Project Sparta (The Xander Whitt Series Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 4

North Hills, PA

June 10
th
2010

Xander stomped into the bookstore, shaking off the excess rainwater from his sopping-wet hoodie. After catching his breath from his jog through the storm roaring outside, Xander walked along the bookshelves in search of a new tale to captivate his imagination. Upon aimlessly strolling through the fiction section, he arrived at a paperback version of
The Little Prince
. The artwork and thin spine revealed that it was a children’s book. He did not know the story because, orphaned at eight years old, he never had anyone to read it to him as a child. His eyes fell into a sullen gaze upon a particular passage:

“It’s a little lonely in the desert…” resumed the little prince at last. 

“It is lonely when you’re among people, too,” said the snake.

The passage pierced Xander’s heart like an arrow ripping through his chest. He didn’t know what it was like to be loved. Ms. Baker had tried in earnest, but it was never the love everyone else had growing up. Xander raised his eyes to the shelf where so many books he had read stood. He thought of all the characters he had joined on their adventures and all of the landscapes he traveled across in those stories. But in reality he remained standing in a bookstore, wet from the rain and awestruck by his own admission of loneliness. His hands quivered slightly as he retreated within himself. But then he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye—a man in an Irish cap entered the aisle. Xander shook off his emotion and entered the role of the casual observer.

The man inched his way toward Xander, and started to browse the section closer to him.

“
The Little Prince.
That’s one of my favorites,” a voice came from behind him.

“Yeah I was thinking about reading it,” Xander responded, turning to face the man in the Irish cap. The face that stared back at him belonged to Colonel Jackson Hardy. He was no longer in his military formals; rather, he was dressed in wrinkled khakis and an unbuttoned forest-green cardigan with elbow patches.

“Why read other people’s stories when you can write your own?” Xander’s eyebrows arched and then furrowed as he considered the question. He had reviewed the limited amount of information regarding Project Sparta from the file given to him two weeks prior. The program was largely still a mystery to Xander as the file had only vague details. It had just started, but Xander’s indecision precluded him from pursuing it. Xander knew that Hardy had come for another recruitment effort.

“You know, they have really good coffee here,” Xander said, causing a smile to come over Hardy’s face.

«————————»

A few minutes later, Xander and Hardy were seated at the corner table before a large window showing the stormy street, sipping on mugs full of steaming coffee. Xander spoke quietly, but direct.

“What do you want? Are you following me?”

“You’re still here and orientation is tonight,” Hardy said plainly.

“Yeah, because being a spy…isn’t me,” Xander insisted over the uncertainty gathering in his throat.

“So who are you?” Hardy again remained straight and narrowed in on Xander’s eyes.

“Eight years ago I was in a car crash with my parents. They died that day. The doctors said I hit my head pretty hard. So hard that it wiped my memory clean, but the funny thing is that head trauma also gave me a photographic memory, and I remember everything from that point forward. And it just so happens that as I trace my memory back as far as it goes, it seems to start with you. My first memory is you visiting me in the hospital when I woke up.” Xander leaned forward and interlocked his fingers. “The question is not who I am, because you already know that. The question is who are you? The formals you wore when you came to recruit me two weeks ago were real, but they were tight on you, meaning they are old. You also had twenty-three medals eight years ago. What kind of active military officer goes eight years without being handed some kind of medal? They hand those things out like Boy Scout badges to you officers, don’t they?” Xander spoke through a vacuum of rushed breath, trying to keep up with his thoughts. “I figure you’re ex-military but not currently field active. In fact, my guess is, you haven’t been field active for awhile. My first thought was that you’re CIA. But the CIA recruiting teenagers out of high school? Sounds like the start of a conspiracy theory to me. So you tell me.”

“Are you done?” Hardy chuckled, keeping a superior posture above Xander’s speculations. He exuded an air of calm that put the moment at ease.

Xander caught his breath with a huff. “Yeah. I am.”

“We are Project Sparta.” Xander adjusted himself in his chair upon finally learning the name of the program. Hardy continued. “As I said, we are government contractors. We can do whatever we want. We have brokered a deal with the government to allow an inordinate amount of funding. We are starting the first training program of its kind. Nothing is as it seems.” Hardy tiptoed through the minefield of Xander’s emotions. The last words struck Xander, as they were in the last line of the Project’s Credo he had been given.

