The Primus Labyrinth

by Scott Overton

  The head of the project patiently waited for the small group to exchange words and hugs. Then one of the Secret Service men waved him over. Hunter had been unexpectedly nervous about the meeting—he wasn’t normally star-struck by VIPs of any kind. Now he felt a bead of sweat on his brow and hoped it didn’t show. He noticed that the president’s handshake with Devon Kierkegaard was the kind reserved for a longtime acquaintance.

  “And this is Mr. Hunter,” Kierkegaard said. “He’s a submersible pilot,” he added for the sake of the women—an explanation that wasn’t an explanation, but they made no comment.

  “Mr. Hunter.” The president’s voice was rich and deep, at once familiar from so many speeches and TV sound bites, and the handshake was even firmer than expected. “I’d like to talk to you. But first . . . .” He swept a hand through the air. “I’m sure you recognize my wife, Dyandra. And this is my daughter, Emma.”

  Emma was closest, and her hand was warm and soft. He felt a blush coming on, so he gave a quick nod and a tight smile, then reached for the first lady’s hand.

  [Children laughing. . . dancing. A room with large spaces and bright with sunlight.]

  The image that had suddenly flashed into his mind made his hand and face go slack. He looked up and found the first lady giving him a puzzled look. He quickly took her hand and gave it a slight squeeze, badly flustered. The president was saying something. Hunter turned his head and caught Devon Kierkegaard watching him.

  “. . . glad to have a little breeze off the river,” the chief executive finished. “Maybe you two ladies should go on ahead. I’ll catch up in a minute.” Then he spread his arms slightly to include the two project members, and walked a few yards to the side. The Secret Service men followed at a discreet distance. The two marines had begun to give their craft a visual inspection. The women returned to the limousine.

  “Mr. Hunter,” the president began, “I’ve been getting reports on your progress. I don’t pretend to understand how the process works, nor all of the difficulties involved, but it’s too slow. Too damn slow. Is there anything you can do to speed things up?”

  Hunter was caught off guard and struggled to think of an answer. His boss came to his rescue.

  “We’re doing all we can, sir. We truly are. Mr. Hunter most of all. He’s been putting himself through the wringer, believe me.” He hesitated, then asked, “Has something changed, sir? Something we should know about?”

  The president hesitated as well, looking thoughtfully at Hunter, then turned toward the older man.

  “Yes, Doctor Kierkegaard. My enemies have upped the ante.” His face was grim as he stared at the pavement. “They claim there are. . . other bombs. Bombs we didn’t know about, scattered throughout her body.” He looked into the grey eyes. “Bombs that specifically attack the immune system, acting like the HIV virus. They say they will begin detonating those tomorrow.”

  The two project men stood in shock.

  Kierkegaard finally composed himself enough to ask, “Do they offer any proof of this? I promise you, sir, we have found no sign of any other agents at work in her bloodstream. Of course if they’re lying dormant, and are as well disguised as the others. . . ” He looked at Hunter.

  The pilot gave his head a dazed shake. “I don’t. . . I just can’t say, sir. I haven’t seen anything else that looks like the bombs; but frankly, Mr. President, there’s just so much activity in the bloodstream, I’m afraid I can’t rule anything out.” He swallowed. “I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry won’t help me, mister.” The president’s face was tight. He turned to Kierkegaard again. “If you need more people, more money. . . .”

  Kierkegaard shook his head. “At this stage more people would only be a hindrance since we don’t have the time to train them. That’s what we really need. More time. We’re finding the bombs, and destroying them, but. . . .”

  “Time is the one thing I can’t give you,” the country’s most powerful man admitted soberly. “It is not mine to command. You can’t imagine what I’d give if only it could be.” He looked at the pilot. “Mr. Hunter, if you can find something within you that will help you pull off this miracle, you will have the eternal gratitude of a president of the United States.” His eyes burned darkly. “But if you don’t give everything you have to save her

  . . . then God help you.”

