MIND FIELDS (11 page)

Chapter eleven

May 7, 2051

Six months and one day after he was released from Harborview Hospital, Rocky Stankowski was back to work.

“Good to have you back, Rocky.”

  White House Chief of Staff Harold Bradley climbed into the front passenger’s seat of the government issued black Lincoln.  White House protocol required the driver to open the rear passenger-side door for the chief, but now that Rocky was back to work, Mr. Bradley went back to the way he felt most comfortable.  He felt ridiculous having someone open the door for him and even more ridiculous riding in the back seat by himself.  He appreciated Rocky’s indulgence in agreeing to forgo protocol so that he could open his own door and join Rocky in the front of the car.

  “Good to be back, sir.  Sure is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Harold Bradley looked out the window of the Lincoln Continental as they pulled away from his Georgetown townhouse.  It was a clear spring morning, the kind of day that makes it tough to go to work. 

“Sure is, Rocky.  Have a good weekend?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I couldn’t wait for it to end.  The past six months have been like one never-ending weekend, at least during the days that they didn’t make me go in to that damned hospital to be treated like a guinea pig.  I mean, I’m real grateful and all that.  I know that I wouldn’t be back to work now if they hadn’t stuck all those little robots into my head, but geez, the tests were unbelievable.  Every week, something new.”

“Well, thanks to guys like you, they’re perfecting that procedure more quickly than anyone had thought possible.  Pretty soon they’ll be able to do it at any hospital in the country, and thanks to what they’ve been learning with all of those tests, most folks won’t have to go through so many of them now.  You were just unlucky enough to be one of the first, I guess.”

“Or
lucky
enough to be one of the first, the way I figure it.”

Mr. Bradley grinned broadly.  “I suppose so, Rocky.  I suppose so.” 
Now I know why I like this guy so much.  It sure is refreshing to be around a ‘glass is half-full’ kind of guy.

Harold Bradley glanced at the headlines of the Post.  “Says here that the president’s approval rating is the highest ever recorded in a peacetime poll.  Not bad, huh?”

“No, sir.”  Rocky kept his eyes on the road.

“No, sir?  That’s all you’ve got to say?”  Bradley could see that Rocky had a lot more on his mind than “No, sir.”

“Well …”

“Come on, Rocky, spill it.  You’re not gonna become the strong, silent type on me now, are ya?  I need your insight.  What’s the
real
word on the street?” 

Bradley knew that the pollsters captured a cross-section of society, of mainstream America.  What he really wanted, though, was to find out what was on the minds of the subversives, the undercurrent of society.  These were the people who scared Harold Bradley; these were the people who were most likely to act on their impulses, the real threat to the president.  Rocky was a stand-up kind of guy, but his leisure life took him into society’s trenches.  Bradley knew this, but did not consider it a weakness. In fact, he considered it one of Rocky’s great qualities, that here was a man who could walk through the strongest undercurrents and still stand tall.  He depended on Rocky to keep him informed.

“I’ve got nothing but the utmost respect for the president, you understand.”

“But …”

“But he’s really blowing it.  I mean, to the average Joe, he’s a wuss.  He says the right thing, but he doesn’t act.  He’s mastered the art of delegating to the point of distancing himself from decisions that affect us all. Sure he’s doing great in the polls.  That’s because he doesn’t offend anybody.  I mean, how can he?  He never makes any decisions.”

Bradley thought a moment, realizing that Rocky was right.

“The art of politics.  No enemies, no worries.  Only …”

Bradley glared at Rocky.  “Only what?”

“Well, I hate to say it, but … look, people take offense when they think they’re being neglected.  Life on the street is getting pretty rough, and people resent the corporate elite who are getting richer and richer off their sweat.  Going postal at the office doesn’t do any good.  It doesn’t change anything.  People are getting fed up, and sooner or later it’s going to filter up to the top.  People blame the government for their growing hopelessness, dangerous people, the kind that have nothing to lose.  These aren’t the kind of people that live in fenced in houses in suburbia.  These aren’t the kind of people that talk to pollsters.  These are the kind of people who stew in their own misery, who stay silent until they’re ready to explode.  If the president doesn’t start to speak out for them soon, somebody’s gonna blow, and it’s gonna be in the president’s direction.”

Bradley knew that Rocky was talking in generalities.  If Rocky had overheard any credible threat against the president, he surely would have come forward or would have squashed it himself.  Rocky was not averse to using his considerable physical strength when properly motivated.

