Synbat tgb-3

by Bob Mayer

  Ward knew that there were two reasons why Merrit was working for the government; they were the same two reasons he had. First, the Pentagon was one of the few institutions left that had the funds to do this type of research. Federal funding for research at universities and private institutions had all but dried up as the deficit noose tightened. Second, and even more important for Ward, working for the Pentagon released them from the stringent federal guidelines that severely limited private research. It was ironic that federal research guidelines, especially for such things as experimentation with animals or dangerous viruses, applied only to non-federally funded, unclassified research. Biotech was one of the few places where the talents of as qualified and brilliant a person as Merrit could be fully used. It was a means to an end.

  Ward greeted Merrit at her car, as he had the security guard. She looked at him questioningly as she got out.

  "What's going on, Doctor Ward? The guard is at the entrance to the drive sending everyone else home. He said something about a security check by the feds."

  "Someone tried to steal the Synbats last night."

  Merrit blinked in surprise. "Who?"

  "I don't know." He gestured over his shoulder at the blood-stained glass, and Merrit's eyes grew wide. "Whoever they were, they didn't do a very good job. There's two more bodies down in the lab inside the inner containment."

  "Didn't the guard stop them?"

  Ward rolled his eyes. Merrit had worked on this project as long as he had, but it was obvious that she had never really thought through the implications of what they were creating. "The people breaking in probably killed the guard, Merrit. Or the guard was in on it with them. Not only are the Synbats gone, but they took the backpacks with them."

  Ward led her into the building, locking the door behind them. As Merrit caught her first glimpse of the eviscerated body, she gasped and staggered back, grabbing onto the security console for support. Ward led her to a seat on the far side of the console, out of sight of the body, while he sat down in front of the computer.

  "But how did they get out?" Merrit asked in a weak voice.

  "I don't know yet," Ward replied.

  "I should have been called," Merrit mumbled. She looked up. "We have to terminate them immediately."

  Ward shook his head. "That's two years of work down the drain."

  "We can rebuild. We can't let someone have the Synbats or let them run free, especially with the backpacks."

  Ward leaned forward in his chair. "We can't be sure we can rebuild. It took us more than twenty thousand transgenic attempts to get this generation as viable results. Without the Synbats we'd have to start all over again from scratch except for the data we have in the computer. And with the effect that this escape and these deaths are going to have, we probably won't get that chance. With the Synbats still alive we have a slim chance of keeping this project going. Without them, we're sunk. We have to catch them alive."

  Merrit was obstinate. "But they killed and they'll do it again unless we terminate them."

  She still didn't understand, Ward realized angrily. "Damnit, of course they killed! The goddamn Pentagon ought to be happy that their toy worked."

  Merrit gazed at Ward with a level, almost dead stare. "We need to terminate immediately."

  Ward jumped to his feet and leaned his face into Merrit's. "They're a weapon! Weapons kill! That's all Trollers' Black Budget people care about. We gave them what they wanted! It isn't our fault they escaped. The security setup is the government's responsibility."

  Ward took a deep breath and sat back down. He looked Merrit in the eye. "We can still keep this going if we get the Synbats back. We need them to work on the refinements."

  Merrit's tone was softer but her message wasn't. "We can find out all we need to know from postmortem work on the bodies and the data we've already collected. Plus we had the aberration with this generation that was unacceptable. We've got to terminate."

  Ward stuck to his position. "You know as well as I do that the information we need is in the nervous system and the brain. Any postmortem brain material needs to be frozen and preserved within fifteen seconds of death in order to do any sort of valid analysis. And we'd have to have injected the tracers prior to death." He shook his head. "We aren't even fifty percent done with our live work on the four of them."

  Ward remained firm in his decision. "Let's get the map from downstairs and see which way they went. We need to retrieve the direction finder and get the azimuth."

  Fort Campbell Post Headquarters

  7:14 A.M.

