Adler was on the hook; Jennings had convinced him that Syncorp was in big trouble, and the only way he’d avoid being rolled up in the collapse was to help them.
Adler turned left onto Perkins from College Drive and headed south. After a mile they approached a driveway on the left. A dimly lit Syncorp sign appeared as they made the turn.
The sign induced strong emotions – mostly anger – and Will’s chest tightened to the point of physical discomfort.
They followed the well-groomed, two-lane road for a half of a mile through dense woods until they stopped behind a semi-truck.
“There have been shipments every night for the past month,” Adler commented. “It won’t take too long to get in.”
Five minutes later they came to a gate connected to a concrete guardhouse. An armed, uniformed man approached the driver’s side, and Adler rolled down the window and handed him some documents.
The guard went back to the booth, handed the papers to his partner, and picked up a red phone.
“Who are they calling?” Jennings asked.
“It’s normal procedure,” Adler replied. “We have clients in late all the time.”
Natalie asked, “You sure you can get us into the right areas? You passed us off as pharmaceutical clients.”
“Relax,” Adler replied. “I’ve done this before. We show off what we have to convince potential clients to do business. They’ve all been through background checks. I managed to get you on the list of previously vetted guests.”
The security guard returned with three plastic visitor badges, and instructed them to wear them at all times. The gate lifted, and Adler drove through it and onto a wider, well-lit road with a median. Along the way were orange signs warning drivers to keep their speeds between 20 and 30 miles per hour until they got to the parking facility.
“What’s with the minimum speed?” Natalie asked, pointing to one of the signs.
“They don’t want anyone being dropped off before they get to the complex,” Adler explained. “The security is extreme – but most things are monitored electronically. As you can see, however, there are loopholes.”
A few minutes later they entered a parking structure and, after navigating turns and card-actuated gates, Adler parked the car and turned off the engine. He took off his seatbelt and turned his body sideways, towards Jennings. He glanced back and forth between Will and Natalie. “You have the story in case we’re questioned?”
Will and Natalie nodded. They worked for a Canadian pharmaceutical company, and were in the market for ultrasound components. Adler had assured them that no security guard would have the technical knowledge to expose them. But what if they ran into an engineer? Will thought. Things could get pretty hairy, even with his technical background.
They got out of the car, and Will followed the others to an elevator. After descending three levels to what he thought was ground level, the elevator door opened to a wide hallway. They got out, turned right, and walked down a corridor lined with big windows that revealed large, brightly lit rooms. The people on the other side were dressed in white lab coats and milled around massive stainless steel tables. The tabletops were littered with intricate mechanical pieces that he couldn’t identify.
“This is the robotic surgery section,” Adler explained in a voice that seemed commercial. Will knew they were now on stage – cameras everywhere.
They continued down the hall and took a left into another corridor, identical to the first.
“This is the radiation oncology division,” Adler said. “We’ve made significant advances in radiation therapy devices. Next is the magnetic resonance imaging – or MRI – division.”
Will was impressed. Before his jaunt in academia, he’d conducted research at government labs. It was clear that Syncorp’s laboratory facilities, and probably the research, eclipsed anything he’d previously seen. Then he remembered that Syncorp was a defense contractor: funding was not an issue.
After a half hour of touring and chatting nonsense, they reached an elevator door that required card access. Jennings turned to Will and made a face suggesting this is it.
Adler slid his card. They piled into the elevator, and went down a floor.
The layout was identical to that of the previous floor except that the windows were darkened so that they couldn’t see inside the rooms.
They proceeded at about the same pace as the previous floor, and Adler kept talking as if he was trying to sell them something. Jennings asked questions appropriate for their cover. After five minutes, Adler stopped in front of one of the doors.
“Let me show you an example of some of our most advanced technical capabilities,” Adler said and ran his card through a slot next to the door. It clicked, and he pushed it open.
The room was as large as a basketball gymnasium, but absent of people. Overhead cranes hung on rails suspended from the 40 foot ceiling, and milling machines, lathes, welding stations, and other fabrication tools occupied stations on the wall to the left. Electronics benches and fume hoods lined the opposite side. On the far end were stacks of casket-sized crates arranged on heavy, wooden pallets. There were 7 groups of 10 and 1 group of 4.
Their shoes clacked and echoed in the large room as Adler led them to the crates.
“Things are quiet here this week,” Adler explained, addressing the absence of Syncorp personnel. “They’d just finished a large order and the night shift had been put on hold for a while. Let me show you one of our products.”
Adler walked to a workbench and returned with an electric drill motor with a screwdriver attachment. He walked between two pallets to the stack of four crates and engaged the drill. After removing the 20-plus screws from the lid of one of the crates and putting them in his pocket, he set the drill on the floor, and walked to one side. He grabbed the edge of the lid and nodded to Jennings to grab the other. They lifted together and set it on the floor.
Adler struggled to remove yellow foam packing material that was sprayed in for a tight form-fit. After dislodging a large piece and tossing it to the floor, he waved them over.
