by Dave Edlund
In the ensuing confusion Major Muriel calmly walked out of the hotel and into a waiting white Mercedes sedan parked around the corner on Avenue Casanova. He sat in the back seat and closed the door, then instructed his driver to take him to the safe house. His mission was completed exactly as planned.
Inside the conference room the scene was horrendous. Chairs were thrown about; papers littered the floor. A crystal chandelier dangled precariously from the ceiling, with most of the light bulbs shattered. Blood splattered the walls, and the carpet was soaked with more blood and gore. Bodies were scattered haphazardly.
Jeremy was lying on his stomach. He hurt in too many places, and he could not feel his legs. The world was strangely silent, both eardrums shattered by the explosions; blood trickled from his nose and ears. His right hand felt wet, and it was very hard to breathe.
He thought of Mary and Madeline—their golden hair bouncing as they ran toward him—smiling, laughing. He was sure he could hear their giggles.
Oddly, Jeremy thought he was having a bad dream, a horrible nightmare. Somehow, in his mind, he was looking down at himself lying on the green, cool grass at home, and Mary and Madeline were tugging at his sleeve, begging him to wake up. He could hear them and feel their touch, but he could not make his eyes open.
All he had to do was open his eyes and the nightmare would be over, but he couldn’t shake the slumber. It was so strange, he thought, being able to look upon his prone body sleeping while his daughters frantically tried to wake him.
Then his mind focused again on their bright, innocent faces framed in wavy blond hair, just like their mother’s. Only now they were shouting to him.
“Daddy! Daddy! Wake up! Please, wake up!”
He wanted so much to reach out and hug them, to tell them how much he loved them, how much he loved their mother. He thought of his beloved wife, how beautiful she was, her warm embrace.
Then a stabbing, slicing pain racked Jeremy’s body as his conscious mind fought to regain awareness. He felt wetness in his eyes and on his face. As his broken body lay on the floor, his lips were moving, mumbling a prayer that he would somehow survive this horror and hold his precious children and wife again.
At the thought of his family his subconscious psyche mercifully took him again to paradise. He was holding Mary and Madeline, squeezing them in a warm embrace; he was sure he could feel their delicate arms wrapped around his waist. In his mind it was all so real. He tried to stretch his left hand out to touch Mary’s head and rustle her curly locks, but his battered body wouldn’t move.
Jeremy could see Mary and Madeline, smiling…
Calling to him…
Pleading with him…
But he couldn’t move, he couldn’t touch them.
And then his vision went black.
His prayer, like all the others voiced that morning, would not be answered.
Chapter 2
September 12
Bend, Oregon
The afternoon was sunny and warm, with barely a breeze and not a cloud in the sky. With luck, this weather would hold for the weekend. One never could be sure—autumn in Central Oregon was more often than not a mixed bag. Peter could remember more than one Halloween when he had taken his two children trick-or-treating in snow. Still, it was early September—the shoulder season between an all-too-short summer and an even shorter fall. If the weather was this nice tomorrow, Peter planned to take his canoe up to Todd Lake and try his luck at fishing.
He and Maggie had often visited Todd Lake, nestled between Mt. Bachelor and Broken Top, the aptly-named remnant of a long-extinct volcano. They would pack a picnic lunch and bring towels for the kids so they could splash in the cold, blue water. And it was at Todd Lake that Peter and Maggie chose the names for their two children. But that was a long time ago—a time of boundless love and endless possibilities, when a lifetime to share still lay before them.
As hard as Peter tried to keep those memories locked away, they would occasionally rise to his consciousness, threatening to claw away his sanity.
He shook his head and turned his eyes again to the calculation displayed on his computer monitor. He knew he needed to focus on interpreting these equations, but his mind resisted, constantly wandering in a different direction. He glanced at the time—4:20. Late enough, he thought. Besides, depending on his mood he might come back to the calculations in the evening; that was just one of the benefits and curses of living above his office and workshop.
Many times he found that the soft crackling of a fire and a tumbler of whiskey freed his mind and allowed him to solve even the most difficult problems, and then he could easily walk downstairs to his office and capture the ideas before they vanished.
Peter had started to shut down his PC, only to have the process interrupted by an automatic download of updates, thirteen in all. He sighed and mumbled, “Can’t they come up with a better solution?”
He was still staring at the screen, mentally issuing a litany of silent curses aimed at the software giant, when his phone buzzed. “This is Peter Savage.”
“Hi, Peter! It’s Jim Nicolaou! Your ol’ buddy from high school… remember?”
Peter didn’t even pause. “Of course I do, are you kidding? Wow, it’s been a long time since we last spoke! What has it been—22, maybe 23 years?”
“I hate to count, reminds me of how old I am.” They both chuckled.
“True enough, but getting old is infinitely better than the alternative. So, what’s going on? Last I heard you were planning to follow a pre-med major in college.”
“Oh man, that was a long time ago. I just wasn’t ready to commit to the demands of the curriculum, and the thought of seven or more years in school plus the debt turned me off. So, I enlisted in the Navy and served with the SEALs. You know the slogan: It’s not just a job; it’s an adventure. It worked for me and I seem to have found my home. After ten years as a SEAL, I was recruited into military intelligence. I work at McClellan Business Park in Sacramento.”
