PSI/Net

by Rob MacGregor

  He dropped his sketch pad on the coffee table. He'd drawn a spider's web, and at the center of it he'd written: PSI NET. He leaned over and made a diagonal slash between the two words.

  PSI/NET.

  "We are all linked, but divided," he said, and tossed the pencil on the table. "Maxwell must remove us from the web and the only way he can do that is to eliminate us. We are in big shit trouble."

  "You mean deep shit trouble," Calloway corrected.

  Perez nodded solemnly. "Deep shit is right."

  Chapter Eighteen

  The window air conditioner groaned and rumbled, but it wasn't cooling the room. Maxwell had awakened drenched in sweat after several hours of restless sleep. He opened the door a few inches and felt a blast of warm air. Close to ninety, he figured. He cautiously opened the door wider and looked around the deserted parking lot.

  In his frenzy to find an inconspicuous spot to rest, Maxwell had ended up in a hotel with no phone in the room. He needed to call Wiley right away, to make a deal, to get things moving. He crossed the parking lot to the pay phone outside the office. An out-of-order sign hung on it. Great. Just get the fuck out of here. He had his cell phone with him, but he didn't want to take any chances, not even for a quick contact call as he'd done in Durango.

  But he would use the cell phone to check up on Ritter. He went back to the room, called the hotel, and was connected to Ritter's room. "Steve, I got it."

  "Right where I told you, wasn't it."

  "Yeah. But now I need your help again. I'm going to face off with Wiley and I want you to keep checking on me. If you sense I'm in trouble, you've got to put the squeeze on him. Don't kill him, just let him know that he's going to pay if he harms me."

  "Sure, Max. Gotcha covered. Gotcha good."

  "We'll go after Calloway when I get back."

  "We already took a peek. They're on the road. Heading to Perez's place. But they almost fell off the mountain." Ritter laughed and Maxwell pulled the phone away from his ear to avoid his grating chortle. "Me and the boys will get 'em next time. Don't worry, Max. We'll get Perez, too. Can't wait."

  A warning light flashed in Maxwell's head. Ritter was going out on his own without his guidance. Not a good idea. But it wasn't the right time to confront him. "Don't do anything more for now," he said, firmly. "Just watch my back."

  A few minutes later, after taking a cool shower, he dropped the room key on the bed and walked to the rear of the building. So far, so good, he muttered when he saw the Corvette right where he'd left it. He clicked off the alarm and drove away in search of a phone booth. He wanted a cup of coffee and something to eat, but he needed to find a phone booth first, somewhere in a comfortable setting without a lot of traffic noise or people standing around, where he could wait for a return call.

  He'd driven a couple of miles when he stopped for a red light near a shopping center with a supermarket, a Starbucks, and a pay phone outside. Perfect.

  He turned as he saw an attractive blonde motioning to him from the passenger side of a dark blue Town Car. He rolled down his window. The woman smiled at him. "Sir, did you know that there's something underneath your car?"

  His smile vanished. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, Mr. Maxwell, that you've got a locator attached to your pretty Corvette. You can't get away from us."

  "Who are you?"

  Stupid question. He knew it must be one of Wiley's women. The general's appetite for women hadn't diminished since his army years. Ritter had picked up on that.

  The woman's tone darkened. She pointed to the shopping center as the light changed. "Pull in there and park. Don't try to run. It won't do any good."

  He did as he was told and tried to stay calm. At least he'd gotten rid of the bomb. That gave him some leverage, and if they tried to torture him to get the location, they might be in for a surprise. But now that the threat was actually materializing, he wondered how reliable Ritter would be. Without a monitor, his mind might be literally off in space. For a moment, Maxwell imagined Ritter in the restaurant giving unwanted impromptu readings to diners while a thug with a pliers methodically pulled out his fingernails.

  He pushed the image away and parked near the front of the lot, next to a handicapped space. If he were dragged away screaming, people would see him. Someone would report it. He kept the car running and the air conditioning on.

