Saint (8 page)

“Yes, my plan, but I'm not sure the bond is strong enough. If his bond with you is ever compromised, he may become obsessive about knowing his origin, this father figure of his.”

“You want me to strengthen his bond with me?”

“I didn't say that. If the bond is too strong and something happens to you, we may lose him. It's a tenuous balance.”

“With Carl as my guardian, it's unlikely anything will happen to me. Right?”

“Regardless. With Saint going on his first mission in two weeks, we need a new recruit.”

“Two weeks? So soon? You have the mission?”

Agotha turned back to the monitor. “We've had it for a long—”

She froze, eyes on the monitor.

Kelly scanned the stats. “What?” For the second time in ten minutes, something about Carl's situation had changed. This time it had nothing to do with his vitals.

“Did you change the room temperature?” Kelly asked.

“No. It should read 150. You did nothing?”

“Nothing.”

The temperature was now 140.

“It must be a malfunction,” Kelly said. “It's happened—”

“The control hasn't moved. How could it be a malfunction?”

The same system that regulated the temperature in Carl's pit fed a small closet that was measured by separate sensors. In this control, the temperature was still 150 degrees.

“Then the thermometer has malfunctioned?” But she knew three separate meters measured temperature, and a quick glance at the computer told her that all three were down to 138.

Agotha grabbed the phone, called Kalman, and then promptly hung up.

“It's going back up,” Kelly said.

They watched as the temperature rose and finally settled at 150.

“How's that possible?”

“By the same physics that allow a monk to change the pH balance in water through meditation,” Agotha said excitedly. “By affecting the zero-point field. Let me know if it changes again.” Agotha changed screens, ran a quick diagnostic test for any system anomalies, then walked to the printer and watched her report print on continuous-feed paper. The printer stopped and she ripped the paper off the spool.

“Changes?” she demanded.

“Still 150.”

The door behind them opened, and Kalman stepped in. He approached them, expressionless.

Agotha handed him the report. He glanced up and down, then eyed her. “What is it?”

“The graph showing room temperature.”

“So you changed the temperature.”

“We didn't change it.” The fire in Agotha's eyes betrayed her passion. She was a scientist, not easily excitable, but at the moment, no matter how she tried to hide her feelings, she looked as if she might explode.

He glanced at the chart again. Studied it in silence. His eyes lifted, but he did not lower the paper. “You're suggesting that he did this?” “Do you have another idea?”

He obviously didn't.

“When is he scheduled to come out?” Kalman asked.

“He has an afternoon drill with the others,” Kelly said.

Kalman set the report on the table. “Bring him out now.”

Agotha had talked often about the quantum physics behind the brain's ability to affect its surroundings, but Kelly had never seen evidence of it. Focusing the mind, stripping memory, shutting out pain, seizing control of typically involuntary bodily functions, controlling emotions—mastery over these was unusual but had been demonstrated for years among the greatest warriors and spiritual masters.

The notion that Carl had actually managed to control the temperature in his pit by affecting the zero-point field was altogether earth-shattering. It may have been proven that the empty space between atoms was filled with large amounts of energy, but she wasn't sure she was ready to believe that Carl could affect this field.

“Put him on the range,” Kalman said. “Let's see what he can do.”

“He'll need a few hours to normalize and eat.”

“He shoots before he normalizes.”

“Every man has his limits.”

“We've broken his limits many times.”

“The drill he faces this afternoon will test his shooting in an optimum setting before stretching him to his limits,” Kelly said. “I suggest we wait as planned.”

Kalman looked at her, and the darkness in his eyes made Kelly regret her suggestion. But he didn't object.

He simply turned and left the room.

7

T
he Englishman watched the man cross the compound with his typical nonchalant amble. Tall and well toned, with shortcropped hair and a small nose that made him look boyish. He had become ruthless as required, but his soft eyes contradicted his stature.

