Killing the Giants

by Jeff Bennington

  “These men are more than greedy. They’re relentless, murderous and disciplined.” He looked at Sarah. “We’re not just playing with the big dogs. We’re playing with the Giants of the human race, and they don’t care who you are, federal employee or not—they will kill you without blinking an eye.”

  Sarah sat up in her chair, unaware that she had been clinching the armrests so hard that her knuckles turned white. Dr. Liggin had her full attention. For the first time in her career, she feared for her life.

  Chapter 40

  Never Forget

  After Blake gave Dennis the list of parts, tools and supplies, he waited for him to return. He knew that it might take Dennis a while to locate a commercial plumbing supplier in a big city like New York, especially since he wasn’t familiar with the area. Yet Dennis surprised Blake from time to time at how resourceful he could be. He recalled the time when a low-pressure steam line developed a hairline crack and they were commanded to fix the leak without shutting down production. While the other journeymen bickered over whether it was possible to fix the leak with the pipe still live, Dennis quietly took off his leather belt, wrapped it tightly around the damaged pipe and held on to it for the next hour and a half, allowing production to continue.

  Blake thought, I know Dennis can do this. I just hope Dennis thinks he can do it. He felt like a big brother to Dennis. He even felt responsible for his success, perhaps because of his guilt over how he had treated him in the past or maybe because he never had a brother. Regardless of the reason, Blake had an underlying trust in his little buddy.

  • • •

  After Dennis gathered Blake’s share of the settlement money, he prepared himself for the long journey ahead. He knew that he could end up driving all over the city until he found all of the parts he needed. It used to be so easy for him back in Chapleaux when he knew his way around. The tall buildings and endless streams of people overwhelmed him. Dennis felt like a tiny seed in the Big Apple. Fortunately, he was a country-bred apple—sour, but resilient. He metaphorically pulled up his bootstraps and pressed on.

  Dennis swung his neck from side to side, popping the little sacks of fluid in his upper spinal column. He did the same with his knuckles.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  He reached into the hotel room’s nightstand drawer and pulled out the enormous New York phone book. It practically filled the entire drawer. Dennis searched through the book until he came to the Queens Business section. He found several plumbing suppliers, plotted them out on the city map that accompanied the phone book and began calling each one according to its proximity to his location. Eventually, he found a supplier that carried everything he needed, including the tools and the compressed oxygen. He decided to buy eleven seven-gallon cylinders. He figured they would be easier to transport.

  Each cylinder contained approximately 125 cubic feet of pure compressed oxygen, or 1,500 cubic inches. Blake had estimated that the pipeline was slightly less than three miles—or over fifteen thousand feet—from the metering station to The Palace. If Blake planned to inject a one-cubic-inch stream of gas from start to finish, he’d need every square inch of vapor.

  Dennis tore the ad out of the phone book and hurried to the truck.

  • • •

  A day later, Dennis called Blake, ready to drive north to Dover’s Cliff.

  “Hey, Blake. I think I have everything.”

  Relieved, Blake responded, “Great! Did you get the reducers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get the valves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get the regulators and gauges?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get the tubing and adapters?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many feet?”

  “Ten one-hundred-feet rolls and nine couplings.”

  “What about the wrenches?”

  “Got ’em. And don’t forget the wrench and the fittings. I got those too!”

  Confident that his order had been competently filled, Blake said, “You da man, Dennis! You are the man! But what about the oxygen?”

  “Got it! They came in seven-gallon cylinders. I hope that’s okay. I got eleven.” Dennis turned the key in the ignition, grinning with pride.

  Blake did the math in his head.

  “That’s fine. Sounds like you done real good! How long do you think it’ll be until you get here?” asked Blake.

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe an hour or so depending on traffic.”

  “Great! Now listen to me.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “We can’t do any of this during the day. You’re going to have to wait until dark before you meet me at the bridge. Do you understand?”

  “Ten-four!”

  Dennis arrived just after dusk.

  Chapter 41

  Plea Bargain

  One week before CAR

  Sarah got a call from Dan Hullman, the FBI agent working the case in Grande Isle.

  “Hi, Sarah, this is Agent Hullman from Grande Isle. I have good news for you!”

  Sarah sat up and glared at Dave and Dale, signaling with her hands for one of them to give her a pen and paper.

  Dave slid a piece of paper and mechanical pencil across the table.

  “Oh, hi! I’m glad you called. I could use some good news right now.”

  Dan had one hand on the wheel while the other held his cell phone and a cigarette at the same time.

  “I think we got the guy who shot Ginger and set off the explosion down here.”

  “Really? That’s fabulous! Tell me about it.”

  “Well, we found a tourist who was at the pier the morning of the shooting down in Grande Isle, and she just so happened to be running her digital camera. Fortunately, she got a glimpse of the man who walked into the pier office the morning Ginger was murdered. After we analyzed the digital image, we matched his identity to a Jim Straccolli, a long-time economic hit man who has contacts in the oil industry.”

  Sarah jotted down the name.

