168 Hours- Zero Hour

by Raylan Kane

  Table of Contents

  -ONE HOUR BEFORE- 4

  -ZERO HOUR+ 42

  OTHER BOOKS BY RAYLAN KANE: 81

  '168 Hours' is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  by Raylan Kane

  Copyright 2019.

  For Melissa,

  -ONE HOUR BEFORE-

  NESTOR SINGH

  ABOARD TALCAHUANO RESEARCH VESSEL

  DRAKE PASSAGE, 300 km SOUTH OF CAPE HORN

  12:05 PM LOCAL TIME

  Perhaps the lack of whales should have been a sign. Nestor Singh studied the readouts from the hydrophones and frowned with frustration. Not one reading from a humpback had been recorded from the time they left Puerto Montt. Not one dolphin cry, no porpoises, no seals. Come to think of it, neither he nor the crew noted the presence of any bird species known to frequent Drake Passage. Michelle Campos, Nestor's research assistant from the university sidled up along side him, sensing his frustration.

  “Still nothing?” She said.

  Nestor stood with arms folded, glaring down at the screen. “No.”

  “Jorge's got lunch ready downstairs,” Michelle said, “stew, I think.”

  “I'm not hungry,” Nestor said, planting his palms on the counter top, hovering over the screen, willing something to happen. “You go ahead though.”

  “It's like every living creature suddenly became allergic to the Cape,” Michelle said, half-joking. “I've never seen anything like it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “About the grant?” Nestor said. “We don't find any whales, we might have bigger things to worry about.”

  “We still have two more days. Something's gotta turn up. It's not like the entire ocean's taken a vacation, right?”

  “Everything I'm seeing says different. It's as though everything breathing's up and vanished. Except us.”

  Michelle looked at her boss carefully, noting the lines creasing the sides of his eyes. She stepped away from him and walked toward the stairs. “If you're trying to frighten me, Nestor, it's working.”

  “Yes, well, it's these readouts that scare me.”

  PRINCE HENRY OF SUSSEX

  WATTA VILLAS RESORT

  SRI LANKA

  9:35 PM LOCAL TIME

  The young prince, already half-drunk on vodka, accepted a bump of coke off the back of Clarissa Clark's hand.

  “Happy Birthday, Henry,” she said with a wry smile. He snuffed up the powder and she popped her hand to her mouth. “Oh,” she gasped, “I forgot to call you Your Highness.” She leaned away from him, her tiny frame pushing into the oversized cushion at the end of the sofa.

  “I suppose you could rightfully call me that,” Henry said, smiling. “I am definitely high right now.”

  They shared a laugh and the newly 22-year old pulled on Clarissa's sleeve removing her loose button-up shirt completely. She sat there, topless, feigning shyness for a moment, but then stood up, motioning to the pool in front of them extending from inside the room out into the calm evening air. A purple sunset in the distance beyond.

  “Shall we go for a swim?” She said, joyfully planting her hands on her hips.

  “A frightful idea in my condition, I'm afraid,” Henry said. “I had something else in mind.” He pointed to the massive bed directly behind the sofa.

  “I see,” Clarissa mocked. “So, that's how you thought the night was going to go.”

  “Indeed. Have I misjudged?”

  “Hardly.”

  Clarissa stepped across the clay tile and planted each knee onto the sofa, straddling the prince. He reached up and caressed the tanned skin on her back and she draped her long brown locks into his face. She untied her white bikini bottoms and tossed them behind her to the floor. Henry kicked his trousers off and she lowered herself to him.

  “This is more what you had in mind, huh?” She murmured in his ear.

  His head, swimming in the alcohol and cocaine, felt light and for a moment he couldn't speak. He felt her warmth against him and the room began to spin around faster and faster. Henry could feel her breathing become more rapid as she bit into his neck.

  They both nearly jumped out of their skin when a loud pounding sounded at the door.

