by Jaq Wright
“Run it again,” Sandy directed. They studied the video several times. The cable went off screen, so they did not have any way of knowing how large the control device was. Anything from a laptop to a room.
The mission commander appeared. “New orders. Put everything back in the containers. We're going to take these four boxes with us and go.”
“Go where?” asked Cameron.
“The containers and prisoners are going to Guantanamo. You guys are going home.”
“But I've got a lot more work to do!” Mitzi was indignant.
“Someone upstairs has decided different. Sorry.”
The containers were closed up and loaded onto trucks, then taken down to the port and transferred onto the support ship. Mitzi and Cameron were directed to the Captain's quarters. They waited for several minutes, then a monitor came alive and the DDO was on screen.
“We've decided it is best that this little operation never happened. The Navy pathologists will finish the work on all the bodies at Gitmo, and hold the equipment there securely for now. As far as I can tell, it was an unmitigated disaster. Fourteen men and a helicopter lost, and a bunch of prisoners who have no clue what went on there. So far, the ones who are talking all think it was just a drug processing station.” He pointed towards Cameron. “You have nothing to link Perez.” He pointed at Mitzi. “You have nothing to link your father. Neither of you can tell me what was going on there.”
Mitzi spoke up. “We have proof of secret brain-spinal cord research, and we know it is all directed at a very specific, very unusual spinal injury. Like one made by a bullet. This is all pointing at solving a specific problem. Perez's problem. And my father stumbled onto it!”
“Plus,” Cameron added, “we have the lower body exoskeleton like the one Perez had at the para games.”
“All circumstantial, all conjecture. You actually have nothing. I believe you, but I need more than faith. We are done here.” The screen went blank.
Chapter 7
Monday, October 10
Basseterre, Saint Kitts
Santiago found himself waiting again as the man with that precise bullet wound swam, this time in an infinity pool behind his small villa overlooking the harbor. When he was finished, two burly guards hoisted him into one of his custom-made chairs, and he waved Santiago over. He gave his report as quickly as he dared.
“So, you were unable to destroy the containers.” Not a question. Perez mused for a minute. “Were all the hard drives destroyed?”
“Yes.”
“And we are sure no one in the east wing had cameras?”
"One hundred percent."
“So, that leaves the nurses and the subjects.”
“I think the containers were close enough to be destroyed in the explosion.”
Perez shook his head. “We cannot assume that. They were all from Veracruz. And the subjects were mostly Mexican. We need to wait a while before trying to get any work done there. No matter, we are ready for Phase Two. Go to New York. Have Maxwell contact Overbridge. We have the poet ready, correct?"
"Yes, he is training intensely."
"Excellent. Tell Maxwell we are ready to present to Overbridge. Have him at our facility in Queens on Saturday."
Santiago turned to leave. Just as he got to the door, Perez called him back. "And Santiago, my friend, remember. Overbridge is not like the Brazilian surgeons. He will not be intimidated, nor bought. He needs to be persuaded, seduced, convinced. He needs to be a believer. Let Maxwell do it his way."
"Understood."
◆◆◆
After Santiago left, another man came in from the next room. James Maxwell was a slight man, with almost white hair, and a voice that sounded perpetually like he had been punched in the throat, breathy and strained.
"You were listening, yes?" Perez's English had only the slightest accent. "Is the poet's mesh ready?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, but why are we doing such a limited implant? We could do a complete cortical mesh and really accomplish something here."
"Proof of concept. We need something that will show Overbridge the potential, with a high likelihood of success. If we lose this patient, we lose the surgeon. Who we would then have to eliminate. And our pool of approachable surgeons that I would find acceptable is small. Besides, the limited implant will be more than adequate for the spinal interface. Take the G-5 and get to New York. Santiago does not need to know you were here."
As Maxwell left, Perez had a sudden stab of pain in his belly that took his breath away for a moment, and left him exhausted and sweating. It was indeed time to accelerate the process.
