by Mark Kraver
Harold smiled sheepishly. “Of course. Well, I used to work with that stuff at Keesler Air Force Base. I know the guy in charge. You want me to see if he’s heard of anything like this?”
Before Conrad could answer, Logan said, “Sure, go ahead. Wouldn’t hurt.”
Conrad shrugged and raised his eyebrows at Harold, setting the wheels in motion.
“The guy’s name is Wilson—a real smart guy. I hope he’s still there, cause the other guys there are real losers, if you know what I mean.”
An unexpected laugh escaped from Logan. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, looking around the room and letting her shoulders relax for a moment.
“Uh,” Mac cut in, instantly spoiling the mood. “The A-arecibo Observatory doesn’t know a-anything about th-that negative f-f-frequency, either.”
Logan snapped back to a serious frame of mind and spun in her chair to check the computer monitors one more time. “Keep looking for a fix on those signals while I figure out how to get this satellite pointed at Earth. Shit, negative direction. Let’s remember elementary physics. I’m as stupid as a pumpkin. Booger, it’s time to earn your pay.”
With a deep gasp, Logan doubled over, stabbed with cramping pain radiating up her spine. She hugged her middle as the pain repeated itself in quick succession. A voice inside her head said, “Be strong.”
She looked at Conrad’s concerned face as another bubble of pain burst through her body.
“Good God Kit, you all right?” Conrad dashed to her side. His comforting hands gripped her shoulders as she gritted her teeth. “Get some help,” he said sharply over his shoulder. “Something’s wrong!”
Logan could feel the dampness spreading through the crotch of her jeans. “Did I pee my pants?” she asked, but the red color on her fingertips left little doubt where it was coming from.
Nadira and Lanochee’s minds intertwined sympathetically with the vivid memories unfolding before them.
“How could this happen? Sexual procreation is a simple process. Why are we watching this? It is your adventure, not hers,” Nadira asked.
“Was she not monitored properly?” asked Lanochee.
“Life is full of mishaps. She is young, strong, and full of time,” Yahweh assured them.
“Time? They don’t have any time. Their entire life cycle is consumed with raising the next generation to carry on their species,” said Nadira.
“And how are we any different?” Yahweh asked.
Chapter 8
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
William Shakespeare 1564-1616, Earth
Library of Souls
Radio Garbage
It was a short routine stay at the hospital. In these days of HMO hospital visits, Logan was scooted out the door with a wish and a prayer to deal with the agony of defeat, alone. She did have Conrad. He wasn’t her husband, but she loved him.
“I called the lab,” Conrad told Logan driving out of the parking lot. “Booger turned the satellite, and the numbers are now positive. Boy, Space Command really got upset when I told them about our problem with the satellite interference.” Conrad hoped that would cheer her up, a little.
“Harold was right. It's radio junk,” she said, drugged.
“And one is right smack-dab inside the Black Sea. It’s hard to imagine it coming up from the water.”
“Maybe a shipwreck—an old rusty Russian warship? There must be tons of those around that area,” she guessed.
“Maybe, but one thing’s for sure, the satellite’s not a dud,” he said.
Logan looked out the window. “And the others?”
“The Middle East,” Conrad said. “Technically, Africa. Northern Sudan. Nothing but desert as far as the eye can see. Go figure.”
Logan sat up again and looked at Conrad hopefully. “Let’s go by the lab to see what’s happening.”
“Oh, no. We’re going home, doctor’s orders. I think it is time you took a vacation from all the stress.”
Logan sank back into her seat. He was right. She did feel like shit, especially after the heavier-than-normal dose of Thorazine the doctor gave her in the emergency room. But she wanted to try one more time, to test his resolve.
Rubbing his shoulder as he drove, she put on her nicest voice. “It’ll only take a minute.”
“No, and that’s final,” he growled.