  37

  There’s a new level of tension to the mission knowing that Primus has a VIP audience this time.

  The news from the president is a hard pill to swallow. More bombs? Like the virus that produces AIDS? If true, what chance does the woman really have?

  Too many bombs already, and only one pilot.

  The tour is just a cover to watch Primus in action, with the president no doubt eager to see his greatest fear and greatest hope unfolding in real time.

  Terrific. The leader of the country watching over your shoulder.

  Three-quarters reverse thrust. Get the ship back in the hunt.

  The first lady. It has to be her. That flash of. . . memory, just before the touch of skin on skin—children laughing and dancing—the same image from yesterday, while waiting for the torch to recharge. It has to be one of her memories—what other interpretation could there be? Children. Wasn’t the president’s wife once a schoolteacher?

  How can a memory be seen by someone else?

  Telepathy? Never believed in that.

  Must be hard on the president, helplessly peering into his wife’s bloodstream, with no chance to personally confront this enemy. Having to trust an unstable sub pilot with the life of his most precious friend. Poor bastard.

  If there are HIV bombs, the spleen is a prime target.

  These blood vessels have a different look. A dozen shades of red, ranging into purple, blue, even a deep, purplish green. Arteries shoot off everywhere, many of them too small for bombs. The organ is honeycombed like a sponge, the walls often hidden by huge masses of cells, like nests of enormous eggs. Lymphocytes—the body’s invader-detection system. If they discover an intruder, they activate a matching defender cell, which quickly reproduces more of its kind and goes on the attack. The spleen is full of them, the arterial walls like fences lined with sentries. Creepy. Dangerous.

  Primus has gone undetected so far, thanks to its lipid shield. What about the bombs? Could any slip through this gauntlet? If so, they’re going to be damned hard to find. So many side-tunnels. So many choices.

  What’s that ahead? The blood vessel seems to come to a. . .

  Dead end.

  What the hell?

  Lucy’s map shows a continuous run—no blockage. The end wall must be very thin. Thin enough for Primus to punch through?

  Not worth the risk to the sensor array. Better to turn around and try a different way. Ditch Lucy’s plan again. She’ll be thrilled.

  Shit! Another dead end. They must be deliberate traps for invaders: where bacteria go to die. They can enter, but they never come out.

  Got to be bloody careful. A collision with one of these floating behemoths could tear the lipid shield and give the game away.

  Another dead end.

  And another.

  Damn it! This could take forever. She doesn’t have forever.

  No sign of bombs, either. Of any kind.

  Fatigue is becoming a problem.

  For Christ’s sake! Another blockage! And a shitload of obstacles. Dozens and dozens of huge B-lymphocytes converging on a spot nearby. Have they found a bomb? Got to risk getting closer for a look.

  No. Something long and dark, ruddy brown. A small patch of it isn’t covered yet. Bumpy, with protrusions slowly waving. Nothing like the other bombs. The terrorists would use a similar casing, wouldn’t they? Simplest way to go.

  No way to be sure, but gut instinct says this isn’t one. That’ll have to do.

  Back out to a larger vessel. Very tired now. Might miss something vital. Time to unplug? Can’t afford mistakes
, but the president won’t be impressed.

  Wait. What’s that ahead? A big space—the tunnel opening out into a cavern. A major confluence of several arteries coming together. Lots of traffic and turbulence. . . blood flow coming from a half-dozen different directions. Tricky.

  Hang on. Something off to one side. Large and shiny. Looks like the real deal. Oh, yes, it’s a son-of-a-bitch bomb all right.

  No. . . Shit! Two bombs! Side by side. Two giant tankers of poison. Smack dab in a key intersection ready to plug it up tight. Perfect spot, too—a couple of loads of ADP, and every defender cell in the whole area will come running, creating a blockage that might never get cleared.

