by Joe Nobody
“I remember that guy,” Dusty said, “That was a nasty cut on the boy’s leg. As I recall, the Good Samaritan was hiking and heard Anthony crying.”
Maria laughed at the memory. “I was so scared. I’ll never forget how calm and cool you were. I was losing my mind thinking our son was going to bleed to death.”
Dusty examined his torso and said, “The cut is mostly scabbed over. I don’t think it will hurt to get it wet. A shower sounds good about now.”
“It might sting a little, but I think you’re safe. I’ll coat it in antibiotic crème after, like I did the other night. You’ve lost a ton of blood, so it’s probably going to be a few days before you’re back up and about.”
Dusty frowned, something troubling him. “Maria, are you sure you’re not going to get in trouble by helping me?”
Guiding her ex to the bathroom, she recounted a quick summary of the last few days. Dusty didn’t comment, just listening with his normal intensity. After she was sure he wasn’t going to collapse or fall while bathing, she made for the kitchen to deliver on the promised home cooked meal.
“Damn he looks good,” she mumbled on the way. “How do men do that? I spend two hours a day in the gym and still don’t like how I look naked. He looks better than he did when we were 25 years old.”
Shaking her head, she set about scrambling four eggs and frying a pound of bacon.
A short time later, he appeared wrapped in a towel. Maria sat watching him wolf down the meal, which he washed down with an entire quart of orange juice. “You need to keep growing the beard, it looks good on you.”
Dusty smirked, “I was going to shave, but there isn’t a razor. I forgot mine when I left my hotel in a hurry.”
“So, are you feeling strong enough for some bad news?”
Wiping his face with the napkin, he nodded.
Maria took the folded newspaper and placed it in front of him, watching his reaction carefully.
He quickly scanned the article titled “God’s Gun” the first time, raising his eyebrows once and grunting twice. He read it carefully the second time, never making a sound.
“This reporter got it mostly right,” he commented calmly, the reaction taking Maria completely by surprise.
“He got it mostly right? Is that what you just said?” She replied with a raised voice. “What the hell is going on Durham Anthony Weathers? Since when do you go around shooting down airplanes and blowing up public utility towers?”
Looking at her with a deadpan expression, he responded. “You’re the one who said Fort Davis was too boring, my dear. It was you who had to leave or, how did you put it, you’d go insane from the riot of quiet. I decided you were right. I thought I’d spice up my life a little… step over to the wild side.”
“Bullshit! Now tell me what really happened.”
Pointing to the paper, he replied, “Like I said, he got it mostly right.”
“How did you create this super… crazy… thing? Where did it come from?”
Dusty began filling in the blanks, telling Maria everything.
After he finished, she commented, “So that’s why they arrested Hank.”
“What? Who arrested Hank?”
“The FBI and ATF from what I hear. Eva and Grace are staying at my place, waiting on Hank’s hearing tomorrow at the courthouse.”
“Grace? Grace is in Houston?”
A sly smile crossed Maria’s face, her expression relaying joy over Dusty having exposed his feelings. “So you do have a thing for her? I was beginning to wonder if you had turned gay or something. She’s a good looking woman.”
“Maria!”
“Well… I never hear of you dating anybody. It’s good to know you’re still interested in women, Dusty. I don’t want to walk through life thinking I neutered the Bull of Jeff Davis County.”
“Maria! Now hold on just a minute,” he managed, but she was on a roll.
“Now Dusty, I know that there are lots of gay cowboys. They even have their own movie. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You should….”
He moved with the speed of a pouncing lion, lifting her effortlessly. Before she could inhale, she was on the couch, his face an inch above hers – their lips almost touching. His bare chest pressed into her breasts, firm and powerful, she could feel the strength of his muscles flexing beneath warm skin.
Without her eyes ever leaving his, she put on a halfhearted struggle, only managing to spread her legs. His weight shifted, now pressing down on the inside of her thighs. His towel had fallen away, and she could feel his heat. Her own body took over, reacting with a will of its own… an animal without conscience or control. Right or wrong didn’t matter. Old or new had no meaning. She could feel the need building. Moist hotness began spreading through her, desire about to lose control.
Her arms were pinned against the sofa, his powerful embrace like two bands of steel enveloping her soul… holding her tight… pulling her closer. She knew if she didn’t stop this soon, he’d reach a point of no return, taking her for his pleasure, using her body to satisfy his needs.
It’s not right, her mind protested. Don’t succumb to the lust, she thought. You’re only going to open old wounds, she reasoned. Stop him now.
“Dusty, stop. You’ve proven your point – I don’t think you’re gay,” she offered, hoping to give him an out.
For a moment, she thought she had waited too long. He didn’t move, or smile… his eyes never left hers. Part of her wanted it to be so, ached for him to use her for whatever he wanted. She considered a struggle, to break the trance, but she knew it would be fruitless. She was only a butterfly, gentle elegance and delicate beauty. He was the oak tree, solid, stout and unyielding. He probably wouldn’t even notice any protest on her part.
He blinked once… twice… and then averted his gaze. The spell had been broken. Exhaling, he pushed off of her, quickly bending for the towel and covering himself.
