MIND FIELDS (35 page)

Chapter twenty six

Jack Tarrington had the most boring job in Baltimore, and he loved it.  For the past year and a half, Jack had worked the early morning weekend shift as a security guard at the main gate for BNI.  The guardhouse was small, but comfortable.  It was a great place to kick back and read a book.  He could usually count on one hand the number of cars that passed through the gait on a Sunday morning, with a couple of fingers left over, and the only one that ever rolled by on a regular basis was a beautiful emerald green Jaguar sportster driven by Dr. Paul Hingston.  Jack loved that car; he even talked the doc into letting him take it for a spin around the lot once.  Dr. Hingston was about the only BNI employee Jack knew other than his counterpart Harry Finch, the early morning weekend guard in the main building of BNI’s research facility.

___

It was an overcast Sunday morning, a typical early fall day for the Baltimore-Washington area.  The windshield wipers beat rhythmically against Paul’s Jag, fending off the light drizzle of a cool October morning.  He had driven to work a hundred different ways over the years.  The monotony of the drive from Baltimore to suburban Columbia was abated by the challenge of finding new routes, most of which were far more picturesque than the convenient highway that attracted rush hour drivers like flies to a lantern.

The countryside of Howard County was beautiful, even on a rainy day.  A layer of morning fog hung over the valleys that rolled between the gentle slopes of the Maryland hillsides, still rich with the greenery that mother nature would soon steal away with her harsh winter frosts.  Paul made the turn into the BNI complex, almost disappointed that his commute was at an end. Jack Harrington waved to him as the Jag rolled by.  Paul parked in the garage next to the employee entrance and swiped his ID card through the security lock.  The door clicked open and he entered.

As expected, the lab was empty.  He’d been here by himself a hundred Sundays before, but with his senses heightened by an almost palpable tension, things looked a little different this time.  He could swear he was being watched.  Paul rubbed his palms against the sides of his pants legs, trying to keep them dry.  Sean’s office was locked, but Paul’s card opened all the locks in the lab.  He entered and pulled the desk chair out from under Sean’s workstation.  The worn wheel bearings struggled against him, emitting a loud squeal that seemed to shoot right up his spine.  He glanced around the room, even though he knew there was no one there to hear it.  Slowly, he sat down and cautiously swiveled the chair back toward the monitor, bracing for another squeal, one that never came.    

Paul breathed a deep sigh of relief.  “Well, here goes.”

He booted up the computer and inserted a microdisc into the optical recording drive.  Much to his relief, Sean had not changed any of the encryption codes.  Paul’s fingers moved deftly across the keys; he enjoyed the feel of using a keyboard for data entry, and his years of practice had made him much more adept at it than most of his generation.  He worked his way through the files until he came to the Phase Three Nanobot Program.  Like before, he was not able to penetrate the individual files, but he was able to download the encrypted files to his disc.  Even if the authorities were never able to crack the codes to get all of the information of the Phase Three Program, there would be plenty of evidence to tie Sean Lightbourne and BNI to the murders.

___

Personnel at the BABS-5 facility had gotten over the death of Joey Carson.   Tommy Philkern had returned with his friend’s body after the shooting.  No one who knew the two men could have imagined that Tommy could have brought himself to shoot Joey under any circumstances, and had no reason to doubt his story that someone had apparently sneaked into their packs while they were out fishing and taken Tommy’s gun.  The weapon was found in a wooded area not too far from where he was shot, with the fingerprints wiped clean.

An exhaustive search yielded no other clues as to the identity or whereabouts of the shooter, and the investigation was suspended.  Tommy had a hard time adjusting to the loss of his best friend, but he was a BABS soldier; he would deal with it.

Trace McKnight was pleased with the work that was progressing at BABS-5.  Not only was the work here advancing his research far faster than he would have been able to accomplish at BNI, but he was also creating a new generation of field soldier, one that would allow a field officer to truly orchestrate the actions of his troops.

Trace was up early, still on east coast time, and looked out over the military complex, faintly lit by the light of the full moon. 

“Computer, log onto the Net and link with BNI.net.”  He decided to catch up on his e-mail while he waited for the sun to rise.

“Accessing...  Link established.”

He typed in his ID and password to access the BNI system. 

“Accessing...  Unable to establish connection.  User Sean Lightbourne is currently logged on.”

“That’s not possible,” Trace said to the computer.  I
am
Sean Lightbourne.  Try again.”

“Accessing... Unable to establish connection.  User Sean Lightbourne is currently logged on.”

“Where is Sean Lightbourne logged on?”

“Sean Lightbourne is logged on at his BNI primary CPU.”

“Shit.  Computer, place call to JT Anderson, 7-420-555-5989.”

The computer dialed the number.  “That line is on privacy protection and is not accepting calls at this time.”

“Interrupt privacy protection, authorization TOM-beta-14, notify receiver that message is urgent.”

The computer put the call through once again, and the phone in JT Anderson’s bedroom rang.

