The Last Oracle

James Rollins

The Last Oracle

September 7, 2:17 a.m., Washington D.C.

Painter hurried down the hall. He didn't meed any more trouble, but he got it.

The entire command bunker was in lockdown mode after the attack. As he had suspected, after the fiery death of Mapplethorpe, the few remaining combatants ghosted away into the night. Painter was determined to find each and every one of them, along with every root and branch that supplied Mapplethorpe with the resources and intelligence to pull off this attack.

In the meantime, Painter had to regain order here.

He had a skeleton team pulled back inside. The injured had been transported to local hospitals. The dead remained where they were. He didn't want anything disturbed until he could bring in his own forensic team. It was a a grim tour of duty here this evening. Though Painter had employed the air scrubbers and ventilation to clear the accelerant, it did nothing to erase the odor of charred flesh.

And on top of resecuring the facility here, he was fielding nonstop calls from every branch of the intelligence agency: both about what had happened here and about the aborted terrorist act at Chernobyl. Painter stonewalled about most of it. He didn't have time for debriefings or to play the political game of who had the bigger dick. The only brief call he took was from a grateful president. Painter used that gratitude to buy him the latitude to put off everyone else.

Another attack threatened.

That was the top priority.

The Last Oracle. Photo by Elena.

And as the latest problem was tied to that matter, he gave it his full and immediate attention. Reaching the medical level, he crossed to one of the private rooms. He entered and found Kat and Lisa flanking a bed.

Sasha lay atop it as Lisa repositioned an EEG lead to the child's temple.

She's sick again? Painter asked.

Something new, Lisa answered. She's not febrile like before.

Kat stood with her arms crossed. Lines of worry etched her forehead. “I was reading to her, trying to get her to sleep after everything that had happened. She was listening. Then suddenly she sat up, turned to ans empty corner of the room, called out the name Pyotr, then went limp and collapsed.”

“Pyotr? Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Yuri mentioned Sasha had a twin brother named Pyotr. It must have been a hallucination.”

While they talked, Lisa had retreated to a bank of equipment and began powering them up. Sasha was wired to both an EKG and EEG, monitoring cardiac and neurological activity.

“Is her device active?” Painter asked, nodding to Sasha's TMS unit.

“No,” Lisa answered. “Malcolm checked. He's already come and gone. Off to make some calls. But something's sure active. Her EEG readings are showing massive spiking over the lateral convexity of the temporal lobe. Specifically on the right side, where her implant is located. It's almost as if she's having a temporal lobe seizure. Contrarily her heart rate is low and her blood pressure dropped to her extremities. It's as if all her body's resources are servicing the one organ.”

“Her brain,” Painter said.

“Exactly. Everything else is in shutdown mode.”