“I’m so sorry, Dusty,” Maria offered, her tone sincere. “I shouldn’t have teased you about Grace. I actually like her. You’re a good man Durham Anthony Weathers, you deserve someone like her.”
Despite the dark tan and complexion of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors, the flush on Dusty’s cheeks was obvious. “She’s a good friend and excellent lawyer, Maria. It’s not gone any further than that – yet.”
He then changed the subject, erasing the last sexually charged particle from the air. “What is this about Hank? Why could they possibly arrest him? What are the charges?”
She explained it all to him, including what she’d learned that night before at her house. The impact on her ex was obvious, his temper starting to churn.
“That’s bullshit and horse feathers,” he growled in a low, mean voice. “They’re just doing this to draw me in. Hank didn’t do anything wrong.”
Maria looked at her watch, slightly taken aback by the time. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the office before the cops figure out it wasn’t Paula that left. You’ve got food, antibiotic crème, and plenty of shampoo. You lay low, and I’ll come back when I can.”
Nodding, Dusty looked his ex in the eye and said, “Thank you, Maria. I owe ya for all this.”
“We’ll see how you feel about that when you get my bill.” she replied, and then left him alone.
Sergei Primakov pulled the two sheets of typewritten Slavic text from the paperclip, exposing an original copy of the American newspaper article. He preferred to read the native English because he’d seen inaccurate translations in the past. It wasn’t unusual for the Russian language experts employed by his agency to miss sarcasm and innuendo, errors that could lead to a whole host of issues later on. Besides, his English was perfect, and he wanted to keep it that way.
There weren’t any hidden meanings in the article titled, “God’s Gun.” Nor could the director of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or SVR) find any humor within.
Rising from his chair, one of the most powerful men i
n Russia moved to the window of his expansive office, his empty gaze lost somewhere over the Yasenevo District of southwest Moscow. The bright sunshine of the day didn’t match the director’s mood, his thoughts troubled with the news from America.
Primakov had originally been recruited into the old KGB. A child of the communist regime, his academic performance and physical abilities had made the young Sergei a prime candidate for recruitment into the world famous spy agency.
When communism had fallen, Sergei hadn’t been high enough in the ranks to be automatically targeted for removal. Things began to change rapidly as the country accelerated toward democracy, and those at his level who couldn’t adapt were bypassed by the more flexible, nimble thinking individuals. Primakov had seen the opportunity and run with it - his specialty, American capitalism, giving him a leg up on his inter-agency competitors.
Sergei had understood early on that the game was changing. No longer were military secrets and strategic analysis the most valuable intelligence for his country. The Motherland now required industrial secrets, manufacturing capabilities, and free market analysis. The projected battlefields of central Europe had been replaced by global export markets. Combat power and combined arms capabilities were superseded by currency manipulation and world commodity exchanges.
While his SVR still monitored the world’s military apparatus, the emphasis of the organization was now economic, and that’s why the American farmer’s invention troubled him so deeply.
The Russian economy depended on the export of arms. After the embarrassing setbacks dealt to his country’s weapons system by the American Army’s invasion of Iraq, the market for Russian arms had gradually recovered over time. During this period, billions of rubles had been lost to his countrymen, a result of the US thrashing issued to Saddam’s forces and their Russian weapons. The Motherland’s armament industry had been reduced to a second-rate player, severe discounts required to sell anything. It had taken ten years and a significant investment to recover.
In a way, he reconciled, this has always been the status quo. Sergei recalled how the Americans had outspent the former Soviet regime and basically bankrupted his country. Western newspapers had referred to the contest as the “arms race.” In reality, it wasn’t merely a game of numbers – a competition over quantity of missiles, submarines, and tanks. There was also a game within a game – economic obsolescence.
Sergei couldn’t recall how many times a super-expensive weapon was rendered obsolete by a cheap countermove from the other side. He remembered the MIG-23 aircraft, a product requiring an investment in research and development that had cost millions of rubles.
A month after the first squadrons were being equipped with the extraordinarily expensive warplane, the Americans demonstrated the first shoulder fired, ground to air, anti-aircraft missile. The MIG, costing 35 million rubles each, had been rendered obsolete by a missile costing less than $2,000 per copy.
Both sides had continued these leapfrogs of technology for over 40 years. The Americans won because they had deeper pockets, better leadership, and more motivated engineers. The communists had fallen, leaving Sergei’s beloved Motherland in disarray.
The ongoing contest had cost more than a change of government. Russia was left with a rusting industrial complex, millions of obsolete weapons, and a bruised national pride. The export of arms had been a key factor in the road to recovery.
Now, a previously unknown farmer from Texas was again threatening to destroy an industry built with the sweat and sacrifice of millions of Russian workers.
Primakov was familiar with the concept of magnetically launched projectiles. He had read the extensive file created years ago during the Cold War. The then-Soviet scientists had deemed the technology too problematic to pursue. Portable energy sources, battlefield detection, and numerous other issues had led to the abandonment of the project.
