Chapter 5- The Race is On
Mark’s whole body lurched, and he tossed in his bed, finally awake. He sat up, whipping his head back and forth and looking around the room. Leonard and Oliver were already gone, and he wiped his face, breathing hard into his hand. A dream. Only a dream.
If the previous cells had been bad, then his current room was awful. Every night he went to sleep afraid of Oliver accidentally batting an eye for a nanosecond, and each morning he was happy to bolt from bed and down to the cafeteria for breakfast.
Sleeping was the most unpleasant, not because of his uncomfortable bed, but because of the nightmares. Contrary to Oliver’s reassurance, Mark woke each night from a chilling dream, his forehead and pillow drenched in sweat. He always pictured Oliver standing beside his bed and opening his eyes, setting him ablaze. Whyte stood by the door, singling out Mark. “Some all-resistant body you have. What did I tell you about ‘honesty’?” Then he detached the room to the ocean depths as the fire spread, consuming everything in sight.
Since then, Mark’s sole goal had been simple. I have to get out of here. One slipup, one burn and, well, Mark didn’t want to think about it. If he lived long enough to become a valued member of Whyte’s team, BEP agents would come for him, and he only saw Finster’s end in that future. Cutting a deal with the BEP Division might work if he knew where they were or how to contact them. All he did know was that he had to escape, fall off the grid, and hide from everyone. However, escape proved as difficult as he expected it would.
On the days he was able, he snuck away from the others and to the elevators. The first time, he headed to the fortieth floor, the top, praying that was the exit. Yet he stepped out onto the very peak of the base, a small, square platform several feet long and wide. He was fairly hidden from prying eyes and scoped out the rest of his prison.
The upper half of the base above water was designed like an oil rig. A cover to mask its true nature of the underwater base, Mark supposed. I wonder if Whyte and his white cat are hiding from Bond, he laughed to himself.
The elevator was a central pillar that rose out of the middle of the rig. Cranes jutted out of the sides of the base like fingers attached to a palm, and the base sat on four, large, concrete leg supports. The floors were different sizes, some missing corners and sections and exposing a lower level. Shipping containers and machines of all types and functions filled each floor.
Various styles of ships, from recreation to transport, docked and left on a regular basis. Employees milled about, and once a helicopter took off from one of the lower decks. As far as the eye could see, water surrounded the base on all sides. Not a piece of land in sight and no clear way to count how many floors he was above the water.
Since then, Mark tried different floors, eliminating them one by one to find the number of the dock level. He figured he could stow aboard a boat to shore. As long as he was far from Whyte, he didn’t care what the vessel’s destination was.
Unfortunately, he kept selecting the wrong floors. To avoid suspicion, he had time to check only a couple of floors on days he could slip away from everyone. None of the regular employees seemed to mind his wanderings and passed him without a word.
So far, he discovered that the bottom half of the base housed laboratories, locked rooms, offices, a couple of armories, cafeterias, and barracks for Overwatch mercenaries and employees. And that was only what he paid attention to on a few floors. There was also no way between a majority of the floors except by elevator, and some could only be accessed by a card reader and keypad. There were stairs at the farthest end, yet one of the lower level stairs Mark found and tried ended after a few floors, with one door needing an access card and code to enter. He decided to leave the stairs as a last resort and focused instead on the elevator.
The whole layout was a twisting, wandering-in-circles labyrinth. There were maps of the current floor next to the elevators, but beyond what was on the current level, they proved useless to anyone unfamiliar with the base.
During his searches, he kept an eye out for a phone. The lines were likely monitored; therefore, the police were out of the question. Mark thought he might be able to call his mother and check to see if she was okay.
One day, he came across a couple of computers in an empty office. The email system on them was password-protected, but he used a computer to dig up additional information on Golden Springs. Other than recovery efforts, a promised stronger police presence, and memorials, many articles discussed Rooke Pharmaceuticals. Very few believed the company could survive the tragedy. Many claimed the SN91 was fast becoming associated with Rooke and that damage control was in order. “This simply isn’t the kind of problem you can bounce back from,” one article said. “The company is finished.”
Today, when Mark finally slipped off to the elevators, he found Anton wandering in front of them. Mark stayed out of sight as the man walked on. He hadn’t had many dealings with Anton, or anyone else besides Oliver and Roy. Those two kept assuring Mark that it would take time for everyone to warm up to him, but that it would happen. “And Anton and Sheila still miss Frieda,” Roy said. “Give them time.”
