by S. P. Perone
Ali-Sheikh acknowledged this request with a simple nod. He had no problem at all with this request. Salomé would die a miserable, painful, agonizing death.
“As far as our next project,” Sharif continued, “it must be a venture that dwarfs that which we were forced to abandon recently. It must be the grandest, most vicious, most terrifying blow that could possibly be delivered to the United States.”
Nodding again, Ali-Sheikh thought for a moment, and then said, “Ahmed, have I told you about the dozen Ebola Virus cylinders my operatives appropriated from the Russian Bio-Warfare Lab in Novoskibirsk?”
The tall, leggy passenger with the permed dark-blonde hair strode down the aisle of the first-class section of the 747 leaving O’Hare, headed for Washington, DC. Carrying her coat, and wearing a form-fitting navy blue knit dress with matching leather pumps, this attractive six-foot vision attracted the attention of every male passenger in the cabin as she searched for her seat. Finding seat 3D, which corresponded to the number on her ticket, she asked the big black gentleman in 3C if she could slip by him. The man arose from his seat, his husky six foot five inch frame completely obscuring from the rest of the passengers the sight of the young lady taking her seat by the window. And, then, he retook his seat on the aisle.
Presently, after consuming the cocktails offered by the flight attendants, the passengers prepared for takeoff. The striking couple in 3C and 3D had busied themselves with newspaper and magazine, and had not exchanged a single word since taking their seats.
As the huge aircraft rumbled down the runway, the moment arrived when the nose rose at a sharp angle, and the thrust of the climbing projectile pressed each passenger back into their seats. It was then that the striking young lady in 3D reached over with her left hand, and stroked the thigh of the big man by her side. Momentarily, his right hand overlaid the hand on his thigh. Turning his head slightly to the right, he smiled and winked as she smiled back.
Salomé had been the big man’s lover for the past thirteen years. It was he who had been her first client after recovering from Sharif’s vicious attack. With the physical scars and bruises still evident, he had been sufficiently insightful to recognize the deeper emotional wounds that lurked beneath her tough veneer. With tenderness and patience she had not previously known, he helped her regain physical and emotional strength. She became his “mistress,” but he demanded nothing. Not until she had recovered.
Then, they had made love. And, she knew she could not return. It was then that he had recruited her for the profession she was following now. Even today she still did not know if that had been his objective all along. If he had won her heart so that he could buy her soul. She would probably never know.
Standing at the large, floor-to-ceiling picture window that looked over the pounding winter surf of the Pacific Ocean, Ellen Moorhouse sipped from a hot cup of strong black coffee. It was early morning and high tide. The sounds of the crashing waves, fifty feet below the deck of the Big Sur retreat where she was staying, provided a soothing cacophonic sound…a welcome sensation after another sleepless night.
After the Senator’s funeral, she had made a solitary journey to this beautiful retreat among the giant redwoods along the California Coast Highway. She and Gerry had shared many peaceful, romantic interludes here. The bittersweet memories provided both penance and solace during this time. She was no psychologist, but she realized she was forcing herself to endure this painful experience so that someday soon she would be free of the pain.
She gazed blankly at the maneuvers of the pelicans, executing long smooth gliding trajectories, barely skimming the tops of the waves. She hardly noticed the occasional dive into the salty sea that scooped tasty morsels into a ready pouch.
Inevitably, her thoughts wandered back to the last night of her husband’s life. For the past few weeks she had struggled to accept that he was gone. Dead at the hands of the man she had just slept with. Dead, and never again able to hold her; to tell her it was OK; that she had done what she had to do; that he still loved her; that it would be forgotten; that it would not ever matter. She longed for him to tell her these things. But, he never would.
Had she seen it in his eyes? Had he told her all of these things silently…before running back to help Carothers? She searched and searched through her memory of that evening. Re-played the last events of that fateful night. Trying to freeze the Senator’s face…his eyes…during that brief moment when he had pushed her away so that he could look at her. That moment when she knew that he knew. What was he saying with his eyes? Was it sadness? Disappointment? Forgiveness? What?
This was where she always despaired. She would never know. No matter how many times she re-played the scenes, she would never be sure of her interpretation.
This morning, though, she had come to a resolution. A resolution which had evolved during the sleepless night. She knew that, had Gerry lived, she would never have been able to share with him the enormous range of emotions she had experienced that night with Sharif. It would have created a barrier between them. A festering wound. But, now, she knew that Gerry was in a place where he could see and understand. She could speak to him now, pour out her soul. And, she could envision him…with his compassionate smile and warm eyes…responding as she knew he would.
Putting a heavy winter coat over her nightgown, Ellen opened the sliding glass door to the deck. Finding her way down the deck stairs she came to the steps which would bring her down the hill to the beach. It was there that she walked, barefoot, in the wet sand, and had a long talk with the Senator. For at least half an hour she walked; eyes open but not seeing. Sea gulls scattered; and the surf lapped at her feet. She continued on.
Eventually, she stopped, turned, and looked out over the ocean. For the first time that morning, she noticed the salty spray; the circling gulls; the pair of sea lions that had paralleled her path; and the gliding pelicans. For the first time in weeks, there was a smile on her face, and a bright light in her eyes. The transition had been made…with the Senator’s blessings. She was released from the past. Her own person now. With important responsibilities…and an exciting future. She was ready…and eager…to move on.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction, but several essential elements are real. National labs, like that at Livermore, exist, and are dedicated to developing technology essential to the national security. The ASCI computer is real, and is dedicated to nuclear stockpile issues described in this book. EMP nuclear weapons and their potential uses have been widely discussed in the open literature. Artificial intelligence programs based on neural network and other concepts exist, and may have the potential someday to perform the kinds of tasks described in this novel. However, the “StarSight project” is a fictional activity, and the author is not aware of any existing similar project.
Intelligence organizations mentioned in the text are real, and the general kinds of activities alluded to are consistent with those described in the literature. The al-Qa’eda terrorist organization, several historical terrorist events, and the character of bin Laden are clearly not works of fiction, but all other characters and events are fictional.
The author is not personally aware of specific cases where classified research is being conducted at universities. However, based on personal experience with academic and nonacademic research, this fictional situation is described as realistically as possible.
In addition to their fictional counterparts, the author has interspersed familiar real locations, products, and landmarks into the narrative to underscore the underlying realistic premise of the story. There was no intent to promote any specific establishments or products.
About the Author
Sam Perone has served on the faculties of both Purdue and San Jose State Universities as Professor of Chemistry. In addition, he has been a researcher and technical manager at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California, and has been a technical consultant in the high-tech Silicon Valley. He has co-auth
ored two advanced textbooks, several chapters and numerous technical papers on laboratory computer technology and other topics. He lives with his wife in the Sierra foothills of Northern California.