◆◆◆
Mitzi and Cameron flew to D.C. that same day, where a grim driver picked them up and drove them to Langley. Mitzi was kept in a surprisingly comfortable waiting room, while Cameron met with the DDO.
“Ah, Agent Hansen,” he started, “Thank you for convincing me to organize the worst black ops disaster in a decade.” He turned a pen slowly in his fingers. “So, as an analyst, what do you think was so important about spinal cord research, even illegal, involuntary research, that would make it necessary for Perez, assuming it was Perez, to destroy the entire facility and kill his own researchers and soldiers?” He waited for an answer.
“I really don't know, sir.”
“Very helpful. Let's see if Dr. Lenz is similarly useless.” They called in Mitzi. She had, of course, been pondering that very question.
"The mesh is simply too big," she began, "If you want to animate the legs, you would put an interface on the part of the cortex which controls the legs, which is actually a very small area on each side. Certainly not enough reason to cover the entire top of the brain. The second mesh, newer, not only had wrinkles corresponding to the actual shape of the brain, but it did that for the WHOLE cortex, not just the motor area. At first I thought it was simply more convenient to do the whole thing, but once I thought some more about the folds, it was clear they wanted either a way to detect brain activity over the whole brain, or potentially stimulate activity over the entire brain."
"What would be the goal of either of those, in your opinion?"
"I really don't know. Maybe some way to exert mind control, or something."
"There you go," Cameron interjected. "Perez will kidnap a politician, whisk him off to a secret island, implant a mind control screen in his head, and send him back to run for President. All you need to do is make up a good story as to why he always wears a metal helmet with a cable out the back."
The DDO snapped, “Don't be an idiot.” He stared at the wall for a minute. “No, this seems more personal. From what you tell me, Dr. Lenz, all of the spinal cord injuries were made to be identical, and likely correspond exactly to Perez's own injury delivered by Agent Hansen here. And yes, I still believe it is Perez. With that and the video clip showing attempts at walking, I think it is clear he is spending his resources to help himself, and is not willing to waste time on animal experimentation. I just don't understand the need for the complete destruction of the facility. Along with our men. I had the Secretary of Defense in a near apoplectic fit this morning. Plus, in reality, we still have nothing on Perez. He has complete deniability.”
“But he owns Isla Sofia,” objected Cameron.
“No, Ojo del Diablo owns Isla Sofia. The proof that HE controls Ojo del Diablo is thin.”
“He is Ojo del Diablo,” hissed Cameron, “my bullet in his back is the proof.”
“Plus,” added Mitzi, “the exoskeleton we recovered is the same as the one he demonstrated at the para games.”
“Look, I'm on your side, and I want this guy, and as far as possible I will continue to act on that as appropriate, but please do not confuse your solo testimony with actionable proof. We have no actual evidence that Perez even has a bullet in the back, and was not in a para-sailing accident, as has been reported around the world. Keep digging, but don't expect further action short of something substantial. Get out of here.”
&nb
sp; ◆◆◆
“Bureaucrats,” Cameron spat. “I had hoped for more.” The same driver was taking them back to Reagan National, where they would catch a shuttle for New York.
“I can see his point. We need to get more information. Or you do. I'm sure that the backlog of work for me after this impromptu week off will be enough to more than keep me busy.”
“So, you're just going to let it go? There's something really important - and bad - going on.”
Mitzi sighed. “Look, my main focus was finding my father. At this point, there is no reasonable chance that he is alive, so my motivation is dwindling. The DDO told you to keep digging, so Perez is still your job. Let me know if you come up with anything, or want to run something by me, but I've got to get back to work.”
