Halon-Seven (3 page)

Finally, just before he thought something had gone wrong with the platform, a small flash of light filled the room. It was follow almost immediately by another flash, this one stronger and brighter. Pellagrin couldn’t figure out where the light was coming from. It seemed to form all around him. Another flash and he felt a pull on his body—a strange force—as if he were suddenly twice his normal weight.

There was one more final blinding flash and then Pellagrin was gone.

—————

The platform stood
empty in the brightly lit laboratory. Electricity hummed as it coursed through the transformer in the cabinet at the back of the lab. The components inside the platform buzzed as they began to power down. Aside from that, there was eerie silence. The marble size sphere continued to hover at the center of the vacuum-sealed cube.

Finally, the fuse ran out on the two bundles of TNT. The dynamite detonated, obliterating the glass wall and sending shards of glass the size of grains of sand blasting through the laboratory. The fiery explosion ignited a gas line in the wall of the lab, engulfing everything in an instant inferno. The detonation’s percussive blast rocketed backward through the breached lab wall and down the concrete corridors pulverizing the six nearby Russian soldiers. They never felt a thing.

The force of the blast would have been enough to collapse the concrete structure of the hallway and the lab itself if the blast wave and shrapnel from the wall had not already breached the vacuum seal of the Fire Star cube. With a hiss, the strange composition of the vaporous clouds and black orb contained within instantly mixed with the atmosphere. The electrified conflagration caused a cascading breakdown in the strange element. The resulting detonation that made the eruption of the TNT and natural gas look like a hiccup by comparison.

When the strange black sphere went critical, its resulting detonation wiped out not only the lab, it removed every trace of the Russian military facility from the face of the planet. Along with it, destroyed in an instant, were 770 square miles of Russian wilderness.

London, England

Two Months Ago

The chill from the day’s ceaseless rain penetrated Professor Walter Meade’s old bones. He stared out the taxi window as historic London passed the rain-streaked windows. The afternoon had grown late but it was impossible to gauge the time—the sky had remained the same persistent dreary gray since the moment he arrived in the city early that morning. He had planned to spend the evening trading stories with his old friend Allan and Allan’s wife, Helen. It was their custom whenever Walter came to town. But an unexpected email had arrived on Walter’s phone and change the course of his afternoon.

The nature of the message had Walter deeply concerned. A rare book dealer was reaching out and claiming to have located the lost, privately published copy of J.K. Holloway’s
Den Dschinn
. This was troubling because it was completely unexpected. Walter’s contact, Heinrich was the owner of the bookstore which specialized in rare manuscripts, maps, and journals but more importantly he was also a highly regarded smuggler who traded in exotic gems and ores. The J.K. Holloway book that Heinrich mentioned was actually a code. It meant he’d located a supply of an extremely rare mineral known as Halon-Seven. The news was alarming because, to the best of Walter’s knowledge, he already possessed the entire known supply of the substance. If a new source had been discovered, Walter needed to know about it immediately.

It was this news that brought Walter’s relaxing evening to an end and sent the 80-year-old man out into the pouring rain for a clandestine meeting with an old German smuggler. Walter’s eyes watched the scenery pass without really noticing. His mind was swimming with the implications of Heinrich’s discovery. A new source of Halon-Seven would open a great many doors for his research. This might very well be the break he’d been hoping for. The limited supply of the substance was preventing him from completing his project, satisfying his life’s work. He had spared no expense scouring the globe in search of another source of the ore, only to find nothing. But if Heinrich’s message was accurate, he’d missed something. Unlikely, but not impossible. And if this were the case there was hope for
Meridian
, after all. He could yet fulfill his life’s ambition and leave a mark that would forever change the world.

The taxi pulled to the curb before the quaint old London bookstore. The large glass front window offered little view of the warmly lit interior. It, too, was streaked by the unending rain. Walter pulled the collar of his wool coat tight around his neck, stepped carefully over a large puddle, and pushed his way through the shop’s door.

