The Second Ship Page 34

  Agent Bronson strode up as Mark finished.

  “Young man, you would not have been lucky if my team hadn’t arrived before the man abducted or murdered you.”

  Mark’s eyes locked on the “FBI” stenciled onto the windbreaker.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Special Agent Bronson questioned the three of them, taking notes on a small pad. By the time he was done asking questions and responding with information of his own, the story had been planted.

  The FBI had been tracking a terrorist cell headed up by a man known as Abdul Aziz. Yes, it was the same man who had reportedly killed the scientist and his family a few months back. One of Abdul Aziz’s men had stumbled onto the FBI team this morning and then fled into the surrounding neighborhood.

  The FBI team had tracked him to this house, where they discovered Mark and Janet had been taken hostage. Jack had arrived back home as the FBI special team moved into position, but had been forced to wait outside until the situation was resolved.

  Luckily, that resolution had come very quickly. A federal agent managed to come in through a second-floor window and incapacitate the terrorist with a Taser stun gun.

  Agent Bronson’s eyes hardened as he looked at Jack, Janet, and finally Mark.

  “We’ve taken the terrorist suspect into custody, and he has been moved to a more secure location for interrogation. But I want you to understand something. Through no fault of your own, you have become involved in a matter of national security and the ongoing war on terror. Suspects of this importance are not handled through normal channels. We need to extract any information he has before his accomplices discover he’s missing. Therefore, I must inform you that everything associated with this incident must receive the highest level of security classification. You are not to speak of this to anyone else. Not to the press. Not to the police. Not to your families. Not even to each other. Any violation of this order will subject the offender to federal espionage charges, the penalty for which is imprisonment for a term of not less than thirty years. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Wait just a minute,” said Jack. “We have the right to consult with an attorney about all of this.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, you don’t. You are not under any sort of arrest. If, however, you decide to consult with an attorney, or anyone else, about this matter, then you will very much need an attorney. The counter espionage laws tend to paint such breaches of protocol in broad strokes of black and white. Mostly black. Do you each understand me?”

  Agent Bronson shifted his gaze to Janet, who swallowed hard, but nodded. The agent turned his attention to Mark.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mark.

  “I understand,” said Jack, through clenched teeth.

  “Good. Then I won’t belabor the point.”

  Agent Bronson put his notebook into his coat pocket and then paused for a moment.

  “Folks, I’m sorry to have to treat you like this. After all, you are the victims here, and you have been through a significant trauma. But there are bigger things at stake.”

  Agent Bronson walked to the door, then paused and turned back toward them.

  “Remember what I said.”

  With that, he walked outside, got into his black Buick, and drove away.

  Jack stood beside Mark and Janet, watching as the car disappeared around the bend. Turning to look at Mark, Jack asked, “Can I give you a ride home?”

  Although Mark looked physically drained, he shook his head. “No, but thanks. It would just make my folks wonder why I didn’t come back home on my own.” Mark glanced at his watch, his eyes widening as he saw the time. “Crap. Oh, sorry. I have to get going. I’m already late to the family barbeque.”

  Mark’s lips moved as if searching for something else to say. He shrugged instead, heading out the door and up the driveway.

  Jack watched him go. It seemed odd that Mark hadn’t ridden his bike to the house, but it was probably nothing.

  “Do you think Bronson sold the story?” Janet asked, sliding her hand under Jack’s arm.

  “I think so.”

  “Good, then let me lead you inside and you can fill me in on what really happened.”

  With one more glance after Mark, Jack turned and followed Janet back into the house, unconsciously rubbing his left elbow as he went.

  85

  As Jennifer spun the tires of her bike in her haste to get out of her driveway, her father’s van pulled in, cutting her off. He pulled to a stop beside her and rolled down the window. Gil McFarland waved at her from the passenger seat.

  “Hey, sweetheart. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “Dad, I’m going to check on Heather. She was supposed to be back from Raul’s house by now, so I got worried about her.”

  “Raul?”

  Mr. McFarland interrupted. “You remember Ernesto Rodriguez’s boy.”

  “Oh, yeah, from the hospital.” Her dad turned back to her. “Give us a second to unload the grill from the van and we’ll all ride over to get her.”

  “Not necessary, Dad. I’ll enjoy the ride. Heather and I’ll be back before you have dinner ready.”

  Her father grinned. “Just offering. Have a fun ride, but don’t be late.”

  When she slid to a stop in the Rodriguez driveway, Jennifer noticed that a number of cars had parked along the side of the street. Of course. Heather had mentioned that Raul’s Bible study group met today.

  Jennifer’s gaze drifted toward the porch where Heather’s bike leaned on its kickstand near the front door. Dismounting, she moved up the front steps, rang the bell, and waited. Hearing no response, she rang it a second time, before moving to the window and peering inside. Where the heck was Heather?

  Jennifer briefly entertained the notion that Heather had joined in on the Bible study in Raul’s guesthouse. No way.

  So where the hell was she?

  Jennifer tried the front door, the knob twisting easily in her hand. Poking her head through the opening, she called out. “Hello. Anyone home?”

