Operation Chaos (2 page)

Doctor Hall didn’t just love her work, it was her religion. It was, to her, the creation of the future. Her work, now well beyond stem-cell innovations, had done near miraculous regenerative and enhancement salvation for so many soldiers with serious TBI. She had just returned from IBM’s Almaden Research Center in San Jose, where they were developing neurosynaptic chips that actually mimic carbon-based brain cells, an idea advanced by the great Dharmendra Modha.

Rainee, obsessed with the new lines of research, felt the future was coming at warp speed—even as the civilization seemed to be falling apart—at times echoing Einstein’s fears that technology was like putting an axe in the hands of a psychopath.

But she tried to stay away from that view. In her mind, technology was the salvation of man and the planet. She refused to take a negative view.

Now, bathed in a light sweat as she ran into the most precious time of the day—the evolving mystery of approaching dawn, with the soft slap of the sea below, her and the pelicans on their morning patrols—all was good.

Seneca tracked his prey, admiring her gait, her attitude, with that straight back, easy stride, as he moved through the trees, sliding along with her. His own stride light and easy through the sprawling eucalyptus, his body calm yet coiled tight as a big cat, the darkness slipping away, soon to be infused with morning light that would shrink his one normal pupil, not his left eye, which worked on a different modality.

He appreciated the target’s fluid grace as she jogged along the ragged rim of the Pacific, her body lithe, her strides emanating from long, muscled hamstrings and thighs, from firm buttocks. Women who could run, who were athletes, had a very nice way they kept their shoulders back. Men ran different—harder, more aggressive. His target was a very fine athletic female.

Rainee Hall had never had a call interrupt her run, so it had to be an emergency. She pulled her earbuds and answered.

It was the lab night assistant asking her, on behalf of Doctor Linn, what time she was coming in.

“Carol, I told you, unless it’s a real emergency, don’t call me on behalf of Doctor Linn. If the university isn’t on fire, or a tsunami on the way—look, I’ll deal with Doctor Linn. Don’t call me with something like this. Have a good morning.”

Rainee slipped her phone back in her pocket and took a deep, slow, calming breath, thinking, What am I going to do with her? She’s so determined, comes to work early, and leaves late! She needs more of a life

Rainee watched a wedge formation of long-beaked pelicans ride smoothly over the rocks and out over the predawn surf like a flight of miniature drones. They were going out to fish. She loved those birds.

Of all the creatures she admired, the pelicans with their long beaks, their military-like wings, and their perfect formations were her favorite.

But then, as a former military surgeon and the daughter of a navy pilot, one of the first females to fly the F-18 and land it on carriers, it was natural she would admire these beautiful aerial formations. The way these birds would drop to the waves and ride the wind, it looked like they were surfing rather than hunting.

As she was about to put her earbuds back, she stopped. Another disturbance. This one not clear, just a sense that something was wrong. She glanced around, saw nothing.

I’m getting paranoid, she thought. I need to stop watching the goddamn news.

After the target slowed to answer her cell he sensed a change in her. The target showed signs of some nervousness or irritation. It was time to move on her.

Seneca left the full dark of the palm trees and glanced toward the trail that overlooked the ocean: white-crested waves, over which the formations of pelicans, supreme riders of the wind, great sea hunters, pirouetted in the changing breeze.

Though Seneca hadn’t slept in days, his cognitive faculties remained on high, a steady efficacy.

He adjusted with a light press of his finger just behind his left ear. It broadened the visual spectrum. One eye focused for short distance and close peripheral while the other functioned for long distance.

He had over two hundred microchip sets, and the latest Z3 fibers, assisting his senses and the transmission of his processes.

Nothing in the immediate environment was outside his field. No wolf, no mountain lion, no hawk was better equipped.

Then, with cheetah-like speed, he made his move on the long, lithe, female target.

3

In her peripheral vision, Doctor Rainee Hall caught a glimpse of the swift, silent approach of a big man as he cut across the first gray hint of dawn, moving in on her at a full sprint.

