Eye In The Sky

The story so far...

Prologue

Gray sheets of rain fell steadily onto the tarmac. A warm pacific wind blew the deluge sending it dancing across the runway. Cy-Net CEO Graham Diggler boarded his Boeing 737 at LAX. He was in a hurry to get to New York where his top executives would meet to finalize their plans for the next phase in operations.

Nuclear fusion had long been the promised salvation for the world’s many energy woes. The finite supply of fossil fuels, the radioactive dangers of fission reactors, the inefficiency of alternate sources of fuel were soon to become things of the past.

Graham sat in his seat facing the window. His thoughts were far away, completely engrossed in the millions of details that were his responsibility. The big plane was virtually empty. The drone of the rain counter-balanced the splash of fingers flying across keypads as his aides worked on the speech he was to deliver at the next shareholders meeting. He was so tired of explaining what nuclear fusion was. Sometimes he felt more like a carnival barker than the dedicated executive he was. Nuclear fusion is a reaction that occurs when hydrogen and oxygen atoms fuse together resulting in a cataclysmic release of energy, blah blah. It has the advantages that there is a ready supply of fuel, hydrogen and oxygen are quite plentiful after all, and the fusion of hydrogen atoms to an oxygen atom creates water not the radioactive byproduct of a fission reaction, yadda yadda yadda.

Graham had never liked speaking to crowds. His legendary self-confidence was something that he developed after he had left Cisco, the small Texas town he grew up in. Graham would never consider himself as neurotic, but the memory of being the shortest kid in the class had left him with a couple of quirks. His uncle, a minister and a veteran of the Vietnam War, had taught Graham early on that a good bluff was preferable to blood and bruises any day.

When CY-Net Enterprises announced that they had successfully achieved a sustained fusion reaction, it created a stir of incredulity among the scientific community, but went largely unnoticed by the general population. The ability to trigger a fusion reaction had long been possible. The maintenance of that reaction is what had for so long evaded scientist worldwide. Cy-Net conquered that drawback with a system that not only sustained the reaction but also did so with unparalleled control and reliability. His team assured Graham that this reactor was safer than a hydroelectric dam. Even if the reactor was sabotaged or attacked, the plasma reaction would simply cease, resulting in a jet of water vapor but not much else.

Just a few years after the mapping of the human DNA strand, cloned sheep and the like, the public was somewhat indifferent to yet another claim of “the greatest scientific achievement ever”. Unlike the discovery of the atom, which quickly led to the development of the atomic bomb and which was just as quickly dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, these new breakthroughs had not noticeably done anything yet. Sure scientists were giddy by what might be achieved in a decade or so, but the media saw no payoff in maintaining interest in a story with such a long delay in gratification. So, when CY-Net made its announcement and nobody seemed to care, Graham decided a promotional event was in order... In fact, the greatest ever...

***

The Senate House Committee on Nuclear Energy was gathered in the foyer when Committee Chairman Senator Dash Puffley of Massachusetts arrived. Senator Puffley walked into the room and took his place at the front of the table.

“Fellow congressmen, fellow congresswomen, welcome and be seated please”.

Once everybody had seated himself or herself and the subdued murmurings and scraping of chairs had quieted down Senator Puffley continued.

“Let’s bring this session to order, shall we. As you all know CY-Net Corporation has applied for a license to build a new type of nuclear plant. They claim this reactor will provide clean energy from the fusion of hydrogen atoms in much the same manner in which our sun creates it’s own energy. They claim that a glass of water contains enough fuel to provide electricity to Washington D.C. for a week. They claim that there is no danger from radiation, that there is no need to concern ourselves with the chance of a thermonuclear explosion.”

“Furthermore,” he continued, “they...” The Senator gesticulated wildly, “this energy consortium...” The Senator spit out his last words, as if to imply that only devils, republicans and those of questionable character would be involved with such as they. “They plan to open a theme park on the same property as their reactor. A theme park! I ask you ladies and gentlemen of this committee do we really want the public, our children, congregating around a nuclear reactor! Aside from the obvious danger to the public there are also serious security issues.”

Senator Puffley pounded the table accenting each word.

“Who here has forgotten 9-11? Who here has forgotten Osama Bin Laden? Who here has forgotten that we are at war with an enemy who would purposefully seek to destroy such a target!”

Senator Puffley drew a deep breath and stared slack-jawed at the assembly as he dabbed his brow with a crumpled handkerchief fished from some deep recess of his pants pocket. Dash often did this, sometimes standing immobile for a minute at a time. He thought it to be an effective way to make sure he had everybody’s attention especially after making what he thought was a good point.

“It is the purpose of this committee to address this petition, but before I open the floor let me bring forth my own petition.”

The Senator stood open-mouthed for a small while for added effect.

“The American people have made it abundantly clear to me that they do not need nuclear energy. Verily, they do not want a thermonuclear reactor in their back yard. Who among you would keep their position if you had to tell your constituents that you were bringing a nuclear inferno into their towns? Into their homes... I daresay none of you would.” Senator Puffley ignored the murmurs his last statement created. They all wanted the plant in their backyard. Nobody cared what his or her constituents thought. The kickbacks would make whoever got the plant rich beyond the need to care what anybody else thought. Senator Puffley continued. “I know what you’re thinking, but consider that this plant is a prototype. It is untested. It is our job to protect the American people from unscrupulous corporations like CY-Net. I petition that we table this motion until further studies are done on this type of reactor.”

Senator Flowers quickly spoke up. “I second that motion, Chairman Puffley.”

“Thank you Senator Flowers and might I add that that dress sets off your blue eyes beautifully. Now, If that is all we will consider this motion tabled...”

