Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (22 page)

 
          
“I’ve
been trying out this system for a few months now,” Patrick said. “My brainwaves
or whatever they are ...”

 
          
“Theta
signal threshold complex.”

 
          
“Yeah,
right. Anyway, they should start working, shouldn’t they?”

 
          
Carmichael
shook his head. “If it was that easy, we’d have a squadron of ANTARES pilots now.
We don’t
fully
understand how ANTARES
works, how the neural interface is achieved. We can get it to work but we’re
not sure, for example, why it works with James and nominally for you and J.C.
and not for anyone else. We’re getting closer to the answer but it’ll still
take some time.”

 
          
“What
is it with James?” Patrick asked. “I can’t mentally control an itch on the back
of my neck. He can control a two million dollar fighter at Mach one.”

 
          
Carmichael
ran a hand up his forehead and across the top of his bald head—even though it
was the style of the mid-1990s for some men to have a shaved head, Carmichael
came by his naturally, involuntarily. “The sheer strength of his mind is
enormous. The ANTARES interface is another addition to his mental gymnasium, so
to speak. He’s strengthened by it every time he uses it. We’re learning a lot
from him.”

 
          
“But
he’s not any smarter than anyone else at HAWC.”

 
          
“I’m
not talking about intelligence . . . stop squirming.” Carmichael motioned to
one of his assistants, who ran a cool towel over Patrick’s sweaty face. “He’s
quite intelligent—an I.Q. of well over one-fifty. But what counts more is that
his mind is fluid, adaptable, agile. Are you at all familiar with taekwondo,
Patrick?”

 
          
“Taekwondo?
You mean martial arts?”

 
          
Carmichael
nodded as he scanned an instrument panel beside the simulator. “A special form
of the martial arts that combines karate, kung fu and judo—James happens to be
a black belt in taekwondo, by the way . . . did you know that? Almost made our
Olympic taekwondo team. It’s not an offensive, attack-style of fighting. In
taekwondo the attacker is
allowed
to
engage—as a matter of fact, there are few moves in taekwondo that can be
performed unless in response to an attack.”

 
          
“Get
to the point, Alan.”

 
          
“The
point is, James’ mind works much the same way as the taekwondo style of combat.
He allows the flood of information created by ANTARES to invade him. He opens
up his mind to it—exactly the opposite of the normal reaction to such an
invasion. Most of us build barriers against such an onslaught— James allows it
to move in, even expand. But he doesn’t surrender to the information that
bombards him. Once ANTARES unlocks the inner recesses of the mind, the ones we
have no conscious access to, he’s somehow able to reassert his conscious will.
At first it’s little more than gentle mental nudges, but then he’s able to
control ANTARES, steer the mass of information his way. It’s the mental
equivalent of a single tree changing the course of a raging river.”

 
          
“You’re
talking in riddles.”

 
          
“For
a good reason.” Carmichael’s features turned stony. “I’ve already said there’s
a lot we don’t understand about ANTARES. We’re tinkering with this technology
before it’s fully understood, but neither of us has the authority to stop it. I
just hope I can learn enough before some disaster happens.”

 
          
He
studied McLanahan. “That was meant as a disclaimer, Patrick. You’ve been
strapping this stuff on a few times a month now, probably with faith in me and
all this high-tech government equipment. We use it because it works. Period. We
don’t know why it works, and so we won’t know what happened if something goes
wrong.” He picked up a very large, bulky helmet with all sorts of cables and
wire bundles leading to the banks of computers below. It was a much larger
version of the ANTARES flight helmet, obviously not designed for flight—its
wearer would be completely immobilized by its sheer size and bulk. “Still want
to subject yourself to this, Colonel?”

 
          
Patrick
shrugged. “Here’s where I’m supposed to say ‘I regret I have only one brain to
give to my country . . .’ ”

 
          
“You’re
the project director, it’s not your job . . .”

 
          
“
‘It’s not my job.’ That’s the most over-used and annoying phrase in the Air
Force.” Patrick stopped, looking at the menacing ANTARES helmet as if it was
some medieval torture device, then nodded. “I need to know how it works. I need
to understand what it does to the pilots that I’ll order to wear this thing.
Let’s do it.”

 
          
Carmichael
and an assistant proceeded to lower the heavy helmet onto Patrick’s shoulders
and fasten it in place.

 
          
The
helmet was very tight and heavy. Once attached to the clavicle ring on his
flight suit the device pressed down on his breastbone and shoulders like a
heavy yoke. The superconducting antennae pressed unmercifully on several spots
on his head and neck, corresponding to the seven areas of the brain that were
constantly being scanned and measured by the ANTARES. There was a smoked glass
visor in the helmet, but Patrick could barely see anything outside. The thick
rubber oxygen mask that enclosed his mouth and chin was hot and almost
suffocating.

 
          
After
a few seconds, Patrick could hear the faint click as the tiny headphone in his
helmet was activated. “Patrick? All set in there?”

 
          
“Check
the oxygen flow. I’m not getting any air.”

 
          
“You’ve
got a good blinker and all switches are set,” Carmichael replied. Just then
Patrick’s oxygen mask received a steady flow of cold, dry air. “I gave you a
shot of oxygen. I can’t give you too much or you could hyperventilate. Try to
relax. Start anytime you’re ready.”

