Chapter Two: The Birkin Center

“Today, America has become one of the most powerful forces for good on earth. We must keep it so.”

-Harry S. Truman

            About twenty miles down the coast from the site of Trooper Jackson’s ill-fated encounter, a young man named George Adamson was working a similar shift. In his case, however, the unenviable work hours were a sign of his extremely junior status, as he had only been working at his present job for a few months. George didn’t really mind it too much; the shift was quiet and gave him a chance to read. Besides, the job had been something of a favor on the part of a friend, so he didn’t like to complain.

            George worked as a security guard for the William Birkin Memorial Research Center; a respectable, but low-key facility owned by Centron Farms as part of one of its multitude of subsidiary companies. His job was mostly to sit at the front desk, receive visitors, check IDs, and look intimidating. The last of which was something that came rather had to him, for though he was a fairly tall man with farm-built muscles, he had a rather dropping, hang-dog type face that tended to look more tired or sad than threatening. He could be intimidating if he wanted to be, but it took some effort.

            Though he worked there, George didn’t really know much about the William Birkin Memorial Research Center (or the Birkin Center as it was called for short). He’d only been given the tour once, for his orientation, during which it had been repeatedly stressed that he was not to venture beyond his designation jurisdiction for any reason save an emergency. His jurisdiction was pretty much the security room, the lobby, and a very few of the hallways. All the labs were absolutely forbidden.

            His job was to keep an eye on the building at night, to call for help if needed, and to let in the first employees come morning. That was all. In extreme cases he might be called upon to subdue any attempted intruders, but that was more a case of him protecting himself than something they expected him to do for the building. As far as that was concerned, his response protocol was to hit the alarm and call for the cavalry at Fort Waverly, ten minutes down the road.

            The Birkin Center could call for the Army in case of emergency and expect an immediate response because of what they did there. George may not have been allowed into any of the labs, but he knew that Centron Farms used the facility as part of their military contracts; developing new and exciting technology for use in combat.

That was something sorely needed, considering the current state of the Tanzanian Conflict, George thought as he read his newspaper in the early hours of Tuesday, October 19th. As usual, the news from out of Africa was all bad. Today they were reporting that a whole armored division had gotten blown to bits outside of  Shinyanga. There was word that the city, captured with so many American lives, would probably fall back into Communist hands. President Alfonso W. Taft was calling for more troops to be sent and generally struggling to maintain the illusion that he had the slightest idea what he was doing.

            He’s not a patch on his grandfather, George thought wearily. Though, to be fair, he didn’t think he could blame the disaster unfolding in Africa entirely on the President. Taft wasn’t out there commanding the troops or coming up with the strategies that were resulting in the most powerful and advanced military on Earth getting decimated by forces half its size and with a fraction of its capabilities. He could, however, blame the President for not firing whoever was coming up with those kinds of tactics.

            Just our luck, he thought. Another Vietnam, only instead of Corporal Pyle, we get the second coming of George McClellan.

            News out of Tanzania, especially bad news, always galled him, but he devoured it rapaciously every morning. He had to. If he couldn’t be out, fighting alongside his countrymen, the least he could do was stay informed about their progress. So he read the story diligently, trying to absorb all the details. He was especially eager to find out how it was that the Tanzanian military was able, time and again, to defeat American and Kenyan units that seemed to be many times larger and more powerful that they were. In Vietnam the U.S. had had a hard go for much of the conflict due to the thick jungle terrain, but Tanzania was mostly grassland; it had some forests, of course, but nothing like the tangled mess of Southeast Asia. Besides, America had won Vietnam despite the jungle. Then in Korea they fighting had ground on and on because the Koreans were backed up by the endless Chinese Army. But Tanzania didn’t have any large, populous allies that they knew of; Zaire, Mozambique, Uganda, and the other surrounding countries were staying out of the conflict as far as anyone knew.

            Of course, many people – George included – suspected that the Soviets were operating from behind the scenes in Africa and supplying the Tanzanians with weapons and vehicles, but they could only be doing so much without showing their hand and turning it into a full-scale war with the United States, which they certainly weren’t about to do over a half-developed African nation of absolutely no use to them.

            That was a point which those who doubted Soviet involvement – like George’s friend, Ben – always brought up; Tanzania wasn’t really of any strategic or economic use to anyone, unless you were in the diamond or ivory trade, and it certainly wasn’t worth the effort and expense of engaging in a proxy war with the United States. Why, then, would the Russians bother to give them any help at all? Apart from the fact that they were both Communist nations in conflict with Democratic ones.

