The Babel Conspiracy Page 9

  “You missed the wait staff. Maybe we should go back and do it all over again.”

  “Very funny. But the point was made. People know that Global Icon is on the job.”

  Joshua pulled out his cell and began video taping the room. Sweeping it slowly from right to left.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Capturing the moment. Some day I might want to show my kids that I once hobnobbed with the rich and famous, with senators and mayors and the beautiful people, all while the world was blowing itself up.” He sent the video to headquarters then powered off his phone.

  “You’re a strange one. I still can’t figure you out. You don’t want to be here, yet when I introduced you, you studied each person as though you were a computer filing away information. I bet you can name every person in this room, recall every word they said. Who are you?”

  “I’m an Israeli Jew. We’ve learned the importance of knowing who we’re with, of sizing them up in a moment to know if they can be trusted. It’s a skill acquired after years of living with terrorism. We’ve been at this a lot longer than you Americans have.”

  “Your resume says you have dual citizenship, that you’re also an American.”

  “True,” Joshua said, noting Cassy had removed the orange coloring from her hair and that she looked rather fetching in her black strapless cocktail dress. “But I identify more with Israel. Americans are asleep. They don’t take anything seriously.” He gestured with his hand at the crowd drinking Champagne and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. “This is what you live for. To be rich and famous. To live the ‘good life.’”

  “That’s unfair. I know many people who . . . .”

  “And while you call yourself a Christian nation, you don’t even care that thousands of Christians are martyred by ISIS every year.”

  “Wow, what brought this on?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had too many friends die at the hands of terrorists. But this is not the time or place for that. We’re at a party, which reminds me, you look nice.”

  “Really? You mean you finally approve of my outfit?”

  “I never disapproved of your clothes.”

  “No, but you implied . . . okay, what does my wardrobe say to you?”

  He had wondered how long it would take her to ask. Most women were conscious of how their clothes affected others. Obviously, Cassy was too. “All this punk-gothic stuff it not the real you.”

  “Well, mister-know-it-all, who is it then?”

  “Someone trying to tell the world she was not establishment, not her uncle.”

  “But it says something different to you?”

  “Yes . . . ‘I’m lost, please help me.’”

  Cassy waved to a passing waitress to bring her a drink. “Well, there’s where you’re wrong. I’m not lost. I’m just shattered.”

  • • •

  Audra sat slumped over the small, white Formica desk in her bedroom. The pressure of her new assignment was getting to her. It was the third night this week she had taken work home. And there was no end in sight. She was exhausted and yawned as she tossed her pen onto the desktop. Time to call it a night, she thought, when a voice startled her.

  “You’re really working late! All work and no play, you know, makes little Audra a dull girl.”

  Audra glanced behind her and saw the muscular frame of Bubba Hanagan. Then she looked at the small digital clock on her nightstand. Three a.m.. She had no idea it was so late.

  “Where have you been!” she snapped.

  The words were barely out when she realized that was not what she wanted to say. She cared little where he had been. His comings and goings had never mattered before. They mattered even less now. Ever since Bubba had walked in on her and Ace Corbet, Audra had become increasingly irritated with him. After weeks of living together Audra knew their relationship was drawing to a close. It had never been a good one, anyway. He was still a stranger, and what Audra had meant to say to this stranger but didn’t was, “How dare you walk into my apartment at this hour!”

  Bubba ignored her and sauntered over to the desk. He peered down at the papers cluttering the top. “What are you doing?”

  “None of your business!” She scooped her notes into a pile, shoved them into the bottom drawer of her desk and slammed it shut. Then with a stiff, angry motion, she locked it.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t bite.” He sounded unruffled but his face hardened. “What’s the matter? Got the rag on?”

  “I hate that expression! Only you stupid men would use it!” She stood up.

  “Just who are you calling stupid?” Bubba asked between clenched teeth.

  “There are only two of us here,” Audra answered, all the hatred and frustration of her life pouring from her. “And I’m not the one who resembles a gorilla.”

  “Why you . . . I don’t take that from any broad.” He grabbed the lamp from the nightstand and ripped its cord from the socket, then raised it, like a weapon, over her head. For one sickening second Audra thought he was going to smash her skull. But slowly the angry lines on Bubba’s face dissolved and he threw the lamp on the bed.

  “You broads are all alike. You want to play in the big leagues but you don’t have the stomach for it.”

  “And you men are all alike,” she spat. “You have more brawn than brains. I want my key back, and I never want to see you again!”

  Bubba’s lips curled into a sneer as he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a key. With a gesture that was both arrogant and threatening, he flung it onto the floor by her feet. “And good riddance.”

  Long after the apartment door slammed shut, Audra hugged her knees and sat shaking in the middle of the bed. “Oh, god!” she cried as the image of her smashed skull filled her imagination. She had to get a grip. Her life was spinning out of control. This was not what she had envisioned for herself. “Oh, god!” But even as she whispered it again, she knew her supplication was useless. “‘No deity will save us, we must save ourselves,’” she mumbled, quoting her mother’s favorite line from the Humanist Manifesto. But the question her mother had failed to answer was how?

  How did one save herself?

