by Joe Nobody
After the interior debris had settled, he exited the cockpit and scouted the surrounding countryside again, then pulled the large doors shut. The shelter provided a sense of relief. Not only did it feel good to be hidden from prying eyes, standing on the ground and being surrounded by four walls greatly reduced the number of directions requiring his diligence.
Digging the beef jerky and bottled water from his pack also added to his sense of wellbeing. At least he’d had the forethought to purchase these basics – maybe he wasn’t such a bumbling criminal after all.
He began to notice little things, like the sound of birds singing in the distance and the residual smell of hay in the barn. Not only were both a comfort, the experience made him realize that he was recovering quickly from what had been the absolute worst day of his life.
Slowly chewing the jerky and sipping water, Dusty began to ponder his next move. Despite the coziness of his new hideout, it was a short-term solution - an eventual dead end. He’d given his word to Mitch – six months.
Things have changed quite a bit since I made that promise, he reasoned. The entire US government wasn’t after me then. I hadn’t shot down any military aircraft when that agreement was made.
Staring at the rail gun propped nearby, he tried to recall all of the promise within the technology – potential that had caused Mitch to be more optimistic than he could ever remember. Speaking to the gun, he said, “It’s all about you, isn’t it? You’re the cause of all this. Are you worth it? Is your future really that bright?”
The gun didn’t answer, but the sound of his own voice helped Dusty achieve a clarity of purpose. He had to save the technology – he had to give Mitch the time he’d promised. But there was something else… some other aspect to his determination. The government’s reaction had been completely over-the-top, and that was disturbing.
As he sat nibbling salty meat and sipping tepid water, he tried to reconcile the events of the last few hours. It all boiled down to a matter of trust, he determined. He didn’t trust his own government – had no faith in his fellow countrymen. Why was that? he wondered. What had happened to his once rock-solid, foundational conviction that the United States of America was the greatest country on earth? Why had words like “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave” evaporated into a wisp of adolescent memory?
News coverage came flooding back, troubling headlines of spy agencies monitoring American citizens and prying into private communications. Stories of politically motivated IRS scandals hinted at a punitive federal machine. He recalled worrisome captions that claimed once-trusted agencies, such as the FBI and DEA, circumvented the process of obtaining legal search warrants on a regular basis. He remembered watching footage of overzealous prosecutors twisting facts and spinning circumstantial evidence to achieve convictions. The only word in Dusty’s mind that described the leadership of his homeland was “vindictive.” Nothing noble about that, he supposed.
It wasn’t just the feds. Stop and frisk policies were implemented by big city police forces while gun control legislation requiring medical professionals to report “thoughts of violence” were passed at the state level. Thoughts? Seriously? Now having a bad thought was a crime? Liberty was eroding, and most of the people seemed not to care. To so many it seemed, liberty was only a statue in New York Harbor.
Dusty’s life in West Texas seemed unaffected by it all. Sure, he and Hank would entertain themselves, debating various sides of the issue over coffee at the diner. The two men would play devil’s advocate and argue vehemently, each arbitrarily arguing an opposing stance. When their cups were empty, both men would continue with their days, smug in the knowledge that common folk – everyday Americans – were blind to the effect of it all. The citizens of Fort Davis went about their business, buying feed, putting grocery sacks in their SUVs, sending their children off to school and appeared none the worse from the graduated, creeping loss of freedom.
Adding it all up, he came to the conclusion that his lack of trust in the authorities was justified. Launching fighter jets to shoot down a man who was supposed to be innocent until proven guilty was indicative of a larger problem… a problem he couldn’t solve. Now he, a freeborn law-abiding American, was in the crosshairs of the unchecked, malicious machine.
Could the rail gun change all that, or would it make things worse? His brother was book smart, but optimistic when it came to the hearts of men, especially powerful men. Still, the only person walking the planet that he trusted 100%, Mitch thought the rail’s technology was worth the gamble and sacrifice. His brother’s words resonated in Dusty’s thoughts. “We can turn the desert green,” and “we can end hunger forever, probably eliminate most disease.”
Mitch was right, he finally conceded, his mind relinquishing the sweet juice of plotting revenge with great effort. I will honor our agreement, do my best to follow the plan - for as long as I can.
That meant hiding. Dusty thought long and hard about where to hide. His natural instinct was somewhere remote… a cave… a deserted island… a mountaintop. While the concept of a desolate existence didn’t bother him, the problem of where to find such a place without any time to research or plan was troubling.
It then occurred to him that perhaps isolation wasn’t the best option. Wouldn’t it be far more difficult to locate a single man among millions of other people? Hide in plain sight? The concept was definitely more realistic than a cave. Houston, Dallas, San Antonio and Austin, huge cities with millions of residents, were all within reachable distance.
He’d spent more time in Houston more than any of the others – knew its basic layout. Maria lived there, and he’d visited the city several times to spend time with Anthony.
The thought of his son tore at Dusty’s heart. Eventually the boy would learn of his father’s actions. He wished there was some way to let him know the truth. Resolving to accomplish such a feat as soon as his own survival was assured, Dusty pushed the love of his son aside. He needed to focus.
