by Greig Beck
‘Screw down another fifty,’ Hammerson said, squinting at the images.
The result made him smile. The man’s baseball cap was pulled down, obscuring most of his face from the steep vertical angle, but Jack Hammerson knew that man, knew his walk, his mannerisms, as if he were his own flesh and blood. Welcome back, son, he thought.
The woman with him turned her face for just a second and VELA grabbed it. A blurred image appeared in one of the smaller screens to the side; dot points manifested on the facial matrix, joined together, were mapped and enhanced – and a name appeared underneath the photograph in flashing red: Captain Adira Senesh. Next to it: Priority Alert.
‘Trouble,’ Sam grunted. He toggled a small stick on his armrest and an electric whine filled the darkened room as his wheelchair moved closer to the screen.
The last mission he and Alex Hunter had worked on together, Sam had suffered a massive trauma to his spine. The creature they had been fighting had broken Sam’s back as easily as snapping a twig, severing his spinal cord and shattering his L1 and L2 spinal plates. Sam would never walk again. Or not unless there were significant advancements in stem cell technology, Hammerson thought . . . or they managed to convince Alex Hunter to return. The Arcadian’s amazing regenerative abilities held so many secrets, so many possible answers.
Hammerson exhaled long and slow. First things first. We gotta see if we can make contact with him before we start trying to explain to the top brass how a dead soldier’s suddenly come back to life. There would be way too many complications trying to get that one past Graham in Medical.
Sam studied the woman’s face up close for a few seconds, then rolled back to Hammerson’s side. ‘Like a bad penny, huh?’
Hammerson nodded. ‘Big time. And if Alex hasn’t contacted us, we have to assume he doesn’t know us, or doesn’t want to. Worst case: she’s turned him. Either way, approaching them will be difficult.’
He rose from the chair, pushed the mic wire down from his mouth and went over to his desk. Staying standing, he pulled a keypad forward to start typing, then pressed his palm to the screen. A red line circled his hand, reading the peaks and valleys of his palm and fingerprints. He was accessing MUSE, the Military Universal Search Engine. The sophisticated USSTRATCOM intelligence system would allow him to enter nearly any website on the planet. There were only a few installations with the technical and intellectual firepower to resists MUSE’s invisible intrusions – and one by one they were slowly being broken down.
Hammerson copied a photo of Adira Senesh, then accessed the Mexican immigration arrivals files. Within a few minutes he’d found what he was looking for: Rebekah and Benjamin Jashub, entering from South Africa on a holiday visa.
‘Sam, take a look.’ Hammerson swivelled the screen.
Sam snorted. ‘Looks pretty good for someone who was in a steel coffin last time we saw him.’ He leaned closer to the passenger information and laughed. ‘You gotta be kidding me.’
‘What is it?’ Hammerson frowned and looked back at the screen.
‘Looks like he hasn’t lost his sense of humour. Jashub comes from the old Hebrew name Yashuwb, meaning he will return. Expecting us to be watching, maybe?’
‘Or perhaps a little warning from Senesh.’ Hammerson tapped his chin with one knuckle as he thought. ‘Can’t afford to go near them; and we certainly can’t let the local authorities in on the surveillance. We need to see where they’re going, then move to . . .’ He paused. He wasn’t sure yet what he wanted to do with Alex Hunter, or even what he could do given Alex’s capabilities and unpredictability. ‘Move to . . . talk to him, I guess,’ he finished.
Sam nodded slowly, obviously guessing his HAWC leader’s dilemma. ‘I’m ready to go whenever you say, boss. He trusts me . . . or used to.’
Hammerson nodded. He’d known that, crippled or not, Sam Reid would want the chance to try to bring Alex Hunter back in. Sam knew Alex better than anyone, and had been the closest thing Alex had to a friend. But Hammerson also knew that if Captain Adira Senesh was in any way controlling the Arcadian, Sam Reid would be committing suicide by going after them. And that was if he was fully fit. Stuck in a wheelchair, well . . .
