White Collar, Green Flame - A Technothriller
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White Collar, Green Flame
By Shain Carter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text Copyright © 2013 M. P. Diebold
All Rights Reserved
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Visit the website: www.shaincarter.com
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Epilogue
Prologue
Derek Becker stared out the glass doors of the Des Moines Convention Center, marveling at how quickly the crisp, bright autumn morning had changed. The weathermen had predicted a front would come through in late morning, and come through it had. The sky was now black, the wind gusting fiercely, scouring the convention center steps with a swirl of dirt and dry leaves. Streetlights stuttered on as Becker pulled the collar of his coat up high around his neck. Pushing the door hard against the wind, he stepped out of the lobby and into the growing tempest.
The cold wind hit Becker's face hard, instantly driving away the sense of sluggishness that had been growing in him all morning. This was the fourth Federated Society of Paleontology meeting that Becker had attended, and by far it was the most boring. There were no new dinosaur finds to speak of, and the theories put forward were only slight variations of those presented - and argued over - at the last meeting.
Becker took in a deep breath. The air smelled of the rain that would soon come. Pushing his sandy blond hair out of his eyes, Becker started out for the Italian restaurant across the street. He had left the session a little early - the last speaker had finished her presentation but was still answering questions from the audience - in hopes of getting one of the more private tables inside the restaurant before the rest of the crowd arrived.
Descending the steps, Becker heard is name called. Turning, he found a small man lugging an oversized briefcase towards him from the convention hall. Becker didn't recognize the man, but he was accustomed to - and pleased by - strangers knowing who he was. The man was dressed for much colder weather, complete with heavy gloves and a scarf. Wiry black hair bulged from under his hat. His skin, the little that was exposed, was dark brown. Becker's gaze rested on the man's face. Something was not quite right about it, and at first Becker thought that the man’s thick black mustache had been shaved unevenly. But after a few seconds he realized it was something else entirely: the man had just one eyebrow, his left one. Over his right eye was only a wide, ragged scar.
The man came closer, struggling with the briefcase. Whatever was in it was quite heavy.
"Mr. Becker?" the man called out again, uncertainly.
Becker had to shout against the wind. "Yes, I'm Derek Becker.”
The smaller man set the briefcase on the stairs and thrust out his right hand. "Ghazi Akbar, but please call me George. I am honored to meet you."
Although he struck Becker as distinctly foreign, the man spoke English perfectly, with a trace of a British accent. "May I have a word with you, sir? I have something to show you that I am sure you will find very interesting.”
Becker glanced down at the briefcase, then nodded to the smaller man. As he did this, people began pouring from the Convention Center. The final question period had apparently ended, and the crowd crushed around the two men as the meeting participants hurried to find a restaurant before the rain came. Akbar looked nervously around, then pointed towards a small park at the end of the block.
"Perhaps we could speak there? It is a little more private."
Becker shrugged and the men turned up the street. The wind, now to their backs, pushed them along, knocking over trash cans and stripping red and yellow leaves from the maple trees that lined the street. Just as they reached the park, the wind calmed somewhat, making it possible to talk without shouting.
Akbar sat on the bench and pulled the briefcase onto his lap. He looked up expectantly at Becker, who nodded, then opened the case and carefully extracted the single object it held. The empty briefcase fell noisily to the ground, but Akbar ignored it. His attention was totally focused on the object in his hands. It was awkward and large - Becker wondered how it had fit in the briefcase - and wrapped in white gauze. As he began unwrapping the object, Akbar again assured Becker that he would find it most interesting. Becker looked on wearily. He was fiercely proud of his collection of dinosaur fossils - the most extensive private collection in North America - and it was common knowledge that he paid well for exceptional specimens. But exceptional specimens were few and far between, and Becker was almost always disappointed with the mediocre fossils that were constantly being offered to him.
Akbar removed the gauze slowly, unwinding it with great care as the wind tried to tug it away from his hands. Becker held his breath when the stone itself first came into view, then slowly exhaled as he caught a glimpse of a fossilized bone - the back leg of a small dinosaur, no larger than a cat.
“A juvenile,” Becker said matter-of-factly.
Akbar shook his head. “No, sir. Fully mature. It is a micropachycephalosaurus.”
Becker allowed a smile. One of paleontology’s little ironies is that the longest dinosaur name belongs to the smallest dinosaur. But more important to Becker, this was a species he did not currently own. A quality specimen would fill a troublesome void in his collection.
Akbar went on in a soft, mesmerizing voice that could just be heard above the wind. “Late Cretaceous. Strangely enough, though, she was located nearly a meter below the K-T boundary. The ground above had been disturbed. I found her myself, on the side of a mountain in eastern Turkey.”
The backbone and ribs came into view as Akbar continued to methodically unwind the gauze.
