The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

The operator zoomed out, the ghost pattern turning into a tiny red dot on the map.

  “It’s in Russia, 200 miles inland from the Sea of Japan coastline, near a small town called Mayak. It’s an abandoned airbase. Has an airstrip too.”

  “Get me high-resolution angular shots,” Alex asked the operator. “Let’s see who and what’s down there. Prepare for a long night.”

  ...40

  ...Monday, May 9, 8:22PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Undisclosed Location

  ...Russia

  ...Twelve Days Missing

  Dr. Adenauer finished injecting the third rat with the compound, then picked up a second syringe, and gave the squirming little animal a second shot.

  “This is the antidote,” he explained to the small group in attendance.

  The group included Gary Davis, Marie-Elise Chevalier, Klaas Fortuin, and Wu Shen Teng. One-Eye was also observing, any attempt to keep him away or distracted having failed miserably, yielding only angry grunts from the taciturn gorilla.

  Dr. Adenauer finished injecting the antidote, then marked the rat with a touch of methylene blue on its white coat, making it easy to identify from the others. Then he placed the rat in the same cage with the other two he had injected earlier.

  Minutes passed in silence, while nothing remarkable happened in the rat cage. The test subjects behaved like normal rats, sniffing, chewing on the occasional speck of dirt, moving around in the cage, but ignoring one another.

  Then suddenly one rat jumped at another, making a barely audible growl. It attacked the other animal fiercely, plunging its teeth in the other’s throat, while its front claws tore at the victim’s belly. The other rat fought back as hard as it could, tearing pieces of the attacker’s coat with its claws, gurgling sounds coming out of its throat as the attacker squeezed its jaws tighter, killing it. The rat bearing a blue mark on the back of its neck stood trembling in the corner of the cage, watching the fight with big, round, beady eyes.

  Within seconds, the fight was over, leaving one dead rat in a pool of blood, another one heaving and dying from a deep laceration that had cut open its abdomen, and a third, alive, unharmed, but paralyzed with fear.

  “May God forgive us all,” Dr. Chevalier said quietly, holding her hand over her mouth, as if to smother a scream of horror.

  “He won’t,” Dr. Adenauer replied through clenched teeth.

  “Great job,” One-Eye spoke. “I will tell my boss,” he added, then left the room.

  They stared at the scene in front of them, unable to move or react. Dr. Adenauer picked up some gauze, soaked it in alcohol, and began cleaning the spray of blood that had stained the table around the cage.

  “The dose was too concentrated,” Bogdanov spoke, startling everyone. He had entered the lab unheard and unseen, while they were only paying attention to the horrible aftermath of their test. “We want them aggressive, but not like this. We want control. We want the rage to appear natural; I’ve told you that. What are you going to do?”

  He was actually waiting for an answer, making sure they understood they had to deliver.

  Theo Adenauer cleared his throat, still choked after he’d watched the experiment, and offered a plan.

  “We could try slow-release capsules next, to see if it’s the strength of the compound, or the delivery mechanism that allows the best control.”

  “We need the compound aerosolized,” Bogdanov replied. “How are slow-release capsules going to help with that? Reduce the concentration and try again. What are you using?”

  “SSREs,” Adenauer replied, surprised. It was the first time Bogdanov had asked any technical question about their work.

  “Decrease the strength, but add some steroids, maybe it will help,” Bogdanov replied. “You’re supposed to know that. Is this rat the one injected with the antidote?” he asked, pointing at the survivor.

  “Y–yes,” Adenauer hesitated, unsure where he was going with that.

  “They need to attack the non-violent test subjects, not each other. Fix that.”

  “How?” Adenauer asked, surprised at the request.

  “You world-famous researchers figure it out. You have 24 hours, or else he starts dying,” Bogdanov replied, pointing toward the cot where Declan Mallory lay on his back. “I think I have already taken care of a few ribs, yes? Only 24 hours, that’s it. Then I continue breaking his bones, one at a time.”

