To Derek's relief, their emerging telepathic abilities resulted in none of the nightmarish loss of mental privacy he'd feared. It turned out that anyone, given the proper training, could neutralize it by consciously willing one's thoughts not to be received. In effect, a telepath could only read minds that were unaware or, better still, cooperative. Everyone in the Hole soon learned to erect such a block as a matter of routine. Ordinary socializing remained ordinary.
Derek found himself doing more and more of it with Lauren Westerfeld.
He wondered how much she reciprocated his growing attraction. Her earnest seriousness was daunting at first. But eventually her stiffness dissolved to the point where he could tease her about it ("Typical Yankee!") and get away with it. In fact, he was fairly certain she liked him.
What he couldn't be certain of was how she felt about Paul Rinnard.
When the three of them were together, she seemed to have eyes only for the darkly handsome fighter jock. That was the bad news. The good news was that look she gave Rinnard seemed ambiguous, mixing fascination with . . . something else. Afterwards, with Derek alone, she behaved differently: less intensely attracted but more relaxed, as though she felt somehow safe.
Derek wasn't sure how to take that.
At any rate, the three of them found themselves increasingly in each other's company, and not just in their off-duty hours. Not even Doctor Kronenberg's verbal parsimoniousness could any longer disguise their emergence as the three most promising psi talents in JICPO.
"We have a couple of potentially more powerful telepaths," she admitted to them in a moment of what passed with her for effusiveness. "But your mastery of the techniques of focus and concentration have enabled you to receive thoughts with greater range and clarity than anyone else. Furthermore, those other telepaths are narrowly specialized, while it is increasingly clear that all three of you possess a wide range of other powers."
"What powers are those?" asked Rinnard with uncharacteristic seriousness.
"I prefer not to go into specifics until I have more definite data. And so far, telepathy is the only psionic manifestation that we're even close to being able to reliably quantify. The other powers are still maddeningly elusive" Kronenberg's frustration was so transparently heartfelt as to almost make her sympathetic. "If we could only isolate those powers to the same extent, I firmly believe we could develop them in you, just as we've been honing your telepathic skills. As it is, however . . . Well, we know it's there, and that's about it. Actually, Lieutenant Rinnard, in your case . . ."
"Yes, Doctor?" Rinnard prompted.
"No. Anything I could say at this point would fall into the category of loose talk." And that was all they got out of her. But she continued to look at Rinnard strangely.
Then came a day marked by something out of the ordinary for the Hole: new arrivals, who appeared in a self-important swirl of VIP-ism. Later the same day, everyone was summoned to the auditorium.
This time Captain Morrisey and Doctor Kronenberg shared the dais with an older civilian-suited man whose hair's grayness seemed to have seeped into his skin. Kronenberg, Derek noted, looked even more disapproving than was her wont, and Morrisey wore a carefully neutral expression as he stood at the podium and introduced the suit.
"From the beginning, I've urged all of you to cultivate flexibility. That quality will stand you in good stead now. It turns out that our training schedule is going to have to yield to the press of events. In other words, we're going to have to go operational sooner than we expected. Mr. Collins of the National Security Agency will now explain the reasons for this new urgency. I stress that this briefing is Top Secret."
Derek, seated beside Rinnard, could sense something like the smooth awakening of tension that runs through a hunting dog whose leash is about to be slipped.
Collins took Morrisey's place at the podium and ran clearly nervous eyes over his audience. Derek grinned inwardly and savored a moment's temptation—but only for a moment, for they'd had a very rigid code of ethics drummed into them. Then the NSA suit cleared his throat and proceeded.
"Ladies and gentlemen, first of all let me express the government's appreciation of your value as . . . a unique strategic resource. The original plan was to withhold you from actual field operations until your potentialities had received a full scientific assessment." Collins cast a hasty glance behind and to his left, then flinched away from Kronenberg's glare. "Despite . . . strongly worded advice that we continue to adhere to that original schedule, it has been determined at the highest levels that the present world situation requires that you be utilized now.
"Much of the background of what I'm about to tell you is common knowledge. I refer specifically to the state of affairs in the Balkans—the region where, ominously enough, the First World War began exactly one hundred years ago.
"The former Yugoslavia was a federation of ethnic groups which the Serbs dominated—without being overly tactful about it. They never really reconciled themselves to the breakup of that federation in the early 1990s. Indeed, they styled their own ethnic successor-state 'Yugoslavia,' and continued to do so until 2003. Their feelings have been exacerbated by NATO's policy of eastward inclusiveness.
"More recently, certain extremist groups have taken these feelings beyond the realm of mere rhetoric."
