by David Meyer
“That’s not a civilian aircraft.” Beverly glanced at her. “Who’s flying it? The Israeli Air Force?”
“If only.” Lila wandered forward, as if magnetically drawn to the flying object.
I grabbed her arm. Whipped her around to face me. “What’s going on?”
“It’s not my fault.” Her eyes turned wild. “I tried to destroy it.”
Shouts and yells rang out. Shifting my gaze, I saw the militia members leap to their feet. They retrieved their weapons and spun toward the plane. Deafening booms rang out as hundreds of projectiles shot into the sky.
Tires rumbled as the truck drove past us. Graham slammed the brakes and honked the horn a few times. But Beverly, Lila, and I, paralyzed by the strange scene before us, didn’t move.
More blasts rang out. New projectiles, far too large to be bullets, soared into the dust-choked sky.
A loud boom filled the air. Two more followed it. Wisps of black smoke materialized.
“Those were missiles.” My jaw tightened. Shifting the dial on my goggles, I zoomed in for a closer look. Black smoke engulfed the aircraft, twisting and curling in all directions. “The plane … it’s been hit. It’s going to crash.”
Chapter 11
This is insane.
Helplessly, I watched the sky. Smoke surrounded the plane, making it impossible to see details.
Questions popped into my head. How many people were inside the plane? Were they young? Old? Did they know they were about to crash? Were they praying for deliverance? Or had they accepted the cold, hard reality of their situation?
The plane dipped, straightened out, and then dipped again.
A small part of me knew it was time to jump into the truck, to drive as far away as possible. But my feet were rooted to the ground.
The plane dipped again and then gained a little altitude. I caught glimpses of scorched metal between wisps of black smoke. More smoke, the grayish contrails, continued to trail the aircraft, dissipating rapidly.
The plane shot overhead. It was so low I felt like I could reach up and touch its belly. The shrieking noise grew louder. It sounded like giant nails scratching a massive chalkboard.
Covering my ears, I spun around. The plane teetered overhead, miraculously maintaining altitude.
“Come on.” Beverly grabbed my arm. “We’ll—”
A coarse cheer sounded to the heavens, drowning her out. Rotating my waist, I looked at God’s Judges. They stood close together, their fists raised to the sky, hollering and yelling like they’d just won a massive battle.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll get Lila.”
As Beverly darted to the truck, I hurried to Lila’s side. Every breath I took tasted foul and bitter in my mouth.
“I should’ve known she’d find me.” Lila knelt on the soil. Her eyes, wide as saucers, were aimed at some point in the distance. “This is my fault. All my fault.”
“Time to go.” I tried to lift her to her feet, but she just sagged back to the ground. Then her eyes widened even further.
Following her gaze, I glanced at God’s Judges. A bolt of electricity shot through me.
The militia members lay on the ground, flailing like dying fish against the soft dirt. Some people grasped their throats. Others clawed at their eyes.
Guess that ends the victory celebration.
I turned my gaze skyward. The plane’s contrails descended upon us. They were thick, yet almost invisible to the eye.
A distant booming noise rang out from the west, signaling the plane’s demise. But I barely noticed it.
My gaze remained locked on the contrails. I watched them twist back and forth, licking at the air like a pack of writhing snakes. The first few contrails settled on us. I could barely see them, but I sensed their presence.
“We need to—” The words caught in my throat as more contrails barreled into me. I felt their weight, their substance. I struggled to say something, anything. But my jaw just hung from its hinges.
The contrails touched my neck, my face. They filled my mouth, leaving me choking for air. They surrounded me, engulfed me.
My vision blurred up. I itched my eyes, but it didn’t help.
My lungs started to ache. Needing to breathe, I inhaled the contrails. They were odorless, tasteless. I inhaled again. This time, I couldn’t smell anything. Not dirt, not wood from the barn, or decayed vegetation. Not even exhaust from the truck.
“We’ve … got …” The words seemed to stick in my throat. I spun toward Lila. “Are … what?”
Her eyes bulged. Her hands flew to her throat. A soft gurgle escaped her lips.
Glancing back, I saw Graham emerge from the cab. Almost immediately, he crouched down, gasping for air.
Shifting my gaze, I saw Beverly. She knelt next to the truck, her head jerking spastically.
Haziness swept through my brain. My balance vanished and I stumbled to my knees. My head felt woozy and light as a beach ball. I tried to stand up, but my body tipped over. My face thudded against the dirt.
My eyes started to sting. My throat closed up. I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.
The contrails … they’re killing us.
Chapter 12
The shiny black ball rocketed down the lane. It curved gently, from right to left, angling toward a spot between the one and three pins. President Walters sighed with pleasure.
Slowly, the ball started to drift. A frown creased the president’s face. Seconds later, the black orb slid into the gutter and dropped out of sight.
President Walters slammed his foot against the ground in frustration. “Damn.”
“Really?” The tone was tough and goading. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
The president flung himself into a blue plastic chair. He stared daggers at the room’s only other occupant. “Your turn.”
