Crux Read online

  “How do you know that’s why he killed himself?” asked Whitaker.

  “Because that’s what he wrote in his suicide note.”

  Whitaker gaped. “And this didn’t make the papers? With pictures?”

  Mansfield brushed his shoulder as if dismissing a fly. “The mainstream press of every nation in the world is in the pocket of those who control CERN, Mr. Whitaker. The so-called progressive reporters only report what they’re progressively instructed to report. They are propagandists, not journalists.”

  Jackman turned his gaze to Whitaker. “We have full authority and command to do whatever we decide? Including the use of a warhead?”

  Whitaker shrugged, “I’ll have to clear the last-resort warhead option with the president, general. But I don’t anticipate any objection. The mission is ultimately more important than any repercussions.”

  “Why are you so sure about that?”

  “Because he wants this thing dead as King Tut.”

  “Then I want the new three-stage fission warhead.”

  Whitaker stared. “That’s the most powerful warhead ever created, Atol. But even with this new fuel, the freaking thing weighs five-hundred pounds. It’s not something you can tote in your gym bag.”

  “We can handle it.”

  Whitaker sighed. “All right, then. I’ll see if I can get one for you.”

  “Good enough,” Jackman nodded. “So I ask one more time. If any of these things made it through that portal and are running loose in this world, how do we destroy creatures that can come and go in our universe at will?”

  Dr. Mansfield collapsed forward, leaning on both arms. He shook his head before raising his head. “General,” he said patiently, “This creature cannot come and go at will. The only way, or the only way we are aware of, for it to invade our world is through that portal. They cannot come and go as they please. And they possess the knowledge to make the supercollider more powerful, but they do not have the means or … or the permission to build their own collider.”

  Jackman stared. “Permission?”

  “From God,” stated Dr. Mansfield.

  Jackman didn’t blink.

  Mansfield continued, “Gentlemen, whatever creatures inhabit that dimension are apparently prohibited by something from building their own collider. That’s why they need us to do it for them. That’s why they sent us the equations for how to redesign our collider to meet their needs. So, to repeat myself, they are obviously more intelligent than us. Perhaps infinitely so. And if photographs are to be taken at face value, they are also physically superior to us. Comparing a human being to one of them would be like comparing a jellyfish to a gorilla. Although they are both dangerous, I’d say the gorilla has a distinct advantage. However, despite their obvious desire to punch a hole into our universe, something prevents them from building a similar collider to accomplish the task. So, after one of these creatures passes through our ATLAS, it’s just as imprisoned in this dimension as we are. It cannot return to its own world unless we open the portal again. I suppose you could say that it is trapped. But my most plaintive instinct tells me that we are the ones who would be trapped. Because it will be here. In our world. Among us. And its intentions are clearly murderous.”

  Whitaker’s face twisted. “I think it’s safe to say this creature bears ill will, doctor. And why the freaking abomination even wants to come here in the first place is one more hellacious mystery to me. But that only brings us back to the main problem. How do we keep these fools at Geneva from opening that portal again?”

  “One idea has been used to great success,” said Admiral Waters. “Computer sabotage by critically placed spies inside that facility might be our best option. For instance, it doesn’t take more than a single computer chip to disable a multimillion-dollar Tomahawk missile—a part that costs less than ten dollars in Taiwan, mind you. But if that cheap little slave-made chip goes down, then the whole nuclear warhead goes down in the ocean dead as a doornail. So why don’t we just plant some bad chips in this thing so that it blows up again and it takes them years to get it up and running?”

  “That plan was seriously considered,” said Whitaker. “The problem is that these people triple-test everything before they fire up that machine, so it’s not easy to disable.” He frowned. “They have seven thousand electricians babysitting this thing day and night. That’s more electricians than you’ve got on any flattop. And since it blew up the first time and demolished two miles of tunnel and threw over a hundred thirty-five-ton magnets forty or fifty feet apiece, they are acutely aware of the high cost of error. They check everything. Then they check it again. So I don’t think throwing a sabot onto the assembly belt and stuffing up the machine is going to work.”

  “How about we just kill a few of these scientists?” suggested Jackman.

  Whitaker released a breath. “It might be worth a try, Atol, but mad scientists are a dime a dozen. CERN can just go back to MIT, grab some more, offer them minimum wage and the fools will be more than happy to work at this godforsaken place.”

  No one forwarded another suggestion until Whitaker added, “The only thing we can do is disable that machine with military resources. Now, since Dr. Mansfield has already gotten two of our people in the Observation Room—thanks for telling me, doc—maybe they can temporarily disable the security so that some of our elite operators can get in there and blow the thing up. It might not be a permanent solution but it’ll buy us five or six years to come up with something better.”

