by Nick Thacker
Bryce’s eyes flashed in anger, then to a steely burn. “She’s not going to be able to heal. They have no idea what it is — or how to fix it.” He pictured his mother, Diana Reynolds, in bed in her Utah home. A nurse, basically a hospice worker from a local retirement community in nearby Salt Lake City, stayed with her most of the morning and evenings to provide basic care — cleaning, feeding, and the occasional one-way conversation.
The memory pained him, but he knew there was nothing he could do for her. He’d already spent both of their life savings on treatment, flying doctors to and from the small cottage, only to be told the viral infection wasn’t contagious. He’d run out of money, and the military’s insurance plan forced him to continue serving on active duty to continue paying for her care.
“How do you know about that?” Bryce asked.
“There was a small article about it in a medical publication not too long ago,” Whittenfield replied. “One of my doctors found it. What I found most intriguing about your mother’s case is that we had two similar instances like it not six months before the article was published.”
“Two others? I thought it was an isolated incident,” Bryce said.
“As did we. But it’s not — while we haven’t been able to understand the source of the infection, I do believe we’ve found a treatment.”
Bryce’s hair on the back of his neck stood up. Could he be telling the truth? After so long; so much time spent chasing a dead-end… “A treatment? Like an antidote?”
“Yes — well, we’re not finished yet. The first two subjects didn’t survive, but I think we’ve isolated the culprit in the viral cell’s makeup, and I think we can figure out how to heal your mother.
“But Bryce, I need something from you in return. Your performance in the Rangers hasn’t gone unnoticed. I know about your accomplishments so far; your quick mind.
“Dwight Maynes is a close friend of mine from Cambridge — we studied together in our introductory courses, and I’ve been picking his brain lately about his men here in the special forces. You see, we need someone like you out at the research lab,” Whittenfield said.
“Someone like me?” Bryce asked. “A soldier?”
“No — not just a soldier. I saw your test results. The comprehension, deductive reasoning skills — off the charts, Bryce. I don’t want someone who can wield a gun; any grunt with two eyes and arms can do that. I need someone who can protect our interests; interests that I’m afraid will be under scrutiny very soon. This notebook was just the first incident: whoever’s after my father’s research — my research — is going to continue snooping around until they find what they’re looking for.
“If you agree to leave with me now, I can fill you in with the specifics of the job on the way. I am prepared to make you an offer up front — take it or leave it — of one million dollars. If you stay with me for all six months, I’ll pay you another million. I know you’d like to get back your mother, but give me the next six months of your life, and you’ll be set for the rest of it.
“Oh, and suffice it say, anything we can do for your mother’s health will be done. If we find a treatment — and I believe we will — for your mother’s paralysis, you can consider her healed, all expenses paid.”
Bryce was stunned. Two million dollars in six months? He couldn’t imagine what this guy would want him to do — it seemed too good to be true. “Well, it sounds like a pretty fantastic offer, but I don’t know anything about your company — what’s the catch? Why are you so interested in protection?”
Whittenfield sighed, but didn’t hesitate in his response. He stood and walked to the foot of Bryce’s bed. “The reason you have never heard of us is that we have been continuing along the same line of research since the mid-1930s that has paralleled a similar, yet much more popularized topic in American culture.
“My father’s initial experimentation in the field of crystal-Uranium synthesis led to a small team of researchers — my father included — discovering the unique characteristics of the Uranium element’s isotopes. The work was highly classified, but of extreme importance to the U.S. Government, and in 1939 an official project was initiated, called the ‘Development of Substitute Materials.’”
Bryce glanced up sharply at the man standing before him. His mind raced as he tried to place what this man — James Whittenfield, Jr. — had just said. Where had he heard of that before?
“My father’s research was paramount to modern American history. What my father’s discoveries led to — what that team ended up becoming — was the foundation for the atomic bomb. Their project was called the ‘Development of Substitute Materials,’ but the American population now knows it by its codename: ‘The Manhattan Project.’”
CHAPTER 7
10:46 PM - UNIVERSITY OF New Mexico - Department of Ancient Studies, Albuquerque, New Mexico, USA
Professor Jensen Andrews felt exhausted, and it was only Wednesday. It seemed like as he got older, the days got shorter, yet somehow he ended up even busier. Tonight he had a stack of papers in front of him that needed to be read and graded, but he’d pushed them aside and was now hunched over a National Geographic magazine, fighting back much-needed sleep. He had intended to take a break from grading the essays — an hour ago. It was approaching midnight, and he wondered if it would be easier to just sleep on his office’s futon mattress instead of driving all the way home.
The hall outside his office was darker than usual. The exit signs at each end and the safety light at the restroom door were the only illumination. During the day and throughout most of the nights during the school year, the halls were filled with the whitewashed glow of florescent ceiling lights. The Geography and World Studies wing of the college was one of several 24-hour facilities on campus, and most of the professors and even some of the students often stayed after hours to finish up grading and assignments. Must be the football game tonight, he thought.
