Welcome to the further adventures of Jonny, Jessie, Hadji and their friends and family. This group of people has become like family to me. I feel as though I have walked beside them, watching them struggling through the bad times and celebrating with them through the good ones. A lot of people have commented that much of it has been very angsty and that's very true. But then, life is that way sometimes. All of us have lived through times like that and probably will again. But the nice thing about this group of people is that we always know that somehow, they will always make it through . . . a bit bruised sometimes, but always the better for it. And that is what has made it fun.
The Quest Saga a la Kluge has grown much bigger than I ever dreamed it would be when I wrote that first story. It now includes the five major original works, Jealousy, Jealousy II: The Return of Francesca, Summer Camp, On the Edge of Madness, and Battlefield, as well as eight side stories that are built within the universe and are designed to give other glimpses into the characters, both past and future. Those are Dinner At Eight, Do Not Stand, Full of Grace, The Gift of Flowers, Holiday Homecoming, In Memory, Thanksgiving Blues and Wishing on a Star. To all of you who have asked for more, I offer this new one . . . I call it Firezone. I hope you will like it.
As before, I owe a deep debt of gratitude to my editor, Susan Howe. In addition to having read and offered constructive criticism on version after version of this tale, she has also been a friend of the first order and I offer her my heartfelt thanks. Thanks also go out to Rob Lyman for the loan of his character, Mary Oldham. I couldn't have devised a better girlfriend for Mike Short if I had tried.
And finally, the deepest and most heartfelt thanks goes out to my husband, Chuck. Eternally supportive, patient, and always ready to give me a shove when I get stuck, I wouldn't know what to do without him. Without his encouragement, this monster never would have come to be. I am a very lucky woman, and believe me, I know it.
And with that, I think I've said enough. So now I offer you the latest installment in the on-going "Jealousy Saga". I hope you enjoy the ride . . .
by
Debbie Kluge
Prologue
Mid-December
Unnamed desert somewhere in the Southwest
Darkness receded slowly before the creeping light of dawn. Gradually, the increasing brightness began to illuminate a desolate landscape. Sand and barren ground stretched on in every direction, broken only by the occasional, twisted, sun-seared saltbush and random piles of rocks and boulders. Finally, on the distant horizon, this desolation blended into a wall of mountains. They circled and hemmed the place like the walls of an impenetrable fortress, keeping enemies out . . . or in.
At random intervals, small mountain ranges rose within this huge basin, thrusting their way toward the sky as though defying the low-lying land around them. Some looked weary, rounded and slumped, as though time had defeated them and they were no longer possessed with the strength to reach for the sky. Others jutted defiantly upward, ragged and sharp, as if attempting to cut the sky above them to ribbons. At their feet, the ground's uneven surface was cut by shallow gullies where water had once run down to the shores of an ancient, shallow sea. Salt and alkali showed along the edges of the gullies, forming cancerous patches of white that grew larger and larger as the land fell gently away, until they seemed to fuse together into the huge, white floor of a dried lake bed at the center of this vast bowl.
The stillness was absolute. Time seemed to hang suspended. Then, as the darkness gradually receded from this harsh world, the very ground itself seemed to breathe. Slowly . . . gently, the wind stirred. At first, it was almost imperceptible; just the barest hint of movement. Once . . . twice . . . three times . . . and each time the stillness returned, as though this land didn't wish to wake from it's slumber to face the coming day. Finally, the wind picked up and began to blow steadily. And on it's currents came something else . . . sound.
It broke the unnatural silence, sounding ominous and out of place . . . a low, steady growl which grew rapidly until it became ear-shattering thunder in the early morning dawn. Abruptly, one of the piles of boulders at the edge of the dry lakebed stirred. It stumbled and rose, resolving itself into a man. He was unkempt . . . dirty and ragged. The remnants of what appeared to be an old uniform hung from his wasted body. He started as the waves of sound bore down on him. Wildly, he looked around but there was nothing to be seen. Still, the sound increased in volume.
Then, from around the base of one of the isolated mountain ranges, a flash of silver appeared. The man froze, staring intently as the silver object drew closer and revealed itself to be a vehicle of some sort. It's movements were uneven . . . rumbling along sluggishly, only to jerk to a halt for no apparent reason. It would sit for a few seconds and then start forward again with an abruptness that sent dirt and sand rising in a cloud around it. The man stared like a wild thing that has been hunted to the edge of endurance. Finally, in panic, he bolted out onto the dry lakebed, running pell-mell across its flat, hard surface, as though dodging unseen obstacles.
