Ark

by K. B. Kofoed

  John Wilcox raised an angry eyebrow, but made no comment.

  “That’s okay,” Jim said. “It’s all theory. None of us are sure that those drawings will tell us anything.”

  Gene raised his finger. “Right. Like Jim says, this isn’t a religious debate. As we told you guys before, we want to get some data correlation. That’s all.”

  Bush’s critical eyes revealed an unshakable skepticism as they studied Jim. “Well, your drawings seem to describe a simple resonator and a crude wave guide, but the resemblance is superficial. According to your sizes this, uh, resonator would modulate FM band, maybe a meter in bandwidth.”

  Jim noticed that Lieutenant Bush was doing all the talking while his companion sat stoically with a dubious expression. Presumably Williams didn’t agree with Bush.

  “Then you agree that this is a resonator. And it will work?” Jim asked.

  “It’s the Ark of the Covenant,” said Lieutenant Bush.

  “It’s nothing but theory,” echoed John.

  “Yes, Sir,” Williams replied obediently.

  John Wilcox looked down at the tiled floor. “Let’s all stick to microwave theory.”

  “Sure,” said Bush, folding his hands politely in front of him. “You told me before about the computer simulations at two universities. They failed. May I ask why?”

  “We don’t know,” Gene answered, looking dubiously at John.

  Bush nodded professionally. “I’ll admit the configuration of those twin parabola interests me.”

  “Why?” asked Wilcox.

  “Because they would focus energy and store a charge.”

  “How can it store a charge if the thing is sitting on bare ground?” said Gene. “Isn’t that called grounding?”

  “Not necessarily,” replied Lieutenant Bush. “It’s possible that in this configuration, with all that gold on top, and sitting on dry ground, it might leak the charge slowly.”

  “Gold is weird stuff,” added Williams. “It likes to hold a charge.”

  “If it held a big charge of electricity, how could it be carried?” asked John.

  “It couldn’t,” said Bush.

  “I don’t know,” said Jim. “The Levites carried the ark wearing special outfits. Maybe they were protected.”

  “Levites?” said Williams.

  “Moses’ kin. Like Aaron, Moses’ brother,” offered Jim. “God gave them responsibility for taking care of it all. They were the priests.”

  Williams shook his head but said nothing.

  “Stick to the subject,” ordered John. Everyone stared at him silently and he added, “We haven’t much time.”

  “That’s going to be a continuous problem with this project, I think,” said Jim. “Maybe we should get used to it. I’ve been trying to separate the mechanics of the ark from its Biblical aspects for a long time and I’ll tell you, John, it’s impossible.”

  “I understand that, Jim,” John answered. “Right now, we have limited time for debate.”

  Lieutenant Bush stood up. “Tell you what,” he said looking down at Williams. “Let me take copies of these drawings and study the matter. I’ll let you know if I discover anything. Right now, though, you’ve only got superficial similarities with microwave technology. I think you’re wasting your time. Unless you plan to rebuild the ark to test it,” he added with a laugh.

  The two officers looked over the paperwork one more time and asked Jim a few detail questions; the thickness of the wood, any rounded corners, etc. Unfortunately Jim could only provide guesswork in his answers. Finally, after a moment of silence, John stepped forward and held out his hand to Bush, who took that as a cue and rose from his chair.

  “Thanks, Irwin,” John said. “You and Dean have been a great help.”

  “Help with what, Sir, if I may ask?” asked Williams.

  “Our research, of course,” said John. He handed his set of drawings to Bush. “Take these extra copies, and please let me know if you find anything. I’d also appreciate your confidence in this matter.” He winked knowingly. “Dad’s a stickler for keeping secrets. Old school commie hater.”

  The officers nodded somberly and walked out the door, clutching flight helmets with dangling wires.

  John went to his chair and sat down. “That could have been better.”

  “I’m afraid to ask this,” said Jim, “but was THAT the reason I came here?”

  “Part of it, I guess,” said Gene, looking at John. He and Jim chose seats at the table opposite one another.

