Using starlight—a cloud had moved before the moon—he stared at the post with its satellite dish.
Why am I alive? Why am I unhurt?
If Simon’s device had made a mistake regarding the post’s emitter—
Jack blinked in surprise as the answer slammed home. The posts with their emitters hadn’t been meant for them, had they? How many wild animals would the fence have fried by now if that were the case? No. The fence was meant for the beast-dog that had slain Simon.
Simon’s device had correctly gauged the emitter.
Jack shook his head. He was out. Now, he had to get the antimatter information to the others so they could relay it to headquarters.
With a lurch, Jack briskly set out for the van.
***
Jack panted as he ran upslope. He’d been running for a while, believing his time was limited. He still couldn’t believe it about the emitters.
“That’s far enough,” a hidden woman said.
“Phelps,” Jack said, halting. She might not have recognized him in the coveralls.
“How do you know who I am—Jack, is that you?”
He nodded in the darkness.
“Speak up,” Phelps said.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Don’t move.”
He didn’t plan to just yet as he breathed deeply, the sweat beginning to pour off him now that he’d stopped moving.
“Oh,” she said, no doubt looking at him more closely with her night vision equipment. Before, she’d have just seen a D’erlon worker. “Where’s Simon?” she asked.
“Dead,” Jack said in a monotone.
A lean woman in dark garments and a hood appeared from behind a tree. She holstered a suppressed pistol, coming closer, saying, “You look bushed. Why don’t you lean on me? I’ll help you to the van.”
Jack ignored the suggestion as he climbed the last, steepest distance, reaching a level dirt road. On the other side of the road was a camouflaged van sprouting a host of antenna on top.
He crunched over gravel, banging on the side of the van with a fist. “Open up,” he said.
A door slid open on rollers. It revealed massed equipment with computer screens and two agents on chairs, a big, bald black man and a half-White Mountain Apache.
Jack climbed into the van, ignoring the other two as he slid onto a chair at a third screen.
“Must be big,” he heard the black man tell the half-Indian.
Jack’s screen flickered into life with an old-fashioned TV test pattern showing. A blinking green light in the top of the screen told him he was live.
“Daniel Boone was a man,” Jack said. “Yes, a big man.”
“Just a minute,” a scrambled-voiced person told him from the other end. “You’re claiming this is a national emergency?”
“That’s what I just said,” Jack told her, having used a coded phrase for the highest-level disaster possible.
“Jack?” a scrambled-voiced person asked.
There was no difference to the voice, but Jack knew he had Mrs. King, the Secretary of Detachment 17 on the line.
“This is Jack.”
“Talk to me,” the other said.
Jack took a breath before he spoke in a fast monotone. “Simon Green is dead. Before he died, Green found the targeted people making antimatter. They weren’t just producing particles or hundredths of grams. They’re making anti-atoms and already have 900 grams. They also have a way of storing the antimatter long-term in much smaller magnetic containers than Green believed should be possible.”
“Wait? Simon is dead?”
“Yes. Now listen. The targeted people have produced at least 900 grams of antimatter.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No. It isn’t. We saw it.”
There was silence from the other end. Then, “This is incredible. I want to see the raw data. We’re going to risk sending it through immediately.”
“I can’t do that,” Jack said. “I lost the device that did the analyzing and recording.”
There was a longer moment of silence. Finally, the scrambled voice said, “This is no good. I have to verify your analysis.”
“No doubt,” Jack said. “There’s one other thing. The targeted facility is on high alert. Something gave us away.”
“Did you notice anything else unusual?”
That seemed like a strange question to ask now. “Like what?” Jack said.
“Anything at all.”
“Yeah, there’s something else. They had a giant dog guarding the outer perimeter of the facility. It was like a bear, and it struck me as smart, if that makes any sense.” Jack wondered if the big man counted. He supposed the man might. “And there was a giant security officer inside the complex. He seemed…”
“He seemed what?” the scrambled voice asked.
Jack stared at the old TV test pattern. Did the voice sound overeager?
“The security man was huge and unnaturally strong,” Jack said.
“Is that all?”
“No. He had a presence like I’ve never felt before. It radiated off him. It was strange now that I think about it.”
The Secretary didn’t say anything for a time. Finally, she asked, “You’re sure about the antimatter and its amount?”
“No. I’m not sure but Simon was. He kept raving how nothing on Earth was like this. He said they had advanced technology like no one should have.”
“Bingo,” the scrambled voice said softly. “Get out of the area. Head for Rome and stay on alert. That means sleep in shifts.”
“Got it,” Jack said. “You want to tell me what is going on?”
“Do as ordered, and stay alert. This is the break—never mind. Go now. I don’t want them finding you.” A moment later, the connection cut off.
Jack stared at the TV test pattern. With a start, he swiveled around. “We’re packing up, people,” he said. “So let’s go. The Secretary wants us in Rome.”
“Why there?”
“I have no idea, but she wants us to stay on alert. I have a suspicion we’re not finished with the D’erlon people.” As Jack stood, he hoped he was right. They’d killed his partner.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to mourn Simon but he wasn’t going to do it now. That wasn’t Jack’s way. He had a job to do first. When everything was over…he could mourn Simon then.
