“The roster?”
“Yes. Me, though, well, I know enough to send a lot of people to jail forever, if not the gas chamber.”
“Kessie’s not going to shoot you,” said Jim. Finishing the water, he crumpled the cup and pitched it toward the wastebasket. Bouncing off the rim, it landed in Bartlett’s mouth, still gapped wide in disbelief.
“No,” agreed Budd. “Not Kessie, but some of the Army guys probably have their orders. Think of the money the government will save on my pension. No doubt they’re hoping to get Kaeko, Milano and O’Malley, too, but if they’re not back,” he shrugged, “they’ll leave a small reception committee amid the smoldering ruins. Now’s our last chance to get the hell off this island, Jimbo.”
“How are we going to get by the Red Army?”
“I can have Rourke call Whitsun. A chopper will pick us up.”
“Making me your ticket out of here.”
“I want my pension.”
“I’m not leaving without my daughter and Angie and Tim O’Malley,” said Jim. Standing, he staggered and would have fallen if Billy hadn’t steadied him.
“Jim, they’re not here,” said Billy, seizing him by the shoulders, looking him in the eye. “They may never be here. If you’re dead, who’ll follow up on the roster?”
“Forget the roster, Billy.”
“Okay. So, do you have a plan? Other than your band of desperadoes?”
“Yeah,” said Jim. “I’ve got a plan.” His vertigo was fading but not his headache. “We shoot our way into the operations area and hold it until our trio returns.”
“I like my plan better.”
Kneeling, Jim took the machine pistol from the dead Russian. “Chances would be better if there were two of us,” he said, checking the weapon’s action and clicking on the safety.
“Not really,” said Billy, watching as Jim took the commando’s webbed utility belt with its spare magazines, let it out a tad and buckled it on. “Things didn’t end well for Butch and Sundance either.
“So, Billy,” asked Jim cheerfully, “what’s your 401k worth now?”
“You mean the 401k my ex, the Bitch of Baltimore’s going to get? She and her decidedly younger boyfriend? Pisser, isn’t Jimbo? Work all those years, kiss acres of ass to get ahead, take some big risks. You know why they first let Schmidla out of his cage?”
“You’re going to tell me something that’ll make even me more cynical, aren’t you?” said Jim. As an afterthought, he knelt, checking the Spesnatz’s body—no grenades.
“They wanted to wipe out the descendants’ survivors. Those kids terrified them—mind reading, telekinesis, teleportation, precognition—abilities that grew with each generation, but powers over which their owners had no control. The first generation scared our masters. By the third-generation, they’d lost control of their bladders. There’s to be no fourth-generation.
“Schmidla seemed well-suited to the task at hand—disposing of this threat to our comfy place atop the food chain. The understanding’s always been that he could use Potentials as his sacrificial lab rats so long as they were all sacrificed. He was allowed to keep Kaeko, though—he did insist.”
Seeing the look on Jim’s face, he added, “Jim, I swear, if I’d known Maria was Kaeko, I’d have told you—we’d have pulled her out of here years ago. You know how easily new IDs and new identities can be created, fat new bank accounts set up.”
“Schmidla’s an ancient, lidless crocodile, Billy. If he played your dupe, it was because it suited him.”
“Know much about him?”
“Only what I hear from his friends.”
“Well I’ve done my homework,” said Budd. “Beneath that cloak of intellectualism and cold rationality lies a misty-eyed Teutonic knight. For over half a century he’s been on a quest for Nazism’s Holy Grail, the Aryan Superman, Der Übermensch. Superman,” Budd snorted. “His only tangible result to date is a trail of corpses stretching from the Caucuses through Nordhausen and Bremen to Boston. But pathetic though his loathsome attempts at eugenics may be, he’s an excellent executioner, perfect for the job of ridding the world of those weird, scary Potentials. That’s why Whitsun was told to go out and get him.”
“Schmidla’s a genius, Billy—a very clever, patient and diabolical genius.”
“He can afford to be patient—he’s over a hundred years old. You know he’s shrinking?”
