Immune

by Richard Phillips

  “So he’s a hit man?” Mark asked.

  “The world’s most feared assassin.” Espeñosa grinned. “And the most expensive.”

  “Last time we checked, the headsets were in D.C.,” Mark said. “What’s he doing in Washington?”

  Again, the drug lord shook his head. “No idea. Maybe you should ask your government?”

  Heather leaned forward, spinning the laptop to face Jennifer.

  “We can do better than that, can’t we, Jen?”

  A faint ray of hope dawning in her eyes, Jennifer licked her fingertips, then leaned forward and pressed the rectangular black power button. As the Window’s Vista logo splashed the welcome screen, Heather felt the first electrical pulse pass through the embedded special circuitry, a pulse instantly echoed in its quantum twin on the Mattaponi Indian Reservation, 2,300 miles to the north.

  It took only minutes to discover the new message on Janet’s laptop.

  “To Heather, Mark, and Jennifer. Jack and I know you are our secret Rho Project source. We also know about your connection to the Bandelier Ship and how it has altered you. Don’t be afraid. We need your help. I have placed the contents of an encrypted disk on my C-drive in a folder named Rho Project Data. The data was acquired from Dr. Donald Stephenson’s personal laptop, but we have not been able to decrypt it. Please respond.”

  “Oh, shit!” Mark said leaning over Jennifer’s shoulder. “We’re toast.”

  Heather scanned the text a second time. “I don’t think so. It only makes sense they would figure it out. I think they need our help as badly as we need theirs.”

  Jennifer’s fingers moved across the keyboard so fast that Heather had to concentrate to follow her. “Let’s see what’s on the Stephenson disk.”

  The monitor filled with binary data.

  “It looks like a fractal encryption algorithm,” Heather said, leaning in close once more. “Can you make it auto-scroll?”

  “No problem.” Jennifer touched a sequence of keys and the data began scrolling up from bottom to top.

  There it was again, the same semi-random sequence Heather noticed earlier. “Faster please.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  The data stopped scrolling. Now each page flashed onto the screen for a fraction of a second before being replaced by the next. Suddenly, something clicked into place in Heather’s mind, the encryption fading from her awareness as she read. And as she continued, the meaning became clear.

  Stephenson had designed a new type of nanite that could be remotely reprogrammed via a broadcast signal, assuming that the signal contained the correct encoding scheme. It was this new type of nanite that was now being mass produced and distributed, starting with the world’s poorest populations.

  Even more shocking, an almost undetectable signal had been embedded in the worldwide GPS satellite broadcasts. And while the signal currently contained no reprogramming instructions, it was clearly intended to allow for rapid reprogramming of targeted populations.

  Heather felt the future tilt on its axis, the shock pulling her into a vortex of competing realities. Something plucked at her shoulder, squeezing her arm so hard it hurt. But when she looked, there was nothing there.

  Shift.

  …She choked on the fetid smell of rotting vegetation. Campfires burned as semi-nude native dancers swayed in rhythm beneath the living bodies dangling from the trees above. With movements so precise that they seemed choreographed, the dancers sliced at their victims, the small cuts sending rich red rivulets running into pots below.

  Shift.

  …Screaming refugees pushed her to the ground in their frenzy to gather the few grains of rice that had leaked from the sacks at the distribution point. The sound of gunfire crackled overhead.

  Shift…

  …Clouds boiled overhead as she stared through the bars of a prison window.

  Shift…

  Shift…

  Once again, the spectral hand gripped her, pulling her down into water so murky it felt like mud.

  Heather struggled, but her strength was no match for the thing that held her, pulling her ever deeper into the blackness.

  “Heather…”

  The sound of someone calling her name came from such a great distance, she almost missed it. Like a whisper in the wind, she could almost believe she had imagined it.

  “Heather! Snap out of it!”

  The sting of the slap on her cheek brought with it a flash of light as Mark’s face swam into view.

