Vortex

Chapter Sixteen

“Round up the usual suspects.”

Claude Rains finished speaking, his eyes still on Humphrey Bogart, in the climax of Casablanca when Bunker 17’s emergency alarm began to screech.

“Goddammit,” moaned a private seated in the middle of the darkened room. “You’d think the big bastard could at least wait till the movie was over.”

“I’ll let you in on what happens from this point on, boy,” drawled a heavy voice from just behind him. “Now get to your station ‘fore I plant your ass in the ground and grow shit stalks.”

The private gulped down some air and saluted Maj. Christian Teare with a trembling hand before rushing from the room.

Teare rose, his massive frame effectively blocking projection of the rest of Casablanca and replacing it with his silhouette on the screen. The room was empty now, save for the projectionist.

“Private,” Teare addressed him, “I want a note on my desk tomorrow requesting more first-run movies. These old black-and-whites are startin’ to get on my nerves.”

The private started rewinding. “Casablanca’s a classic, sir.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t never been there and I don’t take much of a fancy to a guy who talks out of the side of his mouth like he has marbles inside.”

The private shrugged.

Capt. Jared Heath, operations chief for Bunker 17, appeared in the small auditorium’s doorway and made a quick salute.

“Be with ya in a minute, Cap,” Teare told him. “How ’bout we get The Sting again?” he asked the projectionist.

“We’ve had that eight times in the last nine months, sir.”

“Just what I thought. We’re overdue for another showing.”

“Yes, sir,” the projectionist agreed reluctantly.

Teare turned to Captain Heath. “Let’s get to it, Cap.”

The two men moved into the brightly lit but antiseptic corridors sixty feet below ground level in the foothills of Montana. The flashing red lights would have stung almost any normal set of eyes. But the men — and three women — of Bunker 17 had grown accustomed to them.

“Let’s have the operations report,” Teare requested.

Heath gazed down at his clipboard. He was a medium-size, well-built black man, still a dwarf next to Teare, with a tightly sculptured afro. As operations chief of the bunker, he served as second in command to the major, with responsibilities in the area of organizing all Red Flag procedures. Eyebrows had been raised when Heath had been assigned here as exec — a former civil rights protester linked with a southern redneck — but they hadn’t stayed up for long. Heath and Teare had become fast friends and Bunker 17’s consistent drill proficiency reflected that.

“All systems are running green, Major,” Heath informed him, as they continued down the wide, circling corridors which might have been lifted right off the Starship Enterprise. “Tracking, weapons, com-link, security systems — everything is go.”

“Launching sequence will commence in one minute,” a dull, preprogramed voice droned over the loud speaker.

Captain Heath checked his watch. “Right on schedule,” he informed Teare.

Sixty feet above them, four-feet thick steel doors had slid across all access areas within the agricultural station that served as their ground cover, denying unwarranted entry into the base. Once on Red Flag alert, the bunker was effectively sealed from the outside world. Even all air terminals were closed tight to prevent possible chemical contamination by enemy forces. Bunker personnel were now getting their air from huge tanks located at the core of the complex. The supply would last seven days. As an added precaution, armed guards were posted at all possible routes of escape and exit. Teare had chosen the commandos himself, all men he could look right in the eye.

“Launching sequence will commence in fifty-five seconds….”

Captain Heath and Maj. Christian Teare had passed three guards standing at attention at their posts before they turned into the first silo to make a spot check.

“Warhead armed and ready, Major,” the sergeant in the terminal room reported. “All systems go. All board lights green.”

“Launching sequence will commence in fifty seconds. …”

Bunker 17 contained thirty-six silos in all, spread out over a nearly half-mile radius. Once the final launch sequence commenced, these too would be sealed with triple-plated lead and steel, but not so much for security as protection. The heat of the missiles’ initial ignition and blast-off stretched into the millions of degrees. Without the blast shields, irreparable damage might be done to the base proper, thus throwing off continued launchings. It was a matter of microinches and milliseconds. The men — and three women — of Bunker 17 could afford nothing else but total accuracy. Hence, the drills, which came in various forms and levels, sometimes occurred as frequently as four times a day. If nothing else this served to break the often maddening routine. Living in a nuclear installations bunker was, at best, a waiting game. Personnel were rotated on a basis similar to that used for the crews of submarines and the effects of long duty were not dissimilar.

Uniformed figures rushed by Teare and Heath the whole length of the station.

“Launching sequence will commence in forty-five seconds. …”

“Well, Cap,” said Teare, “let’s make our way to the Disco.”

The Disco was Maj. Christian Teare’s term for Launch Control, the very heart of Bunker 17 where any or all missiles were sent from their silos. Teare called it that because all the flashing lights and different colored knobs and consoles reminded him of the discos he had always done his best to avoid.

They paused at the entrance to Launch Control while a hazy blue light scanned them. The bulb atop the steel-plate doors flashed green but entry was still refused until Teare inserted his command ID into the proper slot. In the event of an actual Red Flag alert, the Disco would be totally sealed inside and out. All intercom and voice contact would be broken off to prevent any chance of electronic jamming, subliminal suggestion, panic by someone at the base, or contact from a possible saboteur or spy. Even Teare, command card and all, would be unable to gain entry or achieve voice contact. During a drill, though, observation was mandated so a slight exception in the actual procedure was made. Actual procedure also dictated that once the base went to Yellow Flag, all direct line contact with the outside world would be terminated, replaced entirely by a computer relay into the SAFE (Systems Attack Fail-safe Evaluator) Interceptor, which for all intents and purposes became commander.

The Interceptor was a direct communications link with NORAD in Colorado and the President in Washington. Its purpose was to guard against someone outside the system ordering a nuclear strike. It accomplished this by analyzing the coded sequence a hundred different ways to insure it was genuine. It worked on a binary system with codes that were changed, incredibly, every quarter hour.

In addition to guarding against accidental nuclear attack, the SAFE system took the uncertainties out of the loop by eliminating as much of the human element as was possible. People would still launch the missiles but the order to go to Red Flag could come only from the computer through the Interceptor, and once it came everything on the base became automatic, the chance of human error being substantially reduced by obviating the need to make decisions. Men like Teare had been against the change from the start, but no one was really asking them. Other heads, saner it was thought, had prevailed, deciding that the best American defense was one which let computers do as much of the work as possible down the line, thereby reducing error potential along the way. Teare knew, then, that he would be powerless to act at a time when his decision-making skills would be needed more than ever. Strange how the high command thought.

The slot swallowed Teare’s command card and spit it back out. The heavy, blast-proof door slid open. Major Teare led Captain Heath inside.

The Disco was lit in a dull shade of red, color code for the sequence. It wasn’t a tremendously large room. Longer than it was wide, its windowless dolor contributed to its apparent vastness. The far wall contained a grid design of the bunker’s outer rim on which computers could monitor the constant status of all thirty-six silos. So long as the lights denoting each silo flashed green, the missiles were tied into central launch control in the Disco. If the light showed yellow or red, the line was rerouted and the fail-safe system activated to make it impossible for that missile to be launched.

“Launching sequence will begin in thirty-five seconds….”

Once a missile was launched, and there were roughly 400 possible sequences for this under Red Flag at Bunker 17, its progress was charted on the world-overview chart on the right side wall. Since all of Bunker 17’s targets inevitably lay inside Russia, its chart was missing those corners of the world which didn’t figure into the attack pattern. After launch, a missile’s coded identity sequence would flash on the path it rode through the sky en route to its target.

