P R O L O G U E
"You have big problems,
son."
Clay was tempted to deliver a
sarcastic retort but held back. Better to play it straight until he could learn
more of what Canning had in mind. "Rascal is on schedule."
The annoyance on the older man’s face was immediate. "I’m not going to play
games with you, son. You
smuggled a top-secret military device out of this building. That alone gets you
For the second time in a very
short morning, Clay decided he’d had
enough. "First of all, unless you’re planning to adopt me, don’t call me ‘son.’ Second, I took nothing out of this building." It was, of
course, a lie; Canning knew it too. But what Canning did not know, and
desperately wanted to know, was whether the device had been used to pick up
what was said in the blimp.
There was a momentary flicker
in Canning’s eyes; it was clear he had not
expected opposition. "You took Rascal out. Twice that I know of."
"Really? Who saw me do it?
You? Your security people? The FBI?"
"You really want to play
it that way?"
Clay was not sure how he wanted to play it. Were it left to him, he would not play it at all. He would transport himself back in time to that fateful decision of two Sundays ago and this time watch the damn game on TV!
CHAPTER 1
Ignoring the mass of humanity that pressed in from all sides, Clay shifted his rear on the cold, wooden seat that would be his for another hour and a half. As far as he could tell there was not one unclaimed spot in a stadium designed to hold better than sixty-five thousand people. And all of them, or so it seemed, were intent upon losing their voice by day’s end--his body was being bombarded by sonic waves.
The volume of noise meant he would have to be careful. One careless swing of Rascal’s dials and he could lose his hearing. He reduced the scope of the antenna and arranged a greater reduction of signal. The filters would take care of the rest.
Twenty-seven-year-old Clayton Robert Iverson was well aware that he should not be anywhere near this stadium. Certainly he should not be here with Rascal. He smiled as he considered the risk, calculated but not serious.
"Screw them all!" With the words came a tug at his confidence, and he stretched his eyes to take in the people around him, relaxing only after it became clear that the ambiance of noise made it unlikely that anyone would hear. He switched his focus to the "camera" sitting on his lap; another series of plays was about to begin and he wanted to be ready.
The readings proved that the unit was still locked on to the Eagles quarterback, a man with enough distinguishing characteristics to make the job of targeting him easy. He was tall and black (when ordered to do so, Rascal could consider skin tone) and thin enough that he could easily be distinguished from the other ten men in the huddle. Whatever that man said would be picked up as clearly as if Clay were sitting inside his helmet. He smiled as the expected words came through.
"Flash left, 41 long on 3"
"Shit!" (Clay could tell that this came from the quarterback’s left side, but he could only guess at who said it.)
"Hey, the man says do; we do."
"Double shit!"
"Look, bunt early. I’ll check you out."
A third voice broke in. "Ten seconds left on the clock!"
"Okay, let’s go!"
Clay’s smile broadened as he watched the players scatter to their respective positions. Never had he enjoyed a game as much as he was enjoying this one. Not only was he getting all the plays beforehand, but he was hearing the scuttlebutt as well, including some colorful expletives from the head coaches as they vented their frustrations along the sidelines. He felt like a member of an elite group, able to share intimacies few ever got to hear about. Hell, not even the owners would come to know what was being said, at least not all of it. He kept the device on to pick up what might come out of the backfield during and immediately after the play. Sometimes that proved as interesting as the calls themselves.
The "device" was the latest marvel to come out of Ezra Electronics, a developer of advanced weapon systems for the military. Clay worked in the most sensitive part of the company, the part that turns theory into reality, generally unconventional reality. Not yet senior enough to command a project of his own, he was nonetheless so well thought of that he was permitted freedoms few engineers his age get to enjoy. The testing of the device, one of the most promising products to come out of Ezra, fell mostly to him, a reward for what he contributed to its design.
Referred to as "Rascal" by those who brought it to life, it was developed at the behest of the National Security Agency who wanted to improve upon the ability of the intelligence community to penetrate the most private of conversations. The result was a refinement on the concept of thermal imaging, used to search out people in the dark. With that and with the help of a tiny but powerful computer, Rascal was able to track an individual wherever he or she might go, even if that individual could no longer be seen. The control unit, or "trigger," was small enough to fit into just about anything an eavesdropper might find convenient to carry: a paperback, a calculator, a radio, even a baseball as long as no one tried to hit it out of the park. Or, as was being proven today, it could fit inside a camera.
Two other pieces of equipment were necessary to complete Rascal’s function. The first was a small disk antenna, its color a soft gray and its center looking as if it had stopped a bullet. The size of an American half dollar, it was small enough to fit into a breast pocket, and when arranged with the bulge pointed outward, it permitted Rascal a field of "vision" that included everything ahead, above and below. Aiming it was no more difficult than keeping that pocket pointed in the general direction of the target.
The second piece of support equipment was a tiny receiver that fit well within the user’s ear--it required tweezers to insert and remove. It also required an exceptionally steady hand; as familiar as Clay was with the system, he had passed some ten minutes of his morning getting it installed. Not necessary to complete its function, but an important part of the system, was a receiver/recorder, this component able to do its job at a great distance. Although it needed to be tested as well, Clay had decided against activating it for today’s game. It was difficult enough smuggling the main components out of the Ezra building; taking this much larger piece along would have invited already curious eyes to take a closer look. Equally unwise would be to leave it on in the lab where an inquisitive colleague might decide to listen in. Clay smiled as he thought about what that colleague would think when he came upon an active recorder and decided to check it out. He would hear coded instructions, ungodly screams, and the most imaginative curses ever devised by man.
"Power 44 on six. And watch your feet this time."
"Up yours."
"Let’s go; break!"
A tinge of guilt wormed its way into Clay’s consciousness, this at the thought of not having told Shelly of his impromptu day off--she would raise hell about the risk he was taking in bringing Rascal along. He wondered if she would call in to Ezra to drop a kiss or a word of intimacy. Today that little game could end in disaster, not so much because of what she might think later--when they got together, he would take care of that--but because the person taking the call might find it curious that one Clay Iverson, scheduled for duty in the lab, was not where he was supposed to be. And that Rascal was not where it was supposed to be.
