Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

Schofield leaned back in his chair.

He knew exactly how he’d done it.

“I did what you taught me,” he said.

“What I taught you?” Ulacco was rarely surprised. Her calm, cock-sure, seen-it-all facial expression was not often broken. But now it was. “What did I teach you?”

“You taught me to compartmentalize my mind,” Schofield said. “In a memory location. Or in my case, a, ahem, memory submarine.”

Ulacco eyed him closely. “I’ve often wondered about this, Shane. You chose a submarine as a memory locale because it is a perfectly sealable structure, but one with a purging option—one from which you can jettison memories. Did you jettison your memories of Libby Gant?”

Ulacco asked that question without expression, poker-faced. And even though she actually hung on the answer, she added, “There’s no right or wrong answer to this question, by the way.”

Schofield paused for a full minute, thinking long and hard.

Ulacco watched him, waiting.

Then he spoke.

“No. I didn’t. I could never jettison my memories of Libby. She was an incredible woman and I loved her and to remove all the wonderful memories of her would be to remove something that makes me whole, makes me who I am, makes me me . During my torture—and especially when I thought Mother had been killed—I just shoved all those good memories into a compartment deep within the submarine of my mind, shut the steel door and spun the flywheel till it was sealed tight. After that, Calderon couldn’t touch Gant. Nothing he could say or do to me would reach those memories, all those great memories. And I was okay.”

“You were okay? You died .”

“Only for a little while.”

Ulacco cracked a wry half-smile. “So you’re telling me that a memory technique that I taught you here in my crappy basement in Baltimore kept you sane while you were being tortured by one of the world’s foremost experts in breaking the human mind?”

Schofield nodded. “Yep.”

Ulacco turned away for a second, and despite herself, actually looked a little proud. It only lasted a second, but Schofield saw it. Then her usual self kicked back in.

“And then you sorta saved the northern hemisphere from annihilation?” she said.

“Yes.”

“So you could say that by saving you, I actually saved the world?” she said cheekily.

Schofield returned her smile. “I think you could say that.” And they laughed, for the first time in any of their meetings.

Ulacco stood. “Your time’s up, Captain. And you have an appointment with the President to keep.”

Schofield stood and nodded seriously. “Thanks, Doc. Thank you for all your help. Oh, there’s just one more thing.”

THE OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

24 SEPTEMBER, 2000 HOURS

Shane Schofield stood to attention in the Oval Office in his full dress uniform while the President of the United States hung a medal around his neck.

Beside him stood Mother, also in her dress blues and also at attention. Beside her stood four civilians—Dave Fairfax, Marianne Retter, Zack Weinberg and Emma Dawson—and one robot. Standing happily by Zack’s side, his lower body completely rebuilt and his exoskeleton shining, was Bertie.

Watched by the Commandant of the Marine Corps, the Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency and the Director of DARPA, they had all received various medals for “gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of their lives above and beyond the call of duty.”

Off to one side stood Brooke Ulacco, dressed in her quickly assembled Sunday best, looking a little stunned to be there. When the President stood before her, he had no medal in his hands.

“Dr. Ulacco,” he said softly. “Captain Schofield has nothing but the highest regard for you and your skills as a therapist. Being President is a pretty stressful job and I’ve been looking for someone to talk to about it, a therapist of sorts. Someone who’ll be tough but fair, yet also discreet. And I hear you now have a substantial amount of security clearance; this would only require a few more background checks. You up for it?”

For the first time since he had met her, Schofield saw the unflappable Dr. Ulacco go wide-eyed with shock.

Once the medal ceremony was over, the President had the Oval Office cleared of everyone but Schofield.

“I have someone here to talk with you, Captain,” the President said. He keyed an intercom. “Mary, please send in the ambassador.”

A side door opened and into the Oval Office walked three figures: one of whom Schofield had never seen before and two that he had.

The man he didn’t know was a tall regal-looking fellow with swept-back silver hair, a long aquiline nose and an imperious bearing; he wore an obviously expensive suit.

The other two—also wearing civilian clothes—were Veronique Champion and Baba. Champion looked fit and svelte in a tailored skirt-suit and heels. She wore perfectly applied makeup and her sleek black hair hung down to her shoulders, having been cut for the occasion. For his part, Baba had trimmed his beard a little but he looked very uncomfortable in a suit. He still wore one arm in a sling.

“Captain Schofield,” the President said, “may I introduce to you the French Ambassador to the United States, Monsieur Philippe de Crespigny.”

Schofield noticed that the President had used the formal method of introduction; only when someone did that, they usually introduced the more senior person to the more junior person. For the President to name Schofield first was to suggest that in this room, he ranked higher than the French ambassador. Schofield was sure the ambassador didn’t miss that either.

“Monsieur,” the French ambassador bowed as he shook Schofield’s hand. “I believe you know Major Champion and Master Sergeant Huguenot.”

Schofield nodded to Champion and Baba. “I do. It’s good to see them again and looking so well.”

The President said, “The ambassador has a message to deliver to you, Captain, from his president.”

The ambassador stood a little taller. “Captain Schofield,” he said stiffly, formally, “the Republic of France sends its sincere thanks to you. Major Champion and Master Sergeant Huguenot have informed the President of France that your actions in the field, in addition to saving several other nations, saved France. It is my duty to inform you that the President has thus rescinded the standing bounty on your head. The Republic of France no longer has a grievance with you, Captain Schofield.”

Schofield’s mouth fell open.

Champion smiled at him. Baba grinned.

And the President of the United States, in particular, looked very, very pleased.

ASHORT BUFFET of cakes and coffee followed in the Roosevelt Room, as usually happened after a presidential audience.

Zack and Emma were showing the President Bertie’s many features while Champion chatted with Brooke Ulacco.

Mother’s husband, Ralph, was also there in his best suit and a truly awful tie, yet Mother looped her arm firmly through his as they chatted amiably with Baba and Schofield.

“So, Scarecrow,” Mother said. “Did they ever find that CIA asshole, Calderon, the ‘Lord of Anarchy’?”

Schofield shook his head. “No, but I’m guessing that one day I’ll be called into a high-level meeting and at that meeting will be a very senior CIA asshole who will tell me that Marius Calderon has been found, dead.”

“Only he won’t be dead . . .” Mother said.

“No. Calderon is one of the CIA’s best and brightest. He formulated that plan for Dragon Island nearly thirty years ago and it worked perfectly—everything went as he foresaw it, except for one variable: us. If we hadn’t been up there, all of China and most of the northern hemisphere would be in ashes right now. No, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marius Calderon is already back in the States, back at Langley with a new face and a new name, but probably the same office.”