Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  One month earlier, when the news broke that Reverend Creswell had been invited to attend a prayer breakfast in Pacifica, and that he would be personally escorted there by Chavez himself, the CRA had sprung into action. They kidnapped the reverend and his wife and forced them to send a message via social media, saying they were going on a much-needed vacation and would be out of touch for a few weeks. The CRA had implanted the explosive device in Thurgood that same day. After three weeks of postoperative recovery, coupled with a generous helping of indoctrination, the two had been whisked back to their home in Palm Springs, California. They had been monitored around the clock, with assurances that if either of them breathed a word of the group’s intentions, they and their entire family would be killed.

  Not that it mattered. During the previous week, the reverend was afforded little opportunity to talk with friends or employees, and when he did, he’d been too overwhelmed by the situation to say a word. Naturally, no one had suspected a thing, which he chalked up to the acting classes he’d taken in seminary school.

  Upon his arrival in Phoenix, he’d been met at the hotel by the mystery man himself, Dr. Solomon Chavez. The reverend hadn’t known what to expect, given that there were so many conspiracy theories about the secretive bastard. He’d half expected to see horns sprouting from the man’s forehead and smell brimstone on his breath. After all, the CRA had convinced him that Chavez was the Antichrist. But there were no horns, no hint of brimstone; instead, he was a handsome, reasonably pleasant individual. But what did he expect? The devil wouldn’t appear as a demon from a horror movie. He’d appear in beauteous guise, bearing the gift of health and long life, exactly as Dr. Solomon Chavez had done.

  He was a tricky one … the devil himself … which meant failure for the CRA’s plan. Chavez’s destruction was preordained. The Antichrist would be personally killed by Jesus, not by a group of deluded terrorists.

  The plane began to level off. They’d reached the desired altitude. The Reverend Thurgood Creswell felt the slightest twitch in his gut, telling him that the explosive device had been triggered. He began to pray with all his might, fervently hoping his wife would be safe and his children could one day forgive him.

  •

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Those of you with window seats on the left-hand side of the plane will see most of Central America. Those of you on the right-hand side will see Hawaii … if you adjust the window magnification to 3.85. We will begin to make our descent in approximately seven minutes. Thank you.”

  Richard watched his former wingman switch off the intercom and swivel around in her seat. “I hear Russell Takahashi’s onboard,” she said, studying him closely. With her long, brown hair pulled back in a bun, her countenance appeared somewhat severe. She was an attractive woman with black eyes (thanks to a Latino grandfather), was smart as a whip, and would’ve made a valuable member of the space corps had she chosen that path. However, she aspired to use her exceptional skills in private industry.

  In a way, Richard almost envied Janice: She had a cushy job, made a good salary, and was still able to travel. Then he remembered: working for CIMRAD meant he also had a cushy job, made a good salary, and … well, he wouldn’t be flying space-planes, and his astronaut days were over for the time being, but two out of three wasn’t so bad. Of course, he could always reenlist once the Ark Project was under way and his services were no longer needed. By then, however, his lifestyle would’ve changed and reenlisting would be a difficult adjustment. He’d probably end up like every other topnotch pilot who’d been lured into the private sector … he’d stay there.

  “Hey, hot-dog,” Janice huffed. “Are you woolgatherin’ over there?”

  “What? Sorry … I was just thinking about …” he shrugged his shoulders, “… never mind. You heard right, Russell’s onboard.”

  “Hmm …” Janice turned to her copilot. “You know, Lars, Richard here would’ve been the pilot for Solomon’s Arrow … had he been single. Russell Takahashi’s an excellent pilot, mind you, but he would’ve come in a distant second … I’m sure of it.”

  Richard groaned. “Don’t remind me, Janice. Besides, Russ is more than qualified. He can still out-fly anyone placed against him … except me.” Jutting out his chin, Richard simulated a yawn, prompting Janice and her copilot to laughter.

  “Ha! That’s the Richard Allison I know and love,” she teased. “It’s not too late to divorce your old, ugly, dried up, shrew of a wife and steal Takahashi’s job out from under ’im.”

