Noon: The Rise to Power

Chapter 1

At 6:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, a small, privately-owned Boeing/Lear C7 jet began its final approach to New York’s Kennedy Airport. Inside the cabin, the overhead lights were turned off leaving only the row of chair side lamps to illuminate the aisle. The jet’s only passenger, Dr. Alexander Noon, placed his palm under his chin and stared out at the Manhattan skyline.

Framed by a curtain of dark gray clouds and underlined by slivers of dying sunlight, the red blinking lights atop the skyscrapers were visible, but few lights emanated from the mostly empty offices below them. The long pearl-like string of lamps once lighting the city’s great bridges had fallen into disrepair. Even the rows of white and red lights from the cars below on the FDR and LIE were gone having been replaced by night vision, infrared head, and tail lamps.

Along the shore, scores of Nomads and thousands of homeless huddled around flickering bonfires.

       Noon shook his head.

      The Big Apple was a dying city. Its mighty skyscrapers now merely tombstones in a graveyard.

The intercom clicked.

Estimated time of arrival is 6:38, doctor,” the pilot said. “We have been informed that your associates, Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Maxwell, have a car waiting and will accompany you to the hotel. You should arrive in plenty of time for the ceremonies.”

The doctor verified the time on his wristscreen, reached over to the adjoining seat, picked up his black wide-brimmed hat, and placed it on his head.

       “We hope you enjoyed your flight and…”

       Suddenly the computer emergency alert snapped on. “Warning! Missile lock! Warning! Missile Lock” the mechanical voice blared over the intercom. The pilot immediately powered up the fusion engines and as the low whisper of the turbines revved into a shrill whine, the jet began a sharp ascent.

Pressed back against his seat, Noon flicked the intercom button. “What type of missile?!” he shouted.

The alerts were turned down. “A COMLOC Stinger missile array has been launched… it’s scanning our position… I’ve turned off the beacon… and am trying to climb out of range.” The pilot’s voice came in short, panicky bursts. He had never dealt with anything like this before.

“Turn the beacon back on!” Noon demanded. “Then ease back on the throttle and make a series of quick turns at varying altitudes, but keep leading it to the open seas. Those mini Stingers can’t handle abrupt course changes and the COMLOC housing array can only fire one at a time. They were built to knock out large cargo planes, not small jets.”

“But, Doctor!!” he began but stopped when the emergency alert voice announced the COMLOC had launched the first Stinger and it was racing toward the jet

           “Do what I told you!” Noon commanded. “I know what I’m talking about.”

            The pilot complied. The jet banked quickly and began a steep descent. The first mini-missile rocketed past the right wing. A second was launched

The first exploded twenty-five yards away causing the jet to vibrate wildly. Pea size shrapnel pitted the windows; sparks flew from the fusion turbines. As the pilot slowly brought it back under control, the COMLOC adjusted its course to follow. Seeing this, he ignited the afterburners and the jet charged skyward. A third mini-missile launched.

 The alerts cut off.

Noon looked out the window and saw the third mini missile veer off course after passing through the second missile’s heat trail.

The fourth launched while the second doubled back.

“Kill the engines!” Noon shouted.

“But Doctor!”

“Do it, damn you!”

After a moment’s hesitation, the pilot complied. Both engines flamed out, and with the stabilization computers off line, the jet began a free fall.

When the jet’s engine signature disappeared, the COMLOC did what it was programmed to do. It exploded, detonating the two remaining missiles.

The explosion, although 150 yards away, had enough force to compress the air above the jet and flatten its angle of descent.

“Restart the engines!” Noon shouted.

The pilot complied; the jet rocketed forward and after a moment began pulling upward.

“It worked, Doctor!” the pilot shouted, his voice heady with excitement and relief. “How did you know?”

       Noon didn’t reply. He sat back and resumed looking out over the city.

A city he was determined to bring back to life.

****

            The paparazzi stamped their feet and clapped their arms to generate heat as they stood outside the entranceway of the Plaza Hotel. It was an unusually bitter evening for the early part of May and the press was anxious for the Doctor to arrive. No one wanted to be on the streets if the Nomads, who were gathering around the adjoining buildings and alleyways, decided to cause trouble.

            When word got out Dr. Noon was coming to New York and the Plaza Hotel, in particular, fans and well-wishers rushed to the area in the hope of catching a glimpse of the enigmatic scientist. Many lined the streets holding placards expressing their love and appreciation for his many accomplishments.

Amid the crowd, one reporter stood over his cameraman as the man downloaded the latest questions. The interview had to be adjusted to include Noon’s plane being targeted.

            “We’re locked and loaded, Steve,” the cameraman—a short and stocky Latino named Luis Sonjo said as he flipped the teleprompter to its position above the lens and brought it to his shoulders.

             “Okay, let’s have a look. Roll it, Luis.”

            Sonjo nodded and clicked it on. The two stood face-to-face as the teleprompter scrolled the questions.

After reading the first line Steve Mathers threw up his hands. “How do you feel about being targeted by a Stinger missile?” he asked in disbelief. “What kind of asinine question is that?”

         Sonjo shrugged as Steve rolled his eyes in disgust. “I’m telling you, Luis, the suits are trying to make me look like an imbecile. I mean this is Noon, for heaven’s sake! Doctor, freaking Noon. Does the M-6 Titan ring any bells? Or gene replacement? And those jackasses at the station want me to ask him how he feels? What do they expect him to say?”

The reporter pressed his lips together and shook his head in frustration. After a moment, a sly grin appeared on his face. He turned to the cameraman and bunched up his eyebrows to ape Noon’s thick ones.

“Well, Steve,” he said, hunching his shoulders and mimicking the Doctor’s deep baritone. “When told we had been targeted, I immediately shit my pants and ran up and down the aisles screaming like my dick was on fire. Other than that, I think I handled it rather well.”

Sanjo burst out laughing. He loved it when Steve imitated celebrities.

“You know what we should be asking, Luis?” Mathers said, now serious as he pulled his parka tight to his chest. “We should be asking why a two time Nobel Prize-winning, media hating recluse like him would agree to take part in this bullshit political fundraiser.”

“Why? What’s the problem?” Luis asked as he put the camera on stand- by and placed it between his legs.

      “Well, for one,” Steve said blowing into his fist, “here’s a guy who never even bothered to acknowledge his Nobel Prizes, a guy who rarely, if ever, ventured out of the Corinthe University labs. Now he’s flying in from Buffalo to address a boatload of muckety-mucks sandwiched inside the dining hall. You know what the first question to the doctor should be? It should be, ‘Hey, doc, why the 180?’”

Luis shoved his hands into his pockets. “Maybe he felt it was time to get out and meet the people.”

            Steve shook his head. “Nah, not his style. Guys in his league—Einstein, Oppenheimer, Tesla, Hawking, Popeunfore—none of them were big on being in the spotlight. No, Luis, he’s got an agenda.”

         “I think I see the limo!” somebody shouted.

           Both Steve and Luis grabbed their equipment and took off for the curb.

            The hordes of Nomads followed.

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