Zero option, p.19
Zero Option, page 19
“At ease, Cal. We’re not on review.”
Ryan relaxed. “As requested, Colonel. Major Douglas Buchanan, United States Air Force, and Dr. Saul Kaplan, Zero Option project.”
“Proud to meet you, son,” Stengard said, stepping up to Buchanan. “Hell of a thing you’re doing for your country. Can’t say I understand how it all works, but I’m sure the good doctor will explain.”
“Maybe I should clarify something, Colonel Stengard,” Buchanan said. “What I volunteered to do was for the elected government of this country. As far as I recollect, your name never came up as part of the project. Now, I can’t speak for Saul Kaplan, but I’m pretty sure he’ll tell you to go to hell, as well.”
Stengard’s booming laugh filled the room. “See, Cal, that’s just what I’d expect from a man of Major Buchanan’s stature. He’s that close to getting himself shot for insubordination, and he still has the guts to stand firm. Resolve. Something we’re short of in this country.”
“And that’s something you know all about is it, Stengard?” Bolan asked. “Resolve? Integrity? Do what has to be done and be damned who gets hurt in the process?”
Stengard turned sharply to face the tall man in black.
“Belasko, Colonel,” Ryan said. “The one who gave us all the trouble.”
“I’ve been hearing about you. Caused us a deal of inconvenience.”
“My heart bleeds for you, Stengard.”
“‘Colonel’ to you, Belasko,” Ryan said, stepping in close.
Stengard put up a restraining hand. “Take it easy, Cal. Mr. Belasko is allowed his indiscretions. To answer your accusation, yes, I do have the resolve and the integrity to get done what needs to be done.”
“At least we have that in common.”
“And an optimist, as well. I admire that, Belasko. Then you’ll understand what we’re trying to do here. Get this country back on its feet. Build up its strength so none of those leeches out there can back us into a corner. It’s time we made America great again. Time was the whole world listened when we talked. Now they smile in our faces, take our aid, then bomb us. Attack us within our own borders. Burn the American flag in their rat-infested streets and call us cowards and murderers. It’s time we picked up the goddamned ball and showed them they can’t treat the United States like so much dog shit on the soles of their shoes.”
“And it’s going to take you and Senator Stahl to do it?”
“Damned right it is, son. I’ll tell you something else for free. We will do it.”
“Not without Zero,” Saul Kaplan said.
Stengard faced him, smiling, the cold, unblinking smile of the snake poised to strike.
“Which is why you and Major Buchanan are here. The keys that will turn Zero on and give us the means to send our enemies ducking for cover.”
“Oh, please.”
“Agent Valens. I’ve been hearing so much about you. Please, let’s hear your contribution.”
“I don’t like swearing in mixed company,” Valens said sharply.
“Colonel, she’s got a smart mouth. You want me to—”
“Cal, let the lady speak. Remember this is still a democracy.”
“As long as Zero stays switched off,” Valens said. “The minute you and that lame-excuse senator get it back online we’re all going to be in deep trouble.”
“Are you suggesting we’ll betray the American people?”
“Colonel, do I look that stupid? If I thought for a minute you might get this circus off the ground, I’d throw myself in front of the first train I could find.”
“We have a disbeliever in our midst.”
“Make that two,” Joshua Riba said.
One of the assault team close to Riba turned and drove the butt of his weapon into the man’s ribs. Riba bent double, coughing harshly.
“Enough of this crap,” Stengard said. “Cal, get Buchanan and Kaplan down to the process room. It’s time we got moving on this. Have the others put in the observation room next door so they can see what’s going on.”
BOLAN WAS PUSHED into the observation room as the doors slid open. It was a plain room. No furniture. The floor was made of soft, sound-absorbing tiles. The others were alongside him. As the door slid shut behind them, the far wall lit up and revealed itself to be a floor-to-ceiling toughened-glass sheet. It allowed them to see into the next room.
