Enjoy the trip.
Those were the exact words another solider had said nine months ago, right after he had kicked Griff viciously in the ribs and then manacled him with a heavy pair of chained cuffs.
Enjoy the trip.
It had been a quiet Sunday night in Kalvesta, Kansas, when the front door to Griff’s house shattered open. As usual, he was at his computer, poring over data. In fact, except for the rare occasions when he was playing bridge or chess online, he was always poring over data. His research centered about experiments in modifying viral mRNA—messenger RNA. The thrust of his work was getting a particular virus to incorporate a foreign sequence of nucleotides when it replicated. The result would be germs incapable of further reproduction.
The data, based on a model he had begun developing years before in Africa, had recently started showing some serious promise. Best of all, every bit of his work was done using CGI—computer-generated imagery and advanced data processing. No live subjects. That had been Griff’s long-standing pledge to himself. No animals. Slowly, steadily, he was closing in on a potentially revolutionary antiviral treatment. He could feel it.
Simultaneous with the disintegration of his front door, the power was cut to the house. In total darkness, Griff could hear, but not see, his windows shattering. Suddenly flashlight beams cut swaths in all directions as soldiers, military police, and members of SWAT, all wearing gas masks, swarmed inside like ants on a sugar mound. Guns were drawn. There was so much shouting that Griff could make out little of what was being said. That is until the soldiers came at him.
“Get down! Get the fuck down! Facedown, now!”
They pointed their weapons at him. Three soldiers forced him onto his belly. A boot, pressed firmly against the back of his neck, driving his face against the oak floor. That was when he received the first of many kicks—this one to his side. His organs seemed to loosen as the air rushed out of his lungs.
“Where is it?” one of the attackers demanded.
“Where is what?” Griff managed.
Another kick. This one harder. The toe of a boot plunged between his ribs. Pain exploded throughout his body and he gagged for air.
“Tear the place apart!”
The lights came back on. Two men forced Griff to stay facedown. All around him he heard the sounds of destruction—glass breaking, fabric ripping, objects crashing. Every so often a solider would roughly pull his head up by his hair and demand to know where “it” was.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
That was when they would kick him again. Always in the same spot, maximizing the pain.
Interminable time went by before a woman called out from his small, partially finished basement.
“I’ve found it! Captain, I’ve found it!”
Griff heard footsteps racing up his basement stairs. Hands grabbed at him and yanked him up by his shirt. He saw a petite brunette solider holding a green cylindrical metal canister bearing several biohazard decals on it.
Impossible!
Griff knew the canister well. WRX3883. It had come from the Level 4 containment zone of the lab where he was working—the most secure containment area in their system. He studied it for a moment, unwilling to believe that it had just been retrieved from the basement of his house. If the canister held the virus from Level 4, still growing inside its tissue culture, then it also held death—horrible, slow, inexorable death.
“How many did you find, solider?” the ranking officer barked.
“Five canisters total, sir,” she replied. “They were in a cubby, hidden behind the basement wall paneling.”
“Secure him,” the captain ordered.
Two soldiers standing behind Griff pulled him upright and pinned his arms to his back. The officer in charge then stepped forward and punched Griff hard in the stomach, not once, but twice. The room began to spin. The soldiers holding his arms in place now had to prop Griff up as well. In addition, they kept shouting at him, demanding to know if they had all the canisters.
“Were there more than five?” he heard them say.
“Sylvia Chen … my boss … speak to her.… I didn’t take those canisters.… Find Sylvia … she’ll vouch for me. I’m just a researcher, I—”
Another fierce punch to the gut cut off his words. He dropped to his knees and retched. Soldiers surrounded him and dragged him outside into a crisp, star-drenched Kansas night. Again, they rudely pulled his arms behind his back. He cried out in pain. Handcuffs closed tightly around his wrists, cutting into his skin.
“Too tight,” Griff said.
“Too bad,” a solider responded.
They pushed him into a camouflage-painted Hummer. Soldiers were seated on either side of him.
“Where are you taking me?” Griff asked.
“To prison,” the solider answered. “Enjoy the trip.”
Nine months with no answers, no explanations. Nine months of isolation and filth and abuse. Nine months of self-regulated push-ups on a concrete floor and yoga positions in the grimy corner. Now, suddenly, an open cell door, a final series of blows from one of the guards, and a helicopter flight at the invitation of the president of the United States. He might have felt exultant. He probably should have.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Griffin Rhodes had a sinking feeling that he might have just replaced one layer of hell for another.
“Sir, I have President Allaire on the sat phone,” Captain Lewis said. “He’s ready to speak with you.”
The marine passed over a bulky, stainless steel case with a satellite phone inside. Griff had to take off his helmet to speak. The constant churn from the rotors made it hard to hear, but not impossible.
“Dr. Griffin Rhodes? This is President Jim Allaire,” the voice, distinguishable despite the background noise, said.
“Mr. President.”
Griff knew all about Allaire’s involvement with Project Veritas. But only Sylvia Chen and a few higher-ups had any direct contact with the man. Griff suspected he might now come to regret having joined the ranks of those accorded the honor.
“Dr. Rhodes, there has been a massive exposure to WRX3883,” Allaire said.
Griff’s jaw tightened. Captain Lewis apparently felt the tension and turned away to look out the window. Bad news could wait, Griff imagined him thinking.
“Where? How bad?”
“We have reason to believe Genesis is behind the attack.”
“Who?”
The president paused.
“You don’t know about Genesis?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly been given a wealth of reading material for the last nine months.”
“Understood. I can explain that later.”
“Where was the exposure?”
“It occurred during my State of the Union Address.”
“Pardon?”
