The Giant Smugglers (14 page)

Fitzgibbons blinked twice and turned to face the officer. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

“He claims he was trying to rearrange the letters, but how he hooked his underpants on the marquee is beyond me. All I know is that he's lucky he didn't fall and break his neck.”

“I could have jumped from there…” Jamie began.

Fitzgibbons held up a hand. “That's enough,” he snapped. “I apologize for my son's behavior and even more for his attitude, Officer. Where do we go from here?”

Jamie fumed as Bald Cop tore a pink ticket off a pad. “I'm citing your son with a municipal ordinance violation. Technically the charge is ‘disturbing the peace.'”

“More like ‘disturbing your doughnut break,'” mumbled Jamie.

“That is enough, Jamie,” said Fitzgibbons, taking the ticket and slipping it into his shirt pocket.

Bald Cop rubbed his smooth head, ready to get on his way. “Just pay the fine, Doc. We've never had any trouble with your son in the past, and I expect this'll be the end of it.” He gave Jamie a look that said it had better be.

Fitzgibbons held the door for the officer as he exited the building, then took Jamie by his shoulder back through the security door and down the hall to the utility room where he'd washed test tubes earlier in the day. “Okay, let's have it.”

“Have what?”

“What in the world were you doing up on a sign?”

“Forget about that! How about you tell me what you're doing in there!” Jamie's head jerked toward the lab that he'd snuck into just hours before. He was so angry that his hands shook.

“Don't you dare try to turn this around, Jamie. This isn't football coaches anymore. It's police officers! And if you think for one moment that your mother and I—”

“A
giant
hung me up there!” Jamie shouted. “Charlie Lawson's smelly, crooked-toothed giant buddy! Gen50! Now do you want to tell me what's going on?”

Fitzgibbons's jaw dropped. “What?”

“A giant, like you don't know,” spewed Jamie. “I think you cooked him up in your top-secret lab with your fat little friend.”

The skin on Fitzgibbons's forehead twitched. “This giant—where is it now?”

“You made that guy big instead of me,” Jamie seethed, pounding his chest. “Why not me?”

Fitzgibbons put his hands on his son's shoulders. “This is very important, Jamie. After the giant hung you on the sign, where did it go?”

Jamie jerked himself free. “How should I know? Everyone was laughing at me, the cops were shining flashlights in my face, and then it was gone.”

“We can't let that giant get away!” Fitzgibbons turned to hurry back to his lab, and Jamie followed.

“I'm coming!”

“I need you here,” Fitzgibbons said, spinning Jamie toward a computer terminal on a nearby desk. “Record every single thing you remember about what happened. Do you realize that you're one of the first people in the entire world to make contact? Describe what the giant looked like. Did it talk? What did it say? How did it say it? Don't leave out a single detail.”

Fitzgibbons hurried out into the hall and scanned his palm. The laboratory door unlocked. He disappeared inside the lab, leaving his son to watch the door begin to close.

One thousand one …

 

18

Lightning tore across the sky as an Accelerton company jet soared high over the state of Arkansas. Although the
Fasten Seat Belt
signs were lit, the Stick paid them no attention. He had more important things on his mind, like capturing a giant.

The Stick paced the length of the small cabin, tastefully furnished with four executive-style leather chairs and a marble table. His civilian outfit, as always, was nondescript: a lightweight tan sport coat over a white button-down shirt with matching tan slacks, his impeccably shined shoes black and simple. The black hair atop his head was cut at military length. A little salt and pepper showed on the sides. His build was wiry-strong.

He swallowed hot black coffee in long gulps while checking the windows on both sides of the aircraft. It bounced in the turbulence of a dark storm.

“Please sit down, sir,” said the flight's lone cabin attendant, Lori, a brunette in her late twenties. The lapel of her jacket was embroidered with the Accelerton double helix. She was strapped into her seat near the cockpit.

“No,” the Stick said. He was intent on determining the severity of the storm, and the amount of time the weather might delay his arrival in Chicago. Special transport waited there to take him to Richland Center. Any delay was unacceptable.

