Exodus 2022 (24 page)

“Absolutely. I share your concern. The sonar issue is one we take very seriously. A lot of folks don’t know this, but the Navy employs a staff of full-time marine biologists, and the focus of their work is to help mitigate the impacts of sonar testing. Fact is, the U.S. Navy is a leader in marine mammal research.”

“That’s great to hear,” said Ella.

The admiral said, “I can tell you straight up that we’ve made changes based on the biologist’s recommendations. Of course, it’s always a balancing act between protecting national security and protecting the environment. But I assure you, the Navy is trying to do the right thing.”

Joe smiled. And began to panic.

The conversation was over. The admiral was about to leave.

Ella turned to Joe with an expression that said,
Is that it? Is that what we came here for?
Joe didn’t need telepathy to understand the look in her eyes.

Joe took a breath and focused his mind on Mia. Focused hard. He’d been aware for hours that she was concerned about sound. A particular sound. A horrific, relentless “pinging” emanating from a particular place far out to sea.

Joe could hear the sound too—had in fact been hearing it now for a long time—a distant echo in the back of his mind. Constant. Steady. Irritating. He understood that it was preventing Mia from doing something she needed to do. Though he didn’t know what the
something
was.

Joe thought,
So I can hear the sound? So what? What am I supposed to do, ask the admiral to shut off all the sonar in the world?

He wanted to say more to the admiral, but what would be the point? What good would it do? The encounter had been a failure.

Joe froze, and felt a low frequency, molar-rattling hum inside his head.

She’s here. Oh my God, she’s here.

The sensation began at the base of his skull and quickly spread to his ears and jaw. It made his eyes water and his scalp tingle.

Somehow—he could not begin to comprehend the mechanism—Mia was inside his head. She’d arrived without warning. At the last possible instant.

So go ahead
, he told her.

He felt a rush of blood and instantaneous nausea-inducing dizziness as the world before his eyes diminished.

It felt as if he’d fallen backward off a cliff and was now plummeting like a stone, watching helplessly as the world he knew receded to a dot; as if his mind were a control room on rails, flying in reverse as Mia—or Mia’s mental energy—slid into position behind his eyes.

But it wasn’t a clean transition.

There was bleed—overlap—between the two minds.

On the one hand, Joe was aware of the familiar shapes and structures before him: aware of the admiral with his square jaw, pale skin, and close-cropped hair. Aware of the wash of color on the big man’s uniform: the perfectly aligned medals and insignias. Aware of the aircraft in the background. Wings and tails. Wheels and cockpits. Jet engines. The shapes were familiar. Decipherable.

And at the same time, the shapes made no sense. Filtered through Mia’s brain, the objects in front of him amounted to a jumble of alien patterns. Houghton’s face was comprehensible—Mia had seen human faces before—but the rest of the scene was nonsense. Noise.

The entire bizarre experience lasted only an instant. But in that instant Joe touched Mia’s mind and felt the force of her intellect. Her curiosity.

Her unfamiliarity with the human world wouldn’t last. Joe could see that. Given time, she would decipher the shapes. Interpret the patterns. It wouldn’t take long.

He sensed that she wanted to stay. To gaze through human eyes out of sheer intellectual curiosity. For the novelty of it.

But it was not to be. There was work to be done. Things both of them had to accomplish.

Joe’s mind lurched back into position and he was at the helm once more, in command of his neural processes and motor function.

But something had changed. Mia had left something for him. A thought.

Knowledge.

A kernel of information bright and shining, vivid and precise, in the front of his mind.

Joe didn’t know how Mia had acquired the information but guessed it had to do with the professorial man. The old man, with the beard and sunburned face.

Joe blinked and saw the admiral and Ella studying him. Watching him curiously.

“You all right, son?” the admiral asked.

“I’m fine, sir. Fine.”

He reached for the admiral’s hand and shook it, matching the big man’s bone-crushing grip with equal strength.

“In particular, sir, we’re deeply concerned about a test site on the eastern edge of Kanaga Island, in the Aleutians.”

