by Steve Alten
By now the two wars had produced more than six hundred amputees. Adam had been fitted with a prosthetic, but the change in his gait caused horrible back and sciatic nerve pain which ran down his buttocks.
As an engineer, Adam believed he could improve the design of these artificial limbs. Pulling some strings, the colonel managed to get his son a civilian appointment at DARPA (the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency) in their RE-NET lab. Reliable Neuro-Interface Technology was a new science which focused on thought to control an artificial limb using the signals sent from the body’s existing muscles and nerves.
One of the problems amputees experienced with RE-NET prototypes was pain caused by the tight-fitting socket joints needed to initiate osseointegration—the direct connection between living bone and the electrodes within the artificial limb. Adam’s solution was to incorporate metal foam in the design; a porous bone-like material used in smart satellites which he believed would allow signals to pass from the brain into the prosthetic device.
Believing the prototype would find a better home in the private sector, Adam’s supervisor arranged a meeting with Dr. Michael Kemp, a former NASA rocket scientist and the founding partner of Kemp Aerospace Industries. Kemp Aerospace was a private D.C. firm whose expertise in satellites enabled them to feed off the scraps of defense contracts awarded to “Beltway Bandits” like Lockheed Martin, Northrop, SAIC, E-Systems, EG&G and MITRE Corporation.
Adam Shariak’s “K Street” connections (Randy was now a Senator and sat on the Senate Appropriations Committee) enticed Dr. Kemp, who had been looking to hire a new managing director.
Adam passed on the offer, until the CEO agreed to fund a new subdivision that would specialize in the design and manufacture of smart prosthetic limbs.
During his first six months on the job, Kemp Aerospace’s new general manager cut costs and increased the company’s profit margin by thirteen percent. Unfortunately, the security clearances on the large defense contracting projects were often above top-secret, meaning Adam had to exclude himself from participating in project meetings, reducing his role in the eyes of some of his employees to that of a glorified secretary.
Thankfully, he had Jessica to get him over the hurdles.
Dr. Jessica “Juice” Marulli was a five-foot, four-inch blonde dynamo with an athletic figure and sharp tongue. Her father, Captain Al Marulli, was an F-16 test pilot; her mother, Dr. Barbara Jean Singleton was an engineer at Lockheed-Martin. Like Adam, Jessica had grown up a military brat, her tutors and private coaches serving as surrogate parents. Short, but packing a lot of power, Juice Marulli was an all-state gymnast, but it was her grades and lineage that earned her a full scholarship at Cal Tech.
Eight years and three degrees later, the aerospace engineer and magna cum laude was being recruited by Lockheed-Martin. Unfortunately, there were too many security issues to overcome with mother and daughter working at the same facility in such varying capacities, so Jessica was sent to work at one of Lockheed’s subcontractors … Kemp Aerospace.
A workaholic with no time for a social life, Jessica found herself very attracted to the company’s new managing director. Staking out her claim before any of the other single (or married) women at the company made their move, Dr. Marulli invited the former Apache pilot over for dinner.
Adam rarely lost his cool, but the blonde bombshell intimidated the hell out of him. It wasn’t just her looks, her high I.Q., or her security clearance—it was the way in which she had looked at him after she had texted him her address, as if her brown eyes were undressing him right there in her lab.
With the exception of one particularly horrible blind date set up by his sister-in-law, Melinda, Adam’s social life had been non-existent since he had lost his leg. When asked, he offered the usual excuses about focusing on his work or not meeting the right person, and yes, he’d definitely try out those Internet dating sites. But the reality was that it was the awkwardness of having to deal with his prosthetic leg during sex that kept him from asking women out.
The blind date with his sister-in-law’s girlfriend had actually gone well until things became hot and heavy in the bedroom. When the woman asked him to remove the prosthetic because its sharp edges were scratching her Adam obliged, only the site of his mangled stump made her so squeamish that she quickly excused herself to use the bathroom.
