Years before, those woolly-minded do-gooders voted into power had allowed themselves to be bullied by a superstitious, small-minded public into banning the sale of human organs something about it being immoral. Hypocrites and killjoys, the lot of them, the Committee had concluded. Well, that distant setback was about to be avenged.
Pig hearts had one big advantage over human ones, pulled from the dwindling supply of public-spirited accident victims. Cute little porkers reared in labs could have their vital organs ripped out to be legally sold at $12,000 a pop so much better for the balance sheet than printing more of those fiddly donor cards. It was a loophole which would allow the drug firms their final slice of the lucrative Transplant Organ Pie.1
Even the other 99.9% of the valiant animal could be put to profitable use. Slap it in a pitta bread, drench it in chilli sauce and no one would ever be the wiser a sustainable income stream from waste products. This was what the Projects Para-Accountants and Ninja-Management Consultants liked to call a win-win situation. Which was a rather better situation than the secret hospitals only current patient was presently in.
This particular invalid wasnt lucky enough to be a member of the Committee of 300 he was an expendable minion, but one with a crucial tale to tell. If he could tell it all.
All told, Captain Freemantle had seen better days. And judging by the look of intense frustration splashed across his weathered features, so too had the lumbering figure towering above him.
Nearby a nervous surgeon eyed Becker with considerable disdain, as only a member of his profession could hope to get away with and live to tell the tale.
You know that this dosage will probably kill him? This much babble-juice will not sit happily will the medication weve used to stabilize his condition.
The Dark Man fixed the surgeon with a stare that had brought slack-jawed presidents to their knees, and reduced more than one pope to a blubbering wreck.
This is a matter of planetary security. Have you heard what went on in England? Daily the Opposition ups the stakes we might not have much time left. Hes only a grunt, he knew the risks when he took his oath, just like you and me. Do your duty, so that he can do his.
With a heavy sigh the surgeon uncapped a syringe and flicked its large-bore needle. He had watched the news reports from across the pond there could have been few humans who hadnt. As to the significance of what hed seen he was currently reserving judgement; better stick to what he knew. With practised ease he found a vein and administered the dose.
Freemantle went rigid from head to toe. For a moment Becker thought rigor mortis must have set in with exceptional speed, but then, with a convulsion that nearly shook their subterranean bunker, the captains eyes snapped open and the words flooded forth.
His rantings wouldnt have made sense to an outsider. Fortunately Becker was about as much of an insider as you could get without actually becoming inside out. He had also come prepared. Holding a small dictaphone as close to Freemantle as his rabid saliva-flecked monologue would allow, Becker recorded every word for posterity and for the next chapter of his voluminous memoirs.
When the tirade had run its course the surgeon looked bemused. Machu Picchu. Thats the Inca capital in the Andes, isnt it?
But when he turned to question Becker further he was faced only by a furiously swinging door.
1 These days it isnt only angst-ridden poets in fluffy white shirts who die of TB. With the help of virulent new strains resistant to those tried and tested (i.e. cheap, out-of-patent) drugs, almost anyone can receive the benefits of the ultimate creative muse. All over the globe this old favourite was making a comeback as the most efficient regulator of the urban poor, not to mention a most efficient filler of drug corporations bank accounts. Potent new strains require potent new cures, which in turn require potent research grants and tax incentives.
1 Not to be confused with the Donor Kebab. As in: I wish I could donate my stomach to science. Pass me a fresh bucket please.
11. Assault
For no obvious reason, suddenly Frank was alert.
Nothing had changed in the dingy third-floor apartment, but like a US Marines genitals on his first trip ashore in Manila, the hairs on the back of McIntyres neck had become instantly erect. The TV news still blared in the corner a hectic report about a military take-over in some tin-pot Central Asian republic. The bowl of Coco Puffs still hovered above Franks heroically stained T-shirt,1 the spoonful of the same choc-flavoured corn-based breakfast cereal still suspended precariously half-way to his lips.
But something was different.
Some unknown set of relays had clicked inside Franks head. The highly tuned sixth sense which had saved his skin on countless occasions had kicked in again. So Frank McIntyre, Master Sergeant US Special Forces (ret), was in danger, but (as he reflected with a detached professional confidence) as of that instant not half as much danger as the other guy.
