The Babel Conspiracy
Copyright © 2016 by Sylvia Bambola
ISBN-13: 9780989970723
ISBN-10: 0989970728
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016930391
Heritage Publishing House, Bradenton, Florida
Scriptures taken from Holy Bible, King James Version, Cambridge, 1769
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.
For information:
Heritage Publishing House
1767 Lakewood Ranch Blvd.
Bradenton, FL 34211
Reader Alert
The Babel Conspiracy is a reworked and edited version of A Vessel of Honor, an out-of-print novel written three years prior to 9/11. Because it dealt with terrorism and so much has happened, it needed to be updated before going back to press. In the process, I’ve added new characters and changed the name. And though it remains basically the same story, there are enough different elements in The Babel Conspiracy that those who read the earlier version and enjoyed it, should find something new to enjoy in the updated one, as well.
Also by Sylvia Bambola
The Daughters of Jim Farrell
The Salt Covenants
Rebekah’s Treasure
Return to Appleton
Waters of Marah
Tears in a Bottle
Refiner’s Fire
The story and main characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental. Because the novel, at times, describes current events, when names of actual people are used, I have tried to present them accurately. A list of characters and a glossary have been inserted in back to aid the reader and clarify unfamiliar words.
“Let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name.” Genesis 11:4
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Characters
Glossary
Author’s Note
Questions for Readers Groups/Book Clubs
CHAPTER 1
Another Riot.
Trisha Callahan knew something had happened when she woke up to the smell of smoke drifting over her apartment complex. And between gobbling down a piece of buttered toast, and showering and dressing, she gleaned the details of last night’s siege from KFOM.
Now, she stood brushing her long, black hair that fell in waves over her slender shoulders and wondered how this could happen. Impatiently, she tossed the brush onto the rattan tray holding an assortment of toiletries then fastened her blue blazer, leaving the top buttons open to reveal a stylish silk blouse.
Riots had been popping out all over the country like pox, but she never thought it could happen here. Not in Everman—a city known for its low crime and friendly inhabitants.
Where are you God?
If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray . . . .
Hadn’t her pastor predicted this? That America would fall unless believers prayed? She couldn’t get it out of her mind. It was the reason she rose an hour early every morning before work. So she could pray. Well, she had been praying for months now and where was God? Everyday another car bomb; another random killing by a terrorist. This was not the America she knew. The America she had grown up in. It broke her heart to see what was happening to the country she loved.
She fingered the buffalo-horn cross by her throat.
What more could she do? She grabbed her purse and keys. She had to stop thinking about it and get her mind on work. The boss’s secretary had called even before her alarm went off and told her to come in for an early meeting. And Michael Patterson was not a man to be kept waiting.
Even so, she’d try getting more news in the car. She snatched the remote to click off the TV, but not before hearing the anchor rattle off the riot’s toll: three confirmed dead, more than twenty injured, eighteen arrests, ten cars torched, two entire buildings destroyed, with five others partially fire damaged.
She took a deep breath as she fingered the cross one last time then bolted out the door.
• • •
Trisha’s stiletto heels clicked against the concrete pavement of the underground garage. In the distance, the shriek of an ambulance broke the morning silence.
Oh God, where are you?
Millions of Christians were praying. Why have things gotten worse?
If my people will . . . turn from their wicked ways . . . then will I forgive their sin, and heal their land.
As she walked toward her car she thought of Michael Patterson and felt her stomach knot. Michael Patterson, her boss. Her married boss. Humbling oneself and praying was only part of it. It was that other part, that part of turning from our wicked ways that was so difficult. But what did she have to feel guilty about? She had crossed no line.
Except in her heart, and didn’t God see the heart?
When she reached her parking spot she unlocked the door of her red BMW and hopped in. Within seconds she was cruising down Highway 9 toward Patterson Aviation, a mere twelve miles outside the city limits. Lamp posts and storefronts blurred as she whizzed past, hoping no patrol cars were around. Her meeting was in ten minutes. No time for being stopped by a cop. And she’d be easy to spot on this empty road. It was barely six o’clock.
She searched the radio for more news about the riot while imagining the heartbreak of those who lost loved ones or shops or homes. Even now, the smell of smoke followed her, filling the interior with its caustic odor.
So much violence. Where would it end?
Since Kamal the Blade declared jihad on America and renamed it ISA, the Islamic State of America, fear permeated even the most mundane activities. The threat of carnage was ever present. And who was there to stop it? Not President Thaddeus Baker. He was weak on terror and even weaker on law and order—often siding with the rioters while chiding the police. She was glad his second term was nearly over and prayed that the new president, whoever he was, would do a better job.
