by J. M. Lanham
Corporate advantages over government agencies were profound—especially in the pharmaceutical industry. The CIA had a long history of relying on off-the-books ops to raise revenue for their slush funds; ops that were high-risk, time-consuming, and often resulted in more blowback and scandal than reward. But for companies like Asteria Pharmaceuticals, raising revenue was simply a matter of raising prices on products customers had to have; products like drugs used to treat toxoplasmosis or anaphylactic shock or muscular dystrophy. And unlike government agencies which had to answer to the people, companies like Asteria only had to answer to shareholders. Without being subject to the same stringent guidelines, rules, and regulations that publicly-funded agencies were, Asteria was free to scalp government contractors as it saw fit.
Kovic looked around the room and wondered how Lancaster thought they could even begin to turn a ghosted project into a fully-functioning operation again. It had already failed once, and as Kovic ran his finger across a dusty desk, he already knew there was little chance the reboot would succeed.
Until he saw the lab in the next room. While the bullpen was empty, the laboratory was in full swing. A few men in white coats had eyes fixed to microscopes while others were talking amongst themselves. Computer screens were flooded with incoming data; Kovic didn’t recognize the software on display at all.
Another group of scientists was at the far end of the lab, peering into the other side of a large pane of glass while holding clipboards and taking notes and whispering to one another. These were the people who caught Kovic’s attention. He walked past the workstations to the observatory glass to see what all the fuss was about.
That’s when he saw the patient.
The woman was strapped to a hospital bed on the other side of the glass, her IV pole and vitals monitor close by. Other than the necessary hospital equipment, the room was white, spotless, and almost seamless. In fact, Kovic could barely make out the rectangular lines marking the crease in the door leading into the room. On the surface, it appeared to be the ultimate cleanroom, but Kovic did notice something near the lights in the ceiling. It was shiny and metallic, like an inverted eighteen-wheeler antenna turned upside down and hanging from the ceiling. It was right above the woman, about two feet from the top of her head.
The woman. She was either asleep or sedated—Kovic couldn’t tell. She was middle-aged, no older than forty-five, with a good inch of dark brunette roots showing at the base of her tussled blonde hair. Kovic found a gap in the white coats standing nose-to-glass and wedged himself in between two scientists to get a closer look. It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed.
Julie Anne Griffin. One of the first.
By first, Kovic was referring to the original outliers from the Ocula clinical trials. Out of exactly 2000 participants who had participated in Phase Three of the FDA-regulated clinical trials, twelve had been classified as outliers. Those were the only participants who had experienced any negative side effects from the drug. Specifically, the onset of debilitating migraine headaches. What Ryan Tanner—and subsequently, Colin Kovic—had later learned was that the headaches were only a precursor of a power far more sinister; a power that gave a dozen patients the ability to dream up scenarios that led to real-world consequences.
Julie Anne Griffin was one of those patients.
There she lay, fresh off a return trip from Guantanamo Bay, bouncing from one CIA black site to another in the name of national security. It was obvious to Kovic (and anyone else in the know) that Julie’s newfound abilities could wreak havoc on the people closest to her, especially when her dreams were a complete and total coin flip from one night to the next. Still, she was an American citizen. A mother of two. And now, according to a five-month-old missing person report, she was just another statistic.
Eyes on the big picture, Kovic.
It was tough for the agent to stand there and witness an innocent civilian being used as a government-sanctioned guinea pig for the purpose of completing an operation. But he also knew that if it worked, Ocula would be completely removed from the government formulary. Without international patents in the works, Asteria Pharmaceuticals would have no choice but to pursue other interests or close up shop altogether.
That didn’t bother Kovic in the least. For him, bringing George Sturgis’s company to near bankruptcy was a small price to pay for a nation that could sleep well at night. He watched as another dose of the opaque yellow fluid crept down the IV line leading into Julie’s arm. The solution hit, and the patient turned from comatose to chaotic in half a second, raising off the bed and aggressively testing her restraints while her blood pressure and heart rate rose to dangerous levels.
