EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum (15 page)

3

Friday, 15 May (9:20 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

Will pulled the SUV out of the apartment complex onto Corporate Boulevard. Why did Agent Jennings want to meet at such a late hour?

He turned left on College Drive and worked his way through a half dozen traffic lights. He made a right onto Perkins and, after a half mile, turned right again into a large complex of stores and restaurants. He spotted a bar called the
Bullfrog and parked about as far away as possible, in front of a Thai restaurant. He got out of the car and was confronted by the sweet tang of Thai spices.

Voices and music grew louder as he approached the bar’s entrance, and the volume increased sharply as the door opened. Two young women, laughing as they walked out, saw him and held the door. He nodded and smiled, and went inside into a dark foyer.

The bar was loud, but milder than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t smoky – Baton Rouge had a no-smoking policy for such places – and clean. A few wall-mounted screens were showing baseball games.

He spotted Jennings in a booth in the far corner to his right. There was a woman with him, but he couldn’t see her face.

Jennings noticed him as he approached, and waved him over. “This is Natalie Tate,” he said. “She’s on our project.”

Natalie looked up and nodded to him. Will returned the gesture. She looked like an FBI agent: conservative dress, dark-rimmed glasses, physically fit – possibly underweight – and a serious expression.

“You’re wondering why we called you out,” Jennings said and slid over to give Will room to sit.

Will nodded and sat.

“Our friends are back in town, and four of them are here,” Natalie explained. “Can you identify them?”

Will scanned the room and immediately spotted the men at the bar. The bumps on their foreheads gave them away. It was clear that at least one of them had had cosmetic surgery, but it wasn’t a good fix. One of the others tried to hide them with his hair, and the remaining two made no effort to conceal them. They were all Compressed Punishment victims.

“How’d you find them?” Will asked.

“Border control warned us,” Natalie replied. “These guys showed up in El Paso a week ago, and we put a GPS tracker on one of their vehicles.”

“That tracker,” Jennings broke in, “is no longer active, but we’ve located their residence.”

“Why not just round them up now?” Will asked.

“Nothing to go on,” Natalie said. “What do we charge them with – being ugly?”

Will admitted they weren’t exactly physically appealing human beings, and then wondered if he fit into that same category. “A little risky – bringing me here.”

“Why?” Natalie asked.

“Can’t you see them on my forehead?” Will replied. He’d had an excellent cosmetic surgeon, but remnants of the bumps were still visible in the right light.

He watched Natalie’s dark eyes scan his head and focus first right, then left.

“You were an inmate?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Will looked to Jennings.

Jennings shrugged and looked to Natalie. “Now you know.”

“If those guys see me, my cover will be blown,” Will said.

“Do they look familiar?” Jennings asked.

“No,” Will responded. “I’ve only met one other inmate – just before I was inserted into the program. He’s not one of them.”

Will caught the eye of Natalie. Her eyes shifted back and forth from his eyes to his forehead.

“What did they do to you in there?” she asked, seemingly both intrigued and horrified.

“Bad stuff,” Jennings cut in. “I’ll fill you in later. For now, we need to concentrate on what these guys are planning.”

“Not sure how I can help with that,” Will said. “Why did you call me here?”

“Just hoped you’d ID one of those guys,” Jennings explained.

“And then what?” Will asked.

Jennings shook his head.

“You want to know what they’re up to,” Will said. “It’s more than a coincidence that Syncorp is in Baton Rouge.”

“The scope of our investigation has broadened,” Jennings said and then nodded to Natalie.

“If we could get you into Syncorp,” she said, “could you identify equipment used in the Compressed Punishment program?”

“To what end?” Will asked.

“Syncorp has been sold,” Jennings replied. “The company has had numerous government projects – many of them were so-called black projects. We need to know which ones are still active after the takeover – especially anything connected to Red Wraith.”

“Red Wraith?” Natalie asked, confused.

“Forgive me,” Jennings said to Will. “I haven’t brought her up to speed.” He turned to Natalie. “It’s the black project that’s responsible for the CP program.”

“You think they’re still producing CP equipment?” Will asked.

“Not sure. They’re not delivering anything inside the US,” Jennings explained. “But a shipment of medical equipment
arrived in China just three weeks ago.”

Will’s heart thumped so hard he felt it in his eyes. “And you think they sent CP equipment to China –
Exoskeletons
?”

