by James Sperl
“No one believed it, especially in this day and age when so much disinformation and believable hoaxes are only a few mouse clicks away. But no one had ever presented such an aggressive and unconventional approach to deep space exploration before that could be so immediately beneficial. There are astronomers all over the world searching for extraterrestrial life, but their plans to deal with the potential of its discovery revolve around passive observation and interrogative protocol. Rosenstein was the first to suggest an offensive course of action. To take matters into our hands via radical, experimental technology, the likes of which have never even been whispered about let alone attempted in a controlled environment. If Rosenstein succeeded, the rewards would be impossible to quantify.”
“So what was Rosenstein's primary objective then?” Jon said. “If they weren't planning to exploit alien races for their hardware, then what specifically were they hoping to achieve?”
Kaplinsky sat up and hugged his knees. “So here's where it all comes full circle. The initial stages of Project Tunnel, as I've stated, involved the manipulation of an enemy's physiological functions. To take hand-to-hand combat out of the equation by getting inside the mind and disconnecting it from its body, effectively rendering it immobile.”
“You mean dead,” Evan corrected.
“If you prefer. But this presented a problem. With this tactic, people would drop where they stood with no way for the U.S. to retrieve the body before anyone could open an investigation or perform an autopsy. Granted, many of the countries where we would use this technology likely would not perform an autopsy anyway, but suspicions would eventually arise after enough people died so inexplicably. We still would have achieved the desired result, but it would have been a messy affair.
“Then some of my colleagues and I got wind of another idea that had moved to the forefront. It was a deviation from Rosenstein's initial plan and something I was never able to verify, but enough of us had heard low-grade chatter for me to believe it was true. The new objective went like this: What if, rather than projecting into a person's mind to assassinate them, they could do something so unheard of in the history of modern man no one would believe it existed. What if a person could not only be mentally infiltrated but physically removed from this world...using only the power of the mind?”
Cesare's brows crashed in confusion. “What do you mean 'removed'?”
“Just how you think I mean it. In the end, Rosenstein's primary reason for being was to develop technology that would allow remote...travelers, if you will—astral projectors—to infiltrate an enemy combatant's mind and not only actively engage with it but to somehow manipulate the conscious dream state...to manipulate it into an actual wormhole.”
The response was immediate and pronounced.
“What?!” Evan recoiled as if pushed backward. “That's frickin' crazy! You can't do that. It's impossible!”
“Yeah,” Rachel said dubiously, “I don't know. That sounds...I don't know what that sounds like. Could they really do that?”
“At the time I left the company? No. But I had heard rumblings then that they were very close—underline and capitalize 'very'—to realizing what was being referred to as 'terrestrial wormhole generators.'”
“By terrestrial, you mean the ability to create these wormholes on Earth rather than the preconceived notion that they can only exist in space,” Andrew said.
“Precisely,” Kaplinsky said. “The philosophy behind the technology made better if not perfect sense. If a person could be physically removed from the world, there would be no body, which is to say, there would be no one to hail as a martyr. No downed figurehead to rally behind. Instead, armies in war zones would be led to believe they had been deserted by their leaders, whether it be a military or religious one. It was psychological warfare of the highest order using the perfect weapon.” He drifted off, reverent.
“To say Project Tunnel is groundbreaking would be the understatement of the millennium. What I would have given to be present the day they made the first successful test.”
Clarissa regarded Andrew with stark curiosity. He took the head-popping glut of revelatory news a little too well for her comfort. It would have made her feel a hell of a lot better if his face reflected even a fraction of the cyclone of emotions whirling in her belly and scrambling her brain. She couldn't allow it to go unaddressed.
“You seem rather accepting of all this,” she said to him. “How is it you're able to remain so composed when the rest of us are ready to implode from information overload?”
Andrew turned to her and offered a melancholic smile.
“I'm not, I assure you. I'm just better at hiding it. However difficult it is to accept, what Kap is saying is the only thing that fits with the current narrative.”
“It does?” Valentina said from a hunched-over position in her chair.
Andrew looked at her. “I think so. Look at what's been happening. People have been disappearing without a trace. There're no bodies to speak of. It may be hard to believe—hell, it's damn near impossible to believe—but what's been going on certainly fits with what he's telling us.” He directed his attention to Mr. Kaplinsky. “Is that what's happening? Are the sounds and disappearances a result of Rosenstein's technology?”
Kaplinsky glanced up from inspecting his nails. “The past three months certainly smack of Tunnel's ramifications, but I honestly can't...” He shook his head, immersed in his thoughts.
Jon winced in anticipation. “Can't what?”
Kaplinsky hesitated before continuing. “You must understand, I'm as dumbfounded by these breakthroughs as you are. I may be a man of science, but even as exciting as this is from a purely scientific perspective, it still stretches my noggin to its limits. I mean, what are we talking here? The ability to effectively banish a person through time and space from an unconscious state? Remotely? It defies the laws of known physics, and yet I believe everything I've told you to be true. That said, regarding what's been happening around the world, well...I've had difficulty figuring out the how of it.”
“The 'how'?” Clarissa asked.
