Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow (42 page)

“
What I’m getting at, Martin, is the consequences of placing a bomb at the vortex of the Pentagon field. Will the explosive force actually travel back to the generator at all? If so will it travel only to the generator, assuming there is one? Or could it also travel to locations where the Harrison woman originated, and perhaps to others we haven’t identified? Could it shatter the field itself?

“In my opinion, we do not understand this science sufficiently well to risk the action that some senior officers and certain Congressmen advocate, placing a large explosive device in the core of the Pentagon.”

Martin Shackleford is ready. In recent days he has become more confident in his dealings with top military brass, his arguments are lined up. In the comfort of his home office, his personal sway is at a maximum, with his mentor Marina Kutsenova downstairs. Beside her laptop on the coffee table is a plate of cheese, a bunch of grapes, and some knotted white rope. Shackleford plans to convene a private meeting as soon as he can end this call.

“General, everyone,” Shackleford breaks in, “I understand that this science can be
one giant leap for mankind, for those encountering it for the first time. It goes back to the early 1900s when Einstein first published his General Theory of Relativity. Many other scientists since have worked to both prove and disprove his theories, theoretically and experimentally.

“For example in the late 1940s, the Czech mathematician Kurt Gödel demonstrated paradoxical solutions to Einstein's General Relativity field equations. He showed this proof to Einstein himself, which conclusively indicates the existence of rotating universes
that would make time travel possible. Gödel’s solution is documented as the Gödel Metric.

“My team has developed an algorithm that examine
s the energy structure of the portal field, and have arrived at a theoretical conclusion that the transport pseudopods are temporary. There will be one and only one permanent pathway from the Pentagon, back to the generating equipment itself. The other locations, we would not expect to be active, nor would we expect to find generating gear at those places. If there happened to be a transit active at the moment of the explosion, there is some chance the blast energy would travel there.”

“This is based not on conventional physics,” Marina puts in, as her face fills the primary view on
his screen, “but on unusual spacetime topology, one manifestation of which is known as a wormhole. Theoretical science from Gödel forward has investigated closed timelike curves, which require space to have holes in it, and therefore be discontinuous. There is enormous possibility in what Martin has advanced, but I would advocate caution, and question any rush to action.”

Shackleford keeps his expression calm, knowing he can be seen by the others. The best thing is to buy time. And his mind
swims with mad desire for the woman whose face occupies his computer display, the woman who waits on his living room sofa.

“General, everyone,” Shackleford says smoothly, “let me rejoin my team. We have other pending breakthroughs and will notify you of results as they are unveiled.”

“Thank you Martin,” Solberg says on the link, “Ms. Kutsenova, everyone. We will reconvene at an appropriate time.”

Shackleford
terminates the video conference, slams his laptop closed. He’s pulling off his shirt as he turns toward the hallway, in his ears the rapid beat of her footsteps on the stairs. As she runs to him, Marina has already removed her slacks. She shrugs her buttoned jacket away, leaving her in only panties and a lavender T-shirt that drapes the words
Goddess Culture
over her full breasts. She helps him off with his clothes, begins wrapping a braided rope around his wrist. Shackleford has dreamt of this day.

William Exley and Veronica duLac are in a UAV briefing room at Nevada’s Creech AFB. Wing Commander Colonel Bob Reed is at the front, using a laser pointer on a large LCD panel to indicate key features of the Pentagon courtyard. The twelve Reaper crew, with IT and communication systems specialists, watch with set faces.

“This view is in microwave frequencies, enhanced by the Shackleford detector. You can clearly see a whorl of stress lines converging at a point near Wedge Three. Fortunately it is high on the pseudo-surface of the field, near the top. A team of scientists headed by Shackleford presented calculations that say we can penetrate this area with standard munitions. The Joint Chiefs now believe we can launch a JDAM into that vortex and do damage to the portal field generator at the other end.”

“Sir, question.” One of the Reaper pilots at the back.

“Yes, Davidson?”

“What evidence are they showing us that this is actually a transit portal?”

Reed draws a breath. “Yesterday the FBI had in custody the young woman who appeared in the courtyard
with the intruder. She stayed in the courtyard originally for two days, then abruptly vanished. She did not walk away, she did not take a single step, she did not twitch her nose. She disappeared and returned two hours later. Yesterday, she vanished again and returned today, directly from FBI custody.

“And consider the objects that have appeared in the courtyard. We have seen photos of a canvas gazebo with colored flags, a round table laid out with a continental breakfast. That gazebo remained in the courtyard nearly four hours, while three of the intrusion team had breakfast. Then it vanished.”

“So…”

Colonel Reed looks around the room. “I sense a certain level of disbelief. Ladies and gentlemen, that disbelief is shared throughout senior command. What we are saying is that she somehow was transported instantly between California and Virginia. That event, aside from the scientific data and vector representations such as this one, is what leads scientists to postulate a transit portal of unknown origin.”

Reed surveys the room, waiting for questions. Exley’s hand is already up.

“Colonel, could you comment on the fact that a fully operational airborne laser fired on two persons in the courtyard and failed to do any damage? How is this consistent with a transit portal, a
s opposed to a force field, or something else?”

“Best I can tell you, ladies and gentlemen, is that our top scientists have it sorted out. Far beyond the pay grade of those present, including myself.” The Colonel surveys the room. No more hands go up.

Reed’s laptop pings. He pauses to read the new message. When he looks up, his face is grave.

“
The Joint Chiefs have ordered us to deploy a nuclear device at the Pentagon, the B63G guided bomb.” The silence in the room sings with tension. Colonel Reed lets out a long breath. “Alright. The mission of this team is to target a major munition directly at the location of the vortex whorl, the navel, as it’s being termed. Contrary to your intuition, I imagine, since it was contrary to mine at first, the blast will not be released in the locality of the Pentagon itself. It will travel through the portal and deliver energy at the source of the field, where the generating equipment must be located. It is our best calculation that this will permanently close the portal.”