Jennings shrugged.

If all it took was for Will to identify equipment in the facility, he was ready to go immediately. “Will there be arrests?”

“Likely,” Jennings replied.

“When do we start?” Will asked, hardly containing his eagerness.

“There are some complications,” Natalie said, and motioned with her eyes towards the CP inmates at the bar. “We think those guys are going to pull something. They’ll ruin our investigation.”

Will didn’t mind if the CP guys acted first. He wanted to see the place burn.

“Contact me when you have a plan.” Will said and stood. He left the bar.

He checked his phone as he weaved through parked cars towards his SUV. It was time to give Denise and Jonathan an update.

4

Saturday, 16 May (2:02 a.m. EST – Washington)

Daniel eyes were still wide open. All he could do was stare at the ceiling of his bedroom, dimly illuminated by the green lights of his digital clock. His wife snored lightly next to him.

The captain of the German U-boat possessed files with letterhead containing the symbol of the Nazis’ Red Falcon project. Red Falcon and Tabarin were now connected. And the connection between Red Falcon and Red Wraith was already well established. A chill ran through his shoulders and neck inducing a single, spontaneous twitch. He didn’t yet understand the implications or connections, but his subconscious poked at parts of his mind. Something was there.

The other thing that stole his sleep was the fact that the technology needed to construct the beacon did not exist. He did some research, and was aware of the amazing capabilities the oil companies had developed to access deep waters and drill into the seabed. There were also special research submarines capable of going to great depths. But this thing was different – it was enormous for something at that depth, and its base penetrated into the seabed. Adding to the mystery was that it was composed of an unknown, super-hard material. All of it was inexplicable.

Was the idea of extraterrestrial technology such a leap? He didn’t think so; he’d come across evidence of such things in previous assignments – though nothing conclusive. But there were more drastic ideas swimming around in his head. What if it were even more bizarre than alien technology?

He didn’t know why his mind asked him that question, but he’d done enough thinking for the night. His eyelids lowered, and his breathing deepened. It was time for dreams. Or nightmares.

5

Saturday, 16 May (9:50 a.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

The Antarctic coast was no place for an attack submarine. Captain McHenry was aware of the dangers, but had his orders.

With a carrier strike force securing the area, they could study the beacon without threat. Three other U.S. subs patrolled the waters like hungry sharks. This freed up the
North Dakota
to explore the ice shelves along the coast closest to the beacon. Treacherous circumpolar currents characterized the dark waters, and the surface was rife with ice flows. The southern winter was fast approaching.

The waters were an acoustic wonderland. American teams had been mapping the ocean floor for days, and ships and submarines deployed active sonar on a regular basis. There was no attempt to keep their presence a secret – quite the opposite. It was made known to the world that the United States Navy was conducting war games in the Southern Ocean. For the sake of appearances, they periodically carried out mock maneuvers.

Twice since dodging the torpedo attack, the
North Dakota
had chased away the same Chinese submarine. Another American sub discovered a Russian sub sleeping under a protrusion in an ice shelf 170 kilometers from the beacon. They’d pinged it with a sonar blast, sending it scurrying away. He wondered which one of the two foreign subs had launched a torpedo at them. He wouldn’t mind an opportunity to return the gesture.

The
North Dakota
was currently exploring the Brunt Ice Shelf. A floating body of ice extending from the western coast into the Weddell Sea, the shelf covered over 100,000 square kilometers, and spanned the coast of Coats Land to Dronning Maud Land. It was a vast inverted vista, riddled with nooks and crannies that made good hiding places for submarines. But the
North Dakota
was not there to ferret out sleepers.

He had to throw the self-preservation habits he’d developed as a sub commander to the wayside. The
North Dakota
was now playing the role of a science vessel – mapping the floor and currents beneath the shelf. Their pinging constantly broadcasted their position.

The floor sloped upward as they approached the coast, slowly pinching them between the rocky bottom and a ceiling of thick ice. If they grounded, or had a malfunction that immobilized them, they’d be in trouble. They wouldn’t be able to break through the ice – it was over 100 meters thick.

After the first 12 hours of exploration, McHenry went to the mess room to get some scrambled eggs and coffee. Diggs joined him, and they chatted about their mutual discomfort with the situation:
noise was death
.

“We have other subs running silent,” McHenry confided quietly. “We’re in good hands.”