Such thoughts added nothing to what had been a fun afternoon. Clay re-checked the adjustments on his camera then forced himself to dwell only on what came out of the tiny receiver in his ear.
The first half was over but Clay remained in his seat, unwilling to cycle Rascal down or risk damaging it by exposing himself to the crowds now fighting for every inch of space in stadium ramps and walkways. By now the chill in the air was penetrating his jacket, and he drew in his arms and shook his upper body to ward it off. To accommodate a sagging conscience, he tried formulating a report in his mind, one that would take advantage of these hours of testing without blowing the whistle on the way he chose to go about it. There was too much success here to throw away. For the first time in a real-life situation, Rascal had focused in on a specific individual and followed that individual wherever he chose to go, steadfastly ignoring anything that got in the way. Whoever made use of this expensive toy in the future would be guaranteed a front-row seat to any conversation he elected to join.
While grappling for soul-saving prose, Clay allowed his eyes to drift upward. At first he saw only the products of his private thoughts, but in time he awakened to the fact that he was staring at a blimp slowly circling the stadium in a counter-clockwise direction--the markings on its side identified it as belonging to Goodyear. It was bouncing in and out of low-lying clouds, and the row of moving lights on its lower half, an electronic message board of sorts, was obscured more often than not by those clouds. Odd that it was still there; odd that the people inside did not call it a day and move back to wherever it was that such massive vehicles were kept. But then maybe they had no choice; maybe they were the remote camera for a national broadcast of the game.
Clay realized with a renewed burst of enthusiasm that it was within his power to find out! Pulling the "camera" from his coat pocket, he immediately went to work arranging its tiny dials. He knew it would not be as easy as targeting the Eagles quarterback, whom he could see. Whoever was inside the blimp was invisible to him, which meant he had no physical attributes to relay to Rascal; he would have to proceed on a trial-and-error basis. He plugged in five-feet-nine, one hundred and sixty pounds and between a quarter to three quarters of a mile away, then set the spread of each setting to permit as much slippage as possible--the quality would be lacking, but it was the fastest way to get a fix. Then he set the scope to take in the entire cockpit and to track the airship as it moved. He took care to avoid the blimp’s two engines. Rascal was designed to limit the influx of noise through the ear piece, but with the settings he had chosen, as encompassing as they had to be, what it did allow was far from comfortable. At last satisfied, he looked around, saw that no one was paying him more than an occasional glance, then arranged his body in such a way that the disk antenna in his breast pocket would have no trouble finding the target.
Success came unexpectedly fast, at least to the point of picking up the hint of a male voice. Pleased with himself and with the wizardry of his machine, he worked the scales upward on both size and weight. Then, since Rascal had the target "in sight," he reduced the search area--the improvement in quality was immediate and dramatic. Seconds later, after backing down first on one option then another, then finessing the tracking dial as the characteristics of the target became better known to him, Clay was satisfied that he was listening to the voice of a five-feet-ten-inch male of approximately one hundred and seventy-five pounds. This man was talking to at least one companion, and by the faint sounds reaching Rascal’s "ears," this companion was also a male.
"Gotcha, suckers!" The unintended comment drew a doubtful look from the man on his right, and Clay hastened a smile and a wave of his hand to shake it off. Then he made sure his expression did not reveal his thoughts as he pressed the "lock-on" button that sent Rascal firmly on its mission.
What he heard had nothing to do with the broadcast of a football game.
The men inside the blimp were discussing what had yet to be "tested"--their word. Intrigued by the similarity to his own efforts, Clay’s interest heightened. As time passed, and the words continued to pour through, his concern heightened as well. Whatever these men were "testing," the crowd below them was to play an active part. Clay could not hear the second man clearly, but he was able to pick up an occasional word. Two particularly bothersome ones were "beam" and "targets."
"Okay, but we might learn more if we re-do the side we hit earlier. We’d have control and contrast all in one."
The reply suggested the idea was not a good one. Something about "tainted reaction."
"Understood. I’ll go from the twenty to the fifty, second deck, northwest side."
Clay tried to figure out where that was, finally deciding it was across the field and slightly to the right of where he sat. What was to happen there? More importantly, what had already happened to the group "hit" earlier. He held his breath, hoping to pick up the reply.
"........cameras on.....capture speed...change.....minutes from...."
There was nothing else other than the clatter of men adjusting equipment.
It sounded like something in which he himself might be involved; the terminology and the procedure were similar and thus easily recognized. The people in that blimp were scientists or engineers; they had to be. Their syntax was complex, their diction precise, and their voices soft and lacking in emotion. But what were they after? What were they about to do that would cause a "change" in unsuspecting--and certainly non-consenting--human beings?
"Our choice of sample is a good one, Charles. They’re loud, easily excited, perhaps a hair away from rioting."
"....or brunette?"
"You tell me. Just look at them!"
Clay could hear only a scattering of what was a lengthy reply, but it was enough to verify his guess as to where they were aiming their "beam." He ran his eyes over the area hoping to pick up some clue to what was going on. People were milling about, mostly in an effort to regain their seats for the second half, but they acted not unlike the people on his side of the field. In an instant of panic he looked to his right. Could he have misunderstood; could they have said northeast rather than northwest? That would put him on the fringe of the "test" group. Hell, he might even be part of it! But here as well, nothing stood out as unusual. After some two minutes of silence, the voices returned.
"Apply minimum power; no more than that given to the foxtrot chimps. We want knowledge not an incident."
"...adequate..."
"Granted, but we can adjust the beam as we go. For now my greater concern is to keep from being obvious."
Obvious? What was he was supposed to see? If it were not to be "obvious," would he see it at all? He mentally kicked himself for not taking the time to broaden Rascal’s scope to take in the background. Had he spent two or three additional minutes searching out others inside that blimp, he could now be receiving both sides of the conversation, just as he’d received everything said in the huddle. But there was no question of modifying settings now. To do so would risk cutting off the little he was getting, and he needed to know what those men were up to, needed to hear that this was nothing more sinister than a new advertising ploy.
A shake of his head proved how little he believed this. If this were advertising, a "control group," would make no sense. A message "beamed" from that blimp could not be precisely aimed; it would get everybody who happened to be looking up. And then there was their reference to loud, easily excitable, near-rioters.
