The Ganymede Project

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  That’s the propane system,” Ben said.

  She nodded and smiled. “Let me leave a present—just in case we have a problem with the security system.” She removed Yuri’s remote detonator from the tool chest, taped it to the pipe, armed it, then stepped away. “I feel better, getting rid of that thing. We’ll pick it up on the way back—with luck.”

  A sudden blast from the HVAC system startled the two. They clutched each others arms, then laughed, to release the tension.

  “Whew!” Katrina said, wiping her brow. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Nightwalker pointed toward steps leading upward. “This is Area G.”

  A flood of light spilled into an unlit corridor as Ben opened the door from the mechanical room. The sound of HVAC units throbbed in the background like an immense dynamo.

  Ben and Katrina stepped through and closed the door, shutting out sounds, wrapping the corridor once again in a dark shroud. An illuminated red sign marked the entrance—Area G. They walked slowly toward it, letting their eyes adjust to low light.

  “With luck, my ID card will open the door,” Nightwalker said, wiping the card through a reader. He entered the cipher lock combination. Tiny lights on the reader blinked in a temporal pattern, then turned red.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I had it in upside down.”

  In a nearby part of the building, they could hear a heavy door open and close. Footsteps approached a corner of the hallway near Area G.

  Katrina’s eyes showed concern. Ben wiped the card through the reader again and re-entered the combination. This time the lights blinked green.

  The footsteps came closer.

  The cipher lock sounded a low buzz, followed by a click. Ben opened the door. They entered into Area G.

  * * *

  Yuri relaxed in the car. The interior was quiet and dark except for the steady red light of the tape recorder. He waited and wondered. Would Katrina still be alive this time tomorrow? Would he still be alive?

  The only sure survivor was the tape recorder, whose run light now seemed like the eye of God, transforming events into polarized magnetic domains in a thin film of metal oxide.

  The recorder’s light began to blink. A soft luminance rolled away shadows from the interior of the car. In the wink of an eye, the radio, dome light and car headlights turned on, startling Yuri. Noise and lights confused him. He reflexively drew his gun, squinted at the glow beyond the windshield and opened the door.

  As he stood next to the car, a small, bright object glided past his position, descending toward the desert floor. The UFO receded. His automobile lights dimmed and the radio faded. Finally, he was alone in the dark on the desert ridge.

  * * *

  In the Project Ganymede laboratory, Area G, Ben and Katrina pressed against the wall as footsteps approached in the hallway.

  Someone tried the door.

  A burst of static broke the darkened silence, followed by an unintelligible radio call. A voice on the other side of the door answered.

  “Yeah, this is Dumont. Over.”

  Katrina gripped her own radio, staring at the transmit button, caressing it with a finger—a button that could call for help, a button that could give away her position.Only if they find us will I press it , she thought.Only if we’ve lost all hope .

  Beyond the door, an unintelligible voice, modulated by static hiss, somehow communicated.

  “Be there in three minutes. Dumont out.”

  Ben and Katrina heard footsteps recede. They moved away from the wall. It seemed safe to breathe again, so they did.

  Katrina fixed her mind on getting what she came for—evidence. Their flashlight beams criss-crossed the laboratory, outlining rat cages and video monitors. Equipment racks cradled electronics, alive with power lights. A metal workbench with a sink, an optical microscope and surgical tools, straddled the room’s center. A small bookcase containing technical manuals snugged up against the bench.

  Working manuals, Katrina thought.Information Chandra would need at his fingertips .

  She removed a thick, loose-leaf binder. There was nothing on the spine, but the cover readAutopsy Reports , caveated above and below by the wordsTOP SECRET MAJIC . Inside were reports filled with medical text and pictures—unusual organs exposed beneath flaps of skin pulled back tightly with hemostats. And there was an eye, nearly the size of a dissection tray, faceted like an insect visual organ.

  She put the manual into the toolbox and searched for more evidence.

