The Ajax Protocol-7
The Ajax Protocol
By
Alex Lukeman
Copyright 2013 by Alex Lukeman
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means except by prior and express permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used entirely as an element of fiction. Any resemblance of characters in this book to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Project Series
The Ajax Protocol
pro-to-col: noun
(prōtəˌkôl,-ˌkäl)
An original note, draft or minute of an agreement, e.g., terms of a treaty agreed to in conference.
CHAPTER 1
The underground bunker smelled of human stress and old concrete. Half a dozen technicians watched a bank of monitors ranged along one side of the room. The walls and ceiling were of gray concrete, unfinished, without decoration. The main feature of the room was a large wall monitor displaying a world map in green against a black background. Rows of fluorescent lights bathed the room in cold, soulless light.
A man in uniform stood contemplating the screen, hands clasped behind his back. The creases in his pants were as sharp as the points of the four silver stars gleaming on his shoulders. His eyes were dark and intense, under a prominent brow topped off with gray hair cropped close to his skull. He seemed to fill the room with his presence.
His name was Louis Westlake. General Westlake was in charge of the US Army's secret satellite weapons program.
Standing next to Westlake was the US Senate Majority Leader, Edward Martinez. Martinez was the picture of a successful politician. His carefully tailored hair was streaked through with silver. An American flag was pinned on his lapel.
Martinez had risen to power as the strident voice of the average American. His supporters called him "Eddie" and thought he was one of them, someone in Washington who believed in their ideals and values. They could not have been more mistaken.
Martinez and Westlake were the point of a spear aimed at the heart of America.
"Put the satellite image on the big screen," Westlake said. His voice was resonant, authoritative. It was one of his strengths. When Westlake spoke, people listened. They tended to believe him. They did what he ordered, whether they believed him or not.
One of the technicians entered a rapid series of commands on his console. "Coming up now, General."
The map on the wall monitor was replaced by a live satellite picture of Russia and the Siberian plains.
"Bring Ajax on line."
More keystrokes. The word
ready
began flashing in green on the lower part of the big screen.
"Enter the co-ordinates for Novosibirsk," Westlake said.
The technician's fingers played across the keys. A series of numbers appeared on his screen.
"Target acquired," he said. "Alaska standing by."
Martinez turned toward General Westlake. "This is it, General. What we've been waiting for."
"In the end, people will thank us," Westlake said. "It's for their own good. Someone has to take action. The President's policies are turning us into a third world country."
"Rice has been a real problem," Martinez said.
"He won't be a problem much longer."
"You seem certain of that."
"Trust me," Westlake said, "he won't."
"This test will give us valuable data," Martinez said. "The UK will let us refine it. Then we can start here."
"Are the detention facilities ready? Homeland Security is ready to move?" Westlake said.
"Of course." There was a hint of exasperation in Martinez's voice. They'd been over this before. "The legislation has already been drafted. Everything's on schedule, as we planned."
"I just wanted to hear you say it." Westlake turned to the technician. "Activate."
The man on the console pressed a key. The screen changed and displayed a rapid scroll of numbers. The
ready
message changed to
transmit.
On the other side of the world, people went mad.
CHAPTER 2
Nick Carter took one look at Director Elizabeth Harker and knew it was going to be a long day. Harker headed the Project, an intelligence agency few Americans knew existed. Nick ran the Project team in the field.
Nick tugged on his left ear, where a Chinese bullet had ripped off the earlobe a few years back.
"Director, why do I have the feeling you’re about to tell me something I don’t want to hear?"
Elizabeth swiveled toward him in the big executive chair she liked. The chair dwarfed her petite frame. She wore her favorite combination of a black pantsuit and simple white blouse. Nick thought her closet was probably a study in black and white. An emerald pin on her jacket picked up the color of her eyes.
"Take a look at this."
Harker touched her keyboard. A monitor on the wall of her office lit with a video of soldiers armed with assault rifles, hunched down behind concrete barricades stretched across a wide boulevard. Ominous columns of black smoke rose from a city in the background. A mob of people was running straight at the barriers, their faces distorted with rage and fear. Nick watched a young woman holding a baby trip and fall and vanish under the trampling feet of the mob. No one paid any attention.
The soldiers began firing as the mob clambered over the barriers. Then the soldiers disappeared under the sea of screaming people.
"Jesus," Nick said. "Where is this happening?"
"Novosibirsk. This is from Russian television, about a half hour ago. We picked it up before Moscow shut down the feed."
She touched another key. The picture switched to an overhead satellite. The cameras on the bird could read a newspaper from 80 miles up.
The center of Novosibirsk looked like a war zone. The streets were deserted. Hundreds of bodies lay where they had fallen. Wrecked cars littered the roads. It looked as though some of them had tried to ram each other. All the shop windows were smashed. The sidewalks and pavement were covered with broken glass.
