MIND FIELDS Page 24

  ___

  Tuesday, September 17, 2051 —

  Paul couldn’t face Sean this morning. He had called in sick; the raspy voice was pretty convincing, at least he thought so. When he walked into the kitchen, there was a message on his fax machine. “Be at Pushnik’s at ten sharp...R.K.”

  ___

  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee poured out the open door of Pushnik’s Bakery on Lombard Street. It was one of the most popular spots for a quick breakfast in the Inner Harbor area. Even in the middle of the week, it buzzed with activity. Paul followed the allure of the coffee in through the front door, and pushed his way through the crowd. Dozens of simultaneous conversations merged into a din, broken only by the frequent clanging of plates against the tables.

  “Just one, hon?” the hostess said as he made it to the front of the crowd.

  “Actually, I’m meeting...” He spotted the platinum blond Sandi sitting across a table facing Detective Kincade in the far corner. “Oh, there they are,” he said, brushing by the indignant, gum-chewing redhead who was trying to keep order amidst the chaos.

  “Sure, just walk right in,” she sniped as he knocked her ever so slightly off balance.

  “Oh. Sorry, miss.”

  “Sure.” She turned away. “Two of ya, hon?” she said to the young couple who were next in line.

  Paul made his way to the back of the restaurant and sat next to Sandi. They were facing Richie, who had positioned himself strategically where he could watch the room.

  “So, I take it you had quite a day, eh Hingston?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about the wake up call.” He smiled at Sandi. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she said. “You OK?”

  “For now,” Paul said. “But I don’t know for how long. You’ve got to help me, Detective. I can’t believe what I’ve gotten myself into.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s worse than you thought...a whole lot worse. See, after I got your call, I decided it might not be such a good idea to try and get Sean to help me hack into BNI’s Intranet to find that TOM mailbox.”

  “Good decision, Sherlock.” Kincade couldn’t help himself.

  “Yeah,” Paul gave him a dirty look. “Well anyway, I knew there was no way I could figure out how to hack in to something like that myself, so I decided to check out Sean’s computer instead. I hung out until the place was deserted and hacked the PC in his office.”

  “Good work, Doc.” Kincade decided to be a little more cordial. “What did you find?”

  “More than I cared to know. I found a reference to those four BNI employees that you had the file on. Not only was Sean experimenting on them before the human trials were approved, but he was doing it with Phase Three nanobots.”

  “Phase Three?” Sandi yelped. “What in the hell are Phase Three nanobots?”

  “Exactly,” Paul said proudly.

  “God,” Sandi said, shaking her head.

  Kincade was lost. “Want to let me in on this, professors?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Sandi answered. “See, the neuronanobots were developed as a two phase system. Phase One fixes the damage to the brain after an injury, and Phase Two bots turn into new brain cells to replace the damaged ones.”

  “And what do the Phase Three bots do?”

  “That’s just it, there aren’t any Phase Three bots. At least, there aren’t supposed to be. What are they, Paul?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. I couldn’t get into all his files. See, we never developed any Phase Three bots either. Whatever they are, Sean was making them and using them without my knowledge.”

  “Got any theories?”

  “Well, it seems pretty far-fetched, but...”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, we had talked a couple of years ago, just theoretically of course, about whether it would be possible to make nanobots that could be resequenced... reprogrammed, if you will...after they were inside of the human body. I didn’t think it was possible, but maybe he found a way.”

  Sandi couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Brain cell nanobots that can be reprogrammed by remote control? My God, Paul. What have you done?”

  “Hey, I didn’t even know about it.”

  “Hate to interrupt boys and girls,” this conversation was way over Kincade’s head, “but could you give me the English version of that explanation.”

  “If Lightbourne really did this,” Sandi said, “then, in theory, he could play with anyone’s mind once the nanobots were in their brain. See, if he could figure out a way to send the right signal to one of these Phase Three bots, he could make that person do whatever he wanted them to, whenever he wanted them to.”

  “Mind control.” Kincade got it.

  “In theory is the key phrase,” Paul said. “Even if he has come up with a way to control the bots with some kind of a remote control, the complexity of the programming that would be required to get a person to perform a specific action would be almost impossible.”

  “But it fits,” Sandi said. That’s why they were experimenting at BNI. The employees who were implanted with the Phase Three bots were each given increasingly complex tasks. The first guy… what’s his name?”

  “Lester Hanes,” Kincade piped in.

  “Right, Hanes. All they had to do to him was get him to make a sharp turn of the wheel while he was driving - one simple action. Then there was that poor girl with the seizures. She was just a mistake, I assume. Then that football player…”

  “Jackson.”

  “…They repeated the same task they gave Hanes, getting that Jackson guy to drive off a bridge, maybe just working on controlling him at a greater distance. Then came that woman who de-chipped her car. With her, they had to program her to get the car de-chipped, then go out and drive it a hundred and twenty miles an hour. That would involve an awfully complex set of tasks to program into her brain. I’d say they’re getting pretty damned good at it. Who knows how many others they may have practiced on in between that we don’t know about.”

