The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Page 6

  “The biggest story in history and I can’t tell it.” She gave him a tender smile. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  He caressed her cheek and looked deep into her eyes. “We’ll make it through this thing.”

  She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her doubt.

  *

  The Amana Colonies, Iowa

  Getting the mail wasn’t usually this traumatic, but the paper in Eric Metz’s hand certainly changed that.

  Eric agreed with his religion’s dogma that the Lord would provide--if you worked hard. And he’d done so his entire life. His farm had no electric power, in that respect being like most of his fellow Amish neighbors, but he’d gone along with the tractor hypocrisy and purchased one.

  What farmer in his right mind wouldn’t when a field that used to take a week to plow now took a day. Even so, to get right with the Lord, he stripped off the tires and ran it on its steel rims.

  He’d inherited the farm from his father, who’d got it from his and so on back to the founding in 1855. But if things kept going the way they were, it wouldn’t be his farm much longer. And for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Thanks to crop rotation and growing grow green cover crops the soil was as deep and rich as it had ever been. He planted only heirloom seed crops that, like the land, had been handed down from generation to generation. So how could he be sued for patent infringement? How could it be his fault that the wind blew genetically modified corn pollen into his fields. If anything, he was the injured party, because his corn crop was no longer pure.

  But here he was, facing eviction after being sued by Big Ag Crops, because they allowed their patented genetically modified organism to get loose and, in effect, trespass on his land and contaminate his heirloom corn. He’d vaguely heard of such suits before and considered them utter nonsense, but the paper in his hand wasn’t nonsense. It was an immediate and dire threat to all he held dear.

  He took off his straw hat revealing his farmer’s tan and wiped his brow, mystified. He thought briefly about the rationale of the court’s ruling and was appalled at where his thoughts led him. Why, if Corporations could win such claims, it was not just conceivable but inevitable that all of the world’s food crops would eventually be owned and controlled by them. And those who control the food supply control the population.

  He would have to pray, seek guidance from the elders--and hire the absolute best appellate attorney the Amana Corporation could afford. This not only wasn’t right, it was evil!

  Chapter 7: Joey’s Date

  Los Angeles

  “You mean the hole just appeared?” Joey Scarlatti shook his head. “No sound? No vibration?”

  “That's what I been tellin' ya,” Sergeant Carswell said. “One second I'm leaning against my Humvee. The next second there's a hole clean through the tire, frame, transmission, and out the other side. Missed me by less than an inch.”

  Joey the Giant considered the possibilities. Neutron beam? Unlikely, the technology wasn't there yet. Mass driver? Possible, but the projectile would have made a noise. It had to be a laser, and what a laser! He wanted it.

  “Any plans to ship it?”

  “Well, they don't exactly advertise that kind of package,” Carswell said.

  “I know that, Carswell. That's what I have you for.”

  “I'll keep my eyes open. What about the other stuff?” A large shipment of M16's, LAWS rockets, grenades, and other small arms was going out in three days.

  “The route the same as you said?”

  Carswell nodded.

  “Okay, then.” Joey said, as far as he was concerned the meeting was over. He looked down at Carswell. “You still here?”

  Carswell left.

  Joey spread a map and pointed to an isolated bridge. “You’ll hit them here.”

  Anthony and John both stared at him.

  Finally, John asked, “You aren’t coming?”

  “No,” Joey said, a smug smile filling his face. “I have a date.”

  *

  Situation Room

  “This is the problem,” Carl Borzowski said, pointing to a small part of a detailed diagram. “The gyroscopic stabilizer for the aiming platform has to be replaced.”

  Farley Moffat challenged him immediately. “What's wrong with one that's already in Sunflower?”

  “I believe the technical term is 'fried',” Carl said. He'd had just about enough of Farley Moffat. To forestall the inevitable follow-up question, he added, “The Garcias had a spare and they're testing it now. If it checks out, they'll send it to Cape Kennedy as part of an arms shipment bound for Fort Benning.”

