The woman needed help, but it wasn’t something he could do on his own.
How much farther could Bridges be trusted? Was there anything the doctor could do?
He sat frozen with indecision, then finally pushed away from the desk and turned toward the medical
office.
54
“She has a fever.”
Bridges dropped into the chair behind his desk, his face creased with concern. “It’s mild, but it’s getting worse. I’ve asked that she be confined to the clinic for now, so we can be ready at a moment’s notice if something needs to be done.” He leaned forward onto the desk, wringing his hands.
“What would have caused it?” Hunter slowly sat in the office’s other chair.
“I have no idea.” The dark face had a sheen of sweat. “Do you, Mr. Hunter? Is there any chance that it could be from something you have done with Primus… or left undone?”
“Doc, if you think I have an answer to that one, you’re giving me way too much credit. Of course it could. I’d never know the difference. I’m like the neighborhood bricklayer performing heart surgery while getting instructions over the phone.”
“Of course. I’m not looking to place any blame,” Bridges said. “I suppose what’s really worrying us is the threat the president mentioned of a new kind of bomb—a biological agent that would attack her immune system. What do you think are the chances of such a device existing, without our having found one by now?”
Hunter lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “On that scale, the human body is a huge territory to cover. There’d be no need to plant that kind of device in a stationary position like the others. They could just roam around the bloodstream at the speed of the flow and our scanners would never pin them down. I couldn’t begin to guess the odds of Primus running across one by chance in a blood vessel the size of the Hudson River.”
“I know, I know. An impossible task we’ve set for ourselves.” Bridges’ lips trembled.
“Doctor,” Hunter said, “if it’s any consolation, I don’t think the HIV scenario is what we’re seeing here. I can’t promise there aren’t any devices like that, but I don’t believe anything has been detonated. Yet.”
“How would you know?”
“You should be able to answer that one for yourself. You put that damned psychic amplifier in my neck. I’ve learned to sense the presence of bombs, as well as their absence. I don’t sense any other kind of attack, and I think I would. Could a bomb we missed have damaged something vital?”
“There are no signs of that,” the doctor answered with a shrug. “No disruption of blood flow or other indications of trauma.”
“Maybe the cumulative effect of everything that’s been happening in her body has finally triggered a reaction.”
Bridges nodded. “That occurred to me too. In which case I haven’t the faintest idea what treatment to try. Any remedy could just as easily make things worse. So all we can do for now is keep her cool and well hydrated. A witch doctor could do as much!” He glared at the wall that held his medical certificates in their frames as if they mocked him. Then he noticed that the submarine pilot was making no move to leave.
“Something else on your mind, Mr. Hunter?”
“Nothing to suggest…,” Hunter’s reply stalled. He didn’t know how to begin. It was one thing to reveal his secret—what right did he have to reveal hers? But he knew no other way to get help for her, and not doing whatever he could for her was out of the question.
“Doctor,” he tried again. “I need you to tell me who she is. Our patient. It’s the first lady, isn’t it? Please tell me.”
Bridges’ eyes widened. “Why do you say that? And why the urgency? What’s going on?”
“I trusted you.”
“Only because I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar. What haven’t you told me?”
Hunter took a deep breath. There was nothing left but to take the plunge.
“I think she’s been sexually abused.”
“What?” The doctor nearly leapt from his chair. “Why in the world would you think a thing like that? Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”
“Yes, I do.” Hunter leaned forward. “I’m saying that this woman needs help in even more ways than we thought. I know that because….” He clenched his teeth and forced himself to say the words. “Because my mind isn’t only linking with Primus—it’s linking with her… with her unconscious brain, damn it! I can see into her mind!”
There was shocked silence. Bridges slumped back in utter bewilderment.
“You’re not… you’re not serious,” he finally managed.
“I am so goddamned serious you wouldn’t believe it. And it’s probably thanks to you and that fucking implant you put in my head. Do you know what it’s like to read someone else’s pain? Their most secret thoughts?” He realized he was nearly yelling.
He took a breath and tried to calm down, to give the other man a chance to catch up. “I can actually see her memories… see them as if I’m there, as if I’m a witness to everything.”
Bridges looked sick.
“And you… you saw that she had been abused?” he rasped.
“Yes. But I’m not suggesting the president was involved,” he added quickly. “He wasn’t. It was during her childhood. Her parents sometimes left her with a man—a relative, I think—named Frank. Uncle Frank is the name that comes to me, but I’ve searched the internet. She doesn’t have any close relatives or family friends with that name.” He waited for a response, but Bridges couldn’t trust himself to speak. “She needs help,” Hunter pleaded. “Professional help. That’s why I came to you.”
“Of course. Of course.” The psychologist gave a dazed nod as he struggled to pull himself together. “I… I believe you, Hunter. I wish I didn’t. You can’t imagine what the consequences of this might be.” He swallowed hard. “You said the name of the man was Frank?”
“Uncle Frank is the way she thinks of him, but it’s not affectionate, as you can imagine. Why? Do you think you know who he is?”
The doctor did not reply right away, his eyes cast toward the floor. When he lifted his face, he looked years older.
