Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  “It seems then,” spoke up Ruthanne, “that our love and concern for her has forced her hand. Hence, she chose to act autonomously. Now we just have to wait and pray she gets herself back home without incident.”

  As Ruthanne finished, and nearly on cue, a computerized voice suddenly boomed overhead and announced that a unknown vehicle had been detected, and on approach toward Sandcastle.

  Everyone leaped to their feet at once.

  The IGS suddenly came to life. It began the process of coalescing countless streams of light into a single, resolved image . . . and then, all of a sudden, there it was: a yellow vehicle—a minivan taxi—appeared, clearly visible on the IGS plate.

  “Is it her! Is it her!” cried Jacob.

  Eli instructed the computer to zoom in and penetrate the vehicle’s exterior skin.

  But even before the image could respond, Ruthanne lit up with excitement, and a smile flashed across her face. “It is her! I can feel her, and she is well!” Then she giggled, strangely. “In fact,” she paused. “Gracie is more than well. I think she is . . . content, even happy?”

  “There she is!” exclaimed Jacob, pointing at a 3D image.

  And sure enough. In the projected image, there sat Gracie in the back seat of the vehicle. She was chatting away at the driver, who appeared to be enjoying every moment of her company. The two were laughing and carrying on like a couple of old hens.

  “Oh yes,” sneered Eli. “She looks to be in real distress. We better send out a team of Heavy’s to rescue her.” He snorted and shook his head. “At least she appears to be okay. Let’s get up topside and find out what on earth she’s been up to.”

  They all stood and whirled to head toward the main corridor’s entry—the hub enclosure was just at the far end. But before they had gotten outside the Avalon courtyard, Ellen suddenly stopped fast. “Wait a second,” she exclaimed, her voice catching them like a lasso. “I don’t think we should go up to Sandcastle.”

  “What?” countered Eli. “Why not?”

  “Because it is none of our business. We need to respect Gracie’s wishes. If she wants to tell us about her adventure, she can. I say we let her come to us . . . if and when she wants to.”

  “I agree with Ellen,” spoke Ruthanne. “It is a sagacious suggestion.”

  “Oh man!” moaned Jacob. “But the curiosity is killing me!”

  “Very well,” agreed Eli. “We’ll wait and let her come down and meet with us here in Avalon . . . when she is ready.”

  “Ahh,” moaned Jacob.

  “Let us proceed with our normal routines,” suggested Ruthanne. “I think the odds are very good that very soon, Gracie will be joining us.”

  Chapter 26:

  Off Florida’s east coast, a sliver of a landmass known as Merritt Island jutted out from the mainland in a fragmented strip of diverse topography. Marshland, tropical forest, farmland and even residential neighborhoods spanned the forty-seven square-mile island. Sandwiched between the Florida coast and the mighty North Atlantic Ocean, only thirty-eight percent of the island’s landmass was inhabitable. The rest was subaquatic.

  On both the west and south portions of the island, the Indian River and the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway severed the land in a puzzle-piece grid; while on the east side, Sykes Creek and Newfound Harbor cut further into her smooth face. An additional fragmentation, via the Banana River, created the north barrier, home to NASA’s Cape Canaveral, and the adjoining Cape Canaveral Air Force Station.

  Amid this broken landscape, a healthy urban of resident housing and small businesses populated the more conducive portion of the island’s landmass to the south—a distinct contradictory to the northern section of the island, where the John F. Kennedy Space Center towered majestically above the flat wetlands. Accompanying the space center on the north side, Merritt Island’s National Wildlife Refuge hosted a near ecosystem of its own: birds and plants endemic to this unique section of Florida’s key climate.

  This elusive barrier of unpopulated wetlands once provided a perfect natural buffer for the now defunct, Space Shuttle compound. Left as a near museum, the secluded area with her buildings and launch facilities, was soon be slated for decommission. However, of the few launch complexes still in service, one in particular, Complex 37B, was not only active, but soon to get a facelift unlike anything ever attempted at the Cape.

