Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  Pellagrin returned to the bottle three more times, each time drawing another measure of the caustic liquid and dispersing it over each of the remaining hinges. Once finished, he placed the pipette in the sink the returned the cap to the jar before placing it, too, in the sink. It was a volatile mixture and something he didn’t dare spill by mistake. Just dispersing the material with the pipette made him twitchy.

  Funny, he thought. He’d infiltrated a foreign nations most secure military installation and locked himself inside one of their most secret laboratories after a month long cram session to learn anything and everything he could about Russian culture. Even after all that, he was concerned about spilling a bottle of chemicals for fear of burning his face off. That bottle should be the very least of his concerns.

  Speaking of which… turning back to the glass wall, he’d just realized the soldiers outside had become disturbingly quiet. Now they were nowhere to be seen. Somehow that was even more troubling than his caustic chemical brew.

  Cautiously, Pellagrin approached the glass wall. Glancing to the left he found the troops gathered around a satchel on the hallway floor. One of the men reached into the bag and pulled out a spool of wire. Setting it aside, he retrieved a three-stick bundle of TNT.

  Dynamite…

  Dammit!

  Pellagrin darted back across the room. He grabbed the pry-bar from the wreckage of the crates and headed for the steel Fire Star locker. Wasting not a single step, he wound up and smashed the pry-bar across one of the cabinet’s top hinges. The hinge exploded as if made of porcelain. He followed this with another powerful swing that reduced the second top hinge to dust. Pellagrin stepped back as the weight of the doors and gravity did the rest. The plate steel doors tipped forward as the lower hinges shattered under the stress of their load. The doors smashed to the floor. Amusingly, the doors were still intact, their locks still securely in place.

  Inside the cabinet was a large two-foot wide glass cube. This was Fire Star. Looking closely at the craftsmanship of the glasswork, Pellagrin was impressed. The flawless transparent glass box had no visible seams. Surely the cube was an assembly of six individual panes fused along their perimeters, but for the life of him he couldn’t find a hint of a joint. This leant credence to the intelligence SIS had gathered. The report indicated that the glass box was air tight and under vacuum…containing absolutely no atmosphere.

  A small innocuous looking rock sat on the bottom of the cube. It was irregularly shaped, dark gray in color, and about the size of a baseball. A thick black cable ran to the left wall of the cube and was affixed to the exact center of the cube’s left wall. A mirror opposite of that cable was attached to the right wall of the cube. So far all of the intelligence was absolutely correct.

  Looking over his shoulder, Pellagrin saw two soldiers taping three sticks of TNT to the outside corner of the glass wall. This was good, he thought. They were placing the TNT at the corner of the glass where it met the base of the wall. If they were smart, they would’ve placed the dynamite in the center of the pane. There was a chance, however remote, that the TNT wouldn’t breach the wall on the first try.

  Gotta love the Russians!

  His work almost done, Pellagrin returned to the glass cube. To the right of the cube, also mounted inside the cabinet was a large metal switch box. It had heavy gauge wire leads affixed to each side and a large red handled circuit breaker lever in the center. With a deep breath and one final prayer for luck, he pulled the power lever down engaging the circuit and sending a rush of electricity into the vacuum-sealed cube.

  There was a distinctive hum of electricity that instantly made his skin tingle. Pellagrin felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand at attention. Even through the oily moisture of his perspiration, the surge of power in the air was unmistakable.

  His eyes went wide as the chunk of ore rose from the bottom of the cube and floated freely in mid air. It took up a stationary location, vertically and horizontally, at the exact center of the cube. Then, after floating for several seconds without movement, the stone began to turn slowly on its axis.

  The stone spun slowly for almost a minute before Pellagrin realized he’d been holding his breath. Intelligence reports hadn’t detailed this phenomenon. He was unprepared for a reaction of this nature. He’d never seen anything like it. After another minute he realized the size of the stone had changed. Somehow the chunk of ore was growing smaller.