“Not fast enough to do anyone any good,” said Jim. “And Whitsun?”
“Judging from his reports and point papers, Whitsun bought into the concept of developing Potentials to man the Frontiers of Freedom. And as a deterrent to Russia developing Potentials, of course,” Budd smirked.
“Did our Russian friends ever have their own ship invisibility project?”
“No. They didn’t have much of a fleet during World War II. Plus they were broke and fighting for their lives. But if we can recreate the conditions of the Philadelphia Experiment—and we have—so can they. Typically the Russians just steal our R&D results. Costs a lot less. Probably the only reason they didn’t visit this island paradise before is they didn’t think it worth the effort. Sounds like a macabre nightmare unless you’ve seen videos from the experiments.”
“So what changed their minds?”
Budd shrugged. “Biotech, genomics—they’re the future that’s suddenly upon us. If the Russians caught even a hint of the sort of long-term HUMBAPs Telemachus’ tinkering with...”
“HUMBAPs?”
“Human-Based Phenomena. They’d just love to have a look at the genetics of some Potentials. Why join in the race to reengineer the human genome if Mother Nature’s already produced a workable prototype? Steal the prototype. And if there’s no prototype left, thanks to The Good Doctor’s enthusiasms, why then, bring home any research material you can grab and, of course, the Sacred Roster.”
“It always amazed me,” said Jim “how we reduced intricate complexities to a few words, then shrank those into acronyms. Kaeko and Angie—HUMBAPs.”
“In your way, Jim, you’re as much as romantic as Schmidla – it was your idealism that doomed you at the Company. We’re Corporate now. The Great Game’s long gone.”
The phone rang. Budd answered, taking a message for Bartlett. “They’re back,” he said, hanging up.
“Showtime,” said Jim. Banishing emotion, Jim went into that small ever-calm center of himself that he’d first found in the jungles of Asia. “We need Freddy.”
Billy shook his head. “Agent Kessler has his orders.”
“I’ll talk to him. Get him on your phone.”
“Freddy,” said Jim when the FBI agent answered. “Jimbo. I’m here on the island with Billy. Angie, Maria and O’Malley are back. We need a friendly assault right about now. I repeat, friendly.”
“We’re coming in, but it’s not going to be friendly.” His voice was low and urgent. He spoke quickly almost pleadingly. “Rourke and the NSC staff believe that if anyone gets off that island, humanity’s finished. They’ve sold the President on it. And me. I’m sorry, Jimbo. No one gets off that island.”
“Freddy,” said Jim. “You’ve got to believe me—folks with special abilities won’t be roaming about, wreaking havoc and turning the rest of us into zombies.”
“Really? What’s to stop them? Other than our coming in and doing what needs to be done?”
“Kessie if I tell you it’s under control, then it’s under control. The power and the will exists to control Potentials. You’ve got to trust me.”
“You are so crazy,” whispered Billy.
They waited.
“Ah, Jimbo,” sighed Kessler. “You think I like being the last proconsul? Here’s what we do. We’ll take out the Russians and roundup the noncombatants. But then you’ve got to convince me, and real fast.”
“Do you have a lock on the military? That’s the Black Brigade you’re riding with.”
“They’ll do as I tell them. All they know is that they’re to take out a grou
p of international terrorists who’re using Smalls Island for a staging area. That’s the way it’ll stay.”
“Love ya, Kessie.”
“Fuck you, Jim.”
“Wait! Have you got gunships?”
“Apaches. Why?”
“Give us a missile strike as soon as you’re over target. Anywhere near the hospital will do. Billy and I need a diversion.”
“Fine. The boys will probably try to hit some Russians, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“Seven minutes. You’ll hear us.”
Jim handed the cell phone back to Budd, who stared at him admiringly. “I can’t believe you pulled that off.”
“Freddy had some cousins back in the Old Country who served in the same outfit as Schmidla. It bothers him. No matter how convincing you are, I doubt you or God Himself could ever really sell Fred Kessler on genocide.”
