The Rainier Paradigm

By Matthew Heines

Are you thinking of moving to Seattle, or the Pacific Northwest?

Read and Think Again!

Seismic Stirrings in Seattle

There's trouble afoot in the Pacific Northwest in this dark comedy thriller called The Rainier Paradigm.

It starts with a powerful Deep State secret society, their secret pro

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heinessight Enterprises
• Release date: Jul 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781088088333

Book preview

Dedication

For

Dr. Nick Begich

&

Stanley Kubrick

Table of Contents

Dedication

FORWARD

RENDEZVOUS AT STAYBACKS

JULIAN AND CLAYTON

THE BRIEFING

WHACKERS

THE CALL

BUSTED

THE HACK

THE RAID

THE ABRACADABRA

TRICK-OR-TERRORISTS

DEPARTURE

SUTTON SMITH

THE AGREEMENT

BLOWBACK

THE GRAND EXPERIMENT

TINY TIM

THE MESSAGE

FU MANCHU

THE MESSAGE DECODED

FLIGHT

KAPANAKUR WATT

ESCAPE

RIOT

THE HERPE

THE CUT

RAINIER SAFE

PARTNERS

HIGH MAINTENANCE

A SEAGULL SECRET

THE GAME

SNOW DEN

RENDEZVOUS

DIRE STRAIT

TENSION

FIB, LIE, CHEAT & STEAL

FLASHBACK

PURSUIT

VICTORIA’S SECRET

ASHFORD

STRIKES

HOLOCAUST

THE RAINIER PARADIGM

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

About the Author

FORWARD

During the late twentieth century, the United States Geological Survey, the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Research Administration and the North American Space Administration independently confirmed the fact that intense solar activity in the past has directly affected the earth's geophysical and geomagnetic properties. In other words, solar storms have hit the earth many times with catastrophic results.

These solar events, as well as their effects, were not completely understood until the early nineteen-eighties. Once the effects were understood, according to the highly classified silent outcry that followed, the scientists involved realized the impact a major solar flare, once believed to only cause damage to electric grids, would have on entire geologic formations. In other words, a large enough solar discharge would cause earthquakes, tidal waves and possibly even volcanoes to suddenly erupt. It was a sobering thought when scientists finally realized humanity could be set back to the Stone Age or worse, with the next massive solar flare.

To counter this imminent threat, scientists within the military industrial complex began re-examining the work of Nikola Tesla to find out if he had ever achieved his dream of transferring energy through the atmosphere from transmitters on the ground. It didn't take them long to find what they earnestly sought.

Using the information left in dust covered files in a storage locker deep within Cheyenne Mountain, scientists researching Tesla's work hypothesized they could create a large enough artificial electromagnetic field to boost the earth's natural field temporarily and deflect almost any incoming solar radiation harmlessly into space. While the scientists were working on the project, they also found there were other, more sinister uses for their new device.

RENDEZVOUS AT STAYBACKS

Melissa Ross sat at a small table in a trendy, yet quaint little Staybacks coffee shop just north of Seattle, Washington. She was looking out of the plate glass window, silently watching the mesmerizing scene playing out on the middle of the lake. As she watched, some distance away, with iron grips upon their long, slender oars, teams of lean rowers lunged backward in unison and in earnest. While the sinewy muscles in their long arms became tense and defined, the youthful male and female rowers dipped their paddles into the glassy dark water where they disappeared, reappearing a second later to repeat the process.

As the rowers pushed their oars forward for yet another pull, they relied on timing, strength and force to propel both themselves and their lithe crafts seemingly effortlessly across the smooth glass-like surface of a body of water known as Greenlake. The fact was, Greenlake was barely large enough to be considered a lake. A hundred years of pollution and well-fed birds had left the small lake with more of a brown tint than green.

Overhead, the windless sky was growing darker. As Melissa watched the activities of the rowers on the lake, she noticed the telltale signs of splotches begin to cover the cement sidewalk. Splashes of water pelted the tables in front of the coffee shop. While she watched, the rowers suddenly changed direction and began speeding for the boathouse at the far end of the lake. The raindrops increased in intensity until the rowers and the small lake nearly disappeared in the full- fledged downpour.

It's raining again, Melissa thought to herself as she surveyed the sidewalk to the right and left of her place at the small table. She took a sip of hot chocolate.

I hope she comes soon. I don't want to walk back to the campus in this rain. Oh, I hate Seattle in the winter. For the next five months, the entire day will seem like it's going to be night in an hour.

A few minutes later, her appointment jumped out of a slowing car. Using her coat as a makeshift umbrella, another tall, platinum blonde named Jenny Paulson entered the coffee shop. Jenny noticed a number of heads turn to look at her as she removed her dripping coat. It was something she had become used to from the time she was fourteen. In the corner, she noticed a smartly dressed gentleman looking at her. She smiled and then turned to survey the busy cafe. Near the front, Jenny spotted Melissa Ross looking out of the window. She sidled to the table, hung her dripping coat on the back of the chair across from Melissa and sat down.

I was beginning to wonder if I'd be walking back in this, Melissa said to her friend, I was thinking about taking a taxi.

Dr. Jennifer Paulson or Dr. Jenny, as she was known amongst the students and professors in the Archeology Department of the University of Washington, had completed the previous year what Melissa Ross was trying to complete before the end of the second semester. Like Jenny Paulson, Melissa wanted to finish her dissertation and land a teaching job at the University.

Are you kidding? Jenny asked. "There's a lot of gossip going around these days about a certain teaching assistant and a brilliant young professor at the geology department at the U Dub. I came to get the story straight from the horse's mouth!"

The U Dub, to which Jenny Paulson referred, was of course, the University of Washington. It was located a few miles east of the coffee shop across Interstate Five on the western shores of Lake Washington, just north of Seattle.

