Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (9 page)

In the west wing of the facility was Mount Rainy Medical Center with over twelve hundred beds. In the east wing, Mount Rainy Biotronics Research Center bustled with activity, most of the scientists and technicians thinking their research would help heal mankind’s many wounds. They did not need to know the truth.

Now, in the restricted control room, center of the structure on the second floor, Dr. Xiang put his hands in the pockets of his dark-blue lab coat, and with dark, deep-set eyes scanned the bank of eighteen video monitors. At six-foot five, he was taller than most men of Chinese heritage, his biological Russian father a contributing factor. In his long silver hair, only an occasional black streak was a noticeable remnant of the past. Still he wore it pulled back in a ponytail that reached the middle of his back. The band holding his hair behind his head was an odd feature to most who observed it long enough to realize what it wasn’t — an elastic fabric strip. Dark and shriveled, no one except Xiang knew what the thing really was; two curled and connected human fingers — those of his long dead but never forgotten foster parents.

Things were not going according to plan. Three screens were burnt out. Fourteen of the remaining fifteen displayed a number of street and intersection scenes from all over town and around the Biotronics facility. In the middle, the fifteenth monitor showed the inside of the Gold Rush hardware store. All camera angles were from an elevated point of view.

On the screen immediately right of center, a man walked down a sidewalk. The tall Oriental doctor bent over the technician seated in front of him and, with one large hand on the tech’s shoulder, he used the other to push forward on a small lever on the control panel. The technician flinched with Xiang’s contact while the camera zoomed in on the walking man — Robert Weller.

“Damn it. He is walking,” Dr. Xiang said.

An Oriental woman, also in a dark-blue smock, stepped into the room and stood just behind and to the side of Xiang. She inspected the monitors apprehensively. “On schedule, Dr. Xiang?”

Xiang smiled slightly. He appreciated his assistant. She was conscientious, obedient and not all that bad looking for a forty-year-old neurologist.

Xiang spoke over his shoulder, “Yes, Dr. Yumi. A minor complication, however, yes. It appears he has exceeded even our hopes.” He scowled as he turned to a dark screen near the middle. “He projected earlier than planned. I believe he not only burned out the television, but the three cameras inside the house as well. All of the microphones, the power supply and even the telephone are out. And now, for some reason, he is walking. However, Chief Dailey has arrived at the house. I will have him provide physical surveillance as a precaution.”

He pressed the
Radio Speak
button on the console and leaned to the microphone.

Before he had a chance to talk, the screen he’d been observing went blank. It no longer showed the section of sidewalk it had a moment earlier. He could no longer watch Robert Weller.

He turned to the technician. “What . . . ?”

Next, a screen to the left went out, and they looked to it in surprise. Another sidewalk scene was gone.

Xiang grimaced. A short, a breakdown, a rat had gotten into the circuitry again? “What is happening?”

“I don’t know, Doctor Xiang.” The tech flipped several switches, then stood up and pushed reset buttons on both monitors. Nothing happened.

Yet another screen dimmed to dark gray.

Xiang rubbed his white goatee and narrowed his eyes. Perhaps the equipment malfunctions were caused by something less obvious. He scanned the bank of monitors for a moment. The others remained on. He glanced down at one of the gauges on the console labeled Subject #374 Signal. Its needle pointed to the green range, and Xiang was thankful for that. They could not afford another failure
— especially considering a subject this promising.

“At least we have not lost control,” he said.

But when he glanced at a small screen in the middle of the control console, he was stunned. The tiny arrow that indicated Robert Weller’s path along a street in a computer-generated town was not there. “Damn it. Tracking has been affected, also.” He looked over his shoulder again at Yumi. “Perhaps it was not him who destroyed the cameras and microphones. Something may be amiss. Get a support team in here without delay. I want this resolved, now. And dispatch troubleshooters in boom trucks to make repairs to the surveillance equipment.”

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Yumi said. She scurried to the doorway, but paused briefly before leaving. “Oh, and, Dr. Xiang, the Consul General is here from the New York City Consulate.”

Xiang’s eyes widened. This particular consul was in charge of the entire northeastern United States, including Washington, DC. He would be overseeing the operation in that area. “Damn them! Why cannot they leave me alone and let me work? This is not Disneyland. I am not a tour guide.”

