Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

by John Hindmarsh

  ~~~

  Mark contacted Schmidt again when his workroom was clear. He had kept the parka Reb was wearing when she arrived. It was bloodstained and Anna had cut it almost in half when she removed it. There was a bullet hole in the front, just below the top of shoulder, with an exit hole in the back. A circle of faint brown marks—not blood, as far as he could determine—raised his suspicions. They were like almost indiscernible scorch marks, near the bullet’s entry hole, which intrigued Mark.

  “Yes, Mark?”

  “I have a small request.”

  “What is it?”

  “Reb’s parka— she was wearing it when the Chinese shot her. Can you arrange for it to be tested? I don’t know what labs you can access?”

  “Military. FBI. Private. Why, what’s the problem?”

  “Well, Anna accuses me of being paranoid. I don’t mind, because I’ve been attacked, more than once. I might be over reacting this time.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “I have a suspicion about the wound Reb suffered. The weapon may have been fired from up close. If so, her jacket would test positive for gunshot residue. I’d like to get it tested, if you can arrange it. I’ll courier her parka to you or to a lab.”

  “The 145th has access to more than one lab. Send the jacket to me; I’ll do the rest. I’ll keep it away from FBI labs. It’ll take a week or so. I’ll get them to use the blood for DNA analysis, too. I think we have your DNA on file, somewhere.” Schmidt provided the address. Mark folded the jacket into a courier box and printed and attached a label. The following day Anna delivered the package to the FedEx pick-up point in Redmont.

  ***

  Chapter 8

  “I trust there’s no record of us using this room or meeting here?” asked FBI Executive Assistant Director for National Security, Andrew Wentworth. He was in his fifties, of medium height, and heavily built. He had a reputation in the FBI for his aggressive approach to law enforcement. He had held his current position for four months, replacing Oliver Stewart who had been killed in a hit and run accident. The killer remained at large, to Wentworth’s frustration and anger.

  The other person in the small anonymous meeting room was Ricardo Mercante, a senior CIA officer. He was a taller man, about the same age, with a dark complexion and a thin, humorless smile that often accompanied the quick and deadly—not only in terms of an opponent’s career—insertion of a very sharp blade. The two men had known each other for a number of years and occasionally worked together.

  The meeting room, located in the depths of Langley, was windowless. An air conditioning vent provided a slight draft. The room contained a metal table and four chairs. There were no papers on the table, no pens, no pencils, no telephone. Neither man carried a laptop or cell phone. The room had two doors, one at either end, exiting into different corridors, thus permitting the two men to depart when the meeting ended, with no one noticing they had met. Or at least that was their intention. They sat at opposite ends of the table.

  “Anonymous, swept, electronically protected, and do not disturb. No recording or communications devices will work in here, for the next hour. Your visit has not been logged. No record will exist of our meeting here today. Of course, you may be seen and recognized by people here. That’s inevitable, I’m afraid.” Mercante did not mention neither man should use their names in the conversation.

