Harold watched Mark as he walked to the stove. He was tall for his age, still growing by leaps, and had no problem piling a mountain of stroganoff onto his plate. Harold was glad his son liked to buy clothes at the thrift store instead of demanding new clothes like his daughter did. Mark grabbed four slices of bread before sitting at the table. “Mom’s really pissed,” he said.
“Hey! Watch the language,” Harold said halfheartedly.
“What’s the matter with her this time?”
It always amazed him how his children could be so observant. This time was right, Harold thought. It seemed he and Calli were arguing a lot lately. On the other hand, at least, she was getting even more demanding. In the past, he had usually given in to her demands. He had fallen head over heels in love with her in high school, though she always ignored him. She was one of the most attractive and popular girls in school, and always dated the jocks. In their senior year, he had caught her on the rebound from a doomed affair with a macho football player who had dumped her for a cheerleader from another school. He had gathered enough courage to ask her to the senior prom, and was elated when she accepted. That night she had talked on and on about wanting a more sensitive kind of guy, and, on impulse, he asked her to marry him. When she said yes he was shocked with elation, but she also stipulated they would have to elope to Nevada that night or the deal was off. He was so happy he could hardly control himself. He took her to her house so she could grab some clothes. He didn’t even bother stopping at his house and drove straight through to Nevada. She had continued to tell him what to do since that night.
Harold and Mark both looked up when they heard the door into the garage slam shut and heard Calli’s car starting. It’s getting worse, Harold thought. Now she wasn’t even saying goodbye when she left.
Harold lost his appetite and sat watching Mark shovel bread and stroganoff into his mouth as though he was starved. “This came in the mail for you, Son.” Mark quit eating and tore open the envelope. “What does AOS stand for?” Harold asked.
“Army of Survival,” Mark replied and dumped several brochures onto the table.
The brochures had pictures of men and women in camouflage clothing, posed in various stages of combat. One picture was of a group of men and women standing at attention in front of a raised cabin. On a porch behind them was a tall, dark-haired man with a black patch over one eye. “Where did you learn about this?” Harold asked.
“From Brian’s older brother, John. He heard about it when he was in the Marine Corps.”
“That’s strange, Max Everex never told me he had another son.”
“He’s from Mr. Everex’s first marriage. He doesn’t come around much. Brian says it’s because neither of his parents like him. I think he’s a neat guy. He let Brian and me hold some of the awesome guns and weapons he carries around in the trunk of his car.”
Harold suddenly felt a sense of alarm. It was one thing for his son to play with toy weapons, but quite another for him to play with real ones. “So where is Brian’s brother now?”
“Here, I think.” Mark held up a brochure. “That’s where he was headed when he left.”
That’s a relief, Harold thought.
Pamela appeared and set her plate in the sink, then sat at the table, looking very serious. “When you and Mom get divorced, I want to live with her.”
“Not me!” Mark said adamantly. “I want to live with you, Dad.”
Again, Harold was surprised how astute his children were to have noticed the rift forming between their parents. “Now, wait a minute, both of you. Who said anything about a divorce?”
Pamela looked at him, her expression one of forbidden knowledge. “I heard Mom and Miss Stoker talking. Miss Stoker told Mom to get a good attorney and take you to the cleaners.”
Harold was thunderstruck. He had no idea Calli was planning on a divorce. He looked at Pamela. “Uh, how long ago was this?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“What does ‘take you to the cleaners’ mean?” Mark asked.
Pamela answered. “It means Mom is going to get all of Dad’s money and property and put him in the poor house.”
Harold’s mind was reeling with the information. How could Calli do this to him without even talking about it?
Pamela interrupted his thoughts. “I just thought you might want to know what I want, Dad, so it will be easier in the custody battle.”
Harold looked at her and slowly nodded, then Pamela stood and left the room. He looked over at Mark, who was finishing his stroganoff as though nothing was wrong. Mark stood and put his plate in the sink and walked toward the back door. “I’m going to find Brian so we can finish our game.”
