Vortex

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Are we ready for stage two, Doctor?” Chilgers asked Teke from behind his mahogany desk. His back still ached from smashing up against the console yesterday, but painkillers were out of the question because he needed a clear head.

“Quite, I should say,” responded Teke. “I’ve analyzed the data from stage one and have found few surprises on top of the unexpected inconsistencies. As I suspected, the boy’s power works best when he is threatened. The reason for this, I’ve now confirmed, is that it is activated by his subconscious mind. This explains why the boy’s pulse and blood pressure readings increased while his conscious level of spent energy remained incredibly low.”

“Are you saying he has no control of his power?”

“Not entirely. The line between the conscious and unconscious minds is a narrow one, Colonel, and one that is difficult to define. We resort to defense mechanisms without consciously meaning to. There are conscious forces which trigger the unconscious responses of tears and laughter. The boy’s power isn’t all that different from such responses or from a standard defense mechanism. He activates it when he needs it, when there is no real alternative or that alternative is pain.”

“He used his power to purchase a jacket in New York,” Chilgers reminded. “Quite consciously.”

“And the effort required to do so was infinitesimal for him, easily accomplished at the conscious level.”

“Unlike yesterday.”

“We went too far with him yesterday,” Teke explained. “The pain came from within himself and when we wouldn’t let him ease up, we lost control. We’re all lucky to be alive, considering the splintering glass and the escape of toxic gases from those fluorescent lights. The boy nearly killed us.”

“Consciously?”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is that he, too, lost control. The pain was too much for him.”

“From the shock prods?”

“More from his own head. It appears that extended use of his power causes increased pressure to the region of the brain where it originates. The result is something akin to migraine headaches that grow in intensity the deeper he reaches for his power.”

Chilgers rose tentatively. He tried to stretch his back muscles out but the motion proved too painful. “Any lasting effects?”

“Difficult to say. I’ll know better after stage two today. I plan to do a brain scan on him during the next experiment, to pin down the origin of his power and show us if any damage has been done by past use.”

“We’ll also have to come up with a surer way of controlling him. We can’t have any repeat performance of the havoc yesterday.”

“Your electroshock rigging is superb for negative conditioning, especially in view of the way the boy responds to pain. Today we add to that an i.v. needle placed in his arm with the flow of sedative pinched off in the middle by one of my assistants. If he releases the pressure, or circumstances force him to, the sedative will automatically enter the boy’s arm and knock him out.”

“That should do nicely,” complimented Chilgers. “What have you done about securing a subject?”

Teke leaned forward. “I’ve retained one of our human guinea pigs at twice the usual price with the usual security precautions observed. Of course, he has no way of knowing that his participation in the experiment will quite likely result in his death.” Teke hesitated. “What the boy did yesterday was truly amazing but virtually all of it was focused on inanimate matter. To fully gauge his powers, isolate and learn how to control them, we must push them to their ultimate extreme. How well the boy fares in that situation will tell us how far that extreme stretches. Mechanically everything will be about the same with the addition of the computer-enhanced brain scan which will provide us with a motion picture of his mind’s activity during a more demanding experiment. That will give us what we need to move on to stage three: control.”

Chilgers smiled. “You’ve done well, Teke. I haven’t missed the late Professor Metzencroy’s presence at all.”

“Then I assume Project Placebo is proceeding on schedule.”

“Our shipment of missiles will be arriving at Bunker 17 this afternoon as planned.”

“And yet your enthusiasm for it has waned in favor of the boy.”

“Vortex represents only the present, Teke. Davey Phelps is the future.”

Davey woke up disoriented, in darkness. He twisted about in bed and found, much to his surprise, he had freedom of movement. When he tried to swing his legs off the bed, though, his muscles resisted, balking at the simple commands, and Davey realized that part of the drug they’d been giving him hadn’t worn off yet.

He closed his eyes and pushed for The Chill to help himself, but he couldn’t focus; the drugs were still dimming his mind. He tried to remember everything that had happened the day before, found that was foggy too. The Chill had been strong then, too strong. It had nearly split his head in two. But still they made him keep using it. Didn’t they understand? They wanted him to control it for them when he couldn’t control it even for himself. And then those horrible jolts to his balls which shook all his insides apart and made him piss on himself. They had embarrassed him, made him feel weak. He hated them all, and he wasn’t weak anyway.

Davey heard keys being turned in the locks outside the door which opened slowly, permitting two large men in white coats to enter. They lifted him into a wheelchair manned by another while a fourth waited in the corridor holding a hypodermic. Davey didn’t resist, didn’t even move. Maybe if he played dumb, they’d lay off the drugs and he’d get The Chill back to use against them.

He let his head slump to his chest but raised his eyes to follow the wheelchair’s path, realizing with a start they were heading back in the direction of the laboratory. They passed the one he remembered from yesterday and stopped at another just down the hall. One of the men opened the door.

“The sedative should be wearing off right about now,” came the familiar voice of the bald doctor as Davey was wheeled in.

Then they were easing him into a chair that had arms this time. Two of the men held his wrists and latched leather straps across his flesh, fastening him tight to the chair.

“It’s just to keep you still, Davey,” the bald one told him. “We’ll be needing more precise readings this time and we’ll be scanning your brain throughout the experiment.”

“No pain,” Davey muttered.

“Not if you cooperate,” Teke said, but his eyes avoided Davey’s.

The doctor proceeded to supervise the attachment of wires to Davey’s arms, face, and head. The final set probably contained a hundred at least, all strung onto a round cap the size of a beanie. Teke fitted it personally over the dome of Davey’s skull until it was snug, squeezing his thick hair down tight.

“This apparatus will allow us to visually monitor the functions of your brain. It causes no pain whatsoever,” the doctor promised. “However, it will be necessary to inject you with fluid of a slightly radioactive nature — for the microbes to pick up for monitoring.” Here, a lab assistant held a tray out to Teke and he removed a single syringe from it. “Please don’t move.” He dabbed at a vein at the base of Davey’s skull with an alcohol swab and then gently plunged the needle in. It stung only briefly. “That could be the worst of it for today.”

But Davey knew he was lying. He felt his neck being strapped to the back of the chair to hold his head in place, after which his ankles were laced to the heavy chair’s legs as well. He could barely move a muscle. Even a deep breath would have been impossible. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a technician fastening a plastic tube with a needle on its end atop his arm. Then the needle worked its way into the vein at the top of his forearm and stayed there, the technician backing up to inspect his handiwork. He moved away, leaving the needle as it was and wheeling a tray closer to Davey’s side. Then he was doing something with the tube Davey couldn’t quite see.

“Ready, Doctor?”

The voice of the man called colonel sent fear up Davey’s spine. The holder of the horrible black box was back….

“Not quite. Just a little longer.”

Davey tried to move his eyes to find the colonel, but couldn’t until the man stood directly before him, grinning.

“How we feeling today, boy?”

Davey said nothing.

“Electrodes all check,” the bald doctor reported and Davey realized with horror that the hot wires from yesterday were being led up his nightshirt to be twisted about his balls again. There was a slight tugging and Davey felt them being wrapped tight.

“These should do the trick,” the doctor said, pulling his hands out and looking at the colonel.

“They’d better.” A brief pause. “Let’s try the lights, shall we?”

Somewhere Davey heard a switch being flicked and a small compartment twenty feet away in the room’s center was suddenly lit up. He picked up the trail of wires leading from his groin and followed them to the compartment’s front wall which was dominated by a large window starting a yard off the floor and stretching to within a foot of the compartment’s roof.

“Check systems,” Teke instructed.

“All monitors working,” came one response.

“All gauges working,” from another technician.

“All connections in place,” from a third.

“Do we have a brain picture yet?” Teke asked a technician standing just beyond Davey’s line of vision in the room’s front.

“Getting one now. Sharpening… Sharpening… I’m adjusting the focus. We’ve got it in clear.”

“Begin recording now,” Teke told him. “Tie the computer into all gauges this time.” The doctor turned toward the colonel. “We’re ready, sir.”

Davey heard another switch being flipped, louder this time, and suddenly the inside of the room’s enclosed cubicle became visible. Davey saw a man sitting in a chair, a big man, almost as big as Josh. He couldn’t make out all his features clearly but he did pick out an object he held in his hand.

The black box with the awful red button!

Davey shivered just looking at it, his groin tingling in fearful anticipation. Then he noticed the wires running from the box were indeed the ones spliced into the cubicle from his groin. His balls tingled again.

Who was this man? Why was he holding the black box?

“Davey,” the bald doctor began, “the man in the compartment cannot hear or see you. It’s soundproof and the window is made of one-way glass. He thinks it’s a standard mirror. He’s oblivious to whatever goes on in this room. Do you understand?”

Davey nodded. He noticed the colonel enter his field of vision again and move directly toward the compartment. He pressed a button and spoke into what looked like an intercom attached to its front.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” The man inside had been told only he was going to participate in an experiment to judge the levels of human endurance to pain and tolerance of both the victim and the controller. He had been told his was the controller’s role and the black box in his hand seemed to confirm this. He didn’t give it much thought really, having done a number of strange things for COBRA in the past always at a fair price.

“Turn the knob located near the top to the third position and hold your thumb over the red button.” Chilgers’ eyes sought out Davey’s. “Prepare to press it on my signal.”

“No!” Davey screamed but the word came out muffled.

“Kill the man in the booth, Davey,” the bald doctor instructed. “Kill him with your power before he has a chance to hurt you.”

“I … can’t. You’re making him! It’s you who want to hurt me! …”

“Press it,” Chilgers said into the intercom.

Davey’s head lurched back as far as it could, straining his muscles. His buttocks tried to lift off his chair, stretching the straps. He felt a spasm in his bladder and the terrible warmth of urine trickled down his leg again.

“Turn the knob to the fourth position,” Chilgers told the man in the booth.

“No!” Davey tried to scream again but this time no sound emerged at all.

“Use your power,” the doctor was telling him, “it’s the only thing that can save you from the pain. Aim it at the man in the booth. It’s him that’s hurting you. It’s his thumb on the button.”

Davey bit his lip, thought of aiming The Chill at the colonel but knew it would get him nothing but more pain.

“Slight vibration in energy levels.”

“Alpha waves just popped up. Readings normal again.”

“Vitals on the rise.”

Chilgers found Davey’s eyes again. “Get ready to press,” he said into the intercom.

