The Endorphin Conspiracy

"In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist."

—President Dwight D. Eisenhower, in his Farewell Address to the Nation, January 17, 1961

PROLOGUE

September 12, 1967

The pungent odor of incense assailed him. His temples pounded, his sinuses thickened. Cameron Daniels cleared his throat, set the current issue of Life on the night stand next to his bed, and scanned his hospital room for the source of the cloying smell. As usual, there was nothing. Why incense? Why did it always start the same way?

The doctors told him it was an olfactory hallucination from deep within the recesses of his brain—the temporal lobes—an association from his childhood. They said he must have been regressing, reaching back to a safer and more secure time in his life. Cameron Daniels, altar boy. They said the stress of working as a technical analyst for the CIA must have gotten to him, that it happened to a lot of people.

It just didn't make sense. He hadn't felt unusually stressed until after the first time it happened at the agency retreat in Virginia. Since then he had had no peace. His life was hell. It was no consolation there were others like him, and he didn't buy the doctors' explanation. Neither did his wife, who had been left a widow—at least emotionally—to care for their baby daughter for the last six months.

The chiming of bells nearly jolted Daniels out of bed. Church bells ringing, just as they had every Sunday during his childhood in Montreal. Now they were so numerous and loud they seemed to rattle his very skull.

He placed his palms over his ears. God, not again. Stop. Stop ringing those damn bells! I can't take it anymore!

The ringing continued.

Please! His eyes clamped shut. His head moved painfully from side to side. He cried like a child, rocking back and forth in bed. Why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?

Then silence.

Daniels waited for a full minute to be sure—often they came back suddenly—then opened his eyes and removed his hands from his ears. The silence remained unbroken. He thought it was over.

Then a voice cut through to his consciousness: Cameron. Cameron, do not despair.

The voice was familiar, feminine, one he could not place but soothed him. Each time it had become stronger, drawing him in by degrees.

Cameron, I can help you find peace. Let me help you.

Daniels wiped his eyes and looked towards the window. Rays of early morning sunlight streamed between the slats of the blinds, projecting a kaleidoscope of dancing shapes and colors that seemed to coalesce into human form.

Why do they torture me like this? His mouth twisted in pain.

Features formed into a human face, smiled. I am here to give you salvation. Come to me. A hand stretched out to Daniels, beckoning.

He threw off the sheets, picked up Life, eased himself out of bed, and staggered toward the window, swatting at the face before him with the magazine. Get out of here! Go away! I want my mind back! I want peace!

The bells resumed, hundreds, perhaps thousands of bells, chiming more and more loudly until Daniels felt his head would burst. He clamped his hands over his ears. No, God no!

He opened the blinds, the bright light causing him to squint, and pressed his forehead against the pane. Stop, please stop. I'll do whatever you say!

Come to me Cameron, and you will be free.

The voice came from outside. He could see her clearly now, hovering just beyond the window.

Frantically, Daniels tried to open it. But like all the patient windows in the psychiatric wing at Bethesda, it was locked.

The ringing continued, echoing madly inside his head. The pain was past endurance. Desperately, he searched the room, his gaze coming to rest on the chair.

The sound of the chair smashing the window echoed eerily through the room, along the corridor. Seconds later, a young male orderly burst into the room, but it was too late. Cameron Daniels had found his peace.

***

The encrypted cable arrived by special courier late in the afternoon at the Human Ecology Institute in Montreal. Dr. Rudolph Schmidt, the Director, was clearly shaken as he read the decoded message.

SEPTEMBER 13 1967, 0600. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY MK ULTRA IS TERMINATED. ALL DOCUMENTS TO BE DESTROYED. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT ATTEMPT CONTACT. END OF MESSAGE.-BLUEBIRD

Schmidt slumped down in his chair, his hand still grasping the cablegram.

Dr. Schmidt, are you okay? Josef Balassi asked with concern.

Schmidt stared blankly across the room.

His young research assistant reached across the desk for the cablegram. May I?

Schmidt nodded.

Balassi read the note, his fiery brown eyes narrowed in anger. "How could they do this? Ten years of research snuffed out in an instant by fools who know nothing of what you've accomplished! We can't do it, we won't!"

We don't have a choice.

Yes, we do. Balassi stood, stared down at Schmidt. Yes, we do.

CHAPTER 1

July 1, 2010

His pulse raced as he sprinted down Fort Washington Avenue towards the New York Trauma Center. Dr. Geoffrey Davis checked his watch. Six-thirty a.m. He was running late on his first day back. Bad form. There'd be hell to pay with Dr. Pederson before he even had a chance to meet his team at rounds. Of all days to oversleep, this was the worst.