  “Good to know.” Wentworth extracted his own electronic dampening device from an inside pocket and switched it on, adding to whatever precautions the Agency man was taking. “I assume you want to start a rebellion in some unnamed country?”

  “Yes.” It was more snarl than speech. “Cerberus.”

  “Aaaah. And Schmidt?”

  “Mainly Schmidt. He presents a major threat, a potential danger to all of us.”

  “I believe it’s an actual, not potential, danger. Extreme. Stewart’s killer is still unknown. Likewise for Special Agent Freewell; the claim that her death was accidental stinks to high heaven.”

  “He’s wreaked havoc on the Agency, on our people. Tim was a good Agency man and Schmidt screwed him.” Tim Edgar-Osborne had broken the law, a point Mercante did not dwell on. The former agent had assisted an illegal group of mercenaries, which had attacked a genetic engineering laboratory, murdered the researchers, and attempted to capture Midway. “Plus, he’s gathering far too much power.”

  “Are you confident this room is bug proof?”

  “My reputation stands on it.”

  “So does mine, from here on. What do you propose?”

  “I’m prepared to arrange—I’ve some contacts through cut-offs—for a small team to, er, remove Schmidt from his lofty position. I need to be confident you’ll support me. For example, I need your assurance you’ll do your best to ensure any evidence that might lead back to my contacts or to me is permanently lost or destroyed. I’ll arrange attacks on Midway, as well.”

  “What happens to Cerberus?”

  “We take it over and take it apart. The President should never have allowed it to continue nor for Schmidt to take control. You know we tried to stop it. Failed, abjectly so. So now we have thousands of these so-called super soldiers”—he spat out the term—“deployed throughout the government. They’re in the military, in my Agency, in the FBI, Homeland Security, and other government agencies. We don’t know names. We know they’re reporting back to Schmidt.”

  “It’s intolerable. I’ve been tearing out my hair, trying to identify who on my team might be Cerberus. Everything they see or hear goes to his analysts.”

  “Analysts?”

  “Yes. Schmidt has a team; I think a hundred or so, employed to analyze all the data they can obtain—NSA, local LEOs, DHS—anything they can get their hands on. They tap into data sources I didn’t even know existed. They’re managed by Maeve Donnelly. Schmidt relies on Maeve and these people for strategic analysis and I understand they’re all high achievers.”

  “Data failure on my part—I didn’t know their size or scope. I knew she had some kind of team but not how large. If you can provide details—”

  “It’ll be difficult. They’re distributed across the country. Most don’t know they’re working for Schmidt. They just know it’s a quasi-government department with a military or law enforcement bias.”

  “Hmm. You’re adding to my concerns. Well, what do you say?”

  “I’m in. I’ve some special projects budget available, I’ll set up a small team to monitor and gather information on Cerberus activities and share the results with you.”

  “Good. I’m doing the same. I’ll need to know Schmidt’s movements if we’re to achieve what we both want.”

  The two men stood, reached across the table and shook hands. They left separately, minutes apart, exiting through the door nearest to them.