“Energy levels in state of flux.”

“Alpha waves approaching the red.”

“Energy concentration ratio at eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five …”

“Vitals climbing, climbing …”

“Press it,” said Chilgers.

This time Davey’s buttocks succeeded in leaving the chair, yanking the leather restraining his body with them and tearing his breath away with a horrible kick. His groin was in a vise that somebody was tightening. He tried to breathe but all he felt was a racked set of misplaced muscles. There was another brief jolt, like an aftershock, and Davey felt his bowels go loose on him and was barely able to control their contents. The bald doctor leaned over and dabbed a towel to his mouth, wiping away the saliva and dribbling blood. He spit some more out and the doctor wiped that away too. His breath came back, but he couldn’t get enough to satisfy his starved lungs, so the room darkened briefly and something fluttered inside his ears.

“Turn the knob to the fifth position,” he heard Chilgers say into the intercom.

“Stop!” Davey pleaded to the doctor, seeing only half of him. “Help me, please! …”

“I can’t help you, Davey,” Teke said. “Only you can help yourself. Use the power. Stop that man from hurting you.”

“Get ready to press on my signal,” Chilgers went on.

“He wants to hurt you, Davey,” the bald doctor was telling him. “The black box has another seven levels to go and each is much worse than the one before. He’ll go all the way if you let him. Stop him, Davey. Stop him!”

Davey’s eyes bulged. The Chill rose in him.

“Energy levels passing seven.”

“Alpha waves reading all in the red.”

“Vitals rising dangerously fast.”

“Press on my signal,” Chilgers repeated into the intercom.

“Energy concentration ratio at ninety … ninety-one … ninety-two, ninety—”

“Energy levels at seven-point-five …”

“—three … ninety-five … ninety-seven …”

Teke faced the man behind a separate console in the room’s front. “What have you got on brain scan?”

“Significant activity and it’s increasing.”

Inside the booth, the man had begun to shake. Every muscle and joint in his body was affected. His tongue vibrated in and out of his mouth. His eyes bulged wide, locked unblinking.

“Energy levels just passing eight….”

“Energy concentration ratio 100… 101 … 102 …”

Blood frothed at the corners of the man’s mouth, began to seep from his ears. His feet pounded the floor and then kicked hopelessly before him. His hands clawed the air, like a drowning man’s struggling for the surface of the sea. His features went beyond scarlet to purple, his blood seeming to boil.

Davey Phelps stared straight ahead, feeling and hearing nothing, intent on his target. His eyes held a calm, yet intense, glare.

“Energy levels approaching nine …”

“ECR at 105… 106… 107 …”

Chilgers moved his finger from the intercom. “Press it,” was all he said.

Davey Phelps’s eyes jumped.

The black box in the booth ruptured, seeming to explode. The glass of the compartment’s window cracked but didn’t shatter, saving the lab’s occupants from seeing what happened next.

The man’s insides broke apart, lifting him to his feet in a twisted, shriveled way. His flesh contracted, withdrew. Ribs poked at the surface, then jammed their way through skin and clothes as his entire body fought to turn itself inside out. His head exploded and a stream of blood erupted from the top of his skull, painting the remnants of the window and filling the cracks with spent flesh. What was left of the body hung on its feet still writhing for several seconds before tumbling forward to the floor in a misshapen heap.

“Oh my God,” muttered Teke.

Chilgers backed away and, much to his own surprise, covered his eyes.

Davey Phelps felt the pain coming and tried to shut his eyes to it. But it racked him anyway. He felt as if somebody were sticking needles into the backs of his eyeballs, only worse because the pain was everywhere and he couldn’t even raise his hands for futile comfort. His toes twitched, fingers spasmed.

Teke loosened his assistant’s hold on the plastic tube and the emergency dose of the sedative rushed into the boy’s veins.

The pain had become too much. Davey felt his breath going and his life following after. It was over; he knew that, accepted it, welcomed it. Anything to be rid of the pain. Then he felt calm and sure, suddenly relaxed. Breathing easily and drifting away toward oblivion.

Chapter Twenty-nine

“What?” Christian Teare leaned closer to the intercom in his private quarters. “That’s crazy, Cap.”

“It’s the message, Major. I’ve checked it three times myself.”

“What about confirmation?”

“Got it.”

“From base?”

“Direct from Com-con at NORAD.”

“It’s still crazy.”

“You better get up here.”

“On my way. Teare out.”

Teare stretched. His powerful muscles, sorely in need of exercise, spasmed and he slowly brought his hands back to his sides to ease the strain. He had almost fallen asleep for the first time in more than a day when a shrill buzz signaling a page from Bunker 17’s Command Center shook him from his cot.

Teare’s pace moved from a trot to an all-out sprint and he covered the distance from his quarters to Com-center in record time. Captain Heath was waiting inside, face drawn into lines indicating confusion. He handed over the decoded message.

“I just reconfirmed.”

Teare read it four times. “Jesus H. Christ …” His eyes came up from the paper. “Okay, Cap, let’s put this thing together. Twenty-four hours ago we get kicked up to a Yellow Flag alert. Now we get instructions through the SAFE Interceptor to raise all defenses at thirteen hundred hours today to accept shipment of thirty-six MX missiles for immediate loading into silos. You get the feelin’ someone in Washington’s fuckin’ with our minds?”

“Those missiles have been scheduled to arrive from COBRA on this date for over a month now.”

“But under Yellow Flag they’d be frozen in San Diego.”

“Unless Com-link has reason to believe we may need them.”

“I can buy that. But it still doesn’t explain why we’ve been ordered to load them immediately into the silos.”

“Maximum efficiency probably,” Heath proposed. “These Track Ones are the latest thing off the drawing board. Their accuracy is unparalleled.”

“Which practically implies we’re gonna be usin’ them ‘fore much longer,” Teare theorized, tugging at his scraggly beard. “And I been monitorin’ civilian frequencies for a solid day now and as far as I can tell there ain’t nothin’ goin’ on out there out of the ordinary.”

“They could be keeping it secret from the press.”

“Come on, Cap,” Teare scoffed, “there’s enough leaks in Washington to bring Noah back for a return engagement. This whole mess stinks to high heaven.” Teare stroked his beard and thought briefly. “No way I can talk to the President direct, is there?”

“Negative, Major, not under Yellow Flag.”

“Yeah? Well, back in farm country stand downwind and you can smell shit all day. I think I got me a whiff of it now, Cap.” A buzzer began to sound and a red light Hashed on the perimeter defense board located on the far left wall of Com-center.

“Jesus H. Christ, what the hell’s that about?”

“A caravan of heavy vehicles headed our way, Major,” reported one of the technicians. “Just passing checkpoint two now.”

Heath moved to the left half of the control room and flipped on the master switch activating six closed circuit TV monitors. Six black and white perspectives of the ground above Bunker 17 appeared immediately. Two clearly showed a parade of green missile transports under heavy armed guard approaching the installation.

“That’ll be our delivery from COBRA,” Heath said.

“Should I activate base defenses, sir?” asked the man behind the main console.

“No,” Teare told him. “We got our orders. Let’s get this done with. I want them outta here inside of an hour. Record time, Cap, record time.” Then, to the man behind the console, “Signal temporary halt to Yellow Flag procedures. All personnel stand ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

Teare turned back to Heath. “Cap, let’s you and me head for the elevator. I want us to meet these sons of bitches personally.”

They started for the door.

“And, Cap?”

“Yes, Major?”

“We’re gonna watch these assholes like a horny John at a whore’s peephole. And I’ll tell ya something else; I want the fail-safe mechanisms on those missiles checked a dozen times to make sure all systems are functional.”

“You really think there’s something wrong here?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Bane hit East Sixty-ninth Street and headed for Harry the Bat’s apartment. After a generally sleepless night at the hotel, he had left Washington early in the morning and followed a haphazard route back to New York, making use of both trains and planes, the latter having forced him to discard his Browning. He had gotten used to carrying the gun these past few days and being without it, especially now, had him feeling vulnerable and insecure. Hands were fine, but not against an army of killers called up by an unsalvageable order.

Bane had used the trip to put his thoughts together and plan his next steps as best he could. There would be no help coming from the government; Jorgenson had been his last hope there. It was up to him now along with Trench and Harry, to finish fitting the puzzle together with the help, hopefully, of Otto Von Goss, the third man in the Navy trinity with Einstein and Metzencroy. Somehow Bane felt the Philadelphia Experiment which linked them together was the key to everything, the link to Vortex and its ultimate destruction. He could only hope that Trench had had sufficient time to track Dr. Von Goss down.

Bane neared the building’s entrance.

“Keep moving, Winter Man, and don’t turn around.”

Bane recognized Trench’s voice, coming from about a yard behind him, immediately.

“They took your friend away. Winter Man, and they’re waiting upstairs for you. He put up quite a fight but fortunately was taken without harm. At the next corner, I’m going to turn right. You keep going. There’s a room reserved for you at the Diplomat Hotel on Park Avenue South in the name of Summers. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

They reached the corner. Trench veered away. Bane kept on straight, heading farther into the madness.

“You’re sure Harry’s all right?” Bane asked as soon as Trench had closed the door to the hotel room behind him.

“For now,” Trench said. “I was across the street when they took him. He was all right enough to be giving them a mouthful.”

“Then they were official types.”

Trench nodded. “The kind who sometimes wear ID’s pinned to their lapels. It was all very legitimate. Your government works in strange ways, Winter Man. I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

“And I’m surprised you’re still here, everything considered.”

Trench pulled a gun from his jacket. “The Americans have been trying to locate me with an assignment to kill you.” Bane’s eyes locked on the gun. He didn’t move. “I’m sure they’d pay quite well for the death of the Winter Man but”—Trench swung the pistol’s butt toward Bane, offering it to him—“… I turned them down.”

Bane allowed himself a sigh of relief and took the pistol.

“A Browning,” Trench told him. “I figured you might have mislaid yours somewhere along the way.”

“So what’s our next step?” Bane asked, giving him the lead.

“Your friend Harry passed on to me what he learned of Von Goss. The professor disappeared from Princeton three days ago.”

“About the same time Metzencroy was eliminated. Harry told me.”

