BRAINSTORM

by Gordon Kessler

  He shook her, but got no response, her eyes closed. He laid her down gently and felt for her pulse. It was rapid and weak. He carefully pealed back her eyelids. Relieved to see her pupils were responsive, he placed his hand on her forehead. Her skin was cool and clammy.

  “Damn it,” Jax said. “Give me a canteen.” he instructed, and as soon as he did, he found one next to his hand. He poured a handful of water and splashed it on her face, then patted her with his wet palm. “She seems in shock—nearly comatose.” He nodded toward the back of the DPV. “Get me a thermal blanket.”

  Jax lifted Sunny, took her to the passenger’s side of the vehicle, and sat down with her in his lap. The lieutenant shook out the thin reflective blanket and placed it over the both of them, camouflaged side up.

  The major held Sunny—her legs up and head down to keep sufficient blood flow to her brain—and kept her warm, while the other two men watched the small camp’s perimeter. If Sunny was down for the count, their only hope to save Dan and the others would be an all-out blitz on the Biotronics Facility. But, right now, his concern was that she might be out for good.

  * * *

  From the corners of his eyes, Xiang watched Consul General Meng and drew close to the microphone on the control counter. Meng stood inside the control room door, his head bowed respectfully. He had seen the whole thing. Meng had witnessed Wu’s encounter with Subject 374, the ensuing glass shattering and finally the monitor blacking out. Of course, Meng had no idea of what was happening, that Xiang had lost control, did not have control even now, of their most promising subject—but then, why did it matter what Meng knew?

  The first thing Xiang had noticed about Meng was that he was a fingernail chewer. The squat little man wore a navy blue suit—some sort of expensive silk, probably—and his shoes seemed reptilian. Xiang had no idea of brands or styles, he did not care for those kinds of snotty amenities.

  “Find him,” Xiang yelled into the mike. “Now!”

  “Yes, sir,” Chief Dailey’s voice answered over the speaker. “It won’t be easy without the cameras. Power’s out at a number of locations—some of our radios aren’t working. Might be why we’ve lost contact with Yudin and Kozlov—the Russians we had tailing him. Hopefully, they still have him in sight. If they’ve lost him, though—”

  Xiang said lower, but still agitated, “No excuses! The project itself is at stake. I want everyone on this. All available security, going door to door, looking under every rock. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Dailey said. “We’ll find him, sir. You can bet your life.”

  “It will be your life, Dailey. No one seems to realize the ramifications. This matter has not been taken seriously. Tranquilize him if need be, but allowing his escape is unacceptable. I do not care who else dies, just get him, alive. You know, like in your westerns, dead or alive. Except, if you do not get him alive, you are the one who will be dead!”

  Xiang turned back to the Consul General.

  Meng’s eyes widened, his small mouth tight. He spoke his apologies anxiously to Xiang in Mandarin.

  Xiang glared. “We speak English here. You are not inside your New York Consulate or at one of your big government parties in Beijing.”

  “Very sorry, Doctor Xiang,” the rotund man said, his anxious bow of respect past the point of balance. He stumbled forward, his arms out, groping for stability, and Xiang caught him by the hand. The doctor’s large hand constricted around Meng’s meaty palm, Xiang’s half-inch-long manicured nails digging into the skin on the back of Meng’s hand.

  Meng gave a reluctant and submissive smile, and his lips trembled. “So very good to meet you, Doctor Xiang.” He tried to shake hands with the doctor, but Xiang wouldn’t budge. Meng’s smile left briefly, returning to be even broader and more patronizing. “I have heard so much about you and your work. So very sorry if I have intruded upon--. ”

  “Silence!” Xiang said, still holding Meng’s fat little hand. He began squeezing.

  Meng’s eyes bugged. “Ah, Doctor Xiang,” he said trying to pull away from the doctor’s grasp. His face reddened. “You hurt Meng.”

  Xiang kept the pressure, steadily increasing his grip when the intercom buzzed. It was Wu’s voice. “Doctor Xiang?”

  “Yes, Wu. Go ahead,” Xiang said, still compressing harder. With concern for Wu but oblivious of the Consul, he asked, “How do you feel?”

  Meng frowned. His mouth twisted, and his face contorted in pain.