  He tried to relax, wondering how long he would have to wait. He looked around for the Town Car, but didn't see it. He'd known all along that he'd been taking a chance working with George Wiley. But at least the general would now realize that he was a player, not just someone on the sidelines waiting to be told what to do next. Tough talk. But realistically, how long could he hold up against Wiley's thugs? He suddenly found himself dependent on Ritter and the others, more dependent than he cared for.

  He blamed the idiots in Congress for his present predicament. They'd possessed a tool that could defend the nation in ways that could hardly be imagined. But the shortsighted bastards had banished remote viewing from the government's agenda and dismissed the finest group of psychics ever assembled.

  A tap against his rear window broke his reverie. He turned, saw a man dressed in shorts and a T-shirt move alongside the Corvette. "Get out and walk over to the black Suburban two rows over."

  He stepped out and locked the doors. He noticed the man peering into the vehicle as if looking for the bomb. He walked around to the trunk and opened it. "Take a good look. Nothing here."

  The man grunted and walked away, moving toward the supermarket. Maxwell ambled over to the Suburban and saw it was the one that had followed him earlier in the day. He couldn't see anything through the darkened windows. He tried the back door. Locked. He moved to the front passenger door and opened it.

  "Get in," a gruff voice ordered. A brawny man with a thick, stubby neck sat behind the wheel.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Get in and close the door."

  Maxwell slid into the seat. The Suburban pulled out of the lot and they drove around in a winding pattern. Ten minutes after leaving the shopping center, he saw it again. "Do you know where you're going?"

  No answer. He'd read somewhere that people who were following orders to kill typically didn't look their victim in the eye or treat the person as a human. So far the driver fit the profile.

  He sent out a silent emergency message to Ritter and waited for an inkling of some sort, an impression that he'd been heard. Nothing. But then maybe he just didn't sense Ritter's presence. His own psychic abilities weren't very well developed. He'd once hoped to be a psychic spy, but his talents were judged to be minimal and he'd ended up as an administrator. Initially, he'd been disappointed. But, of course, he'd learned to take advantage of his unusual position.

  The Suburban eased into a gas station across the street from the shopping center and stopped at a pump. The driver turned to him. "Go to the men's room.'

  He got out and slowly walked around the side of the station. Light and shadow flickered over him as he moved through the sultry afternoon, the sun filtering through a majestic cottonwood. He silently called out to Ritter again as if he were praying to some god. He stopped in front of the door. He considered running, but then noticed someone standing near the rear of the station watching him.

  He opened the door. Before his eyes had a chance to adjust to the dimly lit bathroom, hands reached out, grabbed him, and pulled him inside. The door closed. Two men he'd never seen before ran their hands roughly over his body.

  "He's clean," one of them said. Both men abruptly left.

  George Wiley leaned against the sink, his arms crossed. "You can sit on the toilet seat, if you want."

  "Can't we go somewhere else?" Maxwell asked. "This place stinks."

  Wiley, dressed in dark slacks and a pressed button-down shirt, looked trim, fit, and suave, as always. Only now his new features seemed more predatory than the old face. He stared darkly at Maxwell. "This place is just fine. Our meeting won'
t last long. Where's the bomb?"

  "My team found it. I picked it up and put it somewhere safe."

  "Did your team kill those kids, too?"

  Maxwell hesitated, made up his mind. "I did it because they were going to be caught with the bomb and they would've exposed your plan. You would be in much deeper trouble than you already are. You wouldn't be a folk hero anymore. You'd be considered a maniac, the Unibomber a hundred fold."

  Wiley considered what he'd heard. "So you took it upon yourself to save the bomb and knock off the kids."

  "I couldn't very well tell you about it, because you denied that you had any connection to the bomb."

  "I didn't trust you. I'm still not sure that I do. What do you want?" He wanted leverage, power, influence, respect. That for beginners. "I want you to drop this idea. Don't use the bomb."