“Proceeding on the assumption that Von Goss fled willingly into hiding, I did some checking and learned that a close associate of the professor owns a cabin in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Von Goss has been known to use it from time to time. Further questioning revealed the cabin is actually a house built into the side of a mountain, accessible only from one side: the front. A fortress, Winter Man.”

“Then Von Goss is there.”

“I’ve been trying the phone number all day long. Twenty-one times, no answer; once, a busy signal.”

“Could have been a misdial.”

“More likely, Von Goss is not answering his phone unless some sort of code is used with the rings, but he is making a few occasional calls to check on the home front.”

“If he’s that scared, chances are he’s got some idea of what Metzencroy was on to.”

Trench nodded. “My own experience with scientists has shown me they are great talkers — but only with each other. They love to consult, to trade information. Now let us assume, Winter Man, that Metzencroy and Von Goss were two of Einstein’s greatest direct disciples, and that after his death each chose to continue their mentor’s work in his own way: Metzencroy at COBRA and Von Goss at Princeton. It seems logical to assume that they would never be long out of contact with each other. The bonds made over forty years ago would easily have lasted this long with something like Vortex to consider.”

“Except Von Goss dropped out of active research and turned totally to teaching after an accident.”

“Something to do with his hand,” Trench explained. “It happened in the late sixties when he was on the verge of making a major scientific breakthrough.”

“Any idea what this breakthrough concerned?”

“Unfortunately, not a clue.”

“But I suppose you’ve obtained precise directions to this house in the Poconos.”

“Of course.”

Bane regarded Trench’s liquid gray eyes which suddenly didn’t look so cold. “You could walk away clean from this, Trench, and no one would be the wiser. You could hide yourself so none of them could find you, even Chilgers. Your stake in this could be over.”

“And what of you, Winter Man? If I abandon you, what chance would you have against the army of amateur killers falling all over each other on your trail? I resisted Chilgers’ original order to eliminate you because I couldn’t bear to see the only other true professional left killed for no reason. I can’t walk away now because of that same concern.”

Bane smiled hesitantly. “I was just thinking of something Harry said about not knowing who your real friends are. I guess people change.”

“Not really. It’s times that do. People like you and me, Winter Man, stay as we are, clinging to our special world which offers clarity above all else.” Trench paused reflectively. “But I suppose you’re right. Another time, another place we might’ve been associates, friends even. For now all we have is Chilgers and Vortex to hold us together.”

“That’s plenty.” Bane checked his watch. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, Trench. We should reach the Poconos a little after nightfall if we leave right away.”

“I’ve got a car downstairs.”

It took Harry Bannister a few seconds to adjust to the light after his blindfold was pulled off. One of the men who had lifted him from his apartment untied his wrists and stripped the tape off his mouth.

“You fuckers are gonna pay for this,” he charged the three men standing before his wheelchair in the scantily furnished single room. “Boy, are you gonna pay….”

The three men were silent.

“I suppose you got a good reason for dragging me here, you know like a warrant or something. How ’bout a dime so I can make my one phone call?” Harry licked the tape’s residue from his lips.

The three men stayed silent.

“Well, if any of you fuckers had a mind I could tell you a whale of a story that looks like it’s gonna have a pretty rotten ending ’cause the assholes you work for can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys.” The Bat looked them in the eye one at a time. “Hey, any of you got a tongue? How ’bout a good pair of ears? … Nope, I didn’t think so.”

“I’ll listen, Mr. Bannister, if you think you’ve got something to say.”

The voice came from the area near the door through which a big man had just entered. Big as Josh easy, Harry figured.

“And who the fuck are you?”

The man stepped farther into the room. “The name’s Wentworth, Phillip Wentworth.” Wentworth motioned the other three men out of the room and closed the door behind them, looking back at the Bat. “You were saying, Mr. Bannister.”

“I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me which group you work for.”

“Throw any three letters of the alphabet together and you’re bound to hit one of them.”

“Lord fuck a duck, aren’t you a big-fuckin’-shot.” Then Harry thought of something. “Big enough to get the ears of the President are you, Wentworth?”

“Depends on the reason.”

“How about the fact that he’s trying to kill the wrong guy. It’s not Joshua Bane who’s gone mad, it’s a guy named Chilgers out in San Diego, and if something’s not done fast, it’s the whole fuckin’ world that’s gonna end up unsalvageable. Do you read me, Wentworth?”

Wentworth’s expression was unchanged. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Bannister. About fifteen years ago I was taken to the same training camp Joshua Bane got taken to and we were the last two left. He ended up with the job and deserved it because he was the best I ever saw. I’ve got more respect for him than any man I’ve met in my life. So when that unsalvageable order came down last night, I figured something screwy was up and if you can tell me what, you can be damn sure I’ll bring it to the President if I have to use some of the Winter Man’s tricks to break into his office.”

“Pull up a chair,” said Harry.

Chapter Thirty

A black, moonless night had fallen over the sky by the time Bane turned the Ford off route 81 in Scranton and onto 380 for the final stretch leading to Otto Von Goss’s mountain retreat in the Poconos of Pennsylvania.

“We still can’t be sure he’ll see us,” he repeated to Trench who sat silent but alert in the passenger seat.

“I believe our chances are good. Consider first that Von Goss went into hiding the same day Professor Metzencroy’s death was reported. He went to the mountains in fear, Winter Man, because he must possess the same information Metzencroy did, and he believes they’ll be coming for him now too.”

“He hasn’t been active in research since the accident which crippled his hand fifteen years ago,” Bane reminded Trench.

“If he ran, he knows. Our primary task will be to convince him we’re on the same side.”

“First we’ll have to convince his guards. Under the circumstances, he wouldn’t have run to the Poconos without taking an army with him.”

“They won’t be expecting an attack to come from a single car approaching at night with its lights marking its path.”

“All the more reason to raise their suspicions, Trench, and their rifles.”

The car filled with silence as the road wound on. The air outside grew colder and colder, slipping gradually below the freezing mark. Bane flipped the heater on and slid the temperature control all the way to the right. Finally, he saw signs directing him toward route 423 and the last stretch of road leading toward the Poconos.

“You know this area well, Winter Man?” Trench asked him.

Bane tapped his high beams on. “Well enough. Most of the Poconos are jammed full of resorts. But this is the off-season and Von Goss’s retreat lies on the western perimeter. Hunting and fishing area mostly and virtually all undeveloped save for a few lodges.”

“And one fortress.”

Bane nodded.

Another few miles and he swung onto route 423. The heart of the resort community came a little after in soft light and amber signs, then faded just as quickly. The road darkened and narrowed. The high beams barely made a dent ahead. Bane took a right onto a mountain road that wound circularly on a slight rise. Two more roads came and went before he turned onto one made of gravel instead of tar, lit only by the rising moon and wide enough for only one car. Bane cut his speed to fifteen miles per hour but even that seemed too fast against the ominous looming of the mountain’s edge. Almost imperceptibly, they had climbed to a point halfway up the steepest mountain in the Pocono chain and thus unattractive to tourists. This mountain was a favorite only of diehards, locals mostly or people whose families had owned property here for generations. It was probably quite beautiful, Bane figured, though a cold mist rising in the night obscured everything including the road, which led to several very anxious moments as the drive continued.

“Von Goss chose well,” Trench said softly. “An attack from the air seems the only way to reach him. Helicopters perhaps.”

“Not likely. The tree cover’s too high even at this elevation.”

“Good point.”

Up ahead, Bane thought he caught a flutter of movement and then a reflection flickering, He turned toward Trench, noticed his focused eyes.

“You saw it too,” he advanced.

“A lookout, I should guess. It appears, Winter Man, we’ve been made.”

“Good. Saves us the trouble of an unexpected arrival, so long as we’re not greeted with bullets.”

“They probably think we’re lost vacationers,” Trench proposed.

“Desperate men like Von Goss often act rashly.”

“Quite close to what we’re doing right now.”

Bane slowed the Ford to a crawl as the ledge turns became maddeningly close. It seemed at times that part of their car actually passed over the black edge, teetering on oblivion before the wheel drew it back.

“They’ll want our weapons, Winter Man,” he said suddenly.

“Then we’ll give them over.”

“Of course, we haven’t even considered the possibility that Von Goss may be in with COBRA and that we could be walking straight into a trap set for us by Chilgers.”

“If so, it’s about to spring so we might as well have at the cheese.”

Bane swung the car slowly around still another corner and jammed the brakes hard. Light had poured into his eyes, blinding him. White, hot light that singed his pupils beneath his lids.

“Stay where you are!” a voice commanded, echoing in the misty mountain air. “Do not leave your car! Repeat, do not leave your car!”

The light stayed locked on his eyes, and Bane finally adjusted to it at about the same time his ears picked up the crunching of gravel — coming for them fast, four sets of footsteps by the sound of it. Then two large shapes were hovering in front of the Ford’s hood, blocking the piercing light out. Each held an automatic rifle tight at waist level, focused on the windshield. Bane killed the engine, heard the latch on his door being pulled.

“You are trespassing on private property,” the same commanding voice told him. “You will leave immediately.”

Bane glanced quickly at Trench. “We’ve come to see Professor Von Goss.”

The barrel of another automatic rifle jabbed him in the ribs. “I’m going to pull the trigger unless you give me an awfully good reason not to,” the cold voice snapped.

Bane turned slowly and met a face just as cold. “And if you do Professor Von Goss will remain a prisoner of fear on this mountain for the rest of his life. We’ve come here … to help him and to seek his help.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said.

“The Professor — we’re on the same side. We’re his only hope as he is ours. You can kill the two of us now as we sit but when Von Goss finds out who we are and where we came from, he’ll have your head.”

The man hesitated and Bane knew the tide had turned.

“Well?” he prodded.

“Who should I say is here?” the man asked finally.

“Tell him Joshua Bane. Tell him I’m here about Vortex and I know what they did to Metzencroy. Tell him—”

“I’ll relay your message,” the man said impatiently.

He turned away and crunched more gravel under his heavy step. Bane’s vision had adjusted to the light enough to make out a pair of jeeps squeezed together on the narrow road, just to the right of a small cut in the mountain’s side that allowed for turning around. This had hardly been a random setting for seizure. It was perfect for the action.

Bane caught a walkie-talkie’s crackle and then a muffled voice. More crackle and silence. He looked at Trench. The killer’s fingers had crept under his overcoat, ready to whip out his pistol at an instant’s notice. Gravel crunched back toward them. A good sign.

