Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04]

by Kill Zone (epub)

  “Don’t make me ask for the complete truth a third time, Dr. Cabot.”

  “No, Commander.”

  “Why examine the body now?” she asked, sounding more curious than angry. “Why not just wait?”

  Whether or not Colonel Drake would understand was anyone’s guess, but in her three years as commander of the S.A.T. team, when Drake had doubts, she generally kept them to herself. Morgan suspected doing that took a great deal of restraint, and she respected her for making the effort, so Morgan decided to at least attempt to explain her rationale. “I wasn’t attempting to deceive you. I was just trying to give you something true and easy to accept.”

  “Spare me,” Drake retorted. “I’m more pliant than I look.”

  Tough as nails came to mind. Giving in, Morgan went to the bottom line. “When someone dies suddenly and it’s a violent death, they often leave a strong … imprint, if you will. It fades over time to just a trace that’s hard to detect. Kind of like a footprint in the sand. At first, it’s clear. Then it’s disturbed, and finally it disappears.”

  “I see,” Commander Drake said, her voice devoid of judgment. “So your best odds of picking up anything—impressions, sounds, images—are by scanning the victim as soon after death as possible.”

  Total grasp. The woman never ceased to amaze Morgan. “Right. When the imprint is strongest.”

  “Mmm. It’s a bit of a trade-off, then,” she said more to herself than Morgan, reasoning through it. “When you’re tired, you pick up the least sensory input, but now is when the victim’s body is sending the strongest signals you can pick up.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “So it’s a crapshoot, then, on which way it goes.”

  “Exactly.” Morgan cleared her throat. “We won’t know which proves strongest, the S.A.T. team’s abilities or the victim’s imprint, until we actually examine the body.”

  “I understand, Morgan,” she said. “For the record, that’s not lip service. This is similar to gut instinct. You never know if and when it’s going to work—only that when it has, it has.”

  Relieved, Morgan agreed. “Yes.”

  “And if it doesn’t work now, then nothing prohibits you from trying later, right?”

  “That could be the case, but often subsequent impressions are weaker than the initial one. I don’t know why.”

  “Hmm, could be like first impressions for the rest of us. If it’s good, it takes a lot to change it—and if it’s a bad one, it’s nearly impossible to alter.”

  “A lot like that, yes.” Morgan smiled. It was positively refreshing to not be asked to help and then have doubts about you or your assertions tossed in your face at every turn. If her parents had been able to harness half of Sally Drake’s insight, Morgan would have lived an entirely different life. But to do that, they had to at least start with open minds, a trait neither of them possessed.

  Of course, if they had been open-minded, Morgan likely wouldn’t be a psychologist today. She had entered the field to better understand herself and her gift because she’d grown up without a single person in her sphere of influence willing to even try to understand. While she was on her path to self-discovery, she had earned a couple of degrees and had decided to use them. Maybe, she’d thought, she could give someone else with a gift the support she had lacked. Especially as a child, her gift had been frightening and confusing. Then 9/11 had happened and she’d been called on to help many more people by defending them and her country, and that was that. The die had been cast, and her course had been set.

  “If the man is Captain Stern,” Sally Drake said, “he’s going to be resistant to giving us any information unless he is made aware of the full circumstances and personally authenticates them.”

  “Highly likely.” Especially considering that Morgan had given him a double shot of tranquilizers. Only an idiot or an idealist would expect him to endure that and then be in an accommodating mood. More than likely he’d go straight to Secretary Reynolds and work his way down the chain of command to Drake.

  “Effective on Joan’s verification, I’m pulling him into the need-to-know loop on G.R.I.D.,” the commander said. “Excluding Darcy and, of course, me, the captain carries a current security clearance that’s higher than anyone else’s in the S.A.S.S. or on the S.A.T, so full disclosure to him on whatever we’ve got on this isn’t an issue.”

  That shocked Morgan. Darcy Clark was the intelligence officer for all of the S.A.S.S. units and the S.A.T. She had direct ties all the way up the chain to the president, just like Commander Drake. But why was Jackson Stern’s clearance that high? “I wouldn’t have suspected his clearance to be at that level,” Morgan said, speaking frankly. “If memory serves me, he’s not even active duty—he’s a reservist now.” Highly unusual. Ordinarily, his security clearance would be reduced to match the needs of his current position.