Abruptly, a brilliant flash of light cut through the clear morning air. It stabbed outward like a lance from the moving object, striking the place where the ragged man had stood just moments before. A violent explosion erupted as the lance struck the ground, leaving a gaping hole singed with black. The reek of ozone filled the air. Three more times, that light lashed out, following the erratic path of the frantically fleeing man . . . always seeming to strike just a fraction of a second too late. Finally, as though zeroing in for the kill, a last flash of light hit the man squarely. When the smoke and dust from the explosion had cleared, nothing remained but the same desolate emptiness and a stench of burned flesh.
Unspecified location
Hundreds of miles away, a man in a black uniform turned away in dissatisfaction. He flushed a dark red as he glared at the three men cowering in front of him. "Unacceptable!" he thundered. All three men flinched.
Hesitantly, one of them finally offered, "The weapon appears to work as represented, sir. It seems only to be the targeting that is causing a problem."
The man turned away and began to pace, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. Imperceptibly, the three men relaxed. His white skin and hair made a striking contrast to the austere, black uniform he wore. "Unacceptable!" he repeated in ominous tones. "It must be accurate on the first strike. And it is too slow and erratic. It must move more fluidly and be more responsive."
"We could try to incorporate some form of on-board processing system," another one of them volunteered.
"No," the first man objected, "it would be too cumbersome. The speed and memory required would make the design unworkable. Not to mention the power demands. And you would have to increase the size of the machine too dramatically."
Frustrated, the second man replied without thinking. "There is just no good way of doing this,"
The white-haired man turned back to them. His fury was terrifying. His burning eyes bore into them, and his skin flushed an even darker red. The two men who had been arguing fell back before his fury, the second man beginning to shake in fear. The white-haired man followed them, step by slow step, shouting, "I do not pay you to tell me there is no way to do what I want! I want this weapon to work. It will work. And if you cannot make it do so, I will find someone who can!"
"But, Mr. Baxter, you are asking for a mobile weapon system that is totally unmanned, small and maneuverable, and yet as responsive as though a man were guiding it! The technology for that kind of fine and instantaneous control simply doesn't exist yet!"
The man named Baxter was on the verge of explosion when the third man finally spoke. His voice was cold and calculating, and stopped all of them short. "There is a way . . ."
Washington, D.C.
The almost-blinding flash of light faded away slowly as the room lights brightened. For a long time, the five men sitting around the large table were silent, absorbing the implications of what they had just seen. This was a strategy meeting designed to inform the highest levels of government of the potential threat looming on the horizon. The meeting brought some of the sharpest minds in the government together.
At the foot of the massive conference table, Admiral Charles Bennett sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, and calmly observed the men surrounding him. He smirked to himself. There's certainly truth in the old saying, 'Politics makes strange bedfellows'.
Bennett was a Navy commander who had risen in the ranks of the military through distinguished service for almost 30 years. His promotion to Commander of U.S. Military Forces had come about three years before, when General Tyler, his predecessor, had suffered a nervous breakdown after seeing "little green men" and had retired. Only five people knew the truth about that incident . . . and Admiral Bennett was one of them.
Next to him sat Commander Ethan Barclay. A lean black man about 45 years-of-age, Commander Barclay served as the Director of Intelligence and Covert Operations. Admiral Bennett had known Ethan ever since boot camp and had been impressed with the man from the beginning. Bennett's decision to promote Ethan to his old position over several men of longer tenure had created quite a stir. But time had proven him right; Ethan Barclay was the right man for the job. He was the sort of person that made you look twice . . . quiet authority tinged with an edge of danger. In dealing with him, you always had the sense that he was sizing up an adversary . . . and somehow you always came off second best. There was a sense of presence about him that was somehow unique. In addition, he commanded respect from his men. He stood behind them and supported their actions and they knew it. But he also knew where to draw the line and would not hesitate to take his personnel to task when necessary. Admiral Bennett turned toward the man Commander Barclay had brought with him this morning and secretly hoped that Barclay was strong enough to control this particular man.