Even at this hour, Washington Heights bustled with activity. Cab drivers honked their horns at anyone or anything that got in their way, shopkeepers swept yesterday's rotting garbage off their sidewalks into the street, people rushed to subway stations, likely everyone, like him, breaking an early sweat in the sultriness that lingered from the night before.

Geoff stepped off the curb at 175th Street, passed the entrance to the George Washington Bridge. He was jolted by the intrusive beeping of his pager. Shit, he muttered. He despised the stupid beeper. It made his gastric juices gurgle and his muscles tense every time it went off. Even after all these years. Geoff reached down with his right hand, depressed the grey button and glanced down at the pager at his waist. His attention was diverted from the road ahead barely a second when he was startled by the shrill horn from a rusted, brown Camaro headed directly at him, not more than three feet away. He dodged quickly to his right, tripped over the curb on the south side of the street, and lost his balance. His right shoulder crashed hard into the buckled sidewalk as he attempted to break his fall. His face landed next to a fresh pile of dog shit.

Look where you're goin', man! yelled the driver. You tryin' to get yourself killed?

Geoff flipped him off. He couldn't wait to get out of this rat trap of a city. Just one more year.

He lifted himself up off the sidewalk, picked up his backpack and swatted away the flies that hovered over the pile left by one of the scores of neighborhood mongrels. His shoulder ached, and a few drops of blood trickled from his elbow. He brushed off his shoulder and tested his arm by moving it back and forth. Nothing broken. He was lucky and he knew it; he could have been killed.

Geoff reached down and felt for the knife he kept strapped to his right shin. It was secure in the sheath. His fellow residents thought he was paranoid to carry the thing everywhere he went, but for Geoff it was more than a habit. His days as a Navy Seal had taught him many useful things, one of which was being prepared for any situation that might arise. Ironic. Washington Heights had become more like a war zone than a neighborhood, potentially more dangerous than a number of training missions he had been on.

The Navy had been good to Geoff, though in the end he found it all too macho and regimented. He appreciated the skills he learned, the education loans, the freedom it afforded him from financial dependence on his father. His family could easily have afforded to send him to any med school in the country. In fact, his surgeon father had secured a place for him at his own alma mater, Columbia. As proud—not always a virtue he'd been told—and independent as he was, Geoff had wanted to do it on his own, without anyone's help. Least of all, his father's.

If he became a physician, he had decided, it would be on his own merits, and he would pay his own way. And he had. Admitted to Harvard Medical School on a Navy scholarship, he had deferred his neurosurgery residency to complete his obligation to the Navy as a medical officer in the Seals. His father never seemed to understand his decision, though seemed oddly proud. Geoff's wife, Sarah, thought he was crazy, but supported his decision. Geoff was his own man.

Geoff straightened his tie, smoothed his sweat-soaked shirt and resumed his brisk pace towards the Trauma Center, trying to act as if nothing had happened. Then he remembered the pager. What a way to start the day. Late and limping like some lame first year med student. Goddamn.

Geoff removed the pager from his waist, depressed the button, and held it up in front of him, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead. The number was all too familiar: the Neurosurgical ICU at the Trauma Center. His first call as Chief Resident. Whoever it was would have to wait a few minutes. At least it wasn't a stat page.

Geoff crossed 168th Street, rushed past drug addicts lined up to exchange their needles at the old National Guard Armory building, now a drug rehab clinic, then the Center's ER entrance, aid cars crowding it's parking lot. He climbed the marble stairs leading to the main entrance of the Trauma Center. Over the entrance was an inscription, the only remaining vestige from the old City Hospital: For of the Most High Cometh Healing.

Geoff paused momentarily to catch his breath and compose himself, then checked his watch. Six-forty. Despite his eventful commute to work, he was only fifteen minutes late for rounds. Things could have been worse. All would be forgotten by later in the morning.

The automatic doors parted, freeing cool, dry air, refreshing after the sprint from his apartment. Geoff removed his bar-coded ID card from the backpack slung over his sore right shoulder and clipped it to his breast pocket, able then to pass to all areas of the Medical Center.

Welcome back, Dr. Davis. We missed you around here, said Sergeant Randall Johnson. He grabbed Geoff's hand and shook it vigorously.

Johnson, black, tall and muscular, with closely cropped graying hair and keen eyes, had been recruited to join NYTC security from the New York City Police Department several years ago. Street smart and stern, he showed his underlying warmth to only a few. Geoff was one.