The attendant pursed her lips. No one had ever told her “no” before when asked to buckle in.

Speakers crackled as the pilot spoke from the cabin in a monotone drawl. “Well, we're in the middle of some weather,” he said, stating the obvious. “Doppler's got this front stretching from eastern Minnesota all the way down to Little Rock. Air traffic control isn't going to let us get anywhere near Chicago for now. Looks like we'll be circling St. Louis until she blows through. Just make yourself comfortable. Lori will help you out with anything you need.”

The Stick set down the coffee and picked up the black cane that had been resting next to his chair. He turned to the cabin attendant. “Hi, Lori. I need something.”

“Sir, I have to ask you again to sit down. It isn't safe.”

“No,” repeated the Stick. “I need to talk to the captain.”

“I'm afraid you can't. Cabin doors are locked. FAA regulations, as I'm sure you know. The only way to reach him is on this intercom.” She pointed to a simple handset hooked on the cabin wall next to her seat. “But he's got his hands full at the moment. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

The Stick strode down the center of the plane, heading straight for the intercom.

“Sir!” Lori protested as the Stick reached over her and grabbed the handset.

“Captain,” the Stick said. “Circling St. Louis is unacceptable. I need to get to Chicago. I have an important connection to make there.”

There was a long silence. Lori frowned at the Stick, who somehow stood stone still despite the plane's violent jitter.

The cabin speaker crackled again. “Unacceptable or not, air traffic control isn't letting us any farther north until this weather breaks. It's spawning tornados all over the place. We do apologize for the inconvenience, but it's out of our hands.”

The Stick exhaled. “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.” He hung up the handset, then returned to his seat. He set down his cane, peeled off his jacket, and unbuttoned his white shirt.

Embarrassed, Lori turned her head. “Please keep your clothes on, sir.”

“Relax.” The Stick removed his white button-down to reveal a skin-tight black shirt as sleek as the physique it covered. He took off his pants. Black leggings, made from the same material as the shirt, graced his lower half. He folded his suit coat and pants, depositing them in an overhead bin. Then from the same compartment, he extracted a large black duffle.

He opened the bag, revealing a dozen black sticks, each weapon outfitted with a different high-tech attachment. Many people thought the sticks were the source of his nickname, but they were wrong. President Roosevelt once said “Speak softly and carry a big stick”—the idea that diplomacy was well and good, but only when backed by the threat of massive force. The Stick was that force.

He moved the weapons aside one by one until he found what he was looking for: a compact red-and-white bundle that unwrapped into another body suit. He donned the top.

The flight attendant blinked as she noted the webbing between the arms and torso. After he pulled on the pants, his legs were similarly joined. It made the Stick look like a flying squirrel. He repositioned the duffle's contents and slung the bag across his body. He picked up his cane.

“Sir, I have to ask,” said Lori. “What in the world are you wearing?”

“A wingsuit.”

“A wing … What is it for?”

“Leaving.”

“I'm sorry?”

The Stick withdrew his phone and made a call.

“Sir, you cannot turn on portable electronic devices at this…” A hard look from the Stick halted Lori's warning.

“Flight scrapped, we're stuck up here. I'll be on the ground in twenty minutes,” he said to someone on the other end. “Ping me for the exact location and arrange transport ASAP. There should be something in the area. I'll go off board if necessary. Calculating my departure trajectory now.” He ended the call and tapped the screen twice. An app opened and located the plane's current position. The Stick chose a spot on the map and an arc appeared on the screen, tracing a three-dimensional path out of the plane to a landing location. An on-screen clock began counting back from thirty seconds.

Last, he removed a stainless-steel syringe from his bag and tore off the needle cap with his teeth. He plunged the hypodermic straight through the wingsuit and into his thigh, dropping the plunger in a single smooth motion. In moments, his chest and shoulders heaved violently, and his pupils swelled. He yanked out the syringe, dropped it and let it roll down the aisle.

