Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella)

by McAfee, David

  “Mr. President,” Jacobs said, saluting. “I—”

  “Please,” Duncan interrupted, “I’m not the President anymore. And stop saluting me, Eli.”

  Eli’s hand dropped. “Perhaps, but people still call Bill Clinton ‘Mr. President,’ and he’s been out of office for years.”

  “Different circumstances.”

  “All right, Mr. Duncan. I need to show you something back at the lab.”

  “I’m fine, Eli. How are you?” Duncan asked, trying not to smile.

  Eli missed the subtle attempt at humor. “I’m not well, Mr. President. Not well at all. And you won’t be either. Not after I show you what we found.”

  ***

  Duncan followed Jacobs into a sterile lab deep underground. Like most of Manifold’s bases, the Alpha facility lay almost completely buried inside a mountain, making it invisible to satellite photos using the visible spectrum. Fortunately, modern satellites were equipped with a wide array of cameras, including infrared, radar, x-ray, gamma, and a few others that only Duncan and a handful of others knew existed. These technologies made it possible to map at least the top levels of the facility from the safety of the Thermosphere.

  Prior to leaving for Pinckney, Duncan spent some time going over the maps of Manifold Alpha produced by ground-penetrating radar. The illustrations revealed the facility was hundreds of feet deep—and that was not counting the natural cavern underneath it. But Duncan had a feeling they had yet to truly uncover the scope of the expansive base. How it was built on U.S. soil without being noticed was beyond him, but he suspected a good number of New Hampshire officials made large deposits to their bank accounts. While those officials would normally be investigated and prosecuted, this time secrecy demanded they be left alone. None of that bothered Duncan as much as the facility’s still-unexplored depths.

  What was Ridley doing down here? As Jacobs motioned him over to a large, flat screen computer monitor, he realized he was about to find out.

  “Look at this,” Jacobs said.

  Duncan stepped around and looked at the computer screen. It showed a picture of a wheat stalk. Near the top of the stalk was a pair of dark, roughly triangular masses, which looked almost like a fungus. “What am I looking at?” Duncan asked.

  “The sclerotial stage of ClavicepsPurpurea, otherwise known as ergot.”

  “Sclerotial? What does that mean?”

  “Not important. You should be focusing on the ergot.”

  “I thought that was part of a horse’s hoof,” Duncan said, confused.

  “Different ergot. This one is a fungus. A dangerous one.”

  “Explain.”

  Jacobs punched a button on the keypad and the screen shifted to an illustration. To Duncan it looked like a random grouping of hexagons and tiny circles.

  It took him a moment to realize he was looking at a large and complex molecule.

  “What is that?” Duncan asked.

  “That is the molecule of ergotamine, a complex alkaloid found in ergot, and just one of the many such alkaloids contained in the fungus. The effects of ergotamine on the human system are wide and varied, but include vivid hallucinations, irrational behavior, convulsions and even death. Mankind has been using it as a poison for thousands of years. The ancient Assyrians used it to poison the wells of their enemies as far back as 2400 BC.”

  “What was Ridley doing with it?”

  Jacobs pulled up another screen. This one showed a molecule similar to the first, with one difference.

  “What is M-Erg 2.6.3?” Duncan asked.

  “An additive,” Jacobs replied. “Manifold altered the molecule.”

  “What does it do?”

  “We don’t know,” Jacobs said. “The lab is still analyzing it, but we’re having trouble separating it from the rest of the molecule.”

  Duncan knew enough about molecules to know that even a tiny alteration could drastically change the characteristics of anything. Once you started fooling around with substances on a molecular level, anything was possible. Based on Manifold’s history, Duncan was pretty sure that whatever M-Erg 2.6.3 was, it didn’t help crops grow or fight off cancer cells. More likely, Ridley had intended to use it to further his own agenda.

  “How about an educated guess?” Duncan asked.

  “Well, obviously M-Erg stands for Manifold Ergotamine. The numbers probably refer to the version used, like in software. That means they’ve been working on this for a while, so its intended use was clearly defined somewhere in the database.”

  “Okay.”

  “Given Ridley’s other works, he was probably trying to enhance the ergotamine. Most likely trying to make it more potent or volatile. Ergot has some medicinal uses, some of which carry over into Ridley’s genetic attempts at immortality. It might have something to do with his manipulations of the Hydra’s blood. Some of my staff theorize that he used the alkaloids to stop or stall the Hydra’s regenerative processes at different stages, which would help him to observe the changes and document them.”

  Jacobs almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself of his own words.

  “But you don’t agree, do you?” Duncan asked.

  Jacobs turned his chair around. “No. I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s just that ergot is a potent substance already, and ergotamine is nasty stuff. Not only that, but there are plenty of other poisons, including several powerful neurotoxins, that can instantly halt biological activity, many of which are readily available to labs and don’t require any alteration. If you ask me, I think he meant to use this on people. Probably after building that ‘New World’ of his.”

  Duncan shook his head. The revelation should have been shocking, but when Richard Ridley and Manifold Genetics were involved, shocking was standard operating procedure. “What would that do to people?”

