The man Wes had warned came back, taking off his helmet and squatting next to Wes, shouting so that he could be heard. He was a young man, maybe thirty, with a short military cut to his hair, but wearing no military or civilian insignia.
“How big of a warhead is it? How many kilotons?”
“I don’t know,” Wes said. “I think it came from the aircraft carrier Nimitz.”
That meant something to the man, and he nodded.
“How long do we have?”
“Minutes, at best,” Wes guessed.
With that, the crewman returned to the cockpit to talk with the pilot and copilot. The discussion was animated; the crew was deciding on a course of action. A minute later the crewman returned, talking to the man who had carried Dawson. Together they opened the side door, sliding it wide. Wes could see the other helicopter, and behind that the remains of the Norfolk still piling up in the desert. In the sky above the wreckage he could see specks. There were helicopters in pursuit.
Suddenly the helicopter rose sharply, climbing so steeply that Wes had to brace himself to keep from falling over. The climb continued, the crewmen by the door hanging on with one hand, and one of the men leaning out, watching the pursuit behind them. After a minute of climbing, the helicopter dove just as steeply, angling toward the ground in a reckless descent. Wes could see the rocky side of a mountain flash by the door as they levelled out. They were flying low through a mountain pass.
The helicopter maneuvered sharply, negotiating the pass. After a few minutes it went into a steep descent, the sound of the rotors echoing off the canyon walls. Suddenly Wes’s stomach fluttered the way it did in elevators. Then, with a thump, they were on the ground. The engines shut down, and the thump of the rotors slowed. Looking outside, Wes saw the other helicopter land. The crew were frenetic now, shouting to each other, disconnecting wiring, preparing the helicopter to survive the electromagnetic pulse of a nuclear blast. One of the crewmen was boosted to the roof of the helicopter, and Wes could hear him working on the engine above.
They were in a canyon, its steep stone walls only fifty yards from the helicopter. Then there was a bright flash, as if a thousand strobe lights had gone off; the crewman slid off the roof and dove inside as soon as he hit the ground. As Wes bent to cover Dawson, the sound of the nuclear explosion reached their canyon. The shock wave would be right behind.
LAST CALL
Robert Daly’s wife and son had struck again, coming to his Chicago office and replacing the pole lamp that had matched his original office furniture with one of his son’s creations. It was made of bronze tubing and glass, of course, the tubing holding together the tall glass structure that ended in a glass ball. There were no light bulbs that Daly could see; instead, the whole structure glowed with a soft light as if filled with neon gas. The strangest thing about the lamp, however, was that he liked it. In fact, it was a beautiful piece, both aesthetically pleasing and functional at the same time. He was sure that his son could make a business out of such creations if he would mass-produce them, lowering the cost per unit. Daly was equally sure his son would never go “commercial” with his art—not as long as his father continued to support him.
His phone sounded, and he answered his secretary’s buzz.
“Doctor Martin is calling for you,” she said.
“Put him through,” Daly said. “Hello, Doctor Martin. How is Ms. Foxworth?”
“She’s still unconscious,” Dr. Martin said.
“What about the little girl and the man you brought back with you?”
“No change, I’m afraid. Mr. Dawson suffered cardiac arrest, and by the time your people revived him he had suffered anoxia. There was brain damage and he’s comatose.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I would have liked to talk to him,” Daly said.
“Anita is semiconscious—she seems to be stable, but incoherent most of the time.”
“Are Mr. Dawson and Ms. Foxworth still linked?”
“Yes. Anita was psychically linked with Mr. Dawson before I integrated their minds. Then, when I linked the dreamers together, Anita’s connection to Dawson was strengthened. Elizabeth apparently had a powerful latent ability that was released when I integrated her mind with the others. Eventually, her and Dawson’s minds fused.”
“What about the other woman?”
“Wanda? She doesn’t dream of the ship anymore—in fact, she doesn’t dream at all. Mr. Dawson is broadcasting the equivalent of white noise and that’s all Wanda picks up.”
