Project Apollo

by B. B. Gallagher

  The man’s weak eyes met Khan’s.

  There was a torture brewing under the mask - Khan could see it. His skin stiff, his bones shivering. Khan for a moment considered what the man in the back had endured over the last ten hours, but before he could sympathize, the man fought a fit of coughing and closed the back of the truck.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Tobias Greene lived and worked in a shabby, inconspicuous warehouse in the ghetto of Northeast DC. The exterior of the structure was faded, stained and tagged by various graffiti artists of the neighborhood. Xander arrived in a taxi a few blocks down and walked the remainder of the way.

  Xander’s fist rose to the sliding metal door. The rattling knock echoed through the laboratory. After a brief moment, the door screeched to life like a banshee as it skidded open. The door stopped cracked enough for Xander to squeeze. A make-shift, dusty lab lay sprawled out in every direction before him. Chemicals brewed in homemade devices set up on a series of lab tables. Trash littered the corners of the tables, reminding Xander that by no means was Tobias’s laboratory a sterile environment.

  Tobias met him with a smile, never consumed by the gravity of a mission. The matter of his appearance remained a source of levity for Xander. His hair was an explosion of different strands, as scattered as his overall demeanor. His glasses continually fell down his long nose, but his constant twitching inched them back up. Mac was there too, typing away on his laptop and plugging into a bank of monitors against the far wall.

  Xander met Ashton, a tall beautiful blonde who had a calming presence about her – calculated and focused. Although Ashton’s expertise was the sniper rifle, she remained as direct and pointed with her loyalty – a quality Xander tried to keep close to him. She greeted him with a simple nod, ready for the impending briefing.

  Seamus was a jollier presence; he corralled Xander for a greeting hug. His red hair, faint freckles and Irish brogue still intoned his speech.

  “Nice to see ya, Lad. Been since July 4th, I guess. Packing on some holiday weight?” Seamus patted Xander’s stomach. The others flashed a grin, but Seamus was cracking up over himself.

  “Good to see ya, Seamus.” Xander always enjoyed him, especially when tension needed to be cut.

  The last man in the room was Captain James Axle, one of the Spartan’s instructors during their training in the Compound. His goatee was now graying and his once bulging frame had kept its mass but lost its shape over the years. He was thick as a tree trunk and as hard as a hammer. He simply nodded at Xander, ready to move to business.

  They were all assembled and awaiting Xander’s word. The stage was Xander’s and so with a nod to Mac, the surveillance feed populated on the newly connected monitor from his laptop.

  “We have a serious problem…” Xander began. “This happened yesterday… a terrorist broke into the NIH and somehow gained access to a level 4 security bio-lab. He stole a deadly bacterial sample recently received from West Africa. No one knows what biological properties this bacterium has, we do not know what it is capable of, but we do know that it is in the wrong hands.”

  The feed showed Dr. Woslowski dropping dead with a knife lodged into his eye.

  “Two pathologists were working in the laboratory, only one survived. The FBI is keeping a lid on the incident for now. During the break-in, the intruder said, ‘Apollo is upon us’.”

  “Apollo? What is Apollo?” Seamus asked.

  “We believe it is phase two of the Skeptics attack,” Xander replied.

  “Wait, wait, wait… the Skeptics?” the room fell to an eerie disquiet.

  “This is why we are all here.”

  Mac clarified the image of the intruder. As the man’s profile came into view, Xander surveyed the eyes in the room. A few gasps sounded amongst the Spartans. The image was fresh in their head from the research and debriefing of a recent terrorist plot.

  One that they had stopped together.

  One they had lost their friend Jooles during.

  One that had made them question their trust in others, for it was a fellow Spartan recruit behind the attack.

  “The intruder’s name is Mohammed Azir and his only known associate is Agent Zero, or as we know him, Ezra Gonet.”

  Chapter 7

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  10 PM

  President Hooper entered the dimly lit Situation Room. The attendees stood at a respectful attention until the President sat down. Hooper’s long stare moved from seat to seat, as if taking an inventory of everyone present. Before him at the conference table was the director of the NIH, Marty Jacobs – his Chief of Staff, Janet Powers – his National Security Advisor and his Vice President, Tom Johnson.

  Johnson was a product of multiple preparatory schools – a Yankee who grew up in politics. His Massachusetts origins and his family’s wealth drew similar comparisons to the Kennedys. Hooper knew a more liberal and Northern presence on the ticket no doubt helped him win the White House, but he and his Vice President seldom agreed on much.

  Johnson’s broad shoulders squared up the table like a linebacker. His rusted facial features angeled down at the file before him. Dressed in a prim navy-blue suit, his American flag pin shined off its lapel. As he adjusted himself, he realized his pin had rotated upside-down. After affixing it to the upright position, he placed his hands on the table where his fingertips met each other.

  Another unusual presence in the room was Michelle Fernandez, the director of the NIH. Her dark hair only fell to her jaw line, tightly framing her stern expression – her lips pouty and eyes roving, always on the defensive. She fidgeted in her leather seat, trying to supplant the feelings of guilt. It was her first time at the White House and she obviously hated the reason that brought her there. The NIH had the largest security breach in its history under her watch and she could feel the officials in the room aiming for her.