  “Oh my God!” Henry exclaimed, pushing for Clarissa to move off of him. She fell onto the sofa beside him, overcome with giggles. “What is it?” He shouted at the door. Clarissa laughed, mocking his sudden seriousness, his attempt at appearing sober.

  “Your Highness,” came a muffled voice through the door, “there's a call for you.”

  Henry sighed. He stood up and wrapped himself in a terrycloth robe. He marched to the door and flung it open to see his personal assistant standing there in his suit, a pained expression on his face.

  “Terence, it's bloody well ten o'clock at night. What do you want?”

  Terence held a cell phone out to the young prince. “It's about your father, Highness. That's your aunt on the phone.”

  Henry frowned with confusion. “What's his trouble with me now?”

  He took the phone to his ear and tried his best to shake off his stupor. For two minutes he stood there, phone to his ear. He spoke very little, his aunt did most of the talking. After hanging up, he handed the phone back to Terence, his eyes turned to glass.

  Suddenly, the world became heavier and larger than it'd ever seemed to him before. Henry wasn't sure what to do. The news hit him hard. His father, the King of England, dead of a heart attack. All so sudden and tragic. It happened on the golf course. It didn't seem real. He was the King's only son, his only heir. Everything was about to change.

  Terence looked at the young man with a mixture of sadness and worry. “What would you like to do, Highness?”

  Henry stared past him, as though in a trance. “I need to be alone,” Henry said. “For now.”

  “Of course,” Terence nodded. “I'll be back to check in on you in a bit. We need to put together a statement. We'll arrange a flight as well. Perhaps in the morning.”

  “Fine.”

  His assistant walked away, Henry closed the door. He walked back to the sofa and plunked himself down.

  “What is it?” Clarissa asked, sliding toward him, twisting a lock of his blond hair in her finger. “Is everything alright?”

  “It's my father,” Henry said, still in disbelief. “He's dead.”

  Clarissa, not really knowing the young prince on a personal level before this night, believed what she read in the press that Henry and his father were never close. She smiled slightly and turned his chin toward her with two fingers. “And now you are King,” she said. “Your Highness, indeed.” She slid her hands toward his crotch.

  Henry frowned at the girl. He pushed her hand away and leaned in the opposite direction. “Please leave,” he said to her. “I wish to be alone.”

  “I'm sorry,” Clarissa caught herself, “I thought you and your father-”

  “Just go!”

  Upset by the sternness of his rebuke, she rushed to find her clothes. With tears in her eyes, she quickly dressed, grabbed her purse and ran out.

  LAUREN SIMMS & JEFF GREENING

  TREELINE ROAD

  VINELAND, ONTARIO

  12:05 PM LOCAL TIME

  Dan Resey, Jeff Greening's best man, navigated the black Yukon full of groomsmen and Jeff himself, around a bend in the road. He drove along a rural highway that cut through a forest of oak, maple, and beech. A black Jeep Cherokee was directly ahead of him as they coasted to a stop sign. Dan could se
e the Jeep was also making a right turn.

  “You do realize you're tailgating?” Alistair, Jeff's personal assistant on his House & Home Network show, Flip Hunters, spoke up from the back. Jeff nodded in agreement.

  “Yeah, man,” a drunk groomsman named Chris piped up from the third row of seats all the way back, “should've let me drive.”

  Dan turned right staying close behind the Jeep.

  Jeff turned and looked at the others behind him and pointed at Chris. “Jesus, how many did he have out there?” Jeff said, “we only played nine holes.”

  “Yeah,” his buddy Matt said, “and I think he had a drink on each one.”

  “That's right, bro,” Chris added. “Best game of my life.”

  “Dude, you shot like 10 over,” Dan replied, glancing at him in the mirror.

  “I blame the beer cart girl,” Matt said. “I feel a bit buzzed too. She kept coming around and around.”

  “And you just had to, right?” Alistair said.

  “Hey, brother, Jeff only gets married once.”

