[Anthology] Killer Thrillers

by Nick Thacker

  “Thank you, Diane.” She turned to the techs and scientists that had joined her around the table. “As you all know, I want this to be a fully open, honest forum. We’re all part of this, so this is the first time any of us are seeing these results.” Amanda opened the folder and began reading aloud.

  “Upon waking the patient at 0900 hours, the following questions were asked. The transcript and responses to follow.”

  Amanda flipped a page. “1 — Were you able to engage in restful sleep? Response: ‘Yes.’ 2 — Do you remember dreaming during your most restful periods of sleep? Response: ‘Yes.’”

  She stopped for a moment and looked around the room. “I’m going to skip ahead a bit.”

  There were a few chuckles and nervous laughs, but she continued.

  “7 — There was an object — what appeared to be a human male — in the dream. This man seemed to be covered in a gold paint. Brief pause. Who is the man? Response: ‘I am sorry? I do not remember seeing a man.’ 8 — This man seemed to be situated outside a window in the house. Do you remember the window? Response: ‘I do. This was my house, my family’s house. The window, uh, must have been the front window, looking out onto the street.’ 9 — And yet you do not remember the man outside the window? Response: ‘There was no man outside the window. I am sure of it.’”

  Amanda swallowed, then closed the folder. Without speaking, she set the folder down on the table and placed her hands on it.

  What the hell is happening?

  Her first reaction was anger. My research — my entire company — all of it is being sabotaged.

  She kept that feeling to herself. Unfortunately, the second emotion she felt — that of complete shock, of wondering what was going on, was plastered all over her face.

  “Dr. Meron?” Dr. Wu’s voice. “Are you okay?”

  Amanda felt her head spin. Am I shaking? She tried to steady herself on the table. She looked over at Dr. Wu, nodding.

  “Dr. Meron, I am sure there is a logical explanation for this. Perhaps Mr. Herrera had temporarily forgotten —“

  “No,” Dr. Wu said. “We need to run another test. Please have Diane prepare the subject for another round of REMS. He will need to expedite his regular daily schedule so we can have a test prepared for this evening.”

  Around the table, heads nodded. Amanda could hear the voice of Dr. Wu, but his words weren’t registering. We’ve been sabotaged, she thought. It’s a joke. It’s all a joke.

  Dr. Wu continued. “In the meantime, is there another subject prepared for a REMS analysis?”

  Diane nodded. “Yes, Dr. Wu. Actually, we have a cousin of Mr. Herrera here as well. They signed up for the same examination week.”

  “That will be perfect.” He turned to the technicians seated around the table. “Prepare the computer and fMRI system once more.”

  3

  DR. WU DIDN’T BLAME AMANDA. For years she’d been building this project, working toward the ultimate goal and dream they both shared: recording human dreams.

  The fact that she was currently overwhelmed with the reality of the situation did not surprise him. He would take the lead until she was ready to return. Knowing her, she just needed some rest and time to clear her mind.

  He had been with her since the beginning of this final phase. Their careers were similar, though Amanda was certainly the savvy and creative mind that a research project of this caliber needed, while he was the lead scientist that provided the logical and analytical functions to keep it moving forward.

  They were a perfectly matched team, as well. From day one they’d hit it off, her wit and charm matched by his seriousness and love for science. In most of his professional career he’d witnessed only cutthroat types vying for publication credentials, university positions, and curriculum vitae-building projects that would only further their careers.

  But not here at NARATech. Neurological Advanced Research Applications was a firm like no other — focused solely on achieving the goals set by all of them, together, around the table inside that terribly cramped conference room. Political and bureaucratic considerations were, simply, not considered.

  For the first years they’d worked together, he’d assumed that she had personally bankrolled NARATech — he simply couldn’t fathom any other possibility for a company such as this. But after getting to know her, he overheard a few references to ‘investors’ and ‘capital’ and things of that nature, and he started wondering where Amanda had found the hands-off investors she’d collected to get this place off the ground. He couldn’t imagine anyone willing to invest such hefty sums in an unproven market, especially without the massive oversight and earmarking along the way that always came with the investment money.

