The Human Bullet

By Joaquin De Torres and De

Billionaire, visionary, architect and engineer, Dr. Marko Marmilic, has changed the world in unimaginable ways. From his cutting-edge inventions in bio-genetics and cellular rejuvenation, to mechanical design and space-age metallurgy, he's been labeled "the Nikola Tesla of the modern age."

But his newest technological breakthrough is, by far, his most ambitious, and most controversial. Marmilic has been commissioned to develop a machine that will change the entire geopolitical landscape in a way no one could possibly envision.

He has developed a land vehicle that can travel at Hypersonic speeds - an alien-looking super cycle called the Sonic One, that can reach Mach 15 by harnessing the Earth's magnetic fields.

Invisible to radar, exponentially faster than any fighter jet, drone, or missile - and it can do this -- without making a sound. Equally impressive is the rider's revolutionary suit of bio-synthetic armor that can protect a human body from incineration at those speeds.

In his eyes, a fleet of Sonic vehicles could transport food, medical supplies and life-saving equipment to the neediest countries in a matter of minutes, saving hundreds of millions of lives the world over.

But to those financing this TOP SECRET scientific miracle, there is a more insidious objective, and to them there is only one person who will operate the machine - Chris Kordell, a full-torso quadriplegic who has just awoken from a two-year coma.

He has no idea where he is, what happened to him, or why he's surrounded by strange scientists. Worst still, he has no clue that he's been chosen to transform Marmilic's vision of altruistic life into one of the most deadly instruments of war ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Oct 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781456629175

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Cicero

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Permission to use actual names of real people who have a relationship with the author, and are characters in the book, was granted beforehand by the actual people via personal correspondence, and/or per their requests.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, controversies, conspiracies, or real persons– living or dead-is entirely coincidental.

Names of known people, i.e. public figures, celebrities and national personalities were taken from the free press and open-sources.

Content of this work is protected by the 1st Amendment of the Constitution of the United States:

The First Amendment to the United States Constitution prohibits the making of any law respecting an establishment of religion, impeding the free exercise of religion, abridging the freedom of speech, infringing on the freedom of the press. . .

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I would like to personally thank Gary Bell for his dedication and in-depth assistance in this book.

His experience as a NASA engineer phenomenally aided me in details pertaining to aeronautics and physics, which are the critical of this story. His mathematical calculations for the technical facets of this novel were crucial in demonstrating my commitment to literary authenticity and credibility.

Simply put, Gary injected scientific reality and plausibility to fully illustrate the scenes I envisioned.

Thank you, Gary, for fusing your science with my fiction to accomplish this explosive and exciting piece of storytelling.

Joaquin De Torres

Introduction

The man, wearing strange clothing colored dark red from his helmet to his boots, took aim down the sights of his rifle.

The victim, unaware that his life was in any danger that day, was a very powerful man. He was a man of vision, fairness, and possessed a passion for the people and community he served.

Judge Kellen Murphy was selected to be a Supreme Court justice when the 8-year term of Justice Theo Jackson was completed. Jackson’s retirement was the first of the new Supreme Court and Congressional Term Limit Laws, written by the Director of Education, Dr. John Belleci, under the late President Turo Marin Sanchez. Belleci’s writings worked to galvanize the retooled and remodeled New Progressive Congress now working for President Ericka Hedlin.

The New Progressive Congress was as controversial as it was historic. It was repopulated by nation-wide special elections brought on by the actions of PIPER’S, Inc. - the secret society of assassins that ruthlessly killed or forcibly retired the most corrupt and polarizing senators and representatives from the old governmental body.

In order to rip out the cancer of Congressional plutocracy, cronyism and corruption, PIPER’S, Inc. physically eliminated all corporate-owned or oligarch-serving members, lobbyists, and special interest representatives which amounted to almost 65 percent of Capitol Hill.

The organization used all means necessary – ruthless and merciless - in the purging of leaders who created laws to benefit the wealthy, while eliminating laws that guaranteed relief for the poor. It had to end. And it did with the advent of PIPER’S, Inc. The country’s most corrupt Congress in history was unapologetically slaughtered.

Initially, the citizens were shocked to the core; but gradually, they would clearly see the promise of a new and dedicated political framework emerging from the lakes of blood and mountains of corpses.