Connor Leeds had a reputation within the Intelligence Service. His parents were poor, hard-working Irish immigrants who never seemed to be able to get ahead. Leeds was born and bred in Hell's Kitchen in New York, growing up in the welfare hotels and streets, dodging hookers, crack dealers, and junkies. Leeds and his family had stayed together tenaciously until the day Leeds' parents had turned up in a dumpster, each with a single bullet in the back of the skull. A Mob-style hit. Leeds was sixteen at the time and rumored to be an errand boy for the 'Westies', the Irish Mob. No one ever found out what actually happened, but about two days after Leeds' parents were found, one of the primary assassins and two of the enforcers for the Westies were found in the same dumpster. And three days after that, Leeds had joined the Army, lying about his age. It was said that he joined the service knowing that he wanted to be in the intelligence division and had worked with that goal in mind from the beginning. His black hair, dark blue eyes, handsome face, and charming personality masked an inner man that was ruthless and determined. Nothing seemed capable of standing in the way of what he wanted. His service record was brilliant, showing success after success . . . but closer inspection showed those successes to be littered with the dead bodies of the men assigned to his teams. Admiral Bennett had been privately concerned when he heard that Leeds had been in charge of this operation, and judging by the tape he had just seen, there appeared to be reason for that concern.
Across the table from Leeds sat Isaac Wolenchek. A small, rumpled man with a perpetually distracted look, he was the image of the head-in-the-clouds scientist. And the image was accurate . . . up to a point. Dr. Wolenchek was the government's Director of Research and Applications. He was a theoretical mathematician by training, and a brilliant research scientist. But he also had an uncanny ability to assess scientific discoveries in almost any field with unerring accuracy, and to turn those applications to practical use. To Admiral Bennett's knowledge, there was only one man in the world who was better at this . . . and he had consistently refused to accept Dr. Wolenchek's position with the government. No, Benton Quest was unlikely to become involved full-time with the military machine.
"Where did we get this?" Admiral Bennett turned his attention to the man at the head of the table . . . the man who was, in reality, the reason for this meeting. George Niemeyer was a somewhat plain man, nondescript in a way that was hard to put your finger on. Turn away from him and you would be hard-pressed to be able to give an accurate description of him. But that did not make him any less powerful. As White House Chief of Staff, he had the direct ear of the president. The politics of Washington were such that if you wanted to make the President aware of something, and yet keep his involvement hidden, George Niemeyer was the man you went to. And that was the purpose of today's meeting.
Commander Barclay flicked a glance at Leeds, who nodded an acknowledgement and replied, "This was transmitted to us via one of our informants in Baxter's organization. The incident shown occurred yesterday morning."
Niemeyer stared thoughtfully at each of the men around the table and then said, "Who is this man, Baxter? And what is the significance of this piece of tape?"
"Richard Elias Baxter," Commander Barclay replied as a picture flashed up on the screen at the front of the room. It showed a tall, thin man with snow-white hair and pale skin. " . . . international financier and head of Elias International, Ltd., a multi-national conglomerate with interests in everything from gold mining in Brazil to yak farming in Tibet. A recluse of the first order. This picture is estimated to be about 25 years old and is one of only a very few in existence. It was taken when he was still a graduate student at Cambridge." The scene on the monitor changed abruptly. The next shot showed an older man in a long black coat with a hat pulled low over his face, entering what appeared to be a hotel. He was standing in the shade near the entrance looking back over his shoulder. The picture was poor and there was a sense about it that said the man was trying to be inconspicuous.
Leeds picked up the narrative. "About ten years ago, rumors began circulating in the intelligence community about a new 'player' in the international weapons market. Spoken of only in whispers, this man was said to be extremely wealthy and powerful. For a long time, most of the intelligence agencies were convinced he was a myth. No one could ever get a line on him." Leeds smiled grimly. "We called him 'Kaiser Soze' . . . the mythical bogey man of the weapons trade."
"Until Halfaya Pass," Admiral Bennett said, staring thoughtfully at Leeds.
Leeds' smile disappeared abruptly. "Yes," was his stiff reply.