She then claimed to have a hangover and left, never to be heard from again.
Embarrassment being the mother of invention, Adam set out to design a prosthetic limb that not only functioned well but was covered in an artificial flesh that looked and felt real to the touch. The new leg was coated in a soft and porous heat-conducive foam embedded with wires. An electrical charge warmed the leg; a small dial controlled the temperature.
He finished the prototype just in time to wear it on his dinner date with Jessica Marulli.
Adam showed up at her townhome dressed in a sports jacket, tee-shirt, and jeans, carrying a dozen red roses and a stuffed animal. He rang the doorbell, his heart fluttering like a virgin on prom night, his artificial leg pumping out heat.
Jessica answered the door, wearing only a gray tee-shirt which barely covered her groin. “You bought me a Koala bear… how sweet.”
The sight of the scantily-clad blonde caused Adam to break out in sweat. “Am I early? I mean … you’re not dressed.”
“No … I thought we’d have sex before we went out to eat. That okay with you?”
He barely managed to nod when he was suddenly overcome by the stench of burning plastic.
“Adam, are you just happy to see me or are your pants on fire?”
They would laugh about it later—Adam rolling on the front lawn, Jessica drenching him with the garden hose. Yes, she had known he was an amputee and as she quickly demonstrated she had no problem dealing with his stump. What endeared him to her was the lengths Adam had gone to please her, and she promised to help him work out the technical challenges of the prosthetic flesh.
Jessica only had one rule—that they keep their personal life private and out of the workplace because of “security issues.”
* * *
Jessica, will you marry me.
Adam inspected the two slips of paper before carefully replacing them for the ones he had removed from the fortune cookies that had come with his lunch. His plan was to swap out the fortune cookies at dinner when the check came. While Jessica was reading his marriage proposal he’d remove the engagement ring from his other pocket and place it on the table in front of her. It wasn’t much—an oval-shaped three-quarter carat diamond set in a twisted gold braid. The jeweler had given him an extensive education on cut, clarity, carats, and color and he had opted for the largest white diamond he could afford.
A petite package of perfection … just like Jess.
He glanced at the desk clock again—his heart skipping a beat as his laptop screensaver obliterated the Kemp Aerospace Industry logo to alert him that he was receiving a call on a secured line.
Adam clicked on the ACCEPT MESSAGE icon and then typed in his password.
A moment later he found himself being stared down by a former three-star general.
Thomas J. Cubit was a military advisor with hundreds of contacts in the Defense Department who now made millions of dollars working in the private sector. A bit of a ball-buster with a wry sense of humor, the fifty-six-year-old Philadelphia native never hesitated to let Adam know that the military industrial complex had eyes everywhere.
“General? I thought our call was scheduled for next Wednesday?”
“This is courtesy call, Captain. Lockheed’s engineers need Dr. Marulli on site in early August.”
Adam split the screen, accessing his monthly planner. “How long will you need her for?”
“At least a month.”
“A month? Sir, Dr. Marulli’s overseeing two of our biggest projects; I can’t spare her for that long. How about Nick Mastramico?”
“Dr. Mastramico doesn’t have the necessary clearances.�
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“He has his Q clearance, General. That’s sufficient to program the satellites.”
“Not in a command post. If Strategic Command goes into a full alert, anyone not wearing a Zebra badge or higher will have exactly sixty seconds to vacate the facility before our marines shoot them.”
“What could possibly cause a full alert?”
“I’d tell you, Captain, only you don’t have the clearance to discuss it! Now pay attention: Lockheed will have a private jet waiting for Dr. Marulli at the Martin State Airport in Baltimore on the third of August at thirteen hundred hours; make sure your girlfriend is on it. Or should I say your fiancée.”
Adam felt his face flush.
“Going with a smaller stone. . . it’s a good move. At least you’ll know if she really loves you.” The general winked. “We’ll talk more on Wednesday. Cubit out.”
The connection severed, the screensaver returned.
