CHAPTER TWO

  Dr. David Andalon flashed his badge and pulled into a faculty lot. The words Massachusetts Institute of Technology loomed large above a picture of a brand new professor with wild aspirations of scientific breakthrough, smiling in a way this older man no longer could. Had he not been in such a hurry he would have noticed the youth he’d lost while stressing and worrying over his fledgling program and earning tenure.

  Usually he was waved directly in, but this attendant was new and demanded he present a faculty placard. Although a minor inconvenience it shouldn’t have set him back, but fumbling under the seat led to losing it again under his brake pedal and cost him precious minutes. After a frustrated display of clipping it to his rearview mirror, he flashed an expectant look toward the gate attendant as if to ask, may I please proceed, you snot-nosed undergrad?

  With a hand movement and an air of authority he was allowed to pass.

  David wasted no time in revving the engine to speed under the raising arm, losing another victory to the attendant after his triumphant act killed the engine. Embarrassed, he restarted the car with a sputter. The kid merely frowned and pointed to the line of waiting cars. David sulked in his seat and pulled forward without looking back. Luckily, finding a parking spot was easy even if it wasn’t close to the hall. He could not afford tardiness on this occasion, so he quickly put the car into park and grabbed his bag. Ten minutes remained.

  He jogged toward Kresge, an older building with a flat dome overlooking the Charles River. Any other time he would pause to admire the twentieth century architecture, but the meeting would begin any minute. He caught a whiff of mesquite as he passed the barbecue pits, nearly colliding with several students cooking out and enjoying the chilly December afternoon. Though most had left at semester’s end, these were sticking around for the holidays.

  “Sorry, Doctor Andalon!” one of them called as he hurried by.

  The professor recognized the upperclassman as having attended several of his classes. “My fault, Alex! Please excuse me!” he replied.

  Alex asked, “Did you post the midterm grades, yet?”

  David turned and called back, “I regret I’ve not had time. Today is the budget review, and I’ve put all my time into this presentation.”

  “No worries, professor. It can wait.” The student let him go but then shouted, “Oh! I applied for your research fellowship next fall. So fingers are crossed you get funded!”

  David laughed and looked at his watch. “Thanks, Alex. Lord willing there’ll be enough to add four positions. I’d be happy to have you aboard.”

Five minutes remained.

  He sprinted up the steps and into the atrium. Despite a short line at the decontamination station, he made it inside rather quickly, rubbing his hands with sanitizer and then closing his eyes and mouth while the fogging mist formed around his skin and clothing. Thankfully, few people milled about so he didn’t have to push his way past anyone to get to the theater. With a turn of his shoulders he squeezed past two ushers shutting the doors, barely making it in time and flashing a look of thanks toward their irritated glances. A quick glance of his own toward the stage revealed the dean had not yet been seated. With satisfaction he joined his team at the table.

  A blonde woman in her early thirties was smartly dressed in a blue blazer and a white blouse. A red kerchief protruded from her breast pocket. On her right sat a young Korean student who opted to wear his lab coat. Each exuded professionalism while David suddenly felt very underdressed with his blue jeans and untucked button up shirt.

  “Glad you could join us,” the woman chided with a grin. “For a minute I thought Sam and I would have to present.”

  David quickly took his seat. “I ran into some traffic coming from Worcester.” He pronounced the city name like the condiment.

  “You’re so cute. Those of us from Massachusetts pronounce it Wuster, David.”

  He feigned hurt and responded, “I thought we’d long ago established I’m not from around these parts.”

  She smiled warmly and patted his hand, “That was never in dispute.” Leaning in she whispered, “You’re adorably cute, Dr. Andalon, even if you are from the south.”

  David blushed and then smiled devilishly, “What are you doing later, Brooke?”

  “Celebrating another anniversary with my husband, would you like to join me?”

  “Well,” he responded, pulling up a calendar on his watch, “I have this thing that I need to do…”

  She smacked his arm playfully and grinned. “If you aren’t there, I’m filing for divorce.”

