No Such Thing As Werewolves (29 page)

Jordan followed mechanically, still shelled from what he’d just seen. He knew things were bad, but this…

The Director set a brisk pace across the packed dirt path. His tie fluttered in the wind, and his form was nearly obscured by the dust kicked up from a passing jeep. He strode past Ops, ignoring the steady stream of black-clad soldiers filing in and out. They left the smoother path for the rougher terrain that had been set aside for troop maneuvers. The Director’s goal seemed to be a blue canvas pavilion that had to have been erected in the last twenty-four hours.

Several men in black tank tops and matching fatigues were unboxing unfamiliar ordnance. It looked like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. Yuri was the center of the activity. He’d stripped down to his fatigues and was seated atop a pile of small crates. His legs were already covered in sculpted matte-black body armor, and two men were lifting a chest piece into place.
 

“What are they working on?” Jordan asked as they closed the distance to the pavilion. He ran a hand across his brow, removing a sheen of sweat that the brisk breeze had neglected to remove.

“Something you’ll be very interested in, I think. It’s the centerpiece of our new arsenal,” the Director answered, keeping his measured pace. He was unaffected by the chill. “It’s the X-12 personal body armor created by R&D. I brought in the two prototypes we’ve created. They quadruple a man’s strength, allowing you to bend steel. Top speed of forty miles per hour. They have induction coils that slowly recharge through skin contact. If you don’t tax them too heavily, they’re powered almost indefinitely.”

“What kind of ordnance do they pack?” Jordan asked, assessing the armor as they neared the pavilion. It was bulky enough to throw off a man’s center of gravity. That could probably be compensated for with practice, but the armor would require an experienced pilot to be of real combat use. Did something this new even have pilots?

“Each one has a shoulder-mounted Raptor missile launcher with four rounds,” the Director explained, pointing to the unit mounted to the armor’s right shoulder as they stepped under the pavilion. A small space heater mitigated a bit of the cold. “Each wrist is equipped with a pair of twelve-inch titanium spurs for close combat. Beyond that, the armor is designed to carry handheld weaponry. The rifle of choice is a .50 caliber, and the armor can fire it while running.”

Jordan gave a low whistle. A .50 caliber rifle could core a tank, but they usually needed to be anchored in place to be fired. Snipers normally stuck to stationary vantages, making them vulnerable. If the armor could fire accurately at a run it would be a formidable weapon, maybe even one that might have a chance against the werewolves shredding his forces.

By the time they reached the pavilion, the pair of soldiers had encased Yuri in armor. The arms were less bulky than the chest and seemed to provide a full range of movement, while the helmet was a featureless black faceplate. The corporal rose from the pile of crates, taking an experimental first step. He wobbled but kept his footing. An armored arm snapped into a salute when its owner noticed Jordan and the Director. His two companions rapidly joined him; their boyish grins faded into surprise when they realized the base commander had snuck up on them.
 

“At ease,” the Director said, waving dismissively. He crossed to an open case, hefting the large rifle cradled in black foam. It was similar to the one Jordan had used when Subject Alpha first escaped the pyramid, but it was heavier and had a longer barrel. Too heavy for a man to fire without breaking his collarbone. The Director offered it to the corporal, who seized it awkwardly in one armored hand, something Jordan wasn’t sure even he could manage. “Yuri, why don’t you show the commander what the armor can do? See that hawk circling the ridge? Take it out.”

The Russian flashed through the dust, leaping into the air and landing with a crunch on a boulder nearly thirty feet away. He cradled the rifle effortlessly in his right hand until he snapped the stock up to his shoulder and sighted down the scope. He tracked his target for roughly two seconds; then the rifle boomed. A two-foot gout of flame erupted from the muzzle, but Yuri’s shoulder barely moved as the projectile turned its target into a cloud of greasy black feathers nearly two hundred yards above them.

“Impressive,” Jordan admitted, stepping back under the pavilion’s welcome shade. “I’m curious to see how it performs against a real enemy, though. The werewolves are fast, strong, and nearly un-killable.”