His eyes wandered over the page on his desk in front of him, sleep sneaking in and causing him to drift away. Finally exhaustion won out, and his eyes closed for a brief moment, his head propped up by his fist. No sooner had he drifted off than his head snapped back upright, and his bleary eyes blinked back open into focus. What was that?
He could have sworn he’d heard a noise outside his office. He sat dead still at his desk for a full minute, not hearing anything. Finally he rose to his feet and walked — quietly — to his office door. His heart was suddenly pounding, and he stood at the doorway for a moment to catch his breath. Why was he so shaken up tonight? Most likely it was just some kids down the hall, or a night janitor on the other side of the building, nothing to worry about.
Thwap.
There it was again, only this time louder. He tensed, frozen in place, straining to hear around the corner. Absolutely silent, he reached out and pulled open his office door. The gentle click of the handle retracting made him stop for a second to listen again, but there wasn’t a sound.
With the door half open, he leaned his head out slowly and pushed his glasses upwards on his face, as if somehow it would improve his sight in the near darkness. Squinting, he could make out the exit sign at the far end of the hall to his left; to the right he could see about twenty paces until the blackness overcame the feeble light.
“H-Hello?”
The silence seemed to intensify. After what seemed an eternity, he let out his breath — he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it — and took one step into the hallway.
Ever so slowly, he turned to the left and moved tentatively toward the exit. After a few steps his pace quickened, and his timidity gave way to curiosity.
He was about halfway to the end of the hall when his instincts kicked in. He slowed, suddenly unsure, and tried again to focus on the exit, now about fifty feet ahead. What is that? he thought, as his eyes passed over a large, dark shape on the floor in the corner.
His heart raced again. The shape slowly became clearer to him. A pile of clothing… no, a coat, and a
…
Oh my God.
It’s a body.
As he drew closer, he could make out that the person was unnervingly still — not at all like someone sleeping or even passed out drunk. Jensen had never seen a dead body before — yet he somehow knew that he was looking at one now.
His heart was racing. Who was this, and what had happened?
He rolled the facedown body over, and only then noticed the growing pool of blood on the floor underneath. That alone would normally have caused him to jump back, but it was the round bullet hole directly between the man’s eyes that pushed him into a state of panic. He dove back against the wall, fighting to keep from hyperventilating.
As he stared in shock, he realized the dead man was a security guard. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he actually recognized the man — perhaps he’d spoken to him once or twice before.
Ok, Jensen, what the hell do you do now?
He never had time to come up with an answer.
Thwap.
CHAPTER 8
BRYCE’S WEEK HAD BEEN A blur. After Mr. Whittenfield left him at the infirmary, Bryce made his final preparations and packed for his departure. The last 72 hours he’d been traveling nonstop, first from the forward operating base to the airstrip four hours south. From there, he’d been flown to an aircraft carrier off the coast and then to a military base outside of London. His wounds, healing quickly, still hurt and provided him with an excuse to continue taking the powerful painkillers the doctor in Iraq had given him. While he was at the base in London, he charged his cell phone and placed a call to his mother’s home in Utah.
Linda Ortiz, the nurse charged with providing the at-home care, answered and updated him with details on his mother’s health over the past few weeks. It had been awhile since he’d called, so he listened quietly as Linda gave the same response he’d heard countless times.
“She’s doing well; about as well as can be expected. She’s not hurting, but the symptoms haven’t changed. I’m sure she misses you, too, Mr. Bryce.”
“I know. Thank you, for everything — actually, I may be able to get back sooner than I’d expected. I’ll let you know for sure. Thanks again, Linda.”
He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket, slowly, as his left arm was feeling tight. He stood, walking to the window, and tried to picture his mother before the virus had taken her livelihood.
She was a great woman; strong, but in a gentle way. After his father had passed away six years ago, she’d moved from Denver to the quieter life of a sleepy Utah town. Bryce moved regularly during his first few years in the military, but he had recently rented an apartment in Salt Lake City, less than an hour from her place.
Good thing, too. He remembered the night she called; confused, frantic; unable to feel her feet or hands. It had taken her three tries just to dial his number.
By the time he got to her house, she was on the floor in the living room, unable to move.
The doctors kept her in the hospital for two weeks, but weren’t able to figure what was wrong. Experts in viral and bacterial infections were flown in, but could not isolate the foreign strain that was holding Bryce’s mother hostage. It seemed to be a rare occurrence of an infection chemically similar in composition to Encephalitis, but without the continuing negative side effects. Instead, she was paralyzed from the neck down but stable. Bryce had argued and negotiated, but finally persuaded the hospital staff to set up a bed in his mother’s home where she would be continuously monitored and cared for.
That was over two years ago.
Bryce’s life now was split between the Army and caring for his mother. When he wasn’t deployed, he stayed at his mother’s house, taking an odd job here or there to pay her enormous bills.
As he thought more about the mounting stack of bills he’d be facing upon his return to the states, he remembered the great deal he’d been offered. Sure, it was probably dangerous — you didn’t offer someone two million dollars just to play security guard — but like Whittenfield had said, he’d be able to pay the remainder of his mother’s bills and have more than enough to keep them both comfortable for a while afterward. He sighed, the swelling in his arm and shoulder reminding him of his healing injuries, and walked back to the main hallway.
