

UNLEASHED

By

Patrick McLaughlin

Copyright © 2014 Patrick McLaughlin

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise – without written permission from the publisher.

HIT-PICS LLC

www.HIT-PICS.com

Patrick@HIT-PICS.com

Contact the publisher for information concerning the original screenplay, .JPEG The Movie.

By Patrick McLaughlin (WGAE # 1250220) and Greg Ó Braonáin (WGAE # 1250222)

Copyright Registration # TXU 1-887-716

Cover photograph © 2014 Patrick McLaughlin. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

First Edition: June 2014

ISBN 978-0-9915624-1-1

License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

For Robert Steven "Goob" Underhill

When you part from your friend,

you grieve not;

For that which you love most in him

may be clearer in his absence,

as the mountain to the climber

is clearer from the plain.

—Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Epilogue

Author's Note

About the Authors

Chapter 1

A bead of orange trimmed the horizon and began its crawl across the silent Mojave blackness, and with the sunlight came heat, promising to melt the desert frost and deliver another sweltering day. A dark, eight-armed, spiderlike craft rose up from the shadows of an ancient creek bed. Its two propellers hosted sixteen blades slicing through the dry air. The bright red eyes of the octocopter scanned the desert, intently seeking its target. The mechanical creature darted first in one direction, then another. Its motion as swift as a dragonfly, it bolted only a few feet above the surface, narrowly zipping past brush and cacti, sensing and avoiding every obstacle along the way.

Beneath the head of the aerial platform hung an advanced imaging device where deep within the "camera" were both optical and thermal sensors sandwiched between prisms of glass. Grey slices of tungsten rapidly opened and closed at over 12,000 times per minute to control the rate and volume of energy colliding into the sensors. With each passing millisecond, heat from the thermal-infrared signatures and visible spectrums of light were sucked into the camera's abyss, smashing against the electro-optical sensor. The recording device instantly acknowledged, absorbed, and deciphered billions of data bits with the aid of bio-genetically engineered receptors. This was not your everyday camera.

A translucent dome at the core of the aerial platform housed a gyro-driven motor, stabilizing the surveillance device by delivering continuous, synchronized commands to each of the eight extended arms. To make the craft self-aware and to reduce collisions, an advanced radar package containing an electro-optical sensing device and global positioning system was mounted on the aircraft. Remotely-piloted, the unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV, was created by an Australian company for filming in the Outback. The U.S. government had purchased all the associated patents and brought the entire research development team to the U.S. for further expansion of the craft's capabilities. Millions more dollars were poured into the design. The final fusion of technologies created the most stable platform in avionics and was known as the world's most advanced unmanned surveillance craft.

As the drone arched above a bluff, the sun came up and reflected off the titanium body, clearly highlighting the symbols "SXII" etched deep into the metal camera housing. It rose another eighteen inches, turned a few degrees south and then froze. Only seconds later, from the belly of the device, a pen-sized rocket blasted towards a target in the distance, ripping the silence with an explosion lighting the landscape for miles.

In all three headsets came a voice: "Target acquired, identified, and terminated as ordered. Major Craig, with your authorization, I'd like to move to the next test phase."

Thomas Craig acknowledged a nod from the woman beside him before answering. "Affirmative," he said.

The woman was his government-contractor counterpart and essentially the first in command during this live test drill. They both fixed their gaze on the hi-definition monitor mounted on the side of the tactical Humvee.

"All go. Isolate biological subject, minus the theatrics though," Craig ordered. "No need to kill anything if it's not part of next phase requirement."

These words broke Dr. Sally Evans' focus and she glanced abruptly at Craig. His words contradicted what she knew of him from the few bits of information she gleaned from talking to other intel officers in her field. At best, Craig was a professional assassin, or in more politically correct terms, an operator. Though she suspected him to be dangerous, she could only find fleeting documentation of his past. For all intents and purposes, he simply did not exist anywhere in the U.S. Government's Intelligence or Department of Defense arsenals.

Sally had looked even deeper to discover all Craig's missions were financed with black money or funding approved by secret congressional committees. She only uncovered one file about Craig on a gnome server within CIA titled, _OP_TC_Yemen_A:NTR_. But its content remained inaccessible. The acronym NTR, though seldom used, meant in the DoD mission descriptions "Never to Return." It was Craig they sent when the extermination of a dangerous international adversary was more important than the life of the agent.

Craig confirmed the "handy-rocket," as they liked to call the tiny projectiles loaded with punch, had detonated directly on target and reported this back to mission headquarters. Sally wondered why the man would care about the killing of a wild animal. Maybe there was more to this deadly hard-ass than her intel revealed.

—————

Major Thomas Craig, Ethiopian by birth, had become a U.S. Citizen as a teenager after his entire family was whisked out of Africa by the State Department. During the '80s, when Ethiopia turned towards the Soviet Union, the United States recalled its Ambassador, along with the entire diplomatic mission.

Prior to closing down the embassy, and while taking "inventory," Department of State analysts realized Craig's father was a unique national asset. The elder Craig had been enlisted as an in-country contractor responsible for network and communications management, part of the ambassadorial practice of hiring local nationals to keep peace with the host nation. The talented Mr. Craig designed a communications protocol which effectively created an encrypted tunnel for secure traffic among worldwide embassies. His encryption protocol was now utilized throughout State, CIA, DIA, NSA and the rest of the three letter agencies which maintained stations within the embassy compounds. Then, as the World Wide Web started to consume society, the threat of internet-tapping became real. Very simply, those at State who knew what needed to be known understood the senior Craig possessed the vision necessary to protect their communications infrastructure for years to come.

So it was goodbye Ethiopia, hello Beltway, as they cast aside their family names in exchange for Craig, one more common to protect their identities. All six children were re-baptized with Christian names in a Coptic ceremony to help them melt into the international madness of Washington, D.C. In the many years to follow, Craig's father left their home in Manassas each morning with a laminated picture ID dangling from his shirt pocket. He crammed into a twelve-seat commuter van for the tortuous drive into Arlington, where State maintained numerous secure intelligence offices. Ah, life was grand in the U.S.!

Of all his siblings, Thomas Craig was the only one to inherit his father's remarkable IQ. While his siblings read the comics in Sunday's _Washington Post_ , he scoured the international pages. By eight years of age, "Little Tommy" held his own during his parents' political conversations. On frequent occasions, dinner guests would find themselves pinned down by young Tommy and quickly discovered whatever information went into his head, stayed in his head. More astonishingly, Tommy's logic was clear and concise. He methodically built his library of knowledge as one would build a house, laying a foundation, dropping the needed cinder blocks in place, and then constructing each floor. Each fact was interpreted, organized, and always at the ready for the moment he needed to make a point and later, as an operator, to save his ass.

At Yale, Thomas Craig carried a double major in the departments of Political Science and Psychology yet bored easily maintaining a habit of frequently popping his head into lectures in other fields of study. Dubbed "Terrible Tommy" by his rugby teammates, he surgically removed larger opponents from play via nimble yet decisive attacks, taking out key players to secure yet another Yale victory.

One CIA recruiter, who was a former rugby player himself, had heard of a brilliant but tough Ethiopian at Yale who manipulated the entire rugby field of play. During Craig's junior year, the recruiter made a point of stopping in to see the young Thomas compete in an early-season scrimmage where he expectedly carried his team to victory. The agent had caught the last ten minutes of play and afterwards cornered Craig at the end of the field away from his teammates. Listening patiently to the recruiter's pitch, Craig heard the words "your actions on the front line of our nation's clandestine operations will help shape the world landscape, and secure our freedom at home." He then accelerated his course load and completed his last two semesters in just three months after which, he headed directly south to Langley, Virginia.

Once he completed all of the required testing, clearances, and paperwork, he was shuttled off to spy school, or basic spook training, at "The Farm" near Williamsburg, Virginia. Quickly mastering the disciplines of secrecy and deception, his stay was extended twice, but not for further training. True to form, Craig not only perfected the stealthy spy craft techniques, he went on to intuitively improve upon them. His training interrogations yielded unheard-of results. He excelled at improvised weaponry. He conquered and absorbed all they threw at him until inevitably, the student became the teacher.

The instructors at The Farm had even tried to delay his leaving a third time, but the terrorist attacks of 9/11 brought to bear the harsh realities of the new world order, and he was called into action. Langley could not afford to keep their most promising agent in the classroom while U.S. citizens, both stateside and abroad, were threatened by al-Qaeda and its affiliates.

Craig was at once thrust into a three-month, two-prong preparatory schedule. Starting with training alongside the 3rd Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, he then went on to Georgetown University in D.C. for further polishing of his linguistic skills. Craig soon went "hot" and for seven years no one knew (or if they did know, they wouldn't acknowledge it) his assignments or whereabouts. The heads of terrorist cells vanished, drug cartel leaders were found in oil drums, and not a single successful terror attack was carried out on U.S. soil.

During his deep and dark CIA career, his ultra-secret success, known only by a few, drew the attention of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Even before he "landed" after his last mission in Pakistan, DIA had requisitioned him, and he was ordered to report to the DIAQ (Defense Intelligence Headquarters) at Bolling Air Force Base, just outside of D.C. Thomas Craig, the U.S. government's most elite operative, would now be applying his skills on a broader level — against entire enemy cells.

*****

Refocusing on the task at hand, Sally's smile faded, and she continued to observe Craig, recognizing that up until his last comment simply being in his proximity scared the hell out of her. She had been intimidated by the rumors — particularly the Amsterdam incident (never confirmed) where Interpol was directed to a well-developed, fully-cocked sleeper cell. By the time the authorities arrived, it was told, each terrorist had been neatly executed, and their digitally-recorded confessions had been transmitted over the very network Craig's father had created decades ago.

But now she decided to cut him some slack and open up a bit. After all, her involvement in the application of the Sentient Project was just beginning, and you never knew when you might need someone like Craig on your side. Sally would just have to suck in her pacifist leanings for now and stash away some survival insurance for if and when she needed him.

"Sir, Sentient indicates life form 142 clicks, 12 degrees down. No clear visual yet, only strains of light-capture with a slight level of biological particles within the stream. No, wait, we have it! Looks like a jack-a-lope, ah, excuse me sir, just a joke. I'm from Wyoming you know."

A frown crossed Craig's forehead.

"Actually, Major, it's a black-tailed rabbit. Confirmation should register on your screen as well as ours. Particle density and depth capture AOK at over 103%, if that is possible, sir."

The outdoorsman in the young operator again surfaced. "It would've made for a tasty lunch Major Craig, if we could have found the body parts, sir."

With the mission accomplished, the testing phase was now complete. The drone came to a hover over Craig and Sally, and then it gently rested between the two trucks. As the motors faded the virtual Air Force pilot back in Hampton, Virginia removed his headset, rolled his hand off the joystick and satisfied at a job well done, headed home from his early morning shift at Langley Air Force Base. He wondered how many U.S. citizens understood how much of the air war against foreign enemies was conducted from this underground concrete bunker. _Well, that's not mine to worry about; maybe if I get some quick shut-eye, I'll be up for a BBQ and coleslaw lunch at the County Grill._ There, he and his buds would compare the hazards of war, such as the joystick jamming or someone burning the coffee they drank by the gallons to stay alert.

Back in the desert, Sally, with a solemn look at the resting drone, took a breath, leaned towards Craig and whispered, "Your new Sentient is ready, Major. Fully-tested and operational, she's all yours — for whatever comes next."

Without taking his eyes from the screen he replied, "I have a few ideas."

Chapter 2

Shawn Pérez leaned into the monopod and stretched, dropping his shoulders while both hands clasped the camera housing and lens. Arching his back to relieve the tightness down his spine, he never took his right index finger off the shutter release. He was always ready to shoot, and although his head dipped between his arms to loosen his neck muscles, his eyes were still open, scanning the water and beach. He never thought about all the great images he had taken over the years. It was the photo opportunities he missed that tortured him.

Raised on the tough side of Rincón in Puerto Rico, he thought about the stone seawall where he sat in the sweltering heat, watching the gringos arrive to surf. With each year's arrival of spring break, stateside families came to the western tip of the island drawn to some of the best waves in the Caribbean. Rental cars carried young surfers who emerged with tiny tri-fin rockets tucked under their arms. Dads and moms yanked classic longboards from atop the vehicles, all with pale white skin lathered with sunblock.

For a long moment, Shawn recalled these families, thinking about how each usually had a designated amateur photographer tasked to capture their group's surf action. With pitifully inadequate cameras, they would attempt to photograph surfers queued up far from shore, snapping aimlessly at the ant-sized specks rolling up and over the incoming swells. Shawn knew better, and it pained him.

He remembered those early years. He would wait for professional photographers who timed their arrival with the waves, hoisted massive tripods strapped onto black hard-sided cases from their cars, lugged them across the sand and set up for long grueling hours in the tropical sun. They came alone or with pro surf teams and generally kept to themselves, assigned by surf magazines to chronicle major worldwide swells. These were the masters of high-speed, telephoto, sports photography. And with their professional, digital single-lens reflex cameras and enormous lenses, they could _touch_ their subjects more than 500 to 1000 yards in the distance as if they were only a few yards away. Shawn was consumed with a thirst to know all about this new world of digital photography and the visiting photog's were his professors, whether they wanted to be or not.

Shawn always knew he loved light since his first sneak to the beach with his _abuelo's_ ancient 35mm Minolta. The U.S. Navy had gifted the camera to his grandfather after a two year Combat Camera tour as Photographer's Mate in Vietnam, a practice usually reserved for military snipers and their rifles, but with some exceptions occurring amongst other uniformed specialists. Before the sun had risen, he had slipped out from the cramped shack where three generations of the Pérez family lived and bolted shoeless to the beach, with neither film in the camera nor any idea of how it worked. Tucked away the entire morning in a secluded spot near Maria's, a beach in Rincón famous for its giant left-breaking waves, he snapped away with a dreamlike pride and confidence. _Phrichit, phrichit, phrichit_. Shawn imagined the remarkable photos he took, albeit without film. Later, when a few pros spotted him nearby, being the bros that they were, they acknowledged him with a wink and a smile.

When his grandfather died, there was no question in the family who would get the old Minolta. Thomas kept it with him every day and quickly mastered all the tired classic had to offer. He barely covered his film and developing costs in the beginning, though he managed to earn enough to save up and buy a 200mm zoom lens which finally extended his reach out to the surfers' take-off zone. But without a digital high-resolution camera body, his surf images looked washed out and grainy compared to the rich, detailed fullness of the advanced multi-million pixel images.

Then one afternoon, while shooting from his perch at Maria's, Shawn saw two vans charge into the dusty parking spaces closest to the reef. At once the sliding doors of each van exploded, ejecting young surfers who stopped just long enough to strap the leashes attached to their boards onto their ankles before charging out into the surf.

Soon after, a few mothers followed, aligning beach chairs to the sun, numb to the commotion, settling down for a day of wine coolers and paperbacks. Finally, and lagging behind, were most often the "too cool for school" dads feigning indifference to the unforgiving crushing lefts crashing on the reef. On this particular day, one father made love to his nose rider, caressing the board's top surface with Sexwax, more to delay his first paddle into the massive overhead sets, less for the purpose of stickiness.

Shawn's eyes drifted from the fearful father to a final lingering passenger climbing out of the vehicle with two industrial black Pelican cases in hand, which he then placed precisely in the center of a large blanket, both as far from the sand as possible. Popping the lid on one, he efficiently mated two Canon DSLR cameras with telephoto lenses: one a 400mm f/2.8, which Shawn had seen before and recognized instantly as a favorite of the pros, the other a monster of over three-feet long with a camouflage exterior. His attention remained on the giant lens, one he had never seen in person, but had only read about in a Spanish-language photography magazine: a new introduction by Canon as the first ever 1200mm telephoto lens with an f/2.8 f-stop created for serious naturalists and bird photographers. This guy is special, Shawn thought. What, with all this gear!

After the man secured the 1200mm onto a hefty tripod, he moved beside it with the 400mm mounted on a monopod (similar to the one Shawn was now leaning on) and at once began to adjust the camera's internal settings. As if the new lens wasn't enough, what really blew Shawn away were the dozen or so remaining lenses nestled securely within each case. This man had every Canon professional lens currently available and then some; Shawn had never seen anything like it!

Shifting from his position, Shawn slowly edged up closer and smiled meekly at the guy. Speaking little English and figuring the American spoke even less Spanish, he continued to grin in an attempt to establish a line of communication without seeming like some kind of a Puerto Rican pervert until the man noticed Shawn with a brief glance. The guy then reached down for _another_ big-ass camera to attach _another_ big-ass lens, and then laid it directly into Shawn's hands.

Shawn pulled back a bit. _Who the hell would do this? Hand over something this expensive to a homeless looking punk knowing I could take off with his shit_! But gear dude, as Shawn referred to him, must have picked up on the young Shawn's positive vibes because he dedicated most of the morning to furthering Shawn's photo education by pointing out to his eager student, via intuitive gestures, the valuable features and innovations of his collection.

Around midday, with Shawn in tow, they set up on a sandy point and for the rest of the afternoon stood side by side, sharing while comparing techniques. Shawn beamed when gear dude grasped one of his favorite skills — waiting for the exact moment the light provided by the setting sun from behind a wave formed a halo of light around a tubed surfer.

Gear dude was astounded by this and a number of other natural methods Shawn used. By the end of the afternoon, it dawned on Shawn what he lacked in technical knowledge and equipment, he made up for with his instinctive understanding of light and motion, with the two behaving as one. He seemed to see things others could not see or maybe chose not to see. He often questioned his ability to observe a bird in flight as though it were still. He would follow it with his eyes, noticing every distinct flap of its wings, its darting eyes, its tail adjusting with the wind. His mind's eye was able to freeze the bird in mid-flight, then visually select the optimal moment when movement, color and light melded to create a beautiful moment in time. Shawn's need to share these visions was the driving force behind his desire to photograph.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the spent surfers wrapped up their afternoon session with one final "stoke" wave before reluctantly paddling back to the beach. As this remarkable day in Shawn's life came to a close, he took special note of gear dude's obsessive method of packing up his equipment. Once certain no sand contaminated the equipment cases and just before jumping into the back of the van, gear dude, his newfound mentor, handed Shawn a small card with his e-mail address. With some translation help from a nearby surfer, gear dude said to Shawn, "Mr. Pérez, sir, if you save up one thousand dollars, I'll sell you this camera so you can begin the journey in life for which you are destined. You and I are now friends. Send me a message when you are ready."

Shawn's jaw dropped and he started to think of all the ways he could earn cash to speed the delivery of the camera.

Nine months later, when the Canon Mark II 1d arrived, it was the first time Shawn felt he had the tools he needed to bring his visions, not simply photographs, to the world of surfing.

*****

"Shit!" Snapping back into reality, Shawn captured his subject in a perfect barrel, ripping and rumbling across the reef off this tiny island in the Tuamotu Islands chain of French Polynesia. Since the day he first lifted the Canon Mark II 1d, Shawn's rough and tumble reputation had grown and he was now the acknowledged go-to photographer for pro surfers. He smiled. In the last fifteen years, he had come a long way since the days he spent in Puerto Rico, sitting behind the gritty sign he planted at such great breaks as Gas Chambers, Domes, or Maria's, inviting: _Great pics, you Surfing._ He was inevitably discovered when his images, submitted by publicity-hungry surfers, began appearing in surf magazines around the world.

Unbeknownst to him, Shawn's surf photography eclipsed the work of most of the current pro surf photographers of the day. In just a few years he was being hired to shoot big-wave surfers such as Irons, Slater, and Machado. One time, _Transworld Surf_ even flew him to France for a session with the legendary Tom Curran. His life had become a whirlwind of opportunities until, physically and emotionally drained, he gladly ended his freelance days when Deep Surf Apparel, the number one surf brand, offered him a permanent gig as their head photographer. At first communication was a challenge, except, of course, with the Southern California staff where _Mexicana's_ outnumbered _gringos_. But with most of his English grammar and vocabulary picked up as he went, he was saddled with a hodgepodge of expressions and clichés. Even he never knew what would fly out of his mouth.

Regaining his focus after this long day in the sun, he watched a shabby skiff hop across the near shore sets of waves with three bronzed surfers hanging on for dear life. The inner waves were one-third the size of the outer reef break, yet sizeable still, so the boat picked its way carefully as not to overturn. The boat hit the beach at full throttle and the outboard kicked up violently when it hit the white sand only a few feet from where Shawn stood, the prop still spinning and screaming above their greetings.

"Yeeehaaah, we are gonna blow minds!" Shawn whooped amidst mid-air high fives, knowing today's session was an epic one and sure to bring accolades from Deep Surf and surfers alike. His camera this day was a battered and worn prototype provided by a friend and substantially more advanced than all the Canon Professional DSLRs he had ever shot with. Along with the capable 800mm telephoto lens extending off the front, he felt as if he was holding a weapon rather than an imaging device. The lens hood was held tight by yellow crime scene tape he snagged at Fa'a'ā Airport, in Papeete. Shawn was tough cosmetically on his gear, but the lens glass was always spotless. Didn't have to be pretty, just had to work, he mused.

Once ashore, the three tube studs slid their boards into padded travel bags while playfully slapping each other around when unexpectedly, five ghostly figures emerged from the jungle bordering the beach. Of the five, the one in the center seemed to be the leader as the only tribesman holding a long spear. His nose, ears and breasts were pierced with small bones of animals or at least they all hoped they were the bones of animals.

When they spotted the island inhabitants, the youngest of the three surfers yelled to the others, "Yo, I think these native-type guys wanna have us for dinner! Dinnaaaah is served!"

Shawn at once thought, _Powers!_

Drake "Par Tee" Powers, at age fifteen, was the cockiest surfer of the three and with a mouth to match. Drake had rocketed into the pro surf scene as some kind of "surf savant" but, thus far, his maturity fell far behind his physical prowess. Shawn didn't even have to turn to know who had uttered the words. _Hot damn, what the hell is wrong with that kid?_ The others also turned to look as Shawn motioned with his open hand for silence, but not before his guide Tagoga erupted in terror, "Time we go now, Mistah Shawn. We go now!"

"Whoa Nelly, are you shittin' me? We are gonna celebrate with a toke of doobie and some rum crushers and now that we have some local flavor to join us, what's the rush pal?" Shawn said. "Look, they're smiling — and it seems like they're as amused with us as we with them."

Tagoga shuddered as he begged Shawn, "No, no! We go now Mistah Shawn!"

Shawn couldn't help himself. The light, placement, and stature of the tribesmen were way too much for the artist in him. "Hold on my bronzed buddy, oh man, this is waaaaay too cool and groovy, shit!"

With little hesitation Shawn swung his camera around, but this one action sent Tagoga into a tailspin causing him to lunge for the camera Shawn held, screaming, "Aiweeeeeeee noooooo, dey no like!"

Tagoga collided with Shawn who embraced the camera and attempted to hide it from the tribesmen. "Okay. Take it easy. I get it, no pics, but can you speak their language?" Shawn whispered.

"No talks please Mistah Shawn. We go now, _please_ Mistah Shawn!" Tagoga sobbed.

Not totally ignoring Tagoga's pleas, but feeling he was in tune with the tribesmen in some cosmic way, Shawn fished into his cargo pocket and pulled out a handful of Jolly Ranchers.

"Tagoga, see, candy, the universal language, check this out," he said as he casually strolled towards the natives.

Shawn had the candy hand outstretched with the wrapped JRs clearly visible. Behind his back, in his left hand, was nestled a compact camera.

"No, no, no, it is very bad!" Tagoga pleaded while the natives remained unmoved as Shawn slowly approached.

"How y'all doin'?" Shawn opened with his friendliest cowboy drawl as if he was walking into a Texas roadhouse full of drunken ranch hands. Shawn particularly liked cowboy slang as a means to counterbalance his Puerto Rican accent and although he knew he sounded ridiculous, he loved the looks he got. Stopping a few feet away, Shawn selected a lime green Rancher, unwrapped it, and plopped it into his mouth with a loud "mmmmmmmm, so good!"

While rubbing his belly and smiling, he offered a purple Rancher in the direction of the five men. The leader took one step forward and promptly snatched it from Shawn's hand, smelled it, licked it with his tongue like a serpent, and slowly placed it between his lips. Once in his mouth, the chief's nose bone lifted high, revealing a look of pleasure with an enormous grin. Apparently the sweet pleased him and with a nod his jungle buddies each picked one from Shawn's still-open palm. As if on cue, others tribal folk came forward from the dense underbrush, first other warriors followed by women and small children.

Spotting a shy little girl in a sarong, Shawn experienced one of his "ah ha" moments when a photo opportunity appeared in his mind. Gesturing towards the girl while looking at the candy-sucking chief, Shawn invited her to try one of the cherry reds. " _Hola chica_ , your fearless leader loves the sweets; I think he might be okay if you had one too."

Shawn gently dropped it into her cupped hands and simultaneously reached for the small camera tucked into his waistband behind his back, muttering to himself, "See, all good Tagoga, yeah! I'm gonna get a quick, cool _Nat Geo_ -type pic of the happy island people."

He raised the camera, auto-focused, shot, and a brilliant light flashed directly into the whites of the tribesmen's eyes. Startled and confused, the look on their faces seemed to signal fear, but they did not run (God, he wished they had)...they got very, very pissed! Shawn now stared directly into the angered faces of more than a dozen tribal warriors and regretfully thought, _What a rookie move, I forgot to turn off the auto flash!_

A demonic howl bellowed forth from the chief, bringing even more warrior-like tribesmen out from the dark jungle as the women and children evaporated as silently as they appeared. The full fury of the islanders descended upon Shawn as he double-timed it backwards towards their camp, his arms up high to prevent their sticks and spears from hitting his face. Struggling to run as he tried to protect himself, he tripped on a piece of driftwood, hurtling backwards towards the sand. In an effort to break his fall, he reached out with both hands, releasing his small camera which now flew in the direction of his tripod and gear.

"Shit, I'm a goner."

Shawn jumped to his feet, fearing the worst as they had now closed down on him, but the violence abruptly turned away from him and towards the mound of equipment just a few feet away.

Ahh, shit no! Not the goddamn Sentient! Sally is going to beat me if I ruin her camera!

None of the others in his crew needed instructions as they took off frantically towards the boat.

Tagoga cried out, and was heard even above the screams of the tribesmen, "You gonna be next Mistah Shawn. When dey done with cameras, dey gonna come for you! Hurry, they come, run, save yo'self!" as he stumbled towards the dinghy.

Each of the surfers, carrying only what two hands could handle on the run and leaving a half dozen boards on the beach, were already in the skiff. With arms outstretched, they seized Tagoga and threw him headlong into the boat. Regaining his footing, Tagoga hurried to the back of the boat and pulled the outboard to life, then jammed it into gear, twisting the throttle to full at the exact instant Shawn reached the terrified surf team, crashing down on bodies, boards and bags. The small boat, with all aboard, shot over the waves. Shawn, visibly shaken, babbled apologies, trying to make sense of what just occurred, repeating over and over to the others "the flash, the flash, I should have turned off the flash, how could I be so stupid!"

They all quietly looked back towards the shoreline where the tribesmen, satisfied they had killed the cameras and extinguished the evil, suddenly melted into the jungle as softly as they had appeared.

Looking back through the hazy distance towards the beach, Shawn's mangled equipment lay battered in the sand, soon to be washed over by the incoming tide. One nameplate, "SENTIENT II," bent but legible, glowed as it captured the last rays of the day.

"No, no flash, Mistah Shawn, flash no scare them."

Shawn turned his eyes to Tagoga as he stammered, "Mistah Shawn, Dey tink da picture box will steal d'ere souls. Dey spirit is sacred! They make you dead and eat you to take back new soul!"

Tagoga paused for a moment and watched Shawn's ashen face try to make sense of his explanation.

Shawn hung his head low, away from his lost gear. _Wow, no kidding_ , thought Shawn, _their souls, no shit_.

Chapter 3

A warm breeze brushed the ocean's surface beyond the reef signaling the afternoon trade winds. Shawn knew the sun would soon swing behind the surf and Drake Powers, now nineteen and undoubtedly the world's best surfer would disappear against the dark green shadow of the wave which would make it impossible to shoot any usable images. He squeezed the bill of his Deep Surf cap to communicate with Drake, barely a dot a half-mile out.

"Drake Brah, drop in on a few more, then paddle your scrawny ass in. We are cool with your performance today, much to show the herds in Huntington."

He released the button, grateful for the two-way radio Sally helped him devise to speak with Drake in the line-up.

Sally, despite being married to her research work, was always eager to contribute, and she stayed in touch much more than he expected after their break-up two years ago. When they first met near Dana Point, California, Deep Surf had not yet suggested he become Drake's personal photographer. Drake's skills and standings in the pro surf circuit had made him the most popular surfer of all times and Deep Surf felt they needed to do everything to protect his image. Shawn had driven up to Salt Creek to spend a few days working with Drake on their future travel itineraries. When they took a break one afternoon, they headed down to the great lawn just above the beach to play with Frisco, Drake's cool-ass Australian Sheppard.

While Frisco put on a show for some passersby's, Sally approached the three of them with little notion of who they were, pretty much ignoring Shawn and Drake, but digging the hell out of Frisco. And it was no wonder. Frisco "the biscuit of the Nabisco Clan" was quite famous on these beaches. Frisco shunned an Aussie's traditional love of Frisbee play for multi-colored, squeaking tennis balls. When Drake was not surfing, he had plenty of time on his hands to teach Frisco radical ball tricks and as a result Frisco was the true Salt Creek celeb, with his master Drake trailing in popularity only by a hair.

While Sally played with Frisco, Shawn was blown away when he got a good look at her. When Sally finally noticed him, their attraction was instant. Sally suggested coffee; Shawn countered with dinner and by week's end, every available moment was spent together.

Shawn couldn't believe the coincidence when Sally told him she was a research scientist at Photon Corporation, the company who recently offered a Sentient prototype for Deep Surf to test. Sally had recommended Deep Surf because she recognized the standard of high quality images they maintained in their magazine and online galleries; images which captured long-range, high-speed motion, a perfect test bed for her invention. Destiny had once again paid Shawn a favor.

But Sally was also on life's changing track and, upon completing her PhD at Cal Poly; she accepted a research position from Stanford. So began Sally's dawn-to-dusk lab hours and as Shawn's assignments continued to take him around the globe, their time together was sporadic at best. As Sally once told Shawn "we're like comets passing in the heavens, close and fascinating, but we will never collide."

Shawn knew Sally was the best thing to ever happen to him, and then un-happen to him when after Stanford, she accepted her current position at a Cal Poly satellite research facility. All Shawn knew about the place was that besides receiving financing from Deep Surf, her work was also secretly funded by DIA and hosted at a Photon Corporation facility on a sprawling industrial campus near San Luis Obispo.

Photon often enlisted companies like Deep Surf to mask the real purpose of their projects where they designed weapons and surveillance devices for Defense Intelligence. And although Sally was passionately opposed to violence, she thinly justified her work by telling herself she developed imagery, not weaponry. Besides, her desire to apply cutting-edge theories and convert them into hard science was an opportunity she could not pass up. She figured, so long as she didn't help make something that killed someone, she was doing good work.

In the wake of their break-up, Shawn eventually took Deep Surf up on their offer to relocate him to Kauai, the Hawaiian island where he now lived. His move drove them even further apart, but in spite of the distance, the spark never died. Their connection was based on love of life, light, and the potential in the beauty around them and it never severed.

It was odd, Sally and Shawn were scholastic polar opposites and yet somehow they both ended up in some ways working for the same company within the discipline of photography. Sally was gifted beyond intellect as a rare individual whose passion was applied science, but she just as well could have been a painter, artist or musician. To her, the overlap of physics and natural beauty was more than apparent, it was undeniable and to her, she and Shawn bisected at this intersection of color and light, and parted at the crossroads of reality. It was simply too painful to continue their relationship from such distances, so they agreed to stop seeing each other.

But the decision to break up did not stop them from showing they cared and this communications gizmo was her latest FedEx to him he received in Kauai. Inside the carton, on a yellow sticky note with hearts playfully drawn across the bottom, she instructed him: _Shawn, the mic switch is sewn into the cap and yes, I CAN sew! Instruct Drake to carefully place this in his ear. Don't worry, it is waterproof, and you guys can communicate from the beyond! No more jumping up and down on the beach waving your arms like an idiot — although a cute one!_

_God I miss her,_ he thought.

The ball cap partially shaded Shawn's face and made him look younger than the thirty-five that he was. Sally had embedding the mic in the cap bill, making it even easier to quickly call to Drake.

Drake's final wave was a perfect two-stroke take off with rapid turn positioning in which Drake locked in his sweet spot along the top crest of a twenty-footer. If most pro surfers devise a new stunt, it never takes long before more than a handful of amateurs are knocking it off. But Drake's moves were the exception to this rule. His shit was so good, way more complex, and no one even ever came close to copying Drake's signature maneuvers.

In one of his trademark moves, Drake floated along the crest of a razor-sharp wave with his knees level with the top ridge. Then only inches behind his board's tail the very top of the wave cascaded away and Drake simply shouldn't have been able to stay up in that position, along that ridge, but he did.

Standing on the beach and capturing the move, Shawn bracketed the moment with three exposures, confident the photo he would use was snuggly tucked between shots one and three. Shawn anticipated the exact moment the subject would present the image he wanted and knew shooting in this manner yielded the best results. He had learned this as a kid from a couple of Navy SEALs who came to surf Rincón. They called it their "double tap," or their method to be sure they finished their job. After that, Shawn called this practice his triple tap. A very big difference in the net result for sure, but the analogy fit. It worked for him.

Thinking back to his first DSLR from kindly gear dude back in Puerto Rico, Shawn recalled how he used to blast through twelve to twenty exposures at a time, giddy with his power to capture so many high-resolution images in sequence so quickly it was almost like shooting a movie. But with time and experience, Shawn eliminated this obsessive habit when a fellow surf photographer pointed out with each shutter release, the lifespan of a camera was shortened. He went on to show Shawn how to check the number of photos his camera had captured and how Shawn's camera already indicated 47,000 out of 100,000 actuations which meant he was near the halfway point before it needed an expensive rebuild, which he could ill afford. Another more practical reason was it was a pain in the royal ass to work through 2,500 plus raw images, selecting and deleting along the way, when he only needed thirty to keep the sponsor happy.

From the corner of his eye he noticed one of his backup storage devices now began to flash a yellow alert, indicating it was near maximum data storage capacity. The day's shoot was wrapping up just in time. When the researchers working to develop surfing holograms for Deep Surf first loaned Shawn an original Sentient camera, he was shocked to find one image could be as large as one to five gigabytes. Now, one image from the newest generation Sentient VI camera used the same amount of storage drive space as the last Sentient used in an entire day's shoot. Thanks to Sally, no other world photographer had access to the Sentient camera; likewise, no other pro had the problems Shawn encountered as he tried to manage these immense files and keep them secure until he was back at Kauai in his editing room.

Enter Sally, of course, with a solution. Sally rigged the camera with a unique memory card which held onto the most recently captured photo until it confirmed the image had been replicated back to two wireless storage units in his pack. It reminded Shawn of a favorite comic in which an office door sign read, "The Department of Redundancy Department." Both funny and telling at the same time, he swore his professional life on the words as two calamities freak the shit out of any serious photographer: missing the shot you should have had, and capturing a perfect moment only to lose it in a memory card malfunction. It had happened once, but never again for Shawn P! No siree Bob! He operated and adhered to a strict equipment operating philosophy or "two is one, and one is none." He would never again get caught with his pants down and never again lose a photo.

Shawn sometimes thought about all that captive data crammed into those external storage units. He continually asked Sally about it and she always did her best to explain the zeroes and ones data conversion processes and other related computer science stuff he could never wrap his head around. He understood the basics of sensors, pixels, and memory cards, but when Sally described tiny particles of electrons and photons, he could not help but imagine all these little data bits banging around erratically against each other in the storage cases. If they were all crowded in there together, then why did they stay together as an image when he pulled them back out into his software to work on the photos? His ever-repeated question for Sally was, "I mean, I capture the light, light is energy, so what is all that energy doing inside those storage devices when we're not looking? And how do all those little particles know where they belong when they come out?"

Shawn disconnected the three drives he had attached to his camera, unplugged the power unit, then headed down to the water's edge to grab Drake's board and give him a smack on the ass.

Chapter 4

"You cannot make me wear this garment. It is a sin against Allah! I will suffer the torments of ignominy as a result, I am certain," a powerful figure called Murad shouted.

Sameer, the manager of Castle Pizza on Telegraph Avenue in downtown Berkeley, drew Murad in close. He steered the angry man away from nearby customers waiting for pizza.

"It is said in the Qur'an, to use the ways of the devil to deliver his end will bring light to your family. Murad, his blessing of understanding is yours. Please imagine a bubble where you now exist within the heathen's lair. For our cause, reconsider wearing the garment. These infidel costumes we clothe ourselves in and the sins we commit on behalf of our brothers will all be forgiven. The Messenger, and those who believe with him, strive hard and fight with their wealth and lives in Allah's cause. _Alhamdulillah_!"

Murad's arrival two days before was a sign that their cell was now hot, ending years of American living for the select few. Murad had barely rested since the three-day journey from Yemen and he seethed at the sight of the blood red T-shirt with the Castle Pizza mascot, a knight in armor, emblazoned across his chest.

"May the infidel be damned to use a symbol of the invasion of our Holy Land!" Murad's indignation faded into an expression of resolve and he donned the scarlet uniform for his first delivery run.

In the past three days, Murad's itinerary deliberately hopscotched from Sana'a to Dublin, Bermuda, and British Columbia, before finally terminating in California by way of Seattle. Murad could have crossed the Canadian border via bus or rental car, but he calculated that this is what the Department of Homeland Security expected after the Boston bombing.

Once, while in immigration holding in Miami airport during another U.S. entry, he overheard a DHS agent jokingly say, "With the way terrorist groups are emerging from so many countries, I'll be speaking seven languages by the time I retire."

Murad then thought, _No, you coward, you will all be speaking the language of our Prophet Mohammed, fool!_

Sameer tried to make light, urging Murad, "Go, play your role, deliver pizza and see the world!"

Sameer knew he must keep Murad awake all day so he could adjust to west coast time as there was much to do in the coming weeks. The intense training, prayer and sacrifice would finally carry them to their promised lives beyond.

He, Hussein and another made up their cell, first coming to California as eighteen-year-old students' years before the _joyous victory in New York_. Sameer finished his studies with a bachelor's degree in business administration and, as instructed from abroad, made connections with the many hawala brokers in the area to access the informal cash transfer system al-Qaeda perfected to prevent federal agents from tracking worldwide financial activity.

During his first few months in the States, Sameer was invited to dinner by a distant uncle living in Orange County. After the meal and before Sameer bid farewell he was handed a bag, and when he stopped for gas on the drive north he found in the satchel more than $500,000 in cash. The funds were remitted to the hawala broker and the value was then concurrently moved from his al-Qaeda leader in Yemen to a wealthy jihadist sympathizer in Egypt. No trace of this money transfer would be discovered by any of the latest NSA technologies as it was completely devoid of any electronic signature.

The stateside cash from donations in the name of secular freedom! Stupid Americans, even with their powerful intelligence methods, they would never overcome the proven and ancient ways of his people.

In the mid '90s, Castle Pizza was one of the fastest growing fast food chains near major California universities, so the background check run on Sameer was peripheral and the franchisor was eager to take his cash. Adding the other cell members as employees over the years, Sameer prospered and enjoyed the pleasures of wealth, never fooling his brothers when he would proclaim, "We must blend in with the ways others behave. It would be expected of me to drive a fine automobile."

Hussein questioned much of this and wondered whether a Porsche Pantera was necessary to meld into American society as he considered how much fruit will await Sameer in his paradise.

The cell knew very well they were one of al-Qaeda's elite death squads, on par in practice and know-how with the infamous SEAL Team Six who executed their beloved Osama bin Laden. Sameer had a spacious indoor "basketball court" built as an addition to his comfortable home in Sausalito, and once the contractors left they went to work installing soundproofing, bulletproof glass and lined the room with Kevlar wallpaper. Every morning for three hours after prayers, seven days a week, they maintained their physical and mental condition as the sharp edge of the sword in the name of Allah.

As Murad pushed open the door to leave, an older gentleman with a facilities badge tucked into his jacket pocket pulled to enter, throwing Murad off balance. He instantly wished this unbeliever to be the first of the thousands of kafirun he would kill when he delivered his mission of God. Glancing back into the store with eyes of hatred, he met Sameer's eyes which at once widened and gestured for him to come back in. This made Murad even more furious than he already was!

"Good afternoon Dr. Jarrard, it is very good to see you," Sameer welcomed from behind the counter

The man who had just entered was Professor Jarrard of Berkeley. Jarrard bled academia and looked every bit the part of a professor and, except for absence of humor, Jarrard's appearance made you think of Robin Williams in _Dead Poets Society_.

Pulling on his tidy goatee, Jarrard perked, "Why, ah, how do you know my name?"

Jarrard accepted that he was recognized as a frequent patron of Castle Pizza, but he had always kept to himself, only uttered the required pleasantries, only paid in cash, and never mentioned his name. He believed rather than "an apple a day," that a salad each afternoon guaranteed good health. And Castle's mixed salads tasted the best for the price he was willing to pay from the small allowance he placed in his wallet each morning.

"Dr. Jarrard, sir, please, it is my business to know my loyal patrons. I can even tell you what you will order today for your lunch. Hussein, prepare our deluxe house salad for Dr. Jarrard. No olives, red onions thinly sliced, with balsamic dressing."

Sameer continued to engage Jarrard so Murad might understand why he was summoned back into the store.

"Dr. Jarrard, it has long been my intention to show you my appreciation for your patronage. Today and for the next five visits, your salad is our gift to you."

With this offer from Sameer, Jarrard dropped all defenses because if there was one thing, and only one, he valued more than the scientific principles guiding his life, it was saving money. If they let him sleep in the lab to avoid rent, utility bills and the like, he would.

"Why this is most generous of you and totally unnecessary. I carry the exact amount for your meals when I walk in the door and it is perfectly fine to pay. Your salads are a good value for the cost."

With a slight pause he added, "But if you insist, your gesture is welcomed as well as accepted." _It is surely about time_ , Jarrard thought; _my purchases were enough to pay for the Porsche the owner coyly hides behind the restaurant._

Reaching for the white bag containing his salad, he thanked the roomful of men and exited to his twenty-year-old Volvo parked in the lot.

Sameer at once grabbed Murad's forearm and said, "He is the one. We have copied his CAC, the common access card provided to all government contractors, to allow us entry into his research facility at Photon Corporation. This Jarrard is the director of the project we just recently uncovered when _one other_ careless American, a research student, sat here at this table stupidly discussing the imaging project and the development of a more advanced level of human identification using cameras and images."

Murad, never patient with the obvious, shot back, "Sameer, you brought me all the way to the belly of our enemy to tell me this! We can already be identified by our eyes, voices, facial recognition software, sweat sensors detecting our DNA in airports and who knows what else. My anger is raised and I pray there is more to this guess of yours. If not, I will kill someone before I return to Yemen, I assure you!"

"Murad, we are certain! This is something new. When you return from your pizza delivery, you will listen to the recording of the student's conversation."

The other men stood silent, terrified of another of Murad's outbursts. They all knew of Murad.

In Yemen, he directed the death of his countrymen found unfaithful to the jihad. Murad would have them bound down on their knees; leather hoods, filled with a boiling, sticky mixture of thick oil, would be placed over their heads. For some, when the oil dried as they lay collapsed on the ground, he had the hoods ripped from their heads, pulling off skin, hair and even eyelids. For others, he would cut loose their bound legs and arms, and let them bang their heads against anything they could find in order to stop the maddening pain. Eventually they all prayed for death.

The prayers now rolled quietly from Sameer's lips. Years of meticulous planning led him to Dr. Jarrard and he was certain the time was right to summon Murad. But nonetheless, he prayed for mercy — and hoped his theory held true.

Chapter 5

Shawn dropped Drake off at his digs near Princeville, then jumped back on the Kuhio Highway taking him through Hanalei to his home near Tunnels — Kauai's north shore beach where a vicious tiger shark attack bit off the left arm of young surfer Bethany Hamilton. _Great waves_ , he thought, but he knew he was never paddling out there! It was also the reason surfers, as a rule, never ate shark meat. "Brah, no good comes from eating a creature that can eat you!" These were wise words to live by, considering how much time surfers spent in the water.

As he came to the small bridge which crossed the Hanalei River, he remembered the last time he was home. "Eh Brah, get choke rain in river!" he was advised by a Hawaiian neighbor. Torrential downpours had flooded or "choked" the river, closing off the route to his home. During one day alone that rainy season, over twenty-five inches of rainfall drenched Kauai's North Shore. Not able to cross a small bridge, he was forced to stay over with Drake. His memories of two nights of partying were shrouded in a marijuana haze. After that, Shawn promised himself if the bridge ever closed again, next time he would get a hotel.

Although one of the most beautiful places on earth, Kauai wasn't the first place on Shawn's list of places to live. The North Shore of Kauai held the prized distinction of having one of the highest per capita drug addiction rates in the United States. At first, this mattered little to Shawn, who as a rule practiced moderation after seeing so many of his friends' lives crumble in decay, but it soon became a royal pain in the ass because everyone knew Shawn was an elite photographer and that he hauled around thousands of dollars of photographic equipment. The first few months on the island he was terrified of being robbed, but his worries amounted to nothing. Most addicts limited their clumsy pilfering to stealing iPhones, lifting catalytic converters or the direct approach, welfare fraud and bartering food stamps, to fund their highs.

What Shawn also came to understand was Hanalei Bay's surf community barely rose above the behavior of the addict. The locals supported a vigorous practice of territorialism, as well as "no photo zone" restrictions warning pro and amateur photographers alike: no surf pictures, _nada_. Shawn was told on his first encounter with surfing locals, "Eh brah, no camera, we keep _da kine_ to ourselves. You take photos; you find your truck bus up."

But hell, thought Shawn, you would think the Hawaiians would cut them a break, but no go. Stand out with your tripod anywhere along the surf zones and return to slashed tires, broken windows, graffiti spray-painted across your hood and more. As the locals expressed, crush the publicity and keep the _haoles_ and the _gapers_ away. But it was because of this privacy, Drake loved surfing here, unburdened and unpressured to deliver sellable maneuvers. Hanalei Bay delivered the recuperative powers of surfing to Drake — simply for his soul, simply to surf.

One other aspect of island life Shawn had learned to expect was the prevalent atmosphere of reverse discrimination. This was the Hawaiians' homeland and they never let you forget it. On Shawn's first visit to the grocery store, glares of dominance drove him to the back of the line and he couldn't count on two hands the number of times a group of Hawaiians would go silent upon his approach. Nope, regardless of dark tan and reputation, he was still a _malihini_ , mainlander, and a Texas-slang-spewing Puerto Rican at that.

Well, it was still home and they both needed a good rest, so he was glad to hole up for a few days. Shawn pulled into his secluded driveway, entered his modified Quonset hut and booted up his computer to check the surf forecast. _Damn, just come in the door to relax and we have a swell alert._

Bold yellow text ran across his screen warning all north coastal residents of a dangerous swell event. A powerful Bering Sea storm thousands of miles north radiated monster waves reaching three stories high, barreling towards and preparing to smash into the Hawaiian Islands by the next morning. H-Bay was at the epicenter and with waves of this magnitude, he and Drake were about to brush aside the "no photo rule."

With a quick text from Shawn, Drake was soon in the water cranking his powerful arms towards the point and covering the mile across the bay in record time. Shawn selected two essential lenses and jammed them into a chewed-up duffle hoping to camouflage his intentions when he strolled casually down towards the end of the famous concrete pier. Reaching the end, he selected a spot, glad to be partially hidden by the drooping corrugated roof. Even in this position the take-off point was still a good distance from his perch.

Grabbing a camera body he needed a lens, and for today's purpose, he chose his old Canon 800mm f4.5, a favorite used by _Nat Geo_ photographers. The new 1200mm f2.8 Deep Surf just shipped him would have been better, but it was too big to fit in the duffle. So he made do with the 800mm and when he set up, he still strained to distinguish Drake amongst the some of the most daring surfers on the island, from more than a half mile away..

The largest of the today's wave sets were predicted to arrive around noon. Then precisely 12:02 p.m., a dark shadow trimmed the horizon across the mouth of the bay. Shawn watched as all the surfers but one paddled frantically out towards the watery walls of daunting energy. They all knew if they got caught inside, in front of the breaking waves, they could be crushed or drowned with little hope of rescue. Shawn remembered one surfer who was nailed when a thirty-foot wave broke directly down upon him. When surf rescue finally reached his ragdoll body, the leash around his ankle was attached to an eight-inch remnant of his board. The dead surfer had surfed this point for twelve years, but took the ocean for granted and paid the ultimate price.

Shawn turned back his attention to the lone surfer who recklessly moved west in a line parallel to the incoming swells and contrary to the direction of the others who obeyed their self-preservation instincts. Shawn knew this had to be Drake as only Drake would invite, intercept and attempt to ride such a colossal wave. As the first upsurge came over the reef, its face lifted in height from thirty to forty feet and Drake chose that moment to whip around and charge down into the powerful darkness now enveloping his board and body. Shawn immediately began to shoot and was soon immersed in the moment. Drake met, conquered and then paddled back out for another.

As the waves grew larger by the hour, the locals left, and only Drake remained in the water. Drake drove hard all afternoon and continued to burrow deeper and more aggressively into every wave. Drake became, and was, the Show — all the more fortunate for Shawn who remained undetected on the pier as all eyes were on the world's best!

By four o'clock the waves started to taper and Shawn decided not to push his luck, stopped shooting and slipped back from the pier's edge. He had all the images he needed and would have to spend even more time in the editing room tagging them with fake GPS coordinates to disguise the fact they were taken at here in Kauai.

Like most of the world's best photographers, Shawn maintained a 360-degree field of view and practiced acute situational awareness, so he made one final sweep of the bay and beach and opted to take advantage of this rare chance to photograph at Hanalei Bay. He followed the pro photographer's axiom: show up to shoot some surf, walk away with an award-winning image of two ospreys fighting in midair over a tasty mahi mahi. You just never knew what might be happening alongside you beyond your peripheral vision.

Before shooting, he had switched to a 70-200mm f2.8, a smaller lens he liked as his favorite when he took casual photographs. Looking straight down the pier towards the parking lot filled with four-wheel drives he noticed a motley assembly of middle-aged Hawaiians in traditional island gowns and Aloha shirts and each adorned with beautiful orchid leis. Once together, they formed a procession and headed for the pier, slowly walking in his direction. It was then Shawn heard music, _The Hawaiian Wedding Song_ , coming from the shoulder of a huge, black man, with giant white teeth, grinning ear to ear.

When the wedding procession reached his platform, it came to a stop very close to Shawn and when the group parted they revealed a local woman, apparently the bride, and a pocked-face groom dressed respectfully in a white shirt and black pants, one third the weight and girth of his soon-to-be wife. Shawn also noticed while the bride was hardly a "looker," her face glowed as any girl's did on her wedding day.

The wedding party queued up along the water's edge and a small _kahuna pule_ , or priest, opened a leather-bound collection of local prayers, searching for his chosen passages. Shawn was shocked to realize the only cameras they all had were cell phones and with that, his heart dropped to his sandals.

