by Paul Stein
“What…like getting the Secret Service involved?” Sela asked.
“Well, yeah. I guess…I mean…I don’t know. You’d think a senator could order some protection for his grandson, couldn’t he?” she naïvely asked.
“Geez…I don’t know, sis. I don’t think it’s quite that easy. We should call and ask, but expecting the Service to protect Jer from this stupidity is pretty far-fetched. Pop’s a powerful guy, but we can’t ask him to intercede unless there’s a direct threat to Jer. I’ll call him… you just stay focused there, and keep Jer at home. That’s the best we can do for now.”
“Thanks , Sel. I knew I could count on you.”
“Hey, what are big sisters for? Now I want you to promise to remain calm. We’ll get through this together…okay? Promise me.”
“Okay…I promise…I’ll try, Sel,” Sarah replied, hesitantly. “But calmness is the furthest thing from my mind. I just can’t believe that this madness keeps recurring in my life. Is it ever going to stop? I’m so mad, I could just scream,” she shouted.
“Sarah! Listen to me,” Sela demanded. “This isn’t your fault.. This is strictly between Ryan and Jarrod. Don’t buy into this crap.”
Sarah stifled her anger, trying to remain composed. “I know what you say is true, Sel, but I can’t turn off the damn dialogue in my head. It’s reviving the dreadful memory of that whore in New York. I thought I was over it…but this latest incident has reopened that old wound. It’s making me crazy!”
“Just calm down, little sister. Wait for Jer to arrive, and then you two hang tight until Dad or I call back. I love you, Sarah, ya hear?”
“Goodbye, Sela. I love you, too,” she said, ending the call, ready to embrace the peace of mind coaxed by her trusted sister.
Sarah idolized her sister; she had no peer equal to her standards. There was nothing Sela couldn’t do once she set her mind on something. She marched to her own beat, seemingly oblivious to the occasional good-natured ribbing for her sometimes peculiar behavior. Sela had the olive skin, dark hair, and full lips characteristic of Mediterranean women, and her tall, lithe figure made her exceptionally alluring. She was the most like her father, Senator Alfonse Coscarelli, and, given her extraordinary oratory skills, everyone assumed that she would one day enter politics, following in her father’s footsteps.
Politics held no interest for Sela, however. She had graduated from UCLA with a Ph.D. in cellular biology, fascinated with what she referred to as the “microscopic universe” within each living cell. She marveled at the elegant complexity of the DNA double helix, unraveled by Watson and Crick, but divined by the hand of God. She believed that a cellular biologist could correct any systemic disease with the biological blueprint in DNA, once the dysfunctional gene was identified. With the isolated gene, any specific physiological function could either be switched on or off, curing the disease at hand. It was in this field of cellular biology that Sela decided to devote her life’s work.
Dr. Coscarelli was currently conducting research at Johns Hopkins University on a host of genetic diseases that bore distinct similarities. Each of these maladies was the result of a defective gene located on one of the forty-eight human chromosomes. Each gene, in turn, was responsible for a specific function, which, if missing or hyperactive, produced the disease. Switching the gene on or off could restore the patient to health. It was really that simple.
Sela was presently working to design a transport mechanism to cure a host of genetic diseases. In each case, the abnormal gene and its associated enzyme deficiency had been discovered, but transmitting the correct gene sequence into each DNA strand for further cell replication was still a problem. It was not enough to understand that an enzyme like dystrophin, the gene prohibiting the repair of muscle fiber in patients with muscular dystrophy, was missing. To effect a cure, a transport method was needed to convey the corrective gene to each of the one billion muscle cells in the patient’s body.
With dystrophin missing from the MD patient’s muscle tissue, when a muscle fiber tore through normal growth processes, the patient’s body responded by adding inelastic connective tissue in place of healthy muscle fiber. Over time, severe contractures fully incapacitated the patient, ending with paralysis-like conditions. Once the patient was completely non-ambulatory, the disease accelerated until breathing was totally compromised and they became bed-ridden, helpless, and dependent on a respirator. MD patients mercifully succumbed to complications of the disease at a fairly early age, liberated from this totally lucid, vegetative state.
