The Eldridge Roster

by Stephen Ames Berry

  “Oh, nothing deleterious or she wouldn’t be teaching at one of the world’s better universities. I implanted autosuggestions from an early age, isolated her from her peers during childhood as much as psychologically feasible. This fostered dependency upon me and helped prevent any unfortunate revelations of her abilities. So now when she receives the trigger words, she reverts to a pliant, lonely little girl who wants to take her new friends on a journey. New friends, of course, as the old are unfortunately gone. The rest of the time she’s the crisp, cool academic.”

  “You did that all with hypnosis?” asked Budd.

  “Reinforced by a pharmaceutical to make her mind more receptive, yes,” said Schmidla. “The trouble with that drug was that it had to be administered daily. Very cumbersome. A few years ago, though, the pharmaceutical company I use perfected a variant that can be administered weekly. It’s made life easier.”

  “Let’s stay together, no matter what,” said Angie. Their first choice lay before them, two branchings of the trail forking out between the hedgerows. From high above the sunlight filtered down onto the trail—a perfect trail devoid of leaves, twigs, insects. Maria hadn’t answered their calls. They hadn’t heard her again since entering the maze.

  “Which way?” asked Angie.

  “Right,” said Tim, leading.

  “Why three people for an experiment?” asked Jim.

  “Simple,” said Schmidla. “One or two never return alive or die at once upon return. Four or more never leave.”

  “Are you hearing this?” Rourke asked Kessler over the phone.

  “Yes,” said the FBI agent, touching the ear jack in his left ear, the cellphone to his other ear. “Believing’s harder.”

  “Believe,” said Rourke.

  The transmitter in Billy’s belt buckle was working flawlessly, relaying the voices from Small’s Island through a transponder in his helicopter to a communications satellite, thence to Rourke in McLean and Kessler in Massachusetts.

  “Why isn’t Billy saying anything?” asked Kessler. “Not like him to be so quiet.”

  “Our Billy’s in a tenuous position,” said Rourke, “what with the place swarming with Spesnatz. Oh. New word from the Old Country is that Lokransky and company only ostensibly work for Whitsun. They have a different agenda, straight from the Kremlin.”

  “And that is what?” asked the FBI agent. Looking out through the office window, he saw that the Army helicopters had finished refueling, the tanker trucks now leaving. The tarmac of the old Naval air station was alive with activity, men and women in olive-drab fatigues moving quickly through the process of readying the big Huey troop carriers and the squat, insect-like Apache assault craft for combat. Behind him in the barracks, three hundred carefully selected and specially trained Army Rangers from Ft. Bragg were eating their packaged Meals-Ready-to-Eat. Smalls Island was just across Boston Harbor, a three minute chopper ride away.

  “Fred, if today’s experiment is a success,” said Rourke, “with those three returning alive, Telemachus will have succeeded—Schmidla’s version of it. The Russians will seize all the project material, go home and cobble together some organic monsters to restore the glory that was. That’s the other thing you’re there to prevent.”

  “You underestimated The Good Doctor, didn’t you, Harry?” asked Kessler quietly, walking to the corner of the room, away from Colonel Caddock and his staff. The officers were hunched over a map of the island, reviewing their operational planning one last time.

  “Only a bit,” said Rourke.

  “A crucial bit. You thought he was a crackpot mountebank peddling pseudo-scientific garbage. So you humored him, to get the job done.”

  “He did what we wanted him to do—take out our garbage. He found and destroyed the descendants of those ships’ crews. He had the background we needed for the job. And he even picked up a few toys and oddities for us along the way.” Rourke recalled the half-mile wide crater in the southwest desert left from the explosion of one very small such oddity. “If we’d had our usual contractors do it someone would’ve picked up on it. Can’t you see the headline? CIA Hit Men Stalk War Vets’ Orphans.”

  “Schmidla’s been playing his own game,” said Kessler. “He’s been playing us all like trout for decades to get what he wants. I think he has or is on the verge a breakthrough. His ideology’s perverted but his method may work-- something very different is happening over on that island.”