He approached Lori, who had little color left in her face. “Go join the pilots in the cabin.”

“Please, sir. You can't jump out of this plane. It's … it's not that kind of plane! And the storm…” Making her point, an earsplitting clap of thunder shook the aircraft. Lori clutched the armrests of her seat.

He checked the countdown. “I'm leaving in twenty seconds. Once I open that door, the cabin pressure is going to get really uncomfortable. You'll feel much better up front.”

“There's only t-t-two chairs in there,” Lori protested.

“Then I guess you'll have to stand.”

“I … I … I…”

People who were paralyzed with fear often made it easier for the Stick to do his job. This was not one of those times. Lori flinched as he grabbed the handset next to her head.

“Captain, I'm jumping out of your plane. Do the right thing and let Lori up front with you.”

He handed the handset back to Lori and donned a pair of goggles. “I'm going in ten,” he told her. “Tell him.”

“He's opening the door in ten seconds!” Lori screamed into the handset. “He's not kidding! He's dressed like a superhero or something! He's crazy!”

“I've locked the emergency door. You've violated federal law!” said the pilot.

The Stick waved off the accusation with a swipe of his cane. “International law, too—a bunch of times. That door opens in seven seconds. Tell him.”

Lori unstrapped herself from her chair and pounded on the door to the cockpit.

“Five seconds,” cautioned the Stick.

The cockpit door swung open and Lori darted inside, locking it tight behind her.

The Stick turned to the emergency exit door. Blue electricity crackled out of the business end of his weapon. He aimed it at the hatch lock and fired a cobalt blast. The interior lights dimmed, and the plane dropped in altitude before righting itself. One good kick from the Stick, and the door flung open. He dove out of the plane in a rush of air, his wingsuit gliding through gale-force winds toward the ground.

He wouldn't miss his chance at a giant in Richland Center.

 

19

Clear liquid filled the hypodermic as Barton drew back the plunger. His hand trembled from exhaustion or exhilaration—he couldn't tell the difference. Tandem mass spectrometry confirmed what earlier simulations had predicted: The rat's physiology was too accelerated to accept the giant growth hormone. The rodent's internal organs didn't have a prayer of keeping pace.

But now, after several hours of analyzing the dead giant-rat, Barton knew he and Dr. Fitzgibbons were closer to identifying the allelic variant necessary to epigenetically modify, clone, and express the DNA structure to stabilize the GGH. At least, that was what Barton would write in his report to Gourmand. In layman's terms, he was pretty sure he could grow a rat without blowing it up. There were, of course, mountains of tests ahead to confirm his hypothesis.

The door to the lab clicked open, and Fitzgibbons scrambled into the laboratory.

Barton set the hypodermic down, eager to deliver his news. But before he could speak, his mentor shouted about something else entirely.

“We've made contact!” Fitzgibbons's eyes were wild as the door lock sounded. He pulled up the latest satellite images on the bank of monitors. “The giant is on the move. We have to find him before the Stick arrives!”

Barton couldn't quite believe his ears. “We should have gone down to the warehouse with the tracking gun while we had the chance!”

Fitzgibbons ignored the complaint and panned through satellite imagery of the Starlite 14. “It's running around on the edge of town. The thing picked Jamie off the ground and hung him out to dry on a movie marquee.”

“But … but why would it…?” Barton sputtered, trying to process the strange story.

“It doesn't matter right now. Jamie's detailing the whole encounter for us. How long will it take to access every bird at our disposal?”

“It's the middle of the night on the coast. I'm not sure there's anyone there at this hour.”

“We'll have to do it without their consent.” He pounded the keyboard. “We need to know the giant's location when the Stick arrives. If we're close, he'll get it.” Barton hurried to his workstation and joined the effort. Soon they had retrained every satellite at their disposal and a few more that weren't. It would be a few minutes before they came online and scoured the entire area.

The timing was awkward, but the junior scientist still wanted to share his own news. He retrieved the syringe, holding it up so that its contents glowed with promise in the amber light. “Sean, I have a new version.”