by Paul Stein
“G’day mate,” Kilmer said when Stark answered.
“What up, Boss,” Stark replied, recognizing Kilmer’s unmistakable Aussie accent.
“We’re meetin’ t’night at 22:00 in the warehouse. I’ve brained up the Livermore op. Can ya come ‘round?”
The warehouse on Story Road was regarded as home base for his team’s West Coast operation. It was located close to the Bayshore Freeway in San Jose, and large enough to contain all the team’s technical equipment and many of Colt Hamil’s specialized vehicles. But of greater utility was the fact that Dallas Weaver had painstakingly installed a state-of-the-art audio/visual presentation room. Weaver’s equipment could generate three-dimensional satellite images offering real-time surveillance capabilities rivaling anything the CIA used. After a visual presentation in this nerve center, team members experienced an accurate walk-through of exactly what to expect on the grounds of the operation. Every member was thoroughly familiar with the complexities of the target following a presentation using Weaver’s equipment.
“You can count on me, Boss. I’ve been waiting for the call.”
“Good bloke…see ya t’night then.”
His second call was to Ivan Krilenko, a retired Russian Secret Service agent who had once been a personal bodyguard for Soviet president Yuri Andropov. He later had a distinguished career as a deep-cover espionage agent in the KGB, working for the first chief directorate responsible for operations abroad. Because he had spent much time in America, he learned the wonders of the free market system, and realized that his talents were eminently marketable.
Kilmer was fortunate to have discovered Krilenko in 1991 during a brief adversarial encounter. But it wasn’t difficult to see that the Russian possessed rare espionage talents that would perfectly complement his team. He convinced Ivan to capitalize on his skills by working for those willing to pay a lucrative price for his expertise. Shortly thereafter, Krilenko defected and immediately joined Kilmer’s team. Not only was he exceptionally adept at martial arts, he was also blessed with uncommon strength and exceptional stealth. Among the team he was known as “Shadow,” possessing the ability to sneak up on anyone before they realized he was there. Krilenko also promised to attend the rendezvous.
Kilmer’s next call was to Terrance Ventura, a retired Navy SEAL. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about Terrance, apart from the fact he was a SEAL and the very best demolition man Kilmer had ever encountered. Terrance specialized in underwater demolition, but his skill was not merely limited to water. There was a reason Terry was known as “Surgeon;” he could design Simtex shape charges to blast into anything with negligible destruction. His expertise with plastic explosive Simtex at the Livermore containment vault would be critical; they couldn’t risk releasing deadly radioactive material from the containment room. Kilmer was not successful in reaching Terry, but was confident the message he left would get a positive response. That left just Nuzam and Metusack.
He decided to call Rafael Nuzam next. If anyone was going to turn him down, it would be Rafie. Kilmer hoped he could convince the retired Green Beret to join him for one more foray. While Kilmer was unquestionably the team leader, Major Nuzam would always be the clear second-in-command. This grizzled Special Forces soldier was an unparalleled master at planning missions requiring rapid and discrete responses to unique situations. He possessed one of the keenest military minds in the business, as well as having a thorough knowledge of foreign languages, customs, and cultures.
Of all his men, Kilmer knew the least about Rafie, primarily because he could not divulge the dozens of covert missions he had led for the military. But his allegiance was unassailable. He would develop the necessary back story to misdirect the CIA into believing that terrorists had carried out the Livermore operation. Rafie was essential to the operation. If he declined, there was no alternative backup. Kilmer dialed his residence, leaving another message about the meeting.
Kilmer’s next call was to Sully Metusack. “Tooz” was a grinder. There was nothing too difficult, too dangerous, or too disagreeable for Tooz. He was the kind of soldier every commanding officer would love to clone—a soldier that would blindly follow an order until the mission succeeded, or he died trying. Tooz was uncomplicated; he didn’t know the meaning of excuses. If the mission demanded extended exposure to hostile fire, bad weather, or extreme circumstances, he never complained or shirked his responsibility. If stuck in a foxhole, you hoped it would be with Tooz. Not only was he good-natured, quick with a joke, and fun to be with, he was also a damn fine field medic. He could tend to your wounds, stitch you up, and make you laugh all at the same time. Kilmer knew Tooz wouldn’t be a problem. He agreed to meet at the appointed time.
Kilmer had previously briefed Colt Hamil about the evacuation for the Livermore mission during the planning of the Quantum job. Colt was another of Kilmer’s favorite team members. He was quiet, unassuming, and quite possibly the most proficient driver to emerge from the professional stock car circuit. Colt grew quickly in Kilmer’s esteem because of his uncommon courtesy and self-effacing manner. The men tried to hang the nickname “Trigger” or “Forty-Five” on Colt, but nothing stuck. It was impossible to improve on his name.
Colt grew up in a family of stock car drivers with a heritage born from the days his hillbilly grandfather, Bolt Hamil, bootlegged moonshine through the hollers of Bear Creek, Kentucky. The local authorities used every conceivable trick to catch “Lightning Bolt,” a legendary bootlegger who never lost a load of shine. Colt possessed an unrivaled record in car chases, just like his grandfather, believing his dearly departed grandpappy bestowed mystical protection over him. He always felt his driving ability came naturally, inherited from Bolt. Had he not been inducted into the Army and subsequently discovered by Kilmer, he most likely would have been a brilliant stock car driver on the NASCAR circuit. Kilmer had only to lay out the plan and Colt would coordinate all the transport logistics. His record was flawless and unmatched.
