The Omicron Legion (12 page)

“Use your imagination.”

“Why should I bother when you’ve used it for me by drawing a connection between my pursuits and yours? One of these killers we learned was in the country was behind the death of the military liaison for the secret project you stumbled on in the Amazon…Or I more accurately should say the
remnants
of the project. Do I have it straight, dear?”

McCracken chose to ignore her sarcasm. “Could he have kept it going on his own?”

“You know how Washington works. It’s certainly possible.”

“It’d be helpful if you told me exactly what the original Omicron Project was all about.”

Virginia Maxwell slid back to where she had been sitting. “I’ll give you the short version, my dear. I don’t have to tell you about the shocking events that have occurred in what used to be the Communist Bloc over the last two years. I do have to tell you that to plenty of the true policymakers of this nation it didn’t come as any great surprise. They predicted it almost to the month a number of years ago. With that in mind, a new approach to national security and deployment seemed to be required. For the first time in our history, the United States would be without a standing enemy. The future lay not in prolonged entanglements but in minor squabbles of the kind we were woefully ill-equipped to deal with.”

“Terrorism,” Blaine interjected.

“And its many cousins, my dear. That, of course, would include warfare in arenas that posed strategic dilemmas.”

“Like the desert?”

“For one, yes. The Omicron Project was funded with an open checkbook to pursue alternative means to deal with these kinds of engagements, new strategies for combating what would become this nation’s collective, if you will, standing enemy. It was dropped three years ago with nothing much accomplished—with the exception of some work by a Professor Reston Ainsley.”

“The name rings a bell.”

“His specialty was robotics, and that was the line he was pursuing when the funds got yanked.”

“Or misdirected.”

“Possibly.”

“Not possibly. I was down there, Maxie. I saw a different line Omicron had proceeded on, and I saw its results. Jesus Christ, don’t you get the point? The Indian and I met up with something in the woods that isn’t in the woods anymore. I don’t think the members of this Omicron legion are waiting down in Rio for the festival season to start, either. They’re here in America, because someone wants them here.”

“For what, pray tell?”

“Too bad we can’t ask Hardesty.”

“We can ask your Indian friend—who up to now has yielded the floor to you.”

Johnny Wareagle hesitated before speaking. “They live for what they have been created to do,” he said finally.

“And for what were they created, Mr. Wareagle?”

“To perform the tasks demanded of them. The process stripped them of their manitous and replaced them with something else.”

“You’re conceding they’re just men.”

“In appearance maybe, but not within, where the truth of the being resides. Within they are as different from man as the tiger and the jackal.”

“Predators, Mr. Wareagle?”

It was Blaine who took up the task from there. “You weren’t down there to witness their handiwork, Maxie. Believe me, predators is a good word for them. A few minutes ago you showed me pictures of six of the most successful paid killers in the world. Well, none of them can even hold a candle to the thirteen members of our Omicron legion.”

“And can the members of this legion hold one to you?”

Blaine glanced at Wareagle before responding. “They managed to somehow survive a blast just short of a tactical nuke. I’d say that qualifies them.”

“And just what do you propose we do about them now?”

“Find who dispatched Norseman and we learn who’s really running things.”

“I’d already checked, my dear. His routing orders couldn’t be traced back to their original source. Too many shields and screens in place. Not terribly unusual, under the circumstances. Where does that leave us?”

“Back to the connection with Hardesty. Since Mira was one of
six
killers, we can count on the fact that there have been other violent deaths. Have you been able to lock on to any pattern?”

“There have been several other isolated incidents involving government officials, but no link among them we can find. A congressman was beaten to death, an undersecretary of state was run off the road and crushed in his car. But the three incidents had nothing in common that we can find.”

“Then we start with Omicron—and that professor you mentioned.”

“Reston Ainsley.”

“Right. How soon can I get to see him?”

“Immediately. He lives right here in Washington, though he’s become somewhat of a recluse. I can get you a file on him if—”

“Don’t bother. An appointment will suffice. Besides, you’ve got more important matters to attend to. Since the first you heard of that research lab in the jungle was from us, I assume your team missed it. Better send them back in, Maxie, with a vengeance.”

