Randy White - Hunter's moon

Someone was doing background security checks.

I avoid the high-society party circuit, but the hostess was persistent. “You have to make an appearance, Doc. I can’t tell you why, but you really must.”

That’s not the reason I went. I went because my new workout partner, Marlissa Kay Engle, is a musician and actress who’s savvy enough to understand that entertainment is one of those rare industries that pretends to loathe wealth and power, but, in fact, is a courtesan to both. I didn’t mind. Marlissa is hauntingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. It was reason enough for me to endure a social function that required shoes and slacks.

I arrived, prepared to make polite conversation with a visiting ambassador or two. Instead, I was surprised to see him. When he spotted me, he nodded as if he’d been waiting. Suddenly, I understood why I’d been invited.

“It’s been a long time, Dr. Ford. The last time we spoke, you were stepping off a boat in Cartagena near the Old Walled City. And I was still a little numb from how close that rocket came to nailing my vehicle. Colombia, remember?”

I was aware of a Secret Service agent to his right, another on the Collier Inn’s balcony. Both wore Hawaiian shirts, neatly pressed but baggy enough to conceal weapons. The agent on the balcony held a beach towel that probably hid a submachine gun.

“I think you’ve confused me with someone, sir. Colombia, as in South America?”

“I don’t recollect any rocket attacks in South Carolina, do you? Of course I mean South America. Not that I’m surprised by your reaction. Selective memory is a survival device. I’ve heard you’re an expert on the subject.”

He emphasized the sentence in a way that forced me to struggle with the double meaning.

“Expert on what subject?”

I watched him exchange a knowing glance with the agent to his right-a stocky man of Mongol or Asiatic heritage who looked too old to be on active duty. His personal bodyguard, I discovered later. Also the celebrated man’s friend and confidant.

“I’m talking about survival. The Darwinian theory. Your friend, Tomlinson, was just telling me about the paper you two are coauthoring on… what did he call it? Fatal Specialization something.”

Tomlinson was at the party? Another surprise. Yes… there he was, standing beyond the pool where coconut palms framed the Gulf of Mexico. He was wearing white linen slacks, a linen jacket. He was also barefooted, and shirtless, to the delight of the women around him. Marlissa included.

Not a surprise.

Marlissa was the reason we’d argued a few weeks earlier, though we never referred to her by name. Tomlinson and I both embrace the conceit that we are chivalrous men and therefore equitable.

“I’d like to take a look at your research, Dr. Ford. Sounds like it might support what I’ve been preaching for the last few months. Would you mind?”

I was flustered by our unexpected meeting. I also didn’t know what he was talking about. Aside from the plane crash, and an occasional headline, I hadn’t read much about him for many months, maybe years. He interpreted my expression accurately.

“Don’t worry, you’re one of millions who hasn’t been getting my message. Which really pisses me off.”

He enjoyed my reaction. “That’s right, once a sailor, always a sailor. I’m mad because no one takes what I’m saying seriously-a disaster waiting to happen. ‘Apocalyptic,’ although I seldom use the word. It makes people nervous.” He waited through my bland silence before adding. “But it’s happening. Now. ”

I said, “Apocalyptic, as in ‘catastrophe’? Or the Bible story?”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard someone refer to Revelations as a Bible story.” He was still having fun. “You’ve read it?”

Yes, and I thought it a bizarre mix of myth and wistful psychosis-it was disappointing that a man of his accomplishments considered it worthy of discussion.

“You don’t take it seriously?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose on someone’s religious beliefs, sir-”

“Speak freely, Dr. Ford. I’ve got big shoulders, and so does God, I suspect, if there is one.”

“All right. I put Revelations in the same category as astrology and palm readers. Nostradamus, conspiracy theories, and visitors from outer space-the same. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You’re a realist.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“In that case, you should take Revelations very seriously. Because it doesn’t matter what you think or what I think. There are powerful people who believe-really believe-that the Apocalypse is divine prophesy. Leaders who not only welcome the end of the world, they’re determined to make it happen. The scary thing is, these people are gaining political clout in both hemispheres.

“Their followers are devoted, educated, and absolutely secure in their righteousness-the most dangerous of all human trinities. Destabilize the United States, lure us and our allies into Armageddon, and the doors to heaven will open. That’s what they believe. That’s their goal. And we’re making it easy for them.”

The man had a speech on the subject. It had to do with a connection he perceived between prophecy and technology. He was worried about the country’s reliance on fragile essentials, or “blind horses,” as he called them-an old horse trader’s term for unreliable equipment. Internet. Cell phones. Satellites and oil.

He was an articulate speaker, but I was more interested in his intent. It was no accident I’d been invited to this party. The same might be true of Tomlinson. Why?

“The First World has created a techno-environment that’s unrelated to the natural world. It’s a manufactured reality. But it has become America’s national reality.

“What happens if zealots scramble the Internet? Or interrupt the oil supply? The impact would be similar to environmental cataclysm on a primitive community-volcanic eruption, a meteor strike. Disrupt a society’s perceived reality and you’ve destabilized its foundation. Panic would roll across this country like a wave. The perfect setup for World War Three.”

His fervor reminded me of the driven men you sometimes hear preaching doom on busy street corners. I commented that he spoke of panic as if it were a weapon.

“In terms of bang for the buck, panic’s the most lethal weapon around because we’re not prepared. Think about what’s going on right now in Central America. I understand you’re currently doing work there?”

I nodded, surprised he knew. I’d made several trips in the last few months. An international consortium was proposing to build a canal across Nicaragua. Unlike the nearby Panama Canal, it wouldn’t use locks to raise and lower sea level. Two oceans would, for the first time in many millions of years, be connected. What would be the impact when sea creatures from the Pacific Ocean, Caribbean, and Atlantic Ocean intermingled? I was one of several biologists hired as a consultant.

“I assume you’ve been following the conflict there?”

I nodded. “Along with the rest of the world.”

The conflict had to do with the Panama Canal. In 1979, after the U.S. transferred control to Panama, Panama leased the canal’s operational rights to a Hong Kong company. When the Hong Kong company’s multidecade lease expired, Panama awarded the contract to an Indonesian firm, Indonesia Shipping amp; Petroleum Ltd (IS amp;P).

Indonesia is the world’s most populous Muslim country.

The CEO of Indonesia Shipping amp; Petroleum was Dr. Thomas Bashir Farrish, heir to an oil fortune, who lived a playboy life as “Tommy Raker” in Europe and the United States until he became a follower of Ustaz Abu Bakar Bashir.

Farrish’s mentor was sent to prison after a cafe bombing in Bali that killed 202 people, but Bashir continued to preach that “the Western world will crumble when Indonesia joins in Jihad.”