Chapter Four

 

Roman Hadley was comfortably situated in the leather armchair behind his long mahogany desk cluttered with files, papers, and other debris. The phone call he’d just finished reverberated through his mind.

“Obviously, Sidney Pratt is no longer an option,” he’d said to the voice on the other end. “What kind of situation Sidney will be facing when he wakes, if he does, is anyone’s guess? He may no longer retain his psychic abilities, or it could be even worse.

“But there is another option. About two years ago, Sidney studied the case of a young boy, who was immediately pronounced as clairaudient. This boy, Ryan Quinn, was discovered by the team to be strongly enabled of ‘remote hearing.’ He picked up an entire conversation in another room—verbatim. I read about it in the brief file they’d kept on him. Soon after, his mother halted the sessions.

“I’m telling you, this kid is a powerful listener with an ability that’s a little more substantial than Sidney Pratt’s. Unlike Sidney, he is not limited to hearing the dead. Ryan can hear the dead and the living. Where Sidney hears words, sounds, ghost voices, Ryan hears sentences and live conversations. In his life, Sidney has only caught brief spoken words of living voices. Though he may not know it yet, Ryan was one of those voices; he called out to Sidney during the search for the Kimball girl.”

“Is it possible that the child is also some form of developed telepath?” The voice on the other end was a calm, collected, monotone flow evoking strategy.

“Yes. He is still a child, which means his psychic abilities remain at their peak. We have got to find him! He could be the key to unlocking the power behind this project. I’m telling you, I heard him myself!”

The last emphatic statement that Roman Hadley nearly shouted needed no explanation to the voice on the other end as he slammed his private cell shut. He himself had once been a tremendously gifted clairaudient, possessing the ability of remote hearing since childhood. But now, at the age of sixty, time had eroded and erased the strange capability down to a random minimum, a fact he had never understood. He remained enabled enough to keep tabs on his closely watched team of investigators, especially Sidney Pratt, and the thoughts and sounds of Ryan Quinn were as clear as a ringing bell.

Though his clairaudient ear was fading, his telepathic mind remained strong. But the project needed fresh blood, a younger, newer listener, one at a psychic peak; a powerfully gifted listener like Ryan could be developed into a psychic genius. From his private, clandestine office, he glanced at his aged reflection in the immaculate picture window that overlooked the famous steel city.

The wisps of gray that streaked his black hair had turned it to a shade of salt and pepper, and his eyes now seemed a faded blue, as time had also eroded the prominent features that had once made him handsome. His rough, rugged, countenance stared helplessly back, a time-beaten and withered contrast from the young soldier once called into action to fight a war his friends were deeming wrong, unjust...

The height of Vietnam and the tumult of 1969 had been everywhere. War was ongoing, coffins came home endlessly, many of which belonged to friends he’d grown up with since childhood. Drugs, sex, freedom, the feminist movement, the counter-culture, the riots, all of it still flashed through his mind. All of it was a chapter told long ago, a life once lived, but not forgotten.

It was his eighteenth birthday when his number matched one of many drawn in the draft call. He would never forget the look on her face when the civil service announcer called his number exactly as it was printed on the card; she looked like the world had ended for her. He remembered the way his heart sank deep into his chest, and his legs quivered as all their plans were cancelled by the fast drawing hand of fate.

“We’ll go to Canada,” she’d said, grabbing onto his shirtsleeve, but he knew that would be pointless. Living a life of refuge for an indefinite period of time, even after the war was over, taking her away from her plans, her dreams, her career, her family, was not what he’d wanted for her. Besides, it wouldn’t be that long; Nixon was about to end this debacle...soon. Where Johnson had failed, Nixon would succeed, and everyone would be coming home. He would be back, and they would start all over, at least that’s what he’d thought.

He’d been deployed to the South of Vietnam where fierce, mortal firefights bloodied the deep green of the Mangrove jungles. The Mekong Delta still lived in his mind with the finest of sharpened recollection: the endless green, the vast land populated with thatched-roof straw huts from which peeping heads peered out in fear and curiosity, the daily explosions, the sneak attacks, the gunfire, the blood, the cries.

There was the time he’d been helping to repair a bridge of its sections that had begun to fall away, when the deafness overcame him. It could have been a side effect of the battle sounds to his hearing, but lately he couldn’t tell. He glanced around him as voices that didn’t belong began to speak. Young male voices spoke in their native Vietnamese, which he didn’t understand, but he did recognize the word for attack—tan cong.

“Sergeant!” He turned and yelled directly to his task-sergeant superior. “Incoming! Incoming—they’re about to attack us!”

The puzzled look on the sergeant’s face prompted the surge of panic that snapped inside of him. He didn’t understand; none of them understood about the voices he’d lived with his entire life. He’d never mentioned his psychic abilities to any of them, especially when they’d interviewed him. It was something he never discussed; he was brought up to believe that taboo was not to be mentioned, and exploration was out of the question.

“Sergeant, they’re about to attack us from the west side—I heard it! You don’t understand—I heard it!”

The look on the young sergeant’s face turned to curiosity, almost accepting of the assertion, but it was too late. The sounds of explosion and gunfire had erupted everywhere. The bridge had imploded, crumbling under a burst of orange flames that suddenly swallowed it. Around him, his fellow troops twisted and twined, battered and beaten by the barrages of gunfire that riddled their bodies. Many had hit the ground in time, firing back at unseen enemies safely hidden by the surrounding foliage.

His task-sergeant had grabbed him by the shoulders, and in an instant, threw the both of their bodies over the side of a small hill near the bridge. Once they took cover, the sergeant began radioing then drew fire on the invisible attackers. The battle lasted almost eight minutes, and he could still taste the sulfur of smoke and ammunition as it had choked and blinded him that day. Seven of his fellow troops were killed, fifteen were wounded.

Late that night, he was awakened from his bunker and told not to make a sound. Two soldiers waited while he dressed and stood at attention, groggy and mystified.

“You’re wanted. We’ve been told to escort you.”

What was happening? Was he being sent home? Did they think he was responsible for what had occurred? He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. He only tried to warn them, but how was he going to explain knowing?

As soon as they were outside of the barracks, one soldier held him in place, the other blindfolded him, wrapping and tying the fold tightly just above his ears. The fear was yet another explosion, though this one inside of him. Once his heart began beating again, it pounded, and breathing became harder as his lungs quivered in his chest.

