Cyborg 01 - Cyborg

by Martin Caidin

  “No. But maybe I should.”

  Wells dragged himself away from his seat and walked to where Steve stood in shadow, his left arm covered by a long-sleeved shirt. “A few days ago, mister, you saved the life of several children. They would have died. Burned to death if you hadn’t been there. That means you’ve paid your debt to society—in every way. We here in this center represent that society and we no longer have a claim on you. You’re home free. No obligations. But I’ll tell you, personally, because we’ve known each other for so many years, that I am damned, damned disappointed in you. What’s happened to you can never be undone. It’s happened. Period. But I never thought I’d see you go under in self-pity.

  “You better remember something, Steve. Nobody here ever forced you into an airplane. I told you this once before and maybe I should have said it more often. You volunteered. You went into test flying fully aware that these things do happen. So the shitty hand was dealt. But then you were given a miracle in this place, in the bionics program, and it doesn’t seem to matter at all to you. So, we’ll find someone else who’ll grab at this opportunity. There are more people torn up, busted, burned, and ripped in this country than you could imagine. We’ve got a whole war full of them and we won’t be wanting for volunteers. It’s a shame we have to lose your particular qualifications, but we’ll muddle our way through. We’ll make out. And like I said, starting in the morning you can pick the VA hospital of your choice.”

  Steve rolled up his sleeve, extended the skeletal arm toward Wells. “You wouldn’t be saying a word of this if you had seen the face of that child. If you’d heard her screaming at . . .”

  Wells shrugged. “I know what happened. Children scream when they see people who’ve been burned. When they see compound fractures. Or lepers. Or a whole variety of people mutilated in different ways. So a child who was upset, terrified by fire, in shock, who was going to burn to death if you hadn’t saved her, screamed when she saw your arm. She was screaming before, she got another shock, she screamed some more. I’m not impressed. I’m disappointed that you could be so blind.”

  “Me? How can—”

  Rudy Wells hammered the point. “You were in a burning bus and you went through flames and you never felt pain. It didn’t stop you. You saved lives, quite a few of them. You’re blind to the fact that you have an arm that can be repaired and made as good as the bionics limb it was before. What an incredible thing life has given you. We can fix the arm without pain, without removing anything from your body. We could fix it even if you’d crushed it beyond all possible use, and make it even better than it is now. If you weren’t so wrapped up in your damned private misery you’d understand you’re being offered a third chance, where most men never get more than one.”

  Wells moved toward the door, praying silently to himself. “I’ve talked myself out. Dr. Killian will attend to your transfer. There’s no need for us to see each other again.” He was almost through the door when it happened.

  “Doc.”

  Hoping, keeping his face a mask, Wells turned. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “You said something about a third chance.”

  “Past tense.”

  Steve hesitated. Finally: “I’d like to have it.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t argue with what you’ve said here tonight.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

  Steve’s voice was calm. “I hope not.”

  “You broke something off inside Kathy.”

  “I know that.”

  “You did it to me, too.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “If we forget what was said in here tonight, Steve, it’s got to be all the way.”

  “It will be. My word.”

  “All right. I’ll talk with you in the morning.” He turned again to leave, but was stopped once more.

  “Doc, do you know where she is? I—I’d like to see her.”

  “God’s truth, Steve, I don’t know.”

  “All right. I . . .” He reached his limit. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Wells said, and walked down the corridor. When he arrived home, Jackie watched in silence as he went to the telephone and dialed a number directly to Washington, D.C.

  The phone rang five times before a sleepy voice answered.

  “Oscar? Wake up. Rudy Wells here. In Colorado. Yes, yes. You can call Jackson McKay. Tell him Steve is ready.”

  CHAPTER 16

  He looked nothing like the man one expected to find directing the subtly concealed activities of the Office of Special Operations. Jackson McKay presided over his office from a huge leather swivel chair, a brooding Buddha of huge physical bulk, sustained by a diet of excellent food and quantities of dark beer. The man enjoyed life, was committed to its luxuries, but his bulk belied his excellent physical conditioning. Those who knew him well understood the relationship between Jackson McKay and the Sumo wrestlers of Japan; they were great and heavy men with astonishing agility, layered with fat beneath which were coiled muscles of extraordinary strength.

  If McKay well concealed his robust health and strength beneath his gross appearance, he performed as well in disguising a mind of extraordinary strength and precision. Extending over nearly thirty years of intelligence and espionage work, McKay’s record included several dozen men dispatched at his hands; he had worked with British Intelligence and Interpol and dealt intimately with the security agencies of perhaps a dozen governments throughout the world. He was also a veteran of the military-security groups of his own country, had been an early member of the wartime OSS and its CIA successor. His penetrating knowledge of international intrigue, and the techniques required to survive in those roily waters, made him a natural selection as the first director of OSO. He was a master of the art of innovation, of introducing the wholly unexpected into his operations, and of keeping the opposition off balance.

