Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  “Oh come now, Briggs,” Jimmy cackled, insultingly. “You’re not a performer. In fact, your attempt is appalling.”

  Briggs swallowed and returned a disdainfully glare which lasted a hateful moment, then took a long breath. “Alright,” he spoke, finally. Then he hesitated, and drew his gaze out toward the chopper. “You’re as tactful as always, Reitman,” he added, turning again to the man.

  Jimmy’s expression remained unchanged; his eyes locked in their cold attachment.

  “I was waiting to get more information. Then I was planning on contacting you.”

  “Hmm,” Jimmy snorted, cynically. “I’ll settle for what information you have.”

  Briggs nodded. “As you wish.” He thumbed through a few more papers, eventually finding the one he sought. He feigned several serious glances at the document—he’d already read the thing a dozen times—before continuing. “I’ve been asked to expedite the launch.”

  “You’ve been asked?” Jimmy roared, contemptuously.

  Briggs scrabbled. “I’ve been asked,” he paused, “to ask you,” he clarified. “Does that sound better?”

  “No,” replied Jimmy. “And the answer is also, no.”

  “Mr. Reitman—”

  “Doctor Reitman,” Jimmy corrected.

  “Doctor Reitman,” the colonel repeated with obvious sarcasm. “This project constitutes nearly ten-billion dollars of the United States’ Military budget. An amount more costly than our latest amphibious assault ship—”

  “Your what?”

  “An aircraft carrier, Doctor. It is a great deal of money.”

  “And you’re point?”

  “My superiors are getting nervous, for several reasons.”

  Jimmy leaned back in his seat. “Which are?”

  “First,” Briggs continued “there was the malfunction that nearly killed those two scouts out by Bonneville Speedway—”

  “An unfortunate event which has been rectified.”

  “Perhaps, but the repercussions continue. It didn’t matter before when your storms weren’t on the radar. Now they are. The unique probabilities of these electrical storms in such proximity has attracted attention. Now other government branches are snooping around. NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) has put together a team, scheduled to be in the area within weeks—and with their fancy equipment.”

  “Let them sniff. They’ll kick up sand, turn over a few rocks; they won’t be allowed on Reitman property. They will find nothing.”

  “Can you guarantee that? Mrs. Reitman, your mother, is more accommodating than you. She may choose to take the risk and allow them access. They’ll convince her that the team is from some local college—an atmospheric research project. She is sympathetic to appeals which come in the name of education and science, and she has no reason to question the validity of their quest.”

  “She is not a fool, Colonel,” countered Jimmy insultingly. Yet even as he spoke, he belied a flash of uncertainty, an inflection which Briggs caught.

  “Yes,” Briggs nodded. “I thought so. Your mother cannot be our Achilles Heel. That is concern number two on the list.”

  “Is there a third, Colonel.” Jimmy questioned apathetically.

  “Yes. Since you asked.” Briggs pulled several papers from his folder, one of which contained a black-and-white photocopied image. He thrust it in front of Jimmy’s face. “Do you know who this is?”

  Jimmy’s eyes scanned over the image. His eyebrows rose slightly.

  “You know him then?”

  “Yes. He’s an old friend of the family. His name is Tom Toone. He’s nothing more than a recluse. He spends his summers at his desert hideaway; a small dilapidated camp about twenty miles southeast of Sandcastle, near Whiterock Ravine. He—”

  “We know where he lives,” Briggs cut in. Now he paused, putting emphasis on his next question: “Is he in the know, Doctor Reitman?” He leveled a pair of exploratory eyes on Jimmy. “Does he know about HOPE?”

  “Yes.”

  Briggs blew out an exaggerated breath. He sat back hard against his seat and the muscles in his jaw tightened.

  “Other than those at Sandcastle, Tom Toone is the only other individual who has sworn allegiance to the HOPE project,” Jimmy conceded. “He lived at Sandcastle for a time. He and my parents were—” he paused “close. Very close.” Jimmy’s eyes grew glassy, and they returned their drill on Briggs. “He won’t talk, Colonel. Tom would never betray Sandcastle, or the Five. He would die first.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this man?” Briggs growled. “This is bad, very bad!”