“Just a precaution, that’s all.” The soldier who tied the blindfold, not much older than he was, tried to reassure him.

“So, obviously, I’m not going to headquarters...”

The soldiers didn’t answer him.

Now the vibes of fear churned, causing a shudder through his body. The sweat poured down his face, nearly soaking the blindfold. He could feel some dark, ominous force about to change his life forever, and he was right.

* * * *

The first thing he was able to recognize was the downward drop of an elevator, and when it opened, feeling the coolness of the air around him, a quick change from the July heat. Underground, he thought. He focused and tried to listen with his ability, yet could hear nothing. His ability seemed to evade him in times when he could have used it.

He heard the elevator doors close behind him with a heavy clank and could see increasing light as each layer of the blindfold was unraveled. The light was a dim, dingy basement glow that cast shadows upon the dank and darkened walls.

“This way,” the soldier said, turning him to the left. He was instructed to walk in front of them down a long, underground corridor. All around him, he could see doors that contained security light panels. He tried to listen beyond each door, but dead stillness had greeted his mental ear, as though nothing dwelled in this vast sub-terrain except the silence of well-kept secrets and the muted past of histories long fulfilled.

“This one.” The soldier’s words were few and limited as he motioned him to a door on the right-hand side of the corridor. “You’re expected. Just press the red button to enter.”

As soon as his finger pushed the bright, glowing red button, the door to the room drew back sideways in an electric hiss that seemed almost futuristic. Strange. He entered the small room that housed a metal table with three metal chairs, two on one side, and one on the other. A large, opaque, glass window stretched across the back wall, cloaking and hiding what or whoever watched beyond it, another ominous feeling he couldn’t ignore.

A man in his late forties with dark hair slicked back sat at the small interrogation table. He had never seen him before; he didn’t even look military, but something was top-notch about him. He looked up from the file he was reading and spoke.

“Welcome, Private. Please, have a seat.”

The man’s voice was calm, inviting, and friendly, and invitation to be at ease.

“I am Agent Foster; FBI.” His young eyes grew wide at the mention, but the man made a dismissive motion with a shake of his head and the quick close of his eyes. “We understand that you were part of the unit that was hit by the sneak attack today?”

He nodded his head.

“It has also come to our attention that you predicted the whole thing only seconds before it happened.” He noticed Foster’s eyes brighten in fascination as he stated the fact in the form of a question.

Suddenly afraid, he cast his eyes down at the table. He felt cornered, clueless as to what his response should be. For the first time, he was confronted with something he never talked about and was free not to. He’d been so safe at home, where the ability would never come to light. Now it was exposed, and he felt the immense strain of an imagined witch trial. He looked up again at Foster, speechless.

“You reported to your task sergeant that you ‘heard it.’ Is that true?”

He didn’t respond.

“There were witnesses, at least five of them so far.”

The elder agent sat with his fingers pressed together in a steeple, while the young soldier pursed his lips together, safer in silent sanctuary. The agent watched and recognized this, then spoke for him.

“Let me tell you what I think, Private. I think you possess a very rare psychic ability that you’ve most likely endured all of your life. This unique talent, as I see it, is known as ‘remote hearing,’ something that your background has taught you to repress. You’re afraid to talk about it because you fear retribution, or that you have done something wrong. Am I right?”

The young soldier’s lips parted then closed.

“Only moments ago you scanned this underground with your ability and failed to hear anything. Do you know why that was?”

His heart pounded harder as the agent stupefied him, but still he did not respond.

“I know all of this, Private, because I am a clairaudient myself.”

Surprise and relief washed over him. He felt his breathing stabilize. It was the first time he had ever heard the term before. He had heard others like listener, channeler, but the scientific term told him that Agent Foster knew more than he did.

“I could hear the soldiers speaking to you, and your thoughts as you tried to listen, as we call it. Our ability is a form of telepathy so I was also able to hear words that formed your thoughts. I remained quiet and cloaked my own thoughts to test the extent of your ability.”

“Did I pass?” He spoke finally, unsure of what to say first.

“Most assuredly, now let me explain to you why you’re here. What I am about to tell you, Private, is top-secret, classified information, of which I have been given clearance to divulge to you. When I finish, you will then be subject to the FBI and its involvement as it pertains to you. I will then brief you on what will be the next course of action, as far as your deployment is concerned. Do you understand?”

He was slightly afraid again, but he nodded his head.

Agent Foster then briefed him on the Bureau’s budding project that involved the study of remote viewing. He described human subjects equipped with the ability of seeing people, places, and objects in remote areas simultaneously, and how they were being studied and utilized in areas of national defense.

“The powers that be, however, are beginning to shun the results of our efforts even though great progress is being made. In those efforts, we have discovered subjects that we have only recently encountered—clairaudient listeners, such as you, people who are enabled of the opposite psychic ability called remote hearing.”

He wondered how collectively Agent Foster was using the word “we.” Though he didn’t fear him, something about the elder agent struck him as an outsider, a vigilante.

“Our studies in this area of psychic ability are, in fact, continuing at this moment. How beneficial the employment of such abilities will be toward our nation’s defense in the long run, we are incapable of knowing. That’s why we engage subjects for research study.”

He swallowed hard, knowing that the discussion was finally steering toward him.

“Private, your immediate response, yesterday, saved the lives of most of your unit. You should consider yourself a hero; the ability you’ve feared all of your life has proven its potential for greatness. You should be very proud of that fact and of yourself. Now, I am pleased to tell you that your enlistment has been modified.”

Feelings of both joy and guilt filled his heart, soul, and mind. He would be going home because of his ability, but that didn’t relieve the countless number of his peers.

“Oh, but you won’t be going home, at least not yet anyway.”

Foster had read his mind. He did say he was telepathic...didn’t he? Prior feelings turned to both angst and curiosity.

“I have been appointed to take you back to Washington with me, where you will become a subject of our remote hearing study in exchange for your draft time here. It really isn’t such a bad deal, Private. You won’t have to serve in this war, worrying about your life every day and night, seeing your fellow soldiers being blown to bits and pieces, imagining yourself going home one day. With our offer, you will be going home one day.”

He would recall the look of certainty and truth on Foster’s face for years to come. The guilt inside him stirred, but the thought of being studied, being able to understand at last, and then being able to go home, back to her, was greater.

