by W D County
She pulled my hand toward the destruct button and then let go. My hand hovered over the protective plastic cover. Had the taint twisted her mind? She looked sane. She sounded sane. But desperation strained her voice and face. Suicide didn’t appeal to me. On the other hand, neither did a court-martial, especially if they pinned the deaths of the explorers on me, which seemed likely.
“Trust me,” she said. She held a stuffed tiger in one hand.
Fuck. I flipped the cover open and hit the button. A hiss as loud as Niagara Falls assaulted our ears. The bite of high-octane aerosol filled our nostrils. I tensed, ready for the whomp of ignition. Seconds from now we’d be ashes.
Zita wrapped her arms around me. “You might want to close your eyes.”
Chapter 54
The interrogation took place in a SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—located in a lower level of the NSA headquarters at Fort Meade. The nine-by-twelve-foot room had a single massive door and no windows. Gray, sound-absorbing fabric covered the walls. A glowing white ceiling provided uniform illumination. A dark, rubberized floor minimized vibration and prevented static electric charges from building up. Silent ventilation kept the room cool and dry. An oval table of polished oak took up the center of the room, surrounded by twelve executive office chairs.
The inquisitors sat on one side of the table. They included the Richard Tombs, National Security Advisor; Admiral Clay Turner, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; Aaron Quell, Director of the National Security Agency; Walter Unger, Director of National Intelligence; and Faye Ballard, Secretary of Homeland Security, who was the only female in the room.
The subject of the grilling, Gordon Maxwell, sat across from them. A thin sheen of sweat on his forehead betrayed the man’s anxiety. Empty chairs to his left and right added an ominous ambience.
Colonel Tyrone Hauser sat on the side of the table with the interrogators, but he knew his own role in the affair was under close scrutiny. He’d gotten rid of the most damning evidence of his part in the fiasco, but everyone in the room knew the biohazard facility was his baby, and nothing went on there without his knowledge and consent. Richard Tombs, the current National Security Advisor, had privately warned Hauser to refrain from volunteering information.
Tombs chaired this meeting. He slid a handwritten letter across the polished oak table toward Maxwell. The single sheet of paper was sealed in transparent plastic. “You’ve read the letter, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s your handwriting?”
“Appears to be.”
“But you claim to have no memory of writing it.”
“It’s not a claim. I have no memory of it. I remember accepting an offer to head up a multidisciplinary team on a top-secret research project. Then everything is a blank until waking up in a hospital ward at Fort Detrick.”
“Traces of an experimental drug, memerase, were found in your blood. Did you authorize Dr. Harrison to administer that injection?”
“I don’t know a Dr. Harrison. The letter says I did.”
Tombs snorted in disgust. “Go back to your office while we deliberate.”
When Maxwell left, Ballard’s deceptively soft contralto filled the room. “A Marine and two civilians dead. And for what? This is bad press, and we need to put a spin on it.”
Admiral Turner responded in a gravelly baritone. “Acceptable collateral damage.”
“The truth,” Tombs said, “is that a hostile entity, presumably the Russians, tested a mind control weapon capable of inducing coherent mass hallucinations. Three people died while responding to imaginary threats.”
The assembled faces reflected various degrees of doubt.
“Sgt. Reardon was a hero,” Hauser said.
Tombs flashed him a warning stare, an unspoken order to stick to the script. The look lasted only a second before Tombs resumed speaking. “You’ve all seen the surveillance videos. The videos show the team acting in peculiar ways, like actors pretending to have superpowers, or having discussions with unseen people. Dubov was right. It was all a hallucination, though it felt real when they were trapped inside it. The lack of physical evidence supports her theory. A search of the facility found no ‘healing potion,’ no resurrected John Dubov, no teleportation device. Harrison’s skin is not gray. Never was. Lee does not manifest psychic powers. The missing Antarctic explorers were not found in the facility.”
Secretary Ballard sighed impatiently. “What about a cover story for the public?”
Director Quell cleared his throat. “We have a story that covers all the bases. First, Fletcher died of an infection received during filming exploration of an Antarctic ice cave. The three explorers died when they fell into a fissure in that same cave. Shifting ice made it impossible to recover the bodies. We have a report to that effect ready to deliver to the French ambassador.”
Tombs nodded. “And our research team?”
