I stopped in front of the Solarium and gazed south. Lights illuminated the length of the Washington Mall, with the Capitol Building to my left on one end and the Lincoln Memorial on my right at the other. From my vantage point, the Washington Monument seemed close enough to touch.
The spectacle made me more aware of how fragile freedom is, and how close America might be to losing her freedoms—if I didn’t act, if I were unsuccessful tonight.
“Lord, please help me. This? All this? I am in over my head. Please make my words make sense and give me . . . I don’t know, grace? Favor? Just please help me. And help him, Lord.”
I didn’t mention him by name, as though the words spoken aloud would bring down the wrath of the Secret Service upon my head. I just stayed where I was, surveying the emblems of our liberties. And praying.
Even though the evening was cold, I lingered a long time.
Afterwards, I went back to the Lincoln Bedroom, laid down on the carpet where I’d eaten, and took a little nap. It was approaching midnight when the nanomites woke me to tell me of the President and First Lady’s return to the Residence.
I cracked the door to the Lincoln Bedroom. Heard the President and First Lady’s elevator arrive and listened to their muffled voices as they entered the West Sitting Hall and the Master Bedroom.
I’d policed my crumbs and trash earlier, so I left the Lincoln Bedroom and went quietly down the Center Hall to the doorway that led to the President and First Lady’s living room. The living room, in turn, connected to their bedroom.
Back during the Clinton administration, the Secret Service was accustomed to stationing an agent at the top of the Grand Staircase across from the Treaty Room—which happened to be right outside the Lincoln Bedroom. The Service stationed another agent on the west staircase landing next to the President’s elevator—basically across from the President’s living room where I stood. The Clintons didn’t care to have Secret Service agents on the Residence Floor and requested that the posts be moved down a level to the State Floor, and they were.
After the Clintons left the White House, those post changes were retained. This night, I was grateful for those changes. It made it easy for me to leave the Lincoln Bedroom, walk down the Center Hall, and unlock and enter the President’s living room.
Piece of cake.
The sofa was made up and waiting for him; his night clothes were laid out. Twenty minutes later, the President walked from his bedroom into the living room and closed the door behind himself. He was headed for his P.J.s. when I spoke.
“Excuse me, Mr. President.” I kept my voice low, mindful of the First Lady in the next room.
Robert Jackson’s head whipped toward the sound of my voice, but he did not see me—at least not right away.
I figured the former Naval Officer would hesitate before shouting for help, and his delay would give me a moment to explain myself. Well, he didn’t hesitate. Like it was bred into him, he gulped air to shout out. The nanomites had already shot from me before I spoke. As the President inhaled, they sealed his mouth. He could still breath through his nose, of course (I didn’t pull a “Soto” on him), but the experience had to be disconcerting. Maybe scary.
That’s when I waved the mites away and became visible to him. I came close enough to whisper.
“I apologize for startling you, sir, and I promise: I have no ill intentions toward you.”
He stared, wide-eyed, his nostrils flaring in and out in quick breaths. I supposed he was questioning his own sight because I’d become visible right in front of him.
No missing that.
“Mr. President, I have an issue of the utmost importance to share with you. May I have a few minutes of your time?”
He clawed at his sealed mouth but couldn’t answer except for muffled grunts. Of course, his inability to speak alarmed him—although I must say that the man, overall, kept his composure.
I admired him for that.
“Mr. President, would you like me to allow you to open your mouth? To speak?”
In the normal world, such a question was absolutely off-the-hook, bats-in-the-belfry nuts. He frowned, took his hand from his mouth, and jabbed a finger at me with an angry, unmistakable look of, “You did this?”
I nodded. “Yes, but not me, not directly. I, um, I harbor, in my body, some very sophisticated nanotechnology. They, the nanomites, are keeping your mouth sealed—but only so you don’t shout and wake the First Lady or alert your agents.