“Cut the cryptic talk. Just tell me straight already,” he said.

“Xander, you have been selected to be a Spartan. In order to properly craft you, we must first erase you from this life. You will be completely off the books. You will live and train in this program until you are ready for reentry into the world. At that point you will be an active clandestine operative and you will not exist.”

“Why should I go with you?”

“Because you’re a genius and you know it. You know how valuable you can be to the safety and security of America if you’re trained properly. You know that if you solve some math theorem at Harvard, only four people in the country will be able to understand it and it won’t really help anybody. You know that if you come with me, you will matter.”

The moment settled on a silence as Xander retreated to his thoughts. The freeways of his mind churned with blinding lights of thought. He had considered the possibility and was intrigued by it. His focus shot through alternatives and analyses most minds could not dream to perform. He remained deep within himself for some time.

Xander peered out the window as the storm began to pass. His thoughts fell sullen, as he recalled how he never fit in, how he was always different. He remembered the times as a child where he would cry to his foster mother because no one understood him. He remembered knowing every answer in class without knowing why or how. He knew that he didn’t have many friends.

In many ways, I already don’t exist.

Xander brought his index finger and thumb up to a necklace under his shirt. Ms. Baker had given him the necklace to help him in his decision—on its end hung a sterling silver crucifix about an inch and a half tall. After twirling the crucifix through his shirt, Xander’s gaze settled on the man before him asking for his trust. He gave Hardy one more look over, as if sizing him up.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Chapter 5

Arlington, VA

June 29
th
2016

It was a normal day, one where people kept to themselves and milled about their business. Melissa Haynes was no different as she pushed her baby stroller down 15th Street N toward the Court House Metro station. She often rode the Metro into the city to take long strolls across the National Mall. She enjoyed the smell of the fresh-cut grass there, the sounds of children riding the Carousel, tourists photographing everything, and the towering sights of the Smithsonian museums and the Capitol. She thought of the Mall as America’s front yard and could feel the city’s pulse beat beneath her feet.

As always, she brought her fifteen-month-old son Benny along. Benedict Michael was his full name, but she thought Benny was cute for a kid. He was just now popping teeth, so drool was continually running down his chin. Melissa wore large sunglasses to hide the bags under her eyes from the late night required from her teething son. Benny gnawed on his hands as if digging for the crusted peanut butter in the cracks of his fingers. Now that Benny was of the age to sit outward, he was able to observe the scenes passing by him with his little teddy bear, the one he had to take everywhere. Melissa had to sew its left eye back on because Benny’s teething had gotten the best of it. It was a patch up job, a temporary fix until his second fang sprouted. Melissa sauntered her way toward the Metro elevator.

The elevator dinged as its doors opened. Melissa boarded with the stroller as her thoughts wandered through the trivialities of the day.

Potbelly Sandwich Shop. Yum. Screw Atkins. Bread is good. Another celebrity DUI… Why do all child entertainers end up going off the deep end by the time they can drive?

“You’re never going to drive and leave your mommy, are you Benny?” Melissa leaned down to look at her baby and finished her thought through a wide smile. Benny cracked a gummy smile at the sight of his mother, releasing the floodgates of drool. She snatched up his little teddy and before he could cry, she buried the teddy’s nose in his neck. Benny giggled the cutest thing she had ever heard.

As soon as the elevator opened, Melissa felt the settling breeze from the train heading to New Carrollton open for boarding in the station. She scurried across the platform with the stroller and darted through the closing doors of the train at the last second, stumbling into a stranger. She gazed up at the tall man who had caught her with a smile.

“I’m sorry, sir!”

“You’re fine,” he responded, entertained by the scene before him.

“Thank God I wore flats today,” she said. The passengers nearby chuckled. As usual on such a normal day, people were off in their own thoughts, keeping interactions at as low of a level as possible.

Melissa’s eyes found a young, tan-skinned man with a black patchy beard across his jaw. He looked college-aged and appeared to be disturbed by something, as his lips formed quick silent words over and over again. His eyes clung to the ceiling and beads of sweat dripped down both sides of his head. The growing stream of perspiration inched its way from his temple to his jaw line. And then his saddened eyes fell to Benny in the stroller.