  The phone call from Agent Freeman of the Nashville Defense Intelligence Agency regional office had been logged in by the Fort Campbell staff duty officer (SDO) at 6:46 A.M. Since that time, the SDO, Major Johnson, had spent twenty-five fruitless minutes trying to track down someone who could act on the message he had been given. This Freeman fellow could not have picked a worse time to call, Johnson fumed. At the present moment, almost every soldier on Fort Campbell was out doing morning physical fitness training.

  Fort Campbell was home to almost twenty-three thousand soldiers, including the 101st Airborne (Air Assault) Division, the 5th Special Forces Group (Airborne), and the Headquarters for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. Straddling the Tennessee-Kentucky border, the sprawling 105,000-acre military reservation was fifty-five miles northwest of Nashville. The main post was on the eastern end of the reservation; the western end of the Fort Campbell training area came within nine miles of site seven. Because of the fort's location, it had been designated by the DIA to supply the emergency response force for any incidents involving site seven along with several other sites in Tennessee and Kentucky. At the present moment, it wasn't doing a very good job of fulfilling that mission.

  Major Johnson knew nothing about the alert code words that Freeman had relayed to him. Johnson was a field artillery officer who pulled SDO every few months on a rotating roster. His SDO instruction book directed him to contact someone at the post's Directorate of Plans and Training Management (DPTM) in response to such a call from the DIA. Unfortunately, no one was answering the phone. Johnson knew that the military members of DPTM were out doing physical training and probably wouldn't be in until about nine. The civilian workers were still making their way onto post for their 8 A.M. work call.

  Johnson kept ringing the DPTM number every three minutes, hoping that sooner or later — hopefully sooner — someone would answer. Until then there was nothing else he could do. He had already rung up the on-call person listed in his instruction book, only to be told by a grumpy wife that her husband had left home for physical training a half hour ago.

  Johnson looked at the message he had written in his duty log: Site Seven. Priority One Alert. Reference DIA Contingency Plan One Seven. Johnson was smart enough to realize that anything labeled "Priority One Alert" had to be serious, which was why he swore every time he called DPTM and didn't get an answer. Finally, at 0716, the line was lifted on the other end.

  Biotech Engineering

  7:18 A.M.

  Ward checked the azimuth on the portable computer screen one last time, then drew a pencil line across the topographic map. The mark went west from the lab site toward Lake Barkley and the Land Between the Lakes recreation area on the far side of the lake.

  "They're along this line, which means that they weren't taken or else they certainly would be farther away. They must have killed all the men who were trying to take them."

  Ward pointed at the map. "They're in an uninhabited area. There's nothing between here and the lake. They aren't in a position to hurt anyone. I was right not to terminate them."

  He looked up at Merrit. She looked more pale than usual. The sight of the two dead men, seen when they had gone downstairs to pick up the transponder, had stunned her into sickness. She responded quietly to Ward's reasoning. "As long as they stay where they are, they most likely won't be a problem. But we still must terminate them."

  Ward ignored her and fo
cused on the green screen of the computer. The antenna on the roof was picking up the signal emitted by the small radio transceivers built into the collars that the Synbats wore. Since only one azimuth was being displayed, the four Synbats were together. The number had not changed at all, which meant that they were either sitting still or moving in an exact straight line away from the lab. Ward suspected the former. Based on the strength of the signal, the computer estimated that they were within five kilometers of the lab.

  Ward was confident that once Freeman got here with some of his people, they would be able to track down the Synbats. Of course, that would be after he got through explaining to Freeman why he hadn't terminated as ordered. Confronting Freeman didn't worry Ward very much. He was more concerned about whoever flew in later today from D.C. representing General Trollers. Then there would probably be some questions asked that Ward didn't particularly want to answer. The only thing he could use in his defense was the argument that security was the DIA's responsibility, not his.

  With that thought still foremost in his mind, Ward heard the distant chatter of helicopter blades pulse through the walls of the building. He got up from the desk, gesturing for Merrit to take his place. "Monitor the computer. Let me know if they move."

