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PROLOGUE
Jim Palmer
gazed at the panel of blinking indicator lights in front of him. He and his team had just spent three weeks
of round the clock work attempting to find an apparent malfunction in
the immense machine of which this control panel was just a small part. The machine was the brainchild of a group of
Physicists, led by Dr. Elliot Lefevre, to detect minute fluctuations in
the Earth's gravitational field and, hopefully, find some common thread
binding them. This was how Dr. Lefevre had represented the
project to the Senate Subcommittee on Science and Technology when he was
fighting hard for funding nearly five years ago.
Palmer sipped
from his half full Styrofoam cup and winced as he tasted the many hours
old coffee. He looked at the banks
of lights and alphanumeric displays and reflected on the project nicknamed
"BLUNDERBUSS" by those who lived with it day to day. The official name was much more impressive,
and foreboding Palmer thought.
It was the
"GRAVITATIONAL WAVE DETECTION and QUANTIFICATION PROJECT", a
joint effort of NASA and the U.S. Air
Force. The project was your typical
big-ticket military research project.
Quiet compromise had, in the end, led to funding and construction
of the "Gravitational Wave Research Center" had begun in the
West Virginia countryside about 70 miles from Washington D.C.
Blunderbuss
was completed and operational as of about four months ago, in early March. During its test phase the machine had operated
perfectly. Minute changes in the
Earth's gravitational field had in fact been documented. Then, four weeks ago, the event had occurred.
It was a night like many of the nights during the preceding weeks:
completely routine. Blunderbuss was busily (and happily, Palmer
imagined) sniffing for variations in the gravitational field of the Earth
when quite unexpectedly it found one, a big one.
A young graduate from Purdue University in Theoretical Physics,
and a member of Palmer's staff had been on the graveyard shift when all
of Blunderbuss' recording devices went off scale and the alarms began
to shriek. Palmer himself had
been sound asleep when the panicked call came at about one in the morning. His assistant, Leo Trasky, was nearly hysterical.
"Jim! You've got to get here right now! I can't believe what I'm seeing, a huge ripple
in the gravity field. Immensely
strong, My God."
Palmer was
still in the fog of fitful sleep and now was fighting hard for total consciousness
in the onslaught of hysterics.
"Leo,
what in the BLOODY HELL are you babbling about?"
Palmer shook himself awake.
"Relax
Leo and tell me what happened."
Palmer waited but Leo was not calm.
"I was
looking at it, right at it, then all the sensors simply pegged!"
"Pegged",
the technician's phrase for a measurement device going off scale. Palmer thought a moment then said, "Did
you recheck the calibration?"
"Of course
I checked it" Leo screamed, "do you think I'm fucking stupid? But it isn't that, it’s something else. My God you've got to get here, you've got to
get here NOW! The whole damned
machine is down!"
Palmer was
silent. The outburst from his
assistant had him at a loss. He
knew about how high strung young geniuses could be, but that was not the
tone of Leo's crackling voice. It
wasn't pompous anger or frustration; it was fear.
"I'm on
my way" Palmer said as he swung out of bed.
"Don't do anything till I arrive and don't call anyone else
till I get there."
"I won't"
Leo said, calming slightly. "Jim,
there is one more thing" Leo said at almost a whisper.
"When the instruments jumped, I not only saw them but I felt
it."
Leo had been
right. The recording devices indicated
a massive aberration in the Earth's gravitational field. It was much larger than Blunderbuss= sensitive
tuning could absorb. The device
recorded a negative shift in excess of point-eight percent of normal,
outrageous in itself, but the actual event must have certainly been larger. How much larger Palmer did not know. In the end, the project executives concluded
that the event was a "non‑event"; Blunderbuss had merely
suffered an electronic SNAFU.
"Probably
a fried resistor" snorted one of the Air Force staff.
For three weeks
after the "non‑event", Palmer and his crew worked non-stop
rotating shifts to test every circuit Blunderbuss had. From the trivial display interpretation circuits
to the crystalline antenna relative motion sensors, every system and device
of the Gravitational Wave Detection machine was tested and vindicated
of the flaw. A week ago, Blunderbuss
was certified fit for duty and was restarted to continue its search.
