EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum (7 page)

13

Friday, 8 May (7:15 a.m. CST – Chicago)

The final meeting started with a debriefing that seemed more like an interrogation. The room layout reflected the same, as did the stench of years of cigarette residue infused into the scant furniture. Until now, Will had been pleased with his treatment by the FBI. He turned his gaze back to the older man sitting across the table from him, the fluorescent light glinting off his hairless head.

“I’m not saying you’re lying, Dr. Thompson,” Agent Hank Fordham explained as he twisted a tuft of his thick gray mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s just that all of these things can be described by less uh …
magical
… means.”

Will flinched.
Magical? What were they trying to do – make him look crazy?
He squirmed in his seat as the prickly sensation of annoyance tingled in his fingertips. The man was supposed to have been briefed on what had actually happened to him – the actual
transformation
. He’d supposedly seen all of the information – written, audio, and video. Will had been under the impression that the FBI believed his account of events; it was the reason they had trained him for relocation. It seemed now that they were trying to debunk his story.

“Then explain how thousands of flies can spontaneously ignite into flames in midflight,” Will argued, referring to one of the more spectacular events that had occurred during his treatment. “You have that on
video
.”

Fordham opened his mouth to respond, but instead he sighed, opened a thick manila folder, and flicked through its contents. He slid out a document and quickly scanned it with his eyes. “Here we go,” he said. “The burning of the flies, and hornets, was caused by an electrical discharge. Says here it was attributed to a problem with the wiring of the equipment.”

Will recalled no electrical arcs during those events, but he made a quick estimate of the voltage required to produce a discharge that spanned the distances involved – up to a few feet.

“It’s preposterous.” Will said. “There’s no way the Exoskeleton was energized to
thousands
of volts.” The seed of distrust for the FBI, which up to this point had been dormant, sprouted in his mind.

“Our engineers say otherwise.”

“Are you forgetting that I’m a physicist?” Without waiting for a response, Will continued. “There’s a higher probability that magic was the cause.”

Fordham looked down and didn’t respond.

“How do you explain the numbers? The probability of doing that was literally one in a
trillion
,” Will argued, referring to a daily “guess-the-number” exercise he was forced to carry out during his incarceration. “Magic again?”

Fordham responded by fingering through the folder and pulling out a report. “Says here you only guessed correctly once—the
first
time. After that, the room controllers were so shaken that they’d forgotten to turn off the microphone. You heard them speaking.”

Will remembered
seeing
the numbers, not hearing them. He’d read a three-digit number between 0 and a 999 on a digital display, well out of his physical sight. He did it four times in a row, and could have continued indefinitely. “Are you suggesting that I’m lying?” Will asked. His temples pounded.

Fordham didn’t respond, but just rolled his mustache and looked blankly at him.

Will had no doubt that it was to the government’s advantage to prove him either insane, or a liar. Although it was inconceivable that they could eliminate the thousands of people involved in the colossal Compressed Punishment program – including over 1200 inmates
,
and two giant facilities – he knew they’d try. If government leaders hadn’t been aware of the secret program before, they certainly were now, and had probably concluded that it’s in their best interest to bury it all. If the truth got out, there’d be serious problems – political and otherwise.

Although elements within the FBI had been partially responsible for bringing down the Red Wraith project and extracting him from the horrible Red Box facility, other elements seemed to be turning on him. He thought it strange, the FBI being fractured in such a way, but now he imagined a similar disjointedness in other entities – such as the CIA. It was disconcerting.

Fordham collected the documents, put them back in the file-folders, and pushed them to the side. He sat up straighter, put his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers in a ball in front of him. His voice indicating that he guessed what Will was thinking, he said, “I understand that you’ve gone through some horrific things, both physically and mentally. Without a doubt, such things could trick you into believing that certain events had actually occurred, even hearing voices.”

“All of that really happened,” Will responded.
And it was only one voice,
he didn’t add.

“I believe that
you
believe that,” Fordham replied. “But the only way I could ever believe it is to see it for myself. And my colleagues feel the same way. We were a little surprised at the clean bill of health reported by our psychiatrists. Our psych evaluations have become less stringent with time.”