“As always, I appreciate your honesty, Rocky.  I’ll take it up with the president myself.  He considers himself a man of the people, and I’m quite sure that he’ll be anxious to change that image of non-concern for the average man.”

“If you can convince him that it’s real.  Polls are a powerful thing, Mr. Bradley, a powerful thing.”

“I’ll convince him.  That’s my job.”

The car pulled through the White House gates, and the guard waved.  “Good to see you again, Rocky.”

Rocky nodded and waved back.  He dropped off Mr. Bradley, and went to park the car.  It felt good to be a part of the team again.

___

The success of the nanobots in treating patients who had suffered devastating brain injuries had captured the imagination of the public.  It was the kind of human-interest story that reporters craved, a dramatic cure for a horrible life-threatening injury.  And unlike most of the “medical miracles” sensationalized by the press, this one had the added advantage of being real.

Many of those who had been treated in the human trial phase had become familiar faces to members of the news media who were hungry for interviews that could help shape stories for them to peddle to their audience.  Rocky was not one of them.  At first, he was hounded by several of the stations, but when Rocky snarled, he could be quite intimidating; reporters rarely approached him more than once, and word soon spread among the media that he was off limits.

Rocky enjoyed his anonymity.  He loved feeling useful again and the summer passed quickly.  Labor Day weekend was approaching and Harold Bradley was invited to spend the weekend with his family at Camp David, along with the president’s family.  Rocky didn’t mind a bit when Mr. Bradley informed him of the plans.  The ride through the Maryland countryside was beautiful, and the soundproof glass that insulated the passengers from the cab of the Lincoln Continental worked both ways; Rocky would be well insulated from the irritatingly animated young twins that Mr. Bradley was raising with his second wife, Dawn.  And besides, it would give him an opportunity to visit Belle.  Rocky had not returned to Belle’s Place since the mugging, but he was determined to rid himself of that demon.

The black Continental arrived at the Bradley residence in Potomac, Maryland, at eight AM on the Friday before Labor Day.  The president had given Bradley the day off to get a jump-start on the weekend and get his family settled in at Camp David.  President Huntley Forsyth had ulterior motives; he knew the twins would sap Bradley’s energy on the long ride, and he wanted his chief of staff fresh for a round of golf on Saturday morning.  He figured that if the Bradleys got to Camp David early, Harry would have plenty of time to play with the kids, tire them out and get a good night’s sleep.

Bradley was waiting for the car when Rocky pulled in to the driveway.  Rocky rolled down the passenger side window as Bradley approached.

“Why don’t you wait inside while I load the bags, sir?  It’s cold out this morning.”

Bradley hunched down through the window.  “Got some bad news, Rocky. I just got a call from the White House.  Some damned urgent meeting that can’t wait until after the weekend.  We’ll have to take care of business first.  I told Dawn to sleep in if the kids let her. They’re pretty wound up, what with the big weekend vacation and all.  No point in dragging them downtown this morning.  We’ll get the meeting out of the way, and then come back for them.

Rocky was glad he wouldn’t have the two hyperactive little tyrants in his car any longer than necessary.

“Sounds like a plan, sir.  Hop in.”

Bradley opened the passenger-side door and settled into the seat.

“Whoa,” he said as he slid back into the seat. 

“Yeah,” Rocky answered, “sorry about that.  It seems that the power seat adjustment locked up over night.  I didn’t have a chance to get it fixed.  Hope it’s not too uncomfortable.  Why it slid all the way back, I can’t figure, but it’s stuck real good.”

Bradley struggled with the power control, but the seat wouldn’t budge.  “You can say that again.” 

He settled back and glanced out the window.  His view was obscured by the wide doorpost, which was steel reinforced in all government vehicles as added rollover protection. “Well, I’ve got plenty of leg room, but the view ain’t much.”  Bradley wiggled his short legs in the air, not quite able to reach the floor with the seat all the way back.  He laughed at his predicament.  “I must look pretty ridiculous.”

Rocky glanced over. “Distinguished as ever, sir.”

  “Wipe that grin off your face, driver.”

  “Yes, sir.”

They drove off toward the White House.  The roads were less crowded than usual.  Obviously, they were not the only ones planning an early getaway for the long weekend.  Rocky turned on River Road, heading toward the city.  In the light holiday traffic, he was able to make good time and kept the speed at his usual four miles an hour over the posted limit.  Although suburban sprawl had invaded the D.C. suburbs decades ago, there were still some wooded areas along River Road.  They were passing one such area as they came up over a hill.

