BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

  Sitting with her hands pressed against her head, within a few seconds, she felt overwhelmed, knew she was going to faint. Finally, she fell back, sprawled out onto the dry evergreen needles—and then she felt Dan’s presence, saw him before her like a misty apparition.

  She opened her mouth. “Danny!” she said, her lips unmoving, her jaw locked as if it was paralyzed. The REM started again, her eyes racing in their sockets. Unable to stop the probing digits earlier—now, with Dan’s face before her, she no longer wished to stop them.

  Within a few seconds, control slipped from her grasp, and she succumbed to the invisible thief groping inside her head.

  With a final conscious breath, she whispered, “Dan-nee—”

  Chapter 8

  “Carl,” President Mason said, “glad you could make it so quickly from Miami.”

  CIA Director Winston didn’t look up at his boss. The compact, sinewy man seemed out of breath. “Sorry if I’ve delayed things, Mr. President. The balmy Florida weather was tough to leave.” His apology was flat and insincere as he passed a file folder to each of the other men, Commander-in-Chief first. “We have updates on our intel,” Director Winston continued as the others studied the folders they had been given. “We received the fax on top only minutes ago from one of our field ops in Paris. It seems it went the long way around to get to us.”

  President Mason opened the file before him. The top sheet had come across at least two facsimile machines and only God knew how many copiers to get to his desk. In the upper left-hand corner of the fax was a small picture, a mere ghostlike draft of a man captioned Robert Weller. The poor quality made the photo unidentifiable—the subject could have been twenty years old or sixty, had brown hair or blond. Mason shook his head and scoffed. “Paris? I should guess so—it came a very long way around!”

  Still winded, Winston spoke rapid fire, “Regardless, sir, the information is crucial. It seems we have an asset on site, an informant working undercover. We don’t know who it is.”

  Chief of Staff Thurman closed the file folder on his lap. His voice was stern and direct. “I have no trust in this.”

  “Please,” Winston said, “we must at least give it due consideration.”

  “Who is this Robert Weller?” Secretary of State Coates asked. “And what does he have to do with anything?”

  “Seems this man is somehow a key to these maniacs’ plan,” Winston said. “A note was included in the fax saying we ‘must rescue Weller immediately.’ He appears to be an innocent man being groomed as some kind of assassin.”

  Thurman’s emotionless tone and face didn’t indicate the incredible skepticism of his words. “Oh, brother.”

  “What do we know of him?” President Mason asked.

  “Absolutely nothing, sir,” Winston said. Still short of breath, he continued, “There are dozens of Robert Wellers in this country and over the world. We’re searching for any possible matches in age and basic appearance. Our remote viewers are calling Weller a clone or some sort of replica—of Daniel McMaster.”

  The President couldn’t help frowning incredulously as he looked at the poor photocopy likeness of Robert Weller. “Does he even look like McMaster?”

  “Just speculation anyway, sir,” Winston said. “But a clone wouldn’t necessarily look exactly like its original cell donor—a twin so to speak, but not necessarily identical. And theoretically, the DNA could be manipulated to change hair and eye color, etcetera—give the clone different characteristics. Still, they’d have to overcome the issue of age—perhaps they’ve discovered some sort of accelerated aging process.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Thurman said. “Science fiction. The technology just doesn’t exist.”

  “I’m not endorsing it,” Winston said. “Actually, Secretary Thurman, I tend to agree with you on that one point. But I’m just laying out the RVs’ report.”

  Mason didn’t go along with it either, but he wanted to be as objective as possible until they found something concrete. “Why would they clone McMaster?”

  “It might have something to do with his physical and mental abilities. He’s a genius, very athletic—perhaps even having something to do with his psychic abilities,” Winston said. “McMaster’s been documented as very adept in both remote viewing and telepathy.”

  “Recommendations?” Mason asked.

  Director Winston took a deep breath and slowed his speech. “That we either attempt to rescue Weller, Daniel McMaster and anyone else being held captive, or . . .”

