CHAPTER TWENTY
Corporal Ervin Charles maintained his stoic front when he saw the Subaru switch its lights off as it crested the low hill two miles from the base, but inwardly, he was smiling.
Colonel Chastain had been taking half measures for too long.
This would finally give Charles the ammunition to take a final measure.
He took his spotting scope off the tripod and placed it into the case, then folded the tripod and placed it next to the scope.
He closed the case, latched it, spun the combination locks so it locked, then carried it to his truck and placed it in the toolbox on the right side of the bed.
He preferred his motorcycle, but tonight’s assignment required a heavier vehicle.
And still, he’d instructed Charles to deliver a warning.
Charles had done so, causing a commotion at the Academy and deleting the doctor’s incriminating files, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough.
He knew Dr. Friedman wasn’t going to let it go.
The others hadn’t let it go. Dr. Friedman would have to suffer the same fate they had.
He climbed into the driver’s seat of the deuce and a half and lifted his field glasses to his eyes.
The binoculars weren’t nearly as powerful as the spotting scope, but they were more than enough to see the Subaru pull off the road into a stand of trees just behind the gate of the testing facility.
In an hour or so, Colonel Chastain and Sergeant Whitaker would return from their assignment in Washington.
Dr. Friedman would take his pictures, then head for home, oblivious to the fact that he’d never have a chance to use those pictures against the brigade.
Charles chuckled as he watched Dr. Friedman set up his camera. Sergeant Whitaker’s dog, Asset Sierra-9, was returning from an assignment. He lifted his canteen, took a long draught, replaced it in the center cubby of the truck and settled in to wait.
***
Whitaker’s lips were pressed so thin they disappeared against her face. Her hands were placed directly above her knees, fingers curled so tightly that if her fingernails weren’t trimmed religiously twice a week they would bite into her palms.
Colonel Chastain sat next to her, frowning darkly.
Whitaker didn’t blame him. They’d spent over fifteen hundred man-hours working with Sierra-9, and they still didn’t have enough control over her to execute the simplest of missions.
The damned dog had just stood in front of the target like a fucking statue. Never even opened its mouth.
The homeless man licked his lips and looked between Whitaker and Sierra-9. His eyes projected a deep and probably permanent drug haze. He mumbled something that sounded like “change,” and held out a twisted, scarred hand to receive it.
Whitaker looked at Sierra-9 and delivered the kill command. Sierra-9 flinched, but she didn’t move. Whitaker narrowed her eyes and repeated the command, pouring her will into it. Sierra-9 shook her head and backed away.
Whitaker was pissed off now. The damned dog actually shook its head no. Like a damned child.
It looked at her, eyes blank. Damn it, there was nothing there. It should be doing what she said.
“Change,” the homeless man mumbled again.
Whitaker reached for her handgun but stopped herself. No, bullets could be traced. She was angry, but being angry wouldn’t help. The test had failed. They needed to go back and try again.
“We’ll administer another dose when we return to base,” Chastain said, pulling Whitaker from her thoughts. “We’ll allow it all night to work, then run Sierra-9 through the conditioning protocols again. Then we’ll repeat the assignment.”
Whitaker’s fingers curled even tighter. “Sir, I strongly suggest we terminate the asset and select another one.”
“There are no other assets, Whitaker.”
Her lips followed her fingers, thinning so much they hurt. “There are thirteen active assets at the facility, sir. Any one of them would be a better choice than Sierra-9.”
“None of them would be a better choice than Sierra-9. Its scores are higher than any we’ve ever seen. It’s taken readily to every conditioning protocol and demonstrated an ability to process advanced instructions to an unprecedented degree.”
“Sure. When it’s not standing like an idiot in front of the target ignoring clear telecasted and spoken commands to—”
Chastain whipped his head toward her, and Whitaker paled slightly. “Spoken commands?”
She swallowed, kicking herself for letting her emotions get the better of her. “She refused to execute the telecasted command. I ordered her verbally to terminate the target, and she—”
“Fuck, Whitaker.”
His voice didn’t rise in pitch, but that didn’t make the oath any less terrifying. Whitaker’s fingers remained clenched but no longer out of anger. “I apologize, sir. I allowed my frustration to get the better of me. It won’t—”
“Who heard you?”
She swallowed. “Only the target, sir, and he wasn’t aware of what was going on. After I ordered Sierra-9 to attack him, he just blinked and asked me for money again. He then offered to pay me if I performed certain… services… for him.”
Immediately following that, Whitaker had knocked him unconscious with a single punch to the jaw, but she decided not to tell Chastain that.
She hadn’t killed him, and the chances of him remembering what happened upon waking were slim to none.
The chances of him telling anyone were nonexistent, and the chances of anyone believing him strayed into fantasy. She was fine. They were fine.
Chastain watched her for several minutes. She kept her eyes straight ahead, her back ramrod straight. Sweat beaded on her forehead and slid into her left eye, stinging it, but she kept it open, praying that the tremors running through her weren’t visible.
Finally, Chastain sighed. “Fuck, Whitaker.”
This time, the oath was delivered with a sort of relieved exasperation. Relief of her own washed through Whitaker, and she swallowed and said a silent prayer of thanks to a God she hadn’t believed in since her father invoked His name as a reason to beat her with a belt until she bled.
“Sierra-9 remains our best chance to accomplish our mission,” Chastain said in a patronizing tone that Whitaker usually hated but that indicated an end to his anger now.
“We simply grew too eager and pressed too far. We’re making progress with it.
It will be the first unit to successfully execute a combat mission. ”
Whitaker risked one more argument. “Perhaps we are putting too many eggs in Sierra-9’s basket.”
“Perhaps,” Chastain allowed. “In which case, we will move on and seek other assets. However, Sierra-9 remains useful. We’re not finished with it.”
That was the end of the discussion. Whitaker, now certain that she had escaped death this time, brought up her other primary concern. “The doctor is still investigating us.”
“Corporal Charles is dealing with that,” Chastain replied. “Dr. Friedman will either behave himself, or he will die before the end of the night.”
Whitaker’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really?”
The corners of Chastain’s mouth curled upward.
“Yes, Sergeant Whitaker. You and Charles are finally getting your wish. After discussing the situation with Director Karver, I have agreed to conditionally authorize Dr. Friedman’s termination.
I still hope that he will choose to cease his interference, but if he doesn’t, then we will end it for him. ”
Whitaker sometimes wondered how a man as intelligent as Randall Chastain could simultaneously be so stupid.
Dr. Friedman wasn’t going to stop. He had decided to make Sierra-9 his crusade.
People on righteous missions didn’t stop, not even when a SWAT team stood outside of their home pointing guns at them and threatening to kill them if they didn’t release the baby girl they were holding by the throat.
Whitaker’s fingers began to curl again, and she pushed the unpleasant memory from her mind.
That situation had been dealt with decades ago, and this situation would be dealt with tonight.
There was no more point in dwelling on it.
She only wished she could be there to see the light fade from Dr. Friedman’s eyes the way she saw it fade from her father’s.