The silence of the bookstore struck him as odd but it took him a moment to realize what was out of place. The door chime, normally triggered when the front door opened, was missing. It was unusual, but not strikingly so. It had been nearly a year since Walter last stopped to visit old Heinrich. But there was something more. It was the silence. The bookstore was normally nearly as quiet as a library, but Heinrich always kept a small portable radio tucked under the front counter. It was perpetually tuned to a London talk station. Heinrich kept the volume very low, but the lack of the constant droning of voices emanating from beneath the counter was the second item out of place.

“Heinrich?” Walter called quietly. There was a tickling sense at the back of his mind telling him something was wrong. But the rational part of his mind overruled that sensation. He rounded the counter and walked deeper into the small bookstore.

Walter passed row after row of floor to ceiling bookshelves breaking the body of the store into aisles. The shelves were packed end to end with old but interesting books. Every one was completely unique and a rare literary find. As he passed each aisle, Walter cast an expectant glance toward the back of the store. Each time he was surprised not to find his friend cataloging the eclectic collection of old tomes.

He reached the far wall but still found no sign of Heinrich. His concern was growing. He made his way to the back of the store. When he got there, he found the old wooden door leading to the back office slightly ajar. Walter smiled. Of course, Heinrich was in back. There was no need for alarm.

“Heinrich,” he called through the door. “It’s Walter. I hope you haven’t fallen asleep my friend! It’s not even—”

Walter pushed through the door and into the small office. His breath caught in his throat. There, sprawled face down on the floor was Heinrich. A bullet hole was clearly visible in the back of his head, as was the blood and brain matter that coated the floor and the wall just beyond. Walter knew at once he was in danger. He would make for the street, find the nearest public place and call the authorities. As he spun on his heel to make his escape he realized he would never have the opportunity.

The cold dark barrel of a silenced pistol was the first sight to catch Walter’s eye. The gun was leveled squarely at his face.

“Not a sound, old man!” the armed man commanded. About six feet tall, the man wore a black watch cap, a black coat, and dark trousers. He had dark penetrating eyes that left no doubt in Walter’s mind, this man was perfectly willing to pull the trigger.

As Walter fought down the panic, he studied the gunman’s face. He had a long healed over burn scar on the left side of his face, about the size of a large fist. Walter decided the man’s lack of regard to hide his identity or the distinguishing mark didn’t speak well for him getting out of this with his life.

“Get back in there,” the man instructed. His voice was low and threatening, almost a growl. Walter wasn’t sure if the man was trying to be intimidating or if that was just his way. Likely it was both. The man had the look of an experienced killer. Heinrich was proof enough of that.

His observations reinforced the analysis, as Walter was forced into the office. Looking at Heinrich’s body on the floor, the man had been shot in the head. His proximity to the back wall and the blood splatter indicated he was on his knees when he’d been shot—when he was executed. The bloodstain on the wall told Walter even more. The blood had congealed and dried to a large degree. Heinrich had been killed some time ago. He was not the one who sent the email Walter had read. Walter had walked into a trap set specifically for him.

The gunman put his hand on Walter’s shoulder and guided him at gunpoint past the body and around the corner of the desk. They passed through a doorway and down a short hall before coming to a small worn out old kitchen. Sitting on a rickety wooden chair beside the kitchen table was a thin lanky man wearing a very expensive Italian suit. Walter recognized him immediately. His bird-like build and oddly egg shaped head meant he could be only one man. As dire as the situation was a moment ago, the stakes had just gotten worse.

“Good evening, Professor Meade,” Nil Bayer said with a toothy smile.

A chill ran through Walter. The man’s grin did nothing to belie the rock hard indifference that shown in his eyes. His smile was as cold as poor Heinrich’s corpse.

Walter’s panic went up by several degrees when he considered the man before him and the coded message used to lure him to the bookstore. If Nil Bayer was here, Walter knew his situation was critical. If Bayer knew about the Halon-Seven, the situation was far graver than he’d dared speculate. This man had the reckless ambition and the limitless greed that constituted Walter’s worst-case scenario.

