“No. They don’t bounce. They vanish. Near as I can tell, the shield is a wall of energy less than the width of an atom. But what a wall. The energy is of such potency that whatever touches it is consumed instantly. Like throwing an ice cube into the sun. Shoot a bullet at the shield and the bullet is vaporized as it travels into it, one microscopic layer at a time. We’ve done experiments. My belief is that nothing known to man can breach it. Including nuclear.”
Alyssa nodded. At this point, she’d be foolish not to believe anything he said. If he told her he could pull an elephant from his ear, she’d back up to give him room.
“And saying it encircles me at about a distance of a foot isn’t completely accurate either,” he added. “It operates when and where it needs to operate. So if my back is to a wall and a bullet is coming toward my face, it will materialize in front of the bullet to stop it. But it won’t vaporize the wall behind me. And it will vanish as soon as the threat is gone. It’s not a dome. It’s directional somehow. If I’m getting barraged from all sides, it will give me three hundred and sixty degree protection, but it won’t touch anything beneath me. I won’t melt a hole through the Earth and end up at the Earth’s core—that sort of thing.” He sighed. “If only I had a clue how I’m doing this,” he added in frustration.
These feats required channeling massive energies, as well as a subconscious that was an absolute savant. But Alyssa was well aware of the power of the subconscious. If one’s body was given over to it, it could perform feats the conscious mind could not. A pitcher could reflexively catch a blazing line drive aimed at his head before his conscious mind even registered that the ball had been hit.
“So you can’t figure out the exact scientific principles you’re using to perform these miracles. And you’re frustrated. I get that. But you’re also basically invincible. Which isn’t such a bad thing to be.”
“Not quite. I do have an Achilles’ heel.”
Alyssa was surprised he would admit this. She guessed that Achilles had avoided advertising exactly where his enemies needed to shoot him. She thought about it for a few seconds. “Sleep?” she said finally. “Unconsciousness?”
“Great guess,” he said, and seemed genuinely impressed. “I certainly would have thought so. But no. As you know, the subconscious is alive and well and monitoring our surroundings far more than we realize, even in sleep. Deciding what is important enough to bring to our conscious attention. But training your mind to tap into the zero point field seems to enhance the subconscious significantly. It becomes immensely more powerful and vigilant than it would otherwise be. I’m more aware of my surroundings when I’m asleep, at a subconscious level, than when I’m awake.”
“That makes no sense.”
“We did experiments with rubber bullets. Try to shoot me, even when I’m sleeping, and the shield blocks it. If I’m awake, but my back is turned, and someone sneaks up on me and shoots me, my subconscious extends the shield once again. Even when I have no conscious awareness anyone is behind me. Once your mind realizes it can protect you, it clings to self preservation with an amazing tenacity.”
“Isn’t that dangerous for anyone sleeping next to you?” asked Alyssa, imagining accidentally rolling onto him in her sleep, and having her arm vaporized as his shield came to life.
Craft’s eyes lit up and a mischievous smile came over his face.
“Wait a minute,” protested Alyssa. “I wasn’t asking because I’m interested, okay. Come on. It was strictly a scientific question.”
“Of course,” said Craft, managing to keep any trace of sarcasm or doubt from his voice. “But no need to worry. The subconscious can tell the difference between a threat and a . . . good friend.”
Alyssa wondered if he had actually tested this theory with one or several women, but didn’t ask. “So if sleep isn’t your vulnerability,” she said. “What is?
Brennan Craft blew out a long breath. “Omar Haddad,” he said simply.
27
Eben Martin felt like an idiot as he stood with his legs spread, one foot on each of two laptops, and his arms spread and extended as far above his head as they could be, each index finger touching the bottom of one of two tablet computers suspended above him, providing the illusion that he was holding them up with the might of a single finger alone. He looked like a human letter-X suspended between four devices. Martin loathed every second that he remained in this position.
He smiled broadly.
"Perfect," declared the anorexic-looking professional photographer as he snapped dozens of pictures in quick succession of one of the most powerful CEOs in the world, dressed in business casual, although business casual that was impeccably tailored and was more expensive than a high-end suit.
"Now,” continued the photographer, “I need a contemplative look. You're one of the world's wealthiest men, and a computer visionary, pondering the future of the web. Good . . . good. Excellent," he gushed, happily snapping away.
Martin continued standing, framed between the devices, and contemplated murder. Would anyone miss the chief photographer from Fortune magazine? Probably not, he decided.
Martin had been on the covers of numerous magazines during the past few years—and he was pretty damn sick of it. It was great for Informatics Solutions and for his image, but his personal celebrity was getting to be a nuisance, as were the endless creative poses that each magazine wanted him to assume for its cover.
"Now, let's get a serious pose . . . you've just been told—"
“Hold on one second,” interrupted Martin. He pulled a phone from his pocket and pretended to read it. “Whoops,” he said. “I have a fire that needs fighting. I’m afraid I have to call it a day,” he finished, doing his best to pretend he wished it were otherwise.
“Mr. Martin,” the man complained. “There were a few more poses I wanted to try."