Elliot knew that was lie. He hadn’t mourned his parents properly, and he’d never done that for any of the friends he’d lost. He bottled everything inside. That wasn’t good, he knew. But Jack Elliot was who he was.
He found himself clenching a fist so tightly his hand shook. One of these days—
Jack opened the fist, shaking his hand, and exhaled sharply. It was time to get on with it.
-22-
100 MILES OFF THE COAST OF SUMATRA
Selene was on the surface. She’d been studying the endless horizons for some time. Now, far in the distance, she believed that she’d discovered the Calypso. It appeared as a dot on the southern horizon.
She had been diving for years, spending more time in and on the water than inside a classroom or research center. Others might have questioned her ability to know that dot was her vessel, but she knew.
While bobbing in the salt water, it became clear to her that the ship was leaving at high speed. Someone had slipped aboard, murdered her team and then taken over the ship. Didn’t they fear the U.S. Navy commander using a satellite to see what they were doing? How hard was it to track a ship in the ocean? Maybe the enemy had simply set the Calypso on a course and left it to its own devices.
One thing was clear. She was all alone out here. Wait a minute. Selene frowned, spying movement closer to home. It looked like a large speedboat. The machine went fast, slapping across the water.
Selene kicked harder, trying to lift herself higher as she readied to wave. At the last second, she let herself sink without doing so.
Selene had a read a book once about the gift of fear.
One of the key premises was that a person often knew a thing in her subconscious before her conscious mind reasoned it out. The mind took in hundreds possibly thousands of cues a day, too many to think about every hour. But the subconscious mind, now that was a tricky tool doing wacky and imaginative things.
The Calypso was leaving. Sharks had devoured Lulu and the others while some bum in a speedboat roared around. He had to have come from another ship. Yet, that wasn’t all. A deep underwater dome with a Chinese man in it had killed Forrest Dean with a super-science invisible ray gun. Earlier, a fake Indonesian naval lieutenant had tried to scare them away.
A sinking feeling filled Selene. This was much bigger than she realized. She would not hail the speedboat. It had to belong to whomever the secret American intelligence agency was fighting.
At that moment, Selene knew she was going to die. It was the logical outcome of the situation. The speedboat indicated the secret group wasn’t done with her yet. She had to hide, starting out here in the middle of the sea.
With practiced skill, she shrugged off the scuba equipment and pulled off the full-face mask. Letting go, she let both items sink into the depths. They weren’t going to help her now, as she was almost out of air.
Fortunately, she had always been paranoid when it came to diving, at least in terms of surviving accidents. She had a normal sport mask and snorkel in a bag attached to her belt.
Selene dug them out. Soon, she floated face down in the sea, sucking air through the tube. She unbuckled her weight belt, letting it sink too, so that she would be more buoyant.
The best long-distance swimmers could travel sixty miles at a stretch, and that was without a wetsuit, mask, snorkel and fins. The better ones could do this in approximately thirty hours. Such swimmers lost ten pounds or more, trained for many months beforehand and had a trailing boat to lower a shark tank if needed. Well, she had several advantages…
Selene smiled tightly. Once again, her subconscious had already come to the obvious conclusion. She was going to have to swim one hundred miles or more to reach Sumatra. Simeulue Island was closer, but it would be easier for the hidden ones to find her there and harder for her to escape off Simeulue unnoticed. Sumatra gave her more options, meaning she might leave Indonesia alive.
Death frightened Selene. Was there a God or not? Part of her wished there was. If not, she was nothing after this life. She didn’t want to be nothing. She wanted to exist for as long as possible.
Studying the sun, she figured out which direction to go. Then, she began to kick her fins, starting the journey.
Before long, a great sense of futility welled up from her gut, freezing her for a moment. She couldn’t swim one hundred miles without any drinking water. That was crazy. That was—
Think of something else!
She gripped the tuning fork device and thought about the underwater dome.
“Who could build that without anyone else knowing about it?”
Asking the question aloud let water slip into her mouth. She coughed, choking on the saltiness. Finally, she raised her head above water, spitting out the mouthpiece. She coughed more, breathing deeply, bobbing in the sea. Looking around—
The endless horizons proved too much for her. Selene chewed the rubber back into her mouth and put her head underwater. That felt…better, not so alone and desolate.
She had to survive. Then, she had to return to the underwater site with others.
This was an endurance run now. Thus, Selene forced thoughts of sharks, dead friends, runaway vessels, underwater domes and secret ray guns, everything but swimming, from her mind. Until she walked on dry land again, nothing else mattered.
-23-
WASHINGTON DC
Mrs. King paced inside her office as indecision boiled inside her. This was a hard call, maybe the most difficult one of her life.
Despite her age, she walked three miles a day and trained with weights. Her legs weren’t as good as the day she’d won Miss Rhode Island, but they didn’t embarrass her when she wore nylons. The fabric helped to hide the imperfections of age.