  ~~~

  Unbeknown to either of the two men, a recording of their conversation was transmitted to an Agency-embedded Cerberus member and she forwarded it to the secure Cerberus cloud. Unfortunately most of the recording was garbled; the technical equipment used by the two men had done its job. To a large extent.

  ~~~

  “Status reports. You first, Dempsey,” Schmidt directed. He waited for the attendees to settle into their respective seats and for the ARG software to connect. Major Dempsey and his new commander for Bravo Company, Captain Helen Chouan, were in Camp Brewer. Maeve and Linda Schöner, her senior analyst, were the last to join the meeting. She and her team had previously moved out of temporary offices in Quantico to a Cerberus building in Washington D. C., on 22nd Street. Schmidt was located in another Cerberus building, on Pennsylvania Avenue, near to the IMF offices.

  The attendees each wore ARG glasses. They were learning how to use the RDEz equipment. Dempsey’s display showed both the physical reality of his office—Captain Chouan was seated opposite him—and the augmented details provided by the software. He checked each image provided by the glasses. As he focused on a virtual attendee, the image was supplement
ed with details of name and location. He knew he could modify the settings, adding or reducing the amount of data displayed.

  “Good morning, everyone. I’d like to introduce Captain Helen Chouan; she’s our new commander of Bravo Company.” He looked through the virtual images to Chouan. “Captain, I’ll arrange in-person introductions as soon as possible.” She nodded, still cautious in her use of the equipment. The other attendees voiced their welcome. Dempsey displayed a virtual copy of a document.

  “This is my detailed report,” he said. “In summary, Exercise Blown Away was successful. Bravo Company performance was excellent. There were one or two minor injuries that occurred on landing. We persuaded the local police to depart without immediate complications. The Russian, Yanovich, is in hospital under FBI guard. We found two Cerberus resources and they’re undergoing evaluation. There was no media reaction, thanks to Midway’s software EMP blast, which corrupted all image and audio files recorded by the police team.”

  Linda Schöner provided additional details. “We understand there was quite an explosive meeting when the police returned to their headquarters. The local chief had Harkness and his entire team—of course, minus Yanovich and the two Cerberus members—on the mat for almost an hour, trying to understand what had happened. He was annoyed when they discovered all their video files were corrupted, to say nothing of his reaction when he heard you wrecked his MRAP. He regarded the vehicle as the flagship for their small force, taking them into the big time. The chief wants to protest but doesn’t know to whom he should do so. We informed him—well, an anonymous source contacted him—that we’d keep silent about both the Russian and the chief’s loss of the shooting victim from hospital, if he dampened down his reactions. It seems to have worked.”

  “They didn’t need a six-wheeler Buffalo,” commented Dempsey. “We’ve requisitioned a replacement, a smaller MRAP, to be allocated to them. It’ll take about six months to process, longer if I can drag it out. We’ve been asked to demonstrate the wing suits to another MP battalion, and I’m making arrangements. At the moment, nothing else except routine training.”

  “You omitted an important item,” Schmidt said. “Colonel Dempsey has been confirmed as the commander of the 145th. Congratulations, Colonel.” He displayed a copy of the announcement.

  Everyone congratulated Dempsey. The newly promoted colonel smiled and produced another document. “Someone has been appointed to a two-star general. I wonder who?” There was laughter and another round of congratulations.

  When the meeting settled down, Schmidt said, “I’ll add comments regarding Midway and his team. He’s been joined by a young lady, Reb Llewelyn, who is his sister. She’s genetically enhanced, and we’re trying to obtain details as well as confirmation of their relationship, the latter via DNA checks. She’s persuaded Mark to travel to London to help rescue or recruit three other genetically engineered children—they’re seventeen years old, in maturity terms. I intend to support this venture for two reasons. One, I want to find out more about these British genetic engineering attempts, and if we help Mark, it will create an obligation for him to help us. Two, so far our attempts to take over the Cerberus operations in Europe have failed. Our American Cerberus people don’t get past UK Immigration. The Brits have assembled a comprehensive watch list—I suspect Cerberus UK is involved. We’re hopeful Mark will be allowed to enter the country, and we’ll use his venture as cover to allow us to contact Cerberus UK management. I’ll give the task to Scott Gilmore. I’ll try again to send support teams, but given our experience to date, there’s a 20 percent probability of success.” He paused in case there were comments or questions. After a moment, he asked, “Maeve, what’s your situation?”

  “We agree with both your reports. There are other topics I need to introduce. Keep in mind they might be part of a larger action we haven’t yet identified. Four Russian shadows, located in New York, have gone off the grid. We can’t find a trace of them, anywhere. We’re experiencing a lot of chatter and suspect it’s directed at Cerberus and you. We also have a recording of a meeting at the Agency—two people, senior rank, no names, not logged, extreme and effective steps were taken to ensure privacy and prevent eavesdropping. Despite those steps, we managed to record portions of the discussion. The file’s corrupted; whoever was involved has some effective dampening software. The general impression we’ve gained is they agreed to take action against Cerberus. We’re analyzing all the NSA data we can get our hands on, and will continue to do so, until we discover what these people are planning. I’d suggest you add some Cerberus guards to your escort. Colonel, I suggest you raise your security level at Camp Brewer. I’m arranging additional security for my team, just in case.”

  ~~~

  Maeve Donnelly and Schmidt were in conference. It was a personal meeting, face to face, no minutes, no other attendees. Maeve pushed away her notepad. She had discovered what Schmidt was doing and wanted to express her concern. It was not so much that she had rational objections, but because she knew the process was not always harmless.

  “Archimedes,” she said. “Why would you do it? The Cerberus treatment is generally effective, I know, but sometimes someone reacts adversely. You run the risk of permanent disability or even death, if your body rejects the treatment.”

  “They have reliable predictive tests, now. They can measure the likelihood of rejection, with 99 percent probability.”

  “But why are you doing this?”