  What to do now? So groggy it’s hard to keep focus. Could probably manage to scratch one bomb, but then what? Stay on station and wait for the torch to recharge? In this current? Haven’t got the strength left for that.

  Time for a miracle.

  Or something too stupid to consider until now.

  Two for the price of one, winner takes all?

  If one bomb burns but the other doesn’t, all hell will break loose.

  No. Her life is on the line. Have to do the sensible thing—the cautious thing. Take out one bomb, get some rest, and then. . . hope to find the second one again in this labyrinth.

  Damn! The current is shifting all over the place. Nearly impossible to make a straight run at the far side of the outer bomb. Glanced right off without making a dent. Have to circle around and try again.

  A miss! A complete miss! Sudden current shear at just the wrong moment. Couldn’t react quickly enough. Too tired for this shit.

  Only option left is to ride the current straight into the notch between the two bombs and divert into the one on the left at the last second.

  Hands starting to shake with fatigue.

  Shit. Caromed right off one bombshell and crashed into the other.

  Hang on. Hold position. . . bring the sensor array around.

  Is that a crack?

  No doubt about it. What about the other one?

  Damn it all. A crack there, too. Either bomb could start leaking at any time and bring on the cavalry faster than a bugle call.

  So much for caution. Got to take them both out now. Primus better be is as tough a bitch as they say she is.

  The lineup has to be perfect, shoulders up like a blocker clearing a path for the quarterback, and go like a sonuvabitch . . .

  Jesus! Felt that impact.

  There! Two ragged holes. Need to move like lightning. Unfold the torch arm—spear it into the opening on the right. Fire it up. Then back the ship out and gamble that the flame knows where to go.

  A forked tongue, then a spray of orange, spitting toward the other bomb. The leaked ADP suddenly flickering, flaring

  . . . It’s working! The second flame swirling and then darting into the fractured shell. . . .

  God in Heaven, what a sight. What a sweet, sweet sight. The second bomb glowing brilliant orange from within. Scratch two. The good guys win.

  Still a halo of flame near the two holes. A flicker of pale light playing over the shells like St. Elmo’s fire.

  [Billows of flame. Snarling, crackling, snapping. A tree. . . a tree on fire. . . going up like a Roman candle. Voices shouting. A child screaming. Now sirens. Something in the branches. Boards. . . planks. A tree-house.

  Sparks spraying into a night sky. Acrid smoke swirling in a strong wind. Coughing. Crying. Tongues of flame stretching across the blackness, touching, tasting shingles and wood. A porch. Large veranda attached to a house.

  NO! Please, no!

  Now water. Arcs of silver on flame. Black snakes of hoses, writhing over inky grass. Running shapes. . . bumping, spinning. Feet, legs everywhere. Hands grabbing. Swinging into the air. Looking back. Clouds of steam against the orange glow.

  The house is safe. People. . . safe.

  Looking up, full of fear. Black legs. Tall man shape. Back of head, black hair glinting with the reflected flame.

  It was him. He did it. He did it. Don’t trust him. Don’t ever trust him again. . . .]

  Flame orange.

  Dull silver.

  Blood red.

  Jesus.

  What in hell was that?

  Whatever it was, the show’s over, and doesn’t seem to have taken any time—an aurora is still frolicking over the burned-out silicon shells. The surrounding cell material didn’t catch—the pyre is dying out.

  They must be having fits in the control room, watching that performance. And those other. . . images? Memories again? Did they see those, too?

  No. Figments of the mind, not of the sensors.

  It’s time to pull the plug on this nightmare place.

  Before the brain loses its way for good.

  38

  Kellogg had sent a terse report to his contact, the one he knew as the Money Man. It said simply, “Team in place. Awaiting a ‘go’. Remember the termination deadline.” All of his team members were now at the training site, practicing for the mission, running scenarios.

