by Alton Gansky
Yet as the days passed, his strength waned. Graceful walking was replaced with a limp. Standing straight gave way to wobbling. Soon, too soon, a wheelchair replaced his legs. That was the way with ALS—Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. His future was darker than the room in which he sat.
The bell chimed again.
“All right!” Rutherford said. He meant to shout it, but his days of shouting were gone. At least I still have a voice, he told himself. He could still speak. He had not had pneumonia, which afflicted every ALS patient sooner or later, nor had the affliction forced him to have a tracheotomy—yet. Those things loomed in his future—unless his plan was successful. Raising a tremulous hand that wore a thin, stiff brace, he muted the music in the room and pressed a large button on a console mounted to his wheelchair. The brace, plastic and leather, provided the strength his wrist could no longer supply.
The automatic door to his office opened with a whirring sound, and a tall man with broad shoulders and narrow waist entered. He was dressed in a dark blue tailored suit. A yellow silk tie hung from his neck with the precision of a plumb bob.
Rutherford knew the man well. And he hated him, hated him for his erect stature and the firm muscles that he knew were hidden away under the suit. He hated him for his freedom of mobility, his clear, precise voice, and for the fact that he didn’t drool, a new indignity Rutherford was forced to endure.
He also loved the man. No employee was more loyal or enduring. Alexander Olek crossed the threshold, and the automatic door closed behind him. “I was becoming worried,” he said in a smooth baritone.
With a tightly-trimmed gray beard that matched the band of hair that formed a reverse crown on his otherwise bald head, he could easily be confused with a manservant. As Rutherford’s constant companion, many had made that assumption. But Alex was much more than he appeared. He’d come on staff as “personal security” for Rutherford when a disgruntled competitor had threatened his life for stealing pharmaceutical trade secrets. The accusation had led to a bitter lawsuit in the civil courts. The competitor lost the suit and, financially ruined beyond any hope of salvage, committed suicide a month later. Rutherford had sent flowers. It was the least he could do, or so he told himself.
“I’m fine. I was just thinking,” Rutherford replied. His words came intermittently and were often slurred. “Have we heard?”
“An early report,” Alex answered. “The flyover went well, and our man is back in Bakersfield. He’s waiting for the pictures which should be ready within the half hour.”
“He’s sending the images by e-mail?” Rutherford asked. He struggled to keep his head up and his eyes fixed on his aide.
“Yes. As attachments.”
“He knows to encrypt everything?”
“Yes, he’s a professional,” Alex offered. “The e-mail account cannot be traced to us.”
“But he’s not one of us. He’s outside the office, a hired hand.”
“That’s right. A private detective. I personally checked his references. He’s tenacious.”
“Just so long as he’s not stupid. Does he know why we want the pictures?”
“No. I allowed him to believe that it was a business survey. He was happy with that and asked no questions.”
“Except what he’d be paid.”
Alex nodded. “He did ask about that, but he was happy with what I offered.”
“Can he be bought off? Can someone else get to him?”
“Perhaps in regard to his other cases, but not this one. I made it clear that I wouldn’t tolerate such a breach of trust. He understood the danger to his health.”
“I assume that he doesn’t know that he’s working for RS BioDynamics.”
“I buried the paperwork in a fictitious business. He can’t trace anything back to us.”
“Were they there?” Rutherford asked. He closed his mouth and concentrated on swallowing the saliva that had accumulated. Swallowing was becoming more difficult each week. He wondered how long he had before all his nutrients would come to him through a tube in his stomach.
“Sachs Engineering? Yes, and our man said he saw a fair amount of equipment. It appears they came to dig, not just hunt.”
Rutherford worked his jaw up and down. “They must be confident of the location.” He swore quietly. He wanted to scream the words, but just making them audible was difficult enough. “This accelerates things.”
“We still have time,” Alex said.
“Only the healthy have time, Alex. Every minute that ticks by, I move closer to the grave.”
“I suppose that’s true for all of us.”
“It’s not,” Rutherford snapped in a whisper. “True, we all die, but I’m slipping away faster. Velocity and acceleration. Velocity and acceleration. I’m falling into the open maw of death quickly and picking up speed. My seconds are your hours; my minutes your days. I have more money than time and without the latter, the former means nothing.”
“Of course,” Alex conceded.
“How did they get there before us? How did we let them take the lead?”
“I guess it all goes back to the alley, sir. If Perry Sachs hadn’t interfered, our man would have had the document sooner. Then we would have had all that was needed. Of course, there were the translation problems.”
“But he did interfere,” Rutherford said. “He showed up on his white horse and made a fool of the man you hired.”
“Yes, sir, he did,” Alex agreed. “It was unfortunate.”
“It was more than that! It was disastrous. My life is tied up in this. That’s not hyperbole, Alex. I mean it literally. This is my last hope, and it’s a flimsy hope at best. Thin as it is, I have no intention of letting it pass. I want that material. It’s the only treasure that matters to me. Is that clear?”
“It is, Mr. Straight.”