  “He also retired from the Eleventh Ordnance Battalion in the army. He spent twenty years as an OD, a military bomb specialist. This guy has experience with explosives and economic terrorism, a perfect profile. He uses the alias James Freeman. Fortunately, he registered with a local hotel in Grand Isle the week of the bombing. We finally caught up with him in Georgia yesterday.”

  “That’s great! Did he give you any names?”

  Dan chuckled with excitement. “He sure did! It didn’t take much coercion either. He said a guy who went by the name of Radisson orchestrated the whole thing. He said this Radisson character planned the bombing and the murders. I guess he was supposed to murder Gill, but he said he didn’t have the balls to kill a retard. He said it kind of freaked him out. Besides, he thought the guy was a real jerk and didn’t mind turning him in, in exchange for a plea bargain. So, have you heard of—”

  Sarah interrupted Dan. “Thomas Radisson? Yeah, he’s the VP of Human Resources for PPI and a member of Caesar.”

  “Caesar?”

  “Yeah. We’re already on to him.”

  Dan’s shoulders slumped. “Why would a guy like that want to kill all those people?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” said Sarah. “But I know where you can find him!”

  Sarah proceeded to catch Dan up on all that had transpired over the course of the last few weeks. She informed him about Blake, Dennis, Jack and Jonathan Stalwart. After their conversation Sarah thought about Jack and wondered why she hadn’t heard from him.

  Chapter 42

  Cryptocracy

  Two days before the Commission’s annual retreat, Jonathan and Joseph met for lunch. Joseph continued spending time with Jonathan. He felt that Jonathan was a made-to-order Caesar. Jonathan caught on fast, remembered details with amazing accuracy and seemed to appreciate not just the benefits of the ruling class but the logic in an elite governing class.

  Joseph invited Jonathan to lunch at the b
istro, a quaint little eatery inside The Palace that served meals around the clock. The lighting was dim and the music soft, but the conversations had little else in common with those of a typical restaurant. The walls of the little bistro knew nothing of love or friends and family. These walls were educated in the plans and agendas that moved economies and continents. The walls were covered with warm colors and fine art. Paintings by Monet, Rembrandt and Georges Seurat’s impressionism were interspersed throughout, highlighted by small picture lights, and a glowing fire from a warm gas-log fireplace located in the center of the room.

  Jonathan dipped a piece of bread in oil and herbs and then wiped the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin.

  “Joseph.” Jonathan cleared his throat and awkwardly adjusted his chair. “I have to tell you, these last few weeks have been incredibly eye-opening and you have really been more than gracious.” His eyes avoided looking directly at Joseph. “I have a confession to make.”

  Joseph chuckled. “Don’t we all?”

  Jonathan returned a smile. “Yes, I suppose so.” He took a final sip of wine. “I want to personally apologize to you.”

  Joseph was perplexed. “How do mean?”

  “Well, this may be difficult for you to hear, but I’ve been skeptical about not only you but the organization as a whole.”

  Joseph nodded curiously.

  “I’m here, Joseph, because you invited me, but also because I met with that ATF agent who was killed a couple weeks back.” Jonathan’s palms were getting sweaty. “And I was supposed to help them. I was supposed to get inside information that would bring you down.”

  “I see,” said Joseph, holding back a grin.

  “Of course, those are the circumstances that kept me from running, but that’s not the case now. Remember that fellow from Chapleaux?”

  “Yes. Mr. Driscole.”

  “That’s right. He came into my office to kill me but Sarah Perkins was there to question me. She talked him out of it. She convinced me that he wasn’t the enemy—but that you were. So I accepted your invitation but agreed to work undercover for the ATF.”

  Joseph sat quietly, fingers clenched.

  “Now I’m beginning to see things a little differently. After everything I’ve learned, I’m starting to see the logic in the concept of globalism. I’m beginning to understand how the human race can benefit from a single ruling class, rather than a hodgepodge of battling economies, dictators and cultural rifts.” Jonathan took a deep breath and locked eyes with Joseph. “Am I making any sense here?”

  Joseph chuckled, relaxing in his seat. “Yes. Absolutely. And don’t worry about your fears. We’ve all gone through that. The important thing is where your head is now. The important thing is that you move forward and rise above the fears and barbaric thinking of your old life. You are one of us now. And I’m very pleased with you.”

  The words soothed Jonathan’s spirit like the calming sound of a gentle grandfather.

  “So you’re not upset?” asked Jonathan.

  “No, not at all.” Joseph reached across the table and patted Jonathan’s hand. “We’ve all had our doubts. The CIA, FBI and other governmental organizations have approached many of us, hoping to catch us in the act of treason. This is nothing new.”

  With his right elbow on the table and his left hand rubbing his midday stubble on his cheek, Jonathan asked, “If this is business as usual, how is it that Caesar’s managed to keep from public scrutiny all these years?”