"Really sorry about that,” said Martin. "But I'm sure one of the many shots you've already taken will turn out great. I only wish I had more time. But, alas, the business world won’t be kept waiting.”
Martin offered to help the man load up his equipment, which had the desired effect of greatly accelerating his departure, as he was panicked into believing that if he didn't leave fast enough, Martin would commit the unpardonable sin of touching one of his precious cameras or lenses.
Two of Martin’s key publicity people, Karly Rose and Susan Black, escorted the photographer through the outer door, leaving Martin alone in his private conference room. He had much to do, and wasted no time rushing through the door connected to his spacious office suite. Some CEO’s of multibillion dollar corporations had eschewed lavish luxury so as not to seem to be elevating themselves too much above the rank and file.
Martin didn’t share this view. He took the opposite approach. He wanted his office to be the size of a small apartment, and so lavishly furnished and appointed that it screamed opulence and power. He wanted it to be intimidating. And he wanted employees to aspire to improved offices as they moved up the ranks.
Martin fell heavily into his desk chair and spun it around to face his largest computer monitor, hanging in a recessed panel to his left.
There was an intruder in his office.
Martin’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the situation. The man was tall and well-built, with a menacing air about him. He sat calmly at a small oval table that Martin used for working meetings with his executive vice-presidents, dressed in business casual as impeccable as his own.
Martin moved his hand to a small button under his desk, which would silently call for security, and pressed it gently.
“Sorry to surprise you like this, Mr. Martin,” the man said. “But I was told you wanted to meet with me as soon as possible.”
Martin studied his surprise visitor further. He was cool, confident, and conveyed a commanding presence. “How did you get in here?” said Martin casually, knowing he needed to stall for a minute or two until security arrived.
“My name is
Turco,” said the man. “Adam Turco. And I heard through the grapevine you were looking for a mercenary. The best in the business.”
Martin’s mind raced. He had sent his head of security, Randy Schram, on an urgent mission to recruit a mercenary. But Schram had been given strict instructions not to reveal who he was, and who Martin was by extension, until they had chosen who they wanted to approach.
“I realize,” continued Turco smoothly, “that your man Schram wasn’t ready to disclose his identity. Or yours. But when I heard a powerful player was in the market, my curiosity was piqued. So I took the liberty of learning who was behind it.” He smiled serenely. “Easier to apply for a job when you know who’s doing the hiring.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Martin.
“I’m the best there is,” continued Turco as if Martin hadn’t spoken. “And I heard you were in a hurry. So to speed things along, I thought I’d apply in person. Demonstrate a few skills, just so you know I’m worth my ask.”
Martin considered. The man had to be good. Because Schram was good, and Turco had traced Schram’s feelers back to him in record time. And gaining access to his office like this was not supposed to be possible. They were on the fifty-eighth floor, the penthouse, and the executive offices were supposed to be secure. Visitors all required escorts, and the elevator wouldn’t even travel to the top floor without a keycard. And even if there were no security, a surprise guest would need to make it past several of his secretaries and assistants to gain access to his office, which itself was not a simple task.
Martin shot a quick glance at the outer doors to his office and then returned his stare to Adam Turco. Turco caught his glance and smiled. “I temporarily disabled your silent alarm, by the way,” he said casually. “So we won’t be interrupted.”
Turco paused. “So what do you say? Are you ready to acknowledge that you really are looking for a mercenary? And that I just might be as good as I say I am?”
Eben Martin blew out a long breath. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by being indecisive. “Yes. I am looking. And yes, your skills are impressive.”
“Thank you.”
Martin texted one of his assistants that he didn’t want to be disturbed until further notice. He then left his desk and joined Turco across the small oval table, but didn’t yet extend his hand. “So what are your credentials?”
Turco told him. He was ex-special forces, a sharpshooter, and had been an integral part of a number of ops that were classified, but had involved gun battles against forces that had greatly outnumbered his own.
Martin studied him carefully. “You’re experienced, you’re qualified, and you’ve shown your initiative. But how do I know you can be . . . discrete.”
Turco nodded. “You’re very high profile. I understand that. But I’ve worked with other high profile people before. And you can think of me as Las Vegas. What happens between me and my client, stays between me and my client.”
“Comforting,” said Martin. “But not quite enough.”
“I didn’t think it would be,” replied the mercenary. “The real answer is that I’m a pro. The best there is. With a code. And I charge a lot. Go with someone who will sell their services cheaply, and they’ll sell you out on a whim. Also, when you partner with me, you partner with me for four-year blocks, during which time I’m yours. Exclusively. Which is nice, since I’m there in emergencies, and you’ll never have to go through an exercise like this again. One you handled clumsily, if you don’t mind some honest feedback.”
“Go on.”
“I charge three million dollars a year. At the end of this time, you can choose if you want to renew for an additional four-year period. You hire me on as your personal bodyguard, which isn’t such a bad idea anyway. Since you’re paying me extremely well, and on an annual basis, I’ll want you to thrive in business and live to a ripe old age. And I’ll be as loyal as a Golden Retriever during our association. Because if I’m not, I can’t count on this money year after year.”
