Exit Alpha by Clinton Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

that followed was tinged with admiration. He sat down thankfully. Lord, he thought, I’m some kind of hero here.
    The introduction was followed by Pat’s astonishing presentation. She had the videos, the before and afters, the secret films of the targets. Each time he’d seen her segment, it was better and more effective. It went into plastic surgery of the face, the body. The radical implants. Hair, diet, iris, fingerprint and dental difficulties. Prime subjects, selection, attitude. Physical and mental re-education. Voice production and acting. The memory factor. Specialists and staffing. Simulation testing. Lead time. And, finally, the grim matter of end-point relief.
    At the finish, the stunned audience filed from the room as if retreating from an open coffin.
    On tables in the foyer outside were coffee and canapes. Cain waited his turn to get coffee, reading the crowd. Two impressive-looking men he’d identified as observers stood together shaking their heads, barely able to credit what they’d seen.
    Pat came over. ‘How’d I go?’
    ‘You know damn well.’
    Spencer appeared briefly in front of her, jaw flapping for words. ‘Oh my gosh,’ he finally got out. ‘You people. I’ve never . . .’
    She said brightly, ‘Thorough, aren’t we?’
    ‘And I thought naval aviation was tough!’ He pumped her hand, drifted away.
    She turned to Cain. ‘You got quite an intro.’
    ‘Bigger razz than the Thieving Magpie overture.’
    Rhonda barged up to the table, edging them aside like a runaway refrigerator, ‘Having fun?’
    ‘Did you have to do the potted bio?’
    She sang, ‘And noble lords will scrape and bow, and double them in two. And open their eyes in blank surprise at whatever she likes to do.’
    ‘I saw nothing in the job description about hosannas for superannuated icons.’
    ‘If you could trust job descriptions, there wouldn’t be chaos theory.’
    A madonna-faced woman entered the room. She had a supermodel’s figure. He’d noticed her when she’d stayed behind to cue up the next videos. Rhonda called to her, ‘All set up?’
    She came over. ‘I think so.’ Her cutaway top displayed the high lift of her breasts.
    ‘Karen Hunt. Meet John Cain — our great Grade Four.’
    ‘Hello,’ Cain said, longing to look at the cleft of exposed smooth skin. With effort he kept his eyes on her face. Smooth brow, beautiful jawline. She made Pat look like her mother.
    Rhonda said, ‘Karen’s one of my best Grade Ones. She’s handling The Square.’
    He’d heard of it — a pervasive cult already a concern to several governments. ‘Must be a blast.’
    ‘She’ll be telling you about it next session.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘Ron’s told me a lot about you,’ the woman said. Her voice sounded like a recorded message. He wondered what kind of training had produced her inner deadness. Pat watched his reactions but needn’t have worried. Hunt was as sexually approachable as a waxwork.
    A glass was tapped and Vanqua, in the centre of the room, raised his hand. ‘Now cadets have a work session and observers have one hour free before the next presentation.’
    Rhonda turned to Cain, coldly serious again. ‘Let’s talk.’

DEBRIEF

    W hen they were back in her den she said to him, ‘You’re officially dead. Feel good?’
    ‘Marvellous.’
    ‘And poor Rehana’s really dead.’ She eased her bulk into a chair. ‘A terrible death.’
    ‘And pointless.’
    She passed a hand above her head. ‘ Que ?’
    ‘We get our man installed, then Pak One falls out of the sky.’ He sat opposite her, wondering why she didn’t see it. ‘Was it Beg? He was the only top general not on the plane. The other fifteen died, plus the US Defence Attache. Beg took the chopper, flew over the wreckage. What’s your take on it?’
    ‘Yes, tricky one that.’ She got up, searching for something. ‘There were chemical traces in the cockpit. Could have been poison gas. I’d say the likely lads are