by Alan Orloff
“Hey, Sal. We may have a problem.”
Imprezza glanced over. “What?”
“The gauge on the generator reads less than full power.”
“What’s it at?”
“Ninety percent.”
“Don’t worry about it. This stuff can run on forty percent. Besides, what are the odds the power will go out? We’ve had lots of storms here before and never had a problem.” He pressed a button on his e-reader and chuckled at something on the screen.
Imprezza’s indifference grated on Robinson. He didn’t want to have to explain to Gosberg why they sat around and twiddled their thumbs knowing there might be an issue with the generator. He checked the gauge again. The power had dipped below 80 percent.
“It’s still going down. Something’s wrong.” Christ. He wasn’t an electrician. He wondered if Imprezza was right about the equipment needing only 40 percent of the backup generator’s juice. After all, Imprezza wasn’t an electrician, either.
The lights flickered, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. Their control room was an interior space, so there were no windows to assess the severity of the storm. Although it didn’t look like much from the outside, no expense had been spared during the construction of their lab. Gosberg had bolstered the walls and installed a high-grade backup generator to take over the load should something ever happen to the traditional electrical grid. Robinson was somewhat encouraged by the fact that the government in general, and the military in particular, always seemed to engineer an extra margin of safety into their products and systems.
He hoped Gosberg had been as anal about taking precautions as he was about following lab protocol.
The lights flickered again, and Robinson noted the generator’s power output had inched upward. He let out his breath, not aware he’d been holding it.
A quick glance at Subject Foxtrot calmed him further. He checked the clock high on the wall, an old-fashioned analog job similar to the ones that hung in every classroom he’d ever been in. Everything was progressing according to schedule. The next planned download speed increase was on target, in forty-two minutes. By then, the storm would have most likely blown through.
Now the generator’s power level had returned to normal. Maybe Imprezza had the right attitude. Robinson’s entire body relaxed as he pulled out a crossword puzzle and got busy.
He’d filled in four words when the room went dark. Two small emergency lights sparked to life, providing enough illumination for Robinson to see. The generator had kicked in, exactly as designed. If the power output didn’t fall off the cliff, they’d be okay. They had enough propane for a week.
“Shit,” Imprezza said, without taking his eyes off his e-reader. “It’s always something.”
As Robinson watched the gauge, the generator’s power level held steady for a moment, then declined. Eighty percent. Seventy-five percent. Seventy percent. He read the numbers to Imprezza as they declined. When the level broke sixty, on the way down, a yellow light popped on confirming what he’d already known. Something was funky with the generator. “We’ve got an amber indicator.” If the power went out, the life-support systems would cease to operate, and Subject Foxtrot would die for a second time. And Robinson’s career would die with him.
Imprezza sighed. “Okay. I’ll call Gosberg and give him an update. Why don’t you go down and check the generator? Maybe it’s something simple, like a loose fitting or a snake in the works. You might want to switch fuel tanks, too. It’s possible something’s clogged the one that’s hooked up.” Without waiting for an answer, Imprezza picked up his cell phone and started punching numbers, still balancing his e-reader on the edge of his desk.
Robinson knew Imprezza never passed up a chance to get face time—or phone time, in this case—with any of the higher-ups. Whatever. Robinson rolled his chair back and hoisted himself up, ignoring the cracking in his knees. With a final glance at Imprezza, he hustled from the control room, making his way through hallways dimly lit from emergency lighting.
He stopped at the utility closet in the Fabrication Lab to forage for a tool kit and a flashlight, then booked it directly for the exit on the east side of the building. He banged through the door leading outside to the semi-enclosed area housing the generator. Surrounded by four layers of chain-link fence and covered with a vented metal roof, the generator was protected from vandals. Robinson supposed, though, if people were hell-bent on mucking it up, they could accomplish their goal without too much trouble.