  Wu said, “I am recovered, sir. Please forgive me for my weakness. But there is news. Senator Avery Lawrence has had a heart attack. He is in serious condition.”

  Xiang was puzzled. He frowned at the report.

  “Also, we just received the call from Germany. Kyoto is dead.”

  Xiang smiled. “Thank you, Wu.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” his assistant returned, and the speaker went silent.

  Even with the good news, Xiang did not let up. He could feel Meng’s hand bones through the thick layers of flesh, pressed them hard knuckle to knuckle. The veins obtruded on Meng’s temples.

  The death of Japan’s Prime Minister Kyoto was no surprise, nor was that of Spanish President Garnica the week before. Xiang’s telepathic assassins had gotten within range of their targets, close enough for eye contact, and done their jobs well. But this news about the senator was perplexing. Senator Lawrence was to be Subject 374’s initial target, that was correct. However, the morning television interview the subject had watched was taped—months ago. And the purpose of its showing was to only familiarize the subject with the target. Yet the TV did explode unexpectedly. There had been an incredible amount of power released—unlike Xiang had seen before. But was it only a coincidence, a fluke? Still, he smiled when he realized what Lawrence’s disability meant, coincidental stroke of luck or not—now, Subject 374 could go on to his primary target, President Mason.

  “Over such a long distance,” Xiang said aloud but to himself as he turned his glare to Meng, “and to a person without actual eye contact, how could that be?”

  Tears came to Meng’s eyes, squeezed tight in agony. His voice eeked out, “Ple-ease, Doc-tor.”

  Xiang clutched fully, his teeth set. More pressure still, constricting tighter. His thoughts were not on the Consul General. Subject 374, Robert Weller occupied his mind now. Perhaps Xiang had finally perfected his device to such degree that it surpassed all his hopes. If this was true, Subject 374 had somehow transcended space and time.

  The cracking of Meng’s hand bones brought back Xiang’s thoughts. Finally snapping under the pressure, the sound, the feeling caused Xiang’s eyes to widen with pleasure. Meng shrieked. He moaned and whimpered under the torturous mashing, but the doctor would not let up until he felt the metacarpal and phalanx bones crush into fragments. He worked his strong fingers against Meng’s appendage, wringing it until blood streamed to the floor, and the Consul General’s hand seemed like a boneless fillet.

  “Open your eyes, Meng!” Xiang said, his voice strong, but no longer containing anger. He released his grip slowly, could feel Meng’s pulse throbbing into the broken vessels, swelling the tissue, darkening his fleshy extremity into a solid red bruise.

  Meng’s eyes fluttered, his face now pale in misery.

  “Open them,” Xiang said somewhat softer, encouraging.

  They opened, at first still grimacing in pain, but soon his face slackened, his look empty.

  Direct eye contact made, Xiang entered Meng’s thoughts. He soothed the screaming receptors, calmed the throbbing nerves, banished the pain reporting to Meng’s brain. “You feel no pain?”

  Meng’s lips moved slowly, without emotion. “No, Doctor Xiang.” He stared blankly into Xiang’s eyes.

  “You will go to the nurse’s station. Have them bandage your hand. Tell them Doctor Xiang says you only need it dressed—that it will be okay, and they are not to be concerned. Then go to the plane, find a comfortable place to sit, and wait. We will leave in the morning.”


  “Yes, Doctor,” Meng said, and turned toward the doorway. As Xiang got up and opened the door for him, Meng held his own right arm by the wrist, fingers flopped over like those of an empty, bleeding glove.

  “Thank you, Doctor Xiang,” Meng said smiling, his voice as natural and pleasant as if he were bidding hello’s at a Sunday social, and he stepped through into the hallway.

  As the Consul General left, Xiang wiped the blood from his hand onto the shoulder and back of Meng’s silk coat.

  The injured man stumbled away toward the nurse’s station, and Xiang watched with an air of satisfaction. Augmented by the wonderful report from Wu, his meeting with Meng had been nearly orgasmic. But Doctor Yumi’s appearance, stepping up slowly from the opposite direction, was a surprise.

  At first Xiang found an unfamiliar feeling—at least unfamiliar over the last fifty or more years. Shame. He felt as if he were the naughty little boy whose mama had just caught him setting fire to the cat. The feeling didn’t last long—after all, he never knew his mother—and it quickly turned to pride.