Again addressing the weapon, “So Houston it is. I know you’ve never been there – it will be like a vacation for you. We’ll fly in at night… land in one of the fringe airstrips. We’ll walk into the edge of town and find a hotel. We’ll hole up there for a while, maybe see if we can get in touch with Mitch.”
Having a plan made him feel better, despite the rail gun not providing its opinion, good or bad. Dusty stood, finished his water, and then proceeded to inspect his airplane.
Rambling around the Thrush, he noticed a few nicks and scrapes in the paint that hadn’t been there when he’d left West Texas just before first light. The damage to his pride and joy stirred more anger, sure the military jets firing at him were the culprits.
Inspecting the tail section gave him an idea. Airplanes were all painted with a unique tail number. Like a VIN number for an automobile, each plane received a set of federally registered digits that stayed with it for life. Everything involved that tail number. Boats had names; cars had VINs; and homes had addresses. Planes had their TNs.
If Dusty’s plan to park the plane at a small Houston airport had any chance of success, he would need to buy some time by keeping his tail number off the hot sheets of wanted or stolen aircraft. He reached for the small toolbox he kept under the seat, and sure enough, he discovered a roll of black tape and a razor knife. Carefully balancing on the airframe, he modified a “3” to look like an “8,” and then changed a “5” to a “6.”
The disguise wouldn’t stand a close inspection, but given the speed his life seemed to be moving as of late, it might make a difference. After all, there weren’t that many canary yellow Thrush Commanders roaming the skies of Texas.
He checked his reference guide and decided on David Wayne Hooks field, north of suburban Houston – just east of Tomball, Texas as his destination. The field was large enough that a new plane wouldn’t be noticed right off, yet small enough that the tower wasn’t manned at night. He could hike into Houston from there.
Again
scanning around his hideout, Dusty estimated he had a little over an hour before sunset. The finalization of his course filled him with calm – enough so that sleep might actually be a possibility. Setting his watch alarm, he stretched out on the wing, the rolled up hoodie cradling his head like a pillow. Ten minutes later the barn was filled with the deep, rhythmic breathing of the exhausted fugitive.
Day 3 - Night
Mitch was beginning to seriously dislike Special Agent Monroe. Not only had the man ordered his arrest, but now insisted on asking the same stupid questions over and over again. The interrogation technique was wasted on the academic. The windowless, isolated room, complete with the television cop show, two-way mirror along one wall, was designed to be boring. He was sure the architect had been instructed that the lack of visual distractions would eventually weaken the resolve of the typical human. Mitch wasn’t typical.
Even the seating was carefully calculated for eliciting confessions. Agent Monroe’s perch was well padded, with armrests and lumbar support. Mitch’s chair was hard plastic with only a small backrest – deliberately engineered at a bad angle. The house held the advantage - utilized all the odds.
Monroe was an experienced interrogator, his questions carefully worded with slender nuances and easily misinterpreted innuendo. None of it worked on the mind of the professor.
Mitch came into the room armed with the most potent weapon any suspect could possess. He believed in a cause and was convinced his position was the right one. His superior intellect, nearly flawless memory, and passion for his brother’s well-being made the professor a difficult nut to crack.
Monroe was nothing, if not relentless. He believed in his own cause, had faith in his own capabilities. The two personalities clashed in heated exchanges, both experiencing heightened levels of emotion.
“I want to know the name of your visitor, Professor. If, as you insist, no law has been broken, what is the harm in providing his identity?”
Sighing, Mitch responded. “I keep telling you, sir. You don’t want to know. This subject is above your pay grade, with an impact to national security far beyond anything you can imagine. Let me call Washington and speak to the Secretary of Energy. Give me that courtesy, and you’ll thank me later.”
Monroe leaned back in his seat, an expression of disbelief on his face. “I’m not going to let you call anyone, Doctor. At least not until you provide me with some justification.”
There wasn’t any question asked of him, so Mitch didn’t respond. The pause was interrupted by Monroe’s cell phone.
Taking the call right in front of his prisoner was another sign of the FBI man’s growing frustration. Mitch listened to one side of the conversation.
“He did what?”
“Both of them?”
“How could he have just disappeared?”
Monroe ended the call with a disgruntled, “Yes, sir,” and disconnected the call.
Spinning around and leaning across the table, Monroe’s angry, red face stopped only a few inches away from Mitch. His voice grew low and mean. “Your mystery acquaintance just shot down two F-16 fighters, Doctor. Nothing illegal? No laws being broken? Bullshit. There’s been an air battle some 70 miles west of here, sir. The United States of America has lost two warplanes. I want to know what the fuck is going on, and I want to know now.”
The news shocked Mitch – his reaction causing his first blunder of the session. “Is Dusty okay?”
“Dusty?” Monroe repeated. “Where have I heard that name… your brother? Your file says you have a brother who goes by the alias of ‘Dusty.’ You’ve been protecting your brother all this time?”
The agent didn’t wait on Mitch to answer. Turning to the supposed mirror, he ordered, “I want the file on the good doctor's brother. Compare the surveillance photos to his driver’s license. I want to know everything about this man – yesterday.”
