by Mark Russell
AUTHORIZED EXTRACT FROM M-162 MK-DELTA REPORT.
PSYCHOMIMETIC DRUG EXPERIMENTATION AT HARRIS PARK VETERANS HOSPITAL, CA.
Performed under the auspices of Dr Stanley Straub and Dr Alan Troudeau – in collaboration with the Warwick Marshall Army Institute of Research.
CASE 63 (Bethazetamine I.T. Programme)
NAME: JODI CHANDLER
D.O.B.:11/10/47
ADDRESS:2361 CRESTWARD ST. OAKLAND, CA.
OCCUPATION: STUDENT
The following account of a BZ-induced experience was written by Jodi Chandler, an English major student at the University of California. In response to a $95 per day student-induction programme, Chandler ingested a controlled amount of Bethazetamine (BZ) at the Harris Park Veterans Hospital.
Goldman skipped several pages of the report until stopping at Chandler's personal account:
The Harris Park staff (whom I'll refer to as the White Coats) led me into a small room with padded walls. The room was bare save for a bolted-down seat and a Perspex-covered two-way mirror on one wall. Noting my university particulars on his clipboard, one of the White Coats told me it was in this same seat that Ken Kesey ...
Goldman skipped further paragraphs until coming to Chandler's description of the full-blown hallucinations she purportedly experienced in the opening hours of her marathon drug session:
I walked up stone steps inside an impossibly ancient castle. Spindly cobwebs clung to the walls while the cloying fetor of mildew hampered my breathing. I was mysteriously drawn to a chamber at the end of the winding steps.
Burning torches in stone sconces cast menacing shadows as I moved hesitantly forward. I stopped at an aged wooden door. Lichen- encrusted walls pressed in on me as I breathed uneasily. Unbidden, the door creaked open. A shaft of reddish light spilled on the damp stonework at my feet. An unaccountable magnetism drew me through the half-open doorway. A ball of red light hovered above a stone dais inside a shadowy chamber. I became mesmerized as the glowing sphere turned on its axis ... A lurking evilness then overcame me with such speed and cunning I scarcely discerned its intrusion.
From deep inside me a voice commanded that I end my life, that I desecrate my flesh before passing over into its dark and ancient dominion. I had to fight back an overpowering urge to mutilate my body ... Then I saw the familiar walls of the Harris Park cell in which I'd taken my injection. I was back in the padded seat, and could only laugh from the welcoming realization the sinister castle had been a dream. Relief coursed through me like a current of revitalizing water. However I soon gasped in shock as I looked down at my body. A ghastly fluid, a dark and abominable ichor, oozed through the branching veins of my lower arms. Caught between stupefaction and panic, I had to get the vile substance out of me. I looked about the room, only in panic, hoping to find some instrument, some knife or sharp object with which I could slice open my veins. Finding nothing, I ran to the two-way mirror on the wall and banged on its Perspex cover, begging those on the other side of the mirror to give me a knife, a razor blade, anything at all ...
Goldman rubbed his eyes and looked at a flashy TV ad for an abs crunch machine. He chuckled wryly, as much from Chandler's enthused narrative as from military administrators keeping such an account on file. In any case, he had a strong feeling MK-ULTRA was now dead and buried. Very likely the project's funding had been reallocated to more tangible threats of the Cold War. Of course he would never know, nor did he care to. Furthermore, he wasn't sure to what purpose his newly made MPA would be used. Very likely the psychotropic drug would be stockpiled, to end up as another extravagance in the United States' Cold War armoury.
In any event, if Silverwood Centre offered to extend his work contract he'd already made up his mind to leave. He had several appealing employment opportunities in the civilian sector, notably with Vortex Pharmaceuticals in Irvine, California. Apparently the company had stepped up its research into a class of drugs called Ampakines, which drugs ramped up brain activity by enhancing the effects of the excitatory neurotransmitter glutamate. Vortex wanted to create and market a cutting-edge wakefulness promoter and planned to spend a small fortune on research. Goldman had already received a positive reply from the company, which almost guaranteed him a place in their research department.
