Ahead! There! He heard himself speak mentally. The words were so abrupt that for a moment he feared he had shouted them aloud. His eyes soon transfixed on a single door. It was just across the hall. Zen hesitated, then stepped cautiously forward. Suddenly, a rustling sound came from within. Yes! Someone was on the other side of that door! He was near now, near enough to make out the words on the opened door: Chemical Storage.
Zen’s heart was thumping so hard in his chest he could not only feel it, but hear it! He swallowed hard and wrestled the last vestige of courage he had left in him. With the lighting out, and all windows long since painted black for isolation, he could only make out shadowed outlines of motion through the sliver of opening in the doorway. Then Zen’s stomach fell to his feet! These were shadows cast by the silhouette of a man, not a boy. This was not Jacob!
If not his missing friend, who then? Zen wasn’t about to wait around to find out. It was time to move on, and fast. Go now! He told himself. But at the very instant he prepared to sprint past the door, a sudden bang caught him by surprise as the doorway flew full open.
Zen gasped and fell back against the opposite wall.
The outline of a tall large man filled his gaze. Their eyes locked for an awful instant. And in that moment of time, Zen felt the culmination of all the fear, all the hatred he had ever known in that clinic. He recognized first the uniform, then the man.
The air seemed to leave his lungs, and he struggled to refill them. His entire body went numb as though the essence of life had been yanked from him. Why couldn’t he move? He was paralyzed with fear!
Only one Nazi could instill such crippling terror.
Zen’s eyes moved to the pistol pointed at him. “Director Laue,” he choked out the name. The one word which he had sworn to never utter again in his lifetime.
It was Laue alright, the Project Director and head scientist. This vile man had been the heart and lungs of the entire GGRC project from the beginning. He had orchestrated and supervised every experiment with sickening detail. His was a legacy of blood, the blood of every murdered child since the clinic began operation.
Laue’s thick eyebrows rose quizzically, and he managed a gutted chuckle. “I thought it was your voice I heard shout out. Thank you. I would never have known that you rats had escaped, otherwise. Now, of course, it falls to me, the only one left, sadly, to see that all evidence is destroyed. And as you might have guessed, you and the others are . . . evidence.” He smiled, baring his yellowing teeth as sickly as a diseased dog. “I have prepared a lethal blend of chemicals for you and your young comrades. A few bottles dropped in the hallways should do it.”
Zen noticed the gas mask sitting near several glass containers, each filled with a noxious liquid ready to spill-out and evaporate into a fog of death. “You won’t survive,” Zen managed. “The Red Army is just outside. You know how the Russians feel about Nazi officers. They will kill you.”
“Of course they will,” he said, his eyes narrowing on the boy. “The rest of my staff already lie dead out in the courtyard, mingled with the twenty-five SS guard who failed defending us.” He sighed nonchalantly and shrugged his shoulders. “Shame, really. They should have been more effective.” He reached and straightened his Waffenfarbe cap. “Strange that none of your Russian liberators have entered the building. Do you find that odd?” He said in a bated tone.
“Perhaps they know about the bomb.” Zen heard himself speak, then instantly regretted it. He should have kept this to himself. “And I know where you have placed it. We knew about your sick plan days after your pathetic puppeteers conceived it.”
At this revelation, Laue’s eyes glazed over with an insatiable hatred. Now he understood. He comprehended how he and his staff had been played. His veins bulged, and his jaw tightened.
Silence fell for a sickening moment giving the man time to feed on his rage. Then, having accepted what was, he forced an inquisitive grin across his seething expression. “I see. You children have been keeping secrets from us then?”
“You have no idea, Mr. Director.”
“A shame there isn’t time for more injections, now that I know there were successful results.”
“Yes. A shame.”
“I suppose it was a good decision to eliminate you. All of you. We can’t have any loose ends, you understand.” He waved his gun in a gesturing motion. “All of this will soon be obliterated. Your dead bodies will be incinerated in the fire that follows. I know it seems like a waste, but you should know, Zen, I enjoyed every moment of it.” He sneered, and Zen’s blood went cold.
Laue raised his pistol and leveled it at Zen’s head. “Time to die, boy.”
