Wolverine: Weapon X

by Marc Cerasini

  Logan could see the pale, frightened face of the Korean behind the wheel, illuminated by the dashboard light.

  Now you.

  Ann outstretched, Logan pumped off a second shot. The windshield splintered into a spiderweb, splashed dark crimson.

  Suddenly, the BTR lurched forward as the driver’s dying spasm punched the gas pedal. Eight tires squealed and dug into the dirt as the vehicle shot forward, an electrical fire streaming from the broken light on top.

  Logan hesitated for a fatal instant and the armored frontal plate struck him full on, lifting him off his feet and tossing him halfway through the now-shattered windshield. As two Korean soldiers tumbled out of the rear hatch, the BTR-60 lurched off the road, bumped down a sharp incline and over a low cliff Engine running, wheels turning, the vehicle hit the lake with an enormous splash.

  * * * * *

  Cutler doused cold water on his pallid face. Cheeks stinging, he wiped away the last traces of shaving cream and studied his reflection. With his index finger he traced the scar that divided one eyebrow with a faint white line—the result of his scuffle with Logan the night he, Erdman, and Hill snatched the man.

  Seems like a lifetime ago.

  Time, Cutler knew, passed slowly in lockdown.

  The last six weeks seem to have stretched time to the point that I can’t remember when I wasn’t living in this Hive, doing this same rotten job day in and day out.

  He pulled a comb through his damp, sandy hair—noticing for the first time a touch of white at the temples. He turned away from the bathroom mirror and reached for his uniform. A piece of paper fell out of the pocket and drifted to the ground. Cutler picked it up and read it.

  MEMO FROM THE DIRECTOR TO ALL PERSONNEL

  RE: Security Measures

  DUE TO SECURITY CONCERNS AND SEVERAL DANGEROUS EXPERIMENTS THAT WILL SOON BE CONDUCTED INSIDE THE ABOVEGROUND FACILITIES, ALL PERSONNEL ARE TO MOVE TO QUARTERS ON LEVELS TWO AND THREE OF THE UNDERGROUND COMPLEX, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT YOU HAVE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO PACK AND PREPARE FOR THE MOVE. SEE YOUR DORMITORY SUPERVISOR FOR SPECIFIC ROOM ASSIGNMENTS.

  That memo was dated four weeks ago. Twenty-eight days ago . . . six hundred and seventy-two hours ago…

  Except that down here there’s no day, no night, no sense of time passing. And everyone is living this way, now that the above ground facilities are completely deserted.

  I don’t think I’ve seen the sun, except on guard detail, for almost a month. But at least I can get out once in awhile. Not like the docs, the technicians.

  For the last fifteen days, double duty had become the norm, with all researchers working double shifts, technicians a sixty-five hour week. Tension was running high, and Cutler’s security teams had to break up two fights in the cafeteria in just the last five days.

  And yesterday that shrink MacKenzie warned me that sleep disorders were becoming more common because of sun deprivation.

  Cutler wondered how much longer the lockdown could continue until there was a breakdown of discipline—or an open revolt.

  His gloomy thoughts ended when he heard the intercom.

  “Cutler. It’s Deavers. My office. Ten minutes.”

  “Roger tha—” The line was already dead.

  He dressed, locked his quarters, and headed to the elevator. On the way, he noted that the recessed lighting on much of his level had failed—the third time in a month. It should have been fixed, but the maintenance staff was overtaxed, so they claimed.

  Or maybe they’re on an unofficial strike since that incident at the beginning of the week. Either way, I’m going to have to kick some butt to get this place in shape.

  Cutler entered the elevator and rode up to Level One with Carol Hines. She held her straight brown hair back with one hand while holding a PDA in the other. Her face was pinched in a frown of concentration that consumed her, and she never looked up from the illuminated dial for the entire ascent. When the doors opened, she bolted for the diagnostic lab. He headed in the opposite direction, to Major Deavers’s office.

  Cutler entered without knocking. Deavers gave him a lemon-sucking look.

  “The eggheads want the wolves this morning. I’ve alerted the handlers and they’re ready. Now I’ve alerted you.”