That one was double the size. One wall was fitted out with an array of electronic panels and computer stations. Mobile pieces of equipment were lined up against one end wall. The room gave the impression of an operating theater. It had a sterile look to it. Banks of lights on flexible arms were suspended from the ceiling. The effect was completed by what looked, at first sight, to be an operating table.
Bolan moved closer to the glass screen that separated the two rooms. He was looking closely at the operating table. Only it wasn’t an operating table. It was more like a body-length adjustable recliner. There were arms at the sides, with short tubes protruding from the covering. There were more tubes coming up through the base padding, and where the head would rest was a shallow skull-shaped cap on a flexible arm.
“Jesus, it’s the biocouch,” Jackson Byrde said, his tone almost reverential.
Bolan recalled reading about it in the extensive reams of data the President had given him after his visit with Hal Brognola.
The biocouch, the point of transition where Doug Buchanan and the control center of the Zero platform would merge into a single, interdependent unit. The implants inside Buchanan’s body would lock in and blend with those installed within the biocouch. This would create the environment and the catalyst that would form the human-machine biosynthesis coupling. The process would take a few hours as the couch began to feed Buchanan the synthetic fluids and neuro-wave transmissions. The evolvement of Doug Buchanan into Buchanan-Zero would culminate in his being able to take full control of the platform’s functions via the electronic chips in his skull. They would only activate once the transition had completed successfully.
“How the hell did they—?”
“You are wondering how we got out hands on a biocouch?”
Stengard had followed them into the observation room, standing at the back as they observed Buchanan and Kaplan enter the room. A four-man team of technicians followed them in, and two armed guards stood against one of the walls.
“My contact in the Pentagon, who has unfortunately decided to opt out of our relationship, got the construction details as soon as the attack on the New Mexico site took place. We had to move fast before the shock of the strike wore off. As soon as that happened, there was a lockdown on everything to do with Zero, but we had what we needed.”
“As far as you knew, Buchanan was dead,” Byrde said.
“We had a few bad moments over that, I admit. Then common sense returned and told us the government would resurrect Zero. We could wait if we had to. But chance favored us and Doug Buchanan showed up again. Once the development team had the schematics it didn’t take them long to construct a replica. We’re very proud of it and the Room, as we call next door.”
Bolan was observing the action through the glass. Both Kaplan and Buchanan were standing by the couch, obviously aware of what its presence indicated. Buchanan was slowly shaking his head.
The click of a sound system coming on reached the observation room. One of the white-coated techs turned to face Stengard.
“First problem, Colonel. Major Buchanan says he will not cooperate.”
“I was afraid of that, Dr. Menard. Would you bring Major Buchanan to the glass, please.”
The man named Menard went to Buchanan and took his arm, moving him across the room until he was standing at the glass.
Stengard faced him through the screen.
“Major Buchanan, what seems to be the problem?”
“You can’t initiate Zero’s activation without me, and I refuse to do what you want. This is not what Zero was created for and you damned well know, Colonel. The hell with you and your treason. I’ll die first before helping you and that maniac Stahl.”
“I don’t think your dying will be necessary, Major. However, I see no alternative to showing you I mean business.”
Stengard turned and crossed to where Ryan was standing. He stood close to the man for a moment, then returned to his former position, arms folded across his chest, close to where Jackson Byrde was positioned in front of the glass screen.
“Major Buchanan, this is no time for grand gestures. Believe me when I say I am not going to accept your refusal. You are not in command here. I am, and I say who lives and who dies.”
Stengard unfolded his arms. In his right hand was one of the Glock 21 pistols. Stengard turned, raised the weapon and pressed the muzzle against the side of Jackson Byrde’s head. He pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession, sending a trio of 9 mm slugs into Byrde’s skull. The rounds cored in to demolish Byrde’s brain, blowing out the other side in a spurt of red that spattered the window glass and splashed the side of Joshua Riba’s jacket. Byrde slumped to his knees, then forward on his face, body jerking in final spasms.
“No!”
Valens launched herself across the room, despite her bound hands, and went for Stengard. She would have reached him if one of Stengard’s men hadn’t moved to confront her, his M-16 leveled at her chest.
