The Babel Conspiracy Read online

  The P2 had been on the board for two years. That represented thousands of man hours. Wind tunnel testing on various parts was well advanced, and plans for a full scale mock-up were being developed. A change in the size of the NPR910 would mean scrapping some of what had already been accomplished. Time and money would be lost. And Trisha knew that money, especially, was a critical factor. If, on the other hand, they were to go ahead with their current project in the hope that a new casing material would be found, the loss in dollars would be even greater if the discovery was not realized. The dilemma was awesome.

  “And you favor going with a new composite?”

  “It’s a big risk but the one I’d take.”

  “If I was afraid of risk-taking would I have hired you? I’m a businessman. No stranger to speculation. But going against Nolan . . . .” His forehead furrowed.

  Trisha sat quietly. She wouldn’t push. It was a tough choice he had to make. She wondered if he was thinking of her earlier warning that the reactor casing was unstable and not to go ahead with the full-scale mock-up until they resolved the issue?

  He picked up the model of the P1 and turned it around in his hands. “How close is Audra?” His tension-free voice told Trisha he had made his decision.

  “Very close.” She brushed aside her ebony hair that hung like a lion’s mane over her shoulders then folded her arms across her slim body trying to appear calm.

  “Okay, Callahan . . . do it.”

  She knew his permission to go ahead with titanium X was based largely on his confidence in her. But it also added to her pressure. If she wasn’t successful, the consequences would be dire. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” he shot back, his eyes sweeping over her hair, the folded arms and slim body. “We’ve had our differences but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what a fine job you’re doing. But it does present a problem. It’s our interim financing. We’re overextended so the banks are out. If you want to complete your R&D, I’ll have to go through the board.”

  Trisha nodded. Lack of funds was the familiar shadow that continued to cloud the project.

  “It wouldn’t have been necessary if the ten C101’s, just out of production, hadn’t lost their buyer. The freight company filed bankruptcy yesterday, leaving us holding the bag.”

  “How is that possible? The company’s credit history was investigated and given a thumbs-up by Dun & Bradstreet.”

  “Callahan, don’t start acting like you live under a rock. You know the jihad is killing free enterprise. And the constant rioting over perceived injustices by police has compounded the problem.”

  “I suppose the airlines are out.”

  It wasn’t unusual for airlines to defray some of the development costs of a new plane. It was this very practice that enabled the Anglo-French development of the Concord SST.

  “Forget the airlines. The spike in fuel prices is killing them, too, considering that just one Boeing 747 can guzzle over three thousand gallons of fuel per hour. No, it’s the board or nothing. So what I want is this: minimal specs, showing barest details.”

  Trisha nodded in understanding. Although her boss had controlling interest of PA—fifty-one percent—she had heard how his father, in the last years of his life, had mismanaged the company. Since then, it teetered between the black and red world of profit and loss.

  “Minimal specs,” he repeated. “For Gunther’s benefit.”

  Again Trisha nodded. The Middle East situation continued to deteriorate. The black flag of ISIS now hung over most of it, even those once friendly to the west. And one oil refinery after the other had been brought under its umbrella. Oil now moved through the Strait of Hormuz only by their will, creating a global crisis with the price of a barrel of oil reaching two hundred fifty dollars—money used to further finance the jihad.

  Unable to afford the fuel or energy they needed to operate, many businesses closed overnight. As common as the stories of terrorism, were the stories of suicide by defunct entrepreneurs and business owners who had lost everything. Unlike the distraught businessmen who, during the stock market crash of 1929, leaped to their deaths from high-rise office buildings, their modern counterparts went home, and without mess or fanfare, overdosed on sleeping pills or other drugs.

  Now, PA was coming up with nuclear fusion, something that would constrict the jihad’s financial spigot. If safe nuclear fusion was realized, over time ISIS could be bypassed since there was enough deuterium for plasma available in the oceans to meet present rates of power consumption for at least a million years.

  It was this argument that won over her boss two years ago—the prospect of America becoming energy independent. And she had clinched it by telling him that one cubic foot of “free” ocean water represented two million BTU’s or close to two thousand gallons of number six oil.

  But Robert Gunther worked for Tafco Oil, a company rumored to harbor Islamic sympathies and which still had holdings in Syria, holdings that up to now had never been targeted by the jihad.

  “Why do you keep Gunther on the board, anyway?”

  Mike laughed. “Politics. He has strong ties to D.C. and a horde of influential friends, including those in the Federal Aviation Administration and the National Transportation Safety Board. In addition, Tafco’s influence spans the continents in spite of all the negative rumors. Still, nobody believes Tafco or Gunther actually want to see the black flag of ISIS flying over the White House.”

  Trisha rose. “I’ll get working on that report.”

  “One more thing.” Mike’s face tightened. “Be careful.”

  “Why? What happened now?”

  “This is not to leave the room. Understood?”

  Trisha nodded.

  “Two nights ago we had an attempted break-in. It was stopped by a security guard but the intruder got away.”

