THE OVAL Office. More power flowed from this room than any other room in the world, but watching the hubbub of activity while waiting for his audience with President Blair, Thomas wondered if that power might have short-circuited.
He didn’t know precisely who knew about the Raison Strain, but the urgency on their faces betrayed the panicked disposition of half a dozen other visitors who’d evidently demanded and received appointments with the world’s highest office.
Some were undoubtedly secretaries or aides in the cabinet itself; others had to represent fires the president felt obligated to put out—opposition leaders threatening to go public, concerned lawmakers with good intentions that would ruin the country, et cetera, et cetera.
If this was the kind of panic that disturbed these stately halls, what was the scene in other governments? From what Thomas could overhear, the governments of the western nations were all but caving in already, only two days into the crisis.
Thomas was seated on the gold sofa with his feet on the presidential seal, facing the president, who sat on an identical couch directly across from him. Phil Grant sat on the couch next to the president. To his right Ron Kreet, chief of staff, and Clarice Morton, who’d come to Thomas’s rescue in the meeting yesterday, sat in the green-and-gold armchairs by the fireplace. A painting of George Washington eyed them from its frame between them. Robert Blair, Phil Grant, and Ron Kreet all wore ties. Clarice wore a plum business suit. Thomas had opted for the same black slacks and white shirt he’d worn yesterday—at the moment, they were the only clothes he owned that had any real dress to them, although he doubted it mattered much to this president.
“You’re sure about this, Thomas?” the president said.
“I’m as sure as I can be about anything, Mr. President. I know it still sounds like a stretch to you, but this is how I learned about the virus in the first place.”
“You’re saying that you found the Books of Histories—these history books that may tell us what happens next—but more importantly, you know where they’re keeping Monique de Raison.”
“Yes.”
The president looked at Kreet, who lifted an eyebrow as if to say, Your call, not mine.
Thomas had awakened early and spent the first hour trying to track down Gains or Grant—actually anyone who could respond to this new information he’d retrieved from his dreams. Both had stayed up late and were finally asleep, he learned. By the time he convinced Grant’s assistant to patch him through, it was almost nine in the morning.
Three minutes later he had both Grant and Gains on a conference call. He had new information, and when he told them what it was, they’d pulled whatever strings needed pulling to move the meeting with the president up.
He’d convinced Kara to take an early flight to New York. Their mother needed her children in a time like this, but Thomas couldn’t leave Washington. Not now.
It was eleven, and he’d just made his case to the most powerful man alive. Monique was being held in a mountain called Cyclops, he said.
“So you’re saying that your wife, this wife in your dreams, is somehow connected to Monique de Raison. Is that right?” Clarice said.
He sensed that she wanted to believe him. Maybe a part of her did believe him. But the twinkle in her eyes betrayed more than a little doubt.
He looked at the president. “Mr. President, permission to be blunt, Sir.”
“Of course.”
A woman dressed in a black suit slipped in and whispered something in the president’s ear.
“When?”
“In the last two minutes.”
He turned to the CIA director. “Phil, I think you’re needed. We just received word from the French. Find out what’s going on and get back in here as soon as you have the picture.”
“I knew it,” Grant muttered. “Those sons of . . .” He left the office with the lady in black.
“The French?” Kreet said. “We were right?”
“Don’t know.” President Blair looked at Thomas. “Five of their leaders including the president and the prime minister were seen walking into an unscheduled meeting yesterday. Only four came out. Some are saying that President Henri Gaetan is no longer who he was yesterday.”
“A coup?”
“That’s a bit premature,” Kreet said. “But it wouldn’t surprise us if elements of the French government weren’t somehow connected to Svensson.”
The president stood and walked to his desk, one hand in his pocket. He rapped the top of his desk, sat against it, and folded his arms.
“Okay, Thomas. Fire away. Tell me why I should listen to you.”
“Honestly, I’m not saying that you should. Two weeks ago I was trying to pay rent by holding down a job at the Java Hut in Denver.”
“That’s not what I need. Why should I listen to you?”
