Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY G. MICHAEL HOPF
DEDICATION
Copyright © 2017
G. MICHAEL HOPF
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information contact:
[email protected]
www.gmichaelhopf.com
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1548503529
ISBN-10: 1548503525
DAY OF
RECKONING
G. MICHAEL HOPF
PROLOGUE
South Atlantic
January 14, 2000
Barrett Schumarr stared through the thick glass that separated him from test subject three eighteen.
Three eighteen squirmed, but the restraints held him tightly to the chair.
Schumarr glanced at his pocket watch with anticipation that soon the minor squirms would evolve into violent spasms. If three eighteen was like the previous test subjects, the spasms would be closely followed by death.
The room rolled to the left.
“The storm is getting closer,” Charles said, referring to the ship’s dramatic rolling and pitching caused from the building waves.
Charles was Schumarr’s assistant and often a harsh critic and skeptic of his.
Schumarr paid no attention. His gaze darted between his watch and the man.
Three eighteen quit squirming.
“He’s stop moving. Make a note on the time,” Schumarr ordered.
Charles did as he was commanded and jotted down notes on a clipboard.
Schumarr exited the observation room and started towards three eighteen but stopped when the man’s head quickly lifted.
“Can you hear me?” Schumarr asked.
Three eighteen opened his eyes and looked in Schumarr’s direction.
Schumarr could see he wasn’t looking at him, he was looking through him. “Can you hear me?” Schumarr asked again as he snapped his fingers loudly near three eighteen’s ears.
Three eighteen jerked his head. Thick drool dripped from his lips and sweat streamed down his stubbled face.
“Make a note that three eighteen is nonresponsive to my commands. He appears to be lucid, but he’s displaying some sort of catatonic state. This is a different response than before. This is interesting, very interesting,” Schumarr said looking at his watch. “We’ve past the time of when the other subjects began violently thrashing.”
Charles feverishly wrote.
Schumarr bent over and looked closer in his eyes. “His pupils are dilated, fully.”
Three eighteen continued to stare ahead.
“Hello, are you there?” Schumarr said and clapped his hands inches from three eighteen’s face.
This time he locked eyes with Schumarr.
“There you are,” Schumarr said with a broad smile.
Three eighteen furrowed his brow as a look of anger grew on his face.
Schumarr cocked his head and asked, “Tell me what you’re feeling?”
Three eighteen matched Schumarr’s gesture by also cocking his head.
“Tell me, how do you feel?”
No response.
Three eighteen’s eyes rolled back into his head and his body tensed.
Schumarr wondered if this was the beginning of the end. Is he about to spasm then stroke out like all the others before him? Schumarr looked over his shoulder to see Charles staring. “Don’t gawk, write! Write everything you’re seeing here!”
“But we’re filming too!” Charles fired back.
“Write, damn it. Put down everything you’re seeing in the moment. It’s important! And don’t argue with me.”
Charles went back to scribbling quickly.
A loud snap caught Schumarr’s attention. He turned to find three eighteen had broken the leather strap holding his right arm. With his right arm free, he reached across and undid his left.
Schumarr stepped forward to stop him but was pushed back hard. He stumbled backwards and fell, hitting his head against the bulkhead.
Charles looked on in horror as the leg restraints were the next thing he undid.
“Stop him!” Schumarr barked.
Charles came into the room but froze when he saw three eighteen stand and turn to face him.
A look of pure anger was etched on three eighteen’s face. He stepped away from the chair and stared at Charles. Thick drool spilled from his gaping mouth and ran down his shirt.
Charles tried to flee but wasn’t fast enough.
Three eighteen caught him at the door and dragged him to the floor.
Schumarr watched in fascination as Charles was beaten mercilessly.
Charles tried to fight back but the onslaught was too much.
Three eighteen pinned a wailing Charles down by holding his shattered arms to the floor. He opened his mouth and spit a large amount of saliva into Charles’ face much of which went into his mouth.
Charles gagged and threw up.
Displaying incredible strength, three eighteen reached down with his right hand and ripped Charles’ jaw off and tossed it aside.
Blood poured from Charles’ now gaping face. He gasped a few times then died.
With Charles dead, three eighteen turned his attention to Schumarr who had crawled to the far corner of the room.
Schumarr’s eyes widened with an odd joy. Deep down he was happy; it appeared he had finally succeeded at creating something unique and equally terrible.
The door burst open. Two armed men raced in.
Three eighteen turned towards them.
They raised their rifles, but just before they could open fire, Schumarr yelled, “Don’t kill him. I need him alive!”
With vicious intent, three eighteen charged the guards but only made it to within arm’s reach before being hit in the head with the butt of a rifle. He fell to his knees, grunted and lunged again. A second hit to his left temple knocked him out. He fell to the floor unconscious.
Schumarr stood, wiped his hands on his white lab coat and said, “Outstanding!”
The guards gave Schumarr a perplexed look.
