Chapter Thirty-One

In the wake of the disaster at Washington, seven states have introduced emergency legislation banning telepaths – registered or unregistered – from residing within their borders. These unconstitutional measures are expected to pass through state legislatures within the week. They may not be in time to save hundreds of lives as a number of real or suspected telepaths have been shot dead over the last two days, while others have gone into protective custody. The ACLU has fractured over the last two days, with no coherent response to emergency pleas from civil liberties campaigners…

-AP News Report, 2015

“So,” the President said. “What do we do now?”

He had always disliked the emergency bunker. Located twenty miles east of Washington, hidden under a farm that had been – covertly – federal property since the 1970s, it seemed cold and sterile to his gaze. It was a chilling reminder that he’d been forced to flee Washington and even though he knew that the President had a duty to remain alive and free, it was galling. At least he wouldn’t be running for re-election. His opponents would have made much of any flight from Washington, no matter how necessary. They’d have said that the President had abandoned the citizens of Washington to their fate and they would have been right.

There was a long pause. Nine men and women had joined the President’s videoconference call, yet no one seemed willing to commit themselves to anything. The Vice President seemed to be the most unwilling of all, not least because he was hoping to make a run at the Presidency himself – if there was a next election. The President had never seriously considered that there might not be another election, or another President, but now he wondered. After what had happened in Washington, after Harvard, how long would it be before the fundamental glue holding America together melted?

“Perhaps we should look at the results of the disaster,” the President snarled. “There are only thirteen rogue telepaths, just thirteen, and look how much damage they have done to us! Just thirteen men and women have brought us to our knees. What happens when they decide to do something even worse?”

The FBI Director coughed. “There are only nine left now,” he said. The President looked up, hopefully. There had been so much to do that he hadn’t been able to follow the progress of the investigation. “One is dead, shot through the head by Captain Russell; two were captured and transported to the Telepath Corps holding centre...and one was apparently abandoned by her fellows after she turned on them.”

“I see,” the President said. He scowled down at the table. “And what have you learned from the two captive telepaths?”

“Very little of use,” the FBI Director admitted. “They were kind enough to give us the location that they’d been using for a base, but when we reached it they’d already abandoned it...”

He paused. “I should show you the video instead,” he said, grimly. “Mere words cannot describe it.”

The President watched grimly as the video sequence began to run. All SWAT and SF force carried tiny video cameras these days, used mainly to allow them to study and learn from their mistakes. A handful had been used in courtrooms as evidence that someone had genuinely been captured while engaged in terrorist operations, or that a person hadn’t been the victim of mistaken identity, shot down by his own rescuers. He’d authorised the deployment of the technology personally, believing that it could be used to counter black propaganda run by the enemies of the United States.

The SWAT team had gone in first, followed by five telepaths from the Telepath Corps; their progress monitored by a UAV hanging high overhead. They had met no resistance; the staff in the building had just been sitting on the sofa, waiting for them. The moment the team burst in, the staff members had started to chant and nothing, not threats or pleas, had managed to quieten them.

“WE ARE SUPERIOR,” they chanted in brainwashed unison. “WE ARE UNSTOPPABLE.”

The President shivered. The Telepath Corps had authorised an emergency peek into their minds and had discovered, to their horror, that the staff members had been brainwashed. No, in many ways it was worse; their minds had been ruthlessly rewritten and then locked in place, beyond any help from mere humans. Even telepathic mental care, practiced by a handful of telepaths who had gone into the medical field, had been unable to help them. They might never recover.

“Miss Tyler has been much more forthcoming,” the FBI Director confirmed, changing the subject. The President felt only relief. “However, she was actually knocked out and abandoned by them a few hours before they started their operation in Washington, so while we are convinced that she is telling the truth, there are certain limits to what she can tell us about them. Her telepathy – which appears to have reversed, broadcasting her thoughts and feelings to anyone within range – makes it impossible for her to lie to us.”

“But they have moved their bases,” the President said, sourly. “Can she tell us anything useful?”

“We’re still asking her questions,” the FBI Director admitted. “We know, now, that Leo – their leader – is definitely under the influence of the renegade anarchist. We did wonder if the bastard was really a telepath at all, but sadly Elizabeth Tyler was able to confirm that he was definitely telepathic. As to what they want...their goal, as far as we can tell, is to cause as much havoc as possible. There is no real political goal.”

The President scowled angrily. “So all they’re really doing is lashing out,” he said. “What the hell does that gain them?”

