The REM Precept

by J. M. Lanham

  The large industrial lights overhead warmed up slowly, but there was just enough light for Cline to confirm what he’d driven eight hours for: the shadowy outline of the mobile unit was still there, parked in the center of the large concrete pad, intact and ready to deploy.

  At least, he hoped it was ready. That was one thing both he and Ramírez were unsure of. The unit had never been field-tested, making the Atlanta Op the first of its kind. It was sure to be a trial by fire.

  Cline contemplated the feasibility of it all as he swung open the rear doors of the van and shone his flashlight on the interior machinations of Dick Doyle’s dream project. To the left, a control panel, touch-screen LCD, and content-delivery uplinks gave operators full control of the dream sequence to be emulated through the outlier. To the right, the med tech’s station helped the scientists administering IVs keep an eye on vitals while Ocula 2.0 was pumping through the outlier’s veins. Below, mounted to the underside of the van where the gas tank should be, was a shielded nuclear reactor; a design originally intended for nuclear-powered planes during the Cold War in the 1950s that was now being used to power an experimental mobile broadcasting system. And in the center, blocking Cline’s view of the front cab, was the patient table, complete with thin green foam padding, vital monitors, and a hardy set of leather restraints.

  It was Skyline on Wheels. But, for all the multimillion- dollar technology packed tightly into a six-by-fourteen-foot utility van, it was fundamentally worthless without an outlier to involuntarily man the controls. Fortunately, Cline had the key ingredient to the equation bound and gagged in the trunk of his Crown Vic; an ingredient that was hard to come by. Outliers were a rare commodity, and the fact that the slightest mishap could cost him dearly wasn’t lost on Cline. That meant making sure everything that could go wrong with the mobile unit, didn’t.

  He jumped out of the back and slid under the van to inspect his greatest concern: the reactor, housed in a steel barrel the size of a fifty-five-gallon drum, with one half of the barrel protruding from the bottom of the vehicle, the other hidden in the cab under the patient table. From the outside, there was no way of telling whether everything was in proper working order—or ready to meltdown without a moment’s notice. Still, giving it a once-over was the nuclear equivalent of kicking the tires on a new car, and seeing the unit free of damage from road debris put his mind at ease, at least for the time being.

  Of course, Cline knew the real test would be powering the unit on, a task that took a bit longer than flipping the switch on a dusty warehouse breaker box. Every element of the mobile unit had been tested in the lab prior to being stored away to keep the project hidden from the new director, but that was months ago. Even if everything went according to plan, it would still be the first field test with an outlier in tow.

  The operation was risky. But all of it was a risk Cline was more than willing to take.

  He lifted the commercial garage door by the side entrance and walked back to his car, the headlights of his Crown Vic now shining a light through the drizzle outside onto his pet project. The trunk popped, and inside lay a bound and gagged Strassman. The man peered up in a daze, realizing he was in the wrong place at an even worse time, but was so doped up on narcotics that he was unable to do anything about it. Cline leaned down and asked, “So, Mr. Strassman. Ready to go for a ride?”

  ***

  The plane landed in Atlanta at daybreak with Margaret Lancaster, Colin Kovic, and a handful of unnamed agents in tow. It came to a rolling stop near a private hangar as the clamshell-style air stairs folded down to let all passengers off. Kovic followed the agents down as Lancaster brought up the rear, already on the phone and making the appropriate calls to set up shop in Atlanta. Soon the group of half a dozen CIA operatives was standing in a semicircle inside the empty hangar as Lancaster gave the morning debriefing.

  “As you’re all aware, four fugitives have been spotted in the Atlanta area, two of whom escaped from FBI custody early Friday morning.” She passed out identification cards with photos and descriptions of the four remaining outliers. “We have reason to believe the targets are still in the Atlanta area, and have two support teams at Langley monitoring local channels.” She cut her eyes over to Kovic, then back to the group. “There’s also the case of one of our own, Stephen Cline. He’s been off the reservation for almost twenty-four hours, and it’s up to us to rein him in quietly and under the radar. This is a black op, gentlemen, meaning officially, we’re not working under the umbrella of the agency. Does everyone understand?”