The nation-wide special elections to repopulate this void were the most diverse and dynamic in the history of the country. Independents, Progressives, Socialist-Democrats, Green Party, Libertarians, Liberal Republicans, Log Cabin Republicans, and other coalitions ran to rebuild their jurisdictions without corporate interference. Neo-Conservatism, Neo-Liberalism, Regan Republicans, Blue Dog Democrats, and Christian Right parties were utterly demolished.

It was PIPER’S, Inc. that erased redistricting lines, dissolved corporate money from election campaigns, and made sure the interests and welfare of the people – the common and most neglected American citizen – were put first. They forced every elected official to put their efforts into their constituents, districts and states, and reject corporate interests or else he or she would ‘pay the Piper,’ and everyone knew what that meant.

It was a 5-year merciless onslaught against every form of corruption and injustice suffered by the common people. It was coined The New Civil War and The New American Revolution, and it involved violence in its most gruesome forms, including economic.

Through PIPER’S, Inc.’s high-tech cyber techniques, massive amounts of assets and whole fortunes of the oligarchs were erased from their off-shore banks, and transferred into the accounts of individuals, programs, and institutions to elevate society as a whole. This would be known as Robin Hood Economics.

The forced redistribution of hundreds of billions of dollars into the coffers of newly elected superintendents, ushered in the rebuilding of the nation’s infrastructure, school system, social services, veterans care, medical advances, and the cutting of unemployment and homelessness by 35 percent.

Oligarchs, corporate-owned politicians, and corrupt CEOs were by no means the only groups targeted by PIPER’S, Inc. Wall Street manipulators, governors, mayors, legislators, judges, lawyers, brutal police officers, rapists, pedophiles, radical media mouthpieces, and racist groups – all, felt the hammer of America’s new Big Brother.

And in those five bloody years, PIPER’S, Inc. did the unthinkable – it transformed an entire nation controlled by wretched Capitalistic plutocrats, into a world-respected and economically thriving superpower.

* * * * *

Judge Kellen Murphy, only 52, a Baltimore 1st District Court judge, was to benefit under these historic national revisions. He was an obvious choice for President Ericka Hedlin, who had been working with three new Progressive Supreme Court justices who replaced the previous three assassinated by PIPER’S, Inc.

But on February 25th, a mysterious person dressed in red, skintight clothing of strange design and material, laid his crosshairs on Murphy as he stood outside his home in Columbia, Maryland. The judge enjoyed taking a steaming cup of coffee onto his porch on Sunday mornings, lounging on his rocking chair with the Baltimore Sun in his lap, and enjoying the view of his verdant cul-de-sac, nestled in the woods just 20 miles from Baltimore.

Standing more than 400 yards away in those same woods, the helmeted stranger squeezed his trigger, and the head of the man who fought for decades for the rights of the LGBTQ community and inner-city education, exploded like a watermelon hit by a sledgehammer.

Kellen Murphy didn’t die because he did anything wrong or owed anybody a debt. He died because he was chosen by President Ericka Hedlin, a person the country who sent the assassin, feared and despised. They wanted to weaken her administration by taking away her best and brightest colleagues, her most loyal custodians, and those who helped shape her policy.

Murphy was the first. And for more than a year, more of Hedlin’s cabinet choices and staff members would be hunted in a similar fashion. They never knew who this assassin was, nor imagined who he could be. Those lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him said he was dressed all in red, riding some sort of beefed-up, red hover cycle. They could never get a good look or capture it on their phone cameras for it would disappear in a blur and a roar.

By the time he made his third killing, he already had a codename given by Hedlin’s Intel agencies who were hunting him. They called him - The Red Ghost.

Foreword

There is no limit to how fast a man can travel.

If there is a speed barrier, whether it be scientific, dimensional, theoretical or mythical – Man will find a way to break through it.

Speed has always been the greatest and most rewarding challenge to Humanity. Not height, not length, not depth, not endurance or distance – but speed! Nothing slow has ever been rewarded. But the fastest anything is always celebrated, remembered, anticipated.

Why is this? What’s with Man’s obsession with speed? Perhaps the answer lies in the very fabric of our humanity. Maybe it’s because we all acknowledge, to our great sadness and denial, that our time on Earth is limited. It moves so fast, that there never seems to be enough of it to fulfill our goals, our needs, our fantasies, our passions.