  Whitaker stared at the table before shaking his head, “I just hope these CIA spooks are more James Bond than Patton and someone has already told them that they have no official sanction to be there.” He paused. “I remind you gentlemen that this mission does not exist, nor will it ever exist. There will be no orders cut, no faxes, no emails, no signatures, and no written sanctions you can hide in your safe as a get-out-of-jail-free card. If anything happens, we don’t know anything about what you were doing, nor will there be any military funerals or medals or pensions conferred. You can forget Arlington. You can forget a nameless star on the wall at Langley. As far as we’re concerned, you died in a whorehouse.” He exhaled. “We all know how the game works.”

  Nods.

  “Good,” Whitaker stated. “General Jackman, I advise you to select four of our best men. Or people, rather. And I suggest you choose them from the First Special Forces Operational Detachment.”

  “Why Delta?”

  “Because Delta is more highly trained at working in small groups. Rangers are trained for battalion-size operations. So are Special Forces.”

  “What about SEALs?” asked the admiral.

  “The identities of Delta operators are even more closely guarded than the identities of our SEALs, if that’s possible, and I want these people to be unidentifiable.”

  With a frown Jackman sighed. “I’ll get on it. When do you want them on deck?”

  “Give me time to advise the president and alert our CIA people,” Whitaker answered. “And we’ll need some time to come up with a foolproof plan. A plan that doesn’t have too many moving parts.” He shook his head. “You said it, Atol. The more moving parts, the more can go wrong.”

  “I’ll pick the operators,” Jackman nodded. “I’ll interview them myself. What are you gonna tell the president?”

  “I’m going to tell him we’re sending our best people in there to get the job done and I’m going to get nuclear authorization for you.”

  “But this plan still doesn’t take care of the other supercolliders in the world,” offered the admiral. “Any of them could do this and then we’re back at square one.”

  Whitaker stood as he began to gather files.

  “One Hell at a time, admiral.”

  ***

  The door to the small combination coffee shop/bookstore was open even though it was after ten at night. Amanda
Deker entered and looked carefully down the aisles. She quietly closed the door and stood in the entryway noting the spectacular array of books for a store that appeared to be so small from the outside but, inside, it resembled the Library of Congress. It also housed a rather cozy coffee shop.

  “Yes?” came a polite voice. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” answered Amanda to a shape concealed behind tightly packed bookshelves. “My name is Amanda Deker. I came here to speak with a gentleman named Isaiah.”

  A man walked from behind shelves. He was six feet tall with medium-length brown hair fighting with his collar. His eyes were green and he seemed to be in his mid-forties although it was hard to determine because he also seemed exceptionally fit. He wiped his hands with a rag as he came forward.

  “Well, I’m the only one working in the book section tonight,” he smiled. “And I don’t know about the ‘gentleman,’ part, but I’m Isaiah, so I guess we’re both in luck. How can I help you, Ms. Deker?”

  “Amanda, please.”

  “Very well, Amanda. Have a seat.” He pulled up a rocking chair. “Those might not look comfortable, but they are.” He smiled freely. “I also sell them.”

  “Thank you.”

  Three rocking chairs lined either side of the entrance and Amanda sat, placing her purse in her lap. “Just out of curiosity,” she began, “is Isaiah your first or last name?”

  “It’s my first name,” Isaiah replied. “I don’t bother telling people my last name because it’s too difficult to pronounce. And I answer pretty well to Isaiah.” He took a seat opposite her and laid his forearms on the wooden rests. “So what can I do for you, Amanda? Our specialty is locating old or even ancient manuscripts, but we’re flexible.”

  “I’m looking for another form of help,” she said.

  “Okay. What kind of help?”

  “I need someone to help me find my missing sister.”

  Isaiah blinked slowly. “And why does your sister need finding?”

  “Because my sister was a leading physicist at the Large Hadron Supercollider in Geneva and I haven’t heard from her in a week.” Amanda waited before adding, “I also heard a rumor that there was some kind of disaster at the collider and I think my sister was involved.” She folded her hands on her purse. “I just want you to find out if she’s dead or alive. And, if you can, what happened.” She fidgeted. “I can pay you if you’re willing to wait … a few months … to cash the check.”

  Isaiah leaned back in the chair. His eyes narrowed.

  Amanda knew he was studying her and was suddenly grateful she had dressed down for this. Not that she was embarrassed by her appearance; she was tall at five-ten and slim because she worked hard to stay that way. Her legs were as muscular and toned as her arms and in the league of a professional athlete. Her brown hair was shoulder-length and she liked to think her somewhat unique cut accented her face and not her body. Also, she consciously wore clothes that were a bit concealing because, frankly, she was so uncomfortable with the acute attention she received otherwise.

  Isaiah finally asked, “Why do you think a bookstore owner can help you more than the FBI, Ms. Decker?”

  “Again, it’s just Amanda.”

  “Forgive me. Amanda.”

  “Thank you. And, to answer your question, I know someone that you helped. She told me that you were someone I should come to if I was ever in grave danger. She said you were someone I could trust.” Amanda gestured to the books. “I truly have no idea what you do, but I know you helped my friend out of a very bad situation with some very bad people. And I may be paranoid but I think something terrible happened to my sister and the people at CERN are covering it up.”