Bastard … probably has my office bugged.
Adam leaned back in his chair and peered through the horizontal slats of the silver Venetian blinds. The window looked down onto an extensive work area that was roughly the size of a high school gym.
The satellite, part of a black ops project code-named Zeus, occupied most of the Plexiglas-enclosed suite of Lab-3. The rectangular-shaped device was twelve feet high and eight feet wide, with a depth just under six feet. It stood upright like an onyx wall, its two solar panels, attached to either side of its frame, folded inward. As large as it was, the object was merely a three-hundred-pound replica used by Kemp’s design team to test the configuration of its internal circuits under space conditions. The actual satellite was a four-ton monstrosity—one of twenty that were housed at an unknown location—most likely a secret military base.
Jessica was not inside the work station, which meant she was probably inside the CHIL.
Adam stood up from behind his desk, pausing to allow the internal pistons of his new prosthetic device to align with the working muscles of his right leg. A remarkable piece of machinery, the artificial limb’s titanium skeleton extended from his stump all the way to its five working toes, all of which were capable of flexion and extension. The weight, length, and musculatures of the limb matched that of his right leg, down to the temperature of the spongy flesh-like skin.
To complete the visual, he had waxed the hair off of his real leg.
Adam had nearly trashed the device on its first day as he struggled to coordinate the complex movements of the fake appendage with his right leg. It had taken him hours just to learn how to sit without falling over sideways, his frustrations quelled only by Jessica’s patience.
“I’m sure this is a lot like flying the Apache, Adam. Your brain is being asked to control two completely different limbs and coordinate these independent movements so that you can walk. The problem is that your right leg’s brain is thirty years ahead of your prosthetic device, which was literally born this morning. As your brain learns to compensate, the smart chips embedded within the joints of your left limb will segregate the successful movements from the failures and over time you’ll learn to walk without consciously thinking about it.”
“Assuming I survive the thousand falls that await me. How do I use the bathroom without ending up in the urinal?”
“I could strap a board to your ass.”
Focusing his thoughts, he walked with a slow, steady cadence to the elevator.
* * *
The Collaborative Human Immersive Laboratory, known as CHIL, was an enclosed motion-capture suite located next to Lab-3. Created by Lockheed-Martin, CHIL utilized virtual reality to allow production designers and engineers to test the components of a satellite in a computer-generated world where they could duplicate the frigid conditions of space.
Adam found Dr. Jessica Marulli inside the “cave,” dressed from head to toe in a black and orange trim nylon body suit adorned with silver sensors. With her eyes concealed behind a head-mounted display, the aerospace engineer had morphed into her own personal avatar, moving through a virtual world only she could see.
She paused, sensing his presence on an internal display. “Adam?”
“Sorry to bother you. General Cubit just informed me that you’ll be working at Lockheed the entire month of August and through the fall. When were you going to tell me?”
“It’s not my place to tell you. This is a highly-classified project. Things don’t filter down in the usual manner; you’re either in the loop or you’re not. When Central Command wants me I have to go. You know the deal.”
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it. With you gone that long, I’ll need to bring in another chief engineer. It’s not like I’m hiring a substitute math teacher.”
Jessica removed her helmet, shaking out an entanglement of blonde curls. “And here I thought you were upset because I’ll be gone for so long.”
Adam looked around, wondering if there was anyone in the control room.
“It’s just us,” she said, reading his thoughts. “I told Khrys King she could leave early; it’s her kid’s birthday.”
“And it’s our anniversary. Are we still on for dinner, or do I need to okay it with the general?”
“Actually, I’ve got another /three hours in here. Is there any way we can move the reservation back to nine?”
“On the night of the inauguration? They’re booked solid.”
“So we’ll skip Chen’s. Let’s go to Tosca’s, my treat. Call Maria, she’ll squeeze us in.”
“Italian? I was really in the mood for Chinese.”
“I thought you had Chinese for lunch? And the traffic’s going to be crazy. Why don’t we just order takeout?”