I am lost, I am found
—Carl was trapped between the two without the slightest clue as to how lost and found he would truly be before it was all over. Lost to himself, found to the darkness that waited below hell.

Englishman wanted to grin and spit at the same time. It was all growing a bit tedious, but he'd known from the moment he walked into this terrible camp that he would grow bored before the fun began.

Soon. Maybe he could change his name from Englishman to Soon.
Soon
rhymed with
noon
, as in Daniel Boone.

There was no way he could adequately describe the depths of his hatred for the man who was stealing the show with all of his move-this- move-that emotional control nonsense. Englishman could and would drop Daniel Boone the moment he felt good and ready.

Which would be soon.

He took a deep breath and shifted his eyes toward the pretty girl. Kelly. She was playing her part well enough, but he wasn't sure she could toe the line. Her emotions could get in the way, despite all her training. Did she know the true stakes? He wasn't sure. Either way, he wouldn't trust her. He'd come here to make sure Carl did what was expected of him, or kill him if he didn't, and Englishman was hoping it would be the latter, because he hated Carl more than he thought humanly possible.

If they only knew why he was here, what lay in store for them, how he would do it all . . . My, my.

Hallelujah, amen, you are dismissed
.

NEARLY FIVE hours had passed since Kelly liberated Carl from his pit. She'd hooked him up to an IV and pumped enough glucose and electrolytes into his system to wake the dead. He'd been in his pit for two days, she told him. A meaningless bit of trivia.

He ate a light, balanced meal, then showered, shaved, and dressed in his usual training clothes per her instructions. A short run brought him fully back to the present, the physical world outside the tunnel.

Kelly had asked him to meet her and the others at the southern shooting range precisely at three for a drill. He wandered the compound for half an hour, then made his way south, past the hospital, which doubled as the administration building; past the barracks; past a small mess hall that they rarely used and a weight room that they frequently used.

He supposed that he spent an average of three days every week in the pit, but he rarely recalled anything about them. In the beginning his training was filled with the pain required to break him. Needles and electricity and drugs. They still used electricity, but once he'd learned to control his body, his training had turned more to his mind.

The mental training sessions, like the kind he endured in the pit, were now hardly more than a good, hard run. So long as he successfully blocked the pain. But today was different. At some point, he'd tried to split his focus and succeeded. Then he tried to break through the wall in his tunnel and, to his surprise, again succeeded. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken, he had pushed back the heat crowding his safe place.

He wondered if Agotha had noticed anything in her detailed charts. Kelly hadn't said a word of it, but if he wasn't mistaken, the light in her eyes was brighter. Regardless of what caused this, he was glad for her. She was pleased with him, which made him happy.

Where do I come from?

The stray thought surprised him. He briefly wondered who his father was, then put the question away. There was no answer to it, he remembered.

They were waiting by the sandbags when Carl made his way down the slope to the shooting range. The vegetation had been cleared four thousand yards to the south—he could see the trees bordering the encroaching forest but no detail from this distance.

There was something ominous about those trees, he remembered now. Oh yes. The compound didn't need a fence to keep them in, because if any of them stepped beyond the trees, their implants would send a debilitating electrical charge into their brains. He'd tried it on two occasions with disastrous effects, but he couldn't remember anything beyond that.

At least a dozen assorted personnel drifted in and out of contact with him in any given week, guards and scientists and the like. He knew a few by name, but most existed like ghosts in his mind, beyond the scope of his immediate concern, which was survival and success.

Two of these personnel stood fifty yards to each side of the sand-bags now. Carl focused on the three people who were in the scope of his immediate concern. Kelly, Englishman, and Jenine.

The recruits were not allowed to talk to one another except as required by their training. As far as he remembered, he'd never spoken to either Englishman or Jenine without Kelly present.

