Duncan looked more closely at the suits. They were long, almost seven feet from the top of the helmet to the legs. The exterior seemed to be made of a hard black material with articulated joints. The helmet had no visor, just a camera and several lights and sensors on top and in the front.
The arms ended in a flat black plate instead of a glove. The same with the legs — no feet, just the plate. Before Duncan had the chance to ask, Captain Osebold was pulling her to the side.
“What is that?” Duncan demanded.
A large gray tank, like a coffin, was raised off the floor. The lid was open. It reminded Duncan very much of what they had rescued Johnny Simmons from in Majestic’s secret biolab in Dulce.
“That’s how we get fitted for the TASC-suit,” Osebold said. “A person gets in, we pump it full, and it basically makes a body cast. Much like a dentist makes a mold of your teeth — except we need the entire body.”
Duncan stared at it. “Can I ask why the military is involved in this?”
Osebold smiled, revealing even teeth. “Ma’am, I just do what I’m told to. Space Command put together my team a couple of years ago and we’ve been preparing for a combat mission in space ever since.”
“Do you anticipate combat?” Duncan was confused.
“No, ma’am. Just a recovery mission. But—” Osebold shrugged. “You never know.”
“Welcome to the bitch.” Lieutenant Terrel walked up, interrupting her train of thought. He pointed at the suits. “Getting in one of those isn’t much better than the mold tank.”
“Why does—” Duncan began, but Ms. Kopina, the mission specialist, slapped her palm on the tank.
“The TASC-suit is an exoskeleton.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the rack. “See how much thicker each one is than the human that goes inside? Once inside, a person has about four inches all around. That includes protective armor, power system, environmental system, and external suit nervous system. On top of that, a computer system gets carried on your back, but we’ll get to that in a little bit.”
Kopina walked over to the rack and stood next to one of them. “This suit has taken fifteen years of development. We put as much work into this at Space Command as the Air Force put into the Stealth bomber. This suit represents four billion dollars of research and experimentation.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t heard of this program.” “It was highly classified,” Osebold said, as if that explained everything quite satisfactorily.
It was dark inside the Cube conference room, only a single light in the corner giving any relief. Larry Kincaid had his feet up on the conference table, leaning far back in a seat, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was staring at his computer screen.
“No smoking,” Major Quinn said with no emphasis on the words. He sat down across from Kincaid, several file folders under his arm.
Kincaid took another puff. “What ya got?”
“The bodies from the vats at Scorpion Base have been flown in. They’re not the same as what we got here with the two STAAR bodies.”
“What’s different?”
“These don’t have any of the Airlia genes. Just plain human clones.”
“So they were growing their own people down there?” Kincaid wasn’t surprised by much anymore.
“Looks like it.”
“And what exactly are these STAAR people?”
“Autopsy’s done on the ones we had here. Or as done as the UNAOC people can do.”
“And?”
“And those two STAAR people aren’t people, but they aren’t aliens either. Some kind of DNA combination. Mostly human”—Quinn thumbed through the papers—“eightysix percent human. Other than eyes, there’s some discrepancy in the skin pigment, the hair. That’s the obvious stuff. The not-so-obvious stuff is that the brain is a little different.”
“Different how?” Kincaid asked.
“The frontal lobe is a little bigger, and they have more connections between the two hemispheres.”
“Does that make them smarter?” Kincaid wanted to know.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Quinn smiled. “Hell, we’re doing the autopsy on them, remember, not the other way around.”
“Yeah, well, Turcotte and those USAMRIID guys are doing autopsies on some human bodies down in South America.”
“Another strange thing.”
“Yes?”
“Their genitalia are underformed. The UNAOC people think they must reproduce mechanically. Perhaps using the cloning vats.”
“They can’t have sex?” Kincaid asked.
“Doesn’t look like it was important to them.” Quinn pointed at the cigarette. “Got a spare?”
Kincaid pulled a pack out of his shirt pocket and extended it. There was only one cigarette in it.
“Damn.” Kincaid shook his head. “The stuff keeps getting deeper and deeper.” “What about South America?” Quinn asked as he fired up.
“They’ve forwarded what they’ve found to USAMRIID. Hope to get some sort of readout shortly on what the bug is. Imagery shows it’s spreading. Two more villages wiped out. Closing in on two thousand dead. Anything on Temiltepec?”
“The classified records say that the guardian was recovered at Temiltepec,” Quinn said. He ignored the look that statement garnered him from Kincaid. “But no matter how well someone tries to cover up, there’s always a loose end.”
“And what thread did you find to pull on?” Kincaid asked.
“I pulled the classified flight record for Groom Lake,” Quinn said.
“And?”
“And on those dates that the classified record shows that someone from Majestic went to Temiltepec, the flight log from the Groom Lake tower indicates an Air Force executive transport plane with a flight plan for La Paz.”
“Bolivia.”
“Long way from Mexico,” Quinn said.
“Indeed.”
“In fact, it’s pretty close to the ruins at Tiahuanaco.”
“So the guardian might have been there?”
“It’s possible.”
Kincaid thought about it. “What about The Mission?”
Quinn pulled out a file folder with a red TOP SECRET stamp at the top and bottom. “I found this in the files. The CIA rep to Majestic-12 asked the same question a couple of years ago. There’s not much here, but what is written is pretty remarkable.
“The CIA had reports of a place called The Mission in South America.” Quinn smiled. “When they chased Che Guevara, they thought that was where he was heading.”
“You’re pulling my leg,” Kincaid said. “Che Guevara?”
“I’m not kidding. This Mission place sounds like it’s been around awhile. The CIA tried backtracking it. The most current report says it might have been in Bolivia — where Che was killed — but that it moved sometime in the seventies. Current location unknown, but they think it’s still in South America somewhere.” “Come on—” Kincaid began, but Quinn cut him off.
“No, wait a second. This is interesting. This report says that before he went to Cuba. Che first spent a couple of years traveling all over South America on foot and by bicycle. He then made his living by writing articles about ruins in South America.”
“Could he have come across the guardian or The Mission?” Kincaid asked.
“I don’t know,” Quinn replied, “but according to the CIA he was heading toward a place called The Mission when he was caught by the Bolivian Army, backed up by U.S. Special Forces troops, another little fact that’s not well known.”
Quinn turned the page. “The CIA wanted to find this Mission, as they thought it might be a Communist front organization. Checking Che’s writings, they found he paid special attention to an ancient site called Tiahuanaco in Bolivia.” He scanned down the page.