            George couldn’t really answer that, but he was confident that Mikhail Andropoli, the new Soviet Premier, who had come to power shortly before the outbreak of war, knew his business. Maybe it was just an opportunity to weaken the U.S. without endangering Soviet interests, maybe it was a chance to bleed the Tanzanians for needed cash, but for whatever reason, George was sure the Soviets were invested in the African conflict.

            Which brought him back to the question of how, even with Soviet aid, the Tanzanian military had been able to so thoroughly turn the tide against the Americans and Kenyans over the past few months. Before the Battle of Zanzibar, back in July, the U.S. hadn’t had a single defeat. After Zanzibar (to paraphrase Churchill), they hadn’t had a single victory. The American and Kenyan invasion fleet had been smashed to bits, a hundred planes blown out of the sky, and thousands of men had died in two bloody weeks of fighting. The battle had shocked the country, and ever since it had been one brutal mauling after another, with American and Kenyan troops either barely holding their positions or being driven into retreat by the seemingly-invincible Tanzanians. 

            It was disturbing. It was almost uncanny. If George had been a little more imaginative or superstitious (he was neither), he might have gone off into wild speculations about black magic and deals with the Devil, as he’d seen some editorials do. George preferred the more mundane – if equally unlikely – explanations of alarmingly bad luck and staggeringly incompetent commanders. At least those were things he could wrap his brain around.

            He sighed and turned the page. Elsewhere in the world, Premier Andropoli was solidifying his power by ordering brutal crackdowns on pro-democracy marchers in Poland, Hungary, and the Ukraine. War was brewing again in Southeast Asia between the Democratic government in Vietnam and the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, and a volcano had destroyed a small Indonesian resort town called ‘Black Diamond Bay.’

            George turned to the domestic news, which were full of speculations about the midterms. As a solid Republican, George was disappointed that the GOP looked like it was about to be slaughtered come November. Robert Stone, the Senior Senator from California, looked like he was going to win a fourth term, riding high on a wave of anti-Taft sentiment along with most other Democrats. Some were even starting to mutter about Stone running for President in two years. The thought made George cringe and he quickly moved on to an update on the as-yet unsolved murder of the owner of the LA Rockets. 

            Movement on one of the security cameras caught his attention, and he recognized his immediate superior, Peter Joshua, the head of building security. George liked Joshua: he wasn’t at all what you’d expect. About forty, with dark hair just beginning to turn grey, he had a deceptively youthful face that nevertheless managed to convey real, honest strength. But more than his appearance, his manner was odd; as if he delighted in throwing people off guard by acting contrary to all expectations.

            Joshua let himself in with his passkey and George put down his newspaper in anticipation of his boss’s early morning greeting.

            “Well, George,” said Joshua, coming into the security room. “How’s the fort?”

            “Just fine sir,” George answered. “Nothing to report.”

            Joshua eyed the folded newspaper suspiciously.

            “Are you sure?” he said. “Couldn’t be that someone snuck in while you were distracted?”

            “I…no, sir,” George assured him. “I keep a pretty close eye on the monitors while I read.”

            “Did you see me come in?”

            “Yes, sir. That’s why I put down the paper.”

            “Hm,” said Joshua. He didn’t seem quite convinced. “You know, you shouldn’t read the newspaper: you’re much too young to take an interest in world affairs. Go get a pulp magazine or something.”

            “Um…well, sir, I would think that staying abreast of current events is a sign of responsibility.”

            “Yes, that’s the problem,” said Joshua. “You’re too responsible altogether, George; it’s not natural. I never trust a really responsible man. It’s my experience that when someone dots ever ‘i’ and crosses every ‘t’ it’s because he can’t afford anyone to read what he wrote too closely. If you get my analogy.”

            Joshua had a disarmingly quick and flippant way of talking; he would roll things out in such a fast, clipped manner that it took you a while to figure out whether or not he was actually being serious. This time he didn’t give George the chance.

            “Anyway, I have a question for you; could you hang around for a bit after your shift?”

            “I suppose, sir,” said George, who was still thrown off by his boss’s unexpected and possibly sarcastic criticism. “Why?”

            “I want you to help with the inspection this morning.”

            “The...the inspection, sir?”

            “Yes, General Ankrum’s inspection; that inspection.”

