Psychlone (25 page)

“I'm amazed,” Burnford said. “I wasn't sure any of the equations were right. Where is it now?"

“Where's what now?” Jacobs asked.

“You destroyed it? Or just made it go away?” Fowler asked. Prohaska stepped up on the porch.

“Apparently, it's gone for good,” Machen said. “We dispersed it. The weapon is on its way to Siloam Springs, Ohio."

Jacobs looked at his list. “That's where Tech Sergeant Grimm lived. Why not Dayton?"

“There's no time. Dayton may be reached by tomorrow evening. We can't transport everything and set it up. Besides, the geography is no good. Too many people."

“What's the weapon?” Fowler asked. “Is that what we saw last night?"

Machen shook his head. “We're mum for now. In a couple of days, you should know as much as you want—more, probably. You're all under orders not to reveal anything you've seen until the whole project and all related items are declassified."

Prohaska's face fell. “No story?"

“Not for at least twenty years,” Machen said, smiling grimly. “We have a use for all of you, but right now you're just observers and advisors."

“And you're keeping us together for security reasons,” Fowler said. “I'm almost sorry I called you, George."

“Don't be,” Silvera said. “With the information we gathered here, and the information from Haverstock, we have a good idea what's been causing all these disasters."

“And what's that?” Prohaska asked.

Again, Machen shook his head. “No theories until Siloam Springs. And we aren't keeping you all together. The group will be split. Some of you are going to Dayton, some to Siloam Springs."

“There's no trace at all,” Miss Unamuno reiterated, turning around, hands seeming to grasp at the air. “The whole valley is empty. What did you do?” Her face was drawn and bloodless. “No, this is more than curiosity,” she said, voice trembling. “What happened here?"

Jacobs felt the edge of her fear and turned to Trumbauer. “Arnie, isn't there anything? A residue, a trail, something to show it's somewhere else, but not here?"

Trumbauer took Miss Unamuno's hand and tried to calm her. “Nothing, Franklin,” he said, staring squint-eyed at Silvera and Machen. “It's as if it never existed."

Jacobs sat apart from the others on the aircraft, elbow on the armrest and chin in hand, musing. He had very little scientific expertise—only what he had gained in the service, decades ago—and the handicap frustrated him. He wasn't ignorant, but he had no way of interpreting Burnford's diagram or the equations on it. To make matters more difficult, he had only seen it for a few seconds.

Burnford had been exuberant on the return from the cabin. Fowler and Prohaska had toasted to the success of the mission—Fowler less enthusiastic than the reporter, but not unpleased. Behind him, Miss Unamuno and Trumbauer were reading or napping. The worry Miss Unamuno had felt was now communicated to Jacobs, but he wasn't certain why.

Burnford was on his way to Dayton with Fowler, Prohaska and Silvera. Williams had been reassigned—he was no longer on the project. Jacobs didn't know whether the physicist could have explained, or been allowed to explain more fully, but he would have given several fortunes to have certain haunting suspicions laid to rest.

Could a new secret weapon have been designed and put to use in less than two weeks? He doubted it. Something already in the arsenal—but still secret—was a better answer. He racked his memory, trying to draw up some clue of what it could be.

Burnford had treated the elemental as a field of some sort. Jacobs had recognized the field equations from his brief stint as a radar technician. What, then, would disperse an electromagnetic field? (If, indeed, Burnford had been talking about electromagnetism.) Super magnets, bolts of static electricity? Had a huge Van de Graaff generator been used? He squeezed his temples and looked up to see General Machen standing beside him.

“Mind if I sit?” Machen asked.

“Not at all.” Jacobs slid over.

“I'd like to apologize, and offer our thanks,” Machen began, looking at the seat in front of him. “I'm not used to having civilian contractors on a project like this. Then again, I've never been on a project like this."

“We're hardly contractors,” Jacobs said. “Just concerned citizens."

“Yes. I apologize for treating you like mushrooms—"

“Eh?"

“Keeping you in the dark and feeding you bullshit.” Machen chuckled. “I'm not the Commander-in-Chief of this operation. I'd do things a little differently—not much, perhaps, but a little. And I'm thanking you for putting up with what appear to be blinders and heavy earmuffs."