“I believe the Honorable Mr. Meng Juhong wishes to see the facility today and to accompany the subject to his placement tomorrow, sir. He is waiting in your private office.”

“You will delay him, Yumi,” Xiang snapped. “I must have fifteen minutes to assure complete control here before Consul Meng is allowed to view our facility.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Yumi said and slipped out.

Xiang leaned back to the microphone, glancing again at all of the monitors. Dignitaries and politicians were the worst lot. Aloud, but to himself, he said, “That is all I need, a fat-assed diplomat to snoop around where he does not belong and into what he does not understand!”

His distaste for diplomats ran deep. His mother had been a Shanghai prostitute and his father a Soviet dignitary
— their consul general to Shanghai. When the second Sino-Japanese war erupted, his Russian father had fled China, abandoning Xiang’s mother — then pregnant with Xiang. The Russian returned to his own Mother Russia, his legal wife and safety. But the atrocities Xiang’s mother was left to endure were incredible during that tumultuous time in China’s history. She’d sought safety in nearby Nangjing with her younger sister and newborn Xiang. But there, over three hundred thousand civilians were slaughtered by the Japanese, and Xiang’s mother was raped and killed. His adolescent aunt had managed to escape death with little Xiang, until she was senselessly slaughtered — literally butchered, in a Japanese prison camp — while Xiang watched helplessly at the age of five.

Xiang’s parents had made him what he was, and he hated them for it. And he especially hated diplomats.

Xiang pushed the Radio Speak button once more. “Chief Dailey, we now have a total of six blank monitors here — and Robert Weller is walking. You must keep surveillance from the house and all the way to the store. Find our subject quickly, and tell me where he is. I do not want him making contact with other citizens, yet.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the chief replied.

“First, let me speak to Michelle,” Xiang said shortly. Disobedience was far worse than equipment failure, and Xiang would not tolerate it. People were more responsive to the threat of death than were machines.

Michelle’s voice trembled as it came over the speaker. “I am here, Doctor Xiang.”

Xiang made his voice stern, scolding. “What have you done?”

“I
— I did what I thought best. His glasses broke. I told him he had more at the store.”

She was stammering. Good. She should be worried. It made Xiang smile, but not for long. “I will ensure a new set of glasses are placed in the desk drawer at the store. Now, back to my question. What have you done?”

“I thought it was best that . . . ”

“You thought deviating from the plan was best? He was to drive to work. Now we must make other arrangements.”

“But it was not going according to plan, sir. There was nothing in the plan about the television exploding. It was his idea to walk. I thought I should not try to persuade him otherwise.”

Xiang hated excuses. He grew impatient. “That is what you are there for, to lead him according to the plan.”

“Forgive me, Doctor. I was surprised, frightened. I had not imagined the power. I thought it better if he left right away.”

Xiang slammed his palm onto the control panel. He raised his voice a notch. “You were afraid for yourself. You had no worry for the project, only for yourself.”

“I have failed.”

“You have!” Xiang snapped, then paused a long moment. He didn’t like to lose control. But he had measured his anger precisely to ensure Michelle understood his disappointment, that she understood her failure, that she understood the possible consequences. “You know I would have protected you at the first sign of danger. I maintain control here and would have turned the device off. It is not in the plan to sacrifice you. Nevertheless, you did not trust me.”

Michelle’s voice was argumentative and approaching shrill. “I have just checked the inside cameras and microphones — they are all burnt out, as well. Without the cameras and the microphones, how could you have known to protect me?”

Xiang glared at his mike. He said nothing. A moment of silence passed as he gripped the microphone in front of him. Enough banter with this underling. He wanted to tell Dailey to shoot her dead on the spot. But she might still be useful. Without her, this time could end up in miserable failure, as had many others. The project could easily proceed without Robert Weller
— still, it would be a letdown. He had extraordinary promise. They had gone so far with him, and optimism was high. Weller had exceeded all of their hopes in the lab. It would be a terrific waste for him not to be included in the upcoming operation, besides the adjustments that would have to be made and targets changed.