"Brah," Shawn whispered to the boom box fellow. "This is wrong in so many ways. Would you ask the bride if I'd be permitted to act as her wedding photographer? Tell her it would be an honor to contribute to her day of love."

The big guy shifted over, whispered into her ear, and then nodded approval to Shawn, with the chubby bride beaming alongside. She motioned to Shawn to stand before her, placed a lei around his neck and said with an embrace, "God bless you for your giving heart."

With his back to the sea, the solemn kahuna pule opened his palms above the couple, announcing to all, "With this sacred Ti leaf, and the cleansing water of the ocean, where all life begins and ends, you wash away your past and prepare for a new life together."

Shawn smiled to himself behind the camera when his free left eye spotted Drake out in the surf executing a spirited aerial. _Oh well, I guess I missed one_ , he thought.

As the service started Shawn moved silently around the perimeter treating this photo session as the most important assignment he had ever undertaken. He sought every flattering angle, dipped low to soften the light upon their faces, and was very happy to be providing unconditional service for a special moment in the couple's life.

The kahuna resumed, "Your old lives join the ancestors in the great ocean as your new life together begins. You may now kiss the bride."

The celebrant winked to the boom box holder who then raised a ceremonial conch shell to his lips. With one powerful breath into the small opening of the shell, the big man sounded the Hawaiian announcement of joy and love. As the couple kissed, the guests cheered and clapped for the newlyweds.

The kahuna again raised his arms and continued, "A lei is love and should never be thrown away unless it is cast into the ocean to be carried to your beloved deceased. Those who wish may do so now."

First one, then several, made their way down the stairs to the water's edge and tossed their leis into the surging white water flowing over the landing. Shawn was hypnotized as he snapped away when his lei brushed his hand. _Sure, why not_ , he thought. _I'll send this to my grandfather who gave me so many gifts in his life._

Shawn strode down to the water, lifted the lei from his neck, and threw it like a hula hoop where it landing softly on the curve of a wave. But his lei, rather than drift off like the others, was snatched up by the crest of the wave and thrust back at the landing where it became tangled around his ankles in the surf.

Amused, Shawn picked it back up to toss once again, but the priest raised his arm and uttered, "Keep it. A loved one has sent it back. Aloha, the breath of life from the other side. It is a powerful sign."

"Of what _padre_ , what 'other side' do you mean?" Shawn asked.

"There is more you are aware of than you are allowing yourself to see. You will know when you know."

Shawn looked at the soggy lei he held in his hand as sea foam swirled over his feet. In his life he had always sensed there was much within the light and color around him. What was he missing?

Chapter 6

Drake entered the surfer bar and grill in Kapaa like he was walking onto a yacht, but his attitude was hubris, not happiness. With Frisco at his side (although dogs were not allowed in restaurants and bars, Frisco was the island exception), the chicks checked Drake out and the dudes hoped he would extend congrats on a wave well surfed. Drake gave one guy a high five, and the surfer, totally stoked, exclaimed, "Man, Drake Powers was jammed on my ride!"

As he passed a blonde surf babe, or lovely "Lisa," as Drake liked to refer to beautiful ladies, she announced to all in the bar, "Enter Drake Powers, three time world champion and the first man ever to land a three sixty power roll at Pipe!"

Drake was then enveloped by the crowd's local chant of praise, "ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo!" which subsided only when he raised his fists in his signature stance of victory.

By the time Drake sat down next to him, Shawn was well into his third Komonawana-drinka island brew or whatever the hell they called this swill. After assignments to Ireland and Australia where they drank real beer, he downed Hawaiian draft solely to quench his thirst, not for taste or buzz.

Having never left Drakes side, when Frisco caught sight of Shawn who was his second favorite person of all time, he rose on his hind legs for the obligatory double-behind-the-dog-ears scratch session.

"My Frisco Nabisco Biscuit," Shawn cooed, "always happier to see you than your mongrel of a master! You are the best Frisco de la Bisco a man could ever know!" (Shawn had dozens of name combinations for Frisco and no two were the same!)

When Frisco was satisfied his ears had been well attended to, with so much to do, he pranced off for his rounds of the bar to collect additional pets and kisses from the ladies.

"Check this out Señor Drakster!" Shawn mocked, turning his photo viewing tablet towards Drake while spinning through today's pics.

Drake's gaze reluctantly shifted from a fresh-spotted "hottie" across the bar to Shawn's display. After seeing the first of a few spectacular images from the day's session, Drake exclaimed, "Brah, I'll say it again, that sentence, or century or whatever you call that camera is sick, like 3D. You could walk into those pictures, right down the barrel and to the back of the shack! Hell my Bruddah, I do believe I can see the Pope's living room tucked away in the way back machine!"

Shawn loved the way surfers described the skill of tucking up so far back into the tube of a wave no one on shore could see you. Other names for it were "getting tubed," "the green room," "getting barreled," or as Drake put it, "the Pope's living room." Drake used this analogy to describe being even further back in the tube than most surfers. Once, when he was barreled for a very long time on a wave and asked what it was like, he said, "Mmm, spent some time chatting with the Pope, even got to kiss his ring!"

After a few more minutes viewing images, Shawn suddenly flipped off the display. He hated showing unedited photos. He considered them "unfinished works of art" and he still wanted to explain to those gathered around how his Sentient captured light in three dimensions.

"Like a hologram," Shawn said, "it captures the entire subject, from front to back, not just its surface. With the addition of my incredible lenses acting as giant light magnets, for the first time ever, data from the subject isn't lost due to the limitations of the camera's sensors."

Although he wanted Drake and the girls to understand the science, he was fairly sure it was lost on them. So, purely for his benefit and enjoyment, as he loved to talk photography every chance he got, he continued, "Now, one or two camera companies have come up with innovative cameras which allow you to change your focus point on the computer _after_ you take the photo as the lens captures the entire light field, but the Sentient goes further. It has biogenic sensors which can read beyond the visual surface of the subject, like an x-ray, capturing light particles within the subject on what my old girlfriend Sally calls the "quantum level."

Finally tiring of talking to himself, he paused then concluded, "Yeah y'all, this new camera is genius and all Sally would tell me is they invented it to find bad guys from an airplane!"

Just then two of the more aggressive Drake groupies primped up and made their move. "Excuse us," one asked, arching a brow, "maybe you could help us settle an argument?"

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," Drake responded, sensing an opportunity.

"Well, I think Drake Powers is the sexiest man on Kauai, but Susie here says it's Shawn Pérez. Which of us is right?"

Shawn rolled out with his best, yet terrible southern drawl. "Damn, my little honey, that's a tough one. I'm always preferential to my good looks."

But Drake struck back, "hey check this rig," turning his body from side to side, "youth and beauty wins over worn and weary, hands down!"

While the girls were undressing both men with their eyes, Susie slid next Shawn. "I don't know, my mom says the making of a good man, like good wine, takes time."

Her girlfriend shot back, "So maybe you should bring your mom next time and she and Shawn could hook up. He looks like he's got another year or two left in him, if she goes easy on him."

Susie latched onto Shawn's arm. "Well, how about we get some steaks, some new wine, and some older wine, and you guys come back to our place for a little research on the subject."

Drake, with his cat-ate-the-canary grin joined in, "I am digging this so let's go! Hot damn, a Lisa for you, and a Lisa for me!"

Shawn slid his arm from Susie's embrace, explaining, "Ladies, as much as I'd love to...." He then motioned to Drake and elaborated, "I've got to smash today's shots of this photo hog into one spectacular image. His sponsor's in Cali-forn-i-a are waiting for a totally different kind of upload."

"Aw come on, don't be a party pooper. Can't it wait till tomorrow? Uploading with us is a hell of a lot less work — and definitely more fun!"

"No offense to you two lovely beach Betties, but the work I have to do tonight will blast the surf world into another dimension. I'm making a life-size hologram of Drake buried and upside down in the barrel of a wave."

"You bet, it'll be nutz," Drake added. "See this slammin' camera? It's like the future of photography. But Shawn would rather have sex with it instead of you tonight. C'mon Shawn, before you bolt, snap some pics of me and my new best friends before we mess up our hair. It'll remind you of how much fun you might've had. Snuggle up honeys, you're about to have your picture taken by the world's best!"

Shawn picked up his bag to remove his camera, "Yeah, yeah, right. Go ahead, slide in there with _Mistah Par Tee Power'_."

Frisco, who must have completed his rounds, came from nowhere and on cue jumped up on Drake's lap while Susie and her friend wrapped their arms around them both, forming an impressive Drake-Frisco sandwich. As the girls playfully swooned over Drake, Shawn snapped out a handful of "night to remember" pics. After he took about twenty or thirty photos Shawn put away his gear and while zipping up his camera bag, Susie handed him a bar napkin with her contact information on it.

"You might want to hand deliver me a copy of that photo, Mr. Pérez, and I'll give you something to really remember me by. I mean, who has a picture with Drake Powers taken by Shawn Pérez? I want to be able to thank you the right way, up close and personal."

She then added, "And don't you forget us and delete any of those pictures."

Drake poked Shawn in the chest and said to the girls, "No need for worry where that's concerned. In all the years I've known Shawn, he has never, ever deleted one of his photos with a person in it."

Drake went on to harass Shawn by retelling the story of their near-spearing by the tribesmen and Shawn's resulting superstitions.

"It's wack, I know," Drake said, finishing his thought, "but he believes if he deletes a photo, he erases a piece of a soul — and Shawn's a guy who doesn't like to take chances with other people's lives and shit."

"C'mon Drake, told you a million times, not saying I believe it 100%, just playing it safe. Shit, more than anyone you should appreciate it. Hell, there's so little depth to you, if I started deleting your images, you'd disappear!"

"Yeah sure, but you know the true reason you don't delete my pics? It's because you and me are the tightest Brahs ever... except for me and Frisk of course."

They gave each other a fingertip-sliding handshake, and then Shawn pushed Drake towards the women.

"Ladies, just keep D.P.'s mouth filled with food or booze and less stupid shit will come out. Tonight I will be busy creating the most realistic hologram ever. Too bad it must be of this sorry-ass gringo."

Shawn pointed at Drake, smirked and walked out, leaving one slightly disappointed girl at the bar, a forlorn Frisco, and a very happy Drake kicking it into " _Par Tee_ " mode.

Chapter 7

Dr. Jarrard held his hands on the worn steering wheel of his crusty Volvo wondering why someone, anyone, would make a fuss over him. Growing up, his mother barely took time other than to tell him to study more. She often said playing with friends was just a waste of time. "Theodore, those boys will be long gone when you are a professor at MIT."

Well, she was right about the academic achievement part, but now he had neither friends nor the social skills to maintain relationships, and he hid behind the better-than-thou façade to protect himself from his loneliness.

As his brakes screeched, he parked in his assigned space and jerked open the door with vice grips attached to the broken door handle. Entering the Photon building, he flashed his ID to the overweight guard, walked through the metal detectors and headed towards the sturdy doorway to the classified laboratories.

"Afternoon, Dr. Jarrard," welcomed the guard and, as usual, Jarrard said nothing.

Inside, Sally was hard at work attempting to integrate the industrial 3D printer with the Sentient editing software. She had determined they might be able to manipulate the images from the Sentient and use those photographs to "print" consumer products using 3D print technology.

_She is a silly woman_ , Jarrard thought. _Why doesn't she stay focused on DIA's number one project?_

After a few moments, realizing Jarrard was looking over her shoulder, she brusquely walked over to her desk to get away from his snooping eyes. For more than two and a half years, Sally had been perfecting the ability of the Sentient imaging devices to peer deeper into living beings. Her objective was to distinguish DNA, but remarkably, the research yielded discoveries crossing into the realm of quantum physics. While her former co-worker and mentor, Dr. Benjamin Campbell, created the hypothesis behind her current work, Sally was the one who applied theory to practice — or as she liked to say: "Some people dream, I want to live the dream." But today, this was not what she was working on.

Yesterday, she received an email from Shawn asking for help with a hologram he was crafting from images of Drake surfing the historic Kauai swell. Shawn needed her expertise to help produce a "Drake Powers" hologram in time for Surf Expo next week in San Diego. He said he had questions for her and included a link to a shared folder which held images he wanted her to see, which she opened, but for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why there were pictures of a Hawaiian bride and groom in the collection. Shawn never ceased to surprise her. As one of the most prominent and highly-paid international photographers, he always followed his heart.

Jarrard had followed Sally over to her work station and stood behind her again. "This is not science. You're helping your boyfriend make a model for an advertising campaign. Isn't the world crass enough?"

"TJ." She knew this bugged the hell out him. "This is a practical application of my research and Deep Surf pays handsomely. We supply the Sentient to their number one photographer, who, yes, I _used to_ date. In return, they provide us with other possible applications of the technology for consumer use. Deep Surf also contributes 32% of our funding — second only to the government. I would think you'd approve of our efforts to development commercial applications, rather than solely focusing on military intelligence."

Jarrard knew this to be true, but said nonetheless, "It demeans your work and insults our professional integrity."

"Okay, Mister Jarrard," Sally mocked. "You're developing laser-powered weapons which can incinerate an entire building in minutes. This is much nobler, I imagine?"

Jarrard jammed his hands deep into his lab coat and walked away.

A blinking light on the corner of Sally's display signaled the video call she was expecting, and an icon with Shawn's bronzed face filled the monitor. Sally clicked the end of his shiny red nose, and Shawn instantly appeared before her sitting at the large table in his Hawaiian studio.

"Sally, _mi corozón_! You ain't ever going to believe what I've just seen, I mean, if I saw it at all! I've been hammering away since I messaged you, merging and compressing the images from the other day's shoot. I've been using the hybrid software package you sent me and the fusion of the pictures, if you can still call them that, is _moy loco_."

His eyes wandered past Sally and he barked, "What is that thing? Holy shit, I know what that is, seen it in one of my photography mags — a 3D weapons printer. Kick my sweet mother's ass! Where did you get the big boy?"

"Deep Surf funded it. They asked me to play with it and see if I could produce any surfboards or clothing using the Sentient images. If successful, they could get out of the Indonesian sweat shops and start popping out 3D surfboards as well, but so far, it's a no go — still fun to play with though!"

From behind, Jarrard sneered, "A swimwear company, nonsense!"

"Yo, Señor Jarrardo, el capitán of everything bitter and geeky, how goes it partner?" beckoned Shawn. Most people hated Jarrard, but Shawn thought he was a pisser, wrapped just tight enough to be interesting and a blast to dick around with.

"Hey Sally, love this groovy guy, but we need to speak beyond the snooping ears of TJ Dork Meister. Can you get him out of there?"

Getting the message and knowing Sally would drive him out anyway, Jarrard moved towards the exit. "Mr. Powers, do you wear, consume or drive anything that doesn't have a logo on it?"

"You betcha — Fruit of the Looms! Hey, want to come over for lunch, I'll make you a sandwich and you can eat my shorts?" Shawn laughed while Jarrard left in a huff.

Sally leaned in towards the screen and clicked on her headset for privacy. "Would you stop pissing him off? I have to work with the guy, and now he's going to be snotty all day. Tell me, what do you think you've seen?"

"Sorry Sally, but he asks for it and honestly, I think he likes the attention. Shit, any attention is good attention for a guy like him."

"Okay, maybe he does like your badgering in some weird way. Now show me what you've got. Very busy today working on a deadline for Defense."

Shawn motioned to the storage device on his desk back in Hawaii. "Sal, started a massive file transfer to you about forty-five minutes ago. Even with your DIA hot-shit network links, it will take some time, but should pop in any minute. Take a look now, _mi amor_."

Sally tapped a starburst icon on the toolbar beneath Shawn's face. On the screen, a green bar had just about reached the end when suddenly _pop_ and a folder appeared with an audio alert: "You've got Shawn!"

_Geez, he is such an idiot sometimes_ , Sally thought.

"Sally, know you're busy with your spy projects, but this is way too cool not to mess with. Move the largest file — the one called _6_14_DPHologramtest_ — to where you can open it in the program; hope I saved it right. When it loads, be sure no one is around, then release the data imaging array. It should work in somewhat the same way my hologram generator works. When it reaches completion, don't be scared because it finishes with a _grande_ bang. The way I processed and layered the images makes for a pretty dramatic release when it fully constructs. So get ready to be knocked on your cute little ass!"

Without further instruction, Sally looked around to make sure all was clear, and tapped the "run" button in the program window. At once, a hologram began to assemble on the small platform they used to view their images. Unlike Star Trek's "beam me up, Scottie" transporter, this was more like a swirl of light, almost as if the imaging data particles were looking for their correct position.

As the hologram worked towards its full resolution, Shawn described what he thought was occurring in the only way he could. "Sally, it's like the sand I watch blow across the beach on a windy day, rolling and bouncing until finding a perfect fit, interlocking into its predestined spot. That's why sand dunes are so strong – the process of natural assembly makes the whole stronger than the sum of its parts. It's as if the hologram particles you see there are looking for their hardwired place in the structure. Not sure if that's the best word for it though."

Sally soon saw a three-dimensional Drake materialize with a whisper, upside down in the hollow part of a wave, and, although Shawn had warned her, she jumped backwards two feet when a loud _bang_ filled the lab with a shudder she could only compare to a California tremor.

"Mother in heaven" Sally shrieked! "What was that? Did we knock out something in the apparatus?"

"Relax Sal, told you it was coming, now watch carefully. Look at Drake's face."

Sally peered closely at the real life replica of Drake. _My God, even the water looks real, wet even. How did he do this? I'm the friggin' scientist!_

Moving her eyes to Drake's face, she looked intently into his eyes. "Shawn, he looks like he is checking me out. This is too weird. I know he's always looked me over in real life, but he never checked me out like this."

"Sal, wait. Wait and keep looking at his face. Focus on Drake's eyes now."

Not a split second later, as she gazed into Drake's eyes (which gave her the creepy feeling of being stalked) his eyes suddenly darted to the left and blinked a number of times, as if he was waking from a deep sleep.

Sally gasped, "Is this even possible?"

"Sally, ya see what I mean? I'm spooked and stoked all at the same time. What are we seeing? I still had about two hundred more images to layer in, but my software maxed out. What will happen after I add those into the mix?"

"I have no earthly idea Shawn. I don't even know what to make of this. Is it an anomaly where we think we see movement where it can't possibly be? This software was designed by Ben and when we last spoke he told me he upgraded the image array capability to fully optimize the hologram's core particle base, but as brilliant as he is, I had no reason to expect anything so groundbreaking. Nor did I think he was hiding the possibility of such an astounding outcome."

Sally took a breath. "Not that I need one, but this is as good of a reason as any to give Ben a visit. His lab is in Kauai, not far from you. Besides," she said fast, "we have a lot to catch up on." At the other end of the room, Jarrard leaned out from behind a column, furious that he couldn't see what Sally just beheld. He silently fumed with the realization he didn't have access to her research or files, but if he could count on anything, it was on the power of his manic determination; he promised himself to do whatever it took to find out what it was Sally and Shawn had just witnessed.

Chapter 8

Shawn was satisfied he had gotten Sally's attention with the radical hologram. Just before they closed the video call, Sally wisely suggested he dilute the hologram for Surf Expo a bit more to prevent it from turning _too real,_ which was the best way they could describe it. So after twenty-four more hours at the "bench," as he called his photo editing station, he logged off his computer, genuinely stoked.

Shawn was aware Sally was way smarter than him intellectually, and that their lives were like _different trains on different tracks going in different directions_ , but the video call left him feeling alive because the conversation ended with them agreeing to meet. Specifically, they would in meet in San Diego, after Surf Expo.

Each year, as required by their sponsor, Shawn and Drake flew to Surf Expo for an obligatory corporate hoo-ha, but because of the arranged meeting with Sally (and unlike past Expos where he would stay and party to keep his Deep Surf gig intact), he would fly out early with Sally to Kauai and track down Ben together. He needed to change his ticket right away, but all he could think of was her beautiful blue eyes.

Shawn stood from his desk, clustered with a half-dozen, super-resolution displays made especially for professional photographers. A semi-circle of polished metal, cables, and flashing back-up drives were in harsh contrast to the grass-roofed structure he called home. His funky abode was once a World War II barracks for troops conducting coastal watch operations. After he bought it, he ripped off the metal roof and replaced it with thatched sugarcane leaves lashed together with coconut husk fibers. He also re-boarded the walls with island style wood to create a rustic living space within. In this idyllic seclusion, the gorgeous light surrounding him soothed his tired soul.

As he lay exhausted on the hammock dangling in the center of the room, the bamboo door swung open silently and a stunning Polynesian beauty came in, setting a basket of fruit in the center of the natural Koa wood table. Sensing her presence and without turning, Shawn asked, "Wairau, you been stealing' fruit again?"

"I did not steal it, I picked it," she replied.

"Sure, from whose plantation? This ain't your tribal island, Wairau, people own shit around here," Shawn kidded. "Good you don't like pot. You take some buds off the valley druggies, you'd be fertilizer soon enough."

"Do they own the rain which watered this fruit, or the sunshine giving it life?" she softly asked, as she arranged the sweet pineapples, papayas, and lychees.

"Well, you're always telling me I steal souls, you're not much better stealing fruit."

"Shawn Pérez," she chastened, "we have the tree's blessing to eat her fruit. No one willingly parts with a piece of their soul."

"Well, I'm glad the money I spend sponsoring your PhD in Polynesian studies ain't going to waste. You got it piled higher and deeper than any of them Hawaiian kahunas already."

"Shawn, my traditional learning is a way for me to understand your ways. What I believe in life has not changed because of the knowledge I have gained."

"And _lokahi_ to you too, ya little fruit thief."

*****

Shawn was forever changed on the day he was attacked by the island warriors, and before losing sight of the island he promised he would return. One reason was to see if he could possibly recover his gear, that is if any of it was still in one piece and not rusted away. The second was to learn more about the native islanders' superstitions. He wanted to know why their culture accepted as fact that a photo of someone took a piece of their soul. If the tribe existed in that jungle for centuries, how many cameras could they have possibly seen to come to this conclusion? It was clear by their behavior they had little exposure to the outside world.

So Shawn traveled back to the island and his old guide Tagoga set him up with a local translator. It was Shawn's first trip in seven years where he did not have a surfer to shoot or a camera in hand. There was no way he was going to risk getting killed because he took a photo this go-around! Togoga had told him the chief had died two years earlier which reportedly calmed the tribe's past violent demeanor, but he misjudged years ago and he swore not to take any chances.

The translator also acted as a guide and they made their way underneath the dense forest canopy to the tribe's village — a collection of small huts around a decaying spirit house. The translator entered the doorway of the largest hut and soon reappeared to tell Shawn he was welcome to eat at a feast in his honor. During the meal, Shawn was drawn into their spiritual conversations where they offered stories passed down as to why they felt a person's soul could be transferred from their bodies. The storytellers spoke of creation and how all energy was from one source, and both light and energy shared the same space in the heavens. They told how their deity had given form to energy and light by blessing it, allowing it to create from its presence a conscious being. This God instructed them to see themselves in the same way or all as one, sharing the same space, the same light, and the same energy. They also lived according to karma where their spiritual growth could only be gained by their actions in this life, their soul evolving within them, moving in time and space.

In a more recent history, there was a story from a hundred years ago. It was said a wooden structure with a flying cloth appeared beyond the reef. From the sailing ship came men who spent days on the island occasionally interacting with the tribesmen. They carried a strange box which was held up by three thin trees. When they came to an island bird or animal, one man would put a black cover over his head and cause a bright flash of light. Then they would move the box until they came to another bird.

On the last day of many, the islanders became more curious and one visitor, the man who disappeared into the box, came to the chief and showed him his very first photo. As the tribe's leader had no point of reference, he had no way of comprehending the black and white image of the pelican. As it was his responsibility to his people to make sense of what he was unable to explain, he concluded the image could only exist because they had taken a piece of the pelican, or captured part of its very essence.

While the traveler stood face to face with the tribe as Shawn would do years later, they felt they had shared a wonderment of the modern world with the backward people, and while the first photographer waited, the tribesmen listened closely to the chief as he warned them of the stranger's ability to take the soul from the living creature. Then, making the same mistake Shawn had made by misinterpreting the mood of the chief, the expedition photographer moved the camera and pointed it directly at the islanders. Like in Shawn's living nightmare, violence erupted amongst the tribesman. The clan leader shouted out in warning, "they come to steal our souls, to take our spirit, and keep it for their own!" Unlike Shawn though, many of these first visitors ended up staying for dinner, but not in the way Shawn wanted to hear.

Shawn needed little more information to appreciate the terror he caused when he took their picture two years ago.

On this second visit to the island, Shawn was freed from the stress he had become used to, and he became close to the family of the same young girl he given a candy to on his first trip. Through them he learned conditions had become harder on the island as more visitors arrived after Drake bragged about surfing the beautiful, undiscovered waves. Apparently, the photographs he published also contributed to the weakening of the tribe's traditional beliefs.

Wairua, as he had come to know her by, became obsessed with the ways of the new visitors and told her parents she desired to see more of what their universal God had created. She said wished to leave the island.

These were strong words as her tribe's religion held that a spirit or being must be free to go where it is guided. Just as light flows around the islands and the seas, children must follow their predetermined destiny, so while no parent willingly sends their child away, particularly when they never know if they will see them again, they consented when Shawn offered to act as her guardian. He promised he would keep her safe and sheltered from the evil Wairua's mother feared most, as they knew little of outside civilization beyond their island. He also swore (on his God and their God) he would bring her home each year to visit, which he did faithfully.

Shawn found it weird to be part-parent, part-friend to Wairua. He immediately enrolled her into Hanalei's high school where, once she mastered reading and writing, she graduated with honors and went on to attend the university on the Big Island. In thanks, Wairua helped keep Shawn's house, and acted as the caretaker for his spirit and his soul. In doing so, she never missed the chance to remind him he was destroying everyone and everything he photographed.

*****

Shawn tried to continue the back and forth exchange with Wairua, but his voice exposed his fatigue. The hammock slowed and Shawn fell into a much needed sleep.

Knowing he had dozed off, Wairua took her time speaking as she sliced a papaya into spears. "Shawn, you look as if you haven't eaten. Your eyes look empty, too. How long were you at your image screens?" She put the bowl of the fruit on a table next to the hammock. "How will you ever find happiness in your work, stealing the souls of others? You know, one day you will see — someone you love will lose their spirit, then you shall see."

With that, Wairua knelt alongside her protector and prayed.

Chapter 9

A white Toyota 4Runner pickup trimmed with years of rust rolled slowly down the scarred slope and carefully came to a stop. Common to this part of Afghanistan, the truck had tinted glass — probably the only luxury the Taliban allowed in their trucks — and behind the windshield sat two figures. The shadowed faces had long beards and one wore a cloth robe, yet it was clear they were both Americans. The passenger-side individual wore a dusty and wrinkled oxford shirt and he signaled to the driver to cut the engine. Now both men waited in silence broken only by an occasional, muffled transmission emitted from the desert-brown backpack resting between them.

After thirty minutes or so, "Oxford" stepped out and came around to the back of the vehicle. The truck bed had been modified in a haphazard fashion with sheets of plywood laid across the open cargo area to create a platform. Upon the platform, and cabled to the four corners of the bed, was a dark black, carbon-fiber dome which, apart from the color, resembled an igloo. The driver, who minutes earlier had initiated communications on his secure satellite phone, abruptly terminated contact and stuffed the handset into a pouch in his khaki cargo pants beneath his robe. He then jumped out and they both began to loosen the cables holding the dome in place.

The man in the oxford shirt spoke first and firmly said to the other, "Work with me and follow everything I've shown you; there is no room for mistakes."

The man in the robe nodded and released the dome from its shackles by twisting the dust-coated turnbuckles in succession. Finally, with both men's combined effort, they lifted the dome, careful not to hit it against the side of the device inside.

"Once this mission's over, no one will doubt the effectiveness of this new technology," "Oxford" said, leaning underneath the drone. "Help me with the bolts holding down the legs and be careful not to hit the imaging device in the center."

"Major Craig, I hope you're right. I'd hate to think we dragged our sorry asses out here to play with RC helicopters on steroids, sir."

Craig nodded, all business and now too busy to speak as they worked to free the dark, imposing aircraft.

Two days earlier, Craig had arrived in Kandahar after more than thirty hours of travel. Hanging in webbed jump seats, he was shuttled halfway around the globe in the freezing cargo hold of a massive C-5 Galaxy transport. Forty-eight hours prior to that departure, the call had come informing him of his mission. His first directive was to travel to Aberdeen Proving Ground, south of Baltimore-Washington airport, conveniently located between Fort Meade, or "The Fort," as it was known, and National Security Agency Headquarters — two hotbeds of U.S. national intelligence and security.

After arriving at and driving onto the Army post, Craig located the building he sought —a bland brick warehouse. As he pulled in front of its loading dock, he hoped he had followed the directions correctly, or he'd feel like an idiot when the overhead door opened only to see cartons of barracks toilet paper or bags of laundered uniforms stacked to the ceiling. But Craig's self-doubts were always fleeting. He prided himself on being flawless in the execution of anything he undertook and continually improved his clandestine survival skill sets, ever striving to better himself and maintain the edge needed to survive. _I'll die when and where I choose, or when the Sweet Lord decides, but then again, only when I give him permission._

He knew they had selected him to fulfill today's mission because of his measured ruthlessness, as well as his broader scientific understanding of the bleeding-edge technology he was now sworn to protect. And they knew he would die to keep its secret.

*****

Craig had gone "hot" soon after leaving language school, unofficially disappearing as he entered deep cover. As instructed and without fail, he poked his head up only once every eight or nine months on a predetermined schedule set as to not interrupt the rhythm of his missions. In his capacity as an Agency "ghost," he became a ninja of world travel and foreign government insertion. Most importantly, Craig left no trace of where he had been, was at any time, or his intended destination.

Craig's covert existence depended highly on the Agency's traditional spy-craft techniques, but while undercover, he augmented these tools by self-educating himself on the realm of virtual existence through the teachings of Eastern religions. He had suspected and confirmed that all sentient beings have value since they might be reincarnated souls, but their "otherness" is nevertheless illusory.

Craig interpreted this to his advantage to mean two things: never take anyone at face value and there is always much more than meets the eye. He perfected and used his "otherness" to blend silently into whatever environment he chose.

As his handlers never knew for certain how long Craig's missions would last, he always made sure he completed them ahead of schedule, then spent months at a time in remote corners of the world, questioning spiritual men on ancient beliefs. Tibetan monks, witch doctors of Papua New Guinea, and the holy men of isolated Amazonian tribes became the advisors to his inner being and from these wise souls he became aware of a universal level of reality and awareness. They taught him most unbelievers see what they choose to see, live in a world of their own restrictive design, and limit the love and life experiences open to them. If they would only open their eyes, they would see the wonderments of life, rather than the drudgery of their existence. These teachings allowed him to lie in the bed of death and destruction he had wrought. They allowed him to become whole. Through their teachings, he became one of the most elusive humans on the planet. When Craig chose not to exist, he simply did not exist.

*****

Suddenly, the chains on the massive, loading dock door began to clang against the walls of the building after someone within pushed a button. Behind the industrial opening stood four soldiers, shielding their eyes as the setting sun shone into the dimly-lit warehouse. Craig couldn't help thinking, _Christ, they're all blind. If I was an adversary, they would all be dead now._

Entering the building, he went at once to the igloo-like dome which housed the device he and Sally had field-tested months ago in Southern California. The drone was sitting on a large table and he immediately recognized it was much different in size, weight and sleekness compared to their first prototype. _I hope to God they hardened this beast for some of the worst conditions on the planet_ , he thought. The Mojave was a picnic compared to the mountain range along the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.

The next stage of his assignment was to transport the advanced, unmanned aerial system to its departure point, and protect it along the way. Looking at the machine, Craig shouted to one of the privates, "How the hell do you expect me to put this on my BMW?"

With a smile, the soldier pushed a button and the steel rolling door, adjacent to where he now stood, rose up to reveal a brand new Ford Diesel 350. The truck sported a raised windowless bed enclosure, which offered plenty of space to house and hide the equipment for the second leg of his journey to Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Once he reached Bragg, he was to link up with a Special Forces team to load all but the truck into the C-5 transport standing by at the former Pope Air Force Base, Bragg's nearby service airfield. From there they would fly directly to the western edge of Afghanistan.

Even though he offered his ID, before the soldiers would load him up, they ran him through a number of identification protocols including eye scans, fingerprint confirmation, and a new one where they took a spit swab for DNA identification. Hell, he thought, he knew every way to beat these tests. Besides, they might not take themselves so seriously if they knew the very device they're about to load up will make all these bullshit protocols obsolete.

Nonetheless, when they were satisfied Craig was who he was supposed to be, the soldiers followed Craig's orders to secure the payload in the back of the truck. Craig realized, while this was not the most strategic package he had ever transported, it was definitely the most expensive, so he continued to bark orders at the warehouse team thinking that he didn't need it broken before it even got on the truck. _Damn_ , he thought, _can't wait to hit the Beltway with the morons and potholes after I leave here_. He had no solution for those world problems.

Craig returned the soldiers' salute and bid farewell, noting several more reasons why they would be dead now due to their slackness.

Craig then settled into his five-hour drive to Fayetteville and began to visualize every step of his plan for the week to come. He peered and peeked behind the hidden recesses of his mind, searching for flaws, any number of which could compromise his mission. One thing for sure, while he never doubted his own abilities, it never hurt to stack the deck and have Delta Force, the most highly-trained, field-effective U.S. Special Operations team at his side. They would eliminate all obstacles and ensure every opportunity for success by taking control of the surrounding countryside so Craig could identify, obtain and extract the most dangerous terrorist in the world.

Chapter 10

Deep Surf's exhibit at Surf Expo encompassed almost an entire city block. As the dominant brand of the world's surf culture, everyone wanted access to their "compound" within the San Diego Convention Center, but entry was by invitation only. The sole entrance was staffed by beautiful, tanned women wearing Deep Surf's latest sexy apparel. Attractive as they were, these top models were more like bodyguards who, if required, could protect the President. As Deep Surf only sold to exclusive top-tier surf retailers, "no one need apply" was the message to other low-end surf shops. Theirs was the largest exhibit of all the attending companies and it was located in the center of the immense hall; a building within a building, with dozens of product viewing booths, a complete lunch through dinner restaurant, a bar, and a circular stage rotating continuously while swimsuit models adorned the edges.

At four o'clock and on schedule, with the entire Deep Surf expo space jammed with VIPs and chosen retailers, the models all moved to center stage to form a tight circle. As lights dimmed, spotlights blazed on and off from amongst the cluster of beauties, and a dozen of the greatest surfers of the day rose up from beneath the stage.

To thunderous applause the women parted to reveal twelve elite athletes. Drake Powers stepped forward. Instantly, a deafening roar welcomed Drake and the other men and women surfers sponsored by Deep Surf.

A rich, authoritative voice came over the loudspeakers and introduced each, one by one, highlighting their past year's pro circuit accomplishments. Saving Drake for his final introduction, the announcer paused long enough to allow Drake to raise his fists and welcome his ovation for more than a full minute. Turning side to side and opening his hands, palms forward to the audience, Drake gestured for silence. When all was finally still, Drake beckoned for Shawn to join him onstage as the surfers and the ponytailed Deep Surf executives moved to the rear, leaving only he and Shawn to share spotlight. Drake reached down to grab Shawn's hand and together they raised four fists, eliciting another round of raucous appreciation. But this time it took twice as long to quiet the crowd.

Then as they had rehearsed, Shawn moved to the right, while Drake took five energetic steps to the left, and the audience waited for what would happen next; then, from the darkness high above, an immense hollow sphere of glass appeared. Cables slowly lowered the orb until it gently came to a rest twelve feet above the platform.

Shawn and Drake stood on either side and it was Shawn who raised his right hand in the direction of the globe and then, in the eerie silence, he invited all to peer closely at the transparent ball of glass.

"Please behold within," Shawn proclaimed, "the greatest surfer we have ever known, the fantastic Mr. Drake _Par Tee_ Powers!"

Shawn whispered to Drake, "Once again, you are the show Brah!" With that, he picked up a remote and pressed its one button.

An ocean eddy of churning, homeless particles erupted within the clear glass chamber, emanating a blinding kaleidoscope of color. As seconds passed, the speed of the mirage of lights rapidly increased. The exterior surface began to glow from the friction caused by untold billions of electrons crashing into the interior walls. Bit by bit, from the bowels of rich rainbow hues, the particles solidified and the silhouette of a man, but not just any man, took shape, wrapped in the aqua shades of the sea. As Shawn had cautiously anticipated, an incredibly loud _crack_ resonated throughout the hall as the illusion became a reality and countless particles locked themselves into correct position. Frightened gasps came from the audience following the explosion and then all became silent.

Clearly visible inside the sphere was a spectacular life-like hologram of Drake — inverted and hovering within a wave's perfect barrel, midway through the execution of his signature Power Pipe Roll. His neck arching and his eyes spotting his landing, Drake even sported a realistic injury on his back where a wide rash of skin was missing. The hologram reproduced the rivulets of fresh blood dripping from his shoulder, each drop suspended in mid-air. This wasn't just any wave Drake floated within; this was the very wave Drake had ridden a few days back when he collided with the reef — the very wave Shawn had captured by Shawn with the newest version of the Sentient prototype camera.

"Fellow Surf Rats," announced Shawn, "most noble funders of our watery addictions, and yes, even the illustrious monks of surf magazines who record our history to stoke on in the future — we present the magnificent Drake'ster, in all his glory (pointing first at the real Drake, then fake Drake in the globe) performing his one and only flagship maneuver!"

No one in the crowd looked away from the hologram or paid any attention to Shawn as he spoke. Mouths open, eyes wide in wonderment, the audience seemed to question in unison how there could be two Drakes. A few of the spectators weakly brought their hands together to clap, and all stood stone-faced, completely mystified.

Shawn, keeping his focus on the hologram, not realizing he spoke to a frozen audience, continued, "If you look carefully at Drake within the tube, you'll note the gnarly gash upon his back. Because of this, we'd like to present Drake with an honorary Hanalei Bay EMT _can-you-tell-me-where-the-reef-is_ first aid kit! Otherwise known as the _if-you-can't-save-my-ass, can-you-patch-me-up_ kit."

A Deep Surf marketing model handed Drake a small plastic lunch box covered with cut-out images of Drake's face. Decals exclaiming ' _Ouch_ , _Oops_ , and _Look Out for 'da reef!_ ' covered the outside of the box.

The good-humored joke broke the audience's trance when everyone finally got the gag and laughter filled the hall — that is, all but for a handful of Deep Surf executives, who leered at Shawn, pissed at the ad-lib and hardly believing Shawn would go off-script.

After another pause, Shawn went on, "Upon this very special occasion of the unveiling of Drake's cool-as-hell hologram, the Drakemeister is also here to announce a record-breaking attempt to execute his own 360 Power Roll in four days' time on the North Shore of Oahu when, from all forecast indicators, the waves will peak at seventy to eighty feet, opening up a Holland Tunnel tube glazed with energy!"

Howls exploded, the floor shook, and virtual cell phone flames glowed, as the crowd went crazy.

From up front near the stage, a chumpy surf photographer Shawn despised, Mr. Surf Paparazzi himself from _We Surf Magazine_ , called out from the floor, "Drake, how the hell will you keep up the momentum to cycle three times round in such a magnificent wave? You barely make the double as we can see from your battle scars in the hologram."

Drake shuffled forward. "Brahs and Brah'ettes, fellow dweebs and tube-chasers, this, my un-enlightened friends, is why I will require an eighty foot wave!"

Another burst of applause lit the building.

Another surf blogster yelled, "We love you Drake! But if you unstick from the ceiling on a monster, you're toast. Are you willing to take the risk? Eighty divided by two is forty feet. So once the wave folds in half, it's a four-story drop to a reef encrusted with sea urchins just below the surface."

Drake reached out to his adoring public. "Please, no worry my doubting compadres! What I can see in my mind's eye, I can do! This I will do for you my loyal fans — or I'll die trying!"

The cheers became a roar from not just within, but across the expo hall, as the torrent of text messages reached the outer surf world. And with another click from Shawn, the hologram flashed to darkness.

Chapter 11

Their airport hug was more of an embrace, catching them both off guard.

"Sal, you are my gorgeous genius, Yeeee-haaaaw! Give me another squeeze, I do surely need one!"

Sally loved Shawn in the way he treated her like a woman. Growing up, Sally was more of a designer child, born to professors and, as a result, the proud product of an academic household. Academically gifted, she was never given frilly, little girl toys, and later her parents always insisted scholastic achievement was more important than dresses, dances or boys. As Sally had never experienced anything like true love, it was more of a reason to melt whenever Shawn looked into her eyes.

"Shawn, c'mon, you know we could just keep on holding each other here, but we have a long ride to Ben's. Then afterwards, if I don't get you to Waimea before your holy swell hits, your sponsors will fire your butt!"

"Sally, let them shitcan me, then I can keep you in my arms forever!"

Sally grabbed Shawn's shoulders and playfully pushing him away and turned him towards the airport exit where a sporty lime green 4WD awaited. Just another perfect day in Hawaii, Sally thought as she peeled back the canvas roof for the sunlit two-hour drive to Ben's mountain hideaway.

"Shawn, we have to rush because we have no way of knowing what eccentric state Ben will be in when we get there. If we're lucky, and find him focused, then we'll be done and gone with time to catch dinner along the coast, but if he's jacked up and all over the map, no telling if we'll get him to concentrate on your discovery. Our goal today is to share what we have and see if he can explain it. In any case, it's been a long time since he left Photon and I can't wait to see him."

Shawn dunked his Deep Surf daypack into the roof opening, gave Sally one more smooch on the cheek, and jumped in. Sally took the driver's seat, punched in some GPS coordinates, and turned off the country music station Shawn had just flicked on as she expected he would.

"No silly cowboy songs, we have to talk. I want to brief you, ah, I mean, give you the whole story on Ben and his theories," Sally started. "Ben lives in the world of the impossible and improbable, which is why he left Photon — no one could keep him on task. His mind is so expansive; he'd begin a project and midway through he was off on a scientific tangent, leaving me or another scientist to finish on their own. He brought brilliance to Photon, but they had a difficult time monetizing it."

"You have to understand," Sally continued above the wind rushing by, "there is no one better equipped to help us decipher what you've uncovered. We may even find he has studied what you've created and taken it much further. Shawn, you may be satisfied with creating cool holograms, but for me, I need to understand the science behind it all."

They drove for another hour, and as they climbed in altitude, it actually became chilly. Few visitors know the Hawaiian Islands get snow at the higher elevations, but today, thought Shawn, they might even see a little snow for themselves. As they turned off the main highway onto a two-track dirt road they were forced to roll up the windows when Sally said, "Shawn, based on fifty years of confirmed research, most quantum physicists believe that our entire universe is a hologram of sorts, or that our individual consciousness creates our own reality. As Descartes once said, _I think, therefore I am_ , or in translation, the only reason we exist is because we believe we exist."

Sally was in her comfort zone now, speaking of science and physics, so Shawn, having been here before, put his hat over his eyes while continuing to listen and settled in for the long ride.

"One related notion conceived by two Irish theorists further postulates an infinite number of alternative universes, or what most would call _other parallel dimensions_ , co-existing in the same space as our own. The Irishmen have been able to logically tie the spiritual beliefs of ancient people to the revelations new quantum scientists are bringing to light. All this is why I got into applied physics in the first place. It is absolutely fascinating to think everything around us may be quantum particles swimming around, with only our minds creating the mechanical existence we call our world."

"And Ben, is he a quantum physicist? Does he believe this too?" Shawn asked as he tried to grab Sally's leg.

Sally, somewhat annoyed, brushed away his hand and sped up her driving.

"At one time, Ben headed our top-secret research division at Photon. He was Jarrard's predecessor. Although he was wild with ideas, Ben laid the foundation for all of our current research, including the Sentient project and more. Ben was also the one who enlisted me from my position at Berkeley where I was a research associate studying advanced cloning."

"Well, I remember you were getting pretty tired of cloning cows, Sally, so it made perfect sense to me you'd accept his job offer, no matter how crazy Ben may have sounded."

Sally ignored him. "Ben said to me, _How would you like to replicate, not just duplicate?_ Back then, I didn't understand what he meant, but I was intrigued. But ever since Drake looked at me from inside your hologram, I'm beginning to see what he meant. Anyway, Ben's intellect had no boundaries, and the lab was too claustrophobic for his spacious thinking. Eventually Photon management and he came to a similar conclusion and his contract was mutually terminated, but not before they awarded him an endowment which will support him for years to come. In return he promised Photon that any discoveries he makes come to them first. While he was never much of a mentor to me in the normal definition of the word, he did teach me to keep my eyes wide and open to realities which exist but we are unable to see."

Sally then turned to Shawn and said rapidly, "What is truly remarkable Shawn, and maybe this is why I love you — yes, I said it, I do still love you — is that despite all the years of scientific experience Ben and I have between us, it was _you_ that uncovered the means to replicate someone as Ben had hinted to me as a possibility during that interview. Perhaps your intuitive grasp of light made you the catalyst to bring it all together. What is the saying about perspiration and inspiration?"

Shawn could not find the words to answer.

"Oh well, back to Ben" Sally began again. "So after Ben left Photon, we fell out of touch for about two years. I imagined him deeply enjoying his solitude and never seeing him again. Then, one day at the lab, I brought in a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch, and before I bit into it, a sliver of paper poked out from between the slices of bread. A note scribbled in Ben's handwriting gave the GPS coordinates of the location of where we're now headed. To think, with all the communications technology around us, he puts a message in a sandwich."

"Thank God you didn't cut the cheese, Sally. We would have never learned about Ben's hideout," Shawn quipped.

"Get serious Shawn. We need to talk to Ben and find out just what's happening in your holograms."

Sally peeled Shawn's hand off her shoulder. "And if you can keep your hands off me long enough, together we might just piece together how a hologram can follow us with its eyes."

Chapter 12

Craig and Sergeant "Mikey" Williams, a Special Forces specialist, circled the drone, conducting their final inspection. Mounted with the latest Sentient IX, it now weighed over eighty kilos and resembled a spider on steroids. After coming this far, the last thing they needed was to accidently drop it and jack up the entire op.

Mikey, as he was called by his brothers, assisted Craig in finishing the last-minute adjustments and then walked back to the front of the vehicle. While Craig continued the preparations and inspection, he listened to the blasts of small weapons fire and frequent explosions detonating in the higher elevations around them. Craig felt secure knowing Mikey's Delta Force pals were keeping them safe.

The sergeant walked over with a cup of steaming coffee in hand. "Major, this will pop your eyes open."

"How the hell did you heat up coffee in this wasteland?"

"Sir, let's just say we enjoy a cup of java before we kick some shit! Our way of making sure we're bright-eyed before we say good morning!"

It was 10 p.m. Afghan time, but Craig got the joke. He felt calm as the bitter warmth of the dark liquid ran down his throat and brought his stomach back to life. Remembering he hadn't eaten in eighteen hours, he turned to Mikey and said, "Thanks, but damn it, now I'm hungry."

Putting the small cup on the hood of the 4Runner, Craig wound his hand back up into the core of the aircraft to reach a small power switch on the Sentient and then flipped it on. He purposefully waited until the very last minute to power up the cameras. He was concerned about the rate the high-powered cameras sucked energy from the batteries, which were already at borderline capacity in the energy-to-weight ratio. He needed every bit of juice it had to keep the Sentient gathering image data until the mission was complete.

*****

Sergeant Mikey chased his coffee with a huge lump of chewing tobacco and looked over the remote control unit for the drone. It was no bigger than a laptop — a serious improvement over the current UAVs they'd been using lately. It could take three suitcases of gear to keep them up in the air. He'd had plenty of experience seeking Taliban with what they called the direct approach, delivered by way of the Raven, a fixed-wing, mini UAV, usually hand-launched and propeller-driven.

The thing about the Raven was that they were easy to fly, and easy to crash; and when they went down, field repair was near to impossible. His team couldn't be expected to carry four-foot replacement wings or a main fuselage, and swapping out broken or defective components was a bitch. But he came to despise the Raven for another reason. While airborne and on course towards an objective it would sometimes just keep flying until beyond signal range out into desolate Taliban countryside. He'd have to take his men on dangerous, unplanned drone-hunting expeditions to track down and retrieve the lost equipment before the classified apparatus fell into enemy hands. On a good day, they'd find the downed UAV surrounded by Taliban soldiers, forming an easy target for the AC-130 gunship flying ten thousand feet overhead. Any reason was a good reason to rid them of the Raven, but simultaneously killing some Taliban was icing on the cake.

*****

This was Craig's first time back to Afghanistan since spring 2011 where he consulted and assisted in the planning leading up to the final assault on Osama bin Laden. Working closely with the SEALs, Craig had viewed a live UAV demonstration conducted by U.S. Naval Special Warfare Group on Dam Neck in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He stood with a videographer and other witnesses in a shielded observation post while a drone pilot placed a UAV (very similar to the one they now prepped) one thousand feet above a cluster of shipping containers set up to resemble bin Laden's compound. The pilot was stationed below deck in a U.S. Naval vessel more than three miles off the beach at Dam Neck. On command, the deadly drone tilted and dove on the structure. Once at eye level with the makeshift building, from about twenty-five yards away, it rapidly circled the outer perimeter, piercing the metal outer walls with armor-penetrating ammunition. Within thirty seconds, every outer-facing wall at every level was peppered with six-inch holes.

Afterwards, Craig fully comprehended and accepted how the rapid development of drone technology would aid intelligence, military, law enforcement and security professionals like him. He was irritated by reports of amateurs flying drones in military and commercial airspace, but the FAA could take care of that. What truly alarmed Craig was the way people were modifying commercial drones for their own ill-intended applications.

Just in the last year, Japanese whaling ships had launched drones outfitted with GPS-tagging dart guns in order to tag entire whale pods, including calves, so they could more easily track and kill the mammals. Terrorist groups in Nigeria purchased consumer-grade, four-rotor drones on the internet, slapped on biochemical disbursement packets in place of Go Pro cameras, and gassed an entire village with a lethal vapor from a distance of two hundred yards. Finally, he had viewed a classified video where militant jihadists modified a drone similar to the one carrying the Sentient now, but instead of a camera or surveillance unit, its payload was a high-velocity, one hundred and fifty-round machine gun.

Craig often thought about how in the future, the Sandy Hook shooting or the Boston Marathon bombing would be considered terrorist child's play when compared to the death a handful of these could reap in a public crowd.

So when it came time to design the UAV to carry the Sentient, Craig had some ideas. At his urging, the R&D team at the drone design facility made two improvements to their premier craft. Then, unbeknownst to them, he made a third.

As Craig explained it, the Taliban, while still carrying 1876 British Martini rifles adorned with "happy Afghan crap," had managed to get their hands on some sophisticated heat-signature tracking gear, so the first modification was a complete change out from a standard motor to a custom brushless motor. The heat-seeking equipment was sensitive enough to detect the tiny sparks the brushes caused in the old motors, but as the there was no metallic friction in the brushless motor, there was no visibility. After the motor was changed out, the sound level was cut by a third — a windfall.

The second modification was the removal of the beaming red eyes which were actually left and right indicators, showing anyone on the ground which way the camera was pointed. To Craig, it was purely cosmetic, as it would be out of visible range when deployed, and it had to go. _For Christ sake_ , he wondered, _why do robot designers always have to humanize their creations?_ So the R&D team removed the eyes and shielded all external light sources as well.

The last modification was his brainchild.