  “Hey! That’s my old, ugly, dried up, shrew of a wife you’re talking about,” Richard snapped back. “And don’t forget it. Besides, there’s David to consider. Even if we did divorce—which is highly unlikely—he’d still be my tie to Earth. My application would be tossed in the trash bin.”

  “True enough.” A green light began blinking on the control panel, signaling the crew that the plane’s automated descent was about to begin.

  •

  Peering out the thick, round window at the coast of Central America, Erin saw the horizon tip slightly and knew the plane was preparing to drop out of low Earth orbit. They would soon be in Pacifica, settling into a new life. It was all so very exciting she could barely stand it.

  “Mama, why is that man smoking?”

  What an odd question for David to ask, Erin thought. People don’t smoke on planes. Turning to tell the imaginative youngster he shouldn’t tease about such things, she noticed the Reverend Thurgood Creswell having a seizure. David had been the first to notice, what with the passenger seated to the reverend’s right apparently asleep. Creswell was making soft mewling sounds, his eyes had rolled back in his head, and he was beginning to twitch … and yes, strangely enough, wisps of smoke were emanating from his foam flecked mouth.

  “Someone, help!” she screamed. “We need help back h—”

  The sudden, violent explosion cut off Erin’s next words, along with her life.

  •

  “I know this great sushi place we can go to after you’ve settled in.”

  “Huh, imagine that, a sushi place out in the middle of the ocean,” Richard joked. “What, no farm-raised cattle? A good steak would be—”

  In the next instant, Richard’s entire world was shattered.

  2

  MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE: 2:15 P.M.

  The final drop of smooth Arabica fell from the single-cup coffee maker into a souvenir cup containing the image of a sweat-drenched B. B. King playing his beloved guitar, Lucille. The cup then rose into the air and floated toward the hundred-year-old oak desk belonging to world-famous author and psychic detective, Bram Waters.

  The steaming cup of coffee was easing itself down beside his right hand when every social media device in the office began playing “The Thrill is Gone.” With his mind distracted by the racket, the cup fell the last few centimeters, with a few drops of the scalding liquid landing on the back of Bram Waters’ hand.

  “Shit!”

  Bram ordered his devices to turn off and, while reaching for his PID, sucked on the offending burn. Having heard his outburst, his longtime secretary, Charlene Tolliver, a not unattractive, middle-aged, red-headed former exotic dancer with four kids, came bounding into the room with a concerned look on her face.

  “What’s goin’ on, boss?” She glanced down at his hand. “You hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. I spilled some coffee on myself. That’s all.”

  “Ha! Didn’t see that comin’, didja?”

  Whenever Bram so much as stubbed his toe, Charlene was there to give him a good-natured ribbing about his psychic gifts. Most days her humor made him laugh. Today was different. He’d felt uneasy all afternoon and was having trouble concentrating on his current case, which was a typical assignment, nothing that would require more than a day or two to solve. He didn’t need the money, but cases such as this kept him busy and paid her salary. Charlene was a little rough around the edges, but she was enjoyable company—and, tru
th be told, was still easy on the eyes. But after two solid days of rain, together with apprehension and his burned hand, Bram was in anything but a jovial mood.

  “Could you please bring me some ointment, Ms. Tolliver?”

  “Sure, Mr. Waters,” she huffed. Spinning around, she stalked out of the room.

  With an exasperated sigh, Bram looked to the heavens, then spoke to his PID. “Jake, please turn on the HV. Make it channel 57.” If something important had taken place, his preferred news network would be covering it.

  He was right. The familiar image of a sandy-haired, female reporter appeared on the forty-inch HV screen embedded in the office wall opposite his desk. She was broadcasting from a rapidly moving helicopter, valiantly trying to keep her composure.

  “Switching to camera three, the viewer can see remnants of the downed space-plane.” A wide expanse of water came into view, littered with smoking debris. “For those viewers just tuning in, a space-plane carrying ninety-four passengers and crew, and owned by Dr. Solomon Chavez, the renowned philanthropist, has crashed off the coast of South America. As you can see, Brent, there’s a huge debris field. We have yet to learn of any survivors. We have also not been told whether Dr. Chavez was … hold on … I’m receiving word that he was not a passenger. However, I can confirm that Captain Russell Takahashi, command pilot for Solomon’s Arrow—also called Mona’s Ark by the public—was on the downed plane. I have also received confirmation that the controversial minister, Reverend Thurgood Creswell, was a passenger as well.”

