Seven Unholy Days

by Jerry Hatchett

  “Very gently, slide the device out.”

  We each grabbed an end of the casing, slid it out, and ever so tenderly picked it up and set it on the floor. “Excellent,” the major said. “Can you estimate its weight for me?”

  “Forty to fifty pounds.”

  “That’s outstanding.”

  “How so?”

  “If it were a thermonuclear device it would probably weigh more than that.”

  “I see, Todd. It’s probably not a nuke, which means it’ll still blow the hell out of me and the Marshal here, but at least it won’t take out a fourth of Mississippi if it goes.”

  “Oh, even if it was it wouldn’t be large enough to do damage beyond a mile or so, and I understand you’re in a fairly rural area.”

  “Thanks, Todd. You’re very comforting. What now?”

  “There’s not much we can do until we open it up. Standard protocol before doing that is to—”

  Call it fatigue or insanity or whatever, but I had no interest in protocol. There were three latches on the front of the case and one on each side. I flipped the first one and saw the Marshal’s legs start trembling ever so slightly in my peripheral vision. “Mr. Decker, don’t do that!” the Major’s unflappable demeanor was flapping. I flipped the other four latches and raised the lid. Four or five big beads of sweat dropped down from my face onto the electronics inside. I couldn’t see Larry Bond but he was grinning. I knew it.

  From my gadget-freak perspective, the unit’s interior was a thing of beauty. An apparatus took up two thirds of the space from left to right. It consisted of a sphere about half the size of a basketball. Its surface looked like sort of like polished aluminum, the type you’d see handrails made from in a chic, contemporary opera house. In the center of the ball was a three-inch tunnel that went all the way through from left to right. Immediately to the right was a cylinder that looked like the core of the tunnel. On the right end of the cylinder was a black box that had a bundle of wires running into the electronic control section that took up the right side of the box.

  “Can you get the camera closer, please” Major Johnson said.

  “Sure, Todd.” I grabbed the camera and moved it all around for him.

  “From here, Mr. Decker, it looks like the sphere definitely goes almost to the bottom of the case. Is that your perception by eye?”

  “Yep, it does. In fact, it’s resting on a little foam cradle right in the bottom.”

  “On the control mechanism, underneath its panel, is the left side closed off or is it open where you can see the wires running into it?”

  “It’s open.”

  “Roger. Can you describe what you see underneath that control panel?”

  “Couple of circuit boards. That’s it. I can see right to the bottom of the case.”

  “Very, very odd.”

  “Explain.”

  “We can see everything inside the case, and something crucial is missing.”

  “Please tell me what it is, Major. We’re sort of edgy around here these days.”

  “There are no explosives.”

  “Come again?”

  “You’re looking right at the contents, Mr. Decker. There are no explosives in it.”

  “But what about the ball?”

  “Does the sphere look to be attached to anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “Pick it up.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Quite sure, sir. Pick it up.” I grabbed it and it came right out of the case. I guessed it to weigh around thirty pounds.

  “This device was made to look like a nuclear device, but it’s not one. “

  “So it’s not really a bomb at all.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “Then what the hell is it?”

  “I can’t immediately answer that, sir.”

  “Todd?”

  “Yes, Mr. Decker.”

  “You’ve noticed it has a countdown timer here on the control panel, right?”

  “Yes sir. I see it.”

  “Have you noticed what’s rather strange about it?”

  “Yes sir, I’ve noticed that and I’m sorry to say I cannot immediately—”

  “Okay, Todd. Over and out from Yellow Creek.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  I said goodbye to Larry and shut down the video feed. Then I looked at the countdown timer. It was six digits, arrayed in what could be seen as an hour-minute-second format, and counting down. But the odd thing is that it was moving too fast for a standard time countdown. I compared it to my watch. The digits on the right side of the countdown were moving exactly three times faster than my TAG was clicking off the seconds. Triple time. I stared at it for a moment, trying to figure out the significance of that. The riddle. Thy time now cut by three. I turned to the Marshal. “Go get the others right now, please.”

  54

  5:45 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

  YELLOW CREEK

  I thought I knew what was going on with the speedy countdown but needed to be sure. “Abdul, what time did we reload the virgin CEPOCS code and bring Central back online?”

  He made a few clicks, squinted at his screen, and said, “One minute after three o’clock.”

  “That’s local time, right?”

  “Correct.”

  I did the math in my head. A two-sixteen A.M. event didn’t tally, but P.M. did. “At that point, two-sixteen Eastern time tomorrow afternoon, which is one-sixteen our time, was twenty-two hours fifteen minutes away.” Abdul nodded. Tark motioned for me to hurry up, puffing frantically. I sat down at a station and routed its signal to the big display. “Okay, here’s the riddle.” I put it up on screen. “Pay close attention to the last line, thy time now cut by three.”

  “What’s twenty-two hours fifteen minutes divided by three?” I asked.

  “Seven hours twenty-five minutes,” Abdul said.

  “Exactly. Now figure seven hours twenty-five minutes from the time we brought the grids back up.”