  “He is nothing but a desert hermit. His observations have little credence.”

  Briggs didn’t answer. He stared out toward the Black Hawk, now pooled in floods. “Really? He’s been spotted snooping around several of our mobile monitoring stations,” he replied, finally. “Every time we get our units in place, he seems to show up. This picture was taken just topside of your underground Alpha 3C substation. Our camp was arranged outside the perimeter and setup to look like a bunch of drunken frats out for a weekend on the sand dunes. We were successfully decoyed when your Tom came out of nowhere. He had some kind of video device and was recording our camp. At that point, one of our patrols gave chase—”

  “That was a brilliant move,” Jimmy cut in, angrily. “Now he knows something’s amiss.”

  “He has incriminating video, Doctor. What did you expect us to do?”

  “And if you had arrested him, then what? Did you plan on killing him?”

  Briggs eyed the man, but didn’t reply.

  “I assume he got away, otherwise this conversation would be very different.”

  Briggs made a subtle nod. “Yes. We lost him within minutes of the chase. He has some kind of modified sand vehicle. We’ve never seen anything like it. He up and lost our patrol in seconds.”

  Jimmy chuckled contemptuously.

  “What?”

  “Tom was privy to Sandcastle technology. He worked alongside the Five for years. Don’t you think it apropos that he would acquire some of their expertise?” Jimmy shook his head sarcastically. “Of course he lost you. And yes, it is a modified vehicle. Jacob helped him build it years ago. Who knows what the thing can do.”

  “I see,” Briggs said, allowing a brief settling of emotions. Then he shoved several more papers back into the briefcase. “I’m surprised by your apathy, Doctor. I wonder if my next statement might instill some concern.”

  Jimmy calmly folded his hands.

  “Your Tom Toone was most certainly a witness to another desert rendezvous—our last meeting; yours and mine—out by Gold Hill.”

  Now Jimmy reacted. His eyes flashed a frightened notion. He threw his head forward and slammed a fist into the steering wheel. “You said that area was secure!”

  “It was secure! I don’t know how he moves around so quickly, but he did. And, Doctor, if your recluse has eyeballed the two of us corresponding, then it is a pretty good bet that Sandcastle knows about it. The entire EMR project could be compromised—things could go very badly!”

  Jimmy’s forehead was veined, and his lips were rigid. Then he took a long breath, swallowed and recomposed himself. “I would know if Tom had been to Sandcastle. He has not.” He mused for a tense moment and bit at his lower lip, a characteristic Briggs had never seen in the man before. “He’ll wait until he has solid evidence. He would never make such an accusation otherwise.”

  An awkward silence drew around the two men, and the still darkness seemed to crowd in nearer to the jeep. It was Briggs who finally broke the silent impasse: “Then we need to act, and fast. We’re going to have to address this issue, immediately.”

  “Address it! Like you did my father!” Jimmy raged.

  “You cannot continue to blame us for that incident. Zen Reitman’s death was a tragic accident. An accident! You know that.”

  Jimmy boiled. “It could have been handled differently!”

 
“Yes. Yes it could have . . . should have. Look. We’re passed that now. We have got to stay focused on the issues at hand. There’s no going back, Reitman. You and I are in this together. We’ve got to see it through—and we’re close, so very close.”

  Jimmy glared blankly out his window and off into the darkness. “Alright!” he finally shouted. “Take care of it! But I don’t want to know anything. Do you understand! Nothing!” He turned a shaking finger on Briggs.

  Briggs nodded. “Agreed.” And for the first time since their meeting began, his voice held some regret.

  “Are we done, Colonel?” Jimmy questioned, disdainfully.

  “Not quite.” Briggs replaced the folder and snapped shut the briefcase. “They want to see the results of your modifications on the AD’s (Assault Drones). You promised a demonstration nearly a month ago.”

  Jimmy’s chin drew down and he forced a cynical grin. “I see.” He sat silent for another moment, then replied in a casual tone, “we are done here.” He opened his door and stepped out.

  Briggs followed. “So do I get an answer?”

  “Of course.” Jimmy took a step then suddenly whipped around leveling a Glock .45 GAP pistol directly at Briggs’ head.