Flicking off the machine pistol’s safety, he opened the door and looked down the corridor. Empty. “We’ll wait for that first missile.”
“I want one of those,” said Budd, looking enviously at the neat streamlined little Vektor Jim was cradling.
“Your chance is coming.”
“Joy.”
“Maria, we have to go,” Angie said urgently. The hedge, the sky, the grass, all the props and stage dressing of Maria’s little universe were fading in and out, coming and going as her anguish rose and fell. Through the widening black rents in their dissolving reality they saw great tendrils of light, pulsating, undulating bands of white luminescence. “Maria, if you come with us, we’ll take you to your Daddy,” said Angie. “No more Uncle Richard.”
What are those wormy things? asked O’Malley.
Strings? Angie speculated, watching Maria as, sniffling, she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.
“Promise?” asked Maria, looking up at Angie.
“Promise,” smiled Angie, silently praying that it wasn’t just an expedient lie.
Strings are tiny. O’Malley stood looking at the undulating cylinders of energy.
Perhaps we are, too. Surely it wouldn’t take as much energy and effort to maintain a tiny universe as it would a full-scale one?
If I remember my physics, it takes very little matter to create a whole lot of energy, thought Tim, but a great deal of energy to create just a little bit of matter.
Maybe she has a ready supply of nicely compacted matter stored close at hand, suggested Angie. Say, from a convenient black hole or two?
You could convince me of anything now.
“Ok, said Maria, standing, composed. “We’ll go back. You’ll have to help. I can’t do it alone right now. I’m very tired.”
“What do you want us to do?” asked Tim.
“Listen with me. We have to find just the right sound—but not just a sound—more like listening to all the music in the universe, all at once, and finding that one harmony, that one euphony that’s home. And follow it there.” Seeing their confusion she said, “It’s easy, really. Here. All hold hands, then open your minds and listen—listen with all your being. And please, please, stay with me. My other friends didn’t.”
Hands joined, they felt Maria sweep into their minds, a dazzling explosion of Potential: hers, theirs—engulfing them in light and sound—sound that flowed in consonance with the light into a melody so pure that Angie would have wept from the beauty of it, had her body not been absorbed by the kaleidoscope of color and the ethereal harmony of which she was part.
Everything has its own special music, came Maria’s thought, even the horrible room we came from. Our cells remember it, even if we don’t. Hear it, let it touch you, entwine with you. Do that and we’ll be back. It’s...this... A plaintive soprano flute began a sad little air, Maria sharing the well-remember notes of a melancholy piece so tinged with oppressive dark blue that it overwhelmed them with ineffable sadness.
It’s a dirge, an elegy for all those souls who left from there, never to return, thought Maria.
We have to find it? asked Tim.
No, answered Maria. We have to let it find us. All of us together, listen to it again, and as we hear it, hear only it—filter out all the wondrous music of the universe until you hear only that lilting flute playing that sad air. Hearing it, embrace it. Embracing it, together, we’ll be there.
How do you embrace a sound? asked Angie.
You’ll know. I’ll help. Hear nothing else, no matter how alluring. Embrace nothing else, no matter how beautiful. If you do, you’ll never get back. None of us may.
Is there nowhere else we can go? Near, but not from just where we left? asked Tim.
No, said Maria. It’s the only place I’ve ever left from. That any of us left from.
You’re not a little girl now, are you? asked Angie with sudden insight as the flute drew closer, rising softly above all else, filling her.
No. I’m me.
Chapter 27
“Anything?” asked Musashi.
Dee shook her head. “Lots of people nearby,” she said. “Too close and too many to tell just where.” They were nearing a bend in the corridor, where the fort and hospital met, when two Spesnatz strolled around the corner. Everyone stopped—except Musashi. A blur of motion in an otherwise frozen tableau, he swept down on the Russians as they brought their weapons up, his blade slicing through first one and then the other, a fluid quicksilver of death that left two corpses mingling their blood on the floor. One man’s head hung by a thin cord of muscle from his torso, the other run neatly through the heart, looked asleep.