The brilliant young professor of whom Jenny spoke was himself an enigma of sorts in the Geology department where Melissa Ross worked and studied. During his brief tenure at the university, his family name along with their fame and his bachelor status had become the topic of conversations not only amongst the faculty of his department, but among many of the young co-eds as well.

Who? Gossip? About what? Melissa shot back, sounding almost annoyed.

Dr. Powell, Jennifer mused with a musical tone and a sense of satisfaction.

Melissa could not help but notice there was a little bit of mischief in her friend's smile.

Dr. Powell? Melissa laughed. "He doesn't know I exist. At least until he has a stack of exams for me to grade or a class he doesn't have time to teach.

Melissa paused for a second and under her breath, she whispered. How he gets away with that, I'll never know.

That's not what I heard, Jenny replied. There's a rumor going around that he's making discreet inquiries about his teaching assistant.

Making inquiries of who? Melissa asked.

Various members of the faculty, including Melissa Ross's longest and most trusted friend.

Are you kidding, I'm sure he's just checking up on me so he can find out how many hours I can devote to his classes. Melissa stopped and sighed. "You know, I don't sleep. I barely have time to work on my own dissertation, let alone his Herculean grading tasks. Last Thursday, he handed me a hundred midterms papers and asked me, 'Would you mind having these done by the end of the week?'

As she spoke, Melissa imitated a New England accent and threw her head to the right and to the left as she talked. Jenny Paulson laughed out loud and then stopped as she shot a glance at the anonymous gentleman sitting in the corner.

I'm afraid Mr. Blue Blood's going to lose a teaching assistant if he doesn't start lightening my workload. Do you know he calls me Missy? My grandfather called me Missy and I hated it. The nerve of that guy.

Jenny Paulson, still laughing, pulled a straight pin out of her hair and shook her head. Her long blonde hair fell around her shoulders. She looked over at the corner of the room and then signaled to the barista, a full figured young woman with short, blue hair. The barista noticed one of the tall attractive blonde women across the room waving at her. She stopped playing with her cell phone and sauntered over to their table.

Would you like to order now? she asked.

Jenny looked at her watch.

I would, she replied. I'm kind of in a hurry. I'll have a double shot mocha without whipped cream.

As the barista turned to stroll back to the counter, Jenny Paulson gave her a second glance that made the barista stop for a second and glance back at her. Once she was out of earshot, Jenny looked back at Melissa. Do you think I should try that hair color?

With your looks, it doesn't matter, Melissa shot back. You're every man's dream. By the way, since when did you start drinking mochas?

Jenny looked toward the far corner of the small coffee shop as if she didn't hear the question.

Not every man, she said and nodded toward the corner of the room.

Not only were Jenny Paulson and Melissa Ross tall, blonde and beautiful, they were both athletic as well. Each had starred as volleyball and basketball players in junior high and high school.

After Melissa Ross moved to the town of Port Angeles before she started ninth grade, the former teammates became inter-town rivals. Jenny Paulson became one of the premier female athletes at Sequim High School while Melissa was the top female Roughrider some twelve miles and two decades away. Unlike Jenny Paulson, Melissa often wore glasses she didn't require and more often than not, tried to hide her looks by keeping her hair short. It gave her the appearance of being bookish, and a few years older than her actual age.

Melissa turned to see what Jenny meant as the handsome gentleman with thick brown hair and an Armani suit stood up and walked in their direction. As he looked at Melissa, his expression went from amusement to confusion. Seeing Melissa and Jenny Paulson suddenly turn to look at him, he had taken as his cue and began walking towards the two women. With just a few steps, he had crossed the small room and stood smiling next to the table where Melissa Ross and Jenny Paulson sat. Melissa watched a broad smile appear on Jenny's face. At the same time, what might be taken for a scowl appeared on Melissa's. The first thing she noticed, as she always seemed to do, was the class ring on the young professor's finger. She had seen it many times before and tried to ignore it as she met his gaze.

D-Dr. Powell, Melissa stammered, I didn't know you were, uh, I didn't know you came to this Staybacks. I mean, there are so many others closer to the university.

Whether or not he frequented the coffee shop was one of the last things on Melissa's mind.

I hope he didn't hear what I said. Oh, please don't let that happen to me. I'm going to kill you, Jenny Paulson. The first chance I get.

I invited him, Jenny said and squinted her eyes. I didn't think you’d mind.

Oh, no, I, I don't mind, not at all.

Her scowl was more intense as she finally conjured up the words, Good afternoon Dr. Powell, I was just saying…

Dr. Clayton Powell's privileged background was quite different than Melissa's. She was the daughter of an under-employed logger who spent most her maturing years out of work. Melissa's father had even relocated his family to a small house outside of Port Angeles, anticipating more work in the western woods, but it was a move that didn't pan out.

By the time Melissa reached her senior year, the alcohol and depression, accompanied by the lack of money that would enable him to give his children a better life as he had planned, took its toll. Her father had been forced to take jobs he considered below himself. Then, one day, after a shift at the local fast food restaurant, a bottle of whiskey and some anti-depression medication were his last contact with the physical world. Nobody knew whether or not it was intentional, but everybody knew it was inevitable.

Her father's death had left her mother penniless. Melissa found solace through her abilities in sports and the necessity of taking a job after school. She worked until almost midnight, trying to stay busy to keep her mind off the events of what was supposed to be the best year of her life. Naturally, the emotional trauma took its toll on Melissa and her grades suffered.

The result of Melissa’s inattention to her schoolwork during her senior year had been the cause for letters of rejection from the top universities in the country. In her personal drawer at home, Melissa kept rejection letters from Stanford, Harvard, Washington State and even the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. It was only through the intervention of Jenny Paulson's father that Melissa had been accepted to a university at all.