There had always been rumors about the episode in Halfaya Pass. A routine mission gone sour. That in itself wasn't so unusual, but this one had been particularly nasty. Casualties had been extremely high . . . only two men left alive out of the twelve men that went in . . . on what should have been a simple recon mission in North Africa. And the political ramifications had been unpleasant as well. The operation had been a covert one, initiated as the result of an under-the-table request by the U.N. Secretary General to investigate rumors that a faction of a militant terrorist group was brokering illegal arms sales to finance their activities. This organization was rumored to be headed by a mystery man who was planning something 'big'. In original concept, it had been a two-man recon job that had escalated into disaster. Needless to say, when it had blown up the Secretary General had publicly denounced the operation and the two men still alive had ended up taking the heat. Leeds, the junior man on the team, had received a written reprimand and had been sent back into the field as a junior operative. The promotion that had been in the works had been scrubbed. And the man in charge of the mission . . .
Bennett sighed to himself. No one knew what actually occurred that night in Halfaya Pass. Neither man would say. But it had largely been the end for Race Bannon. While not formally demoted, he had been shipped off to the Quests for a baby-sitting job. It was supposed to be the penalty Bannon had to pay for bad judgment. But Bennett knew that whatever had happened that night was not of Race Bannon's doing. No, that botched operation had Leeds' stamp all over it. It was funny, Bennett mused as he sat staring at Leeds, how you could never quite anticipate the end result of decisions. Many of Bennett's people at I-1 had argued strongly against assigning Bannon to the Quest detail. They felt that the duty was a slap in the face to a man of Bannon's experience and service. But the Higher Powers That Be were determined that someone would take the blame for the incident, and Bannon had been it. They had pointed out to Bannon that there would be no formal charges filed, and the written letter of reprimand and boring duty would serve to pacify the people out for blood over the incident. To everyone's surprise, Bennett had supported the assignment, but for his own private reasons. He was all too aware that Bannon was stretched to the breaking point. He was exhausted and some internal demon was driving him relentlessly. Bennett had hoped that the "babysitting job" would provide Bannon with the opportunity to relax a little. What no one had anticipated was that the already discontent Race Bannon would find a place for himself in the Quest organization . . . would become part of their family, as it were . . . and tell the government to shove it. They had lost one of the best men the organization had ever had over the Halfaya Pass incident, and Bennett hadn't trusted Leeds ever since.
Leeds shifted uncomfortably and after a moment he continued, "There was only one thing we knew. After the incident in Africa, the man and his organization went to ground. He bought, but he didn't sell. He was always in the market for new technology . . . nothing but state-of-the-art . . . and he would pay top dollar. But he wanted it in the development stage. If it was for sale in manufactured form, then he wasn't interested.
"This picture," Leeds said, nodding at the screen, "was taken about seven months ago outside the Corinthia San Gorg Hotel in Malta." The screen flashed again and displayed a close-up shot of the man. The picture had obviously been taken from a long distance using a telephoto lens. It was somewhat grainy and a bit fuzzy around the edges, but it was clearly identifiable as Baxter.
"By this time, there was enough in the way of rumors about the man for us to be concerned," Barclay added.
"This concern was fueled by a separate incident that occurred in the Grants and Government Contracts Division at roughly the same time," Dr. Wolenchek stated, joining in the narrative. "Ten months ago, the Grant Review Board, of which I am a member, was approached with a funding proposal for a new weapons system. It was small, mobile, heavily armed, instantly responsive, and . . . most interesting of all . . . totally unmanned."
Niemeyer looked at him sharply. "You mean it was like a guided missile or a pre-programmed weapon?"
Wolenchek shook his head. "No. Nothing so crude. This one was fully interactive with a live operator. It was capable of responding to an operator's commands almost instantaneously and with seamless precision. But it was controlled remotely, ensuring that the operator would remain safe during an attack. And, most importantly, if the weapon was damaged or destroyed on the field of battle, the operator simply moved his connection to a new unit and he could be as deadly and effective almost immediately." Wolenchek paused, thinking about it for a moment, then smiled wryly. "Think of Robo-cop without the live individual in the suit."
"But how is this possible?" Niemeyer objected sharply. "My understanding is that there is no programming in existence capable of being that precise or interactive.
"It is not done via standard programming," Wolenchek replied calmly. "It was done using VR."
"VR? You mean virtual reality? Like in video games?" Niemeyer asked, confused.
Wolenchek simply nodded. "Also roughly similar to the simulations the military currently use for training purposes. When the creator approached us with the plans, he still had a number of major problems with the design. He was seeking funding to continue the development. The funding proposal asked for money to complete the development and build a prototype."
