BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

  Again, the suppressed doubts crept into Jax’s mind. If something should happen to Sunny, he would never forgive himself. Perhaps there had been another way he hadn’t considered in their haste. Perhaps the plot could have been stopped without a rescue mission or the terrible alternative of a nuclear strike that he was sure the boys in Washington were now considering. Perhaps there was a way they could have pulled this thing off without involving Sunny.

  When three men wearing active-camo ghillies came trotting up on the other side of the fence, Jax refocused on the mission. Chambers ran out to meet them—the counter-sensor laser team. The patrol ducked under the chain-link barrier through the large gap. On hands and knees, they pushed their heavy equipment through. Once each man had made passage, Chambers kept guard at the fence while the men jogged into the tree-lined ravine where Jax waited. The first soldier, Senior Airman Winestat, held a long, black, rifle-like device. The counter-sensor laser weapon was about the size and shape of an M-16 assault rifle, except its barrel was tapered and much thicker. The next two soldiers carried burdensome black cases in each hand, and thick power cords hung from their shoulders. The group gathered around a topographical map spread out on the ground in front of Jax.

  “Mission accomplished, sir,” Winestat said. “Took three of the cameras out. They were mounted on streetlights.” He smiled. “Fried ‘em like eggs.”

  As the other two men chuckled, the major clenched his jaw. This was not the time for humor or cockiness. “You weren’t seen?”

  Winestat’s smile left quickly at the stern tone of Jax’s voice. “No, sir. We did pass Tippin and Dorsey.”

  The major nodded. “What’s the charge on the laser?”

  One of the other men checked the small meters on each of the black cases. “Looks like about fifty percent, sir. Should have enough for two, maybe three more heavy pulses.”

  “Good work, men. Winestat, take your team back to the helicopters. Load up six more covers for the infrared and motion detectors along this fence line and stand by. We may need an alternate penetration point, and I want to be ready.” Jax narrowed his eyes at the young soldier. “If Mrs. McMaster or Corporal Tippin push their panic buttons, we’re going all out. You get back here and follow us up the ravine. At that point, we’ll grab our people, rendezvous with the choppers and assault the facility.”

  Winestat nodded. He and his two men carefully set their equipment next to a clump of nearby bushes, climbed into the closest DPV and strapped in. The small all-terrain vehicle’s engine came to life; however, only a low hum emitted from its five-foot-long, extra quiet muffler.

  As the team drove away, Lieutenant Carpenter’s voice came over Jax’s headset. “Chatter on their com lines, sir.”

  Jax hoped they were not found out. He looked to Carpenter and spoke low into the small, voice-activated microphone attached to his helmet. “What’s up?”

  “Seems they’d had some other power failures even before we hit them. Don’t know what happened. They’re talking about someone having more power than they thought.”

  The major raised an eyebrow. He wondered if they were talking about Dan, or perhaps this new guy he hoped to snatch and question—Robert Weller. In the past, Jax hadn’t been one to believe in things he couldn’t touch or see, or what couldn’t be explained by scientific formula—even though he’d been married to one of the world’s most renowned remote viewers whose only equal was his best friend. That was their realm—he would rely on what he saw in the tangible, real world. But with the happenings of late, he was inclined to consider a more objective way of thinking about the paranormal. After all, the American government itself had toyed with paranormal projects for over three decades.

  But if these Biotronics lunatics somehow had been successful with what they were trying to do, the potential was incredible and horrific—making a human weapon without bounds.

  * * *

  I was soon able to put the agoraphobic episode behind me. But, with the premonition of impending doom, what was to be a pleasant stroll to my store had become a lively stride. Still, I could not deny the lovely morning, my senses seeming more open, more sensitive than I could ever remember. I took a deep breath. Except for a hint of the smoke the weatherman had reported, the air smelled fresh. The light haze on an otherwise bright morning was not uncommon. Numerous national parks and half-a-dozen national forests lay within a couple hundred miles of Gold Rush, and the dry summer had contributed to a larger than usual number of forest fires. The smoke traveled a long way, tending to gather in the valleys and around the mountains.

