Controller: Controller Trilogy, Book 1

by Stephen W Bennett

  “What I’m saying is,” Brogan said, finally cutting to the chase, “I’m under direct orders to keep all BII agents close to Washington.”

  Grayson started an angry reply, “And what I’m saying, Sir…,” but Brogan raised a hand to cut him off when he continued talking, preventing the Superintendent from hearing what he didn’t want to be said by Dan within his hearing.

  “Dan, you’ve been rushed into one field trip after another and suffered a personal family tragedy. You were just in Chicago for a long work week with only time off to sleep. You deserve some personal time. I don’t need to know what you do in your free time, so I’m going to assume you stayed close to Washington, as I was ordered to tell every BII agent to do. In this era of rapid transportation, close is relative. It’s a small world. Understand?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’ll use my time off wisely. Thank you.”

  He started towards his rental car, not even taking time to pack.

  Remembering that he and other BII agents, traveling armed, had at times been assumed to be Federal Air Marshals or a FAM by some TSA security checkers at airports, he called Gorka for his assistance, to take advantage of that misconception.

  “Mike, I need a favor, a Compeller, and a ride to the airport, fast.” A brief conversation ensued, and while he waited for Mike, Grayson checked flight schedules.

  Their federal agent ID’s would have gained them entry into the TSA office in the Dulles airport Terminal, but it went faster when Gorka mentally compelled someone inside the secured limited access door to let them in, and guide them to the TSA supervisor on duty.

  A surprisingly short time later, Grayson walked out of the TSA office with his friend, and they went in different directions.

  “Good hunting, Dan. Be careful.”

  “Thanks, I owe you.”

  “If we still go to Israel, promise not to stomp my instep and we’re even.”

  “You got it.” He waved with the hand holding his cockpit access authorization, the other hand holding a FAM badge. The owner of purloined badge wouldn’t miss it right away and would forget where it was for days. A BII badge, even if he had written authorization to ride in the cockpit of an airliner, is not normal and would generate questions from the pilots. The badge and cockpit authorization moved him by the TSA check without a search, and his BII government photo ID with a hologram was marked as Prechecked.

  Grayson stopped at the flight operations office of the airline he’d found with the earliest flight that would get him near Louisville, a flight to Cincinnati. There, he talked his way into a second leg for a connecting shuttle flight for the short hop between the cities, saving him two hours, and the risk of a traffic stop for speeding if he drove the nearly 100-miles. He claimed he was flying in the cockpit now rather than back in the cabin of possibly full flights because he was connecting with a flight out of Louisville for a duty flight. He said he was replacing another marshal who’d had a family emergency.

  He stepped off the commuter aircraft in Louisville, thanked the captain and first officer for squeezing his large frame into the small seat behind them for the flight. He had sensed the mental message Stacy had reported when they were at least ten miles away from the city. He recognized the mind that generated the message, and like Stacy, sensed when the playback loop restarted with a more forceful feeling, and after nearly three minutes, had softened to a more placid compulsion. Then it restarted.

  Stiles was, in Grayson’s opinion, conditioning every mind in range to his presence, providing them with a warm and trusting feeling for the person they envisioned. It positively repulsed Grayson, who knew the monstrous person that sent the thoughts. However, people who didn’t know what he was or what he looked like probably substituted some face or composite image they affiliated with the sense of trust for this imagined person.

  In a cynical thought, Grayson wondered if some deeply religious people might envision a God-like visage, or perhaps one of the traditional and fictitious renditions of what artists had believed Jesus looked like, bearded with flowing hair and robes. The feeling Stiles wanted from his future puppets was worshipful, and the loop started with strong emotions and then softened as the recording neared the end. There were no specific words Grayson sensed, only the emotional tone, which hinted at the love and devotion this person deserved, and that he would reward those that believed in him.

  If this mind control broadcast went on for days, Grayson could envision nearly everyone in transmission range being thoroughly indoctrinated to believe in his message, and accept what he told them even when he wasn’t using compulsion. Was he trying to form a new religion?

  Grayson quickly rejected that idea. Stiles relished fear and obedience more than he did affection. It was merely part of an experiment to see if he could build a large core of devoted, brainwashed puppet-like followers. People that would be willing to follow and protect him under any circumstance, and do things for him even when he wasn’t actively mentally directing them.

  Grayson remembered how some of the people in Seoul behaved after they had received intensive suggestions implanted, which caused them to jump in front of tanks when Agent-X sent a cue for them to act. Stiles might perhaps want to become a messiah-like figure or at least a deeply respected leader with mindless devoted followers. If this worked locally, he could place new transmitters in a widening circle. No need to personally direct people if they would do things that benefit you by their self-directed actions. He could always use direct Control when he needed something specific done.

  He’d called Stacy while he was changing planes in Cincinnati, and she’d reported no change in the Louisville signal, but the fainter Jeffersonville transmissions were more intermittent and spotty where Stacy was. That suggested Stiles was moving around and using direct control of Susceptibles and Tools on the other side of the river.

