The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (20 page)

A lone eagle screamed in the distance circling in a bright cloudless sky.

“This class always starts with one hundred men,” continued the instructor. “You’ll know this class as number six.

“Class number five had sixty-nine recruits left after the first two weeks. Twenty-four after the first six months. Twelve people made it all the way to the end.”

A quiet murmur went through the ranks of the recruits as they tried to digest the numbers.

“Most of those who didn’t make it to the end went back to the place where they’d come from.” He paused, looking at the rows of sweaty, tired faces. “But six recruits had to leave the service due to permanent injuries. And two recruits went back in body bags.”

Mike didn’t remember the first two weeks very well. It was a crazy blur of running, swimming, and mind-numbing calisthenics. He got lucky. They were split into four people units, and two of his new partners, Patrick and Doug, turned out to be Navy SEALS. The third, a short Texan with a baby face named Sean, was a professional marathon runner and a self-proclaimed comedian.

•     •     •

“C’mon, ladies,” he shouted as the four jogged up the rocky road. They had been running for over four hours now, the sixty-pound backpacks cutting their shoulders raw.

“I can run circles around you,” he yelled, and to demonstrate that he actually ran a circle around their small group.

“One day I’m going to strangle you,” said Doug, breathing hard, “or better yet drown you in the pool as your skinny ass can’t swim.”

“It’s a possibility,” acknowledged Sean, grinning. “Everybody knows women float better than men as they have more body fat.”

Doug only snorted in reply.

“Shut up, you all,” chimed in Patrick. “Let’s make sure we’re not the slowest group. I have no desire to do extra push-ups after running for forty miles.”

They arrived to the rendezvous point just before noon. Porter was already there taking their time as they collapsed onto the grass in one dirty heap. Only one group was there before them, so for the time being they were left alone, drinking water in long gulps, trying to catch their breath.

“Do you think he ran here, too?” asked Sean, thrusting his chin in Porter’s direction, “or they parachuted his bossy ass down here so he’s fresh to torture us?”

“I’m pretty sure he ran,” said Mike looking at the instructor, noting dark patches of sweat on his t-shirt under his arms and on his back, “but he probably didn’t carry the pack.”

The break didn’t last long. They were lined in one long column and ordered to march to the obstacle course, five miles away. Even Sean started to show signs of extreme fatigue. The sun was high now, beating down on the recruits without mercy

“It’s amazing what people sign up for,” he said after tripping over a dead tree branch and almost smashing his face into the ground. “You’d think after two years in the Air Force I’d know better. You guys hungry?”

He produced a few pieces of dirty cheese from his breast pocket and gave it to his team members. They gratefully accepted, biting into sticky pieces and washing them down with small sips of water from hot flasks.

“Oh shit,” Mike said as the final goal of their march came to view. A clearing had been cut into the woods, and a thousand yard long pool of thick brown mud was right in front of them, sharp barbed wire hanging low above it in vicious gleaming circles. A row of obstacles could be seen at the end of the muddy stretch.

All hell broke loose. A dry cough of automatic fire pierced the silence, jerking everybody out of the marching trance.

“Drop and go,” yelled Porter. “Those are live rounds, so keep you heads in the mud. Go, go, go.”

To demonstrate, Rick Porter went first, diving into the mud pool and crawling under the wire. Mike dropped onto his stomach and started to crawl after him, trying to keep up. The roar of the machine gun overhead was deafening, making him press his face into the mud. The thick, sticky sludge went into his ears and nostrils. He tried to keep his mouth shut, but within seconds his nose was completely blocked, forcing him to breathe through his mouth.

Soon his was spitting and coughing the vile slush. A couple of times his backpack caught on the wire, jerking him back and out, making him panic as the hiss of bullets came dangerously close. He pressed on, burying his head in the mud again.

After what seemed an eternity the mud crawl was over.

The Cargo Net obstacle, the fifty-foot high grid of rough rope stretched between two posts, was next. Mike just started his way up the rope, trying to keep the momentum, when he heard Porter barking orders, making everybody abandon the course.