  Bram leaned forward in his chair, not even noticing that Charlene had entered the office with the ointment. She stopped in her tracks and stared unblinking at the screen.

  After a brief pause, the reporter resumed speaking, her voice tremulous. “I’m not sure if what I’m seeing is correct, but … if the control room would please pan in on the debris field just south of the southernmost column of smoke, I’d like to … yes, yes! Stop, right there! Right there!”

  Bram saw a figure strapped to a mangled jump-seat floating face up in the relatively calm ocean. The camera zoomed in for a tighter shot.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there appears to be a survivor!” The reporter’s excited tone added to the urgency of the moment. “We don’t know if he’s alive, but if … he’s lifting his head, he lifted his head!”

  With smoking wreckage floating all around him, a barely conscious Richard Allison managed to raise his wobbly head before passing out once again. A crimson stain was slowly spreading from his ruined body around the jump-seat he’d been strapped to, his life fluid returning to its primal origins, the sea. He was the plane’s only survivor, but unless he was rescued—and rescued soon—that status would soon change.

  “What a dramatic turn of events, ladies and gentlemen,” the reporter continued. “I’ve just been informed that a rescue chopper will be here in a matter of minutes. If that poor soul can hold on for just a little while longer, he’ll … oh, God. A school of hammerhead sharks have just surfaced, and are exploring the wreckage.”

  Six dark shapes, their hammer-shaped heads easily recognizable to the average viewer, were swimming through the water in Richard’s direction. He lay bleeding, oblivious to the danger he faced, but thankfully the sharks had not yet noticed him.

  “Dear God,” Charlene moaned, dropping the ointment and covering her mouth. She sank against the wall and stared at the screen, not wanting to watch, yet unable to tear her eyes away.

  Bram stared at the HV set, his jaw muscles clenching; aching with the strain of impotence, of wanting desperately to do something, anything, to help that poor man in the water, yet knowing he could do nothing … unless, perhaps …

  Turning his mind’s eye southwest toward the wreckage, Bram tried to contact the advancing predators and force his way into their primitive brains, in an attempt to divert their trajectory. He was unsuccessful. Their blood lust was starting to take hold. The sharks would be on the injured man in a matter of moments.

  Then he felt it. A nearby intelligence. Exploring the wreckage.

  Making telepathic contact, he sent a call for help, using vivid imagery and a not-so-subtle psychic nudge …

  The reporter was still carrying on a running commentary, her voice sounding desperate. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen … but we need to cut away. It looks as if an even larger school of sharks has appeared on the scene. Through the use of facial recognition software, we’ve identified the injured man, but we will not be releasing his name at this time. What we can tell you is that he’s a former astronaut and valued member of Dr. Chavez’s team. We will rejoin the video feed later, after the, the … hold up, don’t cut away! One of the sharks, or what we thought were sharks, has broken the water’s surface. They’re not sharks at all! The second group is a pod of dolphins! Ladies and gentlemen, it looks as though a pod of dolphins has arrived. This is incredible! They’ve formed a protective circle around the injured man. We’re witnessing a truly dramatic event. Pray, ladies and gentlemen! Pray they hold the sharks off until the rescue chopper arrives. I’ve heard anecdotal stories about wild dolphins protecting fishermen whose boats have overturned, but to my knowledge it’s never been televised. And now, here it is, live, on GBS International HV!”

  •

  THE INDEPENDENT NATION OF PACIFICA: SIX WEEKS LATER

  Richard’s eyes fluttered open momentarily. He was, with difficulty, swimming to the surface of consciousness.

  “I believe he’s finally coming around, Solomon,” a female voice said, her tone hushed.

  There was no response. Richard wondered at that. Who was the woman speaking to? Was she speaking to the Solomon Chavez? What was happening? Where was he?

  Erin! David!