  --

  It was late afternoon and the air was beyond humid. The sun bore down on the tiny island in a coppery spray that fell over the glassy surfaces in an opulent gold wash. The Banana River spanned out, stretching her arms in a great ribbon of sea-blue pave. The waterway edged smooth and peaceful, a near mirror to the cloudless sky above.

  From far down the Banana’s glistening path, an odd sound broke the majestic silence and rumbled a deep powerful strode of diesel. Soon, two large barges appeared on the horizon moving up the extensive waterway. Their massive dual hulls cut deep into the river in thrum that caused the surrounding marsh to come alive with bird-flight as herons, egrets, osprey and other wildlife resting on branches of Caper trees and clusters of Bulrush, took to the air. Onboard each transport, a towering metal container, sealed and secure, rose as high as a multi-story building above the mammoth expanse of the level decks. Heavy and cumbersome, the protective casings drew hard upon the massive transports, pushing them to their very limit. Trailing closely behind in a tandem precession, was a much smaller vessel: a U.S. Cyclone class, coastguard patrol ship. It sliced effortlessly through the water as though tethered to its consignment’s every move.

  Among the normal complement of naval personnel onboard the small ship, two men standing on the upper deck were not standard crew. The younger of the two sported a tailored suit, dark with pinstripes. His jet black hair, trimmed beard, confidant frame and polished shoes firmed up the package. He was a handsome man with chiseled features, a powerful stance, and intelligent deep-set eyes. He could have been thirty-five or forty-five—but any age between would have fit that frame like a glove. Of all the characteristics to attached themselves to the tall figure now staring out in the distance like some Commodore ahead his fleet, was arrogance. It oozed obstinately, and like a black flag atop a mast of white, stood out conspicuously onboard the U.S. Coastguard vessel—the usual persona of Professor Jim Reitman.

  The other man—similar in size and build—fit into the surroundings with the ease of a greased gear. His perfect uniform could have been painted on him had it not been for the revelation of breeze on cloth. His silver hair and trimmed sideburns betrayed an age beyond that of his associate, as did his furrowed brow and refined set eyes. Colonel Briggs was like the print on currency—he always came off the press looking exactly the same in his starched shirt and creased pants. This day, however, there was just a hint of sixteen-century schooner captain about him as he glared out through his binoculars.

  Briggs tempted even more authority than usual—probably because he was the highest ranking officer on board; and as such, was the undisputed master of ship and crew. His appropriation of the Coastguard boat had been a near insult, as he had requested a destroyer from the U.S. Navy. But Homeland Security had pushed back and given him a less costly, more conventional option: a lightly armored, hundred-foot patrol boat. He had been astounded at the lack of security. But then again, the Navy administrators did not know what he knew of the cargo they were escorting. To all other government agencies—including Homeland Security—these were just components of another pair of COMSAT satellites on delivery from the aerospace giant, Reitman Enterprises.

  Briggs’ request for a Naval escort from Patrick Air Force Base to Port Canaveral, had initially seemed ostentatious—it was only a fourteen mile run up the Banana River. But when he had talked terrorism, and pointed out the several unsecured inlets from the North Atlantic—coupled with the financial and technological investment of the twin birds they were carrying—the bureaucratic wall soon caved. And although he did not get the ship he wanted, a Coastguard patrol boat
was better than no boat at all.

  The incompetent fools, Briggs thought, eyeing the two barges cautiously behind his binoculars. If they knew what was at stake . . . the absolute and paramount importance of this shipment. Even an armament of nuclear warheads paled to this cargo. He seethed at their complacency. “There it is,” he broke out suddenly in a gush of anticipation.

  Jimmy followed the extended arm until he saw, on the horizon, the outline of the Kennedy Space Center Building drawing up from the flat, damp landscape . . . but this was not their destination. They would come ashore just short of the KSC complex, docking at Port Canaveral, where NASA’s 2,721-ton crawler-transporter—the only vehicle massive enough to transfer the large cargo from the barges to the Launch Complex Assembly Building—would be waiting. Briggs’ men would also be at the port, ready and prepped to aid in the transfer, assembly, and final positioning of the largest and most secretive cargo ever delivered to the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station: the HOPE 1 and HOPE 2 twin satellite systems. Here, the behemoth orbiters would be furtively altered and refitted, before launch.