  “So what?” said Rourke. “Even if Schmidla’s latest trio does return intact, they’ll go down with everyone else. Just make sure you take our old friend Jimbo alive. Get that miserable crew roster and we’ll then use contract staff to track them down and finish up. You’ve got to get me the Eldridge roster, Freddy.”

  “You know, Harry, if I weren’t convinced that what I’m doing’s the only way to save us all from extinction...” began Kessler.

  “Don’t be a Boy Scout, Freddy,” said Rourke. “If those people with their abilities and their potential for interbreeding get off that island, humanity as we know is finished. Sanitize that site, get the roster, and it’s over. Life returns to normal.”

  “Really?” said Kessler. “Think you can stuff this genie back into its bottle?”

  “We better. It’s the genie or us.”

  Angie and Tim found Maria sitting on a bench at the heart of the maze, where paths merged into a round swath of perfectly even, perfectly green grass. A two-headed orange-yellow butterfly was perched on her index finger, wings fluttering. Maria looked up as they arrived. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” she said. “Want to hold him?” She held him out to Angie.

  “How can you tell it’s a he?” asked Tim, peering closely. “Oh.”

  Understanding, or at least the beginning of it, came to Angie as she put her finger next to Maria’s and the creature hopped on, the soft breeze from its wings caressing her hand. “Hello beautiful,” she said feeling the quiver of tiny life atop her finger. Both heads turned, front and back and four solemn black eyes appraised her.

  “Are the Red Queen and a big bunny coming for tea?” asked Tim as Angie held the insect close.

  “Not unless Maria creates them,” she said, watching the translucent wings quiver. “This is Maria’s world,” she said softly. “A pocket universe playhouse built by a tormented and lonely little girl.” She returned the impossible-but-real butterfly to Maria. “How often do you come here, Maria?”

  “Whenever Uncle Richard lets me,” said the girl. “Bye bye!” she called as her insect took flight. It rose in lazy circles, disappearing over the top of the hedge. “Uncle Richard was mean to me,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Behind her the hedge turned opaque so briefly that Angie almost missed it.

  “Maria,” said Tim, “we have to go home.”

  “I’m never going home again,” said the girl, sniffling.

  Okay, what’s going on? said a voice in Angie’s mind—Tim’s voice.

  “Tim?” Angie said aloud, startled. Tim stared back at her.

  “Just wishing we could chat privately,” he said. Guess we can. So, what’s going on? It’s Maria, isn’t it? Anxiety tinged his thoughts.

  I think Maria used our combined powers to bring us here, thought Angie. Maybe she used them to build this play world. Our abilities and all the others she’s brought here. In doing so, our abilities—our Potential—has grown—maybe still is growing. This is what Telemachus is all about. Not our little selves moving about the universe—it’s about our innate abilities to create and alter physical reality—we children of those poor sailors. Apparently we, what? cross-fertilize each other.

  And the purpose of the project? asked Tim. The long years of torture and murder presided over by Whitsun and Schmidla? All they’ve really accomplished is killing off most Potentials.

  Angie sat down beside Maria, now pouting at her feet. It seemed obvious, now that O’Malley had said it.

  Don’t you see? That’s what they were supposed to do. The gove
rnment wanted us all dead. If they could learn something from us, fine, but their main agenda was to have us quietly snuffed. No hit men, no fomenting of conspiracy theories. They hired Schmidla and he did the rest. Drown, freeze, chop—whatever the Doctor ordered. He had the perfect resume for ridding Earth of paranormals.

  “Why?” He said aloud, shocked. “I’d think we’d be welcomed as a godsend.”

  Angie laughed. “Come on, Tim! What would those who can’t control matter and energy from within call those who can?”

  “Witches?”

  She shook her head. “Demons.”

  Chapter 26

  The bitter north wind numbing her face, arms aching with exhaustion, Dee watched the dark outline of the shore inch closer as they paddled hard against the outgoing tide. Her hands wet and numb with cold, she could hear the surf crashing against the sharp rocks to either side-must be almost there, please, almost there, she thought, panting, pushing against the tide and her pain. In front and beside her, Musashi, Eddy and Ricky paddled with easy, experienced strokes. Dee decided she hated them.

