Mark One

by John Hindmarsh

  Mark moved swiftly, his fingers hit a switch, and one of the cycling monitors stopped, the image constant, locked in real time. He examined the display carefully. On the right side of the frame he could make out a person’s leg. As he examined the image more intently, he identified a portion of a body as well. The body was on the ground and he was certain it was the security guard. He tried to toggle the angle; however, the camera would not move far enough to increase its coverage of the scene. He checked the location.

  The camera was focused on the front of one of LifeLong’s staff houses, occupied by a researcher and his partner, Tommy and Frankie Long, both laboratory technicians. The staff houses were grouped together on the far side of the complex. The body was on the edge of the front steps of the house. Mark could not determine whether the guard was alive and unconscious, or dead. He picked up the security phone, which connected directly to the security company’s monitoring facility in Baltimore. He listened. His expression darkened with worry. There was no dial tone. He tripped the phone’s on-off switch again and again. Still there was no dial tone.

  He did not try his cell phone. LifeLong was located in a small valley surrounded by high hills and was completely sheltered from cell phone services. If the landline was cut, there was only one way to get help. He would need to ride his motorcycle to the top of the hill and make a call from there. However, if there really were intruders, he could not imagine they would readily permit him to send a message for help.

  Mark reached for the internal phone and keyed in Dr. Otto’s emergency number. The phone rang. He listened to the ringing tone for thirty seconds. He disconnected and keyed in Dr. Anna’s emergency number. Mark let her phone ring for a minute. His concerns intensified. For both doctors to be unavailable on their emergency phones was not just a rare event, it was an unheard of event. Damn, he thought, this is getting serious, and if there are intruders, it seems they aren’t very friendly.

  He jumped back over the security desk and ran to his office. He had equipment packed and ready for possible emergencies. Schmidt had been adamant. Always have a runaway bag packed and ready to go. Documents, money, some changes of clothing. Some rations. A weapon. Mark had learned the lesson thoroughly and his runaway gear was packed and ready in his office. He opened the door and picked up the backpack. It was lightweight and slim and would not hinder his movements. Quickly slipping the straps over his shoulders, he unlocked his desk drawer and retrieved his pistol, a Glock 23 with a full magazine. He checked the weapon. The Glock, popular with law enforcement officers, had a very good reputation and he was comfortable with its performance in target practice. Mark stuffed two extra magazines into his pockets. Each held 13 rounds; if he needed more than three magazines he was in deep trouble.

  He was about to leave the small office when he remembered the automated weapon which Schmidt had left for him to program and test. He had completed his tasks with it and was waiting for Schmidt’s next visit, to return the weapon. That pack was a lot heavier; it contained not just the rifle itself, but also a small computer, servomechanisms, and ammunition for a range of targets. He smiled. If there were intruders, they would soon get a surprise.

  His first task was to check on his parents. Back at the security desk he turned off the interior lights and exited through the double doors, stepping quickly to the side. He paused, listening. Snow was continuing to fall and the grounds and buildings were shrouded in white. The heavy presence of low clouds on the surrounding hills pressed down on him. Even with very few lights, just those necessary to aid the cameras and the security guard when he checked the grounds, the snow-reflected luminance provided enough light for his purpose.

  The wind had dropped and a sublime, expectant hush had fallen across the landscape. Nothing moved. Two concrete footpaths intersected the square which centered the LifeLong facilities, coincidentally creating a giant cross-haired target. About twenty yards away, along his immediate path, was an old water tower. The tank had been removed years before; however, the tower remained in place and Mark had claimed it as his own. He often used it for climbing exercises as well as somewhere to sit and contemplate, above the activities of the complex. The tower foundation would provide a good hiding place for the heavy weapon case, and he could use the top of the tower as his base, once he had determined the presence and whereabouts of any intruders.

