The Eskimo Invasion

by Hayden Howard

  The face frowned, glanced at someone else and nodded.

  Another face appeared, vaguely reminiscent, an old and vulpine face. Had he known -- the son of this man? Harvard Med School? This couldn't be his roomie, inarticulate Sammy Wynoski, could it? Sammy would be only about forty years old. This withered face looked sixty and worried as it bent closer. "Can you see me?"

  "Sammy?" Dr. West asked.

  "Yes."

  "How long?" Dr. West croaked. "How long I been -- gone?"

  "Sixteen years. Two presidents." Dr. Samuel Wynoski shrugged as if in apology. "We've made it into the twenty-first century. It's 2009. For a long time we've known how to -- "

  "Am I still in Canada -- the United States?"

  "We're across the Potomac River from the Capitol," Dr. Samuel Wynoski murmured." You're in the basement of -- "

  "Sixteen years -- Why would anyone want me now?"

  Dr. West remembered that Sammy Wynoski had specialized in chemopsychiatry. Back in the 1980s when Dr. West was Director of Oriental Population Problems Research supported by a Defense Department grant at the University of California, reportedly Dr. Wynoski was with a clinic in Washington, D.C., which had a consultant contract with the Central Intelligence Agency. He still was --

  Each day Dr. West's strength increased but his confusion did not. He was anxious to find out about the U.S. outside. Leaning over his bed, his muscular "teacher" persisted in talking about China. "They already have over a billion Esks." The cleancut man's jaw hardened as if in suppressed anger as he evaded questions about the U.S. and lectured on and on about China.

  Dr. West remembered, while he was on trial the Chinese had recruited nearly half the population from the Boothia Peninsula, approximately 4000 Esks. Now he wondered what had happened to the remaining 4000 Canadian Esks. Sixteen years had passed. Marthalik? he thought and asked: "Do Esks grow old?"

  "They look about the same as they always did." His muscular teacher shrugged and smiled grimly. "Western hemisphere's relatively unchanged," he repeated. "A.O.K. here. But in China there is a solution to the agricultural problem. Tomorrow you'll be interested in looking at our latest satelphotos of Szechwan Province."

  "Why? Why the hell should I be interested in China now? I want to know what's happening in the United States!"

  When Dr. West was disconnected from his pumps and pacemaker, and wheelchaired to the office of Dr. George Bruning, who was no medical doctor, the bland- faced Deputy Director of the CIA leaned forward over his desk. "You have us to thank for being alive. Years ago, under another presidential administration, one of our Canadian agents somehow acquired from a female informant the filing number of your cryodrawer in -- was it the New Ottawa Reformation Center? But that administration didn't consider you of national importance, not enough to justify, shall we say, violation of Canadian sovereignty in order to remove you. In those days, Washington simply considered you an unusually unpopular mass murderer."

  Dr. George Bruning smiled, and Dr. West thought he recalled the Deputy Director of the CIA as a much-photographed astronaut-scientist of some twenty years ago.

  "We of what the newspapers term the Harvard Circle of the Agency," Dr. Bruning laughed, "try to be more creative than those old Agency pros of the 1990s. We do think you are of national importance."

  Evidently so, Dr. West mentally agreed, because the CIA had gone to the trouble of stealing his 2000 pound thermos bottle from the Cold Room in the New Ottawa Reformation Center. "When can I go upstairs and see the sun?"

  "You're safer in the basement."

  But each day as they briefed him on China, even renewing his Chinese language training, Dr. West became more restive. Why would they waste so much time on an obsolete Esk expert who had been out of circulation for more than sixteen years and knew nothing of what had happened in the rest of the world? He was no China expert. He had no intention of volunteering to go to China, which sounded even more dangerous and chaotic than twenty years ago.

  To his surprise, one day a strangely aged Fred Gatson looked in at him. That balding boy wonder, who had replaced Dr. West as Director of Oriental Population Problems Research at the University of California, still seemed embarrassed. "You look pretty good, Dr. -- uh, Joe, my boy. You look better than the rest of us."

  "Why are you here?"

  "I work here." By training, Fred originally had been a bacteriologist.

  And another shockingly aged boy wonder also worked here. Dr. West hadn't seen him face to face since beer after Harvard. "It's good to see you, Tom."

  As he watched Tom Randolph's calculating eyes, and remembered how Tom as an undergrad dynamited the Quad and never was caught. Dr. West didn't know whether it was good or not to see Dr. Tom Randolph standing here eyeing him. Their last contact had been by letter some nineteen years ago when Dr. West was back in Berkeley, married to Marthalik, and desperately trying for a position at any major university. He had written to his friend Tom at Duke, where Tom was Director of a parapsych research program funded by the Pentagon. Tom's reply had been cordially unhelpful, probably because he knew Dr. West was on the Defense Department's blacklist. At that time, Dr. West had felt angry because he was the one who put Tom on to psych as a grad student. Dr. West had scared the hell out of the kid with his own parlor-trick thought transmissions, and fascinated him even more. Because of Dr. West, Tom had gone on to fame and fortune, while Dr. West had given up parapsych as an unfruitful hobby. Now Tom was working for the CIA. "Can you walk yet?"