Smug with his victory, Monroe couldn’t help but rub it in Mitch’s face. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful.” And with that, the agent left the room, leaving Mitch alone to curse his outburst.
Since all of his personal belongings had been removed during the booking process, he couldn’t tell how long they left him sitting in the room, but it was a significant amount of time. Unlike most occupants of the facility, Mitch welcomed the opportunity to contemplate.
When a burly police sergeant finally came to retrieve him, Mitch felt a small flame of hope that he would be set free now that the FBI had the answer to their most pressing question. Instead, he was escorted to a small holding cell, and again found himself without company.
Monroe left the police headquarters and made for the lab. Dean Floss and two FBI technicians were at the facility pouring over the evidence left behind.
Agent Shultz was also present, greeting his boss with a curt nod.
“What’s the latest?” Monroe asked the local agent.
“Not good, sir. The dean has spent most of the time verifying that the lab’s equipment isn’t malfunctioning. Both he, and the techs you flew up from Houston, don’t believe the video evidence left behind. After you left with Weathers, Dean Floss began to change his mind… retract some of what he told us before. Someone actually suggested that were it not for the damaged tube and NORAD’s report, they would think the entire episode was nothing more than an elaborate hoax.”
Monroe’s brow furled, “But there is the damaged tube and the magnetic wave.”
“Yes, sir. From what I can understand, they’ve spent just as much time debating over how that could have been staged as actually examining the evidence.”
Shultz heard his boss mutter, “Bullshit,” under his breath and then he stepped off to address the three-man technical team.
“Dean Floss, can you give me an update, please?” the lead agent asked with a menacing tone.
Being in charge of one of the nation’s most advanced schools, Floss wasn’t used to being addressed in such a tone, especially in a lab, most certainly in his own lab.
“As I told you before, Agent Monroe, I’ll provide a detailed report of my findings as soon as possible. As of this moment, I’m still uncertain of what happened here.”
Monroe bore in on the academic, his posture bullying the smaller man. “Doctor, I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about you and your department. I’m being told that an enormous amount of energy was unleashed in this facility – a facility under your direct control. The Air Force validates that fact. I’ve got one of your employees under arrest and refusing to corporate with an ongoing federal investigation. Now, you’re stalling. Forgive my imagination, sir, but I’m beginning to think I’ve stumbled upon a nest of conspirators plotting against my government.”
Floss wasn’t easily intimidated. Waving off the overbearing man, he replied, “That’s ridiculous. The reputation of my school is flawless, sir. My people have the highest civilian security clearances available. We’ve worked with the US government on so many projects, I’ve lost count. Your theory is way, way off base – completely unsubstantiated.”
“Really?” replied Monroe. “I don’t think so. This wouldn’t be the first radical plot hatched in the bowels of a university, Doctor.” To emphasize his point, he removed his cell and tapped the screen. When the call connected, he looked Floss directly in the eye while speaking into the device. “I need the file on Dr. Martin Floss, College Station, Texas, please. Forward the electronic image to my phone.”
Monroe’s shadowy threat didn’t have the desired impact on the dean. Instead of cowering, the older man crossed his arms in defiance, a look of determined stubbornness settling on his face. The rebellion wasn’t lost on the FBI agent. He’ll come around after he thinks about it a little more, pronounced Monroe.
Circumventing Floss, Monroe moved past and began speaking in low voices with the bureau’s own technicians. “Please tell me you’ve made some progress,” he began.
“Not much, sir. We have multiple videos, one of which shows a technically imp
ossible reading of velocity. Dr. Floss agrees with that assessment, but can’t find any bug in the hardware or software. Other than that, there’s not much here.”
“Why is this velocity reading so impossible?”
“Because it indicates an object moving at close to the speed of light, which takes infinite energy. There is no power source in, or available to this lab that would even come close to providing that.”
“Could Durham Weathers have taken the power source with him?”
The technician laughed out loud, muffling the outburst when a scowl crossed the senior agent’s face. “Sorry,” he fumbled, “I thought you were joking. Every nuclear power plant on the earth, combined, couldn’t generate nearly enough power to achieve the results indicated on the video. If our fugitive has such a device on his person, you might as well give up your chase, sir. He’s carrying around as much energy as a billion stars in his pocket.”
Shaking his head, Monroe pointed toward the ballistic tube. “Then what caused that damage?”
“That is unknown as well. We have two pieces of a puzzle here, sir. The pieces don’t match. It took a lot of force to damage the tube, but if the video readings are accurate, that tube should be a pile of dust. So would the wall behind it and half of the continent between here and Atlanta. That’s why I’ve allowed the good professor to run his diagnostics – the pieces of the puzzle don’t fit together. Something’s wrong.”
“What if I told you two F-16 fighters were just shot down not far from here? They went down at the same time the Air Force detected an almost identical magnetic pulse to the one generated in this lab.”
The tech whistled, his eyes widening. “I can believe it, given the damage to the tube. What I can’t explain… what no one can explain… is how. It’s just not physically possible, sir. I will say this, whatever is causing these events is completely unknown to our physical sciences. I would advise caution, sir. The power of this device seems practically unlimited and is already housed in a weapon.”
