Operation Chaos Read online

  She tried to figure out the best way to meet the attack. With a side kick or front kick, spin him around and off the damn cliff. But maybe, if he got a hold, she’d go with him.

  But then her would-be assailant broke his sprint, slowing to a walk. He was lean, over six feet, with close-cropped hair. Very military in every aspect of his demeanor. She hoped it didn’t get violent because she knew what she was looking at and she was no contest for this bastard. He looked, as they say, bad to the bone, hardcore.

  Maybe fifteen feet from her, seemingly certain she had no exit, he tucked his hands causally into his beige cargo pants, affecting a kind of nonchalance, as if he didn’t want to appear threatening. As if that was even possible. He wore a loose, short-sleeve, green buttoned shirt with pockets on either side.

  A man didn’t come at a lone female jogger in the predawn without bad intent. Running or yelling wouldn’t work. Rainee forced herself into prepared calm and waited to see his intent.

  Her major weapon was to confront the bastard with a display of combat readiness, letting him know right off it wouldn’t be worth his while.

  “Really, soldier,” she said, “You want a fight this early in the morning? You want to prove you can subdue a woman, even if she’s a former officer and has her black belt in taekwondo? You that desperate? You that messed up in the head? This is your alternative to facing your problems. I know, I deal with soldiers and their problems every damn day. What are we talking about here?”

  She figured counter-aggressive boldness was the best tactic, especially when there wasn’t much of an alternative.

  He didn’t reply or react—not a good sign. Closer now, she saw things she recognized and that made it worse. This was no ordinary human being. This soldier had had lots of work.

  “Morning, Doctor Hall,” he said, startling her in a different, unexpected way. Not just that he knew her and was matter-of-fact, but that he had a voice, a strange, scratchy voice, like he’d had larynx reconstruction. And it was a voice she believed she’d heard somewhere before but couldn’t place.

  “What can I do for you?” Rainee asked, suppressing any sign of nervousness.

  He took two steps, closing the distance to within ten feet. Then she saw the slightly off gleam in his right eye, indicating a prosthetic. He definitely had the reconstructed facial features of someone who’d been the victim of a major incident, and major reconstruction.

  He didn’t look like one of her patients, yet the look of the guy—the way he carried himself, his speed, his eyes—made her wonder if he was one of the “chosen” who’d gone through the warfighter regenerative enhancement program that she’d started.

  Her life’s work began in war zones, dealing with those who’d been victims of rockets, grenades, IEDs, and chopper crashes, and continued for years after the wars in the fixing of the damaged who were selected and sent to the top DARPA programs.

  He pulled a badge of some kind and held it up. “I’m agent Stafford and I need to talk to you,” he said in that gravelly voice. Definitely had messed-up vocal cords. “If you’ll come with me—”

  “Who’s your senior officer?” she demanded. “Who’s your control?”

  He moved, closing the gap between them. “We need to interview you about your work.”

  “My work?”

  “Yes. There’s an issue.”

  “What kind of issue? Who are you? Who is your control?”

  “Please, come with me. Some people want to ask you questions.”

  Rainee shifted her gaze behind him, faking as if somebody was coming to divert his attention. She made an attempt with a side kick to the groin with the intention of making a run.

  He simply turned, and her sneaker met with a thigh as hard as the trunk of an oak tree.

  She turned and ran.

  He cut the gap in an instant and was on her, past her, forcing her to stop. It was ridiculous how fast he was. He looked at her like she was being silly.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. He wasn’t even breathing hard, or showing agitation.

  She knew now it was his game to call.

  Then he came at her, as if to grab her arm. “Listen, you have to understand that my superiors—”

  In spite of the hopelessness of the situation, this guy way out of her league, her instinct was to fight. She kicked again, but this time he simply blocked the attempt with his arm and pushed her back as if she was a child. He shook his head and frowned.

  Rainee backed up. “Get the hell away from me, goddamn you! I’ll start screaming—there are other joggers out—”

  He reached around under his shirt, pulled out a gun, and shot her point blank.

  Startled almost as much by the speed with which he pulled the weapon as at the realization that she’d been shot, Rainee wanted to react, fight, deny, but she could do nothing as she sank slowly to the ground, thinking, as she did, that she knew this bastard from somewhere, but there was no time to remember as the dimming light of consciousness faded.

  In the war room at the Facility in Baja there was a stunned silence, each man having just shot the doctor. She lie on the ground and, with only a minimal attempt at movement, fell still.

  Dr. Raab, feeling wonderfully triumphant, brilliant, that he’d gotten these men together for this, said, “Gentlemen, you have experienced our greatest project at work. That soldier is Seneca. We have enhanced warfighters close to his ability in sixteen major cities leading our cell teams at the moment. As much as all of us are enamored of cyber-tactics and advanced drones, at the end of the day, we will always need warfighters.”

  Raab knew what they thought they’d just witnessed. He chuckled. “Don’t worry—she’s just taking a nap. I’m not about to destroy one of the great neuroscientists on the planet, even if she did try to destroy us. She will make up for that mistake once we get her down here, I can assure you of that. But first we need her in L.A. to bring in a renegade.”

