Weir Codex 1: The Cestus Concern (20 page)

The only saving grace in Kiesling’s eyes was that the only people in the room were the Secretary of Defense, Ms. Roslan, and Kiesling himself. At least there were no witnesses to his prostration.

“Director Kiesling,” came the voice of the United States Secretary of Defense from across just across the small reception area. Dressed in a dark gray suit with what both Kiesling and Roslan had decided was a horrid canary yellow tie and thinning hair more white than anything else, the politician was seated on a large faux black leather couch with his legs crossed and arms spread along its back. “I had been under the assumption the entire point of a top secret and covert governmental organization was to remain top secret and covert. Perhaps you can clarify the past twenty-four hours for me so that I can properly explain it to the president.”

A slight scowl turned up the corner of Kiesling’s mouth in complete defiance of his usual self-control. Normally the Secretary and Kiesling were on positive terms that bordered on friendly interaction. That ended as the man directed the attention of Project: Hardwired’s man-in-charge to the television monitor positioned at the rear of the room they lounged in.

Looking back at Kiesling and Ms. Roslan, seated next to him, was a bird’s eye view of the National Training Facility at Fort Irwin. Flames ran rampant through the military base almost uncontrolled and, even almost two hours later, a small mushroom cloud cast the area into a dirty twilight of billowing browns, reds and yellows.

“Is it wrong to assume that was one of yours?”

Before answering, Kiesling leaned down to confer with his assistant who had been on the phone with Mr. Anderson and the other Project: Hardwired heads constantly since they had left the offices two hours earlier. She quietly informed him that surviving operatives on the ground at Fort Irwin confirmed the explosion had been as a direct result of Designate Pyroclast’s dense plasma focus core rupturing during his skirmish with Cestus at the army base. The eggheads back at the lab had estimated the explosion from the unstable nuclear generator had been the equivalent of nearly fifty tons of TNT. Radioactive fallout would cover nearly ten square miles around the detonation site and clean-up would take years, if not decades. Jason May and most of his team in the weapon’s lab were MIA and presumed dead.

Worst of all, both Designate Cestus and his civilian cohort had been identified as having fled the scene mere seconds before the blast.

Malcolm Weir was still alive and running free.

Kiesling took a deep breath and proceed to do his best to answer the question without actually admitting to it.

“Intelligence on the ground at Fort Irwin has been spotty at best. A small-scale nuclear blast has apparently gone off at or near the facility and an electro-magnetic pulse has knocked out all electronics within twenty miles of the base. Every attempt to determine the cause of the blast have been, as of yet, inconclusive.”

“I don’t have time for your ‘Texas Two-Step,’ Gordon,” snapped the Secretary. “Tell me straight-up: did a renegade Project: Hardwired agent set off a nuclear device in the middle of a God-damned military training facility here in California? Yes or no?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” admitted Kiesling after as long a pause as he dared. “The nuclear generator housed within the frame of Designate Pyroclast was rendered unstable through an attack by the rebel cyborg formerly known as Malcolm Weir.”

“So that’s two of your billion-dollar Frankensteins the rogue operative has taken out. Along with God-only-knows how many of the Gee-Em-Ar sub-units. How do you explain this, Gordon?” demanded the head of the Department of Defense, perplexed.

“With the Abraxas system down, none of the Prime Units have been operating at peak capacity, Mr. Secretary.”

“Well, except for this Weir fellow,” harrumphed the Secretary. “He seems to be operating just fine without it.”

Kiesling agreed with the man through clenched teeth.

The older politician couldn’t resist throwing in an extra jab at the usually cocky younger man.

“Perhaps we should have hired him to run your department, eh, Director Kiesling?”

The two men locked eyes in a battle over who exactly was the ‘Alpha Male’ in the room. It was a dangerous game for Kiesling to be playing, one that could end his career, but he’d been pushed too far since Weir’s short circuit and defection. Luckily for the powerfully-built head of Project: Hardwired, he had an ace up his sleeve in the form of his exceedingly capable assistant.

A rapid set of fake coughs took the focus of both men from one another to Ms. Roslan, successfully breaking the stalemate without either man having to lose face.

