Project Sparta (The Xander Whitt Series Book 1) (5 page)

“Yes?”

“Is Juliette Rearden your real name?” she asked, receiving a few chuckles from the room.

“Of course not.” Juliette smiled back, and the chuckles became laughter. “I look forward to seeing you in class.”

Rearden stepped away from the podium and made way for the last of the instructors.

“I am your intelligence instructor, Damien Cusick.” Cusick had dark-rimmed glasses and greasy, tousled hair that fell to his shoulders. He had a wide girth, making him the largest person in the room. Despite his weight, he maintained an intelligent look. He looked out of place—the other instructors seemed to be military. He was wearing a Radiohead T-shirt, a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee, and Converse All-Stars. He squinted a little bit as if his vision had blurred from staring at computer monitors for too many years.

“Really all I can say is that I will teach you the art of hacking information systems. The majority of warfare these days happens on these—” He pulled a Smartphone from his back pocket. “—or on a computer. You need to know how to fully use one and you need to learn how to use your targets’ devices against them. I personally don’t have any field experience, but I have a great deal of
cyber
experience.” He waited for laughs, but they didn’t come. “Who here has had much experience with computers?” A few hands raised, but one shot up.

“Mac Morrison, right?” Cusick asked, nodding to the hand that shot up. Mac was Asian-American and carried a slight modern edge to him. He was an alternative type who rejected convention. He had rolled the bottom cuff of his pants up to shin height. The sides of his head were shaved closed to the scalp, while his thin black hair remained longer on top. He wore dark-rimmed glasses like Cusick.

“Yes sir,” Morrison said. Cusick smiled, as if he sensed a protégé in his midst. “I love computers. My dad and I used to take them apart and put them back together in the garage. Mac twitched his fingers when talking as if he was typing what he was saying.

“You know who else started in a garage?” Cusick prompted. Mac waited for the answer. “Every computer genius in history!”

The room chuckled at Cusick, causing him to fidget and adjust himself, seemingly unsure how to react to the laughter. Hardy came up to Cusick and patted him on the shoulder in a way that politely asked him to step away from the podium. Cusick was reluctant to give up the spotlight, but waddled back to the line with the other instructors.

Hardy returned to the podium. “Lastly, I am your history instructor. We will have classroom sessions learning about ancient warfare and battles. This is where we will train your minds on strategy. Since each of you is a top secret project in and of yourself, you will have the highest security clearance. We will study hundreds of missions very few people even knew took place. We will dissect what went right, what went wrong, and why they were successful or not. We will study everything from the Trojan War to the Cold War. We will study the geopolitical landscape of the world and many languages.”

With a shifting in his stance, he moved to the conclusion of his speech.

“These men and woman will teach you the skills you will need to survive. I would trust them if I were you, because I can assure you they know what they are talking about. If you think this training is going to be a cakewalk like the rest of your life has been thus far, you got another thing coming. We already know how brilliant you are, but make no mistake, we will make your time here
challenging
.” He spoke like he was giving marching orders.

“Tomorrow you will start with a physical and mental assessment. This will be a one-time process. Tonight you are free to do what you please. There is no curfew in the Compound. You all need to learn how to take responsibility of yourselves. If you are tired in the morning, I assure you, you will be sorry. Remember, nothing is as it seems. Good evening, Spartans.” He nodded and the instructors filed out after him.

A cacophony of nervous excitement exploded in the Mess Hall as the recruits stood and carried on with their evening. Xander, however, remained in his seat and processed everything he had just heard. He had been able to analyze many of the Spartans and guess at their potential expertise. He knew from Jooles’s soft expression and interest in espionage training that she would be an expert of stealth. Bronson’s size led Xander to believe he would be a combat specialist. Mac, from the way he typed while he talked, was obviously a computer genius of sorts. Seamus must be a ballistics expert, judging from the ash on his fingers. Tobias’s stutter was probably only the result of his mouth not being able to keep up with his mind. Ezra would most likely be groomed into a strategist and code breaker, which Xander deduced from the newspaper crossword in his lap. His eyes turned to Fiona and he realized he was unable to analyze her; he was captivated by her. Then a sullen thought occurred:
All these recruits have some kind of expertise, but what is mine?

There was a nervous excitement in the air. It was like the first day of college.

“Nothing is as it seems?” Xander asked himself, but loud enough for those next to him to hear.

