The Hammer of God (34 page)

“It's about time, William,” Bill's mother said as she walked behind Hank's stretcher.

Bill turned to Janice. “Well, Mrs. Hiccock, besides that how did you like the play…”

Bill's attempt at lightening the mood only got him a hug. “Bill, you saved me… us. You kept your promise to me.”

“Honey, the guy who really helped all of us is right…” Bill looked around but there was no Bridgestone anywhere.

“He
is
a ghost…”

“Who is?”

“No one. Let's get you to the hospital. With Pop there too, it's going to be a busy night.”

∞§∞

Somewhere in the middle of that busy night, while Hank Hiccock was restfully sleeping and being monitored by gadgets, gizmos, and Mrs. Hiccock in the chair alongside the bed, the younger Mrs. Hiccock was giving birth to the older's new grandson, Ross Bridgestone Hiccock.

∞§∞

In the aftermath of the helicopter crash, there was no attempt made to recover the copter, the device, nor the remains of any of the unfortunate souls who were killed in the building at the time. The entire building was sealed in 10 stories of alternating layers of concrete, lead, and sand. The foundation was also excavated and sealed in a similar method. The device and its deadly plutonium yoke was nestled in a concrete and lead egg, 50 feet thick on either side and 100 feet tall.

The entire midtown south area was decontaminated along with thirty thousand workers who got de-conned right at the scene by Homeland Security's mobile decontamination centers. Twenty-three tons of clothes were burned and six square blocks of drapes, furniture, and anything porous were trashed. Buildings were scrubbed down and air quality samples taken. Six months after the attack, the only reminder would be the cold concrete obelisk where the building used to be and a small plaque honoring the 18 people who died in the building during the first nuclear attack on American soil.

At the hospital two days after the birth, Bill received an unaddressed envelope left at the front desk.

In it was a simple note that read “For the kid's sake, it's Richard.”

Bill went back inside Janice's hospital room to tell her, but she and little “Richard” Ross Hiccock were fast asleep, safe and peaceful. He had done his job for his country, his hometown, and for his little fledgling family. So with nothing left to do, Professor William Jennings Hiccock, possessing one of the most brilliant scientific minds in the country, just sat and, for what had to be the one-hundredth time in two days, marveled at the miracle before him.

This book is based in part on my actual experiences that are the basis to the Peter Remo character. I spent much of my life in dread that just the knowledge that the Jesus Factor existed, if broadcast to both the U.S.S.R. and America simultaneously, would instantly spark all-out war, because neither nation would hold its fire during a cusp that favored them.

In early 2007, I was able to spend some time with former President Bill Clinton. I asked him directly about the Jesus Factor and if anyone ever informed him that there were certain days when nuclear war was asymmetrical. His assurances that no one ever said that to him gave me the confidence to go forward with the writing of this book and let the Jesus Factor play its part in the fiction without my divulging any national secrets.

The contributions of the following people guided my fingers over the keyboard:

Colonel Michael T. Miklos, US Army, for not only the metal and gunpowder “hard points,” but for embodying the modern warrior/patriot intellect, which so helped me imbue the characters with courage.

Peter Kesselman, my partner in the Demiac 256, who was there with me in '68, for his insights and remembrances.

Len Watson who gave me the nod that I had a story here that should be pursued.

Anthony Lombardo, Retired First Grade Detective NYPD, for not only his knowledge but for allowing me to tap into his years of courageous service to the city.

My cousin, George Cannistraro, a brilliant writer in his own right, whose astute plot analysis really opened up the second half of this story.

Lia Matthow whose keen editorial sense and notes were the polish on this manuscript.

Monta, who is the joy of my life and believes in me even when I have my doubts.

To all the folks at NBC News, circa '68–'72, if you find yourself in the book or part of you in a character, it's because you helped shape the world for a 14-year old kid.

And Lou Aronica of The Fiction Studio, who deposited his three-decades-plus of publishing excellence, throughout this novel without ever leaving fingerprints.

And finally to you, the reader, because you have made it to the end of this book, thank you. Without you, I am writing to myself.

Dear Reader,

Look for more adventures of the Quarterback Operations Group in the third installment of my “thrillogy,” entitled,
The God Particle
.

Book three, which was inspired by a brief encounter with a famous female writer while I was on a press promotion for book one,
The Eighth Day
, is more Brooke's book than anyone else's. It has more about her – her love life, her work life, her near loss of life, and finding a new life. Along the way we have modern-day pirates, real killer whales, sharks, Euro-disco, killer priests, foiled Pope assassinations, Class One religious relics, an old knights order kicking up dust, a dream weekend at Camp David, exploding Marine Ones, science and religion at each other's throats, kidnapping, master chess level strategy, the Large Hadron Collider at CERN, and the death of time itself. From the Indian Ocean, to Washington, to Paris, to the Sudanese desert, to the Cote d'Azur, to Geneva, it's quite a ride. The prologue and first chapter from
The God Particle
follows.