Diggs nodded. “Mapping the floor like a science junket isn’t very interesting. What do they expect – we’ll find another beacon?”

McHenry shrugged. “Don’t know.” A vibration tickled his right hip, and he pulled a communicator from his belt and put it up to his ear. “Go,” he said.

“Captain, you’re needed at sonar,” the voice said. “Something you should look at.”

“There in five,” he replied and set the communicator on the table.

He took a bite of eggs. They could wait a few minutes while he finished eating. It was the fifth time he’d been called. He knew they were approaching the coast, so he suspected they were getting shallow again. They’d need his permission to turn and start mapping outward.

They’d been scanning to and fro, toward the coast and out to sea, creating a full map of the sub-shelf floor. Rough maps already existed for the area, but it was clear that more detail was needed. And, as Diggs said, they were searching for abnormalities.

He finished his breakfast, bussed his tray, and topped off his mug with coffee. A few minutes later he entered the sonar room and was surprised to see a half-dozen men crowded around a computer monitor. “What’s up?” he asked.

The men parted, revealing Finley at a chair in front of the sonar computer.

“Have a look at this,” Finley said with excitement.

McHenry stepped closer, put on a pair of half-rimmed reading glasses, and studied the image. It took him a few seconds, but then he saw it clearly: it was a trench that led towards the coast. At the bottom of the trench, which gouged 50 meters into the seafloor, was a submarine. It was upside down, partially buried, and blended in well with the landscape, but he could still tell by its size and shape what it was: a World War II German U-boat.

6

Saturday, 16 May (12:22 p.m. EST – Washington)

Daniel sat with the others in Room 713. Sylvia sat to his left on the couch, and Horace and Thackett sat in the chairs across the table to complete the square.

Thackett filled them in on the current status of the beacon, a few close calls between American and both Chinese and Russian submarines, and the securing of the area by a U.S. carrier group. From the ensuing silence it was clear that the update provided them with nothing new.

After an awkward lull, Thackett’s face flushed and he cleared his throat. “We’re at a standstill,” he admitted. “I’m under some pressure to get answers.”

Daniel knew where Thackett wanted to go with the conversation, but didn’t help the man.

Thackett continued, “I don’t want to put too much pressure on you two, but –”

“– but we have no choice,” Horace cut in. “Have you discovered anything?”

Sylvia answered first. “Incremental advances. Nothing significant.”

“Like what, exactly?” Thackett asked, eagerly, not rudely.

“The so-called sightings of strange aircraft in Argentina have been definitively discredited,” she explained. “I’ve found the sources of rumors – one was an author who had propagated false information to get notoriety for a book he was writing. I’ve found no connections to the beacon.”

“That’s fine, Sylvia,” Horace said and looked to Daniel. “And you?”

Daniel shifted in his seat and set his cup on the table. “I’ve recently found something,” he replied. He walked to his office and returned with some photos and a magnifying glass. He handed the magnifying glass and a photo and to Horace. “I don’t know how I managed to notice this – it’s small and blurred.”

“What am I looking for?” Horace asked as he examined the picture.

“The emblems on the files,” Daniel replied and pointed out the general area on the photo. It was the picture of Otto Wermuth in his quarters on U-530.

It took Horace about ten seconds, and then his face took on a sickly expression.

“Now this one,” Daniel said and handed him another photo.

He seemed to go back and forth between two points on the photograph, the same two, Daniel presumed, that he’d toggled between hours earlier.

“Extraordinary,” Horace gasped.

“What is it?” Thackett asked.

“Have a look for yourself,” Horace replied and handed the pictures and magnifying glass to Thackett. Horace sat up straighter and addressed Daniel. “I’m not sure what this means.” Daniel detected a subtle trembling in Horace’s voice, and then in his hands.

Horace continued, “The second picture was taken
before
the war – it’s of the
Schwabenland
during its exploratory mission to Antarctica?”

“Yes,” Daniel replied. “I thought it might have been doctored, but I found an independent photo in which the aircraft is missing. The crate and the emblem are still there.”

“Someone please explain to me what I’m looking for,” Thackett said. He was studying the
Schwabenland
photo.

“The emblems,” Horace said. “They’re a little hard to see, but definitely there – one the plane’s fuselage and another on a crate on the deck.”

It was Sylvia’s turn to express frustration. “Could someone please fill me in?”