“I might,” he answered simply. “But I pray that I am wrong.” He drew a hand over his face. “F. Arthur Black. Does that name mean anything to you?”
The younger man shook his head. “It sounds familiar for some reason. Who is he?”
“The ‘F’ stands for Frank. He hasn’t used it for years—none of his professional life, as far as I know.” His eyes were wet. “He’s the president’s chief of staff. A lifelong friend.”
It was Hunter’s turn to have his world rocked. The confirmation of his fears was like a sudden explosion in his chest. He could hardly breathe. Then his mind saw the flaw in the revelation.
“No,” he blurted. “That doesn’t make sense. The man I’ve seen is older than she is. Much older.”
Bridges nodded, then deliberately stepped behind the desk, pulled the keyboard toward him, and began to tap the keys.
“I want you to see something,” he said. “And may God and Devon Kierkegaard forgive me.”
A view screen mounted in the corner came to life, and quickly changed to a scene that was instantly recognizable as a medical setting. An array of equipment, a hanging intravenous bag, and pulled-back curtains framed a bed with a prone figure in it. The view closed in on the face. The features became clear.
Hunter gasped.
It was not the first lady.
It was Emma, their daughter.
55
“Captain?”
Kellogg looked up from the map he was studying for the hundredth time. Chavez stood in the doorway, waiting for permission to enter. His leader nodded. When the door closed, he said, “Diego, you know I don’t want you using my rank. To those men I am simply Kellogg. I want it to remain that way. What are the others doing? And what is it
you want?”
“Sorry Cap… sir. They’re going over their re-breather gear with Hennings. They’ve all done scuba, but most haven’t used re-circulating equipment before.” He paused to gather himself. “I was hoping you had a minute to fill me in on a few things.”
“Things that haven’t been covered in the briefings? I thought I’d been excruciatingly thorough.”
“I don’t mean about the mission. About the men, sir.” Chavez was clearly uncertain of the reception to expect. His superior’s habitually expressionless face gave no clues. “I was hoping you’d tell me something about their backgrounds. I’ve never worked with any of them before—even that’s unusual. The only one I’ve ever heard of is Hennings, and that’s only because of his decorations from the British military. I didn’t even know he’d come over to… our side.”
“To the dark side, is that what you’re saying?” Kellogg’s laugh was as cold as his stare. “Why do you need to know? And why should I tell you?”
This was a point on which Chavez felt on solid ground. He took his command responsibilities seriously—and he knew Kellogg appreciated that fact.
“Sir, I’m your second-in-command. You’d expect me to lead when you’re not present… ensure that the men follow your orders, and place the mission above all else. I need to know where their loyalties lie, and how far those loyalties can be trusted. How far they can be pushed before they crack. Otherwise, I could be going into combat with a serious handicap, sir.”
“Do you suspect some of them are not loyal to the mission?”
“Who is loyal to a mission? We’re loyal to money. Some fools are loyal to some cause or another, but unless I know their true motivation, how can I control them in a crisis?” Chavez paced across the room. “Usually, by now, the stiffs are working off their pre-combat jitters by talking about what they’ll do with their money. These men? None of that.” He turned to face his leader. “What hold do you have over them? How strong is it?”
Kellogg kept his face blank, and then seemed to come to a decision. He gave a perfunctory nod and waved Chavez to a seat.
“All right, Diego. I see your point.” He sat down hard on an office chair nearby. “You’re right, it’s not about money with these men. Not for personal use anyway. Rakov and Romero want money to support their causes: Rakov is Chechen, Romero is FARC.”
“FARC? Colombian revolutionaries?”
“Yes. After blowing their chance politically a few decades back, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia have used up lots of explosives lately and would like to have access to more high-tech goods that are available only with American dollars. Besides, who do you think is bankrolling Colombian efforts to defeat FARC? The American government, naturally. As for the rest, Kowalski, Branson… they’re National Alliance….”
“McVeigh’s group?” Chavez interrupted.
“Old news, my friend. Bombing’s not enough anymore. They’ve got their fingers in some very big political pies now.” Kellogg smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Evers and Jackson are Aryan Nations—I think Evers calls his branch ‘The Order.' Wahlberg is Black Bloc.”
“Black Bloc? They’re protestors. They don’t have a military wing.”
“You tell him that. I suggest you have your gun ready when you do,” the other said with a sneer. “MacLeish…? MacLeish is a Christian Patriot, I think. One of those groups—it doesn’t really matter. Hennings is in it for the money. He just doesn’t get pre-combat jitters.”
Chavez shook his head slowly, trying to assimilate the information.
“OK, all those neo-Nazi groups… a black president, I get that. But there has to be more to it. The Black Bloc is anti-globalization. What’s Wahlberg’s interest in this?”
Kellogg appeared to be scrutinizing his fingernails. “They’ve all been told we’re going to destroy a new research project that would destabilize the global economy, and what little balance of power is left in the world. The neo-Nazis have been told it’s something that would benefit non-White minorities. The others… various other fictions.” He looked pleased with himself. Chavez sucked in a deep breath.
