Quantum Touch (Book 3): Shadow Storm

by Michael R. Stern

  FRITZ ASKED where Lois and George had spent the night. The airport, Jane told him. They had a special guest room reserved for VIPs. The president had used it when he stayed in town.

  Fritz offered them drinks. Numb from what continued to swirl around him, he took out glasses but just sat at the table, running his hands through his hair. Jane came in and poured the drinks, handed him one, took the rest out, and returned.

  “Fritz, Linda's okay, you're okay. We'll have the answer. And with a little luck, soon.”

  He hesitated before responding, shaking his head. “Using the portal is responsible for all this. I wish I could go back and save Steve. He had no idea what he was getting into. But who would want to do this? Why?”

  “I don't know yet. But I have a feeling it's someone in Washington. Fritz, I think it's about embarrassing the president, making him ineffective. Maybe even assassinating him. I just don't know.”

  “Politics again? What's the point? He can't run again. And if they know what he's trying to do, why would anyone be against ending war in the Middle East?”

  Jane watched him as he spoke, and then, eyebrows raised, said, “Fritz, thanks! I need to make a call.”

  FRITZ FLIPPED on the TV when he first awoke. He brought a cup of coffee upstairs while he dressed. Between segments of Morning Joe, MSNBC announced that the special guest on Andrea Mitchell's show would be discussing the crisis at the White House.

  “MR. BRANDON, I found something I'd like to discuss with you. Can you come now?” Although Brandon was the CIA Director, he had made his reputation as a counter-terrorism expert.

  “Certainly, Mr. President. I'll be there within the hour.”

  FRITZ, ASHLEY, and their entourage entered the school. Classes would end at noon for Thanksgiving. Fritz was delighted with the school's relatively new policy of not giving homework over breaks. The kids, especially the juniors and seniors, needed a few days without pressure. Or with less. The seniors would all be writing college application essays. Usually, his classes played baseball on short days. But two days separated from his wife, two days with little sleep and a scandal surrounding him, he told each class to try and read the next chapter, which he knew he would assign again as homework on Monday. By fourth period, he longed for the final bell. Aware of the tightening in his neck and shoulders, he shrugged to ease the tension, but to no avail. Linda's parents would arrive around four-thirty. He shrugged again.

  The students had all stopped reading. “Mr. Russell, is anything wrong? Are you okay?” asked Debra. “You don't look very good.”

  Smacked hard by the voice and then dragged back to his students, he said, “I'm sorry, what?” Adrift in his own brain, he hadn't noticed them. At all.

  “Mr. Russell, you should take a nap. You look really tired.” Debra repeated, “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry, guys, I haven't slept enough the past few days. Lots of company coming for Thanksgiving and tons of prep work. I've stayed up late getting the house clean and cooking what I could in advance. Are any of you having big family get-togethers?”

  A bunch of hands went up. Fritz glanced at the clock. Only two more minutes. “You all have a terrific holiday, and we'll finish this on Monday.” They were worried about him, he could tell. He smiled and thought, Thanks, kids. The bell rang, and the noise began. Free.

  Tony said, “On the worst day I had in high school, I was never as bored as today.”

  “Thanks, Tony. Coming from you, that's a five-star review. You should be here on my bad days.”

  Ashley and Jane met Mel, Fritz, and Tony in the hall as the students packed up for the weekend, slammed their lockers, and headed home. Two minutes scampered by, no more, before George came scuttling down the hall. James told George that Lois had a ride, and they would all go to Fritz's house.

  “My parents are coming, and Linda's parents arrive later. What are we going to do?”

  “I'm waiting to hear from the president,” said Jane. “He's found something. We can decide when he tells me. Let's go.”

  THE PRESIDENT and the CIA Director were astonished. “I miss Tom Andrews. He was the most careful person I ever met,” he told the director. The president had enlisted Kim Bishell from the Department of Energy to review the security film of the Oval Office. The originals had been erased at key points. Just like Watergate, the president said, but deadlier. Unknown to anyone but the president, Tom had installed a redundant system. Always-careful Tom. The president saw what he had expected. He told the director he had personally examined Tom's desk on a hunch and had found his analysis of those who know about the portal in a false panel. He didn't tell the director where his hunch came from.