Craig instantly grasped the vast, untold capabilities of the Sentient camera. He reasoned: if the camera sensors essentially record the subatomic makeup of individuals at multi-dimensional levels, then he should be able to manipulate the data to identify discrete "bad-guy" identifiers. It would be much more reliable than mere DNA. Craig's idea was to quietly siphon these quantum signatures and begin compiling a database of known terrorists. He planned on keeping it to himself for as long as he could. After all, who better to snuff out the bad guys than him?

With this database, he theorized, physical security profiling would be a thing of the past. Transportation security agencies would have access to a "quantum identification" database of all foreign and domestic suspects. Scanners could read the subatomic makeup of any individual within range, regardless of whether they were boarding a plane or buying a donut, and sound the alarm if their DNA matched the database of QPID (quantum particle identification) signatures. The prospective perpetrators of violence against innocent civilians wouldn't have too many places left to hide.

*****

With his last sip of coffee for the night, Craig opened up the secure channel to Langley to initiate Operation Hard Look.

"Time to let the bloodhound run," Craig announced to his team and the operator at Langley. The motors started simultaneously, the sound of a hundred bees.

Although his Virginia-based, remote pilot was extremely capable, he needed their eyes until the UAV ascended twenty feet and performed its initial assessment of its surroundings: obstructions, altitude, wind speeds. Once measured, the drone rose softly from its stationary hover like a butterfly and then shot out into the darkness.

With their mission vehicle airborne, they were now "live" and fully-activated. "Come out to play my little friends," Craig said as the sixteen-armed drone vanished before them.

Before the cold set in, Craig had changed from his civilian clothing to four layers of desert camo to ready himself for the long night to come. With a mittened fist, he grabbed the mic and said, "Langley, our eyes are now your eyes."

The Air Force virtual pilot flew down the valley until he found the chasm on the eastern edge of a mountainside — or approximately two kilometers south of the position where the other Special Forces team components were now all headed in their weaponized Humvees. At this point, the pilot decreased the UAV's speed while increasing altitude to twenty-five hundred feet to reduce the possibility of detection, then continued on to the tip of the interior of the gorge.

"Hard Look eyes now open and aware," said the pilot, who then found a suitable altitude offering the least wind in order to conserve energy.

Craig bounced violently as Mikey drove the Toyota across the rugged terrain, all the while struggling to both control and view the tablet on their way towards the rendezvous point at the opening to the ravine. There the team would reunite and they would once again be at full, assault-force readiness. Looking at the tablet between spine-shattering jolts, Craig could see what the pilot viewed from above and they would both soon see what Sentient images provided.

"Lieutenant, lighting up Hard Look," Craig said as he opened the lens of Sentient.

For the first seconds the images were a blur and then instantly they burst into shocking clarity. The first of the continuous images exposed three huts tucked tightly into a crease of the ridges far below. Only one dim light, less than a spark from a lighter, shone from behind a clothed window opening in the largest of the structures.

"Hard Look, opening array to start the sweep now," reported the pilot.

At once the pilot released the joystick, locked the drone into position, and took control of the Sentient camera. "Flow beginning but, Hard Look, we have a problem."

Craig, never taking his eyes off the screen, had already realized what had gone wrong and came back firm: "Acknowledged, too much living matter to look at!"

In all of their testing of the Sentient, they had certainly been successful in acquiring data from live test subjects, but they had never attempted acquisition for more than _one_ live biological target in close proximity — and certainly never in a dense group. Down in the huts were eleven human figures and, making things even more interesting, dozens of goats and sheep surrounding the buildings. All Sentient was sending back was a milky soup of data from all the mammals combined. There was absolutely no usable information offered up to them to distinguish and identify the mission target!

"Hard Look! Call request for next steps to get Good Look. We have four minutes until we must close our eyes," the pilot/cameraman stated, referring to the drone's limited battery life. "Requesting suggestions on _where to look right now_ in order to see," Langley continued, with a faint whisper of desperation in his voice.

Craig maintained his cool, even as he was having the shit beat out of him each time the truck hit a boulder or ditch. They were now only two clicks away and according to plan, they should have already identified Good Look. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to flow, randomly seeking the one piece of information he needed to set them back on course. With a familiar "AH HA," he picked up the handset and delivered the solution to the pilot. "Hard Look, listen closely, we have one chance at this and you must follow my every word."

Craig took a breath, slowed his speech, and began.

"The scientist who designed the Sentient told me she had a boyfriend — a professional surf photographer. One day, she talked about him using the "Al Servo" mode to shoot high speed objects, like surfers moving across a wave. Al Servo incorporates a type of artificial intelligence used in photography to predict the speed and distance of a moving object. The camera uses algorithms to predict where the subject _will be_ in the future, and I think we can use it here, as it effectively "locks onto" to the subject to track and anticipate its next position. We can use it to tighten up on one inhabitant at a time. Do you follow me? Right now, I imagine you are using some level of auto mode. We need to change this. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," the pilot replied.

"First, look for a setting that lets you shift from single to high-speed continuous."

"Affirmative, sir, set on continuous."

"Now, look for the Al Servo selection option," Craig directed, as he hoped to God the scientists kept the same name Canon used.

Craig knew Sentient's autofocus capabilities were partially based on commercial, professional-grade camera equipment. Canon's technology allowed sports photographers to lock onto a single, fast-moving car on a racetrack, while essentially ignoring everything else. It's how photographers could get an incredible shot of one bird in a flock of hundreds as they flew by.

Just then, they went over an unseen drop and Craig's head hit the roof of the cab. "Okay Langley, you should have one small square in the middle of the viewfinder," Craig said as he felt for blood. "I will assume you do unless you tell me. This is important: whatever is in the square will lock into focus when you press halfway down on your virtual shutter release button. Can you do this?"

"Yes sir."

"Tell me when you find it and at once engage it."

"Sir, found it, ready."

Craig watched his tablet screen.

"Hold, hold, got it!" the pilot announced.

"Good, you should now be able to lock one by one on the individuals in the huts. The livestock shouldn't be a problem; now find Good Look!" Craig screamed into the microphone as the minutes of remaining power slipped away.

"Begin now and move fast." Craig watched the images on the screen of the tablet return to lifelike resolution. "Select one at a time; Sentient will decipher the data stream the second it views each of the individual human silhouettes."

Craig and the pilot both read the data as it registered, looking for a match against a reference sample on their displays.

"Got 'em!" they both shouted together.

Craig cracked his only smile of the day and slid the tablet into a pouch beneath his seat. His hand then reached for ammo pouches and other essentials wrapped in Velcro, which stuck to his Kevlar-plated vest as designed when he slammed them across his chest. Only one more mission directive remained: to apprehend alive, if at all possible, the al-Qaeda leader code named Good Luck, who they had identified and was now within their reach. As they approached the ravine, the rest of the team came into view and rocks flew as the Toyota skidded to a halt. Craig, loaded for bear and at his peak of emotional and mental awareness, jumped out from the truck with weapons in each of his hands.

Chapter 13

The stalks bowed forming a tunnel, heavy from the afternoon rains as the mature cane closed in on Sally and Shawn. They drove the last mile barely able to see along a rutted road, Sally struggling to make their way as the wet leaves thrashed them from either side. Although the grooves were grass, they offered some guidance as they finally broke out into the sunlight.

"Holy moly, this is one creepy Jules Verne house!" Shawn quipped as Sally swung the jeep round a stand of coconut trees. They came to a halt in front of what might have been a front door, but it was overgrown with vegetation. "Ben lives here, in this dump?"

"Yes, he does. Hey, let's go around back. He's usually outside, hates the indoors, and I'm sure if he has a lab, it's not in his house."

Sally led as they made their way round the side of what was more or less a shack when suddenly Sally shrieked and fell back into Shawn, causing them both to land on the ground. Lying tangled in a heap they both looked up as a shattering growl permeated the air and now, towering above them, stood a massive fourteen-foot grizzly bear.

Before they could react, the giant lunged forward and Shawn, knowing they were both about to die, blanketed Sally to protect her and inwardly focused his last moments of awareness on the image of her, but before death came, the grizzly suddenly vaporized and when they opened their eyes, the giant was nowhere to be found.

Then, a short ways from where they fell: "Ah ha Sally, thought you would surprise me? Will never happen and, yes, I haven't lost my bit of mean streak, but you know how I love theatrics to make a point."

On a bench behind where the bear had stood, Dr. Benjamin Campbell, PhD, with a grey two-day shadow across his face and an open, cotton shirt missing all the buttons, sat as comfortably as if he were having afternoon tea.

With a cheery smile beneath piercing eyes, Ben tilted his head, nodding towards a small garden of oddly massive fruits and vegetables where, hidden amongst the bounty, was an array of tilted mirrors at angles perfectly placed to reflect light onto a translucent three-dimensional canopy strung up over the patch of vegetation.

"For goodness sake Ben, what was that? We thought we were going to be ripped apart! God I'm still shaking! And it all happened so fast I didn't even have time to have my life flash in front of me!" Sally picked herself up and instinctively gave herself and Shawn a once over to make sure all their body parts were in place and while doing so, offered Shawn a smile in acknowledgment of the intimacy they just shared. "Ben, that was terrifying! What was that thing? A grizzly in Hawaii, good God! Couldn't you have had a swarm of bunnies attack us? We still would have been surprised but at least not scared to death!"

Shawn checked his shorts and said, "Bunnies dude! No shit, rabbits would have been a whole lot better."

Sally smiled as she watched Shawn feel his crotch. Ben rose and came up to Sally to give her a big shoulder-only squeeze. "Ah, my sweet tender scientist, I forgot you are still the gentle little girl inside, never mind your hard outer shell!"

Shawn came up alongside Ben and opened his arms. "Hey, where's my bro hug?"

"So this must be Mr. Pérez, photographer extraordinaire. When Sally first said your name I knew instantly who you were. It's hard to live in Hawaii and not see a surfing poster without your name on the bottom — particularly of the young talented kid. I don't go down to the market often, only for manmade essentials, but when I do, your images of Drake Powers are everywhere — magazines, windows of surf shops, even plastered on the sides of buildings."

Ben ignored Shawn's open arms and gave him an outdated fist bump instead. He then instructed them, "Both of you, move to the left a bit," and flicked a switch. The angry bear materialized again beside them and Ben continued talking. "Watch this," he said as he slowly walked up to the raging beast until he walked right through him. "See, vapor, nothing, a virtual grizzly. Felt you guys would see the joke in it.

"Ben," Sally said, "if that was a hologram, it's like nothing I've seen. I mean, it was dense, solid. The instance of Drake Powers Shawn created and we want to talk to you about was lifelike, almost ghostly, but nowhere nears that bear in your representation of reality."

"Well Sally, have you ever known me to do anything half-assed, excuse me, I mean less than perfect. The process and end product you just witnessed was the main reason I left Photon. Those penny heads had no interest in driving forward to develop more lifelike holograms or any other science which didn't result in short-term profit, and it wasn't what their government partners were interested in either."

Ben continued, "I told them about the Ghost Army — secret U.S. troops of World War II. On the ground in Germany, thousands of specially-selected artists and sound or radio specialists used visual, phonic and _spoof radio_ techniques to fool the Nazis into believing entire regiments were where they weren't. They even designed rubber inflatable tanks which, from the air, looked real. They blasted recordings of tank movements over loudspeakers during the night, and by morning the Germans believed the entire Allied Army was coming down on their heads. I tried to explain to them the potential to saves thousands of lives in our next inevitable war by misleading our foes in a much more convincing fashion. We could have entire virtual armies appear and disappear at will! Hell, if the other side used the same techniques, we could fight entire battles with no physical loss of live. We would finally have a bloodless and more cerebral way to use violence to settle our differences. Only our national pride would be impacted if we lost. We could lose thousands of soldiers, but no mother would ever lose a son or daughter."

"Ben, this work is remarkable and more the reason we need to show you what Shawn has done to the images from my Sentient using your software. While you've been focused on perfecting the physical likeness, in some manner, Shawn seems to have stumbled down the path of recreating the conscious state. We don't want to waste any time, where can we set up the gear?"

"Let's go to my lab and have a look at what brilliance your photographer friend may have discovered. Shawn, just tell me what you need to bring up your hologram."

Ben led them to the opposite side of the property where, as Sally had predicted, stood a sturdy structure with a single opening surrounded by dozens of solar panels. When they entered the room, it was cluttered throughout with the delights of an inquisitive mind. Everywhere were three-dimensional puzzles, neatly-disassembled devices, old telescopes, prototype gadgets and in the far corner on a six-foot monitor, the image of Drake upside down in the Mavericks barrel as he was at Surf Expo, although no sign of life. "Shawn, as you can see, I've taking the liberty of doing some prep work for you."

"Very cool," Shawn said. "Looks like you're way ahead of me. I won't need much. Just want to link up my external drive to your main server."

"Over here, hand me your storage drive with the file. Let me see it, hmmm, okay, we will use this high-speed cable to connect it." Ben was shaking in anticipation; the words could not come out fast enough. "Shawn, tell me, what do you think sparked it to life? Wait, I'm going too fast, let me ask you another way. What did you sense when you brought these images together? Never mind, that's still too vague. While this loads, step over here to this table, I want to show you both something," and Ben held up a small seed. "Sally, you built the Sentient, what I dreamed of, from the seed of my imagination: a camera which captures more than the visible plain of our limited vision. As quantum physicists, we accept there is no basis for the existence of solids or separation of matter because at the smallest detectable existence of particles, all atoms, photons, and electrons have the same distance of space between them. It poses the question of why we have form. Why can't we put our hand through a door? As humans we have fooled ourselves in accepting our physical environment. But I knew _if_ there was someone clever enough, as Sally you apparently seem to be, they should be able to create an optical receptor without bias, enabling it to see the entire spectrum of matter, hence allowing it to record in three-dimensions. Well, since supplying me with your first and then subsequent upgrades of the Sentient, I've been using its images to experiment with the reassembly of the quantum data it seizes in hologram form. Sally, your genius has brought my idea to life, but it is your friend Shawn who is the heart and soul of my vision. Mr. Pérez, you are the fluid element — not science, not theory, but the intangible catalyst!"

"Oh God Ben, don't feed his ego," Sally scolded.

"Now watch," Ben directed as he placed a flowering lotus plant under a small, glass dome and turned on an array of lights which bathed it in a soft multi-colored diffusion. He turned back to the computer.

"On the table we see an ordinary, yet beautiful, two-dimensional image which is really this," and Ben hit a button, causing streams of computer code to fill the display until a perfectly identical lotus filled a nearby platform in a three-dimensional hologram which, again as with Ben's bear, was much more dense and lifelike than Shawn or Sally had ever seen.

"Shawn, like your hologram, mine is comprised of a collection of images from the Sentient, but my guess is your representation of Drake was crafted from photographs chosen artistically, each with a subtle difference in the spectrum of light, or exposure, as you photographers call it. My goal was to produce a hologram which seemed as solid as possible and I've been able to do this, even animating them as if they were alive. Shawn, in your desire to envelop the _essence_ of Drake in your hologram, not simply his physical form, and your vision allowed you to see into the spirit or soul of your friend, essentially gazing deep into a dimension most if not all others cannot see."

Shawn shrugged. "No biggie, just did like Sally taught me with the Sentient, and when I shoot, I do my best to capture the moment or true life of my subject. The composite file of Drake you're loading, I slammed together using your software. When I layered the hundreds of images, I knew what I was looking for."

"Yes, Shawn, but your photographic ability, your eye for the image, has given us a level of accuracy I've never seen before. Even from the best operators, I mean, the select group of world-class nature photographers which have tested the Sentient along with my software, none have indicated any such results as you report."

Sally cut him short, "it's okay Ben, he knows about the defense and intelligence agency applications. Shawn can be discrete."

Ben continued with a warning, "Not very wise Sally, it would have been better for both of you if he didn't. Hmmm, now where was I? Yes, technically government imagery specialists know how to deliver outstanding photographs of our adversary's installations and equipment, and can positively identify questionable characters from thousands of feet above, but Shawn my friend, you seem to capture their essence. Enough, let's activate your image mash and see what you've discovered."

Ben shifted back to the main computer where the data transfer showed completed. "I'm not one to get too excited generally, but this has been my work since leaving Photon and although every attempt has been made to grab hold of the alternative outcome, I've been unable to uncover the flaw in my hypothesis. What really happened in your hologram and did your friend really move? Did he see you, as you said it seemed? And if he did, is he actually conscious in your hologram.... or not? I suppose we shall find out soon enough!"

Ben confirmed the file data load had populated the application in the correct release sequence and turned on the generator he would need to push the hologram into a near solid state.

"Ben," asked Shawn, "do you think it was _possible_ Drake could see me?"

"Well Shawn, let me tell you a story about a cat."

Sally lifted her two hands up. "Oh well, here we go with Schrödinger's cat. We had to cover this sometime."

Ben suggested, "Sally, it might be best to explain to Shawn sometimes I don't know when to stop with theory."

"Sure, I think I know Shawn well enough," she said with a smile, "to bring the science to his level. Shawn, the possibility of an alternate outcome is a plausible theory now accepted by quantum physicists."

Shawn looked at them both. "Slow down and back up guys. You lost me when you started talking about the German guy's cat."

Sally began, "Shawn, we were about to do just that. In the last sixty or so years, physicists uncovered conflicting phenomena beyond the theories Einstein touted as the fundamental laws of physics. You know, EMC2 and all that? When they went beyond the study of atoms to the smallest known particles, they did not behave the way they were expected based on the accepted science of the day. In other words, everything on the planet kind of does what it supposed to do as Einstein had illustrated, but at the quantum level or with the tiniest of electrons, all that science goes out the window. Are you following me?"

"Yes, I'm listening" Shawn replied as Ben cleared the platform where the hologram would appear.

"Well, this physicist Schrödinger conducted a hypothetical experiment where a cat is poisoned and dies, or perhaps not. Kind of like _if a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there, does it make a noise_? Schrödinger actually proved scientifically the reality that an electron, the very same electron, can exist in two places at the very same moment in time. He went on to clarify if this is indeed possible, and then it must be we can only perceive the existence of one of the instances of the particle appearing at two places at once."

"Okay, I'm kind of getting this, but how can one thing be in two places? How is that possible?" Shawn was now truly interested.

"Schrödinger concluded every time a moment of change exists with two, more or even endless possible outcomes, our mind chooses or can only believe in one, and at that moment, it makes it real for us. So with Schrödinger's cat, if there is a fifty-fifty chance the cat will live or die from the poison — now remember, we are not watching the cat in the box, we are only guessing or relatively determining the results — the one outcome we choose becomes our reality."

"Whoa, now my brain is starting to hurt; what are you saying?" Shawn asked looking very confused.

"Don't worry Shawn," Sally continued, "If you understood it, you would be the odd one. No one really understands, which is what makes it so exciting for scientists, but what it truly means is our world or the dimension we accept as reality is just one of potentially billions and billions of alterative universes as the alternatives continue to diverge infinitely. Shawn, here is what will really blow you away. Ben and I believe you may have unknowingly captured an alternate outcome with the Sentient camera. In simpler terms, everyone saw the cat die, but you captured the cat living, the alternative outcome!"

"Well dip my balls in cream and set me down in a kitchen full of kittens! Thank you both. I still have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

"To add one other accolade to your awkward discoveries, you may have also proven one of my back-shelf theories that data has mass, but we will save this for another discussion. I'm ready to release the sequence for the hologram."

And Ben leaned over the chair towards the keyboard and touched "P." And as the generator outside revved up, Ben added a bit more to Sally's explanation. "The Sentient Six is capable of recording not only the entire known light spectrum, but also the radiation emitted by all the chemical, and electro-chemical processes, down to a sub-atomic level. Hence our ability to read the DNA and blood type of subjects under surveillance which is what DIA contracted with us to develop in the first place. Do you follow?" And without waiting for an answer but looking back at Sally, Ben stated, "Sixty four near-perfect image captures of that level of data input taken in less than two seconds melded into one dense hologram. What I believe you've accomplished is a recording of a moment in time, so complete that it borders on a replication! Not to mention the fact the hundreds of physicists in the world who will now hate you and admire simultaneously."

"Kind of like my life now as a surf photographer, no biggie!"

"If I'm correct in my assumption, what you saw may have been your pal Drake as he would exist in another dimension. You simply caught and recorded a glimpse of an outcome that the rest of us did perceive — an outcome where Drake lived. Watch the hologram now as is comes up." They all turned towards the platform.

Each watched as the now familiar swirl of matter spun over the space. The reformation of Drake was nearly completed when Shawn turned to Ben and said, "Boy, I bet the crack you get is pretty wild when the hologram's done with all the power you're pumping through your gear! Maybe we should be standing back and have ear plugs in!"

Sally's eyes widened, and Ben looked at Shawn confused, "What do you mean 'crack'?"

Sally blurted, "You've never heard a loud noise when the particles fully consolidate, I mean nothing? Shawn, I think Ben's generator output is three times the maximum you and I have used! If he hasn't experienced the bang when the figure matures, maybe it's because his holograms only contain superficial or physical matter! Oh my God, what can we expect now with all this energy added? Shawn, Ben, back, back, get away from the platform!"

But it was too late. As Sally spoke the last word, Drake's form materialized and an explosion rocked the lab and sent all three back against the wall. While most of Ben's equipment was secured in place due to frequent island earthquakes, everything not now tied down flew violently in all directions. The report shattered the single pane of glass on the entry door, and for almost a minute the three stood dazed. Ben, although confused, smiled at the unexpected event.

"Certainly, my formula only consolidated physical matter! Shawn, your recipe essentially causes what might be compared in aviation as a sonic boom! When you suck into our dimension what belongs in another, its entry way is cracked open only long enough to permit the individual or object to produce itself! It doesn't belong here with us and the dose of power determines the wholeness of the individual. Another factor may be you are bringing life along with the physical matter!"

Neither Sally nor Shawn was listening. Over the platform, in all his athletic glory, Drake Powers stood on his board, head arched up and back. He blinked his eyes rapidly until they cleared the water from his view. He first recognized Shawn, then Sally, then back to Shawn where his awe turned to confusion. He moved his mouth, but no words came out. Shawn looked upon his friend and felt helpless. He wanted to communicate with him, but could not. To explain in some way what was happening. Ben ran to the monitor and controls to make sure the power input stayed consistent. Sally was the first to speak.

"This is wrong! Yes, of course, it's astounding, remarkable, and groundbreaking! But it is no more right than human cloning, perhaps even more morally corrupt!"

"Sally, hold on," Ben appealed. "We are not fully sure of what we are witnessing. He is not in any pain or discomfort it would seem. Yes, surely he is bewildered, but only through a lack of comprehension. Be patient, we are scientists. If we are not harming him, we must apply our disciplines of observation and interpretation to collect relative data, and I mean now! I will keep the hologram up for two more minutes, so get to work!"

Shawn circled the platform stepping over boxes and other debris strewn about the floor. At every point, his eyes met Drake's. Drake seemed to be able to see Shawn wherever he stopped, even behind the wave. Although the water, board, leash and Drake appeared to be solid, there was an apparent porousness in the hologram, like you could put your hand through it.

They had succeeded in combining the techniques of the scientist and the artist.

Sally wrote feverishly on a tablet, took photographs of Drake, and recorded the settings on the computer screen just in case it crashed and the data lost.

"Please, let's get this done, it's creepy. I know I'm supposed to be objective, but it is almost impossible. I know this man, he is a friend, and it feels like we have him trapped. It's even more difficult to grasp when you consider Drake is on the next island over preparing for a surfing event. Let's do our work and release him!"

With twenty seconds left, Shawn moved in close to Drake and reached out to touch Drake's shoulder. It was wet, but it wasn't wet. Warm, but he felt no warmth. He touched his finger to the droplet of blood running down Drake's back.

"Drake my friend, I'm not sure where you are, or if this is you at all, but I promise I will not bring you here again, if that is what we are doing."

Drake cracked a weak smile and moved his eyes to Shawn's hand now resting on his arm. His mouth began to form words, over and over, but Shawn could not make out what he was saying.

Ben and Sally were busy and missed the exchange between the two friends. Ben pushed his laptop to the side and alerted the others. "Sally, Shawn, time for us to power down. Say your goodbyes, ah, I mean get ready for the hologram to close."

As the spark left Drake's eyes and his substance faded away, Shawn tried to understand what his friend was trying to tell him.

Chapter 14

"This Jarrard, you are sure he is not the one?" Murad was pissed and wanted more information. "Have you learned of others? Who are the scientists in this program? Sameer, you have not done your work! We need to strike surgically, and if we must take one captive and make them suffer to give us the information we seek, this we will do!"

They had just closed Castle Pizza for the evening, and Murad was particularly agitated because he kept losing the tip contest between the other delivery drivers which made him even more furious with Sameer.

"Murad, we know of three others who use the device called Sentient or work within the research group. One lives on an island in Hawaii. We think he was fired from Photon, so question why he is still sent packages from its headquarters. While he might have the imaging device, we do not believe he is important."

Sameer continued, "Then there is a bizarre connection to a man named Shawn Pérez, a surfing photographer. He also lives in Hawaii, but we do not think he can be the key. He works for magazines and clothing companies and uses the Sentient in his work around the world. We put a follower on him for more than a month and his patterns are of little interest to us. He spends most of his time on hot beaches, many we could not go to because they are too remote and we would risk discovery, but when we were able to observe him, after his time taking pictures, he would almost always return to a hotel or to his home and spend hours perfecting the photographs on his computer. He also spends a great deal of time with one surfer who, we can assure you, is far removed. His name is Drake Powers, and he lives a decadent life!"

Murad screamed, "Don't tell me what I do not need to know, share only which will bring us the satisfaction of crushing these heathens!"

"Yes, yes, I am sorry. Let me tell you, there is one other and we have decided this scientist is the one we are after. We even found she is the one who sent the cameras to the male scientist and the photographer in Hawaii. She works in the same section of the Photon compound as Dr. Jarrard, and when the Sentient devices are tested, she is always present. Last month we discovered a trip she made to a military base in the desert here in California but we could not gain access."

"What is her name you fool? Tell me all you know of her!" Murad demanded.

Sameer lifted a laptop from the safe they used to lock up the cash at night (they only accepted cash), opened it, and lightened the display until a photo of Sally leaving Photon came into view. "Dr. Sally Evans, formally a cloning research scientist who joined Photon not too many years ago. Dr. Evans was brought in by the scientist in exodus in Hawaii and whenever something important occurs with the Sentient, her name or mention of her work is included. Reaching her is not a problem as she comes and goes with no security, which is why we did not suspect her in the beginning. After all, we could not understand how research this important would be trusted to a woman. They are here to serve us alone."

Murad was silent, and then spoke. "Forget the others and make plans to abduct her in two days. Bring her at night to the secure room you have built below your house, but to be sure, spend the time until then making sure there are no others we might consider — like this Jarrard. Let us speak of him once more; you told me he may know something."

"Murad, with his lunches here each day, we knew we could use him to gain access to Photon, which of course we have done by digitally copying his access card. We also thought if they were friends or had a stronger connection, we could torture one of them in front of the other to make them give up their secrets. But we have concluded Dr. Evans does not care for him, nor does anyone else at Photon. He always eats alone and it is clear he is quite a lonely man."

"It does not matter, women are weak and not to be trusted with knowledge. We will bring her to the edge of death and she will tell us all! Do not fail me; we meet in forty eight hours."

Murad put his employee magnet at the bottom of the daily tip board once again, pulled the Castle T-shirt up and over his head and threw it into the garbage as he had done every night he worked since arriving. "And why will no one tip me? I am always on time with the tasteless pizzas!" he snarled, as he stormed from the room.

Chapter 15

Blood coated the walls and body parts were strewn throughout the two huts. The Sentient images had continued to flow during the assault and Langley used the data to report El Sharrad's movements. They informed Craig his target had moved from the buildings almost to the second the bullets tore through the walls; he was nearby and yes, still alive and stationary. Craig had the men secure the area and remove any possible remaining threats, and then they focused on El Sharrad. Craig hated to admit it, but the rush from the killing felt good. He felt pretty damn sure his counterparts on this op felt the same way.

"Craig, he's gone. Have they delivered his coordinates?" one Special Forces sergeant asked.

"Yes, leave one team here and follow me!"

_These cowards_ , Craig thought. _Just like Osama bin Laden and all_ _al-Qaeda_ _leaders, they allow others to do their killing or commit suicide for the jihad. THEY don't see it as suicide at all, but as their ONLY absolutely guaranteed way of entry into Paradise. They would know suicide is haraam, or sinful and banned by the Qur'an, so there is no chance whatsoever they have this perception. They've been convinced that as long as an enemy of Islam is the target, then they are a loyal martyr for Islam. The people who present this reasoning are very convincing to the followers, who are usually illiterate, poor and in a state of social or economic suffering. Idiots, even the religious leaders break the sixteenth sin of the Qur'an:_ _A leader's deceiving his people and being unjust to them._ _They lead through deceit, have no honor and, without honor, they will lose here on earth and in the afterlife. Like bin Laden._

Aware his UAV was still above him and would have to land in minutes due to depleted power levels, Craig called in, "Langley, one more location and then bring her down on the pad of the truck. I have the GPS beacon transmitting."

"Yes, sir, you're heading in the right direction, wait, you must be next to him. Can you see him?"

Craig and the others surveyed in every direction, but no sign of a living being.

"Holy shit, wait!" Craig yelled to the team. "Here, now, all of you!"

They ran to Craig's position and he directed them, "Take your rifle butts or boots, start pounding here...and here." They all immediately started to smash the stocks of their weapons down into the earth. Two of the biggest soldiers jumped up and down when suddenly a massive hole opened and engulfed them. They landed nine feet below hard onto their sides and when Craig peered down into the opening, he could see the face of El Sharrad, angry and defiant with his body covered by the rocks and dirt which had caved in around him. Unable to lift his gun from the rubble and arms pinned down by one of the soldiers, El Sharrad was helpless and now their captive, yet his gaze remained defiant.

"All your men are dead; you are alone. You will tell us everything," Craig warned El Sharrad.

Craig's directive, beginning to end, was clear. NSA had intercepted chatter three months ago about a terrorist plan to detonate a bomb at a major U.S. sporting event, which would be even more disastrous in scope and detrimental towards national moral than any other prior attack, perhaps even 9/11. They were confident it was a viable threat, but which sport and city they could not distinguish. The communications babble was continual, and they finally determined the attack was expected in the December to January timeframe, which meant basketball, hockey or football. All those stadiums, all those spectators — an attack in one of these venues could be catastrophic, with deaths in the tens of thousands. All the other intelligence was too generic, not even code. They simply avoided any specific references about location so it was indeterminable on their strike location. The intelligence experts stated it was likely the terrorists had decided months or years ago and the identity of the facility was never spoken across traceable electronic communications.

Craig had killed many men to save hundreds, but the weight of this mission was far different. Watching as they finished digging El Sharrad out from under the dirt and applying zip ties to his hands and feet, Craig knew it was up to him to get El Sharrad to talk. _Talk or tens of thousands would die._

Chapter 16

"Shawn, you're still upset, what do you think Drake was saying?"

It was later afternoon and Sally had just turned from Ben's back road onto the main highway. Ben insisted they leave early, before dark, warning, "You'll never get past the sugar cane, and you'll find yourself fending off wild boars all night..."

After helping Ben straighten-up and reviewing their notes, they bid farewell and drove away, promising to keep Ben up-to-date on developments.

"That's what I can't get out of my head Sal, he was mouthing something to me, tried three or four times but I couldn't make it out. Forget it for now, brain is shot. I wanna relax a bit and let it all sink in. Besides now we can both have dinner somewhere cozy!"

Sally's expression split in two. As they left Ben's, she'd received a text with another invite to dinner from someone she'd kept to herself. She had been dating a man named Daniel for about six months now. From his text, she gathered he flew in last minute to attend a conference in Honolulu. As his yacht was also already here on the Big Island, he decided to hop over and check in on the crew. Sally had informed him of her travel plans late yesterday, and he was delighted to be able to surprise her and suggested they meet at the harbor in Kona for the evening. Never did she expect him to come out while she was here with Shawn.

Sally had little experience in affairs of the heart, and she was struggling with how to break the news to Shawn. When she did, she would be forced to tell him her even bigger secret, one she dreaded telling him, one which somehow broke her heart. The last time she and Daniel had been together in New Orleans, he had asked her to marry him, and she had said yes. "Shawn, there is something we need to speak about; I have to tell you about changes in my life — positive changes," she said with reservation. "There is something I have left out."

"Let me have it Sals, be good to get my mind off Drake's face. Whatever it is, we can talk about it over a juicy steak and some delicious oysters!" Shawn responded with his eyes closed, head back against the headrest. He lived off catnaps and was now about to doze off and grab some zzz's.

"Ah, well, yes, we can have dinner; I would like that very much, but what I haven't told you is, ah, hmm, I'm kind of dating someone. I'm so sorry, I should have told you sooner, but I never expected him to fly into the islands while we were here. But he did, and now he wants me to join him on his boat this evening. You are welcome of course. I've told him all about you many times, probably too many, but he is a great guy, and he said he would like to meet you!"

Sally was quickly glancing over to look at Shawn to see any change in his expression, but his eyes remained closed. _Had he fallen asleep already?_ Sally thought. _Now I might have to tell him all over again._

It was quiet for some time, an eternity to Sally.

Then Shawn spoke, "Sally, yeah, kind of expected you to have a boyfriend by now. Hell, I'm everywhere but near you most of my life. Sure, I'd like to meet him, cool with me. We've spent some good time today and we still have an hour or so to talk. Tell me about him. What's his name? What does he do?"

Sally hated herself at that moment. After this emotionally-draining afternoon, particularly for Shawn, the last thing she wanted to do was to describe why she loved another man to Shawn, and how could she tell him they were to be married? But it was even more difficult to sit in silence.

"His name is Daniel, and Shawn, this will flip you out, he's a television evangelist from Tucson. I was attending a Defense intelligence conference at Fort Huachuca in Arizona and when it ended, all the attendees made a mad dash to the airport, eager to get home, but all the flights were overbooked. Daniel was walking through the terminal with his entourage and realizing the situation, picked me out of the line, and offered to bump me up to first class on a spare ticket he had. I knew instantly who he was because he was on every religious channel on TV in my hotel room the last three days. It certainly didn't seem out of place for a religious man to offer a kindness to a stranger, something you would expect, so I said yes. And Shawn, it was very comfortable; no, not like that, I mean, it was easy because God and my faith are so important to me. We sat together and never stopped sharing the entire flight. He was very interested in how a scientist could have such a deep-rooted faith which I explained to him was due to the fact that the more I came to understand the wonders of our perfect universe, it was clear some greater being must have had a hand in its creation. Before we landed, he asked me out on a date the next time he was in California, and I accepted. I wasn't actively looking for someone, just kind of happened."

Shawn feigned interest but wasn't sure what bothered him most: knowing Sally was seeing someone, or that she used the word _sharing_. Oh, how he hated that word. _Oh, share with us please! Oh, I'll reach out to you. Oooo, Oooo, the corporate lingo that plagued society!_ But he got over her word choice pretty quickly and felt his heart shatter.

"Shawn, Daniel has asked if you would join us, we will be dining on his boat, what can I tell him?" Sally asked. Now they were only fifteen minutes out from Kona, not enough time to mention the engagement. If Daniel brought it up, she wouldn't know how to respond to Shawn.

"Well, let's see if this is the gent who I want partnered up with my Sal," Shawn joked half-heartedly. "We'll have to wait till after dinner to decide!"

Chapter 17

The Special Forces team medic once more checked El Sharrad's vitals just as a CIA chopper came in hard for his emergency transport to Camp Bastion. They had no time to lose; the sooner Craig interrogated his captive, the more time he would have to wrench from him the details of the pending attack. Bastion was now NATO's intelligence center in Afghanistan with one non-descript building dedicated to hard cases. Bagram was now forever hot as the Afghanistan base notorious for the shocking intimidation and humiliation of the al-Qaeda prisoners while in the custody of U.S military personnel.

Craig sat in his jump seat directly across from El Sharrad, glad they were not headed to that hell hole. _Shit_ , he thought, _the only things those soldiers did wrong was torture without purpose_. He reasoned they were bored, pissed off, and abused the prisoners for sport. Hell, Bagram was like spending a night at a Holiday Inn Express with lousy staff as far as he was concerned. In his mind, when terrorists want to kill innocent civilians, any means used to prevent it is warranted. _Play nice, or pay thrice_ , as he liked to think. The stupid soldiers who were caught deserved to be court marshalled solely for the one act alone of preserving the abuse with photographs.

The flight took forty five minutes and Craig never let his prisoner rest. Each time El Sharrad's eyelids lowered the sharp Vibram sole of Craig's boot jammed into the soft spot beneath his knee. They kept the captive's head strapped back against the bulkhead and Craig bore holes through to the back of his head with a stare that could kill. The interrogation was initiated the minute they were loaded onboard and he and El Sharrad sat face to face.

Landing at the center of Camp Bastion in an inner compound with fourteen foot walls behind the detention facility, El Sharrad was whisked through the secure door by security personnel, held up only by his elbows, feet never touching the ground.

Craig's method was simple, the pain never stopped, the subject never slept, and he never asked his prisoners any questions. The pain and his silence drove them mad. They were told to expect angry American interrogators, screaming and insults. He knew many could not read or write, but they weren't stupid, and all the yelling only offered them a distraction between the applications of techniques. Pure, constant pain and the subtle indifference from the interrogators made them beg for relief. There was no one to complain to or shout offenses at. As the pain intensified, loneliness and despair overcame them. From this suffering and neglect rose the basic human desire to be saved and recognized. This is when the most valuable intel spilled from their souls.

Bringing him into a cell with one-way mirrors on all four sides, El Sharrad was stripped and his head once more strapped down, as he lay on a narrow band of metal, like a plank except it bowed and flexed with is weight in the middle. From his neck up and his ankles down, these two parts of his body were solidly placed on sturdy tables. A leather strap around his waist was attached to a bolt in the ceiling; it was long enough to allow his body to droop, but far enough for the metal band he was stretched out upon to strike an electrified bar of steel only two inches beneath his lower back. If he kept his body rigid, this, with the light tension of the metal which bore him, kept his torso off the bar and from being shocked. If he relaxed his body, the metal strip flexed and made contact with the lower bar.

Using this method, it was always only a matter of time with all prisoners; they had to relax at some point, so El Sharrad had either to endure the paralyzing muscular spasms as he exerted himself to stay straight and above the rod, or replace one type of suffering with another and rest down on the barely electrically charged metal beneath. Craig knew in the beginning, this gave his subjects a false level of control, but soon they found out it was a sick trick and no matter what they chose, the end result was intense pain. As an added touch, El Sharrad's eyelids were taped open, his face pointed at an angle towards a mirror which offered Craig a view directly into the eyes and mind of his subject. Never lose eye contact, never during the entire ordeal.

Hours went by and El Sharrad gave up any hope of holding himself off the bar, even for a few seconds. All the while Craig barely blinked, watching for the change as he had the interrogator at the controller fluctuate the charge. By now his victim knew, it was his weakness which brought the suffering and beyond that, only Craig could stop both. Then, ever so slowly, the _look_ appeared in El Sharrad's gaze. The detached abandonment a human feels when total despair sets in. Craig allowed thirty minutes more, and then ordered El Sharrad cut down and moved to an adjacent room.

This space was tiny by comparison, with two armed chairs face to face and a narrow table between. A dark, sixty inch monitor was mounted along one side for both seated to see. El Sharrad was upright; his head held back with Velcro straps, eyelids still taped open. They allowed him some modesty by covering him with a robe. More than fifteen hours had passed since he was apprehended and Craig had maintained eye contact for all but ten minutes. In and out of delirium, his face flush and drawn, El Sharrad came to dozens of times to the sight of Craig, only Craig, until El Sharrad understood Craig was his master.

After they were both seated, Craig waited until El Sharrad stopped shaking and his pulse rate dropped to a range of 145 to 155 when he knew he would have his undivided attention. "Your faithful is prepared and they need your command. Share with me the words to initiate the attack on the infidels. We have selected this moment to burn their souls for eternal damnation." Craig spoke purposefully to El Sharrad; the stupor which enveloped him would only last for fifteen to twenty minutes so concise communication was critical. "Confirm location, we must not fail."

El Sharrad tried to turn his head, to blink. An aid continued to place moisturizer into his eyes. He mumbled in Arabic, the words unintelligible.

"The time is here, we will descend down on the Staples Center in Los Angeles. The truck is ready to move," Craig continued.

"No, it, it is wrong," El Sharrad managed to say.

"Tell me how we are mistaken; we will soon be at the stadium?" Craig asked, but these were the only words El Sharrad would offer.

"Well, at least we can eliminate LA as a possible target."

Craig sat and waited, this method had never failed before and he now saw El Sharrad was regaining his senses. This man was tough; he would have to fall back on his secondary plan.

Looking briefly up at the camera mounted in the ceiling corner, Craig directed, "Flip on the screen." With that, the screen beside them lit up with a live, aerial view of a village in Pakistan with traffic in the streets and inhabitants moving to and fro. Gradually, the landscape narrowed until the focus was on one small home. A small woman in a blue burka was seen beating a rug hung on a wooden rack, children ran with a goat in circles around their mother.

"El Sharrad, look to your family," Craig commanded. "Your children, the mother of your children, they are all there. Do you not see?"

The hate had returned to his eyes and although weakly, he began to speak, "It is a trick; they would not be out in the open like this. You have recorded this before. You can kill my brothers, you can torture and kill me, but we are not fooled. Allah guides us now and in our future. Here and beside him, we are filled with his wisdom and truth!"

"Yes, I think they are all there, three of your children and your wife Aaminah. Her name, I believe it means _secure, safe_. El Sharrad, right now, she is anything but. We have an armed drone circling far above only awaiting a signal from me. You kill our innocent civilians; I will have no issues with killing your family!"

El Sharrad said nothing.

"I guess if you believe in your _jihad_ , and have no reservations about killing our women and children, you will accept the death of your children without remorse," Craig taunted.

El Sharrad's fists closed on the armrests. His knuckles whitened; the veins on his forehead pulsed as he did his best to appear calm.

"One word, right now, and they go before you to Mohammad!" Craig warned.

"It is of no use, they are already dead," El Sharrad announced.

"No, not yet, but soon I fear. I give you my word, if...," but Craig never finished his words. In a massive explosion, the entire screen went white, orange, then grey, and cloudy, dark smoke billowed where there was once a family.

"Goddamn it to hell! What just happened?" Craig roared, spinning around and charging out of the room. "What fucking moron of a goddamn piss ant gave the order to unleash the drone? I am going to rip somebody's throat out!"

The four in the observation room instinctively backed away from Craig as he stomped back and forth demanding a communications feed to Langley. "Now, goddamn it, now! Get the incompetent piece of shit on comms now!"

A CIA intelligence officer entered the room and came up behind Craig, but this was a mistake. The instant the guy touched his shoulder, Craig had him on the ground, his boot heel on his throat and his arm twisted in his grasp. "It better be fucking good for you to come up behind me like such a fucking idiot!" Craig lessened the pressure on the officer's neck to let him respond.

"Major Craig, sir, it wasn't us, our drone is still on station, all onboard weapons intact."

"What do you mean it wasn't us? Then who the fuck was it then, Tinker Fucking Bell?" Craig released his grip and allowed the man to get to his feet. He stood motionless for what seemed like minutes, but was only a few seconds, and then, he turned to look back in through the one-way glass at El Sharrad. "No, he didn't, c'mon no!"

Craig reentered the room and El Sharrad was waiting.

"Yes, I did. You are correct; our mission for God is above all earthly things. It was understood, if I was captured, my family would be sacrificed. To me, they have been dead for some time. Now, they are surely with Allah!"

In Craig's earpiece came, "Sir, confirmed, it was their people. Unreal sir, are they human?"

El Sharrad was impassive. "My family, they are with Allah. All praise to Allah!"

Now the rage showed upon Craig's face and he once again exited, shouting to the group in the control room, "Pack all our gear, including the piece of shit in there; let's move to Guantanamo! No one has ever beaten me, and this isn't about to be the first time!"

Chapter 18

Shawn thought, _I've gone from happy to miserable in one day_. He had accepted the invitation, wanting to spend even just a few more hours with Sally, and now found he was heading to a boat to have dinner with a TV preacher who was dating the woman he loved. _Man, sometimes I'm way too nice a guy._

Sally pulled into the Kona Yacht Club Marina and, as it was the end of the day, parked in the tourist lot where the glass bottom boats tied up. Shawn looked up and down boat slips, but there were no other vessels visible.

"Sally, where's his boat, I don't see anything we would want to have dinner on, unless you want look at fish beneath you as you eat fish," Shawn joked.

"Shawn, patience, you wouldn't find it along the dock. Maybe _boat_ wasn't an accurate term to use." Sally answered. They parked and Sally grabbed an overnight bag then took Shawn's hand with her other, and they walked down the ramp.

"Here we go," she said, and at the bottom of the gangway awaited a small skiff with the name " _Salvation II_ " on the stern, with two crew members ready to assist them into the boat.

"Sally, where're we going? Where's Daniels boat?" he asked.

Sally sat down next to him and said, "Well, like I said, it's not really a boat Shawn. It's a bit bigger, actually a lot bigger, more like a yacht," and she pointed over his shoulder to a 158-foot super yacht glistening on the water with soft lights coming from the windows as the sun set to the west. Beneath the yacht, underwater accent lights gave the impression it was sitting on a sea of golden blue.

"Well Sally, this is nuts! C'mon, now I have to ask you, what the hell were you doing in first class with this guy? With a boat, ah, ship like that, why doesn't he have his own jet? What, did he go cheap on you?"

"No Shawn, his jet was taking a mission of his parishioners to El Salvador to install a well and schoolhouse for a small community. He does that often. He is incredibly generous as you will see, and before we arrive alongside _Salvation_ , I need to tell you something, it just can't wait any longer. Daniel and I are engaged. It happened all so suddenly. I know; I don't wear the ring because I'm in the lab too much and jewelry is not allowed. I love him which is why I want you to meet him. I know it's not something I need you to approve, but hopefully, after all you and I have been through, you will see he is good for me."

"Sally stop! What the hell? Could you possible drop a bigger bomb on me?" Shawn felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. "What do you mean, engaged? Nah you're just busting my hump. You're not really engaged, don't go and tell me that!"

As the skiff pulled alongside the high-gloss hulls, the decks towered above. Sally continued to speak frantically, now realizing the mistake she had made. "Shawn, his name is Daniel Gibbons. I wanted to tell about our engagement when we arrived, but I never even had a chance to tell you about him at all. You may have seen him on _The Christian Message Media_ show on Sundays if you watch TV."

With that comment, Shawn looked at Sally sideways "Really?"

"Well you told me once religion was very important to you. Some people who travel as much as you do find the Sunday ministries a way to stay close to a source of spiritual sustenance. Not saying you have, just thinking you might have seen him." Sally remarked. "I don't know, Shawn, I'm so sorry if I've hurt you."

"Not a chance, don't even own a TV, and the places we stay usually don't have electricity. Guess I'll meet him now though. Oh, and about the hurt, may be a bit late for that," Shawn answered.

As they walked up from the stern platform past the gilded name _Salvation II_ emblazoned across the transom, Daniel spotted them and called out to Sally, "Sally Evans, what a glorious sight to behold!"

Shawn looked at Sally, " _Glorious, behold_ — are you friggin' kidding me?"

"Shawn stop, of course he's different, he has given his life to his God. He has a congregation and speaks to millions on his show each week. Please, you accepted the invitation as my friend, and his guest. Try to show some gratitude and respect."

"I will do my best my little bamboozled _senorita_!" Shawn promised with a smirk as they reached the quarterdeck.

Daniel clasped both hands over Sally's and gave her a polite kiss on her cheek. "My lovely Sally, why are have we stayed apart so long? I am so busy with my missions, and your time is spent in secretive laboratories designing devices I am not sure our Savior would approve of. You know, we've spoken of this. You needn't work if you chose not to, it could all be arranged."

"Daniel, yes, we have discussed the topic thoroughly. It would not be acceptable for either of us for the reasons we both know. After we're married, things may be different of course. Please, Daniel, this is Shawn Pérez, I've spoken often about him. We are dear friends, and Shawn is already quite impressed with _Salvation_. Shawn photographs seas around the world, and has said he's never seen such a magnificent vessel."

Daniel let go of Sally's hands and extended his right hand to Shawn with his left in the air, palm toward the sky. "Shawn, may God bless you and welcome you to our _Salvation II_. With that he cracked a smile and Sally chimed in, "Shawn, Daniel always thinks that's pretty funny."

Shawn shook Daniel's hand a bit grudgingly and released his grip almost at once, but Daniel kept on pumping. "Shawn, tonight, as my guest, I offer you both nutritional and spiritual sustenance; Sally and I are both delighted you welcome my hospitality."

At that, Daniel finally let go of Shawn's hand, but not before it made Shawn think of a childhood handshake joke where they squeezed each other's hands saying, "Welcome to the dairy cow company" or "Hi, I'm from the Heart Foundation."

But the instant Daniel released Shawn's hand, a powerful feeling of unease came over Shawn, a dread he just couldn't make sense of. He wasn't sick, that wasn't it, and being on the water certainly didn't bother him, but it was almost as if his head was starting to spin. He closed his eyes for just a moment to regain his composure, but when he opened them again, it was the same. Like he was walking on lily pads, as long as he kept moving, he wouldn't sink. He had to go, to keep moving. This was not a place he was supposed to be.

"Sal, ah, Daniel, hope you don't think I'm rude, and I'm glad to meet your holy worship, but I just got a text and they need me to sit in on a prep meeting for Drake's big wave attempt tomorrow. Not unusual, a pre-event meeting with the _yada, yada_ corporate guys you understand. I think I'm gonna have to pass on dinner. If I could ask your assistant sailor guys to take me back to shore."

Shawn then spoke directly to Sally. "My sweets, I'm bummed and appreciate the entire time we've spent working together today, and the invite for dinner tonight, but Deep Surf pays my tab. Don't know if I'll ever have a _minister of holy dollar_ to cover my expenses. You understand, don't you?"

"Shawn, do you really have to go? Why do they need you there, you know your business. You would have enjoyed yourself tonight; the cuisine is always wonderful on _Salvation_." Sally held his forearms and urged him to stay. Shawn had made this excuse up, but she really couldn't blame him. She had botched the day with her reluctance to tell him before they came to Hawaii.

"Sally, no doubt the grub is great onboard, but no, it's cool, tomorrow is a huge day for Drake. I've been urging him to deliver this new stunt on this particular wave at Coast Guard Beach for some time. I have to be there tonight. I will have one of the local surf shop bros pick me up and take me to the airport. Have to get to the North Shore in two hours, and if I leave now I can just make it. You both have a romantic dinner alone, Sally. It's what I think you want anyway," which was very unusual for Shawn to say. He rarely if ever felt sorry for himself.

"Daniel, God is okay with candlelight and wine, isn't he?" Shawn added sarcastically.

Shawn gave Sally a massive hug, did a flying fist bump without connecting with Daniel, leapt back down the gangway, and hopped back into the skiff. On the return to the dock, he couldn't pin down the inky mood which had come over him but decided it was one of foreboding, of something soon to come.