  “This is all just theory, right?” Kincade asked, glancing back and forth between the two scientists.

  “Absolutely,” Paul said. “It’s pretty far-fetched stuff.”

  “Got any better theories?” Sandi said. No one did.

  Hingston sighed. “Well, if they really did do those things, there’s more to come.”

  “Obviously,” said Kincade. I’m sure their end goal was not to make some poor lady get a speeding ticket.”

  “Brilliant deduction, Detective,” Sandi said sarcastically.

  Kincade glared at her. “Thanks.”

  “Right,” Hingston interjected. “Well, what I meant was that there were two other names on Sean’s computer under the Phase Three Project list.”

  “What names?”

  “Well, initials actually — R.S and H.B..”

  “So, who are they?”

  “Hell if I know,” Paul said.

  “I don’t suppose you got a hard copy of those files you hacked into, did you?”

  “Hell no. I was scared enough as it was. If I tried to copy to disc or print from a protected file, I may have set off some kind of alarm. Sean’s pretty computer-savvy, you know? I’m surprised I got as far as I did.”

  “Any chance we could find some of these Phase Three bots in the bodies of those BNI employees?”

  “Not likely,” Paul said. “If they were inorganic, they would have shown up in the MRI scans they did on that girl with the seizures. Assuming they are organic, like all the other bots we’ve developed, there’s not a chance you’d find them without an autopsy. Hell, even with an autopsy you probably wouldn’t be able to tell the different bots apart after death. The difference between them is more
physiologic than anatomic.”

  “Moot point,” Sandi said. “There are no bodies. The two guys from the car accidents have been cremated and I don’t think the two women who are still alive would consent to an autopsy.”

  “Then I’d say we better find out who R.S and H.B. are. If they’re not already dead, whoever they are, they may be our only way to stop this thing. I mean, who in the hell is going to believe us if we try and go public with this? We’re going to need some pretty convincing proof.”

  “Y’all ready to order?” The waitress came up behind Sandi and Paul.

  “Just some coffee for me,” Richie said, “cream and sugar.”

  “No cream for me,” said Paul, “but lots of sugar. “I like it sweet and black.”

  “I’ll bet you do, honey,” said the waitress coyly.

  Paul turned to look over his shoulder. The waitress was a tall, slim African-American woman by the name of Wanda, which was marked clearly on her nametag.

  “Whew! Look at those bags under your eyes,” Wanda said. “How ’bout we make it tall, sweet and black for you, honey? Looks like you need all the caffeine you can get.”

  “Sounds good, Wanda” said Paul sheepishly. He wasn’t sure which embarrassed him more, the “sweet and black” remark or the bags under his eyes.

  Sandi laughed. “Just some O.J. for me.”

  Wanda winked at her. “Watch out for this one, now,” she said, nodding toward Paul. “Y’all let me know if you get hungry. The blueberry muffins are awesome here.”

  The power of suggestion is a mighty thing. Wanda brought out three muffins, fresh from the oven. They were good.

  The TV mounted in the corner of the room was inaudible over the clamor of the brunch crowd. Richie glanced up as CNN was broadcasting coverage of an impromptu press conference on the steps of Walter Reed Hospital, where President Huntley Forsyth had just been visiting with his chief of staff, Harold Bradley, still recovering from the injuries sustained in his Labor Day weekend accident. The president was answering questions from reporters, as Bradley’s picture was superimposed in the bottom right corner of the screen. He was due to be released within a couple of days and his miraculous recovery was big news. One of the reporters apparently asked a question about the driver of Bradley’s vehicle, as a second picture was briefly displayed on the bottom left corner of the screen. It was a picture that looked familiar to Kincade from an article in the Sunpapers, but he probably would not have been able to put a name to the face if it weren’t for the caption underneath: “Rocky Stankowski.”

  “Hey, Kincade?”

  Richie ignored Hingston, his eyes fixed on the TV.

  “Kincade!” Hingston reached over and tapped Richie’s arm. “You want any more or not?”

  Richie looked up and saw Wanda standing there with a pot of coffee. “Oh, sorry. No thanks, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look so fine. You look kind of flushed,” she said. “You sure you’re OK, honey?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” Richie was still staring at the TV. He watched Wanda walk away, and then looked back across the table at his new friends. “I know who R.S. and H.B. are.”

  Chapter twenty one

  President Huntley Forsyth was distraught over the accident of his chief of staff and good friend, Harold Bradley. They had first met at a party Forsyth’s parents had thrown in honor of his graduation from Harvard Law School. Bradley was a close family friend of one of Forsyth’s classmates. He was so impressed by Huntley’s valedictorian speech that he had to meet the young man, and crashed the party with the blessing of Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth.