Indeed, those two had been a little brighter in the past couple of days. Even though Anton hung his head now, he appeared to be contemplative instead of simply upset. He trudged along, holding out his hand to the thin, tube hall lights. An electric arc fizzled from them one at a time and shot straight for his open palm. Before the electricity touched him, Anton pushed it back and into the next light. That light would momentarily brighten, and the current one would dim before returning to normal.
Fascinated by the display, Mark followed him and kept hidden around the corner. Maybe Roy was right. And it would be nice to acquaint himself so that everyone else didn’t glower or scowl at him.
Before Mark could consider talking to Anton later that day, the man mistimed one of the arcs. The electricity zapped his palm and he jumped, unleashing a string of loud curses that faded to quiet mutters. He held his hand, rubbing it, hissing, and stamping his foot. Then he drew electricity from various lights and threw them into the offending bulb. Brighter and whiter the light grew until it burst, and glass shards spilled everywhere on the ground. Mark pulled back and held his breath for a moment.
Anton clasped his dust-shaded hands and ran them through his short, dusky hair, so that it stood straighter than it already was. He sighed and left, no longer messing with the lights. Guess he’s not in any mood to talk yet, Mark thought.
After Anton was gone, Mark dashed to the elevators and chose the twenty-third floor, hoping it was at sea level. When he stepped off, he was disappointed to find a gray corridor like all the others in the bottom half. Still, he checked the floor all the same. There was a records room, which he briefly browsed through, hoping to find a schematic or a clear layout of the base. He didn’t know what it would be under, and he located only various projects, financial reports, and dry business documents.
He checked a clock on a desk. Noon. Lunchtime. Someone might miss him if he was late. Mark decided to try one more floor.
When he walked onto the elevator, however, Roy was in there. “Hey, Mark. Up or down?”
“Uh, up?” he said, shuffling to the side.
“Not hungry?”
“I wanted to get some air first. Been cooped up down here, you know?”
Roy nodded. “I know what you mean. Need to get some sun now and then or you go crazy.” He hit the twenty-fifth floor button. “I could use some, too.”
“Not hungry either?”
“Got to stretch my legs. Been standing in the medical rooms all morning. Feels good to walk around.”
The elevator dinged, and when they stepped out, a familiar salty scent filled Mark’s nostrils. He refrained from running like a madman and matched Roy’s pace. “You’re a doctor?”
“Field medic. Same as I was in the army. Of course, once my daughter was born, I figured I should get into something less dangerous for my family�
��s sake.”
They emerged from a narrow, rust-brown skeleton hall and story-high tanks on either side to gaze upon the open ocean. Water! Mark was right above the water! His feet fidgeted to move faster. “Mercenary work isn’t?”
“Well, I kind of fell into it, and I don’t have to go on too many missions. Besides, the money’s good. Still got to pay for their college somehow.” He nudged Mark and chuckled. They leaned against the railing at the edge and peered over. “Want to see them? Got a picture somewhere,” he said, whipping out his wallet and digging through it. “Older boy’s turning ten soon. Really good at the piano like his mom. The younger one, she’s got the biggest eyes you ever saw. I’ve never seen eyes that precious. First day she opened them and looked at me, I knew I had to stick around for both of them.” He took out a picture of himself, a brunette woman, a young boy, and a toddler, the last two a few years apart and smiling. The boy was starting to look like a young Roy, with his brilliant ice-blue eyes, while the youngest was missing a couple of teeth and had great moon-size eyes that seemed too large for her tiny head. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” Mark said half listening. It was hard to pay attention to the conversation when his gleeful eye was caught by the ocean waves splashing against the base, and two boats one level below. Boats! He was one floor above them! His excitement bubbled over, and he flicked his gaze all around for a set of stairs or a ladder, forgetting about the elevator in his joy. He would need a way to sneak off from Roy as well.
“Yeah.” Roy kept talking, tucking the picture away. “I had one guy this morning that was real bad. He thought he would die and wanted me to pray with him since he couldn’t make it to the chapel. He’s okay now though.”
“You guys have a chapel?” Mark asked.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”
“Well,” he said, bobbing his head, “you know, the—”
“The whole private military corporation, guns-for-hire thing?” Roy said, grinning. “PMCs aren’t full of robots programmed to kill. We’re people, too.”
“And how does that fit into having a chapel? Pretty sure there’s a ‘no murdering’ clause somewhere.”
“Murder is all about perspective,” Roy said.
“Great, a philosopher.”
“No, but I’ve had that brought up in Bible study before.”
