Crossing Rubicon

by A J Blanc

  Sonya slinked lower in her seat. She was far from the collected, confident person Hal and Milo saw on the Network, on the rare occasions they watched her. Her current composure resembled that of someone backed into a corner with no way out.

  “One last thing,” Hal offered. “We were actually sent to locate, and re-integrate, three escaped fugitives who were also targeted by Rosen. Marcus Hyde is one of them. They were all part of special operations in their respective branches of service. They also all share one significant experience with you.”

  She slowly looked up at him, and didn’t turn away as she worked out what he was getting at. “My implant?”

  “Your ASI, yes,” he confirmed as they all finished their drinks simultaneously. She knew then what she was up against, and they began to brainstorm options on how to proceed.

  Chapter Twelve: Round 2

  Milo and Hal departed the Stateline Club and headed toward Reno. Sonya pledged to contact them if she learned anything helpful, but asked them to lay low to avoid arousing suspicion and await her signal, unless there was some sort of emergency. Due to its proximity to the Network’s headquarters, she recommended they stay at the Atlantis Resort. Hal was attempting to book a couple of rooms, as close together as possible, while Milo smoothly piloted his Stude out of the auto parking garage.

  “Refresh my memory,” Milo interjected, breaking the silence that ensued after they were airborne. “What are ASIs again?”

  “Advanced Synaptic Implants,” Hal answered without looking up from his tablet. “Most covert operatives and spec ops personnel are given one now, after their apparent uncontested success on service members during the war.”

  “Given? You mean they have a choice about it?”

  “Actually yes. It’s completely voluntary, if you qualify for it that is. Screening happens after acceptance into special teams, and since that process is arduous enough as it is, around 75% are offered one following return from their first successful mission.”

  “What is it supposed to do? I’ve heard of them before but never knew their actual purpose. Seems like it would break Geneva Convention rules, or something.”

  “That’s because, even after more than ten years, they’re still SCI-level clearance. From what I’ve been told -- not by doctors or experts mind you -- is that it enhances everything. Speed, agility, strength. Even higher brain functions to support strategy for tactical situations. Did you read any of the articles on Ghost Squad; the team Sonya was part of for a time during the war?”

  “Of course. Hard not to once the rumors started to come out a few years after the armistice. That’s the sort of thing legends are made of.”

  “Well, I can tell you that all, or at least most, of what you read is true. Their squad members survived behind enemy lines for over three weeks with only enough food, water, and ammo to last one. Some of that was due to training, which I’m sure I don’t have to mention to you,” Hal remarked wryly as he looked over at the former Army instructor. “That team was a test-bed for the ASIs in combat however. Not one of its members claimed they were ever tired, anxious, hungry, or unprepared for… anything. Granted, some of their testimony could be chalked up to machoism and the like, but official reports claimed they were ordered to be truthful and cooperative. Also, while there are several methodologies to gaining stronger conscious control over one’s body, the ASI is designed to focus only essential functions like a laser beam to survival and adaptation.”

  “So, this implant turns people into machines? Seems like there would be a lot of downsides to that, or at least there ought to be.”

  “There are, or were anyway, unofficial reports alleging that around twenty percent had problems adjusting to the implants. Side effects ranging from acute mania to catatonia were noted. The agency I work for has been looking for these individuals to interview for years; a single one has yet to be located. Then there are the ones who simply can’t turn off or ignore the heightened senses from their implants…”

  After a full minute awkward pause, Milo considered letting the man alone with his thoughts. Alternatively though, “I’m sorry, were you going to follow up on that last comment?” Hal looked at him like he didn’t know what he was talking about, so Milo continued. “Twenty percent!? That’s considered acceptable losses for some of the best trained men and women this country’s military has to offer? Just so they might become better at their jobs in the heat of battle? That is downright appalling! Particularly for an all-volunteer military force since 1973. People don’t sign up for that crap anymore!”

  Hal’s face contorted into a mien of offense. “Why does it sound like you’re blaming me for this? I’ve had zero involvement in this whole operation until I was recruited to find evidence against the use of ASIs two years ago!”

  “Whoa, hold on a minute. Calm down. I’m not blaming anybody. I’m just angry is all. The deeper I get into this rabbit hole, the more pissed I get about finding some justice for war heroes. It’s a weakness of mine. But let’s not forget we have one more fugitive out there to find. Watson isn’t just going to come up to us wearing a name tag.”

  “Maybe it will be that simple. He’s directly involved with Rosen and the prison break. That’s at least one thing I’m confident of. His level of immersion still remains a mystery though. I’m sure our paths will cross sooner rather than later.”

  ~

  Raymus Watson readjusted his chameleon jacket for a third time, while walking out the main entrance of the Atlantis as casually as he could. Though it was nearly five in the morning, he wasn’t the only person coming and going at that hour. Lonely spinsters ending a long night of gambling. Wait staff coming to relieve their cohorts from the unenviable graveyard shift. Early risers emerging from their rooms to be the first to enjoy the cornucopia of breakfast buffets. A casino was an indefatigable organism, with strange but regular patterns that one could jump into at any time throughout the year.