All three books are centered on my operating theory that what I write is science fact, fictionalized. As always, I rely on my history of having been in TV, worked for Congress, spent time in Washington and had some interaction with America's Armed Services and defense systems. Of course, my healthy respect for conspiracy theories, obscure science fact, and the insights into human behavior gleaned from decades as a film director all add up to the sum total of what I write.

I hope you like it. And remember my “trademarked, copyrighted, patent pending” logo line: “It's Only Fiction till it Happens!”

With deep appreciation for your readership,

Tom Avitabile

[email protected]

Here are the opening pages from
The God Particle
:

It wasn't really a lake, more like a croissant shaped, sudden contour of the river Rhone that disperses its undercurrent flow over such a wide area, that it flattens out into a calm, bay-like body. On the French end of the crescent, the quiescent waves are refocused into a flowing river once again. Its crisp, Alpine water resuming its seventeen-year destiny to empty into the Mediterranean. The shores of Lake Geneva are dotted with castles, chateaus, small villages and picture perfect walks that magically transport the common stroller into the regal past. All in all, a storybook setting that seemed the most unlikely origin point of the end of all existence on Earth, the solar system and the infinite universes beyond; the death of Time itself.

∞§∞

Twang… Speeong… Pop… Grundle, she couldn't make out the noises through cottony ears. Like on an early school morning with her mother calling up to her room,
Brook… you'll be late for the bus
, and she didn't have the energy to open her eyes.
Ten more minutes, Mom.
She just wanted to lie there and catch a few more minutes of…

A distant cough rose from within her and upon inhaling, a knife like slice of acrid air made her choke again. Her right cheek was stinging. Kaarrack… the intensity of that next percussive punch popped her eyes open. They immediately started to burn. She focused on the world, the world around her; sideways, and on fire!

Before her mind could fathom the reality of the situation in which she had awakened, her instinct kicked in and she reared up, her palms scrapping against the same sandpaper rough surface that must have chewed into her cheek. Still disoriented, she sensed a blanket of intense heat enveloping her. As she tried to stand, her head spun and she fell back onto the skillet-hot, metal floor.
No, not a floor… a deck
. A fear welled up inside her that forced her brain to focus, to crystallize on the present. Without consciously deciding to do so, she was up and fighting a shifting equilibrium.
That's right, I was on a boat!

Then a tongue of flame lashed out, the scorching tip causing her to recoil and topple over the side railing. She fell a few feet and smacked into the salty cold of the sea. The shock of the immersion, the sudden muting of all sound into a watery gauze and the radiating pain from the salt water digging into her scraped, raw cheek and hands, snapped her into another survival mode. She frog-legged back up to the surface. Gasping for her first breath, she broke the surface of the ink-black water, which was streaked with orangey glints reflecting off the wave tops. Using her arms proved painful, but she managed to turn herself in the water towards the heat and saw she was yards from a burning ship. Around her was fiery flotsam and debris. The main part of the vessel was gone, seemingly bitten off by a huge sea monster that took out the wheelhouse and most of the superstructure with one bite.
A bomb, s
he thought as she spotted a chair cushion floating a few feet from her. Holding it beneath her chest and chin, she kicked her feet, creating more distance between her and the still exploding vessel. Another concussive thud was immediately followed by a flaming piece of wreckage that landed with a splash just ahead of her. She made her way around it.

Her head was sideways on the soggy, but buoyant, cushion. She had never been so exhausted, even on the survival course at Quantico, where pushing an agent to the physical limits for 3 days was the whole idea. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something rip through the wave tops. She propelled herself upward to see if she could see it again. There were four of them. Four fins slicing through the water…
Sharks
. She turned; there were more of them, circling her and the wreckage. About 10-yards ahead of her, one breached the surface with its powerful jaws locked around the torso of a man. He screamed a blood-curdling scream. Its white underbelly flashed in the light of the flames as the creature smacked back down onto the surf bringing its prey beneath the waves. She heard the final scream of the man, gurgling as he was dragged below. Suddenly she was aware that the fins were closing in on her. She let the cushion go and keep turning in the water trying to see which one would close for an attack. A fin heading straight for her was hard to see, as it was just a thin line above the moon washed water coming at her. She braced herself; as the animal approached she punched down with all her might. She made contact with the nose of the killing machine and it flicked its tail and shimmied off, away from her. The punch cost her dearly. The pain in her arms almost knocked her out. There was another fin, about 20 yards out coming round and in. She wouldn't be able to muster that kind of punch again. She tried to position herself in the water to try and kick this one. Intellectually she knew this was a fight of attrition. She would not stop bleeding and they would not stop coming. She would be shark food as soon as her strength gave out or one blindsided her from the back or beneath. Then she saw it, to her right and 30 feet off-- a capsized Zodiac. She started to swim towards it, but her arms were like lead and the best she could do was thrash around. The shark was coming right at her now. In a panic she looked around and saw the cushion bobbing a few feet to her left; it killed her but she breast stroked over to it, then placed it under her chest again and kicked like the devil to make it to the upside down rubber craft before the shark intercepted her. She never worked so hard in her life. From the corner of her eye she saw the fin approaching as she was just feet from the boat, and safety. The shark was closing too fast. She abandoned the cushion and started long strokes; it felt like her arms were ripping out of their sockets. She was ready to give up and give in to the pain; instead she heard her brother Haley's voice, “Don't give up, Brooke. You can do it. Push harder! Come on Brooke, work through the pain.” She yelled out of excruciating agony, “I can't Harley; it hurts so much!” She heard him insist. “You won't fail Brooke, you will make it. Don't give in.” She screamed one more time and her hand touched the craft. She pulled herself up onto the slick bottom just as the shark struck. He took a huge bite out of the edge, a few inches from her dangling right foot. The impact threw her over the other side of the small boat. She went under and could see, in the dim moonlighted surface, the shark trying to rip the severed piece of the boat free as he wiggled his powerful frame to shake it loose. His small brain having not figured out yet that it wasn't flesh, but rubber. She scrambled back onto the boat one more time and centered herself and held on to the overturned prop off the outboard motor. Now she was the center of attention of at least eight sharks circling her little island.