Martin smiled. It was an ingenious offer. Charge a ridiculous rate, one so high as to ensure loyalty. Turco knew Martin was worth north of sixty billion dollars. So he had a lot to lose if his hired gun wasn’t trustworthy. So much so that if overpayment was an insurance policy, it was well worth the premiums. Twelve million dollars over four years was rounding error for a man like Martin.
Turco went on to explain that at the start of the relationship, one million would be due immediately, and that he would hire additional men as needed, and pay them, so that only Turco would know Martin was running the show.
“Are you prepared to kill on American soil?” asked Martin when the mercenary had finished.
The man nodded without hesitation.
Eben Martin studied Adam Turco for an extended period, during which time his job applicant continued to appear relaxed and supremely confident.
“You’re hired,” said Martin finally, shaking hands with his guest. “Text me your bank instructions, and I’ll have the money wired to you as soon as you leave. And there really is no time to waste. I assume you’re ready to be briefed and to start immediately?”
“I am,” said Turco. “I have a partner in mind, and can add him very quickly if necessary.”
“Good,” said Martin. He returned to his desk and opened a drawer, removing a manila envelope. He removed several 8 x 10 photos from the envelope, walked back to the table, and handed the top photograph to Adam Turco. “I’ll also send the photos and information in this envelope to your phone,” he said.
Turco studied the photograph carefully.
“This man is the reason you’re here,” explained Eben Martin.
“I gathered that,” said Turco dryly. “So who am I looking at? And more importantly, what is he to you?”
“His name is Brennan Craft,” said Martin simply. “And several years ago, we were very close friends.”
28
The waitress returned with Craft’s toast and placed it in front of him. The hostess was seating a young family one booth over, so Craft lowered his voice, not that anyone would understand, or believe, anything he was saying anyway.
“Omar was the strongest of us all,” said Craft. “He was a natural. My guess is that one in a thousand, or one in a million, just happen to have a better knack for it. He did. I was the second strongest. The others could harness the field to varying degrees. I felt like I had pushed it as far as I could. I had taken careful and thorough measurements over many months, and I was going to write a paper and announce this to the world.” He smiled wistfully. “Collect my four of five Nobel prizes and create a revolution unlike anything in history.”
“But something happened to change this,” guessed Alyssa. “Something involving Al Yad.”
Craft nodded, and then frowned bitterly. “I was the second strongest, but other than the force field I generated without any conscious control, I could barely do anything at all. I could charge a cell phone or laptop. Exert a tiny bit of pressure on a scale. Or a skull. But Omar on the other hand . . .”
Craft stopped, and pain and loss were reflected in his eyes.
He paused for several seconds to collect himself. “While I was in the process of writing all of it up,” he continued finally, “there came a time when Omar Haddad hit a tipping point of some kind. He was always the strongest, but suddenly his ability increased exponentially. It grew stronger by the day. He had cracked some kind of metaphorical sound barrier that none of the others in the group were close to cracking. And his success was a feedback loop. The more his power grew, the more belief he had—so the more his power grew. It was becoming alarming.
“I decided I needed to find a way to rein him in. And I realized that I couldn’t go public with this, after all. What if there were others out there like Omar? Who, by the way, had rapidly begun losing his sanity.”
“That’s why you didn’t want to disclose this to Elovic and his men,” said Alyssa in sudden understanding. “If
this leaks out and becomes widespread knowledge, anyone can use biofeedback techniques to awaken these latent capabilities. Possibly creating more Al Yads.”
“Essentially,” said Craft. “I had to make some breakthroughs in biofeedback techniques to get this to work, which won’t be easily duplicated, but why take any chances? A single Omar Haddad—Al Yad,” he amended, realizing that this name was Alyssa’s preference, “is more than dangerous enough.”
“Okay, but getting back to where you left off, he was beginning to lose his sanity,” she prompted.
“Yes. He started to believe he was a god. And why not? This fervent belief in his own divinity certainly enabled him to wield the power of a god.”
Alyssa swallowed hard. “Like, what are we talking about here?”
“We’re talking about power that’s immeasurable. Al Yad’s transformation to his current abilities took about six months before leveling off for good. But no measuring instrument we could devise could survive the raw power he could throw off. He could willfully channel the zero point field with unbelievable bandwidth. If he wanted to, he could have powered the electrical grid of the entire US without working up a sweat.”
Craft shook his head gravely. “But I was working up a sweat, I can tell you that. I was freaking out. He had begun studying Islam with a passion, and claiming he was The Hand of Allah, able to wield Allah’s power. And he could. It’s probably easier to be delusional when your delusion is true.”
“Good point.”
“And then he broke entirely. He was angry with me because I didn’t want to help him grow even greater. And I insisted on testing him, which was annoying to him. Then he began ranting about punishing the infidel. More and more jihadist talk. I raced to find a way to defuse him, but failed.”
Alyssa was spellbound. An alien spacecraft could have landed in the middle of their table and she wouldn’t have noticed at this point.
“So the last strand of Al Yad’s sanity broke, and he destroyed our entire camp. His goal was to kill off the only group on Earth who knew what was really going on. And who might—unlikely, but might—someday be able to challenge his power.”
Quantum Lens Page 15