  It took Watson longer to clear the expansive casino property than he anticipated, but once he did he activated one of the preset programs of his jacket. The concealed, optical fibers imbedded within the fabric began to change color and texture, like a ripple on a tranquil pond. In seconds, the unassuming grey jacket bore a striking resemblance to the navy blue coats worn by Rosen Security, right down to the neon green logo patch and matching elbow pads.

  Given the razor-thin timetable, Raymus was unable to procure the security team’s current comlink apparatus. Instead, he obtained the previous model used by the company and installed a bandwidth enhancer. He was confident that were he discovered, no one could tell the difference, even under strict scrutiny.

  The final test to gain access into the building would be the ID card. He didn’t have the time or equipment to duplicate the intricately complex device, so he lifted one from a hapless employee of similar-enough build and complexion who had just finished his shift during Watson’s earlier excursion to the exclusive campus. He quickly discovered that the card works in concert with its assigned owner’s imbedded personal data chip, so both have to be synced to allow access around the network’s properties. He just hoped the equipment he did have was sensitive enough to link the frequency of the employee it belonged to.

  Raymus was mentally preparing to introduce himself under his new guise, Louis Salvatoré, as he approached the first checkpoint. There was no physical security at the outer door, just a multi-phasic reader inside a mirrored alcove. Once a scan of the ID card, imbedded chip, and several body-type comparisons was completed, the door opened to a second checkpoint where two security officers were posted 24/7.

  “Has it started yet?” Watson asked, referring to the next round of Most Dangerous Game, while his stolen, altered ident combo was being inspected. One of the security officers slowly looked up with tired eyes to regard him, then back down to a hidden display under the desk.

  “Any minute now. What you doing back Louis? Your shift ended hours ago.”

  “I have a sit-down with Lujay
ne. Thought it’d be easier than messaging her. Figured she’d still want me in uniform.” Rhea Lujayne was the Security Director. Raymus gambled that her position was high enough the average grunt wouldn’t know or have access to her schedule. But not someone so outlandish as to arise suspicion.

  The elder, more senior officer finally became interested. “I didn’t know that was an option. I’ve been here four years, and I’ve never talked to her one-on-one. Do me a favor will ya, and let her know that?”

  Years of tradecraft in espionage still didn’t prepare even the most skilled spy to remain completely calm when you think your cover has been blown. Watson had prepared for infiltration missions with limited time and resources many times in the past, but never on US soil, without support of any kind. And especially not when there were lives at stake that he had personally put in harm’s way through a lapse in judgement a rookie could’ve discerned.

  “Sure thing, if I get the chance,” he answered with a nervous smile. “I’ve never talked to her before either. Gotta first get a sense of the landscape before moving off course though; know what I mean?”

  The other two nodded in unison and went back to whatever held their attention before he arrived. Raymus made his way down the short hallway and waited for the lift. He let out his breath the instant the lift doors closed in front of him, easing some of his tension along with it. He took a moment to memorize the building directory that was displayed on a glowing panel, and opted for the seventh floor. Lucky for him, Lujayne’s office was on the same floor as his true destination; Rosen’s records division.

  The lift stopped and doors parted to reveal a sobering bright waiting area. He pulled his cap lower, to further shield his eyes. From that angle, he could clearly see his reflection in the glossy black floor. Looking around for an indicator of where to go, Watson got the sense that the seventh floor was rarely occupied by anyone other than those who had offices there.

  There were two plush, cream-colored leather form-chairs at opposing ends of the foyer. They looked as if they had never been used. He approached the one on his left, to further support his theory, when a holographic banner appeared in the hallway. In bold, red lettering it read ‘Rhea Lujayne, Security Director’ equal distance from floor to ceiling. He backed up two paces and the banner faded away as casually as it appeared.

  There was only one other route to take, so he turned around and confidently walked through the bright blue simulacrum of the records division. He turned a corner and was met by a short hallway with two doors; one to a unisex lavatory, and the other was a magnetically sealed transparent slider with a lone card reader. On the other side was a single work station sandwiched between large digital archives. He waved the appropriated ID card over the scanner and the door silently slid aside, allowing him entry into the claustrophobic chamber.

  Raymus sat on the stiffly uncomfortable chair and placed his data stick into the reader. The display came to life and asked for a username. Before he began to try some of the names he committed to memory, he thought it best to try to bypass the system by attempting a general word or phrase ubiquitous to computer systems. His first instinct was to type Guest, due to a silly inside joke with his former colleagues over mutual appreciation of an older television show. He laughed out loud when access was granted past the logon.

  The man wearing a nametag that read L. Salvatoré looked on patiently as his data stick came to life and began searching for its pre-programmed targets: all network contestants of the past two years who are veterans, and where they had been referred from. While that list compiled, which Watson predicted to take only a minute at most, he did a search for close associations of the company based on frequency of communication, as well as any major donors and stakeholders.

