by Rob Horner
Agent Travers smiled at his word play. A most succulent vintage, indeed.
After turning left onto First Colonial Boulevard from Virginia Beach Boulevard, Kirkson turned right onto Will O Wisp Drive, which put them in line for the Emergency Department. There were parking spots available in a small lot to the right, and Travers could see Frazier, tall and gangly as ever, waiting patiently beside a nondescript mid-size sedan, one of a half-dozen such cars the agency kept available for its agents. Already wearing a long white lab coat over a light-yellow button up shirt, black slacks, and necktie, he looked the part of a physician.
“Jamar,” Agent Travers said as Kirkson navigated the Maxima to park next to Frazier.
Startled by hearing his first name, Agent Kirkson glanced at Agent Travers.
“We can’t allow any screw-ups here.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“I know you are, Jamar, but Agent Frazier has already demonstrated he doesn’t have the stomach for this type of work.”
“I heard, sir. But we need him for this.”
“Yes, I know. But you’re going to be dressed as the nurse, so I want you to inject Captain Ortega. Don’t let him have control of the syringe.”
“Understood, sir.”
“If you have the chance, pull up a second syringe and bring it back out with you.”
Jamar Kirkson looked up into Buck’s eyes and nodded in agreement.
3
“What?” Brian demanded, rising from the edge of the bed.
“Your son,” Billy said softly. The programmer expected a reaction like this, which was why he’d felt it necessary to tell his friend as soon as possible.
“I told you!” Vicki crowed.
Despite all the warnings he’d given himself, Brian’s hopes soared. Billy had explained it, the false name, everything, and Brian believed him. So help him, God, he believed him. His son was coming home.
Brian heard a rustle behind him as Vicki rose to her feet. Turning to face her, he saw her open embrace and stepped willingly into it, nestling his face on her shoulder, shedding tears of joy.
“Oh, stop acting like such a baby,” Debbie chided from the doorway, though she seemed just as happy as Brian.
So many hopes and dreams crashed in on him, racing through his mind. There were so many things he needed to say to his son that it seemed there could never be enough time to say them all. And then there was this woman holding him, this Victoria Galer. For the past two hours they’d done nothing but talk, reliving their lives for the other’s benefit. Brian hadn’t minded talking with her. Wait, that wasn’t fair. He’d enjoyed talking with her. No one had been able to make him open up like that in over five years, not since Diane died.
She was a good listener. But more than that, she was a good talker, able to handle her end of a conversation. Somehow, they knew how to talk to each other.
Slowly, as the initial shock of Billy’s revelation began to recede, Brian was able to control his tears. He backed away from Victoria’s embrace, feeling both embarrassed and overjoyed that she’d held him at all.
“Don’t worry, Brian,” Debbie said. “We know how you feel. And you’ve got our promise to do everything we can to make sure you get your son back.
Brian nodded, still unable to speak.
“And we’ll get Sherry back, too,” Billy added, for Victoria’s benefit.
The couple withdrew from the room, closing the door behind them. Once they were gone, Brian sank back onto the edge of the bed, hot tears still scalding his eyes, while hope surged—for once unchecked—through his heart.
“It’s okay,” Vicki muttered, sitting next to him, again drawing him into her embrace.
And that was perfect, too.
4
By eleven in the morning, Robert Barnes was safely—if not comfortably—ensconced in one of the red plastic chairs in the airport gate waiting area. Since being given permission to travel by Captain Ortega, he’d been able to change his departure time, though it cost him a hundred dollars more for a flight five hours sooner.
The cost was meaningless.
Sitting in a blue Polo shirt and khaki slacks, Barnes scrubbed a hand through his light-brown hair and tried to concentrate on the material Ortega had given him. The first few pages were nothing more than standard government bureaucratic bullshit, outlining the classification level of the documents and the legal ramifications for reading it without the proper clearance, as well as the punishments for allowing someone to read it who shouldn’t. It gave the names and titles of those responsible for collating the data and keeping it safe. It provided a mailing address in case the folder was found unattended, then reiterated all the previous warnings about not reading it if you did find it. Of course, in order to know where to send the folder if you found it, you’d have to open it and scan to the second page, which might already constitute an illegal action. Those little lapses in logic never crossed the minds of the men and women who filled so many pages with so few meaningful words.
Following the first few sheets was a list of those whose names were on the authorized access list. Names only, listed alphabetically, with no titles or other contact information. Manuel Ortega’s name was on the list, as well as Buck Travers, but Barnes didn’t see the names of any of the other agents he’d interacted with. That included Angela Bassett and Stan Frazier. Those two really had been in the dark.
Also missing were any easily recognizable names, which Robert scanned for twice before moving on. None of the current heads of the various national agencies were listed, no Chief of Staff, no President or Vice President, no Congressmen or Senators, no Attorney General. Perhaps they were given right by virtue of their positions. Since elections can and often did cause a change in the makeup of various committees, they didn’t need to be placed permanently on a list like this. Lieutenant Barnes didn’t really believe that, though. It was more likely there were no such names because it allowed for plausible deniability.