  ...41

  ...Monday, May 9, 4:42AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...DigiWorld Corporate Headquarters

  ...Los Angeles, California

  ...Twelve Days Missing

  Alex stormed out of the DigiWorld building followed closely by Blake and Lou. They had gathered all possible imagery about the plane’s location, and she felt the exhilaration that only hope can give. Hope that she’d been right, that they’d make it in time to save all those people. Hope that they’d found the right plane.

  She stopped abruptly and asked, “Blake, does your plane fly that far?”

  “Yes, it does. It will take us about fifteen hours to get there, including refueling stops.”

  “All right, let’s get ready. Wheels up in two hours.”

  “I need to make a quick detour,” Lou said. “Boss, can you please pack me an overnight bag? I’ll meet you on the tarmac.”

  “Where are you going?” Alex asked.

  “Shopping.”

  ...42

  ...Monday, May 9, 4:29PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...Russian Ministry of Defense

  ...Moscow, Russia

  ...Twelve Days Missing

  The annoying voice of Dr. Bogdanov filled the room as Myatlev took his call hands-free. He was going on and on about what they were doing over there, giving too few specifics, and wasting his time.

  “So, you don’t have it yet, that’s what I’m hearing, right?” Myatlev interrupted him. “After two weeks, you have nothing?”

  “Sir, if you allow me, progress is being made,” Bogdanov replied with a little more insecurity seeping into his voice. “They are adjusting the levels of active compound to get the desired results. There is a precise dosage that will work, requiring many rounds of testing and fine-tuning.”

  Myatlev restrained himself with difficulty. This moron wasn’t going to get him what he wanted. But it was too late to turn back now.

  “I want them controllable, you hear me?” Myatlev told Bogdanov for the fifth time. “What we need to do will not work without precise control, and calculated levels of aggression. Do you understand?”

  “Y–yes, sir.”

  Myatlev hung up, letting out a long sigh of frustration. Bogdanov was probably going to fail; he had heard the uncertainty in his voice. Maybe what he wanted couldn’t be achieved after all. He wanted a level of precision and control over the aggression of his test subjects that could enable him to play them like puppets on a string. After all, it would be a disaster if a business opponent started killing people instead of signing the wrong paperwork, bidding too high, or taking too much risk. However, having the test subjects turn homicidal lined up well with his other motivation, the official one. He wanted to seed violence in the heart of the enemy’s law enforcement, making them turn against the people they were sworn to protect. Such senseless, apparently random violence would be ripping through America from within its own structures, like a cancer destroying the body it had invaded.

  But it might have been the time to consider plan B. Abramovich was not going to settle for another failure, if this plan wasn’t going to work. He walked slowly to the office next to his, and entered after a quick tap on the door.

  “Mishka,” he greeted Dimitrov as he came into his office. The air was stale and the curtains were half-shut, defending the room from the scorching heat outside. Dimitrov hated air conditioning, and preferred it turned off. He said cold air gave him migraines. I bet it’s this stuffiness that gives him the migraines, Myatlev thought, eager to finish the business he was there for, and get back t
o the breathable habitat of his own office.

  “Vitya,” Dimitrov replied. “What news are you bringing?”

  “Nothing good, I’m afraid. Not yet.” He paused for a little while, almost afraid to speak his mind. It was a big step he was about to take, a big step on a road with no return. “They can’t fully control the effects, not yet, anyway,” he added, shrugging apologetically. “I think we need to be prepared for attack in a different way, and give Petya what he wants, what he always wanted.”

  Dimitrov took off his thick-rimmed glasses and set them down on the desk slowly, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index.

  “What are you saying, Vitya?”

  Maybe there could be a way to prosper in a post-nuclear world. Or maybe he could do something to manage Abramovich’s belligerence and ensure the prosperity of his business empire at the same time. Maybe he could just be prepared, but not act, just to have a plausible excuse in case the shit would hit the fan with their beloved president. Maybe he could invest in food futures; in the post-nuclear world, clean, radiation-free food supplies would become very expensive. His investments could yield three-digit, even four-digit returns.