Musashi deftly spun the blade toward the floor, flecking it free of blood and sheathed it in one artful motion. Eddy broke the silence. “I hope I haven’t said anything that’s offended you, Tennu.”
“Not yet,” said the Japanese. “Dee, anyone in the corridor?”
Reaching out, she felt them. “Three, no, four guards. Close. Maybe just the other side of the door. Beyond that, more people. Best I can do.”
“Do you contract out?” asked Eddy, slipping to one side, weapon raised, as Musashi unslung his machine pistol.
“Not for what you’re thinking,” she said.
“It’s only about forty meters to the operations room,” said Musashi. “Straight down the corridor, right at the intersection. Third door on the right. I’ll go in first, then Eddy, Enrique and Dee. Clear?”
They nodded.
“Follow me,” he said, pushing through the door into the well-lit modern hallway—a hallway with four Spesnatz on guard.
The Russian commandos were young, battle-experienced and alert. They whirled as the door slammed open. Musashi was already firing, charging forward, sending short precise bursts into the nearest two Spesnatz. He and the third commando exchanged fire, the Russian’s bullets going wide as Musashi’s found his heart.
The last commando was thrown back against the wall, his head blown away by twin bursts from Eddy and Enrique.
Suddenly the corridor shook beneath the dull Karump! of an explosion. Ceiling tiles crashed to the floor, sending decades of dust into the air as the lights flickered.
“Incoming!” cried Eddy, looking up. “Heavy shit. Rockets, maybe.”
“Let’s go!” ordered Musashi, charging past the bodies.
Following him, Dee made the mistake of looking down into a very young and surprised face, blood still trickling from its mouth. A pair of startlingly blue eyes stared sightlessly past her.
“Come on, Sundance!” cried Jim, running out the door and down the corridor as the sound of the explosion faded, machine- pistol held ready.
“I just hate this,” said Billy as he followed, pistol held high and two-handed.
In the hospital basement, flanked by two of their men, Lokransky and Bakunin stood before the gray expanse of the armor-plated door. “So what’s in there?” asked Bakunin. “Hitler’s missing testicle? Goering’s Old Masters?”
“This, my friend, is Schmidla’s project archive. And the objecti
ve of our mission. Moscow wants the contents intact.”
“Moscow?” said Bakunin, raising an eyebrow. “Not the Mafia?”
“The Kremlin,” said Lokransky, enjoying the sound of it. “We’re soldiers of the Motherland again. For now. But of course if caught, we’re just gangsters.”
“And what are these archives?”
“Project research notes, videos and, they think, genetic material. It’s the road back to being a world-class power, Andre. The world power. Remember those days? The fear, the respect?” He patted the gray stippled armor plating. “It’s all in there.”
“We can have it off in ten minutes with Semtex,” said Bakunin.
“And destroy the contents.”
“I have a man who’s a demolition artist. When he triggers his beauties, a small breeze will kiss the inside of that vault—nothing more.”
“No,” said Lokransky. “I think we’ll just ask Dr. Schmidla to open it for us. Come.”
They’d gone but a few paces when the sound of automatic weapons fire turned them toward the stairs. “Any unit, this is Lokransky!” said the colonel into his radio. “Report!”
The thud of an explosion stopped him, the nearby blast shaking the complex, sending chunks of old plaster smashing to the floor.
“Incoming airborne assault!” said a voice.
Lokransky and Bakunin charged up the stairs. From the hospital roof came the deep staccato of the 40mm mount on the hospital roof as it opened fire on the incoming helicopters.
“Direction, aircraft type, numbers?” asked Lokransky, taking the stairs two at a time.
“From across the harbor, north by northeast, coming in low and fast. Seven Apache A-Tens, maybe eighteen, no, twenty-one Huey Twos. U.S. Army markings. Wait! That’s the first wave! There are...”
He was cut off as close blast rocked the building, shattering windows amid the high-pitched whine of heavy ordnance raking the area
“Twenty millimeter Vulcan cannon,” said Bakunin.
The Eldridge Conspiracy Page 26