  “GOOD AFTERNOON. I'm Andrea Mitchell. Our special guest today has spent thirty years in government service, including as an advisor to presidents of both political parties. We're glad you could join us. We hope to shed some light on the growing story of a conspiracy at the White House. We'll get the answers when we return.”

  Fritz sat in front of the screen but lost interest when the commercial began. He went to the kitchen to refill his glass. The TV blared, but no one sat in the family room. As he sat down with Mel and James, “compartmentalize” bounced off the walls and into his ears. In Washington and in Riverboro, the word had struck home.

  At five to four, Fritz prepared to leave for the airport. James would be with him. When Fritz started the car, a small electrical charge passed through unseen wires. He and James crossed the bridge to Pennsylvania and turned south on I-95, the airport ten miles ahead.

  MEL'S PHONE RANG, A recognized ID, but the caller disconnected having said nothing.

  Chapter 31

  PHILADELPHIA International airport's chief of security, Charles Dougherty, snatched the phone to stop its ringing. “Dougherty,” he answered. His gruffness meant someone's head would be ringing soon.

  “Mr. Dougherty, this is the president. Please look up the number of the White House and call me back. You will reach the switchboard, so you will know it's really me, and your call will be put right through.” The call ended.

  It sounded like him, he thought as he laid the pencil down. But what the hell? He dialed. He almost dropped the phone when the operator answered, “The White House.” After he introduced himself, he heard, “Oh, yes, Mr. Dougherty, the president is expecting your call.”

  “Mr. Dougherty, sorry to do that to you, but I need your help. You have a 4:36 arrival from Cleveland. Please have Timothy and Emily Miller met and taken to a secure area. Their son-in-law, Fritz Russell, will be picking them up. I would like you to make sure they get to his car without incident. Call me when Mr. Russell arrives. He's been instructed to go to your office, and he has directions to it. To save time, when I answer, say 'Pretzels and cheesesteaks.' ” The security chief snickered.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Do you have the names?

  “Miller, Timothy and Emily. American Flight 463. Fritz Russell. Done.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dougherty.” Dougherty pressed a button under his desk.

  FRITZ CROSSED the Girard Point Bridge and stayed right to follow the ARRIVING FLIGHTS sign. James told him to leave the car in the no-parking zone in front of the terminal. “Go get them. No one will bother the car.” James took out his ID.

  “Thanks James.” The electronic sliding doors opened, and he looked around at the crowd of holiday travelers. It was the year's busiest day of air travel. “Fritz Russell, Mr. Fritz Russell, please pick up a white courtesy phone.” No longer surprised by the strange events visiting him, he spotted a phone and identified himself to the operator, who said, “Hold, please, someone will be with you soon.” Moments later, three armed security officers surrounded him.

  “Come with us please, Mr. Russell.” He couldn't contact James. The guards escorted him into the bowels of the airport to the security director's office. Nothing could have surprised him more than the sight of his in-laws sitting across from a Charles Dougherty, the man behind the name
plate. He didn't know if he should be angry, scared, or happy to see Linda's parents.

  “Mr. Russell?” asked Dougherty.

  “That's me,” he said, looking questioningly at his red-faced father-in-law, whose fists balled when he walked in.

  “Where did you park?”

  “I didn't. The car's in front of the terminal. I have a friend waiting for us.”

  “A Secret Service agent?”

  “What's this about?” said Tim Miller.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Dougherty?”

  “I received a call from a friend of yours. He told me to collect the Millers and make sure you all got safely on your way home.”

  “A friend … of mine?”

  “From Washington.”

  “Fritz, what's going on here?” said Mr. Miller.

  “Hold on, Tim. And what happens now, Mr. Dougherty?”

  “We get you on the way home. But first I need to make a call.” He dialed, and said, “Pretzels and cheesesteaks. Yes, sir,” and handed the phone to Fritz.

