by J. M. Lanham
Lancaster looked up and pondered, then said, “Well, I would want to start with the files the young Fenton Reed obtained from one of our servers.”
“Exactly! For over a week now, they’ve been in possession of files that could lead a number of authorities to us, to Skyline, to the halls of Asteria Pharmaceuticals. But they haven’t played that card yet. Why?”
“We’ve already been over this. Because there’s nothing to authenticate the files. They were illegally obtained. Would never hold up in a court of law—”
“But more importantly,” Cline said, “they’d never hold up in the court of public opinion, either.”
Lancaster had been a formidable chess player since she was seven, and was usually several steps ahead of her subordinates. But admittedly, Cline’s direction was a strategic path she hadn’t considered until now. “Okay, Stephen. You’ve got my attention. So we’ve got these illegal files, and while we know they’re incriminating, we can’t do anything with them. Legally, anyway. So what now?”
“That’s just it,” Cline said. “Because they’re saying the same thing. ‘What now? What now?’ Claire Connor’s been a journalist her entire adult life, with dozens and dozens, if not hundreds, of industry contacts. And with all their intel, with all their files, this still isn’t the top story nationwide?”
“Because they can’t back it up,” Lancaster said as she rubbed her chin. “Without an authority figure to back up their claims, what they’re holding onto is little more than conspiracy theory fodder.”
“Tinfoil-hat hyperbole.”
“Unverifiable. Unauthenticated—”
“And unusable. Unless, like you said, they’ve got an authority figure like George Sturgis to turn state’s evidence. Back up their claims.”
“So,” Lancaster said, “the remaining outliers are at a stalemate. That is, if they’re still alive. Where does that leave us? And more importantly, what does this have to do with Project THEIA? You mentioned a secondary objective?”
“From the very beginning, the biggest hurdle to Ocula’s efficacy has been closing the distance between an R.E.M. transmission and the intended target. It’s why Tanner and Doyle used Claire Connor to target a Marine Special Operations Command unit in Costa Rica. The operation carried out by Master Sergeant Theodore Dawkins was within a five-mile radius of the Costa Rica facility in Poás Volcano National Park.”
“I’m well-informed of the details behind the MARSOC operation, Stephen.”
“Then you know that even with a state-of-the-art facility like Skyline, we were still limited to a near-two-hundred-mile radius. Not bad”—Cline put his hands on Lancaster’s desk—“but I knew we could do better. And so did Ramírez.”
“You’ve found a way to increase the transmission distance?”
“In ways that just six short months ago you couldn’t possibly imagine.” He pulled up a schematic on his phone and handed it to Lancaster. “We always wanted to bring the Skyline project up to scale to meet national security needs. But we were limited by the intrusiveness of the very frequencies we relied on to transmit these incredibly low-oscillation R.E.M. occurrences.”
Lancaster looked up from her reading glasses, still holding the phone. “English, Cline?”
“Yes, ma’am. Basically, the events taking place in the minds of the ones dreaming on Ocula create brain waves only certain organisms can pick up on. Gene-targeted, so to speak. It’s why when Alex Freeman dreamed up big game, big-game organisms were the only ones to show up. It’s also how Claire Connor was able to get in Dawkins’ head, or how Paul Freeman was able to take out an entire security detail in Costa Rica.
“But the problem here is that this targeting causes a ton of radio interference. Mind-numbing, even painful interference, like the event that occurred at Skyline last weekend. Believe me, I know.”
Lancaster said, “The reverse transmission the outliers pulled off was enough to knock everyone unconscious for half an hour, if not longer. So what are you telling me, Cline? You’ve found a way to soften the blow?”
“Exactly. Well, Ramírez did. He discovered a way to break up these highly-targeted transmissions into microbursts of information, fractions of a second that can be hidden within traditional radio broadcasts.”
“Subliminal messaging?”