“Sir, I give you my word: I mean you no harm and, as soon as I’ve delivered my message, I’ll leave you be. If you promise not to call for help, I’ll have the nanomites unseal your mouth.”
He took a deep breath—through his nostrils—and nodded.
A second later, he opened his mouth. Licked his lips. Swallowed. With a shaking hand, he gestured toward a chair. “May I sit?”
Classic delaying technique, but I didn’t mind.
“Of course. My bad. But let’s keep our voices low, shall we?”
He nodded again and sat. Tough guy though he was, I figured he needed to process a few things—like his adrenaline. It had to have spiked and turned his legs to rubber.
I pulled a nearby ottoman closer to him and sat. He wasn’t all that pleased that we were now practically knee to knee, but other than eyeballing me with distrust, he didn’t object.
“Again, I apologize for surprising you like this, Mr. President, but thank you for agreeing to see me.”
(See me? Mentally I smacked my forehead. ’Cause, yeah, that wasn’t an odd way to put it.)
“Who are you? How did you get in here?”
I lifted one shoulder. “You saw me appear. An invisible woman can go pretty much where she likes.”
He’d already talked himself out of what he’d seen/not seen, and he scoffed.
So, I had the nanomites hide me.
That was enough to propel him to his feet. He headed straight for the door leading to the hallway. I was faster. I reappeared between him and the knob.
“Mr. President?”
I knew fear and frustration when I saw it. “Nano.”
The President started, stepped back. “Wha-what are you doing to me?”
“The nanomites are inducing a few calming neurotransmitters. Nothing harmful. Could we . . .” I took him by the arm to steer him back to his seat—then just as quickly let go when I realized I had committed the cardinal blunder of touching the President of the United States.
“I’m so sorry.” Out of contrition, I started to pat him on the shoulder—but whipped my hand back just in time. “Sorry again. Didn’t mean to touch you. Um, could we sit down? Start over? You asked who I was.”
He resumed his seat, and I pushed the ottoman back six inches to give him some breathing space.
“Mr. President, my name is Gemma Keyes. I live in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Up until last March, I worked as a contractor for Sandia National Laboratories in the MEMS and AMEMS labs. Sir, are you familiar with that acronym? MEMS?”
“No, but you said something about nanotechnology.”
“Yes. MEMS and nanotechnology are related fields. MEMS stands for microelectromechanical systems—very small electro-mechanical devices.”
He nodded, but he kept his eyes on me as though I might, again, disappear.
“I worked with a brilliant man, Dr. Daniel Bickel. Have you heard of him or his work?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Well, I need to give you the backstory, but I’ll make it as short as I can so we can get on to the important piece. It begins with Dr. Bickel and his work. Dr. Bickel invented a new means of manufacturing MEMS devices at the nanometer level. During the manufacturing process, he integrated the nano-sized MEMS device with a system-on-a-chip processor. His finished product was an extremely intelligent swarm of these devices. He called them ‘nanomites.’”
For a few minutes, I spoke to the President about Dr. Bickel’s breakthrough and General Cushing’s attempted hijack
ing of his work. When I said “General Imogene Cushing,” the President’s brow creased the tiniest bit, so when I paused for a breath, I asked him, “Do you know General Cushing, Mr. President? Have you heard of her?”
Again, with the minuscule movement of his brow. “I’m not certain, but the name does seem to ring a bell.”
Inside, I asked, “Nano?”
We have analyzed this man’s microexpressions, Gemma Keyes, and believe him to be telling the truth as he knows it.
As he knows it? I’d have to ask the nanomites about their conditional reply later.
I carried on, explaining Dr. Bickel’s “death,” the astonishing email I’d received, Dr. Bickel’s even more astonishing lab inside the mountain’s old devolution cavern, and our idyllic summer. I ended with Cushing’s attack on Dr. Bickel’s lab and, of course, his command to the nanomites: “Hide! Hide Gemma!”
When I was close to the end of what he needed to know, he stopped me.