In the middle of all this, nine bunker personnel moved about checking keyboards and running final test sequences prior to launch. There were thirty-six separate red abort switches in addition to the one which aborted all missiles at once, forming the last of many safeguards in the fail-safe system. If it went that far, Teare had often chided, there wouldn’t be a dry pair of pants in the room.

“Launching sequence will commence in twenty seconds….”

Teare and Heath stepped farther into the Disco. Six men were at work behind the most advanced computer terminals on Earth checking all of thirty-two safety features incorporated into the launching procedure and the missiles themselves. If any one was out of sync, and the computers somehow missed it, their monitoring boards would catch it and manually they’d switch the light to yellow or red on the Disco’s Big Board. The final three members of the Disco team sat entrenched behind the largest console of all. It contained Bunker 17’s launch command system and primary abort and destruct functions. Once Red Flag was signaled, procedure dictated that the three handcuff themselves to the steel-based console and to each other. All three possessed firing codes and keys worn around their necks that had to be inserted into the launch terminal to trigger the firing mode. Each would insert his key, punch in his code, and when the center, board light flashed green, the Disco king for the day would press the final trigger button, which, strangely, was the smallest and dullest colored of all. Something to do with psychological stress, Christian Teare remembered reading in a report.

Today was unique in that the Disco king was a queen. Kate Tullman wore her olive drab one-piece uniform as fashionably as a pair of designer jeans, and Red Flag alerts were probably the only times the eyes of the bunker’s men weren’t drawn to her. Her hair was blond and stylishly short, her eyes as green as the code lights flashing on the Big Board. Her buttocks filled out the contours of her console chair neatly enough for it to appear tailored for her. As she leaned over toward the terminal, though, part of her cheeks wedged themselves out the chair’s back.

Maj. Christian Teare winked at Captain Heath.

“Launching sequence will commence in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven …”

“Final systems check,” barked Kate Tullman, queen of the Disco.

“… six, five, four …

“Board shows all systems go, all lights green,” announced the man seated to her right.

“… three, two, one …

“Terminal shows all systems go, all lights green,” from the man on her left.

“Launching sequence has commenced….”

Six voices from behind Kate Tullman chimed in.

“Silos one to six, all systems check.”

“Silos seven to twelve, all systems check.”

“Silos thirteen to eighteen, all systems check.”

“Silos nineteen to twenty-four, all systems check.”

“Silos twenty-five to thirty, all systems check.”

“Silos thirty-one to thirty-six, all systems check.”

Kate Tullman spoke again, eyes never leaving the console. “Computer attack sequence Plan R for Roger, W for William, D for David.”

“Confirmed,” from the man on her right.

“Confirmed,” from the man on her left.

“Commence final launch procedures,” she instructed and jammed her own key into the console, punching in her personal code for the day as soon as it turned. The codes changed with each shift and sometimes even during the shift. If the wrong code was entered and not corrected within five seconds, the fail-safe system would cause an immediate shutdown of all procedures and a toner alarm would summon security to the Disco. Though at this stage they wouldn’t be able to gain access, they would be there to deal with the person or persons inside once the doors opened.

But today the center light on Kate Tullman’s console flashed green.

She moved her hand ever so slowly toward the button that would trigger the launch and pressed it without hesitation.

At that instant, Red Flag came to an end. All lights returned to stable white and Bunker 17 was officially off alert. If it hadn’t been a drill, however, none of this would be the case and thirty-six MX missiles carrying ten warheads each would be on their courses toward the Soviet Union. The Target Board would already be tracing the beginning of speeding red arcs drawn across the world.

But the Board was quiet. No arcs because no bombs had actually been launched.

Kate Tullman, queen of the Disco, sighed.

Captain Heath, who had hit his stopwatch at the very instant she had pressed the final button, turned to Major Teare.

“One minute, twenty-nine seconds.”

“What’s prime according to the Pentagon, Cap?”

“One-forty-five.”

“Good. Then I want us at one-twenty inside the next month.”

“Nine seconds is a lot to chop at this stage, Major.”

“Well it was a lot when we was battlin’ the one-forty-five mark too. I want it done, Cap. If there are any slow spots in the drill, I want them found and eliminated.”

“Nine seconds is still a lot of time to cut, Major.”

“That’s what they said about the record at the frog jumpin’ contest back home when I was twelve. I broke that one too,” Christian Teare said with a wink. Then he moved toward the Disco’s main console and Kate Tullman. “Well executed, Sergeant,” he complimented.

She rose quickly to attention and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

“Kate T. What does the T stand for, Sergeant?”

“Trouble, sir. Kate T for trouble.” The Disco queen didn’t bother to hold her smile back.

“T for tits,” Teare whispered to Heath and didn’t bother to hold his back either. “At ease there, Sergeant,” he continued to Kate Tullman. “Stand that straight too long and you’ll give yourself a back ’bout as bad as a plow horse in a field of shit.”

There was a brief pause, after which the entire Disco broke into laughter. Teare joined in.

“Just somethin’ to break the tension, people. Rest easy.”

And then he was gone with Captain Heath right behind.

Teare closed the door of his private quarters behind Heath. The bare, metallic walls were adorned with posters and pictures of Teare’s movie favorites including Burt Lancaster, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Care for a couple fingers of happy juice, Cap?” he asked, reaching into the cabinet beneath his sink.

The captain shook his head with a smile. “For a man determined to break the minute-twenty Red Flag barrier, you sure don’t pay much attention to rules.”

“That don’t answer my question, Cap. One finger or two?”

“One.” Heath relented and watched Teare pour three times that into a glass for himself.

“Anyway,” the major said, “I don’t use ice. Happy juice ain’t really nothin’ without ice.”

Heath took a sip and felt the whiskey burn his insides all the way down. “That’s not how the Pentagon sees it.”

“Fuck ’em’s what I say. Hell, Cap, isn’t givin’ up sex good enough for them during our six-week shift? A man’s gotta have his booze. And that’s hundred-proof pure sour mash you’re drinkin’ there, Cap. Hot enough to scorch the insides of a corpse and make it fall from heaven. My daddy used to make this himself.”

“He hand you down the recipe?”

Teare winked. “I could put together a batch in the ’fridgeration system that would pop your eyes out.” The major sat down on his freshly made bed and gulped down half his glass. “Ya know, Cap, it’s funny. We got rules and regulations ’bout ever’thin’ in here. Shit, there must be three pages on the evils of booze alone. But there ain’t no words mentioned ’bout sex. Know why?”

Heath shook his head.

“’Cause, buddy boy, when the damn rule books were written, there weren’t any women in NORAD and I suppose the noble minds in DC didn’t pay much worry to cornholin’. But now there’s quite a few women in the loop and the rule book ain’t been changed one damn bit. Check the title page, though, Cap, and you’ll find that the thing is supposedly updated every month.”

“What are you getting at, Major?”

Christian Teare drained the rest of his whiskey and leaned his massive frame back. “What am I getting at? I’ll tell ya what I’m getting at. If those boys who send down our orders are behind in the rule book, what else might they be behind in? Hell, Cap, you think the Ruskies would make the same mistake?”

“I never thought about it much, Major.”