  “I hear that we have a bug on our hands…” The President’s eyes scanned down the file before him. His attempts to make sense of the file were futile. He dropped it next to the water pitcher hopelessly. “I’m not going to pretend like I understand biology so why doesn’t someone educate me.” All eyes in the room found the NIH director, and so Fernandez began.

  “Bacteria are microscopic, but just how small are they? You could fit tens of billions of bacteria in that pitcher there. They are everywhere, and we need many of them to perform the basic functions of our life. Digestion, for instance, needs Lactobacillus, which helps ferment indigestible carbohydrates and aids in the breakdown of sugars. Not all bacteria are helpful of course, studies have about 40% of all human disease are caused by microorganism and further studies have shown that three percent of all bacteria could potentially induce a severe depopulation event,” she expounded. A grave silence filled the air in the Oval Office.

  “Could it react differently to each person who is exposed?” Jacobs asked.

  “Yes, there is a certain level of host-pathogen interplay that determines its microbial virulence. But there should be common threads in all of the infected that will gain us insight to the core characteristics of the bacteria.”

  “So where do we stand with this bacterium?” Hooper asked.

  “All we know about the pathogen in question is that it had killed an entire village in the Congo. The World Health Organization took notice and assigned an investigative team. It was flown in by our transport aircraft and arrived yesterday morning and has since been taken,” Fernandez explained.

  “Let’s back up… We don’t know how this virus spreads?” Vice President Johnson asked.

  “Mr. Vice President, it is not a virus. It is a bacterium…” Fernandez countered. Johnson sighed at the correction as if it didn’t matter.

  “Can you explain for us the difference?” the President asked, displaying more patience and humility than his Vice President.

  “Most viruses are incurable, you treat the effects and prevent its spread. Whether it’s HIV or the common cold there
is no cure. Because of this the host’s immune system must be strong enough to outlast the viral attack. Pathogenic bacteria are much different. Bacterial infections are curable; however, they need the correct antibodies to cure them. It can spread by a variety of means among them human to human contact and human to inanimate contact.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Jacobs interjected.

  “If you have bacterial infection and you are typing on your computer, and I use your computer, I could contract the pathogen by touching the same keys you have.” Fernandez continued the lecture.

  “So, you are saying that this bacterial pathogen that was taken from the NIH has a cure.” Powers added the tone of optimism to the grim scene.

  “It can be cured, via an antibiotic, but that does not mean that a cure has been found. To culture an antibiotic, one would have to retrieve the naturally built antibodies from a subject whose body had beaten the infection. So far, everyone that we know of has died from contact with it,” Fernandez said.

  “Can it be altered?” The Vice President asked.

  “Yes, a bacterium can be manually altered, it can be intensified or lightened, that is a way that we try to develop cures in the lab,” Fernandez responded.

  “Wait… so the terrorists who have this bacterium can be changing it as we speak?” Jacobs’s tone grew frustrated. Fernandez silenced, she raised her eyes from her notes.

  “Yes…” The room paused for tense reflection.

  “Okay… what I want you to do Ms. Fernandez is to make sure this bacterial infection is not spreading out from the Congo,” Fernandez nodded to her orders.

  “Alright, Janet what do you have for me?” Hooper turned to his National Security Advisor.

  “We have Jackson Hardy of Project Sparta on satellite; he says that he and his team have a lead on the suspect,” Powers briefed him.

  “How does he know about this?” Jacobs exhaled.

  “They are Spartans…” A shrug and a grin came over Powers while a grimace came over Jacob’s.

  “Mr. President, are you sure we want to involve Project Sparta in this?” the Chief of Staff asked.

  “Why not? Wouldn’t you say we could use all the help we could get?” Hooper bumbled.

  “They are vigilantes. Uncontrollable. They chaff against authority every chance they get. Their errant behaviour is nothing to be trusted in a time like this,” Jacobs unleashed a history of anger.

  “Do you have a better plan, Marty?” Hooper ignored the lashing out and remained calm and calculated. Jacobs shifted in his seat and responded only with silence. After a few moments, Hooper turned to Powers.

  “Alright… Patch them through.” She touched a monitor in front of her to bring a satellite feed up on the monitor. Hardy’s face appeared aimed at the camera set up in his home study.

  “Good morning, Mr. President.” Hardy reported through the feed.

  “Jackson! Good to see you. What do you have for me?

  “We have the identity of your suspect.” His terse response gave the assembly some relief.

  “Jackson, the NSA, CIA and FBI are all searching their databases for this man and there hasn’t been any progress. Can you explain why that is?” Vice President Johnson spoke up.

  “You wouldn’t find him there. He’s a ghost.” A digital file came through the feed with the grainy image of the man from the NIH’s surveillance footage. “His name is Mohammed Azir. He is a low-level entry member of the Skeptics.” The room froze in confusion.

