by Joe Nobody
Her enthusiasm was difficult to debate. “Okay,” Dusty finally agreed, “I’ll get a few of the guns ready just as soon as I finish feeding the poultry.”
“Good!” she replied. “I’ll roust the girls, and we can get going right after breakfast.”
They arrived at the conference later than Weathers had anticipated - the drive-thru breakfast, need for gasoline, and one additional restroom stop delaying his timetable. Still, they could just make it if they hurried.
After obtaining their ID badges and welcome packets, the two men found the ballroom housing the workshop. It was all that Mitch had hoped it would be.
Texas Tech was trying to elevate the reputation of its physics program and had clearly spared no expense. After being distributed a pamphlet reiterating the necessary safety precautions, Mitch and his charge found themselves in a line of academics, waiting to enter the main conference room.
They inched forward slowly, patiently progressing through the cue until they were issued disposable safety suits, complete with hood and radiation badges. “These are provided in the unlikely event of the worst case scenario,” a post-grad announced as she circulated through the crowd helping attendees don the coverings.
A small booth had been erected, the function being identical to a nightclub’s coat check. Mitch watched his partner remove his A&M jacket and handed it over to the smiling attendant. “Better leave your cell phone and keys,” Mitch advised. “I hear there are some serious magnetic fields involved in the lab.”
“Of course,” the embarrassed student responded. “I should know better.” A sly grin formed at the corners of Mitch’s mouth as he watched the kid empty his pockets.
When the girl handed over the two numbered tickets, Mitch casually reached out and pocketed both. His student didn’t notice.
After the coat check, the two men began pulling on their white, astronaut-like costumes. Mitch leaned close to his charge and whispered, “This is bullshit - nothing but a bunch of hype. We ran similar experiments two years ago, and there’s not enough radioactive materials involved to blow your nose, let alone require safety suits. What a publicity stunt.”
The kid nodded his agreement and said, “Still, it’s good marketing. You have to admit that. All these eggheads can take selfies and show the folks back home how serious the conference was.”
“The only serious work being done here is at the hotel bar,” Mitch responded.
Once they had slid the plastic clothing over their street clothes, the duo was then escorted into a makeshift lab that had been created within the huge convention center.
Dozens of people were attending, the throng milling about. “Looks like a convention of Pillsbury Dough Boys,” Mitch observed as they joined the multitude of white-suited academics.
“Either that, or we’re on a filming location for a bad 1980s music video,” came the response.
“Hey!” Mitch protested in jest. “I’m a child of the 80s. Be careful now.”
Soon enough, the meeting was called to order. The gathered attendees formed a semi-circle around the centerpiece of the lab, a large table adorned with complex-looking lab equipment. The man in charge, Dr. Cummings, was introduced and stepped to the center of the display.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending our workshop. Today we are going…” and so it started.
Mitch waited impatiently for the boring introductions and preamble to pass. When their host actually reached the interesting part, the professor put his hand on his stomach while leaning in closer to his student.
“That egg sandwich I had this morning isn’t settling well,” Mitch announced. “I feel like I might toss my cookies. I’m going to go back to the hotel and rest for a bit.”
The kid seemed concerned and turned to go with his professor. Mitch put out a hand and said, “No, you stay here and attend the rest of the meetings and labs. We have to justify this trip to my boss, so at least one of us has to see what’s going on. Besides, I’ll probably be back in an hour or so. I’ll catch up with you then.”
“I hope you get to feeling better, Professor.”
“Thanks. Oh, and you’ll probably need this once you’re done in here,” Mitch remembered, handing the kid the wrong coat check ticket.
Faking his stomachache, Mitch pulled off the lab suit, replacing the protective cover with his student’s jacket. On the way to the side exit, he passed by the booth of a lab equipment manufacturer and provided his email address in exchange for a free baseball hat. The aviator sunglasses from the undergrad’s coat rounded out his disguise.
Gradually making his way to the restrooms, he recalled the convention’s layout from the schematic published online. Instead of turning right for the men’s room, he double-checked no one was watching and then cut left.
Bright sunshine assaulted his eyes for a moment as he exited the side door. He glanced around, almost expecting a hoard of FBI agents ready to pounce. The area was empty, and that fact help settle his nerves - somewhat.
As he turned for the parking lot, he prayed his assessment of the bureau’s capabilities was accurate. They probably had his cell phone tagged, perhaps his clothing, and most certainly his automobile. There was even an outside chance an undercover agent had followed them into the convention center.
As he dug out the car keys, he checked again to see if he was being followed. No one was there. A few minutes later, Mitch was headed west toward Laredo, his eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror.
The technician leaned back in his chair, pulling another sip from the oversized coffee mug that always seemed to be present. The large computer monitor residing on his desk displayed a blur of characters scrolling downward as the automated system cycled through its processes.
At that moment, the FBI’s Houston office was monitoring 1631 mobile devices, tracking locations, phone calls, and internet browsing activities. There were 122 that were “hot listed,” meaning any call, movement or loss of signal was to be analyzed by human eyes.
