BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

  Now my heart hammered inside my chest, sending adrenaline-laced blood throughout my body, pumping it past my eardrums, its visceral pounding drowning out any sound from inside the closet.

  Ready to quickly shoulder-slam the door back into place if the need arose, I yanked it open.

  Inside were towels, washcloths, extra soap and shampoo—and a small, odd-looking rodent.

  Mickey Mouse, Harvey said.

  From atop a stack of folded bath towels, it gazed at me with large, black eyes while sitting back on its haunches. Its hind feet were large in comparison to the rest of the thing and its tail disproportionately long. It watched me without alarm, as if we were old roommates. The more I gazed at it the better I recognized what this small beast was—some sort of gerbil, much like the ones I’d seen in pet stores. I couldn’t remember that our son Will had ever owned a gerbil, and Colorado certainly wasn’t their natural habitat. Someone’s escaped pet, perhaps—on the lam, scavenging for handouts.

  My glasses had steamed over. I swiped my finger across the lenses. “Where’d you come from?” I asked the rodent as if expecting it to strike up a conversation with me—maybe answer, Well, my ancestral heritage is Africa and the Far East; however, presently, I’ve taken up residence in this small homestead you call your towel closet.

  The little creature watched me curiously, sniffing the air, and then glanced up at my raised back brush. I wasn’t about to use the thing on the innocent-looking rat. I could try throwing a towel on it and, if successful, contain it in a trashcan until I got dressed. But the little fellow would probably get away and terrorize Michelle. I should leave this job to professionals.

  “You won’t poop on the towels, will you, Mickey?” I asked as I hid the brush behind me.

  It gazed back, still sniffing.

  I blew out an extended breath, but before I closed the door, I took a fresh towel from the shelf above the rat, remembering I hadn’t gotten one earlier for after my shower. I closed the door hoping the gerbil would stay put. Later this morning, I would call the exterminator and request he use a live trap to capture our houseguest so he could be released somewhere more suitable.

  Great, I thought as I tiptoed back over the wet floor to the shower. Now I had Harvey the imaginary rabbit inhabiting my head and Mickey Mouse living in my closet. What next? Would Donald Duck be my chauffeur?

  I hung the fresh towel on the outside of the shower door, hooked my glasses over it, and stepped inside. While placing the brush back onto its hook, I glanced around for the remains of the tissue note. Evidently, it had disappeared down the drain. Now, I remembered something my doctor had said. Trauma from my Friday morning fall had caused some brain swelling. It wasn’t unusual for someone who’d had such an injury to be confused and for their mind to play tricks on them. My increasingly vocal alter ego might be proof of that. The note could have been imagined—hell, who knows, even the closet rat.

  “Nuts,” I said aloud, “I’m going nuts.”

  * * *

  Jax checked their perimeter carefully as he waited for Sunny to peruse the report. His team had found an excellent spot for concealment: a small clearing nestled in the scrubs with groundcover spotty and sparse, mostly low-growing weeds in the rocky soil between tall evergreens.

  He glanced back at the dry creek bed running along one side that facilitated the DPVs. The vehicles were snugged in nicely. He’d had Lieutenant Carpenter switch on their reactive camouflage, making them appear as only shimmering mirages, like transparent mounds of bent light. Sunny and the weapons affixed to the DPVs were the only things that could be clearly seen.

  Jax nodded as he scanned the rest of the area. It was a fine place to operate from—now they needed a lot of luck.

  Only six hours earlier, Major Jackson had spoken with his Commander-in-Chief. United States President Francis Allen Mason admitted he didn’t completely comprehend the situation, nor did his cabinet. The many Presidential advisors offered little help. They only recognized something diabolical was happening, something far beyond normal reason. Still, these irresolute advisors had convinced the President to wait—that another rescue mission, like the last stab in the dark three days ago, was not in the country’s best interest.

  The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency seemed confident his organization had a better handle on this state of affairs than the rest of the world. Through information gained from the Defense Intelligence Agency’s team of five remote viewers of the Thousand Eyes project, the CIA found concern for much more than the disappearances of three dozen special citizens and the safety of a couple hundred hostages. Without tangible intelligence to go on, they were left to rely solely on the remote viewers’ findings—and it was obvious no one completely trusted the RVs.

