Event Horizon Conspiracy

By Robert E. Bonson

In 2012, during the time when the world became fixated on the dire end of the Mayan Calendar, a fiendish plot, cloaked in the enigma of that Event Horizon, started to unfold through the death of a young scientist in Washington, D.C. It soon came to involve a complex sphere of intrigue and deception by ruthless men out to use man's fear of the unknown to dominate the world's dwindling resources.

It starts innocently enough when a team of young scientists takes their worst fears about the end of the Mayan Calendar so seriously that they decide to use their unique research into hybrid DNA to ensure they will survive the event, even at the ultimate expense of others.

But, the simple plot among friends soon expands to include scientists in Paris, who provide key elements of the hybrid to complete the plans of their Aman counterparts. The fiendish scheme quickly escalates to envelop them all.

After the American team leader suddenly disappears, his cousin, Jim, r

detective, launches a search that quickly draws him, a friend, and two

Government officials into a sphere of deception and murder tied to the

Laboratory in Paris.

There, they uncover a ruthless conspiracy of powerful men who have seized the

opportunity to use the deadly hybrid themselves, not for survival – for they did

not believe in the enigma of the Mayan Calendar – but, instead, to control access

to the earth’s remaining resources for their own greed.

The drama unfolds as Jim and his colleagues follow the trail from Paris to

California, where they face the leader of the conspirators and disrupt his plans to

access the secure files where the hybrid structure lies hidden. But, as the Mayan

Event Horizon looms, the callous conspirators fight back to get the hybrid DNA

to test it on a group of unsuspecting subjects.

This exciting thriller is ultimately decided by a vengeful confrontation of deadly

wills, that will leave you wondering if the world will ever be safe again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IndieReader
• Release date: Oct 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465376206

Robert E. Bonson

Robert E. Bonson is a retired aerospace executive who has been fascinated with the paranormal for over forty years, and is quite adept at weaving his knowledge and experience in various paranormal phenomena into unique, believable tales of drama and adventure. He has written seven novels since 1976; the five in this collection are his favorites. Each has been edited and abridged for your reading pleasure. He holds a BS in journalism from Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo.

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Bonson

Copyright © 2011 by Robert E. Bonson.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011917907

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-7619-0

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-7618-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-7620-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons,

living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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EVENT HORIZON:

Technical definition – the point surrounding a black hole at which the gravitational pull becomes so great as to make escape impossible.

Literary definition – the point at which a projected solar system event becomes reality.

ONE

The Ride

The man in the rumpled slacks and open sport coat walked out the front door of the two-story building where he worked, clasping the envelope handed to him moments before. He brushed back the curly brown hair from his brow and strode confidently towards the uniformed driver leaning against the black, four-door Mercedes at the curb.

The driver looked at him, recognized him to be the 35 year old he was to chauffeur from the picture he had in his hand, then stepped away from the car and opened the rear door.

The man stepped in and seated himself. The driver walked around, got in and started the engine.

As the man opened the envelope, he heard the door locks close in unison with a decided clunk. He pulled the folded sheets out, quickly shuffled through them, starring at the blank pieces of paper in his hands. Mystified as to why they didn’t contain the detailed instructions about where he was to go, he leaned forward to say something to the driver, who ignored him as the car rapidly drove away.

Impulsively, he tried the door handle on his side, only to find that it wouldn’t open, nor would the window go down. A naturally worrisome person, he became alarmed.

What’s going on? he yelled at the driver. Where are you taking me?

There was no reply. The driver ignored his pleas and expertly guided the car through the maze of morning traffic as he headed northwest out of town across the river and onto the Parkway. He drove at a steady pace, never drawing attention to himself or his increasingly nervous passenger.

As the man became more alarmed with his situation, he squirmed around on the black leather seat and pounded on the right, then the left side windows, trying to gain the attention of drivers on either side. But the tinted windows prevented anyone outside the car from seeing him and the noise of the traffic on the highway absorbed the sounds of his pounding.

He furtively twisted his head from one side window to the other, to see where they were going as the driver transitioned unto a wide boulevard leading to the tree lined suburban vista beyond. He couldn’t tell where he was and it made no sense to him as to where he might be going; the only thing he knew for sure was that his heart rate was climbing more rapidly with every turn of the wheels. Alarm grew to apprehension; then to fright; then to panic, as the driver drove steadily on without reply to any of his repeated, forceful demands. Fear began to consume him. Desperately, he watched for road signs and landmarks that he might recognize, but saw none.

He cried out for the driver to stop, but instead, the man rolled up the privacy window between them, isolating him even further. He didn’t like closed places and a claustrophobic reaction began building in his body. His area in the backseat suddenly seemed smaller, more tightly compressed; his breathing turned labored and strained.

As each minute dragged by in endless, tormented seconds, he tried to reason his way out of the dilemma, only to face demons of his own making that forced him to ask over and over why this was happening? Whom had he pissed off? What had he done? But, there were no answers, only more questions. What was going to happen to him? Was he being taken prisoner to be held somewhere for ransom by his father? And then it started again. What have I done to cause this? How do I get out of this car? Why did the driver lock all the doors so I can’t open them?