After the list of authorized users came another list of names, this one set up like an Excel spreadsheet but without gridlines. It began with code names, designations, like how he’d once thought of Sherry and Travis. A set of names was beside each code designation, though some had a second name next to the first, perhaps indicating a marriage. But why would there be male names with similar changes? And why was Travis Wilkins listed next to James Jenkins? Beside the names was what looked like a batch number which always ended with an A or a B. The final column contained a current status. An alarming number of the entries were marked “deceased,” and more than a few showed “terminated.” All told, there were more than two hundred people listed on the spreadsheet, taking up eight or nine pages.
Designation
Name
Reassigned name
Experiment
Status
X-21
Rebecca Waters
21X1455-B
Terminated
X-22
James Jennings
Travis Wilkins
22X1502-A
Oceana-inactive
X-23
Robert Douglas
23X1604-A
Pentagon-active
X-24
Lisa Smalls
Renee Smallson
24X1633-B
Deceased
Robert tried to make sense of the names and experiment numbers, but the only immediate correlation he could find was that A and B appeared to signify male and female, respectively. Also curious were the inactive versus active status designations. What did that mean? And why was Robert Douglas not only active, but also assigned to the Pentagon? Flipping a few pages, he searched for Sherry’s name.
X-103
Jeremiah Black
Joseph White
103X1633-A
Terminated
X-104
Sherry Galer
Sherry Anders
104X1502-B
Oceana-inactive
X-105
105X2015-A
Deceased
X-106
William Antlo
106X2022-A
Lemoore-inactive
X-107
Jillian Griff
Jillian Douglas
107X1604-B
Pentagon-active
Discounting the numbers before the X in the experiment number, which seemed nothing but a reflection of the subjects’ numerical reference designations, Sherry had the same experiment number as Travis. Other than being assigned to the same installation, did the match signify anything else? More interesting to Robert was the entry for Jillian Griff, who was renamed Douglas. She shared the experiment number and same location status as Robert Douglas. Were they married in the same way as Sherry and Agent Frazier had been, as part of a memory manipulation, or was theirs more organic? Did that have anything to do with their experiment designations? Were these people couples before they were recruited to the program?
Questions without answers, at least none that were immediately apparent. Flipping to the end of the list of names, he was about to move on to the next section of the document, which promised more information on the nature of the project, when three names at the end caught his attention. More precisely, their experiment numbers grabbed at him.
X-210
Christopher Chase
210X3216-A
Lincoln-inactive
X-211
Melanie Horne
211X3216-B
Lincoln-inactive
X-212
Angel Martin
212X3216-AB
Lemoore-inactive
Robert scanned back through the list of names, but could find no other cases where an experiment designation ended in AB. Was this a new phase of the project? If so, why were there no other entries?
Chalking it up to one more question he couldn’t answer, Barnes set aside the list of names, uncovering another sheet filled with classification notices, imprisonment warnings, and the requisite names and agencies of those in charge of classifying the materials, those who had review and redaction authority, and which laws and statutes gave them their authority. As he was about to flip past the warnings, a tone sounded overhead, and a tired female voice announced pre-boarding for his flight, Norfolk to O’Hare. Carefully closing the folder, Lieutenant Barnes placed it in his carry-on and made ready to board the flight.
5
Standing just outside the automatic sliding glass doors leading into the Emergency Department, Travers smiled when the “Code Blue, Emergency Department” announcement come from the overhead speakers inside. As the call was repeated, he walked away from the doors and headed back across the street to where the cars were parked. He’d have to wait a few minutes as Kirkson and Frazier made their way out of the hospital. Protocol would have them moving deeper into the building and toward a different exit.
It would seem suspicious for two strange men, despite the authenticity of their costumes, to be seen leaving through the front of the Emergency Department just as a code was called. Agent Travers trusted Kirkson to understand this; he doubted Frazier would have remembered.
Unlocking the rented Maxima, Travers started the engine, letting the air conditioner cool the inside of the car. Almost noon, and the outside temperature was nearing ninety degrees. With the near-constant humidity of Virginia Beach thickening the air, it felt closer to a hundred. Moving around the car to the passenger seat, Travers decided he would let Kirkson chauffeur him a while longer.
A few minutes later the two agents appeared, walking around the hospital from the west side. They’d strolled out the main entrance, far enough from the Emergency Department that it shouldn’t cause any suspicion. Reluctantly stepping back out into the heat, Buck awaited their approach.
“Smooth as silk,” Agent Kirkson reported as they reached the parking lot. “They hadn’t even needed to intubate him yet.”
“The cardiac monitor?” Travers asked.
“I reset it before I injected him,” Kirkson answered. “I unplugged his leads from the monitor, so when it came back up, it thought there was no patient.”
Agent Travers grunted. He hadn’t thought of that. If the Captain had been intubated with a machine breathing for him, his little plan wouldn’t have worked.