“Yeah, well I got this feelin’ the boys in Washington ain’t neither.”

Chapter Seventeen

When Janie walked into the kitchen at seven A.M., she found Bane placing a platter of steaming scrambled eggs on the table. A glass of fresh squeezed orange juice was waiting on her plate and Bane had gone back to buttering what looked like a whole loaf of toast.

“I don’t know about you but I’m starved,” he told her. He had relieved Harry just before five A.M.

“You get any sleep?”

“A wink here and there. You?”

“Like a log for a while. Got up around four and found Harry eating Fritos in the living room.”

“He likes junk food,” Bane said and brought over the basket of toast, helping himself immediately to a huge portion of eggs.

“He also left guns all over my apartment.”

“Harry likes to be careful. You never know where you’ll be when you need one.”

“One in the belt should be sufficient.”

“Not for Harry.”

Janie went to work on her eggs, hoping to swallow the tension between her and Josh down with them. But all the banner breakfasts in the world couldn’t change what had passed recently between them. Truth was she had stayed up most of the night searching for a way to make their relationship right again, and had come to the conclusion that Bane had learned to live without love well enough to prefer life that way. Their relationship had been merely an interlude between violent episodes in what he liked to call the Game. She knew that now, probably had all along, but she’d always clung to the hope that this time the interlude might last.

Bane, meanwhile, felt himself losing her and loathed the emptiness that brought on. He wanted, needed, even loved her. There was no room in his life — the Winter Man’s life — though, for love and dependence. It was an either/or situation and Bane had made his choice, survival having determined it. He told himself when this was over he would make it up to her, might have promised her as much if he’d really believed it. There were no words that might express what he was feeling because he didn’t know himself. There was only a certainty of task, a singularity of purpose — the icy cornerstones of the Winter Man.

“Isn’t it about time you brought all this to the attention of someone in the government?” Janie asked him.

“Possibly, except I have no way of knowing how deep it goes. Conceivably, all of COBRA’s actions could be under government direction.”

“What about your former boss?”

“Arthur Jorgenson? He’s a good man, definitely the first one I’ll go to when the time’s right. He never approved of men like Chilgers. I can’t believe he’d be in on this. Trouble is, I haven’t got enough to take to him yet. I want a strong case, Janie, proof positive.”

“That boy the King’s baby-sitting seems like pretty good proof to me.”

“Not enough to nail COBRA and that’s what I’m after.” Bane gobbled up a heap of the eggs on his plate, took a swallow of coffee. “Which reminds me, I need your computers again.”

Janie toyed with her plate. “I figured there was something else behind this breakfast….”

“We’ve got to find out what project of COBRA’s we’ve stumbled upon here. Whatever we’re onto, whatever Jake Del Gennio uncovered and Davey Phelps has become involved in, must be related to some project they’re working on, or to a weapon they’re developing. Maybe both.”

“If that’s the case, you can be damn sure the information won’t be present on my computer or Harry’s.”

“But the names of COBRA’s top research personnel will, and that might give us a clue. What kind of scientists have they been going after lately? Who has joined their payroll and where did they come from? What’s their specialty?”

Janie frowned. “With those kinds of questions, I can get you enough material to keep you reading all weekend. Trouble is I’m not sure if there’ll be anything worth your time.”

“It’ll be there,” he assured her. “We just have to find it.”

The pounding in Trench’s head had been reduced to a dull throb thanks to an hourly dose of Percodan. He wasn’t at his best to begin with and the drugs, along with the absence of the Twin Bears, had him feeling very uneasy indeed. He was due to make another report to Chilgers in a few minutes and he was damned if he knew what to say.

They had found him slumped in Davey Phelp’s apartment, just coming around. They helped revive him and watched as he made a thorough inspection of the damage.

Both Bears were dead, the one in the lobby of a shattered windpipe at the hands of Bane and the one in the apartment of a stomach ripped open by his own knife. Trench had seen what the boy was doing to the Bear, had seen it but still couldn’t make himself believe it.

He had reached the street last night only to learn that Bane and the boy had escaped from the area. The trail went cold from there. The Winter Man was obviously hiding the boy someplace where Trench would never think to look. A clue, even the exact answer, might be found in precise scrutiny of Bane’s file. But Trench had neither the time or the head for such reading. He would leave it for COBRA’s administrative personnel, and of course, they would miss it because only a fellow professional would know what minor bit of information was the key.

Not that it mattered. Trench wasn’t sure he wanted to find the Winter Man anyway because then he’d have to decide what to do. Bane could have killed him last night and didn’t, a blunder unbefitting a professional of his caliber. And yet Trench had to admit that if the roles had been reversed, he probably would have responded in the same manner. That bothered him because it revealed what he had always considered to be weakness. Now he wasn’t sure anymore. Doubt had entered in. Trench pushed these thoughts back, seeing them as a sign of hesitance and thus danger. He was too old to change, but similarly too old to stop change from happening.

The report from COBRA field operatives told him that Bane had ended up at his girl friend’s apartment early that morning but there was no trace of the boy. Although COBRA’s people would now be following Bane’s every move, Trench harbored only the slightest hope that those moves would lead them to the boy. Bane could lose as many men as Trench put on his tail at will. The Game might have been cat and mouse; it was just difficult to tell which was which.

Trench dreaded calling Chilgers but knew he must. He sat in the back seat of his car and felt himself dozing again before he reached for the phone. He’d have to find replacements for the Twin Bears as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be easy. They were rare finds.

“Any luck, Trench?” Chilgers asked in a typically cold voice.

“No. No leads at all.”

“I want that boy, Trench. I’d have him now if not for your bungled operation.”

“The operation was well conceived. Bane’s presence wasn’t considered.”

“I considered it. It’s why I suggested we eliminate him.”

“I don’t understand why he was tracking the boy. He couldn’t have known about his powers.”

“Apparently, he knows more than we think. Worse now he’s got the boy and we don’t. This whole matter has become immensely complicated. It’s not a simple recovery operation anymore. Holes must be filled, eliminated. I’ve sent for Scalia.”

Trench bit his lip, felt a sudden rush of pain to his head. “You didn’t need him.”

“I needed an equalizer. Scalia makes up his own rules and God knows we need that approach before things get any more out of hand. I’ll brief you on the details when the time is right. We’ll have this all wrapped up tomorrow,” Chilgers said confidently.

The phone clicked off. Trench reached into his pocket for another Percodan. Colonel Chilgers felt strangely calm. The events of the preceding evening should have frustrated, even enraged him. But they hadn’t. He had accepted the report with cool detachment. It was a victory for him, not a loss.

Because the strange power of Davey Phelps was being confirmed more and more with each step. And the power was getting stronger.

The boy hadn’t been born with these intense telekinetic abilities; Chilgers felt certain of that. Something about the tangent phase of Vortex had given them to him. The colonel wanted to find out what.

He leaned back in his chair and let his mind drift.

Imagine understanding and harnessing the boy’s powers …

Imagine training men to use them to their fullest…

Imagine an army of Davey Phelpses …

The power was there to be exploited.

Chilgers was equally certain that the boy was still unsure and frightened of his newfound abilities, which could serve only to hold him back. Nothing would hold back the army Chilgers envisioned.

The Russians wouldn’t have this weapon and neither would the Chinese. Nobody would have one except—

Chilgers leaned forward again, drew his mind back to the present. For now there were other matters to deal with, equally pressing. An obstacle existed that had to be dealt with before any further progress could take place. The Colonel touched his intercom switch.