“No, not subliminal,” Cline said. “Supraliminal, meaning they’ll hear the broadcast, hear what the dreamer is dreaming, and act accordingly. They may not know why they are doing it, but just like the close-range R.E.M. events we’ve witnessed before, they’ll be helpless to resist.”
“And you’re certain this is undetectable?”
“Completely. I mean, it’s still technically in beta, but Ramírez has already run half a dozen experiments this week with test subjects Everly and Griffin. Personally, I think it’s the best shot we’ve got at making this whole thing go away.”
“So what’s the message, Cline? What do we broadcast as our secondary objective?”
“Simple. We convince the remaining outliers in the field that this entire conspiracy was all a dream.” He leaned closer and dropped his voice an octave. “One long, tragic, and most importantly, unbelievable dream.”
Chapter 21:
Narrow is the Path
All existence is suffering.
It was the first of the Four Noble Truths—the foundation of the Buddha’s teaching that had led over a half a billion people down the path of enlightenment for the last 2,500 years. Dawa Graham knew this truth better than most. Two dead parents. A sister lost to cancer. His college sweetheart and fiancée taken by a sudden aneurysm just weeks before the wedding. A lesser man would have already succumbed to even a fraction of the pain Dawa had endured over the course of his thirty-eight years on Planet Earth. But not Graham. The man persevered, because he knew full well that a life without suffering was no life at all.
He also knew the truth behind the cause of suffering: Samudaya. It was the second of the Noble Truths, teaching that an unhealthy attachment to the impermanence of this world was what led to agonizing emotions like pain, anguish, and grief. Such was the realization that led the first Buddha to discover the Third Truth—that an end to such suffering was possible—and finally the Fourth Truth: that awakening our primitive minds to enlightenment was the path that could ultimately set us free.
Maybe that was why, sitting in a dark holding cell hidden in the depths of a secret government compound deep in the Virginia woods, Dawa could accept his current condition without pain, without anguish, without grief; because he had long ago detached himself from the suffering that is inherent to this world.
Or, maybe he was just delusional.
Either way, there was little doubt that his expertise in Tummo meditation had been more than just a set of rules for healthy living—especially after several intense waterboarding sessions that led to little more than three utterly perplexed agency interrogators and a wet floor. The principles handed down from his ancestors were esoteric and guarded because of their power; only to be shared with those who were deemed worthy. Decades ago, Dawa had been chosen by his elders following a rigorous vetting process that took up four of his teenage years. Honesty. Courage. Strength. Altruism. These were the kind of attributes found in a young Tummo practitioner who could be trusted to keep the sacred knowledge close to the vest.
Now, as a federal captive and accomplice to a federal fugitive, he was beginning to doubt his worth. He wished he had more time to come up with a better alibi; more time to explain his connection to Ford; more time to throw a curious Ramírez off his scent. Unfortunately, by the time Ramírez returned to the holding cell, the prying scientist had already done his research. He sat at the steel table across from a cuffed Graham and tossed a file toward the prisoner.
“Open it,” he said. “Take a look. A lot to go over in there,” he said as he dusted his shoulder off. “But not to worry, Señor Graham. I’ll wait.”
The detective opened the file and flipped through the page
s, quickly realizing Ramírez had assembled an extensive (and rather thick) record of Graham’s entire adult life, starting with his college years, where he first met Donny Ford. “I have never had a scrapbook,” he said mockingly. “So, thank you for this. How very kind of you.”
“Keep flipping, jefe,” Ramírez said. “It gets better.”
The pages that followed were more than anyone other than Ford or Graham should know (anyone still living, anyway). Newspaper clippings covering the car crash that orphaned Dawa and his sister when they were in high school. An announcement for a wedding scheduled for the fall of 2007 that never took place. Phone records and account records and all other manner of records that showed a connection to a person who, at one time, was one of the most popular self-help gurus in the nation; a connection that was suddenly severed in the winter of 2011.
There was even a substantial section on Dawa’s Tummo expertise which, if he had to guess judging by the look on Ramírez’s face, was what the agent considered the bombshell worthy of a special visit to his holding cell.