  Jan had called Casey home from work, and Stacy told him that after imparting immunity to them, both could sense the Louisville mental message as being obviously external to their minds. The effect wore off after roughly a half hour at their distance from the transmitter, but the merging of the external thoughts with their own was something they could feel when it started to happen. Alerted watch for this effect, they told Stacy. Without her periodically sending her Immune ability to them, they would eventually become disciples

  In the absence of specific commands from Stiles, everyone in the region was going about their daily functions as usual. They were unaware their minds were being preconditioned by someone that would make use of their programmed devotion and trust.

  While Dan waited to pick up a rental car, he called Stacy again. She answered instantly.

  “Where are you, Dad?”

  “I’m at the airport, honey. Tell your Aunt and Uncle they should head out towards Elizabethtown. If they travel at least twenty-five miles from Louisville, they should be outside that transmitter’s effective range. That’s to keep them safe when I try to stop the transmission.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “I’ll locate it first, and then decide what I can do. Like you told me, the directionality appears to come from an elevated position in the downtown region. I’m a mile or so closer than you are, and I think the antenna is on a roof of one of the tall buildings downtown. I felt it as we flew in over the city. That isn’t where Stiles is since I briefly sensed his second transmission from Jeffersonville. I want to stop the recorded signal before he can use the transmitter to trigger mass riots like happened in Seoul. After that, I’m going after him, and I’ll put an end to him.”

  “Watch out, Dad. He tried to use Mom and Carl against me.”

  “I’m working alone, and I won’t advertise I’m coming.”

  “If he isn’t in that building, how will you find him?”

  “I briefly felt another signal from Jeffersonville before we landed when our flight path passed over the river. He was Controlling a Tool to make them drive someone to an unspecified location they both knew, the house
by the park is what Stiles thought to him. The Jeffersonville transmission faded as I landed, but it was always weaker than the one below me as we flew over downtown. The intermittent and weaker signal must be from a portable unit he carries with him. Every time he uses it to send a new command, I’ll get closer to him.”

  “Dad, when you shut off his main signal he’ll know someone from the BII is looking for him.”

  “Stiles doesn’t have Immune ability, so he may not feel it if the signal ends.”

  She offered words of caution. “You and I are double Immunes who can sense who and where senders are, but we can also transmit our Immunity to others. He’s a double sender, so perhaps he can sense when thoughts come from an external source.”

  “You may be right, but you just gave me a cool idea if I find his transmitter. I just walked up to my rental car, so send your Aunt and Uncle out of harm’s way before Stiles starts riots, then get in my car and follow them. Stiles has had time to trace other family ties to us. He could send a Tool there with a gun.”

  Grayson headed towards the downtown Louisville skyline, his senses homing in on the directionality with each mile. His assumption of which tall building it was became a certainty, and in twenty-five minutes he parked in its underground garage.

  The mental signal strength was potent here at the center of radiation, and Grayson decided not to approach building security or maintenance to get their assistance to reach the roof, where he felt sure he’d find the antenna. He’d have to show his ID to them, and that might be a plausible trigger for them to initiate an attack on a BII agent. He could project Immunity first, but if Stiles had planted hired help that was also a Tool, making them immune wouldn’t eliminate their loyalty to an employer they willingly supported.

  He went to a bank of six elevators that served the upper floors and rode one to the highest floor they served, two levels below the top floor. He verified before he started up that there were two stairwells, one on each side of the elevator landing. Either would probably provide roof access, but they would be locked at the top. Tall buildings tended to draw jumpers.

  Getting those doors opened is where security or maintenance personnel would be able to help, had he felt trustful enough to show them his ID and ask for access to the roof. Now he’d try his luck with his shoulder, or try to batter a door open with a fire ax or extinguisher he if found those nearby. He chose stairwell number 1 when he stepped out of the elevator.

  He climbed to the next floor where he found a supply closet. He took a mop wringer and its metal handle from a bucket with wheels, and a wooden-handled mop. He thought he might use them for bashing on the door.

  He carried the items up past the next floor of equipment, electrical closets, and telecommunications rooms, to where the last flight of steps ended at a metal clad door, with a window that had wire reinforced glass near the top. He looked out onto a rooftop in sunlight and a partly cloudy sky. There also was a man sitting on a folding chair looking up at those clouds. He was seated with his right side to the door but appeared to be looking at an airliner on approach to the Louisville airport, passing over the river to the north.

  He wore a white uniform type shirt and gray work pants, and there was a ring of keys on a lanyard at his hip. That marked him as possible building maintenance. The pistol handle protruding from his waistband marked him as a Tool for Stiles, guarding the transmitter.

  Seeing the white uniform shirt, Grayson had an idea. He quietly set down the items he’d carried up with him, and quickly went back down to the supply closet. He shed his suit coat, and removed his tie and opened the collar of his white shirt. He removed a gray cotton overall from a hook. Instead of inserting his legs into the bottom part, thus enclosing his waist, he only slipped his arms inside and snapped the lower catches closed below his chest to his waist, leaving his white shirt and collar exposed, and his waist free.