After the door slammed shut, Harold remained seated and tried to cope with the devastating news. I don’t want a divorce, he thought. Why didn’t Calli talk to him about it? Maybe she really wasn’t going through with it. Maybe it was just talk. Maybe they could work something out.
Harold remembered accidentally discovering where Calli had hidden old love letters from her high school flings. He slowly stood and walked down the hall to their bedroom. He opened her bottom dresser drawer and dug around beneath her lingerie until he found the ribbon bound stack of letters. On top was a copy of a petition for divorce. He sat heavily on the bed, and, as though in a dream, Harold untied the ribbon, opened the document, and read the demands. Calli wanted custody of the children, the house, child support, and maintenance payments.
“My God!” he mumbled. It was all true, he thought. She is taking me to the cleaners.
His fingers felt numb as he retied the ribbon and replaced the bundle in the drawer. His mind was whirling, and after the mental stress of work and the commute home, this was more than he could take. He didn’t have the willpower to confront Calli when she came home.
Harold felt as though he couldn’t breathe. He needed some fresh air, so he slowly stood and walked down the hall. He glanced into Mark’s bedroom and saw all the guns hanging on the wall, and took two steps past the door before turning and entering the room. He stood in front of the wall of guns, carefully studying each one. Most of them were obviously plastic, but near the lower right corner was a real looking silver pistol. He gently removed it from its peg, feeling the weight of the metal as he lovingly ran his hand along its smooth barrel. This one would do, he decided. So beautiful. Yes, this one would be perfect.
Harold carried it back to his bedroom, and sat on the end of the bed so he could see himself in the dresser mirror. The man reflected in the mirror looked like someone else, he noticed. An old man with sunken eyes and a big nose. An old man with hardly any hair. Harold watched the old man in the mirror raise a beautiful silver pistol with his left hand. Ha! Harold exclaimed inwardly. It is someone else. The man in the mirror was left-handed, and he was right-handed. Harold stared in fascination as the old man turned the pistol and placed the end of the barrel against his temple. The old man in the mirror grinned at him, and Harold watched him pull the hammer back with his thumb and pull the trigger. The hammer fell as if in slow motion, and he heard a quiet click. In the mirror, the old man’s grin changed into a mocking grimace.
Suddenly, Harold couldn’t stand to look at the old man anymore. He had to leave for a while, he decided. Without really thinking about it, Harold walked to the garage, retrieved an old suitcase, and returned to the bedroom. In something of a dream state, he packed a few clothes and his suit, and unconsciously tossed the silver pistol on top of the clothes and shut the lid. He didn’t notice Pamela staring at him as he walked past her bedroom. He mechanically grabbed his briefcase by the sofa, and left the house.
* * *
Chapter 3
BOULDER, COLORADO:
At the end of his sermon, Minister Menno Simons stared out over his congregation of two-hundred devout Mennonite worshipers. Outside the church, one-hundred and fifty more were sitting on the lawn or in chairs, listening to the speakers mounted to the building. All mine to do with
as I please, he thought. Only a handful of the thousands who follow my every command. The incredible sense of power he felt nearly made him giggle with delight, but as always, he managed to keep his expression divine.
He looked at his mother, sitting in the front row, her thin, straight hair now completely gray. How frail she looks, he thought. He watched her bring an inhaler to her mouth and take a deep breath. Her asthma was getting worse, and the air pollution throughout the world was only making it worse for her. I hope she lives long enough to see our dream come true, he thought.
Elizabeth Simons was the only member of the congregation not hypnotized by her son, even though her sense of pride was nearly overwhelming. From the morning she opened the door and found him lying naked on her porch, she felt the power radiating from his little body. She knew he was destined to be a great leader and named him after her favorite religion, the Mennonite faith. He’s so handsome, she thought proudly. He didn’t look fifty-seven. Not a trace of gray showed in his thick blond hair and his pale skin was still taut over his sharp-boned facial features. His hypnotic gray eyes were still clear and bright; a sharp contrast to his jet-black coat and trousers. She took a deep breath from her inhaler and sighed with pride.