  What about the computer? she thought. It’s like the one in Chandra’s Baltimore lab. It seems integral to the experimental set-up . She photographed it with a camera from the toolbox.Could there be a database ?Can I tap into it from here?

  The console displayed a status message, written in green phosphor, filled with cryptic references:

  CRAY 4 SYSTEM

  Ganymede Link Status

  LINK STATUS ACCESSED BY

  G15727 closed

  G15728 closed

  G15729 closed

  G15729 open C00001

  G15730 closed

  G15731 closed

  G15732 closed

  [More]

  If it is a database, someone with the coded identifier ‘C00001’ seems to be accessing it, she thought.Better leave it alone .

  Katrina put her tool box down on the bench, then walked along the animal cages, allowing her hand to drag in a soft drumroll of fingernails on steel. Each cage door was secured with a small, thumbwheel lock.

  She spoke quietly to Ben. “I’ll need a specimen. We’ll have to bend a cage or break a lock.”

  He nodded, then pulled a pry-bar from his box.

  “Too big,” she said. “Something smaller.”

  A scalpel atop a cutting surface on the workbench glinted in her beam. She picked it up, twisting it for inspection. It dripped fluorescent, emerald-colored liquid that refused to dry, even in the arid climate of Groom. Bright green drops stained the work bench’s surface.Alien blood ?

  A rat screeched. Animals in the room vocalized with increasing agitation. A wall of displays lit up. Each screen showed a live, full-motion video picture of Ben and Katrina— images from the rats’ point of view.

  “Did you touch any of the equipment?” Katrina asked.

  Ben shook his head. They checked the computer console. The screen changed rapidly. It now read:

  CRAY 4 SYSTEM

  Ganymede Link Status:

  LINK STATUS ACCESSED BY

  G15727 open C00001

  G15728 open C00001

  G15729 open C00001

  G15729 open C00001

  G15730 open C00001

  G15731 closed

  G15732 closed

  [More]

  Katrina clutched his arm. “Ben—What’s going on? Something’s accessing these computer links.”

  As each line changed from “closed” to “open,” the rats became more frantic. Finally, the screen scrolled with dizzying speed, as hundreds of status lines changed. The screeching and cage rattling were deafening.

  Outside the door, security guards shouted. Ben and Katrina backed toward the center of the room. Katrina gripped the radio. She punched the “transmit” button as the door banged open.

  Automatic weapons fired through the doorway. Video screens on one wall vaporized in a shower of glass. The noise of squealing rats and clanging cages played as counterpoint in a fugue from hell.

  Katrina and Ben dove toward the metal work bench for protection. Ben was hit. His leg exploded with the force of the rounds. He fell to the floor, gushing blood.

  “No!” he yelled, as rapid fire riddled his body.

  There was a pause in the gunfire.

  “Stop!” Katrina shouted. “We’re unarmed!”

  The firing stopped. Squeals from the rats stopped. Hushed silence cloaked the room.

  Katrina breathed rapidly, hyperventilating. She heard a dripping sound, like water. A stream of blood flowed under the table, emptying into a drain in
a concrete section of floor—one life’s essence converted to liquid waste. In the few video monitors which continued to operate, Katrina saw Ben’s body.

  “Throw out your weapon!”

  “I don’t have a weapon!” Katrina yelled back.

  “Come out on your knees, then put your face on the floor.”

  Katrina took short, quick breaths. Her face was ashen. Her body shivered uncontrollably.

  Following the command, she kneeled in blood. One hand slapped the floor, slipping in the red liquid. The other hand came down to catch her body. There was a loudclack as the hand hit the ground. She still gripped the brick radio.

  A guard fired a single shot, mistaking the radio for a weapon. Katrina felt a sharp pain in her left wrist. The radio scooted across the floor. The impact of the round tumbled her onto her back, where she writhed next to Ben’s body.

  She could see Ben, lying parallel, but oriented in the opposite direction. She felt the warmth and wetness of his blood.

  Ben was immobile. His eyes were open. His face was mottled with red tissue. There was a gaping wound in the center of his forehead.