It was Sela’s idea to use a phage virus as a veritable Trojan Horse, delivering the missing dystrophin gene to the patient’s muscle cells. Phage viruses are responsible for the annual spread of influenza that affects millions of people during flu season. These replicant viruses insert a small portion of gene material into the host cell, which hijacks its normal function. At first, the viral genetic material remains dormant, allowing it to rapidly reproduce. But each time the infected host cell divides, duplicating its DNA, it also generates a perfect copy of the invasive viral DNA—an insidious but effective means for creating huge numbers of viruses from one infected cell. Through this characteristic, viruses could be used as mules to insert the missing gene into the patient’s vast network of cells. In this way, Sela hoped to unlock the mystery for delivering life-saving genetic material to patients suffering from a plethora of genetic diseases.
Sela was currently creating a specialized phage virus to transport the dystrophin-making gene into the muscle cells of MD patients, using their own cell system to cure the disease. Sela had a particular interest in the cure for muscular disorders because Duchenne muscular dystrophy had caused the early death of her nephew, Jacob. Like so many MD patients, Jacob died of complications from the disease, not directly from the disease itself. As the patient’s diaphragm and thoracic capacity became increasingly compromised, they would usually succumb to an upper respiratory condition, most commonly pneumonia. Ever since she witnessed firsthand the heartache her sister’s family suffered throughout the long battle Jacob waged against this merciless disease, she secretly pledged to discover a breakthrough cure.
Sarah Marshall kept her appointment with Detective Westbrook. As Ryan suspected, the detective asked questions about why he might break into his cousin’s lab, and if she knew his whereabouts. Sarah did not lie, but neither did she volunteer all the information at her disposal. Even though she refused to abet Ryan’s illegal actions, she felt she owed him the benefit of the doubt regarding his innocence.
Sarah knew better than anyone the demons Ryan battled because of Jarrod Conrad, and it seemed acceptable not to divulge more than the detective’s questions demanded. She did acknowledge that she suspected he was on his way to California to confront his cousin, but had no idea the route he would travel, or if in fact he was still in the area. All of this was strictly true.
Good luck Ryan, wherever you are. I hope you find the peace of mind you so desperately crave.
TWENTY-TWO
SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA
22:00 HOURS
RICHARD KILMER grabbed the rubber stress-ball he kept handy below his computer monitor and threw it forcefully across the room. It slammed against the opposite wall and skidded past his faithful dog, Kiwi—a Jack Russell terrier—who delightedly ran after the bouncing ball.
Kilmer shoved himself back from the desk and stared menacingly at the pad containing the notes he had just scribbled. The news from Dallas Weaver about the difficulty Aldin Mills encountered with the Quantum equations was not welcome. He could feel his blood pressure rising at the thought of calling Holloway, figuring the situation would send the man ballistic. Most troubling was that he had previously assured Holloway that Conrad’s equations were the last step to making the antigravity machine work. This was an even bigger problem now, because Holloway had insisted he not pay for the job until he was certain the device worked. Now Kilmer had to admit that his guarantee was premature.
Aside from this complication, Kilmer perceived several scenarios that could potentially complicate the upcoming missions. First, he had no time to redirect his attention to anything but the Livermore job. The simplest solution was to kidnap Dr. Jarrod Conrad and force him to operate the machine, but he couldn’t divert any of his present team to this assignment. There were other members available, but none with the forte for this type of problem. The only choice was Stuart Farley, but he was a wildcard: unpredictable, unmanageable, and bloodthirsty. Farley oftentimes created more problems than he solved; although his work on Marshall’s crane at Taos was done with remarkable efficiency. Farley had been irked that the crane hadn’t collapsed as planned, but he accomplished the end result: Marshall took the bait that his cousin was the perpetrator. But all things considered, Farley was much too unpredictable for anything beyond his specialty—murder by a wide variety of spectacular and stomach-turning means. Kilmer was reluctant to use him for anything else.