“Senator Puffley with all due respect to the Chair and Senator Flowers, hasn’t nuclear fusion been studied enough? Berkeley has for a long time had a fusion department and the properties of this type of reactor are well documented. CY-Net is a well-respected organization; there is no evidence of unscrupulous behavior. On the contrary their charitable donations...”

“Senator Baird, you are out of order Sir” Senator Puffley chided. “The motion has been tabled and this meeting is adjourned. If you wish to make a motion before the table you must wait until the floor is so opened.”

“But, you haven’t opened the floor Senator...”

“Then you will wait! Senator Baird“. Puffley retorted, banging his gavel on the table for emphasis. “Now, if that is all...”

“But...Chairman surely you don‘t mean to postpone this meeting yet again... How can you allow the threat of terrorism dictate what this country will or will not do?”

Puffley, his corpulent face turning bright red from his anger, pounded the table with his gavel not allowing for any further protestations. “This meeting is adjourned, now go home!”

Senator Robert Baird did not even blink. He had been in Washington a long time, and politics is politics after all. But this, Puffley’s performance, had felt like a staged piece with a decidedly odd feel to it. You don’t have to be standing knee deep in shit before you realize you’re in a barn, thought Baird. The smell should clue you in long before you open the barn doors.

Senator Puffley exited the room, a deep scowl on his face, but inside, like a little boy with the biggest Tonka toy on the block, his elation bordered on hysteria.


***


The corridor went on for another hundred feet. Jasper stumbled onward, pushed from behind whenever he faltered or slowed. They paused when they reached the end of the hall, Jasper’s breath came in ragged gasps, and the smell of fear and his own feces filled his nostrils. He waited while his escort knocked on the door. A soft, mewling sound came from within the room. When the door opened he was pushed roughly inside.

The room was lit by a low, hanging lamp, which illuminated the center of the room, but left the sides and even deeper rooms in darkness. From the doorway Jasper could see that where he was, was your basic basement set up, concrete walls with a drain in the middle of the floor. The object that was making the mewling sounds hung in the middle of the room . The sight transfixed jasper. After a while Jasper noticed that the thing looked familiar.

“Llewelyn? Is that you? Llewelyn, what have they done?”

Jasper felt himself being dragged and chained up alongside what had once been Dr. Llewelyn Whitehead, but like an actor in a bad play it felt like it was all happening to somebody else. Llewelyn raised his head giving Jasper got a good look at where they had ripped off his left cheek. Llewelyn’s right eye dangled out of its socket suspended only by a thin red thread, his other eye rolled around showing the whites and glancing about wildly. Jasper gagged on his bile and looked down. At his feet was a metal pail. Inside it he noticed what looked like ears, some white bits that could have been teeth, and what he was sure were fingers because one still had a ring attached.

Jasper started screaming. He could not help himself his fear was overwhelming. The sounds tore out of his throat like a hook from a fish’s mouth. He could feel Llewelyn thrashing alongside him. Suddenly, Llewelyn stiffened. Jasper could see what was left of his jaw opening and shutting in a tense spasm. Then, as if a string had been cut, Llewelyn’s head slumped forward and exhaled one last, slow breath. The tears streamed down Jasper’s face, and he could hear somebody whimpering. It was a while before he realized that it was him.


***


Diggler’s plane taxied up to the helicopter waiting for him on the runway at JFK International Airport. A brief ride into the city later, and he was at his corporate offices in downtown Manhattan ready for the meeting to start. When most people thought of a business meeting they thought of a rectangular office with a long table circled by chairs. Maybe a personal assistant or two tucked away in a corner somewhere. This model held true for CY-Net as well, but it did not hold true for it’s CEO. When Graham Diggler held a meeting a completely different set of rules applied.

First, only one person was allowed in Graham’s office at a time. You had to climb from the forty-second floor to the penthouse four floors up. The stairs began simply enough, not much different from any circular staircase you might find in any affluent home, but as they curled upwards they widened until at their end there were more than twenty yards of polished black marble from gold plated banister to gold plated banister. From there you had to traverse the foyer. The hall increased in proportion as it went out from the stairs. The walls, adorned only with huge motifs of CY-Net’s logo, inclined outward. The doors at the end of the hall were immense. By the time you reached them the ceiling was three floors up, and with tricks of architecture and lighting it looked higher still.

Latisha finished the climb; her toes throbbed with dull ache from where her heels had distributed all the weight of her substantial girth upon them. The pain did not bother her. She could dismiss pain from her mind as easily as she could dismiss the grandiose machinations of her boss. However, as she made her way across the foyer she stopped, as she always did, at the entrance to gather her thoughts and steel herself for the spectacle which was Graham’s office.

She walked out into the cool blue sky of morning. Although she had been up here many times before the design of the office still disconcerted her. The room was like a big observatory, or even a tall, empty lipstick canister. It was round and tall with movable segments. When opened a full 3/4’s of the room lay exposed to the sky and a helicopter pad could be extended out from the building. It was extended now and a sleek, black, converted Apache sat parked on the blinking pad. From the doorway where she stood a long protrusion, a little wider than a catwalk went out towards the middle of the room. At its end crystal stairs, one from each side, led to two fifteen foot diameter pods upon which there were comfortable chairs and a small desk. All of this was suspended a good fifty feet above the floor. Two statues took much of the room’s space up. A man and a woman, they were clothed in robes and rose from the floor fifty feet below to beyond the open roof thirty feet above. Their arms raised, palms up at a little below shoulder level supported the floor where the actual working office was located. They stood turned to each other yet facing slightly apart in order to stare down however walked through the doorway where Latisha was standing. In the middle of the room the hands closest to each other rested one on top of the other palms up with fingers and thumb curled slightly upwards, and it was here that one found Graham‘s desk. He had it conveniently situated right in front and slightly higher than where his guests had to be.

