Jonathan Maberry - The Dragon Factory

Aunt Sallie was Church’s second in command and the Chief of Operations for the Hangar, the main DMS headquarters in Brooklyn. I’d never met her, but the rumors about her among the DMS staff were pretty wild.

Church said, “The Veep is operating in a narrow window here. We need to stall him until the President regains power. I can stall the Attorney General.”

I almost laughed. “This is really about MindReader, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

MindReader was a computer system that Church had either designed or commissioned-I still didn’t know which-but it could bypass any security, intrude into any hard drive as long as there was some kind of link, WIFI or hardline, and get out again without leaving a footprint. As far as I knew, there was nothing else like it in the world, and I think we can all be thankful for that; and it was MindReader that kept the DMS one step ahead of a lot of terrorist networks. My friend Maj. Grace Courtland had confided her suspicions to me that it was MindReader that gave Church the clout he needed to keep the President and other government officials off his back. Freedom of movement kept the DMS efficient because it negated the red tape that had slowed Homeland down to a bureaucratic crawl.

MindReader was a very dangerous tool for a lot of reasons, and we all hoped that Church had the kind of clarity of vision and integrity of purpose to use it for only the right reasons. If the VP took control of it, we’d be cooked. Plus, Church didn’t trust the MindReader system in anyone else’s hands. He had almost no faith in the nobler elements of the political mind. Good call.

“Major Courtland says that three unmarked Humvees are parked outside the Warehouse,” he said.

“What’s the Veep’s game plan?”

“I don’t know. Even as Acting President I can’t see him risking force to stop us. That gives us a little elbow room.”

“So why’s he want me? I can’t access MindReader without you personally logging me in.”

“He doesn’t know that. There are NSA teams zeroing four other DMS field offices and team leaders. They’re going for a sweep. But whatever they’re doing has to be bloodless, which is probably why Agent Andrews gave you a few minutes with Ms. Ryan.”

“Maybe, but he called for backup. Two other cars just rolled in. Lots of Indians, only one cowboy.”

“Can you get away?”

“Depends on how I’m allowed to go about it.”

“Don’t get taken, Captain, or you’ll disappear into the system. It’ll take six months to find you and you’ll be no good to me when we do.”

“Feeling the love,” I said, but he ignored me.

“This is fragile,” Church cautioned. “Anyone pulls a trigger and they’ll use it to take the DMS apart.”

“I may have to dent some of these boys.”

“I can live with that.” He disconnected.

As I pocketed my phone I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. My ten minutes were up. Andrews and his Goon Squad were closing in.

These guys shouldn’t have come out here. Not here.

“Okay,” I said to myself, “let’s dance.”

The Deck, southwest of Gila Bend, Arizona

Saturday, August 28, 8:07 A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 99 hours, 53 minutes

It’s refreshing to be insane. Just as it’s liberating to be aware of it.

Cyrus Jakoby had known that freedom and satisfaction for many years. It was a tool that he used every bit as much as if it was a weapon. In his view it was in no way a limitation. Not when one is aware of the shape and scope of one’s personal madness, and Cyrus knew every inch and ounce of his own.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Cyrus?”

His aide and companion of many years, Otto Wirths, was a stick figure in white livery, with mud-colored eyes and a knife scar that bisected his mouth and left nostril. Otto was an evil-looking man with a thick German accent and a body like a stick bug. He was the only one allowed to still call Cyrus by his real name-or, at least, the name that had become real to both of them.

“Quite comfortable, Otto,” Cyrus murmured. “Thank you.”

Cyrus settled back against a wall of decorative pillows, each with a different mythological animal embroidered in brilliantly colored thread. The newly laid luncheon tray sat astride his lap glittering with cut glass and polished silver. Cyrus never ate breakfast-he thought eggs were obscene in every form-and was never out of bed before one o’clock. The entire work, leisure, and sleep schedule here at the Deck reflected this, and it pleased Cyrus that he could shift the whole pattern of life according to his view of time.

While Cyrus adjusted himself in bed, Otto crossed the room and laid fresh flowers under a large oil painting of a rhesus monkey that they had long ago named Gretel. There was a giclée print of the painting in every room of the facility, and in every room of the Hive-their secret production factory in Costa Rica. Cyrus virtually worshiped that animal and frequently said that he owed more to it than to any single human being he had ever known. It was because of that animal that their campaign against blacks and homosexuals had yielded virtually incalculable success and a death toll that had surpassed World War II. Otto fully agreed, though he personally thought the hanging of prints was a bit excessive.

On the table below the portrait was a large Lucite box arranged under lights that presented it with the same reverence as the painting. A swarm of mayflies flitted about in the box. Tubes fed temperature-controlled air into the container. The tiny insects were the first true success that Cyrus and Otto had pioneered. That team at the Institute for Stem Cell Research in Edinburgh was still dining out on having found the so-called immortality master gene in mouse DNA, though they hadn’t a clue as to how to exploit its potential. Otto and Cyrus-along with a team of colleagues who were, sadly, all dead now-had cracked that puzzle forty years ago. And they’d found it in the humble mayfly.

“What’s on the schedule today?”

Otto shook out an Irish linen napkin with a deft flick and tucked it into the vee of Cyrus’s buttoned pajama top. “Against your recommendation Mr. Sunderland allowed the Twins to persuade him to try and capture the MindReader computer system. Apparently they feel they’ve outgrown Pangaea.”

“Capture it? Nonsense… it won’t work,” Cyrus said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

“Of course not.”

“Sunderland should know better.”

“He does know better,” murmured Otto. “But he’s greedy and greed makes even smart people do stupid things. I imagine, though, that he has a scapegoat in place in the event that it fails. Which it probably will. It won’t land on him and it won’t land on us.”

“It could hurt the Twins.”

Otto smiled. “You bred them to be resourceful.”

“Mm. What else do we have?”

“We’ve successfully launched test runs in Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Benin, and Kenya; and on the domestic front, the Louisiana test should be yielding measurable results soon.”

“Not too soon,” Cyrus said. “We don’t want the CDC involved-”

Otto tut-tutted him. “They’ll be out of action long before this comes onto their radar. Not that they’d be able to do much once our Russian friends crash their system.”

“Russians,” Cyrus sniffed. “I don’t know why you have such affection for those blockheads.”

“Affection?” Otto smiled. “Not the word I’d choose, Mr. Cyrus… but you have to admit that they’re enthusiastic.”

“A little too enthusiastic, if you ask me. You used to be capable of such subtlety, Otto. Using the Red Mafia is… I don’t know.” He waved a hand. “It’s cliché. And it’s not ‘us.’ ”