The chemist grabbed his beer from off the night table and found it too warm. He sighed and watched the closing scenes of Midnight Express. Brad Davis acting as Billy Hayes acting as a Turkish prison officer (he'd stolen a guard's uniform) quickly closed the prison's side-door after him. He squinted from the day's bright light and walked smartly off camera.
The closing scene's gesture of freedom wasn't without effect on Goldman. Indeed returning to sunny California had never looked more promising. A part of him prefigured significant change. Something was just around the corner. Something new and exciting. He could feel it in his bones.
PART TWO
THE ESCAPE
Pleasure serves as the emotional fuel for man's existence –
Nathaniel Branden.
ELEVEN
Friday 24th October, 1980.
Haslow braked his BMW and glanced at the green-and-white sign on the other side of the chain-link fence:
SILVERWOOD CHEMICAL CENTRE
SILVERWOOD ARSENAL
ABERDEEN PROVING GROUNDS
Fifteen years I've put in here, he thought pensively. Oh well, now they've got Goldman, I'll step aside and let him in. He's got the talent, if not the attitude. Patches of rainwater littered the ground as he pulled up alongside the sentry in the gatehouse. Early-morning sun broke through strands of cirrus cloud and a light south-easter caressed Haslow's face as he lowered his window.
'Nice enough morning, Sidney?'
'A wee bit cool,' the elderly guard replied, rubbing his uniform sleeves in support of his statement. 'But nice enough, just the same.' He leaned forward and his weathered face brightened. 'So who do you think'll win the debate on Tuesday night? Jimmy or Ronnie?'
'Ronnie,' Haslow said firmly. 'The peanut farmer has run out of hands to play. High-interest rates and the Iran hostages fiasco have made sure of that. His flashy smile won't be enough to save him this time.'
'Hmm, we'll see,' Sidney replied from his side of the political divide. He activated a control and the boom gate lifted upward. 'Well, have yourself a good day, Rod.'
Haslow nodded and powered his German-made car towards the administration building. He swerved into his reserved space and cut the ignition. Friday at last. He looked forward to what promised to be an eventful weekend. Heaven help him he hadn't seen one of those in a long time. After locking his car, he moved with a sprightly step towards the building's front door.
Early afternoon. Goldman sat on a counter-top, reading a Scientific American article about the electrostatic discrepancies between natural and synthetic molecules. Before this he'd finished an Omni magazine article predicting life and times in the 21st century.
'Well, that's it. The report's done, it just needs to be typed up.' Haslow shuffled the pages together and looked expectantly at his colleague.
'Sorry?' Goldman looked up from the magazine.
'I said why don't you type this up because I'm heading home.'
Goldman was surprised. 'You're going home?' He checked his watch. 'It's only one-thirty. Are you sick or something?'
'No, but as you've been saying all week, there's not much to do. So, what the heck, it's Friday afternoon and I'm going home.' The senior chemist gathered his things into his bag and grabbed his corduroy coat from off the rack beside the door. He turned to Goldman. 'So, tonight then, your place, around seven. Oddly enough I'm looking forward to it.'
Goldman could only grin as he tossed the magazine aside and hopped down from the counter. 'Hey, Rod, you're my man. I'm sure we'll make a night of it. Belize and her sister, eh? What a combo.' He winked encouragingly as Haslow nodded and left the room.
The laboratory door slid shut. Goldman could only stare at its featureless surf
ace. Haslow had gone home early, and in a bouncy mood to boot. Who knows, the Australian chemist thought with a sly grin, old Rod just might get lucky tonight. He stopped at Haslow's console and picked up the MPA report, flicking through the pages. Thank goodness Haslow was presenting the goddamn thing.
Toward the back of the report, Haslow had included a reference from Dr Kevin Cootes, a leading member of the American Society of Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis. In his role as military consultant, Cootes had claimed: “MPA has positioned itself as an unparalleled tool in the field of mind-control and -manipulation ... a psychoactive agent capable of inducing inappropriate self disclosure ...”. Haslow had also included a military intelligence reference which cited MPA “would likely become an invaluable component of pharmaceutical interrogation”.