  Katrina grimaced in pain, holding her wrist.

  Footsteps came closer. Combat boots touched her head. She could see video monitors still operating. They showed a guard in battle dress standing over her, arm stretching out, pointing a gun at head. There was theclick of a pistol cocking.

  Katrina breathed rapidly and shut her eyes.

  Static blasted from the radio on the floor, followed by Yuri’s voice. “I have this on tape, you bastards!”

  Over the radio there was the sound of tape rewinding, then an audio replay of the past few moments:

  “...gunfire ...Stop ...Throw out your weapon !...I don’t have a weapon !”

  “How do you think this will play on the local news?” Yuri yelled. “How do you think pictures of this base will play in the House Appropriations Committee? How do you think my special report to the Russian Embassy will play at the next summit meeting? Tell Richard Chandra I’m bringing him down. I’m bringing Operation Majority down.”

  The Guard in combat boots and neatly bloused trousers walked slowly to the radio. He picked it up and pressed to talk. “Identify yourself... Over.”

  “Jones. Indiana,” came the reply.

  An explosion rocked the lab, toppling people like bowling pins. Fluorescent light fixtures and pieces of tile ceiling rained onto the floor. A rack of rat cages tumbled. Animals scampered across the lab.

  A security patrol leader climbed to his feet and shouted orders. “Jackson and Dumont—Put her in confinement and call the medic. Peterson—See if we can get a fix on the intruder’s transmissions. He can’t be far. Mason—I want four perimeter patrols immediately into areas Charlie, Echo, Delta and Foxtrot. Brown—Get chopper coverage along County Road 5. Move!”

  55. WITCH’S KITCHEN

  24 July 1994

  Yuri stood by the car, doors open. A fire burned at the Research Center beyond the ridge. He dowsed his head with water from a canteen, then spread dirt from the road across his face. He donned a black nylon jacket with a hood, checked his weapon and filled his pockets with spare rounds. They would find the car fairly quickly. He wanted to make sure they didn’t find him. Retracing Katrina’s path would be too dangerous. He needed another way in. For the moment, he needed to hide. The moonless black sky promised cover.

  * * *

  A torrent of rain poured onto the tarmac at Dulles International Airport. Gallagan opened the window of his limousine a crack and talked to the airport security guard.

  “Diplomatic pouch,” he said, flashing identification. “And the car behind me carries a body for transport.”

  The guard reached in. “May I?”

  Gallagan released the ID. The guard walked back to the control point and checked it against an access roster.

  Water poured through the crack in the window, soaking Gallagan and the small box with air vents that he held tightly on his lap. He looked out the rear window, to the hearse carrying Vladimir’s steel coffin.We return to Russia something alive and something dead , he thought.A fallen soldier and the weapon that felled him. And now, Vladimir, you will see justice .We will have our revenge.

  The guard returned, handing the ID back through the window. “Okay,” he said, with a wave.

  The steel security barrier lowered into the ground and the wire fence gate rolled open. The path was clear. Two vehicles drove onto the flightline.

  * * *

  Katrina imagined running. Her feet were bare. She wore a hospital gown. It was night in the desert. Next to her was another runner—Vladimir, her brother. His face was twisted in terror.

  Looking up at the sky gave a trick view of a placid universe. She saw a meteor trail flash, then fade. No matter how hard they ran, the stars stayed fixed. Vladimir and Katrina went nowhere. Yet, behind them was the Terror. It screeched. It pursued them relentlessly. She could hear Vladimir’s labored breathing. He stumbled, and a living wave engulfed him.

  He cried out.

  Katrina wanted to help, but knew that if she stopped, she would die. Everyone would die.

  Katrina stumbled.

  She watched, like an objective observer, as her own body fell in slow motion. When it hit the ground, there was a clang of metal-on-metal. She saw her face dissolve into the face of Ben Nightwalker—eyes open in death—staring upward.

  She shuddered. Her eyes blinked open. The dream vanished. A different nightmare took form.