“This isn’t going to be easy. There’s something about this Sachs Engineering. I assume you’ve done the same research I have.”
“I have. They have money, equipment, and expertise in building. They may prove formidable.”
“This same Perry Sachs leads the team?”
“Yes. He has the authority to move equipment and personnel. If our research is right, he always takes the lead on the bigger projects. Compared to what they’ve built around the world, this project is small potatoes as far as construction goes, but if he knows what’s below the ground—and I think we have to assume that he does—then this will far exceed anything else he is likely to do.”
“We can’t let word get out, Alex. We simply can’t. Nor can we let them head off into the sunset with our prize.”
“Agreed.”
“I want you to oversee the actual operation, Alex. No more outside hirelings. Understood? Get the pictures, pay off the private eye, and make sure he doesn’t connect the dig with us. Do what you have to.”
“It will be handled. We do have one advantage,” Alex added. “Apparently the site is isolated. The closest town is two miles away.”
“We need all the breaks we can get. I want you to send everything you’ve learned to my computer. Send the pictures too when they come in. I’m going to be involved from beginning to end on this. I have to be.”
“I understand,” Alex said. As usual, he showed no emotion. It was one of the things Rutherford appreciated about Alex. He never coddled him, never patronized him.
Rutherford pressed the large button on his wheelchair console, and the door to his office swung open again. “There is no time to waste.”
The moment Alex crossed the threshold, Rutherford returned his attention to the four monitors before him. Two displayed video pictures of the eight laboratories that filled three of the lower floors. The images changed as the surveillance program cycled through various cameras. At any time, Rutherford could touch a button with his hand that was still responsive and cause the system to focus on just one location. He could then zoom in or out to see the various projects being conducted under his name. From his desk he
could speak to the scientists and direct their research without leaving his office. There were over forty different cameras in the building, and he had immediate access to any of them.
The other two monitors were program displays. On one was a spreadsheet of a transgenic experiment whose results would be published next month. He was pleased with what he saw. Officially, over three billion dollars was spent worldwide in developing genetically enhanced plants. A comparable amount was spent on genetically altering animals. The real numbers were much higher. RS Bio-Dynamics alone spent that much, and they were just one of the fish in the sea—albeit the largest one. The other monitor was a written report regarding another successful experiment. But unlike the previous experiment, which would be published in a major scientific journal, this one would never see the light of day. The world, Rutherford had decided, was too backward to appreciate what he and his team had done.
The world had changed, and most people didn’t even know it. While the media discussed the ramifications and ethics of animal and human cloning, almost no one mentioned the “blending” milestones that had happened in the last five years. In 2002, Japanese scientists successfully combined vegetable matter with an animal by inserting a spinach gene known as FAD2 into a fertilized pig embryo which was implanted in a sow’s womb. The end result was the birth of pigs designed to give healthier pork.
A Canadian company had, about the same time, announced that it had achieved the unbelievable pairing of spiders and goats. Spider genes were crossed with genetic material in goats so that the much sought-after spider silk could be produced in the goat’s milk. It was heralded as a source for everything from artificial tendons to lightweight body armor to biodegradable fishing line. The world barely blinked.
As early as 2000, China’s Office of Genetic Engineering Safety Administration approved over 250 biotech plants, microorganisms, and animals. And Rutherford knew they were at least three years behind the curve.
The industrial wave had crashed to shore three hundred years ago; the information age less than seventy-five. Each changed the world remarkably and with unexpected suddenness. The biotech wave was no wave at all. Instead of crashing to shore with tsunami-like intensity, it rolled in like an unusually high tide. People remarked about some of the “Hollywood” issues like cloning, but were blissfully unaware of other developments. The waters of change would be over their heads before people knew their feet were wet. That was just the way Rutherford Straight liked it.
He refocused his attention on one of the screens. Money was being made by the truckload. The era of scientists seeking knowledge for its own sake was gone. Words like “insight,” “discovery,” “world knowledge” were replaced by other terms: “patents,” “IPOs,” and “secrecy.” Where once scientists freely shared information, they now hoarded it until they could realize the full financial benefit. Despite science journalists and ethicists who decried the practice as selfish, it made perfect sense to Rutherford.
The image on the monitor showed a shaggy, blond-haired man in the traditional lab coat seated at a metal desk next to a wall. His hair hung to his shoulders. Before him was a computer terminal, and he was hunched over the keyboard. Dr. Benton Carmack, MD, PhD.
He was a rail-thin man who seldom spoke. Rutherford had never known him to initiate a conversation other than when the scientist talked to himself, which he did frequently. The man was a poster boy geek with no life outside the lab. Rutherford understood and admired that. Few things mattered more than what went on inside these walls. Marriage, family, entertainment—they were all things that got in the way of work and slowed progress. Carmack went home only to sleep, and Rutherford had seen him work two or three days with only an occasional nap. Carmack’s focus and genius came close to that of his own. Rutherford had assigned him several assistants, each one trained to do more than science; they made sure the scientist ate and rested. It was a difficult task.
