Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 25 – Residual Frequency

The convoy rolled through the south gate just after midday. The air was hot and still, heavy with the smell of burnt rubber and diesel. No screeches. No hum. Just the hollow clatter of cooling engines and the scrape of boots on dry gravel.

Neal gave orders on reflex. “Wolf—perimeter. Lin, get me a systems check. Cruz, see to Burks.”
Everyone scattered. Routine dulled fear better than rest ever could.

I stayed behind in the control room, still holding the data drive Major Jackson had handed him at the clinic. He told the others he needed to review Well House camera zones. They believed him. No one questioned the man who’d brought them home.

Alex followed him partway down the corridor. “You’re not going to med bay first?”

“In a minute,” he said. “I just need to see what’s on this.”

“That’s what you said before the trench,” she said softly. “And the armory. And the last patrol.”

He almost smiled. “You keeping score now?”

“Someone has to.” She hesitated at the doorway. “Don’t make me come drag you out.”

He nodded, but didn’t answer.
She lingered a moment longer, then left toward the infirmary.

I locked the door, dropped into the chair, and slid the drive into one of Lin’s terminals. The screen blinked to life—file tree expanding line by line into cold, military code:

ECHO-STRATCOM
PHASE Δ
NEURAL CLEANSE PROGRAM
CLEARANCE LEVEL: REDACTED

He clicked the top file. The monitor pulsed once—then static cleared to grainy footage.

A white room. Fluorescent lights humming. Rows of people—contractors, soldiers, civilians—wired to steel chairs. Electrodes dotted their scalps. They looked dazed, obedient. A tone rose in the background, deep and patient—the same one that haunted Clear Water.

The camera zoomed on a subject. The man’s pupils dilated; breath went shallow. The pulse built until the heart monitor flatlined for one full second. Then the tone cut, and he blinked—blank, compliant.

A voice spoke over the intercom, flat and methodical.

“Subject 114 cleared.
Subject 203 reclassified.
Subject 219—retention successful.
Memory sweep complete. Resume civilian integration.”

I leaned closer. “They’re not forgetting,” he murmured. “They’re being formatted.”

He clicked through more folders—2009, 2010, 2013. Different faces, same procedure. File names grew shorter, more coded. No emotion. Just iteration.

A soft knock broke through the hum. Then the door unlatched.

Neal stepped in, eyes catching the blue glow. “You skipped med eval,” she said. “Head still ringing?”

Ii didn’t turn. “It’s fine. You should see this.”

She came up beside him. Her face hardened as the footage replayed. “What the hell is this?”

“A government program that never ended,” he said. “They didn’t shut it down—they rebranded it. Look.”

He opened the next folder—2013 – Phase Expansion. Memos now replaced video:
Frequency control integration trials.
Neural retention rate: 83 percent.
Behavioral normalization confirmed.

Neal’s voice dropped. “Where’d you get this?”

“Major Jackson. Said it explained ECHO.”

“Jesus…” She scanned another document—statistical reports, transfer lists. “They were rewriting people.”

I nodded. “And tracking who stayed stable.”

He clicked into the next archive—2018. The video logs stopped. Final directives filled the screen instead.

Program transition authorized.
STRATCOM DELTA → PROJECT ECHO – CIVIL TRANSITION DIVISION.
Subjects released to civilian employment in essential infrastructure sectors for long-term observation.

A table followed: power, telecommunications, municipal water.

My eyes froze on the last entry.

CW-NEB-27 – Municipal Water Treatment (Site Echo Subnode)

Clear Water.

He stared at the screen, pulse matching the tone he could almost hear again. “They embedded us,” he said quietly. “Didn’t end it. Just spread it out. Hid it inside jobs like mine.”

Neal exhaled. “Utilities. Water. Power. Places no one would ever check.”

My throat tightened. “They didn’t choose me by accident.”

The monitor flickered. Static bled across the feed, then into the sensor grid on the far wall. Lin’s motion tracker spiked—low-frequency surges echoing from beneath Well House 27. The waveform matched the one in the recordings.

The faintest vibration passed through the floor—steady, deliberate, familiar.

Neal whispered, “It’s awake.”

I kept my eyes on the trembling light. “No,” he said quietly.
“It never slept.”