The Void Protocol

by F. Paul Wilson

  “You don’t think it’s going to work?” Laura said.

  He shrugged. “Depends on convincing Ruth. And then it depends on where they’re being kept. If it’s in a basement with a big building overhead—say, like the Pentagon, or in an old missile silo—that little recorder’s not going to pick up a GPS signal. Not in a million years.”

  Yet another thing she hadn’t considered. They’d have to play this Ruthie thing by ear. Until then …

  “Speaking of buildings where they might be,” she said, “why take Rick along at all? He wasn’t what they were after. Why not just leave him in one of the vans to sleep it off?”

  Stahlman spread his hands. “How can I answer that? The only reason I can think of is that the ones in the field doing the abductions aren’t in on the reason for the abductions. They’re just doing what they’re told. They could be Special Forces guys recruited for the job, or some of the mercenaries the Pentagon likes to hire. They were targeting Marie, they found Rick and Marie together, they missed Marie but they netted Rick. Now they’ve got Rick and don’t know whether or not he’s someone of value, so they keep him and leave it to whoever’s giving the orders to sort it out later.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” Laura said. “The sorting out.”

  Stahlman grimaced. “I know you and Rick are involved, but I’ve known him longer than you. I put you two together, don’t forget.”

  “I’m not about to.”

  “I know he means a lot to you, but he means a lot to me too. He’s not just an employee—maybe the best employee I’ve ever had—he’s also a friend. I not only value and trust the guy, Laura, I like him. But I take comfort in the fact that we’ve no reason to believe these people are killers.”

  “But we’ve got good reason to believe that Defense is involved—I mean, everything I’ve heard from Rick and learned myself points that way—and that means we’re dealing with a huge conspiracy here. Government-funded maternity clinics administered some secret chemical or biological agent to unsuspecting pregnant women that changed their children, turned them into X-Men or X-Kids or whatever they’re called. I never watched those movies.”

  “Rick would know.”

  “But Rick’s not here.” She swallowed as her voice threatened to break. “He’s in the hands of people who will probably do anything to keep all this secret. Can you imagine if it got out? Altering the brains of unborn children? Without parental consent? Even with parental consent, for god’s sake! And have you noticed that virtually all the nadaný belong to minorities? I’m seeing headlines with words like ‘racism’ and ‘genocide’ and ‘Nazis’ and ‘Mengele’ and on and on. And I’m sure those responsible are seeing generals’ heads rolling down the halls of the Pentagon.”

  Stahlman rubbed a shaky hand over his face. “Christ, you’re right.”

  She hadn’t realized how much she wanted him back. What an idiot. She’d pushed him away, but now that an unknown someone had taken him away and might not give him back …

  She couldn’t allow that, would not stand for that. The worries assaulted her.

  “At least the nadaný they grabbed hold some value for whoever made them that way. They can be studied, just like we were doing. But what about Rick? He’s got no nadaný value. In fact, he’s a huge liability. He’s ex-CIA and knows way too much.”

  “Yeah, I suppose he does,” he said through a sigh. “But there’s one thing we shouldn’t forget: He’s Rick. They don’t know him. They’ll check his wallet and think he’s just some security grunt from Westchester. They will underestimate him. Which means they’ll have their hands full.”

  “But we can’t count on that,” Laura said as an idea struck. She leaped from the chair and rushed for the door. “I need to catch Kevin for a ride-along.”

  “Why?”

  “To find a surgical supply place.”

  9

  LANGE-TÜR BUNKER

  According to the syringe guy’s badge, his name was H. Watts. His blue coverall was a snug fit over Rick’s clothes—definitely too short in the legs—but would attract less attention than Rick’s street clothes. No chance of passing even casual inspection, but if it allowed him to get close, that was all he needed.

  Close to whom? Good question. He had no idea what he’d find beyond that door.

  While undressing Mr. Watts, he’d noticed the same scar on his back as on the back of one of the guys on the abduction team. More like a brand, really.

