Gorgon: An Alex Hunter Novel (7 page)

‘Well, Doc, looks like you’ve got your episode,’ Hammerson said.

Alex’s eyes remained clamped shut, but he opened his mouth wide and emanated a sound of pure fury and pain. His arms came up, pulling on the steel cables, which gave a foot before they stopped the movement.

‘They’re holding,’ Marshal said, and blew air through compressed lips. ‘He just dragged the equivalent of a small car with each arm.’

‘Let’s hope they continue to hold,’ Hammerson said. ‘Wouldn’t be a good idea to send anyone in there right about now.’

Marshal swallowed. ‘They’ll hold.’ He turned back to the monitors and leaned in close. ‘The electrical impulses in his brain are centralizing and moving deeper into the sub-neopallium.’

‘The what?’ Hammerson frowned.

‘The neopallium is considered the most recently evolved brain structure in animals. It’s unusual for it to be the most highly active area during a perceived high-aggression event.’

Marshal enlarged the image of Alex’s brain, making the resolution near transparent so they could follow the impulses as they coalesced.

‘What the hell?’ Hammerson said, leaning in close. ‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’

‘The thing that started all this – Borshov’s damned bullet. It was lodged deep inside the man’s head, remember, in an inoperable position?’

‘Of course – the bullet fragment.’ Marshal turned back to the monitor, his forehead creasing. He tapped at keyboards, and moved over different screens, changing angles and sharpening the resolution. ‘It’s gone. Nothing, no metallic traces at all. Absorbed maybe? It can happen.’ He fiddled some more, then pointed to an area deep inside the neocortex. ‘But there is something in there, driving the electrical activity. It’s certainly biological, and quite dense.’

‘Scar tissue?’ Hammerson asked.

‘Unlikely. If it was just a mass of solid tissue there wouldn’t be any activity in the area.’

As they watched, the electrical impulse lightshow retreated to the small central area, and seemed to flare as the activity level increased. Hammerson looked through the glass window to Alex lying on the metal cot. His face was a savage mask. Never had Jack Hammerson seen such an expression on a human being.

He turned back to the scientist. ‘Well, whatever that
activity
is, it doesn’t look like it’s benign. Can you isolate that area; find out what it is?’

‘Already on it.’ Marshal’s fingers flew over a keyboard. ‘It’s some sort of dense biological core deep in the subcortical area. This mass, or synaptic bundle, is actually firing off its own electrical impulses. It’s also secreting chemical substances that have molecular chains similar to natural steroids, but much more powerful.’

‘Get a sample.’ Hammerson was still watching Alex. ‘Fast.’

Alex roared again, and pulled one of the cables to its maximum tension. His arm strained against it, the cable-stress reader registering a colossal force. At the same moment, the electrical activity deep in Alex’s brain flared like an explosion. Alex surged again, his face filled with pure animalistic rage.

Hammerson’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, there you are – the Other One.’

The unnerving sound of screaming steel filled the room, and individual strands of the high-tensile cable started to pop.

Hammerson spoke over his shoulder. ‘Too late for samples. The experiment is over.’

With a metallic tearing sound, Alex’s arm was free. He gripped the metal railing around the bed and lifted. The steel bent upwards and broke with a sound like a gun shot. Alex continued to drag at it, the heavy steel bending like taffy.

Hammerson’s voice rose. ‘Wake him up, Lieutenant, or this is about to go real bad.’

Marshal’s fingers danced over the keyboard. Inside the room, a slot opened in the steel bench behind Alex’s head, and a needle shot out and into the side of his neck.

‘Neuroleptic,’ Marshal said. ‘Should bring him down.’

Alex held the broken bar in his fist, but didn’t pull on it any further. He exhaled, long and slow, and his face relaxed. Slowly, he lowered his arm.

Marshal wiped a sleeve over his face. ‘I think it’s over – look.’ The 3D image of Alex’s brain showed the impulse activity dissipating from the mystifying central core and moving back up into the neocortex. ‘It was a good start. At least now we know where to look.’