  He made his way to the front door and unlocked it. A small civilian helicopter swung around and slowly descended into the parking lot. A tall black man with a briefcase got out and ran over to Ward's location. The helicopter immediately lifted and flew off to the south.

  The site chief stuck out his hand. "Doctor Ward."

  The DIA agent returned the handshake. "Agent Freeman. Let's go inside."

  As soon as they stepped inside, Freeman walked over to the body and knelt down. He stared at it for a while, then finally stood, going with Ward to the security console. Merrit stood up to meet the two approaching men and Ward made the introductions. "Agent Freeman, this is Doctor Merrit. She's my primary assistant here at Biotech."

  Freeman briefly shook her hand and then looked at Ward. "Give me an update on what you have."

  Ward gestured at the desktop. "We've got their azimuth. I've hooked up the portable computer to the cable from the roof antenna." He pointed at the topographical map. "They're somewhere along this line, between here and the lake and not moving. Less than five kilometers away."

  Freeman nodded, a slight look of relief softening his face. "So they're still in the vicinity. Good. All we have to do now is go in and scoop up the bodies."

  Ward briefly glanced at Merrit, then returned his attention to the DIA agent. "I've got tranquilizer guns down in the lab that we've used to — "

  Freeman cut him off. "What do you mean, tranquilizer guns? They're supposed to be dead."

  Ward faced the larger man. "I didn't terminate them. They're too valuable to waste." He held up a hand to forestall Freeman's reaction. "They're one of a kind. I'm not sure we could ever produce such creatures again. We need data we can only get from them alive." He stabbed a finger at the map. "They're in an uninhabited area. We go out and tranquilize them and bring them back."

  "I told you to terminate." Freeman pulled a folder marked top secret out of his briefcase and slapped it on the desktop. "This is what you agreed to with my predecessor when you set up this place. It was one of the security stipulations behind this project. It's not a decision you and I can make. It's a requirement." Another thought struck Freeman as he remembered something from the file he'd read on the flight here. "What about the backpacks?"

  Ward sighed. "They're gone. The backpacks need to be kept below freezing to remain static. As soon as they get above freezing they will begin to initiate. Outside the controlled environment of the lab, I doubt that will happen successfully. Which makes it even more imperative that we get the Synbats back alive."

  Freeman was working himself into real anger. "You didn't tell me that the backpacks were gone too! That should have been in your phone call. That makes it all the more important you terminate." Freeman took a step closer to Ward. "Terminate them now."

  Ward stood his ground. "No."

  "I'll do it." The two men swung around in surprise. Merrit sat in front of the portable computer.

  "You can't!" cried Ward, reaching toward her.

  Freeman reached out one massive hand and grabbed Ward's arm in a vicelike grip. "Leave her alone."

  Merrit looked at Ward, her face set. "After seeing those bodies, we can't allow them to run around out there. We don't know what they're capable of. We can't take the chance."

  Ward and Freeman looked over Merrit's shoulder as she entered her level four authorization and the screen glowed with the final termination prompt.

  TERMINATION REQUIRES LEVEL FOUR AUTHORIZATION.

  ENTER LEVEL FOUR CODE:

  Merrit's fingers flashed across the keyboard: PARLOR CRISIS. The screen cleared and then new words formed:

  TARGETS ARE ON AZIMUTH OF 202 DEGREES MAGNETIC.

  ENTER TERMINATION CODE WORD:

  Merrit looked up briefly and then tapped in eight letters, replacing the empty spaces one by one: CAULDRON.

  Her right index finger slid over the keyboard and hovered above the ENTER key. Merrit never even looked up at Doctor Ward as she hit the key. The electronic message was beamed from the antenna on the roof to the radio transceiver in the collars. The transceiver tripped a fuse that ignited the explosive charge built into the radio collars. The azimuth on the screen disappeared as the homing devices were destroyed along with the collars.