  “Yes?” Mason asked.

  “Kill them,” Chief of Staff Thurman finished aloud what President Mason was thinking. “A preemptive strike.”

  “Last report,” Banks said, “we had no idea where they were.”

  “Only a matter of time,” Winston said. “Should know within a couple of hours.”

  Coates grimaced. “Mr. President, surely giving them the balance of your twenty-four hour deadline would be prudent. Give them that much of a chance. What if somehow they’re successful, and this big fiasco we’re all afraid of doesn’t happen?”

  Thurman picked a piece of lint from the forearm of his suit jacket. He brushed it from his fingers as he glanced at Coates. “Strike now, Mr. President, as soon as we pinpoint them—before this thing gets out of hand.”

  Secretary of Defense Banks frowned and said hesitantly, “Our remote viewers have given us more information, sir.”

  Thurman asked, “More smoke and mirrors?”

  “You were holding back information?” Mason asked Banks.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Banks said. “I felt that after comments like Secretary Thurman’s here coming from this administration of late, there wouldn’t be much interest in what our Thousand Eyes project had to say.” He glanced at Winston, who returned a nod.

  Thurman shifted in his chair. “Your little group of warlocks did miss the mark by a mile or two on the last rescue mission.”

  As Mason glared at each man alternately, Banks ignored Thurman and said, “They’re telling us hundreds of innocent people are caught up in the middle of it, sir.”

  The President scoffed. “How could there be? Hundreds?”

  “Perhaps even more than hundreds,” Banks said.

  Mason asked Coates, “Have that many people been reported missing?”

  Coates shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of, Mr. President.”

  “Just more BS, Mr. President,” Thurman said. “I don’t care what kind of mumbo jumbo this is, there’s no way in hell we’ve got hundreds—or thousands, if that’s what Secretary Banks is trying to say—of people who’ve been spirited away.”

  Banks said, “But maybe this is going on in or near a populated area.”

  The room was silent briefly, the others seeming to mull over Secretary Banks’ comment.

  “What about Daniel McMaster,” the President asked Winston. “I’m hearing speculation that he’s gone over—been paid off somehow and become a traitor—in some manner involved deeply in this mess.”

  Winston shook his head. “For that, I have little information, Mr. President. Our remote viewers have associated his name with chairman indicating to them that he is in charge of this plot—some sort of chairman of the board, they’re guessing.”

  “Chairman of the board?” Mason asked. “What board?”

  “Don’t know, sir,” Winston answered as a soft tap came from the office door. Winston raised his eyebrows at the President questioningly.

  Annoyed but curious, Mason nodded back to the CIA director who then went to the door, opened it six inches and spoke in hushed tones to one of the secret service agents.

  Meanwhile, Banks seemed to have an epiphany, and said, “McMaster a traitor?” He drew a deep breath and appeared to be considering it. “I was reluctant to believe it before, but it’s very possible. He has a great deal of the knowledge they would’ve needed for such an undertaking—he’d be a valuable resource, has demonstrated strong leadership ability with his
company McMaster’s Nonlethal Solutions as well as during his hitch in the Marines. He could be in charge.”

  The President scowled at the idea. “But why would . . .”

  Winston closed the door and turned back to Mason. “Sir, I’m afraid we have another incident to consider. Senator Avery Lawrence has suffered a heart attack and is en route to the ICU at Bethesda.”

  No matter that Lawrence was his chief rival among the Democrats for next year’s Presidential election, Mason certainly didn’t wish the man harm. “What? Good God!”

  Winston said, “They had to defibrillate him, but he’s conscious, now. Still has arrhythmia and complaining of shortness of breath.”

  Mason stepped backward again and dropped into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. He glanced at each of the four advisors. “Another coincidence?”

  Winston was the only one to speculate. “Mr. President, are you familiar with MK-ULTRA and the similar projects undertaken by our adversaries?”

