EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum (12 page)

8

Monday, 11 May (12:42 a.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

Cho sipped on his second brandy and enjoyed the view from the balcony of his top floor condominium. The waves of the campus lake lapped against the shore just 100 yards to the north, and orange lights illuminated the bike and running trails that encircled it. The mild night had attracted runners, mostly students, who were amenable to such hours.

With his acquisition of Syncorp, Cho had arranged for a complete turnover of sensitive human resources. The giant conglomerate had been the former CIA chief’s baby and, for a price, Gould had provided Cho with a list of sensitive contacts and operatives who had been developed to service the company. It was amazing what Gould had been able to accomplish, especially regarding the assets he’d turned within the FBI. In Gould’s case, he needed to know what the FBI was doing because they had been investigating Red Wraith. Cho didn’t care about any of that – the FBI had no influence in China. What he wanted was information about Red Box inmate 523: who he was, and his whereabouts. Cho was pleased to learn that his FBI informants had already provided him with man’s identity.

The man’s name was William Thompson, and he’d gone into protective custody after his release from the Red Box. Since then, he’d entered relocation program under the auspices of the FBI. Cho knew he’d obtain the man’s location in short time, but how could he know if Thompson was the right man, and whether he was truly transformed? What was definitive proof of such a thing? It didn’t matter for now. It was his only lead.

His phone vibrated in his breast pocket and he extracted it. It was a message:
XXX
. It was an indicator that the job scheduled for the evening had been successfully completed. Dr. Martha Epstein, A.K.A.
Dr. Smith
, was no longer a member of the living.

He smiled. The network that Gould had built was working well. It was fascinating that it worked independently of who gave the orders. He’d been given the reigns of a lethal machine capable of collecting information and removing threats. It was a dangerous notion: could this happen to a Chinese intelligence network? He shook his head. The Chinese intelligence structure was not as susceptible as that of the Americans – Chinese intelligence was truly centralized, leaving no room for independent action.

Cho sent a message to his second in command authorizing a hit on the next person on the list. Next, he’d press his FBI assets to acquire the whereabouts of William Thompson. Once he had that, he’d decide the man’s fate.

1

Monday, 11 May (7:40 a.m. EST – Washington)

Daniel rubbed his eyes as the elevator took him to the seventh floor. Sleep had eluded him again.

He bristled at the added intrusion on his routine. He was out of his office of 20 years and, worse, sharing space.

The elevator stopped and opened. He checked in with the man at the front desk, and continued down the hall to Room 713. He hesitated. Should he knock or just walk in? He decided on the latter, but found the door was locked. There was a number pad next to the handle and he punched in the code for his former office. The pad beeped and the lock clicked open.

He entered, closed the door, and observed the new arrangement. In opposite corners of the large room were collections of furniture. One of them was his office – laid out exactly as it had been in its previous location, except for the window, which now made up the entire southern wall of the room. It was magnificent. They’d even reassembled the piles of books and sticky-notes as they’d been the night before.

Sylvia’s office was in the opposite corner. She must have been neater than he was. The leather furniture and coffee table arrangement had not been altered. It was as if his and Sylvia’s offices merged with original layout of 713. Maybe it was going to be okay.

A beeping sound came from the door. A few seconds later Sylvia walked in, head down.

“Good morning,” he said.

She yelped and dropped her leather knapsack. “Oh my God,” she said as she patted her chest with her hand. A half-smile of relief formed on her face.

“Sorry,” he said and turned again to look at the room. “The office arrangement looks like it will be okay.”

She assessed the layout and nodded.

“Meet after lunch to get each other up to speed?” he asked.

She agreed and headed for her side of the room.

Daniel went into his office area, turned on his electric teapot, and pulled out the
Schwabenland
files. The Germans had sent the vessel out just before the onset of World War II, a war they had been planning, to scout Antarctica for resources and potential U-boat bases. It made perfect sense. Under those conditions, the meeting between the
Schwabenland
and the U-boat would not be unusual.

Still, the suspicious part was the location of that meeting – that particular part of the Weddell Sea. The encounter lasted less than hour and the U-boat disappeared. But the
Schwabenland
had remained in the area, fighting rough seas, for a full day.
Why?
He concluded that they must have detected the noise.

He thought that if the
Schwabenland’s
mission was the stimulus for Operation Tabarin, then Tabarin must have been connected to the beacon. But there was no mention of it in any of the Tabarin files.

It was all conjecture. Daniel knew he couldn’t write any of his ideas in a monograph, unless he posed them as questions. He needed more facts, which meant more research. He looked at the files piled around his office. He had a long way to go.

2

Monday, 11 May (9:01 a.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

Will woke up early, exercised in the clubhouse gym, and took a swim in the pool. The spring in Baton Rouge was quite different from that in Chicago. The warm, sunny morning and the setting created by the palm trees that surrounded the pool should have been calming. But the peaceful environment contrasted starkly with his internal disquiet. The rendezvous with the FBI contact was in an hour.

