Prime

by Jeremy Robinson

  By her.

  Sasha felt as if someone had wiped her mental chalkboard clean. All the uncertainty surrounding her abduction, the actions and motives of her captors, even her ultimate fate when all of this was done…all of those variables had been erased.

  “I need to see this machine. The real thing, not just pictures. Can you arrange that?”

  The man regarded her with a taut expression, as if it was he that now harbored uncertainties about the situation. “Ms. Therion, because I want you to be able to solve this problem for me, I’m going to be straightforward with you.

  “The sealed crypt in which this object was found, was infected with a particularly nasty strain of proto-bacteria—an organism very similar to the bacteria responsible for bubonic plague. The first people to enter were exposed and died in a matter of minutes.”

  “There’s a connection between the manuscript and the plague?” Sasha recalled her earlier conversation with Daniel Parker. The document that had prompted the Agency to send her to Iraq in the first place, had suggested just such a link, but following Rainer’s act of treachery, she had assumed it to be just so much window dressing to sell the deception.

  “There is…let’s call it a circumstantial connection. Archaeological sites contain all kinds of strange things—bacteria, fungi, viruses, even prions, which have been hidden away for thousands of years. Investigating those ancient mysteries is my specialty, though in this case, my motives are…” He trailed off as if realizing he’d said more than he intended. “I tell you this only because you need to understand that you can’t interact directly with the artifact. It’s here, in the facility, but it is still hot. Any attempt to decontaminate it would probably destroy it completely. Bio-safety level-four protocols are in effect. The closest you will be able to get to it is in a full environment suit.”

  Sasha nodded in agreement without even considering the pre-condition. She didn’t care about the safety considerations; she was here for just one thing. The Voynich manuscript was a mystery that seemed unsolvable, a variable that kept the equation from balancing.

  But she would solve it, and when she did, it would transform chaos into order.

  FIFTEEN

  Washington, D.C.

  Domenick Boucher sank wearily into the chair at the conference table in the White House Situation Room, and gestured for his traveling companion, Staff Sergeant Lewis Aleman, to do the same. Despite the fact that Aleman’s right arm was heavily bandaged and nestled in a protective sling across his chest, he looked alert and ready for action, which was more than Boucher could say for himself. He’d caught a few hours of sleep on the flight back from Iraq, but anxiety over the unfolding crisis had robbed him of anything vaguely resembling rest.

  Despite his injuries and over the protestations of the doctors at the base in Tikrit, Aleman had insisted on accompanying Boucher back to the states. “I need to be a part of this,” the Delta sniper had argued. “If I can’t be in the fight, then at least let me coordinate the mission from the TOC.”

  There was a lot to recommend granting the request. Aleman was familiar with the team and their protocols, but more importantly, he was already read in. With the full extent of the conspiracy still unknown, Aleman was one of a very few people that were above suspicion. Until more was known about the enemy, secrecy was paramount. That was why the President had directed the operation be run from the Situation Room.

  Boucher was in the process of establishing a secure satellite link with General Keasling when the President entered the room. Aleman immediately snapped to attention and somehow managed to extricate his hand from the sling to offer a salute. Boucher also started to rise but Duncan waved him off.

  “I’ve only got a few minutes, so let’s dispense with all the formalities.” Duncan nevertheless returned Aleman’s salute. “Sergeant, as one shooter to another…helluva job. I promise you that your sacrifices will not be forgotten, and I will see that the deaths of your teammates are avenged.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Duncan turned to Boucher. “Do we have the General on the line?”

  Keasling’s voice issued from the speakers. “I’m here, Mr. President.”

  “Good. Let’s have the sitrep, gentlemen.”

  Boucher went first. “We’ve conducted preliminary forensic testing on the intel recovered from Ramadi, but there’s nothing conclusive. The paper and ink are of the same type available for civilian use in Iraq. The only trace DNA evidence was from the people that we know handled it: the Delta team and our own analysts.”