  His mind swam as he considered the possibilities. Was the density of the object increasing? But as he looked closer, he realized that an ultra fine particulate matter was beginning to spread inside the cube. It seemed the stone was somehow shedding its outer layers in the form of microscopic granules that floated freely inside the cube. They quickly began to gather in small foggy clouds.

  As a scientist, Pellagrin found this amazing. He’d never read of such a thing. A hundred questions collided in his mind. What was the strange ore? Why was it reacting to electric current in such a way? If it reacted to the present power flow in this way, how might it react to current of different voltage—or a different amperage? He’d come here to use the Russian’s Fire Star because intelligence suggested the device could power his platform. Reportedly, Fire Star was capable of generating massive amounts of electricity by amplifying a relatively small current when it was fed into the device. But what Pellagrin was seeing was beyond anything he’d ever imagined. Whatever the Russians developed defied explanation.

  A tapping sound drew Pellagrin’s attention away from the contents of the cube. The sound was coming from the gauge mounted on the back of the cabinet. Rapid tapping was made by the gauge’s display needle slamming against the right most wall of the device’s display, well beyond its maximum value. The power level had surpassed the max reading so quickly that the needle slammed against the end of the display area so hard that it bounced several times before coming to rest solidly against the display’s wall. Whatever was happening here, the device truly was generating a massive level of energy. This was encouraging! His gamble might pay off. If anything was able to generate the power level needed to fuel his platform, surely it was Fire Star.

  Pellagrin’s eyes jumped back to the cube just as the last layers of dust separated from the object that had been buried at the core of the stone. While whisking clouds of fine particulate matter continued to circulate inside the cube, at its absolute center now floated a perfectly spherical black orb about the size of a child’s marble. It was so perfectly shaped and uniform in color that Pellagrin found it impossible to tell whether the object was spinning as the stone had been.

  Pellagrin wanted to observe the process further. He wanted to take notes. He wanted to understand what he was seeing. In all his years of scientific endeavor, he’d never conceived of such a thing. Where in the hell had the Russians found this? Or worse—had they built it?

  The thought of spending time watching the strange orb snapped him back to the present. His concerns jumping back to the soldiers still working to breach his fortified position. They could detonate the TNT at any moment. In fact, why hadn’t they done it already? He spun around to assess the soldiers’ progress.

  To his horror, he found that a soldier had just attached a second, three-stick bundle of TNT to the opposite corner of the glass wall. No wonder they hadn’t stuck their first bundle to the center of the glass—the crazy bastards were going to detonate six sticks simultaneously! That much TNT would not only breach the wall, but the back pressure in the confined space would turn every one of them into human stew.

  That it, time to get the holy hell out of there…

  Pellagrin knelt down before the cabinet containing the glass cube and pulled open a heavy steel drawer. Inside was just what he expected, a pair of very heavily insulated power leads. With no time to waste, he pulled both cables out at the same time. Each cable was as big around as his wrist and had a heavy industrial alligator clip on the end.

  Pulling the wires the short distance to the p
latform, he dropped to his knees. Very carefully, he removed a metal panel from the back of the platform to reveal a pair of stout metal flanges—one marked with a plus and the other marked with a minus. Taking great care as to not cause a spark, he connected the lead wires; one to each terminal on the platform.

  Jumping upright, Pellagrin returned to the cube. Giving it another fateful glance, he pressed the large green button located under the large red circuit lever beside the cube. As soon as the button was pressed he could hear the surge of power reach the capacitors on the transport platform. Glancing once again at the TNT strapped to the glass wall, he knew it was now or never.

  Stepping to the transport platform’s small control panel still atop the small-wheeled cart, Pellagrin turned the ignition key and flipped up the glass cap protecting the toggle switch. He flicked the heavy switch, then slammed his fist down on the big red button. Without so much as a breath, he spun on his heel and stepped onto the platform. With great care and precision, he took a position at the very center of the raised circle.