Her head swimming in jelly, Logan put her forehead against the cool window glass. She watched as they passed palm tree after palm tree on the side of the road; they looked like long green brushes painting the sky with broad swaths of blue. The car slowed to a stop at a light. She wondered what the couple in the next car were talking about. Were they married? Did they have children? An awful feeling came over her. A rotten blend of sadness, relief and guilt. She turned her heavy head toward Conrad and reached for his tense shoulder.
“Thanks for being there for me,” she said quietly.
He forced a slight smile and kept his eyes on the road.
“What about the third signal?” she asked. Before Conrad could answer, the hourly news came on.
“Hundred-foot flames were seen on two of the three hijacked supertankers in the Straits of Hormuz as Navy Seals fought for control of the vessels. It is unknown whether hijackers or air-to-surface missiles are responsible for the damage. The State Department said the Fifth Fleet is now in complete control of the international waters, and Iran is no longer capable of interfering with shipping in the Straits.
“Earlier today, the Israel Knesset declared a state of emergency as neighboring troops moved toward their common borders. Lebanon and Egypt claimed the troop movements were in response to the Palestinian refugee situations, but sources within the Israeli government say that operatives intercepted information that the coordinated effort is a prelude to military invasion. The State Department has not confirmed these rumors, but sources say it is concerned with the unusual cooperation between Israel’s neighbors.
“This is Teresa Green, NPR.”
Nadira felt a twinge of worry pass through her.
“They have detected Ra and El’s distress beacons.”
“Ra crashed in a desolate desert and El in the Black Sea underwater? How did that happen?” Lanochee added.
“Time is the most important dimension to life and is always changing,” Yahweh said.
Chapter 9
Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former.
Albert Einstein 1879-1955, Earth
Library of Souls
Keesler AFB, Biloxi, Mississippi
Gregg Wilson, team leader, walked into the 85th Engineering Installation Squadron test lab where his crew was refurbishing their old equipment for the next job. Being a young, good looking single Pennsylvania Dutchman used to chasing snow bunnies, he felt right at home on the coast of Mississippi with all the fun in the sun beach babes crowding the white sands year-round. When he graduated with a degree in Electrical Engineering at Penn State, he told everyone he wanted to see the world. Biloxi was as far as he got, and it was perfect.
“New orders. There’ll be no more talk about skiing the Rockies. The Cheyenne Mountain job has been scrubbed,” Wilson told his crew. Hovering over their equipment, calibrating the sensitive field-intensity meters and automatic directional finders, the two men stopped and looked up at Wilson. The disappointment was clear on each man’s face.
“Aw. What’s so important, boss?” Bubba complained. “I’ve been dreaming of snowboarding. Bill said it was better than sex, and you know how much I like sex.”
Bubba McLintock was the new man on the team, right out of the University of Alabama College of Engineering. Somehow, he had gotten it into his head that to be a real man all he needed to do was drive fast cars and ride fast women. Unfortunately, he wasn’t good at either. He had gotten his license suspended in the first month on the job, and he’d never had a girlfriend he hadn’t paid for.
Bill Gruber, the o
ther electrical engineer on the team, shook his head. “You are disgusting, Bubba. A sleazy gutter-head. Hell, Bubba, have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“Ah-yeah,” Bubba said, unconvincingly.
“Don’t tell me, her name was Hazel?” Bill teased.
“Nope.”
“Maybe her name was Jewel?”
“Nope.”
“Ida?”
Bubba shook his head.
“How about Ethel? Ruby? Opal? Sapphire?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know any of those girls.”
Wilson cut things short. “We don’t need to know any of Bubba’s girlfriends. He’s never been one to kiss and tell, you know,” he said. “One of Harold’s satellites is picking up some RFI from Florida, and the colonel wants us to stop it before the news reports that his satellite’s a dud.”
“Who?” Bubba asked.
“Harold? You took his job. He’s one of those jet-lab uppity-ups now,” Bill said.
“Space command is already chomping at the bit to get this RFI stopped pretty damn quick. I’ll need that Auto Finder and Robert’s Dipole antenna,” Wilson said, compiling a list of needed equipment.
