Wormhole (18 page)

Mark was relieved when Heather’s steady voice filled the vacuum. “We didn’t ask permission. And we don’t make any excuses for what we did. We knew the risk, but we did it anyway.”

“We know we put you in danger, too,” Mark said, trying to give Heather some cover, “but that doesn’t mean we regret it.”

Once again the silence descended, finally broken by Jack. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Janet and I knew you’d make that call sooner or later. We had a small wager about when it would happen.”

Mark didn’t know whether to be irritated that they were so predictable or happy that they’d avoided a reprimand.

A hint of a smile creased the corners of Janet’s mouth. “I won. Jack didn’t really think you’d last this long.”

Of course he hadn’t—and he’d almost been right.

“So,” Jack said, “Finish off your coffee, grab a bite to eat from the kitchen, and get ready. You’ve got a full schedule today.”

“And what if they find a way to trace us?” Mark asked.

Jack shrugged. “I assume you took the proper precautions. Besides, the only thing you can be sure of in this life is that sooner or later everything goes wrong. Whether because of this or something else, they will eventually find us. It’s why we constantly rehearse our reaction drills.”

“I don’t know why they have to find us,” said Jennifer. “Lots of criminals and terrorists have managed to stay below the radar.”

“Apples and oranges,” Jack replied. “There are two kinds of people in this world: sheep and wolves. The politicians who lie hidden in holes aren’t wolves. They’re sheep, sending their wolves
out to make things happen. Janet and I are wolves. It’s what we’ve trained you to be.”

Janet glanced at her watch. “You three better hustle. You’ve only got eight minutes to scarf down some breakfast before we hit the firing range. Today you get to shoot the fifty-caliber sniper rifles and M2 machine guns. Anyone who outshoots me gets out of ammo reload duty.”

Mark rolled his eyes. Just because their schedule was so tough didn’t mean it couldn’t get tougher. Maybe they hadn’t avoided punishment after all.

Levi Elias hadn’t gotten his reputation for being the best analyst the NSA had for nothing. Sitting in his boss’s office, James Blanchard watched as Levi leveled his gaze at him, his dark eyes like the twin barrels of a twelve-gauge shotgun.

“Tell me what we got.”

“A hell of a lot more than the FBI.” James grinned.

“Explain.”

“Just like us, they put a sniffer on the IP traffic coming in through the network card. Funny thing is, not a damned thing came in through the network interface.”

“And?”

“And thank God for Denise’s Puff the Magic Dragon code in the laptop’s antivirus software. It recorded every bit and byte of data that changed on the laptop during the visual chat session, including sound and video.”

“Nothing came through the network card? How’s that possible?”

“It’s not. At least not with any technology we know about. But it fits with some of the stuff that caused Admiral Riles to send Jack Gregory’s team to Los Alamos.”

“So what do you make of it?”

James Blanchard looked at Levi Elias and shrugged. “I’ve been with my team all night and most of this morning going over the recorded audio and video streams at least two dozen times. Bottom line, boss, we’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Whoever these kids are, they’re good.” James worked the jog shuttle, moving the recording forward five minutes. “Typical example, background is draped by thick plastic sheeting, common contractor material, made by hundreds of companies all over the world, mostly in Asia, my guess China.”

James zoomed in on a small section of the plastic, a tight shot that eliminated the foreground. He swirled a small circle with his laser pointer’s red dot.

“You can see small beads of condensation on the plastic, cool room, high humidity. This time of year you get those conditions in an air-conditioned room on about 37 percent of the planet, including the entire US gulf coast.”

He backed out of the zoom, selected a control on the electronic light table, and quickly drew a dotted outline around each of the young people in the frozen image. Another tool click and Heather McFarland, Mark Smythe, and Jennifer Smythe came up in their own frame, the sheet having been cropped out of the image so they were displayed against a pure white background.

“Notice anything peculiar about these three?”

“Nice tans. Muscular, taut faces. Just glancing at them I’d say they’ve been on a three-month vacation at a health spa. Either
that or training for the Olympic beach volleyball team. What’s that they’re wearing? Togas?”

“Sheets.”

“Sheets?”

“Sure as shit. Plain old cotton bedsheets.”

“Let me guess. Kind you can buy anywhere, probably made in China. Looks like they were expecting to have their chat session intercepted.”

“As generic as it gets.”

“Give me a tight shot of each face, side by side. Keep the rest of the background clipped out. Then let the video roll.”

James Blanchard made the adjustments and started the video from the beginning, the display filled with three faces, the enhanced video so clear that Levi could see the moisture glisten on their teeth as they smiled.

“Amp up the audio.”

The audio volume rose until he could feel the vibration of the bass notes in Mark’s voice.

“Pause that.”

The video froze. The sound stopped.

“What did the voice stress analysis show? Are they under duress?”

“Inconclusive. There’s stress there, but it seems to be closely associated with the emotions of talking with parents they’ve been missing. I’d say they want to come home, but can’t. Lots of reasons for that, though. Doesn’t mean they’re being held against their will. Once more I go back to their physical appearance. That kind of muscle tone doesn’t square with being held captive. Neither does the tan.”

“Let the video roll again.”

The booming volume filled the room as Levi watched the facial expressions that went with the audio. Suddenly he sat up.