"What happened?" Nick said.
"I don't know. Whatever it was, it happened fast. Everything was normal. Then it's as if someone flipped a switch. The time stamps on the sat transmissions show less than a half hour from normalcy to that." She gestured at the screen.
"That's impossible. It takes time for a riot to spread."
"Nonetheless, there it is. Something happened, and we need to know what it was."
"You don't think this is just a Russian problem?" Nick said.
"No. Anything that can turn a modern city into a lunatic asylum is a threat. Maybe it was something in the water. Maybe the Russians are experimenting with something and it got out of hand."
"Like what?"
"The Vector Institute is in Novosibirsk. Vector is Russia's bio warfare center. It's possible something got loose."
"A virus that makes people go nuts? It would have to be airborne to affect everyone at once."
"I have a bad feeling about this," Elizabeth said. "Go find Ronnie and Selena and get them up here."
Ronnie Peete and Selena Connor were two of the members of Nick's team. Lamont Cameron was the third. Lamont was in Bethesda Hospital, recovering from a bullet he'd taken in Jordan. He'd been shot through the lung and had almost died.
"They're downstairs on the range." Nick rubbed his chin, where he'd nicked himself shaving that morning.
Harker looked at him. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
CHAPTER 3
At the door to the lower level, Nick almost tripped over a huge orange cat lying on the floor next to a cat bed. Burps was as big as some dogs and tougher than most of them. His ears were tattered and torn. The carpet was damp where he'd drooled on it. It was typical of the cat to ignore the bed and sleep on the floor. Nick stepped over him and started down the spiral stair that led below.
Project headquarters was in the Virginia countryside, not far from the Capitol. Except for a wide cement helipad located at the end of the drive, it looked like a middle class American home, a ranch-style building surrounded by lawns and flower gardens. A low structure that might have been a garage was situated across from the house. A tool shed graced the far end of the lawn and gardens.
The appearance of normality was an illusion. The windows were proof against a .50 caliber round. The front door was made of steel and required a bio-scan and code for entry. Even the French doors leading off to the garden would resist anything short of a vehicle smashing through them.
Underneath the lawn and flowerbeds were three vaults of hardened concrete and steel that had housed a Nike squadron in the days of the Cold War. The missiles were long gone, replaced by the an operations center and emergency quarters, a large room for the computers and a fully equipped gym and firing range. There was an armory next to the range. There was even an underground swimming pool.
Nick opened the door to the range and winced at the echo of pistol fire. Ronnie and Selena stood at the firing line on the indoor range. A row of Plexiglas barriers separated each firing station. Down range, automated targets could be manipulated at will from the stations.
Selena was at the third station. She squeezed off the last round and the slide locked back on her pistol. Nick looked at her target, a man sized silhouette with a neat pattern of holes in the center. She'd put three in the forehead for good measure.
She looked up as he came in and smiled. They'd been lovers for the best part of two years but he never got tired of seeing that smile. Sometimes when Nick looked at her he wondered how someone like her had ended up with someone like him. The best anyone could say about the way Nick looked was that he was rugged. What they said about Selena was that she was beautiful. One of her cheekbones was higher than the other, keeping her face from the burden of perfect beauty. Her reddish blond hair shone under the overhead lights.
"Hey," she said.
"Nice shooting," he said.
She smiled again and took off her shooting glasses, revealing eyes the color of a field of violets.
Ronnie set his pistol down on the bench, took off his ear protectors and pressed a button to pull his target back. He studied the pattern of holes in the middle of the silhouette and then put it in a pile with the other targets he'd shot that day.
"The new vests are here," he said. "They came in this morning."
He walked down the firing line to an empty station. Lying on the bench were a half dozen dark armored vests designed to protect against anything except a neck or head shot or a bullet to one of the limbs. The vest wrapped around the sides and tucked under the groin.
Nick picked one up and hefted it. "Light," he said. "It feels a lot lighter than the ones we've been using."
Ronnie grinned at him. "It is, but it will stop everything short of a .50 with no trouble. It's made out of some kind of new nano ceramic technology that's supposed to minimize secondary damage."
"You mean like busted ribs? You ought to know about that."
"I'm still getting over the last two times," Ronnie said.
Getting hit wearing a vest was no fun. Usually you ended up with cracked ribs. Even though the vest might stop a round, the hydrostatic shock from the impact could kill you.
"I hope we don't have to test them out," Nick said. He put the armor back in the pile.
Ronnie went back to his station and began field stripping his pistol, a SIG-Sauer P229 chambered for .40 Smith and Wesson. Everyone in the project carried the Sig.
Ronnie was Navajo, born and raised, a solid, muscular man just two inches shy of Nick's six foot height. He lived alone in a small apartment on the outskirts of the city. As far as Nick knew, his only indulgence was an extensive collection of Hawaiian shirts.