“Let’s find out,” the Director replied, turning to the black-clad soldiers who’d helped Yuri don the armor. “Get the commander set up in the second suit. Give him the rundown on its use.” He reached for the radio at his belt, depressing the talk button. “Ops, this is Director Phillips. Send a squad to escort Subject Gamma to the firing range.”

“Sir?” Jordan asked, shocked by the move. The Director had to know how dangerous letting Steve loose would be. Slaughtering a squad would be effortless if he shifted.

“Just get the armor on, soldier,” the Director ordered, steely gaze settling on Jordan with the weight of determination. “You wanted a test. You’re going to get it.”

“But sir, we should—” Jordan began.

“We don’t have time,” the Director snarled, turning a heated glare in Jordan’s direction. “The reports on Gamma are clear. He knows more than he should. He’s admitted to being in some sort of telepathic contact with the sleeping woman. We have no idea if our security measures are adequate to hold him. We also need to know how that armor performs in a live-fire exercise against a real target. I want two words, Jordan.”

“Yes. Sir,” Jordan said, through gritted teeth.

Chapter 39- Field Test

“See this symbol here, the one that looks like a pyramid with two lines coming out the top? It repeats at odd intervals throughout the first, second, and seventh stanzas,” Sheila said, tapping a symbol near the center of the sheet of paper. She slid it across the padded floor toward Bridget, who picked it up in both hands. The petite woman had little choice because the silver cuffs wouldn’t allow her hands more than three inches apart. A similar pair was clamped around her ankles, though its chain was eight inches long to allow a shuffling walk.

The manacles weren’t just silver in color. They
were
silver. Mohn had run some very early tests on their prisoners and had found the substance to be effective. Sheila didn’t know why that was, something about silver being toxic if mixed into their blood. If Bridget attempted to shift, her wrists and ankles would swell in size, and the restraints would slice off her feet and hands.

Steve wore an identical set, but his hands were in his lap. He pointedly ignored the two women. He lounged against the white padding lining the cell, eyes closed, though Sheila knew he was listening. He’d stopped helping days ago when Sheila had refused to listen to his arguments about waking the strange woman he called the Mother. She got the sense that he knew more than he was willing to share with her or Bridget, that he could read the strange language just as easily as she could read English.

“Yeah, I know it’s significant, but I haven’t the faintest clue what it means,” Bridget responded, eyes on the paper Sheila had handed her. “At first I thought it must represent the structure itself, but I think it’s more than a reference to this place. It shows up too often and in too many different contexts. It’s maddening.”

“I have a theory,” Sheila replied, unable to suppress a grin. She knew she was on to something, and it thrilled her, because she knew Bridget would be just as excited. Just like she had been in the old days. “What if the symbol is a type of building? What if this pyramid is just one of many, if that symbol isn’t saying this place, but rather this
type
of place? What if there are other pyramids, either here or in different parts of the world? Why, it could mean that…”

She trailed off, glancing behind her at the sharp hiss that heralded the door opening. Was it already time for the guards to collect her? She should have another two hours, unless something had gone wrong. Had they found Blair? The door swung outward, revealing two black-clad soldiers armed with lethal rifles and matching expressions. One leveled his weapon at Steve, the other at Bridget.

“There’s no need for those,” Sheila said, rising slowly to her feet. The men ignored her, keeping their weapons trained on her friends. “Where’s Commander Jordan? And why are you interrupting? Our work is important, and I was told th—”

“Doctor Steven Galk,” the lead soldier barked, ignoring Sheila. He was a freckled youth not much more than twenty, yet his gaze was steady. Confident. “Rise slowly and keep your hands down. Proceed down the hallway with your eyes down. Any deviation from these instructions will be met with terminal force.”

Steve sat silently for a long moment and then raised his head languidly. His eyes opened, piercing blue shards landing on the man who’d spoken. Steve watched the soldier coldly as he rose to his feet, smooth and graceful, like the predator he was. The guards tensed, fingers tightening on triggers as they prepared to sell their lives.
 

