In the end, the president had to step in and bring some sense of order to the madness, appointing a congressional panel to investigate the matter and bring those responsible to justice.
Jack and Angela Taylor, plus Pete Flaherty, were among those who spent countless hours behind closed doors with a panel of congressmen and scientists going over their observations, their firsthand accounts, documenting the incredible discovery of an amazing source of energy, and the disturbing plot to use it for global domination in the hands of a madman.
And shortly after that the arrests began, and not just across the nation, but across the world, as U.S. law enforcement collaborated with the international community to tear down every aspect of Hastings’s operation. The goal was to root it out, to drown it all, leaving it no chance of reigniting under another madman. The president, assisted by his congressional panel, and a team of advisors, which included Jack, Angela, and Pete, wanted to make sure that they would not be fighting this battle again in the future while also ensuring a safe and responsible way to harvest the benefits of salolitite, a clean energy source with the potential to realize the dream of forever moving away from fossil fuels.
And the evening when they returned home from their month-long trip to Washington, the three friends toasted to that future while enjoying a blazing Florida sunset.
Pete left at around midnight. Tomorrow was his first day back at work, back at the helm of not just Project Phoenix but of NASA after a grateful president appointed him director of the space agency under the applause of both sides of the House.
Jack and Angela could also have gotten pretty much anything they wanted, but they just chose each other and their home in Cocoa Beach. Tomorrow would also be a special day for them, and not just by returning to NASA and continuing to pave the way for space jumps while also exploring the potential of salolitite to realize Einstein’s theories, but also because they would get a very special visitor.
Angela had made one request to the president: she’d asked for full custody of Erika Wiltz.
After all, a promise was a promise.
She was as determined as ever to get her marriage back on track, and she never did push much trying to find out exactly what had taken place in that other world for those couple of weeks with someone who Jack described as her twin, beside learning that she had built him another suit. Perhaps some things were best left alone. Jack was with her now, and that was all that really mattered.
And it was him who had suggested a few new rules for their relationship, including always being able to speak their minds in front of each other, never going to bed angry, and never, ever, sleeping in separate beds again.
But late at night, long after they’d made love and fallen asleep in each other’s arms, he would sometimes get up and walk outside to gaze at the stars.
She never asked him why and he never offered. He would just spend a few minutes staring at the heavens, before crawling back in bed to hold her in a way he never had before, tight, tenderly.
And there were other things, like the way he now liked to step in the shower with her, or that new hot tub he ordered, or the way he let her take control in bed.
She knew it reminded him of the woman at the other end of that dimensional jump.
But she didn’t care. It was that same woman who figured out a way to return him back to her.
And Angela even began to appreciate the way she’d somehow changed him in such intimate ways in such a short time, how she’d made him care just a bit more, which in turn made her care a bit more.
Little by little, in just a couple of short months, Angela found herself in the middle of a great marriage, full of passion, love, joy and laughter, just like in the old days, making her believe once again that they might be able to go the distance, giving her a solid foundation to start the next phase of their marriage, adopting a wonderful little girl in need of a loving family.
And it was all because of her, the woman beyond the stars, who’d made them both realize that forever meant forever.
* * *
The frame took forever to complete.
It had to be light but strong, ready to receive a chrome-glistening engine that looked more like an elaborate work of art than the deliverer of 150 horsepower to the extra-wide rear wheel.
Wearing a pair of greasy coveralls, welding goggles and gloves, Angela stepped back to admire her creation in the making. There was still much work to be done, but tonight a set of aluminum pipes had been painstakingly transformed into a thing of beauty.
Mickey Valle would have been proud.
She removed her protective clothing and left them hanging next to the frame, before starting to shut down Dago’s shop at just past five in the morning.
She loved the late shift because that meant she had the shop all to herself to work on Dago’s special projects, the ones commissioned to Paradise by a growing list of discriminating clients to whom money was secondary to their pursuit of one-of-a-kind toys. And this one was certainly starting to look like another unique master creation.
Stepping back, she took another moment to enjoy what would likely be her last project before the fall session started up in Melbourne. Where she would be back to her old routine.
Well, her old routine minus one Pete Flaherty.
She frowned, still furious at him for having reacted the way he did, for letting greed take over his senses. She had agreed to meet him a week after Jack’s departure, but only on her terms, down in Miami with Dago’s full staff in attendance.
He had managed to keep his job at NASA after selling Hastings the Taliban lie while also announcing that his team had managed to locate and rescue Angela Taylor down in Miami.
She had reluctantly agreed to the lie, letting him take credit for rescuing her in exchange for the safety of Dago and his gang—plus getting NASA to foot the bill for the repairs of her home and a new boat. After all, the glass accelerator was gone, and with it any chance of reproducing it.
And then she told him she never wanted to see him again. Ever.
That was almost two months ago.
Angela grimaced and put a hand on her belly.
She was nauseated again. The third time this week.