  “You know as well as I do that things in our world are seldom as they appear.” Commander Drake permitted herself a little sigh. “The fact is, two years ago Secretary of Defense Reynolds issued a personal directive on Stern. I don’t know why.” She paused and chose her words with care. “I can’t say I’m comfortable not knowing why, but I’ve just spent forty minutes on the phone with the secretary and another twenty minutes on this with General Shaw,” she said, naming her immediate boss at the Pentagon. “They’re not filling in any blanks for me, but they are in agreement on Stern. If he’s the real McCoy, he’s authorized for full disclosure.”

  “Maybe it’s because of his brother and his current situation,” Morgan suggested, thinking aloud. The honchos could be taking all possible steps to avoid any five o’clock news mudslinging at the military.

  “Could be. But, frankly, they didn’t say and I didn’t ask. They issued the orders, and I’m following them. They want full disclosure to Stern and his direct involvement in resolving this situation.”

  “Direct involvement? Don’t you find that odd, considering the relationship issue? Seems they’d be concerned about accusations of conflict of interest, and order the exact opposite.”

  “I find many things odd. From our perspective, one would think they would,” she agreed with a grunt, as if stretching for something. “But their perspective is different. There could be a thousand reasons they’ve taken this position—we are dealing with Thomas Kunz—but whatever their reasons, it’s their call. Their rationale isn’t germane to my orders.”

  “Which makes it not germane to my orders,” Morgan said, extending the directive down to her level. “All right, Commander.” This should be an experience to remember. Considering the circumstances, the man would make her life a living hell. “I’ll do my part, but I wouldn’t expect him to be enthused about working with me.”

  “Hell, Morgan, of course he won’t. You did shoot him. Twice.”

  She wrapped her arm around her body, flattened it against her abdomen. “Exactly.”

  The commander grunted, clearly amused. “My gut says he’ll get over that quickly enough. The man is a professional.”

  “No doubt.” The question was, a professional what? It sure as hell wasn’t anything reported in his dossier. Not with his security clearance and a directive directly from the Secretary of Defense. Way too much clout for a junior captain. Way too much.

  “Darcy did say to warn you …”

  Another warning? Morgan was almost afraid to ask. “About what?”

  “Captain Stern,” Drake said. “Expect more than the usual upset in your initial briefing. Apparently, he has always been extra protective of his brother.”

  Terrific. Morgan shoots him twice, kidnaps him, subjects him to medical testing he doesn’t understand, and when he’s done with all that, then she gets stuck giving him the initial briefing and breaking more bad news to him. The worst kind of bad news. And then she gets to work with him.

  The man would make her life a living hell and hate her guts forever.

  And she couldn’t blame him. Shoes reversed, so wou
ld she. Naturally, she’d had to muck things up even more. He would be the one to snag her attention and bring on freaking erotic sensations. Perfect. Bloody damn pathetically perfect. “Okay, Commander,” Morgan said. There was nothing she could do about any of this, so the quicker she accepted it and pressed on, the less energy she’d waste on something she couldn’t change. “Thanks.”

  Jazie and Taylor Lee had stopped playing cards and sat staring at her. Feeling anything but okay, she signaled them a thumbs-up, and they returned to their game.

  “I’ll be down there in about ninety minutes,” the commander said. “I’ll meet all of you downstairs.”

  In the morgue. It was the only thing downstairs. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The line went dead. Morgan closed her cell phone and then dropped it into her pocket. “Commander’s on her way in.” She lived north of the Regret outpost, so her ninety-minute estimate meant she wasn’t ready to walk out the door.

  Jazie shuffled the cards. “Do we all have to be here?”

  Morgan nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  Taylor Lee groaned and slumped over the table, her long black hair spilling over her shoulder. “Damn it, I want a bed.”

  “Complaining won’t help, Taylor Lee.” Jazie plunked down the ten of spades. She grumbled something unintelligible, then added, “So we’re parked here until further notice.”

