30
Kellogg snapped off the TV.
The CNN report was about the pope’s visit, and the state dinner the next night.
She would be there.
If killing her had been his assignment, her travels would present a handful of promising opportunities. It wasn’t. He didn’t know everything about the larger operation—didn’t need to and didn’t want to—but he knew that it hinged on using her for leverage. If she were to die, that leverage would be gone.
His task was to remove those who might help her to escape her trap. That meant neutralizing the secret facility that was right inside the Air Force Base itself. Even with his own level of access, that provided enough difficulties to satisfy any man’s taste for challenge.
He sat down at the desk, pulled the computer keyboard toward him, and called up the map of the base with a few strokes. His assault plans were still not final. He rarely asked for advice—rarely needed it—but insertion would be the most difficult part, by far. First, the approach by water: in boats, or with scuba? He wanted Hennings’ ideas on that, and he was due to arrive tomorrow morning.
The second phase would require meticulous planning to make the best use of minimal ground cover. There were only a few regular patrols in that part of the base, but there could be random traffic and they didn’t dare leave anything to chance. Rakov was a wizard at assault strategies.
Once the team made it as far as the main building it should be simple. Security forces around the lab itself were surprisingly light. The president’s people were handcuffed by the need to draw no attention and were gambling that no one would be interested in the unremarkable structure.
It was a simple one-story building formed around a square central section with wings to the north and south. There was very little good cover for the few military types stationed there, and the scientists and support staff would be helpless.
Kellogg didn’t have to kill them, but he probably would—partly because it was good business but also partly for the pleasure of it. He’d been told that it was the equipment that was important. Without it, the people became irrelevant; but to Kellogg, survivors were loose ends. He hated untidiness.
His team would still need special stealth to take out the last defenders inside the lab complex. They couldn’t afford noise that might bring the whole base down on them, and although the building had few windows, the unmistakable flicker of muzzle flashes on a dark night would be a dead giveaway. That meant they’d need heavily suppressed weapons. He favored the Heckler & Koch MP5SD when there was a likelihood of multiple targets, though he knew Kowalski preferred the heavier, and noisier, 10mm version of the gun. More likely they would be using their side weapons most of the time anyway and he had a good supplier of 9mm Berettas.
It bothered him that he didn’t know much about the equipment he was expected to destroy. He knew only that it involved a lot of computers and medical gear—diagnostic equipment of some kind. If so, some of those devices were huge. An MRI machine would not be easy to dismantle. He hoped that the destruction of its control systems would be good enough. He’d have to do some research and find out.
The demolition element of the mission would depend heavily on the speed of their escape. Could they use incendiaries, and get far away before the fire broke through to the outside? Or would they have to go big and nasty, then count on being able to slip away in the resulting confusion? The latter would be the riskiest. Yet Kellogg secretly hoped it would come to that.
He liked big explosions best.
# # #
Kierkegaard broke a long silence, still shocked. “Is Hunter right? Could he be becoming schizophrenic?”
Bridges gave a deep sigh and moved to sit in the vacated chair, staring at the floor with his lips pinched between a thumb and forefinger. He was badly shaken. Finally he said, “You know I can’t guarantee anything. But I’d bet my life savings he isn’t.”
“I feel like it’s happening all over again. Like last year. . . with Travis Li.”
Kierkegaard had already looked tired. Now he looked sick. Bridges nodded. He, too, found it impossible to forget what had happened with the very first test pilot of Primus, a competition-level video gamer who’d been recruited because of his extraordinary reflexes and intuitive skill with VR interfaces.
Travis Li had been too cocky, but had made good progress in test-tube environments. Then the project’s government backers had thrown him to the wolves. Pleading a national emergency, they’d demanded he undertake a mission within a living bloodstream, long before he was ready.
The attempt had been an utter failure, never progressing beyond the arteries of a lab animal. Unknowingly turning an already risky situation into a catastrophe, Li had done some dope to “mellow out” before his ordeal. The combination of hallucinogen and altered reality had thrown his shattered mind into a realm from which it had barely escaped, and only then after many months of treatment.
Kierkegaard stared at his desk. “I told the CIA man back then. That they were asking too much. That they couldn’t expect us to produce a miracle dreamed up by Hollywood. Do you know what he told me?” Bridges shook his head. “That if our team hadn’t been expected to perform the things people saw in that movie, we would never have been given a billion dollars.”
“Almost certainly true.” Bridges conceded. “Fortunately, Hunter isn’t Travis Li. Because the submersible environment was already so natural to him, he’s been able to cope with everything else far better than Li ever could have. Otherwise we would have lost him that first time Primus went through the heart.”
“What is it, then? What’s happening to him?”
The doctor looked his friend in the eye. “I think we both know what’s happening. He’s managed to adapt to the Primus very well and control her in the maelstrom. How does he find his way without using the maps? How does he spot the bombs at all in the midst of so much chaos? We’ve both watched the monitors. We’ve even tried on that remote VR set you’ve got hidden here in the office. I couldn’t take two minutes of it.”
