So the core of this thing seemed to originate at Gateway and the projects Erskine was running. Using what few resources I had, I began to make a list of the things I knew and to draw inferences from them.
Point one, the God Machine. It looked mostly but not entirely like a hadron collider. It had a hatch or opening. Air passed in and out of it. What was it? I had no idea because I lacked enough information.
Point two. Kill Switch. It was a directed-energy weapon that appeared to be able to temporarily interrupt electrical fields. It was nonlethal. Top, Bunny, and I had been exposed to it down at Gateway. People in Houston, at the NASCAR track, and at the debate had all been exposed to it. It stopped everything from digital watches to cell phones to engines. According to the reports it also stopped pacemakers. However, it did not short-circuit the central nervous system of living beings. There were no animal deaths. Not even birds or insects. I called Dr. Hu back and asked him about that. He told me that it was scientifically impossible. He sounded offended by that, too. And he hung up on me again.
Point three. Dreamwalking. The name was suggestive. Could it be some kind of mind control or psychic possession? A week ago I would have laughed at that idea. Now it scared me. I sent another request to Bug to get me any information on known research into mind control or manipulation using mechanical, chemical, or electrical means. As an afterthought I told him to check out research into psychic control.
“Joe,” he said, “Mr. Church already has us working on that.”
Interesting.
Point four. Freefall. So far we hadn’t come up with anything on that. Not a word or a whisper.
Point five. Dreamshield. What was that? A defense against whatever kind of weapon Dreamwalking was? No way to know for sure, but my gut said yes.
Lydia-Rose tapped on my door and leaned in. She does that. Leans. Not sure why she doesn’t actually step into the doorway or come inside. Leaning does it for her. A head, one shoulder, one boob, and a smile.
“Joe—? You have a visitor.”
The door opened and he was standing right there.
Him. The guy that every shooter, every spy, every special operator in the United States intelligence and covert military services pretty much thinks is a god. Our god. Specifically the messiah of the clandestine trade.
Harcourt Bolton, Senior.
CIA superspy. A guy who’s closed more top-level cases than I’ve had cold beers. A man who has saved the world so often that we should consider adding a fifth face to Mount Rushmore. Like that, and maybe double that.
Ever since Church had told me that the president appointed Bolton as codirector of the DMS I’d been privately trying to hate him. But that was for shit as soon as the man walked into my office. I instantly stood up and very nearly saluted. He was tall and handsome in a sixtyish Kevin Costner way. Powerfully built, but built for speed, built for action. Am I gushing? You bet you. I was a fanboy and this was Captain America. This was Batman.
“Mr. Ledger,” I said, hurrying around the desk and offering my hand. “I’m Captain Bolton.”
His smile was warm, amused, and patient. He shook my hand — and, yes, his grip was firm and dry — and he made no comment as what I’d said caught up to my stripped-gear brain.
“Um, I mean I’m…”
“Call me Harcourt, Captain,” he said. “May I call you Joe? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve been following your career with great interest. The Deacon was right to rely on you as his right hand. You put my record for big-ticket saves to shame. I’m honored to shake your hand.”
It is entirely possible I said, “Eeeep.” Not sure, but let’s not rule it out.
It was in that moment that I became incredibly aware that my office was a mess, with a cluttered desk, stacks of folders everywhere, an open box of half-pawed-over doughnuts on the credenza, and the stale odor of overworked idiot perfuming the air. I wanted to tuck in my shirt and check to see if my fingernails were clean.
“And who’s this?” said Bolton, nodding to Ghost. “That’s a handsome dog. Combat trained, I expect. A beautiful example of the breed.”
He held out his hand to be sniffed. Ghost took his scent but then backed away, ears flattened, eyes narrowed. He even started to growl.
“Stop it,” I snarled, and Ghost jerked backward from me.
“No, no, it’s okay,” said Bolton easily. “I was petting Bastion and your dog probably smells that.”
I ordered Ghost to lie down. He obeyed, but it took me three tries. That was embarrassing, too, but Bolton did not comment on it. Too classy a guy for that.
“So sorry to intrude on you without a call,” said Bolton, “but with everything going on… well, you understand. Do you have time for a quick catch-up chat?”
“Oh, geez, I’ve got no manners at all. Please, come in.” I swept files from a leather guest chair and very nearly pushed him into it. “Rose, bring coffee and—”
“Tea for me, if that’s okay,” said Bolton.
“Tea. Sure. We have tea. Rose, do we have tea? Get some tea. Right now. Milk and cookies, too. And send someone out for pastries.”
“Just tea,” said Bolton, smiling, trying not to be too openly amused by my circus clown performance. I tried to straighten my desk without looking like I was straightening my desk. I opened a drawer and put my old coffee cup and the ham sandwich I was about to eat into it. Sadly, I wouldn’t find that sandwich for days. Then I sat down.
Yes, I am fully aware that I was acting like a moron. No, like a Trekkie who suddenly found himself in an elevator with Captain Kirk. I don’t actually have many heroes, but when I go bromance I go full bromance.
Bolton sat back and crossed his legs. He did it with great elegance. Very nice suit, polished shoes with rubber soles made to look like leather. Great for walking quietly while still looking nonchalant. Those shoes jumped onto my Christmas wish list.
Yeah, I said it. I coveted the man’s shoes.
Bolton said, “The Deacon tells me you’ve been working the Gateway case. Where are you with that?”
And suddenly I was back in the real world. I laid my hands flat, fingers splayed, on the files that still covered most of my desk. “This,” I said, “is a grade-A prime example of a clusterfuck. Pardon my French.”
“I’ve heard the word before, Captain. And as I work for Uncle Sam I’ve had cause to use it more times than I can count.” He paused, looking briefly uncomfortable. “Let’s get this out into the open right from the start, okay? I didn’t ask for this post. Being director of the Special Projects Office. I think this is the president taking a cheap shot at the Deacon. I think it shows a remarkable lack of faith in an organization that has done more measureable good for this country than anyone else. Including the CIA, and that’s my home team. And I am embarrassed to have to act as your boss. That’s wrong.”
I said nothing.
“Between you and me and the wallpaper, Captain, this is your shop and this is your op. You call the shots. I’ll be happy to file reports to mollify POTUS, but I’m not going to come in and piss in your yard and pretend I’m the dog with the biggest dick. Are we clear on that?”