Wolverine: Weapon X Page 10

  “Itinerary? That is very funny.”

  “Cut to the chase or I’m cutting you loose, Agent Katana,” growled Logan, no longer amused.

  Miko frowned, then spoke. “French intelligence has been operating a deep mole inside of Canada’s military community for a number of years. At times they share information with SAT. Nothing of much consequence, usually. But two days ago, a GIGN operative in the South Pacific tipped us off to your mission, provided the details—”

  “What kind of details?”

  “We know there is another operative involved,” she replied, “Agent Neil Langram. We know the location of your landing zones, your time over target, and your final objective. We also know how and where you’ll be extracted when the mission is concluded.”

  Logan considered her story. The woman could be bluffing, but I doubt it.

  France’s Groupe d’lntervention Gendarmerie Nationale was one of the most active counterterrorism forces in the world. Unfortunately, they weren’t always on the same side as the Canadians, and it bothered Logan that the French learned about his mission, then passed on the details to a third party.

  “What you just told me is a keg of political dynamite waiting to explode—if it’s true,” hissed Logan.

  “Why would I lie?”

  “Why would you tell the truth?”

  “Perhaps as a gesture to gain your trust, Mr. Logan. Perhaps because I require your help.”

  Logan picked up his G36, twirled it, and thrust it back into its holster. “Now, why would I help you?”

  “Does it matter to you that lives hang in the balance? That an entire nation may be at risk?”

  “Probably not.”

  The woman’s expression hardened, her tiny hand caressed the handle of her automatic.

  “Mr. Logan, I do not care how you feel or what you believe. You must help me get inside the complex below before it is too late … if it is not too late already.”

  * * * * *

  “Abe … Abe, please… Please, wake up…”

  Dr. Cornelius heard his wife’s plea, but her voice—like her image—seemed spectral and very far away.

  “It’s Paul … he’s crying again. His fever is raging. I’m afraid he’ll burn up,” Madeline cried. “We have to take him to the emergency room. We must go now!”

  Over the sound of his wife’s sobs, Cornelius heard the agonized scream of his infant son. Suddenly on his feet, Cornelius found himself moving in slow motion, his legs hindered as though he were running through an ocean of glue.

  “I’m coming!” he pleaded, pushing against the clinging tide.

  But no matter how he struggled, how he raged, Cornelius’s every step forward seemed to carry him back. His heart pounded against his rib cage, threatening to burst. He redoubled his efforts, yet his legs failed to carry him to his child.

  Finally, Cornelius burst through the sea of milky fog to reach his son’s bedroom. The colorful wallpaper glowed in front of his eyes like a hundred computer screens; the toys hanging over the crib looked ominous, twisted—long steel spikes, six-inch hypodermic needles, blood-flecked surgical probes.

  When Cornelius stared down into the crib, Paul Philip, his son, was gone. In the boy’s place, Subject X—his flesh pierced with a thousand steel thorns—lay on bloody sheets.

  Cornelius heard a scream and bolted upright. A pen slipped from his limp hand and clattered to the floor. He reached up to adjust the mashed glasses on his face, then tossed them on the keyboard in front of him. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he pushed himself away from the computer terminal.

  Must have been more tired than I thought. . . Passed right out.

  The intercom buzzed only once. On his monitor, Cornelius saw the pinched face of an earnest young technician who was manning the observation booth adjacent to Lab Two. Cornelius didn’t know the name of the young technician working “status tech” and it didn’t matter, anyway. Wearily, the doctor pulled on his glasses, then punched the key.

  “Cornelius here… Status?”

  “Resting, Doctor. But he’s on the ground, not on his cot.”

  The technician tapped a key, and the view from Lab Two filled the monitor. Cornelius saw Logan sprawled out on the floor on top of a bed of coiled tubes and wires—eyes closed, chest heaving. Body hair now covered the subject’s chest, arms, legs, genitals. On the right-hand side of Cornelius’s screen, a toolbar supplied real-time data on the subject’s temperature, respiration, blood pressure, heart rate, and electrolyte balance.