The car maintained its’ steady pace, but anxious anger was beginning to envelop his body and mind.

Then it came to him in a blazing thought of mental clarity: I can bust a window! But reality followed immediately: What do I use? There’s nothing here to use! Can I bust it out with my foot? Yes, I’ll bust it out with my foot!

He twisted in the seat, braced his back against the left side, positioned his right foot against the right door window, then pulled his leg back and jammed it forward. The leather sole of his shoe hit the window with a dull thud. Nothing happened. He pulled his leg back and tried again, this time throwing all his weight and all the force he could muster. The result was a louder thud. Frustrated and angry, he lost his temper, slamming his foot against the window time after time after time, the dull thuds forcing him on with greater and greater effort until his foot went numb and the muscles in his leg and back screamed for him to stop.

He crumpled onto the seat, gasping for air to replenish his muscles, but his backseat closure offered only the carbon dioxide-laden expulsions from his panic-driven exertions. His sides and chest began to ache as his oxygen-deprived lungs screamed for relief. Stress took control of his body as he tried to sit up, but then collapsed back against the left side, leaving him to look out the opposite window at the world passing by with monotonous steady speed. He turned his eyes to the roof of the car and started to cry in exhaustion.

There was no real release of emotion though, no regaining of a sense of mental balance. No, his body instead reacted to his tears by spreading the fear deeper, quickly reaching levels of intensity he had never before experienced. It started with an acute ache in both armpits, which then moved down the insides of each arm with extreme cramping, viciously reaching for his elbows. From there, it passed into his lower arms with such vehemence that he began to loose feeling in his hands. Soon after, his fingertips turned cold and unresponsive.

Moments later, a numbness started in his left leg near the hip joint. It instantly spread across his groin, causing such a pain in his testicles that he wanted to rip them out, but couldn’t move to do it.

In that moment, another thought suddenly burst upon on him – I’ve done this to myself. It’s panic and I have no control.

But, before that thought even had a moment, new and greater pains suddenly slammed into his other leg at the hip joint, convulsing his body with violent reaction. With his remaining energy all but drained, he attempted to twist his body, trying desperately to ease the agony, but that minuscule movement only caused the pain to viciously stab further into both legs. Soon after, his ankles, feet and finally toes, became totally numb and useless.

He could see, he could hear, but he couldn’t move; not a muscle, not a finger, not a toe; only his eyelids. He had panicked himself into paralysis.

Moments later it became permanent as his heaving, labored breathing subsided, then stopped.

TWO

A Chance Meeting

The temperature was already over 100˚ by the time Russell Thornton got up for the day at his home in the high desert of Southern California. He didn’t know it yet, but it would turn out to be a day where events would lead to changing his life forever.

He looked out the window of his bedroom seeking some sign of a breeze to keep him cool outdoors, but saw no movement in the palm trees bordering the concrete deck of his backyard swimming pool. It’s going to be a long, hot day, he thought. Thank God, there’s so little humidity at this altitude; that’ll keep the predicted 104˚ bearable.

He knew from experience that the month of August was always one of the worst months for sustained days of triple-digit temps, but he still enjoyed living at the 3000 foot level, rather than ‘down-the-hill’ in the midst of that long, congested, humanity-filled and freeway-jammed corridor that ran from Los Angeles through the Inland Empire to San Bernardino.

He should have gotten up earlier, but had fallen back to sleep after his clock radio had awakened him at seven. That wasn’t unusual for him, considering he had spent the night before editing a difficult chapter in his latest novel. Now, in the light of this Monday morning, he realized he was losing enthusiasm for the story and knew he had to reach a decision about continuing before he invested too many more hours of frustration.

Two days before, a fellow author, Mary, had invited him to visit her booth at the local Farmer’s Market, where she and several other authors were displaying their self-published books for sale. He was glad for the break from his own book and accepted; it would be good to get out of the house.

*     *     *

It was almost 9:30 a.m. by the time Russell arrived at the small, open-front blue and white tent where the three authors were displaying their books. He was dressed for the heat in tan cargo shorts, with a short-sleeved, plain, medium blue, sport shirt open three buttons down at the throat. On his feet were his favorite white, thick-soled sneakers, closed with their Velcro straps. They were comfortable and he wore them constantly in the summer. The five days of beard growth he had awakened with had been removed and he had blow-dried his hair straight back with mousse, then sprayed it in place. At 57, he still enjoyed hearing he looked younger than he actually was in spite of graying temples. He was proud of his firm physique – well, with a soft center – but not so happy with a less than handsome face that some would call wise and perceptive; he preferred erudite and cultured. Nevertheless, he felt good about himself as he straightened up to his full six feet and took the last few steps to the entrance.

