Boston Run Page 11

  Milton promptly obeyed, rubbing his sore neck, clearly nervous. "I'll do whatever you want." He glanced at the KGB agent, at the blood dribbling from her mouth. "Just don't hurt me."

  "You're a brave man, Doctor," Blade said sarcastically.

  "I'm not accustomed to violence."

  "You're in the military."

  "Yes, but I'm a scientist involved in medical research, not a fighter,"

  Milton said. His eyes narrowed and he regarded the giant carefully. "Wait a minute. How did you know I'm in the military?"

  "You'd be surprised at what I know," Berwin replied.

  Milton sighed and folded his hands in his lap. "I dreaded this happening."

  "Dreaded what?" Berwin asked, sitting on the edge of the desk.

  "Your natural personality asserting itself," Milton said. "Your aggressive tendencies have negated the effect of the drug."

  "Tell me about the Memroxin."

  Milton frowned. "Memroxin is an experimental drug we've developed to extract information from recalcitrant subjects. You were administered a dose shortly after your capture."

  "My capture?"

  "Yes. The HGP Unit captured you near the Home. If it's any consolation, I heard that you resisted admirably," Milton said. "They were flown to Minnesota by helicopter specifically for the purpose of taking you prisoner. The general was quite adamant about capturing you. He didn't want anyone else."

  Berwin's forehead creased as he sorted the new information. If he'd been captured in Minnesota, then he must be from Minnesota, from the Home the scientist had mentioned. None of the revelations jarred his memory. He realized he must proceed cautiously. If Milton knew how little he truly knew, the colonel might lie to keep him in the dark. "It sounds as if the general doesn't like me," he commented.

  Milton snorted. "Like you? General Malenkov despises you and the rest of the Family. But he especially hates you because of the many times you have thwarted his plans. Oh. And there is one other he hates. The Warrior named Hickok."

  The name provoked a recognition response in Berwin's mind. He recalled the blond man in buckskins he'd seen in his dream, and he perceived the two were one and the same. Hickok. He felt the man was a close friend, although he couldn't remember any experiences they had shared.

  "There is a rumor making the rounds, and I don't know how true it is, that General Malenkov became furious after you destroyed Lenin's Needle in Cincinnati. He vowed to take revenge on you and the Family, at all costs."

  Lenin's Needle? The title was unfamiliar to Berwin.

  "General Malenkov personally conceived of the intricate plan to eradicate your Family once and for all," Milton went on. "He sent the HGP

  Unit to capture you, and you were transported to Boston and placed in the HGP ward under my care."

  "Why Boston? Why you?"

  "I was placed in charge of your treatment because I was instrumental in creating the Memroxin. No one knows the capabilities of the drug better than I do."

  "What are its capabilities?"

  "Memroxin inhibits the ability to remember past events. You might say its a form of induced amnesia. Twelve hours after Memroxin is injected, the subject can't remember a thing. Bewilderment and disorientation are quite common."

  "How many doses was I given?"

  "One. One dose is all that's required. Our experiments demonstrated that additional amounts of Memroxin don't enhance its effectiveness one iota."

  "How long does the amnesia last?"

  Milton had relaxed as they conversed. He gestured absently, as if he was lecturing an intern. "The duration varies. For maximum effectiveness the subject must be kept in a controlled environment where all external stimulation is eliminated. You see, the potency of the Memroxin is reduced when the subject is subjected to strong emotional affirmation of the previous identity."

  "In other words, if someone the subject knew and loved were to walk into the subject's room, the Memroxin would lose its hold?"

  "It could happen. Even favorite possessions can trigger recall."

  Berwin pondered for a moment. "I don't get it. How can the Memroxin be used to extract information if it makes the subject forget everything?"