The white-haired older man shook his head, tired of the game his subordinate was playing. He leaned forward and jerked his liver-spotted hand at the video of Fort Irwin burning to the ground playing silently on the wall to their side.

“What are you going to do to fix this little mess of yours?”

Nodding at politician, Kiesling replied the Abraxas configuration would be back on-line in less than a day and that they’d be able to track Weir anywhere on the planet—his cybernetics gave off a very specific form of radioactive signal the Hardwired system could locate from space. Once the network was back at full operation, Dr. Ryan’s boys should even have the ability to do a complete shut down on the traitorous cyborg.

He was as good as caught.

The man across from Kiesling wasn’t as confident with the abilities of the sentient computer network.

“You’ve got forty-eight hours to bring Mr. Weir under control,” stated the Secretary of Defense, shooing the pair out of his sight. “Forty-eight hours and we’d better not have any more of these incidents. Are we clear, Director Kiesling?”

“As glass.” The words came out just this side of a growl and the Secretary noticed. “Sir,” added Kiesling after a pregnant pause.

The head of Project: Hardwired and his assistant must have hesitated too long for the elderly head of state’s liking because he tossed a stack of papers at the pair and bellowed, demanding to know why they were still standing around.

Hands clenched into tight fists with knuckles blanching bone white from the pressure he was putting on them, Gordon Kiesling started to take half a step towards the man who currently held control over his career. Half a step ahead of him and keyed in to the emotional state of her boss, Ms. Roslan intercepted the man and directed him towards the exit, saying “We’re on it, Mr. Secretary.”

“Keep it quiet or you’re all going to be looking for new jobs,” called the man as Ms. Roslan shut the door behind them.

Based on the heavy silence hanging in the air during the short walk back to the elevator bank leading to the governmental building’s parking garage, Ms. Roslan knew her boss’s temper was about to boil over.

The ride down six levels to the underground level was no better and Ms. Roslan was relieved to see their Escalade waiting at the ready when they steeped out of the lift and into the green-tinged flickering fluorescent lights of the cold concrete garage labeled as “P-2.” The driver held the vehicle’s door open for the pair, motioning for them to climb aboard.

Director Kiesling didn’t move, seemingly lost in thought, completely ignoring everything around him. The pale blue orbs set deep in his face flickered to and fro were all that revealed something was at work in the man’s brain.

A quick wave from Roslan’s delicately shaped hand dismissed the driver back to his side of the waiting automobile. The best way to deal with one of the Director’s black moods was to leave him be, but time was ticking away and Ms. Roslan needed the man to snap out of it.

“Sir?”

Ms. Roslan was shocked by the venom in Kiesling’s eyes as her employer finally looked up at the sound of her voice. Yup, she thought, this is going to be bad.

“Give me the secure line, Ms. Roslan,” came the Director’s cold voice, ignoring the open car door waiting for him to enter.

Removing the high-tech device from the easy-to-access compartment in her handbag she kept it in at all times, the concerned woman handed over the satellite phone to her boss. The unit worked with a special encryption, shielding it against anyone trying to listen in, and only the Director of Project: Hardwired knew its access codes. In their four years working together, Kiesling’s executive assistant had only seen the man use it twice.

Kiesling’s immaculately trimmed nails punched in a nine-digit telephone number, with a bit more force than normal. Holding the phone up to his hear, he stared through the woman at his side and muttered, mostly to himself.

“I’m going to take care of that little bastard once and for all.”

Over the tiny handset a series of tiny rings echoed, waiting to connect to the unknown party. Ms. Roslan knew better than to inquire into the recipient’s identity, following her boss into the large back seat of the big car and allowing the door to seal behind them.

The faint sound of a woman’s voice answering caused the first hint of relief in Kiesling’s shoulder’s.

“Hello?” asked the unknown female.

In response, one word spilled from the lips of Gordon Kiesling, audible only to the person on the other end of the connection.

‘Galatea’ was all he said before disconnecting the call. Gordon Kiesling smiled for the first time in hours and sat back to enjoy the ride.

CHAPTER 16

The two hour drive from Fort Irwin to the Westwood Mall in Century City had been nearly unbearable for Mal. He’d been calling his ex-fiancée almost constantly since they’d left the ruins of Fort Irwin, to no avail.

