Novo Cetus

Chapter 27

       

While the team worked in the garage, Hank power-walked along a well-groomed path in town. Mentally he evaluated his posture: chest raised and shoulders relaxed – check; arms bent slightly – check; hands cupped, not clenched – check; and small but fast steps, rolling from heel to toe – check. He envisioned himself as quite the skillful walker, envied by other novice pacers. Regrettably, the path was surprisingly deserted today so he could not compare his smart style against others.

He focused on a conversation he'd had with Moto a few hours ago. The team needed complex underwater equipment to carry out their newest research. Their ideas were brilliant yet dangerous since there was no conclusive data on Titan's vision. Furthermore, no matter how scientifically sound the outcomes hashed out, this project started with an assumption and that could be, at the least, problematic and, at the most, dangerous.

A familiar voice interrupted his musings. "Dr. Hardin, I need an update on our project." Hank turned and faced a man dressed in loose, black exercising gear. Long hair fell in stringy dreads that seeped out from under a wildly colored do-rag. The addition of aviator sunglasses helped obscure his facial features. The jogger's oversized windbreaker fell just below his waistband.

Concealing – what – a dagger or gun? Hank wondered.

"I thought communication was through Brasco," Hank complained. He uncocked his arms and let them fall limply at his sides. Anxious around the cloak and dagger stuff, his eyes darted to the path behind the jogger.

The intruder moved in closer, and Hank's ego-inflated chest of just moments ago sunk away from the physical confrontation, but his feet held their ground.

"We talk to you when we want to, we've paid for the privilege," he said, his speech slow; his accent thick. "I ask again, what is the progress on our project?" The jogger did not move.

The physical intimidation worked and Hank took a step back. "My researchers are moving ahead. We still have complete government support. No one suspects anything. You need to be patient." A line of sweat formed along Hank's upper lip.

With a gloved thumb, the jogger gently wiped away the sweat. "You are correct to be anxious, my friend." He lifted his windbreaker, revealing a gun and a nasty looking knife tucked into his waistband.

Hank stumbled farther backwards. His eyes swept to the left and then right. Where are the people – runners, bikers, dog walkers?

As if reading Hank's mind, the jogger responded. "You American runners – or whatever it is that you do – always do what is right; like you wear the right shoes for your sport, you wear the right clothes for the weather, you have the right equipment." He nodded toward Hank's Spibelt, cinched at his waist. "And if I drape official yellow tape blocking the trailhead that says "do not cross' I can count on you Americans to do the right thing." He finished speaking and leaned way left and then way right, stretching his oblique muscles.

Jesus, he's referring to crime scene tape. I hope this is not going to be a crime scene, Hank thought. "I'm moving my research to Seattle tonight. If our experiment succeeds, I expect to be in the water within the next few days." His body trembled but his voice did not expose the extent of his fear.

"We can be patient, if necessary. This time you have given us reason to be patient." The jogger turned and sprinted away.

Hank let his body slump. He unclenched his hands and took some deep breaths. He wondered how long he'd have before runners returned to the trail. He needed to contact Brasco. He opened his Spibelt, retrieved his cell phone and a few watermelon jellybeans. Hoping the sour beans would relieve his dry mouth, he popped a few in and was grateful when his mouth exploded with saliva. He leaned heavily on a nearby pine and dialed up Brasco.

"Some spy just accosted me in the park!" he hissed into the phone.

"Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?" Brasco was driving fast on the interstate; he looked for a place to pull over.

"No! But I'm looking for a men's room. He scared the shit out of me." After exhaling heavily, his breathing became more regular.

Brasco relaxed and continued driving at a more reasonable speed. "I guarantee if they had 'accosted you,' you would need an ambulance. What exactly happened?"

"They want information. I told them to be patient. I also reminded him that all communication was to be filtered through you," Hank fussed. He didn't want some hoodlum to materialize and intimidate him again.

"Maybe you didn't realize this but these people don't play by any rules. So if they want to talk to you, they will talk to you." Brasco wondered if Hardin was as naïve as he sounded. He hoped not; the guy needed to be on the ball from here on out. There was too much at stake.

"I guess he just caught me off guard," Hank replied. "I don't need people jumping out from behind trees to talk to me."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but they are not going to make an appointment with your secretary so get used to it. Someone will just turn up, and you had better have information for them each and every time. Moving on, what is the progress on Titan?" Brasco might as well get an update, especially if someone had approached Hank looking for information.

"I'm moving the team to the Pacific Coast. The Center for Marine Biodiversity and Conservation has several research stations there. Moto is securing one now. The team has momentum and as good a theory as any. I will be transferring them tomorrow morning," Hank reported.

The telltale rustle of prairie grass as runners veered off path to pass interrupted the quiet. He checked his state-of-the-art Polar Heart Rate Monitor Watch, relieved to see normal beats per minute displayed – down markedly from a moment ago.

"The plan is to disguise a small sub as an ocean sunfish and try to get close to Titan with ultrasound equipment. I'll be at the research station too; I'll call you from there." Hank was ready to get going. Hikers, dogs and runners filed past. He pressed "end call" and returned the phone to his pack.

Brasco recognized the hollow sound of a dead phone line. Sunfish? The word brought him back forty years to fishing with his grandpa on Little York Lake in upstate New York. Every evening they caught shiny silver sunfish – with bright orange underbellies and vivid red spots where their ears should be –then fried them up in a cast iron skillet. They used hotdogs or bread balls as bait because his grandma wouldn't eat one if it had just swallowed a worm. He imagined a thirty-foot punkin-seed sunny swimming up next to Titan. He hoped this would work.

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