by Tom Clancy
“Excellent idea, General,” Ventura said.
When Smith was a few yards ahead of them, Morrison said, “How are you going to explain a Chinese agent coming here to see me?”
“What, a turncoat chink double-agent? We’re feeding false information to our gook enemies, Doctor, you know that. The general understands how espionage works. He keeps his ears open.” Ventura tapped his own ear, and hoped that the man would remember what he’d said about being watched and listened to.
Morrison remembered. “Ah. Yes, I see you’re right. A man in the general’s position would know these things.”
“Of course. Hell of a soldier, Bull Smith, and a credit to the Race.” He turned slightly so that Morrison’s head would block any camera that might see his face, and gave the man a quick wink.
He also reached around and adjusted the paddle holster in his waistband. The general’s people were probably fairly loyal, not counting the undercover federal ops that must have infiltrated by now; still, Condition Orange applied here, just as it did everywhere else. If need be, he could pull the Coonan from concealment and get off two shots in about a second. Not a patch on John Wesley Hardin out of a hip-slung rig, maybe, but still pretty damned fast from under a vest. And until they got inside with Smith, his people would have his back covered.
So far, so good. Pretty soon, though, it was going to get a lot more interesting.
16
Saturday, June 11th
Washington, D.C.
The voice was female, sexy, throaty, and designed so that everything it said seemed like an urgent request to go to bed with it: “Alex? We have a Priority One Com. Alex? We have a Priority One Com. Alex—?”
“All right, I heard you already! Computer answer page off, please.”
Next to him, voice thick with sleep, Toni said, “I thought you were going to change that voice.”
“I haven’t been able to figure out a way around Jay’s program.”
“And you’re supposed to be the head of Net Force.”
“Yeah, well, Jay is the best programmer in Net Force, now isn’t he?” To the computer, Michaels said, “Answer com, visual off.”
“Hey, Boss.”
Speak of the devil. “What, Jay?”
“Sorry to bother you at home this early, but you said I should let you know if I got something on this, uh, Chinese business. Well, I think you might want to see this.”
Michaels looked at the clock. Too early. “All right. You want to download it here?”
“Probably not the best idea, Boss. It needs telling.”
Michaels sighed. “I’ll be at the office in an hour.”
When Jay was off the com, Michaels turned to Toni. “Another crisis.”
“I remember them.”
“Why don’t you come with me?”
“I quit, remember?”
“Your job is waiting for you — I haven’t hired anybody to replace you.”
“Let’s hold off on that. I still need to sort all this out.”
He smiled. “I thought we had done that.” He waved at their mutual lack of clothes under the sheet.
“No, we resolved the personal issue. I’m still working on the business stuff.”
“Come along as a visitor, then.”
“No, you go ahead. I think I’m going to sleep in.”
“Be here when I get back?”
“Maybe.”
They both grinned.
Quantico, Virginia
Michaels leaned back. “Okay, you got me down here. Speak.”
Jay said, “Well, I can tell you the theory. Still doesn’t prove that it works.”
“I left a warm bed to come hear this, Jay. I take your point. Go.”
“All right. Background stuff: Generally speaking, the human brain operates over a fairly small bioelectrical frequency range, and while there is some overlap, these are usually divided into four parts:
“The mental state Beta, sometimes called ‘beta waves,’ is from 13 to 30 Hz. This is the so-called ‘normal’ level of awareness. At the top end, at around 30 Hz or a bit higher, you have states of agitation — anger, fear, stress, etc. — but most conscious human thinking is done in this range.
“Below Beta is the Alpha state, from 8 to 13 Hz, and this is normally associated with a relaxed, mellow state of mind, kind of daydreamy, but with an increased ability to concentrate. This frequency is easily achieved by such things as meditation or self-hypnosis. For more than forty years there have been devices — biofeedback, or ‘brain wave synthesizers’—that help produce Alpha, and you can pick up one in any large electronic or new age store. Some people supposedly can do it just by rolling their eyes back in their sockets.”
