The Measure of a Man [The Exceptionals Book 1]

by Jerry Kokich, Teel James Glenn

  He held the Exceptional at arm's length, then got a serious look. “Come on; I know that look. You need to talk."

  They walked out of the church to the tree-shaded pathway behind it. Jason explained, as best he could. He had always had great faith in the seal of the confessional, but also a dread of compromising high-level security.

  "It's been a question for the Church ever since that Dolly thing back in the nineties in the last century,” Father Duggins said. “We knew that outlawing it wouldn't really stop it. He is or was, your friend?"

  Jason nodded. “And our Team leader. He and Matthew were very close."

  "How is he taking it?"

  "Matthew? He's happy as a clam."

  "He always was the more child-like of the two of you.” The priest laughed at a memory. “Very accepting."

  "He doesn't seem to realize that this, this person isn't ... isn't real."

  "He walks, he talks, he lives.” The older man put a hand on Firststrike's shoulder. “As far as those criteria go, he's just as real as you and I."

  "You and I were born of woman, if you'll pardon the archaic expression. He was grown in a vat and programmed with someone else's experiences and memories."

  "Well, you weren't exactly programmed, but your parents raised you and taught you, using their experiences and memories."

  "I had a choice,” Jason insisted. “I chose to believe some of the things I was taught and not to believe some of them."

  "Yes ... I thought you had become a Buddhist when you moved to Japan."

  "I learned there that I believed some things more strongly than I thought."

  He paused, searching for the right words. “But that's not the point. This ... person didn't have a choice. He was constructed. He's a copy, a fake."

  "You talk about him as if he isn't even human."

  "Is he? What is a human? A carbon-based biped? A specific DNA type? A creature born from the union of two like creatures? He doesn't fit one of those ... he's not like us."

  "In the last century, many men used that statement to justify cleansing humanity.” The old priest spoke sadly, reliving some of the horrific memories from firsthand experiences as a military chaplain in Bosnia.

  "I—this is different..."

  "They said that, too."

  Jason was speechless. Father Duggins went to a Madonna statue at the corner of the garden and touched the image as a familiar friend.

  "I don't have any answers for you; it is too personal a thing. Ask for help and guidance up the ‘chain of command.’ All I can say is be true to yourself.” He turned back to Firststrike. “Good luck, Jason. Give my best to Matthew and your father."

  Jason looked at Father Duggins for a moment, then slowly turned away and left. Father Duggins watched his friend go and then knelt before the statue and began to pray.

  * * * *

  The Bodyguard, minus Firststrike, stood while Skorpion sat at the main computer terminal. “Like old-time telegraph keys,” she said as her fingers flew over the keys, “computer systems have their own signature. I've traced the last two years of medical links and come up with this.” A visual display came up that showed an elaborate tree-like diagram with numerous branches. Green lines traced transmissions from The Bodyguard headquarters through many different routes.

  "The transmissions go through many re-routers, but what nobody pays enough attention to is that a negative trace in a web this complex shows us where they don't want us to look.” The green lines on the screen converged to one point.

  "Can you overlay a map on that?” Lastshot asked. Skorpion nodded and tapped a few keys.

  "Quantico!"

  "The FBI training center?” Echo said.

  "Makes sense,” Temper said. “Well protected, who'd suspect?"

  Skorpion stood up from the console. “When do we leave?"

  "Not we, Red,” Lastshot said. “...me."

  "Pardon the cliché,” she replied. “But you can't do this alone."

  "I need answers,” he said. “So, I'm gonna go see this for myself, but we can't leave the base unmanned"

  "I'll go with you.” Firststrike's voice snapped everyone's head around.

  No one spoke as Firststrike walked across the computer room to stand directly in front of Lastshot. “I need some answers of my own."

  The two men stared face to face and the years of working together, the times they had saved each other's lives and the gulf between what had been and what was now, all was contained in that look.

  No one in the room failed to notice that. Even Goldstrike.

