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"The Roacherian Effect" A novel by John C. Delavan
Chapter Two
Patti White was in a hurry to leave her office. An attorney with the prestigious law firm of Cowdrey, Palmer and Crestfall, Patti was, as one of the firm's partners described her, a "class act." She was especially looking forward to lunch today; not just because she was meeting Skipper, and not just because they were eating lunch at her favorite restaurant, the Rusty Pelican, overlooking Long Beach harbor. Patti was specially excited today because she'd been offered a full partnership in the firm and wanted to celebrate with Skipper. She knew he'd be happy for her. Skipper had never been threatened by Patti's success or intelligence. In fact, he always encouraged her to forge ahead with her dreams and goals.
Finishing the dictation on a brief for one of her cases, she handed the case file and cassette to Jean, her secretary-turned-close-personal-friend for the past four years. "I'm heading out to lunch with Skipper at the Rusty Pelican, Jean. I don't think I'll be back this afternoon," Patti told her with a conspiratorial stage wink and a sly smile.
Jean laughed. "Does this mean you won't be carrying your cellular phone?"
"You know the drill, kiddo. No calls will be taken except from Saint Peter himself, and even he'll have to wait 'till after lunch -- and whatever comes up next." Laughing, she grabbed her purse and sashayed to the door.
Watching her walk away, Jean was still taken with her friend's beauty. She was taking a junior college writing course at night, and wrote a description of Patti for an assignment.
"...She looks a very disarming twenty years old, even though she graduated with high honors from Harvard's School of Law more than four years ago and is actually just over thirty. Patti isn't at all what boys on a street corner would call a book-worm. Generally they whistle, which annoys her somewhat; and sometimes they just stand and stare, which annoys her even more. She doesn't try overly hard to be exceedingly attractive, it just comes naturally.
"Standing five-foot-six in her stocking feet, her 126 pounds cling to her curves as well as a centerfold model's. She's sleek and well toned, and has pale blond hair and striking blue eyes. Patti works out daily at aerobics and started lifting weights at the gym about a year ago at her boyfriend's suggestion. She's become addicted to 'pumping iron' now and it suits her well." The description was accurate enough, but only earned her a "C" grade. No description could have conveyed the truly stunning beauty Patti'd been blessed with.
Checking the clock on the wall, Patti smiled. She was right on schedule, and she just had time to get to the restaurant and freshen up in the ladies room before meeting Skipper. At her car, parked in the firm's private garage, she slid into the leather seat of her Mercedes Benz 600 S. The smoked silver exterior shimmered in the garage lights, and she felt the car's silver-blue interior color matched her eyes. She was wrong. Nothing man made could match the dazzling blue of her silver flecked eyes. Patti's Mercedes was her one major extravagance. Her tastes were simple, though very refined.
Patti arrived at the restaurant with time to spare before meeting Skipper. He was always punctual, a trait she appreciated. Years of college and law school, then court appearances and deadlines, had forced her to become time-conscious, although on weekends she enjoyed getting lazy and sleeping in late if she had no plans.
As always, the Maitre D' seated her at at "their" corner window table where she wistfully watched the boats in the harbor, wishing she owned one. But this time it was different. This time she discovered she was actually contemplating buying a boat of her own. Now, with the prospect of becoming a full partner in the firm, she felt she might be able to fulfill that lifelong dream, and a thrill of anticipation passed through her. She couldn't wait to talk it over with Skipper.
A look of concern crossed her face as her waiter approached the table with a telephone. Skipper was already ten minutes late, very unlike him.
"Call for you, Miss White," he said, placing the
phone on her table and stepping politely back.
* *
"Hello, Patti? Look, I'm awfully sorry about not being there. Bert came by to see me this morning and got me over to his shop on a case. I got involved and lost track of time. I'm really sorry. Even if I could leave now, I couldn't be there for half an hour at least, and I still have quite a bit to do here. Can I make it up to you with dinner at my place, tonight, out by the pool? I could whip up some fish or something? Great. Sorry about this, hon. See you then. Bye." He hung up the phone and looked sheepishly at Bert, a boyish smile on his face that belied his thirty-seven years.
"Okay, Bert. Now why don't you tell me just what new Intertech wizardry was stolen that got me into hot water with the girl of my dreams." Skipper was half joking and half serious. Apart from what it may tell him about the thieves and possible destination for the stolen information, he really didn't care about high-tech warfare. Absolutely nothing Bert's company, or even the federal government, had was of the slightest interest to him. He'd left all that behind when he separated from the service. Or, so he thought.