Thomas hesitated. He stood and walked around the couch.
“I’m the only one here who’s seeing both sides of history. As the only person seeing both sides of history, there’s a good chance that I’m also the only one who can change that history. I don’t know that as a fact, but I’m fairly confident it’s true. If I can’t change history, then billions of people, including you, will soon be dead.”
The chief of staff raised an eyebrow.
“These are the facts,” Thomas said. “And the more time I spend justifying myself, the less time I have to change history.”
His delivery seemed to have taken the president off guard. He stared at Thomas silently.
It did sound awfully arrogant, Thomas thought. With his own people, as the supreme commander of the Forest Guard, this kind of presentation would be expected. But here he was still the kid from Denver who had flipped out. At least to some. He only hoped the president wasn’t among them.
A slight grin nudged Robert Blair’s mouth. “Now that’s what I call spunk. I pray to God you’re wrong about all of this, but I have to agree that in a strange way you actually make sense.”
“Then I’ll tell you more, if you like.”
“I’m all ears.”
Thomas walked to a painting of Abraham Lincoln and faced them again. “I’m sure your people have considered this already, but I’ve had more time than most of them to think this through. Clearly, it’s just a matter of time before the rest of the world discovers what’s happening. You can’t hide the kind of arms movement Svensson is demanding from the press for long. When they do learn of it, the world will begin to fracture. There’s no telling what kind of chaos will ensue. Pressure to comply with Svensson’s demands will become astronomical. So will pressure to launch a preemptive strike. Both will end badly.”
“And exactly what scenario won’t end badly?” the president asked. “You may have given this a lot of thought, son, but I’m not sure you can appreciate the full complexity of the situation.”
“Then tell me.”
Kreet cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but I really don’t think this is the best use of—”
The president held up his hand. “It’s okay, Ron. I want him to hear this.”
He turned to Thomas. “For starters, short of invoking emergency powers, I don’t run this country alone. It’s a republic, remember? I can’t just do what I want to.”
“You can and you have to. Invoke emergency powers.”
“I may. In the meantime, the virus has cropped up in over a hundred of our cities. The CDC and the World Health Organization are up to their eyeballs in data they can’t begin to unravel in any amount of reasonable time. Apart from this premonition of yours called Cyclops, we have no clue where Svensson’s hiding out, assuming he’s the person we should be looking for. Dwight Olsen’s opposition is already circling the wagons. Knowing him, he’ll find a way to blame this whole mess on me and bog down my emergency powers. There are already rumblings of a preemptive nuclear strike, and I think Dwight might reverse himself on this one. If we go down, we go down fighting. You know the drill, and I’m not sure I disagree. Even if we give in to these ridiculous demands of this New Allegiance of theirs, we have no guarantee that they’ll give us the antivirus.”
“They won’t. Which is why you can’t give in.”
“You know this from these books?”
“If I were their strategist and you were the Horde—if you were my enemy—I wouldn’t give you the antivirus. The instruments of battle have changed, but not the minds behind them. It also explains why over half the world’s population is wiped out by the virus according to the histories. They plan to give out the antivirus selectively, regardless of any promise to the contrary. I’m quite sure you’re not at the top of their list of favorite people.”
Clarice stood and crossed the floor. There were now three on the gold carpet—only Kreet remained in his chair. “So you insist we don’t give in to their demands, and you insist we don’t wage war, assuming we ever pin down a target. What, then?”
The president acknowledged her question with a nod and looked at Thomas evenly.
“I doubt very much any conventional solution will change anything. They would have been tried in the histories and failed. My solution requires you to believe me. I understand that’s the challenge here, but in the end you’ll find it’s the only way.”
“Be more specific, Thomas,” the president said. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“First, believe me when I say I know where Monique is. She is your key to securing the antivirus. Second, do whatever is necessary to prevent both nuclear war and the international community’s capitulation to Svensson’s demands. Bluff if you have to. Start the nuclear weapons on their way. Withhold enough weapons for a credible threat, and if we have no solution when the weapons actually reach their destination—”
“You sound like you know that destination,” the president said.