She swore softly. There were times when she considered carrying a weapon, given what was going on in the country, but never did. The thirty-four-year-old neuroscientist knew she couldn’t escape from what was heading her way. Not with that speed. And he wasn’t out on a morning run.

She tried to figure out the best way to meet the attack. With a side kick or front kick, spin him around and off the damn cliff. But maybe, if he got a hold, she’d go with him.

But then her would-be assailant broke his sprint, slowing to a walk. He was lean, over six feet, with close-cropped hair. Very military in every aspect of his demeanor. She hoped it didn’t get violent because she knew what she was looking at and she was no contest for this bastard. He looked, as they say, bad to the bone, hardcore.

Maybe fifteen feet from her, seemingly certain she had no exit, he tucked his hands causally into his beige cargo pants, affecting a kind of nonchalance, as if he didn’t want to appear threatening. As if that was even possible. He wore a loose, short-sleeve, green buttoned shirt with pockets on either side.

A man didn’t come at a lone female jogger in the predawn without bad intent. Running or yelling wouldn’t work. Rainee forced herself into prepared calm and waited to see his intent.

Her major weapon was to confront the bastard with a display of combat readiness, letting him know right off it wouldn’t be worth his while.

“Really, soldier,” she said, “You want a fight this early in the morning? You want to prove you can subdue a woman, even if she’s a former officer and has her black belt in taekwondo? You that desperate? You that messed up in the head? This is your alternative to facing your problems. I know, I deal with soldiers and their problems every damn day. What are we talking about here?”

She figured counter-aggressive boldness was the best tactic, especially when there wasn’t much of an alternative.

He didn’t reply or react—not a good sign. Closer now, she saw things she recognized and that made it worse. This was no ordinary human being. This soldier had had lots of work.

“Morning, Doctor Hall,” he said, startling her in a different, unexpected way. Not just that he knew her and was matter-of-fact, but that he had a voice, a strange, scratchy voice, like he’d had larynx reconstruction. And it was a voice she believed she’d heard somewhere before but couldn’t place.

“What can I do for you?” Rainee asked, suppressing any sign of nervousness.

He took two steps, closing the distance to within ten feet. Then she saw the slightly off gleam in his right eye, indicating a prosthetic. He definitely had the reconstructed facial features of someone who’d been the victim of a major incident, and major reconstruction.

He didn’t look like one of her patients, yet the look of the guy—the way he carried himself, his speed, his eyes—made her wonder if he was one of the “chosen” who’d gone through the warfighter regenerative enhancement program that she’d started.

Her life’s work began in war zones, dealing with those who’d been victims of rockets, grenades, IEDs, and chopper crashes, and continued for years after the wars in the fixing of the damaged who were selected and sent to the top DARPA programs.

He pulled a badge of some kind and held it up. “I’m agent Stafford and I need to talk to you,” he said in that gravelly voice. Definitely had messed-up vocal cords. “If you’ll come with me—”

“Who’s your senior officer?” she demanded. “Who’s your control?”

He moved, closing the gap between them. “We need to interview you about your work.”

“My work?”

“Yes. There’s an issue.”

“What kind of issue? Who are you? Who is your control?”

“Please, come with me. Some people want to ask you questions.”

Rainee shifted her gaze behind him, faking as if somebody was coming to divert his attention. She made an attempt with a side kick to the groin with the intention of making a run.

He simply turned, and her sneaker met with a thigh as hard as the trunk of an oak tree.

She turned and ran.

He cut the gap in an instant and was on her, past her, forcing her to stop. It was ridiculous how fast he was. He looked at her like she was being silly.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. He wasn’t even breathing hard, or showing agitation.

She knew now it was his game to call.

Then he came at her, as if to grab her arm. “Listen, you have to understand that my superiors—”

In spite of the hopelessness of the situation, this guy way out of her league, her instinct was to fight. She kicked again, but this time he simply blocked the attempt with his arm and pushed her back as if she was a child. He shook his head and frowned.