  “Can you make me some small nukes?” Myatlev finally asked, just a hint of hesitation tinting his voice. “They’d have to fit in a small backpack, nothing big.”

  Dimitrov’s jaw dropped, then he replied quietly, “How many?”

  “Fifteen or so. Not sure yet…I’m still thinking,” Myatlev replied, lost in thought.

  Or maybe I should have let that fucking bear finish its business before killing it.

  ...43

  ...Monday, May 9, 10:56PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Undisclosed Location

  ...Russia

  ...Twelve Days Missing

  Dr. Gary Davis watched closely as Adenauer’s elegant hands mixed the compound ingredients quickly, after measuring them on the digital micro-scale. Every step he took in preparing the compound he documented clearly in a notebook, each step listed in detail under the heading “Compound 11.” It was the eleventh formulation they were trying. If I were to see him out of context, Gary thought, it would seem like he’s in his own lab in Germany.

  Then Adenauer started preparing the capsules. He made ten of them, putting them in a small jar.

  “Why so many?” Gary asked.

  “I can be more precise mixing a larger quantity of compound, you know that,” Adenauer replied, visibly irritated to be challenged.

  “I only want to test on two subjects, that’s it,” Gary stated firmly.

  “No, we’ll need more. We’ll raise suspicions if we test only two,” Dr. Teng intervened.

  “I’ll handle the suspicions,” Gary replied, sounding more confident than he felt. “If we could at least attempt like we’re talking about human beings here, that would be great,” he snapped, sarcasm cutting through his voice and glinting in his eyes.

  “Do you think I can ever forget that?” Adenauer said, keeping his voice low but loaded with anger. “Who do you think I am?”

  Under Gary’s surprised eyes, Adenauer’s angry glare turned to immense sadness.

  “I’m ready to die right here, today, if that removes a single other human being from harm’s way,” Adenauer continued somberly. “Next time they want to kill someone to make a point, I will volunteer. I am ready.”

  “Theo!” Marie-Elise exclaimed, getting One-Eye to lift his eyes and scrutinize their small group. “You can’t do that!” she continued. “We need you! We all need one another!”

  “It’s pointless,” Adenauer replied calmly. “My decision has been made.” His eyes stared somewhere in the distance, looking past them, toward the back of the lab. “No one will come for us…we’re all doomed. I will die anyway, so I’ve made up my mind to die before loading my conscience with more harm done to these innocent people. I can’t live with that.”

  “None of us can,” Gary replied, “but we have to. Have you considered what will happen to the other passengers if we give up and they no longer need them, or us?”

  No one replied. Gary looked at Adenauer encouragingly. “Come on, Adenauer,” he said, “let’s put our heads together and figure out how to survive, while causing the minimum amount of damage possible.”

  “What if I’m wrong?” Adenauer asked. “What if this is wrong, what if it’s deadly? How would I live with myself then?” he added, pointing at the jar holding the ten capsules.

  “It’s a risk we have to take,” Gary replied. “The fact that we’re trying keeps them alive, don’t forget that.”

  Yet Gary could see Adenauer’s point, and, for the most part, he felt the same way. How much longer could they resist, and to what end? Was there any shred of logical hope left? What scenario made sense? They were buried underground, in an abandoned bunker, most likely being exposed to some form of residual radiation, hidden someplace so deep and so remote that no one could ever find them. He couldn’t think of any scenario, any theory that made a rescue even remotely likely to happen.

  As for an escape, they weren’t even close. They were empty-handed in front of thugs wielding machine guns and flaunting their lack of conscience. The pilot had no idea where the plane was. That sack of shit had told them they’d landed in the middle of a forested swamp, so remote from any city that they could be walking for tens, maybe hundreds of miles before finding help. And what help? More Russians? Nope, they didn’t have a single card in this game.

