EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum

by Shane Stadler

  For an instant, Roy’s face distorted in an expression that Will interpreted as panic. The instructors had been informed that he was a relocation case, but even he didn’t know exactly when that would happen. There was something about Roy that alarmed him. Will shrugged it off. It didn’t matter; he’d soon be somewhere else.

  4

  Thursday, 7 May (9:32 a.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

  Captain Chuck McHenry weaved his way through the narrow corridors from his quarters to the sonar station where three young sailors, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, stared at a computer monitor. A handful of others craned their necks to observe from their respective stations. McHenry cleared his throat and all but the man seated at the sonar station scattered and returned to their posts. “Hear it, Finley?” he asked.

  The young sonar technician nodded as he tweaked some controls. A mess of multicolored curves appeared on the computer screen.

  “The signal is there, sir, loud and clear,” Finley explained as he pointed to various locations on the screen. “About one pulse per second.”

  “Can you locate it?” McHenry asked.

  “It’s strange,” Finley explained, “the frequency spectrum of the signal makes it difficult to pinpoint its source – even with filtering – and we’re getting too many reflections from the ice. All I can say is that it’s deep.”

  “How far?”

  “A thousand meters, maybe more.”

  It was surprising. McHenry knew that that was beyond the crush depth of most vessels, although specialized vehicles could certainly go that deep. “On the floor?”

  Finley shook his head. “Floor’s at 4,000 meters. The source is at 1,200 at the most.” He turned away from the screen and faced McHenry. “If we switched to active mode – ”

  “No,” McHenry cut him off. He wouldn’t ping the area and reveal their location to every vessel in the vicinity. They were an attack sub, not a science vessel. “Anyone else in the area?”

  “A few small boats on the surface. That’s all,” Finley responded. “Unless there are sleepers – running quiet like us.”

  McHenry was certain the Russians were in the area. They had ears, too. “Get a good recording, and mark our spot.”

  “Sir, an absolute location might be difficult. We’re close to magnetic south, and these currents – ”

  “Give me your best estimate,” McHenry responded.

  In the nine years he’d served as commander of an attack sub, he’d never been given such odd orders. Antarctica as the location was certainly out of the ordinary, but even more so was the objective. They’d been sent to investigate a signal that had been detected by a science vessel. That had occurred more than two months earlier, and the captain of that vessel claimed that a Russian submarine had threatened to sink them. Why hadn’t the incident been investigated earlier? It was unusual for a submarine to surface and scare away little boats. “I’m sure you’ll be getting another shot at this, Finley,” he said.

  It was time to leave the area and get to radio depth. He needed to report their findings to Naval Command.

  5

  Thursday, 7 May (11:50 a.m. EST – Washington, DC)

  Daniel Parsons paced in front of his large office window and gazed into the horizon over the evergreen forest. It calmed his mind, although he knew his brain was always working in the background, making connections his conscious mind was too distracted to find. His stomach grumbled. Lunchtime.

  Spending most of his waking hours there, he appreciated the aesthetically pleasing Space Systems building. The name was a front for a deep-cover CIA complex. The many hundreds of Space Systems personnel were “identity sensitive,” and could not be seen anywhere near the CIA headquarters. It was well known that foreign operatives catalogued everyone going near the Langley facility. This wasn’t a problem for public officials or intelligence analysts who never left the country. However, it was a grave threat to operatives who traveled abroad, especially in the age of face recognition software. It wasn’t a concern for Daniel since he was no longer allowed to leave the country, but he had to remain in deep cover for a different reason – for what was in his brain.

  But it wasn’t just his knowledge of dark secrets that made him unique; it was that he knew truths. Truths had deeper implications than secrets. A truth could be used as a foundation from which to extrapolate conclusions, or origins, with the highest degree of certainty. The things he’d discovered as an Omniscient had profoundly changed his life. The world looked different to him now. More correctly, the world was different from what he had thought it was. Now, even the shadows of clouds passing slowly over the dark green forest carried a different meaning to him. And his questions about the world ran much deeper than those he’d had during the earlier part of his life. There were new truths to be unveiled.

  His research that morning had only whetted his appetite. He’d started more than two weeks ago with what he’d been given: Operation Tabarin. As he’d suspected, it was only the tip of the iceberg. As with every other project he’d been assigned, he was sure that Tabarin would lead to some complicated mess of things that eventually converged to a fundamental objective. If he’d learned anything in the past two decades, it was that actions and their consequences were difficult to conceal. Objectives and motives, however, could lie dormant like spores in frozen soil, maybe never to see light. It was these causal motives that he sought.

  Antarctica. What on earth did they want in Antarctica? He’d dug up much information on Operation Tabarin in declassified sources. It was a secret British mission to the southern continent initiated in the midst of World War II, during the southern summer, November, 1944. They’d constructed outposts along the way: one on Deception Island in the South Shetland Islands, another in Port Lockroy in the Palmer Archipelago, west of the Antarctic Peninsula, and finally set up shop at Hope Bay, on Antarctica’s Trinity Peninsula in 1945.

