Shelter

by C A Bird

  The loud ringing continued and the fog finally began to lift as the fading dream finally relinquished its grip on him. Realizing that it wasn’t the alarm ringing, but his cell phone, he fumbled for it in the dark, muttering “hello,” in a rough voice shaken by the nightmare.

  “Hi Mark. It’s Will. The President wants us to attend a meeting this afternoon. Be at the plane in an hour, okay?”

  “Sure, what time is it?” Still slightly disoriented, he swung his feet to the floor, flinging aside the damp, tangled covers. His bedroom window was open to a warm, summer, Southern California night, and he was soaked with perspiration.

  “Four a.m. Be there at five. I’ll see you then.” Mark knew Will Hargraves well and he detected an uncharacteristic tension in Will’s voice.

  He sat on the edge of the bed trying to shake the lingering feeling of dread that had overwhelmed him and lingered even after he’d awakened. He realized it wasn’t the phrase, “The blood of Christ,” that frightened him. In fact there was something oddly comforting about it. It was the other memory, fading quickly now that he was awake, of something loathsome in the darkness, and of a danger - an end worse than death - that caused his gut to wrench, and the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle. He reached up and massaged his neck, pressing hard, attempting to rub away the tension. Mark was unaccustomed to having nightmares and the vividness of this one had left him shaken.

  He stood and headed for the bathroom, the effects of the dream rapidly diminishing. He would have to hustle to get to the airport on time. With minimal traffic due to the early hour it would take him thirty minutes to get to Hargraves Aerospace Industries in Costa Mesa.

  Mark wasn’t particularly surprised that the President of the United States had summoned them to Washington. Being Chief Executive Officer at Hargraves Aerospace, a major defense contractor, he’d been involved in high-level government meetings in the past. This afternoon’s meeting was undoubtedly due to the developing international tensions that began years ago when India and Pakistan rekindled the cold war by testing nuclear weapons. Other problems followed as spies were found to have stolen U.S. nuclear secrets and there was a proliferation of nuclear technology and materiel. Then came September 11, completely changing the situation forever. More recently, North Korea was testing missiles and sending satellites into orbit while Iran was moving toward developing a nuclear weapon in spite of severe international sanctions. The current inflation in the U.S. had caused China to cease buying U.S. treasuries and the Chinese were making threats about the inability of the United States to pay back the massive debt owed them. All of these problems had led up to yesterday.

  Details were sketchy, but the news media reported that China, against the provisions of the nuclear test ban treaties, had conducted an atmospheric hydrogen bomb test, immeasurably escalating the international tension. Will would have more information, and Mark hoped the meeting with the President would fill in the blanks.

  As he shaved, he studied his image in the mirror. He had, once again, gone to bed too late trying to complete a thorough review of three new documents the Contracts and Grants department had previously approved. Will Hargraves would expect him to be familiar with their provisions in detail. Dark circles under his eyes reminded him of the folly, at his age, of getting too little sleep. At thirty-six years old it was getting harder to skimp on sleep and still function at his peak during the day.

  He grinned his lopsided grin and scolded his image, “Mark old boy, you need to get your beauty rest.” He was convinced the nightmare was a result of too little sleep.

  He’d noticed himself thinking more about his age lately and hoped it was a passing phase, brought on by his recent birthday and reaching the “closer-to-forty-than-thirty” age. Actually, he looked younger than thirty-six, blessed with boyish good looks, wavy dark hair, a body slimmed by regular exercise and electric blue eyes that sparkled when he smiled. His one hundred eighty pounds on a five-foot eleven-inch frame were mostly muscle, due to running almost daily and weight training three days a week.

  His smile faded abruptly as his thoughts returned to the present situation. As he dressed he remembered that Will Hargraves’ company had worked on Strategic Defense Initiative projects, essentially anti-missile systems, prior to the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty signed by President George Bush. Mark wasn’t completely familiar with the details but he guessed today’s meeting could possibly lead to reinstatement of those, or similar contracts and he would be a very busy man in the next few months. He was right about the latter but for reasons he couldn’t possibly imagine.

