THE SAVANTS
PATRICK KENDRICK
SUSPENSE PUBLISHING
THE SAVANTS
By
Patrick Kendrick
DIGITAL EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Suspense Publishing
Patrick Kendrick
COPYRIGHT
2015 Patrick Kendrick
PUBLISHING HISTORY:
Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, September 2015
Cover Design: Shannon Raab
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Olga Altunina (Face and American Flag)
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/shannonstent (Wave)
Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Igor Zhuravlov (Birds)
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
DEDICATION
For Cooper and Jackson, you are gifts. Thank you for the lessons you’ve taught me: that a father’s love is without limits, that being different can be destiny, that faith in each other is more important than anything taught, and, of course, for all the adventures we’ve shared and the many more to come.
~ “Big Fish”
PRAISE FOR PATRICK KENDRICK
“Put Kendrick on your must-read list, and move him near the top of the pile.”
—Booklist
“ ‘The Savants’ reminds us that true discovery is found in the things we don’t understand. Patrick Kendrick reminds us that heroes are not all packaged the same, and true faith has no bounds. “The Savants” proves that we must believe before we can act and that we can’t judge a book by its cover. A stunning beginning to a “must read” series.”
—J.M. LeDuc, author of “Cursed Blessing”
“Kendrick’s first foray into the YA realm tells a story of unusually talented young people tasked with averting the worst catastrophe in the history of the United States. This intriguing blend of near-future science fiction, international political thriller, and apocalyptic tale revolves around the titular group of savants, and these well-developed characters are inspiring and undeniably endearing. The novel is powered by pedal-to-the-metal pacing, a seamless narrative, and subtle symbolism. Indeed, to classify this solely a YA novel does it a great disservice, as it will likely appeal to young and old readers alike. A thriller that many readers may find hard to put down.”
—Kirkus Reviews
THE SAVANTS
PATRICK KENDRICK
PROLOGUE
February 5, 1958: an Air Force Training Mission off the coast of Georgia.
The B-47 Stratojet Bomber rocked back and forth in the violent air as if it were already ditched in the whitecaps of the Atlantic Ocean. Its olive-green fuselage shone black and slick, like the skin of a breaching whale just over the storm-tossed sea.
A lightning streaked sky lit up the faces of Captain Christopher Blackwell and his co-pilot, Airman First Class David DeRubbio, as they sweated over the controls of the bucking bomber. Rain pummeled the windshield of the craft and leaked through the rivets that held the flimsy glass.
“They could’ve picked a better night for us to train,” said Blackwell, his brow knotted, his eyes glancing at the picture of his wife tucked into the bezel of the altimeter. The instrument read eight hundred feet above sea level. If anything happened at that altitude, they would have had little time to recover, or bail out of the plane, but these were not viable options considering their payload.
“You can say that again, Captain,” said DeRubbio, peering through the darkened cabin at the gigantic device secured with canvas straps in the back. It was an enormous gray cylinder with the letters and numbers: “Mk-15-Mod-O” stenciled in white block letters on its side.
“You’re not letting a little thing like an armed hydrogen bomb make you nervous, are you, pal?” said Blackwell, trying to lighten the moment.
“They say it’s a hundred times stronger than the one they dropped on Hiroshima,” replied DeRubbio, swallowing dryly.
“I wouldn’t want to find out,” Blackwell said. “Where the hell is that wingman, anyway? Supposed to have been up here over a half-hour ago.”
An F-86 Saber Jet flew through the sky approximately three hundred feet below the bomber. Its radio was malfunctioning as its pilot, Captain Dennis Cross, tapped on the gauges and repeatedly flipped the toggle on the radio.
“Saber-One to Big Daddy, come in, please. Do you read me?”
The radio answered back with a static hiss.
“Saber-One to Base-One, do you copy?” said Cross, adjusting the gain knob on the radio. He glanced at his fuel gauge. It was below a quarter tank. “Saber-One to Big Daddy, if you can hear me, I’m in the ballpark but do not have a visual on you yet. I’m gonna go above this storm and see if I can see you.” He pulled the nose of the jet up and began to ascend.
A broken message came across the bomber’s radio. “Base-One to Big Daddy, you guys see Saber-One yet?”
Blackwell nodded to his co-pilot, giving him the okay to do the talking. “That’s a negative, sir,” said DeRubbio, a drop of icy sweat rolling off his chin.
“We think his radio is out, but he is in your vicinity,” came the message from the base station. “Keep an eye out. As soon as you can get a viz, signal with your lights and get ‘em to follow you back. We’re going to scrub the mission. It’s getting too dicey out there.”
DeRubbio sighed with relief. “You got that right, Base. As soon as we…wait! What’s that, Captain….?”
Captain Blackwell looked at the radar screen just as a tiny green blip appeared from nowhere.
“Damn!” he shouted, trying to remain in control of his emotions as well as the plane. He pulled back quickly on the controls, moving to the right, trying to bank a sharp turn.
