Now he adventured in an inner ocean, among creatures far stranger and more mysterious than orcas and sharks.
His thoughts turned to their patient. The same old questions nagged at him: who was she? Who had done this to her, and why? His need to know grew with every mission. It was more than simple curiosity. His sojourns within her body had become a… relationship—a connection between them that grew deeper all the time. It was pointless to deny that.
He looked back to the computer. On impulse, he grabbed the mouse and began to search the directory. It wasn’t likely that classified information would be left on an unsecured computer, but there might be hints. References in medical records. . . anything.
The information on the machine appeared to be mostly finance-related. He searched for files that had been modified within the past few days. Nothing looked promising. He typed in the name of the first lady. "No files found." The president. Nothing. He tried to think of other high-profile women in the government, but could only remember the name of the Surgeon General, and wasn’t sure he’d spelled her name correctly.
No luck.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. When did the day shift start in this area? Weren’t there security guards who made their rounds?
He was pretty sure he would be able to hear someone coming, and there were exits at both ends of the room. He turned back to the screen.
The patient had to be someone prominent. You didn’t commandeer a multi-billion-dollar research project for the average Joe on the street. Or Jane. He thought again about the news websites. A government functionary in the spotlight would need to give the press some kind of explanation for her frequent visits to an Air Force Base, or disappearances for a day or two at a time.
As he launched the computer’s web browser, it struck him that the project staff might even monitor news stories to make sure reporters weren’t getting too close to the truth. He checked the “Favorites” list.
All of the usual default sites were there: CNN, Fox News, ABC News, CBS, several major newspapers, plus a handful that looked like military sites. He couldn’t tell if some were accessed more regularly than others. What about the browser history? If someone had been sloppy about clearing it at the end of the day. . . .
Suddenly he heard footsteps on a hard floor coming down the hallway behind him, approaching quickly. He shut down the browser and ran out the other end of the room on the balls of his feet, crouched over to keep his head below the tops of cubicle walls. Once in the clear, he slowed to a walk.
Damn. He’d nearly been caught without finding out anything useful. He wouldn’t get many more opportunities like that.
Would it be better after all if he didn’t learn her identity? If he could think of her clinically and objectively as a faceless Jane Doe to be treated and forgotten?
Impossible. He didn’t merely breach her flesh with cold instruments of steel and plastic, he trespassed within her very life’s blood with his mind. A connection so close he was almost afraid to acknowledge it. What if it ran both ways?
He had invaded her body. Had she infected his soul?
Looking up, he was surprised to find himself past the living quarters, near the end of the hallway leading to the clinic. A thought stopped him. Did he dare try the direct approach?
Glancing around a corner, he saw two men in suits stationed midway down the corridor. Secret Service, or guards of some other kind, he assumed. Yet there was a lab running the whole length of the hallway on the left side. One entrance was right beside him. What if the other end of the lab room had a separate connection with the clinic?
He cautiously tried the door. It was unlocked. Inside he saw no one—in fact, the room held little equipment except basic furniture: long tables and wall cabinets. Clearly it wasn’t being used. After easing the door shut behind him, he began to walk quietly but directly, hoping to give the impression of someone going about legitimate business. He was three-quarters of the way down the room when he heard a voice behind him.
“Excuse me, sir. You shouldn’t be here.”
He turned as casually as he could, heart suddenly pounding, a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was a tall, good-looking woman in a well-tailored suit. He didn’t see a gun, but the angle of her right arm said there was one within reach. Secret Service, obviously. Was it true they had no sense of humor? He had a feeling he was about to find out.
“Sorry. . . I. . . work on the project. I. . . think I left some notes somewhere around here. Possibly in the clinic.” The lie didn’t sound convincing, even to him. A slight curl of her lip showed she felt the same.
“If I spot them, I’ll be sure to let you know. But you need special clearance to be in this area. What’s your name, sir?”
“Uh. . . Hunter. It’s Hunter. I meant no harm, Agent. . . ?”
“Purdue.” She saw that he expected more. “That’s my name.”
“Good. . . great, Agent Purdue. Somehow I feel like you’re less likely to shoot me if we’re on a. . . last name basis. I’d be even more comfortable if there were a first name to go with it.”
She offered a wry smile. “Karen. I still have to ask you to leave.” She pointed to the way he had come. Her economy of motion and self-assurance spoke of long training, although she only appeared to be about thirty. Hunter was aware of her presence several measured steps behind him as they exited the room. She moved around the corner and raised her voice to her companions. “Give me five minutes. I’ll be escorting the civilian back to his quarters.”
As they moved up the hallway, she was still behind him to his left. He turned his head. “I know my way. I really do work on the project.”
“I know you do,” she replied. “I’ve memorized all of your names and photos.” Which meant that she’d wanted to see if she could catch him in a lie. “Why do you think I didn’t shoot you?”
The startled look on his face made her laugh. After a moment of uncertainty, Hunter laughed, too. Relief flowed through his body, letting the muscles in his neck and back begin to unknot.
