Vapor (11 page)

Disbelief welled within me as I watched a group of armed personnel direct our vehicle, reliquary and all, toward a large box truck.

What the hell?

My plan had been relatively straightforward. Fake our deaths. Hide. Watch the arriving forces from a safe distance. Wait for them to leave and for the storm to pass. Fix the flat tire. Drive the reliquary to Jerusalem. But now, I saw the fatal flaw in my plan.

Where are they taking it?

Leaning over the dune, I adjusted my goggles. After staging the explosion, we’d slipped away from the area. We’d taken cover and proceeded to watch as the newcomers swarmed the scene. We’d held our collective breath. Fortunately, our charade seemed to have fooled them.

The dirt shifted beneath my fingertips as I studied the barren land. Over the last four hours, a remarkable change had taken place. The small inferno engulfing the SUV had been extinguished. Jagged car parts and grisly chunks of flesh had been carefully gathered and stowed in plastic boxes. Meanwhile, workers had dug our vehicle out of the dirt and fixed its flat tire. Now, they were in the process of loading it into the first box truck. But the drone, well, that was the most incredible change of all.

In record time, a group of workers had dismantled the aircraft. They’d gathered the parts and stored them in the second box truck. Now, all that was left were some sections of the fuselage as well as the giant cylinder.

“I don’t get it,” Graham whispered. “Why are they taking our truck?”

“Because they’re cleaning the scene.” Beverly took a deep breath. “Also, they might’ve been after the reliquary all along.”

My fingers tightened around the dirt as I recalled the hollow look in Lila’s eyes when she’d first seen the drone. She’d been petrified of it as well as of a mysterious woman who controlled it.

My fingers tightened a bit more as I remembered her fears about the reliquary and about a woman being after it. Presumably, it was the same woman who controlled the drone.

Had Lila been right all along? Was the reliquary truly dangerous? Had the drone been sent to kill us with its strange chemtrails? Was the reliquary the real target? If so, why?

The dust storm continued to rage, albeit at a reduced level. I shifted my gaze to a short, dark-skinned man. He was clearly in charge of the workers. Despite the flying dirt, I got a good look at his face. He looked to be of Polynesian descent.

The man walked to the first box truck. Waving his hands, he directed his workers to cover the reliquary with additional padding and chains. Then one of the workers carefully backed our truck up a ramp and into the cargo area. Other workers clambered into the box truck. They spent a few minutes securing the vehicle. Then they stowed the exterior ramp.

A sense of dread filled my chest as the box truck’s rear door slid shut. The workers secured the latch and moved toward the giant cylinder.

Why didn’t I listen to her?

“Pagan,” Graham whispered.

I kept my gaze locked on the Polynesian man, memorizing his features. “What?”

“I’m reading lips,” he replied. “The workers keep saying
Pagan
. I think it’s their destination.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Me neither.”

The workers took the cylinder to the second box truck. They treated it gingerly and with great respect. A short while later, they gathered up the remaining fuselage pieces. The Polynesian man performed a quick check of the area. Then the workers piled into their vehicles, fired their engines to life, and drove off, heading across the desolate farmland.

Feeling numb, I followed the first box truck as it bounced along the uneven ground, taking the ancient stone box with it. Where were they taking the reliquary? Would I ever see it again?

A small part of me wanted to accept defeat. To forget the reliquary and hope for the best. To move onto other salvage jobs, other artifacts.

Guilt and doubt plagued the other part of me. I had personal reasons for wanting to recover the reliquary. In addition, I’d allowed it to fall into questionable hands. What if it truly was dangerous? What if the mysterious woman hurt people with it? What if she hurt lots of people?

Graham exhaled. “They’re gone.”

Twisting her neck, Beverly studied the terrain. “The road’s back there,” she said. “I say we hike back to the dig site. Hopefully, Lila’s pick-up truck is still there.”

“Then what?” I asked.

She gave me a curious look.

I peered across the dust-choked land. I saw dirt, rocks, and dead vegetation. “Those people killed Lila. God’s Judges too.”

“I’ve got contacts in the Israeli Army. Maybe they can help us.”

“Yeah, right.” I shook my head. “Their hands are full with the drought, the riots. How much time are they really going to devote to this?”