  A five second delay had been built into the system. It was designed to give him enough time to activate the device and move into position before it engaged. But now he was very concerned those five seconds would cost him his life. As he stood waiting for the device to engage, his eyes were glued to the sticks of TNT taped against the outside of the glass less than ten yards away.

  Finally, just before he thought something had gone wrong with the platform, a small flash of light filled the room. It was follow almost immediately by another flash, this one stronger and brighter. Pellagrin couldn’t figure out where the light was coming from. It seemed to form all around him. Another flash and he felt a pull on his body—a strange force—as if he were suddenly twice his normal weight.

  There was one more final blinding flash and then Pellagrin was gone.

  —————

  The platform stood empty in the brightly lit laboratory. Electricity hummed as it coursed through the transformer in the cabinet at the back of the lab. The components inside the platform buzzed as they began to power down. Aside from that, there was eerie silence. The marble size sphere continued to hover at the center of the vacuum-sealed cube.

  Finally, the fuse ran out on the two bundles of TNT. The dynamite detonated, obliterating the glass wall and sending shards of glass the size of grains of sand blasting through the laboratory. The fiery explosion ignited a gas line in the wall of the lab, engulfing everything in an instant inferno. The detonation’s percussive blast rocketed backward through the breached lab wall and down the concrete corridors pulverizing the six nearby Russian soldiers. They never felt a thing.

  The force of the blast would have been enough to collapse the concrete structure of the hallway and the lab itself if the blast wave and shrapnel from the wall had not already breached the vacuum seal of the Fire Star cube. With a hiss, the strange composition of the vaporous clouds and black orb contained within instantly mixed with the atmosphere. The electrified conflagration caused a cascading breakdown in the strange element. The resulting detonation that made the eruption of the TNT and natural gas look like a hiccup by comparison.

  When the strange black sphere went critical, its resulting detonation wiped out not only the lab, it removed every trace of the Russian military facility from the face of the planet. Along with it, destroyed in an instant, were 770 square miles of Russian wilderness.

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Two Months Ago

  The chill from the day’s ceaseless rain penetrated Professor Walter Meade’s old bones. He stared out the taxi window as historic London passed the rain-streaked windows. The afternoon had grown late but it was impossible to gauge the time—the sky had remained the same persistent dreary gray since the moment he arrived in the city early that morning. He had planned to spend the evening trading stories with his old friend Allan and Allan’s wife, Helen. It was their custom whenever Walter came to town. But an unexpected email had arrived on Walter’s phone and change the course of his afternoon.

  The nature of the message had Walter deeply concerned. A rare book dealer was reaching out and claiming to have located the lost, privately published copy of J.K. Holloway’s Den Dschinn. This was troubling because it was completely unexpected. Walter’s contact, Heinrich was the owner of the bookstore which specialized in rare manuscripts, maps, and journals but more importantly he was also a highly regarded smuggler who traded in exotic gems and ores. The J.K. Holloway book that Heinrich mentioned was actually a code. It meant he’d located a supply of an extremely rare mineral known as Halon-Seven. The news was alarming because, to the best of Walter’s knowledge, he already possessed the entire known supply of the substance. If a new source had been discovered, Walter needed to know about it immediately.

  It was this news that brought Walter’s relaxing evening to an end and sent the 80-year-old man out into the pouring rain for a clandestine meeting with an old German smuggler. Walter’s eyes watched the scenery pass without really noticing. His mind was swimming with the implications of Heinrich’s discovery. A new source of Halon-Seven would open a great many doors for his research. This might very well be the break he’d been hoping for. The limited supply of the substance was preventing him from completing his project, satisfying his life’s work. He had spared no expense scouring the globe in search of another source of the ore, only to find nothing. But if Heinrich’s message was accurate, he’d missed something. Unlikely, but not impossible. And if this were the case there was hope for Meridian, after all. He could yet fulfill his life’s ambition and leave a mark that would forever change the world.