"So what happened?" Niemeyer demanded. "What state is his research in now?"
Wolenchek shook his head regretfully. "I can't say. The Review Board chose to deny his request for funding."
"Why?" Bennett asked. "I know we weren't involved in the research but I didn't realize the creator had tried to get government funding."
"There were a number of reasons," Wolenchek replied. "For one thing, the political climate at the time wasn't favorable to funding weapons research. The fiasco with General Tyler and his accusation that the vice president was a "little green man" made everyone a bit edgy," he pointed out dryly. "There were a number of Board members who argued that funding weapons research at that time was political suicide. Also, there were a number of things in the design of the system that certain Board members felt were insurmountable. The general consensus was that he would never make the thing work."
"Did you agree, Isaac?" Niemeyer asked the man quietly.
Wolenchek was silent for a long moment. Finally, he replied heavily, "No, I didn't. I was fairly certain that he could make it work. I voted to fund the project, mainly to put us in a position to monitor the research. I was concerned that the very nature of the weapon would make it a national security risk if it were to be developed to operational form. Unfortunately, my colleagues didn't agree."
"And you're certain this is the same weapon," Niemeyer asked.
Wolenchek nodded. "Without question. You can tell that it still has some flaws, but this is a working prototype of the designs we saw.
"You said there were some problems with the designs that your colleagues felt were insurmountable," Admiral Bennett commented. "What were those problems, Doctor? And can you tell from this if they have overcome them?"
"There are at least two they are still having problems with," Dr. Wolenchek said, gesturing for the remote control to the video system. Leeds handed it to him and Wolenchek triggered the rewind function. After a few seconds, he stopped the system and kicked it into play. The five men watched in silence as the ragged man ran desperately across the lake bed in a zigzagging pattern until he was again enveloped in that brilliant flash of light. "Did you see how the weapon seemed to strike late? There's a communication lag between the weapon and the operator. The further away the operator is, the more lag time you have to deal with. And if the signal is broadcast via something like radio waves, the potential for interrupt or signal degradation makes the system unreliable. Also, there is the issue of cybersickness to deal with."
"Cybersickness?" Niemeyer asked, confused.
"It is a variant form of common motion sickness caused by the individual's perception of the VR environment," Wolenchek replied. "Even with the best system, there is a lag time, which is perceptible to the user. This lag tends to disrupt the inner ear. Also, there is some question of how extensive the effect of electromagnetic fields involved in VR generation is on the user. Prolonged activity in VR causes negative effects on the visual, neural, and psychological health of the individual. Symptoms can be as common as nausea or as severe as neural disruption. There is a condition known as "flicker vertigo" that is prevalent in heavy users of VR. Patients suffer brief seizures when a flickering light is observed, causing a brief loss of attention. While the medical research is incomplete, there is very strong evidence that prolonged exposure causes a marked increase of these symptoms. I suspect the erratic movements of the weapon are due to the operator suffering from a severe case of cybersickness.
"So it's a long way from being truly deadly," Niemeyer said in obvious relief. "Can we find a way to bring the weapon and its creator into our sphere of influence where the technology and its use is controllable?"
Barclay shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid not. Dr. Payson died under mysterious circumstances three months ago. It seems apparent now that the system was sold to . . . or taken by . . . Baxter, who is attempting to complete its development."
"But from what you say, he is going to have a very difficult time completing that. With the creator dead and the problems you describe plaguing him. It's doubtful he'll get it functional before we can stop him. The technology to make this work doesn't exist yet, is that correct?"
"No, it doesn't," Barclay replied as Leeds and Wolenchek shook their heads. But Admiral Bennett sat stock still, staring into space. He was remembering a trip to Quest Compound in Maine about a year before. He was there to discuss a former agency employee with Race Bannon. They had been in the lighthouse where Bannon had been working on upgrading the security system. As they went to leave, they descended the stairs and a lab had opened on one of the levels. As he looked in he saw Dr. Quest's two sons and Bannon's daughter. The elder boy was working at a computer console. On a monitor in front of him were displayed two state-of-the-art fighter jets, which appeared to be moving at a very high rate of speed. Quest's younger son and Bannon's daughter were seated in heavily padded contour chairs and each wore some type of headset which appeared to generate a brilliant bar of green light that encompassed their eyes like a pair of glasses. Both kids were riveted, their attention tightly focused on the gleaming bar of light. As he glanced in the lab, he heard the girl say,
"Okay, Hadji, we're all set. What's on the schedule for today?"
