The Eldridge Conspiracy

by Stephen Ames Berry

Another explosion, this one closer, sent the four of them stumbling to their knees. From outside multiple explosions and machinegun fire was interspersed with the lighter sound of 9mm machine pistols as Spesnatz across the island returned fire.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Lokransky’s trained ear could distinguish between the shrill sound of the Vulcan cannon, firing their hundreds of rounds per second, and that of his surviving few heavy machineguns returning the fire. As he slammed through the door into the first floor, the last heavy machinegun fell silent.

  Lokransky stopped short, stunned. The lobby was destroyed, his command post gone. All that remained were heaps of shattered equipment, dead men and broken furniture, smoldering in the wake of a Hellhound missile that had homed in on a frequency-skipping radio signal that hadn’t skipped quite fast enough. Those Spesnatz who’d been off duty were just now arriving, running down the main corridor.

  “What are your orders, Colonel?” asked Nikolev, now the senior NCO.

  The two officers looked through the shattered hospital entrance out across the island at a battle they’d already lost. The sky was filled with helicopters, the Apaches circling and firing at the few surviving guard posts, the big Hueys unloading in the meadow, hovering with their skids just above the flattened grass, taking off as the last Ranger leaped out. The Americans were wasting no time, forming up, advancing quickly, the nearest soldiers a few hundred meters away and closing fast. Smaller units had been detached to either flank, moving to flush out those Spesnatz missed by the gunships.

  “Defense positions!” ordered Lokransky. “Do not fire until ordered!”

  “There’re at least two hundred of them,” said Bakunin. He looked around him. “We have maybe forty effectives.”

  “They were waiting for us. Surrender is not an option, Major. Those will be special troops with special orders. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep low and out of sight—and hold your fire!” he ordered as his men deployed along the windows.

  “I can’t raise number three squad,” said Bakunin, tapping his headset. “Maybe they were able to blow up the bridge.”

  Outside the Rangers had gone to earth, taking cover facing the hospital. Following orders, the Spesnatz stayed out of sight. Firing had stopped.

  “What now?” asked Bakunin, looking at the long lines of infantry.

  Lokransky heard it first—a distant, familiar clanking drawing closer. Risking a look, he saw first one then two more of the low-turreted M1 Abrams Main Battle tanks appear, coming down the road from the bridge. “The number three squad didn’t blow up the bridge,” he said. “Barricade those windows! Andre,” he continued urgently as his men began piling broken furniture at the windows and door. “I’m going to get into that vault and take the contents home. You must hold as long as you can.”

  “We will,” nodded Bakunin. “How are you going to get into the vault?”

  “I believe Schmidla will be along soon. Buy me as much time as you can.”

  “Just get the goods back home,” said Bakunin, clicking off his weapon’s safety and chambering a round. “A desperate battle against impossible odds, far from home. We’ll be a legend. Until we meet again, Anton.”

  “More gunships!” someone shouted. The two officers looked outside to see a phalanx of Apaches coming in off the harbor, flying low over the advancing tanks, straight for the hospital, followed by more of the troop-carrying Hueys.

  “Go, Anton. Now!” said Bakunin.

  Two of commandos snapped open Stinger missile launchers and sighted at the helicopters.

  “Here they come!” cried a voice as the Rangers rose to their feet and advanced behind the tanks, firing.

  “Open fire!” ordered Bakunin. Knocking away the last of the shattered plate-glass, he hunkered down behind the hasty barricade, adding his fire to that of his men sweeping the lead squads. Ignoring their casualties, the Rangers kept coming, squads leapfrogging one another, M16s pouring a withering fire into the lobby. The Spesnatz to Bakunin’s right slid to the floor, the right half of his face gone. Then the tanks and the gunships started firing.

  Unnoticed, Lokransky slipped down the stairs and away from the fight, toward the vault. It won’t be long, he thought. Schmidla and he had the same goal—retrieval and escape.

  An overhead blast and the sound of exploding ammunition made Lokransky’s heart leap—one for us!

  Hoping that Schmidla would soon be at the vault, Lokransky’s hand stole unknowingly down, fingers caressing his knife.