Zen closed his eyes.
The percussion of the gunshot hit him like a shovel to the face. He winced, and waited for the pain; waited for the life to leave his body. But life did not leave him! In fact, his heart was racing inside his chest like a great drum!
Zen opened his eyes. To his great astonishment, Laue was laying supine in a crumpled bulk on the floor, blood oozing from his head. The bright beam of a flashlight suddenly raced across Zen’s face and he threw up his hand to shield his eyes.
“Zen!” cried a loud voice, a familiar voice.
The beam switched off. Zen’s eyes quickly adjusted. “Jacob?” he mumbled in a shocked tone. He threw a dazed looked at the boy and blinked unbelieving. His mind had not yet recoiled from what had just taken place.
“Yes, yes!” came the elated shouts of the young child.
Jacob ran to him and the two hugged each other tightly for several moments. Only then did Zen hear the broken German being spoken. It was heavily laced in Russian.
“You are safe now, young man. And your friends are also safe.” The soldier, a middle-aged Russian captain, by insignia, had just holstered his weapon. He turned his powerful light back into operation, but this time it was not directed at Zen’s face, but rather on the lifeless body of Laue.
“Ah. He is dead man,” the captain said.
Jacob pulled away from Zen and glared down at the quivering body. As much as he loathed the man, looking down at the crumpled figure brought an unwelcomed queasiness to his stomach. “Looks like we got here just in time.”
Zen rested a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “Turn away, Jacob. Never think of this man again.”
“Yes. I can do that,” the boy replied. He turned around and focused on Zen. “The others are alright, Zen. They made it out. The captain here—Captain Petrov—his division helped Eli, Ruthanne—all the others—get safely out. They have been moved back to a safe location. They expected the whole building to blow sky high any second.”
“You know about the bomb!” Zen felt the anxiety flood back. He wheeled his gaze at the Russian. He had been so relieved to see Jacob that he had nearly forgotten about the explosive trap.
“Yes,” replied Jacob, resting a reassured hand on his arm.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Zen cried.
“Yes. There was bomb, but young comrade is genius,” said the captain.
Jacob looked up with a zealous grin. “He . . . he means me,” he stammered, “I . . . I mean, I’m the genius.”
Zen looked bewildered.
“They knew about the bomb, Zen,” Jacob explained. “Petrov’s men were able to capture one of the Nazi administrators—Jorg, the fat one who kept all the documents. They captured him just outside of town trying to escape in a hay-wagon. It seems some of the townsfolk were none-too-eager to help the GGRC officials escape. They knew about us. The locals somehow found out that we were imprisoned here,” he laughed in surprise. “And they wouldn’t help any of the Nazi workers escape. Serves them right, huh?”
“So fat Jorg told them about the trap, about the bomb?” Zen said. The pieces began to fall in place.
“Yes,” replied Jacob. “Captain Petrov was about to shoot him, but Jorg told them he had information they needed. I guess he cackled like an old goose stuck in an ice pond. He told them everything! C
aptain Petrov was ordered to enter the clinic and recover any records and documents that could be found,” continued Jacob. “He had no choice. That’s when I ran into him.”
Petrov suddenly interrupted again, speaking in Russian.
Zen couldn’t understand his mumbling, but by the way he kept patting Jacob on the head, it was pretty obvious that it was more accolades.
“So that’s why none of the Russian soldiers entered the building,” stated Zen. “It’s starting to make sense to me now, Jacob.”
“Yes. When Captain Petrov got inside the clinic, he became disoriented. Luckily, we ran into each other.”
“But when did you learn how to speak Russian?” Zen asked.
“The Nazi scientists gave me books on all European languages, including Arabic and Hebrew. I can speak all of them fluently, Zen.” He paused and grinned a sly smirk. “Of course I pretended not to understand any of them.”
Zen laughed.
“I told the captain here that I could help him get his documents if he would agree to help us escape,” Jacob continued. “And he said he would! After his men got the others safely out, I led him to the repository where the archives are located. But the vault had already been sealed,” Jacob went on, eyes wide. “And it was one thick door, I can tell you!”
“That’s where the bomb was located, right?” questioned Zen.