"We are clearing archived records today, Jessie. We have about ten gigabytes of old material that is due to be purged," the boy at the computer console replied.
Bennett heard the younger boy whistle and say, "That much, huh? Well, we'd better get started, then. I've got first strike, Jess."
"Go for it, Jonny," the girl agreed. "I'll follow you in." Bennett caught the movement on the monitor screen as the two jets rolled in a neatly coordinated move and sped toward a glowing globe, firing their weapons.
Bennett stared in fascination and started to move into the lab, asking, "What is that?"
Bannon had caught his arm and gently, but firmly, drew him back toward the stairs. "Oh, that's just the kids' idea of work. Come on, I'll escort you back to the car."
As they exited the lighthouse, Bennett had asked insistently, "But what was it? I've never seen anything like those planes!"
Bannon had laughed easily. "The planes? Those were Jonny's idea of the next generation of fighter plane. I actually think that was a games program that Hadji wrote for Jessie and Jonny."
"But how does it work? And what are those headsets? And . . ."
"Now, Admiral. You know I don't know anything about that stuff. I leave that to Benton and the kids."
Admiral Bennett snorted softly to himself again, just as he had done to Bannon's comment a year ago. It was one of the things that had made Bannon so good as an agent. His opponents would see the handsome face, white blonde hair, blue eyes, guileless smile and hear that subtle Texas drawl, and would dismiss him as some kind of yokel. Nothing could be further from the truth. That innocent demeanor disguised a mind like a steel trap and responses that could be lightning-fast and deadly when the situation warranted it. Enemies only underestimated Race Bannon once . . . they didn't get a second chance.
As Bennett sat staring into empty space, reliving that scene again in his mind's eye, he could feel his blood run cold. If he was right about what he suspected, they could all be in a great deal of trouble.
"Admiral Bennett?" Ethan Barclay's quiet voice broke into his reverie, causing Bennett to focus on the four men staring at him in concern.
"I think we need to talk with Benton Quest," Bennett said slowly. "And I think it needs to be done as quickly as possible."
Wolenchek sat forward, as Niemeyer asked sharply, "Why? This needs to be kept as quiet as possible. Bringing in an outside agent like Quest is dangerous."
Bennett was about to respond when he caught sight of Barclay's face. It wore the look of a man bringing a group of random events together, studying them, and coming to a conclusion he didn't like. "Ethan?" Bennett questioned softly. Barclay was silent and, as the two men's eyes locked, Bennett knew he had been right . . . they were in trouble. "What do you know?"
Barclay shook his head. 'I don't know anything," he replied. "But there was an incident . . ."
"Involving Quest?" Niemeyer questioned even more sharply.
Barclay nodded once. "It was several years ago . . . before you joined the president's staff, Mr. Niemeyer. The episode was kept very quiet, but looking back on it now, I think it may have some significance on our current situation."
"So what happened?" Niemeyer asked impatiently.
"The president's plane was hijacked . . . with him aboard." Niemeyer uttered an incoherent sound of disbelief as Barclay continued, "All the evidence indicated that Benton Quest and his family were at the heart of a terrorist attack to further some private agenda. There were videotapes of terrorist demands, evidence whose trail led back to the main research compound in Maine, and a number of other things that pointed directly at the Quests."
"I knew it!" Niemeyer exclaimed. "The man is dangerous . . . a security risk!"
"Preposterous!" Wolenchek cut across Niemeyer hotly. "I know Dr. Quest personally. He is not a traitor."
Through the raised voices and hubbub, Bennett demanded, "Why didn't I know anything about this?"
"The situation was dealt with quickly and quietly," Barclay responded, his strong, even voice effectively stilling the tumult around the table. "Quest was set up and it was with his help that the situation was resolved." Barclay suddenly grinned at Bennett. "Or, to be more precise, it was resolved with the assistance of Quest and Bannon's kids."
Bennett returned the grin, knowing exactly how Barclay was feeling. Bennett always felt a bit overwhelmed around those three teenagers. They seemed capable of out-thinking almost anyone. And they weren't afraid to act if the situation appeared to warrant it, either. A legacy of being influenced by Race Bannon, no doubt, Bennett mused, ruefully.