Chapter 19

Ultimately, Shawn was glad he ditched the dinner, although any time with Sally was better than no time. But when he awoke this morning he felt it had given him more time last night to layout his positioning in the media boat to make sure he got the photo of Drake the sponsors wanted, and expected. He had read through the latest reports from NOAA before checking the buoy readings himself and all the reports confirmed: tomorrow's surf would be off the charts, and even he and the other boats would be placing themselves in danger by simply being on the water.

*****

An intense storm northwest of the Hawaiian Islands triggered the super swell, which had been rapidly building throughout the day and into the evening.

The National Weather Service said around 9 a.m. Buoy 101, which measures open ocean swells northwest of the Hawaiian Islands, reported an ocean swell of 31 feet at 17 seconds. That translates to 50+ feet on the north shore around 7 p.m.

North shore beaches on Thursday saw 30 to 40 foot faces, west shores 15 to 25 feet and west shores of the Big Island 10 to 15 feet. Currently a high surf warning is in effect until 6 a.m. Saturday for the north and west shores of Niihau, Kauai, Oahu and Molokai, the north shore of Maui. A high surf advisory has been issued for the Big Island until 6 a.m. Saturday.

As of noon Wednesday, all coastal roads were open and passable. But Waimea Bay was closed on Wednesday as Ocean Safety lifeguards reported that surf washed up onto the beach and into the parking lot and has undermined several large trees.

*****

In years past, Shawn and Drake had joined the fray at Mavericks, the iconic wave in Northern California, whenever Mavs _went off_ , or pumped in waves sixty feet or higher. When it did produce, pro surfers from around the globe dropped everything and flew in for the bust out, but only after three or four times, for Drake it became the same ol' – same ol', and sliding down a big sloping wall of water was no longer a challenge for him. All you had to do it make the drop and hang on. He considered Mavericks a wave for mere mortals.

For today's assault on Drake's new move, they were fortunate the surf planets lined up, and the anticipated swell they had tracked for three weeks was developing as they had hoped. The first confirmation of the pending swell was perfectly timed for their announcement at Surf Expo when the percentage probability hit eighty-five percent likely to occur. After they decided on Hawaii, they then had to select an intercept point to engage the waves. The original thought for an optimum break was either Pipeline or Waimea Bay, two classic big wave beaches known worldwide, but after careful inspection of the approach and angle of the waves, they decided on an unfamiliar left breaking wave at a place called Coast Guard Beach. It seemed their best bet for a perfect hollow tube.

Shawn knew his pal Drake, when attempting new maneuvers, preferred right breaking waves, but Coast Guards was the wave that would open up the forty-foot tunnel of blue power needed to complete the revolutions. Drake wanted Waimea, but conceded to Shawn's wishes, relenting to the fact this type of event pays big, and if there was anything Drake liked better than women, it was cashola. Once they agreed, Drake assured Shawn, wave direction was the least of their worries; this was a swell not to be jacked with.

Drake screeched into the Puakea Point parking lot less than two miles south of Coast Guards at precisely 10:45 a.m., with optimal tides expected between 11 a.m. and one o'clock this afternoon. The limited spaces were packed with rescue vehicles and press. It was impossible for even the marine safety patrol to get their jet skis out at the beach at Coast Guards. Shawn was pleased he was once more right in one of many of his predictions; the wave size at Coast Guards would prohibit beach launches, so it had always been his intention to load up and shove off from here. Without looking up, Shawn heard Frisco before he saw him, and by the time he glanced away from his work, Frisk had launched out of Drake's jeep and was bounding over for the much anticipated jaw-soaking face-licking.

"Little Frisquit Basket, how goes it pup? Love ya Bisco, you be the best dog in the whooollllle universe." Shawn praised Frisco between slurps; he always had the impression Frisco felt he had his own late-night talk show and everyone was keenly observing his demonstration of human adoration. Shawn was clearly only a guest on Frisco's stage. _My party, my fun_ as far as Frisco was concerned. Shawn had no earthly idea what spun through Frisco's canine brain, but whatever he was taking, he wanted some. Frisco made everyone around him happy, because he was happy. After one more three-sixty facial smattering, Frisco left Shawn's side and headed off to find another dry-faced favorite and started all over again.

A nineteen foot rigid inflatable boat (RIB) was what they'd use as today's platform for the shoot. And in an unusual move, Deep Surf hired a videographer to work beside Shawn, but only after some heated negotiations. Shawn had no use for video. He felt catching every strung-out performance was too easy. Only a photograph provided a focus point of the very moment of beauty and light. Drake would also join them and once at Coast Guards, jump onto a Deep Surf jet ski which towed a specially designed "sled." If the surfers wiped out and were caught between breaking waves in the danger zone, the jet skis zipped in, the surfers would grab one of the sled's rubber straps and flip them up and out of danger as the Jet Ski whisked away before the next wave could hit.

Drake had even purchased Frisco a doggy personal floatation device as a precautionary measure against him falling in.

Shawn turned to Drake and the video team and shouted, "C'mon, let's load up and head out, peak conditions in little less than twenty-five minutes and it's going to be a bitch to get up to the break with this swell; the ocean is a tumultuous mess! And guys, I understand you love what you do, and Deep Surf wants video of Drake's attempt, but stay out of my way. If I find one of your heads in front of my lens, you and your shit are going in!"

Frisco leapt on to and inside the RIB settling down between Shawn and Drake. Frisco was boat-smart and knew to keep low for the bumpy ride.

The boat and three jet skis along with one Hawaiian Surf Rescue vessel reached Coast Guards in less than ten minutes and at the break, along the shore on the road above the beach, you could see hundreds of spectators sitting on their vehicles or with their legs dangling over the cliff's edge. There were also several other independent surf magazines and brands with crews on location, but a little grease in the right palms had made sure only Deep Surf obtained a Marine Rescue Permit to be on the water.

Shawn and his crew, plus one other RIB hosting a number of Deep Surf VIPs, moved into position a safe distance from the break. Two older Deep Surf pro surfers were also invited to surf, but Shawn made it clear to everyone, Drake was to be the main attraction. If you happened to snag a sequence of one of other guys it was cool, but not at the expense of missing Drake.

There was another reason they needed the jet skis. Waves of this size travel faster than a human can paddle and the only way to gain sufficient speed to catch the monsters is to be towed in using a super-quick personal watercraft or PWC. The PWC driver tosses a tow line back to the surfer who grabs the water ski handle at the end. As the PWC lurches forward the surfer who has his feet planted on the board, nose up underwater, rises when the driver accelerates and is immediately brought to a standing position. Gaining to speeds in excess of forty miles-per-hour, the driver runs parallel to the wave approaching the shoreline with the surfer hanging on for his life behind, until the wave reaches the necessary steepness. With one final burst of speed, the surfer is catapulted into the bowels of the ocean's fury. The Jet Ski zooms safely off into the outer zone.

As Drake's PWC pulled up to the RIB, the driver yelled above the rumbling thunder from the waves exploding on the jagged reef. "Yo Brah, biggest and knurliest I've ever seen it. You fuck up here Brah, and you'll be eating coral with the island Gods!"

As usual, Frisco became agitated watching Drake hop onto the back of the ski with board in one hand, his other around the driver's waist. Shawn reached out and held onto Frisco's lifesaving harness. "No you don't Risky Frisk, ain't any way you're getting in that water. Doggy life vest or not, you'd end up as liquefied puppy paste!"

Before they sped off, Drake turned to Frisco and said, "Frisco, no! Stay! Good boy! Stay! Gonna catch a couple screamers out here, and we'll be on the beach in no time throwing you some tennis balls!" Drake gave Shawn a nod, slapped his driver on the shoulder and they roared off towards the line-up. Frisco gave his body a twist, causing Shawn to lose his grip, and jumped up on the rail, barking out to Drake. Shawn looked out to the horizon and, in the distance he could see a mountain range of water rolling towards them.

Drake's driver took them out two hundred yards and began to test the edge or shoulder point to be sure he knew how close he could get if Drake got into trouble. Even from this distance, Shawn could see Drake's wide eyes as a massive green angry beast rolled through, causing them to push back another hundred yards from the lineup. From Shawn's vantage point, the seas lacked organization — and without a pattern, the risks were magnified.

"It's too unruly; no rhythm," Shawn spoke over their wireless comm. "Got to have a natural flow man. I can't pick up on it; Drake, can you feel it? Do you think it will find itself?"

"It's a bit dicey Brah, but me and my two boys are gonna hang out with our drivers just outside the impact zone for a while and observe. If it doesn't settle, no worries, I ain't going. Cool?"

_Wow_ , Shawn thought, _not too often does Drake takes a wait-and-see approach. Glad it's not just me who is treating this seriously_.

"Drake Ol' Pal couldn't agree more. Sure wouldn't want little Frisco embarrassed if his Daddy bit the big one and ate a gargantuan water biscuit."

After a bit more comparing, they both agree to assess conditions for fifteen to twenty minutes longer and then make a final call.

As Drake waited, each of the Deep Surf pros attempted to ride the behemoths. One made it, the other crashed and burned, but their only objective was to hang on and make the waves without wiping out. Drake's goal was to push the envelope with his first ever 360 in a Holland Tunnel-sized barrel. Shawn wished now he hadn't laid down the challenge for Drake; way too risky, these waves were killers. Five more minutes and Shawn would call it and pull Drake in, but before the time was up, one of the pros finally snagged a clean tube and pulled off a great ride. _Shit_ , Shawn thought, _after that wave, Drake's gonna go for it. There'll be no holding him back. Damn it._

Right away he heard in his ear bud, "Doable dude, these are proverbial doers! You know what they say Brah — he who hesitates is lost!"

Shawn came right back with the expected response, "Yes, my brotha, but haste makes waste indeed!"

"You're the shits Brah, indeed and thereby, I shall be goin' for it. Get your spook camera dialed in because the show is about to begin!"

Drake jumped off the ski, board under his arm and the driver threw him the tow line. Shawn asked his guy to bring the RIB as close as safely possible to the takeoff point, instructing him to move along the periphery at about one hundred and fifty yards from the break...when Drake caught his wave.

He then instructed, "Run parallel to the curl as it careens towards the shoreline. You'll have to take some risks, Drake, sure as shit is!"

They had to stay clear of the suction created at the base of the swell as it moved over the reef. After a wave crossed the depths of the open ocean unimpeded, then encountered a drastic depth change (from two hundred and fifty feet deep to only four feet deep within a quarter of a mile), surfers call this a "slab." The energy of a wave doesn't carry water; it moves through water and requires water to continue its journey. When it arrives at land, it sucks water from every possible source, and with nowhere for the energy to go, it rises straight up and drains the reefs dry. Not a good place to be as all the power looks for a new place to call home!

Shawn signaled to slow and the boat drifted, but no one cuts their engines. All must be at the ready. He then double checked the settings on the Sentient to be they are correct. He glanced at his backpack to make sure his backup camera was ready in case the Sentient failed. _This is not the day to fail to get shot_. Shawn had a perfect view down the barrel, as one of the biggest sets of the day made its appearance and Drake needed not call in to Shawn as he knew this would be the one.

Drake let the first two of the three waves roll through. One of the other surfers took the second and after he was launched into the wave he careened down the face, smelled disaster pending, then, using all his downward speed he arced back towards the peak where he shot off the lip and into the heavens, reaching a height of more than sixty feet. "Wendy, I can fly," Shawn blurted.

"Oh, my brother, this is insane" he called to Drake, not expecting a response.

On the third wave, Drake (still treading water, feet beside his board, tow handle in the left hand), signaled with a little salute, and a stream of water emitted from the back of the ski. Drake turned to the PWC driver with a heads up, gives a high sign to one of his Deep Surf pals nearby.

Drake lifted from the water, crouched down tight on his board rising gradually as the jet-ski gains speed. They head straight towards the face of the third wave which, at this depth, looked more the Cliffs of Dover. Moving faster, Drake carved one broad turn while the jet ski jumped forward. Shawn could see it, and as anticipated, Drake dropped the handle, ideally positioning himself in the sweet spot, allowing the swell to carry upward as the wall of water began to climb.

_Solid insertion, good_ , Shawn thought.

As the wave peaked, Drake seemed to hover along its crest, and then pointed his boards tip straight down the face as he became a tiny speck hurtling at ever-increasing velocity with the board skipping across the wall, at times barely touching the water.

The effort to stay in contact with such a steep drop took every bit of Drake's effort. He understood; in order to make all three spirals in a curl of this size, speed mattered most. So as he reached the base of the wave, he did the longest bottom turn Shawn had ever seen him execute. Climbing back up to the lip, he dodged the powerful cascading furl of water, hurtled downward again, but this time turning at the mid-wave, his legs rattling like a giant slalom skier in the Olympics.

Then, as the tube began to form, the texture of its inner surface turned to glass (the wind no longer an influence), and the wave became a hollow, grinding generator of ferocious mist and spitting water. Drake's ears popped as the pressure increased deep within the watery core.

Shawn was on it. His shutter exploded as he prayed the multiple processors could keep up with hundreds of images pouring in from the camera's sensors.

From the boat, unable to place his monopod on the deck to stabilize the camera, he resorted to holding more than eighteen pounds of gear with his left arm, knees bent and micro-adjusting his posture to the shifting movements of tide, wind and water. All the while Frisco snoozed peacefully, nestled between Shawn's feet, his favorite spot anytime Shawn photographed his master Drake.

Three life-saving services from Kona, Hawi, and Honokaa now had PWCs on the water and moved into position. Each was on station to act as backup to the others in the event of a mishap, staged to rescue Drake if anything went wrong.

In the gaping barrel, Drake looked pretty relaxed when he suddenly angled up, allowing the wave to take control. As the circular direction of the water lifted him up the face, he drove up and stuck to the ceiling of the tube. For one split second he was upside down looking at the reef twelve inches below the surface far below, like a gymnast acquiring a landing point. The inertia which brought him there then carried him fully around and over the falls, while still upright and seemingly in control.

At that moment though, something went terribly wrong. Drake was carried much farther out than he would have been on a smaller wave. At once, Drake lost the centrifugal force _stickiness_ which held him to the wave and, before one complete rotation he disconnected and free fell into the "pit." He reached for the rail of his board and pulled it under him just in time, but the angle combined with the speed he was travelling, forced Drake to land off balance. Attempting a small turn to regain his inertia only caused him to head in the direction towards the full weight of the collapsing wave.

Looking through the lens, Shawn was the only one to witness the look on Drake's face as he realized he was too late to react as immeasurable tons of water crash down upon him. The last thing Shawn saw was Drake's board snapping in two as his best friend was engulfed in a living mountain of whitewater. Shawn stopped shooting and, although the surf was deafening, all was quiet as Frisco jumped to his feet.

—————

The operator of Shawn's RIB blurted, "Oh fuck, that was bad," as they watched marine rescue shoot into the zone trying to get as close as possible to search for Drake or his board in the field of foam between the sets.

Some surfers trained to hold their breaths for more than four minutes in case that's what it takes to get to the surface. Shawn knew Drake could hold his for five; he was always better than the guy next to him.

After three minutes though, considering the violence of the wipe out, there was still no sign of Drake, and Shawn became seriously concerned. Drake usually found his way to the surface within one or two minutes, but three...it never took him this long.

Shawn dropped the Sentient and it crashed to the deck. He clipped a leash onto Frisco and handed it to one of the other surfers who had returned to their boat. He called in one of the Deep Surf jet skis, told the driver to get onboard, took his place and twisted the throttle to full, taking off to join the search. At least a dozen rescue boats and skis darted in and out of the foam zone, some dangerously close to being crushed themselves. Shawn was frantic knowing each and every wave would push Drake over and over down hard upon the reef.

On his fifth trip into the zone, he heard from another over the radio, "He's there, look! It's his board, its tombstoning!"

Shawn whipped his ski around and saw the tail of Drake's board bobbing up from a mound of foam swirling in the raging whitewater. He realized this offered little relief; it only meant Drake, if still attached to the board by his leash, was somewhere beneath the surface. It had now been more than fifteen minutes.

Before anyone could reach the board, another wave crashed in driving the board to disappear again beneath the surface under the boiling foam in an area the size of a football field.

After five minutes, a U.S. Coast Guard helicopter appeared overhead as by now there was a likelihood Drake might have been sucked under any one of the waves and pushed out to sea so the search area was expanded to encompass one mile of beach to the north and south, as well as the open ocean along the western coast of the island.

As hours passed and night fell, it became dangerous for on-water search and rescue (SAR) operations, so all the smaller vessels were called in and made their way back to the beach at Puakea Point while the USCG helicopter refueled a number of times and continued using their spotlight to comb the seas. Teams of volunteers walked up and down the beaches in search of any sign of Drake.

As their RIB drove up onto the sand, Shawn did his best to calm Frisco, who hadn't stopped barking or whining since they turned the boat back to the beach. The little guy knew something was wrong. Drake was always onboard when they headed in.

Shawn knelt besides Frisco, holding him close trying to calm him, but Shawn's emotions were drained. He wanted to cry, to scream, he had to find his friend. Anguish filled his heart as he did his best to squelch the pain within. Already the asshole news mongers were sticking microphones in his face: "Do you think you'll find Drake?" "Any chance he is still alive?" "Do you feel partly to blame?" Question after question until Shawn gave one reporter a crack across the side of his head with the back of his hand. "Get the fuck away from me, scumbag!"

After that one of the Deep Surf exec's had security push the reporters and crowds back and away from Shawn and Frisco. Shawn sat low on the edge of the boat, head in one hand with his other on Frisco's forehead. "I'm sorry pal, I'm so sorry!"

As night fell, with a decision from the air station at Barber's Point, the Coast Guard temporarily suspended SAR efforts until morning. The offshore cutter ceased operations. A marker had been dropped at the spot of Drake's crash and would track the drifting currant throughout the night.

But one RIB had stayed on the water — the one holding Deep Surf's private rescue team. In the fading light, Shawn could see it heading in from the search area and someone aboard waving his hands. As it reached the shore and he could finally see into the boat, Shawn could just make out the Deep Surf logo on top of a splintered board tied to the transom. In the center of the boat was a rescue plank and on it, the dead and lifeless body of the best friend Shawn had ever known.

Frisco, spotting Drake, wrestled himself from Shawn's grip and flew in the direction of the skiff. Before they had unstrapped Drake's corpse from the center support, Frisco was beside his unresponsive master, licking his face, confused, whimpering and howling the most harrowing cry. Tears erupted on everyone's faces, including some news media crew. The Deep Surf execs, and even the rescue teams who had seen so much in their years of service, could not hold back the intense sorrow felt by all who were present.

Shawn ran to Drake's side. "No buddy no, God no! Why did I ask you to do this? This, this is my fault!"

Shawn lifted Frisco in his arms and burrowed his face into Frisk's fur, heaving and sobbing while experiencing a level of despair he didn't know existed. He looked up for one moment as they transferred Drake's body to a gurney.

On the stretcher before him lay his dead friend; the bloom of life gone from his grey face. "What have I done to you Drake, what have I done?"

Chapter 20

As Drake's closest friend and without relatives in the islands, the medical examiner had asked him to identify Drake, as if there was any question of who Drake was. Once that was done, the M.E. took a number of photos; they hoisted Drake on the gurney, rolled him into the rear of the ambulance, and drove off. No siren. No lights. But for a few ghoulish characters the spectators had disbursed and Shawn with Frisco were the last to leave.

After attending to the business of death, Shawn asked one of the other surfers to drop him at a quiet beach near his hotel; he just wanted to be alone. Avoiding the front entrance, Frisco followed Shawn around the side of the lobby building down to the water's edge where they both sat on the sand, Frisco tucked between Shawn's legs. It all seemed so unreal, like a dream. But the dream wouldn't shake.

Shawn couldn't stop thinking over and over, _if Drake was dead why do I feel like he is here with me on this beach? And why did I make him take on the challenge? It was all my idea and because of me, I killed my friend. My life is totally fucked. Lost my girl, killed my friend and for what? It was all for the love of the image; for a fucking photo. I think I'm such hot shit when I'm a selfish good-for-nothing bastard._ Shawn had ignored his phone for hours, but a unique ringtone jerked him out of his thoughts. _Sally! Oh no, Sally_ , he thought. He hit answer and Sally's face came up on the screen.

"Shawn, want to have dinner together? Daniel's leaving tonight. His jet just arrived, and I expect he will head to the airport in about an hour. I want to make up for last night. I need to apologize and to explain," Sally said. "You are so very important to me, and the way I treated you was horrid!"

"Sally, he's gone."

"What? Who's gone Shawn? Did Drake fly out already? Oh yes, I wanted to ask you, how was the surf event?

"Sally, Drake's gone. He's dead. Crushed by dozens of waves, not an unbroken bone in his body, and it was all because of me. I pushed him too far. Sally, I don't know what to do. I'm a fucking loser, and I killed my friend."

"Drake, oh my Lord, Drake's dead? Shawn, tell me where you are, I'll be right there. I have a driver and will come pick you up. Just stay where you are, and I will be with you in less than an hour, no, make that minutes." And Sally hung up.

Shawn reached out and put his hands around each of Frisco's soft Aussie ears, massaging them (it was Frisk's favorite thing) and stared out into the black ocean until Sally arrived in an extended Range Rover. Sally had the driver pull round to the back of the hotel and when she spotted Shawn, told the driver to park nearby. The driver, more bodyguard than chauffeur, emerged to open the rear door and Sally burst out and ran to Shawn's side. He hadn't moved an inch since they spoke on the phone.

"My dear, sweet Shawn, oh my kind Shawn, it's not your fault, you would never hurt anyone," and she wrapped her arms around him as he started to cry once again in the security of her embrace.

"It's alright Shawn, I'm here for you. Just let it come out," Sally said as she ran her hand up and down his back. "Cry for a bit, cry for your friend. Take your time and when you feel up to it, we will go back so you can rest. You shouldn't be alone; I will not leave your side until you ask me to."

They sat for an hour, Sally comforted Shawn until he calmed and then the three stood and made their way to the Range Rover for the short drive to the marina. Frisco sat between them the entire drive with his head on Shawn's lap and when they arrived at the pier, they tried to get Frisco in the skiff, but he whined and would not board. Shawn understood. Frisco's last boat ride ended in the death of his master Drake, so Shawn gently picked up Frisco in his arms, carried him aboard and held him close till they came up to _Salvation II_.

This time Daniel met them on the platform down below. Sally had called ahead and told him of the tragedy, hoping he could offer Shawn some spiritual guidance and to help him find ways to grieve. Daniel immediately moved everyone into the parlor on the main deck and kindly asked Shawn to sit, asking if there was anything he could get to make him more comfortable. A crew member brought coffee along with other refreshments and asked if Shawn wanted something stronger.

"No thanks. Couldn't handle alcohol right now, just coffee, thanks, really, thanks." He turned to Sally, "My ego, his ego, two big egos...too much incentive money, not enough balance. We pushed it too far. I pushed him too far. Drake knew what the sponsors wanted, and gave me what I needed, or wanted, but was it for me, or for Drake? He felt he had to keep coming up with more and more dangerous stunts, like he was some kind of a circus monkey. He prostituted himself for Deep Surf and for me!"

Shawn held his head and tears welled up, "Daniel, do you have any tissues? Christ, I feel like a baby, sorry for crying again Sally."

Daniel went behind one of the bars and found a box of Kleenex for Shawn.

"Shawn, don't do this to yourself," Sally consoled. "Drake was out of control. You were the best thing in his life. You grounded him. Think about it, it was only _because_ of Drake that Deep Surf had their star, and you had your position. If Drake was any different than he was, you would be working with dozens of other pro surfers and Deep Surf would have to play the sponsor game same as the others. Drake knew his daring and risk-taking placed his rankings far above the others."

"Sally, I should have called it off. I sensed something wasn't right. Last night, when I skipped out on dinner, I knew I was bummed you had gotten engaged and felt something weird, like something bad was going to happen, but it wasn't you and Daniel. Sure, it sucks, maybe not for you, but for me for sure." Shawn, not really caring Daniel was in the room, continued, "But it was Drake. I knew deep inside he would die today, and I still let it happen. My best friend is dead, and I don't give a shit if he ever surfed or if I ever photographed him, I was closer to him than anyone on earth except for you."

With that comment, Sally and Shawn did a quick glance of understanding to each other.

"You have to get things straight as you begin the grieving process Shawn," Daniel interrupted. "It is not your fault. Drake commanded his own destiny — he and God actually."

"No! God had nothing to do with it! Drake did it for the camera, he did it for me," Shawn erupted as he shook his head.

Sally took Shawn's hand and said, "Shawn, I came down to the beach before you and he went out. I saw Drake on the beach in front of the press. He was a great kid, but he was young and immature. You did all you could for him, but it looked to me like he did it for the glory, money, and the sponsors. If he had any other photographer, they may have been his friend, but they would never have cared as much as you and he would have gone out regardless. Have peace because he was your friend, and still is really. Your time together was priceless and his memories will keep him real within you."

Daniel added, "Shawn, take comfort he is in a better place, beside his maker. He can do more good for you now, and the world, than he ever could while walking among us."

"Bullshit," Shawn exploded, "and excuse me, but you're no real minister. You are so mistaken! For Drake, the camera made it real. He allowed me to capture his most unreal moments, the things in life most important to him. And I'm the asshole who got it all for him. Like I'm some hot-shit surf photographer! Forty-two frames per second in that goddamned black box, that Sentient pile of crap, right up until the frame where he left us. And that's it. All except for what I have on my data drives. That's all there is. And all there's ever gonna be for Drake."

He hung his head again as his shoulders rose up and down as he tried to suppress his tears. Sally came over to sit beside him. Frisco squeezed in, and for a moment they all weep together.

"Sally...I...how can? Holy shit, what can I do?"

"It's okay. Let it out. I'm here for you. Just rest," Sally soothed.

Daniel was emotionless. "Shawn, your friend's soul is already with the Lord, or will be soon, I pray. Anger and lashing out is normal under these circumstances. In time, I'm sure you'll feel differently."

"Right, Drake is in a little black box on the way to the airport. One day, I'll feel great about that! Appreciate you wanting to help, but save your religious clichés for your TV Christians. This is the real world not some hole called heaven in the sky you tell your people exists just to get them to follow you."

"Shawn, Daniel's only trying to help. I believe, as he does, Drake will be in heaven soon if he lived his life well."

"Sally dear, I'm afraid this may not be the case, that is, if Drake had not found Jesus. Only those who accept and follow in the steps of Our Lord Jesus Christ will join our heavenly Father for all eternity," Daniel corrected.

"So now what you're telling me _Preacher_ Daniel is if Drake wasn't a born again, he has no way to get to heaven. Boy, this is getting even better! How can you even spew those lies? So you think a good person who treats everyone he meets with consideration will go to hell when they die? Holy shit, I can't believe we are even having this conversation on the day my friend died. That's what's wrong with you fakes, you buy into your own bullshit. Drake may have been immature at times, and a little wild, but he never hurt a soul."

"Shawn, Daniel, stop. This is not the time! We can all agree Drake needs our prayers. Daniel, go, or you will miss your scheduled departure time and not make the morning service at church tomorrow. Shawn, we feel you and Frisco should spend the night onboard to collect yourself. You don't need the media or Deep Surf bothering you, _Salvation_ will save you from all that craziness."

Shawn calmed a bit, enough to thank Daniel. "Daniel, appreciate it, yes, a good idea. Sally, I can stay, but I will have to be at the airport at 6 a.m. to catch a hopper to Kauai. Deep Surf texted and they have already organized a paddle out memorial tomorrow evening in Hanalei Bay near the pier. Deep Surf expects there will be dozens of paddle outs in his honor throughout the U.S. and in places like Australia and other popular surf spots, but this one is for his inner circle. Guess they thought it a good idea to move fast and keep the gawkers away. He will already have been cremated tomorrow, and we will spread his ashes by sunset. I suppose somewhere in the cold dark recesses of a corporation called Deep Surf, they might have feelings after all."

Shawn stood and when he did, Frisco leapt back up into his arms. Then they all walked to the gangway to bid farewell to Daniel.

Daniel said in parting, "Be comforted. Tomorrow in our morning service, the entire congregation will pray for your friend Mr. Drake Powers and ease his passage into the afterlife."

"Thanks, but no thanks; Drake will be in heaven before your jet takes off, if he isn't there already!"

After the skiff pulled away, Shawn, still holding Frisco, looked at Sally and said "Don't know what I'm gonna do with this little guy. It won't be long until they give me a new surf pro to tag onto I'm sure. With Drake gone, and none of his surf chick groupies to watch Frisco, who will care for him? Frisco my little Bisco is like my little nephew for God's sake!"

"Shawn, I'll care for Frisco. Leave him onboard with me, at least for now anyway. I've asked Photon for a leave of absence, family matter I told them. Daniel gave me permission to bring _Salvation_ over to Kauai where I can be close to you if you need me. I intend to stay in Hawaii as long as you want me near you."

"Isn't holy, holy Daniel going to get suspicious of us spending time together?"

"No, we don't cohabitate, if you know what I mean. Much as I love him, he is clueless about that stuff. Think maybe his momma beat him whenever someone mentioned sex. He would never imagine two people doing it unless they were married. Very prudish, even for me!"

"Frisco, you want to stay with Aunt Sally for a while?" Somehow he knew what Shawn said and hopped happily into her lap as they both sat again in the parlor.

"Sally, when I get back, I've already decided what I'm going to do. I can't bring Drake back, he's dead and gone, but what I can do it take the images of his last moments alive and create a fantastic tribute to Drake in the most remarkable hologram the world has ever seen. After the memorial tomorrow, and once I get whatever photos Deep Surf wants out to them, my time will be spent working on Drake's real memorial.

A rich, vibrant hologram like the one Ben showed us of the lotus flower; so lifelike, my pal Drake will live on for all time and for all to see." And with these words, Shawn fell into a welcome sleep as he made plans to use what Ben had shown him for an entirely different purpose.

Chapter 21

Flying back from Kandahar, Craig caught up on his much needed shut-eye with the help of four Ambien he palmed from one of the guys. Not so for El Sharrad. The guards were ordered to rotate four on, four off and each time he dozed they were to kick him wherever they chose. His only explicit instructions were: "Don't let him sleep a wink, if he does, I'll know and then I'll be kicking your pitiful asses!"

As they approached Guantanamo Bay, he remembered the leeward airport was on the opposite side of the base, reached only by crossing a small river by ferry, so when you decided to leave this godforsaken desolate Navy Base, you could miss your flight in two ways. First, miss your flight because you're an idiot. Second, miss the ferry, and then miss your flight, because you're still an idiot.

After they landed, Craig had to include the ferry as a logistical factor as they moved El Sharrad to the infamous Gitmo Detention Center, located oddly enough, on the other side of the base golf course, if you could call it a golf course. He had played the eighteen-hole course at the invitation of a base Commander long ago, before they built the prison camp. He recalled that as he left the pro shop, after loading up with water bottles for their afternoon walk in the desert, they handed him a piece of Astroturf with some advice: "Sir, you use this when you tee off and, actually, whenever you plan on hitting the ball. It's all dirt and rock out there."

Yes, that's right, Craig marveled, there is no grass here. One of the driest places in Cuba, Gitmo is essentially a desert. After the Bay of Pigs invasion, Castro tried to force the U.S. forces out of Gitmo by turning off the water. The U.S. responded by placing numerous ships with desalinization plants onboard, which processed and piped it to land until a plant on land was constructed for the same purpose. Thinking about the hot, rocky landscape, Craig thought, _from one desert to another. What a terrific life I lead._

Gitmo's security shut down the airfield one hour before Craig's aircraft touched down, removing all non-essential personnel in preparation for the transfer of El Sharrad. Heavily-armed Marines lined either side of the C130's rear access ramp, waiting for Craig and company on the tarmac. They loaded El Sharrad into the rear of the Humvee they had carried with them from Afghanistan and drove slowly down the aircraft's ramp dropping into line with two tactical vehicles. They then all proceeded down to the ferry.

Twenty or more Marines were stationed on either side at each of the ferry landings, windward and leeward. Civilians were nowhere in sight, nor were any other cars or trucks, commercial or military. A U.S. Navy warship and a half dozen marine patrol boats kept post at the mouth of the waterway as it opened a short distance into the open ocean. Their final destination, barring any mishaps or interruptions, was Camp Echo. Formally, it acted as a disciplinary block for non-compliant prisoners, but it was forced to close many years ago when lawyers claimed that the cells were too small to be regarded as humane, that the toilets were inadequate, the lights were too bright, and the air in the cells to foul to breathe.

Craig knew they closed it, but on paper only. All resident detainees were moved out to "friendlier" accommodations. ACLU visitors were paraded through, and then it was reactivated but only for the toughest of customers. They abided by, but worked around, a court order to close it up. There were now no "permanent" prisoners at Camp Echo; only day visitors came and went, if they ever walked out again at all. It was a perfect place for Craig to spend some quality time with El Sharrad for a few days.

Before reaching Echo, they passed the golf course and from the side Craig saw a drive off the third tee and, when the ball landed, rocks and dirt flew up to mark the spot. _Ridiculous_ , he thought.

To support the ongoing deception, Echo looked abandoned as it should and the vehicles pulled up near the back gate where wire stockade fences were left open with metal posts leaning against the small building. Anyone dropping in for a quick visit would conclude no one could be secured in such a broken down compound.

Craig wasn't going to take any chances, none at all. El Sharrad still had the intel they desperately needed and without it, tens of thousands were targeted to die. He had to keep him alive and he had to get him to talk, whatever means it took, so before Craig would allow El Sharrad to be moved from their Humvee to inside the building, he surveyed the area to be sure there were no signs of life in the surrounding hills, no small boats near shore, and all weapons in the hands of the Marines were at the ready. Satisfied after a quick exchange over comms with Gitmo's aerial surveillance team, Craig gave the order to remove him and bring him into the building.

They had been in an air-conditioned vehicle since they arrived, but when they cracked open the truck doors, the dry air around Camp Echo stunk of feces and other bodily fluids.

After passing through one open gate, they approached the main entrance and El Sharrad was just in front of Craig with shackles on his ankles connected by chain to identical restraints on his hands. One leather band was loose around his neck and this too attached down to his wrists behind him. Craig prepared himself for the hours or days of hell to come. Entering the only visible doorway, the first thing Craig noticed was the furniture was heavy, very heavy in fact, and purposely designed so any prisoner who did manage to get free would not be able and lift it to use it as a weapon by bringing it down onto the head of one of the guards or interrogators.

Fifteen yards down the first hallway, they reached another which would take them to the right and on to the interrogation cell. Most of the walls were lined with posters warning captives in Dari, Pashto and Arabic about disciplinary infractions but many had been taken down to be used in the other detention facilities on Camp Delta. Halfway to the cell opening, Craig noticed their mistake only a split second after El Sharrad. Sticking out from the wall, never removed along with the sign it once held, was a two- inch bolt, rusted and sharp, less than a few feet from where they were about to pass.

Craig's mind worked quickly and he was astounded that a man who had been awake for almost forty hours could maintain the presence of mind to do what his prisoner was about to do.

When the terrorist came parallel to the bolt and before Craig could act, El Sharrad twisted his body sideways which threw the guards off balance, tilted his head up and lunged sideways driving the spike though his left temple on the side of his head. Craig jumped forward and pushed all the guards to the side, his blood-coated hand a split-second too late. Craig knew severe blows to the temple have a 40% or higher death rate and then realized for only the second time in his life, he had failed in his mission. El Sharrad was dead before he hit the ground.

Something was interfering with his karma, and it was really starting to piss him off.

Chapter 22

The Hawaiian sunset seemed softer than usual as a brightly colored flotilla of garlanded surfers and paddlers silently proceeded to the heart of Hanalei Bay. In spite of Deep Surf's desire to keep Drake's memorial subdued, hundreds of his faithful lined the pier and beaches. His family did insist those invited to the memorial have a meaningful connection to Drake, so Deep Surf provided security to verify everyone's relationship to the deceased before entering the memorial area. If they let everyone paddle out, the water would have been loaded with Drake's feminine conquests with a cat fight surely to erupt. Two news helicopters circled above and photographers took positions wherever they could find a clear angle or field of view. It was unavoidable; Drake Powers was the most talented surfer to ever grace the faces of the ocean's best waves.

Drake was an only child and his mother had Drake later in life; the outcome of an early morning interlude with a fisherman she met at one of the local haunts. On in years, she was carried on a small pontoon boat with dear friends beside her, the urn containing Drake's ashes held tightly in her lap. The urn was a wooden bowl ceremoniously carved by one of Kauai's spiritual elders and was appropriate as a natural symbol of the essence of one's spirit returning to the sea. All gradually came together in the large memorial circle with a smaller circle within reserved for those closest to Drake. Everyone was adorned with beautiful purple and gold leis reflecting the golden glow of the setting sun.

Shawn was in the center, two leis over his shoulders, one to send with Drake, the other to present to Drake's mom. Beside Shawn was Drake's favorite board, empty and alone. Deep Surf again surprised Shawn as they had respectively had their logo covered up on the deck as this was not the time for crass commercialization. Hands clasped before him, Shawn looked to no one, and then he saw Sally.

Sally held Frisco in her lap and was seated in a classic, wooden Chris Craft with the same muscled chauffeur at the helm but as the driver the night before. Shawn's first impulse was to call to Frisco, but this he could not bear to do, even Frisco's head hung low. Sally offered a weak smile and Shawn thought to paddle over but then thought better of it.

Turning back to the ceremony, Shawn moved with the others to make way for the boat with Mrs. Powers onboard as it pulled up alongside Drakes board — unusual, but appropriate. He reached through the railing and took hold of Drake's mother's hand.

A Hawaiian elder solemnly raised his arms and with this gesture asked for all to be still. Then, he spoke with a ceremonial tone, first beginning, "No cameras please. We are here to release the soul of our brother Drake onto the Ara Whanui a Tane, to live with his ancestors in the golden land to the west. We do not wish to hold any part of him back. He is free to go."

The participants acknowledged, some blessed themselves, and others bowed their heads like Shawn.

"Our sister Wairua from the Paumotu Islands has asked to read from a poem by the Maori poet Tieme Ranapiri which speaks of our beliefs. Let us join her to celebrate our brother, who is going home."

Wairua was adorned with a memorial lei slightly different from the others as she had made hers in the ways of her people. She also wore a vibrant yellow flower in her hair tucked behind her ear. She had joined Drake's mom on the pontoon boat knowing her place for healing was by her side. Standing, Wairua began to read, "Your path may be clouded, uncertain your goal: Move on, for your orbit is fixed to your soul."

The Hawaiian elders nodded their approval. Wairua continued,

You were. You will be!

Know this while you are:

Your spirit has traveled both long and afar.

It came from the Source, to the Source it returns.

The Spark which was lighted eternally burns.

The few Deep Surf executives who had paddled out attempted to look suitably solemn but look awkward at best on the very boards they manufactured and marketed. Kauai's watermen took comfort in her words, thoughtful and undistracted in prayer. Wairua lifted her gaze into the blue sky but pointed out across the water, and recited:

It slept in a jewel.

It leapt in a wave.

It roamed in the forest.

It rose from the grave.

It took on strange garb for long eons of years.

And now in the soul of yourself it appears.

A low drum from an outrigger beat in the background as Wairua spoke:

From body to body your spirit speeds on.

It seeks a new form when the old one has gone.

And the form that it finds is the fabric you wrought.

On the loom of the Mind from the fiber of Thought.

As dew is drawn upwards, in rain to descend.

Your thoughts drift away and in Destiny blend.

She paused and looked down once again, as the drumming came to a crescendo then halted as abruptly as it began. With this Wairua was silent, the only sounds were the lapping of the waves as they slid across the boards of all the surfers present.

The elders solemnly nodded to Drake's mother who had now broken down in tears and Shawn held her hand ever more tightly. Wairua, there to assist Mrs. Powers, took Drake's urn and held it in her hands, lifting the top so Drakes mother could take a small amount of her son's ashes in her hand. With a gasp and with a single anguished breath, she released the only remaining physical instance of her son on this earth, Drake Isaac Powers, into the sea.

Shawn paddled away from the boat, bringing with him Drake's board. He removed his lei and placed it softly on the deck. Others were invited to share stories of moments with Drake they held most dear. After, they paddled to the center to place their leis upon Drake's board. Soon the surfboard was buried under a stunning mound of flowers and when all had said their good-byes Shawn lifted the bowl high above his head, spun it round, and released Drake into the jeweled blue water while at the same moment, another pulled the board from beneath the flowers and they begin to drift freely upon the water.

Drake's ashes shone as they spread outward towards his friends and in an instant, every surfer was dipping their arms and splashing water on each other, on themselves, and out into the opening while shouting and hollering, throwing their remaining leis high in the air in a cascade of color. After a while and after all the prayers were said, everyone took their time to paddle in, deep in thought, some with their foreheads pressed down on the decks of their boards.

Shawn was one of the last to finally come ashore and smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours when he saw Sally and Frisco waiting for him. "Thank you Sally, I know you barely knew Drake. You always thought he was kind of a womanizer too."

Sally, not fooling Shawn, not fooling herself said, "Well, he was," and they both cracked a smile. "You know I had to bring Frisco to his Daddy's memorial. He had to say good-bye. It was lovely. These paddle outs...so right. I have never been a part of anything more wonderful."

"Yeah, but it's over now, and Drake's still gone"

"Not if you believe the words of the ceremony Shawn, you have to believe. That is the way you will keep him with you forever."

"Sure, people say nice things to make themselves feel better. It doesn't change the facts. Come on, there is a barbecue down the beach for Drake. After that if you want you can come back to my place."

"Shawn, I'm so sorry, I can stay for the barbecue, but after I have to fly over to Oahu. Daniel is shooting some TV spots. 'Jesus Advertisements,' he calls them plus an interview. He asked me to sit in at the agency's office in Honolulu and offer my opinion. I'll need to leave soon, but I have time to grab a bite with you."

"Well, hallelujah! Daniel will be filling up the space between _Hawaii Five-O_ and _Magnum PI_!" Shawn mocked. "Guess your ' _I'll stay with you as long as you need me_ ' ended when his holy highness calls."

"Shawn, please, he's a good man and he and I share the same strong faith in God. I'm already torn between the two of you, and I'll be coming back."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. And he had better be a good guy. I don't give a shit about the religious stuff. And dammit, he better treat you as well as I would, 'cause if he doesn't, I'll have to get all biblical on his ass."

He offered Sally his hand with a grin; she took it and they walked down the sand to join the brightly-dressed crowd at the barbeque celebration.

Chapter 23

Shawn hunched over rapidly striking his keyboard, modifying and shifting hundreds of photos he had taken of Drake with the Sentient, including those from the big wave attempt two days ago. All five of his monitors were lit up, each serving as a step in the process. The main screen directly before him displayed the master file and it was thus far comprised of over eleven hundred and sixty seven images. He feverishly worked away and clicked open a new folder with images he had yet to include, as music from his speakers filled his studio.

I got my ticket for the long way 'round.

Two bottle whiskey for the way.

And I sure would like some sweet company.

And I'm leaving tomorrow, what-do-ya say?

He stopped for a moment and studied one image intently, something about Drake's expression, and then he dropped it in between two other pictures. On the far screen were photographs of Drake used in the first hologram. Shawn instinctively new he would have to use other moments in Drake's life to fill in the data, whatever that meant, he thought. Shawn had picked up a more powerful processor for his computer, along with two portable construction generators, which he looped together. Now his total power output exceeded Ben's from last week.

It had been two days since Drake's memorial and since then he worked at his desk, not even stopping to eat. Although he wished Sally had come up for a day, he was glad he was able to get right to work on Drake's tribute. He checked one more image, layered it in, checked the compatibility variable ("Resolution Level @ 53 %"), and slapped it into place.

The first few hundred layers were painstakingly slow, but he was now progressing nicely. _If I keep going at this rate, I'll hit the switch by late tonight_ , he thought confidently. But it was daybreak the next morning when stopped, sat back and ran through the layers, checking final color spectrum readouts, and nodding to himself. "Okay, ready."

The song hadn't changed; it had repeated for hours, days. As Shawn leaned in to connect the computer to the hologram projector, the _Cups (When I'm Gone)_ song now sang out:

When I'm gone, when I'm gone

You're gonna miss me when I'm gone

You're gonna miss me by my walk

You're gonna miss me by my talk, oh

You're gonna miss me when I'm gone.

Two days ago, Shawn didn't begin right way. He had spent the first four hours wondering why he was able to create the _live_ Drake in his holograms. He intently studied an array of photographs spread across the screens and gave thought to the reason why his image file compilations sparked life in Drake. Ben was super intelligent so what was he missing? Sure, Gretchen the grizzly moved, but that technology was developed long ago (he remembered the first Michael Jackson "virtual" music video). _No, Drake was alive, communicating from inside the hologram. What was the difference?_

Then it hit him like a thunderbolt. How could he have missed it?

The eyes, it was the eyes, or more specifically, how they looked in only certain images. His clue was from the quote "the eyes are the window to the soul" which made him realize the Sentient might be capturing photographs from the reflection of Drake's soul and his inner consciousness.

Shawn did some research online and found there is a medical basis and some scientists similarly believe that the part of the brain in which self-awareness is thought to arise, called the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, happens to be located behind the eyes. It is possible we _feel_ as if we are physically located near our eyes, because our identity emerges in the neurons there. He even found a reference citing researchers who have concluded where thoughts are composed of billions of patterned electrical impulses in our brain, our consciousness is far different. They theorize our soul, or consciousness, is a neural net cast over our brain. Like a camera, the individual parts of the brain distinguish features of an object it encounters. The parts do not care if the information has any bearing on or is related to other features being observed, but our consciousness, which permeates the brain, links all this information together. This is ultimately what gives rise to our ability to reason, and to feel emotions via a cause and effect umbrella of consideration.

Shawn finally understood: the Sentient was not only able to recognize the quantum level of our particle makeup, it also had the ability to see into our eyes and capture our consciousness, possibly even memories — something scientists had been yet unable to do. If he was right, this was going to work!

Recalling the sonic impact at Ben's lab, Shawn moved everything off the tables and countertops and used rooftop surfboard straps to tie down his computers and monitors. The platform was behind the monitors and he only hoped the screens would hold and not shatter. Ben had suggested if he ever attempted this again, to ramp up the power just before the hologram "solidified" which could give it a powerful push into existence, rather than drag it over the hump it had to pass before completion.

Well, he hoped he was right because with the added energy and the new focus on the eyes, this try might knock down the walls to his home.

Shawn flipped the switch to turn on the new hologram projector, punched up the master composite file (now comprised of over three thousand images on his primary display) and made sure the projectors were properly aligned.

At once, an array of light sparkled into life. Particles and energy swirled above the platform and slowly resolved into the first stage of a 3D representation. It was already translucent, yet fully dimensional — a virtual realization of Drake's image on the monitor. As it developed, Drake was becoming so lifelike Shawn expected him to leap from his board and plop down onto the sofa next to him. At ninety-seven percent, the hologram easily surpassed anything he or Ben had succeeded in creating thus far. Holding his breath, Shawn kicked in his third backup generator, allowing the abundance of power to flow. When it arced, rather than an explosion, a silent, bright flash of light radiated outwards from Drake's likeness, totally blinding Shawn. It was like someone set hundreds of strobes off at once.

"Holy shit, it's unreal and damn, I can't see!"

Shawn sat with his eyes closed, blinking and rubbing until his vision started to return. But before he could see, a faint voice called out to him, "Brah, where the fuck am I?"

Forgetting for a moment all that had occurred, including Drake's death, Shawn responded, "You're right here Drake. What's up?"

And then it hit him! He blinked past the blindness and was slowly able to make out Drake, who was looking right at Shawn.

"Yo, Dude, if this is some kind of fucking joke, it's not funny anymore. Get me out of here!" Drake insisted.

"Drake, can you hear me? Holy shit, you can see me too?" Shawn erupted.

Drake didn't respond this time, he just looked at Shawn, speechless and then terrified when he figured out there are some things in his life which are pretty jacked up; he is not where he should be. After a minute, Drake said, "Dude, get me the fuck out of here!" and a tear ran down his cheek.

Shawn looked at his friend as a final lyric plays in the background: _You're gonna miss me when I'm gone_....

Chapter 24

Sally placed one of _Salvation II_ 's Lenox china bowls filled with sirloin down on the deck for Frisco and gave him a good head-tussle before he dove into the gourmet dinner selection. "Goodness, I forgot just how lovable you are Frisco. Guess you won't mind sirloin and pate while you're onboard. We don't carry dog food, so you'll just have to suffer."

Frisco looked up with a dog grin dripping with gravy.

Sally's sat and watched Frisco enjoy his first good meal since the tragedy. She never had a dog, and didn't know Frisco all that well, so she wasn't sure if he missed Drake at all. _I suppose with Drake travelling so much all the time, I'm just another ex-girlfriend taking care of you for a while._ Frisco finished up, took a drink from a crystal bowl, then came up to Sally to thank her, nuzzling her under her forearm. Her cell phone was on a table nearby when it rang and Shawn's face popped into the screen. She excused herself from Frisco, walked over and hit talk. "Shawn, how are you? I've tried a dozen times to call you but you never picked up. Have you gotten any rest?"

"Yeah, Sally, no I mean, I haven't rested. Sorry I haven't answered but I turned my cell off. I've been busy, really busy. You're going to be amazed when I tell you what I figured out. Are you sitting down? And don't be pissed."

Sally listened as she picked up Frisco's bowl and was surprised when he trotted over following her to the fridge. "Wow, you want more little guy? No, not you Shawn, Frisco thinks he's in canine heaven with the food I've feeding him." She paused. "Why do I need to sit down, someone else hasn't died have they? What is it? Why haven't you slept?"

"Sally, I told you about the hologram memorial I wanted to make for Drake. And yeah, I did promise you that it would be toned down with no more come-back-to-life crap, but I figured something out: why my Sentient images bring people back, or at least Drake back. Well, I didn't lie to you, or mean to. Things changed so I had to try. So I used what I learned, incorporated the adjustment Ben showed me by adding more power and upgrading my computer to handle the load and then I brought it all together. And it worked! Sally, Drake, he spoke to me. No shit, he really did! It was unreal and also so sad, all at the same time. He knew he was alive in the hologram and he wanted me to get him out."

"Shawn, slow down, this is nuts. Drake can't be alive. What we saw at Ben's must have been an anomaly. What you're probably witnessing is a moving version or video of sorts of Drake on his last wave. Sure, maybe even it looks like it's talking, but alive? It's not possible. You're so exhausted; your eyes are playing tricks on you."

"Bullshit Sally, wow, sorry, yeah, I know so very hard to believe. But you're right, it's the eyes. That's what I haven't told you. Here's something you'll understand. It's a verse from the Bible. _The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light._ That's the key: his eyes, our eyes. Our eyes really are the windows to our soul. And I've found out even more like the scientific stuff you like to know about. When I photograph someone, I always look to the eyes before I shoot. I look for the person within, and then I take the picture. I've been doing it this way my whole life, just never had the Sentient, so when I put together this new layered composite image file, my primary focus was what I saw in their eyes. Can you come over? I need to show you this in person."

"Shawn, I can, but not right away. The TV thing with Daniel is finished, very boring actually, and I figured since I'd be spending time here in the islands, I'd offer my expertise where it might be needed. I've always had a standing invite to speak at a number of learning institutions around the country and the University of Hawaii is one of them. I'm speaking as a guest lecturer on the Manoa campus and then it's on the way back to Kauai. After the lecture, I'll direct Daniel's helicopter pilot to bring me over straight-away. Can it wait till then?"

