Forging the Nightmare: A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller

by J. J. Carlson

  Forging the Nightmare

  J. J. Carlson

  Copyright © 2017 J. J. Carlson

  All rights reserved.

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  “The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who

  look on and do nothing.”

  -Albert Einstein

  Prologue

  Pain. Darkness and pain.

  Jarrod Hawkins was strapped to a stainless-steel operating table with eight surgeons hovering over him. He took a deep breath, sucking air in through his mouth and nose. He could not see anything, but he could feel more than he ever thought possible. The room appeared pitch black to his eyes, but information from his other senses flooded his brain. The doctor’s hushed tones reverberated off the walls. He could feel the size of the concrete room around him and the density of the steel double-doors that served as the only point of egress.

  Jarrod was completely naked on the silver table except for a pair of black metallic bands forming an “X” over his chest and wireless electrodes dotting his body. A set of full-spectrum lights hung over the table, illuminating every part of Jarrod's muscular physique.

  A male and a female surgeon moved toward him. They leaned in close and started taping wires to his neck. They then hooked the ends of the wires to four terminals on his skull. Underneath the terminals, needle-like sensors extended into his brain. A male on his left spoke into a microphone, describing every step of the procedure. Closer to the door, five men stood shoulder to shoulder. Lightweight body armor covered their arms, legs, and necks. Kevlar hung inside plate carriers on their chests. Their helmets contained advanced communications equipment and sensors for augmented perception that fed into heads-up displays in their visors.

  Though they were all heavily armed, Jarrod could smell anxiety and aggression on four of the five guards. Two of the men shifted nervously on their feet. Another reached behind his visor to wipe sweat from around his eye. Only the guard in the corner remained focused and impassive. Jarrod could smell and taste all of it through the pheromones, neurotransmitters, hormones, and waste products that reach the air through sweat glands. The surgeons gave off a chaotic mixture of scents. Some smelled of excitement and pride; others reeked of guilt and fear.

  Jarrod categorized every piece of information he could sense within the room, then expanded his silent reconnaissance. Behind the operating room’s steel doors, two sets of glass doors, and fifty feet down the hallway, a woman and a man in white lab coats conversed in hushed tones.

  “I can’t believe they’re going through with this, even after all of my recommendations…” The female said, letting her words trail off.

  “There was nothing you or I could have said to stop them,” the male responded. “The fact that they are moving forward after yesterday’s incident is proof of that.”

  Her eyes flashed at the memory. “What happened yesterday only proved my deepest reservations.” She was no longer whispering. “Jarrod’s mind isn’t ready for this. They think their technology will countermand the damage that they did to him, but it won’t. He needs therapy.”

  Her clenched fists shook as she continued, “The idiots are operating on him without knowing what he’s capable of!”

  “Lord help them if he wakes up,” the man said. “In the event that he does, it might be better if you're not here.“

  Jarrod heard every word they said, his mind filing the conversation for later use. As his focus returned to the operating room, his instincts told him what to do next.

  A piercing scream filled the room, like the shriek of a freight train grinding its brakes for an emergency stop. The doctors simultaneously doubled over in pain, their hands pressed hard over their ears. Jarrod felt the guards raising their weapons. They were unaffected; their ears were protected by noise-canceling headsets.

  Jarrod’s throat shook from the effort and dozens of scenarios for an escape played out in his head. He could see the reactions of the guards, the layout of the room, all of the security measures in the entire building playing out before his mind’s eye. As he mapped out a primary, alternate, contingency, and emergency escape plan, a thick, dark liquid spread from the “X” on his chest. The screaming stopped, and the liquid washed over him until it covered his entire body. As it covered his face, he felt it connect with receptors on the outer surface of his eyes. Suddenly he could see again. He jolted slightly, not at what he saw, but how he saw it. He could see the entire room simultaneously. It was like looking through a wide, fish-eye lens, but without any distortion around the periphery of his vision.

  “Lower your weapons!” a doctor cried out. He held one arm up and made eye contact with the head security officer. His other hand was pressed against his right temple, and he was still doubled over from the pain. “We’ve come too far! We’ll turn up the sedative and get the subject under control. This sort of thing was expected—there's no need to act rashly.”

  None of the guards moved. Three submachine guns, a shotgun and a rifle remained trained on Jarrod’s now slick, ebony body. Another doctor stumbled over to a white instrument panel. He waved two fingers over a display and then slid them upwards. There was a faint clicking noise and a hum; a clear liquid began pumping up a tube directly into Jarrod’s spine.

  It was nearly a minute before the guards lowered their weapons. Jarrod’s chest was rising and falling steadily in apparent unconsciousness.

  The doctor that had tried to pacify the guards put his hands on his surgical hood and adjusted his safety glasses. “Now, if we all just remain calm,” he said, “we can finish making history.”

  Jarrod could feel the anesthetic coursing through his veins, but he was still acutely aware of everything around him. He felt a tingling sensation, and the numbness in his body began to dissipate in needle-like points. The points expanded into patches, and the patches into wide areas. Within moments, the effects of the drug were gone.

