BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

“How ‘bout a large Coke for lunch.”

  “Cheapskate.”

  I wriggled my fingers and smiled as I went through the doorway.

  But suddenly, when I stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind me, it was as if I’d entered another universe.

  I leaned back against our front door, staring out at the yard and the neighborhood, not understanding what was happening to me. My heart fluttered inside my chest, and a dizziness came over me like vertigo. What I saw was not the issue, it was how I saw it. The yard was my yard; the street, sidewalk, trees, neighboring houses—my neighborhood. But it seemed so open, so different. I felt the need to clutch the doorknob behind me for fear of falling into what suddenly appeared like a broad expanse of openness. Agoraphobia, I thought—fear of open spaces. Could that be it?

  I slowed my shallow, quick breaths, closed my eyes and breathed deeply. When I slowly looked again, nothing had changed, but I seemed to be adjusting. The concussion, I remembered—that was obviously my problem. But how bad of a problem was it? Should I wuss out, go back inside and tell Mish that I couldn’t go into work today? No, there was too much to be done. I’d be okay. I just needed to get past this.

  I slowly released the doorknob and took a tentative step, then another and stood on the edge of our front stoop. I gazed around me at the trees and houses that lined our lovely street, and I breathed in deeply once again. It was so calm. No birds, no breeze, not even a car passing in the street—a sort of quiet before the storm, I thought. But why should I think of something like that? What brought on that idea? What storm?

  The voice came again. Hey, Superman, it said. But this time, the voice was different—somewhat clandestine, a gruff whisper. Where are you? it continued.

  I knew the question came from my own mind, still I queried myself in my thoughts What do you mean, where am I? I imagined the Harvey character again. But this time, I couldn’t see him. Gazing out at the brightening day, I imagined him somehow in the shadows, hooded, only his eyes apparent, glowing from the dark. And they were yellow, reptilian slits for pupils.

  Whe-air-r-r are-r yo-ou? he sung.

  I frowned at my surroundings. I am going mad, I thought. I wanted to yell out, You’re not Harvey! You’re something evil. Leave me alone! How ridiculous my thoughts had become.

  Still, I considered what the voice was asking. As I looked out through the trees and behind the houses on the other side of the street, I could see the nearby mountains. This was my home. I had gazed upon those mountains—that same ridgeline—for thirty-five years.

  But as I gazed my point of view seemed to travel past the mountains, and I felt my body follow, as if suddenly being yanked, slingshot at supersonic speed through the air. With the sound of rushing air, pressure built inside my skull and the agoraphobic feeling spun my thoughts again. The din increased, like white noise on a radio, it blared louder and louder, a tremendous cacophony. Soon I saw stars, but not the kind you see when you’re whacked on the head and about to pass out—these were real stars, the ones you don’t see on bright, sunny days.

  Now the disruptive clamor that had blasted in my ears slowly decreased and, for a moment, sounded like some kind of ethereal choir. The harmonic noise finally calmed to a light hiss as the dark universe lit up with billions of pinpoints of light. It was like what I’d seen when I’d been camping, way up in the mountains, and there were no city lights in any direction on the horizon to interfere. But I was closer to these stars, I realized, and the world became completely silent again. The silence became loud, indescribable. The stars grew larger and I sped by them, now, not at supersonic speed but at light speed—Star Trek warp speed. I zoomed past the celestial bodies, and they appeared all around me like bright streaks of intense light.

  As quickly as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, I suddenly was back on my front stoop, standing in the advancing morning light once again. The agoraphobic sensation had evaporated. I blinked several times and noticed a squirrel on a low tree branch in our front yard staring at me. Below the grey, tree-dwelling rodent, a walnut lay on the sidewalk. He had dropped it—the hypnotist’s finger snap. The squirrel’s tail flipped in the air as he chewed—or was he only chewing?

  I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard a whisper, Get ready! Here they come!

  I scanned around me, fearfully, as my heart hammered. But I saw nothing to be alarmed about.

  This was not normal. What was wrong with me?