Shawn responded, "Yes, I guess it can. I'm beat anyway and have to take a break before I collapse. When do you think you'll land? You can come in on a bud's open lawn about a half mile away."

"Be there about two-thirty. They're having a small lunch reception for me afterwards, but I'll only stay long enough to shake a few hands. In the meantime, no more open calls about this over the phone, only in person, you never know who might be listening. And for goodness sake, get some sleep and stay away from the computer. See you tomorrow, oh, and I'll have Frisco with me. Did you know he loves to fly in helicopters?"

"Yeah, loves it. When we're in the air, we call him Captain Frisk! Drake and I used to joke he only needed a few more hours and he'd qualify for his pilot's license — helicopter of course. Sally, I can't wait to see you again. I know you have your own plans now, but having you around makes me feel a whole lot better. And now that I've figured out the missing piece, with my images, and your brains, Drake is gone, but we might be able to bring him back!"

"Shawn, what are you suggesting? That's ridiculous, and besides, even if you could it would be against the laws of nature and, more importantly, God's intention. I mean, we both saw the look of sadness in Drake's face. Do you really think this is something he would want? It was his time to be called back to his maker. For you, me, or anyone to bring him back — it would be for purely selfish reasons."

But before Sally could object further, Shawn had hung up.

Sally picked up her iPad to look over her notes for tomorrow's lecture while Frisco created a racket above, chasing the first mate back and forth on the upper deck. There was simply no way Sally was going to allow Shawn to proceed any further, he was defying God's will and the natural laws of science and nature.

Chapter 25

The students had finals and business was brisk, so Sameer told the staff to keep deliveries running till 2 a.m., the regular university delivery cut-off. Jihad or no jihad, money was money, and he had to keep his image up.

Sameer felt it was right to take the money of the decadent student youth of the nearby colleges. Alcohol, marijuana, and pills to help them learn — it was all contrary to the teachings of Mohammad as well as the sinful music they listened to, so loud it shook the front windows of Castle Pizza as they pulled up in tiny Asian imports with high pitched engines.

He walked around the front of the store and pulled down the sun shades as he expected Murad any moment now. They had gotten word of the ambush in Afghanistan, and worse, that El Sharrad had been not been found among they fallen. They could only assume he had been captured but it was understood he would die first before he told of any of their plans. And Murad had called minutes earlier to say they had been unable to find Dr. Evans after sitting watch outside Photon for the last two days and keeping disciples on watch outside her apartment.

Desperate for any information, that afternoon, they even took the risky action and called the gym she went to and had her paged. On the call, Murad used no names and referred to Jarrard and Evans as delivery employees. After El Sharrad's disappearance they had every reason to believe the NSA, DHS or FBI was listening in on their calls. Sameer hated the U.S. Government for this. He imagined every Middle Eastern inhabitant in North America was being spied on and it infuriated him.

Murad arrived within five minutes of the call and expected all the others he had called in. "It is time," he commanded Sameer, "no more deliveries, and no more pizzas! I hate pizza!"

When the three came in, the vans drove around back behind the building to make it seem like they were picking up for delivery runs. Murad was still using one of Sameer's old vehicles, a gigantic Dodge Ram Charger of which he complained every day that he felt stupid driving, but they couldn't have him renting a car and leaving an electronic trail. Sameer had explained he needed the truck for the building materials he used in continuing to upgrade the indoor training facility, but once again Murad accused him of going overboard and warned he would pay for his sins in the afterlife. Murad also suspected Sameer was doing everything in his control to make him look ridiculous.

Sameer and Murad locked themselves in the office having put everyone to work cleaning the restaurant before closing the door behind them. When he was ready, Murad would speak to them as well.

"Sameer, you have lost her! We have sought out Evans for two days, she is not to be found," Murad began. "We have had our brothers near her family home to see if she is there, but this scientist has disappeared. We must find her! If we have to, we will bring this Jarrard man to your home and get what we need from him."

"Wait Murad," Sameer suggested, "We have a connection at airlines, let me make a call to a friend. He has access to flights and passengers, and he works from home so if he is there, I can drive to his house to search. In this way, we won't have to use the telephone or computer."

"Go then and if you learn anything, message me and then return at once. Find out where she has gone, she is not in this city. In the message, state only you are planning a time away from your pizza store, a vacation, and say the city only. Pretend you are excited. I will stay here with these three and we will create a plan for when we do find here. Go now, we are not to waste any time!"

Murad slammed down the cell and stormed into the kitchen. "Your leader is a coward, and a fool. From now on, you listen only to me. You will all have a chance soon to kill non-believers. When Sameer uncovers where this Evans whore has gone, we be leaving at once!"

Chapter 26

Sally stood in front of a podium near the stage at the base of a large amphitheater and it was standing room only for her lecture. The seats were filled with post-grads, PhDs, scientists, professors and island spiritual-types, the last group attending to heckle and debunk her science. Sally's research in her field and the papers she published were quite influential, particularly her overlapping insight into the sciences of quantum physics, cloning and spirituality. She had been speaking for some time and started to summarize her message before she would open the floor to questions.

"So in a way, we don't really know what we are doing when we get down to the sub-atomic level. We speak of particles, or electrons, photons, _et cetera_ , as if they were tiny stationary pieces of a larger object, but these _particles_ exhibit properties of both particles and waves, depending on...," she paused for a moment, "...on our interaction with them. We can predict probable outcomes based on theory. But our attempt to prove these theories and even the very act of observation causes us to alter the outcomes. Heisenberg's theory of uncertainty states: _The uncertainty principle of_ _quantum mechanics_ _means that the more closely one pin downs one measurement, the less precise another measurement pertaining to the same particle, such as its_ _momentum_ _, must become._ A bit like our lives, isn't it? We think we have it figured out, and then something we can't control throws it out of whack."

She smiled oddly for a moment and went on, "For you students, I challenge you all to propose and submit to your professors an experiment to prove or disprove Heisenberg's theory, at a sub-atomic level of course. Pretty sure your professors don't want any one's life story laid out in a paper."

The audience laughed along. "And thanks so much for attending, any questions?"

A dozen hands went up and Sally took a moment to look down and straighten her papers. As she did, she saw her mobile phone vibrating with "private" across the screen, but with a small red flashing signal in the corner. She recognized this as a call from Craig, but it had been more than a month since they spoke last, and from what she understood, he was overseas somewhere.

She raised her hand to the audience and announced, "If you would excuse me for a moment, I need to take this call. I promise, I will return to answer all your questions.

Sally stepped away and out into the hall, first checking up and down the corridor to see if anyone was nearby, then, "Hello?"

"Dr. Evans, this is Craig, Major Craig. We need to talk. Where are you?" Sally provided Craig with her whereabouts. "Stay where you are, I'll be sending an agent with a sat phone to your location. Give me an hour if you can. Once he delivers the phone to you, just punch S _end_ and we can speak securely."

"Major Craig, I'm just finishing a lecture, then a luncheon and after I will be heading to the airport for a flight to Kauai. Can't this wait? Does he have to meet me here?"

"Dr. Evans, no, this cannot wait, but that's even better, it will make it easier to get him to you. Twenty five minutes, does that work?"

"Yes, thank you. What is it concerning? Can you give me an idea?" Then she remembered they were not on a secure line. "Never mind, forget I asked," she replied.

"How soon we forget. Let's just say, we need your help once more."

Sally now had to figure out how to graciously forego the questions and back out of the entire luncheon; although, this would now make it easier to get to the airport in time fly over to arrive earlier and spend more time in Kauai with Shawn.. That was of course, if what Craig had to say was brief and he didn't kidnap her to work on some secret project.

After Sally extending her apologies to the University faculty with promises to return, she headed straight out to her rental car. On the drive to the airport she considered that while she might not agree with the military uses of her Sentient, she had a feeling she needed to help Craig _I guess I'm trading one type of evil for a lesser evil._ Whatever Craig needed, she would do all she could to help him. Well, as long as it had nothing to do with killing.

Chapter 27

The thoughts inside his head just kept spinning round even though Shawn could barely keep his eyes open _'man, I'm just going to have to keep Sally out of this; she doesn't understand what I'm trying to do for Drake. Besides, her new born-again boyfriend is filling her head with bullshit and she's already coming up with religious objections. I'm too close to bringing him back; I need to see if I can do this on my own._ '

This wasn't about religion, or God; this was about his bro, his _compadre_. He was the one who forced his bud to do something he never should have attempted. _Shit, we were so high on life, we thought anything was possible._

_Yeah, but maybe Sally's right_ , Shawn reasoned. _After all, it wasn't my job to keep Drake safe in the agreement with Deep Surf. But how will I ever forget the look Drake's mother gave me on the water. She was probably thinking, Mr. Pérez, you killed my baby._

Mrs. Drake she said she didn't blame Shawn, but... _They will all figure out it was my responsibility; I'm the one to blame.'_ If there was any possibility to bring him back, that is what Shawn resolved to do. _One more call before I hit the sack. I have to call Ben._

Ben had slipped him his Skype ID before they had left his lab. "We know how our Sally is Shawn, if you come up with any other ideas, ping me and we'll set a time to Skype. You and I, we have a mutual interest in where this might take us."

_Yeah_ , thought Shawn, _no shit_. _And that was even BEFORE Drake died!_

Ben's face lit up the monitor. "Thought you'd call me, but expected it a lot sooner. I heard about your surfer friend. Tell me about it."

And Shawn told him about Drake's death and then he told Ben about the eyes, the adaptations he had made and his _crazy as I might sound_ conversation with Drake.

"Yeah, but I'm afraid to take it further, Sally could be right, or we might hurt Drake even more. Not that I ever thought it was ever possible to hurt a dead person."

"Shawn, your ignorance in science creates brilliance in deduction. Your creativity is not bound by the constraints of scientific conformity. You're open to all possibilities, consciously or unconsciously, but, nevertheless, you are. Give me some time to think about this new aspect you've deduced. "

"Sure, and Ben, you spoke about some type of quantum physics split, the story about the cat I still don't get. Does it have anything to do with that?" Shawn asked.

"Yes, in many ways it does. Glad you brought up Schrödinger's cat. It's so simple, but it confuses us all. In our reality as human beings, we always imagine in our minds the possible outcomes of everything we see and do in our lives. Will the receiver catch the ball, or drop the ball? Will the surfer stay up, or fall down? There are infinite outcomes to every action. But it is our observation or acceptance of what we believe to be true which makes one or the other become real to us. If you take this hypothesis further, in reality, excuse the pun, it means both outcomes actually do occur along with dozens of others we don't imagine; the player both catches the ball, and drops the ball. At the moment he does both, the universe or the very reality we live in diverges or splits in two. The best way I can simplify it for you is this: we only _stay_ in one reality, yet the other parallel reality, the one where the surfer falls, continues on, rooted in the other alternative dimension. What this basically means is that each times this happens, another instance or existence of the entire universe is created."

"I'm lost again. How can there be other realities?"

"Shawn, yep, it's deep. And if you did understand it, you'd be way beyond us. To interpret this into even plainer speak: what you have done, my visionary friend, is captured the quantum or particle make-up of your pal Drake with Sally's camera. This is nothing special; anyone using the Sentient does this. But because you are gifted, and now you seem to have deciphered how your subject's eyes may open to their souls within, all this is due to the fact you have some type of extrasensory perception and are able to see the other reality the instance it occurs in each and every one of your photographs. Shawn, it may be impossible for you to grasp, but you can see the other side! Drake died, but you subconsciously see — no it's more than that — you _believe_ he is still living as well. Your images allow you to act on what you see as real."

"Then if we can bring him back, let's do it. I talked him into paddling out into those waves. The entire surf community misses him and Ben, I broke his mother's heart and I'm dying inside with the loss of my Brah."

"Shawn, it may not be that simple and frankly, a course of action we may not want to take. Let me explain one more thing if I may. All plants, animals and humans have a singular existence in our reality. It's all here because we, individually and collectively, _believe_ it's here. Everything and everyone dies at some point. It all recycles; you know, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, that crap. If we start bringing people back from the dead, more critically, make duplicates or, to use a more accurate word, replicate these individuals, body, mind and spirit, how the hell many Drakes do you think we could have running around with all with the exact same emotions and memories? Sure, the minute, we _replicate_ , yes that's the appropriate word, the person. Well it isn't the same as cloning when you simply make a copy of the body. What we would be doing is essentially bringing the very same Drake, the _exact same_ Drake, into our dimension to exist in a space where a Drake is not supposed to belong. The instant we _replicate_ someone, we are driving two or more parallel realities into one. Who the hell knows where convergence of energy and matter might lead. The natural order, as we know it, is that every being has his or her time in this universe and that's it; it's finished, over. I am as excited and eager as you are to look further into this and talk more about your gift, but let's refrain from replicating someone until we know more. When we do go forward, I suggest our test subject is an animal, not someone you care about.

Shawn didn't respond right way but without comment. He had hoped or expected Ben to help him bring Drake back. Now, he was trying to accept the finality of Drake's death all over again.

"Shawn, just stay in Kauai and go back to your once exciting life; it's still there for you. Use Sally's camera to take the best surf pictures the world has ever seen. Yes, and go ahead and create the wonderful hologram of Drake you spoke of. Remember, he was, is and will always be your friend. Keep him in your heart where he belongs, at least for now."

"Ben, okay, I got it. But Drake spoke to me — or at least tried to. He wanted to tell me something and I know it was important. What if I came to your lab and all we did was _partially_ recreate Drake, or whatever you called it, and kept him up a little longer in the hologram to find out what he wants to tell me. He told me he wanted out, and I think there is more! Besides, Drake was clearer, you'll want to see this. It's science, you know! You're the one who said you wanted to keep digging into this, right? I've packed the storage device with the composition of Drake's image into a hard case and can fly over to see you today. I can be there in three hours."

"You are right," Ben concurred. "This is a reasonable suggestion and who knows if you and I will ever have the chance to get together. I'll make arrangements to get one or two other generators up here. Tell me what you did to your processors, and I'll make sure my computer is matched with yours."

Shawn went on to fill Ben in on the technical details and once they signed off Skype, he called Sally. _She must still be in the conference_ ; he thought and left her a voicemail. "Sal, forget your visit, gonna crash for a while, and I'd be no fun to visit with now anyway, I'm still pretty bummed out." And before he could stop himself, he added, "Might head up back to Doc Campbell's afterwards anyway. Pretty cool guy and I think I need to get away from the surfing world for a while. Call me back and tell me when I can reach you if I don't pick up. Miss you, bye."

Chapter 28

Two dark figures emerged from a black SUV and approached Sally as she dropped off her rental car.

"Ma'am, Major Craig sent us. Would you mind joining us in our vehicle?"

"Would you mind showing me your identifications?" Sally insisted.

They obliged. "Now I'll need your wives' middle names. I know I sound silly, but Major Craig insisted, said I needed to confirm something not on your IDs; something only you would know."

"Yes ma'am, Craig informed us. Said you would want to confirm and we know how he can be ma'am. Please, if you could take a seat in the rear of the vehicle, we'll be able to establish a secure communications link for your conversation with the Major. Once you're on with him, we'll step out as we do not have the required clearance levels to listen in." With that Sally slid into the back seat while they established a satellite link with Craig.

When the connection was up, they left Sally and took positions on either side outside the truck.

"Dr. Evans, thank you for accommodating my request, I know you are on personal leave for a family matter, or at least that's what an associate named Jarrard at your lab advised me. I hope everything with your family is okay. And I do hope you don't mind me calling your private cell, this is a matter of the gravest importance."

"Major Craig hello, yes it's all perfectly fine. My family is healthy and well, thank you. Please, no worries. The Sentient project is my baby and your mission. Our professional paths intertwine. The Sentient is my primary work and focus so anything I can do to support your efforts in behalf of national security comes first. My associate Dr. Jarrard was right to provide my contact info. Jarrard assists me in much of the research and development we conduct on the Sentient. But he's not much of a people person, more of a back room guy, which is why you haven't met. What can I do to help you?"

"Dr. Evans...," Craig began.

"Please Major, call me Sally. We have worked together long enough to drop titles."

"Yes, agreed, and of course, you can call me Thomas, or Tommy, my nickname at Yale. Up until now, you had some idea of our intended use of the Sentient and, in that regard it has been exceptional in its performance." Craig went on to describe the recent success they had in apprehending El Sharrad, then continued, "Well, the reason we put so much pressure on you to accelerate and deliver the Sentient was we learned a few months ago about a pending terrorist attack with a dirty bomb, and only El Sharrad knew the target city. To keep us off-center, they only indicated the attack would be on a sports stadium, but not which sport, or which city. We suspect the day to release the dirty bomb is near, and he has directed his sleeper cell to the stadium only he knows."

"Did this El Sharrad provide any clues as to the location?"

"Sally, that's why I had to contact you; he killed himself today before we could learn anything. He also had his entire family murdered before he committed suicide so they couldn't be used as leverage to talk. That's how serious this is."

"Major Craig, oh, I mean Thomas, well, as horrible as it all is, doesn't it take care of your problem?" Sally asked. "He's dead, he can't order the attack."

"Little bit more complicated. In uncovering the plan, we also found out if he was killed or unable to give the order, a default cell would go ahead with a target indicated long ago, and we know of twelve possible jihadist groups near major U.S. cities with the ability to deliver."

"Major, then what do you need from me? You already have the Sentient and with your success in applying it towards the capture of your terrorists, it seems you are more than capable in using it, so if there is someone else you need to find, employ the Sentient again. Please tell me specifically why you need me?" Sally asked again.

"Well, you'll probably want me to go back to calling you Dr. Evans after what I'm about to tell you. As a matter of practice within the intelligence community, whenever we contract outside our agencies with civilian or commercial companies, we feel it is our right, and obligation to monitor communications. We do this to prevent leaks and maintain control while containing top-secret information dissemination, intended or otherwise. After 9/11, as you are well aware, if we can legally expand our areas of surveillance and it results in saving American lives, we feel we are just to use whatever means necessary," Craig said.

Sally's ears started to burn, her face flushed; she felt betrayed by her own country, by her own people. Trying to maintain her composure, she asked, "Still, Craig, what do you want from me?" Then, she defiantly added, "That you don't already seem to know?"

"Yes, I'm sure you're upset, and I would be too if I were I your shoes, but I'm not in your shoes so get over it. Our analysts have overheard comments or discussions between you and the surf photographer, and recently between the photographer and your previous team lead, Dr. Benjamin Campbell. We are a bit confused as to the true meaning of the discourse, so we invited others within your field to review the conversations after we read them in on the Sentient Project. They were all quite skeptical, but most conclude you have used the Sentient images to communicate with someone who has died. Could this be true? If it is, we must get you to a lab right away."

No longer able to restrain herself, Sally attacked, "Major, the rage and indignation I feel right now makes it extremely difficult to answer any of your questions or even have this discussion. How dare you or any government agency listen in on my private conversations with my friends and family! Neither Shawn Pérez or Ben Campbell have anything to do with the Sentient at Photon, or our working relationship within the structure of our project!"

Perfectly calm, Craig answered, "Dr. Evans, excuse me. First of all, you can be tried for breaking a number of laws under new Homeland Security guidelines for sharing U.S. secrets with individuals who hold no clearance on your project. If it were found either one of them was not a U.S. citizen, it would then be treason, but let's not go there. You just need to get over it. If you take a moment to consider, you invented a camera which reads DNA. Your Sentient invades the most private information about any of us. What we are made of. So before you get all high and mighty, imagine all the other intrusive uses we will have for your Sentient technology. At the Agency we act knowing your privacy is of secondary importance when stacked up against national security and the lives of innocent men, women and children. We have legislation to back us up. But look, we are losing valuable time. Will you cooperate or do I need to inform you of some of the other provisions of the new law?"

Weighing her options, Sally paused a moment before resuming the phone conversation. "What do you need me to do Major?"

"I need you to bring El Sharrad back to life. I need to talk to him."

Sally was stunned. "Major Craig, I am not sure for a good number of reasons — some personal, some science — and even if there is a chance to bring someone back, which is not really the best way to describe the process, I have moral as well as religious objections."

While Sally explained this to Craig on the secure line, she discretely typed out a text to Shawn: "Not coming, heading to _Salvation_ , to Frisco; will explain later." She'd do her best not to give Craig any clue as to Ben's location, if they did not know already.

"Ms. Evans, you have twenty four hours to comply. In the meantime, everything in your lab at Photon will be sealed off. All your computers have been filtered. The Sentient project data and all related information was always the property of the U.S. Government, but now we control it all. The scientists we enlisted to review the research data along with your recorded conversations are now in charge of your technology. We have agents meeting with your associate Jarrard and he is very eager to contribute after we showed him what you were keeping from him. He was actually very pissed off. The agents will release you or take you wherever you wish to go. I will make contact at the end of twenty-four hours. Until then, one of the agents will provide you with a secure phone you must keep on you at all times. Do you understand? Confirm!"

Sally answered, "I do understand!" Then she thought, _amazing how one phone conversation can destroy an entire relationship. Guess my first impression of Craig was right after all._ With that she backed down, knowing this was one man she did not want to tangle with.

"Yes, Major Craig, I understand. We will talk again in twenty four hours. Are we finished here?"

"Affirmed, we are finished. Stay somewhere safe away from the public. Think about what I've shared. If you decide not to assist us, and a bomb detonates causing thousands of deaths, you will have a part in the blame. Could you live with that on your conscience? Good afternoon." The screen went blank.

Sally sat stunned; one thing for sure, she couldn't lead them to Shawn and Ben, which also meant she couldn't prevent whatever those two were up to. _I need a quiet place to think, I have to get back to the boat_.

Chapter 29

Shawn hopped a ride to Kona on Deep Surf's media helicopter which was still hanging around after Drake's Memorial. Cool pilot named Jonathan called a bro and they dropped off a jeep at the airport to borrow rather than Shawn having to rent a car.

"Dudes, you are all right!" he thanked the pilot and his pal.

"Pérez, _no problemo muchachos_. Must hurt a lot inside dude, everyone knows how tight you and the Drakester were!" They waved off as Shawn pulled away.

He found his cell inside his backpack and checked his voicemails and then his texts. He read the one from Sally wondering how they can be in such close proximity to each other, but haven't yet spent more than an afternoon together. He tried once more to reach her, but still no answer.

Upon turning onto Ben's access road and driving less than a half mile, he heard an odd hum and music playing from above. The song _Angels from Montgomery,_ sung by John Prine, blared through the fabric roof of the jeep, but because the top was up, he couldn't see where it was coming from. He slowed and the music and vibration became even louder, like it was on the roof itself. He stopped in the middle of the cane field. _Shit, hope they're not harvesting and about to chop me up_! he thought, and stuck his head out the window a few inches. Looking up he spotted a spider-like copter, like the ones some surf photographers or videographers use to shoot over the surf, but this one was at least eight feet in diameter or five times the size of the ones they used for aerial surf footage. He had read they now use them for agriculture and thought, _Wow, cool as shit, they must be using it to check the crops_.

He restarted the car, turned on and up his tunes from his iPod, and continued on. The drone followed him. It taunted him, coming near in the open clearings and then leading him, matching his speed as the road widened. He sped up a bit, hoping it was just a coincidence, but the remote control beast hovered in his review mirror, like it was peaking in his rear window. Now, he was getting pretty spooked. _What the fuck is this thing? Why would anyone be on my ass trailing me?_

The drone dropped in again directly in front of his windshield less than two feet from the glass, forcing him to slow. What he saw, he didn't understand. Someone was looking at him, or taking photos. One of Sally's Sentients hung low from the belly of the craft watching his every move. _Shit, who the hell else has a Sentient?_

He accelerated trying to hit the machine to knock it out of the sky, or cause it to crash into the sugar cane. Desperate, Shawn left the road, deciding his odds would be better in the brush, and drove blindly through the sugar cane hoping to God he didn't run into a stump or ditch. He remembered the video guy telling him their batteries were limited, so if he could keep it chasing him without making contact, it may run out of juice. Well, no such luck. This thing must have been running on solar energy, it just kept coming!

For ten more minutes this black creature stayed on his ass until he popped out of the cane fields within two hundred yards of Ben's, where it appeared at the other end of a grove.

"There is no way I'm bringing this thing to Ben's with me." Shawn stopped to deal with whomever or whatever was fucking with him. Shawn jumped from the jeep with his monopod in hand, ready to whip the shit out of the thing if it came near.

"What the hell do you want? Why are you tracking me?" Shawn shouted as the device hovered just out of reach. Shawn heard the Sentient lens shooting like crazy. "Why are you photographing me?" he bellowed.

Then, from a small speaker somewhere on the drone came a voice: "You never know, you just never know, and you would be wise to stop where you are. You wouldn't want to run into maybe hundreds of attack rabbits, would you?"

"Ben? What the hell you doing? I was going to start throwing rocks at you — or it!"

"Not to worry, my water friend," Ben's voice came more distinctly. "This baby is _situationally-aware_ ; it knows whenever something gets closer than five inches from it, and moves to avoid. It could hail out here, which it won't, and nothing would hit it. Gretchen is down, so come on up! I'll put this thing away, pretty neat though isn't it?"

Relieved and somewhat pissed, Shawn got back in the jeep and came around to Ben's lab.

"Sorry Shawn didn't mean to scare you, but damn that was fun! You're the best driver I've been up against, and you pushed me to the limit! Where's Dr. Evans? Thought she was coming up with you?"

"I should have known it was you. Gonna change the name of your place here to Hideout of Terrors. Every time I come up here you scare the crap out of me. I was almost ready to bolt. Hell, I thought the CIA was after me!" Shawn walked with Ben towards the lab. "Sally sent me a text and I tried to call her when I landed, but she didn't answer. She didn't give a reason, but seemed like something important came up. Can we try her on Skype later?"

"Yes, certainly as we may need her expertise. And Shawn, the drones are a new toy category for me, and if I told you about all my experiments, where would all the fun be? I acquired my first one for security and soon I built up to a squadron of them. I've even been able to sync three together to shoot in 3D video. Shame I only have one Sentient. Only recently I designed a new remote with one joystick which allows me to control more than a dozen at one time. Never ending fun for a hermit, wouldn't you say? Let's get to the lab; want to tell you what we might do to keep Drake around longer."

"Okay, but just promise me you'll never chase me with one of those things again, got it?"

They walked into the lab and Shawn noticed all the changes at once. The hologram platform was tripled-sized, gear was now strapped either up against the walls or down onto counter tops and an odd, metal spear was pointed at a pane of glass with the faintest mirror finish on one side.

"Shawn, we have pretty much solved and eliminated the violent impact when the hologram locks in, but we haven't been able to push it past a virtual level of communication. I haven't tested the new method yet, but we should now be able to have Drake behave as if he is in our space, so to speak. Using my existing generators I've added a small laser, which shoots into the hologram when it reaches full maturity. What I think was happening was the power was driving the virtual image from _behind_ , if you can call it that. With the laser, we will inject an independent source of energy. After all, energy to matter, matter to energy, is the very basics of physics. Sending a laser through the mirrored sheet of glass will split the beam. Each new beam will hit two full-resolution images of Drake, like the ones you used to create your composite image file. This is the traditional way to create holograms and by using this method, it will be like providing a transfusion to a person, but rather than blood, we will deliver a supplemental source of data and energy into the core of the hologram. It should cause Drake to be _real_ and stay with us longer. And if it is he we are truly replicating, we'll enrich his brief existence for a true level of communication. It's going to take a bit more work to prepare, but with your help we should be ready to make our second attempt tonight. Let's get to work!"

"All in Ben, but we can't mention this to Sally. She got all _holy moly_ on me and said she was going to do her damn'dest to stop me or you from bringing Drake back again. Better she didn't make it over 'cause I think she would hit me over the head with the Sentient if she saw what we were up to."

Ben turned to Shawn. "Then we do our little experiment, bring Drake back, and tuck him away again neatly into his other world. Sally will never be the wiser." He gave Shawn a little wink.

Chapter 30

"Where's Jarrard?" and before the security guard could respond, Thomas Craig stormed through Photon's main entrance with three-heavily armed, swat-type guys by his side. "Stop, you can't come in here," the guard objected feebly after he saw the look on Craig's face.

Craig glanced straight at the guard, gave him one look and the guard left the room speechless. Craig recognized Jarrard at one of the lab tables and came to stand in front of him.

"Mr. Jarrard I am Major Craig, Defense Intelligence. We spoke yesterday on the phone. Where can we go and talk?"

Jarrard was terrified of the military and anyone with a gun. His parents, as liberals, detested firearms and instilled a fear of weapons in their little boy. Jarrard jerked up from his chair, and walked behind a server rack near his desk.

"Yes, I know you called, but why are you here? I told you where Dr. Evans was yesterday and even gave you her number. She's the boss here, I just work for her," he stammered. Then he looked behind Craig and added, "And can you have those men put their guns away, or can they go outside? Why do you need guns to speak to me anyway?" as his mind continued to race through worst-case scenarios.

"Don't worry, these are my guards. Show us into a room; do you have a skiff here? What I need to share with you is classified." Craig motioned to his men to stand down and holster their firearms.

Jarrard relaxed a bit and came out from behind the rack. "We can use our break room. It's not fully secure, but there are no electronics or surveillance cameras in it."

Craig's two men waved surveillance detection wands over the walls and counters; one opened the fridge passing a wand over the leftover salads and cottage cheese. Craig spoke to them, "Looks good; no windows either, this will have to do."

The guard took station in front of the door he closed behind him.

"Jarrard, you do not have a clearance level for what I am about to tell you, but we don't have time to remedy that, you need to be read in now. We can safely assume we can rely on your discretion, or perhaps I can phrase it another way. We are certain we can rely on your confidence in this matter. My men are not simply assigned to me because of my good looks!"

"Yes, sir, you can count on me. I've been here for seven years with a perfect record. I was even the facilities security officer for a two of those years," Jarrard assured.

"Whatever. Just keep in mind, you open your mouth and the next seven will be in prison with LA gangbangers," Craig threatened. He didn't trust Jarrard as far as he could shoot him and knew, if the bribe was good enough, or the pain intense enough, everyone talked.

"What I am about to tell you, if certain groups become aware you carry this knowledge, it will get you killed," and Craig proceeded to give Jarrard a ten-thousand-foot overview on the pending attack and the suicide of El Sharrad, minus the gory details.

"Why are you telling me this?" Jarrard asked. "I don't even lead this project, and I'm not sure I want any part of this."

"Of course you don't, but we are not asking, we're telling. You have access to all the research and files along with the technical skill to re-create the work Dr. Evans and you are involved in. We are aware of the discovery she and her friends have made — the same breakthrough you overheard in the lab a week ago, but could not discern exactly what they had done. If what they have been discussing is true, we need to see if you can organize her findings and with any luck, duplicate the process, which involves the potential to bring someone back from the dead." Jarrard was paying attention.

"We reached out to Dr. Evans to participate, but she is reluctant, basing her objections on scientific and religious reasoning. Ultimately, if she does not assist, we must bring back the terrorist El Sharrad without her. He is the only one who can tell us how the attack will unfold. If we are unsuccessful at preventing the bombing, a national tragedy beyond proportion will occur. Do you have what it takes, and are you capable of helping us?"

Jarrard puffed up a bit, "Yes, of course I can. Actually my studies have taken me far beyond Dr. Evans' research. However, not sure what is meant by _back from the dead_. Are you telling me, Dr. Evans, with her photographer beau, may have found a way to replicate a human using the quantum level images from the Sentient? I'm sure you've used the Sentient for your own purposes, but do you understand its true hidden potential? What do you know about quantum physics and the unique relationship of matter and energy?"

Craig himself got a little excited with the topic. "Your assumptions are wrong. I've had years of spiritual training and my enlightened masters have taught matter and energy are all one. Only our minds fool us to believe everything around us exists, that ours is but a virtual existence. They tell us all our desires and wants are imaginary and nothing is real or solid. It is our unified willingness to accept our universe which makes it so. We are talking about the same phenomena aren't we? This is where science and religion become one; I knew it had to be so."

"That's right on the mark, Mr. Craig. Those spiritual priests and distant faiths understood long before we did, but the scientific community's pride would not allow them to accept such things. The Sentient camera Sally designed may be a means to see past our fraudulent reality. Can't begin to understand what the surf photographer is doing with one. You make it sound like _he_ may be central to the breakthrough?"

Craig injected, "Pérez, the surf photographer, and a reclusive scientist named Ben Campbell. I think they are three parts of one discovery; although, we cannot see how.

So you're confirmed on board, correct?"

"Ben Campbell? You have to be joking. That old washout got thrown out of Photon a few years ago. Nut case if you want my opinion. Photon couldn't get him to focus on any meaningful research."

"So you're confirmed on board, correct?"

"Yes, I'll help you as best I can. Dr. Evans and Photon Corporation have passed up countless chances to follow ideas I've brought to them. Give me your specific objectives, limitless resources which I'm sure you have access to, and our target date. I am one you can depend on."

"Good," Craig said skeptically. "First thing I need to know is where Ben Campbell lives." His e-mail and voice transmission traffic bounced through so many countries, Craig's web guys always ended up tracking the calls to Sudan, or Omaha, Nebraska. "We understand he is in Hawaii, but, which island and what rainforest? Let's move!"

Craig knew Jarrard's efforts would take them only so far, but right now it was a start. If Jarrard's only contribution was to assist in finding Campbell and Pérez, so be it. We can silence him later to be sure he doesn't talk.

Chapter 31

Peering through binoculars for the last hour, Sameer knew he must be getting raccoon eyes. At this distance it was the only way he could see those entering and leaving Photon. He could not risk a closer distance. Photon had a perimeter security system which detected reflective optical lenses. Unable to rely on the naked eye to watch for movement, he kept the glasses up, pressed into his eye sockets.

Sameer was glad to get out of the restaurant. Murad was angry, and he did not know how he might bring him back to a calm state, so when Murad asked for a volunteer to watch Photon for any sign of the whereabouts of Dr. Evans, he surprised himself and Murad too when he accepted the task. He had to get away from Murad. He knew Murad hated him, but was it because he had become successful here in the United States, or was it something else? He had done what he was told all these years. First he opened Castle, a perfect cover, then through its operations funded his training facility and finally established a community of support for their causes. He even found out about the camera the Americans now had, the one Photon invented.

So here he would watch and, if fortunate, see something to lead them to Dr. Evans. He wanted also to keep track of Dr. Jarrard. He would recommend they take him instead if Evans could not be found. Putting the glasses down, decided to risk a call to Murad although he was most reluctant to receive another tongue-lashing.

"Hello, yes, out on another delivery. Cannot deliver the order, too crowded at the dorm address you gave me. A big, black truck blocks the way. Yes, there are three students inside, but they have gone into their dorm and have not come out to move their vehicle yet."

Sameer wasn't completely sure Murad understood his message, but at least he had given him an idea something was wrong. Ten minutes ago, Craig's SUV had entered the gates at Photon then parked directly in front of the main entrance. He had never seen any of the men who emerged and went in, but he knew warriors when he saw them. He was relieved when Murad did not beat on him.

"Bring the delivery back; we will get the order out another way, but wait until the students move their car and try to see who they are so we can tell the campus police. Then come back and I will show you how to redeliver the order," Murad directed.

Sameer kept lookout for ten minutes more when he saw the same three men come out the doors; they had Jarrard! This was not good. Sameer backed out of the parking spot overlooking the Photon grounds and raced back to Castle Pizza. Pulling around back, he parked and removed a stack of pies from the backseat; another four pizzas into the garbage. He hated to discard them as it hurt his profits to make pizzas no one paid for, but he knew if he was ever stopped; it would be hard to explain a pizza delivery guy without pizza.

All of the non-believer employees were gone. The kitchen was empty and Murad and the other faithful were seated on the floor.

"Sit!" Murad ordered.

And Sameer sat with the four pizza drivers/now terrorists, directly opposite Murad. Sameer told them all carefully about the men who had taken Jarrard. He did manage to get a license plate but it was useless. He had already guessed it was CIA or FBI and the tag was a government plate.

"This is not good, but it was good you were there to find this out. Now we have to find Sally Evans and Jarrard. But maybe we will be lucky and Jarrard will continue to make mistakes. This is how we found out about their imaging device, so it could happen again." Murad paused.

"But there is more news to convey: I will now tell you why I am really here." Murad began, "You think I have come here because of what you found out from this Jarrard weeks ago. No, it was an excuse. Allah had already inspired and guided my travel here. But now, occurrences have forced me to adapt. This morning it was told to me El Sharrad is either dead or in the devil's cage in Guantanamo. His disappearance and the death of his family, which we all know is our first sacrifice if we are caught by the infidels, have made time move more quickly."

Murad paused to look at each. "What I will tell you now shall make your hearts soar and fill you with joy! I came here ready to take the place of El Sharrad if he was unable to fulfill his destiny. El Sharrad has been planning to kill ten times the number we executed in New York City that glorious day. His bombs would have exploded in one of their giant stadiums. The U.S. agencies did not know the target, but El Sharrad chose the new Meadowlands facilities in New Jersey which is nearly in the shadow of our last blessed event. He knew another mass killing in this region would cripple the _kafirum_ 's spirits, knowing they will never be safe."

Stopping once more, he sat upright and breathed in deeply, then said, "It has been written, if our leader El Sharrad was unable to fulfill the delivery of our next attack on the soil of the heathens, then a surrogate was to take his place to guarantee Allah's will be done! I am El Sharrad's second-in-command and it is I, together with you, as God's chosen who will deliver our hammer blow against the women and children of the terrorists who through history have invaded all the nations of the world, including the lands of our fathers!"

One of Sameer's men stood and bowed. "Murad, this is a glorious revelation! We will assist you and engulf in flames this arena! We will destroy the blasphemous structure with thousands to surely burn on their way to hell! This is beyond the dreams we prayed for so many years. To so serve Allah is all we have every wished for!"

"It is true and we are indeed the chosen, but there is more. We will choose a different stadium as a precaution in case they have uncovered more of El Sharrad's design. The facility is already known to me and it will remain this way until the final time. But Sameer, why you asked me here is also of great interest to our cause. You have done well by bringing the new science to my attention. Now that a new sports building will be our target, we have also delayed the attack a few weeks. We will more time and we will use it to find this Dr. Evans. In our jihad against the infidels, we must keep up with their technology. Forget about Jarrard; he is a distraction. Find this Dr. Evans at any cost and bring her to me.

Chapter 32

Daniel scolded the make-up artist, "Too much, way too much, are you trying to make me look dishonest? I am a minister of God's word! Take it off and start again."

Didn't take a genius to know Daniel was far from good looking and television broadcasts made him to look better through the use of make-up and careful studio lighting. Well known to the on-screen specialists were the axioms: not enough touch-up and you look lousy, just enough and your features are positively enhanced, but too much powder and rouge and things went downhill from there. The caked makeup made the celebrity or politician look cheesy or untrustworthy.

"Just the minimum, smooth out my skin color that's all! Wait, my phone's ringing." Daniel picked up the call.

"Daniel?" Sally asked.

"What's wrong, where are you? You sound terrible. Are you at the studio? We go on in fifteen minutes," Daniel informed.

"No Daniel, I'm on _Salvation_ , I need to be here, and I do hope you understand why."

"I do hope it is a good reason. You know your input is of great value to me. First though, tell me why you are you so upset?"

"Daniel, I have to be careful with what I say; I can't tell you everything or much at all really, but it has to do with my work. I meant to tell you a few things while you were here in Kona but, with Shawn so upset, it slipped my mind."

"Yes," Daniel said sternly. "I hope it's not the immature ungodly surf photographer who has you so agitated. Why do you stay in contact with him?"

"No, it's not Shawn and never mind, he is my friend so no more of that please. It's the camera I designed. Somehow Shawn figured out a way to use the photos from the Sentient, some software he uses along with some of ours, and his skills in laying images to create a hologram _with life in it_. It's all I can tell you and you mustn't speak to anyone about it, will you promise?"

"I promise on the word of God!" Daniel assured Sally. "But why are you shaken, it isn't likely he has actually done so, has he?"

"Daniel, not only am I afraid it is possible, it is also very likely he has done what he says he has done. I've seen it first-hand. You and I know this is against the will of God, to give life where he has taken it away; it is why I wanted to tell you, to seek your guidance, but there's more. Shawn has gone to Ben's, I'll explain who he is later, to see just how far he can take it now that his best friend has died. And what makes matters worse, others have found out about it, and I'm worried. When can you come back? I need you."

"The interview is about to begin, can it wait?"

"Daniel, it can, but there is so much more I'm unable to discuss on the phone. Please hurry!" Sally said distressed.

"Sally, I will do my best, my congregation comes first as you know, but I'll come when things wrap up here. If what you say is true, it would be a sin against the divine creation. We are not to meddle with the paths we are obligated in God's name to follow! I wish you had told me sooner. My poor sweet child, your soul must be in such turmoil. Can you do this for me? Clear your mind and open your heart for the next hour to view my new broadcast and interview. I cherish your feedback. After the taping I will fly back to you and we will pray on this matter. I'll have the studio crew hook up a video conference or you can watch as the show is live here in Hawaii to be shown in the States tomorrow."

"Fine, yes, I think so. I'll do my best to stay focused. Good luck! Oh, and Daniel, no word to anyone please. This is just between us. I'm not supposed to be speaking of any of this."

Sally wasn't sure if he had heard the last part as she hung up the phone, so she dialed back but no answer. He must be going on now and she promised to call him again when the show ended to have him promise to keep this all confidential.

Sally called Frisco to her and turned on the large-screen TV in the main cabin and began flipping through hundreds of channels until she found _MCN,_ the minister cable network.

Frisco had just finished a swim off the stern fetching a tennis ball thrown by _Salvation_ 's chef. They seemed to have taken to each other. After a robust towel rub-down, the chef let him into the cabin and Frisco was ready for a little loving and nestled up around Sally's neck on the back cushions of the sofa, his favorite perch.

She had found the station in time to see Daniel introduce his first guest.

"Welcome, so glad to have you on my National Christian Talk Show, today, live in Honolulu, Hawaii!" Daniel shook hands with the local evangelist. "Our guest tonight, Reverend Martin Forrester of the Oahu Ministry Congregation will speak of how we must abide by the laws of nature God has given us. Reverend, it is our pleasure to have you as our guest. You have much to share, so why don't you begin."

"Well, Daniel I'm blessed to be on your wonderful show, a true expression of God's word on sharing his message with the world. You know I am very passionate about our topic this morning and eager to extend my interpretation with your followers." The Reverend continued, "I think God's laws of nature, science, life and death are pretty clear. He doesn't do grey areas after all as you would agree. He give'th, and he take'th away, we are his to serve and not intrude in the natural order of our blessed environment around us."

Sally did her best to pay attention, but she was exhausted. Even Frisco drooped his head over her shoulder. She straightened herself, fighting her fatigue, as the Reverend went on to speak of the evils of cloning, extending life support to dying patients, and even touched on the sinful choices of suicide and assisted death.

Sally agreed with most everything the guest reverend spoke upon, except perhaps cloning where she had substantial experience. After all, animals had no soul, so where was the harm in improving a species via exacting duplication of superior specimens. Other than that, it was the same old messages. That is, until Daniel began to speak.

"Reverend, your words are all relevant to us in our everyday lives, as sciences and medical doctors do their very best to distort the will of God! If I may, let me pose a hypothetical question."

"Yes of course, Daniel. Your comments are always insightful and thought-provoking, please continue," Reverend Forrester invited.

Sally was dozing, half-listening; Frisco's lips flapped as he snored.

Daniel leaned forward in his chair, elbows to knees, hands clasped together. "What if one of your favorite pets — a dog, a horse, whatever — is hit by a car. It's beyond saving. Should you end its suffering, humanely so to speak, or should you merely try to ease its passing?"

"Surely we would assist in ending its suffering by easing its pain in passing as best we could, to allow the creature to die. But we already agree, animals have no soul; tell me how does this apply to man?" the Reverend asked.

Sally came to attention: _where is Daniel going with this?_

"Reverend, God says you can take the life of your treasured pet to spare its suffering. But we agree it is against God's will to do the same for our wife, child, and beloved friend. What if their agony is interminable and seems cruel to allow them to live, consumed by pain. Do you firmly believe God wants us to stand by and limit our assistance to prayer?"

"As you well know, Daniel, there is a difference. Their agony is not interminable. It lasts a mere moment in the scope of time, and then, a joyous afterlife through infinity with our creator. While we spare the horned, hoofed and winged creature's physical suffering for that reason alone, they have no spiritual connection to God; we, unlike our pets, have an immortal soul. We ease the passing of a pet through kindness and with sadness because we loved them as our companions. But we shall be joyous when a wife, child or friend moves on as they will soon sit at the right hand of the Father for all eternity to come."

"Then we agree thus far. Another question, if I may," Daniel said. "Our Lord Himself brought Lazarus back from the dead, but why? What message was he delivering to us?"

Sally's face turned white. "Daniel, you wouldn't!"

"Again as you are aware, Daniel, it's right there in the text, John eleven, four. Jesus said, 'It is for God's glory, that God's son may be glorified through it.'"

"Of course Reverend, and later in verse forty he tells Martha, 'Did I not tell you that if you believed in me you would see God's glory?' It has been written and so we believe."

"Correct once more, Daniel. Christ did it for us, not for Lazarus," the Reverend agreed.

Daniel continued, "As the scripture says, Lazarus was already home. So if modern science found a means to bring someone back, I think most theologians would agree as well, it would be considered a sin against creation to restore life to those God has chosen to be with Him. Would you agree Reverend?"

"Exactly so, and those who were returned would be called an abomination, loved by no one, guaranteed to burn in hell!"

"Reverend, what if I was to tell you, while here on your beautiful islands, I have come to know of a new process in science where an individual who has passed from life to death could be brought back against their, and God's, will? It has come to my attention that the government has enlisted a company called Photon Corporation to develop a camera whose images can bring a soul back to life. Very credible sources have told me attempts of this very nature are currently being made in the Photon laboratories of Silicon Valley. I also have good knowledge scientists have been working in secret to reproduce life from extremely sensitive photographic data used by the military for defense purposes. These unscrupulous God players are aiming to be able to recreate human beings from..."

Sally slammed the remote down onto the table, pounded both fists into the base of the sofa over and over. Through a veil of rage, she listened as Daniel repeated almost word for word all she had told her on the phone only moments ago. Frisco sensed her turmoil, but couldn't find the best dog-way to behave, so he paced along the top ridge of the sofa back, stopping ever so often to poke his nose into her shoulder. She scowled as Daniel thanked his guest and said, "The valued role I play in service to the Lord is underscored by my success in sharing this new knowledge of corrupt research with our congregations and other God-fearing souls!"

A scream exploded from Sally. "You horrid man! You untrustworthy, self-serving, egotistical son-of-a-bitch!" Not knowing what to make of Sally's outburst, poor Frisco cowered behind a sofa cushion when two of the crew came running through the parlor. "Ms. Evans, are you alright?"

"No, I am not okay, get my things together, I'll be leaving the _Salvation_ first thing tomorrow morning and never returning. Make arrangements for a cab. If your boss calls, tell the bastard I'm already gone and you don't know where to. I have no desire to speak to him."

The interview was still live on the monitor and Sally turned to hear the Reverend's last comments.

"Then Daniel, they must be stopped because if they're not, as it is told in the scriptures, this could signal the sign of the second coming!"

"Amen, brother, let us pray! Praise Jesus!"

Chapter 33

It was oddly comfortable working beside Ben, Shawn thought. _Suppose in a way we are the same. We see our world in a much different way than normal humans and just have our own ways of getting from one point to another._

Shawn's science background was nonexistent, which was confirmed when he spent time with Sally. Hell, he was lucky to learn to read and write growing up in his childhood neighborhood. Yet he and Ben communicated in a type of shorthand, even though Ben knew very little about professional photo editing. Simply a word between the two and they'd fall into step, whether it to link a power line, upgrade a software package or make final touches on a critical image within the composite. They were preparing to "light Drake up" as they now referred to the process, and as Shawn followed Ben's instructions, he realized Ben was going to go for it — in spite of his comments a day earlier objecting to an attempt to replicate Drake. _Cool with me_ , he thought. _I'll just keep my mouth shut, and follow along!_

They had turned off all ambient light sources, even jamming a rolled-up towel at the base of the entry way, before they restarted the computer to let the software upgrades settle in to their respective programs.

"Shawn, hit the laser switch, let's power her up," Ben directed. "As the servers are booting, let's do once over around the lab to be sure everything is secure. With the additional power load we're injecting into the hologram this time, any projectile would carry enough velocity to go right through our craniums, and I don't have enough photos of you, or you of me, to bring each other back, get it?"

"Sure thing Boss Man!"

Shawn took one last look to be sure everything was tied down.

"Okay Shawn, laser is at full power and your composite image of Drake is up within the program. Your work is absolutely amazing. You used thousands of hi-res images of Drake, yet even with that number, Drake's image file is only two hundred and seventy-three gigabytes. If I or another novice composed that, it would have been enormous at over three terabytes."

"Ben it comes down to layering. I only lay down or overlap the light or subject perspective which I feel is missing. As with some other art forms, such as painting, like watercolors, more is not necessarily better. It's what you leave out when you take the photo, or edit the image which brings your subject to life. Next time, if we have to this a next time, I'll show you what I look for. Okay, I'm ready Senior Benster. Where do you want me?"

"Hang tight and be alert. We have no idea what to expect, do you understand?" Ben said.

"Yep, I'm ready for whatever comes at me, for you, and yeah, for my bro Drakester too!"

The recent edit of Drake on the wave at Coast Guards lit up the screen as Ben turned on the hologram generator.

"Shawn, would you mind checking the laser alignment?"

"Done; it is right on, perfect, dead-on center."

"Shawn, I'm going to let the energy levels advance gradually. Visually you can even see the particles seek their proper positioning within the hologram. If we offer a relaxed opportunity to set themselves in associative or relative relationship to each other, we should expect the integrity of the final product to be far superior to our past results."

Instead of ten minutes, it took over thirty-five minutes for Drake's hologram to mature. Shawn and Ben knew instantly this effort was going to be much, much better.

Gradually it became even clearer. Then at the halfway point, Drake became astonishingly crisp, already showing signs of life. With Shawn out of Drake's direct line of sight, Drake, for the first time, turned his head from side to side, looking for someone. When he finally spotted Shawn, Drake look confused again.

"Hang on buddy, give us a few more minutes, and we'll sit down and have a chat," Shawn called out to Drake over the din as he and Ben watched in amazement.

As if both men were both thinking as one, Ben shouted out, "Shawn NOW! Fire the fucking laser! Fire it now!"

Shawn flipped the activator causing a neon green beam emitting from the hi-grade laser to shoot directly into the mirrored piece of glass. The beam split, and each new beam shot into two separate mirrors which reflected them back, where they combined into one unified beam. The final beam terminated and impacted the center of the hologram where Drake's virtual likeness stood. Ben had incorporated the traditional method of creating holograms, but modified the beams so they intersected on a solid object before projecting to a plate above the platform to form the hologram.

They watched as the intense beam seemed to burn in the center of Drake's chest.

"Holy shit man, are we going to hurt Drake? It looks like were gonna drill a hole through him. Should we stop?" Shawn yelled to Ben, but Ben could not hear. The air surrounding the hologram began to ripple and Shawn felt a tingling sensation engulf his body. Drake's hologram grew to include much more of the wave around him. It was beautiful. An effervescent glow filled the entire space as if all objects in the room, animate and inanimate, were all coming together as one.

