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  Shift.

  Gasping for breath, Heather struggled to reorient herself. She was lying on a couch. As she looked up, she found herself staring directly into the intense blue eyes of Dr. Gertrude Sigmund.

  59

  "Schizophrenia!" Gil McFarland sputtered.

  "Not our Heather." Anna McFarland shook her head angrily.

  "I'm sorry," Dr. Sigmund said. "But your daughter is suffering from an emerging psychosis, probably triggered by the recent traumatic events to which she has been subjected."

  For once Gil McFarland was too stunned to respond.

  "But you said Schizophrenia," Anna continued. "Heather absolutely does not have a split personality."

  Dr. Sigmund put a hand on her arm. "That is a common misconception. Schizophrenia does not imply a split personality. Your daughter is displaying some of the classic symptoms. She is suffering from delusions, hallucinations, and periodic loss of touch with reality. She is both seeing and hearing things that only exist in her head."

  "So what does that mean? You said it was caused by her experiences, like post-traumatic stress, right?" Anna asked.

  "No. I said that her psychosis was probably triggered by the traumatic events. I'm afraid that this condition is a disease of the mind, a disorder that can be treated but for which there are no cures."

  Anna gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

  Gil's jaw clenched. "I can't accept that. I want a second opinion."

  Dr. Sigmund nodded. "I understand. But you should know that I have already consulted with two of the top psychiatrists in the country, Dr. Edwards and Dr. Mellon from the Henderson House Hospital in California. After reviewing the case file, they are both in agreement with my diagnosis. Nevertheless, I will fully support your desire to get another opinion from a doctor of your choice."

  Anna McFarland's knees buckled, and she would have fallen if not for her husband’s strong hands catching her and guiding her into the chair.

  Sliding into a chair beside her, Dr. Sigmund leaned forward. "I know this is a shock, but I think it is very important that you hear it. Your daughter needs treatment before her condition worsens, which it certainly will. I have to warn you that right now is the time to act, before she becomes a threat to herself and to others. Her psychotic episodes are increasing in frequency and intensity."

  "What kind of treatment do you think she needs?" Gil McFarland asked. "Counseling? Group therapy?"

  Dr. Sigmund paused, a sympathetic look on her face. "I'm afraid that in a case such as Heather's, those methods will not suffice, although they may be helpful to you in learning to deal with her condition. She needs to begin a regimen of antipsychotic medication. Normally I would recommend olanzapine, but for Heather I would like to start with risperidone."

  When neither Gil nor Anna McFarland spoke, Dr. Sigmund continued.

  "It is very important that you listen to me carefully. Schizophrenia is a permanent condition, one that will take a commitment from you both to ensure that your daughter takes her medication and attends all clinical appointments. It is typical for patients to refuse to believe that they are ill. Heather will most likely be in denial.

  "Your role is the hardest. It is your responsibility to force her to do what she will resist, even though she may rebel against you. But, for her sake, you two must be strong. You should know that, based upon the severity of the symptoms I have observed, if Heather does not rigorously adhere to her treatment, long-term internment in a psychiatric facility is likely."

  Once again, Anna McFarland gasped, this time breaking down into sobs as she buried her face into her husband's shoulder.

  Gil McFarland held her tightly then helped her to stand. "Dr. Sigmund. Thank you for your frank assessment. Anna and I will still want to obtain a second opinion. But be assured that if that assessment matches yours, we will do whatever is required to ensure Heather gets the best treatment available."

  As they left the psychiatrist's office and passed through the waiting area beyond, Gil McFarland supported his sobbing wife. Glancing down at the love of his life, he wanted to scream. How had it come to this? He was supposed to protect his little wife and family. Now the most joyous creature he had ever known looked as if all the joy had been leached from her world. And as badly as he wanted to believe a second opinion would change things, Gil felt as if the spectral fingers of the banshee had just stroked the back of his neck.

  Guiding Anna across the asphalt parking lot, Gil McFarland prayed as never before.

  "Dear Lord, please save my little girl."

  60

  If there was anything stupider and more self-serving on this planet than politicians, Dr. Donald Stephenson couldn’t imagine what it might be. To be pulled away from an important trip to California for an urgent meeting with the president of the United States was the height of folly. He had real work to do. Certainly, the president’s national science advisor could have taken care of the chitchat without bothering him.

  He shoved his bag onto the platform that funneled carry-on luggage toward the x-ray screener, removing his laptop, shoes, belt, and watch as he followed the line forward.

  “Boarding pass in hand, please.”

  Dr. Stephenson scowled at the NTSA nobody, who awaited him on the other side of the LAX metal detector, then reached into his pocket to pull out the first-class boarding pass, holding it up to within an inch of the man’s eyes as he stepped through, gratified with the look of annoyance on the fellow’s face.

  As Dr. Stephenson stepped away to retrieve his articles that had just passed through the x-ray screener, his cell phone rang. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out, glancing down at the caller-ID. Of course.