Rainee backed up. “Get the hell away from me, goddamn you! I’ll start screaming—there are other joggers out—”

He reached around under his shirt, pulled out a gun, and shot her point blank.

Startled almost as much by the speed with which he pulled the weapon as at the realization that she’d been shot, Rainee wanted to react, fight, deny, but she could do nothing as she sank slowly to the ground, thinking, as she did, that she knew this bastard from somewhere, but there was no time to remember as the dimming light of consciousness faded.

In the war room at the Facility in Baja there was a stunned silence, each man having just shot the doctor. She lie on the ground and, with only a minimal attempt at movement, fell still.

Dr. Raab, feeling wonderfully triumphant, brilliant, that he’d gotten these men together for this, said, “Gentlemen, you have experienced our greatest project at work. That soldier is Seneca. We have enhanced warfighters close to his ability in sixteen major cities leading our cell teams at the moment. As much as all of us are enamored of cyber-tactics and advanced drones, at the end of the day, we will always need warfighters.”

Raab knew what they thought they’d just witnessed. He chuckled. “Don’t worry—she’s just taking a nap. I’m not about to destroy one of the great neuroscientists on the planet, even if she did try to destroy us. She will make up for that mistake once we get her down here, I can assure you of that. But first we need her in L.A. to bring in a renegade.”

4

In those first moments of her fight to return to consciousness, it felt Rainee was rising up out of a dark, mucky swamp toward the faint, distant light and, unbeliever that she was, for an irrational instant, she wondered if this was a transition to something beyond.

Rainee felt dizzy but realized she was alive, still on earth, and in some kind of van or truck that recorded every little bump in the road with a jolt.

A thin thread of light sneaked through a cloth hood that covered her head. Her hands were bound behind her, her ankles also bound with only a few inches of play.

Rainee tasted the rough cloth that covered her face, heard the sounds of traffic.

She now believed all she’d been shot with was a tranquilizer and not a bullet. She heard arguing, Spanish and English mixed. Fierce, intense. Two or three men.

Rainee tried to make sense of it but there was too much engine and wheel noise.

They drove for maybe twenty or thirty minutes, then slowed, turning and coming to a stop.

She wondered how long she’d been unconscious. Where were they taking her and why? Most likely ransom or she’d already be dead. Was she in Mexico?

Doors opened and shut. Then the side door slid open and somebody reached in and took hold of her, an arm under her legs, another around her back, and pulled her out, but not with roughness. He did it carefully.

The man carried her as if she weighed nothing. It’s him, she thought.

They mounted steps. Her kidnapper had her nestled against him like he was carrying a child.

“Get the door,” he ordered in that jagged voice.

He carried her inside, across a room to another door that was opened, and then into a room that had the rancid stink of fast food. The floor was wooden and creaked.

She was deposited with gentleness on the floor. The footsteps retreated. Door shut.

Again came the sound of men arguing in the next room, but too muffled for her to understand. The command voice, guttural, shut the others down.

Where do I know that voice? Was he one of mine?

After a few minutes Rainee heard footsteps approaching and her gut tightened.

She’d faced death more than once and had spent time in two combat zones, so it wasn’t new, but experience didn’t make it any more pleasant.

The door, footsteps, someone came in. He grabbed her by the arms, dragged her back and sat her up against the wall, then pulled her mask off and she was looking at him, at his craggy face, that one reconstructed eye. Her kidnapper.

Since right from the start he didn’t care if she saw his face, could recognize him—it meant she had no chance of surviving whatever this was. Guys like this didn’t leave witnesses.

5

Her kidnapper got down on his haunches and studied her intently for a moment, big legs and feet, his gaze fixed as if trying to figure something out. He had a backpack next to him, and she could see the bulge of a gun under his shirt.

The door opened. She glanced at the Mexican who came partway in. He said, “L.A. having some problems. We’re gonna have to go a bit early,
el capitan
. You’ll have to do your interrogation on the way.”