Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  “This is Briggs,” came the voice through the receiver.

  “We are on schedule,” Tanner spoke brusquely, his eyes now shifting from the television to his opened hand. His fingernails needed to be clipped, he noted. “Has your team located the beacon?”

  “Yes,” Briggs replied. “We have a good ping at the penetration point. Doctor Reitman was most helpful. The Fire Ants will be in position to move by 21:00 hours.”

  “Excellent. I will notify you the instant I get confirmation from Reitman to proceed. That’s all.” Tanner set down his phone and unmuted the sound.

  He watched the commentary for a few more minutes, then allowed a low, cackling snort. All this news and hubbub over Reitman’s new rocket technology, he thought. How irrelevant the thing was next to the prize it carried on its back. Tanner smirked at the irony of it.

  Like the carrier pigeon used in battles of old—a war pigeon it was called; an insignificant creature by all aspects and appearances. Yet, attach a tiny capsule filled with strategic information onto its foot, and the bird becomes priceless, the very catalyst for winning . . . or losing, the battle. Reitman’s impressive new launch vehicle was simply the carrier pigeon. And once the cargo was detached, the thing could burn up in the atmosphere as far as Tanner was concerned.

  --

  The dissipating lines of expelled exhaust still patterned the upper dome of atmosphere when the sleek, black limo rolled up to a side entrance of the station building. The driver jumped out and hurried to open his passenger, rear door. Almost on cue, a group of Reitman security personnel appeared at the exit. They hurriedly whisked a fragile woman-wheelchair duo down the ramp and into the opulent vehicle. Jimmy followed, stopping periodically to shake the last of the congratulatory hands being shoved at him from all directions.

  There was still much business to conclude at NASA, but the officials had been made aware of Jimmy’s plans to attend the opera with his mother—a special event to celebrate the successful launch—and since the hour of the performance was quickly approaching, they had deferred all ongoing business to a later date.

  The Ziff Opera House was located at the Adrienne Arsht Center for the Performing Arts in Miami. It was a two-and-a-half hour trip by car, but by helicopter, only thirty minutes.

  The Reitman-owned Bell-429 chopper had been cleared and sat waiting at a military pad just minutes from the observation building. Gracie hated helicopters, but she knew there was no other way to make both launch and opera in the same evening, and so she had capitulated. The Bell-429 was the newest and most comfortable chopper in the Reitman fleet, Jimmy had seen to that.

  As the limousine pulled up to the pad, the security team was already waiting and ready. Gracie eyed the small transport dubiously. It was a curvy, shiny craft, as appealing to the eye as a polished gem. But it seemed rather delicate to her; and not at all like her favorite, sturdy-framed beauty, the Learjet 85. But for tonight, the whirly craft would have to do. And in fact, she soon found herself sitting in the cabin across from her son, the throng of blade-to-air beating in cadence to her nervous heart.

  “It’s okay, mother,” Jimmy calmed. “She’s the best we have—and very safe.”

  “I know all of that. But gravity is still the dominate force in the universe, and we are nothing more than passengers on a gas tank with a propeller attached to the top!”

  Jimmy shook his head and grinned. “We won’t be in the air long.”

  “Thank goodness for that!” she frowned, peering out her window.

  It was a spectacular view. So lovely in fact, that the vista seemed to ease her tensions. As she looked down, the Kennedy Space Center building was just a dot now on a smooth glistening table of spilt liquid silver. She sighed. “What a wonderful day,” she whispered. “Everything went so perfectly . . . like clockwork. A good omen I think. HOPE is where she is supposed to be.” She turned from the window and smiled at her son.

  Jimmy nodded back, agreeably.

  “The opera will be wonderful,”—she continued, turning again to her view—“don’t misunderstand me. But more than anything else right now, I just want to get home and hug my Four.”

  Jimmy made no reply, and toiled to keep the offensive remark from his face. He stared for a few moments out his own window, as though in some deep, methodic trance. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You just spoke to them. Do you really want to call them again?”