Not that turning off their cell phones would do any good. Even removing the battery was a wasted effort, as the FBI had full access to the NSA’s sophisticated monitoring systems.
Each modern mobile device sold in the United States contained two batteries. The largest and most commonly known could be removed by the user. The second was tiny, powering the memory of the phone even if the primary power cell was removed. That secondary power source also enabled the phone’s radio frequency identifier to transmit an intermittent signal.
From his desktop, the technician could do some amazing things with the typical smart phone. With the click of a key, he could turn on the device’s cameras and watch live, streaming video. The owner would never know.
He could also turn on the microphone, access the GPS location history, read every text message and even program the phone to record every call. Those recordings could be transmitted during the night and then automatically erased. If programmed to do so, he could sit and view every photograph.
But that was all child’s play. The really sophisticated capabilities had been brought online just a few months ago.
He could now scan any fingerprint left by accidently brushing over the camera lenses. The magnetometer in the newer models was so accurate, the system could often detect if the owner were carrying a gun.
Pulse rate, body temperature and other biofeedback data could be captured as well.
But the really serious money had been dedicated to the automated analysis systems. There were over a billion cell phones on the planet, and even the U.S. government didn’t have the manpower to watch, listen, and monitor every single one.
Black budgets had been appropriated to write the most complex software ever devised by mankind. Huge banks of supercomputers occupied underground centers in Utah, Fort Meade and other clandestine locations – all with the dedicated purpose of tracking, scrutinizing and storing the daily habits of cell phone users. It was as if the various government agencies had a law e
nforcement officer in every American’s purse or pocket.
Earlier that morning, the system had flagged one Dr. Mitch Weathers as having executed movements outside of his normal travel zone – essentially College Station, Texas and the A&M campus.
The third shift tech had immediately notified the surveillance team assigned to Dr. Weathers, who didn’t appreciate receiving the pre-dawn call. Despite the grumbling, they quickly verified that the good doctor was attending a scientific conference in Corpus Christi. It all appeared to be on the up and up.
The FBI computer expert returned the cup to the desktop coaster and smiled at the monitor. There was no flagged activity, which meant he could visit the cafeteria at the regular time – a rare occurrence as of late.
“All the little rabbits are right where they should be,” he mumbled to himself, wondering if the tuna salad was any good today.
An hour later, Dusty piloted the old pickup out the driveway, both of the young girls giddy with excitement and looking forward to the unexpected trip. As they rolled east, Penny got caught up in her daughters’ enthusiasm, recounting stories of previous excursions to the big city.
Dusty drove on, mostly silent and only showing the occasional polite smile. He had agreed to the trip because he didn’t intend on coming back. He planned to make up some excuse in Corpus and send Penny and the girls back to the ranch alone. It had been a great gig while it had lasted. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t help but have a sense of foreboding about the journey.
Vega watched his quarry speed away. Lowering the binoculars, he turned to Victor and instructed, “Follow them. Stay back, but follow them. They may be trying to run.”
“Why don’t we just ram that truck into a ditch and get this over with?” responded the cartel enforcer. “It’s only one man and three females. I think we can handle them.”
Vega started to scold the man, but caught the harsh words before they left his throat. Both of the muscular fellows in the back seat worked for Victor. It was rude to scold a manager in front of his charges, and besides, he didn’t want to give any of them a hint regarding what he had planned.
“He is well-armed and skilled,” Vega finally explained. “Our Uncle’s instructions were very clear – we are to take down this target without drawing a lot of attention. Having a shootout along the road isn’t a low key activity.”
Victor seemed unconvinced, but the cartel boss had ordered him and two trusted compadres to follow Vega’s instructions. He would do so, no matter how silly things seemed.
Less than an hour later, it became apparent that their prey was heading to Corpus Christi. As they approached the metropolitan area, Vega spoke again. “Move closer. The last thing I want to report to our uncle is that we lost them in traffic.”
Penny pulled a brochure from her purse and began showing the girls pictures of their sightseeing options. It was soon agreed that everyone wanted to tour the aircraft carrier USS Lexington, which was now a docked museum and one of Corpus’s most popular tourist attractions.
It wasn’t difficult to find the big ship, her outline visible from quite some distance away. “Okay, everyone… we have two hours before we have to be at my sister’s house for lunch. Let’s get this show on the road!” Penny declared.
Even in his foul mood, Dusty had to admit that the huge vessel was a sight to see. The museum’s parking lot was right next to the permanent mooring, and the size of the “Blue Ghost” was daunting. As they exited the truck, he couldn’t help but share the girls’ excitement as everyone approached the gangway to buy tickets and begin the outing.
Dusty picked up a pamphlet at the ticket booth and began to learn a little about the history of the great ship. The USS Lexington was a veteran of WWII, having entered service in 1943. Decommissioned in 1991, she had earned her spooky nickname from the wartime Japanese Navy, who believed they had sunk Lexington no less than three times, and took to calling her a ghost ship.
“They’ve got a theatre, gift shop, and restaurant on this boat,” Penny noted as the group entered the main hangar deck. “It’s like a floating city.”