“What the hell,” said Doug, who was climbing the net right after Connelly. He jumped off the net and landed on the compressed sand with the grace of a shot duck.

“I don’t know,” said Mike, mostly to himself, as he watched the instructor run back to the mud pool.

Mike jumped off the net as well, landing next to Doug, who now looked concerned.

“Shit, Mike, where’s Sean?” he said, looking around.

Mike didn’t answer. Something was horribly wrong. He started running toward the mud pool. Doug, then a moment later, Patrick, caught up with him on either side.

A listless body of Sean Young was lying next to the barbwire. Mike felt his stomach contracted into a tight knot as he looked at the small hole in Sean’s temple. There was almost no blood.

“What the fuck happened?” said Doug, looking at the fallen team member.

“Ricochet, I think. But we’ll have to conduct a proper investigation,” said Porter, examining the body. “I’m sorry.”

The training was halted for the rest of the day. They were lifted by helicopters, transferred back to the camp, and told to await further orders. The word was that Sean had a wife and two kids back home. The mood was dark.

In the evening when Sean’s body was carried away and transported into the chopper, Rick Porter came to the group. In his tow was a seven foot tall giant with pasty white skin pocked with acne scars and a shy smile.

“Gents,” said Porter, looking at the quiet group, “my condolences. Sean will be missed. I thought he was going to make it to the end of the course.”

Porter paused, waiting for a response, but none came.

“However,” he continued, “we have to carry on with the training, and you can’t afford the luxury of being distracted.”

“We understand,” said Doug quietly.

“This is your new team member, gentlemen,” said Porter, patting the giant on the shoulder, “I wish you the best of luck.”

He turned around and walked away.

“Hey, guys,” said the man in a surprisingly small voice, offering a shovel of a hand for a handshake, “Sorry about your friend. My name’s Martin.”

“It’s all over the papers,” said Jason, putting the
Wall Street Journal
on the kitchen table. “They liken it to the Porsche’s attempt of taking over much larger Volkswagen.”

“That’s a horrible analogy,” said Max, sipping his morning coffee. “Porsche’s attempt had failed. We succeeded.”

Jason grinned at his friend, finished his own coffee, and checked his watch.

“It’s almost seven-thirty; I should go. By the time I get there everybody will be there.”

“But I thought the board of directors meeting was at nine-thirty,” said Max. “Oh, I see. You want to check out the place before the meeting.”

“Something like that.”

Jason arrived at the Brooklyn facility just after eight. A pair of guards checked his documents and ushered him inside. A tall, stocky man in his sixties was waiting for him at the lobby.

“Daniel Leibowitz,” he introduced himself, offering a hand, “I was told you’d be here at nine-thirty.”

“I figured I’d talk to the current CEO and have him show me the place for myself before all the important people get here.”

“Well, I’ll be glad to give you a tour,” the man said and waved his hand to the elevators. “I was instructed that your security clearance has been appropriately upgraded. We should start from my office.”

They walked to the elevator and the man swiped his access card.

“As you know we have three research facilities, this one here and two smaller ones in New Jersey,” said the man as the elevator started its ascent. “This building also houses the administrative staff on the top two floors.”

They got off on the ninth floor, and Leibowitz led Jason through a row of cubicles to the small corner office.

“I’m afraid there’s not much of a view,” the man said, waving his hand at the windows completely closed by thick blinds. “Security measures. If you listen carefully, you can actually hear the blinds hum. They generate white noise in case someone is using a laser on our windows to eavesdrop.”

“That’s impressive,” said Jason.

“It’s sad actually,” said Daniel. “There is no good ol’ competition anymore. Everyone tries to steal secrets. You would think we’re at war. But let me show you the floor plan.”

He fired up his computer terminal and brought up a blueprint of the building on the screen.

“As you can see, there are nine floors above ground and twenty floors below.” He touched the screen to illustrate. “The top two, as I mentioned, house the admin staff. Everything above ground is purely theoretical. Floors five through seven are neuroscience research. Three and four are engineering. One and two do cloning research.”

“You said engineering. What exactly do they do?”