“What sort of price range are we talking about here?” Becker asked, struggling to keep his voice bland and disinterested.
“Oh no, Mr. Becker, you misunderstand. This fossil is not for sale.”
The last of the gauze came off. The wind, which had just picked up again, now tore the gauze from Akbar's hand and dragged it down the street. Akbar was too focused on the stone to even notice. He carefully laid it on his lap for Becker to examine. The specimen was perfect, both in content and in the workmanship of its partial extraction from the rock matrix. A broad smile began forming Becker’s face, then froze. His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the stone.
“What the hell is that?"
Becker licked his finger and was about to rub the stone when Akbar grabbed his wrist roughly.
“Please, sir! That is a most fragile feature!”
Becker glared, and Akbar hastily released his arm.
Akbar nodded down to the fossil and continued talking in
an excited voice. “That is what makes this specimen truly unique - and of unparalleled importance in all of human history.” The ground suddenly trembled as lightning struck nearby. A second flash followed almost instantly, this one lighting Akbar's face like a strobe light, freezing his expression. His eyes were frenzied, his hair wild, his mouth twisted as he shouted out his words. “When the world learns the truth of what is here… it will force us all to reassess Man’s place in the Universe. It will completely alter the way we think of ourselves.” Akbar caught sight of Becker's face. “You do not believe me - you laugh at me." His voice was now shrill, almost menacing. "Mark my words, Mr. Becker. When you learn what this is, you will stop laughing. Your life will never be the same. This will change you forever!”
Becker was not actually laughing, but neither was he trying to hide his amusement at Akbar’s outburst. “Why don’t you try me,” he said.
Chapter One
Dawson Jones, professor of chemistry, stared out his office window onto the browning campus lawn three stories below. Year-end exams at South Central University had finished Wednesday, two days before, yet Jones counted at least twenty students idly taking in the early afternoon sun on the quadrangle below. He guessed that at least half of the undergraduate population would stay in town through the weekend, getting in one last round of partying before disbanding for the summer.
Jones sighed audibly. It looked unpleasant out there. Heat ripples shimmered on the asphalt bikeways. The forecast was for high humidity with temperatures in the mid-nineties, and Dawson knew it would only get worse when the real summer months arrived. He turned abruptly from the window and walked to his chair.
Blue eyed and with uncombed blond hair, Jones was clean shaven on this particular afternoon. Tall and lean, he was in extraordinarily good physical shape for a forty-one year old, especially in light of his vices. His remarkable fitness was entirely due to the fact that he walked nearly everywhere he went. While good for his overall health, this made the hot, humid summers at SCU that much more unbearable.
Jones sat in his chair and carefully leaned back against the office wall. There was a thermostat knob on the wall, about three feet up, and Jones had found that by hooking the back of his chair under the bottom of the knob he could lock himself into a comfortable, reclined position. The early afternoon sun beat in through the window behind him, warming the top of his head and making him drowsy. His legs dangled from the edge of the chair, his feet just off the floor. He settled in. He felt comfortable. Very comfortable. The thought crossed his mind that he could stay like this forever.
But not without another drink. Jones sighed and began swinging his left leg gently back and forth. He caught the handle of a desk drawer with his toe and pulled it open. Reaching inside, he removed a clear glass bottle. The top of the label read "Ethanol, Absolute" and, in smaller letters beneath, "Reagent Grade". Even smaller letters below gave an analysis of trace impurities, a flammability warning, and the name of the chemical supply house that had manufactured it. The bottle would have looked like countless other reagent bottles found in a chemistry lab, except that it had a state liquor tax stamp glued over the cap. As long as alcohol is drinkable, it’s taxable - even when it’s intended for lab use rather than consumption.
Jones took a quick drink straight from the bottle, then poured some into his coffee cup. He twisted the cap back on and tossed it into the drawer. Before he could get comfortable again, though, there was a sudden, loud pounding on his door.
"Professor Jones - are you in there? I need to talk to you.”
It was a young man’s voice. An undergraduate, Dawson was sure. Final grades had been posted earlier that day, and if this year was like previous years, he could expect a parade of disappointed students coming by to protest. Jones enjoyed teaching students who genuinely wanted to learn, who had a love of knowledge and a strong desire to understand nature. It was his experience, though, that South Central students were much more interested in getting a guaranteed A or B - and nothing less - on their transcripts than in actually learning chemistry. Dawson was the only faculty member in the department, maybe the entire campus, who still believed grades should not be curved to some predetermined distribution. Students in his classes needed to score at least 92% to get an A, 84% to get a B and so on. This was the system Jones learned under twenty-five odd years before, and the system he insisted his students endure. And endure it they did, but not without protest.
The pounding stopped and the undergraduate pressed his face against the frosted glass window on the door. He cupped his hands on either side of his eyes and pushed his face so far forward that his nose squashed against the glass. A wasted effort, Dawson thought to himself. The glass was nearly impossible to see through.