Just who that other guy might be didnt bother him at this stage. Frank hadnt stopped to consider who had been wearing the Vietcong-issue pyjamas, or enquire after the health of the balaclava-swathed terrorists. The personalities behind the Federal Marshals badges hadnt entered into the equation. Hed simply seen them as enemies, obstacles to his continued existence and now there were other obstacles crowding in on him. Frank was an equal opportunities killing machine, as free with his political allegiances as he was with his ammunition.
That was another good point. His Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun was tucked safely under the bed no way to reach that now. The laser sight was a toy, but one that gave him and the drivers of the big eighteen-wheel semis that thundered beneath his window constant amusement. Frank owned a fine collection of handguns, but his Colt automatic was shut in his desk draw. His .345 Smith & Wesson Magnum was, as usual, taped to the inside of the toilet cistern. With bitter irony he reflected that he was currently equidistant from all his carefully placed hardware.
If he was going to leave with his guest when the fun started he was going to have to move very fast indeed. Abandoning his guns was not a happy thought, but he knew the deadliest weapon of all was carried with him. The United Nations had never tried to ban it, nor had it been the subject of arms limitation talks, yet its facility to unleash unrivalled mayhem and slaughter was impossible to match. It was the twin handful of pink-grey blancmange that quivered between Franks ears, and whats more it was currently working overtime.
For the briefest of seconds he contemplated leaving the contents of his fridge undisturbed. No way, hosayovich. His uncommunicative guest represented the chance of several million lifetimes. He had no doubt it was the thing in his chiller cabinet they were after. It was too much of a coincidence to hope his former employers wanted a chat for anything less. They also wanted to take him alive. Otherwise hed already be dead. Frank knew how these guys operated hed all but written the manual himself. But knowing he was wanted for interrogation gave him a slender advantage, and right now he needed all the help he could get.
For the briefest of seconds he contemplated leaving the contents of his fridge undisturbed. No way, hosayovich. His uncommunicative guest represented the chance of several million lifetimes. He had no doubt it was the thing in his chiller cabinet they were after. It was too much of a coincidence to hope his former employers wanted a chat for anything less. They also wanted to take him alive. Otherwise hed already be dead. Frank knew how these guys operated hed all but written the manual himself. But knowing he was wanted for interrogation gave him a slender advantage, and right now he needed all the help he could get.
These thoughts went through Franks head in a split second. He didnt have to think about them, the act of knowing hed been compromised and analysing the tactical situation happened so fast as to be instantaneous. How would he plan it if he were commanding the assault? First off hed place a sniper team in the derelict warehouse across the street. Secondly, hed put a back-up squad at the bottom of the fire escape, to rush up when the main team hit the front door. Hed make sure he had every detail planned three ways in advance. But the time for preparation was at an end, now it was time for action.
Slowly, Frank lowered his bowl and made a careful show of appearing relaxed. The surveillance spooks would have him scoped at that very moment; his every move carefully analysed for signs of stress. As Frank got up and stretched, from the corner of the room, the confessional TV show presenter pointed out the problems faced by single-parent-transvestite households. There was a careful line Frank had to tread between haste and circumspection. Too fast and he risked letting on he knew of the raid, too slow and hed be yesterdays enchiladas before you could say justifiable force. As nonchalantly as he was able he headed for the kitchen, as if to fetch a morning beer.
His speed/stealth quandary was resolved for him. Before hed gone three steps with low-battery flatness his musical doorbell creaked to life. When the first bars of Do You Know the Way to San José? had trailed away, a carefully measured voice (too quick) called out, Floral delivery for Mr McIntyre. I need your signature.
The image of fifteen black berets, spread-eagled along the threadbare hallway, shotguns and battering rams at the ready, one reading from a carefully prepared script, sprung alarmingly to mind and refused to go away. That settled things. Speed was of the essence, and hed have to leave by the window. Painful, but not half as painful as getting shot.
Coming, Frank called in a none-too-convincing effort to buy time, as he ducked into the kitchen. He knew that wouldnt stall them for long, but at least he was hidden from view in the pokey windowless room.
Working quickly, he bundled his decaying guest from the fridge, removing its satchel as he did so. Checking the inhuman buckle he securely fastened the bulging sack around his neck. The document it contained was most definitely leaving with him. Next, he jammed the alien under one sinewy arm and tucked its legs up into his armpit. This way he was able to carry the feather-light carcass with surprising ease.
