3 Thank God it's Monday

by Robert Michael

  The unease did not abate with Mr. Beckworth’s chilly reception. He seemed preoccupied and could not keep his eyes off of Giselle. Clarence had found it difficult to part with her. She was a wonderful companion in this state. She did not talk. She seemed demure and even compliant. His mind was distracted by the possibilities.

  “We have reviewed our agreement and I believe we are meeting the parameters we established. We are on schedule for a December delivery.”

  Clarence swept his arm outward, indicating the immense facility around them.

  “Your manpower is at half of its capacity and you say you are on schedule? How can that be?”

  George smiled and his eyes drifted to Giselle. She sat in an old metal and leather chair set against the wall. Her legs were crossed primly, but the skirt she wore exposed much of her legs. She wore a blank expression.

  George shook his head as if he had just woken up from a dream.

  “We have developed new techniques and mechanical processes that facilitate our manufacturing with less personnel. You wanted a work force you could trust, nothing better than a machine.” He glanced back at Giselle and then meaningfully allowed his gaze to drift back to Clarence. A smile played at his lips.

  He is mocking me! Clarence thought.

  “I am glad you have found a way to meet both of our demands in such an eloquent way, Mr. Beckworth. Now, are the other items we discussed under way?”

  He smiled, pride beaming from his features.

  “We are finished, actually.”

  “Finished? Can I see?”

  “Of course.” He approached a door marked “R & D.” Clarence followed. Giselle stood up and followed. Her skirt stuck to her thigh. She seemed not to notice.

  “Once we mastered the code for the design and got past some manufacturing truisms that did not apply to this technology, then it was a snap,” George continued. “There is an amazing amount of public cooperation for projects like this. We discovered a virtual gold mine of tinkerers who shared a passion but work under the radar, so to speak. The printers do all the rest of the work. You can almost say it was a community project.”

  “I don’t know if I like the sounds of that,” Clarence said.

  George smiled condescendingly. They descended stairs to what seemed to be a new addition to the facility.

  “Don’t worry. Each individual worked on separate parts of the project. Come see what we came up with.”

  He opened another door. The factory was dirty and old. It had an odd mix of tools that were several decades old and machinery on the cutting edge of technology.

  Florescent lights came on, their ballasts popping loudly. The harsh light lit several rows of tables with large black boxes with blinking lights and glass fronts.

  “These are our 3D printers. State of the art. We use the smaller models so we don’t have to register them. We make every part separately. They are completely functional. We have three models.”

  “Testing?”

  “Of course. Come with me. The testing lab is over here.”

  “Ammunition?”

  “Standard .22 ammunition for most of the models. We found that structural efficacy of the model can withstand tolerances up to four 15-round magazines with approximately sixty percent accuracy.”

  “Not much stopping power. Anything bigger?”

  George stopped and pulled a photo from his lab coat pocket.

  He held it out to Clarence. Clarence took it by the corner gently. It was an old fashioned technology, actual photo paper.

  “I took this with an analog camera. I am sentimental. So, I thought it would best, with moving parts like this, to make a revolver. More stopping power, fewer snags, no springs. Less metal. Like I said, I am sentimental. That was the first model my great grandfather produced.”

  “This is the spread at what distance?” Clarence asked pointing to the three hits close together.

  “Twenty yards. Note the size of the entry. That is what a .45 can do. Stopping power in spades.”

  “What’s the drawback?”

  George took back the photo and placed it in his pocket. He sighed.

  “The barrel melts after four shots. The first four shots are 100%. The next two are Russian Roulette.”

  “Failure?”

  “Deadly so, yeah. But we solved it. Our newest model only holds three bullets. Smaller profile. When the chamber is pulled back to re-load, a new barrel is inserted as part of the reloading process. It is part of the new magazine chamber.”

  “Reload time?”

  “Six point three seconds.”

  “They will be dead.” Clarence was not a gun expert, but he knew that by modern reloading standards, six seconds was too slow to be effective for the demands they had in mind for their use.

  “Not if they don’t miss with the first three.”

  “Granted. What else do you have?”

  George could not conceal his excitement.

  “That’s what I was about to show you.”

  He led them to a group of long, glass-walled rooms with a modern security-access.

  “What is this room?” Clarence asked. Giselle was just behind him. He could smell her skin. It was very distracting.

  “It is where we test the weapons.”

  “I don’t see a target,” Clarence noted.

  George indicated a table that held several blocks of what appeared to be gelatin. The room had numerous cameras all aimed at the table. Computers lined the room and a stand held a long black barrel with a weird contraption at the end. It appeared to have an electric trigger.

  “We use computerized ballistics. No need for a paper target.”

  “But in the picture you had a paper target.”

  George shrugged.

  “Early testing. Personal log. I am nostalgic, remember?”

  “You were working on this before I came to you.”

  George smiled.

  “That is a good guess.”

  “What is this?” Clarence asked, indicating the weapon being held in vice. It was pointing to a table with the blocks of gel. He noted several dark circles on the wall at the back of the room.

  “It is a new weapon. We looked at the ammunition first. All our current designs were built around emulating current design techniques. Ballistics were built around those models. Then, we thought, what if we used another material for the ammunition? It completely changed our designs. We just needed to figure out the propellant, trajectories, and velocities.”