He gave a silent affirmation with a nod of his head.

“Then it’s settled. We leave here, immediately.”

That decision had sealed his fate forever.

* * * *

The plane ride was a long one, and now from the back window of an unmarked black sedan, the nation’s capital sprawled out before him in its official splendor. Historical monuments stood proudly, cherry blossoms lined the famous avenues, and protesters marched upon the capital with signs that read Make Love Not War, as well as the popular plea calling for Cease Fire.

The official seat of the United States was a great relief and a predictable culture shock from the flat terrain of the land and the overflowing foliage of the South Vietnamese jungles. This new scenario loomed large before him, ushering him to the forefront of a pending and undeclared history.

The shouts of the protesters reverberated through the glass, representing a movement of which he would not directly be involved. The sedan rolled through the boulevards, oblivious to the blooming chaos of its surroundings. Suddenly, the car made a sharp right-turn into a tunnel, and overhead, darkness fell upon the discreet vehicle, interrupted only by the fluorescent tubes strung along the tunnel’s upper walls that shone a sleeker black on the sedan as it entered.

Then the car stopped abruptly.

A few seconds had passed before one of the agents in front opened the passenger door for him; the other agent stood behind, near the wheel of the passenger’s side.

“Right this way.” The agent who had opened the door instructed him, and he followed, flanked on both sides by the escorting emissaries. They walked to what looked like a security elevator within the tunnel, and the first agent keyed a lock with a clockwise motion, and then pressed a button on the wall panel. A whooshing sound from underground shot upward to his ears.

It was déjà vu as the elevator doors opened wide for him like giant, metal jaws. The three of them stepped inside, and the deep, downward drop of the small entrapment caused the familiar clogging of his ears. The agents had stayed silent and so had he. He had learned not to ask them questions. They wouldn’t answer, even if they knew.

The doors opened, revealing another underground facility, only this one was cleaner, brighter, constructed more like a high-tech, communications center, and by appearance, that’s exactly what it was.

Computer systems he had never seen before were set up like small work stations, equipped with radar and visual screens, audio and recording apparatus, and a network of blinking red, blue, and green lights that beamed through the dimness like Christmas displays. The machines had voices of their own, bleeping, blurting noises beckoning brightly for attention, somehow alive, yet the stations stood unmanned.

The purpose and the extent of this vast array of technology would remain a mystery to him for now because here in this clandestine underground, the translation of top-secret meant unmentioned and unheard.

His escorts eased away as Agent Foster and two others approached.

“Welcome, Private. Our journey was a long one, but I see you’ve had the chance to unwind and refresh a bit.”

Foster’s voice echoed softly through the underground. He was accompanied by a bald and muscle-bound brute whose unnatural biceps bulged in steroidal bliss; his crystal blue eyes seemed to pierce the young Private where he stood. The other was a woman of about fifty, her face a stony attractiveness, and gray streaked through her once dark hair that was pulled backward in a bun.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Foster said, his hand motioning backward. “This is Caleb; he is our most renowned remote-viewer. His performance has been most exemplary, seeing things remotely all over the world with amazing accuracy, including, Private, the far-away war which you have just left behind.”

The muscled giant nodded his head in introduction; the look on his face was softer, but still seemingly intent, watchful with a fire that burned behind blue eyes. With the same hand, Foster motioned again, this time to the woman, stone-faced with the slightest hint of a smile, her black turtleneck wrapped tightly to her torso like a uniform.

“And this is Myra,” he said, as the staunch woman nodded. “She is a clairaudient listener, much like you. She is also a telepath with the keenest ability to gain insight into the minds of others, so watch your thoughts.”

Foster laughed at this with a joking gesture meant to ease the young Private; his cohorts mimicked his hospitality.

“You will be able to learn from the both of them, as they will you. They will be your mentors. I am convinced that once you have the chance to study and to test your ability to the fullest capacity, you will come to understand and even appreciate it. Relax, Private, here you will be safe from the rigors of war.”

He slipped into relief, but still something sinister stirred inside of him. He wished he’d known back then what he knew today.

* * * *

As the vibe of suspicion failed to dwindle, he began asking questions about home before the testing ever began: did his family know he was here? How often could he call home? Did she know he was here? Abrupt and slightly manufactured answers had greeted him.

“No, Private, as we told you, this operation is top-secret, classified. Your family, as well as your young lady, thinks you are still fighting in the jungles. You will be allowed to write them, as you usually do, but you will be instructed on how to maintain your cover to them, as though you are still halfway around the world. The postmarks will confirm that. Obviously, phone calls are not an option.”

The expected twinge of disappointment disappeared as he began to understand. Besides, he didn’t want his family knowing that he was indulging the same ability they had so deeply shunned in his life. He agreed, and the testing began.

The sessions were always behind closed, soundproof doors of small rooms, where he would be made to either stretch out on the couch like a Psych patient, or sit upright facing away from the door, listening for sounds from elsewhere’s unknown.

At first, they had taped wires and pulse pad electrodes to his temples, reading brain waves, and testing his normal senses to gain a clearer picture of his brain function. Once that had been concluded, he began testing with Myra. He’d sat with her for hours, trying to pick the magic word she was thinking from her closed mind; five times out of ten, he had done so. Then, she would leave the room, walk a lengthy distance away to the opposite end of the vast underground, and read aloud an Almanac listing for a famous date in history.

When she returned, she had expected his answer to her question: to what date had she referred? He watched her slight smile widen with pride when he answered her correctly.

“April 15, 1865.”

How ironically thrilled she’d been to hear of the Lincoln assassination.

More and more he felt like a Guinea pig, but the need to understand, and the hope of going home urged him onward. Going home, that was what drove him. He did exactly as they wanted, whenever they wanted. He worked faster with the testing as the incentives danced in his anxious heart, and the images invaded his mind. He kept picturing her beautiful face and long blond hair, hearing her laugh, and remembering how she had grabbed on to him when his number was called out.

He envisioned a new life with her and all of this behind him.

But he would immediately snap out of those thoughts to focus on the tasks at hand. The sooner he finished, the sooner he would be on his way home—or so he thought.

