by Dave Edlund
“You will be working in pairs. Sato-san and I feel that you will learn much from each other, so we will be rotating assignments and partners.”
Professor Sato, in his quiet, confident voice, chimed in. “Our objective is to gather additional mineral specimens today and begin work on a geological assessment of the underlying crust. We will need to place the seismic charges precisely to gain the maximum benefit. Understand that we have less than two weeks to complete our work. The samples and seismic data are very important to the continuation of our research.”
Karen asked, “Professor, I’m new to your research group and I’m learning a lot, but I don’t fully understand what we expect to learn from the seismic data.”
“This island—in fact all of the Aleutian Island chain—is located along the edge of the North America tectonic plate. The Pacific plate is being drawn under the edge of the North American plate about 26 miles south of here.
“Based on the thermodynamic modeling done by Professor Sato, we know that it is possible for certain mineral carbonates to be reduced by hydrogen to hydrocarbons. The seismic data will allow us to map the underlying rock density, for comparison to what is thought to be true on Titan.”
Professor Savage studied Karen’s reaction and facial expressions as she considered this. He believed that the best way to teach a willing student was to feed incomplete bits of information—just enough to nudge the thought process another step or two. He wanted to foster the manufacture of ideas by his students, not merely train them to parrot his own thinking.
“Yes, I understand the general theory. But since the thermo calcs already show the reactions are possible, why do we need to gather rock samples?”
“Good question, Karen. Harry, please continue.”
Harry put down his fork, slightly annoyed at being interrupted from his appointment with a plate piled with scrambled eggs and hash browns. “Sure. Water is the most likely source of hydrogen. Water gets pulled down with the subducting plate to great depths and extremely high temperatures, and in the presence of a catalyst, it reacts with carbonate-based minerals to yield simple and complex hydrocarbons. Thermodynamics does not speak to reaction rates—if rates are too slow, then some type of catalyst is needed.”
Murph and Davis were now totally lost. They had been sort of following the discussion, but then Harry spoke and lost them both.
“Or,” Professor Savage paused for emphasis, “the reactions may very well occur at an exceedingly slow pace, requiring millions of years to yield substantial bodies of oil and gas. But the bigger question is whether carbonates were ever present on Titan. We know water is there.”
“We do not fully understand the mechanism for the reduction step,” added Professor Sato. “It could be a direct reduction by water associated with formation of carbon dioxide, or it could be a multi-step process, wherein water is first reduced to hydrogen, followed by mineral-carbonate reduction to hydrocarbons. Resolving this question is one of the goals we plan to achieve this winter, and it is why we are seeking specific rock samples.”
Just then, Murph noticed through the window a lone man walking purposefully toward the front door. He was wearing blue jeans and a light-weight camo jacket. The jacket was open and underneath Murph noticed he wore a black and red plaid shirt. The man walked onto the porch and knocked on the door.
Davis and Murph looked at each other, not saying a word; Davis raised his eyebrows slightly and Murph responded by shrugging his shoulders. Professor Savage had been deep in the discussion and failed to even notice the man approaching.
Murph pushed his chair back and got up from the table, speaking softly to Davis, “Probably just a lost hunter, but watch my back… just in case.”
“Sure thing, buddy. But if he wants the last of the bacon, tell him it’s already spoken for.”
Murph walked to the door. Everyone was quiet now, startled at the unexpected sound of the knock at the door.
Jack Murphy opened the door and was face to face with a chunky, muscular man with bleached-blond hair. The man smiled and said, “Good morning.” And before Murph could answer, the man pulled a pistol from behind his back, pressed the barrel against the middle of Murph’s chest, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 11
September 26
Chernabura Island, West Side
The muzzle blast was deafening, and Murph instantly collapsed to the floor. Professor Savage had been seated closest, his back toward the door. He was looking over his shoulder when the visitor shot Murph. The professor jumped up and rushed to the marshal’s limp body. He felt for a pulse, but there was none, and he could tell by the large bloody pool in the middle of the man’s chest that he was dead.