  They collectively shook their heads yes.

  “Good. Agents Hammel and Franklin, you’ll ride with me to the Atlanta station. Vickers and Trejo, take Kovic to meet with Agent Morgan at FBI headquarters. See what he can tell us about what transpired before the train wreck.”

  Everyone broke and walked to their blacked-out sedans parked nearby when Kovic approached Lancaster. “You don’t seriously expect me to ride with Bennett’s crew of flunkies, do you? I distinctly remember there was a time when you wanted the Consultants gone more than anyone else.”

  “You were their liaison, Kovic. You should feel right at home. Besides, they’re already in the thick of this operation. Might as well let them help us see this thing through.”

  He eyed Vickers and Trejo, who were already sitting in the car waiting, and changed the subject. “Still no word from Cline?”

  “Not a one. I’m afraid the man’s ghosted us, but not before stopping by Skyline to pick up a friend.” She handed Kovic a copy of the transfer paper. “Jesus,” he said. “He checked Strassman out of the facility?”

  “Appears that way. Of course, Ramírez is playing dumb. Says he was in the lab when Cline pulled this stunt. At this point, I don’t know who to believe anymore. Bennett said managing duplicity was always the hardest part of the job …” She brushed off the thought and asked, “Do you have the files I requested?”

  Kovic handed over a folder and Lancaster pulled her shades down to read through it while he spoke. “The mobile unit was the brainchild of Dick Doyle that Cline has kept hidden somewhere in the Atlanta area ever since the disaster in Costa Rica,” he said. “My guess is that’s when he sensed both projects going south and decided to stockpile whatever he could in the hope of revisiting Ocula in some capacity in the future.”

  “And we funded this?”

  “Well, technically Asteria did. It was all part of the unofficial partnership between the pharmaceutical giant and the agency.”

  “So, just how dangerous is this thing?”

  “In a word, very, and it’s not just the ability to deploy an outlier transmission from anywhere in the field I’m talking about. The broadcast van is powered by a small modular reactor, or SMR. The Russians experimented with them back in the sixties, hoping they could develop a nuclear-powered bomber, but containing the high levels of radiation made the technology unsafe for anyone piloting the aircraft. Still, that didn’t stop us from trying our hand at the technology.”

  “You’re talking about the Air Force’s nuclear testing site at Dawson Forest.”

  “Yes. The area was officially closed back in the seventies, but the research in the remote north Georgia mountains continued for at least twenty years before the military pulled the plug.”

  “That’s definitely Cline’s neck of the woods,” Lancaster said. “Could explain the connection. So, about this reactor. How large are we talking?”

  “About the size of a large barrel or metal drum, mounted to the undercarriage. By reactor standards, it’s quite possibly the smallest of its kind. It’ll be hard, maybe near impossible, to spot. The unit was designed to blend in and looks like any other news van.”

  “Jesus.” Lancaster dropped her head as she closed the file. “And we don’t have a vehicle description? Make? Model?”

  “Not a one. Like I said, it appears to be Cline’s secret project. And I have reason to believe Ramírez knows about it, too.”

  “Why is t
hat?”

  “He was one of the head developers of new technology at both facilities. The guy who synthesized Ocula into 2.0, perfected the content-delivery system, increased the range of the Skyline facility. And Cline? Well, he’s a moron. If there’s a semi-working unit out there, there’s no way he didn’t have help with it.”

  “You didn’t think to tell me about any of this sooner—”

  “You didn’t exactly give me a chance back at the mill, did you?”

  Lancaster couldn’t argue that. On the surface, Cline’s behavior remained extremely questionable, especially in regards to the Strassman abduction. But Lancaster wasn’t about to discuss the theories swirling around in her head now. Not with Kovic present.