Unsure of how long he’d be out, Schumarr ordered, “Take him back to his cell.”
They slung their rifles and scooped up three eighteen’s limp body.
“And triple restrain him,” Schumarr barked.
“Yes, sir,” one replied.
“And make sure you wash. Toss, better yet, burn those clothes,” Schumarr warned.
The men looked at their clothing, each other and back to Schumarr. They nodded and exited, three eighteen’s bare feet dragging across the blood-covered floor, leaving a trail out the door.
Franz, Schumarr’s senior assistant, stepped into the room carefully avoiding the gathering pools of dark red blood and not giving a care for his fellow assistant’s death and said, “Dr. Schumarr, Mr. Clayton has requested to see you immediately.”
“See?”
“Yes, he’s here. He just landed.”
The ship shook and heaved again.
Franz cringed and gave Schumarr a distressed look.
Schumarr stepped over Charles’ dead body and patted Franz on the shoulder. “Don’t be concerned. This ship was made for such storm
s.”
Franz replied with a sheepish smile.
“I’m glad he wants to see me because I want to see him.”
“What do I do with Charles’ body?” Franz asked.
“Take it to examination room four,” Schumarr said as he exited. He paused, turned around and looked at Charles’ body. “And make sure you confirm he’s dead. If he’s not, restrain him too. I’ll be back down later to conduct an autopsy.”
“Shut down?” Schumarr howled.
“Dr. Schumarr, our benefactors have pulled their funding. We’re out of money.”
“But I’ve finally made significant progress with Project Sleeper,” Schumarr exclaimed.
Clayton shook his head. He didn’t come to debate, he came to ensure the project was shut down.
“Don’t you see? We’ve been searching for the perfect formula, the perfect combination to make the perfect bioweapon and I’m very close.”
“That’s a lot of perfects,” Clayton mocked.
“I just need more time.”
“You’ve had plenty of time,” Clayton said.
“We’re close. I just need more time. These sorts of things don’t happen overnight!” Schumarr snapped.
“Dr. Schumarr, enough, you’ve had five years. They’re cutting us off. It’s over!” Clayton yelled, his nostrils flared with anger.
“It’s not over! Find money somewhere else.”
“I know your brown-skinned friend, Yasser, loved this project. He blinded his father with the vision of creating the one, and I’ll use your word, perfect solution. But it’s cost us five years and half a billion dollars. While you fiddled away years experimenting, precious financial resources that could have gone to financing real attacks were squandered. Enough of the games, I’m tired of it. We’re fighting a war against the imperialism of the United States. It’s a real war, a war fought with real weapons, not weapons only found in science fiction.”
Schumarr’s spine tensed. He stood tall, clenched his square jaw and slowly ground his teeth. Anger began to well up inside him.
Seeing a change in his composure, Clayton shifted his tone and said, “Doctor, we all appreciate your efforts, it’s just too late now, I’m sorry. Our alliance with your friends, the sheepherders, hasn’t been this fragile, we need to preserve what we can. We must go back to more conventional means if we’re to see our vision of a one world socialist order established. Our efforts need to be refocused on taking control of one of their political parties and from there we can destroy America from the inside out.”
Schumarr didn’t reply. He narrowed his eyes and stared past Clayton out the window to the high waves cresting on the rolling ocean.
“Go pack your personal belongings,” Clayton ordered.
“Give me at least another week,” Schumarr pleaded.
“We don’t have another week. I have helicopters picking us up tomorrow once we clear the storm.”
“You go, leave me, I need to finish this, please,” Schumarr begged, his hands clasped as if he were praying.
“I can’t leave you. We’re scuttling the ship tomorrow. Charges are being set now. We can’t leave any evidence,” Clayton said. He hung his head and began to feel sympathy for Schumarr. He too had been convinced about the project in the early days, but lost faith when the years dragged on with no results. “I’m sorry, Barrett.”
“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” Schumarr asked.
“Honestly, yes. I’m done,” he answered and paused. He took a step towards Schumarr and said, “I should tell you before you hear it once we make landfall tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Project Titan,” Clayton said.
Schumarr shook his head and grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.
“What did you say?” Clayton asked.
“How do you know about that?”
“Someone on your team has a big mouth.”
“Who?”
“So it’s true?” Clayton asked.
Schumarr lowered his head and shoulders. He sat down on the chair next to him and sighed.
“What were you thinking?” Clayton asked.
“I’m a scientist. We never throw out findings. You never know where they might lead you. New discoveries, rewriting history,” Schumarr mumbled.
“Christ, if that thing gets out, it will kill us all. Are you crazy?”
“I was merely exploring a different angle. I meant to discuss this with everyone later.”
“Well, your assistant Charles thought it best we all know now. I’m sorry, Barrett, I really am, but you’ve turned this into nothing more than a shit show. You were tasked with creating a lethal virus that would cripple America; instead you turned your attention to making monsters.”