  “What do they want us for?”

  “You’re in charge of Subject X Two-man team, with a third for backup. Tranquilizers only. No live ammo.”

  “I’ll go myself; and take Franks. He’s learned the ropes, he knows how to obey orders, and he can keep a cool head, usually. I’ll bring Lynch for backup.”

  “What about Anderson? Erdman?”

  “Erdman’s off duty, and has earned the rest. Anderson’s been real sloppy lately. Almost got himself cut to pieces by a perimeter laser he ‘forgot’ to deactivate before he headed outside for guard duty.”

  Deavers frowned. “Anderson was sharp enough to stop that escape attempt on Monday. The Director would’ve had our heads if there’d been a breach of security ”

  “Anderson got lucky. Or maybe he was just pissed off because he didn’t get a cut of the bribe.”

  “How stupid do those guys in maintenance think we are?” Deavers asked. “Trying to buy their way aboard the supply chopper. As if we wouldn’t notice…”

  “They weren’t thinking straight. Cabin fever. This lockdown has been tough on everyone. I’m surprised there hasn’t been more trouble.”

  “Especially since we’re short of experienced security personnel. We’ve got fifty-five armed guards in this facility—you’d think more than eight of them would learn how to handle the subject.”

  “For the record, we’re down to seven who can do that. Hill’s gone, remember?” said Cutler. “Let’s face facts, sir. The rest of the guards, they just don’t want to learn. Logan—Subject X—has them all spooked.”

  “Can you blame them?” said Deavers. “He gives me the creeps. With those wires and machines coming out of his head. That thing over his eye, the battery around his neck. He looks like the walking dead, like some kind of a robot zombie…”

  * * * * *

  Logan thought he was dead when the BTR smacked into him. The G36 flew out of his hand and clattered away, to be crushed under the tractor-sized front wheel. As eight tons lifted him off the ground, Logan was hurled through the cracked windshield by the momentum. Then the vehicle swerved off the road.

  Torn and bloody from a dozen lacerations, Logan rolled inside the vehicle, to land in the lap of a headless man—the driver, his brains decorating the compartment. Vaguely, as if from a great distance, Logan heard cries of panic, then felt fresh air pimple his skin as someone opened a hatch.

  Soon after, the heavy armored vehicle struck the lake.

  The jolt threw Logan against the dash just as a blast of water surged through the window The torrent buffeted him as the compartment instantly flooded, but the frigid water stung Logan back to consciousness.

  Battered by the mini-tsunami, Logan opened his mouth for a deep breath and gagged on water. He nearly passed out again—wanted to pass out, into the comforting warmth of oblivion—but he fought against the suicidal urge. He forced his eyes open and tried to orient himself He got a little help from the vehicle’s interior lighting, which had not yet shorted out. Though hindered by water that still gushed into the passenger bay of the fast-submerging vehicle, Logan knew he would get out.

  While the BTR sank front-first, a booted foot connected with Logan’s shoulder and he grabbed it. His captive carried him upward, and all the way out of the driver’s compartment—into the rear of the armored carrier.

  Suddenly, Logan’s head broke the surface and he sucked air. Right next to him in the fast-flooding compartment, a Korean officer sputtered and choked as he treaded water. Logan recognized the other man’s rank by the bugle draped over his right shoulder—the North Koreans still used bugles to issue commands in battle. When the man saw Logan, he shouted something incomprehensible and fumbled for the pistol on
his belt.

  I’ll have to shut him up quick or he’ll tell his pals that I’m still alive. Can’t let him get away.

  Logan grabbed the man by the throat and pushed him under. Already the water level inside the compartment had risen to the edge of the rear hatch. Soon Logan would have to get out or be sucked under with the BTR.

  Outside, searchlights already played on the water, and Logan could hear the men on the road calling for their stricken comrades. Making a clean break was not going to be easy.

  Meanwhile, the man struggled against Logan’s grip. Still forcing the officer’s head under the surface, he reached down with his right hand and yanked the Model 1 fighting knife from his belt. Logan stabbed out once, twice. After the third thrust, the Korean went limp in his grasp and Logan released the man.