  “Excuse me, sir.” The NTSA man was back in his face. “I’m sorry. All cell phones must go through x-ray screening. I’ll have to take that back through.”

  Dr. Stephenson shrugged, handing him the ringing cell phone.

  The NTSA man looked at the cell phone and then at the metal detector, a puzzled look on his face. Then he stepped back through the detector, which beeped loudly as he did.

  As he placed the phone in a small round tub, the phone rang again.

  “Why don’t you answer that for me,” Dr. Stephenson said. “Oh, and while you’re at it, tell the president why you feel it necessary to keep him waiting.

  Glancing down at the caller-ID, the NTSA man saw just five capital letters, POTUS. The acronym, so common among the branches of government, jumped out at him: President of the United States.

  When he glanced up again, his eyes caught the cold eyes of Dr. Stephenson, eyes that perfectly matched the cold grin that had spread across the scientist’s narrow face.

  61

  The tension in the cabinet room had grown so thick that it threatened to acquire a gravity all its own, pulling the entire West Wing of the White House over the gathering event horizon. Vice President Gordon shifted his weight slightly so that his chin rested in the crook of his palm, his elbow supported by the polished mahogany table. His eyes drifted from President Harris to the sharp, expressionless visage of Dr. Donald Stephenson and then back to the president once more.

  President Harris studied the image projected onto the view screen on the far wall, his frown deepening. “So, am I to understand that it is the consensus of the Joint Chiefs that the special commission’s recommendation should be adopted?”

  General Brad Valentine, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, nodded slowly, his blue eyes locked unflinchingly with the president’s. “Yes, sir.”

  Having just polled the members of his cabinet, the president was now faced with a dilemma. The special commission had been appointed directly by President Harris to fully assess all the national security and public safety issues associated with the impending worldwide release of the Rho Project’s nanite solution. Although far from unanimous, the consensus recommendation was that the release should be delayed by at least two years, a time period that would allow independent scientific study of pot
ential unknown side effects of the treatment, as well as time to formulate a comprehensive national policy.

  So far, the lone dissenting voice in the cabinet had been Conrad Huntington, the secretary of state, who argued that pulling back on the US commitment at this point would incite outrage throughout the United Nations, the ramifications of which could be disastrous for US foreign policy.

  President Harris looked down the table at Dr. Stephenson. “Don. The ball’s in your court. I have to tell you that, based on the power of this report, I’m leaning toward delaying the release, despite the political capital that this is going to cost me.”

  Dr. Stephenson paused, leaning even further back in his chair. “Mr. President, as anxious as I am to see an end to the horrible diseases that are the scourge of our planet, to see an end to the suffering of the poorest and most helpless populations of our world, I am forced to support the delay. Although all data points to tremendously positive results from the release, with an advance this radical, the potential risks are too great to be glossed over.”

  The look on President Harris’ face matched the surprised intake of breath around the table. The president shook his head. “I must tell you, Dr. Stephenson, I’m stunned by what you’ve just said. Although my mind was pretty well made up already, this clinches the decision.”

  Turning to his chief of staff, President Harris stood. “Andy, see me in my office right after this. And bring Michelle with you when you come. If there’s ever a time for her to earn that press secretary salary, this is it.”

  Rising from his seat, Vice President Gordon watched Dr. Stephenson walk from the room with the others, looking like he’d just sat in on nothing more interesting than a high school physics lecture.

  Interesting. Very, very interesting.

  62

  Mark glanced across the garage workshop at Heather, a lump rising in his throat. God she was amazing. All week she had been forced to endure visits to three different psychiatrists, each of which seemed to be intent upon drugging her out of her beautiful mind. Yet, despite the inner terror she must be feeling, she had managed to focus on the theoretical solution that would grant them new and improved subspace transmission capabilities.

  And those efforts had been successful. Jennifer only had to finish the modifications to the controller, which would allow Jack limited remote access to the equipment, and they would be ready for a trial run.

  "Bingo!" Jennifer's exclamation brought Mark's head around. "It's online."

  Sure enough, the panel of multicolored LED lights twinkled in a manner that indicated the subspace transmitter was up and operational.

  Jennifer looked at Mark. "Do you have the target coordinates?"

  "Right here." he handed a piece of paper across the workbench.

  Heather glanced at the text printed on the sheet. "The NSA again?"

  "Why not? It's as good a test target as any." Mark grinned at her.

  Before Heather had a chance to respond, Jennifer began typing the coordinates into the subspace transmitter control program. Watching his twin's fingers fly across the keyboard, Mark thought he detected just a hint of eagerness in her actions. Then again, why wouldn't she be eager? The controller was her design and represented a major advance from the crude controls for the original subspace transmitter.

  As he watched the glittering LED lights on the display panel, Mark began to feel some of his sister's excitement. The thing was beautiful.

  "I'm in," Jennifer breathed.

  "Can you identify the network?" Heather asked, leaning in for a better view.

  "Give me a sec."

  The clicks of the keys reminded Mark of a snare drummer, so rapid that they sounded like the buzz of a drum roll.

