The Seraphim Sequence: The Fifth Column 2 (7 page)

Damien woke suddenly, his heart racing. He switched on the bunk light. His arms were glossy with sweat. It was the same dream again. He was in a bedroom, in a house—his house—and the Fifth Column had come for him. He was frozen, paralyzed where he lay. They walked into his bedroom, surrounding him. Jay was among them. He raised his pistol and shot Damien.

Damien climbed out of his bunk. Jay was in the bunk above, snoring. Damien made his way to the head and splashed water on his face. He was completely awake now, so he shrugged on his overalls and decided to go for a walk.

He found Benito alone in the infirmary, hunched over a Toughbook notebook.

‘What’s going on?’ he said.

Benito jumped out of his chair. ‘Good God, man. Give me some warning before you do that … ninja operative sneaking stuff.’

‘Yeah, sorry.’ Damien folded his arms and leaned in the doorway. ‘Bored and I can’t sleep.’

‘One of those nights?’

‘Every night,’ Damien said. ‘Guess it’s insomnia or something.’ He changed the topic quickly. ‘Is … um … this might be a strange question, but is Sophia OK?’

Benito seemed confused for a moment. ‘Well, all things considered, I think she’s doing quite well.’

Damien noticed a half-full syringe on the hospital bed beside a white cell-phone-shaped device. Benito saw him staring.

‘That’s a point-of-care blood analysis system,’ he said. ‘I’m analyzing Sophia’s blood work. And there is one problem.’

Damien didn’t like the sound of that. He moved further inside the infirmary. ‘Which is?’ he said.

Benito shook his head, rubbed his eyes under his glasses. ‘That’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know. I was actually hoping you could help me.’

Damien stared at the Toughbook screen. ‘I’m not sure how I’d be able to help.’

‘Under the UN headquarters in New York, you injected Sophia with four syringes, correct?’ Benito said.

Damien nodded. He and Jay had known what was inside the syringes Sophia had taken from Cecilia McLoughlin. One contained the Axolotl Chimera vector, one contained the anti-psychopath Chimera vector, and one contained the antidote to the engineered flu virus Cecilia had triggered inside Sophia.

Jay had been able to recognize the Chimera vector colors because he’d injected them into Damien to save his life, and had also injected himself. But neither Damien nor Jay had known which of the remaining two syringes contained the flu antidote and which was something else entirely. So they’d injected Sophia with both.

‘The fourth one,’ Damien said. ‘I don’t know what it was.’

‘I guess no one knows,’ Benito said, ‘except Cecilia. And unfortunately Sophia killed her, so that rules that out. Without a sample of Sophia’s blood before the injection, I can’t run a comparison.’

‘Wouldn’t the Fifth Column have a sample somewhere?’ Damien said.

‘Yes. Desecheo Island.’

Damien frowned. ‘Yeah, that’s kind of blown up now.’

Benito sank back into his chair. ‘She’s been blacking out recently. I don’t know if it’s connected to that fourth syringe or whether it’s something else.’

‘How’s she been holding up since she released the Chimera vector?’ Damien asked.

Benito shook his head. ‘Some days better than others. I don’t know how she does it. I couldn’t.’ He looked up at Damien. ‘You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?’

Damien felt a pang of guilt. He’d never doubted Sophia before, but now he was starting to. She wasn’t the Sophia from Desecheo Island with cunning and split-second instincts. She was the Sophia with post-traumatic stress disorder and a few too many regrets.

He shrugged and forced a smile. ‘When am I not having second thoughts?’

***

Jay woke to the sound of Damien mumbling softly in his sleep. He’d heard Damien return to bed earlier, so it was good to see he was getting some sleep for once. He dug under his pillow for his hip flask. It was exactly where he’d left it, beside his false New Zealand passport. The flask was two-thirds empty, which concerned him because they were only halfway through their travel. What day was it? Three, four? He’d lost track already. Whatever it was, he just wanted this to be over. He still hadn’t approached the skipper about a drop-off on the New Zealand’s western coast.

He put his lips to the flask to let the Irish whiskey do the talking and, for the briefest of instants, saw the last six months of his life align like planets in orbit. It looked depressing, unremarkable. He started feeling sorry for himself, which started to annoy him. He capped the flask and tossed it back under his pillow.

