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  The general was fishing, McGraw thought. But what was he fishing for?

  “Any lessons learned?”

  “Can’t say for sure. I could have put my men a few meters off more or less, here or there. Moving faster. Maybe it would have made a difference. But retreat wasn’t the right thing to do. That I knew. And I had to put a stop to that.”

  “And so what was the final score?” the general asked. It was a rhetorical question. He had the answer. “Five dead grunts, ten wounded; a dozen dead A-rabs; and one jailed notorious colonel.”

  McGraw knew he was bordering on being a wiseass but had one more thing to say. “Sir, it rained that night, too. It hadn’t rained in Baghdad in two months. The rain bogged down convoys in the mud and made a few of them easy targets. I’ll take the blame for that, too, if it helps us get any closer to victory.”

  “I believe”—the general took a moment to level his thoughts—“that you have been royally screwed. Having said that, I want you to know that there is absolutely nothing I can do to alter your sentence. But I can alter how you spend your time serving it, and I’m hoping that you are still a soldier willing to serve his country.”

  “You ought not have any doubts about that, sir.”

  The general was convinced that McGraw had the military chops to do the job. He wanted to be sure the man had the character, as well.

  “How do you fill your time?” he asked.

  “I read.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “I used to like humor—Woody Allen, Steve Martin. Now it’s mysteries and historical novels. Anything that makes me think.”

  “Playboy? Penthouse?” the general smiled slyly.

  “No, sir. They don’t allow porn. But if you can get it to me, I’ll read it. I still have a libido and a good hand. I may die here, but I’m not dead yet.”

  Where was all this going? Link wondered.

  “It wouldn’t have taken much lying on your part to lay this business off on the enemy.”

  “It would have been a lie nevertheless,” McGraw quickly replied and smiled. “It would have ruined my perfect record.”

  “Are you religious?”

  From porn to religion—what did the general have in mind?

  “I believe in God but not religion. I’ve seen too many men die in the name of it to believe in any organized religion. And you, sir?” McGraw parried back. It was time to have a two-way conversation.

  “I fake Southern Baptist,” the general responded frankly. “To honor my mother. But I believe in God. I believe he gave us more potential than we’ve yet lived up to.”

  The general sat forward, quiet, intense, his fist supporting his head like Rodin’s The Thinker. And Link sat there quietly, as well—but just for a moment before he opened up a little more. He hadn’t held an intelligent conversation with anyone for nearly a year and wasn’t about to let the time pass in silence. He had things worth saying.

  “I do believe in reincarnation.”

  “Oh?” the general replied, sitting more upright, interested. “I’m disappointed.”

  “Why?” McGraw parried back, hoping he hadn’t gone one word too far.

  “Too George Patton. Old Blood and Guts had the same beliefs. Excuse me for being a skeptic, but everyone I’ve ever met or read about who believed in reincarnation was once someone famous—Napoleon, Caesar, Genghis Khan. Nobody was ever a garbage man.”

  “I don’t know about that. Maybe all men don’t get reincarnated. Or, maybe a former life collecting garbage is just full of memories, and odors, worth suppressing. I just know who I was.”

  “So, who were you?” Mack asked.

  McGraw pulled off a medallion he wore around his neck. He handed it to the general, who studied it carefully. It was an ancient coin with a raised image that looked like a Roman emperor.

  “Who’s this? Caesar?”

  “No. That’s me. Ptolemy, one of Alexander the Great’s generals.”

  “But not one of his slaves. See, nobody is ever reincarnated as a nobody.”

  “That may be true. But,” Link began to make his point, “why would I imagine being reincarnated as a subordinate of Alexander the Great? Why not just imagine being Alexander the Great?”

  “Lack of imagination, maybe.”

  “No, it was just who I was.”

  The general looked over McGraw’s file again. “Says here you’re Irish Catholic.”

  “That’s who I am now.”

  “And did this revelation come to you after two or three bottles of Cuervo Gold?” the general quizzed cynically.

  Link smiled. “It’s nonsensical, I know. But some things you just know, and I know I have an attachment to this soul. I was a childhood friend of Alexander; one of his generals in the campaigns of India and Afghanistan; governor of Cyrenaica; and later, pharaoh of Egypt.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “And, as Ptolemy, what would you say was your best attribute?”

  McGraw didn’t hesitate. “I was loyal.”

  And with that, General Shell knew he had the right man—even if he was all bullshit.

  “Have you ever heard of the Manhattan Project, Colonel?” the general asked.

  “The old World War II code name for the development of the atomic bomb?” McGraw quickly replied.

  “Exactly.”

  The general went on to explain why he had come and why he had chosen McGraw. He needed a soldier who had proven leadership ability but no baggage—no lust for rank, no political connections, no family attachments, no fear, and nothing to lose. When General Shell finished explaining the duty he required of him, Colonel McGraw, the prisoner, stood, came to attention, and said simply, “Sir, I serve at your pleasure.”

