deeper than that, though
it’s wise,” he reflected thoughtfully, “to take precautions in all
things.”
Directly upon her arrival at the site, Ingrid had been
issued a plastic ID card complete with thumbprint and a photo of
herself wearing dark glasses; a secret electronic code for access
to her quarters, and an admonition of the sign at the front gate:
NO UNAUTHORIZED PHOTOGRAPHIC OR RECORDING DEVICES BEYOND THIS
POINT. ALL EMPLOYEES MUST CONSENT TO SEARCH. FAILURE TO CONSENT TO
SEARCH IS GROUNDS FOR IMMEDIATE TERMINATION. It really was cloak and dagger
stuff.
Merrifield had escorted Ingrid to her
quarters, leading her with a paternal arm.
“ Your last night to sleep,” he had
said. “Tomorrow we go through all the tiresome business of having
all the documents signed. After that,” he pronounced grandly, “to
work.”
Ingrid had expected a jail-cell sized
cubicle, an army cot screwed to the wall, a lavatory and stainless
steel toilet bolted to the floor. She found instead that her room
was reasonably appointed, more like a small apartment. The prints
on the walls were fairly bland, but the color scheme of maroon and
black more than made up for them.
She was overwhelmed by the variety of
food that threatened to spill out of the refrigerator when she
opened it. There were steaks, pork chops, and roasts in the
freezer, all kinds of fruits and vegetables in the crisper. Staple
items were on a dry goods shelf in the pantry, plus a chef’s dream
of spices. After spending four years of eating TV dinners and Ramen
noodles, she believed she must have died and gone to
heaven.
She took out the biggest steak she
could find and thawed it in the microwave while she made a salad.
When the steak was done, she gorged until she reminded herself of
the rat in Charlotte’s Web. She showered and congratulated herself
on how easily she had made the transition from college student to
VIP project director. She went to bed and was asleep in no
time.
She had rambled through the facility in
the small amount of time she had left after her workday and had
come to know the ins and outs of it quite well after only a week.
She had expected armed guards at every door and OD clad soldiers
around every corner. There were, in fact, only two rent a cops at
the facility. Whether by design or discretion, they rarely came
inside the building itself, staying mainly at the front
gate.
She was pleased that she had been
relieved of the burden of most of the paperwork and was known as a
working director, able to actually get her hands greasy in the
gears of the project instead of being a pencil pusher behind a
desk.
She met her team. Alan Caudill was a
bald, bespectacled cove of some fifty years, a surgeon out of UCLA.
He was in charge of the RNA, mRNA, and codon sequencing
laboratories, a huge amount of responsibility for a project of this
magnitude.
He had joined the army at age
thirty-one, induced into a covert project in which the biological
equivalent of the neutron bomb had been constructed. Anthrax
bacteria had been mutated into a form that took only hours to form
ulcerating nodules in the lungs. Ingrid didn’t know that part. She
had grown to like him. Had she known, she might have seen him as
one of the monsters she wished not to become.
Merrifield had a special place in his
heart for Caudill. However, even Merrifield was exasperated by one
of Caudill’s idiosyncrasies.
Caudill mumbled.
Ingrid had already been witness to
Merrifield’s chameleon act, but it was still a little unnerving to
see him turn after he had introduced Ingrid to Caudill.
“ Pleased to meet you,” Ingrid had
said.
“ Mphm molograi,” Caudill had replied, shuffling
his feet and looking at the floor.
“ I beg your pardon,” Ingrid had said,
leaning forward to hear better.
“ Merrgrm growf.”
“ Dammit, Alan,” Merrifield had barked.
He shaped his hands into claws and showed every intention of
hooking them to the white lapels of Caudill’s lab coat
it’s wise,” he reflected thoughtfully, “to take precautions in all
things.”
Directly upon her arrival at the site, Ingrid had been
issued a plastic ID card complete with thumbprint and a photo of
herself wearing dark glasses; a secret electronic code for access
to her quarters, and an admonition of the sign at the front gate:
NO UNAUTHORIZED PHOTOGRAPHIC OR RECORDING DEVICES BEYOND THIS
POINT. ALL EMPLOYEES MUST CONSENT TO SEARCH. FAILURE TO CONSENT TO
SEARCH IS GROUNDS FOR IMMEDIATE TERMINATION. It really was cloak and dagger
stuff.
Merrifield had escorted Ingrid to her
quarters, leading her with a paternal arm.
“ Your last night to sleep,” he had
said. “Tomorrow we go through all the tiresome business of having
all the documents signed. After that,” he pronounced grandly, “to
work.”
Ingrid had expected a jail-cell sized
cubicle, an army cot screwed to the wall, a lavatory and stainless
steel toilet bolted to the floor. She found instead that her room
was reasonably appointed, more like a small apartment. The prints
on the walls were fairly bland, but the color scheme of maroon and
black more than made up for them.
She was overwhelmed by the variety of
food that threatened to spill out of the refrigerator when she
opened it. There were steaks, pork chops, and roasts in the
freezer, all kinds of fruits and vegetables in the crisper. Staple
items were on a dry goods shelf in the pantry, plus a chef’s dream
of spices. After spending four years of eating TV dinners and Ramen
noodles, she believed she must have died and gone to
heaven.
She took out the biggest steak she
could find and thawed it in the microwave while she made a salad.
When the steak was done, she gorged until she reminded herself of
the rat in Charlotte’s Web. She showered and congratulated herself
on how easily she had made the transition from college student to
VIP project director. She went to bed and was asleep in no
time.
She had rambled through the facility in
the small amount of time she had left after her workday and had
come to know the ins and outs of it quite well after only a week.
She had expected armed guards at every door and OD clad soldiers
around every corner. There were, in fact, only two rent a cops at
the facility. Whether by design or discretion, they rarely came
inside the building itself, staying mainly at the front
gate.
She was pleased that she had been
relieved of the burden of most of the paperwork and was known as a
working director, able to actually get her hands greasy in the
gears of the project instead of being a pencil pusher behind a
desk.
She met her team. Alan Caudill was a
bald, bespectacled cove of some fifty years, a surgeon out of UCLA.
He was in charge of the RNA, mRNA, and codon sequencing
laboratories, a huge amount of responsibility for a project of this
magnitude.
He had joined the army at age
thirty-one, induced into a covert project in which the biological
equivalent of the neutron bomb had been constructed. Anthrax
bacteria had been mutated into a form that took only hours to form
ulcerating nodules in the lungs. Ingrid didn’t know that part. She
had grown to like him. Had she known, she might have seen him as
one of the monsters she wished not to become.
Merrifield had a special place in his
heart for Caudill. However, even Merrifield was exasperated by one
of Caudill’s idiosyncrasies.
Caudill mumbled.
Ingrid had already been witness to
Merrifield’s chameleon act, but it was still a little unnerving to
see him turn after he had introduced Ingrid to Caudill.
“ Pleased to meet you,” Ingrid had
said.
“ Mphm molograi,” Caudill had replied, shuffling
his feet and looking at the floor.
“ I beg your pardon,” Ingrid had said,
leaning forward to hear better.
“ Merrgrm growf.”
“ Dammit, Alan,” Merrifield had barked.
He shaped his hands into claws and showed every intention of
hooking them to the white lapels of Caudill’s lab coat
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