“If I were them, I would choose a European country, for a list of reasons I could give you if you want. France would be ideal.”
The president frowned. “Continue.”
“If we still have no solution by the time the weapons reach their destination, then pull back. You’ll have to persuade other nuclear powers that are closer to France, if I’m right, like England and Israel, to actually send their weapons. If they don’t at least appear to cooperate, then we’ll have a nuclear war on our hands, and more than the virus will kill people by the millions.”
Robert Blair glanced at Ron Kreet. The chief of staff turned his head skeptically. “Israel won’t go for it.”
“Which is why you begin building the coalition immediately, starting with Israel,” Thomas said. “I mean today. You have to commit to this now.”
“I still don’t hear a plan, Thomas,” Clarice said.
Thomas looked at all three. They were lost, he realized. Not that he wasn’t, but he did have a slight advantage.
“My plan is for you to delay them by all possible means of trickery and diplomacy and hope that I can find a way to stop them.”
For a long time they were either too embarrassed or too impressed to respond. Surely the former.
“Let me take a team to Cyclops,” he said. “If I’m right, we’ll find her. If I’m wrong, I can still relay information from the Books of Histories back to you when I get my hands on them. My remaining here is pointless.”
“Even if we do send a team,” Kreet said, “I don’t see how you’re qualified to lead our Rangers. How far do you expect us to go with this . . . dreaming of yours?”
“I think he may be on to something,” the president said. “Finish.”
“Maybe I could show you something,” Thomas said, walking to the center of the room. He glanced at the ceiling. “If you check, you’ll find that I have no acrobatics training. I did learn martial arts in the Philippines, but trust me, I could never move like I’ve learned to move in my dreams while leading the Guard. Stand back.”
They glanced at each other, then cautiously stepped back.
Thomas took a single step and launched himself into the air, flipped through one and a half rotations with a full twist, landed on his hands, and held the stand for a count of three before reversing the entire move.
They stared at him, gawking like schoolchildren who had just seen a magic show.
“Maybe one more,” Thomas said, “just so you’re sure. Pick up that letter opener”—he nodded at a brass blade on the desk—“and throw it at me. As hard as you can.”
“No, it’s quite all right.” The president looked a little embarrassed. “I’d hate to miss and stick the wall.”
“I won’t let you.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Go ahead, Bob,” Clarice said. She eyed Thomas with a new kind of interest. “Why not?”
“Just hurl it at you?”
“As hard as you possibly can. Trust me, there’s no way you can hurt me with it. This isn’t a ten-foot sickle or a bronze sword. It’s hardly a toy.”
The president picked up the letter opener, glanced at a grinning Clarice, and hurled the blade. Blair had been an athlete and this blade wasn’t traveling slowly.
Thomas caught it by its hilt, an inch from his chest. He held it steady.
“You see, the skills I learn in my dreams are real.” He tossed the letter opener back. “The information I learn is as real. I need to lead the team because there’s a possibility I may be the only one alive who can get to Monique. I should be on my way already.”
The door opened. Phil Grant entered, face drawn.
“We have twenty-four hours to show movement of our arms. The destination is now the Brest naval base in northern France. The government claims they are cooperating with Svensson only because they have no choice. All communications to the matter must be held in strictest confidence. The media must not be alerted. They are working on a solution, but until they come up with one, they insist we must cooperate. In a nutshell that’s it.”
“They’re lying,” Thomas said. The others looked at him.
The president faced his chief of staff. “Ron?”
“They probably are lying. But it really doesn’t matter either way. Even if Svensson is holding hands with Gaetan himself, we can’t very well drop nukes on France, can we?”
The president walked around his desk and dropped into his chair. “Okay, Thomas. I’m authorizing the removal and transportation of the weapons they’ve demanded. I have a meeting with the joint chiefs in an hour. Until someone offers a reasonable argument to the contrary, we do it your way.”
He set his elbows on the desk and nervously tapped his fingers together. “Not a word about any of this dream stuff to anyone. Clear? That includes you, Thomas. No more tricks. You go on assignment from this office and you go with my clearance; that’s all anyone needs to know.”