"Well, if Quest wasn't responsible, then who was?" Niemeyer asked, his doubt clear.
"A man named Jeremiah Surd," Barclay replied.
"Oh, that figures," Wolenchek responded disgustedly. "Surd hates the Quest family. I'm not surprised he would set something like this up and try and make the Quests take the fall."
"But . . ." Niemeyer began to protest, but Bennett cut him off.
"Surd's actions weren't the issue, though, were they, Ethan?"
"Not precisely. It's the method that Surd used to hijack the plane. He pirated a computer program onboard that allowed him to take over and pilot the plane remotely. It was the same way the Quest boy was able to take control of the plane from Surd and land it safely. Dr. Quest was rather vague about how the system worked, but he did say it was a variant of the simulator technology the government is currently using for training purposes.
"Definitely a VR application! How did it work?" Wolenchek asked eagerly.
Barclay shook his head regretfully. "I don't really know. I saw the boy use some type of glowing headset. And he seemed capable of maneuvering the airplane through whatever program Surd had installed in the plane. But how it worked is a complete mystery."
"Did he appear disoriented at all?"
"No," Barclay replied definitively. "He was fine, both during the operation and when he finished. He simply rose, took off the headset, and acted as if nothing unusual had occurred."
"Fully immersive VR," Wolenchek breathed in wonder. "Quest has done it! It's incredible . . ."
"Something this dangerous has no business in Quest's hands," Niemeyer insisted. "I tell you, the man is dangerous!"
Wolenchek snorted derisively, "The safest place for it is in Benton Quest's hands. Questioning the man's integrity or his loyalties is ludicrous. The reason the man won't work for the government is because he refuses to allow his work to be used for military purposes. And he has consistently assisted us when we have needed his help."
"Perhaps this isn't Quest's work," Leeds ventured for the first time. "Maybe the innovation is Surd's."
Wolenchek shook his head. "No, Jeremiah may be good at a lot of things, but the innovations needed to make this work aren't his strong points. But they are Benton Quest's. No . . . Quest invented this one. I have no doubt of it. And Surd pirated it." The silence that followed that statement was ominous.
"So if Baxter needs someone to make this system work, he would probably go for Surd," Niemeyer finally commented.
Barclay shook his head. "It would do him no good. Surd's last run-in with the Quests left his entire organization destroyed and all the lead players in jail."
"The altercation left Surd all but catatonic, as well." Wolenchek added. "Even if someone could break him out, he's in no shape to help them."
"You mean he's brain dead?" Niemeyer demanded.
"No," Wolenchek responded. "His brain is fully active, but it's as though he is locked into a portion of his mind that doesn't allow for interaction with his surroundings." The scientist shrugged. "The doctors are baffled."
"So that just leaves Quest . . ." Leeds mused, trailing off into thought.
". . . which makes him a prime target," Bennett finished for the younger man.
Niemeyer frowned darkly but reluctantly agreed. "Alright. I don't like it, but contact Quest. See if he will work on this with us."
"We'll also put surveillance on the Maine compou--," Bennett began.
But Niemeyer cut him off sharply. "No! Leave it alone. Also, don't tell Quest about the new weapon system. The less he knows about this, the better."
"But . . ." Bennett began to protest.
"NO!" Niemeyer said forcefully. "I still don't trust the man. He has too much influence and money, and he operates too far out of the government's control. Maybe he is as benign as you all think. But if he isn't, I don't want to give him any ideas. I don't care what cover story you invent, just don't tell him about that new weapon system." He paused and stared at each man in turn. "Furthermore, if the man is a natural target, I'm sure you gentlemen can find a way to use that situation to our advantage." Niemeyer rose and began gathering up the papers in front of him. "Keep me informed, gentlemen. I'll expect regular updates." Then he turned and walked out of the room.
Bennett sighed and rose, saying, "I'll set up a meeting with Dr. Quest."
"What are you going to tell him?" Barclay asked.
"I have no idea," Bennett replied heavily. "Anything but the truth, I suppose."
"I have a very bad feeling about this," Wolenchek said to no one in particular, as the four men exited the room.
Admiral Bennett couldn't have agreed more.