  Like most large companies, Patterson Aviation had doubled its security staff because of the jihad. Armed men patrolled PA twenty-four hours a day. After two years of terrorism in the homeland, American businesses could no longer rely solely on the government but employed their own anti-terrorist protection. Armed guards were common place, as well as complexes protected by barbed wire and sophisticated electronic surveillance.

  PA’s heavy security was well known. And in light of this knowledge, Trisha found an attempted break-in all the more alarming. She wondered if she should tell him about the white van, then decided against it.

  “He was trying to get into your building, into R&D. And . . . it’s the second attempt this month. So observe maximum security measures, and that goes during your off-duty hours. If anyone suspicious starts hanging around your apartment, if you get unusual phone calls or mail, I want to know about it.”

  Trisha frowned. “Does Homeland Security know?”

  Mike nodded. Every company performing a critical function or a function of national defense was listed by Homeland Security as a possible terrorist target and was frequently visited by a DHS agent who assessed its risk, then advised on how to beef up security.

  Patterson Aviation, because of its work in nuclear fusion, was on that list. And agent Peter Myers was a frequent visitor to the plant. Evacuation drills for possible bomb threats were repeated over and over. Bulletproof glass was installed in all ground level windows, and extra security guards were hired; all things PA employees had learned to live with.

  “So be careful,” Mike repeated. “No heroics, Callahan. This is one situation where that cross of yours isn’t going to do much good.”

  Her hand moved to her throat. “If you notice, I’m not the one who’s worried.”

  A broad smile split the rugged face, embedding splinters of wrinkles around the mouth and eyes. “I know how seriously you take that . . . ornament. Though I still don’t get it. But just be careful, okay?”

  • • •

  Mike stared at the door long af
ter Trisha was gone. There was something satisfying about her; something that both relaxed and tensed that huge frame of his. It was a feeling he had never experienced with anyone else.

  And there were times, like now, when he felt close to her.

  Only, why couldn’t she look more like the head of a research department and less like someone who should be sipping a martini and saying “yes,” though he had never asked the question.

  “Business and pleasure don’t mix,” he muttered as he stabbed the intercom too roughly. “Have Buck come to my office!” But minutes later, even before there was a rap on the door, Mike knew that someday he would ask.

  • • •

  Mike watched the tan, leathery face of Buck McNight wrinkle into a smile as he folded his body into a chair, a body that made the chair appear undersized. He was a man in his early sixties and with an easy, unhurried manner. But his hands, whose folds and creases were stained by machine oil, gave away his real occupation. They were hands adept at ministering to the cogs and wheels of complexity. And herein lay the paradox to an otherwise simple life.

  Mike rose from his chair and paced as though working out a cramp. Neither spoke, but their silence was the comfortable silence of two people who knew each other well and had nothing to prove.

  Buck was “family.” As a test pilot and mechanic for Patterson Aviation for over thirty-five years, he had been a friend to the elder Patterson. He was also friend to Mike, a friend who had taken him fishing on lazy summer afternoons when he was a boy. From Buck, Mike had learned how to pitch a tent and ride a horse. It was Buck who had taken Mike up for his first flying lesson. And it was to Buck that Mike went when burdened with problems, first about failing grades, then failing romances, and now failing projects and companies. He was one of the few people Mike trusted completely.

  “How much do you know about deuterium?” Mike said, breaking the silence.

  Buck expelled a slow, easy chuckle, like sage rolling in the breeze. “Not much. A heavy isotope of hydrogen. You’re using it as the plasma in your reactor. Why?” Buck seldom wasted words.

  “I’m going to need some. Callahan’s having a problem with the reactor casing. It’s breaking down. Her solution is typical; wants to develop a new composite material. What all this means is that the seventy-five tests we’ve done will have to be repeated. I don’t want to go to our present supplier. It would raise questions and add to whatever suspicions might already exist. The less people know what’s going on here, the better. That’s where you come in. How would you like to go into the ‘mining’ business? How would you like to ‘mine’ deuterium?”

  The large oil-stained hands hung motionless over the arms of the chair. “Seems to me you’d do better with a physicist.” His eyes told Mike he had not taken him literally.

  “You’ll have your physicist. Nolan Ramsdale. Your role will be to purchase land, building materials, equipment, everything Nolan needs. And he’ll advise you on this. But I want it done apart from Patterson Aviation. No connections. Not yet, anyway. At the right time my attorney will annex it to the corporation. But until then everything’s on a need-to-know basis. When you’ve set up shop, contact me.”

  “When do you want me to start?”

  “Right away. I’ll arrange a meeting between you and Nolan later this afternoon. And Buck, I don’t want Nolan to know any more than he has to, either.”

  “Okay, Mike,” he said, as though needing no further explanation. “You can count on me.”

  “Some things don’t have to be said.”

  • • •

  CHAPTER 2

  The shock wave knocked Joshua Chapman off his feet as the explosion ripped through the terminal. Cries of pain rose to a crescendo as spears of shrapnel, hurled twenty feet away, injured dozens. Bodies laid everywhere. Joshua watched a small boy collapse against a wall, his blood painting a macabre fresco of red.

  “Security, code-four! Security, code-four!” boomed a voice over the airport loud speaker. Within seconds, a squad of guards appeared.