Jenine. The sight of her standing in black slacks and brown pullover, facing the south with her arms crossed, evoked nothing but curiosity in him. Did she have a pit? Jenine looked at him without expression. Her hair was black, shoulder-length, framing a face with fine features browned by the sun. The Ukrainian, as they called her, was always quiet and hard to read. She could smile softly and slit your throat before you realized that her smile had left her face.

Carl wasn't sure if he liked her or not.

Englishman. From twenty yards he looked angry, but this was nothing new. The man often looked angry, as if he resented being in Carl's company. This wasn't a weakness necessarily. He compensated for his lack of emotional control in other ways. There was something profoundly unusual about the sandy-haired man who stared at him over crossed arms, wasn't there? Whereas Carl could shut out distractions and focus on his intentions, Englishman seemed to join the distraction and use it to his advantage. He didn't strike Carl as a man who needed to be taught anything by either Kalman or Agotha. Kelly said that the exercises kept Englishman's skills sharp. One day, when Carl was truly skilled, maybe he would learn to do what Englishman did.

“Hello, Carl.” Kelly smiled. “You look refreshed.”

“Thank you. I feel good.”

Not a word from the other two. Though often pitted against one another, they rarely trained together with a common objective. By the looks of the three sandbags set thirty yards apart, the X Group was going to be shooting downrange.
That will change before the end of
the training exercise,
Carl thought. Beside each shooting post lay a crate. He had no idea what these were for.

Kelly faced all three of them. “The reactive targets are set at twelve hundred yards. You will each use the M40A3 with a 150-grain boat tail bullet today. All three rifles have been sighted in at four hundred yards.”

She walked to the left, eyeing Jenine. “You will expend ten rounds on the reactive targets. Consider it a warm-up. Beyond the yellow reactive targets are the static targets. Do not shoot these targets. Dale, take the far left; Jenine, center; Carl, on the right. Take your places, find the targets, and fire at will.”

Carl turned to his right and walked to his sandbag. He'd shot more rounds on this field than he could count, much less remember. What he could remember with surprising detail were the technical specifications of the rifles, handguns, and cartridges that he'd spent so many hours with.

The rifle leaned against a small fiberglass rack by the sandbags. It wasn't just any M40A3, he saw. It was his. He'd sighted it in at four hundred yards himself; he could remember that clearly now.

Warmth spread through his chest. He wanted to run for the weapon, to pick it up gingerly and examine it to be sure they hadn't scratched it or hurt it in any way. His heart began to pound, and he stopped, surprised by his strong emotional reaction to the weapon.

A hand touched his elbow. “It's okay,” Kelly said softly. “Pick it up.” She looked at him sheepishly, as if she'd given him the very gift he'd been waiting for so long. And she had, he realized.

Kelly winked. “Go on, it's yours.”

Carl walked to the rifle, hesitated only a moment, then picked it up and turned it in his hands. So familiar. Yet so new. The sniper rifle fired a .308 round through its free-floating twenty-four-inch barrel. Internal five-round magazine, six including the one chambered.

He ran his hand over the well-worn fiberglass stock and noticed that his fingers were trembling. He had to seize control, but these feelings were so comforting that he allowed them to linger.

Did he always feel this way when he picked up his rifle? Did the others feel this way?

He lifted his eyes and saw that Kelly was watching him with interest. Maybe some understanding.

He knew that the rifle he held was nothing more than a tool formed with precision, but then, so was a woman's hand. Or an eye. It was what he could do with this rifle that fascinated him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You're welcome. Shoot well today.”

“I will.”

She walked back toward the others.

Carl picked up a box of .308 rounds and set his emotions aside. Shooting well, as she put it, was like the beating of his own heart. Both could be controlled, both gave him life, both could be performed without much conscious thought.

He dropped to one knee and set the box of cartridges on top of the sandbag. A quick examination satisfied him that the mechanisms of the rifle were in perfect working order. He pressed five rounds into the magazine, disengaged the bolt, slid a cartridge into the barrel, seated the bolt, and took a deep breath.