  “Plastic bullets aren’t new tech. And they are rarely lethal.”

  “That is how I thought at first. But, a plastic bullet and our high-strength carbon-tipped ammo are designed differently. And, we have three different designs: flat, blade, and barbed.”

  George placed a four-inch long plastic “bullet” in Clarence’s hand.

  “It is so light,” Clarence remarked.

  “Part of the secret. This is exciting stuff. Here watch this,” he said, pulling up a video log and putting it on a terminal nearby.

  Clarence watched as a tech pulled a trigger and the gel block on the screen moved slightly. A puff of smoke at the back of the room was the only indication that anything had happened. He continued to view the results as several other technicians clapped their hands and hooted. He realized then that the weapon made no sound.

  “It made no sound,” Clarence noted.

  “Yes. Watch.”

  One tech in a blue overcoat approached the block and stuck his finger in a small hole with one finger and then placed his finger in another hole on the opposite side, holding it up to his mates. They all smiled and watched as another tech approached the back wall and pulled the “bullet” out of the concrete.

  “It does not break down. It is so light, it cuts through everything but the densest materials.”

  “That will be devastating. How is it so quiet?”

  “We found that...”

  Before he could finish, a claxon horn sounded and several red rev
olving lights lit up the hall behind them.

  “What’s going on?” Clarence asked.

  George looked sick.

  “Security breach. We have to leave now!”

  Clarence agreed but was rooted to the spot. He had thought they were untouchable.

  “Do you have one of these guns?”

  “Only the test models of that one. And limited amounts of ammo. We have several of the...”

  Clarence ignored him and wrenched the weapon from the vice. It felt like a kid’s toy. He hated violence. Detested it. But it was a means to an end.

  ∞

  “I’m no expert, but we need to bury this place,” Hallie said.

  Jake agreed. Across the swamp the sounds of machinery and vehicles barely resonated over the sounds of nature. The cacophony of whippoorwills, crickets, and frogs was like a low moan. It was in some ways more soul-destroying than the noise of the city. It was a constant drone.

  Gary sat behind them, working on his phone.

  “I had a signal, now it is gone. It is like this swamp just swallowed it,” Gary lamented.

  Hallie said nothing. She wanted to leave him behind. That was impossible. They were broke. At least, they could not access their money without giving away their position. Gary was paying for everything without complaint. It was an uneasy alliance.

  They had to part with Natalya, though. Things were about to get rough, and she would have come in handy. However, there was some sort of misunderstanding with her passport, according to Gary. Jake suspected she was here illegally.

  The jeep they had rented from a dealership in Pascagoula. The ordinance they had purchased from a dealer in Gautier who specialized in dealing with government agencies. He gave them his Secret Service discount and “bypassed” the paperwork.

  Jake strapped on a soft Kevlar vest and put two FNS-9 automatics with Trijicon night sights in holsters on his hips. He slung a Remington pump action 12 gage shotgun across his back and then a bandolier with 20 extra slugs over his shoulder. He held an H&K G36 with a reflex sight on a single point sling across his body. Ten extra magazines sat in various pouches at his chest, waist and legs. He felt forty pounds heavier, but this was an assault, not an assassination. Shock and awe. Guns blazing. Gunpowder and lead.

  He looked over at Hallie as she put on her skin-tight poly-rayon BDUs and zipped up her knee-high soft leather boots. He had purchased two FNH Five seveNs with four extra magazines for Hallie. They had lower recoil and fit her hand better than the bulky FN-9s did.

  He had also splurged, buying a fully automatic AA-12 CQB model shotgun. With a 20-round drum magazine and low weight and no recoil, it was the perfect breaching shotgun when using only three operatives. Hallie was unfamiliar with the weapon, and since it fired from an open bolt, she carried it with fear. This was good. Jake tried to push the thoughts of their unborn child in her womb from his mind.

  Gary gripped a HK MP7. He held it like he had never used it before.

  Hallie smeared some eye black on, pulled on a boonie cap and nodded to him. Jake took solace in her professionalism and confidence. She was a capable agent. Just the fact that she was here prepared to do something that she had sworn never to do again, oddly put Jake at ease. Jake’s only concern was that he would perform with their family in mind, rather than the mission. He put it from his mind and nodded back to her, a cocky grin slipping easily into place.

  The sun had dropped behind the trees and they had the cover of dark. Over two dozen vehicles had driven down the newly paved gravel road to the north. They had come from the west, driving down a rutted muddy road, taking their time.

  They jogged down the road and cut across a dry spot in the swamp, stepping carefully over cypress knees and rotting logs. The smell was moist, musty, green, and thick. Evidently, green equaled death in a swamp. Everything was in some sort of wet decay.

  Soon, they were at the rear approach to the two-story facility. It appeared to be about 25,000 square feet with almost no window entry. Jake pointed to a dock door with a hidden side entry under a canopy.