The catwalk where Latisha was standing was all glass and except for the lighted borders one could easily have walked off the edge without noticing it. Through the floor one noticed the pool of water and the garden far below. The walls of the room from top to bottom sported extensions. Small islands some of which had trees planted in their center. They all sprung out from the walls like mushrooms growing on a tree trunk. There were stairs and walkways connecting these islands to each other. Flags signifying a putting green marked many of them. It was from Graham’s desk the latticework of floors and walkways began. Overall, the room was a nightmare of architecture. Latisha sighed and made herself comfortable at one of the available desks, and patiently waited for Graham to start the meeting.

Latisha Thibideaux had worked with Graham for twenty years now. She had first met him on the campus of MIT where he was recruiting candidates for Industrial Technology Corp. She signed up for their summer internship, and she had been with Graham ever since. Their relationship was beneficial to both of them. Graham told her what he wanted and she made sure the right people showed up at the properly designated time. In return Latisha, aside from making a very good living, enjoyed the benefits of being the bosses adjutant. Whoever wanted to see Graham had to see Latisha first. She enjoyed all the wining and dining, all the flattery and presents, but what she really enjoyed the most was lording it over all those old white men in suits. It was childish and sinful she knew, but she thought God might forgive her this digression. When they would first meet her she would instantly be dismissed as Graham’s secretary, but after a very brief interval of time they would quickly realize that she was much more than that. Then the flattery and presents would start. Graham kept his eye on the big picture. Latisha looked after all the details.

“So can we get this fucking thing started already, Tish?” Graham asked as he settled himself behind his desk.

“And, a good morning to you too Graham.” Latisha responded cheerfully.

“Yeah yeah, you’re right. I am sorry. I love you too. It’ that I just flew in from LA. Those chicken-shit, rat bastards are pulling out. Puffley is trying to piss on my leg, and I haven’t had a decent blowjob in ten years. So, can we get this fucking meeting started already”?

“Do you see a man who speaks in haste? There is more hope for a fool than for him.” Proverbs 29:20.”

“No, no do not go start quoting scriptures at me today Tish. I’m not in the mood.”

“A servant cannot be corrected by mere words; though he understands, he will not respond Proverbs 29:19.”

“Isn’t there one in there about servants pissing off their bosses and getting fired?” Graham growled good-naturedly. As always Latisha's gentle chiding took the edge off Graham’s frustration. With her photographic memory she could serve up proverbs all day. This was one of the reasons Graham kept Latisha so close to him. She kept him grounded. She reminded Graham of where it was he came from, and she reminded him of what was truly important; people, community and prosperity. This was a side of Graham that no one but Latisha believed existed, but the truth was he actually and sincerely cared about people and the health of the world. Often times he had to be reminded that not everybody was a greedy politician or a slimy contractor. It seemed that the world was full of them these days. Them and their fucking lawyers.

“I am merely quoting proverbs, Graham, You don’t want me to start with the heavy stuff do you? Latisha asked sweetly.”

“No,” responded Graham. “Just tell me that we have a definite commitment from Dreadlock. I don’t want them to be able to back out of this deal even if they have to play in Siberia.”

The plan was to combine the opening of the world’s first fusion reactor with the opening of the world’s greatest theme park. Due to a coincidence of design the reactors above ground components resembled the pyramid complex at Giza. Once this was pointed out, the engineers at CY-Net picked up the ball and ran with it, purposefully structuring the reactor to match the exact dimensions of Egypt’s great pyramids. Thus was born the idea of an Egyptian theme park which would be right next-door and in plain view of the reactor.

The pyramids at Giza were exactly 1.61803399 times larger than the reactor’s dimensions were supposed to have been, and a decision was quickly reached to build a bigger, more powerful reactor than had originally been planned. Designers had a field day. Huge obelisks and giant statues with the bodies of men and women and the heads of beasts, housed the park’s sight and sound systems. The complex would house lasers, the latest in sound technology, and something new... The great pyramid’s golden cap would sport an eye which when opened would solidify a 3-dimensional field of energy. The energy field itself had no discernable physical properties, it could not be seen or felt, but upon it 3-dimensional graphics could be projected. Like a 33 square acre television planted straight above and all around the audience. The field’s boundaries were invisible, and yet within the field whatever the best computer graphics designers of the world could create, would be projected.

The plan was to have Dreadlock, the best selling concert band of all time, open the park with a live show unlike any that had ever been done before. What a show it would be! Imagine being in the audience, surrounded by the best in hi-fidelity, and while the band plays the sky above displays in perfect clarity every conceivable whim and fancy of the world’s best graphics designers. Plans were to start the show at twilight. As the suns last rays disappeared into the night the eye of the great pyramid would open and observe as an attack of dragons, flying in from the far horizon behind the stage, circled over the audience and set the sky ablaze with thunderous gouts of multi-hued flames. Once the crackling of the fires became too much, Dreadlock would appear on stage, kicking off the show with the title track off their new album, “The Fires of Armageddon.” Bass drums pounding, bringing the audience’s heartbeats into unison with the songs frenzied pitch. The rhythm guitar’s heavy, staccato, chops laying down a wall of sound, overshadowed only by Grunge Lee’s blistering lead guitar, and front man, Chris Wilde’s, signature vocals. The show promised to bring the house down...


“Graham, we could sue them for everything they ever had or ever will have, but I’m not sure these guys particularly care about anything except where their next beer is coming from,” complained Latisha. “Switzerland still won’t let the bass player anywhere near their borders. Not since the incident with that farmer and his chickens in Gstaad. Collectively these guys have the IQ of a box of rocks, Boss.”