  "There's the beauty of the drug," Milton stated proudly. "The subject gradually begins to recall events, people, and places from the past, but the memories are vague at first. They take the form of dreams or random associations, and they're of no unusual significance to the subject." He paused. "That's where I come in. If properly manipulated, the subject will reveal a host of important information he or she ordinarily wouldn't divulge. To the subjects, there is no connection between their dreams and their past."

  "That's why you were so interested in my dreams."

  "Exactly."

  "And all the lies you told me?"

  "They were intended to allay any suspicions you might have entertained. We fabricated the report of your demolition accident to explain your presence in the hospital—"

  "But what about my scar?" Berwin interrupted, running his finger along the indentation.

  Milton smiled. "It's fake. We shaved some of your hair off, and a professional makeup artist applied the phony scar. If you use your thumbnail, you can peel the scar right off."

  Berwin jabbed his right thumbnail into the skin at the nape of his neck, just below where the scar began. In seconds he succeeded in peeling the tip off, and a sharp tug removed the remainder. He dangled the strip of flesh-colored adhesive material in his hand, reflecting on the brilliance of the deception.

  "Your so-called family also figured in our scheme. We wanted you to feel at ease, to avoid arousing your Warrior nature. We thought you would adjust more readily if you believed you had the support of a loving family,"

  Milton disclosed.

  "And the lie about the United States winning World War Three was to convince me the Russians couldn't possibly be a threat, just in case some memory of the war surfaced?"

  Milton nodded. "And to convince you that you were among fellow citizens in a country to which you were devoted. We hoped to eliminate any suggestion of a potentially disturbing memory of a hostile nature. Our enemies can arouse strong emotions too."

  "And strong emotions interfere with the Memroxin."

  "What triggered your memory?" Milton inquired. "Was it something the damn janitor said?"

  "I'll ask the questions," Berwin rejoined stiffly.

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "Why did you go to so much trouble to get the information you wanted out of me? Why not use truth serum or simple torture?"

  "Because General Malenkov gave explicit instructions that you weren't to be harmed under any circumstances. So torture, obviously, was out.

  Truth serum, as you call it, is not all it's cracked up to be. It's unreliable.

  The subject can resist, even lie. And there are sometimes adverse side effects. Memroxin, on the other hand, is harmless, and eventually the subject regains a fully restored memory."

  Berwin stared at the scientist. "Why does General Malenkov want me in one piece?"

  "Because of the part you're to play in the HGP Project," Milton answered.

  "What's that?"

  "The HGP Project is the second reason you were brought to Boston.

  HGP research is based in Boston, and this hospital, specifically this ward, is exclusively devoted to the Project."

  "Explain."

  "I wouldn't know where to begin."

  "Try the beginning," Berwin suggested.

  "Very well. Prior to the war, American scientists in this very city were earnestly engaged in the Human Genome Project, or HGP. Do you know what a human genome is?"

  "No."

  "The human genome refers to the complete set of genetic instructions for making a human being. Billions of dollars were spent by American scientists in the decade preceding the war as they attempted to map and sequence every human gene. They made commendable progress, despite the magnitude of the task. There are approximately one hundr
ed thousand genes in the human body, and there are about three billion chemical components of genetic material. The goal is to identify every one."

  "Why?"

  "Think of the implications. Eventually we'll be able to take a fragment of tissue from an embryo and screen it for every known disease based on its genetic constitution. There are around four thousand heritable diseases in the world, and we intend to track down the genetic base of each.

  Through selective breeding we can ultimately eliminate those diseases,"

  Milton boasted.

  Berwin straightened when he heard the phrase "selective breeding."

  "Eliminate the diseases? How?"

  "By terminating every embryo carrying a genetic defect."

  "Mass abortions?"

  Milton nodded and grinned. "Why do you look so shocked? Mass abortions were commonplace in America before the war. Over two million babies were aborted every year. We are simply continuing the work the Americans started."

  "How do I fit into the picture?"

  "I assume you know about our Impregnation Program?"

  Berwin frowned. "Yeah, I know about it," he said distastefully.