Foolish, this Ramírez.
Dawa thumbed through it all, then closed the file, relieved, but careful not to show it. He slid it back to Ramírez. “Is this everything you wanted to show me?”
Ramírez’s brow furrowed. “Why of course this is everything I wanted to show you!” He dumped the file out on the table and poured through the contents. “We have a well-documented history of your connection to Donny Ford, as well as the experience both of you share regarding Tummo meditation.”
Dawa stayed silent.
“This entire time,” Ramírez continued, “the agency was under the assumption you were only helping the outliers based on your friendship with Mr. Ford. Now, it seems, your expertise in the sacred teachings of Tummo may have played just as much of a part in the Skyline incident as the newly acquired talents of your pill-popping friends.”
The notion drew a long sigh from Graham. “Really, Ramírez? This is your grand revelation? That a middle-aged Buddhist is using magic to take down the government?” He crossed his arms and shook his head, then stopped in full suspense. “Wait. I have seen this movie. Okay, Ramírez. I admit it. I am a powerful telepath after all. Guilty as charged. Here”—he extended his cuffed hands—“take me to your superiors. Quickly, before I use the power of my mind to persuade you to let me go or set you on fire.”
“Very funny, jefe,” Ramírez said as he pulled a phone from his pocket and searched his files. “Very funny. But”—he slid the phone to Dawa—“I don’t think you’ll be laughing once you see this.”
On the screen, a satellite image of the Shakya Monastery—his family’s monastery in South Tibet—filled the display. Dawa tried to maintain a poker face, but his sinking heart proved near impossible to hide.
Perhaps I am the foolish one, after all.
It was a connection Dawa had worked his entire adult life to keep hidden from friends, coworkers, even the nosy parents of his students at the monastery (everyone was convinced there was more to Graham’s ability to transform children from borderline hellions to mindful minions than a few meditation techniques). It was also a connection he’d purposely severed ten years earlier following what would be his last trip to the region. In fact, everyone who ever knew about Shakya either severed ties once they left, or they never left at all. It was the only way to ensure the esoteric teachings passed down for millennia stayed protected from outside influence and abuse.
Now, it appeared the CIA had taken an interest in the family legacy. Dawa couldn’t think of a worse-case scenario than this, barring a group of modern-day Nazis throwing their schirmmütze into the ring. Still, he tried to play it cool—or as cool as he could at the moment.
“I did not know you were a fan of ancient Asian architecture, Mr. Ramírez.”
“Oh, I think you know it’s not just some old building I’m interested in, Graham.” He took his phone back and pocketed it. “I have a feeling the curious nature of your family history is just the tip of the iceberg. Tell me, Graham: would it be wrong to assume your experience with Tummo meditation could elicit the same results as the Ocula effect?”
“I’m sorry, but I still do not know what you are driving at.”
“Then let me help you along, no? So far you’ve given us little more than deceitful anecdotes about spur-of-the-moment trips to the Virginia mountains. But you and I both know you’re involved with a group of clinical trial patients who have, over the last six months, participated in terrorism both foreign and domestic, worked to undermine national security while staging an assault on a government facility in the process—”
“Now wait just a minute,” Dawa said. “You want to talk about what you and I both know? Where would you like to start, Mr. Roberto Ramírez? Perhaps with the operation you participated in Costa Rica. You know, the one where you illegally detained and tortured American citizens while violating every genetic-research policy on the books? Or maybe you would rather talk about the crimes you have committed on American soil. We can start with the waterboarding, if you would like. How does that sound?”
Graham couldn’t tell it, but Ramírez was smiling on the inside. For days, the Atlanta detective had played dumb. Now, all of his cards were on the table. The man had finally shown his hand.
“So we’ve ditched the weekend getaway narrative, have we?” Ramírez asked.
