EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum (5 page)

6

Thursday, 7 May (2:22 p.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

Captain McHenry fidgeted near the radio receiver. He folded his hands behind his back, took a deep breath, and blew it back out with force. “How long have we been at radio depth?” he asked.

“Twenty-three minutes, sir,” a sailor replied.

“What are those DC bureaucrats doing?” McHenry asked.

“Golfing, skipper. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon,” the sailor quipped.

McHenry chuckled.
And putting down a few beers,
he was about to add when the receiver beeped, indicating an incoming message.
Finally
, he thought as he punched in a passcode. The printer hummed and a minute later he had pages in hand and shut down communications.

“Get to depth and get us the hell out of here,” McHenry ordered.

The command echoed through the chain as he exited the control room. He stopped at the mess hall to refill his coffee mug, and then weaved his way to his quarters. He sat at a small desk and read the orders.

The instructions were diametrically opposed to his instincts. It was not how an attack sub was supposed to operate. Its effectiveness and safety depended on secrecy, stealth, deception, and surprise. The message indicated that other, unspecified subs and surface ships were on their way to the area. His neck muscles tightened. It implied something was afoot.
What was down there – a vessel? A weapon? A trap?

His orders were to keep the operation under wraps until it was initiated. However, without revealing details, he’d bounce some ideas off of his first officer, Gerald Diggs.

Something big was happening, and it had something to do with whatever was making that noise in the deep.

7

Thursday, 7 May (3:37 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

Zhichao Cho gazed through the large southwest windows of his new office. Even though the air was cool, the intense sun hurt his face, and he moved into the shade. At his home in China, the sun was never as intense as in Louisiana. It was a good thing he’d only be in Baton Rouge for as long as it took to get what he needed.

He was still dumbfounded at how easy it had been for him to acquire Syncorp. His lawyers had been creative by working through a food engineering company owned by a Chinese-American citizen. On paper, it was that company that had purchased Syncorp. Were the Americans really that stupid? He knew they wanted to bury all the evil things Syncorp had done, but it seemed irresponsible to allow all of the information – the technology – to get into the hands of a foe. And Cho was no idiot; although they were not overtly at war with each other, the United States and China were
not
friends.

He was satisfied with his progress on two fronts. The first task was to send functional parts to the processing facility in China, where they had already started assembling the technical innards of the first building. That was the difference between the two countries: the Americans had referred to their own research complexes as Compressed Punishment facilities in an attempt to disguise them as something with a more acceptable purpose. In China, there was no need to conjure such an elaborate ruse. They’d never advertise the real purpose of the complex, of course, but they’d create no facades.

The collection and processing of the information from Syncorp and its satellite companies was going well. The previous CEO had succeeded in delivering everything by the contractual deadline, and Cho’s people immediately began digitizing and organizing the files. Every few days, he would oversee a massive data dump to a server in China. In the end, he’d ship the paper files, and then destroy the U.S.-based servers, leaving them with nothing. He thought it was an interesting concept: stealing information and then destroying the original source was much more devastating than simply stealing it. It was one step forward for the thief, and one step backwards for the victim – a net of two steps of separation. He smiled. Every successful operation against the U. S. brought China closer to its rightful place in the world.

The historical progression of the technology was entertaining, especially now that he was part of it. The evolution went from Red Falcon to Red Wraith and, now, to his Red Dragon
project. He’d earn a special place in history.

In terms of the high-tech facilities, Red Dragon was well underway. But there was another objective that he had to pursue. He had to acquire data on the subjects treated at the two formerly active American facilities. One was in Detroit and the other on Long Island. Syncorp didn’t have access to that information, but Chinese intelligence was working on it. The most crucial information was that connected to the Americans’ successful conversion – if that was really true. At some level, he hoped it was. It meant that what they were trying to accomplish was possible.

A secret war was in progress, one to which the United States was oblivious. It was a race to duplicate and enhance what the Americans had done, and to acquire, or destroy, the fruit of their creation. It was a war that Cho was going to win for his country, and himself.

8

Thursday, 7 May (8:21 p.m. CST – Chicago)

Will pulled open the heavy glass door and entered the restaurant. His stomach grumbled in response to the aroma of charbroiled steak. The warm air felt good, offsetting the chill that had invaded his body during the long walk in the cool Chicago night.

He passed by the host station and searched until he spotted Denise sitting at a table beside a large window, sipping a glass of wine.

The FBI agent had been right that morning six weeks ago when he’d suggested that Denise was his girlfriend. It was going to be difficult to leave her.

She looked up as he approached and smiled when she recognized him.

He made his way around a waiter and went to her.

She stood from her chair, tippy-toed in her high heels, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Right on time,” she said.

“Hungry?” he asked as they sat.

“I’ve been waiting for this all week. And I missed lunch today.” She reached across the table and caressed his hand. “Are you happy it’s over?”

Will nodded, but his feelings were mixed. He was happy that his training was completed, but he didn’t know what was coming next. His neck twitched. All that was left was his final meeting the next morning, when he’d learn the details of his new life.

“Bad dreams again last night?” Denise asked.

He nodded. She read him better than anyone, but it was an easy guess: he had nightmares almost every night. His brain had much to exploit – his conviction, the destruction of his life and career, weeks of torture in the Red Box. It all seemed like it happened in another lifetime. “How’s the investigation coming along?” he asked, changing the subject.

