Involuntary Control (Gray Spear Society) (40 page)

"I'm not sure."

"Then you'll be ground support," Marina said. "When Aaron and Smythe escape from the base, be there to help them. Have plenty of weapons and medical supplies ready."

"If they escape."

"You of all people should have faith."

* * *

Aaron opened his eyes. He was lying on a table, looking down. He could see the floor through a hole the size of his face. Some kind of padded clamp held his entire head, so he couldn't move it even a millimeter. Straps across the rest of his body pinned him securely. He could wiggle his fingers and toes, but that was all. He wore only underwear, and a sheet covered the lower half of his body. He had never felt so helpless.

"Hello?" he said.

"Ah, you're awake. Just in time."

Aaron recognized the voice of General Doolittle.

"What's going on?" Aaron said.

"You're about to go into surgery. They're prepping the room now."

Aaron didn't have to ask what kind of surgery.

He tested the straps that held him and felt a very sharp pain in his shoulder. He remembered he had been shot. The injury wouldn't kill him anytime soon, but it needed treatment.

"You're an extraordinary man," Doolittle said. "I sent your fingerprints and photographs to every intelligence agency I know. Nobody could tell me who you are. Yet, you're clearly an American with the skills of an elite soldier. That by itself is remarkable, but it's nothing compared to your saliva. My lab boys tried to analyze it and destroyed some expensive equipment in the process. I can hardly wait to hear all your secrets."

"I won't talk."

"You won't have a choice. Once I control your mind, you'll tell me everything, and then you'll work for me. I expect you'll be a great asset, maybe even worth all the trouble you caused."

Aaron frowned. He could spit at the floor, but that wouldn't do any good.

"I'll find a way to resist you."

"Go ahead and try," Doolittle said. "You'll fail like everybody else. But just in case, I always have this."

He held a small black box under the table so Aaron could see it. There was a red button on top. Doolittle quickly took the device away.

"Is that the kill switch?" Aaron said.

"Right again. If I press this button, it will send a signal to your implant. Your diaphragm will freeze and your throat will tighten until you can't breathe at all."

Aaron had to admit Doolittle knew what he was doing. It was frustrating when an adversary was competent.

"Even your phone was interesting," Doolittle said. "I asked one of my technicians to take it apart."

Aaron made a soft noise. "Mistake."

"The doctors say they can save his left hand, but the right is completely gone."

"He's lucky he still has one."

"We have a couple of minutes," Doolittle said. "Before we were interrupted earlier, you claimed you knew how the specifications got into my head that night. You might as well tell me now rather than later."

Aaron considered his response. He couldn't reveal any secrets, but that didn't mean he had to be silent. There was a very slim hope he could convince Doolittle to see the error of his ways.

"The mind control technology is a virus," Aaron said. "It was designed to spread. Other people will steal it from you, and others will steal it from them. Eventually, every government will use it to control their citizens. The entire human race will be permanently enslaved. You're just the first step in that process."

"As long as I'm a master, not a slave, I don't see a problem. The world will be a better place without social unrest. Just think about what mankind can accomplish when everybody follows orders. It will be paradise."

Aaron sighed. It was a philosophy as old and obsolete as a stone axe. "That's not God's intention. He gave us free will for a reason, and social unrest serves a purpose."

"What do you know about God?" Doolittle said.

"I know you'll experience His wrath before long. One way or another, He'll put an end to this."

A female voice spoke, "Sir, we're ready to begin the surgery."

"Take him away," Doolittle said calmly.

Aaron's table began to roll across the floor.

"This is your last chance to change your mind!" he yelled.

"Why would I do that?" Doolittle answered. "Because some metaphysical ghost in the sky disapproves? That's ridiculous. If God has a beef with me, let Him come down here and tell me face to face. I'd like to see that!"

Chapter Twenty-four

Marina looked up into the sky and saw a black helicopter hovering overhead. It was slowly getting larger. The rotors made a whistling sound that reminded her of a strong wind instead of the traditional loud thumping.
Stealthy,
she thought.

As the helicopter descended, she admired its fearsome appearance. It was long and thin like a sword. A Vulcan cannon was mounted on the sharp nose. Twenty missiles were stacked in racks beneath stubby wings. Every surface was faceted, making the helicopter look like a giant black jewel. The windows were covered with gold film.

Marina grinned.
Bethany and Leanna,
she thought,
you did well. A gold star for both of you.

The helicopter landed softly on an open helipad. The narrow cockpit only had room for a single pilot. She saw him looking around in confusion.

Marina ran over and knocked on the window. The pilot pushed open a canopy over the cockpit. He wore a black helmet that covered everything except his mouth.

"Hello, sir!" she said cheerfully.

"Am I in the right place?" the pilot said nervously. "There is supposed to be a live fire training exercise. Where is everybody? Who are you?"

"You're in exactly the right place, sir. You'll get a full briefing inside. Please, follow me."

The pilot pulled himself out of the cockpit. It was a tight fit even though he wasn't a big man. Marina glimpsed the complex controls. Somehow she had to learn how to operate this thing in a very short span of time. At least the flight stick looked fairly standard.

"Oh," she added, "could you grab the operations manual? We'll need that."

"Sure," the pilot mumbled.

He fished around behind the seat and pulled out a thick manual. Marina frowned.
What did I get myself into?