Now Palmer
sat in the control room, tired and confused, absently gazing at the myriad
of readouts. An hour ago, the
recording devices took an incredible jump.
This time Palmer had been monitoring the output.
The machine had just been checked completely and was working fine. The only conclusion Palmer could draw, as incredible
as it seemed, was that Gravity had winked more violently than anyone believed
possible.
The machine
design had been based on the assumption that gravitational waves were
very steady. Scientists were expecting
variations in the millionths, if not smaller, and had made the device
as sensitive as modern technology and understanding could make it. Palmer knew that the line of reasoning had
been sound. Gravity was after
all an apparent state property of mass.
One would not expect it to change for a massive stable body like
the Earth at all. It seemed to
him that there had to be a major, possibly fatal, flaw made early in Blunderbuss=
design phase.
The entire
research project was geared towards gaining a deeper understanding of
the phenomenon called gravity. It
was well and good to state that mass attracts mass according to established
formulas but the deeper question of why mass attracts mass was still a
mystery. Scientific reasoning theorized that if small
gravitational fluctuations could be seen, they may be correlated to other
observed occurrences: sunspots, earthquakes, anything.
One major subsystem of Blunderbuss was a statistical database that
would attempt to match other noticed events to any gravitational anomalies
that were actually recorded.
Jim Palmer
thought it was the scattergun approach to scientific research, shoot everywhere,
and see what falls out. Palmer
had another observation too. When
the instruments jumped, he had felt it also.
Chapter One
The old Ford
Bronco raced down the rain slicked road that paralleled the Allegheny
river from the huge Kinzua dam (pronounced KIN‑ZOO, most tourists
to the area insist on calling it KIN‑ZOO‑AH) to the town of
Warrenton, Pennsylvania nine miles downstream.
The Kinzua dam had been built some thirty years ago by the Army
Corp of Engineers and had dammed the Allegheny River, supposedly for flood
control.
Brent Merroth
had been a young boy at that time and remembered little of the controversy
surrounding the building of the dam.
He did remember his dad telling him that sacred Indian burial grounds
would be drowned, and entire towns would be bought by the federal government
and destroyed by the Army. He
never really gave it much thought. Most
people he supposed didn't even know there still were Indians in Pennsylvania. He vaguely remembered that there had been protests,
but the authorities perceived flood control as more important. The dam was built.
Brent returned
to the business of driving. The
rain had started coming down again, buckets of it.
Northwest Pennsylvania had to be the wettest place in the country
in the spring, Brent thought, and this was the beginning of April. Suddenly the front wheels of the speeding Bronco
hit a large pool of water ponding on the road. The tires lifted off the road surface, hydro‑planing. The road curved; the Bronco went straight.
"Oohh
Shit" Brent hissed as he tried to steer the Bronco out of the slide
it was in.
The front and
rear tires on the passenger side hit the mud at the rim of the blacktop
almost simultaneously. Brent could
feel his wheels digging into the soft ground, tearing out grass and small
bushes in the path of the furrowing tires.
Next to the road was a gully perhaps seven or eight feet deep and
twice as wide. It was more accurately described as a seasonal
stream that ran parallel to the river, which was about two hundred yards
further away from the road. It
was dry most of the year, but not now.
The Bronco slowed and had almost stopped, but not quite.
It seemed slow motion to Brent as the Bronco
lazily tipped over then slid down the embankment on its side into the
rushing water of the seasonal stream.
"Son of
a BITCH, you motherFUCKER" Brent spit out.
He was still securely held by his seat belt. The Bronco was resting on its passenger door. Water rapidly came in the door seam and through
the passenger vent. For one moment
his mind screamed, "You're going to drown! Get out! GET
OUT NOW!" But almost as fast
he realized the water wasn't even half as deep as the Bronco was wide.
With luck, he would not even get wet.
The Bronco's
engine was still running. He reached
to the ignition key and flipped it OFF; he saw no chance of driving out
of this mess. Looking up, out
the driver side window, he observed
that it was still raining relentless torrents.
"So much for not getting wet," he sighed.