  Huntley vividly remembered the first time they had met. He was having a glass of champagne with his girlfriend when a slightly graying and very distinguished looking gentleman approached him. “Young man, your sharp wit is exceeded only by your uncanny ability to connect with your audience. Your speech was truly inspiring. It is quite a shame that you have chosen to waste all that on a career in law.”

  Bradley was a political analyst for the Boston Globe, well liked and respected by many of the nation’s leading politicians. Forsyth recognized him instantly. “But, sir,” he responded, “surely you would not have me waste it on the septic tank that is politics.”

  Bradley smiled. “Well, somebody has to clean out the septic tank.”

  It was not long before the two were good friends. Bradley gradually swayed the interests of the brilliant and charismatic young lawyer toward a career in politics, and several hard-fought campaigns later, Forsyth was elected as the President of the United States.

  “You look like hell, Harry,” President Forsyth said as he stood over Bradley’s bed at Walter Reed.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  “Kid? Geez, Harry, nobody calls the president ‘kid.’ It ain’t fittin’, it just ain’t fittin’.”

  They both laughed. Gone With the Wind was one of their favorite movies. They had discussed it often.

  “It’s good to see you laugh, Harry.”

  “Thanks…kid.” He winked. “I’m going to play this brain injury thing out for all it’s worth.”

  “Don’t want your job back, then?”

  “Hell, yes, I want it back…Mr. President. I’m sick of this hospital food.” Bradley hopped out of bed and walked over to the window.

  The president laughed. He pointed to the hospital gown as Bradley looked around. “Enjoying the breezes, are you?”

  Bradley, realizing that his gown was open in the back, reached around and pulled it together. “And I’m sick of these God-damned gowns.” He walked over to the closet. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

  “Relax. It’s not everybody who gets to moon the president, you know?”

  Bradley smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. There are a few other presidents I’d rather have mooned, though.”

  “And just which ones would those happen to be?”

  “Mostly the Republicans, Huntley. Mostly elephants.” He pulled on his pants and grabbed his robe. “Let’s take a walk. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  The president glanced over at the security guard by the door, who shook his head in the negative. “I’m afraid you’ve got to stay put a couple more days, Harry.” Bradley gave him an icy stare. “Tell you what, how about we walk down to the lounge at the end of the hall. I think I can talk my way past Jack, guarding the door out here, but I doubt the two of us could take on the Secret Service contingent by the elevators.”

  “I’m willing to give it a try.”

  “Let’s just settle for the sofa in the lounge, shall we.”

  Harold Bradley nodded. He was grateful just to get out of the room for a while.

  “Looks like you’re getting along pretty well, old man.”

  “Who are you calling old, sir?” Bradley forced a lilt into his step.

  “All right then. I’ll tell you what. You and me at Windsong Meadows, one week from Saturday.”

  “One week!”

  “Hell, man, you’re getting out of here the day after tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “You chicken?”

  Bradley glared at him.

  “Besides, I want to get you while you’re down. Heck, I haven’t beaten you in what, two years?”

  “Two and a half.”

  “Right, but who’s counting. I’m gonna whup your ass a week from Saturday, Harry.”

  “Fat chance…sir.”

  “So we’re on?”

  “We’re on.”

  President Forsyth smiled. He could see the fire return to the eyes of his old friend.

  “Mr. President?” One of the guards tapped his watch.

  “Right. My public awaits. I promised the administrators I’d do a little press conference on the front steps of
the hospital on my way out.”

  “You don’t want to disappoint your voters, sir,” Bradley said. They shook hands and the president turned toward the elevators. “Sir?”

  “Yes?” Forsyth looked back at his friend.

  “Thanks.”

  President Forsyth nodded. “See if you’re still thanking me when I sink the winning putt next Saturday.” He smiled and walked into the elevator.

  ___

  Richie Kincade settled into the family room sofa to watch some TV. It had been another frustrating day. Once again, he had uncovered new clues, only to find himself in a new quagmire.

  “It makes perfect sense,” he said to Sandi, who sat on the other end of the tweed sofa. “R.S. and H.B. are Rocky Stankowski and Harold Bradley. I mean, they both had head injuries and they were both treated with nanobots.”

  “Yeah, but...the White House Chief of Staff? I mean, if you were trying to work out the bugs for a new secret weapon you were developing, especially one that you want to use for covert operations, would you test it out on one of the most public men in the country?”

  “It does seem kind of dumb when you put it that way,” Richie had to admit. He sat, sipping on a glass of tea, staring at the television screen but not really watching. “But what if they were finished with the testing?”

  “I don’t follow?”

  “Well, we don’t really know for sure how many tests they’ve run or how far they’ve gotten with the Phase Three nanobots, but we do know they’ve gotten pretty darned good at getting their subjects to do what they want.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, what if Stankowski and Bradley aren’t test subjects at all? What if they’re not just part of the game, but they’re the objects of the game?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Look, Stankowski got jumped by three hoodlums with baseball bats, but the only place they hit his head was directly over the frontal lobe, the right frontal lobe.”