“You’re saying that trillions of these nanomites live in you. That you communicate with them and they can make you invisible. That you have ‘powers.’”
When I nodded, he stared at the wall and muttered, “Good God, I’m losing my mind.”
“No, sir, you are not. Look at me, please.”
He turned his face partway in my direction, but he was wary.
“Mr. President, I didn’t come here just so you would know about the nanomites and what they—what we—can do. I came here to save your life.”
He lurched from his seat, agitated. “Hells bells, lady, you have a lot of nerve. You are already in more trouble than you know! Even without threatening my life, you are going to spend the rest of your life in federal prison.”
“But I’m not threatening you, Mr. President; I’m here to warn you. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“Really? And just how is my life in danger? Other than from you, of course.”
He practically sneered his last words—and that just ticked me off. I stood up and, forgetting that we’d agreed to keep our voices down, raised mine—maybe a bit more than I should have.
Okay, a lot.
“You know . . . you know, I thought you’d be a little more appreciative. I didn’t need to come here. It took a lot of planning and effort to get me here. I didn’t have to risk my freedom or my secrets to save your life! I could have just let—”
I bit off my words, gave the President of the United States a “talk to the hand” gesture, then added, “You know what? I’ll answer your question and be on my way. That’s all I came to do, anyway. You can figure out the details and what to do about it on your own.”
I dropped my arms in disgust. “How is your life in danger? Just this way: The Vice President intends to assassinate you, sir.”
I was done. I started to leave, going for the dramatic exit, when the door to the adjoining bedroom swung open. Madeleine Jackson (known to her friends as Maddie), was a fine-looking woman, even at sixty-two, even barefoot, clad in a robe, and shooting a scowl from me to her husband and back.
“What is the point, Robert, of you sleeping in the next room if you’re going to engage in an argument and wake me up anyway?”
Of course, the nanomites disappeared me.
~~**~~
Chapter 21
“Why, where did she go?” Maddie Jackson stared with confusion, searching the room high and low. “Who was that you were talking to? And where did she go? She was just here—I saw her!”
I was still in the room, and the President didn’t answer her. I saw that the warning I’d flung at him had hit him and sunk in. His chin had dropped onto his chest; he was deep in thought.
The First Lady noticed his distraction. “Robert? Robert, who was that woman?”
He took her hand and patted it in absentminded affection, but his mind was elsewhere. On me, to be exact.
He opened his mouth twice before he managed to say, “Miss Keyes, was it? Are you, ah, are you still here? I . . . I would very much like to finish our conversation, if you would be so kind.”
I reappeared, lounging against the wall next to the exit into the hall. “Are you willing to hear me out? All the way?”
Mrs. Jackson jerked back from her husband. “How did you do that? You weren’t there—I know you weren’t!”
“I was, actually, but you couldn’t see me.” I crossed the short distance to her and extended my hand by way of introduction. “Mrs. Jackson, I apologize for the intrusion. I’m Gemma Keyes, ma’am, and I’m very sorry to have awakened you.”
She eyed my hand as if it might bite her. “Robert?”
“I think it’s all right, dear, and I’m the one who should be apologizing. I wasn’t exactly civil to Miss Keyes, um, earlier.”
Maddie Jackson pursed her lips at me. “What did you mean, Miss Keyes, when you said you were there but I just couldn’t see you?”
I studied her back. The woman had clear, intelligent eyes and, I thought, a shrewd mind. And she’d asked a pointed question.
I’d never just had fun with my “nano” abilities; I was usually too busy keeping out of Cushing’s clutches, too preoccupied with the whole “staying alive” bit.
But, maybe . . .
“Ma’am? Watch this.”
I asked the nanomites to—slowly—extend their reflecting shields over me.
The President stood up as I began to fade from sight. He reached out a finger and touched my arm just as it disappeared. Mrs. Jackson’s eyes opened wider.
“Can you feel her? Is she still there?”