  “Everyone stay calm!” one yelled. But his directive had little effect. People continued screaming, and those still on their feet ran in all directions.

  “Everything is under control. You must keep calm. The EM team will attend to your wounds. Please. Everyone. Stay calm.”

  Dazed and with ears ringing, Joshua struggled to sit up and felt pain radiate down his arm where a piece of metal had lodged in his biceps. He left it. No telling how deep it went. Freeing it might cause the type of bleeding he couldn’t stop. Besides, he had felt worse pain.

  He looked around, mentally assessing the damage. The bomb must have been taped to the underside of a plastic seat and remotely detonated—blasting apart the rows of molded chairs plus the check-in desk by Gate 12—the arrival and departure point for El Al passengers.

  No doubt a message from ISA to Israel.

  And an inside job.

  Who but an employee could smuggle in the explosives? He was sure it wouldn’t take ISA long to claim responsibility.

  They were the reason he was here. He had to verify Arie Katz’s astonishing claim that ISA was being funded by wealthy U.S. businessmen and that they enjoyed the protection of the powerful.

  The question was—how high up?

  He rose to his feet, ignoring the torn sleeve and blood running down his arm. The medical team, now required in every airport, had arrived and began restoring order. Already, two nurses were assessing the injured. One directed the doctors to those needing the most help, while the other began cleaning and bandaging the less seriously wounded.

  But no one seemed to notice the small boy covered in blood and who now lay unconscious, except for the sobbing woman beside him.

  Joshua retrieved one of the thin, blue blankets from the pile an airport employee had deposited on the floor and walked towards the boy. But Joshua had seen enough death to know that even before he reached him it was already too late.

  He placed the blanket over the child’s body leaving his face uncovered, a face unmarred and as peaceful as an angel’s. Let the woman remember him that way.

  The pressure in his ears lessened and he could hear her screaming, “My baby is dead! My baby is dead!”

  “You may not believe this now, lady, but you’re lucky,” said a middle-age man who had walked over. “He was hurt real bad. I could see that right off.” The man gestured to the small, lifeless child cradled in the woman’s arms. “Same thing happened to my niece three months ago. Only it was a car bomb. Poor little kid. She never did nothing to nobody. She was just minding her business, walking to school with friends. Wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. She was hurt real bad, too. Trouble is, she didn’t die. She’s a vegetable now. Poor little kid.”

  The expression on the mother’s tear-stained face told Joshua she had not understood a word he said.

  “My baby . . . my baby . . . .”

  “Yeah. Poor little kid. I’m sorry. Real sorry,” the man said, and walked away.

  “Can you do something for her?” Joshua asked the nearby nurse.

  She pointed to his arm, “First you,” then led him to an area filled with folding chairs and stainless steel trays piled with medical supplies. “Sit. Let’s get that nasty piece of work out.”

  The aging nurse removed the shrapnel, sterilized the area, and after bringing the bleeding under control put a large butterfly bandage over the gash. Then she wrapped sterile gauze around his arm.

  “This needs more attention than I can give. Make sure you go to the hospital for follow-up. You’ll need stitches. Maybe even a tetanus shot. Swab and bandage, swab and bandage, that’s all I can do. But for some of these poor souls it won’t be enough.” She secured the end of the gauze. “So, who’s going to claim responsibility this time?”

  Joshua shrugged. He wasn’t about to voice his suspicions here. “Could b
e any one of them. There are so many terrorist groups now.”

  The nurse grunted. “A person isn’t safe anywhere nowadays. So much violence! I tell you son, I see it everyday. It makes you wonder what life is all about.”

  Joshua watched the paramedics place the lifeless boy on a stretcher then cover his face. “Yes, it makes you wonder.”

  • • •

  Joshua tossed his half-empty Styrofoam coffee cup into the nearby trashcan that no one seemed to use, judging by the debris on the sidewalk, then leaned against the wall of the graffiti-covered pawn shop. He pulled out his phone and tried texting Arie Katz, one last time, but got the same signal telling him Arie’s phone had been compromised and that his friend was in danger.

  It was this very thing that had brought him here four days earlier than planned. After receiving Arie’s signal twenty-four hours ago, the Mossad had remotely wiped the phone then pulled Joshua from another assignment and ordered him to the states. So far, Arie still had not coded-in to reinstate the phone, and Joshua needed to find him. He had been scouring the neighborhood for the past two hours, visiting places his friend normally frequented. He didn’t dare go to Arie’s apartment for fear of blowing his own cover.

  The mission was too important to jeopardize it the first day out.

  He straightened when he saw a bearded, swarthy-looking man in a hoodie scurrying down the sidewalk then dart into a shop that boasted, according to the sign in the window, as having the largest assortment of video games in America.

  Arie!

  Thank God.

  He crossed the busy street and entered the store, which reeked of weed. Its backroom was a known pot house where marijuana and other illegal drugs were sold. He’d have to be careful. If he caused too big a scene it could garner unwanted attention.

  He flipped through a rack of assorted Mortal Kombat games then went to another rack containing several versions of Call of Duty, all the while watching Arie out of the corner of his eye. And just as Arie turned, Joshua put out his foot and tripped him.