"Ben, it's the real thing! Drake is solidifying! The water, I'm getting wet, what the hell is happening?!" Shawn raised his voice to be heard over what is now the sound of a crashing wave.

"Shawn, I know," Ben said giddily. "I intended this to happen! This is my life's dream and today, it is a reality! Watch and experience, it is because of you Pérez, all because of you!"

The air itself undulated, as did the water surrounding Drake, and then all matter softened as the hologram, the lab and everything in it synced across dimensions.

"Ben, look at the water! What about the water? It's falling from the hologram and flooding the lab, what do we do?"

"It's going to be close Shawn! After our first try I knew other objects in the image would replicate as well, but I had no fucking idea this much water would come along. I expected a great deal, but not this much! We have to hope he pops before the water shorts the power lines to the outside generators! Wait, it's too late, the electricity is starting to arc between cables. I've got to shut it down or we could all be electrocuted!"

"Nooooooo!" Shawn screamed, diving at Ben and pulling him away from the junction box. They both crashed down onto the wooden table holding their equipment. The table's legs snapped, propelling them down into the rising water.

Then there was silence but for the sound of dozens of streams running out from the lab. The generators had gone quiet when they shorted out seconds before.

"Shawn, why did you stop me?"

"Take a look; it's fucking wild!" Shawn pointed at Drake, upside down in the killer wave when he dropped like a lead weight, smashing hard onto the laboratory floor. Water followed and doused him in a crush of foaming seawater. At 100 percent complete, the curl of water that killed Drake just days ago collapsed everywhere, dropping straight out of thin air.

Ben and Shawn rose from the floor, but were knocked off their feet once more by a torrent of water. Everything in the lab was violently pushed up against the walls. Knocked over by the force of the water, the laser tumbled into the slosh, still firing as it is swept its deadly beam across the walls of the lab. The laser's power source had built-in redundancy and while all the other electronics had shorted out, the laser's back-up generator was independent of the two main power supplies so, until the auxiliary generator blew there was nothing to stop the laser from burning up the lab.

The wayward beam danced crazily, burning swathes through the roof and down the building sides to the foundation.

Ben had three worries. They would drown, die in the resulting fire, or get cut in two when the laser slashed across their bodies.

"Shawn, keep your head down! And look for Drake! I saw him fall; he must be underwater!" Then with a bright spark, the laser arched out and everything was quiet except for the sound of water finding its way outside through cracks in the walls.

Ben dragged himself to his feet and cut off the electrical panels. Shawn pushed a chair off his legs and rose in the subsiding flood, desperately glancing around for Drake. "Ben, thank God we didn't get a dolphin in the pictures! Have you seen Drake?"

They both saw him fall in the deluge but had no clue as to his condition.

"Drake, where are you? Ben, I'm over here in the far corner!"

Shawn lifted Drake's limp form up out of the water, some of his shattered surfboard still on top of him. Lifting his chin, Shawn gazed for the second time in a week into Drake's lifeless face and screamed out in anguish, "No, not again! Come on, Drake, don't die on me again! Oh my God, I killed him twice!"

Shawn started mouth-to-mouth and CPR...but nothing. Ben splashed up beside him and instructed Shawn to hold Drake over his knees face-down and then pound down on his back. "His lungs were full of water; think we got most of it," Ben uttered, after more than a pint drained from Drake's mouth and nose. "Shawn lifted Drake up onto a table Ben had turned upright and started more mouth-to-mouth.

Abruptly, after two minutes of CPR, Drake coughed violently and spit up mouthfuls of water, opening his eyes slightly.

"Holy shit, he's alive! Ben, we did it, I can't believe it! Drake, can you hear me, can you breathe? Are you okay? How do you feel? Talk to me Brah!"

Drake stared back at him in a daze. "Oh fuck man, I had it! I stuck it! If it wasn't for that fucking lip! Tell me you got it man, tell me it counts! But you've got to cut me some slack for a thirty-foot barrel Brah," Drake said weakly. He lifted his head, looked once at Shawn, then around the wrecked laboratory. Then Ben finally came into Drake's view. "Who the hell are you? What the fuck! Where am I? Shawn, did I crash? Am I in the hospital? Wow, he's one weird-ass looking doctor."

"Drake, it's cool. You're back, I mean...back here. Most of all, you're alive and safe and that's the only thing that counts right now. Drake, you did crash, but you weren't hurt, you died man. My pictures brought you back," Shawn said as he helped Drake sit up.

Ben interrupted Shawn. "Shawn, it's way too much, too soon. Let up a bit, he has no idea where he is."

"Yeah, what the hell are you smoking Shawnee Boy? What do you mean I died? How the hell could I die, and if I did, how did I end up here? I was executing the first spiral in the 360 roll, almost had it, or at least I think I did. It gets kind of fuzzy here. Yo, indeed! It was a supreme rocket ride and the energy from that friggin' wave off the oceanic charts, Brah!"

"It will take time to explain. Just relax and let's get you into Ben's house to change into some dry clothes and check your vitals." Shawn looked to Ben to help him get Drake off the table and through the mess.

Ben put his hand on Drake's dripping shoulder, a bit apprehensively. "Shawn, I do believe, the cat lives!"

"Yeah man," replied Drake, "I am one whipped Pescadores. Hey, does one of you two have a towel? And I don't see any friggin' cats. They hate water and this place looks like Katrina hit it!"

Shawn searched the room for any dry cloth, let alone a towel. As Drake sat alone, Shawn took Ben to the side and quietly said, "I'm super stoked. Never been this happy in my life. But where do we bring Drake? We can't take him to a hospital. How will we explain him to anyone?"

"Well Shawn, we were smart enough to bring him here, we should be smart enough to figure the rest out." And Ben helped Shawn bring Drake to his feet.

Chapter 34

Where she once found splendor, Sally now saw deceit. Everything on _Salvation II_ disgusted her. Her life was a mess. Everyone warned her about Daniel, but she wouldn't listen, overwhelmed by his persuasive manner and religious façade. She had made up her mind. Once she stepped off of _Salvation II_ (which she now referred to as _False Hope_ ), she would never return, nor would she ever see or speak to Daniel again.

Sally moved her few things down to a lower deck as far from Daniel's stateroom as possible. She planned on getting a good night's sleep and then to rise early to meet the taxi at the dock. Frisco followed her to the new cabin and seemed to have forgotten her earlier outburst. He jumped up, over, and next to Sally when she sat on the bed. "You're a good friend Frisco and God knows, right now I need one."

She rang up to first mate to let him know her whereabouts and then called the galley and asked the chef if he would mind bringing a sandwich for her and cubed steak for Frisco. After hanging up, she wondered if she would ever get Frisco to eat regular dog food after a few of the meals he's had here.

She didn't know if she could care for a dog full-time, so she told him if he ever settled down on dry land he could call her about bringing him home with him. After he left she knew she was just kidding herself. Frisco was her dog now, that is, if Shawn didn't want him. Who knows, maybe Frisco would end up being both their dog.

The chef had said he didn't mind bringing her and Frisco's dinner down as it was a very quiet evening. The Captain had taken a few days off and flown back to California to visit his family and with Daniel over in Honolulu, he only to prepare meals for the two crew members who remaining onboard every evening, without too much exception.

The chef brought the meals down himself, probably so he could feed Frisco personally. The crew, he said, were busy. Like most high-profile celebrities with floating mansions or yachts, he told Sally, Daniel employed former military personnel as crew who doubled as security. He said he'd heard that the _Octopus_ , the yacht owned by Paul Allen, co-founder of Microsoft, was almost exclusively staffed by former Special Forces and U.S. Navy Seals, but no one had ever been able to confirm this.

He gave Frisco a tussle and bid Sally good night, promising he would awaken her early so she would be ready on time to meet the taxi.

Well, she was glad they were here. The boat had so many dark passageways and compartments that once it became dark, as a rule, she never left her cabin. With the new knowledge about the staff onboard she snuggled up to Frisco. _Can't hurt to have men like that watching over you_ , she thought as she fell into a much-needed slumber.

While she slept and back on shore, Sally was unaware Craig had posted a third guard to keep an eye on _Salvation_. Although he gave her a grace period of twenty-four hours, which he had never done before with anyone, he wasn't going to take the chance of her slipping out of town.

_Let her rest_ , he thought, _and when she does come around, she will be more cooperative, thinking it was her decision_. Craig had not yet heard about Daniel's broadcast; otherwise, he would have done more than post a guard onshore, he would have already impounded _Salvation_. He didn't foresee what would happen that night.

The bullet came from behind the guard, striking at the base of his skull in the middle of his neck. He was killed instantly.

The shot came from a van which had rolled up inconspicuously about two hours before. The assailants waited five minutes to be sure he was dead. Then the van's side door slid open and two men in black hoods made their way down to the dock carrying a small, two-man kayak. Carefully placing it in the water, they wormed into its seats and paddled towards _Salvation II_ , taking care to make as little noise as possible and as they glided up to the stern platform. There they tied-up to the transport skiff. They would have to climb across the skiff to get onboard, but this would prevent two small boats from banging against the yacht.

Both of the hooded men had tactical backpacks slung over their shoulders. On the deck of _Salvation II_ , the brought their packs forward, crouched besides them, and fully armed themselves with small automatic weapons.

Holstering their Glocks, they silently climbed the steps to the main deck. With two fingers to two eyes, and the lead figure signaled to the ladder to the control room where one of the crew was expected to be in his cabin. The second man shouldered his weapon and softly climbed down the ladder, approached the cabin, and with two well-placed hits with a silencer, their second target died in his bed.

The assailants had expected two crew members along with the chef, and so far, so good. They only had to find the second mate, most likely on the bridge, and then neutralize the chef in the kitchen or his nearby cabin. The first man pulled out _Salvation_ 's schematics and indicated the deck and side of the yacht the guest's stateroom would be located and where they would find Sally.

Even with the silencer, the second mate alerted to the sounds of combat. He knew exactly what it was and understood immediately there was nothing he could do for his shipmates. He had come down off watch for five minutes, leaving the chef to keep tabs on the ship's security monitors, so he could change from his formal onboard uniform to some sweats and a T-shirt. If he was correct, with the precision the assailants used to take out the first mate, they would be headed to the bridge looking for him. He waited a minute and then crept down to the first mate's cabin and opened his door slightly. Inside, the man was dead. His head in a pool of blood... nothing he could do about it. He left the doorway open, so it wouldn't make a sound and went back to his cabin and unlocked the weapons locker beneath his bunk to arm himself. Then he headed to the bridge in search of blood.

Sally slept soundly.

The two intruders moved throughout the second deck, surprised to find all the cabin doors wide open, with no one sleeping inside. Guessing their target had to be in one of the staterooms below, they exited the portside passageway and made their way down to deck three. Entering the third deck they tested each doorway until they came upon one locked handle. They confirmed their next action with a glance, swung their MP5 fully-automatic weapons around, and prepared to kick in the door.

Ever vigilant at night and never falling completely asleep, Frisco had been listening for some time from when the assailants first boarded. As the intruders made their way along the passageway, trying each of the doors, he emitted a low growl and nudged Sally.

"What is it Frisco?" she whispered in her sleep. Frisco pushed her harder. "What is it, do you need to go out?" but her words did nothing to change his behavior. "What are you trying to tell me?"

At that moment, Sally's cabin door shattered and one of the men entered, pointing the machine gun directly at her. Frisco was ready, even if Sally was not, and hurled himself towards the opening. As if in slow motion, Sally saw the attacker turn his M5 to Frisco and fire a burst just as Frisco clasped his teeth into the forearm of the assailant in the hallway. Frisco yelped in pain but never let go, shaking his head and body as his fangs ripped into his victim's flesh. Frisco took the man down and the weapon went flying forward into the cabin. Frisco was pinned beneath him, now whimpering, but he never let go.

Their orders were to take them alive, which gave Sally the time she needed. Diving across the bed to reach Frisco, she saw the weapon that fell next to her packed luggage and, although she had no experience with guns, she understood it was her best hope of saving Frisco. She reached for the gun, turned it on the man sprawled out in pain on top of Frisco and fired. A spray of bullets tore his head to bits, blood and brain flying everywhere.

Then she remembered the second assailant inside her cabin. She rolled onto her back and pointed the weapon where she thought he might be. When she saw him, he wasn't looking at her, but at the armed first mate who was rushing towards the cabin door.

As Sally fired into the intruder, he in turn fired out towards the first mate, and they both went down. Sally kept firing until the every round in the magazine filled his body. Spent and afraid, she pulled herself up to a seated position against the bed and saw the first mate killed in the passageway. She crawled over to Frisco and had to gently release the grip he still had on the dead man's arm. From a night of peace, to pandemonium, then nothing; Sally was alone with her wonderful Frisco dying in her arms.

It had all happened so fast. Only minutes ago everything was fine. "Frisco, my dear sweet Frisco," she cried. She held his head up on her lap and brushed the fur along his neck hoping it might ease his pain. Her words were tender, she knew he was dying. "It's okay Frisk, you're the best, you saved me little pal. I love you my sweetie, you're going to be alright."

But she knew he was dying; he had saved her life and there was nothing she could do to save his. Sally wept and, as she did, she realized never in her life had she felt so helpless and alone. Frisco turned his gaze to meet hers, his brown eyes smiling as only his could, and with a sigh, he was gone.

Sally sat for a long while in spite of the carnage around her. She couldn't bear to leave Frisco; didn't know how to. But she had to get out of there, not knowing who else might be after her. She carefully moved Frisco's body, tucking him into the bed, placing his head on the pillow as he liked it. With the comforter beneath his chin, he looked as though he was sleeping.

Looking back into the cabin, said her last good-byes to the pup and stepped over the bodies near the doorway. With bag in hand, she went to another cabin to wash her face and hands and change into clothing unstained by Frisco's blood. Formulating a plan, she moved quickly to search for the chef and found him on the bridge, folded over one of the navigation screens. "Could this night become any more horrible," she cried and she headed towards the skiff.

Untying the skiff and cutting loose the small kayak, she was lucky the keys were in the ignition. It was only three a.m. and at the dock she made a call to cab service, purposefully telling them she had moved her flight up to five a.m. and to send someone right away. When she saw the cab coming into the parking lot, she hastily dialed 911 to report the murders on _Salvation_. She did not want to be here when the authorities arrived.

Her third call was to Craig. "Major Craig, you evil prick! Your men, they are all dead, along with the crew they slaughtered. They even killed my dog Frisco! You are more wicked and immoral then I ever could have imagined! I will never help you!"

"Sally, stop, slow down, stop, I said STOP! What men, what are you talking about? I didn't send my men anywhere, never mind after you. One of my guys was posted in the parking lot, that's all. I'll check in with him and see what he saw. Please, slow down, start from the beginning!" Craig demanded.

"I don't think you will have any luck reaching him. Everyone is dead!" Sally then told Craig of the horror of her past hour, starting with Frisco waking her up. When she spoke of Frisco, her tears refreshed. "I know he was only a dog, but he was Drake's dog, all Shawn had left of his friend!"

"Sally, we are coming over. Give me an hour. Tell me where we can find you?" Craig insisted.

Sally took the cell from her ear and tapped _End_. She then threw the phone out past the dock so neither the police, nor Craig could track her whereabouts.

Chapter 35

Ben disconnected the generators to double check the connections and fuses before powering them back up to test the power grid. He told Shawn to walk Drake into the main house to get him dried off and clothed.

Ben suggested they check in his bedroom closet, find some shorts, and pick out one of his Hawaiian shirts. He didn't have any other kind of shirt. Drake grabbed some khaki pants, but just couldn't get used to putting on an _old-guy-in-Hawaii_ shirt. "Man, can't I go shirtless?" he asked Shawn. "This is Hawaii."

"Drake, this isn't exactly a fashion show. Just find the least offensive shirt and put it on. And don't say anything to Ben. He's a solid guy and we don't want to hurt his feelings. Here, take these sandals, you need something on your feet too." He handed him some roman gladiator-type tie-up sandals.

"Ah, c'mon, now you want me to look like Julius Caesar from a retiree cruise ship? Shit, this is worse than dying," Drake bitched while selecting a shirt with an old car graphic print in all the colors of the rainbow.

"Drake, we're sponsored by Deep Surf, and I have tons of shit at my house. Get on with it. Ben will be here any minute and he wants to give you a medical once-over to see if you're healthy."

"Well, I'm not getting out of the car once we leave here, at least not till we get to your house," Drake replied.

"That's going to be tough seeing as how we're on the North Shore of the Big Island and you and I live in Kauai," Shawn laughed.

"Yeah, pretty fucking funny; keep laughing at me Brah. You have a pretty weird-ass way of making fun of regurgitated or reincarnated people, or whatever the hell I'm called. Hey, speaking of...what about my gig on the pro circuit. If everyone thinks I'm dead, how will I compete and what happens to my sponsorship?"

"Take it easy, Drake. You're gonna hyperventilate. Told ya this is going to take some strategy. Can you just be cranked your alive again?

"Listen, sure I was dead. But it doesn't mean anything to me. I DID NOT KNOW I WAS DEAD! So try and see it my way. You've been cool about that in the past. How am I, I mean, how are we going to make a living? What's going to happen to my lifestyle, the chicks, the islands? This is some pretty important shit we're covering Brah."

"Drake, please hang for one or two days, buddy. These are big-concept problems to work out. It's not changing your flights, or getting you out of a press conference early so you can hit the bars. We'll figure it all out and this guy Ben is smarter than hell. Probably the most intelligent person I've ever met, even Sally. Ben is not only smart, he's clever and sees things different than most. Later on, once you relax a bit, he said he'd sit down with you for a question and answer period. I promise he'll help you see the situation you're in. So like you said, pretend it's just another day and you were knocked unconscious when you hit the reef, that's all. Let's get Ben in here to get you checked out and see when we can put down a few beers. Best way I can think of for you to start your day after your fall."

"Well, I know I hit my head, can still feel the bump so I'll follow your lead and tell myself I was knocked out. But if you're telling me everyone thinks I'm dead...I mean, even my Mom?"

"Yes, even your Mom. She loves you very much you know. Oh, to tell you the truth, the bump is from when you fell off the wave in the lab less. Technically, we did that to you, not the wave. Please you just agreed to hold off on the questions for now. You're here Drake and for this very moment that's all that counts. If you don't stop asking so many questions, I'm gonna put you back in that hologram where I can shut you up."

"Okay, I'll chill," Drake complied.

Ben had finished out back and came in, the screen door slamming after him. "Sorry Drake, take your shirt back off, we need to give you a physical. Hey, that's my favorite, you have good taste, son."

"Yeah, it's my favorite too," Drake said politely and pulled the gaudy shirt over his head, not even bothering to unbutton it.

Ben reached for a bag on the top shelf in his cabinet. "When I was studying for my Masters at MIT, one of my professors taught we needed to understand the elementary anatomy of the human body," he said as he opened his general practice MD check-up kit. He told us, "After all, how can you expect to research the universe if you don't first understand how you work?

Well, I took him up on it and took two years of premed then worked as an EMT in Boston part-time to help pay the bills."

"As long as you don't do any of anal checking or cough crap on me," Drake warned.

After using every device in the bag, Ben said, "Breathing, pulse, blood pressure, all good, you're a perfect specimen of the human race; fascinating when you consider you didn't even exist in this dimension a few hours ago!"

"Well, I feel great, except for the bump. Can I put your cool shirt back on, and when can I get a beer?" Drake asked.

"No beers for a while, until we're certain you're stable. Maybe you should have one tomorrow after a good night's sleep, which by the way Shawn, you could use as well."

Shawn's cell rang and _Unknown_ came up. He hit answer in case it was one of Drake's long-lost relatives or fellow pros. Since Drake died, everyone kept calling him for to offer condolences.

"Shawn, it's me. It's horrible. I'm coming to you. I don't know what to do."

"Sally, what's wrong? Whose phone is this? Are you okay?"

"It's one of those convenience store cheapie cell phones; had to destroy mine. We can't even be sure they don't have you tapped," Sally cried. "Shawn I've never been so afraid in my life, and my heart is shattered. Frisco is dead! But I can't talk any more except to say I'm in danger, maybe you and Ben too!"

"Frisco's dead!" Shawn said and instantly knew he had made a big mistake.

Drake bolted from the other side of the room to Shawn's side. "What the hell are you talking about? Give me the phone; is that Sally?" Drake snatched the mobile from Shawn's hand.

"Sally, is this you? What about Frisco! What happened to my boy? Where is my Frisky Biscuit! Is he okay?"

Sally, in a state of shock, sat stricken in the back of the cab. "Is this Drake?"

"Yes it's Drake, duh." Then Drake remembered.

Sally thought: _They did it; they replicated Drake. I can't believe this is a day in my life; be calm._

"Drake, wow, you sound great! So glad you're okay. Could you please ask Ben to get on the phone?" she spoke as kindly as she could so as not to confuse Drake.

Ben had no problem hearing Sally since she was shouting into the burner phone.

"Hello Sally, Ben here. Before you bite my head off, it was an accident. Well, under the circumstance, accident is not the appropriate word. Shawn used a new method to build the composite image, and I used a laser technique with unintended results."

"Ben, you don't make mistakes. You knew exactly what you were doing. How could you? And Shawn, did he contribute to this?" Sally pushed.

"Yes and no. Shawn did vastly improve the layered image, but he had no idea I set him up until Drake was already here with us." Ben gave Shawn a thumb up which meant: G _ot your back, Shawn_. It's all on me. He knew nothing of my intentions. Do you want to speak with him?" Ben asked eager to get off with Sally.

Before Sally could answer, Shawn took his phone from Ben. "Sally, it's awesome, it worked. Wanted to wait till you got to Ben's to share our success, but what about Frisco?"

Sally gave him a few of the facts related to Frisco's demise; Shawn listened, shaking his head while looking at Drake.

Drake couldn't take it anymore and fell to his knees. "No not my Frisk! I would rather still be dead than have my Frisco gone!"

"Shawn, I've shared much more than I should have. Take down this number, and both you and Ben take the batteries out and smash your phones. I'll bring two with me."

"Sally, just get here; we have no clue what to do about Drake. You need to come to where we can protect you," Shawn urged.

"Shawn, you are so right. I need to be with you. I am on my way." And she hung up.

Drake was distraught. "Not my Frisco, how did he die?" Shawn shared only the part where Frisco saved Sally's life, telling Drake Frisco had hit his head in the struggle and died at once.

"Drake, when I signed on to take your photos my commitment was more than to be your photographer. I took it upon myself to make sure you kept it together and watched over you. But I let you down in a big way, no doubt. It was my fault you died the other day, and I won't make that mistake again. Ben and I, well I guess in a way we _re-borned_ you and now you are our responsibility. We will do our best to keep you safe and figure out a way to get you back to your old life, but it's not going to be easy. What I'm trying to tell you Brah, is I will never let you down again."

"Sure, thanks Brah. I always knew you were watching out for me." But Drake didn't feel like talking. He could only think of Frisco.

Chapter 36

Craig suspected someone had listened in on his call with Sally. The group who attacked the yacht was well-trained — had to be. After all, they took out one of his best agents, so had to be monitoring the communications from Sally and the ship for days to get in so close so fast. Whoever they were, they were good.

He decided not to go down to the massacre on the ship. By now, the local police and 5.0 would be all over the marina, perhaps even the FBI, since the boat had Cayman Island documentation and the crimes were committed in Hawaii. Besides, with so many idiots climbing around and contaminating the scene, there would be little worthwhile evidence. The locals would first think it was a robbery gone badly — they always do. It would take hours before they determined it wasn't and when they finally did figure it out, he knew damn well didn't want to answer any of their questions. From Craig's first days at the Camp, he followed the maxim, "the less anyone knows about you and your team the better."

Hanging up with Sally, he started to build his knowledge base to establish his own probable explanation by Googling "Salvation II." He first wanted to get an idea of what kind of boat it was and the make-up of its crew. He was astonished when dozens photos sprang up, exclaiming, "Wow" under his breath. _That Sally has great taste in men with money_ , he thought. _Salvation II_ was a class of vessel that certainly required high-caliber security onboard. You had to be a skilled intelligence technician to manage the published list of electronics onboard. If they had this list of gear online available to the public, he was sure _Salvation II_ had even more sophisticated equipment onboard, so his original assessment of the assailants' skill level went up a couple of notches. If they were that talented, he absolutely had to stay away. Without question Homeland Security would be involved, and he wanted to keep DHS out of his shit.

Craig realized he had been cursing a lot lately, something he rarely did. This mission was a cluster so far and he was having a tough time settling it down. Even for him he hadn't had enough sleep and combined with so many unforeseen events, it was all starting to deplete his mojo. Only one other time in his life did he remember cursing this often. Back at Yale when he played rugby, if they were losing because a teammate was screwing up, he would curse like a drunken pirate as some type of internal release mechanism. He was young and naïve and hadn't learned to meditate skillfully yet.

What he needed now was some sleep and a few sessions of deep meditation to bring his karma into alignment. _Well, that's not in my immediate future_ , he told himself. In the meantime, it felt unnaturally comforting to add in flavorful vocabulary to his dialogue. Just like the old days when he battle his team back into victory! _It used to work then, so it might just work now. So fuck, I guess I'll continue!_

He walked back into the lab where Jarrard was integrating the images of El Sharrad into the block file similar to what Shawn had described to Sally in the few e-mail exchanges they had found. Jarrard had gathered all the data and correspondence and assured Craig he fully understood the process and even calculated the problem with the first trials was insufficient power. One trial was in Shawn's studio, the other at Ben's. Photon had more than ample electrical capacity for this effort.

"Major, in another hour we will be ready to initiate the recovery and recreate your terrorist. Frankly sir, it is hard to believe Dr. Evans and a photographer could conceptualize and deliver the scientific methodology necessary to recreate someone from the Sentient photographs. Craig sir, glad you brought me in on this. I may be the only research physicist with the applied scientific experience to deliver," Jarrard boasted. "Very soon, you will be able to question your subject. And don't worry, I'm a pragmatist. I have little qualms on how you get him to talk." I'm a patriot Mr. Craig and support all you stand for!"

Craig may have been nodding in agreement but he was thinking _dolt_. Craig would give him one shot, he planned, and if he failed, the good professor will disappear for a while he drained every bit of valuable intel out of him.

"Professor Jarrard, your enthusiasm is contagious and you're providing a great service to our country. Can you tell me when we can begin? Time is of the essence."

"Thank you and yes, sir, we will be ready shortly. The photographer may have stumbled into the process, but his image composite of the surfer was sorely lacking. He left out so much of subject's content, the quantum level particles that he was comprised of. The resulting hologram must have been a mere ghost-like resemblance of the subject. How could this amateur expect to remake a person when so much was left out of the file block?"

"My master file is full and rich," Jarrard continued ostentatiously. "I haven't diluted any of the original images. I can assure you, with the improvements I've made in the software and image construction, in addition to the increased energy, when we form the hologram, we will bring your captive back."

Jarrard moved the small laser they used in the lab into position.

"Okay, Mr. Craig, you might want to stand behind this shield because in two of the e-mails they highlight a notable vibration shaking the room, along with a loud noise when the hologram hits full resolution."

"Yes, sure, I read all that; let's get this done," Craig answered. He knew inbred incompetency when he saw it, and he couldn't think of a better reason to get behind the shield.

"Ready to go when you give the order Mr. Craig. Go, on go!" Jarrard said in his attempt to be military-like.

"Stop calling me Mister, I'm a fucking Major. You have my go-ahead, proceed." Craig responded.

Jarrard slid the mouse pointer over the tab labeled _Create_ and tapped the button. Reaching behind to two circuit boxes, he opened them both, but flipped on only one. He moved his other hand to the second power switch ready to engage it when the moment was right.

Craig hoped to hell this worked. This would be impossible if he hadn't instinctively ordered the imaging technician at Langley to label and quantify the hundreds of images of El Sharrad he insisted be taken during the interrogation. Taking the Sentient photos of El Sharrad was remarkably prescient, and practical. He now carried the Sentient everywhere he traveled. When Craig discovered superior technology, he never went back, only forward. All the images in the composite file Jarrard created for him today were from the Sentient — and utterly critical to his success. He just questioned whether Jarrard's skill matched his bravado.

"Sir, as you can see I will be gradually building the power load. We don't want to provide too much power too soon. If we overwhelm the first stages of the hologram as it takes shape, it will develop into a singular bright light. The key is to inject energy at the precise moment," shouted Jarrard above the increasing hum.

Over the platform in the center of the lab, El Sharrad's ghostly figure instantly appeared. Surrounding him, a bizarre mix of furniture was materializing. Craig rapidly assessed the evolving imagery. He recognized a table from Gitmo, realizing that the photographs of El Sharrad were captured during multiple interrogations. He fumed, knowing that already Jarrard had erred. The images should have been cropped more accurately. He should have done more to isolate just the body, he thought.

El Sharrad's features hardened and despite his wispy translucence, he looked like he was actually there in the room. This was the moment Jarrard chose to throw the second power switch and, when he did, the hum became a jackhammer rattling the entire building. The deafening noise grew louder still.

"Major! Don't be alarmed. I anticipated this," Jarrard shouted. "Prepare to witness a first in science...a breakthrough in physical recreation rivaled by no other single achievement!"

None of the magical teachings or advanced technologies Craig had experienced in his life prepared him for what he now saw before him. The man he sought for months, the man he captured and subjected to unbearable torture was here with them again. El Sharrad's facial features were crystal clear, the whiskers of his beard fine and black around his mouth. Craig could even see the veins in his hands pulsing as blood circulated throughout his body. Craig was ecstatic. It looked like, after all this he might get a second shot at El Sharrad.

But his satisfaction was short-lived. As he looked on in wonder, something was going terribly wrong. Jarrard had no idea he should have cut the second power source the second El Sharrad locked into full resolution as Ben had done when he brought Drake into our world. Jarrard was infusing El Sharrad with four times the electricity Ben had used. A fowl stench now permeated the lab while Craig and Jarrard looked on in astonishment.

El Sharrad blinked rapidly and licked his lips as if dying from thirst. Then, minute spirals of smoke seeped from the pours of his skin, his ears, his nostrils, and the chair he was fastened to had a faint glow with a red hue.

The contrasts between the actual items in the room and those from the hologram sharpened. Where the wooden chair touched the metal platform, the surface smoldered. Jarrard was incapable of knowing it, but the shield they stood behind was about to become terribly inadequate.

Everything about El Sharrad was supersaturated. Jarrard had blended far too much data into the hologram. Like when a star collapses in on itself, the density of matter inside El Sharrad was crushing each individual cell within him. Massive levels of energy continued to flow into El Sharrad and as they stared from behind the Plexiglas shield, the man who was a beast while alive on this earth, now became the physical embodiment of the evil he represented. His fingers, ears, arms, legs all appeared in duplicate. The multiple physical instances became like Siamese twins, but instead of being fused together as one, the images overlapped, off-center from one another by about a quarter of an inch. It was if someone had taken two human MRIs and laid one upon the other with a fraction of an offset. El Sharrad was replicating within himself.

Craig grasped the fatal flaw of Jarrard's design and knocked Jarrard aside with one blow. Craig lunged for the power panel screaming, "Jarrard, how do I stop this? It's going to detonate!" But just as Craig reached the electrical shut-off, the bang Shawn had warned of released with an intensity neither man could have foreseen.

The densely-compressed, highly-agitated particles had nowhere to go but out, and the pressure and velocity of the explosion blew the lab to pieces. The foundation of the facility quaked and the protective barrier in front of them separated from its support brackets and blew backwards onto the two men it was meant to protect. They were spared when it collided with adjacent columns in its path and the one-inch plastic held.

Jarrard was a mess, shaken and disoriented, but Craig was ever-sharp, having been through bombings worse than this, many he should never have walked away from. In the corner of his eye he could see something moving amongst the rubble near where the platform used to be. It was El Sharrad, and he was rising up to stand.

How in hell was he still alive, if he could call it that? Entire portions of his body dripped flesh, two pairs of eyes, slightly off-center as if someone had spun you around and you were seeing double. Craig had never puked before at the sight of human carnage, but he felt like he needed to now. It didn't take a genius to see what had Jarrard had done. The doubling of the energy, compounded with the over-saturation of the hundreds of images in the creation of the composite base file had caused the hologram to form into two replicates that filled the same space, at the same time. As Craig pushed debris away to free himself he watched pitifully as the miserable creature struggled, apparently with both minds fully-functioning but unmanageably confused.

"Jarrard you are an ignorant moron! Do you have any clue to what you have done? Get your ass up now, and help me contain this monster you've made. In this state, he is no use to me. We have to terminate him!"

The deranged replicants thrashed about the laboratory, doubled hands pounding its two heads, ripping at its' chests. El Sharrad was trying everything to rid him of him. Then, remarkably considering his conflicting existence, El Sharrad recognized Craig and charged towards the agent with a fiery hatred. Craig let him come, and as they collided he plunged his titanium serrated blade into El Sharrad's dual hearts, rapidly jerking it in and out while twisting to deliver maximum internal damage. Even as he killed, Craig mused, _I've killed two men with one bullet, but this is the first time I've killed the same man twice, with one blade, at the same time. Will wonders never cease?_ And El Sharrad was dead once again.

Craig looked down on the carcass and spoke to the dead man, "You Godforsaken, surreal representation of mankind, you finally appear as the evil which dwells within you! I have now had the satisfaction of delivering your death. An execution you deprived me of when you killed yourself like the coward you were." He called out to Jarrard, "Jarrard, get whatever you need to travel we're leaving, you're coming with me!"

"Major Craig, I don't know what went wrong, the steps taken were identical to Shawn's. Oh, what a horrible thing we created!" as he looked at the bloody heap of human remains. "I don't want any part of this horror show. I'm staying here."

"Alright Jarrard, then lay down beside his body because you're next," Craig tossed out.

"You would kill me? I'm a U.S. Citizen, you can't just kill me," Jarrard pleaded. "Okay, I don't know if you're bluffing, but I don't want to die. What do you want from me? I can recalculate and will give you your terrorist with our next try. If you want, we can go to the Natural Energy Laboratory in Kona. Photon has a branch there with an identical laboratory."

"You fucking moron, I'm not taking you because I need you; you're coming because you're under arrest. What little competence you do have may be useful in locating Dr. Evans and the photographer."

Craig calculated that there were only a handful of people who know about this and that, unfortunately, he could not kill Jarrard. He would take him into custody until he could drop him in a secure holding cell. Until then, he'd never be more than two steps behind him.

"Now tell me about the Energy Lab; as fate may have it, we are headed to Kona now. Oh, and you did do one good thing today. We'll be using your image composite of El Sharrad again, but this time a little more creatively."

Chapter 37

"Try Sally again," demanded Daniel. "Where ever she is, I need to speak to her right away. She's upset, but I don't understand why." Daniel paced back and forth in his penthouse suite at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu.

"We have valid reasons to bring the ungodly experiments of Photon and the government to light," he argued to himself, out loud. "As servants of the Lord we have to abide by what is right and what is wrong. Sally should know God holds no secrets, and there are no secrets we can hold from God. It is not our part to play in the creation of life!"

Already the press was calling for an interview and the lobby downstairs was mobbed. He turned to his assistant and between clenched teeth said, "Again I said, I'm not speaking to the gang of pariahs until I comfort my poor dear Sally! Find her please and get her on the phone. If you don't, you'll be unemployed by morning."

A knock at the suite entrance interrupted Daniel and he shrieked, "I told the hotel manager, no one from the press on our floor! Send them away!"

"Reverend, it's not the press. They say they have official business. I think you should see them; they're armed," urged Daniel's assistant.

"Find out what they want. I don't care if they brought bazookas; I'm in the middle of something."

"Reverend Daniel its Hawaii Five-O and the FBI. They will only speak to you. It has to do with _Salvation II_ and a shooting."

Daniel spun around. _Sally was on Salvation!_ "Tell them to come right in."

When they entered it was the FBI who wanted to talk. Five-O was only accompanying them. There were also two representatives from Homeland Security. Daniels concern and impatience became apparent, but as protocol dictated, they showed their identification in succession before talking.

"I believe who you are!" Daniel exploded. "Is Sally Evans okay? Was she onboard when the shooting took place?"

"No, we don't think Dr. Sally Evans was not onboard when the incident occurred, but we haven't been able to locate her to confirm. Do you have any idea of her current whereabouts? We need to ask her some questions." The Special Agent in Charge, quick to reassure Daniel even before starting the interview, said, "We were aware from witness descriptions Dr. Evans had been onboard as recently as last night but the only evidence suggesting she may have been there when the attack happened..."

"Salvation was attacked?" Daniel exclaimed.

"Yes, your vessel was attacked, all crew members killed, but please let me finish," the agent said. "The only evidence she was there was a cabin with an unmade bed where we think she may have been sleeping."

"Yes, that would have been in the stateroom next to my cabin, on the second deck," Daniel added.

"No, sir, this cabin was on the third deck. The stateroom you mentioned was undisturbed. We also found women's clothing with blood on in the adjacent cabin but haven't confirmed whose blood or clothing it was. The lab is working on that now." The agent paused before going on. "There was something else in the cabin where the attack went down. There was a dog, an Australian Sheppard that was shot and killed, but we found him in the bed positioned as though he was sleeping. What can you tell me about the dog, if anything?"

_Sally was there_ , Daniel thought. He knew Sally was the only one who would have been onboard and shown such caring for a dog. And if she had placed the dog in the bed, it meant she had been onboard last night. Daniel wasn't ready to tell the agents this just yet.

"Reverend, Dr. Evans may have been there when the shooting started, which would explain the dog in the bed, but it doesn't explain how she got away. These were pros and from what we understand, Dr. Evans is a research scientist with no military training." Then the agent asked, "Daniel is it true you two are dating, actually engaged to be married? And if you are, why don't you know where she is? We find that a little strange."

"I've been trying to find Sally, I mean Dr. Evans all day, ask my staff, but have been unable to find her. You see, we had a little disagreement," Daniel added.

"Well sir, it is your vessel, so let me provide a detailed account of what happened last night." The agent then walked him through the assault and ensuing gun battle in which both his first and second mates were murdered, as well as the chef who they found on the bridge, which was also odd. After forty-five minutes, they still had more questions. "Reverend your dingy, or the boat you use to transport people to your yacht, was found tied at the dock. There was another boat, a kayak which was adrift. Up to now we don't know if there was anyone else but the two assailants but we're pretty sure it was how they got out to _Salvation_. There was one other casualty. Reverend, did you have any other security posted on shore in a van in the parking lot?"

Daniel shook his head, bewildered and unable to speak.

"He was shot from behind and we are certain he is a security professional, but we found no ID on him."

"No, we've never placed anyone onshore as security. The only three who would have been on _Salvation_ would have been the men who were killed. And Sally too, if she was there at all," Daniel answered.

"One more question sir, and think hard about this. We identified the first and second mates. They were in our system, oh, and some intel databases too. They were former operators, assassins. Tell me Reverend, why do you have hired killers guarding you and your yacht?"

"Do you have any idea how many crazy left-wingers want to kill me?" he said in disbelief to the agents in the room. "Don't you watch my show? We are the true believers, the chosen sons of God. Only my Flock will rise to the right hand of the Father. It shouldn't be too difficult for your men to understand how the sinners around us seek revenge and retaliation, rather than the truth. Their desperation will send them to hell!"

"Well, Reverend, we have reason to believe the two attackers have ties to a terrorist cell in Northern California which has been dormant for years, but may obviously have gone hot for reasons we must take seriously for national security reasons. From intel we have gathered, we believe they may have been after Dr. Evans, not you, a TV preacher. Other than to visit you and to conduct a lecture at the University, do you know if Dr. Evans was in Hawaii for any other personal or family matters?"

"First of all, I'm an ordained Minister, not a _TV preacher_. Media is my most effective means to speak to my congregation, so please refer to me at all times as Reverend. And yes, Sally was here for a funeral service."

"Sure, we've learned that already," the agent went on, "but she has also moved around some of the other islands including a trip to a remote location on the north shore of the Big Island. This was about a week ago, about the time you came over to. Is it just a coincidence?"

"Purely a coincidence, Sally had told me she was flying over for Photon business and a visit to an old colleague to clarify something about her research project," Daniel answered.

"In any case Preacher, oh, excuse me, Reverend, we feel her trip to her past associate may have something to do with why she was targeted...again, if she was even there when they stormed your boat."

"It's a yacht," Daniel stated, "and is this interview quite through?"

"Not quite, but soon and of course it's a yaachht'" the agent purposely slurred.

"Why would Sally be of interest to terrorists?" Daniel asked.

"Sir, we reviewed your preaching show from last night. You said it yourself, Photon Corporation is on to something in the field of creation science – the same type of work Dr. Evans does for Photon. If what you accused Photon of creating is true, it's a fairly safe bet the bad guys might also want to bring some pals back from the dead don't you think?"

Daniel quieted, and then began to orate as if onstage, "So the devil is raised and the evil we dread begins; spawned from the blasphemous scientific distortion of God's wishes! These scientists, they feel their research is above the will of God! I have interviewed renowned scientists, prominent experts in their fields, and they make excuses. They say, If God did not want us to do our research and promote advancements in the scientific community, then why did he gift us with the skills and knowledge? And I will always answer, God gave us a tongue, and the ability to pray, or the option to sin and use his name in vain. He has given us free will to either follow his commandments or suffer in the everlasting eternity of hell!"

Daniel's emotions began to get the best of him as he strode around the agents, his voice rising, now raising his hands to heaven. "When can I gain access to _Salvation_? We have a retreat planned while here in Hawaii but will have to cancel. Instead I will call a council of ministers to be held immediately. I will need my yacht."

_Man this guy is cold_ , the FBI agent thought, noting that he didn't ask once about the family members of the deceased or if any of them suffered.

"Reverend, your boat," the agent said to piss Daniel off, "is a crime scene and under the jurisdiction of the Department of Homeland Security. It will be weeks before you will be allowed onboard. If there are any personal items you need, send me a list," he said as he handed Daniel a business card, "and we will see if they can be removed."

"No, thank you. But I, too, am trying to find Sally. Can you help me? We are engaged, and I think she is very upset with me."

_Again, this guy only cares about himself_. "Reverend Daniels, we are doing everything we can as Dr. Sally Evans may be our only live witness. We will stay in touch and let you know the minute we bring her into custody."

One of the DHS agents interrupted, "In the meantime Reverend, you are to refrain from discussing this matter with anyone, including your staff, or even bringing up Photon Corporation in any live or broadcast addresses to one, ten or any number of your congregation until we say otherwise. If you do, you will be immediately taken into custody and prosecuted under the Patriot Act."

The senior FBI agent chimed in, "Reverend, let me summarize for you in a way you might better understand. If they were trying to kill you, you'd be dead already. And it's the same for Dr. Evans. There good at killing, not capturing, so it's apparent they wanted her alive. The cabin as riddled with bullets and these are the types of guys who don't miss. So try not to get in their way or tick them off."

And with that warning they excused themselves and left the suite.

Daniel called his staff into the living room and said, "Get the press in here. It should be easy as they're all downstairs." Defiantly, Daniel muttered to himself, "No one is going to speak to me like that. I only answer to one higher power!"

Turning to the wide-eyed staff members, he dictated, "It's time for a press conference to announce my summit. We will gather and pray for the strength and means to stop the heretics who hide behind science in their attempts to normalize technologically-assisted human reproduction. Find a suitable location here on the islands to host a conference. Invite all clerics of all faiths to join us here to undertake and deliver God's will, and tell the press to be ready in one hour, we're going live!"

The staff scattered to pull everything together; they had only fifty minutes to write a speech, find a conference location, and select the ministry who would be included. Daniel said "all faiths" but they knew it only included Christian-based faiths. Thirty minutes later, the furniture had been moved and enough chairs were brought to seat forty or more press representatives. Two network and three cable channels had live-streaming video links up and over their satellites and linked to their newsrooms stateside. The seats were filled with standing-room only as Daniel entered from the master suite.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice. We understand you have been waiting downstairs to ask follow-up questions after my interview last night. Well, we have much more to tell you so we are pleased you could join us here." Daniel turned robotically side-to-side, allowing the photographers to take photos and so viewers at home would feel he was speaking directly to them.

"At the end of this press conference we will hand out copies of the announcement I am about to make. We have already circulated the press release which includes what I am about to reveal." Daniel paused again, and before he spoke the next words, a banner ran across the lower screens of all major news networks throughout the country: _News Alert: Digital Cloning of Humans Underway at Photon Corp; Religious Groups Vow to Stop Research_.

Major Craig was alone in Photon's employee lunchroom when he heard Photon mentioned on the cable news program playing on the monitor over the refrigerator. He turned his attention to screen and as the banner scrolled slowly across it, he read the headline along with blurbs citing Daniel's statement.

"Shit!" he said and he went back to drinking his coffee.

Sally had her cab stop at a market along the way so she could pick up some personal items she left behind on _Salvation II_ , and to buy two more burner phones. While paying in cash, she looked up at the TV behind the cashier and saw the banner running underneath Daniel standing in his suite in front of dozens of reporters. She took her change, turned towards the door and swore, "Shit."

The FBI had left the building but the Homeland Security agents hadn't eaten all day, so the lead agent, who had warned Daniel to remain quiet less than an hour ago, suggested they have dinner. "On me, you guys have worked your asses of today."

They stepped into the lobby restaurant, and were seated and presented with menus. "Beers all around, we've a tough day," the agent said to the waiter. "Have any of you eaten anything all day? I know I haven't."

He then noticed something out of place. "Hey, check it out, where has the media gone?"

As they all turned to look, the lead agent glanced at the banner running under a _News Alert_ on the TV above the bar. Before he finished reading the banner, the screen filled with the Reverend's arms raised high as he began to speak.

The agent choked on his first sip of a well-earned draft and said "Shit," spilling it all over his new tie. "Damn it, knew that guy was wormy and couldn't be trusted! Sorry guys, refreshments and dinner will have to wait. Up to the penthouse, now! We have to shut him up before all hell breaks break loose!"

Daniel looked over his audience and felt powerful. He opened his announcement by saying, "To my beloved congregation, God-fearing faithful the world over, and to the members of the media present here today; I would like to begin by asking you a question. Did you know that Dolly, the world's first cloned sheep, was discarded about 200 times before one even survived? Did you know that more than 98% of clones are either malformed, stillborn, or die immediately after birth? Did you know that, although they appear normal, most clones have congenital defects such as premature aging?"

He took a moment to relish the attention and continued, "Cloning is a cruel and unsafe experiment, and any attempt at human cloning would constitute an unethical experimentation upon the unborn child. We, as Christians, have been adamantly against cloning since the possibility was first presented. We Christians, as should the remaining inhabitants of our planet, should consider human cloning as primarily reproductive in nature, and in direct contradiction and in violation of God's will. We acknowledge the reason for this violation being rooted in our religiously-founded beliefs that human cloning is an example of scientists _playing God_. Additionally, we Christians are deeply worried about the appalling lack of concern for the dignity of the human person, as well as the role of the parents as co-creators. Cloning is simply forbidden territory."

Pausing to drink from bottled water, Daniel then continued, "At its very worst, cloning created an animal or potentially a human void of history or prior consciousness so while it should be stopped at all human levels, once more, it only reproduced the body of the creature."

Daniel raised his arms once more, this time palms forward, and projected his voice. "What I say should cause us to quake and pray right where we stand. To ask for God's strength to halt Photon Corporation and all who assist them. Today, government sources came and confided with me, confirming what I shared with you last night on our show. Photon has already reproduced humans in their lab! They call these abominations _replicants_ , as the formally-deceased individuals are actually brought back from the dead. And unlike cloning, which copies the body only, Photon replicates the poor being's body, soul, mind, memories and consciousness. An exact replica of their essence as it exists here on God's earth!"

As these words left Daniel's mouth, the suite's main door burst open. Armed DHS and FBI agents storming the room, and dashed towards Daniel while cutting the cable feeds for the news channels. The broadcast went silent, but not before Daniel uttered this last request: "Federal agencies are enlisting us all to help stop this sacrilegious experimentation. We ask for your support through your tax deductible contributions to my ministries in the fight against Photon Corporation!

"Reverend Daniel, you're under arrest; everyone clear the room!" the lead agent pronounced and Daniel, along with his staff, was handcuffed face-down on the plush carpeting.

Chapter 38

From the small apartment beneath Sameer's home where he stayed, Murad waited for word from the two he had dispatched from a Canadian-based Castle Pizza store in Vancouver to capture Dr. Evans. The only clue to their failure was from the article he read in the San Francisco Chronicle. It lacked specific details but told of a yacht belonging to a Christian minister that was attacked in the early morning hours the day before while in port in Kona. Six were confirmed dead and they went on to say three were crew members and three others were still unidentified.

If there were three onboard, and then my two men, then who was the other killed? Murad wondered. The article mentioned the minister's name but unluckily, as he was away on business, he was not one of those killed. So without communications from his team along with the article he just read, Murad could only assume they were included in the casualties.

Murad turned on the television to see if he could learn more and caught the tail end of a recent update on the attack. The reporter said all victims were male, and one dog was killed as well. As there was no mention of a woman in any of the reports, he concluded Dr. Evans had eluded them or not been on the yacht in the first place. He had tracked her to Hawaii when their inside person at Apple provided them with Dr. Evans' GPS coordinates as she moved from island to island. Another case of how stupid these Americans can be. They do everything for commerce, marketing and profit. Apple's welcoming attitude towards international employees allowed them to easily place one of their brighter faithful from Pakistan in the sensitive data-collection department of Apple. Having her inside had been one of their most successful infiltration efforts.

People who carry cell phones, which today is just about everyone, continually download dozens of apps with a real-time GPS data feature that gives the app developer the ability to track spending and travel habits. Normally everyone forgets to turn off the phone's GPS location tracking device, so millions upon millions of citizens have their movements tracked and sold to companies who want the information. Apple provides this info anonymously, but their inside source has devised a way to attach a cell number to a location. Where Sameer had failed, Murad succeeded.

Murad listened as the reporter went on to say, "Three crew members of the yacht _Salvation_ II, owned by Reverend Daniel Gibbons of MCN, were shot to death, along with two assailants of mid-eastern descent who Homeland Security say may have ties to a terrorist cell in Northern California. While officials from the FBI haven't confirmed it yet, our sources close to the investigation tell us they were likely tied to a terrorist sleeper cell based out of a college pizza parlor near the University of Berkley. One of the assailants wore a Castle Pizza T-shirt under his body armor."

Murad was stunned. How he could have worn the very shirt he ridiculed upon his arrival? The reporter added, "One eye witness spotted the logo of the popular pizza chain as they wheeled his body from the dock to a medical examiner's vehicle."

"It is time to leave this behind," he said to Sameer. "We need change our identity to leave your home this moment, never to return. We cannot take weapons as we must travel by commercial airline to Hawaii. We must succeed where they have failed!"

"But Murad what will become of the attack on the arena, the death of thousands of non-believers, as we've hoped for every moment of our lives? Can we not issue the order to detonate," Sameer asked.

"Sameer, as the Americans will always have football, we have time. If we do not bomb the stadium now, we will do it next year. The explosives are safe and will keep for a very long time. Murad answered.

"Then once we leave here, where will we go?" Sameer asked. "Murad, I am loyal to Allah, and to you, but I have found a home here."

Sameer you will find your place in heaven; your faith will be fulfilled by your love of our savior Mohammed," Murad assured Sameer with fragile conviction. But as he had seen the wave of disappointment come over Sameer's face when he learned he must give up his fraudulent life in America, he thought Sameer to be a coward. And just as sure as Murad would now spread Islam by the sword, he vowed Sameer would soon die.