Troy Davis had also reacted immediately, erupting from his seat. The chair was propelled into the kitchen and Davis went the opposite direction to the door as he was drawing his Glock pistol. He had reacted with lightning speed—the product of the best military training, extensive combat experience, and youth. But he was not fast enough. Davis was four feet from the door and his pistol was just coming up from his holster when the blond man turned his gun, inches away from Davis’s face.
The blond man didn’t have to say a word—there was no possibility of misunderstanding at all. Davis froze. Professor Savage and the others were speechless—on the verge of shock. Then, the door opened wider to reveal six men dressed entirely in black. They all had wicked looking MP5 submachine guns.
“My name is General Ramirez,” the lead man said. He was six feet tall and had black hair and a thick black mustache. He looked a lot like the late Saddam Hussein, but younger. He could have been Hispanic or Middle Eastern or even Mediterranean; it was hard to tell.
In fact, Ramirez was a veteran of the terrorist organization FARC. He had been born in Colombia, and along with his twin brother Vasquez, orphaned at the age of six when their parents were killed, caught between the Colombian soldiers and armed gunmen working for one of the local drug lords.
Ramirez never found out who shot his parents. The fact that they were dead and that he and his brother were alone in a very cruel and hard world was all that had mattered to him. After scavenging on the streets of Medellin for almost two years, fighting every day to survive, the twins were taken in by FARC rebels. They became family.
The brothers received food, shelter, clothes—and protection from the street thugs who preyed on the homeless and helpless. When they were twelve, both boys were sent to a series of Palestinian- and Syrian-run training camps. They also spent a year in Yemen, learning from al-Qaeda the art of making improvised explosive devices for maiming and killing civilians. By the time the Ramirez brothers were young men, both were very adept at killing. But what made Pablo and Vasquez Ramirez especially effective was that they enjoyed it.
“I see you have met my associate, Mr. Smith,” said Ramirez, referring to the blond man. “Mr. Smith—kindly relieve the marshal of his weapon. I don’t think he will need it any longer. His mission to protect these people is over.”
Brad stepped forward and squared off with Davis, pushing the barrel of his pistol against Davis’s forehead.
With a look of dark malevolence, Davis growled, “He was my friend—and before this is over you’re gonna pay.”
Brad smiled but didn’t say a word. He viciously whipped Davis across the face with his pistol. Davis staggered, dropping his Glock and falling to one knee. Brad’s arm was cocked, ready to deliver another blow.
“No! Stop!” yelled Professor Savage.
Ramirez raised his hand, and Brad stopped.
Four of the men pushed into the cabin and spread out, leaving one comrade on guard in front of the cabin with his back toward the door. Ramirez leaned over and picked up Davis’s Glock, tucking it into his belt.
“Sit down, Professor,” said Ramirez.
Professor Savage moved slowly to his chair, never breaking eye contact with Ramirez.
“Do you know me?” asked the professor.
“Oh yes, we know who you are. And you,” pointing to Sato-san, “must be Professor Kenji Sato.”
Sato-san nodded slowly.
One of the black-dressed men emerged from the rear of the cabin, where the bedrooms were located. He was a big, muscular man and, unlike the others, he was clean-shaven. Speaking with a heavy accent—probably Indonesian or maybe Filipino—he reported to Ramirez. “There is no one else in the cabin. The only weapons we found are two shotguns—Henri took them outside—and those antiques on the wall above the door,” he pointed above the front door.
Ramirez turned his gaze and was contemplating the black-powder rifles when Professor Savage interrupted his thoughts.
“What do you want? Why did you murder the marshal?”
“I appreciate your inquisitive nature, Professor, but I am asking the questions.” Although his words were pleasant, his face was stern, and he fixed his eyes on his prisoner. Professor Savage felt the cold black eyes of his captor, and he lowered his head, preferring to look at the plank flooring.
Having dismissed the antique rifles, Ramirez gazed around the dining room, making a point of counting people. “One, two, three,” he counted slowly and deliberately, “four, five, six, seven.”
