Chapter Thirteen
During Elena’s remote-viewing training, the concept of going somewhere using the mind didn’t quite click into place until she found the “vehicle” of choice, her race car, which she’d nicknamed “The Rocket Ship”.
Breathing control, check. Relaxation and reaching an altered state, check.
Consciously groping for some unknown destination identified only as a universal address—half the class had failed that exercise.
Describing the target successfully, whether it was a bag of marbles on top of a building or the inside of a cave filled with bats, tested her senses and belief system.
And yeah, half of the class had failed that one.
Those who were left—Elena included—started advanced training under the care of two operatives from the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology.
She was introduced to “long-distance remote viewing”, a program focusing solely on operation-based objectives, moving from Point A and B with minimal guidance, the use of a mental trigger, and, most important of all, moving from Point B to A without losing control or information.
The use of a familiar travel or observation device was just a means to an end.
To escape the grueling internal war with the belief system, it also became a comfort zone, or an escape hatch, should the surroundings or sensations start to overwhelm.
Now, the mental leap of jumping into her vehicle and taking off was a natural extension to her remote-viewing process.
Change gear. Speed up. Focus on the universal agreement.
The mental toll exacted a heavy price. Seventy-five percent of her “class” didn’t complete the course.
Having seen firsthand how a few of those who failed had to deal with the stress, Elena was very aware of the danger of overextending her remote-viewing session. One universal agreement was usually it. She’d never done two, and an unspoken universal agreement that was somebody else’s at that.
She stepped on the gas, adrenaline fueling her excitement.
That feeling that had haunted her during and after completing her training—that she was in some state of “becoming”—filled her again, pungent as the sweet smell of strawberries, her senses unfurling in some kind of need that she couldn’t even explain.
She stuck out her tongue as if she could taste it.
“Elena.”
Hades’ Southern drawl made her shiver. Strawberry and a chocolaty mudslide. Oh, man.
“Elena, Dr. Kirkland’s reporting a spike in your readings. Are you feeling okay? If you don’t feel right, we won’t continue.”
She smiled, her eyes looking at the speeding space and colors zipping past her race car. Was he showing some concern? “I’m fine. The colors seem brighter this time. Can you see it?”
There was a pause. “No. I can feel your excitement. And I taste strawberries.”
Elena grinned. It struck her as funny how her feelings could be transferred, just like that. She didn’t even understand why strawberries were invading her senses, so how was she going to convey to him what was happening to her?
“It’s my excitement,” she offered an explanation.
“Your excitement tastes like strawberries?”
Even there, in the middle of mind space, she could hear that slight twang in his voice, his amusement slipping through. “I feel...amazing. Like I can go faster and faster.”
“Concentrate on the universal agreement, Elena.”
That was definitely the monitor exerting his control.
She made a face. The temptation to put her foot on the pedal and just go where the flying colors would take her was very strong.
But Hades was right. This was unchartered territory for her and she must be careful.
She closed her eyes, extending her will over the unknown universal agreement.
“A bag of marbles for him would still be a bag of marbles for any other remote viewer. Therefore, I’ll go to his bag of marbles,” she mumbled.
She opened her eyes as the floating sensation slowed. And voila! she mouthed silently. Here we are, wherever this is.
She exited The Rocket Ship, concentrating hard as the usual jumble of sensations poured over her consciousness.
This is where she had to learn to stop thinking because thoughts would get in the way.
The key was to pick one thread, one sensation, and focus on it.
Her CIA mentor had likened it to finding the end of a rope and using it as a guide in a maze.
It was pitch black and everything around her was shaking. She could hear labored breathing and jostling. Someone was speaking urgently, but his words were muffled and coming from above.
“I’m totally disoriented,” Helen said. “It’s hard to figure out where I am. I’m trying to crawl forward but I can’t.”
“Stand up?”
“Can’t either. Definitely someone upstairs trying to come down here.”
“How do you know it’s upstairs?”