“That old piece of junk?” Bill complained.
“You have a better idea?” Wilson asked, walking out the door. “By the way, we’re taking the van.”
“Oh no, not the van,” Bubba erupted. “I hate the van.”
“I don’t get it. Brass wants us on this job yesterday, and we’re taking the van? With these gas prices?” Bill complained.
Wilson stuck his head back in the door. “Space Command’s pushing the buttons now. We’ll be leaving tonight. A helicopter's waiting for us at 0630 in Fort Myers.”
Chapter 10
The most excellent Jihad is that for the conquest of self.
Prophet Muhammad, 570-632, Earth
Library of Souls
Eastern Atlantic Ocean
“I missed you in prayer,” Yusef said to his uncle Saeed outside the makeshift mosque next to the galley. The irresistible smell of fresh baked bread wafted in the air.
“Go to your station, Yusef,” he said, pointing up the hatch. Yusef was distracted by the way his uncle barely moved his arms. “We are clear of the Mediterranean. It is time to begin drills. You are my best pupil. Do not fail me.”
Yusef was hungry but glad to be given a task. It was a welcomed break in the boredom of the last few days, and he glowed under his uncle’s praise. “I will not fail you, Saeed Aziz al-Omari,” he answered, almost happy.
Yusef’s uncle was no average Imam. His inauspicious claim to fame was first captured on camera at the notorious Abu Ghraib prison where he was an imprisoned follower of the infamous Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. He was photographed strappado-hung naked over the top of a bunk bed with excrement smeared over his entire body. A female American army jailer stood by his side, giving the thumbs-up sign and smiling as if this were some form of entertainment. After his release from captivity and months of rehabilitation to correct massive shoulder damage, Saeed was no longer fit to fight on the front lines in the jihad of al-Qaeda in Iraq. This did not vanquish his insatiable appetite for murder and mayhem because he was not only a vicious sectarian terrorist at heart, but a psychopathic killer well-known to everyone, including his superiors. Finding no more fame and glory on the battlefield, he immigrated back to his Egyptian homeland and joined the Brotherhood. There, he realized his unique talents were not needed and wholly under appreciated.
After years of wandering between Egypt, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, where his violent interpretation of Zarqawism was rejected by even the Taliban, he found himself in an Iranian prison. He was accused of the brutal rape and murder of a village Shia chieftain’s thirteen-year-old daughter for not wearing a headscarf out in public—a crime for which he was guilty. But the ayatollahs were keen to convict another more disruptive dissident, so he was pardoned and set free.
After being released from prison he was deported back to his homeland where he became the head recruiter for the martyrdom brigade of the radical Sunni cleric, Mohammad Ali Abdul. Angered by American resilience after the 911 plane crashes into the World Trade Center and Pentagon and the killing of Osama Bin Laden, he vowed to match or exceed the terror and devastation wreaked upon New York City—but he would do it differently. This time, they would come by sea.
For years he contemplated his resolution. Finding the right time felt difficult, though his plan was simple. He would fill a cargo ship of jihadists with rockets, mortars, surface-to-air missiles, and a mixture of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, then ram the ship into the city’s harbor and blow it up. Six thousand, six hundred and sixty metric tons of fertilizer explosives. Enough for the largest explosion ever witnessed on the East coast of the North American continent.
Saeed had gotten the idea by watching a documentary of the 1947 Texas City disaster on the American History Channel. He made each of his recruits study the documentary onboard. A single cargo ship, carrying twenty-three hundred tons of ammonium nitrate fertilizer, had exploded into a 40,000-foot high mushroom fireball. The explosion was heard over 150 miles away. The shock waves knocked two airplanes out of the sky, hurled tons of shrapnel for over a mile, and was considered an accident. Imagine what could be done on purpose, he thought.
Throughout his life he had seen hundreds of cargo ships moving through the Suez Canal. How hard would it be to ram one into the New York harbor, shoot off as many weapons as possible, and then blow the whole ship to heaven?
