Ship of the Damned (28 page)

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Authors: James F. David

BOOK: Ship of the Damned
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O
ne of seven foundation trustees, Robert Daly had been a board member for ten years and would be board chair in two years’ time, when the current chair’s term ended. Daly had begun his professional life in California real estate; he had turned desert into middle-class neighborhoods, investing the profits in shopping malls, office buildings, and technology stocks. Having made his fortune, he lost interest in empire building, and like other men and women reaching middle age, counted up the years he had left in life and decided to spend them more wisely than he had his youth. Not satisfied to be remembered as a rich man, Robert Daly’s ambition morphed into a desire to shape the world in his image. With his fortune valued at a half-billion dollars, Daly disengaged himself from running his various enterprises and became active in politics.
A major contributor to the Republican party, he funded the campaigns of conservative candidates and backed a variety of initiatives, including those to limit property taxes and to cut off welfare payments to illegal immigrants. For a time his political activities satisfied his need to make a difference in the world, but he was soon frustrated by the uncertainty of political influence. Candidates he helped elect were more interested in being reelected than in sticking to principles. Even his work through the
initiative process was frustrated by liberal activists using the courts to block implementation of his measures. Accustomed to wielding power as the chief executive of a private corporation, he was quickly disenchanted with his country’s political system and the myriad of ways in which it could be subverted.
After tasting corporate and political life and finding that neither satisfied his middle-aged needs, he floundered, looking for a new direction. That was when he was approached by the Kellum Foundation.
Daly was introduced gradually to the work of the foundation, and eventually to its shadow mission. He was attracted by the willingness of the trustees to exercise the power at their disposal. Here was a way to directly shape the future of society with immediate and measurable outcomes. When the offer to become a trustee came, Daly accepted. Two years later he moved to the Chicago headquarters to take over day-to-day operations.
It was Daly who picked Dr. Martin’s grant application out of hundreds that they received each month, impressed with the boldness of his vision. When Dr. Martin’s studies showed that learning could be transferred from the mind of one animal to another, Daly pushed through Dr. Martin’s request to fund human research. Daly was even more eager to support Dr. Martin’s studies with autistic savants.
Dr. Martin had turned to savants for two reasons. Because savants were retarded in most functions, and only showed genius in one area, Dr. Martin believed that it would be easier to blend their minds than normal ones. He also believed that by blending only the genius portions of the savants’ minds together, he could create a superintellect. Dr. Martin had succeeded, but in the process, he also had released a powerful psychokinetic who had killed many people.
Dr. Martin had overreacted to the deaths, vowing never to pursue that line of research again. He had foolishly dismantled his equipment and packed it away. That was why Daly had been forced to manipulate Dr. Martin into cooperating. Now Daly found that once again one of Dr. Martin’s projects had taken an unexpected turn which created the need for more direct intervention, increasing the risk to the foundation. Balancing risk against gain was the job of a trustee, and Daly was a master of the art.
Daly sat with his back to the sheet of glass that was his desktop. These days, he spent much of his time with his back to his desk. It was partly because his phone was behind him, but also because he disliked seeing his feet through his desktop. He could cover the top with a desk pad, but he knew even that practical modification of this work of “art” would upset his wife and offend his son. Instead, he sat with his back to the desk, a tumbler
of tea-flavored Snapple in his hand, waiting for a phone call. When it came, he answered on the second ring, turning on the speaker phone.
“Ralph found a way out,” Monica Kim said.
Daly was shocked to hear of Ralph’s return. He had been getting regular reports on Dr. Martin’s progress from Monica, and the project had been going well until it was complicated by Ralph’s kidnapping and then his appearance in the dream. Now Ralph’s miraculous return opened up new possibilities.
“Dr. Martin is going to pick him up,” Monica said.
“You need to go with Dr. Martin when he meets Ralph,” Daly told her. “I need to know how he got out.”
“Dr. Martin took Len Chaikin. They’re on their way.”
Daly swirled the ice in his glass, thinking. Dr. Martin didn’t know the danger he was getting into and he didn’t have the skills to protect himself or Ralph. Daly had to act quickly, which would increase the risk to the foundation. Still, the potential gain continued to outweigh the risk.
“Have Dr. Birnbaum call me and ask for my help. I’ll make sure they have the transportation connections they need to get there and back,” Daly said. “If Ralph leads Dr. Martin to the Norfolk, you need to be with him. Can you arrange that?”
“I believe so.”
“I can have Dr. Chaikin removed,” Daly said.
“It won’t be necessary,” Monica said quickly.
“If it is necessary?” Daly probed.