“Second, we tell Maxwell and the team that they were willing participants in a study of a new amnesia-inducing drug.”
Barely plausible, Hauser thought. But most people are gullible enough to buy it.
Quell continued, “We can forge their signatures on consent forms. Substantial deposits to their bank accounts will explain the motivation for agreeing to the study.”
Unger said, “What about Ferrari? And Reardon?”
“Third point,” Quell said, “is that Ferrari’s unique brain structure proved overly sensitive to the memerase, which triggered a psychotic break. She released weaponized anthrax into the observation room and threatened to spread it to the entire facility. To stop that, Reardon was forced to implement the destruct protocol, killing both of them.”
Hauser nodded to himself. This could actually work.
Secretary Ballard pursed her lips and then said, “Maxwell knows too much. The letter.” The chill in her voice carried deadly inference. This was a woman few men would dare to cross.
Quell shook his head. “He’s one of my people.”
Admiral Turner turned to him. “Just more collateral damage.”
Tombs said, “No. I think an adjustment to the basic story will do. Aaron, tell Maxwell that Dubov hypnotized him into believing the shit in that letter as a test to see if implanted false memories would be erased by memerase. Praise him for showing initiative in writing the letter.”
Quell nodded in relief. “Will do.”
Secretary Ballard frowned. “Fine. But this whole issue of mind control bothers me. Something had to be real.”
“Granted,” Tombs said. “The taint was an infection of some kind. It grew in the presence of light and color, but wasn’t contagious. Composition unknown. Origin unknown. No samples remain, and the team’s observations and conclusions were influenced by their own immersion into the illusionary world.” He turned to Hauser. “Colonel, what else do we know?”
Hauser cleared his throat. Remember the script. The best lies hide inside a veneer of truth. “We know that visual exposure to the color patterns of the taint induces semi-permanent changes to the brain that result in the ability of the subconscious to receive external signals. The signals create a shared illusionary world superimposed on the real world. Visual exposure can be either live or recorded. Fortunately, the illusions can be stopped temporarily by electric shock, as shown by the Pavlok watches used by Dubov. Permanent elimination of the illusionary world can be accomplished by removing all memory of the taint patterns, which seems to reset the brain and remove the ability to detect the signals.”
“No lingering effects on the team?” asked Admiral Turner.
Hauser forced himself not to glance at Tombs. “None, Admiral. The surviving team members are healthy, both mentally and physically.”
“What was the nature and source of the signals?” asked Quell.
“Subliminal, but otherwise unknown,” Hauser replied.
Turner complained, “Electrical power went out at the crucial time. We don’t see the final resolution. We lack
proof of what happened in those final minutes.”
Tombs shrugged. “By then the entire team, except for the Marine, was under the influence of the taint. Fletcher planned to unleash the mind control weapon by exposing millions of people to the taint through a televised broadcast. Reardon tried to prevent Ferrari from releasing Fletcher from the isolation vault. He failed. Reardon then chose the failsafe option: he sealed the observation room and initiated the destruct sequence. Within seconds, Fletcher, Ferrari, and Reardon were completely incinerated.
“Meanwhile, in the conference room, Maxwell gained momentary clarity when he received an electric shock from Kapoor’s jury-rigged power supply. He took immediate action to issue Pavlok shock watches to the team, and he directed Dr. Harrison to administer memerase to everyone. Not knowing Fletcher was dead, Maxwell locked the conference room to prevent Fletcher from making the broadcast. Maxwell had the presence of mind to write a letter explaining all this prior to being injected with the memory-erasing drug.”
Secretary Ballard’s brow furrowed in concentration. “The letter is true but we’re going to tell Maxwell it’s false? Because he was hypnotized?”
“Yes, Madam Secretary,” Tombs said.
“Was this a test? A probe of our defense to an illusionary attack? Can it happen again?”
“There is little danger of recurrence. The threat, after all, is purely in the mind. Susceptibility to the illusions requires an initial exposure to the taint, which no longer exists. Should a future source appear, we can isolate it. Electric shock and memerase offer protection.” Tombs looked at each official in turn. “That about covers it. I don’t see the need to take any action regarding the team. None of them have any memory of their time in the facility, and medical experts assure me the memory loss is permanent. Let’s turn them loose.”
Murmured assents followed.
“Then that concludes our meeting. Colonel, would you mind staying for a moment?”