Mark choked on a laugh. “A mercenary preacher. Now I’ve seen everything.”
“Oh, I’m no preacher. Not officially. I’m sometimes a stand-in.” He gazed out at the horizon, and Mark started to slip away and find a way down to the docks. “Wanted to be a chaplain in the army, but couldn’t quite make it. Never was great at memorizing the verses.” He returned to Mark, who stopped abruptly, cursing his luck. “Back to your question. Take me: I patch people up.”
“Who go kill others,” Mark said.
Roy shrugged. “Everyone needs help. It’s up to them what they choose to do.” Mark wanted to shout that Roy knew what they would do, but he had already moved onto the next point. “Also, I don’t kill. I’ll defend myself and my team, but I never kill. I never carry a gun either.” Roy slapped his hip. “Didn’t in the army, don’t now.” Mark was surprised that he was right. Unlike most other BEPs and mercenaries on the base, there was no gun holster on the man.
“Doesn’t stop you from helping Whyte and the others.”
Roy sucked on his teeth, staring out at the ocean, and Mark had the impression Roy had had this debate before. “If I don’t, someone nastier might. And I try to,” he said, searching for the phrase, “steer them away from being too extreme.”
Mark rolled his eyes away from Roy and swallowed his sarcastic reply. “And that works?”
“Sometimes.”
“But you’re still helping them kill people.”
“No choice sometimes. Some people are bad.”
“Not all.”
Roy patted his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay.” Mark raised an eyebrow. “If you’re broken up about Golden Springs, you can talk about it,” Roy said. “We’re all friends here.”
He ducked out from under Roy’s hand. “Uh, no. That’s not it. Thanks though?” Roy didn’t appear to believe him.
Mark remembered the elevator, but by then, the boats had set off. He groaned and calmed down. Not like I could hop aboard just like that anyway. The idea had been very tempting, but he had to take this carefully, one step at a time. Otherwise, Whyte would catch on.
Valerie’s body appeared and tapped him on the back. Her eyes were attached to her stomach and she cast a sharp look at him. He shrugged, unsure what she was upset about. She grabbed his shoulder and yanked him toward the elevator.
“Don’t blame yourself for what happened,” Roy said. “That’ll make it worse.”
“That what you tell yourself?” Mark said under his breath.
“And the offer to talk still stands,” Roy called to them.
Valerie and Mark rode down to one floor above their living quarters. There, Valerie pushed him along at a run toward one of the gyms.
When they entered, Mark examined the room, panicking that something had happened. Did Whyte find out about him? Did someone die? Several new recruits were exercising, and a couple were sparring in a boxing ring, surrounded by other mercenaries who cheered them on. Emeryl stood among them, supervising and disciplining some of the rowdy recruits and joking privately with a few veterans.
Valerie rushed over to her head on a bench and rearranged the eyes to her head and the head to her neck stump. She sat for a few minutes, breathing hard and cutting her rapidly blinking eyes at Mark. “Where. Were. You?” she asked testily.
“Uh, I was getting some air,” he said.
She rubbed her limbs, massaging them, and buried her face in her hands. “Next time, tell someone!”
Thankfully, Oliver saved Mark, taking him aside. “Don’t mind her. She just needs to stop being lazy and take her whole body with her.”
“What?”
“See, whenever she removes a piece of her body, that piece is cut off from the rest,” he said, already anticipating Mark’s reaction. “I know. ‘Duh, Captain Obvious.’ I mean, that piece is surviving on its own. Depending on the piece, its survival time varies. Like a toe. Has a short time. Take too long and good-bye toe. It’s a useless little stub now.”
“Oh,” Mark said, looking back at her. Valerie seemed to have recovered but sat hunched on the bench. “That explains it.”
“Yeah. Makes for some thrilling ‘Keep Away’ games, I tell you.”
“But what did she want me for?”
“She didn’t. Whyte did.”
Whyte walked toward them, passing by the boxing ring as one of the mercenaries knocked out the other. Several of the spectators cheered and congratulated him while he climbed out.
“Mark, glad you could join us,” Whyte said. “We finally have an assignment for you. This way, please.”
“Why don’t you try taking on one of the freaks?” one of the younger mercenaries asked the winning boxer. Whyte, Oliver, and Mark went around them.
“Nah, that’d be too easy,” the winner said, punching his fists together. “I want a real challenge.”