‘For now, we just watch,’ he said, and pushed the mic wire up to his mouth again. ‘Captain Harris, I want 24/7 surveillance. Capture every nanosecond of CCTV feed, traffic-control footage and satellite stream we can get . . . and patch it through to me, and only me. Understood?’
‘You got it, Colonel. Recordings?’
‘Negative; I’ll do that from here – you just follow him. And remember, these guys are the best. They know we’re probably watching so they’ll be smart.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Harris responded. ‘We’ll be smarter. No one can hide from VELA.’
Hammerson was about to sign off when he heard Harris give a grunt of annoyance. ‘Got a problem, Colonel – there’s a dual-feed loop. I think someone else is watching.’
‘Ah shit! Can you find out who?’
‘No problem.’ There was silence for a moment, then, ‘Yep, got it. Feed is being routed to Medical Division.’
Hammerson exhaled a low growl. Graham probably, he thought. He leaned forward to rest his knuckles on the edge of his desk. ‘Okay, Gerry – just make sure you cover your tracks . . . and don’t lose our man.’ He removed his headset and said softly to the screen, ‘The game’s afoot. Your move, Arcadian.’
*
‘They’re different,’ Lieutenant Marshal told his superior officer.
Captain Robert Graham snorted as he straightened his tie in the mirror. ‘Of course they’re different, Marshal. We wanted them to be different – we built them that way, remember?’
Marshal stepped a little closer. ‘No, I mean that the latest test subjects’ personalities have altered. Their strength, reaction times and resistance to pain have increased five fold, but they haven’t benefited from the same boost to their cognitive and strategic thinking as the original Arcadian did. In fact, there’s something missing . . . they’re kind of mechanical somehow, like they’re just . . . I dunno . . . like they’re just acting human.’ His voice went down in volume. ‘It seems like there’s no soul in them anymore.’
Graham managed to snort and sneer at the same time. ‘So, we’ve created a soldier with increased physical capabilities and no conscience – and that’s bad because . . .? Personally, I think they’re magnificent. And so will General Moneybags.’ He motioned to the door with his head. ‘Speaking of which, time to invite the general in.’
General Wozyniak had three stars and a hell of a lot of pull in the US armed forces. It was he who had wanted the original subject, Alex Hunter, reproduced and had given Graham and Marshal the job of delivering. Money was no object, but time was. Finally, Graham thought, they had something to show him.
Captain Graham saluted, then offered his hand. The general ignored the hand and made a half-salute motion towards his head. ‘Show me what you’ve got, Captain.’
During the next thirty minutes, Graham had their three latest subjects perform individual tasks that showed their strength, speed and resistance to pain and trauma. General Wozyniak nodded at key moments, and at one point Graham was sure he saw a brief smile flick across the man’s permanently compressed lips.
The final task was a simple hand-to-hand combat manoeuvre that pitted three regular soldiers against one of the ARC-044 batch subjects. The three opponents were large, highly trained and fit. Formidable by themselves, as a trio they should easily overcome a single combatant.
Graham turned to the general. ‘Our three attackers have been told they simply need to hold the ARC-044 subject on the floor for five seconds, by any means. They can use full contact, no restrictions, no pulling of punches.’
The general just grunted.
Graham pressed a comm stud on the desk in front of the large window. ‘Commence.’
The three men circled the barefoot, unarmed subject. The first attacker came in low from the side, sciss
oring his legs, expecting to side-sweep the subject off his feet. The subject leapt out of the way of the sweeping leg, then came down hard just as the leg was passing underneath him. Both heels targeted the large bone of the femur; the sickening snap caused the scientists behind the thick glass to grimace.
The remaining two men ignored their fallen comrade, instead taking advantage of his demise to attack at once. One came in fast head-on, the other came from the rear. To the men watching, it was almost as though the ARC-044 subject was waiting for the attack, welcomed it.
