The sad part was that this was how I dressed all the time. I had this stuff on me when I went to Starbucks to read the Sunday papers. I would have had it on me at the ballpark watching the Orioles spoil the day for the Phillies. I would like to be normal. I’d like to have a normal life. But when I joined the DMS, I left normal somewhere behind in the dust.
The Black Hawk flew on through an untroubled sky.
Chap. 4
While I flew I read some reports from Dr. Hu. Even though he hadn’t yet gotten concrete information on the Changeling Project, MindReader had compiled bits of information that added up to a pretty disturbing picture of what they might be doing at Koenig.
Transformational genetics is a branch of science that scares the bejesus out of me. It has some benign and even beneficial uses, but the DMS doesn’t go after doctors trying to cure a genetic defect. No, the kind of scientist we tend to encounter is often best visited with a crowd of torch- and pitchfork-bearing villagers.
Here’s an example, and this is why palms were sweating as I read those reports. Hu found clear evidence of several covertly funded studies to create an “elastic and malleable genetic code.” One that was able to “withstand specific and repeatable mutagenic changes within desired target ranges consistent with military applications.” These programs have an end goal of “at-will theriomorphy.”
Yeah.
Short bus version of that — included courtesy of Dr. Hu, who has little faith in my ability to grasp basic concepts — is that the North Koreans and Chinese have been funneling money into research for practical science that would allow a soldier to change his physical structure at will and at need. To transform from human into something else.
Hu could only speculate on what that other shape might be. His speculations included an insectoid carapace, gills, resistance to radiation and pollutants, retractable feline claws, enhanced muscle and bone density, night vision. Stuff like that.
True super soldiers. But not entirely human super soldiers.
You see why I occasionally have to shoot people?
Before I joined the DMS this was science fiction stuff, comic book stuff. Now, it was nightmare stuff because the science was out there. All it required was enough funding, little or no oversight from either Congress or human rights organizations, and a flexible set of morals. Sad to say, all of that is possible.
We are living in a science fiction age. Or, maybe it’s a horror story.
Mad scientists like Frankenstein? That’s almost a joke. Frankenstein, at least, was trying to do some good for humanity. He was trying to conquer sickness and death.
Guys like the Koenig Group…well, what the hell do you even call men like that?
Chap. 5
I had the pilot do a slow circle of the Koenig place and then set me down in the parking lot. The building extended onto a wharf in the bay. There were slips for six small boats and one large one, but nothing was currently tied up. No cars in the parking lot, either. The left-hand neighbor was an industrial marina for craft that serviced the big dredging platform six miles off the coast which kept pumping sand back to shore to replace what Mother Nature and global warming were taking away. The right-hand side was protected marshland. A billboard proclaimed that an exotic animal park would be opening soon, but the paint was peeling and faded, and the board looked twenty years old. The only exotic animal I could see among the marsh grass was a Philadelphia pigeon looking confused and out of place.
There was a single car parked on the street, a dark blue Crown Victoria. It was unmarked but it was so obviously a Federal vehicle that it might have had FEDS stenciled on the doors. One of these days the government will grasp the concept that plainclothes and undercover should include a component of stealth. Just a tad would go a long way.
I jumped down from the open side door, bent low, and ran through the rotor wash as the Black Hawk lifted away. The pilot would take the bird to a helipad near the Cape May lighthouse and wait there. We have several Black Hawks at the Warehouse, and we used this one for jobs that required less of a shock-and-awe effect on the locals. It was painted a happy blue and had the logo of a news wire service on it. No visible guns or rockets. Not to say they weren’t there, but this was not a time to show off. We already had some rubberneckers slowing their cars down to look at the big blue machine.
I let the helo vanish into the distance and silence return before I approached the building. The ATF agents were standing beside their car, both of them in off-the-rack suits and wearing identical expressions of disapproval. They both began shaking their heads as I approached.
“You can’t be here,” said the taller of the two.
I held up my identification. The DMS doesn’t have badges or standard credentials. When we needed to flash something we picked whatever would get the job done. I had valid ID for CIA, ATF, DEA, FBI and every other letter combination. The one I showed them was NSA. It was as close to a trump card as you can get, and they were the only organization that didn’t have boots on the ground during the raid on the place. Church was working with the director to use them as referees for the jurisdictional dispute.
The ATF boys glanced at the badge and at my civilian clothes — jeans and an Orioles home-game shirt — and gave me looks that said they didn’t give a cold shit.
“Need to go inside,” I said.
“Show me some paper,” said the shorter of the two.
I dug into my back pocket and produced a letter Church had prepared for me. It was a presidential order allowing me access to assess the integrity of the scene. They read it carefully. Twice.
“You can’t take anything out,” said the tall one.
“Don’t want to,” I said.
“We’ll have to search you when you come out, you know.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Don’t fuck with anything in there.”
“I won’t.”
“We don’t want trouble,” said the short one.
“I’m on your side, guys.” I pasted on my most charming smile.
The short one gave me another up and down inspection. “NSA recruiting ball players now?”
“It was my day off,” I said, leaning on “off” enough to convey irritation. Not at them, but at the system. “I had tickets for the doubleheader.”
That did the trick; they relaxed and nodded.
“Sucks to be you,” said the tall one and gave me half a mean grin.
“We have the game on the car radio,” said the short one. He wore the other half of that same grin. “Phils are up by two in the second.”
“I’m from Baltimore.”
“Like I said, it sucks to be you,” said the tall one. Laughing, they turned and walked back to their vehicle.
“And a hearty fuck you, too,” I said under my breath as I headed to the building.
It was no less ugly from ground level and perhaps a little less appealing. It was bigger than I expected. Three stories in parts, with lots of shuttered windows and reinforced doors. A discreet sign on a pole read, THE KOENIG GROUP, with a phone number for information.
I removed a small earbud, put it on, and attached an adhesive mic that looked like a mole to the side of my mouth. Two taps of the earbud connected me to Bug, the computer über-geek who provided real-time intel for all fieldwork. Even though this was a low-profile job, DMS protocol required that I use my combat call sign.