“There’s no way to break the link?” Daly asked.
“It’s possible if the psychological trauma of what happened to them—being burned and seeing all that death—is so great that their coma is a defense mechanism. I doubt it. I believe Dawson is the key. He’s the transmitter, and Anita, Wanda, and Elizabeth are the receivers. Until he stops transmitting, Elizabeth and Anita will share his coma.”
“I see,” Daly said. “It must have been hard for you, knowing that by saving Mr. Dawson you were condemning Elizabeth and Anita.”
“I hoped we could find a solution.”
“A way they all could live?” Daly said.
“Yes.”
They were silent for a minute, Daly thinking about the problem and possible solutions.
“Doctor Martin, the foundation is extending your grant for another year. We are very interested in your work with schizophrenics and your theory that they may be receiving alien psychic transmissions. Your recent experiences make your theory even more credible.”
“I’m taking a leave from the university. I’m going to care for Elizabeth.”
“I understand. The grant will be available when you are ready.”
“One more thing, Mr. Daly. The government is claiming that the explosion in New Mexico was caused by terrorists smuggling a nuclear weapon into the country.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s a lie. The weapon came from the aircraft carrier Nimitz.”
“And you want to tell the world what really happened?” Daly said.
“Yes. The sinking of the Nimitz, the Philadelphia Experiment, the men and women trapped there by their own government, the nuclear explosion, everything. The people have a right to know.”
As a trustee of the Kellum Foundation, Daly had a more practical view of people’s rights. He and the other trustees had determined that the most good would come from supporting the government’s cover story. The foundation’s sociometric projections suggested that the most likely outcomes of the government’s story would be increased border security, including a wall between Mexico and the U.S., and more coastal patrols. The end result of that would be a sharp decline in illegal immigration, drug smuggling, and unemployment among the primarily Hispanic populations of the border states. The benefits of an improved standard of living would be passed on to their children, moving much of the Southwest Hispanic community into the middle class. Two other outcomes would be unnecessary increases in the defense budget, and a continuation of conservative dominance of the political parties, both acceptable to the foundation.
“Doctor Martin, I understand your frustration, but you and the others are safe only as long as you don’t tell your story. No one will believe you anyway. You have no proof.”
“So they get away with it?”
“Not everyone. Some of the key players were at ground zero in New Mexico, and many more up the chain of command have been fired or reassigned. If it helps you keep faith in our government, you should know that very few officials actually knew the whole story of what happened in Philadelphia in 1943. Even fewer knew that the crew of the Norfolk were still alive.”
“Then, what’s to prevent it from happening again?”
“The only one who could duplicate the Philadelphia Experiment for certain was Doctor Kellum. Besides, the intelligence agencies are afraid of the powers they unleashed—both the physical and the psychic. They’re not anxious to pursue that line of research.”
Daly didn’t
add that the foundation was very interested in continuing the research into resonant magnetic fields, and had two projects already underway.
“Then it’s over,” Dr. Martin said.
“Except for your people,” Daly said.
There was nothing more to say except goodbye. When Dr. Martin hung up, Daly rocked back in his chair, putting his feet up on his glass desk, and staring at the glow of his son’s lamp. Dr. Martin had called him with no agenda—only an empty threat to blow the whistle on the government’s cover-up, and to update him on Elizabeth and Anita’s conditions. Daly knew Dr. Martin was too smart to go public with what he knew about the loss of the Nimitz and the New Mexico disaster. The real reason for the call had to be read between the lines. Dr. Martin had made it clear that Elizabeth and Anita could not recover as long as they were linked to Roger Dawson, who could linger in a coma for years and was unlikely ever to regain consciousness.
The solution to Dr. Martin’s problem was obvious. Buzzing his secretary, Daly asked her once again to get the director of security on the phone.
