“I’m going to crush you like a bug,” he growled, his face running with sweat.
Eight Two smiled pleasantly as the countdown hit one and the voice announced, “FIGHT.”
The rock music and videos returned as they approached the center of the mat. Tree moved more cautiously now. She knew she’d shaken him with that last kick. He wouldn’t make any rushed mistakes. If she was going to win it needed to be a knock out blow and in the next two minutes.
She circled, searching for a gap in his defense.
Tree launched a powerful front kick followed by a left and right cross. She managed to side step, throwing her armored forearms up to block the punches. His assault drove her back toward the wall, until she finally broke sideways.
He turned and followed, sweat streaming from his face as he threw another barrage of punches. Eight Two ducked and weaved then struck out with a kick. It missed his groin, landing on his thigh. Tree staggered, then slipped on the sweat-slicked floor and fell, whipping his head against the rubber mat.
A savage kick to the face would have ended the fight, but Eight Two waited for him to rise. Dazed he made it to his knees, struggling to stand. Then his leg buckled and he almost toppled over. Meanwhile, the audiovisual system still blared.
Realizing he was all but finished, Eight Two glanced at the instructor. He looked on impassively.
She stepped forward and offered Tree her hand. He shot her a dazed look and for a second she thought she recognized a glimmer of humanity in them. Taking her hand, he clambered back to his feet.
She almost slipped the elbow strike, but was a split-second slow. The point of Tree’s elbow smashed into the edge of her jaw and everything went black.
***
Doctor Marnisha Copeland glanced out the window of the X22 vertjet as it banked hard out of the clouds. From thousands of feet above, the ground was nothing but a giant swathe of yellow desert. As the aircraft continued its turn she made out the ruins of a city and spotted what remained of the central business district. The hulking shells of tall skyscrapers jutted from the sand like fossilized trunks of an ancient forest.
The Sakkin scientist had visited the former capital of Jordan before the Greater Middle Eastern Conflict. Back then it had been a bustling modern city with a population of three million. Unfortunately for them their government had thrown its hand in with the Caliphate. The armed forces of Israel had wiped them from the face of the earth. Now all that remained of the once proud city of Amman were ruins being slowly devoured by the desert.
A soft whine filled the cabin and she felt the jet slow, beginning its transition from horizontal flight to landing mode.
“Ma’am, we will arrive in four minutes,” the autonomous flight system announced in a flat voice.
Marnisha yawned as she raised the back of her chair. It was a six-hour flight from Sakkin’s headquarters in Cape Town to the facility in Amman, a trip she was forced to take every month to evaluate trainee development. Stretching her neck she slipped a compact flexipad from the pocket of her two-piece suit and held it in front of her face. “Mirror,” she said.
The transparent device immediately displayed her facial features. She studied the image, paying particular attention to her lipstick and eyeliner. Despite being sixty-five years old she did not look a day over thirty. Her long auburn hair was devoid of gray and her elfin features unblemished by age. Genetic manipulation had slowed the physical decline of her cells to less than a third of the speed nature intended. At that rate she would not resemble her actual age until she was well past a hundred. She sighed, taking a makeup kit from her bag. Despite the advances in genetic manipulation, women still resorted to painting themselves to accent their features.
Touching up her face she registered the change in speed as the vertjet slowed dramatically and landed with a soft thud. Checking the window she watched as the landing pad descended and the city ruins disappeared, replaced by reinforced concrete.
She rose from her leather chair, smoothed her skirt and retrieved a jacket from an overhead locker. Donning it she walked along the aisle to the ramp at the rear. It dropped with a hiss and she strode down it in high heels. Glancing up she caught a brief glimpse of a dusty orange sky as, far above her head, the hangar roof closed.
Sakkin’s agent training facility, the Institute, was buried hundreds of feet below the abandoned city. The Middle East was now a wasteland, referred to as the morass. A hostile environment, it was home to nomadic tribes and bands of survivors attempting to scrape a livelihood from the ruins. It was the perfect location for a deniable facility that none of the countries of the Advanced Block (ADBLOK) wanted inside their highly secure, and civilized, borders.