Mrs. King sighed. She didn’t know what to do. Pausing by the curtains, she peered outside as bright sunlight glinted off the Potomac River. It was morning in DC but still night in France. The heaviest traffic had dwindled as office workers and others slaved at their appointed tasks for the day.
She released the curtain, striding to her desk. Pressing an intercom button, she said, “Smith.”
A moment later, the door opened. The Deputy Secretary stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The man was medium-sized with a doughy face, pudgy hands and the faintest of mustaches. Fifteen-year-old boys could grow them thicker. It didn’t help that Smith wore wireless spectacles. She had spoken to him in the past about his rumpled, slept-in looking clothes. Today, he wore an expensive black suit and tie, although the sleeves were a little too short. Still, it was a good beginning.
“Jack Elliot claims D’erlon Enterprises has manufactured 900 grams of antimatter at the Ardennes complex,” Mrs. King said. “D’erlon didn’t just produce antimatter particles either but anti-atoms.”
“That’s incredible,” Smith said. Many might have shown surprise at this news, but not the Deputy Secretary. He appeared as calm as ever. “Does Agent Green confirm this?”
“I’m afraid Simon Green is dead.”
Behind the lenses of his glasses, Smith blinked several times, the full extent of his emotions. “I’m sorry to hear this. Simon…was a good man and an excellent scientist. We’ll miss him.”
Mrs. King nodded.
“Yes, this is a tragedy, an outrage, one could say. There have been too many casualties lately.”
“Agreed,” Mrs. King said.
“But we must deal with the issue at hand. 900 grams of antimatter…” Smith said, shaking his head. “How does Elliot know this to be true? He’s not noted for his scientific acumen.”
“I understand Agent Green informed Elliot before he died.”
Smith stared into space before saying, “This is a difficult one. Making vast amounts of antimatter isn’t against the law, but it’s so unbelievable that it must mean something portentous.”
“It means France has technology far beyond that of the United States. It means they will eclipse us in short order.”
“Yes, of course,” Smith said. “Yet…
“This is such an outrageous allegation that I’m having trouble believing Elliot,” Smith said.
“Don’t be. This fits.”
Deputy Secretary Smith studied Mrs. King. “Ah,” he said, shortly, “You think this has something to do with your master puppeteer hypothesis.”
Mrs. King shifted uncomfortably. It felt to her as if the hidden strings were pulling tighter. Yet, the idea of someone so powerful… Could she be wrong about this? She could feel the manipulations out there. She was still waiting to hear from Forrest Dean.
She concentrated on Smith, hoping his intellect could help her make the right choice regarding the Ardennes plant.
“I had a suspicion about D’erlon Enterprises,” she said. “It’s why I sent Jack and Simon to investigate. I never expected anything like this, though. It confirms my feelings about…about the puppeteer.”
“Sometimes feelings are all we can go on,” Smith said.
He was being polite; she knew that. “Feelings are also very subjective,” she said, “which is a danger in our line of work. But let’s forget about that for a moment. Why does anyone need so much antimatter?”
“Given the D’erlon people can manufacture such an incredible amount,” Smith said.
“Let us suppose Elliot is right.”
Smith nodded before looking up at the ceiling. Mrs. King felt as if she could see the wheels turning inside his head.
Smith regarded her. “Perhaps the D’erlon people are making a doomsday bomb.”
Mrs. King grew pale at the idea. That seemed like a logical conclusion.
“Th
at would be of grave concern to the French political leaders,” Smith said. “Given the leadership knows nothing about the antimatter, I would think the French military could be convinced to storm the Ardennes complex.”
Mrs. King stared hard at Smith. What was he thinking?
“Of course,” Smith said. “In suggesting this to others, we must be certain of our facts.”
“Do you doubt Simon Green?” Mrs. King asked.
“He was a first rate case officer and a better scientist. DARPA always spoke well of him. I would not doubt him, although this is an unbelievable claim. We should remember that Jack Elliot doesn’t have Green’s scientific knowledge. I realize Detachment 17 employs some of the most ruthless people in the United States chosen precisely because they get things done. Without such agents as Jack Elliot—”
“Please, Mr. Smith, what is your point?”
“I believe we should convince the President to call the French, which seems to be your plan,” Smith said. “You just want my confirmation to make such a bold decision.”
She hated it when he was right.
“Yet attempting to convince the President without the raw data and going off the word of someone without direct scientific knowledge—that will make this a hard sell, Mrs. Secretary. In fact, being wrong here could mean the end of D17. Barring that, it could bring about your dismissal, likely mine as well as the political entities clean house to cover themselves.”
Mrs. King sighed. “Yes, those are all distinct possibilities. But don’t we have a responsibility to do the right thing?”
“If D’erlon Enterprises is truly making antimatter and using improved magnetic containment devices to hold the grams… The extent of their advanced technology is mind numbing. If you are correct about a master puppeteer—then we cannot afford any delay.”
Mrs. King looked stricken. “As always, Mr. Smith, you are succinct. I would now like you to answer me this. How do I explain this to the President of the United States without direct evidence?”
“In my opinion, it’s madness to try,” Smith said. “Instead, we should send another team to inspect the D’erlon premises.”
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