“I’m instructed to lead you up,” the man at his window said.

“Thank you.”

The man eyed him, gave a warped snicker. “I’ll take your weapons here.”

Bane handed his over and Trench followed.

“Any more?” the man demanded.

“Two rifles in the trunk,” Trench answered.

“You’ll be searched before we let you see the professor. If you’re lying, you’ll die.” A pause. “And those orders came from Von Goss himself.”

A few hundred yards up the pass, the road leveled off and a thick slice in the dense forest rose to greet them. Bane saw lights flickering between the trees as they swung to the left and the break in the mountain’s rise. The gravel road turned to a stone-laden driveway, circular in construction, weaving toward the origin of the lights and then cutting a U around a private forest between the house and the road. The sound of the tires rolling over the stones reminded Bane of a rattlesnake’s trademark and he could only hope they hadn’t been lured into the den of one. He checked the silent Trench and found him impassive and expressionless.

Before them, a surprisingly large, wood-colored house sprang from the mountain as it broke to rise again. The house was built right into the side, built on stilts and cinderblocks instead of a foundation. Bane made out sun decks on either end of the structure, an armed guard watching alertly from each. The house was long but narrow, and drenched in floodlights as was the surrounding area. He noticed most of the shades were drawn, a few windows even shuttered as a precaution against snipers, and he couldn’t help but be amazed by Von Goss’s precautions. Calling this a fortress was an understatement. Tree cover made it totally inaccessible by air, and the mountain at its rear made ground defense a relatively simple matter with the number of forces undoubtedly present. Add to this the narrow, precarious approach road and attack bordered on suicide. It would take an army. Armed guards patrolled the house’s front in regular patterns. The two men on the outdoor decks swept portable spotlights about the trees, illuminating the night in long, thin patches.

Otto Von Goss was certainly safe.

Bane pulled the Ford to a halt when he saw the lead jeep’s brake lights flash on and heard the whine of the jeep behind him doing the same. He and Trench exchanged nods and waited to be led from the cars before climbing out. Their submission was total; weaponless, they really had no other choice.

“Inside,” the man from the road told them, hanging back beyond the range of any attack they might have mustered. A professional surely, probably a mercenary and a damn good one with battle experience. Von Goss was sparing no expense.

A large wooden door opened before them and they climbed a set of steep steps toward it. Bane and Trench passed through, with a half-dozen men right behind, to find themselves in a spacious hall warmed by a fire from a central hearth. It smelled old, clean, and rustic, had wood-paneled walls and a floor of parquet. The hall was a genuine masterpiece of construction.

The man with the cold voice moved in front of them and opened the door to an equally spacious living room filled with rich leather furniture which played perfectly off the wood around it.

“We’re going to search you in here,” he said, locking onto Bane’s eyes, then Trench’s. “If we find anything, it will be as far as you get.”

Bane held the man’s stare a bit longer, lingering even when he looked away. He was a professional, all right, who had killed often and well before.

Bane and Trench submitted to a thorough, expert search which turned up nothing. This procedure comforted them more than anything because it significantly reduced the odds of this being a clever trap laid by Chilgers. Of course, he could be playing the ruse out to its fullest to ascertain everything they knew and to find out what information they’d passed on — and to whom. Bane doubted that, though. That wasn’t the colonel’s style at all judging by recent experience. Too subtle.

After the search, Bane and Trench were led to a polished stairway that climbed steeply to the second floor.

“I’ll leave the talking to you, Winter Man,” Trench whispered as they ascended side by side. “Less confusion for our friend Von Goss if he has only one of us to concern himself with. I’ll remain your silent partner.” They had reached the top of the stairs. “And a watchful one.”

The head mercenary led them down a narrow hallway toward a door in the middle.

“Show them in,” a voice from inside instructed after the mercenary knocked.

The man ushered Bane and Trench in, preparing to close the door with himself still between them.

“Leave us,” came the voice from the room’s rear. “I’ll signal if I need you.”

The mercenary shrugged, eyed Bane one last time, and took his leave.

“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Bane.”

Dr. Otto Von Goss stepped out of the shadows. The room was lit, save for a single sixty-watt bulb, by a roaring fire he had been tending. It cast an eerie radiance, flames crackling and dancing about, tossing their shapes against the walls.

“In fact,” Von Goss proceeded, “I thought you’d be here earlier.”

The professor stepped further into the half-light, giving Bane his first good look at him. Von Goss was tall and painfully gaunt with a thin, angular face topped by thinning gray hair collected in bunches, one of which fell over his forehead and flirted with his eyebrows. He was wearing thick, steel-rimmed glasses which exaggerated all the more the sickly, gray pallor of his flesh. Otto Von Goss looked like a dying man, or at least one who had resigned himself to death, perhaps even looked forward to its coming. Bane looked down for the first time and saw the black glove which covered the professor’s left hand. He approached Bane with it dragging lifelessly by his side, almost as though he had forgotten it was there.

“We have much to talk about,” Von Goss said, extending his good hand forward.

“Then you know why we’ve come,” Bane responded, taking the hand and finding the professor’s grip dry and weak.

“My sources have informed me of your pursuits these past few days, the questions you’ve been asking and what you seek.” Von Goss noticed Bane’s wandering eyes. “You seem impressed with my security measures. I’ve been expecting a time like this to come for years. I’ve been prepared for it, ready to move always at a moment’s notice.”

“And Metzencroy’s death became that moment.”

“Yes,” Von Goss said softly. He glanced briefly at Trench who had retreated to a darkened corner. Then his eyes moved back to Bane. “Professor Metzencroy had stayed in contact with me religiously since the time he’d joined COBRA. Sometimes he sought my opinions with the company’s permission, other times without it. We established a whole system of relays and codes for those other times. We scientists are strange people. We can only talk seriously with our fellows and for Metzencroy and myself that left only each other, regardless of what COBRA ordered otherwise. Nonetheless, Metzencroy’s final report came to me three days ago without benefit of code or courier. He violated our own security because he was scared and because he knew it didn’t matter anymore. He knew he was finished at COBRA. He knew their plans for him, but he didn’t seem to mind. In his final report he wasn’t seeking confirmation, you see, just release for his conscience. When I learned of Metzencroy’s death I feared the worst and came here. I’m still frightened, Mr. Bane, because the professor was absolutely sure of his findings, absolutely certain that the world as we know it was about to come to an end.”

Bane’s mouth felt dry. He had been wondering for some time what could be worse than World War III. Now he knew.

“As I said, we have much to talk about,” Von Goss continued. His eyes tilted toward the fireplace. “It’s warmer over there. Let’s make ourselves comfortable in the chairs. It’s time you learned about Vortex.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Trench remained set in the corner as they took chairs facing each other in front of the fire. Bane watched the flames’ shadows dance across Von Goss’s pallid face, seeming to consume him.

The professor pulled his lifeless left hand into his lap and stroked it. “I can’t feel anything under this glove, Mr. Bane. My hand is dead,” he muttered, and Bane realized it wasn’t covered by a glove at all but more of a mitten that masked the fingers in a bunch instead of individually. “I killed it myself. I killed it because I went too far. I searched for knowledge man was not meant to possess and was not ready for. Metzencroy felt differently. He joined COBRA and continued the experiments that had turned me into a freak. He ignored my warnings, just as I ignored the last warnings of Einstein.”

“Einstein?”

Von Goss leaned forward until his whole face was splashed with light and nodded. “The origins of Vortex, Mr. Bane. How much do you know about Einstein?”

“Not much beyond E=mc².”

“Hah! His most simple and pedantic principle. Taught in elementary schools now, would you believe it? The theory Einstein is most recognized for and yet the least startling of all his major works. The most startling is a theory he never completed: the Unified Field Theory.” Flames crackled in the hearth. “The basis of Vortex.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Not many people outside the field of physics have, which is just the way Einstein wanted it.”

“But it was his theory.”

“And he damned himself for it in the end. Einstein hated war, Mr. Bane. The first World War was a horrible shock to his sensibility because he saw the kind of weapon E=mc² was leading to and vowed never to work on any project that might lead to a basis for weapons again. Then the Nazis came along and he grew to fear their menace more than war itself. War, he decided, was morally justifiable if it meant wiping out Hitler’s army and cause. So he went back to the drawing board, back to a theory he had abandoned in the twenties.”

“Unified Fields …”

“Exactly. He had given it up in the twenties because he realized man was not yet and might never be ready for it. Then Hitler came along, and by 1938 he had changed his mind and set about completing it. Metzencroy and I joined him a few years later when he linked up with the Navy.”

“Yes, the Scientific Research Department.”

“Actually, it was the Bureau of Ordnance. Mere semantics, though, and not worth dwelling on. The real essence is that Einstein was petrified that the Nazis were onto the bomb too and would have theirs fully operational before ours. So he searched for another kind of weapon that would make the atomic bomb obsolete before it was ever used and his search took him back to the Unified Field Theory. How is your knowledge of science, Mr. Bane?”

“Not very deep, I’m afraid.”

“Then I’ll explain as best I can in layman’s terms. The Unified Field Theory has as its basis the fact that the universe is constructed, made up, of four fields: gravity, electromagnetic waves, a strong force, and a weak force. The strong force binds particles known as quarks together to form protons and electrons. The weak force rules the subatomic world and causes radioactive decay. Electromagnetism holds together atoms, molecules, all objects in general. And gravity is the feeblest of the four but the most pervasive, its effects being felt and influenced by all forms of matter and energy. Einstein’s work in Unified Fields set up the possibility that all four fields were governed by the same rule, that in fact this one rule governed the entire universe.”

“You’re losing me, Professor.”

“I’m coming to the primary point now. If fields are in fact unified, tied implicitly together by nature, Einstein went on to speculate that matter was actually a product of energy, startling a scientific community that had always accepted them as two separate entities. This has more recently been proposed as part of the Inflationary Universe Theory — more confirmation of what Einstein suspected all along. But I’m getting off the track. Einstein’s next contention was that physical matter, that which we can see and touch, is actually only a local phenomenon controlled by gravity. The ramifications of this are staggering, Mr. Bane.”

“Why?”

Von Goss’s stare became distant and withdrawn. His eyes glanced furtively at his covered hand. “Because simply put the theory postulated that the same rules that apply for energy waves do likewise for tangible matter. And, since electromagnetism holds an object together, if you could demagnetize it the object would … no longer exist in a physical plane and could consequently be manipulated in the same ways energy can.”