The interlude seemed to have given Michelle time to consider her mistake and the consequences of it. Her voice was calmer and more apologetic as she said hesitantly, “I-I am sorry, Dr. Xiang. I beg for another chance. I will prove valuable.”

Good. She had reminded herself of the severity of her mistake and the importance of her mission. Xiang surveyed the other monitors as three men in the same of dark-blue lab coats came in and immediately began working on the computer system around him.

“One last chance, then,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“No more. If you fail again, you will no longer be of value. You will become a liability I cannot afford.”

“Yes, sir. I will not disappoint you again.”

“No. You will not.”

Chapter 7

Five minutes earlier, Staff Sergeant Chambers had returned from the helicopters that were stationed at a small discrete clearing a few miles away. Immediately, Corporals Tippin and Dorsey proceeded with their new mission and slipped through the perimeter fence.

Chambers now joined Jax, who waited impatiently nearby. Twenty-five feet behind them at the DPVs, Lieutenant Carpenter continued to monitor the town’s radio and telephone conversations with the sophisticated listening device attached to the team’s satellite communication unit.

The waiting allowed Jax’s mind to slip into the past. He looked at the colorfully beaded bracelet on his wrist and toyed with its tiny arrowhead pendant as he considered what an odd team of friends they had been. Lionel Jackson, his mother Hawaiian and father black, had married a beautiful Cherokee Indian named Moonfeather. Jax’s parents made him what he was, and he was thankful for it. His African-American father had given him courage to overcome adversity, and his Polynesian-American mother contributed a free spirit and live-and-let-live attitude. Factoring in the influence of Moonfeather’s spirituality, Jax found comfort in knowing who and what he was.

Then there was Sunny O’Donnell, one hundred percent Irish Catholic, married to his best friend Dan McMaster, a California surfer boy and the best Marine to ever hit a beach. Sunny and Moonfeather had hit it off from the start, regardless of the night-and-day differences in appearance that their names implied. Both possessed a unique beauty that proved to be much more than skin-deep. Whenever he looked at Sunny now, Jackson was reminded of Moonfeather. The memory of his dead wife caused an empty ache to return to the middle of his chest, awakening familiar longing from the deepest pit of his heart.

Again, the suppressed doubts crept into Jax’s mind. If something should happen to Sunny, he would never forgive himself. Perhaps there had been another way he hadn’t considered in their haste. Perhaps the plot could have been stopped without a rescue mission or the terrible alternative of a nuclear strike that he was sure the boys in Washington were now considering. Perhaps there was a way they could have pulled this thing off without involving Sunny.

When three men wearing active-camo ghillies came trotting up on the other side of the fence, Jax refocused on the mission. Chambers ran out to meet them — the counter-sensor laser team. The patrol ducked under the chain-link barrier through the large gap. On hands and knees, they pushed their heavy equipment through. Once each man had made passage, Chambers kept guard at the fence while the men jogged into the tree-lined ravine where Jax waited. The first soldier, Senior Airman Winestat, held a long, black, rifle-like device. The counter-sensor laser weapon was about the size and shape of an M-16 assault rifle, except its barrel was tapered and much thicker. The next two soldiers carried burdensome black cases in each hand, and thick power cords hung from their shoulders. The group gathered around a topographical map spread out on the ground in front of Jax.

“Mission accomplished, sir,” Winestat said. “Took three of the cameras out. They were mounted on streetlights.” He smiled. “Fried ‘em like eggs.”

As the other two men chuckled, the major clenched his jaw. This was not the time for humor or cockiness. “You weren’t seen?”

Winestat’s smile left quickly at the stern tone of Jax’s voice. “No, sir. We did pass Tippin and Dorsey.”

The major nodded. “What’s the charge on the laser?”

One of the other men checked the small meters on each of the black cases. “Looks like about fifty percent, sir. Should have enough for two, maybe three more heavy pulses.”

“Good work, men. Winestat, take your team back to the helicopters. Load up six more covers for the infrared and motion detectors along this fence line and stand by. We may need an alternate penetration point, and I want to be ready.” Jax narrowed his eyes at the young soldier. “If Mrs. McMaster or Corporal Tippin push their panic buttons, we’re going all out. You get back here and follow us up the ravine. At that point, we’ll grab our people, rendezvous with the choppers and assault the facility.”