She didn’t reply.

“And what about the reliquary?” I added. “Are we just supposed to forget about that?”

Beverly hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “We can try.”

My jaw hardened.

I’d never really known my father. He’d passed away when I was still a boy. But a few weeks ago, I’d learned something new about him.

Something that changed everything.

The information had reset my priorities. I’d made a renewed commitment to protect artifacts, to protect the past. Maybe the reliquary was lethal. Maybe not. Regardless, I felt an intense need to rescue it, to keep it safe for future generations.

Graham looked at me, looked deep into my eyes as if he could see all the way to my soul. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “And you can forget it. Did you even see those guys? It’s like a small army. We’re way out of our league.”

“You’ve got the drone’s navigation data, right?”

He nodded.

Long ago, my dad had upset the scales of progress vs. preservation. There was no changing the past, no undoing what he’d done. All I could do was try to balance the scales, to save enough of the past to make up for the history he’d destroyed.

“We couldn’t protect the reliquary.” Rising to my feet, I stared into the distance, straining to catch one last glimpse of the box truck. “But we can get it back.”

A strange substance swirled in the gigantic twin reservoirs. But it wasn’t just any substance.

It was CN-46.

“This is it,” Simona Wolcott said as she stepped outside the private elevator car. “This is the beating heart of Eco-Trek.”

Alan Briggs walked into the underground room. He turned in a half-circle, taking in the space. “It’s enormous,” he said in a slightly cowed tone.

Simona had managed to dodge Briggs for a few days. But Briggs had grown increasingly hostile, even going so far as to threaten to call his employer. So, she’d finally acquiesced to the man’s demands.

But only for now.

“Why don’t you look around?” Simona pointed to the far side of the room. “The production facilities are back there. You can peek through the windows, but please don’t enter the actual space. My technicians work hard to limit outside contaminants.”

As Briggs wandered off, Simona fixed her gaze upon the twin reservoirs that dominated the room. Each container was made of three-inch thick bulletproof glass and boasted a diameter of fifteen feet. They rose twenty-five feet into the air. High above, sturdy pipes shot out of the reservoirs and disappeared into the concrete ceiling.

She strode toward the nearest tank. Her eyes moved up and down, examining every inch of the smoothly polished glass. Her plans had changed over the years. They’d been refined and perfected. But the storage tanks had remained largely consistent with her original design. Their presence made her swell with pride. They were things of beauty, marvels of her ingenuity.

But at the end of the day, they were still just storage tanks. It was the substance inside them that mattered most of all.

A woman coughed. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.” Looking around, Simona saw Briggs had wandered out of hearing range. “What’s our status?”

Dr. Mychelle Besson lowered her voice. “We completed the Miasma compound sixteen hours ago. Despite a much smaller footprint, it mimics the extracted samples perfectly. I’ve moved it into the testing phase. Early results are in-line with expectations.”

“Excellent. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. How close did we get with CN-46?”

“Not very close at all, actually. The extracted samples contain chemicals we hadn’t anticipated. Some weren’t even on our radar. The formulation is different, too. I could go on and on. Suffice it to say, the samples—and Miasma, of course—differ wildly from CN-46.”

“I guess that’s why CN-46 didn’t work.” Simona arched an eyebrow. “How much time do you need to complete testing?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“That’s all?”

“Ideally, we’d monitor the test subjects for a six month period. But it’s hardly necessary. Our equipment gives us incredible insight into the changes taking place within the subjects. From there, it’s a simple matter of modeling and extrapolation.” She shrugged. “Once testing is complete, we’ll move into production. Of course, distribution is a whole other matter.”

“Let me worry about distribution. We …” Simona trailed off as she saw Briggs staring at them. “Come here, Alan. I’d like you to meet someone.”

Adopting a look of disdain, Briggs joined them near the reservoirs. “And you are …?”

“Mychelle. Mychelle Besson.”

“Your accent … it sounds French.”

“I was born and raised in Calais.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You left France to come here?”

“I believe in Simona. I believe in her cause.”

Years earlier, Mychelle had distinguished herself as one of the world’s most renowned chemists, with special expertise in the field of nanotechnology. But a single meeting with Simona had convinced her to give up the limelight. She’d moved to Eco-Trek’s island sanctuary and taken on a dual identity. To her peers, she was a dedicated scientist and the brilliant inventor of CN-46. But to Simona, she was someone else.