The admiral stared at him, his warm, easy smile fading.

“The USNS
Impeccable
has been testing a Surveillance Towed Array Sensor System at 51.7665 degrees north, 177.2260 degrees west, for some weeks. This is a midfrequency active sonar, projecting at 3.8 kilohertz, and it’s interfering with urgent and critical cetacean communication. We respectfully request that the sonar be turned off between 2 a.m. and 2 p.m. Pacific standard time, tomorrow.”

The admiral’s gaze flicked between Joe and Ella.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, sir,” said Joe. “It’s a sincere request.”

Joe watched the older man’s eyes and knew what was going to happen. He was going to call security. He was going to have them arrested. His eyes reflected alarm. Surprise. His eyes said that Kanaga was classified. Nothing a civilian should know about. The game was up.

And then Joe felt a shiver pass through him, a pulse of energy and emotion. It traveled through his hand, and into the admiral—something else Mia had left for him, apparently.

The admiral’s face changed and he looked suddenly confused. His skin paled. His confidence diminished.

It was not a look his men were used to.

Shakily, hesitantly, he said at last, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, sir.” Joe released the admiral’s hand. Nodded. Stepped back. Ella smiled.

They said good-bye and retreated into the crowd, leaving the admiral staring after them, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“HELL OF A GRIP, FOR A PRIEST,”
Houghton muttered.

He lifted his hand. Studied it. Like he was seeing it for the first time. His aides exchanged looks.

“Everything okay, sir?” asked the big lieutenant.

The admiral turned to the man, his eyes cleared, and he said, “Get Admiral Walther on the line for me. Now.”

The aide place the call, then handed a phone to Admiral Houghton as he and his entourage marched back to the bridge.

Houghton’s warm PR smile was gone, the swarms of tourists forgotten.

The call connected. A gruff voice said, “Walther.”

“Hayden. It’s Wes.”

“Wes! Hey, I hear you’re at Seafair, making us look good.

What can I do for ya?”

“Listen, Hayden, there still a SURTASS test happening off Kanaga?”

Hayden Walther’s tone morphed from casual to businesslike. “This an encrypted call?”

Houghton lowered the phone and asked the chief petty officer walking beside him the same question. The chief assured him the call was secure.

“We’re good, Hayden, go ahead.”

“
Impeccable
’s still off Kanaga. Be there another week for a round-the-clock LFA survey. Pemberton wanted to keep it low-key. How’d you hear about it? Admiral Quitslund?”

“No. I heard about it from a tourist listening to my PR spiel here at Seafair.”

Houghton lowered his phone again and looked at his men. “The guy I was just talking to, with the fashion-model girlfriend. Find them. No big scene, but find them. Detain them.”

Hayden Walther was going nuts on the other end of the line. “What do you mean, tourist? Off-duty Navy? A contractor?”

“No. A priest, supposedly. Here for the meet-and-greet.”

“How the hell does a priest know about classified LFA ops?”

“No damn clue. But I intend to find out. I’ll call you back, Hayden.”

Houghton handed the phone to an aide, resumed walking, then abruptly stopped.

Face blank, he lifted his right hand and studied it as if it were some sort of alien artifact. Clenched and unclenched his fist. Slowly rotated his hand. His men stared. Tourists did as well.

“You feeling okay, sir?” the big lieutenant asked again.

The admiral looked up, dazedly, mumbled a reply, and continued on to the bridge, oblivious to the buzzing crowds and fanfare. Five minutes later word reached him that Joe and Ella had slipped off the ship.

“Alert the Seattle Police, FBI, and NCIS,” Houghton told his aides. “And check video from the security cameras. Get an ID on the priest.”

Admiral Houghton retreated to his cabin and his computer. He entered passwords and called up classified data on the secure network.

He felt out of sorts, and his right side tingled still, as if a mild low-voltage electric current were coursing through his arm—a subtle, unending tremor running from his fingertips to his shoulder. But he ignored his physical issues and focused his mind.

And his anger.