  "Jase—” Matthew tried to speak, but Firststrike silenced his brother with a look.

  "Temper should go with us,” Jason said. Lastshot nodded.

  "Good idea; she'll make sure we get in and out without a whisper."

  They looked to her and she nodded with a quiet smile.

  "It is what I do,” she said.

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  Chapter 39

  There was a building in Alexandria, Virginia that looked like an apartment building from the outside. It had balconies, a pool in the back and a parking garage right next door. As far as anyone driving by on the beltway was concerned, it was a normal apartment building. The seasonal decorations changed; there were barbecues on some of the balconies in the right weather and on weekends, kids and adults splashed around in the pool.

  Like so much in the world, it was a sham. There was a staff of ten whose only job was to move the bikes, pool toys, Christmas ornaments and turn on and off lights at appropriate times. They even staged arguments at some of the cookouts to make it all seem more real.

  The building was, in fact, The National Security Agency Data Collection Center. The top floors of the building did not exist—they were a shell around the most sensitive listening devices and satellite contact instruments in the world.

  Inside the main collection center was a large room on the third floor filled with cubicles, desks and computer terminals manned by dozens of people all wearing the same gray jumpsuits.

  Monitoring cameras and armed guards in unmarked combat fatigues lined the room. On a raised platform, at one end of the room, was a massive steel desk manned by a dark suited man. He had used the name ‘Mister Smith’ when he had briefed the Exceptionals in Guam and New York. On his desktop was a plaque that read: “If they look suspicious, they're guilty."

  Also on the desk was a panel of small lights. A red light went on. Mister Smith pressed a button, and a printout came out of a small slit in the surface of the desk. He considered it for a moment then stood up and exited the room.

  He carried the computer printout down a hallway where he placed his palm against a door. There was a hum and the door clicked opened.

  There was a large chair behind the desk and a man in it who took the print out from Smith. “Orwell just popped this out,” Smith said. “Somebody's been doing some serious investigating about the spares."

  The man behind the desk studied the printout for a moment.

  "What should I do?” Smith asked.

  "When the government's biggest computer tells us someone is curious about the clone program, what do you think you should do?” the man in the chair said.

  Smith turned to leave and the man stopped him. “Wait. I'll tend to it myself."

  He picked up a phone. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Vi—sorry, sir, no names. Someone has been snooping around the clone program.” There was pause while Smith listened to commands over the phone. “Yes, sir, I'll see that they are alerted.” He hung up, pulled up a file from his desk computer and dialed another number.

  * * * *

  Hidden inside a snowy mountaintop in the Midwest was a secret sanctum. In that sanctum a com link sounded. Computer screens and information terminals were placed around the vast central room of the complex. The impression of the central cavernous room was of an old alpine living room. There was a large, lushly carpeted area with lavish furniture, throw pillows, and a massive
wet bar carved from solid rock.

  A huge shaven headed man in his late thirties, his face scarred, his body covered in surgically implanted gray Kevlar Flex-Armor, strode across the concrete floor of the room. He was the leader of the international criminal group, The Four Horsemen. He went by the name of War.

  War sat down on a huge easy chair and picked up the ringing com unit.

  "Yes ... where?” His hardened features cracked into a smile that somehow made his aspect more horrifying. “Wonderful ... we'll see they get an appropriate reception; send the intercept information on the secure fax line. Goodbye."

  He hung up and walked to a balcony overlooking a huge workout area. There his teammate, Death, six foot eight and almost four hundred pounds, his arms covered with a rippling metal exo-skeleton, was facing a charging bull. The bull snorted and bellowed, charging the hideous giant. It slammed its horns into Death, who calmly grabbed them and with a quick shift of his massive shoulders snapped the bull's neck. It was a quick violent movement that flipped it on its back to the ground.

  The final two of War's team mates were watching Death's workout while lounging on a couch: Famine, a supermodel-thin beautiful woman and Pestilence, a short balding man, with a pock-marked face and a blackened hole where his nose used to be. When Death killed the bull, Famine and Pestilence held up white cards with numbers on them.

