But that wasn’t the only insurance he secured for himself.
He had done all he could. Regrettably, the working model still existed, floating silently and discreetly about a foot off the ground in the corner of his workshop. One consolation, no one would ever be able to figure out how it functioned without the accompanying design, and the final piece of the puzzle which he kept safely in his head.
His choices◦– get interrogated followed by a bullet through his head, or take his chances in the desert?
He had made his choice, and that was three days ago.
Kubacki wasn’t going to make it. Dizzy with pain from the bullet wound, he wished now his assailant had been more accurate with his aim. It would have been quicker than the agonizing death he was sure to meet sooner than he feared. Yet determination kept him going. To where, he wasn’t sure any more. For the last six hours◦– or so he guessed◦– he had been stumbling blindly through the oppressive heat of the Mojave Wastelands. He didn’t know which was worse, the heat or the chilling cold he endured the previous three nights.
Under any other circumstances, Kubacki would have been mesmerised by the millions of bright stars suspended in their dazzling brilliance across the dark night which was as black as coal. Today, as with the days before, when the sun made its welcomed appearance over the eastern horizon, he embraced it. Now, he cursed it. When he started out again just before dawn, he continued east to Lanfair, the closest human settlement that he knew of, but with the blazing sun at its noon-day zenith, he had no idea if he was still moving in the right direction.
Tufts of patchy brown shrubs struggled to survive in the dry, dusty earth. There wasn’t a single tree or embankment to offer a few minutes of desperately sought shade. Had there been even a lone cactus, Kubacki could have extracted some life-giving moisture to soothe his chapped lips and parched throat. His strength was beginning to wane from lack of food, water and loss of blood.
He hadn’t seen a single sign of life; human or otherwise. A scorpion, lizard or rattler would have at least offered some comfort.
Collapsing to his knees, Kubacki looked up into the scorching sun and swore under his breath. Then, for the first time in his life, he prayed. Not for himself, but for humanity. The possibilities of his creation were endless, but in the wrong hands…
Shortly after graduating from MIT, César Kubacki became obsessed with reactionless drives, and in particular, the ‘Dean Drive’. Norman L. Dean, its inventor, demonstrated to small audiences in the 1950s and 60s that he had, indeed, created a reactionless thruster. As publicity spread, interest in the drive grew, but Dean forbid independent analysis of his machine, especially from the scientific community.
Kubacki was an introvert and a recluse. The fact that he had no personality to speak of, didn’t help matters much either. People around him usually pretended he didn’t exist, and no one paid any attention to what he did or what he had to say. He worked as a design engineer for a Los Angeles based electrical machineries company manufacturing industrial units. In his spare time, something he had plenty of, he studied geophysics.
He recognised that Dean wasn’t a con artist, as such, but rather someone who yearned for recognition from his fellow theoretical scientists. His reactionless thruster never worked as demonstrated; it was all a very clever deception. Dean’s documented work was archived as a hoax and forgotten about. It remained freely available on public domain where the NSA had electronically tagged it. The internet provided everything Kubacki needed to know.
He also understood that Dean, a brilliant scientist in his own right, had completely missed the point; instead of trying to defy the laws of nature, he should have used them. And that’s exactly what Kubacki intended to do.
He downloaded Dean’s schematics.
The NSA received an alert.
Kubacki documented his ideas, keeping them very secretive. Not that it mattered, as nobody would have paid any attention to what he was doing. Over a three year period, he obtained what he needed. All the electro-magnets, switches, coils and sumps came from the company’s scrap yard. He paid the same price as that offered by merchants and drove it home piece by piece in his old truck. Kubacki also knew exactly where he was going to set up his operation. It had taken two weeks to relocate the various unassembled components.
After four years of weekend labour, construction of his workshop was complete. To guarantee privacy from intruders, he collected over fifty discarded oil drums from various dumps. Then using a template, he spray-painted ‘Toxic Waste’ on each, and left them lying around in a haphazard manner.
Two years of trial and error finally yielded results; Kubacki had built his first working prototype. Now, instead of reaping the rewards of his labour, he was stumbling like a drunkard across this desolate and forsaken land. Death would come soon.
César Kubacki’s shattered and fatigued body could take no more. Ahead, another small incline in the land. He simply didn’t have the energy to compete with it. He collapsed face first into the blistering desert sand. The Mojave Wasteland was about to claim another victim.
Had Kubacki staggered just a few more feet to the top of the incline, he would have seen the tiny settlement of Lanfair less than half a mile distant.
Within the hour, the first signs of life appeared◦– Circling with hungry vigilant eyes high above the oppressive heat of the Mojave… buzzards.
Chapter Sixteen
“What do you mean you lost him?” Angelo Cevallos snarled at the mercenary helicopter pilot. “What part of ‘Don’t let him leave’ was unclear to you?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cevallos,” the pilot said, nervously. “When we couldn’t locate Kubacki from the air, we searched the entire area on foot.”
“And after three days, you have nothing. You don’t even have the whereabouts of the operation any more.” Cevallos was fuming.
“As I’ve tried to explain, Mr. Cevallos, we were recording our GPS location the entire time, but when we neared the facility, our electronics went mad. Then, after we concealed the entrance and laid down the mines, we covered up all traces that we’d been there.”
“Do you take me as some sort of fool,” Cevallos roared, even angrier than before.
“That was by your instruction, sir.” The pilot was beginning to sweat.
“And you didn’t think to take note of any landmarks?”
“It’s the desert, Mr. Cevallos. It’s the same in every direction you look.”
“I’m surrounded by a bunch of fucking idiots,” Cevallos said. He took his Glock-17 semi-automatic pistol out of its holster and shot the pilot between the eyes. “Clean this mess up,” he said to the two bodyguards standing beside him.
Cevallos stormed out the hallway. He’d have to find Kubacki himself.
Two little girls watching unnoticed from the top of the wide semi-circular marble staircase ran horrified back into their bedroom.
“They’ll probably be right on schedule,” James said to Emily and Nathan. “Let’s make our way down.”
“See you in a couple of weeks, Sven,” Emily said, raising her hand and wiggling her fingers in a goodbye gesture.
“Take it easy and reach out to me if you need anything,” Sven said.
The team, each carrying their personal luggage, rode the elevator down to the atrium where Obadiah was waiting. He had already arranged for the large container of electronics to be brought down.