Hammerson watched as one of the orderlies entered the room and undid Alex’s remaining cuffs. The man’s eyes were wide, his movements quick.

Alex sat up and rubbed his hands through his hair, now slick with perspiration. ‘Thanks.’

The man nodded and exited.

Marshal pressed a button on the console. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked Alex.

Alex looked up. ‘Okay … hungover. How’d I do?’

‘You did fine,’ Hammerson responded. ‘Get cleaned up and head over to the HAWCs’ Nest. You can acclimatize there, and catch up with some old friends.’

Alex waved and nodded. Hammerson flicked off the communications.

Marshal was replaying some of the final minutes of the tests. ‘My technical guess is he’s got some sort of tumor growing there, but hopefully benign. The fact that this synaptic mass is firing off its own electrical impulses is intriguing – that alone is worth more study. But the chemicals that it’s secreting … now that’s a mystery.’ He looked at the spectrum readout. ‘The computer can only guess too, as it’s not working from an actual sample, but it’s as baffled as we are. Substance unknown.’ He swiveled in his seat to look at Hammerson. ‘Just what did Alex have inside him when he came back from Chechnya all those years ago?’

Hammerson frowned and shook his head. ‘Maybe some kind of contaminant.  What’s your non-technical guess?’

Marshal stared for a moment, then swung back to his screen. ‘That the synaptic mass is all the hate, anger, and fury Alex Hunter’s ever felt in his life. And it’s all being super-compressed, stored, and then harnessed somehow to power up this dark side that he calls the Other One. It’s part of him now, maybe with far worse effects than the bullet ever caused. And there may be nothing we can do about it.’

‘Great, just great,’ Hammerson said, and exhaled in a long sigh.

*

Alex stood before a huge hangar that was painted drab green on the outside, and had no windows or markings of any kind. Alex knew it was fortified and sound-proofed, but still he could hear activity inside – the clank of steel, weapons being worked on, muted voices. He pulled back the heavy steel door and stepped in and to the side, away from the backlight. He smiled as he breathed in sweat, gun oil, and exhaust fumes – this was the HAWCs’ Nest, a warehouse-sized hangar that worked as a target range, weapons test site, gym, meeting room, and general hangout club for the specialized commandos. Membership was for life, and for a HAWC that could be brutally short.

Today, there were just two people inside. Sam Reid’s huge form lay on a bench, holding above his chest a bar with enough weight that the reinforced steel bar bent like a banana. He lowered and lifted it a couple more times, and then placed it gently back on the rack. He sat up, took a deep breath, exhaled, and grinned at Alex. Following the weight session, his muscles looked ready to explode; his torso was ripped with veins, burn marks, and zippered scars. He got smoothly to his feet, the MECH suit’s hydraulics lifting his 250-pound bulk as though he weighed nothing, and started to unwrap the leather gloves and straps from his hands and wrists.

Behind him, a woman had stopped cleaning a stripped-down machine gun to stare at Alex. She snorted, and wiped her hands on a rag. She had close-cropped white hair, a brutal scar that pulled her mouth into a sneer, and face that made her look like she’d been born angry. Her other cheek pulled up into an approximation of a smile – probably. Casey Franks.

‘Welcome home, boss,’ she said, followed by the hint of a salute.

Alex nodded in return. Franks was one of their best. She was tough, and very hard to hurt in the field, let alone kill. The memories came flooding back as he looked at her – the missions they’d shared. He had overseen her initial training. These were
his
people.

‘The HAWCs’ Nest – our fortress of solitude,’ he said, and breathed deeply. ‘I missed it.’

‘You’re back now. All that matters,’ Franks said.

‘You look loose,’ Sam said, grinning. ‘What’s your secret?’

‘Get shot in the face, travel to hell and back, and lose everything,’ Alex replied.

 Sam grunted. ‘Yep, and we were along for the ride on a few of those trips to hell. And you haven’t lost everything: we’re still standing.’