He wrapped his whole hand about my arm and squeezed a couple of times. I felt like a piece of fruit in the produce section being checked for ripeness.
“Yes; she’s still there. Go ahead. Touch her.”
She did—and when she encountered my shoulder, she gave it a little half-hearted pat.
“Well, well. My goodness.”
I reappeared and they withdrew their hands, both a little sheepish, since handling people isn’t generally considered to be socially acceptable behavior.
But I wasn’t finished with my demonstration.
“That’s not all. Check this out.”
I drew down on the power in the room—just a little—and lifted my hand to show them the pulsing orb dancing on my left palm. “The nanomites and I can pull electrical power from any source. These . . . power balls make quite the impression when I toss them. In fact, I’ve taken out a dozen armed soldiers with them.”
The President suddenly grinned. “You have a lot of fun with this, am I right?”
I blinked. Shrugged. “Uh . . . not much to date. It’s been more about survival up till now. A lot of running. A lot of hiding.”
He heard the edge to my words and sensed my pain. “This Cushing woman?”
“Yes, sir. Did you hear about the New Mexico statewide manhunt a few weeks back?”
“I seem to recall it. The Vice President was very attentive to the news—”
He saw my expression harden.
“That was you? You’re the woman they were hunting? Vice President Harmon said you were some sort of domestic terrorist. You’re saying that was Cushing? Going after you?”
“Her and every cop in the state. Trust me: not fun. Did you also hear about the raid on the Albuquerque FBI field office a few days after the manhunt started?”
He nodded. “Some rogue scientist seeking asylum? And then disappearing again? The reports are still unclear as to what happened there, but the FBI Director and the Secretary of the Air Force were in the Oval Office last week and they had, shall we say, a rather sharp disagreement over the situation. Nearly came to blows—right there in my office. It took Vice President Harmon’s intervention to . . .”
The President petered to a stop. “Harmon. Again.”
“Yes, sir. Vice President Harmon. He is General Cushing’s handler. He’s the former NSA Director, former chief of the Central Security Service, yes? And isn’t the NSA responsible for SIGINT? Signal intellig
ence? For the global monitoring, collection, and processing of information and data for foreign intelligence and counterintelligence purposes? Isn’t the NSA charged with the protection of government communications and information systems against penetration and network warfare? And isn’t the NSA authorized to accomplish its mission through active clandestine means?”
When the President, with reluctance, nodded, I shrugged, “Well, Mr. Harmon hasn’t exactly resigned those objectives. He and Cushing share a philosophy that believes America would be safer and ‘better governed’ if the Central Security Service could monitor everyone all the time—American citizens included. Cushing worked for him sometime earlier in her career and briefed him on the direction of Dr. Bickel’s research a few years back. They’ve been watching him a long time, waiting for his technology to mature.
“At Harmon’s direction, Cushing arranged for another scientist at Sandia Labs, Dr. Petrel Prochanski, to keep tabs on Dr. Bickel and alert her when Dr. Bickel’s nanotechnology achieved certain verifiable objectives. This was all kept from Dr. Bickel until Cushing showed up. When Dr. Bickel realized that Cushing and her superiors intended to weaponize his technology, he refused to release his research to them.
“That’s when Harmon gave the order to appropriate Dr. Bickel’s work and have him, er, removed. Permanently. It was Harmon’s plan to further develop Dr. Bickel’s nanotechnology in order to move the U.S. closer to his intelligence gathering goals—closer to the complete and covert monitoring of all electronic communications within the U.S.”
Jackson shook his head in denial. “I’ve been told that nanotechnology is years from attaining such Orwellian objectives. Decades away.”
“I’m sorry to contradict you, sir, but it already exists. You asked how I got in here, how I defeated White House security and penetrated your private residence, one of the most guarded places on the planet?”
“Yes; how did you do that? Other than walking around in an invisible state? The White House is protected by multiple intrusion detection systems that are not public knowledge.”
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