  “Wouldn’t that support the idea that it was a forgery?”

  Boucher nodded. “The most likely conclusion is that Lt. Col. Rainer created the document and planted it during the course of the raid. But it’s also possible that the insurgents were working with him—sacrificial lambs, so to speak—to further reinforce the illusion.”

  Duncan frowned. “Let’s cut to the chase. Is there a WMD lab out there somewhere?”

  Boucher knew the President well enough to recognize that the man wanted a truthful answer, but he hated having to admit to his own uncertainty. “I wish I could say unequivocally that there is not, but…”

  “I read you, Dom. Keep digging.” Duncan turned away, directing his voice toward the speaker box. “Mike, what’s your situation?”

  “Sir, we’ve tracked Rainer and the others to Mandalay. Our people on the ground have placed them at a remote facility east of the city. We’re in the air now. Once we arrive and get the lay of the land, I will have a better sense of what our options are, and I’ll develop contingency plans.”

  Boucher had no difficulty reading between the lines. Keasling was anticipating a covert assault on the Burmese facility, an action that was technically illegal and which carried enormous diplomatic risk, to say nothing of the danger to the Delta operators. Of course, that was the very reason why Delta had been created; sometimes, the strict letter of the law had to be broken in the interest of the greater good. Delta’s job was to take those risks in a strictly unofficial capacity, giving the President full deniability, and if things went south in the field, they were on their own.

  “Contingency plans,” Duncan muttered, and then he shook his head. “We are in this mess because the system we’ve inherited—the way things have always been done—is completely ass-backwards. We’ve got too many agencies working at cross-purposes. Hell, sometimes actively working against each other. Too many ‘yes men’ who think it’s their mission in life to either tell me exactly what they think I want to hear, even if it means cooking up the evidence to support it, or to protect me from knowing the truth.”

  It wasn’t the first time Boucher had heard Duncan utter some variation of those words. He’d told the American people as much during the campaign. The bitter pill he’d been forced to swallow upon assuming the office of Chief Executive was that it truly was impossible for one man, no matter how dedicated and passionate, to overcome the inertia of bureaucracy. It had nothing to do with the limits of Constitutional authority; there were simply too many moving pieces. Too many human parts.

  But there was something different about the way Duncan said it this time. Boucher saw a faint gleam in his old friend’s eyes as he continued. “Enough. No more contingency plans. No more ‘cover your ass.’ As one of my predecessors famously said, the buck stops here.”

  He looked Boucher in the eye. “Dom, I trust you implicitly, and I know it’s your job to keep me from going off the rails, but right now I need you to just shut up and listen.”

  Boucher felt an electric tingle in his extremities. What the hell is he doing?

  “General Keasling, we don’t know each other very well, but I think I’m a pretty good judge of character. I wouldn’t have given you that star if I didn’t think you were up for the job.”

  Boucher knew that Duncan had been prepared to frock Keasling as a Major General—the rank associated with his new position as the leader of JSOC. It had actually been Keasling himself who had
insisted he not be advanced three full pay grades, a promotion that would have ignited a firestorm of jealousy in the Army high command.

  The satellite connection couldn’t completely mask Keasling’s guarded reply. “Thank you, sir.”

  Duncan just smiled. “Oh, don’t thank me until you’ve heard the rest.”

  SIXTEEN

  Mandalay, Myanmar

  Jack Sigler—callsign: King, climbed out of the taxi and scanned the street ahead. He turned a slow arc, checking the area, high and low, from the ten o’clock position to the three. The other men who had been sandwiched together in the back of the vehicle did likewise upon emerging, each checking a different quadrant, overlapping their sectors of responsibility to identify potential threats.