“What time is it?” Anderson muttered as the phone awakened him.

“The time is five AM.”

“Five AM! Why the hell did you wake me?  Didn’t I set you on privacy mode last night?”

“Yes, sir,” the computer said, “however, the caller has authorization for emergency bypass.  This call is listed as urgent.”

“Christ, must be O’Grady.  Put it through.”

“That you, O’Grady?  What the hell is going on that you had to call me at five in the morning, and on a Sunday no less?  You’re inhuman, man.”

“No, it’s me.  It’s Sean, JT.”  Sean was staring at a blank screen.  “Is your video out?  I can’t see a thing.”

“That because it’s
five AM,
boy wonder.  The sun ain’t up yet and I stopped using a night light a long time ago.  Why in the hell are you calling so damned early?”

“There’s been a breach in my office.  Somebody’s hacked into my PC and accessed my files.  The Phase Three files are in there.”

“Christ!” JT yelped, jumping up out of bed.  Who is it?”

“How the hell do I know?  I’m half way across the country, but I suggest you find out...fast.”

“Right.” JT disconnected the call.

“Computer:  Tie in to security at BNI.”

The computer used a voiceprint ID to authenticate Anderson’s voice and access security at BNI.  “Connection completed.”

“Security,” the night guard answered with a yawn.  Harry Finch had been working the early morning weekend shift at BNI for over a year and this was the first time the phone had ever rung.

“This is JT Anderson.”

Finch sat up in his chair and straightened his tie.  “Yes, sir.  Finch here.  What can I do for you Mr. Anderson?”

“Close down all access in and out of the Nanobot Research Unit. Lock it up tight.  Someone’s broken into Dr. Lightbourne’s office.”

“But, sir, no one’s come by here this morning except for Dr. Hingston.”

“Hingston?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look, Finch.  Lock up that lab and shut down the elevators.  Lock down access to the stairwells too.”

“Can’t do that sir.  Fire Department regulations; the system won’t allow us to do that.”

“Shit.  Then make sure you deactivate Hingston’s ID badge.  Don’t give him access to anything, and make sure you watch the stairwells.  I don’t want him leaving until I get there, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

JT wasn’t going to be called a wimp by O’Grady, not this time.  He could handle Paul Hingston.  He dressed quickly and grabbed his semi-automatic 22 pistol. 
What the hell are you doing, Paul?
he thought as he ran out the door.

___

“Got it,” Paul said as he grabbed the microdisc out of the disc drive, stuffed it in his pocket and shut down the computer.  As he stood, he heard the click of the deadbolt locking the door to the lab.

“Shit,” he muttered, realizing that he was not alone.  He hurried out of Sean’s office and over to the double glass doors at the entry to the lab.  He gave them a tug, and as he suspected, they were locked down tight.  He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out his ID badge.  It slipped easily through the optical scanner, but with no results.  After three tries, it was obvious that this was not a coincidence.

Through the glass doors, Paul could just make out the numbers above the elevators to his left. Under normal circumstances, unoccupied elevators would all be down at the lobby, but the numbers indicated that they were all stopped on the top floor of the building, a security precaution used during a manual shutdown of the system.  He glanced nervously toward the stairwells at either end of the hall; they were his only way out…if he could just find a way to get out of the lab.  Paul shook the doors, but they were latched tight.  His eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for another exit, although he knew there was none.  A steel-legged stool next to the workbench caught his attention and he raced over to it.  Grasping it tightly in both hands he paused briefly. Taking a few quick, deep breaths to focus his mind and body, he hoisted the heavy stool up into the air and let out a roar that crescendoed as he raced toward the entry and hurled his makeshift battering-ram at the glass doors.

The steel legs hit the right hand door squarely, and it shattered out into the hallway.  Paul picked up the stool, wedged halfway through the door, and used it to bang out the remaining shards of glass that stuck to the metal frame.   He tossed the stool aside and darted through the open frame of the door, then ran down the hall to the left, past the elevators and toward the stairwell.  Opening the door slowly, he held his breath and carefully listened for footsteps.  In the silence, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

Paul was sure the guard would be waiting for him in the lobby, keeping an eye on both stairwells; they were the only exits to the building.  He stopped at the second floor and exited into the dining area, which looked out over the grounds of BNI.  Floor to ceiling windows wrapped around the room.   The one on the far left was directly over the roof of the overhang that connected the parking lot to the main building.  Paul picked up one of the chairs and threw it at the window, turning to shield his face from the flying shards of glass.  He hoped that the guard waiting vigilantly in the lobby below wouldn’t hear the high-pitched rattling of glass against the marble floor.  Paul was no athlete, but it was a short drop to the flat asphalt shingled roof below, made easier by the adrenaline rushing through his system.

Harry Finch waited nervously in the lobby by stairwell B, holding his gun in both hands to steady his grip, trying to remember whether the safety was off when it was up or when it was down, Harry had only shot at a man once, and that was a dummy in a firing range.  He was hoping that JT would arrive soon. Glancing frequently toward the front entrance and then over at the doors that led in from the parking garage, he saw Paul Hingston drop from the top of the overhand and duck into the walkway that connected BNI to the employee garage.

