Jezebel's Ladder

by Scott Rhine

  Despite the successes, Benny tossed and turned all night.

  Chapter 47 – Breakout

  The first person in the bunker to crack under the constant pressure turned out to be the younger guard in sunglasses, who they lovingly referred to as Mad Dog. At about three in the morning, when no one had come to rescue them, he decided he wanted to escape. Mad Dog had a ball-peen hammer and a weird look in his eyes, so they humored him. Joe just sat back and read the newspaper.

  Mad Dog’s master plan was to tear apart the conference room for something heavy enough to pry open the elevator. When the flurry of pounding stopped, he came out carrying a splintered bookshelf and a small listening device.

  Joe folded his paper neatly. “Hellfire. Now we need to give our listeners something to take their mind off of Brazil.” He took the shelf from Mad Dog and pried open the elevator. Both guards stared up at the long climb. “When you and PJ get to the top, Wilkes and I will create a diversion. You two take out the guard.” Joe handed the programmer a Taser.

  PJ kissed Amy for good luck. Again, shivers.

  “Wrap your hands with cloth strips so you don’t burn them on the cables,” Joe suggested. Mad Dog nodded and started slicing strips from his shirt using PJ’s confiscated Swiss Army knife.

  Amy asked, “How would they burn their hands? I see a ladder right there.”

  Mad Dog seemed positively enthusiastic about the prospect. “Climbing the ladder is the easy part. If they start the elevator, we’ll only have a few seconds to slide down the cable. If we’re not fast enough, the car will crush us. If we go too fast, our shinbones will shoot through our asses when we hit. The trick is to brake a little with your hands and shoes.”

  PJ smiled and nodded, but when Mad Dog turned away, he mouthed the word “lunatic” to everyone else.

  Fortunately, the elevator was on the floor above the parking level, so they’d be able to exit the shaft with ease. As they braced for the climb, PJ confessed, “I keep picturing a disaster where Mad Dog runs screaming into a barrage of Uzi fire while I fire the Taser into my own foot.”

  Joe shook his head. “Never happen. The guy up there just has a Glock.”

  After a long ascent and a brief rest, the raid at the top was almost an anticlimax. All PJ had to do was figure out how to open the elevator door from the inside. While Wilkes complained into the intercom about projectile vomiting from eating the old K-rations, Mad Dog crept up and knocked the lone guard out.

  PJ found a black, multi-buttoned, secure cell-phone unit and claimed it. As Mad Dog trussed up the guard with coaxial cable and electrical tape, PJ used the intercom to let the others know that the operation had been successful. He also reclaimed his Swiss Army knife. Within minutes, they were all in the parking garage discussing strategy.

  Amy said, “We’re going to find a certain ex-president who was a nuclear engineer and see what he can do to help Project Phoenix. Did Paulson leave any shred of evidence behind?”

  Joe pondered that. “Nope, he even took the tapes he made of the interrogations, but I pocketed the last one after I played it for Mad Dog.” He held up a microcassette tape.

  Wilkes handed PJ a stack of paper. “These computer printouts aren’t going to convince anyone of anything except that a satellite is crashing, but you’re welcome to them. I know where to get more proof at the control center.”

  Amy said, “PJ and I will get these papers to the former president in Georgia. I think I know a way to get to him, either through his favorite charity, the university, or his foundation. Joe, you guys are our insurance. If someone gets us, you’ll need to hand that tape over to a major news agency.”

  Joe nodded and handed his suit jacket to the programmer. “A man has to show respect to the commander-in-chief.” He gave each of them his cell number. “Phone me every half hour to let me know how you’re doing. I’ll try to call some law-enforcement types in Washington and heat things up for the opposition.”

  Joe took the fake ambulance. To be inconspicuous, PJ chose an ancient, brown four-door with government plates. Wilkes borrowed a small electric cart from its recharge cradle. PJ was fishing out the wire-stripping attachment of his Swiss Army knife to hot-wire the sedan when Amy found the keys behind the visor. He muttered, “Blast, that means you get to drive again.”