  But NARATech seemed to be just such an organization. Headquartered in Maraba rather than Brasilia, the federal district of Brazil, NARATech was a billion-US-dollar research station with all the perks of a Silicon Valley startup, but tucked away from the bustle of city life. Dr. Amanda Meron ran the company, and Wu operated as the executive staff member.

  That was it. No more, no less. It was a simple and elegant setup that allowed them to move quickly into the research areas they needed.

  For Amanda’s sake, Dr. Wu hoped this next test would go more smoothly. Specifically, he hoped that whatever strange phenomenon they had experienced the first time around would not plague them this time.

  He motioned for the technician to begin. Again, they all stood around the computer and monitor, minus Amanda. The technician alerted Diane in the next room to switch on the fMRI scanner that would begin activating the electrodes arrayed inside the helmet their subject was wearing.

  Wu watched as again the swirling colors danced and played on the screen, followed by the starbursts and sprinkling of light. It took longer this time for their patient to enter into a dreamstate, but after about ten minutes of watching, the screen went blank.

  “Confirm recording,” he said.

  A technician confirmed just as the screen lit up in shining light. Wu was again stunned by the beauty of it. It was difficult to comprehend what he was seeing, but eventually things began to fall into place.

  This particular dreamstate had much less structure than Mr. Herrera’s. Abstract lines and shapes still danced in the background, fuzzy interpretations of something Mr. Herrera’s cousin remembered from long ago. In the foreground, or what Wu assumed was the foreground, larger shapes — unknown bodies — moved back and forth on the screen.

  The screen itself seemed to jump up and down as the shapes moved left and right. It’s a good thing I’m not prone to seizures, he thought.

  “Where are we?” One of the technicians, Johnson, asked.

  Gauvez answered. “No idea, but it does look like a fun memory.”

  “Looks like a dance. Or a party.”

  There were a few chuckles, then silence.

  Wu suddenly understood the context and setting. It is a dance, he realized. Mr. Herrera’s cousin was also remembering a happy time, a moment of joy.

  People, or at least their fuzzy outlines, danced around the screen. Two of the shapes — people bodies, as they would be called — embraced one another and swirled into one blob. The blob moved, turning to the side of the screen. Their subject moved its head and followed as the blob continued to move to another location in the memory.

  They watched in silence for another two minutes until the two shapes reemerged from one and separated on screen.

  And there, in the center of the screen, right where the two shapes split, the gold-covered man stood.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Looking directly at Dr. Henry Wu.

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  The Atlantis Stone

  1

  Prologue

  February, 1791 - Just north of the Potomac River

  The bubble-shaped submarine came to a slow halt. Its pilot looked through the bent glass in the craft’s top section to get a vi
sual of his target. This shallow section of the river was interrupted by a deeper divot in the river’s bottom; a small well-shaped valley that sunk into the riverbed about eight feet.

  It was into this hole that David’s sights were set.

  He maneuvered the small submarine — an exact copy of one of his previous inventions, the Turtle — into position at the edge of the small well. The watercraft wasn’t exactly easy to control — a combination of foot pedals and hand cranks were required in perfect unison just to move the semi-buoyant craft forward, much less side-to-side. He needed to turn completely around, slowly moving Turtle II's stern toward the hole.

  His hands flew over the controls and cranks, ensuring there were no over-corrections or fast movements that might send the vessel spinning out of control. The Turtle II was groundbreaking in many ways. David Bushnell designed the first American submarine, and this second version, using a water-based ballast system for controlling depth. This newer version incorporated a screw-type propeller to push the craft forward through the depths. To the untrained eye, this newer copy was exactly the same as its first incarnation.