“Please tell Professor Metzencroy I’m ready to see him.”

“You’ve read my report?” Metzencroy asked before he even sat down, dabbing furiously at his brow.

Chilgers regarded him sternly. “Please take a chair, Professor, and let’s sort this thing out.”

Metzencroy stayed on his feet. “There’s nothing to sort out this time, Colonel. My fears have been confirmed.”

“Since they’re your fears, you’re hardly the right man to handle the confirmation end.”

“Then by all means, retain a second opinion.”

“I already have.”

More dabbing. “When?”

“That is of no concern to you.”

Metzencroy placed a set of trembling hands on Chilgers’ desk top. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “Isn’t it? I developed Vortex from the very start. Always I had fears, reservations, but nothing firm. That has changed. The bubble on Flight 22 opened the door to a new and problematical area. I ran tests, I did experiments, and the results confirm what we’ll be condemning the world to if Vortex is moved into its final stage. There is simply no doubt.”

“There is always doubt, Professor.”

“Not in this case, Colonel.”

Chilgers rose and looked Metzencroy square in the eyes. The Professor shrank back from the desk and drew his handkerchief to his brow.

“I read your report, Professor. You’re dealing in theoretical concepts that have never been tested. Yet you remain surprisingly confident of your results.”

“Call it a feeling, if you choose.”

“I do choose, indeed I do. And if you expect me to abort Vortex based on one man’s feeling, well … I have the greatest respect for you, Professor. If I hadn’t I never would have put you at the helm of the most expansive project COBRA has ever undertaken. But please don’t ask me to toss it all away now. We are on the verge of something great here, something fantastic.”

Metzencroy nodded uneasily. “That’s the point, Colonel, we are on the verge. We have yet to cross over into an acceptable margin of certainty. I’ve spent twenty years of my life developing Vortex. I’m closer to it than anyone, and in no way would I want to see it abandoned. I am merely recommending further study and scrutiny.”

“For how long? A month? A year? More perhaps?” Chilgers shook his head deliberately. “Project Placebo is only days away now, Professor, and you will have the missiles ready by that time.”

“Please, Colonel, all I’m asking for is a month to work out the new formulas. At least give me a chance.”

“You’ve had twenty years.”

“I had no means to predict how Vortex would react in bent space in jet-power acceleration. None of our experiments showed any trace of a flutter until the airplane last week.”

“Then you’re basing your entire study on one incident over the course of twenty years.”

Metzencroy nodded. “In science, Colonel, one incident is very often the catalyst regardless of time … for better or worse.”

“You know that Dr. Teke has an entirely different interpretation of your data.”

“Teke is hardly an expert in quantum mechanics and gravitational fields.”

Chilgers leaned forward. “But we have five scientists on our staff who are and they also have all reached different interpretations of your data. Independently, I might add.”

Metzencroy’s lips quivered. “That’s impossible. If I could talk to them….”

“I already have, Professor, and on this issue I am forced to accept their conclusions.”

“Then you plan on proceeding with Vortex as scheduled.”

“Absolutely.”

Metzencroy started pacing madly before Chilgers’s desk. His face flushed and his entire body all at once seemed to be trembling. He looked to the colonel like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He spoke finally through lips that seemed determined to deny the words passage.

“Colonel, we are not speaking of simple bubbles, flutters, or blinks here. We are speaking of the potential of a high-energy mix within the timespace continuum. We are speaking of a bubble a hundred trillion times the intensity of the one recorded on board Flight 22. And a bubble that size could rip a hole in the fabric of our universe that would change every law of physics we’ve come to accept. We are speaking potentially of total destruction. Nothing left, Colonel. Our world hangs in a surprisingly delicate gravitational and magnetic balance, like living inside a balloon. We are speaking theoretically of sucking a pin in that balloon, Colonel.”

Chilgers just looked at him. “You’re tired, Professor, take some time off. I’ll have your car brought around.”

“Colonel, I beg you—”

“It’s over, Professor, finished.”

Metzencroy’s stare was distant. “It may well be.”

Chilgers knew Metzencroy had reached the end of his rope. The steps the professor would take now were as unavoidable as they were unfortunate. He was a scientist, not a soldier, with no understanding of loyalty or discipline. He would reveal his fears to Washington, perhaps even make them public. He wouldn’t care about destroying Chilgers or Vortex. His stubborn scientific principle clouded everything. Scientists couldn’t be told they were wrong; that was the problem with them. You used them as long as you could and then discarded them rapidly, sometimes permanently.

Such would have to be the case with Metzencroy.

Chilgers considered himself above all else to be an excellent judge of character, capable of understanding when a man under him changed from an asset to a liability. The key was to ferret such men out just as the transition was beginning. There were no boardroom politics at COBRA. A man contributed as much as he could for as long as he could and then was released. Chilgers thrived on a world of such clarity.

Of course, few who reached their limit — none actually — had ever had the potential to do as much damage as Metzencroy. A drastic situation called for a drastic response. The professor was valuable to him; his knowledge in the field of weaponry physics was unsurpassed. It would be a great loss to COBRA and the entire country. But an even greater loss was possible, even probable, if he was left operable. The risk was too great, and risks had to be staunchly regarded, whatever the cost.

Too bad. Chilgers especially would have liked to have had Metzencroy around for analysis of Davey Phelps when the boy was ultimately brought in. Teke was a good man but he was no Metzencroy, and to understand the boy’s power to its fullest the colonel believed he would need a Metzencroy.

But the professor had made his decision.

Now Chilgers would make his.

Chapter Eighteen

“Yo, Josh boy, those dudes still on your tail?”

Bane glanced out from the phone booth at the blue sedan which had pulled up across the street. “Closer than ever, King. How’s the boy?”

“Doin’ fine. I got him shootin’ well enough already to split hairs. Wait till ya see.”

“I’ll look forward to it. No company?”

“Ain’t been a white man within five blocks.”

“They might not be white.”

“I’ll know ’em no matter what color they paint themselves.”

“I figured that much,” Bane told King Cong and hung up the receiver.

It was closing on eleven A.M. and Bane planned on spending the rest of the day tracking down other passengers from Flight 22. He knew that Davey could not have been the only one affected by whatever had happened on the plane. If some of the others were able to tell him more, be more specific about those foggy moments before the jet landed, he’d be able to take the information to Washington. His proof that something had indeed happened to Flight 22 had to be irrefutable; otherwise the risk was too great.

Bane pulled his Cressida into traffic and watched the blue sedan lag comfortably back. Within a few blocks, another car would take its place, and then another … and another. Bane could lose them at any point if he chose to but he did not. He felt more comfortable knowing where they were. Besides, it wouldn’t be hard for them in any case to figure out his afternoon strategy. It was the next logical step for him to take, and Trench certainly would have expected it, professional that he was. So for now an uneasy stalemate existed, a truce of sorts. The men in the cars could receive orders to move in and take him at any time. But Trench wouldn’t want to chance a bloody showdown and risk coming away empty again. That wasn’t his style at all. He’d choose his time more appropriately and on his terms. What’s more, Trench would cling to the hope that Bane might slip up somehow and lead him to Davey. Take him out now, Trench would think, and the boy’s location might remain a mystery indefinitely. COBRA couldn’t have that.