“Well, just make sure they show up,” said Graham. “Puffley, has agreed to stop hamstringing us if we build in Massachusetts. Make sure he understands that he will get his contributions after the opening. The longer it takes the smaller those contributions will be. I want construction to start as soon as we get the green light from Washington, so no piddling about at the local level. I want the governor on down to the unions in line yesterday. Ok?”

“Ok, Boss” said Latisha. “One other thing. There is a professor from the College of Egyptology at Oxford wanting to see you. He says that a couple of his associates have disappeared from a site in Cairo. He said you would know them. A Dr. Jasper Weinberg and a Dr. Llewelyn Whitehead. He also mentioned the Phoenix Tablet, so I put him in the blue room.”

Graham placed the greatest emphasis on security. The blue room was code for individuals or material that held the highest security risk. Not many things had a blue classification. In fact only things directly related to the workings of the reactor had this classification. And that of course meant the Phoenix Tablet.

Graham liked to scour universities looking for any tidbit or individual that might have something to offer. Cy-Net had their own labs and research facilities, but universities sometimes got lucky with their research so Graham kept them on his radar. He was particularly interested in the engineering or physics projects; however, Graham also funded a few archeological digs as well. As a condition of his funding all research teams had to report their findings to Graham first. He made sure that it was understood that he was a generous contributor, and would reward whoever cooperated.

Two years ago one of these archeological digs unearthed a hidden chamber in Northern Egypt. Dr. Whitehead, the leader of the project, had gone off a ways from the site. The portables had not been emptied in weeks and the stench and the flies were too much to bear, therefore, shovel in hand he had meandered out into the desert. After finding a suitable site between two dunes he began to dig out his toilet. Dr Whitehead was at first confounded; everywhere he tried to dig he kept hitting rock. It was not long before his training came to mind, and pulse racing he called the workers over to clear the sand away.

What they found was unbelievably ancient. It pre-dated the pyramids at Giza by at least two thousand years, and that was at least one thousand years older than any other record of any civilization in Egypt. And for that matter anywhere else in the world.

Once the capstone had been removed the archeologists only found a barren chamber of modest dimension. At first they discounted it as another pilfered tomb, but once the results of the carbon dating were verified Graham became personally involved. The chamber remained an enigma however; there were no hieroglyphics, no furnishings. It was not until Graham brought in Dr Weinberg that anybody bothered to look at the underside of the rooms ceiling. The capstone they had removed and discarded to the side had been deeply etched, and once the sand had been cleared from the etchings the Phoenix Tablet was revealed.

Whoever had created the Phoenix Tablet had wanted it to endure. The etching was very deep and disconcertingly precise. Graham had a laser in his lab that could have done this given twenty more years of additional research, but it was anybody’s guess as to how it had been done six thousand years ago. The Phoenix Tablet looked like a page from a book. It had text and it had pictures. The text was at first unreadable. It was apparently unrelated to any known type of hieroglyphics. The pictures clearly showed the myth of the Phoenix. It’s descent, destruction and subsequent rise to flaming glory.

There are more than a few lost languages in the world. Without some sort of corresponding text in a known language it is virtually impossible to figure out what a language’s symbols stand for. A case in point would be the Rosetta Stone which had Egyptian hieroglyphics side by side with ancient Greek, allowing for the deduction of the ancient Egyptian language. Once again the mysterious creators of the stone showed themselves by providing their own means for translation. The stone’s text began with basic mathematical sequences. Once you knew what you were looking at it became apparent that the entire text was a series of equations. The equations were sometimes baffling, only a small portion of the stone had been translated, but with just that information nuclear fusion had become a reality. What was even more disconcerting was that the stone hinted at the possibility of even greater sources of energy. Graham, as was everyone else involved in the project, was profoundly curious as to who or what had created the Phoenix Tablet. So far the alien hypothesis had the most adherents, but Graham was not sure. In any case it was not likely that they would ever find out.

Graham responded, “Alright you’re in charge of the rest of the meeting Latisha. I want all the project leaders brought up to speed. I would prefer to do this myself, but I need to see the professor immediately. Do you wish to use my office”?

Latisha’s smile grew across her broad features, “You mean I’d get to sit at your desk and rage at all them Honky project leaders, well shoot Graham you just go on and look after your professor friend, and leave your Aunt Tish in charge. I’ll put the fear of God into them.”


Chapter One


The Japanese anime images soar across the hotel room’s TV screen. Tiny figures furiously discuss battle stratagems as energy beams fly from their outstretched fingers. Grunge Lee and Chris Wilde sit on the sofa, their attention devoted completely to the TV. In the hotel suites adjoining room the unmistakable sounds of a party long gone sour can be heard. Back on the TV one of the animated figures screams in pain and blows up.

Chris and Grunge sit back on the sofa; wide-eyed as they both exhale in unison...

“Whoa, that totally rocked, man,” says Grunge.

The commercial break is fully underway when Chris decides he has had enough distraction from the party next door. In a complete reversal of his quiet repose in front of the television he stands up ripping open the door to the adjoining room. Screaming in a full-throated roar: “Shut the fuck up!” He then stands there repeatedly slamming the door only to have it keep springing back open. Undeterred Chris continues his assault on the door, as each consecutive slam only serves to infuriate him further.

“Hey man, the show’s back on,” says Grunge.

Chris glances at the TV, his anger momentarily forgotten he marches into the midst of the revelers, grabs a bottle of Kentucky Deluxe and marches back into the TV room, pausing only for one final glare at the offending party-goers and one final wood-splintering slam of the door.