  Morgan returned to her seat. “For a while longer, anyway.”

  That while longer spent cooling their heels in the waiting room turned out to be until 4:30 A.M., when a very weary Joan Foster waddled into the waiting room. Rumpled and totally wrung out, she touched Morgan’s shoulder, awakening her from a light doze.

  Morgan stiffened on the hard chair, blinked, and then screwed up her courage to ask Joan the question she most wanted answered. “Well? Is he who I think he is?”

  Joan nodded. “He is Jackson Stern,” she said, stifling a yawn. “And he has no idea of anything currently going on with G.R.I.D., though he does of course know G.R.I.D. exists.”

  How did he get into the need-to-know loop on G.R.I.D.? And why didn’t Commander Drake know it? She knew everything about the U.S.'s interactions with Thomas Kunz and G.R.I.D … or so they both had believed until now. “Where is he?”

  “Getting dressed.” Joan sat down on a chair beside Morgan and rubbed her cracking knees. “Don’t worry. Dr. Vargus and two orderlies are with him. Jackson Stern isn’t going anywhere, but I have to tell you, the man is not in a kindly mood.”

  “Can’t blame him there.”

  “No, we can’t,” Joan agreed. “But under the circumstances, we didn’t have a lot of choice. Still, I wouldn’t bet on that bringing him around.”

  They really hadn’t had any choice. They had to know the true identity of whom they were dealing with on this. Morgan stilled. “Why does he know about G.R.I.D.?”

  Joan tried but failed to suppress a shiver. “I have no idea.” She gazed at Taylor Lee, sleeping on chairs close to the T.V. and then dropped her voice so only Morgan could hear. “Even under drug therapy, he refused to disclose that. He automatically reverted to a verbal loop of his name, rank, and social, and nothing I tried broke it.” A twinkle of fascination lighted her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Morgan gave that a moment’s thought. “Deep-seated programming?”

  “That’d be my guess, but I can’t be sure.” She frowned. “I have access, I thought, to everything used in psych-ops. But this is new to me.”

  Alarmed by that, Morgan asked, “Are you sure it’s ours?”

  “Ninety-nine percent.” She swept her short hair back from her face. “I know Kunz had nothing like it when I was there, and he hasn’t had time to develop something this significant in the time I’ve been gone.”

  “It’s been two years, Joan,” Morgan reminded her.

  “True,” she said, “but I would have run into some precursor of it on other operatives the S.A.S.S. has brought in, and I haven’t. No program retains final form from the onset. There are always glitches or security leaks that require adjustments.”

  “Of course.”

  “One thing I know for a fact is that this is not a precursor. If it were, I’d have found a way to break the loop. I tried, and didn’t.”

  So it had to be theirs and not G.R.I.D.'s programming, which was good news, and apparently the technology’s floor was at security levels above top secret. “Did you talk to Colonel Drake about it?”

  “I phoned her just before I came in here,” Joan said, half-collapsing into the chair beside Morgan. “She wasn’t surprised.” Joan rubbed at her ankle. It was swollen to double its normal size. “I took that as good news.”

  “So do I.” Colonel Drake knew what this loop programming was about then. It wasn’t unknown to her. “You need to get checked for that swelling. Has all the signs of pitting edema.”

  “It does.” She sighed, propped her hands over her extended stomach. “Being on my feet for sixteen hours straight is not a pleasing thing in my condition.”

  “That’s rough in any condition,” Morgan said. “Better watch it or you’ll end up on bed rest these last few weeks.”

  “Oh, a woman can dream …” She smiled. “Where’s Jazie? I assumed she’d be here with you.”

  “She is,” Morgan said. “Her low-fuel light was on, so she ran down to the cafeteria to scrounge up some food.”

  Joan smiled. “That one is always hungry.”

  She was.

  Morgan let her gaze slide over to Taylor Lee. A few seats down, she slumped sideways, feigning sleep, but she flinched. Morgan pretended not to notice that movement, though she herself felt plenty surprised that Jackson Stern knew about G.R.I.D. Odd, when fewer than two hundred people in the entire U.S. government were aware of it.