  As I took in the lovely morning at the brisk pace, I thought of what it would be like for Will to be out of the hospital and able to use his legs again—the ballgames, the fishing trips, the hiking and the ski trips we’d enjoy together.

  A pleasant morning breeze flowed down from the Rocky Mountains, and the chirping birds added to my optimism. Somewhere in an American elm across the street, a cardinal sang a cheerful jingle. The tree’s fine branches swayed gently in the soft wind like waving hands. A good omen, I thought, even though I didn’t consider myself superstitious.

  In the next block I strode by my childhood home, now owned by a couple who had recently moved to Gold Rush from Virginia. They’d fixed it up nicely, repainted and hung new insulated windows and doors. It still looked like home. I remembered passing the football in the front yard with my father, my mother coming to the screen door and calling us in for supper. The remembrance made me smile. My mother’s cancer and father’s bad heart had saw to it the memories of my parents did not extend past my twenty-second birthday. They had both died that year.

  Two houses down, I would walk past Michelle and Mike’s childhood home. My wife and brother-in-law’s parent’s, Sam and Suzan Wu, still lived in the house but were away now on a Caribbean cruise to celebrate their fortieth anniversary.

  With my eyes on the Wu house up ahead, I walked by a clump of late-blooming honeysuckle and mountain wild flowers, and the sweet scent drew my attention. Not one to normally be attracted to such things, still I couldn’t help but be pulled in by the colorful flowers enclosed with a white picket fence, next to the sidewalk.

  An elderly black gentleman busied himself in the same shallow yard dabbing paint onto the porch railing. George Washington Banks had been my childhood neighbor when my family lived in the house next door. I’d known him all my life. A picture like a family photo came to mind. It was of this man, an elderly Oriental woman, their daughter and her husband—both of them in their early thirties—and a granddaughter around ten.

  When Mr. Banks noticed me about to walk past, he laid his brush on top of the paint can and then took long, slow strides in my direction. His mustache and hair were so white that they seemed fluorescent against his coffee-brown skin. The Denver Broncos cap he wore protected his shiny, bald crown.

  I waited by the short ornamental gate leading to his front door and smiled at the elderly man as he approached. He didn’t return the gesture, and for a reason I couldn’t explain, I became slightly unnerved.

  “You look like a nice young man,” the old gentleman said, his eyes dark and clear. “Brown Suit. That’d make you Mr. Weller, wouldn’t it?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Banks,” I said and held out my hand, remembering that his Alzheimer’s had allowed him fewer clear-minded days of late. I hadn’t a clue of what my brown coat and pants had to do with my name and figured the terrible disease that gnawed away at his memory had confused him. “Please call me Robert,” I said—he had called me Bobby since I could remember, but at least calling me Robert would be better than Mr. Weller.

  We shook hands while Mr. Banks studied me.

  “That’s right, Robert,” he said and nodded. He pulled his head back and studied me. “They’ll be wanting to get you some new spectacles, that’s for sure.”

  “My glasses just suddenly broke this morning,” I said, but didn’t wish to explain more.

  He grunted as if it didn’t ma
tter, then said, “Name’s George Washington Banks. Corporal, United States Marine Corps, serial number five-five, six-one, two-four, seven-seven. Korea, nineteen hundred and fifty-two.”

  The Alzheimer’s seemed to have a firm grip on his mind this morning. I couldn’t help but feel for the poor old guy. I raised my eyebrows trying to look very impressed. “Retired military?”

  He chuckled. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

  “Painting, huh?” I asked, nodding toward his porch.

  “Yeah,” he said as the faint ringing of a telephone came from inside the house. He turned toward his home. “Winter’s coming on. Want it to look nice before the weather sets in.” He glanced back at me. “Got that paint at your hardware store two weeks ago from the last guy.”

  I smiled again. I liked Mr. Banks and always had, no matter now that he seemed to be rapidly growing senile. I’d purchased my store from old man Whitaker over twelve years ago. Except for an occasional high school student helping me part-time, I’d been the only one behind the register.