That’s weird. The A/C is cranked up in here. Why is he sweating? Why is he checking his watch? He must be late for something… Why is he looking at Benny like that?

The automated voice sounded throughout the train, announcing the next stop. “The train is arriving at Rosslyn. Next stop Foggy Bottom.” The passenger started huffing and puffing mantras in Arabic. His volume became louder along with the stirring panic in the train, until it all stopped in a suspended moment. Silence followed by three quick sounds:

A battle cry.

A click.

A boom.

«————————»

An old man perched on a stool outside of the Rosslyn Metro station was blowing into his harmonica with a strong vibrato. He made it sing like the old crooners he grew up with. He listened for the chime of coins in his donation bucket, but none came. The song was an original called “Freedom” and nobody noticed as they went about their scheduled days. People called him Old Man Cyrus. He was an African American who brought blues up from Louisiana to DC. Cyrus broke from his long melodic note into a rushing and puffing blues rhythm, tapping the percussion out on the sidewalk with his boot. The percussion began its crescendo, from a tap to a kick to a stomp.

On his third stomp, a blast sounded and the ground rose up underneath him, knocking him off his bucket. He could hear screams coming from the station where a cloud of grey smoke billowed overhead. A stampede of people erupted out of the station, all of them covered in ash from head to toe, tripping over one another, wailing and crying in terror.

Cyrus was too old to run. He slowly found his feet and collected his donation bucket, and then waited for the panicked mob to thin out. When he saw an opening, he sidled his way into the station, shocked by the scene before him. Cyrus sidestepped stragglers and the wounded as he made his way through the smoke, waving his hands to break up the thick smog.

Heat began creeping up his body as he continued down the crooked and broken escalator. The smell of burning flesh stung his nostrils, and he raised an elbow to cover his mouth. As the cloud of smoke migrated farther into the station, the sight of the eastbound train came into view. It was a shell, a contortion of twisted metal, the center of which was aflame. Sirens sounded in the distance. Old Man Cyrus knelt down to say a prayer and then noticed something before him. He wiped away the soot in his eyes and picked up what lay at his feet. It was a teddy bear, half of which was missing, reduced to ash—the other half looked up at Cyrus through one eye, hanging loose by a thread.

Chapter 6

Northern Virginia

June 10
th
2010

Young Xander Whitt sat in the passenger seat of Hardy’s black Suburban and stared at the white dashes on the pavement as his mind traveled the road ahead. The four-hour drive from Pennsylvania had been silent except for the country radio station Hardy played.

“Why do you want young recruits?” Xander asked, catching Hardy in the middle of humming a Garth Brooks ballad.

“Do you know what the average age of the terrorists who high-jacked the planes during 9/11 was? Twenty-four point six. Our enemy is getting younger. They are indoctrinated as teenagers over there. We need a new kind of soldier,” Hardy explained. “You are going to be living at our facility for the twelve months of the program. After you have completed your training, you will be deployed into active service… If you progress well, of course.”

They rumbled down a back road and pulled up to an unlabeled, high-security gate. Hardy put the car in park and got out. He approached a scanner and flashed an access card, which opened the first gate.

“No guards?” Xander asked.

“If we had guards, they would have to know that we exist,” Hardy stated.

The high gate opened, revealing a ramp that led them to a subterranean level. The Suburban descended into the underground tunnel. The tunnel was dimly lit with different metal doors on either side leading to what he could only imagine. They traveled down in a steady decline for some time, and it quickly became apparent to Xander that he would be living deep underground. He noticed a number of passages jutting off of the main tunnel.

“There are a lot of tunnels here,” Xander said, wondering what mysteries lay down the other passages.

“There are more tunnels here than you can imagine. Tunnels within tunnels, facilities within facilities, secrets within secrets. The Spartans are the innermost egg within the Russian doll, Xander.”

They came to a garage door with the one word stamped on it like a cargo crate: SPARTA. Hardy parked and got out of the SUV again. He approached a panel on the wall that opened at the scanning of his access card. It revealed an eye scanner that Hardy stared into until it opened the door. The garage door then opened and amazement struck Xander still as Hardy climbed back into the Suburban. Xander’s gaze held on the facility before him as they drove forward. His eyes dried out from the prolonged stare, so much so that he had to rub them in amazement.

