by Peter Parkin
But for now, he needed to learn more about that date and see what pieces might fit together.
Brett plugged the date, September 30, 1977, into the search bar of his browser and waited. His old computer was getting slower and slower by the day it seemed, but Brett was a patient man. He took a sip of his coffee and reclined in his leather executive chair. Feet up on the desk, he stared at the screen.
He scanned down the list of world events on that date. Ringo Starr released his fourth solo album. A meeting of world leaders took place in Montreal, Canada, and an addendum to an old treaty pertaining to civil aviation was signed.
Brett yawned.
Suddenly he perked up. The old Soviet Union had performed an underground nuclear explosive test on the archipelago known as Novaya Zemlya located in the far northern reaches of Russia, in the Arctic Ocean. Hmm...that was interesting.
Brett searched 'Novaya Zemlya.' He discovered that it consisted of two major islands and was a sensitive military area during the Cold War years. And it was still used today.
The Soviet Air Force, at that time, maintained a base on the southern part of the archipelago. It provided interceptor aircraft operations, but also supplied logistical support for the nearby nuclear test zone. This was the part that Brett found interesting. And shocking. This was the site of the largest and most powerful nuclear weapon ever detonated—a monstrous fifty-two megaton beast that was tested in 1961, nicknamed Tsar Bomba.
In the history of Novaya Zemlya from the commencement of nuclear tests in 1957 until their conclusion in 1990, the Soviet Union had conducted a mind-boggling 224 nuclear detonations with a cumulative explosive energy of 265 megatons. To put this into perspective, all the explosives used in World War II including the detonations of hydrogen bombs over Japan, amounted to only two megatons.
Brett was fascinated. And dumbfounded. Why didn't he and the rest of the world know about this?
He hit the 'back' button and reviewed again the events from September 30, 1977. Nothing more of any substance jumped out at him.
So, aside from Ringo Starr's record album, the only events of importance that day were the meeting of world leaders in Montreal about a civil aviation treaty; the exploding of a nuclear device in Russia; and the complete shutdown of six arrays of communications equipment on the moon—purportedly due to budget cuts.
Then something odd jumped out at him. It was odd because it had nothing to do with anything, yet it triggered a memory. Brett's brain was quick, and capable of recalling virtually any tiny little detail. Especially words that were said that seemed strange at the time they were said—his brain would recognize that they were out of context and store the memory away for a rainy day.
Today it was raining. And a postscript on the September 30, 1977 page showed a totally unrelated item. Unrelated in that it indeed happened on September 30th.
But in 1955, not 1977.
The death of iconic actor, James Dean.
This on its own wouldn't have caught Brett's attention at all. But his razor sharp brain made a connection. About ten years ago, he'd been having a beer—okay several beers—with an old friend. The friend was John Switzer, a prominent nuclear physicist and aerospace engineer with the Pentagon. John had been involved in almost every aspect of the space program when he'd been seconded from time to time to NASA.
John was much older than Brett, but they had hit it off right away when Brett had been involved in a couple of assignments with the Pentagon. One of them had been to provide protection for John and several of his nuclear colleagues. This wasn't normal practice for the Secret Service, but the White House made an exception due to threats that had been posted against several nuclear scientists. So, Brett was assigned—and he and John had become fast friends.
John was a genius. And a little bit crazy as geniuses tended to be. His most prominent fault, though, was his loose tongue. Especially over a few beers. John loved beer.
About ten years ago, they had been in a bar together, catching up. John had already been retired for five years and was spending far too much of his retirement drinking. His brilliant mind was no longer stimulated, so he turned to booze to try to forget how brilliant he had once been.
Brett was laughing and joking with him over some of the silly governmental things that both of them had witnessed over the years, and in one story he was telling John about a protection detail he had been asked to provide for the Queen of England on one of her visits to the White House.
John sucked back his tenth beer and slurred, "That's nothing. I worked with The James Dean. Trust me, no story you could tell me could compare to that!"