  “Ten twenty-six tonight.”

  “And how much time is left between right now and ten twenty-six tonight?” I said.

  The room had a big digital clock on the wall that was synchronized with the national atomic clock in the Naval Observatory. Tark looked at it and said, “Five fifty-two right now, so ten twenty-six is four hours and thirty-four minutes away.”

  “Okay, everybody gather round and take a look at this.” I led them to the device at the front of the room and pointed at the countdown just as it whizzed through 13:42:03 on its downward spiral, exactly three times 4:34:01.

  “Matthew, that’s some impressive detective work but what’s it counting down to? The bomb is fake,” Tark said.

  “That’s the big question. Let’s remember that Hart had no way to know we’d find the device in the bottom of the cabinet. That means its countdown would have expired and we would have known nothing about it. It makes no sense.”

  “I also do not understand something. Why would they go to all the trouble to make the false bomb at all, especially one that looks like an atomic bomb?” Abdul said.

  “There’s another question,” I said. “That device was not connected to anything. How the heck did it know that we had defied Hart’s ‘decree’ and brought the power back online? The speed increase in the countdown had to happen at that exact time or the math would never have worked out the way we just broke it down. Switching the grids was definitely a trigger, but how?”

  “If there are no wires,” Abdul said, “then the trigger must be wireless.”

  “That has to be it. It has a receiver in it that picked up the event,” I said.

  “If it has a receiver in it, who’s to say it doesn’t have a transmitter too, one that could trigger something else when the time is up?” Tark said.

  “Whatever it is, we’ll have to figure it out on our own. The experts are too far away. We need to talk to Jana. She may have information,” I said.

  Several atte
mpts to call the FBI office in Omaha failed to go through.

  I brought the videoconferencing back online and buzzed Larry when our screen showed an empty chair. He was back in twenty seconds. “Sorry about that, Matt. Nature called. What’s up?” I filled him in. “We don’t have a video feed out there but I’ll get her patched through to you on our internal landlines.”

  “Good enough.”

  We watched him work and within minutes her voice came over the speakers. She sounded groggy. “This is Jana.”

  “Jana, Matt Decker here. Thank you for the tip on the bomb. It turned out to be a fake, but we think the device may have some other function that we don’t know about. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “I was there when he put the thing in,” she said. Our earlier conversations had been under more frantic circumstances and I’d failed to notice that she sounded as beautiful as her picture looked. A deep but very sweet voice, with a healthy dose of Southern Belle built in.

  “Where is the guy who planted the bomb?”

  “Dead, killed by Hart.”

  “Did you actually see this man?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, I saw way too much of him. He’s certifiably insane and getting worse.”

  “We definitely want to hear about what you’ve been through, but for now we need to focus on this device. Did he plant anything else? Did you see him tamper with any of the equipment in the room?”

  “All I saw was him doing something to one of the computers and planting that bomb, or what I thought was a bomb, but he left me locked in a closet for a while. He had some kind of big box, old looking, on this dolly when he left me there, and when he came back he didn’t have it. That’s all I know about what went on there, but I have quite a bit I can tell you about Hart.”

  “Ms. Fulton, my name is Larry Bond. We understand you were pretty tired when you got back to our field office, but if you’re up to it our people there need to start debriefing you.”

  “No problem. Get me some food and I’ll sing for my supper.”

  “That’s a deal,” Larry said.

  “Oh, there’s one more thing,” she said. “I left a horse in a man’s living room. Someone needs to go get him.”

  “Uh, I’ll see what I can do on that but I don’t know if we have anyone qualified to take care of a horse.”

  “I’ve had a rough week, Mr. Bond, and this point is not negotiable.”

  “All right, Ms. Fulton. You have my word,” Larry said.

  “I get the impression that Mr. Decker’s running this show. I want his word,” she said.

  “They’ll take care of the horse, Jana.” I like horses and I like helping stunning women who like horses.

  “Good enough,” she said.

  “No problem,” I said, “and Jana?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m very sorry about the crummy week you’ve had.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Decker.”

  “Call me Matt.”

  “Thank you, Matt.”

  The line clicked and I looked to Larry. “Did you catch what she said about an old box?”

  “For sure. I’ll pass that on to Major Thompson.”

  I assume you have the full investigative resources of the Bureau looking for information on one Abraham Hart?”

  “The Bureau, the CIA, the NSA,” he said. “Phones are ringing and hard drives spinning.”

  “Good deal. 10:26 is bearing down on us, so we’re back to work on our immediate problem. Stay in touch, Larry, and please stay on top of the situation with my father. I know the fate of one man pales in comparison to the stakes at hand, but it’s a hell of an issue to me.”

  “I understand, and you have my word.”

  I killed the feed, glanced at the clock, and turned to my crew. “Gentlemen, we have three hours fifty minutes. I suggest we start finding some answers.”