  ****

  By six Sunday morning, Amy and PJ were waiting to board a commuter jet to Georgia. He dumped the stun gun in a trashcan before passing through airport security. During the forty-minute wait, he phoned Joe for a status report.

  Joe was waiting for offices to open, hiding in a parking garage. “I haven’t called anyone yet; I’m afraid I’ll piss them off by calling this early. At last word, Wilkes was about to sneak into the Cape tracking center and get us some fresh intelligence. Mad Dog has the car and is searching Paulson’s local residence for clues. This Hardy Boys shit is not in my job description.”

  “Joe. Fifty-three hours. Try a little harder.”

  PJ disconnected and waited in silence, terrified that some Fed was going to drag his butt back to a cell that could too easily become a grave. He held Amy’s hand so tightly he was afraid he’d left permanent marks.

  When pre-boarding began, he checked in with Joe again. “What now?” Joe snapped.

  “PJ.”

  “That time already?” Joe outlined his plan for Wilkes to sabotage the data feed at the Cape to take out Paulson’s eyes during the Brazilian launch. He also went on the offensive using Interpol and the FBI. “There’s a Hong Kong bank account in Paulson’s name.”

  “That’s not illegal, unless he’s dodging taxes.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. If we can get any more dirt on him, Paulson could be stripped of authority by the end of the day. Mad Dog had a run-in with a butler who caught him rummaging through the study.”

  “Is the Dog okay?”

  “Just a scratch,” Joe replied. “But the gloves are off now. Watch your ass. We don’t know who Paulson’s working for, or if anyone else has the Icarus field.”

  “Yeah, if we get out of this thing in one piece, the last thing we need is a repeat performance in another six months.”

  ****

  At a quarter to eight, Amy was filling out forms for a rental car and PJ was trying to get through to the former president by phone. They couldn’t even get anyone to admit the former President was at the plantation. PJ said, “Call CNN and ask about the press conference on Project Phoenix. We’re driving to your location now. If the president’s still not interested by the time we arrive, we’ll leave immediately.”

  “Think we have a chance?” Amy asked.

  “If I hadn’t been on the scrambled phone, they would’ve dismissed me as a crank.”

  “Get Joe on the line. We need more ammunition. I’ll drive,” she said, scooping the keys from the counter top.

  Now that the sun was up, she got her second wind and drove like her old self again. PJ talked to Joe between honks. Joe said, “I have two pieces of news about your friend Nick. Wilkes read the security report, and Cassavettis couldn’t have rigged the satellite. He didn’t get onto the base until after it was already in the nose cone. Cassavettis is now under the protection of Amnesty International. Your pal filed a claim against the US government for use of torture. They have pictures of the bruises and they’re doing a blood analysis on him right now. Someone worked him over pretty thoroughly.”

  PJ was stunned.

  “Hello?” Joe said, searching for some sign of a connection.

  “It had to have happened after we left him. Good God, did they punish Nick for talking to us, or did someone follow us right to him?” Just when he thought it was impossible, his paranoia jumped to a new level.

  “Don’t blame yourself. Just keep doing what you have been, Bunkie. Survive,” said Joe.

  “Where’s the tape?”

  “It was actually a computer-memory thingy. I had the guy at a photocopy place send the files to your e-mail. The good news
is that the Brazilian military is now guarding their launch pad. They’re behind this attempt 100 percent.”

  “Joe, you’re an honest-to-God hero,” PJ said. He felt they now had a fighting chance.

  ****

  Still on the road half an hour later, PJ checked in with Joe. “How are Crupkin and the gang doing on the drive shaft Wilkes wanted?”

  “They have the framework and the telescopes on the shuttle. The Ice Nine rods will come from the International Space Station. Evidently, they were doing experiments with compressed ice as a construction material,” he explained.

  “What about Wilkes?”

  Joe finished with, “The less you know, the less you can testify about.”

  When they arrived at the plantation, they were met by security men, searched, and escorted through a side entrance. The mansion exterior was huge, stately, old, southern, and exceedingly white. There were runner carpets going from room to room to avoid wear and tear on the woodwork. The halls smelled of freshly-cut flowers and a tantalizingly edible odor.