Brett simply looked at him and thought that he had truly drunk his limit. He said, "John, what are you talking about? James Dean died decades ago."
John poured another beer from the draught jug. "I'm sure you can live with what you did for the Queen of England. I'm having a tough slog living with what I did for The James Dean."
"What did you do, John? What on earth are you talking about?"
John just drank his beer and ignored the question. Back then Brett had shrugged it off as just the incoherent ramblings of an old, drunk genius.
But now he thought about it. Was it just coincidence that the date he was researching had a connection with the death of the actor? The same date, different year.
A nuclear blast happened that day in Russia. Communications equipment was shut off on the moon. And a drunk nuclear scientist was hinting that there was something he had done that was related to James Dean. How could all of this be connected? Was he just reaching?
No—Brett was convinced he was not. And that memory from the past had struck him strange at the time, but he had retained the memory because there was something sinister about what John was saying. And John clearly hadn't wanted to say anything more.
He had to be in his mid-eighties now. Brett wondered. Would he say more at this late stage of his life?
He was determined to find out. See if John could be convinced to say more. Maybe at such an old age now, he wouldn't give a shit.
And Brett's computer-like brain had held onto one thing that was the most befuddling. Why had John referred to the incident as 'The James Dean.' He hadn't said 'James Dean.' He'd said 'The James Dean.'
Almost like it was a thing rather than a person.
Brett thought that was a significant anomaly.
Very significant—and he was trained to pay attention to significant things, even if they seemed immaterial in the larger scheme of things.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"This isn't working at all. She's totally unresponsive. Not even listening to my voice."
Brett leaned his head in close to Lucy, and passed his hand in front of her eyes. Her pupils didn't move.
"Do you think she's hypnotized and we don't know it? I mean; she does seem to be in kind of a daze."
Felicity shook her head. "No, she's not under. There would be a response to my questions, my voice. I think her mind is just too far gone for me to be able to hypnotize her. I knew our chances were slim—Alzheimer's patients are poor subjects, unless they're in the earliest stages of the disease."
Brett looked at his watch. "What time does super-cop come home?" "Oh, not for quite a while yet—we still have time, at least a couple of
hours."
Brett realized that they had neglected to close one of the window blinds in the drawing room. He got up and pulled the wand.
His movement provoked a reaction from Lucy. She started rocking in her chair, and her eyes darted nervously around the room.
Felicity started talking to her again—real slow, real soft.
"Lucy, can you hear me?"
Lucy nodded.
Encouraged by the tiny reaction Felicity decided to cut to the chase, fearing that this new alertness may not last long.
"Lucy, could you please tell me about Apollo 19?"
Lucy continued to rock, but Felicity could tell that she seemed to understand the question.
There was pensiveness in her eyes.
"Can't talk about it. They'll kill my family."
Brett moved back to his seat, captivated by Lucy's answer.
"I understand that, Lucy. But we can protect you. We're good friends of your son, Dennis."
Lucy suddenly smiled—a big broad motherly smile. "Is Dennis home? Call him for me?"
"He's just making coffee for us all in the kitchen. He'll be back in a few minutes. But you have real reason to worry, Lucy. Dennis is in terrible danger. Unless you tell us about Apollo 19, we can't protect him."
Tears began rolling down Lucy's cheeks. Felicity raised a tissue to her face and dried her eyes. "Do you understand, Lucy? Dennis is in danger. He wants you to help us."
Lucy nodded and raised her hand to her forehead. She began rubbing her right temple. "I have a headache. This is all too much for me."
Felicity picked up her personal recorder from the coffee table and placed it on her lap. She didn't want to miss a thing. Lucy was ready to talk.
"Lucy—Apollo 19. When did it fly?"
Lucy winced. "Are you sure Denny's in trouble?"
"Yes, Lucy. We want to save him. Help us, please?"
