Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

by John Hindmarsh

  Reb looked down at the boat moored on Hammer’s stern. The guard was sitting on the edge of the RIB, which was bouncing with the waves, intermittently bumping against the yacht. He was facing away, relaxed, not at all interested in what was happening on board. His attitude smacked of overconfidence. She swung softly down from her perch. Any faint sound she made was covered by the clatter of the pirates themselves. The reverberating thump-thump of their diesel engine overlaid the activity on Hammer. She climbed down the stairs on the starboard side, away from the bollard where the RIB was moored. Her target was an anchor rope and chain that was coiled on the aft deck and attached to a fifteen-pound CQR anchor. Tim, the responsible deckhand, had not stowed it despite the skipper’s instructions.

  Reb reacted without further thought. The anchor rode consisted of about twenty feet of chain and another hundred feet of rope, the end of which was unattached. She moved swiftly, grabbed the looped chain, and draped it over the sailor’s head, around his neck. She pulled back on the chain loops and kicked the anchor overboard. The man tumbled backward out of the RIB and was dragged into the sea. The heavy chain cut off any attempt by him to shout. The anchor rope flew off the lower deck as the pirate sunk out of sight. The RIB rocked, uncaring about its sudden loss of weight.

  If I want to survive, thought Reb, I have to get off Hammer, but if I steal their boat, they’ll hear me and give chase. Also, it might have limited fuel. She weighed her options for a moment.

  Her decision made, she released the mooring line from the bollard and pushed the RIB out, away from the side of the yacht. The breeze would catch the craft and move it away from the yacht. She raised the hatch cover to access the yacht’s boating toys for use by passengers and crew when the yacht was in port or moored somewhere for the guests’ entertainment. The sailboard was her favorite. She cautiously pushed back against the hatch, hopeful the sounds she made were covered by the noises still resonating around the yacht. She pulled out the sailboard and then reached for and donned her wet suit. The storage area contained a range of supplies. She lifted out two one-gallon containers of water, some protein bars, and then rummaged around in the dark until she found a Personal Locator Beacon. When she was far enough away from the pirates, and if necessary, she would signal for help by activating the PLB’s transmitter.

  Reb fitted the mast into its gimbaled base and laid it along the sailboard. The mast, sail, and wishbone-shaped boom were tied together and she would not unfurl the sail until she was ready to leave. She had to hurry; all her instincts were screaming danger. She roped the small bundle of supplies to the base of the mast and tucked the PLB into her wetsuit top. She firmly gripped the sailboard’s short mooring line, slid the sailboard over the stern, and, steadying herself against Hammer, stepped off the yacht onto the board. Her knees wobbled as she adjusted her balance. There was a moderate swell and the wind force was increasing—ideal sailing conditions, she thought, as she lifted the mast and unhitched the sail and boom. The sail snapped out as the wind caught it and she felt the board tremble. She bent her knees, controlled her balance, and stepped toward the mast, where she had greater control. The sailboard accepted the wind’s invitation and moved off, heading away from Hammer. She should be out of sight by the time the pirates discovered they were missing both a RIB and a guard. If she was fortunate, they would not even know she had been on board. The wind tugged at the sail, reminding her it was eager to carry out her bidding.

  Reb worked with the wind and sail to direct the sailboard, keeping the bulk of the yacht between her and whatever vessel was on the far side. She thought the wind speed was at least fifteen knots and under her direction, the sailboard soon was sizzling across the swell. In minutes she was almost a mile away from her starting point. As she looked back toward Hammer, a searchlight began its sweep across the water. Reb spilled air out of the sail and dropped the mast, sail, and herself along the board. The light swept the tops of the moving waves, missing her prone position. The operator continued the sweep; he hadn’t seen the sail. She clung to the sailboard, glad of the protection her wetsuit provided as cold seawater slurped over the board.