  So were these guys part of some cult? This past spring had involved him in enough cult trouble to last a lifetime. The crazies in 536 had been out for blood—his and Laura’s. Were these jokers connected?

  He saved that concern for later. Right now he needed recon. He had to operate on the assumption he was in the Lange-Tür bunker, that the people behind his abduction were after nadaný, and he was picked up by accident. Or was he? Had his inquiry into Osterhagen tripped an alarm somewhere? Or had Pickens sicced the dogs on him?

  No … they’d definitely wanted Marie.

  He capped the used syringe and stuck it in a pocket with the injection vial. He checked the door and found it unlocked. Easing it open, he peeked out at an empty hallway, lit by naked incandescent bulbs stuck in the ceiling. A dozen or so doors on each side, and what appeared to be heavy-duty security gates at each end. A couple of the doors stood open. The one at the far end to his left threw a shaft of light into the hall.

  Rick had to assume that Watts wasn’t alone down here. If he had a buddy or buddies, that seemed the likely place to find them. Rick might have Watts’s keys but he wasn’t going to be allowed to waltz out of here.

  Okay. Assess the threat and decide how best to deal with it. Then see if he was the only abductee. Had they grabbed the nadaný too, or—worst-case scenario—Laura as well?

  He checked along the walls and ceiling for security bubbles or cameras and was surprised to find none. Folks were hiding cameras everywhere these days, even in lightbulbs—in floodlights, not these household incandescents here.

  Rick eased through the door and found a metal key in the outside keyhole. Well, all right. He locked the door and pocketed the key, then slipped down the hall, staying close to the wall. He was tempted to peek inside each doorway he passed but kept moving. He’d have time for that after he neutralized security—if he could.

  He stopped just outside the lighted doorway. Be so nice right now to have one of those angled dental mirrors for a look around the doorjamb. Instead he risked a quick, one-eyed peek: A guy in a similar coverall sat about a dozen feet away—back to him, hands behind his head as he leaned back in a chair, feet up on a desk, watching TV. Rick recognized Jaws playing. Disk or cable? Four flat screens were arrayed on the wall. Was the guy even awake? Rick couldn’t tell from the rear.

  Well, if he wasn’t asleep, he would be soon.

  Rick pulled out the injection vial and filled the syringe. Taking a breath he closed the door as he stepped into the room and quickly crossed the floor.

  “Everything okay down there?” the guy asked without turning around.

  Rick threw an arm around his throat as he emptied the syringe into his right trapezius, then put him in a choke hold. He kicked, he flailed, he thrashed, he grunted and tried to shout, he fell out of the chair, and the two of them dropped to the floor. The pounding of his feet against the concrete didn’t make much noise and soon he lay still.

  Rick left him snoring on his back and explored the room. A desk, chairs, a bunk. Just like his own room, except for the monitors. Rick studied each but couldn’t make out much more than arrays of blinking lights and a desk where some longhair in a white lab coat was working a computer keyboard.

  So they had some security cameras after all. But where were they?

  After relieving the new guy of his swipe card, key ring, and badge—which said he was H. Woolley—Rick checked the desk drawers where he found a big-screen Samsung phone. Excellent.

  He opened it and saw zero bars. He pun
ched in 911 and got a No Service. Bummer. But at least it bolstered the underground bunker theory. He pocketed it—just in case—and checked the desk for a landline phone. No go. Just an intercom. Shit.

  Stepping back into the hall, he found the outside keyhole empty. He selected a likely suspect from Woolley’s key ring and it locked the door.

  Okay, two guards down, how many more to go?

  He stood at the end of the hallway a few feet away from the heavy steel security door covered in yellow and black warning chevrons around a red-lettered sign:

  WARNING

  RESTRICTED AREA

  NO ADMITTANCE

  The door sported a small window, maybe four by six inches, made of thick glass, set about five feet off the floor. He bent for a peek but all he could make out in the low-lit room beyond were rows of blinking lights. The same blinking lights as on the monitors? He risked a swipe of Watts’s card. Nothing. Tried again with the same result. Woolley’s was no better.

