XGeneration (Book 4): Pressure Drop

by Brad Magnarella

  He threw his right leg out. It was an awkward maneuver, but on his second attempt, his foot caught the wooden bookcase just hard enough for it to shake. He thought he heard the scratch of coins. Just hope they’re sliding toward me and not away. A glass ornament rolled from the top shelf and shattered. With his third kick, a coin fell to the floor.

  Reginald despaired as the nickel rolled beneath the closet door.

  The next time he kicked, he was quick to slap his foot over the fallen change. He dragged the coin toward him, then pried it from his sweat-damp sole with his other toe. A quarter.

  Jackpot. Just need one more.

  Ten minutes later, another quarter fell. He had his tool.

  Reginald pressed the ball of his foot over both quarters, lifted his knee, and rotated his hip. The tendons resisted like mooring lines. With a finger and thumb, he managed to pick them from the bottom of his foot, not exhaling until he’d closed his fist around the pair. Reginald’s fingers were accustomed to coins—swimming them between his digits, appearing and disappearing them like magic—but the fingers he looked at now were knotted and swollen.

  If I drop or fumble these away, all bets are off.

  Taking a quarter in each hand, he moved them up to his left temple. A marrow-deep pain grew from his elbows, as though they were on the verge of snapping. Carefully, very carefully, he placed the faces of the quarters on opposite sides of a hex bolt and clamped them between his hooked fingers.

  Gotcha.

  As Reginald began to twist, the words he’d told Scott in the library revisited him. You’ve gotta coax her, real sweet-like. And you’ve gotta do it in a way that’ll make the machine think it was her idea to begin with, see? Else she’ll jam up on you. But you can’t be too gentle neither, ’cause then the machine will think you don’t know what you’re doing. And there’s nothing they hate worse.

  He’d come up with the folksy yarn as part of his cover, but now Reginald clung to it like wisest gospel. His fingers trembled with effort as he coaxed the bolt, coaxed the bolt—and felt it give.

  Praise be.

  Repositioning the quarters, he twisted again. When he’d loosened the bolt enough, he switched to his fingers. There was an aching inrush of air as the metal exited his skull. Reginald examined the long black bolt. A thin wire entered through the center of the head and terminated at its blunt tip, where a bloody conductive pad was seated. It was how the machine had been controlling him.

  Reginald tested his voice. “Hello,” he rasped. “One … two…”

  The machine’s hold over him was broken.

  He removed the remaining bolts in turn. Then he drew the feeding tube from his stomach and the IV tube from the crook of his arm. Freed, Reginald ducked his head from beneath the halo, pushed himself to his feet, and promptly collapsed beside the clot of wax on the floor.

  24

  35,000 feet over Saudi Arabia

  Saturday, November 16

  11:33 a.m.

  As far as Janis could see lay a blanket of orange. It wrinkled and rippled, then rose into sloping ridges before falling through shadow back to placidity. Its enormity reminded Janis of the Atlantic Ocean, which they’d flown over earlier. But the desert, with its shifting patterns, was more mesmerizing.

  But what in the world are those? She squinted through the plate-sized window toward some distant speckles of black. Tents? Sure enough, she sensed people way down there, families. Their bodies draped in airy fabric, dark eyes squinted against a stinging wind, skin parched and sand-scored.

  “Must be nomads.”

  “Huh?” Janis felt herself being sucked back into the jet’s cabin, into her own skin, which felt so humid all of a sudden. She turned and found Scott sleeping beside her, his glasses askew.

  “Hard to believe anyone can survive in all of that emptiness.”

  Janis turned back toward her window. Behind her, she caught a slice of Tyler peering out his own window. She followed his gaze back to the tents. “Yeah,” she agreed. “If there ever is a nuclear holocaust, their lives probably wouldn’t change much. Meanwhile, the rest of us would be left wondering why we bothered to memorize geometric proofs, the periodic table…”

  “Pronoun rules.”

  Janis smiled, then forced it back inside her as she thought of the recurring dream she was still having. The dream in which she was searching for something lost, Tyler appearing with his candle and telling her it’s inside him. She refocused her gaze through the window.