Jenny Paulson's father made a fortune in the real estate industry on the Olympic Peninsula selling off plots of subdivided farms the local governments forced into foreclosure after the local town councils voted to raise the taxes so high the farmers couldn't pay them. Thanks to his influence and the school's sudden need for a strong forward with a three-point shot, Melissa entered the University of Washington with a full basketball scholarship. With nothing to go back to, she had been at the University ever since.

In contrast to Melissa's harrowing past, Dr. Clayton Powell had grown up the son of a prominent banker in Connecticut. He had graduated from Yale. His father's previous appointment as the Secretary of the United States Treasury during one of the late administrations did not hurt his own chances for future success, power and influence. Considered the most talented of the Powell families with an MIT ring on his finger and a Phi beta Kappa key from Yale on his tie, it was more than obvious that Dr. Clayton Powell III was as intelligent and talented as he was rich and connected.

Melissa, Clayton Powell said, I do apologize. I have a cousin named Melissa, but I never knew it until I was almost thirty years old. I always assumed her name was Missy because I never heard anyone call her otherwise. I am sorry for taking such liberties with your name.

True to Melissa's impression, he spoke with a slight New England accent, noticeably skipping over his r's.

Oh no! He heard me! Melissa said to herself and sank back in her chair. Across from her, she watched a smug look appear on Jenny's face.

Dr. Jennifer Paulson, beauty, Professor of Archeology and busybody, Melissa thought to herself. You’re dead meat Dr. Jenny.

Across the table, Jenny Paulson looked down and then she looked up at Melissa. As their eyes met, Jenny cast a subtle wink.

One double shot mocha! announced the blue-haired barista from the counter a few paces away.

I'll get that, Melissa said as she considered bolting out of the door. She stood up.

Allow me, the young professor said smiling, even Hercules had his limits.

The young professor turned and walked toward the counter.

Are you trying to destroy me, or is this a prank? Melissa asked.

Someday you're going to thank me for this, Jenny whispered.

I'm going to kill you for this, Jennifer Paulson, she whispered back. If she was anything but angry, it didn't show. What's he even doing here?

Come on, the guy's nuts about you. He asked me what you liked to do so I told him you didn't do anything but work on your dissertation and correct papers for him. You should have seen his face when I told him you're married, Jenny giggled.

At the same time, Melissa nearly choked as she sipped her cold hot chocolate. A grin then appeared on Jenny's face.

You told him what?

I told him you're married. But he came anyway. That must mean he likes you.

What else did you tell him?

By that time, the Yale summa cum laude graduate and Doctorate holder from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology returned to the table with two steaming hot beverages. He set them down and pushed the one that was not mocha toward Jenny.

Thank you, she said. How much do I owe you?

Nothing, Dr. Paulson, it's on the house, Clayton Powell announced and looked back at the counter.

Jennifer and Melissa both turned and shot glances at the young busty blue-haired barista. Melissa couldn't help but notice the young woman continue to give her friend Jenny a longing glance before she finally returned to her work. As Melissa and Jenny turned to look at each other, Melissa caught Jenny winking at the girl.

Give me a break, Melissa breathed. Immediately, the two began a visual shouting match that both hoped would go unnoticed by the man standing next to them at the table.

Would either of you mind if I have a seat? Clayton Powell finally asked as he tried to understand what was happening between the two women who seemed to be involved in some kind of staring match.

Oh, not at all, Jennifer Paulson announced looking up and smiling. You can have mine. I have to get back to the campus before five.

She stood up and grabbed her steaming drink. She took a sip and then looked at the attractive blue-haired girl behind the counter.

Thank you, Dr. Powell, she said. She threw her coat over her shoulders and, mocha in hand, began walking toward the door.

Melissa Ross had so many things to say, she couldn't get one of them out of her mouth before it was too late. Jenny wasted no time abandoning her there with what seemed to be her nemesis. Jenny Paulson had already opened the door and stepped out into the rain before Melissa realized what had happened. I walked into that with eyes wide shut, she thought.

Behind the counter, the girl with blue hair looked up at the table where Melissa and Clayton sat in silence, watching Jennifer walking away. Seeing Jenny standing outside underneath one of the cafe umbrellas, the pretty barista dropped what she was doing, grabbed a piece of paper, scribbled something on it and then raced out the door. Melissa and Clayton continued to watch as the young woman ran up to Jenny and handed her the piece of paper. Jenny took it and stuck it in her pocket. The two exchanged smiles and the girl returned to the coffee shop, her blue hair and her shirt, dripping wet.

With a smile, the young woman resumed her place behind the counter. Outside, Jennifer Paulson waved to a passing cab and watched as it skidded to a halt.

After watching the whole scene, Clayton Powell turned and smiled at Melissa.

Your friend seems quite popular.

You don't know the half of it, Melissa found herself saying. Wherever we go, men are falling all over themselves just trying to get a look at her. Women are usually more subtle than that. Seattle, you know.

She was surprised at the ease with which she spoke to a man who represented nothing but additional work for her. In fact, it was the first time they had ever spoken about anything that didn't have to do with assignments, grades or plate tectonics. He had always pretended to show interest in her research just before loading her up with work for a weekend.

Melissa Ross knew that in the best of all possible worlds, the man sitting across from her was the ideal for most women, like Jenny. Handsome, intelligent and from what she had heard, he was a member of the Powell family. The same rich New England family that spent a lot of time on the front pages of the newspapers and tabloids. As she looked at him, Melissa thought he could make any girl's dreams come true.

Just not the daughter of a Port Angeles logger who had left their family destitute, Melissa reminded herself. He's probably just another spoiled rich brat who hasn't grown up yet. I'll be damned if I'm going to become his source of amusement while he punches his ticket to a professorship or a political appointment with a government agency.