“Yes,” Jacobs said. “Well, we hardly have the complete picture, do we?"

“You've been a great help to us. I still find it hard accepting the fact that we're using psychics and experts in occult phenomena. I'm a practical man; I never have put much credence in the paranormal. Now it's everyday talk."

“Can you tell me when it became everyday talk as far as this project is concerned?"

“I can. About a week after Lorobu was destroyed. We still keep alternate theories—we even talked about UFOs and space plagues when it became apparent that no secret weapons had been used, no CBW stockpiles had ruptured, and no subversive group could be blamed. It was too sophisticated, too holistic, if you see what I mean."

“I'm not sure I do."

“Too integrated and interrelated. When I was first called in, about four days after the incident, I began having nightmares. Haven't had them since I was a kid. Started taking sleeping pills for the first time in my life. I don't think I'd have had that reaction for anything political or technological. It had to be something else."

“So you settled on the supernatural."

“Should have heard the protests and seen the faces of the joint chiefs and everyone else involved.” He shook his head, the permanent smile turning the gesture into mocking humor. “Oddly, the President was the hardest to convince."

“And after you had the Haverstock University results, you called George Burnford in."

“Fowler and the reporter were a bonus. Without them, we'd have to have tried our solution without a test."

“So everyone now accepts the existence of demons. What about ghosts?"

“I'm reluctant to go into details."

“Do you think the psychlone—” He spelled it—“that's my name for whatever it was—do you think it's a demon, too?”

Machen shook his head, smiling on purpose this time. “No, Mr. Jacobs. May I call you Franklin?"

“Certainly."

“No, we knew it had to be something more closely related to humanity. The list of names you handed over to us, the contacts with the inhabitants of the towns—that had to be more than coincidence."

“And?"

“To confirm that, we're going to put you and your friends under the flightpath of the ... psychlone. We have a house just outside Dayton which should be right under a straight-line path from Haverstock. I don't think we'll be in any danger but once we arrive, any of you can back out."

“You must have others helping you, then."

“Yes. One other. Two, if you count the only survivor from Lorobu."

Jacobs looked out the window at the bright, filamented clouds streaming past below. “When is it scheduled to pass over the house?"

“At eleven p.m. this evening. It will pass over Dayton ten hours later."

“Assuming it's traveling at—about two or three miles an hour?” Jacobs asked. Machen nodded. “And assuming it takes a straight-line path."

“We have reasons for assuming both. Other psychics have been contacted or have reported to us."

“But it only hits the target towns."

“Where the people on your list used to live."

“The POWs."

Machen's false smile faded. “Yes,” he said stiffly.

“From World War Two. Hiroshima and Nagasaki."

“You're very knowledgeable, Franklin."

“Yes.” He wasn't about to get Beckett in trouble. “I remember the papers a few months ago. It used to be classified information—"

“The complete list still is."

“The list Miss Unamuno received."

“No,” Machen said. “Her list isn't complete. It's missing several hundred names."

“All prisoners of war, captured toward the end of the war. All killed during the atomic bombing of the Japanese cities."

“Believe it or not, some American POWs survived,” Machen said. “They're on the project now, those that are still alive and healthy."

“If the psychlone isn't a demon, and seems to consist of human souls, how did it form?” Jacobs asked.

“We don't know."

Jacobs thought of Burnford's field equations again. “But you plan to treat it the same way you treated the elemental."

“We do,” Machen said.

“So you assume it has many of the same characteristics."

“More than assume. We have data from the Haverstock observatory that confirms it. There are many points of similarity."

“And differences?"

“Some."

Jacobs frowned with concentration. He didn't want to voice half-considered ideas. “The weapon used on the elemental disrupts an electromagnetic field ... disperses it."

“It's more complicated than that, but that's the idea, yes."

“Would an atom bomb have the same effect?"

Machen pursed his lips. “It might."

“How many people were directly under the explosions in Hiroshima and Nagasaki?"

“I'm not sure. Maybe fifteen or twenty thousand, all told."

