Kill Switch (59 page)

“And we can't prove that he's not a prophet,” I said.

“No. Dreamwalking and the whole Stargate project isn't something the general public would either accept or believe.”

“But they'll believe in a guy saying he's speaking for God.” It wasn't a question. We have about eight thousand years of history to tell us how effective religion—or its manipulation—has been in starting wars.

I sat up. I was windburned, sunburned, and sore, but I managed. Anger is a useful fuel. “You need to get on the phone with the damn president and—”

“Oh, believe me, Captain, I've had several long conversations with the president,” said Church. “As of two hours ago I am no longer the director or codirector of the Department of Military Sciences. I am no longer, in any capacity, an employee of the federal government. I am, in fact, likely to be under indictment by this time tomorrow.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

He said, “The DMS and all of its staff and resources are now under the management of the Central Intelligence Agency. Harcourt Bolton has been promoted to interim director pending reorganization. He will likely become full director of whatever the DMS will become, and it is likely to either be dissolved or folded into a minor department of the CIA. Our charter has been officially revoked. Federal marshals have been sent to each of our field offices to oversee the removal of personal items belonging to staff members. All employees and field agents are on unpaid suspension. Cleaning out desks and lockers was the only concession the president afforded me. Aunt Sallie has initiated a snowstorm protocol, which locks everyone out of MindReader except her, Bug, and me. Aunt Sallie and Bug are currently operating out of a safe house in Brooklyn.”

He could have stood there and pummeled me with a baseball bat and done less damage to me.

“No…,” I breathed.

“Oh yes.” Church gave me the strangest of smiles. “According to the president we are the bad guys, Captain Ledger. He has promised to file charges ranging from first-degree murder to conspiracy to commit treason. A warrant is already out for your arrest. Sergeants Sims and Rabbit will likely be charged, though right now POTUS does not know it was them on the gas dock. As team leader, you are in the crosshairs of a federal investigation.”

“This is bullshit.”

“It's a reality. The Department of Military Sciences, as we have known it, no longer exists.”

 

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

PACIFIC HOLIDAY MARINA AND YACHT CLUB

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 10, 9:23
A.M.

“What are we going to do?” I demanded. “Are we just going to bend over and take it? Jesus Christ, Church, we keep getting blindsided. First Hugo Vox turns out to be a traitor, then we find out that Vice President Collins is in bed—literally in bed—with Mother Night. It seems that no matter which way we turn, we get stabbed in the back. Now someone is messing with our minds. How are we supposed to fight this? I mean … is this it? Have they won?”

Church smiled. He seldom did that, and it was almost never a comforting thing to see.

“Tell me, Captain,” he said calmly, “since coming to work for me, have you ever noticed in me a tendency for passive acceptance? Have you, in fact, ever known me to accept failure as an option?”

“No, but that's because you had the DMS and MindReader and…” I trailed off. It was the wrong answer and we both knew it.

“Presidents come and go,” he said. “The war remains. I've been fighting this war for a very long time. Longer than you know. Over those years the war has taken a lot of different forms. Betrayal is not an uncommon occurrence. It is discouraging and it hurts, because the same optimism that gives us the will to fight also allows us to believe in the goodness of others. It is a tactical error to accept our own faith as a failing. That failure—the moral crime implicit in the betrayal—is owned entirely by those who betray our trust. By those who turn and stab the soldier fighting beside them. By those who take the sacred trust given them by the people they serve and use it as a sword against them. We can sit here and feel foolish and stupid for not having seen it, or we can waste time being awed by the sophistication and subtlety of our enemy. Neither choice, however, helps us get back up off the mat. And I, for one, have never been comfortable on my knees.”

The room was very quiet.

He said, “We have been forced outside of our comfort zone before, and we've been forced to operate outside of the law. In those times I tend to look at the bigger picture, serving justice rather than a statute. It's been my experience that in moments of need you will bend a rule in order to accomplish what you know is right.”

I nodded.