“I never would have pegged you as a career military man. I’ll bet you get to play with all kinds of cool toys.”
“Oh, yeah. Uncle Sam has the best toys for big boys!” That brought a short laugh from Peter before Jim continued.
“Believe it or not, I’m in Bend as we speak. I found your number and wanted to see if you have plans for tonight or if we can get together for dinner?”
“Are you kidding? No, I don’t have anything planned, and it would be great to see you again. We can have dinner, then go back to my place and catch up.”
“Fantastic! I need to get to my hotel and check in. Where should we meet for dinner and when?”
“Forget about the hotel, I have plenty of room. It’s just me and the dog these days—the kids are grown and on their own.”
Jim started to ask about Maggie. He had not been able to attend the wedding many years earlier and had never met Peter’s wife. But since Peter hadn’t mentioned her, he decided that question was best left for a later time.
Peter continued, “Do you know where the Old Mill District is? I have a condominium there. The address is 382 Powerhouse Drive. We can walk to a good restaurant—is seafood okay?”
“Yes on two, no on one. But I can find it.”
Peter gave Jim directions, just in case he didn’t have a GPS in his rental car. He hung up and thought back to high school and the crazy group of guys he hung out with. After graduating, Peter had made no attempt to stay in touch with the guys, although he exchanged Christmas cards with Jim for a few years. He had not attended even one class reunion, and he had no idea at all where any of his buddies had ended up. He and Jim would have a lot to talk about, no doubt.
Peter left his desk and walked up the stairs to his condominium. He stepped onto his balcony, facing southwest. From there he could see Anthony’s seafood restaurant. The Old Mill District was well-known as an upscale shopping district, with boutique stores, good restaurants, art galleries, and fantastic bars.
James Nicolaou had been Peter’s best friend throughout high school. They were always hanging out together—and raising hell together. Between drinking and driving way too fast, it was a wonder, Peter thought, that one or both didn’t end up seriously hurt or dead.
The intervening years melted away as Peter looked Jim over with a critical eye. Jim hadn’t changed much in appearance from Peter’s memory, although the cowboy boots and wide-brimmed hat were new additions. He was not too tall—five feet eight or so, and very muscular. Peter estimated that Jim weighed about 200 pounds, but there didn’t appear to be any fat on his frame.
Jim had always enjoyed sports, especially football, and with his build and athletic talent he excelled at the game. He still sported a full head of thick black hair and a black mustache, just as he had the last time they saw each other, which gave him a ruggedly handsome appearance. True to his Greek heritage, Jim had a dark complexion and dark brown eyes.
In contrast, Peter had never really taken to sports, spending more time on the academics. He played some softball in college, and like all kids of the generation prior to the proliferation of electronic games, Peter ran around the neighborhood playing pick-up games of baseball or whatever. Taller than Jim, Peter stood an even six feet. But when standing next to Jim he appeared taller because his build was much slimmer—not a bony frame, just leaner. With his light complexion and brown hair, Peter always felt that he was, at best, average in appearance. He recalled that Jim always managed to get the girls when they were kids.
Peter invited his friend in. “This is really cool, Peter. Driving up I thought it was all retail here. Then I saw this big brick building and the huge old smoke stacks… and you live in it!” As Jim stepped inside he removed his hat.
“It used to be a power generating plant. Now it’s a shopping district. REI is in the neighboring building. There are a surprising number of apartments and condominiums on the second and third floors above many of the stores. My company is below us, at the ground level. Several years ago, the city of Bend undertook a comprehensive plan to mix retail and living spaces—their idea of what a modern village should be, I suppose.”
“Looks like it worked out well.”
Peter nodded. “Here, let me take your bag, and I’ll show you to the guest room and give you a quick tour. We have a dinner reservation at 5:30 and Anthony’s is only a short walk down the street.”
Jim gave his small duffel bag to Peter and then leaned down to scratch Jess behind the ears. The muscular, black pit-bull mix was well disciplined and looked up at Jim with soft eyes, yet Jim had no doubt that Jess could tear a man’s arm off if provoked.
Peter led his friend into the large great room. The floor was wide-plank pine with an aged honey patina. All of the walls were brick—floor to ceiling, and the ceiling had to be twenty feet high. There was a large fireplace to the left, centered along the wall. The mantle above the hearth was a single, massive, aged timber. The hearth had to be six feet wide and nearly that tall.
On the opposite wall stood a bookcase that spanned from corner to corner, floor to ceiling. The bookcase was entirely natural-finish oak with an oak library ladder to provide access to the upper shelves. In the center of the wall, surrounded by the bookcase, was an oversized arched opening that led to the kitchen and dining area.
But the most dramatic feature of the great room was the deck facing west. With access through two pairs of French doors spaced apart on the wall separating the fireplace from the bookcase, the deck offered breathtaking views of the Cascade Mountains.
They walked through to the kitchen and then down a hallway that provided access to a couple of bedrooms with a shared full bathroom between them. “Take your pick; the one on the left has a nice view of the Cascades.”