Will rubbed his eyes. Maybe a demonstration would convince him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on a specific pain experience from the Red Box – oral surgery, no anesthetics. His perspective began to move upward from his body.

He stopped. If he’d learned anything from the witch trial where he’d been convicted on no physical evidence, it was to control his urge to prove himself to people. He’d failed proving his innocence during the trial, and there was nothing that was as high stakes as that.

He collected himself and opened his eyes. “If you want to see it for yourself, Agent Fordham, perhaps you could ask them to restart the program and fit you for an Exoskeleton,” he suggested with unveiled sarcasm. “Just make sure they record everything. Otherwise people have a tendency to not believe you.”

Fordham’s face flushed, but he grinned and spoke towards the window at Will’s back. “I think that’s enough.”

A tinny voice emanated from a speaker behind Will. “Okay.”

Fordham then looked to Will, smiling but still reddened. “I
do
believe you. So do the other members of our group. My job was to try to get you to do something to reveal your uh …
talents
.”

Will understood and immediately cooled down. He had to be more careful. They’d almost succeeded in getting him to reveal himself.

“I’m an experienced interrogator,” Fordham continued, “but it was unpleasant pissing you off like that – you having gone through so much. I feel ashamed.” He reached an open hand across the table.

Will shook his hand and said, “You did a good job.”

A door opened and two men and a woman entered. Will recognized two of them: the leader of his relocation case, Terrence Bolden, and the man who had snapped him during the surveillance exercise, Roy, who winked and nodded to him. He didn’t recognize the woman.

They all took chairs around the table and introduced themselves. Bolden was the youngest of the group, early thirties, tall, short brown hair, and wore small wire-framed glasses. He handed a sealed envelope to Will and flopped a large leather pouch on the table, making a sound like that of a big purse with keys concealed somewhere in its bowels.

Bolden started, directing his message to the whole group, “The people in this room, and one or two FBI contacts in your relocation area, are the only ones who will know your whereabouts. These are the only people you can trust.”

Will didn’t trust any of them.

Bolden handed him some documents. “Your cover name is William Tasker, and you’ll live in Baton Rouge, Louisiana for at least six months.”

“Baton Rouge?” Will asked, surprised.

“There’s some activity there,” Bolden explained. “We were going to wait on this, but after what happened last night with the Israeli, we want you out of Chicago as soon as possible. It should work well since you’re familiar with the place.”

Will nodded. He’d left Baton Rouge over a decade ago, but it was where he’d attended graduate school.

Bolden handed him a Social Security card, a Louisiana driver’s license, two credit cards, a mobile phone, a laptop computer, and a ring of keys. “A car is registered under your alias. The keys are for your new apartment. Nice place.”

Will looked at the pile of stuff in front of him. His stomach seemed to close in on itself. “When do I leave?” he asked.

“Collect your things tonight and head out early tomorrow morning,” Bolden replied as he handed Will the phone. “This has excellent security features, and it’s the only phone you should use. Don’t answer blocked calls or calls from unknown numbers.” Bolden raised an eyebrow. “If you’re going to continue to communicate with Ms. Walker, she needs to use a burner phone.”

Will nodded. He knew she was savvy about such things.

“If we need to contact you,” Bolden continued, “we’ll first send a text message with the code
523
.”

Will flinched at the number.

“We thought you’d remember it,” Bolden said.

It had been Will’s inmate number at the Red Box.

14

Friday, 8 May (8:38 a.m. EST – Washington)

Daniel listened intently. Horace’s voice was commanding for his age, and his face projected calmness even though his eyes seemed to show something else.

“This story starts with the early quest for
Terra Australis Incognita,
known now as Antarctica
,
of course,” Horace explained. “James Cook, better known as the famous
Captain Cook
of the storybooks, crossed the Antarctic Circle in the late 1700’s, but never found his way to the Antarctic mainland.” He stopped and addressed Daniel. “Undoubtedly your early research on Operation Tabarin has taken you to Cook’s voyages.”

Daniel shook his head. “Not yet.”

“It will, eventually,” Horace explained, “and you’ll then find that some of the details of Cook’s Antarctic adventures have been overlooked.”