  • • •

  The blustery wind filled Trisha’s sweatshirt and blew it out like a sail. Now and then she tried flattening it over her jeans as she and Buck walked along the deserted airstrip, but it was pointless. “It’s beautiful here. It helps you forget all the violence back home.”

  “Yeah.” Buck grinned beside her. “Look over there, how the strip leads to the very edge of the cliff. If a plane isn’t airborne by then it’s all over.”

  Trisha’s eyes followed the direction of Buck’s finger where the strip continued for another quarter of a mile, then ended abruptly as the land ended abruptly. She couldn’t see the jagged rocks forming the sharp drop into the ocean. But she could hear the muffled sound of the pounding surf.

  “Seems like there’s plenty of strip for a safe CTOL,” she said, scanning the length of the runway before the two turned and headed toward the hangar.

  “The P2 won’t have any trouble taking off here, not with the power she’s got. But for conventional aircraft it would be risky. The winds are strong, unpredictable. And there’s no way to enlarge the runway, except by leveling that mountain on the opposite side.”

  Trisha looked at the mountain that rose high in the air like a huge monolith. Nestled beside it was a hangar, which in comparison to the size of the mountain looked like a metal doll house. “I see you joined the two hangars,” she said, scanning the shiny corrugated metal of the midsection.

  Buck nodded. “You’ve got four hundred thirty-five thousand square feet of work space. Enough room to build one heck of an airplane.”

  “Do you really think we can do it?”

  “Kelly Johnson and his Skunk Works crew at Lockheed designed, wind tunnel
tested, and completely built a ready-to-fly XP-80 in just one hundred and eighty days. We’ve been working on the P2 for two years.”

  “I know, but we need to solve the casing problem first.”

  “Relax, Trisha. I know it’s going to be a bumpy road, but everything will work out. You’ll see.”

  Although his voice was optimistic, Trisha doubted Buck really believed that Kelly Johnson himself would ever build an airplane in this manner.

  “And good news,” he continued. “I spoke to Mike this morning and he’s decided to send another small, hand-picked crew of mechanics and shop workers tomorrow.”

  She was about to say that was a step in the right direction when they were greeted by shouts and waves as they stepped through the hangar door. After responding with her own greetings, she leaned closer to Buck. “Is this part of the bumpy road you mentioned?” Her chin jutted to the chaos around her and to a group of men opening large crates of equipment and machinery.

  “Yep. It’s going to take a lot of work to make it happen.”

  “It is exciting though when you realize that we have a chance to make history right here.”

  “I suppose so. I don’t think about it much. My interests are narrower, more selfish.”

  “You love him, don’t you?”

  “Mike? Yeah. We go way back. In some ways I raised him as much as his father did.”

  “I know, I’ve heard.”

  “I guess that means I have to take credit for the bad as well as the good.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I love Michael Patterson like a son, but I know he has faults.”

  “What are you saying?”

  The leathery man chuckled. “I like you, Trisha. I liked you right off, when you first came to PA. You looked to me like a scrawny, wide-eyed kid then, but when you opened your mouth and started talking about airplanes, you didn’t seem like such a kid anymore.”

  Trisha squeezed his arm. “I like you too, Buck.”

  “Then you won’t mind me talking to you like a father?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “Okay, what I want to say is that Mike’s not the kind of man I’d want my daughter to get involved with, if I had a daughter that is. His favorite toy was always the one he couldn’t have. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “If you’re saying what I think you are, then you have no worries. He’s married.”

  “Exactly. And you’re what my generation called a ‘nice girl.’ And nice girls and married men aren’t combinations that add up to a happy ending.” Buck draped his arm around her shoulders. “But we can’t always help how we feel, can we? We can only help what we do with those feelings.”

  “I wasn’t planning on doing anything with mine.”

  “I didn’t expect you would. But you see, I also know Mike, and he’s . . . well, he’s attracted to you. Don’t ask me how I know, it’s little things that wouldn’t mean anything to you. And he may act on his feelings.”

  Trisha’s face darkened. “You’re very blunt.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped, it’s just that I like you, and I know Mike, and I think he’s working himself up to making a good old-fashioned pass. I’ve seen him work himself up before.”

  “I thought ‘guys’ were supposed to stick together? You don’t seem to be looking out for his interests.”

  “Oh, but I am. Aside from liking you, Trisha, I don’t want to see Mike get involved for his own sake.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re the type he’d fall in love with. You’re the kind who could break his heart.”

  “Is this the kind of sleazy gossip going around the PA lunchroom?”

  “I doubt if anyone in the world knows how you feel, including Mike. I’m not much of a talker, Trisha. I do more watching and listening. And I saw it coming over Mike, just as I saw it come over you, like a slow growing cancer.”

  “Cancer? I guess that’s a good word for it.”

  “You’re tough, Trisha. You can get over this. Not all cancers are incurable. But Mike, he’s the one I’m worried about. He’s never been in love before.”

  “You make him sound like some innocent school boy, when you know the opposite is true.”

  “He’s far from innocent, but he’s vulnerable, more vulnerable than even he knows.”

  “I suppose I should thank you for wanting to be my conscience.”

