by Nick Thacker
Cole kept his eyes forward as he neared the wreck. He slowed to a quick walk and eyed the car carefully, looking for survivors. The smoke stung his eyes, and the heat of the dying fire was still intense. The acrid smell assaulted his nose and mouth.
“Hello?” he called out. There was no response — he knew no one could have survived such a crash — but still, something about the situation wasn’t right.
He crouched down, trying to peer through the smoke and twisted metal into the car’s interior. Straining to see through the smoke and hot air, he tried to discern any signs of life from within the vehicle. Seeing none, he bent down closer to the ground.
The crunching of heavy boots on gravel sounded behind him. The hairs on the back of Cole’s neck stood up, and he scrambled backwards, away from the wreckage.
“Stand up. Place your hands on your head and step back away from the vehicle.” The voice was deep and menacing, with a gravelly strain that suggested its owner preferred not to speak unless absolutely necessary.
Shit, Cole thought. The cops are here, and I’m the only one around. He placed his hands on his head, and turned slowly to his left —
“Do not move! Do not turn around.” The bellowed command seemed very out of place for a police officer at a crash scene in the middle of the desert.
Cole tensed, then continued to back up. After several paces he stopped and hesitated, awaiting further instructions. Who does this guy think he is?
“Here.” There was a metallic clang and a thud. Cole looked at the ground to his right, seeing a crude set of shackles. “Put them on, then turn around.”
Cole’s heart was pounding. He had no desire to put on handcuffs and place himself at the mercy of some stranger — who wasn’t acting much like a cop at all. What if this was just some wacko looking to rob him, armed with nothing but rusty shackles and a scary voice?
Cole decided he’d take his chances. He spun around to his left.
…Straight into a crushing blow, square on his cheekbone. Stars flashed inside his head. His eyes blurred, and he dropped to one knee. The pain was unbelievable — he had been hit before, in schoolyard fights mostly, but this was something else, like getting hit by a truck.
Cole got up, wiping his eyes with his wrist. Struggling to clear his vision, he looked up into the face of a behemoth; a broad-shouldered man with a slightly hunched back, dressed in military fatigues and holding an assault rifle loosely in his massive hands.
“Get up, boy, and hurry.” Cole realized the man spoke with an accent, but he couldn’t quite place it. Russia? Eastern European?
Then, as his eyes finally re-focused, Cole saw the other three men.
4
9:20 am
Vladimir Beka watched the young man standing next to the wreckage, his back to the soldiers, and he could almost hear him assessing the situation. He was nothing special — average build, neither fat nor skinny. Vladimir wondered if he was scared.
They’d needed a body last night, so they had caused the car wreck. Beka himself had wired a simple explosive charge to the road, set to detonate on impact. The first vehicle that came down the winding road at the top of the cliff hit the strand of explosives and careened down here. The car was almost immediately engulfed in flames, but the driver — a man of about thirty years — was able to crawl out before the sedan caused him too much harm.
It was amazing he’d lived, actually, but it made it easier for the Vilocorp team to pluck him off the side of the road, wounded and in a daze, and bring him into the lab.
There, Beka knew, the man would die. Not right away, but eventually. He would be subjected to many tests — painful tests — and he would eventually succumb to his injuries. So far, none of their subjects had survived, and that man — and this kid in front of him now — would be no exception.
Beka had been a part of his boss Tanning Vilocek’s guard unit for more than a year and had mostly enjoyed the work. His commander, Johannes Karn, was something of a slavedriver who expected more from his than most military combat units, but Karn did allow his men autonomy most of the time. Karn didn’t care what the men did off-duty, and on-duty he certainly didn’t care how the dirty work was done — as long as it was done quickly and completely.
Beka had no doubt that this type of dirty work was his personal talent, a sadistic calling that made him perfect for Karn’s team and for Vilocorp. His childhood priest had often talked about the importance of “calling,” and Vladimir now understood that the priest had been right all along. Beka was a killer, and he was brutally good at it.
He heard the whump of Karn’s rifle butt as it struck the young man’s face, and Beka came back to the present. He licked his lips in anticipation of a fight, though he knew it would take very little to beat the American into submission. He stepped up to receive his orders.
“Cuff him and bring him back to the facility. Dr. Vilocek wants to run initial tests within the hour.”
“Yes sir.” Beka responded without emotion. He reached for the shackles at the young man’s feet. As Beka squatted down, Cole suddenly lashed out and kicked some gravel into Beka’s face.
Then he bolted, leaving Beka and the others momentarily frozen in place.
The soldiers behind Karn lifted their rifles in turn, preparing to fire at the fleeing man.
“Stand down,” Karn rasped. He swung his assault rifle up and aimed steadily down the sight. Beka stood obediently by, watching as Karn tensed his upper body and relaxed his core, preparing for the recoil.
The rifle let out a thump, not unlike the sound of a cork popping from a wine bottle. Instead of the quick and deafening bang of a normal assault rifle, the thump hung in the air — a pulsating, rhythmic zzzzz. The sound resembled an electric discharge, but deeper.