‘We’re still standing,’ Alex agreed, and took off his jacket. ‘The Hammer said I need to acclimatize … and I got nothing but time.’

Sam motioned to the weight bench. ‘Take a seat. Being a civilian for a while can soften a man up. We might need to get you back in shape.’

Franks grinned. ‘Better start him off light. Muscle strains are a bitch.’

Alex went to the bench. ‘What have you got on?’

Sam walked around behind the bar. ‘Two fifty each side. With the bar, around 520, give or take. Want me to take some off?’

Alex shook his head and sat down.

Franks clapped her hands and whooped. ‘Ten bucks on the boss.’ She made a fist, her grin pulling her scar up even further.

Alex paused. ‘I’m not the boss. Just consulting for now.’

‘Sure.’ Sam laid his hands on the bar to spot him. ‘Less talk, more action.’

Alex lay down and gripped the bar, feeling the pattern of the steel. He lifted it clear and then lowered it to his chest. He raised and lowered it three more times, his face calm, then placed it back on the rack. ‘When do we get started?’ He knew what Sam was doing – there would be lots more tests along the way.

‘Let’s try something here.’ Sam called Franks to help him lift the bar off the rack, remove the discs and replace the rod with a power-lifting bar – tempered steel and twice as thick. He and Franks replaced the weights, adding even more. They stopped at 800 pounds. Sam grunted, satisfied. ‘You know, back in ’97, Big Jim Henderson bench-pressed 713 pounds. Record’s never been broken. So, let’s see what you got … if you’ve still got it, that is.’

Alex gripped the bar with one hand and then the other. He lifted it free, lowered it to his chest and raised it again, and again. Sam stopped spotting him and instead leaned forward on the bar, adding his own weight – an extra 250, at least – bringing the total to more than 1000 pounds.

Alex stared straight ahead, not seeing the bar or Sam – and raised both without the slightest strain.

Franks clapped her hands again. ‘Yeah. Our very own weapon of mass destruction. Stand back, children.’

Children.
An image flashed into Alex’s mind: a small boy holding a snake in his hand, squeezing until the flesh was crushed. He saw the boy waving to him as his mother carried him away . . .
his child, his child
. Alex lowered and raised the bar, again and again, machine-like, picking up speed.

The small boy was on a table now, strapped down, with wires attached to his head and body. People looked in at him through a toughened-glass window. Inside the room, a white-coated scientist was about to flick a switch –
his child, his child, his child
– Alex pushed his way to the blastproof window and drew back his fist . . .

Someone yelled into his ear, so loud it punctured his waking dream. ‘Huh?’ Alex blinked. He still on his back, holding the weighted bar up in the air. Sam was crouching beside him, his hand gripping Alex’s forearm.

‘Take it easy, boss. Put them down, slowly.’

Alex lowered the bar back onto its rack. He sat up and shook his head. ‘Sorry, must have zoned out for a second there.’

‘More like five minutes,’ Sam said.

His face was creased with concern. Franks’ wore a dead expression.

‘It’s nothing … I’m working on it.’ Alex rubbed his face, hard.

‘I know you are.’ Sam was still frowning. ‘And that’s good.’

‘Later,’ Franks said, and went back to her gun – but not before Alex had seen the suspicion in her eyes.

Sam pulled another bench over and sat down, looking deep into Alex’s face. ‘How’re the demons? Because you looked like you wanted to kill someone just now.’

Alex shrugged. ‘Under control, most of the time. But now and then … I’m a Jonah, Sam. People die around me. Not sure this is a good idea, coming back in and all.’

Sam sat back. ‘They die around me too – and sometimes I mean them to. That’s why we’re both here – with the only people who understand what it is we do, and maybe keep up with us.’ He leaned in closer and punched Alex’s knuckles with his own. ‘Remember, we are you, and you are us … always were, always will be.’

We are you, and you are us,
Alex repeated in his mind.
I can live with that.
‘I’m okay,’ he said aloud.

