Wormhole (16 page)

Balls laughed. “I’d say the chances of ever seeing him again aren’t too good.”

Karl Oberstein snorted in agreement. “Not much chance of that fellow surviving an encounter with Gregory. Surprises me he managed to cut him, though.”

“Probably had to do with protecting the girl,” said Balls.

“Here’s another story from Los Alamos. Heather McFarland kidnapped and attacked by Dr. Ernesto Rodriguez, a top Rho Project scientist. He kills himself before arrest.”

“McFarland kid? Kidnapped again?” Bert asked.

Denise changed slides again. “This is from the
Washington Post
. It’s the story about Jonathan Riles’s murder of Dr. David Kurtz, after which he took his own life.”

The atmosphere in the room acquired a somber cast.

“This next slide is the AP story about the FBI attempt to capture or kill Jack Gregory and his team. Another black eye for the FBI folks, this one even surpassing Waco. A couple of Gregory’s team killed, a couple dozen FBI agents and civilians killed, Jack and Janet escape.”

Oberstein nodded. “I assume this is going somewhere.”

Denise pursed her lips. “A few more minutes and I’ll put a bow around it for you.”

Her curt response drew another chuckle from Balls Wilson. “Careful. She’s got your number, Karl.”

She began flipping through the slides more rapidly.

The FBI director murdered.

President Harris assassinated.

Senator Pete Hornsby, the key Senate voice against the Rho Project, dead in a car accident returning from his native Maine.

The three McFarland kids win the National Science Fair with a cold fusion device, a prize that is stripped for plagiarism.

Another AP story, this one about three missing Los Alamos, New Mexico, high school students: Heather McFarland and Mark and Jennifer Smythe.

Top CIA trainer, Garfield Kromly, found murdered.

Then the body of Eduardo Montenegro, the assassin known as El Chupacabra, found at Schriever Air Force Base, not far from where Jack Gregory is known to have hijacked the satellite uplink, reprogramming global GPS satellites to shut down the Rho Project’s nanite formula.

Denise ended her slide presentation and faced the general.

“Big John has tagged every one of these events with a very high correlation to my Jack Gregory search query.”

Levi’s nasal voice redirected her attention. “And what was Big John’s calculated degree of correlation?”

“The worst correlation was 0.873.”

“That high?”

“Yes. And there’s more. It turns out that Jennifer Smythe stayed several days at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, was identified by the security staff as a very accomplished hacker, and subsequently moved to the Espeñosa hacienda outside Medellín, Columbia. Not long after that, Don Espeñosa and a number of his guards were killed. After that, Jennifer Smythe just disappeared.”

“What about the other two kids?”

“Nothing firm, but a member of Espeñosa’s cleaning staff reported seeing two young Americans arrive at the hacienda on the day that Don Espeñosa died.”

“Jesus.”

“There’s one more thing. That day was Thanksgiving here in the good old USA. The same day Jack Gregory killed the Espeñosa
cartel’s number one hit man, the same day he reprogrammed the GPS satellites.”

Denise paused. “Now we’ve learned that the FBI is set to monitor a computer chat session between the McFarland and Smythe kids and their parents tonight.”

The room was silent for several seconds. Then General “Balls” Wilson rose to his feet.

“Karl, I want that computer hacked, the computer that the FBI will be monitoring for tonight’s chat. Work with Denise. Use her antivirus back door. Bottom line, I want us in virtual control of that system when tonight’s chat session begins. Oh, and remember, that Smythe girl is supposed to be a talented hacker. Keep our data copy local, nothing goes out on the Net while the chat session is in progress.”

“But what about the FBI? Aren’t they going to grab that computer right after the session?

“Not likely. It would be a dead giveaway to their quarry. They’ll remain in stakeout mode.”

“OK. You’ve got it, boss.”

“Make damned sure I do.”

Then the general turned on his heel and was gone.

Mark watched Heather’s eyes go white, then brown, then white again, changing color so rapidly he could almost convince himself that he’d imagined it. But he hadn’t.

She shuddered, shook her head, and grimaced. “Screw it!”

“What?” Mark asked, taken aback by Heather’s unusual descent into vulgarity.

Her angry eyes centered on his. “Sometimes I make myself so mad I can’t stand it. In a few minutes we’re going to get a chance to chat with our parents, something I want so bad I can taste it, and all I can do is second-guess our decision.”

“Understandable,” said Mark.

“Bullshit! If we can’t trust our parents, whom can we trust?”