An instant later the student resumed pounding and called out louder. "I know you’re in there, Professor. Let me in!"
Jones put his coffee cup on the windowsill, unhooked his chair from the wall and pulled himself up to his desk. "Enter,” he called out loudly.
The young man burst through the door. Jones immediately recognized him from the morning Chem. 101 class - Introduction to Chemistry for Non-Majors. He was dressed upscale casual, with trendy blue jean shorts and a loose fitting golf shirt. Dawson recognized the logo on the shirt and guessed that it alone cost more than all of his shirts combined. The young man’s hair was cut very short and styled into spikes, and he sported large gold studs in both ears.
"I just saw my grade, and there’s been a big mistake.”
"Ohhhh?"
Dawson made no effort hide the contempt he felt. “There’s been a big mistake” was the beginning of hundreds of conversations he had had over the years.
"I got a D. I was getting a C into the final, and you gave me a D minus on it. It’s not fair.”
“I didn’t give you anything on the final. You earned what you got, and you got what you earned.” Dawson’s voice was mocking. He had learned through experience that justifying the grades he gave was a mistake. Students just seized this as an opportunity to argue the issue. Mockery, not logic, was the quickest way to shut these students down and get them out of his office.
It almost always worked. But not with this kid.
“You didn’t give me any partial credit at all on the third problem. Look at all the work I did.”
He tried to shove the test into Jones’ hands, but Jones refused to take it.
“I don’t need to look at your answer - I saw it well enough when I graded it.” It was a lie. Jones never took the time to actually look over any of the finals. Two graduate students were assigned to grade and record all of Jones’ exams. This was one of the few concessions that Jones was able to get from Frank Tilden, the department head. Tilden, in fact, insisted on it, making a careful point to remove Jones nearly completely from the grading process.
The kid was undeterred. “I set up the equations right, I just made a mistake in the calculation. I ought to get a lot of partial credit."
“What’s your major?” Jones asked.
The question caught the young man by surprise. “Civil engineering,” he replied uncertainly. “Why?”
“How much partial credit do you think you'll get when a bridge collapses because you used the right equations to design it but made a mistake in the calculations?”
The kid looked flustered and began to say something, then stopped. After a few seconds he changed tactics completely. He stepped closer to Jones and tried to stare him down. “Do you know,” he asked, his voice now cocky, “who I am?”
“No,” Jones replied, “and I really don’t care.”
“I’m Jim Duncan.”
Jones did not respond.
“Duncan,” the kid repeated. "Duncan, as in Duncan Hall.”
Duncan Hall was the new electrical engineering building on the far side of campus.
“Duncan, as in Leonard Duncan Hall. Duncan, as in Leonard-uncle-of-Jim Duncan Hall. Duncan, as in Leonard-uncle-of-Jim-who-you-are-about-to-un
fairly-flunk Duncan Hall.”
Duncan paused, waiting for a response, but got none.
"Hello, anybody home?" He waved his hand in front of Jones' face. "You don’t think Leonard, uncle-of-Jim, would be too happy knowing what sort of a sorry scumbag was teaching chemistry here after donating ten million bucks to the engineering campus, do you? Take another look at the test, Professor. I’m sure you’ll see that I deserve a lot of credit on that problem.”
Jones' face burned with anger. In a quiet, steady voice he told Duncan to leave.
The kid stood his ground. "If I leave now it's not going to end here,” he threatened.
Jones felt a vein in his temple throb. "Get out of my office.” he growled, trying to control his voice. “Do not come back. Do not enroll in Chem. 102 in the fall, I'll be the only teacher then. Do not ever take any class with me again." Jones stood up, his voice now louder. "I said, get out of my office!”
Duncan backed up to the still open door. "I wouldn't be doing this if you weren’t such a scumbag,” he shouted, then ran out, slamming the door behind him.
Jones stared at the door for a moment, then sat back in his chair. He grabbed the coffee cup of alcohol off the windowsill and emptied it in three large gulps. He reached for the desk drawer, but then changed his mind. Instead, he leaned his chair back against the wall and hooked it back under the thermostat knob. He kicked off his shoes and began humming. The sun felt good on the back of his head.
Jones wasn’t sure how long he had been sleeping when the phone rang. Glancing down at the caller ID display, he saw that is was Tina, Frank Tilden’s secretary. Jones picked up the receiver and said, simply, “What?”
“He wants to see you. Now.”
Jones hung up without replying. He slowly pulled on his shoes and started down to Tilden’s office on the floor below. There he found Tina sitting at her desk, snapping gum and filing her fingernails. She glared at him silently as he walked past her. Without knocking, Jones entered the inner office and stepped up to Tilden's desk. Tilden began to say something, but Jones cut him off.