by Lyle Howard
“You look perplexed.”
Carpenter looked up. “Where do I know him from?”
“Think.”
Carpenter rubbed his bony fingers along the corners of his mouth. “I’m drawing a blank here. You’re gonna have to help me.”
“Washington National Airport, ten years ago.” Ten years ago … 1982 … why is that familiar? Washington National … Washington National … Carpenter snapped his fingers. “I was sent to bring in a woman and her teenage son.” Suddenly, it was all coming back to him like a faded television rerun. “Lost one of our men out in the street, as I remember … hit by a bus … the boy went into the bathroom….” Unintentionally, Carpenter began massaging his jaw. “Oh, yeah … there was this swarm of guys from the NYPD … the kid ended up giving me the slip.”
The voice was neither impressed nor bored. “I read your report of the incident.”
But something else stood out about that day. What was it? Carpenter remembered coming to in the bathroom with a bloody face, and stepping out of the lavatory into the midst of an upheaval of commotion going on in the terminal. Carpenter closed his eyes and strained to think back. Where had the ten years gone to? The plane…that was It … the plane … it went down. Everyone was screaming that the plane had gone down into the river! “Wasn’t that the same day the Air Florida flight did a full gainer into the Potomac?”
“Ah, you remember!”
Carpenter nodded. “It’s all coming back to me.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.”
Carpenter looked back at the photograph. “So what does this firefighter have to do with the Air Florida crash ten years ago?”
There was a long pause, perhaps for effect. “He’s alive.”
Carpenter’s eyebrows furled. “He who?”
“The boy … the man … the firefighter.”
Carpenter looked at the picture again and studied it. He hadn’t seen the boy close up, and ten years whizzing by wasn’t going to help the identification process any. “This can’t be the same person.”
“I can assure you that it is.”
Carpenter shook his head. He had gone to the river in the aftermath of the crash. He had helped the police and rescue personnel pluck survivors and casualties from the icy water. “It’s impossible. It can’t be the same Lance Cutter.”
Another paper was tossed at him. This one was a copy of the New York Times. An article was circled with red highlighter. The story told the account of a helicopter pilot who claimed to have seen a young man helping others into the life ring before disappearing himself. Carpenter held out the newspaper until it was half in light, half in shadow. “If you’re saying that this passenger was Lance Cutter, then maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. All I know is, I was there, and whoever this hero was … he didn’t come out of that subfreezing water alive!”
The voice turned calm and very matter-of-fact in its’ tone. “What do you know about a project known as ‘Sandman,’ Captain?”
Carpenter was startled by the sudden change of topic. “Jeez,” he said, toying with the precise crease in his blue Air Force trousers, “you’re really putting me into the way-back machine, aren’t you?”
“Nineteen fifty-eight through sixty-five,” reminded the voice.
Carpenter scratched his forehead. “Um, let me think … The Sandman Project … top secret … Nevada desert….” He tugged at his left ear lobe. “You’re asking me to remember nearly thirty years ago? I was just a raw recruit back then.”
“But you were there.”
Carpenter nodded. “Sure I was there … toward the end … at the end.”
“Ah, you’re referring to the explosion.”
Carpenter frowned, and pointed in the direction he thought the voice was coming from. “Explosion? Hey, my friend, that place went up like Hiroshima! I was lucky as hell to be in town on a three-day pass at the time. Damned concussion blew out the windows of the bar my buddy and I were drinking in!”
“So you really knew nothing of the project itself?”
Carpenter shrugged. “Rumors … whispers … nothing for certain.”
“Tell me of the whispers.”
Trying to remember details from that long ago was like watching shadowy silhouettes moving through a dense fog. “Something to do with genetics, maybe.”
“Go on.”
Carpenter was silent for a long moment. “Xavier … I think there was a doctor by the name of Xavier running the show there…”
“Your memory serves you well.”
Carpenter shrugged. “Much more than that, and I draw a blank.”
The captain could hear a chair creak, as though his host had leaned backward in his seat, somewhere off in the void. “Let me fill you in.”
“Is this still classified?”
“Very much so,” Carpenter nodded.
“The Sandman Project, the epithet will become clear to you in a few moments, was the brainchild of Doctor Adolph Xavier, a pioneer in the field of human genetics…” So far, Carpenter had been right on the money. “After the fall of the Third Reich in World War II, Adolph Xavier became consumed with Hitler’s concept of a master race. He studied confiscated documents obtained through overt and shall we say, more covert means…”
Carpenter detected a hint of admiration in the speaker’s timbre. “He was working on his own agenda?”
The voice never wavered. “Xavier had the full backing of the United States government for all of his experimentation.”
“I would have thought that continuing Germany’s research would have been considered treasonous back then.”
“It might have been … had he not succeeded.”
Carpenter leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”
“Doctor Xavier sifted through the voluminous archives of data that had been retrieved from German officials, and extracted what he believed to be the nucleus of a technique deemed too radical at the time.”
“Too radical for even the Germans?”
“Perhaps radical is too harsh a word … let’s just say, advanced for the fifties.”
