Callsign: King (Jack Sigler) (Chesspocalypse #1)

“Good luck with that,” Fulbright remarked.

“All communications from Brainstorm are via text messages,” Graham explained, “but I’ll activate the text-to-voice translator. I’m afraid that’s about as close as you can get to actually having a conversation with Brainstorm.”

Sara stared back at him. “So it’s true. Brainstorm is just a big computer—artificial intelligence.”

Graham spread his hands equivocally, and then stepped out from behind the workstation. “Dr. Carter is in the isolation room. It’s equipped with Level A hazmat protection, if you feel the need for such measures. On the other hand, if you feel that she poses no threat, I’ll arrange guest quarters for her later.”

“Do that. I’ve got it from here. I’ll let you know if I need anything more.”

The two men lingered in the lab a while after she dismissed them, but as far as Sara was concerned, they were already gone. She gave Felice an anti-narcotic injection then sat down and waited for her to stir.

Despite her confident demeanor, she was very worried about Felice’s transition from drug induced sleep to wakefulness. Indeed, as the sedative in her bloodstream was bound and rendered inert by the anti-narcotic, Felice came awake as if emerging from a night terror.

“Felice, it’s okay.” Sara risked physical contact, gently holding Felice’s forearm. “You’re safe.”

Felice’s eyes darted back and forth as she tried to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. “Where am I?”

“I wish I knew. But we’re safe for now. You need to relax and stay calm. I’ll explain everything.”

The roving gaze finally settled on Sara’s face. “I know you. You’re the CDC doctor.”

“That’s right. I’m Sara. I feel like I know you well, but I guess we only got to meet for a few minutes. A lot has happened since then, and I’ll tell you when you’re ready to hear it.”

“Where’s Jack?”

The question caught Sara off guard, and emotion welled up in her throat. After a false start, she managed to croak: “That’s part of what I have to tell you.”

“Tell me now.”

Sara started with Fulbright’s act of treachery. She only gave the barest of details about what had happened to Sigler, and it was evident from Felice’s reaction that she understood why it was so painful; she had, after all, witnessed their affectionate reunion.

Once Felice understood that they were both being held hostage, Sara turned her attention to the contagion—if a contagion it indeed was. Sara wasn’t convinced of that. “We need to understand exactly how this…effect…is being spread. I’m thinking that maybe it’s linked to a pheromone.”

Felice shook her head. “Sara, I need to tell you a story; a story about elephants.”





25.


Somewhere over Africa



A black wraith-like shape tore through the sky high above the dark continent. Anyone looking skyward would have immediately recognized the tiny speck as an aircraft by the long contrail—the product of water vapor in the jet exhaust instantly freezing into ice crystals high in the stratosphere—but such sights were common almost everywhere in the world. Anyone watching a radar display would have seen absolutely nothing. The stealth transport plane, code-named Crescent because of its unique, radar-scattering half-moon profile, was for practical purposes, invisible.

King sat in Crescent’s communication center, just aft of the cockpit, where two pilots from the USAF Nighthawks special operations wing, were waiting for their next destination. Unfortunately, King didn’t yet know what that would be.

One of the two computer screens on the workstation showed photographic imagery from a satellite in a geostationary orbit above northern Africa. Deep Blue had accessed the feed from the National Reconnaissance Office and cued it up to approximately the moment where King’s helicopter had been shot down by a missile from one of the Ethiopian fighter jets. King wasn’t interested in the crash though; he already knew how that ended.

With the realization that he would not be able to fool another missile attack, King did the only thing he could: he cut the engine and let the helicopter fall from the sky. The plunge was only about sixty feet, and the helicopter was engineered to withstand hard landings, but even so, the impact was like getting hit by a bus. Battered, bruised, but thankfully not broken, he had half-fallen out of the crumpled cockpit and taken off across the scrubland in search of cover. A few moments later, a second missile had homed in on the helicopter and blown it to smithereens. The concussion wave had sent him tumbling, adding a few more bruises, but the ploy had worked. The Sukhoi fighters had turned for home, satisfied that, even if he had survived, the elements would finish him off.