They rode on in silence. Keep digging, Cameron thought. But how? Where? He stared out the window as they approached the airport. I wonder if Perez actually spent time on the island, he mused. Yes. For something like this, this big, this personal, the man he knew would have wanted to monitor the progress himself. Okay, so how did he get there? There was no runway to accommodate a plane, so by boat or by helicopter. He looked at the rotating radar tower. No, there would be no reason for us to have watched movements in and out of Isla Sofia. Then another thought. Not on purpose, but how about by accident? Satellites. They photograph everywhere. He sat back, nodding slightly to himself. I'll check with the reconnaissance guys. Somewhere to start, anyway. He considered sharing his idea with Mitzi, but he was more than a little annoyed. Sure, drag me suddenly off with no notice, then just as suddenly lose interest. I think I'll just do my thing, my way, from here on out.
Lacking anything specific to discuss, Mitzi was characteristically silent. She had no interest in small talk, and spent the flight going over the notes of the cases waiting for her in New York, which had been emailed to her by her assistant. My boss is not going to be happy, she thought. The DDO's words gave her an out. I'll just tell him that I was on a classified operation, and he can talk to CIA if he wants to know more. He would rather talk to a scorpion, she thought with satisfaction.
Mitzi knew she was considered a “difficult” employee. And relished that knowledge.
Chapter 8
Tuesday, October 11
New York
Augustus Overbridge opened his eyes and sat up, swinging his legs off the left side of his bed. He looked at the clock. 5:30 precisely. His mouth pulled back in a satisfied half smile, and he reached out and flipped the switch on his ancient clock radio to OFF. Then ON, OFF, ON, OFF. The alarm was set for 5:31, as it was every night, but it had not gone off for several years. Two thousand, nine hundred and seventy-eight days, to be precise. Dr. Overbridge prided himself on his precision. He wished to arise at 5:30, and it was his subconscious' duty to awaken him appropriately. He was no more likely to tolerate sloppy sleeping than he was sloppy waking.
He rose and stood in front of his bedroom window, gazing over the East River. It was still dark, but the lights of the Manhattan psychiatric center slightly to the north on Randall’s Island and the great expanse of Queens across the river were beautiful in the pre-dawn. A lovely day to be alive, he thought. He snapped on the light, and instantly the window became a mirror. He looked critically at his naked body. Sixty-six years old, at six foot two and one hundred sixty pounds, a little on the gaunt side, he had a large, round, nearly spherical bald head, lean but defined muscles, and just enough belly fat to hide his toned abs.
He walked down the hall to his home gym, and worked through his weight routine for thirty-nine minutes, showered, shaved, and opened his closet. On this, as on every morning, he put on white boxers, black socks, and a starched white shirt. He then donned the dark gray suit at the far right side of the rack, carefully moved the other nine suits one spot over, and hung the hanger on the far left, ready to receive today's suit in the evening. He checked again to make sure the suits were evenly spaced, and then turned to the right and opened his tie closet. Two hundred and sixty-two bow ties and two hundred and seventeen standard long ties were displayed on pegs from ceiling to floor and on the backs of the closet doors. He had twenty-three empty, available pegs. The ties were arranged chronologically, starting with his prep school tie from Exeter in the upper left, down to the lurid chartreuse and magenta paisley purchased three weeks ago on the bottom right. Tie choice was the only variable in Dr. Overbridge's routine. Today was a surgery day, calling for a long power tie, not the bow which he would have favored on a clinic day, worn with a starched white lab coat. He considered his surgery schedule. He had a particularly difficult aneurysm scheduled. He decided to go all out, and reached for his favorite. Bright yellow, with tiny red-and-blue Supermen in a diagonal pattern. It was a Super tie. For a Super surgeon. Dr. Overbridge considered himself to be the finest neurosurgeon in the City of New York, and therefore the world. The odd thing was that many in the field would agree with him. The mystery was why he practiced at Our Lady of Salubrious Penitence.
Our Lady of Salubrious Penitence was known as OLSP, which was often distorted mockingly to Owl’s Pee, and was emphatically not where you would expect to find excellence in neurosurgery. Nestled in the middle of East Harlem, with virtually no community support and abysmal practitioners in almost every field, its administrators spent their days at Town Hall lobbying against the posting of city hospital mortality rates on the government website. It was a teaching hospital, but only in the sense that medical students and residents from real academic programs were forced to rotate through. The emergency room was a catastrophe, the support staff close to criminal.