“Yes. You see, the original intention of Project Tunnel was to utilize it in covert operations for highly selected targets. You can draw your own conclusions as to who those individuals might be. But from what I'd heard, it would only be able to be used on a small scale. Person to person. Like a mental drone strike or something. But what we're seeing globally? That's something else.”
Kaplinsky searched the confounded faces that stared back at him. He climbed to his feet and crossed to the hutch where he refilled his water glass. He held out the near empty jug to the room. No one took him up on his offer.
“To answer your question, Mr...”
“You can call me Andrew.”
“Okay. Andrew. My theory is this: I don't believe what we've been seeing is a direct result of Project Tunnel. I believe it's a byproduct of it.”
“What does that mean? A 'byproduct'?”
“It means that I don't believe Rosenstein or anyone in a higher position of authority has turned Project Tunnel on the inhabitants of Earth. Nor do I believe that the technology itself has become corrupted or compromised.”
“So what do you believe?” Clarissa asked.
Kaplinsky returned the water jug to the hutch then stared at the floor, as if hesitant to confess his theory. Then he did.
“I believe the wormholes Rosenstein sought to exploit were in fact utilized. Just not by us.”
Jon rose to his feet amid a roomful of stunned and troubled expressions. “Whoa, whoa, hold up a second. What're you saying?”
Clarissa felt her heart leap with trepidation. In the back of her mind, she had always entertained a wisp of an idea as to what the origin of the Sound might be—who didn't?—but it was one thing to cook up an out-of-this-world scenario to help placate fears; it was another thing entirely for the hypothesis to gain credence from someone who had evidence to support it.
“I'm sayi
ng exactly what you think I am,” Kaplinsky went on. “I believe Rosenstein finally managed a breakthrough. I think that, against all probability and in the face of modern science, they somehow managed to generate a wormhole on command from Earth to someplace unknown. I won't pretend to understand how they did it, but I believe they did. And I think that when they did, they opened up a gateway.”
“A gateway?” Rachel said. She moved from her seat to sit on the floor beside Clarissa, who took her hand. “I'm afraid to ask what that means.”
“Indeed. Remember, a wormhole, in theory at least, is a fixed pathway with a starting and ending point through time and space. If we're the end, where's the start?”
“Oh, my God,” Elenora said. “You think something came through.”
“Or is still coming through,” Kaplinsky said. He pointed skyward. “That sound we've all grown so fond of? I believe that's a ripping open of a space-time surface, where dream consciousness and wakeful consciousness planes of existence collide. I think the origin of that sound, wherever it's from, is responsible for how and why people are disappearing.
“Before the Internet died, I compiled as much data as I could find regarding disappearance statistics, and literally everything I found pointed to the fact that surges in missing persons immediately followed a Sound event. It's led me to believe that...something is coming through at the moment of the event. And it's not something good.”
“Holy shit, I think I'm going to throw up,” Evan said.
Jon placed a reassuring hand on his son but kept his eyes on Kaplinsky. “Coming through to do what?”
Kaplinsky shrugged. “How would I know? Exactly what you see, I suppose. To take people. As for what purpose, only those stolen to the other side of that particular Einstein-Rosen bridge can answer that question.”
Valentina started to cry. Clarissa moved to her side and put an arm around her friend. Dependency issues or not, she expressed what everyone else felt. Clarissa had been on the verge of tears herself for the past five minutes. Could what Kaplinsky said be true? Was Earth targeted via experimental wormholes? Were people taken to someplace on the other side of the universe? Deep down, she knew it to be true, though she struggled to wrap her head around the unbelievable theory.
“Does this mean we're under invasion?” Cesare asked.
“If we are, then it's the first invasion I've ever seen where the enemy is not physically present. And yet, there are losses. If Rosenstein did open a wormhole through time and space, whatever's at the other end is clearly aware of it.”
“Which brings us back to the original reason why we're here,” Andrew said. He clenched and unclenched his fist absently. “We need to find Rosenstein. Whatever's going on, that place is ground zero for it. Can you tell us where it is?”
Kaplinsky lifted his dress and plopped down in front of the hutch. He leaned back against it and stretched out his legs, his demeanor suggestive of someone unconcerned with the current state of affairs.
“I could direct you to my former place of employment,” he began, “but I believe that would be a fruitless pursuit. Understand, Rosenstein wasn't a single location, it was a black ops umbrella corporation. There were facilities all over the country, each committed to different aspects of Project Tunnel, as well as to countless other projects I have no knowledge of.”
A collective, dispirited sigh cut through the momentary silence. No one wanted to hear of further futility.
“But the one you're looking for could be the site in Massachusetts.”
Clarissa released her hold on Valentina and sat forward. She looked up at Andrew, who stepped to the center of the room and stared at Kaplinsky.
“Ashland, Massachusetts. You're sure?”
“Am I sure? How could I be? But nearly all the data I and my colleagues collected was encrypted and digitally transferred off-site to a facility located there. Rarely did any test results remain in-house.”
Jon was on his feet now. “How do you know the data went to Massachusetts?”