Helen frowned. “Well, his voice is coming from above me, but not directly, so I’m assuming it’s upstairs. For some reason, my senses are telling me that I can’t move, Hades.” She gasped as her head spun, as if there was an earthquake. “I think...I think I just toppled over.”
There were several loud thuds and a very distinctive American voice came through.
“Ah, fuck! My foot! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The voice grew less distinctive, but it wasn’t too hard to guess that each staccato-like enunciation was the same cuss word over and over.
“I’m seeing it through your eyes now,” Hades said. “Total darkness. It’s cramped.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said, dryly. “I feel heavy. Like, if I were here in person, things would be on top of me. Maybe I’m buried.”
“Do you think you’re in a coffin?”
Oh, shit. She hadn’t thought of that. Ugh.
Coffin equals dead body. On top of her. Her mental self recoiled as if snake-bit.
She started gagging. She thought of the confined space holding her prisoner.
No air. Immediately she started hyperventilating.
Her hands automatically reached out to claw at her containment, but there was nothing there. She began to choke, flailing around.
“Elena! Calm down.” He gave the order tersely, anticipating her panic, speaking with a measured steeliness, as if he could impose calm into her by sheer force of will.
But it was difficult to concentrate when one was fighting for one’s life. Helen could feel her rising panic stifling the reasonable voice in her head. She was buried and her mind was telling—ordering—her to get out of there. Now.
He continued calmly. Firmly. “Remember what you told me. It’s like the illusion of drowning when you’re underwater.
Your mind thinks you can’t breathe because it seems so real, but it’s an illusion.
You aren’t there. You’re here, with me, in my arms. Think of me, Elena, not in that coffin, but with me, in our VR space.
You’re holding your breath here, and you need to take in air now. Now, Elena.”
Helen squeezed her eyes closed, paying attention to his voice even as fear threatened to overpower her. She wasn’t buried. Deep breath. She concentrated on Hades but couldn’t call his face up. The enveloping darkness seemed to have taken away all her senses.
“No, I’m still here. I’m seeing the same darkness too.
Your fear is so real to you, you’ve projected it into our VR space.
I’m actually seeing your remote-viewing target in virtual reality, Elena.
Take another breath.” There was a pause and she could feel his curiosity of what was happening at his end.
The cool remoteness that was so uniquely Jed seeped through her fear.
Jed. Not Hades and that sinfully sexy body she’d designed.
What Helen needed now was the man behind the program, Jed McNeil himself.
The man with that calmness that took in every emergency and deflected them like a shield.
She mentally reached for that iron stillness and wrapped it around her.
The sense of safety enveloping her was immediate and exactly what she needed.
And behind that watchfulness, she felt his concern and his preparation to end the session.
“No,” Helen said, taking several breaths. “Don’t activate the trigger, Jed. I’m okay. Just give me a few moments. I need to really concentrate on that voice up there, that’s all.”
“Maybe he’s trying to open this coffin you’re in. There’s a reason why you remote viewed here, Elena.”
Helen jerked. Of course. “Hades, they’re tracking the same list we have from a few months back.
This is the location of the first weapon there, the most recent one.
The explosive trigger or whatchamacallit,” she breathed.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. They didn’t bury the weapons...
you told me the CIA airdropped them, right?
In crates. Crates that were marked as U.N. aid. I’m in a crate.”
That explained why she felt she couldn’t stand up or move around. And the sensation of things piled up. She was under a cache of weapons. No dead body. She breathed out a sigh of relief. Somehow a crate was so much easier to deal with than a coffin.
“A crate can be a coffin.”
“Oh stop being so darn matter-of-fact,” she snarled, embarrassed now that she wasn’t afraid any more. She didn’t like the idea of him knowing she had given in to fear. “I panicked, so I’m sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Normal reaction, Elena. It’s my job to anchor you, remember? Now you have a job to do.”
She scowled. He was a manipulative bastard, getting her defensive to distract her and succeeding with just that snotty tone. She turned her attention back to the voice outside the crate, grounding herself.