The Siren Project (44 page)

Christa leapt back out of reach and stood
en
guarde
. “Come with me, we can help you. We’ll find a way!”

“There is no way.” Caroline said, darting
forward and feigning an attack, catching Christa’s hand as she blocked. She tried
to break free, but the older woman flowed with her, throwing her off balance. Expertly,
Caroline caught her free hand and pulled her close so she couldn't escape. “We
need you, Christa, my darling. They know how special you are. That’s why they
haven’t attacked the hotel yet. They couldn’t risk killing you, not now, not
knowing what they know about you.”

Mitch burst through the front door of the
hotel and pulled up sharply. He leveled his gun at the older woman as he moved
slowly toward them. There was something familiar about the woman's face, but he
couldn’t recall where he'd seen her. A bullet hit the wall of the hotel with a
crack of shattering wood. Instinctively, he dived to the ground, searching for
the sniper across the road as a second shot was fired. This time he saw the
gunman. It was Cousin Floyd, kneeling beside a building on the other side of
the street. Mitch took careful aim from the ground, and fired three shots in
rapid succession. The third shot felled Cousin Floyd, then Mitch jumped to his
feet, aiming at the head of the woman restraining Christa.

The older woman looked at him and smiled. “I
wouldn’t shoot if I were you. You might hit Christa.”

“Don’t count on it!”

“Don’t shoot Mitch!” Christa yelled.

Mitch studied the narrow angle to the
woman's face, easing himself into a perfect, two handed firing position. “I can
make the shot, Christa. Trust me!”

“Don’t shoot her, please,” she begged as
tears formed in her eyes.

Mitch hesitated, confused, then he remembered
where he'd seen the older woman’s face. It had been in the video at the Newton Institute,
while she was being conditioned. “Let her go, and you can walk away.”

The older woman shook her head. “I can’t.” And
Mitch realized it was literally true. Her programming would not allow her to
release Christa.

Mitch heard the sound of a vehicle
approaching, coming from the side street beside the hotel. “If I have to choose
between you and Christa, I will shoot you dead, no matter what she says. Last
chance.”

“Mitch! No!” Christa screamed, twisting to
position herself between Mitch and Caroline. “Don’t you see?” She pushed her
face close to the older woman’s. “She’s my mother!”

Mitch froze, recognizing the similarity of features
the two women shared, almost identical except for the years that separated
them.

“Don’t you see? She taught me everything. We’re
the same. The same . . .
abilities.
She’s the only
one like me.”

“Caroline Malleson was your mother,” the
older woman said, “But that identity is dead to me now.”

The sound of the approaching vehicle was
loud now, almost upon them. Mitch sighted carefully. “Get out of the way,
Christa. She’s a robot. She’s not your mother, not anymore.”

Christa ceased struggling against her
mother, and moved to cover her as fully as possible. “There’s got to be another
way, Mitch. You’ve got to find another way!”

Ackerman’s tow truck appeared with the
grizzled old man behind the wheel. He leaned over and pushed the passenger door
open. Caroline pulled Christa toward the truck, exposing herself for a clean
shot. Mitch had her sighted, finger on the trigger, certain of his aim, but he
saw Christa’s pleading eyes looking back, and he hesitated.

Caroline dragged them both into the tow
truck as Christa yelled. “Find another way, for both of us.”

With the passenger door still open,
Ackerman planted his foot on the gas, spinning the tow truck’s rear wheels as
it raced away. Mitch kept the gun on the tow truck, crippled by uncertainty, as
it skidded onto the road and picked up speed. He lowered his gun and kicked the
ground in frustration while Christa’s words echoed through his mind:
Find another way, for both of us!

He knew they were taking Christa away to
condition her, to destroy what she was, just as they'd destroyed her mother.

* * * *

Mitch levered open the padlock, securing
the local TV station's garage, then pushed the roller door up. He stepped inside,
searching for an alarm system.

“There!” he said, pointing to a panel
mounted on the wall.

Mouse and Gunter ran to the panel, silently
counting seconds. Gunter used a motorized screwdriver to remove the bolts
securing the numeric keypad, then pulled the cover away, giving Mouse access to
the exposed wiring. Mouse attached clips to the wiring, then his computer began
analyzing the control system, eating valuable seconds.

“It's only got a ten second delay!” Mouse
called as soon as the computer displayed its findings. Millions of combinations
began flashing across the screen as his program tried to crack the eight digit
security code with brute force, but he already knew the computer was too slow.

Mitch ignored the cars, painted with the TV
station’s lettering, and went straight to the small truck with the dish
antennae mounted on top. He tried the door, but it was locked.

Mouse watched the number of codes tested by
the computer pass ten million, and still no solution. “We're not going to make
it!”

Mitch drew his gun, fired a single bullet
into the truck’s door lock, then wrenched the door open. He reached in under
the steering wheel, feeling for the ignition wires.

The ten second delay expired, then an alarm
began to warble, shattering the morning silence. Gunter gave Mouse a sour look.
“Too slow!”

“It’s this prehistoric computer!” Mouse
complained bitterly, tearing the connecting clips off the keypad. “Who the hell
has a ten second delay? Jeez, you’d think this was Fort freaking Knox.”

Mouse and Gunter ran to the rear of the
satellite truck, as the engine roared to life. Gunter pried open the lock,
letting Mouse climb inside with his computer, then slamming the door shut, locking
him in. He ran back out to their four wheel drive, and got it started as Mitch
crunched gears and sent the truck careening out of the garage. Gunter followed
in the four wheel drive, through the TV station's grounds, past the unconscious
guard at the gate, as a confused security guard ran out of the main building to
see what had triggered the alarm.