  The water bubbled up to his chin. Logan took a deep breath just as the tail end of the fighting vehicle slipped beneath the liquid darkness. He held on to the hatch, waiting until he was two or three meters under, then he kicked outward in an attempt to swim as far away as he could get from the sinking hulk before the undertow dragged him to his doom. Ultimately, Logan was able to clear the wreck and swim away.

  He kept on swimming, just under the surface of the black water, until he could no longer withstand the lack of oxygen. As spots blotted his vision, Logan cut the surface and gulped air. A hundred meters away, he watched North Koreans scurry down to the shoreline to rescue their comrades.

  Exhausted and relishing the air, Logan deduced that there was a current, because he was being carried slowly toward the dam. He lay on his back, floating, until the chattering voices faded, the glare of the searchlights dimmed, and even the beating of the helicopter blades was muted. Then he swam to the shore, crawled out of the water, and scrambled up the incline. Unnoticed by the soldiers, he crossed the road and ducked into the trees, then ran deeper into the woods until he reached the foothills. Finally, when he was sure he was not being pursued, Logan slumped down behind a tree to rest.

  Gasping, he checked his condition. His second battle suit, like the flesh on his back, his thighs, and his torso, was in tatters. He’d probably left a trail of blood all the way up the hill, but hoped the North Koreans were too sloppy to notice. As he tore a chunk of material from his camouflage suit, Logan cursed.

  That’s the second set of duds I lost tonight. At this rate, I’ll be butt naked by morning.

  Suddenly, he felt like laughing.

  Hell, at least I didn’t get shot.

  He checked his watch. Barely thirty minutes had passed since he parted company with Miko. He now had ninety minutes to circle around the mess on the road and climb the hill to meet her.

  Groaning, seeping blood, and shivering from the wet and the cold, Logan stumbled to his feet and pressed on.

  * * * * *

  Fifteen minutes after his meeting with Deavers, Cutler took Franks and Lynch to the surface, where they walked the ground that was going to be used for the morning “experiment.”

  The sun had just risen, a dull yellow ball over the mountains. And though it was cold and getting colder, Franks was as eager to get outside as Cutler. Lynch did nothing but complain because he’d been on duty all night and now he had another eight-hour shift because of the scheduled experiment.

  The ground in question was a parcel of rolling, snow-covered land within the compound. A bevy of two—and three-year-old saplings and a few reedy pines dotted the topography. The entire area was encircled by double four-meter walls of chain-link fencing that would be electrified for the actual experiment. Already the technicians and sound men had set up remote cameras and microphones on steel posts planted deep into the frozen ground, high up in the trees, and on top of fence posts.

  The trio circled the perimeter, double-checking to make sure there were no gaps in the fence where a wolf—or Subject X—could slip through and escape. Halfway around, they came to a tall, barred gate with multiple layers of steel fence beyond. From somewhere inside that prisonlike maze, they heard howls and angry snarls of a pack of timber wolves.

  “What’s got ‘em so stirred up?” asked Lynch.

  “We’re downwind,” Cutler replied. “They can smell our scent. It’s driving them nuts.”

  “Geez,” said Franks. “Why are they acting so aggressive? It’s like they want to kill us or something. That pack sounds as if they’re ready to rip us apart.”

  “They’re starving,” Cutler replied. “Maddened with hunger. Once they’re out of those cages, they will drag down anything that moves, regardless of size.”

  “What the hell do those eggheads need starving wolves for?” Franks asked, shivering against the cold.

  “They’re going to put Subject X inside this fence, then let out the wolves and film the whole thing.”

  Franks whistled. “What’s the point?”

  Cutler shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said with disgust.

  * * * * *

  Miko burst from cover when she saw Logan struggling up the slope. She raced to him and took his arm.

  “Lean on me,” she whispered, and he willingly slumped against her slight but strong frame.

  They stumbled up the hill and into a crude shelter Miko fashioned from pine branches. Inside, she snapped a chemical glow stick and laid Logan down on a bed of moss and leaves.

  Her face was full of concern in the dim light “I feared you would never return,” she said as she stripped off his clothing and cleansed his wounds for the second rime that night.