  Amy haggled with an aide as he led them to a sitting room. The aide insisted, “I’m not sure what you want from him, madam. He has no real power in Washington any more.”

  “There are fifty other people I could turn to for influence. We came here because we needed a man of integrity and science whom people would believe.”

  A very old version of the man they had watched on television as children walked into the room. “Thank you for your high opinion, Ms. Reese. How can I help you?” His voice had grown gentler.

  Amy introduced herself with a white lie, claiming to still be Braithwaite’s assistant. After shaking hands, they all took a seat. She told him about Senate worries around the Icarus project, Nick turning whistle-blower, and his subsequent incarceration and torture. All of this was a matter of record. Next, she introduced PJ as an ‘emergency consultant’ recently brought in on the matter.

  PJ handed the former president the folded sheet of paper with the e-mail that had started this all. When the elder statesman finished, he asked, “This has to do with Dr. Reuter’s work?”

  PJ nodded. “You know him?”

  “He was instrumental in developing neutron technology. His goal was to create power plants that didn’t produce harmful by-products. After Three Mile Island, I wish we had taken that route, but Reuter left the team when the labs used his research in creating the neutron bomb. I admired his skills as well as his conscience. He had a sweet wife, a college employee as I recall.”

  “Yes, Doris used to be a librarian. She told me that she had given ten books to his prize pupil, Nick Cassavettis. These books had Dr. Reuter’s unified field equations in them.” PJ suddenly remembered the Einstein paperback in his pocket.

  First he showed the equation notes in the book’s margins and explained what he knew about it. Then PJ launched into a detailed technical account of everything he had learned, guessed, or proposed in the last three days. The former president interrupted several times to ask detailed questions or to order phone calls made. The grand finale was listening to the recording of Paulson’s evaluation. PJ winced at every curse word on the poor-quality replay.

  Over an hour later, Amy was asleep on his arm and the former president was looking over the printouts again.

  “Can you prove this to a Senate oversight committee?” he asked.

  PJ paused while trying to find a diplomatic way to phrase this. “I think some of them already know. That’s why they’re hiding in bomb shelters. Besides, who’s going to convene a committee meeting on a Sunday? The organization we really need help with is NASA. We can stall them a little, but eventually, they’re going to be in a position to stop us. If they do that, none of us will get another chance.”

  Although PJ felt a great relief at unloading his burden, the man in front of him looked years older. The programmer apologized, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring good news. If it helps, I think you did the right thing in Panama.”

  The elder statesman shook his head in amusement. “You are an unusual man, Mr. Smith. What do you do for a living?”

  Again, PJ struggled for diplomatic words. “My last job was debugging secure computer networks and guessing what’s wrong. It’s a black art, really. Normal systems are hard enough to unravel, but secure systems try to hide all the information flow they can.”

  Aides interrupted, demanding the former president’s presence elsewhere. He shook PJ’s hand and rose to go. The interview was at an end; the programmer’s fifteen minutes of fame had expired. The president turned to say one last thing, “We’ll do all we can to help. Your idea is a sound one. Whether it works or fails, life will never be the same for anyone on this planet after today—all based on your choice. How does that make you feel?”

  PJ glanced down at Amy’s sleeping form. “It’s not about me. It’s about her, her children, and the billions of other people who deserve a chance at a day after tomorrow. But now that you ask—scared. What if I didn’t guess right?”

  The man from Georgia nodded sagely and left him alone to think. He tied himself in knots; first fretting, then praying, hoping for a sign that everything would be all right. His sign came in the form of a plump, African-American cook carrying a plate of warm corn bread and a pitcher of cold milk.

  When Amy awoke, he was still snacking. “This stuff is great. Try it.”

  She stretched and smiled. “You’re male. Is that all you ever think of?”

  He grinned like a fool. “Well I thought about other things, but they don’t have any army blankets around here.”

