Waterborne, page 1
Waterborne
J. Luke Bennecke
© Copyright J. Luke Bennecke 2021
Black Rose Writing | Texas
© 2021 by J. Luke Bennecke
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-674-6
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
Thank you so much for reading one of our
Terrorism-Thriller novels.
If you enjoyed our book, please check out our recommendation
for your next great read!
Jihadi Bride by Alistair Luft
“ A timely edge-of-your-seat terrorism thriller that plays on every parent ’ s worst fears. This cinematic thriller is destined for TV. ”
– Best Thrillers
For Jim Balcom, P.E.,
an inspirational civil engineer, mentor, and friend.
FACTS:
1. Light-water reactors, used at both the Chernobyl and Fukushima disasters, are the most common type of nuclear reactor in use today. The United States Department of Energy oversees the operation of 99 light-water nuclear reactors, providing 20% of U.S. electricity.
2. Molten Salt Reactor technology was developed in the 1950s, consumes existing spent nuclear fuel, and will not melt down.
3. California has a population of 40 million people, each of whom uses 109 gallons of fresh, pure drinking water every day during summer months.
4. In 2015 CRISPR gene editing technology matured to the point where biologists could accurately change the genome of living organisms, including viruses.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Recommended Reading
Dedication
Facts
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
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
EPILOGUE
BOOK TWO: BLACKOUT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
BRW INFO
CHAPTER 1
August 1 st – Stockton, California
11:15 p.m.
Mass murder can be complicated. But profitable.
From a vacant corner of the Chili ’ s parking lot, behind a four-foot-high wall of cropped manzanita shrubs, Gunther Pertile scanned the area for civilians. Not a soul in sight. He whipped out his Glock 9mm — with suppressor — aimed at each of the two main overhead lights and squeezed off two muffled rounds. Glass shattered, falling to the ground as the entire scene went dark.
He dismounted his jet-black Harley, then slid off his helmet to reveal the short, curly hair he ’ d recently bleached to no longer be the dark-haired, dark-eyed killer on the FBI ’ s most wanted list.
Running his fingertips along each of the four loaded mags inside the pocket of his leather jacket, he calculated the time to empty all sixty rounds. At three rounds per second and another three seconds to swap each mag, he could finish in just over half a minute.
One dead every half second.
Not bad.
But he tossed aside his mass shooting fantasy, forced himself back to reality, drew a deep breath and relished the security of his weapon. After two decades as a sniper, he knew tonight ’ s assignment — his actual job — would succeed.
Piece of cake.
His weapon holstered, he glided through the front door of the restaurant and took a window seat.
A flash of blue pulled into the parking lot. The target — a civil engineer named Jake Bendel — wore a gray fedora hat, jeans, a light blue dress shirt and plaid charcoal sport coat as he exited a Tesla and strolled toward Chili ’ s carrying a laptop, several rolls of paper, and a three-ring binder. Inside, the hostess escorted him to a booth on the room ’ s opposite side. Physically, the target ’ s height and weight matched the profile the boss had provided. At a height of just above six-one, maybe two hundred pounds, Gunther evaluated the level of effort to accomplish the abduction.
Within tolerance.
After Bendel sat, he ordered dinner and worked, checking his Apple Watch every few minutes.
Gunther took a slow sip of ice water, studying the mostly vacant dining room of the restaurant.
Eventually, the target ’ s food came and he ate — still checking his watch. Gunther smiled.
The other members of the assault team had already taken care of Jake ’ s friend, Dave, who most definitely would not be dining at Chili ’ s tonight.
Or anywhere ever again, for that matter.
Gunther finished his water and set the glass on the table.
His Android read 11:55 p.m.
Perfect.
He dug a hand into his pants pocket and wrapped his fingers around a syringe filled with enough Trihypnol to subdue a professional wrestler. With the quarter-inch-long needle capped at the tip, he ’ d avoid accidentally injecting himself with the hypnotic drug.
Trihypnol was the perfect concoction for tonight ’ s events. Once administered, the victim would remain fully awake, but in a highly suggestible and altered state of consciousness — alert and fully mobile for up to four hours. The famous Dr. Jake Bendel would later crash like a pelted pigeon and sleep for half a day, with zero memory of the evening ’ s activities.
Bendel stuffed the last piece of halibut into his mouth, chewed, and washed it down with a final swig of beer.
Game time.