  Reb stayed down—her body aligned with the sailboard, salt spray against her face—for nearly five minutes. The searchlight made two more three-sixty degree sweeps, after which it was extinguished. She waited an additional two or three minutes before she stood, in case the light swept across the sea again. She lifted the sail against the weight of water and the pressure of the wind. The sailboard leapt with the wind. She pulled the sail inboard, maximizing her speed along the dip of the swell.

  Twenty minutes later, a burst of light on the horizon followed by the roar of an explosion signaled the death of Hammer. More determined to survive, Reb set her course. She checked the stars, adjusted her heading and hoped the clouds stayed away. She had to sail north-north-east, she estimated, to reach Gibraltar.

  Hammer had been near busy shipping lanes, and Reb was hopeful the pirates would not remain in the vicinity, that they would travel away from the scene, out of the Mediterranean and into the Atlantic. Reb thought she was reasonably safe; she was less than twenty miles from Gibraltar and even closer to the Spanish coast. If the wind and weather continued in her favor, she would arrive in Gibraltar just after dawn. If her strength gave out, she’d use the sailboard as a float and trigger the PLB. With luck, a vessel heading toward Gibraltar would rescue her. Once safely on land, she planned to contact government authorities to arrange a new British passport. However, if she was rescued by a vessel heading the other way, toward Tangier, the British Consulate would be equally helpful. The sailboard left a spray of salt water in its wake as she stepped aft and pulled in the boom, managing the drive of the increasing wind.

  ***

  Chapter 2

  Two drones, electronically tethered to their base, hovered at an altitude of almost a thousand feet. Their task was to monitor the small farm property, recording and transmitting all movement with their main focus on the property’s boundaries. The drones’ wing-mounted solar cells generated enough charge for their batteries, thus enabling the tiny crafts to remain aloft through the night. If a storm arrived, it was a different matter. When the weather was too violent for the self-charging drones, Mark launched larger, heavier drones designed to withstand almost hurricane-force winds, although those drones required refueling at regular intervals.

  Winter was not yet finished with dumping snow across New Hampshire and each storm brought its unique challenges. So far, storms had blown away three of the smaller drones. Two had been irretrievably lost and Mark had recovered the third after tracking its homing signal. He had spares, of course, and other monitoring devices. He had placed video cameras around the property that transmitted standard images during the day and infrared images at night. Hopefully, as the end of winter approached, he would see calmer and clearer weather.

  Mark’s image-monitoring software programs were now very efficient. They readily distinguished a deer from a human, although as spring approached, wandering bears provided a challenge for the algorithms. When the software identified a human in any of the video material, it triggered alarms that became increasingly intrusive until someone—Mark or Anna, or one of the two children, Gabrielle or Niland—attended to the monitoring computer. The hour of day or night was irrelevant; the alarm was strident and would continue until it received an acknowledgment. Sometimes the image was of a hunter trespassing on their property. They had encountered four such intrusions during the winter, without reacting with force. Snowmobilers sometimes intruded as well, because they couldn’t see the stone boundary fences topped with curls of razor wire when fresh snow partially buried them.

  Today the software raised an alert when the program detected two vehicles stopping at the gated entrance, almost a quarter mile from the main house. The building was old, perhaps a hundred years or more, constructed of stone; it had two stories and had been renovated the year before. A smaller house provided accommodation for the marri
ed couple responsible for housekeeping and general maintenance, tasks they carried out with quiet efficiency. Heavy chains secured the gated entrance, giving an unmistakable keep out message.

  The lead vehicle, a city police department SUV, implied this was an official law enforcement visit.

  Mark responded to the intercom buzz. “Yes?” Anna, alerted by the alarm, stood next to him, listening and watching. Mark was momentarily distracted when she draped her arm across his shoulder.

  One of the drones moved closer to monitor the entrance, supplementing the images provided by the static cameras at the gate. Mark reviewed the images on the workstation monitors along the wall at the back of his workbench.