  They weren’t supposed to be splashing about fifty meters inshore from the Merri-Lee. They were supposed to be slipping through the surf, noiselessly propelled by the Zodiac’s 40 hp electric outboard motor—a motor which had quit on them just as they’d pulled away from the anchored cabin cruiser. Eddy, noting that the motor was of Japanese manufacture, had made a salty remark, to which Musashi said, “Paddle or swim, please.”

  A large wave broke behind them, propelling them into quieter, shallow water, tantalizingly close to shore.

  “Out!” cried Musashi. “Pull it up! Beach it!” Following his lead, pain shooting through her cramped legs, Dee pushed herself over the side, staggering at the sudden sharp tug of undertow as her feet found the rocky bottom. Water roiled about her, surging up over her waist, the waves slamming her. She grabbed the Zodiac’s thick rubber-coated pull-handle and trotted with the others through the icy surf, dragging the boat up onto the pebbled beach. She collapsed, gasping, leaning her back against the boat.

  Musashi dropped down beside her, breathing easily. “That was fun!” he said, clapping her on the shoulder.

  “You’re crazy,” she managed. Behind her, Eddy and Enrique were hauling a heavy bundle from the Zodiac. It was wrapped in a blue tarp and tied with white nylon cord that Eddy deftly sliced with what Dee thought must be the world’s largest knife. They gathered around as the bundle was unrolled and Eddy distributed the newest, smallest version of the Uzi.

  “Here,” said Eddy, handing Dee one of the machine pistols and five magazines. “Just remember what we showed you on the boat, and you’ll do fine.”

  Out over open water, the sun almost gone, they’d run her through a quick weapon’s drill, having her load and fire off a magazine. She’d enjoyed the weapon jerking in her hands, the smell of cordite. To their mutual surprise, some of the rounds had hit the bobbing orange life vest of a target. Confronted by a Russian commando, Dee thought the outcome clear, but it had been fun.

  They dragged the boat behind the boulders flanking the cave entrance, just above the high tide mark, stashing their wet suits in the raft.

  “Your show, Musashi-san,” said Eddy with a slight bow.

  “The prisoners will most likely be in either the confinement wing of the fort or the experiment’s operations center, under the hospital,” said the Japanese. “If they’re not in the hospital or the fort, we’ll return to the beach. There’s little cover between the hospital and the only other likely point of confinement, Schmidla’s house. Half the Russian Army’s out there—we’d never make it.

  “Let’s go,” he said, leading them into the cave.

  “Where are they?” said Whitsun, looking at the clock. “It’s been almost seven hours. Has any group ever been away for this long?”

  “None that came back,” said Schmidla as he deftly slipped the IV into the vein of Jim’s arm. Reaching up, he turned on the sodium pentothal drip.

  They were still in the observation room. Not daring to leave, but very much wanting to extract the location of the Eldridge roster from Jim, Schmidla had Lokransky’s men strap Jim into a chair and begun administering the truth serum.

  Jim didn’t care about the sting of the needle or the growing warm fuzziness in his head. He didn’t care about the Eldridge roster—hell, no one in the room would be leaving the island alive. (Wonder if Billy knows he’s toast? thought Jim, looking at the ever-unflappable Billy Budd, as he sat in his chair, writing in his palm pilot.) “Doing your expense report, Billy?” he asked.

  “Trying to,” said Budd, not looking up.

  The goal, thought Jim, was to somehow ensure that Kaeko and Angie lived through the coming battle—a battle to be signaled by their return.

  “Feeling a bit drowsy?” asked Schmidla.

  “Not at all,” said Jim, wanting to sleep.

  “You will,” said Schmidla, pulling up a stool and sitting. “While we wait, let’s talk about a few things, shall we?”

  “No.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Bingo the Balless.”

  Schmidla frowned. “Perhaps a few more minutes before our chat. Louis,” he called.

  Dr. Bartlett appeared.

  “Yes, Richard?”

  “I’d like you to have Mr. Beauchamp taken into one of the treatment rooms, monitor his progress on the pentothal. When he’s sufficiently pliant, please let me know.”

  Bartlett frowned unhappily. “I was hoping to be here when they return, Richard.” His voice was mellifluous and surprisingly deep for so short a man. His resemblance to the legendary swindler Charles Ponzi was uncanny.