  Daniel understood the scientific interest in Antarctica. In the current day, scientists of all types, from physicists to biologists, frequented the bottom of the world to study everything from the unique animal life to particle physics. In the 1940’s, however, science was scarce in that part of the world, not to mention it was wartime. Research not related to the war effort, of the Axis or the Allies, would have been the last thing on anyone’s minds.

  His heart beat in his chest like a bass drum. Something was there.

  6

  Thursday, 7 May (2:22 p.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

  Captain McHenry fidgeted near the radio receiver. He folded his hands behind his back, took a deep breath, and blew it back out with force. “How long have we been at radio depth?” he asked.

  “Twenty-three minutes, sir,” a sailor replied.

  “What are those DC bureaucrats doing?” McHenry asked.

  “Golfing, skipper. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon,” the sailor quipped.

  McHenry chuckled. And putting down a few beers, he was about to add when the receiver beeped, indicating an incoming message. Finally, he thought as he punched in a passcode. The printer hummed and a minute later he had pages in hand and shut down communications.

  “Get to depth and get us the hell out of here,” McHenry ordered.

  The command echoed through the chain as he exited the control room. He stopped at the mess hall to refill his coffee mug, and then weaved his way to his quarters. He sat at a small desk and read the orders.

  The instructions were diametrically opposed to his instincts. It was not how an attack sub was supposed to operate. Its effectiveness and safety depended on secrecy, stealth, deception, and surprise. The message indicated that other, unspecified subs and surface ships were on their way to the area. His neck muscles tightened. It implied something was afoot. What was down there – a vessel? A weapon? A trap?

  His orders were to keep the operation under wraps until it was initiated. However, without revealing details, he’d bounce some ideas off of his first officer, Gerald Diggs.

  Somethin
g big was happening, and it had something to do with whatever was making that noise in the deep.

  7

  Thursday, 7 May (3:37 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

  Zhichao Cho gazed through the large southwest windows of his new office. Even though the air was cool, the intense sun hurt his face, and he moved into the shade. At his home in China, the sun was never as intense as in Louisiana. It was a good thing he’d only be in Baton Rouge for as long as it took to get what he needed.

  He was still dumbfounded at how easy it had been for him to acquire Syncorp. His lawyers had been creative by working through a food engineering company owned by a Chinese-American citizen. On paper, it was that company that had purchased Syncorp. Were the Americans really that stupid? He knew they wanted to bury all the evil things Syncorp had done, but it seemed irresponsible to allow all of the information – the technology – to get into the hands of a foe. And Cho was no idiot; although they were not overtly at war with each other, the United States and China were not friends.

  He was satisfied with his progress on two fronts. The first task was to send functional parts to the processing facility in China, where they had already started assembling the technical innards of the first building. That was the difference between the two countries: the Americans had referred to their own research complexes as Compressed Punishment facilities in an attempt to disguise them as something with a more acceptable purpose. In China, there was no need to conjure such an elaborate ruse. They’d never advertise the real purpose of the complex, of course, but they’d create no facades.

  The collection and processing of the information from Syncorp and its satellite companies was going well. The previous CEO had succeeded in delivering everything by the contractual deadline, and Cho’s people immediately began digitizing and organizing the files. Every few days, he would oversee a massive data dump to a server in China. In the end, he’d ship the paper files, and then destroy the U.S.-based servers, leaving them with nothing. He thought it was an interesting concept: stealing information and then destroying the original source was much more devastating than simply stealing it. It was one step forward for the thief, and one step backwards for the victim – a net of two steps of separation. He smiled. Every successful operation against the U. S. brought China closer to its rightful place in the world.

  The historical progression of the technology was entertaining, especially now that he was part of it. The evolution went from Red Falcon to Red Wraith and, now, to his Red Dragon project. He’d earn a special place in history.

  In terms of the high-tech facilities, Red Dragon was well underway. But there was another objective that he had to pursue. He had to acquire data on the subjects treated at the two formerly active American facilities. One was in Detroit and the other on Long Island. Syncorp didn’t have access to that information, but Chinese intelligence was working on it. The most crucial information was that connected to the Americans’ successful conversion – if that was really true. At some level, he hoped it was. It meant that what they were trying to accomplish was possible.

  A secret war was in progress, one to which the United States was oblivious. It was a race to duplicate and enhance what the Americans had done, and to acquire, or destroy, the fruit of their creation. It was a war that Cho was going to win for his country, and himself.

  8

  Thursday, 7 May (8:21 p.m. CST – Chicago)

  Will pulled open the heavy glass door and entered the restaurant. His stomach grumbled in response to the aroma of charbroiled steak. The warm air felt good, offsetting the chill that had invaded his body during the long walk in the cool Chicago night.

  He passed by the host station and searched until he spotted Denise sitting at a table beside a large window, sipping a glass of wine.

  The FBI agent had been right that morning six weeks ago when he’d suggested that Denise was his girlfriend. It was going to be difficult to leave her.

