Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Chapter Twenty-Three. The Final Combat

Agent Archer radioed Jessup when his helicopter passed over the Harlem’s sleeping waters. According to Archer, Claney had avoided arrest in the Town Hall by swapping bracelets with his secretary.

“I told you so,” Jessup rearranged his headphones. “You shouldn’t have fallen for that. Claney’s sensed we’re after him. He’ll try to leave New York now.”

“We control all outgoing traffic.”

“He knows everyone everywhere. Bet someone’s helping him to get out of town right now.”

“Jessup? Where are you?”

“Approaching Central Park. Will soon be in view of Memoria tower.

“How’s it going there?”

“Our assault group has taken the ground floor. There are casualties. Memoria’s security force have put up a fierce resistance. Taking it might take time.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Find Claney. Use all your men available.”

“Will do.”

“Over.”

Jessup looked straight ahead where Memoria’s tower studded the Manhattan skyline with lights. Somewhere there was the transmitter. Its signal would turn thousands of people into zombified soldiers. The Captain raised his face to the stars and tried to discern amid their pale glow the bright dots of army satellites on their city-bound geostationary orbits. In outer space overhead, their mirrors were now turning, ready to receive Memoria’s signal and bounce it back to the electronic bracelets of all the “vaccinated” people. Vaccinated with a mnemocapsule which contained the mind lock. Once activated, the mind lock would block their will and critical thinking. A program would then decompress itself forcing its host to follow the installed procedure and obey external orders. The bracelet would start to receive and transmit information creating a weak electromagnetic field which in turn would ensure that the host’s mind and body remained an obedient tool in the puppeteer’s hands.

All this was on the tape Jessup had got from the dying Floyd. And not only that. In the end, Kathleen Baker addressed the nation. She accused Claney of his crimes and spoke of her father. She didn’t want his and her invention to become a money-making machine detrimental to humankind. She insisted that everyone had the right to make use of their own skills and talents.

Agent Archer had seen the tape, too, and offered to find and arrest Claney. Jessup had his hands full with Memoria. He still had to negotiate with the migrants who’d already cut off the city’s energy supplies. The corporation, though, had to have their own energy reserves. Manhattan had submerged into darkness, pierced by the sparkling needle of Memoria’s tower.

A new countdown started ticking in Jessup’s head. This time though it wasn’t about the investigation, nor his dismissal even. Now time itself was the issue, and he knew he might not make it. Claney had to have strong supporters in the Pentagon. He had to have the military on his side to use a whole cluster of satellites for his project.

Claney must have started plotting this conspiracy a long time ago. It entangled many politicians, generals and scientists that Jessup had no desire of getting involved with. It was the Feds’ job, let them do it. As it was, the national security and secret service couldn’t react in time. By the time they kicked in, Claney and his generals would have done it. Their obedient soldiers would raze camps to the ground. Could be thousands of casualties, could be more. That meant war. That meant havoc. In the mayhem, no one would seek answers and the puppeteer would keep pulling the strings while he had the chance, making even more new fighters.

“Turn the beam on,” Jessup told the pilot. A powerful shaft of light sliced the darkness in front of the chopper. “What’s the ETA on our objective?”

“Three minutes, sir,” the headphones answered.

Jessup looked around at four special-forces men behind his back and showed three fingers to their officer. He nodded. The sniper put the encased rifle onto his lap to take it out.

Frank didn’t move, hoping that Barney would turn around and lunge at Dickens who’d raised his gun toward the stairs. But the boxer kept walking to the edge of the landing pad. His one remaining eye glistened. He didn’t seem to feel pain in his injured leg. He didn’t seem to notice Maggie — a hostage in Dickens’ grasp.

He kept walking.

“Barney, wait!” Frank shouted.

The boxer kept going. His wide shoulders blocked out Dickens and the girl who’d moved to the platform’s center.

“Wait!” Frank took a better grip of the axe, its blade facing the boxer. “It’s me, Frank Shelby! Remember?”