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Derek found himself thinking. Everybody knew that the Balkan tribes of ragged-assed goat stealers, with their unfathomable feuds, had always caused trouble far beyond their negligible intrinsic importance, and now shared with diehard Islamic fundamentalists the dubious distinction of embodying world terrorism for the delectation of the media. Everybody also knew the Serbs had their undies in a bunch over the admission of Croatia to NATO. So what's new?
"Now," Collins droned on, "a new terrorist organization has arisen: the Sons of Dushan. The reference is to Stefan Dushan, a fourteenth-century Serbian prince who after a series of military successes had himself crowned 'Emperor of the Serbs and Greeks.' It all fell apart the instant he died. Nevertheless, these people have persuaded themselves that they are reasserting a historical claim to a Serbian empire over much of the Balkans, including Greece—in opposition to both the Western and Islamic worlds, which they hate about equally."
Sergeant Tucker gave a slow head-shake of disbelief. "Sir, these folks need to get a life! I mean, this is the twenty-first century!"
Collins smiled bleakly. "That observation, Sergeant, is demonstrably correct. Unfortunately, it also demonstrates that you know very little about the Balkans.
"At any rate, these hotheads have the covert support of certain elements in the Ukrainian military, who see a future Greater Serbia as a potential ally. It now appears that, despite the efforts to keep the CBW arsenal of the former Soviet Union under control at the time of its dissolution, the former Ukrainian SSR quietly retained a stock of nerve agents. And . . . I imagine you can guess where this is heading."
Derek could, and his conclusions were not pleasant. Oh my God!Neanderthals with nerve gas!
"We have learned that the Sons of Dushan plan to release these agents against the civilian populace somewhere in Greece, possibly Athens or possibly one of the islands like Rhodes that are filling up with German and Scandinavian vacationers this time of year. In addition to destabilizing the Greek government, the objective is, by typical terrorist logic, terror itself—simply to make an impression, to be taken seriously. Like all terrorists, they know they can count on the cooperation of the Western media toward this end." Collins' long, lined face momentarily looked as though he'd bitten into a bad pickle. "We have learned that Dragoljub Cvetkovic, a high-ranking Sons of Dushan operative, is now in Athens."
Rinnard flipped up a hand. "Excuse me, sir. This isn't exactly my line of work, you understand, but I can't help being curious. If we know about this guy, uh, whatever-vich, why don't we simply pick him up?"
"Or," Lauren Westerfeld put in rather primly, "share the information with the Greek authorities so they can pick him up—with our help, if they want it."
"I guess that might be a little more proper," Rinnard allowed. Then he snapped his fingers and grinned. "Oh, I get it, sir! He is going to get picked up . . . and afterwards, you want us to get his plans from him."
"Not exactly, Lieutenant. You see, what we don't know is where the nerve gas is, or how they got it into Greece. If we apprehend Cvetkovic, the rest of the organization will be alerted. They'll abort the plan, move the nerve gas . . . and whatever information we get from him, even with you people's help, will be obsolete and useless. We'll be back where we started when they try again, using a different plan.
"No, you're going to extract Cvetkovic's plans from his mind—without him knowing those plans have been compromised."
Lauren Westerfeld's eyes widened. "Then he'll go ahead . . . and we'll be ready. We'll be able to make a clean sweep, including the nerve gas!"
"Precisely," Collins nodded. "And now perhaps you understand why the government has been so very interested in Doctor Kronenberg's research." He let that sink in, then resumed briskly. "As I understand, it will be a matter of getting you physically close enough to Cvetkovic to be within the range of your . . . abilities. Even if he knows we're up to something in his vicinity, you'll be doing nothing that will arouse his suspicions. I am confident of success, as Captain Morrisey assures me that he is providing me with his two most capable people."
Collins sat down, and Morrisey resumed the podium. "Thank you, Mr. Collins. Now, this is to be the first actual test of this command's capabilities under field conditions. I needn't emphasize its importance." He cleared his throat. "Two of our personnel are being assigned to temporary detached duty with the NSA for this operation: Lieutenant Westerfeld—"
Well, I guess I'm out, thought Derek with a nerve-twinge of disappointment.
"—and Ensign Secrest."
Once again Derek, sitting next to Rinnard, felt the latter's reaction as unmistakably as though they'd been in physical contact. This time, it was a stiffening of surprised resentment.
"The two of you," Morrisey concluded, "will report to my office at 0800 tomorrow for further briefing by Mr. Collins and Doctor Kronenberg. You will also be prepared to depart promptly after that, as time is of the essence. For now, you're all dismissed."
As he filed out with everyone else, Derek noticed that Rinnard wasn't with him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the fighter pilot hanging back, waiting for the auditorium to empty of everyone save Morrisey.