  “I’m Sam Cox, Redmont Police. Open the gate. We want some information from you.”

  “Officer Cox, this is a private property. I’m recording this conversation and you are on video. Please state your business and I’ll refer your request to the owners.”

  “Listen—” It was almost a growl. The officer obviously was not accustomed to anyone thwarting his intentions. But someone had stopped him.

  A different person spoke with a harsh though feminine voice. “My name is Bridget, Bridget McKeen. I’m a caseworker with the New Hampshire Child Protection Services. We haven’t received replies to our communications addressed to the residents of this property.”

  That’s odd, thought Mark, I don’t recall any official mail. He initiated a search for the visitors’ vehicle license plate number on the New Hampshire vehicle database. Both speakers had soft foreign accents, Eastern European or perhaps Russian. “Ms. McKeen, as I said to Officer Cox, please state your business and I will refer your request to the owners. And I’d point out there have been no communications received here in the last three months from any state government department.”

  “Stop stalling,” said Cox. “Come and unlock this gate, now.”

  “As I said, this is private property. Unless you have a warrant or the owners allow you to enter, I’m sorry, I can’t open the gate.” The vehicle search program confirmed their license plates were valid.

  McKeen said, “We can obtain a court order.”

  “To do what?”

  “To enter the property and check the identification, status, and well-being of any child residing at this address.” Mark heard the woman’s smugness and wondered about her source of information.

  “If you formally communicate your request, I’ll forward it to the owners.” The property was held in the name of a Panama-based foundation and Mark was confident the trail of ownership ended there.

  “I’ll do that.”

  “When I have the order, your ass will be grass,” threatened Cox. “Our SWAT team will make short work of this gate.”

  Mark directed the drone closer to the gate, ensuring it was visible to the officer. “As long as you realize your entry will be videoed and made available to the news channels.”

  The putative visitors stood back from the entry and conferred briefly, after which McKeen returned to the intercom. “I’ll be here in seven days with a court order. I’m leaving my card here”—she held it up to the video camera—“and you can make your life simpler by providing access as I’ve requested. Call me when you’re ready to cooperate”

  As the two vehicles reversed out of the entryway and drove off, Mark sat back, wondering how to proceed. He did not wish to expose the Cerberus children to the state’s Child Protection Services. The children had no documents to say who they were, nothing to establish their legal residence, nothing to rationalize their presence in the farmhouse with Mark and Anna. A casual, uninformed observer would assess Gabrielle and Niland’s ages to be somewhere near seven years, while Anna appeared twenty or older. The visitors might raise reasonable questions about the schooling and well-being of at least the two children, more so if they were aware of their chronological ages. Gabrielle and Niland were five. One of the side effects of the Cerberus processes was accelerated maturity.

  In the fall, when they first arrived at the farmhouse, Mark and Anna had discussed briefly how Gabrielle and Niland, and herself, should be educated, and the decision was to obtain materials from the Internet. Mark contacted a research, manufacturing, and IT company that produced a wide range of computer-based and online training courses. He’d helped the founder survive attacks against him and his daughter, so Mark had no trouble obtaining copies of all their training materials. Anna commenced an off-campus, college degree course. She was tutoring the two younger children and they were following along with her college material. Although Mark had experienced a comprehensive, if oddly structured education at his parents’ research lab, he considered the three to be surprisingly advanced.

  Mark turned to Anna.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “We can’t allow them to enter, or we can’t be here when they arrive with their SWAT team.” She shuddered. “Imagine if Gabrielle and Niland and me were caught up in the system. Besides, the exposure would generate publicity, which would be inimical to Cerberus overall.”

  “I wonder what prompted their attention.” Mark thought for a moment. “It might be a trawling effort by someone trying to discover where we are.”

  “It helps to be paranoid. You never know when someone might be after you.” Anna smiled to soften her words. “You’ll need to stop them, somehow.”