“None of them has any idea who’s really backing this mission?” he asked in a near whisper. “What if one of them was to figure out the truth?”
“Then…” Kellogg raised an eyebrow. “They would have to be retired from the field.” His features showed no emotion whatsoever.
# # #
Hunter was in Kierkegaard’s office. The silence was thick. They were waiting for the phone to ring.
The head of the project was furious, but he couldn’t decide what had angered him the most: that Bridges had revealed their patient’s identity, that Hunter had concealed a critical element of his interface with Primus, or that the pilot had a powerful contact in Washington and both had kept Kierkegaard out of the loop.
He’d met the President’s special operative, Mannis, and it was this so-called Silent Man who had brought the Primus project to the attention of the president in the first place. But Mannis wasn’t part of the official reporting structure and Kierkegaard didn’t have a direct line to him. The scene they were now playing out smacked of a spy novel.
Hunter had called the phone number of a supposed travel agency, which had led to a convoluted series of follow-up calls. Kierkegaard and Hunter had been waiting for nearly half an hour for the mysterious man to contact them.
The harsh ring of the phone made them jump.
“This is Devon Kierkegaard. Yes. Yes, he’s also here. The room is as secure as we can make it. Very well.” He put the call on the speakerphone. Hunter quickly recognized the carefully controlled voice.
“Mr. Hunter. I was hoping I wouldn’t get a call from you, because I’m sure it’s not good news. I hope it’s important. I also assume you have a good reason for bringing Dr. Kierkegaard into our confidence. No offense, Doctor.” The director of the facility merely frowned more deeply.
“I didn’t feel I had much choice,” the pilot answered. “And I needed a scrambled phone line. I guessed that Dr. Kierkegaard would have one.”
“An easy guess. I have no choice but to bow to your judgment for the rest. What have you got?”
Hunter explained. Doing so for the third time made him better at keeping to the salient points, but it didn’t come any easier. When he was finished, the room was quiet.
“That’s a lot to swallow at one meal,” Mannis said finally. “Dr. Kierkegaard, how much credit do you give this information?”
The project leader cleared his throat.
“Regarding the psychic element… Mr. Hunter has had an extraordinary edge when it came both to piloting Primus and to locating the bombs, neither attributable to experience and practice alone.”
He gave a sigh of reluctance at what he was about to reveal. “What you may not have been told, sir, is that Mr. Hunter was recruited in part because of a strong, latent, psychic ability and was given a special electrical implant for precisely this purpose. Although he chose not to tell us about its additional effects until now!” He darted an angry look at the younger man.
“You clever bastards. You clever, sneaky bastards.”
“They didn’t tell me about the implant,” Hunter said.
“Are you expecting me to be surprised? These are deep waters, Hunter. You should know about deep water.” He paused, then, “What about the rest? What about the… abuse? How credible is that?”
“It’s not something we ever considered… that he might actually be able to make contact with her thoughts,” Kierkegaard admitted with a shake of his head. He looked wearily at his submarine’s pilot. “However, for all that he’s kept some serious secrets from us, I have no idea why Mr. Hunter would fabricate such a story, nor any reason to think he would.”
“I wouldn’t,” Hunter said. “Believe me, this isn’t anything I would ever want. Far from it! I also want to stress that the speculation about Mr. Black as ‘Uncle Frank’ is just
that. Guesswork. Although the name she associates with the abuse is ‘Uncle Frank’, I have no other evidence to prove who he is. We could be completely wrong.”
“I heard you, Hunter, and you are wrong. You must be wrong. But my duty is to the president of the United States, and I can’t afford to ignore anything.” The voice lost some of its official tone, and Hunter recognized the sincerity that had convinced him once before. “I can’t promise to get back to you on this—I’m up to my ass in alligators. But I will check it out—that’s a promise—and if there’s any substance to it, I’ll deal with it. In the meantime don’t do anything about this on your own, and tell no one else. Is that absolutely clear?”
“We’re in complete agreement on that,” Kierkegaard replied dryly.
“Oh, and Hunter….” The pilot looked up. “Try to restrain yourself while you’re in the head of the president’s daughter, would you?”
The phone went dead.
56
Kierkegaard’s expression was hard to read. After a long moment he waved at a chair, and took one himself.
“I suppose since you’re in this deep, you might as well hear what this is all about,” he said. He steepled his hands on the desk and paused a moment, as if examining the grain of the wood, then lifted his chin.
“Now that you know our patient is the president's daughter Emma, I’m sure you can guess that this whole travesty is about bringing great pressure on the president. The White House received a communiqué, apparently from a terrorist group, describing what had been done to Emma and threatening to kill her if their demands were not met. I’m still not at liberty to reveal those demands, but they involve action only the president has the authority to take, and something to which he is utterly opposed.
“Publicly, it’s government policy not to negotiate with terrorists, but of course it has to be done when there is no other workable course of action. It’s a measure of the president’s abhorrence of these demands that he went ahead with enlisting our team.” He sat forward for emphasis. “It’s also a measure of his trust. I do not want to betray that trust, Hunter.”
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