  “Good lord,” I said, shaking my head. Again, I knew the words I’d heard only came from my own thoughts, but that knowledge did little to settle my nerves. I hustled out to the sidewalk, kicked the walnut up close to the tree trunk and walked on briskly without looking back.

  * * *

  Located four miles up the snaking blacktop from Gold Rush, Mount Rainy Biotronics was built into the south face of Rainy Mountain. With the mountain’s rocky bosom at its back and its arms of granite on both sides, the front of the building was the only portion visible from the wide expanse of parking lot. On a busy day like today, the lot was filled to near capacity, as many as a thousand vehicles. Without windows, the only exterior glass on the building was in the main entry doors, a carousel wide enough for three people to push around, shoulder to shoulder. No fire escapes or fancy fascia marring its smooth, five-story-high, stark-white walls, it was neither an architectural wonder nor a gaudy blunder. It was purely functional.

  Doctor Xiang Gao had joked during its construction that if the building inspector and fire marshal of Summit County, Colorado, ever saw the facility, they would just shit. Certainly, he would welcome both onto the premises—open the wide front gate, raise the steel barricade arm personally. He would show them around while they jotted down notes, made out citations for the many building codes and public safety rules broken. He would show them the dark secrets, tell them the many things going on here that the world should never know. And then he’d take them to dinner in the hospital wing’s cafeteria, treat them to a fine vintage of Burgundy, maybe a little pâté or caviar, and perhaps have Maurice, his personal chef, whip up some beef Wellington or lamb chops with mint sauce. When they’d finished and had a nice cherries jubilee or perhaps some tiramisu dessert, he would wrap his large hands around each of their throats and choke them both to death at the same time. That was, if they would ever show. Odds were against that—a pity.

  In the west wing of the facility was Mount Rainy Medical Center with over twelve hundred beds. In the east wing, Mount Rainy Biotronics Research Center bustled with activity, most of the scientists and technicians thinking their research would help heal mankind’s many wounds. They did not need to know the truth.

  Now, in the restricted control room, center of the structure on the second floor, Dr. Xiang put his hands in the pockets of his dark-blue lab coat, and with dark, deep-set eyes scanned the bank of eighteen video monitors. At six-foot five, he was taller than most men of Chinese heritage, his biological Russian father a contributing factor. In his long silver hair, only an occasional black streak was a noticeable remnant of the past. Still he wore it pulled back in a ponytail that reached the middle of his back. The band holding his hair behind his head was an odd feature to most who observed it long enough to realize what it wasn’t—an elastic fabric strip. Dark and shriveled, no one except Xiang knew what the thing really was; two curled and connected human fingers—those of his long dead but never forgotten foster parents.

  Things were not going according to plan. Three screens were burnt out. Fourteen of the remaining fifteen displayed a number of street and intersection scenes from all over town and around the Biotronics facility. In the middle, the fifteenth monitor showed the inside of the Gold Rush hardware store. All camera angles were from an elevated point of view.

  On the screen immediately right of center, a man walked down a sidewalk. The tall Oriental doctor bent over the technician seated in front of him and, with one large hand on the tech’s shoulder, he used the other to push forward on a small l
ever on the control panel. The technician flinched with Xiang’s contact while the camera zoomed in on the walking man—Robert Weller.

  “Damn it. He is walking,” Dr. Xiang said.

  An Oriental woman, also in a dark-blue smock, stepped into the room and stood just behind and to the side of Xiang. She inspected the monitors apprehensively. “On schedule, Dr. Xiang?”

  Xiang smiled slightly. He appreciated his assistant. She was conscientious, obedient and not all that bad looking for a forty-year-old neurologist.

  Xiang spoke over his shoulder, “Yes, Dr. Yumi. A minor complication, however, yes. It appears he has exceeded even our hopes.” He scowled as he turned to a dark screen near the middle. “He projected earlier than planned. I believe he not only burned out the television, but the three cameras inside the house as well. All of the microphones, the power supply and even the telephone are out. And now, for some reason, he is walking. However, Chief Dailey has arrived at the house. I will have him provide physical surveillance as a precaution.”

  He pressed the Radio Speak button on the console and leaned to the microphone.