AWAKENING
Len was late the day Elizabeth woke up. Wanda, Shamita, and Wes were there, and Anita came from her hospital room wearing a pink robe and bunny slippers. For three days Elizabeth’s brain waves had made steady progress from abnormal delta to normal alpha rhythms. She had begun to respond to sounds and touch the day before, and her eyelids had fluttered frequently as if she was trying to open them. She woke briefly in the morning, but by the time Wes arrived she was asleep again. Everyone except Len was gathered around her bed when she woke the second time that day.
The others greeted her warmly as if she were back from a long trip. Too emotional for words, Wes let the others talk first and express their relief.
“I was afraid I waited too long to call the ambulance,” Shamita said.
“I’m all right,” Elizabeth assured her.
Elizabeth held out her hand for Anita, who took it, stepping close. Anita’s eyes were dark circles still, her cheeks hollows, and her arms and legs stick thin. She had no body fat, but was eating well, quickly gaining back weight.
“How are you, Anita?” Elizabeth asked.
“Good. Know what I dreamed about last night? Bunnies,” Anita said with a toothless smile.
Then she held up her foot so that Anita could see her bunny slippers.
“Doctor Martin gave me these. Aren’t they neat?”
“I’m happy for you,” Elizabeth said. “Did I wait too long to get you out of the dream? What do you remember?”
“I remember being burned a little,” Anita said sadly, then quickly added,
“I dreamed about going to school yesterday.”
“I’m happy for you, Anita. What about you, Wanda? What are your dreams?”
“Last night I dreamed I was playing bingo. To tell you the truth, I haven’t dreamed about anything but that ship in so long, I kind of miss it.”
Now Elizabeth reached out for Wes.
“What happened to Roger Dawson?” she asked.
“He was badly burned. His heart stopped, and by the time he was revived there was brain damage. He died a few days ago.”
Wes avoided Elizabeth’s eyes when he told her of Dawson, and she knew there was more to tell, but that this wasn’t the time to hear it.
“What about Ralph and Monica, Jett, and Dr. Kellum, and all the others?” Elizabeth asked.
“We’ve heard nothing,” Wes said. “No one knows where they’ve gone. I called Dr. Birnbaum, about Ralph.”
Nothing was said now; they were all saddened by the loss of Ralph and Monica, but Wes and Elizabeth were also saddened by the loss of so many others they had met. Then Elizabeth realized who was missing.
“Len?” she said abruptly. “He was shot. Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Wes said. “He should be here.”
“He’s afraid of me,” Wanda said.
Wanda held up a pack of Lucky Strikes.
“He’s supposed to take me to the airport. I aim to smoke the whole pack before we get there. Ha!”
There was a tap on the door frame—it was Len.
“Good to see you awake,” Len said from the hallway.
“Come in so I can see you,” Elizabeth said.
“Okay, but just for a second. I’m all set to drive Wanda to the airport.”
As Len stepped into the room, the air was filled with an overpowering stew of perfumes and colognes mixed with other unidentifiable smells.
“Len, you stink,” Anita said.
“I couldn’t stink,” Len said. “I’m wearing Brut, Old Spice, British Sterling, and some of every other old cologne I could find.”
“Get back in the hall,” Wes said.
“I’m only here long enough to pick up Wanda,” Len said.
“What are those things around your neck?” Elizabeth asked.
“Car air fresheners,” Len said, holding up the Christmas tree-shaped pieces of cardboard. “I’ve got fresh pine, cinnamon, and lemon-lime.”
“Get out of here, Len, you’re going to put Elizabeth back in a coma,” Shamita said, holding her nose.
“Time to go, Wanda,” Len said cheerfully.
“It’s a good try, Lenny,” Wanda said. “But it’s only a few minutes to the airport.”
“I booked you out of Portland so you don’t have to make that extra connection. It’s two and a half hours from here,” Len said.
Wanda glowered at Len, cigarettes still clutched in her hand.