  Dr. West's heart pounded alarmingly the day he finally walked, and Dr. Sammy Wynoski reassured him: "Not my specialization but I've been told the shortwave thawing process results in slight depositing of cholesterol fat within the arteries. You know, arteriosclerosis."

  "Like my heart muscle isn't getting enough blood," Dr. West laughed, trying to conceal his fear of death as a tiny fist of pain squeezed his heart, and he sat down.

  "You're being given an anticoagulant to lessen the temporary danger of clots. For minor chest pains due to overexertion, I suppose you should be carrying trinitrogtycerine tablets." Dr. Wynoski shrugged. "We're not likely to lose you now," he laughed reassuringly. "Our cardiovascular consultant tells me our chances are better that your heart will repair itself than if surgical replacement with an androidal unit is attempted. We wouldn't want to lose you."

  Apparently they were so reluctant to lose him, they wouldn't even let him go upstairs. "I want to see the sun."

  "You can catch up on your knowledge of the world from down here," Dr. George Bruning soothed. "The Canadian Government has been frantic since they discovered their thermos bottles at the New Ottawa Reformation Center had been -- shifted. They surmise you're in the United States. Because you are a convicted mass murderer second only in notoriety to the fabled Adolph -- was it Eichmann, and your escape has aroused such outraged world-wide publicity, the U.S. Government is making every effort to apprehend you, if you should be in the United States."

  In confused anger, Dr. West glanced at the concrete ceiling of the basement of the Central Intelligence Building.

  Dr. George Bruning, Deputy Director of the CIA, laughed. "You can't go upstairs. The FBI is looking for you."

  And Dr. Tom Randolph laughed as excitedly as an undergrad. "We have a better use for you than they do. You're the subje- -- the person in the United States with the ideal characteristics and past history."

  Apologetically, Dr. Sammy Wynoski inserted a needle into Dr. West's arm. "You're lucky to have such a fine head of hair, Joe. You haven't aged like -- uh, I -- have."

  Dr. West's consciousness faded, seeming to flicker for measureless weeks while he repeated and remembered whatever they told him to remember, and forgot whatever the disembodied voice, which sounded like Tom Randolph's, told him to forget.

  7. AIR FORCE VERSUS CIA

  Hunted by the FBI as a convicted mass murderer -- and concealed by the Central Intelligence Agency for some baffling purpose, Dr. Joe West plodded across the dark runway. H
is footsteps clumped toward the silhouette of the aircraft.

  His legs felt impossibly heavy. Swollen. But he thought his legs were as thin as when he was an undernourished scholarship student at Harvard Med School.

  Imaginary heavy legs? Dr. Joe West's mouth split in a confused grin. Psychosomatic elephantiasis? What drugs had the CIA given him these last confusing weeks?

  His face was prison-thin as he plodded toward the aircraft. Staring at the cavernous air intakes under the variable sweep wings, Dr. West recognized the bomber as the last of the air breathers.

  Takeoff is rocket assisted, lot of Gs for my circulatory system, he thought nervously, remembering a startling amount about this SCRAMjet bomber he'd never seen before.

  Probably when 2500 miles per hour or some God-awful starting speed was attained, the bomber's ramjets would become operative, and it would flash much faster like a torch through the night. Too fast!

  The exertion of walking made him gasp. His heartbeats faltered. At his side his CIA bodyguard urged him on, and the distance to the bomber became excruciating.

  Imaginary heavy legs? Imaginary was what one of the excitedly smiling faces in the Harvard Circle had assured him. But in another room in the basement of CIA headquarters another doctor had reassured him that any slight swelling of his legs was merely a mild side effect from a mild sedative. Contradictory liars! Had they saved him or traded him off? Not to the FBI --

  His legs dragged like anchors as the Air Force ground crew boosted Dr. West up the steel ladder toward the belly of the intruder bomber. In his bemused condition, the tiny orifices pitting the stainless steel skin of the bomber looked like pores. This damned airplane was designed to fly too low, too fast! To protect its fuselage from the meteoric blaze of air friction, did the pores exude sweat? He'd been told that several of these SCRAMjets had crashed.

  I don't want to burn, he thought, almost panicking as they shoved him up into a confining metal tunnel in the aircraft. As he crawled within the glittering tube, it hummed around his eardrums and clinked and echoed. Someone was crawling close behind him.

  His legs dragging, Dr. West crawled with the strength of his arms and shoulders. His damned legs felt twenty pounds overweight. During surgery, had they left in more than sponges? His face twisted in an uncertain grin. His muscles shivered. His eyes blinked.

  Mild sedative? Bullshit! He felt as disoriented as if he'd undergone narcohypnosis.

  His straining arms pulled him into the cramped electronic countermeasures capsule of the bomber. Unexpectedly his head bumped the low ceiling, and his eyes widened with claustrophobia. The angry world closed on him like a fist. He tried to turn. Not enough room for two men in here!

