The Best Defense

by Todd A. Stone

  He opened another door and led them into a laboratory. Rows of technicians were bent over microscopes and desktop computers.

  “For us, this work began in earnest with Hitler’s search for a master race. It was a fruitless search, of course, because no race is inherently superior. Nature is a great leveler and imposes her own limitations—taken as groups, the masses are all equals. But each man is not. No, it was left for men to carry mankind forward.”

  “Then, it was the research in the Gulags which gave our predecessors the data they needed. Not only did this solution provide literally millions of subjects from which to gather data, but it also posed another problem, which led to further discoveries. As the number of available workers from the camps decreased, it was necessary to obtain greater productivity from those who remained, without increasing food rations. As an experimental solution, testicular extracts—distilled at first from animals, then from the organs of those who had been eliminated, were fed or injected into those who remained. These extracts contained testosterone, and the improvements in strength, health, and productivity were very significant.

  “This was no more than a first step. By the time the Cold War ended, doctors in the camps had isolated not only a series of chemical physiological regulators, known as hormones, but also gene groupings that were coded for the physical traits of strength, agility, and stamina, and speed. They also began isolating both the hormones and the groupings for such mental traits as obedience, aggressiveness, and so on. When the Soviet Union disintegrated and the camps were decommissioned, the doctors in them fled. Their notebooks and the results of their experiments came into my hands.”

  Dimonokov gestured outward at the technicians. “Our work begins here and ends here. At these tables my researchers have gone beyond the research that has identified which genes make it likely that an individual will develop certain diseases. We do not care about the cancer gene or the high blood pressure gene. We care about the strength gene, the obedience gene. While the work is incomplete, it has progressed far enough to meet the current crisis.”

  “Why is this work not complete?” Roskotovitch asked, looking for a weakness.

  “The numbers are staggering, General. The double-helix ribbon we call DNA, which is no more than a few microns wide, would stretch to over two meters long if extended. Within that ribbon are over three billion repeating chemical units, forming over two million nucleotides. These eventually form the approximately a hundred fifty thousand genes necessary for human life. Of these hundred fifty thousand, only two per cent seem to be directly linked related to life. Although the human genome has been mapped, the function of the remaining ninety-eight per cent of the DNA is not yet understood. But each day we come one step closer to pinpointing the function of each gene, and certain genes we already know how to manipulate on that level.”

  Dimonokov hurried them into the next room. In this lab test tubes and chemistry equipment augmented the microscopes and computers.

  “It is here, though, that the greatest breakthroughs have been achieved to date. Our research here concerns itself with protein and amino acid sequences. It is this research that truly gives us the ability to build master warriors. We do not know—yet—which individual gene or genes are responsible for the traits we desire. Yet we do know that in certain individuals who have the traits we desire, certain genes are present. Thus we do not use an arrow to target a single gene or a few genes. Rather we target large numbers of genes with protein and amino acid sequences. These hormones bind with the genes, which yield the desired trait or traits by hooking onto a DNA sequence, called a ‘promoter’. The promoter encourages the process of transcription of the genetic material and its replication in the body.”

  He pointed to one corner. “For example, HGH, the human growth hormone. We have synthesized, refined, and modified it, and it is incorporated into the development regime. You might recognize the names of others: serotonin and noradrenaline, for instance.”

  Dimonokov’s two reluctant guests had blank looks.

  He pointed to another work area. “We use different combinations of anabolic—tissue building—and androgenic—masculinizing—steroids. This alteration of the hormone balance has proved to be synergistic. That is, when we alter one physiological regulator, others are affected, which has an effect on the first one, and so on.”

  “Are there not side effects?”

  Dimonokov shrugged. “There is some evidence, General, that overuse or substitution of one amino acid for another can induce benign protein molecules to change their shapes, and that this change can promote neurodegenerative disorders. In fact, diseases such as brain degeneration, cancer, heart disease, and immune disorders can be linked to either an overabundance or deficiency of certain proteins. There is also, ah, speculation that when amino acid levels are at extremes, the signals from white blood cells to the red blood cells is interrupted or modified. The result would be that the body is not alerted to the presence of infection, and may, in fact, rush to support and nourish the infection.”

  He turned away. “But our studies have not run the length of time necessary to draw specific conclusions, and the theory of panic-response communication between T cells and white blood cells in the presence of infection is not fully proven.”

  “So the troops are grown big because they fill them with some witch’s brew and vitamins?” Huzrod muttered to his general. “I assume it includes three glasses of mother’s milk daily.”

  Dimonokov overheard. He twisted his lip in disgust. “Our methods are not nearly so primitive. True, supplements and serotonin uptake maximizers are added to the troops’ diet. But we also use injections, transfusions, and the implantation of biopolymers having both sustained release and chemical sensing mechanisms to release specific amino acid sequences. Of course, due to the differences in responsibilities and desired responses, individual soldiers and officers are on different programs.”

  Roskotovitch looked around. “This is only a small fraction of the building. What is contained in the remainder?”

  “The future, General. The future.”