The boxer now behaved similarly to how he had when they’d found him in the lab. There, he’d been strange too, until they unplugged all the machines and pulled out all the cables. He’d spoken as if he was under hypnosis. After that, some sick kind of split personality disorder must have kicked in. The boxer had punched Frank in the shoulder and stared at his own hand, looking surprised. He’d recognized Maggie and even tried to get off the bed, but winced and sat back, grasping his wounded leg.

Now he kept walking.

Frank climbed the steps toward him.

“Dad!” Maggie screamed behind his back.

A deadbolt clanged, metal against metal. Frank craned his neck to see Dickens better.

The girl wasn’t on the platform. Dickens was climbing down into an open hatch.

The boxer kept walking. Three more steps, and Frank would be within his reach.

Frank lunged forward, turning the axe handle up, and used it to poke the boxer’s chest.

In a smooth and well-practiced motion, Barney avoided the blow and grabbed Frank’s arm. His other hand slapped Frank against the face, knocking him down.

Frank hit the platform edge, hurting his back and nearly falling off onto the roof from a height of four meters. He was lucky the edges curled inwards. Frank rolled over, avoiding the boxer’s kick, jumped up and bolted for the open hatch. Barney lunged forward blocking his way.

Now Frank could see the landing site for what it truly was. The platform was the satellite dish; the room below, the transmitter. Dickens had gone down to activate it.

“Barney, they’ve been messing with your head! They—”

The boxer didn’t let him finish. He advanced, raising his hands as he walked. Frank turned the axe blade forward hoping it would discourage him for a second giving him a chance to explain. As he walked, Barney threw one arm forward and grabbed the axe handle. Frank blocked his other hand, forcing his elbow into the boxer’s chest. He let go of the handle and jumped aside.

He couldn’t possibly overcome Barney in a hand-to-hand. He could also see that words failed to bring him out of his trance. Somehow he kept following Dickens’ orders. When the transmitter started working, millions of people would be like Barney, puppets in Claney’s hands.

Frank hurried to the hatch and collapsed, his feet giving way, his mind blinded by the pain and the fear that Barney had used the blade. He sat up and looked at his feet. Both were still there. He looked up and dodged as the blade whizzed through the air.

The axe sunk into the mesh, striking sparks, and bounced back over Barney’s head. The only eye on his mask-like face glistened. He clenched his bloodied teeth and drew in air, lowering his swing, when fear and desperation flashed in his glare. Barney shuddered, burying the blade in the platform next to Frank’s feet. Then he brought his knee up under Frank’s chin, throwing him onto his back.

“You’ve remembered!” Frank didn’t care about the pain. Blood from his bitten tongue filled his mouth. Barney took another swing.

“Remember Maggie!”

Barney froze. He struck.

Dickens scrambled down the stairs into the utility room and hurled the girl in the far corner, out of the way. His right hand and fingers were broken so he had to use the left one. He shoved the gun in his belt and stepped up to the steel equipment cabinet with Memoria’s phosphorescent logo glimmering on its side.

Dickens brought the bracelet up to the lock, opened the cabinet doors and reached for the master switch.

He cried out from a blow to the small of his back. After a moment’s bewilderment, his reflexes kicked in. He ducked, turning, and thrust his left fist toward the opponent. The attacking girl ducked to one side, screamed in pain and attempted another blow.

Against his will, he appreciated her stance. She’d apparently picked up a couple of simple moves from either Max or her father. He blocked her hand with his forearm, then missed her slight motion in the dark and suppressed a scream when her nails dug into his cheek.

No more Mr. Nice Guy. Dickens kicked the girl back into the corner, then felt his burning cheek and winced. He licked his bloodied fingers and bared his teeth peering into the dark for her unmoving body. His hand reached for the gun and stopped. No good killing the hostage. He might still need her.

He turned back to the cabinet and was just reaching for the switch when he heard the drone of an approaching helicopter.

At the last moment, the axe turned in Barney’s hands, hitting Frank with the flat of the blade. He saw stars: one apparently bigger than the others, reached out its blinding beam to the tower, droning.

He had to be still alive, otherwise he wouldn’t feel the pain. Barney must have restrained himself, or even the flat blow should have smashed his skull.

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away from the platform. A broad bloodied face blocked out the light. Barney’s lips shook as he raised his fist, his eye twitching toward the hatch.