  The last thing President Mason told the major was to stand down until more hard intelligence became available.

  Major Jackson’s refusal to tell President Mason where this most recent operation was taking place seemed to be the thing that burned the President’s butt the most. However, Jackson did not regret his disobedience. President Mason’s concern for the big picture was misguided as was his distrust of the soft intelligence the RVs were giving him. The President was forgetting that he was not just a politician, and this thing was much deadlier than political polls.

  Jackson tried to clear his head of the who and the why, attempting to focus only on the tactics of the awesome task before him. But he found little success—his involvement too personal.

  As he knelt next to Staff Sergeant Chambers, Jax wondered how many men he would lose today. He allowed himself this distraction, agonizing over what would happen if they were unsuccessful—if they were found out and caught. Would all of his men take the little red pill? Would they be tortured—or just executed? Would Sunny? He wished, if only for this moment, he could remote view and look into the near future to see what might be. He shook his head.

  Chambers glanced at him. “Sir?” There was no hint of fear on the young sergeant’s face—only a sort of faithful determination and trust.

  Jax knew that this man and the three dozen other warriors who had accompanied him this far would follow his orders to the letter, without hesitation, without questioning him even for a second. Where did such men come from? How did he gain and control their unquestioning trust? He could not explain it. And perhaps it was better he wasn’t able to foresee the outcome of this mission—it could be tragic, and there was no turning back now.

  Jax wouldn’t allow these doubts to seep into his thoughts again.

  He finally answered Chambers, “Nothing, sergeant.” He gave the young man a slight smile and patted his shoulder.

  Five minutes passed before Jax returned to Sunny’s side with a topographical map.

  As he approached the DPV, the lieutenant with the SatCom unit called to him, “Sir, I think you should see this.”

  “Bring it,” Jax said pointing to the driver’s seat next to Sunny.

  “Jax,” Sunny said, frowning as she flipped back through the pages, “this is too much, unbelievable. It’s like a nightmare.” Sunny stared at the top page, and Jax could see her emotions building. He had a good idea of what she would say next.

  Her eyes didn’t leave the report on her lap. “Let’s talk about Dan a minute, Jax. Tell me the truth. They think he’s a traitor, don’t they? They think Dan’s responsible for this mess—in charge, even?”

  The lieutenant slipped behind the steering wheel and turned the laptop’s screen so that both Jax and Sunny could see it. “It’s an image from Doctor Ultar. He says this drawing is typical of what he’s getting now from his remote viewers.”

  Relieved by Lieutenant Carpenter’s interruption, still Jax knew he would have to answer Sunny soon. He studied the jpeg image before him—a simple pencil drawing. It seemed to depict a small town, rectangles representing buildings. Above it was a large mass that could have been either a nuclear cloud or perhaps a huge brain. Lines had been drawn attaching the thing to the
buildings. Within the brain-like cloud were the words Daniel McMaster and Chairman. Gold Rush was printed below the town.

  Sunny frowned at the image, obviously confused. “What’s this telling us?”

  “Dr. Ultar says the people at Thousand Eyes believe it means Mr. McMaster is in control of the town,” the lieutenant said. “Or at least—”

  Jax filled in Lieutenant Carpenter’s pause. “Or his brain is.”

  It took a long moment of astonishment before Jax reined in his thoughts—picturing his best friend’s brain being enlarged to the size of the Goodyear Blimp and hardwired to an entire small city. He brought focus back to the mission, the more reasonable facts they knew to be true. He reached over Sunny and turned the laptop’s screen away from her frozen stare.

  “That will be enough, lieutenant,” Jax said and gently took Sunny by the chin to look her face to face. Her eyes were bloodshot, confusion obvious, worry lines enhanced by the miles of dust from their journey. “It’s only a drawing, Sunny. You know how these second protocol RVs work. They draw pictures after viewing, then they’re interviewed and their thoughts are interpreted. Those drawings are only symbols.”