“When you told me about your dreams,” he continued, “I found several items of particular interest. Having read the Stargate files, I know that it is possible, even probable, that the mental connection is not necessarily a one-way thing. You have certain aggressive tendencies, Captain, and you are a fiercely individual man.”

“So what?”

“So maybe your dreams are more than that. More than fantasies. You described a place, a laboratory, with people sleeping in capsules. You described scale versions of the God Machines beside each one. What does that suggest?”

I licked my lips and fought to reclaim that dream image. It came to me with surprising clarity. More like a memory than some wild construct of nightmare. And suddenly I understood where Church was going with this.

“There has to be more than one person doing the dreamwalking,” I said. “To control Top and Bunny, to slow me down, to manipulate the people on the dock. There has to be a … well, a team, I guess. A bunch of sleepwalkers.”

“That would be my guess,” Church said, nodding. “And they would have to be practiced at it. Focus your mind and tell me what else was in that lab.”

I told him about the guard wearing an aluminum foil hat, and the other hats on the table. And the sign. Church nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense.”

“It does?”

“During the Stargate project the researchers found that a helmet or skullcap lined with crystals, certain metals of low conductivity, and certain polymers blocked the psychic signals, even when a subject was in the presence of a person with pronounced abilities.”

I had to smile. “So … all that stuff about wearing aluminum foil hats is true?”

“If I had to guess, it was a distortion based on leaked information from the Stargate program. Remember, to most of the people in the DIA and CIA the program was a joke and a failure. Very few people know that it was actually successful.”

“Do I need to go out and buy a roll of Reynolds Wrap?”

“Something can be arranged,” said Church. He made a very fast call to Dr. Hu.

“Is Hu still working at the DMS?” I asked when he was done.

“Bolton offered to keep him on and to promote him to deputy director of the DMS.”

“I'll bet he lunged at that like a bass.”

Church gave me a disapproving look. “Dr. Hu's response was to file his resignation. As soon as he was out of the parking garage he sent a coded signal to activate a computer virus that has since frozen all of his records. All of his research, past and present, is now locked. Any attempt to unlock those records receives the response
manducare stercore
. I believe you can translate the Latin.”

I could. Eat shit.

“Hu did all that?”

“You have always underestimated him. Chemistry is against you both, but Dr. Hu is one of the family, Captain. Never doubt it.”

I thought about my dream, of Hu fighting to save me, and of what Junie said about him. “If we get out of this,” I said, “I'll buy him a beer.”

“It's likely he would turn you down. He is part of the family but he still considers you to be a mouth-breathing Neanderthal. His words, repeated often,” said Church. He looked at his watch. “My car will be here soon.”

“Look, if this is all true, then that sleep lab is somewhere underground. A basement or subbasement. I think there's a full God Machine in there.”

“Do you have any insight into where?”

“No. Maybe. I … I don't know. But there's something else,” I said. “And I think it's really important. Maybe the most important thing. It was something Santoro said when his eyes glazed over. When he was taken over, I guess. He said, ‘You're nothing but a thug, Ledger.' Sound like anyone you know?”

“Now isn't that interesting,” said Mr. Church.

There was a knock on the door. Brick had arrived. Church got to his feet and glanced at me.

“We have been victims too long, Captain. It's time to go to war.”

 

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

PACIFIC HOLIDAY MARINA AND YACHT CLUB

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 10, 12:06
P.M.

Brick led us to the marina parking lot where a gorgeous Mercedes Sprinter luxury RV was parked.

“Welcome to the Junkyard,” said Brick, patting the sleek silver-gray skin with real affection. When he opened the door and I climbed in I could see why Brick was so proud of it. The first time I'd met him he was driving a Mister Softee ice-cream truck that was actually a rolling arsenal. He had designed and kitted it out to provide massive tactical support for any kind of field mission up to and probably including a full-scale invasion of Russia. The RV was no different. Inside I saw a bank of advanced computer and communications equipment, but the rest of the interior was basically a gun rack. Rows of handguns and long guns, ranging from combat shotguns to the latest automatic rifles. Boxes of grenades—fragmentation, flash-bangs, smoke—and a bin filled with uniforms and Kevlar.