Mal knew the woman always kept her phone within arm’s reach and was almost obsessive about never missing a call. Something had to be wrong if she wasn’t answering and would bet dollars to donuts it had something to do with her new husband.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Mal?” Asked Zuz as the pair watched the entrance to the upscale ‘pan-Asian’ restaurant Mal’s computer had tracked Kristin’s cell phone to. “At what point is this considered stalking?”

“You heard what Denman said,” Mal responded, impatiently. “Morrell was part of the accident in Iraq. He was there at the hospital at the same time. Just like Steve was…and the government agents. I know he’s tied up in this mess—it’s just too much of a coincidence.”

“Maybe you don’t like him because he’s banging your woman?” countered Zuz matter-of-factly as he ‘air humped’ the back of a bench.

Glaring, Mal reminded the man that he’d already killed twenty or so people today and that one more wouldn’t make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.

“Do you have a plan, Kemosabe?”

“Yeah,” said Mal, heading with purpose for the double glass doors to the restaurant. “Save Kristin. Kick her husband’s ass…hopefully in a way that doesn’t make her mad at me.”

“Great plan,” moaned Zuz, following his friend inside.

The restaurant’s interior was an odd mix of a number of Asian cultures, all thrown together in what seemed to be an attempt to meet some sort of Hollywood checklist of the most gaudy, and most stereotypical decor from all of them. Dodging four-foot long golden dragon statues, Koi ponds, and waitresses dressed as geisha, Mal didn’t know what the official Webster’s definition of “pan-Asian” was but he was pretty sure one of its synonyms was “Hollywood douchebag.” Affliction brand shirts, skinny jeans with white belts, and glowing Bluetooth headsets filled the place.

It was the kind of place—the kind of people—Kristin had hated while they dated, an emotion Mal fully empathized with.

Catching a glimpse of Kristin’s blond hair, partially tied back into a topknot that let it cascade down onto the middle of her back, Mal pushed past the rather hyperactive maître d’ dressed in a black suit and made a beeline for her table. She was seated with her back to the exit, with seven large men spaced out around her.

Seeing the cyborg approaching the table with fire in his eyes, one of the men leaned over and said something to the man next to Kristin in a voice too quiet for Mal’s superhuman hearing to pick up.

Mal got a good look at Marc Morrell as the second man turned and revealed his identity to the newly arrive pair. Standing, Morrell met Mal’s fierce gaze without blinking, jaw set firmly, and said, “Nice of you to join us, Captain Weir.”

Spinning around in her chair, stunned by the pair’s arrival, Kristin demanded, “Mal?! What the hell are you doing here?” She tossed the dark red napkin, snatched from its position on her lap, down onto the empty plate in front her and jumped up to her feet in a huff. “I thought I told you to stay away from me this morning.”

Stepping between Kristin and her new husband protectively, Mal kept every sense targeted on Morrell as he answered, “You have to come with me, Kris. Your husband isn’t who he says he is.”

“Are you insane?”

Clutching Kristin’s arm, Mal pulled her away from the table, pushing her towards Zuz, who was fidgeting from foot to foot as he grew more and more anxious at the situation.

“I don’t have time to explain, Kris,” said Mal firmly, finally looking away from Morrell. “Go with Zuz and we’ll tell you everything outside.”

“There’s no need for that, Captain Weir,” interrupted Morrell, stepping towards the arguing couple.

Like lightning, Mal’s free hand shot up, the first two fingers of it elongated into burnished blades seven inches in length, and gouged two shallow strips of flesh from the man’s chest. “Stay back!”

“Malcolm stop!” screamed Kristin. Every head in the room snapped around to watch the unfolding drama.

An invisible communication must have flashed between the men, signaling that the time for subtlety was at an end, causing the remaining five to stand in eerie unison. Morrell stepped forward, clamping down on Mal’s forearm with an outstretched fist. Amazingly, Mal could feel the man’s inhuman strength through the neural connections in his cybernetic limb. The power in Morrell’s grip would have shattered Mal’s wrist if he had been a normal human.

Preparing himself for the inevitable violence that was about to occur, Mal hoped this one didn’t shoot flames like the last one did.