The end comes too quickly, sometimes abruptly; the speed of our deaths becomes horrifying in relation to how long it takes to build anything meaningful.

Dr. John Belleci, one of the great educational minds of our time, once said: Time is a cruel master. It is a villain and a thief. . .like karma, they are both undefeated.

But can Man use speed to his advantage against his greatest and oldest nemesis - death?

Can a man be so fast that his life is actually extended and not curtailed? Perhaps the conquering of such a phenomenon can be the only way we shed our fear, our trepidation of death.

In order to go on, to be immortal, I believe we as a species must increase our velocity. We must stay ahead of the river of time before it can submerge us under its current.

Perhaps, there will be a time when it is not enough to be faster than speed. . .but to be speed itself.

Marko Marmilic

Founder, MIRA-CAL Technologies

Prologue

Sepang International Circuit

Selangor, Malaysia

MotoGP Superbike Grand Prix

CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!

Despite the thunderous roar of his 210-horsepower machine beneath him, Chris Cordell, known by his millions of fans around the world as Crush, could hear the spectators chanting his name as he leaned deep into the turn.

At least he could imagine it. It wasn’t hard. Turn after turn, straight away after straight away, the spectators – notorious for their boisterous devotion – were out in force pumping their CRUSH! placards in the air.

Thousands upon thousands, wearing all forms of official and unofficial Cordell merchandise, waved their flags and pennants bearing his name, number, racing color scheme or facial likeness like military banners before a battle. Whether in Europe, South America or here deep in Asia, Crush was loved, Crush was worshipped.

Behind his helmet’s face shield, a satisfying smile curled his lips as he overtook Steve Wilford at turn 13 to move into second place. Crush could always count on Wilford’s meticulous and textbook style of riding which experts and commentators criticized as being too conservative and non-aggressive. Nevertheless, Wilford was consistent and because of his cautious style was never involved in a wreck, skid or near miss in his career.

Conversely, he never finished in the top two positions of any circuit race either. The rest of the superbike pack was now history. Although only some 50-75 yards behind him, they had no chance of catching him. Wilford would block them out of contention as he always did and claim third place for himself. It was clockwork.

There was only one man left to catch. Sixty yards ahead and slicing the turns like a razor-sharp sickle on dry wheat was Jason Pines. Known as Jace, Pines was Crush’s nemesis on the MotoGP circuit. Both shared the fame, ranking honors and the victories throughout the last three seasons, becoming the sport’s fastest and most formidable superbike duo. They were two of the world’s most visible athletes in commercials, merchandizing and media. Handsome, young, brash, confident – they were the rock stars and red-carpet celebrities of the superbike world.

The second-to-last straight away, Crush pressed his entire body down on his Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10 to further lessen the wind drag. The gloss black and luminescent-green paint scheme of his bike, matching helmet and suit looked like a glistening oiled python as he throttled the machine to the screams of his fans.

CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!

Cordell’s sprint up the straight away moved him within 50 yards of Pines. How many races had he found himself in this position? he thought dismissively. How many times has Pines been in his very position chasing him? It satisfied him to think both he and Pines shared the highest levels of excellence, that they were close friends off the track, and that they didn’t mind losing to each other.

At this level, the money and endorsements were enough. They no longer raced for the prizes but for the intrinsic and unattainable motive of moving towards perfection. They had stood on the winner’s podium more times than any of their predecessors and cared not which of them were first or second.

The camaraderie between their pit teams and media sponsors was also warm despite their competitive natures. They were better, stronger and more attentive because of these two young men, not to mention the endorsements were through the roof when they were in the same race. They promoted the circuits together, appeared in commercials together, and even promoted each other’s motorcycle brands on TV together. To say they dominated the sport would be an understatement. They not only dominated the sport, but the image of MotoGP, propelling it to the level of Formula 1 in the sense of ticket sales, merchandise sales, advertising, sponsorships, TV ratings, and fan loyalty.

CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!

He could hear them roar! He could hear it through his helmet as he leaned into the second-to-last turn - turn 14. Jace had already completed that turn and seemed to find another gear as he flew up the straight, pulling away from him. At that moment, Cordell already knew the result.

Congrats, Jace, this one’s yours, Brother, he conceded silently. He then began to hear Pines’ fans roaring as well!

JACE! JACE! JACE! JACE! JACE! Cordell smiled and gave his bike one last explosive push to close the gap.

