The Red Phoenix 12: Strength Comes in Numbers (7 page)

“Sure,” Chris answered.

“The one lab assistant in there, her name is Sheila,” stated Scott, returning his attention to the lab.

Chris looked at Sheila through the window and watched her walk across the lab. She had a nice face and gorgeous blue eyes.

“You can’t tell with the lab suit she is wearing, but when she is off-duty, she is freaking hot. Whew!”

“Why don’t you ask one of these ladies out, Scott?” asked Chris.

“Are you kidding? Look at me,” stated Chris in a humble voice. “I look like the nerd that makes software in the back of a computer shop or the guy who shows up with a tow-truck with grease on his face. I’m no ladies’ man.”

“You’ll never know until you ask,” Chris suggested, chuckling at the comic relief.

“You, on the other hand,
Mr. Ex-special Forces
, could get a date with anybody you wanted. In fact, I hear the women around here like military guys,” Scott added with a jocular whisper.

“I doubt that,” stated Chris in a modest voice. “I’m just a guy over forty needing a job.”

“Are you kidding? Look at you, you’re tall, brawny and got an awesome goatee thing going on,” said Scott, sounding like a butt-kisser.

Chris raised his hand up to his chin, tapping his wedding ring.

“Married, huh?” asked Scott, his voice sounding like he was disappointed he wouldn’t be able to puppy-dog off Chris’ coolness.

“Twenty-two years,” Chris answered with a sad smile. “I wish I could say she will be around for another twenty-two years but some things just don’t happen.”

“She sick?” asked Scott.

“Cancer,” Chris responded.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” stated Scott, sounding sincere.

“It is what it is,” said Chris.

“Right. Well, c’mon, I’ll take you Dr. Siddoway.” Scott led him back down the narrow hallway. “He’s expecting us.”

***

The large delivery truck reached a huge loading dock at the rear of the facility. Rick pulled up to the dock manager, Oscar Fuentes, who was holding a clipboard, hard hat and neon safety vest.

“I was told to bring my rig over here,” Rick told him through the driver window.

“Dock number seven!” said Oscar stated, directing Rick, pointing a finger, waving his other hand.

Rick pulled up to the loading bay titled
Dock Seven
. Two men and one woman in huge robot suits with large hydraulic arms, hands and feet walked up to the rear of the delivery truck, opened the double-doors and began unloading the contents with their large mechanical-robotic arms.

“Whatever the hell happened to fork lifts?” Rick muttered from his driver seat, watching the three unload his truck through his long side-view mirror.

“Another day, another dollar, huh?” Andre, one of the robot-suit workers, commented in an upbeat voice as he and two other employees, Grant and Britney, took items from the rear of the trailer.

“I’m telling you, Andre, we need to have a private gladiator match in these robot-suits,” said Grant as they carried the boxes from the trailer and placed them on a cart that sat on a small automatic railing system. “Like after hours when nobody is around.”

Andre laughed.

“You guys are just begging to get fired,” said Britney, joking around with them, placing another box on the transit-cart with her robot arms.

Andre picked up the box containing the
silver-red metal chest
then placed it onto a cart with another stack of junk from N.A.S.A.

“What is all this stuff?” asked Grant, setting the box onto the cart, not having a clue about the metal chest.

“Looks like worthless trash to me,” said Andre.

“C’mon, guys, we’re almost halfway there!” said Britney.

“To the storage facility it goes,” said Grant, pushing a green button, sending the cart containing the metal chest in a box down a small, dark tunnel over the railing system to another part of the massive facility.

The cart continued on through what seemed like an endless tunnel around a wide bend in the dark. The railing beneath the cart screeched as it carried on. The other items next to the metal chest rattled and slid around the top of the box, pushing the chest against the side. It arrived in a spacious room with boxes and containers on shelves and employees wearing bio-hazard suits that looked like a warehouse clerk’s work station. There was a desk loaded with papers, stacks of books and manila folders that the employees, Bob and Herb, had made after storing one item after another.

“Hey, Bob? We got another one,” stated Herb, getting up from a chair, wearing a full protective bio-hazard suit with gloves, his long legs stepping over other boxes on the floor to get to the cart.

“Anything interesting?” asked Bob, wearing a similar suit, struggling to lift his heavier body up from his desk chair.

“Not really but some of this stuff has bio-hazard warning stamps,” said Herb.

“Well, you bag ’em; I tag ’em,” stated Bob.

“Where should we place them, boss?” asked Herb.

“Let’s put this stuff in vault number two, starting with this.” Bob picked up the silver-red metal chest from the box.