“Don’t be arrogant,” Whyte said to the crowd. “These ‘freaks’ as you call them, are experts. Take them lightly at your own peril.” Emeryl pushed through the crowd, carrying a drawn pistol, as if prepared to severely reprimand the recruits. When Mark looked closer at him, he gaped as he realized Emeryl’s hand was red and raw, recently burned. The palm’s skin was fused to the gun’s grip, as were all the fingers except his thumb and forefinger.
Most nodded and agreed with Whyte as he left them, but the boxer shook his head. “Yeah, right. Although I wouldn’t mind going a couple of rounds with her.” He pointed his glove at Valerie. “Bet she’d be better than a contortionist.” He elbowed one of his buddies and they guffawed. The boxer never saw her arm until she threw it, fist outstretched, into his right cheek. It crawled up Mar
k’s body and onto his shoulder, like an alien creature attempting to take him down. Then it jumped, slapped the boxer’s other cheek, and scurried back to its owner.
“Why you—” He raised a fist and started to rush her, but Whyte held him back.
“Enough. You need to control your tongue. I won’t have that kind of juvenile behavior here.”
The boxer swung, nearly catching Whyte in his head. With blinding speed, Whyte dodged the punch and twisted the boxer’s arm. “Now, stop struggling.” Instead, the boxer lashed out, trying to hit lower. Whyte leapt out of the way and weaved through the series of blows that came next. Then he gave the boxer an uppercut to his gut and chopped him in the throat. The boxer fell to his knees, gasping for air.
“Still think you can take on these freaks?” Whyte asked him and then the other mercenaries. The boxer responded with a weak swing that Whyte slapped aside. He jammed his knee into the man’s chin, and he collapsed onto the floor.
“Always has to be one in every new group,” Whyte said, rolling the man over with his foot. “Get him out of here!” Two of the mercenaries hopped to the task and lifted the boxer, hauling him out of the gym. Emeryl rounded the rest together and set them running laps.
Oliver touched Mark’s dropped jaw and closed it for him. “Wow,” Mark said breathlessly.
“Yeah. But it’s less impressive when you remember he can see the future,” Oliver said.
“Wait, what?”
“Mark, Oliver,” Whyte called. “This way.”Lionel joined them outside, tailing behind.
The future? Whyte can see the future? Everyone’s future or his own? How far ahead? Whenever he wants or only under certain circumstances? All these questions and more buzzed through Mark’s mind, all wanting to leap onto Oliver and wring the knowledge from him.
He dropped the subject when they entered a standard office. “Have a seat,” Whyte said.
Oliver stomped the metal floor. “Temporary setup?” he asked. Mark held his arm and helped him sit.
“Yes. My new one should be here next week. Now,” Whyte said as he faced them, “unfortunately, negotiations with the U.S. government aren’t progressing well at all. They believe in their precious BEP Division too much,” he said, with a snarl, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“You want to arrange an attack then?” Lionel asked.
“Yes,” Whyte said. “I’m sending you three in. Mark could use a good warm-up after these idle months. There’s a relatively new anarchist group in Virginia we’ve been in talks with. Children of the New Age. They want to attack some government institution, but they don’t have the means. So we’ve offered to equip them.” He tossed a file in their direction and, when neither of the men moved toward it, Mark picked it up. He flipped through the pages that detailed the group and all their members.
Whyte pushed back from the desk and looked down. “What? I don’t have any treats.” He lifted a tabby cat onto his desk and stroked its back. It purred softly until scraping paws scratched the floor. A snow-white beagle with brown spots whined and ran around everyone’s legs, begging for attention as well.
“Anyway,” Whyte said, scooting the cat from him, “can’t use the SN91. Still too much heat from that. In the meantime, there’s a weapons cache in Virginia. Bombs, assault rifles, basic standard supplies. The address is in the folder. Deliver it to the group and help them plan an attack on some place close. I’m thinking Richmond. As soon as that’s done, report in and I’ll send a task force. Then you’ll go in, save the day and celebrate, so on and so forth. It’ll help boost our image at negotiations.”
“Since they’re small, they’ll likely attack someplace local,” Lionel said, reading over Mark’s shoulder.
“My thoughts exactly. Let them take some hostages before you and the task force go in. Try to avoid casualties, but if a couple of hostages die, it won’t be a problem.”
“Wait, why do this?” Mark asked. The others looked at him as if he had said something outrageous. “I mean, if we know where these guys are and what they want to do, why not take them right now or give all this information to the government? That should help your negotiations.”