  He stepped out onto the snow-covered grass and moved rapidly from tree to tree instead of walking along the concrete path. His footprints might be visible as he dodged along the line of trees—but he hoped, not as obvious. Falling snow began to fill his tracks, hiding his trail. He reached the tower and carefully placed the heavy weapon pack in a shadowed area beside a corner foundation and dusted the pack with snow to camouflage its presence. A casual passerby would not notice the grey and white container. Mark kept his backpack. He stood for a moment beside the tower and searched for movement. Everything was still, waiting breathlessly for some future unknown and unshaped event. He shivered, only partly from the cold.

  Mark used the trees along the path to hide his progress as he headed towards the doctors’ home, stopping every few yards to listen and check for movement. He was exposed, he realized, although the night and falling snow sheltered him to some degree. In his mind he could hear Schmidt giving instructions about the dangers of exposure to a possible enemy. He knew he would have felt a clip across the back of his head had Schmidt been nearby. Once he checked on the doctors, he would then check the condition of the security guard. Mark hoped his parents were safe, but he was growing more fearful the outcome would be otherwise.

  He reached the house without misadventure and climbed the front stairs to the entry porch. He tugged off a glove and tucked it into his belt. The front door was ajar and he stepped inside, Glock in hand. He pushed the door back into its almost closed position, ensuring it did not latch. Even though he was now living in a small apartment in the laboratory complex, this was his home, and he was familiar with the layout of the rooms. The building was two-storied, with bedrooms upstairs, and kitchen, dining and living rooms downstairs. In addition, there was a study downstairs towards the rear of the house.

  There were no lights showing and after a moment of consideration, Mark decided first to explore upstairs. The main bedroom was on the right. While he was aware he was intruding into personal areas, he was convinced something evil was in the house, which was justification enough for his actions. He stepped soundlessly up carpeted stairs. He had no desire to be detected by the deathly presence which was clamoring silently for his attention. He moved with extreme care.

  As he eased into the main bedroom he tugged a small LED torch from a side pocket of his backpack and switched it on. Mark was careful to select the red light to preserve his night vision. He quickly scanned the room and froze for four or five seconds. Fear mounted and he could feel his heartbeat racing. There was a body in the middle of the large double bed. It was Dr. Anna, and she had been shot. Just once, in the center of her forehead. There were no signs of a struggle. It seemed she had been asleep when her killer acted. He must have fired his single shot from the position where Mark was standing.

  He moved around the foot of the bed, exploring further. He was at the edge of hyperventilating. His unvoiced fears were realized as he saw Dr. Otto’s body, crumpled on the floor beside the bed. He too had been shot, once in the center of his forehead. Mark did not need to check either body for life signs. He switched off his torch and returned it to his backpack. Shaking with grief, restraining nausea, he stood at the top of the stairs, considering his next move. His anger built. The two doctors were the closest he would ever come to having real parents. He brushed away tears. He could not afford to mourn until he had revenged the deaths of his friends, his family.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  “My name is Archimedes Schmidt.”

  The speaker faced the lineup of ten trainees: seven men and three women. He was about six feet tall, heavily built, obviously fit,
with gray hair cut very short. Two men and one woman stood behind him. They all wore anonymous, military-styled clothing, and also looked to be very fit.

  He continured. “Welcome to our training campus. For most of you, your employers have chosen you to experience and evaluate our training approach and courses. My training team’s going to enjoy providing one of the toughest training courses you will ever experience.”

  Mark stared straight ahead. He did not try to glance at his companions. This was the first time he had traveled away from his current home at LifeLong, the first time he had associated closely with so many strangers, and he did not know what to expect. No one responded to their instructor’s statement.

  “I’m your lead instructor. You may call me Schmidt. I have three assistants. They’re qualified and certified in a number of disciplines. You’ll remember their names and they’ll try to remember yours. We apply military-style discipline. Merit and demerit points will be awarded. If you have complaints about our demands on you, contact your employers. The course content will be both physical and intellectual. You should’ve received details of what you’ll cover in the next three months. If not, speak to me, otherwise to one of the other instructors at any evening break. Your barracks are behind you. Single rooms. Names on doors. You’ve thirty minutes to find your room, put away your gear, dress for your first field exercise, and return here. Remember, untidy rooms will attract demerits. Go!”