  His hand moved to slap her again, but this time she caught it.

  “Ouch! What are you doing?”

  Relief flooded Mark’s face. Beside him, Jennifer’s face had gone so white it looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  “Jesus, you scared the hell out of us,” Mark managed. “One minute you were scanning the data and the next your eyes rolled back and you zoned into la-la land. That was fifteen minutes ago.”

  Heather rubbed her cheek. “So you decided it was a good idea to beat the crap out of me?”

  Mark looked offended. “We tried shaking you first.”

  Heather started to give a sharp retort, but the memory of what she had seen brought her back to the moment. Moving closer to the laptop, Heather pointed at the screen.

  “I broke the code. I know what Stephenson is doing.”

  “Which is?” Jennifer asked, recovering her voice.

  “He’s flooding the world with a carrier signal that can reprogram the nanites.”

  “Which nanites?”

  “All of them. At least the ones that our government is busy pumping into people’s veins all over the planet.”

  “That fucking bastard! He’s making a play for the world.” Don Espeñosa tried to jump to his feet, but the ropes stopped him.

  “Sit still!” Mark gripped the drug baron’s arm and squeezed. “Move again and I’ll break your legs.”

  “Easy, Mark,” Heather placed her hand on his arm. “I get it. Don Espeñosa has a dose of those new nanites—don’t you?”

  The drug lord merely scowled back at her.

  “So what are we going to do about it?” Jennifer asked.

  Heather looked at her friend. “Anything that can be programmed can be shut down. We just need our little computer genius to figure out the shut-down command.”

  “That’s not gonna help much,” Mark responded. “Not unless you can broadcast it to the world.”

  “I can’t, but we know someone who might be able to, if we supply the program.”

  “Jack!”

  “And Janet.” Heather turned back to Jennifer. “You think you’re up to it?”

  Jennifer nodded slowly. “If you help me with the decryption algorithm.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  As Jennifer turned her attention back to the laptop, Heather’s visions tugged at the drawstrings of her mind. If they were going to have any chance to put the dark genie back in the bottle, they’d better hurry.

  Better hurry. Better hurry.

  Heather forced herself to focus. But deep in her mind, the sound of distant laughter echoed.

  139

  “Got it!” Janet scanned the new files on her laptop. “Our wonder kids cracked the encryption.”

  Jack nodded. “So what’s the bad news?”

  “Dr. Stephenson’s new nanites are remotely programmable.”

  “Let me guess. It’s related to the weird GPS signal embedding.”

  “The GPS satellites are prepared to reprogram all the world’s newly inoculated populations with one massive broadcast.”

  “So how do we stop it?”

  “The kids uplinked their own reprogramming algorithm to my laptop. It’s designed to send the nanites a shutdown command. Once the nanites shut down, they can’t be restarted.”

  “How do they know it’ll work?”

  “They say they’ve already tested it on a subject.”

  Jack whistled softly. “That’s still no good unless their program can be broadcast
over the GPS link.”

  Janet nodded. “That’s right. The note says we’ll need to hardwire a link into the GPS control antenna so that the kids can spoof the control center.”

  “Why can’t they just remotely override the commands going to the satellites, the same way they’ve been hacking into classified systems around the world?”

  “According to the message, they can hack into just about anything, read encrypted data, insert new signals on existing lines, but they can’t interrupt signals that are already on those networks. That means the new commands and the commands already being sent to the satellites would be going out on the same link. The control center would notice the status errors coming back on the downlink.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So we have to physically cut the line and reroute it through my laptop. That way our young super-hackers can send all the normal satellite responses back to the control center while we are uplinking the new commands.”

  “Where’s the main antenna?”

  “Global Positioning System Control Center, Schriever Air Force Base, Colorado.”

  Jack stood up. “Grab your stuff. Let’s get going.”

  Janet smiled as she clicked the shutdown button on the laptop. She’d almost forgotten how much she missed this.