  “And the meek shall inherit the Earth,” Tyler murmured as the tents slipped off.

  Janis snorted. “One day, maybe. But for now it helps to be sitting on a crap-ton of oil.”

  Perhaps a hundred miles beyond the final tents (Janis could never judge distances from planes), white buildings were inching into view. The buildings spread out and up, like a bubbling oasis of cinder block and concrete. The capital, Riyadh. Looking over it, Janis experienced the same resonance as when Jesse announced that the Soviets were not gunning for Western Europe, but Saudi Arabia. The jet banked and the first skyscrapers appeared.

  “First time out of the country?” she asked.

  “Yeah. How about you?”

  “If you don’t count Vancouver. You know, under different circumstances, I’d probably be looking forward to our time here.” She thumbed the entry on Saudi Arabia her father had Xeroxed from their Encyclopedia Britannica. “It just seems like such a fascinating part of the world. So different.”

  “A chance to step outside of yourself,” Tyler said.

  “Um, right.”

  Janis had known he was going to say that. It was less a premonition or a feeling of déjà vu and more like she had a direct link to his inner workings, like the night at the nuclear launch facility. When Scott stirred beside her, Janis withdrew from the window and her view of Tyler.

  Going on three months and she still hadn’t explained the kiss to Scott.

  The jet circled the capital before descending toward a dusty network of airstrips on the outskirts of the city. As the jet touched down, Janis could feel the grit of sand beneath the wheels. Low buildings sped past, windows refracting bright sunlight. The jet coasted into a hangar as the engines wound down. Janis undid the belt that criss-crossed her chest.

  Scott stretched his arms. “So what do you wanna do first?” he asked between squeaks. “The roller coaster or the water slide?”

  Janis smirked. His humor was sometimes welcomed. “I’m pretty sure the only ride we can expect is the bumpy kind, in one of those awful transporters.” She was remembering the one that had carried them to the missile site in Missouri and how it had turned her nervousness to outright nausea.

  They exited the jet through its cargo bay and descended a ramp to the hangar’s floor. The jet’s climate controlled interior gave way to a blast of hot air that stole Janis’s breath and wobbled her knees. Outside the hangar’s large door, the view was white and blinding.

  “Whoa, looks like we’re riding in style this time,” Scott said.

  Janis followed his gaze to a line of sleek black limousines. “That’s our transport? A little conspicuous, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all.” Kilmer appeared from behind them in a black suit. Not even the heat could discourage his stubborn sense of style. “It’s the transportation of choice for members of the royal family and the newly wealthy. In Riyadh, there’s plenty of both. We’ll fit right in.”

  The drivers’ doors on the limos swung out. Men in long white robes and red-checked headdresses emerged and opened the rear doors. Before Janis could ask who they were, Kilmer was calling out orders.

  “Scott, Janis, and Margaret in this one,” he said. “Creed, Tyler, and Jesse in the other.”

  “Bitchin’,” Creed said.

  Janis watched Oakwood’s one-time delinquents duck into the limousine along with members of Agent Steel’s security team. Above the car’s roof, Tyler’s blue eyes lingered on hers like magnets.

  “C’mon,�
�� Scott said, resting a hand on her back and guiding her into their own limousine.

  Janis found herself on a couch of smooth leather. Director Kilmer sat across from them, while members of Agent Steel’s team took up the rest of the seats, carbines resting across their laps. As the vehicle slid from the hangar, the tinted windows exploded with midday light.

  “Are we heading to a military base?” Scott asked.

  “We considered it,” Kilmer said, “but the presence of U.S. military personnel could compromise your identities. We found someplace more secure. A compound just outside the city. A palace, actually.”

  Margaret perked up. “A palace?”

  “It’s owned by a member of the Saudi royal family. A prince.”

  “A real prince?” Margaret’s voice resonated with childlike wonder.

  Janis rolled her eyes. “Can we trust him?”