  Wiley smiled. "Do you know what interests me about this Calloway's vision? He saw the future and Washington, D.C, wasn't there. That leads me to think that I will succeed. Whether you know it or not, you've already carried out the necessary acts that will make that vision a reality."

  That's not the way Maxwell saw it. Calloway had glimpsed a blueprint of the future, but now the elements had changed and that would alter the perceived future. He could turn over the bomb to Wiley, which he would do, but the general still had to get it to Washington.

  Wiley reached down and pulled a .38 from an ankle holster. "So where is it, Max? If you don't tell me in ten seconds, you're going to be an early casualty of the new civil war."

  Okay, Ritter, where are you? Help me, Steve.

  He watched Wiley for some sign that Ritter and the others were working on him. But he didn't appear in any anguish.

  "Wait, hang on." He held up his hands. C'mon, Steve. "Take it easy, George. I've got it hidden in a good spot. No one will find it." It suddenly occurred to him that Calloway could find it. He might already have pinpointed it.

  Wiley pressed the gun against his temple. "Stop stalling. Where is it? Last chance, Max. What do you say?"

  Nothing from Ritter. The bastard.

  "Okay. I'll make a deal with you. I'll tell you where it is if you take care of a little problem."

  "What problem?"

  "We've got three renegades on our hands. Remote viewers who aren't playing by our rules."

  "Three? You said two—Calloway and the woman."

  "There's one more. He's been quiet, but I don't trust him. If the three of them get together, which I think is exactly what's going on, they can cause big problems."

  "So you're asking me to whack them?" Wiley laughed. "Why don't you just take care of them the way you did those kids and the two FBI agents?"

  "I need your men as a backup, just in case something goes wrong."

  To Maxwell's relief, Wiley put away his gun. He leaned over the sink, turned the water on, and splashed his face as if nothing unusual was going on. "Maybe you underestimate the abilities of your team. From what I've seen they're pretty damn potent."

  "So are the other three. It's not child's play with them. They know the score and they can fight back. But your men could serve as a distraction. I know where they're hiding. It's isolated. A nice easy target for your militia."

  Wiley casually wiped his face with a paper towel, then abruptly snagged Maxwell by the neck and shoved his head into the sink. The faucet pressed against his temple and hot water suddenly poured over his cheek and into his eyes.

  “Stop it! I’m on your side,” he sputtered.

  Wiley pushed him harder against the faucet, twisting his head so that water spewed into his nose. He gagged and gasped, and Wiley pulled him out of the sink by the shirt collar. The general wiped his hands with another paper towel as if nothing unusual had just happened.

  "Pull yourself together, Max. We'll go after your freaks. But I want you to deal with this new agent, Fielding. The same as the others. Get on it. But first point me to the bomb. Now!"

  Chapter Nineteen

  For the second time in two days, Camila found herself waiting for a meeting in Kyle Leslie's library. She moved along the rows of bookshelves casually examining the titles. But her thoughts were elsewhere. This time she and the president would be alone, which would give her a better chance to talk to him about the topic that now dominated the news media and which threatened to short-circuit the government's efforts to carry on its business.

  The incident had been compared to the infamous "War of the Worlds" broadcast, but with the president of the United States, instead of Orson Welles, behind the microphone. The New York Times had already called Dustin's comments the most bizarre forty-five seconds in the history of presidential speeches. The staid Wall Street Journal had suggested that sexual misconduct in the Oval Office was more acceptable than an encounter with aliens in the presidential bedroom.

  Even more startling, a Harris Poll had found that 61 percent of Americans believed that Dustin was in contact with aliens, while 22 percent were undecided, and only 17 percent didn't believe him. To her astonishment, eight out of ten of those who believed the president was in contact with aliens also accepted the metaphor explanation.

  Her thoughts drifted to Calloway as she moved on along the bookshelves. She felt bad about the way she'd treated him on the phone. But what else could she do? She had her hands full, more than full.

  The FBI would certainly follow up on the case, but she couldn't put any more time into it. Oddly enough, she couldn't stop thinking about his comments suggesting a psychic-related conspiracy against the president. What if it were true? Even though it sounded absurd, it clearly wasn't any more so than the president's own contentions.