  The taxi pulled to the curb before the quaint old London bookstore. The large glass front window offered little view of the warmly lit interior. It, too, was streaked by the unending rain. Walter pulled the collar of his wool coat tight around his neck, stepped carefully over a large puddle, and pushed his way through the shop’s door.

  The silence of the bookstore struck him as odd but it took him a moment to realize what was out of place. The door chime, normally triggered when the front door opened, was missing. It was unusual, but not strikingly so. It had been nearly a year since Walter last stopped to visit old Heinrich. But there was something more. It was the silence. The bookstore was normally nearly as quiet as a library, but Heinrich always kept a small portable radio tucked under the front counter. It was perpetually tuned to a London talk station. Heinrich kept the volume very low, but the lack of the constant droning of voices emanating from beneath the counter was the second item out of place.

  “Heinrich?” Walter called quietly. There was a tickling sense at the back of his mind telling him something was wrong. But the rational part of his mind overruled that sensation. He rounded the counter and walked deeper into the small bookstore.

  Walter passed row after row of floor to ceiling bookshelves breaking the body of the store into aisles. The shelves were packed end to end with old but interesting books. Every one was completely unique and a rare literary find. As he passed each aisle, Walter cast an expectant glance toward the back of the store. Each time he was surprised not to find his friend cataloging the eclectic collection of old tomes.

  He reached the far wall but still found no sign of Heinrich. His concern was growing. He made his way to the back of the store. When he got there, he found the old wooden door leading to the back office slightly ajar. Walter smiled. Of course, Heinrich was in back. There was no need for alarm.

  “Heinrich,” he called through the door. “It’s Walter. I hope you haven’t fallen asleep my friend! It’s not even—”

  Walter pushed through the door and into the small office. His breath caught in his throat. There, sprawled face down on the floor was Heinrich. A bullet hole was clearly visible in the back of his head, as was the blood and brain matter that coated the floor and the wall just beyond. Walter knew at once he was in danger. He would make for the street, find the nearest public place and ca
ll the authorities. As he spun on his heel to make his escape he realized he would never have the opportunity.

  The cold dark barrel of a silenced pistol was the first sight to catch Walter’s eye. The gun was leveled squarely at his face.

  “Not a sound, old man!” the armed man commanded. About six feet tall, the man wore a black watch cap, a black coat, and dark trousers. He had dark penetrating eyes that left no doubt in Walter’s mind, this man was perfectly willing to pull the trigger.

  As Walter fought down the panic, he studied the gunman’s face. He had a long healed over burn scar on the left side of his face, about the size of a large fist. Walter decided the man’s lack of regard to hide his identity or the distinguishing mark didn’t speak well for him getting out of this with his life.

  “Get back in there,” the man instructed. His voice was low and threatening, almost a growl. Walter wasn’t sure if the man was trying to be intimidating or if that was just his way. Likely it was both. The man had the look of an experienced killer. Heinrich was proof enough of that.

  His observations reinforced the analysis, as Walter was forced into the office. Looking at Heinrich’s body on the floor, the man had been shot in the head. His proximity to the back wall and the blood splatter indicated he was on his knees when he’d been shot—when he was executed. The bloodstain on the wall told Walter even more. The blood had congealed and dried to a large degree. Heinrich had been killed some time ago. He was not the one who sent the email Walter had read. Walter had walked into a trap set specifically for him.

  The gunman put his hand on Walter’s shoulder and guided him at gunpoint past the body and around the corner of the desk. They passed through a doorway and down a short hall before coming to a small worn out old kitchen. Sitting on a rickety wooden chair beside the kitchen table was a thin lanky man wearing a very expensive Italian suit. Walter recognized him immediately. His bird-like build and oddly egg shaped head meant he could be only one man. As dire as the situation was a moment ago, the stakes had just gotten worse.