  “What the—!” Briggs shouted and stammered back.

  The guard on watch instantly countered. His weapon came up in a flash and leveled on Jimmy, just as Jimmy knew it would.

  “Stand down!” the soldier shouted, his rifle at the ready.

  Jimmy smiled. An evil, dark expression.

  Suddenly, a whining hiss filled the darkness. The black surrounding came alive with multiple red orbs bobbing here and there, all coalescing toward the chopper. Then, in another terrible instant, the realization of what they really were came to life. These were the eyes of something demon and terrible. Now as they drew nearer, the sound of their metal forms clanged and ticked until from the darkness they emerged. The large bulks brought an immediate wave of sheer terror as they morphed into attack mode, their single large eye pivoting and rolling in their ugly heads; their claw-like grips snapping and slicing the air. The AD’s encircled the chopper within seconds, moving in like a pack of wolves on wounded prey.

  The pilot fell backward. He drew his own sidearm and blindly pointed the weapon in aimless confusion, then scrambled to make the cockpit, hoping for some protection within the Black Hawk fuselage.

  The guard, who had so bravely challenged Jimmy’s assault now stood motionless. Shock had engulfed him, and his expression was a weld of terror. As the AD’s approached, the soldier swung his M4 Carbine from one to the other of the approaching monsters. Then, one of the nearest drones suddenly crouched in terrible coil and let out a animalistic snarl. The man shook, and nearly tumbled. He fastened a last desperate gaze of submission on Briggs, a glance that could only beg one vivid question: why? Then he turned, raised his weapon and fired.

  Even before the sound of the gunshot reached Briggs’ ears, a flash of light lashed out from the nearest attacking AD. There was a popping sound, like fresh wood on a hot fire . . . and the man was gone. Where he had been, a drifting cloud of fine ash now wafted and sparkled in the helicopter’s floods, dissipating into the darkness.

  The guard could not have known that the AD’s defense system reacted at the speed of light. The bullet fired from the man’s rifle had been intercepted and disintegrated literally as it left the barrel. A millisecond after this first defensive release, the creature followed with a stronger pulse of white-hot energy. The blast had hit the soldier as a freight train would a fly. And it was over. Over for the guard. But now the disfigured demon growled again, and set its horrid eye on the pilot cowering inside the chopper.

  “That will do,” ordered Jimmy as calmly as he would a selection of meat or cheese on a menu. He holstered his gun. The AD’s responded instantly in a stand-down stance which left them humming in a motionless stand. “What do you think, Colonel? Good enough demonstration?”

  Briggs was white. It was as if he had aged ten years. Perspiration dripped from his face, and his pant legs still quivered. “Where’s my guard, Reitman!” he shouted.

  Jimmy looked around as though stupefied. “Hmm. Dead, I suppose. Did I mention that unlike the security drones at Sandcastle, these AD’s can kill. They are equipped with modified EMR devices that are not benign to organic matter. You’ll recall that your superiors,” he paused, putting a tapping finger to his cheek, “requested that little adaptation specifically. Now you can return having verified the results first hand.”

  Briggs glared at the man. Oh how he hated Reitman, never more than at that moment. “You—!”

  “Oh please,” Jimmy cut him off callously. “Let’s not debase ourselves to mere name calling. ‘An eye for an eye . . . a tooth for a tooth’. Isn’t that what the good book says? Now we are even, Colonel. My father for your guard.”

  Briggs didn’t reply, couldn’t reply. What could he do after all? Surrounded by a league of metal drones capable of destroying a modern army, he wasn’t in a position to demand anything. Besides, the irony of it all was that he still needed Jimmy Reitman. The US Military still needed Reitman. They needed him for the HOPE relocation; they needed him for the modifications once the device was at the Wendover Base; they needed him to stage, activate and get the thing online; they needed him to launch, then hijack the satellites. In fact, the awful truth was that Jimmy Reitman still had full control of the project. He was their puppeteer, and had them all dangling on strings. Jimmy was the necessary evil, an evil that would have to be accommodated . . . for now. Briggs’ orders had been blatantly clear, the words, at all costs patently underscored in the document’s last paragraph. It seemed unmistaken then, that when dealing with the devil, devilish acts, even murder, must be . . . overlooked?