Menno clasped the fist-sized gold cross hanging from a heavy gold chain around his neck; his signal the sermon was finished. He turned and left the pulpit, disappearing through an ornate wooden door behind him.
His private chamber was sparsely furnished, as a constant reminder that he must maintain a humble image, though his wealth was staggering. He sat in a wooden swivel rocking chair behind a plain wooden desk. He leaned back, placing his feet on the desk’s scarred surface before closing his eyes. The sermons always drained so much of his energy and he needed some time to relax before talking with the stream of people who would come to see him after a sermon.
He heard a soft rapping at the door, but ignored it. Too soon, he thought. The door opened, and Menno looked to see who would dare enter without being asked.
When Elizabeth stepped into the chamber, she saw the fury in her son’s eyes and left the door open. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but Desmond, Gary, and Peter, have returned. I thought you might want to see them first.”
The fury faded from Menno’s eyes and he smiled. “Good news, I hope?” he asked in a smooth, baritone voice.
Elizabeth smiled. “I think so.”
Menno nodded, and Elizabeth stepped back through the doorway. A moment later, three young men stepped through, closing the door behind them. Menno gave them a questioning stare, and all three men smiled.
Menno smiled broadly, clasping his hands together with a sharp clap. “Wonderful! Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “Sit. Sit. I want to hear all about it.”
Desmond told his tale about the oil tanker in Washington. “One man was vaporized, the rest of the crew we dropped in the snow on a mountain. That should drive them crazy, trying to figure out how they got there.”
Then Peter told him about the Arco tanker in the Gulf of Mexico. “I dumped them in the desert.”
“Are there any witnesses?” Menno asked.
A smirk formed on Peter’s lips. “Not anymore.”
Gary Darven hesitated only a second, and then explained what had happened with the Alaskan pipeline. “I didn’t have much time, but everything’s fine.”
Menno stared at Darven for a moment. He had caught the hesitation and knew there must be more to it, but was so elated his dream was coming true, he decided not to press him for the moment. “Then it begins,” Menno announced, and clasped the gold cross. The meeting was over.
The three men stood and left the chamber. A moment later, Elizabeth stepped through the door, closing it firmly. She stared at her son. “Well?”
Menno smiled and nodded. He watched his mother’s smile create more wrinkles on her lined face, and saw her eyes sparkle for the first time in years.
*
Two hours later, Menno and Elizabeth arrived at his private research facility, twenty-miles south of town. They stepped out of the limousine, entered the two-story cement building, and walked to his office.
A few minutes later, the director of the facility entered and Menno smiled as he grabbed the frail looking man by the shoulders. “It’s started!” Menno told him. “They did exactly what I expected, Gerard. Well done.”
The director smiled. “Thank you. The genetic engineers will be pleased. Your instructions were pure genius. You should make millions selling these to the oil companies.”
Menno’s smile faded. “I already have millions, Gerard. I will not tell anyone about this discovery.”
The director looked puzzled. “I thought you wanted these to clean up the pollution?”
“Oh, I do, Gerard, but not that way. I have a much broader plan.”
The director wasn’t sure what his boss was getting at, but let it drop for the moment. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a round, flat crystal, about the size of a silver dollar. “When can we start experimenting with these?”
Menno stared at the crystal and then looked into the director’s eyes. “Not until I’ve proven my point to the world. In the meantime, I’m shutting down this facility. We have enough to do what I want done.”
The director looked shocked. “But we have no idea what these are! We have to . . .”
Menno grabbed the gold cross, and the director instantly stopped his protest. “I know what they are,” Menno said sternly. “You may go.” The director hesitated for a moment, nodded, and left the office.