  He was the man responsible for funding the project they knew as Steve Austin. To Jackson McKay, Steve was not a man but an implement, a device, a weapon. A force, to be applied when and where it would exert the greatest possible effect in the shortest possible time. McKay enjoyed no status as a scientist, but he was a connoisseur of its handiwork, having, during several wars, used “gadgets” both to assure the demise of the enemy and his own survival. Imagination, McKay devoutly believed, was the single greatest weapon one might possess.

  OSO maintained a training camp in the hills of West Virginia, where it developed a force of special agents with the derring-do of Ghurka soldiers. Results were good but casualties high, and when one studied the score sheets, smacked of inefficiency. Something better was needed, and something better loomed with breathtaking promise in the form of the secret bionics and cybernetics laboratories resting on the flanks of the Rockies in Colorado. McKay had always envisioned a super-agent, but more than a foot soldier, an artillery man, or any combat veteran was needed. McKay wanted the very best and he bided his time.

  Steve Austin was his reward.

  Today was delivery time. Precisely at ten A.M. Goldman came into his outer office with Steve Austin and Dr. Wells. “Send them right in,” McKay told his secretary. He heaved himself from his seat to greet them. McKay was delighted. Something seemed on fire inside Austin.

  He glanced to the side of his desk. A green light glowed. Good. The team for Project Aquila was gathered in the next room. They could wait for a while. His gravelly voice banged through the room. It was upsetting and it was supposed to be.

  “Sit down, sit down,” McKay told them. “Colonel Austin?” The other man turned a hard face to him. “Colonel, how much do you know of this organization?”

  “Next to nothing.”

  “Any conclusions on your own?”

  Steve’s face remained frozen. “This is silly, McKay,” Austin told him. “You didn’t bring me all the way here, or—” he gestured to Rudy Wells, “this man either, to play guessing games. So let’s stop cocking around and ge
t to it.”

  McKay’s smile was less forced than Steve expected. “Very good. Better, in fact, than I expected.”

  “Stop patronizing me,” Steve told him. “One question, though. Did your outfit foot the bill for the program?”

  “You mean the project we call Steve Austin?”

  “Thanks for the answer,” Steve said. “And at the same time, I appreciate the confidence you’ve expressed.” He looked up and smiled humorlessly. “I don’t mean confidence in me,” he went on. “The confidence you have in your own decisions is what I mean. And since you’ve paid out all that good money, McKay, why don’t you start putting it to work and tell me why I’m here.”

  “You’re here because we plan certain operations for which your special talents are necessary. In many ways they are critical.”

  “Indispensable is more like it.”

  “You seem sure of that, Colonel.”

  Steve leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. And I’d like to get one more thing very clear among us.” He glanced at both McKay and an attentive Oscar Goldman. “I am not personally grateful to any one of you for being here. I know something about the operation of outfits such as you represent. There’s no room in it for personal gratitude. You have a job to do. It’s serious, in many ways it’s dirty, in some ways it stinks, but,” he shrugged, “having worn the blue suit for a long time and having exchanged unfriendly volleys between myself and other people doing their best to kill me, I understand and even appreciate what you do. Not in terms of personal commitment, I want you to understand. That’s just a professional opinion.

  “You will receive my absolute cooperation. I assure you of that. But I am also a guinea pig in this. My personal involvement is with myself. To make everything clear, I don’t much give a shit for your operation. I’m willing to go along as part of the great experiment. I just want you to understand that I don’t owe you a thing.”

  “Fair enough, Colonel Austin.” And suddenly McKay was also all business. “For the record, you will retain your Air Force rank as colonel with appropriate pay and expenses. Your orders will read that you are on detached duty to the Office of Special Operations for the purpose of testing various types of avionics equipment. However, you will have no further contact with the Pentagon or any other authority, except this office or the facilities in Colorado and, outside of Dr. Wells here, you will never discuss your assignments with anyone beyond a specific list of names which will be provided for you. In the event of my absence when certain crucial decisions must be made, Oscar Goldman will function in my capacity and with full authority.

  “The operation we have in mind, Colonel, appears to be tailored to your unique qualifications. We are carrying out this mission for the Defense Department. More specifically, a combined request from Air Force and Navy. I want to make something clear. This is not an undercover assignment as that phrase is so often misused. It will be a field assignment, rather unprecedented. You are an excellent swimmer. You were an excellent swimmer before your accident. I would like this on a personal basis, Colonel, since I have been informed you have also spent much time in underwater work. I find that surprising, considering how little time has been available from your duties as an astronaut and test pilot.”

  “Obviously you have my records,” Steve said. “If I would add anything to what you know, it would be that I managed the underwater program for weightless tests at the Marshall center in Alabama. We developed equipment for the Skylab station there, and I logged a few hundred hours underwater. Comparison of weightlessness in the water and zero-g states, that sort of thing.”

  “That fills in what I needed,” McKay said, openly pleased. “It will save time for this operation we have in mind, and time is not in our favor. One more point, Colonel. I said this would not be an undercover operation. We wouldn’t dare turn you loose in that business. Despite your unusual advantages in many ways you wouldn’t last twenty-four hours against the pros. You will need know-how, language nuances, certain expertise and techniques.”

  McKay watched Austin’s face.