“Welcome to Sparta. We call this place the Compound.”

Before them was a massive training facility. It measured ten football fields by five. Hardy parked the Suburban at the entrance. They both got out and Xander couldn’t believe what was before him. The ceiling was at least ten stories high. He could not fathom how far underground they were. At the apex of the dome was an oculus window to the outside world. Natural light funneled in and illuminated a circle of the training grounds. There was an apparent layout to the Compound, including an armory, a fitness center, a library, and even a forest, which had fully grown trees and a small creek that ran through it and emptied into a pond. The area was so large that it would be easy to forget that it was all connected in one massive hangar.

Hardy escorted Xander across the Compound, down a walking path lined with street lights and park benches that branched off to different buildings.

“This used to be a design hangar for next-generation aircrafts. We’ve got the planes down. It’s the spies we need to design now. The eastern side of the Compound holds the Library and the Thicket. The Thicket is what we call the forestry there. It is used for stealth training, but will serve many purposes throughout the Project. To the west, there, is the Infirmary. I promise you that you will spend many nights throughout your training here. We have nothing but the best doctor for our recruits. Dr. Rodgers is the highest-rated surgeon.” They walked past the Infirmary, which had a neon red cross on its façade and translucent sliding glass doors, similar to an ER entrance. There were small windows eight feet off the ground lining the side walls of the building.

“Why do we need a surgeon?” Xander asked. Hardy chuckled under his breath.

They approached another structure. From the exterior it resembled a bunker, reinforced with concrete and encased in steel. It was a stalwart of a building, mounted on a sturdy foundation.

“This is the Armory. Inside we have multiple training areas, shooting ranges, and a full arsenal at your disposal. Everything you need to learn the art of tactical warfare.”

Just as they passed the Armory, a bright light flashed through the bolted windows, but no sound accompanied it.

“Ah, it appears that one of your fellow Spartans has found the crate of grenades.”

“You have real grenades here?” Xander asked, shaken. He gulped down his fear, causing Hardy to glance over at the sound. Hardy stopped in his tracks and met Xander eye to eye.

“Xander, everything here is real. There are real guns with real bullets. These trees are real and those over there in the thicket are real oaks. The streams are irrigated from the Potomac. Everything you see before you is real. You have a real chance of being hurt and a real chance of dying. To be something great, you have to learn to survive, and training will be your first test.” He spoke with such sternness that Xander clutched his necklace through his shirt.

Could I really die if I’m not careful? They wouldn’t let that happen, would they?

Something about Hardy’s look told him the answer was yes. They continued on their tour through the Compound.

Xander noticed a glass stairwell ascending to a second story. There were long windows that overlooked the floor, but they were made of one-way glass and all that could be seen was the reflection of the area below. As Hardy did not make mention of it, Xander deduced that level held offices for the instructors and that it was off limits to the recruits.

Next, they passed a structure encased by many air conditioning units, lining its exterior in a shell of scaffolding. It wheezed and breathed like a sleeping machine. “We call this place here the Mainframe. It is your only Internet access point in the Compound. You will only be able to access it under direction from your instructor. There, you will learn how to infiltrate security systems, design data encryption, and construct hostile viruses. The Mainframe holds one of the most powerful computer processing units in the world. It was given to us by the NSA. The processing units descend three stories beneath the Compound floor.”

“How deep is this thing?” Xander asked, lost in the abyss he was walking through.

“Tunnels within tunnels,” Hardy repeated.

“I don’t know anything about computers,” Xander said with a tremble in his voice.

“Computers and the Internet are the primary means by which terrorist cells communicate now. You will be on the cutting edge of development and will master anything and everything related to a computer. In this day and age, something as small as a typo in the field can lead to a mission’s failure.”

Xander, overwhelmed with what was before him, paled slightly.

“Colonel, I don’t know anything about computers,” Xander repeated. “I have never held a gun, and I just found out that I could die in here. What the hell did I sign up for?”

“You signed up for Project Sparta, Xander,” Hardy replied. “Now, in the northwest quadrant, here, is the Fitness Center, equipped with all the tools you need to reach your peak physical condition. You will have goals set for you and we expect you to reach those goals.” Xander looked down at his weak, boney frame and wondered how he would ever bulk up.