  “Hello. Yes, they're here, Mr. President. Thank you. I'm sure they will. Hold please.” He handed the phone to his father-in-law.

  “Hi, Daddy. I'm glad you're there. I'll see you later.”

  “Linda, what's going on? We can't seem to get an answer.”

  “Fritz will explain on the way home. Let me talk to Mom.” He passed the phone and threw a searing glance at his son-in-law.

  “Hi, dear.”

  “Mom, keep Daddy calm. Fritz will explain, and I'll see you later. Now you should go before traffic gets too heavy. Let me talk to Fritz.”

  “Hi, Lin. No problems. James is with me. If we leave now, we'll be home in a half hour.”

  “The president said he'll call you when you're home. Talk to you then.”

  “OK. Say thanks to him. Love you.”

  Fritz handed the phone to Dougherty. “Mr. Russell, folks, we'll escort you to your car.”

  AS THE CAR pulled into traffic, it was passed by a white panel truck. Tim started to ask questions. His tone reminded Fritz why they didn't get along.

  “What kind of trouble are you involved in, Fritz? And where's Linda? Why isn't she here?”

  “Slow down, Tim. One question at a time. First, we're not in trouble. Second, right now, Linda is at the White House. She isn't here because she can't be here and there at the same time.”

  “Don't be glib with me,” said his father-in-law, unbuckling the seat belt and sitting forward.

  “Sir, please put your seatbelt on,” said James.

  “And who are you, anyway, and why are you here?”

  “Tim, this is James Williams. He's a Secret Service agent on the president's detail and a friend of ours.”

  “Your daughter makes wonderful lasagna,” said James, trying to deflate the pressure inside the car.

  “Oh, it is, isn't it?” Emily Miller said.

  “Emily, Linda's in some kind of trouble. Lasagna. Nonsense.” Emily put her hand on Tim's arm.

  “Tim, you might as well relax,” Fritz said. “When we get home, I'll try to explain what's going on. But to fill you in a bit, this is tied to the assassination attempt last week. We're working to find who did it.”

  “What? That's absurd!”

  James turned his head. “Mr. Miller, sit back. Put your seatbelt on. What you were just told is true, and you'll be sworn to secrecy by the President of the United States before this afternoon is over. Please, sir.”

  Grumbling, Tim sat back and pulled the seat belt tight as Fritz sped up to merge onto the freeway. In the left lane on the downhill side of the bridge, just before the Philadelphia Sports Complex, the front of the car hit the pavement. The left wheel careened off the concrete divider and bounced off the windshield, shattering it. The car plowed into the wall and turned 180 degrees counterclockwise. A white panel truck behind them hit them head on. Fritz's car spun again, hit the lane divider, flipped, and then rolled. Broken glass floated through the cabin. Another vehicle tried to stop but hit Fritz's car. Spinning on its roof, the car finally came to a halt.

  Dazed, but aware of what happened, Fritz asked if anyone was hurt. Groans but no answers came from the rear seats. James dripped blood up his face and into his hair. Traffic had begun to move slowly past, drivers gawking, but not stopping. He wondered when someone would stop and check on them.

  “I've called for help,” a voice outside said. A man on his knees asked, “Can you move?”

  “I don't know.” With his eyes closed, Fritz began to move, first his toes, his feet, his legs, and continued up until he turned his neck, and for his effort, received the most god-awful pain he had ever experienced.

  “I think my neck is broken,” he said. “Check the others.” The beeping bleat of a siren approached. The police car pulled in behind to protect them from the traffic. Fritz could hear the officer say, “Jesus, look at this. The wheels came off. Both of them.”

  “Mister, are you okay?” a cop asked, kneeling and then bending forward.

  “I can't turn my head. Check the others.” He could see the officer reach into the back through the window. “They're all alive, but we've got to get them out. Look, gas.”

  “We can't move them,” said his partner. “Fire truck should already be on the way. Tell them to come up the Broad Street off ramp, and tell that jackass to stop honking.”