“I’ll call,” Monica said firmly.
“See that you do.”
“I
t was Ralph who escaped from Pot of Gold,” Woolman said.
Woolman had tapped Dr. Birnbaum’s phone and intercepted both Ralph’s call to Birnbaum and Birnbaum’s call to Elizabeth Foxworth. He also knew that Dr. Martin and Dr. Chaikin were on their way to pick up Ralph.
“Remarkable,” Dr. Lee said. “Were any of the others with him?”
Dr. Lee was worried. He had helped to deceive Jett and his team; they were never supposed to return. Jett and the others were called agents, but that was a euphemism for what they really were—killers.
“As far as we know, Ralph is alone,” Woolman said.
Dr. Lee was relieved.
“That exit is sealed?” Woolman said.
“Yes.”
Woolman had called from his Washington office, his fingers drumming on the desktop. Dr. Lee was in New Mexico at the Rainbow facility. He and Woolman had been on the phone hourly since a computer at Rainbow had detected a sudden escape from Pot of Gold. Normally there were days of warning before an escape. Since exits were hidden among the spatially distorted corridors and compartments of the Norfolk, Specials usually found
them through trial and error, gradually distorting the field as they neared an exit. Aided by the time distortions inside Pot of Gold, Dr. Lee usually had the exit locations approximated, and Woolman had teams of agents ready to intercept.
“It was as if Ralph knew where to find the exit,” Dr. Lee said finally, referring to the lack of field distortion before the escape.
“Is that possible?”
“Improbable,” Dr. Lee said.
“So Ralph accidentally found a way out?” Woolman asked.
“Perhaps. Other Specials have. Will you be bringing Ralph in?”
“I have a team on the way. They’ll pick him up at the first opportunity.”
“Ralph’s uniqueness is intriguing,” Dr. Lee said. “If it should be necessary to perform an autopsy on him, I would like our people to do it.”
“Of course,” Woolman said. “You can schedule the autopsy for tomorrow afternoon.
T
hey found Ralph at White’s Motel, the only motel in White’s City, which was just outside the entrance to Carlsbad Cavern National Park. Wes had been honestly glad to see him until he began pumping his hand, reminding Wes of Ralph’s habits. Then, during the brief trip to the cavern to see where Ralph had come from, Ralph had talked incessantly. After finding nothing in the cave, they checked out of the motel. The desk clerk handed Wes a bill for the room, long distance calls, and the general store where Ralph had run a tab buying ice cream, Icees, gum, and candy. They were now headed north to the airport, where the Kellum Foundation jet was waiting.
“Nice threads, Ralph,” Len said over his shoulder to Ralph in the back seat. “You look like an astronaut.”
“Thanks, Len. They gived it to me.”
“Who?” Wes asked.
“Nate did. He gave me gum, too. Got any gum, Wes?”
Remembering Ralph’s love of gum, Wes had come prepared. As he drove, Len handed Ralph a pack of sugar-free bubble gum. Ralph had his head between the front seats, swinging it from side to side as he talked.
“This is the stuff that’s not supposed to rot your teeth, isn’t it, Len?”
“Wes bought it,” Len said. “I would have gotten you the kind with real sugar.”
“I like both kinds, but the sugar kind lasts longer.”
“We have a lot of gum, Ralph,” Wes said. “If it loses its flavor I’ll give you another piece.” Then, remembering another of Ralph’s habits, he said, “If you need to get rid of a piece of gum I’ll give you a tissue.”
“You wouldn’t put your gum under the seat, would you?” Len said.
Ralph puckered his lips and glanced away, trying to look innocent. “Not me, Len. I wouldn’t put my gum under the seat.”
“Good, because that’s where I’m keeping mine.”
Len laughed at his own joke, and Ralph grinned, his fleshy lips stretching wide.
“Are you sure you took us back to the spot where you found yourself in the cave?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Ralph said. “Except before it was different. There was this green light shaped kind of like my mother’s mirror. You know, a long circle.”
“An oval,” Wes suggested.
“I guess so,” Ralph said. “Anyways, that’s where I comed from.”
Ralph had an uncanny sense of direction, and if he said that this was where he had come from, it was, but then where was the green oval now? What had created it? Why had it disappeared? Where did it lead? According to Ralph, he came from a ship and there were other people on the ship. Where was this ship?
“Tell me about the people who took you to the ship, Ralph,” Wes said.
“There was Nate, and Karla, and Jim, and Robin and Billy and me.”
“Nate’s the one that gave you those clothes?” Wes probed.
“Yeah. Everybody got some. We all looked the same. Except Billy’s got kind of ruined ’cause something bad happened to Billy.”
