Post Diem

By Tom Walsh

Dr. Dawne Michaels has her own DARPA lab at UC Berkeley. She and Dr. Nutting. continue their research in quantum entanglement and parallel universe. Dawne is called upon by the government in the hope that her consciousness connection with a parallel universe might save the world from an emerging super virus. Her consciousness transfer to another timeline comes with consequence. Post Diem breaks the time barrier and blurs hi-tech science with Native American mysticism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Jun 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781680467871

Tom Walsh

Tom’s earliest education began in parochial schools in San Francisco. At 19 he took a summer job in the motor pool two floors underground at a large public utility. He finished his Management degree at night at St. Mary’s College of California and by the time he left the utility company 20 years later, he had ascended the management ranks, regularly meeting with company officers on the top floor. During that time, he honed his skills in writing business proposals while contributing articles to trade publications and company newsletters.Outside of work and school he wrote and performed music with a rock band in clubs around Marin and Sonoma counties. Continually seeking new challenges, he took management positions in bay area startups that developed innovative consumer electronics.He saw the start-up environment wane and was asked to return to the public utility now in the midst of a bankruptcy. Then as a self-employed business consultant he assisted utilities, consumer electronic start-ups, and companies in the food industry. Somewhere along the way he was the owner-operator of a restaurant.All the while, Tom’s artistic endeavors continue to be freelance writing and music. He is married with two children and lives in Sonoma County.

Book preview

Prologue

Novato, California

The Route 70 bus approached the bus pad at the intersection of Redwood Boulevard and Grant Avenue. It was not yet sunrise but the orange hue on the horizon to the east foretold of the clear, crisp autumn day yet ahead. There were four people standing at the bus stop. Three of them looked familiar enough to each other to greet one another. Then an unfamiliar figure approached. This last arrival drew curious looks from two of the others as he stepped up onto the sidewalk from the street. He was unknown to the regular commuters. His military-style duffel bag looked out of place compared to the briefcases and backpacks typically carried onto this weekday commuter bus from central Novato to the San Francisco financial district.

He thought that his Middle Eastern ethnicity might give rise to the suspicions of the man he now stood beside. Perhaps his choice of wearing all black didn’t help. He laughed to himself. After all, the jogging suit, jacket, gloves, and knit cap were not your typical commuter wear. Good morning, he said to the man. He caught him off guard scrutinizing his duffel bag.

The man raised an eyebrow but appeared more at ease now. He returned a faint smile and nodded in response just as the bus rolled to a stop at the curb in front of them.

The bus exhaled as the pressurized doors parted. He nodded at the man again, acknowledging that he was at the stop before him and that he should board the bus ahead of him.

The man turned in kind to the woman next to him and gestured to her in a gentlemanly like manner allowing her to get on next.

She shrugged and moved toward the bus as if to say, there’s really no need. As they were the first group of passengers boarding an empty bus, they had their pick of seats to choose from.

The man in black stood by waiting for the other two people to board the bus before getting on last. Thank you, he said to the driver as he lifted his long duffel bag to climb the stairs of the bus. He stopped to place his ticket in the receptacle next to the driver and then made his way to the rear of the bus, taking the bench seat. He placed himself in the middle seat so that he was able to observe the traffic ahead in a straight line of sight up the aisle and out the driver’s windshield. Just as he adjusted the position of his long duffle bag on the floor in front of him, the bus began to pull away from the pad and merge into the morning traffic.

Some forty minutes later the bus was almost full. Every row on each side of the aisle had at least one person occupying one of the double seats. Most rows had three or four people seated. But the last row was only occupied by the man in black. Perhaps it was the way he was dressed. Maybe it was his large military-style duffle bag on the floor behind his legs. It could also be that the last row of seats were not adjustable. Most passengers that took the early morning bus preferred to recline in their seats to catch a little more snooze time on the ride into the city.

It could have been the way the man in black casually splayed himself out in the middle of the five bench seats as if he needed all of them. But whatever the reason, no one sat in the last row in the seats beside him.

