Objekt 221 Read online

  Cadey nodded.

  “The electronic lock,” she said. “But not the physical lock.”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Damn.”

  “Maybe they’ll just fire us,” she said, putting her head back down on her crossed arms. “I hear Precision is hiring.”

  * *

  Miles Lofton walked from Britta’s office down the long arm of the K-shaped floorplan. He went up two floors to the residential level and walked straight to his room. He sat for a minute in a black-leather barrel chair in the corner of his living area. He was rubbing his temples, collecting his thoughts.

  “Screw it,” he said, standing up and walking across the room to a heavy, leather messenger bag. It was a primarily a laptop bag, and that was the first thing he threw in. Followed by a couple journals and some scattered manila folders packed full of printed documents.

  He walked out the door with the bag slung over his left shoulder, straps hung across his chest with the bag resting against his right hip. Miles didn’t notice Beale and another man walking toward his room from the other direction. He had turned to his left and started walking quickly toward a set of concrete stairs halfway down the corridor. Beale and the second man followed at a distance.

  “What’s this all about?” Beale asked himself. His partner simply shrugged silently in response.

  * *

  “Hello.”

  It had been nearly 90 minutes since Britta had left the two researchers in the secure Room 4 tucked away in a disused corridor buried inside the walls of Objekt 221—the primary facility of the global corporation Allied Genetics. The facility was known internally as Anvil Canyon, both in reference to a nuclear testing site from the Cold War and the steep drop-off just a quarter mile to the south side of the structure.

  Cadey had had her eyes closed, rubbing her temples to relieve the pain and pressure that had built up there. Damon, shockingly, had fallen asleep.

  At the sound, both of them snapped alert and turned toward the sound.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Miles Lofton said, standing in the center of the glass wall, leather bag slung over his shoulder, smile on his face.

  * *

  “We have a problem,” Britta said, hanging up her phone.

  She was still in her office. She sat behind her desk and two men sat opposite. Marcus and Carter remained with her after their short meeting nearly 30 minutes ago.

  “Another one?” Wittington asked. “Or a different version of the same problem?”

  “Another one,” she answered. “That was Rico. They now have reports from three satellite facilities. Frenchman’s Flat. Hochhaus. Rainier Mesa. Confirmed lost. Complete destruction.”

  “Oh my God,” Marcus said.

  “Apparently,” she continued, “they enacted Blast Protocol at the Mesa. The data facility at Owl Mountain. However, there was a failure in the system and one room remained untouched.”

  There was silence around the office.

  “Sven Mathias’s office, if it matters,” she continued. “The company is afraid that a rival has paid a group to data mine against us with a scorched earth policy.”

  “We’re up against a ticking clock,” Carter said, standing to go inform his staff.

  “Like never before,” Britta added, before waving the two men away and answering her ringing phone.

  * *

  “Fuck you,” Damon said.

  “Come on,” Miles replied. “You gotta trust me. It’s time to go. I can get us out.”

  “I trusted you a week ago. Now? Not so much.”

  “This company has reached a level of evil that I did not understand,” Miles said, moving toward the door. “They’re going to kill you. And probably me. We’ll all be buried in a shallow grave 100 million years ago to be eaten by Cretaceous worms.” He reached up and started pressing buttons on the keypad.

  Boom.

  Lofton’s eyes went wide and his mouth hung open. He was frozen in that position for five seconds. In that time, both Cadey and Damon jumped to their feet and rushed to the window. Suddenly, Miles simply collapsed. He fell straight down and crumpled on the floor just to the right of the door. From his left, into the two captives’ field of vision, walked Jason Beale. He was holstering his sidearm. He stood for a moment, looking first at Lofton’s corpse and then through the glass at the two prisoners.

  He turned to his support man.

  “Clean this up,” Beale said. “Quietly. Black canvas. Put him in cold storage. Theta Level. Stay out of sight.”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  “You two,” Beale said, turning his attention back to Damon and Cadey. “Hang out for just a minute more.”