These two day shows were always the worst reflected Mo. Sitting in a corner with his own bottle of whiskey, Dreadlock’s manager Maurice Valait, otherwise known as Mo, ignored the goings on around him with a studious determination. Mo was a big man, portly and in dubious health, he needed the help of a hardwood cane to lug his weight around. He usually had a black beard, and he almost always wore a worn, green army beret that covered the bald spot on the top of his head. The rest of him looked like he’d been held prisoner in a gypsy camp and allowed to wear only what they had thrown away.

His eyes were what brought the whole look together for him. Women loved his eyes, they held the soulful, sorrowful look of the long-suffering, which was sometimes mistaken as compassion by those that didn’t know better, and sometimes even by those that did. To top it all off, Mo was almost completely deaf. His deafness was actually somewhat beneficial in his line of work; in fact many deaf people worked in rock n roll. 150 plus decibels of sound every night took away most people’s hearing, but for Mo it had been a car accident at the age of twelve which had left him without any hearing in his left ear and only partial hearing in his right. The accident had also blown out his knee and his hip. He had long ago kicked his addiction to heroin and now got by on aspirin and Jim Beam. He also managed the best selling concert band of all time, a responsibility that Mo shouldered like an albatross hung from his neck.

He thought about the show they were going to do in Massachusetts. It would kick off the American leg of their world tour. They were now in Japan to do two nights in Tokyo which would get the band warmed up and in good form, and then it would be off to do Diggler’s show in Boston. Who the fuck did this Diggler think he was, mused Mo, some kind of Barnum and Bailey for the suits of the world? Since when did running an energy consortium make you a competent concert promoter? It bothered Mo that there were so many unknown variables, so many things that could go disastrously wrong. Chris and Grunge were hell bent on doing the show, so what could he do? He accepted it with Gaulish fatalism; c’est la vie ne c’est pas?

Grunge would politely listen to Mo’s arguments against doing the show. He would nod his head at all the right places... yup, we could make fools of ourselves if it doesn’t work...yup, it might even be dangerous...yup, we might even blow up the whole Eastern Seaboard, but hey man, it’s rock n roll. It’s supposed to be scary.

Mo never even considered talking to Chris about his misgivings. He had learned long ago that Chris just did not give a rat’s ass about what anyone else thought. In fact, it could be downright dangerous getting between Chris and his stated goals. Mo had seen more than one record label executive run for his life after Chris started fingering one of the many knifes he kept stashed on his person. It usually only took one look into Chris’ eyes to realize that he was not playing around.

Between Chris and Grunge they carried enough weaponry to keep a small army at bay. In addition to some really big knives that he always had Chris also carried a .22 long barreled target pistol that had a screw on rifle butt. Grunge was not as into the knife thing as Chris was, but he worried Mo more. The firepower he carried around was truly frightening. It was the collection of hand grenades kept in his guitar case. Along with an M-16 and a hundred or so clips of ammunition that gave Mo the heebie-jeebies. Grunge also had a sawed-off twelve gauge that he kept holstered backwards on his left thigh so that he could draw it right-handed from across his body.

Grunge’s guitar case also secreted Chris’s pride and joy; a 12th century katana. It was a three-foot, single-edged blade with a two-handed grip. It was stashed in a spring-loaded scabbard that popped out the back of the case when you twisted the handle just so. The one thing Grunge’s guitar case did not carry was his guitar. There simply was not any room for it. The case was so heavy he had to wear it strapped across his back. He carried an extra case for his guitar.

It is not that Grunge and Chris were some kind of paranoid freaks. Mo had never seen them shoot or stab anyone. They were very nonchalant about it, like it was the normal thing to do. After five years as Dreadlock’s manager Mo was pretty sure that Chris and Grunge carried an arsenal with them for the simple reason that they did not trust anybody for anything, be it a Government, an individual or anything in between. They did not go looking for trouble, but they did not see why they should not be prepared if it ever came looking for them.

Chris and Grunge were also difficult to know. They hardly ever talked about their past, and even after having been in close contact with them for five years Mo still didn’t know anything for sure except that they had shared a cell in Parchmans Prison Camp in Mississippi. Mo heard that story one very drunken night after an absolutely disastrous show. It was just the three of them in the hotel room when Chris started rattling off how him and some of his friends from a local motorcycle club had been picked up for the production and distribution of met amphetamines. He served a year in Huntsville, up northwest of Houston, before being transferred to Parchmans’ more labor-intensive program. George Unger Lee arrived in Parchmans three months later.

He was doing five to fifteen years for blowing off his stepfather’s arms with the same shotgun he now had strapped to his thigh, except it was not a sawed-off at that time. Grunge had come home to visit his Mom and little sister. He had been playing guitar with this cover band. They played whatever happened to be the most popular songs at the time, and they were in town to play for a wedding reception. Weddings were a high paying gig for a cover band. He thought it would be nice to surprise his mom, and stop by for a visit. When he got to the house and saw his sister’s blackened and bruised face, the torn clothes, the blood running down her legs and his drunken stepfather coming at him with a broken bottle of beer; he defended himself with the only thing he had handy, his guitar. With the extra reach the guitar afforded him he was able to knock the old drunk on his ass long enough to grab the loaded shotgun that his father had always insisted his mom keep in the closet by the stairs. The lecherous bastard had begged for his life. Grunge made him tie his own belt around his upper bicep before he blew his arm off just below the shoulder. He did for the other arm without the aid of a tourniquet.

His stepfather survived the assault by sheer rotten luck. Grunge had called an ambulance for his sister, but when they arrived they took his stepfather instead. The police loaded his sister up into the back of a squad car and took her to the police station where they put her in a holding cell. It didn’t take the police long to see that she needed medical attention, and they quickly got her to a hospital, but by then the damage had already been done as far as Grunge was concerned.

