had awakened something in her that she couldn’t shake. She relished the opportunities like Geneva to follow Xander into the field, but he made sure she stayed at an arm’s length from his missions, despite her incessant curiosities and requests to taste the field again. She could not help herself. She had the itch.

  “You know at times, I feel like I betrayed my country. Like some sort of military deserter. Dishonorably discharged or something like that.” Her eyes lowered.

  “Fiona, it’s not the same thing. Sparta is different. What they demanded from you and still demand of me is beyond patriotic duty. You are just enjoying a much-earned early retirement.” She nodded, hoping to believe what Xander had said.

  “Yeah… I know… but it’s lonely… there’s only so much a do-it-yourself project can do for you. I don’t have anyone when you’re away… I got my friends, but come on I got nothing in common with them. I even hate Pinterest, it’s all just so futile to me. I feel like I’m not doing anything. I can’t live a two-dimensional life, I’m not wired that way,” she explained with candor.

  “Civilian life is that tough, huh? Well maybe I should have left Project Sparta and let you be the spy,” he posited.

  “No that would never work… You’re too good of an agent and your pancakes suck.” They both burst into a hushed laughter, but then their smiles fell flat. A silent chord struck as they retreated to a reflection of their lives.

  Xander could sense that her suburban life had ultimately struck her dull; the only way she coped with it was by treating it as a cover. Her latest mission was to infiltrate the social circles of stay at home moms. There was only one problem – she wasn’t a mom.

  “So, you’re lonely…” He looked up from the last few sips of his wine glass. He saw sitting across from him the girl he met in the Compound, innocent and bashful. In one look, she conveyed a message. Fiona knew that Xander would pick up on it – after all, he could read people like a book. For a few moments they spoke without words, they never really needed them. The silence only broke by Xander. But then shoulders slumped forward slightly as a thought dawned on him.

  “But… I wouldn’t be a good father. I’d always be gone.” Fiona sized him up and re-raised him.

  “Yes, you would.” And then again Fiona spoke with just a glance. She brought a spoonful of Tiramisu up to her mouth, flipped the spoon upside down and slowly slid it out. She licked her lips and arched her eyebrows in a playful flirtation, knowing she had Xander on the hook.

  Five minutes later, Xander and Fiona burst into their hotel room, body against body, lips against lips. Fiona tugged at Xander’s tie as they pressed up against the wall. Xander’s lips trailed her neck, until they spun off the wall and tumbled toward the bed.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Marty Jacobs paced in front of his desk where Catherine Mueller’s file lay spread out on its surface. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “John…” He cradled the phone in his neck. He had been expecting FBI Director John Fangold’s call.

  “Marty, I got your message. Ms. Mueller is being questioned but she has been unresponsive. The shock of the assault appears to be lingering,” he updated.

  “I want her transported here to DC and I want her guarded by US Marshals. No one in or out… We cannot have this terrorist coming back to take care of unfinished business, she is too valuable of an asset right now,” Jacobs explained.

  “I understand… and when she recovers?”

  “No one in or out,” Jacobs stressed. The Director remained silent on the other end, awaiting explanation. Jacobs sensed this and continued. “If this gets out we could have a full-scale panic on our hands. We cannot risk it.”

  “I’ll arrange transport.” A slight reluctance hung behind the Director’s tone. An abrupt click confirmed his hesitance to carry out the orders.

  Jacobs tossed the phone on the desk indignantly and then his eyes focused in on the headshot of Catherine Mueller in her dossier. His eyes narrowed on the feeble scientist.

  She’s the only person who has seen the bacteria, she’s the key…

  Chapter 5

  Safe House #27

  Southeast Washington, DC

  8PM

  Mac Morrison was welded to his computer as he prowled the hacker networks to fetch his dose of evening news. Brushstrokes of reds and oranges painted the beautiful sunset across the sky out of his window. Trying to take the advice of his doctor, Mac was getting more sunlight by setting his workstation near the large window of his apartment. The view overlooked Nationals Park, the city’s Major League Baseball stadium. With six suspended monitors surrounding him like an IMAX movie screen, he couldn’t see much of the view and despite his futile efforts, remained fully immersed in his virtual world.

  Mac’s apartment was representative of his style – decorated in a modern swank. Pastels and buffalo plaid hung throughout, and obscure music sounded through the speakers. Alt-J was the music of choice this morning as he surfed with one hand and sipped his coffee with the other.