  He grinned at them and walked away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Assault on Anvil Canyon

  THURSDAY THE 10th started poorly for Objekt 221, the crown jewel of Allied Genetics’ facilities. At 4:05 in the morning, every CO2 detector in the building started sounding an alert. At 4:10, every television began showing a digital broadcast of a 45-second loop of cartoon character SpongeBob SquarePants and his nemesis Plankton singing about what it means to have fun. At 4:15, all of the facility’s lights flickered off. Anvil Canyon was bathed in the calming green glow of emergency illumination.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” Beale said, hopping out of bed.

  He keyed the walkie-talkie that sat on his nightstand. The duty chief held the other unit.

  “Carson,” he said. “What the fuck is going on?”

  There was a crackle and a high-pitched whine. Beale was only able to snatch a few words of Carson’s response.

  “Internal…hack…sent a group…communications blockade…”

  With a final pop, the walkie-talkie went dead.

  “Christ,” Beale said and put it back on the charger.

  * *

  Five miles away and circling the facility was an E-3G Sentry. It was the “Hammerhead” variant developed in 2015 by Boeing. It was a military aircraft known, largely, for having an enormous radar dish mounted at the rear of the fuselage. Measuring 10 meters in diameter, this technological marvel was responsible for the craft’s weather monitoring and threat-detection systems. The Hammerhead variant upped the processing power by several factors to account for the military’s increasing battles with cyber terrorists. The Sergott Solutions version contained even more digital tricks.

  Jon “Beans” Culver stalked behind the row of 14 computers onboard the E-3G. Everyone was tapping away at their keyboards, calling out notes, time-stamps, and marks against their checklist. Culver’s assistant—a fussy civilian with a clipboard—followed him along, making notes and calling orders out.

  Their orders were clear: rain a hacker hell down upon Objekt 221 to distract them from the incoming assault force.

  * *

  Alex Scott and Rick Everson were leading a group of jumpers in a HALO assault. A style of military free-fall, a HALO jump—high altitude, low opening—is a rapid incursion where the paratroopers don’t open their parachutes until the last possible moment. It was a precision jump that started 30,000 feet above Anvil Canyon. A force of 20 Wraith soldiers, plus their two commanders, knifed through the cold, dark Crimean air, plummeting toward Objekt 221, a facility in chaos.

  * *

  At 4:20 in the morning, everyone with an Anvil Canyon email address had a message pop up on whatever device was handy—computer, laptop, tablet, phone—that explained the facility was in the midst of a military training exercise. For their safety, all personnel should exit the building. It looked official, but they had no idea that the email was a complete fabrication.

  Security personnel were already in the hallways directing staff-members to a bunker designated Sub One. Britta and Beale stood outside her office door, watching the flow of people heading for the stairs.

  “All of the elevators are locked?” she asked.

  Beale nodded, just as the song “Afternoon Delight” by Starland Vocal Band erupted over the loudspeakers—punc
tuated by the shrill CO2 sensor warning that had been sounding for 20 minutes.

  “Lockdown the facility. Get your men to the entrance. We’re about to be invaded.”

  Beale nodded.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said and walked away.

  * *

  Damon Butcher and Cadey Park sat in the conference room chairs, leaned back, feet on the table. They had both slept poorly the previous night and were observing the madness around them with distracted levity. Since they weren’t in a high-traffic area, they had only seen a couple people move past them to a staircase at the far end of the corridor. The handful of O221 workers had paid them no mind even as Damon rushed to the wall and knocked on the glass. From that position, he could see just a faint outline of the blood Miles had spilled on the floor hours ago.

  Now, they were alone, listening to “Afternoon Delight,” trying to remain comfortable.

  “I hate this song,” Cadey said.

  Damon nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  * *

  “We are locked as the inbound signal,” Jon’s assistant was noting, reading off his clipboard. “All outbound signals are completely blocked.”

  “Good,” Jon said. He keyed his microphone that went to all commanders and Clay Reed at the European office. “Remote Mad is a go. Charger and Challenger, cleared for landing.”