  His subconscious provided him with the reasoning for his actions. The shock of the scream will put them all on edge. The surgeons will flinch at even the slightest movement now. The guards will be coming down off their adrenaline rush soon, and then it will be time to attack.

  1

  It was a cool January morning near Charleston, South Carolina. Puffs of foggy breath trailed behind Jarrod as he jogged down the tree-lined road. The mature pines were tall, straight, and planted in even rows. The forested road was silent—not a single vehicle interrupted his thoughts. His house came into view, and he sprinted the last hundred yards to its gravel driveway. He slowed to a trot as if he had crossed a finish line, passing his old Ford Bronco, then stopping at the edge of the sidewalk that led to his front door. Breathing deeply, he admired the sturdy construction of his home. It was a new house, barely five years old, but it was built in the rustic style of an early twentieth century manor. The columns around the door heralded back to antiquity, contrasting with the modern, asymmetric landscaping. The massive garage door was closed, protecting Melody’s black Mercedes CLS550 from the elements. The living room curtains were drawn, but he could see light inside. Ascending the steps, he tried not to think about how much he was going to miss the house its occupants, whom he loved more than life itself.

  The smell of coffee greeted him as he opened the front door. He strode past the staircase, through the formal dining room, and into t
he kitchen. Melody was sitting at the breakfast bar in the center of the kitchen. Her silk, button up pajamas could have been formal attire if they had been made with a different fabric. Black hair draped down over her shoulders, and she sipped a cup of coffee while staring at the current issue of The Financial Journal.

  “My wife is going to be so mad when she finds out I let a supermodel use her kitchen,” Jarrod said as he walked over and opened the door to the refrigerator.

  “Shoes.” Melody replied without taking her eyes off the journal.

  Jarrod closed the refrigerator door.

  “Who's wearing shoes?” he asked, bending over to untie his dusty cross-trainers. “If you can give me a description, I'll hunt him down and inform him of our strict footwear policies.”

  “Well,” she said in a coy voice. “He’s about six feet tall, maybe one hundred and seventy-five pounds, modestly attractive, zero sense of style, and in desperate need of a shower.”

  “A hundred seventy pounds, actually,” Jarrod said with a shake of his head.

  He picked up his shoes, carried them toward the front door, and said, “Admit it, you love that I'm such a renegade. Your life is going to be so boring while I'm gone. I mean, who's gonna break your precious rules? Joshua?”

  “Doubtful,” Melody said, grabbing her coffee and following him into the dining room. “He's more of a stickler than I am.” Sighing, she added. “I really am going to miss you.

  He stopped in front of her and pushed aside a strand of her dark hair, caressing her high cheekbones as he tucked it behind her ear. “I'm gonna miss you, too. But this is a good opportunity for us. It’s a lot of money for a safe assignment. When I get back, we can all head to the beach and sip lemonade with sand between our toes.

  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, smiling. “That does sound nice.”

  He embraced her in a long hug, then led her into the kitchen. “What would you like for breakfast? I was thinking seared steak tips and smoked-paprika eggs with strawberry crepes on the side.”

  “That sounds fantastic,” Melody said as she slid back into her seat. “Just remember, we have to be on the road in two hours so you can make your flight.”

  “Two hours? Piece of cake,” Jarrod scoffed as he cracked an egg with a spoon.

  The smell of breakfast roused Joshua, his twelve-year-old son, who walked into the kitchen just in time to receive a steaming-hot plate.

  “Thanks, Dad,” he said in a scratchy voice. He took a bite of his eggs and chased it with a sip of orange juice. He shoveled food in, staring down at the counter from beneath sagging eyelids. He had nearly cleared his plate before he spoke again. “I don't want you to go, because then Mom will have to cook for us.”

  Melody looked offended, then ceded the point and shrugged. “I'll bring home takeout. We'll survive.”

  “It's nice to feel needed,” Jarrod said with a chuckle. “You're gonna be good for your Mom while I'm gone, right?”

  Josh looked at his mom and squinted for a moment. Looking back at his dad, he answered, “Maybe.”

  “Good enough for me,” Jarrod said, winking. He finished drying off a plate and slung the towel over his shoulder.

  “Are you scared, Dad? Yesterday I was reading about the Congo...” Josh looked down and started pushing a strawberry around his plate.

  “It's the Democratic Republic of the Congo,” Jarrod corrected him. He walked around the counter and put his hands-on Josh's shoulders, then spoke with an optimistic tone. “And things aren't always as bad as they seem on the internet. You don't have to worry about me; It’s my job to be careful. Besides, it'll only be for a couple of months.”

  Josh tilted his head back to look up at his father. “Do you think you'll see any gorillas there?”

  Jarrod laughed. “If I do, I promise I'll get a picture for you. Maybe I can even grab a little one to sneak home for you.”

  Josh smiled. “I wish!” He leaned back against Jarrod, who wrapped him up in a big hug. “I also wish I could go with you.”

  “Me too, buddy.” Jarrod smiled and patted Josh on the back. “Well, I'm gonna go hop in the shower. I have it on good authority that I am in desperate need of one.”