“Takeout … yeah, whatever.” He reached into his left jacket pocket. “I saved the fortune cookies from lunch. Will that work?”
“Adam, you shouldn’t bring food into the lab.”
“Pick one.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Just humor me.”
She rolled her eyes and then pointed to one of the cookies. “You’ll have to open it for me; I’m not taking off these gloves. And don’t get any crumbs on the floor or Dr. Mastramico will blame me.”
He pulled off the partially opened wrapper and cracked open the stale cookie, passing her the fortune.
She gripped the message in her cyber-gloved fingers, turning it right-side up. “What is this?”
“What does it say?”
She looked at him, unsure. “Is this real?”
“I don’t know. Are you having an affair with the chef at Chen’s?”
“Adam—”
He handed her the felt-covered box.
Jessica took it, her gloved hands shaking. “You were going to do this tonight at dinner and I ruined it, didn’t I?”
“It’s okay.”
Using her teeth, she pulled the gloves from her hands and opened the box, her eyes tearing up. “Oh my God—”
“I know it’s small. Maybe you can use your visor to create a larger virtual diamond.”
“Shut-up.” She placed the ring on her finger. “It’s perfect. And yes, I will absolutely marry you. Yes, yes, yes.”
She leaned in awkwardly and kissed him, careful not to make contact with the silver sensor balls adhered to her body suit.
Instead of pulling away, she continued to rest her forehead against his. “I love you, Adam Shariak.”
“I love you, too Jessica … Shariak.” Adam smiled.
“Jessica Marulli-Shariak. My father would disown me if I gave up our family name.”
“I accept the terms of your surrender. I’ll call Tosca’s and see if they can get us in around nine.”
“Forget Tosca’s.” She placed her headpiece on the floor, then unzipped the nylon bodysuit and carefully slipped out of it, revealing a crimson bra and matching silk panties.
“Take off your clothes; we’ll screw first and eat dinner later.”
2
Avenue of the Americas
> New York City
April 18, 2017
THERE ARE MANY PERKS associated with being a former U.S. president, among which is having American taxpayers pick up the tab on your office space after you leave the White House. The most expensive lease was George W. Bush’s 15,678-square-foot Dallas headquarters, tallying $701,636 a year in rent. Bill Clinton’s Harlem office ran a more modest $399,931 annually, though he had moved out in 2011 in favor of a midtown Manhattan address.
The Clinton Global Initiative, one of a dozen foundations set up by the former president and his team, occupied 30,000 square feet on the 42nd floor of the Time-Life Building. Two more floors were subsequently leased by Hillary Rodham-Clinton leading up to her presidential run in 2015.
Established in 2001, the Clinton Global Initiative targeted a variety of causes, including AIDS, obesity, poverty, and global warming. Despite raising hundreds of millions of dollars in donations, the organization often struggled to balance the conflicts between the philanthropic goals of the former president, his money-making interests, the political ambitions of his wife, and the ever-increasing involvement of their daughter, Chelsea.
In the wake of Hillary’s failed presidential campaign, Bill’s agenda involved seemingly endless meetings with the foundation’s attorneys and accountants in an attempt to resolve a myriad of post-election matters.
When the morning session with the Board of Trustees threatened to drift past noon, Clinton excused himself for a scheduled conference call.
Lisa Ann Hughes looked up from her desk as he entered the waiting area of his private office suite. “He’s waiting for you inside. I know—hold all calls.” She handed him a large plastic Styrofoam cup with a straw. “I ordered you a protein smoothie.”
“Thank you, darlin’.” He drained half the cup, then entered his office to find an old friend waiting for him.
Joseph G. Rangel was a former White House counsel whose friendship with William Jefferson Clinton stretched back decades. Well-connected with corporate executives and A-list celebrities, as well as government and military officials, Rangel preferred to operate in the shadows rather than the glare that seemed to follow the ex-president everywhere.