  "Well, twenty-five years ago we combined certain aspects of the Impregnation Program with the Human Genome Project. The result was an elite squad of perfect soldiers, our HGP Unit."

  "I don't follow you."

  "Imagine, if you will, a squad of highly trained commandos, every one of which is a perfect physical specimen," Milton said. "We started screening embryos two and a half decades ago, looking for those without genetic blemish. The task hasn't been an easy one. With so many thousands of heritable diseases, finding embryos totally free from such traits is akin to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack." He paused. "But we have been moderately successful. There are currently eighteen soldiers in the HGP Unit. Supersoldiers would be a more accurate description, physically superb in every respect. Each one is the equal of four ordinary soldiers. Their strength, their endurance, their mental alacrity are all far above normal."

  "I still don't see where I fit in," Blade observed.

  "We've discovered that we increase our chances of obtaining flawless embryos if the paternal factors contributing to the production of the embryos meet certain criteria. For instance, impregnating a healthy, intelligent woman with the sperm from a man who is endowed with an above-average intellect and a healthy body greatly increases the odds of producing a perfect embryo. Impregnating a slovenly cow with the sperm from an imbecile defeats our purposes," Milton stated, and smirked at his last comment.

  Berwin slowly stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "You were planning to use me in your program? You were going to use my sperm to breed your supersoldiers?"

  "Yes," Milton confirmed. "General Malenkov came up with the idea.

  First he wanted us to extract all the information we could pertaining to the layout of the Home for the HGP Unit to use when they conduct their raid. Then the general wanted us to extract semen, which we would use to impregnate selected females. We ran two complete series of tests on you, and our tests have proven you to be an ideal candidate for the HGP

  Project. Which wasn't very surprising. You're seven feet tall and endowed with a herculean physique. On top of that, your IQ is in the genius range."

  "Says who?"

  "Don't be modest. You know you're superior to ninety-nine percent of humanity."

  "I know nothing of the sort. I'm no better or worse than most people.

  I'm just ordinary."

  Milton laughed. "Sure you are! Who's deluding whom?"

  Berwin folded his arms and studied the scientist, thinking of additional questions he needed to ask. "When is the HGP Unit slated to conduct the raid?"

  "The general is waiting for the data I was to extract from you. He thought it highly appropriate that information you supplied would be employed to destroy the Family."

  "Where is the HGP Unit based?"

  Milton did a double take. "Why do you want to know?"

  "Answer me," Berwin said, his tone low and grating.

  "They're billeted at Gorbachev Air Force Base, northwest of the city.

  They're kept on alert status twenty-four hours a day so they can depart whenever the need arises. A fleet of helicopters is always at their disposal,"

  Milton said. "They utilized one of their specially modified choppers when they captured you, a helicopter with an extended flight range. I was told they refueled in Illinois, then flew close to the Home. One of the women pretended to be in distress and you responded to her cries for help."

  "There are female supersoldiers?"

  "Certainly. Would you accuse us of genetic discrimination?"

  "No. I could accuse you of being immoral genetic fascists, but that's beside the point. What happened after the woman yelled for help?"

  "You were suckered into the forest and shot with a tranquilizer dart.

  Actually, you were shot with three tranquilizer darts. They misjudged the proper dose required to render you unconscious, and you proved difficult to subdue. Two of the HGP Unit sustained broken limbs," Milton divulged.

  "After you were down, they carted you to the helicopter. You were flown directly here, except for a few refueling stops."

  "Who administered the Memroxin to me?"

  "I injected it."

  Berwin leaned down until his nose was an inch from the scientist's. "I should do the world a favor and kill you right here and now."

  Milton swallowed hard and squirmed in the chair. "I don't want to die."

  "Do you think I care what you want? How many American women have you impregnated against their will? How many people have suffered as guinea pigs in your damnable experiments?"

