“It was my SEAL team that rescued them. One of my men was killed: his name was Cody.”
Chris looked thoughtful and then said, “Elliott is the only person I trust and now you. I’ll tell you, but you can’t repeat this to anyone.” Chris leaned forward and lowered his voice, “Geoengineering. Our research project alters the Earth’s magnetosphere to create a region of excited, high density plasma, by transmitting electromagnetic radiation beams through the electromagnet rings around the Earth, in order to create a portal for the escape of CO2.”
Nick felt a headache coming on. “You don’t have to worry about me repeating that. I have no idea what you just said. Dumb it down.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “Climate engineering, super colliders, high frequency transmitters, satellite boosters….” Chris could tell from Nick’s facial expression that he still didn’t understand. Chris pointed to Nick’s hamburger. “Do you have a pickle chip in there?”
Nick shook his head. “I have a pickle spear here on the side.” Nick forked his pickle and held it up. Nick began to wonder again if Chris was high.
Chris frowned, “That won’t work.” Chris got up and walked to the bar. He came back with a plate, a single round pickle chip, and a toothpick.
“Okay.” Chris put the round pickle slice in the center of the plate, reached over and grabbed two of Nick’s onion rings. “This pickle is the Earth. These onion rings are the electronic magnetic rings around the Earth.” Chris took his fork and pierced the edge of the small onion ring, pulled the onion out slightly, tore it and pulled it through. He held up the batter ring for Nick to see. “There is a cavity in there now, right?” Chris didn’t wait for Nick’s answer. He carefully placed the onion ring on the plate surrounding the pickle. He then proceeded to remove the onion from the larger, second onion ring too, also laying it to surround the pickle and the first onion ring.
He held up the ketchup dispenser bottle. “This ketchup is trapped CO2 carbons in our ionosphere.” Chris carefully squirted a ring around the pickle and up to the edge of the first onion ring. “Now I’m going to use a highly charged beam of electromagnetic energy from Earth, boosted by four satellites to penetrate into the cavity of this first onion ring.” Chris used his toothpick to begin pushing the ketchup up into the cavity.
“The CO2 carbons will be drawn into the cavity of the onion ring because of the newly excited electromagnetic plasma. This will remove the CO2 from our ionosphere.” Chris smiled, he was in his element. “Then a second beam is shot to follow the first and break a hole in the far side of the first onion ring allowing both the excited plasma and the CO2 to be captured in the space between the two onion rings.”
Nick asked, “Are you just going to leave a hole there?”
Chris looked shocked. “Of course not! That would throw the Earth off its axis and cause total destruction. The plasma we created with the accelerated ions is like a force field of tiny mirrors. They will immediately heat and align themselves to seal the holes.”
Nick still didn’t understand but asked, “So, what’s the fatal flaw?”
Chris rubbed his chin and then held up the toothpick. “This toothpick is the electromagnetic radiation beam.” Chris used the toothpick to pierce a line from the pickle clear to the outer edge of the large onion ring. “The second beam’s intensity will magnify when it passes through the first beam’s excited plasma. We didn’t expect that. It will overshoot and penetrate to the outside edge of the second onion ring. At hyper intensity, the mirrored plasma will reverse magnetic fields and turn back toward the second beam. We didn’t expect that either. This reversing of the magnetic fields will accelerate and intensify the force of the second beam back to Earth.”
Nick asked, “What does that mean?” Nick decided again that Chris wasn’t high. He was just a genius.
Chris exhaled, “It means what I said. An accelerating, electromagnet radiation beam of unknown intensity will shoot back to Earth.”
Nick understood enough to know that didn’t sound good.
Chris picked up the pickle and ate it.
Nick said, “You just ate the Earth.”
“Might as well.”
Nick had read articles about climate engineering, but thought it was mostly conspiracy theory buffs that claimed it was actually happening. “How many places are doing these experiments?”