“I’m sorry, I was just going where the science led me.”
“Where is it?” Clayton asked.
“Down below. He’s secure, I swear,” Schumarr said, looking up with weary eyes.
“He’s secure? What does that mean?” Clayton asked, his tone showing concern.
“Today we had a breakthrough. It was marvelous. Project Titan took a big step today.”
“Destroy Project Titan, Project Sleeper, all of it!”
“No, please, I have years’ worth of data, findings. They might reconsider.”
“It’s not your work, they own it, they paid for it. No, it must all be destroyed.”
“Why? Please!”
Tired of the debate, Clayton walked to the door of his stateroom, opened it and simply said, “Be ready to leave tomorrow.”
January 15, 2000
“Yasser, listen to me. We cannot let this end now. Go tell your father, please,” Schumarr begged. His hand gripped the phone receiver tightly.
“Dr. Schumarr… Barrett, I’m sorry, my father made up his mind. We are moving in a different direction now.”
“At least let me save all my findings, my logs.”
“My father gave specific instructions to have it all destroyed.”
“Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Why have me even work on this only to destroy it all when we’re so close?”
Yasser paused.
“Are you there?” Schumarr asked.
“Yes.”
“At least tell me why.”
“Barrett, we know about the other thing you were working on. We didn’t fund you so you could create something none of us have control over. You see, my father likes control and this, this he can’t be. We have no assurances that once this gets out it won’t destroy us too.”
“I’ll get rid of it, I promise, but keep Sleeper alive, please.”
“I’m sorry but no. We’re focused on more conventional means to strike at the United States and its allies. Ones that use commercial airliners.”
“Jets, commercial jets? No one hijacks anymore.”
“It’s more than that, you’ll see. We hope to execute that plan sometime in late 2001.”
Schumarr shook his head wildly and said, “Yasser, I’ve known you for how long? Six years, seven. You know I can do this.”
“Barrett, I consider you a friend, but I’m sorry, my father is no longer interested in your project. You’re a world-class virologist; any university or big pharma lab would take you. Your life isn’t over.”
“This is my life’s work. I don’t care about universities or big pharma.”
“I have to go. Let’s get together soon. I’ll be in Berlin to open a new Muslim cultural center this June. I’ll send you an invitation. I’d like you to come.”
Schumarr hung his head in despair. “Fine.”
“Thank you for your hard work.”
“Sure.”
“Goodbye, Barrett.”
Schumarr somberly walked the narrow and darkened passageways until he reached the lower decks where his research facility was located. He searched his thoughts for how he could save his work but nothing came.
He looked at his watch. There was thirty-seven minutes to go before the c
hoppers arrived and ferried them all away. He hated the thought of abandoning years of work, but with Clayton overseeing the shutdown, he’d never be able to get one scrap of paper off the ship without him knowing about it.
“Dr. Schumarr, Dr.Schumarr!” Franz yelled from the other end of the passageway.
Schumarr looked up. He could see the distress on Franz’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Schumarr asked.
“It’s Clayton. He’s in your office…and he’s destroying everything,” Franz replied, out of breath.
Schumarr’s eyes widened in shock. He sprinted past Franz and into the laboratory. His office lay in the far corner and there he saw Clayton and two other men ripping apart his logs and shredding the contents.
“No!” Schumarr barked, racing towards them.
“Stop him,” Clayton ordered.
The two men who were helping Clayton grabbed Schumarr.
“Stop it!” Schumarr blared.
“I gave you the opportunity and I see you haven’t done one thing,” Clayton said, stuffing a stack of papers into a shredder.
“What does it matter? You’re blowing up the ship!” he yelled.
Clayton grabbed another tall stack and began feeding the shredder. “I’m not taking any chances.”
Schumarr tried to resist the grips of the men. “You’re hurting me.”
Clayton leaned close to Schumarr and barked, “Bring me everything of value. I need to destroy it myself.”
A howl came from down the hall.
Clayton looked past Schumarr. “What was that?”
“That’s Project Titan,” Schumarr replied.
A devilish grin spread across Clayton’s face. “I’d like to meet him.” He stepped over stacks of binders and exited the room. “Where is he?”
“Let go of me. I’ll show you,” Schumarr said still struggling.
Clayton looked at his men and nodded. “Let him go.”
Schumarr brushed himself off and straightened his wrinkled clothes. He reached into his pocket and removed a ring of keys. “Follow me.”
Clayton and the others did just that.
Schumarr took them through a short maze, which ended in front of a large door. He peered through the small window in the door and saw three eighteen pacing; the triple restraints dangled from his wrists. In the far corner of the room, Schumarr took note of the observation window. Suddenly, an idea popped in his head. “He’s in there, but we need to go to the observation room, this way.” Schumarr took them around the corner and led them into a small darkened room. A single table with two chairs faced a large window.
Day of Reckoning Page 1