  Opening the closet, he retrieved the overnight bag he always kept packed and grabbed his computer case with his laptop. He reset the security alarm as he entered the garage from the kitchen and glanced at his watch. 4:22 in the morning. He would make it with five or ten minutes to spare.

  Mark backed his Silver Lexus SUV out of the garage and wound slowly down his quiet residential street in Newport Beach, California. His home was a small, older style Spanish hacienda, perched on a low hill, with a breathtaking, panoramic view of the ocean visible from his front porch. He’d fallen in love with the house when he spotted a “For Sale” sign in the front yard as he and a friend had jogged by just over six years ago. He had finished his run, called the broker, made an offer and moved in two months later. During the six years he’d owned it he had completely upgraded the house with every modern convenience, including a total, home automation system. It controlled the drip systems that watered the lawns and shrubs, adjusted the interior and exterior lighting and controlled the security systems that ensured his safety. Mark loved to cook and did most of his own, even when entertaining guests, but he employed a gardener, a pool man and a housekeeper. Life was good.

  It was still dark, a waning moon just slipping into the ocean, as he passed the beautiful, perfectly landscaped properties of his neighbors. Their yards were filled with acacia trees, fan palms, roses and rhododendron and a profusion of other flowers, gray in the predawn darkness, which would flash into rainbows of color with the rising of the sun.

  Mark had never met any of his neighbors, except to wave occasionally when they saw one another by chance. Instead, he preferred the company of a few good friends. One of these, Steve Jordan, was a fellow runner and owner of “Running Free,” a Fountain Valley sporting goods store that sold running shoes, clothing and paraphernalia. When Mark wasn’t flying one of the five antique planes in his collection, he and Steve were out running trails, through Trabuco Canyon in the Cleveland National Forest east of San Juan Capistrano, or in the Santa Monica or San Gabriel mountains to the north.

  He left the guarded world of Newport and headed north on Pacific Coast Highway to Newport Boulevard, and then right, toward Costa Mesa and the plant.

  As he pulled into his reserved parking space at the plant’s main hangar, Mark noticed that Will was already there, his Black Mercedes parked in the space next to Mark’s. He grabbed his computer and bag from the trunk and walked around the corner into the well-lighted, open end of the hangar, where he found Will Hargraves and five other people standing beside the sleek business jet. The others waved and went on board as Will turned to wait for Mark.

  Will Hargraves was an imposing figure. Taller than Mark, at just over six feet, he had a full head of steel gray hair, a neatly trimmed white beard, and eyes that were an unusual shade of gray. His demeanor was that of a man in charge. Will flashed a brief smile as Mark approached. “Hey Mark. Let’s get going. Can’t keep the President waiting.”

  The Gulfstream V, powered by twin BMW Rolls Royce jet engines, was cleared through several intermediate altitudes before leveling off at flight level 410. Flying above a light cloud cover at forty-one thousand feet and cruising at Mach 0.8, or about 530 miles per hour, they would reach Washington, D.C. in approximately four and a half hours. With several attendees coming from the West coast the meeting had been scheduled for 2:00 p.m. to accommodate the time change.

  Mar
k and Will were both excellent pilots and were certified to fly the G-V, but today they had a crew of three; the captain and co-captain, and a flight attendant who was busy preparing breakfast in the galley. Mark lounged in a wide leather seat across the aisle from Will, sipping a hot cup of coffee. Two other passengers, Miles Bannister, Chief Operations Officer, and Heinrich Muensch, Chief Engineer of Hargraves Aerospace, sat on a small side-facing sofa in front of Mark and Will. The men were longtime employees, having been employed at the company when Will purchased it from their previous employer. Both men were in their late fifties and both wore rumpled suits. Miles was clean shaven while Heinrich had a short beard. Miles ran his hand through thinning gray hair as Will briefed them on the middle-of-the-night conversation he’d had with Secretary of State Charles Hansen. Will and Chuck Hansen, friends in college, had known each other for over forty years and Chuck regularly kept Will informed of events transpiring in Washington.