  “Pervert,” she whispered, pushing his shoulder. She spotted a mantel clock and blinked slowly as if doing so hurt. “3:00 p.m. What about Joe?”

  His mouth still full of corn bread, PJ mumbled, “Sorry.”

  She grabbed the phone and dialed. After several rings, she muttered. “Answer!”

  No one did.

  “Could just be the batteries,” he said wishfully. “Or he could be taking a shower.”

  Amy dashed off, bent on finding someone on the staff to give her a situation update. After leaving a message at Amnesty International for Nick to call, PJ located the angel who had brought him the corn bread and thanked her profusely. They were having chicken for dinner, the same recipe she’d used during the Camp David Middle East peace talks. Martha was a gem. She was in the middle of a story about the Russian delegation when Amy caught up with him. “We’ve got to go. Gunfire has broken out at the Cape. The FBI hostage team has been called in. We can resolve this without bloodshed, but only if we move our asses,” Amy exclaimed.

  PJ apologized mutely to Martha, who smiled and handed him a large, paper bag. “Don’t worry yourself about it. I don’t take it personally.”

  Chapter 48 – My Name Is Elmer J. Fudd, I Own a Mansion Und a Yacht

  Hearing the diner nurse’s testimony about a drug deal gone bad, the ER doctor diagnosed Jezebel’s nosebleed as cocaine induced. “The strawberry was incoherent, kept babbling about the strangest things. She couldn’t even focus on my finger.”

  “Put her in the rehab ward for the weekend. We’ve sent her prints in, and we’ll get them back Monday if she’s in the system. Till then, mark her Jane Doe.”

  “Should we run a tox screen?” asked another nurse.

  The doctor shook his head. “No permission, no insurance, and no imminent danger. We fixed the hand. Her vitals are stable now. Let her sleep it off.”

  Jez slept until ten Sunday morning. She woke up wailing and holding her temples. She wore a plastic wristband, hospital gown, some kind of adult diaper, and the bloody slippers.

  Nurse Lydia came in wearing pink scrubs. She was near retirement, had short, blue hair, and had no sympathy for junkies. “What’s the matter? Are the spiders still crawling on your belly?”

  Freaked out by the suggestion, Jez ran her hands vigorously over her arms and front. “Eep!” was all she could manage.

  When she saw the nurse chuckle, she calmed her h
eart rate down. Weak and ravenously hungry, she struggled to form the word “Eat.”

  “You slept through breakfast. Lunch is in the cafeteria in an hour.”

  Jez whimpered as something in her stomach wanted to twist out of her. The nurse grabbed her by the arm. “Easy, sweetheart. If you’re going to splash, let’s do it in the bathroom. It makes everyone’s day nicer not to walk in vomit.”

  Vomit she did, but not much came up. She was sweating and undeniably sick. Coming out of the bathroom, she saw the time. “No! MissedLaunch.”

  “Lunch isn’t for another hour, I told you,” said Lydia.

  “MeetingPresidentRunningNoShoes,” Jez slurred, willing the woman to understand. When the nurse led her back to bed, she shrieked, “Phone.”

  “Sorry, can’t call your dealer from in here, against the rules.”

  When the woman tried to push her into the bed, Jez resisted with her training and threw her into the nightstand. Jez staggered toward the door, swaying like a dinghy in a hurricane. “Orderly, sedation!” Lydia shouted.

  Two burly men grabbed her before the exit while the nurse got the hypodermic. Jez shouted, “Falling. IsFallingBoom. NeedCallDirtBagQuarterback. CallBennyTellYou. Aliens. KeepThatAway.” She made noises like a wild coyote as they forcibly injected her.

  ****

  Agent Normandy answered Benny’s phone several times in the night because the celebrity slept through it. He took notes about the death of Sedna and Crusader, promising the authorities comparative DNA samples in the morning.

  At quarter till six in the morning, Benny heard the alarm go off for Jez’s door. He ran in, not knowing what to expect, but hoping to see his wife. Instead, the three half-dressed men found Claudette searching for more writing surfaces. She had filled all three white-boards in the office with drawings, including the back of the door.