by James Morcan
Marty was impressed and showered his visitor with questions about his wildlife photography exploits, which Nine answered by lying effortlessly and tapping into his textbook-learned knowledge of wildlife photography. He did his best to appear continually enthusiastic, but his mind was on how to find Francis and secret him off the base without having every US Air Force jet north of the Arctic Circle after him.
It was after eleven by the time they reached the hangars that Nine was so interested in. Though the sun was now slightly lower in the sky and its brightness had dimmed, it was still broad daylight outside.
Marty conveniently parked the Land Rover in a parking space behind the closest hangar. Convenient because the car park was deserted and Nine was about to swing into action. Pointing at the far hangar to his passenger’s right, Marty reminded him it was off-limits.
The former operative pointed at something else out the driver’s side window. As Marty looked around, Nine’s fingers closed around the vagal nerve in the young man’s neck. Marty was asleep before he realized anything was amiss.
Working quickly, Nine tied and gagged the unconscious airman. He let the driver’s seat down and rolled Marty onto the back seat, covering him with a tarpaulin he found in the rear of the Land Rover and securing him so he couldn’t sit up when he regained consciousness. Then he climbed out of the vehicle and quickly walked toward the far hangar. He carried his camera in case he was seen and challenged. Fortunately, there were few Air Force personnel around at this end of the base.
No Entry signs greeted him as he reached the off-limits zone. Two security cameras he spotted caused him to lose valuable minutes as he was forced to circumnavigate around them to evade their gaze.
Nine found the hangar’s main doors were closed, but a side-entry door was open with no guard in sight. A sign above the door read: No unauthorized entry. Nine slipped inside and immediately saw the hangar was home to half a dozen fighter planes. A quick visual inspection revealed he had the place to himself.
Sounds of activity reached him from outside the hangar’s back wall. Keeping close to the near wall, he strode over to an exit door he’d noticed. Opening it just an inch or so, he saw an armed Air Force sentry standing just a few yards away. The sentry was at the top of a concrete stairway that led below ground. Found it! Nine was in no doubt the stairway led to Omega’s medical lab for orphans.
Some thirty yards beyond the sentry were several low-lying blocks of apartments. Nine guessed they served as living quarters for the lab personnel. Like the entrance to the underground facility, they hadn’t been visible from other parts of the base. Nine couldn’t even recall seeing them when he’d flown into the base earlier in the day. He imagined considerable thought had been given to their location.
Even at this late hour, people were walking between the apartments and the underground facility. Nine noted many were dressed as lab technicians. Others – male and female – were dressed as nurses and medical orderlies. He also noticed an abundance of No Trespassing and No Unauthorized Entry signs along with a proliferation of security cameras in the area.
Nine was surprised by the amount of activity, here and elsewhere on the base, considering the lateness of the hour. He had to remind himself normal business hours didn’t apply in the land of the midnight sun, nor did they apply to anything connected to Omega.
Three white-coated personnel approached the sentry. They showed him their passes then disappeared down the stairs.
Seconds later, two more personnel emerged from below ground, deep in discussion, and headed for the apartments. One could be heard complaining about the long hours they were working. The other one commiserated with his colleague, but reminded him how well they were being paid. Their accents gave them away as Americans.
If Nine any doubt before that he’d found Omega’s orphanage, he was in no doubt now.
The former operative felt his excitement rising. He realized he could be just minutes away from finding Francis. Stay cool. Nine reminded himself to remain totally professional. Now wasn’t the time to get excited.
His first problem was how to get past the sentry. Closing the door quietly, he retraced his steps and left the hangar via the same side door he’d used earlier. He walked around the far side of the facility and soon spotted what he was looking for: an air vent leading below ground. It was exactly where he considered a vent should be.
Retrieving a screwdriver from the emergency kit he’d brought along, he quickly removed the steel grill covering the vent’s opening. Sounds of activity from below carried to him. He found himself listening for the sound of Francis’ voice.
29
Below ground, the air vent opened out into what appeared to be a large storage room. As soon as he confirmed he had the room to himself, Nine dropped silently down onto the concrete floor and took in his surroundings.
Shelves lining two walls and were stocked with medical supplies, including prescription drugs and surgical instruments. Hospital-style trolleys and beds occupied most of the available floor space.
White coats hanging from pegs along the far wall caught Nine’s eye. Removing his heavy jacket, he selected one of the coats and slipped it on. He spent the next five minutes adopting the guise of a lab technician. There was nothing he could do about his ginger-dyed hair at short notice, but he removed his fake beard – pocketing it for future use – and made himself as presentable as possible.
Studying himself in the reflection of a stainless steel cupboard, he wasn’t totally satisfied with the end result, but knew it would have to do. At least I no longer look like the wild yeti of the Arctic. He approached the door, opened it a crack and looked out. It opened into a brightly lit corridor.
Several white-coated technicians walked past deep in discussion. Nine identified American and British accents. He slipped out into the corridor and followed, taking care not to look directly at the security cameras he passed at regular intervals along the corridor.
