Read an Excerpt
Box 731
By Paul McKellips iUniverse LLC
Copyright © 2013 Paul McKellips
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-0280-2
CHAPTER 1
Desert Rose Inn Reno, Nevada
Oleg unzipped the small case, took a short pull on a Budweiser long neck, and kept his eyes fixed on the TV chef who was preparing a "Flaming Beehive."
He glanced at his watch and then back to the TV as he began to assemble the parts.
"You can start with an eight-inch sponge cake, but I prefer Genoese pastry about a half inch thick," the chef said.
He connected the gas piston and the pusher with the spring and then fit the spring to the rear side of the pusher. The front end of the pusher went into the gas tube. He compressed the spring and inserted the rear end of the pusher together with the spring into the passage of the sight bar. He pulled the pusher back and removed it from the gas tube, inserted the gas piston, and then slid the front of the pusher into the piston socket.
"So here's what we'll need for a perfect Flaming Beehive. I suggest a quarter cup of Irish Mist whiskey and a quarter cup of fine sherry. Now let's grab eight egg whites, a half cup of sugar, one quart of vanilla ice cream, two egg yolks, and one-and-a-half cups of whipped cream."
He connected the hand guards, left side first, into the lower band and pressed down until it clipped into the lugs on the supporting ring. He fit the upper band to the end pieces of the hand guards and then turned the axle pin on the gas tube to let the lug enter the recess on the band.
"Now, we place the Genoese pastry cake on a round wooden board."
He connected the firing and trigger mechanism. Engaging the recesses of the firing and trigger mechanism body with the stop-pin, he pressed them into the receiver, inserted the safety lever pin into the hole of the receiver, and turned the safety lever in the clockwise direction.
"I'm going to prick the pastry in several places with a fork. Pour the Irish Mist and sherry over and chill for one hour," the chef said, reaching into the refrigerator. "Since watching a Flaming Beehive chill for an hour is not exactly compelling television, we'll use the one I made just before we went on the air."
His mind began to recite the assembly instructions with the same military cadence he had heard a thousand times before. Connect the bolt to the bolt support, insert the bolt into the passage of the bolt support, turn the bolt so that its driving lug enters the shaped recess of the bolt support, and move the bolt forward as far as it will go.
"Let's preheat the oven to four hundred degrees. Beat egg whites until stiff. Gradually beat in sugar."
Connect the bolt support and the bolt. Insert the guiding lugs of the bolt support into recesses of the receiver and move the bolt support forward. Connect the receiver cover together with the retracting mechanism.
"Now we top the pastry with a mold of ice cream. Beat egg yolks and add to the meringue."
Insert the return spring into the passage of the bolt support, insert the lugs on the front end of the cover into recesses on the lower band; press the rear end of the cover to make the cover fit tightly to the receiver, turn the axle pin of the receiver cover forward to set it on the cheek plate limiter.
"It's best to pastry-tube this stuff on, using a plain tube, beginning at the top of the ice cream mold and continuing around and around to the base to simulate a beehive."
Connect the butt cheek plate. Put the cheek plate on the butt with its fastener to the right, fit the loop onto the hook of the clip, and turn fastener upward. Connect the optical sight.
"Be sure the ice cream and pastry are fully covered. Scoop out enough meringue from the top so you have the space to hold a half eggshell later."
Match the slots on the sight bracket with the lugs on the left wall of the receiver; shift the sight forward as far as it will go and turn the handle of the clamping screw toward the objective, and let the handle lug enter the recess of the bracket.
"Bake two to three minutes or until meringue is pale gold. Garnish the base with maroons in syrup and colorful glazed fruits."
Connect the magazine. Insert the front hook of the magazine into the opening of the receiver, and turn the magazine toward shooter to let the latch engage the rear hook of the magazine.
He carefully mounted the Pritsel Snaipersky Optichesky PSO-1 optical sniper sight and inserted one round of the 7N1 variant of the 7.62 × 54mmR rimmed rifle cartridge.
"Now let's place that half eggshell in the top space of the beehive."
Oleg stepped over to the second-floor window on the backside of his guest room at the old Desert Rose Inn on West Fourth Street in downtown Reno, Nevada, lifted the lower pane, and checked his watch one more time. Thirty seconds.
"Fill the half eggshell with warmed Irish whiskey."
He rechecked the flash and sound suppressors one final time. Placing his right cheek on the cheek pad, he casually looked through the PSO-1 reticle. The bottom left corner properly ranged the seven hundred meters between him and the target, a 1.7 meter man. The top center chevron was the main aiming mark. The horizontal hash marks for wind and lead corrections wouldn't be necessary given the weather conditions in Reno.
Oleg inserted the small point-of-view camera into the scope and verified the image was recording on his laptop.
"Now we're ready to go. Serve flaming, sauced with sweetened vanilla-flavored whipped cream."