Jacobs felt sick. The idea was clear now. “The human soul is probably not very different from the elemental in structure ... basic structure. A field, partly oriented in our universe, immortal in a way—most natural processes cannot affect it, but can only affect its grip on a material body. When death releases the soul it slips away—"

“Franklin—"

“Please listen. This has been in my head for some time, but it hasn't come together until now. Am I right, that the fireball of an atomic explosion produces forces more severe than any known in nature?"

“Yes. I suppose astronomical events like supernovas are more severe, but on the whole, yes."

“Then thousands of people who died in the two atom-bombed cities may have vanished completely, forever. Not just dead in the natural sense, but wiped clean—their souls erased, dispersed. Or perhaps worse—for us—not destroyed completely. Just mangled. Portions of the souls gone, others surviving ... incomplete. In eternal agony."

Machen's ruddy skin paled. “I don't think—” He stopped himself and stood up. “God would not allow such a thing,” he said, his voice soft. “Mr. Jacobs, you are theorizing way over our heads."

“Does it scandalize you, General?” Jacobs said, his voice biting. “It horrifies me. The very possibility is more than I ever thought I'd face."

“You're saying we have the ability to destroy an immortal soul. That's unthinkable, impossible. It goes against the very Word, against the guarantees of religion."

“Perhaps it does. But if you can destroy a demon, why not a human soul?” His voice cracked. “Why not, General? In the core of a nuclear explosion. The perfect hell for dismantling the psyche, stretching it beyond any return. We can verify it."

Machen began to back away.

“Somebody in the psychlone has warned us—the POWs, perhaps. They gave us their names in geographic order, and now we have a defense. Their souls must not have been destroyed, or mangled ... they weren't killed by the fireballs, but by the after-effects. Killed and taken captive by the dead, dismembered Japanese."

Machen shook his head.

“Is it true? They survived the fireball?"

“This is insane, Jacobs."

“I wish it were,” Jacobs said. He was beginning to shiver. He fell back into his seat and shook his head.

The house was on an isolated tract of farmland, scattered around with trees, a gray old barn, and the rusted hulks of an old harvester and a tractor. Tim stood by the window of the upper room, under a peaked roof, looking down on a cat stalking birds in the grassy yard. It was ideal. He would love living in a place like this, even being a farmer, though it was obvious the farm hadn't paid out recently.

Thesiger was downstairs, talking with Simons and Davies. Even up here, Tim could feel the old man's presence. It was like being surrounded by friends. Tim's maternal grandfather had once described saints as “men who see right through you, because they have more than one pair of eyes, but they don't judge.” That was Thesiger. Tim didn't know if that meant Thesiger was a saint; perhaps it didn't matter.

Two cars and a Jeep drove into the yard and parked by a dry duckpond. Tim watched for a few minutes as three civilians and four people in uniforms got out and talked. They headed for the front door and he turned away to go downstairs.

* * * *

Jacobs surveyed the house critically. It was pleasant enough, but he didn't like something about it. He cocked an eyebrow at Trumbauer, but Trumbauer didn't catch the unasked question.

General Machen walked beside Miss Unamuno, carrying her baggage. Three soldiers with holstered pistols stayed by the cars; Jacobs and Trumbauer carried small suitcases.

A black man met them at the latched screen door, recognized Machen, and greeted them pleasantly, introducing himself as Volt Simons. They stepped into the entryway. Trumbauer jerked and looked into the hall leading to the kitchen. A thin, white-haired man with a hawkish face stood there, smiling at them. For a moment Jacobs thought he was looking at Bertrand Russell; then the illusion faded. He almost recognized the face. The man walked forward and offered his hand to Miss Unamuno, who was closest.

“I'm Edward Thesiger,” he said. “You're Janet Unamuno—Miss Unamuno?"

She nodded, staring at him steadily.

Jacobs held out his hand. “I'm very pleased to meet you,” he said. “I thought you were dead."

“No, just isolated for many years,” Thesiger said. “I've had a chance to read some of your books, though."

“I'm honored."

Trumbauer stood awkwardly to one side. The look on his face as Thesiger shook hands with him was awestruck. He smiled and said nothing. Thesiger returned the smile and motioned them into the living room.