  The major difference between the two versions, however, was that Turtle II was not fitted with the large detachable mine that the Turtle employed. The Turtle’s mine had been something David included as an afterthought — given the turmoil of the British occupation of Boston and the surrounding colonies, he'd had enough foresight to fit his underwater vehicle with a functional — though limited — weapons system.

  Combining the detachable mine with the stealth of a vessel that could travel sight unseen below the water's surface, Bushnell had hoped to create a vessel that could one day be used in naval and military applications. If the Turtle succeeded in deploying its timed explosive onto the underbelly of a British battleship, the young nation might gain an advantage over its powerful British opponent. David hadn’t been able to get the mines to “stick” to the undersides of the ships, so while the intended effect — destroying British ships — hadn’t been achieved, the outcome was still the same: the timed mines erupted from the ocean’s floor, and the British pulled their fleet back out of the harbor, unsure of what had caused the explosions. Overall, Bushnell’s mission had been a success.

  Today, the Turtle II had a different mission. Rather than a detachable mine on the submarine’s backside, a 200-pound detachable box was added. Its contents were unknown to David — he was simply contracted to navigate to the proper location beneath the surface of the Potomac River and detach the box, placing it precisely where his employers designated — the well-shaped depression at the river’s bottom, the corners of it now marked with temporary wooden rods.

  With his turn finally complete, David was now directly above the drop zone. He unscrewed the large connecting rivet and pressed the clasp holding the detachable unit in place. He heard a soft pop as the box disconnected from the rear wall.

  After waiting thirty seconds to ensure that the box had reached the river bottom, he turned the submarine ninety degrees to his left — facing the craft almost due north. From this angle, he could see his handiwork through the submarine’s small, bubble-shaped viewing window. The large crate, bound with metal bands and locked in four places, sat nestled at the bottom of the shallow well, half submerged in silt and pebbles. Satisfied, David began spinning the propeller with his feet and guided the craft up to speed toward the shore. His work was done, and his payment could be collected.

  From a rise above the northern edge of the river, three men watched silently — two on horseback, the third standing next to them. The Turtle II was submerged for an hour or so, yet the men looked on. They said nothing to each other until David’s ship resurfaced, proceeded by a growing circle of lapping water and bubbles from the emptying ballast.

  As the submarine slid toward them, the man seated in the middle spoke to the man standing next to him. “Benjamin, the mission has met with success. Finalize the plans for the layout at dawn, then return here and deliver the letter to our associate, Mr. L’Enfant.”

  “Yes, Mr. Washington,” Benjamin replied. He left on foot, heading west.

  Bushnell disembarked and returned from the river’s edge. He looked up the hill at the two remaining men and gave a slight nod. It was finished.

  Washington looked to his companion. “See that Mr. Bushnell is compensated for his fine work here today — the object should now be safe from prying eyes.” He let out a tired sigh. “I suggest that you forget it as well; all that is left in this matter is the drawing of the new city’s layout.”

  The man responded, “I am afraid that our dear Charles will not welcome the news. He has struggled for months to perfect the layout for our nation’s capital, and he does not always respond well to criticism.”

  Washington took a long moment to answer. “Mr. Jefferson, I have personally appointed Charles l’Enfant to oversee this project, but the situation has changed. Our enemy is close to discovering our secret; we cannot continue to burden our nation with its protection. We shall leave it for another generation.”

  “Please see to it that Mr. Ellicott takes over the surveying and layout of this area, and that Mr. Banneker remains behind as his personal scribe and assistant. I am confident they will give our capitol a foundation worthy of the secret it is built upon.”

  Washington knew the secret could tear apart the fledgling nation. He also knew from experience how the promise of wealth and prosperity could tempt even the best of men, and the contents of the now submerged box would prove a terrible temptation indeed.

  Washington and his colleagues had come so far in this new land, and had taken great pains to ensure that they would leave their families and friends with a solid foundation. If left unguarded, the whispers and rumors of this secret could eventually lead to an uprising — men would do anything to possess the knowledge it would provide. Washington knew the young government was not yet capable of dealing with this powerful object. It must be hidden away, until someone worthy of its power might find it.