“Maggie’s there,” Frank croaked. “Your girl’s there. Save her.”

The boxer opened his mouth. Then he shut his eye, shaking his head.

“Do you remember her? Your teddy bear? She needs our help!”

His face writhing, Barney unclenched his fist.

“Go,” he gasped and pushed Frank’s shoulder. “Now!”

Barney’s voice hardened. “Take the axe!” He bent down to grab it, lost his footing and collapsed onto the platform, snorting. Frank picked up the axe and ran to the hatch.

The opening was wide enough for him to jump down. Not thinking about the depth, Frank landed on the floor almost opposite Dickens. His hand on the master switch, the man turned his head.

Space and time didn’t allow for a good swing. Frank just stood up and lunged, the axe in his grasp.

Timing was crucial. If Dickens stepped back, he would miss the blade. If he flipped the switch, he would lose his hand but turn on the transmitter.

Self-preservation forced Dickens to snatch his hand back. The wide blade tore through the switchboard and smashed the circuit breaker. It crackled and hissed, sending blue and white sparks flying across the room. It turned as bright as day. The room filled with the helicopter’s whirring descent. On the switchboard, lights started flashing. The stench of burned plastic filled nostrils.

Frank pulled the axe out of the switchboard, but Dickens impeded his swing in mid-air. His fist dug into Frank’s ribs, knocking the air out of him. Frank’s fingers loosened, letting go of the axe.

Dickens pulled out a gun. Frank sniffed, bending his head and shoulders, and rammed his opponent in the stomach until he pinned Dickens to the wall.

Dickens pistol-whipped him on his back and head. Stars exploded in Frank’s eyes. He collapsed into a dark void.

The cold air and whirring of the rotors filled the helicopter’s cabin through the open door. The headphones didn’t block the noise out, and Jessup had to shout commands to the pilot. The sniper moved closer to the opening and raised his rifle. Two special-force men on the other side lowered their lines, hooked themselves up and stood motionless on the chopper’s wide chassis bar. Their squad leader stayed inside waiting for Jessup’s command.

The beam found the wide platform on the dark roof. On it, two men were fighting.

Jessup craned his neck to look over the pilot’s shoulder, ordering him to descend and hover over the platform. He had no idea who they were and why they fought, but he picked up the mike, about to issue a warning through the speakers when one of the fighters collapsed. The other picked up a large firefighters’ axe, lunged for an open hatch in the middle of the platform and jumped inside.

Jessup raised his hand. The squad leader touched the sniper’s shoulder. Jessup didn’t want to give the order to shoot until he had the whole picture. He didn’t yet know which side they were on.

“Closer!” he shouted to the pilot.

The helicopter swayed, descending a few feet. The burly man on the platform turned his face, torn and bloodied, toward the beam. He knelt and raised his hands, shouting; Jessup couldn’t discern the words above the roar. The man wavered and fell onto the platform.

The next moment, a blond man scrambled out of the hatch and pulled out a girl. Grabbing her neck, he took cover under her, turned to the chopper and raised a gun.

The squad leader removed his hand from the sniper’s shoulder. The two men readied to descend onto the roof. The helicopter shook and swayed, preventing the sniper from taking aim for fear of hitting the girl.

“Abort!” Jessup shouted.

The strong hand returned to the sniper’s shoulder.

The blond man scurried to the edge of the platform when the other man emerged from the hatch. Now Jessup could see who he was. He’d seen him two days ago, in the interrogation room just before the attack on the police station. Yesterday afternoon he’d had a chance to intercept him by the camp perimeter. Finally, he’d caught up with Frank Shelby.

Jessup could see he could barely walk, clutching at the firefighters’ axe and trying to catch up with the blond man who couldn’t hear his steps above the helicopter’s roar.

“Action stations!” Jessup waved to the fighters ready at their lines.

The squad leader raised a clenched fist.

The blond must have sensed the approaching threat. He started to turn, relaxing his grasp. The girl bit his arm. He cried out; she fought herself free and pushed him away.

Frank Shelby took a swing-

“Go, go, go!” Jessup shouted.