After reading the embellished references, Goldman became uneasy about what he'd help make; though the transient feeling was too ill-defined to weigh on his conscience. From his own experience the drug had a largely euphoric effect, and if not taken regularly, had minimal psychophysical side effects. Though he supposed the effects cited in the report were possible if given a high-enough dose. Well, the army could do what they liked with the stuff. He'd done his job and didn't plan to stick around. With a bit of luck he'd soon be employed with Vortex Pharmaceuticals in California.
Conscious of time, he dropped in front of the console and activated a word-processor program. He was at best a two-finger typist. The report's twenty-odd pages would prove something of a challenge to his limited skills. Still he would do his best, then use any remaining time to have another crack at the Army Milnet system upstairs; though he didn't want any printouts this time. His touch and go encounter with Troy Reid yesterday afternoon had cured him of that (not to mention Reid's thorough inspection of Goldman's bag this morning). No, he would simply read whatever took his fancy, then go home and prepare for his dinner party. He drew the report close to him, cracked his knuckles, and slowly typed keys.
Thanks Troy.' General Kaplan grabbed a hot coffee from his son-in-law and placed it on his desk's blotter. He leaned back in his leather seat and steepled his fingers. Last night's incident with his teenage son played on his mind. Jesus, Dean's on hard drugs ... damn fool kid! He gritted his teeth and had to force his attention elsewhere.
'Listen, General Turner's coming this afternoon ... around four, with two DIA inspectors.'
Reid sighed loudly. 'You've got to be kidding?' Both men had an innate dislike of the DIA as was evident from the palpable tension that had filled the room.
'For God's sake, why would Turner come here?' Reid asked. 'Surely he's got enough on his plate at the Pentagon, or at that damned centre at Bollings Air Force Base.'
'Defence Intelligence Analysis Centre,' Kaplan said matter-of-factly.
'Why would he come here?' Reid looked down at the floor and drummed his fingers on his uniform trouser leg. His mind churned over possibilities. He looked up. 'You don't think he's coming here because of Goldman?'
'Could be part of it.' Kaplan took a tentative sip of his hot coffee. The brigadier general narrowed his eyes. 'God knows what Goldman's been up to lately.' He dug into the coffee cup's polystyrene rim with his thumbnail. 'Anyhow I'm sure we'll learn something after Turner's visit.' He shrugged his shoulders and straightened his army-issue tie. 'Who knows? This could be the start of routine DIA inspections ... God help us all.' He shifted his bulky frame against the high-backed seat then sipped more coffee. Talk of transferring his command to a missile testing range in the Nevada desert had filtered down to him through a reliable contact in the Missile Defence Agency. Such gossip had the brigadier general on edge. Was Turner's visit somehow related to the transfer? Again Kaplan had no answers.
'Look sharp when you see Turner. We want to make a strong impression concerning security.' He looked at Reid's holstered Beretta sidearm. 'Is that piece licensed?'
'Of course it is, Jim. Jeez, what do you think I am? A goddamn cowboy?' Reid shook his head and drummed his thigh, all the while looking down at the floor.
General Kaplan stared at the framed mission statement on the back wall of his office:
Protecting the War fighter and US Interest through the Application of Science, Technology and Engineering in Chemical Defence since 1947.
SCC Mission Statement.
'Have Seaways come up with that five-hundred litres of Methylene Chloride?' he asked from behind the desk.
'No, but Fogerty, the acquisitions clerk, called them last week – '
'Call them again. And tell them if we don't have the order by the end of next week they can consider it goddamn cancelled.' A bitter burning swamped Kaplan's windpipe. He plucked an antacid from a fresh roll and popped it into his mouth.
'Okay, I'll get onto it now.' Reid picked up his coffee and made to leave.
'And Troy.'
Reid looked back from the doorway.
'You haven't seen Goldman going upstairs today, or anywhere else he doesn't belong, have you?'
'No, but if I should ... should I stop him, or tell you about it?'
Kaplan tapped the edge of his desk as if contemplating aspects of a game plan far removed from present conversation. 'Just tell me if you see him going upstairs or out to the back of the grounds.'