“Because it’s a new group and they’re not a threat,” Whyte explained. “These people won’t make news. Their capture at this point wouldn’t sway opinions of Overwatch. Most of their members are guilty of assault or armed robbery at best. Give them guns and the resources for bigger things, however, and you’ll get national attention.” He raised his hands to his cheeks in mocking fear. “‘Where did this group suddenly come from?’ ‘We were caught off-guard!’ ‘Who will save us?’”
Whyte dropped the frightened act. “Enter us, the always-vigilant Overwatch, keeping a close eye on all current and potential threats to the world. Does anyone thank the doctor who advises you about your high cholesterol before it kills you? Or the officer giving the drunk driver a DUI before they cause an accident? No, they thank the doctor who removes the tumor or the cop who shot the gun-toting maniac. We have to show that we’re better than others like the BEP Division, that our security is needed. It’s all a matter of deception. That’s our greatest weapon.” Oliver and Lionel nodded their heads in agreement. “Deceive everyone and whatever you want is easily yours.”
The phone on the desk rang. Whyte answered it, grumbling that, “This better be good,” as Mark returned his attention to the folder. “Hello?...Fine, put it through…What is it?”
Lionel asked Mark to flip through the pages. As he read, Mark’s stomach churned. He didn’t think he could go through with this. It was unlikely that Oliver and Lionel would turn their backs long enough in Virginia for him to escape, but maybe he could alert the police. There will be a phone wherever we’re staying. Then another concern popped up. What if they can trace that? What if it’s an Overwatch place? But there will be more than one phone somewhere. I’ll use a payphone or borrow a cell and stop all this.
“What?” Whyte asked. “Say that again.” A pause. “You’re sure it’s Heather?”
Mark abandoned the folder and his insides jumped. Heather? He hadn’t heard from Heather since she fled from Whyte after Golden Springs.
“Yes.” Whyte eyed them. “I see. That is good news then. Yes, well done.” He hung up the phone and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “My contact in the BEP Division informed one of my middlemen that they found Heather Stanson.”
The three sat up in their chairs. “Oh?” Oliver beamed. “Where at?”
“Washington. Supposedly fleeing to Canada, but they’re not sure.”
“Want us to kill her first?”
Kill Heather? A tremor shot through Mark’s body, and he immediately started running through various scenarios about ways to could get word to her. “No, I have a better idea,” Whyte said. Mark settled down and listened. “We capture her before the BEP Division does and offer her to the U.S. as a way to show that we are more capable than them. Then, once she’s in their custody, we’ll attack whoever’s transporting her and wipe out everyone under the guise of some radicals. The government will be scared and Heather will be dead.”
“Two birds with one fire blast,” Oliver said, lowering his glasses and chewing on the end of one stem. “You want us to bring Mark on this?”
Lionel’s expression was pleading otherwise, but Whyte said, “Yeah. It’ll be good for him. And since he worked closely with her, maybe he can talk her down, make it easier for you two to bring her in. They’re sending Sylvia on this one. Maybe some others, but my contact wasn’t sure.” He picked up the phone. “Take the helicopter up top to Oregon. I’ll have a car waiting for you when you arrive with the rest of the details once I’ve gathered them. Go to Washington and track down Heather before the BEP Division can. Fast and in and out.”
“What about the Children of the New Age?” Lionel asked.
“I’ll have someone else take care of it,” he said.
The three left and rode the elevators to the upper half of the base. All the while
, Mark brainstormed every possible option that would save Heather and himself. Sneaking off before they found Heather was out of the question. He wouldn’t leave her to Whyte’s mercy, or lack thereof. He needed to stay with them to locate her. Besides, leaving that early would only alert them. Once she was in custody, Mark saw no opportunity of freeing her then either. His best chance at the moment was when they found her, to somehow escape with her then and there.
It was a near impossible plan, but the only one available. As they loaded into a waiting helicopter with enough seats for a lot of passengers, the pilot held up a sack and blindfold for Mark. He bowed his head and the man tied the blindfold on tight and slipped the sack on. Then the helicopter lifted off.
“Precaution,” Oliver said. “Whyte does this to all new people for a while.”
“I understand,” Mark said. It wasn’t like he would be able to navigate his way to the base anyway. The endless body of water surely was the same all around, and he couldn’t tell one spot from the next.
Oliver patted him. “Excited?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said.
“You okay? You sound sick.” Oliver rubbed his back. “Don’t worry. We’ll be in Washington before you know it.” He offered a barf bag from his seat, but Mark declined.
Sitting back and closing his eyes, Mark sighed. I hope the BEP Division finds her first.
Rogues of Overwatch Page 10