Now came the minor matter of making his escape. Talented and trained he might have been, but Frank held no illusions as to his chances. With a softly spoken Hail Mary he crawled back into the living room. He had the makings of a plan. It wasnt good, but it was painfully simple with the emphasis very much on the painful part.
Stealthily he backed up against one damp mould-encrusted wall. Next to him the apartments main window overlooked the busy street below. Luckily they hadnt stopped the traffic going past, otherwise his embryonic plan would have fallen in tatters at his sneaker-clad feet. A loud crash from the hallways front door told him that the delivery man really wanted to give him those flowers. Sure enough tear-gas soon followed.
The full-length window next to him opened out onto a small balcony, the apartments single redeeming feature. With an impressive shower of glass Frank kicked his way through it and was onto the veranda in a tobacco-stained flash. Instantly a high-velocity whoosh came racing in from the building across the street. A split second later a black-flighted crossbow-bolt embedded itself in the rail scant inches from his elbow. Frank recognized the lethal projectile before it had stopped twanging; he had used them himself on more than one occasion. But this was no time to stand around admiring the view. It was just as well that out of the corner of his twitching eye he spotted just what he was after. Up at the intersection a big eighteen-wheel road-transporter rounded the corner and ponderously accelerated down the main street beneath him.
With recklessness born of desperation Frank threw himself from the balcony, his unearthly passenger grasped tightly for dear life. For a stomach-churning second he thought hed gone too soon, and would slam into the dusty roadway in the vehicles path. But then, as if in slow motion, the hissing juggernaut arrived beneath him. A bone-crunching impact later and Frank was attached like a limpet to the container sections boxy flank.
One arm grasped the canvas-covered top as the other clung to the alien with grim determination. The bulk of the transporter now shielded Frank from the tactical position across the street. Shortly his pursuers were firing more than just arrows. Within seconds the gaudy awning was peppered with the gaping exit wounds of automatic fire. Soon the barrage was augmented from his rear, as the assault-team joined the party from the balcony above. Franks flaring nostrils filled with the evil smell of cordite, dragged along amidst the turbulent airflow of the trucks lengthening wake.
The vehicle thundered on, the driver either unaware of the hail of bullets or more likely terrified out of his wits. Frank decided he could hardly blame him. Remorselessly he began the slow process of clambering up on top of the hurtling juggernaut.
By now they were well clear of the apartment block and quickly leaving the crackle of gunfire behind them. Frank judged he was in more danger of being thrown off than of getting hit by a lucky long-range shot. There was a nasty moment as they sped around a corner, the highlight of which saw Frank clinging on by mere fingernails, his glassy-eyed companion grasped desperately by the other hand spread-eagled like a bony grey starfish but as they slalomed through the crowded streets the centrifugal forces flung them both back into the body of the careering lorry.
Grimly Frank hauled himself along the length of the tarpaulin. When he reached the containers leading edge he had good reason to thank the gods of chance once more. In front of him, across the metre-wide gap that separated the cab from its articulated container section, the drivers window lay open.
With a superhuman effort Frank swung his posthumous passenger in a wide arc and in through the open window. Seconds later Frank followed his mouldy companion through the opening.
The driver was looking more than a trifle alarmed, as well he might. Yelling at the top of his prodigious lungs he wrestled with the lifeless freeze-dried alien, simultaneously struggling to steer the big vehicle with his enormous belly. Franks wide-eyed arrival did nothing to calm him.
Get the fuck out of my cab! he screamed, scant moments before Franks fist undid $900 of careful dental bridgework.
Mmmmrrrph! the driver spluttered, spitting like a popcorn machine, as Frank unlatched the door and bundled him from the cab.
The ex-commando had no time for remorse, not that he would have fallen victim to such an emotion anyway. All his nerve-endings had long since been cauterized by the searing heat of battle. This was a shooting war now and the occasional civilian was bound to get hurt. Frank was neither stimulated nor disturbed by this certainty, he merely accepted it as matter-of-factly as hed accept the readout on a laser range-finder. Besides, it was the forces of law and order which had fired the first shots he knew from bitter experience they would be no more careful with the lives of the electorate than they had to be.