  “The situation is far worse than any of us could have suspected, with international tensions running higher than they have in several years. I assume that the escalating tensions will mean the resumption of testing and development of projects that were discontinued years ago. The technology is so different we will be basically starting from scratch.”

  He looked over at Miles and Heinrich. “While Mark and I are at the White House, the two of you have appointments at the Pentagon. You’ll meet with General Constantine. Feel him out on the types of contracts they’re interested in but don’t make any commitments. Fax any paperwork they’ve prepared to the plant.”

  Prior to Mark’s employment, Hargraves Aerospace Company had been involved, among other things, in “Star Wars” type anti-missile research. Will’s company held over twenty patents for state-of-the-art navigational equipment, used, among other things, in guidance systems for missiles and rockets. Many of the patents were for equipment Will Hargraves had invented himself and Mark knew the highly accurate Cruise missiles utilized homing technology similar to that developed by Hargraves Aerospace over two decades ago. Will also owned several subsidiary companies whose primary businesses involved manufacturing rocket engines and laser guidance systems.

  “You know Will,” Mark said, “The projects you’re referring to were canceled soon after I joined the company. Can you fill me in?”

  “Of course. We were working on several projects for the SDI, Strategic Defense Initiative. Most of our involvement was in guidance systems. For example, the plant in Idaho was researching and designing mirror systems for directing ground-based nuclear x-ray lasers. We were also in R&D on computer guided projectiles, fired from electromagnetic rail guns that could be moved around the country on the nation’s rail system, and several other less glamorous projects.”

  “Why were they discontinued?”

  “Are you familiar with the concept of deterrence?”

  “Yeah, sort of. If each country has the ability to annihilate the other, then we’re balanced, and deterred from launching a first strike.” Mark downed the last of his second cup of coffee.

  “Mutually assured destruction,” Miles added. “If each side knows his own destruction is certain, even if they strike first, theoretically they will withhold that first strike.”

  “Yes, that’s the general idea,” Will continued. “A program to develop a defense against ballistic missiles challenged these assumptions of deterrence. The SDI, supposedly providing total U.S. protection against nuclear attack would remove the disincentive to attack first. Back in 1972 and 1974, treaties allowing only limited deployment of antiballistic missile systems had been signed by the superpowers, and members of Congress believed the SDI contravened these ABM treaties. It’s ironic since we kept the bargain and it’s widely believed the Soviets and China went ahead and developed anti-missile systems anyway.”

  The flight attendant had breakfast ready on the dining-conference table, and moving to the rear of the cabin they continued the conversation over a light meal.

  “The system was also too damned expensive,” Heinrich said, in a slight German accent, which forty years in the United States hadn’t completely obliterated. “Thirty billion dollars!”

  Will continued, “In 1993 the Strategic Defense Initiative was abandoned and the Ballistic Missile Defense Organization was established. It’s much less expensive and uses internal ground-based antimissile systems. Although I’m on the civilian advisory board for this organization, I’ve been reluctant to financially commit the company to any projects, fearing until now that Congress would pull the plug on the B.M.D.O. as well. Even now, with this undeniable breach of the nuclear weapons treaties, I’m not sure this administration is going to be willing to make any waves and fund new projects. The president is strong on defense but congress fights him every step of the way.”

  Mark was beginning to understand the complexities of the situation. “We’re looking at years to redevelop these systems,” he told them. “Are we going to have that kind of time?”

  “Well, now that’s the real question isn’t it?” Will said.

  August 19, 6:25 a.m.

  Las Vegas, New Mexico

  It was one of those beautiful mornings so prevalent in the American Southwest, calm and crystal clear, with Venus shining like a jewel in the indigo sky of predawn. One-half mile from Interstate 25 a coyote gained on his prey, zigging, zagging and pouncing on the jackrabbit just as it reached its burrow at the base of a twisted juniper tree. The predator snatched up the rabbit with steel-trap jaws, and with a quick shake of its head easily snapped the animal’s neck, killing it instantly. With the dead rabbit dangling from its mouth, the coyote trotted off through creosote and greasewood, winding through a sandy wash to the top of a rise, where he ripped open the rabbit’s jugular and gulped down fur-covered chunks of blood-soaked meat.