Carpenter scowled. “I’ve heard some horror stories about German experimentation.”
“And undoubtedly, those stories have their basis in reality, but Doctor Xavier was not a butcher. His principles and procedures are all in common use in hospitals across the country. If he had survived the explosion, who knows how much further along our technology would be today?”
Carpenter’s eyes had become acclimated to the darkness, but he still couldn’t make out the identity of his master of ceremonies. “You said, he succeeded,” he said, squinting into the shadows. “Succeeded at what?”
The chair creaked again. Elbows coming to rest on the surface of a desk. “Doctor Xavier, like hundreds of pioneers before him, and thousands afterward, didn’t meet with triumph on his first try. There were twelve experiments in all.”
“At the base in the Nevada desert?”
“Yes, at the base in the Nevada desert.”
“Genetics?”
“Somewhat….” There was a pause, and the sound of papers being shuffled. How could anyone read in these lightless surroundings?
“Doctor Xavier had a concept that the military leaders of the time recognized without hesitation as being the greatest single stride toward world peace.”
The words made Carpenter ashamed he was wearing a uniform. “A master race?”
The voice sounded proud and arrogant. “Not a master race of citizens … a master race of soldiers.”
Carpenter was aghast. “And the U.S. government bought into this crap?”
Another long pause … a disappointed pause. “An understandable first reaction, Captain Carpenter.”
Carpenter sneered. “Convince me otherwise.”
“Very well then … I shall. With Operation Desert Storm over less than a year now, and an arguable success, I’m sure you won’t have trouble remembering what the ground combat was like in tho
se arid conditions and sweltering temperatures. The desert sand was hot enough to melt the bottoms of the soldier’s boots during the day. The nights dropping down to a mild 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Intolerable conditions, wouldn’t you admit?”
Carpenter nodded and listened. “I was there, I know.”
“And we know you know.”
Carpenter squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He suddenly didn’t like the speaker’s omnipresent attitude. “So what’s the point?”
“What if I told you that we hold in our hands the technology to develop a breed of soldier impervious to the adversity of those kinds of drastic temperatures?”
“I’d say you were crazy.”
“Then call me crazy … because we have.”
Carpenter looked skeptical. “Adaptable to that kind of heat?”
“Adaptable to any conditions … the heat of the desert … the cold of the Arctic … anything … anywhere.”
“How is that possible?”
“He would have to be coldblooded.”
Carpenter let the concept sink in. “Coldblooded? Like birds?”
“And reptiles … especially reptiles … they have an uncanny faculty for conformity … whatever their environment.”
Carpenter took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. This all sounded so incredible. “So, this Doctor Xavier developed a human being that was half-man, half-iguana?”
“Make jokes if you will, Captain, but I can guarantee you, this person does exist.”
Carpenter held up his hands. “I’m not making light of what you’re telling me, but you’ve got to understand that, to the average person, this sounds like something out of the Twilight Zone.”
The voice was sympathetic. “I can understand how you feel.”
Carpenter shook his head. “I’m not so sure you can. So you say there’s twelve of these lizard-men running around?”
“Let’s drop that sophomoric terminology, shall we?”
“Sorry.”
“There were twelve experiments … each of varying and increasing degrees of genetic evolution. With each operation, the refinement progressed. The first few experiments failed miserably, creating horrible mutations that had to be eradicated.”
“You make them sound like insects.”
“They were not much more than that.”
Carpenter shuddered. “And all of these creatures were brought to term by human females?”
“Through in vitro fertilization. As I said, Doctor Xavier was light-years ahead of his time. A procedure that is commonplace in most hospitals nowadays for infertile couples.”
“What happened to the mothers?”
There was a pause. “They were a security risk. They were sacrificed for the advancement of medical science.”
Carpenter knew he shouldn’t have asked. An intercom buzzed from somewhere in front of him and off to his right. A female voice, pleasant but to the point, interrupted them. “Doctor Xavier … your flight has been confirmed for 7 a.m.”
The sound of a finger pressing down on a switch. “Thank you.”
Carpenter shielded his eyes from the light above his head. “Doctor Xavier?”
A shadowy figure stepped forward, steering clear of the beam of light. A hand extended to be shaken. “Doctor Antoine Xavier, Captain. I am Adolph Xavier’s son.”
Carpenter shook the hand and then leaned back. “No wonder you know so much about the Sandman Project.”
“My father left very few notes. It has been my lifelong ambition to continue his work … but until yesterday, it has been a fruitless quest.”
“Yesterday?” Carpenter asked, as he squinted in vain to see the young doctor’s face.
“The article from the Florida newspaper.”
“I still don’t understand the connection.”
“As I started to say, there were twelve experiments in all. Ten were failures.”
Carpenter quickly did the math. “That leaves two.”
“Yes … two. Lance Cutter is number twelve … the most advanced hybrid specimen my father ever developed. You were witness to what he is capable of.”
If Carpenter would have been a cartoon character, a light bulb would have come on above his head. “The river … the freezing water didn’t faze him!”