She walked between a pair of militarized variants of the X22 to the hangar door where two figures dressed in black Sakkin uniforms waited. As she got closer she identified the facility’s head trainer, Leon Wilken, and chief psychologist, Shona Demski.
Leon was somewhat of a legend within Sakkin Industries. The former Israeli Sayeret Matkal operative had fought in every major conflict since the war on the Islamic State in 2014. He was a master of combat, subterfuge and deniable operations. Short with a compact and powerful frame Leon was handsome with a jutting chin, strong nose and piercing blue eyes. On face value Marnisha put his age at around forty. However, she knew he was nearly eighty. She also knew that he was sleeping with the woman who stood beside him.
Shona Demski was the facility’s resident psychologist, responsible for the mental development and stability of the trainees. Like Leon, she was short, however where he was muscular and combat hardened she was curvaceous. A dirty blonde with doe-like eyes, her very presence annoyed Marnisha.
Both employees wore the standard Sakkin uniform; black combat shirts, pants and boots. Leon wore a utility belt lined with pouches and a pistol on his right hip.
“Doctor Copeland, welcome back to the Institute,” he said warmly as he took her hand.
“Hello, Leon,” she said, ignoring Shona.
She caught the scowl on the other woman’s face as Leon directed her out of the hangar.
“Did you see the intelligence update this morning?” he asked.
“No, I didn’t get a chance to read it before I left Cape Town.”
“One of our security teams in the Congo was attacked. Four mechops destroyed and two of my graduates seriously wounded.” His eyes narrowed. “We’re not dealing with rag-tag fighters. The CEO believes this to be the work of professionals.”
“The intensity of these attacks seems to be increasing. Perhaps you should reevaluate your methods of dealing with the indigenous elements.”
He snorted. “Eradication is the only course of action. Hearts and minds is a failed concept. Empathy is a weakness that cost us our homeland.”
She ignored the comment as they entered the facility’s armory. They passed rows of lockers containing body armor, hulking black exoskeleton suits and racks of weapons. It was where the Institute’s students geared up before conducting their training.
As they waited for the elevator she turned and glanced into a workshop bay. An elderly dark-skinned man in a wheelchair was working on a mechop, one of the robotic warriors Sakkin used to augment their ground forces. Nicknamed ‘clankers’ they were only capable of following simple directions and wielding firepower. Compared to her operatives they were blunt killing instruments.
The technician turned to her with sad eyes and she studied his weathered features. “Who is that?”
Leon shot him a glance as the elevator arrived. “That’s our weapons tech. Keeps everything running.”
They entered the high-speed elevator and Shona positioned herself between the two.
“Why is he in a wheelchair?”
“His legs are useless,” replied Leon as he selected a floor and the elevator rose. “He doesn’t need them to work, so they haven’t been replaced.”
She nodded as they reached their level. Simple economics, she could not argue with
that. The doors opened revealing a semi-circle room with wall-to-wall screens. Inside half a dozen staff sat behind curved touch screens, fixated on the information displayed before them.
This was the Institute’s operations room. From here Leon and his team monitored and controlled almost every aspect of the training environment and the trainees. They could access individual data that included vital signs, brain activity and even blood chemistry. With this information they would customize the training scenarios to challenge the students.
She followed Leon across the floor to the curved wall. As they approached, a panel slid into the ceiling and he led them into a smaller room with a conference table and chairs. He sat at the head of the table with Marnisha to his right. Once Shona entered the panel locked back in place, isolating them from the operations room.
Leon pushed a flexipad across the table to her. “Do you want to discuss all of the trainees or go straight to the problem?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“Yes, we’ve had significant issues with Eight Two,” said Shona.
“What kind of problems?”
“She’s failing her training,” said Leon. “System, show me trainee Eight Two’s evaluation stats.”
She turned her head so she could see the glass walls as they displayed a series of bar graphs with symbols next to them. Interpreting the information, she frowned. “These indicate she is passing in all areas except psyche and unarmed combat.”