“Yeah, nothing is as it seems,” Ashton responded. “The Project Credo. It’s supposed to remind us to always be on guard and to always have a questioning mind. Never take anything for granted because the moment you do is the moment you’ll get burned. It also tells us that despite our simulated surroundings, the real world is out there. Real people with real ideas and real freedom that we need to protect. We must never forget why we are here.”

“Yeah… And why are we here?” Xander asked.

“We are here to train to kill terrorists and protect our country. If we fail, people will die and we will, too,” Ezra said plainly. This was the first time the gravity of the Project weighed on Xander. He felt lost upon arrival, but even though he’d been told where he was and now why he was there, he didn’t feel any better. As he reflected, an assertive yell resounded through the room.

“Hey, Whitt!” Everyone was curious about the new boy who didn’t know where he was from. A kid with short black hair walked to the front of the small group of recruits, arms folded across his chest. His face was tight and compact as if it were a clenched fist. Judging by his voice, this was the recruit who’d snickered at him when he admitted that he did not know where he was from.

“Yeah?” Xander replied and turned to the contemptuous figure approaching him.

“Where are you from again?” The boy’s bark dripped with condescension. Xander recognized the power grab and so did the other recruits.

“Duke, leave him alone.” Ashton tried to step in, but Xander took the opportunity to explain.

“I never really knew my parents. They died when I was young. I’ve moved around a lot, and I guess everything has kind of blurred together,” Xander said. He wasn’t going to make his first impression with a lie.

“Oh, we have an orphan here!” Duke said with showmanship as if they were in the school yard and he was the bully. Bronson responded with a chuckle, while everyone else shifted uncomfortably, uncertain how to react. The Spartans held on to the moment, waiting for Xander’s response.

“The way I see it, Duke, we are all orphans now. We’re on our own.”

“What did you say?” Duke took a volatile step closer and growled through clenched teeth.

“I said I think we are all orphans now. You heard the colonel, you have no parents in here.” Xander was right, but it was clearly nothing Duke wanted to hear. A clenched fist cut the air and collided with Xander right in the face. Xander dropped like a bag of bricks.

“Don’t think you can tell me about my life just because you were never loved, you shithead!”

Ezra stepped in and shoved Duke back on his heels. “What is wrong with you, Duke? Leave him alone.”

“Welcome to Project Sparta.” Duke cackled, beaming down at Xander.

“Get the hell out of here,” Ezra yelled, putting himself between Xander and Duke. Duke squared his shoulders but Ezra’s eyes were deep with fury. Duke flinched forward in an effort to make Ezra jump, but he did not. Duke laughed and headed toward the Mess Hall exit.

Xander got to his feet and his double vision slowly dissipated. The pain wrapped around his face from his cheekbone, paralyzing all expression. The Spartans looked on, upset and unsure of what to do.

“Are you okay?” Jooles smiled at him.

“Yeah, thanks.” Xander’s gratitude was primarily aimed at Ezra.

“We got to have each other’s backs in this place,” Ezra said, shrugging his shoulders like it was no big deal.

“Don’t worry about him. I think we’re all adjusting pretty slowly, some slower than others,” Jooles offered in an attempt to comfort him.

Another boy found his cue and introduced himself. “Hey bud, nice shiner! I’m Mac.” Xander reached out his hand.

“Pleasure.” They shook hands and Xander rubbed his eye, which was swelling shut. “So, who wants to play some pool?” Xander asked, trying to change the subject. He walked back to one of the pool tables, simpering through the pain. Xander knew the importance of putting up an unfazed and strong exterior.

“Count me in.” It was Fiona, skittish and bashful. An awkward moment passed. He couldn’t seem to break his gaze from her glacier-blue eyes. Fiona, too, was looking in his eyes, but she was focused on the one that was ballooning before her.

“It’s swelling pretty good,” she said, breaking his trance.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, his throat dry. The roses in Fiona’s cheeks were in full bloom.

Xander arranged the balls in the triangle, setting the rack. He looked up.

“Thanks, guys,” he said sincerely. It was natural for them to sympathize with Xander. They were going through the same difficult adjustments. They knew it was hard enough to cope with and adding a black eye to the mix could only make it more difficult.

“No problem,” Ezra said.

