Chapter 4 Arsenide & Stolen Lasers

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        What are we doing back here?" I tried to sound as annoyed as possible.
        "Sorry, ma'am. I forgot to fill up."
        After Sterling had pumped 25 litres of isoprope into the Mercedes, we were on our way again. The destination: the headquarters of Danbury Holdings, Inc., a 39-story post-modern milk-carton-shaped concrete, steel, wood, and glass edifice overlooking the scenic warehouse district. We crossed over the Reagan Memorial Causeway and headed north up I-5 into the heart of downtown.
        I paused for a moment to look down at the vintage 1956 Mickey Mouse watch passed down to me by my father along with controlling interest in DH when he died seven years prior. 10:59, which meant that it was 6:59 AM in London right now, where my sister and her new-found cronies were supposedly even now conspiring to take away from me a jewel I didn't even have and five hours ago didn't even know existed. We pulled up into the drive, a cobbled half-moon brilliantly centrepieced by a stately marble fountain in the shape of the company's logo, which consisted of a rather large 'H' sans serif with a fastly-spinning globe positioned in its lower berth and a rather jaunty script 'D' lying casually about the upper.
        We ascended the private elevator to the 39th floor, a lush penthouse office suite and lounge with one of the finest views of the Island of San Diego that laundered money could buy. We were greeted at the door of the elevator by Friedrichsen, the head of security for DH worldwide and Wilson's immediate superior. I could tell by the redolent nutty odor that Friedrichsen had been on the spice again - it was his only vice, and relatively harmless way of relieving stress. But it did make him a bit jumpy at times.
        "I came as soon as you called. What the hell is going on here?"
        "Apparently," intoned Wilson, "Miranda Danbury has been detained by a power-hungry detail of desert  devotees descended from a dame whose son's Sultanhood was usurped by a servant sporting a sacred stone." He shot me a glance. "Am I close?"
        "Got it in one, smart ass" I shot back and winked ever so slightly.
        Wilson and Friedrichsen eyed me intently, for all the world looking like two Saint Bernards begging for a Milk Bone.
        "Kate, you said you had a plan," Wilson finally coaxed.
        "I do." I addressed Friedrichsen. "Alan, did you bring along that crackerjack hacker like I asked?"
        "You mean Wurskiwicz? Yeah. He's in your office awaiting instructions."
        "Then there's no time to lose!"
        We crossed the lounge, passed the wet bar and racketball courts, and entered the tastefully-decorated executive suite that served as my home away from my home away from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I wasn't at the university. On the back wall, an original Renoir sat rakishly poised at eye-level above an inset aquarium filled with Japanese fighting fish, some of whom had apparently not been fed recently and were now doing a graceful backfloat.. The right wall looked like something out of a really bad Sandra Bullock movie, replete with 37 separate 24" LCD video panels, a myriad of keyboards and switches, and one large candy-like red button. The rest of the walls were in fact windows which looked out on Harbor Island and the clear blue ocean beyond, not that we could see very much of it at this time of night. By daylight, we might have been able to catch a glimpse of porpoises lightly frolicking near the kelp fields or even a skimmer dancing over the waves on its daily milk run out to the colonies.
        The left window contained a sliding glass patio door which led out onto the wrap-around balcony, which had been tastefully landscaped with five douglas firs in pots made out of rose quartz, a common by-product of my father's mines. In the middle of all, a huge seven-drawer antique oak desk, a relic of dad's days as a carpenter, sat askew with its back toward us. The high-back swivel chair rotated around to face us as we entered.
        A young man stood up from the chair. His obsidian hair was pulled back in a pony tail, which along with his goatee and Flock of Seagulls T-Shirt told me that this guy must be either fresh out of college or, more likely, still in. I had never much cared for antique punk, even though I grew up in the 1980's. But the kids these days seemed to go wild for it -- part of the whole "retro" thing. His pale complexion and obvious lack of physical fitness as well as a slight hint of Cheetos dust in his beard told me that this guy was probably a wizard with computers.
        I motioned Wendel Wurskiwicz toward the slate-grey bank of panels and monitors. He cracked his knuckles, sat down at the centre console, and began typing.