Anderson’s car screeched to a halt just outside the main entrance.  “Have you seen him yet?” JT yelled as he ran through the front door.

“Out there, Dr. Anderson,” he motioned toward the double glass doors leading to the garage.  “He just dropped down from the roof; must have busted out a window on the second floor.”

  “Go!” JT yelled as he ran toward Finch and pointed to the door. 

  The two men burst through the door simultaneously as Paul was opening a door at the other end of the walkway leading into the garage.

  “Freeze,” yelled Finch, struggling to steady the gun that he was pointing at Paul Hingston.

  Paul glanced over his shoulder and saw the gun.  He hesitated briefly, but he was not ready to die.  Slowly he let go of the door and raised his hands.

  JT walked up to Paul, puffing to catch his breath and grinning like the Cheshire cat.  “Well, well.  I guess I was wrong about you, Paul.  I’m disappointed.  I was sure that I could count on greed to sway your conscience.”

  “This is just too wrong, JT.  This whole Phase Three thing, it goes against everything we’ve been working for.”

  “You’re looking at it all wrong, Paul.  Don’t think of it as medical research, think of it as national security.  This will give us an edge unlike any we’ve had since Oppenheimer came up with the A-Bomb. It’ll strike a blow for democracy.”

  “It’ll strike a blow
against
democracy.”

  JT shook his head.  “Like I said, you’re looking at this from the wrong side, my friend.  Just give me the disc.”

  Paul hesitated.

  “I know you downloaded Sean’s files.  You’re hacking skills could use a little polish.  Now give me the disc.”

  Finch, standing just behind JT’s right shoulder, waved the gun slightly in Paul’s direction.

  Paul sighed and reached into his pocket.

  “Hold it,” Finch said nervously, thrusting the gun forward.

  “Whoa, trigger-boy,” Paul said.  “Take it easy, it’s only a disc.”  He raised his hands again, realizing that his life hung at the end of a sweaty trigger finger.

  “Shirt pocket,” he said to JT.  “Why don’t you get it?”

  Anderson reached inside Paul’s jacket and pulled the microdisc out of the left shirt pocket.  “Let’s make sure this is the right one.  You wouldn’t be trying to pull a fast one on me now, would you, buddy?” He chuckled.

  JT reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocket computer.  The microdisc slipped into the side slot and a list of files came up on the screen.

  “Pretty impressive, Paul.  I guess your hacking skills are a little better than I gave you credit for.”

  Paul watched Harry Finch closely.  It was unnerving being at the business end of a loaded pistol.  As Anderson perused the list of files, Finch looked over to see what was on the screen.  Paul seized the moment and lunged at Anderson, knocking him back into Harry Finch, and the two of them sprawled over backwards onto the ground, Finch inadvertently squeezing off a round of ammunition as he fell.  The bullet ricocheted off the ceiling of the overhang, causing the two men on the ground to squirm like freshly dug earthworms.  They struggled to untangle themselves from each other, Finch desperately trying to discern where his gun had landed.

  Paul Hingston didn’t stay to find out.  He bolted through the door into the garage and pressed the keyless remote to his Jag.  The engine roared to a start and the driver’s side door slid open.  Paul threw himself into the driver’s seat and watched the two men scrambling to their feet as he desperately tried to get the car into gear.

“The door is open,” the pleasantly feminine computer voice reminded him.  “The drive gear cannot be engaged until the door is closed.”

“Well close it, God-damn it.  Close it.”

“The door is closing,” the voice announced as the door slowly slid shut. 

“Christ, technology,” Paul muttered.  As soon as the door latched, Paul shoved the lever into drive. The gears engaged just as Harry Finch pushed the doors open and raised his pistol.  Paul jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Jag raced off, tires squealing, as Finch pulled the trigger.  He got off two shots, neither of which hit their target, before the Jag was around the corner and out of range.

  Anderson and Finch stood helplessly amidst the smell of burnt rubber from the tires that had just carried away their prey.  Finch pulled out his cell phone and dialed the guardhouse at the front gate.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah.  That you, Harry?”

  “Yeah.  Listen, close the gate...now!”

  “But Doc Hingston’s on his way out.  Look’s like he’s in a mighty big hurry, too.”

  “No shit.  Just close the damned gate.  Don’t let him out.”

  Jack didn’t understand, but he could tell by the stressed tone in Harry Finch’s voice that there had to be a darned good reason.  He pushed the button and the main gate started to close.  Paul saw it closing and jammed down harder on the pedal, racing toward the exit.  Jack saw the Jag coming his way and ran out of the guardhouse to get as far as possible from the inevitable crash.  The gate was nearly closed and about to engage the latches when the Jag hit it at ninety miles per hour.   The iron gates flew open and the badly scraped green Jaguar raced away.