“Who’s he?” she asked.
“Guard,” McGee said.
They went a short distance down the hall, turned the corner into another hall, and went to a set of metal doors, beside which lay another corpse, apparently another guard.
“Kill the flash,” McGee said.
She switched it off, and he leaned against the pushbar handle on the metal doors, and then they were outside.
It was a clear, cool night. Almost an entire day had passed while she had slid in and out of a drugged stupor.
Two cars waited in the school lot. Breathing hard now, McGee took her to a blue Chevrolet and put her down beside it. She leaned against the car, for her legs were too limp to support her even for the few seconds he took to open the door and help her inside.
They drove boldly out of Willawauk by way of Main Street, which eventually turned into a county road. They were not only headed away from Willawauk, but also away from the building in which she had been hospitalized. Neither of them spoke until the last lights of town were out of sight, until only wild, green countryside lay around them.
Huddled in the passenger’s seat, Susan looked over at McGee. His face was strange in the green luminescence of the dashboard gauges. Strange—but not threatening.
She still didn’t entirely trust him. She didn’t know what to believe.
“Tell me,” she said.
“It’s hard to know where to begin.”
“Anywhere, dammit. Just begin.”
“The Milestone Corporation,” he said.
“Back there on the hill.”
“No, no. That sign you saw on the hospital lawn when you escaped in the Pontiac—that was just put up to confuse you, to add to your disorientation.”
“Then the place is really a hospital.”
“A hospital—and other things. The real Milestone Corporation is in Newport Beach.”
“And I work for them?”
“Oh, yes. That’s all true. Although it wasn’t Phil Gomez you spoke with on the phone. That was someone in Willawauk, pretending to be Gomez.”
“What do I do at Milestone?”
“It’s a think tank, just like I told you. But it doesn’t work with private industry. Milestone’s a front for a super-secret U.S. military think tank that functions under the direct control of the Secretary of Defense and the President. Congress doesn’t even know it exists; its appropriations are obtained in a very roundabout fashion. At Milestone, two dozen of the finest scientific minds in the country have been brought together with perhaps the most sophisticated data library and computer system in the world. Every man and woman at Milestone is a brilliant specialist in his or her field, and every science is covered.”
“I’m one of the experts?” she asked, still not able to recall a thing about Milestone, still not even convinced that it actually existed.
“You’re one of two particle physicists they have there.”
“I can’t remember.”
“I know.”
As he drove through the dark, forested countryside, McGee told her everything he knew about Milestone—or at least, everything he
professed
to know.
Milestone (according to McGee) had one primary goal: to develop an ultimate weapon—a particle beam, some new kind of laser, a new biological weapon,
anything—
which would in one way or another render nuclear weaponry not just obsolete but useless. The U.S. government had for some time been convinced that the Soviet Union was seeking nuclear superiority with the express intention of launching a first-strike attack the moment that such a monstrous tactic was likely to result in a clean, painless Soviet victory. But it hadn’t been possible, until recently, to sell the American public on the idea that rearmament was a desperate necessity. Therefore, in the middle Seventies, the President and the Secretary of Defense could see no hope except a miracle; a miracle weapon that would cancel out the Soviet arsenal and free mankind from the specter of an atomic holocaust. While it wasn’t possible to launch a massive arms buildup costing hundreds of billions of dollars, it was possible to secretly establish a new research facility, better funded than any had ever been before, and hope that American ingenuity would pull the country’s ass out of the fire. In a sense, Milestone became America’s last best hope.
“But surely that kind of research was already being done,” Susan said. “Why was there a need to establish a new program?”
“Anti-war elements within the research community—primarily student lab assistants—were stealing information and leaking it to anyone who would listen and who would join the battle against the Pentagon war machine. In the mid-Seventies, the university-based weapons research establishment was crumbling. The President wanted that kind of research to go forward strictly in the shadows, so that any breakthroughs would remain the exclusive property of the United States.
“For years, the very existence of Milestone was unknown to Soviet Intelligence. When agents of the KGB finally learned of it, they were afraid that the U.S. might be nearing—or might already have achieved—its goal of rendering the Soviet war machine impotent. They knew they had to get their hands on one of Milestone’s scientists and engage in weeks of unrestrained interrogation.”
The Chevy began to accelerate too rapidly down a long, steep hill, and McGee tapped the brakes.
“The scientists at Milestone are encouraged to familiarize themselves with one another’s fields of interest, in order to search for areas of overlap and to benefit from cross-fertilization of ideas.
Every one
of the
twenty-four department chiefs
at Milestone knows a great deal about the workable ideas that have
come
out of the place
so
far. It means that many of the Pentagon’s future plans could be compromised by any one of the Milestone people.”
“So the Soviets decided to snatch me,” Susan said, gradually beginning to believe him, but still filled with doubts.