  “I don’t know. In its regular form, ergotamine is similar to LSD. Enhanced? Who knows? Maybe instant death or severe brain damage. Without the rest of the data, the only way to find out would be to test it on someone.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So is this why you called me here? You could have told me this over the phone, Eli.”

  “Not exactly. The weaponized ergotamine is bad, but it’s not the worst part.”

  “It gets worse?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Jacobs pulled a manila folder off the table and handed it to Duncan. “Read this.”

  Duncan opened the file and started to read. Less than two paragraphs in, he felt the blood drain from his face. By the time he finished the first page and looked at the pictures, he had seen enough. He closed the folder and handed it back.

  “How recent is this? Are you sure it’s not old data?”

  “It’s dated two days before the raid on this facility. Ridley probably never had a chance to act on it since he was fighting off Sigler’s team at the time.”

  “I have to go,” Duncan turned and walked briskly out of the lab, not wanting to waste any time. He needed to get to a secure line as soon as possible, and he didn’t trust any of the phones in Manifold Alpha. Some of them could be tainted still, or monitored. The entire facility was in the process of being retrofitted for Chess Team’s use, but until the job was complete, he couldn’t take that chance. Too many lives were at stake.

  2.

  Erik Somers—Callsign: Bishop, sat in front of his computer, waiting for a file from a contact. In his hand was a cup of green tea sweetened with stevia. The contact, who Bishop knew as CJ—an undercover operative who had supplied valuable intel in the past—had e-mailed him the day before, claiming to have some news for him. Bishop knew CJ was currently in Iran investigating suspected terrorist cells, but he couldn’t figure out what it might have to do with him. Contacting him directly was a breach of protocol, especially now that Bishop was no longer officially part of Delta. For all intents and purposes, Chess Team no longer existed. The team hadn’t just been disban
ded, they had ceased to exist. Records of the team’s actions were deleted, and the team members’ military records ended just before they joined Chess Team, listing each as KIA. Killed in action. There were plenty of people who had personal experience with the team, like CJ, who knew, or could guess better, but any official inquiry into the team would come up blank.

  It was all smoke and mirrors. Chess Team still existed, only now they were off the government radar. They had gone from an elite Delta team to strictly Black Ops, which gave them a heck of a lot more freedom to do their jobs. Not having the government sniffing around their every move freed them up to be more creative in dealing with threats to the country. Of course, the same lack of support also made the job more dangerous, because whenever they went out they had only themselves to rely on. Still, Bishop preferred it that way. At least now, they could act without the risk of public exposure.

  The computer beeped, and Bishop looked up. The message he’d been waiting for popped up on the screen:

  INCOMING FILE FROM CALLSIGN JOKER. ACCEPT? Y/N

  “Joker” was CJ’s official callsign. It probably had something to do with his group name, but Bishop didn’t know. He’d never even met the man face to face. Sometimes Black Ops were like that. He typed Y on the keyboard.

  The fiber-optic connection downloaded the 2 MB file in less than a second, and it opened on a picture of a Middle Eastern couple sitting at the table. They looked to be in their late fifties or early sixties, and appeared to be sitting down to dinner. The woman’s face was clearly visible, indicating the pair were either moderate Muslims or in their own home. Judging by the setting—which seemed to be a large, private dining area—Bishop assumed the latter.

  But what could these two middle aged Muslims have to do with him?

  He read the caption attached to the photo.

  DAWOUD AND FAIZA ABBASI, 23052011 18:27 IRST. SvPh #1138-7A

  He checked the tag at the back of the caption. 23052011 was a date: April 23, 2011, and IRST stood for Iran Standard Time. SvPh stood for Surveillance Photo. That meant whoever had snapped the picture had taken it in secret at 6:27 pm in Iran over four months ago. Judging by the number attached, it was one of many such photos of the couple.

  But who were they?

  Bishop typed a message into the computer. What does this have to do with me? Then he hit SEND.

  While he waited, he examined the couple again. They looked like any ordinary Muslim couple sitting down to eat. The man was large and broad, with a curved, hawk-like nose that gave his face an overall predatory appearance. The hair at his temples had gone to gray, but the rest of it remained jet black. His eyes were a deep brown, wrinkled at the corners in what might have been a smile if not for the stern, disapproving curve of his lips.

  The woman sat to his right. Her skin was dark and her face narrow, and like her husband, her dark black hair was turning to gray. But where his face was hard and angular, hers was soft and kind, and perhaps a little sad. Her brown eyes were on the table in front of them rather than on her husband, and she held her hands folded demurely in her lap, waiting for her husband to eat first. The two were the only people in the picture. If Dawoud Abbasi had any other wives, they were not present.

  Bishop sipped at his tea, willing the image to make sense. Something about the woman looked familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He zoomed the picture in, centering the image on her face. Did he know her? If so, from where? He felt like he could almost place her features, but each time he tried he just missed the connection.

  When the computer beeped again, a new window popped up on the screen. Since he had already accepted a transmission from Joker, the computer assumed the sender was safe and didn’t ask for acceptance a second time, thus the message appeared right in front of his face.

  THEY ARE YOUR PARENTS.

  The mug of tea shattered on the floor.

