Class Fives: Origins (38 page)

Slowly he reached out a hand and moved toward the container. Even though he had been warned about it, he still experienced a creeping sensation when his fingertips encountered something when they were still a few inches from the actual wall of the container.

Son of a bitch, he thought, letting the shiver rush up his spine, before turning his attention fully back to the task at hand.

He reached down to rip open the Velcro cover from one of his wide thigh pockets, and extracted the tightly wadded netting. He fumbled with it until he was able to isolate the wide opening of the thin mesh bag, and managed to lift the gaping, flimsy mouth over top of the container and wriggle it down until it almost settled on the pillar, now surrounding the container like an improvised spiderweb. But instead of falling over it, it seemed to float a few inches away, as if being pushed up by in invisible, unfelt breeze.

Here goes nothing, he thought, gathering up the mouth of the mesh bag and reaching out to once again feel that bizarre force of something against his fingers. Gently he pushed and the container, without actually being touched, began to slide along the surface of the pillar. He carefully worked it to the toppling point, all the while maintaining a grip on the bag like the reins of a stubborn horse, and when it began to topple he eased it back gently and slowly lifted it free from the pillar.

So far, so good, he thought, turning carefully, the container now hanging in the mesh bag but, incredibly, not actually touching it, causing it instead to billow out, away from the glass and metal object.

The most bizarre thing was that it seemed to weigh almost nothing. His mind told him he must be holding a balloon, something with enough substance to be sensed but so insubstantial it might not even be there at all.

He carefully walked it across the space and gingerly mounted the steps, easing his way through the small door.

On the floor close to the dead body of the brilliant scientist who had created the thing, the other two men had already laid out the large, thickly padded nylon case, both now kneeling to hold the wide mouth of it open.

The Lieutenant eased toward them, bent and settled the mesh bag into the larger, sturdier case. Immediately the walls of the case bulged, as if being filled with something like invisible water.

The Lieutenant released the bag and straightened. The other men quickly pulled over the top flap of the case and were zipping it closed.

Now, he thought, we just have to get out of here and we’re home free.

In another minute they were back in the elevator, the case sitting on the floor between them looking like a strange nylon beach ball.

But when the doors opened they froze.

The two other men were now crouched on either side of the loading dock door, their weapons raised. From outside they could hear faint shouts.

One of the men turned toward them, barking out.

“Maybe a squad,” he snapped, wasting no words. “They got us boxed in here!”

The Lieutenant only hesitated a moment before he called back.

“Draw fire,” he shouted. “Wait one minute, then extract to the front of the building.”

“Rog-o!” the man snapped back, then turned his attention to where his companion was just squeezing off a short random burst out the door.

The first man plucked a grenade from his wide belt, pulled the pin and flung it out the door. A second later there was a dull thud somewhere outside, and a huge plume of purple smoke began to billow up, obscuring the doorway and leaking back into the loading dock. His companion squeezed off another burst of fire into the fresh new cloud.

But the Lieutenant and the other two had already plunged down a short hallway, pushed through heavy doors, and were hustling down a corridor toward the front of the building. He allowed the other two to precede him, their weapons extended, ready to fire.

As they approached a large lobby area they noticed the wide, glass doors of the front of the building revealed a trio of figures scanning the large slabs of thick, plate glass from outside.

“Hold,” the Lieutenant hissed and all three men dropped to a crouch within the shadows at the lip of the corridor.

They waited.

“Come on,” the Lieutenant growled, “Just break the glass, you morons..”

As if they had heard him, one of the trio raised his heavy rifle and slammed the butt, hard, into the pane of glass that formed the door. It cracked, and a thick spiderweb of white lines shot through it. With the second blow it gave way completely, falling with a tinkle like crystal rain.

The man ducked and cautiously eased through the fresh opening, remaining crouched, turning to scan the wide lobby space.

He paused while the second man eased in behind him, followed by the third.

All three took a long moment to scan the entire space, assuring themselves it was empty, then began moving toward the hallway where the Lieutenant and his companions crouched.

Without a word the Lieutenant raised his pistol, took aim and squeezed off a silenced shot into the throat of the first intruder.

The other two reacted with jerky confusion, but before they could locate the source of the shot, a second pop sent the second sprawling, his body jerking a moment before going still.

The third managed to raise his own rifle to his shoulder before the Lieutenant put a shot through his face, flinging him backwards in a heap.

“Go,” he whispered, and reached to carefully lift the cumbersome nylon case from where he’d placed it on the floor before himself.

They moved swiftly toward the broken door, ready to fire at anything that might appear.

Reaching the opening, the Lieutenant snapped, “Hold.”

Again he placed the case on the floor, reached to his wide belt and snapped off the small electronic device that had been hooked there.

He flipped the switch, saw the little red light come to life, then pressed the large red button that was the only feature on the small box.

The explosives built into the walls of the phony truck tanker parked just outside the loading dock detonated with a force that sent a shudder through the whole thick concrete building. He could only imagine what it must have looked like, or how many of his attackers had been close enough to it to have been blown to pieces of meat.

He didn’t even bother to think about the other three men of his own squad who must surely have been fragmented by the blast. They had served their purpose and earned their pay, that was all.

“Go!” he shouted, even as he was lifting the case once more, and the three of them plunged through the broken door and out into the open air beyond.

As they emerged the Lieutenant saw the helicopter, sitting on the wide lawn no more than fifty yards away, its rotor still turning lazily, ready to leap into the air.

Perfect, he thought and started running toward the craft.

His companions fell into a jog in front of him, providing cover and suppression fire.