  There was but one thing about the general’s proposal that bothered McGraw, or at least his ego. Strangely, for a man who had no rank, it was the fact that he was being asked to command merely a platoon of what the general described as “very special forces.” A platoon consisted of just two to four squads, perhaps twenty to forty men, and was usually commanded by a lieutenant with a senior sergeant as second in command. McGraw had been a lieutenant colonel in charge of a battalion, made up of four to six companies, with each company having three to five platoons. A battalion was the army’s main combat tactical unit, with enough manpower, supplies, and administrative self-sufficiency to conduct its own independent maneuvers. A little army, if you will.

  Link summoned up the courage to boost his capabilities. “Sir, I can handle the command of more than just a platoon, even if they are special forces.”

  “And I expect you will,” the general answered. “But your command will have to evolve. First we’ll crawl on all fours. Later we’ll stand upright.”

  As soon as he had decided on McGraw as his choice, Shell thought about introducing him to Quilty, a man who had become the general’s spiritual guide—his guru, sage, counselor, if you will. But that would have to take place at a later time. For now he would speak to him of Lemuria—a past and present place.

  “We humans were once, eons ago, very different creatures,” Mack began, speaking of the same things Quilty had spoken of to him years before. “Most scientists believe we’ve evolved. But there are others, like myself, who believe we once had attributes far beyond what we exhibit today. I intend to rediscover those talents and restore what we’ve lost.”

  Shell stared hard at McGraw, as if his gaze alone would convince him. “I know you will find it hard to believe,” Shell went on. “But do you want to believe?”

  Link McGraw was unsure of what the general meant, but he nodded his assent. Mack Shell was throwing open his prison doors. He was not about to refuse anything his angel asked.

  Twenty-four hours later, McGraw found himself at a place the general had code-named Lemuria. After Leavenworth, anyplace would have seemed like paradise, but McGraw found Lemuria to be a real paradise indeed, a place where soldierly dreams come true.
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  The tragedy of scientific man is that he has found no way to guide his own discoveries to a constructive end. He has devised no weapon so terrible that he has not used it. He has guarded none so carefully that his enemies have not eventually obtained it and turned it against him. His security today and tomorrow seems to depend on building weapons which will destroy him tomorrow.

  —Charles A. Lindbergh

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Using a Leica confocal electron microsope with resolution to one hundred nanometers, Dr. Joshua Jaymes carefully studied the dendrites of mouse neurons that had successfully morphed across a barrier of transected spinal cord tissue. This was a project he had worked on since completing his doctorate training in cellular engineering at MIT. The growth of new neurons and the regeneration of dormant neurons was his specialty. The conundrum remained to get them to perform and regenerate in special ways as opposed to haphazard ones, and in specially designated areas such as those damaged in brain or spinal cord injuries. Simple growth was not enough. What was needed was directed growth. His research had involved consideration of different triggering mechanisms—cellular pH, growth factors, enzymatic prompts, chemical and radiation stimulation—all had been tried at one time or another. His latest research, however, was bearing greater fruit as spinal cord tissue of mice whose cords had been transected was stimulated to regrow and reconnect, giving the animals some renewed ability to move paralyzed extremities. Excluding monies going for AIDS research, his was the hot project of the new century, and only a half dozen other researchers in the nation received as much NIH grant money as Jaymes. If there was a paper published on neurophysiology, his name was likely on it somewhere, as a contributor to the project or a resource to be quoted. In the tight-knit world of genetic research, he was a player. But like other researchers in his field, he held his cards close. His techniques, his results, even his missteps were kept secure until he was ready to publish. Too much was at stake. He survived on grant money, and that funding only came with results and a track record of success. He had seen too many of his peers with great potential reveal too much, too soon about their research, only to have it dismissed before it reached fruition, or stolen by better funded associates. All too often, he saw that the reward for “openness” was a job teaching undergrads in a junior college.

  Joshua Jaymes was six-foot-three and morbidly obese. He had no time for exercise. His complexion matched the vanilla white walls in his windowless laboratory. His idea of recreation with his family was a movie and dinner. And most of the time he would call ahead to say he had to skip the movie and settle for dinner.

  His phone rang. He had long-standing orders that none but the most urgent calls be put through during his research period. Over the years he had realized he could accomplish little if he spent his days handling mundane calls from everyone—including his wife, his children, friends, colleagues, and sycophants. His assistant had orders never to put through a call unless it was a dire emergency. As he reached for the phone, his mind raced with how to admonish her for what was likely to be a wasteful diversion.

  The call was indeed to prove a diversion—one that would quickly take him away from his current work and his entire family far away from home. The call was from Dr. Julius Wagner. They had met at a conference a year earlier and chatted about the professor’s breakthrough work on gene splicing. How does one not take a call from a Nobel Laureate? Thirty minutes later, Dr. Jaymes was sitting in the front seat of an F-15C. He had to be shoehorned into the aircraft. The pilot had clear orders to transport him, and his size wasn’t going to be a good enough excuse. About an hour later, after traveling at Mach 2.5 plus, and throwing up only once, Dr. Jaymes was across the country and sitting across a table from Dr. Wagner and several uniformed military men at a nondescript military base in the middle of a desert. His destination had not been disclosed, but by the direction and time of flight he figured the base was probably in the Arizona or Nevada desert somewhere. He mused that he was in Area 51, that infamous and secret military installation that hid top secret aircraft and maybe even the remnants of alien spaceships and spacemen.