Hardy pointed to the east. “The Mess Hall is over there. That is where you will have your communal lunches.”

Xander’s eyes lifted to a large scoreboard with ten names and zero points beside each one. His eyes quickly processed the other names on the scoreboard until he found his—Xander Whitt. He wondered what the scoreboard was for, but figured the answer would come soon.

“Here are the Barracks, your living quarters.”

The Barracks was not the military setup of bunks in a common living area that he expected; rather, it resembled a typical suburban street. There were five cottages on both sides of the street, each with a little yard and white picket fence. The houses were charming, picturesque homes, each painted its own unique color, from orange to teal to purple to red. The houses all had identical styles and dimensions—one thousand square feet and two stories.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“It practically looks like we are. I get my own house?” Again, Xander’s eyes could not process what he was seeing.

“We find it important for you Spartans to mature naturally with household duties, yet live on your own to begin to understand isolation and independence.” Xander nodded, seeing the logic in the reasoning.

The path merged into a sidewalk. The houses even had mailboxes, as if anyone would ever write to them. Dumbfounded, Xander wondered what his new address would be.

Six Compound Lane, somewhere in Northern Virginia, half a mile underground.

“This is your barracks, Xander.” It was number seven of the ten, halfway down the small street on the right. The landscaping, frame, and layout was identical to the others, and it was painted yellow. Xander noticed a girl with fiery red hair in the window of the white house next door. She had been watching him but disappeared from view with a quick closing of the drapes. He felt like he was being sized up by the whole street. The nerves had fully set in. His palms were sweating and his hands were trembling when he reached his front door. He turned the knob and walked into his home. There were nice, traditional decorations all around. Roosters in the kitchen and scenic art prints in the hallway. The living room was a quaint space with a sofa and an armchair. A bookshelf towered over the chair and another lined the entry wall.

“I’m going to miss the outside world…” His voice trailed off.

“I know this is a pretty controlled environment, but we try to make this place pleasant. There is even a climate technology that imitates the weather outside. The Compound can have blizzards in it, although I think the snowball fights might be a little more intense than you are used to,” Hardy said. A smile cracked on Xander’s face.

“We have been charged with a very difficult mission: to craft operatives out of you high school graduates. If it seems like we don’t have your best interest at heart, we do. You just don’t know it yet. If a fight happens between you and another recruit and we don’t step in, it’s because we believe it is best for your development to get your ass kicked,” Hardy said frankly.

“Lunches are communal in the Mess Hall, but both breakfast and dinner are on your own. We will keep your cupboards stocked with all the necessary food supplies. You are responsible for all household duties, including cooking, cleaning, repairing your sink, whatever. You have to do everything on your own at this point. You have to grow up quick or you won’t survive.”

“I understand. When do I meet the others—Fiona, Ezra, Seamus, Jooles, Tobias, Duke, Ashton, Bronson, and Mac?” Xander only needed to see the scoreboard for a brief second and his memory took care of the rest. Hardy arched an eyebrow.

“You will meet all of them tonight. Orientation starts one hour from now in the Mess Hall.”

Without another word, Hardy was gone and Xander was alone in his new house. He wandered through to check it out. His cupboards were stocked with a standard food supply for the American household. He browsed the library of books on the shelves, most of which were military histories. Down the hall from his bedroom was a closet with two chutes – one labeled ‘Laundry’ and one labeled ‘Trash’. His bedroom was quaint with a queen-size bed, and his dresser was already packed with clothes, all of which had a symbol stitched onto them: a Spartan helmet. He had seen this symbol throughout the Compound. His entire wardrobe consisted of different types of uniforms. There was a dark-gray training uniform for fitness, a formal outfit that consisted of pleated navy blue pants and a button-down shirt with the Spartan logo patched on, as well as all the essential clothes from blue jeans to a bathrobe. Every upper body article of clothing had the emblem on it. He felt branded, like cattle herded to the slaughter, owned by some mysterious clandestine agency. At this thought, he threw a wad of shirts across the room. He stumbled back against the wall and plopped down, elbows propped on his knees. He buried his head in his hands, wondering what he had gotten himself into.