  Jefferson and Washington continued watching the great river before them as the sun sank into the water’s far edge. The Potomac would make a wonderful backdrop to a marvelous city, one that would hopefully see many centuries of growth and prosperity, and serve as a beacon for the people of the great land.

  And one day far beyond the end of the two mens’ lives, someone would discover the secret the Founding Fathers had tried to conceal in the layout of their new capital city. Washington was sure of it, and he only prayed that it was someone worthy of the knowledge.

  2

  The air smelled like burning tar. Smoke, billowing from the mouths and openings of caves, blocked out the sun and caused a deep-gray shadow over the low, rolling dunes.

  Captain Bryce Reynolds had a hard time breathing, and crouched lower still, his face nearly touching the gritty sand. He winced, trying to see through the thick clouds of fire and smoke, and crawled forward slowly. The top edge of the dune he was on was merely feet in front of him, and would offer his team much better visibility of the area in front of them.

  A mortar shell blasted fifty yards from his location, opening yet another hole in a previously unknown cave system. A sergeant nearer to the explosion, Arturo Rodriguez, rolled back on his heels and fell backwards onto the sand. “Shit!” he yelled. “Forget these Republican Guard guys, the friendly fire’s gonna kill us first!”

  Bryce dismissed the man’s complaint and instead focused again down the sights of his M-16 assault rifle. The mortar blast had opened the roof of a large underground cavern, and Bryce could see numerous Iraqi Republican Guard units scurrying away from the collapsing rock formation. One of the men lifted a gun, aiming toward Bryce’s team on the hill. The man next to him, Joseph Strahan, fired two rounds down into the cave, dropping the Iraqi soldier before he could shoot.

  “Nice shot,” Bryce said. He and the other four U.S. Army Rangers next to him on the dune waited for a moment to see if any more Iraqi Guards would run out fr
om the cavern, but none came.

  They inched forward, slowly reaching the top of the dune. More artillery shells smashed down onto the sandy field in front of them, and each explosion caused the team to retract a bit, tensing in anticipation of a sudden counterattack.

  A break in the dusty air came momentarily, and Bryce could see the city of Samarra, Iraq to the northwest; the Tigris to its left, winding through the sand and rock plains like a mirage. Immediately ahead, he saw the huts and tents of the Iraqi Republican Guard, and men running about in preparation. Mortar blasts continued to launch debris and rock upwards, causing even more commotion among the opposing forces.

  “There,” Bryce called out to the rest of his team. “That’s where we’re headed. We need to secure the perimeter first, and Strahan and I will grab the package. Eyes up; on me.” He didn’t wait for his teams’ response; they knew the mission objectives.

  He rose to his feet, the Ranger team following. Master Sergeant Andreeson and the kid, Private First Class Jason O’Neil, took the left flank. They ran a straight-line path down the front side of the dune, pacing their advance carefully toward the camp they had been ordered to infiltrate. The small command and weapons depot sat just outside the city of Samarra, and their mission was to locate and retrieve the “package” — a list of firing orders and coordinates. Their cover would be an ongoing onslaught of friendly artillery fire, raining down on the area from the north, hopefully causing the Iraqi soldiers to anticipate an attack from that direction. His team spread out over the wide expanse of sand dunes and rocky plains, and he heard his second-in-command recite the mission objectives to the rest of the men through the radio transmitter.

  At least they knew their mission objectives, he thought.

  Captain Reynolds, however, had one more objective that was not known to the other members of the small five-man Ranger team. Prior to their airdrop, Major Dwight Maynes had pulled Bryce aside near the cockpit of the cargo plane and away from the rest of his men. The noise in the fuselage was deafening, but thanks to the ear-mounted two-way radios they’d been equipped with, the noise-cancelling devices prevented them from needing to shout.