  “The CIA trusts him, and they’re one of the most skeptical organizations on Earth. We’ve arranged a part of his compound to be sectioned off, with Agent Steel’s team providing security. The prince understands that it’s off limits while we’re here. Chances are, he won’t be around. He owns estates all over the world. Jets between them in his private DC-8. We let slip that you’re athletes training for international competition. That’s your cover.”

  “Is his wealth in oil, too?” Scott asked.

  “Like most members of the royal family, he receives his oil-funded allowance, but his real wealth comes through his other businesses. Most of which are legitimate.”

  “Sounds shady,” Janis muttered, lowering her face to peer past Margaret. The limousine was hurtling along a crowded causeway. Construction cranes and scaffolding were everywhere, the city literally rising around them.

  “Well, the important thing is that the prince’s relationship with the U.S. is not one he can afford to jeopardize,” Director Kilmer replied. “And like I said, he probably won’t even be there.”

  “Welcome!” cried the short, mustachioed man. “Welcome!”

  The limousines had only just parked, having navigated through two guarded gates and along a promenade of palm trees. As Janis had been stepping from the limo, the man had appeared from a huge doorway in the palatial complex. He strode forward now in a John Travolta-style shirt, pressed jeans, and European loafers. Beneath a pair of polarized sunglasses, his smile was huge.

  So much for our section being off limits.

  Janis reached toward the man with her thoughts. He was a barely contained ball of egoism and enthusiasm, the power of which was almost comical. But Agent Steel wasn’t smiling.

  “Stop right there,” she ordered. Her team fanned out between the approaching man and the Champions, fingers over their trigger guards. The man didn’t slow. If anything, his strides became more eager.

  “It is all right,” he said in a thick accent. He patted his chest, his smile as large as ever. “I am host. Khoggi!”

  “It’s the prince,” Kilmer confirmed, not sounding very happy.

  “That’s the prince?” Margaret whispered, sizing up the paunchy middle-aged man. He seized Kilmer’s hand and threw his other arm around his back, pulling Kilmer into an awkward hug.

  “So happy you come!” the man cried.

  “We appreciate you hosting us,” Kilmer replied. In his brief eye contact with Agent Steel, Janis understood that he wanted his head of security to get the Champions inside, away from scrutiny. But before Agent Steel could act, the man released Kilmer’s hand and spun toward the teens.

  “So, this must be athletic team.”

  Kilmer cleared his throat. “Yes, the Under Eighteen All Stars, recent winners of the Inter-American Spirit Games.” Janis was pretty sure no such contest had existed before that moment. “They’re very tired from their travels. We’d like to get them settled and rested before their afternoon training session.”

  But Kilmer was speaking to the man’s back. Prince Khoggi had departed the director’s company and was hustling up to Jesse, who shuffled back a step. “Wowzer, wowzer!” Prince Khoggi exclaimed. He halted inches in front of Jesse and looked him up and down. “You must be wrestler.”

  Jesse grunted noncommittally.

  “You know Hulk Hogan?” Prince Khoggi asked. “Hulkmania?”

  “No.”

  Prince Khoggi’s smile faltered, but he recovered it quickly enough as he moved down the line, pumping Creed’s, Tyler’s, and Scott’s hands in turn. When he came to Janis and her sister, he raised his sunglasses to his swath of slick, combed-back hair and stared from one to the other with a look of utter fascination. A spicy-smelling cologne blasted from the jungle of hair in his open collar.

  “Never before have I observed such beauty,” he whispered at last. “Like goddesses.”

  Before Janis could recoil, he took her hand and pressed his lips and bristly mustache to her knuckles. Janis rolled her eyes toward Margaret. If the man was a royal anything it was a sleaze-ball. She expected to find confirmation in her sister’s expression, but Margaret had straightened and was busily arranging her hair over the front of one shoulder.

  Really, Margaret?

  Prince Khoggi rose from his prostration. “Welcome to my palace, divine one.”

  “Right, thanks,” Janis muttered, glad to have her hand back. She wiped it against the back of her slacks and sidled toward Scott.

  Prince Khoggi repeated the ceremony for her sister. Margaret could barely contain her smile. “Your palace is breathtaking,” she said, her gaze roaming the manicured lawn with its bursting flowerbeds and regal stone fountains. Janis could see her calculating the dollar amounts. “I just hope we can be as gracious as guests as you’ve already been as our host.”

