Part 14 (1/2)

Well I don't have the machine, but I can visualize.

He wouldn't be able to objectively monitor what state of being he was in precisely, but gauging the level at which he could control his environment would give him a clue.

Jay considered several other benchmarks he could use to test his consciousness level. If his memory got markedly better, he might be in a Theta-wave state. If he suddenly felt more at ease and relaxed, he'd be in an Alpha-wave state. And when things got the most active, and he felt more in control control, he'd have moved to Beta.

Well, they aren't exactly numbers on a monitor, but they'll have to do.

Jay relaxed on the sand, picturing it warmer, heated by the sun, and then even hotter. Things moved faster in a hot environment, so he figured that might help. If his real body got warmer as well, it might physiologically help his brain with improved blood flow, too.

With his eyes closed, he thought of heat, a vein of lava running under the sand. He felt warmer and imagined sweat rolling off himself.

At the same time, he began to think of his brain as a spinning top. He pictured it, gray and twisted, uncoiling and spinning faster and faster until it was a huge ring, the neurons more and more excited.

He remembered what he'd been doing just before the accident. He'd been thinking of flowers for Saji, to congratulate her about the news. Pink was one of her favorite colors, and he'd been debating whether or not he should go with a bouquet or something more symbolic, like three flowers to represent himself, her, and the baby.

And the car had come rolling at him, fast.

Theta. Memory's on-line.

His brain twirled, as if in a centrifuge, the gray matter pressed up against the side. He pictured the centrifuge itself set inside an amus.e.m.e.nt park ride, spinning ever faster, wheels within wheels. The lava under him had moved closer to the surface, and he was baking now, his body on fire as he sped up.

A wave of knowledge hit him, and he had ideas, all kinds of them.

The Alpha-Theta border?

People in this state of mind were supposed to suddenly gain great insight as their thoughts pa.s.sed from the seven-to eight-hertz range. He had a flash of memory about the Schumann resonance, the resonant frequency of the ionosphere, 7.5 hertz and multiples. In a flash of inspiration he saw another direction to go.

He dropped the heat and spinning visualizations and imagined himself in a bed. The images were coming faster now, and more clearly. It was like stepping from a black and white world into color. Everything was more intense.

I'm in a hospital bed.

Jay pictured the bed, the room quiet, made up of the same nondescript decor and hardware found in hospitals all across the nation. He could almost hear a beeping sound, and he imagined it might be an EKG keeping track of his heart. He tried to imagine the feel of the cool sheets on his skin, the whisper of an air conditioner nearby, the click of heels on a floor.

”He's coming around!”

”The monitor's going crazy!”

Voices! He heard voices!

Beta, here we come!

But, in that moment, the voices faded, and he felt a heaviness wash over him. A moment later, he was back on the beach, sun s.h.i.+ning mercilessly, sand under his b.u.t.t.

He cried out in anger, then calmed himself. He had made progress, he was sure of it. He had a goal now, a direction, and he was going to beat this thing. It was only a matter of time.

He was Jay Gridley. He was not going to roll over and give up.

No way.

15.

Ha.s.sam, Iraq Howard heard the spang! spang! as a jacketed a.s.sault rifle round ricocheted off the concrete wall a foot above his helmet. He ducked instinctively-too late, of course. You don't hear the one that kills you, he knew that. But if you hear one, that means somebody has targeted you, and there will probably be more on the way. There were men who never bothered to duck at all when they were in a fire zone-they figured the one with their name on it would get them no matter if they were hunched over or standing upright, but Howard always figured that the smaller the target the less likely you'd get tagged. Might be more than one with your name on it-no point in tempting fate. as a jacketed a.s.sault rifle round ricocheted off the concrete wall a foot above his helmet. He ducked instinctively-too late, of course. You don't hear the one that kills you, he knew that. But if you hear one, that means somebody has targeted you, and there will probably be more on the way. There were men who never bothered to duck at all when they were in a fire zone-they figured the one with their name on it would get them no matter if they were hunched over or standing upright, but Howard always figured that the smaller the target the less likely you'd get tagged. Might be more than one with your name on it-no point in tempting fate.

The tiny village was typical for the Mid East-a lot of adobe and concrete-block construction, some of the older stuff probably going back a thousand years. The streets had been made for pack animals-donkeys, camels, whatever-and not automobiles, and until recently the buildings had been designed to fit the terrain and not the other way around. The result was a third-world town that might have been created by giant rats, full of twists and turns, low overhangs, and alleyways no wider than two men walking side-by-side could traverse even without the garbage bins.

There were also a McDonald's, a Starbucks, and even a Gap store.

”Able One, bring your aim to bear on that sniper in the second-story window on the northwest corner of the hotel,” Abe Kent said.

Despite the intermittent gun fire and occasional grenade going off, Howard didn't have any trouble hearing the colonel's clipped commands over the LOSIR headset built into the helmet.

”I want to see a metal hailstorm filling that aperture in five seconds. When it does, I want Baker Two's AT man to cross the street and into that Starbucks. Everybody copy?”

”Able One copies.”

”Baker Two copies.”

”On my mark-five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . and fire!”

Eight subguns spoke as one, and anybody in or around the mosque's window who didn't duck better be bulletproof.

Howard peeked around the edge of the Dumpster, a nice, thick, bullet-stopping steel-plated one, and watched as Baker's ant.i.tank man scooted across the street, dodging and stutter-stepping, ending in a dive and roll. The man had some speed.

The subguns went quiet.

”Baker Two AT, put a rocket through that hotel window at your convenience.”

There were undoubtedly civilians in that hotel, and Kent wanted very much to minimize any unintended or ”collateral” damage. But they were taking fire, and the first rule of engagement was always the right to self-defense.

Three seconds later, a new JAM-II ant.i.tank antisniper laser-guided smart rocket whooshed whooshed from a shoulder launcher, zipped the hundred yards from the Starbucks to the mosque, still gaining speed as it went through, and turned the room inside out in a fiery roar. The precision of the weapon meant, however, that the surrounding rooms were all untouched. from a shoulder launcher, zipped the hundred yards from the Starbucks to the mosque, still gaining speed as it went through, and turned the room inside out in a fiery roar. The precision of the weapon meant, however, that the surrounding rooms were all untouched.

Adios, sniper.

Howard smiled. He was just here as an observer, and while he might have done it differently, there was no arguing with success. Abe Kent had been in combat as often as any man of his rank, more than most, and when you wanted the job done, he was your go-to guy.

”Nice shot, son, I owe you a beer. Able One, recon and report.”

Howard pulled his head back to cover and looked at Kent, who sat on his heels in a squat he had learned in some Southeast Asian jungle years before.

”Very neat, Colonel.”

”All in a day's work, sir. Not like I haven't been in this general vicinity before.” He waved at the street.

”Are we done?”