Nine noted the technicians carried clipboards and other official-looking items. Empty-handed and feeling conspicuous, he looked out for something that would suffice. Nothing came to his attention.
The technicians slowed as they approached a large lab half way along the corridor. Nine hung back as they used their security cards to access the lab. Outside it, half a dozen white-coated personnel sat observing the activity inside through wide viewing windows.
Aware he’d attract attention if he continued to hover, Nine joined the observers, taking the last vacant seat. No-one gave him a second glance. They were too busy observing the activity inside the lab and making notes on their clip boards.
Nine noticed spare clipboards, pens and stationery on a shelf beneath the narrow bench in front of him. He grabbed a pen and clipboard then focused on what was happening on the other side of the glass. What he saw almost made him physically recoil.
The sights that confronted him took him back to his first visit, years earlier, to Omega’s underground orphanage in the Black Forest. On that occasion, he’d witnessed macabre scientific experiments being conducted on children – dozens of children. Many of the grotesquely disfigured subjects were the failed results of Omega’s first miserable attempts to clone the original twenty-three orphans spawned by the Pedemont Project.
Nine had been horrified then and he was horrified now. In a lab that seemed to stretch half the length of a football field, scores of orphans were being subjected to scientific experiments conducted by scientists and medical personnel. The children ranged in age from around five to fifteen; the experiments ranged from bizarre to horrific.
Nine wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He watched, transfixed, as scientists subjected a young girl to high-intensity shock treatment. The girl, who Nine assessed could be no older than seven, was as tall as the tallest man in the room. Her convulsions were such three orderlies were required to hold her down.
To one side of her, another little girl who had a full facial beard was injected with a substance Nine a
ssumed to be growth hormones, while on the other side a young teenage boy who had six fingered hands screamed as orderlies strapped him to an operating table. Nine could only imagine what was in store for him.
As had been the case at the Black Forest orphanage all those years ago, many of the children were disfigured or had unusual physical features. Some were old before their time, others considerably younger than their years. One ten-year-old boy had a physique Mister Universe would be proud of while a young teenage girl had the mouth and nose of her unborn twin protruding from the back of her head.
Most of the children appeared to be in a trance-like state. Every now and then a nurse or orderly would flash psychedelic lights into their eyes to ensure they remained that way.
Looking around at his companions in front of the viewing windows, Nine saw they weren’t remotely bothered by what they saw. Another day at the office. It was clear they’d seen it all many times before. Their manner was professional and detached as they observed the activities and recorded observations on their clipboards.
Nine returned his attention to the lab and was confronted by the surreal sight of two children levitating various objects, apparently through the power of their minds. The objects, which included a pencil and a ruler, floated in front of their eyes as scientists monitored their charges’ progress. No-one seemed remotely surprised by the gravity-defying sight.
The lab was a study in motion as scientists and doctors conducted experiments, technicians entered data into held-held computers and voice recorders, and nurses and orderlies performed a wide variety of tasks ranging from the execution of basic medical procedures to the emptying of bedpans.
Nine scanned the orphans’ faces, searching for Francis. Where are you son? There was no sign of the boy. Nine didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
The former operative was so focused on looking for Francis he didn’t immediately notice the reflection of a new arrival in the viewing window. It was only when the figure approached the window that Nine became aware of his presence. It was Number Three, one of his former Omega colleagues. Three stopped behind a technician seated two along from Nine.
To Nine’s relief, the mixed-race operative showed no interest in him or any of the others. Three was too busy watching the levitation display beyond the glass.
The sight of the third-born orphan brought back a flood of memories for Nine. He had vivid memories of Three dating back to their years growing up at the orphanage in Riverdale, Chicago. Nine could still remember playing chess with his fellow orphan and going for training runs with him alongside Little Calumet River.
The former operative had a vision of Three giving One, the oldest and biggest of the Pedemont orphans, a bloody nose for throwing off at his Arabic heritage. That had been one of the few times One had been bested in a fight. The incident reminded Nine that Three was an accomplished Teleiotes martial artist. He recalled Three was the only one of the orphans who had come close to beating him in the Teleiotes contests that were a regular event at the orphanage. Since those days, he’d heard that the operative had taken his fighting skills to a new level.
Observing Three’s reflection in the viewing window, Nine promised himself he wouldn’t take his fellow orphan on in a fair fight. He was relieved when the operative lost interest in what was going on in the lab and walked off down the corridor.
Nine gave it ten seconds then followed Three at a circumspect distance. Along the way he noticed a sign above a closed door. It read: Control Office. He made a mental note to return to it.
As they walked, Nine thought back to his days as an active operative and performed a quick mental stocktake of Three’s abilities. As well as being highly accomplished in Teleiotes, he was an excellent marksman – almost as good as Seventeen. Of all the Pedemont orphans, Seventeen had been without peer as a sharpshooter. She’d proven that on the Guyana job.