  “Or so he hopes,” Dan said, laughing. He turned his attention back to the road. “Why the hell is this Jeep driving so slow?” He noticed the Jeep's right indicator light flicked on same time as he engaged his.

  “Oh, looks like they're coming to your wedding, buddy,” Matt said.

  “They're a bit early,” Jeff said.

  “Dude,” Matt said, “you're getting married in like, less than hour. If anything we're late.”

  “Nah, we're fine.”

  Dan drove onto the Mapleview Lake Conservation Area, passed through a gate being held open for wedding guests, and parked on the gravel lot a few spots down from where the Cherokee had parked. As soon as the Yukon came to a stop a group of well-dressed people descended from a gray stone building led by Jeff's mother, Candice. She lifted the bottom of her dress as she tromped across the grass, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers, a scowl on her face.

  “Uh, oh dude,” Matt pointed to her, “somebody's in trouble.”

  “We all are,” Dan said.

  They all exited the vehicle, the groomsmen abandoning Jeff to escape Candice's wrath. Jeff looked at them slinking away and laughed. “Cowards,” he said.

  Candice marched up to him, unimpressed. “It's not good that you're just getting here now, you do realize?” She said.

  “Mother, it's fine,” Jeff said, “look we're here, we're dressed. We're ready to go.”

  “Lauren's been here for an hour already, Jeffery. She'd have been worried if she knew you weren't here yet, but she's been upstairs with the girls, I don't think she knows you were almost late to your own wedding.”

  “Where's she at?” Jeff said trying to lighten things up, “let's go take a peak.”

  “Very funny,” Candice said, quickly realizing there was no use in being angry with her son on his wedding day. “You had me worried.”

  “And now I'm here. Everything's good.” He smiled at her and for a moment she saw him again as that mischievous little kid she used to chase around the yard. Whatever frustration she felt melted away in a heartbeat.

  “Yes,” she said, a bit of longing in her voice, a flicker of nostalgia, “you're right. Now you're here.” He offered his arm to her and she took a deep breath and curled her arm under his. Then they walked back across the grass towards the stone building. “C'mon,” she said to him, a tear forming in corner of her eye, “time to get you married.”

  THE TRAVERS FAMILY

  MOUNTED PLACE, MONTANA

  10:05 AM LOCAL TIME

  Georgia Travers parked her '72 Ford Bronco in front of the post office in Mounted Place, Montana. She jumped down from the driver's seat and gave a wave as her friend, Pat Horneug, honked while passing by on the main drag. Georgia grabbed a cloth bag from behind her seat and slammed the door shut. She walked into the post office and waited patiently while an elderly man finished paying for his stamps and ambled away from the counter.

  The man behind the counter recognized Georgia and greeted her with a smile. “How are you this morning?”

  “Good,” Georgia said, “don't suppose that package came in for me?”

  “Actually,” the man said, grinning, “I do have something for you, yes.”

  Georgia smiled as the man walked into the back room and returned with a long, rectangular cardboard box.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Oh, looks like postage is paid, so you're all set.”

  Georgia noted a lady waited behind her, so she lifted the box from the counter and moved out of the way quickly. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Any time.”

  She carried the box to a counter top at the front window. She recognized the black insignia of the company stamped on the box. Tearing away a piece of the packing tape, she reached into the box and pulled out a reflective silver packet. The box was full of freeze-dried food divided into individual packets for each meal. Georgia read the bold-faced type on the front of the packet and frowned. She fished her cell phone from her pocket and called her husband, Glen.

  “Yeah, it's me, I'm at the post office. Glen, they sent the wrong ones again. These are the 10-year, not the 20.”

  She waited for Glen to stop ranting about how many times the survival food packaging company had screwed up their order.

  “Do you want me to return to sender? Or what should I do?”

  Glen said not to bother and just bring those ones home. In their survival preparations, they had always opted for survival food that would keep for as long as possible. Still, the feeling was the 10 year packets would be good enough rather than bother sending the order back.