The volunteer at the ARC-044 subject’s rear wrapped one brawny arm around his throat and the other up beside his head and applied pressure. His teeth were gritted as he strained and seemed to be attempting to separate the small bones in the neck, or shut off the air. It was if the ARC-044 didn’t even notice. He continued to face the attacker who came in from the front, who hit out with his large fists in a series of strikes that, had they landed, would have broken jaws or shattered eye sockets. He was quick and his punches were delivered with a professional rolling of the arm and shoulder that told of unarmed combat training. But none of his blows hit their target. All were parried, swiped away or merely swung across empty air where the ARC-044 subject had moved out of the way with an ease that bordered on tormenting.
Finally, Graham’s enhanced warrior caught both his combatant’s fists, held his attacker for a second and looked into his eyes, before drawing him in close. He shifted his grip to the man’s head and twisted violently while still staring into his face. A snapping sound came over the microphone and the soldier’s body fell to the floor like an empty sack.
Graham noticed Marshal look sharply at him, but he ignored his subordinate. Wozyniak could have been watching a chess game, but his eyes were unwavering and the hint of a smile had appeared again.
Marshal turned away from the window, but Graham felt his own excitement building as the ARC-044 subject pulled the final man over his shoulder and threw him heavily to the ground. He held him there and pummelled his face, over and over. When the crunches became wetter and softer, Graham switched the window to frost.
‘Was he supposed to kill them?’ the general asked. His tone was indifferent but his eyes were interested.
Graham shrugged. ‘He was supposed to defend himself. He was told his attackers would be ordered to try to kill him so he obviously reacted with what he believed was commensurate force. All the men were Special Ops volunteers and aware of the risks.’
The General nodded. ‘Okay. What now?’
Graham smiled. ‘Access to the armoury, and then test out in the field. I’ve got something in mind – if you would just sign off on the order.’
TWENTY
Alex and Adira had been in Laredo Nuevo for just two hours and had made their way to the outskirts of the city. Alex searched the darkness, listening for the sound of rushing water.
‘This way,’ he said.
They had waited for nightfall in a near empty diner, chewing indifferently on stale sandwiches and sipping bitter coffee. Their only other purchase in town had been a pack of black garbage bags. The luggage they’d brought on the flight was padded to avoid suspicion as they came through customs. They had extracted what they needed and left the rest in an alley. By now, it had no doubt been picked over by a dozen different people and its contents dispersed across the border city. Amongst the clothing, cameras and travel booklets in Adira’s bag had been a leather roll containing sculptor’s tools. Camouflaged among the small chisels, files and spatulas were two slim iron spikes; only another assassin would have recognised them as perfectly balanced throwing knives. These, and cash and credit cards with an unlimited spend, were all they needed. Everything else they required they would buy or steal. There would be no trail.
Alex moved quickly through the darkness to the bank of the Rio Grande. He raised his head and inhaled the desert air, closed his eyes and allowed the rushing images to flood his senses. The link that had exploded into his mind only a few days ago, pulling him towards the small town in North Carolina, was growing weaker. If it was his mother, something was bleeding her of her vitality.
He turned to Adira. ‘We need to hurry.’ He tore open the pack of garbage bags and began to remove his clothing. ‘About a hundred yards,’ he said, nodding towards the opposite bank. ‘Pretty good current, so I expect we’ll come out maybe half a mile further down.’
Adira nodded as she too stripped down. ‘Three-fifty miles to Houston – that’s five hours’ driving at seventy miles per hour; then another eight-fifty or so to Asheville – probably another twelve hours. Maybe on the way you’ll tell me a little more about what you are planning?’
Alex looked at her. ‘My mother’s there. She’s in trouble and she needs me . . . and I need her. She might be the only person who can tell me truthfully who I am.’
‘I can –’ Adira began, but stopped when he glared at her. He guessed she could tell his opinion of her truthfulness. After a moment his anger cooled and he gave her a half-smile. ‘It’s okay. And by the way, in America, seventy miles per hour is the speed your grandmother would drive.’