Chris took another one of Nick’s onion rings and answered, “Who knows? At least sixteen hundred governments, corporate groups and special interest factions report to Geneva voluntarily about what experiments they are lab testing. Tests like ours are only done in labs, they are not nearly ready for actual initiation. However, the research that is voluntarily reported only represents a fraction of what’s really going on. Not all experiments are being done in labs. Some groups are actually performing tests and hoping they don’t cause any major problems with their experiments.
The same money that has pushed fossil fuels realizes they are running out. We think we are the only ones working on our particular lab project. Our team is trying to save the Earth from total destruction by removing the CO2. What makes our project so special is that, in theory, our project could also control elements of the Earth’s weather by beam manipulation. Everyone wants to control the weather. Nobody trusts anyone else to be in control. Most of our testing is not published.”
Nick understood why the CIA wanted Elliott’s work protected.
Nick asked, “Who is really responsible for Elliott’s safety?”
Chris shrugged, “Our safety? It all falls on the CIA.”
Chris’ eyes moved to the television behind the bar. He jumped up and pointed. “Turn that up!”
Nick followed as Chris ran to the bar and stared at the television.
The bartender turned up the volume for the breaking news announcement. “Flight 870 Malaya Pacific Airline has disappeared. Authorities claim all contact with the jet was lost an hour ago.”
Chris clung to the edge of the bar as he turned to face Nick. “That was Elliott’s flight home.”
Chapter Three
Agent Phillips saw the cab pull up in front of the 107th Precinct. He had to coax Travis out of the cab and inside the building. Phillips guided Travis to a bank of elevators not used by the public. At any given time, numerous people affiliated with the mob could be in the building. A million-dollar bounty could tempt almost anybody, including a few cops. Phillips pushed the button for the third floor Homicide Department.
Travis took a deep breath when the doors of the elevator closed. “Guess I was right to make plans to leave the country.”
Phillips had been reading a text on his phone and then looked up. “You’re not going to O’Hare. Our people have spotted several mob affiliates just hanging around.”
“Waiting for me?”
“More than likely.”
Travis followed Phillips to the homicide room and glanced around for Nick. Phillips pointed to a chair across from Nick’s desk and Travis sat down.
Jen said, “Nick got a call and had to leave. He won’t be back for several hours.”
Travis put his palms over his eyes. “I don’t believe it! He just left? How could he desert me?”
Agent Phillips sat in Nick’s chair and looked at Travis. “The FBI is protecting you, not Nick. We have a problem we need to discus, Travis.”
“Worse than some mob guy trying to kill me?”
Phillips decided just to blurt it out. “Yes. You don’t have one mob guy trying to kill you; you have all of them. There is a million dollar bounty on your head, literally.”
Travis went pale and just sat blinking at Phillips. Finally, he whispered, “It’s Dominick. He likes heads.”
“More than likely.”
Travis sat up straighter, “You say that a lot. ‘More than likely.’ Seems you could add a little something like, ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got this covered.’ Just to make me feel better, you know?”
Phillips shook his head and answered, “I don’t have this covered, we
just found out. All I’m sure of is that you’re going to miss that flight this afternoon if you want to live beyond 1:00 p.m. today.”
“Can’t the FBI fly me out of the country on some FBI jet or something?” Travis sounded desperate.
Phillips chuckled, “You complained about the cost of the cabin for eight months. Can you imagine the cost of that ticket? Plus, you’re going to need a new passport and a new name to get out of the country. That all takes time.”
Travis sighed, “So, what’s the plan?”
Phillips thought a moment and then answered, “Putting you in a holding cell here in homicide. They have an isolation cell. No one will know you’re here. I need some time to come up with a plan and I can’t babysit you. I do have a job, you know.”
Travis stood. “That’s your plan? Put me in an isolation cell and walk away?” Travis looked around the room at the detectives busy on their computers. Nobody cared that he was about to be murdered. “Thanks anyway. I’ll take my chances getting to another airport on my own.”