  “Why not ship it by air?” Farley asked.

  “And if the plane should crash? Carl replied.

  Farley nodded and said, “Okay, got it. Shipment by ground with an armed escort is more secure.”

  “How long?” It was the first time the President had spoken at this meeting.

  “The shipment leaves tonight, Mister President. It will arrive at Cape Kennedy Friday morning, several days before we need it.”

  “Good!” Hammond Powell breathed a sigh of relief. “Now, I want you both on the phone. Find me a backup stabilizer and get it to Cape Kennedy. Nothing must go wrong with this launch.” By God he would stop this asteroid.

  Farley was out the door swiftly, but catching a gesture from the President, Carl remained behind.

  “Yes, Sir?” He asked.

  “Anything you need to get off your chest, Carl?”

  Carl thought briefly about Monica and said, “Well, Sir, you could tell Farley to call off his dogs.”

  Hammond Powell smiled. “Spotted them, did you?”

  “No, Sir. I just assumed they were there. The bad news is Monica spotted them.”

  “Yes, well…” the President cleared his throat. “I’ll have a talk with Farley. You say hello to Monica for me. But Carl, no leaks. We just got started on the camps in the Smokies and the Black Hills and we don’t need any complications.”

  *

  Hollywood

  Joseph Scarlatti fidgeted in his new tuxedo. His eyes swept the room, double-checking everything. The candlelit table covered with a plush white linen tablecloth, set with Gold-ware and gold trimmed china was a work art. Even the linen napkins were folded origami-style into swans. A golden serving bell sat next to the china centerpiece.

  She’d left the choice of restaurants up to him. She was late.

  In the corner of the room, where she’d see it when she came in, sat a dark mahogany table adorned with dozens of bright red roses in a spray of baby’s breath.

  God! If she didn’t show he’d never survive the humiliation.

  Royal blue velvet draperies trimmed in gold framed the entrance. A nice touch, he thought. Two walls of the private dining room were hung with tasteful prints. One, if he wasn’t mistaken, was a Matisse. The other wall consisted of an enormous bay window overlooking the Pacific. In front of the window a mahogany love seat beckoned. Its upholstery matched the two chairs at the table and the draperies.

  Soft violin music wafted through the room.

  Everything is perfect, he thought. Maybe it was too perfect. Maybe it was too cliché. He was an idiot to do this to himself, to lay himself open like this. He hoped she wouldn’t show.

  His heart skipped as the drapes parted and the host showed her in. Her eyes caught the roses first, as intended, and a smile lit her face.

  “Miss Lola MaDonna,” the host said. “I have the honor to introduce Mister Joseph Scarlatti.” The man bowed out.

  Joey rose to his feet so fast he almost knocked over his chair, and stepped forward to offer his arm. His eyes drank in her obsidian hair, voluptuous figure, frightened eyes. He froze.

  He’d die if she bolted.

  Lola’s violet eyes widened as Joey stood up…and up. An involuntary trickle of fear prickled her skin and her breath caught when he stepped toward her. The man was a giant! Lola, only five-
foot-three, came roughly up to his navel. She fought the urge to scream and run.

  Suddenly aware she was staring most rudely, Lola blushed, then recovered her self-control and stepped toward the giant, offering her tiny hand.

  “Please forgive me, Mr. Scarlatti.” Her voice was husky with embarrassment. “You didn’t fit my childish preconceptions. With your Italian name and all I expected you to be small and dark. Instead you’re so…,” she craned her neck up to look him in the eye, “so…blonde.”

  Joey took her dainty hand in his and laughed, loving her beauty, her courage, her lie. His mirth rolled over the room like a freight train dousing her blush and catching her up in it.

  “Forgive me, Miss MaDonna,” he said when he caught his breath. “I really should have warned you I was so…blonde.” The smile in her eyes set wings to his heart.

  He led her to the table and held her chair, then took his own.