Brent sat in
his seat for another moment preparing for what was surely going to be
the unpleasant task of climbing out of his stranded vehicle. He quickly rolled down the driver side window
and hooked one foot on the steering wheel, then hopped up onto the side
of the Bronco. He immediately
felt the unpleasant sensation of cold rain penetrate his clothes, plastering
his long blonde hair to his face and scalp.
He looked at
the bank he had just ridden down sideways and could see the furrows and
skids the sliding Bronco had made in the mud.
He winced when he saw the unmistakable shade of Bronco Green adorning
several rocks on the side of the gully.
He jumped to the bank, was almost able to grab the trunk of a small
tree, missed, and slid back to the bottom of the Gully on his belly. If he wasn't soaked before, he was now. He was sitting in water up to his waist.
He attacked
the side of the gully again and in less than a minute, he was standing
by the side of the road. He looked
up the road and saw a car approach. Cautiously
he stepped to the side of the road and waved.
The car, a late model Mustang, slowed then stopped just in front
of Brent. The passenger window
noiselessly lowered as Brent approached.
"I really
appreciate you stopping buddy. I
ran off the road a few minutes ago and I need some help."
"Are you
hurt?", a concerned voice said from the car.
"Only
my pride and my paint job," Brent said relieved to have a reason
to smile. He stooped and looked
into the car. It was driven by
a young man, maybe a year or two older than he, about thirty-five or thirty-six. This guy looked pretty well muscled, a lifter
maybe, with short medium brown hair that was in the process of deserting
his head and bright blue eyes.
"Where
did you go over?", the driver asked, his eyes straining to see over
the edge of the bank. As far as
he could tell, there was no vehicle down there and this guy standing in
the rain might be a kook, or worse.
Jeff Hopewell
shifted his gaze back to the dirty, soaking wet man looking hopefully
at him through the passenger window.
He was a mess. His button
down blue shirt was plastered to his chest, mud was smeared almost the
full length of it and Jeff noticed it had at least two rips in it.
The man's hair was probably blonde he concluded and shoulder length
or a little longer.
"I hit
a puddle of water and just water-skied right off the road. I left the road about forty yards back."
Jeff realized this was why he didn't see any signs of a wreck.
"Come
see if you don't believe me."
"I believe
you", Jeff said fixing his gaze back onto the soaking wet man at
his window.
"Are you
sure you're OK?"
"Hell
yes, I'm fine, as fine as one can be when he's wrecked his truck, trashed
his clothes, is late for work and has damn near caught pneumonia." Jeff snorted a short chuckle as Brent continued,
"If you
could just give me a ride to the nearest service station you'd be a real
life saver."
"Sure,
no problem", Jeff said, then added "ah.
wait just a moment will you? You
look a bit wet. I think I have
a towel or something in the back you can sit on."
Brent took
stock of his own condition, soaked and muddy, and could sympathize with
this reluctant good Samaritan who didn't want to leave him here but also
didn't want to ruin his upholstery. Jeff
turned around and started rummaging through a pile of stuff on the back
seat. Brent examined the car in detail to keep his
mind occupied during this unexpected delay.
There was something unusual about it; of course, it was a ragtop,
a convertible. Convertibles were
not very practical in this part of the country; the weather was too cold
half the year, too wet the other half.
He noticed
a military pass sticker on the lower right windshield. The base was NAS NORTH ISLAND.
Brent racked his brain, where in the hell was NAS NORTH ISLAND? He didn't know. He was about to ask when Jeff said,
"O.K. I think I've got it covered, Hop in."
Brent opened
the door and found the seat covered with an assortment of bath towels
and a beach towel that looked like the label of some beer called "Carta
Blanca", he had never heard of it either.
He hopped in.
The window
next to Brent started up then sealed out the rain.
Brent regarded his benefactor a moment.
After thirty‑three years in a town this size, Brent knew
everyone at least by sight. This
face was new. He didn't know anyone
who drove a convertible. As if
reading his thoughts the driver spoke up.
"My name
is Jeff. Jeff Hopewell, and before
you ask the answer is Yes. I am
new to these parts, just moved here about a month ago, in fact I'm still
moving in."
"Good
to meet you Jeff, my name is Brent Merroth and I usually look better than
this." He was expecting some
kind of chuckle. Instead, Jeff
shot a deep probing glance at him that made him faintly nervous.