  Yumi approached cautiously, awe on her face. She watched Meng, then gaped back at Xiang. “Doctor, what . . . ?”

  Xiang held the door wider. “Please, come in, Yumi.” He felt his smile quiver as he gazed down into her lovely, frightened eyes, the limpid russet ponds. Through their visual connection, he entered for the first time a place he had kept sacred just for such an occasion—her thoughts—and he found an incredible fear. It pleased him greatly.

  She stepped into the room, her countenance blank.

  His smile became a grin. Perhaps the good turn of events and his adrenaline-surging meeting with Meng was cause to celebrate.

  The intercom buzzed. It was Wu again. “Dr. Xiang, the Russians are dead. Subject 374 is loose!”

  * * *

  Over three hours had passed since Sunny had fallen unconscious. After holding her for more than an hour, her color had slowly come back, and Major Jax had gently wrapped her in the reflective Mylar blanket rated for Artic weather. In the low sixties now, it was still important to keep Sunny warm to help stave off shock. Soon the temperature would drop rapidly, and tonight there was to be a hard freeze.

  Now, while Sunny dipped from motionless calm to the depths of REM sleep, Jax watched over her from the driver’s side of the DPV. Without taking his gaze from his best friend’s wife for longer than ten seconds at a time, he consulted their SatCom laptop computer. After bringing the laptop out of standby, a new message appeared without sender name or location trail. Again, it seemed to materialize from nowhere, from the ether. The message consisted of only six numbers followed by four words—THE KEY—before sunset. Any military man would recognize the numbers as 100-meter map grid coordinates. Jax did not know how, but he was sure the message came from his dead wife, Moonfeather. He briefly smiled, and in his thoughts he thanked his long departed companion.

  Jax dreaded their next step. They would have to go in without Sunny and with guns blazing. They would use the grid coordinates to hunt down Robert Weller, snatch him and interrogate him on the run, while avoiding a heavily armed defending force. Then, they would attack the Biotronics facility with their helicopters, attempt to find and rescue Dan McMaster and as many hostages as they could. They would use their nonlethals as much as possible, but still inflict, and have inflicted upon them, heavy casualties—likely including civilians. And if they were lucky, at least one of the choppers would make it out, rescuing a handful of the captive innocents at the cost of dozens of their rescue force. This was the scenario Jax feared would be the most to hope for.

  Jax softly called out to Lieutenant Carpenter, and the young officer immediately returned to the major’s side.

  “Yessir,” the lieutenant said, concern on his face.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to proceed without Mrs. McMaster. I want you to take her back. Chambers and I will keep watch here until you return. Come back with both DPVs, Senior Airmen Craig, Jagger and Chang, and bring the dynamic hologram illumination devices. Tell Gunny Sampson and the pilots we’ll go live thirty minutes after sunset. I’ll radio them instructions. Keep radio silence until then.”

  The lieutenant only stared at him.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to find him, but we have no other choice, Lieutenant.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “And we’ll need to make room for as many of the other captives as we can snatch.”

  The lieutenant nodded and got into the driver’s seat as Jax fastened the shoulder harness around Sunny.

  Sunny’s eyes fluttered. They opened. She groaned as her hands went to her head and squeezed. “God, my head,” she said, frowning. “What happened? What time is it?”

  Jax checked his watch. “Four thirty. We’re taking you back to the choppers. You’re in no shape to go on.”

  Sunny sat up abruptly. “What? Are you nuts? You won’t be able to find Weller and bring him in without attracting a whole bunch of attention—not without me. I’m okay. Just a damn headache, that’s all.”

  “Sunny, it’s more than a headache,” Jax said, as he unwrapped an energy bar and handed it to her. “I thought we’d lost you.” He placed an open canteen next to her.

  “All right, it’s more than a headache,” she said, taking a bite of the chocolate covered, high sugar treat, then gulped down some water. “I don’t know what it is, but I do know you need me.”

  The lieutenant butted in. He’d put on the earphones attached to the SatCom unit and opened the eavesdropper program again. “Sir, more talk on their com lines. Their telephone circuits are really buzzing. A half dozen electrical transformers seemed to have just blown up all over the town.”