Bane’s first stop was a fashionable high-rise on Central Park South and a man named William Renshaw. He had no way of knowing who on his passenger manifest would be home or not, so he elected to start at random with one who lived relatively close by in the city. He squeezed his car into a no-parking zone and learned from the doorman that Renshaw lived on the eighteenth floor. The man insisted on calling first and Bane was surprised when a raspy, male voice shot back over the intercom to send him up immediately.

Inside of a minute later, Bane found himself ringing the bell of Renshaw’s apartment. The door opened just a crack. A pair of bulging eyes inspected him up and down.

“About time you showed up,” the mouth below them charged.

“Mr. Renshaw?”

“Damn right. They’re everywhere and I’m running out of ammo.”

“What?”

Renshaw’s answer was to unhitch the chain and open the door only long enough to drag Bane inside. The plush, richly furnished apartment lay drenched in darkness, all sunlight held back by drawn shades. Only one lamp was on, casting eerie shadows on the walls as Bane followed Renshaw into the living-room section.

“They’re hiding because they know you’ve come,” Renshaw said with a wink. He was wearing a blue bathrobe over a white T-shirt and floppy bedroom slippers. His thin gray hair hung wildly about his head and he smelled of stale sweat. “If we wait long enough they’ll come back. Come on out, you bastards!” he shouted at the bare walls. “We know you’re there. No sense hiding.”

Bane realized Renshaw was quite mad. He had seen enough men crack in combat to know the symptoms. The issue here was the cause.

“What’d you say your name was?” Renshaw shot at him.

“Bane.”

“Well, Bane, I hope you’ve had experience in these matters before. They’re too big for a rookie to handle. Some the size of rats, I tell you, rats!”

“What are they?”

“Don’t be an ass, Bane. I’ve called the exterminators a dozen times now. They haven’t changed since the first. Cockroaches. Big ones, big as rats.”

“I see.”

“You haven’t yet but you will.” Renshaw gazed back toward the door. “So where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Your equipment, dammit! Whatever it is you plan to use to kill these mothers! Vacuum them up, isn’t that what you boys do?”

“Depends.”

“Well, I haven’t slept in five nights now. Just get rid of the bastards quick. Big as rats, I tell you.”

Five nights went back to the day Flight 22 touched down, Bane thought.

“There!” Renshaw screamed suddenly. “There’s one!”

Then, from inside his bathrobe, he whipped out a pistol that might have been a twin of King Cong’s cannon.

“On the wall! On the wall! See it! Here it comes! Oh God, oh God … See it!”

Bane looked at the wall and imagined a giant cockroach sliding down. No wonder Renshaw hadn’t been sleeping.

“Bang!” Renshaw shouted, pulling the trigger to an empty click. “Got the bastard. See that, I got him.”

“Good shot.”

“But I’m running out of ammo and they just keep coming back no matter how many I kill. You’d think they’d get the message after a while. What do you think made them grow so big?”

“I’ll take one down to the lab and have it analyzed.”

“Good idea. Hadn’t thought of that. They could overrun the city if they wanted to.”

“I’ll need some information first,” Bane told him. “You’ll answer some questions, Mr. Renshaw?”

“Questions? Sure. Of course. Ask away.” His eyes wandered to the spot where his imaginary bullet had downed the imaginary giant cockroach. “You think they might be too big for your equipment? Big as rats, they are. You saw.”

“I’ll use a special adapter,” Bane assured him. “Can we sit down?”

“On the furniture, you mean? Well, I guess so but we’ll have to be careful. Caught a whole swarm under the couch last night trying to climb up my legs. I’ll watch yours if you’ll watch mine.”

“Legs? Of course.”

“And behind. They love to sneak up on you from behind. It’s not safe to have your back anywhere but against a wall. Big as rats, they are.”

Finally Renshaw sat uneasily on the couch. Bane took a chair directly before him, eyeing the magnum clutched in his fingers. Was there any way he could be sure the other chambers were empty as well?

“Mr. Renshaw, when did you first notice the bugs?”

“Notice them? While on the plane, of course. They came in through the windows. Smaller then. They’ve grown.”

“Did anyone else see them on the plane?”

“Of course they did. They were just too scared to admit it. I told the stewardess when the lights came back on and she said she’d handle it. Hah! You call this handling it? Maybe I’ll sue them for letting the bastards loose in my apartment. Must’ve snuck through in my luggage. Big as rats, they are.”

“What about the lights?” Bane probed.

“What lights?”

“The ones on the plane.”

“They went off for a few seconds.”

“And that’s when you first saw the bugs?”

“Yes.” Confusion claimed Renshaw’s face. “How did I see them if it was dark?”

Bane realized the man was being faced with his own delusion, dangerous potentially for someone in Renshaw’s state. “Because the emergency lights must have snapped on,” he said quickly.

“Of course,” Renshaw agreed, relaxing. “That’s it.”

“You say the lights were only off for a few seconds?”

“Long enough for the bugs to come.”

Bane was going to ask Renshaw if he’d noticed any of the other passengers behaving strangely but thought better of it. There was no way he could expect a coherent answer at this point.

“Oh God, oh God,” Renshaw muttered. “Don’t move! Do you hear me! Don’t move! …”

With that, the madman raised the magnum’s barrel and leveled it direct for Bane’s groin. He cocked the hammer, closed one eye to steady his aim.

“Hold still,” Renshaw whispered. “If you value your balls, don’t move a muscle.”

Bane strained his eyes to see if any shells were present in the chambers. No way to be sure. He gauged the distance between himself and Renshaw and decided chancing a leap against a potentially loaded gun was even more ludicrous than waiting for the madman to fire it.

“Steady,” Renshaw whispered and Bane held his breath. “Steady …”

The trigger started back.

Bane flinched.

Click.

“Bang! Got the sucker! Saved your balls, I did, saved your balls. Big as a rat, it was, big as a rat.”

Bane stood up. “I’d better go downstairs and get my equipment.”

Renshaw rose and a smile stretched from ear to ear. “I’d go and help you bring it up, but the bastards would overrun the place while I was gone. That’s what they’re waiting for you know. For me to leave or fall asleep.”

“I’ll be right back up.”

Renshaw regarded him thoughtfully on the way to the door. “Maybe you should call in more men. Big as rats, they are, big as rats.”

Bane closed the door behind him.

He had a friend at Bellevue he could call about Renshaw. Though it might prove a mistake from a security standpoint, there was no way he could stomach leaving the poor man up there, a captive of his mad delusions. He now knew two of the passengers who had traveled on Flight 22. One had developed psychic powers and the other had gone totally mad. Interesting contrast.

Bane couldn’t wait to learn what else might lie ahead of him. As it turned out, though, there wasn’t much in the next hour and a half. Of the next five names on his list, three were not home, a fourth claimed to have slept through the whole flight, and the wife of a fifth assured Bane that her husband showed no ill or unusual effects from Flight 22, certainly ruling out madness or psychic powers.

Bane then decided to give the COBRA cars following him a treat by leading them into Westchester County. There were seven names on the manifest that resided here and Bane elected to start with a woman named Gladys Baker, a widow from Scarsdale. Mrs. Baker was sixty-four and lived on Carthage Road, surrounded by yards that later in the afternoon would be dominated by children out to challenge the early spring cold. Her house was the simplest on the block, a two-story colonial with a flagstone walk. Strangely, Bane found himself teetering on the slabs, avoiding the grass at all costs. Once again a feeling of discomfort, of intruding, gripped his insides. It reached its peak after he rang the bell, when Gladys Baker opened the door and faced him from the other side of a screen.