Reaching in the refrigerator next to Dago’s office, she grabbed a can of ginger ale and sipped it slowly while turning off the lights, walking out the back, activating the alarm system and closing and locking the heavy metal door.
She climbed on the Triumph and put on her helmet and lowered the goggles before kick-starting the bike, twisting the throttle to rev it up when the engine caught. But she had to shut it down when her stomach contracted.
Leaning over, she vomited right onto the pavement, splashing her riding boots.
What the hell?
She stared at it for a moment, as the feeling passed just as soon as it had started.
Angela sat there, on the Bonneville, alone in the parking lot under a blanket of stars, which always reminded her of Jack, of the short time they’d spent together, which now almost felt like some sort of dream, an escape from the loneliness that had been her life for the past five years.
But Jack had returned to her, if only for a little while.
They had laughed, and talked, and rode together, and they even had—
Angela froze, trying to remember the last time she got her period.
Oops.
She kick-started the bike and rode to the nearest twenty-four-hour pharmacy, grabbing the first instant pregnancy test she could find and not even bothering paying for it before rushing to the store’s ladies’ room.
It didn’t take long before she stepped back out, holding the results in her hand, walking aimlessly up and down the aisles, her mind going in twenty different directions, before somehow she found the cashier, an elderly lady who gave her a puzzled look as Angela stood there with the small test wand in her hand.
“Where’s the box, honey?”
Angela blinked, staring at the results again, before mu
mbling, “Back there … in the … bathroom.”
The woman’s wrinkled face shifted, becoming warm, soft, beaming with motherly pride as she said, “Well, that’s perfectly all right. You just had to know, dear. Now, let’s see what kind it is.”
Gently, she reached across the aisle for Angela’s hand and slowly turned it over to look at the brand and model, also noticing the results.
“How much do I owe you?” Angela said, reaching for her cash.
The lady gave her a smile and said, “Nothing, dear. This one’s on the house. Congratulations.”
She thanked her and walked back out to the bike and sat there awhile, before riding to the ocean to look at the sunrise, just as she had done every night since deciding to accept Dago’s summer job offer while her house was rebuilt up in Cocoa Beach.
The stars were starting to retreat when a streak of burnt orange forked skyward, as the eastern horizon became alive, dotted with distant vessels.
A new dawn.
Where she suddenly didn’t feel alone anymore.
Angela left the bike, pulled off her boots, and walked barefoot on the cold sand, listening to seagulls, to the sound of the ocean, and the smell of the sea as the looming sun stained it with hues of yellow-gold, marking the start of a new day, of a new life.
She dropped to her knees, hugged her belly, and watched it through her tears.
* * *
He heard them come in the middle of the night.
Like they always did every full moon for as far back as he could remember, especially after the headaches subsided.
They came to purify him again, just as his wounds started to heal.
But this time it was different.
They had waited too long.
Perhaps they’d lost track of time after so many years. Or maybe the helicopters he’d heard flying overhead or the artillery thundering in the distance for the past several weeks had distracted them.
But they had eventually returned.
The door resisted, as it always did every time they tried to open it. The hinges were old, rusted, like the heavy metal door they connected to the concrete wall. But they gave with a loud creak, and he heard their footsteps as they walked in. Three of them. Always three of them. Waiting by the entrance with their leather straps.
None of them spoke, which was part of the ritual, as was their insistence for total silence. He wasn’t allowed to make a sound, especially during the purification.
He did once, in the beginning, and the punishment had been so severe, he couldn’t walk for nearly six months, according to the crude calendar he kept on the far wall, in the dark, where only he could see.
Turning around slowly, pretending to be hurt, signaling that his ribs, wrists, and ankles had not fully healed, he used his loose clothes to hide the slim muscles he had built through rigorous—and highly secretive—exercise for the past several weeks.
They seemed to relax at his visible weakness, as he staggered slowly toward them, hands trembling, his gaze on the stained concrete floor.
One of them, the older one who went by the name of Atash, grabbed him by the arm and began to fasten one of the leather straps they would use to snap his wrists.
In a single fluid move, he spun on instinct, yanking the three-foot-long leather belt from the startled Afghan and used it like a whip, smashing the heavy buckle into Atash’s head while kicking the second man, Fahran, in the solar plexus. He collapsed gasping for air next to Atash while the third man, Jawid, reached for the AK-47 hanging from his broad shoulders.
But his hands never touched it before a palm-strike pushed his nose deep into his brain, triggering seizures.
He paused, staring at his captors in disbelief before looking at his own hands, not certain how he had moved this way or even where he had learned to do so.
But a deep desire to end the purifications had seized him, making him kick each of them across the temple with a force he knew would be hard enough to kill. And again he questioned how he knew that.
He checked their bodies, removing two daggers as well as a sash to holster them before picking up the Kalashnikov, marveled as his hands moved automatically, with trained precision, checking the safety, making sure a round was chambered even though he couldn’t recall ever holding such a weapon.