In the mess he found half his group at their usual table. This time there were no crew with them. The skipper was nowhere to be seen. At another table, he recognized Chickenhead and Big Dog. They were doing a bad job of pretending not to notice him. Either that or their breakfast was intensely interesting. Jay ignored them back, glad he didn’t have to deal in pleasantries, and, like an automaton, filled his plate with bacon, eggs and a very sad-looking sausage. He planted himself beside a very tired-looking Benito.

‘Didn’t sleep well?’ he asked.

Benito shook his head and sipped a cup of orange juice.

Sophia was sitting opposite him, with Nasira tucked in the corner. Nasira seemed to be the only one actually in a good mood. Sophia ate slower than usual; Jay could tell her mind was elsewhere.

DC arrived with only half a plate of food. For a tall, broad man, he sure didn’t eat much. Sophia was eying him as she made way for him to sit. Neither said a word.

Jay stood suddenly. ‘Coffee?’

Everyone shook their heads. Jay shrugged and helped himself to some instant. He was pretty sure he heard one of the crew whisper, ‘Make way for the super soldier.’ That should’ve set him off, but right now he couldn’t be fucked. He just wanted coffee to compensate for the lack of whiskey.

Damien arrived, poured himself a decaf and loaded up a modest plate of food. He parked himself next to Jay and started eating, one food at a time. First his eggs, then his bacon. Damien, the compartmentalized eater. Jay reminded himself this was why he was here: to eat. Once he’d lined his stomach, he started to feel better.

He surveyed everyone at the table. DC looked barely social. Sophia was still staring into space as she ate. She was worlds away.

Jay snapped his fingers to get her attention. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if I’m coming along for the ride, I’d like to know where we’re going.’

Sophia finished chewing and turned to DC. ‘I second that. I’m all ears.’

DC was busy stabbing scrambled eggs with a fork. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said.

Jay shook his head. ‘That’s bullshit.’

DC didn’t take his eyes from the eggs. ‘That’s protocol.’

Jay threw up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Who are we going to tell? We’re all going there, aren’t we? You think I’m going to tweet this from twenty thousand leagues under the sea?’

‘Eight hundred feet,’ Nasira chirped from the corner.

‘Whatever,’ Jay said. ‘I didn’t sign up for this. I’m along for the ride, whether I like it or not. I’d at least like to know where the hell I’m going.’

DC looked at him. ‘So you can work out how much whiskey you have to see you through? Is that it?’ He put his cutlery down. ‘Because it can’t be for any other reason.’

Jay leaned in. ‘I’ve gone to hell and back for these people, for Sophia, for the Akhana.’

‘And you got paid for that,’ DC said.

‘Hold up, Kevin Costner.’

DC blinked. ‘Kevin Costner?’

Jay paused, making sure he’d got the reference right. ‘Yeah, from that bodyguard movie. So tell me, what have you done?’

DC leaned in, inches from Jay. His pupils were large enough for Jay to jump into.

‘You don’t want to go there,’ he said.

‘
You
don’t want to go there,’ Jay said. ‘Guess that’s why you’re amped up on speed.’

The conversation in the mess suddenly died.

DC’s fists closed over. Jay readied himself, but the fists opened again.

DC sipped some water. ‘Out of all the operatives you could’ve picked, Sophia …’

‘I picked the only ones who could pull off that operation,’ Sophia said.

‘Can I have that in writing?’ Jay said.

DC laughed. ‘That’d be an interesting read. Accidentally electrocuted Nasira; crashed a helicopter into the United Nations; went on a killing spree with Denton in Manhattan; killed Damien’s girlfriend—’

‘Grace?’ Jay yelled. ‘She was trying to kill me! And Damien!’ He looked over at Damien for backup. ‘She was, like, the worst girlfriend ever!’

‘She was programmed!’ Damien yelled, spitting food at Jay. ‘What did you expect her to do—challenge you to thumb wars?’

‘I’m pretty dynamite at thumb wars,’ Jay said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re pissed at me because I topped your psycho assassin lover girl.’

Damien’s jaws were set hard. ‘If anyone had to do it, should’ve been me.’

‘It’s not pick and mix!’ Jay yelled. ‘I can’t choose who wants to kill me. It was either me or those shocktroopers who wanted to fillet me. What would you prefer?’