Suddenly Melissa realized Clayton Powell was saying something, but she hadn't been paying attention.

I'm sorry, she said as her face turned red. I didn't hear what you said.

Clayton Powell looked down at the steaming cup in his hand. He had removed the lid and was taking a sip of the hot liquid.

I asked you how your coffee was.

It's not coffee. It's hot chocolate. I don't drink coffee very often, Melissa replied.

You're from Seattle and you don't drink coffee? Clayton asked. I thought that was a prerequisite.

Well, technically, I'm not from Seattle. I'm from the Olympic Peninsula, so I guess your stereotype is mostly accurate.

Melissa had enough time to think and to bring her guard back to the fore. She simply wanted to maintain enough of the professor's interest to keep him from considering a new teacher's aid. She desperately relied on the small stipend she received, along with the free university housing.

Well, mine is possibly the worst I've ever tasted, Clayton Powell shot back. That girl has a lot going for her as far as looks, but she makes a horrible cup of coffee. I think some of her hair dye got in the cup, he whispered.

Melissa laughed. Then as quickly as she had laughed, she reminded herself to keep the encounter businesslike.

Don't screw this up, don't get friendly, your future depends on it.

Can I make a proposal? he asked.

Oh boy, here it comes.

I guess it depends on what kind of proposal you plan on making, Melissa replied.

Don't worry, even though I don't see a ring on your finger, Dr. Paulson told me you're married. In spite of what you may already think of me, I'm not one to disrespect a married woman.

Once again, Melissa laughed, only this time it was at her friend's childish prank. Jenny's sense of humor was something she had grown up with. Melissa caught herself again.

I'm afraid you've been misled on that one, she said and took a sip of her cold hot chocolate. That's one of Jenny's many pranks. She usually does it for other reasons, but in your case, I think she was just seeing how hard you would try.

I see, he said smiling. Well, at the risk of offending a single woman and one of the best teacher's aids I've ever had, along with a reputably brilliant up-and-coming geologist, can I recommend another place where I know the coffee is great and the view unsurpassable?

Jenny was trying to remember everything she had just heard.

Brilliant? Best teacher's aid? He can't be much older than me. Is he giving me a line? Why, if he even tries to get me to go to his place. I don't care if he fires me or not, I'll tell him to go to hell. Besides, it's raining. There's nothing to see anywhere except gray clouds.

Melissa took another sip of her cold cocoa to demonstrate her indifference to his last remark, or his next.

Go ahead and make your proposal, if you think you can finish the semester without a teacher's aid, she smiled. Why did I say that? Now I'm threatening him?

For Melissa Ross, the sooner she could squeeze out the door and find refuge in her small studio apartment, the better.

Clayton Powell laughed, which was the last thing she expected him to do. It was his reaction to her over-reaction that made her think. If he had taken what she said as a threat, she could have just ruined her future. She was thankful that, for all his talent and good looks, money and breeding, Clayton Powell at least appeared to have a sense of humor.

Okay, with such high stakes, Clayton smiled, I would like to take you to a place that I’m sure you’re going to love, but the exact location must remain a surprise. At least until you figure out where we're going.

Melissa could not say no. She had known Clayton Powell III for barely two months. He had arrived at the University of Washington campus right before the start of the fall semester.

Besides the fact that he always seemed to be in a hurry, it was the longest conversation they had the entire time she had worked for him.

Okay, she agreed. I don't have a lot of time though. Just for an hour and then you have to drop me back at my apartment.

At least that takes care of a ride home.

The two left the coffee shop after leaving the blue-haired barista a generous tip. Melissa couldn’t miss a subtle but noticeable wink as she picked up the half-empty cups and wiped the table. Melissa stepped out onto the sidewalk, shivering in the damp drizzling rain. She looked up and down the street trying to guess which car a person like Clayton Powell would drive.

It's this way, Clayton said pointing to a British made SUV that couldn't have been more than one or two years old. Melissa tried not to seem impressed as she approached the expensive vehicle and waited on the passenger side. Clayton pushed the remote unlocking device and then opened the door, motioning for her to step into the vehicle. Once she was in the passenger seat, she examined the interior for any obvious clues as to the man's personality. The only one she could determine definitively was that he was either extremely neat, or he recently bought the vehicle.

Clayton opened the driver's side door a few seconds later and took his position in the driver's seat. He turned the key in the ignition and the car hummed to life as the seatbelts automatically secured them into place. Clayton checked the side and rear-view mirrors and then slowly merged into the traffic. The two said nothing as they entered one of the side streets that would take them back to Interstate Five and their next destination.

As they pulled away, two men in a smaller, somewhat less expensive SUV with tinted windows and Government Issue plates, watched them turn onto a street and then make their way up the hill.

Follow them? the driver asked the passenger.

No, go back to the office. We need to get some information on the two beauties and the counter girl. We’ll upload them to the central computer and see what comes up.

Within a few seconds, the photos they had just taken from across the street were transferred to their agency's computer. A minute later, the cell phone of the vehicle’s secretive passenger rang.

Yeah, Echo Golf Six. Give me a complete Sierra Mike (social media) scan of these women. I need close friends, relatives, habits and locations they frequent. He paused for a few seconds. Five years, on the woman in the car and the same for the other blonde. Also, let's go ahead with the phone and computer tap. If we find anyone interesting along the way, apply the same search parameters.

Once he finished and disconnected the call, he looked down the deserted street.

When I started in this business, it would take weeks of legwork to find out what we can from one look at a person's MyLife page, he remarked to his partner. Who would’ve thought people would one day just post that stuff for anyone to see? In the modern world, a person's sadly pathetic natural need for attention is our best friend. Let's get back to the office and start piecing things together.

Yes, sir, the driver responded as the vehicle accelerated into traffic.