Succinylcholine, his succulent vintage, was a paralytic that killed by preventing the motion of every muscle in the body, including the diaphragm. Unable to breath, unable even to blink an eye, the captain would be awake, aware of his body’s desperate need for oxygen, but unable to so much as utter a gasp.
“We were five minutes away before someone pushed the code button,” Frazier added, removing a small, rectangular box from his coat pocket and handing it to Agent Travers. The box was about the height and width of a large iPad tablet but as thick as a paperback western. “I got his right palm and fingers, full imprints.”
“Thanks, Stan,” Travers said.
“Does this mean I’m good?” Frazier asked, his usual confidence shaken. He looked nervous.
Buck maintained a straight face as he answered, “As far as I’m concerned, you performed admirably.”
Agent Frazier’s face showed his relief, his long features contracting together as his lips curled into a smile. He reached into his pocket for the keys to the sedan, opened the door and dropped into the driver’s seat.
A subtle wave brought Agent Kirkson to Buck’s left side. Waiting until the door was closed, Travers appeared to think of something else to say, and knocked on the driver’s side window. Frazier started the engine, then reached for the lever to lower the window. As the glass slid into the door, he lay his left elbow on the frame, leaning his head on its long neck sideways.
“Sir?” Frazier asked.
“You’re good with us, Agent Frazier,” Travers said, reaching out and grabbing Frazier’s left arm, pulling the wrist down outside the car, jamming the frame uncomfortably up into Frazier’s armpit. Holding the arm extended with his right hand, Travers reached up with his left, inserting it between Frazier’s elbow and the car door, immobilizing it. Moving quickly, Kirkson revealed a 10-milliliter syringe with the stopper pulled back, the barrel full of a colorless liquid. A one inch, twenty-one-gauge needle with a green hub glistened in the sunlight as an escaped drop of fluid fell to the pavement. The second of shock Frazier displayed was enough for Kirkson to find and pierce the vein bulging in his left antecubital fossa. With a practiced motion he pressed the plunger home, delivering two hundred milligrams of succinylcholine, almost double the accepted lethal dose. Only as the needle was withdrawn did Travers release Frazier’s arm, stepping back from the car door.
“The Director, I’m sorry to say, was most definitely not okay with you.”
“You can’t…you didn’t,” Frazier stammered, even as the immediacy of his danger flooded his mind. Reaching for the door handle, he tried to open the car door, but a kick from Agent Travers pushed it closed again.
“You’re not getting out that way.”
Frazier let out a frenzied shriek, counting the seconds in his head. He knew his time was limited. Desperate, he threw himself across the car’s interior, reaching for the passenger door, but his arms and legs failed to respond and only his upper body lurched sideways. A second shriek left him, much softer than the first, as the accessory muscles of breathing, the trapezius and intercostals, remained flaccid and unaccommodating.
Leaning into the interior of the sedan, Travers observed the terrified man, eyes rolling wildly, no doubt looking to each appendage as he tried to move it. Then even his eyes stopped moving, initially fixated to the left, then lolling back to center. His jaw slackened and his tongue slipped out, hanging to the right.
“You know,” Kirkson said from Travers’ side, “I enjoyed that. Far as I’m concerned, it’s a better death than he deserved.”
Travers grunted in reply. He didn’t need to stay to watch Agent Frazier’s last moments; in fact, the longer they dallied,
the greater risk a potential witness might arrive. But he couldn’t seem to turn away.
What was he feeling right then? He’d be conscious, yes, and terrified. Succinylcholine was a paralytic, not an anesthetic. Did he hurt? Did his chest feel like it was straining for air, the way you sometimes felt when you stayed underwater just a couple seconds longer than you should? Was he experiencing any pain in other parts of his body as tissues screamed for oxygen that wasn’t coming? Were his fingertips and toes changing colors, perhaps turning blue?
“We should go, sir,” Kirkson said after another minute passed, drawing Agent Travers out of his musings.
Backing his large upper body out of the sedan, Travers turned and climbed into the waiting Maxima. Kirkson dropped into the driver’s seat. The usually soft-spoken younger agent seemed more subdued than normal. Despite his words of a few moments before, perhaps the impact of what he’d just done was beginning to weigh on him.
“You did good, Jamar,” Travers said. “Now let’s get back to the office so we can process this handprint.”
Pulling on his seatbelt, Jamar Kirkson asked, “And after that?”
“After that, you’ll take me to the airport, then go home and get some rest. Tomorrow’s a brand-new week, and someone has to be here to man the office until I get back.”
Pausing before shifting into reverse, Kirkson said, “If it helps, I’d like to go with you to Illinois. You might need backup.”
“I appreciate that,” Travers said, turning to look at Kirkson, “and I’d be glad to have you there. But the list of people authorized to enter that place is very short. We’ll all be best served by you remaining here, debriefing Agent Black when he comes in, and generally acting like it’s business as usual, at least until you hear otherwise.”