They made it almost halfway to the open side door of the chopper before one of the men preceding him opened fire, dropping a man who had just appeared around the side of the building. The other man immediately directed his attention to the interior of the chopper. Something moved in the shadows within, and the man loosed a burst that caused the form to collapse.

Immediately the low whine of the helicopter’s engine began to rise, the rotors picking up speed. The trio broke into a full run and dashed toward the open door. The first man managed to reach the opening and throw himself through it just as the chopper began to lift from the ground.

Inside he rolled, bringing up his weapon, and released a three-shot burst into the back of the co-pilot, just as he was turning, raising the pistol. He barked a noise of pain and slumped in the seat.

The pilot felt the barrel of the submachine gun press hard into the back of his neck, just below the rim of the heavy helmet.

“Set down!” the gunman barked harshly.

The pilot hesitated, then eased the collective stick forward and the chopper settled to the ground once more.

The gunman pulled the trigger and a spray of blood, flesh and the meat of the man’s throat splattered the inside of the windshield. A moment later the body was being roughly yanked from the seat and pulled clumsily to the hard floor of the chopper bay. The gunman dropped his weapon and scrambled over the body into the blood-slick seat.

Even as he grabbed the collective and began to pull gently back on it, the Lieutenant scrambled into the open bay, hugging the cumbersome nylon bag to himself.

Just behind him the other man had released his machine gun, allowing it to drop its full weight on the sling around his shoulder, and was reaching to grasp the strut beside the door.

A distant rattle of sharp pops, half buried by the rising whine of the engine, was followed by the man jerking suddenly, then going limp, dropping away to the ground just as the chopper lifted off once more.

“Go!!” the Lieutenant screamed, and the chopper leapt up, tilting crazily.

Below it, the two surviving members of Crawford’s assault team, running toward the ascending machine, raised their weapons and began blazing away at the underbelly of the tilted, retreating craft which was already slipping along the ground, skidding almost sideways.

It barely cleared the tall fence before it finally managed to straighten out and gain altitude. A few seconds later it disappeared over top of the jutting trees, the sound of its roaring engine and air-shattering blades receding swiftly.

One of the men lowered his weapon and reached for the radio attached to his belt. If they hurried, they still might be able to track it, pursue it. But he already knew that was a distant, outside chance.

Whatever it was that they had come for, they had it.

13

The Endgame Begins

John sat slumped in the passenger’s seat of the car, his head pushed back against the rest, staring out the window. He still couldn’t believe it was all happening. From the medical center he and White had made a swift drive the dozen miles to Los Angeles International Airport, where a quick flash of a badge by White had gotten them into a small military annex where a jet had been awaiting them, its engines already turning lazily.

Ten minutes later they were airborne, slicing through the sky over downtown Los Angeles and racing out across the desert. A few hours after that they were touching down at the small municipal airport somewhere outside Providence, Montana. And now they were cruising into the modest town, in search of a particular man who might or might not be at a particular address.

During the flight the constant roar of noise, even wearing the thick, heavy helmet fitted with the communications system, had made it impossible to converse, but as soon as they had entered the car, White had begun a clipped, no-nonsense briefing.

He explained about the preference for very high-value targets to use couriers and go-betweens, rather than trust their communications to any electronic means, which might be intercepted with potentially disastrous results. He laid out the pieces they had collected so far, the phone number buried in some deeply stored financial paperwork, how that number had suddenly come to life, and the basics of the conversation which had, like almost everything else of interest, been recorded for later dissection, if necessary.

It also appeared that an individual, known to the Transportation Security Administration,
the agency that recorded and tracked every airline passenger in the country, had a record in the name of Peter Lupus, taking numerous trips out of this small airport over the last year, to some rather unusual destinations, including the Czech Republic, where Dr. Svag was located, and Russia.

Combined with that data was the fact that a comprehensive search of Mr. Lupus through every known record seemed to stop abruptly five years in the past. Before that, nothing. And what they had was so mundane as to constitute barely a shadow of life, recently assumed.

They had an address on utility bills, and a rental agreement for a small, unassuming house on an anonymous street at the edge of the small, prairie town. What had finally slammed the two flimsy leads, the phone call and Mr. Lupus together, were the credit card transactions through which the airline tickets had been purchased. The billing address on that card was also that of Peter Lupus of Providence, Montana. But the phone number on the original application, a long since disconnected number, was another one of those on the paperwork for the registration of the Karillan Foundation.

John had listened, feeling a little overwhelmed.

“So,” he finally said, “We’re going to what… just watch this guy? Follow him? What?”

“For the moment,” White replied, “That is our mission.”

“So, it’s a stake-out,” John said with a hint of certainty.

“For the moment.”

“And if that changes?”

“We capture.”

John looked at him, his expression cautious.

“We arrest him.”

White tipped his head thoughtfully.

“Semantics,” he replied.

John nodded and turned his gaze back to the highway.

“So,” he said, “If we capture this guy, what do we do with him?”

“Questioning,” White replied.

“About what?”

“Everything. Primarily, the whereabouts of Dr. Montgomery. Secondarily, anything he knows about the experiment, particularly the location. It’s likely he has to know since he’s probably been making all contacts in Montgomery’s stead.”

“And once we find that out?”

“We call it in. They have your friend standing by to transit to the site and disable it. Then we go pick up Montgomery.”

John grunted thoughtfully, turning his attention to the passing countryside. A few moments later he turned back to the older man.

“And what if he won’t talk?”

White seemed to ponder this for a moment before responding.

“We look for raw data. We check any electronics for intel relating to the experiment. Locations, geo-coordinates, longitude and latitude. An address, if there is one.”