Free Weir Codex 1: The Cestus Concern by Mat Nastos Page B

principal alone.
    “…is beyond me,” cut in Fountain’s voice, snapping Kiesling back to reality with its over-excitable San Diego cadence.
    The last time Kiesling had heard a bass voice as whiny and annoying as the Congressman’s was from Darth Vader at the end of ‘Revenge of the Sith.’
    “Are you listening to me, Director Kiesling,” came Fountain’s poor attempt at gravitas.
    “With rapt attention, Representative Fountain,” replied Kiesling, his smile filled with the whitest teeth this side of a Hollywood blockbuster. “As to why we haven’t been able to locate Designate Cestus, I’ll leave that answer to our head tech on the project.”
    Chair half spinning far enough around to get the politician’s face out of his peripheral vision, Kiesling gestured to the now sweat-drenched Carl Anderson. “Please explain to the Congressman and to all of us, Mister Anderson, why we are unable to locate the prodigal Captain Malcolm Weir? If my memory serves me correctly, and I have Ms. Roslan there to ensure it always does, the first thing Doctor Ryan’s lab boys do with every single Project: Hardwired recruit is surgically implant a sub-dermal tracking device. Beyond that, I’ve seen POV video from Designate Cestus in his mission logs. Shouldn’t we be able to access his cameras by now?”
    To say Carl Anderson shrunk beneath the withering gaze of his boss and his boss’s boss would be an understatement. His entire body seemed to go flaccid and threaten to collapse in on itself. For several excruciating seconds, Anderson was unable to speak. The perspiration stains beneath his armpits grew to engulf his entire Wal-Mart purchased pale blue polo shirt, and Kiesling was convinced the man’s breathing had stopped altogether.
    “Mister Anderson?”
    A hand on Anderson’s shoulder and the sultry voice of Kiesling’s executive assistant brought the man back to life. “Tell them what you told me, Carl. It’s OK.”
    Smiling up at the lovely Ms. Roslan, Anderson exhaled a deep breath, turned to lock eyes with his boss, and launched into his explanation
    “You’re one-hundred percent correct, sir. We should be able to track Designate Cestus up to within six feet of his location—closer than that when we’ve got one of the Sentinel-class satellites keyed into his signal and located in geostationary orbit. And you’re right again about the point-of-view camera systems installed in the occipital lobe of each of the prime units, such as Designate Cestus or Gauss. We viewed footage from Designate Gauss earlier—watched his fight with Cestus upstairs…”
    “Yes, yes! I know all of that, Mister Anderson,” interrupted Kiesling, growing more and more annoyed with the little engineer with each passing second he rambled on. “Now tell me something I don’t know. Tell me why, with all of the little toys you tech boys love so much, we cannot locate the damned Cestus unit? Tell me.”
    Kiesling’s voice nailed Anderson to place. The poor man’s eyes darted to each face in the room, trying to gain some sort of support or sympathy from those present. Unfortunately for Carl Anderson, none of the thirteen people seated around the large mahogany table would hold his gaze—not Security Chief Doherty, nor the May Brothers from the weapons lab with their matching goatees, or even Anderson’s best friend from the computer lab, Hal Hefner. No one met his pleading, desperate eyes. The only thing that held him in place, kept him from bolting from the room in terror, was the firm, reassuring grip of Ms. Roslan. The feel of her nails, polished a deep red, sliding along his shirt, and the intoxicating smell of her perfume wrapping Anderson like a warm, protective, lavender-scented blanket, helped him press on in the face of his employer’s anger.
    “Um…right, Kiesling, sir. Director Kiesling, sir, that is,” Anderson cleared his through and jumped head first into the rest of his debriefing before the head of Project: