Serpentine

by Peter Parken

  John reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He threw it onto the coffee table. “I found this in one of their pockets. You’ll see that it has my address written on it. But of more concern right now is that it has the address of Virginia Sky Pilots written down as well as your home address, Shelby. In one of our conversations you told me you were a skydiver. So, putting two and two together, I think they were planning to visit you next.”

  Shelby laid her head back against Nate’s shoulder. “They already did, John.”

  Nate told John the story about the skydiving incident. When he was finished, John just shook his head in dismay. “We have to go public on this as soon as possible, just to save our lives. If they came for us once, they’ll come for us again. There are more where these scum came from.”

  Nate nodded in agreement. “John, are you now prepared to tell what you know—publicly?”

  “Yes, I sure am. I’m done with this. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you tonight. I have a personal mission, which I’ll tell you about another day. All I want to do is live long enough to carry it out. But for you two, you have long lives ahead of you. There’s something really insidious going on; the lengths they’ve been going to to silence us have been extreme. They’re not fooling around. Whatever they’re trying to keep secret is very serious. And it might indeed be that Operation Backwash thing that Dragunov had alluded to in his email to Snowden. Whatever the hell that is, that may be their precious secret. It seems obvious that Alexei Dragunov was the one they wanted to kill on the rollercoaster.”

  “You’ll lose your job if you speak out, John. You’ll be going against the official report.”

  John stood and walked over to the window. He looked out at the starry sky, then spoke very softly; so softly they could barely hear him. “I don’t care anymore. First, I want to help you good people stay alive. Then, I have one more thing to do. After that…I want to…see her again.”

  Nate walked over to the window to join him. “I was just thinking—I’m scheduled to speak at another convention next week. They’ve assigned a topic to me, but if you’re willing to do this with me, we could shock them all with this story instead. All the Press will be there, so we’d catch them all by surprise. If I called a separate Press Conference just to deal with this, the NSA and other government forces might do their damnedest to make sure that no one showed up. Or…make sure we didn’t show up. But, this way, they’ll all be there—it’ll go viral probably while we’re still speaking. It’ll pop up on all the social media.”

  John turned to him and held out his hand. “Count me in. Let’s set the fucking record straight.”

  Nate shook his hand and was surprised by the sheer power in John’s handshake. He hadn’t noticed that on the other occasions they’d shaken hands.

  It was difficult to imagine that this strong, healthy, good-looking man was actually dying.

  Chapter 43

  Nate, being one of the guest speakers, had been favored with three extra admission tickets to the convention. So, tagging along for the experience—an experience none of the other attendees at the convention knew they were going to get—were John Fletcher, Ron Collens, and Shelby Sutcliffe.

  All of the speakers were allowed to sit in the front row with their guests, so that’s where they’d be until Nate’s name was called. Their plan was that once that happened, two of them, John and Shelby, would head up to the podium with him.

  This was the same venue where Nate had delivered his speech, ‘The History of Rollercoasters,’ shortly after the accident. The Walter E. Washington Convention Center was one of the few facilities that could handle such a huge crowd. Once again, it was being hosted by the National Society of Professional Engineers.

  And, once again, the theme of the convention was a controversial one. And the society wanted its guest speakers to address the subject from their own personal viewpoints. The topic of Nate’s speech was supposed to be: ‘God Particle or Devil’s Dust.’

  Of course, he wouldn’t be saying one single word about the God Particle. He would leave that to others, and there were plenty of physicists and engineers at the convention who would talk that topic to death. Nate would be talking about something entirely different.

  The purpose of the convention was to have the audience hear different viewpoints on the controversial Large Hadron Collider, a monstrosity that defied a layman’s description, located in an oval-shaped seventeen mile tunnel beneath the Swiss/French border. This abomination used powerful magnets to, in simple terms, smash beams of protons together at close to the speed of light. There were several installations like this around the world, but this was clearly the largest and most ambitious.

  The LHC had actually been shut down since 2012, when it was reported that its experiments did indeed result in discovering the ‘Higgs Boson’ particle in 2012, which was nicknamed the ‘God Particle.’ Nate, despite being a highly skilled engineer, didn’t quite get it. Apparently, this subatomic particle helped explain why much of the mass in the universe existed. That part he understood—the part he didn’t get was why anyone should care, and why we would want to tamper with something that, according to some prominent physicists, was potentially a dangerous thing to unlock.

  The LHC had needed a long rest, because it was gearing up now for its biggest, most ambitious run yet. Not satisfied with just finding the God Particle, the governments who were sponsoring this experiment wanted more. This time, the objective was to find other heavier particles, particularly the particle that produced ‘dark matter,’ that invisible substance that made up ninety-five percent of the universe.

  This was where the controversy lay—with the LHC due to be fired up again in January of 2015, scientists around the world were challenging the project, calling it reckless, and warning of how it could unleash something so dangerous that it might not be able to be contained. Earth itself could be in peril if the experiment opened up the wrong Pandora’s Box.

  Nate read last week that preparations for the restart had already begun, with one-eighth of the giant collider being cooled to its operating temperature—a chilly -271 degrees Celsius, a temperature colder than outer space. And the remaining sections would be cooled to the same extent in the months ahead, getting ready for the big ‘dark matter’ hunt.

  But, this time—which is what was scaring a lot of scientists—the monster would be smashing protons together at an energy level almost double of what had been needed to discover the ‘God Particle’ back in 2012. People were starting to get scared; well, at least people in the know were getting scared. The average person on the street had no idea what the LHC was and probably thought the ‘God Particle’ was just some new designer drug.

  Most people would probably be shocked if they knew what this obscene use of taxpayers’ money was actually doing way down there under the ground, and what chances it was actually taking with the future survival of the planet. Nate personally believed that some things were best left alone. And the National Society of Professional Engineers knew his views—which was why they had asked him to speak from an opposition standpoint.

  Nate would have loved to have done just that—the stupid LHC project was insanity as far as he was concerned. But today he had more important things to discuss. He and his friends were going to ambush the podium and make a scene. The mood of the convention would turn on a dime and be distracted in a direction that no one could have anticipated. He intended to talk about his own ‘dark matter.’

  The four of them had met several times in the last few days leading up to the convention. Ron had been the voice of reason. Nate wanted to just tell everything they knew, but Ron rightly pointed out that there were some things they just couldn’t say. They couldn’t disclose that they knew the identity of Carl Masterson of the NSA. Nor could they mention their theories about Alexei Dragunov and the meaning of the email he’d sent to someone in Moscow. They couldn’t say that they suspected he’d sent it to Edward Snowden. And neithe
r could they say that Dragunov was the one who was the intended murder victim on the rollercoaster.

  No, they couldn’t say any of those things. Because to do so would open up a can of worms, making their situation even worse. Hacking into federal databases was a federal crime, and to admit they knew all of those things would bring an investigation down on their heads. And Ron could not fathom exposing his friend from Anonymous—that man had dug deep for them on the condition of total anonymity.

  So, they had to stick to the facts as they knew them to be, and deal only with those facts that were known through means other than hacking. They had to realize that they really couldn’t prove anything. And if they even mentioned that there was possibly some sinister scheme underway called Operation Backwash, they would be branded as nutcases. Because, again, they couldn’t prove it, had no idea what it even was, and that very information had been obtained by illegally hacking into the NSA database.

  To a certain extent, their hands were tied. But they could say enough to possibly clear Flying Machines Inc. in the pending lawsuit. Just enough to cast doubt—and once they’d had their say up at the podium, the courts and the public would know that there was enough evidence to indicate that an intervening cause had brought the rollercoaster down.

  And putting themselves in the spotlight would most likely dissuade any more attempts on their lives. After today, they would be too high profile. Their deaths would be high profile. And Nate suspected that the NSA didn’t want any of this to be in the spotlight—for whatever their reasons were, and for whatever Operation Backwash was.

  The NSA, and whoever else was involved, had gone to great lengths to make the rollercoaster incident look like an accident. And since then, there had been the explosion at John’s house, the skydiving horror, and the attempt to kill John by making it look like suicide. Every event had been designed to look like anything but murder.

  Nate leaned forward and looked down the row at his friends in the four seats beside him. “Are we ready?”

  They all nodded nervously. Nate smiled. “We’re gonna be fine. Just follow my lead. And the place is packed with Press. This LHC topic is so controversial, it’s attracted a lot of attention. I noticed CNN, NBC, ABC and all the major newsprint organizations. Let alone the social media that everyone in this room has access to. We’re gonna give ‘em all more than they bargained for tonight.”

  Shelby licked her lips and whispered, “When will we be up?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you this before, but I’m the first speaker. So, don’t be nervous—just look at it this way—we’ll get it over with fast and leave.”

  Nate turned his attention to the stage. The Master of Ceremonies was walking to the podium. It was about to begin.

  The MC delivered his opening remarks, setting the tone for the speeches that would follow. He gave some brief history about the LHC project and briefly outlined what the benefits were, and what the possible risks were with such a project. Then he bowed out and told the audience that he would leave it to the speakers to go into greater detail.

  The moment had arrived. He announced Nate’s name. Nate stood, along with John and Shelby, and together they walked up onto the stage. The MC looked at Nate with a question in his eyes. Nate waved him off and continued up to the podium.

  John and Shelby flanked him while Nate adjusted the microphone to his height. He could hear murmurs in the crowd; probably, like the MC, they were puzzled as to why there were three of them up there.

  Nate stood tall and erect, cleared his throat, and began.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. It’s a pleasure to be here speaking to you once again. Most of you know who I am—or should I say, how infamous I am. Yes, I’m the CEO of the company that designed the Black Mamba, the subject of one of the most horrific rollercoaster accidents in history. And, of course, with the way my company and I have been portrayed in the Press, and will be portrayed in the upcoming Class Action lawsuit, you would think that I’m also a killer.

  “I have two associates up on stage with me tonight. To my right is John Fletcher, Chief Investigator with the National Transportation Safety Board. John is the man who conducted the investigation into the accident. And to my left is Shelby Sutcliffe. Most of you might remember her from the news stories that came out after the accident. Shelby is the lone survivor of the Black Mamba mass murder.”

  There were loud gasps and murmurs in the audience. Several members of the Press were standing now—cameras were clicking away and video rolling. He had their attention.

  The MC walked up to Nate and whispered in his ear. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Nate turned his head towards him and whispered back. “Something I should have done weeks ago. Go back to your spot. I have the microphone.”

  Things had quieted down a bit. But Nate knew he had to speak fast now just in case someone decided to call Security and have them hauled off the stage.

  “My topic tonight is supposed to be: ‘God Particle or Devil’s Dust.’ Well, I’m not going to talk about that—there are plenty of other experts here who know more about that subject than I do. What I’m going to talk about is how my rollercoaster was sabotaged. And how twenty-five people died, perhaps in order to kill one person. The accident wasn’t an accident—it was mass murder.

  “After the accident, the investigation was mysteriously assigned to the NTSB. Strange, because amusement park accidents do not fall under their jurisdiction. Then my team and our insurance company were denied access—we weren’t allowed to see the wreckage. Before we knew it, it had been hauled off to Key West, Florida, of all places, and dumped into the Caribbean Sea somewhere off the coast of Cuba.

  “I went down there with two of my engineers and we had the opportunity to see the track before it was disposed of. We could clearly see that the metal of the track had not snapped—it had been melted.

  “Right now, I’m going to ask John Fletcher from the NTSB to step forward and give you his assessment. John is fully aware that he will probably lose his job after tonight, but he’s decided to take that chance to tell you what he knows.” Nate turned to John. “The podium is yours, Mr. Fletcher.”

  John adjusted the microphone higher, then cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I did indeed conduct the investigation into the accident. And I signed a false report. I was forced to do so by both my superior and a senior official from the National Security Agency.”

  There was noise in the crowd again at the mention of the NSA. Members of the Press were moving closer to the front of the stage. There was some heckling coming from the back row, but Nate couldn’t make out what they were saying, and whether they were on their side or not. It didn’t matter—he didn’t give a shit who was on their side.

  John continued.

  “I don’t know who the NSA man was, or why they wanted the false report issued. But I went along—and that was my mistake. I can’t in all conscience allow this good company, Flying Machines Inc., to be incriminated or sued based on false information. I saw the track. As Mr. Morrell said, it had been melted and my original report stated that.

  “It was sabotage, and my expertise led me to believe that a substance called Thermate-3 was used, equipped with radio frequency fuses having the capability of being set off by remote control. And I believe that same remote control device was used to unlock the lap bars.

  “This accident was staged as a mass death trap—no one was supposed to survive. It is my opinion that disengaging the lap bars was the saboteurs’ back-up plan. If the fuses in the Thermate-3 failed to ignite, then the failure of the lap bars would guarantee the same result—mass murder. But they didn’t bargain on one thing—that there would be a survivor. So, on that note, I introduce you to the lone survivor of the Black Mamba murder scene, Shelby Sutcliffe.”

  Shelby smiled at John and shuffled nervously up to the microphone. Nate stepped forward and adjusted the height of it downward for her.

  She looked out at the au
dience. And promptly froze.

  Nate put an arm around her shoulder, and whispered, “It’s okay, go ahead. I’ll stay right here beside you.”

  She wobbled on her feet and whispered back. “I feel it coming on—feel like I’m going to faint.”

  Nate looked directly into her eyes—could see them rolling a bit, saw that the color had left her face. He whispered again, “Just do your thing. Scream into the microphone.”

  For a split second, Shelby looked at him like he was daft, then nodded and took his cue. She leaned toward the microphone and just screamed with all her might. And again. Then one more time for good measure.

  Nate looked out over the audience and saw the shocked looks on most of the faces. The cameras were clicking away even more furiously.

  But Shelby was okay. Like the trooper she had always proven to be, she cleared her throat and began to speak.

  “Sorry to have shocked you all. I felt like I was going to faint up here, and if there’s one thing I learned from hanging onto the side of the Black Mamba’s trestle structure, it’s that screaming at the top of my head chases away fainting spells. So that’s what I did then, and that’s what I just did now.

  “I was asked to join the Class Action lawsuit, but I was told by the lawyer that I had to testify that the lap bars disengaged upon impact with the broken track. And after I refused, I was paid a visit by that very same NSA man who forced John Fletcher to sign a false report. He threatened me into joining the lawsuit and told me in no uncertain terms that I had to testify that the lap bars disengaged on impact.

  “I’m here to tell you tonight that that was not the case. And I would know—I was there, and I’m the only one alive who can tell you what really happened. Before the train jackknifed with the broken track, I had accidentally pulled up on my lap bar. The thing came up in my hands, with ease. It was already disengaged before the impact and, when I looked over at my seating partner, she was gone from her seat the instant the train left the track. Her lap bar was in the up position. Everything you have heard and read is an absolute lie.”