MIND FIELDS (31 page)

“Give me a break.  It was jealousy, plain and simple.  He wanted the promotion that I got and that he never deserved, that’s all.”

The chief did remember; he remembered the case like it was yesterday.  It had been Fleurian’s first day on the street.  A call had come in about an armed robbery in progress.  Fleurian and his partner were in the closest patrol car to the scene; they were there when Kincade arrived.  Feurian’s partner had been shot and killed.  There were two hostages, teen-aged girls, guarded by one of the perpetrators just inside the store.  The second man was out in front, arms in the air, but with the gun still in his right hand as Kincade drove up with his partner.  Fleurian was squatting behind his patrol car, yelling at the man and poised to shoot.

Kincade’s partner, the only experienced officer of the three, recognized the potentially explosive situation and jumped out of his car to intervene.  The man spun and aimed his pistol at Kincade’s partner.  “Shoot, Jacques,” Richie yelled as he scrambled out of the car, reaching for his own weapon.  Fleurian stood there, motionless in his squat, while the man pulled the trigger and killed Richie’s partner.  Richie shot twice and killed the man.  The second perpetrator inside the store was unarmed, and came out with his hands up.  Kincade and Fleurian were decorated for bravery.  It turned out that one of the two hostages was the governor’s daughter. 

Kincade had kept his report vague, but he met privately with the chief.  It was obvious that Fleurian had frozen under pressure, as lots of men do.  He just wanted to make sure that Fleurian wouldn’t be the cause of any more officers losing their lives.  Fleurian adamantly denied the allegations, and used his newly acquired medal of valor to gain entry to the Secret Service, where his career would flourish over the years; he had learned from his mistake.  Kincade tried to stop the transfer, afraid of Fleurian’s new position creating a danger for the president, but he was rebuffed and accused of acting out of jealousy of his comrade’s promotion.  Kincade never fully came to terms with having to kill a man at such close range that he could see the piercing agony in his victim’s eyes as the bullet struck; he vowed to keep himself out of that situation in the future, and put in for transfer to the Motor Vehicle Tech-Tampering Division.

“That’s all dead and buried, Jacques.  Let’s not dig it up.  You’ve both grown since then, and you’re both damned good at your jobs.  Give him that at least.”

“Do you have any evidence, anything hard that implicates Bradley.”

“Nothing hard.”  The chief relayed the information that Richie had told him, including the theory on the NSA’s nanobot mind-control project.  “I know it sounds kind of crazy, but I trust Richie’s instincts.”

“I’m not going to stake my career on one of  Kincade’s hunches.”

“At least keep an eye on Bradley.  If nothing else, he is coming back awfully quick from a serious brain injury that could affect his judgment, experimental treatment or not, and he’ll have optimum access to the president.”

“I’ll do my job, Chief.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“Take care, old man.”  The line went dead.

“Screw you, Fleurian,” he said to a blank screen.

Chapter twenty two

  Dust swirled around the low-flying Hawk D-46 helicopter as it traveled across the arid Arizona desert toward the Bush Army Base System.  BABS, consisting of five desert army bases, had been established in the early part of the twenty-first century as a training ground for American military personal likely to see action in the Middle East.  Trace McKnight stood just inside a Plexiglas barrier at the helipad of BABS-5 watching the D-46 swoop in from the south.  The noise was deafening, but the barrier protected his eyes from the swirling sand.

  The helicopter landed gracefully, but no one disembarked from the craft until the blades stopped churning. 

  “Welcome,” McKnight shouted as James O’Grady hopped down from the chopper.  “Welcome to BABS-5, Uncle Jimmy.  How was your trip?”

  “You don’t have to shout, kid,” he said.  The air was still, but McKnight’s ears still felt the effect of the helicopter engines.

  “Oh yeah, sorry.  Takes a few minutes for my hearing to return to normal.”

  “So this is BABS-5, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was O’Grady’s first trip to the desert complex, but Trace McKnight had been coming here twice a month for the past three months.  He led O’Grady over to a waiting jeep.

  “Looks like hell,” O’Grady said.  “Feels like it too.”  It was ninety-eight degrees in the shade.

  “Ah, you get used to it.  It’s a dry heat, not so bad.”

  “It’s still heat.”  O’Grady preferred the D.C. climate.

  The jeep pulled up in front of a two-story non-descript-looking building, classic army architecture.  “This is it.”

  “Pretty impressive,” O’Grady said facetiously.

  “Like they say, it’s what’s inside that counts, Uncle Jimmy.”

  He led O’Grady into the biotech research facility at BABS-5.  “Without civilian red tape to worry about, we’ve been able to get twice as much done here as we could back at BNI.  It’s a whole lot easier to get ‘volunteers’ out here,” he laughed.  “We’ve run a dozen simulations in the past three months.”