***

Scott and Chris walked into Dr. Siddoway’s lab where there was a demonstration of one of Siddoway’s weapons in progress. Siddoway stood at the head of the lab where two rows of four employees, each wearing karate gi training uniforms and protective head gear, faced each other on padded mats. One row of employees wore a peculiar type of metallic-glove that went halfway up their forearms.

Siddoway rubbed his beard and adjusted his glasses as he prepared to watch the demonstration.

“Awesome,” said Scott.

“What’s going on?” asked Chris as they watched the proceedings. “Is he teaching martial arts?”

“One of Siddoway’s latest inventions,” Scott answered, clearly impressed. “It’s called the
Death Grip
. Watch.”

“Siddoway still looks like a college professor,” Chris said with a smile like he was glad to see him.

“Can everyone hear me?” asked Siddoway in a loud voice.

The employees muttered a response in unison.

“I want you all to go slow,” stated Siddoway. “No sudden attacks. Is that clear?”

The employees mumbled another compliant response.

“Now, approach your opponent slowly,” Siddoway commanded, sounding like a coach instructing his students. “Those of you wearing no gloves, I want you to grab your opponent as if you were a bad guy on the street.”

The employees approached each other. The gloveless ones grabbed the others who were wearing the Death Grips.

“Get down on the ground!” yelled the gloved employees.

The ones without gloves took an electric shock, causing one of them to be thrown to his back as others collapsed on their faces.

“Well done!” Siddoway said, applauding them as the gloved employees helped the fallen ones up onto their feet.

The employees shook each other’s hands then left the lab, heading towards some locker rooms.

“Dr. Siddoway,” Scott called in a cheerful voice as he and Chris walked across the padded mats.

“Ah, no shoes please,” Siddoway cautioned them.

“Right, right, sorry about that,” said Scott as he and Chris moved off to the side.

“Soon, every law enforcement officer will have a pair of these,” said Siddoway in a serious voice, picking up one of the metallic gloves and staring at it like all his passion was put into its design.

“It’s impressive,” said Chris, trying not to sound like a suck-up.

“They can holler about Taser weapons, mace spray and pepper ball guns all they want, but the real conflict is right here in the hands,” said Siddoway, holding out his palms. “When an officer has a combative assailant and engages in an altercation, his greatest danger is to lose his weapon after a brief scuffle then be murdered with his own gun.”

“Victory by the mere touch of the officer,” said Scott, dazzled at the gloves.

“Exactly,” Siddoway responded, pacing across the lab, setting the metallic glove on a counter then gazing at a poster of Albert Einstein on the wall.

Chris and Scott watched him, waiting for him to continue.

“Through science and brilliant technology, the inventions I create in this lab will change that,” Siddoway added, holding his hands behind his back, still staring at the poster. “They will change the world as we know it and make it a safer place. Do you believe me, Mr. Michaels?”

“Good philosophy,” Chris replied.

“Mr. Michaels, you are prepared to work here in this lab as my assistant?” asked Siddoway.

“That’s why I’m here,” Chris answered. “I appreciate your consideration. I know in the past, I’ve had my issues but I—”

“—You’ll be working with Mr. Warnick closely for a while,” stated Siddoway. “He can show you the ropes until you learn what we do here.”

“Yes sir. Anything else?” asked Chris.

“The problems in your past, you’ve taken care of them, yes?” asked Siddoway.

“I’ve been sober for over a year,” Chris replied, putting his hands in his pockets.

“And your wife, how is she doing?” asked Siddoway.

“Terminal,” Chris answered in a quiet voice. “She may have less than six months.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Siddoway in a sincere voice.

“I’m ready to move on and commit myself to this occupation,” Chris replied. “I need to plunge myself into work to keep my mind off things.”

“Good. Just be on time and show me that I can count on you,” stated Siddoway, sounding firm.

“Fair enough,” Chris responded.

***

Bob placed the metal chest onto a table in their work area. Herb taped a tag on it, marking it as
Item Number One
.

“Well, this is an interesting little chest,” stated Herb. “Very peculiar shiny, triangle patterns.”

“It looks new,” Bob added.

“Where do you think it was made?” asked Herb, turning the chest, looking at all sides of it.

“Taiwan,” Bob replied with sarcasm, chuckling. “Maybe Hong Kong?”

“I wonder what these wavy lines on the side of it mean,” said Herb, placing it back down on the table.

“Does it open?” asked Bob

“Nope, sure doesn’t,” Herb answered, tugging on the lid, trying to remove it.

“Don’t work too hard on it,” said Bob.

“I want to open it,” Herb replied.

“Well, maybe it’s just a worthless piece of crap, so let’s just get it in the storage vault,” stated Bob.

“Just a second,” said Herb, carrying the metal chest across the floor with a mischievous grin.