“Very little, apart from anarchy,” the FBI Director explained. “But then, that’s what the anarchists want. We know that the rogue telepaths were involved with checking for FBI operatives within the underground movements and located quite a few, leaving us blind when we need their services desperately. The anarchists want anarchy, Mr President, and they will do whatever it takes to create it.”

The President nodded. On his desk was a draft law proposed by the Senate, one that would see the entire country brought under martial law. Everyone living in the United States would be forced to undergo telepathic screening...and, if they were found to be telepathic – or have telepathic potential – they would be forced to move up north to Alaska. The ones who refused would be transported to internment camps and kept permanently drugged, at least until they changed their minds. It was a violation of everything the United States stood for, yet somehow he knew that it would be passed without opposition through the Senate and Congress. He would have the choice between vetoing it – and perhaps being impeached by an angry Congress – or signing his name to the most inhuman act committed in America since the internment of the Japanese-Americans in 1942. The polling firm had told him that public feeling would be soundly behind the act, once they heard of it, but that was no surprise. He had only to turn on the television and watch the news to know that. There were anti-telepath marches and riots in a dozen cities and plenty more were simmering with anger.

“I understand,” he said. He pressed his hand to his forehead. “Is there nothing we can do to catch them before they do something worse?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff answered the question. “We can be fairly sure that they’re still in Washington,” he said. “The NSA traced back their second message to a cyber-café in the city, a message sent after martial law was declared and a ring of steel erected around the city. We can search the city thoroughly for them, knowing that they cannot get out without breaking our line. We have considerable experience in searching cities...”

“They’d just have to keep their heads down and the lines would pass over them,” the FBI Director disagreed. “Do you have any idea how hard it would be to search a city the size of Washington? It isn’t as if you can destroy it as you move through the buildings ...”

“We know what we are doing,” the Chairman snapped back. They were all tired and impatient, and guilty. They were watching their beloved country falling apart. “We can do it.”

“If there is no other choice,” the President said, “then we will have to search the city. If we can’t come up with any other options by nightfall, we will start searching tomorrow morning.”

He forced his face not to reveal his anguish. The logistics of searching an entire city were going to be herculean, to say nothing of the damage the soldiers would wreak as they moved through the city, even without terrorists and insurgents sniping at them. Or maybe they would have terrorists and insurgents sniping at them; somehow, he doubted that the criminal gangs would allow the soldiers to search their drug dens without a fight. And then there was a prospect of citizens being pushed into resisting the soldiers by the rogue telepaths...

“We’ll speak again at nightfall,” he concluded. “Until then...well, good luck to us all.”

No words had ever tasted so bitter in his mouth.

***

“Do you think they did this to you on purpose?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said when Art posed the question to her. Simply being close to her was an ordeal, because he could sense her thoughts even through his mental shields. His mind kept reacting as if he were under attack. “I can’t see Leo trying to develop the techniques to do this, but...”

Art nodded. As a punishment for a rogue telepath, a defector, he couldn’t think of anything better. Elizabeth would have no privacy for the rest of her life, wherever she lived. Depending on what kind of deal was made in the end, he suspected that she would end up living alone, perhaps up in a log cabin somewhere in the woods. He remembered an old friend who had become a survivalist and made a mental note to look him up. Perhaps he would know a suitable property for her.

“On the other hand, he does love the grand gesture,” Elizabeth added. “Maybe it’s his idea of a joke...and a warning to anyone else who might be thinking of changing sides.”

Art tasted her bitterness and nodded. Elizabeth hadn’t known what she was getting into and, unlike many others who had been sucked into the terrorist networks, she had at least tried to break free and save a life. An undercover policewoman owed Elizabeth her life, if not more, even though she hadn’t been able to discover much before she was caught. The anarchist networks were drawing together; once the police spies and suchlike were eliminated, Art had no doubt that they would be used to cause havoc. Leo would have the grand gesture of his dreams.

He stopped, dead. A thought had just crossed his mind. He should have dismissed it at once, he knew, and yet it was impossible to push the thought back out of his mind. If Leo liked the grand gesture, then...there was one grand gesture that would appeal to both Leo and his secret backer, the number one terrorist target in the entire world. It was insane, it was unthinkable, and yet it was impossible to dismiss. It might just work.

Art keyed his cell phone and called a very special number. “Alice, it’s Art,” he said. The problem with his idea was that the moment anyone higher up than himself got wind of it, it was going to be squashed without the President ever hearing about it. Art knew what he would do to a junior officer who brought him such a plan and somehow he doubted that anyone higher up the food chain would be enthusiastic about it. “I need to speak to the President, personally.”