FOR THE FANS! he yelled and brought his front wheel up into the air and rode on his rear wheel for about 30 yards. The stadium went berserk as the legions of fans around the world seemed to roar in unison for their hero. He put his front wheel down, waved to the crowds and then proceeded towards the final turn - turn 15. One hundred yards from the turn, he took a quick look over his shoulder to see where Wilford was. He was now 60 yards behind him and fending off the challenge of two other riders for third place. Way to go, Steve. Keep ‘em back there!

Then, before he could turn his head forward, his entire body turned to ice as tens of thousands of spectators screamed frightfully in one deafening voice. Crush came out of turn 15 and something unimaginable flashed before his eyes: he saw a motorcycle tumbling and breaking apart in front of him! He instantly saw skid marks; smoke and the acrid stench of burnt rubber filled his nostrils.

JACE! he yelled as his eyes darted towards a crumpled body lying twisted in the grass unmoving. Another flash of light pierced his eyes, but they were the oscillating red lights of emergency vehicles rushing towards the scene.

Crush, in his panic for his friend, was distracted just long enough to slam into Pines’ fractured hulk of bike at more than 150 mph. His front wheel snagged on the spinning wreckage and locked it in place, sending the rear of his bike into the air in a freakish summersault. The momentum and sudden buck of the bike catapulted Cordell some 15 feet skyward.

It was then as he flailed helplessly in the air that the silence enveloped him. He heard no screams then, no sound of his bike colliding with Pines’, nor the sound of the emergency vehicles racing closer. The blue of the sky, the black of the track, the green of the grounds, and the miscellaneous shapes and colors of the stadium tumbled and spun before his horrified eyes in the silence. He heard just two words leave his lips involuntarily: Oh God! A second later Chris Cordell slammed his neck and back on the sweltering asphalt with the force of a massive sledgehammer.

His bones disintegrated with grotesque popping and snapping sounds inside his racing suit. The speed of the crash sent his body tumbling and flopping on the track like a human-sized doll being dragged behind an invisible vehicle.

His mind didn’t register any pain as he rolled, only the assurance that he’d be dead when he finally stopped. He came to a stop some 85 yards from where he first hit Pines’ bike. He was still alive, but barely. His eyes opened for only a moment and he saw the asphalt of the track giving off translucent vapors of steam from its surface.

Distant echoes of screaming, crying, incoherent voices and sirens penetrated his helmet, barely audible, but he heard them. As those sounds grew fainter, he felt himself pulled backwards into some kind of tube or tunnel. This is it, he thought. I’m about to die. An instant later, Chris Cordell’s world went black.

CHAPTER ONE

Let Us Begin

Kaiser Permanente Medical Center

Extreme Care Ward

Walnut Creek, CA.

Fluid mechanics. . .dynamic combustion compression. . .aero elasticity. . .

The words came in waves, muddling sounds in the dark.

. . .bi-elliptic transfer is an orbital maneuver. . .

The words, then the sentences, or fragments of sentences came in and out of his existence, weak at first, then a little stronger as time went by.

Let us begin. . .sectorial velocity is the rate at which area is swept out by a particle as it. . .

He wasn’t dead, that much Crush knew because he was actually hearing words, whole readings and questions. Questions? Who was asking him questions?!

Let us begin, remember when we talked about Kepler’s second law? Do you remember? That areal velocity. . .

Yet, despite not knowing what was going on, what any of these words and sentences meant, where he was, or who was speaking, he could hear a voice. Just one voice.

. . .this requires that the sum of kinetic energy, potential energy and internal energy remains constant. . .

A female voice. And that voice always started speaking with -

Let us begin. . .

The subjects seemed random and never-ending.

. . .within a fluid flowing horizontally. . .

He was unable to find any connection between the subjects or any reason why he was hearing them.

. . . Angular momentum is subject to the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, meaning only one component can be measured. . .

There were times when the voice was as far away as the horizon, and times when it seemed right next to his ear. He didn’t know how long this was going on, how long he was hearing the voice. There was no sense of time, just darkness and the voice.

Let us begin. . .

He couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t reason or formulate a single substantive thought about his condition. He couldn’t remember a thing and couldn’t imagine the future. He couldn’t even concentrate on other strange voices that occasionally made it into his consciousness.

Then one day, it all came