Will looked into the crate and was nearly overcome with dizziness. In his mind, he’d been transported back to the Red Box, back inside his Exoskeleton. He fought the strong urge to separate from his body. He stood still for a few seconds until the urgency subsided.
Two pieces were visible: an Exoskeleton forearm and the corresponding upper arm. They were separately wrapped in clear plastic and pressed into cellophane-covered foam. He picked up the forearm and examined it, despite the nervous look he got from Adler. It was lighter than he’d expected, and had the exact metallic-blue tint he remembered. The arm sections were missing some components that he knew had to be assembled later. It had mounting provisions for pneumatic actuators, conduits for tubes and sensors, and extra joints in places where they should not be – one in the middle of the forearm and another around the bicep position of the upper arm. The extra joints had been used to bend his bones, the pain from which still lingered in his mind. The most damning identifier was the metal tag mounted on the top of the forearm, near the wrist: Syncorp, Inc.
Will extracted another set of arm pieces, set them on the floor, and pulled out another level of foam to reveal a set of legs and feet. “Are there other pieces?” Will asked. He knew there should also be head cages, motors, actuators, biosensors, and other systems.
Adler’s eyes bulged so that the whites were exposed all around. Will was approaching the limit of their cover.
“This department only develops the parts that you see here,” Adler explained. “And also the support appendage that connects the device to a control track.”
Will remembered the sinister-looking appendage to which Adler referred: it resembled a giant scorpion tail, and suspended the Exoskeleton, and its hapless victim, from the ceiling. It also provided all power, sensing, and feedback control.
A light film of sweat cooled Will’s forehead. He looked at Jennings with an expression of confi
rmation. He then turned to Adler. “Where are these going?”
Adler looked confused.
This was off script, but was a question any inquisitive person might ask. If Adler kept his cool, their cover should be okay.
“Um … I’m not sure,” Adler stammered. “Overseas somewhere, I think.”
“Shall we pack up and go?” Jennings broke in. He’d already grabbed the packing foam and gestured to Will to put the pieces he held in his hands back into the crate. As Will leaned over the crate, he snapped some blind pictures with his phone, mostly concealed in his jacket. He hoped for at least one good shot.
After everything was packed, Adler and Natalie replaced the lid. Adler drove in the all of the screws in just a few minutes.
They left the room, made their way back to the car, and were off Syncorp property and heading north on Perkins by 12:30 a.m.
“Again, where are the Exoskeletons going?” Will asked Adler.
“China,” Adler replied. “Just one week after our … uh … domestic demand evaporated, we got new management with connections to the Chinese government – unofficial, of course. We now ship more of these than ever before.”
“Do you know what they’re used for?” Will asked, agitated.
“I assume they have some medical applications,” Adler answered.
“They’re used to torture people,” Will nearly screamed.
Natalie put her hand on Will’s.
“Sorry,” Will said, more to Natalie than Adler.
He felt better when they reached familiar territory. Jennings turned right, from Perkins Road to College Drive, and then finally into the parking lot of the International House of Pancakes where Will had parked his car.
“We’ll be in touch,” Jennings said just before he closed the door.
Will got into his SUV and started driving home. He was alarmed that the technology was being passed to China, but it was no surprise. The United States couldn’t keep a secret. The subtleties of the Manhattan Project had been leaked out before the first bomb exploded. Klaus Fuchs – one of the Los Alamos scientists – had been the traitor. That one man might have been the sole reason for the Cold War. The National Security Agency lost all of its secrets: again, one-man, Edward Snowden. Now, the Red Wraith research had leaked and it was spreading like cancer. China, not exactly the pinnacle of human rights, would apply the program indiscriminately. And what if they succeeded? What if they created more people like himself?
Syncorp had to be stopped quickly. And by any means.
9
Sunday, 17 May (1:05 a.m. EST – Washington)
Daniel sat on a chair in the central area of 713 while Sylvia worked quietly in her office. He’d devoted the evening to investigating Jonathan McDougal. The man impressed him. He knew, however, that he’d also have to impress Thackett and Horace if they were to grant him permission to meet with the old law professor.
Besides teaching law, McDougal directed a legal entity called the DNA Foundation. The Foundation funded researchers and lawyers to investigate old cases in which DNA evidence could give definitive answers, and they’d exonerated over 50 people in the first two years of its existence.
McDougal had made his name as the driving force for the moratorium on the death penalty in the state of Illinois. This was enough to establish him as a good risk – he seemed like a good man – but it was impossible to determine what information the professor had about Red Wraith, and whether he’d share it.
Red Wraith was the most secretive project that Daniel had encountered, but also the most deadly. Countless people had been assassinated in addition to the FBI agents who had investigated the project. But that was about all he’d uncovered – just a bunch of cloak-and-dagger events that seemed to have no underlying purpose. He’d never discovered its true objective, and this loose end, he suspected, was a source of obsession for his subconscious mind. He hadn’t slept well since being taken off the project, yet it was the first thought in his mind the instant he woke up every morning, despite being reassigned. He felt more focused now that Red Wraith was part of his current assignment.