“I caught a glimpse of our facility manager's contact tree once. Had it up on his laptop when I popped into his office for a quick question. It didn't say Ashland, necessarily, but he'd organized his contacts by location. I recognized quite a few of my out-of-state colleagues' e-mail addresses, along with a slew of others I didn't know, under a heading labeled 'Mass,' capital M with a period.”
“Massachusetts,” Jon said.
Kaplinsky bobbed his head. “That'd be my guess. A fair amount of our lab's work went to the folks listed under that heading. If the Rosenstein you're looking for is in Ashland, and there's an Ashland in Massachusetts, I'd say you're off to the races. I may even have an old shipping address. We used to snail mail results on occasion as a redundant redundancy. Don't remember to where, but I may have something scribbled down somewhere.”
Andrew exhaled audibly. “That would be fantastic.”
“Yeah,” Jon said. “For real.”
Once again, the mood in the room metamorphosed. Kaplinsky's bombshell put a sparkle in everyone's eye. Smiles bloomed, and expressions softened from creased foreheads to relaxed brows. They not only had the likely state but an address too? What luck!
Though the revelation was extraordinary, Clarissa wouldn't qualify what she felt as relief. It was more like...hopeful probability. Finally, they had something to go on. A direction in which to head rather than the aimless state-to-state meandering that had, up to that point, yielded diddly. No, relief was far from her mind, for if Rosenstein was in Massachusetts, that meant she and the others would learn one of three nail-biting truths: they had good news, they had bad news, or the entire quest had been a ruse of epic proportions.
“I have a question,” Elenora said.
“Yes, young lady,” Kaplinsky replied.
“You've given us quite a bit to process. Honestly, I'm not sure I completely understand it all, but something you haven't mentioned in all this is why being alone matters.”
Kaplinsky frowned as if he didn't understand the question, though Clarissa felt he most assuredly did.
“Alone?”
“Yes. I wondered if you knew why people only disappeared when they were by themselves.”
Kaplinsky cracked his knuckles. “I'm afraid I don't have a concrete answer for you, but I have a theory, which is that sleep is an unconscious state. And I believe that whatever we're dealing with is only able to function in that state, which is why there are no reports of someone walking along and then—poof!—suddenly vanishing. Now, why this...mental abduction only occurs in isolation, I haven't the first idea. But it's fascinating, don't you think?”
Elenora smiled wryly. “I'm not sure fascinating is the word I'd choose.”
Evan stood up beside his father. “I have a question too.” Kaplinsky lifted his chin in anticipation. “If people are snagged in their sleep and it only happens when they're alone...how are you still here?”
Everyone exchanged baffled glances at the obvious question. Kaplinsky had made no mention of family or roommates. No pictures of children, wives, or friends adorned his walls. By all outward appearances, the man was a hermit, yet he had survived in this house since the Sound reared its ugly head. Evan's question needed no further elaboration: How?
Kaplinsky climbed to his feet. He grinned devilishly, like a child that had learned how to reach the cookie jar without anyone noticing.
“I was wondering when someone was going to ask that,” he said. “Want to see?”
CHAPTER 39
They got the first whiff midway up the narrow stairway leading to the second floor. Musty and moist, it reeked of urine, wood, and an earthy scent, which swirled with competing odors that escaped description.
The group trailed Kaplinsky down a four-door hallway toward a room at the far end. The brief walk provided an opportunity to peek into the rooms that preceded it.
Like the living room, each of the upstairs rooms was comfortably appointed. A guest room passed by on the left, ha
ndmade quilts, a cast iron bed frame, and Shaker furniture defining the rustic motif. Across the hall, a hobby room. Organized shelves filled with gorgeously rendered models of cars and airplanes lined one wall. Across from it, an expansive oak table was overloaded with colorful miniature jars of model paint and a metal can filled with an assortment of fine brushes.
The bathroom was next. Ivory-tiled floors and a porcelain sink with a basin so wide and deep that a baby could lay in it were among the first eye-catchers. And even though the crisply folded towels that hung on chrome racks beneath sea-inspired paintings lent to the inviting theme, it was the claw-footed bathtub that held more than one woman's lingering gaze.
The smell had intensified significantly since the stairwell. Hands drifted to noses in an attempt to block out the pungent scent. More than the odor, though, were the noises coming from the other side of the door at the end of the hall that prompted greater response. Curious expressions passed quietly among the group until the moment Kaplinsky placed his hand on the door's knob. He caught several people attempting to conceal their stench-blocking efforts.
“Oh, you're okay. You're not going to hurt my feelings,” he said. “I know it smells like a zoo up here. But there's a reason for that.” He threw open the door and gestured inside. “Because it's a zoo up here.”
An alarming odor barreled through the door forcing hands to noses. Other than the single bed arranged dead center of the room, the entire space was crammed floor to ceiling with caged animals.
Rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, mice—even an opossum—had found its way into a makeshift habitat. Bound together by zip-ties, the cages varied in size and material. Some were as large as a steamer trunk, others as small as a shoebox. Some were constructed from consumer-grade stainless steel mesh, others having been cobbled together from chain-link fencing, screen sheeting, and wooden frames. As a safety precaution, Kaplinsky had anchored the top cage of each staggered column to the wall via heavy-duty hardware fasteners.