“What?” Wes asked.
“He gots burned up.”
“He died?” Len asked.
“I think so, but I dunno for sure. Robin got burned, too, one time and he didn’t die.”
“Robin had scars?” Wes asked.
“Lots,” Ralph said.
Ralph’s account confirmed details from Elizabeth’s dream visits.
“Was there fighting on the ship?” Wes asked.
“Yeah. There are these bad people—Crazies. They were fighting with us. I wanted to talk to them so they wouldn’t be mad, but they wouldn’t let me.”
Wes drove, listening to Ralph describe the fighting, piecing together a picture of two factions battling each other with makeshift weapons and psi powers. Wes had seen a psychokinetic in action, throwing objects with his mind and nearly killing Len and him. He had also heard of the ability of some to generate heat with their minds, and some who could muster a mild electric charge, but nothing to match the levels Ralph described.
Len continued to probe for details, Wes listening to Ralph’s description of the strange environment of the ship. He needed information to find the source of the dream and stop it, and save Elizabeth and Anita.
It was pitch dark now, the road ahead straight and empty. He turned the headlights on high beam, illuminating the road far into the distance. In his rearview mirror he saw the lights of a car coming up behind.
“Then Nate stuck his finger in it and got lectrocuted.”
Ralph was talking about the man named Nate getting shocked, reminding Wes of what happened to Elizabeth.
“He was shocked?” Len asked.
“Real bad. He was shaking and twitching on the ground.”
The lights from the car behind were bright now. As he reached to change the angle of the mirror, the car pulled into the left lane, passing. Wes slowed, making it easier for the driver to pass. The car pulled parallel, then matched speed with Wes.
“What’s this about?” Len said, leaning down so he could see out of Wes’s window. “He’s got a gun!”
Wes turned and saw a black van next to them, a man with a gun leaning out of the window. The man mouthed “pull over.” Wes jammed on his brakes, and the van shot ahead. The van driver was quick, hitting his own brakes. Hand over hand, Wes cranked the wheel, trying to make a U-turn. The shoulder was too soft; Wes had to stop, back up, then turn again. The van couldn’t match their turning radius, but it had a better driver who didn’t bother to turn. Instead he put the van in reverse, tires squealing as he raced backwards, passing Wes, then parking crossways in the road.
Gun in hand, the man jumped out and fired two shots into the passenger door. Len gasped, then clutched his leg.
“I’m shot,” Len said.
“Does it hurt bad?” Ralph asked.
Wes looked, but it was too dark to see the wound. When he looked up, the gun was pointed at him. Wes’s engine was running, with the car in forward
gear; the man with the gun was standing just to the right, aiming his gun through the front windshield. Wes estimated his chances of gunning it and knocking the man down, or at least spoiling his aim. He agonized over his choice, too analytical to be good in emergencies.
Then the man with the gun was distracted, looking past the car into the sky. A few seconds later Wes heard the thumping sound of a helicopter. The man with the gun hesitated, but then came toward the driver’s door, gun still trained on Wes. Wes put up his hands. Just as the man reached the car door, the ground around him erupted with a dozen tiny dust geysers. A black helicopter roared overhead, a man leaning out with a machine gun. The helicopter turned to come back for another pass while the man who attacked them ran to his van.
Wes stomped the throttle, tires spinning and spewing gravel. Then they were racing down the highway, the engine whining, the transmission in passing gear. The helicopter passed over, chasing the van. Wes heard the automatic rifle fire as the helicopter strafed the van. In his rearview mirror he saw the van racing in the opposite direction, the helicopter circling above. He could see flashes of gunfire from the helicopter even after the van had disappeared over a hill.
“Len, how bad is it?” Wes asked.
“I’ll live,” Len said.
“Does it hurt?” Ralph asked again.
“Yes,” Len said through gritted teeth.
“Want me to put a Band-aid on it?” Ralph said. “Sometimes it makes it feel better.”
“Later,” Len said. “What was that all about?”
“Those men in the van might be connected to whoever kidnapped Ralph. I don’t know about the helicopter,” Wes said.
Holding his leg, Len leaned against the car window, eyes closed.
“I’ll get you to a hospital, Len.”
“It’s not bad, but there’s something stuck in my leg.”
“I was in the hospital once,” Ralph said. “When I got out they borrowed me a lectric wheelchair. Maybe you could get one, Len? I could show you how to drive it.”
They raced down the highway, Len holding his injured leg, Ralph prattling on, Wes alternating between worrying about Elizabeth and worrying about Len, and wondering how to find the dream ship.

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