5
Cole couldn’t hear any footsteps, and he was just beginning to wonder what was going on behind him.
Then the shockwave hit him.
His body convulsed with tremors for a split second. He felt everything go weak. He tried to force his legs to keep moving, but a loud, pulsating hum overtook his thoughts and filled his brain. His entire body felt tingly, like a limb fallen asleep. He was completely paralyzed.
Still conscious yet unable to look around or even blink, Cole had a sudden sense of vertigo — it seemed the road beneath his feet was slowly receding.
6
Forcing his eyes open, he tried to blink back the fuzziness in his vision and look around. Bryce couldn’t believe he was alive.
He also couldn’t believe how much pain he was in. The bullet wounds felt tight, like someone was pushing down on them. A quick glance down revealed that they had been cleaned, wrapped, and bandaged, but he felt like other areas of his body had been under attack as well. His head felt swollen, like it was under pressure. His legs were weak; it was almost impossible to shift his body to the side to see his visitor.
His visitor.
Who is that? The fogginess in his eyes cleared, but his mind seemed reluctant to operate fully. He squinted, trying to see who was sitting next to his bed. A man, he could tell from the wide shoulders and lanky frame. He was older, maybe mid-fifties, and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair sat in a small swirly wisp on his head.
“Ah, Captain, it’s good to see you awake,” the man said.
“Who — who are you?” Bryce asked, still groggy.
“My name is James Whittenfield, Jr. My company, Whittenfield Research, is one of the leading philanthropic environmental organizations in the world. I’d offer to shake your hand, but considering — “
“It’s ok. What exactly can I do for you, Mr. Whittenfield?“ As he let the man continue his introduction, Bryce got a look around. He was in a hospital, and from its dingy appearance it seemed it was a small and all but forgotten one at that.
“Call me James. Well Bryce, I’m interested in you. Your performance last week in Samarra was quite impressive. I heard about it from Major Dwight Maynes — “
“Maynes?
He wasn’t there,” Bryce said, confused.
“Actually, he was there just in time to snatch you right out from under the grasp of the Iraqi Republican Guard. His chopper team gunned down five or six Iraqis just outside their camp, and saw you on the ground. Good thing, too — you weren’t in such great shape. A few more minutes down there and you’d have bled to death.”
“Yeah, well, I’m starting to think maybe that would have been better,” Bryce said, trying to stretch out his tight muscles.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Whittenfield said, reaching for something in his coat pocket. As he did, Bryce noticed the man’s attire for the first time. A pressed suit, Brooks Brothers or another high-end tailored variety, with a fitted white Oxford shirt. Conservative, yet contemporary. His left hand was inside the coat, and the man’s wrist and watch was exposed. A Cartier Chronograph, 1953 edition. Bryce knew it was worth upwards of $20,000. So this guy really does have some money. He also didn’t fit at the hospital, either. The walls behind the man were dusty, and Bryce could smell the faint hint of the dry sandiness of the desert. They were still in Iraq, or at least somewhere in the Middle East. Maybe in a civilian hospital, though it was hard to tell.
He looked back to the man at the side of his bed. This guy, James Whittenfield, was American, judging by his accent. Possibly from the northeast — Philadelphia, or Boston.
Whittenfield retracted his hand from his coat pocket, holding the notebook.
Bryce’s eyes narrowed; the events that day on the battlefield coming rushing back.
“If you weren’t rescued, we might never have found this little gem.”
“So what? There’s nothing in it — it’s blank,” Bryce responded.
“I noticed. Lucky thing, too — the others aren’t.”
“The others?”
“Right. I’ve got plenty more of these little notebooks,” Whittenfield said, flipping through the blank pages. “They were my father’s — James Whittenfield, Sr., that is. He started Whittenfield Research, and these books, about thirty of them altogether, were his personal journals. Research, hypotheses, experimental results — it’s all in there. This one — the one that was stolen from my lab a few months ago — is the last notebook; one he hadn’t started writing in yet,” Whittenfield explained.
“What kind of research? What does the company do?”
“Captain — Bryce —“ using his first name as he continued, “my work has always been a roller coaster ride. There’s always someone you’re pissing off one day, and the entire scientific community’s in an uproar because of you the next. We are an environmental research firm, and most of our clients are multinational corporations. Pharmaceuticals, defense systems engineers, even oil conglomerates — they’re all waiting in line to talk to us. We provide a unique form of insurance to our customers: future proofing.
“You see, Capt. Reynolds, most companies are more afraid of the future than anything else — are they going to remain profitable? Are they going to consistently deliver on their numbers and keep their shareholders happy? Are they even going to remain solvent in this economy? These are things they’re worrying about every day, and companies like mine offer an insurance policy against these fears. We can research and deliver the next line of products that will redefine their industries, before their competitors even know they’re working on it.”
Bryce interrupted, frowning. “So, you’re a gigantic research firm working with the world’s largest companies; why haven’t I ever heard of you?” he asked.