∞§∞

“Any word from Jakarta?” Agent Joey Palumbo asked as he entered the PEOC, putting his briefing file down on a nearby console.

“No, sir, just the satellite confirmation of the explosion and fire aboard the Vera Cruz,” the satellite communications officer said.

“Air-sea rescue?”

“Scrambled from Diego Garcia but it's a long trip.'

“Why didn't we have assets in place closer?” Joey chided himself.

“What ever happened, sir, was unexpected,” the satellite down link officer surmised.

“Is the vessel still afloat?” Palumbo asked as he surveyed the screens and console panels of the PEOC, the President's Emergency Operations Center, which was not the more famous situation room under the West Wing, but a converted, old World War II bunker, in the East Wing basement of the White House.

“All we know is that it stopped emanating the tracker signal… could be sunk or the tracker may have been discovered,” a tech, manning a console, said.

Palumbo's lean frame hovered over the multi-purpose console, his face locked, with only the side-by-side movement of his square jaw as he chewed over his options. Bringing Brooke Burrell over from the F.B.I. had been his initiative; she was the best agent he'd seen. He wasn't going to lose her to the Indian Ocean on her first mission attached to “QuarterBack.” His jaw then set and he reached for a blue phone, “White House signals… this is Half Back please voice print confirm… Halfback.”

There was some switching sounds and then the voice of a female, “White House interconnect, state your emergency.”

“I need to speak to CincPac immediately.”

“Connecting”

A few seconds later, a squeezed voice shot out of the receiver after having been encoded, shot up 15 miles to a com sat, then bounced off a dish in Virginia, decoded and digitized and finally made analog to finish the trip on the oldest technology it would encounter-- the electro-magnetic receiver element of a Bell System phone, circa1966. “Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet Operations…”

“This is Joe Palumbo from special ops, White House, ‘pea-ock.' Do you have any ships at or near 8 degrees 29 minutes north at 97 degrees 38 minutes east?”

∞§∞

The overturned Zodiac Brooke was clinging to was bobbing in the medium chop of sea south of Java. A body, floated face down right by her; she recognized a rifle strap slung across its back and tugged it over. When she flipped the body over, half the man's face was gone along with the center of his chest. A slick and blood red fish flipped and flapped out from behind the man's lung and squirted back into the water shedding its crimson covering and returning to its natural silver grey as it descended ahead of the red trail. She undid the sling and retrieved the AK-47. She then pushed off the body with her foot. Its new motion attracted two sharks that immediately descended on the body and tore it in two. Other sharks started thrashing around the blood slick now marking the spot. Using the butt of the rifle as an oar of sorts, she started paddling away from the sinking boat and hopefully the sharks. The upside down Zodiac presented so much drag that she wasn't getting very far, but at least she was drifting away. The weighted down end of the craft was where the overturned motor was. Its prop and small rudder pointing up gave her a foothold to steady herself against the pitching raft. She plopped her head down and told herself she'd rest a while then see if she could right the boat. As she attempted to relax, all the pain returned, reporting in from her hands, her face, her knee…
My knee?
She looked down. There was a gash across her knee spewing blood. With throbbing, bloodied hands, she ripped at the buttons of her blouse and removed it, then removed her bra. She wrapped the bra around her knee and cinched it with a square knot made out of the straps. The under-wired cups snuggly contoured to her knee. She checked that it was secure and donned the blouse again. Being water logged, the back stayed bunched and twisted but it afforded her some protection against the sun, which was starting to boil off the fog to the east.