“Yeah. The KGB managed to find out who worked at Milestone, and it investigated everyone’s background. You seemed the most likely target, for you were having serious doubts about the morality of weapons research. You had started on that road immediately after earning your doctorate, when you were only twenty-six, before you were really old enough to have developed a sophisticated system of values. As you grew older, you also grew concerned about your work and its impact on future generations. Doubts surfaced. You expressed them to your fellow workers, and you even took a month-long leave of absence to consider your position, during which time you apparently reached no conclusions, because you returned to work, still doubting.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you might as well be talking about a total stranger,” Susan said, regarding him suspiciously. “Why can’t I remember any of this now that you’re telling me about it?”
“I’ll explain in a moment,” he said. “We’re about to be stopped.”
They reached the bottom of the long hill and turned a bend. There was a mile-long straightaway ahead, and there seemed to be a roadblock straddling the center of it.
“What’s that?” Susan asked anxiously.
“A security checkpoint.”
“Is this where you turn me over to them? Is this where the game gets nasty again?” she asked, still having trouble believing that he was on her side.
He glanced at her, frowning. “Give me a chance, okay? Just give me a chance. We’re leaving a highly restricted military zone, and we have to pass through security.” He fished two sets of papers out of a coat pocket while he drove with one hand. “Slouch down and pretend to be asleep.”
She did as he said, watching the brightly lighted checkpoint—two huts, a gate between them—through slitted eyes. Then she closed her eyes and let her mouth sag open as if she were sleeping deeply.
“Not a word out of you.”
“All right,” she said.
“No matter what happens—not a word.”
McGee slowed the car, stopped, and wound down the windows.
Susan heard booted feet approaching.
The guard spoke, and McGee answered. Not in English. Susan was so startled to hear them speaking in a foreign language that she almost opened her eyes. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask him why she must feign sleep when he possessed papers that would get them through the checkpoint. He hadn’t wanted her to be required to talk to the guards; one word of English, and they would both be finished.
The wait was interminable, but at last she heard the power-operated gate rolling out of the way. The car moved.
She opened her eyes but didn’t dare glance back. “Where are we?” she asked McGee.
“You didn’t recognize the language?”
“I’m afraid maybe I did.”
“Russian,” he said.
She was speechless. She shook her head: no, no.
“Thirty-some miles from the Black Sea,” he said. “That’s where we’re headed. To the sea.”
“Inside the Soviet Union?
That’s not possible. That’s just crazy!”
“It’s true.”
“No,” she said, huddling against the passenger door. “It can’t be true. This is another setup.”
“No,” he said. “Hear me out.”
She had no choice but to hear him out. She wasn’t going to throw herself from a speeding car. And even if she could get out of the car without killing herself, she wouldn’t be able to run. She wouldn’t even be able to walk very far. The effect of the drugs had begun to fade, and she felt strength returning to her legs again, but she was nevertheless exhausted, virtually helpless.
Besides, maybe McGee was telling the truth this time. She wouldn’t want to bet her life on it. But maybe.
He said, “KGB agents kidnapped you while you were on your vacation in Oregon.”
“There never was a car accident, then?”
“No. That was just part of the program we designed to support the Willawauk charade. In reality, you were snatched in Oregon and smuggled out of the U.S. on a diplomatic flight.”
She frowned. “Why can’t I remember that?”
“You were sedated throughout the trip to Moscow.”
“But I should at least remember being kidnapped,” she insisted.
“All memories of that event were carefully scrubbed from your mind with certain chemical and hypnotic techniques—”
“Brainwashing.”
“Yes. It was necessary to remove the memory of the kidnapping in order that the Willawauk program would seem like reality to you.”
She had dozens of questions about Willawauk and about this “program” to which he repeatedly referred, but she restrained herself and allowed him to tell it in his own way.
“In Moscow, you were first taken to a KGB detention facility, a truly nasty place at Lubyianka Prison. When you failed to respond to questioning and to the standard array of psychological trickery, they got rougher with you. They didn’t beat you or anything like that. No thumbscrews. But in some ways, it was worse than physical torture. They used a variety of unpleasant drugs on you, stuff with extremely dangerous side effects, very physically and mentally debilitating crap that should
never
be used on a human being for
any
reason. Of course, it was all just standard KGB procedure for extracting information from a stubborn source. But as soon as they employed those methods, as soon as they tried to
force
answers from you, a strange thing happened. You lost all conscious memory of your work at Milestone, every last scrap of it, and only a gaping hole was left where those memories had been.”
“There’s still a gaping hole,” she said.
“Yes. Even drugged, even perfectly docile, you were unable to tell the KGB anything. They worked on you for five days, five very intense days, before they finally discovered what had happened.”
McGee stopped talking and cut the car’s speed in half as they approached a small village of about a hundred houses. This tiny village didn’t resemble Willawauk in any way whatsoever. It was very obviously not an American place. Except for a few scattered electric lights, it appeared as if it belonged in another century. Some of the houses had stone roofs, others had board and thatched roofs. All the structures were squat, with very small windows, drab and somber places. It looked medieval.