  John remained at the end of the table, facing the door. “And you had to meet the loony,” he said, grinning. “If anyone can get the money, it’s Dad.”

  “Maybe calling him the loony isn’t such a great idea, John,” Gene said cautiously. “I mean, if this gets rolling...”

  “A son’s prerogative,” John answered, still smiling. “But you’re right, Gene. I should be more respectful.”

  Later that night, the three of them dined at the General’s house. To Jim’s surprise, the fare was authentic Mexican. “You said you wanted Southwest,” explained General Wilcox. “I couldn’t redecorate the house for you, but I hope you like the Mexican food.”

  “That’s more than thoughtful of you, General,” said Jim.

  The enchilada told him this was truly authentic cuisine, hot as the locals like it. The first bite served as fair warning and Jim carefully sampled all the food before taking normal bites. Halfway through the meal he had already drained his water glass twice. “This is good,” he offered politely. “Spicy.”

  All through dinner the General railed against liberals and conservationists and how they were dismantling America and spending money on the dole, as he called it. He seemed to think that being a host required proffering his personal version of the American dream. Jim listened and nodded politely at all the appropriate times, forcing himself to detach his own viewpoint long enough to get through dinner. Thankfully, the overly spiced food was enough to distract him. At the end of the meal Jim was pleased to see that he wasn’t the only one to leave a fair portion of his enchiladas uneaten.

  Later, after cognac, which Jim hated, and a quadraphonic rendition of an obscure Gilbert and Sullivan opera, which had Jim drinking more cognac, old Max finally went off to bed.

  “America uber alles,” said Gene with a laugh. “How many like him do you think are guarding our shores?”

  “Most of them, I’d say,” John muttered, sullenly sipping his cognac.

  “I don’t know,” offered Jim. “The General is speaking for himself. My wife’s Dad was Air Force and he didn’t share the General’s politics, as I recall.”

  “So,” said Gene, stretching his arms and looking around the room, “we finally have a chance to talk. Just the three of us.”

  “So what really happened with the computer simulations?” asked Jim. “Did you get any results at all?”

  “In truth we did manage to get a simulation to run,” said Gene.

  “You did?” Jim asked enthusiastically. “What happened? How did you get it to run?”

  Gene smiled. “We turned the ark, adjusted the size a bit. That produced a sustained effect when simulated radio waves were projected into the tabernacle at 45° from the East. Before, the only effect was minute and uncoordinated.”

  “But you said the program failed,” protested Jim.

  “That’s what we thought,” said Gene, “but my friend at Columbia kept at it every night for a week. Finally he modified the program and proved that it had been running. Then he decided to try the prime variable.”

  “Prime variable?” said Jim.

  Gene laughed. “That’s what he called the orientation of the ark in the tabernacle. He realized that in his virtual tabernacle, as he called it, the ark was in a different position from the one in the drawing. Why and how it got changed is anyone’s guess. Anyway ...”

  “It worked, Jim,” interrupted John. “It worked.”

  Jim was stunned. “Worked? Why not tell th
ose techies at Sandia? And what exactly do you mean by ‘it worked?’”

  “Hold it, Jim, one question at a time,” said Gene.

  “I hate to admit this, Wilson,” said John, “but we debated about even telling you. That’s why we were quiet, and that’s why we ultimately decided to invite you here. All we wanted from the techies was some independent verification.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe it.” Jim stared at the gas flames dancing over the fake logs in the fireplace. “It worked?”

  “Exactly as you described.” John poured more cognac into Jim’s glass and dropped in an ice cube.

  Jim thought about the old war horse who’d just gone to bed. “What about the General?” asked Jim. “Did you tell him too?”

  “Not yet,” said John, “and not unless we have to.”

  “Then how did you persuade him to get the money?” asked Jim. “What did you tell him?”

  “He hasn’t arranged for the money yet,” said John. “We told him that we needed to build it to test the hypothesis.”

  “He went for it on that basis?”

  “So far,” said Gene.