Three had also earned a deserved reputation as the most ingenious of the orphan-operatives when it came to killing. He had devised some unique methods of terminating his targets over the years, and word of this had spread among his colleagues.
Nine didn’t doubt that Three had refined his skills to even higher levels since he’d left Omega. He took it as a good sign that one of Omega’s orphan-operatives, or elites, had been sent to the Thule lab. It could mean Francis has been sent here. Equally, he knew Naylor would have sent high level reinforcements to intercept him at the African lab, so he was aware he shouldn’t read too much into Three’s presence.
Either way, Nine realized he’d have to deal with Three and with any other Omega operatives who may be with him. Pedemont orphans would be a major obstacle to his plans if they weren’t immobilized.
Whether or not Three was the only Omegan assigned to Thule Air Base was answered when the operative entered a room toward the end of the corridor. Before Three closed the door behind him, Nine caught a glimpse of Fourteen, a blond, Aryan-looking operative of Nordic descent. So now he knew at least two of his fellow orphans were at the base.
As Nine continued past the room, his mind was racing. He debated whether to charge in and shoot them both dead with the USP pistol he carried on him. That thought was dismissed almost immediately as he realized such drastic action would alert the entire base. He couldn’t risk that. His strategy relied on remaining undetected.
30
Nine retraced his steps, vowing to sort the problem posed by Three and Fourteen later. He’d deal with them when they were alone and apart. Together, they presented too big a problem.
The former operative returned along the corridor to the control office he’d passed earlier. Testing the door handle, he found it was locked. That obstacle was resolved almost immediately when the door opened and a female technician emerged. Nine smiled at her and entered the office before the door had time to close behind the departing technician.
Inside, he found a controller seated before a line-up of computers and television screens. The controller, a middle-aged man, was monitoring activity in the lab. His attention was on the computer monitors and he wasn’t aware he had company.
Nine checked the door was locked then drew his pistol and approached the unsuspecting controller who remained engrossed in the images on one of the monitors.
The first the controller became aware he wasn’t alone was when he felt the barrel of Nine’s pistol against the back of his head. Before he could utter a noise, a strong hand covered his mouth.
“One word and you’re dead,” Nine said quietly. “Understood?”
The startled controller nodded vigorously.
“Good.” Nine removed his hand and moved around in front of the controller. With his free hand, he pulled out a photo of Francis and held it up before the controller’s eyes. “This is my son, Francis Hannar. Is he here?”
The controller looked from the pistol in Nine’s right hand to the photo in his left hand and then back to the pistol. Sweat rolled down his forehead and he shook with fear.
Nine waved the photo closer to the man. “This boy, have you seen him.”
The controller looked at the photo again then shook his head, indicating he hadn’t seen Francis.
“Yes or no,” Nine said losing his patience.
“No,” the controller whispered.
“Look again!” Nine held the photo even closer to the man’s face.
“No I haven’t seen him!” the controller blurted out.
Nine felt his heart sink. He was reasonably confident someone in the controller’s position would know all the lab’s inmates by sight. “Where do you keep the registrations of subjects?”
The controller looked blank.
“Experimental subjects or orphans or whatever the hell Omega is calling them these days!” Nine snapped. “The children you people subject to these inhuman experiments.” Nine looked pointedly at one of the television screens.
The controller glanced at the screen in time to see a white-coated scientist injected a dye into a small
European boy whose skin had been turned black by a regime of such treatments. Now he understood what Nine was asking. “All registrations are filed electronically,” he stammered.
“Show me.” Nine waved his pistol threateningly.
The controller, who now shook more violently than ever, moved the mouse on his desktop computer and then typed in a password. Within seconds, a list of names appeared on screen in alphabetical order.
“Are these the children?” Nine asked.
The controller fidgeted nervously. In his haste to please the intruder, he realized he’d brought up the wrong list.
“Well?” Nine asked.
“No, they’re the names of patients who have passed away.”
The reality of what Nine was facing came home to him. Omega’s experiments were high risk and right there, on the screen before him, was the proof. “My God,” he muttered. “You people are no better than the Nazis.” Nine rounded on the controller as if he was personally responsible.
“Please! I’m just following my employer’s instructions.”
“Don’t give me that,” Nine responded. He felt like pistol whipping the frightened man as he had Naylor. Instead, he remained as calm and detached as humanly possible. “Bring up the list of live patients.” He put special emphasis on the word patients, and the sarcasm wasn’t lost on the controller.
Within seconds, more lists appeared on screen. These, too, were in alphabetical order.
“These are the children currently undergoing treatment here,” the controller said.
“Treatment!” Nine scoffed. He wanted to remonstrate with the man over his choice of words, but for the moment was fully focused on finding Francis’ name in the lists on the screen. Nine scrolled through the lists twice, but found no mention of his son. Turning to the controller he asked, “Is there a list of recent arrivals?”
The controller nodded and brought up another list. “This is everyone who has arrived in the last month.”