“And I’ve been on an all-bean diet for three days,” Len said.
Then Wanda cracked, laughing loud and long, and ending with a deep cough. When she stopped coughing, she held out her cigarettes. Len took them triumphantly.
“But you take a shower before we go,” Wanda said.
“The cologne’s on my clothes. I have a change in the car.”
“You’re all right, Lenny,” Wanda said.
Holding her nose with one hand, she looped her other arm through his as they walked into the hall.
When Wes looked back at Elizabeth, her eyes were closed, her breathing deep and slow. He leaned close, watching her eyelids, seeing that her eyes were moving rapidly back and forth under the lids.
“Sweet dreams,” Wes said, then kissed her on the forehead.
EPILOGUE
Nine months later
Luther Simpson’s pickup sped along the rural Kansas road, anticipating every turn, hill, and gully as if it had a mind of its own. After forty years of driving the road, Luther needed only a small part of his conscious mind to guide the truck, even in the dark. Singing along with the country music coming from the radio, he was thinking about getting a cold beer out of the fridge when he got home and sitting down with his wife, Carolyn, to watch a little TV.
Luther passed the turn for the Connors’ farm, knowing now that he was ten miles from home. The Connors hadn’t owned the farm for fifteen years, but it would always be the Connors’ farm to Luther and the others who were Kansas born and raised.
Another couple of miles, and he crested another small rise and saw a green glow in the distance—something that didn’t belong. It was the wrong color for fire, and there had never been lights there. He judged that the glow was coming from Bill Miller’s wheat field.
Another rise, and he saw the strange glow again. He marked the direction, confirming that it was in Miller’s field. Another rise, and the green glow was gone. Luther searched for the glow at every turn and rise, but never saw it again. After a couple of miles he judged that he was near where he’d seen the light, and stopped on the road, getting out into the cool spring night air. Climbing into the back of his pickup, he scanned the field, seeing nothing—no glow, no burned ground. Climbing back in, he started the engine, turned the radio back on, and promised himself to give Bill a call in the morning.
With his headlights on high beam, he shifted through the gears, picking up speed. Speed limits were speed suggestions to Luther, and he
routinely exceeded them on roads as familiar as this one. Then his headlights picked out a figure walking along the side of the road. It was a big man with a funny gait, wearing a shiny pair of coveralls. He had long, sloping strides and swung his arms in wide arcs. Wherever he was going, he was going in a hurry, but the strange thing was that there was noplace to go unless you lived nearby, and Luther was sure he had never seen the man before.
Slowing, Luther pulled up alongside and looked him over. His shiny coveralls were dirty, with many rips and tears, and the sleeves had been torn off. Luther honked, and the man stopped. When Luther rolled down his passenger window the man came over and leaned his head in. He had a large mouth with thick lips, and a heavy brow. To Luther, he looked retarded.
“Hihowyadoin?” the man said so fast that Luther could barely pick out the words. At the same time, he put his hand through the open window. “My name’s Ralph, what’s yours?”
“Luther,” he said, smiling reflexively in response to the man’s big grin and shaking his hand, feeling a powerful grip. “Where are you going, Ralph?”
“Home.”
“Do you live near here?”
Ralph pulled his head out of the truck and looked around, then put his head back in.
“I dunno,” he said. “I live that way, but I’m not so good at figuring how far it is.”
“Are you staying with someone near here? Maybe the Millers or the Sweenys?”
“I don’t think so,” Ralph said.
“Then where did you come from?”
“Back that-a-way,” Ralph said.
Using hand motions, he pointed back and forth.
“Then that way, and that way, then that way, then that way. It took a long time to find the way.”
Luther decided that Ralph wasn’t smart enough to explain himself.
“My wife made an apple pie this morning, Ralph. What would you say to coming home and having a piece with me?”
“With ice cream on top?” Ralph asked with a big smile.
“Got a gallon of vanilla in the freezer.”
Ship of the Damned Page 40