  They had all exchanged their combat fatigues for civilian clothes. King now wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt with a picture of Elvis Presley, which Stan ‘Juggernaut’ Tremblay had purchased for him at an airport gift shop. To further reduce their visibility, it had been decided to move from the airport to the Mandalay safe-house in two separate groups. King’s group, which consisted of Tremblay, Silent Bob, and a sniper named Meyers, who went by the callsign ‘Dark,’ had taken the lead, traveling by taxi. General Keasling, ‘Irish’ Parker, ‘Roadrunner’ Bellows, ‘Race’ Banion—the other sniper from the Eagle-Eye team—and heavy weapons specialist Erik Somers, the last addition to their team, would follow in a pair of rented SUVs.

  Somers had been brought on board just before leaving Tikrit. King knew him only as the big guy who had manhandled the M2 during the extraction the previous night, but he’d come with a personal recommendation from Parker. The two men had gone through Delta selection together. An intense but quiet figure, Somers was Iranian by birth, but had been adopted by an American family shortly before Ayatollah Khomeni’s government closed off Iran from the rest of the world. He was a former marine who had switched services to become a Ranger, and he possessed seemingly superhuman strength, which should have made him an ideal candidate for Special Forces. According to Parker, Somers had aced the course but hadn’t made the final cut. There could have been a number of reasons for that, not the least of which was team chemistry. That was something that weighed on King’s mind as he contemplated both the mission ahead and the other special assignment General Keasling had given him.

  The street was bustling with activity, all of it seemingly harmless, but the men remained vigilant as they followed King along a maze-like path between the freestanding buildings and eventually up a rickety wooden staircase that led to the second story balcony. He found the door with the yellow smiley face sticker he’d been told to look for; someone had used a pen to add fangs and sinister eyebrows to the iconic image.

  Tremblay, with a mischievous grin, nodded at the decal. “I’m going to fit right in here.”

  King appraised him with a sidelong glance. It was still a little hard to reconcile this blond man with his punk-rocker goatee and an always ready one-liner, with the guy that had dropped out of the sky wielding .50 caliber death in both hands. He had no doubt of Tremblay’s ability in combat—he’d already witnessed it first hand—but a successful team had to be able to work together every day of the week, not just on the day of the big game.

  Two hours ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. Two hours ago, his orders were simple: take the team you’ve got and go after the bad guys. But then, Keasling had taken him aside. “The President has ordered me to put together a new unit; fast, mobile, unlimited resources, non-existent radar signature, if you take my meaning. He and I both agree that you are the ideal candidate for field leader.”

  King had been in the Army long enough to be extremely wary of ‘special assignments.’ “Sir, that’s already Delta’s job description.”

  Keasling’s expression at that moment had spoken volumes. The general hadn’t seemed particularly happy about this development either, but he wasn’t about to contradict the President. He clearly expected the same from King. “Think of this as the Delta of Delta. The difference is that you will get your orders directly from a handler in the National Security office. Administratively, you’ll still be part of JSOC, but in all other respects, you will completely bypass the chain of command.”

  King had decided to keep the rest of his opinions to himself. “When does this go into effect?”

  “It went into effect five minutes ago, when the President told me to make it happen. Obviously, we’ve got some growing pains ahead of us, but arrangements are already being made for a live uplink to your new handler.”

  Keasling hadn’t asked if he wanted the job; maybe that wasn’t even an option, but King figured the general had known all along that he wouldn’t refuse.

  Which meant he now had to think about trying to select a team of operators for this ‘Delta of Delta,’ while at the same time planning for the mission already underway. It was evident that Keasling expected him to build his new team from the current group, but King knew that no matter how outstanding the shooters were as individuals, what really mattered was whether they could work as a team.

  He tried the door—unlocked, as he’d been told it would be—and went in. The space beyond was dimly lit by sunlight filtering through the curtained windows, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. Cardboard boxes and blankets hanging from a web of clotheslines had been used to partition the area, but his attention was immediately drawn to the center of the large open, room where an impromptu assemblage of foam mats had been laid out in a square and bordered with ropes on all four sides. It was a boxing ring.