He’d spent most of his days and nights in the underground compound, and when his work was over, guards would return him to an above ground barracks where he was housed. He was not permitted to leave the barracks for any means as he’d been stressed upon how important it was in maintaining his cover. So young and naively he’d believed, dreaming and reading within his small encampment when the long day’s tasks had been completed.

The changes he’d witnessed outside of his one lonely window were the only indicators of how the months had turned to seasons. The leaves had changed to brilliant red, yellow, and orange hues, swaying and falling to the strong autumn breeze, and night fell early now, as the last few hours of daylight were gone by the time he was escorted back to his barracks from the underground.

He was now encouraged to utilize his listening ability at his own will. He was taught how to relax, search his mind, focus, and then reach out. They’d given him certain locations and he would focus, honing in on some word that was given him, reaching out for the slightest word, sentence, or audible voice that he could retrieve.

Apparently, he didn’t disappoint, though repeating what he’d picked up like radar still did not enable him to understand what he was hearing or “listening” to. He retrieved phrases like “power supply,” “special aircraft,” “inside investigation,” then became more specific, naming planned dates and times snatched unseen from secret conversations. None of this held any interest for him. He thought of only her, his family, and his friends left behind in a bloody war he’d escaped.

Agent Foster and Myra often glanced at each other in what seemed like instant recognition when he would recite all that he’d heard, but there was something else he’d noticed, something peculiar. They would stare at each other for several moments, as though some secretive form of communication co-existed between them. It was not long before he realized that they were speaking telepathically, avoiding the possibility that he might overhear them with either his true ear, or his ability that they had so adamantly enabled.

What were they hiding? The thought crept into his mind with a growing frequency, and he remembered what Foster had said about his cloaking his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he was also able to perform this task; after all, wasn’t his ability the reason why he was here?

He taught himself a few tricks, allowing his mind to go blank, focusing his attention on some object: a light switch, the elevator, the machines, or the large, square screen that had remained black, inactive, since the day he entered this concealed facility. He erected a defensive guard around him, cloaking his thoughts as they had cloaked theirs.

If they could hide, he could hide also.

Something was changing; something was going down. He refused to be a Guinea pig any longer. It was the next day when he sat in a one-on-one meeting with Myra. As she looked at him, that hidden smile of hers became more and more apparent, displaying a certain pride for an emerging prized pupil.

“Private, you have done extremely well with your testing here. We have been able to fully document the extent of your ability, as well as the progress you have made in strengthening it. I trust that you are going to become a much needed factor in the course of our objectives, congratulations.” Her smile seemed awkward.

A much needed factor? Slight anxiety tweaked inside him, causing an inner rush of urgency. What did she mean? When would he be leaving? Quickly he quashed these emotions and thoughts, fighting hard and as he did so, letting his mind go blank, focusing on her smile, even mimicking the suspicious grin. She continued her praise of him, unaware.

This time, no deafness came upon him before he’d heard. Her inner thoughts became unwilling insertions into his mind...

Now, how do we stray his thoughts from returning home? He can’t find out...

The unexpected interruption sent a jolt through him, but she failed to notice his fast-frightened movement that nearly bolted him from the chair. He stopped and remained calm. He stared back at her, wondering if she knew that he’d read her mind.

“So, Agent Foster and I will be holding a conference pertaining to your work with us. I have been asked to give a progress report on my testing with you. I am sure everyone will be as pleased as I am with the results.”

She rose from the chair, concluding the meeting. His lips parted to speak, but now the deafness overcame him. Her back had been turned when the voice of a posthumous, higher-ranking officer stole his ear...

“Remain silent, Private! Don’t ask about home!”

The deafness left him quickly, and his broken heart beat loudly. Myra left the room, oblivious to her error.

* * * *

It was in this room that he’d remained silent as ordered by his ghostly superior, though the inner inkling to flee had intensified with a final certainty. That familiar, automatic knowledge instructed him to sit and await his next move, while the surety of danger now manifested in a sweat that washed over his face and body, and the feeling of time ticking away had caused a readied mental watch for an unknown, crucial moment.

The door of this room, like most, contained a rectangular window, and through it, he shifted his eyes as far left as possible. It was from that direction that he caught a limited view of Foster, Caleb, and Myra marching up the hallway and turning into the room just before this one. They’re in the room next door, he thought, realizing with that recurring sense of urgency that the meeting was about him.

The walls and doors were soundproof in this place, yet it wouldn’t matter to a clairaudient whose ability had now been perfected. He knew they were aware of this; after all, his flourishing ability was the subject of the meeting. He felt certain that they would be speaking telepathically, a meeting of the minds, mind to mind, so to speak. But Myra had missed the fact that his own telepathy had forced its way to the forefront, a crucial factor that Foster would not have overlooked.

Instinctively, he drew back from the window. Quick shadows interrupting the light against the opposite wall told him that the door to the next room had been opened then closed. He gasped hard and sat back down, bringing the chair toward the wall. He closed his eyes hard and honed his mental ear, knowing what he had to do.

His instinct had been right. As the deafness numbed his ears, no voices could be heard from inside the small room next door. They had been communicating telepathically, insuring that he would not overhear. Caleb was also in that room—why? He was a remote viewer. Was he watching him?

He threw his head back and exhaled, opened his eyes, and stared at the ceiling. Then with his mind, he refocused as the deafness died away. He allowed a natural calm to wash over him, and concentrated on the wall that separated them. Voices broke through, exposing random thoughts like camouflaged enemies.

“Is he telepathic?”

It was Foster. His words were thick in a soft, surrounding silence, but unmistakably, he’d asked the question about him. A lengthy pause had followed before the next voice invaded his mind.

“Very little...has an undeveloped talent for telepathy.”

The words were fast, fleeting, fading, but it was the voice of Myra explaining that he, the subject, was not a developed enough telepath for the goals at hand...

She’d made a serious and fatal blunder.

His crafty deception of her had been successful; he’d figured it out through Foster’s mistake of mentioning thought cloaking. He had managed to avoid her more experienced telepathic mind as it searched for signs that could ultimately threaten their plans. Her voice was heard again, referring to the testing in which he’d pulled words from her mind.

“Only scored five of ten...capable...not strong enough. Powerful listener, though. He’s clairaudient...highest capacity.”

He listened as Foster’s response confirmed his suspicions.

“Cannot leave here...he’s needed for our efforts...next part of the plan...”