“I get a headache after five.” The older man nodded. “I agree. His performance is phenomenal. Unbelievable.”
“Perhaps enough to justify what we’ve done to him, but the jury’s still out on that since we were never entirely sure what side effects might be involved. Hunter might be right. I don’t mean schizophrenia, but it might well be that his brain has been through too much stress without fully healing. I warned you there was a risk of that—he very nearly died in that submersible in the Gulf of Mexico. In a horrible way.”
“There was no-one else.”
“I know, but now we ask him to face another submersible environment—even if he isn’t physically present—and add other factors that go beyond normal human understanding. Maybe in that sense he is like Travis Li—his brain simply can’t assimilate what he’s experiencing.” He looked up with a grim face. “It may be breaking down.”
Kierkegaard sucked in a bitter breath.
“God, I hope you’re wrong. We can’t possibly do without him, no matter what he says. It’s pure fantasy to think that Gage or Tamiko could take over. Without his. . . special abilities, months would not be long enough to get up to speed. We’ll be lucky if we have another week.”
“And getting Li back is out of the question. Even if he was willing to return,” the doctor offered, “my conscience wouldn’t let me do that to any man.”
“What do we do?” Kierkegaard asked finally, indecisive for the first time Bridges had ever seen. “Try psychotherapy?”
The other shook his head. “We try it his way. We put Tamiko and Gage through the simulator and. . . we hope he comes around on his own.” He raised his weary eyes and tried to smile. “We have two days.”
31
Tamiko’s reaction was profane.
It took several attempts for Kierkegaard to convince her she wasn’t the victim of a twisted joke.
“Wh
y me?” she persisted. “My brother won’t even let me drive his ski boat! And the rest of you were hopeless in the early trials.”
Gage gave her a black look. “None of us had Hunter’s experience. That doesn’t mean we can’t learn. We didn’t get enough time on the simulator, either, thanks to this emergency. Personally, I’m eager to see what it’s like in there for myself.”
In spite of his dread, Hunter had to be first on the simulator. As detailed as the simulation was, it fell far short of the true experience of controlling Primus in the bloodstream, and only Hunter could set it straight.
Its original form was a mishmash of equipment and wiring, but now its software ran on the main computer and it used the same VR gear Hunter had been using every day. For Hunter, that made the ordeal both more familiar and more frightening.
Fortunately, the program was highly adaptable. Through dozens of short trials over the course of two hours he was able to refine the settings until he felt it gave as good an impression of the real thing as it was capable of doing. The resolution of the video display, the apparent speed of travel, and the way the ship behaved in the thick fluid, were close approximations. But the program couldn’t provide the obstacles of the bloodstream such as gargantuan blood cells, sudden cross currents, and other hazards. The simulator had been created before live tests had been done with the intention that such details could be added later when accurate data became available.
When the task was complete, Hunter went to the nearest bathroom and retched. As soon as he was able, he returned to the simulator room to see how Gage and Tamiko were doing, and to give them advice if he could.
It only made him feel worse.
The VR system had been designed by Gage, with his own biases and idiosyncrasies built in, so his body didn’t fight the simulation. His spatial skills were also better than Tamiko’s, enabling him to judge distances quickly and anticipate course changes to avoid bumping into walls. On the downside, he had a hard time dividing his attention between his surroundings and the instrumentation. In a pre-programmed maze of tunnels, his performance was very poor, and his reaction time slow.
Tamiko was nearly the opposite. She had a gift for assimilating both the instrument and the sensory data at the same time. Her ability to picture a complex pattern of course changes gave her much higher scores on the maze.
But she kept bumping into things.
“Fucking machine!” she spat, tearing the helmet from her head after a long session. “Why couldn’t they just have given it a steering wheel and a couple of pedals? Not to mention traction. It’s like trying to run on glare ice with leather soles.”
“It’s a fluid,” Hunter explained for the fifth time. “There’s traction in the resistance of the fluid, but you have to learn how to use it. Anticipate how the ship will react and then allow a small amount of lag time for each maneuver. Primus is incredibly agile. You should see what an average submersible is like.”
“I think I’ll deny myself that pleasure,” she snarled, then tore the rest of the equipment from her body and stalked out of the room. Hunter knew her anger was directed at herself. She wasn’t accustomed to failure. He told himself she’d get the hang of it, given enough time, and tried to forget that time was a luxury they didn’t have.
Kierkegaard did not forget.
He snapped off the monitor in his office and turned to Bridges.
“So much for that. Our patient returns tomorrow around noon. Every extra moment after that could be critical. Do you think either of our backup pilots is close to being ready?”
The doctor shook his head without hesitation. “Tamiko doesn’t want to do it in the first place, but she’s giving an honest effort. She just can’t adapt to the way a submersible craft responds. She’d learn eventually, but. . . .”
“Much too late to do us any good. I know. And Gage?”