Captured by private
thoughts, Clay failed to notice the Eagles kickoff that officially began the
second half of the game. A loud burst from the crowd at a
He heard an occasional clicking but nothing from the plotters themselves, nothing that would tell him how close those men were to unleashing their "beam." He tried to concentrate on what he could see of the faces on the other side of the field--whatever was going to happen, it would happen there.
"That fumble would have been good."
"...opportunity" (Clay was sure the first word had to be "missed.")
"I think the moment has arrived, Charles." [silence] "I hope the level we’ve chosen is not excessive."
"...with it."
"Yes, I know, we’ve been all through this; we need at least one at this level. But once I push that button, a select few of us could have some explaining to do. I still contend there is a better way."
"...know...secure..."
"Let us hope so, for both of our sakes. [sigh] Very well, I’m ready if you are."
"Cameras.....?"
"Up and running. On both sides."
Clay felt a buildup of adrenaline; the mysterious "it" was about to happen. Suddenly he was not sure where to aim his eyes, the message deck on the blimp or the people on the other side of the field, people who were, even now, on their feet and throwing clenched fists into the damp air. He decided to stick with the latter.
It turned out to be the right choice.
As Clay’s eyes moved among them, desperate to spot something that could be called "change," a group of about two hundred people abruptly lost interest in the game. They appeared confused, as if unsure what they had risen to their feet to do, this even as those around them reacted with unrestrained enthusiasm to a spectacular catch just inside the goal line. Equally as enthusiastic only seconds before, they now stood like schoolchildren waiting to be told what to do next, their heads turned not to the action on the field but to one another, and their eyes mirroring not pleasure but a sense of awkwardness and embarrassment. Where this enigma began was easy enough to see; where it ended as well. There was a large circle, about forty feet in diameter; Clay could pick out a center where the reaction was heaviest, and a periphery where the effect was there but less pronounced.
"Cutting...five..."
"Check. Five seconds. I’ll keep the camera going for another fifteen minutes. I believe that should do it."
Clay counted silently to himself while his unblinking eyes strained to avoid missing even a fraction of what was to come. He had to be sure that there was a connection between the conversation in that blimp and the odd behavior on the other side of the stadium.
On schedule, the entire group, every single one of them as far as he could tell, began a collective return to normalcy. At first they tossed covert glances at each other, as if each was unaware that any but himself had had a momentary lapse of concentration. Then a certain sheepishness fell over them, the result of which was a unified resolve to redirect their eyes to the action on the field. What they thought after that was not as apparent as soon they were shouting and waving as passionately as everyone else.
Clay lifted his eyes to the massive airship that had so quickly turned around a perfect day. What in the hell had those people done? And what was he going to do about it?
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PROLOGUE
"There! Over there! Just above the tree line. To the right of the tallest peak!"
"I see it. The poor thing dashes from point to point with no sense of purpose."
"Frightened, no doubt. The forest it sees now makes no sense. Once familiar, it has become alien. But ‘poor thing’ or not, we must act quickly to defend ourselves."
"We are adequately protected."
"You are; I am not; I convert more slowly than you, remember?"
"Sartor, the creature is but two meters long and one meter high. It is hardly a monster."
"What it is capable of doing to us and to our world is beyond monstrous. Set to sterilize."
"’Sterilize.’ Such an innocent term when posed by those on the giving end."
"Set to sterilize!"
"You misunderstand, Sartor. I am not refusing the order, I am merely philosophizing. We are about to terminate an innocent being whose only fault was to stumble uninvited into our home."
"Such is the nature of life and circumstance. Were we to do nothing, the error would be ours."
"And it is not ours now? Was it not we who left the transporter on too long?"
"Point conceded. And it is we who must ensure that no Earth creature enter uninvited again."
1
"Give me a break,
"I am. ‘Pain-in-the-ass,’ is only a fraction of what I’m thinking!"
Mark Carter could see
no trace of humor in his friend’s words,
which spoke of how deeply agitated the man was.
"Yeah, well what I don’t understand is why you have to try at all. From where I sit, you’ve got everything going your way. So what’s the problem?"
There was no mirth
attached to the chuckle Mark gave in response. In truth, he did not know why he
felt as he did, listless, out of touch, even depressed at times. He stared at
his accuser with eyes that drifted between apathy and indifference, even as he
knew it was not the look
He and Sandy had been
partners for more than seven years, and in all this time they had not had a
serious confrontation. Certainly not one so ...personal. Mark’s expression gravitated toward self pity as he
watched
On most days
It saddened Mark to
think of what he was doing to his friend, but he could come up with no good
answer to
Then why do I have so much trouble getting up in the morning?
"Is it Kathy? Are
you two having problems?"
"Thanks, ‘Friend!’" Mark tried for a smile, even as he felt a vague sting at the "aging" comment Since turning thirty a little over a year ago, he had developed a sensitivity to such barbs, the awareness of which only added to his discomfort.
"You’re welcome! Is that it? Is it Kathy?"
Mark’s sigh was louder than it needed to be. "She fits in there somewhere, Sandy." He shrugged before adding, "You know Kathy. She loves her independence."
"So? You don’t?"
Mark shrugged again. "I did. I’m not sure any more. I might want to get serious."
"‘Might’ want to get serious?"
"Well, I don’t know, maybe I do."
"‘Maybe?’"
"Hey, cut me some
slack, will you, Buddy! All right, I do want to get serious!" The words
were a shade too loud, and
"All right, we’ve decided Kathy is a part of this. Are you two...?"
The disgust on Mark’s face as he interrupted brought a slight flush of
anger to
"Well then, what?"
"Dammit, that’s just it, I don’t know!"
Mark had begun pacing the small, windowless room in which he and his frustrated partner had retreated to talk it out in privacy. Confined by Sandy’s chair on one side and shelves that rose from floor to ceiling on the other, Mark’s hands had no place to go, and in anger he jammed them into his pockets, the move and the reason for it not lost on Sandy.
When next Mark spoke, misery oozed from every word. "I’m restless; I’m itchy; I have sudden bouts of depression."
"Hell, we all feel that; it’s called aging."
"I’m serious, Sandy. What’s going on inside me is in no way amusing."