The outside door to the laboratory opened and a five foot, six inch Japanese scientist walked out and down the sidewalk the same way he had done the previous three days. As his hand touched the door handle of the white Toyota Camry, a single 7N1 variant bullet from the 7.62 × 54mmR rimmed rifle cartridge entered and exited his brain just above the right eye, rendering the Japanese scientist immediately deceased with neither bang nor flash.
Oleg turned back to the TV before his target hit the pavement, and he began to disassemble the rifle. His Dragunov SVD sniper rifle had now successfully terminated seven biomedical research scientists around the world.
"With some French couverture chocolate, pipe out some bees on paper and arrange them around the beehive after flaming. Magnificent. Next time you have a party, knock 'em dead with a Flaming Beehive and feature a vivacious twist of Irish whisky."
Oleg took another long pull on the Budweiser and then flipped the channel.
CHAPTER 2
Camp was dead.
He stepped off the road into the full darkness of night, down through a shallow ditch, and up into some tall grass. He could see a faint white glow on the other side of the evergreens. Passing through the trees, his senses exploded with the cleansing smell of pine needles and a unique freshness in the air, aromas he had never before inhaled.
The reunion experience was overwhelming.
Camp was overcome with joy as his oldest and closest friends, now gathered at the edge of the pond, stood waiting for him. A thousand years seemed to pass with each long embrace, deep smile, unhurried laugh, and the touching of hands. Hands were holding hands, and none of the fourteen people were letting go of each other.
"How was it, Camp? Was it everything you dreamed of?" Liza asked, blue eyes piercing his thoughts.
"It was incredible! Liza, Enod, James, Nahla, Margaret ... I can't even find the words." Camp reached over and caressed each face as he moved down the greeting line. "Micah, Daniel ... oh my, Rebekah ... Landon ... even Thomas. It's so good to see my old friends again."
Camp's eyes lifted above his friends' faces and beyond the pond to the slope that led up the hill. He saw a large building. He felt the music that was beginning to surround his senses.
Liza reached out and took Camp's hand and led him past the pond and over toward the old wooden footbridge that crossed the stony brook.
"Come on, Camp, everyone is excited to see you," Liza said as she tugged on his hand.
Camp stood mesmerized. He couldn't take his eyes off the building. It was so beautiful, so perfect, and so alive with emotion and music.
The others passed by and stepped over the bridge to the other side of the brook. His friends parted down the middle to make way for a woman who walked slowly through them. She stopped at the center crest of the wooden footbridge.
Liza lowered her eyes as she let go of Camp's hand and stepped over the bridge to where the others had gathered on the other side.
Camp pulled his eyes down from the building and over to the woman. He opened and closed his eyes slowly, methodically, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming. A rich, warm oil of eucalyptus filled his nostrils and saturated his body as he looked into the eyes he had known for a million years.
"Jane," he whispered.
"Hello, Camp. You're still beautiful," she said, taking a step closer.
Camp reached out to touch her, but she gently held her hand out to stop him.
"The dinner is almost ready, Camp; most everyone is here. They're all anxious to see you again." She turned to look back at the building where the music was coming from.
"Jane, I've missed you. Not a second has passed that I didn't think your name or see your face," he said as he stepped closer, moving higher up the footbridge.
"Are you sure?"
Camp was perplexed. He looked over at his fourteen friends, but their auras of unconditional love neither betrayed Jane's question nor solved Camp's confusion.
"Am I sure of what? Why won't you touch me? It's almost as if you're blocking me."
Jane smiled, reached out, and softly brushed the back of her hand against his cheek.
"No, I'm not blocking you. You can come now, if you want, but you need to be sure."
"Sure of what?"
"Are you finished? Is your work done? Has the whole story been written?"
Camp lowered his eyes with uncertainty. Music filled his mind, and he was drawn back to the image of the building.
"Well?" she whispered patiently.
"Yes, I think my work is done."
The fragrance of the pine needles and the poetic babbling of the brook were shattered by a desperate scream.
"Camp! Do you hear me? Do not let go!"
Camp's eyes snapped over to Jane, who was already focused on the chaotic scene behind him. She motioned for him to look.
He slowly turned around. A few feet behind him, a stretcher was being wheeled into the Gettysburg Hospital emergency room. Leslie Raines was holding US Navy Captain Seabury "Camp" Campbell's lifeless hand and screaming at him, as paramedics and doctors worked frantically to get his heart beating again.
"What's going on?" Camp asked quietly with his back to Jane. "Why is everyone so upset? Why is Leslie crying?"
"You're dying, Camp. They love you. She loves you."
"But I'm happy. Don't they know I'm happy? I'm home. I'm finally home with all my friends."
"Yes, you're home. If you want to cross this bridge, then you are home now and forevermore. You're welcome to stay here. But you must be sure."
"What are you saying?"