  Alex “Beef” Scott groaned into his throat mic.

  * *

  As the majority of the Anvil Canyon residents were herded into the lowest protected level of the facility—Sub One—Beale had taken his security force to the main entrance of the building. Britta, for her part, had retreated to her sanctum. For many people, this would have been a personal residence. For her, though, the place where she was most comfortable was her office.

  She sat at the giant desk and flipped a small switch hidden on the lip, right at the center of the underside of the desk. This toggle switch caused a large plate to drop out of the bottom of the desk. Britta pulled two custom Sig MPX SBR submachine guns—similar to those favored by the Wraiths—out of the hidden drawer. They were chrome-plated, were fitted with extended magazines, and sported the after-market red-dot sight. She placed the guns on the desk and removed two extra mags for each weapon. Director Vragi sat back in her chair and frowned at the door while SpongeBob SquarePants sang to her from her computer tablet.

  “F is for fire that burns down the whole town;

  “U is for uranium…BOMBS.”

  She sighed and flipped the tablet over so the screen was facing down. It did little to quiet the song.

  * *

  Twenty-two Wraith fighters landed a half-kilometer from the main entrance to Objekt 221. Another 10 men, including force commander Eric “Sixpack” Bilkins, were performing the opposite maneuver as Charger and Challenger—a HAHO, high altitude, high opening parachute insertion. Following the remote hacker disruption and the assault of the advance force, Bilkins and his team would come in undetected to provide support and cleanup.

  The advance team disconnected their gear and buried it quickly, leaving their parachutes, harnesses, and oxygen masks in shallow holes—not necessarily for secrecy, more for ease of equipment recovery.

  “Let’s go,” Scott said into his throat mic. “Double-quick.”

  He glanced at the first hints of the morning sun over the horizon and checked his watch. It was just after 4:20 in the morning. According to Clay’s original plan, it should be pure chaos inside the facility.

  When the Wraiths, dressed in black with black body armor, made it to the main entrance of Anvil Canyon, they expected heavy resistance. There were two members of the O221 security team stationed behind concrete barriers wielding heavy machine guns. The defensive force was quickly overwhelmed and the Wraiths entered the facility.

  It was a madhouse.

  Minus people.

  The combined Wraith team saw a few stragglers escape down what looked like a stair-head halfway down the corridor. There was a big red sign with white lettering that read Stair E and the door slammed shut.

  As the big team passed Stair A and Stair B, they met the second defensive force. It was two daily security personnel commanded by a soldier in black combat gear. The Wraiths opened fire and immediately cut down the three men. The two commanders huddled, three Wraiths facing forward and three facing the rear, all with weapons at the ready.

  “I’ll take a team and head up to the operations office,” Alex “Beef” Scott said, looking from Ahab down to his wrist computer and back up. “Britta Vragi.”

  Ahab nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take my team and follow them.” He nodded his head toward the door—Stair E—that they saw the workers escape through.

  “It might be a trap,” Alex said.

  “I’m aware,” Rick responded and smiled. The two men bumped fists. “Challenger, mount up.”

  Rick turned to leave and several Wraith soldiers followed him.

  Alex rolled his eyes.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Again with the Team Challenger.”

  “You know you love it,” Ahab said over the team voice channel.

  * *

  They heard the echo of people running downstairs and the slam of a door.

  “Ramirez,” Ahab said into this throat mic. “Take point.”

  One of the Wraith soldiers crept out ahead of the others and slithered down the first few steps. He was leaning over the railing, pointing his weapon around the corner, waiting for any conflict. The stairway, minus Team Challenger, was deserted.

  “Clear,” Ramirez said.

  He started down the stairs, cautiously, with the rest of the team behind him. It was two flights of stairs but only one defined level. They reached the terminal door after a minute.