Death would be quick for them if Steve somehow broke free of those restraints. Sheila had seen what a werewolf could do and just how little they feared bullets. So why had the powers that be sent only two guards? It seemed reckless. Jordan would undoubtedly have an answer, probably pointing out that there was nowhere for Steve to go. If he killed these guards, he’d face dozens of others outside the building who’d mobilize the instant a shot was fired.

“As you wish, soldier,” Steve said; his words were soft but distinctly audible over the uncomfortable silence. He shuffled toward the door, hands obligingly low in front of him.
 

“Where are you taking him?” Sheila asked, surging to her feet. Whatever they intended couldn’t be good.

“Respectfully, that’s none of your business, ma’am,” the freckled soldier shot back, eyes never leaving Steve. He and his companion backed out of the room, allowing Steve to exit behind them.

“I’m not a prisoner.” She bristled, stepping into the hallway next to Steve. “You don’t have a right to keep me in there.”

Bridget finally rose to her feet. Her stance was timid, but her expression showed a hint of steel. The timing was incredibly bad, but Sheila was glad the woman was recovering. Recent events had hit her hard.

“Where are you taking him?” Bridget demanded, taking a short step toward the door. The taller soldier snapped the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, muzzle aimed straight at her face.

“It’s all right, Bridget,” Steve called into the room. His voice was calm, as if this were all perfectly ordinary. “Don’t make a scene. I’m sure they just have a few more tests they want to run. I’ll be back shortly.” Bridget’s expression showed how unlikely she thought that prospect was, but she said nothing as the soldier quickly closed the door, leaving her in the featureless white room.

“Walk slowly, and don’t make any sudden moves,” the freckled soldier ordered. Steve started up the hallway, trudging toward the exit as if he were striding through a park. Sheila wondered what he knew that she didn’t. He seemed so…resigned.

The motley little group exited the hastily constructed building, passing another pair of guards as they stepped into the chilly afternoon. A few clouds stubbornly dotted the sky, a patch of shade drawing a shiver from her as it passed over them.

Sheila fished her oversized sunglasses from a side pocket of her khaki shorts, donning them to keep the glare at bay. The soldiers gestured for Steve to leave the trail and head across the rougher terrain. They threaded past boulders and around scrubby little bushes, toward a stand-alone black pavilion.

None of the soldiers at any of the newly erected buildings paid them any mind. If the prospect of having a werewolf loose among them was disconcerting, they certainly didn’t show it. Either they knew something she didn’t, or they were prepared for anything Steve might try.

As they approached the pavilion, she made out a knot of men enjoying its shade. Two wore the uniforms she was familiar with, but two others wore bulky black armor complete with faceplates. The equipment was new and definitely strange, but she’d never cared much for such things. She was far more interested in the last figure, a man she knew by reputation but had never spoken with—the Director, whose title was so powerful that a name wasn’t even needed. He wore a light-gray Armani suit set off by a deep-blue tie of the finest silk. Somehow, even standing amidst armored soldiers, he made it look perfectly natural.

He stood talking to one of the armored figures, nodding in the group’s direction as he became aware of their approach. The Director stepped from the shade, raising a hand to shield his eyes despite wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. The man studied them like some flat-eyed reptile, no hint of his thoughts touching his expression.

“Sir,” the freckled soldier called. Now that they were close enough to be heard, he trotted ahead of their group, leaving them in the care of his silent companion. He paused next to the Director, offering a tight salute and saying something low enough that Sheila couldn’t hear it.

One of the armored figures stepped forward, looming over the Director. He said something, voice carried away by the wind. Whatever it was caused the Director’s face to tighten.

“Reckless? Is that what you think? Commander, we are out of time. If we can’t beat one of them now, on our own ground, what choice do we have in the field? Private, give me your side arm,” the Director barked, turning toward the freckled soldier. He studied Steve through those dark black lenses. The soldier drew the weapon without hesitation, offering it grip first to the Director, who took it in his right hand.