  She pointed to the blacked-out sedan-in-waiting and said, “Better catch your ride. We don’t want to keep the FBI waiting.”

  Kovic took a step toward the car before turning around. “I just want to say, madam director, that I sincerely appreciate your confidence in me moving forward.” He extended a hand, and Lancaster shook it.

  “It’s been a privilege, Colin.” Their eyes met, and no amount of CIA training could help Lancaster hide the truth.

  He knows, she thought. He’d never admit it, but he knows. This was the part of the job she hated most.

  Kovic pursed his lips and nodded, reaffirming Lancaster’s hunch before taking the slow walk toward the idling car. There would be no fight. He got in the back, and soon the car was lost in the glare of the morning sun breaking brightly on the horizon.

  She shot Agent Morgan a text to let him know she was on her way to meet with the FBI, then turned to leave, knowing that was the last time she would ever see Colin Kovic alive again.

  Chapter 26:

  Shot in the Dark

  “Obviously, we should wait till dark,” Paul said as he parted the curtain above the AC and looked into the parking lot, watching the heat rays transform parked cars in the distance into colorful mirages that twisted and shimmered above the simmering asphalt. “I mean just look out there. You could fry an egg if you wanted to.”

  “An omelet sure would be good about now,” Fenton said as he sat in front of his laptop and sipped a lukewarm soda courtesy of the shoddy vending machine outside the motel office.

  Claire scrunched her face. “Good grief, Fenton. We just ate like an hour ago.”

  “What can I say. I’m a growing boy.”

  “Sometimes I forget you’re a teenager,” she said as she walked over to see what was on his screen. “You’re sure you can get us inside?”

  “That’s the easy part,” Fenton said. “It’s finding the right files without taking all night that I’m worried about.”

  He wasn’t alone. Paul, Claire, and Sarah had all considered what might happen should the operation bear little to no fruit. The most obvious repercussion was arrest; something that would be a near certainty should Fenton fail to get them in and out of the building undetected. Getting around locks and passwords and motion detectors was one thing; doing it all while avoiding security guards was another. Then there was the risk of the local authorities getting tipped off, or worse, word getting out to the good folks at Langley. Paul knew that if the CIA caught wind of their operation, or was already two steps ahead of them, it would spell certain disaster for them all.

  Game over. Fin. Finished. End of the line.

  The group huddled around Fenton’s laptop and went over the game plan for the umpteenth time. Paul asked Sarah, “You sure we can trust your contact at Atlanta Action News?”

  “Worked with her for ten years,” Sarah said. “And she was my college roommate before that. Trust me, she’ll be on standby and ready to pick us up the moment we get what we need.”

  Insecurely, Fenton asked, “Isn’t there some other way? I mean, we’re going to get the same files we had before and basically turn ourselves in? If this is our best option then why didn’t we just do it in the first place? Wasn’t it you who said that no self-respecting journalist would touch this?”

  “That was before the Asteria stock sell-off. Naturally, people are still reeling over the why behind it. Now we’ve got a real story that could give the general public the answers it needs.”

  “Besides,” Paul said, “if we hadn’t done what we did at Skyline then Ocula would still be on the market. We did the best we could with what we had, which is exactly what we’re doing now.”

  Sarah agreed. “At this point, putting everything out in the open is the only play any of us have left. It’s also the best chance we have of getting everyone involved back in one piece.”

  One piece. The comment drew a wince from Paul. He still had family missing, a family of Freemans shattered, and in all likelihood, Michelle and Aaron were now in the custody of the CIA. Just the thought of something happening to them was enough to drive him into a debilitating depression.

  But he couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Too much was at stake.

  “So it’s settled,” Paul said. “We’re taking Asteria headquarters at dark. First off, we’ll need to get Fenton to the isolated server room on the twentieth floor so he can work his magic. I also think it would be best if Sarah kept a low profile in the car and keeps an eye on security and anything suspicious that may be going on outside.” He gave a probing look, and everyone seemed to agree.