Surprisingly, Whittenfield was there to meet him. They shook hands and Bryce followed the older man out to the tarmac where a sleek, business-class Learjet was waiting. Next to the military planes and vehicles surrounding it, the jet seemed out of place. This guy must have some friends in very high places, Bryce thought as he boarded the plane.
A flight attendant, wearing the Whittenfield Research logo on a blue button-down shirt, appeared and guided Bryce and Whittenfield to a seat toward the back of the plane. They were the only two passengers. This must be Whittenfield’s plane, Bryce thought.
Promptly, the attendant brought forth two cocktails, a mix of some hard liquor and a fruit juice. Whittenfield shook his glass and took a drink. Bryce did the same, all the while examining the interior of the fancy plane. Its seats were rhubarb-colored, accented with a rich mahogany. The center of the fuselage had been stripped of the rows of seats and in their place a large, square room stretched toward the cockpit. A sign on the door facing Bryce said “Command,” and Bryce realized then that this plane wasn’t just a means of transportation for the rich businessman.
It was a mobile command center.
“So, Bryce, let’s dive in. I’m sure you have a lot of questions for me,” Whittenfield began, “and seeing as we have only eight hours of flying time in front of us, we’d better get started.”
Bryce smiled, the obvious sarcasm not lost on him. “Mr. Whittenfield, I appreciate your hospitality here, and I am interested to get to know what it is exactly that your company does. However, it’s just…” Bryce fumbled for his words, hoping to not insult the man seated across from him. “I guess I just need the reassurance of knowing that this deal you offered me — it seems great; uh, amazing, actually — is going to turn out to be something…” he hesitated, not finding the correct words. Whittenfield held up a hand to interject.
“Captain Reynolds, I understand that this seems to be quite an unbelievable opportunity for you. However, I promise you that I am more than serious. In fact,” he said, reaching to a briefcase next to his seat and taking out a small netbook laptop, “I’ll go ahead and transfer the initial one million into an account of your choosing. Further, if you’re not satisfied with the position one week from now, I’ll request half of that amount be wired back to me, and we can go our separate ways. The half-million dollars remaining will be yours as a gift. Consider it the most lucrative workweek of your life.” With a smug grin, he turned the laptop to Bryce and waited for his response.
The plane started to taxi, only minutes away from takeoff. Bryce sensed that he was also only minutes away from a drastic change in his life. He leaned forward in his seat to enter the bank account information, and his new boss — James Whittenfield, Jr. — looked out the window, content.
CHAPTER 9
UNKNOWN
HE BLINKED. NOTHING. AM I dead? He blinked again, and the blackness surrounding him slowly became an image. Blurry at first, but gradually more clear.
He had a splitting headache. Professor Jensen Andrews blinked again, and slowly tried to sit up.
The pain in his side was excruciating, and it took him a couple of tries to fully prop himself up on one arm and look around. He was in a room — all metal, with no windows or furnishings except for a bed and small toilet in opposite corners. The toilet and bed frame were metal as well. The bed held a thin mattress with several springs protruding from the top. Finally, his eyes were drawn to the floor.
It was made of double-layer reinforced steel, and the only break in its smooth surface was a small square window, no more than a foot in diameter. The window was reinforced with vertical steel bars a few inches apart. Clearly, he was not intended to leave.
Great.
Jensen
looked down at his body to see what was causing the pain in his side. His shirt — a white, button-down with a pencil pocket — was opened to the waist. His lower torso was wrapped in a thick gauze bandage. The bandage had a small, round, dark stain, just to the right of his stomach.
He had been shot. The recollection surprised him. The area around the wound was tender, but for the most part the pain was isolated to the immediate area. He carefully probed around the spot, getting a feel for how severe it was.
Suddenly, he remembered the security guard; saw perfectly in his mind the hole, placed so precisely in the center of his forehead.
He looked again his own wound.
Whoever had shot him was certainly the same person who’d shot the security guard, yet he was still alive. Somebody wanted him alive — needed him alive.
Who?
Just as the question crossed his mind, he heard a loud clang outside the door. Jensen looked up at the small window on the door. There was a brief pause, followed by a shifting sound, and then what could only be keys jangling. Somewhere inside the cell wall, a huge latch was lifted.
The lock disengaged, and Jensen Andrews used all his strength to pull himself into a sitting position. From there, he struggled to stand up. Just as the door swung open, His body cooperated and he fully stood, the reward for his increased pain being nothing more than the benefit of looking his captor in the eye.
“Uncle Jensen, you’re awake!” a warm-sounding young girl’s voice addressed him. “It’s been almost four hours — I was afraid the sedatives you were given were too strong.”
Andrews blinked again, still not completely lucid. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The person in the doorway was silhouetted by the light from the hall outside. He had recognized her voice immediately, and seeing her silhouette in the door proved his ears correct, but he still couldn’t believe it was actually her.