“You can be next, Agent Valens,” Stengard announced, the Glock leveled at her head. “You can join your partner.”
“Ex-partner,” Ryan said.
Stengard turned to the window and confronted Buchanan.
“Do we understand each other, Major? I have three more people here with me. I’m prepared to sacrifice each one of them until you see sense. Their lives are in your hands. If their deaths don’t change your mind, I’m sure we can find further volunteers.”
Doug Buchanan leaned against the window, his hands pressed against the cool surface as he stared down at Jackson Byrde’s corpse and then across at Claire Valens. Tears were running down her pale, lovely face as she took in what had just happened so quickly and without any kind of warning.
“Major Buchanan, do not fuck with me. I am willing to sacrifice as many as it takes if you still need convincing. In the end it rests in your hands.”
Buchanan turned from the glass and walked to the biocouch. Dr. Menard and his assistants moved to strip off his clothing and replace it with a thin, body-hugging skin suit that had cutaways for the implant introduction. When the skin suit was in place, they helped position Buchanan on the biocouch.
“We’re ready,” Menard said over the intercom.
Stengard nodded. “Kaplan, time to go to work. As we were fortunate to locate you, we can use your expertise.”
Saul Kaplan stood beside Buchanan, talking quietly to him as Menard and his team checked that Buchanan was fully settled before they activated the transition sequence.
A number of times Menard asked Kaplan questions. Finally Kaplan himself moved to the main computer station and keyed in codes that activated the process.
Bolan had remained in his earlier position, watching Buchanan. At first nothing seemed to be happening. The major appeared to be resting, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and regular. Then implant probes slid from the depths of the couch and at the same time the implants that had been inserted into Buchanan broke through the outer layers of skin and moved with precise motions toward the couch links. Despite his misgivings, Bolan found himself held by the pure fascination of this bonding of man and machine. He knew he was seeing something totally new. A startling and surprising advance in human technology. Doug Buchanan had proved he was a man willing to step beyond the normal bounds of mankind’s need to explore his potential.
The window turned black, the sound from the Room shutting off.
“Ryan, get these people out of here now,” Stengard said. “When Stahl arrives he wants to talk to Belasko. Make sure the other two are secured. I’m sure they have a lot to think about.”
“Be a damned sight better if we got rid of them.”
Stengard shook his head. “Not yet. They could still be of use if Buchanan or Kaplan find their consciences troubling them. Understand, Cal? Just lock them up for now.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Ryan ordered a team to remove Valens and Riba, then he and another of his men turned to Bolan.
“Get someone to deal with that,” Stengard said, indicating Byrde’s body.
He turned his attention to Bolan. “A little persuasion and we prevail, Mr. Belasko.”
“Enjoy it while you can,” Bolan replied, his tone low and emotionless.
“Do I detect a threat there, son?”
“You understand what I’m saying.”
Stengard straightened, his back ramrod stiff.
“I admire your guts, son. But don’t try to fool me. I’ve been a soldier too long.”
“And an insult to every American who ever wore his or her country’s uniform.”
Stengard’s face darkened. He restrained himself with difficulty.
“You criticize me? Colonel Orin Stengard? Do you really understand what I’ve done for this country? How many times I’ve put myself on the line? And the men under me. We did everything they ever asked. And more. But the lily-whites in office want to weaken us. Strip us of everything America ever stood for. Jesus Christ, Belasko, we have to bend our knee to every pacifist, liberal, and PC loon whoever raised his sissy voice above a whisper. My God, man, have you taken at look at the country? All we do now is let the rest of the world sponge off us. At home people are gutless and can’t even make it through the day without a counselor to hold their pasty hands. Spill a cup of coffee in your lap. Sue the coffee shop. Don’t like the way someone talks to you at work? Sue the boss for work-related stress. What the hell is going on? America used to be a nation of independent, hard-working people who got on with life and gave the finger to anyone who tried to push them around. Not anymore. The government is screwing around with this country. It’s time we took America back and showed the people the right way to do it.”