  Banks continued, “This is my crib.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the house. “They give it to me. But it ain’t home. Closest I could get, though.” He looked down at his feet. “Whole hell of a lot better than laying naked in a muddy pit, I’ll tell ya that.” He shook his head and looked at me again. “Yeah, boy. Got a wife here, purdy daughter, grandbaby. I love ‘em all like they was life itself. That’s why I do it. That’s why I keep on.”

  I nodded politely, again not understanding exactly what he meant. “Yes, Mr. Banks, I know them. Lovely family.”

  “Robert . . . ,” the old man said with a sudden frown. He glanced around us as if he was making sure no one else could hear. His voice lowered. “. . . it ain’t too late for you. You got to get outa’ here. Go home where your family be—where they love ya.”

  I stared at him in puzzlement as his daughter came out the front door. Jolene Berry was a pretty, slender woman with her father’s height and her mother’s lovely Asian eyes. She was two years behind me in school. She came to us with one of those is-he-bothering-you? sort of grins on her face.

  “Good morning, Robert,” she said.

  I nodded to her. “Jolene. Good to see you on such a beautiful morning.”

  She glanced around at the lightly smoked sky. “Yes, it is a pretty morning. Not supposed to last long, though.”

  I nodded. “We better enjoy it while it’s nice.”

  She smiled putting her hand on her father’s shoulder, and he cowered slightly. “Daddy, better come in, now. Mama’s got breakfast ready. And little Rachael wants to see you before she goes to school.”

  Without protest, the old man turned away and walked toward the front door of his house, but he paused midway. Not looking back, he said, “Maybe they’ll let me buy some more paint today. Maybe we can talk more, then.” He stepped up on the porch and opened the screen door.

  Jolene gave me a half smile. “I’m sorry if Daddy bothered you.”

  “He’s a wonderful man,” I said. “He’ll never be a bother to me.”

  Jolene nodded.

  “He did say something that made me a bit curious—something about ‘laying naked in a muddy pit.’”

  Jolene frowned momentarily, then seemed to understand. “He was a POW during the Korean War. Still has nightmares. And that Alzheimer’s is getting worse every day. Don’t take him too seriously.” Jolene smiled. “Nice talking with you.” She turned away and followed her father inside the house as I watched.

  I paused in front of the flora, gazing down at the honeysuckle. What a shame Mr. Banks had Alzheimer’s—such an awful memory-stealing disease. With my concussion and seemingly minor memory problem, I could relate, only slightly.

  Seconds after I turned and proceeded toward the store, a woman appeared from nowhere about fifty feet down the sidewalk. Perhaps she’d stepped out from the end of some tall hedge bushes edging a short section of the footway. She wore sunglasses, a green sweat suit and tennis shoes. For this woman, I had no mental photo, no words coming from a memory filed away but within easy reach.

  The woman stepped toward me, the red hair covering her shoulders thick and full of bounce. I couldn’t help but watch her. Such an attractive figure. Fifteen feet away, she raised her glasses revealing her large green eyes and gazed at me as she drew nearer. For a moment, I became entranced, finding something familiar in those lovely eyes. I slowed my pace cautiously as we were about to pass. When she stepped up to me, a big smile came across her face like she’d bumped into an old friend she hadn’t seen in a while. Her full lips parted as if she was going to speak to me.

  But then, her expression changed. She glanced down the street, frowned and tapped her sunglasses back over her eyes.

  She stepped past, and the next thing I knew she slapped me on the back of the neck.

  I saw stars and cringed. “Damn!” It felt like I’d been stung.

  “Bee,” she confirmed. She didn’t say it like Watch out, bee!—only, matter-of-factly, Bee.

  I winced, not knowing whether I should slug her back or thank her. “What the hell, lady?” I said, but when I looked around, the bushes rustled and she was gone.