  The door opened and Dustin entered the room. He wore khakis and a pale blue work shirt. He looked surprisingly relaxed as he greeted her.

  She stepped over to the table and smiled. "Good afternoon, sir."

  He motioned for her to sit down. No hug this time. Although he often confided to her when they were alone, he kept a physical distance between them. After a couple of affairs as a senator that had nearly ruined his political career, Dustin apparently had left his lecherous days behind. That might be one of the reasons the media had latched on to the alien affair with such fervor.

  "Camila, I'm sorry this sensitive matter came about while you're still getting used to your new position." He paused and looked across the table at her. "You look tired. How are you holding up?"

  "I'm doing fine, Mr. President. It's just that along with everything else my ex-husband showed up in Denver," she blurted.

  "Trent?"

  Like most successful politicians, Dustin had a knack for remembering names. But then his one encounter with Calloway had been an unusual experience, one not likely to be quickly forgotten.

  "You know, after all these years, I still clearly recall that cocktail party when he met my challenge. That was no trick, was it?"

  "No, sir. That was just Trent doing his thing."

  Dustin, who was a senator at the time, had asked Calloway to describe where he would be at 3 P.M. the next day. But instead of waiting until the appointed time, Calloway said that he'd view the site immediately. He'd disappeared into a quiet room and twenty minutes later emerged with a folded piece of paper. He asked Dustin not to look at it until after his appointment.

  "I remember how he described a tunnel leading into a mountain and a network of corridors. He even made a diagram of the place and included a sketch of a laser drilling machine that was used to cut the tunnels, and an underground people mover. It was all there, including the location. But you remember what really impressed me? My plans changed that day. When he did the remote viewing, I thought I would be about twenty-thousand feet in the air heading to Washington. Instead, I ended up in Cheyenne Mountain meeting with several other members of Congress and ranking military officers."

  "I remember you saying that," Camila said.

  "So he couldn't have been reading my mind." He shook his head. "He actually saw a future event. Is he still doing the
remote viewing?"

  Suddenly, Camila realized that she'd made a mistake mentioning Calloway. Todd Waters had asked her not to say anything about the bomb scenario to Dustin, that he didn't need to know about it. But now if she didn't tell him and he found out about it later—which was a good possibility—he would know that she'd lied to him.

  "Yes, he is. In fact, that's why he came to Denver. He saw something."

  "Oh? Go on. I'd like to hear about it."

  She nodded, then proceeded to tell him about Calloway's apocalyptic vision and the remote viewing sessions that had followed. She described the events in a matter-of-fact tone, sounding neither supportive of Calloway nor disapproving.

  Dustin listened carefully. "So the couple in the crash were definitely identified as the same ones who Trent had seen with the bomb."

  "That's right. But, as I said, there was no bomb in the vehicle." He frowned. "Did you ask Trent to look for the bomb? Maybe it was transferred to another vehicle before the accident."

  "Someone from the FBI was going to contact him. But, to be truthful, Mr. President, the sentiments here among Clarke and the others seems to be that Trent was mistaken about the bomb. You know, the CIA dropped the remote viewing program in '95 because the accuracy rate didn't justify continuing it."

  "Camila, we're talking about the very future of the country here. We know that Wiley is well financed, that the purchase of such a weapon is within his means. So what if Trent is right? What if the bomb is still out there? I want to know if Trent has given the FBI any new leads. Please, keep me apprised on this, Camila. I want regular updates on everything related to the matter. Is that clear?"

  Oh shit.

  "Yes, sir. I'll contact Trent as soon as we're finished here."

  He nodded. "Okay. I'll be brief. First, I want to apologize again for what I've put you through."

  "There's no need for that, Mr. President. I'm just concerned about what's going to happen next. The press isn't going to let up anytime soon.",

  "I know. That's why I called you here. I'd like you to make a strategic leak to one or two influential reporters."