“. . . is a gifted planner and problem solver in his own element, but he isn’t able to react quickly enough to sudden changes in the environment. He can’t make the necessary snap judgments, and quick physical responses. He’d be slaughtered in the real bloodstream.”
Kierkegaard nodded. Then he held up a hand. “Just for the sake of argument, would it make enough of a difference if either of them could tap into that. . . extra something that Hunter seems able to access?”
“You know perfectly well there’s no guarantee that either of them could. Even with Hunter it was a long shot, and it took its own time to manifest itself. There might not be one in a million people receptive to it.” He began to pace the room, clenching and unclenching his fists. “There’s also the very real possibility that it’s what has pushed Hunter to the edge. If so, I don’t know if I could bring myself to do that to anyone else,” he finished quietly.
Kierkegaard stepped forward and took his friend’s arm in a firm grip.
“Remember that we’re not just talking about one life here. There could be fallout from this crisis that we can’t even begin to guess. We’ve got to get Hunter back in the saddle. We have no other choice.”
Bridges shrugged his arm free. “Your bosses might be good at convincing a man to put his life on the line for the sake of some intangible concepts and fine phrases, but can you force a man to put his very sanity at risk—and expect to get any worthwhile results from him? Best of luck.” He turned and left the room.
Kierkegaard slowly sat on the edge of the desk. He should speak to his superiors. He’d delayed his report in the hope that the situation would change, but it looked as if that gamble had been lost. Now he’d also have to explain why he’d delayed informing them.
How could he tell the president they had failed? How could you give news like that to anyone?
32
Hunter found Tamiko at the bar they’d visited a few nights earlier.
She looked up from her drink and said, “I guess you won’t be getting a backup any time soon. It’s still all up to you.”
“It’s not your fault that you don’t have the background,” he offered. It was a little patronizing, but all he could think to say. Even so, she appeared grateful for the effort.
“I know we can still continue as long as you get enough rest,” she began. “But I feel like I’m letting that woman down. I’ve been sitting here trying to imagine what she’s feeling. I don’t know how much of the truth she knows, but all those tests. . . If it were me, I’d be scared to death.”
Hunter felt guilt sweep over him again. Tamiko wasn’t letting the patient down, he was. Yet he’d asked to be replaced to avoid greater harm. Would the woman herself see it that way, if she were ever told? What must she be going through even now? With every new test increasing her anxiety and her fear.
Sudden understanding hit him like a tidal wave.
Anxiety. Fear.
Was it possible? Could it be that what he’d felt
were. . .
Her emotions, not his!
Of course! There’d been no reason for him to experience such strong feelings and that was what had thrown him so badly. The emotions had struck without warning, completely at odds with his own frame of mind just as he was most deeply linked to her.
His presence in Primus had penetrated to the level of her very cells, but his touch had gone deeper still.
He was thunderstruck. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
“What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Tamiko was watching him with real concern.
“I hope not. Oh, I hope not.” He struggled to his feet, nearly spilling his drink. “Thanks, Lucy. I have. . . something I have to do.” He could feel her astonished stare as he bolted from the room.
When he checked the internal phone directory, he was surprised to learn that Kierkegaard’s sleeping quarters were along the same hallway as his own, only a few doors away. Still far from certain about his conclusions, he stopped outside the project leader’s door and slumped against a wall.
He was convinced that he’d somehow tapped into their patient’s mind, at least to the point of experiencing her emotions—especially her fear. The thought was staggering. It was an unparalleled invasion—a violation without precedent. Probing the recesses of her body with a miniature submarine was bad enough. But the recesses of her mind? The stronghold of her very essence as a human being?
She couldn’t have given permission for that.
Kierkegaard wore no jacket or tie as he answered the door, only an unmistakable weariness that had nothing to do with the lateness of the hour.
“What can I do for you Mr. Hunter?” he asked, stepping back to invite the younger man in. He could have said so much more, Hunter knew, and the pilot was grateful for his restraint.
“I need to talk, sir. About our patient.”
The older man’s eyes lit up, but he still looked wary. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and indicated the only chair with his hand. “Why? What has changed?”
“I’ve realized that there could be another explanation for my. . . symptoms. If so, there are some serious implications.”
“Go on.”
“You say you can’t tell me who our patient is, but I need to understand the president’s place in all this. He’s ordered us to do what we’re doing without her permission—explicitly without her knowledge. Does he truly care about this woman, or is it only political? If she knew, would she really trust him with that decision—trust him with her life? Maybe even more than that?”
“I’m not sure what you consider more than life; but I can tell you this much, the president would trade places with our patient in a second, if he could. She would refuse, though. Yes, Mr. Hunter, there is that much trust between them. That much love.” Kierkegaard’s face showed he was revealing more than he wanted to.
Hunter nodded slowly. “In that case, sir. . . I’d like to continue with the mission. I’ll pilot the Primus.”
The Primus Labyrinth Page 19