She gave him a look acknowledging the deliberate redirection, and then answered, “Slowly.” She shook her head. “Evidence is disappearing. Crucial files from the Red Box facility and DARPA have been stolen. And it’s even more difficult finding the people who were involved.”

Will found it unacceptable that files could be stolen from the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency. The only explanation was that DARPA itself was involved in their disappearance. The slower the investigation moved, the more difficult it would be to retrieve the evidence. The FBI was conducting an investigation into DARPA, but that gave him no solace – he suspected that the two organizations were colluding at some level. As with the CIA, the FBI probably had factions that were involved in Red Wrath.

Evidence connected to the CIA was also proving difficult to find, despite the enormous amount of funds and human resources that had been funneled into the Red Wraith project through CIA front organizations. Usually money could be tracked, but it wasn’t straightforward in this case.

“Regarding
your
case,” Denise continued, “the state is close to settling. You’ll be getting pre-settlement funds for your house and belongings by the end of the week.”

Will nodded. Recovering the things they’d taken from him when he was incarcerated gave him some satisfaction, but it was just the start. “Who have you tracked down from the Red Box?”

She shifted in her seat. “A few low-level employees—the dental assistant and a doctor—both still in the hospital, although the doctor is about to be released. We’ve located a few of the inmates, but haven’t been able to question them – they’re still in state custody.”

Will had intended to visit the dental assistant, Kelly Hatley, but it looked like he’d be leaving before he got the chance. She’d been in a Detroit hospital since the collapse of the Red Box. His sympathy for her was shallow. She’d caused him much pain and many nightmares. He thought that seeing her in such a vulnerable state might get him past some of the horror.

Will had a T-bone steak with a baked potato, and Denise the salmon special with pasta. Their dinner conversation was lighter.

“Dessert?” she asked when they’d finished their entrees, and pointed to ‘green tea ice cream’ listed on the menu.

He was stuffed. “I’ll take a bite of yours,” he replied. He searched the room for a waiter and noticed a man turn his back as Will’s gaze turned towards him. The man had moved casually, but deliberately. He turned back to Denise. “See the guy behind me in the brown coat? About six feet tall, fifties, dark hair and complexion.”

Denise glanced quickly and nodded.

“He’s following me. He was on the subway on my way here. This might be part of my training,” he explained. “I’m supposed to call my instructor and identify the man.”

Will thought about “snapping” him with his phone, but instead just made the call. A moment later a man answered.

“Perry here.”

“I see your man,” Will said.

“Thompson?” Perry said after a delay. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve spotted the tail—fifties, tall, dark, brown coat, black handkerchief in the front pocket … should I snap him?” A few seconds passed. “Perry?”

“Listen carefully, Thompson,” Perry finally responded. “I did
not send anyone after you tonight – the course is over. And do
not
snap him. You’re sure he’s following you?”

A chill slithered up Will’s spine to the back of his head. He tried to recall all parts of his trip from downtown Chicago to the suburban restaurant. The man was definitely on the subway, but he couldn’t remember seeing him on the street. “Fairly sure,” he finally answered.

“I taught you what to do in this situation, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to call you back in ten minutes. If I don’t get an answer, I’m sending help,” Perry said and hung up.

He put the phone in his pocket and looked to Denise. “Dessert will have to wait.”

She looked confused.

“Give me a minute,” he said. He stood and walked towards the man.

9

Thursday, 7 May (10:27 p.m. EST – Washington)

Daniel Parsons stood by his office window as he steeped tea. Thursday was about over, and a nearly full, red moon loomed on the southeastern horizon. He was pleased with his progress for the day.

He’d learned that the Brits’ Operation Tabarin had been a response to something. Tabarin, in turn, had been followed by an American operation, codenamed Highjump, which started in the southern summer of 1946. Official reports indicated that Highjump had lasted less than two years. However, he’d found evidence that it had carried on much longer – perhaps a decade
.
Although the documents weren’t consistent, they all agreed that the focus of both operations had been on a part of Antarctica called Dronning Maud Land, near the Weddell Sea.

The reason for their interest in the area was elusive. Every time a report converged on a crucial piece of information it was blacked out. And some documents were missing pages. Both were extremely unusual, and he was concerned that the missing information might be irretrievable; there were no documents with a higher order of secrecy. He didn’t know who had the authority to redact such information. Maybe the CIA director could do such a thing, but he dismissed it – it was irrational. Information was power.

Daniel twitched in reaction to a sound coming from his desk and spilled tea on his hand. It was his office phone. It almost never rang – only the CIA director had the number. And it was late. He answered.

“Parsons?” a man said.

“Yes, sir,” Daniel replied. He recognized the voice as that of CIA Director James Thackett.

His heart raced. He’d never spoken with the man.

“Your current project has become high priority, so we’re going to have to do something somewhat unusual,” Thackett explained. “Report to Room 713 tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

“Okay,” Daniel said. The phone went dead, and Daniel hung up.

It was more than just somewhat unusual. Other than Sandy, and the receptionist that had preceded her, Daniel had not met in person with
any
CIA personnel in over 20 years. He worried that the new director, being relatively new to the position, didn’t grasp the importance of Omniscients’ anonymity.

Now that his concentration was blown, he decided to go home. He packed his things and prepared for the thorough search he was about to endure before his departure from the Space Systems building.