Lucy squeezed her hands together until the whites of her knuckles showed.
"It flew in 1977."
"And was there an Apollo 18 as well?"
Lucy started to squirm in her seat. "Yes."
"When did it fly?"
"1975."
Felicity looked closely into Lucy's eyes. She was starting to lose her. Her pupils were becoming fixed again. She knew she would probably only have time for one more question.
"What is 'Shackleton,' Lucy?"
Lucy started rocking again, and bobbing her head up and down. Felicity grabbed her arm, squeezed hard, and repeated the question. "What is 'Shackleton,' Lucy?" She asked it louder this time and that seemed to shock Lucy back into submission.
She stopped rocking. "I knew it as 'Rebel's Cause.' They didn't call it 'Shackleton' until 1994."
"Called what, Lucy?" Felicity was yelling now. "Called what—tell me! Save your son, tell me! Now!"
Brett put his hand on Felicity's shoulder. "C'mon, Felicity. She's just an old woman. You're going to scare her to death."
Felicity spun her head around and glared at him. "Hey, you want answers, don't you? And I've been promised a big bonus out of this if we can find out where the package is, so let me do what I'm trained to do."
Brett glared back. "I'm calling the shots, Felicity. We're not going to torture this old lady to get our answers."
"You wimping out, Brett? Cold feet? Big bad killer can't watch an old lady get yelled at?"
Brett slapped her hard. Hard enough that she fell backwards out of her chair.
Lucy screamed.
Felicity stared up at him from the oak hardwood floor, anger seething from her cold eyes.
"You're right, I can't watch an old lady get yelled at, Felicity, but I can sure as hell hit a young one. Wrap this up. We've lost her now, anyway. And I have enough information to dig further. So—wrap it up, understand?" Brett ran his fingers through his thick sandy brown hair. "I'm gonna use the loo. Calm her down while I'm gone."
Felicity pulled herself up off the floor and watched Brett walk down the hall toward the bathroom. "I'll calm her down alright, you arrogant prick," she whispered under her breath.
She reached into her medical bag and brought out a syringe, a cotton ball and a bottle of pure alcohol. She worked fast—poured the alcohol onto the cotton ball, roughly grabbed Lucy's right arm and rubbed the alcohol onto a spot on her forearm. Then she raised the syringe, tapped it twice, and jammed it into Lucy's arm pressing hard on the plunger.
Lucy lurched backwards causing the rocking chair to almost tip over— Felicity caught it just in time. Then she steadied it, watched, and waited.
"What the fuck is that in your hand?" Brett was back. "What did you give her?"
"Settle down—it's just Sodium Pentothal. We use it in hypnosis sometimes. We call it drug-assisted hypnosis."
Brett grabbed Felicity by the hair, yanked her to her feet, and dragged her off to the side out of Lucy's view. Bringing her face within inches of his, he growled, "I know what it is, you little bitch. I've used it before. Truth Serum. And it's dangerous as hell."
She wriggled free. "I'm a nurse and a trained hypnotherapist. I know what I'm doing. The drug doesn't make someone tell the truth; it merely inhibits them from telling a lie. It's very effective. We should have all of our answers within a few minutes."
First they heard heavy breathing, then choking noises. Just before Lucy toppled forward out of her rocking chair, she clutched her chest with both hands and whispered, "Help!"
She fell hard before either of them could react. Face-first onto the hardwood floor. Blood was trickling out of her nose by the time Felicity was down on the floor beside her.
She rolled her over and checked her pulse. Felicity shrieked. "No pulse! Help me, Brett, help me!"
She began CPR and when she'd completed 100 cycles, Brett took over.
They took turns for about twenty minutes before finally giving up.
Brett sighed, and wiped the sweat from his brow. "The poor soul is dead. This was totally unnecessary, Felicity. A waste."
He reached down to the floor, picked up Felicity's personal recorder and shoved it into one of the six inside pockets of his Saville Row suit.