Phillips shrugged and grinned. “That’s your choice. You’re taking a risk using your own papers. The mob has a wide reach. While you’re still in Chicago, you should at least disguise yourself. More than likely they have some undercover stuff here you can use.”
“More than likely? Really?”
Jen walked Travis back to the room where the undercover disguises were kept and gave him her card. “Take my card. Nick is working something right now, but if you need us, I want you to call.”
Travis took the card and smiled. “Thanks. All I want is to get out of Chicago alive.”
Jen smiled back, “Head toward South Bend, Indiana. There’s a regional airport there and it’s a small city. You might do just fine.”
Travis glanced at the pile of clothes on the floor and the locker of wigs and dresses. “I’m not dying as an ugly woman! Don’t they have anything better than this stuff?”
Jen shrugged as she left the room. “This isn’t Macy’s.”
A full half hour passed. Travis checked out his disguise in the mirror and decided to test it on the detectives. Wayne Dunfee, homicide detective, looked up when Travis entered the room. “Beard is crooked. Rest looks pretty good.”
Jen looked over, “What are you supposed to be?”
Travis shrugged, “Damned if I know. What do you think?”
Wayne offered, “I think you look like a middle aged construction worker. I like the boots, nice touch.”
Travis looked down. The boots did look great. There were hints of concrete and paint drops on them and they were definitely worn. They were the only foot gear that fit him.
*****
Nick and Chris listened to several news accounts of the missing Malaysian jet. None of the channels offered any information other than the jet was missing. Nick tilted his head to signal Chris that he wanted to return to their booth. Chris could hardly walk without bumping into the other tables and chairs. His mind was definitely not in the moment. He dropped heavily into the booth and asked, “What’s happening?”
Nick whispered, “I want you to listen to me carefully. Elliott thinks he’s in danger and he perceives the threat to be the CIA.”
Chris whispered back, “How do you know that?”
Nick never spoke to anyone about his SEAL missions, but Chris needed to understand Elliott’s message in order to protect himself. Nick decided to tell Chris an edited version of what had happened in Afghanistan.
“Elliott and I discovered that the CIA had actually orchestrated the abduction of Elliott and the other three scientists. The U.S. wanted to justify sending several Special Op teams into that area. Elliott and his peers spent three months in hell at the hands of Afghan radicals that had turned on the CIA. The mission to rescue Elliott and the others was brutal and extremely dangerous. Anything you could imagine might go wrong, did.
Cody paid for the CIA’s reckless game with his life. Elliott and I decided to use Cody’s name as a code if ever we suspected our own protectors had become our threat. I left the Navy SEALS after that mission.” Nick leaned forward and spoke very slowly. “Elliott believes the CIA has turned against him or is using him.”
Chris asked, “If that’s true, would the CIA have crashed Elliott’s jet?”
Nick said, “We don’t know that the jet has crashed. The CIA knows exactly where that jet is. What you hear on the news is what they want you to know. It’s entirely possible the jet has been secured and is being hidden.”
Chris’ eyes opened wide, “How do you hide a 777? What about the other passengers? They’re going to talk eventually. How would the CIA explain that to the world?”
Nick shrugged. “If the CIA wanted to hide a jet, they could easily do that without fear of it being found. Worse case, you drug everyone on the jet, take off the people you want, blow up the rest of them, and tell the world it crashed.”
Chris stared at Nick in disbelief. “You really think the CIA would kill innocent people?”
Nick didn’t answer Chris’ question. Instead he said, “It’s possible that Elliott is suspected of some high level security breach. If that’s the case, you’re going to be suspect too.”
Just then two men entered Cubby’s and stood at the far end of the bar. Nick watched their eyes scan the room and land on the booth he and Chris were in. Nick gestured for Chris to look. Chris started to get up, “I guess I’ll find out now.”
Nick put his hand on Chris’ arm. “Stay put. These aren’t company men.”
Nick could spot the telltale signs of government men in an instant. These men were not CIA. The two men started to move toward Nick and Chris.