The jet continued to ascend even as Cross saw the hulking black silhouette of the bomber above him and tried to turn his craft as well. They almost completed the evasive maneuvers, but the wings of the two aircrafts collided at the last second and splintered into shards, metal wrenched apart emitting the sounds of a screaming banshee. The Saber Jet’s wing burst into flame, then ripped away from the fuselage of the jet, falling into the sea like a dropped torch. The jet vanished into the night like a missile gone astray. The bomber continued on, a gaping wound in its wing and one of its engines fully aflame.
“May-day, may-day,” DeRubbio yelled into the mike. “We’ve been hit!”
At the Air Force base tower, a cadre of men in dark blue uniforms and sparkling brass buttons gathered around the control board and began barking orders to anyone who would listen. A cold, electric fear filled every person in the room as they all realized the enormity of this lapse of judgment, this historical miscalculation.
General Randolph Pearsal approached the group of frantic men huddled around the communications console. His face was shaped like a flint arrow head, his hair slicked back, the color of nickel. “What the hell just happened?” he inquired.
The communications officer looked up at the general, his shirt collar ringed with sweat, his lips tre
mbling as he spoke. “We think Saber-One just collided with the bomber…”
“Are they still intact?”
“Saber-One is lost. We don’t know for sure about the bomber. Communications are sporadic at best. We believe they are still flying.”
General Pearsal’s eyes scanned the radar screen, trying to see any image that might resemble a bomber, but saw only blotches. “Are they over land?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“We’re not sure, sir,” the man at the console said, his Adam’s apple like a stone in his throat.
Pearsal turned his heated stare onto the Comm Officer. “Not sure? That bomber is carrying a live hydrogen bomb, officer. Let’s try to find out.” He grabbed the microphone from the man and barked into it. “Big Daddy, this is General Pearsal. What’s your status?”
Following a relentless silence, a scratchy voice came over the radio: “We’ve lost…engine and might lose the wing. We’ve got…leveled…losing altitude fast…coming in hot.”
General Pearsal recognized the voice of Captain Blackwell and responded, “The hell you are, Captain. You’ve got a live payload on that bird. You are not to land. Do you hear me? I repeat, you are not to land with that payload.”
There was no reply, then the silence was broken only by crackling static. “What are…supposed to do? We’re com…in now!”
The General looked around the room, hoping some smart go-getter would step up and hand him a better decision than the one he had, but none came forth. “Damn it!” he barked. He picked up the mike and gripped it like the handle of a gun. “How far out are you, Big Daddy?”
“…still a couple miles off shore…I think…we…can make it…”
The General’s muscles visibly rippled through his jaw as he clenched his teeth and hissed the order. “Listen, Captain and do exactly as I say. I want you to get as close to the water as you can.”
More crackling, then, “Okay, General…now what?”
The general’s face and neck were shining now, as he said, “I want you to jettison the payload.”
There was an interminable silence before the captain came back. “Did you say jettison, sir?”
“You heard me, man,” said the general. “If you are still over the water, do it now. If you are not over the water, get back over the ocean. You cannot land hot with that armament. If you can’t dump the payload, you’re going to have to ditch the plane in the sea. Do you understand? The seas are rough. I don’t know when, or if, we can get to you.” He paused as if to reflect on his own words. Then, “Those are your orders, Captain. There are no other contingencies. Do you copy?”
There was a sigh of relief heard across the communications room as Captain Blackwell responded, “Yes, sir.”
Blackwell looked into the eyes of DeRubbio. The look they shared was filled with regret, doubt, and fear.
The bomber was so close to the water now, that waves were slapping its belly.
Blackwell nodded to DeRubbio and the airman practically leapt from his seat and lunged back toward their deadly load. “Here goes,” he said, grabbing a bright red lever. He hesitated for a moment; it was not an easy decision to unleash a nuclear bomb on the world, no matter how bad the circumstances were.
Blackwell felt the ocean tugging at his craft, slowing them. In another moment, they would be in the sea. He began to pull up on his controls, the remaining engines whining their disapproval, as he yelled back to the airman, “Do it! I don’t know how much longer I can keep this thing steady.”
DeRubbio winced as he pulled the lever and the bomb doors opened. They were so close to the sea, water splashed in and soaked DeRubbio. He gripped a second lever, his wet hands slipping as the plane lurched from one side to the next. The airman fell forward awkwardly and depressed the “away” handle. The bomb dropped as if it weighed more than the Earth itself and plunged into the waves, a white waterspout leaping up and spraying against the closing bomb doors.