Mark paused for several seconds. “True enough. But we know that both our houses were bugged by Jack and Janet. Who’s to say those bugs aren’t still active?”

Much to Mark’s relief, Heather nodded and calmed down. “That must be it. What’s been worrying me, I mean.”

“We’ve taken appropriate precautions, made a backdrop for our camera position with plastic sheeting, dressed ourselves in these white sheet togas. As long as we stay focused on not revealing anything about where we are, and remember we might be monitored, we’ll be fine. It’s impossible to trace our subspace signal.”

Heather’s eyes momentarily faded to gray, staying that way just long enough to concern Mark before they refocused. “You’re right. No reason to worry.”

Just then Jennifer entered the lab, the outside door letting in a breath of summer night air, thick with humidity and smells that signaled the gathering storm.

Her eyes swept across them. “You guys all right?”

“Fine,” said Heather, putting on what Mark knew was a forced smile. “Just a little anxious.”

Jen smiled back at her. “No kidding. Me too.”

Sitting down at her laptop, Jennifer logged in, then engaged the program that would connect them to Linda Smythe’s laptop. Her middle finger paused just above the
ENTER
key.

“Well, here goes.” She tapped the key, activating the subspace transmission.

Nothing happened for several seconds, then a video window filled the screen. There in front of them were the visages of their parents, crowded together in front of the computer camera.

Sadness engulfed Mark as he saw the tears streaming down Heather’s face.

She still managed to be first to speak.

“Hi, Mom, Dad. I miss you so much.”

“We miss you too, baby.” Mr. McFarland’s voice brought a rush of memories to Mark, memories centered in more comfortable
times, better days from the past. Mrs. McFarland stared into the screen, eyes misted, rendered completely speechless.

Then everyone spoke in a rush, Mark, Jen, and Heather competing for airtime even as all of the parents stepped all over each other’s words on the far end. The expressions of love gave way to questions about how each of them was doing. Gradually talk shifted to questions about their situation. Where were they? Did they need help? Could they come home?

Although they’d talked through these likely questions, Mark found them difficult to answer. With every question they dodged, their parents pressed for more details. If they needed help, they would get it. If someone was holding them against their will, just list the demands. Everything could be made all right again. Home was still home.

Then, seemingly before they’d even started the conversation, the wall clock indicated the time they’d agreed on had expired and Mark found himself taking the lead in telling his mom and dad good-bye. Another round of tears from the girls and their moms, another round of sad good-byes from their dads, and then Jennifer terminated the session.

Jennifer leaned forward on the desk, elbows on the table, face in her hands. Heather’s white eyes seemed to stare right through him, tears cutting narrow trails down her cheeks. As Mark stared down at the blank computer screen, the distant rumble of thunder marred the silence that had descended on the computer lab.

Standing there next to Heather and Jennifer, listening to the gathering storm, he couldn’t remember ever having been so depressed.

Fred Smythe put his arms around his wife, pulling her into a bear hug that was joined by Gil and Anna, a tiny huddle sharing the most difficult game of their lives. When he finally released her, he smiled.

“Darling, why don’t you take Anna and Gil down to the kitchen and put on a pot of tea. I’ll shut down your computer and be right down.”

Linda glanced at Anna, nodded, and led the other two out into the hallway and down the stairs.

Fred steadied himself, took in a great gulping breath, and took a seat in front of the laptop. Reaching under the table, he removed the listening device the FBI field agent had given him earlier in the day. Shoving it into his pocket, Fred grabbed the mouse, clicked the
START
button, selected Shutdown, and waited.

After several seconds, a new window appeared on the laptop:

Please do not power off or unplug your machine.

Installing update 1 of 2.

Fred shook his head. Damned Microsoft automatic updates. He’d have to remember to disable those next time he logged on to Linda’s computer.

Rising to his feet, he walked out of the room. Time to go visit with Linda and his friends, to spend some time talking about their kids. And as bad as the situation seemed, their kids were still alive. That certainly made the world feel a whole lot more manageable than it had just two days ago.

That damn laptop could take its sweet time shutting down.

Balls Wilson leaned over Dr. Mathews’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the rapidly scrolling computer screen.

“So Bert, did we get the data dump or not?”

“Don’t worry, sir. It’s streaming in right now.”

Dr. Donald Stephenson stared out at his audience, his eyes sweeping across the seated assemblage. The auditorium was completely full, eighteen hundred scientists shifting uneasily in their seats, staring up at him as if he were the Antichrist, hated, but too frightening to ignore.