  "I'm not personally involved with the impregnations," Milton said defensively. He detected a steely cast to the Warrior's gray eyes, and he expected those brawny hands to clamp on his neck again. Fearful for his life, well aware of the Warrior's reputation, he frantically sought a diversionary tactic, anything to take the giant's mind off of his part in the HGP Project. He blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

  "Would you like your own clothes back?"

  "Do you have them?"

  "In there," Milton said, and nodded at the closet.

  Berwin walked over. "Which ones?" he asked, scrutinizing the uniforms and other clothing, none of which he recognized.

  "The black leather vest and the fatigue pants hanging on the far right side are yours," Milton revealed. "So are the combat boots on the floor in the right corner."

  Berwin moved a white smock aside and found the vest and pants. For a second he thought he recalled wearing the vest before, but the second passed and the blank slate mocked him again. He took both garments and placed them on the oaken desk, then retrieved the combat boots. Eager to remove the uncomfortable clothing he had on, he glanced at the scientist.

  "Bend over."

  "What?"

  "I don't want you to try to escape while I'm changing," Berwin explained. "Bend over, wrap your arms around your legs, and close your eyes. If you so much as twitch before I give the word, I'll split your skull open."

  "I won't give you any trouble," Milton promised as he bent down. "I'll help you in any way I can. Just don't kill me. Please."

  "Be quiet," Berwin directed. He hurriedly stripped off the flannel shirt, jeans, and brown boots, discarding them on the floor, and donned the fatigue pants, the black leather vest, and finally the combat boots, sitting on the desk as he tied the laces. "Are there any weapons in here?"

  Despite the injunction to keep his eyes closed, Milton looked up, his features reflecting alarm. "Weapons?"

  "Yeah. You know. Guns. Grenades. Tanks. Atomic bombs. Anything?"

  "This is my office. I'm not a soldier." Milton said.

  Berwin stood, his suspicions aroused by the scientist's evasive behavior.

  "So there aren't any weapons in here?"

  "No," Milton asserted, and glanced
at the desk.

  "I hope you're telling me the truth," Berwin stated, stepping around to the opposite side. There were six small drawers, three on each side.

  "The guard has a gun," Milton mentioned hastily.

  "I've been meaning to ask you about the guard," Berwin remarked.

  "Why is he wearing a blue uniform from a place called Acme Security instead of a Russian uniform?"

  Milton gripped the arms of his chair tightly, watching the giant's every move. "We issued civilian security guard uniforms to every soldier assigned to corridor duty in case you were to stumble onto them."

  "Is that a fact?" Berwin responded. He opened the top drawer on the left and found only papers.

  "Why don't you disarm the guard?" Milton queried nervously.

  Berwin opened the second drawer on the left, which was crammed with pens, papers, and two paperback books: a dictionary and a volume of biological terminology.

  "I don't keep weapons in my desk," Milton said, and laughed, a fake, brittle sound betraying his rising anxiety.

  Why was the man so upset? Berwin asked himself. He inspected the final drawer on the left and discovered several pill bottles, a packet of tongue depressors, and a box of gauze.

  "You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Doctor?"

  "Of course not," Milton stated.

  Berwin reached for the top drawer on the right.

  "I'll even lure the guard in here for you," Milton proposed. "How about that?"

  "Your kindness overwhelms me," Berwin quipped, and yanked the drawer open.

  Milton gasped.

  There were two of them, a matched set, lying on top of a stack of medical forms, each still in a leather sheath, lying flat, side by side.

  Bowie knives.

  A tingle rippled along Berwin's spine, as if he'd received an electric shock. "My name isn't Berwin, is it, Doctor?" he asked.

  "No," Milton answered hoarsely.

  "What is my real name?" the giant inquired. He grasped the Bowies, one in each hand, and raised them into the light. The moment he did, a veritable explosion of memories filled his mind. In the space of a heartbeat the blank slate was gone. In its place, flooding his consciousness with the irresistible force of a whirlpool, dazzling him with intensity and vividness, was his past.