Senator Stryker turned away from the Tri-v monitor, and sat down opposite Vice President Redstone. He put down his own coffee cup with an exasperated sigh.
"Madame President,” the Vice-President said. “I must reiterate my protest; I don't think it's wise to allow Exceptional-status operatives access to or even knowledge of the Clone Program."
"Hamilton,” she said. “One of The Bodyguard's members has returned to the team, from the dead. They saw him die in a most definitive manner. There really is no alternative."
"I beg to differ, Madame President,” Hutchison injected.
"Yes, General?"
"We have the technology to selectively erase memory. We could—"
"General,” Senator Stryker objected. “You're talking about my sons!"
"This is a matter of national security,” the military man said, looking directly into the Senator's eyes. There was almost a crackle of electricity between the men.
"Gentlemen!” the President said. “Admiral, you've been awfully quiet. What's your take on all this?"
"I'm sorry, Senator,” the Admiral said, “I am inclined to agree with the Vice President and General Hutchison. We can't let these operatives know too much. We've had that problem before."
"And Freedom Squad had to be put down,” Vice-President Redstone said. Very few ever spoke of the first failed Exceptional experiment that had caused so many lives; it had been ‘hushed up’ as effectively as the government could.
"That was completely different,” the Senator objected.
"Was it?” the Admiral asked calmly. “Freedom Squad became too aware; The Bodyguard is becoming too aware."
"No.” The President rose from her seat. “I will not condone what you suggest."
"But to allow them access to the actual cloning facilities—” Redstone began.
"Hamilton,” she said in a firm voice. “These are the elite of the elite. They want in and you know that there is nowhere on this planet they can't get in with enough motivation; and I'd say they have more than sufficient motivation. I'm going to make sure no one is injured in what is essentially a fact-finding mission."
She softened her tone and smiled at her number two. “Besides, they aren't being given access to all the facilities."
"Madame President—"
"Your protest has been noted and logged, Mr. Vice President,” she said in an irritated voice. “Would you all leave the Senator and myself alone for a moment?"
"Of course,” he said, barely concealing how clearly angry he was. Redstone exited stiffly, almost slamming the door behind him. The Admiral and the General nodded a curt ‘good day’ and they too, left. The President looked at Stryker.
"Can I have him impeached just because I don't like him?” She smiled the smile that had got her elected in the first place and kept her popular for her whole career.
"You're not alone,” he said with a nod.
"Don't worry, Warren,” she said. “I'm sure your son will find his answers."
"Jason's been a searcher all his life,” he said in a weary voice. “Every answer he finds creates more questions."
"Has he ever been content?"
"Once ... but that time is gone forever."
She looked at him and sensed some of the answer. “A bio-replacement of his eye could change all that."
"Every now and then I remind him of that.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever understand him."
* * * *
In the subbasement firing range at The Bodyguard Headquarters in New York, Goldstrike, his face grim with concentration, was practicing. He wore shooting glasses and ear protectors much like winter earmuffs. Several guns were on the firing table in front of him. Smoke rose from several of their barrels. The echoes of the last barrage still rang through the firing range.
An L.E.D. counter suspended above the targets reeled off numbers of ‘fatals-hits-misses.’ It read: ‘fatals-79 hits-79 misses-0.'
Goldstrike was reaching for another gun as Caesar Brassfield, Echo, entered the room.
"Ah, our tax dollars at work,” the African-American Exceptional said.
"I wish they'd increase the range on the needle blaster. Wanna try it? It has a sweet balance and almost no kick."
He held up a small pistol. Echo shook his head, raised his arm, pointed one finger at a target, tensed and fired a small audio-kinetic burst. The mini distortion wave was barely visible, yet the counter registered a fatal. A small beep sounded. SAM, the Headquarters computer, spoke.
"Low velocity strike, not true fatal,” SAM said.
"You know how I hate loud noises,” Echo said to Goldstrike. “My great-grandfather was the same way."