  “Underwater operation,” Steve said slowly. “Different from what you may have done before. Got to be or you could use any really good UDT men. So you’re talking about endurance and a situation one man or a dozen can’t fill. No time for the special training you were talking about, so it’s pretty much a one-man operation. And you’re not expecting me to get involved with direct contact.” He looked up. “How many pushups before I qualify?”

  In answer, McKay gestured to the door by his left. “The team for Project Aquila is waiting for us in there. You will be given a full briefing on the assignment. After that we would like to run a test here—”

  “What kind?” Steve broke in.

  “Hand-to-hand combat,” McKay said. “I said before, we do not expect personal contact on this assignment. It may, however, take place. There is no other way to evaluate your ability to protect yourself, to escape certain situations, until we see what you can do. After that, we can better plan your equipment.”

  “It sounds as if you have quite a party planned for me.”

  “We do,” McKay confirmed. “You will not be playing with amateurs.”

  “We expect you to be here two days,” McKay went on. “Then you will return with Dr. Wells and Mr. Goldman to Colorado, where the necessary modifications will be carried out to your—to your person. I don’t wish to seem callous but—”

  “But you are,” Steve told him. “Don’t sweat it, McKay.”

  McKay nodded, dropped the subject. “You will be in Colorado several days, which is what Oscar tells me will be the time required for the alterations we have in mind. After that, back here for final, specific training for the operation, and then we commit.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Steve said quietly.

  No one could walk directly into an OSO briefing room. You walked through a door, closed it behind you, and discovered you were in a trap. Steve knew without asking that the doors were steel-lined beneath the wood, worked by electronic locks. He glanced at Oscar Goldman, who nodded without saying a word. Wells was more interested in OSO’s gimmickry. “Ultraviolet and electronic scan?” he asked. Goldman nodded again, started to reply when a loudspeaker came to life. “State your name, please. Colonel Austin first.” Steve felt foolish but did as the invisible voice requested, followed by Wells and Goldman.

  “Voice ID,” Goldman explained. “Your characteristics are already on computer file. Better than carrying a badge.” As he spoke the second door opened and Goldman ushered them into the conference room. It was much as Steve expected. He’d been in and out of conference and briefing rooms for years, and this one had all the earmarks of a major combat-operations planning center. Large wall maps and charts, reference manuals, stacks of photographs, projectors of all types, the long, center table and chairs. There was one immediate difference. At the center table stood two men. Another half a dozen men and women were seated at a second table against the far wall, members of the Aquila team. They would remain silent unless needed to answer questions in their respective specialties. Goldman introduced them to the two men at the table. The first was Marty Schiller, whose huge, calloused hand engulfed Steve’s own. The pressure was firm, controlled, and a toothy grin appeared on his face. Schiller had skin that gave the impression of torn sandpaper—weathered, leathery, crinkled. He was rawboned, large and rangy, a man of endurance and strength, a UDT man with pararescue and other paramilitary experience.

  The second was Dick Carpentier, a swarthy fellow who looked as if the five o’clock shadow on his face could never be removed. He was especially impressed by Steve’s credentials as an astronaut who had walked on the moon.

  Goldman took a seat and motioned for the others to do the same. The room darkened and a projection screen brightened with a detailed topographic chart of a coastline. “The area you see is part of the northeastern coast of South America,” Schiller announced in the darkened room. “The re
ferences are six degrees north and fifty-four degrees west, or approximately along the Surinam border, which is Netherlands Guiana, and to its east, French Guiana. The river delta is the mouth of the Maroni, which serves as the border.” The map snapped out and a detailed color photograph appeared in its place. “This oblique view, taken by an aircraft flying due south toward the shore line, gives some indication of the hills along the shore. As you move southward you get into the steeper hills and rather deep valleys of the Guiana Highlands, which constitute the northern border area of Brazil. You won’t, however, be concerned with that.” Again the screen flickered, and the still photograph gave way to the point of view of a pilot flying at no more than a hundred feet above the water. “Again,” explained Marty Schiller, “approach is due south, altitude approximately one hundred feet, speed about six hundred knots. Please pay attention to the number of boats that will appear in a moment.”

  Steve watched in silence as the photo aircraft continued its rush over the water. A boat appeared to the left of the screen, and then another, and within seconds, at that speed, he had several dozen vessels in sight. “Most of these ships are fishing vessels, yet there are not any worthwhile fishing grounds in the area.” The coast line appeared as a faint smudge on the horizon, rushed toward them with dizzying speed. The hills focused clearly and Steve saw excellent harbors, steep hills jutting from the water to form deep bays and anchorages. A flash of orange appeared suddenly, then another, and the screen seemed to be burning up along the shore line. The film stopped. “Take a good look, Colonel. What’s your guess?”

  Steve stared at the screen. “Back it up thirty seconds,” he told Schiller. The screen went dark, came to light again thirty seconds earlier in the film. Steve waited until the flashes appeared again along the horizon. “Hold it,” he said. The screen stopped and he looked at the single frame held on the screen.

  “There’s no mistaking that,” Steve said. “Antiaircraft.”