  With the sudden, terrifying memory of his wife and child, Richard’s eyes flew open. Lifting himself up, his vision swam and a surge of dizziness overtook him, forcing him to collapse into the soft mattress. He felt a set of hands on his shoulders.

  “Easy now, Commander … easy now, take your time. Don’t rush yourself,” said a different voice, definitely male, though it didn’t sound like Chavez.

  Has something happened to Erin and David? Damn it all to Hell. Room … stop spinning!

  Richard’s stomach felt queasy. “I think I’m going to puke,” he moaned.

  A strong set of hands belonging to a muscular young man of Peruvian descent helped him up and positioned a plastic bedpan under his chin. His stomach lurched, yet little fluid appeared. He felt better, nonetheless. As Richard’s head was lowered back onto the pillow, he caught a glimpse of a middle-aged gentleman in a white coat, a stocky, middle-aged woman with short, jet-black hair, and Solomon Chavez. All three were standing at the foot of his bed.

  “Nurse, give the commander four milligrams of Zofran to ease his nausea. After that, elevate his bed fifteen degrees, enough that he isn’t forced to lift his head during our conversation.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Moments later, the anti-nausea medication kicked in, followed by a soft whirring noise. Soon his head was elevated enough for him to see the three visitors clearly.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living, Commander. My name is Dr. Gurdev Singh. I’m sure you have many questions.” Reaching up, Dr. Singh brushed a lock of wavy, salt-and-pepper hair off his forehead. “Before you start, I’d like to apprise you of your condition. Thanks to Dr. Chavez, you’ll make a full recovery. Your spleen and one of your kidneys needed replacing. You suffered third-degree burns over 10 percent of your body, but we regrew that skin and grafted it a few weeks ago. It is responding well. In a few months, you’ll never know you’d ever been bur—”

  “Where’re my wife and child?” Richard croaked. “Why aren’t they here?”

  The doctor glanced nervously at Chavez, who caught his eye and offered a barely perceptible shake of the head. “How much do you remember about the day you were injured, Commander?” he asked, trying to avoid the question.

  “Not much, Doc.”
Richard’s eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. “I vaguely recall leaving the Biltmore and asking my PID to play … let’s see … oh, yes … “Moonlight Sonata.” But after that, I don’t …” Richard paused to study the doctor’s face. The man’s lips were pursed, and the other two stood like statues. “Like I asked before, where are my wife and child?”

  “There was an accident, Commander. As a result, you’ve been kept in a chemically induced coma during your recovery. You’re lucky to be—”

  “Enough already! Where are they?!” Richard barked. “Where’s my family?! Tell me where … they … where are … why … won’t … you …”

  Dr. Singh’s thumb held the button on the remote a moment longer, allowing the powerful sedative to flood Richard’s system. “Go back to sleep, Commander. This discussion can wait.”

  Grunting softly, Richard fought to stay awake, but the sedative worked its magic. All his cares floated away, and he sank into a comforting, dreamless sleep.

  •

  TWO DAYS LATER

  The images on the hospital HV flickered at the edges of Richard’s awareness, yet he paid them little attention. His sadness was overwhelming. All he could manage was to stare blankly at the light-green hospital wall, his mind numb to the world. His pain and anguish sat like a vulture, waiting patiently to consume him.

  He felt completely alone. Without Erin and David in his life, nothing really mattered.

  During the past two days of knowing that his family was dead, he’d gone through the motions, not caring what he ate or if he ate, letting nurses do the work of helping him to the bathroom, of giving him sponge baths. His massive depression was giving them plenty of cause to worry. But he didn’t really care. His heart was empty.

  Earlier that morning, Richard had been informed that Solomon Chavez would be stopping by to pay him a visit, yet even that news had gone in one ear and out the other without a twitch of anticipation. As he absently watched a stray piece of lint floating in a shaft of sunlight beaming through the room’s window, he realized someone had just spoken his name. How could that be? He was alone. That’s when he noticed his smiling face plastered on the HV embedded in the wall at the foot of his bed. He recognized the man who was speaking: Darren Brantley, of The Darren Brantley Show.