  He drew his 9 MM from its shoulder holster and slipped it into his rear right waistband, pushing the overall’s dangling legs to the side, with his gun handle out of sight but quickly accessible. Looking around, he found something he could to add to his ensemble, to support the story he was constructing on the fly. He plucked a white first aid kit with a red cross on the front hanging on a wall clip and checked its solid white backside. As he reclimbed the stairs, he considered the improvised story he’d use.

  When he reached the door, he took a quick peek to verify the man remained seated. The guy was now looking out across the river towards Indiana. Despite the sun, a chilly November breeze whipped his hair this far above the city.

  Grayson held the mop in his left hand with the mop head at the top, and the first aid kit in his right hand. He sent his mental message to the man.

  Empty your mind, ignore outside thoughts. Nobody can control your mind.

  He saw the man lean against the chair back, so Immunity was presumably in place. It was time to try his plan. Otherwise, forcing his way through the door would become more than difficult.

  He used his left toe to kick at the base of the door several times, and called out loudly, knowing his words would be a bit muffled.

  “Hey! Stiles sent me up with your lunch. You want something hot to eat?” He held the First Aid kit higher, showing only the white back side.

  The man shot to his feet, his right hand on the gun butt. He looked at the window and saw Grayson’s face looking back, a white box in his right hand.

  “What? Nobody comes out here.”

  “I don’t want out in that cold damp wind. I brought you fried chicken, a thermos of hot coffee, and some cake from the restaurant in the lobby. Stiles said I had to bring you some food.”

  “Who the Hell are you?”

  “Delbert Stanton. I’m a custodian for the ground floor businesses. I gotta get back to moping the lobby floor.” He showed the damp mop head through the window now. For a custodian to carry his mop all the way to the roof might seem stupid, but he thought it lent credence to his image as a low-level flunky.

  “Do ya want the food or not? I ain’t got all day.”

  “You bring enough for Lester? If I’m hungry, I know Goddamned well his fat ass is feeling starved.”

  Grayson sensed his ploy was working, and his persona accepted but hearing that “Lester” would want something to eat told him the other stair top also had a door guard. He took a hint from the unflattering description of the other guard.

  “Yeah, but I can’t deliver food you both at the same time. Stiles wants the doors watched all the time. If you ain’t hungry yet, I’ll go to the other stairs and give both lunches to him. I’m sure he can eat it all. Stiles won’t give a shit, and I know I don’t.”

  “Take a step back. I’ll unlock the door, and you hand the box through to me.”

  “OK. I’ll go down a couple of steps.”

  Grayson simply crouched lower than the window and poised there waiting for the door to open.

  He heard a click, but the man warned him, “I have a gun. Stay back, or I’ll use that frigging mop to clean up the mess after I blow your brains out. Hand me the lunchbox when I open the door enough. Then get your ass down the steps.”

  “OK. Jesus, what a pain in the ass you are. If Stiles didn’t scare me, I’d tell you to piss off and starve.”

  There was a louder click, and Grayson saw, through the small crack between the door and frame, the latch was sliding, and he prepared himself.

  The door pulled open five inches, and the man said, “Hand me the box.”

  A hand appeared halfway up the door gap. Grayson pushed the box forward into the gap just below the hand and dropped it part way through the opening, blocking the door from closing.

  He said quickly, “Sorry. It slipped.”

  “You clumsy…,” he didn’t get to finish his insult because it changed into a cry of pain when Grayson, gripping the stair rail for leverage, slammed his left shoulder against the metal clad door. It smacked hard into the right side of the crouching man’s head, knocking h
im backward.

  Continuing through the door, pushing it wider, he shoved the man’s feet and legs aside as he thrust the mop head and handle in his left hand into the man’s face, while he pulled his gun from his waistband and rushed out onto the roof. He dropped down hard to his right knee, the knee joint planted right in the sprawled man’s solar plexus, driving the wind from his lungs. The mop blocked the man’s vision as Grayson’s left hand grabbed the gun in the flailing man’s right hand.

  Forcing the arm back, he placed his gun’s muzzle on the man’s forehead just as his face twisted free of the sour-smelling damp mop strands, gasping for a breath of desperately needed air.

  Grayson gave him a nasty smile, “I’ll be the one using this frigging mop to clean up the mess if you shout or struggle. Nod your head, or I’ll kill you.”

  The man grew still except for his heaving effort to breathe, but he nodded slightly.

  “Let go of your gun.”

  The man opened his right hand, and let him pull the revolver free. Grayson, keeping his eyes locked on the other man’s eyes, fumbled briefly with the other weapon to insert it into his left side waistband, the lower half of the overall getting in his way. He never glanced away for even an instant; sure the desperate man would make a move if he did. Stiles didn’t forgive mistakes or failure by his Tools.

  Grayson rose and stood carefully, stepping clear of the man’s legs, his gun held steady on his captive. The wind whipped the legs of the overall, but the rooftop air handlers and the housing structure where the two stairs made their exits onto the roof offered some shelter from a stiff breeze, on a partly sunny day with the temperature in the low fifties.

  He was about to order him to call for “Lester” when a flicker of the man’s eyes was all the warning needed.