  "I give it an eight.” Famine sighed.

  "Generous,” Pestilence said. “It wasn't worth more than a seven point five but it's got a great lyric."

  War called down to them. “Are you all ready for some real exercise? We have a date with The Bodyguard."

  "Great,” Death said, picking up the bull across his shoulders. “Just let me throw this in the freezer for later."

  "You eat too much red meat,” Famine said with disgust. “You eat too much period."

  * * * *

  In the underground garage of The Bodyguard headquarters in New York, Lastshot, Temper, and Firststrike were getting into The Bodyguard's van. Skorpion stood near the van with her hand on Firststrike's shoulder.

  "Somebody asked Lincoln how long a man's legs should be,” she said. Firststrike slowly raised one eyebrow. “Do you know what he answered?"

  "No,” he said.

  "Long enough to reach the ground was his reply,” she finished.

  Firststrike gave her a wry smile. “Zen stuff like that makes my brain itch.” He got in the van and they drove off.

  Skorpion watched them go and said aloud to no one, “Sometimes I think they really are twins."

  Lastshot was driving with Temper in the passenger seat, and Firststrike in the back.

  "Conner...” Temper began.

  "I think that's me,” Lastshot said with a grim smile.

  "Are you prepared for what we might find?” she asked him.

  He drove in silence for a time and when he spoke it was in as haunted a voice as she had ever heard from him. “Tori, I've seen stuff that would freeze your blood ... men killed in ways that make horror movies look like daycare ... children used as suicide weapons ... but, no, I am not prepared for this.” He looked out the windshield like a sleepwalker, then made a deliberate effort to speak again.

  "See if you can find some oldies on the radio, okay?"

  The van sped through the night like an arrow aimed at a heart.

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  Chapter 40

  Quantico, Virginia had been a training facility for the Marines and the F.B.I for a very long time. It was a Mecca for law enforcement professionals worldwide and one of the most secure facilities in the world.

  The elite of the Marine Corps, kept alert by the constant world terrorists’ activity and almost continuous deployments since 2003, patrolled the perimeter. An armed Marine guard walked his post armed with the latest in night vision equipment and a sound interception and thermal imaging system. He had been on that duty post for six months and considered it a nice break from ‘action'. Though professional pride and a hard-nosed top kick made sure he still did his job as if he were in a hot zone.

  A noise made the guard stop. He thumbed off the safety of his rifle. He scanned the visible horizon and then engaged his electronic systems. Suddenly, something hit his rifle, putting the safety back on. The Guard looked down quickly.

  "Huh?” Something else hit the Guard in the temple, and he hit the ground like a felled oak.

  Lastshot, Temper, and Firststrike dressed all in black jumpsuits, with imaging neutral electronic camouflage webs imbedded in them, came out from a line of trees. Firststrike walked over to the unconscious Guard, reached down and picked up two small hard black glass balls.

  "Remind me never to play marbles with you,” Lastshot said.

  They made their way to an unmarked concrete building that was part of the FBI training area. They moved quickly to a nondescript door at the shadowed side of the building. Firststrike and Lastshot kept watch while Temper worked on the door. She opened a panel to the right of the door and ran a bypass on the circuitry she exposed. A red light switched to green and the door opened with a hydrolic hiss.

  The three Exceptionals entered quickly and noiselessly. There was a stairway leading down and they descended like three wraiths. At the bottom of the flight they crept cautiously along an antiseptic metal walled corridor. They passed several heavy steel doors. The nearest doors were labeled: AMBER WAVE, LONE STARS, and PACIFIC POWER.

  Finally they reached a door with a label that read BODYGUARD. Temper looked at Firststrike, who nodded. She made short work of the lock, and the three of them entered.

  The room was dimly lit by a greenish-blue glow coming from the far side.