“It’s from my previous assignment,” Daniel replied. “The Red Wraith project.”

“I think I see it now,” Thackett interrupted, still leaning over the table with the magnifying glass. “It looks like a complicated swastika.”

“That’s it,” Horace confirmed.

“It’s the same as the one on the plane, except the one on the crate is being carried by an eagle,” Thackett said.

“It’s a falcon,” Horace corrected.

“A
leftward facing
falcon,” Daniel added. “The direction means something.”

“Yes, a leftward-facing bird of prey is a Nazi symbol of aggression,” Horace explained. “We don’t know the full meaning of the emblem, but it represents the Red Falcon project.”

Thackett leaned forward and handed the pictures to Sylvia.

Horace continued. “Until now, it had been assumed that Red Falcon had begun after World War II had started.”

“But these photos of the
Schwabenland
suggest it started before the war,” Daniel explained, “and that the
Schwabenland’s
mission might have been connected to Red Falcon.”

“Well,” Horace spoke in conclusive tone, “I think you’d better revive your research on Red Wraith and Red Falcon.”

“We’re missing a lot of information about Red Wraith,” Daniel said to Thackett.

“How can that be?” Thackett asked.

“Red Wraith was a black project – perhaps the blackest of the all,” Horace explained. “The government entities that ran it were considered rogue. The information might be hard to come by.”

“It’s hard to imagine that Red Wraith had been kept secret all this time,” Daniel added. “It was a huge money sink, and active since the end of the war up to a few months ago.”

“Where can we find this missing information?” Thackett asked.

“It was a lawyer in Chicago who’d exposed the Compressed Punishment program,” Daniel explained. “But it was the FBI that finally brought it down – stormed the two CP facilities, and confiscated evidence. They’d also raided DARPA facilities.” It was the information from the
Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency
that Daniel coveted. He’d requested information from them just before his Red Wraith research was put on hold, but it had never been delivered.

Thackett rubbed his forehead with a flat palm, and then ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “So the FBI has it,” he said and sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Horace and Thackett left. Daniel and Sylvia remained seated.

“That was quite a discovery,” she said.

“I just noticed the crate and plane this morning,” he replied, detecting disappointment in her voice. He didn’t mean to leave her out of the loop. “I hadn’t appreciated the ramifications until now.”

“You couldn’t get the Red Wraith documents? I thought we had access to everything.”

“Just when my investigation started to pick up, information got increasingly difficult to acquire,” Daniel explained. “Sometimes I got messages saying that the files had been destroyed. Other times there was no response at all. The FBI obstructed almost every request.”

“Strange,” she said.

“There’s mistrust between the agencies,” he said. “Red Wraith was the CIA’s baby, and they were highly protective of it. The CIA had even ordered hits on FBI agents investigating the project – they’d killed at least 20 over the years.”

Her mouth opened and her eyes turned blank. “What could be that important?”

“I never had the chance to find out,” he answered and shrugged. “It haunts me.”

“So what if we can’t get the information we need? What if Thackett fails?” she asked. She laced her fingers together and squeezed until marbled red-white patterns formed on her knuckles.

Daniel had come up with a possible solution to the problem. “As Omnis, we gather written documents and read them. Based on what we learn, we gather more documents and read them. This iterative process repeats until we have exhausted the topic we are researching, and we write the final monograph based entirely on written sources.”

Sylvia shrugged. “So?”

“Have you ever used a
human
source?”

“You mean bring someone in and interview them?” she said shaking her head strongly. “It would be a security risk.”

“The urgency of our situation warrants it,” he argued. “Besides, we wouldn’t bring anyone here.”

Her head tilted to the side. “You mean go and talk to someone – on the outside?”

He saw genuine fear in her face.

“Daniel, we’re not operatives.”

“You’re just like me,” he said, although 20 years ago he’d been on the outside and dealt with human resources first as a CIA case officer, and then as a reports officer.

“Just like you?”

“We’ve become so reclusive that we fear anyone even seeing our faces.”

“It’s the nature of our work,” she said in a defensive tone.

“It has become the nature of
ourselves
,” he argued.

After a few seconds of reflective silence, she said, “You’ll have to get permission from Thackett.”

Daniel nodded.

“Who do you want to interview?” she asked.

“The man who brought down the Compressed Punishment program,” Daniel answered. “The lawyer from Chicago – one
Jonathan McDougal
.”