  He didn’t know the Money Man’s identity—that wasn’t important—but he knew much more than the other suspected. His own father had taught him the methods such “financiers” used to raise funds for clandestine operations while keeping their sources utterly secret. The way the money was channeled through vague invoices for services never rendered, spread out over five years and more, collected by perhaps twenty different shell companies registered in a half-dozen countries from Panama to the Cayman Islands to Lichtenstein.

  Such banking was all handled offshore. Most of the first layer was in the Bahamas, where it looked respectable and harmless, but everyone knew that bank secrecy could be pierced there if a friendly police force had a good enough criminal case. So, from there, most of the money went to Switzerland—but that was yet another feint. The end of the line was the Cayman Islands. A huge amount of money spread among a half-dozen different banks, none with any connection to any other. The whole fabric of these financial threads was virtually impenetrable.

  Kellogg also knew that his mission was only one project of a growing list, all designed to acquire influence. As if those involved needed more. Each was already a world leader—without the titles, perhaps, but the ones who really held the power. They pulled the strings and made politicians dance.

  He knew that some of them in the Arab world thirsted for the blood of an American president. Fools. A dead president was of no use. He would be replaced by another, perhaps a worse one. No, the best president was one you could control.

  Every man had his price. Kellogg had been bought and paid for many years before. If his soul had been stained in the process, well, maybe God could be bought off, too.

  If there was anyone with the balls for that it would be the man Kellogg really worked for—the leader of the global cabal, the man they called Patruus. . . “Uncle”. That was a man reaping a harvest of power such as could only be had by a lifetime of cultivation. Brutally ruthless or disarmingly genial as the occasion demanded, you didn’t dare turn your back to him, as evidenced by his consummate betrayal underway even now.

  It was amusing that Money Man thought Kellogg was simply hired muscle—that even the cabal’s financial wizard had not been told about Kellogg’s longtime connection to the power at the top.

  He looked again at the translated reply on his Blackberry. He’d already received the same message from Patruus himself half-an-hour earlier.

  A single word.

  The word was, “Go.”

  # # #

  The president hadn’t witnessed the destruction of the two bombs—he’d been called away to the medal presentation ceremony—but the mission video would be made available to him. Would he be fascinated, or outraged? Relieved, or more disturbed than ever?

  Hunter had been right that the memory images, if that’s what they were, had not been recorded.

  His teammates weren’t speak
ing to him. They considered it the height of arrogance for him to have risked so much, trying to destroy two bombs at the same time. The lipid shield could have been shredded. The second bomb could have failed to ignite, creating the disastrous arterial blockage that they were all fighting to prevent.

  If they didn’t think the end justified the means, at least he knew damned well that his decision hadn’t been motivated by arrogance. It had been more like desperation.

  And that had been before Mallory’s latest news.

  “We’ve just completed the most thorough blood analysis yet,” she said. “We’ve also re-processed the data from our earlier samples, cross-checked all of it, and tabulated everything we’ve gathered to date.” She fidgeted with her papers. “If these so-called HIV-type bombs do exist, they either have to be of a completely different composition than the others and much better disguised, or look exactly the same as the first, so we can’t distinguish between the two.

  “But the new tests did show something.” Her voice dropped to nearly a sob.

  “More bombs. Many more bombs. The number has clearly increased in the past two days.”

  “How. . . how can that be?” Tamiko stammered.

  “She was out of our hands.” Gage slammed his fist on a desk. “They got to her.”

  “Impossible,” Kierkegaard said. “Or maybe inconceivable is what I mean. Someone got to her once, before the threat was known, but no one can get to her now. She is surrounded at all times by a security wall of the absolute highest level. The president himself isn’t better protected.”

  “Then the only alternative,” Bridges said quietly, “is that there has been a device within her all along that is still planting bombs.”

  Kierkegaard gave his head a worried shake. “I don’t know how that’s possible, but you’re right—it seems like the only explanation. We’ll have to step up our body scans immediately until we find the damned thing.”