  But a nameless Major was struggling in beside him. Massive and radiating heat, the Major grunted. The pressure door clunked shut, sealing them in. Like twins in a womb, they squirmed and politely elbowed each other. Side by side, Dr. West realized they were seated facing backward toward the tail. Against him, the Major's blue eyes loomed so close they blurred.

  "Let me fix your crash -- I mean -- safety harness." The Major's laugh was high-pitched for such a huge man. "Here's your crash helmet, you CIA bastard! They -- " A metallic shriek exploded. Lurching forward, the bomber howled along the runway, hurled itself.

  Facing backward, Dr. Joe West felt his eyeballs bulging as if almost left behind, while acceleration dragged the nylon straps into his chest. Gawking down at the one tiny heat-insulated viewplate between his boots, he glimpsed discolored clouds. The dark mountains of the California coastline were backlighted by the sunrise. Incongruously, obscenely reversing itself, the sunrise sank back into the mountains. Dr. West realized the bomber had activated its ramjets and was outspeeding the turning Earth. The dimming dawn drowned. The darkening Pacific Ocean glittered as this lone bomber hurried to overtake the night.

  The Air Force Major squirmed. "Hope you -- I mean -- Central Intelligence -- you spooks can't just send us off and kill us -- without telling us the mission?" The Major's laughter rose like the safety valving of a steam boiler. "The generals shook our hands too much. The brass didn't level with us at the briefing."

  "I wasn't at the briefing," Dr. West muttered.

  "Why don't you CIA spooks -- use your own black planes?" the Major again laughed explosively. "The way your Deputy Director is -- buddying around with the President -- your Central Intelligence already owns more manned aircraft than the Air Force. So send one of your own black clunkers. This SCRAMjet bomber cost fifty million bucks, and we got damn few of them."

  Dr. West didn't know what to answer. His head hurt.

  "That was a controlled-environment tank they hoisted into our bomb bay," the Major's voice persisted. "Too heavy. Hell of a long takeoff run. Heavy spray tank. Too heavy. So tell me we're going to spray crops."

  Dr. West couldn't answer.

  The Major shoveled sarcasm. "I mean -- the Air Force is not officially at war, you know. I can't speak for the CIA. Have your spooks got Presidential approval for this mission? Does he know what's in the spray tank?"

  "He may. I don't," Dr. West retorted.

  "Like hell you don't," the Major laughed, squirming, trying to readjust the leather holster on his hip.

  Dr. West contorted his body, trying to give the Major elbow room. He thought the Major was showing too explosive a personality. It was difficult to estimate how this Air Force officer would react if he recognized Dr. West. At least the Major was not piloting the bomber. Dr. West wet his dry lips.

  The aircraft's flight steadied. "Autopilot's switched to astroinertial guidance," the Major said. "Up front Colonel Meller can take his nap. But I got a personal reason for finding out what's in the spray tank."

  Dr. West wished the Major would shut up!

  "You look sort of pale," the Major laughed. "Sick?"

  Speechless, Dr. West shook his head. His eardrums were killing him.

  Strapped to his side as closely as a Siamese twin, the Major eyeballed him. "You feel OK?"

  Dr. West blinked at the Major's enormously close face. Plainly the Major had not recognized him from the TV news, and Dr. West tried to relax. Seventeen years ago in Canada, when people recognized Dr. West, they tried to kill him.

  "The Colonel up there in the control module and you and me, all three in the hot seat," the Major persisted. "We'll fry together, so what's in the spray tank?"

  Dr. Joe West furrowed his brow. Clumsily, he tried to scratch his armpit without elbowing the Major. Within his nylon flying suit, Dr. West's body was perspiring in the padded cotton rags of a Chinese commune worker, deceased. He couldn't remember if he had been told what was in the spray tank.

  Something alive was crawling up his ribs. Hungrily, it bit. Dr. West's gaunt face lighted in his pained grin. Evidently for authenticity, the Central Intelligence Agency had salted his rags with genuine Chinese Communist fleas.

  Another bite! Grinning like a befuddled skeleton, Dr. West imagined when his last drop of blood had been drunk, the fleas would arise in unison and shout: "Paper Tiger!" Then in glorious self-defense and in order to preserve international peace, the fleas would infiltrate the Major.

  But the Major would not be another Burma or Pakistan. The Major's profile, twelve inches from the Doctor's eyes, appeared massive and forbidding. His teeth were grinding with tension. The Major would not negotiate with fleas. Or Chinese --

  The Major's thick forefinger poked the black box on the Doctor's lap. "That's wired to the spray tank. Hey, this dial is at 98.6 degrees! Is that Fahrenheit? That's the temperature of the human body. What has the CIA got us carrying?"

  Dr. West smiled wryly. He still couldn't remember. He wasn't sure. He had known yesterday. He tried to think back into his scrambled-egg brain. Narcohypnosis, those sons of bitches.

  "How should I know," Dr. West's mouth answered as if it had been trained. "I'm only a biotechnician who twists the dials and gets his ass shot off." But he remembered he was a medical doctor! "I'm not even CIA." That
was true. Even his mouth wanted to disassociate him from the CIA. "I wasn't even at the flight briefing. You were."