A service building was nearby. She cheerfully led the pilot over to it and held the door for him. They went inside. There was a desk and some metal chairs. A television was mounted on the wall, and the picture was fuzzy. A maintenance worker in a blue uniform was lying on the floor, unconscious.

"What the hell?" the pilot said.

Marina gave him enough venom to make him sleep for hours. She eased him to the floor so he wouldn't hit his head. Then she took his helmet and the operations manual.

She went back to the helicopter and wedged herself into the cockpit. The fit around her hips was tighter than she liked. It was definitely a machine built for a young male pilot.

She looked down at the myriad controls and sighed. All the buttons and switches were labeled with obscure abbreviations. Eight video screens suggested she also had to learn a computer system.

Might as well get started,
she thought. She cracked open the heavy manual.

* * *

General Doolittle was working in his office. He could've furnished it any way he wanted, and he had chosen a humble style suitable for a professional military man. The desk was made of solid oak with just a thin layer of varnish. The chairs had straight backs and minimal padding. The pictures on the walls were faded photographs of units he had served in. A potted flower provided a solitary splash of color, but it was made of fabric. He didn't have time to water a real one.

His phone rang, and he picked it up. "General Doolittle here."

"Sir, this is Lieutenant Kensington in the Defense Intelligence Agency. We've made progress on that serial number for the TLX-42 unit."

"The what?"

"The tracking unit, sir," Kensington said. "The transmitter planted on General Clark?"

"Ah, yes. What have you found?"

"The package was shipped to a post office box in Chicago. We don't know who received the shipment. Nobody seems to have that information. It appears all the computer records were deleted, and no backups were made. Luckily, we found a paper copy of the manifest."

Doolittle nodded. "The enemy must have allies within White Flame. It goes to show how even your closest friends can turn on you. I want you to mail a transmitter to that post office box. Hide it inside a book or something. Eventually, somebody will pick it up. Follow the signal and see where it goes."

"Yes, sir."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then carry on." Doolittle hung up the phone.

* * *

Aaron awoke. He was lying on a hard floor in a small white room without windows or furniture. The one door had no handle on the inside. A panel of intensely bright lights covered the ceiling.

Sharp pain in the back of his neck made him wince. He touched the spot and found a bandage. His fingers came away sticky with blood. There was also a bandage on his wounded shoulder.

He felt dizzy and nauseous. His vision kept drifting in and out of focus. When he sat up, the sudden motion made his stomach turn cartwheels. Standing was out of the question.

A male voice boomed from above. "The implant conditioning process will take ten to twenty hours. If you cooperate, it will be painless. You may experience disorientation and unusual sensations. This is normal. Do not be concerned. If you attempt to resist, your experience will be less pleasant, but the outcome will be the same. You are deep underground, and there is no possibility of escape. Let's begin."

Aaron was so weak he could barely crawl. His hands felt like he was wearing thick wool mittens. Obviously, Doolittle's doctors had given him powerful drugs. Aaron had no choice but to endure the "conditioning process" and hope for rescue. He certainly couldn't save himself.

The lights started cycling between pure red, green, and blue. A low hum made his guts vibrate. He couldn't tell which direction was up anymore.

He started seeing ugly shapes floating in the air. They were hallucinations. Something was happening inside his brain, and it wasn't good.

* * *

Smythe checked the angle of the sun. It would set within the hour, which meant it was time to get serious about finding Aaron.

For several hours he had wandered through the base. He had moved quickly, as if on an important errand, but really he had travelled in loops. He had memorized the layout and determined the best escape routes. He could now find his way around in complete darkness if necessary, and he expected it would be.

He had also chatted with the guards a few times. His gruff attitude and muscular build had convinced them he was legitimate. These short conversations had given him even more information about the base and its security.

He was done with his reconnaissance and ready for more aggressive action. He looked around for an officer. All the guards were dressed identically except for a small rank insignia on their collars. The intention was to prevent snipers from picking off high value targets. However, Smythe could easily identify officers by their behavior. He noticed an older guard barking orders at several others.

When the officer was done yelling, Smythe walked over to him.

Smythe saluted smartly. "Sir, I was assigned to prisoner detail."

"So?" The officer raised his eyebrows. He was a very tall man with tanned skin and blue eyes.

"I don't know where the prisoners are, sir."

The officer rolled his eyes. "You're incompetent. They're all in implant conditioning, of course. Where else would they be?"

"Yes, sir!" Smythe saluted again and walked off. He had no idea where implant conditioning was.

He found another guard, a young, low ranking one this time. Now it was Smythe's turn to act like an asshole.

"You!" he yelled and pointed. "We need help in implant conditioning. Get moving!"

"Yes, sir!"

The guard jogged towards a building so small it had to be a shed. Smythe trailed a few paces behind.

Unlike most of the buildings on the base, this one had a working keypad lock on the door. Fortunately, the guard knew the combination. He even held the door so Smythe could follow him inside.

They headed down a long flight of concrete stairs to an underground area. The small building on the surface was just an entry.

Smythe gave the guard a vicious shove from behind. The young man tumbled all the way down like a rag doll. Smythe could almost hear his bones breaking as he struck the hard surfaces again and again. When the guard finally reached the bottom, he didn't move. Blood trickled from his nose.

Smythe jogged down after him. "Medic!" he yelled. "We need a medic!"