He went back to the apartment, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and drove out of the complex. He got onto Jefferson Highway, drove a mile south, and took a right on Corporate Boulevard. A quarter mile down he turned right, into a large collection of stores and restaurants called
Corporate Lakes Plaza,
and spotted the
Palms Café
on a corner.

He parked the SUV and walked through the parking lot, paying close attention to his surroundings for anyone tailing him. He pulled open the glass door of the café and went inside.

The place teamed with well-dressed patrons who talked loudly over the blasting espresso machines. He took his place at the end of the long line and casually searched for his contact. He identified two potential FBI agents: one was a man at a corner table reading a newspaper, and another in line a few places ahead of him had a cell phone of the same make and model as his own.

The line moved quickly, and a college-aged woman took his order. He asked for a medium-roast coffee, paid, and picked it up at the other end of the bar. He looked for a good place to sit as he crossed the room to another counter to get cream for his coffee. All of the seats were taken except for one that had an obstructed view. He spotted a few vacant tables outside through the large windows that made up the outer walls of the café. He walked out and took one that put his back to a wall, giving him a simultaneous view of the interior of the café and the parking lot. It was two minutes to 10: he was right on time.

At 10:10 a.m., a tall man dressed in khakis and a white, collared shirt walked out of the café. When he saw Will, he walked over to his table, set down his coffee, and held out his hand.

“Glad you made it, Will,” the man said with a New Orleans accent that Will hadn’t noticed during their short conversation the night before. “I’m Rick Jennings.”

Will shook his hand. The man was a couple inches taller than him, probably 6’1”, and fit. His short blond hair probably made him look younger than he really was – mid-thirties, he estimated. “Good to meet you, Jennings. FBI?”

Jennings put a finger to his lip and nodded. “The Chicago office told me that you might be able to help with a situation that’s brewing here,” he explained. “It has to do with the Compressed Punishment program. I understand you were involved.”

Will nodded. He’d been more than
involved
.

“Some former CP inmates have been gathering in the area,” Jennings said. “Don’t know why – other than our governor lobbied to get one of the CP facilities built here. They actually broke ground just before the whole program was terminated. It was going to be a massive building, with a few levels below ground. Now there’s a bank or a mall being constructed there. You should check out the mess on the corner of Acadian and Perkins.”

Will knew about the plans for the third facility – Detroit’s Red Box and the one on Long Island being the other two. He wasn’t convinced the scrapped third facility was a good enough reason for the CP inmates to organize in Baton Rouge. “Is there a specific threat?” he asked.

“No. Just a lot of chatter,” Jennings said. “That itself isn’t unusual, but the communication between domestic and foreign terrorists groups is unique.”

“Domestic terrorist group?”

“Well, the word
group
is misleading,” Jennings said. “Less than a dozen inmates, we figure. Baton Rouge is a strange choice – there had been only one CP inmate from this area, and he’s dead.”

“What about the foreign terror groups?” Will thought it was strange.

“An obscure extremist group from Yemen,” Jennings answered. “One was caught at the Mexican border with crates of plastic explosives. He was delivering them to the CP inmates. However, we’re convinced that’s the extent of the foreign involvement – to smuggle in explosives.”

“Why not just round them all up?” Will asked. He figured it couldn’t be too difficult a task.

“We can never catch them all in the same place,” Jennings said. “Several come to Baton Rouge for a few days, and then scatter again, just to be replaced by others. Some go to Mexico. We suspect they’re also bringing things back with them. We’re too lean on personnel to follow them all.”

“Again, why Baton Rouge?” Will asked. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of population density terrorists target.”

“Neither was Oklahoma City.”

It was a fair point, Will thought.

Jennings continued, “Other than the third CP facility, a government contractor also set up shop here after the facility was approved. They’d developed much of the equipment used in the facilities.”

Will had a sudden flash of memory. “Syncorp,” he said. He felt sick.

Jennings looked back at him, wide-eyed. “You’ve heard of it?”

“The name was stamped on everything in the Red Box,” Will replied. Cold adrenaline surged through body. He clenched his jaw and released it. “I had to see that damned tag every day I was in there. It was on the Exoskeleton, riveted to the top of my left forearm.”

Jennings nodded and took a sip from his cup. “You think they want revenge on this company?”

“Yes,” Will said as he looked around at the patrons of the café, imagining any one of them could be working for the evil company. He followed Jennings’ eyes to his straining clenched fist, and let it relax.

“Syncorp makes a lot more than CP equipment,” Jennings explained. “It’s a huge defense contractor.”

Will shook his head. “I don’t know for certain why the CP inmates chose Baton Rouge, but I’d put money on them going after Syncorp.”

Jennings pulled out his car keys and edged forward in his chair. “I’m starting to understand why they sent you here.”

“Me, too,” Will replied.

Jennings stood. “I need to do a little research. I’ll contact you again in a few days.”