"Okay,” Matthew said. “Is this when you come down to do some clever probing of my disrupted psyche?"
"With you it would be ‘disturbed,’ but no, I just wanted to know if you wanted any pizza."
Goldstrike was about to reply when a voice from behind them startled them and made them turn around.
"Don't you put any anchovies on mine!” the voice said.
The Two Exceptionals turned to face The Veteran who had been upgraded to Team Liberty's tactical coordinator. He stood with his hands on his hips smiling. He was dressed in ‘civies'—an old leather biker jacket, a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and chinos that had to have been worn by James Dean.
"SAM,” Goldstrike called to the computer. “Aren't you supposed to announce visitors?"
"Son,” the Veteran said, “I been around so long, even the computers consider me furniture."
SAM spoke in defense of itself: “The Veteran has sufficient security clearance that he does not require introduction."
Goldstrike stepped away from the firing line and shook hands with the old warrior. “So, what's up, hog?"
"Boy, this is serious.” The Veteran said in a tone to match his words.
"C'mon what's more serious than motorcycles?” Matthew asked.
The Veteran reached past Matthew to shake Echo's hand. He addressed both of them when he spoke. “Breaking and entering of a government facility is a federal offense."
"Uh, yeah, and. so?” Goldstrike had no problem playing ‘dumb.'
"Matthew,” Echo said, “lying to a federal agent is also a federal offense."
"Okay,” Matthew said, ‘copping’ to it. “So you know. You gonna stop ‘em?"
"No, son, I'm not gonna."
"Matthew, if he knows, others might, too."
"I know a lot of things that nobody else knows...” Veteran said with a sly smile, “...but, in this case, you're right. And there are people out there who play rough. If I was you, I'd think I'd better go help ‘em, ‘cause they're gonna need it.” He looked into the younger Exceptional's eyes and nodded. “You know how it is, when you're surrounded by the redskins and you need the cavalry."
"Gotta watch those redskin references,” Echo said. “I'm part Cherokee. And, technically, so is Lastshot."
Goldstrike smiled, spun around grabbed two guns, pointed them at two different targets, and fired rapidly. The LED numbers raced up, finishing on ‘fatals-109, Hits-109, misses-0.'
Goldstrike spun both guns, and slipped them into his holsters.
"Congratulations, Matthew,” SAM said. “That is a new high score."
The Veteran tossed Goldstrike some keys. “Here, take my ride; it'll get you there in bang up time."
Goldstrike, Echo and The Veteran exited the firing range together.
"Can we still get pizza?” Goldstrike asked.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 42
The Veteran's ride was a stealth hover-car that he had recovered and rebuilt from one of the AR 2000 military hover-cars used in the Mexican/United States war. He had customized it to within an inch of usability. It sped through the night sky. Almost soundlessly heading south.
The interior of the hover-car was all shining metal and computer consoles.
A small-framed picture of The Veteran and Col.
Chuck Yeager, in front of the jet Yeager broke the sound barrier in, was stuck to the dashboard. It was signed “Thanks for the help! Chuck."
A picture of the Veteran and Elvis—the latter in his Las Vegas jumpsuit—was bolted beside the Yeager photo. Hanging above the dashboard was a backstage pass that said: ‘WOODSTOCK’ on one side, then twisted to show ‘SECURITY’ on the back. There was also a red button on the dashboard that the Veteran had told Matthew not to push if he wanted a peaceful ride, but “Hit it and hit it hard, if there's any major problems.” He had not said what it did, but the button was labeled, cryptically ‘Laverne.'
Goldstrike was driving, singing, “Viva Las Vegas!” in sync with an Elvis Recording. Echo was munching on a piece of pizza.
Skorpion, in full battle garb was growling while she was pulled curlers from her hair. “This had better be good!"
"Good?” Goldstrike said like a kid in a candy store. “This is great! And it can carry my bike in that trunk section too! Woohoo!"
"I mean, why'd you pulled me out of a comfortable hot tub and spa treatment, you gold lame lummox!"