  “No, no,” she waved a hand. “I’m thrilled to be spending this wonderful evening with you, son. I’m just so overcome with emotion. I want to share it . . . right now while its near bursting. Soon, like all charged energy, it will expel and die away.” She grinned, then turned away in a distant regard. “I don’t want it to leave. That’s all.”

  A beep suddenly chimed in. The pilot’s voice followed from a tiny speaker in the ceiling. “Mr. Reitman. We’re just descending now. I can see your car waiting by the pad. With a little luck, you should easily make the performance on time.”

  “Oh wonderful!” cheered Gracie, clasping her hands together.

  Jimmy reached and pulled a small microphone to his lips. “Thanks, Mark. We’ll be ready.” He settled back in his chair. “It looks like your ‘perfect day’ is going to last right on through the evening,” he said, his eyebrows actually cresting in a rare notion of excitement.

  “Of course it is,” she replied, happily. “Fate is smiling on us tonight, son. We have earned a run of good luck.”

  “I didn’t think you believed in luck,” he pressed.

  She pondered for a moment. “You’re right. I rescind that statement. We are blessed, then. Because we have sacrificed so much for the good of others. And it feels wonderful,” she tittered in a tone much younger than her age, her eyes twinkling. “So very wonderful! Don’t you agree?”

  But her son didn’t answer. Instead, he had turned his head oddly into his window, as if trying to conceal his face. Had he seen something out his window? Gracie wondered.

  Jimmy now shifted his body in the same angle, an uncomfortable, twist against his seatbelt. What was he trying to see? “Do you see something, son?” she finally asked.

  No reply.

  “Jimmy?” she spoke, her voice elevated.

  “What,” he startled, and turned back around.

  “Why are you sitting that way? Do you see something, son?”

  “Nothing. Just listening to the rotors,” he said. But the truth was far more consuming than that.

  Throughout their day, every response Jimmy had made to his mother had come as tactical strategy—a carefully planned positioning of words spoken to appease and pacify, and certainly to deceive. But now the game had changed. Gracie’s sincerity spewed out of her in a great release of optimism and joy, and it menaced Jimmy’s dark conscience, and gave him pause. This he had not expected, nor did he expect the overwhelming sense of guilt which fell upon him. It was a new awareness . . . it was terrifying.

  Jimmy had turned his face away to hide the moisture in his eyes. Yes, his eyes! How could he be so weak! He boiled at his own inability to control something as pathetic as conscience and sentiment. He swore under his breath; it would not happen again!

  “You can’t be comfortable sitting like that, son.”

  “I’m fine, mother,” he replied in a rasping tone. “I’m just trying to stretch. My feet are going numb.” Then he turned, clenched his jaw, and smiled—a waxen gesture to be sure. But in his mother’s emotionally charged mood, the ploy worked.

  “Oh good,” she eased. “I was worried that something I said may have made you uncomfortable. I’m being uncharacteristically giddy—even childish—I know. I suppose it has been far too many years since I felt this peace, this happiness.” She reached and patted his hand. “I’ll try and be more myself,” she whispered, then smiled.

  He shook his head in a near tremor. “You are just fine, mother,” he pushed out. “I’m glad to see you so happy.”

  But throughout the remainder of the flight, Jimmy wa
s oddly silent and avoided his mother’s disquieting gaze.

  Chapter 45:

  The air inside the newly created dome was thick with salt dust. It hung like a fog, penetrating clothing and stinging every portion of the body which was moist. It was a miserable wait for the Fire Ants; they had not been prepped for this strange phenomenon. But then again—from the very beginning of this mission—every vestige of it had dripped in words like strange, extraordinary, and unbelievable.

  Hours earlier, the EMR devices strapped to the backs of just five men, had easily transformed the solid salt rock into a molecularly equal portion of breathable air, with higher concentrations of oxygen to sustain the fifty plus soldiers now standing in the newly formed cavern. But even with plenty of air and a wide girth, the Goliaths—with their massive incongruent frames and the unnatural eye aglow in an eerie want of destruction—made the darkness seem more as an ushered gateway to purgatory, then a darkened cavern.