Will watched as Jennings walked back into the café and merged with the crowd. A minute later he spotted him in a black BMW sedan, driving through the parking lot and then disappearing around the corner.

He took a sip of coffee and realized his hands were still trembling. If the CP group planned to go after Syncorp personnel, he’d have a hard time not sympathizing with them, especially if they went after the people at the top. On the other hand, he knew the production people probably weren’t privy to purposes of the things they produced. In his book, they were still innocent – or innocent enough.

The CP men wouldn’t need help from the outside to go after personnel. If they were collecting explosives, then they were going for something large-scale, which probably meant indiscriminate killing. This would be the only reason he’d try to stop them.

3

Monday, 11 May (11:49 a.m. EST – Washington)

Daniel twitched at a thumping sound from the other side of the room. Sylvia must have closed the door to her mini-fridge. He glanced at his watch – 10 minutes to noon.

He rubbed his eyes to help them readjust from hours of reading. He’d made progress but hadn’t answered any questions.
It was clear that Operation Tabarin was a direct British response to Germany's
Schwabenland
mission
. The next link in the chain was the American Operation, Highjump.

Highjump was a mock invasion of Antarctica by the U. S. Navy in 1946. It was a massive and expensive undertaking. Officially, its purpose was as a training mission to prepare for a possible Arctic battle with the Soviets. Skeptics had argued that they could have instead prepared in Alaska – an environment much more realistic than Antarctica.

The reports described conspiracy theories that had emerged about Tabarin and Highjump. Although both governments had tried, it was impossible to keep them secret – there were just too many people involved. The actions were out in the open, and difficult to conceal. The real objectives, however, were more difficult to unearth. In his gut, Daniel knew they were all tied together – the
Schwabenland
, Tabarin, Highjump, and the beacon.

As he finished eating his peanut butter sandwich, Sylvia approached. She stood at the perimeter of his office as if imaginary walls surrounded it – a gesture he appreciated.

“Chat?” she asked, and nodded towards the leather furniture between their two office areas.

He agreed, filled his cup with hot water, and scooped loose tea from a bag with a silver tea steeper on the way out of his office. He sat in Horace’s chair. She sat on the couch directly across from him. He put his cup on the coffee table, and submerged the steeper.

“This is my third project as an Omni,” Sylvia explained. “I’ve been working on it for six months, and found some things that might be relevant to your investigation.”

“What topic?”

“Ex-Nazi networks in South America,” she replied. “I think there are connections to Operation Tabarin.”

Daniel knew there could be numerous connections – seemingly unrelated secret projects were often linked. The interrelationships between them were often obscured because they were connected by covert motives beneath the surface, like the intertwined roots of neighboring trees.

“Maybe I should get you up to speed on my project first, since I’ve been working on it for a shorter time,” Daniel suggested.

Sylvia agreed, and Daniel spent the next fifteen minutes explaining his meager progress on Tabarin.

Sylvia sat back on couch and pulled her feet beneath her. “Since Tabarin is connected to the beacon, then all of this is connected to Horace’s Captain Cook story?” she asked.

He noticed a hint of a smirk on her face. He laughed. “Sounds strange, but the fact is that Cook was there first. The question is whether it was the logs of his voyage – the report of the mysterious sound – that had piqued the interest of the Germans.”

She nodded. “The missions you’ve encountered started before World War II and extended beyond it. I have some info that continues on from Highjump, further into the future.”

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

“Did you know that the United States detonated nuclear weapons near Antarctica in 1958?” she asked.

“You mean
Operation Argus
,” he replied.

“How do you know that?” she asked, shaking her head and smirking.

“I happened across it a few years ago. Spend two decades as an Omni and you’ll have a lot packed away in your head,” Daniel replied. “Refresh me of the details.”

“They detonated three nuclear devices in the upper atmosphere.”

“For what purpose?”

“To investigating how charged particles and radioactive isotopes affect communications, satellite electronics, and intercontinental ballistic missiles.”

“I remember now,” Daniel said. “They were also trying to see how quickly other countries might detect such an event.”

Sylvia shifted in her seat and leaned in, as if she was going to whisper. “Have you heard of an operation codenamed Blackfish?”

Daniel searched his mind for a few seconds and shook his head.

“In 1958, the American operations Argus and Blackfish were carried out simultaneously,” she explained. Her eyes grew wider as she spoke. “Argus was the detonation of three warheads in the atmosphere. In Blackfish
,
two devices were detonated under water. It seemed that the atmospheric explosions were a diversion to direct attention to the sky, hundreds of miles away.”

“Suppose that’s true,” he said. “What was the purpose? It seems that bombs detonated in the atmosphere carry larger risks – both in detection and radioactive fallout.”

She shrugged and nodded. “But guess
where
those underwater weapons were detonated.”

The skin on Daniel’s forearm puckered like gooseflesh.

She nodded, knowing that he’d figured it out. “That’s right – they were detonated in the precise location of our mystery beacon, in the Weddell Sea.”