  Yet for the Phoenix, Arizona-born, Gary Davis, former Boy Scout and Afghanistan veteran, losing was not an option. Neither was captivity. He would think of something, he’d find a way. Until then, regardless of the cold, bare facts, he couldn’t afford to spiral into depression and hopelessness.

  He made an effort to gather his strength, then approached One-Eye and said, “We need two test subjects, male. Give them these,” he added, handing him two capsules with the newest formulation.

  “Why two? We have hundreds,” One-Eye asked in heavily accented, barely understandable English.

  “We need to run aerosolized tests, and for those we’ll need more people. We can’t waste them. Do you understand what aerosolized means?”

  One-Eye grunted and left the lab, taking the capsules with him.

  Gary sighed and clenched his fists, shoving them in his pockets. There was nothing else he could do… not at that point, anyway. He went back to the table and turned on the monitors.

  There was no sound, so they couldn’t hear the two men screaming and grunting as they fought the guards who quickly overpowered them. One of the Russians would grab them from behind, immobilizing their arms, while the other would grab them by the nose and force their mouths open, then shove the capsule down their throats. Then they’d force their mouths shut and their heads tilted back, so they would have no other option but to swallow the pill or choke to death. It wasn’t a fair fight; the passengers were no match for the guards, whose physical builds were testimonials to years of lifting weights and popping steroids.

  Bogdanov joined them in the lab, watching the monitors intently. Gary had a hard time keeping a straight face in the presence of so-called Dr. Bogdanov. What kind of doctor was he? But then again, even Josef Mengele, the infamous “Angel of Death” at Auschwitz had been a properly licensed physician.

  For a few long minutes, nothing happened. The two men stood almost immobile, leaning against the walls of their cell. Then, slowly, they started to move, and the people watching the monitors could see them talking to each other, although they couldn’t hear what was being said.

  The two men starting moving, almost in circles, around each other, while their postures changed from neutral to aggressive. Their upper bodies leaned forward, their arms held at a distance from their bodies, half-bent, ready to strike, their knees slightly flexed.

  Then suddenly, violence erupted. The two men jumped at each other’s throats, trying to strangle while kicking each other. One, dressed in a dirty, blue shirt, was
visibly larger than the other, and was gaining ground rapidly in the unfair fight. He slammed his opponent, who couldn’t have been more than five feet, seven inches, and 175 pounds, against the wall, then strangled him with one hand, while with the other the pummeled his stomach repeatedly. The other one’s face turned a dark shade of red, and his powerless hands tried to fight off the suffocating grip of his assailant.

  “Let’s stop this,” Gary yelled, taking a few steps toward the Russian. “Bogdanov!”

  One-Eye shoved his machine gun barrel into Gary’s side, forcing him to back off.

  “Please, let’s stop them, we have what we need,” Adenauer pleaded.

  “No,” Bodganov replied. “Let the test run its course. I have a report to write.”

  ...44

  ...Monday, May 9, 11:43PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Undisclosed Location

  ...Russia

  ...Twelve Days Missing

  The hangar, buried in the side of a hill, was engulfed in thick darkness and an eerily silent atmosphere. Not a leaf moved; thick cloud cover prevented moonlight from casting any light on the ground, and the hangar stood there, barely visible even to the trained eye. Only the hangar door was accessible; the rest of the structure had been excavated into the side of the hill, making the grassy hill act as the perfect camouflage for the facility.

  Two guards, busy chatting and smoking, sat huddled together on a nearby tree trunk, not paying any attention to the hangar door. By the slight bluish glare on their faces, they bunched over a mobile phone, most likely looking at pictures or playing a game. Nothing else one could do with a phone in those parts of the world; there wasn’t a cell tower for miles.

  The man, dressed completely in black, knew exactly where to go. He approached the structure, sneaking silently, and opened the small access door next to the main hangar doors. He walked inside, closing the door behind him, then stopped for a while, listening.