  So. Security wasn’t allowed beyond this door.

  Why would that be? Well, if this was the Lange-Tür bunker, then the reason for its existence must be on the other side, and security folks couldn’t be trusted with whatever it was.

  Fine. As much as Rick wished to know what was in there, it could wait. Priority number one was establishing the presence of Laura or any nadaný and spiriting them out of here.

  Another similar door, sans window, waited at the opposite end of the hallway. Locked too?

  Only one way to find out.

  He eased down the hallway, again suppressing the temptation to check behind each door.

  Oh, hell. Had to check at least one. He picked at random, found it unlocked, and peeked in. Same Bates Motel motif with a gurney just like the one in his room—empty but for a blue sweat suit on the floor with some weird circular thing that looked like a dog collar.

  Okay. Move on.

  He reached the other end without seeing or hearing any signs of life. He tried Watts’s card again, this time with success. He winced as the doors retracted with a low rumble. He didn’t need the noise. He pressed back into a doorway and waited to see if anybody came to check.

  Nope. Nobody.

  Back at the door, the first thing he noticed were a couple of golf carts and, beyond them, a long straight corridor—long as in multiple football fields long. A couple more carts down that end as well, parked near a recessed set of doors that could belong to an elevator.

  A ride to the surface?

  He hesitated, then hopped into one of the carts and raced to the other end. He didn’t see any cameras, and even if they had a couple, he was dressed in security overalls. From a distance he’d look like he belonged here.

  The paired doors at the far end sported an Otis logo. Most definitely an elevator. Only one button on the call panel, which meant the car offered a one-way ride. No arrow on it but his money was on up.

  His way out.

  But not yet. If they’d also grabbed Laura or a couple of nadaný, he wasn’t leaving without them.

  He returned to his starting point and swiped the card again to close the doors. Still nobody came to check. Maybe opening and closing them was no big thing.

  Okay, time to check out the rooms. The first room on his right was labeled 20. Good a place as any to start. He tried the knob—unlocked—and eased it open. Dark inside. He reached in, found the wall switch, and flipped it. Hearing no reaction to the sudden light, he stepped inside to find some sort of office. Desk, computer, a row of filing cabinets, and a single bookshelf. A smaller room than the security office down the hall, and lots smaller than where he’d awakened earlier. Definitely a single-occupant setup. But who? Some sort of administrator?

  Rick moved to the center and looked around. No photos, no degrees, no World’s Best Boss or World’s Best Dad mugs or statuettes. He rifled through the desk drawers but found nothing but pens, pencils, and legal pads.

  Back to the hallway and on to the next room—nineteen. Empty. Okay, the next—

  Someone lying on the bed in eighteen. A young woman. Familiar …

  “Oh, shit! Annie?”

  She jerked up to sitting and gaped at him.

  “Rick?” she screeched.

  He put a finger to his lips and eased the door closed behind him. “Keep it down!”

  “But how—?”

  “Same as you, I imagine. I—hey, what’s that around your neck?”

  “It shocks me!” Her face scrunched up. “If I try to disappear, it shocks me!” She broke down into sobs.

  “Hey, easy, easy,” he said. She had to get a grip. “Crying never helped anything.”

  “I c-can’t h-help it! I’m scared.”

  “I get that. But put a sock in it, okay?”

  “What?” The sobs morphed into an angry glare as she spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m in this shit because of you! If you’d just left me alone to do my thing, I’d be back in Queens right now. But nooo, you had to get into my life and make promises and now everything is fucked!”

  He smiled at her. “Well, at least you’re not crying anymore.”

  A confused look, then her shoulders slumped. “Okay, you got me. But we’re still fucked. What do we do?”

  “First thing, we get that collar off you. Lemme take a look.”

  The collar was a crude contraption—looked jury-rigged, in fact. A hinge at noon, a lock at six o’clock. Rick guessed someone had thrown it together on the fly.