“Agent Karen Purdue,” he said, “You have me at a disadvantage. I feel that I’ve disturbed your work. I’d like to make it up to you. Perhaps with a drink sometime?”
They had reached his door. She stood waiting for him to turn the knob. “I’m afraid not. We’ve been instructed to show special consideration to the members of your team, but that does not extend to fraternizing.” It might have been true—he’d never seen any of her fellow agents in the commissary or bars. Either way, it was a handy excuse for a woman who must be used to such overtures.
Hunter shrugged. “Then. . . thanks for your restraint. Not shooting me.”
“Glad to oblige. But Mr. Hunter. . . .” Her face became serious. “Don’t do it again.”
He nodded and stepped into his room.
It was later, during his lunch break, that two uniformed security officers came to take him away.
# # #
“What can I say?” Kierkegaard stared him down like a schoolmaster with an errant pupil. “That I’m very disappointed in you? I am—in both your persistent disregard for protocol, and your disturbing lack of wits. It didn’t occur to you that we’d have security cameras in every part of this facility? That we’d have monitoring software on the computers? That there’d be Secret Service agents watching the clinic?”
Hunter hung his head.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” he said. “I didn’t think it through.”
“I suggest that you do more thinking in the future, in all of your activities here.” The project head was thoroughly angry, and a steel edge showed beneath his professorial veneer. “In your background there was nothing to indicate that you’re inclined to break rules or disobey orders. You wouldn’t be here if there was. A bit irresponsible but never a rebel. Are you rebelling now?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Would you like to tell me why you’re so obses
sed with learning the identity of our patient that you’re willing to violate national security?”
Hunter hesitated, then shook his head. “I just believe I can do my job better if I know more about the person we’re working on.” He looked up. “I’m working inside her. . . poking around in her very veins, for crying out loud. Why shouldn’t I know who she is?”
“That’s not for me to decide,” Kierkegaard said. “I have no leeway on that. The directive comes directly from the White House, and you are not on the list. It’s a top security issue, and believe me, they’re very serious about it. I don’t think you realize whose garden you’re playing in.” He leaned on his desk for a moment, considering something. Then he looked into the pilot’s eyes.
“Can you tell me any valid reason you would be able to perform your task more effectively by knowing the identity of the patient?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question this time. He actually wanted to know.
Hunter thought hard and then said, “No.” He couldn’t explain his reasons because he didn’t understand them himself. All his life, he would have said that he had no tolerance for mysticism, or even so-called intuition. Now he was coming to realize that he’d been lying to himself. He did play hunches and he did follow his intuition often, and usually well. He always had. He’d simply never been willing to acknowledge it.
He had used some other sense to find an alternate route to the site of the latest bomb. He’d told Tamiko that he’d felt guided by something, and it was true, except he had no proof, not even an explanation. Could he tell this man that he believed his empathy with the patient would increase the more he knew about her and that such knowledge could somehow help him locate and destroy deadly nano-technology weapons? It sounded like utter crap, even to him. No, it wasn’t ammunition Kierkegaard could take to his own superiors.
And Hunter didn’t want to acknowledge, even to himself, that there might be an emotional reason behind his need to know. It was all right for him to be concerned about the patient’s welfare, but any feelings more personal than that were not appropriate.
“No,” he repeated, hoping the interview was nearly over. They couldn’t very well fire him, could they? Who would pilot Primus?
“Then I can’t help you,” Kierkegaard said flatly. “The security restriction stands. I would advise you not to try a stunt like this again. I know you’re thinking that we can’t fire you.” He didn’t seem to notice the younger man’s reaction. “But I can have you watched like a hawk, twenty-four hours a day. Don’t make me do that.”
The words were clearly a dismissal. Hunter lifted himself stiffly out of the chair and turned to leave.
“Hunter.” The man’s tired voice caught him before he reached the door. “I went way out on a limb when I brought you into this project. Don’t make me regret it.”
21
The latest news was bad.
While they’d been trying to neutralize the bombs in her face and upper chest, three more devices had been detonated: one on her ring finger, and one in each of her feet. The latter had both caused blockages in the dorsalis pedis, the dorsal artery feeding the big toe. As a result she was suffering some numbness, but it had been decided to use normal surgery to correct that. So far the blockage in her finger had only produced another bruise.
Their team was falling behind.
The bombs in the extremities and the outer skin were warnings—they were immediately visible, but wouldn’t do much damage and were treatable by conventional methods. The next round would be different. To crank up the pressure on the President and his cabinet the enemy would use sites with potential for serious damage that wasn’t quickly fatal: kidneys, spleen, and probably the liver.
Intensive blood testing and deep scanning of the patient’s organs finally produced a handful of likely targets by late afternoon. A priority list and preliminary mapping was completed by eight o’clock, but they had to call it quits for the night, too drained to do anything more. They’d make a fresh start in the morning.
Hunter tried to think of something to do to fill his time. He considered going to find Lucy Tamiko, but decided against that. It was too soon. In the end he simply drifted toward his usual stool at the enlisted men's bar.
