Wormhole (13 page)

Since the end of 1970, when President Richard M. Nixon signed Public Law 91-550, formally returning the sacred Blue Lake and its surrounding lands to the native people, no other ceremony had held such historical relevance. It had taken sixty-four years of struggle to overturn the injustice that had taken this land away from the people. But it had only taken two years for the Taos Pueblo community to go completely off-grid.

Tall Bear had led the push for a similar effort on the Santa Clara Reservation. But the Taos Pueblo had given the movement a widely publicized momentum, and it was rapidly being adopted by tribes across the country. Now, as he stood gazing across the courtyard at the St. Jerome Church and its surrounding brown-and-white adobe walls, with three white crosses visible atop the church roof, Tall Bear felt a warm glow wash away his awareness of the biting breeze.

With a few final words in the Tiwa language, tribal governor Vidal Padilla pulled the rope that released the tarp covering a small adobe alcove on the outer wall, revealing a larger-than-life ceremonial mask sheltered within. Stepping to his right, Padilla flipped the switch, filling the enclosure with a soft eternal light.

Amid vigorous applause from the native onlookers, Vidal Padilla smiled, and Tall Bear smiled along with him. This trickle of electricity marked the first watts of many from the pueblo’s new Kwee Cold Fusion Reactor.

The Washington Mall was beautiful in the early morning light. At this hour of the morning, the sun hung low in the sky, and its reflection off the Tidal Basin backlit the cherry blossoms. As journalist Freddy Hagerman jogged among them, they glowed pale pink and white, scenting the morning air with just a hint of ancient Japan.

In the best physical condition of his life, Freddy filled his lungs with air, holding it for two full strides before slowly letting it out, enjoying the extra spring the artificial running leg gave him. The other leg was his weak link. It gave his stride a long-short-long-short wobble that was disconcerting to watch. But he’d gotten used to it. That fake leg was so good he had actually contemplated replacing the other one.

“Damn sure won’t be Benny Marucci’s people doing the cutting,” he muttered to himself as he ran.

Freddy had never been much of a physical fitness nut. Funny how getting chased cross-country, frozen, and shot, and having your leg jigsawed off by a couple of mob thugs could change your appreciation for life. Besides, now that he was famous, he needed to take better care of himself.

Gotta make this last.

Shit. He’d even had ex-wives calling him, saying how much they’d missed him, how it’d be nice to get together again. Not happening.

Freddy made a left turn, picked up the pace for the final stretch, and let himself coast to a stop at the base of the Washington Monument. Placing both hands behind his head, letting his lungs work like a bellows, Freddy began the cooldown walk back to his car.

The brand-new gunmetal-gray Lincoln MKX detected the key fob in his pocket, unlocking the driver’s door as he approached. He opened the door, bending across to grab a dry T-shirt from the passenger’s seat. Walking around the back of the vehicle, Freddy pressed the open-liftgate button on the fob, pulled off the wet T, balled it up, and tossed it inside the spacious hatchback compartment.

Then he shrugged on the dry one. It was navy blue and sported his favorite question in bold white letters.

“Do I look like I give a rat’s ass?”

Freddy turned around, propping himself up against the back as he removed the curved spring that was his running leg. Lovingly wiping it with a dry towel, Freddy exchanged it for his walkabout leg. One nice thing about making the kind of money the
NY Post
had offered him to take the DC political beat: He could afford really nice legs. Hell, he could afford really nice ass for that matter.

Pressing the close-liftgate button, he walked around and opened the car door. It wasn’t until he settled into the driver’s seat
that he saw it. A small yellow Post-it note stuck high up on the left side of the configurable instrument panel.

What the hell?

Some asshole had been in his car. But how? Freddy always locked it, and these new cars had more secure locks than older cars. Plus, whoever had broken in had relocked it. At least Freddy thought so. Thinking back on it, he was pretty sure he’d heard the door unlock as he approached.

He checked the glove box. His wallet was still there, no money or credit cards missing. Nothing else in the vehicle showed any sign of tampering. Just the yellow sticky note on the dash.

His hand reached forward, grabbed the yellow piece of paper by the corner, and pulled it free. Thirteen small, neatly printed words.

“Bigger than Henderson House. 6:15 p.m. Library of Congress foyer. I’ll find you.”

Worth every penny.

Freddy Hagerman wasn’t a big fan of government spending, but every once in a great while they got it right. Standing inside the entrance of the renovated Library of Congress, Freddy knew he was looking at one of those rare government projects. The Great Hall’s intricate arches surrounded a brass-inlaid wood floor, its grandeur breathtaking. Although he’d been in the Thomas Jefferson Building many times, it always affected him the same way.

Freddy glanced down at his watch. Six thirteen p.m. Time to get a move on, if he didn’t want to miss his appointment. And this was an appointment he didn’t want to miss.