"Easy to say, but not so easy to do." Mark halted his pacing but held his eyes to the floor. "God, I feel like such an asshole talking like this."
"Let’s just say that’s a given. But even an asshole can have its day in the sun."
Mark was forced to
chuckle at
Not knowing what Mark
was leading up to,
"I do. The answer is yes, you do dump on her."
Mark lifted his eyes to the still-seated figure, wondering what he and Kathy had discussed in regard to himself. Seeing only further damage in pressing the issue, he focused instead on trying to relieve the tension in the back of his neck.
Kathy Montari was more of the problem than he cared to admit. He had never expected to be so captured by a woman, so in need of possessing her, so afraid of waking up one day and finding her gone. Kathy was easy to be with and impossible to be without.
She was fascinating in a number of ways, some of which he had trouble defining. Her eyes were an enigma. Large and brushed with a hint of hazel, they flashed a private message beneath long, curving lashes, and even without always knowing what that message was, it was enough to make conversation unnecessary. She seldom wore makeup, protesting that it made her "a slave to commercial opinion."
Kathy had a natural beauty, and this extended to a petite body that offered unending promise regardless of what she wore. Her hair, which looked like something out of an Orphan Annie comic strip, and which he was not even sure he liked when they first met, was now so much a part of her that it was difficult to imagine her any other way.
How easily they had
come to flow in and out of each other’s lives
in the year since they’d met. They still lived apart, but as he had just confessed to
Mark shook his head. Kathy was not ready. Maybe she never would be. "I wonder if I really know the woman," he said, the suddenness of his remark surprising Sandy who had seen promise in the slight smile that had momentarily interrupted Mark’s frown. "I think she likes what we have going as much as I do, but..." He shrugged and fell silent.
About to reply,
"Maybe I really should duck out of sight for a
while." It was said with a hint of self pity that only deepened as
"You know, that’s not a bad idea. Go away some place; relax; work all this shit out of your system." He pushed on, pointedly ignoring the look on Mark’s face: "Take Kathy and dash off to the tropics or something. Or better yet, you stay here and I’ll dash off to the tropics with Kathy."
Mark’s frown became a reluctant smile. "Have you forgotten your wife? Again?"
"I’ll take her next time. For now, I have a duty to perform for a buddy."
Having gained the
desired momentum,
Mark smiled but, as before, without enthusiasm. "Thank you, Doctor Mellon."
"No problem. Just take two women and call me in the morning. Or better yet, call me after you find the two women."
No part of the smile was visible as Mark stepped out of the suite of offices into the nearly empty hallway then pulled the door closed behind him. An unreasonable fear had begun to flood his gut, a fear that he was in the process of turning his world upside down, that running off to play hermit would change his life forever. The feeling did not lessen as he descended the stairs of Mellon and Carter and pushed his way out into the lonely afternoon.
2
"This is ridiculous! They’re all about German shepherds of the same size and color. And if you believe these stories, they’re all capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound. I can’t write crap like that; I’d never be taken seriously again!"
With a telephone pressed between one ear and her shoulder, Kathy Montari gestured with contempt at the assortment of news articles laid out on her desk, a present from her editor. She had lost more than an hour trying to decide what to make of them, then another staring out one of the two windows offered by her tiny apartment.
At the other end of the line, a snicker preceded her editor’s reply. "Well, maybe you would and maybe you wouldn’t, but if that’s what’s happening out there then that’s what you’ve got to report. Besides, if you search further you’ll get the real story." He paused before adding, "You’ve got to admit, though, it makes good reading. A little way-out, but what the hell."
"Good reading?
This is closer to tabloid than literature." But the protestations fooled
no one and Kathy hesitated only a second or two before delivering the expected
pitch. "The two of us are going to smell funny if this turns out to be
nonsense. You guys have to spring for a trip to
Kathy’s smile was self-congratulatory as she put down the phone then leaned back in her chair. She had gotten approval for what amounted to a free vacation, something that did not often happen to a freelance writer.
In contrast to Mark, Kathy was content with her life. She enjoyed her freedom, she enjoyed the way she made her living and she enjoyed her current lover--arranging them in that order brought on a momentary pang of guilt. Most of what she wanted and needed out of a relationship Mark provided. He was different, independent like herself yet warm and close when she needed warm and close. She was in no hurry to change, feeling comfortable in the assumption that it would all come in time.
She let her eyes roam the single room that was her apartment, seeing as she did more and more lately, how really small it was. The clutter did not help: a few magazines, breakfast and lunch dishes yet undone and one too many knickknacks in the breakfront occupying a big chunk of her living space. Claiming the rest of the room was an old secretary desk now used as a bar, a sofa, a brown, stuffed chair, a kitchen table, and a bed that could be tucked up into the wall. There was evidence of Mark as well, something she once objected to but now found ...comfortable.
With a sigh she had trouble understanding, Kathy tucked the bottom of her light blue tee shirt into her jeans then reapplied herself to the literary effort still occupying her typewriter. It was about canines, anecdotal incidents meant to entertain dog lovers. Prior to the delivery of the articles, all that remained to be done was to make readable sense out of a jumble of notes. Now it was back to the drawing board.
She sorted through the
articles, two of which were from
As she worked, she absently stroked the handsome animal that often sat by her side. It was not unlike what she expected the story animals to be--medium sized, light colored and friendly. She called it "Me-Too" because whatever she did it wanted to do as well, including, much to Mark’s chagrin, joining them in the bedroom, sometimes the bed itself.
"Let him work for it," she thought aloud!
The opening of the apartment door after a short rap—Mark’s way of acknowledging her much-expressed desire for privacy--brought Kathy to look up from her typewriter and acknowledge his presence with a smile and a silent kiss. The secretary-desk bar was sitting open and Mark moved toward it as if accepting its unspoken invitation. "Care for one, babe?" he asked.
"I have mine,
thanks." She had already turned back to her work, which Mark found
irritating. Despite the upbeat ending to his conversation with
Kathy listened as Mark wandered around the cramped apartment, dividing his attention between the window that opened onto the street and the faded avant-garde posters he had seen hundreds of times before. A loud sigh announced his discontent.