“Wow, this place is great, Peter!” Jim entered the left bedroom and looked out the window. Sure enough, there was Mount Jefferson to the right and the Three Sisters to the left of his field of view. The mountains were only sparsely covered with snow, and the contrasting green really stood out. “If you don’t mind me saying so, whatever it is you do, you must be good at it.”
Peter smiled. “Come on, I’ll finish the tour then take you downstairs to the workshop. I own my own business—a combination of engineering, physics, and small arms. I named it EJ Enterprises after my two children: Ethan and Joanna. She goes by Jo. Peter paused before continuing. “You know, we’ve successfully developed a magnetic impulse gun.” Jim raised an eyebrow, clearly interested.
They walked back to the great room and climbed the wrought-iron spiral staircase located between the French doors, emerging into a real man-cave.
“This is the game room,” Peter explained. The room was large by any standards. Jim estimated it to be 40 feet long and maybe 30 feet wide. The walls were brick and the vaulted ceiling exposed rough-cut timbers with clear pine decking. Windows covered the two exterior walls, and a large gas fireplace was located to their right. Spaced suitably distant from the windows was a regulation-sized billiard table. It was framed in mahogany with burgundy-red felt over the slate. The billiard balls were racked, waiting patiently for the next game to begin.
Beyond the billiard table stood the wet bar. It was built along the wall with a dog-leg counter extending out from the right end, so that the bartender could stand behind the bar and serve his guests. The counter was covered with a light tan granite sprinkled with black crystals, and the cabinets were hickory. No less than six large skylights, framed in decorative wrought iron, brought in enough sunlight to make the large room very light and cheerful.
Mounted on the wall above the fireplace was the head of a large bull moose. Several other mounts—deer, ram, wild boar—adorned the walls, and two large bear skin rugs lay open on the floor. A collection of antique rifles, flintlock and percussion lock, were hanging from brass hooks on either side of the fireplace. Jim was awed; he had never been in a room like this before.
“Did you shoot all this game? I didn’t know you hunted.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve collected these from various trips over the years. I took up hunting in college and still enjoy it. I try to get out at least once in the fall, and if possible I’ll do a spring trip for bear or boar. I really enjoy those trips. In fact, I have a lease on some acreage on an island in the Aleutians if you ever want to come along.”
“I just might take you up on that.”
“The shop is on the ground floor. There’s an access stairway off the great room.”
Jess was still closely following her master and her new friend as they descended the stairs into the workshop. Jim’s trained eye noticed the wireless sensors placed discretely at the exterior doors and windows. He guessed the sensors were tied to an automated radio messaging system to alert the local police during an attempted break-in.
Jim surveyed the combination shop and office space. There was a faint odor of machine oil, and the space was brightly lit. It was comfortable, but not excessively large. He noted that the workbenches and desks were neat; the floor was clean and everything appeared to be in its place. There were only four desks, but a total of eight large workbenches with various parts and assemblies on each bench. Several mills and two lathes were off to one side of the shop behind a thick glass wall—sound-proofing, Jim thought.
A man was working intently at one of the desks, his back toward Jim. As Peter approached he said, “Todd, let me introduce you to an old friend of mine, Jim Nicolaou.”
Todd turned from his computer monitor and stood up, stretching out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Todd Steed.”
“Todd is my Chief Engineer—he’s been with me for years. He pretty much makes everything work.”
Todd smiled. He was a trained machinist but did not have the benefit of a formal education in engi
neering. Still, he was a quick learner and very creative. “Peter is stretching the truth just a bit,” said Todd, his neck flushing slightly. “Peter does all the design work and then I machine the parts. Together we assemble and test the prototypes. I have two machinists who work for me, taking care of our production orders.”
Peter jumped in, “Todd is being rather modest. He’s damn good at taking ideas and making them work.”
“What exactly does EJ Enterprises make?” Jim asked as he turned from side to side, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. “You mentioned magnetic impulse guns. I’m aware of the Navy’s effort to develop a practical rail gun, but that’s a large cannon. Clearly that’s not what you’re building.”
“No. We design and build small arms, but they are based on the same concepts as the rail gun.”
Peter moved to the nearest workbench and picked up a barrel-like object, approximately nine inches long with copper-wire bands wrapped around the barrel at regular intervals. Jim counted quickly; there were ten bands.
“Basically, we have an array of electromagnets arranged along the barrel.” Peter was pointing to the wire bands. “They are sequentially switched on and off to drive a magnetic projectile from the muzzle at high velocity. It’s actually a bit more complicated and involves rapid pole reversal through an innovative application of optical sensors that actually detect the location of the projectile as it travels down the barrel. That’s how we obtained a breakthrough—extremely rapid muzzle velocity in a reasonably compact package.”
Peter was very much in his element. He was clearly excited and eager to describe his inventions to Jim.
“How fast is fast?” asked Jim, showing a keen interest.
“We routinely achieve greater than 3,000 feet-per-second from a fourteen inch barrel, using a 100 grain magnetic projectile. The exact capability is classified.”
“I gather, then, that the Defense Department is your primary customer?”