The bus groaned as it shifted into low gear and began to ascend Waldo Grade on southbound 101 toward the Robin Williams Tunnel. The man in black knew there was a stop coming up at the Spencer Avenue bus pad. He had studied the bus route on the Golden Gate Transit website and had driven it himself twice. He knew that after the next stop, the route would crest the hill above Sausalito, and then it would wind down toward the San Francisco Bay through the tunnel and then onto the deck of the Golden Gate Bridge. He readied himself.

As the bus rolled to a stop at the pad, he made his way up the aisle to the front of the bus, steadying himself with one hand while holding onto the overhead storage rack. He stood just behind the driver as she operated the doors for one lone passenger to board. As soon as the doors opened the new passenger stepped onto the bus, and before he made it to the second step, the man in black strode forward, pulled a pistol from inside his sweat jacket, and shot the man dead center of his forehead. The man awkwardly fell backward out of the bus and crumpled into a heap on the bus pad.

The gunshot and the driver’s sharp scream alerted most of the passengers. Those who were sleeping were awakened, and those that hadn’t really been observing were suddenly alarmed. No one but a few of the passengers seated in the very front were exactly sure what had just happened. Some of the passengers seated in the rear assumed that a tire had blown.

Are you next? said the man in black now pointing his pistol at the face of the bus driver who held a radio microphone in her hand.

She trembled as her tears flowed. She shook her head as she uncontrollably dropped the microphone to the floor. It landed with a thud.

Just do as I say, and you won’t be hurt, he said.

The driver nodded, perhaps on the verge of a panic attack or hysterics. She appeared to be hyperventilating and trying to catch her breath.

The din of passenger conversation, gasps, and commotion grew louder.

Do as I say, and you won’t be hurt! he said loudly addressing the passengers. I need your cell phones dropped into the middle aisle right now!

There was a growing cacophony of conversation, franticly whispered explanations, sniffling, crying, and a number of Oh my Gods as passengers awoke from their morning naps and saw what was happening.

"I said now!" He pointed the gun at the head of the man in the very first seat next to the front door. The conversations fell silent.

The man reached inside his suit pocket producing an iPhone.

The man in the black jogging suit slapped it out of his hand and it fell onto the floor of the bus. Now get out. He waved his pistol at the man toward the direction of the front door.

The passenger responded apprehensively, putting his hands up as if he were under arrest.

Get moving!

The passenger fumbled his way into the aisle and ducked his head as he passed the man with the gun. He stepped down to the bus pad, his hands still up above his head. He crept gingerly around the body now in a pool of blood on the bus pad. His knees were visibly shaking.

I need all of the men to stand and exit the bus. Now!

Men stepped into the aisle, and some muddled past the female passengers sitting next to them in aisle seats.

The man in black waved them forward as if they were going through a security checkpoint. Men started raising their hands at ear level having seen the first passenger exit the bus safely. The next man to step up was patted down with one hand while a gun was pointed at him. No cell phone? asked the man with the gun.

No, sir, said the passenger.

Good, you did as you were told. Off the bus. He waved his gun toward the door. Just as the man stepped onto the bus pad, the rear door was opened by one of the male passengers and suddenly a rush was on to escape out the rear door. The gunman jumped down to the bus pad from the front door and shot the first two men escaping before they took more than a few steps. They lay dead where they fell. A third passenger pushed back into the bus against the men trying to push him out from behind. Obviously he had changed his mind. The gunman jumped back onto the bus. Close the rear door! he shouted to the driver. The bus exhaled as the doors closed. What did I say? He pointed his gun at a woman sitting behind the driver.

She sat with her mouth agape unable to form words.

What did I say? he asked angrily as he again leveled his weapon.

Do as I say, and you won’t be hurt, she said.

Louder.

Do as I say, and you won’t be hurt! the woman yelled.

Thank you. Now, all of you men, come forward. The men resumed moving toward the front of the bus. Stop! The gunman peered over the headrest of a seat a few rows from the front. He suspected that a woman he could not fully see was texting away on her phone. Is she doing what I think she is? he asked the man standing next to her in the aisle with his hands raised.

The man nodded nervously.

Bang!

The gunman shot through the vacant chair in front of her. Her body suddenly slumped, her hand falling to the armrest, and her cell phone onto the aisle floor.