  Mac’s eyes narrowed as he spotted an instant message pop up with a link from a hacker friend, Rogue7. Of course, his friend wasn’t a friend in fact he had no idea who he was. All Mac was able to gather on him was that he didn’t care about anything other than Dungeons and Dragons, Game of Thrones and World of Warcraft. He had conjured up an image of an overweight forty-year-old sitting dressed in chainmail in his mother’s basement. Rogue7 could be a teenager for all Mac knew – anonymity was a friendship requirement in the hacker world. Regardless, th
ey corresponded back and forth and recently Mac used one of his de-encryption programs to help in cracking a terrorist cell communication.

  Mac clicked on Rogue7’s link and up popped a surveillance feed. Mac tried to decipher the scene. The feed showed someone in a large inflated suit working in a laboratory. Then, the suit hid and a second person with a bloody knife came onto the screen. And so, Mac witnessed the heist of the NIH. The text chat blinked from Rogue7.

  “Dude… that’s the NIH?... crazy shit, huh?” Mac froze at first, knowing full well that what he had just witnessed was a terrorist attack.

  “Where did you find this?” he asked.

  “I hacked it myself. I heard a rumor that something went down at the NIH today, so I wanted to see for myself,” Rogue7 answered.

  “Who have you shared this with?” Mac’s second inquiry was immediate.

  “No one, other than you… yet”

  “I will pay you $5,000 not to share this with anyone else. I will know if you do.” Even through the short text, his deliberate tone was received.

  “Let’s round it up to $7,500…” Rogue7 replied.

  “You have terrible math skills. Deal. I’ll wire it later today.” Mac had to keep the footage from leaking for as long as he could. He X’ed out of the conversation and played the feed again. His eyes narrowed on the attacker. Mac brought up a resolution program from another drive that zoomed in on the figure and ran multiple clearing filters over the intruder’s face. The man’s image became clear enough to confirm Mac’s suspicion.

  “Oh shit!”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Xander’s dream materialized before him. He had grown all too familiar with the memory, as it haunted him from time to time. As usual, he sat in the same backseat of the same station wagon. He recognized the back of his parents’ heads in front of him. His mother’s chestnut brown curls bounced down the back of her seat and dangled before him. As always, he couldn’t resist, reaching his hand out and waving his hand through her locks. He noticed his hand was small, smooth and hairless.

  Oh yeah… I’m eight years old.

  “Isn’t that right, Xander?” As always, he joined in mid conversation – unsure of the context of discussion. Xander took this chance to tell them how much he missed them.

  “I love you, Mom and Dad,” he said the same thing every time. He felt that he could say something different, but something deep in him just had to. His mom turned and sat up on her knees, her smiling face poked up over the headrest. She had glacier blue eyes, like his wife’s.

  “And we love you, Xander. You are so sweet.” The answer was exactly the same.

  This dream is the same every time. I wish it could end differently just once…

  “I miss you so much…” Xander’s mother reached back and wiped his tears away as usual.

  “We’re right here, Xander,” she said in her same reassuring tone.

  Right on cue, Xander’s father turned from the steering wheel, adding his response.

  “Yeah, son we’re not going anywh—” Just as every time before, an eighteen-wheeler plowed into the side of the car. As always, the last moments played in slow motion. Xander watched as the windows shattered, and the debris floated by his face. His dad’s neck snapped, and his mother flew out of the passenger window. She impacted the asphalt next to the car and a thud sounded as the car spun over her. Xander’s head then impacted the window with such force that the window cracked. The dream snapped and Xander came to, darting up in bed, huffing and puffing.

  Xander found his bearings in the five-star accommodations of his hotel room. For a moment, he reflected on the dream and how it repeated the same way every time.

  Only if they could live one time for me.

  Xander grabbed at the crucifix that hung around his neck. The sterling silver figure nailed to it glimmered in the dawn light. Upon gripping it, Xander’s panting slowed and his gaze turned to the bed. His crucifix was a gift from his foster mother before he left for Project Sparta. He never left it behind and it remained a consultation device for any moral dilemma he found himself in. His focus settled on the figure on the cross, as his heartbeat slowed and his breaths smoothed.

  Dawn had crept into the hotel room, illuminating the figure tangled in the bed sheets. The rays of light drew Xander’s gaze to the valley between Fiona’s shoulders to the small of her back. She was sleeping soundly. The alcohol and the physical workout from sex had lulled her into a deep sleep. As soon as he saw her, he forgot the dream and the dismay it conjured. He could no longer pity himself, for he was married to the beautiful woman in his bed. She was his, forever.