            That threw him even more. He almost thought he must have misunderstood, or that Joshua was playing some kind of game with him.

            “But it’s kind of…out of my jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

            “Oh, yes, it is, now that you mention it,” said Joshua. “Who sets your jurisdiction again?”

            “Uh, you do, sir.”

            “Yes, so your jurisdiction is where I say it is, and today I say it’s wherever I end up escorting the General and his friends.”

            George was stunned. They’d repeatedly told him when he took this job that he was never to inquire about what went on in the labs or to leave his designated areas. Now his boss was ordering him to do exactly that. It made him…a little uneasy.

            “Sir…do you mind if I ask why?”

            “For one thing I need to have someone along just so the General thinks I’m taking this seriously. For another, I like my men to have some idea of what they’re guarding.”

            “I thought the idea was that we shouldn’t know anything.”

            “Well, you’re not going to know much,” said Joshua. “Just a kind of general idea.”

            “Does Dr. Arnold know about this?”

            “No, why should he? It’s not his business who gets what duties.”

            George felt pretty certain that there was more going on than Joshua was telling him. But, since he was even more certain that his superior wouldn’t be sharing any more, he didn’t press the issue.

            “Alright. Where should I be, sir?”

            “Don’t you worry about that; I’ll come find you when your shift’s over.”

            “Centron Farms’ William Birkin Memorial Research Facility is a 70,000 square foot structure idyllically located just a few miles outside the San Ignatio city limits on the edge of Montana de Oro State Park. We employ over fifty researchers, including seventeen PHds…”

            General Ankrum – a stocky, jowly man of about sixty – cut him off.

            “Doctor Arnold, I’m not looking to buy the building. You can skip the commercial.”

            Dr. Wallace Arnold’s face twitched slightly. He didn’t usually take that kind of talk from anyone. Brilliant, with doctorates in biology, biochemistry, and molecular physics, he was tall and aggressive-looking, with thick, iron-gray hair and a bristly mustache.  He was also well known for his sharp temper. The glare of his severe eyes from behind his large glasses was usually enough to cow even the most self-assured researcher, and he had a bark of a voice that could effortlessly dominate arguments. As far as George knew, Peter Joshua was the only one who was never intimidated by him. 

            General Ankrum, however, was the man who could, by his recommendation, potentially pull all government funding and, as per the terms of their contracts, confiscate every project in the building. So he was obliged to keep his cool for once.

            Arnold forced a smile, which George thought was probably a mistake, since it just made him look angrier.

            “Of course, General,” he said. “Since you are such a busy and important man, I won’t waste your time with anything in the early stages. If you’ll just come this way, you can see our most advanced projects.”

The front hall of the Birkin Center was a wide, open space, two stories high, and with a huge, arched window facing east. The second floor corridors crossed it in an elevated walkway. It even had a big, square planter in the middle where ferns and even a small tree were growing. It was a very nice space; warm and inviting enough to make you wonder whether you were actually in  a building dedicated to secret, advanced military technology.

They rode to the second floor, then down the hall to the north wing of the building. Dr. Arnold selected the fifth door on the right and knocked: two fast, three slow, two fast.

“Every door in the building locks automatically,” he explained. “No one is admitted unless they either have the key or know the correct knock.”

The door was opened by a smiling, clean-shaven man in his mid thirties who seemed more like a family physician than a top-secret scientist.

“Dr. Arnold,” he said in greeting. “General. I’ve been expecting you.”

He led them into the spacious, sterile-looking lab. The room was surprisingly bare and smelled strongly of disinfectant. Chemistry sets and powerful-looking equipment arranged neatly around the walls were the most obvious signs of the room’s purpose. A big table in the middle of the room held stacks of papers, a few microscopes, and several vials of a thick, bright green liquid. About five researchers in surgical masks paused their work to watch the exchange.

“General Ankrum, Dr. King,” said Dr. Arnold. “Dr. King is working on a new means to heal wounds and combat disease…”

“You’re trying to reproduce this ‘Goop’ stuff the other side supposedly has,” Ankrum cut in.

“Well…sort of,” admitted Dr. Arnold. “I personally doubt it exists, but we hope to develop something of that nature.”

Ankrum frowned. George had the impression that Arnold had just lowered the General’s expectations a bit.

“Have you had any luck in that regard?”

“I believe Dr. King can better explain that,” said Dr. Arnold, nodding at his colleague.

One of the masked assistants, meanwhile, winked her bright blue eyes at George, who quietly grinned back.

