by Jerry Ahern
“It is said the high-power microwave weapons are small enough to fit in a suitcase and they can disable smaller targets like neighborhoods, banks, and stock exchanges. These devices can be used to cause confusion or to infiltrate secure areas by disabling alarm systems. An attacker would merely need to get within a few yards of a target and push a button to unleash the pulse.”
“Recently in Germany, thieves used electromagnetic waves to defeat a limousine security system. We have had several incidents here in the last days.”
Shaw’s cell phone rang, he stood and excused himself. A few minutes later, he returned and told Delys, “Paul is calling Croenberg’s number this evening. Maybe tomorrow he can let us know what is happening.”
“I take that to mean we’ll talk to him then?” Beaux said.
“Maybe, that’s up to him; Croenberg for sure though.”
“That’s fine; all I was supposed to do was facilitate contact between them.” Delys leaned back and said, “Okay, shifting gears. How did you get this gig anyway?”
Shaw stuffed a potato skin in his mouth and took a swig of Scotch and told Delys the story. Finally, he wrapped it up and said, “I saw a quote by John Steinbeck, it went something like this, ‘... peace, not war, is the destroyer of men; tranquility rather than danger is the mother of cowardice, and not need but plenty brings apprehension and unease... the longed-for peace, so bitterly achieved, created more bitterness than ever did the anguish of achieving it.’ I can tell you this; it has been a hell of ride so far. How’s your agency doing?”
Delys smiled, it was like old times again and they had moved to shop talk. “It’s been busy but lucrative. Simple divorce cases mostly. You know the kind that don’t turn out so simple. I just wrapped one up on a National Guard Lieutenant Colonel who hooked up with a female Staff Sergeant, much to the chagrin of his wife. In spite of her efforts, the bosses at the National Guard at the time chose, for whatever reasons, to not prosecute her husband on any charges. He eventually made full Colonel and retired to South Georgia.”
“What about the dame?” Shaw asked.
Delys smiled, “Final justice, she skated on my case, but she kept cycling through higher ranking men and kept moving up in rank. Another angry wife caught her with her husband and shot her in the crotch with a .38.”
Shaw said, “Ah, yes. Ain’t justice a bitch. You know some people are like Slinkies, not really good for anything but they bring a smile to your face when they’re pushed down the stairs.”
“Amen,” Delys laughed and stood. “I’ll be in the room if you need me or at this number.” He handed a card to Shaw, they shook hands and said good-bye.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Delys entered the elevator in the lobby, holding the door for a small man running to catch it.
“Thanks,” the little man said as he stepped in.
Delys nodded, pushed the button for his floor and asked, “Which floor?”
“Twenty-five,” the small man said as he stepped to the back of the elevator and leaned against the wall as it started moving. “Mr. Delys, please keep your hands where I can see them,” a soft voice said in his ear as the hard muzzle of a gun was pressed to his spine. “I require some privacy for our discussion,” the man said. Delys complied, took a deep breath, pushed the fog of his drinks with Shaw away and gathered his faculties. The little man patted Delys down, pulling the PPK/S from Beaux’s shoulder rig. “Mr. Delys, I apologize for the method of our introduction, but I need to speak with you privately.”
“Ever heard of scheduling an appointment on the phone?” Delys said over his shoulder, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. The elevator stopped on the twenty-fifth floor, a man stepped inside and the elevator began its descent to the parking garage.
“All is well?” he asked, receiving only a nod from the small man. The speaker looked at Delys and said, “Please relax Mr. Delys. We simply want to speak with you.” Delys said nothing.
Exiting the elevator, Beaux was nudged forward. The man who had joined them dropped back a few feet and followed several paces behind. Another man, standing about twenty feet inside, nodded and led the small procession. They walked to a large, heavy black SUV with smoked windows. The large side door opened and Delys was pushed into a seat. The little man took a seat next to Beaux as his companion entered the passenger door. The third man slid the side door closed, walked around the SUV and climbed in the driver’s seat and started the motor. The little man, still holding the silenced automatic in his right hand, pulled a small Meerschaum pipe, already packed with tobacco, and a lighter from his inside jacket pocket. Keeping his eye on Delys, he puffed until the Meerschaum was going to his content and then smiled. “My name is Aharon, Aharon Friedman and I work for an organization that you would refer to as Nazi hunters.”