Michaels nodded. He’d read about this stuff somewhere along the way. It sounded vaguely familiar. “I’m still awake.”
Jay continued: “Beneath Alpha is Theta, at 4 to 7 Hz, and this is generally a state of very deep concentration, such as advanced meditation or devoted prayer, and it includes intense waking memories, and lucid dreaming.
“Under Theta, we have Delta waves, from 0.5 to 7 Hz, and these frequencies were once thought to occur only in deep sleep. Certain people, however, such as Indian yogi adepts or Tibetan priests, have been able to produce Delta states on demand, and while appearing to be asleep, fully participate in and recall conversations later when they are ‘awake.’
“There are some variations, and some people run higher or lower, but that’s pretty much the basic model.”
“All right,” Michaels said. “So now I know about brain frequencies.”
Jay nodded. “Over the years, various agencies of various governments have tried broadcasting certain extremely low-frequency radio waves in an effort to alter human consciousness. In the fifties, the Russians had something called Lida, a machine that supposedly rendered people susceptible to hypnosis. The North Koreans had variations of this during the Korean War, used on American POWs. They didn’t work very well, but that was not for want of trying.
“For years, back in the old Soviet Union, the Russians beamed microwaves at the American Embassy in Moscow, centered on the ambassador’s office. The CIA discovered this in 1962, and some effects on various ambassadors were speculated upon, including a leukemia-like illness, and a couple of deaths from cancer. Nothing proven.
“In 1976, ham radio operators around the world noticed a peculiar signal originating in the Soviet Union that came to be known as the ‘Russian Woodpecker,’ from the staccato way it interfered with their radios. This signal was thought to come from big Tesla transmitters, and was thought by the CIA to be designed to depress or irritate the recipient.”
“Tesla? Like the Tesla coil?”
Jay grinned. “Let me tell you about Nikola Tesla. There are some who believe the Tunguska Event — an explosion estimated in the 10-to-15-megaton range that blew down half a million acres of pine forest in Siberia in 1908—was either a test — or a malfunction — of one of Tesla’s giant transmitters.”
“I thought it was a comet,” Michaels said.
“You probably think Oswald shot JFK, too, Boss. Merely a cover story, according to the conspiracy theorists. Some say it was an alien spaceship, others a runaway black hole, others a speck of antimatter, but, hey, my money is on Tesla. He was a certified genius. Aside from being the guy who came up with and patented the idea of alternating current, thus helping George Westinghouse to become filthy rich, he created working fluorescent lights long before Edison’s uncredited lab monkey made the less efficient incandescent bulb. Tesla patented all kinds of stuff. His work was the basis for the X-ray machine. He sued Marconi — and won — for swiping his work to create radio. Tesla came up the ideas that would later become radar and tomography.
“Listen, in 1904, in Colorado Springs, he built a big power generator for his wireless power transmission experiments. Using what he called ‘terrestrial stationary waves,’ he lit two hundred lightbulbs twenty-five miles away by pumping juice into t
he ground, no wires. He could generate artificial lightning bolts of a couple to three hundred thousand watts that were more than a hundred and thirty-five feet long; you could hear the thunder fifteen miles away in town. He was waaay ahead of his time, so he certainly had the smarts and gear to knock down a few trees. It would have been the last in a long line of tests that — some say — included sinking the French ship Iena by electrical bolts generated miles away.”
“Apparently Tesla didn’t much care for the French,” Alex said, smiling.
“He didn’t care much for anybody,” Jay said. “Anyway, in 1906, J. P. Morgan financed Tesla, and he built a bigger generator than the one in Colorado, this was on Long Island. Eighteen stories tall, topped with a huge metal globe that weighed more than fifty-five tons. Eventually he and Morgan had a falling out, and he made a couple of bad choices, so he ran out of money before he proved it could work. According to his theory, you could focus the power just right, and turn it into what would essentially be a death ray with the power of a small nuke, and send it anywhere on the planet by bouncing it off the ionosphere.”