“Agreed,” Thomas said.
“Phil, get him a clearance. I want him in Fort Bragg by chopper as soon as possible. I’ll make sure they give you whatever you need. It’s a long haul to Indonesia—make the plans you need in the air if you have to. And if you’re right about Svensson being in Cyclops, I just may turn the White House over to you.” He winked.
Thomas extended his hand. “I wouldn’t know what to do with the White House. Thank you for your confidence, Mr. President.”
Robert Blair took his hand. “I’m not sure I’m offering any confidence. As you pointed out, we’re just a little short on alternatives at the moment. I just got off the phone with the Israeli prime minister. Their cabinet has already met with the opposition. The hard-liners are insisting the only way they’ll deliver any of their weapons is on the end of a missile. He’s not inclined to disagree.”
“Then you have to convince them that any nuclear exchange would be suicide,” Thomas said.
“In their minds, disarming would be suicide. Submitting has landed them in a world of hurt before—they’re not going to be easy, and frankly I’m not sure they should be. I doubt Svensson has any plans of giving the Israelis the antivirus, regardless of what they do.”
“If the virus doesn’t finish us off, a war just might,” Thomas said. “A leak to the press might do the same. But then you already know that.”
“Unfortunately. We’re spinning a story about an outbreak of the Raison Strain on an island near Java. It’ll make enough noise to distract anything for a few days. The other governments involved understand the critical nature of keeping this under wraps. But there’s no way to hide this for long. Not with so many people involved. Keeping Olsen in line will be a full-time job in itself.”
The president drew a deep breath and let it out, eyes closed.
“Let’s pray you’re right about Monique.”
Thomas changed back into clothing he felt more comfortable wearing— cargo pants, Vans, and a black button-down shirt. Phil Grant sent three assistants along who had marching orders to coordinate whatever intelligence Thomas needed. He asked for and received a ream of data on the target area, which he’d already gone over once with the CIA. He browsed through the thick folder again.
He knew of the Indonesian island called Papua through a friend of his in Manila, David Lunlow, who attended Faith Academy. David had grown up on the remote island, the son of missionaries. At the time it was called Irian Jaya, but had recently changed its name to Papua because of some misguided political notion that doing so might further its quest for independence from Indonesia.
Papua was unique among the hundreds of Indonesian Islands. The largest, by far. The least populated, and mostly by tribes, scattered across mountains and swamps and coastal regions that had swallowed countless explorers over the centuries. More than seven hundred languages were spoken on the island. Largest city, Jayapura. Fifty miles down the coast, a small airport was attached to a sprawling community of misfits and adventurers. It wasn’t unlike the Old West. There was a strong expatriate community whose primary purpose was to give the downtrodden and lost seekers new direction. Missionaries.
It was there, a fifteen-minute Jeep haul from Sentani, that Cyclops waited.
Thomas studied the maps and satellite images of the jungle-covered mountain. How Svensson had ever managed to build a lab in such a remote, inaccessible place, Thomas could hardly guess, but the strategy of it made perfect sense. There was no true military or police threat within a thousand miles. There were no villages or known inhabitants above the base of the mountain. A helicopter approach from the far side would go virtually unnoticed except by the odd bushman, who had no reason to report such a thing and no one to report it to.
Thomas set the map down and stared through a portal at a long stretch of clouds below them. Serene, oblivious. From thirty thousand feet up, the idea that a virus was ravaging the earth below seemed preposterous.
“Sir? Do you need anything else?” She was CIA and her name was Becky Masters.
“No. Thank you.”
He returned his attention to the data on his lap, and slowly he began to draw up plans.
They landed and led him into a briefing room two hours later. The Ranger team that he would accompany was commanded by a Captain Keith Johnson, a dark-skinned man dressed in black dungarees who looked like he could take the head off any man with a word or two. He snapped off a salute and called Thomas “sir,” but his skittering eyes betrayed him.
Thomas stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you, Captain.”