"I'm taking this with me. You phone 911, clean up here, and give the best explanation you can as to what happened. Sudden heart attack. You were in the kitchen when it happened, blah, blah. You know the routine."
Brett got up and walked to the front door. Just before turning the handle he heard a car door slam. He peeked out through the tiny window beside the door.
"Shit, he's home! What's the best way for me to get out of here?" Felicity jumped to her feet. "Don't go out the back door—it's too visible from the neighbor gardening in the yard behind. Take the stairs to the office on the third floor, on this front side of the house. It has a door onto an outside landing, and a fire escape down to the street. It's shrouded in trees, so no one will see you."
Brett took the stairs three at a time. Ran to the office and found the door to the fire escape. As he spun himself onto the spiral metal staircase, he lost his footing and fell head first to the next landing down. Aside from torn pants he was none the worse the wear, and quickly continued his journey down to the relative solace of the side yard.
As he snuck quietly through the bushes he heard a deep voice resonating through the open drawing room window.
"Hi Felicity. How's Mom today?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brett was relieved to be home. He cracked open a beer and sank down into the supple Italian leather couch in his living room. He took a sip and sighed. The death of Lucille Chambers had affected him. Brett was a tough guy but he had a soft spot for the vulnerable. His own mother, who was about ten years younger than Lucy, was herself in a nursing home. She too was afflicted with Alzheimer's disease.
When he saw Lucy being tormented, he saw his mother. When he watched Lucy die, he watched his mother.
That little power-mad whore, Felicity, was out of control. He'd have to take care of it. She was a loose cannon, and as the one in charge of this investigation, it was his responsibility to handle it. He hadn't yet decided how he would do it—perhaps put her on a plane with some money and order her to never return if she valued her life. Or, just take her life.
He slipped his hand into one of the inside pockets of his jacket...and felt a surge of panic. He quickly checked out all of the other pockets. It was gone! The personal recorder was gone!
And in a flash, he knew where it was. It was either on the fire escape or lying down in the garden below. When he had fallen it must have come tumbling out. In his haste to get out of there, he hadn't been aware that the weight in his pocket had been lightened.
Shit!
Brett grabbed his cellphone a
nd hit the speed dial for Felicity's mobile.
It rang three times, and then went to voice mail. He didn't want to leave a message—too risky in case the police were suspicious about anything at all and confiscated her phone.
He knew he couldn't go back there right now. The paramedics would be at the house, probably the medical examiner too and no doubt the police as well. He would have to patiently wait a day or two and then make a visit under the cover of darkness. It would normally be difficult at nighttime to find a small object like a recorder, but it wouldn't be for Brett. He had a nice pair of night-vision goggles.
All he could do was hope that the recorder would still be there. If not, it was a game-changer. He would just have to deal with it.
But while his voice was on that recorder, he couldn't be identified by just his voice. So he was clear, he rationalized. And his phone was a disposable untraceable one, so they couldn't track him with the history on Felicity's phone.
And while he wanted to get that recorder back, he couldn't take a chance snooping around that house looking for it and then getting caught with it. If that happened they would definitely be able to connect him to the voice.
Other than the voiceprint on the recorder, there was only one person who could identify him as being in that house.
*****
Mai Lee went about her business—the business of cleaning Mr. Chambers' house. It was the day after Mrs. Chambers' death. The burial would be quick, to be held the day after tomorrow. The house had been a hive of activity since her passing, and the reception after the funeral would attract over 100 guests to the house. The place was a mess now and would be an even bigger mess that day.
But this is what she was paid to do, and she loved hard work. Mai had worked for Mr. Chambers for five years, and he was always so generous with her. Gave her much more than her agreed wage. He tipped generously and always complimented her on the splendid job she did. And he trusted her to just tidy up after him, put things away in their place—even if it was a place she alone decided was best, he didn't care. He trusted her. And she looked out for him. In her eyes, he was a prince.