She laughed nervously and slipped off her underwear. As she stood up straight, she noticed Alex watching her and a small smile curled the corner of her mouth.
‘Let’s go then,’ she said.
*
‘Contact.’
Salamon swore softly – he’d bet wrong and was now miles away from the action. There were several spots between Nuevo Laredo and Laredo where a strong swimmer could cross the Rio Grande, but only two that he would choose if he were Senesh. Unfortunately, they were miles apart. He had separated his team accordingly, taking the southern crossing himself – being the highest-skilled operative and, in his opinion, three times as good as his colleagues – and sending his three men to the northern one.
‘I’m on my way. Do not engage unless absolutely unavoidable. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
Salamon had simplified the objectives for his team. General Shavit wanted his niece alive, but had not been as concerned about the fate of the American. For Salamon, that was as good as a death sentence.
He jogged back to his car. He hoped the Laredo police uniforms his men had stolen would be enough of a distraction to hold Hunter and Senesh until he got there.
*
Alex and Adira pulled themselves from the water and carried their knotted plastic bags some distance away from the bank, where they both dressed quickly. There was no moon, but the stars gave Alex more than enough illumination to see by. He paused for a few seconds and raised his head, sensing they were being watched. He turned slowly, looking into the brush and beyond, straining to hear the slightest sound – a breath, a wheeze.
Adira noticed his searching and froze. ‘What is it?’
He stayed where he was, his head tilted for a few more seconds, until the distant call pulled at him again, urging him on. ‘Maybe nothing; let’s move.’
He pulled the dark sweater over his head and slipped on the leather jacket. He couldn’t waste any more time trying to analyse his suspicions. They needed transport . . . and weapons. He had no idea what they would be walking into, but he knew he didn’t want to go unarmed.
They made their way through the brush beside the road for ten minutes, not yet trusting the open gravel surface. There may be border patrols nearby, and there was no good reason for anyone other than police, drug runners or illegal immigrants to be wandering around in the dark this close to the extremely porous border. A small knot of pain flared in Alex’s head, making him frown and crush his eyes shut for a moment. The pain rippled down his neck and the sensation of being watched grew stronger. He was becoming distracted; he needed to concentrate, pay more attention, needed to . . .
‘Hold it right there.’
Harsh flashlights shone in their faces and two men came out of the underbrush. Their light blue uniforms looked like those of ice-cream vendors, but signified Laredo City Police. Al
ex considered dealing with them while he and Adira were still just anonymous bodies in the dark, but held back when a set of car headlights came on across the other side of the wide road. The lights were higher than normal – SUV or truck, Alex thought. Another man got out, also uniformed.
‘Could I see some ID, please, sir?’
The man who spoke had a deep scar on his chin and his jaw was large and firm, indicating a lot of bunched muscle at the neck and shoulders. He was big and in condition – they all were. Despite the Laredo PD caps pulled down over their eyes, Alex could tell that their gazes never left him for a second. He noticed that the speaker’s hand, which held the flashlight at shoulder level, was hard and callused. LPD must have upgraded their recruiting process. The sense of danger bloomed in Alex’s head as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.
‘We’re tourists,’ he said, holding it out slowly to the talker.
The man shook his head, his eyes never wavering from Alex’s. ‘Drop it and kick it over.’
‘Careful, there’s all my holiday money in there,’ Alex said as he obeyed.
He tensed, waiting for the scarred officer to look down at the full wallet, but the man ignored it and reached down to his holster to unclip his gun. He lifted it free in a smooth movement, the weapon comfortable in his hand. It was a big Sig Sauer, a P228, much larger than normal US law enforcement issue. Something wasn’t right . . . small-town cops were never this sharp and professional.
The man’s companions had drawn their weapons too, but their guns were different. There was something about the way they looked that wasn’t quite right either, but he couldn’t determine what it was with the flashlights in his face.
The men fanned out a little more. They took up equal positions around him and Adira, but all remained facing him, ready and on edge. The scarred officer crouched for the wallet, but still his eyes remained on Alex.
