by Jerry Ahern
“From the physical damage she sustained, about the same amount of time will be necessary for her. Now, that will be the amount of time necessary to launch an aggressive physical rehabilitation. I cannot speak to her psychological damage.”
Rourke shook his head, “That’s amazing Doctor.”
“What is amazing is it took so long for science and medicine to come together and figure out how the body works and what a fantastic mechanism it really is. Glyconutrients are the key to effective cellular communication and proper cell function. They are not vitamins, minerals, amino acids, or enzymes, but are in a class of their own as nutritional supplementation. Simply, healthy cells lead to healthy tissue—healthy tissue leads to healthy organs—and healthy organs lead to healthy bodies.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Delys had checked into his hotel before trying to call Paul Rubenstein’s phone. After identifying himself, he was told by a male voice, “There has been a slight accident. Mr. Rubenstein is not available at the moment. Can you call back tomorrow?” Delys said he would and left his contact information in the event Paul wanted to reach him. Delys wondered what had happened and how it would affect his own mission. After ordering room service, he climbed into the shower. As he was drying off someone knocked on his door, “Just a minute,” he shouted as he slipped on a robe and walked barefoot to the door.
Expecting the room service attendant, he was surprised to see three men in dark suits with ear buds obvious, standing there. “Mr. Delys, may we come in?” the nearest one said, flashing his Secret Service credentials. Delys almost didn’t recognize him, then with a grin opened the door and said, “Tim Shaw, you old reprobate what are you doing here? And when did you sign on with the Secret Service?”
Shaw entered and the other two waited outside, he wasn’t smiling. Delys was puzzled, “Am I in trouble?”
Shaw took off his fedora and threw it on the bed, “I don’t know Beaux but I need to ask you some questions. What are you doing here for a starter? And why did you try to contact Paul Rubenstein?”
“I’m on a job, Tim,” Delys said and he resumed drying his hair. “A client of mine wants me to deliver a message to Mr. Rubenstein. That’s the long and short of it.”
“Paul has been in a little ‘accident,’” Shaw said. “He’s not available.”
“That’s what I was told when I called,” Delys said.
“Who’s your client and what is the message?”
Delys shook his head, “Tim, you know that information is confidential. I don’t have to give it to you.”
Shaw nodded and looked for an ash tray as he dug a cigarette out of the pack. Finding none, he picked up a coffee cup from next to the maker and went to the sink where he put a half inch of water in it. “Okay, Beaux,” Shaw said after he had lit the cigarette. “I’m not going to dance around with you. Here it is, the only way you’re going to see Paul Rubenstein is through me. The only way that is going to happen is for you to tell me what it is about... everything. Or, you can get back on the plane tomorrow and tell your client how you failed in your mission. Got it?”
Delys suddenly realized he had stumbled into something more complicated than just delivering a message—and he didn’t know what it was. “Give me a minute to get my clothes on, Tim,” Delys said and walked into the bathroom. Shortly after, he came out in slacks and a t-shirt but still barefooted. Sliding on his moccasins, Delys went to his briefcase, opened it and pulled the card out. “Here’s the message, Tim. I never met the guy before, never saw him before. Don’t know who he is, but he said Rubenstein would know him. Got paid cash up-front and unless he contacts me, I don’t expect to see or hear from him again.”
“Describe him to me,” Shaw said as he read the simple message of the note, “Jew, call me. The Nazi.” Turning the card over he saw the phone number scrawled neatly.
Delys cleared his throat, “Older white guy, thin and tall; slightly over six feet. Has a heavy mustache, grey hair... I believe a wig.” Delys thought for a moment before adding, “He has a pulsating vein right here.” Delys pointed at his own temple. “I’d say early sixties now, but in his day I’d say he was a real badass; probably still a handful. I do have a picture from our office surveillance video if that will help.” Delys pulled the photo from the briefcase and handed it to Shaw. “That’s all I’ve got, honest Tim.”
