“Sir, we’re still building our case. However, the matter is so inimical to the health of our military and law enforcement organizations, we considered it necessary to bring the current state to your attention. There is more, of course. The Navy intercepted a speedboat south of the Virgin Islands last week; the boat refused to stop and fired on the helicopter. The Navy later recovered two bodies, of Chinese or Singapore origin. We know one was Singaporean. BVIs authorities suspect the two men somehow bypassed their immigration processes and they cannot help us with further identification. The Navy believes the speedboat was heading to a Chinese research and survey vessel, some ten miles further south. One of the occupants had just shot and killed a contact with whom we were meeting. We recovered files from that contact and are currently investigating details contained in the material.”
The Secretary of Defense said, “I received a report on that event, because of your involvement, Schmidt. I can confirm the Navy’s actions and the details you mentioned. The Chinese vessel, the Fahsien, is known to us.”
Schmidt continued, “There’s one final point. We have reason to believe Cerberus has acquired or developed techniques allowing them to customize or design human DNA. We do not have complete or accurate specifications, but it seems improved healing, faster reflexes, added endurance, and higher intelligence are included in the enhancements.”
“Is that why they wanted this Midway person?” asked the Secretary of Homeland Security. “I understand he’s a laboratory specimen of some kind.”
Schmidt felt MayAnn bristle. He hid his personal indignation and said, “Sir, we would recruit Midway without hesitation. Yes, we believe he has some of the DNA customizations I mentioned. He is still a human.”
“Well, yes, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” came the reply.
“How dangerous is this military unit, this Alpha Company, 145th MP Battalion, if they’re all Cerberus people, with modified DNA?” asked the National Security Adviser.
“Ma’am, without further understanding of the DNA changes, we don’t know. If we use Midway as an example, earlier this year he was attacked by seven or eight experienced ex-soldiers who were using deadly force. They were part of a private army, and in defending himself, he killed all but one. He was unscathed. He has remarkable reflexes, strength, and is exceptionally intelligent. A military force, a company, of up to two hundred soldiers with similar abilities, in the right place at the right time, could have a devastating impact, whether against an external enemy or otherwise. We suspect Cerberus has a number of these resources. Unfortunately, we don’t know whether there are two hundred or two thousand personnel, or more, available to Cerberus. However, we’re extremely concerned at Cerberus’s ability to penetrate the US Government.”
“Can you suggest how we identify Cerberus members?” asked the Secretary of Homeland Security.
“DNA tests. Our laboratories can identify the typical DNA markers of Cerberus people, and we can use these markers to carry out DNA testing. When we get the senior members of this organization, we will have access to their records, and that will help us.”
“How close are you to identifying the Cerberus leadership?” asked the President.
“We believe we have images of the top four civilian executives,” said Schmidt. “We’re in the process of identifying these people and I expect we’ll have results within days.”
“Very good.”
“Mr. President, I have a suggestion.” The speaker was the Director of National Intelligence.
“Yes, Jeremiah?”
“I’ve known Schmidt professionally for a number of years and I believe he’s established his credentials with us. If he and Special Agent Freewell, whom I also know, have well-founded suspicions and, granted, perhaps only circumstantial evidence at this stage, we can conclude there is an organization called Cerberus, and it may have two hundred or two thousand members, or more, with customized DNA. Once we have the leaders, and assess what illegalities their people may have been involved in, and after dealing with the guilty, why don’t we take over the organization?”
***
Chapter 16
Schmidt thumped his desk after he completed his phone call. The metal top and sides resonated. He and MayAnn were back in Quantico and were sharing a larger office. There was a space for each to have a desk; they each were heavy, gray metal, refugees from a dismantled frigate. Or at least that was Schmidt’s opinion.
MayAnn looked up from her laptop. “Another frustrating dead end?”
“I hate to tell you.”
Alarm filled MayAnn’s face. “That serious?”
“You’ll get the news shortly. Apparently, a temporary ICU nurse, assisted by persons unknown, rolled a gurney containing a still unconscious Special Agent Gilmore out of the Boston Medical Center to a waiting vehicle. They had all the right paperwork, genuine enough to fool the FBI agent on duty.”
MayAnn swore. “Can we trace the vehicle?”
“I think they’ve learned. They swapped ambulances half a mile from the hospital, abandoning the old one. Maeve’s team is trying to trace the second vehicle but they’re not having much luck.”
MayAnn’s cell phone rang, interrupting Schmidt. She looked at the caller ID. “Boston. Probably Gross.” She answered the call and listened.
She said, “You’ve no idea where Gilmore is now?” She frowned and shrugged at Schmidt.
“OK. Keep me informed. If you discover anything at all, let me know. Thanks.”
MayAnn faced Schmidt. “When Maeve can update you before Boston calls me, I must admit she has superior sources of information. There’s no trace at all of either the nurse or the patient. This has to stop; we can’t keep losing people.”
“I’m working on it. Truly.”