A top-secret operation had somehow been compromised. Classified data stolen. The Navy—Houghton’s de facto family for the majority of his life—was under assault. He intended to get to the root of the issue and, Fourth of July or no, he intended to start at once.

Seated at his computer, he called up charts of Kanaga and the islands around it. Studied Excel documents laden with arcane test data.

Why, Houghton wondered, would terrorists or anarchists or animal rights extremists—or whatever fringe group or faction the priest represented—be interested in such a site in the first place? In transmissions from one of the remotest places on the planet?

He recalled the priest’s words: “
Urgent and critical cetacean communication.
”

What the hell did that mean?

Sounded like animal-rights eco-extremist bullshit to Houghton.

Or maybe Joe’s request was a smoke screen for something else. A diversion of some sort.

Houghton leaned back in his chair. Thought about it. Then he looked at the charts some more. Read the CO’s reports.

He stared and studied and contemplated. And eventually his mind wandered.

His face felt warm. A mild sunburn, perhaps? Made sense. He’d been standing on the deck, talking with visitors.

The warmth spread. Intensified. He felt sleepy.

Houghton fought the drowsiness. Resolved to power through.

But then he was snoozing in his chair. Nodding off at his computer. Dreaming.

In his dream he was a little boy again—age six or seven—sitting between his parents at church in Flagstaff, Arizona, where he’d grown up. It was a pre-Christmas evening service, the kind young Wesley Houghton loved most, and the church was packed and warmly, lavishly decorated. There were white lights and wreaths, and huge colorful floral bouquets on pedestals. The air smelled of candle wax and tangerines, cologne and perfume.

The vicar and lay ministers wore their finest, most colorful robes. The congregation was dressed to the nines. Lush music filled the hall.

Young Wesley swung his feet from the pew and listened and watched, wide-eyed, seeing everything, enjoying every moment.

He felt loved. Happy. Safe and warm. Included in every aspect of the proceedings.

Now the vicar—a gifted storyteller—was speaking, laying out the homily, talking about God and heaven and mysteries beyond human comprehension.

The little boy—the future U.S. Navy admiral—wasn’t hearing every word, but the words were affecting him all the same—flowing over him, swirling around him, like a delicious summer breeze. 

He felt alert. Attentive. Aware.

And in this state of heightened awareness, young Wesley’s eyes fell on something curious.

The line.

The line that ran along the floor, through the center of the church.

Wesley Houghton had seen the line before, of course. Most everyone who entered the church saw it.

The line was a thin strip of metal—zinc, Wesley’s father had told him—inset in the stone. It began at the elegant font in the garden in front of the church, and ran, along the ground, through the heart of the great structure.

The zinc line was a subtle and clever architectural element. A graceful means of connecting the spaces within the sanctuary: narthex and nave, chancel and altar.

At the back wall of the church, the zinc line left the floor and moved straight up the wall and into the great metal cross that towered over the apse.

The line was a thread. A connector. It tied everything together and it was always there.

Tonight though, something was different.

Tonight, the line was alive.

Little Wesley Houghton stared. Certain that the entire congregation was seeing what he was seeing, and marveling at their calm. Their restraint.

The line was glowing, burning brighter by the moment, thrumming with energy.

No one spoke. No one reacted.

The vicar told his story. The crowd listened and nodded. Smiled and laughed.

No one paid the line the slightest heed.

Am I the only seeing this?
little Wesley Houghton wondered.

The notion thrilled and terrified him at the same time, but he couldn’t think about it. Things were happening.

The line was practically on fire now.

The boy turned his head and saw that the light, the glow, the ribbon of diamond-bright radiance, extended from just inside the doors, from the narthex, clear to the cross.

Wesley guessed that the glow actually began at the font outside the building, but he couldn’t be sure. The massive oak doors blocked his view.

The line marks a pathway
, he thought.

A pathway that leads to… 

To…

The vicar spoke confidently about humankind. Man’s relationship with God.

And young Wesley had an epiphany. A fleeting look at a shining truth delivered from someplace far away.

Of the epiphany, he would remember nothing. But for an instant, a nanosecond, everything was clear.