“Jake Del Gennio’s disappearing 727 …”

Von Goss nodded slowly. “Consider, Mr. Bane, how easily we can control the movement of sound, light, and electronic waves. Then imagine that you could similarly control the motions of matter and objects by applying a similar set of rules as set forth by the Unified Field Theory. For Einstein everything jelled during the Philadelphia Experiment.”

Bane felt a rising in his stomach. His lips quivered slightly.

“The term is familiar to you?” Von Goss wondered.

“It turned up in my research as the link which brought you, Metzencroy and Einstein together,” Bane said, sensing the crucial answers were soon in coming now.

“Indeed, and then it served to drive us all apart: Einstein into isolation, Metzencroy to COBRA, and me …”—Von Goss held his eyes on his lifeless hand—“… into my own private hell.”

“So all evidence of the experiment ever having taken place was wiped off the books.”

“More than that, out of it all rumors began to spread that Einstein had burned his notes. No, he was far too clever for that. Instead, he altered his notes and equations to purposely throw others off and lead them down fruitless, and thus safe, avenues. I didn’t understand why at the time and all these years it’s remained a mystery to me … until I received Metzencroy’s final correspondence. Apparently he stumbled upon the same information Einstein discovered during the Philadelphia Experiment but never made us privy to.”

“What was the Philadelphia Experiment?”

Von Goss took a deep breath. “The degeneration of a destroyer escort ship called the Eldridge. We made it disappear.”

“Like the 727 ten days ago …”

“Now you’re on the right track but our methods more than forty years ago — the experiment took place in 1943—were much cruder. Following his theories on the connections between matter and energy, Einstein found a way to drastically increase magnetic resonance, thereby transferring matter back to its base form as energy in keeping with the principles of Unified Fields. This is all given added substance today by the proven existence of tachyons which apparently form as base energy in the atom, then immediately disappear as energy, or gravity particles, again. In any case, drastically increasing the magnetic resonance in 1943 allowed us to create pulsating energy fields that warped space into which our object was sent. Simply stated, we demagnetized the Eldridge and transported it into another dimension.”

Bane thought briefly. He was sweating now, only partly due to the fire’s heat. “Something obviously went wrong.”

“Oh, quite a few things actually, not the least of which was the effect the experiment had on the crew. A few went totally crazy and within a year all had been discharged for being mentally unfit. The symptoms were often immediate and drastic.”

Bane’s flesh tingled. “Like those experienced by the passengers on the 727.”

“And a cover-up resulted in both cases; by the Navy in 1943 and by COBRA ten days ago. With good reason, I might add. The world wasn’t ready for the results in either case.” Von Goss hesitated. “Einstein was present at the Philadelphia Navy Yard on the day of the experiment, Mr. Bane. He monitored all the controls and gauges and studied all aftereffects.”

“Including the crew?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t their erratic behavior that led him to change his notes. It was something else, something he uncovered while reviewing the dematerialization segment of the experiment, something that wasn’t clear to me until I read Metzencroy’s report. Behind all this, Mr. Bane, was the wonder of invisibility. What if we could dematerialize our ships from both sight and radar? They could be right on top of the enemy and the enemy wouldn’t know it. The prospects were awesome. But Einstein wasn’t about to proceed with the experiment and the Navy didn’t argue much in view of what happened to the men exposed to the Vortex fields on the Eldridge. It was deep-sixed, buried forever. Einstein took himself out of scientific research and turned to academia, claiming he lacked the mathematics needed to complete the Unified Field Theory when in reality nothing could be further from the truth.”

“And now it has been completed for him.”

Von Goss’s face became drawn. His voice grew bitter. “It wasn’t enough for Metzencroy and myself to follow our mentor’s lead. We broke away from him and set about continuing work on the principles of the Philadelphia Experiment and the prospects of invisibility on our own.” An intense pause. “Now Metzencroy had paid with his life and I with my …” Von Goss held his eyes on the dead hand resting in his lap. “I learned my lesson. Metzencroy did not until it was too late.”

“He continued with Einstein’s experiments,” Bane concluded.

“And expanded on them. Forty-two years ago, in the preatomic age, Einstein lacked the ability to check his most advanced, drawing board equations for accuracy. Something was missing.”

“Computers…”

“Exactly. And with the giant mechanical brains available to COBRA, all limitations were removed. All the barriers that had been in Einstein’s way were chopped down. Still, it took Metzencroy twenty years to even approach the level our mentor was at when he died — a testament to Einstein’s incredible genius. What he lacked in brilliance, though, Metzencroy more than made up in technology. We have machines now, Mr. Bane, capable of exerting unbelievable concentrations of energy and electromagnetics. These machines allowed Metzencroy to eventually go Einstein one better: he took the master’s energy-matter thesis and actually discovered a way, a formula, by which to apply the rules of one to the other.”

“More invisibility?”

“And far beyond. Again I’ll try to be brief and untechnical. An object causes space to bend, Mr. Bane, to buckle in accordance with its shape and mass, thus accounting for the presence of gravity. What Metzencroy discovered was a means of electro-magnetically distorting gravity. Remember now that gravity according to Einstein was the ultimate force in the universe. Metzencroy’s electromagnetic change in gravity allowed him to change space locally in the path of an object, to fold space back on itself so that the object was transposed onto the other side … in another dimension.

“He created a vortex, Mr. Bane, and the object could be made to disappear into it. In effect, it would cease to exist. It would not only be invisible to the naked eye, but also to radar. It would still be there, traveling in its path on the other side of space. But if you reached out to touch it you would feel nothing. It could be regenerated after a certain period of time or once it encountered a certain sequence of conditions. But until then, it wouldn’t be there… or anywhere.”

“The missing forty minutes,” Bane muttered.

“What?”

“The period the 727 was … gone felt like seconds to the passengers but it was actually forty minutes.”

“Once inside the vortex, Mr. Bane, time ceases to have meaning. It’s an entirely different continuum. Time becomes warped. You might say everything happens between the beats of a heart and ticks of a watch.”

“That’s incredible,” was all Bane could say.

“And Chilgers, of course, saw all this as a means to develop the ultimate weapon. The very phrase ‘arms race’ is a misnomer, Mr. Bane, because there is really no such thing. The superpowers are not racing to keep up with each other, they are both struggling to find a means to end the race forever. Nuclear arms will never be used in their uttermost form because one side knows no matter what it does the other will still have retaliatory capabilities. Satellites tell us — and them — as soon as a launch occurs, after which comes a twenty-minute lag before impact. An eternity. Under these circumstances, striking first will at best gain one power an advantage of two or three minutes; hardly worth the effort. The idea has always been to find a first-strike attack that would take the enemy totally by surprise. Without those precious twenty minutes, his retaliatory capabilities would be effectively neutralized. The advantage would belong clearly and irrevocably to the party which launched first.”

“Project Placebo,” Bane said slowly. “Metzencroy discovered a means to send thirty-six MX missiles whirling into the vortex. The Russians would never know what hit them.”

Von Goss nodded. “Now we come to the real problem. Metzencroy uncovered the same flaw in the theory that Einstein did, though by a different route.”

“And it all comes back to the disappearing 727.”

“Just as Einstein’s problems began with the Eldridge. The business with the 727 was a tangent phase of Vortex, wholly unnecessary really, but Chilgers wanted a detailed study of exposure to Metzencroy’s version of energy fields in contrast to Einstein’s regarding the effects on people. Something went wrong with an engine in midflight, though, and the Vortex timing mechanism was thrown off, so when the jet disappeared, it was in full view of the runway. This turned into a disaster because it ultimately drew you into the operation but it had nothing to do with the flaw Metzencroy uncovered. That was based first on a flutter, a bubble — a discontinuity — in space.”

“A bubble?”

Von Goss nodded again. “A bubble which followed the same principle as the kind you’re more familiar with, only this bubble occurred within the gravitational line where space folded over itself, actually within the fold itself. It was slight in size and virtually nominal in duration but it bothered Metzencroy and he checked into it. What he found led him to plead with Chilgers to call off Project Placebo and Vortex, and when he failed he contacted me.” Von Goss’s voice became distant. “Einstein said that the Unified Field Theory was better left alone, that man wasn’t ready for the potential it offered and probably never would be. After twenty years of work, all Metzencroy could do was prove him right.”

“What did he find out?” Bane asked, finding himself dreading an answer he had sought for almost a week now.

“It all came back to the bubble. On a wider scale, a larger one, when burst, would carry the potential to rip a hole in the fold, creating a tear in the fabric of space.”

“Like a Black Hole?”

“Worse because potentially it would be in motion, creating an open seam right across the universe. Metzencroy ran some tests and determined that the bubble had appeared when the second jet engine — the one that had failed temporarily — kicked back on as the pilot started his descent and your friend in the tower made brief visual contact.” Von Goss leaned as far forward as he could without slipping off his chair. The fire was dancing madly about his face now, its crackling accentuating the twisted rhythm with his words. “Follow me closely now, Mr. Bane, because we’re coming to the end of our scenario and none of it is pleasant. The sudden starting of a jet engine is not unlike a mininuclear explosion, though the release of energy is only one-billionth that of a fusion bomb. However, we will be facing three hundred and sixty such bombs in Project Placebo, ten per missile. Now, add the same factor to that scenario that Metzencroy did.”

“Space folds back on itself allowing all thirty-six missiles to disappear and be transposed onto the other side of space in another dimension.”

“Go on.”

“The Russians would never know they were on the way and all standard abort and fail-safe features would be rendered useless because the missiles wouldn’t be anywhere where the procedures could reach them. The three hundred and sixty warheads would reappear over their targets, thus taking the Russians totally by surprise in the ultimate first strike and …” Bane felt himself gripped suddenly by a shudder. The sensation was akin to vertigo. He felt as though he were falling from his chair, dug into the arms for support. The sight in his mind clouded his eyes, brought first mist and then wet tears of shock he was afraid to wipe away for fear of losing his grip altogether. “Oh my God …”

Von Goss looked at him, nodded. “I think you’ve hit on the essence of our problem, Mr. Bane. The three hundred and sixty warheads, each traveling in its own fold, will have to return back to the other side of space before triggering, except the folds will not have time to close completely prior to detonation. Sort of like a door that stays open just a crack. But a crack is more than sufficient. The detonation of three hundred and sixty hydrogen warheads in the megaton range will cause a monstrous tear in the fabric of our universe, actually a series of three hundred and sixty individual tears that will eventually link up. But only one would be needed to start a process that might conceivably feed off itself until the dimensions converged on each other with nothing left to separate them. Understand I’m speaking purely theoretically here, but we could end up with the Big Bang theory in reverse … and the total obliteration of our world.”