  Before he had a chance to talk, the screen he’d been observing went blank. It no longer showed the section of sidewalk it had a moment earlier. He could no longer watch Robert Weller.

  He turned to the technician. “What . . . ?”

  Next, a screen to the left went out, and they looked to it in surprise. Another sidewalk scene was gone.

  Xiang grimaced. A short, a breakdown, a rat had gotten into the circuitry again? “What is happening?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor Xiang.” The tech flipped several switches, then stood up and pushed reset buttons on both monitors. Nothing happened.

  Yet another screen dimmed to dark gray.

  Xiang rubbed his white goatee and narrowed his eyes. Perhaps the equipment malfunctions were caused by something less obvious. He scanned the bank of monitors for a moment. The others remained on. He glanced down at one of the gauges on the console labeled Subject #374 Signal. Its needle pointed to the green range, and Xiang was thankful for that. They could not afford another failure—especially considering a subject this promising.

  “At least we have not lost control,” he said.

  But when he glanced at a small screen in the middle of the control console, he was stunned. The tiny arrow that indicated Robert Weller’s path along a street in a computer-generated town was not there. “Damn it. Tracking has been affected, also.” He looked over his shoulder again at Yumi. “Perhaps it was not him who destroyed the cameras and microphones. Something may be amiss. Get a support team in here without delay. I want this resolved, now. And dispatch troubleshooters in boom trucks to make repairs to the surveillance equipment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dr. Yumi said. She scurried to the doorway, but paused briefly before leaving. “Oh, and, Dr. Xiang, the Consul General is here from the New York City Consulate.”

  Xiang’s eyes widened. This particular consul was in charge of the entire northeastern United States, including Washington, DC. He would be overseeing the operation in that area. “Damn them! Why cannot they leave me alone and let me work? This is not Disneyland. I am not a tour guide.”

  “I believe the Honorable Mr. Meng Juhong wishes to see the facility today and to accompany the subject to his placement tomorrow, sir. He is waiting in your private office.”

  “You will delay him, Yumi,” Xiang snapped. “I must have fifteen minutes to assure complete control here before Consul Meng is allowed to view our facility.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Yumi said and slipped out.

  Xiang leaned back to the microphone, glancing again at all of the monitors. Dignitaries and politicians were the worst lot. Aloud, but to himself, he said, “That is all I need, a fat-assed diplomat to snoop around where he does not belong and into what he does not understand!”

  His distaste for diplomats ran deep. His mother had been a Shanghai prostitute and his father a Soviet dignitary—their consul general to Shanghai. When the second Sino-Japanese war erupted, his Russian father had fled China, abandoning Xiang’s mother—then pregnant with Xiang. The Russian returned to his own Mother Russia, his legal wife and safety. But the atrocities Xiang’s mother was left to endure were incredible during that tumultuous time in China’s history. She’d sought safety in nearby Nangjing with her younger sister and newborn Xiang. But there, over three hundred thousand civilians were slaughtered by the Japanese, and Xiang’s mother was raped and killed. His adolescent aunt had managed to escape death with little Xiang, until she was senselessly slaughtered—literally butchered, in a Japanese prison camp—while Xiang watched helplessly at the age of five.

  Xiang’s parents had made him what he was, and he hated them for it. And he especially hated diplomats.

  Xiang pushed the Radio Speak button once more. “Chief Dailey, we now have a total of six blank monitors here—and Robert Weller is walking. You must keep surveillance from the house and all the way to the store. Find our subject quickly, and tell me where he is. I do not want him making contact with other citizens, yet.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” the chief replied.

  “First, let me speak to Michelle,” Xiang said shortly. Disobedience was far worse than equipment failure, and Xiang would not tolerate it. People were more responsive to the threat of death than were machines.

  Michelle’s voice trembled as it came over the speaker. “I am here, Doctor Xiang.”

  Xiang made his voice stern, scolding. “What have you done?”

  “I—I did what I thought best. His glasses broke. I told him he had more at the store.”