“Yes?”

She was a gray-haired woman who looked more than her age. The glasses propped up on her nose were strung to a chain that would allow her to dangle them at her chest.

Bane flashed an ID card that made him a Federal Aviation Administration investigator. “I wonder if I might have a word with you, Mrs. Baker.”

“What about?” she asked nervously.

“It would be easier if we talked inside.”

Gladys Baker checked the I.D. more closely. “Joshua Bane … That sounds like a biblical name.”

“My mother was religious.”

She opened the door for him, her eyes thankful. “I’m so glad you’ve come. You don’t know what a load it is off my mind to see that someone else realized something was wrong with that flight.”

Bane felt his stomach flutter with anticipation.

“That is what you’ve come about, Mr. Bane, isn’t it?”

Bane followed her in and caught the familiar drone of soap opera music. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“I was just relaxing a bit,” Mrs. Baker told him.

“This won’t take long.”

“Let it take as long as it must. What a release it’ll be to talk about this finally. You’d like a cup of coffee or tea perhaps?”

“Well …”

“Please. It would be my pleasure. I was just about to make some for myself anyway.”

“In that case, thank you very much.”

He moved with her into the kitchen, feeling much more at ease and eager to hear the old woman’s story. She set the water boiling. Bane waited for her to sit down before he took a chair across from her at the kitchen table.

“I’m investigating some complaints we’ve had about the flight you took from San Diego back to New York six days ago,” he said.

Gladys Baker’s face whitened. She tucked her fingers under the table so Bane wouldn’t notice their trembling.

“Thank God,” she sighed, “it wasn’t just me who felt there was something wrong with the flight. But I didn’t say anything. Since my husband passed on I’ve had some … problems. Adjusting and all, you understand. I’ve spent some time in therapy. I have relatives who’d like nothing better than to make it permanent … from my husband’s side, of course. He left me everything, you see. So I couldn’t tell anyone about the flight, I just couldn’t.”

“You can now.”

“And you’ll take what I say in confidence?”

“So far as I can.”

Gladys Baker sighed again. Behind her, the teakettle started to hiss. “There’s not much to tell really. I’m not a very good flier and without Dramamine I’m generally a nervous wreck. I thought I had one left but it wasn’t until we were in the air that I realized I didn’t. Stupid of me really. I thought I’d have to ride the whole way with my heart in my mouth but I was doing fine until a few minutes before we landed when …” Gladys Baker brought her trembling hands up over her face.

“Please go on, Mrs. Baker, I’m here to listen.”

“Well, right before we landed I started seeing double, two of everything. Then I got very dizzy, terrible spins, and I thought, ‘Well, after six smooth hours here I am about to blow it.’ So I started taking deep breaths, but it didn’t help. The double vision didn’t go away and the dizziness got worse. Everything in the plane was going crazy, turning and floating, even the people. I couldn’t find the stewardess so I turned to the nice young couple next to me — I was sitting on the aisle, you see.” Mrs. Baker took a deep breath. “They weren’t there.”

“You mean they had changed seats?”

“I mean they had disappeared.”

A shudder crept up Bane’s spine.

“A few seconds before the spell came on,” Mrs. Baker continued, “I was looking right at them. They never walked by me. They just weren’t there anymore.”

“Might you have passed out?”

Mrs. Baker shook her head. “I was too sick. I couldn’t even close my eyes without feeling like I was about to fall out of a roller coaster. Besides, a few seconds later they were there again.”

“The couple?”

The old woman nodded, ignoring the kettle which had begun to whistle its readiness. “Mr. Bane, does this all seem a bit much to you?”

“Not at all,” he said unhesitantly, glad he could be of some comfort.

“There’s more.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“They didn’t come back all at once — the couple, I mean. They came back a little at a time, like when you focus a camera and the picture slowly takes shape. First there was just an outline. Then it started to fill in but you still couldn’t see all of them. Then they were back. About that time I realized the dizziness had subsided so I asked them if they were all right. They looked at me strangely and said ‘Of course,’ as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing had happened. But it did happen, Mr. Bane, I know it did.”

The kettle was screaming now. Gladys Baker rose, pushing herself up by pressing her palms against the smooth finish of the table. She lifted the kettle from the range and uneasily poured out two cups of boiling water, neglecting to stir up the coffee. The cups trembled in her hands and would have slipped to the floor had not Bane relieved her of the burden halfway back to the table.

“I’m not usually this nervous,” she apologized. “I haven’t been in three years. Since my husband passed on. But I’m scared now, Mr. Bane, and it all started with that flight.” She was sitting down again, trying to raise the cup of coffee to her lips. Her fingers betrayed her and the scalding liquid dripped over the rim in small waves. She gave up, returning the cup to its saucer. She looked at Bane desperately. “I need help but I’m afraid to seek it. If those relatives learn the state I’m in, they’ll start proceedings again and I’ll lose everything I have, even my home. I haven’t been sleeping well, Mr. Bane. Every day I go through long periods of depression, worse even than right after my husband passed on. Then suddenly they go away and I find myself remarkably giddy for no reason at all. The periods rotate in cycles and waves, and I’m not sure which one I dread the most. I was never like this before, Mr. Bane, you’ve got to believe that. I was never like this before in my life until that flight home. I’ve tried to pass it all off to forgetting my Dramamine, but somehow I know it was something else.” Again she tried the coffee cup, failing this time to even raise it off the saucer. “Am I going crazy, Mr. Bane? Am I cracking up?”

Bane could only look at her sympathetically, his untouched coffee steaming toward his nostrils. She had just described textbook symptoms of manic depression, symptoms she claimed had come on as a direct result of Flight 22. Davey Phelps, Renshaw, and now this.

“There’s something else I feel I should tell you, Mr. Bane,” Gladys Baker continued softly, “something else that was strange about the flight, but I didn’t pay much attention to it because of everything else. It was my watch.”

“Your watch?”

“I checked it against a clock in the terminal after we landed and found it was running forty minutes slow.”

A shudder grabbed Bane’s spine. “The spell you had, Mrs. Baker, you say it came on just before landing?”

Gladys Baker nodded.

“And it only seemed to last a few seconds after which the plane touched down?”

“That’s right.”

Bane looked down at his cup of coffee, stirred it thoughtlessly. Flight 22 had landed forty minutes after Jake Del Gennio reported it missing. Gladys Baker’s spell coincided with the moment Jake saw the jet vanish and her watch lost forty minutes somewhere in the air, a missing forty minutes which apparently had never passed inside Flight 22. What had happened to them?

“And I’ll tell you one other thing,” Mrs. Baker was saying, “it’s not just me. At least, I don’t think it is. You see, I knew a girl who was on the plane. Well, actually I know her mother, but I recognized her and said hello on board. They’re from over in New Jersey. Hillsdale, I’m pretty sure, a beautiful neighborhood. I’ve tried to call her a few times this week but every time I mention the flight to her mother, she hangs up on me and I haven’t talked to the girl yet. I know something happened to her too. I can just feel it.” Tears welled in Gladys Baker’s eyes. “You do believe me, Mr. Bane, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bane said, and that helped Gladys Baker relax just enough to bring the cup of coffee to her lips.