  “I thought you guys took care of the Skeptics,” Vice President Johnson accused.

  “We cut the head of the snake off, but it would appear the tail is still wiggling,” Hardy responded.

  “What do you mean?” Powers asked the monitor.

  “I mean this man’s only known associate is Ezra Gonet, also known as Agent Zero.” The name struck an ominous note in the room. “After our capture of him over the summer, the other Skeptics associated with his cell went underground. They disappeared without a trace – until now. It appears that there is more at play here,” Hardy answered. A few moments of reflection came over the President. The attendees of the meeting awaited his move.

  “Do you mean to tell me that our only lead is a black operative traitor from Project Sparta who attempted to blow up the National Mall three months ago?” the President asked.

  “Yes sir. It is our belief that he may be behind the heist from the NIH and that Azir is merely carrying out his plan. We request to transport him to our black site where the Spartans can interrogate him.” Hooper’s eyes glanced to either side of the table, he saw no objections.

  “Do it! And do whatever it takes to find the son of a bitch. I want you in here tomorrow morning with some real Intel. You recruited Ezra and know him probably better than anyone. Got it?” Hooper’s voice resounded.

  “Yes, Mr. President, I will have my best man run point on this.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Xander Whitt, Mr. President.” The Vice President shifted in his seat at the sound of the name. Hooper recalled the number of briefings he had read based on Intel from Xander’s field ops. Although never having met him, Xander’s reputation preceded him.

  “Good.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  After the briefing, Marty Jacobs retreated to his dimly lit office. He wiped the exhaustion from his face before checking the time on his clock. 11 PM. The ever-constant hum of the White House bullpen could be heard faintly from behind his oak door. There was no such thing as off hours in the White House.

  His fidgeting hands yanked down on his Windsor knot, letting the ventilation flow through his shirt. He then lowered his hand to the decanter of whiskey in the corner bar of his office, uncorked the bottle of its glass topper and poured three fingers worth of the auburn liquid into his scotch glass. Taking a smooth sip, a vibration came from his pocket, shaking his lips from the glass’s edge.

  “Hello?” The other end of the phone hissed as helicopter propellers powered down in the background.

  “Mr. Jacobs!” The armed guard yelled over the noise. “Catherine Mueller has just landed. As discussed, her room will be guarded, no one in or out.”

  Jacobs’s shoulders rolled back at the news – his chest inflated, “Good…” He clicked the phone dead.

  The Chief of Staff stared down at his phone, reflecting on the call and his stratagems at play. He turned his head as memories of military operations, foreign diplomacy and legislation initiatives surfaced. It had been a long and wild ride. But his mental review of their accomplishments only emboldened his current discontent

  What have we really done here?

  His sights settled on a picture of him and the President on election night.

  We set out to do so much… but how much did we actually get done?

  He gulped down his last sip of whiskey but held his empty glass in hand, readied for the finer whisky in the other room.

  After exhaling the burn, he exited his office and started toward the Oval Office. Staffers perked up from their conversations and turned from the newsfeeds as the Chief of Staff walked through the bullpen. Upon reaching the President’s office door, he offered two courtesy knocks and then let himself in.

  The President sat sipping on his own scotch before an open file of intelligence briefings. His pointed face lifted from the papers to meet his old friend at the door. The two men had an agreement that on quiet nights like this they would be friends rather than the political animals the day called for.

  “Marty! Join me for a night cap.” He motioned for his approach. Timid at first, Jacobs proceeded into the Oval Office and offered his glass for a refill. The President filled it with a 25-year Glenlivet and leaned back to enjoy the company.

  “More movement in the Middle East?” Jacobs asked nodding to the file.

  “Terrorist cells are a game of whack-a-mole. Smack one down and another one pops right up…All you can hope as President is to get the high score…” he quipped.


  “Truer words have never been spoken…” Jacobs responded, distant.

  “What’s on your mind, Marty?” Hooper’s tone dropped, sensing Jacobs’s angst.

  “You could always read me like a book.” Jacobs’s hands fiddled with the glass in his hand, as his nerves extended through his fingertips.

  “You were my law school roommate, Marty. Best man at my wedding…Of course I can...” Hooper spoke with trepidation. Jacobs paused and faced the President from his glass.

  “I’m out, George.”

  Hooper paused and sighed as he absorbed the blow. They had promised each other on election night that they’d stick together through it all and Jacobs realized he was breaking this promise. Hooper placed his glass on the coffee table and sat back, folding his legs in thought. His fingers found a contemplative grip on his chin.

  “I understand.” The President remained out of breath.

  “I’ll see you through this term and get your feet on the ground for your reelection run…” Jacobs attempted to save face.

  “I appreciate that. You’ve made it no secret that you disagree with some of my decisions. But, you have stuck by me and served your country well. I wish the best for you.” His grip tightened on his glass, hoping that the President would have been less reasonable and understanding. The fact that Hooper was taking the high-road only infuriated Jacobs more and made what he was doing that much harder.

  Chapter 8

  The Compound

  11PM

  Darkness.