"You did
say 'Brent Merroth' didn't you?"
"Yes",
Brent answered suspiciously.
Jeff's face
widened into a big grin and he started to laugh lightly as if he had just
heard a joke known but to him. Then
he said, "you're the Mr. Merroth,
lead operator of the FCC unit at the refinery, I'll be a son of a bitch!"
"How the
hell did you know that?" Brent
demanded.
Jeff gave him
a sly smile then, fixing his gaze on the road, he calmly said, "I'm
the snot‑nosed, bookworm asshole that you have a meeting with this
afternoon."
Brent felt
the color rush to his cheeks and they felt hot despite him shivering in
the wet clothes. The accident
had pushed the coming events of the day from his mind.
He remembered that he had been informed to come to the engineering
office after lunch to meet the new assistant engineering manager of Halstead
Oil Company and to discuss his apparent disregard for engineering's decisions
on how to run his unit. The 'snot‑nose,
bookworm asshole' title was in reference to that new engineer. Who told
him I said that?
"You're
the new engineer?" Brent
asked near panic.
"Yep!"
quipped Jeff.
"Oh shit"
muttered Brent as he fell into an uncomfortable silence. Embarrassment was bad enough but this guy was
his new boss. In fact, this guy
was Brent's boss' new boss. Jeff
sensed his passenger's angst.
"Don't
worry, I'm not taking it personally.
After meeting your supervisor, I can't blame your suspicion of
the higher ups. Your super Henley’s a jerk."
"That's
a big 'no shit" Brent quickly agreed.
He also thought that remark showed a certain lack of decorum on
Jeff's part. After all, Henley was still his boss and he
should not be undermined like that. Of
course, his own comments had not been a graceful model of tact either.
"I'm really
sorry about that 'bookworm' comment.
Sometimes my mouth gets the better of me. Anyway, I hope at least the company will understand why I'm late."
"Well,"
Jeff chuckled, "It appears we do have some common ground. My mouth is legendary for committing all manner
of political blasphemies. So,
don't worry about it. As far as
your alibi, they will have to wait until this afternoon to hear it from
me. I'm taking the morning off, half day of vacation.
I have an errand in town, but I'll help you get your truck problem
fixed first." Brent smiled, relieved.
***
Jeff Hopewell,
Warrenton's newest resident, walked up the stairs to the second floor
of the Warrenton National Bank building.
It was an older structure but solid as stone.
The polished wood hand railing and deep patterned carpet on the
steps lent this place an air of importance.
He walked down the hall to the first door on the right, the Law
offices of Blain and Callahan. The
receptionist greeted him immediately as he walked through the solid wooden
door fixtured with a glazed glass panel.
She was an older woman and looked like someone's grandmother.
"Good
morning, Sir. Do you have an appointment?",
she politely asked.
"Yes. Nine a.m. with Ms. Donaldson", then he
added, AI'm sorry I'm late. I
was unavoidably delayed."
The receptionist
gave him a slight disapproving look.
She did not believe there were any acceptable excuses for being
tardy.
"I'll
tell her you're here. Your name?"
"Jeff
Hopewell."
"One moment,
please have a seat."
"Mr. Hopewell?" a light voice said just as
Jeff had found a seat to wait. He
looked up to see a young woman smartly dressed in a lime green business
suit. She was about five foot
five; had long straight blond hair and a quick disarming smile. She came closer to him and held out her hand as he stood to greet
her.
"I'm Linda
Donaldson, Mr. Hopewell. It's
good to finally meet you face to face."
"You as
well, Ms. Donaldson. The phone
is an injustice." Linda blushed
ever so slightly. He was balder
than he sounded over the phone, younger too.
She expected a man at least in his mid forties.
She was not what he expected either.
She was younger than he imagined and had stunning jade green eyes. Jeff could not help but stare at her magnificent
eyes.
"Please
follow me to my office. So, are
you settling in to the pace of life in Warrenton?" She asked politely as they walked down the hall to her private office.
"No problems
so far", Jeff answered. They
went into her office and she closed the door behind him. She motioned him to a high backed chair then went behind her own
rich antique desk. She started
on business immediately.