Second, if they did nab Conrad, there was the added difficulty of confining the professor until the device was ready to activate; and, once kidnapped, he could never be released. This new development couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time. The whole situation reeked of incompetence. This was exactly why he had asked Weaver to be absolutely certain the machine was functional before he contacted Holloway. Damn him, he thought.
He didn’t have any time to deal with this new situation. He knew he should contact Holloway, but the men would be meeting in less than two hours to study the Livermore job and he didn’t want the hangover from another ugly exchange. He decided to wait until later to contact Holloway.
At precisely 22:00 hours, just as Kilmer had stipulated, the team convened for the briefing on the Lawrence Livermore Lab mission. Each member arrived before the appointed hour, following the team maxim that arriving on time was considered fifteen minutes late by Kilmer. It was far better to be punctual than risk drawing certain reproach from the predictable Aussie.
The men gathered around the conference table, and began discussing the detailed satellite image displayed on the ten-foot-wide video screen in the meeting room. There were distinct white arrows that Dallas Weaver had superimposed on the aerial image, isolating different angles of the entrance, water tower, electrical substation, and containment building along the periphery of the screen. The men offered various opinions about how the initial breach would occur, several expressing doubts about the probability of success. Their mood was somber, most shaking their heads and agreeing that whichever course was taken would involve a lethal gun battle. Thor—Stark’s M24 sniper weapons system—loomed large in the men’s very survival.
“Hey, Dallas…you’ve probably figured the odds on surviving this bloodbath. What’s your best guess on Stark taking out the security team before we get slaughtered?” Rafie asked, directing his question more to the entire group, even though it was addressed to Weaver. “There are too many cover locations for these guys once the shooting starts.”
“How the hell should I know?” Weaver replied to Rafie, who everyone considered Kilmer’s equal when it came to planning covert operations. “You taught the Berets this stuff…why don’t you handicap the odds for us? I agree, it doesn’t look easy, but I’m sure boss has a plan.”
Kilmer was just entering the room and caught the last of the exchange between Weaver and Rafie. He was irritated by the grumbling that greeted him, noticing that Sully Metusack was the only one not already critiquing the operation before he laid it out. Kilmer knew it was obvious from looking at the aerial photo that the target was going to be difficult to breach, but he was prepared to address all their questions.
“G’day, mates. Righto…listen up,” Kilmer said, raising his arms and signaling the men to order. “Here’s the deal,” he began, pointing his laser light at the containment area in the southwest quadrant of the image.
“This is the Lawrence Livermore Lab containment buildin’. The lab has a fusion research program usin’ enriched nuclear fuel for testin’. Our mission is to nick twenty pounds of enriched plutonium, and return without a casualty. Once we’re on site, I guestimate fifteen minutes to pull the job after the first shot’s fired; any longer and we’ll square off with local cops. That’ll turn bloody. We roll t’morrow evening at 01:30 hours. It’s dicey, but the plan for this heist will keep yer balls intact.”
The men sat in perfect silence as they listened to Kilmer lay out the logistics of the mission. Most took notes as he proceeded to fully define the expected role of each team member.
“Starkovich, Metusack, and Krilenko are first in. Stark’ll deploy the M24 from this tower here,” he said, shining the laser light on the water tower at the east end of the Livermore complex. “Tooz will give Stark a leg up with ‘is sniper equipment; Ivan, yer the cover as they climb the tower. When Stark’s peachy, both Tooz and Ivan retreat to this mid-point location here,” he said, shining the laser on the screen. He highlighted a centrally located crossroads equidistant between the main entrance to the facility and what served as the back exit. “Yer to mow down security from this location; lethal force against any resistance.”
Kilmer shifted his attention to the next objective. “Nuzam and Ventura will blow the power substation, here,” he said, pointing the laser. The substation was presented on the screen from a couple of vantage points, which allowed Terry Ventura to estimate the correct amount of C4 explosive to use without causing unnecessary damage. He wasn’t called “Surgeon” for nothing.
“Rafie, ya tee up the back story,” Kilmer continued, “so scrounge anythin’ that fingers a terrorist group for the breach. Use the tower, substation, and containment center to give ‘er a whirl,” he said, highlighting each of these spots. “When our mates kill the lights, Colt’ll blast through the main gate and drive directly to the containment buildin’.”
