It was no coincidence that Scheffler’s program was hell on Earth. The occasional ass-kicking was good for the boys. It was deep beneath the Alps where Scheffler turned boys into men, inside the abandoned Swiss National Redoubt defence fortress, making his recruits live and train in relative darkness for days on end, going outside only for forced marches through the mountains. Military drills, weapons training, strength training, hand-to-hand combat. He needed his people in top shape and capable of fighting any opponent. Could this Frederich kid handle that? Not likely.
There was no forgetting the attrition phase. Scheffler’s favourite. In life and in battle, Scheffler respected only a man’s nerve. A real man could take repeated beatings without caving in and could withstand days of psychological torture without breaking. Above all, a man of nerve never gave in to desperation. He maintained his resolve under any pressure. Scheffler prided himself in showing his recruits the limits of their despair. He relished breaking their spirits but also felt a sense of disgust when it happened. Only the finest came out of Elite Squad intact.
Back at the facility, his number two Otto was in charge of inflicting hell, and Scheffler, an elite war machine, was left playing chaperone. He shook his head and looked up impatiently again at the arrivals board, which showed that the flight had landed. He took the photo out of his pocket to study again. It had to be some mistake, he thought. This kid belongs on the cover of that JQ men’s magazine or whatever it was. Experience told him that it would be a waste of his time. The kid would break within a week. Then again, Scheffler knew Kalakia never messed around. The big man only insisted on something with good reason. So naturally, Scheffler was curious. Still, it was bad timing for the boy. These days Scheffler had a fuse shorter than the hairs on his waxed chest. He was going to make this Frederich kid sing, and then he was going to break him.
He tensed his bicep and studied it with satisfaction. His t-shirt was stretched to capacity. Progress was good. A flurry of people suddenly poured out through the sliding doors, and among them was a young man who matched the photograph. He had light brown hair like a rock star, baby features and was wearing a black leather jacket with tight black pants. He was carrying a brown rucksack. Make that Rolling Stone magazine. Scheffler licked his lips.
“This is going to be fun,” he whispered.
PART II
17
THE JEEP CUT THROUGH THE KAZAKH DESERT on the way to the Neutralaser facility, leaving behind a long trail of orange dust. Inselheim gazed vacantly out of the back-seat window, his shoulders slumped. To his right was Kimberley Brunswick, his close friend and Neutralaser head project manager. In the front passenger seat was Vidrik, who had angled the rearview driver’s mirror Inselheim’s way, and Inselheim occasionally caught his strange, lazy stare pointed directly at him. Behind them were four more Jeeps with a posse of two dozen men, who had been waiting in a convoy when Vidrik and Inselheim’s airplane landed at Shymkent International. Brunswick had been in the city hoping to take a well-earned weekend off when she got the unexpected call to meet them at the airport. She had given Vidrik one look, and upon seeing Inselheim’s face had silently understood that something was terribly wrong.
The tense journey from Shymkent to the facility took four hours, including twenty off-road minutes before they pulled up at their destination; a plain, unmarked concrete building in the middle of nowhere.
When they came to a stop, Inselheim remained staring at where his leg had been seared. It had been treated and bandaged, but the drugs had worn off and it was now throbbing with pain. Vidrik grasped Inselheim by his shirt and forced him out of the car. Inselheim, Brunswick, Vidrik and the other henchmen approached the unmarked grey door. The posse of men stood by silently. They looked military. Their stoic expressions and focussed demeanour showed they had been sent for a reason. Each of them carried a black bag and wore loose-fitting black clothes and combat boots. Brunswick shot Inselheim yet another questioning glance then turned to identify herself through the video monitor. After they were granted entry, they descended the dark, narrow stairs which led straight into the hall. Inselheim remained indifferent while Kalakia’s people took time to absorb the bustling scene beneath the desert.
Inselheim had seen the same slack mouths and wide eyes dozens of times with other newcomers. The hall was an astonishing sight; four storeys high and as long as two football fields. There were haphazardly arranged computer terminals, workbenches, testing areas, welding stations, odd-looking robotics equipment and makeshift meeting rooms separated into partitions. A walkway ran through the middle, passing the Neutralaser itself as well as the exit tunnel, and led all the way to the sleeping quarters at the back. The accommodation was organised like a hotel and consisted of a fully equipped gymnasium, cafeteria and large recreation room. A lightly armed security team remained on 24-hour stand-by in case of any unauthorised access or outside threats. Most impressive for the first time visitor was the sheer number of personnel contained in such a remote location. Inselheim had amassed dozens of experts from Germany, Japan, Lithuania, The United States, Russia and more. The various teams were loosely organised into research, design, manufacturing and testing.