"It is,” Echo said in his best calming tone. “We are pretty sure the terrible trio is set to run into some trouble at Quantico; we figured that we should be closer to available. Veteran is going to stay at base to act as communications anchor."
"How will we know where the guys are?” she asked.
"Direct transponder tracking,” Goldstrike said. “Since we know where they were going, we did a satellite scan of the area and—since we know their vehicle's transponder-bam-reverse lojack—sort of."
"Okay, then,” she said, “let's hope nobody else is looking for them. Crank up that music, this is a good song."
The hover-car slammed along at top speed. It had two bumper stickers in bright red and orange on the back. One read, ‘Senior citizens do it on life support.’ And the other one said, ‘My great-grandson is an honor student at West Point.'
* * * *
The three Exceptionals were driving in silence along backcountry roads in Maryland. Lastshot drove, with Temper riding shotgun. Firststrike sat behind them, his arms crossed, staring out the window.
"We should be at Nakahara's home about any time now,” Temper said.
Lastshot looked in the rearview mirror, trying to catch Firststrike's eye, and failed. They drove on through the night to a small rural lane. The team leader pulled the van into a small space between two overgrown bushes, effectively hiding it from the road. Temper headed off to recon the area while her teammates exited the van.
Lastshot stood beside the parked van and scanned back along the country road. He had been doing periodic checks since back in Virginia, having long ago come to follow the dictum ‘paranoia is its own reward.'
Firststrike stood a few feet away, tensely on alert as well. After a few moments, Temper reappeared out of the trees.
"All the lights are out,” she said. “The security system won't be any more trouble."
"How many occupants?” Lastshot asked quietly.
"Nakahara is a bachelor—” she said with just a hint of mischief in her voice, “—this must have been a slow evening; he's alone."
"Thankfully not everybody is Matthew,” Lastshot said. “Okay, let's go."
The three moved off into the trees as silently as thought.
Professor Tadashi Nakahara's home was an old farmhouse that had been updated and enlarged at some time in the last century. It had a traditional Japanese Zen rock garden out front and a small fenced-in yard with a patio. There were small trees and high hedges that gave the Exceptionals cover all the way to the back door. Temper had disabled the automatic lights and the house alarm system so she was able to open the sliding door as if she had a key.
Nakahara was a thin Japanese man in his early sixties. He was asleep in a Spartan bedroom at the back of the house. In sleep, he had a serene face, a high forehead and a firm mouth with delicate, almost feminine features. Temper's gloved hand clamped itself over his mouth and woke him with a start. His eyes bulged.
Temper held her finger to her lips. Nakahara saw Lastshot and Firststrike behind her. His panic disappeared quickly and his eyes took on a calmer aspect. She slowly took her hand away from his mouth.
"I know you,” Nakahara said in an accented voice. “You're members of The Exceptional group from New York, The Bodyguard, I believe?"
"And you've seen us naked,” Lastshot said with more sarcasm than he thought he could muster, “big deal."
"In your case, yes,” the Professor said. He made a point of averting his eyes from Temper.
Temper smiled to herself at his attempt at chivalry.
"At the risk of sounding terribly unoriginal,” the pajama-clad professor said, “what do you want?"
"Answers.” Firststrike said coldly.
"Ah, yes, of course,” Nakahara said. He gestured to his ‘captors’ and was allowed to get out of bed and don a robe. He ran his fingers through his hair and donned a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Is it safe to assume you know some already?” When the three intruders returned his inquiry with stone faces, he nodded.
"Yes, yes, of course it is, otherwise you wouldn't be here.” He walked past the three of them and out into his kitchen while talking. “You wouldn't know who I was or how to find me. I do fear I am becoming senile in my old age. May I offer you some cocoa?"
Lastshot watched Nakahara through a bio scan function of his neural glasses. By keeping track of the heart rate and respiration, he could effectively tell if the man was lying. He'd often joked about his ‘x-ray’ specs being a lie detector and it was not far from the truth.