Someone who would change the world.

“I see.” Briggs gave her a pitiful look. “So, what are you exactly? Some kind of PR lackey?”

“Actually, Mychelle is our most prized scientist.” Simona shot him a withering look. “She led the development of CN-46.”

Briggs turned his attention to the twin reservoirs. “Do you handle production and distribution as well?”

“Simona oversees everything. But I have a hand in both areas.” Mychelle walked to a reservoir and studied the small computer attached to the glass. “From both standpoints, we’re in excellent shape. We can produce up to eight hundred tons of CN-46 per day. That’s more than enough to fulfill our needs.”

“And the reservoirs are adequate?”

“Very much so.”

Briggs gave her a close look. “You know why I’m here, right?”

She didn’t flinch. “Simona briefed me.”

“Then this question should be easy for you. Could CN-46 be flawed in some manner?”

“Absolutely not.”

His look turned skeptical. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I personally oversaw every step of the testing phase.”

“But how can you be sure your tests were comprehensive?”

“Because I designed them, Mr. Briggs. But that’s not the only reason for my confidence. Thanks to Ms. Wolcott’s excellent systems, we’re able to keep a constant eye on CN-46, on how it performs in the real world. We study every little piece of data that comes our way.” Mychelle smiled pleasantly. “CN-46 is a miracle of modern nanotechnology. But it’s still just a compound. It can be observed. Its effects can be modeled. We control it in every conceivable aspect.”

For the next few minutes, Briggs threw increasingly complex questions at Mychelle. She batted them away with ease. Satisfied, he excused himself and continued his self-guided tour of the facility.

“Nice job,” Simona said softly. “You handled him perfectly.”

“Maybe.” Mychelle frowned. “We need to keep an eye on him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way he talks, the way he acts. He’s like a pit bull with a scent. He knows he’s onto something, he just doesn’t know what it is yet.”

“Then I suggest you work faster. If testing goes according to plan, what’s your time frame for production of Miasma?”

“An additional four hours. Of course, that’s just an estimate.”

Simona frowned. She hated uncertainty. In her perfect world, it wouldn’t exist. All processes, natural or otherwise, would be utterly predictable. Unfortunately, the world was imperfect. Some things would have to remain uncertain. The work of Heisenberg, Gödel, and Lorenz had proven as much.

But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“Fine.” Simona smiled. “Thank you, Mychelle. Keep me posted.”

Turning on her heel, Mychelle walked away, her non-slip work shoes padding gently against the concrete floor.

A trance-like state enveloped Simona as she twisted toward the reservoirs. Twenty-eight hours to complete testing and production. Loading and pre-flight checks would take another two hours. It was a small slice of time, but it felt like an eternity.

She’d spent ten years dreaming of this moment. She’d committed six years in full dedication to it. And she’d spent the last eighteen months physically working on it. And now that it was finally happening, she could barely contain her excitement.

Fifteen minutes later, Briggs hiked to the reservoirs. “I guess I’m done here. That is, unless you’re willing to let me into the production area.”

“I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable,” Simona replied. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Is this your only facility?”

Simona stared at him. “Why do you ask?”

“I did some reading on my way here. Japanese forces occupied this island during World War II. I assume they built a number of defensive facilities. Do you use any of them?”

“We use their original airstrip. Of course, it’s been refurbished for our particular needs. But other than that, I’m not aware of any other buildings around here.”

“Okay.” Briggs nodded slowly. “Let’s go.”

She led Briggs to the private elevator car. Once inside, she inserted a key into a keyhole. She twisted the key and punched in her code.

With a soft ding, the elevator doors closed. As the car began its slow climb to the second floor, she felt a rising sense of anxiety, mixed with exhilaration.

Thirty hours.

She had to string Briggs along for another day or so. Whatever happened, she couldn’t let the man discover the existence of Miasma. Unlike Mychelle, a cretin like Briggs would never be able to appreciate it, appreciate how it could remake the world. He’d consider it evil, death incarnate. But he’d be wrong. Miasma wasn’t poison.

It was lifeblood.