 
          
Patrick
sat back in the hard ejection seat and began the relaxation routine taught to
him by Carmichael over a year earlier when he’d first begun experimenting with
the ANTARES trainer. He began the familiar process, letting the spurts of pure
oxygen in his mask slow his breathing and force the tension from his body. In
his case it was his toes and calves that seemd to be perpetually clenched, like
a swimmer on the starting block, as if he was always trying to grip onto
something. It was refreshing to feel how good his feet felt after forcing them
to relax.

 
          
Slowly,
he worked his way up his body, ordering each muscle group to relax. One by one
he managed to relax his body parts, letting the stiffness of the metallic
flight suit support him in the ejection seat. He knew he’d have to reexamine
his leg muscles now and then, but after dozens of these sessions his relaxation
technique was getting much better.

 
          
“Very
good,” he heard Carmichael say, “much better. Minimal beta activity. Very
steady alpha complex.”

 
          
“It
seemed to go easier this time,” Patrick said. “How long did it take?”

 
          
“You
did pretty well, only one hundred and thirty minutes this time.”

 
          
“Over two hours . . . ?”

           
“Easy, easy, maintain your alpha
level . . .”

 
          
Patrick
fought to regain his body-relaxation state, despite his sudden confusion and
disorientation. “I thought I was getting better, it seemed like just a few
minutes.”

 
          
“A
good sign. You enter a state of altered consciousness, much like hypnosis but
more so. Losing track of time is a good sign—if you had said it took two hours
it would mean your mind is still focused on external events like time—”

 
          
And
then he felt it, a tiny jolt of electricity shooting through his body. It was
like diving into an ice-cold pool of water—the jolt didn’t start or stop
anywhere in particular but it shocked his entire body all at once. It was not
totally uncomfortable, just unexpected—more attention-getting than painful,
like a mild static electricity shock. His body jerked at the first jolt, and he
fought to relax his body again. Surprisingly, he found it much easier to relax
this time.

 
          
“Just
relax, Patrick.” Carmichael sounded as if he was calling from the bottom of a
deep well. “You’re coming along fine. Relax, Patrick . . .”

 
          
Another
jolt of electricity, harder and deeper this time, creating a shower of sparks
before his eyes. There was real pain this time, completely different from the
first. Patrick remembered the three deadman’s switches rigged to the seat—one
on each hand and one on the back of his helmet, where all he had to do was
release his grip on the handles or move his head in any direction and the power
to the simulator box would immediately cut off. The electricity was still
there, still intense ... all he had to do was hold on long enough to command
his hands to move . . .

 
          
“Remember
taekwondo, Patrick,” he heard a voice from nowhere say. “Allow the fight to
come to you. Accept it. Be prepared to channel it.”

 
          
Another
surge of energy, powerful enough to make Patrick gasp aloud in his mask. There
was a brief shot of oxygen, but now it felt blasting hot, like opening an oven
door . . .

 
          
“Don’t
fight the energy. Relax ...”

 
          
“The
pain ... I can’t stand it . . .”

 
          
“Relax
. . . regain theta-alpha.”

 
          
Another
intense wave of electricity, and he involuntarily grunted against the pain. The
shimmering wall of stars washed over him—but they were different this time. The
lights remained, and amidst ever-growing jabs of pain throughout his body the
stars began to coalesce into images. Faint, blurred, unreadable—but they were
not just random stars. Something was forming . . .

 
          
Here
was finally something to latch onto, to grasp and hold firm, for no other
reason than to preserve his sanity and keep from screaming out in terror and
pain. When the pain increased in severity, Patrick let it hit him head-on,
enduring it long enough just so he could reexamine the sparks of pain floating
in his mind’s eye and form another concrete mental image.

 
          
He
was experiencing what James already knew and had gone through . . . His whole
body was on fire. The pain was continuous, but so were the sheets of light—and
they were definitely taking shape. Flashes of numbers, some logical, others
unintelligible, zipped back and forth in his subconscious mind. The images were
beginning to organize themselves— there was now a sort of horizontal
split-screen effect, with darkness above the new horizon and floating, speeding
numbers and polyhedrons below. He could hear short snaps of sound, like a
stereo receiver or short-wave radio gone haywire.

 
          
The
sounds were the key. Patrick now began to concentrate against the pain,
channeling it along with the confusion, trying to slow the jumble of numbers
and letters and shapes into one positive, concrete form. With each push in the
desired direction, ANTARES would give him a burst of pain for his trouble.

           
But the pain didn’t matter any more.
There was an objective now, a goal to reach, if a childishly simple one . . .
three letters—A, B, C—and one device—the simulator’s intercom.

 
          
The
letters were becoming as large as the lower half of the split screen, but they
were finally becoming solid, aligning themselves beneath the blackness. Soon
they remained steady, and even began to slide away from the center toward the—

 
          
“Patrick?”

 
          
The
voice was like a distant, relaxing whisper, like a church bell off in the
distance, like the friendly toot of a boat horn on the Sacramento River back
home. “Powell?”

 
          
“Welcome
back, boss. Have a nice trip?”