Shaw studied it and said, “I assume your client didn’t know he was getting his picture taken...”
Delys smiled. “They never do.”
Shaw nodded, “Okay, IF you get to see Rubenstein it won’t be today—day after tomorrow at the earliest. I’ll convey the message for you and if he wants to talk to you, I’ll take you there but no promises, agreed?”
“Look Tim,” Delys said. “Honestly, I’m not emotionally invested in this. If you tell me the message has been delivered, I’ll head home tomorrow. My job will be finished.”
“No Beaux, Paul may very well want to talk to you. Stand by here, I’ll be calling you.” A knock came at the door and Delys opened it; finally, room service had arrived. Tim picked up his hat, “Good to see you, Beaux.”
Delys stuck out his hand as Tim Shaw exited the room, turning to return the handshake. “Good to see you again, Tim.”
The room service attendant looked a little puzzled, “Is everything alright, Sir?”
“I sure hope so, just set everything on the coffee table, please.”
Shaw waited until he and his men were out of the hotel before activating the sleeve microphone and speaking into his hand. “When are they coming back here?” He listened then said, “No, the one I’m concerned about is Rubenstein.” He got his answer. “Roger, we’re headed back to the office.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Following his instructions, the room service attendant set up Beaux’s supper on the coffee table. The T-bone steak was grilled to perfection; a small loaf of artisan bread, a baked potato—heavy on the butter—a side salad and apple pie a la mode completed the meal. Delys poured a generous glass of red wine, sat on the couch and punched the television remote. “Alright,” he said out loud, “just what the doctor ordered.” A private detective marathon was running with old reruns of Peter Gunn, Magnum P.I. and his favorite, Mannix.
Delys always pictured himself rather like Mannix or Joseph R. “Joe” Mannix if you wanted to be correct. A regular guy, without pretense, but a storehouse of proverbs to fall back on in conversation; Mannix was noted for taking a lot of physical punishment. Before the series ended he had been shot and wounded over a dozen separate times, and knocked unconscious around fifty-five times. Delys had made the choice to try and avoid that part.
Delys thought his story read like a bad novel. Following his retirement from law enforcement and a bloody divorce, Delys returned to his home state, Louisiana. He had gotten into this business rather by accident; truth be known—he had been bored. Ken LaBorde, an old high school friend had stopped over for a few beers and noticed Delys seemed distracted. “Waz da matter wid chu?” Even after all of this time, the Cajun dialect had not died off in Louisiana.
Delys said, “Man, I gotta have a game.”
“What you mean?” LaBorde asked.
“I am going out of my mind. Don’t get me wrong, retirement is good but I’m caught up on all my honey-dos and I am just stinking bored. The money is not important, sure it would be nice to make some but I’m not looking for another career. I just want something to keep my mind functioning, I need a game.”
That evening he was channel surfing and came across a rerun, of all things, an old private eye show called Peter Gunn. The next day he started digging; he had worked with PIs while at Honolulu PD, though he really never cared for them. Might be a fun gig, he thought. To qualify for a license a person had to be of legal age, be a citizen of the United States or a resident alien with proper documentation to work in the United States. There couldn’t be any felony convictions or crimes involving moral turpitude. He hadn’t been declared i
ncompetent by reason of mental defect or disease. Hmmm, I think I could do this.
Later he had told LaBorde, “I knew I was good on the qualifications...”
LaBorde smiled. “I don’t know about that turpitude or mental defect...”
Delys smiled. “The big question was funding for the licenses and cost to set up an agency. The answer to that literally fell into my hands. I had picked up an old desk at a garage sale. Cleaning it out I found several old coins wedged in the corners of two of the drawers. I contacted a coin dealer I knew; when I showed him the coins, the guy almost had a heart attack.”