  Isaiah’s head tilted. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’ve tried every legal department of our government and they all say they can’t help me. The FBI says they can’t get clearance from the Swiss Ministry of Defense to interfere with matters involving the supercollider. No private detective that I’ve talked to will take the case. They all said that CERN has a very deadly reputation and tragic things happen to people who start asking questions. And please don’t get me wrong. I do hold your life in high value. But I’m convinced something has happened to my sister and I have no one else to turn to. And Deborah told me you could … uh … handle yourself.”

  Isaiah didn’t blink.

  “Do you know what CERN is?” asked Amanda.

  With a dismissive gesture Isaiah said, “It’s the site of the world’s most powerful particle supercollider and it’s built on the ruins of what the Romans called Apolliacum—a temple to one of their more provocative deities. It’s houses a seventeen-mile-long tunnel that accelerates protons, electrons, and other particles to 185 miles per second, which is ninety-nine percent of the speed of light. It cools mercury to minus 472 degrees so that there’s no electrical resistance in the lines. It has 1,232 bending magnets, 858 focusing magnets, and 7,210 correcting magnets to keep the protons on a dead-on collision course. The designers said it was built to discover the origins of the galaxy, but most people think it has some kind of political or demonic purpose.” He paused. “To be honest, I’m not sure what the difference is.”

  Amanda blinked rapidly. “Is that all?”

  Isaiah shrugged, “All the data they collect is measured in petabytes per year and analyzed on a computer infrastructure connecting 172 backup centers in forty-two countries. They use ninety-six tons of super-cooled helium to help the mercury cool the thirty-five-ton magnets, which makes the LHC the largest, most magnetic cryogenic facility in the world. It also uses seven neutron detectors attuned to the Higgs boson field, which is simply a field where matter doesn’t exist. And they’re located in underground caverns dug out by an unknown German-owned engineering firm at critical intersection points for the two beams that comprise the circular collider pipeline. Two of those caverns hold the ATLAS and the Compact Moon Solenoid, which are general-purpose particle detectors strong enough to detect portals to the ten, or more, dimensions that run parallel to our own. But I only know what I’ve read. And CERN is a physically fluid facility. They’re constantly updating the collider, the neutrino detectors, the pipelines, or digging out more caverns. Even America, which only has observer status with their phantom conglomerate, doesn’t know what’s happening inside the place. Israel probably knows more than we do. They recently joined up with CERN. But I think it’s only because Israel is afraid of what they might secretly be doing.”

  Amanda was gaping, then asked, “You have all that memorized?”

  “I have a facility for remembering things.”

  “Do you have a photographic memory?”

  “There’s no such thing,” laughed Isaiah. “For what it’s worth, physicians call it a Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. So I have pretty good recall of everything I’ve ever said or read or seen or experienced or been interested in. But my memory is no better than anyone else’s if something doesn’t interest me. For instance, I can’t tell you what color socks I put on this morning. I wasn’t interested, so I don’t remember.”

  “That’s how it works, huh?”

  “With me it is.”

  Amanda leaned forward, hands clasped, her face showed concerned. “I know what I’m asking is extraordinary. And I’m well aware that you’re very reluctant—Deborah told me that much—about sticking your nose into other people’s business. But she also told me that you sometimes help people just because no one else can help them.” She bit both lips. “But I’m asking you to help me because no one else will help me. Not the FBI. Not the Swiss police. Not the French police. Not Interpol. Not private detectives. Not anybody. And my sister is autistic. She’s a brilliant physicist but she’s an autistic savant. Anything terrible could have happened to her and she would have never seen it coming. And the private detectives confirmed the rumor I’ve heard about the people at CERN.�
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  In a mild tone Isaiah stated, “Yeah, I’m familiar with CERN’s reputation for security. But several Halloween-type rumors also orbit the place. They’re apparently resurrecting Dracula or opening portals to demonic dimensions or piling up buckets of dark energy so they can liquefy the galaxy, so the possibility that something untoward has happened to your sister is not without merit.”

  Amanda said, “I’m referring to the rumor that the people at CERN don’t like interference and they’re experts at making people disappear. And that’s another reason why I’ve come specifically to you. Deborah told me that you’re proficient at finding things regardless of … inconveniences. And she said you’re very protective.”

  Isaiah paused a long time. “So you, yourself, want to come with me if I agree to do this for you?”

  “I want to come, yes. And I won’t cramp your style if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just that it’s my little sister and I have always been close. And now she’s missing.” Amanda’s brow tightened. “I need to know what happened to her.”

  With a somber gaze Isaiah turned his face aside. He already had a fair idea about what happened to her sister; a list of the people killed in the history of CERN would probably fill your local library. If anything, the place was renowned more for its murder list than its proton-splitting accomplishments and anyone with a brain knew there was far more happening at the laboratory than the mere observation of atoms. Just the gigantic statue of Shiva, the Hindu Goddess of death and destruction that stood outside the front doors of the building was enough to confirm suspicions about the supercollider’s purpose.