  She pulled his hand away from her face. “You mean, we’re not going to find Dan’s disembodied brain tethered and pumped up to the size of Snoopy at Macy’s parade? Or do you mean that Dan isn’t the one behind all this—the chairman?”

  “That speculation is obvious,” Jax said and nodded toward the laptop. “Some of the RVs have been relating Dan to the term chairman all along, as if he were somehow the leader, perhaps in control of these Biotronics people. I’m not going along with it, though. I won’t—I can’t. If Dan is somehow involved, I’m sure it’s against his will.”

  Sunny shook her head. “This is ridiculous—the chairman thing. Dan was chairman of the board of McMaster’s Nonlethal Solutions. That’s what these RVs of theirs are hitting on.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sunny sighed. “And if we can’t rescue Dan and the hostages, they’re going to be killed, aren’t they?”

  “Sunny, all of us are expendable. We must understand that. Prior to embarking last night, I spoke to President Mason again. He was . . . let’s say, pissed. If we’re not successful, the danger will be too great—immediate. I can’t believe that our own President would order a strike against us. But as soon as Biotronics finds out we’re here, I’d guess they’ll destroy their facility as well as the town. That is unless we can gain the President’s support and he sends in help. And the only way we can get his support is if it appears we’re going to be successful. We can’t fail. And I’ll promise you this—I won’t leave here without Dan.”

  Sunny stared at Jax. “We’re in agreement, then.” She gently pushed Jax away in order to get out of the DPV. “Let’s get this party started.”

  Jax handed her the map. “The RV who’s batting a thousand so far says Weller will be here at 07:45,” he said, his finger near an intersection on the chart. “You’ve got less than an hour, and it’s about three miles up this gulley.” He nodded toward the ravine before them. “I can’t go with you—the RV insisted that you be alone. But I will send the counter-sensor, laser team out behind you to knock out some of the cameras.”

  Jax pulled what looked like a ragged camouflage blanket roll from the back of the DPV, untied it and let it fall loose. He handed the thing to Sunny. “Wear this ghillie suit until you get close. It’s adaptive camouflage. Somewhat like the patrol vehicle you’re sitting in, it has dozens of tiny, camera-like optical sensors placed in various spots around the outside of the suit. They see the color on one side of you and change the colors of thousands of organic, non-light-emitting diode crystals on the opposite side. That way it actively adapts the ghillie’s appearance by mimicking its surroundings. Anyone who looks your way, from any distance, effectively sees right through you to what is in view of the optical sensors on your other side.”

  “Yeah,” Sunny said, inspecting the suit with an analytical frown. “Smart fabrics—electronic textiles, wearable computers. Dan and I had our own version on the drawing board when he disappeared.” She slipped the poncho-like camouflage over her head and ensured that it covered herself completely. “Not bad.”

  Jax said, “With about a hundred thousand of those tiny diode crystals; two hundred, miniature optical sensors; a whole bunch of small, dry-cell batteries; and miles of ultra-thin fiber optics and stainless-steel-covered conductive yarns woven throughout the suit, it’s about thirty pounds heavier than even the normal ghillie. You’ll find a small switch to activate the camo below the face opening.”

  Sunny didn’t seem to mind the extra weight. She was obviously fascinated. From inside the ghillie, she reached up and flipped on the camouflage, then glanced around the suit in amazement as it transformed into a translucent blur before their eyes.

  Sunny let out an amazed gasp. “This is near nanotechnology,” She said, then gaped at him. “Where did you come up with all of this cool stuff, Jax?”

  “Like I told you, a lot of people owe me. Many of those people are on staff at either private or governmental labs. Some of our new equipment is experimental and was loaned out freely. And some of it is top secret—thought only to be in the concept stage—and was, well . . . borrowed. These ghillies I spirited out of the Objective Force Warrior Program at Natick Soldier Center in Massachusetts. The director is an old friend. He looked the other way for fifteen minutes while Lt. Carpenter and I went on a mad shopping spree.”

  With the camouflage on, Sunny’s face seemed to light up and float in the air like a beautiful, white Kabuki mask. She was regaining her confidence.