  Briggs exhaled, and forced a more relaxed stance. He cleared his throat. “Okay,” he shrugged. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all. I’m impressed. These are beyond anything we could have imagined. I’ll give the General a full report. He and his military associates will be very pleased, I’m sure.”

  Jimmy had already put his back to chopper, pilot and Briggs. “Very good then. I’ll be in touch,” he managed over his shoulder as he continued in a brisk walk toward his jeep.

  Briggs just nodded with contrived equanimity. His body was still shaking.

  As Jimmy opened his door, the group of AD’s suddenly came alive once more. Moving in perfect synchronization, the robotic creatures clicked and whined as gears meshed and sprockets turned. They ground to a halt and froze in an erect position. Jimmy paused long enough to snap his fingers, then got into his jeep and slammed the door. The metal company vanished just as quickly as they had appeared. The jeep spun out, kicking up dust and sand.

  Colonel Briggs just stood there for a long moment, watching the trail of bouncing headlights stripe the blackened landscape until they dropped from sight. His pilot, shaken beyond words, finally stuck a pale head out of a cockpit window:

  “Sir! Can we leave now!”

  Briggs nodded. “Yes. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 21:

  Professor Brant Stephens drove his silver Jeep Cherokee along the gravel road at a speed much too slow for his hurried nature. His character—a push-the-envelope type—held just enough mischief to temp a match of cat and mouse with the highway patrol. But not this time. The young, and perhaps overenthusiastic scientist, was in for an uneventful drive . . . like it or not.

  The graded road he now found himself on had its own built-in speed-limit control system: the bumps and rocks shook him, and his vehicle, like a mad dog on a feather-pillow every time he pushed twenty-five miles-per-hour. And the dust! It flowed from the back of his jeep like the wake from an outboard motorboat, swirling up in great clouds of grime and completely obscuring his flatbed trailer from view.

  The new Polaris ATV he was pulling would be a buried mess by the time he reached the waypoint. So much for the ten-dollar car wash yesterday, Brant thought
, peering at his rear-view mirror. The jeep’s silver veneer disappeared behind a dirty-brown blanket. I hope it doesn’t damage the paint.

  He had just ejected the last of his music CD’s—which he had carefully selected for this trip. The frequent jolts from the road caused a non-stop sequence of skips across the soundtrack—there was no way he was going to risk damaging his favorite Beatles CD.

  Brant only had about fifty miles left and then he could get out, relieve himself and stretch his legs. He had paced himself for the trip and needed to stay pretty much on target. He could handle the rhythm of road for that long. Besides, it would give him some time to think about his game-plan—the one he didn’t have yet—before he arrived at the waypoint coordinates.

  Brant followed the road a few more miles in a southwesterly direction, then slowly felt the road bend around until his GPS settled on due west. The device wasn’t really much use anyway—other than a basic compass—because the route he was on would not be found on any of the system’s databases. Only by downloading the location directly from his weather-tracking software into the unit’s memory, was he able to follow the cryptic course, and then it was only an estimate of latitude and longitude. The GPS might get him through the secluded web of dirt roads and trails, but inevitably, he would have to use his ATV and compass to reach the exact spot.

  As he pondered the pounding his equipment was getting in the back, Brant suddenly noticed a strong, unpleasant odor. It poured in through the outside vents and hung obstinately on the air. I was wondering when I’d smell that stench, he mused. There must be a breeze coming off the Great Salt Lake. During the hot summer months, the passing air gathered up the reeking stench from the lake’s shores and carried it for miles in all directions. The offensive odor came from billions of dead and decaying brine shrimp, repugnant to all but seagull and fly. The gaseous smell had the ability to overwhelm and repulse. These tiny brine—the only indigenous life found in the salt saturated waters of the great lake—were a crucial part of the ecosystem sustaining the delicate habitat near and around the lake’s perimeter. Gratefully, the stench would only last while in proximity of the lake’s shores. With any luck, he would soon be well beyond its detectable hold. And in fact, by the time his nose had finally acclimated to the stench, he had nearly passed through it.