Grunge was seventeen at the time. He could have been tried as a juvenile, but the judge was an old sot himself and his sympathies were with the stepfather. During the trial no testimony about his sister’s rape was allowed. The prosecution repeatedly brought up how Grunge had been convicted of possession of marijuana while on school grounds when he was fifteen. His mother had been in and out of alcohol treatment centers since Grunge was eight. When she showed up at court drunk and sobbing incoherently, the judge had her packed off for another three weeks of drying out at the local detox. Grunge’s Dad, Master Sergeant George Lee, was in Iraq, fighting the Iraqis in Desert Storm, and could not be reached for comment. Grunge also had a state appointed attorney who spent half his time trying not to look like he was falling asleep.

With the evidence given them the jury had no problem finding Grunge guilty of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. The judge reveled in sentencing yet another punk kid to serve five to fifteen years on a Mississippi chain gang.

Parchmans Correctional Facility had housed all the great Blue’s legends. Hell, the Blues was born in the cotton fields they worked in. It was sung in the fields and from there played on the back porches of houses all the way from Parchman County, up highway 61 to Chicago and back down to New Orleans. Even Elvis’ Dad did a stint in Parchmans. The place had history, but that did not make time go by any easier when you were there.

Chris looked out for Grunge when he first arrived. The Hell’s Angels still had some influence and Chris was a brother. It served to keep them somewhat free of most of the trouble you could run into in Prison. Chris was also a member of the IBFG, a well-known knife fighter’s guild. Anybody can be taken down in Prison, this is known, but some people are simply more trouble than it is worth. A Hell’s Angel who was known to be a trained and deadly knife fighter was not taken lightly.

Prison was an epiphany for both men. It changed them in fundamental ways. Chris learned he could sing. He had always known that he could carry a tune, but it took Grunge’s trained ear to recognize just how well Chris really could sing. It was a gift; he never sang a wrong note and his range and strength were unbelievable. Grunge knew instinctively that the two of them had what it took to stand the world on its head. At first Chris just humored the boy. When Grunge showed Chris some of the songs he was working on; Chris started writing as well, and then he began to believe.

Three years later Grunge got off on appeal. His case was thrown out because his juvenile record had been used to convict him as an adult. Getting busted with a bag of grass in homeroom had helped get him thrown in prison and then that same bag of grass got him thrown back out again.

Chris was set free a few months later thanks to an early release program. Him and Grunge immediately formed a group and started playing everywhere they could. Grunge’s guitar style was vastly different from before he went to prison. He did not see a guitar the whole time he was there, but when he came out the melodies he produced could quiet the rowdiest juke joints. He also never played another cover tune or wedding again. The boys and their band, now called Dreadlock, took the long road from playing roadside icehouses to being an opening act and eventually to being the headliners. They did it on their own terms. They were legendary before any of their songs were ever played on a radio. They knew they were the best and they did not take any deals. With legions of hardcore fans the music biz had to take whatever deals Dreadlock eventually offered them.

Mo did not worry that Dreadlock would not perform at their best. Last night’s show had gone great. The band knew the new material better than they knew the old. They were a performance band, and they were extremely good at it. Mo recalled a rare interview Grunge did with Guitar Player Magazine where he described his and Chris’ song writing style.

Guitar Player Dreadlock is primarily known as a road act, but the widespread appeal
of your music cannot be denied. Could you describe to us how you write your songs?
Lee We don’t try to write a song. A melody will come to one of us. It starts out as a
faint echo, of something that has always been there, waiting for someone to come along and hear it for the first time. That’s why we never play a song the same way twice. You said earlier in the interview that we improvise with our music; that is not true. What we do is not improvisation. It is a continuous search for that original melody. We never get closer than the echo we first heard.
Guitar Player Like in Plato’s Parable of the Cave.
Lee Sorry. I don’t know that one.

Mo had been managing a few successful bands in the New York area when that interview was published. Although he was almost deaf, music meant everything to Mo. He could also hear the faint echo of melodies like vestiges of a dream that disappeared as soon as he turned his attention to them. He was so moved by that simple description of the heretofore-wordless appeal music had always had for him that he immediately went off in search of the band, looking for whatever job they would give him.

At the time Dreadlock was in desperate need for someone to mediate between them and the rest of the world. Chris always knew exactly what he wanted. Mo had never known him to change his mind, or rethink a decision once he had made one. But, when it came to negotiations and the like, Chris had a knack for burning bridges. His people skills would have been great for leading a Viking war party. He could have adroitly handled the social amenities of sacking a city. He was at home in the company of dangerous people, and he had absolutely no patience for those that had come from nicer circumstances.

Chris was tall, at well over six feet and a svelte 240 Lbs. He had the body of someone who had spent many years cracking rocks and lifting weights. He had thick, reddish-gold hair, which he kept at shoulder-length. His smoky, gray eyes could go from being overwhelmingly cheery to having all the affect of a lump of lead.

He worked hard at being the perfect front man for a hard-working rock n roll band, on stage he could make the audience laugh, he could make them cry. His lyrics included real emotions that everybody could relate to. They ranged from songs about friends and people he had known to songs that were Wagnerian in scope and dealt with bigger questions of right and wrong, love and hate, honor and greed. He had an irresistible charisma that brought the audience in, made them feel a part of the music. Offstage, this generosity of spirit was not so evident. He was as roguish as a pirate captain and people either followed his lead or just generally steered clear of him.

What Chris wanted was clear in his mind. That it had to be explained to the people around him was almost too much for him to bear. The problem was that Chris did not have a formal background in music, engineering, or any of the things about which he was trying to communicate. He did not know the name of anything more sophisticated than a microphone or an amp. He couldn’t even describe to you what key or tempo he wanted a song to be in.