The squad leader unclenched his fist. The soldiers slid down the lines.

Frank lowered the axe. The man fell on his back. A barely audible gunshot resounded.

The sniper’s rifle snapped. Frank Shelby fell, too.

“Hold your fire!” Jessup yelled. “Hold your fire!”

The squad leader squeezed the sniper’s shoulder.

“Land,” Jessup ordered the pilot and grabbed the radio calling Lieutenant Salem who was in charge of taking over the building.

By the time the helicopter landed, one of the fighters stood over the burly man who lay face down on the concrete. The other was helping the girl. The squad leader had his rifle trained on Frank who sat squeezing his bleeding shoulder.

His service revolver in his hand, Jessup ran to them, followed by the sniper. The blond man lay still. His hair bristled on the temples.

Jessup remembered the masked attackers on 161st by the subway entrance. Judging by his height and build, the blond could have easily been in charge of the men who’d hunted Shelby. Once again his recognition skills had served Jessup well.

“The girl and the veteran,” Frank nodded at the burly man by the platform edge, “they helped me. We’re not guilty. Claney and Dickens are the ones to blame…” he stopped and pointed at the blond man.

“Search the roof,” Jessup ordered. “Keep all exits under your control and contact our guys inside.” He turned to Shelby. “I need to know about the transmitter.”

Frank shook his head.

“Dickens couldn’t turn the equipment on. I stopped him transmitting…” his gaze shifted to the girl who’d crossed the platform once the fighters had left it.

She hauled the large man over onto his back, placed her hands on his disfigured face and spoke, but the rotating helicopter blades beat the air drowning out her words.

“Please help,” Shelby held out his hand.

Jessup squeezed it, pulled it toward himself and caught a glimpse of a movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Watch out!” Frank lunged forward.

The blond man sat up raising a gun. His shirt was torn on his chest revealing a Kevlar vest split by the axe blow.

A shot rang out.

Shelby froze for a second. He looked back. Jessup lowered his gun. He stepped toward the man, who was now lying on his back, and kicked the gun aside.

“His name is Dickens, then?” he nodded at the dead man — now dead for real. The pale eyes stared into the starry sky. Blood seeped from the bullet hole in his forehead.

“Yes. He and his men tried to run me down on Claney’s orders. I’ll give you the details…”

“Later.” Jessup holstered his gun.

“Do you have Claney?”

“No. He’s flown the coop.” Jessup looked at Shelby. “Any idea where he could be heading? We’ve blocked off the roads and the airport.”

“He said he’d go to the airfield.”

“The airfield?” Jessup frowned. Airfield, he thought. Airfield… but of course! The flyboys. Their base is the only remaining strip from which he could take off unhindered.

He swung his arm, ordering the pilot to prepare for take-off. More special-forces men appeared on the roof, among them a civilian. Short and thickset, with sharp features, he ran up to Jessup. He glanced at the dead man, then at Shelby.

“Salem! Speak up,” Jessup shouted.

“We’ve suppressed their resistance, now we’re mopping up in the building.”

“Very good. Take care of the witnesses and whip up some help for the wounded,” Jessup pointed at the girl and the big man. “Get Archer on the line and tell him to go to the airdrome. I’m going straight there.”

“I’ll come with you,” he heard.

Salem stared at Frank who’d dared to interrupt them.

“You’re wounded,” Jessup sized him up, surprised.

“That’s nothing,” Frank winced. “You and I, we’ve got something to talk about.”

“All right,” the captain nodded and waved to the drop team leader. “Take off in one minute!”

He gave Salem a few last-minute instructions and ran to the helicopter. Frank followed. The team was already piling on board.

They didn’t have a chance to talk in flight. First Frank had his wounds dressed, then Jessup had to keep the Feds posted on the radio. Soon the chopper started to snake over the river. A long chain of lights came up from the right marking the landing strip where a charter jet was just taxiing onto the runway.

“We’ve arrived!” the captain shouted. “The Feds are at their gates. But they have access problems. We’ll have to break through from the air.”

The drop team leader nodded. His fighters started checking their weapons and equipment.

“We’ll hover over the strip to prevent the plane from taking off,” Jessup said. “The group will then rappel down and take over the jet. We need Claney alive.”

