“You made good time for someone without a truck.”
“Some of the drivers still know me, so I was able to beg a few rides.”
The trucker dabbed the bread in oil. “Ever drive Syria?”
“Sudan, Jordan, Sinai, Syria, yes, on many occasions,” Bridge said in perfect desert cadence. “Some a little less legal than others, but it’s not my place to speak.”
“I am afraid it’s the only way to make a good living these days.”
“Praise Allah. But they do pay like the devil.”
That made Jamal laugh. “Shame on you, brother. You are going to need much luck in Cairo. Don’t get Allah on your bad side.”
“My friend, if I am not already on his list, it is purely an administrative oversight.” Bridge stressed the vowels of the last two words in a manner consistent with…
“You are from the desert?”
“Yes, south of Al Kharijah. You are quite astute.”
“When you drive as far as me, you get so that you can tell people.”
“My father was a herder. I hated it. I started driving at 14, got my own truck at 22, but it seems like I have no head for business.”
“No, it’s not your head, it’s the business. It’s madness! Rules, regulations, fuel, and insurance; they have many ways to put you out of business, but never help you stay in business.”
“I was talking with someone who knew a Minister, to get a government contract. I thought I would be set for life. But he wanted too much money and I wasn’t able to pay for the introduction.”
“Camel’s asses all. There is a special place in hell for people like that.”
“If I can’t find another job. I don’t know what I’ll do.” Bridge laid that out there like a big fat softball pitch on a Sunday afternoon.
“You still know this Minister?”
Swing and a hit. “My friend does.”
“It might be interesting to speak with him; how much did he want?”
“Ten thousand pounds, then five percent of each load. But you get 100 trips within the Misr, guaranteed a year.” Bridge used the local term for Egypt.
“Interesting.”
“When I get to Cairo, if I get to Cairo, I can look him up if you are interested.”
“Come with me; I have a seat.”
“Why, thank you, brother. That is most kind.”
The waiter returned with a full thermos for Jamal and a check.
“Here, let me get that, er… the coffee I mean,” Bridgestone said sheepishly as he laid down enough coins to only pay for the refill of the thermos.
“There’s no need.”
“Please, to cover the fuel.”
“Okay. What is your name?”
“Mohammad Ali, and please no jokes.”
“You must have heard them all.”
“Regrettably so.”
Ross watched as Bridge climbed onto Jamal’s rig. He started up the Rover and tailed them from a safe distance behind.
Bill went into his den and turned on his secure laptop. It took two minutes for it to regain all its ability for SCIAD and would lose it all once again at the end of the session. During the boot-up time, he glanced out the window and saw a Secret Service agent was on post at the end of his driveway. The new 12-foot fence around his humble little home, motion sensors in the hedges, cameras on trees and 16-foot posts, and the gatehouse at the end of his driveway must have made the neighbors wish he’d never moved there. Bill scanned his retina and opened his in-box. It was stuffed with responses on Peter’s book. As he started to read, it became clear he needed a meeting with everyone. One response in particular rattled him to his core.
To: Nucleus
From: Abramson
The treatise of the book, mathematical proof of UFOs, is compelling but the science is not fluid. Certain jumps in celestial and quantum calculations may invalidate postulates. From a scientific point of view, more research is in order. However, if I may editorialize on a personal observation, in the author’s attempt to tie natural and manmade phenomena into the mathematics of the grid, I noticed that each atom bomb and hydrogen bomb test he charted, a relationship between his extraterrestrial math and the success or failure of a nuclear explosion exists. In fact, 107 out of 110 successful blasts were correctly predicted by this confluence of the Earth and Sun’s “harmonical” relationship. More astounding was that 100 % of the non-explosions, or atomic duds, happened when his extraterrestrial math showed the Sun and Earth to be
Bill blurted out the words, “Jesus Factor!” He found the printout of Peter’s copy of
What the author had pleaded for in his book 35 years ago — that someone with access to the “new calculating machines” would run his numbers and pick up where he left off — was all in the report that Bill now held in his hand.
Bill sat motionless for nearly five minutes. His mind replayed the President’s serious concern, Peter’s running away at the mere mention, scientists stumbling across that which was only held in close confidence by three living men in the world, then disappearing.
He picked up the phone and called Cheryl. He asked her to get the White House travel office started on getting 10 SCIAD members to his office the day after tomorrow at 10 a.m.
Rodney had an instant dislike for the new guy, Number 11, who showed up today. It was the leather jacket. The guy was full of himself and that leather jacket and sunglasses were the height of smugness. Number 11 was the helicopter pilot. Unfortunately, Rodney had to train for two days with him.
Joey waited for Bill’s 10:30 meeting to wrap before he went in. Five glum-looking people walked out of his office.
Joey went right in. “No happy campers in that bunch, boy.”
“Why is it that they think lawyers beat scientists like rock beats paper? They think because it’s a political football that I can just change the science! Science is not negotiable. It’s not politically convenient.
“What it is. Right on brother!”
“Shut up!” Bill picked up a red pen and — with extreme prejudice — crossed out the title page of whatever it was they left behind. He then tossed the document into the out basket. “What do you have for me, Joey?”
“Your call the other day could be the walking dead. We are very quietly exhuming the body from Woodlawn. We’ll have DNA and fingerprints in a few hours.”
“I just hope Signora Remo doesn’t get wind of this unless we are sure her son isn’t in that grave.”
