Colonel Hayden Grant sat in the chopper feeling his fingers itch in anticipation, yet his breathing was relaxed and calm from the camouflaged cocoon of his N.B.C. suit. The N.B.C.’s, (nuclear, biological, chemical), were better than the clumsy yellow hazmats used by firefighters and general chemical cleanup crews. These uniforms were designed to be worn for extended periods of time and allowed the wearer a full range of motion. Grant didn’t expect to need his suit for very long. After all, this was a simple task; extract the apple from the tree, maybe waste a few infectees, decontaminate in the safe zone the other side of Glacier National Park and then home in time for Jeopardy. I’ll take, “ways to kill the population off” for $400 Alex.
The last five minutes in the skies above Montana they had flown through some chop and a misty wall of vapour surrounded them, but it was nothing to worry about. He and Van Gogh had been through much worse, flying into the South American jungle, repelling into the vicious green below, all while being shot at. A virtual stew of nasty contagions seemed relatively benevolent in comparison.
Grant gazed down through the cloud cover. Occasionally he could see the quilted patches of land stitched together by roads into rectangular patterns of green and gold sometimes split open by veins of creaks and small waterways.
The chopper pilot held up his hand stretching out his fingers. Five minutes. Grant’s N.B.C. twin, Van Gogh motioned back with a thumbs-up. Almost time.
Grant now marvelled at the precision of the whole operation. No stone had been left unturned. Every aspect had been covered; the increased barium levels, the hallucinogens and biological parasites, all to control, enslave, and exterminate a docile populace. It had been delivered with stealth, not just in the air, but in bottled water, the frozen and fresh food, the God damn toothpaste. The minds had been polluted through subliminal messages delivered digitally by DSN cables and to IPS addresses. Microwaves had fried brains through cell phones and caused tumours to grow at an exponential rate to the size of grapefruits.
Yes-sir-ee, his employers had thought of everything and deserved the fucking gold medal for genocide. Compared to them, Hitler was a pussy. The Nazi’s had fucked up when they just targeted the Jews, the mentally handicapped and the cripples. Project Eden had the real balls. There were no boundaries of creed, race, colour and ability. Fuck status and moderate wealth. No one gave a shit if you were ancient, or a wailing newborn fresh out of the womb. You were either in the loop, or out of it. And if you were on the outside looking in, you better make peace with whatever God you prayed to.
It was a thing of beauty, really and they knew only one percent of the population would be immune. In a town the size of Coram that meant approximately four people. Ted Ellington, a young man barely into his thirties, who they nabbed in St. Louis, while he was on a business trip last week, was one. He would never know that his wife had smothered their children back in Coram, suffocating them with their own pillows, believing they were aliens before she haemorrhaged out her eyes. She would then try to carve them from her skull with a table spoon before she collapsed in their kitchen.
But before they’d send Mr. Ellington a first class ticket to see his wife and kids in the here-after, they’d need to poke and prod the man. He required studying, dissection at the DNA level. They’d have to cut his shit into tiny pieces to view under a microscope. From Ellington they hoped to harvest a vaccine that could be sold to the highest bidder in the time of impending chaos. But that bastard had overturned the bed in his cell and impaled his throat on one of the legs, rupturing the carotid artery and bleeding out before they could save him. Even though he’d been lied to, and assured the tests were routine, it was as if he knew he’d eventually be killed when they got what they wanted.
No matter, there was a new test subject, a twelve-year-old known as Rabbit Bradley and he’d soon be in their hands. This area would be in quarantine for sometime as the news spread of a biological terrorist attack from an, as yet unknown, Asian country. The media, as they had in the past, would be the catalyst, just one in an endless arsenal of propaganda and weaponry. Very soon martial law would be declared and everyone would hand over the last tattered threads of their freedom. They would willingly welcome the embedded microchips to document their every move. They would applaud the vigilant cameras on every street corner. They would encourage the detention of all who opposed the new will for the greater good.
And soon there would be a new weapon in a war to end all wars. Grant thought. And nothing is more profitable than war.
The next phase of Project Eden would give them a definite edge on control over the planet, a unified, one world vision, with a chosen few peering down from their throne in God-like existence. All would acquiesce, or die.