  On the same day that Professor Wagner met with Joshua Jaymes, he met five other world-renowned scientists. All were transported to him with the utmost secrecy. Employers, colleagues, family were all provided plausible but untrue stories for their departure.

  Dr. Wagner’s interviews were conducted like stealth attacks, quick and quiet. Should anyone refuse the offer he presented, they would be returned immediately to their homes. They were sworn to secrecy with the severest of threats and, having had their routines disrupted for just a few hours, they induced little suspicion from others. Over the last several months, Dr. Wagner had had several meetings like this. He was providing men who lived for science an opportunity to have unlimited resources at their disposal in a project likely to advance their careers and the knowledge of mankind in months rather than decades. Few refused.

  Joshua Jaymes had just spent the last six months preparing his latest application for National Institute of Health funding. He spent as much time, if not more, preparing proposals as doing research. His current proposal for a research grant would complete an initial peer review in about a month. Another six to eight weeks would pass as the proposal was sent around the country for external peer review comments. Then, if there was consensus and if funding was still available, the application moved to a second level for review by a main advisory council. Another two months would pass. If the project was then approved, the grant funds would be awarded and checks would arrive about a year and a half after the initial process began. However, most of the time, the council would ask for revisions and the process would begin anew. Dr. Wagner was offering him a blank check for his research, a home for him and his family on an island paradise, and a hefty salary, tax free.

  Every question that Jaymes had anticipated was answered affirmatively. These people had done their homework well. It all seemed too perfect. There had to be something he could ask for that would elicit a “no” response. Was there something he was missing?

  “Do they have Ben and Jerry’s ice cream in the stores there?” Dr. Jaymes asked. As soon as the question flew out of his mouth, he wondered how he could reel it back in. What foolishness.

  But Professor Wagner pondered the question seriously and then turned to whisper to one of the army officers by his side. The officer pushed a paper and pen to Dr. Jaymes.

  “What flavors would you like, Doctor?” the officer asked.

  Jaymes smiled and scribbled his favorites on the paper. He was committed. Wagner smiled, too. He had another member of his team, another exquisitely trained mind, who would be exuberantly dedicated to the tasks ahead. How bizarre, Dr. Wagner thought, that the fate of an entire nation could depend on Cherry Garcia.

  A politician—one that would circumvent God.

  —William Shakespeare

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  We’re going to move five from Commerce to Homeland,” Leland Bruce offhandedly told his legislative aide, whose job was to make his boss’s decisions known to the rest of Bruce’s committee.

  U.S. Senator Leland Bruce of Maine had been head of the Senate Appropriations Committee for five years. Bruce wrote personal checks at home for dollars and cents, but at work in his offices in the Senate’s Hart Building, when he spoke in the numbers one through hundreds, everyone knew he meant billions.

  Nearly three decades earlier Bruce had been a wealthy contributor to the Republican Party. He began his rise as a wiry, ugly duckling teenage computer geek with a reedy voice and the standard techie wardrobe of button-down shirts, a pocket protector full of pens, and a cheap digital Casio watch. He started out making simple gadgets in his garage and went on to create a Fortune 500 telecommunications conglomerate. He acquired a beautiful wife, celebrity friends, the requisite professional sports team, and with age and a chin implant, he actually became somewhat handsome. When the Democratic senat
or from his state died in a plane crash with less than one year left in his term, the Republican governor was urged by his party to appoint a Republican politician to the vacant seat. The press and the public pressured him to appoint a Democratic politician to the seat that had been held by a Democrat. To avoid the quandary, he appointed Bruce, a Republican contributor who announced that he had no political ambitions and wouldn’t run for reelection. Career politicians spent millions jockeying for position in the months before the senatorial election. Political power, however, was as addictive as a narcotic. Two weeks before the filing deadline, Leland Bruce announced that he’d sold his company for nearly twenty billion dollars because he felt he could do more for the nation continuing as a U.S. senator than as an entrepreneur. Then he made several personal calls to his most likely opponents from both parties. Matter-of-factly, he told them the dirty truths he’d uncovered about their lives and the untruths he was prepared to tell as well.

  “I’m prepared to spend half my fortune—ten billion dollars—to win this office,” he told them.

  That was more than all the campaigns had cost for every contested seat in the U.S. Senate and House of Representatives in the previous election. That was the stick he proffered. He also offered a carrot.

  “Support me now,” he said, “and instead of spending my fortune on ruining your good name, I’ll either make you wealthy or put you in power once I’m in office—perhaps a congressional seat, a governorship, an ambassadorship. But I promise you one thing,” he added. “You’ll either have a loyal friend forever, or the worst of enemies.”

  Leland Bruce won his first election for the U.S. Senate virtually unopposed. It was the least expensive campaign run in his state in a decade. Bruce well knew that strange paradox—having obscene amounts of money often means you don’t have to spend it to get what you want. In getting people to capitulate, it was like having a gun pointed at someone’s head. Having the capability of pulling the trigger, most often meant you never had to.