  The universal reader light turned green, indicating completion of its download, but Raymus continued to peruse the list of names and companies that Rosen held in regard. The list contained the usual wealthy investors, low-profile politicians, government contracts, and commercial financiers. Two names however stood out amongst the barrage of funders: the Alethea Foundation and the National Institute of Mental Health. He saved the content of his additional search results to his data stick and checked the time. He had only been there three minutes thus far, and had no intention of staying longer than five. So his last order of business was to look for any active or recent clandestine operations, and who may be carrying them out.

  Suddenly, the peaceful hum of processors in that small space was pierced by a shift from the calming blue light to hellish red, and an angry automated announcement blasting into every corner of the building, he assumed, instantly followed.

  “Attention all personnel. Priority one programming will commence in thirty minutes. Report to your designated areas within department accepted time-frames. Thank you for your dedication to this neighborhood network.”

  Watson ensured his downloads had concluded and casually left the confining records room. He turned the corner to see a strikingly tall and imposing woman waiting for the lift. He quickly recalled that there was only one other office on the floor, and soon recognized Lujayne from the bio he read prior to embarking on his mission. Her stature still gave him pause nonetheless.

  “Ma’am,” he said with a tilt of his head. She gave him a curt nod in response, then did a double take.

  “What were you doing over there officer…?”

  “Salvatoré ma’am. I’m actually off shift. I seem to have misplaced a memento from the company store for my partner and I’m retracing my steps to see if I can locate it. I haven’t been having much luck with that.”

  “I see,” she responded with skepticism. Her speech pattern had a strange staccato style to it, and undertones of her Haitian accent still remained.

  The lift doors opened and he deferred to her to enter first. Two long strides and she cleared the length of the lift car. He entered not knowing which direction they were headed. She selected floor 13, while he reluctantly chose the ground floor. The instant the doors closed she squared off with him and loomed like she were about to squash a bug. Watson didn’t dare look her in the eye for fear of capture.

  “I’m putting you on notice officer,” she growled, peppering him with spittle. “Prepare for a formal reprimand from your supervisor. Your cap is far too low, your boots look like they haven’t been shined since they came out of the box, and your jacket is not standard issue. Square yourself away, A-SAP!” The lift doors parted and she stormed out like an incensed giant without looking back.

  Raymus rode the lift in silence as others entered and exited on their way to their duty stations. He reached the ground floor without further incident, but walked briskly to the exit where he could see the waxing sunlight beyond the security doors. He was nearly to the door when he froze by a raised voice from his left.

  “Hey! How’d it go up there Salvatoré?”

  Watson turned slowly to regard the middle-aged security officer whom he chatted with earlier. “Eh, she gave me the runaround. Told me to talk to my supervisor instead. Sorry pal.”

  “Figures,” he muttered cynically. “Thanks for trying though.”

  Ramus nodded respectfully and hurried out the door, before he overstayed his welcome. His hat was still pulled low, so the bright sunrise directly in front of him didn’t require him to shield his eyes. He quickened his pace even more. When he felt he was a comfortable distance away, he activated his jacket’s camouflage feature once again by depressing a button inside his cuff, and the garment shifted to a metallic aqua blue, the color of the concierge staff at the Atlantis.

  Encouraged by his successful infiltration of Rosen, Watson considered advancing his next move ahead of schedule. He needed to upload his findings to a contact he’d maintained throughout the entire ordeal with Rosen, but he preferred to review the data more thoroughly himself first, and crosscheck it on a DOD ComNet-accessable computer terminal. It was doubtful there would be one at a casino, he concluded, so that left him with few options i
n downtown Reno. There were a couple military facilities in the region he could easily access, but their distance and the time it would take to prep for such an undertaking wouldn’t balance a risk/benefit analysis enough to his liking.

  By the time he arrived back at his hotel room, he had settled on one of the last public places with both access to more secure networks, and privacy for those who wished to conduct business in relative safety outside of one’s own home; the library. He knew there was one just over the river to the south of where he stood. He thought back to his days in the Boy Scouts, and remembered their motto to be prepared, which brought a wan smile to his face as he sat down to map out step-by-step how he would get there and back without being recognized and captured, or worse.

  Chapter Thirteen: Lucky Charm

  Hal rubbed his eyes a fourth time since leaving his hotel room. He also bumped into the coffee bar patron in line in front of him while doing so. The stocky, middle-aged balding man wearing a Hawaiian shirt either didn’t care or didn’t notice. His eyes were so red at that moment, Hal imagined they were glowing and had frightened off any rebuke he might have otherwise received. He conceded that three hours sleep just didn’t cut it for him anymore, as he stepped up to the vendor.

  He ordered a Gibraltar, with an extra shot of espresso, and a turkey sausage quiche. He weaved his way to the rear of the service area to doctor up his drink when he saw an annoyingly familiar sight. Milo was sitting at a corner table reading peacefully, and looking remarkably well-rested. He also appeared to be wearing a fresh change of clothes, which caused Hal to stand gawkily near the cream and sugar trying to remember if Milo had an overnight bag, while people walked around him sending concerned glares his direction.

  “This seat taken?” Hal asked sleepily, as he sat down without waiting for a response. Once he was down however, it crossed his mind to at least check to see if he sat at the right table.