“Well, first — we’re not exactly a ‘large’ research firm. We only work with a few clients at a time, though conveniently they usually want the same thing — immunity from their competitors’ attacks. Immortality, if you will. They all want to maintain their position at the forefront of their respective marketplaces, and it turns out we can usually deliver on that wish. Due to this extremely proprietary nature of our work, we aren’t well-known outside the small circle of businesses we’ve worked with — and we intend to keep it that way.”
“Ok, great. Makes sense,” Bryce said, finally sitting up fully on the hospital bed. “But what does this all have to do with me?”
“I know about your mother, Bryce,” Whittenfield said, almost cutting Bryce off. “I know she’s suffering from a rare viral infection; a strain that’s rendered her mostly paralyzed.”
Bryce’s eyes flashed in anger, then to a steely burn. “She’s not going to be able to heal. They have no idea what it is — or how to fix it.” He pictured his mother, Diana Reynolds, in bed in her Utah home. A nurse, basically a hospice worker from a local retirement community in nearby Salt Lake City, stayed with her most of the morning and evenings to provide basic care — cleaning, feeding, and the occasional one-way conversation.
The memory pained him, but he knew there was nothing he could do for her. He’d already spent both of their life savings on treatment, flying doctors to and from the small cottage, only to be told the viral infection wasn’t contagious. He’d run out of money, and the military’s insurance plan forced him to continue serving on active duty to continue paying for her care.
“How do you know about that?” Bryce asked.
“There was a small article about it in a medical publication not too long ago,” Whittenfield replied. “One of my doctors found it. What I found most intriguing about your mother’s case is that we had two similar instances like it not six months before the article was published.”
“Two others? I thought it was an isolated incident,” Bryce said.
“As did we. But it’s not — while we haven’t been able to understand the source of the infection, I do believe we’ve found a treatment.”
Bryce’s hair on the back of his neck stood up. Could he be telling the truth? After so long; so much time spent chasing a dead-end… “A treatment? Like an antidote?”
“Yes — well, we’re not finished yet. The first two subjects didn’t survive, but I think we’ve isolated the culprit in the viral cell’s makeup, and I think we can figure out how to heal your mother.
“But Bryce, I need something from you in return. Your performance in the Rangers hasn’t gone unnoticed. I know about your accomplishments so far; your quick mind.
“Dwight Maynes is a close friend of mine from Cambridge — we studied together in our introductory courses, and I’ve been picking his brain lately about his men here in the special forces. You see, we need someone like you out at the research lab,” Whittenfield said.
“Someone like me?” Bryce asked. “A soldier?”
“No — not just a soldier. I saw your test results. The comprehension, deductive reasoning skills — off the charts, Bryce. I don’t want someone who can wield a gun; any grunt with two eyes and arms can do that. I need someone who can protect our interests; interests that I’m afraid will be under scrutiny very soon. This notebook was just the first incident: whoever’s after my father’s research — my research — is going to continue snooping around until they find what they’re looking for.
“If you agree to leave with me now, I can fill you in with the specifics of the job on the way. I am prepared to make you an offer up front — take it or leave it — of one million dollars. If you stay with me for all six months, I’ll pay you another million. I know you’d like to get back your mother, but give me the next six months of your life, and you’ll be set for the rest of it.
“Oh, and suffice it say, anything we can do for your mother’s health will be done. If we find a treatment — and I believe we will — for your mother’s paralysis, you can consider her healed, all expenses paid.”
Bryce was stunned. Two million dollars in six months? He couldn’t imagine what this guy would want him to do — it seemed too good to be true. “Well, it sounds like a pretty fantastic offer, but I don’t know anything about your company — what’s the catch? Why are you so interested in protection?”
Whittenfield sighed, but didn’t hesitate in his response. He stood and walked to
the foot of Bryce’s bed. “The reason you have never heard of us is that we have been continuing along the same line of research since the mid-1930s that has paralleled a similar, yet much more popularized topic in American culture.
“My father’s initial experimentation in the field of crystal-Uranium synthesis led to a small team of researchers — my father included — discovering the unique characteristics of the Uranium element’s isotopes. The work was highly classified, but of extreme importance to the U.S. Government, and in 1939 an official project was initiated, called the ‘Development of Substitute Materials.’”
Bryce glanced up sharply at the man standing before him. His mind raced as he tried to place what this man — James Whittenfield, Jr. — had just said. Where had he heard of that before?
“My father’s research was paramount to modern American history. What my father’s discoveries led to — what that team ended up becoming — was the foundation for the atomic bomb. Their project was called the ‘Development of Substitute Materials,’ but the American population now knows it by its codename: ‘The Manhattan Project.’”
7
10:46 pm - University of New Mexico - Department of Ancient Studies, Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA
Professor Jensen Andrews felt exhausted, and it was only Wednesday. It seemed like as he got older, the days got shorter, yet somehow he ended up even busier. Tonight he had a stack of papers in front of him that needed to be read and graded, but he’d pushed them aside and was now hunched over a National Geographic magazine, fighting back much-needed sleep. He had intended to take a break from grading the essays — an hour ago. It was approaching midnight, and he wondered if it would be easier to just sleep on his office’s futon mattress instead of driving all the way home.