Nick said, “They look like hired muscle. Who else wants you?”
Chris pushed himself back as far as he could in the booth. “They tell me that anyone that wants to control the world would want us.”
“Great. Stay in this booth.”
Chris slid under the table as Nick stood and began walking toward the men.
Chapter Four
Travis decided to take Detective Wayne Dunfee’s advice and test out his disguise in the precinct lobby before going out on the streets. Usually a few mobbed up guys could be found there. If he passed that test, he was probably good to go.
Travis took a seat at the end of a long row of sour faced people, handfuls of paper clenched in their fists. A slight, angry man was arguing with the desk officer.
“How am I supposed to get to work if you don’t give me my license and truck keys back?”
The desk officer frowned, “It’s not my fault you can’t read. Your ticket clearly states to bring proof of insurance and $75 to pay for the impound fee.”
The angry man responded, “Just how am I goin’ to get to New Buffalo, Michigan, to do my job and earn the lousy $75 without my truck keys?”
Travis nervously glanced around the lobby and then walked up to stand next to the angry man. Travis pulled his money clip from his pocket and thumbed off a one hundred dollar bill and handed it to him. “There’s another one for you if you let me ride along to New Buffalo.”
The angry man was now the smiling man. He turned to the desk officer and pushed the money across the counter. “There. I want a receipt, too!”
The desk officer scribbled off a receipt and dropped the truck keys on the counter. “There you go, Lenny. No more parking on the sidewalks while you sleep it off.”
Lenny shook his head and mumbled to Travis, “They don’t want you to drive drunk and now they don’t want you to park drunk. What the heck they ‘spect you to do?”
Travis shrugged his agreement and pulled his cap lower over his eyes. The fake beard was itching. “Are we leaving for New Buffalo now? I’m in a hurry.”
“I’m in a hurry to get that other one hundred bucks, too! I got one quick stop then we’re on the road.”
*****
Momma’s Sandwich Shop served the best sandwiches on the Westside. Momma’s son Mitch had graduated college with a business d
egree and worked hard to keep Momma’s profits high and customer costs low. Mornings they sold black coffee, muffins, and newspapers; afternoons and evenings, Momma’s homemade sandwiches. There were very few seats in the store, the goal being to keep the line moving and serve the sandwiches ‘to go’.
Artie Corsone was a friend of Momma’s and only eight months out of prison for being the mob’s favored forger. He and several other Westside crew members had been caught in an FBI sting and Artie had spent 25 years in prison. Now retired, he volunteered his help at the sandwich shop as needed and spent the rest of his time picking up juicy gossip.
Momma walked out from behind the curtained doorway and yelled to Mitch, “Artie and I got two big pots of meatballs for sub sandwiches be done shortly. Be a dear and change that “Special” sign from tuna to meatballs.” Momma didn’t wait for an answer, she spun on her heels and disappeared back behind the curtain.
Mitch rang up the last customer and began to dig through the box of magnetic letters to change the sign. The jingling of the bells announced Artie’s nephew, Lenny, walking in the door.
Lenny eyed the glass dome covering Momma’s homemade muffins. “Hey Mitch, give me one of those muffins there and tell Artie I’m here, would ya?”
Mitch grabbed a wax paper square and handed Lenny his muffin. “Artie isn’t very pleased with you right now. He said you were supposed to be here to pick up that freezer an hour ago.”
As if on cue, Artie walked through the curtained door and put his hands on his hips. “I’m sure you have a plausible reason for being late?”
Lenny glanced at Mitch with a questioning expression and then answered Artie. “I don’t know what ‘plausible’ means, but I was stuck at the police station for sleepin’ drunk in my truck.”
Mitch laughed and said, “That’s plausible.”
Artie frowned. “Mitch, could you give Lenny a hand loading that freezer into his truck? I’ve got it all polished up and looking brand new.”
Zero Margin: Nick Stryker, Book Three The Shallow End Gals (Nick Stryker Series 3) Page 3