It was impossible to ignore either the sigh or the mood. Kathy had been looking forward to a pleasant evening, something that rarely occurred when it began in such a way. Bowing to the inevitable, she asked, "Bad day?"
Mark gave a light toss of his shoulders. "Just blue." But he was pleased that he had finally gotten her attention.
Kathy stopped what she was doing and swung around to confront him, her expression now one of annoyance. She was growing weary of Mark’s moodiness, the source of which escaped her, and this was as good a time as any to get it out on the table. "What is it, Mark?" she said not attempting to hide her exasperation. "You seem to be ‘blue’ a lot lately."
Pausing to take a sip from his drink, Mark answered slowly and with thought, as if the question had been unexpected. "It’s just this ...emptiness I’ve been feeling lately."
"Thanks!"
Mark felt a rush of impatience and was unable to hold it in check. "I didn’t mean it that way, Kathy! It’s ...I don’t know, I feel I should be out doing something, that life is passing me by. Its hard to explain."
She did not appreciate being included in the contemptuous "emptiness" of his life, but this time she kept it to herself. "There is nothing wrong with your life, Mark," she offered instead, her voice and her expression showing the hurt she was unable to suppress.
"You don’t understand. It’s not that something identifiable is wrong with my life, it’s more that ...well, whatever is happening is not enough." He hesitated, his face a twisted plea and his hands spread wide as if to indicate the magnitude of the problem.
It was true, Kathy thought, she did not understand, at least not entirely. She had a nagging suspicion that Mark was beginning to tire of the chase. His next words did little to soothe her fears.
"I need some time to myself, Kathy. Two weeks, three at the most."
Resentment turned to shock, even as she knew Mark would see this as further evidence of her lack of understanding.
"I made the reservations this afternoon. I’m going for ...well, think of it as a long walk in the woods."
"Woods?"
He nodded his head.
"
The shock remained a part of Kathy’s expression as she asked, "Why so far away?"
So pitiful did she look at that moment that Mark had trouble holding on to his resolve. He had a momentary urge to take her in his arms and yell out that it was all a lie, that all he really wanted was her. But that would solve nothing. The truth was more involved, and he knew it.
Two weeks alone to sort himself out, two weeks with the two of them separately focusing on what they mean to each other. "I have to lose myself in the woods, Kathy. Real woods, not some adult playground." There was a hint of contempt in the latter part of his statement.
When Kathy failed to change her expression, Mark wondered anew what he was doing, not only to himself but to the only woman he had ever felt serious about. In time he moved to the bar to add strength to an only half-consumed drink, spilling some of it in the process. He contemptuously stabbed at the mess with his sleeve.
Kathy waited for the other shoe to drop. Nothing of what Mark was saying made sense. The two of them had camped together before in what was hardly an "adult playground," and she had been anything but a shrinking violet then. And what was it he wanted to escape? Her?
"You’ll be gone two weeks?" she asked softly.
"I’ll call you if it gets to be longer than that."
"How can you call if you’re ‘lost in the woods’?" she added spitefully.
Mark’s ire returned in both expression and voice. "I mean I’ll call when I can. It’s only a couple weeks, Kathy, not forever."
"No?" she asked softly.
"Dammit, Kathy, I’m not doing this to hurt you! If you can’t understand that then please try to accept it!"
"But you’re not qualified to travel in that kind of wilderness!" It was not the thing to say and she knew it immediately.
"Dammit, I know
what the hell I’m doing!" He resumed
his pacing and the
exaggerated hand movements as he added, "You know what I’ve been like lately. Even
Kathy could no longer keep her voice level. "He didn’t say you should lose yourself in some God-forsaken wilderness; he just said you should get your act together!"
"Well it’s the same thing! And how do you know what he said? You two decide these things behind my back?"
Another mistake. The
discussion was going from bad to worse. "Mark,
By now Kathy wanted to avoid saying anything at all, but this was proving increasingly difficult. "Yes, I know how you’ve been, Mark, and I’m trying very hard to understand it. It hasn’t done much for our relationship, you know! Neither will this," she added softly.
"Dammit, don’t do that, Kathy. I want us to succeed as much if not more than you do. That’s not the problem ...at least not the whole problem." As evidenced by the sharp rise of her head and the moisture that began filling her eyes, Mark knew he still had a tendency to hurt. He put a hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and began to rub.
Kathy wondered whether she had waited too long to respond to Mark’s unspoken plea for a more formal relationship. Or whether it would have mattered in any case. She got up slowly, knowing that to say anything at that moment would compound mistakes already made. At the bar, after refilling her own drink, she unconsciously took a towel and rubbed the spot where Mark had spilled his, unaware of the nagging effect this had on him.
The rest of the
evening was no better. Mark made an attempt to instill in Kathy an enthusiasm
for the area in which he intended to travel, but she was in no mood to respond.
Except to note that Kelly, the town in
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There is pain in today’s world, much of it
of our own making. At times the villain is pride, greed, envy or anger, four of
the Seven Deadly Sins. But serious pain can also be caused by people of good
intention encouraging moderation or restraint, two Heavenly Virtues. What
dangers do we invite upon ourselves by tackling one and ignoring the other?
1
The White
House; January 20th
With one mildly arthritic hand, President of
the
No complaints. Appearance had carried him a
long way: hair as white and as full as his eyebrows, a tall, slim frame that
reminded people of Lincoln, and a deep, resonant voice that impressed even if
it no longer convinced. Now in his early seventies, he had given the public
what they wanted to see in a leader, and even now few could deny the impression
of oneness between the man and the office he occupied.
Alone in the quiet of the Oval Office,
Morrison’s eyes, alert and darting, were a sharp contrast to the image he had
painfully cultivated over the last year, that of a tired old man welcoming the
relative obscurity that would soon be his. It had not required any degree of
genius to recognize early on that he would not be re-elected. Could not be,
considering how much of the voting public was alarmed by his unending demands,
sacrifice to be piled upon sacrifice.
Idiots!
It also had not required genius to recognize
that civilization and even mankind itself was on a slippery road to disaster,
that a new world order would be needed if either were to survive.
One that
will not require the blessing of my ‘loyal’ public!