'You can count on it, general.'
Reid stopped at Fogerty's office on the second floor, which was sandwiched between the office of the Chief Financial Officer and the office of the Army Banking Program. After some amicable chitchat with the acquisitions clerk, topped off with some disparaging jokes about navy personnel, Reid passed on Kaplan's ultimatum about the Methylene Chloride order.
While Reid chattered away in Fogerty's office, Goldman raced up the ground floor stairs. He was impatient to get on to the Milnet using General Turner's Sensitive Compartmented Information (SCI) password.
'And how are you today?' Belize Cheraz smiled at the elderly lady piling groceries on to the rubber runner belt beside the register. The hunched pensioner looked up suspiciously and grumbled a brusque reply.
God, help me, Belize sighed. She registered the woman's purchases at breakneck speed, then totalled the prices on the register (including a price she'd made up for a can of mushrooms in butter sauce that wouldn't read on the scanner. Luckily Miss Personality the Class of '25 hadn't noticed).
'That's eighteen dollars forty, ma'am, including tax. Don't forget our contest coupon. First prize is a holiday for two ...'
The silver-haired lady cursed controllably as she fumbled through her lavender-scented handbag. Belize finished her spiel and looked over at Manuela who was operating a checkout six bays along. Her sister's checkout had such a queue Belize was grateful only to have to contend with this grumbling woman thumbing through a wad of low-denomination bills.
Belize had lied to her sister to coerce her into going to Goldman's dinner party. There's no way I'll leave when Manuela wants to. She can call a taxi. Belize remembered the last time at Goldman's: the spicy Thai meal, the bottle of red wine, the irrepressible laughter, and the memorable lovemaking afterward.
Yes, she reassured herself, grabbing a crisp five and three crinkled tens from the age-spotted hand of the pensioner. There's no way I'll leave when Manuela wants to.
Michelle turned off the television, indifferent to the ABC News-Harris survey which gave Carter a comfortable lead over Reagan in the coming election. She frowned at the state of her nails and grabbed the tabloid she'd bought the night before. She was disappointed there weren't any pictures of Carmen on Mustique; and the telephoto shots of Brad and Jerri Jasper, along with the lead guitarist of the Black Roses, were so granular one could only question their authenticity.
She sighed aloud and dropped on to the room's sofa, only to read an article about a Florida Keys man who'd had his hand bitten off by a pet alligator (aptly titled: TALK ABOUT BITING THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU).
Frustrated, she tossed the tabloid aside and checked the telephone. No on-line signal.
; 'Damn.' She got up and slipped a Bowie record on to the stereo. She clicked her fingers and moved her hips as the bass-line of the opening song wove into the late-afternoon quiet of the apartment (Carmen had gone to meet the acting solicitor of her deceased grandfather's estate). For want of inspiration Michelle stopped dancing. She dropped back on the sofa and blew against her fringe, checking her Gucci watch.
Still too early.
She planned to call Scott and get more of that crazy powder from him – though she had reservations. Of course Carmen wanted a mountain of the stuff. But Michelle wasn't sure she wanted to see Scott again. It could prove awkward. Sure there'd been an underlying attraction between them – she couldn't deny it – but he'd come on a bit strong giving her his phone number when she got out of his car. She didn't need any more complications in her life, especially her love life. She pushed back on the sofa and pressed her knees together, her lower legs splayed in a Twiggy-like pose, and chuckled darkly.
Her love life? What a joke. It was as unstable as everything else in her life. She had zero passion for Terence, and Scott Goldman was fast becoming a dim memory attached to a phone number scrunched in her pocket. Some rusty-haired guy with a strange accent. Fingering her fringe, she felt lost and lonely. And prayed for better days.
Pilar Artarmon gulped down mineral water and burped against the back of her hand. She felt good from a just-finished aerobics workout. She'd telephoned Terence Cruise and arranged to meet him at his DC apartment the following morning. The gram price he was asking for his cocaine sounded high; though she believed his solemn assurance of the drug's quality, as much as he could convey it over the nervy confines of his telephone. At any rate, she could well afford his asking price.