Blackwell lurched to the right, dipping the bomber’s wing into the water, but he managed to keep the plane aloft. Within seconds, the rain-slicked, black surface of the air base runway appeared. They were coming in too fast, one wing fully aflame now, the controls like the horns of a bucking bull in the captain’s hands. Big Daddy slammed into the runway, the front tire bursting like a party balloon, but the landing gear held as the tail end skidded around tearing up asphalt, screeching. Then, it was over. The plane stopped skidding. Smoke began to pour into the cabin. Blackwell and DeRubbio made their way to the side door and bailed from the plane.
The men watched in the distance as headlights raced their way from the base. They looked back at the plane and watched the flames consume the hull of the craft, defying the rain that beat against their faces.
On the ocean floor, the gray hulk dug into the sandy bottom with a dull thud heard only by the startled sea life. It sat for a moment as if considering its whereabouts. Then it began to follow the natural slope of the ocean floor and continued to slide into the silent depths.
CHAPTER ONE
Present time. Location: off the east coast of the United States, near the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. The bottom of the ocean.
The nuclear device that was jettisoned, then lost, over fifty years earlier, the one tagged Mk-15-Mod-O, detonated. The resultant shockwave found one of Earth’s blemishes, a fault line that ran roughly parallel to the North Carolina coast, and pushed into it like a giant hand parting clouds. The ocean floor slowly began to tear apart like old canvas. The ocean responded by vomiting up a small but forceful wall of a wave toward the eastern coast of the United States. By the time it hit shore, it was only about a foot high but was over three hundred miles long. The sea water carried inland some ten miles and caused flooding and water damage to homes that would generate billions of dollars’ worth of insurance claims. Only one person died; a man who had been working on an electrical problem in his home when it flooded. But, there were some people missing, including the crews of some fishing boats that were close to shore when the wave came in, then withdrew, creating a natural vacuum that tugged the boats out to sea, then tumbled them like toys in a giant bathtub.
***
Three days later: Bar Harbor, Maine. The Bar Harbor Behavioral Research Foundation, nicknamed, “The Beehive,” by locals.
It was an enormous, run-down, New England boarding house that had been refurbished into a private, behavioral studies institute some fifteen years earlier. It sat on the side of a mountain overlooking the sea and the craggy shoreline. From up on its mountain perch, lobster fishing boats looked like motorized models in the pristine waters of the Atlantic as waves crashed on the rocks and dripped white, sea foam down their sides like melting ice cream.
Within the institute, Dr. Stephen Pevnick was dressed in his usual attire—that of a typical New England academician: utilitarian shoes that looked more like those worn by a Ukrainian factory worker; un-ironed khaki pants and rumpled tweed jacket, worn by a face that belonged to a man who had dedicated himself to behavioral research. It was a compassionate face, though older in appearance than its actual years, surrounded by curly, salt and pepper hair. He watched with caring eyes as James Tramwell prepared breakfast.
“Exactly twenty-six grams, James?” asked Pevnick.
James nodded, mechanically, as he measured and poured the cereal into a bowl, followed by an equally measured amount of milk. “You know how it has to be with me, doctor,” James said, his Liverpool accent so thick it made him difficult to understand. “I should be able to eat my breakfast in twenty-six bites, approximately one gram per bite. But yesterday it took me twenty-seven bites. I may have slipped when adding the milk. That was why I was off a bit yesterday. You know, on my thinking.”
“I understand, James,” Pevnick said and made another note in a small Steno pad where he kept his observations until he had them transcribed later.
James went through the ritual of counting his clothes before he sat down to his breakfast. He counted hi
s socks, shoes, pants, and shirt, which he kept buttoned up to the very top button. He counted each button. He pulled up the edge of his underwear to include them in the count. The clothes did not match but that was of no consequence to James. He picked up his spoon preparing to eat, but then carefully placed it back down next to the bowl and began to count his clothes again.
James was nineteen years old. His hair was short and appeared to have been cut by dull kitchen shears, which it was. He styled it himself with no conscious thought of what others might think of its appearance. Such things did not matter to him. His hair grew and he cut it to keep it out of his eyes. Grooming habits were necessary because he had to go into the “outside world” and deal with “regular” people.
His glasses were so thick, he looked like he was peering through the bottom of soda bottles. He was a prodigious savant and a mathematical genius, but he had trouble dressing himself. He knew this and, to assure himself, he counted his clothes repeatedly. He, like most savants, had little interaction with other people as he did not possess acceptable social skills. This fact did not bother him either.
“There are eight pieces of clothing, James,” Pevnick remarked.
“Are you sure?” said James.
“Are you?”
“Yes. Counting my belt and underwear,” he looked at Dr. Pevnick’s jacket. “Do you mind if I count your threads? While I eat my breakfast?”
Pevnick smiled benignly. “Not at all, James.” He sat down across the table from James who glanced up at him occasionally, squinting at the professor’s clothing. At one point he stopped and touched the fabric of Dr. Pevnick’s jacket.
“How are the other…special students, Dr. Pevnick?”
“Everyone seems fine this morning. It’s hard to tell with some, though.”
The Savants Page 1