Soon the depressing ceremony would begin, a
ceremony laced with gaiety and false promise. Within the hour his successor
would arrive at the front portico and together they would drive down
But it was necessary. It was important to
continue the deception if what was to follow had any hope of succeeding. The
public had to be convinced that the one who had made those disturbing predictions
about mankind’s future, had come to his senses. They had to believe he was now
willing, even anxious, to withdraw from their lives and trouble their
collective conscience no more.
Let the
games begin!
Morrison lit an old briar pipe and sank into the
stuffed chair his successor had chosen to replace one of Morrison’s own. Inside
the well-insulated office, the only sound reaching his ears was the ticking of
an ancient grandfather clock, the one item of furniture sure to be retained by
the room’s new occupant. Each stroke announced the end of a moment in time, his
time. Even so, he felt only pride. There was purpose in what he was doing, real
purpose.
2
Crouching motionless for hours in a sticky,
insect-ridden jungle was not only painful, it was proving to be impossible!
Carl shifted weight from one leg to the other, moving slowly and holding his
upper body motionless. They were out there somewhere, slithering in the thick
razor grass that so often lived up to its name, or tucked behind creosote
bushes or twisted jungle trees.
Carl Raymond McClure, recently assigned to
the
The eerie quiet, unusual for this part of the
jungle, told him otherwise. Someone was out there. What was not so clear was
who was stalking whom.
With a perennial look of cynicism on his
face, Carl looked older than his twenty-six years. Recruited by the CIA soon
after being released from a Cuban prison, he was having trouble putting aside
the events that had put him there. He had fallen in love with an escapee from
Carl’s face twisted at the memory, and he
would have purged it with an angry shake of his head had he not remembered in
time where he was and what was out there waiting for just such a mistake.
Among the many warring factions of
Carl’s eyes settled again on the back of the
lanky Peruvian officer, Captain Humberto Potosi. There were twenty men out
there, none more than a hundred yards away, but
Carl shifted his weight again. He hated
having to participate in a no-win situation. Hell, in
And all of them bash innocents who want nothing
more than to live out another miserable day!
That too was not a
What the hell was he doing here?! He did not
believe as Noel did or as the DEA and the Peruvians did that they were accomplishing
anything. Maybe that was his problem: he didn’t believe in anything anymore. He
was the youngest of his colleagues yet he felt no less shop-worn than the
oldest of them. Too much had happened in his short life, and nobody could come
even close to understanding that.
Noel Harman, now his station chief, had made
joining the CIA seem the natural thing to do, and after learning how far the
man had gone to get him out of Cuba, Carl had not resisted. But his attitude
had not changed in the year of intensive training that followed even as the
terrible sense of loss weakened.
He had not known he was about to be released
until summoned from his cell by Dr. Caranti, head of the DGI, the Cuban
equivalent of the CIA, a man he had known during the bad times only as
"Tomas." He remembered the sixty-five year old, slightly overweight
Tomas as deceptively gentle in appearance, an impression enhanced by his silky
white hair and matching, well-groomed beard. But the way he entered a room,
dressed in impeccably tailored fatigues, his head held high and his expression
one of minimum tolerance for interference of any kind, quickly dispelled any
thought of comradeship. He was a hardened spy master, intent on furthering his
own private idea of what most benefited his country and its exalted leader.
After his capture, Carl had expected a
lingering death, a death that would import a sense of satisfaction to an
enraged Cuban government. What he got was five months of tasteless food in
barely adequate quantities, a bucket a day of foul water to be used for both
drinking and cleaning, and not so much as a word from the guards. Then, with no
warning given, he had been surprised in his damp and dingy cell by the arrival
of soap, clean water, a new set of fatigues and instructions to clean himself
up and get ready to leave. His voice, much out of practice, had trouble
responding. After barely enough time to comply with this, a young officer,
clean-cut and wearing starched and pressed fatigues, came to escort him to the
Plaza de la Revolucion, the place where Castro so often held his people captive
to marathon speeches.
They traveled in a well maintained, black Zil
limousine, and though guarded at all times, Carl was not burdened with
handcuffs. Unwilling to ask what he was sure would not be answered, he kept his
eyes on the road ahead and searched for signs that he was about to become the
star sacrifice in an elaborate propaganda ceremony. But the roads were as empty
as they normally were in this economically-deprived country, and no
bloodthirsty crowds were in the process of forming.
Equally confusing was the sight that greeted
him as he was marched through the entrance of a sparsely decorated office, the office
of the DGI chief himself. Instead of Tomas’s usual dramatic entrance, which
often included a long wait beforehand, Tomas was standing behind his desk, his
posture more that of a welcoming grandfather than the dangerous man Carl knew
him to be. His slight smile, which on Tomas was an oddity, said the
unpleasantness of the past was forgotten.
"They call your diary Broken Odyssey.
Perhaps you are aware of this." It was more a statement than a question, but
the smile on Tomas’s thin lips remained, even as Carl had trouble believing it.
Dismissing the escort with a nod of his head, Tomas ushered Carl into a thinly
padded chair then half-leaned, half-sat against the near end of his desk. Carl
knew enough about the man to see he was struggling to attain a level of
informality he did not feel.
The room was a natural contradiction to
informality. The few pictures and memorabilia Tomas permitted himself told of
one victory after another, and thus one act of violence after another. His
green fatigues might have implied informality were they not so well tailored
and seemingly incapable of suffering a wrinkle. And if his starched and blocked
cap were not positioned a little too well on his ample and notably uncluttered
desk.
It took a moment for Tomas’s words to register
in Carl’s mind. But then it became clear. Someone had rescued the narrative of
his ill-fated "invasion" of
Hearing no rancor in the younger man’s voice,
Tomas permitted himself a chuckle. It was true; McClure had been watched day
and night for more than five months, and no communication of any kind had been
permitted. "The things you wrote in that little diary of yours while at
sea, tell me, why did you do this? What good did you think it would do
Nicola?"
Carl’s sigh and averted eyes made it clear to
the man in front of him how little he cared—about anything.
Although aware of Carl’s on-going depression,
Tomas marveled at how little effect he had on this man who would be dead
seconds after he gave the word. And no one in the world could do anything about
it. Except, of course, proclaim the validity of what had been written in Broken
Odyssey, a work published as fiction only a month before.