“Well, Aharon. I’m just a private investigator and I’m sorry but I don’t know any Nazis.”
Friedman’s eyes and voice went hard, “Ah, Mr. Delys, I am afraid that is either inaccurate or untrue. It is my job to determine which and I am very good at my job by the way. I understand you are here attempting to contact Paul Rubenstein.”
“That is correct,” Delys said. “I have a client who wants me to convey a message to Mr. Rubenstein.”
“May I inquire what the message is?”
“He wants Rubenstein to call him. That is all I know.”
Friedman nodded and puffed the pipe; the automatic in his right hand never wavered. “And you have no idea why your client wishes to speak to Mr. Rubenstein?”
“It’s none of my business, Aharon. May I ask why it is any of yours?”
Friedman smiled, “Because Mr. Rubenstein, as you know, is Jewish and your client is none other than Otto Croenberg. Herr Croenberg, the former Neo-Nazi head of New Germany, recently faked his death. Mr. Rubenstein is quite likely the most famous member of the Jewish race and a compatriot of the Rourke family. My organization wishes to know if there is a threat to Rubenstein or the Rourkes. If so, my job is to eliminate that threat and determine if you are a part of that threat.” Friedman left the statement open.
Chapter Thirty
The .38 snub in a “small of the back” holster had been missed by Friedman’s search and it gave Beaux a degree of security as he explained how the man known as Otto Gruber had contacted him. “I now know that Gruber is Croenberg, but I didn’t know that until just a few moments ago. That is all of the information I have Mr. Friedman.” Beaux had managed to shift his position slightly by leaning his left elbow on the arm rest and laying his other hand next to his hip.
Friedman sat, looking deep into Delys eyes before nodding. Finally laying the pistol on the seat next to him, he puffed the Meerschaum several times before saying, “I fear we may have a problem Mr. Delys.” He dropped the magazine from Beaux’s PPK/S before handing it back to him and nodded, “Trust me Mr. Delys, I am not your enemy but I fear the enemy is at the gate. I am one of the Aqrab.” To Beaux the word sounded like “ak-rawb.”
“It is a Hebrew word which translates to scorpion. A scorpion may be the insect or when used figuratively, a scourge or knotted whip,” Friedman explained. “In the Hebrew and Christian Bibles there are the books of Kings and Chronicles. Within them it is said, ‘I will discipline or chastise you with scorpions’ and ‘I will discipline you with whips.’ Whips... scorpions... Aqrab; this is where the name of our group comes from.”
“Why have I never heard of your group?” Delys asked.
Friedman smiled, “We are not what you’d call... a well known entity; we seek neither acknowledgement nor accolades. We are deadly serious in our mission. We concern ourselves with beginnings and endings; we are unafraid of either and embrace both conditions. We are curious and quite adept investigators. We are also personally committed, very much like the scorpion; we would rather kill ourselves than be killed. Also, we have tremendous regenerative powers; much like the literal scorpion can lose its tail and promptly grow a new one—each of us is expendable. When one of us f
alls, another takes his place. We will not lose; we just keep on going. We have a focus, protection not necessarily of the individual but the essence of the Jewish faith.”
“We have learned that survival of an individual is tied directly to the survival of our beliefs and customs. When an individual is essential to the survival of those, the survival of that individual is essential to us. We have learned that nothing is ever truly safe; nothing is immortal... except what we leave behind us. And in truth, even those may be transitory.”
“Because we are stubborn and determined to succeed, our people are intense, passionate, and filled with desire. Our organization is both complex and simple; we were formed during the holocaust and remain alive even today because we are secretive. We are surprisingly resourceful and suspicious. It is best not to bet against us.”