The other officials filed out, leaving Tombs and Hauser alone in the room.
Hauser said, “Why didn’t you share Ferrari’s positive contributions? She identified the patterns used by the taint, and she created a computer virus that scrambled the subliminal signals and rendered the video recordings of the taint harmless. I have the only uncorrupted copy under tight security.”
Tombs winced. “Keep it that way. Better yet, destroy it.”
“Could be valuable for future research.”
“Tyrone, I don’t want any follow-up done on the taint. You know why.”
Hauser nodded. When others watched surveillance videos of the research team, they saw nothing inexplicable, only people acting out delusions. When he or Tombs watched those same videos, they saw what the team originally saw: John Dubov, the Antarctic explorers, the manifestation of paranormal abilities, amazing feats of healing, all of it. How could the same video show different things to different people? The only factor he and Tombs shared that other people didn’t was the viewing of Fletcher’s original, uncorrupted video. The obvious conclusion was that the taint had altered their minds, making them susceptible to its illusions.
“We can’t afford to take memerase,” Tombs said, “so we keep this absolutely quiet.”
“Yes, sir.” If word got out of their anomaly, they’d become prisoners just like Fletcher had been. Guinea pigs to be studied and probed to learn how exposure to the taint’s patterns had corrupted their brains. Rather than accept such a fate, he’d rather burn to death like Reardon.
Chapter 55
A mild stinging sensation passed through my body, as if every nerve had gone to sleep. No heat. No pain. Did the failsafe equipment fail? An abrupt sense of acceleration left me dizzy, not helped by the jolt of a sudden stop. This couldn’t be death, could it? I opened my eyes.
We stood on the white sand of a tropical beach, shaded by tall palm trees. The air felt warm and smelled of flowers. Small, transparent waves arrived from an infinite blue ocean and lapped gently at the shore, each whoosh of surf on sand whispering a greeting. A bright sun commanded a clear azure sky.
I stared, spellbound by colors that no longer threatened me. Zita held my hand, her face radiant and patient as I tried to find words. “Where... how...”
“An Earth where humans and large predators never evolved. The Awareness gave me the ability to see and travel to other dimensions. We can go anywhere, do anything.”
I shook my head in wonder. Barry had gone to a hell of sorts, and I’d gone to heaven. The reward seemed more than I deserved, certainly more than I’d ever dreamed of receiving. Anywhere, anything. How was such a thing possible? This was a miracle greater than seeing color. I didn’t know what to say, let alone think.
She tossed her top hat to the sand. It landed atop her stuffed tiger. Zita’s lips curled in a devilish grin. “How about a swim while you figure it out?”
Without waiting for an answer, she stripped off her clothes, kissed my lips, and ran naked to the water. I stared at her, the sea, the sky, each vast and magical. Zita’s hair captured color, wind, and waves in her unique style. She beckoned from the waist-deep water, a bare-breasted mermaid offering love to a hard-headed brute.
With somewhat less grace but equal eagerness, I tore off my clothes and followed her. Private Miles came to attention, bobbing awkwardly as I ran, triggering a momentary bout of embarrassment. I figured he’d go to parade rest in the cold water.
Nope. The warm, clear ocean felt buoyant. Energizing. Zita wrapped her arms around my neck and planted kisses all over my face. I pulled her close and our bodies merged. Her legs locked around me. The swell of the waves lifted and lowered us in gentle rhythm. We gasped. We moaned. Our passion transcended sex. I loved this woman.
I laughed and I cried. Inner war no longer raged in ceaseless effort to suppress guilt and fear. The mental dungeons stood empty. For the first time in my life, I felt peace.
About the author
W. D. County (Dave) has a keen appreciation for technology, drawing on experience as a nuclear reactor operator aboard the ballistic missile submarine USS Sam Houston (SSBN 609), a quality assurance manager at the Three Mile Island Nuclear Station, and a developer of custom software for the federal government. His stories have appeared in the e-zine Spinetingler and anthologies Speedloader, Pulp Ink 2, and the Aesthetica Creative Writing Annual 2014.
Dave resides in Lee’s Summit, Missouri with his wife and three cats. When not writing, Dave loves to drive his Miata convertible through the back roads at more or less legal speed. Mostly more.
For more information on the author, check out WDCounty.com and www.Facebook.com/WDCounty