"What is wrong with you people? He motioned with his hands while shaking his head. His gun laying in the open palm of his hand. You all work in San Francisco’s financial district. You must have above average intelligence to have the jobs that afford you to live here. Don’t you? Why can’t you follow my simple directions? Surely you can see that I mean business! You are all businesspeople, are you not?" He motioned for the line of men standing in the aisle to continue moving forward.

Now, where are your cell phones?

On the floor! shouted one man not wanting any more death.

Very good. Let’s do this quickly now. Quickly.

The men resumed moving forward and exited from the bus with their hands raised, even though the man in black never asked them to do this. They formed an awkward-looking group on the bus pad, looking at each other in alarm and not knowing what to do except follow the directions of an obvious madman. Glances frequently scanned between the man lying in a pool of blood and the two men who tried to escape from the rear door of the bus to only God knows where.

The terrorist followed in behind the last man exiting the bus. He stopped on the bottom step to address the group. He gripped the handrail with one hand and scratched the back of his head with his pistol in the other. Gentlemen, we will take care of your women, as long as everyone cooperates.

The group eyed each other with questioning looks over the word we. Then apprehension suddenly grew as another bus pulled out of the busy southbound commute and swung into the bus pad, slowing to a stop right behind the first bus. The group of men looked incredulously at another distressed bus driver sitting behind the windshield.

The doors exhaled, and a familiar scene repeated itself. Men piled off the bus with their hands raised above their heads. Then a third bus rolled in right behind the second, and the scene was repeated again. Just before the third bus totally emptied a shot rang out in front of its doorway. The terrorist in the doorway of the first bus craned his head over the growing group of men on the pad to see what happened. A second man in a black jogging suit stood in the doorway of the second bus. He turned and waved an okay to the terrorist on the first bus. It was obvious to the group of men still in shock that another passenger had trouble following directions. It became apparent to the group on the bus pad that the leader of the three was on the first bus. He now waved his gun in a circle like he was circling a lasso above his head giving the signal for the busses to leave. He stepped aside as two male passengers removed the dead woman from the bus as he directed.

The three busses left the bus pad, one right after the other. As the last of them merged onto Highway 101, some of the men on the bus pad started waving and jumping up and down to attract attention. Just as they started doing so, another bus pulled off the freeway and rolled toward the group. They stopped jumping and looked with trepidation at the driver. It wasn’t until the driver opened the doors and asked what was happening that a few of the men approached the bus.

A passenger rushed out from the rear door of the bus toward the last man that had been shot and was now sprawled out on the bus pad. The victim was involuntarily moving a bloody arm and hand which attracted the attention of a former medic in the military.

Terrorists have taken three busses of women! said the loudest of four men trying to speak with the driver.

What…what are you saying? asked the driver in disbelief, surveying the lifeless bodies on the ground in front of a large group of men who appeared to be in various stages of shock.

The loud man pointed at a group of men tending to the last of the five commuters shot just as the medic knelt by the victim’s side. Apparently, he was still alive. Luckily for him, the terrorist in the third bus was not as deadly a shot as his leader in the first bus.

The bus driver was trying to sort through multiple voices telling him what happened and what he should do next. The driver picked up his radio. Golden Gate Central, we’ve got some casualties at the Spencer Avenue bus pad. We need some ambulances. Alert the Highway Patrol. Commuters on the pad are telling me that three Golden Gate Transit busses full of women have been hijacked.

Come again? asked the dispatcher.

Terrorists have shot some commuters. They’ve kicked all the men off of three busses and took the women with them. We need emergency medical assistance at the Spencer Avenue bus pad in Sausalito. We’ve got a hell of a mess up here.

As the alarmed bus driver dealt with dispatch, an alert CHP officer in a patrol car took the Spencer Avenue exit. The officer had seen a few men jumping and waving to get his attention. As the officer approached, he saw a smaller group tending to a person on the ground. Before he had come to a full stop, he was already on the radio to request an ambulance from his dispatch. At first, he thought it was an early morning heart attack victim, but as he rolled his radio car to a stop, he saw more bodies lying on the ground as a group of men parted, some pointing to the victims. He saw blood under the bodies and the look of shock on the faces of the men standing by. His instinct was telling him that something ominous was underfoot. Men immediately surrounded his vehicle before he got out. He clicked on the microphone clipped to his shirt. Code-33, repeat, code-33. 11-41. 11-41. We have multiple persons down, 10-20 Spencer Avenue bus pad southbound 101.