Bane just sat there.

“At the very least,” Von Goss continued, “all the Earth’s precious gravity will slip through the tear in the dimensional fabric. All air would naturally follow it through. The waters of every lake and ocean would rise toward the sky. Buildings would be ripped from their foundations, people popped like balloons. A vortex would be created in which our entire world would be turned inside out.” Von Goss paused. “The other, far less dramatic possibility is that gravity will pour through from the other side of space, crushing the Earth to a gravity point source, a singularity, an infinitely small point.”

Bane felt his body drift backward against the chair. Von Goss was describing what The Vibes had shown Davey: the future, the world coming to a sudden and violent end. But could it be changed?

“He saw it,” Bane muttered, “he saw it all….”

“Who did?” Von Goss wondered. “What are you talking about?”

“There was a boy on Flight 22. He came back able to see things … and do things.” Bane went on to relate a capsulized version of the events experienced by Davey Phelps and the other passengers from Flight 22.

“Lord in heaven,” Von Goss said distantly when he had finished, “it’s even worse than I thought.”

“What did the flight do to him … and the others?”

“Basically, exposure to the Vortex fields switched on new parts of their brains and/or switched off others, the effects in this boy’s case being rather extreme.” Von Goss smiled ironically. “But under a controlled situation, not as extreme as we may think. You see, with Vortex, Metzencroy has merely scratched the topmost surface of this area of physics, first grade math compared to calculus. With Project Placebo, we are witnessing the most infantile of applications. Do you realize, Mr. Bane, that in an advanced stage the vortex principle could solve the problem of space travel? Pack your bags, step into warped space, and you could be on the moon, Mars, or anywhere else in the universe. Vortex reduces the distance from light-years to inches. We could actually colonize other solar systems as easily as walking through a door, not to mention the wonders of the mind Vortex might unlock.” Von Goss’s brow was sweating. “But all that is not to be. The base stubbornness of the military has kept science from advancing in geometric bounds rather than arithmetic ones. In the end Metzencroy even suggested to Chilgers that waiting two or three minutes to detonate the warheads after regeneration would alleviate the problem by allowing the vortex energy fields to dissipate, thus sealing the door to the other universe. The colonel refused to bend even that much out of fear that superior Russian ground detection systems and beam weapons could not be given more than fifteen seconds.”

Von Goss stood up, the fire’s light barely reaching his trembling lips. “We have tampered with forces in the cosmos I suppose we were never meant to discover.” His right hand had moved across to his left, begun tugging at the black leather mitten to free it from the flesh. “Allow me one more lecture, Mr. Bane. All amino acids are asymmetrical, either left or right. Since the ultraviolet light we are exposed to every day destroys the right-handed proteins, our bodies are composed of left-handed proteins. The universe where the Eldridge went in 1943 and where the 727 went ten days ago is right-handed to conserve parity.”

Von Goss had the mitten off now. He began to raise his naked left hand alongside his right toward the fire’s orange glow. “Yes, Mr. Bane, I can move this dead hand; I just can’t feel it and can never expose it to light. I haven’t felt it since a day fifteen years ago when I artificially created a Vortex field and couldn’t resist reaching over to feel the other side. I reached over, Mr. Bane, into a world I had no business invading.”

Von Goss stretched his palms upward till all ten of his fingers scraped at the fiery embers reaching out from the hearth. Bane watched the tips quiver and realized in one horrible instant what he was seeing.

Dr. Otto Von Goss had two right hands.

Chapter Thirty-two

Bane aimed the Ford through the misty night, driving faster than he should have around the tight corners.

The end of the world …

“You say something, Winter Man?” Trench asked him.

“Just thinking out loud.”

The mist thickened and Bane tried his high beams without success. The curves came suddenly and blindly; if not for the desperate lack of time he might have opted to stay at the mountain fortress overnight. As it was, though, Von Goss said Project Placebo was scheduled to begin in less than thirty-six hours, probably. Time wasted now was time never to be made up.

“Where to?” Trench wondered.

“Ultimately San Diego.”

“To take on COBRA by ourselves?”

“I don’t see much choice.”

“And I’m sure that’s the same way Chilgers sees it. He’ll be expecting us, Winter Man.”

Bane braked the Ford around a corner, sticking as close to the mountainside as he dared. The curve angled sharply and he felt his bumper scrape up against rock. “There isn’t any choice, Trench. We’re the only ones who know enough to stop Vortex.”

“There’s desperation in your voice, fostered by Von Goss’s conclusions no doubt.”

“The whole world’s desperate, Trench, but we’re the only ones who realize just how much.”

“So we strive to save a world that has declared you unsalvageable to live in it.”

“Before Von Goss I could have almost turned my back and walked away from the whole mess,” Bane lied. San Diego had been in his plans all along because Chilgers had Davey. The whole world might end tomorrow but Bane felt worse about the boy. Thoughts of rescuing him fueled his emotional desires, and promised to keep Bane going long after he stopped caring about saving a cold, impersonal world that had turned both of them into freaks. “We’ll head for New York first,” Bane went on. “I’ve got a friend there who can help us get to the West Coast.”

Trench smiled faintly. “We could almost pull this off given enough time.”

“We don’t have—”

The light blinded Bane as he swung around the corner. He braked the Ford to a sliding halt, barely holding it on the road.

A towering yellow dragon thundered forward.

“A goddamn bulldozer!” he shouted, jamming the Ford into reverse and taking the mountain road backward.

Trench yanked out the pistol Von Goss’s guards had returned to him and squeezed off five shots in rapid succession, succeeding in knocking out one of the dragon’s eyes. The next four bullets slammed harmlessly off its tempered steel flesh.

“I’m out,” he reported.

Bane struggled to free his pistol from his belt and tossed it over.

The yellow dragon roared up the hill.

Bane didn’t see it, his eyes were locked on the back window. He fishtailed into turns, fighting to judge angles from his impossible perspective. It had been hard enough taking the corners going forward. Backward made his flesh crawl. His tires spit gravel. The Ford’s gears screamed in protest.

The yellow dragon leveled its mouth in line with the car’s hood.

Bane misjudged a corner and his back end slammed hard into the rocky mountainside. He fought down panic and floored the accelerator. The car lurched backward, leaving a fender behind which the roaring monster crunched in its path.

The gap closed still further.

Bane jammed the pedal down again, trying to put as much distance between the Ford and the dragon as possible. The effort proved futile. The monster took the curves effortlessly, swallowing Trench’s bullets as it went.

Bane felt the pedal give a little, then come back.

“Gas tank’s going!” he shouted. “We’re almost out!”

Trench said nothing, just held the gun at nothing in particular. The Ford started to sputter, creeping up the straightaway.

The dragon roared at them, engine growling.

Suddenly Bane saw what they had to do.

“Get ready to jump!” he told Trench.

The dragon lunged down the straightaway, picking up speed.

Bane slammed the Ford’s brakes, felt its rear tires teeter halfway over the edge, and jammed the car from reverse into drive before its skid was complete. The tires tore holes in the gravel and then pushed the car forward with its last breath of gas, finding purchase and hurtling it out toward the dragon.

“Jump!” Bane screamed.

Trench already had his door open. Bane tumbled out his side an instant after him and an instant before the Ford climbed into the dragon’s mouth.

The monster coughed, spit it out up and over its head. The rear tires it used for feet dug deeper as its smaller front ones were parted from the ground. The dragon reared up on its hind legs, seeming to hover there for a moment before the weight of its massive shovel arm forced it to tumble over, metal screeching against hard gravel and forming a death scream as the metal creature slipped over the side, mouth first. Flames jumped up in its path.

Bane struggled to his feet, then limped over to Trench. Trench’s arms had been torn by the rocky surface, and his hands were reduced to mangled slabs of meat. His fingers trembled as he returned Bane’s gun.

“You’ll need it,” he said, his eyes pointing toward a convoy of lights, narrowly spaced like those of jeeps, climbing the mountainside.

An army was approaching, coming for Von Goss no doubt.

Bane saw Trench’s spent gun protruding from his belt. “I’ve still got two clips. That leaves one for each of us.”

And he was handing one to Trench even as they scampered toward a rock ledge leading to a plateau. Trench snapped it home, started clawing for purchase in the stone above him.

The parade of jeeps was almost upon them.

They climbed quickly, dragging hand over hand and squeezing fingers against stone until the tips of their fingers bled raw. The jeeps’ headlights slid against them as they reached the top and they dropped low, hugging the ground and holding onto the hope that they hadn’t been spotted until bullets pounded the ledge just below them.

Trench started to go for his gun, resigned to making their stand from right here.

“No,” Bane said, grasping his arm. He glanced around. The plateau they had reached boasted only a slight rise. Through the darkness, he could make out breaks in the dense forest. Trails … “Over there,” he showed Trench.

And they set out down the first one they saw. Bane bit his lip against the locking pain in his legs. His knees had suffered the brunt of the dive from the car, leaving his motions unsteady. Trench was not much better. His left leg was virtually useless and had to be dragged behind him like a chain, not to mention the horrible wounds on his hands. But with a trail to follow now they could make it. They could—

Bullets sliced the air in the path to their rear. Bane glanced quickly back and caught only the flicker of dark motion. No sense in wasting a shot; he’d need every bullet he had. Bane made out four sets of footsteps twenty yards behind them and another half dozen or so closing rapidly from the opposite side of the woods. The opposition had obviously found another route to the plateau and was exploiting the advantage to its fullest.

“We can’t outrun them,” he told Trench.

“Or outfight them at this point. Unless …”

Their eyes had locked on the same target simultaneously: an old, weather-beaten log cabin. Someone’s hunting refuge, no doubt left abandoned for years, standing in a clearing some fifty yards ahead to the right. Bane lit out toward it, helping Trench along.