  “Give me five minutes.”

  Janet slid the laptop into its case, then turned toward her bedroom. It didn’t take her long to pack. Being pregnant had already cut down on her clothes selection. And the Heckler & Koch 9mm Compact completed her outfit nicely. Giving her hair a quick twist, she slipped her special hairpin into place, glanced around one last time, then followed Jack out of the house.

  By the time the private Learjet 35A reached thirty-five thousand feet over West Virginia, Janet had to admit, Jack could still surprise her. She shifted in the co-pilot’s seat to get a better view of his profile. Settled into the pilot’s seat with his headset and microphone, he looked like a Greek god. No. Not Greek—Spartan. But if Jack had been among the three hundred Spartans in that Thermopylae Pass in 480 BC, the Persians would have had their asses handed to them.

  Looking through the windscreen toward their destination, Janet knew one thing for certain. Whoever got in Jack’s way was about to get that same treatment.

  140

  Garfield Kromly knelt at the graveside, his left hand resting on the grave marker as he gently placed a dozen long-stemmed red roses before it.

  An inscription had been etched into the gray marble. Seven simple lines.

  Pamela Merideth Kromly

  Born January 13th 1947 – Died April 5th 2003

  My Loving Wife and Best Friend.

  Long ago, I gave you my soul.

  Take care of it for me,

  until I find you again.

  Garfield

  Kromly blinked twice and then rose slowly to his feet. He’d chosen the Fairfax Memorial Park as Pam’s resting place because of the cherry trees. On that April day when he’d laid her to rest, their lovely pink-and-white blossoms had been in full bloom. Now, shorn of their leaves by a November frost, they just looked dead.

  As he watched, the sun sank beneath the western horizon, pulling whatever warmth and color remained of the day down with it. Garfield inhaled deeply, then turned toward the car, his steps taking him past a young man who leaned against a tree, face buried in his hands. Without pausing, Kromly passed him by, clicking the unlock button on his key-fob, his own grief so intense he had nothing left to feel for the man.

  Pulling open the car door, Kromly had only begun to slide into the driver’s seat when a movement at the corner of his eye turned his head. The young man exploded into him, his hand striking Garfield in the nerve cluster at the base of his neck, sending a kaleidoscope of color blossoming across his vision. Then, along with his consciousness, the colors quickly faded to black.

  141

  Pain wormed its way into Garfield Kromly’s head, a squirming snake of fire that started in his shoulders and crawled up his neck, dragging him reluctantly back to consciousness.

  He tried to move, but his wrists were bound tight behind his back. Higher up, near his armpits, his arms had been strapped together even tighter.

  A memory clicked into place. The North Vietnamese Army had used this particular method on captured US soldiers, airmen, and sailors. Bind the wrists behind them. Then tighten a second strap, forcing the upper arms together until both shoulders dislocated.

  So it was to be death by torture. That was okay. It was something he’d prepared for his entire life. Pain. Whoever it was that had taken him had no idea what that word meant.

  The image of William Wallace leaped into his head. Drawn and quartered, disemboweled, his intestines roasted while still alive, but defiant to the end. Time for Kromly to give his own Mel Gibson imitation. Screaming held no shame.

  “Ah, Mr. Kromly. So nice to see you awake.”

  The voice, so silky smooth, with a slight Spanish accent, seemed vaguely familiar. Kromly blinked again, a face swimming into focus before him. Recognition flooded his mind.

  Shit! Eduardo Montenegro, a.k.a. the Colombian, a.k.a. El Chupacabra.

  A thin smile spread across the Colombian’s handsome face. “I see you recognize me. Good. That will save on introductions.”

  The killer turned away, walking out of Kromly’s vision. Garfield tried to turn his head to see where the man had gone, but the pain in his shoulders stopped him.