Mitch picked up the telephone mounted to
the right of the steering column. It rang several times, before Mouse picked up.
“Tell me we’re in business.”

“It's strictly domestic technology, but
I’ll have it doing Vulcan mind melds in no time.”

“I'll take that as a yes,” Mitch said, and
hung up.

A few minutes later, they were speeding in
convoy toward the west, racing for the dirt road turn off towards the Eagletail
Mountains. Every second raised Mitch’s anxiety, wondering if they’d strapped
Christa into that machine yet. His mind was wracked with questions. How long
did she have? How much preparation time did they need? How quickly could they
get her up there?

He pulled the cell phone from his pocket
and dialed one handed. When the call connected, he said, “Lamar, this is John
Mitchell.”

“Mitchell, where the hell are you? I’ve got
a hundred agents looking for you.”

“In all the wrong places, I bet. You check
that melted piece of junk I gave you?”

“We’re looking into it. The FBI lab tells
me it'll be months before they can figure out what it was, but they've
confirmed it was no loud speaker. They also took a look at that metallic filing
you sent me yesterday. They don’t know what that is either.”

“That’s what I figured. Did you tell the general?”

“What do you take me for, Mitchell?”

“I’m hoping you’re an angry son of bitch,
too stubborn to follow orders.”

Lamar chuckled. “You got that right. By the
way, you didn’t have anything to do with a couple of charred bodies found in
Jersey, did you?”

“Charred bodies?”

“A warehouse over there went up in flames
the same morning I picked up the melted junk pile you left for me. There were
traces of the same juice used to torch the convention center, and two bodies. One
with a bullet through the head. We’re running dental and DNA checks on them
right now, but so far, we got nothing.”

“Was there any trace of the other speaker?”

“Nope.”

“Check military records to ID the bodies,
and treat the rest as destruction of evidence.”

“Military, okay. Anything else?”

“Have you got a tail on Gray and Fraser
yet?”

“I'm working on it. Getting approval to investigate
a US senator and a high ranking general isn't easy.”

“Talk to the Vice President.”

There was a stunned silence at the other
end. “Of the United States? . . . Do you expect me to believe that you know the
Vice President?”

“Tell him you're dealing with the same
people responsible for what happened to Prescott. He'll understand, and he'll
back you. You can trust him, but no one else.”

Lamar realized Mitch was serious. “I’ll
keep it in mind. Are you going to tell me where you are?”

“Everyone trying to kill me already knows. You
might as well too. Got a pen?” Mitch pulled the crumpled piece of paper from
his wallet and read aloud the latitude and longitude of Sincom One.

“What’s that?” Lamar asked as he wrote down
the coordinates.

“A secret military base, maybe so secret
even the regular military doesn’t know it exists. If you don’t hear from me
again, that’s where I died. It’s worth telling the Vice President. He might be
able to do something with the information, like nuke it.” Mitch stuffed the
paper back in his wallet. “One more thing Lamar, and this is important. If you
ever get down here, don’t fly over the base, they’ll shoot you down. Nothing electrical
works, unless you can use that polymer I sent you to insulate your electrical
systems.  Otherwise, you’ve got to walk in.”

“You’re not planning on doing something
stupid are you, Mitchell?”

“I don’t plan on stupid, but it sure as
hell follows me around,” Mitch said, then ended the call.

He pocketed the cell phone, then turned the
satellite truck onto a dirt road and drove north for more than twenty miles. The
dirt road turned into a track, which petered out shortly after the Eagletail
Mountains had risen above the horizon ahead of them. The dead end track carried
no traffic, ensuring there was no chance the satellite truck would be
discovered by accident. Mitch left the motor running to power the satellite
uplink, and went back to check on Mouse.

“How you doing in there?” he asked as he
pulled the rear door open, and a blast of cold air washed over him.

Mouse sat in air conditioned comfort at the
control console, his computer patched into the uplink system and the small TV
screens facing him all hissing static. “I’ll be ready to align the dish in
about fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll be back soon.”

Mitch hurried over to the four wheel drive
where Gunter now waited, ready for the short drive east to the ranch they'd
arranged to hire horses from. The sun was now fully above the horizon, and soon
the desert heat would make its presence felt, but all Mitch could think of was
the implant in Christa’s head. He didn’t know how long before they tried to
condition her, but he knew as soon as they did, she'd be dead.

Mitch watched the northern horizon as they
drove east across open country, wondering where Christa was, battling the sense
of dread rising within. “Step on it.”

* * * *

They hired three horses from the ranch
and a trailer to transport the mounts back to the satellite truck. When they
returned, they found Mouse entering last minute corrections on the control
console. The four television screens in front of him provided a continuous
readout from the satellite, indicating he was receiving a signal feed.

Mouse grinned as they climbed in behind him.
“This thing is amazing! You should hear some of the stuff that satellite is
intercepting. How’s your French? You want to hear the French Consulate in Los
Angeles talking to their Embassy in Washington? Or how about the Chinese
Ambassador talking to his bosses in Beijing?” Mouse adjusted the controls to
demonstrate how effortlessly he could surf the world’s communications.

“. . . she had a baby boy,” A woman said in
a gossipy tone. “She swears it’s his, but you know how she is. I told her . . .”

“. . . the Lakers are going to get creamed,”
A male basso voice declared. “My bookie’s offering seven to . . .”

“. . . I told you,” A frustrated male voice
declared. “I’ll have the money Thursday, you’ll have the alimony by the . . .”

“. . . but Jonnie,” A young woman pleaded, “You’ve
been there three weeks. You said you’d be back home . . .”

Mitch cut him off. “I get the picture. Does
this mean you have control of the NSA satellite?”