Walter felt a painful tightening of his chest when he thought of the damage Bayer would do if he had control of Meridian. Though Walter was not prone to panic, if ever there was a time, this was it. He’d walked into this trap. He could already foresee the situation spiraling out of control. Walter needed to get the upper hand and to find out how much Bayer knew. But he was short of breath. He felt weak in the knees and put his hand on the kitchen counter to steady himself. Was this what a panic attack felt like? He needed to keep his head. He had to keep thinking.

“Take a deep breath, Professor. You don’t look well.” Though the words sounded like concern, Walter knew better. He knew Bayer’s reputation well. The man was gloating. His trap had worked; Walter had walked right into it. Hell, given the circumstance, he’d almost come running into the snare. He’d been so concerned with the discovery of a new source of Halon-Seven that he failed to take precautions.

“Tell me what you want.” These were Walter’s first words to the man and the sound of his own voice surprised him. His voice was sickly and hollow. The room was spinning as well. There was a constricting pain in his left shoulder. It had been there for some time but he was so distracted he’d only just realized it. As he struggled to take another breath, the truth of his situation dawned on him.

Bayer nodded to the gunman behind Walter. The man placed the barrel of the suppressor at the base of Walter’s skull, pressing it just behind his right ear. He applied pressure until Walter cried out in pain. Walter felt his knees threatening to buckle but fought to keep his footing.

“You know very well what I want!” Bayer spat. “You call it Meridian. Your predecessor, Rumsfeld Pellagrin referred to it as ‘Silent River.’ Whatever the name, you know well its power. Give me what I want and I’ll make you a very rich man.”

Despite his pain, Walter couldn’t help laughing. Bayer had wealth beyond compare, but his only interest was more money and more power. Anything he could hold over the heads of others. “You see yourself as Alexander the Great? You would use Meridian to conquer the modern world? It’s short sighted and pathetic! Meridian holds far more power than you realize. It is the power to unite
the entire world
. To bring people together, to join them in a way few have ever dared to imagine.”

Walter now felt the pain in his chest and across his back. His left arm had grown numb. It was a struggle just to remain standing. He could feel the perspiration forming across his chest and down his back. “I’ll never give you Meridian,” his words came out as little more than a raspy whisper.

The gunman must’ve taken them as a challenge because Meade immediately felt the press of the gun driving into the base of his skull. Walter was forced to his knees.

Bayer looked down his nose at Walter, distain clear in his eyes. Bayer studied him with detachment. Walter’s resistance was something he couldn’t understand. “You’ll give me what I want,” he said confidently. “In the end, Meridian is
not
worth your life!”

Walter smiled and met the man’s eye. So all was not lost. Bayer understood how Meridian could be used toward his own ends for power and wealth but he had no understanding of its true value to the world. If he did, he would know that Meridian was most definitely worth his life. Walter had believed this since the fateful day in 1955 when Rumsfeld Pellagrin invited him to join Silent River. With this understanding, Walter could look proudly on the fact that his heart was now failing. Not only was he willing to die to protect the project, he would go to the grave before allowing someone like Bayer take it from him. He only wished he knew for certain whether Bayer knew about Halon-Seven.

Greater pressure was applied to the gun at the back of Walter’s head. The room was spinning. Everything was growing dim. Halon-Seven was all that Walter could think of. He needed to be sure. If Bayer knew the secret, he would surely execute the research team and take the project for himself. As much as Walter didn’t want to see the project perverted, the thought of those kids being gunned down somehow seemed more tragic.

“The book!” Bayer bellowed into Meade’s face. The man was squatting down in front of him but Walter was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard a word Bayer was saying.

“Where is the book?” Bayer demanded once more.

The man was growing red in the face. Walter took a measure of pride in that. His vision was growing more dim and clouded but he could still see the rage in Bayer’s visage. “What book?” Walter finally managed in a hoarse whisper.

“Your contact told us about the book! We emailed you about it. Just as he promised, you responded immediately. He said you’ve been searching for the book for many years. He told us you hired him to locate it for you…”