Fascinated by his hidden skills, he walked out of the cell and made his way across a compound he’d never seen before even though he’d been imprisoned here for longer than he could keep track.
How long has it been?
Three years?
Longer?
He wasn’t sure, just like he couldn’t remember his name, or why he could kill so easily, but at the moment those skills could help him stop the pain.
Taking a deep breath of cold and fresh air while glancing at a star-filled sky, he instinctively began to look for guards, for sentries, for any sign of threat. But he found none in this small courtyard-like place, feeling cold sand in between his toes as he walked toward what looked like the only gate.
Where is everybody?
He didn’t understand at first, but then realized it was very late, probably in the predawn hours, but the same voice told him he didn’t need to understand why.
What did matter was taking advantage of the opportunity to unlock the gate and inch it open just enough to squeeze his slim frame through, before quietly closing it.
And just like that he was free, the mountains projecting skyward at the edge of the short valley.
He strapped the AK-47 across his shoulders and broke into a run, leaving the small village behind, feeling the wind in his face, once more gazing up at the stars, confused at the strange thoughts filling his mind—thoughts of falling from the heavens, vague memories of the Earth rushing up to meet him, of a parachute blossoming above him.
Reaching the thick vegetation beyond the narrow valley that led into a thick forest, he slowed down, his body automatically dropping to a deep crouch while his hands once again clutched the Kalashnikov, noticing how his shooting finger automatically rested on the trigger casing, feeling quite at ease surrounded by the woods.
His eyes drifted to the south, to the source of those helicopters and artillery rounds that he believed had given him the critical weeks to heal since the last purification.
Continuing up the side of a mountain, using the sporadic breaks in the thick canopy to check the stars for navigation—yet another thing that he just knew—he maintained a steady pace, making it down to a ravine that led to a pond fed by a narrow stream glistening under the moonlight.
Dropping to his knees by the sandy shore, he washed his face before getting his fill of cold water, breathing deeply, staring at his reflection in the rippling water.
He saw his hollow cheeks, his sunken eyes, touched his unkempt beard, his mind flashing images of a clean-shaven man in a strange suit surrounded by other men in lab coats tending to him.
But the images vanished as quickly as they appeared, like flashes of lightning, glimpses of his mysterious past, there one moment and gone the next, replaced by other disjointed images, other memories that also made no sense—memories that had grown vaguer with each purification cycle.
He stood and studied the stars again while scratching the side of his head, where his cranium had a slight indentation, the source of the headaches that had driven him almost mad in the beginning. Hair eventually grew over that old wound—a wound that like so many other things, he couldn’t remember getting.
But a voice deep inside of him told him that the clues were all there, locked deep inside, and just as his muscles remembered, his mind would soon follow. He just needed to trust it, like how he now trusted his hands clutching the AK-47 and his legs bending halfway as he walked mostly on the balls of his feet, devoid of all noise, using the big toe of his leading foot to feel the terrain ahead in the darkness before shifting his weight forward.
As the first beams of light pierced the eastern sky to his far left, he spotted the compound in the vast va
lley below him, watching the large camouflaged helicopters beyond the tall chain-link fence.
Slowly, with caution, he spent a few hours following an old goat path veering down the southern face of the mountain, reaching a gravel road that snaked its way around boulders and clusters of trees toward the gated entrance of the compound, now thriving with activity under a mid-morning sun, as helicopters took off and landed, as troops moved about the place, some on foot, others on Humvees.
He hesitated leaving the protection of the woods, choosing instead to inspect it for some time from a safe distance, watching the men guarding the gate, all armed with U.S Army standard-issue M-17 SCAR-H rifles. And again, he had no idea how he knew that.
But somehow he knew he might want to approach them, though he wasn’t certain when it would be the right time to do so. A part of him dreaded losing his newly acquired freedom, feared walking right into another cell, into another group of captors. And more purifica—
The shock wave from the sudden explosions pushed him back, and he landed on the ground, confused, momentarily stunned.
He heard cries, shouts, and alarms as the compound came under attack from an unseen enemy, at least not visible from his vantage point.
Helicopters exploded, men ran to their battle stations to return the fire, aimed high, at the cliffs to his far right, blocked by the forest protecting him.
The battle raged, buildings caught fire, attack helicopters took flight, swooping above him, their downwash swaying the forest canopy. Soldiers jumped on Humvees and scrambled out of the compound, their engines roaring as they sped by the road just fifty feet from him in the direction of the threat. Other soldiers remained inside fighting back, their machine guns reverberating, echoing across the valley.
The same voice that had urged him to find a way to stop the purifications now screamed at him to get back into the forest.
Slowly, he did, walking away from the intense battle, losing sight of it as he obeyed the voice, immersing himself in the woods, where he would be safe, where he would have time to think, to remember, to piece together the fragments of his obscured past.
The Fall Page 40