  “Vaguely. But MK-ULTRA was closed down in the early seventies, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. But that was our project. Our enemies weren’t concerned about human rights, like we were back then or even now. They’re still very active in their research and actual development of some very interesting concepts.” He narrowed his eyes, emphasizing the need to consider carefully what he was about to say. “There are those who say that certain American and ally assassins had been cultivated by those enemies, and were responsible for some very high-profile murders—JFK, RFK, Israeli Prime Minister Itzchak Rabin.”

  The room fell silent again for several seconds until the intercom on the President’s desk buzzed.

  Mason glowered at the blinking indicator button but didn’t press it. “I need to know more about this remote viewing thing. The first I’d heard of it was when I took office three years ago. Until this week, I was under the impression that project had been officially closed, also.”

  “Essentially correct, sir,” Banks said. “Phased back considerably—went deep back in 1995—is now working out of the pockets of Major General Gregory Santos, once again at the Army’s Intelligence and Security Command. Years back, it was in INSCOM’s hands under the code name of Center Lane—actually originating in 1969 with the CIA’s SCANATE program, an offshoot of research done at Stanford Research Institute. And I anticipated your need to understand it better, Mr. President. I’ve prepared a video link with the project director, Dr. Charles Ultar. He’s just outside of Fort Mead, Maryland. We can have it hooked up in a matter of minutes.”

  Again, the intercom buzzed insistently.

  Restraining his annoyance, Mason pushed the intercom button. What could it be now—to bother him at a time like this? A second intrusion could only mean his personal secretary considered something of utmost importance had come up. “Ye-es, Carmen. What is it?”

  His secretary said, “Vice President Andres is on line one, Mr. President. She says she needs to speak with you urgently on a secure line.”

  Mason frowned. “All my lines are secure here, Carmen. You know that.”

  “I reminded her of that, sir. She told me to ‘just get the damn President.’”

  Vice President Geraldine Andres was in Hamburg, Germany taking Mason’s place at the World Peace Accords. Wondering what would be so important for his VP to interrupt this meeting, and what could have gotten her so worked up, Mason hit the speakerphone button.

  “Go ahead, Geri. You’re on the speakerphone, but the line is secure. Coates, Banks, Thurman and Winston are here, too. No one else.”

  “Mr. President,” Vice President Andres said, an edge in her voice unfamiliar to Mason. The first woman to become the nation’s second in command was normally unshakable—her nerves were one-hundred-percent steel when it came to crises.

  “What is it, Geri?” he coaxed.

  “Mr. President, I’m sorry, but I have bad news. Prime Minister Kyoto has just died of a heart attack.”

  President Mason’s jaw went slack. Senator Lawrence, one of the most physically fit politicians in the country had just had a heart attack and was in intensive care. Last week the Spanish president, an important Free World leader and close ally, fell dead while addressing his nation. And now this—the leading advocate of Mason’s World Human-Rights Agreement, the young Prime Minister of Japan, had died.

  Mason’s gaze darted to each of the four astonished faces before him, then rested on Winston, recalling what he’d just been told about the very infamous assassinations. He gave an anxious sigh and shook his head. “My God! It’s begun.”

  * * *

  The redheaded woman who slapped the bee on the back of my neck had disappeared. When I looked to the curb, Tom Dailey, the local chief of police, was leaning over the passenger seat of his patrol car, a large wad of the usual Hard Day’s Work chewing tobacco in his cheek.

  He yelled out the open window, “Hey, Robert! Good to see you up and around. Great day, isn’t it?”

  I rubbed my neck, but avoided the fresh wound. “Beautiful, Chief.” No reason to bother Chief Dailey about a little sting. “What’re you up to?”

  I glanced to where the mysterious woman had been. Either she had slipped into the hedge bushes, or she vanished back to where she had come—nowhere. My mind playing tricks again? Voices, notes, gerbils, bee stings and beautiful redheads?

  The chief answered, “Same ol’ same ol’. But hey, how’s about that boy of yours? Any progress?”