  The trainees broke off with a buzz of brief conversations and hurried towards the newly constructed barracks. It was located on a property in upper New York State, fronting Lake Champlain beside Port au Roche National Park and had the appearance and feel of a farm, although no animals were in sight. Nearby was a more substantial, older building, constructed to a European style reminiscent of French architecture, with its gray slate roof incongruously topped with antennae which would not look out of place atop a Russian embassy. According to the sign at the entrance, the property had at some recent time been used as a small hotel.

  This, Mark belatedly realized, would be his home for the next three months.

  He carried a duffle bag containing his clothes, and a small backpack. The latter contained a laptop computer and miscellaneous personal items. Most of the other attendees were similarly equipped. One or two had suitcases, large wheeled monsters rattling and whining as they were dragged across the tarmac in front of the buildings. Dr. Otto had handed joining instructions to him a week ago and they clearly stated that course attendees were to bring only a duffle bag, a laptop and backpack. He had packed according to those instructions.

  Mark quickly joined the other trainees heading to the barracks. He found a door labeled with his name and stepped inside his new room. It was a mess. Sawdust and scrap timber were scattered across the floor. He thought he understood the training approach. He placed his duffle and backpack down and rushed back into the corridor, looking for a janitor’s room. He was the second person to do so. A young woman was just ahead of him. He grabbed a broom and pan from the janitor’s supplies and hurried back. Ten minutes later his room was clean. He replaced the broom and pan and returned to his room. He changed quickly into his exercise clothes and runners and unpacked and tidied away the contents of his duffle bag. He was the second trainee to rejoin the line in front of the trainers. Twenty-nine minutes, he estimated.

  Schmidt ticked off each arrival on the screen of his small notebook. When all ten trainees had reassembled, two trainers entered the building. They were tasked to conduct a quick inspection of each room, after which they returned for a quiet conference with Schmidt.

  “At the end of each day,” Schmidt announced. “we’ll post the point score for the day, together with accumulated results. To give you an idea—so far, two of you scored highly, one with maximum merit points. The remainder of the team managed to gather between five to twenty-five demerits.” There was a burst of concerned comments from the trainees. Schmidt tapped his notebook, his stern demeanor silencing the group. “Let me make the following clear to you all. There is no appeal. I expect silence while I am addressing you, otherwise more demerits will follow. Understood?”

  There was a chorus of assents.

  “Good. Now we’re going to run. This is not a race. The minimum target is eight miles. Cover less and you’ll attract demerits. Cover more and you’ll earn merits. We marked out a four mile trail for you. It follows the lakeshore and returns back here. An instructor will lead off. Two instructors will maintain pace with the middle of the team. I’ll follow the last runner. Hydrate frequently, there’s enough water here and along the way. We’ve just over four hours before showers and dinner. Sam, lead the way.”

  The trail took them through a small wooded area and across green fields. It dipped and climbed gentle hills and ran beside a small stream for a short while. Then it followed the lake foreshore before breaking away and returning to the starting point. The team of trainees ran silently, conserving energy. After the first thirty minutes or so, two trainees, older men, dropped out. They had covered five miles, three miles under the minimum required by Schmidt. At sixty minutes, three more trainees dropped out. They had managed ten miles. After the second hour, there were two trainees and two instructors still maintaining pace. They had covered sixteen miles. It was short of marathon timing, but still a challenging pace. At three hours, there was just Mark and Sam, the instructor who had led the team at the start.

  Sam then increased his pace, challenging Mark. He stepped up his pace and matched Sam, step by step. Thirty minutes into the fourth hour, Mark dropped out. He collapsed at the line, struggling for breath, exhausted. He did not hear the applause, led by Schmidt. He slowly hobbled to the showers, and later barely made the short walk to the dining room in the main building.