Trench crashed through the door, but Bane didn’t follow. He swung abruptly back as he felt the shapes rushing in from the rear enter his sure-killing range. His move took them totally by surprise and by the time they had slid to a halt and readied their rifles, Bane had snapped off four shots, three of them kills and one just as good.

“I bought us some time,” he said, as Trench closed the heavy door behind him.

“For all the good it will do.”

Bane shrugged. He knew it was hopeless now, knew it was over. But it was not in his nature to give up. More than anything else that was what his training had taught him and more than anything else that was what he retained. Hopelessness had never existed for him. There were always alternatives, the problem being to find them.

The two side windows of the cabin shattered in a hail of automatic fire. Bane and Trench dove to the floor, instinctively toward opposite sides. Bullets thundered over them and more glass coated their backs. Each crept toward a window, palming the pistols which felt like toys against the powerful weapons of their attackers.

Bane chanced a volley, firing three shots at shadows in the dark, aiming only at motion. Two figures lurched backward. Trench fared even better. Four of the attackers chanced a rush in his direction and three ended up piled in a bloody heap, scarlet pumping from their neatly ruptured hearts.

Silence reigned outside, evidence of their attackers changing their strategy. The fact that taking them wouldn’t be a simple task was obvious now and the opposition would stop looking for a clean kill and try for something else.

The first grenade shattered the brief stillness of the night and the second followed immediately. Both were direct hits on the roof and sent a measure of the ceiling showering down, exposing Trench and Bane to the black air. A third grenade pounded the front door while another made it through a break in the roof only to be caught miraculously in midair by Trench who proceeded to hurl it back out the window with half a second to spare. The blast took out five more of the opposition, but Trench had exposed himself and he now felt a rapid series of spits cough into his abdomen and spine. He went down hard, holding tight to his pistol, then crawling back to his perch by the window and holding on there as death reached out for him.

Bane was about to move across to him when the next grenade blast tore a hole in the floor. Bane followed Trench’s dying eyes toward it. The hole was deeper than it should have been and Bane quickly realized why. It was a tunnel! This wasn’t a hunting retreat at all, but a hideout for someone who needed an escape route available at all times. The Poconos were full of such cabins, in past years used as hideaways for criminals on the run, and they had stumbled upon one.

Bane looked over at Trench.

“Go,” he grimaced. “Get out while you still can.”

For some reason Bane hesitated, as bullets singed the air around him.

“You’re the best, Winter Man, you always were. Go and save your world. I’ll …”—Trench struggled for breath and coughed blood—“… hold them back as long as I can.”

Bane nodded and slid his pistol across the floor toward Trench. He wanted to say something, do something more for a man who for so long had been his rival and would now die his friend. His hand reached out as if to grasp Trench, the gesture precluded by the distance between them, and Trench smiled slightly, motioning him to go.

Bane plunged into the hole. The tunnel was totally black but darkness had been a friend to him longer than it had been an enemy. He visualized himself back in the city twenty years before under the King’s careful tutelage. It was like having the blindfold on all over again. A training exercise, nothing more.

Bane snailed on through the narrow, blackened corridor on his hands and knees. The dirt was cold but firm, solid on all sides of him. Above, he could still hear muffled shots and explosions. Trench would not let them take him with merely bullets. He’d make them bring the whole cabin down on top of him, sealing the truth of Bane’s escape long enough for it to become complete.

The dirt ceiling lowered and Bane dropped all the way to his stomach, clawing his way forward against the cold dirt on his elbows the same way he had during fire fights in Nam. There was a blast from somewhere above him and Bane felt a shower of dirt rain down coating his back. Trench had made the opposition blow the cabin up, thus hiding the tunnel and Bane’s escape from them. His rival turned friend had done what he had to, and now Bane would do the same. He shook his head free of dirt and pushed his way forward, oblivious to the pain and the red rawness of his forearms.

He might still have miles to go but it didn’t matter. The slow rising of the tunnel’s roof told him the end was coming and he could almost smell fresh air. Soon a ray of light would break the darkness he had grown to welcome and he would be out. From there nothing would stop him.

Because he was the Winter Man and he had promises to keep.

Chapter Thirty-three

“I hope you understand our position,” the President told Colonel Chilgers over the phone two hours after receiving Phillip Wentworth’s report. “We’re not canceling Project Placebo, just postponing it for the time being until we find the leak.”

“No, Mr. President, I’m afraid I don’t understand your position,” Chilgers snapped. “Months of planning have gone into this. We may never have a similar opportunity again.”

“We’ll make one.”

“That’s not the point. Hesitance, Mr. President, will eventually be the death of us all.” Chilgers’ voice was rising, quickening. “Our enemies act while we consider acting. It has been that way for nearly forty years and I suppose things won’t change until it’s too late to matter. Yours and previous administrations have been characterized by total indecisiveness, an utterly reprehensible refusal to push forward. Project Placebo would have revealed, clearly and undeniably, how our defensive systems would perform in a crisis. I believe that is something you really don’t want to be aware of, sir. If you don’t know, you can’t be blamed.”

“The matter is closed, Colonel.”

“Only for now, Mr. President, only for now.”

Chilgers slammed the phone in his office down, letting his smile grow into a laugh.

“Do you think he bought it, George?” the President asked Secretary of Defense Brandenberg.

“It doesn’t matter whether he did or not. We’ve canceled Placebo, stripped all his control away. Whatever he was planning is finished, neutralized.”

“I suppose.” The President’s eyes wandered. “The cancel order was given after the thirty-six MX missiles with dummy warheads were delivered to Bunker 17, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Something bothers me about that. Have we got Bunker 17 back on line?”

“They never went off it.”

“Then I want you to make sure personally that they’ve removed the dummy missiles from the silos. As long as they’re in place, COBRA still might have something going.”

“The order to return active missiles to the silos went out at the instant of termination one hour ago. Beyond that, I don’t see what we have to worry about from Chilgers. The base is back on general status. Yellow Flag is over.”

The President frowned. “Have NORAD keep a line open to them constantly. I’m just not comfortable with this and won’t be until we get Chilgers’ ass in a witness chair before the Senate Armed Services Committee. I want him out.”

Brandenberg’s eyebrows flickered. “That will mean admitting our giving the go-ahead to Placebo without Congressional approval. Our dealings with Bane might come out as well.”

“I’m well aware of that. Right now I’m more concerned, about bringing Bane in safely.”

Brandenberg looked away uneasily.

“George?”

Brandenberg shrank back in his chair. “I’ve withdrawn the unsalvageable order but it will take a while to filter down into the field.”

“You’re trying to tell me that we might still end up killing Bane, is that it?”

Brandenberg nodded slowly.

“Then let me make myself clear on this. I don’t care if you have to go into the field yourself to pull every man back, I want him brought in alive because if there’s any merit to the information Wentworth forwarded us, then Bane’s the only one who knows what the hell Chilgers is up to.”

“Whatever it is, we’ve put a stop to it by canceling Placebo,” Brandenberg insisted.

“Let’s hope so.”

The bulk of Bane’s journey back to New York was made in a car stolen from the first resort lot he came upon in his descent through the Poconos. His clothes and flesh were filthy but their smell reassured him, brought him back to Nam when everything had been so simple and his indestructibility was a given.

He abandoned the car near Penn Station and washed himself as best he could in one of the bathrooms. It was late enough at night for the station to be quiet, so anyone attempting to follow him from it on a haphazard trip through the subways would have his work cut out for him.

Even before Bane had surrendered to instinct, his destination had been determined. There was only one safe place for him in New York; where he could rest, regroup, and prepare the next segment of his strategy. He headed toward Harlem, toward the King, where the Winter Man had learned his most important skills. He leaned his head against the glass of the subway-car window, feeling fatigue sweep over him, but he was jolted awake every time his eyes dared close for an instant.

He had to get to San Diego. Vortex was centered there at COBRA. The entire operation would be controlled by machines and machines could be destroyed. Even a computer can’t function once you pull the plug. He would destroy Vortex by himself.

Why, though, should he bother?

His own people had tried to kill him once five years ago, and now they had declared him unsalvageable, while he was doing his best to salvage the world. Where was the sense in his going on?

Survival … Bane’s prime directive all along, the very essence of the Winter Man. Overcome all obstacles. Survive at all costs. The mission had to be completed. Abandoning it was no easier than holding his own breath until he died. The mission gave the Winter Man substance from shadow.

Then there was Davey. Somewhere deep within Bane, thoughts of the boy stirred. He, too, was in San Diego, a toy for Chilgers to play with. Bane wanted the boy, needed him. Somehow Davey had come to mean very much to him, the one feature both sides of his personality had in common and the thread that held them together. Without the boy he’d become a machine as he had been years before, a machine little different from the ones he would have to destroy if the world was to survive.

Bane found himself climbing up from the subway at a stop five blocks from the King’s place. The Harlem streets were deserted, silent save for an occasional beat of music coming from an open apartment window. Bane kept himself pressed tight against buildings, stayed off the main streets, his route longer but safer.

A nest of tired brick apartment buildings rose on his right, lamps at their front doors nipping at the darkness. Bane had passed the second one when he sensed someone following him. Whoever it was stepped when he stepped, stopped when he stopped. The man, if it was a man, was good.

Bane kept moving, locking his eyes forward.

Behind him, his pursuer closed the gap.

Bane steadied his pace, felt reflexively for the pistol he’d given to Trench. Guns weren’t much good at night anyway really, not much more than noisemakers even for the best shot. That thought comforted him only slightly. His pursuer would have a gun, an advantage no matter how you looked at it.

Bane swerved around a corner and felt the steps behind him quicken just a bit. Soft and graceful, the movements of a professional. But this was his turf, his game. The King had taught him to fight blindfolded and once you got over the initial fear, it wasn’t so bad really. The thing that got you killed was hesitation.

Bane didn’t hesitate. He kept walking, keenly aware that the gap between him and his pursuer was narrowing with each break in the sidewalk. The man — he could tell that much from the steps now — was choosing his moment to strike. Bane would have to choose it for him. He swung down an alley that ran between two battered apartment buildings and connected two parallel streets.

“King?” he called softly, just loud enough for his pursuer to hear. “King, where the hell are you?”

He moved forward a good distance into the alley, then suddenly reversed his field, moving quick and sure back toward the entrance.

His pursuer was caught totally by surprise.