The generator chugged along, a steady ka-chuk, ka-chuk, ka-chuk, and together with the higher-pitched sound of the rain and hail pelting the metal roof, Robinson was reminded of the jazz he’d just been listening to. A boom of thunder added some heavy percussion to the composition.
Robinson wasn’t keen on being around so much metal in an electrical storm, but he didn’t really have a choice. He inspected the propane tank and the external portion of the unit. Nothing obvious. But what did he know? Robinson’s background was neuroscience. Biology. Computers. Nothing remotely connected to power generation using fossil fuels. Hell, he had enough trouble starting his lawn mower.
With the flat end of a screwdriver, Robinson pried one of four rectangular metal panels off one side of the unit and examined what he’d uncovered. There weren’t any broken pieces of metal or loose wires or anything else that might indicate why the generator’s output was diminishing. No snakes, either. He was about to pry off another panel when the generator cut off. Shit! He spun around, heart beating wildly. Although some of the more critical equipment had battery backup, it wouldn’t last long, not at their increased power-consumption levels.
The wind whipped up, and the rain and hail fell in undulating sheets, pounding the metal roof. The spray and splash coming through the chain-link fence began to soak his clothes. Lightning, thunder, hail, wind. Mother Nature was giving it all she had.
Maybe the generator was out of fuel. He circled the unit, searching for the fuel gauge, and it took two laps to find it. Almost full. He was about to call Imprezza for some help when he noticed light spilling out from inside the building, through the small square window in the door, brighter than before. He ducked his head inside, and relief washed through him. All the lights were back on; the power grid had come back to life, and electricity had been restored throughout the building.
He returned to the generator and took his time replacing the panel he’d removed, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. He didn’t want Imprezza to see, or sense, his agitation—he didn’t want to seem like a nervous Nellie. Of course, if they’d lost Foxtrot because of equipment failure, especially after such a promising start to the experiment, heads would roll. And Robinson knew whose head would roll first and whose head would roll farthest. His, on both counts.
After he secured the panel on the generator, he returned the tool kit to its place in the Fab Lab, then headed to the control room, footsteps echoing in the empty halls. During the day, about thirty people worked there, and the energy level seemed to rise exponentially as each new person arrived in the morning. Researchers, technicians, brilliant scientists. Everyone pushing the envelope. At night, though, the atmosphere was markedly different. It took only two people to keep an eye on things, to keep things moving forward, thanks to their highly automated process. Progress marched on.
As he made his way back to his post, he called Gosberg. Why shouldn’t he get a little suck-up time with a superior? Better to deliver good news than bad. “Robinson here. Power’s back on. But it’s probably a good idea to get somebody out to service the generator, ASAP.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll call someone first thing.”
“Great,” Robinson said as he opened the control room door. Like it did every time he entered, his gaze went straight to the O-room and Subject Foxtrot.
Gosberg said, “Okay, I’ll talk to you tom—”
“Holy fucking mother of God,” Robinson said aloud, having completely forgotten the phone at his ear.
“What? What’s going on? Robinson?”
Robinson’s hand dropped; Gosberg’s voice fell away with it. Fifteen minutes ago, Subject Foxtrot had been hooked up to a dozen machines responsible for downloading data, maintaining life support, and monitoring functions, and everything had been humming along according to their well-engineered plans.
Now, Subject Foxtrot was gone.
And in his place, stretched out naked on the O-room exam table, was the body of Sal Imprezza, his cold, lifeless eyes staring back into the control room.
Right at Robinson.
#
Gosberg opened the door to the small conference room just down the hall from the O-room and flipped a switch on the wall, filling the space with a barely discernible background buzz. Then he took a seat at the conference table, where Robinson and chief tech Christian Ehreng were waiting for him.