“Well…” Leibowitz paused for a second. “Asclepius is a human augmentation company. We look at the human body as if it were a machine. It has parts. When those parts break, we try to replace them.”

“But my understanding was that the majority of your contracts were military.”

“They are,” said Leibowitz, “but that doesn’t change the principle. Think of it in automotive terms. You bring us your grandmother’s broken minivan. We fix it and give you back a three-ton Humvee with a fifty caliber mounted on top of it.”

“Hence the engineering,” said Jason.

“Correct,” said Daniel. “That is where neuroscience and engineering have to meet halfway and figure out how to take a crazy cocktail of tissue and metal and connect it to the body.”

“So, what’s happening in the underground facility?”

“One, two, and three are prosthetics. Four and five are working with heart implants. Six and seven are kidney implants and biofilters. Eight through ten are body armor.”

“Body armor? It doesn’t sound like human augmentation to me,” said Jason.

“Body armor implants,” explained Leibowitz. “Some of them are what pundits call ‘wet-wired’ to weapon systems.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Eleven and twelve are animal trials areas. Thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen are human trials.”

“That’s a lot of space for human trials.”

“Well, only the fifteenth floor is the actual trials. The other two are just assembly and support. Sixteen and seventeen are lung implants and breathing aids.”

“And what’s on the last three?”

“That, I’m afraid is still above your clearance level,” said Leibowitz, “but this is just temporary. Once they approve your board seat, which is just a formality given your ownership stake, your clearance will be updated to access the lower floors as well.”

“Fair enough,” Jason said and smiled, “I can wait.”

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to see before the board meeting?”

“Not really,” said Jason. “Maybe after the meeting. Why don’t you take me to the conference room now?”

The board had nine permanent members, and Alexander Engel, now the company’s second-largest shareholder, arrived first. He walked around Jason without acknowledging his presence and took a seat at the head of the long, polished table.

“Good morning Alex,” said Jason, looking him in the eye. “You are looking as dapper as usual.”

“Let’s get something straight,” said Engle. “I know you cheated. I don’t know how, but I’ll find out. And when I do, you’ll rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

“I’m only getting started Alex,” Jason fired back, “but I promise you, in the end, I’ll take away the only thing that you care for. Money.”

“That’s funny,” said Alex, leaning back in his chair, a carefree smile on his lips. “You’re not your father, boy. If he were to tell me that, I’d be excited. I love a little challenge. With you, it’s just pathetic.”

“Gentlemen,” said Leibowitz, entering the room with a few men in tow, “I believe everyone’s here.”

“Thank you, Daniel,” said Alexander, dismissing him with a nod. “We’ll let you know when we’re done.”

“Let me introduce everyone,” Engel said as everybody sat down. “From left to right. Andre Michu, John O’Hara, Michael Weinstein, Kristen Smith, Bob Stapleton, Steven Poznyak, Mary McMillan, and Larry Patel.”

“It’s nice to meet everyone,” said Jason politely, “Jason Hunt.”

“Now,” said Alex, “we all know that Mr. Hunt here would like to sit on the board, and given that his ownership stake is greater than thirty percent, all he needs is just the confirmation by the simple majority of the board.”

Alex got up and started to slowly walk around the table.

“However.” He stopped and looked at Jason. “I have a problem with that.”

A low murmur broke out at the table.

“What are you saying, Alex?” said Larry Patel, a small thin man, his smart brown eyes magnified by the powerful glasses.

“What I’m saying is that I’d like to block this fellow from getting a seat on this table,” he said, looking around the table, “and I know it requires a unanimous vote, given the size of his stake. But that wouldn’t be a problem now, would it?”

“Aren’t you the clever one,” said Jason quietly.

“You can’t always win, Jason,” said Alex, his lips stretching into a thin smile. “Those in favor of blocking Jason Hunt from being nominated to the board of directors please raise hands.”

Latham was sitting in Guy Brennan’s office. The room was small, stuffy, and cluttered. The stale smell of tobacco and bad coffee hung heavily in the air.

“So what can I do for you, Mr. Watkins?” said Brennan, his multiple chins moving in unison as he spoke. “I’m still confused.”