Except in neurosurgery. Dr. Overbridge attracted patients who paid. A lot. There were certain types of aneurysms for which his success rate was nearly twice the national average, and twenty percent better than at the prestigious Neurological Institute of New York. People flew in from all over the country, and in fact, the world. Dr. Overbridge had come to Our Lady over twenty years previously, with the proposal that he be allowed to run his own department, his own way, funded exclusively by his patients. Administration jumped at the opportunity, and he had been there ever since.
So, the Superman tie for today.
His housekeeper had arrived at 6:30, and at precisely 6:45, he breakfasted on two eggs, over easy, with two strips of bacon and buttered wheat toast. The same as on every weekday. He walked out his front door at precisely 7:15. Which is when he had to start counting.
Four steps to the elevator. Good, he was the only passenger going down from the 44th floor. That was better, fewer variables. Two steps in, turn and face the doors, press the button for the lobby three times. Eight steps across the lobby, nod to the doorman, six more steps out onto the street. From his front door at 1819 2nd Ave (at East 94th Street) to the front door at OLSP on 3rd Avenue and 111th was exactly one mile. He walked every day, rain or shine, slipping on rubber overshoes for inclement weather. After all these years, he was pleased that he could now almost always succeed in making it exactly one thousand paces, or two thousand steps. After all, that was the origin of the word mile. The Romans would be pleased. Up six steps to the main entrance, four steps past security, and sixteen more to the elevator. Today the elevator was full, necessitating a very awkward one-half step and turn. The elevator rose sluggishly. Finally, thirty-eight steps down the corridor to his office.
Surgery was scheduled for nine o'clock. Today's was a large and particularly difficult aneurysm on the posterior aspect of the circle of Willis. He was reviewing the angiogram on the high-definition monitor at his desk, when the door burst open and a somewhat ruffled-appearing, very short man with brown curly hair and a round belly, which threatened to burst the buttons on the midsection of his wrinkled white coat, popped in, breathless.
“Dr. Overbridge,” he sputtered, “there is a skull fracture in the emergency room!”
Overbridge blinked at him slowly. “First, who are you, second, I am never on call for trauma, and third, never, ever, come into my offic
e without knocking. Go out and try again.”
He stood, gaping for a second, then went back out the door, closed it, and rapped gently.
“Come in.”
“Dr. Overbridge, there’s …”
Dr. Overbridge held up his hand. “Hello, young man, my name is Dr. Overbridge. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Uh, I’m Dr. Brentwood. I’m the new surgery resident on your service. You can call me Bill.”
“Not at all likely. Why are you here?”
“Uh, there’s a skull fracture in the ER,” he said slowly.
“How does that concern me?”
“Oh, yeah, Dr. Castle was injured playing racquetball this morning, and Dr. Pearlman is away this week, and that leaves you.
Dr. Overbridge sighed deeply and turned his gaze to his computer screen. “Name?”
“Um, Bill Brentwood?”
“No, the patient’s name.” The word IDIOT was left unsaid.
“Jimmy Moretti, M-O-R-E-T-T-I. Date of birth 5-16-73.”
Dr. Overbridge had the patient’s scan up on the monitor in a few moments. “Hmm. Tell me what you see.”
“Well, there is a depressed skull fracture on the left parietal skull, near the middle meningeal artery, lots of soft tissue damage over the fracture, but no hematoma intracranially.”
“Quite correct. Mechanism of injury?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, just got the call from the ER.”
Overbridge stared at him blankly for a full, and very uncomfortable, thirty seconds.
“In the future, kindly see the patients before presenting them to me.” He sighed deeply. “Well, I guess it can't be helped. Shame to waste a good tie on a routine trauma case. By the time we get to the aneurysm, I will have changed into scrubs, and my patient will not know I was prepared.”