Skipper's interest was the chase itself, matching his wits, intelligence and skill against the opponent, any opponent -- not so different in that respect from those he sought. To Skipper, the chase was everything. It was intoxicating, and even his nagging self doubts dropped away to near insignificance while the chase was on. Now this one had him. It had grabbed his interest as no other case had for a long, long time. Something about the pattern of events, or techniques, something he couldn't yet put his finger on, had caught his attention; and continued to gnaw at the back of his brain, bothering him, forcing him to take notice like a marlin that had just taken a lure and felt the hook set by an expert angler. Something had also spooked him a little; and Skipper Mason didn't like being spooked...
Bert was uneasy. He knew he had to tell Skipper sooner or later. Bert felt his stomach tying itself into knots and reached into his top drawer for the Tagamet antacid he was never without. He popped two of the tablets into his mouth, gulping them down without water while he ruminated about the situation, hoping Skipper wouldn't back out when he heard what he may be up against. Bert knew Skipper didn't frighten easily. In fact, he didn't believe Skipper could be frightened at all, but this -- this may be different. Skipper might tell him to go cry to the FBI or, more likely, the CIA. For a variety of reasons, Bert couldn't go to the Feds. But he knew he didn't need to, Skipper would never walk out on a friend in need.
"Okay, Skip, here it is," Bert tried to swallow, only to find his mouth and throat full of cotton. Pulling a paper cup from a dispenser, he filled it with the bottled water he always kept in the small refrigerator by his desk. He mentally tried to control the shaking of his hand as he gulped the cool liquid.
"Dr. Roach has been working on a project for more than ten years now. It's his life's work. Lately, the project has taken an unexpected turn and has become the most sensitive thing going on in the world of electronic warfare. It's so sensitive the bosses here haven't even told the federal boys about it for fear of their leaks. They didn't even tell me for crying out loud. If they had, I could have taken measures to avoid this whole situation. Some of these corporate VP's may have brains, but they were standing behind the door when common sense was passed out. I wasn't told what was going on until Norma started yelling and the guys upstairs had to get me involved. I thought of going straight to the feds with it, but I know they'd botch the job. Also, the head honchos here are embarrassed about not letting the government in on it from the beginning, so they don't want me going to them either. Intertech wants this handled very quietly and, of course, as quickly as possible.
"I had to do some pretty fast talking before they'd let me bring you in, since there wasn't any proof it'd been compromised -- until you found that circuit board. I told 'em there's no way I can figure out whether this thing's been compromised, let alone by whom. And recovery? I might as well go out searching for the Holy Grail. I told 'em we need the best there is, and fast. I guess enough of them realized the impact if this thing gets into the wrong hands, 'cause, after a few minutes palaver, they gave me the okay to hire whoever I wanted. So I came to the best man I know, and that's you. No buttering up intended, of course."
Beads of sweat glistened on Bert's forehead and upper lip. He was badly shaken by this. In all the years of their friendship, Skipper'd never known him to get this upset about anything. Not even during the most sensitive and dangerous missions they went on together when they were teammates in the Green Berets. Not even when Bert got married had Skipper seen him this shaken.
"Basically, about a year ago, Roach accidentally ran up against a side effect of something in his original research. What he found was a way to set up some kind of electrical field or something around any given location, of virtually any size, and kill all animal life inside it without damage to anything else within the same area. Of course, it'll screw up any communications stuff, too, but only while the thing is operating. And it can easily operate from any distance just by bouncing it off just about any communications satellite to hit any particular spot on the globe, or the moon, or who knows where.
"If somebody's gotten hold of that file, and I'm working on the assumption that someone has, Dr. Roach says any good manufacturer with unlimited funds could produce a working model. Roach claims that, even though the concept is simple, the effects are so devastating the entire free world is in jeopardy if it's in the wrong hands. He'd just finished the original project and had just begun trying to figure out a defense to it when this happened."
Skipper gazed out the window while he tried to absorb what he was hearing and give himself time to mentally adjust to the enormity of the task facing him. He was also struggling to keep his personal fears of inadequacy and ultimate failure from showing. There would be no room for failure here. Turning from the window, his face was as unrevealing as a mask. "Look, Bert, before I get all excited and start losing sleep over this, just how long will it take whoever's got the plans to build one of these things?"
Bert was stumped, thought for a second, then picked up his phone and dialed. "Dr. Roach, Bert Johnson here. Look, how long would it take someone to build one of these things from your plans? And while we're asking, how long 'till you come up with a defense?"
Skipper watched Bert as his friend listened to Dr. Roach. He saw the color drain from Bert's face and watched Bert hang up the phone without uttering another word.