“Correct. Hey! But how did you know that?” Jacob asked, his noise crinkled up in curiosity.
“Ruthanne was able to use her,” Zen hesitated, “skills to determine the location of the bomb.”
“Ah. Of course,” nodded Jacob. “She is amazing!”
“And so are you, Jacob,” said Zen, smiling. He ran his hand in a tease through the boy’s hair. “So are you.”
Petrov smiled and again pointed to Jacob. “Boy is genius,” he rambled.
Zen grinned. “I’ll bet you were able to hack the locking mechanism and break into the vault. Am I right?”
Jacob suppressed a self-satisfying chuckle. He paused, looked down at the ground and shoved his hands in his pockets. He glanced up confidently. “I opened that vault in less than thirty seconds, and disarmed the explosive in fifteen,” he said. He tossed Petrov a smile. “The captain there says I’m a hero. And coming from a Russian captain, I think that’s pretty big stuff, Zen.”
Zen laughed. And it felt so good. “Really big stuff, Jacob.”
Jacob leaned in close and whispered, “Petrov just thinks I’m really smart. He keeps calling me ‘genius’, but don’t worry. He doesn’t know about . . . well, you know.”
Zen nodded. “We will keep it that way. Well done, my friend. Well done.”
The three quickly moved to exit the building. Captain Petrov pushed ahead and opened the heavy exit doors. It was dark outside now, and there was no power, and no lights anywhere. The air rushed at Zen’s face, cold and bracing. He had often dreamed of what it might be like to one day walk through those terrible doors. He had envisioned a lush green countryside on a lazy summer’s afternoon, the air warm and moist, fragranced with wild flowers and ripening fruit. But it was black outside, and the smell of spent shells, smoke and blood accosted his senses. His heart felt heavy for a moment, but then he heard a distant cry—the sweetest sound in the world.
“Zenny! Zenny!” Ruthanne shouted.
Zen’s eyes followed her voice through the darkening shadows. It was so black, yet the moon cast a slight radiance upon the frosted ground, and several smoldering flames still burned on glowing debris.
Suddenly his eyes detected motion amid the blanket of darkness. He spotted a man moving toward them in the yard below. He was a Russian solider, and in his arms, wrapped in an army-issued blanket, was Ruthanne.
The child had refused to leave with the others, begging her liberators to wait just a few more minutes. My Zenny will come out for me, she had repeated, undaunted and fearless. Please . . . just a few more minutes. Ruthanne’s appeals had come with such want and desperation, especially for one so small, that her request had been miraculously granted.
Zen ran to her. The soldier nodded respectfully to the boy and set Ruthanne down. As Zen grabbed her up into his arms, he suddenly realized that indeed freedom had come. And even amid the cold, ugly atmosphere of war, which surrounded them on all sides, he felt the light and warmth of a summer day fill his heart.
Chapter 7:
In the spring of 1950, Utah had successfully began a new decade. Having recoiled from the years of war, she had developed an industrial pulse all her own. It was a good feeling—watching jobs surge forward and commerce smile pleasantly. It seemed the entire state was in a euphoric optimism as contagious as a cold.
The air was thick with renewal, and spring dared an early arrival. Sparse blemishes of brave flowers peaked through melting patches of snow; gulls flew overhead, squawking their mark on worms pushed up by the plow in neatly cut squares of farmland. The air was frost-kissed and sweet, filled with the fragrance of rebirth. But not everyone was a participant in this transformation of seasons, both of the earth and the people which inhabited her.
Zen Reitman found himself in Utah’s salt desert, dehydrated, sunburnt and growing very tired and out of patience. He stood on the lifeless landscapes—a flat area of earth which looked as though it had been washed in lye and left to bake until all life had drained away. His shirt—clearly a favorite by the amount of wear and tear—was lettered across the chest in faded print: Los Alamos Labs. His once navy-blue pair of levi’s were coated in as much desert dust as the dead tree stumps protruding out of the sands around him like toothpicks stuck in a white-frosted cake. His baseball hat—a New York Yankee’s—sat high on his head with thick wads of curly black hair bulging out as though he had stuffed a black poodle underneath it.