‘Hope so,’ Sam said. ‘No room to zone out in the field.’

‘I said it’s under control.’ Alex stared into Sam’s face, and the big HAWC held his gaze for a few seconds.

Then he stood. ‘Okay. If you’re not worried, then I’m not worried. Let’s take a walk around the base, get some air.’

Alex got to his feet. It felt good to be back, but that feeling of being pushed out of his own mind was happening more often. He hoped Marshal could give him some answers, fast.

Dawn was approaching slowly out of the east, for now little more than a slight orange blush on the far horizon. The small and ancient town of Polatli sat at the center of the Anatolian plateau, a large grassy steppe that stretched away for miles, and had a history stretching even farther. It was where Alexander the Great had cut the Gordian knot, and the mythological Phrygian King Midas was said to have been buried.

Corporal Mehmet Atalay rubbed his face with one hand and breathed in the cool dry air. The military base on the outskirts of the town was modest, with only around eighty men and women. But what it lacked in numbers, it made up for in sheer human toughness – these foot soldiers of the Turkish army had a fearsome reputation. Atalay’s soldiers were known for never retreating, and never showing fear. He was proud of every single one of them.

It was in this town, in 1922, that the bloody battle of Sakarya was fought, and the Turkish army halted the advance of the Greek war machine. In three weeks nearly 6000 troops died, and nearly 20,000 were wounded. Atalay had another reason to feel pride – his own grandfather had given his life in that battle. To him, this land was sacred – it was in his flesh, blood, and bones.

There was another reason the base was important. It housed a long-wave low-frequency transmitter that was one of the biggest in the Middle East, even though it had been mostly forgotten in the time of satellite communications. Its powerful waves could reach all corners of the country; and because they traveled at ground level, they were not affected by the ionosphere static, which meant the transmitter would continue to operate even after a nuclear attack. Polatli was a vital communications safety net within a region that was rapidly scaling up on nuclear weapons.

Mehmet Atalay yelled orders at the top of his voice, smiling as he heard them echo away across the grassy plains. His troops were already up, and by now should be commencing tasks in preparation for the forthcoming exercises on the outer plains, to be undertaken in field kit, full pack, and rations. They would form up and march to the gates shortly, giving him an opportunity to assess them for untidy packs or injuries, or anything else that might present a problem … or simply displeased him. The day would be long and hard, and Atalay would do everything his soldiers did. He’d prefer to fall down dead before he showed them fatigue or pain.

The Polatli base was bordered by miles of nine-foot-high storm fencing, and had been for decades. The one nod to modernization was the introduction of tension break-sensors along the perimeter – not so much as a deterrent as early warning of a potential insurgent attack. The fanatics were everywhere these days. Three terrorists had been shot dead only a month ago, their suicide vests, grenade launchers, and thousands of rounds of ammunition all unused, praise be to God. Atalay had delighted in the encounter – it was what his soldiers needed to sharpen their skills, harden their hearts, and turn them into better warriors.

He let his eyes move over the dark plains – for some reason he felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right, or he’d forgotten something. The feeling nagged at him. There was no moon, and sunrise was still some hours away. And there was an unusual mist blowing in from the north-west that smelled of . . . nothing – not the dry grasses of the steppes, nor the wild flowers. It didn’t even have the moisture usual for mist.

He turned back to his troops, and gave them his customary glare – his eyes were so black they could have been pools of oil resting under twin overhangs of bushy brows. The soldiers began to form up, recognizing what their commanding officer wanted even before he ordered it. He was taking out a single platoon of sixty this time, leaving the rest behind. As he lifted a whistle to his lips to blow the short sharp blast indicating the formal fall-in, the sudden scream of sirens made him pause. A distant flashing red light immediately answered his unspoken question – a breach in the perimeter fence.

Atalay roared his instructions, and soldiers immediately ran in different directions to scan the surveillance equipment and break out large armaments. He then moved the platoon into three smaller squads, twenty apiece, and directed them toward the suspected breach.