The girl’s name, Bane had learned before departing, was Ginny Peretz, and she lived in a house at least twice the size of Gladys Baker’s on Mountain View Terrace in the fashionable New Jersey suburb of Hillsdale. The maid who answered the door, though, seemed determined to keep Bane outside. He persisted and she finally disappeared in search of the lady of the house.

“My lawyer’s on the way,” Mrs. Peretz, a well-groomed lady nearing fifty with only the few gray hairs that had sprung up since her last trip to the salon, said by way of introduction.

“That’s not necessary,” Bane told her.

“We don’t want any trouble.”

“I’m not here to cause any. I gave your maid my credentials.”

Mrs. Peretz scoffed. “Those mean nothing to me. My husband’s a man of considerable influence. A few phone calls by him and you will regret this day.”

A bluff, clearly. If that were so, Bane reckoned, there would have been no reason to call the lawyer. Aware the woman was lying, he seized the advantage.

“I want to see your daughter, Mrs. Peretz,” he demanded.

She glanced out behind him. “Do keep your voice down. There are neighbors to consider, you know.” She let him step far enough inside the door to let it close over the marble floor in the foyer. “Damn busybodies. All they do is talk. I’ve had to have the doctors use the rear entrance. They say it’ll pass, just temporary surely. They aren’t sure what caused it, not precisely anyway.”

Bane didn’t want to seem too eager. “Caused what?” The now familiar prickling was back at his neck hairs.

“My daughter is unable to see you,” Mrs. Peretz retreated.

“It won’t take long. Only a few questions.”

Mrs. Peretz was shaking her head. Her eyes had become moist. “You damn fool, don’t you understand?”

Bane’s silence confirmed he didn’t.

“She can’t answer any of your damned questions about that damned plane because since she got off it, she hasn’t spoken one word!” Mrs. Peretz screeched. “Not one damn word! She just sits in her room and stares out the window. She doesn’t move now unless we move her. She doesn’t eat unless we feed her.” Mrs. Peretz suddenly looked old. She rubbed the black sleeve of her dress against her face, lowering her voice as well as her eyes. “The doctors say she experienced a severe trauma or shock. They say she’s totally withdrawn into herself as a result of it. But they’re wrong, all of them!” She was almost shouting again. “A sudden severe trauma or shock, they say. But she was fine when she boarded that plane — I checked with the close friends who dropped her at the airport. Then six hours later she stumbled off white as a ghost and hasn’t uttered a word since, so I suppose the doctors would have me believe the shock occurred in the jet. Hah! Can you tell me what kind of traumatic experience could happen in midair?”

Chapter Nineteen

Bane lost his tail on the way to Janie Finlaw’s apartment, for naught as it turned out because as he pulled into the parking garage he spotted an obvious COBRA team in a sedan just down the street. He was meeting Janie here for dinner and he was glad now he’d invited Harry the Bat along. Harry’s presence would have kept the men at bay if they’d had plans to do more than watch prior to Bane’s arrival.

He rode the elevator to the twelfth floor and rang Janie’s bell.

“What’s the password?” Harry’s voice called from the inside.

“Open the door, you son of a bitch.”

A chain rattled. “Got it right on the first shot.” Harry swung the door open.

“How’d you know it was me?” Bane asked, closing it.

“Saw you drive into the garage.”

“Then you’ve no doubt noticed our friends.”

“The fuckers have been parked across the street for the past hour. Be a lot easier if we just invited them in for coffee.”

Janie appeared from the kitchen. “You boys plan on talking shop all night?”

“Not if you tell me what you dug up on the computer,” Bane said.

“I focused on what you asked me to, Josh,” she reported after they sat down in the living room, “and I think I latched on to something. “She consulted her notes. “To begin with, Colonel Chilgers relies primarily on two men for the day-to-day functioning of COBRA: Dr. Benjamin Teke and Professor Lewis Metzencroy. I’ve got pictures of both of them, in addition to one of Chilgers for you to look at later. Anyway, Teke’s the more well rounded of the two but holds no real expertise in any scientific field. He’s more or less become COBRA’s chief administrator as well as Chilgers’ confidant. Metzencroy’s another matter entirely, an absolute genius in the fields of physics and astrophysics. His work for COBRA is confined to the laboratory and their Confidential Projects section and he almost never mixes with politics. According to his title, he fills the vague position of chief of new weapons research and development. But I doubt he even goes near anything but the big stuff, top secret all the way — nothing you’ll ever read about in the paper.”

Harry the Bat sighed. “That computer tell you how much he makes a year?”

“No, but it did have something to say about seven scientists hired by Metzencroy and COBRA over the last three years, and they’ve all got one thing in common: Einstein.”

“Einstein?” Bane wondered, and drew a nod from Janie.

“All strict disciples of the master who have followed his words virtually to the letter throughout their careers.”

“I assume the same holds true for Metzencroy.”

“Even more so. Metzencroy’s somewhere in his mid-sixties which would put him roughly in his mid-thirties when Einstein died in ’fifty-five. His entire career has been a continuous attempt to expand on some of his mentor’s theories and complete the rest.”

“What do you mean complete?” Bane wondered.

“I’m no expert,” Janie said, “but it’s fairly common knowledge that Einstein died with a number of theories incomplete and untested. E=mc², some say, was child’s play compared to what he worked out later. So potentially he was onto forces in the world even greater than nuclear fission. And assuming Metzencroy has picked up his work—”

“—COBRA might be developing it right now,” Bane finished. “With the help of seven additional experts Metzencroy has chosen just for the job. I think we’re on to something here.”

“Except that’s about as far as we can go without additional information,” Janie explained. “COBRA’s computer lines are sealed in San Diego so there’s no way Harry or I can tap in. The only thing we seem to have gained is the possibility that Metzencroy is developing one of Einstein’s uncompleted theories.”

“I’d say it’s more than just a possibility,” Bane noted. “It’s not just Davey Phelps who’s been affected by Flight 22; the whole damn plane was cursed.” And he went on to relate the essence of his meetings that day; with a madman, the mother of a catatonic, and a manic depressive who swore she saw two passengers vanish on board only to reappear.

“Sounds to me like COBRA zapped that plane,” Harry the Bat concluded.

“And whatever they zapped it with,” Bane followed, “went to work on the minds of the passengers. Every one of them was affected differently, and a few — as many as half I’d guess — were affected at levels too small to notice … yet.”

“‘Yet’?”

Bane nodded. “The effects appear to be cumulative. They grow, worsen instead of dissipating. Davey Phelps’s powers have gotten progressively stronger. Gladys Baker claims her manic depression is getting worse, and Mrs. Peretz insists that her daughter withdraws more and more every day. It’s possible, then, that those who haven’t noticed any effect from the flight will before too much longer.”

“The next question, I guess,” Janie said, “is what happened to them? What did COBRA do?”

“Lord fuck a duck,” Harry muttered, “they must’ve loaded the food with some contaminant about to be let loose on Russia.”

“Or a new weapon maybe,” Janie added, “that attacks the nerve centers of the brain and causes the symptoms Josh has been summarizing. A mad version of psychological warfare.”

“Einstein never had anything to do with psychological warfare,” Bane pointed out.