  “S’okay. Anything to report?” Cornelius could see the young man was concerned about something, though the readings were well within the normal range.

  “No, sir … except…”

  A complication? Absolutely impossible. Subject X was making a remarkable recovery.

  “What?”

  “Well, you know,” the technician began. “Looks like this guy’s really been through the mill.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Cornelius replied.

  What does this technician want me to say? Cornelius wondered. That I feel bad for the subject? That I think it’s wrong to put another human being through this kind of torment? That the Professor is inhumanly cruel? The Weapon X program misguided and sick?

  “Keep a close eye on him,” Cornelius said before ending the transmission. So I don’t have to.

  Dr. Cornelius glanced at the digital clock. It’s three in the morning. Jesus. No wonder I’m so exhausted. Maybe I should call it a night?

  He rose and stretched his back, which had been bent over the computer terminal when he’d fallen asleep. He reached out to power down his workstation when the intercom buzzed again.

  Stifling a yawn, Cornelius answered.

  “Doctor? He just woke up.” This time, the technician sounded nervous.

  “How does he look?”

  “Like cow flop, Dr. Cornelius.”

  Logan appeared on Cornelius’s monitor. Subject X seemed to be in the same position as before, only his eyes were open and staring blank and unseeing, at the opposite wall.

  “Is he moving?”

  “No. Just staring.”

  Better leave my terminal active, Cornelius decided. Just in case something really does go wrong.

  “Okay,” Cornelius told the younger man. “Keep monitoring. Call me if anything happens. Out.”

  Cornelius kicked off his shoes and stripped off his lab coat to drape it over his chair. Then, still fully clothed, he stretched out on the bunk, tucked his glasses into his shirt pocket, and closed his heavy eyes.

  Almost immediately, he slipped into a deep, dreaming sleep…

  * * * * *

  “So, Clete. You’ve seen the results. What do you conclude?”

  “Do you really need a second opinion, Abe?”

  Dr. Cornelius nodded. “I’m a research scientist. You’re the practicing physician. Now, what’s your diagnosis, Doctor?”

  Dr. Cletus Forester pulled thick bifocals from the pocket of his pale green lab coat. Holding them to his face without opening them, he studied the results of a battery of tests he’d performed. Unfortunately, they mirrored the first set of charts provided by the child’s pediatrician.

  “The, er… patient’s white blood cell count is far higher than normal, even for a child five times the boy’s age,” Dr. Forester began. “If you didn’t know this from your own work, your pediatrician probably told you that children, have lousy immune systems—which is why they’re sick all the time.”

  “But not Paul?”

  Forester shook his head. “Your son is different. His antibodies are through the roof, and they’re busy little bastards, too—killing everything in sight. Persistent generalized lymphadenopathy is present—”

  “Those lumps on his neck, under his arms?” Cornelius asked.

  Forester nodded. “The groin, too. The lumps haven’t shown up on the boy’s skin yet, but they will soon. Only a matter of time. You say the fever is chronic?”

  “Above one hundred
at all times—but spiking to one hundred and two or even one hundred and three at night,” Cornelius replied.

  “Night sweats?”

  “Every night, practically. Some mornings the sheets are soaked. My son…”

  Cornelius paused, biting back emotion. When he spoke again, his tone was neutral. “Paul sheds fluids as fast as I can pump them into him. When the bad bouts occur, he’s on an IV constantly. Even then, his electrolyte balance is totally shot to hell.”

  “There are signs of connective tissue disease,” Forester added.

  “Systemic lupus erythematosus?” Cornelius said, surprised. “So Paul’s crying might be related to joint or muscle pain … damn… I never considered the possibility of lupus.”

  Dr. Forrester slowly shook his head. “Not lupus. Not precisely. Something like systemic lupus erythematosus. Something we’ve never seen before.”

  Cornelius, lost in thought, rubbed his chin. “I was reluctant to use painkillers, but now…”

  “Use painkillers. Alleviate the boy’s suffering,” Forester said.