  “We have limited alternatives. We can leave here or we can ask Schmidt for help. We’d be able to hack the state’s records and remove any data containing references to us. There’d still be paper files so I’m not sure it would be a good step to take.”

  “Schmidt!” cried two little voices. They had entered the workroom undetected. Gabrielle’s cloaking ability had improved, Mark realized.

  “We don’t want to leave here. It’s too much fun. Besides, it’s our home,” stated Gabrielle, brushing her hair back from her face.

  Niland said, “I agree.”

  Gabrielle was dressed as an eighteenth-century French noblewoman, wearing a long dress with lace cuffs and collar, while Niland wore what appeared to be peasant clothing smeared liberally with red paint. Mark recognized the now torn and stained shirt and realized he wouldn’t see it again in his shirt drawer. The little girl carried a reed basket.

  Mark looked at Anna and back at the two children. “What—”

  “The French Revolution,” Anna said.

  “And the basket?”

  “We need a container to catch my head when the guillotine cuts it off.”

  “The blade is cardboard,” Niland rushed to explain. “I made sure it’s safe. The peasants were angry and violent and cut off lots of heads. Their victims included young children, too.”

  “The peasants hated the nobility,” Gabrielle said, “and were poor, without money, they had none at all. Sometimes they starved because of taxes and bad harvests. I don’t think it justified them killing children, though.”

  Mark brought the discussion back to their current concerns. “What about Schmidt?”

  Anna said, “Let’s see what he can do.”

  Mark sighed. They purposely had not made contact with Schmidt since last year when they fled Washington, DC. “Okay. It means I’ll be caught up in his machinations. Again.”

  “We can be evasive. He can’t force us to get involved in Cerberus’s activities,” Anna said.

  “Well, no more than we have been.” At the beginning of winter Mark had accessed all Cerberus cloud storage facilities to download copies of their research records. He and Anna altered details and results in the original files, in the hope the changes would mislead future researchers reviewing the papers. The changes were subtle and the file contents were now filled with hidden flaws. It would take a team of researchers months, if not years, to discover the errors and re-run experiments and trials to establish the necessary corrections. Mark and Anna’s objective was to sidetrack and, if possible, disrupt Cerberus’s genetic engineering research. Mark hoped, one day, to stop it completely.
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  Of course, Mark did not inform Schmidt of those efforts. Nor had he told Schmidt he’d discovered Cerberus’s financial reserves in Europe. From a revenue perspective, the organization’s European activities were almost as valuable as the American operations. It seemed contracting out genetically modified humans with military training to governments and private enterprises was a major growth area. Mark used the financial information including banks, account numbers, authorized users, and passwords—to take control of bank accounts previously operated by Cerberus executives, two of whom were now deceased and the third was working with the Chinese in Beijing. He had not utilized those funds; rather, he hoped to use the money to support his efforts to curtail Cerberus’s activities. He’d been kidnapped twice by that organization and wanted leverage against future threats.

  Mark continued. “I think by now Schmidt’s gained control of all the Cerberus operations in this country.”

  “That’s frightening,” mused Anna. “It’s too much power for one man.”

  “Schmidt’s got a balanced approach.” He paused. “I know, I know, power corrupts. But we’ll just have to take the risk.”

  “We need to establish some safeguards first,” Anna said.

  “We’ve originals of the research files we’ve modified. They’re possible bargaining points. Or we might simply refuse to involve ourselves in any Cerberus activities. We have other pressure points. There’s the ALPR data and traffic camera images that establish Schmidt was in MayAnn’s neighborhood at the time of her death. Before Oliver died, he’d suggested that her apparent accidental death was staged. No one has proof, of course. If Schmidt becomes adversarial, we could anonymously release our information to the press; however, he would regard that as a declaration of war. We need to recognize that challenging him will be a last resort.”

  “I’m certain both MayAnn and Oliver’s deaths are linked. They’re far too coincidental.”