  “A dozen?  You’ve had that many head injuries on a base this size?  You’re going to get us investigated, Trace.  Even for an Army base, that’s going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “Brain injuries?  We don’t need no stinkin’ brain injuries,” he said in a poorly imitated Mexican accent, a twist on one of his favorite lines from the movies.  “That’s the beauty of it.”  He led his uncle into an operating suite.  A faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air.  “We use this,” he said, pointing to a stainless steel drill that was suspended from a swing arm at the end of an operating table.  “Our volunteers are given a vague description of the study.  They’re told they’ll be treated with a new type of implant that will enhance their ability to perform in a combat situation – not totally untrue, really.  We bring them in here and inject the Phase Three nanobots directly into the right frontal lobe.”

  “My God, you’re creating an army of human robots.”

  “Precisely,” Trace said proudly.

  “This could backfire on us, Trace.”

  “Life is full of risks, Uncle Jimmy.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Take a look at the test results before you make up your mind.”

  “I intend to.”

  There was a knock on the open door and both men looked over.  “Yes?  What is it, Private?

“They’re ready for you, sir,” the young man said.

“Excellent,” Trace said.  “That’ll be all, son.”

“Yes, sir.”  The private turned and walked away.

“Follow me, Uncle Jimmy.  I think you’re going to like this.”

Trace led his uncle back outside to a waiting jeep. “I’ll drive, Private.  You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”  Anytime a drive into the desert on a summer’s day could be avoided, it was a welcomed dismissal.  He hurried away quickly.

“Guess he was afraid you’d change your mind.  You’re not really going to drive me out into the desert on a day like this, are you?”

“Aw, don’t be such a wimp, Uncle Jimmy.  Besides, it’ll be worth it.  Believe me.”

O’Grady reluctantly climbed into the open jeep.  Trace took the driver’s seat, then activated the automatic roof, which closed in over their heads from the rear of the vehicle.  He started the engine and turned on the air conditioner. 

“I may like the desert, but I’m not stupid,” he said.

“Thank God for small favors,” O’Grady said.

They drove off into the desert.  About fifteen minutes from the camp, Trace pulled into a sparsely wooded area at the foothills of a mountain range and followed a dry riverbed in toward the mountain.  The foliage was sparse, but increased as they penetrated further into the park.  A couple of miles in, he turned up a winding road that ended on a bluff overlooking a valley with a small stream running along the base, and bordered on the far side by a small grove of palm trees.  Trace parked the jeep between two trees that had camouflage netting draped between them.  The holes in the net allowed the two men to see out across the vista, but shielded any light reflecting off the jeep from prying eyes.

“See there?” Trace said, pointing at the grove.

“Just beautiful, kid.  This what you brought me out here to see?  You’re mom would be proud.”

“Maybe not,” he answered, looking sullen for the first time today.  He hadn’t thought about his mother in a long time.

O’Grady could see the pain on his nephew’s face.  “Sorry, Trace.”

“Yeah…”  He stared blankly out the window for a moment, and then reached across the dash to pull a pair of field binoculars out of the glove compartment.  “Try with these.”

O’Grady looked through the binoculars at the grove area down by the river.  Two men in uniform were sitting by the stream, fishing and dangling their feet in the water.

“I still don’t get it.  I mean, it looks like a hell of a way to spend an afternoon…better than what we’re doing, anyway…but what am I supposed to be looking at here?”

“You’re looking at Tommy Philkern and Joey Carson, a couple of privates who joined the army about eighteen months ago.  They grew up together in Blue Ball, Pennsylvania, best friends.  They played on the same high school football team, enlisted together and volunteered for assignment at BABS-5 together.”

“Very touching.  Really.”

“Thought you’d like it,” Trace continued.  “And they both volunteered for the new combat performance enhancement project back at the base.”  Trace pulled a small electronic device out of his shirt pocket.  It looked like a TV remote control.  “But only Tommy, the one on the left, has been injected so far.”

He lifted the remote control and typed in a series of digits.

O’Grady glanced over at the device.  “Is that what I think it is?”  It looked strikingly similar to a device that he’d seen Trace use years earlier in Italy to activate a mind-control motorcycle helmet.

“Just watch and enjoy.”  He lifted his hand, pointing his index finger up in the air and then emphatically plunged it down onto the remote control, activating the ‘send’ signal.