Alice sounded shocked. “Art...why?” she asked. He couldn’t blame her for worrying about him. Unlike some CIA officers he’d met, she was genuinely worried about the men and women under her command. “I can get you a chance to talk to him, but he might not be willing to listen.”

“Just let me speak to him for ten minutes,” Art said. He winked at Elizabeth, who was staring at him in surprise. She wouldn’t like the idea either and he had already resolved not to mention to anyone that she’d been there when he’d thought of it. It would only upset them. “I think I can convince him to listen to me for longer.”

In the movies, he would have an instant line to the President and as much time as he needed. In the real world, the President had very little time to deal with anyone, even beings so exalted as foreign leaders and even Senators and Congressmen. The concept of him having more than a few seconds for a mere Captain was absurd, but then he was a Captain in the Telepath Corps and, to all intents and purposes, the field team leader. Alice might end up as the permanent Operations Director, yet without telepathy she couldn’t command telepaths on active service. Art could and did.

He ignored requests – and then outright orders – from various people to tell them what he wanted to tell the President. Alice took some of the flak for it as she cleared the way through a small army of secretaries and assistants, before the President was finally notified that Art wanted to speak with him. The delay didn’t amuse Art, who found himself wondering what would happen if – when – terrorists unleashed a major disease in an American city. The entire country could be infected in the time it took to alert the President. Finally, in a secure video room, he had his conference.

“Mr President,” Art said. He’d been told that normally any junior officer would be briefed on White House Protocol, but it hardly mattered during a state of emergency. “We need to catch those bastards before they do anything worse and we need to do it without tearing the city apart.”

“Of course,” the President agreed, dryly. Art had done nothing more than state the obvious, after all. The President would hardly disagree that the terrorists needed to be hunted down and killed before they did something worse. “I understand that you have a way to capture them. Do you have a way of peeking across the entire city, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr President,” Art said. The Telepath Corps had tried linking their minds together and searching for Leo and the remaining rogues, but there had been no sign of them. The telepathic field they’d generated didn’t have anything like enough range to scan the city. “We do, however, have another idea.

“We’ve been proceeding on the assumption that Leo is actually the one in charge,” he continued. “We now know that that isn’t entirely true. Leo is being manipulated by the older and wiser Alvin Greenwood, whom he knows as Cyrus Valentine. Greenwood – or Valentine – is an anarchist. He delights in causing chaos, both to show the weakness of society and to force the forces of reaction – that’s us – into a massive crackdown that he feels will win them more recruits. I think it was him, not Leo, who picked Washington as the target for their madness memes.”

“I follow your reasoning,” the President said, calmly. There was no trace of agreement or disagreement, but Art had expected neither. “What does that allow us to do?”

Art took a breath. “There is one target in Washington that he would want to target, above all others,” he said. “Leo would want to target that target as well, for different reasons. It strikes me that if we played our cards carefully, we could lure the bastards into a trap and destroy them once and for all.”

“Right,” the President said, calmly. “And what is this target?”

There was a long pause. Art braced himself. “You, Mr President,” he said. In a moment, he’d know if he had saved his career, or shattered it beyond repair. “Leo hates you because you brought in all the legislation for controlling telepaths, legislation he sees as an attack on his entire race. Greenwood hates you because you are the personification of authority...”

“Not for half the country, I’m not,” the President said, wryly. “Half of the country is composed of sore losers after each election.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Art agreed. He thought about adding the other reason Greenwood/Valentine would have to target the current President in particular and decided that it would be pointless. “If you were to be exposed, they would use you as their next target, rather than someone rather more vulnerable.”

The President stared down at his hands. “The Secret Service is going to hate you,” he said, flatly. “I’m not sure if I shouldn’t refuse outright.”

He shook his head. “I’d have to hold a press conference,” he said. “And it would have to be in an insecure area. There would be other dangers, apart from telepathy.”

“Yes, Mr President,” Art agreed. He hesitated. “I don’t think that anyone would hold it against you if you refused...”

“When you’re President, you’ll understand that sometimes the only purpose of this job is to serve as a punching bag for everyone who has had their feelings hurt,” the President said. “It would be nice to be more proactive, just once.”

He looked up at Art. “I’ll make the arrangements,” he said. “And Captain...you must catch these bastards before anyone else gets hurt.”

His image vanished from the display. Art sat there, slowly shaking his head. One way or another, he was committed now. No matter how anyone looked at it, protecting a person who had to be exposed to the general public was difficult, even for the United States Secret Service. The President was the greatest target in the world, as far as terrorists were concerned.

One way or another, he knew, the die was most definitely cast.