Touché! “You tell him, Tom,” Tiger chuckled. The man was right. Hundreds of workers rotated tri-weekly in and out of Von Braun to the floating shipyards. Huntsville had one of the largest Orbital Assembler locals in the country, just behind Canaveral and Mojave. The folks here working in those jobs might be some of the most socially conservative people in the world, but they also made very good money doing what they did, notwithstanding the insurance, time off and retirement benefits. They might agree with Denton on a lot of his religious and moral jargon, but when it came to their livelihood … well, messing with someone’s paycheck … in this day and time … well, that was a whole other story.
Tiger couldn’t help but like Carr. Unlike many in the local media, the man had a pair with some hair. It was obvious he wasn’t going to allow his show to be used as a protracted campaign commercial for Pretty Boy Denton. He definitely wasn’t lobbing the old boy softballs. Of course, he might be doing the weather this time next week, but right now, he had the senator on the defensive …
“I think we have a misunderstanding here, Tom,” Denton quickly switched to damage control mode. “I have nothing against the good men and women of our great district making a decent wage. I just think a competitive market is good for everyone. Businesses as well as workers. Let the free-enterprise system work as it was meant to be.”
“In other words, send the crews of the New Exodus project off in ships built by the lowest bidder? Would we as a nation and a planet be willing to risk that after the disappearance of Genesis Now?”
Tiger was unable to contain his laughter at the red creeping into Denton’s face. He was looking off-screen to someone and suddenly the program cut to a commercial. He would’ve loved to have watched what happened when they came back, but he heard the water shut off in the bathroom. He clicked off the MV. It was getting late. His eyelids were growing heavy as he yawned loudly. That shower was probably going to wait ‘til morning. The last thing he remembered was the bathroom door opening.
***
Deep in the Catskills of western New York State, a Vid-Link purred insistently in a stately, centuries-old mansion. Down the hall, in the extravagant dining room, a black-tie dinner was in progress. Eventually, a middle-aged man in an expensive, tailored suit detached himself from the affair and made his way down to answer.
“This better be important!” He was far from happy to be playing answering service on this night.
“We have a major problem, sir,” the man at GenetX Corporate Security replied nervously.
James McCallister, Executive Assistant to GenetX founder and CEO, Broderick Chastaine III, did not like the sound of this. He didn’t like the sound of it one iota. He rubbed his head; a headache was already forming.
He was trying hard to be patient. “Report … please!”
Still, the man paused. McCallister knew he was trying to get his story straight. He decided to wait patiently.
“Well, sir,” the man coughed nervously. “We just received a call from one of our officers in Huntsville, Alabama. It seems he was assigned to the transport detail for a highly-classified research experiment. Are you familiar with Operation Kitsune?”
McCallister felt as if the top of his skull was about to blow off. His arrogance seemed to drain from him with the blood from his face. “Continue … please.”
“There seems to have been an incident. And the cargo appears to have been abducted. I was wondering wha—”
McCallister reached up and turned the Vid-Link off. He needed a drink, badly. He turned and walked back into the dining room. Chastaine was having an after-dinner brandy while discussing some of his concepts for future genetic experimentation with a prominent defense contractor and a Space Guard attaché. McCallister paused just long enough to have the bartender pour him a scotch and water. Downing it as quickly as possible, he made his way over.
“Excuse me, Mr. Chastaine.”
Chastaine was in his early forties, but he looked like a man fifteen years younger. Athletically built with dark hair, he had cold, brown eyes and a smile even more frigid. He was considered the Boy Wonder of the genetic and DNA research fields. Yet, he shied away from the limelight, preferring an almost reclusive lifestyle. He tolerated business-related functions such as these, but only barely.
“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me for one moment.” He seemed almost relieved, as he and McCallister stepped out.
“What is it?” he asked once they were in the hallway.
McCallister didn’t know any other way of putting it. “Bad news, sir. We’ve lost the vixen.”
The look that overcame Chastaine’s face almost made McCallister shrink backwards. “What do you mean, we’ve lost the vixen?” he muttered through gritted teeth.
“Something happened during transport. Down in Alabama. Somebody took her.”
“Well, then you get her back,” Chastaine replied simply, calm already returning to his demeanor after the initial shock. “Do whatever it takes. Spare no expense.”
“Yes, sir!”
“I want somebody on the job by morning!”
“It will be done, sir.”
“Good! And I want you to personally monitor the situation. I want up-to-the-minute updates.”
“Yessir!”
“Who do we have close by?”
McCallister ran a hand through his hair, pondering on it a moment. “The Georgian, I believe.”
“Make the call.”
***
The buzzing of his Free Bird ringtone awoke him at two twenty-one a.m. He was awake instantly