The time had come. He had needed financial backing and fertilizer, and he had no trouble finding both from the eager wealthy handlers of Saudi Arabia. His culture was becoming increasingly unrecognizable; western ideas were ruining his women and children, while the country itself was under perpetual attack from every direction. He had coerced twenty-two ignorant young male jihadists away from their Palestinian and Egyptian refugee camps to follow his mufti's fatwa into martyrdom by striking at the heart of the great Satan, the United States of America. With his sardonic, grotesque, psychopathic views of the world he could prey upon disenfranchised individuals who had been humiliated by the circumstances of their own failures. He was adept at taking their naive resentments and twisting them to his own brand of violent jihadism by boiling their simple minds in a soup of warped theology and conspiracy theories. He was always surprised at how the ignorant would believe whatever he said, if he said it with conviction.
Now, he thought, with all his plans coming to fruition, how hard could it be?
Chapter 11
I have had dreams and I have had nightmares, but I have conquered my nightmares because of my dreams.
Jonas Salk, 1914-1995, Earth
Library of Souls
Fort Myers, Florida
“Help me!” again rang out in the night. The frosty abandoned playground was alive with sounds, crying and screaming, laughing and singing, as a breeze tickled a tangled swing set.
He had to find her in time. He gnashed his teeth, turning in a slow, helpless circle. “She can’t die,” he said. “She can’t die.”
Smoke from a pile of raked leaves caught his eye. Dark winds pushed through the pile, picking it up and sweeping dry fallen leaves in swirling waves across a parking lot full of empty cars. A teddy bear appeared from under the dissipating dead foliage, its eyes smoldering and glowing.
“Where is she?” he cried out into the stormy sky, falling to his knees aside another messy pile. He pushed mounds of decaying vegetation away, only to have the winds blow it back into his face with the next gust.
“She’s got to be here somewhere,” he shouted into the haunted trees looming overhead. Over and over he fought the drifting leaves. The corner of a coffin appeared. Pulling with all his might, he struggled to force the box open with his bare bleeding hands. Moaning and groaning, he jerked open the crypt. Inside, he saw himself, lying dead and decayed, his fingers still clawing at the walls of death.
He tried to scr
eam, but instead made a deep, low gurgling sound that erupted into a snorting roar, waking him in his bed.
He lay for a minute in a hot pool of sweat, his heart pumping in his throat, thinking about all the unsolved hate crimes his granddaddy told him about as a boy. His wife lay motionless at his side, like she had for the past forty-two years. Did he wake her? It was the same dream, but with a teddy bear twist. What would Dr. Freud have said about that, he thought? He rolled over and ripped a fart loud enough to wake the dead. His wife’s steady breathing didn’t change as acid reflux burned his throat.
He slipped out of the bed and into the bathroom, where he fumbled around in the dark long enough to knock over a can of shaving cream, a glass of water, and the antacids he’d been looking for.
“You all right?” he wife Gladys called from the bedroom.
“Sorry m’lady.”
“Heartburn?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”
Bracing himself over the sink, slurping water from the facet and chewing on fruit flavored antacids, he shook his head. His tired face flashed in the mirror as a distant lightning bolt over the Gulf of Mexico momentarily lit up the bathroom. Doctors, he thought, a pill for this, pills for that. Blood pressure, sugar, cholesterol—he felt fine. Wasn’t sure if any of those pills worked in the first place. No wonder there were so many counterfeit drugs on the market today.
“Doctor Oz said it might be sleep apnea. You sounded like you stopped breathing again.”
Damn Doctor Oz, he thought to himself. Haven’t been sick a day in my life, and when I get a little heartburn, she wants me to go see a doctor. Doctors haven’t helped her. Dementia was getting worse by the day. He was surprised she even knew who Dr. Oz was.
“I’ll tell you about those damn doctors,” he started to say, but he was distracted by a buzzing on his nightstand.
