“And Homeland Security thinks these guys have a terrorist attack scheduled for Halloween? No way. That’s too tight of a timeline. Someone’s not playing straight with us on something.”
“If the bad guys had everything lined up, it could be done.”
Jax wasn’t so sure. “I assume we’re already scrutinizing the gold bullion markets?”
“Yep. No one’s admitting to knowing a thing. But then, if the bad guys are selling the gold to the Chinese or through some African outfit, we won’t hear of it. We don’t control things as much as we like to think we do.”
“How about going at it from the other end? How many ships in the world are capable of salvaging a sub that size?”
“The DCI’s got some guys drawing up a list.” Matt glanced at the clock. “But we’re hoping to have a different kind of lead coming in the next hour or so. It’s going to be your assignment to follow up on it.”
There was something airy about Matt’s tone that set off Jax’s warning bells. “A different kind of lead coming from where?”
Matt’s gaze faltered away.
Jax picked up the pile of files and books, and slid off the edge of the table. “Out with it, Matt. What aren’t you telling me?”
“The Vice President has asked Colonel McClintock to task Tobie Guinness.”
A couple of books skittered off the pile of files in Jax’s arms and clattered to the floor.
“Good idea,” said Jax, hunkering down to retrieve the dropped books. “A phantom Nazi sub loaded with stolen gold probably isn’t quite enough to get Division Thirteen laughed out of the Company. Why not add a touch of woo-woo?”
“Remote viewing is not woo-woo. It’s science. And you know it.”
“Right.” Just because Tobie had managed to scuttle the Keefe Corporation’s nasty little scheme last summer didn’t mean Jax bought into the whole “alternative states of perception” business. With every passing month, he’d found himself growing increasingly skeptical, increasingly convinced there must be some other explanation for what had happened. “Maybe we can find an astrologer and a tarot-card reader to consult while we’re at it.”
Matt made an incoherent noise deep in his throat, but said nothing.
Jax straightened. “This is why the Director wanted me assigned to this, right?”
“You got it.”
4
Naval Support Activity, Algiers Point, New Orleans:
Saturday 24 October 4:30 P.M. local time
Colonel F. Scott McClintock, United States Army, retired, stared through the one-way mirror at the small soundproofed room before him. October Guinness sat at one end of the table, a pad of paper and a pencil on the surface before her, a microphone clipped to the collar of her shirt. She was a small woman with a boyish body and honey-colored hair, which she wore pulled back in a casual ponytail. Dressed in a polo shirt and jeans, she looked more like a college student than a Naval officer. She was also the best remote viewer McClintock had ever worked with.
Most people had an imperfect understanding of remote viewing, seeing it as a magical ability to transcend time and space in order to gather information about a “remote” target. Only, there was nothing magical about RV.
The U.S. government’s awareness of the practice dated back at least to the end of World War II, when they’d captured a bunch of documents detailing some interesting Nazi experiments in the application of extrasensory perception to intelligence work. But what really caught the attention of the guys in the Pentagon was when the Soviets started investing in “psychic” stuff big-time back in the seventies. All the U.S. intelligence branches-the CIA, the Army, the NSA-had sunk money into the procedure over the years, although they were very careful never to use the word “psychic.”
The term “remote viewing” was a nice, sanitized expression coined by two of the physicists working on the phenomena for the government out at Stanford Research Institute. As they defined it, remote viewing required strict adherence to specific, controlled scientific protocol. Some of the guys working with remote viewing for the Army back in the nineties had gotten sloppy. But McClintock was always very careful to adhere to protocol; he didn’t want anyone to be able to claim that their results were contaminated by leading questions and “frontloading.”
He watched as his assistant, Peter Abrams, took the seat opposite Tobie. Normally, the Colonel was the tasker, the one who guided Tobie through her remote viewing sessions. But a clean session required the tasker to be kept ignorant of the target, and the Colonel had defined this exact target himself. He’d warned the Vice President that remote viewing didn’t work well with this kind of target, but Beckham wanted to go ahead with it anyway.
McClintock had read about the impending terrorist attack in the press. He’d long ago learned to discount most of the sensationalism pumped out by the mainstream media, but according to Beckham, this threat looked like the real thing, and the government had virtually nothing to go on. They didn’t know who was behind it. They didn’t know what the terrorists were targeting. About all they did know was the date-Halloween-and that it was somehow linked to an old sunken U-boat.
McClintock felt himself tense with anticipation as he watched Tobie settle comfortably in her chair and close her eyes. Up until now, their viewing sessions had all been training runs. Remote viewing was a skill like anything else; the more you practiced it, the better you got. Now, finally, they were being given a chance to contribute to the defense of the country-and maybe show the doubters in D.C. what a good remote viewer could do, while they were at it.
The physicists out at Stanford who’d done some of the early research on remote viewing had demonstrated that most people can be taught to do it, the same way most people can be taught to dance or play the piano. But that didn’t mean most people were particularly good at it. Remote viewing was a talent, and Tobie Guinness was a remarkably talented viewer.
Successful viewing required sinking down into what they called the Zone, which was basically the same state of relaxed reception achieved by deep meditation. Tobie was very good at reaching that state. McClintock could see her visibly relaxing, her breath coming deep and slow.
“Today is Saturday, 24 October,” said Peter, the microphone system echoing his voice as it was fed to the Colonel and their taping system. “That’s good, Tobie. Relax.” Peter laid his open palm on the opaque manila envelope that rested on the table before him. “All right, using the information in this envelope, tell me what you see.”
Like McClintock, Peter was watching Tobie’s face. He saw her mouth open, her nostrils flaring as if she were gasping for air. “It’s dark. Cold. It’s like…I can’t breathe. Oh, God.” Her voice broke, her face going slack with horror. “They’re all dead.”
Since Peter didn’t know the target, he didn’t understand what was happening. But McClintock understood only too well. “Back her out of there, fast,” whispered McClintock, his fingers curling around the frame of the one-way mirror because he knew Peter couldn’t hear him.
Peter might not understand what was happening in Tobie’s mind, but he recognized the signs of distress. “Okay, Tobie,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I want you to back away from where you are a bit, maybe get above it. Now tell me what you see.”
Tobie took another breath and shuddered, but McClintock could see the tension in her begin to ease. She licked her lower lip. “There’s a long, rounded object. I think it’s metal but it’s…It must be old. It’s rusted. Wet. It’s resting on something bigger, something flat. I think it’s also metal.”
McClintock felt his heart begin to race. He’d been working with remote viewing for some thirty years. Yet every time he witnessed a successful viewing, every time he watched someone reach out with their mind and touch a distant place-he still felt the same chilling rush of excitement and wonder.