The Eskimo Invasion (36 page)

 

 

Dr. George Bruning smiled, and Dr. West thought he recalled the Deputy
Director of the CIA as a much-photographed astronaut-scientist of some
twenty years ago.

 

 

"We of what the newspapers term the Harvard Circle of the Agency,"
Dr. Bruning laughed, "try to be more creative than those old Agency pros
of the 1990s. We do think you are of national importance."

 

 

Evidently so, Dr. West mentally agreed, because the CIA had gone to the
trouble of stealing his 2000 pound thermos bottle from the Cold Room
in the New Ottawa Reformation Center. "When can I go upstairs and see
the sun?"

 

 

"You're safer in the basement."

 

 

But each day as they briefed him on China, even renewing his Chinese
language training, Dr. West became more restive. Why would they waste
so much time on an obsolete Esk expert who had been out of circulation
for more than sixteen years and knew nothing of what had happened in
the rest of the world? He was no China expert. He had no intention
of volunteering to go to China, which sounded even more dangerous and
chaotic than twenty years ago.

 

 

To his surprise, one day a strangely aged Fred Gatson looked in at him.
That balding boy wonder, who had replaced Dr. West as Director of
Oriental Population Problems Research at the University of California,
still seemed embarrassed. "You look pretty good, Dr. -- uh, Joe, my
boy. You look better than the rest of us."

 

 

"Why are you here?"

 

 

"I work here." By training, Fred originally had been a bacteriologist.

 

 

And another shockingly aged boy wonder also worked here. Dr. West hadn't
seen him face to face since beer after Harvard. "It's good to see you, Tom."

 

 

As he watched Tom Randolph's calculating eyes, and remembered how Tom as
an undergrad dynamited the Quad and never was caught. Dr. West didn't know
whether it was good or not to see Dr. Tom Randolph standing here eyeing
him. Their last contact had been by letter some nineteen years ago when
Dr. West was back in Berkeley, married to Marthalik, and desperately
trying for a position at any major university. He had written to his friend
Tom at Duke, where Tom was Director of a parapsych research program funded
by the Pentagon. Tom's reply had been cordially unhelpful, probably because
he knew Dr. West was on the Defense Department's blacklist. At that time,
Dr. West had felt angry because he was the one who put Tom on to psych
as a grad student. Dr. West had scared the hell out of the kid with
his own parlor-trick thought transmissions, and fascinated him even
more. Because of Dr. West, Tom had gone on to fame and fortune, while
Dr. West had given up parapsych as an unfruitful hobby. Now Tom was
working for the CIA. "Can you walk yet?"

 

 

Dr. West's heart pounded alarmingly the day he finally walked, and
Dr. Sammy Wynoski reassured him: "Not my specialization but I've been
told the shortwave thawing process results in slight depositing of
cholesterol fat within the arteries. You know, arteriosclerosis."

 

 

"Like my heart muscle isn't getting enough blood," Dr. West laughed,
trying to conceal his fear of death as a tiny fist of pain squeezed his
heart, and he sat down.

 

 

"You're being given an anticoagulant to lessen the temporary danger of clots.
For minor chest pains due to overexertion, I suppose you should be carrying
trinitrogtycerine tablets." Dr. Wynoski shrugged. "We're not likely to
lose you now," he laughed reassuringly. "Our cardiovascular consultant
tells me our chances are better that your heart will repair itself than
if surgical replacement with an androidal unit is attempted. We wouldn't
want to lose you."

 

 

Apparently they were so reluctant to lose him, they wouldn't even let him
go upstairs. "I want to see the sun."

 

 

"You can catch up on your knowledge of the world from down here,"
Dr. George Bruning soothed. "The Canadian Government has been frantic
since they discovered their thermos bottles at the New Ottawa Reformation
Center had been -- shifted. They surmise you're in the United States.
Because you are a convicted mass murderer second only in notoriety to
the fabled Adolph -- was it Eichmann, and your escape has aroused such
outraged world-wide publicity, the U.S. Government is making every effort
to apprehend you, if you should be in the United States."

 

 

In confused anger, Dr. West glanced at the concrete ceiling of the basement
of the Central Intelligence Building.