“What am I telling them to look for, pray tell?”

“Anything that might tell us what the hell went on in there…and who in Washington might have been responsible. This whole thing smells like someone’s power play all the way. The proverbial fine-tooth comb might be in order. Send only the best.”

“I only use the best, my dear. Why else would I have called on you?”

Chapter 12

THE YACHT SWAYED EASILY
in the calm waters of the Atlantic. Takedo Takahashi sat in his study with the lights dim enough to soothe his eyes. He had grown up hating the sun and embracing the night. Somewhere, buried deep, was a memory of a blinding flash and a rush of heat crumbling everything in its path.

Of course, Takahashi couldn’t possibly have remembered; he was barely a fetus that dark day that had so violently altered the rest of his life. But his mind’s eye made it a memory and, who’s to say that consciousness does not begin early enough to allow for the dim recall of such a trauma.

The milk-white skin and snowy crop of hair were constant reminders—even if the mind’s eye had been dim. So, too, the pinkish eyes that detested light of every kind, the sun most of all. As much as possible, he slept through the day. It was a vampire’s life.

Every moment of his life had been lived with the White Flash in mind. It had made him the freak that he was—had ultimately determined the path his life would take. He was on this yacht now because of it. The six killers had been dispatched because of it. The ninety-six Americans had to die because of it. Once again he heard the familiar shuffling of Tiguro Nagami’s feet as his associate approached the door.

“Come in, Tiguro,” he called even as Nagami was raising his hand to knock.

Nagami entered, dressed as impeccably as always. He was slight but broad-shouldered, and had all his suits custom-made in London. Unlike Takahashi, he had lived among the Americans for the better part of his life, and therefore his English was perfect.

“You have brought word of more successes for me to punch into my computer, no doubt,” Takahashi said. “Who has called in?”

“It is not that,
Kami-san.
”

“Weetz, then. Has Weetz arrived?”

“He is waiting on deck,
Kami-san.
But I have come with unfortunate news.”

Takahashi’s pinkish eyes bore into him. “What is this unfortunate news?”

“The people we dispatched failed to eliminate the Hunsecker woman.”

“You’re telling me she was too much for them?”

“She had help. That much we know. From whom, we don’t.”

“You assured me no one had placed any credence in her story.”

“No one we were aware of,” Nagami said, and swallowed hard.

“This is not good, Tiguro.”

“Our sources are searching for her even now. She has dropped out of sight.”

“What of her brothers? Perhaps we could use them….”

Nagami shook his head. “Also no trace.”

Takahashi’s face crinkled in disgust. “You will keep me abreast of your progress in this matter, Tiguro.”

Nagami bowed slightly. “Yes,
Kami-san.
”

“Do not disgrace me.”

His head was still lowered. “Of course not,
Kami-san.
”

“Now send the American down to see me immediately.”

Nagami bowed again and was gone. Weetz strutted in with the grace of a cat. His suit was a dark gray Italian, perfectly tailored. He was a tall man with eyes like razors. He was chomping, as always, on a piece of chewing gum, when he sat down facing the albino’s desk.

“Your work goes well, I understand,” Takahashi said to him.

“You called me here to compliment me?”

“Hardly. You recall I said there were ninety-six targets?”

“Sure.”

“There are ninety-seven. I left one out—one that requires special attention.”

Takahashi slid a file folder toward the killer. Weetz took it, eyes never leaving the Japanese until the folder was open on his lap. Takahashi watched those razor-sharp eyes narrow.

“I see what you mean,” said Weetz.

“Yes.”

“So why me?”

“This is your specialty, I believe.”

“It also entails more risk than the other sixteen kills combined.”

“Can it be done?”

Weetz smirked. “Look, mister, hide a man down in a mine shaft and I’ll shoot him through the air hole. We’re talking levels here.”

“This level requires your expertise.”

“Won’t come cheap, boss.”

“Name your price.”

“Five million.”

“Make it seven point five. That’s what I was prepared to offer.”