Mary’s tent was in the middle of a row of similar tents housing everything from hand-made jewelry to flowers to gym memberships. Her row was on the left edge of a larger outdoor market area that took up over two acres of space between the tennis courts and the main parking lots of the local Junior College. The whole area was filled with tents, some larger, some smaller, of different colors and shapes, set up in neat rows and aisles funneling the walking traffic in and through wide lanes that were filled, but not crowded.

Morning, he called out as he walked up. Mary smiled back, finished her conversation with the potential buyer thumbing the pages of her book, then stepped over to give him a hug.

Glad you could make it, she said, graciously ignoring the hour of his arrival. Her voice and demeanor had the vibrant exuberance of a yet-to-be-middle-aged woman whose prematurely grey hair framed a happy, always friendly face. You should have been here earlier, she added subtly, we were overflowing for awhile.

Sell a lot of books?

I sold three. Anne and Roberta each sold one. There were a lot of lookers, but most of them were just curious, not serious.

"Well, this is the high desert, he replied, different breed of people up here than down below. There’re lots of would-be writer’s, but not so many readers. The rugged-individuals that dominate this area like to live life to the fullest, not read about it."

So, we should go down the hill and sell our books there? It was the kind of retort that didn’t require a response. To ensure that, she added, How are your books doing?

They’re past their prime. I wrote five of them in five years starting in 2000. Books like mine peak quickly and then subside. I am working on a new one, though.

I hope it’s a murder mystery. I like them. Didn’t you write one before?

Yes I did, but this one isn’t. The one I wrote centered on an actual, thirty-year-old cold-case murder I had the pleasure of reviewing for the Sheriff’s Department. The solution to the case was so obvious to me that I wrote the story as if the case had been solved, with the culprit revealed at the end.

How did that go over with the authorities?

Not well. The lead detective remains convinced to this day that his prime suspect is still the murderer, but the facts of the case simply don’t support that.

How did you solve it? I mean, she added, I know you told me you retired from Aerospace, did you use a lot of advanced technology?

No. I learned two things in my career that I just applied: Think Things Through; and, Only Results Count. I don’t think the Detective really identified with who the victim was and why he became the victim. The Detective did a good job of gathering evidence but then failed to really evaluate all of it, because he didn’t see the clues that were there.

How’s that?

The victim was an aerospace engineer with access to secret radar technology. His wife worked as an aerospace secretary. Neither of them made big salaries, yet they owned a condominium near their work, a rental property in an adjacent city, and a new cabin in the mountains. Oh, and he liked to gamble on the horses.

He must have won a lot to afford the rest.

Consistent loser.

Are you saying someone paid him for the secrets he knew?

Yes, and then killed him and his family at the cabin one weekend when the scheme started to fall apart.

Family? You mean the wife and kids, too?

Yep. It was a professional job; done with a small caliber, semi-automatic handgun, using multiple pre-loaded magazines. The killer fired 35 shots into the man, his wife, two sons and their dog without attracting any attention from outside the cabin. Then he walked away, clean. No fingerprints, nothing personally incriminating left behind, no one saw him enter or leave.

But, you solved it.

Well, in the book I did. The lead Detective still has his ideas and the case remains officially unsolved.

Interesting story. The voice was deep, but without force behind it. It was more of a matter-of-fact statement.

Russell and Mary turned to face the man who was standing on the grass just outside the front edge of the tent. He appeared to be in his mid-50’s, with a trim, muscular frame. His eyes had seen a lot in his lifetime and carried a stern warning – I can and will take care of myself, if need be.

Sorry about that, Mary said, as sort of an apology for not noticing him before. We were just talking about one of his books. This is my tent and two of my friends and I have some books displayed for sale. Would you care to look at them?

You didn’t mention the part about ‘only results count’, the man said to Russell. How does that figure into the equation?

What do you mean? Mary asked, politely, thinking the man had directed the question at her. It was her tent, after all.

But Russell gave the answer. He wants to know about the other thing I mentioned, that I learned in aerospace.

Oh.

Yes, tell me about that, the man said.

It’s rather simple, actually, Russell replied. At the end of all actions planned and taken in the pursuit of any objective, the bottom line is what has accomplished. It can be good or bad, it can be desirable or undesirable, it can be pointless or a completely new way of life – no matter what, it comes down to the result. All successful managers want good results, results that count in their favor, results that top management, customers, stockholders and the public applaud. That’s the purpose of ‘Only Results Count’.

What does it take to get that kind of results in a murder case?

I think that would be a hard question to answer, Mary interjected, getting slightly irritated with the intruder for taking over the conversation she had been having with Russell.

Russell raised his hand a little and responded.

That depends on the circumstances of the murder case, wouldn’t you agree… uh… what are you? Detective, Investigator, what?

Former Detective, now retired, and currently conducting a private investigation. How did you know?

Intuition and logic. Tell me about the case.

It’s very current. It involves an apparent murder that the prime sources of corroboration deny happening.

Sounds like the very thing I like to write about. How can I get the inside track for a best-seller?

I’ll do better than that, he replied. I want you to help me solve it!

What? Russell turned his head to face the man directly. Why would you want me to do that?

"Simple. You’re not a cop and haven’t been drilled into using