"Do you think we can get through airport security with our fallback identifications, especially because of the news report?" Sameer asked.

"We will find a way around it. Have you prepared your home for destruction as instructed?" Murad asked of Sameer.

"Yes, but can we wait? I have already sent my family away but want to bring some of the things I cherish with me. My wife had no time to collect our family photographs."

"Go ahead, but we have less than an hour; the agents are probably at the pizza restaurant already."

Sameer took the elevator up to the third floor where his home office and their bedroom were located. "I will be down in twenty minutes, thank you Murad."

Murad went into the garage and started the car Sameer kept hidden for times like this. Its Nevada plates were registered to a man who passed away two years ago and would take him to the airport undetected.

As the car warmed up in the driveway, Murad returned to the garage. He went to the back panel on one of two water heaters — only one was an actual heater, but the home was so large no one would question the need for two. Unscrewing the panel, he placed it on the ground and reached his hand inside the tank, feeling for a series of switches, each connected to a detonation device in the primary rooms of the house, including Sameer's office. With Sameer only gone for five minutes out of the twenty he estimated he'd take, Murad activated all of the six detonators. Each would go off in exactly four minutes, enough time for him to get into the car and be at least a mile from the house when they set off the charges.

And that is what he did.

Chapter 39

Ben worked intently on the laser which crashed on its side during the final minutes of deluge that rocked his lab. Shawn had been helping him but stopped when Sally drove up.

Sally was distraught. She shook as she explained her ordeal earlier that morning. "Shawn, I don't know what they wanted, it was terrifying! And I can't even speak of what they did to Frisco. The poor sweet thing," and Sally burst again into tears.

Ben had meanwhile brought the generators back online after changing out the circuit breakers and then checked the internet news to see if there were any developments on the attack on _Salvation II_. He then went into the house to check on Drake, who he found sleeping, and then brought back something to help Sally calm down.

"Here, take this, it won't knock you out but it will calm your nerves." And he handed Sally a paste of sorts spread onto a cracker. "A special blend of the kava root and some natural herbs in a mixture some Indians use to relax." Sally welcomed anything to stop her shaking and chased it with a small glass of water.

"Thank you, I can't seem to pull myself together. My whole world seems to be crumbling!" Sally said as she stretched out and laid her head on Shawn's lap to rest.

The entire time, Shawn and Ben had exchanged uneasy glances meaning, when should they introduce her to Drake? They both understood Sally was still in a state of shock and as crazy as it seemed, the fact they had brought Drake back must have slipped her mind. Not difficult to understand after all the violence and Frisco getting shot.

"Sally, rest, it must have been horrible," Shawn said, as the reality of Frisco's death set in. "Do you think he suffered?"

"Shawn, Frisco saved me, he stopped the guy from killing me first. Frisco bit down on his arm and never let go. I think he went quickly, oh God, they hit him so many times!" She sobbed again, "But Shawn, he died protecting me and I think he was, ah...happy is not the right word. I think he was content."

_Now was a good a time as any_ , Shawn thought as he stroked Sally's hair "Sally," he started cautiously, "we may be able to do something, I mean, you know the hologram with Drake? Well, we did it. Drake is inside sleeping. We can do it again, but to bring Frisco back. You're not going to believe it. Drake doesn't even know he was dead, thinks he was knocked out. Ben and I have been working on further improvements with the process"

Shawn braced for a response, but Sally was already asleep.

Ben looked again at Shawn, once more singular in thought. If they could bring Drake back for Shawn, they could bring Frisco back for them all.

The news anchor on TV suddenly broke it: "GNN Alert: Earlier today Reverend Daniel Gibbons announced he had uncovered secret research to bring people back from the dead using pictures! We now have the press conference as recorded earlier from Honolulu!" Daniel was introduced by a local Hawaiian reporter.

"Shit!" Ben and Shawn said together.

"Ben, turn it off before Sally wakes up and sees it again. Bad enough she got engaged to a shithead, but to actually learn the shithead is an asshole, that's gotta hurt." Shawn laughed; glad to have the phony out of Sally's life, out of his life, once and for all.

Sally raised her head for a moment and said, "And I thought I knew the man! He is totally into his religion, his fundraising and himself. I could never trust him again." And Sally put her head back on his lap.

Shawn waited a few moments, than asked Ben, "Can you turn this crap off? I think she went back to sleep, but if she wakes up, it's just going to upset her more."

Ben obliged, and then excused himself to take care of a few things inside the house with a wink to Shawn. With Sally resting so comfortably, now would not be a good time to have Drake walk in the door.

Shawn whispered to Sally, thinking she couldn't hear him, "Sally, he wasn't for you, kind of knew it the second I laid eyes on him."

Sally shifted and slowly turned to face Shawn. She had been awake after all. "I tried to convince myself he would be good for me. His faith, the respect he treated me with, both were so comforting. And with his kind of resources, we saw each other often. But Shawn..." Sally sat upright and looked deeply into Shawn's eyes. "Shawn, all this time, even after all this time away from each other, every morning you were the first person I prayed for and every night, the last person I thought of. I spent hours every day coming up with little gifts to send you, notes to write to you, how I could help or reach you in some way. I love you because you ask nothing of me. I love your spirit and how you make me feel!"

Shawn was floored; he had always felt the same way.

"Sally, I know, it's the same for me. I've never been able to tell you, I mean, the way I wanted to. It's why I clown around so much, you know, joke with you. I never wanted to get in your way, you're so smart and your career is so much a part of your life. I have always loved you, never stopped!"

They came together, holding each other as if today was forever and no one would ever come between them.

"Shawn look where my studies and research have taken me. I will go wherever you go. I want to spend each and every moment at your side.

Ben chose that moment to come back into the lab. "Whoa, check it out. What the hell do you think this is, a free-love zone? C'mon, keep your clothes on. Thank goodness you both finally came to your senses. I'm not even the romantic type, and I've known all along you are meant to be together. Shawn, get your paws off my intern. Now Sally, how you feeling?"

"I'm better thanks, actually much, better," and she looked to Shawn.

"Good, get up, need you both. Sally, do you think you can help us with a little surprise?"

"Sure, what can I do, what is it?" Sally said as she stood.

"Well, Shawn and I have found we work pretty well together. His gift of light is his _ying_ to my _yang_. It is terrible about Frisco, but we may be able to do something."

Shawn came over to them both. "Sally, I've taken hundreds if not thousands of images of Frisco, and Ben and I strongly believe we can bring him back. And before you say no, even though Frisco acts like a human most of the times, he is still a dog. So we really aren't breaking any ethical rules of science or faith, right? Sally, this is worth a shot, we love the little guy!"

"Shawn, you mean you both think you can actually do this?"

"Do it? We already did it with Drake. Each time we make substantial refinements, so Frisco should be a snap." And Shawn once more looked quickly at Ben. "And as much as we love the tidy biscuit of a Frisco pup, it is certainly worth a try."

"Well, I have worked with cloning animals in the past, and the end result is similar even though the science is vastly different. Yes, I will assist — God, if only to see my little Frisco again!"

"And with all this gloom hanging over all three of you because of a little dog," Ben added, "we're obligated to help the little guy make the leap from his other dimension. Okay, here's what you need to do." And Ben guided Sally through a few of the steps she could perform.

Shawn and Ben had already discussed creating a duplicate Frisco so Shawn could have one too and Shawn had been busy building the composite file. After their success with Drake, every adjustment made the process simpler and less dangerous. Ben had suggested and Shawn agreed he should crop the images more closely around the subject, or Frisco in this instance, and that he should reduce the amount of superfluous matter — like the thousands of gallons of water which appeared with Drake when he cascaded into the lab, so Shawn tightened up the _Frisco-specific_ images he needed to replicate (as they had come to call it) the beloved Aussie once again.

Frisk was ready to be _energized_ , as they said, and they all hoped Ben's calculations (hundreds of them) based on past trial and error would eliminate the new Frisco's violent entrance in to this world.

"Shawn, Sally, are you both ready?" Ben double-checked.

Ben aimed the re-rigged laser at the almost-mature hologram of Frisco barking and moving from within. Sally was astounded by the reality of what has been created.

All three lowered their protective eye wear. Ben nodded to Shawn, and raised his hand, saying, "Okay, Shawn, let's go, hit it!" Shawn flipped up the circuit switches as Ben fired the laser directly into Frisco. Sally gasped.

As before with Drake, the red beam penetrated the glass panel and traces of smoke rose from the near and far side of the platform. The air off the end of the laser beam and within the hologram began to ripple. Frisco shook like he just bathed and moved on his very own. Ben cut the laser at the precise moment Shawn cut down the power. As the air became more agitated, the hologram faded slightly into swirling light and noise then Frisco reformed again. They watched and waited; seconds were like minutes.

Then the hologram — the transformation they worked so hard to achieve — released a small _Pop_ instead of the violent impacts from before, and all electronic noise ceased.

As difficult as it was to believe, standing in front of them as if he never left was Frisco, a bit puzzled but happy true to form. Frisco blinked a few times like he had awakened from a Frisco-power-nap, spotted Sally, and made a beeline into her arms. As he crossed the lab, little bits of green grass fell from his fur. Then, from out of the blue, a yellow tennis ball bounced off the platform and rolled under Ben's desk.

Ben and Shawn were still in awe and little did the world know that the future destiny of the human race and all living beings was evolving in Ben's humble lab.

Frisco looked side-to-side, and then he seemed to smile. Still a little confused and unsure of his footing, he staggered until Sally said, "C'mere Biscuit, let me give you another hug," which sent him running, tail-wagging and whimpering with joy.

"Frisco, you are such a good, good dog!" Sally exclaimed with joy, as he massacred her with his tongue.

"Yeah, and I'm so happy to see you too my little Frisco buddy!" shouted Drake as he stepped into the lab, still rubbing his eyes. "Gee Doc, what the hell you give me? Feel like I slept my life away!"

At the sound of his voice, Sally flipped around, Frisco still in her arms, and rested her eyes on Drake, standing before her as alive as he ever was.

"God Lord in heaven save us! Shawn and Ben, what have you done?" and as her words poured out, gunfire erupted outside the lab.

Chapter 40

Containment was compromised and from this point on, no matter how well Craig maintained his discipline or prepared, there were too many moving parts outside his control to keep this mission within his field of play. And the operation directive kept shifting with each new event: first El Sharrad's suicide, than the TV minister calling press conferences about Sentient's new possibilities, and finally the emergence of an activated terrorist unit who may be privy to most if not all of Craig's information. He also suspected this was the cell which took on the El Sharrad roll to initiate the stadium bombing... but where? _Shit, ministers, scientists, surfers and photographers, I miss the days when my target was a simple Syrian politician with a security detail._ But he was in the game, and he knew the game had to be played to conclusion... on his terms.

Craig knew most of the players and would now force his opponents to move faster. When they pressured, people will generally make mistakes, usually to his advantage. _Was there anyone out there he was missing_ , he wondered? They had found the cell leader, who was also the owner of the Castle Pizza near Photon, burned to death in his home and all other employees were dust in the wind. And who activated the terrorist cell from British Columbia?

Normally, if he used forceful interrogation methods on a few, or took out one or two, some uncertainties would dissolve. But he couldn't very well shoot a preacher and if he squeezed Jarrard he was afraid more frivolous bullshit would spill out. Sally was out of the question, he reasoned. He was fond of her, and it even disturbed him to threaten her yesterday. The stirring of his conscience was an unfamiliar feeling to him. One thing for sure, whatever the outcome, the convergence of the forces in play would be in the Hawaiian Islands.

With Professor Jarrard in tow, they head for the Energy Lab near Kona along the coast of the Big Island. Craig had requisitioned a G5 Gulfstream jet from the Special Agent in Charge of FBI Sacramento's field office, who had it sent down to Oakland International. Once they were onboard, an Agency helicopter had shuttled up to meet the jet. Craig sent a number of encrypted messages and made arrangements for a black-ops team to join him upon arrival in Kona. He and his agents were treated to a catered meal compliments of the station chief, with a few morsels spared for Jarrard. Craig then shut the door to the sleeping compartment, leaving Jarrard under close guard in the main cabin. He didn't think Jarrard would or could hurt anyone, but hell, he thought, Jarrard was loose as a goose and its guys like him who end up shooting up public places.

The Gulfstream touched down within minutes of the Hawaiian Air flight Murad was on. If Craig had gone through the terminal rather than bypass airport facilities, he might have seen Murad outside at arrivals waiting for the Hawaiian cell members to pick him up. He never forgot a face and he would have recognized Murad, who he knew to be one of the most notorious and cunning al-Qaeda operatives. Rather, two glistening Ford Excursions drove up to the hanger. One agent accompanied Jarrard and headed to the Energy Lab. Craig and the other agent headed up to meet a tactical assault team about a ten-minute drive out, on the way to Dr. Campbell's property. Langley had used Sally's cell phone history to triangulate her exact location on the North Shore a few days ago and Craig guessed this was the location of Ben's secluded retreat. If his unknown adversary was talented enough to find Sally at the Reverend's yacht, he would also be able to find Campbell's place.

They saw the SWAT vehicle ahead at the predetermined meeting point and as they parked next to it, the driver hung his head out the window. "Major, all set. All the gear you requested is in the back."

Craig got out and joined the agent behind his truck. All the cartridge belts containing ammunition had an extra holster added to hold a Taser. "Guess you intend to keep the weapons fire to a minimum, sir?"

"Affirmative, our destination will likely host all friendlies. Keep the Tasers up front and your guns holstered. If they give us a hard time, we'll knock them out. But unless I say so, under no circumstances are we to harm them."

"Yes sir, but suggest you and your man do what we do. Be prepared; have your side arms fully-loaded and available. Lots of pot farmers up in that valley and they'll think nothing of taking out the whole lot of us," the agent warned. "These North Shore druggies are more dangerous than the Taliban, sir."

"Got it, do you guys have any questions?" Craig asked the men listening in the front of the truck. "It should be two, possibly three men and one woman. They are non-violent types, but I'm unsure what kind of security the owner of the property has around the perimeter. His name is Ben Campbell."

One of the men came back, "Sir, I've heard about his place. Weird shit goes on around his land. Some of the potheads we take in say they've seen lions or other animals which we don't have in Hawaii. We typically write it off to too much crack or PCP." And the others laughed.

"Dr. Campbell is a genius and we can't predict what he's got up there. Is everyone good?" Craig finished.

They all gave thumbs-up from their seats. "Craig sir, follow we should be four hundred kilometers from the limits of his property line by 13:15 hours. Sir, have you had any sleep lately, looks like you could use some. You've got half an hour; we've got you covered. Get a little shut-eye on the drive up."

Craig thanked the young officer and knew he was right. Sleeping fifteen minutes here or there was okay for a day or two, but he had been awake all but maybe seven hours in the past week. Even on today's flight in a comfortable bed Craig didn't sleep well. He couldn't stop thinking something was out of place. Who was he up against? He dozed off again and woke when they turned onto the double-tracked road to Ben's. He checked his watch and asked his driver, "How much time?"

"Sir, twelve minutes but these are big trucks not meant for this road. It will be an easy climb but we ain't gonna have any paint on the side of these vehicles by the time we get up there. Then we'll pull off into the cane field and make the rest on foot."

They heard the agent in the truck ahead radio back, "Guys, suit up, get ready for game time. We're there in five."

Minutes later, they pushed open their doors against the sugar cane and proceeding single-file in the direction of Ben's home. The senior agent took the lead, and then Craig and the rest followed.

"Sir, you hear that?" the lead agent asked Craig, putting his hand up and bringing them all to a halt. "It sounded like an animal roar. Wonder if he does have a lion? Not sure how he'd pull that off. Considering the way Hawaii fiercely protects its indigenous species, there's no way he could sneak in a lion cub."

One of the other men suggested, "Maybe it's a wild boar. The islands are covered with them; they feast on natural island plants." The men talked casually about hunting boar as they hiked towards their target. "Sir, each year they have a Wounded Warrior Boar Hunt to try and thin them out. We donate the meat to food kitchens and needy families. It's always great to get the vets out with their brothers for a few days of shoot'em up." "I even heard the tree-huggers are good with it. Guess they love the flowers more than the beasts."

"I took a boar down last October, over four hundred and thirty-two pounds, mean as shit," another added, "and it made a roar something like what we just heard. Suggest we take our take our safeties off, sir. If it sees us before we see it, it could do a lot of damage with those tusks."

"Makes sense, roger that. Let's be alert. This is supposed to be a surprise advance and we want to keep it as quiet as possible. Let's go, let's spread out now." And they moved in with eight to ten feet between them.

They came to a small clearing, just a few feet wide, and this time they all heard the roar. "Sir, not a boar, they don't go on and on like that and definitely not as loud. Sir, I grew up in Nome. You're not going to believe me, but I swear it sounds like a grizzly."

Craig ordered, "If it's a grizzly then it's a fucking grizzly. Be ready. This man is off-kilter and we have no way of knowing how he keeps intruders away.

After one more all-around check of guns and Tasers, they moved forward and came to the edge of their cover.

"No fucking way!" agent one said as he held his gaze on the snarling bear that claimed the space between the house and the rear building. "I mean no fucking way, it's an Alaskan grizzly, sir! How the hell did he get that thing to Hawaii? I thought I've seen every scenario during training, but in all my years in the field, I have never had to take down a bear to attain an objective. What are your orders Major?"

Craig had to admit; this was a first for him too. "We can try the Taser, but not sure what it will do to a bear and we can't have any of us getting mauled. Tasers are calibrated to knock out a man up to three hundred and fifty pounds. This beast must be twice that. The grizzly was a towering twelve feet tall and at this size would be more than twelve hundred pissed-off pounds.

Craig brought them together, "Okay, we have to deal with three variables. To deal with the bear, use live fire. The bear will make it impossible to approach and if we Taser it, we will make it madder. So put silencers on, we don't want to alert those inside. If we have to kill it, so be it. Next, there are two buildings and we're not sure which one they're in. After we've dealt with the grizzly, switch to Tasers. We will break into two parts. You two head with me to the rear building and you others deal with the bear. Then head to the house. The third unknown is always a possibility. We don't know if anyone else is watching and with 360-degrees of cover, once we break out, we could take fire. We will circle around to the opposite side; give us ten minutes. Check your times, on my go. And remember, (he couldn't believe he was saying this) make sure you take out the grizzly. I don't want my head bit off from behind. Make him dead!"

"Yes, sir," they replied, and split up to implement the plan.

Minutes later, Craig gave the signal and they came in fast. The two assigned to the grizzly moved out of the field in a crouch, weapons drawn and spread apart at an angle to distract the bear and hopefully confuse him. But the bear stood its ground and didn't charge as they expected, so once within range, they both opened fire emptying their clips into the grizzly's head and chest. But he didn't drop; they didn't even see blood where the bullets struck, so they reloaded and went for his legs to knock them out from under him.

"Major, sir, we're laying into the bear, but it's not doing a thing. We've each gone through two clips but can't kill him. We're about to reload and go again!"

Craig had come up beside the lab and was about to bust down the entrance when he heard the call, but before he could respond, the door flew open and Ben Campbell flung himself out, shouting at the top of his lungs, "No, not Gretchen! Stop shooting!"

The agents attacking the bear had quickly locked in their third clip of sixteen rounds, firing again at this "Gretchen," completely unaware that she was a hologram. Her resolution was so rich and dense, she appeared as a thick, dangerous mass of bear flesh, and she obscured Ben Campbell as he rushed out from his lab.

Ben yelled again, and then went down. He grabbed his leg and took another round in his shoulder. Craig rushed in and dove on top of Ben using his body armor to prevent another hit.

"Cease fire, cease fire! That's an order, hold your fire!"

The gunfire had stopped. Gretchen still threatened two men, but Craig began to see beyond the image. "Walk around the bear, it's not real. Everyone in here, we need you now!" Craig came off Ben, leapt over him, and flipped him on to his back searching for a second entry point. The leg wound only grazed Ben, but a bullet wound to the torso was another matter altogether.

Shawn, Sally and Drake had been inside the lab listening to Ben, suggesting improvements in the replication process, when they heard the first shots. None of them were familiar with firearms and had any idea these were gunshots or how to react. Ben though had lived close to some pretty tough neighborhoods while a student at Harvard and knew gunfire when he heard it. With the first volley he was up and out the door, thinking some druggies trying to steal a generator had come upon Gretchen. "Stay inside and stay low. Have to stop these assholes from hitting the generators!"

Shawn was closest to the door and got up to see to see if he could help Ben. When he looked out, a wiry, dark-skinned assailant had knocked Ben to his knees, and then jammed Ben's face down into the dirt. Shawn could see Ben was hit and could see blood spreading across his shoulder and oozing out of a wound on his leg. When the shooting stopped, the little guy turned Ben over and tore open his shirt to search for his injury.

_This is no pot grower_ , Shawn surmised. "Sally, Drake, stay here, Ben needs us!" And they all ran out to help.

Shawn hit Ben with a full-body slam, knocking them both clear and away from Ben. Upon impact, Shawn thought, _This guy is a friggin' brick_.

Caught completely off-guard, Craig had no idea what hit him, but he knew it was an amateur, because if it was a pro, he would be unconscious or dead right now. He rolled through the collision with Shawn, came to his feet, reached for Shawn and put him in a stifling choke-hold. "So, you must be Mr. Pérez. Don't they teach photographers how to fight?"

Shawn struggled but it was of no use, each time he moved, the hold was tightened and a sharp pain ran down his spine. "Let me go you shit, what did you do to Ben?"

Through the little stars obscuring his vision, Shawn could see Sally and Drake now beside Ben. "Let me go, I'll kick the shit out of you! Why did you shoot Ben?"

The other agents began to assemble after slowly accepting the fact that Gretchen wasn't a threat, wasn't even real. Craig's man busted them, "You guys are going have a hard time living this down. You put over a hundred rounds into a hologram. Way to go guys! Major, need any help?" the man asked, and then got a laugh out of the embarrassed agents by pointing at Shawn and saying, "Sir, looks like that guy has you right where you want him."

"Sally came to her feet and said, "How can you people laugh? Our friend is hurt, you shot him. Major Craig, you're responsible for this."

But Craig had Shawn to deal with first. "Mr. Pérez, we can do this all day. Tell me when you're ready to calm down. Guys get to work on Mr. Campbell. One or both of you owes him an apology. You were supposed to kill the bear, not hit the scientist. The bullet that hit him in the shoulder passed completely through, and the leg is only grazed. Patch him up please. Lots of blood, but he'll be fine."

And he looked back down to Shawn squirming in the crook of his arm. "Mr. Pérez, can you stop for a moment, we are federal agents. If you stop threatening me, I'll let you go. We are here on business and do not mean to hurt any of you. We saw what we thought was a real grizzly bear. Can you understand?"

Shawn wasn't too happy about hanging up in the air, gasping for breath, so he decided the explanation seemed legit. After all, he thought Gretchen was real when he first saw her. Besides, he realized the odds were against him. Five highly-trained fighters against Ben on the ground, Sally who he loved, and Drake he had just brought back to live. "Sure, but only because you need to help Ben. You can let me go now." Craig smiled as Shawn tried to save face.

Ben was coming-to with little notion of what had happened. "What going on? Why am I bleeding? Who are you men and what are you doing here? Sally, Shawn are you all okay?"

He wanted to sit up but they told him to lie still until they were certain he wouldn't go into shock. One of the men had sprinted down and back from their truck with a field kit and they hooked an IV up to Ben to replace some of his fluids.

"Why were you firing at us?"

"Dr. Campbell, my name is Major Thomas Craig, and I'm a working associate of Dr. Evans here. We've come to bring Sally back with us. We need her assistance in a matter of national security." Craig and the other agent helped Ben to his feet. "Dr. Campbell, can we please bring you inside so you can sit down and we can clean you up? You will need to rest a bit in spite of the fact that neither of your wounds is life threatening. We can talk more when we are sure you are okay."

With that they helped Ben into the lab which still looked a mess, but at least the furniture was upright and most of the water was gone. They sat Ben in the only comfortable chair in the room, an old, tan leather recliner. Two of the agents continued to clean him up and monitor his pulse and blood pressure. He had struck his head when Craig covered him so he also had a white gauze bandage above his left eye.

Drake looked at Ben and said, "Hey Shawn, check it out. Ben looks like one of the dudes in the old George Washington paintings. Cool!"

"Dr. Campbell, let me begin with a question." Craig pointed to Drake but surveyed the crowd with his eyes. "I know you're Ben Campbell, you're Shawn Pérez, and Sally I know you. But who the hell are you?"

One of the younger agents answered first, "Sir, this doesn't make any sense at all. I don't think you know him but most of the planet does. He's Drake Powers, the world's best surfer. He's sponsored, or was, by Deep Surf."

"Agent, why wouldn't that make any sense? Mr. Pérez is a surf photographer, Mr. Powers a pro surfer. What's the issue?"

"Sir, Drake Powers is dead. He died in a big-wave accident a few days ago. Sir, I surf and I attended the memorial in Kauai. I watched Shawn give Drake's ashes to the sea."

"What the hell do you mean, he's dead? He's not dead, he's right here!" Craig insisted and then he stopped himself. "Holy shit, do you mean, no, you mean it's actually possible! Did you really do it?" He swung around towards Ben. "Do you mean you actually did it, this man was dead, and now he's right here in front of me?"

"Yes," Ben responded proudly. "Not only is Drake Powers here, but it is the SAME Drake Powers, body, mind, consciousness, and memories, all of him. It might take some time to explain it to you and all the physics involved."

"Keep going, I can keep up; just keep talking, how did you do it?" Craig insisted. Ben provided Craig with all he could absorb, which was certainly more than he expected from a federal agent. In the meantime, Frisco and Drake had gone outside to play with the tennis ball.

"So against all probability, but with theory and science on our side, with Sally's Sentient we have reached into the depth of a living being and not simply recorded its particle make-up, but captured the alternative outcome, as per Schrödinger's theory of a single particle existing in two places at the same time."

"Campbell, I've read all Schrödinger's theoretical research. I get it, but you did it!"

"It wasn't me, he did it," pointing to Shawn. "Compare it to giving paint brushes to a chimp and Michelangelo. I'm the chimp, Shawn is Michelangelo. Sally and my contributions are on the science and technology end. Shawn can see other dimensions."

Craig stopped for a moment to take it all in and noticed Frisco on Sally's lap. "Hey, wasn't that dog killed on the yacht? Do you mean you brought the animal back too? And, Sally, were you on the _Salvation_ when the attack took place? Never mind, we'll get into it later."

Ben answered crisply, "Well, that's Frisco. Yes, he was killed in the attack; you're correct, but you are not using the right term. We didn't bring Drake and Frisco back. He actually never left. We made a copy of the instances of Drake and Frisco that parted at the moment of death, like Schrödinger's cat, and replicated them here in our dimensions. "And we replicated Frisco moments before you shot me."

"You'll heal. Can you do it again?" Craig said to Ben and then ordered, "You, Pérez, get your surfer friend Drake ready; we're taking you with us when we leave with Dr. Evans."

Sally objected at once. "You can't take them, they have rights. And Shawn's a photographer, not a scientist!" She moved in between Shawn and Craig. "I'm the one you want, I designed the camera, I understand how it works," Sally insisted. "Don't bullshit me, Dr. Evans. You heard Campbell; it's because of Pérez it works. I've already seen what happens if it's done wrong. Your associate Jarrard replicated a mutant and that dimwit almost blew us to pieces trying to make it work. But he did tell us where to go. We're set up down at the Energy Lab now. And Mr. Powers is coming along so we can do some testing to see if he is what we really think he is. Don't worry, you can keep the dog!" Craig finished and sharply directed his men to escort Shawn and Drake to their vehicle. "And grab the laser and bring it with us. Ben detailed its importance when he laid out their process. And even if we don't get it right the first or second time, we'll just keep killing El Sharrad until we do".

Sally was furious, but still a bit loopy from the kava paste. "They have rights you know, you can't do this. I'm going to call the media and they'll be swarming all over you before you get to the coast!"

"Dr. Evans, I'd like to be there when you tell them that federal agents took a surf photographer and his dead surfer friend (oh, who isn't dead anymore) to a lab to bring back a dead terrorist so they can interrogate him and then kill him again. Very cute and fairly sure they will think you're a bit off. And I don't think you want them finding out any more about Drake then we do, so just stay put and out of the way. Thanks to Jarrard and your Reverend boyfriend Reverend, there are terrorists out there who know too much and are after your discovery. Can you imagine if it falls into the wrong hands and they just keep replicating the most dangerous terrorist scum this world has ever known? How many Osama bin Laden's to you want running around?"

Sally gave this some serious consideration.

Secretly Craig was glad he had Shawn instead of Sally. He didn't want her hurt; nonetheless, he continued to antagonize her. "Take care of your friend Campbell, and go play with the dog."

Sally's voice began to fade. "Daniel's not by boyfriend..."

But Drake cut her off. "Listen Swat shit, dip shit, no way am I going with you! I just got my life back and my Frisco too. You can pound sand asshole!"

"Looks like your gonna make this tough on yourself. Cuff this one!" Craig ordered.

The agent glanced at Craig, "Sir, you want me to handcuff Drake Powers, the world's best surfer?"

"I don't care who the hell he is, put him in handcuffs now!" Craig said again.

Sally ran up to Shawn, "Shawn, just do what he says, I'll make calls to people I know. Craig has no conscience, he'll hurt you and Drake if he thinks it will help his mission. But with what you know and who Drake is, he may want to keep you and Drake for other purposes. And Ben, he knows people too! Between us both, we'll think of a way to get you free."

"Sally, I'll be cool, don't want to be away from you another minute ever again. I'll do what he says and once I finish layering out this terrorist dude, he'll let me go. I'm just a photographer," Shawn assured Sally. "I agree with this Craig guy. The terrorists think you're the one they need, so if they found you once, and then Craig found you, they can probably find you again. Help Ben put up a couple of Gretchen's, they'll scare the shit out of anyone!"

"Shawn, I'm not so sure, and I'm frightened. Ben's hurt, and I've seen too much death already!"

The two agents now tried to move Sally away from Shawn, but before they did, Sally whispered, "Shawn, promise me please, if anything happens to me, do not try to replicate me? Please promise, I know it would break your heart, but please promise!"

"Sally, I promise," he said, as the agents pushed his head down into the back seat of an SUV and drove down the mountain. Frisco looked up at Sally, wondering where the ones they both loved had gone.

Chapter 41

Murad watched outside the airport until he saw the two Agency's two SUVs head out and travel north. One turned left down a long road, following a sign saying _Natural Energy Lab of Hawaii_ and pointing down the hill. The other SUV continued up the Queen Kaahumanu Highway. He decided to trail the second SUV, reasoning that the road down to the laboratory only went so far. _I'll come back once I know where this second vehicle is going._

Driving alone, he followed the SUV, noting the hundreds, no thousands, of messages on either side of the highway as they head north. Written in white stones against the bleak lava terrain were words of encouragement and names of loved ones: _Go Brian!, We love you Mary!,_ and _Don't stop till you drop Kerry!_

Messages like these went on for more than twenty miles until the SUV turned east on Kawaihae Road towards Waimea and the Kohala National Forest Reserve. After turning, the words along the highway disappeared and it was then he remembered: this was the island they ran that Ironman Race he had watched a few times on TV. The writing in coral were words of support from friends and family to the competitors who road their bikes for more than 100 miles in punishing winds and heat. Murad could use some inspiring words now himself. El Sharrad was dead, he was forced to kill the cell leader they had nurtured for many years, and until he met up with his cell members here, he was on his own trying to track down Dr. Evans.

Murad had picked up a disposable phone at the market outside the airport and called into the local leader, Assad.

"Assad, one of the vehicles went to a place called the Natural Energy Lab, do you know it? Good. The other I have followed up to a road which is now heading east. They met with another truck full of men and drove further until they turned onto a very narrow dirt road heading north again. Get up here now. The road is so small; it is not safe to follow any further. If they come back down, we will run into each other and I will be found out. Once you get here, stay near but out of sight. When they come back down call and tell me. I am going back to the Energy Lab. If I am correct, the agents know where Sally is hiding. Let them do our work, and bring her out into the open. Remember; do not forget to call me when they come back down." And Murad hung up.

Besides the cell phone, Murad had purchased a map, masking tape, and some tourist baseball caps. Assad had told him where to find the weapons cache they had hidden in a nearby apartment on a road along the ocean at a place called White Sands Beach and empty most of the time; they used it only for this purpose. He went there now.

After finding the key where Assad said he would, he parked and entered the apartment. He activated one of the other cell phones and called a local island helicopter charter company inquiring on their hours, location and rates, "Yes, my family are I are visiting from India. What type of helicopters do you fly? My wife gets very queasy if it is one of the smaller ones." He pushed for information until he found a charter company with the type of aircraft he was looking for. "Thank you, I will call tomorrow and set up a time."

Murad next unfolded the map and began to make marks on at spots here on this island and on Kauai. He then set his cell phone volume to loud and put his head back for a brief rest before he went back to stake out the Energy Lab.

Twenty minutes later his cell fell vibrated and fell beside the bedside table. He groped down around the floor for it and answered, "Yes, what is it?"

"They did not see me, I am sure. The agents in the same SUV just came out of the road and are now heading back in the direction of Kona," Assad advised.

"Follow them, do not lose sight. If I am right, they will take you down to the Energy Lab to meet up with the other agents. Contact our brothers and make arrangements as I instructed." Murad hit _End_ and got up.

He went into the spare bedroom and cut through the carpeting under the nightstand. Beneath was a wooden hatch which he lifted to uncover a locked steel chest filled with automatic weapons, ammunition, radios and explosives. Raising it out of the space and onto the bed, he prepared the bag he would need today. Murad dreamt in his dreams each night a glorious welcome into heaven above. His death would come in battle, he was certain, and his brothers would remember and praise him as a great warrior of Allah.

He replaced the box, lay the carpet back down and made his way to out to the parking lot.

Once he was sure where the agents were bringing Sally, _he would bring the merciless fire of Allah to the infidels!_

Chapter 42

The Energy Lab was created in 1974 as a test bed for renewable energy resources for the Hawaiian Islands. Since its creation, the Lab hosted research and development scientists working for various marine and energy technology companies. One of these was Photon Corporation. Today, however, the Energy Lab was closed to all but essential personnel.

Craig had requested from Langley that a platoon of Marines be sent over from Kaneohe Bay to act as temporary security, along with two Coast Guard patrol boats off the nearby beaches. When the Marines arrived, he brought them in and told them to forget _the asinine rules of engagement imposed by some politically-correct do-gooders_. Craig gave them unwavering shoot to kill orders for anyone approaching the facilities outer fences. He had posted SWAT teams further out to prevent the meandering tourist or any employee who may not have gotten the word from coming up to the gate. "So if you see someone approaching consider them a threat to be neutralized at once." The Marines liked this guy. They were trained to kill and grateful to be commanded by such a no-nonsense individual. "If you see it, react appropriately and kill it," Craig ordered.

Craig had also contacted a medical unit from a local hospital to check out Drake Powers and asked for specialists from the Center of Disease Control to be included in his examination. He couldn't even begin to imagine what types of diseases could be brought over from another dimension.

As soon as they arrived he ordered his men to take Powers to the employee lunchrooms in the adjacent building and turned one side into an infirmary, the other into a confinement room for Drake. He had cots and food brought in to make him more comfortable. After all, the kid wasn't a wanted terrorist but someone caught up in something even he was having a hard time wrapping his head around. For now though, Pérez would come with him.

Outside, two agents opened the rear of the SUV and awkwardly unloaded the laser, while Craig marched Shawn into the main building. Shawn's hands were still bound, but once inside, Craig ordered the plastic tie cut. Shawn rubbed his chafed wrists as he made his way into an especially dark room. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside, he squinted and walked carefully to avoid tripping over anything in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he heard the familiar voice.

"Major Craig, what is Shawn Pérez, the photographer, doing here?" Jarrard asked.

"Holy shit, if it isn't dimwit! What the hell are you doing here El Jarrardien? Thought we left you far behind in the California Valley!"

"Knock off the bullshit," Craig said impatiently. "Jarrard, do you have the image file and the individual images of El Sharrad? Give them to Mr. Pérez here. But before you do that, take this computer of Dr. Campbell's we brought back. They were using it up at his lab and had recreated a dog before we arrived. I think they used it to bring back the surfer Drake Powers as well. Do whatever you need to do to hook it up to the main system. Pérez, you sit down and get to work."

"This may take some time," said Shawn, assessing the computer files before him. "I can't just pull this type of composition out of my ass under these conditions. I've never even seen the guy in these photos, and I didn't take the pictures. This is a shitload different than what I'm used to." Shawn began clicking through image file after image file. "This is going to take a whole lot of finesse. Many of these photos you took of the bad guy are pretty shitty, and most are from a great distance. Hell, half of them look like they were taken from a plane."

"They were. Get on with it, and get it done," Craig ordered, trusting the artist in him would do the most with the least. _If Jarrard can get as close as he did, Pérez will get the job done._

"Yes, well about that," said Shawn. "I'm not doing anything here with these files until you promise something: that after this is all done, you will leave us alone. That includes Sally, I mean Dr. Evans, Ben, Drake, Frisco and me. I'm not doing shit for you until you give me your word. Better yet, I want it in writing."

In one motion, Craig had Shawn's shirt collars in his hands, his breath heavy upon his face and he responded, "Remember I have your surfer friend, who everyone thinks is dead, who could simply be dead again. Who would miss him? Do you want to continue this conversation now or do you want me to walk over to the other building where Mr. Powers is?"

Shawn put up both hands as if surrendering, "Yo, back up bro, no problem, reading you loud and clear." And Shawn's second bluff abruptly came to an end. "Jarrard, you have those files ready yet? I have a shitload of work to do!"

Craig let go his grip, and Shawn came off his toes. "I want the best you have, in four hours!" Craig yelled, as he stormed out to check on security and Drake.

Shawn's eyes had come accustomed to the dim light, and he noticed Jarrard didn't look so hot. "Dude, you look like you went over the falls at Jaws, what's the deal? I mean, I know why I'm here, but why did this fucking spook dude bring you here?"

In spite of the situation, Jarrard could not refrain from indulging his ego, and said indignantly, "There is no question why I was brought here — he knows my skills are critical to bringing the terrorist back. What I fail to see is why you're needed."

Tired, pissed and angry, Shawn shot back, "Listen, from what I've heard you're as worthless as tits on a bull! Sally doesn't even know why your company keeps you one except maybe they have some reason they can't fire you, but if we're going to get out of here and away from this nutcase, we need each other to give him what he wants. So, we both know we don't like each other, but today, we're _amigos_. _Comprende_?"

Shawn's words bit deep and for once, Jarrard was truly hurt. In spite of his hubris, he always felt he played a valuable part of Dr. Evans' research unit at Photon. At once humbled, he submitted himself to Shawn. "Really, she said that?" and then added, "I tried producing this terrorist El Sharrad back at Photon, but our results were hideously disturbing and we nearly blew up the building. What was I missing? Whatever you need me to do, I will. Now I only want to get my life back to some stage of normalcy."

"Well, right off the bat, unless you're a closet photographer, (Shawn smiled as he said this, the phrase conjuring up all types of sick thoughts) if you put the images together wrong, you're basically creating a creature of your own design, like Mr. Potato Head in a way." Shawn spoke as he rifled through multiple sets of dozens of images, displayed on monitors along the wall. "If you don't make the sandwich the right way, there will be some ham, or cheese, or both hanging over the edges. Glad I wasn't around to see the weird shit you made." Shawn said as he looked up at Jarrard.

"The images should contain only the essential quantum-level data, and then you give it time to form, time for the particles to find their correct alignment. In other words, it takes it upon itself to fulfill its natural relationship with the other photons and electrons."

Impressed, Jarrard asked, "Did you figure this out on your own?"

"No, my new pal Ben gave me the lowdown. So yeah, what more can I say dude? Start with shit, end with shit. It comes down to the raw ingredients. Most people think all it takes to be a photographer is to have cute girls or wedding couples to stand in front of you and smile nice. Damn, that's only half of that whole."

Caught on in the moment of his favorite topic, Shawn stopped his work on the layers. "A smile is more than how you make your mouth curl up on the ends. A smile has to come from within — spontaneously — and even then, the eyes tell the real story. Shit, I've taken photos of some of the most beautiful women in the world and deep inside, through their sparkling gaze, I've seen sorrow or despair, even hate. So job one for a photographer is to take them away from all that and to find the little girl or boy within the layers of man-made worry. You have to uncover a time they lived without concern or hardship, with the pure joy of life we are all meant to live. Bet even you have some joy underneath the shrouded layers of your life," Shawn quipped.

"I didn't have a very happy childhood, but I don't want to talk about me. It's not why we are here. One of my problems was working with images of a man I assumed to be evil incarnate. It was hard to spend time looking into his eyes," Jarrard said.

"I get that and yeah, he is grotesque. Part two is what we do with these images. Even shooting with the Sentient there is distortion due to aberrations in the lens, glare, and dust. It's not easy distinguishing and capturing the reality of what our eyes actually see versus what is really there. Only a micro shift of the angle or distance from your subject magnifies the variables on how the visual information enters the lens. Like music, when a band goes into a recording studio, they don't call it a sound room for nothing. There are always one or two talented sound board specialists mixing the voices and instruments to find best levels. Shit, I don't go to concerts to hear good music. I go for the energy from all the positive people. What I'm telling you, Jarhead, is that for the fraction of a second it takes me to snap a pic, I might spend hours, or even weeks polishing the image before I release it."

"I'm not much for art, or music, but you have a valid point. We do much the same with science. If it takes you that long, how can you combine all the photos of this terrorist the way we will need it in just four hours?" Jarrard asked thinking, _I wish I listened more, I might learn something_.

"Exactly," Shawn answered. We are going to give Craig what he needs, not what I want, or would be satisfied with. Except we have a big problem, these pics are jacked. Never mind the variations in distances, of at least a third of them, he's beat to hell or screaming in agony. What did he look like when he came up for you?"

"I can't really describe it too well, but yes, now you mention it, his face was disfigured. Looked like a rubber Halloween mask. I can see already how differently you're compiling these." Then, Jarrard held up his hand and pointed at the laser. "What about this, how does this contribute?"

"It's the juice dude. Ben figured it out. Like Frankenstein, the hologram was assembled of all the right shit, but it needed a jolt from within. The power creates the hologram; the laser gets the heart pumping so to speak."

Shawn spent a few minutes running through the method Ben used and added, "Glad we're at the Energy Lab, shouldn't have a power-down issue here! We knocked all of Ben's generators out. I can't even imagine what would have happened if they cut out before we brought the subject all the way back. Now, go find some cables to unplug and plug back in so I can get this done, make him happy, and save our asses."

For two more hours Shawn and Jarrard kept to themselves, fully consumed with their work. The guards both in and outside the lab relaxed a bit. Craig was still with the doctors examining Drake so the tone had lightened considerably.

Outside at the front gate, and Energy Lab researcher with a top-level security clearance talked his way past the first line of defenses. The Marine captain under Craig's command radioed him and described the situation. Craig gave the approval for him to come in and the captain gave the stand-down order. Accompanied by a heavily-armed Marine, they passed through the lobby and into his office. A guard took up post outside the door. Between his office and the lab where Shawn and Jarrard were held, was a small glass drawer, the type a bank teller would use at a drive-up window. It was used during certain experiments when the researcher suited up in protective clothing.

While the scientist busied himself looking for "something" in his office, he slid open the drawer, dropped a thumb drive in, and closed it forcibly enough for Shawn to notice, but for the guard not to realize where the sound came from. Shawn glanced at the window, saw the scientist look down at the drawer as if to signal him, then hastily leave the office.

Shawn called Jarrard over. "Man, can you ask one of the guards if we can get some coffee or something stronger? I'm whipped."

Jarrard agreed. "I don't usually drink coffee, but I too could use something with some kick to get my energy level up." And he went out to the entrance to speak to one of the Marines.

As soon as Jarrard moved away, Shawn stood and pretended he was stretching; he'd been hunched over a computer for two hours, so it did feel pretty good. He walked around, yawned, touched his toes, and made his way over to the drawer.

Looking down into the slot, Shawn spotted a thumb drive. Waiting until Jarrard had his head down behind the laser, and the guard's head was turned, he popped the drawer open, grabbed the drive, and slipped it in pocket. Back at the workstation, he snuck into one the open USB ports and at once up popped a very small balloon with a little dancing figure of Gretchen inside. There was one line text of text he couldn't make out. _Ben_ , he instantly thought and the message read _sweetsafe-ashesofsorrow-remember &watchforthedrivescare_ and that was all.

_What the fuck?_ he thought knowing Ben's no dummy. Shawn wondered what the hell Ben was trying to say. _At least the first part I get. I know he heard me call Sally "Sweetie" dozens of times, but what are "ashes of sorrow," could he mean Drake? But Drake is alive. Wait, Drake's funeral. He's trying to tell me something about Drake's funeral? Well, I got to get back to this or whatever he's telling me won't be for shit. Sounds like he is at least telling me Sally's okay._

Shawn stuffed the drive back into his pocket.

At three hours and fifty-eight minutes since he left, Craig came in through the entrance to the lab. "Mr. Powers, you better be ready."

"Listen brah, did my best, but these images suck. I'm used to working with my own photographs; whoever took these had no eye. And all the decent ones show this poor bastard writhing in pain. I know it will come together, but not sure you're going to like it," Shawn warned.

"As long as you bring him to a point where he can think and talk, and you keep him alive long enough to get what I want out of him. You do that, and we'll discuss your future," Craig said. "Are we ready to go?"

"The software is at ninety-eight percent, about four more minutes, and the composite will be ready to bring up as a hologram. This is going to be like a friggin' horror movie!" Shawn laughed. He watched the bar hit one hundred percent and yelled, "And Bingo was her name!"

"Pérez, are we a go?" Craig had only ever worked with hard asses and he was kind of starting to like this guy. "Do we have to stand behind any shields or leave the room before this begins?" he asked, as he remembered Jarrard's last attempt.

"Nah, all cool. Let's go Jeeried. Let 'er rip!" Shawn hit the _Populate Hologram_ icon in the software while Jarrard kicked in the main power to the floor.

"With this software and 3D imaging projector Sally modified, we can create on the go. The tough part is a consistent power supply and, of course, a high- powered laser," Shawn explained to Craig above the din.

El Sharrad's outline began to define and fade as the particles swirled, and define again, becoming more lifelike with every repeated sequence. No one was surprised at the anguish and suffering visible as the hologram materialized. Craig had caused it firsthand, and both Jarrard and Shawn had spent hours working with the photos, but when it came to full resolution, Shawn had followed Craig's order and isolated a single moment in El Sharrad's existence where the pain caused by tortured was unbearable. They heard his voice, even before the laser went in to the core of the hologram. El Sharrad bellowed in agony, "No, no, stop, kill me, I want to die!"

The guards in the lobby and adjoining hallways could hear the screams, and they couldn't help but look in through the observation windows.

There was something else, something much more barbaric than any suffering by man in all time. El Sharrad was frozen in this moment; it didn't pass. The intensity of the pain at the instance Shawn had pinpointed to use as the basis for the replication was highly concentrated. To Shawn, it overwhelmed the transcendent nature of the other replications of Drake and Frisco. El Sharrad would be stuck in this moment forever, or as long as this dimensional existence of his duplicate self-lived.

Craig understood this at once. While Jarrard and Shawn covered their ears and tried, but were unable to look away, Craig shouted, "Wonderful!"

They both turned towards Craig in disbelief.

Shawn yelled, "Are you for real? You are one sick mother!"

Jarrard called out as well, "What kind of sick man are you?"

Craig kept smiling, his grin widening. "Keep going, bring him back, do it, do it now!"

In Shawn's mind, he couldn't care less about Craig's mission. Replicating the poor soul was against every sense of caring and kindness he had lived his life by since a child. "No, I can't do it. The guy is frying!"

"Pérez, do it, now, or you'll never see daylight again, and I promise your Sally will rot in a prison cell. I said, hit the laser!"

Jarrard, shocked but with none of the ethical strains with ran in Shawn's blood, activated the laser and it pulsed into the chest of El Sharrad. Solidifying, El Sharrad fell to the ground, bending and twisting like a worm on a hot summer sidewalk. "Kill me, kill me! I want to die, someone kill me!"

Craig called in two Marines who were blown away with what they were witnessing. Both were Iraq vets and had seen death in many ways, but to see a man in such incredible pain drew looks of revulsion on their faces.

"Bind him; I don't care how you do it. Just keep him in one spot, put a spike though his leg if you have to. He needs to answer two questions and then we'll decide what to do with him."

The Marines resorted to dropping a long table, up-side-down, across El Sharrad's torso, and Craig had two others sit on the table's ends as if on a see-saw. This one, however, bounced violently with El Sharrad's every move, rather than pivot up and down.

Craig came up and knelt on the center of the table. With his full weight on El Sharrad, he put his hands on his shoulders, and brought his face six-inches from the terrorist and spoke directly to him in a measured voice. "Is the pain unbearable? Well, you died. You might remember...," Craig wondered if those replicated had memories of future events after the images used were taken, "...you died, and I now have the power to bring you back into a life of never-ending suffering." _Like those who lost husbands, wives, daughters, sons and parents on 9/11_ , he thought. "Every moment you shudder in agony brings me pleasure and, even better, it will never stop, not until I allow you to die again. But unlike the innocent victims of the Trade Center attack, you can stop your torment. On your word I will kill you and end the pain. Tell me where the attack is to be made: when, where and how. Tell me, and I will kill you!"

El Sharrad opened his mouth to speak. His words melted in his cries, difficult to distinguish. "My death, aaayiee, I know, aarggh, it was wel..aaa...come! Pain....yiiieee, unbearable. Yes...aaaoo, kill me!"

"Yes, I will kill you, but only after you tell me everything. And we can take our time, your choice," Craig said.

For the next fifteen minutes, El Sharrad told Craig everything, including the alternative triggerman Murad who by now was somewhere in the U.S. picking up where El Sharrad had left off. During the entire exchange, the terrorist shuddered in misery, his body convulsing, his lucidity clouded, only the will to die drove him to speak.

When he was done, and Craig was satisfied, El Sharrad begged the Prophet Mohammed to call him home. El Sharrad's skin was now peeling away from his body, his pours oozing a reddish bodily substance. "Kill me, do it now, aaaayaaiiiiee, it is a terrible pain!"

"No," Craig said. "I know of every child you maimed, all mothers murdered at your hands. You will die, I will let you die, but it will be slow and merciless if I let you die at all in the miserable state you're in. Far as I'm concerned, you can stay this way forever."

Craig gave orders to the Marines to move El Sharrad to a convict maximum-security vehicle outside, but no one wanted to touch him. They threw loops of rope around his ankles and wrists, tossed them over a beam in the ceiling, hoisted him like livestock and put him on a stretcher. Shrieks of woe were continuous and the young men performing the move put yellow foam earplugs in to keep from hearing his calls, but it barely helped.

Shawn and Jarrard were terrified and used Craig's preoccupation to sneak out of the lab, unnoticed. They found a short hallway and sat against a wall covering their ears. Once El Sharrad was out of the building in the back of the truck, Craig found them and congratulated Shawn. "Job well done, you have any idea of how many lives you saved today?"

"How do you do what you do? Are you some type of devil?" Shawn said looking up.