Kilmer noticed that Rafie’s body language was anything but supportive. He looked doubtful, with his arms crossed, but slowly nodded his head.
“Stark, ya’ll be goin’ like a blue ass fly when the substation blows,” Kilmer continued, “but shoot the guards at the main gate first. Colt, when ya see the guards drop head for the main gate at ramming speed. Good oh?”
Colt nodded his understanding.
Kilmer switched focus again, magnifying the main entrance of the containment building on the video screen. “Terry, have a gander at this door here. We’ll need a Simtex shape charge. Good for us the containment room is bunkered thirty feet under ground, but we can’t chance damagin’ the elevator or, worse, releasin’ any radioactivity…so be spot on, pally.”
Terry nodded solemnly.
“Dallas, yer and me arrive ‘n hazmat suits. We blow the door and rush the containment room. The cargo elevator is directly back of the main door and will run us to the underground bunker; emergency backup power should keep the elevator operatin’. We locate this pushcart to ferry the cargo out the facility,” he said, highlighting a compact box that would contain the twenty pounds of enriched uranium. “Then we’re off like a bride’s nitie and meet back at Colt’s Humvee. This is a very tight op, but it should be no sweat.
“Stark, keep droppin’ the guards. Same goes for Rafie and Terry…as soon as ya blow the lights, fall back to the Humvee and provide cover fire. Ivan and Tooz, ya’ll wait for Dallas and me to bring the goods. Cover Stark ‘til he flees ‘is perch…then y’all beat it back to the Humvee. No playin’ possum. Like I said, we finish this dealo in less than fifteen minutes or we’re pinched. Short of that… were aces. Alrighty, let’s hear yer thoughts, mates,” he said, bracing for an onslaught of disagreement.
The men maintained their rapt attention. Rafie was shaking his head in disbelief and was the first to speak. “What’s the pay on this job, Boss; ’cause I’ll tell you…it ain’t nearly enough. Crazy fucking plan, if you want my honest opinion. I’ll create your diversion easy enough, but we’re gonna lose some guys. How do you justify a plan like this?” he asked, shrugging, palms turned
up, looking for support from the group.
Kilmer looked hard at his second-in-command. A confrontation between the two had been brewing for some time. “Rafie, there’s no back hander comin’. It’s dangerous, sure; of all people, ya know this. If ya squib out, I’ll find someone else, but fat chance gettin’ ‘nother call if ya sit this one out,” he warned. “It’s a big job with a big risk… but if we stick to the plan, we’re good as gold.”
Weaver spoke next. “Tell me a little more about the containment area. I blow the door with Terry’s shape charge, then you and I enter the bunker below. How will we know what to take or when we’ve got the correct amount?”
“Good on ya, mate,” Kilmer replied. “Holloway promised the cargo will be stashed and ready to roll. We have and insider. All we do is locate this containment cart,” he said, pointing to a small pushcart that was isolated on the screen. “The booty’s sealed for transport. The package is lead-lined and heavy, but we’ll roll it right out the blummin’ door. Don’t ask how he arranged it; but trust me…its the full quid.”
“What’s the total number of men on the lab’s security detail?” Tommy Starkovich asked. “As soon as Terry and Rafie blow the lights, Thor will be busy with more than a dozen men.”
“Sorry, mate, that part of the recon’s a tad wonky,” Kilmer answered, rubbing his hands together. “We can expect a dozen guards on duty any given evenin’. Two bloats each are usually located at the main entrance and these two side exits” he said, pointing out the guard shacks that controlled access to the complex.
“More on our side’ll be the blackout when the lights blow. Ya’ll clock the backup lightin’ when they come on. Our night-vision gives us a big advantage. If Stark takes out the six guards at the gates and helps shoot out the emergency lightin’, I’m dead cert the rest of ya can handle the remainin’ security. Then it’s simply a matter of blowin’ the containment door, nicking the cargo, and haulin’ arse.”