  With a full stomach, he lifted his muzzle and yapped his satisfaction to the gleaming beacon in the heavens.

  The sun vaulted into the sky, throwing lances of golden light across the desert. They speared a battered green van as it swung around the corner onto Grant Avenue and pulled to a stop in front of a dilapidated diner. The words “Desert Air” were neatly stenciled on its side. Across the street from the diner, a large digital clock perched high atop the bank read 6:27 a.m., alternating with the temperature, which read a comfortable seventy-two degrees. In a very few hours the temperature will have climbed to almost ninety, or possibly have exceeded it, considering the record breaking heat wave that currently parched the southwest.

  A large bear of a man climbed down from the van and entered the diner. Walter Thompson was dressed in worn coveralls, his gray hair covered by an ancient baseball cap embroidered with the name “Dukes”, Albuquerque’s triple A minor league baseball team. “Morning Heather. Just a cup of coffee, please.” He swung his leg over a battered stool, tossed the cap onto the counter and sat down heavily. Looking around, he nodded a greeting toward his friend Norm Ortega, a darkly tanned rancher with deep lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. Norm was another regular customer at John’s Coffee Shop in Las Vegas, New Mexico. “Morning Norm.” Norm’s mouth was stuffed full of bacon, but he returned the nod in acknowledgement.

  The counter contained plastic donut trays, equally spaced down its length, and metal holders with grease-stained, dog-eared sheets of paper that served as menus. Maroon colored booths, covered with duct tape, lined the side of the restaurant under the windows and a line of tables and chairs occupied the space between the booths and the counter. Walter looked through the wide pass-through into the kitchen and waved at John Stiles, owner of the restaurant, an ex-navy cook, and an excellent chef. Next to the pass-through, appearing totally out of place, a brand new marker board announced today’s breakfast special, “Steak and eggs with hash browns, toast and coffee - $9.95.”

  An elderly couple sat in one of the booths and two men dressed in cammo pants and orange vests occupied the table beside the door. This area of New Mexico, though high plains, was in close
proximity to the southern terminus of the Rocky Mountains and boasted excellent hunting and fishing almost year-round. The other occupant, a trucker, sat next to Norm.

  Walter’s weekday mornings were identical, stopping by the aging diner for coffee and conversation, and then swinging by his son’s house to pick him up for work. Jerry Thompson, a partner in his parents’ business, was learning to repair appliances as his father’s apprentice.

  “How’s it going Norm? Gonna be any cooler today?”

  Norm wolfed down the last of a stack of hotcakes, swimming in butter and syrup, and washed it all down with a swallow of his black coffee. “Yeah, Walter, I think it is. You won’t have any work to do.” The hands holding the coffee mug were calloused from many years of ranching in this predominately rural area of New Mexico.

  “Shoot, that’ll be the day. There are plenty of appliances in this town that need fixing.” He smiled at the young woman hovering nearby with the coffee pot. “Thanks, Heather. You’re an angel in disguise.” Actually, though pretty and in her early twenties, she looked less like an angel and more like a hard-working lady of the evening, with smudges under her eyes as evidence of a perpetually exhausted state. Light brown hair, pulled straight back and fastened with a colored ribbon spilled halfway down her back, and she had applied thick, overdone makeup in an attempt to disguise her weariness. Heather’s live-in boyfriend worked a P.M. shift at the only hospital in this town of over fourteen thousand inhabitants, and arrived home just before midnight every night to find her waiting up for him. With her shift at the diner starting at five a.m. it didn’t leave a lot of time for sleep.

  Walter sipped his coffee and began the usual early morning discussion. “How about those Chinese? I hear they’re doing some nuclear testing. Isn’t that prohibited by some treaty?” His remarks were thrown out to anyone who would listen or participate.