‘I’d prefer Grace alive and deprogrammed,’ Damien said.

Before Jay could think of a response, Damien got up and left, abandoning his plate.

‘Fine.’ Jay picked up Damien’s plate of half-eaten bacon and eggs and tipped it over his own.

‘This might be why Freeman assigned me,’ DC said.

Sophia glared at him. ‘You really are one self-righteous son of a bitch, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve had worse,’ DC said.

‘I guess we’ll just have to take your word for it, won’t we?’ she said.

DC’s gaze shifted from his plate to Jay. ‘OK, you want to know where we’re going? Fine. Mountain Province in Luzon. That’s where we’re going.’

‘Where the fuck is Luzon?’ Jay said.

‘Philippines. Look it up, genius.’

DC dumped his food on Jay’s plate and walked out.

Jay shoved DC’s bacon into his mouth. ‘They have beaches there, right?’ he asked, mouth full.

Sophia found the recreation deck empty except for DC nursing a plastic cup at a table at the far end. She walked in and sat opposite him, expecting him to leave or ask her to leave. Instead, he held her gaze with a seriousness and clarity she hadn’t seen before. His pupils were pinpoints.

‘You’ve returned for more war stories?’ he said.

‘I’ve heard enough war stories.’

He nodded, staring into his cup with distaste. ‘I’m pretty sure this isn’t coffee.’ He drank it in slow, measured gulps, then reached for a hip flask and refilled. He offered the flask to her. ‘Polish vodka. Straight from the engine room.’

Sophia declined. ‘You didn’t tell me exactly how you know about Project Seraphim.’

DC sipped the vodka straight, winced. ‘I plan to keep it that way.’

Sophia took the hip flask and drank. It burned, stealing her breath. She put the flask back on the table and stifled a cough. ‘I’ll stick to the imitation coffee,’ she said.

DC smiled. That was worth the liver damage she’d just incurred.

He took another sip of the vodka and winced again. ‘They killed them all.’

‘Killed who?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘All of them. Scientists, engineers, the technicians. Project Seraphim was wiped clean. Except for the transfers. Denton, of course. Cecilia. Adamicz.’

‘Transferred to Project GATE?’ Sophia asked.

DC nodded.

‘And you?’

‘I was the one who gave the order,’ he said. ‘I gave the order to wipe the project clean.’

Sophia stared at the flask. ‘If it means anything, I know exactly how you feel.’

DC took another hit of vodka. ‘It was only at the end that I realized how fucked it all was.’

He spread a hand out. She watched it tremble.

‘And then everything changed,’ he said.

‘Did you?’

DC blinked glassy eyes. ‘Come again?’

She watched him carefully. ‘What are you?’ she asked.

His irises contracted slightly. ‘Nothing.’

‘Then what were you?’

He lowered his cup. ‘You.’

She chewed her lip. ‘Not quite what I was expecting.’

‘I’m the prototype of you. I’m your predecessor.’

Sophia almost lost her breath. DC was
in
Project Seraphim. He was the only surviving test subject.

‘Jesus,’ she said. She reached for the flask and, against her better judgment, took a heavy swig. She coughed, then said, ‘They switched on your pseudogenes as well?’

‘No. This was before Cecilia McLoughlin hit her breakthrough in gene therapy. None of that was possible then.’

Sophia drew her legs in and sat cross-legged at the table. She checked over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone. Occasionally she heard a crew member wander near the deck, but no one entered.

‘Then what was the project for?’ she asked.

‘It was Denton’s first project. He wanted to influence—’

‘The operatives, like you?’

‘Not just me. An entire population. I wasn’t brought in until—’

‘How old are you?’ she asked.

‘Thirty-seven.’

‘And Denton snatched you from the CIA?’

‘Yeah. You were still a teenager in Project GATE when Project Seraphim was in its final stages.’ DC sipped more vodka. ‘I was already programmed by the CIA, in a manner of speaking.’ He laughed.

‘And then what happened?’

He shook his head. ‘I was taken out, commissioned into the Blue Berets. I think they used me as a baseline for you. They wanted you to have the same training. Better, actually. And then Denton put Cecilia in, got the whole genetics thing rolling.’

‘And what about you?’ Sophia said.