  “Once we have the files”—he spoke to Sarah—“we’ll coordinate with your contact at Atlanta Action News to have them disseminated to the masses. From there, well, honestly I don’t know where we go from there. But at least we’ll have everything out in the open.”

  “And you’re sure the files we need will be on this private server and not in some file cabinet somewhere?” Claire asked.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure of anything right now, Claire. All I know is this is our best shot at getting the files back.”

  It was clear that Claire wasn’t comfortable with the plan, but then again, none of them were. The odds of them coming out clean on the other side were slim to none, and everyone knew it. The plan was a crapshoot. A suicide mission. Total shot in the dark.

  But at least it was a plan they could act on. They’d wait for dark, then make the fifteen-minute drive to Asteria Pharmaceutical’s downtown headquarters, break into the building, find the isolated server, download as many incriminating files as they could find, then turn everything over to the local news station.

  Piece of cake, right?

  ***

  Back at Skyline, Ramírez pulled at his collar as he spoke to his boss on the other end of the line, fully aware that the level of shit he was in was rising with every word thundering from Lancaster’s mouth. He nervously paced his office as he tried to mitigate the situation, but even as Lancaster’s voice crackled through a phone line traveling through two thousand feet of mountainous bedrock to reach him, it was clear she wasn’t buying it. She said her piece, gave her orders, and hung up, leaving Ramírez holding a dead receiver and cursing himself for letting Cline get involved in the first place.

  Pinche pendejo. Or, fucking asshole, as his American counterparts would’ve put it. Regardless, Cline fit the bill in both languages. From the very beginning, Ramírez had known Colin Kovic would be a long-term problem standing in the way of Ocula and the scientists working to expand the horizons of the genome-inhibiting wonder drug. He’d also suspected that Cline’s soft spot for his would-be protégé would likely cause big problems for the program in the future. Now, it seemed as though his suspicions had been spot-on. Lancaster knew about the mobile broadcasting unit, the Ramírez-and-Cline side project, and the plan to take Ocula on the road. And only one person would have leaked the information: Colin Kovic.

  Hijo de puta. No, calling Kovic a son of a bitch was putting it lightly. Ramírez sneered at the thought of the agent, desperately wanting his words to bring actual pain upon the man who’d betrayed him; who’d betrayed his own superior officer, Cline; and most of all, the man who’d betrayed the project.

  Doesn’t matter, thou
ght Ramírez. With any luck, Cline would take the fall for abducting Strassman; he was the agent in the field, after all. Who was Ramírez in all of this, anyway? Just another scientist following the orders of his superiors, Cline included. It wasn’t his job to debrief the director of the CIA on all matters concerning the byproducts of Project THEIA. That was Cline’s failing, not his.

  No, Ramírez would likely come out of this latest fiasco relatively unscathed, but worries of write-ups and reprimands weren’t what was really bothering him at the moment.

  It was the project. The research. The countless explorative possibilities Ocula had to offer. He looked around his office, the cracked concrete walls sweating almost as much as he was. It wasn’t much; a glorified hole dug into the side of a mountain in Virginia. But it was his.

  And soon, it would all be over.

  He glanced down at his desk to see the file for Dawa Graham lying on the keyboard. It wouldn’t be long before word came from the top to shut it all down, which meant the window of time he’d have to pick Graham’s brain was getting shorter by the minute. He picked up his phone and dialed security.

  “Yes, this is Ramírez. Have Graham transferred to the interrogation room.”

  If he was going to get anything out of Graham, thought Ramírez, he’d have to work fast. He pulled open a drawer and grabbed his voice recorder, a notepad, and a couple of pens before heading toward the door, but a ringing phone stopped him halfway. He doubled back to answer it.

  “This is Ramírez.” There was a long silence. Then, “What do you mean, he’s not in his cell?”