  “Didn’t I tell you this was the best way to get these babies here? Now you can breathe easy.”

  Jimmy shook his head; arrogant, he thought. “I’ll breathe easy when these two satellites are safely in orbit and online, Colonel. And not one second before.”

  “Relax, Doctor Reitman. Everything has gone right to plan . . . and to schedule.”

  Jimmy unexpectedly turned on the man. “Gone to plan? Thus far, your team’s inexcusable blunders have cost me dearly. It may appear that you’ve managed this little jaunt up the river without incident, but this does not nullify your previous, inexcusable, record.”

  Briggs lowered the binoculars. His eyes remained ahead as he absorbed the assault with surprising tolerance. “I simply meant—”

  “You still don’t quite get it, do you?” Jimmy sliced again. “Your complicity terrifies me, Colonel. Make no mistake, Sandcastle is aware of every jolt, every sway of this boat. As we speak, they know more about the condition of this cargo than we might imagine. This shipment means everything to them. They will not let it out of their sight. There can be no deviations. One mistake, and the game is over.”

  An awkward silence hedged itself between the two men. Only the sound of the ship’s hull slicing through the waves seemed to penetrated the barrier. Briggs shuffled his feet, then finally set aside those irritating binoculars. “You’re worried about the retrofit,” he eased in the question.

  “Yes.” Jimmy conceded. He let his hands tighten on the metal handrail, and leaned into the motion of the ship causing a breeze to catch his thick, black hair. “My mother and her Four are a clever lot, Colonel. Their trust in me is their Achilles Heel. That is our play . . . our only play. Disabling and reprograming HOPE’s onboard sentry system and uploading the new algorithms to the satellites without Sandcastle detecting it.” he contemplated in troubled emotion. “Now that will be the real trick.”

  “You haven’t missed anything, Doctor Reitman. You have spent years planning this.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy droned. “I have spent years, true. But the Four have invested their entire lives.” He groaned mockingly, and shook his head. “So much knowledge. So much power . . . wasted. Billions of Reitman dollars channeled into this single momentous, event.” He sucked in a long breath. “My father was a brilliant man,” he continued, “but he and the others of the group brainwashed my mother with their foolish, altruistic fantasies. They would see Reitman Enterprises served up and sacrificed, all for this HOPE. Can you image? All that I have built her to become, just to crumble into oblivion like some forgotten relic.” His jaw tightened and his face flushed in hatred.

  “You need not worry about that,” Briggs infused reassuringly. “We will soon take control and relocate the HOPE technology to the EMR Base at Wendover. Once the EMR technology is in our hands, you have won. Los Alamos will get their scientists back from the dead—this time assuring that they are leashed and controlled. The United States’ technology will be catapulted a century ahead of the rest of the world. You will become the most powerful, wealthiest man on the planet. You will be a true patriot, Doctor, having made this great country the unchallenged supremacy for preserving peace and democracy throughout the world.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy muttered from behind his trance. “That, after all, is the underlying purpose, is it not?”

  “It is. And the world will be forever in your debt.”

  “Yes. My debt.”

  Chapter 27:

  It was unusual for the group to assemble in the estate library, especially when it came to discussing issues relating to the underground complex—Avalon’s conference areas were far more conduce for discussion of this importance. But it seemed that Gracie felt her business was of a more personal matter, something which didn’t necessarily involve the project, or at least not directly. It soon became apparent, however, that this was not the general consensus of her four Avalonian colleagues.

  The library’s great swan-neck clock suddenly chimed its familiar tune, followed by eleven distinct dongs, signaling the hour of eleven o’clock p.m. Gracie had deliberated now for an hour, or at least most of the hour. The last ten minutes or so, she—nor anyone else for that matter—had spoken a word. The room had fallen into a definitive silence. The kind of absence which follows an event so overwhelming that time itself seems to pause for a gasp of breath. At least the soft, ethereal sound of the clock carillons breached the void and brought an awareness that time had in fact, continued.

  Gracie knew that the news of her intensions would cause shock first, then debate. Yet a debate was not what she got. She had prepared herself for a justification, a stern altercation between her and the team. But this awkward silence? This thick fog which now layered itself between stunned glares and mental reasoning? Now that was not expected.