  ~*~

  Dimonokov loaded Roskotovitch and Huzrod into his staff car. The sun was still half asleep when they arrived at a clearing in a wooded area, where Dimonokov ushered them up a set of stairs to a small platform. In the dimness, the outline of a hand-to-hand combat pit was barely visible below them. Four Special Security NCOs filed in behind Huzrod and the general. There they stood and waited.

  “Molecular biology can do much, but it is training which capitalizes on biology. Soon you will see the result of the technicians’ labor and of my lifetime of research.”

  Time passed slowly in the cold. Roskotovitch looked impatiently at his watch.

  “When will this begin?”

  “Soon, General, very soon,” Dimonokov replied. “Shortly the future of warfare will be before your very eyes.”

  Dimonokov, dressed in his gray soldier’s combat uniform, lifted his gaze to the sky. Gunmetal clouds brooded slowly overhead, dispensing a funereal mist onto the training pit. The heavy grayness seemed to press in on the training area. A slow drumbeat of thunder signaled a coming storm. He turned back to the empty close combat pit, noting that both the sky above and the pit below would soon be filled with the violence of nature.

  Elevated on a concrete base, the platform looked down on a rock- and sawdust-filled arena about ten meters in diameter. Two gravel paths led down and through heavy chain-link entrance doors, one on each side of the hole’s stained concrete walls. The pit itself had been dug so that the floor was nearly twenty feet below ground. Should someone inside be so athletic as to jump the height to ground level, a steel safety railing laced with razor wire would stop his escape. The only other access was a steel catwalk, which ran like a bridge from the platform across the pit to a second, larger set of bleachers. Dimonokov had ordered it built just for occasions such as today’s.

  An animal growl rolled from deep in the morning gro
und-fog. Dimonokov heard it first, and nodded with self-satisfaction that it was a growl in unison. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Roskotovitch slightly cock his head.

  “The noise, Colonel?”

  “They are coming. Master warriors. The soldiers of the future.”

  Before Roskotovitch could respond that it would be he, as the senior Russian Army officer present, who would decide what the soldiers of the future would look like, the growl swelled to a roar. As if on cue two chanting columns of bareheaded troops, a dozen across and so deep that they stretched back into the fog, streamed forward and surrounded the pit. The roar grew louder as their sergeant and warrant officer trainers herded the roaring columns into a circle around the close combat arena.

  Dimonokov saw Roskotovitch’s eyes widen. No man in the mass below stood less than six and one-half feet tall, and each resembled the other more than they differed. Muscles that rivaled those of the best bodybuilders bulged beneath their soaked uniforms. As each man pounded a closed, meaty right fist into an open left palm he snarled out a powerful, almost inhuman noise of pure hate. Roskotovitch’s face went taut with a sudden fear. Huzrod involuntarily slid a half-step back. Behind them, the burly escorting Special Security sergeants cracked the faintest of smiles.

  Dimonokov was pleased. For three minutes he let the soldiers chant on. Then he extended a closed right fist, palm facing to the left, out to a 45-degree angle. Sergeants bellowed. The chant stopped.

  Fist still upraised, Dimonokov nodded. The trainers pulled two soldiers from the crowd. They moved quickly down the access paths, unbolted the pit’s doors, and shoved the combatants into the arena. A small shed stood twenty meters from the pit. The two trainers opened the shed’s door, pulled out two more men, and hustled them into the pit, slamming the wire gates shut behind them. Dimonokov dropped his hand and the crowd of uniformed men resumed their collective howl. The men in the pit crouched and circled one another.

  “What you see before you,” Dimonokov said as he pointed, “are the soldiers of the future, but they are here today. These are Mother Russia’s new master warriors. Perhaps they will be its salvation. And you see what happens to the failures. As I explained to you earlier, there is no room for the weak.” He glanced at Roskotovitch. “Or the faint of heart.”

  There was a flash of a kick and punch below. One soldier bounced off the concrete wall, rolled into the dirt, then scrambled to his feet.

  Roskotovitch raised an eyebrow.

  Dimonokov had been waiting.

  “Yes,” Dimonokov’s voice was barely audible over the roar. “The blow would have immobilized, perhaps killed, a normal man. But these are not normal men.”

  “They make good soldiers?”

  “They make single-minded killers,” Dimonokov answered. “Merciless. Obedient. Conquering. It has taken years, but our training—and the chemical compounds—have yielded the ultimate in human war machines as surely as if we had bred them.” He gestured toward the mass below. “This is my answer to those who would stop me.” He leaned forward and motioned to an NCO below. Four more men were released into the pit, only this time they stopped and waited.

  “Follow me.” Dimonokov opened a small gate and walked out onto the catwalk.

  Roskotovitch and his aide hesitated. The Special Security soldiers behind them moved forward.

  The two officers stepped out onto the narrow walkway. The men below roared and chanted.

  Just over half way, Dimonokov stopped and turned.

  “It is time for a decision. I have built master warriors, who need only a mission. Men like my brother have brought this country to crisis with their greed. Those who would be our conquerors have grown weak, and the weak are to be used by the strong. They have, moreover, collected the ultimate tools of warfare and laid them at our feet.” He looked over the crowd, then turned back to Roskotovitch

  “Our nation is free, but in name only. It must be unified in spirit. We have waited long enough. In a very short time the current government will find itself in crisis, our conquerors will find themselves struck down, and my Master Warriors shall own the weapons that shall make Russia a master of Europe and the world. And our children, my children, shall be but the first of a new generation of master warriors and of a true master race.” Dimonokov raised his fist. The chant grew louder.