  “Alright, I'll bring 'em,” Georgia said, “I'll stop and check on Jinny at the vet's too and then I'll be on my way. Talk to you in a bit.”

  INGRID & URSULA ODENSHAW

  HARPA CONFERENCE CENTER

  REYKJAVIK, ICELAND

  4:05 PM LOCAL TIME

  Ingrid Odenshaw glanced down at her notes and noticed her hand was a bit shaky. Her daughter, Ursula, plopped down on the couch beside her. “Nervous?” She said, in an annoyingly cheerful voice.

  “No more so than usual,” her mother replied.

  Ingrid thought back to the Democratic National Convention in Memphis where she gave a speech introducing her husband, Samuel, a few months before he won the Presidency. She remembered the enthusiasm of the crowd and feeling more of a warm buzz of excitement than any feelings of nervousness. This time was different however. She was in Iceland to address the Women's World Progress Summit as the keynote speaker from a panel of other female leaders. It was her first major speaking event since becoming First Lady. She didn't want to let on to her teenage daughter that she was actually terror-stricken thinking that admitting it out loud might make the awful feelings worse.

  “I'm fine,” Ingrid said. “How about you? Are you having a good time?”

  “Yeah,” Ursula said, “I guess.”

  One of the organizers, wearing headphones and carrying a clipboard, was allowed to pass into the back room by Secret Service. She walked over to Ingrid and Ursula.

  “Miss, we're ready for you. As we discussed, you'll be speaking fourth.”

  Ingrid and Ursula stood up. The First Lady swept her hands over her suit. The organizer checked the microphone clipped to the inside of Ingrid's top and made sure the battery pack attached at the back of her suit was in place. The organizer looked at Ursula. “We have a seat for you beside the stage, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ingrid turned and gave her daughter a weary smile.

  “You're gonna do great, mom,” Ursula said.

  They shared a hug and Ingrid turned and followed the organizer out of the room.

  WES POLLARD

  OFFICES OF ROSE ATLANTIC CAPITAL

  NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

  12:05 PM LOCAL TIME

  With his fingers furiously tapping at his keyboard, Wes Pollard touched his earpiece, his eyes scanning the figures racing across h
is screen.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said into his mic, “are you seeing this? Gold's gonna bottom today. I'm telling you.”

  He listened to the reedy voice on the other end of the call. A frantic commodities trader looking to short his precious metals position.

  “No,” Wes said, “I've said it, how many times now? How many times have I told you this is a buying opportunity.”

  The man on the other continued ranting.

  “No,” Wes interrupted, “you gotta grab this, I'm saying you gotta grab it with both hands. Do you understand?”

  Again the man on the other end wasn't agreeing.

  “Hey,” Wes said, “that's fine. Look, you do what you gotta do, but me? I'm going back in. Double. No, hell with that. Triple.”

  The trader on the other end told Wes he was crazy and hung up. Wes ripped his earpiece off and tossed it onto his desk, swiveling around in his chair to look out at the Manhattan skyline. “Idiot,” he mumbled to himself. He heard a knock on the glass behind him. He turned and saw Pete Klein, one of the other traders on the floor, looking in on him. Pete could see Wes's tie hanging loose and the top button on his collar undone.

  “Rough morning?” Pete asked.

  “You could say that, yeah.”

  “Me and the boys are thinking about hittin' up that new lobster joint over on Water if you're interested.”

  “Nah, I've got a few more calls to make,” Wes said, “you guys go ahead.”

  “Alright. You sure, man? You look like you could use a break.”

  “I'm all good. Let me know how it is.”

  “Okay, man.”

  Pete walked away and Wes rolled his chair back to his desk and stared at the numbers on his monitor. Frustrated by the figures glaring back at him he was overcome with a feeling of helplessness. “Forget this,” he said to himself. “Hey Pete!” He shouted at the glass wall in front of him. Pete heard him though and came to Wes's office door. “Changed my mind,” Wes said. “I'm comin' with you.”