  “So … when you try to disappear, it shocks you?”

  “Big time. And it hurts.”

  He looked at her. Was she going to cry again? No, she was holding it together.

  “The man said it got something to do with my brain waves.”

  This could be useful. “What man?”

  “The one with the lady.”

  “Okay, how many people have you seen since you woke up?”

  “Three. Counting you.”

  “Any idea where they are?”

  “No. Just glad they ain’t here. That guy … ooh, man, the way he looked at me.”

  Uh-oh. “Like he was undressing you?”

  “No. Least I’d be human then. Fucker’s got these dead-fish eyes lookin’ at me like I was some kinda thing.”

  Rick figured whoever was behind the abductions wanted to find out what made the nadaný tick. Yeah, she was a thing to this guy—a Rolex he wanted to disassemble.

  He concentrated on the collar. The obvious solution seemed to be to remove the batteries that fueled the shock, but they appeared to be arrayed on the inner surface. No way to get to them from here.

  The lock, however … the lock was clumsily attached and looked like the weak link. The keyhole was too small to pick, even if he had a kit, but that meant it might be small enough to force. He pulled out Watts’s folding knife and flicked it open.

  Annie flinched away when she saw the blade. “What you gonna do with that?”

  “Cut off your head, slip off the collar, then replace your head. Simple.”

  That glare again. “You think that’s funny? You think you Chris fucking Rock or something?”

  “I guess I’m an acquired taste. But all that aside, I’m gonna try to force the lock on this contraption, so hold still or you might be losing that head after all.”

  He inserted the point of the blade into the keyhole and worked it as deep inside as it would go, then gave the knife a sharp twist. The lock popped halfway open. He stuck the blade into the gap and gave another twist. The collar sprang open and fell away, dangling by the electrode wire.

  With a cry, Annie tore it off, held it up for a quick look, then hurled it across the room.

  She faded from view, then reappeared, hands raised in triumphant fists. “Yes! I could love you if I didn’t hate you so much.”

  Made perfect sense to him—which was kind of scary.

  “Now get me outta here!” she said.

  “Whoa. Was anyone else grabbed along with you?”

  “
Oh, shit! Ruthie!”

  The scene in that room he’d checked: the empty clothes, the empty collar … it all made sense now …

  He laughed. “Ruthie’s back home. She left her clothes and her collar behind.”

  “Then we can go?”

  “You can go. I’m staying in case they grabbed others, but I need you to go get help. And here’s how you’re gonna do it …”

  10

  QUEENS

  “Oh, shit, that burns!” Ruthie cried, clutching her upper thigh just above where Laura was injecting the lidocaine.

  “Just like I warned you,” Laura said. “But it doesn’t last long. Just hang in there a little and you won’t feel a thing.”

  It hadn’t been easy, but Laura had organized the equivalent of a family intervention for Ruthie. But instead of an addiction, the problem was fear. Of death? No. Of appearing naked, exposing her body to strangers—possibly exposing it. And how did that possibility weigh against helping save her friends, especially Iggy?

  She’d coached Stahlman, Cyrus, Tanisha, and Leo in what to say but, because she was such a newcomer, Laura had stayed on the periphery during the confrontation, willing Ruthie to see the light.

  Finally convinced there was no other way and that she was the only one with a prayer of getting results, Ruthie had agreed to hold the GPS recorder—tucked inside the finger of a sterile latex surgical glove—in her mouth when she made the jumps to and from the mystery location. Unfortunately she had a hypersensitive gag reflex, and even though Kevin had picked up the smallest unit available, she retched every time it touched her tongue.

  Knowing nothing was ever easy with Ruth, Laura had prepared for the possibility with a stop at a surgical supply store. You couldn’t walk in off the street and buy the supplies she needed, but her medical examiner’s ID had cleared the way.

  After multiple retches, it took surprisingly little to convince her to allow Laura to implant the GPS just below the skin of her thigh.

  She was doing this for Iggy, she said. And maybe Annie. But not for that asshole Ellis.