Nakahara led them into the kitchen and set about his routine nighttime activity of heating up some cocoa.
Temper and Lastshot sat at the kitchen table. Firststrike leaned against a countertop. Nakahara poured cocoa for his visitors as calmly as if they had truly come for a chocolate party.
"I knew this day would happen eventually,” he said. “The government wanted the program to remain secret; they hoped any death would take place in a ‘controlled’ situation. Where the only witnesses were amenable to control.” He gave a bitter smile as he sat down. “Idiots. I told them you couldn't plan for these things. The ideal scenario would be a fatally wounded Exceptional taken to a government medical facility, preferably a military one, where he would be ‘cured.’ His replacement would step in and no one would be the wiser."
"But this isn't an ideal world,” Temper said.
"No, my dear, most unfortunately it is not,” he said, smiling warmly. “More cocoa?"
Temper said, “Yes, please.” She held out her mug and it was clear the professor charmed her.
"When was the program started?” Lastshot asked.
"That was in 2018, just before the Freedom Squad incident.” The scientist said, “Dr. Podgorin and I were the founders, if you will."
"The government outlawed cloning in ‘05.” Temper insisted.
"When cloning is outlawed, only outlaws will have clones.” Nakahara laughed at his own joke. When he saw they were not amused he added, “Sorry. What else do you want to know?"
The three Exceptionals looked at him, trying to frame the myriad of questions that wanted to ask. He anticipated them. “There are clones of all of you, of the other teams. The program is in place, it is extensive, it has redundancies and safeguards and, unlike so many other government projects, at least so far it works.” He indicated Lastshot. “You are proof of that."
"Okay, subject change,” the tall Exceptional said, pointing to himself. “This, uh ... body will last, right?"
Nakahara replied matter-of-factly, “We think so."
"You think so?"
"Well, none of our clones is that old; we have never activated the Lazarus Protocol before."
"So, you don't know how long I'll live.” He said it with the fatalism of any warrior, but he did want to know, regardless of the truth.
"Look,” Nakahara said nonplussed, “fo
r all intents and purposes, you are a thirty-eight-year-old male with a normal life expectancy."
"Unless someone blows this ‘me’ up with a grenade."
Firststrike stiffened when he heard Lastshot speak the words. Lastshot noticed and shrugged his shoulders in apology for bringing back the bad memory.
Professor Nakahara said in a calm voice: “Could you please try not to get yourself killed for at least three years? It'll take us that long to grow your replacement to maturity."
"I'll do my best,” Lastshot said deadpan. Temper smiled at that.
"Thanks, I appreciate that.” The scientist set about cleaning up the saucepan he had made the cocoa in and Temper handed him the cups they had all used. The three Exceptionals all exchanged a look to acknowledge they were finished and had learned as much as they could.
"Thank you for your time, Professor,” Temper said in Japanese with a small formal bow.
He bowed in return and took her hand. “You're most welcome, my dear.” He took in all three of his visitors. “Please come and visit me again, anytime.” He smiled. “Though daytime around here is much more pleasant; there is a lovely view of the hills."
The three exited and walked slowly back to the van, trying to absorb all that had happened. There was no small talk.
Professor Nakahara went to the window and watched them melt into the darkness. After a moment, he picked up the telephone and punched a secure number.
There was moment's pause as the phone on the President's desk in the oval office rang.
The President was alone in the office, when she picked it up. “Yes."
"Madame President,” Nakahara said. “They just left."
"How were they?” she asked.
"They were quite pleasant, actually. Miss Temper is quiet a nice young lady. And Mr. Lastshot took it all quite well, considering what he has been through."
"What did you tell them?” The tension in her voice was apparent, even over the phone.
"The truth,” he said.
"All of it?” she asked, almost afraid of his answer.
"Enough,” he said, “so that they think they have all of it."
"Thank you, Tadashi,” she said with relief. “Good night, and thank you for taking the risk."
The Measure of a Man [The Exceptionals Book 1] Page 19