 

 

Dr. George Bruning, Deputy Director of the CIA, laughed. "You can't go
upstairs. The FBI is looking for you."

 

 

And Dr. Tom Randolph laughed as excitedly as an undergrad. "We have a
better use for you than they do. You're the subje- -- the person in the
United States with the ideal characteristics and past history."

 

 

Apologetically, Dr. Sammy Wynoski inserted a needle into Dr. West's arm.
"You're lucky to have such a fine head of hair, Joe. You haven't aged
like -- uh, I -- have."

 

 

Dr. West's consciousness faded, seeming to flicker for measureless weeks
while he repeated and remembered whatever they told him to remember, and
forgot whatever the disembodied voice, which sounded like Tom Randolph's,
told him to forget.

 

 

 

 

 

 

7. AIR FORCE VERSUS CIA

 

 

Hunted by the FBI as a convicted mass murderer -- and concealed by the
Central Intelligence Agency for some baffling purpose, Dr. Joe West
plodded across the dark runway. His footsteps clumped toward the silhouette
of the aircraft.

 

 

His legs felt impossibly heavy. Swollen. But he thought his legs were
as thin as when he was an undernourished scholarship student at Harvard
Med School.

 

 

Imaginary heavy legs? Dr. Joe West's mouth split in a confused grin.
Psychosomatic elephantiasis? What drugs had the CIA given him these last
confusing weeks?

 

 

His face was prison-thin as he plodded toward the aircraft. Staring
at the cavernous air intakes under the variable sweep wings, Dr. West
recognized the bomber as the last of the air breathers.

 

 

Takeoff is rocket assisted, lot of Gs for my circulatory system, he thought
nervously, remembering a startling amount about this SCRAMjet bomber
he'd never seen before.

 

 

Probably when 2500 miles per hour or some God-awful starting speed was
attained, the bomber's ramjets would become operative, and it would flash
much faster like a torch through the night. Too fast!

 

 

The exertion of walking made him gasp. His heartbeats faltered. At his
side his CIA bodyguard urged him on, and the distance to the bomber
became excruciating.

 

 

Imaginary heavy legs?
Imaginary
was what one of the excitedly smiling
faces in the Harvard Circle had assured him. But in another room in the
basement of CIA headquarters another doctor had reassured him that any
slight swelling of his legs was merely a mild side effect from a mild
sedative. Contradictory liars! Had they saved him or traded him off?
Not to the FBI --

 

 

His legs dragged like anchors as the Air Force ground crew boosted Dr. West
up the steel ladder toward the belly of the intruder bomber. In his bemused
condition, the tiny orifices pitting the stainless steel skin of the bomber
looked like pores. This damned airplane was designed to fly too low, too
fast! To protect its fuselage from the meteoric blaze of air friction,
did the pores exude sweat? He'd been told that several of these SCRAMjets
had crashed.

 

 

I don't want to burn, he thought, almost panicking as they shoved him
up into a confining metal tunnel in the aircraft. As he crawled within
the glittering tube, it hummed around his eardrums and clinked and echoed.
Someone was crawling close behind him.

 

 

His legs dragging, Dr. West crawled with the strength of his arms and
shoulders. His damned legs felt twenty pounds overweight. During surgery,
had they left in more than sponges? His face twisted in an uncertain
grin. His muscles shivered. His eyes blinked.

 

 

Mild sedative? Bullshit! He felt as disoriented as if he'd undergone
narcohypnosis.

 

 

His straining arms pulled him into the cramped electronic countermeasures
capsule of the bomber. Unexpectedly his head bumped the low ceiling,
and his eyes widened with claustrophobia. The angry world closed on him
like a fist. He tried to turn. Not enough room for two men in here!

 

 

But a nameless Major was struggling in beside him. Massive and radiating
heat, the Major grunted. The pressure door clunked shut, sealing them
in. Like twins in a womb, they squirmed and politely elbowed each other.
Side by side, Dr. West realized they were seated facing backward toward
the tail. Against him, the Major's blue eyes loomed so close they blurred.