There was a good reason, aside from chemistry and respect. Geoff had saved Randall Johnson's ass big time a few years back, treating him for a disease he wouldn't want to have taken home to his wife Martha. The consequences might have been far more fatal than the disease. Geoff didn't file the report with the department of health. He just gave Randall the shot of penicillin in the behind, along with a lecture, and never once mentioned the incident again.

Thanks, Randall. Good to see you, too. He glanced at his watch. Hey, I'm running late for rounds. How about lunch one of these days? he said, realizing even as he said it the odds of his having the time to actually meet someone for lunch during his year as chief resident were practically non-existent. He was about to re-enter the Twilight Zone.

Johnson guffawed. Yeah, let's pack a lunch and picnic on the GW Bridge! Hey, good luck, man. I'm sure you'll be the best chief this place has ever had.

Thanks. Gotta go.

Geoff hurried up the long corridor that lead to the bank of elevators. Lithographs dotted the walls illuminated by soft lights, all a blur to Geoff as he raced to get to rounds. Nearing the elevators, he couldn't help but notice a rapidly approaching pack of young men and women in newly starched, white coats, stethoscopes dangling around their necks like amulets, mouths chattering. Med students and new residents.

Geoff hit the elevator call button, checked his watch again, tapped it twice with his finger. Six forty-two. Damn. He paced, waiting for the elevator to arrive. An overhead page cut through the white noise in the corridor. Dr. Geoffrey Davis, emergency room. Dr. Davis, emergency room.

A rush of adrenalin hit him. He turned and ran back down the hallway towards the ER. He had no idea what train wreck awaited him there, but whatever it was, he was prepared to handle it. This was what he loved about medicine. Making order out of chaos, saving lives, being resourceful. It was a lot like his days in the Navy. Rounds would have to wait.

A woman's voice tugged at him from behind. Dr. Davis, wait up! Geoff stopped and turned to face a young woman with bright eyes and a friendly smile. She wore a white coat with a stethoscope draped around her neck. My name's Karen Choy, she said, extending her hand. I'm the new resident on the neurosurgery service.

Geoff shook her hand. Nice to meet you, Dr. Choy. Have you done a neurosurgery rotation before?

She hesitated. Yes, well, only as a med student. Not as an intern.

Hope you like crash courses. I'm on my way to the ER. Let's go.

CHAPTER 2

"Well, Dr. Davis, nice of you to pay us a visit. Four minutes to answer a page—you better cut that in half. Dr. Spiros has been setting his stopwatch again.

Don't forget, it's July first. Jan Creighton, head nurse on day shift, spoke with more than a hint of sarcasm

Jan, you look great. New hairdo? Geoff asked.

Twenty-five pounds off, five more to go and counting. Oh, you mean the perm? You're the first guy around here to notice.

In truth, Geoff didn't care much for Jan Creighton, though he respected the way she ran the ER. Forty-five, never married, sarcasm was her trademark.

Where's the action?

Trauma room one. Want me to take you there, or do you remember the way?

Her words grated. Good to see you, Jan. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again real soon.

From the strategic viewpoint of the nursing station, a central, Plexiglas-enclosed area about twenty by fifteen feet in dimension, Geoff could see all areas of significance, from the ambulance entrance to the trauma rooms. The nursing station functioned as traffic control, flow directed by the head nurse, visibility providing her the ability to monitor all ER activity and assign treatment rooms and staff as indicated by patients' apparent conditions.

Geoff left the nursing station, Karen Choy in tow. He turned, collided with a passing medic, knocking him into one of the portable crash carts that dotted the hallway adjacent to the nursing station. Like a quarterback sacked from the blind-side, the medic sent his clip-board flying and crashed helplessly to the floor.

Sorry, I didn't see you coming. Geoff was physically unscathed but embarrassed.

Hey, man, where the fuck you brains at! the medic said as he got up off the floor. He reclaimed his clipboard and brushed his behind.

When the medic looked up, Geoff instantly realized who he was, embarrassment giving way to pleasure. Santos, you son-of-a-bitch! I couldn't have knocked you on your butt better if I'd tried!

"Ay, Dios mio! Geoffrey Davis, I thought you had died and gone to heaven without me. The laboratory is no place for a fine doctor such as yourself."

I'm back.

The two men embraced warmly. Geoff turned towards Karen Choy, who stood by, obviously unsure what to make of it all. Dr. Karen Choy, this is Enrique Santos, the best damn medic in the City of New York.

Santos blushed, extended his hand. Don't believe anything he tells you, Dr. Choy, but it is a pleasure to meet you. You've got a fine teacher.