Ramirez paused and all eyes were on him. “I count seven—plus your dead marshal makes eight. We are missing one man. Where is he?” he asked Professor Savage.
“You murdering bastard,” Ian responded. “Everyone is here! What do you want with us?”
Ramirez rested his right hand on the Glock pistol tucked under his belt. He took a deep breath and then slowly let it out, as if to emphasize that his patience was being tried.
“Don’t take me for a fool, Professor Ian Savage. We know who you are and what you are here for. My men have conducted a thorough recon of your cabin and your team. One man is missing. Now, where is he?”
“If I were you, I’d fire your men. They do a lousy job. I told you, everyone is here.”
“Mr. Smith spent all of yesterday watching you and your team from a concealed location in the forest. He has reported the presence of one woman and eight men. Now, I see the lovely young lady and seven men. Where is the eighth man?”
Professor Savage turned to the blond man named Smith and glared at him. Through clenched teeth he replied, “Smith, or whatever his real name is, obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about. There is no eighth man!”
Ramirez slowly drew the Glock 9mm pistol from his waist and looked at it, considering his next move.
Professor Savage was afraid to hear what that next move might be. He said, “Look, your men have searched the cabin. No one is hiding. We are the only people here!” He sounded almost as if he was pleading.
Ramirez contemplated the professor for a moment. Then he said, “As you wish. Henri, take everyone outside,” and he waved his hand toward the door. Henri had helped himself to a piece of bacon and was just finishing it.
Davis was still sitting on the floor next to his fallen partner. He was cradling his aching head in his hands, trying to clear the fog. Everyone else was sitting around the table, any interest in food long forgotten. In the briefest of moments, they had all been violently thrust into an unbelievable nightmare.
“Get up! Get up!” Henri shouted and used his machine gun for emphasis.
No one wanted to be the first to rise. Daren and Harry stared at each other, then at Karen. Junichi looked to Sato-san for guidance. “Get up!” Henri said, this time louder. He kicked the chair Professor Sato was sitting in and grabbed him by the collar, pulling up. Sato-san rose from the table. The others slowly followed.
Ramirez said, “Ortiz, Kwok, you go out first. If anyone tries to run, shoot them.”
Ortiz and Kwok shared a glance and smiled, and then they turned toward Ramirez and nodded. Both men were nothing more than sadistic thugs who relished killing. Ortiz and Kwok swiftly walked out the door and spread apart about twenty yards in front of the cabin. They held their submachine guns at the ready, the shoulder sling holding the weight of the weapon. Professor Savage had no doubt they would kill without hesitation or remorse.
Henri encouraged the group to move, poking first Sato-san in the back with the barrel of his gun, then Daren. They walked out in single file. No one dared speak. Harry was the last of the students to walk out, followed by Ramirez and Brad Smith.
Professor Savage was being guarded by a single man as he was trying to help Davis up. It was pretty clear that Davis was hurt—Smith had hit him hard with the pistol. Already Davis’s left eye was swollen almost shut and it was turning an ugly shade of blue and yellow. His nose was likely broken as well; a smudge of bright blood was beginning to dry above his lip.
“Jalil! I want everyone out here!” ordered Ramirez.
“Yes, General!”
Jalil kicked Davis in the leg. “Get up!” He motioned to the door with his gun.
The Professor put his left arm around the marshal and helped him to his feet. “This man is hurt. He needs medical attention!”
Jalil yelled, “Out! Out!” He poked Davis in the ribs with the gun barrel.
“I’ll be all right,” said Davis, slowly moving for the door.
Professor Savage glared at Jalil. Then a thought came to him. Maybe he could do something. Only Jalil was left in the cabin, and Ramirez and his men were occupied with everyone else out in front of the cabin.
As Davis stepped through the doorway he paused, squinting his eyes, the light shooting knives of pain into his skull. The professor thought fast. Jalil was getting agitated. He wanted the professor to move out with the others. He was motioning with the machine gun, finger on the trigger. Professor Savage hoped the guy wouldn’t squeeze too hard in excitement and shoot him.