He smiled flatly. If insurgents thought they could sneak onto the base and find the camp asleep, they were about to come face to face with sixty armed soldiers and one very pissed-off commander.

Atalay ordered a man to retrieve some flares, then headed out after his squads. He pulled his phone from his pocket – still the fastest means of communication in peacetime – and spoke to his administration center that acted as his command module. Nothing was on ground radar, they reported, and also nothing significant moving in the vicinity of the fence break.

Damn this mist
, he thought angrily and roared again for the flares.

A soldier came running with a small case and a fat single-barreled gun. He stopped, broke open the stock, loaded a huge pellet into the pipe and snapped it shut, before handing the gun to his commanding officer.

Atalay nodded. ‘Now, let us see what we will see.’

He pointed the gun upwards and pulled the trigger, then immediately handed it to the soldier to reload.

Explosive gases thumped the cigar-shaped silver pellet hundreds of feet into the air, where it exploded into a glaring red ball of light dangling on a small parachute. The flare floated to the ground, a miniature sun of heat and light that illuminated the terrain for hundreds of feet in every direction.

Atalay grabbed the loaded flare gun again, and fired off another round. This followed the first’s trajectory, and a few seconds later added its light to the scene.

His men had fanned out in a line at the fence break. The flare had colored the mist a boiling red, and within it, just inside the fence, a figure was visible – tall, large, and wearing something on its head. It stood stock still, but also seemed to be in constant motion, like a film dubbed over itself with all versions playing at once. The storm-fencing wire behind it looked torn apart rather than cut.

‘What in God’s name …?’ Atalay lifted his phone to his ear. ‘Onbaşi, what do you have on ground radar for our position … approximately 500 feet to our direct east?’

There was the sound of confusion, then, ‘I only have you, sir, and the squads. There is nothing else.’

Atalay swore. ‘There is something here – I can see it with my own eyes. It tore a hole in our fence. It’s too big to not show up on ground radar – check again.’

More silence, then, ‘Nothing … no physical signature at all. Are you sure it’s not a shadow, sir?’

Atalay swore even louder and hung up. He pointed to his closest squad leader. ‘Bylak, see to the intruder.’

The soldier saluted, then waved his men forward. Atalay fired another flare as the squad approached the figure. It remained standing as still as a post, and as Bylak and his men circled it, Atalay could see that it was at least seven feet tall, and had either a strange helmet on its head, or …

The new flare descended. In its red light, Atalay saw Bylak stop just a dozen feet in front of the towering figure, raise his gun and yell instructions. There was no response for several seconds, then the huge head seemed to slowly lift and, though Atalay couldn’t be sure due to the swirling mist, crane forward to stare into his man’s face. Bylak dropped his gun and staggered back a step. He went down to his knees, raking at his eyes, then froze in place.

Atalay’s eyes went wide. He dropped the flare gun and drew his own revolver, then roared a single instruction: ‘Fire.’

Automatic gunfire shattered the dawn air, and muzzle flashes dotted the small hillside, as hundreds of rounds sped toward the figure. It seemed to writhe and shake at their impact, but didn’t fall. The head swiveled slowly, seeming to take in the men on the hill. At each sweep, the sound of gunfire lessened.

When the huge head finally swung toward Mehmet Atalay, he had the fleeting impression of a ghastly white face streaked red by the flare, and slitted reptilian eyes that could only be hell-born. Images of snakes, fiery pits, roaring giants, and monstrous many-headed hounds crowded his brain, and it seemed to slow, like a clock winding down. A tiny dot of pain in his forehead grew and bloomed, and he saw the figure was gliding toward him. He wanted to fire his gun, or stab at it, or throw a punch, but his muscles refused to obey. The thing went past him without a glance, and he realized he was as inconsequential to it as an insect that just happened to be in the way.

A veil of gray started to pull over his vision. He turned his head on a creaking neck to glance at his men. They were frozen in place on the hill, some with rifles still at their shoulders. A stone army, armed and ready for battle, for eternity.

*