“Yes, sir,” the fighter said.

“Shelby,” Jessup turned to Frank, “we’re staying in the chopper.”

Frank paused. “I’ll go with them.”

“No, you won’t,” Jessup snapped turning away from him.

Frank glanced at the team preparing for the descent. He shuddered, raised his collar and put his hand into his pocket. His fingers found a sharp object. He pulled it out and stared, disbelieving, at the syringe he’d picked up in Bow’s lab.

Maggie had already told him a little about the capsules and the way they were programmed in the elevator on their way to the tower roof. She’d seemed to have another one of her revelations like when she’d switched off the biocurrent machine in the lab. Her personality correction procedure hadn’t been finalized. They’d only managed to download the data into her brain so that she could share it at the press conference flawlessly, confessing to the crime she hadn’t committed.

Frank looked at Jessup’s back and put the syringe away. No points for guessing what it contained. The opaque greenish solution held the mnemocapsule, and the liquid itself had to be the chemical mind lock he kept hearing about. The transmitter’s signal had to activate both, provided the vaccinated subject had his electronic bracelet on. That’s why Bow and his techs had been scared shitless at the sight of the needle.

One question remained unanswered for Frank: how had Dickens managed to get Barney under his control? Without the transmitter signal and without Barney’s bracelet…

“Get ready!” the captain shouted distracting Frank from his ponderings.

The chopper banked to one side hovering over the runway. The team slid the doors open, hung their backs to the wind and dropped the ropes.

“Go! Go!” Jessup ordered.

The men rapped down and disappeared under the helicopter. Frank stared at the long shape that was rapidly looming up toward them. Headlights shone on the jet’s wings, blinding him. The plane put its nose down. Clouds of smoke billowed from around its undercarriage.

“Put her down!” the captain ordered the pilot.

Sluggishly, the chopper descended. The plane swerved, ending up on the grass. Its wing tips flapping, the plane shuddered over the uneven ground. The drop team ran toward it.

By the time Frank and Jessup left the chopper, the aircraft had come to a stop. A hatch opened in the fuselage letting out a baldheaded man with a gun. Shots resounded. Bullets ripped holes in the jet’s skin around the door. The man convulsed and fell out onto the grass.

“Shit!” the captain cursed as he ran.

“This isn’t Claney!” Frank shouted behind him. He’d already recognized the corpse.

He felt a total wreck. He could barely move, the bullet wound in his shoulder hurt like hell, his ribs ached so much that he had difficulty breathing. He couldn’t catch up with the captain.

“Who is it, then?” Jessup reached the body first and turned it over toward him.

Frank stopped next to him, gasping.

“This guy is a cab driver,” he collapsed onto the grass. “You see this scar? He gave me a lift. I remember him…”

More shots rang out, this time inside the plane. Three of them, then all went quiet.

“What cab driver?” Jessup looked up clutching the revolver.

“From La Guardia. This was Dickens’ plan A. He killed Kathleen in my apartment, and his people had to kidnap me from the airport… exactly what he planned to do after that, I don’t know.”

A soldier stuck his head out of the hatch.

“Clear!” he reported and jumped out onto the grass.

“What about Claney?” the captain asked.

The team pushed the handcuffed Congressman out of the plane, then jumped out themselves. One of them had his helmet split, his bulletproof vest dented, but he stood up with confidence.

“No casualties on our side,” the leader reported.

Sirens wailed from the airfield. Everybody turned their heads to the sound. Frank scrambled to his feet. Several army Jeeps sped to the plane followed by patrol cars, their lights flashing.

“That’s Archer,” the captain grinned. He looked at Frank and explained, “The Federal agent who took your case from me.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much choice under the circumstances. I had to show him the tape you got from Memoria and then lost in the camp.”

They turned to Claney. Frank stepped toward him and was stopped in his tracks by his disdainful glare.

“One of these days you’ll be the next one,” Claney smirked.

Frank looked into his face, silent. He didn’t have enough strength to continue the exchange. He turned away and shuffled off to the chopper on the strip. Behind his back, Jessup started reading Claney his rights.