  Lola’s heart was still hammering, but the actress in her had come to the fore. How could this be the man who wrote haiku? Who sent sensitive, lovely gifts? His words gave the impression of culture and knowledge. And he was polite to a fault, striving with a bass drum rumble to sound gentle. But each time they touched something inside her cringed.

  What repelled her so? He was being so nice. His eyes, she decided--something lurked just under the surface of those icy blue eyes.

  Though only three hours ticked off the clock, each minute tested her anew. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, feared, in fact, to hurt them. It upset her all the more that she couldn’t name one good reason to fear him. Finally, she pled an early shoot the next morning to escape, refusing the offer of a ride, knowing the enclosed confines of a car would trap her next to him and shatter her frayed nerves.

  Joseph, perfect gentleman to the end, saw her to her cab and held the door. As she got in he leaned close, saw her go rigid, and said, “I’ll call you.”

  He tried to close the car door gently, to control the seething inside him, but when he shut it he twisted the handle off.

  “Bitch,” he hissed as the cab drove off. For Joey’s life had also made him an actor--playing dumb for Benny the Bug. So Joey felt the slight tremors when he touched her, saw her eyes flinch when he leaned close and had switched in an instant from the delights of love to the delights of torture. He had hoped to draw the evening out, to punish her for being like the rest.

  She had humiliated him in the worst way possible, by pitying the freak.

  All evening the desire built in him to wring her head off her body, but he satisfied himself with tasting her fear. The place was too public. Too many people knew.

  But God help her if she crossed his path again.

  Chapter 8: The Convoy

  Northern Arizona

  Jamal Rashid’s eyes narrowed as they followed the line of trucks winding along the highway, headed for the trap.

  “Jerry to Papa. Sammy left the door unlocked again,” Jamal radioed.

  “Papa here,” John Scarlatti said. “Well, don’t just tell me about it; lock the door.”

  Jamal shoved the detonator home and watched as the carefully spaced blasts tore rock loose from the mountainside and sent it smashing onto the road below. He keyed the mike. “It's locked.”

  “Good. Sammy, I don’t suppose you left the back door unlocked too?”

  Ten miles in front of the convoy “Sammy” sat in the front seat of an Arizona highway patrol car, parked across both lanes with its lights flashing, while his partner turned traffic around, explaining to irate motorists that a slide had blocked the road.

  “Sammy here, Papa. I locked them both. Jerry’s lying.”

  “Now boys, just don’t let it happen again.” They were using GMRS radios and wanted the conversation to sound like a family squabble in case the Army was monitoring the frequencies.

  John looked over at Anthony and gave a thumbs up. Tony put down the field glasses, through which he'd just sighted the convoy's lead truck and said, “Welcome to my parlor.”

  *

  Private Otha (Glad) Gladson drove a rig better than any man in the motor pool's transport division. He repaired and maintained “his” truck, doing his job with pride and with attention to detail so he wouldn't have to depend on others less conscientious. His reward lay in the smooth feel of the steering, the way his rig's gears snicked cleanly into place when he shifted, and the instant response from accelerator and brakes.

  The big black man spoke softly, his words pronounced in an upper-middle-class, mid-west accent. White men, meeting him in person for the first time after talking to him over the phone would often blurt out, “I didn't know you were black.” Otha would shrug and go on about his business. Some white folks were just naturally ignorant so he made allowances. And some, like Corporal Blevins, the man sitting beside him in the cab, were spiteful rednecks. Glad wondered why Blevins had chosen to ride in his truck. The man normally avoided “niggers” unless handing out shit details.

  Gladson and Blevins were the third truck in the four truck convoy as it wound its way up Arizona's Mogollon Plateau on Route 60. Otha enjoyed these back road trips for the challenge to his driving skills and hated them for the wear and tear they put on his rig. He supposed taking such routes was some sort of idiotic security measure, and shook his head, thinking they would be more secure on an interstate with lots of people around. Of course, nobody had put Private Otha Gladson in charge yet.