Friedman paused, puffing on the pipe, “Frankly, most of the people we have introduced ourselves to... well, let us say they have not been in the position to talk about us after the meetings.” Beaux moved suddenly, whipping his hand behind his back snatching the little .38 and thumbing the hammer back to full cock.
“Mr. Friedman,” Beaux said coolly, “provided you and your men do not move we can continue this pleasant conversation. However, I would advise you of several things. Number one, I prefer friendly conversations to be that... friendly. Should you wish to contact me again, this is not the method I would use. Number two, your search for weapons sucked. Friendly advice, don’t stop when you find a gun... look for a backup. Number three, direct your driver to pull to the side of the road, slowly please.”
Friedman looked at the revolver, “Mr. Delys, really... a pearl handled revolver. Isn’t that a bit ostentatious?”
Beaux smiled, “To paraphrase George Patton, ‘They’re ivory. Only a pimp from a cheap whorehouse would carry a pearl-handled pistol.’” Then he tilted the revolver’s barrel up, eased the hammer down with his thumb and put it back in the holster. “Now Aharon, what is all of this about?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Charles Fredricks’ restored 1961 Cessna Skyhawk climbed slowly into the night sky after departing Kaanapali Airport for a night flight from the west coast of Maui to the old abandoned Kipapa Field on Oahu—a distance of only about ninety miles. His passenger sat quietly holding a package in his lap. Fredricks didn’t know the man’s name and frankly didn’t want to. The college professor was paying off a debt. Fredricks had a problem, he was being blackmailed; he should have known better. How could I have been so stupid? he thought. I should have seen this coming.
The first contact had come over his cell phone and it seemed innocent enough. The teenage sister of a former student had texted asking for guidance on decisions regarding college. It wasn’t long before the texts developed a romantic twist. That first meeting had been incredible, intoxicating and Fredricks was hooked. The second and third meetings followed within days and his life started spiraling. The hook was set; photos began arriving at his office.
He tried to break it off but it was too late. Then the phone call came followed by the first meeting with the blackmailer; it wasn’t long before a financial crisis was reached and the first of several flights had started. By then he had drained his retirement funds and just as he was sinking under the weight, he had been given a promise of being able to replenish his retirement funds with the assurance that his “dalliance” would not go public.
He only had two more flights after this one before it ended; at least that was what he had been promised. Each flight had been made in darkness without a flight plan being filed and at low altitude over the ocean to avoid radar detection. He shook his head thinking, a drowning man will grab at any straw. He refocused on his control panel when a low level beep sounded in his headphone. Hmmm, everything seems okay.
He checked his collision alert system. The latest generation of the FLARM, or “flight alarm,” could detect potential airborne targets within three to five kilometers. Motion-prediction algorithms predict potential hazards and warn the pilot using sound and visual signals. Something is out there, he thought as he visually scanned the night sky. Don’t see it yet.
Whatever it was seemed to be approaching off his left wing; he reached down for the night vision goggles and put them on.
“Anything wrong?” the passenger asked.
Fredricks was scanning the sky intently, “I don’t think so, probably a flight of birds.” While some birds did fly and some species even migrate at night, he had never encountered it himself, at least not over the open ocean at this altitude.
His passenger looked out the windscreen, “I don’t see anything.”
“Me either,” Fredricks said. Then something splattered on the windscreen; the splats increased. Fredricks shouted, “What the...” just as the windscreen suddenly disintegrated. Hundreds, if not thousands, of small bodies slammed into the men. The passenger screamed, “Bugs, stinging bugs...” then he was silent. Many bugs had died on impact, the others slammed into the men with stinging barbs flashing into their skin and clothing; the pain was incredible and the damage was immediate and devastating. The Skyhawk nosed down even as Fredricks struggled to pull up; he couldn’t.