“Not directly,” Janie admitted. “But he might have left the door open for it somewhere. The kind of weapon we’re talking about is terrifying. Developed sufficiently, it could destroy an entire nation from the inside, assuming proper methods of dispersal were worked out.”

“And that,” picked up Harry the Bat immediately, snapping his fingers, “could’ve been exactly what Flight 22 was all about.”

“Could’ve been,” Bane noted, “but wasn’t.”

“And I was just starting to get rolling….”

“You see,” Bane went on, “we’re forgetting something here, perhaps the most important part of the puzzle: Jake Del Gennio. This whole thing started for us because he claimed the whole plane disappeared.”

“So what’s the point?”

“Focus on what they did to the plane itself, not the people. All passengers I’ve spoken to who exhibit symptoms recall a brief period on board when they felt dizzy, lightheaded, or passed out altogether. The period seems to correspond with the time Jake Del Gennio claimed the jet vanished. Except the passengers claim the spell only lasted for a few seconds, minutes at the outside, and yet Flight 22 didn’t land until forty minutes later.”

“You’re saying their spells actually lasted that long,” Harry surmised.

“Now we come to the real problem, because according to Gladys Baker’s watch those forty minutes didn’t exist.”

“You’ve lost me, Winter Man.”

Bane hesitated. “The plane didn’t just disappear, it ceased to exist, went into some kind of time warp or something. Forty minutes went by but for the passengers only seconds had passed.”

“Wow,” from Harry.

“Remember, there was no radio contact at all with the cockpit during the missing period. The people came back and so did the plane. But whatever happened in the interim cost Jake Del Gennio his life and maybe sixty people their minds.”

“And you’re saying whatever COBRA did had nothing to do with people in a direct sense,” Janie put forth.

“I can’t be sure of that,” Bane told her. “I just believe the extreme effects the passengers suffered weren’t planned for or expected. Things got out of control.”

“You figure that had anything to do with Flight 22 having engine trouble along the way?” Harry wondered.

“Possibly. But there’s no way of being sure at this point whether that was a cause or an effect.”

“Well Lord fuck a duck, then we’re right back where we started,” the Bat moaned.

“Not really,” said Bane. “We’ve got the Einstein connection now, and if we plug that in with what we already know, we might be able to uncover what COBRA’s up to with all this, at least get a general idea of what they’re working on.”

“Not necessarily,” Janie interjected. “If this operation was still in the research stage, no one outside of San Diego would have to know about its existence and that includes the White House and the Pentagon, so you can forget about learning anything there.”

“Terrific …”

“Relax, Harry,” Bane soothed. “The pieces of this puzzle are starting to fall together.”

“As long as we don’t go down with them,” from the Bat.

Colonel Chilgers closed the bulky file on Joshua Bane. He had been analyzing it for six hours until he’d found what he was looking for. He contacted Scalia.

“An interesting assignment, Colonel,” Scalia told him plainly over the phone.

“The logistics promise to be difficult.”

“I look at them as challenging … and expensive.”

“Your price will be met.” Chilgers hesitated. “You’ll be working with Trench.”

“I work alone.”

“I feel the logistics would be better served by the two of you.”

Chilgers could feel the coldness coming over the line.

“It’s your money,” Scalia said finally. “But I don’t trust Trench. He thinks too much. He’s played the Game on too many sides.”

“And you?”

“Money has no side, Colonel.”

“Tomorrow’s timing is certain to be very delicate. The two of you together should assure against any slip-ups.”

“A quick hit on Bane would seem more logical.”

“Matters have progressed way beyond that.”

“As you wish.” Then, “You’re certain about the information in Bane’s file?”

Chilgers toyed with the edges of the manila folder. “Absolutely.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow, Colonel.”

Scalia hung up. First.

Chilgers hated him and was content that they’d never have to meet. The colonel did not relish the sensation of being controlled, of having this killer’s upper hand waved in his face. Scalia was nothing but a repairman, called in when something had gone wrong. He fixed the problem, collected his fee, and went on his way. So banal. So trite. And yet he had spoken to Chilgers in a demeaning and sententious manner. Chilgers steamed, smiled finally at the thought of sending Trench after Scalia when this was over, then quickly changed his mind. Crossing Scalia could cost him much and gain him little.

A knock sounded on the door of his spacious, wood-lined office.

Chilgers lit his pipe and puffed it. “Come in, Teke.”

The doctor entered and took a chair directly before Chilgers’ desk.

“I called you here, Doctor, to ask you a few questions. I want your answers to be honest and accurate, wholly so on both counts.”

Teke nodded, his bald dome showing a day’s growth of stubble on its sides.

Chilgers pulled the pipe from his mouth. “Has Project Placebo reached a point where Professor Metzencroy’s contributions are no longer required?”

Teke didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

“Then am I to assume, Doctor, that the professor is now superfluous to the ultimate completion of Vortex, that the operation can be completed without him?”

“Most certainly.” Again, no hesitation.

“In your answers you have laid personal feelings aside, Teke?”

“My answers are strictly professional, Colonel.”

Chilgers smiled and forgot all about Scalia. Wordlessly, he reached for the phone.

The colonel elected to remain at the base all evening. It was hardly an unheard-of practice for him, so no undue attention would be aroused because of it. The risk would have been worthwhile in any case; he wanted to be here when news of Metzencroy’s death reached the complex. The matter had to be handled tactfully in a way that would cause not even the slightest repercussions. Chilgers could afford nothing less at this stage.

There would be questions, of course, but these would be easily answered. He had arranged that the professor’s medical report be revised to indicate a history of heart trouble. That way the final attack which would soon claim his life would arouse a bare minimum of suspicion, perhaps none at all. The drug used was very fine, only a small amount being required to do the job, and it was undetectable after two hours under even the closest autopsy. Chilgers knew all about it.

The drug had been developed at COBRA.

The colonel slept not one wink all evening. There were plans to revise, details to revamp. Metzencroy was a brilliant man, and there was no doubt he would be missed in certain quarters. Hell, Chilgers reflected, if not for the professor there never would have been a Vortex or a Project Placebo. Twenty years of patient research and testing had placed the United States on the verge of unchallenged global domination, thanks to a man who would not be alive to see it.

Chilgers did feel some compunction over the necessity of the professor’s passing, though he did not let it show on his features. Metzencroy had clearly proven himself to be too much of a threat. It would not be easy replacing him, but it would have been even harder to have his every move monitored. If allowed to continue working at COBRA, Metzencroy might, conceivably, have resorted to sabotage or, worse, exposure, thereby destroying Vortex and erasing all his brilliant work.

Chilgers spent the night running all this through his head, further convincing himself of the necessity for his decision. Murder was nothing new to him. A man who couldn’t stomach it certainly didn’t belong in his position, or in any position of power for that matter.

Strangely, the only thing that didn’t occur to him as the dark hours gave way to light was the possibility that Metzencroy’s suspicions, his fears, might have been correct. Chilgers’ vision was clear, but narrow. He could not consider the professor’s final reports as anything but absurdity because the consequences they posed were too awful to contemplate.

Metzencroy had threatened Vortex.

All threats to Vortex had to be put aside at all costs, at any costs.

Five levels above him, the sun had come up when Chilgers’ phone rang at almost the precise minute he expected it to. The voice was that of a COBRA security guard sent to gather Professor Metzencroy at his home for an emergency meeting.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, sir….”