  “Feel free,” he said, “there’s this sports car and bass boat I’ve been eyeing. I think you have to be single to get those.”

  “That,” she said, “or kill your husband for the insurance.”

  A gavel interrupted their sidebar and Dean Marshall called the meeting to order. “Before we get into budgetary specifics, I feel it necessary to point out that recent pandemics have stressed the entire nation, not only our esteemed campus.”

  “Great,” Brooke leaned in and whispered, “here it comes, excuses for more cutbacks.”

  “We’ll be fine,” David promised. “Marshall assured me an increase this year.”

  “Doesn’t he every year?”

  The Dean of Finance continued, “The primary focus over the coming year will remain on medical advancements and those projects deemed high interest in the name of national defense.”

  “Well that rules us out,” David joked under his breath.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “I’ve been telling you to call my brother.”

  “Never,” he replied. “I won’t let Jake militarize our project!”

  “Shhh…” Sam cautioned with a finger over his lips.

  David rolled his eyes at the intern, then continued, “Let’s at least hear the damage to our budget.”

  A screen lowered above the heads of the deans, and Marshall explained the numbers. “A twenty percent cut across all projects will ensure compliance with CDC and the bar set by the current administration. And sadly, sacrifices were made within Bio-Research division. Although genetic research will increase five percent overall, expect a total defunding for the Mendel Project.”

  David froze. He heard the words, but his brain stumbled as it reasoned out the last statement. Brooke’s hand gripped his forearm, but it wasn’t enough to keep him seated. He shouted up at the stage, “That’s preposterous!”

  Marshall made a show of feigned exasperation and then admonished the young professor, “Dr. Andalon, if you would like to voice your objections you will need to do so through the proper channels.”

  But David was unfazed by the caution and continued loudly, “The Mendel Project is vital to the future of mankind! If you remove funding now, you literally halt progress when we’re on the cusp of a breakthrough!”

  “I said that you may appeal through the proper channels,” shouted the dean.

  “Now is the proper time!” David had left his table and was making his way toward the stage, “Explain your rationale!”

  “Because, David, no one gives a damn about your psychic monkeys!” The dean’s remarks incited the audience who abruptly broke into laughter.

  Brooke softly grabbed her husband’s arm and turned him toward her. “Let’s go. There’s no reason to stay,” she said.

  “But I…” David stammered, “we…”

  Dean Marshall continued, “You have two months to solve the age-old question, professor. Can you prove by Christmas that chimpanzees can communicate using telepathy?” The arrogant man on stage rocked as he laughed, fueled by the riotous applause of the gathered department heads. Fueled by their laughter he added, “No one wants this world to turn into a planet ruled by apes!”

  Brooke pulled on his arm and half dragged her husband from the auditorium. Behind them Sam had gathered up their notes and jogged after the pair.

  Once they reached the atrium David pulled away. “It’s not fair,” he screamed, “I’ve been working this project since my dissertation! Ten years of my life are tied up in this.”

  “It’s okay, David! It’s not the end of the world!” Brooke didn’t mean the words to come out the way they had, but damage was done.

  He stared, dumbfounded that she could so easily minimize his life’s work. “So you don’t care this is my tenure year? Or about our future?”

  “No, David,” she pleaded, “that’s not what I feel!” She reached for his hands, but he pulled away sharply.

  “I need to think.”

  He pushed through the crowd and out the main doors, turning off his phone to ensure solitude.

*****

  Alex Boyd mulled around the student union after Doctor Andalon had gone inside the Kresge Building. This was a good spot to watch, listen, and learn. MIT was a hotspot of information and students liked to talk about their projects. American students are so naïve, he thought, and they love to brag about their research.

  He supposedly grew up in a suburb of Houston, Texas, and played the part well. He wore a pair of Tony Lama cowboy boots and jeans cut to fit over the tops. Around his waist was a large belt buckle awarded from a fake livestock contest. He spoke flawless English with a hint of a Texas drawl, completely disguising his true accent. Alex wasn’t even his real name, but it was close.