Winestat nodded. He and his two men carefully set their equipment next to a clump of nearby bushes, climbed into the closest DPV and strapped in. The small all-terrain vehicle’s engine came to life; however, only a low hum emitted from its five-foot-long, extra quiet muffler.

As the team drove away, Lieutenant Carpenter’s voice came over Jax’s headset. “Chatter on their com lines, sir.”

Jax hoped they were not found out. He looked to Carpenter and spoke low into the small, voice-activated microphone attached to his helmet. “What’s up?”

“Seems they’d had some other power failures even before we hit them. Don’t know what happened. They’re talking about
someone
having more power than they thought.”

The major raised an eyebrow. He wondered if they were talking about Dan, or perhaps this new guy he hoped to snatch and question
— Robert Weller. In the past, Jax hadn’t been one to believe in things he couldn’t touch or see, or what couldn’t be explained by scientific formula — even though he’d been married to one of the world’s most renowned remote viewers whose only equal was his best friend. That was their realm — he would rely on what he saw in the tangible, real world. But with the happenings of late, he was inclined to consider a more objective way of thinking about the paranormal. After all, the American government itself had toyed with paranormal projects for over three decades.

But if these Biotronics lunatics somehow had been successful with what they were trying to do, the potential was incredible and horrific
— making a human weapon without bounds.

*  *  *

I was soon able to put the agoraphobic episode behind me. But, with the premonition of impending doom, what was to be a pleasant stroll to my store had become a lively stride. Still, I could not deny the lovely morning, my senses seeming more open, more sensitive than I could ever remember. I took a deep breath. Except for a hint of the smoke the weatherman had reported, the air smelled fresh. The light haze on an otherwise bright morning was not uncommon. Numerous national parks and half-a-dozen national forests lay within a couple hundred miles of Gold Rush, and the dry summer had contributed to a larger than usual number of forest fires. The smoke traveled a long way, tending to gather in the valleys and around the mountains.

As I took in the lovely morning at the brisk pace, I thought of what it would be like for Will to be out of the hospital and able to use his legs again
— the ballgames, the fishing trips, the hiking and the ski trips we’d enjoy together.

A pleasant morning breeze flowed down from the Rocky Mountains, and the chirping birds added to my optimism. Somewhere in an American elm across the street, a cardinal sang a cheerful jingle. The tree’s fine branches swayed gently in the soft wind like waving hands.
A good omen
, I thought, even though I didn’t consider myself superstitious.

In the next block I strode by my childhood home, now owned by a couple who had recently moved to Gold Rush from Virginia. They’d fixed it up nicely, repainted and hung new insulated windows and doors. It still looked like home. I remembered passing the football in the front yard with my father, my mother coming to the screen door and calling us in for supper. The remembrance made me smile. My mother’s cancer and father’s bad heart had saw to it the memories of my parents did not extend past my twenty-second birthday. They had both died that year.

Two houses down, I would walk past Michelle and Mike’s childhood home. My wife and brother-in-law’s parent’s, Sam and Suzan Wu, still lived in the house but were away now on a Caribbean cruise to celebrate their fortieth anniversary.

With my eyes on the Wu house up ahead, I walked by a clump of late-blooming honeysuckle and mountain wild flowers, and the sweet scent drew my attention. Not one to normally be attracted to such things, still I couldn’t help but be pulled in by the colorful flowers enclosed with a white picket fence, next to the sidewalk.

An elderly black gentleman busied himself in the same shallow yard dabbing paint onto the porch railing. George Washington Banks had been my childhood neighbor when my family lived in the house next door. I’d known him all my life. A picture like a family photo came to mind. It was of this man, an elderly Oriental woman, their daughter and her husband — both of them in their early thirties — and a granddaughter around ten.

When Mr. Banks noticed me about to walk past, he laid his brush on top of the paint can and then took long, slow strides in my direction. His mustache and hair were so white that they seemed fluorescent against his coffee-brown skin. The Denver Broncos cap he wore protected his shiny, bald crown.

