“Good, good.” Morgan licked her lips. There were twenty-one prisoners in total. Four top-level Vallerio Foundation executives. And seventeen guests who wielded an incredible amount of power between them. Besides Eichel, their ranks included four prominent politicians from four separate continents, five high-ranking members of the United Nations, four bankers, and three directors of major global businesses. The prisoners, a curious combination of nationalities, came from all ends of the political spectrum. Social progressives sat alongside social conservatives. Neoconservatives rubbed elbows with anti-war liberals.
Deborah Keifer, a stern bird-like woman and president of the Vallerio Foundation, glared at Morgan. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.
Ignoring her, Morgan glided across the room. She stopped next to Charlie Lodge, one of the world’s foremost geneticists and a five-year resident at Hatcher Station. “Watch them closely.”
“But that guy said—”
“That guy is a bureaucrat,” she said, finishing his thought with her own. “In other words, a born liar.”
Lodge’s breaths sped up to the point of hyperventilation.
Morgan looked into his eyes. Saw his fear, his anxiety. “Are you sure you can handle this?”
He tugged at his lab coat. “It’s just that, well, I’ve never shot anyone before.”
“Me neither.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll send some backup.”
Morgan walked to the door. Pushed it open and entered Hatcher Station’s central core, better known as the Heptagon. The Heptagon, consistent with its moniker, contained seven equidistant walls. Separate doors were mounted in the middle of each wall. One door led outside to several rings of security fences and, farther back, the vast Vallerio Forest. The other six doors led to Hatcher Station’s various sections, including the Galley, the Barracks, Operations, Research, the Warehouse, and of course, the Eye.
“Fei.” Her gaze turned to Fei Nai-Yuan, a brilliant Chinese-American geophysicist. “Charlie needs help.”
Nai-Yuan, equipped with one of the many rifles seized during the coup, gave her a brisk nod. With quick steps, he made his way into the Eye, shutting the door behind him.
Morgan strode across the Heptagon, passing a collection of bound guards along the way. They sat in a circle, backs to the middle. Six people, a mixture of scientists, technicians, and rangers, kept them in check with rifles. The station’s primary physician, Dr. Ankur Adnan, moved silently about the guards, checking their stitches and rebandaging their wounds.
She grasped Research’s doorknob. As she opened the door, a distinct humming noise, the product of computers and machinery, filled her ears. Strong heat reached out, causing a thin layer of sweat to bubble up all over her body.
She paused, giving herself a moment to adjust to the sudden temperature change. Then she strode through the doorframe, paying no attention to the mounted Stop: Restricted Access, Research Only sign.
She walked through the maze of tables and machinery. A metal hatch, roughly three feet on each side, occupied the room’s far right corner. Other than some giant hinges on one side and a handle on the other side, the hatch was perfectly flat with the floor. A small computer screen was embedded into the metal. It showed ever-changing strings of digits and letters, bright green against a black background.
Two women sat at a long table near the hatch. Their gazes were fixed upon laptops. Their fingers swept over the keyboards, pecking keys at a high rate of speed.
Morgan cleared her throat. “Well?”
“Nothing yet,” Bonnie Codd said without looking up.
“You’ve been at this for hours.”
“We’re making progress.”
Morgan rubbed her forehead. Normally, the hatch — which was controlled by computers far beneath them — took mere minutes to open. Unfortunately, this was no normal situation. “How much progress?”
Codd clucked her tongue in disapproval. “If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you try that back entrance you mentioned?”
“Because it’s just as hard to open from the outside. Now, how much progress have you made?”
“Do you see that thing?” Codd nodded at the hatch. “It’s two-feet thick, made of the latest torch and drill resistant metals. Thermal lances couldn’t touch it. I don’t think even an atomic bomb could crack it.”
“I know. But—”
“The only way into the Lab is to penetrate a whole bunch of mechanical and electronic locking mechanisms. And that’s a lot easier than it sounds.”
“I need you to go faster. It’s only a matter of time before the Foundation figures out something’s wrong here.”
Zlata Issova, who served as Codd’s right-hand woman at Hatcher Station, arched an eyebrow. “Do you think they’ll attack us?”
“Not right away,” Morgan said, trying to hide the doubt in her voice. “Not while we’ve got hostages.”
The two computer experts stared at her with hooded eyes.
“Let me worry about the Foundation.” Morgan nodded at the hatch. “Just get us down there so we can access the communications network.”
Codd and Issova exchanged looks. Then they returned to their keyboards.
As they worked, Morgan gently touched her waist. Pain shot up and down her right side, but she didn’t feel sorry for herself. She deserved the pain. After all, she and the other researchers weren’t entirely blameless in all this. They’d challenged God, challenged His grip on time itself.
And some sins, unfortunately, could never be forgiven.
Chapter 5
“Good morning, folks.” Suppressing a yawn, Caplan stared across the wide expanse of Central Park’s Great Lawn. Nineteen shining faces, clearly pumped up on copious amounts of coffee, stared back at him. “And welcome to the Zach Caplan Survival School. This particular class, Urban Survival Basics, will run for the next eight Saturdays.”
A couple of smiles greeted his words. Most were broad and curious. But some, as always, were smirky and self-satisfied. Inwardly, he groaned. Introductory sessions were always the worst. In order to reel in the fish, he offered them for free. As a business strategy, it worked wonders, doubling his paid attendees. But it also had a dark side. Namely, the fact that it brought in the cynics.
“I’ve got a question.” A dude, outfitted in jeans and a tight t-shirt, folded his arms across his chest. “Why do you do this?”
Here we go, Caplan thought. “Do what?” he asked.
“Rip people off.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the air.
“Let me guess,” Caplan replied. “You hate survivalists, right?”
“I think they’re stupid, dangerous hillbillies.” The dude flashed a grin at a heavyset guy. “But I don’t hate them.”
The guy, clearly friends with the dude, roared with laughter.
“What you call stupid, I call smart.” The words, repeated many times over the last five months, rolled easily off Caplan’s tongue. “Back in the 1950s, people built bomb shelters in order to survive nuclear fallout. When inflation ran wild in the 1970s, they ditched paper money for gold. A few decades later, they bought canned goods and generators when Y2K looked like it might cause food shortages and blackouts.”
“Interesting,” the dude replied in a voice that indicated the exact opposite. “What’s your point?”
“Those people weren’t stupid hillbillies. They were ordinary, intelligent people, preparing for difficult times.”