The interior room had no windows and special insulation in the walls—now that the audio-blocking system had been activated, their conversation would be completely secure. And every word would be recorded. On most occasions, Gosberg cursed Colonel Locraft’s paranoia, but now, on this night, after what had just happened, he welcomed the extra layer of protection. No sense in this getting out until they knew what they were dealing with. In fact, he hadn’t even relayed any details to Locraft, their overseer at DoD, who was halfway across the world at some international conference. Hopefully, they’d have Foxtrot back in the barn before Locraft even knew what had happened.
“Here’s the note,” Ehreng said, pushing a scrap of paper across the table.
Gosberg picked it up, read the block-printed words. “You have failed, Nick Nolan. Next time, I’ll show you how it’s done.” Beneath the note, a signature: Dragunov. Ehreng had read the note to him over the phone on his drive over, but there was something about seeing it in person that sent a chill up Gosberg’s spine. “Okay. So what does this actually mean?”
“I googled the name Nick Nolan, just to be sure my memory was accurate. He’s a character from a series of thriller novels written back in the eighties. Made into those movies. You probably saw one of them. Very popular,” Robinson said.
Gosberg nodded. He’d read the books and had seen all the movies. Big summer blockbusters, lots of action, high body count. “And?”
“I also googled Dragunov. Got two hits. It’s the name of a Russian sniper rifle, but I think we care more about the second association. Viktor Dragunov—Dragunov the Destroyer—was the name of Nick Nolan’s adversary, a Russian operative who had been planted in the US.” A slight pause. “His mission was to destroy America.”
“Where did that come from? Why Nick Nolan? Why Dragunov?”
“That’s what I wondered, too. So I traced the spot where the data download got interrupted.” Robinson paused, and Gosberg’s stomach constricted as he waited for the punch line. “It got interrupted right in the middle of the thriller Attack on America. The first book with Nick Nolan. The one where he battles Dragunov.”
Gosberg’s heart skipped a beat. “So are we to believe that Cole Tanner emerged from his vegetative state, killed Imprezza, and now believes he is Viktor Dragunov?” Even as he said it, Gosberg realized how ridiculous it sounded. “Seems wildly far-fetched. And why would he leave a note like that, anyway? Sounds awfully melodramatic.”
“You mean like something from an over-the-top 1980s spy novel?” Robinson said, point made.
“Who wrote Attack on America?” Ehreng asked, his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Guy named Mathias King,” Gosberg said. “He was a big shot author back in the day, but I can’t remember him writing anything recently. I wonder what ever happened to him?”
Chapter Three
George Mason University sprawled across 817 acres of prime Northern Virginia suburban land. Eight hundred and seventeen acres void of politicians, lobbyists, special-interest PACs, or government bureaucracies.
The university had its own share of problems—internal politics, small-minded fiefdoms, cheating scandals—but for the most part, those 817 acres hadn’t been infiltrated by the US government and the military-industrial complex. It was a bastion of free and progressive thinking.
Which was exactly how Mathias King, professor of English, liked it.
In a cluttered office in an ivy-covered building on the southwest corner of those 817 acres, King leaned back in his chair, elbows sliding ever so slightly along the leather armrests worn shiny over the years. The student before him was explaining the theme of her latest short story with the earnest exhortation of someone who actually believed what she was saying. Which was a nice contrast to the many Mason students who peddled their personal lines of BS thinking that somehow their practiced insouciance would be enough to transform Cs into Bs. This coed’s take was refreshing, even if every tenth word was “like.”
“Let me stop you right there, uh, Kristen.”
“It’s Kirsten, Professor King.”
“Oh, sorry. Of course. Kirsten. I thought your story was good. A little more revision and another polish would elevate it to very good. And don’t worry about it coming off as too autobiographical. Whether we mean it to or not, much of our fiction is autobiographical, at least on some level. Just go with the flow a little more, and you’ll be fine.”
A shy smile. “Will there be a final exam? And how would you recommend I study for it?”