Special Agent Ed Hooper grabbed a bowling ball and walked to the lane. He was a tall and lanky man with oversized limbs. His lined face was covered with pockmarks. He wore his baldness proudly, keeping his head shaven at all times.
A cheap, but well-fitting gray suit and a dark blue necktie adorned his lean frame. His appearance reflected the no-nonsense attitude that had made him famous in law enforcement circles long before he’d joined the United States Secret Service.
In addition to security, the Secret Service also safeguarded the nation’s financial systems from counterfeiting and major financial fraud. Hooper was widely regarded as the top investigator in the department, with a well-earned reputation for uncovering the truth.
But his work wasn’t confined to the Secret Service. Six months prior, he’d quietly busted a treasury bond forgery ring with ties to the president’s reelection campaign. Afterward, the president had begun to ask him for help with other investigative inquiries.
Hooper studied the lane. Then he strode forward, lifted his arm high above his head, and swung it down in a perfect arc.
The ball shot down the alley, curving from right to left. A moment later, it exploded through the one and three pins, sending all ten pins flying.
President Walters scowled. After six frames, he was losing by a score of 111 to 89. Even worse, he was bowling off an empty frame while Hooper now had the advantage of bowling off a strike.
Quickly, he calculated his best possible score. If he threw nothing but strikes for the remaining frames, he could still break 200. Then he just needed Hooper to toss a few bad balls and leave some open frames. The odds weren’t great. But as long as he had the slightest chance of victory, he’d do everything in his power to seize it.
The president watched Hooper leave the lane. Besides his legendary skills, Hooper possessed two rare qualities, especially for Washington, D.C. First, he was a man of his word. Second, he could be counted on to keep a secret. Because of those attributes, the president trusted him completely.
President Walters waited for Hooper to sit down. Then he grabbed his ball and approached the lane.
Friends of Presiden
t Nixon had built the White House Bowling Alley in 1969. It consisted of a single lane situated directly beneath the driveway leading to the North Portico. It was surprisingly modest in appearance. The left wall was adorned with a painting of giant pins and a bowling ball. A long mirror hung on the right wall.
Past occupants of the White House had used the place sparingly. But President Walters liked to bowl and often utilized it for business purposes. And at that moment, the president had business to conduct.
Very important business.
The president strode forward and released the ball. It crossed the lane quickly and slammed into the pins, scattering them to all sides. A smile crossed his face.
One strike down. Five to go.
Hooper whistled. “Nice roll.”
“Thanks.”
Hooper stepped up to the lane. The president shook his head as he watched the agent roll another strike. Hooper was incredibly unorthodox. He used a bizarre five-step delivery and froze at the end of it, like some kind of figure on a bowling trophy.
Afterward, Hooper rubbed his hands together and stepped to the side. “I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Why the hell am I here?”
“I need your services.” The president walked to the lane and bowled another strike.
Two down. Four to go.
Hooper responded with a strike of his own and returned to his seat. “Why me?”
“A problem has come up. I need someone I can trust to handle it.”
“What’s the problem?”
The president wanted to keep Hooper chomping at the bit for a few extra seconds. So, he grabbed his ball and walked to the lane. He studied the layout for a moment. Then he put his ball into play. It slid across the smooth wood and crashed into the pins. He allowed himself a small smile.
Three down. Three to go.
He took a deep breath as he glanced at the electronic scoreboard. His score was now 119. If he could manage three strikes in the tenth frame, he’d finish with 209. It wasn’t a bad score. But it wouldn’t be enough to win unless Hooper started throwing gutter balls. “Bureaucrats are stealing money from the government,” he said.
Hooper guffawed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’m not talking penny-ante stuff.” The president paused for effect. “I’m talking about thirty-two billion dollars.”
Hooper’s laugh lines vanished. “Did you say billion?”
The president nodded.
“And you’re only finding out about this now?”
“Believe me, the tracks were well-covered.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“I need you to find out who was responsible and what happened to the money. And I need you to do it fast.”
Hooper picked up his ball and tossed it listlessly down the alley. It skidded too far to the left, taking down just four pins. He waited for the ball return mechanism to do its job and then bowled again. He picked up an additional five pins, narrowly missing the spare. “How does one hide a thirty-two billion dollar theft?” he asked.
“With a sophisticated computer program.”
“When did it happen? All at once? Or over a period of time?”
“Over a period of time.” President Walters walked to the lane and bowled.
A strike.
He bowled again. Another strike.
He waited for his ball. Then he hoisted it and reared back for his final toss. The ball rolled down the lane and smashed into the pins, knocking them askew.
A smile curled across his lips. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. Against all odds, he’d thrown six straight strikes to finish with a 209.
His gaze turned triumphant as he glanced at Hooper. “Your turn.”
Hooper picked up his ball and walked to the lane. He rolled well, but left a split standing in the rear row.
The president felt a sense of destiny rising within him. He could scarcely believe it. He was on the verge of pulling off the biggest comeback of his bowling career.
