The Babel Conspiracy

by Sylvia Bambola

  Mike nodded. “What did you do about it?”

  “I asked God to forgive me for not being the daughter I should have been, that I could have been, that my father deserved, and then I said good-bye to my dad.”

  “That’s fine for you, but I’m not sure I believe in God. I wish I did. Maybe it would make the pain go away. It hurts that I was such a louse and that I can never make it up to Renee.”

  Mike slipped his arm around Trisha’s shoulder and the two huddled in the dark, trying to warm each other while they waited for the sun to rise.

  • • •

  Trisha and Mike walked together into the Sea Breeze looking tired and wind-swept.

  “Thanks for staying up with me. The sunrise was beautiful. I really needed a friend.” Mike’s eyes smiled through heavy lids. Strain and tension and a deep inner sadness marred his face.

  “Any time you need to talk, I’m here,” she said as they reached room number twelve.

  He nodded, the smile gone from his eyes. “Thanks for that. Now, get some rest.”

  “You too,” Trisha said, then put her hand on his shoulder. “Wait here.”

  She disappeared into her room and within seconds returned with a small, black, pocket Bible which she pressed into his hand. “This will help. There’s a ‘friend that sticks closer than a brother,’ and I pray you’ll find Him.”

  So saying, she squeezed his hand and was gone.

  • • •

  CHAPTER 10

  Joshua sat in his comfortable upholstered chair scanning Senator Merrill’s spacious Marriott suite. Beside him sat Cassy, her nails unpolished, her hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail, a gray sweatshirt hanging loosely over her slip frame. He thought she looked great but didn’t tell her so.

  They had flown into Scranton this morning, unannounced, much to the campaign manager’s annoyance.

  “The senator has a busy schedule and is preparing for an important rally,” he had said, his brow furrowed, his lips puckered as though he had swallowed a lemon.

  He reminded them that Pennsylvania was a swing state and that Senator Merrill still had a lot of work to do if he wanted to carry it. And for the first time, Joshua was grateful for Cassy’s stubbornness because she would hear none of it and insisted she see her uncle at once. The campaign manager seemed acquainted with Cassy’s tenacity, for he quickly gave up and said they could have “ten minutes, no more.”

  Now, they waited for the senator to emerge from the adjoining suite which the campaign maintained for business meetings and press conferences apart from his private quarters.

  When the door opened, Joshua rose to his feet, thinking Merrill looked harried. He wondered if it was due to the new death threats he had received, followed by a shot at his car, a shot that shattered the back window but nothing else.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” he said, shaking the senator’s hand.

  Merrill glanced at Cassy. “I know you well enough, young lady, to believe this is not a frivolous visit. Please tell me I’m not wrong.”

  Cassy rose, gave her uncle an affectionate kiss on the cheek then waited for him to take his seat before taking her own. “You must go to the press with your information.” They had received another email claiming a fourth internment camp had been completed and that “time was running out,” whatever that meant. “You can’t wait any longer, Uncle Phillip.”

  The senator sighed and shook his head. “Now is not the time. With my poll numbers I don’t think Garby has a chance of beating me but I still want to lock up Pennsylvania. There’s a lot of anger here in the state, especially in coal country where miners have been shafted, big time, by the current administration. After I finish here I’ll consider blowing the whistle on . . . what? I still don’t know what this is all about. These emails are disturbing and your photos of that camp west of Everman . . . unbelievable. But what does it all mean?”

  Cassy turned to Joshua. “He’s the one to answer that.”

  The senator frowned. “A computer security specialist? If you’ve brought him all this way to badger me into . . . .”

  “He’s Mossad.”

  Merrill’s hand dropped limply over the arm of his chair. He looked from Cassy to Joshua, then rose and closed the door to the office suite. “Is this true, young man?”

  Joshua nodded. Headquarters had given him the go-ahead to share his credentials with the senator and anyone else he deemed necessary. Joshua had considered Cassy to fall under that umbrella.