The man took his hand with some hesitation. There were about twenty others in the room, all clean-cut, a far cry from his Forest Guard. But he’d seen enough of the Discovery Channel to know that these men could do serious damage in most situations.
“Men, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hunter. He’s been given carte blanche on this mission. Please remember who signs your paychecks.” Meaning, You work for the government, so even if this bozo looks like someone off a movie set, follow orders, Thomas thought.
“Thank you,” Thomas said.
The captain sat without acknowledging him. A map of Papua and Cyclops was already on the overhead projector as he’d requested. He scanned the room.
“I know you’ve been given the general parameters of the mission, but let me add a few details.” He walked to the map and ran through his plan to approach six primary points on the mountain that he and two CIA map readers thought Svensson might have used.
The mission was to rescue Monique de Raison, not to take out the lab or to kill Svensson or any other lab technician who might be at the location. On the contrary, keeping these targets alive was crucial. No explosives could be used. Nothing that might endanger the integrity of the data held in the lab or by those who worked there.
“I have to catch some sleep on the flight,” he said, “but we’ll have plenty of time to rehearse the rest over the Pacific. Captain, you may want to suggest some modifications. You know your men best, and you’ll be leading your men, not me.”
None of them, not even the captain, moved a muscle. They don’t know how to respond to me, Thomas thought. No blame. He wasn’t the kind of person people know how to take. These fighters would do what they’d been trained to do, starting with following orders, but in this situation he needed more.
He couldn’t keep doing these stupid tricks for doubters. Look, fellers, look at what I can do. Soon enough, word would get out and his reputation would speak for itself, but at the moment these fighters had no benefit of the knowledge they should have, given the situation. They didn’t know the fate of billions could rest on their shoulders. They didn’t know about the virus. They didn’t know that the man who stood before them was from a different world. In a manner of speaking.
Thomas walked across the room, studying them. The president had said no tricks. Well, this wasn’t really a trick. He stopped near Johnson.
“You look like you might have some reservations, Captain.”
Johnson didn’t commit either way.
“Okay. So then let’s get this out of the way so we can do what we have to do.” He walked down the aisle and started to unbutton his shirt.
“I’m smaller than most of you. I’m not Special Forces. I have no rank. I’m not even part of the military. So then who am I?”
He slipped the last button free.
“I’m someone who’s willing to take on the captain and any five of you right here, right now, with an absolute promise that I will do each one of you some very serious bodily damage.”
He turned at the end of the aisle and headed back up, eying them.
“I don’t want to sound arrogant; I just don’t have the time it typically takes to win the kind of respect needed for a mission like this one. Do I have any takers?”
Nothing. A few awkward smirks.
He peeled his shirt down to his waist and faced them at the front again. Although normal aging and other physical events didn’t transfer between his two realities, blood did. And wounds. And the direct effects of those wounds. Kara had examined them, awed by the graphic change to his body, literally overnight. Twenty-three scars.
He saw them take in the numerous Horde scars that marked his chest. A few of the smirks changed to admiration. Some wanted to try him; he could see it in their eyes, an encouraging sign. If things got hairy, he would depend on these more than the others. He continued before they could speak.
“Good. We wouldn’t want to bloody the walls of this room anyway. The reason I’ve been selected by the president of the United States to lead this mission is because no one else alive qualifies in the same way I do for reasons you’ll never know. But believe this: The success or failure of this mission will send shock waves around the world. We must succeed, and for that you must trust me. Understood? Captain?”
Seven hours later, Thomas was on a night flight across the Pacific with Captain Johnson and his team and enough high-tech hardware to sink a small yacht. The transport was a Globemaster C-17, flying at mach point seven, loaded with electronic surveillance equipment. Their flight would last ten hours with three in-flight refuelings.
They still weren’t sure what to make of him—big words and a few scars didn’t amount to a hill of beans when you got right down to it. And honestly, he wasn’t sure about them. What he wouldn’t give for Mikil or William at his side.
They would soon find out just who was who.
Thomas reclined in the seat farthest to the back and let the soft roar of the engines lull him into sleep. Into dreams.