“What if he resists?” Myra’s tone was skeptical.

“There are ways...”

Foster’s scattered words continued, and the words that came next, though broken, triggered his alarm like the day at the bridge.

“We are not the FBI...have to move fast...before...find us...rogues...treason.”

Shock struck him, terror gripped him, and disbelief had stumped him. This unexpected revelation incited everything he’d felt on the battlefield, all over again, and the slightest strain of rage caused his mind to dance along the edge of insanity. His blood stirred and boiled, while raw, ripened nerves caused his body tremors. They were not the FBI; they were a highly sophisticated, psychically intelligent rogue group, and they had kidnapped him.

Kidnappers...and they had plucked him away from his enlistment right under the government’s eye...but how? At first, Foster spoke of the government’s psychic studies of remote vision and hearing, and how they would be used towards issues of national defense, but then...

The powers that be, however, are beginning to shun the results of our efforts...

Both Foster and his team were either rejects dismissed from the government’s studies, or else the whole project had been shut down. The elder agent had struck him as an outsider from the very beginning. Why hadn’t he trusted his instincts?

Now they were planning on stealing him away from his home, his family, and the love of his life, capitalizing on his abilities, utilizing him as a psychic Guinea pig, an unwitting slave to their secretive game of paranormal espionage.

He closed his eyes in helplessness; then he suddenly jolted as a pair of crystal blue eyes peered back at him through that momentary darkness.

Caleb was watching him from the other room!

He closed his eyes again, and still, the perfect crystalline orbs of brilliant blue gazed back. He could even make out the sinister, pointed arch of the shapely, blond eyebrows. Quickly, he abandoned the feelings of fear and helplessness in favor of a newfound sense of empowerment that had overtaken him. Now he not only gazed back at those eyes, but through them.

And so easily, he slipped inside Caleb’s mind.

A quick picture of Caleb’s brain flashed before him, and then the eyes appeared again, only somehow strained. His new telepathic talent had turned into a toy, and with it, he playfully reached further into the recesses of Caleb’s mind.

“Something’s wrong!” He heard the bulging hulk give a weakened gasp and speak with a slight tremor in his voice.

His mind like a battering ram, he gave one final push into Caleb’s mental barricade. He saw a vision of himself, as though he were staring in the mirror.

The eyes returned, peering upward in a heightened state of fear. He watched as blood vessels climbed like ivies across the whites of the eyes and burst behind the blue orbs. A slight phantom pain mimicked in his own eyes.

“AAAHHH!”

The scream had come from Caleb. This time he’d heard it with his naked ear through the so-called, soundproof wall. Slowly, he backed with baby steps away from the wall, uncertain of what had occurred beyond it. If something happened to Caleb while he remotely watched him, then they must be on to him or at least close.

There was only one exit from this room, yet his head turned in multiple directions, scanning and searching for a way out. Safety and security had now slipped away unexpectedly. He had to make a break from this place even if they killed him; they were going to take his life one way or the other.

He ran to the door, the nervous sweat drenching his face, and his heart pounding a hard and rapid percussion. The door had been locked as expected; it was his only shot, but the steel knob failed to twist in either direction. Even if it would’ve opened, where would he run? They’d blindfolded him before they brought him here, but he was a soldier now; he would die finding his way out if he had to.

Rising voices could be heard. He strained his eyes to see through the small window in the door, detecting only moving shadows that danced down the corridor. Approaching sounds came closer to the room, and the dancing shadows interrupted the light outside once again.

Abruptly the deafness came, and the voice of the fallen superior shouted this time, instructing him as before.

“Private, step away from the door! Be prepared!”

No other words were spoken. His hearing returned, somehow sharper. The sounds were coming for him, and he was told to be prepared.

A face appeared in the rectangular window of the door, displaying a stunned yet determined expression; it was Foster’s. Was Foster whom he was to be prepared for? What was he going to do? What had happened? He couldn’t know, but he knew one thing as the conversation he’d overheard continued to replay in his mind; he would have to kill Foster to leave here, and as the fury spread inside him, he now felt prepared.

* * * *

Foster pushed the door open and let it fly back, then steadily strode into the room, his intent gaze staring straight into his eyes.

“Well, it looks like you’ve accomplished much more in your time here than we’d originally anticipated. Your talent for telepathy seems to have evaded Myra, but not Caleb, but I must admit, you managed to slip past even me.”

Foster ogled him for a silent moment, searching his mind and sporting a maddening grin that spread across his face. In the intensity of the previous moments, he’d forgotten to shut down his thoughts.

“Yes, my little slip of the tongue about thought cloaking—how stupid of me. That is, of course, how you fooled Myra. What we weren’t aware of is your heightened state of telepathy; nor did we envision your rare capability of entering and invading the mind of another. Those with such a unique ability have been known to cause severe damage and destruction, which you have just unwittingly demonstrated. You see, Private, you have an extremely powerful psychic instrument. One which, unfortunately, we cannot afford.”

His eyes widened as Foster pulled a revolver from his inner jacket pocket and pointed it straight at him. But he remained alert, treating the agent like a preying tiger, though Foster stood still, making no sudden moves. Without actually forming the words in his mind, he had the notion of talking to Foster, stalling him, hopefully distracting him.

“What do you mean destruction? What happened to Caleb?”

“Caleb is dead, my friend, no thanks to you.”

The automatic recognition surged inside of him; he’d gone too far.

“Those who are unable to understand or control that little unspeakable capability can cause great damage, as I said. As was explained to you before, clairaudience is a form of telepathy, though not all listeners are capable of telepathy. In some, it remains hidden for years, dormant for decades, possibly even the rest of their lives. But, you, Private, developed your telepathic sense to its fullest, just by our provoking it. And with it, came that ability so rarely accomplishable in others. This, we had not expected.

“You entered Caleb’s mind as he was remotely viewing you. You already know this, of course. He fell to the floor, blinded and bleeding by your intrusive handiwork. From what we have been able to ascertain, he suffered a massive hemorrhaging to the brain, dying instantly.”

Deep inside of him, he knew that this was not his intention. He wasn’t trying to kill Caleb, only to reach out to discover what was going on.

“We are well aware that it was unintentional”

He shut down his thoughts and let Foster’s voice echo through his ears.