“Correct,” Shona said. “However, it is my opinion that she has significant psychological flaws that render her ineffective as a Sakkin operative, in particular, her empathy levels.” She rose and gestured to one of the bars on the screen. The graphic enlarged, splitting into different psychological attributes that included: perception, reasoning, problem solving, adaptability, empathy, obedience and discipline.
Marnisha drummed her fingers on the glass table as she analyzed the information.
“There was an incident this morning, during an unarmed combat session,” added Leon. “System, recall the knockout sequence from Eight Two’s fight.”
A freeze frame of the unarmed combat facility appeared on the walls. Trainee Eight Two was standing over a dazed male opponent.
“At this point, she had successfully evaded neutralization and was poised for a dispatch strike. However, it didn’t pan out that way,” said Leon. “Play sequence.”
The clip advanced and she watched as the female trainee stepped forward and offered her hand. As she pulled the downed trainee to his feet the video slowed. She grimaced as the larger trainee drove his elbow into the jaw of Eight Two, smashing the lower mandible from her face. The teenager collapsed to the mat like a rag doll.
Leon and Shona remained silent.
“Where is she now?” she asked.
“System, show trainee Eight Two.”
The screen changed to a high-resolution shot of the facility’s infirmary. Eight Two lay on a sleek white gurney with medical robots and sensors clustered around her body. Marnisha could see the devastating damage to her jaw. It hung from her face like a mangled pork chop.
“Why hasn’t she been repaired?”
Shona pursed her lips. “We believe that would be a waste of resources. She lacks the ruthlessness to be successful. The logical option is termination.”
Marnisha shook her head slowly then turned and stared at the psychologist. “Get out.”
Shona reacted with a surprised look. “It is my job to evaluate every trainee.” She turned to Leon.
He gestured to the door and it hissed open.
She huffed and stormed out, the door closing behind her.
“Leon, need I remind you who runs this project.”
“The girl is a liability. She–”
“Will be returned to training, immediately.”
His jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth. “Why is she so important?”
“Because Sakkin Industries has invested significant resources into her development. It is your job to equip her with the skills to survive in the morass.”
He gestured to the image being beamed from the infirmary. “Survive? She won’t survive the Tsalmaveth, let alone out there. She’s a waste of resources that could be allocated to another potential operative.”
Marnisha was familiar with the Institute’s training program. She knew the Tsalmaveth, or Shadow of Death, was the final combat phase. It was a brutal week of testing that involved live targets, live fire and death to those who couldn’t make the grade. She reached into her bag and removed a nano drive. “Train her Leon. Because, if you don’t I’ll have your little toy transferred to another facility.” She slid the drive across the table. “I want you to replace the final simulated training session with this.”
He scowled as he picked up the device. “What is it?”
“Something unique.” She rose from her seat. “I’ll be in the lab reviewing the other trainees.”
“What’s so special about this girl?”
She arched one of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “Make sure your ‘toy’ isn’t around for our next meeting. Her stupidity offends me.” With that, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving Leon sitting with the drive in his hand.
***
You can download the first 2055 installment of here.
BOOKS BY JACK SILKSTONE
PRIMAL Inception
PRIMAL Mirza
PRIMAL Origin
PRIMAL Unleashed
PRIMAL Vengeance
PRIMAL Fury
PRIMAL Reckoning
PRIMAL Nemesis
PRIMAL Redemption
PRIMAL Compendium
PRIMAL Renegade
PRIMAL Deception
PRIMAL Exodus
SEAL of Approval
SEAL the Deal
Signed SEAL’d and Delivered
PRIMAL 2055 – Escape
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jack Silkstone grew up on a steady diet of Tom Clancy, James Bond, Jason Bourne, Commando comics, and the original first-person shooters, Wolfenstein and Doom. His background includes a career in military intelligence and special operations, working alongside some of the world’s most elite units. His love of action-adventure stories, his military background, and his real-world experiences combined to inspire the no-holds-barred PRIMAL series.
[email protected]
www.primalunleashed.com
www.twitter.com/jsilkstone
www.facebook.com/primalunleashed
Primal Exodus Page 25