He was a much younger man with barely a year in the agency on his first assignment. As always, he agreed with his superior and said nothing else.

Had the two men not been so focused on their surveillance mission of Clayton Powell III and his passenger, Melissa Ross, they might have noticed a dirty, homeless man across the street asleep under an old blue tarp. As he watched the car drive away, the homeless man appeared to come to life. He sat up and looked around him, then took a drink from a bottle. He stood up, put his few possessions in a shopping cart and started pushing it toward the main parking lot. Once there, he climbed into a dilapidated VW bus. Moments later, the van began to roll forward. The homeless man in the driver’s seat removed an old Army surplus camouflage hat covered with patches and filth. A tangled mass of hair fell out from underneath.

JULIAN AND CLAYTON

The sounds of rolling waves were the only sounds the small girl could hear as she walked along the sand and rocks of a tidal inlet in the Northwest corner of Washington State. The sun to the west cast its light across the water, sending blinding rays of sparkling early September sunshine into her eyes. Already, she could feel a noticeable chill that had not been there just the week before. For the residents of the cold, wet Pacific Northwest coast, the summer was almost a memory.

The girl's family lived in a small house that was, because of its lack of room, not conducive to any healthy child spending long periods within its walls. That was the reason the young girl spent her summer days outside as often as possible. Although she had access to miles and miles of forests and a plethora of dirt roads for bicycle riding, she enjoyed the beach more than anything, which made the girl already miss the fast-disappearing summer.

It was there, on sunny days, she sat in the sand and watched boats sail in and out of the marina across the bay. She would imagine where the boats had come from, or where they might be going. The young girl learned the names of the local wildlife, from the herons that fished at the shallow end of the bay, to the three grey seals who called the inlet their own. In between, there were ducks, squirrels and occasionally, a crab. Of the different varieties of crab that called the bay their home, a Dungeness crab would be welcome on her family's dinner table whenever she could manage to catch one.

It was just such a crab, a menacingly large, red Dungeness crab that attracted her attention as she stood watching a catamaran leave the marina across the bay, its sails filling in the afternoon breeze. The little girl was almost squinting as she watched the boat cut through the blue surf. Her eyes began to burn, thanks to the glare of the sun on the water. Finally, the young girl looked away. As she did, she saw a red shell sitting perfectly still in the white grey sand. It was a rather large shell, but since it didn't move, her first thought was that it was the shell of a crab long since dead. But then it moved.

As she watched, it skidded a few feet away from the shore.

The girl didn't hesitate. She kicked off her shoes and sprang into the shallow water after it, kicking up spray as she went. The crab, sensing something was amiss, continued to scurry out into deeper water. The young girl, with visions of her father's smiling face, was not discouraged by the discomfort of the cold, chilling water on her feet and legs. However, as it moved out further into the water, the crab no longer contrasted so much with the grey sand.

The girl, up to her waste in the frigid chill, kept her eye on her prey, but it was slowly retreating out to the deeper water. Because she was watching the crab, she couldn't see what was happening around her. Watching the crab suddenly stop and sit motionless, she said to herself, It's now or never Melissa.

She threw her entire body headfirst into the freezing water and reached for the elusive crab as the salt water stung her eyes. She felt its hard shell in her hands and the movement of its legs as it tried to bring its big pincher claw to bear on its attacker. Thrilled at her success, the young girl quickly stood up, holding the captured crab in a way its pinching claw couldn't squeeze down and break her fingers.

I got it, I got it! she yelled. She looked around but there was no one to share in her victory. She looked back up the beach in the direction of her house to see if maybe her mother or father were standing there, smiling, but they were not. They never were.

The girl looked triumphantly at her prize and began the journey back to the beach. She had only walked a couple of steps before she realized the tide had come in while she had been pursuing the crab. She had never been out so far, even at low tide. She started to panic. She knew to get back to the beach, she would have to cross water that was much deeper than the water in which she was standing.

The water was not only deep. It was flowing toward the mouth of the inlet. Melissa began to panic as the freezing water crept up to her chest. It was getting harder and harder her to breathe. She didn't know how to swim. As the force of the tide kept pushing her, the little girl was afraid she was going to be swept out to sea.

Help! she cried, but she realized it was no use, she was too far away. The wind was too strong. There was nobody to hear her.

The young girl, barely eight years old, decided she would have to try to reach the shore, or she would die. As the freezing, rushing water touched her neck, she screamed involuntarily. She wasn't sure if she would be able to do it, but with the water climbing higher, she knew she didn't have a choice. She wasn't going to try to swim; she was going to try to walk under the water to the beach. She told herself she would go on three and started counting.

At first, he didn't look real, maybe because he ran so fast for such a small person, but real or not, out of the woods beyond the beach, a young boy with a head full of shaggy, curly blonde hair emerged. He was running full speed towards her across the sandy, rocky, wood strewn beach.

From far away, he looked like a small boy, but as he came closer, he seemed bigger and older than her, but he was still a small boy.

The girl didn't cry. The freezing water made it hard to talk.

I can't swim, she said.

Hold on! the boy shouted back.

He looked down at his feet and found a mess of seaweed and sticks. He pulled the mess apart and selected a sturdy branch about seven feet in length. Melissa was so involved watching the curly haired boy, she forgot she was the one in danger. Before she knew it, the sand beneath her feet collapsed and she went underneath the water. She opened her eyes and the sting of the salt water blinded her. Without being able to see, or breathe, the shock from the cold salt water made her panic as she began to thrash around, trying to get to the surface. Then, her feet hit the bottom. She started crawling toward the beach.