        "After Mr. Wilson called me up, I accessed the phone company records and back-propagated the signal from your communicator using a neural network algorithm to ascertain its precise angle of descent from the geo-synch. satellite, which told me exactly where the call was originating. And you'll never guess."
        "I'm guessing that it wasn't London. Am I right?"
        "Even better," said Wurc.. Wurk.. said Wendel. "The call was originating from right here on the West Coast. In Gallium Valley." Gallium Valley. It was amazing how much the place had changed in just the last 20 years alone, particularly since the big one hit back in '99, practically wiping out Intel and several other major semiconductor manufacturers. The curious chain of events that had led to Digital 'Betas' being the chip of choice for 80% of the world's PC's and PW's had indirectly sparked a paradigm shift in semiconductor manufacture. Switching from a silicon to a gallium arsenide base had enabled the Gigahertz Barrier to finally be broken in '02, and soon after, the current Gallium Valley sprung up like a phoenix out of the ashes of its similarly-named predecessor.
        "I knew it couldn't have been London," I told him. "Since London is eight hours ahead, there's no way we could've made the drop at 2 PM - that would have given us only 6 hours after the call to get there, and the fastest commercial jet in the world couldn't make that. My sister always has been bad at math. Can you narrow it down any, Mr. Wurskiwicz?"
        "Not by much, but my guess would be either Redwood City or Palo Alto." Palo Alto. The home of Stanford University and also of some of the highest real-estate prices in the lower 48.
        "Wilson, wasn't it you who told me about some top-secret government research in laser-guided weapons systems going on up at Stanford?" I asked.
        "That was me. I read an article in last month's issue of No Guns, No Glory that the Washington boys are funding research into a top-secret satellite that could pinpoint any person on the globe by their heat signature and send down a pulse of laser light that would instantly burn that person to a crisp. Apparently the research was on hold because they couldn't find an adequate lasing medium."
        Now Alan was interested. "But aren't gems used as lasing media?"
        "The Eye of Justice!" we all cried at once.
        "Oh, sweet precious Allah," uttered Amal. "It's the prophecy... The War to End All Wars."
        "Now let's not panic," I said. "It's obvious that 'they', whoever 'they' are, don't have the gem yet. Otherwise they wouldn't be wasting their time with idle threats about my sister, who is obviously their ally."
        "But you don't understand," pressured Amal. "I'm talking about Armageddon, here! Such a weapon of mass destruction coupled with the Eye of Justice could only lead to the bloodiest war in the history of Earth. Billions will die!"
        "But wait," Wilson puzzled. "We're talking about U.S. Government scientists here. Why would they resort to such underhanded dealings to obtain a perfect gem?"
        "We can argue about the relative virtue or lack thereof of the U.S. Government later," I said, "but I would imagine that the scientists involved are the real hostages in this situation."
        "The Daughters of Tabar?" questioned Amal.
        "Safe bet."
        "So you're saying that the Daughters of Tabar kidnapped the Stanford researchers, stole their secret weapon, and enlisted your sister to help them obtain the Eye of Justice, which they intend to use to bring about the bloodiest war in history, destroy the earth, and build up their own vision of society in its ashes?" Wilson was so cute when he was puzzled.
        "I'm not even going to pretend I understand what you just said," uttered Friedrichsen.
        "I'll explain later," said Wilson. He turned to me. "So you still haven't told us what your plan is."
        "Well, obviously we need to find out who stole the jewel off of Lady Jane's body and find where he or she intended to take it. That will lead us to where the physicis... the physi.. the scientists are being held. And by all means, we must make sure that the emerald never enters the hands of the bleedin' D of T." Alan and Wilson looked strangely disappointed. I turned toward Wendel. "Can you get the news on that thing?"
        "Sure," said Wendel. "Every channel in the world. Wanting to catch a re-run of 'Green Acres'?'"
        "Not right now. I want you to get that computer of yours to hunt for any unusual police calls between here and Palo Alto occurring in the last hour."
        "Now here's something," Wendel had called up a newsreel almost before I finished speaking. "Apparently some lunatic went postal on the '5 and started lobbing army surplus grenades at oncoming semis from atop a crosswalk."