  “Stack up,” Ahab said softly to his men. Four soldiers on one side of the door and four on the other. Rick reached for the door’s handle and gently slid it to the open position. Ramirez pulled out a small dental appliance—a mirror—and held it through the tiny crack that the opening door created. Ahab held the door open only an inch or so, giving Ramirez a chance to gaze around the area beyond.

  “Clear,” he said. “Corridor extends to the right and left. Right—large door, closed. Left—corridor terminates in 20 meters. Center—another offshoot corridor. T-junction. All empty.”

  “Copy that,” Ahab said, pulling the door closed. “Weapons free. Ramirez, take your team and secure the large door. Defensive positions. I’ll scout the T-junction and firm up.”

  “Hoorah,” Ramirez said.

  Ahab pulled open the door.

  * *

  “Thinkin’ of you’s workin’ up my appetite, looking forward to a little afternoon delight.”

  The overhead speakers were relentless. Coupled with the CO2 sensor warning, the sound of the Wraith team’s movements were completely masked. Ahab was certain that that door at the end of the corridor was some sort of panic room, likely with monitors directly tied into the facility’s surveillance. His team would secure that end of the hall while he took a cautious look down the T-junction.

  Everson used a similar mirror to peek down the green corridor. There was a single man, walking away from him. Ahab took a few steps down the hallway. About halfway down, on the right, he could see a glass wall and a solitary door.

  “Freeze,” Ahab called, gun at the ready. He held his Sig M25 Navy in both hands, trigger discipline, aimed at the enemy’s back.

  The man, 10 meters away, slowly turned, hands up. The wrist-mounted computer beeped. It was a facial recognition warning. Ahab ignored it for the moment.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he said. “Walk to me slowly.”

  The man followed Ahab’s orders. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He had a black combat vest on with gear attached to it. He had a pistol in a thigh holster and Velcro name-tape on his chest.

  “Jason Beale,” Ahab said, reading aloud from the screen on his wrist.

  In
an instant, Beale jumped forward and knocked the pistol from Ahab’s hands. He ducked under a punch and pulled his own pistol out as he slid past the larger Wraith. Their positions reversed, Beale held his own pistol at the ready. Rick “Ahab” Everson held his own hands, palms out, chest high.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Beale asked.

  “I’m here for the scientists,” Ahab said, taking a step closer. They were separated by just over four feet.

  “The new guy and that Asian bitch?” Beale said. “You can have ‘em.” He paused, a wry smile crossed his lips. “You’ll never find the others.”

  In a quick move, Ahab lunged forward. He was a much taller man than Beale and had a greater reach. He knocked the gun away and held Beale’s hand in a vice-like grip with his right hand. He let his momentum carry him forward into a vicious head-butt aimed directly at the bridge of Beale’s nose. Blood exploded from Beale’s face as he dropped immediately to the ground.

  Standing over him, Ahab finally looked fully at his screen. Jason Beale. Army Rangers. Terminal at Major. Commander of Alpha Team—the military wing of the Objekt 221 facility. Considered lethal in armed and unarmed combat.

  “Yeah. Okay,” Ahab said and keyed his throat mic.

  * *

  “We’re all five-by,” came the voice over Beef’s earpiece. It was Ahab checking in. He sounded out of breath, but in control. “Security on the north end is subdued and the scientists have been located in a secure bunker. I will leave a force to maintain position until Sixpack gets here. Taking two men to continue search for HVT. Looks like only two were brought back.”

  “Copy that,” Alex responded. They were still searching for the scientists.

  “Sixpack is en route,” Jon “Beans” Culver said from his position as airborne overwatch. “Ten minutes out.”

  “Copy that,” Ahab said.

  “Copy that,” Beef said.

  “Overwatch out,” Jon said and then clicked off.

  * *

  Alex continued down the corridor with six men. Their target was the director’s office. While the overall priority was the rescue of the scientists named in the death-sentence email, they were still tasked by their contractor to recover crucial data and eliminate certain personnel. Britta Vragi was the name on Alex’s list. And the O221 floorplan took up the entirety of his wrist pad—with the path to her office highlighted yellow.