“The Eric Stahl way? And your way? Use Zero to blackmail your way into power? Show the world America has its finger on the trigger? Do it our way or we’ll put you out of business? How long before the curfews in U.S. cities? Go in and pick out the undesirables. Next thing it’ll be the wrong color hair. Or eyes. I understand Stahl’s politics, and frankly, Colonel Stengard, they’re the worst thing that could happen to this country.”
“Get this man out of my sight, Cal. Put him in a room and lock the door. Keep someone with him, because I don’t trust him left on his own.”
Ryan caught hold of Bolan’s sleeve and dragged him across the room, his armed man close behind. The door slid shut, leaving Bolan in the deserted corridor with Ryan and his partner.
“Get moving,” Ryan said.
Stepping behind Bolan, he raised a booted foot and placed it against Bolan’s hip, shoving hard. The soldier stumbled. The armed man with him used the butt of his M-16 to strike their captive between his shoulders.
“Hey, Ryan, you think this asshole was ever in the military?”
“You never know. They’ll take anybody these days.”
Bolan was marched along the corridor to a short flight of steps. They emerged in another featureless passage, this one illuminated by soft strip lights.
“Hold it,” Ryan said.
He shoved past Bolan to use a key card to open the sliding door. Out the corner of his eye Bolan saw Ryan hand the card to the armed guard.
“Inside, Belasko.”
The room had a table and a number of metal-framed chairs. There was a water cooler and a coffee vending machine against one wall. It had the sterile appearance of a conference room.
“Stahl should be here in a while. Just keep him here.”
Ryan turned and strode out of the room. The door slid shut, leaving Bolan alone with the armed guard.
“Go park your ass over there.”
Bolan did as he was told. He sat on one of the chairs at the table, facing straight ahead. The guard took a chair at the far end of the table, his M-16 resting on his lap. After a few minutes the guard stirred restlessly. He reached up to push his cap to the back of his head, his eyes beginning to wander.
Bolan remained still.
The guard cleared his throat. Fiddled with the rifle. It was obvious he wasn’t a regular serviceman. He might have been at one time, but now he would be on Stengard’s mercenary list, a man who had lost his edge when it came to remaining impassive when left alone to guard a prisoner. He was more used to lazing around with his ex-service buddies, living on the pay he’d earned from his last contract.
No more than five or six minutes had elapsed when the guard pushed his chair back from the table and stood. He moved around the table and crossed to where the coffee machine stood. He looked it over, deciding he didn’t have to pay for a drink, then peered at the instructions.
The guard was no more than three chairs away from where Bolan sat motionless, offering no resistance. He wedged the M-16 under his left arm and used his right to order his drink. The machine made soft sounds. The plastic cup dropped and the liquid flowed in. The machine clicked as the delivery was completed. Leaning over so he could clearly see the plastic cup, the guard made to take it out from the delivery recess. He made a sharp sound as the hot cup stung his fingers, then reached up to grasp it by the thicker lip at the top. It diverted his attention from Bolan for no more than a few seconds….
The guard was lifting the cup, turning his head to check his prisoner, when he heard a whisper of sound. He let go of the cup, maneuvering the M-16 into position. He got the impression of something dark, moving extremely quickly, and then Bolan was on him. The Executioner hit with the speed of a striking snake, dropping his bound wrists over the guard’s head and yanking back hard against the man’s throat. Bolan’s right knee came up, ramming into the guard’s lower spine with savage force. The guard gasped as Bolan’s encircling wrists snapped tight against his throat, crushing the windpipe and closing with a viselike grip. Bolan increased the pressure of his knee to the spine. The guard began to choke, spitting bubbles of froth. The M-16 slipped from his grasp, the rubberized floor absorbing the sound. The guard reached up, fingers clawing at the arms around his neck. He began to thrash about, his movements uncoordinated. The color of his face darkened and his eyes stared wildly about. Bolan maintained his grip for the next long minute. The struggles slowed. The jerking eased, and the harsh breathing was reduced to a final, whispering sigh.