  “It won’t take long, Louis,” said Schmidla. “If they return, I’ll call you. I promise.”

  Three Spesnatz carried Jim, chair, IV pole and all, following Bartlett down the hallway. They were barely gone when Lokransky received the report he’d been waiting for and slipped away.

  They moved through the cave—a smugglers grotto, carved from a fissure in the rock and widened by long dead hands wielding hammers and chisels. Passing the dank rough-hewn walls, Dee saw tool marks and holes where workmen had set their spiked candle holders and lanterns. Scattered about were bits of broken glass, the rotting remains of wooden pallets and rusted metal. As she was about to go up the narrow granite stairs to the fort, something caught Dee’s eye. Kneeling, she gently picked it up, trying to make out what lettering had survived years of corrosion

  “What is it?” asked Musashi, joining her as she rose.

  “It’s a steel beer can,” she said, almost reverently, handing it to him. “My Dad told me about them, but I’ve never seen one. Can you make out the name?”

  Musashi started at the rusted can. “McCray’s Ale,” he said after a moment. “Big on U.S. college campuses in the 1930’s. Like so much else, it didn’t survive the war.”

  “Really?” she said, looking again at what was left of the can. “How can you tell?”

  “I know my beers,” he grinned. “Let’s go.”

  “You coming?” said Eddy, a foot on the first stair, wanting to go but knowing Musashi and Dee should be on point, as agreed.

  The stairs ended at a very old, very solid iron door.

  “Locked on the other side,” Eddy said, shoulder to the unmoving metal.

  “Anyone nearby?” Musashi asked Dee.

  “I’m a telepath, not a radar unit,” she said. For just a second her eyes took on That Look, then she was back. “All clear.”

  From his backpack, Eddy took a small yellow blowtorch, a thick pair of gray gloves and welder’s goggles. He pulled on the gloves and slipped the goggles over his eyes. “Stand back,” he ordered. “This is magnesium—it’ll go through that door like a knife through butter.” Which it did, the white flame slicing through the old iron as the torch hissed, sparks cascading to the floor.

  With a tap from Eddy, a chunk of smoldering metal fell clanging onto the stone floor of th
e corridor. Perfectly balanced, the door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges. They waited a long moment, hearing only the distant surf and the pounding of their hearts.

  “Great,” said Eddy, shouldering his back pack and picking up his Uzi. “Ready?” he asked Musashi.

  “No,” said the Japanese. Using his foot and the wire stock of his Uzi, he turned the still-hot piece of metal over. The touchpad of a small electronic lock gleamed up at them, its red LED dull and dead. “Very new,” he said. He looked closely at the hinges. “And the door’s been rehung and lubricated. My workmen didn’t do it. Someone’s only been using this entrance, or is planning to.”

  “The Russians?” suggested Eddy.

  “They came in by helicopter and boat,” said Musashi. “They probably don’t even know about the cave. There’ll be sentries up ahead, though.” Switching the Uzi to his left hand, he drew his katana from where it rode high on his back. “Let’s go.”

  Scared, tense and excited, Dee fell in behind Musashi, her Uzi held tight, finger inside the trigger guard, safety on. Most of her mind was busy, probing ahead, but a small part toyed with how Tennu had so effortlessly identified a beer that hadn’t been produced in over half a century.

  “How are we doing?” asked Bartlett, looking down at Jim.

  “Not so good,” said Jim. Oh oh, he thought. He’d intended to say something about Bartlett’s mother, but the truth had popped out. The two men were alone in a small examination room, a Spesnatz on guard outside.

  Bartlett nodded. “About time. What is your name?”

  Jim heard some treacherous part of himself reply honestly. The questions continued: occupation, date of birth. The truth flowed freely.

  “You’ll do,” said Bartlett with a faint smile. He was reaching for the wall phone when Billy Budd came into the room and shot him dead, a bullet to the head.

  Pocketing his silenced S&W, Budd stepped back into the corridor, returning in a moment with the body of Spesnatz, also shot in the head. He locked the door. “I should shoot you, too,” he said to a glassy-eyed Jimbo. “‘Sanctimonious weasel.’ You’re not looking so good, Jimbo,” he added.