  “Those were the popping noises we heard earlier,” Jax said.

  “Sounds like more than fifty percent of the village is without power,” the lieutenant added. “Also, civilians are saying there’ve been four heart attacks in town today. Lots of speculation. Viral heart disease, maybe.”

  Lieutenant Carpenter punched a couple of keys on the laptop. He listened intently as the major and Sunny waited. Soon, the young officer turned to them. “And sir, it sounds as though Robert Weller is on the run. From their command radio, orders are being put out to capture Robert Weller at all cost.”

  “He might be a little harder to find, this time,” Sunny said, finished with her energy snack. She unsnapped the shoulder belt.

  Jax stepped back so she could stand up, but he kept his arms out protectively. “Sunny, no.”

  “Jax, yes,” she said, and went to the back of the DPV. She took out a pack. “I don’t have much time. I’ve got a lot to do before sunset. A girl has to look her best, you know.”

  Jax gave in. “You still have the panic button?”

  Sunny nodded, pulling it out from her shirt only long enough for him to see it.

  “You activate it at the first sign your attempt is busted,” he said, and Sunny nodded again. “And you still have the map?”

  She pulled it from the back of her waistband and presented it to him.

  “The dynamic hologram is your baby,” he said unfolding the map before her. “Where do you propose putting the illumination devices in the event we need them?”

  She pulled a grease marker from Jax’s shirt pocket and narrowed her eyes at the map. After studying it briefly, she placed an “X” at three ridgelines about two miles apart.

  Jax eyed each mark, then looked out in the physical direction indicated by each.

  Sunny said, “My instructions are in the devices. Easy to understand—a first grader could set them up in fifteen minutes. And the DHIDs are self calibrating. They use a radio signal to find each other. But don’t forget that even with a full charge, they will only work at hundred-percent capacity for about thirty seconds and won’t be convincing in full daylight.”

  Jax nodded. “And for you, I have Weller’s location coordinates.” Sensing Sunny was staring at him, questioningly, he added, “Yes,
I got them from the laptop. No signature.” He took the grease pen back from her and placed an “X” at the coordinates he’d received. “He should be there for another hour or so.”

  Sunny snatched the map from him. “Moonfeather,” Sunny said sympathetically, a knowing smile on her face as she refolded the map.

  Jax wondered if she was thinking he’d gone mad and joined the paranormal party train to netherworld.

  She stepped over to her camouflage ghillie, slipped it over her head, turned away and trudged toward the hill in front of them.

  “Our backs are against the wall, now,” the major said. “We get your signal, and all our covert plans are busted. We’ll go all out, rush in immediately, salvage what we can and pray to God we can get you and as many others as possible out. Do you understand, Sunny?”

  She didn’t allow the sergeant who watched the fence line to help her. After slipping through the hole under the fence, Sunny turned her face slightly toward the major.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, giving a weak salute and then pulled the ghillie’s hood over her head as she started up the wooded ravine.

  Jax watched her leave. Over his shoulder to the lieutenant, he said, “Go ahead with my instructions, minus Sunny. But tell the helo pilots to wait for my word. Get back here as quickly as you can.”

  “Yessir,” the lieutenant said.

  As Carpenter departed, Jax called over his shoulder, “Sergeant Chambers, bring my ammo can full of firecrackers—I have a job for you. We’ll just mix our high tech stuff with a little old-fashioned fun.”

  * * *

  As Sunny plodded up the hill, she considered how she would befriend Robert Weller enough to gain his trust and get him to come back with her. Now on the run from his subjugators, he might be open to at least some half-truths that sound semi-believable. She’d have to feel him out a bit and play on what he knew. And if he was some sort of a clone or copy of Dan, perhaps he’d have some of Dan’s traits and idiosyncrasies that she could work with.

  Actually, Weller did look a little like Dan. About the same height and build—perhaps a few pounds lighter. And although he wore glasses and Dan did not, their eyes were the same shape. Weller’s nose was smaller—Dan’s was a masculine, prominent one that had been broken twice. Dan had a sexy cleft in his chin but always covered it up with a beard and mustache, whereas Weller’s chin was smooth and clean shaven as was his top lip. Weller looked a bit younger, had walnut brown hair with no gray, and Dan’s blond hair had been graying at the temples.