“All of the coins had some silver content but not anything special. Two however, a pair of dimes, were 1916 Mercury dimes with a mint mark of ‘D’ for Denver. The dealer explained there had only been 264,000 minted in a seriously limited run. ‘They were the most valuable mercury dimes ever minted! The numismatic value far exceeded its intrinsic or monetary value. One in poor condition will be valued at somewhere around $1,000, while one in perfect condition can bring $30,000 plus. ’”
“I had two in that condition. Four hours later, I had just under $65,000 laid in my hands and the dealer had two mercury dimes in his. The term, paradigm, describes distinct concepts or thought patterns in scientific concepts but it was a pair of dimes that had financed my dream, so it became The Paradimes Detective Agency and as they say, ‘The rest is history... ’”
Before the actor played Mannix, he had starred for one season on another detective show, Tight Rope. He played Nick Stone, a police undercover agent who infiltrated organized crime to expose the leaders and their plots. His name changed with each episode in order to protect him. The character carried a Walther PP in a shoulder rig and a backup .38 revolver in a “small of the back” holster. When the bad guys searched him on the show and found the Walther they never went any further in the search. Delys never cared for the .32 caliber and instead opted for the new Lancer PPK/S in 9mm and their Model 60 reproduction of the Smith and Wesson Police Chief.
The phone on the desk jingled and Delys walked over and answered, “Beaux Delys.”
“You finished with your meal?” It was Tim Shaw’s voice.
“Just about, what do you need?”
“I need a drink; you want to meet me in the bar downstairs?” Shaw asked.
“Sure. When?”
“I’ll be there in about an hour,” Shaw said and broke the connection.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Natalia was still under heavy pain medication. The head of the National Security Agency, Harmon Knowles, sat with John Rourke inside a secure conference room at the Capital Building. Rourke said, “Okay Mr. Knowles, I’ve laid out my questions and would like some straight answers.”
Knowles cleared his throat, “Here is the reality, Mr. Rourke. Yes, several governments including our own knew for a long time of the existence of the Aliens. Long before the Night of the War those governments made the decision not to tell the populace the truth out of fear of their reaction. Fear of mass panic, like that which occurred when Orson Wells broadcast the War of the Worlds as a Halloween special over the Columbia Broadcasting System’s radio network back in 1938.”
“That broadcast, which ran slightly over an hour, was presented as a series of simulated news bulletins which had many convinced an actual alien invasion by Martians was in fact going on. The hysteria was enhanced because the show ran without commercial breaks. This added to the program’s realism. Following this broadcast there was widespread outrage in the media and panic by certain listeners, who had believed the events described in the program were real.”
Knowles took a sip of coffee, gaining the time to continue his thoughts. “Even with the twenty-eight changes required by CBS’s censors, the script was ‘too realistic.’ Most involved changing the names of real places, institutions and officials to something fictional—the result proved the horrifying reaction and fears of the public. This set the course of non-information and even misinformation that continued for almost sixty years. In actuality, that radio broadcast was a test, devised by our government to... I guess you would call it, to test the reaction of the general public.”
“The test was successful, it proved true the speculation that the general public would react with... shall we say predictably negative responses. The whole concept of ‘coming clean’ and announcing contact with an alien race was scrapped and from that time forward kept from the public. When war finally came, most records—even entire facilities—disappeared and were replaced with half-truths, down-right lies, and conspiracy theories. That is where it was kept—until now and frankly, the veil of secrecy has been obliterated.”
“Yeah,” Rourke said, “and now we have to deal with the reality; and how exactly how do you guys propose doing that?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Delys was seated at a table in the hotel bar when Tim Shaw walked in. Shaw spotted him and walked toward the table as Delys stood. Delys extended his hand, “Tim, you look like crap. What are you drinking?”
They shook hands; Shaw pulled off his trench coat and laid it and his fedora on the third chair. “Scotch, neat.”
Delys waved for the waiter. “Would you bring a double Scotch, neat and a refill of my drink? And go ahead and send over the appetizers, please.” Turning back to Shaw he asked, “Been one of those days?”