In his few short steps from the patrol car he had heard men uttering words and phrases like terrorists, kidnapped women, female hostages, ISIS, men in black. His eyes went from one terrified face to another. Some of them were in shock, some babbled on about getting help, and others, you have to do something. He walked toward the smaller group tending to the victim on the ground while multiple men talking at the same time tried to explain to the patrolman what had happened.

He now stood over the closest victim seeing that a woman sporting a crew cut and tattoos with evident medical training was applying pressure to the wound. The officer recognized that this Good Samaritan acting calmly under pressure must have had some real experience in the field. He assumed that this woman saw action in the past, somewhere. He didn’t question why she may have been kicked off the bus, he supposed the terrorists saw her as just as much a threat as any of the men, perhaps even more so. We’ve got ambulances rolling, the cop said to the woman.

They might be able to save him, but it’s too late for the others, she said motioning with her head toward the bodies lying on the bus pad.

He knew that the woman coolly providing aid under pressure could also calmly give him a synopsis of what had transpired without all the emotion. How did this go down? the cop asked.

Three men, all dressed in black sweat suits, took three busses, women passengers only. Their leader sounds like a pro, at least from what these guys have been saying, and from what they had seen. Don’t know about the other two. I can tell you that they’ve got big plans though. No doubt about it.

The leader did this?

Not this one, but he got the other four. They’re all dead.

Tell me about him.

Again, this is secondhand, and from what little I saw, he’s about six foot, medium build, Middle Eastern descent, nothing stood out in particular. Just a regular-looking guy, except that he and his crew are all wearing black workout clothes.

The cop started relaying the information to the dispatcher over his microphone just as sirens could be heard approaching. A Marin County sheriff and two more CHP patrol cars flew off the freeway, lights blazing. A grateful murmur resonated from the crowd of men now seeing that more of the good guys had arrived. But the relief was only short-lived. Everyone who had witnessed the scene knew in their gut that there was something much more ominous afoot.

The man in black stood behind the large windshield in the stairwell of the bus as it exited the Robin Williams Tunnel and approached the Golden Gate Bridge. His gun was tucked into his belt. He braced himself with his right hand holding a handrail in front of him, and his left hand gripped a pole behind him. He could hear the faint cries of his traumatized captives behind him. Don’t worry, ladies, everything will be fine. I say again, just do as you are told. Everything will be fine. He nodded at the driver. Get into the right lane.

As the driver pulled into the next lane, another bus pulled up alongside. Stay in formation, the terrorist said to the driver.

At first the driver seemed confused about what the man in black meant by formation until she looked over at the bus in the slow lane and saw two men in black sweats standing next to the driver. She looked over her left shoulder at the bus in the fast lane and saw two more men in black next to its driver as well.

Now a fourth bus had joined the others. There were four busses rolling down the freeway, staggered in their lanes but almost side-by-side. As they came onto the deck of the bridge, the terrorist again spoke to the driver.

I want you to come to a full stop under the first tower. Understand? the man said. She nodded in response.

Tears began to well up in her eyes as she looked at the driver of the bus next to hers. She had just realized it was a friend, Roberto Garcia. Earlier that morning, they had a cake for him at the bus barn. It was his last day on the job before retiring. She wondered if he’d make it to see his first grandchild due next week. He was so looking forward to being a grandfather. She wondered if she’d make it home herself. She had argued with her wife last night. What was that all about anyway? She couldn’t remember. Something petty, no doubt. It all seemed so frivolous now. The bus lurched slightly as it automatically downshifted as the driver took her foot off the pedal.

Remember what I told you, the man in black said to the her. Full stop directly under the first tower. He had his finger pointed at her face when she looked up at him. The terrorist made his way to the rear of the bus to retrieve his duffle bag as a woman handed him a handbag full of the cell phones he had ordered her to collect. There were frightened hushes coming from the passengers as they saw that he was now holding an automatic rifle as he nimbly returned to the front of the bus. Just as she came to a stop, he signaled for her to open the door.