  At the close of the evening meal, Schmidt tapped his glass and the conversations slowed and silenced. “Team, well done for your first day. There are one or two things I forgot to mention earlier. You need to be ready at 0600 tomorrow for a four-mile hike, for which we’ve scheduled one hour. Yes, it’ll be a regular morning feature. Men will carry thirty pound packs. Ladies, we’ll allow you to start with twenty pound packs. Packs and weights have been dropped off at each room. Weights and/or distances may be increased as we progress. Your first study course is scheduled to commence at 0900. Detailed course topics and material will be available thirty minutes beforehand. Somehow, you need to include showers, room cleanup, laundry—oh, yes, and breakfast—before the first course commences.”

  Sam leaned over and made a comment to Schmidt. He tapped the glass again. “Today’s points have been posted. Mark Midway has the top score. Next is MayAnn Freewell. Congratulations, to both of you. The rest of the group—you’ve been challenged. This evening is free time. Settle in, relax. It’s probably going to be the last free evening you enjoy for some time.”

  So much for keeping a low profile, thought Mark. Dr. Otto had cautioned him, he had explained to Mark the absolute necessity of maintaining his privacy; however, the course offered a challenge, and Mark was eager to participate. He intended to do his best. He had competition, he thought, from MayAnn. He estimated she was in her thirties, and—he discovered later—on an FBI rapid promotion path.

  The barracks included a larger recreation lounge room where the trainees could spend their spare time. It was comfortably furnished and because this was the first evening, all the attendees were relaxing, some with coffee or soft drinks. Alcohol was banned and anyone caught drinking during the next three months would be dropped from the course. Schmidt had explained that there would be no exceptions to this rule.

  MayAnn approached Mark and congratulated him for his top score. Immediately two of the men attending the course, overhearing their conversation, made disparaging comments. Toby Miles, a young Arizonan deputy sheriff, was the first to offer his advice. “Don’t get in my way, Midway. This is a course for men, not for boys.” He leered at MayAnn. “You should talk to real men, honey.”

  His
companion, another deputy sheriff, added his support. “Yeah, babe,” he drawled, “we can show you a good time.”

  “I suspect,” responded MayAnn, addressing both men, “even your department has standards for behavior. Perhaps you should apply them here, because I understand the overall assessment for this course includes group and team interaction.”

  Mark remained silent. He was still absorbing implications of the group dynamics. The two men backed off, glaring their venom at him. MayAnn waited until they were at the far side of the room, then smiled at Mark. “I suppose they could be part of a setup, to see how we react.”

  “Somehow I doubt it,” said Mark. “I think we just encountered the lowest behavior standard. I suspect there’ll be more of it.”

  ~~~

  The four-mile morning hike set the pattern for the day. It was almost a walking stumble in his case, thought Mark, his muscles still suffering from the longer run of the previous day. He barely survived the circuit, finishing with only enough time to carry out his other tasks. Other attendees were just as challenged, he realized, even if they had not run so far the day before. It was to be a continuing pattern. There was little time for conversation, and no time to spare for idle thought.

  The course curriculum mixed theory and practice and covered a wide range of law enforcement topics from criminal justice to military history. Classroom lectures were followed by field exercises. Grading was aggressive. Weekend breaks were used to catch up on reading reference material. It was a full thirteen week commitment, with no time off for weekends. There were no exceptions. The unfortunate trainee who had a home emergency, was not permitted to return, on the basis he would be unable to catch up with the coursework after a week’s absence.

  Vague friendships and groups started to form as the course continued. Mark and MayAnn were joined by Lee Yu, and the three of them formed a formidable point scoring trio, both in the classroom and on the field. MayAnn had been tasked with evaluating the course to determine if components could be added to FBI training. Lee was ethnic Chinese from Singapore, and was evaluating the course for the RSAF, to determine if components could be added to the Republic of Singapore Air Force’s training schedule. Mark’s cover was simple: if asked, he replied he was considering an application to either the Army or law enforcement, and wanted the experience. He was the only privately funded attendee. The others all had been sponsored by military or by various law enforcement organizations. As the weeks flashed past it seemed the members of the trio each took turns leading the points table. The other trainees decided to take up the challenge, and worked even harder to unseat the trio.