Bane reached the alley front just as a dark shape crossed into the blackness, drawing back too late for it to matter. Bane went for his wrist first because that was where the gun, a CIA standard-issue Browning, was, and the weapon more than anything else had to be neutralized. But he managed only a glancing blow as the man holding the gun pulled back, and when Bane tried again a fist slammed into his throat, just missing his windpipe.

The CIA man tried to free the gun and Bane let him, throwing all his force forward till his assailant was rammed against the jagged brick of the nearest building.

The man winced and lost his breath, but he still had the pistol and jerked the barrel for Bane’s head. Bane jabbed his whole body upward and slammed a knee into the man’s groin. A bullet exploded but the shot went wide. The CIA man twisted his body out and around, pulling from Bane’s grasp; went for the trigger again and found a second finger stuck there, wedging it in place.

Bane felt the sharp back of the trigger bite into his finger, chewing his skin. The CIA man pulled back hard and Bane lost his balance long enough for the man to smash his testicles with a vicious kick. He was dimly aware of the awful pain and of the bile rising in his throat when the CIA man’s free elbow pummeled his thorax.

Bane started to slip down. His assailant towered over him, Bane having misjudged both his size and strength. The man struggled to rip the gun free, yanked for it hard instead of trying to finish Bane with his hand.

A costly mistake.

Bane tightened his hand into a square and lashed upward with his palm, not for a killing strike because that the CIA man probably would have been able to fend off easily, but just for the front of the nose. The man’s timing was thrown out of sync, a batter fooled by a fastball pitcher’s change-up. Cartilage seemed to crack on impact. Blood started steadily out.

For a brief instant, the CIA man was blinded. Bane seized his chance.

There was still the gun to contend with, but he had too much of an advantage now to bother with that. His left hand kept it pinned low, the flesh of his finger still tearing, while his right hardened into a fist and went for the bone just beneath the man’s nostrils.

There was a sickening crunch and Bane felt he could have driven his fist right through the CIA man’s head with a bit more thrust. His grip on the pistol slackened and Bane closed his left hand around it and pulled, screaming from the agony of his torn finger.

The gun came free from both their grasps and sailed into the street.

The man tried for Bane’s eyes with a clawlike hand. But the move was slow, awkward, poorly timed. Bane caught the fingers out of midair and bent them backward until they snapped.

The man’s scream lasted only until Bane’s hand clamped over his mouth and drove his head back against the brick, to come away matted with thick blood as the CIA man slumped slowly down leaving a trail of scarlet ooze behind him.

King Cong stepped out of the alley.

“How many others?” Bane asked him.

“Three.”

“You take care of them?”

The King just smiled. “I knew there’d be action just as soon as you called from Penn Station. Had the itch.”

“Scratch it enough?”

“Fuck, no! Never can scratch this kinda itch nough.”

Bane realized for the first time how much his finger was hurting. “That’s good because we got a lot more ahead of us.”

“Now, you’re talkin’!”

“Ever been to San Diego?”

“Not ‘til tonight, Josh boy. You figure it’ll be safe for you to travel?”

“Safe enough,” Bane said, as they started down the street.

“Yeah, well if we meet up with any more of ’em ’long the way they gonna have to go through the both of us and the odds of that ain’t too good.” The King hesitated. “I lost that kid of yours, Josh boy. I owe ya for that.”

“Then let’s go get him back.”

Chapter Thirty-four

“The news is rather disturbing, Colonel.”

Teke stepped into Chilgers’ office lugging a load of computer print-outs and notebooks. Chilgers looked up calmly, unmoved. With Trench and Bane both buried under a mountain of rubble in Pennsylvania, he could stomach a little bad news.

“Something to do with Davey Phelps no doubt,” he advanced.

Teke nodded. “I’ve spent the last eight hours collating and analyzing the results of our stage-two experiment.”

“A splendid success, I thought.”

“On the surface, yes. The full extent of the boy’s power was finally revealed to us. However, the machines monitoring him have uncovered some rather severe drawbacks.”

“Specifically..”

“The drop-off points of the boy’s energy exertion level and energy concentration ratio were much sharper this time.”

“Explain.”

“He was forced to call upon more energy reserves to generate sufficient force, to a point where there were no more reserves to call upon. The task required of him was far greater in this instance than it was in stage one which accounts for a measure of the change. But the variation was present even at the outset. Simply put, the boy was substantially weaker than demonstrated in our first test and the energy he was able to summon did not maintain levels as high as long. He’s depleted.”

“For good?”

Teke shook his head. “No. Run a car battery down and it will recharge itself after a while, though to a substantially weaker level. And each time the process is repeated, the weakening continues until there is no juice left at all. That basically is what’s happening to the boy. You recall his complaints of headaches during the course of the experiments?”

Chilgers nodded, watched Teke finally sit down.

“His use of ‘The Chill,’ as he calls it, forces a massive concentration of blood to the area of the brain we believe his power is emanating from. The blood vessels have weakened substantially, raising the very real possibility of the formation of blood clots. Simply stated, Colonel, the boy suffers a stroke every time he uses The Chill. Oh, it’s nothing serious enough to impair bodily function immediately. But it does place a tremendous amount of pressure on all vital organs, which seem to be deteriorating from the strain, especially the blood vessels supplying the brain itself. The process is irreversible now. We’re looking at the possibility of a massive cerebral hemorrhage at anytime. The boy is dying.”

“All this because of our experiments?”

“They certainly accelerated the process, but it had been started even before. The mind, Colonel, is an infinite mechanism while the body is not. What’s happened to Davey Phelps is not a supernatural phenomenon, but merely an exceptional reaction to an outside stimulus in the form of Flight 22. The telekinetic power he generates, which his mind is a funnel for, proceeds at a rate far in excess of his body’s capacity to deal with it. The boy himself, then, is of no further use to us.” Teke paused, just long enough. “But his brain is another matter entirely.”

Chilgers looked closely at him.

“I want to remove it for close study before tissue damage destroys the nerve center of the boy’s power.”

Chilgers fingered his chin. “You have an end in mind, I assume.”

“Of course,” Teke acknowledged, leaning forward over his knees and squeezing the wad of computer print-outs. “Our experiments on the boy, while intensifying the deterioration process, have pinpointed for us almost the precise area of the brain where his power originates — in other words, the point directly affected by his experience on Flight 22. What we need to find out now is precisely how it has been affected, specifically what nerve centers and cells have been altered and restructured to account for his … capabilities. If we are successful, it’s possible that we’ll be able to synthesize chemically the same response to those nerve centers and cells to produce Davey Phelps’s abilities in human subjects of our choosing.”

Chilgers nodded reflectively, a faint smile drawn over his lips. “You’re talking about an army with the boy’s powers.”

“It’s possible….”

“An army that could turn an enemy’s mind against itself; could assassinate, terrorize, execute, infiltrate, destroy without use of guns or bombs.” His eyes sharpened and met Teke’s. “Doctor you could be talking about a weapon far more advanced than Vortex. Destroying our enemies entirely from the inside. Making them turn their missiles on themselves, kill their own leaders, pass their greatest secrets on to us. Why a single Davey Phelps in the Kremlin could—” Chilgers stopped suddenly. “Wait, by your own admission this power is killing the boy. Our agents wouldn’t exactly have very long, effective life spans.”

“Not necessarily,” said Teke. “Once we learn the roots of the boy’s cellular dysfunction, we should be able to take steps to compensate. Keep in mind that everything which has happened to Davey Phelps was sudden and unexpected. Our subjects would be under total control. Their power could be refined, developed, nurtured. Drugs might be used to diminish or neutralize the potential adverse side effects. You’d have your army, Colonel, for as long as you needed them.”

Chilgers’ smile broke free. “And to think that even you, Teke, urged against the tangent phase of Vortex, against Flight 22. You told me there was nothing to gain from it at this stage, that we’d be risking too much. There are always risks, Doctor, but in this case they were well worth it. I’m stepping up the Vortex schema slightly. The bombs will be on their way in twenty-four hours.” Chilgers rose and moved from the desk, clasping his hands behind his back. “Yes, twenty-four hours from now the balance of power will tilt almost totally in our direction. But for how long, Teke? How long will it last? There will always be enemies, rising forces which challenge our own. The power of this country must remain supreme and unchallenged. Yes, there were risks involved in Flight 22 but the gains more than justify them as I always felt they would. An army with the power of Davey Phelps would eliminate the need for bombs and overtly aggressive tactics. Our approach could be subtle while at the same time becoming infinitely more effective.”

“Isolating and testing the precise factors involved might take considerable time,” Teke warned.

“Years, Doctor? A decade perhaps? Vortex took an entire generation to bring to the eve of activation but my commitment never wavered. Even through the failures and disappointments I refused to give up because I knew we were on the verge of something fantastic, just as I know we’re on the verge now of something even more fantastic. My entire career at COBRA has been dedicated to creating a totally secure America. Not just from bombs and missiles, but from oil shortages, embargoes and the threats that go with them. In twenty-four hours, Russia will be devastated and the first half of my goal will be virtually complete. Following through on your present plan successfully will complete the second half. Vortex will buy us the time we need. America’s voice will emerge as the only voice. The word foreign will cease to exist. It will all be ours, the entire world.” Chilgers gazed across at the wall, imagining the coming shape of what lay beyond it.

Teke cleared his throat. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here, Colonel. Beyond Vortex, everything depends on the boy’s brain. And removing it, not to mention sustaining its vital existence apart from the body, is no easy task. I’ve taken the liberty of sending for a team of expert brain and neurosurgeons, tops in their fields and all security cleared, who will be arriving at various times tomorrow. But still there are no guarantees. Success rates in all types of brain operations have never been very high, never mind the type we’ll be attempting.”

“Make it work, Teke. Whatever it takes, make it work.”

“Time is the key element. Every moment we wait, every moment we allow the boy’s condition to worsen in the slightest, reduces our chances for success.”

“There’s no way you could perform the operation immediately with base personnel?”

“Not within an acceptable level of risk.”

“Then I suppose we have to wait. How long did you say it’ll be before you can begin?”

“Close to twenty-four hours when you consider briefing the team on exactly what has to be done and developing a strategy for the operation.”

“Twenty-four hours, then.” And that brought another smile to the colonel’s face. “The missiles might just be heading on their way as you start, Doctor. Fitting, I suppose. The world is going to be a vastly different place when we wake up two mornings from now.” Chilgers paused. “And we might not even recognize it.”