Rutherford pressed another button on his portable console. The action was carried to the computer by an infrared beam. A slight sound came from the computer’s speakers, letting Rutherford know that the communication link was open.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Carmack,” Rutherford said.
There was no response, but he knew the system was working. He could hear the keys clacking and clicking as Carmack typed on the keyboard.
He tried again. “Hello, Dr. Carmack.”
“Go away. I’m working,” Carmack snapped with a wave of his hand. His eyes never left the computer monitor.
“It’s Dr. Straight; I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“I said . . . who? Dr. Straight?” His voice was thin and sharp. Rutherford watched as his employee raised his head and looked around. He had never adjusted to talking to an empty room.
“Press F12 on the keyboard, Doctor.”
“What . . . ? Oh, of course.”
Carmack did. Rutherford zoomed the camera in for a tighter shot and had the odd experience of seeing his own face on Carmack’s computer. “I’m sorry to disturb your work, Doctor, but I wanted to make you aware that our little project may be moving ahead soon.”
“Project?” Carmack said to the computer. “Oh, yes. Yes, I remember. Soon, you say?”
Rutherford let slip a crooked smile. He seldom smiled now, but when he did it was always crooked. One more thing he could no longer do well. He smiled because Carmack spoke like an elderly man although he was only thirty-two. It was the result of too great a focus and too little time in social environments. None of that mattered to Rutherford. “Yes, perhaps in the next few days. Will you be ready?”
“Of course. I’ve been ready. I’m ready now.”
“Very good, Doctor. I’ll let you know more soon.”
“I’m ready. The equipment is ready. The lab is ready.”
“I will have a new assistant to aid you. The others should not be told of this.”
“I can do it myself. I don’t need help. I don’t need an assistant.”
“Nonetheless, Doctor, I prefer to do it this way. It will help me feel more involved. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Carmack nodded repeatedly. “Involved. Yes, of course. You should be involved.”
“You know, only the two of us can make this a success,
don’t you?”
“Yes. I know. I know. I’ll make it work.”
“I trust you will, Dr. Carmack. I trust you will.”
Chapter 4
PERRY TOOK THE drive from the Trujillo residence slowly. The narrow dirt road had taken a downhill turn. That was no problem for the Explorer, which was designed for much more challenging terrain. The road, however, was serpentine with several blind turns. Perry was more worried about an unexpected meeting with another car than losing traction.
He was also tired. The fatigue of travel with little rest over two days weighed upon him like lead clothing. His eyes were burning from weariness, and his stomach was a churning cauldron of acid, the result of too much coffee and too little food.
His plan was simple. Drive straight to the motel and surrender to a few hours of much-needed nap time.
He’d already checked in with Jack using the truck’s CB radio and received a report of the last hour’s activity. The various surveys were being reviewed again and a few small surveys done. “Measure twice, drill once,” Jack had said.
Jack had then told Perry to get some rest, threatening to kick his fanny all the way down the hill if he showed up anytime in the next few hours. Perry needed no coaxing.
Staying awake long enough to find the motel was his most pressing challenge. Steering the big SUV around another turn, Perry tried to bridle his excitement, but it was a wrestling match he was doomed to lose. He just hoped that he’d be able—
There was a loud and sustained horn blast.
Perry hit the brakes and turned the steering wheel sharply to the right, running the big vehicle up a small embankment. He felt the front fender dig into the soft soil. Next to him a white Dodge
pickup shot past, missing the Explorer by inches. Perry stopped the car and looked at his side mirror just in time to see the driver offer an apologetic wave as he drove off.
“No, really, I’m fine,” Perry said sarcastically as he eased the Ford back on the road and started downhill again. “And they say city folk are crazy drivers.”
The near collision removed the shroud of sleepiness that had been descending upon him. Adrenaline laced his blood, and his heart was running a few beats faster. He shook his head and continued toward town. The time slogged by, but Perry finally arrived at the two-story building. An oval green sign read: Oak Glen Lodge. The structure looked to be twenty years old but well taken care of. Air-conditioning units hung from the beige wall just below each window.
Perry had hoped for better, but he knew Jack had worked to arrange rooms for the entire crew in the same building. Communication was more efficient when everyone was nearby.
Jack had told him that the place was clean and had two conference rooms. A restaurant shared a parking lot with the motel. Just as important, it had a recently updated phone and Internet system. That’ll make things easier, Perry thought.
The manager greeted Perry as if he were a long lost uncle, something Perry attributed to his firm having filled three-quarters of the total rooms—and paying in advance. After a handshake and short conversation, Perry walked into room 110.
He was pleasantly surprised. He’d assumed that the building would have displayed its age in old furniture and scarred walls. Instead, he found a queen-size bed, a large table/desk, and a fully refurbished bathroom. This’ll do, he thought.
Closing the door behind him, Perry finished his survey. A fireplace was tucked away in a corner. His practiced eye could see that it was a recent addition. His luggage was situated on his bed. As usual, Jack had arranged for everything. On the table was his Hewlett-Packard laptop computer, already plugged into the wall, as was the modem cable. Jack had seen to everything.