Kilmer made the final call. “Colt, the mob meets at 22:00 t’night. It a ripper. Be there, mate.”
“10-4. Can’t wait, Boss. Who’s coming?” Colt asked, trying to anticipate who Kilmer had assembled.
“The usual blokes. Everone’s committed ‘cept Rafie, but I’m bettin’ he won’t miss the quid on this op. We’ll know t’night.”
“Okay, perfect, see you then.”
The task completed, Richard Kilmer looked at the Livermore complex and wondered if there was something he was missing. Nothing was apparent. He hoped to hell none of his men paid the ultimate price. Whenever he felt this unsettled, it usually presaged a fatal outcome, but the plan before him couldn’t avoid killing along the way. This operation was going to be a deadly massacre. In just a few hours, he would lay out the plan for his men, and let them decide if they wanted to accept the risk. Still, these were high-quality professional soldiers, and he loathed the possibility that even one of them might not return.
Goddamned Holloway, he thought. If it weren’t for the exorbitant sum they would receive for executing this deadly plan, he’d tell the rich bastard to go screw himself. However, he also knew it was well worth the risk to keep the man happy. It was unlikely he would ever again find someone of Holloway’s resources willing to compensate as richly as he was. And there was no mistaking Holloway’s brilliance. His plan was incomparable even among the greatest heists in history. This was once in a lifetime. Kilmer’s unrelenting concern was to somehow survive the bloody mess.
He looked at his watch, reflecting that in less than thirty-six hours they would need to commence the Livermore mission. He decided to go over the plan one more time.
THIRTEEN
REDWOOD SHORES, CALIFORNIA ORACLE HEADQUARTERS
THE DEEP BLUE thirty-two-node IBM RS/6000 supercomputer, capable of one billion calculations per second, was busily cranking out millions of calculations. Deep Blue was derived from the supercomputer class that originally defeated world chess champion Gary Karpero
v. It was the first known instance of a computer beating a master chess champion in tournament-style competition. The computer was presently verifying the possible changes to an object’s gravitational weight when a given amount of enriched uranium was cycled inside a magnetic field.
Dr. Aldin Mills was decompressing the data files from his office at Oracle Headquarters. He had received the files from his friend Dallas Weaver, who directed him to integrate the formulas with the antigravity machine he was constructing. The man who wanted this machine—Alastair Holloway, whom he knew only by name—had given him the same identical instructions as before: Under no circumstances was the data to be copied, and no one was to know about the machine he was building at the Bayshore Warehouse.
The compensation Aldin received for his particular expertise was beyond anything he could earn anywhere else. He was extremely thankful to Weaver for getting him the job. Good ol’ Dallas, he never forgot his friends.
Weaver had months earlier provided the engineering specifications to build the antigravity machine, his source at Quantum Dimensions secreting out the information as it became available. Initially, Aldin had no idea how the machine would operate, but as it began to take shape, he came to understand that it functioned much like an electrical generator resembling those found in hydroelectric or nuclear power plants. These facilities generated electricity in similar fashion: using turbines connected to huge coils of copper wire suspended within a magnet field. Whether the turbine rotated by water pressure or steam was irrelevant. The facts remained: Spinning a magnetized copper core produced a flow of electrons and alternating current.
Within the first few minutes of reviewing the data files, Aldin couldn’t believe his eyes. With these equations, it was obvious the inventor had discovered how to harness gravity, the last of the four fundamental laws of nature. By utilizing the formulas, the antigravity machine could make an object weightless or heavier depending on the desired outcome. The calculus he used was stunning in its simplicity. Like every seemingly revolutionary discovery, the concept was so obvious it begged the question why the secret had not been revealed before.
The machine worked just like an electric motor, but the difference was that a magnetized uranium core was rotated by an outside electrical source. This would produce an artificial flow of gravitrons— so named by the inventor—that could produce weightlessness. Even more astounding, gravity could also be increased depending on how the nuclear core was rotated: A clockwise rotation produced a diminishing gravitation field, while a counterclockwise rotation produced a magnified gravitational field. This presented infinite operational possibilities.
As Aldin authenticated the formulas, there emerged little doubt that the relationship among the amount of uranium, the strength of the magnetic field, and the amperage of the electrical input would control an object’s gravity. Regardless of the application, this was indeed a breakthrough of staggering proportions. Aldin was elated to be the first engineer to operate this wonder machine.
Another mind-boggling capability of this technology was that, unlike electricity, which required wires to contain the electrons and convey the flow of electricity, the gravitron generator required no such wiring. Rather, the beam of gravitrons could be aimed through a microwave antenna. This allowed the user tremendous flexibility; by focusing the dish at a specific target, its gravity could be magnified or reduced. The centuries-old dream of levitation seemed to have become a reality.