  Joseph sat up in his chair, grunting and squinting in pain as his joints fought to stay put. “Oh, Jonathan…” He exhaled. “Do you see that with all my money, I still can’t keep”—he winced—“my bones from aching? As much as I hate to admit it, I’m still very human…as are you. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “You know Jonathan, there are those among us who truly believe that they will never perish. They expect medical technology to come and save the day when they reach my age, and that just may happen. But for now, I am what I am—a relic. I’m getting older by the minute but my mind is still as sharp as it has ever been.”

  Joseph fidgeted in his seat.

  “Now, where were we? Ah, yes! You were asking about our ability to remain veiled from the public eye.”

  “Correct.”

  “All right. That’s a good question and one in need of addressing because this question of yours is of titanic importance.”

  “I’m glad you agree,” said Jonathan. “Because I’ve been concerned that if we failed to conceal our agenda we would be considered criminals of the worst kind, guilty of crimes against humanity.”

  “Oh, Jonathan, you are so perceptive,” Joseph spoke with a grin. “And I will answer your question when I return. Nature’s calling. Unfortunately, I hear her voice more and more every day.” Joseph tried to sit up, straining to get out of his chair.

  Jonathan stood up to help. He grabbed Joseph’s arm and assisted the old man to his feet. Although Jonathan began to change in the way he perceived the world, he still had good manners.

  While Joseph was away, Jonathan noticed the painting hanging on the wall just above his table. Its gothic image caught his eye right away, encased in a cracking, black lacquer on a wood-frame with a golden undercoat. The painting looked to Jonathan dark and mystical, much like his new life. It was a still-life oil painting on wood, which according to its accompanying brass tag was painted by J. Falk, a Dutch artist from the early seventeenth century. It was a painting of a very distinct set of skulls surrounded by bones, a rose and a tattered scroll. The scroll had the following inscription:

  “Hamana cuneta fumus, umbra vumaus a lona imago”

  The brass tag mounted on the wall interpreted the Latin phrase. It read: “All that is human is smoke, shadow, vanity and the picture of a stage.”

  Jonathan was somewhat unnerved by how bold and clear the skulls and bones were. Painted in an age of realism, it looked as if they were unmistakably real and three-dimensional.

  The painting aroused a sense of mortality. Looking at the hollow skulls and broken limbs forced him to consider his own demise and his inescapable transient existence. As he studied the images and the artist’s declaration, he considered the meaning. It seemed as if the artist had reached four hundred years into the future to parallel the similarities between the men of his time and ours.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Jonathan thought to himself as he ran the common burial words through his mind. Suddenly, the sweet smell of the bread sitting before him faded away and the oil had developed a bitter fragrance. He lost his appetite.

  The thought of living a pointless existence drove fear into his being. Just thinking of going back to the daily grind of meaningless meetings and quarterly reports sickened him. Although the painting pointed Jonathan’s thoughts toward his death, it somehow stirred his thoughts about life. He found it quite ironic to be discussing the direction of his future while sitting next to a classic piece of art that forced him to consider the conclusion of his life.

  Jonathan thought about the meaning of the artist’s words: “All that is human is the picture of a stage.” He realized that this world was really quite small, that time was of the essence. He realized that no one’s guaranteed more than their last breath and that he didn’t want to waste even one minute of the precious time he had left. He had a family to love, a job to do and a world that he could affect in a positive or negative way. Should he live a life of self-preservation and self-absorption? Or should he spend his remaining moments on earth living for a greater purpose? These are the questions every man and woman must ask, he thought. Jonathan was no different. There was a feeling in his gut that ate at him day after day. He questioned his significance. He questioned his purpose. He questioned whether he would leave a legacy of competence or mundane pointlessness. Was it a spiritual longing? He wasn’t sure. Yet he knew he had to make a decision.

  At that very hour, he was at a point of no return. With the help
of J. Falk, he chose to stay the course with Caesar. At that moment, Jonathan chose to take part in a greater purpose. He chose to rise above the common, lowly ambitions of his peers. He chose to become one of the few leaders in the world who could actually guide and direct those who could not see clearly into the future. He chose to take part in the process of being the eyes for the blind, the voice for the silent and the mind for the masses. He concluded that smoke, shadows and vanity were necessary to lead.

  Jonathan took in more than an artist’s rendition of life in those few moments. He breathed in his destiny. He was born a new man. Some might say he sold his soul. Others might rise up and call him blessed. Jonathan simply sat there assured of his purpose, while the music played and the warm glow of the fire shimmered across his face.

  • • •

  Joseph shuffled back to the table. He seemed weaker by the day. Jonathan sat up once again to help him into his chair. Joseph smiled and patted Jonathan’s wrist as he sunk into his seat.

  “Thank you,” Joseph said politely. “Now, where were we?”

  Jonathan sat down. “I think we were discussing Caesar’s ability to veil itself from public scrutiny.”

  “Of course.” Joseph coughed again, clearing his phlegm-filled throat. “As I was saying, we must keep all of this out of the public eye. They would never understand the greater good of our accomplishments. But your question is not why, but how we accomplish such a daunting task. Is that correct?”

  Jonathan answered, “Yes,” as he lifted his glass of wine to his lips.

  “Well, the answer to that question can be summed up in one word,” said Joseph. “Cryptocracy.”