"You've always been a fighter. What if you have more work to do, more life to live, more lives and dreams to save? Perhaps you need to fight one more time. What if more people and the precious innocence of their children are in danger? Too many of us leave unfinished work and unrealized dreams too early. You'll be home soon enough. Just make sure."
"Camp!" Leslie screamed from the emergency room as he saw his body on the stretcher. A curious feeling dashed through his mind as he viewed his body, his life-shell. It was nothing more than mortal clothing that moved him from experience to experience.
Camp shook his head in dismay. The ER doctor quickly inserted an endotracheal tube so Camp could be ventilated.
"Look at that young ER doc. He's lost ... He's panicking. Jane, look ... he doesn't know what to do. He's letting me die!"
Jane took a few steps over the bridge and stood next to Camp.
"Come on, kid ... I'm in hypovolemic shock," Camp said to the young ER doctor who could not hear his words. "I've lost too much blood, the heart is trying to pump, but there's not enough blood left in my body."
"Then tell him what to do, Camp. He's searching his mind, recalling his cases, flipping through old textbook pages still printed in his mind. A million voices are going off in his head all at once. Let him hear yours, and every other doctor who guided his hands before," she said as she reached out and took Camp's hand.
"I need four units of emergency release O negative blood STAT!" the young ER doctor yelled.
Leslie looked up at the EKG monitor as Camp's heartbeat crashed. Eileen's arm was wrapped around Leslie's shoulders.
"He's only got one IV in. Come on, buddy, put another eighteen-gauge IV in the other arm ... There ya go ... Now get a liter of lactated ringers running ... That's it ... Come on, wide open on both sides."
"You want to go back," Jane said with calm assurance.
"I just don't want to see this kid screw up," Camp said as he couldn't pull his eyes away from the scene. "He's the one who's gonna have to live with this, not me."
"Doctor!" Leslie screamed as she pointed to the EKG.
"Wake up kid; I'm in V-fib. Give me one milligram of epinephrine ... That's right, now five cycles of chest compressions, one hundred times a minute."
"Will that be enough?" Jane asked.
"To save me? Hardly. I have classic tension pneumothorax. My right lung is collapsed, leaking like a balloon, and putting too much pressure on my heart. When I breathe, air escapes the lung, but it's trapped inside the chest cavity. With each breath, the amount of air around the lung increases, and the amount the lung can expand ... decreases."
The ER doctor listened to Camp's chest with a stethoscope. "I've got nothing!" he yelled.
Jane leaned in and rested her head on Camp's shoulder as they watched.
"You are an amazing man, US Navy Captain Campbell. The best trauma surgeon I ever saw. Tell him what to do, Camp. Help him remember everything he was taught."
The doctor grabbed a sixteen-gauge needle from the tray, felt for Camp's clavicle, and then walked his fingers down just below the second rib. With a quick jab, the doctor thrust the needle into Camp's chest, sending a rush of air out and through the needle as his chest expanded.
"You should go back now," Jane whispered. "A major storm of evil is brewing. You might be the only one stubborn enough to stop it."
Camp turned toward his former fiancée and then looked back over the footbridge at the others. Their faces were full of smiles and encouragement. A major storm of evil? He struggled to even comprehend the thought. "If we all come from the same place, the same God, how can there be evil, Jane?"
"Choices--we all make choices."
A surge of understanding and enlightenment filled his thoughts. "So is this where premonitions come from? Curtains pulled back slightly from the hereafter, to warn us, to guide us in the here?"
Jane let go of Camp's hand and walked back to the crest of the old wooden footbridge.
"You are a special one, Camp. God's gift to each of us is one life. You've been granted two. What will you do with that gift? Who will you save to live another day?"
He looked back into the emergency room. Leslie and Eileen held each other crying as the young ER doctor and his staff worked frantically on Camp's lifeless body.
"She loves you," Jane said with penetrating admiration.
Camp paused for what seemed an eternity as he straddled the here and the hereafter. "What about us?"
"We had our season and it was wonderful. But Leslie is your soul mate, Camp. She always was. You have more work to be done, more life to be lived."
He turned and glanced at his friends and reluctantly raised his hand to wave good-bye.
"We'll see you soon!" Liza called out as they all inched closer to the babbling brook.
"We'll be waiting for you when you get back," Enod shouted as he put his hand on Liza's shoulder.
Camp looked into Jane's eyes. "How long have I been gone?"
"In life time? Three minutes."
Camp dropped his head and smiled. "Funny, isn't it? But I feel like I've been here for an eternity."
"You have," Jane said, smiling as Camp turned and started walking slowly toward the evergreen trees and the tall grass. "We all have."
Camp turned and took one final look at the building that was all aglow. He closed his eyes and printed the sound of the music and the fullness of the air. He was consumed with peace, joy, and assurance.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Box 731 by Paul McKellips. Copyright © 2013 Paul McKellips. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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