Making sure he got his money’s worth, on the other hand, was something he was very good at. Mo knew from personal experience just how good at money management some drug dealers could be, and how ruthless. Chris was no longer in that line of work, but old habits die-hard. He eventually got what he wanted, but he stepped on a lot of toes in the process. Mo understood Chris and where he was coming from, and almost immediately took over as manager. Everybody was greatly relieved.

With less distractions and more time to spend on the music, Chris had almost managed to become amiable. Over the next five years being on tour was fun and even had a nice homey feeling; except when there was a two-day show in the same city. Chris was incapable of being in a hotel room and awake for more than a couple of hours before he started destroying things. He had to build up so much energy for when he was on-stage that simple inactivity would make him start losing control, and then it was either get him to the stadium or get out of the way.

Chapter Two

The men walked through the underground at Tokyo National Stadium. It was hours yet before the show would start and the clicking-echoes of their footsteps followed them through the empty parking lot. Abdul Mohammed Al-Jousef glanced at his watch, right on time. This plan to kidnap the infidel scum, Grunge Lee and Chris Wilde, had been made at the last moment. The result of a chance sighting of the performers at the hotel. Abdul had decided to follow them to the stadium, after all how formidable could they be? Abdul imagined them to be drug addicts and spawns of the devil, but as hostages they would serve the will of Allah. He activated a cell here in Tokyo to provide the muscle for the operation: If he failed the repercussions would be severe. It took a lot of resources to establish sleeper cells of the faithful. If he succeeded; then Paradise would surely be his reward. Abdul would take them to the Philippines. The Sheik would know what to do with the American scum.

As they entered the stadium five of the faithful broke away heading for the backstage area while Abdul and a companion proceeded through the front; out into the open air of the arena. The plan was simple. Distract the enemy with an obvious attack to the front while performing a classic flanking maneuver. In five minutes a van would be out front ready to take them to a secluded wharf where a boat waited to ferry them to Kyushu and then on to Malaysia. At the same time that they left the stadium, Abdul had arranged for two other vans to head to the airport and the train station. The Japanese police were good, but Abdul believed he was better. His confidence and his faith in Allah would see him through. ‘The Sheik will be proud of me’ he prayed.

***

“Check, check, test, test, pussy, pussy, pussy; she got one leg in the East; one leg in the West; I’m in the middle trying to do my best! Ricky, I’m still hearing an echo turn down the mid a little. Testing, testing, sibilance, sibilance...”

The sound check continued. Chris hated sound checks. Nobody else could match his volume so he was always stuck doing them. Grunge was off backstage. Any competent roadie could set his sound levels.

“Fuck, fuck, fucking shit, fuck: Rock-n-roll Ha-Yaa!! BeyoopWEEEEE!!!”

The feedback reverberated throughout the stadium amplified to an ear-splitting squelch. Chris turned the mike off, and everyone in the stadium removed their fingers from their ears.

Chris took a deep breath and started yelling. “Ricky! You goddamned, worthless, pile of shit! What did I just say? Didn’t I just tell you to turn the goddamned mid down!”

Ricky, a decent guy, flipped Chris the bird.

Chris was busy throwing things at the control booth, when Abdul entered the arena; mike stands, water bottles left the stage in curving arcs; falling woefully short of Ricky and the control booth some sixty yards away.

Mo was sitting at the mixing board with Ricky, picking his teeth; looking at the debris as it fell some ten feet short of where they were situated. Ricky, the focus of all this attention, stood by red-faced obviously struggling with a desire to quit this job and get back to his old lady.

“Don’t worry about it eh.” Mo told Ricky. “Get out of sight; come back in five.”

“Hey! Hey! Hey! Where the fuck you going? Hey Mo, who told him he could go anywhere?” Chris shouted. Mo turned on his mike so that he would not have to raise his voice. “It’s all right Chris I told him to take a break. We’ll get this done a lot faster if we are all clear-headed eh?”

“Clearheaded!?” Chris thundered. “For chrissakes what do you mean clear-headed? This is a sound check for the love of God, What the hell you got to be clear-headed for. All that little prick has to do is what I tell him.” Chris stormed around on stage. “Goddammit Mo if he’s not back in that booth by the time I finish speaking I’m going to haul him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in and bitch-slap him till he cries for his mommy.”

“All right Chris;” Mo acquiesced “I’ll go and get him.” Mo slowly raised himself out of his chair, making a show of how much his leg did not hurt.

Chris responded. “Look! Just never mind Mo; all right? We’ll all take five.”

Mo plopped back down in his chair noticing the two men entering the stadium floor for the first time. There was not any sign of pain or any sign of slowness as Mo raised jumped up and started quickly towards the strangers. ‘Lord knows fans try some of the craziest shit sometimes,’ he thought as he tightened his grip on his cane and navigated the bundles of cable taped to the floor. Dreadlock’s security apparatus, such as it was, consisted mostly of bikers and ex-convicts, and it had been greatly reduced for this show. The Japanese were notoriously well-behaved, and to help ease the difficulties of moving a heavy metal rock band across international borders, much of Dreadlock’s security force had been left behind. Furthermore whenever Chris blew a gasket all the stage hands had a way of disappearing for a while. Mo was sure everybody that had been near the stage was now screwing off somewhere conveniently far from Chris.

***

Grunge was patrolling the stadium. He enjoyed stadiums. He had been here before, but had not had the chance to check it out to his satisfaction. He also liked buildings; in fact any kind of architecture caught his attention. Everywhere he went he was constantly prying into corners, climbing fire escapes, whatever he could find. He was not big on basements or small, enclosed areas. He usually liked to poke around until he found his way to the roof where he would smoke some grass and then come back down. It was his hobby, or so he described it to anyone who had seen any of his building designs, or had caught him smoking a jay on some hotel roof.