  Melody smiled, though Jarrod could see her eyes were glistening. Rather than linger in the silent anticipation of his trip, he turned and jogged up the stairs. In a few minutes, he had showered and shaved. He toweled off and put on a lightweight button-up shirt and ripstop-nylon pants. Melody showed up and leaned against the door frame as he was tying his boots.

  “I've got the car running,” she said, “and I packed you some snacks for the road.” Jarrod knew she was worried, even though she didn’t show it. She was always so strong, so good at hiding her emotions for his sake.

  “I'll be fine, love,” he assured her. “This is just another adventure for me.” Nodding toward her pajamas, he asked, “Are you going to wear those to drop me off?”

  Her jaw dropped as if he had just insulted her mother. She walked over to their massive walk-in closet. “I'll be ready in two minutes, and I won't look like I found my clothes in a thrift store dumpster.”

  Jarrod looked down at his clothes and frowned. “I think I look very professional,” he mumbled. Melody smiled and pulled a maroon dress off of its hangar.

  He walked down the stairs and put on his coat, then picked up his backpack and suitcase from their place next to the door. Moving down the outside steps, he passed through the open garage door to the black Mercedes. Opening the rear driver's side door, he tossed his bags onto the back seat next to Josh, who had been waiting patiently.

  “Did you forget anything, Dad?” Josh asked as his father settled into the front passenger seat.

  Jarrod paused to think, then leaned his head back. “I forgot my gorilla trap. But it's okay, I think I can buy one at the airport.”

  Josh laughed. “If you say so, Dad.”

  A moment later, melody entered the garage. She was wearing a black wool coat over a sleek maroon dress and beige, high-heeled boots.

  Jarrod leaned in as she opened the door. “I don't know, that outfit screams thrift store to me.”

  She slapped him in the chest with her purse as she eased into the driver's seat, then glared at him before putting the car into gear.

  Few words were spoken on the drive to the airport. Jarrod and Melody were able to hold back their tears for Josh’s sake, and even Josh didn't cry until his father had disappeared through the doors of the Charleston airport. The check-in and security check went smoothly. Within half an hour, Jarrod was seated in the terminal, ready for the long trip.

  Though he was only thirty-five, Jarrod had worked in personal security for fifteen years. His career as a professional bodyguard had taken him to six different continents and over thirty countries. He had lost blood, tears, and friends along the way, but he never resented the job. For every friend he lost, he had protected a dozen more. Still, the grisly work had taken its toll. In recent years, he had accepted fewer and fewer contracts. He spent more time at home with his family, and he tried not to dwell on the bloodshed that marked his younger years.

  Sitting by himself in the terminal, Jarrod smiled. It had been nearly five years since he had killed a man. He hoped he could keep his streak going—it was good for his mental health. Lately, he only accepted government protection jobs. Ambassadors, congressmen, and federal aid workers normally had layers of protection, and with his breadth of experience and high security clearance, Jarrod was usually in the layer closest to the assets. Because of this, he rarely had cause to fire his weapon. His mind, more than his precise aim, was his best asset.

  A woman’s practiced voice came over the public-address system, letting the first-class-passengers know that they may begin boarding. Jarrod had a first-class ticket, but he didn’t respond to the call. He pretended to be engrossed in a magazine while he subtly scanned the growing line of passengers. When only a few stragglers remained, he tossed the magazine aside and got in line
.

  The first leg was a short flight to Atlanta. Then, after a three-hour layover, he boarded a Boeing 747 for the long flight to Johannesburg, South Africa. There were more layovers between Johannesburg, Kinshasa, and Kindu in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. He passed the long, idle hours by reading security updates, brushing up on his French, and filling out crossword puzzles. With nearly two full days of travel behind him, the wheels of his small, propeller-driven plane touched down in Kindu.

  Jarrod put on his sunglasses as he stepped onto the stairs of the aircraft’s clamshell door and wrinkled his nose at the familiar smell of burning garbage and diesel fumes. He had been to six different countries in Africa. The ones he had visited either lacked or didn’t enforce air-quality laws, and the result was an ever-present, sickly odor. He reached the bottom of the stairs, but hesitated before stepping onto the runway.

  Something was off. His attention snapped to a man walking down the runway. He had to be nearly one hundred yards away, but Jarrod could sense something in his gait. It was purposeful, and confident, the walk of a trained killer.

  Moving cautiously, Jarrod approached the man, sizing up his quarry. He was burly, perhaps two hundred and seventy-five pounds, with wide shoulders and a trim waist. His hair was cut short and his skin was deeply tanned. His over-sized polo shirt sagged over hard muscles, and there was a black strap running over his shoulder. As they drew closer, Jarrod saw something dark and metallic swing out from behind him. He recognized it immediately: a UMP 45 submachine gun.

  2

  Jarrod's stride lengthened as he approached the armed man. When they were about ten paces apart, he called out to him, “Beef, you giant tub of lard, how many of the locals have you eaten since you got here?”

  The two men closed the gap and embraced in a hug, thumping each other on the back.