“But you must understand, you are now a liability to us. You are a danger not only to us, but to yourself. If the powers that be discover your newfound ability, how long do you think they will let you live? I am actually doing you a favor, Private.”

“You had no intention of allowing me to leave here!”

“Well, that may be true. I am sure you overheard everything. That is the reason why you are no longer of use to us. The tables have turned on us; you are a more powerful psychic being than we had assumed. We cannot work with a subject who will purposefully thwart our efforts. Our cover has been blown, as they say, with you.”

“There’s only one thing I don’t understand,” he said, keeping his eyes closely on Foster’s hand and slowly sidestepping his position away from it. The two men began to move in circles around each other. “You claimed to be the FBI, but now I know you’re not. So, who the hell are you?”

“We once belonged to the FBI and their remote psychic study project. One might say I’m a ‘former’ agent. Those whom I refer to as ‘the powers that be’ became disinterested with our methods of study. They wanted to take the project to a lesser level than what we were undertaking, baby steps, so to speak. Our studies had thrived too much to be extinguished; that is why we have broken away from the government and its projects to advance our own.”

“But the Bureau will be on to you.” He began filling in the missing pieces that Foster failed to provide. “Your failure with me is bound to lead them to you, eventually.”

“Your hidden telepathy is evenly matched against your clairaudience, Private. It is a shame that you don’t find yourself on the same side with us, that you remain attached to familial ties. You could have been a powerful asset. I see no need, Private, to waste any more of our time together.”

Foster stepped closer to him, while he continued his steady sidestepping footwork, a slowly moving target distracting his would-be shooter. He could almost feel steam seeping from his body, a result of his boiling blood. The notion that Foster was going to kill him erected with hardened, concrete certainty. He was going to have to move fast because either he, or Foster, was going to die today.

The voice of the fellow superior officer spoke again...

“Be ready, Private.”

Foster tightened his grip on the revolver, his finger forming a squeeze around the trigger. He saw a slight expression of regret form on Foster’s face, seemingly aware of the ghostly guide that spoke—but not to him. And then in his mind, the soldier heard the words that had unleashed Hell on the other side of the world...

“Tan cong!”

Something snapped inside him. The fear from the far away jungle had returned with a newfound rage recently accumulated and never released—until now. He bellowed in a wild, untamed caterwaul as he rushed Foster full-force with his body. He managed to catch the right hand, which held the revolver, pinning Foster’s thumb down into the wrist muscle. Then with his right shoulder, he rammed the older man against the wall with a heavy thud.

Foster gasped from the impact, so he squeezed the hand holding the revolver even harder. Still clenching the subdued hand, he rocked him backward then forward against the wall, harder, slamming him over and over as he was, in many ways, the unseen enemy. He heard a solid knock as Foster hit his head upon the wall, and his deadly grip on the gun loosened.

He wriggled his fingers against the cold steel until he disentangled the frantic, fidgeting fingers that gripped it. Now the cold steel quenched the grimy sweat of his palm as he’d strategically stolen the weapon away. He stopped for only a second as Foster breathed in heavy gasps.

He was in control now, but Foster made the mistake of rushing back at him.

No further thought was needed when he pulled the trigger, and the small explosion magnified throughout the small room. It was all so fast.

He wasn’t even sure he’d hit the elder agent until he saw the gaping, fifty-cent piece sized hole that formed a canal in his chest. The blood was reddening his white shirt beneath the jacket as he stumbled backward a few steps. A mask of disbelief hardened on Foster’s face as he fell to the floor; the final table had been turned on him. His blood flowed fast, soaking his clothes. Then there was a gasp, a gurgle, then silence.

He searched to find a sense of relief in this final moment and failed. Newly infused fear and paranoia from entrapment and confinement surged within him, turning him wild. He hadn’t wanted this, but it was either him or Foster, and he was intent on surviving.

His breathing was heavy as he ran to the door. Foster had closed it again, and again, it remained locked. He pointed the revolver at the stubborn steel knob and blasted it into oblivion, replacing it with a black gaping hole that blew the door backwards.

He stepped out into the underground corridor that seemed deserted, silenced of the few random voices that had filled it. He could still hear the bleeps and blurbs of the machines. The doorway to the room where they’d held the meeting stood open, and he stared inside. A fresh puddle of blood soaked the floor, and the acrid, sticky smell of it wafted to his nostrils.

It was Caleb’s blood. He wondered what he had done to him. Would he ever know? What about Myra? Where was she?

He had no sooner thought about her when he’d heard a weak kiai of attack behind him and felt a hard, yet insignificant, thud against the back of his head and shoulders. He’d turned to find her rabid fear confronting him, her face wild, her eyes wide and her intent vengeful.

It was impulse that caused him to pull the trigger this time. The blast did not take her by surprise as it had Foster. She wilted like a broken willow against the floor, her hand covering the hole in her abdomen. He watched as she died, and the feeling of being alone in this abandoned underground allowed him to think, if only for minutes.

Where were the guards? He remained alert, ready to fire again. He reached out, honing his mental ear...no sounds approached.

He walked through the cool underground, facing the machines with their bright, blinking splendor, as they were the only sounds to be heard. Then a fast, whirring sound turned him around to face the square screen that had remained blank and devoid of life or images the entire time he’d been there.

Tiny gray specks of static danced and developed into a forming image on what now loomed like a rare, enlarged, television screen. The image showed an elderly man with a storm of white hair, watching him where he stood. He had never seen him before, but the man stared back at him with what appeared to be not only recognition, but lack of surprise, and almost contentment.

The man spoke while looking directly down at him, examining his every move, as though he were a bug.

“Congratulations, Private! You have done amazingly well. You have completed your course of studies far better than our expectations!”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Who I am is not important. It is who you are going to be that is our greatest accomplishment. Please, do come closer. I cannot bite, as you can see.” A wry, congested laugh escaped the old man.

He moved even closer to the screen.

“As I have said, well done, Private.”

“How? What do you mean?”

“I have been watching you for quite some time, knowing all along that you would make a far more effective psychic research tool than either Foster or Myra.”

Instantly, he thought back to the glass wall in the underground room he was taken to before being brought here, that ominous feeling of someone watching from behind it.

“You’re right, Private. Your talents serve you well.”

“So, you’re the brains behind this rogue group, not Foster?”