  He was in a single-room log cabin. The rough plank floors were covered with a layer of dirt, the deer heads mounted on the walls draped with cobwebs. A single filthy window let in a stream of daylight from the outside. Except for the chair to which he had been tied, the only other furniture in his field of view was a wooden cot pushed up against the far wall.

  Kromly surprised himself with the steadiness of his voice. “You might as well go ahead and kill me.”

  Eduardo reappeared, setting a matching wooden chair in front of Kromly before sitting down.

  “Now what would be the fun in that? Besides, I have some questions I want you to answer first.”

  “If you think pain will break me, then you’re wasting your time.”

  Once again the Colombian smiled. “If you think my specialty is pain, then you’ve been misinformed.”

  Something in the assassin’s voice sent a chill down Kromly’s spine. He recalled everything he knew about El Chupacabra. One of the world’s most feared assassins, Eduardo settled all his contracts with ultimate efficiency. But, it was his personal killings that revealed the man’s psychopathic underpinnings. Wildly violent, often sexual, orgies of blood. And, with those victims, Eduardo took his time.

  If his legs hadn’t been tied to the chair, Kromly would have kicked himself. How had he failed to notice the resemblance of the young man in the graveyard to one of the world’s most-wanted killers? Admittedly, he’d been deep in grief for his lost wife, but there was nothing new about that. He’d been there for five years.

  Maybe his worry about the African nanite problems had provided the extra distraction.

  Populations that had already been starving remained hungry, but were now strong and healthy. Violent food wars were breaking out all across the sub-Sahara. Roving death squads, which had once satisfied themselves with beheadings, had now become known as Torso Squads, hacking only the arms and legs from the victims, leaving their undying, limbless, nanite-infested bodies as a burden for their families.

  Even more nasty Blood Cults had sprung up, their new religion based on nanite worship. Believing that immortality could be achieved by drinking the nanited blood from living bodies, their dark rituals involved hanging victims by their ankles and draining their blood into drinking vessels, which were then passed amongst the worshipers. Meanwhile, the nanites that remained in the victims’ bodies worked their magic, keeping them alive throughout the festivities. At least until they were roasted for the final feast.

  For problems to escalate this quickly, while worldwide
nanite distribution was still ramping up, should have brought the program to a grinding halt. But it hadn’t. Instead of being a showstopper, the problems were regarded as the inevitable growing pains associated with a major breakthrough, a small inconvenience when compared to the amazing health benefits delivered to the treated populations. It certainly hadn’t significantly muted the clamor in the UN to increase the nanite delivery rate. God only knew what would happen when distribution moved to the other continents, including Asia, Europe, and North America.

  “Tell me about the Ripper.”

  The question surprised Kromly. As he refocused on the Colombian, a new question occurred to him. Was the assassin’s mission somehow related to the Rho Project? Although it was well-known that Eduardo had a special fascination with Jack Gregory, that was strictly a personal matter.

  “I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

  “He was seen taking a packet from your pocket at the Washington Monument the day before yesterday. Tell me about that.”

  Kromly felt his chest tighten. How the hell did Eduardo have that information? Who had been watching him? A sick sense of betrayal churned his stomach. Someone he’d trusted in his efforts to crack the Stephenson disk must have turned. One of his own people.

  Kromly took a deep breath. It appeared that lifetime of conditioning was about to be put to the ultimate test.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry, I can’t help.”

  Something moved in his head. What the hell was that? Not really a thought, something foreign. Weird.

  “I told you.” Eduardo’s voice pulled Kromly’s eyes to El Chupacabra’s. “My specialty isn’t pain. It’s fear.”

  There it was again, a feeling so odd he couldn’t place it. Even more disconcerting, Kromly found himself unable to break Eduardo’s gaze.

  “A little trick I picked up recently,” Eduardo continued. “If this wasn’t your death day, I wouldn’t even be telling you about it.”

  Kromly struggled to speak but couldn’t seem to make his lips respond.