  ***

  The phone rang three times before a gruff, scratchy voice answered. “Keasling speaking. What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

  “Stop calling me that,” Duncan said.

  “No can do, sir. Now what’s the problem?”

  “Is your line secure?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s Manifold.”

  “Again? Damn Ridley. He’s a real pain in the ass. Where is he now?”

  “It’s not him this time,” Duncan said. “Manifold was working on what we believe to be a weaponized form of ergot poisoning. They never finished it because the team infiltrated the facility before they could.”

  “Weaponized ergot?” Keasling asked. “You mean, Ridley made the stuff more dangerous?”

  “What do you know about ergot?”

  “It’s a nasty poison. Been around for thousands of years. Used in warfare as far back as 2400 BC. The Assyrians used to—”

  “Right. That’s the stuff,” Duncan said. He should have known Keasling would know all about ergot’s military history. “Manifold was working on an additive.”

  “But you said Chess Team shut them down. That sounds like good news to me. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is Manifold put one of their research labs in the middle of the Kavir Desert.”

  “Iran? Why would Ridley build there?”

  “Best guess? To be close to their potential clientele. Plus, if something went wrong it would be written off as an Iranian weapons lab.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But something went wrong,” Duncan continued. “Two weeks before the raid on the Alpha facility, a climate-controlled storage bunker in Iran was raided by jihadists, who discovered it while chasing down a pair of local men. It didn’t take long for them to realize what they had found. I have some video footage from the bunker’s security camera showing a group of them carrying out gallons on the stuff.”

  “Are you telling me that a group of Islamic radicals in Iran has a cache of weaponized ergot?”

  “That’s exactly what I am telling you.”

  “Damn,” Keasling said.

  “How is Bishop?” Duncan asked. While the team was no longer officially Delta, they still lived at Fort Bragg and would move to their new quarters at the Alpha facility later in the year. While Duncan oversaw the progress at Alpha, Keasling kept an eye on the team and sometimes reprised his middleman role. But Duncan was still on top of things and knew Bishop was the only team member not currently deployed or on personal leave. “Think he’s up to it?”

  “You know Bishop,” Keasling said. “No matter how beat up the guy gets, he’s impossible to read.”

  Bishop had fallen victim to one of Ridley’s experiments that left him with incredible regenerative capabilities but had nearly driven him mad. A crystal with strange healing properties recovered from Mount Meru in Vietnam had helped control the rage, but he’d endured physical injuries—a removed arm, near decapitation, repeated drowning—that took a toll on the human psyche, even one as tough as Bishop’s. The team’s last mission had stripped Bishop of his regenerative abilities, and the madness that came with them, but the memories of his injuries, and the madness, had to be haunting him.

  “Think he’s ready for a trip to Iran?” Duncan asked.

  “As luck would have it, he came to see me this morning, asking for exactly that.”

  3.

  The cabin of the Boeing 737 was much too quiet for his taste. Bishop was used to traveling in the Crescent, which was loud even inside the cabin. But for this job he’d had to take a commercial flight to Tehran, and the two planes couldn’t have been more different.

  For one thing, he thought, there aren’t any computers on the walls.

  When Duncan called him and told him he would be going to Iran to look for a terrorist cell that had stolen Manifold material, he almost couldn’t believe it. It seemed like too much of a coincidence, given the timing of his recent discovery. Of course, he would be landing in Tehran, in northern Iran, while Dawoud and Faiza Abbasi lived in Shiraz, some distance to the sou
th in the Fars province. Still, at least he was in the country. If time permitted, he would make the trip south and pay them a visit.

  Dawoud and Faiza Abbasi. His parents. Could it be true? Bishop knew he was adopted as a baby, but he’d never even bothered looking for his birth parents. They gave him up, and he was fine with it. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t need to know them. But now that he did know, he couldn’t help but feel excited at the possibility of meeting them, as well as a bit anxious.

  What would they be like? Would they be happy to see him? A thousand questions ran through his mind, and he meant to ask them all, especially the most important one.

  Why? Why had they given him up? The old anger threatened to bubble to the surface. Childhood memories began to play through his mind. Years of wondering what was so wrong with him that his own parents didn’t want him. Didn’t he measure up? Was he weak as a baby? Small? Were his eyes the wrong color? As a baby, it couldn’t have been anything he’d done, so what was it? Maybe his parents just weren’t ready for children. Maybe they had better things to do than raise their own blood. Maybe—

  He realized he was squeezing the armrest so hard his knuckles had turned white, and he forced himself to relax. He took a slow, deep breath and reeled in his racing thoughts, slowing them to a crawl. He pictured a placid lake in the mountains. Cool, clear water. The sound of birds in the background. A laughing family in a canoe paddling their way across the surface. It was a technique he’d employed often in his attempts to manage his anger. Soon his pulse and breathing returned to normal, and he released his grip on the armrest.

  I’m okay, he thought. Still waters.

  Why had his parents given him up? The answer would have to wait. As anxious as he was to meet the Abbasis, Deep Blue had sent him to do a job. He shook his head and tried to clear his parents—his parents!—from his mind and focus on the task at hand.