  4

  In those first moments of her fight to return to consciousness, it felt Rainee was rising up out of a dark, mucky swamp toward the faint, distant light and, unbeliever that she was, for an irrational instant, she wondered if this was a transition to something beyond.

  Rainee felt dizzy but realized she was alive, still on earth, and in some kind of van or truck that recorded every little bump in the road with a jolt.

  A thin thread of light sneaked through a cloth hood that covered her head. Her hands were bound behind her, her ankles also bound with only a few inches of play.

  Rainee tasted the rough cloth that covered her face, heard the sounds of traffic.

  She now believed all she’d been shot with was a tranquilizer and not a bullet. She heard arguing, Spanish and English mixed. Fierce, intense. Two or three men.

  Rainee tried to make sense of it but there was too much engine and wheel noise.

  They drove for maybe twenty or thirty minutes, then slowed, turning and coming to a stop.

  She wondered how long she’d been unconscious. Where were they taking her and why? Most likely ransom or she’d already be dead. Was she in Mexico?

  Doors opened and shut. Then the side door slid open and somebody reached in and took hold of her, an arm under her legs, another around her back, and pulled her out, but not with roughness. He did it carefully.

  The man carried her as if she weighed nothing. It’s him, she thought.

  They mounted steps. Her kidnapper had her nestled against him like he was carrying a child.

  “Get the door,” he ordered in that jagged voice.

  He carried her inside, across a room to another door that was opened, and then into a room that had the rancid stink of fast food. The floor was wooden and creaked.

  She was deposited with gentleness on the floor. The footsteps retreated. Door shut.

  Again came the sound of men arguing in the next room, but too muffled for her to understand. The command voice, guttural, shut the others down.

  Where do I know that v
oice? Was he one of mine?

  After a few minutes Rainee heard footsteps approaching and her gut tightened.

  She’d faced death more than once and had spent time in two combat zones, so it wasn’t new, but experience didn’t make it any more pleasant.

  The door, footsteps, someone came in. He grabbed her by the arms, dragged her back and sat her up against the wall, then pulled her mask off and she was looking at him, at his craggy face, that one reconstructed eye. Her kidnapper.

  Since right from the start he didn’t care if she saw his face, could recognize him—it meant she had no chance of surviving whatever this was. Guys like this didn’t leave witnesses.

  5

  Her kidnapper got down on his haunches and studied her intently for a moment, big legs and feet, his gaze fixed as if trying to figure something out. He had a backpack next to him, and she could see the bulge of a gun under his shirt.

  The door opened. She glanced at the Mexican who came partway in. He said, “L.A. having some problems. We’re gonna have to go a bit early, el capitan. You’ll have to do your interrogation on the way.”

  “Wait outside,” her kidnapper said. “We go when I say we go.”

  These guys aren’t buddies, she thought. L.A.? They wanted to take her to L.A. why?

  “It ain’t comin’ from me, el capitan. My job is done.”

  “Get out. I’ll tell you when it’s time. And tell the pickup to hold tight. I’ve got my job to do.”

  “L.A. gonna get shut down the riots get worse. Control wants us to go now. No time for talking.” A touch of acidic sarcasm in that voice.

  “Get out. That’s an order. No me jodas!”

  Rainee spoke Spanish fairly well. She thought that meant something like, Don’t fuck around with me.

  The Mexican stared at him, then glanced at her with no shortage of hostility, before leaving, slamming the door.

  Her kidnapper turned to her. “Doctor Hall . . . you aren’t in any danger, but you need to answer some important questions about your activities concerning your investigation into missing veterans.”

  She stared at him. “Missing veterans?”

  “Former patients of yours.”

  “What is this about?”

  “Former patients of yours. The ones who disappeared and you tried to find out where they went. You need to tell me about the investigations.”

  “What’s L.A. have to do with it? He said—”

  “We need you to come to L.A. to talk to somebody you know. He’s got some problems and needs help. We want to take him to a medical facility where you can help with that problem, and that problem is with men you once helped who need your help again.”

  She studied him. This was not only the last thing she’d expected, it was touching on one of the greatest mysteries she’d ever dealt with.

  He said, “You’ll understand it all in time. So the best thing is not to worry and just accept the situation. We need you to talk this guy down so we can get him the help he needs. You can help us with that.”

  “How can I do that?” she asked.

  “He’s . . .” he paused. He seemed conflicted. He went on, “he’s one of yours, Doc.”

  “Yes, I think I assumed that.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You did the major work on him. He’s become a rogue agent. A problem that we think was caused by a flaw”—another odd pause—“in the Z-chip set. He . . . he won’t come in or even talk to anyone else but you. And we can’t just grab him. He controls most of the underground of homeless vets in L.A., and that’s a small army. These Z-chip sets are the ones you originated.

  Okay, Rainee thought, this is insane. But that he knew about the Z-chips, about her missing soldiers, meant this was very real. “Who is the soldier you want me to talk to?”