  So there they all sat, feet crossed, hands clasped and eyes glaring with emotional responses which seemed to repel vocalization. Yet, within the awkward impasse, a strange negotiation of noise—a synthetic repetition of jarring tones and dissonant sounds—made its way into the emptiness, coming in echoed whispers like bat-chirp in a cave. It was Hank and Emma Sue, the only two who would not remain silent. They kept repeating the same phrase back and forth to each other as if in some speech tournament.

  Emma Sue finally felt the need to move on to other tasks and left the library, leaving Hank with a slight sense of articulating victory. He seemed almost giddy as he moved about the room, prating on to himself the same phrases over and over again: “je-sss-ee,” he bleeped, negotiating around the vowels and consonants the best he could. “so-am guud-a-ween.”

  “Oh for goodness sakes, Hank! Their names are Jessie and Sam Goodwin! It’s not that difficult!” Gracie finally blurted, quite out of patience.

  The mechanical aide bent and set his tray down on the small table next to her. He then geared his humanoid head keenly inward, leaning in bravely close to his matron’s ear. “good-ween”, he attempted a last, meticulous tapping of the word . . . much decreased volume, however. Then he rose, and his bright eyes lightened. He craned his head this way and that, carefully examining the emotional response of the rest of the group sitting in the room. It was almost as if he expected some kind of accolade for his efforts. But he didn’t get any.

  “—win! Goodwin!” exclaimed Gracie, tossing her hands exasperatingly in the air.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Gracie,” Hank replied in perfect synthetic dialect (he had long since mastered this phrase, having used it over and over . . . and over). “I will practice the pronunciation at a later time.”

  “It is all right, Hank,” Ruthanne finally spoke, her patience indicative of one who had programmed the unique droid. “Your articulation of the vowel sounds have greatly improved.”

  “Thank you, Miss Ruthanne.” The android dipped his chin, then moved to his attending spot and rested a hand on his matron’s chair.

  “He’s
probably suffering from brute shock like the rest of us,” Ellen mumbled. She set her glass down rather more firm than usual. “I know I’m still feeling a bit sizzled-in-the-circuits after such news.”

  Gracie let out a frustrated breath and felt the impact of the remark. It was somewhat brazen, even for Ellen, but it was a relief to get some kind of dialog flowing again. “I understand and I’m sorry. Truly I am,” she replied somberly. She shook her head, mentally questioning herself once more. Had she acted impulsively? Had she let her personal feelings impair her judgment? No, she had not. She had spent days deliberating on this decision; she would not now regret her actions. “I just had to intercede,” she exclaimed warily, “for my Tom.”

  “We don’t question your good intent, Gracie. You know that.” Eli stood and paced a bit. “But this is such a radical move. It puts the entire project under duress. We don’t even have a protocol in place to address this type of scenario, this invited intrusion. Do we Jacob?” He turned and eyed the boy.

  Jacob had been sitting very still in the large, deep-cushioned seat, his small frame nearly absorbed by the chair’s high arm-rest and back support. Eli’s question found him with a start. His eyes drew upward just long enough to shake his head in a quiet whisper: “No. We do not.”

  In the gravity of the discussion, Jacob’s odd disconnection was nearly overlooked. But Ruthanne, in her unique manner, reasoned a probable cause for her friend’s distraction; and ironically, it attached itself to their discussion more than any of the others realized.

  It had been several evenings past now, but Ruthanne recalled the occasion with perfect clarity.

  She and Jacob had been above ground doing some routine work in one of Sandcastle’s enclosed garages—the larger of two—with high-lit ceilings and plenty of open work-space. It was located just off the southwest wing, a section of the estate conveniently near to the library with quick access to the underground’s concealed entryway. More a reinforced bunker than garage, the enclosure not only housed the estate’s only car, the Tank—a heavily armored, jet-black Cadillac limo fortified to the hilt with the team’s latest defense mechanisms—but also contained a unique workshop furnished with tools, machines, computers, an entire gamut of hi-tech equipment designed specifically for one commission: the care and maintenance of Hank and Emma Sue.