        "Whoa! Zoom in on that, Wursk." Friedrichsen had apparently spotted something. Sure enough, hanging around the prepetrator's neck was the same emerald necklace which had mysteriously disappeared from the body of Lady Jane. And why did this guy look so familiar?
        "Oh my God! It's the security guard from Lady Jane's Estate!" Amal exclaimed.
        I should've filled that sunglasses-wearing spineless twit full of Pb when I had the chance. "Alan, can you guys tap into the phone system from here?"
        "No problemo," replied Wendel.
        "Good. I'm expecting someone from Palo Alto to call the main line at the mansion in about 25 minutes. I won't be there - have that phone forwarded to my communicator. And for God's sake, put a trace on it! Wilson, Sterling, Amal, you're with me."
        We were just passing through Costa Mesa when the phone rang.
        "Hello?"
        "Hello, Katie? Miranda again. They're starting to scare me, Katie. They've got guns pointed at me. Please give them what they want, Katie." Whew. Laying it on a bit thick, eh, Miranda?
        "OK. Calm down, 'Randa. Tell me what they want me to do."
        A husky British voice interrupted. "THEY want you to put the jewel in a brown paper bag and stash it in locker number A-425 in King's Cross Station - make sure it's there before 2 PM, 'Katie', or THEY will make sure that the next time you see your precious little sister again, she'll be in pieces just right perfect for feedin' to the squirrels."
        And now, the clencher: "d'you mean 2 PM our time or 2 PM Greenwich time?"
        "2 PM our time of course." Busted. "So you'd best get to packing, m'lady."
        Click.
        Amal, who'd been silent for quite a while, finally spoke up. "So, it occurs to me that even if your sister and her cohorts are in the Gallium Valley, there has to be a connection in London to pick up that package. So I guess the question is 'who?'"
        "Cripes!" yelled Sterling as he swerved to avoid hitting an ambulance. We were just passing the Carlsbad exit when we rounded a curve to face a scene of utter devastation. The first thing we noticed was an inferno about a kilometer up the road that appeared to have engulfed two tanker trucks, an entire overpass, three Winnebagos, and trailer full of wheat from Saskatchewan. There were husks everywhere. What trailed behind the scene was a pile-up of cars and skimmers that covered eight lanes of the fourteen-lane thoroughfare. Unfortunately those eight included all seven of the ones heading north.
        "What a mess." Wilson had rather a flare for the obvious.
        "So, Wilson, let's see what this baby can do." At my request, Wilson pulled a largish plantain-shaped blue lever on the dashboard. A slight whirring sound was heard as two small wings extended from both sides of the limo, an antimatter induction jet popped up from the trunk, and the anti-gravs powered up. We rose steadily to 50 feet, from whence we got a very clear view of the inferno and of the crosswalk beyond. It was times like these when I was thankful that the Reticulans had finally had the courage to show their faces to us back in aught-one. After all, why should the military have all the cool gadgets?
        "Do you see the security guard?" asked Amal.
        Whhhhhssshhhhhhhhhhhh BOOOOOM! Sterling swerved again to avoid the fireball.
        "Ah. There he is."
        And he'd apparently found an army-surplus grenade launcher to accessorize his army surplus grenades. Our friend had moved up onto the roof of the crosswalk, the stairs of which had now been blown into the middle of the backyard of a crackerbox house facing a back alley of the capital city of Kingdom Come. Both access roads were covered with police and fire officials - the flashing lights of the rescue skimmers reflected off the low-hanging, ominous clouds left over from the earlier storm. Every time one of the snipers got just a bit too close, another explosion went off.
        "Just exactly how close do we have to get before the Eye of Mercy will wield its power?" I asked.
        "Unsure," said Amal. "Pretty close. You remember how close I had to get to Lady Jane."
        "Duck!!" Sterling yelled just as a black pineapple-shaped metallic object collided with the hood ornament.
        It bounced off the hood and continued its descent to the asphalt beneath us. As I braced for the inevitable explosion, I started to think of my childhood, the joyful carefree days playing paintball with my sister on Daddy's ranch in Guam... watching every minute of the Iran-Contra hearings with Wilson, who to this day swore that Reagan didn't know anything... riding my pet emu George... My whole life flashed before my eyes, and as the old saying goes, I didn't much like the ending.