Exley glances at Veronica, who cuts
guarded eyes to him quick and then away. No one sees. They are to deliver the heaviest weapon the Reapers carry, the B63 nuke. If the scientists are not correct, a nuclear explosion over the building will wipe out not only the Pentagon, but neighboring Arlington National Cemetery, everything from the far banks of the Potomac to Georgetown, Washington. In the five mile radius around the location live and work 300,000 people, about ten percent of whom are employed at the Pentagon directly. If the portal does not absorb the blast, everything in the radius will be wiped, the Potomac will flood the crater. Exley grits his teeth.
We are going nuclear on the Pentagon based on a scientist’s untested theory? Nuke my father’s grave?

“Sir?” Exley’s hand is up.

“Yes, Mr. Truck with Wings.” A ripple of tense laughter follows the impromptu nickname.

Exley grins self-consciously. “
How many Reapers will be on the mission, and will all carry the B63?”

“This is
compartmented information. Primary Reaper crews will receive that info on the weight and balance report after the birds are fueled. Relief crews will receive that briefing just prior to rotating in. There will be no discussion among crews during the mission, on base or off. Now, are there any other questions?”

The United States Pentagon's five facades are known as the Mall Terrace, the River Terrace, the Concourse Entrance where the Metro station is located, the South Parking Entrance, and the Heliport Entrance. In the hour before dawn, five RockMeBaby Luxo Strato-liners with clearance to park before those entrances arrive at the Jefferson-Davis highway underpass checkpoint, carrying one hundred sixty-two Roman Catholic priests, each trained in the art of demonic exorcism. All wear long black robes over their dark suits, floppy hats. Each has a satchel of useful items, and a supply of holy water.

T
hese priests count more than eighty-one thousand successful exorcisms among them. Their cases range from a girl with severe acne on the soles of her feet to a twenty-three year old Cambridge student with bleached, bleeding skin and long nails, who in his demonic rapture ate a small dog while howling piteously, ‘sorry mother.’

Father Gary Tilton is among them, nervous, excited, as prepared as any can be. The only one who has met the young woman
who has actual knowledge of the manifestation, Tilton has been sought out by others for his observations about her. He has recounted his visit, his experience of her frozen bedroom, her calm gravity, dozens of times. As such he is the only priest in the convocation directly connected to any part of this. Until late last night, the others had received their information primarily from YouTube and the Carson Johnny Show.

During the
midnight auditorium briefing led by General Solberg and the psychologist Arnold Friedman, the priests were shown numerous photographs and videos of the being that has occupied the Pentagon courtyard for a week now. Friedman, not a Catholic, spent most of his lecture on certain aspects of psychology having to do with mass hallucination or psychotic hypnosis. Tilton was most interested in Friedman’s discussion of the contagious laughter epidemics.

In the auditorium, the priests
see photos of the Pentagon with the enormous shadow draped across half an acre, gruesome images of Annetka’s facial skin stapled to her living room wall, photos of peeled skeletons in the singer’s Park Avenue flat and a similar scene in the home of a Malibu film star. They learn of more recent crimes, over a dozen multiple homicides where skeletons stripped of all flesh and a macabre gumbo of remains are the iconic signature. As the victim count approaches 100, only one witness has been identified.

The priests hear
official confirmation of news items previously learned through informal public channels, reports of mass hallucinations, first in Virginia and California, now spreading across the country. Tilton is rocked by images of a young blonde woman in the grip of a leather-scaled, winged dragon, and more shocking still, later views of the same person sitting amiably on a courtyard bench in the company of a tall and handsomely-dressed man. It appears they are having an amicable though contentious discussion. At one point the girl reclines on the bench with her head in the man’s lap. Outwardly easy and fraternal, this unrushed conversation takes place in a language unspoken on Earth in forty-seven hundred years. Homeland Security isn’t getting a word of it. The girl appears sleepy. At the time of these photos, she’d been in the courtyard for three days.

Tilton is incredulous at the images. Such a sweet, normal young woman. Did she enter into that situation knowingly? H
ad his warning come too late? His eyes close in prayer.

Solberg is uncomfortable about these revelations to civilians, he considers the information top secret. But he recognizes that the best military and academic minds having wrestled with the visitor and attendant effects for many days are no closer to a clear understanding, let alone a workable solution. All ideas are on the table, including those of that rabid dog Shackleford, advocating a
theatre nuke set down in the courtyard itself. Solberg cringes. The man is a slovenly dresser and spews when excited. His newest team member, the MIT physics professor Kutsenova, has lately imparted clarity and respectability to the team. But can she modulate Shackleford’s bellicose views? Solberg is also uncomfortable about certain high-level meetings that have gone on without him.

It takes an hour for the Pentagon police and Homeland Security agents to clear the
holy Fathers through the checkpoint, no matter that they were pre-screened at another location, accompanied by security personnel onboard, and provided RFID tags to wear around their necks. At long last the buses are released to motor beneath the overpass, drive sedately toward their preordained entrances. Quiet now within plush rolling comfort, each priest in his own silence scans the deserted scene, seeking above the building ahead for any sign, the slightest detail. Even at a distance the Pentagon is massive, a bleak stone fortress that squats heavily over the land.

T
he five buses stop at their designated entrance locations around the vast office building, midway along each of the five sides. The priests file into open-sided awning tents strung with microphones. Loudspeakers aim directly at the stone walls. A colorful dawn is breaking. Priests on the east faces of the giant edifice are silently awed by a golden sunrise. Fingering beads, many occupy themselves in prayer.