When she heard the Singing Donut squeak out its silly jingle, she turned off the radio, then hit the gas. She glanced at the rearview mirror looking for any sign of a patrol car and noticed a white van tailing her. She needed to slow down. It wasn’t worth the ticket. At her speed the fine would be hefty. Her boss would have to wait. She eased up on the gas. So did the van; and following too closely—just a few feet from her bumper.
Why didn’t it just pass her?
She floored the pedal. Within seconds the needle read twenty miles over the speed limit. The van kept pace. She was getting nervous, now. Kamal had made looking over one’s shoulder common practice. And even though Trisha told herself she was overreacting, she continued monitoring her tail.
She got off at her exit and nearly choked when the van followed. But it was no match for her BMW, and after several hair-pin turns, she lost it.
Why had it
followed her? It could easily have run her off the deserted road, if the intent was malicious.
Get a grip, Callahan!
Just a teen getting his kicks by trying to frighten her.
But by the time Trisha entered the double doors of Patterson Aviation the matter of the van was still on her mind.
• • •
Trisha was about to test her new theory. She was sure it was his eyes that unsettled her. The trick was not to look at them.
“Come in, come in!” barked the man behind the desk.
She hovered by the door before entering the lush oak-paneled office that always smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap. “You sent for me?” She settled in one of the two chairs facing the desk; chairs that, Trisha was certain, had been chosen for their discomfort in order to discourage lingering visitors.
Don’t look at his eyes. She briefly closed her own.
“Am I keeping you up, Callahan!” barked a deep, masculine voice.
Her lids snapped open and she stared into a smiling face that contradicted the voice. But he was a man of contradictions. She had learned that about him. And other things too; how he moved his mouth to one side in a half smile when something pleased him, or how he chewed the end of a pencil when deep in thought, or the clumsy way his powerful body reacted when forced to handle a fragile object like the toy model of the P1 airplane on his desk.
“Looks like your boys did their usual thorough job of mutilation.” He jabbed the copy of her report lying in front of him. Both the voice and finger belonged to Michael Patterson, president of Patterson Aviation. “The active controls performed well, better than expected.”
“Yes, I’m pleased.” An understatement. The wind tunnel testing on a sample wing of the Patterson II or P2, where it was loaded, twisted and vibrated, had surprised everyone. “The active controls did a fine job of distributing the stress evenly and the wing showed a high lift-to-drag ratio.”
“Don’t gloat, Callahan. It’ll just cut into your bonus.” Mike leaned back in his leather chair barely concealing his own pleasure.
The wing design was years ahead of their competition. It was built to move from the conventional position at subsonic speed then fold backward into an arrow shaped configuration at Mach 2 and up without increasing drag. It had been a heavily contested subject between them.
“But vindication is sweet.” She tried ignoring the feeling that was coming over her again. What was it about him that unsettled her? That made her feel like an iron filing in front of a neodymium magnet?
“Okay, go ahead. Remind me that it was your idea and what a tough time you had talking me into it.”
Trisha’s laughter came out like a string of musical notes. Two years ago she had come to Patterson Aviation or PA as head of their Research and Development Department. She had an impressive resume: a degree in physics and aeronautical engineering, two years of nuclear fusion research at Princeton University, and four years of working at one of the “Big Three.” But she had come to this smaller company in hopes of working on her own innovative ideas and Michael Patterson had welcomed her.
“You did put up a whale of a fight. As I remember, you called my idea ‘crazy’ then contested every inch of my design.”
“What you told me was that you were doodling and came up with a sketch you’d like me to see. Doodling? Seriously? Was that supposed to impress me? But I guess I could have been less difficult.”
“You mean less mule-headed?”
Mike’s eyes flashed with amusement, his large, muscular frame looking out of place behind the desk. It was as though his powerful, athletic body rebelled at confinement, and even now seemed to press defiantly against his blue Armani suit as though in anticipation of being called into some action.
As she watched him undo his tie and toss it onto a nearby chair, she realized her theory about his eyes was quickly proving unsound. In desperation, she studied the gold wedding band on his finger.
“If I concede to being mule-headed, will you admit to your own unbecoming qualities?”
“Such as?”
“A barbed tongue, for one.”
“Barbed tongues have their value.”
“And that is?”
“They have a way of pricking one out of his complacency.”
Mike chuckled as he picked up a pencil and nibbled the eraser. “How’s the new composite material?”