“What about it, Doctor?” asked the General

“Personally, I agree with Dr. Arnold; I don’t think the stuff exists,” he said by way of introduction. “Healing wounds and broken bones in seconds seems ridiculous in my view. However, we have had some success with this.”

He gestured to the blue-eyed assistant, who quickly held out one of the vials of green liquid. It sloshed sluggishly about, as if it had the consistency of glue. 

“We call it Formula C-90. It doesn’t exactly heal wounds,” Dr. King explained. “But we’ve found that when spread over the injury, C-90 will prevent infection, dull the pain, and facilitate clotting.”

“So, in practical terms, it doesn’t so much heal as it lets someone keep going after being hurt,” stated the General.

“Basically,” said Dr. King. “Though we’re still testing, and some of our results indicate that it may, in fact, speed up recovery time.”

The assistant with the bright blue eyes rolled them at the ceiling, which George took to mean ‘he’s really fudging the results here.’

Ankrum took the vial and examined the contents thoughtfully.

“Is it ready for production?”

Dr. King glanced at his employer.

“We still need to run more tests,” he admitted. “We’re not sure what the long-term results of use will be.”

He paused, then went on as though compelled to confess his scientific sins.

“And there are some early signs that use of C-90 could cause clotting disorders.”

Ankrum handed the vial back.

“Thank you, Dr. King,” he said in a very final manner.

As they filed out, the blue-eyed assistant sidled up to George.

“Dinner?” she whispered.

“Sounds good to me,” he answered. Then he caught Joshua looking at him and hurried out after the others.

“As you can see,” Arnold was saying. “We are making major strides in field medicine…”

George glanced at the General, who frowned in a ‘was that supposed to be what I just saw?’ kind of way.

“…Now, if you’ll come this way, we can see one of our more offensive projects.”

They crossed back over the front hall (where George couldn’t resist plucking a leaf from the top of the tree, which was about on a level with the walkway’s railing) and down the south wing, where Dr. Arnold used another complicated knock to request entrance to another lab. In stark contrast with Dr. King’s immaculately sterile room, this one was cluttered, noisy, and seemed in complete disarray. Cages full of guinea pigs and rats lined one wall, filling the room with squeaks, skitterings, and a strong smell of urine and cedar chips. The lab equipment was piled haphazardly on desks and tables crammed in wherever there was space, and the half-a-dozen researchers were squeezing around them as they went about their work.

 “Here, we are researching the possibilities inherent in glandular modification,” said Dr. Arnold, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the chattering rodents. “Essentially, reprogramming certain glands to make a soldier more efficient: faster, stronger, with quicker reaction times. Dr. Chesler here is in charge of this area of research.”

Dr. Chesler was a thin, bespectacled, somewhat nervous-looking man. He shook hands with the General in an absent kind of manner.

“Well, doctor?” said the General. “Does it work?”

Chesler glanced at his boss before answering “Well, yes, General; in a manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean?”

Chesler glanced at Dr. Arnold again, then went on.

“The test subjects” – he gestured at the cages – “tend to show a remarkable increase in performance. We had a guinea pig that could pull a ten-pound weight, and a rat that escaped by rebounding off the edges of its cage.”

The General looked impressed.

“That sounds excellent. What’s the catch?”

Chesler swallowed hard and looked helplessly at his employer.

“You see, General, we’re working on limiting the effects, so that the serum will only do what it’s intended to.”

The General frowned at him.

“What else does it do?”

“Um…well, in every case so far, it has, ah, mutated the glandular processes in such a way that…”

Dr. Arnold stepped in to rescue his hapless colleague.

“There are side effects,” he said shortly.

Ankrum turned to him, frowning.

“What kind of side effects?”

“They’re fairly unpredictable,” said Dr. Arnold. “Sometimes it results in disfigurement, sometimes in emotional unbalance, and sometimes…much worse.”

Ankrum walked over to examine the cages. One particular rat was contentedly chewing on its own tail. Another appeared to have lost most of its fur and developed some kind of nasty skin disease.

“So you’re telling me this isn’t ready for production either?”

There was a heavy pause.

“Ah…no, sir, it is not,” said Dr. Arnold.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the General, nodding to Dr. Chesler and his assistants.

Outside in the hall, Ankrum turned to Arnold with an expression that George thought he probably used for dealing with insubordinate underlings.

“Doctor,” he said. “Are you deliberately wasting my time, or is this really the best you can do?”