  “The agency believes you are in danger, as evidenced by those death threats and recent targeting of your vehicle. We want to supply you with additional security guards because we don’t know who in the Secret Service can be trusted.”

  Senator Merrill’s face drained. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we believe your enemies reach all the way to the White House.”

  “Go on.”

  “President Baker can’t run for a third term. And the dream of his man, Garby, taking over and continuing his agenda, is evaporating. All the pundits agree it would take a miracle for Garby to win now, even if you don’t carry Pennsylvania.”

  “All the more reason I should campaign hard and once elected, use the full weight of my office to expose whoever is building these abominable camps.”

  “That’s just it, sir, many in the agency don’t believe you’ll get that far.”

  “Meaning they’ll assassinate me?”

  “If they can. If they can’t . . . as a way of ensuring the election never happens, we think President Baker will declare martial law under the guise of restoring order to all the riot-torn cities. Either way, they are determined to stop you from becoming the next president of the United States.”

  • • •

  Mike was feeling better than he had in weeks. A cool northern breeze had favored Everman and turned their unusually hot day into a perfect stage for celebration. Not since the beginning of the project had there been such merriment. The cause of it was a huge, swan-like object in the middle of the hangar.

  Moments ago, the crew had mated the nose or forward-fuselage with the mid-fuselage. And nearby were the rising hulks that would become the aft-fuselage and aft-body. Great accomplishments considering the time frame.

  Mike was unusually talkative and had garnered a sizable audience. But his greatest pleasure was seeing Trisha laugh at his jokes and at his often elaborate tales of youth.

  “. . . and it took all this time to come up with another plane good enough to be called the Patterson II. That’s because the P1 was something in its time. It cost my grandfather three thousand dollars; a large sum in 1913 when you consider room and board was fifty cents a day. And he built it in a small garage, nights and weekends, when he wasn’t working odd jobs.

  “The P1 was small by today’s standards, with a thirty foot fuselage and weighing twenty-two hundred pounds. But it could carry two passengers and a pilot. The most amazing thing was its cruising speed of fifty miles per hour and top speed of sixty. In order for you to understand how fast this was at the time, you have to know there were only three designs capable of carrying two passengers, and these could fly only ten miles per hour.”

  Mike chuckled. “To think my grandfather made aviation history with one tractor propeller and a six cylinder water cooled engine.”

  “Yes, a Kirkham engine,” Trisha said, smiling. “And the cruising speed was actually fifty-one miles per hour, top speed—sixty-three.”

  Mike laughed. “Do you mind?” He admired her vast knowledge of airplanes. She continually amazed him by pulling up one fact after another, like so many rabbits out of a hat. It was her love of aviation that fueled this appetite for facts—a love that matched his own. “Who’s telling this story, anyway?”

  “You are,” Trisha answered, her lips curling into a crescent. “But you don’t want to
mislead the audience.”

  “Well, maybe you can correct all my mistakes at dinner tonight,” he whispered as he bent closer and watched her face flush.

  • • •

  Joshua felt something hit the back tire, felt it blow as the car swerved and nearly bounced over the median dividing the busy highway. He and Cassy and Senator Merrill lunged sideways, careening into each other in the back seat. As soon as he righted himself, Joshua pulled out his gun. The security guard in the front passenger seat did the same.

  He watched as two white vans closed the gap, one on their right, one in back. The one in back tapped their bumper and would have made their car spin sideways if their Mossad driver hadn’t managed to keep it under control. But just as the driver straightened the car, the van on the right swerved and scrapped across their door shearing off the side view mirror. It was obvious that both vans were trying to force them over the median and into oncoming traffic.

  As their car accelerated, Joshua felt Cassy’s nails dig into his arm, heard the senator curse, then heard the driver yell, “Everyone buckle up!” Then came the squeal of tires as the driver slammed on the brakes, causing the tailing van to rear-end them.