 

 

"Let me fix your crash -- I mean -- safety harness." The Major's laugh
was high-pitched for such a huge man. "Here's your crash helmet, you
CIA bastard! They -- " A metallic shriek exploded. Lurching forward,
the bomber howled along the runway, hurled itself.

 

 

Facing backward, Dr. Joe West felt his eyeballs bulging as if almost left
behind, while acceleration dragged the nylon straps into his chest.
Gawking down at the one tiny heat-insulated viewplate between his boots,
he glimpsed discolored clouds. The dark mountains of the California
coastline were backlighted by the sunrise. Incongruously, obscenely
reversing itself, the sunrise sank back into the mountains. Dr. West
realized the bomber had activated its ramjets and was outspeeding the
turning Earth. The dimming dawn drowned. The darkening Pacific Ocean
glittered as this lone bomber hurried to overtake the night.

 

 

The Air Force Major squirmed. "Hope you -- I mean -- Central Intelligence
-- you spooks can't just send us off and kill us -- without telling us
the mission?" The Major's laughter rose like the safety valving of a
steam boiler. "The generals shook our hands too much. The brass didn't
level with us at the briefing."

 

 

"I wasn't at the briefing," Dr. West muttered.

 

 

"Why don't you CIA spooks -- use your own black planes?" the Major again
laughed explosively. "The way your Deputy Director is -- buddying around
with the President -- your Central Intelligence already owns more manned
aircraft than the Air Force. So send one of your own black clunkers. This
SCRAMjet bomber cost fifty million bucks, and we got damn few of them."

 

 

Dr. West didn't know what to answer. His head hurt.

 

 

"That was a controlled-environment tank they hoisted into our bomb bay,"
the Major's voice persisted. "Too heavy. Hell of a long takeoff run. Heavy
spray tank. Too heavy. So tell me we're going to spray crops."

 

 

Dr. West couldn't answer.

 

 

The Major shoveled sarcasm. "I mean -- the Air Force is not officially
at war, you know. I can't speak for the CIA. Have your spooks got
Presidential approval for this mission? Does
he
know what's in the
spray tank?"

 

 

"He may. I don't," Dr. West retorted.

 

 

"Like hell you don't," the Major laughed, squirming, trying to readjust
the leather holster on his hip.

 

 

Dr. West contorted his body, trying to give the Major elbow room.
He thought the Major was showing too explosive a personality. It was
difficult to estimate how this Air Force officer would react if he
recognized Dr. West. At least the Major was not piloting the bomber.
Dr. West wet his dry lips.

 

 

The aircraft's flight steadied. "Autopilot's switched to astroinertial
guidance," the Major said. "Up front Colonel Meller can take his nap. But
I got a personal reason for finding out what's in the spray tank."

 

 

Dr. West wished the Major would shut up!

 

 

"You look sort of pale," the Major laughed. "Sick?"

 

 

Speechless, Dr. West shook his head. His eardrums were killing him.

 

 

Strapped to his side as closely as a Siamese twin, the Major eyeballed him.
"You feel OK?"

 

 

Dr. West blinked at the Major's enormously close face. Plainly the
Major had not recognized him from the TV news, and Dr. West tried to
relax. Seventeen years ago in Canada, when people recognized Dr. West,
they tried to kill him.

 

 

"The Colonel up there in the control module and you and me, all three
in the hot seat," the Major persisted. "We'll fry together, so what's
in the spray tank?"

 

 

Dr. Joe West furrowed his brow. Clumsily, he tried to scratch his armpit
without elbowing the Major. Within his nylon flying suit, Dr. West's body
was perspiring in the padded cotton rags of a Chinese commune worker,
deceased. He couldn't remember if he had been told what was in the
spray tank.

 

 

Something alive was crawling up his ribs. Hungrily, it bit. Dr. West's
gaunt face lighted in his pained grin. Evidently for authenticity, the
Central Intelligence Agency had salted his rags with genuine Chinese
Communist fleas.

 

 

Another bite! Grinning like a befuddled skeleton, Dr. West imagined when
his last drop of blood had been drunk, the fleas would arise in unison
and shout: "Paper Tiger!" Then in glorious self-defense and in order to
preserve international peace, the fleas would infiltrate the Major.