  She was stammering. Good. She should be worried. It made Xiang smile, but not for long. “I will ensure a new set of glasses are placed in the desk drawer at the store. Now, back to my question. What have you done?”

  “I thought it was best that . . . ”

  “You thought deviating from the plan was best? He was to drive to work. Now we must make other arrangements.”

  “But it was not going according to plan, sir. There was nothing in the plan about the television exploding. It was his idea to walk. I thought I should not try to persuade him otherwise.”

  Xiang hated excuses. He grew impatient. “That is what you are there for, to lead him according to the plan.”

  “Forgive me, Doctor. I was surprised, frightened. I had not imagined the power. I thought it better if he left right away.”

  Xiang slammed his palm onto the control panel. He raised his voice a notch. “You were afraid for yourself. You had no worry for the project, only for yourself.”

  “I have failed.”

  “You have!” Xiang snapped, then paused a long moment. He didn’t like to lose control. But he had measured his anger precisely to ensure Michelle understood his disappointment, that she understood her failure, that she understood the possible consequences. “You know I would have protected you at the first sign of danger. I maintain control here and would have turned the device off. It is not in the plan to sacrifice you. Nevertheless, you did not trust me.”

  Michelle’s voice was argumentative and approaching shrill. “I have just checked the inside cameras and microphones—they are all burnt out, as well. Without the cameras and the microphones, how could you have known to protect me?”

  Xiang glared at his mike. He said nothing. A moment of silence passed as he gripped the microphone in front of him. Enough banter with this underling. He wanted to tell Dailey to shoot her dead on the spot. But she might still be useful. Without her, this time could end up in miserable failure, as had many others. The project could easily proceed without Robert Weller—still, it would be a letdown. He had extraordinary promise. They had gone so far with him, and optimism was high. Weller had exceeded all of their hopes in the lab. It would be a terrific waste for him not to be included in the upcoming operation, besides the adjustments that would have to be made and targets changed.

  The interlude seemed to have given Michelle time to c
onsider her mistake and the consequences of it. Her voice was calmer and more apologetic as she said hesitantly, “I-I am sorry, Dr. Xiang. I beg for another chance. I will prove valuable.”

  Good. She had reminded herself of the severity of her mistake and the importance of her mission. Xiang surveyed the other monitors as three men in the same type of dark-blue lab coats came in and immediately began working on the computer system around him.

  “One last chance, then,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No more. If you fail again, you will no longer be of value. You will become a liability I cannot afford.”

  “Yes, sir. I will not disappoint you again.”

  “No. You will not.”

  Chapter 7

  Five minutes earlier, Staff Sergeant Chambers had returned from the helicopters that were stationed at a small discrete clearing a few miles away. Immediately, Corporals Tippin and Dorsey proceeded with their new mission and slipped through the perimeter fence.

  Chambers now joined Jax, who waited impatiently nearby. Twenty-five feet behind them at the DPVs, Lieutenant Carpenter continued to monitor the town’s radio and telephone conversations with the sophisticated listening device attached to the team’s satellite communication unit.

  The waiting allowed Jax’s mind to slip into the past. He looked at the colorfully beaded bracelet on his wrist and toyed with its tiny arrowhead pendant as he considered what an odd team of friends they had been. Lionel Jackson, his mother Hawaiian and father black, had married a beautiful Cherokee Indian named Moonfeather. Jax’s parents made him what he was, and he was thankful for it. His African-American father had given him courage to overcome adversity, and his Polynesian-American mother contributed a free spirit and live-and-let-live attitude. Factoring in the influence of Moonfeather’s spirituality, Jax found comfort in knowing who and what he was.

  Then there was Sunny O’Donnell, one hundred percent Irish Catholic, married to his best friend Dan McMaster, a California surfer boy and the best Marine to ever hit a beach. Sunny and Moonfeather had hit it off from the start, regardless of the night-and-day differences in appearance that their names implied. Both possessed a unique beauty that proved to be much more than skin-deep. Whenever he looked at Sunny now, Jackson was reminded of Moonfeather. The memory of his dead wife caused an empty ache to return to the middle of his chest, awakening familiar longing from the deepest pit of his heart.