“He was lucky to survive the crash, but the water was no problem for him. Besides being incredibly resilient and strong, it seems that Lance Cutter is also resourceful. We have no idea what the limits of his capabilities are. Lance Cutter has been leading a charmed life. Twice, he was believed dead. First, at birth, in the explosion that killed my father. Then he rose from the ashes and died a second time ten years later.
“When that jetliner went down in 1982, everyone, including yourself, thought he was dead and the search was called off. So, for the past ten years, he’s been living in Florida in total obscurity and shelter.”
“And now you want him back again.”
“We must have him back! His bodily system holds the key that unlocks the future of peace in the world! Can you imagine a thousand more like him? A peacekeeping force that could maintain the harmony of the Middle East without the debilitating restraints of the region’s blistering temperatures? The Middle East was of foremost concern on the minds of our military leaders, even back in the fifties.”
Now Carpenter understood. The Sand…man Project. “Does Cutter know that he’s special?”
Xavier leaned against his desk camouflaged by shadows, his feet crossed in front of him. “By now I’m sure he must. That was probably the main reason his mother brought him to Washington in 1982 … for answers.”
Carpenter studied the photograph again. What must it be like to have those superhuman abilities? “So you want me to go down to Florida and bring him back?”
“If my perception and intuition of the man is correct, I do not believe Lance Cutter will come willingly. We may have to apply, shall we say, pressure?”
“We?”
Xavier held his hand against his chest. “No one knows more than I how Lance Cutter will react when he is backed into a corner. I must be there when he’s apprehended. We will be leaving first thing tomorrow morning. I have arranged for us to be on a flight into Homestead Air Force Base in southern Florida. We leave at 7 a.m. Any other questions?”
“Just two…”
“Yes?”
“First, why me?”
“Call it karma, fate, experience or whatever you like, but it seems that your life, and Lance Cutter’s life, have been traveling parallel paths, wouldn’t you agree? It would be a shame to break up such a remarkable tandem. I am a great believer in destiny, Captain. Now, before we end our meeting … what is your last question?”
“What happened to number eleven?”
Xavier cleared his throat. “Number eleven?”
“Before, you said that Cutter was number twelve, and that two subjects survived. What became of number eleven?”
Antoine Xavier stepped forward into the light. He was the spitting image of the photograph in the newspaper, but slightly older. He wore a dark pair of sunglasses that hid his eyes from the harshness of the light. When he removed the shades, Carpenter instinctively pressed himself back into his chair. Xavier’s eyes were amber, the deepest shade of yellow Carpenter had ever seen. Where he expected to see round pupils, all Carpenter saw were black slits that bisected the golden orbs. The eyes could have only been described as reptilian.
Xavier leaned forward and smiled. “Number eleven, Captain? I’m number eleven!”
TWENTY FIVE
Update from the National Weather Service:
TROPICAL STORM ANDREW Tropical Storm Andrew at a glance:
Latitude: 22.3 N Longitude: 62.5 W Date: 8/20/92 Time: 5 p.m. EDT Velocity: 52 mph Movement: 12 mph Direction: NW
To Leeward Islands: 350 miles From Miami: 1,141 miles.
Andrew’s center is poorly organized, its circulation loose and its direction away from anyplace it could cause trouble. It
lost some force Thursday, but could regain it today, forecasters think. Long-range projections indicate a weekend course roughly parallel to the Bahamas, but 200 or 300 miles northeast of the islands with the worst wind on the north side.
TWENTY SIX
Saturday, August 22, 1992 Excerpt from a Miami Herald Wire Story:
Tropical storm Andrew gains strength, becomes hurricane
Tropical Storm Andrew will be upgraded to a hurricane today.
“We don’t like the looks of it,” a meteorologist at the National Hurricane Center said.
“The latest reconnaissance reports have the storm veering a westwardly direction toward the Florida coast, but slowly, and it is not expected to arrive before Tuesday. We won’t make any predictions this far in advance,” he said. “The path of a hurricane can be affected by many different factors that don’t even exist at the time of a forecast. A lot can happen between now and next week…”
TWENTY SEVEN
The Lockheed C-130E turbojet dipped its right wing and began a slow bank westward over the city of Jacksonville. The pilot, Second Lieutenant Tom Merchant, known affectionately to the members of his crew as “Ace,” adjusted the sunglasses on his face as the glare from the early morning sun reflected off the side window. His co-pilot, Airman First-Class Joel Pike, jawed away on a wad of bubble gum and gazed down on the St. Johns River as it passed below his view. “Taking us over land the rest of the way, Ace?”
Merchant eased the plane into level flight again. “I see no need to flirt with the turbulence over the ocean, J. P., do you?”
Pike bit down on the gum and it made a loud snap. “Whatever you say, sir. Maybe we’ll even get a glimpse of the Epcot Center.”
Merchant nodded. “It should be passing just to the west of us in about twenty minutes.”
“You ever been there?”
Merchant nodded. “Once … a long time ago.” A red light flashed on the console between the two pilots. Merchant looked over at Pike. “You better see what our distinguished passengers want.”