Shaw nodded, “You have no idea. You know I always thought I just need two tools to make it through life: WD-40 and duct tape. If something doesn’t move and should, use the WD-40. If it shouldn’t move but does, use the duct tape. Man, life used to be simple.”
“Yeah,” Delys said as the waiter brought the drinks. “I’ve always figured if you can’t fix it with a hammer, you’ve got an electrical problem.”
Shaw picked up his drink, “Sorry about that stuff before, Beaux. Things are pretty intense right now.”
“I figured you would tell me what the deal was when you were ready. It’s not a problem,” Delys said, bumping glasses with Shaw. “It is good to see you again, Tim. I’m not prying, but I’ll listen if you want to share. Maybe I can help?”
Shaw swallowed, the Scotch instantly warming his gut, “Before we start... Beaux my circumstances are a lot different right now.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket. “This is a non-disclosure agreement; I have to ask you to sign it before we can talk.”
Delys looked seriously at Shaw and took the paper. “Tim, you know anything you say to me stays between you and me, right?”
“Yeah, I do, Beaux; I don’t have any choice. This is big.”
Delys nodded and signed without reading the NDA. “Okay, fire away.”
Shaw put the NDA back in his pocket. “Thanks, here’s the deal. I spoke with Paul Rubenstein by satellite phone and gave him the message. Seems that this old acquaintance from his and John’s earlier exploits is none other than the former president of the German Republic—Otto Croenberg.”
“I thought Croenberg was killed a couple of weeks ago in a car wreck outside of New Munich City?” Delys said.
Shaw nodded, set down his empty glass and signaled the waiter for another round. “That appears to be what Croenberg wants the rest of the world to believe. But Paul confirmed the message.”
“Where is Mr. Rubenstein, when do I meet him?”
“Paul is in the hospital,” Shaw said. “Right now, I can’t tell you any more than that. I will let him know what is going on and if he wants to see you...” Shaw let the sentence trail off. The waiter arrived with the drinks and appetizers. Shaw continued, “Beaux it looks like you have been pulled into something of a mystery.”
Delys frowned, “Do you have any idea what is going on?”
Shaw answered the question with another question, “What do you know about an EMP?”
“You’re talking about an electro-magnetic pulse attack?”
Shaw nodded.
“I know it was feared they would destroy America’s defenses before the Night of th
e War, leaving the U.S. in a technology world equivalent to the 1800s. An EMP weapon is supposed to be able to take out electronic devices including targeting, communications, navigation, and sensor systems. All of that would cripple our ability to defend ourselves against a land invasion. The more we use electronic devices, the more dependent we are on them, and the more vulnerable we are to this sort of threat.”
Shaw smiled, “What would you say if I told you a company had developed a device that can withstand the EMP... AND identify an attacker in the aftermath.”
“How?” Delys asked. “You can’t smell, taste, or feel EMP radiation. As I understand it, EMPs can be unleashed by nuclear explosions as well as by solar storms and devices. The low level electromagnetic pulse can jam electronics systems temporarily or mega bursts that would utterly fry electric and electronic equipment; any sort of pulse would be bad news.”
“Planes would fall from the skies, transportation could come to a screeching halt, water and sewage systems could suddenly cease to work, and on and on. An EMP can destroy electrical components permanently and they can’t be repaired.”
Shaw said, “Yes, this team has developed technology to detect the source of an EMP attack, including an attack’s strength, frequency, and direction. It uses four specialized antennas mounted on a tripod, each of which covers a ninety degree quadrant. In a monitoring station, a computer takes the data, analyzes it and then provides answers on screen—where the blast came from and how long it lasted. EMP blasts are a real threat. A nuclear detonation high in the atmosphere above the U.S. can create a pulse across all of North America. These weapons are attractive not just to foreign militaries, but to terrorist and criminal organizations as well. Several groups are apparently using Russian technology to develop electromagnetic pulse weapons capable of paralyzing military electronic equipment.”