  55

  SUNDAY, 3:50 AM MOSCOW SUMMER TIME (LOCAL)

  (SATURDAY, 6:50 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME)

  METROPOL HOTEL

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  My Dearest Children:

  Prior to this momentous time, this world has existed in a state of chaos and confusion. It gives my heart and soul untold pleasure to announce that the end of this misery is at hand. Hear me explain!

  Each human being craves to know that he or she exists for a reason. This longing drives people to search for meaning in their everyday lives, meaning in the world about them, and meaning in the universe. For many millennia, untold numbers have clung to a plethora of religions and arcane belief systems, because the human mind and spirit is generally incapable of deciphering the real meaning of life. I lived for years in just such a yearning existence myself. That has changed.

  Throughout and during the past years I have discovered that I am not really human. I am immortal, the quintessential embodiment of life and all that it entails. There have been many false teachings purveyed by scores of false teachers and prophets. Some of these were well-meaning souls. Others were utter frauds. I will not call names for it would be a pure waste of time within this brief missive, but the Truth I shall soon share with you encompasses, supersedes, and nullifies all iconic religious personalities who have preceded me.

  Regarding the current situation, as you are no doubt aware, aeons have foretold the significant events have taken place over the past few days, primarily in the United States of America. Fear not! These happenings are the fulfillment of prophecy. A twisted version, a Program of Events so to speak, can be found seeded all throughout the Book of Revelation in the Holy Bible. I encourage you to read the book, but please my children, bear in mind that the Bible was written long ago by many different MORTALS who were inspired by my lingering cosmic presence over a period of hundreds of years, but their regrettably weak minds and numerous imbecilic translations have skewed the true meaning which I desired to impart.

  Alas, the portions of the Bible that speak of the teacher known as Jesus have been hopelessly butchered. They lead to believe that this man was the Christ. Is it not extravagantly exciting to know that the real Christ is among you right now? I am Christ. I realize that all those who are reading this are likely beside themselves with spewing joy, but there are yet more good tidings. Tales concerning the so-called AntiChrist are also mangled groupings of incoherent thought. There is no separate AntiChrist. I am the Christ and I am the AntiChrist. There is no distinct personality known as Satan, beyond certain necessary elements of my immortal being. I am Satan. There is none other but me. I created the universe and all that exists within it, and have subsequently lain dormant with regard to my reverential being until now. I shall reveal myself fully unto you in the near future for you to worship me! You are henceforth warned that things are often not what they seem. Rely on my Word for your sustenance and survival. To that end, you may expect a series of further communications over the coming days. Until then, I bid you fond adieu.

  God

  Hart had written and perfected his manifesto over a period of months, then painstakingly edited it once more. After the years of preparation, he had been disappointed to find the actual unfolding of the plan’s elements somewhat anti-climactic. He had fantasized so long and so often that reality had lost some of its edge. The game with Decker—while frustrating at times—had rekindled the excitement. And what was a game without clues? A victory that provided no interaction with the adversary would ring hollow. After a final reading, he pasted it into the email and clicked SEND. The message would be routed through a series of four online services providing anonymity as to its origin. Laws enacted in the United States in the wake of terror attacks meant two of the cloaking companies would readily run traces at the government’s request, but the other two were based in small European countries who weren’t bound by or beholden to the world’s only “superpower.” Despite the safeguards they might be able to eventually trace the message back to this room in Moscow’s lavish Metropol Hotel, but it would do them no good. He would be long gone. The do
cument would be delivered to all major media outlets, as well as the adversary himself.

  Having slept for a few hours, his first rest in days, he was invigorated, refreshed and ready for what lay ahead. He picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Kostia? It is loaded on my aircraft? Excellent. I shall depart at once. The transfer of funds will be executed within the hour. You have done well, Kostia. Eternity will look kindly upon you, my old friend.”

  He hung up the phone and reflected on the past several days. To be certain, there had been a few glitches, but they had been overcome. The magnificent train of destiny chugged inexorably forward on its fateful track, leaving the past behind as it rumbled into the future, a future in which the world would bow before him. Even his old nemesis Decker.

  General Konstantin Nikonorovich Zheleznyakov laid the handset back in its cradle, leaned backed in his tufted leather office chair, and bit the end off a Cuban cigar as he gazed out the window at the gray Moscow river from his office at Genshtab Military Headquarters. With a smile on his face he said, “Nyet, spasibo, druzhische.” No, thank you, my old friend. Thanks to the millions the insane man would soon wire into a Grand Cayman bank account, Kostia’s days of slaving away in a vain attempt to restore a vanished grandeur were almost over. Grandeur would be had, not by his beloved Motherland, God rest her mighty spirit, but most definitely by Kostia as he left the brutal winters of Moscow behind forever.

  56

  7:19 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)

  YELLOW CREEK

  Intel is starting to pour in on Hart now,” Larry said. “Matt, this is one bizarre bird. Here’s the skinny. Birth name is Abraham Hardier, son of Bernard Hardier. Daddy happened to be, now get this, one of the largest defense contractors in the state of Israel. They now buy most of their hardware from us, but thirty or forty years ago Hardier Enterprises built a lot of it for them using our specs ... why are you shaking your head?”