  Cornelius looked up. “But there must be more I can do … a treatment to reverse the organ damage? Maybe a synthetic antibody to fight the antibodies he’s producing…”

  “Look, I’m sorry to tell you this, Abe,” Forester said. “But, to be blunt, you’re grasping at straws. You’ve obviously arrived at the same conclusion I have, or you wouldn’t have sought a second opinion.”

  Cornelius looked up as if stung. “What are you saying, Clete?”

  “We… we both know that your son’s condition is fatal… that it’s only a matter of time.”

  Cornelius looked away. “I haven’t accepted that prognosis.”

  “Come on, Abe!” Forester cried. “Paul’s immune system is forming antibodies that are attacking the cell nuclei. His DNA. RNA. Cell proteins. Phospholipids. It’s only a matter of time before the organs are degraded and fail… one by one. Maybe three months. Four at the outside.”

  Behind his bottle-thick glasses, Cornelius’s eyes burned. “I haven’t given up. Not yet.”

  “But there’s no cure—”

  “I’ll find one.”

  “—And probably there will never be a cure,” Forester insisted. “In any case, it would take years, maybe decades, just to isolate the underlying cause of the condition. And more years trying to find a treatment to alleviate the suffering, never mind a cure.”

  Forester placed his arm on Cornelius’s shoulder. When he spoke again, it was as a friend, not a physician. “Abe. Listen to me and accept what I’m telling you for your own good.

  “The patient… your son, Paul… doesn’t have decades, or even years. Prepare yourself for the worst. Grieve when the time comes, and get on with your life.”

  * * * * *

  It seemed as if he’d just closed his eyes for a moment when the intercom buzzed again.

  Cornelius rolled off the bunk and stumbled to the terminal. He keyed the speaker, then fumbled with his glasses.

  “Doctor?”

  The same technician, now looking positively frantic. “Yes… Status. What is it?”

  “He’s moving now.”

  “Violently?”

  The technician paused. “He just leaned forward a bit.” You woke me up for that? Cornelius thought.

  “Status…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t have to tell me every time the patient shifts weight.”

  “Yes, sir… sorry, sir.” The technician vanished.

  That’s it, Cornelius concluded. After twenty-two hours on my feet, I need some rest.

  Cornelius stooped over the keyboard and pounded out a short message instructing the status tech to direct all inquiries to the Professor for the next two hours.

  If the tech wants to go into panic mode before his shift ends, Cornelius figured that the Professor can deal with it.

  But before he could power-down his terminal, Cornelius received yet another call.

  “Status?” he answered.

  “The patient’s fine, sir. But he seems alert now.”

  Cornelius was suddenly wide awake. “He’s aware?”

  “He’s just staring at his hands.”

  “Hands?”

  “Yeah. The wires on his hands.”

  Cornelius recalled that Dr. Hendry put post-op bioscan monitors on the subject’s hands in an effort to find out where the extra adamantium ended up collecting. Both Hendry and Chang feared that Subject X would lose mobility in his hands if too much adamantium accumulated around the delicate bones of his fingers.

  “I’d better come over,” Cornelius told the man. “Call the Professor. Have him meet me there. Out.”

  * * * * *

  “I have desperate need of your help or I would not ask, Mr. Logan,” Miko Katana said. “Lives hang in the balance—”

  “So you mentioned,” Logan replied. “But you’d better preach to the choir, ‘cause I’m not buying.”

  “Please, Mr. Logan, hear me out before you judge.”

  Standing on the ledge that hung over the dam and the man-made lake, Logan faced the woman, eyes level with hers.

  “Two weeks ago, a Japanese research scientist was kidnapped while visiting Seoul. SAT intelligence uncovered evidence that the man was snatched by agents working for General Koh because of the knowledge the scientist possessed.”