  Jim stared into the flames again. “Can I see the simulation run for myself?”

  “We’ll try,” said John. “Right now I need some sleep.”

  The plans for Jim to stay the night at Sandia had changed. The General apparently liked Jim. With his dinner invitation, Jim had also been invited to stay overnight.

  John Wilcox showed Jim to his room and said good night. “I hope the news won’t keep you up all night. We wanted to tell you sooner, but not at Sandia. Then, of course, Dad had a lecture to give you.”

  “Are you saying you don’t trust the folks at Sandia?” asked Jim.

  John smiled. “Never know who might be listening.”

  It was eleven o’clock when Jim climbed into the queen sized bed and switched on the TV mounted on the far wall. The news was depressing. A maniac in Belgium had killed a group of police at a pre-Easter dinner; the Space Shuttle had avoided a near catastrophic decompression due to a grazing collision with a satellite; and the Pope was still calling for an end to oppression of the poor.

  “Same old stuff,” Jim said aloud. He wondered what the Pope would think if he knew about this project. What advice would he give? He thought about this for a while, then fell asleep.

  #

  Since the Philadelphia Airport was being renovated, Jim had to wait in the cold until Lou could get through the snarl of traffic to pick him up. By the time his friend showed Jim’s teeth were rattling. It had been warm in Albuquerque when he left and his jacket was packed in the middle of his suitcase.

  “R-r-right on time, bud,” said Jim.

  “Freakin’ traffic,” said Lou without apologies.

  “There’s always traffic,” growled Jim. “Coulda’ started sooner.”

  “It’s Sunday,” Lou grumbled. “I coulda’ stayed home and had a beer.”

  “Sorry,” said Jim. “Appreciate the pick up. The flight was rough and they made me wait outside the airport. Renovating the garages for the millionth time. Then the security check. Do I look like a terrorist?”

  “Well, in fact ...”

  “Thanks.” Jim smiled. “Same old Lou. Now I know I’m home.”

  Lou gave a satisfied grin as he maneuvered his car around triple parked tourist buses and cabs. “How’d it go? See Gene? What about that air base? Was it all balls to the wall brass?”

  “Whoa, Lou. One question per second, please. Yeah, I saw everybody. Met Wilcox’s Dad. Brass balls for sure.”

  As Lou’s car pulled onto I-95 toward the Blue Route, Jim told Lou all about the trip. The main detail, however, he kept to himself: the fact that the computer simulation had worked. He didn’t want to sound too enthusiastic. It would only threaten his business partner. Besides, there was plenty of time to talk. The project wasn’t going anywhere for a while, at least.

  When Jim described his meal at General Wilcox’s house, Lou launched his ire at the military. He had been in Vietnam during the final days of the war and had his own well oiled opinions about the conflict and those who ran it. Without comment Jim listened to Lou’s now familiar diatribe against the military pinheads.

  “Good to be back home, Lou,” he said, punching Lou’s shoulder gently. “I missed you, believe it or not.”

  Still fuming about the Nam, Lou glanced at Jim skeptically. “Fuck you.”

  “I mean it, Lou. It’s good to be home. It was weird at Sandia. Creeped me out. Maybe it was the terrarium windows thirty floors underground, complete with birds.”

  “Birds?” said Lou.

  “Yeah. Weird.”

  “Fuck it,” Lou rolled down his window and spat out his gum. “Forget about it. You won’t be going back there.”

  “Yes, I will,” Jim admitted.

  “You will? How do you know that?” Lou arched an eyebrow menacingly.

  “I don’t know,” said Jim. “Just a feeling.”

  PURSE STRINGS

  Jim had to forget about the ark for a while. Tax time. The weekend had cost Jim virtually all his spare time. Now he had to catch up on his design work and organize receipts and invoices. This had always been Jim’s responsibility simply because he was more organized than Lou. It was an annual ‘someone has to do it’ situation that Jim loathed.

