Authors: Stephen Renneberg
“Or they’re keeping their discoveries to
themselves,” Mitch concluded
“When I cross referenced Newton Institute
with the Defense IT contractors, I found the Institute purchased a high end
computer aided design system about eighteen months ago. The IT company
allocated the Newton Institute payment to something called the Siren Project,
which was grouped with a bunch of other Defense projects with equally obscure
names. I guess they like keeping Uncle Sam’s dollars in the same basket.”
“Okay, so he’s working for the military,”
Mitch said.
“I’m thinking Siren, like air raid siren,”
Mouse said. “That could mean they’re building a radical new bomb, maybe a gamma
ray bomb. The military’s been working on that sucker for years, it’s a planet
killer.”
Gunter looked skeptical. “Siren could mean
anything, from an early warning system to a sonic weapon. Or it could mean
nothing.”
Christa shook her head slowly, deep in
thought. “It’s none of those things,” she said soberly. “It refers to the
sirens of the sea, beautiful mermaids whose song entranced sailors, luring
their ships onto rocks, so all aboard perished.”
“I thought you didn’t know the name of the
project Steinus was working on,” Mitch said.
“I didn’t, but the analogy is perfect.”
“What analogy? Sirens of the sea, and what?
A new naval weapon?”
“It’s not a naval weapon,” she replied, “But
the reference to the sirens of the sea is appropriate. That’s all I can say.”
Mitch made no effort to hide his
irritation. “Mouse, find out what you can about Siren and any links to Steinus.
While you’re doing that, we’ll take a look at this Newton Institute.”
Mouse tore a sheet of paper off his note
pad and handed it Mitch. “I thought you might. That’s the address, it’s north
of LA.”
Mitch turned to Gunter. “Get your stuff,
and some fake plates for the van. I don’t want this coming back at us. Christa,
you stay here with Mouse -”
“No, I’m coming on all field trips. That’s
why I’m here.”
Mitch looked bemused. “And what exactly do
you plan on doing?”
“Protect you from the Sirens,” she replied
in a tone that indicated she meant it.
* * * *
Mitch parked the minivan on the ridge
overlooking the Newton Institute, where they had an unobstructed view of the
complex. The Institute comprised a two story, glass walled building surrounded by
neatly maintained lawns and a chain link security fence. Six smaller windowless
outbuildings stood in a row some distance behind the main building, with six
narrow concrete paths leading out to them. A small gate house, manned by a
single guard, stood at the front gate while a bitumen road led up to a narrow
car park which stretched the length of the building. The road forked just
before the car park, the offshoot winding around to a small receiving dock at
the rear of the main building.
It was mid afternoon, and except for the
security guard at the gate, there was no one in sight.
“Seems quiet enough,” Mitch observed, as he
studied the complex through binoculars.
Gunter sat in the rear of the van wearing headphones.
He slid the van’s darkened side window partially open and aimed a cylindrical
listening device at the building. The listening device was supported by a small
tripod, with a telescopic sight mounted on top for precise aiming.
“I have the distance now,” he said, tuning
the sensor’s controls and starting the digital recorder. “Tuning the top floor,
first window.” He scowled. “Noisy up there.”
Christa leaned forward to ask a question,
but Mitch motioned her to silence with a finger to his lips.
Gunter slowly turned the little wheels on
the tripod head, making minute changes in the listening device’s direction. After
a few minutes, he shook his head, disappointed. “Noise makers on every window. They
are not amateurs.”
“Can we listen too?” Christa asked.
Without a word, Gunter threw a switch on
the control panel to his left that filled the van with a repetitive low
intensity buzzing.
Mitch set down the binoculars, picked up
the camera and zoomed the telephoto lens, photographing the Institute and its
outbuildings. Through the lens, he saw two men walk out of the double glass
doors of the main entrance.
“Two guys coming out,” Mitch announced,
snapping their faces. “Pick them up.”
Gunter spun the wheels expertly, the
buzzing disappearing to be replaced by the voices of the two men. Their voices
were distant, faint, rising and falling in volume as they moved in and out of
the sensor’s narrow target area.
“ . . . it was her birthday, for God’s
sake.”
“Did . . . tell them that?”
“Nah, you know what they’re like down
there. They wanted me to fix . . . damned thing by Friday. Man, she was pissed.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The usual cover story, that . . . to
Chicago for a sale. Then she wanted to come with me, so we could do something
in Chicago after my business was finished. She was real suspicious . . . her I
wouldn’t have time.”
“She probably thinks you’ve got a
girlfriend in Chicago.”
“If she only knew how much I hate the
desert. Arizona sucks this . . .”
There were metallic creaks of the car doors
opening, and bangs as they were closed, then the engine roared to life,
drowning out the men's voices.
“Okay,” Mitch said, “There’s something in
Arizona.”
As the two men drove off, Gunter angled the
listening device back to the building, systematically moving from window to
window. “Something here . . . talking . . .”
Mitch listened to the hiss of noisemakers,
but couldn’t detect any hint of a human voice.
“Nothing I can do with this sound,” Gunter
replied, meaning his computer would not be able to pick out the voices above
the background noise. “Checking the ground floor now.”
The low frequency buzz filling the van was
replaced by an explosion of high pitched static.
“Ahh!” Gunter tore the headphones off his
head and winced, holding both ears and swearing profusely in German. He turned
the speaker volume down to bearable levels, and when his ears had recovered
from the deafening blast of noise, he studied the sound.
“Doesn’t sound like noise makers,” Mitch
said.