“Stop. Replay the last fifteen seconds. Five percent more volume.”

“There. You hear something?”

James nodded.

“Replay it again but mask out all the voices. I only want background noises.”

This time it took Blanchard fifteen minutes to manipulate the sound editor to achieve the desired effect.

When he played the audio again, a number of noises stood out. The sound of computer fans, the AC electric current humming in the lights, and four seconds of a chirping noise.

“Was that a bird?”

“Yes, sir. Definitely a bird sound.”

“What kind?”

Blanchard laughed. “Not my specialty.”

Levi didn’t laugh. “Then find someone whose specialty it is. I want to know exactly what kind of a bird that was, where it lives, its migratory patterns, and what color seeds it shits. One more thing. I want your team to reanalyze the whole thing, background noises only. Identify any animal or insect sounds, same drill as the bird.”

As Blanchard began moving toward the door, Levi called after him. “Oh, and James, get someone working on that AC electrical hum. I want to know if it’s fifty or sixty hertz.”

“I’m on it.”

Moving down the hallway at a brisk walk, James smiled. If he had to work for an analyst, it felt good to work for the best in the business.

President Jackson sat with his back to the towering windows, gold curtains pulled tightly closed, with only the wall-mounted candelabras adorning the cream-colored slices of wall that separated them. He glanced around at his national security staff seated in the burgundy leather chairs around the great table that filled the bulk of the White House Cabinet Room.

Today’s meeting only involved the central core of the NSS: Vice President Bob Bethard, Secretary of State Beth McKee, Secretary of Defense Gary Blake, Director of National Intelligence Cory Mayfield, National Security Advisor James Nobles, Director of Homeland Security Thane Evans, and the president’s chief of staff, Carol Owens.

In addition to the core team, Carl Rheiner, the director of central intelligence, occupied a seat to the president’s left. It was going to be his show. Just a couple of hours earlier, Rheiner had
informed the president that President Chekov of the Russian Federation, in a surprise move, had held a hastily assembled press conference to announce that Russia had developed its own version of the nanite serum.

The president’s first response had been unprintable, but Rheiner had had worse news.

“Apparently, they’re set to begin mass production at several manufacturing facilities. They’ve already begun inoculating military personnel and plan to roll it out for the general population over the coming months—before making it available for sale on the international market.”

It was why he’d now assembled the whole national security brain trust. President Jackson spread his hands in a gesture of inclusiveness. “Well I guess we’re all in. The Chinese, French, and others can’t be far behind the Russians. The real question is, what are we going to do in response? Before I hear your thoughts, I’ve asked the DCI to give us a quick rundown from the CIA point of view.”

All eyes turned toward the CIA director.

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Carl Rheiner opened a leather portfolio, moving its contents into three small stacks in front of him. “I’ll start with the nanite situation since that is the most directly affected by President Chekov’s announcement.”

The president hoped this presentation wouldn’t be as grim as he expected.

“As you all know, central intelligence has focused a large effort these last several months toward analyzing the consequences of our own nanite formula rollout, starting with the African continent, since they had already received the initial distribution. The results of that initial distribution are a mixed bag, mostly bad. In countries decimated by AIDS, malnutrition, and other diseases, it is hardly surprising that desperation for a cure has led to fighting
between those who received the first doses and those who had to wait. Violent gangs began kidnapping nanite recipients, bleeding them into plasma bags for resale along with acts of superstitious barbarism.

“While Jack Gregory’s GPS broadcast shut down most of those nanites, there were significant numbers of people that were shielded from that signal and they still have active nano-serum in their blood. I don’t need to tell you the jeopardy in which they’ve found themselves. Most of them tried, with varying degrees of success, to pretend their nanites were deactivated like all the rest. But it only takes one public injury to put the lie to those pretenses.

“Mix that with gangs of nanite-augmented young men, drunk with the power of virtual invulnerability, and you get the effect we’re seeing on African societies, a drastic increase in tribalism. By this I mean that groups have grown more homogeneous, either for protection or for aggression.

“I won’t belabor the details, but this analysis, combined with worries about the possible long-term negative impact of nanite dependence on people’s natural immune systems, has led to the president’s meticulously planned nanite redistribution. Although we all knew that the day would come when other governments were able to duplicate the formula, I think we all hoped we’d have time to test our delivery strategy first, establishing a measure of control over these types of negative consequences. That’s no longer an option.”

“So what do you recommend we do about it?” President Jackson’s lips had tightened into a thin line during Rheiner’s summary. He sensed that, unfortunately, Rheiner had saved the worst news for last.

“Before I give you my recommendation, I need to reference two other areas that critically impact the situation.”

Carl Rheiner spread several papers from his second stack across the table in front of him. “The first is the other alien technology that was released to the public, cold fusion. Although it’s been widely hailed as a home run for our planet, it carries parallel dangers. Every scientist and energy expert I’ve talked to has been stunned with the speed with which industry has implemented increasingly efficient versions of this technology, dropping the price to where it will soon be available to power automobiles. Machinery that uses fossil fuels is about to become as outdated as the ancient plants and animals that compose those fuels. It has happened so fast that OPEC finds itself with its monetary spigot rotating into the off position.