Something poked her in the face. Then it poked her again, so hard it hurt. She got mad and she grabbed it instinctively. She felt it start pulling her toward the shore. She thought to herself, it must be that boy. She held on and let him pull her to the beach. She was no longer scared, she was angry. The salt water still stung her eyes. What she could see of the boy in front of her, he was shorter than she was and he was wearing a faded red t-shirt, blue cut-offs and tennis shoes. She stood up and pulled the stick out of the boy's hand to keep him from poking her again.

Are you okay? he asked her.

The small girl was soaking wet and shivering. With both hands, she gripped the stick and swung it hard, trying to hit the boy in the face but she didn't get the chance. She felt her stomach start to boil and tighten. Before she knew what was happening, the salt water she had ingested returned with such intensity, a good portion of it landed on the feet of her rescuer.

He looked down at his shoes and realized what she had done as the salty smell touched his nose. The boy was unable to control himself. He bent over and threw up on the girl's feet. The girl, still feeling the churning salt water in her stomach and the freshly warmed contents of the boy's stomach on her feet, threw up on the boy again.

Fortunately for the two small children, their stomachs were small. They managed to curtail their unique salutations after only a minute or two. After they had, the boy looked at the girl.

I heard you yell for help, he said.

Why were you trying to hit me with that stick? she asked.

Why are you throwing up on me? he shot back.

You kept sticking that branch in my face. That's not exactly helping me when I'm drowning, she gasped.

I couldn't see you. Besides, you're alive, aren't you?

She looked at the boy a little more closely. He was thin and wiry.

His bushy hair seemed to reflect the afternoon sun. The boy looked at the girl, dripping wet and shivering.

You should go home. You should put on dry clothes.

I can't, the girl replied, My father will kill me. I'm not supposed to go in the water. After he whips me, he'll never let me go outside again.

But you need to get those wet clothes off. You must be freezing, the boy insisted.

Do you live around here? she asked.

Yeah, the boy said. We just moved into the little house down the road. I saw your house when I was riding my bike yesterday. I walked through the woods to see if there are any kids here.

I guess I'm a kid, she said.

He made a face. Not girls. I mean boys. Do you have any brothers?

Although she wouldn't understand it for at least four more years, she felt rejected, which she only understood as feeling sad. She had never known that boys were different than girls. She had come to believe that boys were just ugly people. But the boy in front of her was an exception. He didn't seem ugly, like her father. Still, she didn't know why he wouldn't want to play with her.

No, it's just me and my mom and dad, she said.

Hey, that's the same as me, well, almost, the boy said happily. I have a mom, but no dad. I don't have brothers or sisters either.

As he spoke, he watched her continue to shiver. He pointed to the forest beyond the beach.

I found a cool place to build a fort over there by those tall trees. You can stay there. I'll run back to my house and dry your clothes.

You can do that? she asked.

Sure, why not? he said. If I don't, you'll be in trouble, right?

Yes, I'll be in big trouble if my mom and dad ever find out.

Okay, then let's hurry before they come looking for you, the boy said.

He stopped and looked back at her, more specifically, her hand. It was then she realized she still had the crab.

What is it? he asked.

It's a crab, she answered.

What will you do with it?

I'll give it to my dad. He'll eat it.

The boy wasn't sure what kind of person would eat such an ugly looking creature, but he accepted the girl's word.

Oh, okay.

The little girl turned to follow the little boy as he started walking toward the forest. She began thinking about the stories she had read of knights who came to the rescue of princesses.

He’s small, she thought, but he seemed to fit all the other descriptions.

Not knowing any better, she thought to herself as she walked along silently through the woods that she liked the boy a lot, but she didn't have much time to think.

Here, he said. Inside this tree. See, it's hollow.

It's dark in there, she pointed out.

It's either the tree or your parents. You can step inside here and get your wet clothes off.

Alright, she said. As long as no one comes.

She disappeared inside the old hollowed-out tree and removed her clothing. She appeared a few moments later and handed the boy her clothes.

What will you do while I'm gone? he asked.

I think I'll just stand here. I don't want to sit inside that tree.

Suit yourself, he said. I'll go as fast as I can.

Hurry, she said. I'm freezing.

The boy thought for a second. He quickly sat down and pulled off his cut-off shorts and his t-shirt, all the way to his underwear. He handed them to Melissa. She smiled and put them on. His cut-offs were still warm. She looked at the boy, standing in his underwear and shoes and she laughed.

With her wet clothes in his hand, he turned and ran in his underwear into the woods. Once he had completely disappeared from sight, the girl sighed and looked around her.

What a nice boy, she thought. She noticed how quiet it was there, with not a sound to be heard. But then there was a sound. It was the sound of someone running toward her. The girl began to panic. In spite of her initial objections, she stepped into the darkness of the hollow tree and waited.

She hoped the footsteps would continue past her but her hopes were dashed a few seconds later when they stopped outside the dead, hollow tree. The girl's heart raced. Did someone else know she was there? It was a moment of sheer panic as the footsteps and sounds of breathing got closer. With her eyes fixed on the entrance, the girl watched in shock as a familiar blonde head appeared in the small entranceway.

I didn't introduce myself, he said. My name is Julian, Julian Fry.

Choking the urge to scream, the little girl said hoarsely, I'm Melissa. Melissa Ross.

Some eight years later, over three thousand miles away in a seacoast community just east of Branford, Connecticut, two brothers getting ready to bid adieu to their thirties sat on the spacious portico of one of their latest purchases. The brothers had seen success in their professional lives. The older, quieter of the two had studied finance at Yale. Through hard work, diligence and his family's wealth to take care of living and tuition costs, he had obtained a PhD in Economics. At twenty-nine, he had been the youngest CEO to head a Fortune 500 investment bank. It wasn't just any investment bank either. It was the largest investment bank in the world, Goldman Weintraub. After taking the reigns, Clayton Clay Powell II didn't waste any time establishing himself and his corporation as the world leader in finance and securities, according to the advertisements.