“Uhh!” Rocky screamed as an uncontrollable spasm overcame him.  His arms twisted the wheel to the right as he fought against his own limbs with every fiber of his being, but his powerful body was helpless to fight it.  The car veered sharply off the road, throwing Bradley against the side of the driver’s seat, then slammed passenger side first into a stone wall jerking him violently back to his right and ramming his head against the steel doorpost.  He lost consciousness too quickly to notice that the driver’s side air bag had failed to deploy or to see the blood splaying out of Rocky’s head all across the dashboard.

In one brief moment, Rocky’s precious anonymity was snuffed out; however, it would not prove to be a nuisance to him.  His life was snuffed out just as quickly.

___

The press reported all the gory details of the accident and showed the helicopter lifting off River Road to rush the White House Chief of Staff to Walter Reed Hospital, where a trauma team was standing by.  They did not report that the injury involved a severe contusion to the right frontal area, with a depressed skull fracture causing a penetration injury to the frontal lobe.  The public was not interested in those kinds of details; however, in the weeks that followed, neuronanobots monopolized the airwaves and soon became a household word.

Chapter twelve

  The aroma of hazelnut coffee wafted up the wooden stairs and into the bedroom of the Kincades’ Highlandtown rowhouse.  Richie loved to sleep late on Sunday mornings and Lara liked to oblige him, but she’d already been up for an hour and she was salivating for some hot waffles and coffee.  She did not want to eat alone and ruin the Sunday morning ritual, and she knew Richie’s weak spot.  The smell of fresh coffee, especially hazelnut coffee, would draw him right out of that bed and down the stairs.

  This Labor Day weekend Richie and Lara had decided to stay home — a nice quiet weekend, just the two of them.  Normally they would head to Ocean City with a half-million other people for the last beach weekend of the season, but they were tired of the rat race.  The traffic across the Bay Bridge and slow crawl toward the shore took away any shred of relaxation the ocean waves could offer.  This year was going to be different. 

Saturday was a cold, drizzly day.  They had spent the day inside in front of the TV set, and they were already getting cabin fever.  The morning sun promised a better day today, and Lara was determined to get a jump on it.  An early breakfast together, then a short drive to Harbor Place or maybe to the park if it was warm enough; that would do the trick.

“Just like clockwork.”  Lara smiled as she watched Richie lumbering down the stairs, scratching the hair on his slightly protuberant belly, not quite covered by the tattered plaid robe he’d worn every morning for the past decade.

“The nose knows,” he said.  He tilted his head back and took in a deep, exaggerated whiff of the fresh coffee aroma in the air.  “Hazelnut, if I’m not mistaken.”

“What a detective!”  She put her hand up to the side of her face, mouth and eyes wide open in mock amazement. 

“Go get the Sunday paper while I put up the waffles, Sherlock.”

Richie didn’t argue.  After all, what was coffee and waffles without the Sunday paper?

Lara poured the batter into the waffle maker and set two mugs of piping hot coffee out on the breakfast table.  Richie came in with the paper tucked under his arm, yawning.

“Have a seat, lover.  Looks like you’d better get some of that coffee in to you.  I want you wide-awake.  I’m not spending another day in front of the tube.”

Richie pulled the paper out of the plastic bag, and threw it down on the table.  He plopped down into his chair, eyes fixed on the front page as it uncoiled in front of him.

“Holy mother of God,” he muttered as he read the headline.

Lara looked over from the waffle iron, where she was trying to force them to cook faster by staring at them really hard.  She saw her husband’s face fixed on the paper.  “What’s the matter, hon?” 

She walked to the table and looked over his shoulder at the paper. “Oh, what a mess.”  A full color picture of Rocky’s mangled car graced the front page of the Sunday Sun. 

Richie sipped his coffee as he read the story.  The newspaper reporter had found an eyewitness who had seen the car veer violently off the road without so much as the hint of an impending collision, an animal or other obstacle in the road to have caused the driver to lose control.  The reporter dressed up the story with a direct quote from the passerby:

“It had to be a blowout, or maybe the driver had a heart attack or a convulsion or something.  I mean, there was nothing in the road, man.  I was just standing there with my dog.  I always walk my dog along that stretch of River Road in the morning.  It’s a great way to get exercise.  You know, for me as much as for Ralphie.  Ralphie, that’s my dog, you know?  Anyhow, I was just standing there with Ralphie, when this big, black Lincoln comes rolling up over the hill.  It caught my attention, you know?  I mean, I figured it had to be a bigwig or something.  Anyhow, all of a sudden it just veered into that wall, and … bam!”

___