‘I killed a lot of people I shouldn’t have.’

‘I know the feeling,’ she said. Every time she closed her eyes, a crowd of faces appeared. They watched her in silence, unblinking. She didn’t recognize them, but knew they were the women she’d killed. ’How do you … how do you deal with it?’

DC stared into his empty cup. ‘I don’t. I just don’t think about it.’

Sophia swallowed. ‘What happened to the Seraphim technology? Did it ever get built?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When you were promoted to colonel you’d have coordinated security at some very interesting places, right?’

‘Compartmentalized, remember?’ DC said. ‘I never actually went to those places and never knew their true purpose.’

Sophia stood up.

‘Where are you going?’ DC said.

‘I have some more reading to do.’

***

Sophia fetched her papers and the German-English dictionary from her bunk locker, then went to the torpedo room. She picked the table in the corner and set out the photocopied diary entries and the dictionary. This was going to take a while, so she kicked off her submarine-issue sneakers and made herself comfortable.

December 15, 1968

The subjects have exhibited fast response times to the frequency, although I fear this may be a result of past military training and willingness to accept commands, be they from their commanding officer or subliminal. Perhaps a civilian is not so willing to have their emotions – whether rage or admiration – directed toward a person or group.

The Seraphim transmitters are being installed at locations throughout the United States. Since these installations can bounce extremely low frequencies off the natural plasma in the ionosphere, the Fifth Column only require four transmitters to cover the North American continent. The installations in Miami and New York are complete, and installations in other locations are under construction. The transmitters are extraordinary in the sense we can adjust focus from blanket delivery to extremely precise delivery, right down to a room in a house. Since the extremely low-frequency waves penetrate almost everything, this may have disastrous effect when targeting a hotel room inside a building with many levels.

Denton tells me the United States is a trial run. He has already submitted a proposal outlining stage two: expansion of transmitters into Europe, parts of Asia, select countries in Middle East, the United Kingdom and Australia.

My focus is still on individual subjects. But Denton insists there will always be a place for the surgical precision of an operative in the field. He wants more capable operatives than what is currently at our disposal. What is at my disposal. This troubles me because our subjects are among the finest trained operatives in the world. I know this because Denton says so himself. He picked them personally. He is more concerned with individual programming than population programming. Denton seems compelled to outperform his father, a man who holds almost mythological status among the Fifth Column’s higher ranks. Nothing ever seems enough for him.

Sophia dropped her pen to give her hand a rest.

Denton had run Project GATE from 1990 to 2012, well into the second generation of operatives, known as the shocktrooper phase. In the early ’90s, he had handpicked Sophia via the Argus Foundation, a dummy organization he’d set up to seek out and evaluate potential test subjects for the project. In the mid ’90s, Denton had run some tests on four of the Project GATE subjects, including Sophia. He’d injected them and confined them to sealed glass cubicles for a period of twelve hours. The glass cubicles were next to each other and they could see each other from their own cubicle.

They were given a bed, a toilet, water and food at five-hour intervals. During the third hour, the two boys and the other girl had started to shiver and moan. Denton surveyed them from outside, separated from the cubicles by another partition. She could see him through a wide glass window that ran from his belt to his head.

The girl collapsed on the floor and vomited. Sophia yelled at Denton. She needed medical attention. But Denton stood there, unmoving, watching.

Sophia looked at the boy on her other side. He had been lying on his bed, but now he sat on the edge, fists clenched, skin slicked in sweat. As she watched, burning lumps appeared on his neck. They turned black and split open, oozing pus and blood. He leaned forward and met Sophia’s gaze. He asked her for help, then retched blood.

Sophia pounded her fists on the transparent door to her cubicle, begging Denton to let her out. And he did, eventually. She was crying by the time his assistants, wearing full chem suits, pried her out.

She was the only survivor of the experiment. The others lay still in their cubicles, soaked with sweat and blood. Whatever Denton had injected into Sophia had no effect.

Weeks later, she was reintegrated with the Project GATE test subjects. No one ever spoke of the missing subjects.

‘You’re the lucky one,’ Denton had told her, brushing her hair behind her ear. ‘But I already knew that.’

She’d recoiled at his touch. She hated him. No one could watch those children die and not feel anything. No one human.

Where was Denton now?