  He dropped a couple of gears as he steered around a tight curve and followed the lead trucks out onto a narrow two-lane bridge. He felt Blevins tense up beside him and wondered if the Corporal was afraid of heights.

  Then the cab of the lead truck exploded and everything happened at once. The lead truck's forty-foot trailer slewed sideways, almost blocking the bridge, as its air hoses ruptured and its brakes locked up. The second truck plowed into it and jackknifed. Glad smoked all eighteen wheels skidding to a panic stop. Gun-bearing men erupted from cover and raced out onto the bridge, some using fire extinguishers on lead truck's burning cab, others shooting into the second truck. Two of the men were huge enough to stand out.

  Hijack! The thought rang in his brain as Otha reached for his M16. Cold steel prodded his neck, and suddenly it was clear to him why Blevins chose to ride in his truck.

  “Ah don't think so,” Blevins said in a shaky voice. “Jist sit yo black ass still an' put both hands on the wheel.”

  Shots sounded behind him and Otha realized the convoy was surrounded.

  “They'll kill us, Blevins! This is a hijack!”

  Blevins sneered, “Don't you think ah know that, you dumb nigger.”

  “You think they'll leave any witnesses?” Otha asked, certain he wouldn't be left alive.

  For a brief instant doubt flickered in Blevin's close-set eyes and the pressure of the gun barrel on Glad's neck eased. It was all the opening he'd get. Otha slapped the pistol away from his neck and stiff-fingered Blevins in the eyes. The Corporal screamed. Something burned across the back of Otha's head and his ears rang from the roar of the .45 in the enclosed cab as he twisted the pistol from Blevin's hand so hard he dislocated the man's trigger finger.

  Slugs stitched a line through the windshield and Glad ducked, dropping the pistol and grabbing his M16.

  Blevins screamed, “Don't shoot!”

  Glad kicked open the truck door catching one attacker in the face, knocking the man down. He only had one very slim chance at survival and he didn't hesitate, jumping from the cab, shooting a hijacker whose weapon swung toward him, and diving over the bridge railing toward the waters far below as bullets cut the air behind him.

  *

  “You're a real disappointment, Blevins,” John Scarlatti's hard tones held no mercy. Smoldering wreckage and dead soldiers surrounded him. He had the Corporal pinned against a trailer, one massive hand gripping Blevin's throat. His men were almost finished hooking new cabs to the trailers.

  “He has to be dead,” Blevins squeaked. “No one could survi
ve that fall.”

  John slacked his grip slightly. “What do you think, Tony?” Anthony was taking a quick inventory while the trucks were readied.

  “I think we should test the Corporal's hypothesis, baby brother,” Anthony Scarlatti said.

  For once, John agreed with his “older” twin, tossing the screaming Corporal off the bridge.

  “John! Tony!” One of their men yelled from the back of Glad's truck.

  “What the hell is this?” John asked, staring down at the Styrofoam encased object that looked out of place among the boxes of M16's, grenades, and LAWS rockets that made up the bulk of the load.

  “Think it’s that laser Carswell was bragging about?”

  “We’ll ask him,” Tony said, not liking the situation one bit. Something about that thing bothered him. “Let's get out of here.”

  *

  In the canyon below, and more than a mile downstream, Otha Gladson clung to a boulder in the middle of the river as the water raged around him. He couldn’t see out his left eye because it was swollen shut. He took off his belt and fashioned a sling for his left arm. He could tell by the large lump it was broken and it hurt like the devil. But he’d survived a high dive he figured would get him in Guiness.

  “Told you so,” he muttered to Blevin's corpse as it shot past him and on down the rapids. He edged up onto the rock and sat, wondering how the hell he was going to get to shore. He was still there the next day when the rescue chopper spotted him.

  *

  Situation Room

  President Powell paced the room, radiating energy like a thoroughbred on race day. The others present, powerful men all, edged back each time he approached.