The pleasure is mine. I've heard a lot about you from the other residents. Karen looked at Geoff. Why don't I meet you over by the trauma room?

Sure. I'll be right over.

They couldn't have been from more different worlds: Geoffrey Davis, blueblood son of a surgeon from Connecticut, and Enrique Santos, blue collar, Puerto Rican medic from Spanish Harlem. Thirty-eight years old, of medium height with broad, dark features and a trim mustache, white shirt with its short sleeves rolled up above bulky biceps, the shirt's top buttons left open far enough to expose a large, silver crucifix resting comfortably between well defined pectorals, Santos appeared the prototypical macho Latino. It was a well-honed facade, a means of protecting his sensitive, caring nature. Street smart and self-made, Santos was a living example that growing up in Spanish Harlem did not inevitably lead to a broken life.

If only his younger brother, Jose, had allowed Santos into his life, Geoff knew Santos could have gotten him off the streets and made him a productive member of society. But the lure of a street gang seduced him, stole him away. Higher than a kite one night on angel dust, he ended up in the NYTC ER, a victim of a hit and run. A younger Geoffrey Davis, the trauma doc then, spent a good part of the night with Jose, desperately trying to save his life. The bond between the doctor from Connecticut and the medic from Spanish Harlem was forged by sharing that personal tragedy.

How's everything going? Santos asked, his warm, brown eyes searching Geoff's.

About as well as it can around this place.

Santos slapped him playfully on the cheek. "Bueno, bueno, mi amigo. Hey, we'll have you over for dinner real soon. Gloria will fill you up so good we'll have to wheel you home in a barrel."

I'd love to. Maybe one day next week. You just getting off shift?

Yeah, long night. You see that cop Ceravola and I brought in—Smithers?

Geoff looked toward trauma room one. I was just on my way there.

He's in bad shape. Looks like he was attacked by a pack of wild dogs. Good luck.

An overhead page pierced the air. Dr. Davis, trauma room one, stat!

Geoff glanced back toward the trauma room. I'd better get going. Good to see you, Santos. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other this year.

"Hasta luego, Geoffrey."

Geoff bolted to the trauma room area, met Karen. Trauma room one contained four beds, each separated from the others by curtains suspended from the ceiling. A young black man, in the far bed, diagonally across the room, obviously quite intoxicated, was tied to the bed by four leather restraints and was being tended by an intern, who was grappling to suture his face back together while at the same time dodging the patient's attempts to bite his hand.

Makes you feel appreciated, doesn't it? Geoff said, pointing to the struggling intern at the far bed. As he neared the room, it became obvious where the real action was. Just beyond bed one stood four New York transit cops, one with sergeant's stripes.

Geoff knew right away the patient was a cop. Stat calls took on a heightened level of urgency when a cop was involved. Dr. Spiros made sure all residents understood this from day one in his ER.

An organized tumult of activity buzzed around bed one—blood spurting into color-coded test tubes, IV's dripping frantically to keep up with blood loss, stethoscopes and lights probing for answers. Medicine in the trenches. An army of doctors, nurses and technicians in their green scrubs, each with a task, all coordinated by the trauma doc, a second year surgery resident who acted as field commander, barking out orders, triaging when necessary.

Get a blood gas, stat, called out the trauma doc, Dave Flynn. He turned to Lynn Graves, the nurse. How are his vitals doing?

Pulse one-forty and thready. BP holding at ninety over fifty.

Run those IV's wide open, or we're gonna' be starting a dopamine drip real quick. Type and cross him for five units whole blood, stat! Flynn ordered.

They're running full bore now.

Is the blood gas drawn yet?

It's already gone to the lab, said an intern.

Lynn Graves glanced at Geoff and Karen approaching the bedside. There's no place like home, is there Dr. Davis?

There's definitely no place like this home, Lynn. I missed the ER. Geoff smiled at Lynn, then turned to Dave. Need some help?

I'd love some, Geoff. You know how it is on July 1. He looked at Karen. Too many rookies on the trauma team.

What's the story here, Dave? asked Geoff.

Forty-two-year-old transit cop attacked while on duty this morning. Here at the 168th Street subway station, in the elevator, going down to the IRT. Fucking animals out there. He's been in and out of consciousness. Bad head injuries, as you can see, may have a basal skull fracture. Hard to believe this was done by one fucking lunatic, said Flynn, shaking his head from side to side.

Did you do a peritoneal lavage? Any internal bleeding? Karen asked.

Do you think we've been sitting around playing Xbox, Dr. Choy?

Cool down, Dave. Karen's question was a good one, said Geoff.

"Sorry. It's been a long