The Skyhawk’s fuselage crumbled on impact with the water to less than a third of its twenty-seven foot length and the wings ripped off. In seconds, the plane, pilot, and passenger disappeared below the waves. There was no surface debris, just a light skim of fuel. The swarm of large insects continued on its path.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rourke answered his cell phone with a distracted, “Hello.”
“Hello Dr. Rourke, my name is William Kirby, I’m an entomologist.”
“You study bugs, right? What can I do for you?”
“Yes, I study bugs,” Kirby said. “But I think there is something I can do for you. We entomologists help farmers and ranchers produce crops and livestock more efficiently by developing pest management strategies, providing information on endangered species, and some of the fragile ecosystems that make up our environment. We help to prevent the spread of serious diseases in plants and animals.”
Rourke nodded to himself, “Just out of curiosity, how did you get into that business?”
“Well, honestly, as a kid I liked bugs,” Kirby said, smiling at the phone. “I was naturally curious and drawn to puzzles and problem-solving not to mention science. Seemed to me like a natural fit. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is I believe we have a problem. A county extension director found an insect about a week, maybe ten days ago near the site of a cluster of reports of illness and several deaths on one of the neighboring islands. He had never seen anything like this and thought it may be related. He was correct and I can tell you that without a doubt, this is a terrorist attack.”
Rourke frowned, “How can you be so sure? If people are sick and you found the carrier, why can it not be a natural disease?”
Kirby said seriously, “The disease is, the carrier is not. This insect doesn’t exist in nature, it has been genetically engineered. Bear with me; this is going to get rather complicated. As near as I can tell, this carrier probably started as a Dryococelus australis, more commonly known as the Lord Howe Island stick insect or tree lobster. That is a species of stick insect thought to be extinct by 1930—that is until 1964, when a dead one was discovered on a neighboring island fourteen miles away. Several more dead insects were discovered later, but a live one wasn’t found until much later.”
“These insects can measure up to 5.9 inches in length and weigh just less than an ounce, with females bigger than males. They are oblong in shape and have sturdy legs and they are flightless. Males have thicker thighs than females. The behavior of this stick insect is highly unusual for an insect species. The males and females form a bond; the males follow the females and their activities depend on what the female is doing. Females lay eggs while hanging from branches and the eggs hatch up to nine months later. They are nocturnal. Normally these insects have no wings, but are able to run quickl
y. These new ones have wings... and also carry the DNA of the Melanoplus bruneri.”
“What the hell is that?” Rourke asked.
“The Rocky Mountain locust,” Kirby said as he stretched his back which was hurting from hours over a microscope. “They have had some of the largest recorded swarms in history, and were supposed to have died out in the late nineteenth century. We have confirmed that in this subject specimen there are actually three separate and identifiable DNA genomes, from three separate and distinct species. This level of genetic splicing from three different species is beyond anything I have ever seen. This third DNA strand is linked to a very nasty creature; the venomous scorpion. All scorpions have a tail that delivers venom. Most will only give a human victim a bad few days, but 25 of the over 1,000 known species can kill a person.”
Rourke shook his head, “And this vector has the DNA of all three. How in the world is such a creature possible?”
“Like I said in the beginning, in this world it is not possible. This new creature was created artificially with some very extreme and advanced genetic manipulation—manipulation far beyond our technology. Luckily, the three different species have one thing in common; all three prefer to nest underground in burrows. This new beastie does also. It is the carrier or vector for this new epidemic and it was created artificially and on purpose. That is why I say this is a terrorist attack.”
Rourke asked, “How do we kill them? And by the way, what are you calling it?”
“On an individual scale, step on ’em; provided you’re wearing shoes. Change that to boots... heavy boots, this thing is dangerous. I’m not sure how to handle a population density this size, but we have to solve that question fast. We were able to find twenty-five specimens. What we have learned is they have an extremely high reproductive rate and we haven’t found a natural or artificial poison that works. For right now, we’re calling it a VBB. If we don’t destroy these hosts quickly...” he hesitated.