For the shining star that Clay Powell II was, another Powell would come along that would eclipse his academic and financial achievements. But that person would certainly not be his younger brother, Connor. Conner Powell was a physically larger, more outgoing and gregarious individual who found his way into Connecticut politics after college. There was little surprise or doubt that politics would be his calling. Connor Powell had been successful in two terms in the Connecticut House of Representatives. There, he had made contacts that encouraged him to aim higher, possibly even the US Senate. With his family wealth and the money he had garnered through the graft and corruption that went with state politics, he was ready to make a bid.

That particular day was a hot one on the Eastern seaboard. Up and down the coast from Boston to Miami, rich kids and poor kids were cooling off on the Atlantic beaches. In their own corner of the Atlantic coast heatwave, the two men had been talking as they watched sailboats and pleasure craft of all kinds pass by, waving friends and total strangers.

The brothers turned their interest to a group of thin, lean well-muscled adolescents as they sailed past in a pair of small sailing skiffs. They were shouting and yelling obscenities at another boatful of teenagers, who were shouting obscenities back and who appeared to be following them toward the shore.

That's a wild bunch you've got there, the older, more conservative looking of the two men said as he took a sip of cold lemonade. They sure like stirring up trouble with the neighbors.

We gotta let people know we're here, Connor Powell replied. People gotta know the future Senator, Connor Powell, and his illustrious brother Clayton, have arrived.

Couldn't you hire a publicist? his brother asked. I'm not sure I want that kind of notoriety.

Oh, what are you worried about? Your son's already been accepted to Yale. He hasn't even started his senior year of high school.

If he lives that long, Clay Powell remarked as he watched the two boats land on the edge of a peninsula a few hundred feet away.

It was once said that Clayton Powell II didn't do much of anything until his younger brother, the aggressive and gregarious, if not mischievous, Connor came along. It was also said that Connor always tried to prove he was more deserving of his father's name than his older brother, a fact few would dispute based on their similar personalities and physical bearing.

Once Clayton II and Connor were united by the circumstances of birth, the two brothers got busy. Just a year apart, they had been inseparable through school, literally. Family pressure from their father, a local politician, had been responsible for Connor being admitted with Clayton into public school when he was only four years old. Some said being a year younger than the other children left Connor mentally less mature and able to learn. Connor was big for his age, which left him more likely to settle things with his fists when he got confused. Regardless, the boys excelled in sports and played together on every team from football in the autumn to baseball in the spring. After high school, they joined the elite Bones fraternity at Yale and were together right until Clayton II decided to continue with his studies in Finance. To please his father and stay near his older brother, Connor joined the underachieving rich at Yale Law School.

While at Yale, the brothers even met and dated their wives together. Oddly enough the two girls were sisters from another prominent New England family. On the surface, the marriages looked perfect, but their arrangement had not been easy. The Powell family, as often happens when old New England family histories are scrutinized closely, had a lot of inconsistencies that not even the resources and assets available from the family fortune could hide.

Like many men with money and connections, their father's father had amassed a fortune mysteriously buying and selling the right stocks at the right time just before the Crash of 'twenty-nine. There had been rumors of ties with underworld figures and smuggling. During the Civil War, in spite of being known to the New England public as staunch abolitionists, there was evidence the Powells had been selling weapons and supplies to the South until late in the war. There were even rumors they had been making substantial profits from the slave trade for the previous hundred years.

It would be difficult to find the histories of many descendants of seventeenth century New England not marked by the country's original sins. So, it was the mother of the two sisters betrothed to Clayton and Connor Powell, Emilia Wentworth-Adams; great-great great-granddaughter of President John Adams who legitimized the Powell bloodline.

Out of sight of the two men who had been actively watching them, the boats and their occupants reached the hot sandy shore. The three craft spit their passengers onto the beach, where without a word, a melee quickly ensued as the kids from the motorboat began trading blows with the occupants of the two sailboats.

Although the Powells had the advantage in numbers by one, they didn't need it. The oldest of the cousins, Clayton Powell III, son of the banker by the same name plus one, had quickly finished off one of the boys and started in on another. The third combatant, seeing his bloodied friend return to the boat, quickly broke off and ran, joining the last would-be-assailant before Clayton Powell III could make short work of him.

From the beach, the fathers of the Powell boys watched the battered boys push their boat into the water. They heard the sound of a boat motor start and a slew of threats as the boat pulled away. The younger Powell boys, with the exception of Clayton, were shouting and gesturing obscenities at the boys until the sound of their motor lowered to a hum in the distance. Clayton Powell II shielded his eyes and looked for his son.

Clayton Powell III stood on the beach, holding his side.

What happened? his cousin asked.

He got me when I wasn't looking. I took a pretty good shot, Clayton said looking down at the blood-soaked bottom of his shirt.

It's bleeding pretty bad, Clayton. That bass turd must've been wearing his Ha’va’d ring, his younger brother remarked.

What's going on there? a woman's voice called from behind them.

The Powell boys, normally obnoxious to strangers, turned around and saw a smart looking Navy captain in dress white uniform approaching from a nearby house. She had large green eyes, light brown hair and big, full lips. She could easily have been a fashion model. Instead, she was one of the top-rated fighter pilots in the world.

Wow, you’re Admiral Staley! Clayton's ten-year old brother blurted out. I heard you shot down five planes at one time.

Yes, I am. Unfortunately, it was only three that time, she corrected him.

She looked at Clayton and then dropped her eyes to his side. Without a word, she grabbed the tan, muscular boy and turned him around by his waist. She looked down at the wound.

I saw it from my window. You've got a mean right hook, she said.

She touched his stomach above the wound.

Does that hurt? she asked.

Clayton said nothing. She repeated the process in a different spot.