  He wished he had schematics, threat assessment, or at least a plan. No time. The crème colored Bentley in the guest parking space around the side of the building meant that Clarence was here. Gary had briefed them on who Clarence was and why he mattered. He also got them up to speed on the entire operation. He explained the Sychol programming and his own role. It was a long, sordid tale. It made Jake’s head spin. It was all he could do not to reach across and strangle the man.

  Despite this his candor and full explanation, Jake could tell he was holding something back. Hallie knew it, too. She would just as well dump him in the swamp than continue on with him at their backs. She had whispered as much to Jake as Gary made a potty break earlier.

  But here they were with their backs to the wall, indicating to Gary to pull out the bolt cutters. He snapped the lock off the door and dropped the cutters in the mud with a plop.

  “Get back,” Jake told Gary. He put his back to the building behind him.

  Jake made eye contact with Hallie and nodded. He watched her swallow nervously as Jake opened the door with the barrel of his G36. Hallie swung around and entered with the AA12. She looked right and then left, the barrel of the shotgun swinging with her head.

  The thing looked ridiculous in her hands. It was so huge. Its stainless steel construction was light, however.

  Jake glanced at Gary and nodded. They entered, turning to Hallie’s exposed side as she turned right.

  “Clear,” Jake said. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry.

  “Clear,” Hallie whispered.

  “Through here,” Gary said. He started to walk ahead. Jake barred his way with the rifle and shook his head.

  “Not how we roll, Dr. Forsythe. Slow. Controlled. Safe. Hallie, take the lead through the next door. Gary, guard our rear. Keep your ears open.”

  Hallie moved ahead. Gary did as he was told.

  They were in a warehouse area with boxes stacked and several forklifts working. A half dozen men shuffled around looking at boxes, and writing numbers on clipboards. They all wore hard hats and heavy gloves, but no weapons were in sight.

  Hallie shook her head and pointed to a catwalk above them. Jake assessed the situation and made a quick judgment.

  “We can’t risk them seeing us. I don’t see an office. We should go back to the control room and exit out the back.”

  Hallie crossed past Gary who was looking bewildered.

  “We’re going back through there,” Jake explained. Gary shrugged. His knuckles where white gripping the MP7.

  What a team, Jake thought.

  In the next room, the door led out into a long hallway. They passed two bathrooms, a lab, several vacant offices and a break room. This was the night shift. Fewer workers and more shadows in which to hide. The factory looked like an old building that had been repurposed. Lead paint on the walls, doors with key code machines and some with brass handles and skeleton key holes.

  The hairs on Jake’s neck stood on end. He grabbed Hallie and motioned to an open door into a darkened room. Gary followed them.

  Footsteps sounded down the hall and passed them. Jake peeked out as two workers in lab coats passed, talking quietly.

  “That was close,” Gary said.

  The lights in the room came on.

  “What are you doing here?” A female voice exclaimed from behind them.

  She had entered through a door in the back of the room. She was in her early twenties and appeared as though she may have failed cosmetology school. She arms were covered in tattoos, needle marks, and various piercings. She stood with a bundle of files held in front of her.

  Gary brought his MP7 around and Jake swatted it down just as a burst of bullets tore through the desk between them.

  The woman screeched, dropping the files and ran out of the room.

  Gary looked at him with shame in his eyes.

  “It’s fine. The gig is up. We need to
work fast now. Try not to shoot anyone who isn’t threatening us.”

  Gary appeared stricken. Hallie looked pale.

  “Where to now?” She asked.

  “There are stairs up to the second floor down the hall. I heard them coming down them when we ducked in here.”

  “OK.”

  Hallie moved out into the hall. She looked back at Jake and he nodded.

  “Run.”

  He followed right behind her as she ran, the shotgun swinging back and forth in front of her. They reached the stairs and she looked up.

  “I’ll take the lead. You follow right next to me. I will kick the door in and step back and you come in shooting. Got it?”

  Hallie nodded. Her eyes were opened wide and her nostrils flared. Adrenalin and fear were a potent mixture.

  “Gary? Gary!” Jake snapped in a harsh whisper.

  Gary came up, his breathing ragged. He stood with the MP7 pointed at his feet.

  “Yeah.”

  “Guard our backs. Yell if you see a target. An armed target. You get me?”

  “Yes. I was just scared.”

  “I know. It’s fine. We just don’t want to make any mistakes here. Let’s hurry.”

  Jake ran to the top of the stairs, his feet panging on the steel stair treads. He slipped a pair night vision goggles down on his head and turned the dial to heat vision. They were a poor model, but he could see through windows and about forty feet ahead. Good enough for the work they needed.

  Several offices were at the top of the stairs. One door was open about thirty feet away, light spilling out into the dark hallway.

  “This way,” he said, hoping they were close.

  He saw the sign on the door and he almost broke into a smile. The guy put his name on the door. “George Beckworth, Owner.” What an egotistical jerk. Jake had never even met him. He knew the type, though.

  Jake used hand signals to warn Hallie and Gary. He slowly stepped to the side of the door and then pivoted as he switched to the other side. His quick glimpse inside showed him nothing. A well-lit room. No sounds from within. Hallie hugged the wall on the other side of the door and Gary stood at the corner of the hall guarding the stairs. Hallie took a deep breath before sliding into the room.