Menno smiled at his mother. “This is it, Mother! I will gather my followers in three days, and put an end to the pollution.” Menno was puzzled when Elizabeth didn’t smile back.
“What about the director and his engineers?” she asked. “If they tell anyone, the government will try to stop you.”
Menno grinned. “Don’t worry. Come. We must leave.”
*
The director sat in his office and stared at the crystal while he thought about what Menno had said. It was wrong, not telling the world what they had created. he thought. And if Menno didn’t want the fortune they could make from selling this new technology, why shouldn’t he have it? What about these crystals? They could be worth something, too.
The director looked up at the wall safe. All the information about their research was on the flash drive. He could simply take them to another company and make millions of dollars. He smiled and walked to the safe, dialed in the combination for the door, and grabbed the electronic storage devices. To hell with Menno, that religious fanatic, he thought. I want to be rich!
*
At that same moment, the limousine was about ten miles away and Menno instructed the driver to stop. Menno grabbed the phone and stepped out of the limousine. “Come, Mother,” he said and helped her out.
Menno pointed back the way they came and entered a number into the phone. A brilliant flash appeared in the distance, and a few moments later, they heard a muffled explosion as a huge cloud of dust soared into the air where the flash had been.
Menno smiled. “I don’t think we’ll be bothered by the government, Mother.”
Elizabeth smiled, and Menno helped her into the limousine.
* * *
Chapter 4
TEXAS:
The morning sun flashed blindingly off the Gulf of Mexico as the Boeing 777 jet airliner circled Brownsville International Airport. Alex stared out the window at the sprawling city below. Luxurious hotels lined the white sand beaches for miles on both sides of the city and small boats skimmed across the light blue water. South of the city, the behemoth oil tanker looked obscenely out of place with its bow so close to the shore in front of the million dollar homes lining the beach. Even from that height, Alex could tell there were many people wandering around the tanker.
My God! What’s happening to the tankers? He wondered. Six men were dead with no explanation as to how or why. He sincerely hoped the crew from this tanker had escaped
whatever had taken the lives of the Scorpio’s crew.
The jet touched down and taxied to the terminal. It was only 7:30 A.M., but the outside temperature was in the upper seventies with a promise of climbing higher. Alex grabbed his tote bag, walked directly to the men’s room, and changed into shorts, a polo shirt, and white tennis shoes. His next stop was the car rental desk, where he received the keys to a black Ford Thunderbird and a map of the city. When the young man handed him a small envelope, Alex tore it open and retrieved the government identification card Donner had sent him.
As Alex drove south along a two-lane road that paralleled the coast, the air smelled of saltwater and seaweed, and the blue water of the gulf stretched away to the horizon. As he drew near the tanker, he saw several police vehicles and several television news vans parked on the black asphalt driveway of what was probably a two million dollar home. He showed his identification to a police officer keeping the public at bay and drove past the barricade. He parked next to a police vehicle and walked around the side of the house, emerging on the white sand one-hundred-feet from the water. The tanker was another one-hundred and fifty-feet from shore, as if trying to make it to the small wooden boat dock in front of the house. Bold blue letters across the black bow stated the ship belonged to the West Gulf Corporation.
Alex saw two men standing on the shore and showed his identification to another police officer, who allowed him past the reporters. One of the two men near the shore was short, dressed in a tan police uniform and matching cowboy hat. The other was tall, but exceedingly overweight, and dressed in dark blue shorts and matching lightweight shirt. They turned and watched him approach across the sand.
Alex extended his hand to the police officer, a lean little man in his late forties. “Alex Cave,” he told him.
“I’m Sheriff Jackson, and this is Kirt Hendrick, the representative from West Gulf.”
Alex accepted Hendricks’s hand, and cringed when he felt the limp handshake. Alex faced the sheriff. “Fill me in on what you’ve discovered so far.”
The Alex Cave Series. Books 1, 2, & 3.: Box set Page 3