“That’s correct. Everyone answers to a superior don’t they? Foster, Myra, Caleb, all workers remitting to a higher establishment. I am the leader and overseer of this clandestine project, one that has mutinied with our government in effort to achieve success of the highest order. We have found the possibility of that success in you, young man.”

He felt the need to run, but to where? He looked around once again for the guards.

“The guards have been directed not to apprehend you, Private, that is, unless you intend on leaving here so soon...relax.” Something about the elder man’s tone grew darker. So, he was another telepath. How many were there within this cryptic and illicit organization?

“Of all of our many varied and covert associates, young man, you have proven yourself to be by far, the strongest, the most receptive, and the most effective. And yes, I am also a telepathic clairaudient, not quite as strong as you in my day, but of the highest form. Needless to say, most of my abilities have dwindled with age. The demonstration of your abilities upon poor Caleb was quite impressive.”

“I never meant to—”

“Good riddance, Private...irrelevant.”

So someone else’s life was irrelevant waged next to their goals.

“What do you want with me?” He spoke as his head was directed up at the screen, asking the question in vain, already knowing the answer.

“You are going to take over for me, Private, when the time comes.” He closed his eyes softly at the further mention of his advancing age. “With you, we can achieve so much more with one mind than our efforts of so many combined. The FBI had abandoned this operation to further their more mundane approaches. We will soon establish our efforts as superior with you at the helm of this operation.”

The old man on the screen read his thoughts before he had time to form them.

“Our motives? Our motives are simple: a highly effective state of world security. Imagine a world where wars have been eliminated because we have read our enemies’ minds beforehand, overheard their strategic plotting down to the minutest detail, or seen their actions remotely from a great distance. Such great achievements of our national defense would become outstanding accomplishments on the part of highly enabled psychic paragons such as you.”

Even then, he felt there was more, but this time he buried his thoughts carefully.

“And if I refuse?”

The man looked in closer from beyond the screen.

“You cannot refuse us, Private. After all, you are a murderer now, aren’t you?”

“Foster was—”

“Yes, Foster was trying to kill you, Private. But can you prove that? Then there is the issue of Myra. She was an unarmed woman who may have been defending herself, that is, until you shot her. You see, Private, we can expose each other. You were a young soldier taken straight from this hideous war by your own consent, and then you went haywire during our illegal research. You lost your mind, Private. You killed people.

“So, you see, it is either their prison, or ours. Besides, we know where your family is, and yes, we know about her. Distractions can be dealt with quite effectively.”

He felt both his heart and his soul sink somewhere into oblivion. Then there was the issue of what had occurred in Nam, overhearing the plans for sneak attack. He would have to explain, but would anyone believe him? What if they tried to implicate him in some way? What if they tried to paint him as a lunatic even though he could prove his abilities?

“That’s just it,” the man continued. “Do you really want to expose your family, and her, to this alarming ability that has now come to the forefront of your life? Do you think they could tolerate it? What about her...what would your ability mean to her life? I’m sure you’re aware that psychic abilities of this nature are often heredity. Was having children part of your plans, Private? Would they end up forgiving such an inheritance?”

“Shut up!” In the flush of anger he felt rushed, confused. He had no doubt that they would harm his family, all of them, including her. Dangerous minds were at work, and if he didn’t comply, they might kill him, and them. He had no choice; he would have to play their game at least for a while. There would have to be a way out, somehow, sometime, but right now, there was no escaping this psychic band of terrorists.

“That may someday be possible, but within moments, your family will receive word that you have been reported MIA. After all, your superiors were unaware of what happened to you the night you were brought here.”

All of it had been an elaborate abduction.

“You will be given a whole new identity, and of course, you will be awarded a life of considerable financial compensation for your allegiance. You’re about to become a very rich man, never wanting for anything.”

...Except for her, his family, and his friends.

Fear had frozen him solid. He would have given anything to be back on that bridge right now or back in the jungles fighting fiercely for his country, anywhere but this nightmare that began to settle in like an unforeseen storm. He couldn’t let them harm his family or her; he wouldn’t let that happen.

He looked up into the dark, aged eyes on the screen and then lowered his own eyes and head in defeated consent. Satisfaction bellowed from the old man’s elated voice.

“Excellent choice, Private, and I assure you, you won’t regret it.”

He sank to the floor and felt part of his soul slip away...forever.

* * * *

The screen had faded back to black, and he’d sat alone for hours, listening to nothing but the sounds of the machines. He’d slumped, immovable, into a random chair within a small cubicle, the aches from his exhausted body kicking in the lull of endorphins. His mind was clouded, cluttered, confused; he could hear nothing if he tried, only the machines. Today, lives were lost, threatened, and altered forever, the chaotic turmoil of which, left him spent and speechless.

He was roused from the drifting reverie by the sound of the elevator doors as they opened. The two familiar guards neared him, only this time with expressions of almost friendliness, hospitality.

“Right this way, Sir.”

Sir, why had they called him “Sir?”

So suddenly, everything had changed, as though he’d killed the witch with a bucket of cold water. They escorted him out of the underground and into an awaiting limo, and the door was slammed shut by the chauffeuring guard. He sat back and let his mind go blank, a technique he would soon need to master.

The drive took thirty minutes, after which, the guards led him up to a plush, private penthouse. The spacious accommodation had new, light-blue, shag carpeting with stylish, modern furniture in the living room, as well as a kitchen, an office, a large master bedroom, two bathrooms, and a balcony displaying a magnificent oceanfront view.

“Who am I waiting for, him?” He asked the guards in a more poignant tone.

“No, this is your home now, Sir. You will find everything you need in your office.”

So, this was one of his compensations? After everything they’d done to him, he still found it hard to hate the immediate surroundings as he looked around the spacious suite. He turned and saw the guards leaving.

“Wait, what am I supposed to do?”

“As we said, Sir, you will find everything you need inside the office. This is your penthouse; everything in here belongs to you.” As the guards descended in the suite’s elevator, the silence of a new life greeted him expectantly. He found the office down the hall, first door on the left-hand side.

Against the wall was another screen like the other, though black for now. A large desk sat opposite the screen, and oak bookshelves lined the walls. He sat down at the desk and slowly, cautiously, opened the drawer.