Kovic had seen the violent reaction to Ocula before, but he never got used to it. He turned away for a moment when he felt a hand placed on his opposite shoulder.
“Mr. Kovic. And how are you doing on this fine day?” It was Roberto Ramírez. His bright and crooked smile looked more like a carnivore showing off his canines than a fellow human being extending a benevolent greeting. “Director Lancaster told me to be expecting you.”
“That’s right,” Kovic said, a little shaken by the events taking place in the other room. He composed himself and nodded toward the torture chamber on full display. “I see you’ve got the program back up and running in record speed.”
“Sí,” Ramírez said. “The four outliers from Guantanamo were flown in last night.”
“Four? Weren’t there seven at Gitmo?”
“There were, Kovic. Were being the operative word.”
“Jesus. What happened?”
Ramírez motioned for him to keep it down. “This is not the best place to talk about such things. Come, I’ll show you to the offices.”
Ramírez turned to leave and Kovic followed. The two walked to a secure door at the far end of the lab. Ramírez scanned his thumb and punched in some numbers, and soon they were on the other side.
The corridor leading to the remaining underground space was poorly lit, the unfinished concrete walls drawing a stark contrast from the sophisticated research laboratory. Outdated yellow cup lights hung from a cracked and leaky ceiling; just one of the costs of running an underground operation. Rooms lined both sides of the cold and damp hallway, with windowless doors hiding their contents.
Kovic already knew most of them were empty.
They came to a stop at one of the metal doors near the far end of the corridor, and Ramírez invited Kovic inside. A cheap metal folding chair sat in front of Ramírez’s desk, while Ramírez helped himself to the plush leather upgrade behind it.
“Wow, Roberto. You really know how to treat your guests.” Kovic settled into his seat, the metal legs scratching across the concrete floor like nails on a chalkboard.
“What can I say, mi amigo. Budget cuts are a real pain in the ass, no?”
Kovic agreed, then asked, “About the three outliers who were unaccounted for . . . ”
“Of course,” Ramírez said. “I didn’t want to say too much in the laboratory, but yes, three outliers lost their lives shortly after we had the group transferred to Gitmo.”
No one told me anything, thought Kovic. Fucking Cline. The man had a reputation for keeping his closest confidants in the dark, and this was no exception. It also explained why Cline had placed Kovic on babysitting duty monitoring George Sturgis in Atlanta for the last six months.
Kovic sighed, muttered a few choice epithets directed at his superiors, then asked Ramírez to fill him in.
“For starters, a lack of communication led to some terrible outcomes in Cuba,” Ramírez said. “As I am sure you already know, the Project THEIA facility was built under a very strict set of parameters. To the outside world, some of the most important features of the facility may have seemed wasteful and pointless. But for the safety of anyone who may be within electromagnetic range of an outlier, those features could mean the difference between life and death. It appears such oversights are exactly what led to the sh
ooting at Guantanamo Bay last spring.”
That was something Kovic did know about. While the underlying cause remained well-hidden (even to a lowly CIA field agent), a shooting at a foreign military installation was impossible to conceal. Four Marines had lost their lives following an intense firefight that was chalked up by the media and military as another unfortunate case of workplace violence, effectively placing the blame on an innocent serviceman.
In reality, four Marines had woken in the early hours of a cool April morning, marched to the holding cells for special cases, unlocked the doors, then promptly turned their guns on one another and started shooting. When nearby Marines had responded to the gunfire, all seven outliers had run from the crime scene. One of the outliers had picked a pistol off a fallen soldier, and that’s all it had taken. The firing had commenced, and when the smoke cleared, almost half of the outliers and a handful of Marines had been put to rest for good.
Kovic remembered the reports well. “The shootings had nothing to do with the official report and everything to do with Project THEIA.”
“I am afraid so, señor.”
“Let me guess: they skipped the Faraday cages.”