He moved to the couch, leaned back, and rested his eyes. After what seemed like no more than an instant, he twitched and sat up. His watch read 7:50 a.m. He’d been asleep for over six hours.
A few seconds later, the door beeped and opened, thirty feet to his right. Thackett and Horace entered. Horace looked more vibrant than Thackett, despite being nearly a half-century older than the CIA director. Each man inserted a wet umbrella into the clay flowerpot next to the door, and took off glistening trench coats and hung them on a coatrack.
Sylvia walked in behind them, dropped her things off in her office, and sat on the couch next to Daniel.
“How long did you stay last night?” she asked. “You were napping when I left.”
“All night,” he replied and shook his head. “I just woke up.”
Sylvia smiled. “I should’ve woke you before I left.”
Everyone took their usual seats.
“Any developments?” Thackett asked.
Thackett looked hopeful. Horace did not. Perhaps the seasoned man better understood the pace at which Omni research was conducted.
“Not much new,” Daniel replied. “However, I have an idea that might get us going.”
Horace sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rubbed the gray stubble on his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Let’s hear it.”
Daniel explained his interest in McDougal, and how he likely had important information that they needed.
“He’s an activist lawyer who happened by chance to catch the CP program at the right time,” Thackett argued. “What makes you think he’s actually in possession of anything of value?”
“National Security Agency surveillance archives of phone recordings between McDougal, his wife, and his assistant indicate they might have had files,” Daniel replied.
Thackett shook his head. “Civilians don’t understand the utility of burner phones.”
“Actually, they did. But they screwed up,” Daniel explained. “The NSA was able to ID the burners since they’d forgotten to pull the batteries out of their personal phones. They correlated the phones by GPS location. Once that’s accomplished, using the burner is the same as using the personal cell.”
Horace sat forward. “You want to talk to him in person?” he asked with an expression of doubt.
Daniel nodded.
“And what if he doesn’t have anything?” Horace asked.
“I think he also knows things,” Daniel replied.
“Like what?” Thackett asked.
“Details about the Compressed Punishment program,” Daniel explained. “And he was involved with the FBI, and possibly with a CIA operative who was killed in the explosion at the Detroit facility just before it was shut down. He was also in contact with a former CP inmate – the man whose case the DNA Foundation had been investigating at the time.”
Horace sat back again and pulled on his lower lip. “Maybe we should bring him in,” he suggested. “Question McDougal here.”
Thackett nodded in approval.
“No chance,” Daniel said. “He doesn’t trust us. He knows that the CIA was deeply involved in Red Wraith.”
“We cannot trust any rank-and-file personnel with this – too sensitive,” Horace said. “So, again, you want to go meet with McDougal in person?”
Daniel nodded. “He should be in Chicago now. He teaches a law class this semester.”
“You’ll be jeopardizing your identity,” Horace said. “Are you sure you want to do this? Your career and safety are at risk.”
Daniel had already thought it through, and turned the question on Horace. “Is it worth the risk?”
Horace’s eyes gave away that he’d come to a quick conclusion, or maybe a realization.
He sighed. “Yes.”
Sylvia, who had been silent through the conversation, said, “I want to go with him.”
; Daniel turned his head in surprise. It wasn’t a good idea – two Omnis sticking out their necks.
Daniel started to protest but was cut off by Horace.
“I want you both on a plane to Chicago this evening,” Horace said.
It seemed that Thackett was now just a bystander in the planning. But then, ever since Daniel had met Horace, he surmised that Thackett had always been just the figurehead for the Omniscients. It took something urgent to flush Horace out of the dark but, now that he was exposed, he took the initiative.
Daniel had to go home and pack.
CHAPTER VII
1
Sunday, 17 May (11:58 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)
Zhichao Cho was sitting on his balcony puffing a cigar when the call came in: it was the head of his local contingent of MSS operatives. Chinese intelligence had been under more scrutiny in the United States since the Cold War had ended, but their perceived threat had diminished again after the attack on the World Trade Center in 2001. American intelligence mostly focused on people from the Middle East.
Cho’s man-in-charge went by the name Ximin, and he was the most senior operative in his commission. His calls were rare.
Cho listened for two minutes, and hung up. Things were getting complicated. The FBI was investigating Syncorp, and agents had already been inside the complex. One thing he knew about the transfer of information was that immediate action could often snuff it out before it could be used. This became more and more difficult to accomplish in the digital age, but he’d have to move fast.
They knew the agent’s identity, thanks to an FBI mole and a loyal Syncorp employee, so it should be easy to coax him into a trap. But Cho didn’t want to just levy a hit. Besides, his principal asset for that kind of work was currently occupied. Instead, he wanted to extract information. And what would be a better place for that than Syncorp?
EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum Page 14