  “Your mere presence is a grace,” Prince Khoggi assured her.

  Director Kilmer had apparently heard enough. “All right,” he called. “Everyone inside.”

  Prince Khoggi pried his gaze from Margaret’s face and lowered his sunglasses as he backed away. “Yes, yes, listen to your coach. Your rooms are waiting, as is your lunch. Khoggi must go now, much business, but he hopes to see you again very, very soon.” His gaze returned to Margaret.

  “Creep,” Janis muttered when he was out of earshot.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Margaret said. “I think he’s nice.”

  An hour later, Janis found herself sitting cross-legged with Director Kilmer, Agent Steel, and the rest of the Champions on both sides of a long runner that stretched the length of an arabesque-tiled dining room. Agent Steel had already scanned the spread of food with a device and declared it safe. Steaming plates and bowls made their way around, Creed scowling over most of them.

  “Couldn’t they just have grilled up some cheese burgers?” he asked.

  Jesse seemed less picky. Not realizing the dishes were meant to be passed, he’d already knocked off a towering plate of spinach and feta pastries that had been sitting in front of him.

  Janis handed a bowl over to Scott and watched him sniff at it.

  “Baba ghanoush,” she said.

  “Baba gha-what?”

  “It’s cooked eggplant, onions, tomatoes, spices—my mom makes it sometimes. It’s good.”

  Scott regarded it doubtfully before spooning some onto his plate beside the lamb stew and rice-stuffed vine leaves. The tangy, smoky smells that enveloped Janis made her realize how hungry she was.

  “And where the hell’s the silverware?” Creed wanted to know.

  “Right here.” Janis held up a piece of pita bread.

  The number two in Agent Steel’s security team trotted into the room and stooped between Director Kilmer and Agent Steel. Janis eavesdropped. “The servants have retired to the palace,” he told them. “Our section is locked off and secure. No bugs or surveillance.”

  “All right, gang,” Kilmer said, looking up as the number two trotted off. “For the last twelve hours, I’ve been receiving updates on our situation. Frankly, the news isn’t so hot. For starters, the Soviet team inside of Al Karak wasn’
t bluffing. They’ve sent video proof to the Saudis that the oil facility is rigged with plastic explosives—enough to decimate the entire operation. They’ve promised to do just that if anyone attempts to take the facility back.”

  “How did they get inside in the first place?” Scott asked around a mouthful of tabbouleh.

  “The Saudi’s are being tight-lipped. Probably because for years they’ve sworn their oil facilities are more secure than Fort Knox. What we’ve gathered from our intelligence is that the Soviet team made it in before the guards knew what was happening. Within an hour, those same guards were dead, the Saudi engineers taken hostage, and the facility under Soviet control.”

  Margaret raised a hand. “And we’re one hundred percent certain the Soviets aren’t going into Western Europe? I mean, how do we know this isn’t the ruse and the European invasion the real thing.”

  Janis frowned as she dipped her pita into a bowl of hummus and olive oil. Her sister thought little of anything Jesse had to say—Janis got that—but what about her intuitions? She remembered how her sister had brushed her off last year when she’d tried to warn her that something freaky was happening at the Leonards’ house. She shook her head. Some things never changed.

  “Their troops are still amassed along the borders in Eastern Europe,” Kilmer answered, “but their logistic lines aren’t sufficient for a large-scale invasion. Jesse’s informant was right.” His lips seemed to turn bitter around the word informant. “General Dementyev fooled everyone. The war he’s been planning all this time wasn’t going to be military, but economic. And it’s already begun. Besides stringing the facility with explosives, the other news of the day is that the Soviets have already begun to close the taps.”

  “The oil’s stopped?” Janis asked, the taste of humus suddenly bitter on her tongue.

  “It’s slowing,” he said.

  Janis thought of her friends and family back home and feared the worst. She pushed her plate away, her heart pummeling the sac of her stomach. “What does that mean for the U.S.?”