While he waited for his ball, Hooper cleared his throat. “How’d it happen?”
The president tapped his jaw. “Have you heard of the Columbus Project?”
“No. Strange name, though.”
“Strange, but meaningful. It reflected my hope that a single person could change the world.”
Hooper nodded. “Like how Christopher Columbus discovered the New World?”
“More like how he caused the Little Ice Age.”
Hooper blinked. “What?”
“It’s a long, roundabout story. Before Columbus, some forty to one hundred million people lived in the Americas. In order to farm crops, they burned huge tracts of land. Then Columbus made his voyage.” The president exhaled. “His arrival opened the floodgates for colonization. Ninety percent of the natives died within decades, mostly from war and disease.”
“I didn’t know the number was that high.”
“With fewer people farming the land, trees began to grow again. They absorbed at least two billion tons of carbon dioxide. The atmosphere was unable to trap as much heat as it had in the past. So, the entire planet cooled for about three hundred years. The result was crop failures, famine, hypothermia, and bread riots.”
“You’re right about one thing.” Hooper chuckled. “That’s definitely a roundabout way to blame Columbus for the Little Ice Age.”
“Don’t get me wrong. He didn’t directly cause it. But he set in motion events that drastically changed the environment.”
“So, let me see if I understand this. You named your project after something that caused crop failures and famines. Doesn’t that seem a little, I don’t know, macabre?”
“Perhaps. But when I proposed it to Congress, I took a more hopeful point of view. What if we could change the natural world, just as Columbus helped to do, but in a more positive way? What if we could take steps today that would impact the world three hundred years from now? What if our efforts resulted in a cleaner world, a better world?”
“And the Columbus Project will do those things?”
“The idea was to give clean energy a financial boost. Ideally, this would accelerate the deployment of innovative technology and help break America’s addiction to fossil fuels. Congress authorized my administration to provide financial support of eighty billion dollars in the form of loans, grants, and tax credits. According to official numbers, we doled out aid to about five hundred companies.”
“So, the missing money came out of that eighty billion?”
The president nodded. “Our records show over two hundred companies received grants totaling thirty-two billion. But those companies don’t actually exist. They’re phantoms.”
Hooper shook his head. “How many people know about this?”
“Besides you? Just my senior advisor and the analyst who discovered the crime.” The president paused. “If you agree to help me, I’ll provide you with more exacting details. But suffice it to say, I suspect an inside job.”
“Who had access?”
“The U.S. Department of Energy utilizes an in-house computer program to manage the Columbus Project. A small staff uses it to analyze applications, file paperwork, and track milestone progress. The members of my cabinet have full access to the program as well.”
“Why?”
“The DOE staff can only make funding recommendations. Full approval requires unanimous consent from my cabinet. But in order for the cabinet members to make informed votes, they need to be able to view all the necessary documentation.”
Hooper nodded slowly. “I’ll need everything you have on the staff and your cabinet members. And not just the public stuff. Also, I need access to this computer program. Plus, the applications, vetting notes, and voting records.”
“Consider it done.”
Hooper bowled again. His ball smacked into the eight-pin. The eight-pin, in turn, rebounded off the back wall and collided with the ten-pin.
&nbs
p; The president’s heart sank. The split had been his last hope. Now, Hooper needed just six pins to tie his score, seven pins to beat it.
Hooper picked up his ball and prepared to throw it. But at the last moment, he twisted his head toward the president. “Am I doing this off the clock?”
“No. If you accept the job, I want you working on it full-time.”
“My supervisor won’t like that.”
“She won’t have a choice.”
Hooper chewed his lip thoughtfully. “This could get expensive.”
“My office will pay for everything.”
“If I do this, I want to see it through to the end. I don’t care if the trail takes us to places you find uncomfortable. I want complete freedom to pursue leads as I see fit.”
The president nodded. “You got it.”
Hooper studied the lane. Then he walked forward and threw his ball into the air.
The president cringed as the black orb swept down the alley. The roll looked good.
Then it started to drift.
The president’s heart lifted as the ball sailed to the right. Moments later, it smacked into the pins. A few fell.
But only five of them.
A wide smile creased the president’s face. He’d won by a single pin. It was easily the greatest comeback of his bowling career.
“Nice game.” Hooper shook the president’s hand. “One more question. Any idea why someone stole the money?”
“Greed?” President Walters shrugged. “Why else?”
“We’re talking about billions of dollars. Maybe this goes beyond mere greed.” Hooper thought for a second. “Sometimes people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do in order to serve a higher purpose.”
A sense of unease swept through the president. “Wait a second. You didn’t … you know … let me win? Did you?”
Hooper shot the president a wily grin as he walked out of the room. “Like I said … nice game, Wade.”
Chapter 13
I sensed the contrails flowing over me, around me. My gaze shot to the east. Through hazy vision, I saw dozens of people lying on the ground. Some were still. Others continued to struggle with increasingly lethargic movements.