~~~
Mark edged off the bed and gained his feet. He was unsteady and his head was aching. He held onto the edge of the steel-framed bed and dressed himself in the uniform-like outfit, just shirt and trousers, which a guard had delivered to his cell through the night. The color of this unfamiliar uniform was orange, vivid, almost fluorescent, and probably, he thought, visible for miles. He slid his feet into the almost paper-thin slip-ons and stood just inside the door, waiting.
The earlier instructions had been curt, delivered aggressively by a guard through the small barred window set in the steel door. “Be ready in ten minutes. I’ll let you out for a meal. If you’re not ready, you can starve.”
He had taken almost ten minutes to dress, he estimated. As he waited, he wondered again why he was being held in this cell-like room. His captors, as far as he could determine, were not regular law enforcement. The cell was very basic, containing a hand basin, a toilet and a bed. He had tried to wash; however, there was neither shower, soap, nor towels, and he had, until delivery of the orange-colored uniform, no change of clothes. He suspected his body odor would be unpleasantly pungent after days without bathing. His meals had been delivered almost anonymously; guards placed a tray through a floor level gap in the door, and he had to return the tray thirty minutes later, using the same door gap. Apart from today’s instruction, there had been no conversation.
Isolation did not trouble him. He had suspected his food was drugged and tried to leave it untouched. This action was followed by a harsh-voiced threat from a guard outside his cell door that he would be force fed if he did not eat. He next tried to dispose of his food down the toilet and that attempt brought even harsher threats—he was being monitored, it seemed, twenty-four hours a day, via a video camera hidden somewhere in the ceiling. He stopped trying to balance hunger and possible force-feeding against a suspicion that was borderline paranoid and ate the food. His drugged state had continued.
Now, apparently he was to be permitted to eat in a more public arena. He just hoped he could wash before he was classed as some form of food contaminant. His reverie was interrupted by the harsh-voiced guard.
“Stand away from the door,” the man ordered.
Ma
rk stood back, with his legs against the edge of the bed, as the guard rattled keys and unlocked the door. It swung inwards, stopping with a thump as it bounced off the wall; there would be no way to hide behind the door, even if he had thought of doing so. The sudden glare of stronger light almost blinded him. He squinted, trying to see into the brightness.
The guard was standing outside the door, holding a baton-like object. “This,” he said, displaying the device, “is an electronic stunner. If I hit you with it at half-strength, you’d be unconscious for a day. I’ve set it on full strength. Do as I say and you won’t have to see if it kills you. Step out of the cell, now.”
Mark stepped forward, holding onto the doorway to maintain his balance.
“God, you stink,” muttered the guard. He was dressed in a light khaki-colored shirt and trousers, and wore military-style boots. The man stepped back as Mark reached the door. “Follow me. Be smart about it or I’ll have to use this,” he commanded as he waved the stunner.
His escort marched off down a featureless corridor. Mark struggled to match the almost relentless pace of the guard, using the walls for balance. They passed no one, saw no one. Doors were closed. There were signs on some doors that he did not read, there was no time to take in their messages. Occasionally an overhead fluorescent light flickered its death cries. The floor was old linoleum, scuffed, almost black with age or dirt. Or perhaps that was its original color. They passed a long wall of windows, heavy glass reinforced with wire, painted a dirty brown on the outside either to stop those inside from looking out or to prevent those outside from seeing who was passing along the corridor.
As he followed the guard, Mark tried to assess his situation. He was definitely unwashed and hoped he could remedy that lack soon. His vivid orange clothing was intended to mark him in some way, identifying him to others. What others, he could not answer. The building was institutional, with a marked absence of people. He assumed he was still being monitored, that cameras were tracking their progress along the corridors. He was falling further behind the guard and hoped they would soon reach their destination. The guard halted at a set of doors.
“Hurry up,” he commanded. His attitude was threatening and he held his stunner ready.
That was another fact, he thought, the guard was afraid—afraid of him. He shook his head. He did not yet have enough information; whatever drug his captors had used, it had been effective. He could not remember—
The doors were open and the guard urged him forward. “This is your dining room. You’ll eat here, with the others. Get your meal. Don’t leave without an escort or you’ll be punished. I’ll be back in forty minutes.” The man turned and walked away.
Mark moved hesitantly forward into a large dining area. To his left there was a serving area, with trays, plates, and stainless steel serving dishes of steaming food. The center of the room was furnished with tables, with four chairs to each table. Most of the tables and chairs were occupied. Fifteen people, young children, he realized, had halted whatever they were doing and stared at him. It was as though he had hit a solid wall. They were dressed in white, uniforms, he supposed, and their ages ranged from five or six through to young adult, perhaps eighteen. Most were male; about ten, he thought. Some were dark-haired, some were brunette, some blonde. He saw four African-Americans. Mark took another step forward and it was as though everyone exhaled at the same time, and commenced breathing again. A murmur seemed to spread, although he did not see any lips moving.
“It’s Midway,” was the unspoken statement. He knew that was his name; however he did not react to it, he did acknowledge his identification. He knew it was not the name he was currently using.
He shuffled forward, towards the counter lined with serving dishes. He struggled to take a tray and added a plate and knife and fork without really knowing what he was doing. He moved along the line, adding food onto his plate. His dizziness had returned, and he used one hand to steady himself as he shuffled the tray along a steel runner until he reached the end of the row. His plate was full of food, a random selection from the items available.