“When?”

“You’ll have forty-eight hours notice. You will not act until given the word.”

Weetz gazed back down at the folder in his lap. “Hits like this take time to set up.”

“You’ll have to make do,” said Takahashi.

“Seven point five on completion, right?”

“You’re well worth it, Mr. Weetz.”

Chapter 13

PROFESSOR RESTON AINSLEY
lived in a brick house enclosed by a narrow yard on the outskirts of Georgetown. Virginia Maxwell had arranged a car for McCracken, and he squeezed it into a space just beyond a tow zone. The Ainsley residence seemed well kept, if undistinguished. The first of the fall leaves had already been swept off the walkway and stacked in piles, waiting to be bagged. Blaine climbed to the porch and rang the doorbell.

“Ainsley residence,” a mechanical voice responded through a speaker. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to see the professor. He’s expecting me.”

“State your name.”

“Blaine McCracken.”

“Yes, he is expecting you.”

There was a click, then the solid wood door swung mechanically inward. Blaine stepped through and heard a soft
whirring
sound an instant before a hulking mass of steel and wires approached from the right. He tensed as the robot drew directly up to him.

“Professor Ainsley is waiting for you in the study. Please follow me.”

The robot’s head was an opaque oblong attached to a flexible steel neck. The words emerged from a plate just above a host of flashing diode lights in its chest. Its midsection was chiseled into the form of a man’s, and its arms were lifelike as well, albeit connected by visible wires and fittings instead of sinew and tendons. Its hands ended in steel pincers. Its torso and legs were covered with wires and what looked like Kevlar tubing. The thing actually walked like a man, right down to a slight flex in its metallic knees. Its feet pads were rimmed by steel pods that flattened out as it lowered its weight. The thing could look Blaine in the eye at six-two, and it seemed incredibly nimble for a machine.

“Mr. McCracken to see you, Professor.”

“Show him in, Obie One,” responded a nasal human voice, and the robot extended its hand outward to bid Blaine on.

“Thank you,” he found himself saying.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Blaine eased past the robot through a pair of double doors that led into a den cluttered with machines. It had the feel, strangely, of a child’s playroom, where the toys had been left out long after the boy or girl was finished with them.

“Drat,” came the nasal voice again, and McCracken watched as a man seated near the window dumped the contents of his lap onto the floor. Professor Reston Ainsley spun his wheelchair around and rolled toward McCracken, crunching bits of previously discarded materials beneath his wheels. “I see you’ve met Obie One, Mr. McCracken.”

Blaine remained fascinated by the robot. It was advanced far beyond anything he thought science had achieved.

“Actually, we haven’t been formally introduced.”

“Then, allow me,” offered the man in the wheelchair. Ainsley’s wild white hair made him look like a first cousin to Einstein. His right ear was totally concealed by jagged curls, the left uncovered. “Blaine McCracken, this is Obie One, short for Operational Ballistic Droid.”

On cue, the robot extended its right hand and opened its steel fingers all the way.

“Right.” Blaine met the robot’s grasp with his own. “Likewise, Obie One.”

The robot gave him enough of a squeeze for McCracken to feel its incredible power. It could have crunched his bones had it wanted to.

“Would you like me to remain, Professor?”

“That won’t be necessary, Obie One. But please inform Obie Three Mr. McCracken and I will require some refreshments.” The old man turned his wild eyes to Blaine. “Some lunch, perhaps?”

“Just a soft drink will be fine.”

Ainsley looked back at Obie One. “And I will have my usual, Obie One.”

“Yes, sir.”

McCracken watched the robot swing around on its heels and stride away noisily.

“Now, Mr. McCracken, what can I do for you?”

“Incredible…”

“Excuse me?”

“I was just admiring your work. Obie One, I mean.”

Ainsley accepted the compliment with a faint smile. “At one point I envisioned an army of them; resilient, indestructible. Not subject to the effects of nuclear fallout or chemical warfare. Impervious to pain. Capable of sight, hearing, even smell a thousand times more sensitive than a man.”

“Developed as part of the Omicron Project.”