  Xander smiled at the realization that they had just embarked upon their most perilous adventure yet. They wanted a child and no mission to assassinate an enemy of the state was as terrifying or audacious. He imagined for a moment his child running up to him at the door when he had come home from work as Phillip Templeton, hugging his legs and tripping him into the kitchen. His internal impulses had entertained the suburban life and its picturesque happiness. But it was more than that now. It wasn’t an idea. It was a possibility. He scratched at the stubble budding on his jaw line as he considered his place.

  Should I leave Project Sparta? Retire early and go sell carpets or HVACs or something. Move my family to Fiji and make fruit smoothies on the beach for tourists? I caught Ezra… he’s in prison… job well done. When is it enough? When is this enough?

  His fingers twirled Fiona’s red hair sprawled out over her pillow. He leaned down and kissed her bare shoulder. The sun shined on every tiny hair across her freckle-laced skin. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Refusing to blink, they soon began drying and the sight before him blurred. He snapped from the trance back to a harsh reality as his cell phone rang. The caller ID flashed Mac.

  “Whatcha got?” Xander asked in a low voice, careful to not wake her.

  “Footage from a siege of the NIH. One man only armed with a knife – he got in through the garbage dock, killed seven people,” Mac briefed.

  “Just a random terror attack or what?” It was surprisingly a low death toll for his line of work.

  “No, he was after something and he got it. Watch your phone.” Xander lowered his phone from his ear and watched the footage of the man kill Dr. Woslowski and take the vial with the bacteria.

  “It’s not just the fact that a bacterium was stolen from a level 4 lab, but look at who stole it…” Mac ran the same filter over the feed to clear the man’s image. A Middle Eastern man with a beard and long nose materialized on the screen. Upon recognizing the man, Xander felt a jolt shock course through him like a bullet ripping through his chest. But he did not react, rather he stood still in the dim, silent hotel room. His mind raced like cars on an interstate as theory after theory merged and exited. It wasn’t until he processed its implications that he brought the phone back up to his ear.

  “Call everybody. Send me everything you got. We meet at Tobias’s warehouse in an hour.” Xander clicked his phone, threw on his clothes and gathered his bag. He leaned down and kissed his wife’s head. She shifted in the sheets with a high-pitched exhale and a blissful smile.

  After scrawling a quick note on a cocktail napkin, that merely read, Duty Calls – he was gone.

  Chapter 6

  Interstate 395

  Approaching Washington, DC

  10PM

  Harak Khan adjusted his kufi on his shaved scalp as he turned onto H Street. He had not been a part of the July Fourth terror plot as he was charged with the honor of carrying out phase two of the attacks. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as eager as an actor backstage ready for his scene.

  Khan’s deep brown eyes searched over the steering wheel and combed the streets, until he found the bar he was looking for – “Rock and Roll Hotel”. The truck he drove were marked by the words Hyman Seafood on the side to blend in as a normal city deliverer. He maneuvered the truck into a parking spot alongside the street where he was able to monitor the sc
ene. Khan buried his face into his hands, giving himself only a moment to indulge the exhaustion.

  Stay focused… Allah will be proud.

  His hand smacked his face awake and then consulted a folder in the passenger seat next to him. He opened the file and examined the headshot of a pretty, young blonde girl. The name on the profile read Stacey Chapman. He read over it a few times, until she came out of the bar. He narrowed in on his target and hoped she would turn his way.

  She had.

  And she was alone.

  He banged twice on the back of the cabin to send a signal into the back of the truck. She approached like a spinning top, swaying in each step from the alcohol. Khan hopped out of the cabin and circled around to the back of the truck. The street was empty, an ominous silence hung over the avenue. Khan brandished a syringe with a sedative out of his coat. He flicked the end of the needle and it dripped a response. With his other hand he fished out of his coat a small compact mirror to chart her approach. Stacey was twenty feet away. She swayed toward the truck and began running her index finger along the truck’s wall over the blue marlin logo of Hyman Seafood. She was close enough for him to hear her humming a song.

  She stepped closer and closer.

  Khan’s heart pounded.

  She cleared the truck and Khan’s hands came over her. With exact precision, he inserted the syringe into the back of her neck, and she quickly fell limp in his arms. Khan opened the back of the truck with his free hand. Cold steam billowed out of the truck as its airtight hinges opened. The cargo-hold of the truck looked like a make-shift laboratory. There were desks lining the back wall with different biological instruments on them. One blue vial stood secured by a plastic container. A man wearing a respirator appeared in the truck’s cargo hold. He grabbed Stacey from his partner and pulled her up and into the dark, cold depths of the Hyman Seafood freezer truck.