He was slowly moving toward the door, with Jalil just off to his right and a half step behind him. Now that Marshal Davis was on the porch, Jalil relaxed a fraction, letting his guard down for a moment. And a moment was all that the professor needed. As he reached the door, he suddenly twisted to his right and pushed Jalil hard, catching him off balance. Jalil lost his footing and stumbled, letting go of his grip on the MP5 to catch himself.
Professor Savage swiftly reached above the door and grabbed the first thing his hands touched—the .58 caliber Zouave rifle. He spun toward Jalil and cocked the exposed hammer at the same time. As he brought the long barrel to bear on Jalil, Professor Savage pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation. He felt no mercy—moments earlier he had seen these men murder Jack Murphy in cold blood.
The large room reverberated with an incredibly loud and deep boom. Not like the sharp crack from a modern gun, but much deeper, more like fireworks, or an aerial rocket. At the same instant, a huge cloud of gray smoke from the black powder charge filled the room and momentarily obscured Jalil. The room reeked of sulfur.
At first, Professor Savage was not positive he had hit his target—then the smoke thinned and he saw Jalil on his back. His face was a grim mask of agony and he clutched the middle of his abdomen.
The huge, soft lead slug from the Civil-War-era rifle had slammed into Jalil’s body with devastating effect. The bullet passed through him and lodged deep in the log wall on the far side of the room near the rock fireplace. With no time to aim, the shot entered Jalil just below his rib cage. The lead bullet had exploded Jalil’s diaphragm and then severed his spine. He lingered momentarily before succumbing to his fatal wound.
At first, Ramirez and his men thought that Jalil had shot the professor. Davis had turned, but did not advance toward the door. He recognized that the sound wasn’t the same as the report from the 9mm machine gun. And then the gray smoke slowly drifted out the door.
Ramirez ran toward the door, shoving Davis to the side. Henri followed but stayed on the front porch, guarding Davis. The remaining men stayed outside surrounding the academic team.
Ramirez stepped through the open doorway and ducked just as the professor swung the butt of the rifle toward his head. He was holding the he
avy, single-shot rifle like a large club, wishing it had been fitted with an authentic 18-inch-long Civil War bayonet.
The momentum of the swinging rifle forced Professor Savage to twist further to his left, allowing Ramirez to recover. He raised his right leg and kicked the professor in the stomach causing him to double over, dropping the Zouave rifle. Then Ramirez brought down his pistol on the professor’s head, crumpling him to the floor.
“Henri!” shouted Ramirez.
Henri entered the cabin and saw Jalil dead on the floor. Next to him was the prone Professor Savage, moaning softly and moving his hand across the back of his head, a smear of blood visible between his fingers.
“Drag him out of here,” Ramirez growled.
“Yes, General.” Henri grabbed Professor Savage by his left arm and yanked him across the floor to the door. The professor rose first to his knees, then his feet. He groggily walked out into the sunlight.
Karen rushed to Professor Savage and examined his head. The scalp was split, but the blood had already begun to coagulate, matting with his hair. Only time would tell if he had a concussion.
Ramirez turned a fierce gaze toward one of his team. “Kwok. You searched the cabin and reported there were no weapons. How do you explain the firearm our resourceful Professor Savage managed to produce?”
Kwok was nervous and worried. General Ramirez had a violent temper and he did not want to be on the receiving end if the general lost it. “I’m sorry sir. We only found the shotguns and the antiques above the door. I showed you—I didn’t think they would shoot.”
Ramirez quickly closed the distance to Kwok and pressed his pistol against Kwok’s forehead. Cocking the hammer, he yelled, “If you ever make a mistake like that again, it will be your last. Do you understand me, Mr. Kwok?”
Kwok was terrified. He was shaking. He nodded ever so slightly and mumbled, “Y-yes, General.”
“Good. I’m glad we have an understanding, Mr. Kwok.” Ramirez lowered the pistol but kept it in his hand.
Satisfied that he had made his point, he returned his attention to his captives who were huddled in a tight group surrounded by Ortiz, Weasel, Henri, and Kwok.