“General…”

“We are in the middle of a war that is eating up money and lives like a wildfire. I come here to find out how you’ve spent the cash that could have been used making better helicopters and jets and body armor, and the best you can offer is an ointment that gives its users heart attacks and a steroid that drives people nuts?”

            He kept his voice very calm and even. George found it much more intimidating than Dr. Arnold’s barks.

            “Now, in a few days, I will be going back to Washington. I will walk into the Pentagon, and they will ask me whether I think the contract with Centron Farms is a sound investment. Can you give me any reason to tell them yes? Because if you can, I would prefer to see that instead of these half-baked efforts.”

            Dr. Arnold took a deep breath, working his jaw as if he had just been punched and was trying to feel the damage. It was obviously taking a great deal of effort for him to remain calm.       

            “General,” he said. “Would you excuse me for a moment? Mr. Joshua, if you would.”

            Dr. Arnold and Peter Joshua went a little ways down the hall and began conversing in low voices. General Ankrum frowned suspiciously after them. 

            After about five minutes, they returned, looking surprisingly solemn.

            “Well, General,” said Dr. Arnold. “There is one project that I am sure you will find impressive, but I hesitate to mention it because it is of a highly sensitive nature.”

            Ankrum raised his eyebrows.

            “I was under the impression that everything in this building was of a highly sensitive nature.”

            “It is,” said Joshua. “That should give you an idea of what we mean when we call this particular project ‘highly sensitive’ in relation to everything else here.”

            That intrigued General Ankrum, and George as well. That level of secrecy was somewhat alarming.

            “What exactly do you mean?”

            “What we mean, General,” said Dr. Arnold. “Is that if you insist upon seeing this project, it will have to be just the three of us; we can’t allow any other observers.”

            Ankrum glanced at his men.

            “These men have the same clearance I do,” he said.

            “We understand that,” said Joshua. “But, as you will see, it’s necessary to keep knowledge of this to an absolute minimum.”

The General considered the two men in front of him for a very long time. His face gave no indication of his thoughts, but at last he gave a curt nod and motioned for his men to wait. Dr. Arnold and Peter led the General down the hall, into an elevator and out of sight.

One of the officers turned to George.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“Honestly, sir, that’s the first I’ve heard of that,” he said. “I’m fairly new here myself.”

  They waited in a small seating alcove with leather chairs and a coffee table. The officers, deciding that without the General they could relax a little, all sat down and began talking in low voices about indifferent matters: family, mutual friends, and swapping anecdotes. Obviously, they knew better than to discuss anything interesting in a place like this with someone they didn’t know waiting nearby.

So, George leaned against the wall, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the cinderblocks and trying to imagine what this extra-top secret project could possibly be.

This must have been what it was like to be the janitor on the Manhattan Project, he thought with a smile. Minimum wage classified.

Of course, he didn’t really expect to ever find out. At least, not before whatever it was blew up Dar es Salaam or something He really hoped it wasn’t that sort of secret; George personally thought the atomic bombings of Japan were justified, but that didn’t mean he was especially eager for more. Besides, it wasn’t like America needed a new city-destroying weapon: she already had the H-Bomb if Taft ever actually got desperate enough to just wipe Tanzania off the map.

No, whatever Dr. Arnold was working on would be subtler, more tactically precise. More along the lines of a new, advanced personal weapon or something like Dr. Chesler’s performance enhancers. So, he’d find out what it was when American troops started using it.

Unbidden, an idea came into his head. An idea so wonderful that he was almost afraid to consider it, lest it raise his hopes too high to endure their being dashed. If they were making something like a performance enhancer, then might it be possible that it could…

Dreams have a way of clinging to life long after all rational hope has been destroyed. And even when they have died completely, they want only the smallest crack of hope to rise again, more desperate and more painful than ever. George had a dream which had consumed his life, and yet which had recently been shattered completely. Now, as he thought about this mysterious project, he sensed the faint, warm touch of hope again. He shook himself and forced it back. He would not consider it. He would not allow himself to even entertain the possibility. He could not stand to have his heart broken again. 

The three men were gone for almost half an hour. When they returned, General Ankrum had a curiously restrained expression; as if he were holding back his emotions with great effort. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and no one asked him any questions. Finally, he gave Dr. Arnold and Peter Joshua what seemed to be a look of subdued awe.

“I believe that will be all, gentlemen.”

Next Week: 

Chapter Three: The Deep End