  Light pulsed again through the Chamber. True to his word, Schmidla telephoned for Bartlett.

  A trio of Spesnatz watching impassively, Schmidla and Whitsun waited impatiently for the light inside the Chamber to fade. As it receded to a faint nimbus Schmidla reached for the door handle—then froze as a sudden explosion shook the room. Automatic weapons fire echoed down the corridors.

  The Spesnatz bolted from the room, ignoring Whitsun’s demands for information. Watching them go, Schmidla said. “My Russian’s limited, but ‘attack’ and ‘overrun’ I know.”

  Whitsun looked stricken. “Who?” he asked, face pale. “Why?”

  Schmidla ignored him. “Let’s see who made it back, shall we?” He hadn’t been this apprehensive since January’s debacle. Please, no more corpses, no more monsters, he thought.. Give me success—pure success. I’ve earned it.

  With a vast effort of will, he stilled his hand’s trembling and opened the door to the Chamber.

  Jim and Billy Budd pressed against the wall, weapons ready as a squad of Russians charged past them down the intersecting corridor, racing toward the gunfire. Their footsteps faded.

  Catching Jim’s eye, Billy smiled and with a slight bow and wave of his hand, granted him the privilege of being first into the next corridor. Taking a deep breath, Jim slipped around the corner.

  The corridor was empty. The unguarded door to the operations area was a few score meters away. A sudden surge of optimism mingling with dread, Jim moved cautiously down the hallway, Billy behind him, walking backwards, watching their backs.

  A booming series of explosions rocked the building. The ceiling lights winked out, replaced by the pale beams of sparsely scattered emergency lamps.

  Slipping quickly through the near-dark, Jim and Billy were halfway to their goal when three Spesnatz emerged from the operations room and another squad of Spesnatz burst out of a stairway.

  Firing, the Americans dived for the cover of opposite doorways. Jim saw two of Spesnatz go down before return fire began. The whine of ricochets and the tinkle of spent cartridges were barely audible beneath the hammering of half a dozen machine pistols. Sensing Spesnatz were moving along the wall on his blind side, Jim stuck his Vektor out, sending a long burst down the corridor. He pulled back and crunched down at the torrent of return fire.

  Another Russian fell as Billy popped out of his doorway, fired two close shots and ducked back in.

  Ten, fifteen seconds before it’s all over, thought Jim, jacking the last magazine into his weapon, working the action, hands slippery with sweat. His head hurt and the corridor stank of gunfire and fear.

  The Spesnatz stopped firing.

  “Drop your weapons!” commanded a voice.

  “Okay!” called Billy, reloading.

  “Time, Sundance,” called Jim, holding up three fingers.

  Nodding, Billy raised his pistol.

  Two fingers, one...

  Tensing for the bullets that would rip through him, Jim stepped into the corridor, Billy with him as the shooting began again.

  The Russians were turning, firing to their rear, falling as they fired, cut down from behind.

  Ducking away from the friendly fire, Jim felt a round strike his Vektor, then a searing pain across his left shoulder. Clasping it, he saw the blood begin oozing where the bullet had passed.

  In the corridor the firing stopped. “El Tee?”

  “Eddy!” called Jim. “We’re coming out!
Don’t shoot!”

  He and Billy stepped out. Eddy, Musashi, Dee and some kid he’d never seen were walking past the fallen Spesnatz through air hazy with cordite.

  As Enrique passed him, one of the Russians moaned. Not breaking strike, Enrique dropped the muzzle of his Uzi and casually blew the man’s brains out. Musashi winced as Dee gasped. “Eddy,” he said, “after this is over, we need to talk.”

  “Good to see you guys,” said Jim as Billy slipped his pistol away and took a machine pistol from the ground. “My former colleague, Billy Budd, aka D’Artangan.”

  “You almost bought it there, Jimbo,” grinned Eddy. “You got winged,” he said, nodding at Jim’s wound and the blood matting his torn shirt.

  “Just a graze.” Jim nodded toward the operations room. “They in there?” he asked Dee. No one asked who they were.

  “They’re in there,” she said, looking at him. “You prepared?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No,” said Dee.

  It was suddenly very still.