“The agency you work for has held me against my will. Denied me basic human rights. No phone call. No legal counsel. Just the news that the group of people you are associating me with are presumed dead, followed by a healthy dose of physical torture that I would not wish on my worst enemy. So at this point, Mr. Ramírez, I really do not think it matters what I tell you, because my fate has already been sealed, has it not?”
“Like I said before, Graham. Decisions like that are above my pay grade.”
“Please do me a favor and cut the act. You and I both know I am not getting out of here.”
Ramírez leaned in and asked, “If that’s the case, Graham, then why do you think we’re keeping you alive?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You are not sure your plan to execute the others succeeded. So, you will keep me around until you can confirm that every external threat has been illuminated. Then you will take care of the internal ones.”
“Come on, Dawa. You’re selling yourself short. You really think we’re interested—that I’m interested—in keeping you locked up in the hopes you’ll lead us to the outliers? Now who’s ignoring the obvious here?”
“And what is so obvious?”
“That there was never any way you were going to lead us to the others. Plausible deniability was built into the plan all along. After Skyline, you had no intention of meeting back up with the outliers again. Would’ve jeopardized the entire operation. Too risky, no?”
“Then what are we doing here, Ramírez? Why keep me around?”
“You forget I’m a scientist,” Ramírez said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s simple: I want to know more about your Shakya lineage. About the monastery. About Tummo. About what you taught Mr. Ford.”
Dawa scoffed. “Impossible. Over the last six months I have racked up enough violations of the moral precepts to last a lifetime. I am not about to add betraying my family to the list.”
“Precepts. Commandments. Pillars.” Ramírez waved his hand dismissively. “It’s all subjective, seen through the lens of those who are desperate for answers. But life isn’t that simple, is it? The real world doesn’t work that way.”
“It’s worked for me.”
“Has it? You just said you violated your very own precepts, enough to last a lifetime. And what would your ancestors say, passing along such sacred knowledge to a fake, a phony, a sellout motivational speaker?”
“I think you miss the point, Ramírez. I have never claimed to be perfect, and I have made many mistakes along the way. Following the precepts is a lifelong journey down the path to enlightenment. Some stay on the straight and nar
row, and some stray, never reaching nirvana in this life at all. It is not about living to perfection. It is about doing the best you can. About learning from mistakes and then moving forward better, stronger, wiser, whether it helps you in this life or the next. I am sure the same goes for devout followers of all major religions. Tell me, Ramírez. Are you a religious man?”
“Not especially, no. But I was raised Roman Catholic.”
“And when you made mistakes growing up, did your parents not teach you that to err was human, but to forgive divine?”
“So you’re a Bible scholar now, too, Graham?”
“Not the Bible. That is from an eighteen-century poet by the name of Alexander Pope. He was raised Roman Catholic, too. He also knew mankind is inherently flawed; that if we want to lead virtuous lives then we have to accept our place an in imperfect world. That does not mean we stop trying to do better. We mess up, we show compassion towards ourselves and others, and then we move forward.”
“Dios mío, Graham,” Ramírez said as he stretched and shook his head. “If I wanted a Sunday school lesson I would’ve called my tía.” He stood up across from Graham, hands flat on the table, fierce eyes and a game face demanding some real answers. “Let’s just get to the point. I don’t care about your precepts. I don’t care about your conscience, and I don’t care about your soul. I’ve looked into your family ties in Tibet, Graham, and I’ve done my research. What they are teaching there is one of the most secretive religious practices we’ve ever encountered.”
“We?” Graham asked.
“You didn’t really think the FBI and NSA were the only ones keeping tabs on all the religious loonies of the world, did you? Yes, we. CIA. It’s our job to know what the Koreshs and Joneses and Applewhites of the world are doing out there, long before they have a chance to hurt others.”
“Mr. Ramírez, I can assure you that nothing my extended family is doing in Tibet is remotely harmful to others. Harming living things violates every Buddhist tenet that is out there, no matter the region or sect or tradition that is being practiced—”