  He put his hand on her arm and caught her gaze. “Don’t let anyone see you and don’t rush our Mr. Robert Weller, Sunny. It’s the one time you must be patient. You can’t be more than a passive catalyst to guide him. Use your humor, your wit. He must come with you of his own free will, or you’ll lose whatever trust you’ve gained with him. If that happens and we have to snatch him, it’ll make extracting the information we need from him very difficult.”

  He went to a toolbox in the back of the DPV, took out a buttoned medallion on a chrome-beaded chain and slipped it over Sunny’s head. “If anything doesn’t set right, you activate this locator beacon. It has a much stronger signal than the ring, and it’ll warn us that you’re in trouble.”

  She tucked the thing under her shirt and pulled the ghillie’s hood back over her head.

  “Robert Weller is the ‘key.’ We have little hope of getting Dan back unless Weller trusts you.”

  When Sunny stared out at nothing, still without speaking, Jax realized her hesitation and wished he had a backup plan. With no obvious alternate strategy to rely on, he knew he must prepare his men for an all-out assault should Sunny fail.

  As Sunny ducked under the chain-link barrier through a large, freshly dug-out hole in the fence line, Jax said quietly, “Sergeant Chambers, take DPV 2 back to the choppers. Return with Corporals Tippin and Dorsey on the double and have each bring a set of civvies. They’ll need to look like civilians for what I have planned for them.”

  He watched Sunny leave. Her suit activated, it appeared like light bending heat waves, reflecting the green and brown colors from the other side of her—a sort of scintillating, five and a half foot tall pyramid.

  Speaking louder this time, he said, “Sunny, he needs to trust you—did you hear me?”

  She turned to Jax, only a small part of her face truly visible. “He’ll trust me.”

  Chapter 4

  Closing the shower door, I dismissed further thoughts of the note or an intruder. I let the hot water rinse the confusion from my mind and tried to think of the day ahead.

  Our little town of Gold Rush was small, but even small towns need hardware stores, and I had the only nuts-and-bolts shop within seventy-five miles. There’d be folks coming in to find out how I was doing. I’d have to be courteous to them, even though there’d be plenty of work to catch up on. />
  While washing my hair, I carefully avoided the large, tender lump at the base of my skull, caused by the nasty fall I’d taken three days earlier in this very shower. A victim of a silly, nevertheless potentially deadly, home accident, I’d become one of those statistics by slipping on the slick tub floor and crashing backward through the shower curtain. The back of my head hit the rim of the toilet, resulting in a mean little goose egg and a concussion. Had I remembered to put down the commode’s cushioned seat and lid after using it, as Michelle religiously reminded me, I probably would’ve walked away with little or no injury. Instead, I made an ambulance trip and had a night’s stay in the hospital.

  Along with the concussion came the loss of a seemingly unimportant portion of my memory. It was mostly small things. I couldn’t remember the accident. When our family physician tested me in the hospital emergency room, I easily remembered my own name, my son William’s, and Michelle’s. But I couldn’t remember Michelle’s birthday or the pastor’s wife’s name at church. Doc Xiang wasn’t alarmed, telling me with a warm smile that I was doing as good as most men.

  Now, a skid-proof mat covered the tub floor and, courtesy of my best friend Mike Wu, a tempered-glass enclosure and two handholds were securely in place. Mike, brother-in-law and handyman extraordinaire, had come over the day after my fall and taken care of our shower. A better friend there could not be, and with Mike being Michelle’s brother, it was a double bonus.

  As I rinsed my hair, my mind went back to the day’s schedule. At three-thirty, I’d close shop early to slip away with Michelle for a four o’clock appointment at the children’s ward inside Mount Rainy Biotronics. By then Doc Xiang assured us he would know the test results and our five-year-old son’s prognosis.

  I took the back brush from the hook on the wall, applied soap to it and began scrubbing my shoulders. Again, while using caution near the lump on my neck, I thought of my good fortune. Keeping my optimism would be important today. Why not? It could have been much worse. Only a few inconsequential memories were lost. I was fortunate to have a prosperous business. I was fortunate to have such a wonderful wife. I was fortunate my boy hadn’t died in the car accident that nearly claimed his and Michelle’s lives.