  The division had penetrated an outer salt vein, still in its natural form—a mere two-and-a-half mile trek underground from the Mole Hole intersection point. Now they had to wait—wait for the orders to finally tear a hole into this mysterious and once impenetrable underground realm.

  Briggs keyed his radio for what must have been the tenth time in as much as an hour. “Synchronize watches!” he ordered.

  One by one, helmet-lights bobbed in an illuminating crisscross of motion as the men checked and confirmed their digital readouts.

  “Once inside the MU1 station, remember to keep gas masks on until we have safely removed the Four and cleared the air!” Briggs continued. “Then we proceed by the letter! We follow behind the Goliaths, moving into the rest of the complex’s superstructure only after the defense systems have been taken out!” He stopped long enough to cough on tainted air and swallow down salty saliva—even his eyes burned at the irritation. “You’ve all had this pounded into your heads, but I’m going to say it again anyway,” he added a final caution. “Give the Goliaths a wide birth. They are programmed to eliminate all hostiles. The last thing I want is one of my men taken out by friendly-fire!”

  It was not the fortress’s android defenses which caused Briggs to sweat more than his men, it was the Goliaths. He had witnessed the impressive power and abilities of these metal behemoths, but he had also seen them founder and fail—Reitman’s piercing admonition, they are not ready! still resonated in his head. Briggs couldn’t help but feel like a lamb amid restrained lions.

  HOPE’s underground EMR defense systems were impressive, and many. But they were benign to all biological matter—nothing alive was effected. The Four had predicated this. But the Goliath’s EMR weaponry was a deadly modification, and would target anything deemed hostile. To these metal mercenaries, mass was mass; be it flesh or rock, all would be transformed into whatever sample elements had been downloaded into the weapon’s database. For now, the sampling material was set to an unique blend of nitrogen, oxygen, and a host of other trace elements—basically breathable air—putting an entirely new meaning to the phrase, . . . vanished into thin air. For quite literally, his men would do just that if caught in the swath of a Goliath and its target.

  “Your transmitters will identify you as non-hostiles, but don’t tempt fate!” Briggs continued. “Stay clear of any Goliaths which are in attack mode. Let them lead!”

  Again, heads nodded as multiple voices returned, “affirmative.”

  Briggs wiped his brow. The air was also very warm—another effect of the EMR’s molecular restructure—which just acerbated an already uncomfortable time-lag. It won’t be long now, he told himself, taking another glance at this watch. He would use this downtime to recheck his equipment.

  --

  The limousine rolled to a stop directly in front of the Ziff Ballet Opera House, a towering building whose copper and brick exterior gave the illusion of gold leaf.

  Two Reitman security escorts jumped immediately out from the front and hurried to position themselves strategically near the passenger’s rear doors.

  Gracie peered excitedly out her window. The building’s anterior span of rising steps cascaded upward where beaming glass windows, pillared arches, and wide welcoming doorways bustled with the elegant and stylish.

  In no time, she was at the entry, Jimmy at her side. Her son dismissed the security with a nod, then guided her wheelchair through the double-glass entry and into a luxurious foyer.

  A grinning tuxedo approached them, followed by an small entourage of ushers. “Welcome! Welcome!” the man ballooned. “I am the manager, Mr. Iverson,” he stated cordially, reaching out a gallant hand. “And you are Mr. and Mrs. Reitman, I assume.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy returned, shaking the man’s hand.

  “This is such an honor for us,” Iverson continued, bending now to Gracie’s white extended glove.

  She beamed completely, her excitement and thrill almost as tangible as her extravagant apparel—dress, shoes, jewelry and hat.

  “I’m confident you will love the performance tonight,” he enthused, then paused and gave his watch a hurried glance, “but we need to get you right to your seats.” He turned to several ushers and snapped a demanding finger.