And it was.
For an hour, the foursome climbed through narrow passageways, marveled at the scope of the flight deck and stared out the windows, taking in the magnificent view of the bay offered from the high-rise bridge. The girls were wide-eyed and excited.
They had just finished touring the machinery spaces when Dusty caught a glimpse of a face that looked familiar. He paused for a moment, searching the tourists scattered in the various rooms and compartments. Penny and the girls continued, stepping through a watertight hatch into another section of the ship.
He couldn’t spot anyone he knew and was just about to dismiss the whole episode when a scream rang out from up ahead.
Through the steel bulkhead doorway, Dusty could see Penny holding up her arms in the classic “Don’t shoot” position. She was pale white and clearly shocked.
The big Texan moved quickly, reaching in his belt for the .45 caliber Glock tucked inside. “Please… Mister… please let her go,” Penny was pleading.
Sidestepping for an angle, Dusty spied a man’s arm holding a pistol against the older girl’s head. Another voice responded to the mother’s desperate plea. “We want to speak to Weathers. Come out Mr. Weathers, I know you’re back there.”
“What do you want?” Dusty called, remaining out of sight.
“We want what you have in that duffle bag, Mr. Weathers. Hand it over, and no one will be harmed,” came the reply.
Dusty was confused. His mind had immediately concluded that the Tri-Materials thugs followed them from Laredo, but they didn’t know about the rail gun. Or did they?
He knew it wasn’t the FBI, as they wouldn’t take a hostage. Or would they?
A dozen thoughts surged through his head, the blood pounding in his ears making it difficult to react. Unable to reach a decision, he couldn’t come up with anything other than to stall.
“You want the money? Is that it?” he called through the doorway, knowing that wasn’t the case at all.
A throaty laugh was the initial response, quickly followed by, “No, Mr. Weathers. You know exactly what I want. Now please show yourself or we will begin executing these females.”
Dusty could see Penny, her eyes wide and darting around the room in sheer terror. She had managed to pull the other girl around behind her, shielding the frightened child with her body. The voice had said “we,” which meant there was more than one goon on the other side of the doorway. But how many?
“You’ve miscalculated,” Dusty answered. “Those women mean nothing to me,” he stated flatly, as he slowly began unzipping the duffle.
There wasn’t an immediate response. After a few moments, again the voice sounded from beyond. “I don’t believe you Mr. Weathers, and time is of the essence. Like you, I don’t want an encounter with the authorities, so stop trying my patience and hand over the bag.”
Dusty pulled the rail gun from the duffle.
The voice from the other side was Latino. In south Texas, that didn’t mean anything specific, but it gave Dusty his next response. “Who are you?”
The green LED glowed bright.
Again the laugh, “Mr. Weathers, you’re stalling, and I’m growing tired of our conversation. My identity isn’t important. What matters is that the men with me are more than willing to execute these women. Hand over the weapon immediately, or I’ll prove that I’m not bluffing.”
Gently, quietly, Dusty inserted a ball bearing into the breech and checked the power setting. “Okay, I’m coming through.”
Tucking the pistol back in his belt, Dusty raised the duffle as if it were a shield, the rail gun in his free hand. He was a little surprised at how shaky his legs felt.
He stepped over the bottom of the bulkhead door and into a large room lined with display cases and other exhibits. There were four men inside.
“What are you doing, Mr. Weathers?” the head-goon asked when
he noticed the rail gun was in Dusty’s hands. “We both know that if you discharge that device inside these enclosed spaces, everyone here will die.”
“Exactly,” responded the Texan in a low voice. “And I’m thinking that might be the best outcome for all of us. You’re not walking out of here with this weapon.”
Vega seemed puzzled by the response, his forehead wrinkling in a frown. “You’re bluffing. I don’t judge you as a man intent on murder or suicide.”
Before Dusty could answer, a new voice rang out. “What’s going on in here?” called an older man in a watchman’s uniform from a doorway at the back of the room.
Every eye turned to see one of the museum’s security guards standing in the opening. It was the distraction Dusty needed.
Surprised by the new arrival, the man holding Penny’s daughter turned just slightly as Dusty reached for the Glock. The kidnapper was well over six feet in height, towering above the teenage girl by almost a full twelve inches. Plenty of margin for a shot of less than five feet.
Dusty aligned the sights on the thug’s temple and forced himself to squeeze the trigger. The roar of the big caliber round inside the close, metal walls was deafening. A second shot was on the way as the gunman’s head snapped back from the impact, a cloud of red and purple mist appearing as the 230-grain bullets exited the back of his skull.
Before the dead man began to fall, Dusty was reaching for the paralyzed hostage while moving his aim toward the next-closest kidnapper. Absolute bedlam erupted inside the room.
One of the assailants was carrying a MAC-10 machine pistol, an automatic weapon capable of spraying over a dozen deadly lead pills per second. Surprised, stunned, and unsure of what was happening, the man’s finger pulled on the trigger before he could bring the weapon to bear. A stream of 9mm bullets began ricocheting off the steel walls at the same time that Dusty fired his third shot.