CHAPTER 2
August 1st
11:55 p.m.
Jake shifted in his seat, alone in an oversized padded booth, as he stabbed the last dry bite of cold halibut with his fork. From inside his leather folder, he slid out his favorite pen, the one personally awarded to him by the Governor for his previous efforts. Inscribed on the side, above a line with his initials “ J.B. ” read: S û r System - Moving America Forward without Traffic Congestion .
While scanning the construction plans sitting off to the side of the table, he wrote several notes for himself, focusing on the remaining year of scheduled tasks — hundreds — all accurately displayed in the form of bar charts, dates, and percentages of completion. After setting the pen onto the plans, he raked his fingers through his thinning hair, wishing he ’ d worn his comfy construction boots instead of the black leather dress shoes pinching his toes. He took a long swig of Budweiser, then rubbed his eyes, trying to relax.
One final survey of the inside of the restaurant for Dave Trainer, his longtime friend, yielded nothing. Still no sign. If Dave wasn ’ t coming, Jake could get more work done at his home office than in this restaurant.
As he packed up the multi-paged schedule, Jake ’ s mind churned through potential solutions to the project delays and he waved the waitress over.
Jake ’ s waitress strolled up then slipped the check and its black plastic tray next to the napkin dispenser. He plucked his wallet from his jeans and tossed an American Express onto the tray.
After closing a manila folder stuffed full of the latest progress reports, he thought about the largest water treatment plant. Three months behind schedule — unacceptable on a five billion-dollar project. The construction delays needed serious reining in, for sure, to keep the go
A tall order.
Maybe with twelve-hour shifts per day, seven days a week. Jake blinked rapidly, running the numbers in his head. The shit ton of overtime would totally obliterate the already bulging budget.
But the governor demanded excellence, especially from her project director. She ’ d brought Jake on board to solve California ’ s drought by finishing all five plants in record time. At her request, Jake had engineered the concept of pumping and treating seawater with energy created by a new form of cheap, safe nuclear power. The clean water would provide a basic human resource to most of California ’ s booming population for decades.
Now, only three of the five plant combos were finished and ready to go online.
Jake piled up his used silverware on his plate, glad he hadn ’ t ordered steak. He ’ d thought about it a few times the last couple of years, but ever since the infamous Los Angeles auto crashes and terrorist threats two years ago he hadn ’ t been able to eat red meat. Partially because he ’ d seen too many of the victims. Partially because his wife was one of them. And partially because the press had initially blamed him for the carnage.
Too much death.
That ’ s why he planned to meet Dave here tonight. As a master computer hacker, Dave had played a key role in stopping the terrorists responsible for the crashes. Coming head-to-head with evil like that had messed them both up pretty bad, so Jake had invited Dave to a seafood dinner as part of their ongoing healing process.
But now the guy had stood him up.
No text. No phone call. Nothing.
As he waited for the waitress to bring his card back, he noticed a muscular black man with short, bleached blond hair and a salt and pepper half-length ZZ-Top beard sitting alone across the room, nursing a clear drink. Vodka on the rocks, perhaps.
Jake checked his watch: two minutes after midnight. He needed to go home.
The waitress returned, he picked up his card, threw on his fedora hat and rose to leave.
As he walked toward the door, the bearded man also rose to leave. A credit card slipped from his hand and landed in front of Jake on the low-pile carpet.
Jake bent, scooped the card up off the ground, and jogged after the man.
Gunther strode across the parking lot as Bendel raced after him.
So far so good.
“ Excuse me, sir! I think you dropped this. ”
Gunther smiled and turned around. “ Thanks, bro. ” Jake gave him the card and spun toward his Tesla.
As Jake extended his arm to open the driver ’ s door, Gunther pulled out the syringe from his pocket and closed the distance between them while placing a thumb snugly on the plunger. Before Jake could open the car door, Gunther lunged forward, bumping the engineer forward while injecting the Trihypnol into the meat of his neck.
Jake stumbled but caught his balance. Gunther stabilized his target, saying in a drunken, slurred tone, “ Sorry, dude, didn ’ t mean to —”
Jake whirled around and stepped back, eyes blinking. He shook his head, brushing imaginary dust off his arms. “ Watch where you ’ re going, man, I —”
Gunther said nothing, instead turning his gaze to the corner of the parking lot and motioning toward the target.