  “Let’s go in before the troops and Kessler get here.”

  Musashi spoke as they moved toward the door. “Please don’t harm Dr. Schmidla, other than to save your own life.”

  “What?!” asked Jim. Schmidla’s continued good health wasn’t on his agenda.

  “There are things he still needs to do.”

  “Like what?” asked Budd. “Start Armageddon?”

  “It’s okay, Billy,” said Jim. “Tennu has special knowledge. We’ll do our best,” he said, entering the operations room, machine pistol leveled.

  Chapter 28

  Alone and lost, Angie found herself back in her crèche, torn from the interplay of light and harmony that had briefly defined and had forever changed her. As the overwhelming sense of loss faded and her familiar reality coalesced around her, she recognized a different loss: anger. Gone was the anger that had always driven her—anger at the government for stealing her father, anger at her father for dying, anger at her mother for never being enough, anger at Erik for treating her like chattel—all that churning, fragmenting dissonance now replaced by an assured sense of completeness and tranquility that had eluded her all her life. Rising shakily she stepped to her feet, returned to hell, the devil greeting her.

  “Welcome back,” said Schmidla, steeping down into the Chamber as the lights flared high. “All of you,” he said happily, “welcome back.”

  Looking about, Angie saw Kaeko swing up the top of her crèche and step out. Kaeko stood with one hand on the side of her crèche, staring at Schmidla, expressionless.

  In the corner beside a now-silent EEG monitor, Tim O’Malley sank into a chair, head cupped between his hands.

  “I’ve succeeded,” continued Schmidla. “For the first time, Potentials have transported and returned alive and undamaged.”

  Kaeko thought it was the only time she’d ever seen him truly happy. “Don’t you care where we’ve been?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “What I care is that you went and returned alive and well. You’re wonderfully advanced biological engines, capable of anything—engines to which I’ll have the blueprints. And I will reverse-engineer you and build better engines now that I know the prototypes work.”

  A series of nearby explosions rattled the room

  “What’s happening?” asked Angie.

  “My sponsors are terminating this project, with extreme prejudice,” said Schmidla.

  “Are you two okay?” asked Angie.

  O’Malley raised his head and smiled tiredly. Fine, said his voice inside Angie’s head. Better than ever, actually. How about you?

  I feel... whole.

  Me too. His thought conveyed contentment and something else—determination? How’s our little Maria?

  Gone, came a third thought—Maria’s, but not Maria’s—someone cool, reasoning and mature. Her thoughts didn’t carry the expected rage, just sadness. “Uncle Richard,” she said, still standing by her crèche. “You were wrong. We meet again.”

  “Maria,” he smiled. “I’m surprised and delighted.”

  “Kaeko,” she said, walking slowly toward him. “Kaeko Gabriella Beauchamp. Daughter of Emmy and Jim.”

  Something in her eyes made him step back. “The gostak distims the doshes,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Mumbo jumbo all you want—it won’t work anymore. I’m whole and healed. The little girl who was your toy is gone.”

  The chatter of automatic weapons fire sounded close by. Schmidla drew a sleek automatic pistol from his pocket.

  “Trouble, Doctor?” asked O’Malley.

  “For you, not for me,” said Schmidla as a wide-eyed Admiral Whitsun came running down the stairs into the Chamber.

  “Richard! There’s fighting right outside in the corridor!”

  “It’s all right, Terry,” said Schmidla. “It’s just your beloved military, killing Russians. Us too, if we let them.”

  “I doubt that!”

  “Really? Did you think they’d let Potentials live? Or let us live to tell the tale? Believe me, they never intended that.” Schmidla shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Terry—the project’s over.” He turned to the three Potentials. “And I really must leave now, if we are to capitalize on my success.”

  “We?” said Whitsun.

  Schmidla cocked his head at the sudden lull in gunfire. Just as suddenly it resumed. “Ah, Terry, my old friend,” he said, facing the Admiral. “Terry, I’m grateful to you for having saved me from the ignominy of the gallows and for the opportunity to fulfill my destiny—not to mention providing me with a home and a paycheck. So, briefly—these three,” he nodded toward the returnees, “have demonstrated the possibility of Homo Supernus. Matter, energy, and hence, time and space, are their dominion. It now remains only to ensure that Homo Supernus is crafted, mind and body, to serve the right ideals before he remakes the universe.”