  The crash was loud and the jolt so hard Joshua was sure they all had whiplash. But their driver had prepared for the move by turning the wheel to the right, forcing the collision to drive him into the van alongside them and sending it into another lane where it was struck by two vehicles, one a Mac truck.

  Without stopping, the driver pulled in front of the three-vehicle pileup and managed an exit off the nearby ramp. Wobbling and limping, and with sparks flying off the steel rim that was bare of rubber and scraped asphalt, the car inched toward the nearby gas station where it finally sputtered to a stop.

  Joshua, Cassy and Senator Merrill tried catching their breath while the driver got out and inspected the damage.

  “Tire was shot out,” he said, leaning into the open window Joshua had just lowered. “I can see where the bullet nicked the rim. I’m calling backup.”

  Joshua nodded and looked past Cassy to where Merrill sat by the other window, his face looking like it had been dipped in whitewash. The senator was on his way to a fundraiser. Joshua and Cassy had come along for the ride, hoping to change his mind about going to the press.

  Joshua leaned in, past Cassy, and caught the senator by his shoulder just as he was about to keel over. “Ready to go public?”

  • • •

  “Now that we’ve cleared up all the errors from this afternoon, tell me about your dad. You didn’t talk about him at all today.” Trisha straightened in her chair, feeling like a schoolgirl on her first date. The broad, handsome man across from her grinned and looked much like a schoolboy, himself. On the table between them were the half eaten remains of a chateaubriand.

  “Not much to tell. He was a busy man, like most fathers.”

  “And?”

  Mike narrowed his eyes. For a minute Trisha didn’t think he was going to answer. “And. He. Was. Weak.” The words came out slowly. “He let everyone manipulate him.

  “Granddad began this company after building the P1 on money he earned by giving passengers a ten minute ride for ten dollars each. When he had enough to build a second plane, a twelve passenger seaplane, he formed Patterson Aviation. Then, right before World War I, he got a ninety-thousand dollar naval contract to build a few more single-engine seaplanes. That’s when the company took off.

  “Granddad made a reputation for himself as one of the best in the field. And in 1946, when most airframe manufacturers were closing their doors, he was still in business. He had foreseen that at the end of the war there would be a surplus of cargo and transport carriers so he developed the EX1, PA’s first executive aircraft.”

  “You’re talking about Grandpa again.”

  “He was an exceptional man, Trisha. I’m proud of him.”

  “Not like your father?”

  “My father ran the company into the ground. His weakness almost bankrupted PA. He consistently surrounded himself with ineptitude. Some of his employees took bribes from competitors to spy and slow up production. My father didn’t even fight them. If it wasn’t for Uncle Jason bailing him out financially, there wouldn’t be a PA today. Even with his help, my father was forced to sell forty-nine percent of the company’s stock. I’ve learned from his mistakes.”

  Trisha nodded thoughtfully. She was beginning to understand the man across from her. “And Uncle Jason? What was he like?”

  “Funny. Clever. Generous.” Mike reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “He never forgot me on Christmas or my birthday. His extravagant gifts would be accompanied by long, funny letters.” Mike smiled as though thinking of them.

  “Humor was a stranger in my house. My father was glum most of the time and seldom laughed. It was hard to believe they were brothers. But Uncle Jason knew how to enjoy life. And with all his money, he never tried to make anyone feel small. I told you he saved the company. According to my father, he never had to ask Uncle Jason. As soon as his brother heard of the trouble, he flew over and gave my father a check. He was that kind of guy. We have a lot to thank him for, too, Trisha, you and I.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes, if he hadn’t saved PA, we never would have met.”

  “I suppose not.” Trisha smiled. “Thank you, Uncle Jason.”

  “Yes, thanks uncle,” Mike said, squeezing her hand.