"Pérez, for every evil person I kill, I save countless lives, for every minute I torture, it offers years of life to families who would otherwise be victims of terrorist acts. You and I are the same in a way. I don't say this too often, but I admire you. You see and capture the multiple layers of our complex reality. I see the same, but in unique layers of good and evil. We both understand how they interact. My role in this society is to eliminate the bad which would hurt the good."

"How do you deal with what we just saw?" Shawn asked again.

"Shawn, we all hear about the suffering in the world. Most won't accept it and shield themselves, particularly here in the United States which I call the _spoiled society_. We here in the U.S. are sheltered from an unforgiving reality. Even the poorest citizens are one hundred times better off than the majority of the humans on our planet. Hot/Cold, Up/Down, In/Out; everything must be counterbalanced to exist in harmony. All things need an equilibrium or opposite. I dance between the two."

And Craig then spoke to Jarrard, "Now, enough, Jarhead," (Craig found Shawn's name to be appropriate) "...you're still working for me so get your ass in there and clean up the lab and back-up Shawn's work. If or when we let El Sharrad die, we may want to replicate him again in case we missed something. Shawn, you need to get back to your friend Drake. You have plenty of explaining to do. We checked him out and he's in perfect health. Marine, bring Mr. Pérez to the room where Drake Powers is being held."

Chapter 43

"Shawno, where you been? They've been poking and prodding me every which way but up. Feel like a voodoo doll stuck with pins. And what the hell was that screaming? Everyone heard it. It sounded as if they were slaughtering pigs."

"Rather not talk about it right now, besides, you have I haven't had time to catch up since, ahhh, since you showed up at Ben's. Sit down, you probably have some questions," Shawn said.

"Nah, not really, it's you and everyone else seems freaked out by seeing me. Far as I'm concerned, I ate it at Coast Guards and must have got knocked out but for a few days. That's how it feels." Drake said. "But I suppose everyone saw me dead, so that must be why you're all blown away."

"Drake, before I tell you the entire story, I got a message from Ben. Tough to understand, but I do know Sally is safe. The rest is confusing." But as he considered on how to begin with Drake, the second part of Ben's message became clear. "Drake's ashes, sure, that's it. Ben took or sent Sally to Kauai, where we sprinkled your ashes."

"My ashes, c'mon man, what are you talking about brah?" Drake asked.

"Drake, you had passed and gone into the great surf spots of heaven, your Mother had you cremated; she had a priest who gave you a little ceremony just before they put you in the fryer."

"Shawn, that's just harsh man!" Drake said.

Shawn cringed to thinking about it. "Then I watched as your Mom tossed a 'pinch of Powers' onto the waters of Hanalei Bay; hundreds of fellow surf brethren on site. Your Mom handed me your urn, and your pal Shawn, balling like a baby, tossed the rest of you into the drink! No doubt, you were dead and spread." Shawn smiled, happy with his little quip.

Drake then peppered him with questions and Shawn described everything leading up to his successful replication. "Drake, do you remember anything from the first two times we almost got you here?"

"No, can't remember a thing." Drake waited a moment until he spoke again. "Well how the fuck will I show up for the World Surfing Championships next month? My fans, shit, everyone thinks I'm ripping with the surf gods. What kind of life will I have now?" Drake said mournfully.

"Something we are going to have to work on, but I'm never leaving your side now bro. Let's get some rest. I have no idea what this maniac Craig has in store for us. The sun's going down and before I hit the sack, I've got to figure out the rest of Ben's clues."

They heard a quick knock on the door before a Marine entered with two bags with sandwich and he apologized, "Sorry gents it's all we have for dinner. There's bottled water in each. This young marine was also a surfer, took one look at Drake and said, "Holy shit, no way! It's Drake Powers. Wait, how can that be? I watched your Paddle Out on streaming video. Aren't you are dead! Oh, I get it; you're going into witness protection. Who'd you squeal on?"

"Shawn intercepted the Marine. Yes, that's right. And if you tell anyone the pint size CIA agent out will have you killed. Please, we want to eat and go to bed. It's hard to explain"

The Marine headed for the door, "Sure, not a word to anyone. I don't want that DIA spoke after me." He closed the door behind him.

They ate yet neither had an appetite, so after a few bites, they put down the sandwiches, downed the water, and laid back on the taught canvas tarps. "Do you know what I think Drake?"

"No, Shawn, I do not know what you think. Do tell?" Drake joked.

_'God it was great to have him back_.'

"I think Ben is going to try and break us out, not sure how though. Let's sleep, too exhausted to sleep right now," Shawn said.

And as they law their heads back and closed their eyes, pairs of little red dots came floating across the lava fields from the north, so low, they were undetectable by the Marines guarding NEHL's perimeter. As the first neared the fence, an explosion suddenly rocked the installation and it luckily missed any of the buildings. In seconds there were dozens of sets of neon eyes and bomb packets rained down from above exploding inside and outside the Energy Lab Compound. Shawn and Drake immediately awake and instinctively cover their heads as they hit the floor. The surfer Marine stuck his head into their room and yelled. "Keep down and stay put, we're under attack!"

"No shit, thanks for the advice!" Shawn answered and noticed when the young guard shut the door it didn't click shut. "Drake, the doors open" and Shawn widened it enough to take look down the hallways in both directions.

At the same time, Drake climbed up on a table and looked out the window. "Wow, it looks like Bagdad the night the U.S. hit. The place is all lit up! There are Marines running everywhere."

"Drake'ster, there's no one outside our door in either direction, can you tell where it's coming from?" Shawn asked.

Explosions detonated in every direction creating a thick smoke making it difficult for anyone to see where the attack was coming from. Shawn climbed up beside Drake to get a better idea of what was in store for them if they ran. For an instant, Shawn sees a drone like the one Ben used to chase him on the drive up to his house a few days ago. The meaning of the last part of the message came instantly to Shawn.

"Drake, its Ben's doings I know it. He's here to help us get away. Holy shit, there must be dozens of these little air spiders dropping bombs everywhere. This is wild. Look the Marines don't know who or what to shoot." They watched a moment longer unsure of what to do next, when the same research associate who had dropped the flash drive in the drawer came in through the door. He had never left. "Guys, out this way, then turn right at the end of the hallway. Down that hallway, there is a door. Campbell is going to keep the Marines busy on the other side of the facility. Go now!"

Shawn and Drake slapped high fives as they charged from the room down through the dark hallways.

Craig saw the red eyes before any of the Marines did and new precisely what they were. But he had never seen so many drones used together in concert with each other. Who and how was anyone controlling so many, as they were not easy to fly in the first place. He reached to his side, drew his 9mm Sig and ran his hand along his ammo belt to check his magazines were fully loaded. _This is going to be a busy night_ , he thought as he charged out into the maelstrom.

Alarms were going off everywhere as sensitive earthquake geo sensing devices were activated by the detonations. Drones appeared and disappeared and as soon as they moved to react on the area with the most activity, the drones would shift to a new target to penetrate.

The Marine Captain ran up to Craig. "It's some kind of an attack, Sir. All aerial so far no ground offensive, but we expect one in any minute. What are your orders, sir?"

While Craig knew the _how_ and _what_ , he did not know the 'who', but it was apparent their intention was not to kill but to offer a major distraction. None of the buildings were damaged yet and bombs seemed to land between but never striking the Marines. "Anyone hit? Have you any casualties Captain?" Craig asked.

"No, sir, and it's very surprising Major. These things are everywhere and no matter what we shoot at them, they are like insects. You know seen a dragonfly sir; it's the same thing. These drones can shift in any direction instantly. It seems like they can actually sense the bullet and dodge it before it ever gets near. I've never seen anything like it and I'm definitely open to suggestions, sir?"

Craig finally figured it out but by then it was too late. "Sergeant, ignore them, it's a diversion. Didn't it seem unusual under such heavy fire none of your men had been hit?" Currently all the fire was concentrated on the land side of the compound where it had been for a few minutes. "Tell your men to spread out over the entire grounds, but send at least six mean to the west side along the coast now! This is an attempt to break out our prisoners!"

Shawn and Drake busted open a rusty metal door at the end of the hallway the technician had directed them. Out in the yard the flashes of light and gunfire came from beyond on the other side of the buildings. It seemed heavier than at any other time.

"Man, we timed that right; where to now Shawn?" Drake asked as their eyesight adjusted to the darkness. Over the noise from the attack, they both heard a loud vibration splitting the air.

"What the fuck's going on now?" Drake said to Shawn.

"I don't know exactly. We have to trust in Ben. Cool as shit guy. Whatever he's trying, pretty sure it's work. Watch everywhere; I don't know what to expect either!" Shawn yelled.

"Holy shit, look out!" Drake screamed, and as he did he shoved Shawn down onto the pavement.

As Shawn and Drake lay sprawled across the ground, a huge grey drone dropped slowly and landed five feet before them. It was huge, the biggest Shawn had ever seen, with eight rotors spinning three feet above their heads. Six legs touched at all points and from beneath hung the types of lightweight mesh stretchers the Coast Guard use on their rescue helicopters. Shawn and Drake lay there frozen, and as they waited for what was next to come, they heard a tiny voice urging them, "Shawn, Drake, get in the stretchers now, it's me, Ben."

A tiny monitor lit up to show Ben's smiling face. "This is the way more fun than chasing you up a mountain Shawn. Neat huh, now get in!" Ben said. "Yes, that's right, strap in, this is going to be one hell of a ride! Hold tight!"

Craig came sprinted ahead of the Marine patrol, but it was too late. Ben's medevac drone had already lifted and all Craig could make out through the smoke and darkness was the light of the Ben's monitor and the silhouette of two figures in the stretchers beneath. "Cease fire, hold your fire!" he commanded loud enough where he didn't really need a radio. "If anyone hits that thing, I'm shooting him next!"

The firing and explosions ceased as quickly as they had begun and except for the residual glow if explosive residue in the pockets of lava outside the fence, there was dead silence.

Five hundred feet above the ocean flying north along the coast was Ben's prototype "medevac" SAR drone. Ben turned the monitor back on and said "Thought you boys would like that! No fuss, no muss and no one got hurt. See there are ways to succeed through nonviolence. Next stop my little friends is Deep Surf's hanger at Kona International.

"Ben you are hot shit! Where are you?" Shawn asked.

"I'm up on my property. Don't know if you could count my little buzz buddies but there were thirty-two little birds dropping flash bangs all around the Energy Lab and their all designed with unique situational awareness capabilities and pre-programmed to integrate the performance you just witnessed. They couldn't be hit, if they sensed either another drone, or a projectile of any sorts, it could dip or dodge the pending impact. It was the most I have successfully flown at once.

"Yea, but this thing, what the hell are we sitting in?" Drake asked.

"I've been working closely with maritime search and rescue as well as the Air Force SAR teams to design an unmanned extraction platform for those lost at sea, or pilots downed and injured inside enemy lines. This is its' first live test. It behaved most admirably!" Ben boasted. "Deep Surf has a helicopter awaiting you at the airport. They filed a false flight plan back to Honolulu, but they'll actually bring you safely to Kauai and Sally. Oh, yes, and I sent her there in case any other spooky characters came looking for my place. "Hang on now, we're coming in!" and Ben touched the drone down on an unlit stretch of runway next to Deep Surf's helicopter pad where the pilot had the engines hot and all lights off. Shawn and Drake unstrapped, gave Ben thumbs up and in a low crouch, ran from the drone the awaiting helo.

Ben yelled from the monitor, "See you on the flip side fellas! Remember to fly the friendly skies of Ben Air!" They waved again from inside the Hughes 500 not really sure if Ben could see still them from inside the little monitor.

The pilot had removed the doors to expedite their boarding and once strapped in with headsets on; he rose two hundred feet, did a hard tilt left, and flew off to the northeast with one scheduled refueling at a private air strip in Molokai.

"Tighten up guys, we have a fast and low altitude flight ahead, Shawn, we will have you home by sunrise. By the way, took a friend of yours over there yesterday. Hot as hell if you don't mind me saying. Nicely done! And Drake, if that really is you, thought you were dead, but stoked to have you onboard again! You'll have to tell me how you did that, you know, came back and all!"

"We can't agree with you more _el capitán_! Glad to be aboard" Drake answered as the 'little bird' flew off across the Pacific and away from the insanity of the U.S. Government.

Chapter 44

It was the best surveillance point and it was the worst surveillance point Murad had ever set up in. The Energy Lab allowed for clear unobstructed views for miles in every direction and with only one road in or out, it was easy to see who came and went. Murad had narrowed it down to two buildings he suspected they might be holding Sally and Jarrard in; one or the other — he really had no idea. It was like the pea under three cups game. SUVs and tactical vehicles came and went but Murad never knew who they brought in or out with them so he had to cover all the cups.

Murad had told the two men he had sent to watch Ben's road to hike in after the SUVs left. "Go through the cane, no one will spot you, too risky to come up the road," he told them. "Find who is still there. If it is either of the two we seek, take them and hide them. Then call me at once!"

Murad settled in for the pitch-black night as the lava absorbed any and all light from the stars above. He had parked the motor-scooter he had borrowed from one of the others along the road near Wawaloli State Park, from which point he could also see much of Kona International Airport. He had picked up a cheap, one-person tent at K-Mart and set it up pretending he was camping. They had a very liberal rule for homeless in Hawaii. You could camp for free on any state beaches, but only for three nights, then you had to move to another. This would be his first, and he wished they would find Sally or Jarrard before he was forced to move. He had two others maintaining watch at helicopter tour sites in case they needed to move fast; he knew one was a licensed pilot.

He sat up on a ridge across from his campsite and as the night sky darkened, he switched to night vision optics and watched closely as cars and delivery vans were turned away by the soldiers guarding the lab. Every so often, one or two individuals would move between the secondary buildings, but most of the activity was at the main facility. Two ambulances sat the entrance to the second largest structure, but they had not moved since first arriving that afternoon.

Then, almost at midnight, the strangest commotion broke out, centered on the east side of the laboratory. He could hear and see explosions and gunfire, but except for the soldiers running to and firing from protected positions, there was no indication of anyone outside the fences or coming in from above. That is, until he spotted the smallest of aircraft, then dozens of them, hovering, diving and circling thirty to forty feet above the fence line. He switched back to normal optics and then saw little rockets shooting out from beneath the drones. Even in Afghanistan he had never seen drones used in such effective unison. _Only the U.S. military has technology like this, so why would they be firing on their own people?_ Murad wondered. He made quick calls to his brothers up north and put them all on alert. One of them asked him a question.

"Shut up you fool, just be ready for whatever I tell you!" Murad commanded.

Refocusing his attention, something larger with brighter red lights came from over the ocean and circled around the opposite side of the area, closer to the ambulances. He increased magnification and sensitivity and saw a nearby door swing open and two male figures, not soldiers, move out towards the ocean and freeze in place. They too had seen the large craft fire above.

The fighting increased on the other side of the Energy Lab. The night vision goggles made any visible light very bright so he was careful not to look towards the nearby airport tower beacon or runway lighting. Each explosion hurt his eyes but he needed to see where the two men went. It was then the craft landed and the two climbed underneath and appeared to lie down between its legs. Murad changed over to traditional binoculars just at the aircraft lifted, turned away from the Energy Lab and came swooping over in his direction towards the sea. As it neared, he could see exactly what it was. Flying overhead was a massive, unmanned drone, unlike anything he had ever seen. Besides the red eyes, only a small, white square emanated light, but shut off before it went over water. It then came around north in the direction of the airport where it slowed to land again, coming down beside what Murad recognized as the helicopter the Navy Seals used to attack their training bases in Afghanistan.

The helicopter's lights were off but when the little square light came on again under the drone, he saw the rotors were turning, ready for flight. He could just make out the logo of a wave with the words _Deep Surf_ across the tail fuselage. The men sat up from underneath, worked on some straps holding them in, then ran to the helicopter and climbed aboard through the rear doors. As fast as they had come in they were up again, but now in a very fast and capable aircraft. The enormous drone along with the dozens of little ones which had attacked the Energy Lab, evaporated into the night sky.

_It was an escape! Someone created and used a diversion to get away, but who?_ Murad thought. They were two males, both too young to be Jarrard, who would never dress that way anyway. Certainly not Dr. Evans, but who? He did understand one thing though, if the agents wanted them, and they wanted to get away from the agents, and there was someone with enough resources to help them get away the way they just did, he probably wanted them too; especially if they were related to the Sentient Project.

Meanwhile, his men kept watch at the home on the north side of the island. They had crept closer and reported only one bearded man they did not recognize remaining in the home. They said something violent had happened there as they could see one structure was riddled with bullet holes. Other than this knowledge, they confirmed to Murad, all was quiet.

"Leave now," Murad told them. "Meet me as we planned to do in case we needed to leave the island. It is time, we will go soon. Kill everyone there, yes, tourists too, you idiot, and take control of the helicopter. I will be there in one hour, or I will advise where to pick up."

Murad hung up and settled back to wait to see what happened next. The sun was rising to the east and soon it would be easier to see. Slowly the military personnel and other vehicles moved off the Energy Lab grounds and made their way towards the airport where a military transport plane awaited, but the ambulances were still there and this was a research facility, not a hospital. _Whoever is still inside may be injured and of value to them. I must find out their identity!_ Murad concluded.

He picked up the regular binoculars and saw the two remaining SUVs drive up to the front gate to stop and wait. Peering through the high-powered lenses with the light slowly improving, the entrance doors opened. First to come out was Jarrard with agents on both sides. Then, hung as if a beast, it was El Sharrad! _How could it be? Look at him, he is mangled and deformed and his face contorted and swollen. What a wretched living thing he now is! What have they done to the servant of the Prophet Mohammed? El Sharrad has taught me everything I know. He is like a father to me._

Murad wished he had his rifle, he would end his misery, but no, if he did, they would be alerted to his location. He knew he must stay true to the cause and decide now on the best course of action.

Leaving the tent, he threw his leg over the scooter and chugged up the incline to the main road. From the looks of El Sharrad, even from that distance, he would soon be dead and besides, he would want Murad to continue the fight. So Murad decided his best course of action was to follow the vehicle with Jarrard inside. He would know, for the coward would tell him, about the other two captives and Dr. Evans' whereabouts.

He sputtered into the gas station at the top of the hill along the Queen K Hawaii. There were runners and cyclists everywhere. These triathletes were something he just could not understand.

Hiding the scooter behind a row of porta-toilets along the highway, he pulled his bag from the compartment on the side of the scooter. He reached in to find his knife and sat down, his back against the toilets. As it was early morning, the station personnel had not arrived, but the gas pumps were running and he knew someone would come in soon to fill their tanks. In less than a minute a young man in a Jetta parked at one of the pumps to get some gas. Fastened to a rack on top was an expensive-looking bike and the driver, when he got out, was dressed in colorful, tight cycling clothes. The young man could not have been more than twenty years of age. _This, this sinner against Allah, his life consumed in self-decadence, sport and making a beautiful body_ — _I will have no problem taking his life._

With loud music blaring from the Jetta's speakers, and the lyrics, _you can't always get what you want_ heard above the music; Murad crept up behind his victim. Then in one efficient motion, he sliced his throat from ear to ear, almost removing his head with the effort. His body collapsed and Murad grabbed both ankles and dragged him to the back of the toilets. Murad looked at him pitifully, thinking, _this athlete, he is a male, yet he has shaved his legs. It is disgusting!_

Fortune smiled down upon Murad because the very moment he climbed behind the wheel of the stolen Jetta and started it, both SUVs with the ambulance behind came onto the main highway headed north. He knew the first one carried the Professor and he followed in pursuit. When they reached the airport the second SUV and ambulance turned on the second entrance marked for Air Freight Deliveries. _Very good_ , Murad thought. _When they stop I will only have to deal with a few to grab Jarrard_.

He followed for ten miles, doing his best to avoid the dozens of cyclists already out on the road for a training session. When they saw the bike on his roof most gave him a small wave. He returned the greeting with his middle finger. Coming up on an entrance to a hotel and golf course complex, the driver ahead turned on his blinkers and turned left onto the grounds of the five-star resort. The SUV passed straight through the guard gate when he recognized the government plates. Murad slowed and the guard put up his hand, but when he too saw the pro bike on top, he waved Murad right through. With satisfaction with his deception, Murad imagined that the athletes must be a privileged class in America.

The SUV bypassed the hotel and parked in front of a standalone luxury suite adjoining a lush green golf course. A hotel representative stood waiting and handed the agent who emerged from the passenger side the keys to the suite. The hotel clerk sped away on his golf cart and the driver opened the rear of the SUV and helped Jarrard, who was in handcuffs, out of the vehicle and up the steps into the entranceway. The first agent remained outside to stand guard.

_This will be very simple_. Murad reached back in his bag to take out his pistol and fastened a silencer to the end. Although he may not have been dressed in appropriate clothing, he felt the bike gave him some credibility with others, so it may help him now. Murad dumped the workout gear from the dead cyclist's Ironman bag and placed his own gear inside. He then clumsily figured out how to remove the bike from the roof-top rack. Once he brought the bike down, he tucked the gun in his waist strap, picked up the Ironman bag and with his left hand rolled the bike towards the suite.

As he approached he felt the agent on guard checking him out, so he lifted his index finger on the hand holding the bag as a greeting as the other cyclists on the road had extended to him. It must be a sign of respect from one triathlete to another. The agent responded in kind and satisfied Murad was just another cyclist, he turned to look in the other direction. With one swift motion, Murad tossed the bike into the grass, reached for his Glock, and with one steady shot, hit the agent just behind and below his left ear. The agent crumbled where he stood.

Murad picked up the bag and moved alongside the side of the suite with Jarrard and the other agent inside. Behind him, early morning golfers where teeing up, but there was a row of low palms which kept the downed agent hidden from their view. Murad was confident the agent inside had no idea they had been followed or had heard any noise outside, so he felt if he knocked lightly on the door, he might open it without much suspicion. He was right. Murad knocked three times and the latch came off and the door opened wide. To the surprise and instant dismay of the agent, Murad already had his weapon raised to head-height and with one shot; a crisp bullet penetrated the skull directly between his eyes. To Murad's satisfaction, the back of _the infidel's_ head erupted with hair and blood splattering across the room, hitting Jarrard who sat with his head on the sofa. The scientist shot up and with a look of disbelief and recognition yelled "It's you! I know you, from the pizza place! How could you, you killed that man!"

Murad put away his gun, grabbed the legs of the dead agent outside the door and dragged his body up and over that of the agent inside. Locking the door securely, he turned and said, "Mr. Jarrard, I do not deliver pizza, and today, you will wish I did!" He thrust Jarrard backwards across the coffee table in the center of the room. Stumbling, Jarrard fell and his head came down hard against the edge of the dining room table. Blood gushed from his forehead, but before he could cry out, Murad wrapped duct tape over his mouth and around his head. He then bound Jarrards' arms and legs. "You will now tell me all about those held captive at the Energy Lab and where they may have gone. Today there is no pizza for you!"

Chapter 45

Deep Surf's pilot landed skillfully between the palms on Shawn's property and Sally instinctively ran to the helicopter looking for Shawn. "Shawn, are you okay? Did they hurt you?" Sally asked as she helped him across the lawn.

Last night, Ben had told Sally, "If my plan works, expect a surprise in the morning." To Sally that could only mean one thing, he was going to rescue Shawn. Frisco had heard the helicopter and bounded out of the house. He now slathered Drake and Shawn with copious helpings of tongue and saliva.

"My illustrious Frisco, I love ya buddy! Man, we have to stop doing this. First I die, then you die, then we both come back...what the hell are we? Brah's just dying to see each other?" Drake said to Frisco. "Give me another smooch, my pooch!"

Shawn already had both arms wrapped tightly around Sally. Glancing over his shoulder at Drake and Frisco, he casually suggested, "Hey, now it's your turn to get a room!"

"We don't need a room, me and Frisk would do it right here out the open!" Drake came back and he then started to lick Frisco's face.

"Ugggh, stop, too much!" Sally called out. That's just gross! I mean I love Frisco too, but the germs!"

As the helicopter rose to leave, Shawn ran into his home and grabbed the Sentient, explaining, "These pilots love to have their photos taken in their birds." Shawn clipped off over thirty-five images as the pilot left over the mountain.

"Shawn, can you ever _not_ take a photo?" Sally asked.

"Sally, you get what you get, get it?" and he gave Sally a wet kiss on her lips.

As the joyful reunion went on, Wairua walked out from a well-worn path into the forest. For Shawn, it was a flashback to the day on her home island, the look the tribal leader showed after Shawn took the photograph of the young girl, Wairua. "Uh oh," Shawn said. "Sally, guess you haven't talked to Wairua yet about Drake. I am in deep shit."

Wairua walked right past them all down to an opening in the palms and sat on a boulder she would visit when she wanted quiet, and to think about her family.

Shawn put down the Sentient and went to sit on the grass next to Wairua. "Mmmmm, you always find the best fruit...couldn't find any to swipe today? That would make me want to sit on the magic stone too ya know."

Wairua did not lift her gaze, and in a moment she said, "My grandfather, the Chief who chased you, taught us things people laugh about now. You call them superstitions, but I saw Drake's ashes come from your hand, and make a cloud in the sea. How is he here with us now?"

"Wairua, we did not mean this to happen, but from this there is a lesson. Your faith in your grandfather, your tribe and your gods should be strengthened. What they have handed down for centuries is now known to be true. For your people, the images were a curse, making them less than who they were, but we have found a way to preserve their souls, even a way to bring back their spirits."

Shawn did his best to reassure Wairua. "Wouldn't you love to see your grandfather again, here, alive, body and soul next to you? To bring back those we love. You must see this, you must speak to Drake. Can you not feel the love we have for each other as brothers?"

"Shawn, all of life is regeneration: water, soil, plants, animals and even the energy of our spirit. What is called back to the spirit world must remain until nature brings it round again." Wairua paused a long minute. "You do not know what you have spoiled, what sin of the earth you have committed, and when you do find out, it may be more than you want."

Then looking straight into Shawn's soul Wairua declared, "They will fear him, shy away from him as they should. He is not the Drake Powers who walked with us days ago. This Drake Powers comes from the other side, from another world where the outcome is different. How will you help him overcome all this? You say you are his friend." She looked away again.

Shawn answered, "Sure, your beliefs were right the first time, but Sally, and her friend Ben, they know things about the physical science of this world. You're educated now, getting smarter every day. Can you see how we sailed around the earth, or reached other planets, and returned? This used to be the stuff of superstition. You've taught me not all myth and mysticism is impossible. Your people were right all along: if you photograph someone, take an image of them, some part of them comes with it. What they did not know is how it could be used. Please, come over to see Drake. Speak to him, touch him. He is real, he can love".

"Shawn Pérez, you are my guidance while I am here with you so for this reason I will show you respect and do as you ask, but please do not make me change the way I see the world. My people have existed in harmony for thousands of years; it is your new world which is filled with hate and war. But I will come." And Wairua held out her hand to Shawn and he led her to the others.

With the slightest reluctance, Wairua walked up to Drake. Frisco was still in his arms and he placed him down on the ground. Wairua ran her long slender fingers softly against Drake's face, and for the first time in his life, Drake was speechless. Shawn whispered to Sally, "There's a lot more going on here than a simple inspection."

Drake still did not speak and Wairua reached for his hand with hers and held it tightly. She then closed her eyes and in a hush, said something in Drake's ear. Frisco lay silently at both their feet on the damp grass and let out sigh and a low whimper.

Wairua, with eyes still closed, said to Drake, "Did you miss the taste of fruit on your tongue, the cool breeze on your face?"

Drake had no words; no one had ever treated him this way; with such respect and reverence for who he was.

"I saw you; you were in the make-believe image in Shawn's lab. You looked at me. Could you see me from within?" Wairua asked Drake.

"Yes, I didn't know where I was. I thought I had died, that you were an angel. Was that you Wairua? I thought I was having a dream."

"It was a dream. I felt you and knew your yearning for peace and love in your life. You were trapped. I was sad for you, and yes, very afraid." Wairua now placed both her hands in his. "Let us go for a walk, now, together." Wairua pointed to the trail she had just come from, "Our spirits need to be near, to touch." They walked in the direction of the valley, Frisco by their side.

Shawn looked at Sally. "What just happened?" he asked.

Sally took Shawn's hand and answered knowingly, "Well, you know I don't have experience with romance except with you, but I think we just saw too people fall in love. Guess we're going for a walk."

They all walked into the woods until they reached a secluded opening with a waterfall. Drake and Wairua separated from the group and moved to the opposite sides of the deep pool of water. This really confused the shit out of Frisco who couldn't make up his minds who to pester.

Wairua then lifted her sarong, exposing her breasts and allowing her wrap to fall to the ground. "Come, and swim in Na-Maka's waters. Nothing in our world will make us feel more alive."

Drake had been completely under Wairau's spell up to this moment, but then the old Drake filtered through. He looked to Shawn, raised his eyes, and with a simple thumb up, politely invited Shawn, Sally, and Frisco to leave. Shawn got the hint and said, "Sally, I've seen that look before. It's high time we leave these two alone. C'mon, let's head down the trail to the beach." They rose together and Shawn led them down the few hundred yards to the edge of the sea where they sat together in silence. Frisco must have known he wasn't welcome above so he joined them at the water, offering them entertainment as he dashed up and over the crashing waves.

After a while, Sally got up and strolled to where Frisco was playing, amazed by how he always found ways to amuse himself. She picked up a stick and made him dash around her and try to take if from her grip. She finally let him snatch it from her hand and pretended to chase him down the beach and Frisco pretended to let her. While they played, Shawn kept focus with the Sentient and clicked away. In only a few minutes he had captured hundreds of wondrous images of the woman he loved...and, oh yeah, Frisco.

When Sally felt Frisco had had enough, she called him to her side for the walk back to Shawn. "Shawn, you've been photographing me, haven't you?'

"Yes ma'am. Sally you're the most beautiful women in the world, why wouldn't I photograph you?"

Her modest nature made Sally uncomfortable, but with Shawn it was different. Sally accepted the compliment and added, "Guess I better get used to it!"

"Yes, you better. Let's head to the house, but walk in front of me twenty feet or so. The lighting is perfect for a silhouette of you along the shoreline. She obliged and went ahead, doing her best to walk naturally.

Sally started up the trail and called back, "Shawn, that's plenty. You have the real me, you don't need so many photographs."

"Shawn, Sally, Frisco!" Drake came tearing down the path, "Get up, I hear propellers! Get up, get up! Fuck, I'm tired of being killed and chased!" Drake was wearing only swim trunks and Wairua appeared seconds later still trying to tie up her dress. "We have to get out of here. This can't be a coincidence; it must be that Craig guy. Bet he's pissed we got away!"

Then Sally saw the black drone and recognized it immediately as one of the prototypes she used. "Drake, you may be right. That's the craft we used to fly the Sentient."

The UAV threaded its way through the trees and came to a hover fifty feet above them. The Sentient pointed straight down, close enough they could hear the shutter clicking. "Damn him, it's Craig and he's using my own invention against me. Head to the deeper jungle, he can't get in there with a drone that big," Sally said and they all charged towards the dense foliage.

Wairua knew these trails best and led them deeper into the forest in the direction of Hono Onopali Natural Reserve. Although the trail was completely covered, it didn't stop Craig from trying as the drone followed just above the tree line. But with Wairua breaking trail, they made good progress to the valley beyond the ridge.

Sally and Shawn both knew the Sentient was capable of switching to a thermal imaging mode which still offered Craig visual tracking of their every move. Sally assured them all as they moved further into the jungle, "Keep in mind, he can follow us for a while but the fatal flaw of the technology is the batteries die really fast. He can't keep it up there much longer, especially since he's using the thermal mode which sucks down the battery life. Wairua, are there any caves around here? If we can get in one, we can stay there until nightfall which is when we can lose him. He'll have to replace the batteries, but that only takes a few seconds. If he brings her way up, the thermal sensor can detect us within in a five-mile radius at one thousand feet."

Wairua nodded, and motioned for them to keep up with her. She was the only one not breathing heavily.

Wairua brought them to a clearing and froze. Sally called to her, "It's alright, he can't hurt us with that thing. He's only following us taking pictures with the camera. He has no weapons on it." At least Sally hoped so. "We only need to get into the next group of trees."

Wairua nodded and sprinted across the opening. Sally held Shawn's face for a moment, "Shawn, if I wasn't so exhausted and scared, I would stop and tell you how beautiful the view is. But I can't, so instead, I love you." She gave Shawn a big kiss before it was their turn to cover the clearing.

"Yeah," Shawn yelled as she took off, "maybe one day when we're not running to save our asses we will come back!"

Sally was halfway across the meadow when a bright orange tour helicopter came in from the ocean and set down right in front of Sally, leaves and debris flying everywhere. Wairua had reached the jungle and Drake, Shawn and Frisco were still waiting their turn. The doors on both sides of the aircraft slid back. Murad and three others emerged.

With one look, Murad knew it was Dr. Evans. The terrorists surrounded Sally and the larger men forcefully held her forearms and lead her to the helicopter. Shawn and Drake charged across the open space to get to Sally. The men with Sally had their hands full as she kicked and screamed, dropping her body weight so they would have to lift her. "Shawn, run, they only want me!" A fist shut her up for good as she fell limp, now twice as heavy as before.

Shawn kept coming. "Sally no!"

Murad swung round and brought up his gun, when Drake suddenly tackled Shawn before Murad fired.

"I'm sorry, my brother, I can't let you go," said Drake as he wrestled to keep Shawn down. "They will shoot you dead, and I don't know any fancy bullshit photography to bring you back. I will hate myself every day of my new life, so I can't let you go!"

Wairua fought with Frisco as well as he tried to break free and get to Sally. Murad and the others who were holding Sally were only fifteen feet from the open doorway and ready to heave her unconscious body into the helicopter.

Shawn pleaded with Drake to let go, and Frisco yelped frantically on the other side. Then a shot rang out and the terrorist who had already boarded fell from the open door. Over the horizon came two Blackhawks, with one turned sideways and holding steady to create a platform for the snipers. In the other was Craig, who Shawn and Drake could see seated beside the pilot.

Craig had been perplexed. Regardless of his success with El Sharrad he still felt he had another opponent who had yet to show himself. He sensed his presence and knew the guy was good, maybe as good as he was. Craig was aware the pace of events had doubled, and, as skilled as he was, he had not planned for that. But he anticipated that his invisible adversary would soon make a mistake.

Previously, Craig had all police radio calls routed through a special filter at NSA and key words or suspicious activities were forwarded to him. Robberies, stabbings, carjacking and other crimes made their way to his PDA, but none seemed unusual until he heard of a triathlete murdered early this morning. Throat cut and the body hidden — something he would do if he needed a car in hostile territory. This was his ghost!

Confirmation of his hunch came when the triathlete's car was reported entering and leaving the Hilton Resort north of Kona. Also found there were the bodies of the two FBI agents who were guarding Jarrard. Both were found shot and killed, one bullet each to the head. The killer also took out Jarrard, but not at once. He had his throat slit approximately thirty minutes after the agents and all his fingers were broken.

_So the man knew where Sally and the others were in Kona, but how was he getting there?_ Craig only had to think as if he were in the other man's shoes. Through the police, he had an alert issued to all airports, private aircraft charters and helicopter tour operators. If I was determined to get somewhere and had no qualms about leaving bodies behind, I would have an aircraft by noon. It was also obvious to Craig that Ben was behind the breakout. Very clever, he thought. Shawn with Sally couldn't go back to Ben's — that place was too close and easy for Craig to drive up and pick them up again. Upon checking, he learned a helicopter owned by Deep Surf flew from Kona around the same time the escape was taking place, and if Jarrard knew the location of about Shawn's home, then so does his ghost.

Craig would have to get to Shawn's first if he was going to save them. He put a call into the General at Hickam AFB to see what kind of equipment they had on hand. He was more than satisfied when he told Craig he could borrow a pair of Blackhawks. "Thank you, General. Fuel them up if you could. You won't mind if a Marine aircraft lands on your base, do you?" Craig joked. "They'll be bringing me over, leaving in ten."

The Marine Captain told Craig to take what he needed; he'd clear it with the higher ups later on, so Craig hand-selected two Marines who were the platoon's assigned snipers. Then on the flight over to Honolulu he received an alert which sealed the deal. The owner and staff of an Island helicopter tour company had been killed along with the pilot and their helicopter was flown off by four men.

Craig's choice of Marines to bring along was fortuitous. Once above the terrorists, from the Blackhawk they picked off the evil bastards like roosters buried with only their heads showing. Within minutes the four terrorists were terminated and Craig ordered cease fire. "Bring me down; we need to find out who these bastards are." Maybe if he was lucky, one would still be breathing.

Sally was coming out of it, the side of her head swollen from the blow. She tried to rise up, but fell again with her one good eye open. Her vision was starting to come back and she could make out the open door of the helicopter, the windows shattered, the pilot slumped over the controls, blood pouring from his mouth. Then she saw the man in the doorway, at first she thought he was dead with his head against the landing brace beneath the rear door. Half his jaw was torn from his head but his eyes opened and he stared right at her. He was still alive. She tried to rise again, to call out, but she was still in shock and passed out again. The last thing she saw as she passed out was the gruesome face or Murad with something in his hand.

"I will take these non-believers with me to the gates of hell!" Murad had uttered when he took the grenade from his bag, realizing they were under fire...and his mission had failed.

Craig saw Sally gesture, and knew it was a warning, but what was she telling him?

He then saw something fall from Murad's hand as he died. The grenade fell beside Sally.

"No!" Shawn yelled as he ripped free from Drake's grasp and ran towards Sally. Craig had the same idea as he took off towards the helicopter.

They were both blown backwards by the concussion when it detonated. A shard of shrapnel embedded itself into Craig's left leg, and he realized his body armor had saved his life when he looked down to see a chunk of metal lodged in the protective vest. At this moment, something changed for Craig. His ears were still ringing, yet he could still hear Shawn's cries. Craig felt a sadness he had not felt since childhood. When he regained his footing, ignoring the gash along his thigh, he approached them slowly. Shawn was next to Sally, his head down against her open chest, praying in Spanish, the only language he knew to speak to God. Craig's men stood back. Wairua, with Drake beside her, knelt next to Shawn and wept. Frisco came up and lowered his ears and lay down against Drake's leg.

From Shawn, in the softest voice Drake had ever heard,

Dios te salve, Maria.

Llena eres de gracia:

El Señor es contigo.

Bendita tú ere entre todas las mujeres.

Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre:

Jesús.

Santa María, Madre de Dios,

ruega por nosotros pecadores,

ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.

Amén.

Craig and his men bowed their heads in respect, and Thomas Craig, once more a little boy, recited the Hail Mary under his breath.

Chapter 46

It had been weeks since Sally was killed. Drake had done everything to get Shawn to pick up the camera again, but it was no use. While they still in the clearing, Major Craig had called in medical support but more for Shawn, Drake and Wairua than for himself. He had ripped off a piece of Drake's Deep Surf shirt and stopped the blood pumping from his wound. It then took some powerful arms to wrestle Shawn away from Sally, or what remained of her. The grenade had gone off only two feet where she had fallen unconscious. The only good they could take away from it all was she didn't feel any pain when it went off.

Drake and Wairua stayed with Shawn at his home to take care for him and help him mourn. Every day, Wairua fed him fresh, natural fruits (that she stole) to help him gain weight and regain his strength. He had lost more than twenty pounds in the three weeks since the day they ran into the Reserve and the jihadist Murad had taken Sally's life.

Craig promised them all he would be in contact and went ahead and placed a 24/7 security detail around Shawn's property, both to keep Drake hidden and to protect them. Craig asked the Marine Corps if he could keep the two young snipers for a month or more and use them to uncover and eliminate the last of the three terrorists' cells. Craig then had any electronic, print traces or records in the government files of Shawn, Drake or Wairua deleted or destroyed. He hadn't changed their identities, only voided any traceable breadcrumbs. After many heated meetings with Photon Corporation, he was successful in persuading them into converting the Sentient Project into just one more cloning and 3D research group; then, he had DIA agents confiscated all materials dealing with or speaking of the Sentient.

Craig had Jarrard's remains flown home to his parents under military honor guard, and, against his own best judgment, had his higher-ups request Professor Jarrard be awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom posthumously. For his parent's sake and no other.

Craig warned all the three-letter agencies, "Hands off Ben, leave him alone." He and Ben had become friends, and Craig dropped in every so often, but before he did, he messaged Ben to turn of whatever animal was standing watch this week. He and Ben certainly did not share any past life experiences, but they did have in common their incredible thirst for knowledge and desire to search for one's inner self.

After about two months as he had planned Craig called Drake and asked if Shawn was up for a visit, he had something to discuss with him, a bit of a surprise.

"Sure, he's okay with you dropping in" Drake answered.

"Good, listen, better yet, here's my personal number. Have him call me when he's back from surfing, I want to invite him personally."

Later the same day, Shawn returned the call, "Shawn, I understand all you've been through," Craig said "Drake says you're having a rough go of it. Well, I'm still concerned about your and Drake's safety and I've decided to address it. This isn't something mandatory either, after I inform you it will be your decision completely. Can you meet me down at your pier in Hanalei Bay at the end of the week? Don't worry, this isn't cloak and dagger, bring Drake and Wairua, and that dog if you want." Shawn agreed, and they hung up.

Friday came and Drake drove with Wairua by his side with Shawn in the back of his own 4WD. As they came in from the west around the point, and the Bay came into view, Shawn looked out to check the surf and he suddenly became enraged. Just outside the lineup, in the center of Hanalei Bay, was a beautiful yacht he recognized. "That fucking bastard Daniel is here, that's his yacht. I'm gonna throttle him, what he put Sally through. I don't want to meet Craig any more, let's turn around."

Drake and Wairua told Shawn they felt the same way too, "But Shawn, in spite of how we feel about how Sally was treated by this guy Daniel, you'd be dissing Craig. Weigh it out, Brah. What's more important, not going because you hate someone, or showing up because you respect someone? In the end, it's all perspective."

As they pulled into the parking lot near the pier, Craig, always being Craig, was standing next to just one more badass, tricked-out, spy SUV, with two suited gents beside him. A handful of the locals hadn't seen nor heard from Shawn for weeks, and thus far, no one had learned that Drake lived again. Craig had ordered Drake when they spoke on the phone, "If you show up, wear a disguise," so Drake had on a blond wig he bought at a beauty salon, dark glasses and a heavy cotton sweatshirt to hide his physic. After all, for the women, his body was as recognizable as his face. A number of surfers noticed Shawn, and came towards him to greet him, but Craig's bodyguards told them they might want to paddle out for one more wave.

"Mr. Pérez thanks for coming to see me. My thoughts are always with you. By the way, you look like shit." Craig joked. "Take a walk with me to the end of the pier. We need to talk about some things now that some time gone by." Craig walked towards the pier.

Shawn could see now _Salvation_ was lined up straight off the pier. "No way, appreciate you wanting to talk about whatever you want to discuss, but I don't want to look at that bastard's boat.

Craig, anticipating Shawn's would be upset when he saw the yacht, said to him, "It's not his any longer. It's now property of the U.S. Government. We arrested Reverend Daniel Gibbons under multiple provisions of the Patriot Act, and the Internal Revenue Service was invited to the party. With one in-depth look at the accounting methods his Ministry used, well, let's just say, he's not going to IRS Heaven, that's for damn sure! We took over his accounts, his real estate and, yes, _Salvation_. Reverend Daniel will be preaching at Leavenworth for many Sunday mornings to come. But this isn't what we are here to speak about specifically."

"I'm glad the loser is where he belongs. Thanks for filling me in. You still won't mind if I face the other way do you?" Shawn asked Craig.

"Sure, suit yourself, but you might change your mind in a minute or two," Craig continued.

Wairua, Shawn, Drake, with Frisco beside him, listened to Craig closely. "No one knows Drake is alive, and you probably would all agree it needs to stay that way for a while, at least for a year or more. Honestly, it could be as long as two years until we have a chance to leak some of the science around the world and prepare civilization for what you have discovered." He paused to let it sink in. "We also feel that, although I have closed up every possible leak and every potential threat from whoever may want to harm you, or in your case Drake, dissect you and see what makes you tick, you are all still in danger. I'm sure you understand this and if you stay here much longer, or live in any beachfront city with surfers, eventually someone is going to see Drake, and after that, there won't much we can do. So to ensure your safety and to allow you to maintain the lifestyles you've become accustomed to, we've made arrangements for the three, I mean, four of you." Craig said as he glanced at Frisco. "Shawn, again, this is not an order but something we want you all to consider as a fairly reasonable trade-off for your safety." At his last words, Craig asked his agent beside him to hand him the VHF, and he called out to the yacht, "Captain, can you bring her around?"

Shawn looked back out towards the yacht. The Captain turned the bow thrusters on and brought her around until the stern finally faced the pier. "It sure makes our fifteen-foot waves look tiny," Drake said as they watched the yacht point its bow out to sea. Then, across the transom, in emblazoned in bold, clear lettering was the yachts new christened name, _Born Again_ and directly beneath, _Discover Deep Surf_.

"Shawn, Drake and, yes, you Wairua, you are all considered assets of our nation and with this comes our obligation to protect you for science and future generations. Oh, and it helps we took Daniel's yacht under a statute the DEA uses to confiscate drug dealer's trucks and boats for their own use."

"Holy shit!" Shawn said to Drake. "Holy Shit" Drake said to Wairua. And Wairua, with only Frisco beside her, gave him a rough scruff on the neck; "Looks good Frisco".

"As you can see, Deep Surf also has a future vested interest in at least Shawn's future, they still don't know about you Drake. Shawn, we told them we would fund the vessel for you if Deep Surf would agree to supply a Captain and crew, all former agents of mine by the way. Deep Surf and Uncle Sam will also contribute together to keep you in fuel, beer, and fish for up to two years. As a matter of fact Wairua, the Captain already has the coordinates for your home island. We figured that might be a great place to start your vacation! And if you wish, we will also put aboard a teacher who can help educate the peoples of your native island as I know it is important to you"

They couldn't believe what they were hearing. "And Shawn, there's a state of the art photo-editing studio built onboard. Deep Surf hopes you will find photography again, and when you do, they wish you will send them a few. There are some neighboring islands they might send a few of their current pro surfers to when you're ready. Oh, and Shawn, one more thing. You have the only existing prototypes of the Sentient on board – so don't break it."

Shawn turned and spoke to Craig, "Why are you doing this? Sally hated you, she said you had no conscience and killed hundreds of people over the years. Hell, even I know about a few of them. How can you be both a killer and compassionate?"

"Shawn Pérez, first of all, I am sorry for all you and Drake have lost in your lives. Your vision and your gift have saved thousands of innocent people, but you have lost the one you love, and the world has lost Drake, kind of. I know I didn't give you much choice, but nonetheless, you behaved as a patriot. Secondly, let's just say you confirmed my suspicions and the teachings I've engaged in all these years, Karma is real, not just new-wave huru-guru. You showed me we live in a perceived reality, or a better way to put it, a virtual reality and if we can promote kindness and eliminate hate, our world will become a much better place." Craig reached out and took Shawn's hand in both of his, "You my friend see the light, goodness and beauty within a person. Promise me you'll continue to do what you do and do my damn'dest to get rid of the scumbags."

As they shook hands, Drake came up from behind and put his arm over Craig's shoulder,

"Whatever you say Mr. Craig, when do we board? My shit's always packed!"

Epilogue

Three months later, the South Pacific with nearby, ripping waves...

Shawn sat down on the sand and placed a brand new professional camera and lens on the sun bleached log next to him. Suddenly, a small hand laid a fresh coconut on the same log and thwack; a machete came down chopping of the very tip.

"Shawn would you like some coconut juice?" said Wairua. "You know it is most refreshing and good for you too!"

"Watch the camera, for goodness sakes Wairua, Deep Surf only sends me two a year. Hell, this one's brand new!" Shawn chided her, "And no, but I would like a brew, or two, if they're handy."

Wairua smiled and walked over to the little skiff they came over to the beach on. Born Again rested out beyond the reef, and he could see the crew clowning around having Star Wars battles with the half-dozen drones Ben had shipped to them.

"Wairua, you may be a liar and a fruit thief, but you're quick with the beers, and that's all that matters!" Shawn joked. He eyed Drake lining up for a tidy afternoon barrel, put down the beer, and picked up the camera.

"Drake, he loves the wave' it's why I love him. He lives through the natural energy of the sea," Wairua commented.

"Well, you wouldn't have felt that way about him if you knew him well last year. He was a snake for women. I even called him 'sneaky snake' when he couldn't hear me."

"No, Shawn, it was always there. He just had to grow into his spirit," Wairua smiled.

"Whatever. He's yours now. Do with him what you may!" and he came around to take some playful pictures as she watched Drake execute a perfect reentry into the wave.

"No, Shawn Pérez, you promised, no pictures of me. You can mess up everyone else's soul, but leave mine to me! You know, it would not be good either to take the spirit of the life inside me."

"Oh, yeah, good point, the baby. God, I hope it looks like you and not Drake when he or she is born!" Shawn remarked and then saw Drake pull of another first. "Holy shit! Did you see that? Man, I missed it. Wairua, go find some more coconuts for your baby!"

After Drake snagged two more great waves Shawn couldn't take it anymore, so he put down the camera and leapt into the ocean; charging out to share the moment with his bro. They surfed till the sun went down, together as only best friends can while back on Born Again, deep on a lower deck and secure in a locked compartment, was a stack of brand new external hard drives. Resting almost peacefully above all the others was the largest drive and written boldly across the front, in black magic marker read the warning, "SALLY: DO NOT DELETE".

THE END

Author's Note

The concept for JPEG came one afternoon in the spring of 2008 while vacationing in Kauai. As I stood waist deep on a reef in the clear blue Pacific photographing my son surfing wave after beautiful wave at a famous break in Hanalei Bay called Waikoko. As Keegan ripped across the breaking swells I captured fantastic colors in every direction as vibrant lights sparkled across the walls of water. This was sports photographer heaven!

In the pauses between his waves I had time to appreciate our world around us and how lucky we are to be alive. My life was wonderful and I was blessed to have such a great family. I thought back to the thousands of photos I had taken of them in the years past and it then occurred to me, in all that time, I had never been able to delete a photograph of my wife, my sons or any of my other family members. Even the fuzziest images of those I love were saved and I wondered why I did this.

Well, I came to the conclusion it was because of something I read some time ago about peoples or religions who felt if you photographed someone, you took a piece of their soul. The idea must have stuck in my head and without giving it too much thought, when I downloaded my images at the end of each day, I was always sure to preserve photos of my loved ones in case it was ever proven to be true.

Over time we have learned what may have been considered science fiction long ago has now become reality today. Through research and learning we have discovered countless instances where religion, science and philosophy interconnect, where myth becomes fact and the beliefs of ancient peoples, while based on intuitive awareness; they were simply unable to understand the why.

One day we will discover there is truth to what the ancients believed; when we take a photograph of someone, we take a piece of their soul.

So for those I love, I'm keeping you safe. After all, how could I ever hurt you? — _PMCL_

About the Authors

Patrick McLaughlin is a writer and professional photographer with an extensive background in the defense technology industry. He lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia with his family. JPEG is his first novel and samples of his photography can be seen at www.patrickmclaughlinphotography.com.

Greg Ó Braonáin is an award-winning screenwriter who for over seventeen years has written drama for Irish language television. Greg with Patrick's assistance completed JPEG the screenplay in October of 2013. He resides in Galway, Ireland with his wife and seven children.

They are childhood friends.