  A strange repetitive noise emanated from the shadows—a slapping sound interspersed with grunts of exertion. He glimpsed a ratty-looking heavy punching bag hanging from a metal frame in a corner of the room. The bag quivered from persistent blows, and as he advanced toward it, he saw the person responsible for the assault on the other side.

  Tremblay let out a low whistle. “I think I’m in love.”

  King’s first impulse was to agree. The person pummeling the heavy bag was a woman—blonde and petite, wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt that clung tantalizingly to her curves and a pair of short shorts that covered just enough to set the imagination on fire. The perspiration running in rivulets from her face and dampening the fabric of her shirt did nothing to diminish the sheer sexiness of her appearance; in fact, it made her even more appealing.

  The scene was surreal; the woman could have been a model, posing for a camera shoot, but there was nothing simulated about the punches she was throwing. She glanced up as they approached, but gave the bag several more hits in rapid succession before formally acknowledging their presence.

  “You must be the Delta boys.” She offered a coy grin, and rested her boxing-gloved hands on her hips. “Sorry, you caught me in the middle of my workout. I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

  Tremblay matched her smile. “And we weren’t expecting…you.”

  “Down boy,” King muttered. He turned to the woman. “What’s the word of the day?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So, right to business? That’s okay. I like that in a man. The word of the day is ‘timberline.’” She paused and locked stares with him. “I’ve shown you mine…”

  “The counter-sign is ‘grapefruit.’ I’m King. Laughing boy here is Juggernaut, and the other stooges are Bob and Dark. Are you Baker?”

  It had not been made clear if that was her real name or a mission callsign, but when she nodded, Tremblay gave a little gasp of comprehension. “I’ve heard about…” He turned to King. “Do you know who this is? The Legend of Zelda?”

  King shook his head, mystified. He didn’t think the other man was talking about the old Nintendo game.

  Tremblay turned back to the woman. “That’s who you are? Zelda Baker. The first woman to ever make it through Ranger school.”

  King’s brow furrowed. The statement didn’t make any sense. Females weren’t eligible for Ranger school because of the military ban on women in
combat occupation specialties.

  “I thought it was just scuttlebutt,” Tremblay continued. “G.I. Jane bullshit. Some general had the nutty idea that Spec Ops needed to be co-ed, so he set up a special pilot program to start training women for the Unit.”

  King glanced at her. She was still smiling, but there was a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “I’ve never heard anything about this,” he said.

  “A buddy of mine was an R.I. They wanted to keep it all very hush-hush in case things went horribly wrong…which is exactly what happened. Only one of the candidates made it through, which just showed what a stupid idea it was to begin with—”

  Zelda cleared her throat. “Standing right in front of you, Prince Charming.”

  The Delta shooter swallowed nervously. “Ah, sorry…but you know what I mean.”

  “Actually I don’t. I’d love to see how you’re going to get out of that hole by digging deeper, but we should probably cut to the chase.”

  King wanted to hear more about this woman—Zelda Baker, evidently the first and only female Army Ranger. Keasling had told him that their contacts in Myanmar were military intelligence; aside from that, he hadn’t known what to expect…but as Tremblay had so eloquently put it, he hadn’t been expecting her. But she was right; they were on the clock. “I was told that your people are maintaining surveillance on the subjects. Is that correct?”

  “My people?” Her lips curled in something that might have been a wry smile or a sneer—he couldn’t say for sure.

  She gestured for them to follow her into one of the partitioned areas, which had been converted into a makeshift office. There was a wall map of Southeast Asia tacked to one wall and a pad of butcher paper on an easel in a corner. A folding card table served as a desk, but most of its surface was taken up by electronic equipment—a military radio, a computer terminal and a fax/copier/scanner. The only decorative item in evidence was a stuffed toy sitting on the table right next to the computer. It was a Ranger Bear, just like those sold in the Post Exchange—a teddy bear in camouflage BDUs complete with a black beret, but this one had been modified. The bear’s head had been removed, and in its place was a Magic 8 Ball. King noticed that someone had pinned a silver rank bar to the beret.