Aldin leaned back in his chair, completely enthralled by what he had just discovered. He was shaking with excitement and couldn’t really comprehend his good fortune. He had accomplished a great deal in producing the mobile antigravity device, and it was about to become operational.
Holloway had given him an unlimited budget, and handed over the exact design specifications to create a machine the likes of which had never before been seen. There had been real challenges—the most prevalent was containment of the uranium to avoid radioactive contamination. Another was a practical problem with the weight of the trailer. Because of the lead used to line the turbine, the trailer weight was more than most trucks could safely brake. All these challenges were within acceptable technological limits, however, and Aldin had overcome them all. The last remaining obstacle was to program the formulas into the main computer. With these in hand, he was ready to make history.
It didn’t matter to Mills that he wasn’t the researcher that discovered the antigravity technology. As a researcher himself, he believed the inventor should at some point be recognized for his revolutionary work. But he was mesmerized by the fantasy of being recognized for building the first antigravity machine, despite how it came into his possession. He didn’t once stop to question how Dallas Weaver obtained the discs containing this valuable data, nor did he even marginally consider the consequences of being in possession of it.
But what he failed to appreciate beyond everything else was the plan for how the completed apparatus would be used. Alastair Holloway would undertake the most outrageous heist in the annals of crime. “Clueless, naïve, and expendable” was a perfect description of Aldin Mills.
FOURTEEN
STANFORD UNIVERSITY
DR. NILES PENBURTON was spellbound by all the activity following the Quantum Building crimes from the night before. The Palo Alto police investigation had not let up since he was first notified that Frank Santos had been killed, but he was not prepared for the storm of police activity that would greet his arrival the following day.
Throughout the previous evening’s investigation, he had stayed behind the scenes, talking briefly to officers while taking in every aspect of the unfolding drama. When Captain Hawkley had learned Penburton was the head of Quantum research at Stanford University, he had authorized his admittance to both crimes scenes— Dr. Conrad’s’ burglarized fifth-floor office, and the murder outside Dr. Levassuer’s lab on the third floor. Throughout the early morning hours, Penburton had also spent considerable time with Dr. Jarrod Conrad, trying to console him for the loss of valuable research information on the SUT project. He finally left for home shortly before dawn.
Niles awoke late the next morning, having slept fitfully from the previous night’s unexpected activities. He checked his cell phone for messages and listened to three missed calls from Jason Henry. He could tell from the tone of each message that Agent Henry was frantic for information. He decided to shower and have breakfast before calling him back, figuring he would need all his composure before discussing anything with the special agent from the Department of Defense; this was no time for a slip of the tongue.
Once out in the sunshine, however, Niles Penburton noted that he felt better than he had in several weeks. He watched with interest as several students strolled between the various campus buildings, most carrying books or wearing backpacks, busily working on class assignments. Academia continued to flourish at the university, just as its founder, Leland Stanford, had envisioned. This thought always seemed to bolster his confidence whenever he needed reassurance about his career choice.
Stanford University always presented itself as postcard perfect— the landscape supervisor taking extraordinary care of the grounds, which highlighted one of the most coveted bastions of higher learning in the United States. But at no time during the year did Stanford look more refined than during the spring. Roses of magnificent beauty and variety, along with chrysanthemums, irises, and lilies, festooned the Oval Park, the amphitheater, the sports complex, and all along the many campus buildings and promenades. Flowering plants of incredible diversity displayed a kaleidoscope of colors across the campus.
Niles loved to take long walks in the springtime, never tiring of discovering small enclaves of students gathered in shaded circles, discussing current events or other salient topics. Shaping the most intelligent young minds to be found anywhere was an intoxicating experience, and one he richly savored. Teaching at Stanford had always been his dream, a dream made possible by the Stanfords’ vision.
Le
land and Jane Stanford established the university in memory of their only child, Leland Jr., who succumbed to typhoid fever in 1884 at the age of fifteen. Leland left most of his fortune to the university, a fortune amassed from supplying provisions to miners during the California Gold Rush, and later as one of the legendary Four Horsemen who built the first transcontinental railway.
Whenever Penburton walked the campus, he couldn’t help but feel that Leland and Jane would be extremely proud of how richly developed the university had become. They envisioned creating a top-notch school to rival academic institutions of prominence on the East Coast, and Penburton believed they had far exceeded this mark in every respect. Stanford had gained worldwide distinction as the premier university for many teaching disciplines, including theoretical physics. He never took for granted his good fortune of being a tenured faculty member and dean of the School of Astrophysics.
Penburton finally arrived at his office, after navigating layers of yellow crime-scene tape around the perimeter of the building, and a gauntlet of detectives investigating the crimes. When anyone questioned his presence, he produced Captain Hawkley’s business card granting his authorization for entry. It was surreal what had occurred here the previous evening.
Finally ensconced in his office, he could no longer put off the return call to Jason Henry. He sat at his desk, which was perfectly positioned in the corner of his eleventh-floor office to take advantage of the view in both directions. He loved the view of the campus below, but never more so than today. He knew Special Agent Henry would want an update on everything, and what to expect from Dr. Conrad. This was going to be a difficult conversation. He would need to be guarded in his statements; Jason Henry was no fool.