  “I don’t need to be that. You’ve already got one. I was thinking more along the line of ‘friend.’”

  “I’d like that. I think I’m going to need one out here.”

  “In return, can I count on you for something?” Buck gestured toward an organized section in back, full of bottles and holding tanks. A man in a white shirt and khaki pants stood, by what appeared to be a large pump, writing something on a pad.

  “What’s Nolan up to?” Trisha said, following his gaze.

  “Well, that’s the thing I’m counting on you for. I was hoping you could tell me. I can never understand what he’s saying.”

  She gave Buck’s hand a squeeze. “He’s brilliant, you know. I’ll go see what he’s doing. And I’m very glad we’re going to be working together,” she said before walking away.

  “Nolan, hello! I heard about your special project. How’s it coming?” Trisha approached the tall, thin man.

  Nolan had a serious but comely, almost girlish face. He rarely smiled and was, in fact, generally pessimistic. Now, his face knotted into little bows of consternation as he put down his pad.

  “Considering the circumstances under which I am forced to labor,” he paused, allowing Trisha to observe his makeshift lab, “I suppose I’m doing well.”

  “Seems like we’re all going to be working under adverse conditions.” She thought of her conversation with Buck.

  “Yes, I was advised of operations moving here.” He looked utterly wretched as he scanned the disorder around him. “I think this entire adventure is ludicrous. What type of mentality would conceive of building an airplane mock-up without first perfecting its propulsion system?”

  “I’m afraid, Nolan, that necessity is often the enemy of rational thought.”

  The physicist grunted. “Of all people, I thought that you, at least, would try to prevent this.”

  “I did.” Trisha looked at his note pad. “What’s this? 0.0042869?”

  “I was just going over some notes. That’s the mass change of the deuterium nuclei. Using the relativity relation E=MC2, this gives 4.5 X 1013 calories per gram atom of deuterium. Thus, about 0.1% of the mass is converted to heat energy. Naturally, the greater the heat energy the greater the destruction of the casing by the plasma. We know there was no evidence of breakdown in the first thirty-five tests. I propose to find the exact point at which our metal began breaking down. Based on what I’ve done so far, I think if we use one more water cooled vacuum switch tube with its capacity to control another twenty-five million watts, plus additional shielding in each . . . .”

  “The tubes alone are three hundred and twenty pounds apiece; times that by four reactors on one P2 that’s 1,280 additional pounds, just for starters, without even getting into the metal shields or additional vacuum chambers.”

  “True, but the alteration of the P2 may not be as drastic as first anticipated. If we pursue this course, maybe in six months we can begin the mock-up.”

  “In six months we must complete it.”

  Nolan’s girlish face warped in panic revealing his ignorance of Michael Patterson’s new plan. “I . . . I am a scientist; a logical being who deals in facts and then proceeds in careful, precise action. You are also a scientist, Trisha. I have always held you in the highest esteem. How can you submit to such chaos? How can you submit your staff to this chaos?”

  Trisha understood Nolan’s frustration.
A person didn’t expend his energy, his very life into building something revolutionary, then casually accept the possibility of it being tossed into a scrap heap.

  “Nolan, there are things involved here that neither you nor I have any control over. What happens here, though, will control the future of PA. This makes our work more vital than ever. We have to pull together regardless of our personal feelings. I need you. And I need to know I can count on you one hundred percent.”

  With a sigh he picked up his pad, “Trisha, you know the answer to that.”

  • • •

  “Looks like you need a break, Callahan,” said a voice that seemed to fill the hangar with a gusty breeze of its own.

  Trisha brushed the dust off her jeans, then the dirt smudges from her face, as she turned toward the voice. For the past several hours she had been helping to rig one of the large mobile platforms.

  The tall, muscular man smiled broadly, thinking how pretty the face was and feeling unusually pleased at seeing it. He took her arm then guided her through the maze of crates and boxes until they reached the rear of the hangar where a dented metal pot sat on an old, paint-chipped table. “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I could use one.”

  “Looks like you’re moving along fine.”

  “Well, boss, we’ve gone from total chaos to semi-chaos so, as they say, progress is being made.”

  Mike poured two coffees and handed Trisha one, then they both sat down on metal folding chairs. He remained silent as he stared into the steaming liquid. When he looked up his forehead was furrowed. “Why is it that we never call each other by our first names?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. After two years of working together I think we should be friends. And friends are on a first name basis.”

  “I have no objections,” she said, her smile looking forced. “After all, I am one of the boys.”

  “Seriously, Trisha, you’re the first woman I’ve ever been able to speak to as if you were a man.”

  “Nice of you to say so, boss . . . ah . . . Mike.” She shrugged. “Guess it will take a bit of getting used to.”

  Mike sipped his coffee, his eyes never leaving her. He liked the way her thick, black hair was gathered at the neck by a scrunchie. It exposed the faint blush creeping over her ears. Had he hit a nerve, again? Whatever it meant, it fueled his courage. He reached for her hand, his fingers lightly touching hers. “Trisha . . . I wish . . . we had all the money in the world so we could build this airplane properly.” With that, he rose and disappeared among the maze of boxes, feeling like a coward for not saying what was really on his mind.