“Fascinating, Jay. Are we getting to the point any time today?”
“There’s a great story about Tesla going to a bridge with a hammer and a stopwatch, tapping the metal at precise intervals, and damn near taking the bridge down with the Galloping Gertie effect. I’m telling you, Tesla was head and shoulders above everybody else of his time.”
“Jay. Hello. Earth to Jay?”
“It’s the same technology, Boss, pumping juice into the air without wires! The HAARP people aren’t doing anything Tesla didn’t think of a hundred years ago.”
“All right, I’m impressed. He was a genius. Get to the point.”
“Well, according to my mole in the CIA — and that’s for the benefit of any CIA ops listening to our conversation, good luck on finding him — even after the demise of the evil empire, the Russians continued their experiments with ELF radiation, using devices that Tesla would have recognized as his own. Ivan hasn’t found the magic combination yet, that we know of. Aside from HAARP, which is the biggest, there are other ‘atmospheric heaters’ like it all over the world, at least a dozen, not counting any somebody might be hiding in the woods somewhere. And using the ionosphere to bounce off of — like playing pool, you can bank the shot — any one of them could be driving the Chinese bonkers — if they’ve figured out the correct frequency to do it. And given what we know, it seems as if somebody might have figured it out.”
“Sounds like science fiction to me.”
“No, that is the point, Boss — it’s old tech, the root stuff. Anybody with some wire and a lot of time on his hands can produce it. It’s the frequency stuff they need, not the hardware. It’s like plug-’n’-play; you don’t need to be a whiz to get it to work. Tesla did the basics a century ago. Certainly a theory we ought to check out.”
“And how do you propose we check it out?”
“Hey, that’s the fun part. We go into the wonderful world of VR and hunt it down on the net. I bet that somewhere, sometime, somebody has put something about this into the ether, and even if they hid it, I’ll find it.”
Michaels nodded. Mind control. A scary thought.
“What about Morrison? Are we checking him out?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m paying his files a visit this afternoon. I’ll get anything anybody knows about Dr. Morrison or my name’s not Lightnin’ Jay Gridley.”
Michaels just shook his head again.
17
Saturday, June 11th
Portland, Oregon
John Howard watched his son watch the boomerang throwers. The contest was going full steam, several events at once, and the air was full of bright plastic bits spinning in all kinds of flight patterns. Outside of computers, this was the first thing that had ever seemed to really attract Tyrone. Well, not counting that little girl who had broken the boy’s heart a few months back. What was her name? Belladonna? It had to happen eventually, of course, and maybe sooner was better than later, but it had been a wrenching experience. And your first heartbreak never went away, not altogether. Howard could remember his own with a clarity he wouldn’t have thought possible more than twenty-five years after it had happened. He’d even told Tyrone about it, trying to ease his son’s heart-sickness. Maybe it had helped. He liked to think that it had, a little.
Ah, yes, beautiful Lizbeth Toland, who had betrayed him at sixteen with his best friend, costing him both of them. It was a lifetime ago, and in the grand scheme of life, it didn’t mean much, a tiny bump in the road, but not something that ever quite went away. Even after all the years, he could still summon up the sadness he’d felt, though it had lost the painful sting it had once had.
Ah, well, it was the path not taken, and he didn’t have any regrets about the one he had gone down instead. If he’d wound up with Lizbeth, then he’d never have met Nadine, never fathered Tyrone, and he would have missed entirely the life he enjoyed. It was possible that other life could have been better, but he couldn’t see how. He wouldn’t trade Nadine and their son for all the money, fame, and power in the world.
He smiled at Tyrone and his new girlfriend, and their enthusiasm for this whirly-twirly sport. Fortunately, Little Nadine didn’t seem to be evoking the same sexual response in Tyrone that Bella had; they were more like pals, and Howard was happy to see that. Plenty of time to play that game later.