It cast a shadow over his excitement, for he found he wanted—badly—to hear the word "congratulations" from Rinnard.
"Sir, may I have a word in private?"
Rinnard's uncharacteristically formal tone of voice got Morrisey's full attention. He sat down and motioned the younger man toward another chair. "Certainly, Lieutenant. I think I've got a pretty good idea of what's on your mind."
Rinnard lowered himself stiffly into the chair. "Skipper, not for the world would I begrudge Lauren and Derek the recognition they richly deserve. But I'd gotten the impression . . . That is, Doctor Kronenberg has given me some reason to believe—"
"That you're the best," Morrisey finished for him with a smile. "And nobody can expect a Navy fighter pilot to not be competitive! Well, Paul, you can relax. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but your potential is, indeed, the greatest Doctor Kronenberg has uncovered to date. In fact, you might say you're off her charts. You have a range of potential powers which her theories simply don't allow for. She doesn't know quite what to make of you. I think you frighten her a little."
"Then why—?"
"When Rosa Kronenberg heard about this operation, she went ballistic. As far as she's concerned, what she's learning from studying you people is so important that a trifle like stopping a nerve-gas attack on a city of three million people doesn't even weigh in the balance. She didn't want to let any of you be sent out! When Collins arrived this morning, he ran into a cross between a fanatical researcher and a frustrated Jewish mother. He'll probably be a while recovering." Morrisey chuckled reminiscently, and Rinnard tried to imagine the scene.
"In the end," the CO resumed, "a compromise was reached. Rosa grudgingly agreed to let two of her most powerful talents go into the field, on one condition: you stay here."
Rinnard's changeable hazel eyes flashed. "Damn it, Skipper, does she think that's all I'm good for? To be kept here and studied?"
"It's not that," Morrisey assured him gravely. "Remember, your two friends are going into very real danger. Forget all the self-serving bullshit that terrorists feed their media groupies about their assorted 'causes.' The fact is, they're nothing but murderous, psychopathic human sewage."
"I'm not afraid, sir." Rinnard was only too aware of how stuffy, if not hokey, that probably sounded, but he was beyond caring.
"Of course you're not afraid, Paul," said Morrisey gently. "You are, however, too valuable to be risked—at least for now."
" 'For now?' " Rinnard echoed hopefully.
"Absolutely. Don't think for a minute that you're going to be stuck here forever. The very purpose of conserving you for now is to develop your potential to its fullest, with a view to . . ."
"Yes, Skipper?" Rinnard prompted, when the other seemed disinclined to continue.
Morrisey ran his eyes over the auditorium as though to verify its emptiness, then spoke more softly. "I've got no business telling you this, really. But it's my considered judgment that upholding your morale is worth doing even if it means . . . Well, sometime in the near future, all of you are going to officially learn what Doctor Kronenberg and I and a very few others already know: there've been some, well, peculiar things going on in the solar system."
"Sir?"
"Inexplicable things. Things the government can't allow to become general knowledge."
"Uh, Skipper, you aren't . . . well, of course you're not talking . . . UFOs?" A nervous laugh escaped Rinnard.
"Not in the sense of all the ersatz mythology that's been around for the last seventy-odd years, starting with the 'foo fighters' in World War II and the Roswell nonsense shortly thereafter. No, I'm not talking about mutilated cattle or artsy-fartsy designs in wheatfields. Nor about saucer-shaped vessels doing things like instantaneously reversing direction. But lately there has been some activity in orbit which we cannot account for. And our intelligence is pretty damned good when it comes to space launches around the world. It should be; that sort of thing is hard to conceal.
"Not that anybody seriously thinks there's any paranormal explanation. But something doesn't have to be paranormal to constitute a national security concern. Accordingly, we're trying to ascertain what the hell's going on up there. Our lack of success so far means we're going to bring to bear additional information-gathering resources . . . all of them."
Rinnard's eyes had gradually widened. "You mean—?"
"And here's one more thing I'm not supposed to tell you yet: The spaceplane—yes, the one that's been in development as long as your generation can clearly remember—is very nearly ready to fly." Morrisey hastily raised a hand to check the rising tide of exultation he saw in Rinnard's eyes. "Now, I haven't told you anything official. But I think you can put two and two together. I also think you can now see the importance of maximizing your abilities."
"Yes, sir!"
Morrisey smiled the way a middle-aged man smiles at the living reflection of his own younger self. Then he summoned sternness. "I want to caution you that I've spoken in reliance on your discretion. You're not to mention this to anyone—including, and especially, Derek and Lauren."
"Understood, sir."
"Very good. You can, however, wish them the best before they leave for Greece. And you should."