Carl finally managed his answer, although his
speech was slow and pained. "When I thought Nicola and I were going to die
I guess I wanted someone in this rotten world to know the why of it."
Tomas stared in silence, the hate he was
trying to keep hidden tempered by a touch of sympathy. This young man had no
negative feelings toward the Cuban people. Indeed, his late mother was Cuban,
or had been before she abandoned the country of her birth. And his motives had
not included embarrassing the Cuban government, although certainly that had
happened. No, this man had committed a serious crime, but he had been motivated
by little more than the love of a woman, a love that, because of who she was,
could never be.
The conversation paused as a woman in
civilian clothes entered the room carrying a small tray and two white demitasse
cups, each three-quarters filled with a rich black liquid. Also on the tray was
a bowl of grainy, off-white sugar, and Tomas waited patiently while the woman
added two heaping spoons full, first to one cup then to the other. After giving
each a quick stir, she left as quietly as she had come, unaware or uncaring of
the silence her presence had provoked.
"I hope you appreciate our Latin version
of coffee." Tomas’s smile was almost friendly as he handed Carl a cup. It
was sweet and strong, and Carl was startled to find that he enjoyed it. He had
thought five months of prison life had destroyed his sense of taste.
Pausing to take a sip, Tomas held his
experienced eyes on his guest and searched for some sign that he might be
receptive to what would be asked of him. "Returning to my earlier comment,
your CIA took great pleasure in your written words. And now they want you back,
why, I cannot imagine. Perhaps they think you might have more to tell them
about us, more than was in the diary." He paused, obviously expecting a
response from his guest.
Carl raised his eyes to meet those of his
inquisitor, but there was little emotion attached to the look. "I know
nothing about that. And I think you know how much my feelings for Nicola govern
the rest."
"‘Govern the rest’...?"
A flash of anger appeared in Carl’s voice as
he said, "I mean I don’t give a flying fuck for the trash who might want
to turn my agony into a morbid expose! What Nicola and I did together and what
we meant to each other is ours and ours alone."
"Except for whoever reads Broken
Odyssey."
Carl flushed at the retort, but said nothing.
Satisfied at making his point, Tomas offered another smile, a concession that
ended abruptly as he said, "Did you know they actually published it? Your
father and a rebellious CIA agent? As a novel and with some of the names changed—your
last name, for example—but the message was clear enough. Already we have a
number of radical
Tomas did not bother to explain how the diary
had been recovered by a DGI double agent who had since fled to
There was more defiance than hope in Carl eyes
as he reached for the older man’s thoughts. "Is that why I’m here?"
Tomas did not appreciate the tone, but
elected to let it pass. "In a way I suppose it is. But they have also done
us a service. Publishing Broken Odyssey as a novel makes the subject easier to
ignore at the odd moment when it comes up. We may now dismiss all questions
with a supercilious smile and a poignant reference to the wishful thinking of
Tomas continued without giving Carl a chance
to respond. "But in all honesty we are unwilling to run the risks inherent
in what we know can be effective propaganda at times—a ‘lie’ spoken often
enough is accepted as truth. Why take the chance if to avoid it would cost us
little?"
Carl could not hold back his surprise. "You
really would let me go after all that’s happened?"
"Please do not misunderstand. I still
see red whenever so much as your name passes in front of me."
"Then why....?"
Tomas let out a breath of air then turned his
head away as if doubting the wisdom of what he was about to say. At the same
time his face reverted back to the carefully controlled anger that Carl found
better fit his past relations with this man. "Because I want a ... favor
in return. I have reason to believe your CIA will attempt to recruit you, and
from what I have learned of you from this ill-conceived diary, I suspect you
will accept their offer." Seeing the resentful look on Carl’s face, Tomas
held up his hand to ward off uninvited comment. "Young man, you must learn
to listen first then speak only after enough information has reached your
inexperienced ears to give you at least a tiny chance of knowing what the fuck
you are talking about! I have no intention of asking you to become a double
agent. Indeed I would have no faith in anything you might tell me while
pretending to be on my side."
A slight relaxing of Carl’s face told Tomas
his guess had been on target. Nonetheless, he let a few seconds pass before
continuing. He wanted to give his words the best chance of penetrating the
inbred prejudices of this American. "There is something I think you will
want to do, something I have been unable to do, despite what I assure you has been
a considerable effort—and I go against the express wishes of Fidel himself in
revealing even this much. We have reason to believe that your government is
involved in an ... an act of genocide, an act so twisted that even your enemies
have trouble believing it is true." Well versed in reading subtle nuances in
people, Tomas easily caught the slight dulling of Carl’s eyes. It spoke of
disbelief, even impatience.
"I assure you, this is more than the
accusations we routinely hurl at one another. I have no wish to turn it into a
propaganda bonanza for Cuba, nor do I hope that it is in any way true, for it
represents a concept that could, if not stopped, propel us in one horrible leap
into a future that neither your people nor mine would find bearable."
"Look, I..."
Tomas held up his hand for silence.
"Listen first, then do what you think is right. That is all I am asking of
you."
Carl again started to speak then decided
against it. It mattered little what this Cuban said. What mattered was that he
was actually going to be released, returned to a world that had lately seemed
impossibly distant.
Carl listened without comment as the DGI head
told of his discovery. He listened as Tomas accused the
Tomas saw this and started in again, his
voice revealing a hint of desperation. "Forget who I am. Forget where
these words come from. Forget ideology and national boundaries. Just think
about what I said and whether it could possibly be true. If it is true, there
is no way your new employers could fail to know about it."
Carl resented Tomas’s supposed knowledge of
who he might choose to work for in the future, but he decided this was not the
time to make a point of it. Instead he reacted to what he still thought was a
DGI recruitment attempt. "What if they did. They sure as hell wouldn’t
tell me. And I sure as hell..."
"Wouldn’t tell me? Yes, I understand
that. But you would do something, of this I am convinced. And the atrocity that
struck this impoverished Ethiopian community is so vile that it could not
survive the light you would shine on it. Those people were poisoned, the manner
of which continues to evade us."
Carl looked into Tomas’s eyes. There was real
concern there, and that confused him. Or was it simply that this man was good
at his job?