The crowd was light and Ed the bartender didn’t have much to do by the time Hunter began his second beer.
“You don’t look like a happy man,” Ed offered.
“I suppose not,” Hunter replied. He’d never told Ed anything about himself or his work on the base, and the other didn’t seem to expect it. Inquisitive bartenders don't keep jobs on military bases. “I guess you can tell I’m a civilian. I’ve never worked for the government before. I’m beginning to think I don’t fit in.”
Ed laughed. “Do you have a brain? Can you think on your own? Then you don’t fit in. Unless you’re an ambitious bastard who’d stab your mother in the back to get ahead. Then you belong at the top of the class.”
“You don’t mean that. You must like being in the service.”
“Oh, sure, the Air Force is OK.” Ed nodded, wiping a barely-noticeable smudge from the counter. “Although they still prefer you just follow orders. Government bureaucracy is worse. The ultimate machine, grinding away with all the speed of a glacier, and if you’re a cog, don’t even think about doing something on your own. It’s not worth it and nobody will thank you for it.”
“It’s not just that,” Hunter said. “But I’m used to having some idea of the bigger picture. Here, the only reason they told me where to find the john is so nobody’d have to clean up the mess.”
“Ah, a secret project.” The bartender smiled. “Don’t worry. Nearly everybody around here treats their work as if it’s a state secret, even if it’s only taking out the officers’ trash. Makes them feel important. Don’t let it get to you. Most of the secrets aren’t worth knowing anyway. Just act like you don’t care—that pisses ’em off.” He laughed loudly. A few heads lifted over one of the pool tables at the far end of the room, then went back to their game. He leaned closer to the submariner. “Are you thinking of getting out? Quitting?”
“No, it hasn’t come to that.” Hunter shook his head and then gave a sheepish grin. “I just guess I’ve stepped on a few toes lately, and my welcome isn’t as warm as it was.”
“Anything left for you back where you come from?”
“Nope. Not even a job. No woman. . . although there was one prospect that was looking pretty promising.” He grinned again at the memory. “This gorgeous blonde. . . a face like a movie star, fantastic figure. We met the night before I was scheduled to come here. That could’ve led to something worthwhile, maybe.”
The bartender gave a snort. “Yeah, I understand those ladies know their stuff.”
Hunter’s beer hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“It’s the oldest play there is. At least it beats sending some goons over to go through all your gear. Or did she do that too?”
His memory went back to that night, and the next morning. Nothing had been missing, but he’d had an odd sensation that things had been moved.
Shit.
He opened his mouth to order another beer, then stopped.
He’d made a promise to himself to cut back on the booze because it interfered with his telepresence interface with the Primus? Had he meant it?
What’s the difference between a good-time guy who likes his beer and bourbon. . . and an alcoholic?
An alcoholic can’t stop himself.
Time to put that to the test.
“Thanks for the chat,” he said, tossed some bills on the bar and made his way out.
Ed raised an eyebrow at the half-full bottle.
# # #
The Primus is at high speed, traveling along the renal artery toward the right kidney. Not too many obstacles—red cells are becoming easier to dodge, and white cells are behaving themselves. So far. But it's been a wasted trip to this point. The artery is la
rge and easy to navigate in mid-stream, but it’s too easy to miss spotting something from there. So the only choice is to pick a wall and stay close to it. The passage is so convoluted that there are lots of curves where a bomb could hide on one side of the blood vessel while a pilot is looking at the other.
It’s the second pass along this same route. The first took about twenty minutes, ship’s time, but then more than two hours of following smaller veins and lymph vessels to get back into position for a second run over the same stretch. A tough time for Tamiko to keep her advice to herself.
The renal arteries are a good choice to create a blockage, if it can be made big enough. One huge blood clot could cause the kidney to pack it in. Not likely fatal—most people can get by on one kidney—but one heck of a wake-up call.
The team believes the bad guys will have planted several bombs close to each other at a sharp bend in the artery, just before it branches off into smaller tributaries. That way either one monster clot could block the whole passage, or a whole lot of smaller clots could plug the mouths of smaller branching vessels. It’s a good theory.
So far, no evidence to back it up.
The blood vessel wall is dropping away quickly below to a big bend in the passage. Got to drop the ship’s nose. . . bank to the left to bring the side thrusters into play.
Hell of a blood flow in such a large artery, rocketing the ship along at terrific speed. Bad news for a scouting mission. High speed means dialing down the VR monitor system to low-resolution, the only way the computer can stitch the rapid flow of images together. A blockage already in place would have been impossible to miss, but there wasn’t one. So the second pass is to spot unexploded bombs—huge in comparison to Primus, but small in relation to the diameter of the blood vessel. Easy to miss. With a low-res view screen and a high rate of speed? Much too easy to miss.
Gage has tweaked the color balance to make the milky silver-white bomb material stand out from the ruddy tones of the blood cells and the vessel walls themselves. It might help. Anything is worth a try.
The Primus Labyrinth Page 14