“This is a summer workshop, Kirsten. No final exam. This is an opportunity to learn and grow in a stress-free environment. And you’re doing just fine. No worries,” King said. As he finished his little buck-’em-up speech, he caught sight of a man hovering in the hallway outside his office. A new administrator looking to squeeze a few more pennies out of the budget? He was already purchasing his own pens and notebooks. What was next? Rationing paper clips? He returned his attention to Kirsten, who was gathering her things. “Anything else?”
“No. I’m good. I think,” Kirsten said. “I really have gotten a lot out of this workshop, Professor. So thanks.” She rose and flashed another smile, full of teeth and pep and promise, and if King had been forty years younger, he might have taken the bait. Now he simply nodded.
“Great. See you in the workshop.”
“Right. Bye.” As Kirsten slipped out, King noticed the loitering man had turned his back on her, as if he didn’t want to be seen. A moment later, after the girl had disappeared down the hall, he knocked once on King’s open door.
“Dr. King?”
“Yes?”
“May I come in?”
King stifled a sigh. The politeness, the khakis, the blue blazer. The smug grin King associated with midlevel paper pushers who thought they were more important than they were. “Sure.”
The man closed the door, the first time in the last three months the door had been shut. King winced. Whatever this guy wanted, it was going to be painful. He held out his hand and they shook. Firm grip. “Peter Gosberg.”
“Mathias King. Please have a seat.”
Gosberg sat, and he seemed a lot more ill at ease than most of King’s students, and that was saying something. “I’ve been a fan for years,” Gosberg began, his eyes drifting over King’s shoulder to the bookshelf behind his desk. “I don’t see my favorite one. Attack on America was a terrific read.”
“Thanks. But that was many years—and many books—ago.” Attack had been the breakout novel, the one that had transformed Mathias King into a household name. And not just in reading households. It seemed everyone in America, and in half the world, had seen one of the Nick Nolan movies.
“Still. Mighty fun stuff.”
King did what he did whenever someone mentioned Attack on America. He smiled politely and kept his trap shut. He’d been trying for twenty years to put that dreck behind him, but it was an albatross around his neck. “So, Mr. Gosberg. What can I do for you?”
“Actually, it’s Dr. Gosberg.” He crossed his legs casually, but the pose clashed with his tight features. “We hav
e a serious problem, and we were hoping we could count on your help.”
“Who’s the ‘we’?”
“The US government. The good guys.”
“Which agency?”
Gosberg offered an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid that’s on a need-to-know basis. You may not believe me, but that’s not really relevant.”
“Can I see some ID?”
Gosberg hesitated, then pulled out his wallet. Removed a laminated card and handed it to King.
“All it says is US Government Official.”
Gosberg shrugged. “It’s what they gave me.”
King’s bullshit detector spiked as he handed the card back to Gosberg. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“Medical research.”
King stared at the man across his desk. Trim, with a graying vandyke beard. Black, unstylish eyeglasses. He’d blend into the crowd at any classical concert or art gallery. “What kind of medical research?”
Gosberg waved his hand. “I’m sure you’d find it boring.” He leaned in and lowered his voice, conspiratorially. “I often do.”
When King had written Attack on America, he’d dealt with a variety of government bureaucrats, and almost without exception, they’d given him heartburn. Some things never changed. “I hate to cut this conversation short, but I have some work to do. So . . .”
Gosberg chewed on his lip, and King recognized it for what it was. A show, solely for King’s benefit. The picture of a man in conflict. “What I’m about to tell you must remain strictly confidential. Do you understand?”
“Confidential? How could what I’m doing be related to anything that needs to be kept strictly confidential? I. Teach. English.” King emphasized the words separately, the way he’d heard his students do a thousand times when trying to make a point.
“Dr. King, believe it or not, this is a matter of grave importance.”
King nodded slowly. It had taken him a few minutes, but now he was catching on. Cap Peterson had set this whole thing up in retaliation for the prank King had pulled on him during last year’s department Christmas party. “Okay. Joke’s over. You had me going for a while. Go tell Cap we’re even.”