Shut it down, he ordered her. He then emerged from the bus and observed the traffic quickly backing up behind the busses.

All four busses had stopped in alignment under the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. The traffic behind them also came to a creeping halt. The honking horns from unaware drivers became incessant. As the terrorist rounded the rear of the bus, he opened fire on the cars stopped immediately behind the busses. Two of the others in black jogging suits had also broken out their weapons and unloaded on the commuter vehicles from behind their respective busses. They shot at the vehicles rather than the people trying to escape from them. The remaining gunmen stayed out in front of the busses to keep an eye on all the bus drivers to make sure they didn’t try to make a run for it.

Commuters that had emerged from their gridlocked vehicles were now running in the other direction. The gunmen shot over their heads as they fled. The incessant honking had been replaced by automatic rifle fire. Commuters at a safe distance from the shooting but close enough to see what was happening had abandoned their cars and also began running back off the bridge, dodging opening doors of the cars behind them. Some jumped up to the pedestrian walkway to escape the growing herd of people trying to flee from the chaotic scene on the roadway.

The gunmen closed ranks around their leader. He was laughing as he pointed out the emergency lights of police vehicles just now coming into view on Alexander Avenue leading up to the bridge from Sausalito. Other emergency lights were becoming visible on the roadway in the distance. The patrol cars tried to maneuver their way through the massive traffic jam ever so slowly. It would take some time before they could reach the deck of the bridge.

Excellent, we are right on schedule, he said to his team. Mo and Saed have done their job too. He pointed to the empty northbound lanes. Move some of these cars to block the open lanes. Quickly. His men started moving abandoned but operable vehicles to block the open northbound lanes. As soon as they had more than a half-dozen of them blocking the roadway, they opened fire on them too. The bullets flattened tires and leaked fluids onto the roadway. A couple of them immediately caught fire. The team now made their way to the fronts of the busses where the other gunmen had been sweeping the sights of their rifles between the bus drivers. Let’s go!

The terrorists returned to the hijacked busses and ordered their drivers to proceed to mid-span. It was there that two more busses aligned with them from the northbound direction. They had executed the very same plan under the south tower for the two northbound lanes, just as they had on the four southbound lanes. Now there were six busses perfectly aligned at the apex of the span with a large wide gap of open roadway between the towers. Each of the busses carried only women passengers, though four of the drivers were male.

Suddenly, a fast-flying CHP helicopter swept low over the scene and then dove down and away from the bridge. It then circled back and climbed to a safe observable altitude. The pilot reported seeing all traffic at a dead stop under each of the towers and the vacant roadway between the towers, but for a group of busses aligned side-by-side, four facing southbound, two facing north. Clearly, the plan was to have them on full display. The busses, which occupied all six lanes, were now blatantly positioned on one of America’s most emblematic icons of ingenuity, precisely at mid-span, and for all the world to see.

1

Ninety Miles West of Norway, North Sea, Snorre Oil Field

Theo Jallah couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was, 8,000 miles away from his native home and on a deep-sea rig in the northern hemisphere. Nothing could be more dramatically different than his current surroundings compared to his village in Liberia. The spray of the cold North Sea upon his face was in stark contrast to the blistering, dry, and dusty Harmattan tradewinds that blew fine hot sand through his village from out of the great Sahara and into the Gulf of Guinea. The hot sun-soaked pyramidal sand dunes had been replaced by cold, dark, daunting peaks of water that seemed to occasionally tower over the rig.

If only his family could see him now. They would be so proud. He had only started working as a roustabout for a Norwegian oil company a little over a year before. Now he was aboard a vessel whose crew was about to commence the drilling of a new exploratory well. It was an opportunity of a lifetime to see the world and make good money that would go a long way in supporting his family.

He largely created his own good luck, as he had always taken work wherever he could find it. No job was too small, no task too big if it meant decent pay and providing for his growing family. His first break came when the logging company came in to harvest trees from the forest near his village. He made a