  “Told you … I could take it,” he wheezed, choking back a dry cough. Her cool hands felt soothing, but soon Logan began to shiver.

  “Here, drink this,” she said, thrusting a warm flask into his hand. He gulped the hot tea gratefully.

  “Nifty device,” he said, admiring the flask’s battery-operated heating element. “You’re just a bundle of tricks.”

  She smiled. “Unfortunately, the tea is instant.”

  “Never tasted better in my life.”

  After a few minutes, Logan felt revived. He propped himself on his elbows. Miko lurked at the entrance to the makeshift hut, NV binoculars to her eyes.

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing. No one suspects that we are here. The soldiers are convinced that you died in the lake. They pulled several of their comrades out of the water—dead and alive. From what I could understand, some of their men are still missing.”

  “Lost my Heckler & Koch.”

  “Yes. One of the soldiers found the remains of your weapon on the road. He took it with him when they left.”

  “And Langram? Did you see anything or anyone on the other side of the lake?”

  Miko lowered the binoculars and faced him. “They captured your friend. Soldiers brought him down from the hill. His arms were bound and they … mistreated him. He was placed inside an armored car and driven in the direction of the dam. I am sorry.”

  Logan was quiet a long time, his face grim. Finally, he spoke. “Maybe we can rescue him. We have a chance. They think I’m dead and they don’t even know about you.”

  Miko’s face was tense. “But even if we could find him in that complex and manage to free him, where can we go?”

  “We evacuate with your team. Where are they picking you up? Is there a specific time, or do you have to summon an extraction?”

  “I… I have no way out,” she confessed. “I had planned to get out with you, after my own goal was accomplished.”

  “What are you, a kamikaze? Did your government send you on a suicide mission?”

  “My government … my superiors … don’t even know I am here. I took on this mission by myself. For personal reasons.”

  To her surprise, Logan threw back his head and laughed until he was wracked by a coughing spell.

  “Are you all right?” Miko asked, springing to his side.

  “Swallowed a little too much of that lake,” he said, feeling a pleasing warmth creep through him as she stroked his head. As dr
owsiness began to claim him, Logan chuckled softly.

  “A renegade, just like me, huh? Shoulda guessed.”

  Miko smiled down at him through a tumble of hair. “Mr. Logan, you do not know the half of it.”

  “If I felt better, I’d make you tell me the whole story … but right now … I’m too damn tired.”

  “Then sleep, Logan-san. You need rest. You are only human.”

  As Logan’s eyes closed, he whispered a reply. “Only human? I wish, Miko … I wish.”

  * * * * *

  Though the sun had risen, the surface temperature had dropped precipitously since their trip outside at dawn. Despite clear skies, a frigid Arctic wind howled down from the north. Right now it was a few notches below zero degrees Celsius, and dropping steadily.

  Swathed in several layers of undergarments, his uniform, and a cocoon of Kevlar body armor, Cutler still shivered against the cold. Blasts of chilly air blew under his helmet so that his breath turned to vapor. And even though it offered no protection from the cold, Cutler didn’t dare remove his helmet. The danger was too great.

  With a long electronic staff, forked on one end and attached to a battery pack on the other, Cutler carefully directed Subject X across the snow-covered expanse to the middle of the fenced—off perimeter. The electroprod—dubbed a “pitchfork” by the handlers—deadened Logan’s senses yet allowed him to be led about on his own two feet. “Like walking the dog on a leash,” Lynch quipped as they prepped for the experiment.

  Cutler wasn’t sure what the docs had done to Logan in the past six weeks or so. He didn’t look brainwashed—more like brain-dead. He figured Logan’s senses must be numb or the cold would be getting to him, because the “subject” was stark naked in the snow, covered only with Teflon “sensor ports” embedded in his chest, neck, arms, and torso, where surgical probes had been inserted.

  As Cutler led Logan to the designated area, Lynch and Franks followed a few steps behind, ready to take the subject down with tranquilizer guns at the first sign of rebellion. But Logan remained docile, his bare feet shuffling zombielike through the snow, dragging dozens of wires and tubes in his wake like shackles on a felon.