Ramírez nodded in approval. “You know your government all too well, Mr. Kovic. We sent strict instructions to our intelligence liaison at Gitmo, and he effectively took everything into consideration. File Thirteen, otherwise known as the wastebasket. That’s where I suspect our instructions went.”
“And without housing the outliers in prison cells lined with electromagnetic shielding—”
“—They were free to dream at their hearts’ content.”
Kovic propped his legs on the desk, put his hands behind his head, and watched the scene play out on the concrete wall behind Ramírez. “Damn. Can you imagine being on the opposite end of someone’s sadistic nightmare like that?”
“I can, señor.”
“That’s right. You were in Costa Rica when all hell broke loose.”
“But that facility was state of the art . . .”
“That was different,” Ramírez said. “A freak accident during transport. Paul Freeman had yet to be verified as an outlier. Tanner was taking him to the surface when he attacked one of the guards. The other knocked him out cold outside of the protected cells, and that was when he apparently dreamed of his escape.”
“Never ceases to amaze me,” Kovic said. “To have that kind of god-like power. You know, I tried Ocula once. Best sleep I ever had, but no dreams at all. Reminded me of anesthesia. Out in a flash, back awake eight hours later with no sense that any time had passed at all.”
“It is an incredible drug, and a valuable weapon. That is for sure.” Ramírez leaned forward. “Which brings us to the Sturgis situation. Couldn’t the agency just buy the man out?”
“Believe me, Roberto, if there was a way we could make this go away with a check, we would.” Kovic looked around the dimly lit concrete bunker Ramírez called his office. “Personally, I think this entire operation is destined to fail. A Hail Mary. One last desperate attempt to get Ocula off the market.”
“Lancaster believes swaying the chiefs at the FDA and DEA is the only way to get the drug blacklisted. This is the first true long-distance test of Ocula’s power. You should be excited to be a part of this.” Ramírez seemed quite pleased with himself, his soft smile communicating his true intentions. It was clear the man loved playing the mad doctor.
Kovic put his feet down and got serious. He asked, “But do you think Lancaster’s objective here is even possible?”
“Oh yes. It is very possible. There are just many, many variables we are trying to work through now.”
“Such as?”
“Conditioning is a big one. For the last forty-eight hours we have subjected the remaining four outliers to a nonstop barrage of propaganda involving the dangers of Ocula. It’s enough exposure to drive anyone mad, but there is still no guarantee our stream of content will play out in their minds according to plan. By their very nature, dreams are notoriously unpredictable.”
“Trying to control the uncontrollable. It’s what got Tanner and Doyle killed.”
“Perhaps,” Ramírez conceded, “but our government simply cannot ignore such powerful technology.”
“What about range?”
Ramírez waved a hand. “Not an issue. That is the beauty of Skyline, jefe. The converted television tower at the top of the mountain will give us the ability to broadcast the outliers’ neural activity up to one hundred and fifty miles away.”
That’s cutting it close, thought Kovic. “Both the FDA and DEA heads live in D.C. That’s almost three hours away—”
“It will work, Mr. Kovic. We are taking every precaution to ensure a satisfactory result.”
Kovic stood up to leave. “Well, at least you’re confident, Roberto. Let’s hope this isn’t all for nothing.”
“You worry too much, señor. Believe me, by the time this is all over, George Sturgis won’t even know what hit him.”
Chapter 20:
The Run-In
A soft breeze rolled across the Savannah River, rippling the murky water’s surface before gusting inland toward a crowded River Street. The summer tourist season was wrapping up, but the waterfront was still bustling. Crowds gathered around street musicians blowing horns and strumming guitars. Bar patrons ate and drank and laughed as they packed the ironclad balconies overshadowing the cobblestone street below. A rail split the main drag, with trolleys making their north-and-southbound journeys every twenty minutes. It was still hot on the coast, but the nominal drop in the mercury signaled to the locals that soon the summer would be gone—along with the tourists.