He lifted his tray and turned towards the collection of tables. He was not ready for any social involvement; besides, he knew he needed to bathe and in the interim would not inflict his body odors onto strangers. He selected an empty table as his destination. As he stepped forward, he looked around. Everyone was watching him, some surreptitiously, some overtly, some hesitantly, as he made his way to the table. He placed the tray down and sat, sighing to himself. For a moment or two, he had thought he would not reach his chosen destination without dropping the tray onto the floor. He ate, realizing he was hungry for solid food.
Ten minutes later he went back to the food dishes for a second serving. Again, his every move was watched. The room was silent and he had heard no conversation apart from that consensus of recognition when he first entered. He was feeling better, his mind clearer, although he was still very weak. Again he filled his plate, not caring of what he selected. He was hungry and any food would serve his needs. He sat back at the table and ate, more slowly this time. As he was finishing this second meal there was sudden movement—everyone stood and headed towards the exit. It was a coordinated move, actioned without voice or sound. Within seconds he was alone, except for the two young adults clearing dishes from the counter.
“Return the tray and plate. Move!”
His guard was back, as abrupt as ever. The man was standing at the door, impatient. He held his stunner, ready for use. Mark did as instructed.
“Follow me. You stink. It’s time you washed.” The guard walked away, reversing the direction they had followed earlier.
Again he followed the guard. This time he was steadier on his feet. The drugs apparently were wearing off and food was helping him regain his physical equilibrium. His thoughts were still chaotic; he did not know where he was or who was responsible for his imprisonment.
The shower was refreshing, the cold water bracing. The guard had indicated he would return in thirty minutes and had left him at the door to a shower block. He scrubbed and lathered and showered the soapsuds away. He repeated the actions, again and again. At last he was satisfied. He dressed and was outside the door just as the guard returned.
“Follow me,” the man grunted and led off, without waiting. He did not bother checking whether his charge was following or not.
They did not return to his cell. Instead, his escort stopped at a room far closer to the mess and shower area, and opened the door. The guard stood back and indicated that he enter. The room was small, sparsely decorated; however, it was better than the cell. There was a steel bed, just long enough, plus a small cabinet. A bare light swung overhead. There were no windows.
“This is your room. You’re responsible for its cleanliness. You know where the mess and shower block are located. The siren signals meal times. Don’t go anywhere else unless instructed. We monitor all the corridors with sensors and cameras. You’ll be stunned if you disobey our instructions and there’ll be no guarantee you’ll survive that punishment.”
The guard turned and walked off.
***
Chapter 17
Schmidt waved a file he had been reading; it contained names, descriptions and photographs of officers in the 145th MP Battalion. “You know,” he said to MayAnn, “I think one of their officers may not be part of Cerberus. Unless I’m very wrong, this officer—Major Whelan—is someone I worked with, years ago, although he was a snotty-nosed lieutenant then, and with a different name. I need to do some research.”
“What were you?” asked MayAnn.
“Me? Oh, I was a major, a lot more senior. That was before they promoted me to colonel—they wanted to get rid of me.”
“They promoted you to get rid of you?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you one evening over a glass of wine.” He made his decision. “I think Maeve’s team can help discover more about Major Whelan.” He donned his earphones and clicked on his lap
top’s video link to his analysis team. The voice and video over IP connection was encrypted and Schmidt hoped the extra layer of security was effective.
“Maeve? Good morning. I’ve been doing some research for you and now want to reverse our roles. There’s a Major Thomas Whelan listed with the 145th. He was transferred in just before they did their pre-mission training. Yeah, PMT, go figure. It seems they’ve relocated to Camp Zebra, a NATO base near Bagram. There’s a possibility he’s been planted there by the Provost Marshal General’s office—they may have suspicions about Cerberus activities—I could check sources in the Pentagon, but don’t want to expose Whelan to risk. I think his real persona is Major Charles Dempsey. I’d like you to determine who Whelan really is, without blowing his cover. Take care, we don’t want to place him in any danger. Thanks.”
After he disconnected, MayAnn said, “Aren’t you overloading your analysis team?”
“No, they’re like sponges. They just soak up the challenges. Maeve will let me know when I overload them.”
~~~
He had no watch, no cell phone, no radio, no television, no computer. There were large clocks in various places along corridors and in the mess, and a warning siren regularly would announce it was time to wake up or turn lights out or time to eat. However, there was no way for him to establish the date or to receive news of the outside world. He showered, ate and exercised to the schedule set by his guards. This discipline had continued, he estimated, for almost a week. His guards had increased the severity of his exercise regime and he was now at the level of fitness that he had always maintained. Also, his memory had returned as the drug washed out of his system.
He tried to speak with the guards; however, their responses had been identical: any attempt to communicate was met with a threat of a stunner. He persevered once, continuing to press the guard for an answer. He woke up the next morning, still on the floor of his small room, every nerve end protesting its extreme agony. There was a guard waiting outside his door. His message was brief.
Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four Page 33