  "Looks like it's just an administrative subnet, but it is on the SIPRNet."

  Mark nodded. "Good. Send the test message. Once we confirm that it’s been inserted, we can break the link. Then we’ll contact Jack."

  Jennifer grinned. "It's done."

  Mark leaned in to see what his sister had just transmitted. There on the computer screen, four short words clung to the white background.

  "Hello, boys. I'm back."

  63

  "What have you got?" Jack asked, leaning over Janet's shoulder as she worked on the laptop.

  "It looks like our source has decided to answer your query."

  "What did he say?"

  "I'll read it."

  "Jack. Even if I wanted to provide you the names of the people in charge of the raid on your team, I couldn't. As you probably suspect, I am not a spy and wouldn't even know how to search for that information. However, after careful consideration, I have decided to provide you with an interface to a very unique system.

  "I have transmitted a file to your laptop that contains instructions for remotely logging into my network controller. Through it, you will be able to access computer systems at any latitude and longitude you provide. And while that access will be detectable as an intrusion, your connection will be completely untraceable.

  "Although I will not be able to leave this connection up at all times, you will see a small green indicator on your screen when it is available to you. Should you decide to take advantage of this offer, I believe you will find it most useful."

  Janet lifted her eyes from the screen. "That's the whole message."

  Jack slid into the chair beside her. "Interesting."

  "If this person isn't lying."

  "That should be easy to test," Jack replied.

  "You know he will probably be monitoring whatever we do across this link."

  "So long as the guy doesn't get in the way of what I want to accomplish, that won't be a problem. Pull up that instruction file," Jack said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. "Looks like my deadly little computer hacker is about to get back in the business."

  Janet's eyes followed Jack's lithe form as he arose and walked out the hogan's doorway. Despite her growing uneasiness, she trusted Jack's instincts.

  Turning her attention back to the laptop, Janet opened the instruction file.

  64

  Freddy Hagerman hunched forward, bathed in the dim red glow that struggled to keep the darkness at bay. A line of damp photographs dangled from clips along the clothesline, which stretched above the bathtub in the motel bathroom. As he studied a drying photograph in the makeshift darkroom, Freddy rubbed his chin.

  His insistent need to cling to the old ways of doing things sometimes paid dividends. One thing you missed in digital photography was the way a photograph magically appeared from the foggy background as the development process continued. And for someone as good at that process as Freddy, there were moments as the picture emerged where otherwise hidden details stood out. One of those moments now stared him in the face.

  Freddy had been photographing the Henderson House compound for the last six days, from as many different vantage points as possible. He hadn't known exactly what he was looking for, but before he set foot on the property he would. One thing he did know; the more he watched the place, the more he felt that he was peering at one of those old horror movies, the ones shot in black and white.

  That was stupid, of course, probably a side effect of the utterly bizarre architecture and the white uniformed attendants that roamed the grounds. Still, Freddy was having a hard time shaking the irrational fear that had been growing in his mind.

  But at the moment, his attention had been seized by a photograph of a helicopter landing on the back side of the estate. Freddy had been lucky to get it. The spot was mostly blocked from view by the buildings that surrounded it. Freddy had been in a spot on a hill opposite the gatehouse that yielded a very narrow line of sight to the helipad, when he had seen the helicopter approaching.

  He had begun snapping pictures, following the chopper with his lens as it settled to the ground. All but one of those pictures had turned out to be useless. And Freddy might have missed the point of interest in this one if he had not been watching as the picture emerged o
n the photographic paper as it swam beneath the development solution. For a few seconds, a single face had clarified ahead of the background against which it might otherwise have been concealed.

  Just visible in the image as it passed around the far side of the chopper, a familiar face angled toward him. Freddy leaned in for a closer look, shaking his head in astonishment.

  Now what the hell was Dr. Donald Stephenson doing at Henderson House?

  65

  A low hum throbbed through the interior of the Rho Ship, completely contained within the shielding mechanisms so that it, like the power surge that produced it, remained well beyond the detection capabilities of the feeble human instruments that clung to the ship's outer skin. But Raul could feel it.

  His connection with the ship had improved drastically since he had moved the umbilical cable from the base of his spine. The operation had taken a good deal of time, the complications having nothing to do with Dr. Stephenson's crude attachments. What had made things difficult was the need to maintain a connection to the ship's neural net while he performed the operation on the base of his own skull.

  Raul couldn't just sever the old connections and move the cables up to be reconnected. That would have severed his link, leaving him without the knowledge to perform the brain operation that would reconnect him. So he had left the old connections in place while he began a separate operation at the base of his skull.

  For several hours he had worked to implant a much more sophisticated device, one that extended a half inch out the back of his brain pan, just enough to provide an easy place to re-hook the umbilical after he removed it. This outer hookup had to be simple. Once he disconnected the umbilical from his leg stumps, he would be on his own, cut off from the augmentation of the massive neural network that enhanced his mind. The task of reconnecting had to be accomplished while he remained in that reduced state.