  I noticed a pair of binoculars on the seat beside him, and I didn’t answer his question at first, wondering what he was doing with them. For some reason, I got the feeling Dailey had been watching me.

  “Robert?”

  I looked at him. “Huh? Oh, we’ll find out today. Michelle and I are pretty optimistic. He’s a tough kid.”

  “He is at that. The wife and I are wishing you folks the best.”

  “I know, Chief. We appreciate it.”

  “What happened . . . ?” Dailey asked motioning to his eyes.

  I guessed he was talking about my glasses. “They just broke during that power failure. I’ve got another pair at work. What was that—some kind of electric anomaly? Sounded like a sonic boom.”

  “Haven’t heard for sure, but it affected this whole neighborhood. Power company said electricity should be back on within the hour.”

  Pleased with his assurance, I nodded as the chief’s radios squawked—both the one bolted to his console and the one holstered to his duty belt. “Dispatch to Chief Dailey.”

  He frowned as he reached to his walkie-talkie and turned it off. Then he picked up the mike from beside the steering column. “Yeah. Dailey here.”

  “Code three, Chief. Please respond immediately.”

  He glanced at me with one of those sideways smirks that told me Barney Fife could as easily handle the call.

  “Gotta go, Robert,” he said, rolled his eyes and shifted the plug of tobacco to his other cheek. “Big meeting at the donut shop. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

  He turned away, preparing to leave, but I stopped him. “Chief, there is one thing you can do.”

  He turned back, concern on his face. “Sure, what’s that?”

  I don’t know why I asked, but I did, “Can I trust you, Chief?”

  He smiled back at me. “Sure,” he said smiling, his hands open, “I’m wearing blue.”

  Blue. After my earlier internal dialogue with Harvey, the idea of him speaking this fact and associating it with trust briefly shocked me. But I forged ahead, somewhat unsure of how to voice an additional concern. “Could you check in on Michelle every once in a while today?”

  He frowned at me questioningly.

  I tried to explain. “It’s just that . . . well, with the power outage, and . . .” I didn’t want to mention the note and have him thinking I was going crazy, too. “I don’t know. Something feels different today. Something . . . I can’t describe it—something feels wrong.”

  It surprised
me when he narrowed his eyes and nodded as if he understood. “Sure, Robert. Don’t you worry.” He glanced around us as if ensuring that no one else was within earshot, then he lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “No matter what happens today, I want you to remember that I’m on your side.”

  I nodded even though what he was saying wasn’t soaking in, and the chief pulled away.

  As I walked on, I considered the chief’s words, but couldn’t make sense of it—“No matter what happens today, I want you to remember that I’m on your side”—what did that mean? Surely he was referring to Will’s prognosis.

  For now, I was preoccupied by the sting. It burned. I gently touched it, and it was moist. The tiny puncture wound was about dead center on the bump.

  I hadn’t had a chance to miss Harvey.

  Don’t sweat the small stuff, Superman.

  I remembered Doc Xiang saying that if the lump was aggravated, it could cause “serious complications,” and I wondered what kind of “serious complications” could be caused by messing with a little bump. Brain damage?

  You’re a real optimist, huh, Superman?

  Grudgingly, I knew Harvey was right. I was being ridiculous and optimism was very important today.

  I shook my head and continued my walk. I didn’t care to have an imaginary cheerleader, and I didn’t want to admit I was starting to get used to his presence inside my skull. I pictured the white rabbit with his switch off and battery compartment empty as I’d left him after his last appearance. In my mind I stapled his lips shut.

  When I got to the store, I’d put a Band-Aid on my wound. This afternoon, when we went to see Doc Xiang, I’d ask him to look at the sting. He’d probably give me some salve to put on it. No big deal.

  Down a side street, I noticed one of those boom trucks the utility companies use. A worker in dark-blue coveralls manned the cherry-picker bucket, busily installing a new lamp in one of the streetlights. Power surge, I remembered. As Chief Dailey had said, the entire neighborhood had been affected.