  No answer. Jennifer stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and listened—really listened, letting her neural augmentations process the auditory data at full capacity. Five separate clocks ticked at different points in the house. She could hear the buzz of the refrigerator motor, the hum of a computer’s CPU cooling fan. But no sounds to indicate anyone else was in the house.

  What was she thinking? If anyone was in the house, they would have answered. Jennifer stepped back out onto the porch, paused momentarily to stare at Heather’s bike, then made her way around the side of the house toward the small cottage where Raul was holding his Bible study. Much as she didn’t want to, it looked like she was just going to have to go knock on that door and ask if anyone had seen Heather.

  But something about that idea felt wrong. The feeling increased as she approached the cottage. It wasn’t a cottage—at least, not anymore. It had been turned into a chapel, complete with stained-glass windows and a Jesus cross on the front door. Jennifer knew her best friend like she knew herself. Heather wouldn’t have gone in there and interrupted the service. She would have waited until Raul finished.

  Bypassing the cottage, Jennifer’s feet carried her around the back of the main house. The Rodriguez backyard was lovely, patio furniture and a barbeque grill neatly arranged beneath the overhanging branches of a large shade tree. Lots and lots of comfortable spots to sit and wait, but no Heather.

  Could Heather have gone for a walk in the woods to kill some time? A shiver started in her hands and worked its way up her arms, all the way to the top of her head. Something was wrong here. Feeling a slow panic rise up in her chest, Jennifer once again weighed the idea of interrupting the Bible study. But if she was wrong, Heather would be furious with her.

  Suddenly a new idea blossomed in her brain. The night that the Rag Man had kidnapped Heather, both she and Mark had heard her in their minds. Even before that, there had been a couple of oddly similar instances, one where they had shar
ed the same dream and another where Heather had heard Jennifer’s thoughts at the breakfast table. Maybe if she sat down and concentrated, she could consciously make a connection. If not, maybe she could at least get something that would guide her to her friend.

  As insane as the thought seemed, only two choices presented themselves: try the meditation, or knock on the door to the chapel. What the hell? If this didn’t work, she could always interrupt Raul’s group.

  The pine needles formed a nice comfortable place right up against the trunk of the large tree, and Jennifer settled into a meditative posture. She pulled to the front of her mind the perfect memory of the connection she had felt on the night of the Rag Man abduction. All around Jennifer, the Rodriguez yard, and even the daylight, faded away.

  And into the darkness, her mind whispered, Heather? Please answer. I need you.

  86

  In her dream, Heather walked along a lofty ledge, barely wide enough for her feet to maintain their purchase. Heavy clouds filled the sky overhead, offering so little light that she could barely see the path. To the left of the trail, the world dropped away into darkness. Ahead of her, the trail continued to narrow as it rounded the cliff face.

  She turned so that her back pressed against the hard rock surface that rose up to meet the sky. Taking a deep breath to slow her racing heart, Heather had just decided to turn back when the tip of a sharp spear jabbed her left arm, prodding her forward once again. Looking along the back trail, she could dimly make out a cloaked figure motioning for her to keep moving. Not wanting to be poked again, Heather turned away from him, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.

  Who was the man? Where was he taking her?

  As if in answer to her question, a soft voice whispered from the darkness. Heather paused to listen. There it was again, that familiar voice.

  “Heather? Please answer. I need you.”

  Jennifer. But where was she? As Heather struggled to see her friend, the sharp point jabbed her arm again.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled, swinging her arm out to knock the spear away.

  Heather’s eyes fluttered as a blindingly bright light shown in her face. Her arm’s felt heavy, but she struck out again, this time connecting with the man’s torso.

  A surprised cry accompanied a crash of metal and breaking glass. Suddenly memory came flooding back. She was on the metal bed in Dr. Rodriguez’s lab. A small trickle of blood leaked from her left arm where a needle had been torn out by the falling IV rack. Heather sat up, although a wave of dizziness threatened to leach away her consciousness.

  Six feet away, Dr. Rodriguez regained his feet, his white lab coat splattered with a gray fluid, his face a mask of surprise. “How the hell are you awake already?”

  Without waiting for a response, the man lunged toward her. But this time, the anger that bubbled up inside Heather produced an adrenaline surge that coursed through her veins, clearing away the grogginess that had chained her limbs. As the scientist’s hand closed on her left ankle, she lashed out with her other foot. A sizzle like an electric shock cascaded through her neurally enhanced musculature, the force of the kick launching the scientist off the floor, sending him spinning into the steel cabinets with another loud crash.

  Dr. Rodriguez’s body went limp, sliding down onto the floor like a rag doll. Heather slid off the bed, once again assaulted by a wave of dizziness that forced her to clutch onto the railing. Behind her, she heard the sound of the trapdoor being raised.

  “Shit,” she breathed, turning toward this new threat.

  “Heather?” Jennifer’s voice called out. “Are you down there?”

  A massive wave of relief flooded her body. “I’m here!”

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs preceded Jennifer’s entrance into the room, but not by much. Her friend’s headlong flight came to a sliding stop as her eyes went wide with surprise.

  “Jesus! What happened here?”