  “We are of one mind, of one will! Are you with us or against us?”

  Roskotovitch’s eyes narrowed. “Colonel Dimonokov, as your superior officer and Chief of the General Staff, I hereby relieve you of your duties and your command, effective immediately.”

  Dimonokov dropped his arm. Roskotovitch and his aide dropped into the pit as the catwalk beneath them gave way. He heard the aide scream as Special Security Master Warriors jumped him.

  Roskotovitch didn’t make a sound, and Dimonokov thought the old man might well have gotten in a punch or two before they killed him.

  Chapter Six

  Commander’s Office

  Infernesk Munitions Depot

  After six hours of exploring the tunnels beneath her depot, Val sat with her boots up on her desk, mulling over what she had seen underground. With the exception of the ceilings in the underground admin area, the structures were solid enough; there was no evidence that the heavy bombers had so much as disturbed the dust when they dropped their loads over a half-century ago.

  She blew the dust off an oversize manila folder and pulled out a set of blueprints.

  The tunnels had been cut to various sizes, and the plans reflected that. Throughout the underground complex, some passageways were big enough to support two small trains traveling side by side. Narrow-gauge railroad tracks confirmed this. Other passageways narrowed to where only two or three men could walk abreast. But as Val had seen and as the brittle blueprints testified, each level was honeycombed with avenues of approach of not only these two widths, but also all sizes in between. The tunnels connected to storage, manufacturing, administrative, and maintenance areas, some no bigger than Val’s own office, others that rivaled a small stadium.

  What about air? There had to be air ducts to the surface. She flipped through the yellowed folder containing the plans. Sure enough, in the back was a layout of the air system, showing the above-ground vents, neatly plotted and paced off with directions and distance from the stone headquarters building that held her office. It’d take some digging but they could make those serviceable enough for their needs and jury-rig the rest.

  Although the technical descriptions in the margins and the intricacies of the system escaped her, she ran her finger over the air passages, suddenly realizing how elegantly simple and ingenious the system was, something that hadn’t occurred to her in the hours she’d spent studying the plans back in the Pentagon. A natural forced air system, she realized, the multiple sizes and arrangements of the rooms and ducts and stairways would keep the air moving when the outside vents were open. Though the work would be stuffy, uncomfortable, and difficult, it was nonetheless possible.

  Val leaned back in her chair and wrinkled her nose. The smell from below ground had seeped into her clothes and hair, and despite two cups of coffee she still had the filmy taste of the tunnels’ dead air on her tongue.

  Better get used to it, Val told herself. Air filtration or not, if you’re going to whip these people into shape, you’re gonna be spending time down there.

  Laboratory complex

  Ditchnesk Training Area

  It was very late when Dimonokov slid his electronic keycard into the reader. The machine buzzed, a red light turned green, and he pushed the door open. He stepped into a room well over three times the size of the laboratories he had shown Huzrod and Roskotovitch. There were nine more like it, and he visited each of them the last thing every night. Except for an access aisle down its center, a latticework of lightweight metal rods ran from floor to ceiling for the length of the room. Supported by this aluminum skeleton and arranged in neat rows three high were a hundred opaque, oval-shaped plastic caps
ules, each about the size of a small bathtub. Arteries of hoses, tubing, and cabling ran to each pod, delivering oxygen and nutrients, carrying away waste products, and monitoring and maintaining critical factors and levels. The only sounds were the gentle hum of electronic controls and the soft, regular breathing of pumps.

  He walked softly down the center aisle, as if the sound of his heavy footsteps might awaken one of the napping containers. He stopped halfway and stepped between two rows of capsules. He fit through the narrow access space with no more than a few centimeters clearance for his shoulders. He stopped before the center capsule and stared into it for a long time. Then Viktor raised his hand and gently stroked the plastic container. It was comfortably warm to the touch, just above body temperature. Although the pod was opaque, Viktor was almost sure he could discern the outline of the small form inside. He found it odd that he felt an almost parental attachment for number 01-0055-97, as he did with the others in the other pods in the other rooms. With a moment’s further reflection, Viktor decided such emotions were understandable. Were not those developing inside each pod literally of his own flesh, grown from carefully selected sperm and eggs, their DNA then radically altered and strands of his own intertwined? Were they not too of his blood? It must be so—the dark fluid sluicing through the tubing had been cultured from his blood and his bone marrow, then enhanced according to formulas developed in his own research.

  He believed even their still unconscious thoughts must be his too, for the nucleic acids and cerebrospinal fluid in each pod were tested and modified until they mimicked his. So too were the folia, the closely packed, leaf-like bundles of nerve cells in the cerebellum, so that those incubating inside the capsules might stand and walk and gesture like he did. In each major region of their dormant brains, the cells had been extracted, their structure and composition compared against his, then altered until the closest match possible was achieved.