  “You’ll find out later.”

  “You know what happened to the missing vets who were in my program.”

  “Yes. But later.”

  I know you from somewhere, she thought, and I’m beginning to think that’s reciprocal. Something about her disturbed him beyond the madness of what was going on. It was an opening she needed to exploit.

  Rainee said, “I’m obviously not in a position to be uncooperative. And I’ve been trying to find out what happened to my missing patients for over two years.”

  He nodded. “I need to know one thing that’s very important. You hired a Detective Barnes to look for missing vets who were once in your DARPA program before it was shut down. That detective had an accident and died. I need to know who else you hired. Who else was involved in the search for what you called your MIAs—Missing In America—in that article they did about you in the San Diego Union Trib?”

  He waited. This big cat, this highly enhanced soldier, the kind she’s spent the best part of her career working on. She said, “The detective was the only one I hired. I just wanted to find out what happened to some of my patients. They started leaving the program and I never heard from them. It was just unusual. Fifteen of my long-term patients suddenly just vanished.”

  He nodded, then asked, “You talked to no one else about them?”

  “I talked to colleagues. Everyone involved in the programs was, obviously, upset. My patients were men with severe TBIs and when they just started to walk away from the program, it was very unusual.”

  They stared at each other, studying one another’s expressions. I know him and, on some level, he knows me, she thought. But he wasn’t one of the disappeared from her program. He’d gone into other programs, not hers.

  She said, “And it happened in such a short span. I checked all the homeless shelters catering largely to soldiers. I’m involved in various Stand Down projects here and L.A.. I hired the detective, but within a few weeks, he died in a tragic accident.”

  “That was it?”

  I know you, you sonofabitch. Who are you, where did I hear that voice?

  She said, “I did try to hire another firm but for some reason they turned me down. I didn’t have the kind of funds to do much else. And the authorities were too overwhelmed with other problems to be of any help.”

  Her kidnapper studied her in a cold way, as if he found her answer difficult to process. He said, “You can’t play games with me.” After a moment’s silence, he then said, “You can’t lie. I’m asking you a straightforward question and you need to answer truthfully.”

  She said, “I am. I have no reason to lie.”

  He said, “You tried to hire other detectives.”

  “Like I said, unsuccessfully.”

  “Your colleagues make any efforts?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do,” he said.

  “My colleagues were concerned, but vets suffering TBI, PTSD come and go out of programs all the time. Some go into the underground, some commit suicide. It’s just that these were my guys. They had both physical and psychological therapies.”

  “But you changed your approach after the hearings. It was less effective.”

  She was getting a really uncomfortable idea of where this was going to go. What she was going to learn.

  He said, “You were involved in many projects, with so many people in the top agencies and the military, you testified before Congress, and you have friends who are reporters. Were they involved in looking for the missing soldiers?”

  What the hell is this? she wondered. That was history. How were those investigations, over two years ago, relevant to her missing soldiers? “I don’t know about what other people were or weren’t doing,” she said. “Yes, a lot of people were concerned, but in the world of TBI and PTSD, people vanish, come and go back to programs, sometimes we never hear from them. It’s the name of the game.”

  “How far did others go with the search?”

  Her interrogator was insistent, unemotional, and going by the playbook. A pro. It could be the early stages of something that could get nasty. She needed to head that off. She said, “When I lost a lot of people in a short time, it was j
ust very unusual because my patients were badly damaged. They were mostly from elite units and they were more likely to follow the program. They needed the program and were determined to follow protocol. That’s why they were selected by the War Projects division of DARPA, and these soldiers knew that advanced brain prosthesis with chips to replace damaged parts of the brain was their only hope. I didn’t buy that they just abandoned their only hope and slipped off into the vet underground.”

  “You’re sure? What about the hearings? Maybe that’s why they left.”

  “No. They stayed with me through the hearings. They understood that the project was taken out of bounds by some of my colleagues who were working on an unauthorized metabolic-dominance program for military contractors. When that part was shut down, a few did leave. But most stayed.”

  “Because of your success with AugCog.”

  “Yes. Augmented cognition was my specialty and it was what everyone wanted.”

  “Why did you turn against your own discovery? You testified against the most important military research project in the nation.”

  Okay, she thought, now we’re getting somewhere. This is about metabolic dominance and AugCog and the congressional hearings.

  “Yes,” Rainee said. “I helped build much of the project. But augmented cognition’s original purpose was taken way out of bounds of the guidelines we set up. It wasn’t supposed to be a metabolic-dominance program for creating advanced warfighters. That wasn’t its charter or purpose.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t understand the reality,” he said. “Every program, like every technological advance in history, is about defense more than anything else. It’s about dominance and survival. All those programs by the Ergonomics Research Facility at SDSU were financed by the military and the research—”

  “No. Not all. And I was unaware that unsupervised contractors were involved.” This soldier was more than she’d assumed. He was some kind of agent. The rabbit hole she’d fallen into began to look like the dark world of military research.