How about that?

Still, he said nothing. She looked up at Clayton Powell III and noticed he was looking at her as if she were a ghost.

We've got to treat this now, she said. It's already getting infected. Come with me to my house.

Admiral? one of the boys asked. Can we come, too?

She turned around and observed the three younger boys, all with looks of mischief and bewilderment in their eyes.

Oh, I suppose, she said, but you keep your dirty little bodies outside. I don't want to clean up sand for the next week. And, it's Captain, at least for now.

Captain Staley’s house, a family heirloom, was rarely occupied due to the long absences of its owners, both career officers in the United States Navy. However, for about two weeks every summer, Briton Staley and her husband occupied the house. For the rest of the year, it lay dormant.

In the row of three houses next to the beach, Briton Staley’s was the third and end house, making Clayton Powell II and III's house the middle house on the block. It was an arrangement that had not originally been to the younger Clayton's liking, but he had suddenly come around.

Briton Staley allowed Clayton Powell III inside and informed the rest of the children they could watch through the window on the porch. Once inside the kitchen, the beautiful naval officer disappeared, telling Clayton she was going to get her first aid kit.

After he watched her leave the room, Clayton began fidgeting. He saw a stack of mail on the table. Nervously, with nothing else to do, Clayton started thumbing through the stack. After sifting through a few envelopes, an opened letter almost fell on the floor. Picking it up, it unfolded in his hand, allowing him to see enough of the contents to understand its contents. Quietly, he put the letter away and looked up. He could see his cousins outside waving and laughing. Hoping not to betray his new secret he waved back and put the letter in the envelope.

Briton Staley returned, but in much different attire than when she had left. She was wearing a tank top and a pair of cotton US Naval Academy athletic shorts. She squatted down on shapely tan legs in front of the young man and instructed him to hold up his shirt. Clayton Powell, having just turned seventeen, was having a hard time not looking into the low-cut shirt the captain was wearing.

I read about the planes you shot down, he said quietly.

This is going to hurt, she told him and applied a sponge to his wound. He winced, but not much. The captain was impressed.

This is going to hurt even more, she said and dabbed iodine into the cut. This time there was no sound. She applied gauze and then covered it with a bandage. You'll have to change it tomorrow, she told him.

Still squatting in front of Clayton, Briton Staley looked up at the young man as he was trying not to look at the front of her shirt. In that awkward time of life, when things can come and go at the drop of a hat, she pretended not to notice and touched his stomach gently. It was too much for Clayton.

Well, she said looking up at him, it looks like you've got company, Clayton. I think it's time for you to go.

Clayton turned red with embarrassment. She stood up and looked from him to the stack of mail on the table. They were out of order. She looked back at him.

You went through my mail?

Clayton was silent. His cousins quickly dispersed from the porch.

So, you know?

I'm sorry, Captain Staley, I was just looking for something to do. I'm sorry. I don't know why your husband would leave you. I never would.

She looked at the boy and smiled.

How old are you? she asked. She looked down at the bandaged area and was glad to see that things had subsided somewhat.

I turned eighteen last week.

I turned thirty-one last month. I think I'm a little bit old for a beautiful young boy like you, she laughed.

I don't think so, he said. You're way more beautiful than any of the girls I know.

Briton Staley was taken back by his remark. She had been at sea for the last six months commanding a fighter squadron in the Indian Ocean.

I could almost say the same thing about you, she said and opened the screen door. She looked back at him and beckoned for him to exit.

Goodbye Clayton, if you need a new bandage, or if that gets infected, you come back and see me tomorrow.

Since his early teen years, Clayton Powell III had no trouble finding female admirers among his own peers. Having so many choices made him feel like the man at the buffet table; he didn't need to rush in because there was plenty of food available whenever he wanted it. Fortunately, for our story, that very circumstance kept him from being distracted from his real love, the study of physics and electromagnetism.

In fact, by the age of fifteen, Clayton Powell III was published in prominent journals. By the end of his sophomore year of high school, Clayton had been actively recruited by a number of universities, including the military academies at Annapolis, West Point and Colorado Springs. To please his father, he would decide on Physics at Yale University. But that evening, and for thousands more until a rainy night in Seattle, Clayton Powell III would not be able to love anyone but the alluring naval commander next door.

Captain Briton Staley sat in her bed alone, looking at her computer screen. It was a humid night, so she left the window open, allowing the cool Atlantic night breeze to blow inside the room and push away the heat and humidity of the day. The cool air felt good on Briton’s tan muscular legs as she typed intently on a laptop keyboard. Next to her, lay the letter sent from her husband, an aircraft carrier pilot like herself. In it, he had used a few brief lines to tell her he didn't want to continue in the marriage. He was filing for a divorce. He gave no reason.

Oddly enough, Briton did not seem to mind at all that she was sitting alone in a bed after six months of sea duty that should have been a scene of passion reunited. Instead, she was looking intently at her computer screen. Thanks to her security clearance, which was partly based on her military rank, ancestry and her membership in a secret organization, Briton Staley had access to every person, alive or dead that ever had a telephone number assigned to them. She was actively searching through the records for Clayton Powell III.

Briton had come across them almost an hour before. From there she began dissecting the life of the brilliant young scientist. The more she saw, the more she liked. Finally, at one o' clock in the morning when she was convinced she had found what she was looking for, Captain Staley picked up the phone.

Long live the Abracadabra, Briton said into the phone and the silence.

Long live the Minderburgers, a faint voice replied.

Once the secret introductions were complete, Briton announced, I found him.

After a few minutes of explaining who Clayton Powell III was, along with his academic standing and publications, the voice on the other end of the line seemed convinced. Encouraged, Briton Staley continued to describe the needs of a project, some of it in technical jargon and some of it not. When she was finished, she waited silently.