  Temper and Firststrike put on vision enhancing goggles. Lastshot keyed the enhancer factors in his neural glasses. They all walked slowly forward to the source of the glow. There were six large clear glass cylinders, filled with a bluish liquid, attached to a massive bank of computer terminals and monitoring equipment. Five of the cylinders held naked adult bodies.

  The three Exceptionals stood riveted, staring at the unearthly sight before them. In the five cylinders were clone bodies of Firststrike, Goldstrike, Temper, Skorpion and Echo.

  In the sixth cylinder floated a baby. The nameplate on the cylinder identified the occupant as “Lastshot Replacement #2".

  The baby's eyes slowly opened and sightlessly stared into the pseudo amniotic fluid and it seemed to smile.

  Lastshot shuddered. It was a full minute before he was capable of turning himself away. He looked at Temper, who was looking at her own clone.

  "Tori,” he said. “Temper, can you get anything out of these computers?"

  She was a little shaky, but she shook herself and said, “I may set off any number of security measures, but I'll try."

  Firststrike had walked up to the cylinder containing his clone. He reached out, tentatively, and placed his fingertips on the glass.

  "Jason,” Lastshot said. “Door.” Firststrike jerked his hand back and looked at Lastshot. When he registered what his team leader had said, he nodded, then looked back at the cylinder for a moment, before going to guard the door.

  While Temper worked on the computers and Firststrike was at the door, Lastshot went back to the cylinder holding the next clone of Conner Le'Schott. He watched the little baby float peacefully in the bluish liquid. Temper's voice brought him back.

  "I've got something,” she said.

  Lastshot went to her and stood beside her.

  "If I go any deeper, every alarm in this place goes off,” she said without looking up at him. “But I found this.” She had found three root files and was able to break the encryptions to look at the contents. They seemed to be equipment requisitions for bio chemical laboratory items.

  "Prof. Tadashi Nakahara,” he read the name off computer screen.

  "You know him?” she asked.

  "Hell, no,” Lastshot said. “But his name's on the top of three of these lists; he must know something. Memorize h
is info and let's get out of here.” Temper concentrated for a moment and then shut off the monitor. She and Lastshot moved to the door.

  "Let's go,” Lastshot said.

  "What?” Firststrike said from the door. “That's it?"

  "We've got a name,” Temper said. “He may have the answers you're both looking for."

  "What did you want to do, Jason?” Lastshot said. “Smash the tanks?"

  "The thought had crossed my mind."

  "Maybe next time,” Lastshot said. “This time we stay under the radar."

  The three of them exited the room with Temper taking the lead. They moved stealthily up the hallway.

  Lastshot put his hand on Firststrike's shoulder. Firststrike tensed, but resisted the temptation to pull away.

  "Matthew's gonna be pissed,” Lastshot whispered.

  "Why?"

  "Well, you got to see Temper naked."

  "I heard that!” she called back.

  "It's only your clone,” he said jokingly. He looked at Firststrike. “—it's not like it's human.” Firststrike looked at him; then, Lastshot smiled and winked.

  "Come on; let's get out of here."

  The Exceptionals did not see the iris of a surveillance camera that widened or the swivel of its body as it tracked them despite their stealth webs.

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  Chapter 41

  In the Oval Office of the White House in Washington D.C., Senator Warren Stryker stood in the middle of the room watching a Tri-v screen. The President sat at her desk sipping from a ‘queen sized’ cup of coffee. Vice President Hamilton Redstone sat on the sofa nearby. Two highly decorated military men in full dress uniform, General Hutchison and Admiral Stapleton, stood nearby.

  Stryker turned to his commander-in-chief. “Thank you, M,'” he said, using the private nickname he had given her and which they used in quiet moments. “I can't give them the answers they want, but, I owe it to them to let them look for themselves."

  "I understand,” she said with the pleasant voice of an ex singer. “This job calls for soul-searching on a daily basis.” On the Tri-v screen was the image of the three rogue Exceptionals in the base at Quantico.