Michelle would love this, thought Paul. Now he was kicking himself for not bringing her along. It probably wouldn’t have been the best thing for Aaron, and this was definitely not a vacation (something he’d had to remind her of at least three times before he left), but he still wished she were there instead of cooped up in Dawa’s monastery with some monk he didn’t even know looking after her. Not that she needed looking after in the first place, but Dawa had insisted she stay behind with his quote, “Most reliable and trustworthy friend.” Paul thought on the quote and then glanced at Donny. Reliable. Trustworthy. Guy sure knows how to pick ‘em.
Paul’s wife loved the fall colors, but hated the cold. So did Savannah business owners. Dropping temps sent a signal that things were about to slow down until the next tourist season, but that didn’t bother the group from Atlanta. The historic town’s three newest arrivals found the cool air a refreshing change from the state capital’s stagnant summer climate. The men stood in a circle by the Savannah waterfront, Paul and Donny listening to the game plan while Dawa laid out the specifics. He held out his phone as they looked over a map of the riverfront.
“We are here,” Dawa said, “in front of the old cotton exchange on River Street. This is near the halfway point of the river walk, so it should be a good starting point. Donny, you will walk east toward Morrell Park. Paul, you will walk west. When you get to MLK Boulevard, turn around and come back. I will hold down the surrounding area and let you both know if I see anyone matching Fenton’s description.” Dawa handed out wallet-sized photos of the pimple-faced teenager. Then he asked, “Does this sound like an effective plan to you, Donald?”
Donny took the photo and looked around, then nodded. “Yeah, Graham. This looks a lot like the place I saw in my dream. If everything plays out the way it did night before last, then Fenton should be close by.”
Paul questioned the statement. “It looks a lot like the place, or it is the place? I hope we didn’t just drive all the way down here to chase a ghost.”
“He’ll be in Savannah, Paul. I’m sure of it.”
That was one fact Dawa could confirm. He’d seen Donny’s deceitful side many times before. This was not one of those times, and the investigator knew it. The mannerisms. Confidence. An unwavering belief the higher plain had actually been reached. If Donny wa
s wrong about Fenton in Savannah, he didn’t know it.
The three men split up to case the one-mile stretch of riverfront real estate in search of a teenager none of them had ever met, armed only with cell phones and a faded booking photo from Fenton’s cybercrime arrest two years earlier. The plan was simple: find Fenton Reed and convince him to come back to Dawa’s compound south of Atlanta. If Donny’s dream was accurate—and Fenton’s hacking skills were everything Floyd County authorities said they were—they might have on their hands the key to bringing Asteria’s offenses to light well before the Sunday shows aired.
The picture in Paul’s hand was from two years prior, and teenagers had a tendency to grow like weeds. He squinted down and analyzed the kid’s features, then looked up and into the crowd. People were everywhere. Kids held balloons while parents did their best to keep them corralled. Retirees walked in groups and took pictures of every single brick building and ironwork and barge they passed. Young couples held hands and strolled down the cobblestone street at a snail’s pace.
The crowds moved slowly and were in no hurry to get to the west side of the street. Paul stepped on his tiptoes to look over a sea of heads. The crowd was massive. Finding a pale teenager in this mess would be like finding a needle in a haystack.
Toward the east, Donny took the sidewalk opposite the river, sticking close to the towering brick buildings that housed coffee shops and restaurants and bars and books. The ironwork balconies were filled to the brim with tourists and provided a little shade to the sidewalk below. He watched lines of people steadily moving in and out of each storefront and marveled at the masses.
One look down at the faded police photo of Fenton Reed, and the same doubts that had overwhelmed Paul soon filled Donny’s head. What if the dream was bogus? He didn’t want to believe it—especially considering minute details like the jump drive he had been instructed to mention to Dawa. But then there was the possibility that Donny had concocted everything in his head without even realizing it. After all, he already knew Dawa was going to check Fenton’s old apartment for signs of life, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to think the investigator would return with a jump drive or some other piece of electronic evidence.