"We have
received the final settlement papers from ApTech. I have some documents for you to sign, including the settlement
agreement and the non-compete agreement you negotiated before moving here. I also have the transfer documents that give
you legal title to the contents of Eden's warehouse in San Diego. It will be up to you to arrange transport of
the contents, or I can make those arrangements for you. Upon execution of the documents I will forward
them to the Escrow Company so they will release the rest of your money
from the settlement."
"Good." Jeff said with obvious satisfaction.
"Did your
review of the documents reveal anything we need to discuss?" Linda sat back, thoughtful for a moment.
She still had a vague feeling that there was something odd about
this whole transaction. She could not put her finger on it exactly;
but there was a nagging suspicion deep inside that Mr. Hopewell might
be up to something faintly unethical.
The contract documents were not the problem; they seemed to be
in perfect order. It was the entire
deal itself that seemed wholly unconventional and fairly dripping with
unanswered questions.
"Well,
no. The agreements are essentially
as your attorney in San Diego informed me they would be, but one thing
has me puzzled. I did some research
on ApTech, which is part of my job as your new attorney.
You must know that the stock settlement you agreed too is less
than half of what your holdings are actually worth.
I also know you founded ApTech and were responsible for more than
a dozen patents the company holds. Are
you sure you want to let your board of directors virtually steal the fruit
of your labors like this?"
"The settlement
is not just the money," Jeff responded. "I also get what is in the Eden warehouse,
the entire contents of my R&D lab. That material is most important to me."
"That
equipment will be undeniably yours", Linda responded, "but the
company invoices indicate that all the equipment at Eden's combined is
only worth about six hundred thousand dollars.
Why not take a much larger cash settlement and just replace the
stuff if you want it?" Jeff
gazed at her, his bright blue eyes intense upon her.
"It is
not just how much the parts cost", he said quietly, "most of
it is irreplaceable for the money, not to mention the enormous commitment
of time it represents. So it is
not just the dollar cost; it is also how well they are put together." Linda felt a chill run up her spine. His eyes seemed to look through her like an
X‑ray, a sudden power that she was not prepared for.
Her research
into ApTech Corporation, begun as an exercise in due diligence, had quickly
morphed into an attempt to gain insight into the company's founder and
primary intellectual engine, Mr. Hopewell.
The company had originally started as a designer and manufacturer
of rather mundane environmental remediation and water treatment equipment. Nearly from the beginning, Mr. Hopewell had
forgone involvement with most business aspects of the operation and preferred
to dwell on the technical aspects of the company's product line. He was even successful in his attempt to divorce
his research and design facility from the rest of the company headquarters,
moving it to El Cajon, California east of San Diego. This was apparently how the rift with his board
of directors had begun.
Review of the
available financial analysis information painted a picture of an innovative
and profitable small company that held the promise of steady growth for
years to come. Several of ApTech's
processes and patents had received favorable review in trade magazines
and the company enjoyed a positive public image.
What little published information available concerning Mr. Hopewell
was largely gleaned from those trade reviews.
The opening
of ApTech's new R&D facility rated a write-up, a puff piece that confidently
expected an even more innovative and competitive product line in the future.
That was more than six years ago.
Linda found almost no references in her literature search to the
promised new innovations. It seemed as if Mr. Hopewell had accomplished
next to nothing since the move. The
rift with his board had erupted last spring when an offer to buy ApTech
was enthusiastically approved by the board, but rejected by Hopewell.
Based on the company by-laws, his equity stake alone was sufficient
to quash the deal. His board was furious and initiated court action
to force the sale, claiming breach of contract because he had become an
unproductive dead weight and was injuring their interests by summarily
rejecting a generous offer that would benefit all. Hopewell's lawyers countered that dozens of innovations fuelling
an average twenty-five percent annual growth rate could hardly be characterized
as "dead weight" and moved for dismissal. The legal wrangling increased, and the clash of personalities involved
escalated into an all out war for control of the company.
Then, about
three months ago, Hopewell made an abrupt about face. He unexpectedly made an offer to his board to sell out his interest
in ApTech. He agreed to a restrictive
non compete agreement. His price
included a cash buyout of much less than his equity position was actually
worth, and the entire contents of the R&D lab. His board accepted the deal because they knew how much money he
had spent at the lab, and they knew that no competitive product produced
there could be introduced into the market due to the non compete agreement. They had won and Hopewell had left defeated.