“
You
wrote the monograph on the Cook expeditions,” Sylvia blurted. “I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, I published it in 1964,” Horace said. “In December of ’63, I’d discovered something in Cook’s captain’s log that didn’t have much meaning to me at the time, more than a half-century ago.” Horace smiled and rubbed the white stubble on his chin. “My, the time has passed.”

“Does it mean something now?” Daniel asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“Patience, Daniel,” Horace said as he smiled and raised his hand. “Cook’s ship hit something, probably ice, and was damaged. They were dead in the water for two days while conducting repairs. They were fortunate to have calm seas at the time, since they had to get under the hull – an extremely dangerous operation in the icy waters.”

“They had to go
into
the water?” Sylvia asked, and seemed to shiver.

“They’d devised means for handling such a situation, but a person could only stay in the frigid water for a minute at a time,” Horace explained. “But it’s fortunate that this incident occurred. You see, while the men were under water, they heard a noise.”

“What do you mean, like an animal?” Daniel asked.

Horace shook his head. “Mechanical, like a knocking sound,” he replied. “The sailors who’d worked in the water described it as a repeating pattern of sharp noises – painful to the ears.”

Daniel wrung his hands. “Could it have been someone on the ship making the noise?”

“The crew was spooked, so Cook ordered everyone to the deck to make sure no one could do such a thing,” Horace replied. “It would only take some prankster with hammer, although it might be hard to mimic the noise as it was described. Once everyone reported on deck, the repairmen were lowered into the water one-by-one to see if the noise persisted. Cook himself did it.”

“And?” Daniel asked, intently.

“It was there,” Horace chuckled, seemingly in response to Daniel’s captivation. “Soon the repairs were complete, the wind came back, and they sailed away.”

“Were the sounds confirmed by anyone else?” Sylvia asked.

“Two years later, the Royal Navy sent a ship to the area and the noise was gone,” Horace said. “They’d checked again a few years later. Again, nothing.”

Horace rubbed his hand over his head and took a breath. He continued, “You both have done enough research to know how unrelated events could turn out to be connected. And this observation by the fabled Captain Cook is connected to the present.”

“How so?” Daniel asked.

“Well,” Horace said as he leaned back in his chair. He put his hands behind his head and grinned. “The noise has returned.”

1

Saturday, 9 May (7:03 a.m. CST – Chicago)

Will’s gut was as heavy as lead as he got into the SUV and started the long drive south. He had no appetite, and coffee only made his stomach burn. Being the weekend, at least he wouldn’t have to fight traffic on his way through the city.

The sun shone brightly on the left side of his face as Interstate 57 South took him out of Chicago towards Memphis. He put on his sunglasses and turned off the scratchy AM radio, leaving him with only his thoughts and the sounds of tires and wind.

He and Denise had grown much closer than he’d realized, and leaving her behind was more difficult than he’d imagined. After his fiancé had deserted him, he thought he’d never trust anyone again. Denise was different.

The night before, she’d made dinner for him in her apartment. Afterwards, they split a bottle of wine and talked until well after midnight. She’d expressed her feelings without holding back, and he told her how he felt. There were many tears.

He’d explained why he had to leave – that she and Jonathan would be in danger if he stayed. Although they’d still talk regularly, she agreed that it was no way to begin a relationship. She’d taken it well – better than he did.

He turned the radio on and forced himself to think about something else. What would things be like in Baton Rouge after more than a decade?

Although he was okay with staying in a safe house for a while, the objective was not well defined. His case handler had told him that he’d partake in the surveillance of former Red Box inmates who’d been gathering in the area, but provided no details. The FBI didn’t know what the men were doing, or why they were in Baton Rouge. He knew another Compressed Punishment facility was being built in the city, but construction had been halted when the program was shut down.

The drive south on Interstate 57 was going to be long and featureless, but he was anxious to the get to southern Illinois and pass by Cordova, the little college town where he’d tried to cultivate a life and career. It was the place where, over a year earlier, he’d been falsely accused and eventually convicted of a horrible crime. Before he reached Cordova, however, he’d pass by Marion Prison, where he’d been incarcerated before going to the Red Box.

He shuddered. For an instant his thoughts conflicted: his instinct was to avoid the place where his life had plummeted into despair. But his curiosity trumped the darker emotions. He wanted to see it, this time from the outside.