Brick chuckled. “Mike Harnick helped me trick her out. If it's not here, Joe, you don't need it. We got every single one of Dr. Hu's little electronic gizmos. I got a minigun mounted in the overhead dome, front and back chain guns, and if I press the right buttons I can lay down a nice barrage of mortars that would entertain even the most blasé of houseguests.”

“Jesus H. Henry Christ on a hoverboard,” I said.

“Until further notice,” said Church, “the Junkyard is our mobile command center.”

“To do what?” I asked as I dug black battle-dress trousers out of the bin. “What's our first move?”

There was a
click
behind me and the door to the tiny head opened and Harry Bolt stepped out. His face was flushed. “Maybe you should put some biohazard tape over that,” he said as he quickly shut the door. “Oh, hi, Joe.”

“Hey, kid. Where's Violin?”

“No idea,” said Harry. “Once my dad started evicting everyone I lost track. Dad told me to get the heck out, too. He's really in a mood.”

I started to say something foul and threatening, but Church cut me off.

“Captain,” he said, “would you please describe to Mr. Bolt everything you can remember about the chamber with the sleep capsules.”

“Everything?”

“Yes,” said Church. “Mr. Bolt has joined the family.”

So, as Brick drove and I went over the whole thing again, Harry listened with mingled surprise, reluctant acceptance, and horror. When I got to the part about the sign on the wall that read:
PLAYROOM SECURITY NOTICE
, Harry Bolt suddenly burst into tears. He caved forward and put his face in his hands and wept, and through his sobs I heard him say, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…”

It didn't sound like denial, though. Not really. It sounded like the thing you say when your worst fears are realized. I sat down next to him and wrapped my arm around his quivering shoulders, and like a little kid he turned and buried his face against my chest. He kept saying no.

We both knew he meant yes.

I'd known it since that moment of dreadful clarity I had while floating out in the night-black ocean. Maybe I'd even come to suspect it before then, but it seemed so absurd, so impossible.

Except that it was neither. It fit all the facts, confirmed all the suppositions.

When he could speak, Harry told me the origin of that name. The Playroom.

It used to have pinball machines and a handball court and a six-lane bowling alley. Skee-Ball and video games, too. It's where he played, almost always alone, when he was a kid.

In his house.

In the basement of his home.

In the basement of the Bolton family home.

 

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

ROUTE 5

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

SEPTEMBER 10, 12:21
P.M.

We sat in a vehicle filled with guns and pain and drew our plans for war.

Even though I had a strong suspicion that Bolton was our Big Bad, having it confirmed really hurt. Even after everything he'd done to Church, to the DMS, to me, it hurt. It was a betrayal by one of my longtime heroes. I worshiped that guy. I wanted it to not be true. I wanted to wake up, maybe still out in the ocean, and discover that this was all just a dream.

Only a bad dream.

Even if it meant I drowned.

The world needs its heroes. We already have enough villains.

But … Harcourt Bolton, Senior?

Goddamn, that hurt.

“Dad has a big house in Rancho Santa Fe,” said Harry, his eyes red-rimmed, nose running, voice thick. “Huge, really. Too many rooms. It's built on the grounds of an old Spanish monastery and it has two levels of basements where the monks stored the wine they made.”

He told us that the subbasement was expanded during Prohibition and became a speakeasy for rich locals. That's when it earned the nickname “the Playroom.” When the Bolton family bought it, Harry's grandfather had turned the subbasement into a real playroom, installing the bowling alley and handball court. It was Harcourt who purchased the video game machines, because, as Harry put it, those games kept Harry out of sight when his father had business friends, work colleagues, or women over. After Harry went to college, his father closed the subbasement, claiming that it had needed to be overhauled because of asbestos in the ceilings. Once the repairs were done it was scheduled to be converted into a wine cellar, circling around to its original use.