  • • •

  Audra sat slumped on the bed holding a quart bottle of Corvo wine in one hand and a glass in the other. She emptied the remaining contents of the bottle, not caring that it spilled over the sides as she poured. She hated the Sea Breeze. Hated her room. Hated Gibs Town. Her work was the only thing that made life here bearable.

  Seeing the nearly completed mock-up today of the P2 had filled her with joy. The challenge of her work with the NPR910 casing gave her the same kind of joy. But it was a joy constantly marred by fear. Since Mrs. Patterson’s death, even the .25 caliber in Audra’s purse could not alleviate her fear. Her tension was further increased by the fact that here, there was no Grobens Tavern where a girl could go for some comfort.

  Audra tossed the empty bottle onto the carpeted floor. This was her only consolation now; a quart of red Sicilian wine each night. But even this was beginning to lose its charm. It didn’t give her that warm, safe feeling it once did. That madman, Kamal—he was to blame; he and the fact that she had turned thirty.

  If she could only get her fear under control.

  Oh, she had such plans, such dreams for herself! Hadn’t her mother repeatedly told her she wasn’t this bright for nothing? She was destined to break glass ceilings; destined for something great. So why did her life feel as empty as that wine bottle? Nothing seemed to matter. Really matter. Perfecting the titanium X casing would make her famous. And yes, it would make her mother proud. Maybe even fulfill that destiny her mother spoke so often about. But then what? An interview with the press? A Wikipedia entry? Life was as tenuous as the next bomb or hair trigger, and this would only make her a more desirable target for more bombs, more hair triggers.

  She thought of Bubba Hanagan. She had never reported the robbery. Not to the police. Not to Michael Patterson.

  Why should she?

  The way things were going the P2 would never see the light of day. PA was jinxed. Everyone said so. Maybe she should quit her job. Some were. But most were staying.

  Yet even as these thoughts flooded her mind, Audra knew she, too, would stay. She was committed to her work. She would play the hand she was dealt. But she didn’t have to like it. She kicked the empty bottle and cursed. Maybe if she opened the other bottle of Corvo, the one she had for tomorrow, maybe then . . . .

  • • •

  For three days all the major news outlets carried the story of secret internment camps sprouting up acros
s America. For three days, all the talking heads theorized what it could mean. For three days accusations and counter accusations flooded the news while scores of reporters descended upon the camp five-hundred miles west of Everman only to find no weapons and a handful of men in camo claiming their camp was nothing more than a fitness facility where young men had the opportunity to endure wilderness training and test their manhood. And it hadn’t even opened yet.

  For three days, Senator Merrill saw his numbers plummet until he dropped the issue and claimed it was obvious the opposition’s campaign had planted this misinformation on his computer to embarrass him.

  Then the story faded from the news.

  • • •

  “Come on,” Joshua said, pulling Cassy from her office chair and dragging her to the door. “You’ve moped around long enough. Your sulking isn’t going to make the papers take your uncle’s story seriously or generate further interest.”

  “Stop, Joshua. I’m not in the mood to be cheered up. I’m still frosted over how they made my uncle look like an idiot. And I feel responsible. If I hadn’t talked him into it . . . . Boy, all the media seem interested in are starlets getting bust enlargements or getting divorced. What’s wrong with this country, anyway?”

  “Well, come with me and I’ll tell you.” Joshua pushed her out the front door of campaign headquarters and didn’t stop until they were standing beside his rental.

  “Where are you taking me?” Cassy’s tone was peevish.

  “No place serving hamburgers.” Joshua shoved her into the front seat and closed the door. “I know a great taco place near the park.” He slipped in beside her and started the car. “Maybe after that we’ll take a boat ride on the lake. It’ll do wonders for your nerves.”

  “It’s not going to work. You can feed me all day long and paddle me around in a boat till your arms fall off, I’m still going to be mad. I thought for sure at least one enterprising reporter would take Uncle Phillip’s story seriously enough to do some real investigating.