  She looked up as he approached and smiled when she recognized him.

  He made his way around a waiter and went to her.

  She stood from her chair, tippy-toed in her high heels, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Right on time,” she said.

  “Hungry?” he asked as they sat.

  “I’ve been waiting for this all week. And I missed lunch today.” She reached across the table and caressed his hand. “Are you happy it’s over?”

  Will nodded, but his feelings were mixed. He was happy that his training was completed, but he didn’t know what was coming next. His neck twitched. All that was left was his final meeting the next morning, when he’d learn the details of his new life.

  “Bad dreams again last night?” Denise asked.

  He nodded. She read him better than anyone, but it was an easy guess: he had nightmares almost every night. His brain had much to exploit – his conviction, the destruction of his life and career, weeks of torture in the Red Box. It all seemed like it happened in another lifetime. “How’s the investigation coming along?” he asked, changing the subject.

  She gave him a look acknowledging the deliberate redirection, and then answered, “Slowly.” She shook her head. “Evidence is disappearing. Crucial files from the Red Box facility and DARPA have been stolen. And it’s even more difficult finding the people who were involved.”

  Will found it unacceptable that files could be stolen from the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency. The only explanation was that DARPA itself was involved in their disappearance. The slower the investigation moved, the more difficult it would be to retrieve the evidence. The FBI was conducting an investigation into DARPA, but that gave him no solace – he suspected that the two organizations were colluding at some level. As with the CIA, the FBI probably had factions that were involved in Red Wrath.

  Evidence connected to the CIA was also proving difficult to find, despite the enormous amount of funds and human resources that had been funneled into the Red Wraith project through CIA front organizations. Usually money could be tracked, but it wasn’t straightforward in this case.

  “Regarding your case,” Denise continued, “the state is close to settling. You’ll be getting pre-settlement funds for your house and belongings by the end of the week.”

  Will nodded. Recovering the things they’d taken from him when he was incarcerated gave him some satisfaction, but it was just the start. “Who have you tracked down from the Red Box?”

  She shifted in her seat. “A few low-level employees—the dental assistant and a doctor—both still in the hospital, although the doctor is about to be released. We’ve located a few of the inmates, but haven’t been able to question them – they’re still in state custody.”

  Will had intended to visit the dental assistant, Kelly Hatley, but it looked like he’d be leaving before he got the chance. She’d been in a Detroit hospital since the collapse of the Red Box. His sympathy for her was shallow. She’d caused him much pain and many nightmares. He thought that seeing her in such a vulnerable state might get him past some of the horror.

  Will had a T-bone steak with a baked potato, and Denise the salmon special with pasta. Their dinner conversation was lighter.

  “Dessert?” she asked when they’d finished their entrees, and pointed to ‘green tea ice cream’ listed on the menu.

  He was stuffed. “I’ll take a bite of yours,” he replied. He searched the room for a waiter and noticed a man turn his back as Will’s gaze turned towards him. The man had moved casually, but deliberately. He turned back to Denise. “See the guy behind me in the brown coat? About six feet tall, fifties, dark hair and complexion.”

  Denise glanced quickly and nodded.

  “He’s following me. He was on the subway on my way here. This might be part of my training,” he explained. “I’m supposed to call my instructor and identify the man.”

  Will thought about “snapping” him with his phone, but instead just made the call. A moment later a man answered.

  “Perry here.”

 
“I see your man,” Will said.

  “Thompson?” Perry said after a delay. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve spotted the tail—fifties, tall, dark, brown coat, black handkerchief in the front pocket … should I snap him?” A few seconds passed. “Perry?”

  “Listen carefully, Thompson,” Perry finally responded. “I did not send anyone after you tonight – the course is over. And do not snap him. You’re sure he’s following you?”

  A chill slithered up Will’s spine to the back of his head. He tried to recall all parts of his trip from downtown Chicago to the suburban restaurant. The man was definitely on the subway, but he couldn’t remember seeing him on the street. “Fairly sure,” he finally answered.

  “I taught you what to do in this situation, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to call you back in ten minutes. If I don’t get an answer, I’m sending help,” Perry said and hung up.

  He put the phone in his pocket and looked to Denise. “Dessert will have to wait.”

  She looked confused.

  “Give me a minute,” he said. He stood and walked towards the man.

  9

  Thursday, 7 May (10:27 p.m. EST – Washington)

  Daniel Parsons stood by his office window as he steeped tea. Thursday was about over, and a nearly full, red moon loomed on the southeastern horizon. He was pleased with his progress for the day.

  He’d learned that the Brits’ Operation Tabarin had been a response to something. Tabarin, in turn, had been followed by an American operation, codenamed Highjump, which started in the southern summer of 1946. Official reports indicated that Highjump had lasted less than two years. However, he’d found evidence that it had carried on much longer – perhaps a decade. Although the documents weren’t consistent, they all agreed that the focus of both operations had been on a part of Antarctica called Dronning Maud Land, near the Weddell Sea.