Grunge had designed and built the house he lived in. He had designed and built a scattering of houses on his property. He lived somewhere out in the Devil’s Backbone, just outside of Wimberley, Texas. Whenever he was there he would be working on his house. When he finished it he would move in, and start working on the next one.

The first house he built had an aqueduct that traversed the interior. Grunge had it stocked with exotic, aquarium fish. One of the walls which the aqueduct abutted became so overgrown with moss and mold that he had to burn the whole house down. After that Grunge got the idea that he could somehow build a house with living walls. On purpose this time. Keep the moss; lose the mold was about all you could get out of him for about three years. The problem with that idea was that he would return from a tour and be forced to burn his house down again. After watching his third house be engulfed in flames Grunge decided to shelve the ‘living wall’ idea as ‘too difficult for now.’

His fourth house, the one he presently lived in, was big and it was cool, but the plumbing was a nightmare, and the wiring sent dangerous levels of electricity surging throughout the structure. Fact is, Grunge spent more nights in the trailer he had on the back of his property than he did in any of his other dwellings. His current design was a large, single-room structure that looked like the side of a hill. It was big and it was unusual, but Grunge had his doubts about how cool it was. He planned to keep it simple this time thinking to minimize future problems. To this end he strolled around Tokyo National Stadium looking for inspiration. As always he found his way to the roof, and since he still had a show to do Grunge waived smoking his usual jay and headed back to the stage area.

***

Abdul approached the stage smiling he raised his left arm, palm outward as if waving in greeting. With his right hand he reached into his jacket and cocked the .38 he had holstered there. A short, fat man with a cane hobbled towards him from his right. A man in a black concert t-shirt that had the words ‘Feel the Heat World Tour’ and a grinning demon emerging from a background of flames stepped out from behind a stack of empty equipment boxes off to his left. The man to his left was closer and Abdul became alarmed when he noticed the telescoping assault stick that the man had brandished. Quickly he turned his attention back to his primary target on the stage, The tantrum-throwing one had retreated from the front of the stage and was kneeling by what looked to be a guitar case. Abdul could not see the other one. The dark-haired one.

Abdul’s smile wavered and his brow furrowed as he considered his next move. His companion was armed so he did not fear the men approaching him, and he had five more men circling around backstage. Abdul continued searching but the other infidel remained out of sight. This could be a problem for Abdul if one of his targets was missing he would not have time to search for him. His plan relied on surprise and a fast get-away. So be it! One hostage would have to do for two. A gunshot was the signal for his team to move in from their position behind the stage, so with one last look around Abdul raised his gun and shot the man wearing the black t-shirt in the chest.

His team was to move in quickly killing all but the targets. As they left they would plant two bombs with a ten-minute delay; Abdul hoped this would create confusion and destroy any evidence they might leave behind.

After shooting the infidel Abdul turned his attention to Chris Wilde. The man to his right he could hear running away as fast as his short, fat body would allow. His companion would look after him if he became a problem. Abdul cared only about his primary target, the infidel American who would now become a weapon for the faithful, a tool whose death would help bring the Americans to their knees.

“You are now a prisoner do not move or you will be shot!” Abdul yelled.

Two of his men ran onto stage their pistols raised and aimed at their target, Chris Wilde. The singer was standing with his hands behind his head as if already surrendering to the inevitable. If he had two of his men on stage with the singer then the other three would be searching for the missing guitarist. Speaking in Arabic he yelled to his team to forget the other one that the singer would be enough, this was going to be easy Abdul thought. He fired his gun twice more into the air and yelled a Bedouin war cry to rally his team. A rapid series of shotgun blasts from the very back of the stadium answered his challenge.

Abdul saw that the two men he had on stage had moved in closer to Chris Wilde. The singer was glowering but submissive, his hands still behind his head. Thinking him already subdued they considered the glowering American no threat. When the shotgun fired, they took their eyes off Chris searching for the source of the noise. Suddenly, a flash of steel glinted in the American’s hands as he dashed in between his would-be abductors. Two thin streams of red cut through the air marking his passage. Abdul watched in astonishment as his men tumbled to the floor their throats sliced open. His astonishment increased as the American had now jumped from the stage and was charging him! Stupid fool! Abdul raised his gun and sighted down the barrel at the oncoming American. ‘The idiot’ Abdul spoke to his companion in Arabic ‘he’s coming right towards us hold your fire we can still take him.’ Abdul lowered his arm aiming carefully to shoot at the charging American’s leg. He heard a sharp crack by his ear and his companion slumped into him causing his shot to ricochet off the floor; missing the rapidly approaching Chris Wilde. The short fat one, the hobbling cripple that had earlier run away had now returned; approaching unseen while they had been distracted by the wildly grinning American who even now was running at them a knife in each hand; the blades stained red with the blood of his dead companions.

Abdul tried to swing his gun around to kill this annoying sweaty man, but the unconscious body of his companion hampered him. Abdul’s anger flared he could not believe that another one of his team was down because a cripple with a cane had bludgeoned him! The cane swung around striking him in the nose, the pain made his vision swim and again his shot went wild. The American who was now yelling ‘sooo-whee’ as he charged had almost closed the distance between them. ‘Curses’ thought Abdul as he desperately tried to get free of the crazed fat man who gasping loudly tried to pummel him again with his cane. ‘He used my own plan against me’ Abdul wondered in grudging admiration. He heard what he thought was another shotgun blast, but maybe that is just what it sounds like when two knifes are plunged hilt-deep into your chest by a grinning demon.

*** Still under construction ***

(c) copyright 2002 Ballantine