  “And that one never eats.” Morgan looked back at Joan. “I can’t wrap my mind around why a reservist Hurricane Hunter is in the need-to-know loop on G.R.I.D. Or why his security clearance is out in the stratosphere.” Morgan lifted a shoulder. “It makes no sense.”

  Joan leaned toward Morgan and again dropped her voice. “You know he was active duty before going to Keesler as a reservist.”

  Keesler Air Force Base was in Biloxi, Mississippi. Home of the Hurricane Hunters. Morgan nodded. “I read that in the mission briefing profile.”

  “Then you know when he was active-duty he was assigned to Tactical?”

  Again, Morgan nodded. That much she’d been told in the pre-mission briefing. Not what he’d done in Tactical, but that he’d been assigned to it.

  Joan sent Morgan a steady look. “He worked for Nathan for a while.”

  “Nathan Forrester?” Morgan knew Nathan. He had been dating Kate—Captain Katherine Kane—for a good while now. Theirs was one of the few long-distance relationships Morgan had encountered that actually seemed to work.

  Joan nodded, sharing a knowing look.

  He and his unit had had direct contact with G.R.I.D. operatives in a couple of their foreign compounds, mainly in the Middle East. Morgan had worked profiles for them. “So does Kate know Jackson, then?” She was a senior S.A.S.S. operative on Amanda’s team who specialized in explosives and biological and chemical warfare weapons systems. Kate was very competent, very thorough, and very short-tempered. But if she knew Jackson Stern, then why hadn’t the commander assigned her to the post-interdiction mission? Stern wouldn’t be nearly as snarly with Kate—and if he was … well, Kate could out-snarl anyone Morgan knew.

  It seemed as if every new bit of information brought more questions than answers, and that made the already tense Morgan very uneasy.

  “I doubt she knows him. Stern left Tactical about two months before Kate went over to Nathan’s unit to assist on the G.R.I.D. mission where she met Nathan.”

  “Too bad.” It was, but at least it made sense. “Stern has to be doing more than hunting hurricanes, Joan.”

  Again she nodded. “Common sense says so, but what exactly he is doing, I
have no idea.” That clearly irritated her.

  It shouldn’t. In their jobs, often what you didn’t know outweighed what you did. Yet when your life was in another’s hands, it was nice to be able to gauge how competent and capable those hands were. But with Secretary Reynolds and General Shaw being closed-mouthed about Stern, she likely never would know and that just had to be accepted. Ironic. Their jobs required them to question everything and in many areas to simultaneously trust implicitly on nothing more than faith. “Whatever he does can’t be significant to our situation, or the honchos would have briefed us.”

  “One can but hope. But I wouldn’t bet the bank on it.” Shifting her weight, Joan gained her feet with a little groan and rubbed her lower back. “I’d better get in there. He should be through dressing by now.” “Is he stable?”

  “Very. Bitter, and as secretive as one would expect considering his past positions, but there’s more, too,” Joan said. “Whatever it is, it didn’t fall within the perimeters of our professional discussion, so all I can tell you is that it’s personal in nature and he’s beyond reluctant to discuss anything that even touches his private life.”

  His private life. The very part Morgan would have to address in her briefing with him. Morgan frowned. If he’d been reluctant before, he would be militant after he heard what she had to say. Her stomach flipped. “Great.”

  “Sorry.” Joan shrugged.

  “Me, too.” Morgan had always been lousy at conveying bad news. A medical school colleague once told her she had to ignore how news would impact others; had to keep their reactions from becoming personal. So far Morgan had failed at doing that, though she’d tried. The problem was in not knowing whether to hope one day she could do it, or to fear one day she would. A compassionate wreck or a cold bitch. Which should she choose? Frankly, neither sounded healthy.

  “Your duties on this really suck.” Joan clasped Morgan’s upper arm. “I know you hate being the one to tell him. If it helps, I hate giving out bad news, too.”

  Morgan met Joan’s gaze, saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, and recognized the shared dread burned in them. “It never gets easier.”