  Freeman released Ward. The Biotech chief slumped wearily down into a chair. It was all over now. Nothing left to do but collect the pieces.

  Freeman headed out to the front door. "Let's get the lobby cleaned up before we start receiving visitors."

  Fort Campbell

  7:34 A.M.

  Once the alert reached the full colonel in charge of DPTM, the reaction process speeded up. The colonel, still wearing his sweat-soaked PT uniform, opened up his office safe and pulled out the classified DIA contingency files. He leafed through until he found plan 17.

  There wasn't much information — just a few basic instructions. The plan called for a small armed reaction force to be airlifted to a grid coordinate just to the west of the Fort Campbell Military Reservation. The colonel frowned at the requirement for all personnel involved to have security clearances. That ruled out sending a squad or platoon of infantry from the 101st.

  The colonel picked up his phone and dialed five numbers.

  The commander of the 5th Special Forces Group answered the phone on the first ring. "Colonel Hossey," the stocky officer growled into the phone.

  Since breaking his left arm on a parachute operation a month ago, Hossey had been using the PT hour to finish some of his daily paperwork. That freed up time later in the day for physical therapy at the hospital, but it didn't do much to improve his normally gruff temperament.

  "Karl, this is Mike Lewis over at DPTM. I've got a priority alert from the Defense Intelligence Agency in Nashville and I need to borrow some of your soldiers."

  Hossey frowned. "What for?"

  "We're not cleared to know that. All I've got is the alert and a contingency plan tasking for a squad-sized element — all of whom must have at least secret level clearances — to get on helicopters as soon as possible and be airlifted to a set of coordinates. I'm also not cleared to give you the location. We're behind the power curve timewise reacting to this because of screwups on my end, so I'd appreciate it if you could put this together as soon as possible. I've already alerted a couple of choppers and they'll be at PZ twelve by 0800."

  Bullshit, was Hossey's unspoken reaction. In his book DIA meant dumb insolent assholes because of previous encounters over a twenty-four-year career. Bullshit, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about it. His men had been used on more than one classified reaction mission since he'd been in command, and one of the banes of commanding a Special Forces unit was that even the commander sometimes didn't know what his own men w
ere doing. And Hossey had firsthand knowledge of what could happen when a commander didn't keep personal track of his men. He had learned that harsh lesson in his previous command of the Special Forces Detachment in Korea; memory of that fiasco made his blood pressure rise every time he got a message like the one that had just been relayed.

  "All right. I'll get you a team." Hossey looked at the clock and calculated. "I'll have them armed and at PZ twelve in twenty minutes. Anything special they need to know?"

  "Not as far as I know. The plan says just that they need to be armed with live ammo."

  "All right. Out here."

  Hossey slammed down the phone and thought for a second. He picked up his phone again and dialed the headquarters of his 3d Battalion.

  Chapter 3

  Fort Campbell Operations Shop, 3d Battalion,

  5th Special Forces Group (Airborne)

  7:35 A.M.

  "Shit," the burly soldier muttered, stretching out his left leg straight from the seat. In spite of the pain, he worked the knee — bending and straightening it — for twenty more seconds as beads of sweat dotted his forehead. The doctor had told him not to move the knee for another two weeks, but he was damned if he'd sit here on his rear any longer than he had to.

  The buzz of the secure STU III phone interrupted the regime. A large gnarled hand shot out and curled around the receiver. "3302. Sergeant Major Powers. This line is unsecure, sir."

  "Powers, this is Colonel Hossey. Go secure." There was a pause as Powers pushed the button on his phone, then the colonel's voice continued. "Dan, I want a team at PZ twelve in nineteen minutes. They need to be armed and ready for a deployment. Have them draw a basic load of live ammunition from the arms room. Got that?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There'll be two choppers landing at that time to take the team to an LZ where they will be opcon to someone from the DIA. That's all I have, so don't bother asking any questions."