I waited by the short ornamental gate leading to his front door and smiled at the elderly man as he approached. He didn’t return the gesture, and for a reason I couldn’t explain, I became slightly unnerved.

“You look like a nice young man,” the old gentleman said, his eyes dark and clear. “Brown Suit. That’d make you Mr. Weller, wouldn’t it?”

“Good morning, Mr. Banks,” I said and held out my hand, remembering that his Alzheimer’s had allowed him fewer clear-minded days of late. I hadn’t a clue of what my brown coat and pants had to do with my name and figured the terrible disease that gnawed away at his memory had confused him. “Please call me Robert,” I said — he had called me Bobby since I could remember, but at least calling me Robert would be better than Mr. Weller.

We shook hands while Mr. Banks studied me.

“That’s right, Robert,” he said and nodded. He pulled his head back and studied me. “They’ll be wanting to get you some new spectacles, that’s for sure.”

“My glasses just suddenly broke this morning,” I said, but didn’t wish to explain more.

He grunted as if it didn’t matter, then said, “Name’s George Washington Banks. Corporal, United States Marine Corps, serial number five-five, six-one, two-four, seven-seven. Korea, nineteen hundred and fifty-two.”

The Alzheimer’s seemed to have a firm grip on his mind this morning. I couldn’t help but feel for the poor old guy. I raised my eyebrows trying to look very impressed. “Retired military?”

He chuckled. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“Painting, huh?” I asked, nodding toward his porch.

“Yeah,” he said as the faint ringing of a telephone came from inside the house. He turned toward his home. “Winter’s coming on. Want it to look nice before the weather sets in.” He glanced back at me. “Got that paint at your hardware store two weeks ago from the last guy.”

I smiled again. I liked Mr. Banks and always had, no matter now that he seemed to be rapidly growing senile. I’d purchased my store from old man Whitaker over twelve years ago. Except for an occasional high school student helping me part-time, I’d been the only one behind the register.

Banks continued, “This is my crib.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the house. “They give it to me. But it ain’t home. Closest I could get, though.” He looked down at his feet. “Whole hell of a lot better than laying naked in a muddy pit, I’ll tell ya that.” He shook his head and looked at me again. “Yeah, boy. Got a wife here, purdy daughter, grandbaby. I love ‘em all like they was life itself. That’s why I do it. That’s why I keep on.”

I nodded politely, again not understanding exactly what he meant. “Yes, Mr. Banks, I know them. Lovely family.”

“Robert . . . ,” the old man said with a sudden frown. He glanced around us as if he was making sure no one else could hear. His voice lowered. “. . . it ain’t too late for
you
. You got to get outa’ here. Go home where your family be — where they love ya.”

I stared at him in puzzlement as his daughter came out the front door. Jolene Berry was a pretty, slender woman with her father’s height and her mother’s lovely Asian eyes. She was two years behind me in school. She came to us with one of those
is-he-bothering-you?
sort of grins on her face.

“Good morning, Robert,” she said.

I nodded to her. “Jolene. Good to see you on such a beautiful morning.”

She glanced around at the lightly smoked sky. “Yes, it is a pretty morning. Not supposed to last long, though.”

I nodded. “We better enjoy it while it’s nice.”

She smiled putting her hand on her father’s shoulder, and he cowered slightly. “Daddy, better come in, now. Mama’s got breakfast ready. And little Rachael wants to see you before she goes to school.”

Without protest, the old man turned away and walked toward the front door of his house, but he paused midway. Not looking back, he said, “Maybe they’ll let me buy some more paint today. Maybe we can talk more, then.” He stepped up on the porch and opened the screen door.

Jolene gave me a half smile. “I’m sorry if Daddy bothered you.”

“He’s a wonderful man,” I said. “He’ll never be a bother to me.”

Jolene nodded.

“He did say something that made me a bit curious — something about ‘laying naked in a muddy pit.’”

Jolene frowned momentarily, then seemed to understand. “He was a POW during the Korean War. Still has nightmares. And that Alzheimer’s is getting worse every day. Don’t take him too seriously.” Jolene smiled. “Nice talking with you.” She turned away and followed her father inside the house as I watched.