Linda mused that Mr. Hopewell was certainly not acting the part
of an eccentric inventor vanquished by scheming capitalists after he had
shown them the key to riches. Quite the opposite, she thought. His actions since her initial contact with
his San Diego attorney, David Lopez, were of a man moving as quickly as
possible to remove both himself and his booty from any influence of his
former orbit of associates.
She also noticed
that the actual contents of the lab, now in storage at Eden's warehouse,
were not cataloged in any of the documents.
She had no idea what those contents might be. When she requested a listing from Mr. Lopez, he had demurred stating
that no list was available and that even he did not know what the warehouse
contained. Based on company records,
the stuff was mostly junk. It
comprised miscellaneous items purchased at liquidation auctions, wholesalers,
or from private sellers. Some
items, such as four and a half tons of one-quarter inch thick aluminum
plate, defied any rational explanation.
Mr. Lopez did
advise however, that Linda should be aware of his eccentricities. He apparently had demonstrated a hot temper
on occasion that could border on physical violence. He was also prone to engage in ridiculously long periods of non-stop
work, sometimes lasting more than a week with no food or sleep. When he emerged from one of those marathons,
he was not always quite lucid. Lopez
said that he had been concerned about him in the last few years and had
suggested that Jeff seek psychiatric counseling. He refused and that was the end of the matter.
She remembered
the brief company biography she had seen on him.
He had multiple degrees, a master in computer science, a bachelor
in chemical engineering, and some graduate level physics work. His new position at Halstead refining was
probably simply based on the chemical engineering degree. She thought it strange that he would have chosen
that career path instead of a high tech position that he would also be
qualified to fill. But he had
pursued a position at the refinery for months, and then accepted a job
at just the nominal rate of pay. Whatever
the reason, he wanted to be here.
"Is there
any problem on the closing of the Markel house?" Jeff asked suddenly. Linda
started slightly, and then regained herself. "No, once this agreement is executed the
purchase should go through without a hitch. You have already moved in, haven't you?"
"Yes. Two weeks ago." Linda was still thinking of what he said a
moment ago.
"Have
you invented something new? Are
you planning to start a new enterprise here?"
Linda thought she saw the opportunity to be general counsel for
a completely new company, and the chance to make some real money in this
small town. Her own aspirations
in the legal and corporate world had faded as the reality of small town
politics, divorce cases, and drunk-driving defense crowded out the visions
of material success, visions that propelled her to law school in the first
place.
Jeff's eyes
narrowed "even if I had, those agreements support my ownership rights
to Eden warehouse's contents, don't they?"
Yes. ApTech has no right to that material, even
if it is a new invention." Linda
said, then added "presuming that this new invention does not violate
your non compete agreement, of course."
She was disappointed that he hadn't answered her question more
directly.
"That's
what I thought," said Jeff. "We
had better get those documents executed.
I've got to get to work soon."
After he signed all the dotted lines Jeff got up to leave.
"Mr. Hopewell?" Linda said as a sudden detail popped back into her mind, "I've
received several bills from suppliers that you have assumed responsibility
for payment. Most of them are
past due." She paused briefly
as she leafed through his file to find them.
"Here
they are. Thirty-five thousand
to Pacific Software Development, it says for 'system engineering'; seventeen
thousand five hundred to Sunburst Machine for eight sets of 'core support
assemblies', there must be a dozen others.
The total for all of them comes to one hundred and seventy-four
thousand seven hundred dollars. After
I pay these out of your settlement and close on the house, your total
remaining funds are sixty-eight thousand three hundred dollars.
That seems barely enough to."
Jeff cut her
off, "enough to start over?"
She squirmed slightly then looked into his eyes.
"If that's
your plan."
"Well,
If I do decide to undertake another start‑up, you'll be the first
to know. It was a pleasure Linda."
He shook her hand then started for the door.
"What
about Eden warehouse?" Linda
asked. "Do you want me to arrange transport of
the contents?"
"No." Jeff said.
"I will handle that myself."
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