Since fame had come calling, he couldn’t count the number of so-called “informants” who had tried to interest him in stories,
all guaranteed to be the biggest thing he’d ever done. And even though Freddy could smell bullshit a mile away, just listening to these people had wasted more time than he cared to think about. It was why he no longer talked to anybody who hadn’t been vetted by Julia, his administrative assistant. But this was different. He had to admit that breaking into his car had gotten his attention. It had started his reporter’s nose itching. Now that itch had spread to his legs, getting them moving toward the center-most of five empty desks on the Main Reading Room’s second circle.

His butt had barely settled into the chair at his reading station when a woman slid into the chair to his left, bending over a large hardcover book, her salt-and-pepper hair neatly tied back in an academic ponytail, framing a profile that bespoke driven intelligence. Before he could speak, she shushed him.

“Don’t talk to me,” she said, her voice a barely audible whisper. “Keep your eyes on your desk, and for God’s sake, try to look studious.”

Freddy turned back to his desk. He didn’t have a book, so his Franklin Day Planner was going to have to do, if he didn’t want to stand out like a lighthouse on a foggy Cape Cod night. He flipped it open, pretending to study his upcoming appointment schedule.

The woman paused so long that Freddy began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. Then she began again, her voice even softer than before.

“I guess it’s best to start with a brief introduction. My name is Dr. Denise Jennings. For the last twenty-five years I’ve worked at the National Security Agency. Based upon that alone, everything I tell you is completely off the record. Your continued silence means you agree to these terms. If you don’t, just stand up and walk away, right now.”

Once again she paused, giving him time to consider.

“At this point in my career, all I want to do is make it to retirement, preferably alive and not in prison. Unfortunately, I’ve stumbled upon some information that I want nothing to do with. I should have washed my hands of the whole damned thing.”

She inhaled deeply, holding her breath a full two seconds before exhaling.

“Let’s get this straight, whatever you decide to do with this information, after tonight I’m done. I picked you to hand this off to because you’ve already shown a remarkable penchant for digging up dangerous dirt.”

Freddy flipped to the next page in his calendar. He didn’t know if she was NSA or not, but he’d check it out later tonight. For now, he’d keep an open mind and listen.

“On Thanksgiving night, last year, just as your story about Henderson House was hitting the wire, an anomaly occurred within the ATLAS detector at the Large Hadron Collider near Geneva. What I’m about to tell you is the most closely guarded secret on the planet.”

There it was again, the pause, the deep breath. Freddy turned another page. Her voice grew so quiet Freddy found it difficult to understand her words.

“During a test at the LHC, what CERN scientists are calling the November Anomaly formed at the beam interaction point and continued to exist after the particle beam was turned off. The thing is currently contained within a redundant electromagnetic cage. The bad news is that it has a high probability of decaying into a black hole that can consume the Earth.”

Freddy choked, hiding his reaction behind a series of small coughs.

“That’s why the president pardoned Dr. Donald Stephenson and sent him to Switzerland. Apparently, he’s the only physicist
with a theory that correctly models the anomaly. They’re hoping he can come up with a way of stopping what’s happening.

“If that had been all there was to it, I wouldn’t be here telling you this. But, God help me, I stumbled upon something, something far worse.”

Dr. Jennings cleared her throat. “I’ve found evidence that Dr. Stephenson’s Rho Project may have caused the November Anomaly. Don’t look at me! I’m not going to prove it. I’m not going to give you a shred of evidence as to why I believe it. Do what you will with the information. I’ve already said far more than I should.”

She closed her book and pushed back her chair.

“One last thing. Ask yourself what Dr. Stephenson might be up to that would cause him to jeopardize the whole planet. I hope you discover something different, because the answers I come up with don’t lead to a good night’s sleep.”

Suddenly the air in the grand old library seemed to grow colder, a winter witch’s icy nails tracing their way down his spine.

Denise Jennings rose from her chair with one final whispered warning.

“Don’t try to contact me...ever!”

Then she was gone, her stern, slender figure strolling from the Main Reading Room as casually as if she’d just finished perusing
Cannery Row
.

One thing about not needing sleep, Mark had realized; you could get a hell of a lot done. It wasn’t that the three of them never slept. Sometimes, after a particularly stressful event or injury, sleep went a long way toward boosting their bodies’ spectacular recuperative mechanisms. But none of them slept often. And with their Jack-driven schedule, that was a good thing.

Both Jack and Janet insisted on cross-training, that every member of the team be good enough at each other’s tasks that if one was taken out, the team could continue to perform all its functions. That didn’t just apply to military training such as combat medic skills, but to their own special talents. They’d spent weeks learning to work computers like Jennifer, to analyze situational outcomes like Heather, and to develop their language skills like Mark. And while the others would never be as good as the team’s expert, that didn’t mean they weren’t very, very good.