Even when the US Navy had continued to develop the technology, it was thought to have limited use in the Soviet armed forces. Now, some peasant farmer had surprised the world with an invention that seemed to prove the world’s most brilliant engineers wrong.
It wasn’t that the SVR’s director worried about a cowboy showing up at the Kremlin and demanding to rule Mother Russia. No, the primary issue was the obsolescence of sophisticated weapons of war… weapons critical to his country’s economy and worldwide respect.
How effective would a tank costing 78 million rubles be when a single soldier firing a rail gun could split the hull in half? Who would purchase a multi-million dollar anti-air defense system when one rebel with a rail gun could obliterate an entire air force with a few shots?
It was troubling, and Sergei needed to sort it out.
Moving back to his desk, he checked the calendar resting on the polished oak surface. Smiling for the first time that morning, he hit the intercom and instructed, “Please clear my calendar for this afternoon and have my car brought around to the east entrance immediately.”
“Yes, Director.”
A few minutes later, and much to the chagrin of his security detail, Primakov was racing away from the headquarters building, the director wrapped in a steel gray Mercedes Benz SL63 two-seater.
He’d discovered the road not long ago, a rare, lightly traveled lane on the outskirts of his country’s largest city. Recently resurfaced, the glass smooth track had yet to experience the harsh Russian winter, and Sergei reveled in pushing the limits of the fast German sports car. It was a glutinous self-indulgence, the only one his tightly disciplined lifestyle would afford.
Something about the freedom of driving touched his soul, controlling the powerful machine seemed to clear his mind. I wonder if the American farmer feels the same sensation when he fires his super weapon, he pondered. I wonder if it clears his mind to control such a powerful beast.
The thought refocused the intelligent man, his logical mind shifting gears as smoothly as the car that carried him through the countryside. Changing mental tracks from concern over Mother Russia’s future to a more selfish reasoning, Sergei began to picture himself possessing the weapon. What would it mean? What could he accomplish?
The growl of the German V8 was a symphony to his ears as he flattened out of a banked curve and accelerated down a straight section of the road. The embrace of the leather seat felt like the welcoming arms of a beautiful woman as the car passed 180 kilometers per hour and continued to climb.
I need to control that weapon, he realized. Not for my country, but for me. He could right so many wrongs with such power.
Sergei’s mind began to perform its finest art – planning. As the German road machine flew through the Russian farmlands, he set forth timetables, reviewed personnel lists, and established deliverables. Once the outline and schedule was complete, he then concentrated on the sales pitch to his superiors. Even the mighty SVR had its boundaries and budgetary limits.
His presentation would be simple and believable – mainly because it was true, for the most part. He would obtain their support because he wanted to save Russia’s arms industry from this economy- destroying technology loose on the American streets. He would find and take the weapon before the American authorities gained control of the device.
A thin smile crossed his lips, the first one of the day that wasn’t attributed to the car. He would use the significant power of his agency to obtain the rail gun, and then he would control Mother Russia, turning it into a fine tuned machine of power – just like his Mercedes.
Why stop at Russia, he reasoned. Why not the world?
Day 9
The security procedures seemed deliberately slow and invasive, delaying Grace and Eva’s arrival at the judge’s private chambers. Not only had the repeated scanning, pat downs and questioning been excessive, the two women felt like they were being held back intentionally.
If the process had been purposely designed to stall Grace’s arrival, it worked. Barely entering the quiet confines of the Federal Magistrate before the scheduled time, s
he hadn’t had time to visit with her client or review any last minute preparations. The morning’s events caused her building anger to fester a few degrees higher.
A young Department of Justice prosecutor entered the chambers shortly afterwards. He glanced at Eva and immediately hissed, “She can’t be here.”
“She is the defendant’s wife; she most certainly can be here,” responded an already pissed Grace.
“You’re out of your league here, Ms. Kennedy. This isn’t some hearing over patent infringement or copyright law. This is a matter of national security being prosecuted under the Patriot Act. I’m giving Mr. Barns a huge benefit by even agreeing to this arraignment at all. I don’t have to, you know. There’s no due process required for domestic terrorists.”
“And where might my client be, young man? I want to speak with him before this circus begins.”
“The suspect is locked up in a federal holding facility and is in good health. He is being treated as a prisoner of war.”
Before Grace could respond, the judge entered the room. All the attendees automatically stood, quickly waved back to their seats by the salt and pepper haired man wearing a smartly tailored business suit and carrying a fine leather attaché case.
As the magistrate settled into his seat, the DOJ lawyer spouted, “Your honor, I must request that Eva Barns be removed from chambers. This is a national security matter where sensitive information may be disclosed. Mrs. Barnes has no clearance, nor does she have any standing before the court.”
An annoyed look flashed on the judge’s face, a hint of distaste showing before his stoic expression returned. He looked at Grace and said, “Ms. Kennedy?”
“Your honor, I don’t possess any sensitive information, only the DOJ is in possession of such material. Given that, I would offer that the prosecutor is in control of what is disclosed and what isn’t. If he feels the need to reveal any information relating to national security, then Mrs. Barns could be excused from these chambers at that time.”