  Oleksandr Boyko loved his job even if it wasn’t what he signed up for, and it was vital to the mission of his organization. He had spent four years in the United States, gleaning many secrets. MIT had proven a hotbed of information, always suggesting the directional focus of the military and scientific community.

  His thoughts returned to Doctor Andalon. He was a likeable fellow, but the private laughingstock of the university. Oleksandr’s superiors had taken interest in the professor’s biogenetic research, but so far, the young man felt it was time wasted with so many juicier projects on campus. He assumed their interest was merely to gauge how far traits could actually be manipulated before and after birth. With a recent chain of worldwide pandemics, it would be nice to eliminate weaknesses in the human body and bolster resistance, but the scientist was primarily focused on the development of telepathic sensitivities. No one, including Oleksandr, took him seriously.

  He felt a buzz in his pocket and drew out a smartphone. Bystanders looking on would observe a photograph of a blonde girl about nineteen years old standing near a longhorn bull. They would wrongfully presume the sender had been his sister back home in Texas. He made a show of reading the message before returning the device to his pocket, I have so much to tell you, it read, call home tonight!

  He immediately left the student union and walked west along Memorial Drive. When he reached the library, he quickened his pace to a hurry, despite he would easily find a private room on a Friday afternoon. Sure enough, the building seemed deserted. Once nestled inside a cubby, he pulled out his laptop and connected his phone to the port. He moved the photo of the girl to a folder labeled “family,” then went to work. He scanned the file with a simple decryption key identical to the one used by the sender. Abruptly the photo disappeared. In its place were new orders, outlining a side mission.

  These orders were not from his organization, rather, they were sent by his Russian affiliates. Oleksandr viewed allegiances with more fluidity than most people and considered himself a free agent straddling two worlds. Although his employer paid handsomely for exclusivity of the information he could gather, he dabbled in work for anyone willing to pay a premium.

  This new task would challenge his computer skills, a chance he welcomed. In the past few months those had mostly fallen to the wayside. He eagerly connected to the university network using a specially designed virtual bypass. To any security monitors his login would appear to come from a specific address. He checked his watch. Dr. Guggenheim was currently teaching his undergraduate class and would not be online to trigger a hit on duplicate access.

  Felix Guggenheim had proven an easy target early on, and Oleksandr had looked forward to this opportunity for several years. The aging professor had a habit of leaving his lab computer logged on overnight and oftentimes forgot to turn it off. Gleaning his access credentials had been simple and the fact he used the same personal passwords for his classified work provided the hacker easy access into the most sensitive portions of the United States Missile Defense System.

  In order to cloak his intrusion, he rerouted his virtual connection, accessing the same ports through an active Chinese military account he kept close at hand. He worked quickly to avoid detection, unsure exactly how the new coding would affect trajectories. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem and the job paid well. He made the specified corrections, sending a repeated bot attack on several key missile silos, embedding a code that would turn the systems on in a few days. They wouldn’t launch, of course, merely turn warheads active for a few minutes and fire off their radars. This kind of hacking job usually sought to panic watching nations, forcing them to publicly chastise the offending government. He grinned at his work. Someone wished to embarrass the United States.

  After he had finished, Oleksandr doubled back to wipe his tracks, again leaving breadcrumbs to Dr. Guggenheim. Most assuredly the man would receive a stiffer penalty than the politicians he normally targeted. Those repeatedly thumb their noses at security protocols. The old man wouldn’t lose his clearance over the ordeal but would certainly get a swift slap to his wrist.

  With job complete he replied to the earlier text letting them know he had completed his task. You’re looking healthy, Sis! I’ll call tonight. This afternoon I’m resting after a long morning of studying. He scooped up his laptop, returning it to his satchel before casually strolling outside. Once he was certain the message had been received, he used his phone to access his bitcoin wallet. He smiled at the size of a recent deposit and quickly closed the browser.