  “And how would you do that, Richard?” asked Whitsun. The Admiral was composed again, wrapped in the mantle of command that had served him so long and so well.

  “The genetic heritage of all of our subjects, including Maria’s, are in the cryogenic archive I’ve complied over the life of the project.” He laughed at the surprise on Whitsun’s face. “No need for you to have known, Terry—it would only have upset you.

  “DNA, sperm, ovum—all the project’s genetic material are in a special facility in Europe and being put to good use. We’ll be mapping the best of it, gene by gene, using the fine work of the Human Genome Project as a basis of comparison. The very quick whole-genome shotgun cloning technique will give us our results in half the time it took the HGP. We have the funding, the equipment—when our own work is done, we’ll select the most desirable characteristics and create the children we want. They’ll be raised in a communal environment, instilled with the correct perception of themselves and their destiny.”

  Outside, the gunfire continued.

  “It’s astounding, Terry,” said Schmidla, “how rapid advances in genomics are opening up grand new vistas of opportunity for us. In fifty years, perhaps less, man as we know him will be gone. And the dream we dared to dream so long ago, my comrades and I—our badly articulated and crudely attempted vision of a perfect humanity—will have come true. A humanity worthy of this world and all the others it may care to have.”

  Whitsun shook his head dazedly.

  “Do you seriously believe you can create beings of such power who’d cherish your vile little ideology?” asked Kaeko.

  “Evocative ideologies survive,” said Schmidla. “More, they flourish. Stomp them, persecute their adherents—a simple belief that touches a primal longing in people will only continue to grow. Christianity was born in a stable and fired with purpose at a Passover Seder. Who’s to say that a philosophy sprung from the bitter trenches of the Great War and first espoused in beer halls is any less powerful? Certainly judged by the number of its disciples, it is not. Homo Supernus will surely embroider and enha
nce, but the essence of the ideals they’re bequeathed will always be there, guiding them. Why? Because our beliefs touch the deep human need to be mastered and yet be masterful, to eradicate weakness and to strive for perfection.”

  “Who defines perfection? You?” asked Kaeko.

  “Nature, my dear. Innate intelligence, cunning, the will and the ability to conquer and rule—that’s what defines perfection.”

  The shooting had stopped.

  “And the Eldridge roster?” asked Angie.

  “The Eldridge roster?” He shrugged. “Nice to have, but now not really necessary.” He turned to see Whitsun walking slowly up the stairs, shoulders slumped. “Where are you going, Terry?”

  “To surrender myself.”

  “They’ll shoot you,” said Schmidla.

  “Good.” Whitsun turned. His face was haggard and he looked his age. “At first I believed I was serving my country. Then you convinced me, Richard, that I was serving mankind. But all along I was merely serving the Lord of the Flies.”

  “No, Terry,” said Schmidla, shooting Whitsun twice in the chest, “you were only serving yourself.”

  Whitsun fell backwards, the shots echoing through the high-ceilinged room. “Sanctimonious old fool,” said Schmidla as the Admiral’s body slid down the stairs, coming to rest at his feet. He turned back to the others. “Can’t leave you three behind,” he said, turning his gun on Angie and pulling the trigger. He was rewarded by a dull click.

  “It’s broken,” said Angie as he tried to work the Walther’s unmoving action.

  Voices made Schmidla look up. Jim and Billy Budd were staring at him through the observation room window He met Jim’s eyes for a second then fled out the side door.

  As he left Kaeko reached out, gently increasing the tempo of a minor harmony that had long played within him. “Good bye, Uncle Richard,” she said.

  Jim’s weariness and pain were swept aside by relief and elation at the sight of Angie, Kaeko and Maria, coming to him as he ran down the stairs into the Chamber. He got as far as, “Hey, Milano...” before she was on him, kissing him, her arms around him. Someone—Billy?—slipped the machine pistol from his good hand as he held her. Feeling him winch, she pulled back, looking at him. “You’re wounded!” she said, seeing the blood.