  Heather rushed forward, throwing her arms around Jennifer’s body in a hug that was returned in full measure. As she released her bear hug, the abridged version of the story bubbled from Heather’s lips in a rush of words that left her breathless.

  “Did he inject you with that goo in the IV?”

  Heather shook her head. “I woke up before he turned it on. See? There’s no fluid in the IV tube.”

  “Is he dead?” Jennifer asked, pointing at the motionless form of Dr. Rodriguez.

  Heather’s chest constricted. “I don’t know. I guess we should check.”

  Jennifer inhaled deeply, then strode forward to kneel down beside the scientist, her fingers sliding to his neck.

  “Careful,” Heather warned. “He might be faking.”

  “For his sake, he better not be. I’d love to kick the shit out of him myself.”

  “Well?”

  Jennifer rose to her feet again. “He’s just out cold.”

  Looking around at the mess in the room, Jennifer turned toward Heather. “So what do we do now?”

  Heather let the possible courses of action roll through her mind, each accompanied by its success probability. After several seconds, she turned to the computer desk, retrieving her PDA from where Dr. Rodriguez had laid it. A quick examination showed that he had not yet deleted the files from its memory stick. The final probability numbers clicked into place in her head.

  “Slide on a pair of these latex gloves and help me wipe down every place we touched. I can play it back in my head so we won’t miss anything.”

  Moving quickly, Heather and Jennifer rapidly removed all traces of their presence, including the IV needle that had been inserted in her arm. Then, with one last look around, Heather picked up the telephone that sat beside Dr. Rodriguez’s computer and dialed 9-1-1. Covering the receiver with a wadded rag and gravelling her voice, she spoke only two words: “Police emergency.”

  Leaving the receiver off the hook, Heather turned and led Jennifer from the room and up the stairs.

  “Now what?” asked Jennifer as they climbed on their bikes and pedaled away.

  “The police will find enough evidence to stop the Rho Project.”

  “What if they don’t? What if Stephenson manages to cover it up? Dr. Rodriguez knows you copied the data.”

  “Doesn’t matter. As soon as we get back to the house, we’ll uplink the data on my memory stick to the NSA. Too many people will know about this to cover the thing up.”

  As they pedaled toward home, the sound of distant sirens echoed through the streets.

  87

  The darkness within Dr. Donald Stephenson’s windowless office pressed in upon the light of the small desk lamp. The light was so scant, it was almost like an old gas street lamp, doused by fog in London, circa 1880. The deep-grained textures of the hardwood furniture that filled the chamber added to the illusion, so that the room’s mood took on the nature of the man who had created it.

  But the room felt radiant compared to the look on Dr. Stephenson’s face as he listened to the frantic voice at the other end of the phone.

  Dr. Stephenson hung up and then dialed a single digit. He only had to wait for one ring. When Dr. Stephenson finally spoke, his voice carried an edge as sharp as cracking ice.

  “This is Dr. Stephenson. We have a potential national security breach involving a Rho Laboratory employee. I want Dr. Ernesto Rodriguez’s house and property secured and sealed off and the good doctor placed under arrest. Get the military response team moving right now. If the civilian authorities are already on site, I want them removed. Any items they may have picked up as evidence must be confiscated. I will be arriving on site within the hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dr. Stephenson hung up, then, picking up his pen, he returned his attention to the differential equations that filled page after page of his notebooks, the solution to which had been so rudely interrupted.

  He was close now. So close to the solution that he could taste it. And then the real work could begin.r />
  88

  Heather sat on her back porch, looking out across the canyons as the sunset painted the sky orange. Sensing her mood, her parents had wisely left her to her own reflections.

  Looking back on the last week’s events, it was no wonder she felt like a wrung-out sponge. The press replayed the story until it was impossible to get away from it. The police had arrived at the Rodriguez house to find Dr. Rodriguez dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, a suicide note lying near his body.

  Unfortunately, the military had taken control of the site shortly after the police had secured the area, confiscating all materials in the name of national security. Only the suicide note had been released to the public, a rambling apology for the unauthorized nanite testing that Dr. Rodriguez had conducted in his private laboratory. Luckily, the note contained no mention of Heather.

  If Heather and Jennifer hadn’t successfully uplinked the data from Dr. Rodriguez’s lab to the NSA site, the military cover-up would have been complete.

  Mark was freed of tabloid attention, which now focused squarely upon the secret basement laboratory beneath the Rodriguez house. One lucky thing had happened. In all the commotion, Jack and Janet had failed to discover the QT microchip Mark had placed in Janet’s laptop.

  And the quantum twin of that device had yielded a wealth of encrypted information since then. While the encryption of the data was first-rate, Heather’s unique ability with numbers was better. The decryption of secure message traffic between that computer, the NSA, and some other remote systems had finally given Mark, Jennifer, and Heather an understanding of at least a part of what the NSA knew about the situation.

  It had been in one of these communications that Heather had discovered the link between Raul, the water bottle, and Mark’s grogginess at the State Championship game. More importantly, they had learned that the killer who had attacked Janet and then Mark was a man named Priest Williams, and that Jack had killed him.