  “Knowledge of weapons, no doubt,” said Logan. “It’s no secret that the North Koreans have a nuclear program up and punning. It’s a delivery system they lack—rockets and missiles. So let me guess—the missing scientist is a rocketry expert? A whiz at telemetry? Is that what you’re hinting at?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss the doctor’s work.”

  “Lady, you’re not giving me squat.”

  “I am telling you what you need to know—nothing else.”

  “So basically you want me to help you get inside that facility—but you won’t tell me why beyond some bullshit about people in danger. Then, once we’re inside, we’re supposed to find some guy who has been kidnapped, but you won’t tell me who he is or why he was snatched. And you keep talking about some guy named General Koh, who has a hand in all of this—yet I never heard Koh’s name in any of my intelligence assessments. Who is this Koh?”

  “General Koh is a Japanese problem that does not concern you,” she replied.

  Her answer didn’t surprise him. “Look, babe, I’ve got to know a bit more.”

  But Logan’s demand was met with a wall of silence and an unwavering stare. Time was ticking by. Logan would soon be behind schedule—and his tardiness would jeopardize the success of the mission, putting Neil Langram at risk, too.

  “Okay, you win,” Logan said at last. “You can come with me, but only because I’m lonely.”

  And because your team obviously has better intelligence than mine. And in the spy game, knowledge is power—the kind that can save your life.

  “Thank you, Mr. Logan. I promise I will not compromise your mission, even if it jeopardizes my own.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Miko Katana reached for a pack at her belt. “Before we start, let me patch you up. You must be in terrible pain.”

  The woman stepped around Logan and examined his bloodstained back. But when she began to clean his wounds, Miko got a huge surprise.

  “I… I do not understand. A few minutes ago, your back was covered with lacerations. Now your wounds are nearly healed!”

  “It’s like I told you,” Logan replied. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be all better.”

  “This is not normal,” Miko replied.

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “But how do you do this?”

  “Good genes,” Logan said with bitterness.

  Miko accepted his explanation and set out to clean the wounds that remained. When she was done, Logan tore off the remains of his high-tech stealth suit, then popped open a metal canister that had been hooked to his belt. He dumped
a tight black bundle the size of a bar of soap into his right palm. As he worked it in his hands, the bundle expanded until Logan finally shook it out. When the formfitting camouflage suit was completely unfurled, Logan stripped off the rest of his gear and donned fresh clothing.

  While he changed, Miko shyly averted her eyes. She cautiously crawled to the very edge of the cliff to observe the dam through miniature binoculars.

  “See anything?” Logan asked as he snapped his utility belt around his waist.

  “Just normal activity. The North Koreans do not seem to be aware of our presence.”

  “That’s great,” said Logan as he hefted his 036 and fed a round into the chamber. “Because I’ve had just about enough surprises for one night.”

  8

  Unforeseen Consequences

  Despite the hour—nearly dawn—sleep eluded the Professor, as sleep always had, since early childhood. He sat rigid and alert on his ergonomic throne, grateful for the timelessness of his command center, where he could ignore the twenty-four-hour cycle and utterly dispense with the sleep ritual—at least until physical and mental exhaustion forced him to retreat into dreamless slumber.

  Fortunately, that happened with less frequency In the past few months, as the Weapon X project came to fruition, he marveled at how much more he was able to accomplish without the need for sleep. How uncluttered and crystallized his thought processes had become without the uncontrolled fancies of dreams or nightmares.

  The entire Weapon X program would have been impossible without my sacrifice, my constant vigilance, the Professor reflected. All I ever wanted was success—which is why the Director’s reckless action is such a betrayal.

  Flickering unseen on his central monitor were images from Lab Two, where Subject X lay in a post-operative stupor. The laborious procedure had gone well—so well that the Professor didn’t need to look at the medical data to know that his patient would make a full and rapid recovery.

  That issue was never in any doubt. The patient was destined to survive because Director X stacked the deck to ensure success. Perhaps I should thank him… Thank him for jeopardizing the project, years of work. Thank him for his lies, his treachery.

  But no thanks were possible. The Professor felt only a huge burning rage.