Inside he found a passport, a forged birth certificate, and a driver’s license. He placed the contents upon the desk and examined them. The pictures on the corresponding ID’s were of him, only the name didn’t match, and now for the first time, he was introduced to his new identity. He looked down at his new name underneath headshots they had taken of him in the beginning.

Roman Paul Hadley; Annapolis, Maryland.

So that was his new name: Roman Hadley. What if someone, somewhere, sometime, recognized him? Did they consider that?

Just as he sat contemplating, the black screen turned on, and an image of the old man appeared, uninvited.

“Congratulations, Roman. You’re a new man now. As I’m sure you’ve gladly gathered I will no longer be calling you Private. I trust you’ve found your surroundings most comfortable?”

He stared at the screen with contempt.

“That’s okay, we will become fast friends; I assure you. If you look in the drawer to your right, you will find all that you need, and more will be supplied to you.”

He opened the drawer, and the greenish-gray splendor greeted him seductively. He pulled the wads out of hiding and placed them in front of him.

“You may count it if you like. It’s all yours.”

The wadded piles of hundreds, fifties, and twenties packed the drawer full, and as he touched it, the smell of freshly minted cash assailed his nostrils.

“There is two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. You will receive another payment in three months. You have no bills, my friend; your accommodations are seen to. You may live in comfort as you see fit.”

He looked at another ID card he’d failed to recognize at first. It was a Federal Bureau of Investigation badge, and he, Roman Hadley, was listed as a special agent.

“So, wait, I work for the FBI?” He was confused even more.

“You work for us, Mr. Hadley. Your identification as a special agent is your cover, a very convenient cover.”

“But how can you continue to masquerade as the Bureau when—”

“Right under their noses, Mr. Hadley, we have been doing so for quite some time. You will exist as Roman Hadley, and we will handle the rest.”

And so he passed the years as Roman Hadley, the wealthy and reclusive Roman Hadley. In the first of those few years, he utilized his ability in countless covert projects, listening remotely to distant hijacking plots, assassination plans, corrupt politicians, even a scandal that had enveloped the White House. Later, the focus had geared toward issues of security, listening to plans and directives, new ideas and advancements, and reporting all that he’d secretly overheard back to the group.

These various pieces of information were compiled and fed into the database of the machines he’d seen in the underground, which were then stored, reproduced, and then examined to search for sensible patterns that could make logical predictions. It was around that time in 1974 when the man behind the screen was no more, and his assignment to succeed had begun.

He had never known the man’s name...

“It is better that you remain unaware; you will refer to me as ‘Z,’” the old man had replied, when he boldly asked. It was of no consequence now; the man was dead and now he was in charge. He would stifle his thoughts into silence toward the group’s remaining underling telepaths and work fast to find an escape plan.

But that was not to be had.

All documents and information regarding the rogue group and its illegal operations named Roman Hadley as the chief investigator, the leading investigative power behind the project. He’d been the fall guy in an elaborate strategy. The old man had framed him even before he died, associating the entire operation to the fictitious identity forcefully bestowed upon him, and then conveniently leaving him in charge of the unwanted legacy. If discovered, he faced any number of federal charges including criminal conspiracy, treason, espionage, even murder.

In 1976, the rogue group received news that the FBI had disbanded their remote psychic research projects. This had caused a stir among the group because the cover that served as a mirror operation was now blown and non-existent, yet he was not hopeful for a way out; all indicators pointed to him, and even though he served at the helm, the threat toward his loved ones still remained in effect.

Some hidden source of authority had anonymously threatened him. Z had obviously not worked alone; he was only one of many players in this dangerous game. He had known this much, for this unknown source had continued his compensation. Accepting it all of these years had made him feel even guiltier.

He continued the group’s research projects as a low-key, psychic investigative group. No mention of the FBI would ever be made again. Silently, he went on searching and plotting in his mind any possible exit strategies, but years had turned to decades, and hope finally led to acceptance.

The remote viewers would find him soon enough if he disappeared. There was one absolute way out, but every time he looked at the revolver he kept in his desk drawer, he thought of her and the hope that he might see her again one day. There was also the fear of surviving the bullet to the brain and trading one Hell for another, or thinking on it so much that one of the many telepaths in this operation would expose him.

One of the group’s many functions was discovering telepaths around the country and tracking them telepathically through channeling. That’s what the blinking lights on the map in the underground had been: tracking indicators used by remote viewers and listeners, representing the physical presences of those for whom they watched and listened.

He had learned of Sidney Pratt when the young man was only a boy, a very highly effective listener who could hear the dead with an ability that was biblically resonant. Then unexpectedly, the young boy had led him to her. It was a sign. He’d entered young Sidney’s mind several times but then desisted, remembering what had happened to Caleb.

He bided more years until Sidney Pratt became a member of the elite and nationally recognized Paranormal Research and Investigative society at his university. Roman Hadley quickly found himself a seat on the board of directors. But the young group would never meet him in person; he kept tabs on them telepathically, especially Sidney, but he would remain unseen. They were also unaware of his location whether it be in Pittsburgh, Chicago, New York, London, or any of the various places he easily frequented around the world.

Then through a strange and tragic coincidence, the connection Sidney had to her had suddenly been re-established. His sign had returned. What if Sidney Pratt was a powerful enough clairaudient to take over where Roman Hadley had once been?

But as Hadley gently entered Sidney’s mind, he realized that the young man’s telepathic ability was miniscule; he was capable of hearing the dead, not the living. But Sidney had led him to another option, one more powerful than he had ever known, even himself—Ryan Quinn.

The young boy was powerful enough to channel Sidney’s dormant telepathy and be heard. He suspected that Ryan Quinn could even possess the same rare ability that he himself possessed, entering the minds of others. He’d waited years for such a find.

But now his entire past was returning to haunt him as life’s events assembled together on an unstable fault line, quaking before a climactic eruption. As he continued to gaze out the window reliving the past, words from the present formed in his telepathic mind. He redialed the number on his private cell and spoke again.

“He’s on his way to the hospital. Find him!”

Again, he didn’t wait for an answer as he slammed the cell shut. His heart began to drum an incessant pounding as a slight anxiety crept slowly through his veins. Everything was now coming to the forefront after all of these years. Like the first strategic move on an elaborate chessboard, his plan of escaping this nightmare had been placed in motion.

He had just given the order to kidnap Ryan Quinn, and this bold, instinctive move would determine both of their fates...forever.