  Feeling the fresh wound, I realized the thing had stung the lump—the remnant of my fall in the shower. But I found no bee, no insect of any kind. Inspecting the ground around me, I discovered no small perpetrator there, only what looked like the eraser end of a pencil. What kind of madness was this? I was careful to check under my collar and shirt to ensure the little bastard hadn’t fallen inside where it could cause more trouble. Still nothing. Had it flown away after such a solid smack? Had it somehow stuck to the woman’s hand or fallen onto her clothing somewhere?

  Suddenly, something seemed to click inside my brain. As if the proverbial dam had broken, a rush of incredible images came at me from behind my eyes. I saw helicopters, guns spitting fire, ripping up the ground around me; fierce explosions in the air and on the ground; soldiers bloodied and dying; then a huge conflagration—a nuclear blast, sweeping away all of the town‘s buildings and houses in a terrific tsunami of flames—the shock slamming into me, making me stagger, rattling my lungs.

  I grabbed onto the spirea branches next to me to keep from losing my balance. I sucked in a deep breath as the horrific images dissipated as quickly as they had come. What did it mean? Was it something from the past—memories that suddenly were flung to the forefront of my mind, repressed by my concussion? Or could it be some kind of a premonition—a view of what was about to happen?

  I shook my head in confusion as I heard a car pulling up beside me.

  * * *

  Sunny almost had this Robert Weller guy. Two minutes—that’s all she would have needed, and somehow, she would have gotten Weller to go with her. She would have done anything, tried anything. But the police car pulling up just when she’d made contact spoiled it all. She’d failed—and doing so, she’d failed Dan. In a town of five thousand people controlled by a hostile force, how could they possibly find Dan now? Jax had said, if she failed, they’d have to attack blindly, a full-fledged assault against an enemy with unknown numbers and capabilities.

  “Damn it,” she hissed, trying to hold back her emotions as she crouched behind the bushes only long enough to slip the bulky camouflage ghillie back over her head. She eased out of the shrubbery on the opposite side of Weller and then sprinted toward the narrow band of evergreens separating Gold Rush from the rocky slope. Toward the east edge of the city limits, the tree line spread wide as it slipped down a three-mile incline. A small ravine ran the middle, widening also by the time it reached the base of the hill where Jax waited next to the dry riverbed. During spring thaw, the gully was probably a mighty torrent of water. For now, it lay impotent and worked well as a pathway.

  Sunny only made the nearest tree before stumbling against it. A strong rush shocked her entire body, quickly followed by dizziness and tingling like fingers lightly massaging her temples.
She rested against the old pine’s trunk where no low boughs grew.

  Cursing, she threw the gold ring to the pine-needle-covered ground. With both hands against the evergreen, she panted heavily and shook her head. So close. Only a few seconds longer, and . . . .

  Her head spun as she closed her eyes, then she staggered behind the wide tree trunk, stumbled backward, and sat down hard. The tingling fingers massaged deeper, firmer into the sides of her head, into her brain. Her thoughts tumbled, fragmented, as confusion set in.

  From her mind’s eye, she saw herself and Dan, and their daughter Lilly. They were chasing crabs and laughing on a beach near San Onofre, California. On a sunny day, they were hiking at the Sequoia National Forest while whistling theme songs from kids’ shows and Disney movies. Then Lilly was on Dan’s lap as they played a board game on a stormy afternoon in their summer cabin north of San Francisco.

  She longed to be home, for them all to be safe and happy as they were only two years ago.

  The kneading in her brain intensified, and Sunny realized she’d had this same sensation several times before—the strongest episode earlier while seated in the DPV waiting for Jax’s briefing. The odd feeling was not painful, but neither was it soothing. It interrupted her thoughts, pleasant memories of the past—stole away her reminiscence of a happier time. The stirring inside her skull was an invasion, the feeling as if someone—some sort of burglar of thoughts—had entered the most secret places of her personal domain, was sifting through the private recesses of her mind, her soul.

  But she could not stop this intruder. There were no alarms, no thought cops to come to her rescue. Her mind opened submissively, as if laid bare with legs splayed, completely at the mercy of this mysterious entity.