“Anybody have the cue ball? And no, this is not it.” Xander pointed to his swelling eye. Everyone laughed. Jooles produced the cue ball and fired off a break. Xander stared down at the table and watched as the balls broke apart at the point of impact. His shot had come up, but he remained transfixed on the balls scattered across the pool table. A few voices spoke, trying to get his attention, but they sounded distant because he was consumed by a thought.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

Then a small, sweet voice managed to break through his thoughts. “Xander…” His eyes snapped from their position and fell on Fiona. “You aren’t alone in all this.”

Xander smiled at her, at the first sense of companionship he’d felt since entering the Compound. An understanding was budding between the two. He nodded with difficulty and lined up the cue ball. He snapped his shot off and dropped a solid in the corner pocket.

Chapter 8

McMillan Sand Filtration Site

North Washington, DC

June 29
th
2016

A bead of sweat dripped from Mohammad Azir’s balding scalp as he meticulously worked on the device before him. He directed his nervous energy out through his tapping feet and twitching eyes, leaving his hands unaffected and calm. They remained still as they curled the wires into the device and connected them to a circuit.

He worked under the one faint light illuminated in the deep, dark expanse of the underground storage chamber of the McMillan Sand Filtration Site. The chamber was no less than twenty acres, stretching past what the eye could see. It had abutments running the room, lifting the ceiling off the floor. It was a forgotten historic site that had been closed for some time. It once held mounds of sand and water, but now only held a table, a mirror, and a faded armoire up against the cement wall. Seated at the table, Azir wiped his sweaty palms on his pant leg as he continued his careful movements over the device. These kinds of technicians often worked alone, so if something went wrong collateral damage would be minimal.

Azir picked up his cigarette and inhaled a lungful. The crackle of burning tobacco echoed through the chamber. The smoke unfolded upward as he placed the cigarette back in the ashtray. He selected a pair of pliers from the tools laid out on a leather slab. As he continued working like a surgeon, he curled up the mass of wires and tucked them with a steady hand in a pocket of the vest. His hands lifted and paused. The moment before him would be one of life or death. It wasn’t by any means his first device, but it was by far his largest, which meant more room for mistakes. He ran over every step in his head, reviewing where he could have slipped up. There was nothing. He had done it perfectly, by the book, and he was sure of it. He wiped his brow and approached the device. He plugged the end of the wire into the back of a 4x6 monitor, which displayed the automatic syncing screen: 25
percent
synced
, 50
percent
synced
, 75
percent  synced
, then
Sync Complete
. He exhaled a breath of relief. The bomb construction was a success.

Azir unplugged the monitor and lifted the device up off the table. He then slipped his arms through two leather holes and pulled the vest over his sweaty shirt. He attached the Velcro on either side, fitting it snug around his abdomen. He then approached a stained mirror against the wall and plucked the trigger device attached by wires from its holster on the vest. Looking at his reflection, Azir gulped as his reflection showed a man covered in C-4 and wires. He flicked up the trigger guard on the detonator and red lights on the vest illuminated, signaling that the bomb was armed. The test was now completed. He then closed the trigger guard and powered down the vest. He unstrapped it from his body and with careful hands approached the armoire, where he hung up the vest so it would be protected from dust and insects.

He brought his cell phone to his sweating ear, excited to relay the progress.

«————————»

Fifty feet above him, Agent Zero stood on a fifty-acre expanse of green grass. Twenty ivy-covered sand silos lined the field. Each silo had an opening at its base, resembling a fireplace to a fifteen-foot wide chimney. The age of the facility was obvious, but it often went overlooked as it sat back in the recesses of the large field, guarded by a barbed wire fence, which set the perimeter.

A cell phone buzzed.

“Hello?”             

“The big one is complete,” Azir confirmed.

“Very good. How much bigger than the Metro device?”

“Three to four times the size,” Azir replied.

“Good.” Agent Zero hung up the phone and walked to the barbed wire fence, lining Michigan avenue.

Xander has the package and played right into my hand. The device has been completed. The first target has been hit. All is going according to plan.

Agent Zero gazed down the avenue at the passing taxis carrying passengers ignorant of what was to come, past a shop owner closing the shutters over display windows, above the manhole covers that sent pillars of steam into the city’s skyline. Agent Zero’s eyes finally settled on a large building towering over the city and focused as if it were the bull’s eye of a target.

Agent Zero’s hand reached out to the Capitol building in the distance and enclosed a vengeful fist around it.