  It took ten minutes before an ambulance, fire truck, and two more cruisers were parked around them. Slowly, the doors were pried open and the upside-down passengers were removed. Bubbles from the flame retardant ran down the highway.

  “Sir, your neck isn't broken. There's a large piece of glass in it. We can't take it out. To do it safely, a surgical team will have to take charge.”

  “What about the others?”

  “The man in front, he was knocked out, and he's cut up pretty bad. The man in back appears to have a busted arm. The woman, she's a little bruised, but mostly she's just shook up. Yous was all lucky.”

  “Yeah. Lucky.”

  Chapter 32

  MEL'S PHONE whirred again. “Your boy's been in a car wreck,” the message read.

  THE TV DIDN'T help. Jane turned on the radio to hear the traffic report. Mel called the Philadelphia police and a helpful detective took the call. “Agent Zack, please hold for a just a minute.” The detective came back and said a car had flipped on I-95 in South Philly. “First responders are on-site now.”

  “Any way to get someone on the horn? What did you say your name is?”

  “Mahoney, Jack. Let me see if I can get someone. Hang on.”

  “Thanks.”

  It took a few minutes, but Detective Mahoney came back and said, “I have an EMT's cell number. He said they're all alive, but the wheels came off the car. It flipped a couple of times, got hit by other cars. They were lucky.”

  “Jack, thanks. My name is Mel. Give me the number of the EMT and please hold on. One of the passengers is an agent.”

  “I'll hold.”

  Jane called the president, and Tony called the EMT and handed his phone to Mel. Mel found out the ambulance's destination and asked to speak to one of the officers and asked that they not to touch the car until a federal investigation team could get there.

  “Jack, I know it's Thanksgiving, but we're sending a forensics team to the site. The car has to stay where it is. We think this was intentional.”

  “Jeez, you're kidding. Well, I guess you're not. Traffic's not gonna be happy. But I have some friends who owe me. Can you tell me how long?”

  “About an hour. We're going to need a flatbed too. Can you arrange it?”

  “It's upside-down. It'll wreck the roof, but yeah, we can probably slide it.”

  “Jack, you need a really good tow guy.”

  “I'll call a guy who knows what he's doing. Worked with him before.”

  “I really appreciate it. I owe you one.”

  “If you need me, here's my cell number. Call anytime.”

 
; “Thanks again, Jack.”

  FRITZ LAY ON his stomach, his neck immobilized. When a nurse asked if he had any pain, he said it hurt when he laughed. James's bleeding had stopped. The Millers were being treated—Emily for shock and bruises, Tim for a broken arm. Ashley, Jane, and Mel walked into the emergency room, followed by Fritz's parents.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Sorry to mess up Thanksgiving like this.”

  “It's no problem, son. Just want to get you whole again,” said John Russell.

  “How bad's the pain?” asked Martha.

  “Bearable, Mom, but I'd like to get this done. Go see the Millers. They could use some company.”

  “Excuse us all, but the surgeon is ready. We're taking him now,” said a nurse.

  In less than an hour, Fritz arrived in the recovery room. The doctor told everyone that the glass hadn't splintered. Some of Fritz's neck muscles had been cut, but he was able to sew him back together. “Mr. Russell, you have minor damage. Nothing permanent. You were very lucky.” He said Fritz was okay to go, but to have a doctor change the bandage on Friday or Saturday. He would normally keep James overnight for observation, but Jane had assured him she had the staff to do that and get him back to the hospital speedily if that proved necessary. The doctor handed Jane four prescriptions. “Painkillers,” said the doctor. “For each of them.”

  Mel's phone buzzed. “Jack Mahoney here, Mel. The car is off the road. My guy told me something, though. The wheels were burned off the axles, acid maybe. We have the wheels too. Just thought you should know. Hope it helps.”

  “Thanks, Jack. It will. I'll tell the guys in forensics to look. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  IN LESS THAN half an hour, the group pulled in the Russell's driveway. Jack Mahoney had sent them with a police escort.

  “We don't have our luggage,” Emily said.

  “Can't you wear something of Linda's?” asked Tim.