“Ya, not noise maker.” Gunter agreed. “Electrostatic.
I do not know this sound.”
Christa looked thoughtful. “That could be
the . . . device, being tested.”
“Device?” Mitch looked at her curiously. “What
device? I thought we were looking for Steinus.”
Christa remained silent.
Gunter’s expression changed to surprise. “Did
you hear that?” He strained for the sound he had caught for an instant, a sound
that had quickly vanished beneath the electrostatic hiss.
Mitch and Christa looked blank, having
missed what Gunter’s trained ears had detected.
“It sounded like . . .” His voice trailed
off uncertainly. “I will wash it through the computer when we return to the
beach house. It may be nothing.”
In the distance, Mitch noticed a helicopter
coming in to land at the Institute. “Incoming chopper.”
The helicopter landed on the front lawn,
then two men jumped out. Mitch clicked off a dozen shots of them as they walked
toward the building. One was in his early thirties, well over six feet with broad
shoulders and brown hair. He wore a shirt and trousers, but no tie or jacket. The
other man was only a little shorter, close to forty with black hair and a sharp
looking dark suit and tie.
Gunter focused the listening device on the
men, but detected no sounds. “They do not speak in the open, where they can be
overheard.”
When the two men neared the front entrance,
the well dressed man in the dark suit stopped and took a long look around the
grounds, his eye passing into the distance with professional care.
Mitch put his camera down and leaned back
away from the window. “Watch it.”
Gunter pulled the tip of the listening
device back through the window into the shadowy interior of the van.
“He can’t see you from there,” Christa
scoffed.
“If I were him,” Mitch replied uneasily, “I’d
notice this van parked on the ridge for no reason.”
The two men hesitated at the entrance, the
well dressed man’s gaze fixed in their direction, then they went inside. “That
son of bitch made us.”
“We don’t know that,” Christa said.
“I do,” Mitch said firmly. “Time to get out
of here.”
Mitch started the engine and drove slowly
off until they were over the ridge. Once out of sight, he picked up speed,
putting distance between them and the Newton Institute. He couldn’t put his finger
on it, but the way the well dressed man had studied the approaches to the
Institute had unnerved him. It was something he would have done in his Secret
Service days.
He’s a pro.
* * * *
Gunter had taken over one end of
Mitch’s lounge room, setting up on a polished mahogany desk. He sat alone, in
front of several decks of sound equipment and a computer, listening through his
headphones to every sound on the digital recording of the Newton Institute. He
adjusted one filter after another, washing away background noises and hissing
static. Occasionally he detected muted voices, tantalizingly present, but
always unintelligible beneath the buzzing from the window mounted noise makers.
He analyzed the recordings for hours until
he came upon the electrostatic burst. It fascinated him. He filtered the sound
a hundred different ways, increased and decreased sampling rates, sped up and
slowed down replay speeds, until he had a profound understanding of the quality
of the sound. Only one fragment of sound, buried under the electrostatic noise
confounded him. He'd sensed, more than heard it, while listening in the van. That
morsel became the center of his world. Deeper and deeper he reached, seeking to
reveal its nature. Finally, he signaled Mitch, who had just finished downloading
the photographs he'd taken that day.
“Got something?” Mitch asked.
Gunter pulled his headphones down to his
neck. “What do you make of this?”
A slow pulsating sound, overlaid with sharp
crackling static, played through the speakers while a single smooth tone rose
up, then fell away rapidly.
Mitch shrugged. “Sounds like my TV, when
the aerial needs tuning.”
“That was played at one twentieth normal
speed. The electrical pulsing sound is a machine. It is rhythmic, even though
it has an erratic electrical quality. But this is different. Listen.” Gunter
played the recording again, moving his hand in time with the rising and falling
tone.
Again, Mitch shook his head. “A cow mooing?”
“Now listen at normal time. It does not
last long.” Gunter replayed it again. This time the electrostatic sound hissed
rapidly, then a sound emerged from it momentarily.
Mitch bit his lip, perplexed. “Too fast for
me. Too much static.”
Christa approached curiously. “Play it
again.”
Gunter replayed the recording fragment for
her, running it through several times at different speeds.
“It’s a scream,” she said at last. “A man,
in . . . terrible pain.”
“Ya. From my frequency analysis, I conclude
the sound was made by a male, between thirty and fifty years old.”
“Do you think there was an accident?” Mitch
asked. “An experiment gone wrong?”
“No,” Christa said with certainty. “That’s
no accident. That
is
the experiment.”
Mitch and Gunter exchanged curious looks,
then listened carefully to the sound again.
* * * *
Christa wrapped her hair in a towel
and finished dressing after her shower. She adjusted the ill fitting men's clothes
she wore, hung her own freshly washed clothes from a makeshift line in Mitch’s
bathroom, then walked out to the dining room. Mitch sat alongside Mouse,
looking at a computer screen, while Gunter relaxed in a lounge chair, reading a
newspaper with a gloomy look on his face.
“Do you have a hair dryer?” she asked.
Mitch pointed to his close cropped military
style hair cut. “Do you think I need one with this?”
Christa looked irritated. “I'll take that as
a no. I guess that means, no comb or brush?”
“Don’t need them.” Mitch recognized the
shirt and trousers she was wearing. “I thought I said you couldn’t wear my
clothes.”
“I’ve got to wear something while I wash my
clothes.” She pulled the trousers up a little, but they were clearly too big
for her.
“You can get all the clothes you want, as
soon as you decide to go back to Uncle Gus.”