Headlights popped on as the unmarked black van parked in an opposite corner of the lot sped forward and pulled up next to Jake.
The side door swooshed open and the rest of the abduction team, two men wearing dark green ski masks, black jackets, and leather gloves, leapt out and surrounded Jake, who stumbled sideways in a failed attempt to escape. The largest of the abductors jabbed a stun gun and ten thousand volts into Jake ’ s rib cage, then heaved him into the van.
As Gunther hopped into the cargo space of their vehicle, another man jumped out and dashed toward the Harley. Gunther slid the door shut and nodded to the driver who hurled the van onto an empty street and accelerated west.
The abduction had taken less than ten seconds.
Another success.
Two of the masked men secured Jake ’ s wrists behind his back with 3/8-inch yellow nylon rope. Same with his ankles. Jake ’ s aggressive efforts to free himself eventually gave way to slow, clumsy movements as the Trihypnol coursed through his veins.
Gunther thought of his boss and the several dozen Jihadist souls sent to Allah two years ago because of Jake ’ s actions. But now the Almighty had called on their sleeper cell as chosen ones, to send yet another message to the American infidels. One final, symbolic act of religious supremacy before the heroes would ascend to the Kingdom of God.
And those 99 virgins, or whatever.
What a bunch of extremist Allahu Akbar bullshit.
Gunther was in this for the money.
And the unbeatable rush.
The sense of control.
Power.
The assassin pulled up Jake ’ s torso, sitting Jake ’ s drugged body upright on the van floor as Jake ’ s head flopped around like a fishing bobber. “ He ’ s all yours. ”
The woman in the passenger seat unbuckled her seatbelt, climbed to the rear of the van, leaned forward, and lifted Jake ’ s chin as she stared into his half-open eyes.
She slapped his cheek, but he only smiled. “ Whew. Just a nightmare. ” He chuckled, glancing around the van before taking a second look at Gunther.
“ Glad you think this is funny, ” the woman said. “ Good news is you won ’ t remember a damned thing. ”
The van drove across a deep pothole, forcing everyone to bounce. Jake gave a weak shake of his head, likely trying to clear the fog and regain clear focus.
She continued. “ You ’ re going to do me a favor. ” She brought her face to within an inch of his. “ Jakey boy. ”
Jake ’ s face morphed into a distant, confused daze.
“ I understand your daughter, Carlie, has a three-month-old son. Living in New York. Would be a shame if anything were to happen to them. ”
He furrowed his brow, tilting his head.
She finally had his attention.
The van turned a corner and sped up as streetlights streaked by in a blur before the team entered the I-5 north, ultimately headed toward the coast to put Jake to work.
“ You tousha my family, ” Jake said, still slurred, to the woman, “ and I ’ ll hunt your seck ass down and bash in that pretty li ’ l face of yours. ”
“ Sounds like we have an understanding then, ” she said, smiling, leaning back and crossing her arms. “ Tonight, you ’ ll live. But you ’ re going to wish we ’ d killed you. ”
CHAPTER 3
August 2nd
10:55 a.m.
Jake was used to the nightmares every night for the last two years. Ever since Viktor Johnston murdered his wife, orchestrated the attack on the freeway, and threatened to come back for Jake. Today, however, instead of waking up from another nightmare about Viktor strangling him, Jake awoke to the sound of a cat purring in his ear, along with the chirps of multiple wrens outside the first floor office window. Unable to sleep in a bed since his wife ’ s untimely death two years ago, Jake lay instead on the lush leather couch in the rear of his downstairs office.
Out of habit and with his eyes still closed, he stretched out his arm with full intentions of snatching the thin Ultrabook computer from atop the coffee table to create a new Google Doc and type details about last night ’ s nightmares. His therapist had told him to document his daily feelings and impressions of his dreams as a coping mechanism to process the nightmares.
But for the first time in months, no memory of bad dreams.
No dreams at all.
Odd.
Good, but odd.
No laptop, either.
Crap, I slept in my clothes again?
Now, with his conscious mind fully awake, he felt the familiar surge of emptiness and anxiety as he remembered Cynthia was no longer in his life. Guess it ’ s time to get up .
After feeling in his pocket for his good luck Sur System pen, he rolled off the couch, picked up his fedora hat from the floor and set it on the coffee table. Jake ’ s black and white tuxedo kitty, Lazy Bones, enjoyed a good rub down and a scoop of kibble from a fresh bag.