After a career in the service, first the military, then taking over the military arm of Net Force, finally rising even in this bastard service to general, he now felt a need to spend more time with his family.
It seemed like yesterday that he’d gotten married, a few hours ago that Tyrone had been born, and here he was already a teenager. It would be but a blink of an eye before the boy was off to college, getting married himself, maybe having children. One day, Howard would look down, and there would be this little version of Tyrone standing knee-high to him, saying “Grampa! Grampa!”
It made a man stop and consider his life, such thoughts.
“Where did you go?” his wife said.
“I was just thinking about my grandson.”
“Oh, really? Something you haven’t told me, John?”
“No, no, I meant Tyrone’s son.”
“Lord, he’s only thirteen. Let’s give him a few more years before we start asking for grandchildren!”
He put his arm around her. “Okay. Two years, Granny.”
She leaned her head against his chest. “Nobody is ever going to call me ‘Granny,’ not in this life, no way, no how.”
Coeur d’Alene, Idaho
It sure hadn’t taken long, Morrison reflected. He’d made the call yesterday, and less than a day later, here was a black limo carrying a Chinese agent pulling to a stop in the hot Idaho afternoon ten feet away from him. He swallowed, his mouth dry.
Standing a few feet away, Ventura had changed into a green T-shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots, and he made no effort to cover the pistol holstered just behind his right hip. He had his thumbs hooked into his front pockets, and looked like a good old boy with nothing to do standing in the sunshine. Morrison couldn’t see Ventura’s eyes behind the man’s sunglasses, but he was more than a little certain his bodyguard was watching the limo with deadly expertise. This had been a good idea, hiring Ventura. He felt a lot better knowing somebody like him was on the job.
Behind them, twenty feet back at parade rest, stood General Smith, flanked by a pair of his men holding assault rifles across their chests.
The limo’s door opened, and a small, balding, round-faced Chinese man wearing a white silk summer suit and soft, gray, leather Italian shoes alighted. He smiled at Morrison and bowed slightly. “Dr. Morrison, I presume?”
Morrison nodded slightly and offered a nervous smile in return.
“I am Qian Ho Wu, but my friends call me ‘Chilly.’ Nice to meet you.” From his voice, the man could have been born and raised in Kansas — there was no trace of a
Chinese accent.
Chilly Wu? Hardly a name to conjure up visions of water torture, was it? He seemed perfectly harmless.
“Mr. Wu. This is my associate, Mr.—”
“—Ventura, isn’t it? Also a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Wu extended his hand, as if to shake Ventura’s hand. Ventura gave him a broad smile, but kept his hand down.
Wu smiled in return, and it seemed as if something had passed between him and Ventura, though Morrison couldn’t tell what it had been.
“Well. Gentlemen. Where can we talk?”
“Why don’t we take you on a tour of the facility,” Ventura said. It was not a question. “A ride around to see the sights.”
“Certainly.” He held his hand out toward the limo.
“We have a car,” Ventura said. He nodded toward one of the special rental units.
Ventura had told Morrison about this before. Inside the car, Smith couldn’t eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Of course,” Wu said. “Somewhere shady my driver can park and wait?”
“Over there under the trees by the garage would be good.”
Wu leaned back into the car and reeled off a fast bit of singsong Chinese.
The driver responded in the same language.
Ventura said, “Sure, there’s a toilet in the garage.”
Wu turned back, one eyebrow raised. “Ah. You speak Mandarin?”
“Not really. A few words I picked up in a restaurant ordering dinner.”
Wu flashed a careful smile, turned back to the driver, and spoke again, and it sounded different to Morrison, though it still seemed to be Chinese.
Again the driver responded.
“That’s okay,” Ventura said, “as long as he doesn’t wander far from the car, he can smoke and stretch his legs. I’ll have one of my people keep an eye on him to make sure nobody bothers him.”
“I see you have a few words of Cantonese, too. You must really enjoy Chinese food. Though wouldn’t it have been a better tactic to pretend ignorance? Perhaps learn something useful?”