  Kas was glad to see him when he arrived home. She took a break from her own accounting to ask if he’d had dinner, but Jim said, “Don’t let me interrupt,” and threw a pot pie in the microwave. That night Stephie had some friends over and Jim and Kas retired to the sounds of hip-hop.

  He got to the Raftworks Monday morning just in time to get two clients’ panicked calls that told him Lou hadn’t covered his jobs as he’d promised. All thoughts of the ark were swept aside.

  A week later he emerged from his mountain of responsibilities, realizing that he hadn’t heard a word from either Gene or John regarding the project. Again, he felt like an outsider. Rather than stew about it, he called Gene at his office in New York and was somewhat surprised to find Gene at his desk. It was lunchtime, after all.

  “I got back here and couldn’t find my desk for all the shit that was on top of it,” said Gene.

  “Small world,” Jim replied, laughing. “I’m just now coming up for air, myself.”

  They didn’t talk long. After Jim left nothing significant had happened. “As soon as I have news,” Gene said, “I’ll give you a shout.”

  “You said you’d show me the simulation,” Jim reminded his friend. “Any chance of that happening soon?”

  “I have to go to Philly around Friday,” said Gene. “Maybe then.”

  It never happened. Friday came and went. This time, however, Jim took Gene at his word and made no inquiring phone calls.

  Despite Gene’s apparent resolve the phone still didn’t ring. With the holy days of Passover upon them work slackened considerably. It was during one of those days that Jim began his journal about the ark.

  It had occurred to him while lying on his cot in the guest quarters at Sandia that all this was beginning to become bookworthy. He promised himself that he’d begin a story, at least a journal, of his personal search for the ark. Saturday found Jim alone at the Raftworks facing his computer screen as if it was a window into an alien world. Today his computer was a word processor and Jim was venturing into the frightening realm of literature. After typing a few lines he stretched and looked around the studio. “Why does it feel so empty?” he wondered. A dog was barking in front of the Raftworks. Stephie wanted a dog. She had told him so two nights ago. Jim looked again at the screen and reached for the keyboard. He found himself hitting the DELETE key more than any other. The words never came. An hour later he was in the Morris Animal Shelter getting his daughter a cute little collie.

  Kas was fuming, but their daughter was so overjoyed with her new puppy that she decided to wait until they were having their first walk before taking her husband to task. “What ever posses
sed you to suddenly do that without so much as a phone call?”

  “Bad move, I guess. I didn’t think about the cat, either.”

  Kas stared at Jim in frustration, biting her lip. “Bad move. Yeah. You could call it that.”

  Jim looked out the window at Stephie being yanked around by her new puppy. He smiled. “She wanted it.”

  Kas grew strangely quiet, and Jim understood. His behavior lately was surprising even to himself. Why had he gotten the dog? Why had he completely abandoned convention and not consulted Kas? She was right. All he’d had to do was pick up the phone. Kas had even said that she’d hoped for a family outing that weekend. The weather had been miserable for the last three weekends and she needed to get out. What she got was Jim bailing at nine Saturday morning, only to come home with a new family member twelve hours later.

  Jim and Kas had always faced problems together. It was an unspoken rule that problems would always be discussed. Early in their marriage they had agreed to this, and over the years they had both made compromises on occasion to honor the rule, but now they couldn’t talk. Or wouldn’t.

  At ten o’clock that evening, with the TV going and Stephie playing happily with her new collie, Kas silently went to bed.

  Stephie didn’t notice that gloom had set in, but Jim definitely did, and he felt overwhelmed with guilt. Without Kas the emptiness that surrounded him was the same that he’d felt at the office. Jim had never felt like this before and he didn’t know what to do. Was he beginning to lose it? Was his obsession with the ark sapping his soul? Was the attention he was paying to it depriving his family of more than just his presence? Was he depriving Kas and Stephie of a husband and a father? Watching Stephie play with her new puppy, Jim realized that it was guilt that made him get the dog for Stephanie. Large thick flakes of spring snow were patting at the window. “Jeez, Steph,” he said, “isn’t summer ever going to get here?”