  She was in a bed, wearing a hospital gown. Her good hand was chained to the bedframe. A brown rat crawled slowly up her leg. She didn’t move. It climbed slowly onto her chest. She breathed shallowly. Panic and adrenaline pumped sweat to her upper lip and forehead.

  Again, she heard the sound of metal-on-metal. The door to the cell opened. Room lights switched on.

  She yelled, threw off the rat with her bandaged hand and curled into a ball.

  “Hello, Ms. Fontanova,” came Chandra’s voice. “Good to see you again.”

  * * *

  The Groom security truck parked in the middle of the dirt road, engine idling. The driver picked up a brick radio, looked out the window, then at the clock on the dashboard.

  “This is Alpha Romeo calling from point Charlie Two,” he said. “Time is ten-thirty one. Over.”

  There was a burst of static.

  The driver and the other patrolman in the cab watched as a bright object moved in the sky like a ship from another world, suddenly bathing the cab in intense light.

  Both men looked up, shading their eyes.

  The sound of a helicopter erupted overhead, then faded as the craft moved away. It appeared as a receding bright object in the passenger-side window.

  The radio blared: “Copy. Any sign of intruders? Over.”

  “Negative, Spyglass,” the driver continued. “We’re moving to the next position and will keep you advised. Alpha Romeo out.”

  The two men in the cab could see the helicopter approaching again. The cab filled with light, followed abruptly by the roar of engines. The helicopter hovered above the truck for a moment, spotlights pointed downward, then moved away.

  Yuri emerged from a rocky outcrop, paced quickly to the truck, removed his belt, then slid beneath the high chassis. He heard the rush of rotor blades fade to a distant buzz as he strapped himself to the underside of the vehicle.

  “Don’t you hate it when they do that?” the driver asked his companion. “You can’t even think.” He put the truck in gear and drove off.

  * * *

  Gallagan stood outside the parked limousine watching the Aeroflot jet creep down the wet taxiway. The downpour had stopped. Wet tarmac reflected aircraft lights like a dark mirror.

  We have put them in check for the moment, he thought. Still, there were pawns that could be lost—Katrina and Yuri.They are expendable. We’re all expendable in this game.

  The jet turned at the end of the active runway, revved engi
nes, then started the takeoff roll, moving faster and faster.

  And what of the end game? he thought.When Colonel Kazikov receives the package, he will certainly understand the implications. He will soon find people smart enough to turn the technology into weapons and spy systems. We will have a stalemate. The Americans will have lost the gambit .

  The craft launched into the night sky.I’m just a diplomat , he thought, with a quiet sigh.My job is to buy them some time .

  He opened the door to the driver’s compartment. “Take me to the White House,” he said.

  He climbed into the back of the limo and thought about the next chess move.

  * * *

  “Curiosity, Ms. Fontanova, is a powerful force. I knew that curiosity would bring you here.” Richard Chandra smiled at his captive.

  “You are the curiosity,” Katrina said. “They modified you, didn’t they? Your nervous system has implants. And FTL links.”

  He laughed, nervously. “FTL. Faster-than-light. Faster than logic. Faster than you can imagine. A growing network.”

  “Did they implant other people?”

  “They tried. I hate competition.”

  “You’re a freak.”

  He paced back and forth, organizing his thoughts.

  “It’s funny how you can hang on to a bit of poetry or prose all your life. I stumbled on Rousseau’sThe Confessions once. A bit of it stuck to my brain like glue. Rousseau said,I am made unlike anyone I have ever met; I will even venture to say that I am like no one in the whole world. I may be no better, but at least I am different .”

  He licked his lips.

  “Anyway, ‘freak’ is a term for a minority. That will soon change.”

  “Whyare you?”

  “Your curiosity, Ms. Fontanova, is like my hunger. Insatiable. Stimulated by external things. It needs to be fed. I am me because they needed a human embryo to experiment on. No reason—just curiosity. I was chosen. I was famous in certain circles before I could even talk. Lucky me.”