Trisha narrowed her eyes. “Incredible. Unbelievably strong and light. Our projections are holding. It will decrease gross weight and increase payload by ten percent. Now . . . what did you really get me up an hour early to discuss?”
Mike tossed the pencil on the desk. “The fusion reactor. Your report, regarding the seventy-five simulated flights, indicates an increase in casing deterioration after the first thirty-five.”
Trisha nodded. She understood the gravity of this information. The problem was cooling the hot ionized plasma which reached over sixty million degrees during fusion and was contained inside a webbing of magnetic fields, much like Jell-O being held by a net of rubber bands. Success with the P2 and the nuclear power reactors would catapult Patterson Aviation to the prominence of the “Big Three.” But failure to solve the cooling problem could jeopardize the entire P2 project and bring down the company.
She watched a look of impatience contort his face. No use in beating around the bush. “We’ve got a problem with the cooling system, and we can’t count on fixing it without ramifications. Nolan, Audra, and I agree we have only two choices. Nolan favors increasing the magnetic field. I’m opposed because the heavier shielding and additional vacuum pumps will increase gross weight thereby decreasing payload. How much? We can’t say at this point. But we all agree it would mean portions of the P2 would have to be altered.”
Nolan Ramsdale was R&D’s nuclear engineer and Trisha relied on him in matters concerning the nuclear power reactor, the NPR910. But this time, she was going against his advice and knew it placed her on shaky, if not dangerous, ground.
When her boss’s eyes narrowed, Trisha knew what he was thinking. The greatness of the NPR910 was not in the fact that nuclear fusion was possible, but that it was possible in a reactor the size of a Rolls Royce RB11 engine, the famous engine that had powered Lockheed’s TriStar L1011.
“And the second choice?”
“Create a casing made from a new substance.”
“Sounds like another one of your crazy ideas.” His voice was curt, but his face told her he was interested. “I suppose you have something in mind?”
“Titanium carbide, the composite . . . .”
“Callahan, I already know it’s a heat-shield coating and keeps a space craft from burning up during reentry. But it’s not new. So why are you talking about it?” It was his habit to shoot questions in rapid fire when something appealed to him.
“Well, a material’s ability to withstand corrosion at high temperatures is directly related to the hardness of that thin protective film which stands between a metal surface and a potentially destructive environment. Titanium carbide deposited . . . . ”
“Get to the punch line.”
“deposited in the range .3 to .5 has less structural imperfections, and the hardness of the films is second in hardness only to diamonds. The processes of surface and bulk diffusion are thermally activated. The major . . . . ”
“I don’t need a dissertation, Callahan.”
“Convince me, you say, then you narrow the tunnel and force me to act as a battering ram to widen it. No wonder I have migraines.”
The muscular executive chuckled. “Alright, batter away.”
“Where was I? Oh, right . . . the major variable in determining the microstructure of deposited films is . . . .”
“You’re referring to T/Tm ratio. Got it.”
Trisha iced a smile. It was hard not to be impressed with this man, with his v
ast knowledge and his love for the things she loved. Instinctively, she touched the large, cross that hung near her throat, a cross fashioned by her mother years ago as a gift.
She was doing that more often in his presence, this grasping for her anchor. And that anchor went deep. Most of her thirty years of life had been fastened to it; years filled with middy blouses and pleated skirts, prayer books and incense-filled churches.
Something he mocked her for—a man without a mooring, without restraint or limits.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, T/Tm ratio. And based on this ratio, a sixty to sixty-five million degree temperature would naturally change the .3-.5 deposition. But like I said, it wasn’t titanium carbide that I had in mind.”
“Then what in blazes have you been talking about?”
“Something like titanium carbide.”
“Which is?”
“Titanium X.”
“Sounds like something out of The X-files. Okay, Callahan, what’s this about?”
“It’s about a substance that will make titanium carbide look like tissue paper.”
Mike laughed. He knew titanium X was nonexistent. “And what does Nolan say?”
“Inconclusive data for formulating an accurate hypothesis.”
“His very words?”
“His very words.”
“You are, I take it, an expert on this titanium X?”
“No, Audra is. She’s done a lot of work with titanium carbide and in the process came up with titanium X. I’ve gone over her notes. More work needs to be done, but I see enough potential to want to pursue it.”
Trisha knew this was going to be a hard sell. Airframe manufacturers did not, as a rule, build their own propulsion system. And her boss’s inexperience in this area would make him all the more hesitant to embrace something this radical.
“Assuming we go with Nolan’s choice, what major change do you foresee in the actual design of the P2?”
“Reduction of passenger space by twenty to thirty seats.” Trisha watched her boss’s face drop.
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