Zen walked along at a fairly good clip, especially for having such a large pack looped over his shoulders. The heavy container concealed all but a long antenna which jetted from the top nearly a foot above his head. The remote mechanism, held tightly in his hand, had been miserably silent since he started, void of any bleeps or chirps which might hint at a seismic echo from his power-pack emitter. He gave the device a few more stern taps, checked the voltage output, and then sighed a grumble.
He had been at it for hours, hours of careful scouting and analyzing, and all he had come up with was a few taunting lizards and a mounting entourage of pesky flies. Discouragement mocked the young scientist as did fatigue and boredom. He was beginning to seriously question his reasoning. Had he talked himself into a chimera? A foolish fantasy? He felt a sucker in his optimism.
Zen finally sat for a moment on the soft sand to rest his back from the heavy equipment. He wiped the sweat and dust from his face and thought about his commander back at Dugway. Captain Hensey was an okay guy, just nice enough to feel guilty about deceiving him. He was also intelligent. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Zen knew Hensey would never go for a second request, not without raising suspicion . . . definitely something to avoid. No. This little desert walk-about was sure to be Zen’s only, and last, authorized jaunt in the sands. He needed to make the most of every minute he had left.
A cry from a soaring seagull overhead seemed to join in his self-deprecating mood. At least it’s not a vulture, he said to himself, then smiled at his own stupid humor.
Zen sighed, stretched his back and stood to his feet. He readjusted the straps around his shoulders. They were starting to sting from cutting weight mixed with perspiration and salt, then he bent and pulled up his socks (they kept falling down in the cuff of his boots). Onward then, he mentally prepped. He gazed down at the analog readout in his hand. He gave the device one final shake—never really helped—and sneered. The sound waves emitting from the remote continued to define nothing but a thick layer of clay beneath the sand. Yet, like a despised habit, Zen couldn’t get passed the feeling that he was close. It’s out here somewhere. I know it is. He fiddled a bit more with the tuning dial then scoffed at the uselessness of th
e expensive equipment issued to him from the armory at Dugway.
When the Military’s Science Division had transferred him—stolen him as he had seen it—from his research at the Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico, they had promised it would only be a temporary assignment. But four months had gone by, and his requests to return to the prestigious facility had been conveniently ignored. Zen missed Ruthy and the rest of the group, terribly. They got to stay while he was yanked up and shipped off. “Lucky dogs,” he mumbled.
Dugway’s top-brass had spoken of newly developed technologies, equipment and state-of-the-art laboratories in which to work. They had talked of a better world. A peaceful world. But hindsight had proved otherwise. Their words had been nothing more than a dangling carrot, a deceptive lure to ensnare him, and it had shamefully worked.
Not long after arriving at Dugway, Zen had found himself coerced into part of a secret team of scientist handpicked by Uncle Sam to develop and engineer a powerful weapon. One even more powerful than the bomb they had dropped on Japan just a few years earlier.
At war’s end, the atomic bomb had forced the hand of the Japanese government into final submission—a surrender which may not have come otherwise. But the cost had been unthinkable: thousands upon thousands had died.
It had only taken a few months for Zen to realize what the real intensions were for his transfer to Dugway Base. But having already been caught in the government’s snare, he felt trapped. How was he to denounce and shun this developing weapon? This prized ideology of military supremacy, and a certain recipe for global genocide. He would have to be cunning. Yes. That was the right word. Cunning in his exit from the military stage, and back to join the others at Los Alamos.
Zen was both alone and outnumbered. The military scientists—this conglomerate of the world’s greatest minds—alienated and shunned him completely. Not that he cared a hoot about their peculiarities. In his opinion they were a bunch of stuffed shirts, anyhow. They were a clique unto themselves, and full of their own expectations. Oh, he had made an effort, to be sure. He had tried to stimulate some kind of rapport from the very beginning. But they saw him as a kid, a strange aberration which they both loathed and feared. The stagnant group of erudite legends had built a wall so thick and impenetrable that Zen knew he could never breach it. They, like their military puppeteers, were possessed with only one thought: the development of this new, more powerful bomb. And Zen knew it would not end there.
Of Salt and Sand Page 9