O’Grady scrambled to get the binoculars up to his face and focus on the two men again.  Tommy Philkern put his fishing pole down on the ground and walked back to a tree where the soldiers’ backpacks were resting.  He reached into one of the packs and pulled out a pistol.  As he cocked the gun, Joey Carson looked around, apparently roused by the noise.  O’Grady could see the cold, lifeless stare on Tommy’s face; he could only imagine what was going through Joey’s mind.  Tommy fired the pistol; the sound could be heard reverberating through the desert a split second after the gun kicked back ever so slightly in the soldier’s hand.  He turned, walked to a wooded area about fifty yards from where Joey lay, paused to wipe the gun down carefully, and then tossed it into the brush.  Tommy walked over to the backpack, kneeled down and closed it.  He seemed to freeze for an instant, and then slumped slightly forward, dropping his head down into his hands as he was released from the programmed actions of the nanobots.  After a moment of disorientation, he turned and saw Joey lying on the ground.  Tommy ran to his best friend’s side and turned him over.  He jumped back from the body as he saw the wound, then quickly scanned the area, eyes darting wildly in all directions.  He stayed low and scrambled back to his pack.  Tommy rummaged frantically through the pack, then tossed it aside and reached into the other pack, retrieving Joey’s pistol and taking cover behind the tree.  O’Grady could see him peering out from behind the trunk of the tree intermittently.

“What in the hell is he doing?”

Trace was looking through another pair of binoculars at the proceedings.  “Darned fool has no idea what happened.  One minute he was fishing, the next he was sitting under the tree looking at his dead friend.  He’s looking for a sniper, but wondering why he didn’t hear the shot and how he got over by that tree.”  Trace snickered.

“He doesn’t remember anything he just did?”

“Not a bit.  Ain’t it beautiful?  He just shot his best friend at point blank range without hesitation and doesn’t remember a thing.”

“You’re a cold hearted bastard, Trace.”

“Thanks, Uncle Jimmy.”

“Then it’s a go?”

“It’s a go,” O’Grady nodded.

Chapter twenty three

“It’s for you, Richie,” Lara Kincade called from the upstairs bedroom.

Richie had heard the phone ringing, but preferred to let his wife answer it.  He sighed and struggled out of his easy chair by the TV.  “Got it, hon,” he called up to her as he reached for the phone.

“Yeah?” he said into the receiver.

“It’s me, Richie.”  Kincade recognized Chief Hartner’s voice.  “Afraid I’ve got some bad news.  The head of the president’s security detail now is an old buddy of yours.”

“Say it ain’t so,” Richie muttered.  He only knew one man in the Secret Service.  “Jackass Fleurian, huh?”

“‘Fraid so, Richie.  I talked to him, did my best, but I don’t think he’ll bite.  My guess is that he’s going to have a good laugh at my expense…”

“At our expense.”

“At
our
expense… and do absolutely nothing about it.”

“I can’t say I blame him really.  To come to him with a story like that and not one lousy shred of evidence to implicate Bradley…”

“Yeah.  Thanks for making me the messenger.”

“Cheer up, Chief.  Maybe Bradley really will kill the president.  Then you’ll turn out to be right.  Just think what it’ll do for your credibility.”

“Some consolation, Richie.”

“Thanks for trying anyway, Chief.”

“Right.  Well, let me know if you’ve got any more ideas.  I don’t feel right about this.”

“Yeah.  Me neither.  Thanks.”  Richie hung up the phone.

“No luck with Washington, eh?” Sandi said.  She had been watching from across the room.

“Nah.  I didn’t expect any, really.”

“How about the press?  It’d make a great story, and if you can get this to go public, the NSA will have to delay their plans.  It’ll be too risky.”

“Would you run that story?  No editor worth his salt would risk running that story in his paper.  No, we’ve got to figure out what they are planning to do.  We need something concrete, and it’s too dangerous to let your boyfriend keep digging around at BNI.”

The evening news was on the TV.  Richie had the sound muted, but Sandi was watching none-the-less. 

“Isn’t it just beautiful?”  she said.  They were showing the rolling hills of the Windsong Meadows Golf Club.  It was the president’s favorite place to play, and the location that most members of the press were guessing the match with Harold Bradley would take place next weekend.

Kincade looked over at the TV.  “Yup.  Looks like a great place to spend a day — quiet, pristine, wide open space with…of course,” he whispered, interrupting himself.

“Of course what?”

“It’s the perfect place for the chief of staff to blow out the president’s brains.”

“Of course,” Sandi said, nodding agreement as she realized where Kincade was going with this. “There’s got to be a million ways for Bradley to sneak a weapon onto a golf course, something he’d never be able to do in the White House.”

“And,” Kincade added, “Lot’s of wide open space with clear line of sight to the course from a thousand well concealed hiding places, where an NSA agent could watch the match and wait for the perfect opportunity to activate the nanobots that will turn Harold Bradley into a killing machine.”

“Great,” Sandi said.  “Now all you have to do is tell your buddies at the station so they can stop it.”

“Not that easy.  This will be a federal operation.  The president will have his own men there.  The local cops will only be patrolling the streets around Windsong Meadows.  Besides, the BPD has no jurisdiction there.”