For a moment, Bert sat staring a hole through the far wall of his office. Then he looked at Skipper. "Everything's changed, Skip," Bert said in a hollow voice. "Roach says everything needed to assemble one of these things should be readily available to any good electronics manufacturer. They could have one operating in as little as a few weeks... or even days." His voice trailed off to a whisper with the last words. "The really bad part is that there is no defense yet, and Roach has no idea yet where to begin. It could take years, and we only have days."
The pressure was taking its toll and Bert looked pale and drained. His shirt had dark sweat stains around the collar and underarms. He loosened his tie.
"What do you say, Skipper? Will you help? I don't have to tell you that whoever's in on this is playing for the big boys, and whatever goes down will go down hard. There isn't anything we can pay you that's worth your life, and you already know the possible consequences to other people in your life if you're found out. I want you to know I won't hold it against you if you back out now. In fact I almost wish you would, except no one else stands a chance of getting this stuff back for us."
Skipper crammed his feelings into an old mental duffle bag and pulled up his usual facade of bravado. "Don't sweat the small stuff, Bert. Just give me a company credit card and an unlimited expense account."
"Done." Bert felt as though the Rock of Gibraltar had just been hoisted off his shoulders. He was slightly light-headed and stumbled back two steps, sitting down hard in his desk chair. Pulling an envelope from his office safe, he extracted two cards and handed Skipper platinum American Express and Visa cards; each with his name already on it.
"It pays to have contacts in the very highest places, and to know you can rely on some people not to chicken out on you. Thanks, Skip."
Skipper grinned at his friend and took the cards. "You sly old dog, you." Then he turned and walked toward the door, saying, "If we're finished here, can we get up on the roof and look around? I thought I understood there wasn't a whole lot of time to waste."
On the roof Skipper began at one end of the building and slowly worked his way to the other, observing everything, saying nothing. Bert followed him, trying to look at everything Skipper did, and seeing just a little bit less. Bert played an almost perfect Dr. Watson to Skipper's Sherlock Holmes. At the far end of the roof Skipper turned around and went back to the neatly replaced glass panel. Studying it thoughtfully, he asked Bert for a handkerchief, wiped an area of the glass clean, then peered at the steel framework beneath. He returned the handkerchief and walked over to the place at the roof's edge where he'd noticed two gouges in the concrete during his earlier examination. Studying these, he turned and asked, "What do you think, Bert?"
Bert was a little slower than Skipper, but only a little. He was catching on quickly.
"I think you've found out how they got in, and I think they came up the wall somehow, then went in through the skylight. I saw the marks on the wall and I saw where they cut the pane of glass and replaced it, but I don't know how they got up the wall or where they went when they got through the glass. It's five stories up sheer flat concrete and glass, and five stories down sheer nothing."
"You catch on fast, Bert, but I'm surprised at your lack of inventiveness. Getting up that wall is something any really inventive rock climber could do, and getting down either inside the building or back down that wall is something you and I have done hundreds of times. True, whoever did it took some chances; but, from what you've told me, they've probably been amply rewarded for it."
Skipper looked at his friend with his head cocked to one side and an inquisitive look on his face. "Tell me, Bert. Why did you say 'they' when you referred to the perpetrator or perpetrators of this little adventure?"
"I don't know. Maybe just because I wouldn't want to do something like this by myself."
Skipper laughed so infectiously Bert had to join in. Soon both of them were laughing so hard Bert had tears running down his cheeks. The tension of the past day and a half came out in mirth, and he felt like he'd pass out or wet his pants from laughing so hard. He felt a little foolish, but couldn't stop.
Later, back in Bert's office, Skipper told him how he'd learned there had indeed been two people involved. "Easy. I just looked on the outside of the wall and saw two distinctly different sized pairs of dirty footprints where they'd staged themselves to rappel down the side." Something about the gouge marks on the inside lip of the wall was trying to trigger his memory, but he was unable to pinpoint just what it was.
"I know you like to work alone, Skipper, but if there's any help you need, let me know, okay? And I don't think I have to tell you this is a hush-hush deal. Don't confide in anyone else about what's going on." Bert looked at Skipper with his eyebrows raised as if he expected Skipper to answer. Skipper, for his part, looked back at Bert with a pained expression on his face as if to tell him he was insulted by such a needless warning. They smiled at each other simultaneously.
On his way out to the Cobra, Skipper waved at the guard who saluted in return. He envied Skipper for no other reason than his car, which brought back memories of his high school days in the 60's when a Shelby 427 Cobra was every kid's dream car. It was, and still is, one of the fastest production cars ever made. Listening to the throaty growl of the Cobra's exhaust as Skipper accelerated away, the guard sighed and daydreamed of driving down Hawthorne Boulevard in the old days with a car like that, the envy of all his old high school chums.