  They jumped into action.

  “You have the best seats in the house,” he boasted, “the center box, just above our orchestra circle—full wheelchair access, of course,” he grinned attentively. “We’ve also assigned an usher exclusively to your box, to attend to any of your needs throughout the performance.”

  “That’s appreciated, but not necessary,” Jimmy returned. “We prefer our privacy.”

  “Oh? Very well then,” Mr. Iverson, replied, his tone slightly wounded.

  Gracie puzzled but didn’t dwell on her son’s response. Jimmy had been full of so many surprises the last twenty-four hours—she was immune to the occasional oddity—especially in regard to his social ineptness.

  Mr. Iverson nodded affably, then moved aside.

  Jimmy pushed the wheelchair hurriedly past and steered toward the hallway. But they didn’t get far. Gracie soon reached out to a passing usher.

  Jimmy looked perplexed, and held up for a moment.

  The attendant leaned in toward Gracie as she whispered something in his ear. He rose, smiled and glanced over his shoulder, motioning to his manager, Mr. Iverson.

  Jimmy was noticeably putout. “We need to hurry, mother.”

  “Yes, yes. I know,” she replied, her focus on something else.

  Mr. Iverson snapped into a fast stride. He looked concerned as he approached. Perhaps the temperature was too cold or too hot in the building? Were the seats not to her satisfaction? Too close to the orchestra, perhaps? Was there some accommodation which his staff had missed? The man had heard it all.

  “We arrived in such a hurry. I didn’t have the opportunity to thank you, Mr. Iverson,” Gracie spoke, sincerely. She reached out for a final grasp of appreciation. “It is my son and I, who are honored and so grateful for this experience. Your kind attentiveness has started our evening out so splendidly.”

  The man beamed. He gave the dainty hand another warm embrace, then tipped his chin.

  They were off again.

  Mr. Iverson stood watching as the wheelchair and son duo disappeared up the red velvet ramp. He thought in those few moments, how unique was this woman, this magnate of such affluence and status. He had seen her class before, many times, in fact. The arts—particularly those of ballet and opera—surrounded themselves with the rich, famous and powerful . . . he was no stranger to it. And more often than not, it was a subservient, demeaning, and groveling business. Yet, on occasion, he crossed paths with the truly magnificent. Those who, although possessing great influence and wealth, chose instead to focus on sincerity, kindness, and the wellbeing of others. He could tell in an instant—it was a gift, really—the caliber of those whom he mingled. And this rare jewel . . . this Gracie Reitman? She was a faultless diamond.

  --

  Back at Sandca
stle, the Four had moved operations from the facility’s main control center to the MU1 umbilical station, their fortified cocoon, located some mile-and-a-half down a connecting tunnel-way. The conveyance transport system had them delivered to the station in seconds, where they joined the droid operators just coming online.

  They went right to work— time would not allow for unnecessary distractions. Soon, the MU1 was purring with circuitry. All systems were online and in the green, and each of the Four were busily at their workstations, prepping the androids for what would be a very long afternoon of service.

  “NASA has control of the satellites for another four hours, six minutes and seven seconds,” announced Jacob, eyeing the countdown. “Then we take them back.”

  Eli grinned. “I’d give real money to see the faces of our NASA counterparts when they suddenly lose control of the two most expensive payloads ever put into space.”

  Ruthanne turned at him, her eyebrows peaked above the frame of her glasses. “On the contrary,” she admonished. “I feel sorry for them. Imagine their situation: this most important launch—an unparalleled charge of responsibility and a reputation at stake. Then, by no fault of their process, technology or equipment, all is lost,” her voice trailed off. “No,” she continued with a fervent shake of her head. “This is a bitter-sweet moment, and we owe them our respect and commiseration.”

  Eli nodded a short, chastened motion. “You’re right, Ruthanne. I forgot that success is balanced by failure. We could just as easily be on the other end of the pendulum.”

  The others nodded in agreement.