  “The answer is simple. At least to me. I’m trying to control thousands of Cerberus’s genetically engineered people, some post-conversion, some pre-conversion. We’ve hundreds of pre-conversions who are still children, babies from the birthing program Dr. White started. I can’t eliminate them—any of them. So I need to know, at least in part, what it’s like to be Cerberus engineered. I don’t see any downside. I might even talk you into participating—”

  “No. I strongly doubt it, despite your ability to persuade. I do understand your motivation, but I disagree with it.” She shook her head as she reached over and patted the back of Schmidt’s hand. “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Thank you. I think. Different topic. What do you propose we should do about Midway?”

  “You have concerns? You’ve always been positive about him?”

  “Not concerns so much. Well, maybe. Our Cerberus researchers are encountering major difficulties with their research. The material Dr. White left behind doesn’t always seem to be accurate. The result is a lot of re-work. We’re wondering if the Chinese have managed to corrupt the files. Or maybe the Russians? There are other candidates, one of whom is Mark, but I can’t think of a motive.”

  “He’s difficult to predict. We only see what he wants us to. I’ll ask the team to dig deeper.”

  “We’re missing a set of embryos. We don’t know if White took them and I don’t think Mark knew about them. They were in the main laboratory.”

  “He’s not Superman.”

  “Sometimes I wonder. We haven’t any idea of his full capabilities,” Schmidt said. “I know, it’s a stretch. I can’t blame everything on Midway.”

  “Everything? You have more?”

  “Cerberus UK has been difficult to bring into line. Not just because of our inability to get people into London, but some funds are missing, as well. We’re talking upwards of fifty million dollars, some of which belonged to Cerberus USA. The bank accounts have either disappeared or the authorized signatories have been changed. Some of the activity we’ve confirmed on the accounts is legitimate disbursements. It’s the larger balances that worry me. Can we blame Midway?”

  “Insufficient data for evaluation, I’m afraid. Why not try again to recruit him? Have him take responsibility for Cerberus UK. He has the ability. He’d need a management team to help him while he gains more experience.”

  “Hmm. He’d have Anna’s support, that could stabilize him. Very tempting.”

  ***

  Chapter 9

  Mark, alerted by an
alarm from the overhead drones, checked the vehicle’s arrival and recognized the driver; it was the ex-FBI agent, Scott Gilmore. There was a second person in the small SUV and Mark assumed that she was Sera Wilkins, the person Scott had recruited to share his parenting task. According the briefing paper provided by Schmidt, she was younger than Scott, ex-FBI, and post-Cerberus.

  “Good morning, Scott,” he said, “and welcome.” He pressed a button. The heavy gate, decked with chains, swung open under control of its hydraulic system, and when Scott drove through the gateway, it closed again, heavy steel bars sliding back into place.

  Mark waited at the front door. Scott introduced his companion and Mark said, “Hi Sera. Come on in and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

  Scott still wore a piratical eye patch; he had almost lost the sight in one eye after being tortured by a Russian who had been trying to discover Mark’s identity. Scott, himself post-Cerberus, was rescued by a Cerberus team. Later, a team sniper shot and killed the Russian and his accomplice. When Scott recovered from his injuries, he had considered taking revenge against Mark for causing his torture. When two Chinese assassins tried to shoot Mark, Scott had intervened, shooting one, and Mark shot the other. As a result, he had said, he now had a responsibility to keep Mark alive.

  Niland and Gabrielle stared at the newcomers, their expressions of concern warring with curiosity.

  “Are you going to be our parents?” asked Gabrielle.

  “Can we play pirates?” asked Niland. “That’s a nice eye patch—did you get it on a sailing ship? I’ve been reading about the pirates in Elizabethan times. Would you class Drake as a pirate? Overall, it was foolhardy for a small country to go to war against Spain, don’t you think?”

  Scott was silent, apparently unsure how to react. Mark interceded. “They like to play act history, so don’t be surprised if they rope you in—maybe literally. This is Niland and Gabrielle and this is Reb—Reb’s my sister. Scott, you may remember Niland, Gabrielle, and Anna from when we rescued them from Camp Brewer.” He waited while they exchanged greetings and then said, “Come and sit down in here.” He led the way into a more formal seating area. “Children, see if our guests would like tea or coffee, or perhaps a snack.”