Tomas leaned closer to lend emphasis to his
words. "If you think I speak through ideology, consider what kind of
ideology will exist in a world where one group can decide how many of their
neighbors will continue to share this planet. Your mother was of Cuban origin;
what if this elitist group decides that half Cuban/half Irish is not a
combination to its liking?"
Carl was beginning to feel crowded. "All
right, I understand the implications. But why should I accept that what
happened in
Tomas sighed and pulled back a little.
McClure had made a perceptible turn in his direction, and it was important that
nothing be done to reverse this. Whether Fidel approved of this source or not,
Tomas felt it his duty to use every tool at his disposal in the cause of
uncovering what was happening in the American camp. "Because of
sympathetic socialist colleagues, we were able to obtain samples of plants,
water, fetal tissue, whatever we thought would help us discover what caused
this thing. We even called upon our sometimes-friends in
"Then how can you say the
Anger reasserted itself in Tomas’s voice.
"I will tell you how! A stranger appeared in the affected village a short
time before the troubles began. She was not African and she had no reason to be
there. Nor when questioned did she offer a believable explanation. She simply
arrived, stayed two days, then left."
"She?"
"Yes, a woman. We know exactly who she
is."
"And you’re saying she’s American."
The doubt was evident in Carl’s eyes.
"No. This woman was born in
"But..."
"‘But’ is correct, a very large ‘but.’
We have long known of this woman because of her intimate involvement with a
member of your government." Tomas let the curiosity spread on Carl’s face
before adding, "The current president of your
Exactly thirteen months after returning to
the
He had said nothing to anyone about Tomas’s
accusations, but they continued to confuse his thoughts. "American
led," the DGI chief had said. Did "American" mean the CIA, his
employers? And, if so, was this anything more than the usual? If he knew what
it was, would he approve, even grudgingly? Carl knew how unlikely it was that
he would ever come to know the answers to any of this.
Carl knew the pickup would not be long in coming.
The small paper bag he’d dropped into a trashcan just inside the entrance to an
inter-city park would be buried by other contributions if someone did not get
to it quickly. Keeping an eye on the package while appearing not to do so, Carl
strolled around the periphery of the park until finally she came. It was a
woman in her early thirties with a dark blue scarf wrapped loosely around her
head. The scarf failed to hide the lovely black hair that flowed softly down
her well-shaped back. Nor did it mask the beauty of her face, a Latin beauty
that reminded Carl too much of Nicola. Without making a thing of it, she
reached in, grabbed the bag then walked away, to where, a suddenly guilt-ridden
Carl did not want to know. He had already gone too far, and there was a plane
waiting to take him to
As he moved resolutely on, Carl failed to
notice the modestly-dressed man sitting quietly on a bench at the north end of
the park, the side opposite the girl and the package that was now hers. There
was concern on his heavily-tanned face as he watched the young CIA officer exit
the park then disappear down a crowded street.
3
Earth orbit,
January 20th;
The energy-gathering wings stretched a dozen
yards to either side and always managed to face the sun even as the satellite
they were attached to danced eccentrically in response to orders from the
ground. It was a massive and irregular structure, heavy with optical sensors,
telemetry equipment, attitude-control apparatus, radio transmitters and
receivers. In geostationary orbit 22,300 miles above the earth, it could be
seen as a prominent star to anyone happening upon a spot of empty ocean half
way between
Even those aware that deeply hidden within
its complex circuitry was another, more devious purpose, did not know what that
purpose was, only that the satellite was to respond to a certain set of
instructions from the ground by emitting a short encoded burst of its own. Who
or what was to receive this message, and what use was to be made of it, they
had no idea. Nor were they inclined to ask.
They did know, however, that the highly
sophisticated device would require less than a thousandth of a second to
complete its ancillary assignment, after which it would stand by in the
blackness of space and listen for a follow-up command. If that command failed
to arrive within a specified period of time, then the exercise was to be
regarded as just another test. The machine would dutifully return to its
primary function until called upon once again. But if the second command did
make it in time, then the computer would immediately wipe out all trace of
secondary programming from its memory. It was to be an electronic lobotomy, and
once completed there would be nothing left for the curious; no way of proving
it had ever deviated from its principal mission.
For slightly more than a year the device had
done everything that was required of it, including waiting patiently for a
signal that never came. Not that this really mattered; to its indifferent
circuitry, time had no meaning. Besides, it was easy to keep watch. Even with
the countless other demands upon it, it could check for special orders a
thousand times each second, and could maintain this pace for as long as it
remained in orbit, which was years unless something unforeseen got in the way.
When its earth-bound master finally decided to take advantage of the secrets it
so zealously guarded, it would be alert and ready to go, and no one on the
ground would ever know it had involved itself in a few milliseconds of moonlighting.
Three days and twenty three hours into the
fourteenth month of orbit, the waiting came to an end. The message was
received. Dutifully and without hesitation, the satellite tossed into the
vastness of space a precise set of codes, then positioned itself to receive the
second command, the one that would end forever this darker side of its
assignment. But the second command failed to arrive, and one millionth of a
second after the thirteenth minute of waiting, the obedient machine switched
back to what it had been before. Apparently the unknown source from the
blue-white planet far below was not yet ready to erase his tracks.
At the same time, and for a fraction of a
second only, the United States Global Positioning System malfunctioned. The
best way to determine where you are anywhere on the planet, GPS is used by
friend and foe alike. At any one time eighteen satellites (with three more held
in constant reserve) blanket the Earth, each broadcasting its respective
position to thousands of receivers on the ground. Each of these receivers,
often little more than a few square inches of electronic wizardry,
automatically selects the best three transmissions and uses these to compute
where it is at that moment. Accuracy is guaranteed to within a few feet.
When the malfunction occurred, some twenty
thousand independent receivers around the globe were in the process of using
the system. Not one of them detected the error. Their circuitry dismissed the
anomaly as a momentary glitch, an unusual atmospheric condition or a
temporarily unresponsive aerial. In less than a tenth of a second each had
double checked itself and was once again satisfied that a reliable fix could be
made.
But one tiny machine did not so quickly
dismiss what to it was a wake-up call. Like the satellite, it had been waiting
for a special command, though unlike its space-bound partner, it had done so
for less than a week, the time that had passed since being transported from
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