Titan's Gambit

a short preview of a book I'll be (Lord willing) finishing soon

An airport is a fascinating place. Thousands of people, brought together by chance, each with different stories, lives, sorrows, joys, ages....all passing through one place. In a matter of hours, hundreds of thousands of timelines and histories will have merged and separated. Each person has a unique and different story to share with no one else. Sometimes those stories merge and stayed merged, like the father and the long-lost daughter in the corner, near the bright terminal sign, embracing as if they never would again. Other times, the stories split, for better or worse, like the couple near the gate saying a tearful goodbye as boarding begins for the flight across the world. To even begin to fathom the number of histories, memories and stories that pass through this airport in a single hour is a task beyond the vast capabilities of the human brain. Even one extra lifetime added to a person's brain would be a weight it could not bear, especially for those who have had extraordinary experiences and memories. 

 For example, consider the man in the grey jeans and leather jacket sitting at the far end of the row of seats closest to the windows. He is of average height, with thick dark brown hair and blue eyes. His face is unremarkable, somewhat plain but handsome, and clean-shaven. He has a wiry build, thin but muscular. To all eyes, he appears to be just another passenger in limbo between two destinations, awaiting the transport of these commercialized birds. Yet...this is not the case. There is much more to this man than meets the eye. If we look closer, we can see the bulge of a pistol in his waistband. Closer still, we can see the outline of a very muscular arm hidden by his loose jacket. The "cell phone" he is staring at has nothing to do with a cell phone, but is actually a small device with a screen, showing two small dots flashing on separate sides of a map. Just below his right earlobe is a transparent earpiece, invisible to passersby. The man's name is Michael Rhodes. Of course, this is not his real name, just a false identity. You see, this man will have a direct hand in the making of world history. His story alone is weightier than most of the stories of most of the people around him. But to see this, we go back twenty-three years to a small hospital room in downtown New Jersey, 1998. 

Inside, a miracle is happening. A baby is coming into the world. This baby will be christened Wesley Ivanov. Born into a small family with a father, mother, and sister, Wesley, or “Wes” (as he came to be known by, grew up in a middle-class family. They lived in a small apartment on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. Wesley was quiet and a loner, yet still a pleasant child. He did well in school, but always faded into the background. Never one of the athletic or popular kids, he was often picked on. This bothered him more than he let on, but he stayed quiet.  

He had a happy family life growing up, only scarred by one incident. When he was four years old, his sister, Ava, contracted a terrible disease, never having passed her second year. The doctors never knew what to do with her. First, she became sick and weak, then, slowly she began to fade away. Months later, a small funeral was being held at a church in downtown New Jersey. Wesley was too small to understand what had happened...though as he grew, he slowly began to understand this one incident would change his life forever.  

The story of how this happened, how his life changed, one of the most important stories in the history of the world, is the one I am about to relate to you. Listen carefully, Reader, and you will hear the tale of how the Earth was saved from certain destruction by the actions and sacrifice of one fearless man.  

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Wes stepped outside onto the low porch. He gazed out, lost in thought, as the sun began to set over the small but bustling skyline, creating a beautiful mix of red and purple streaks that inspired one with awe and confidence. Behind him, in the small apartment, glasses clinked, and quiet laughter and a soothing hum of chatter ensued. I’m enjoying this trip. A getaway from school...the bustle and rush of New Jersey...even if it means hanging out with my dad’s business partners. He grinned, remembering the stiff, sour men inside the office that had greeted him one by one without a smile. Now they and their families were behind him, in the apartment, no doubt talking business yet once again while their children played downstairs and bored wives made small talk. Every one of these trips is the same.

Breathing deeply, he savored the cool air and incredible view for the few moments before it ceased. Below him, he watched as small, faint lights wove their way in and around the confusing mass of railways, interstates, and highways. He glanced to his right. A foursome sat at a round table, quietly reminiscing and watching the slowly fading sunset. They consisted of an older man with a white mustache, a middle-aged woman with a flowery dress, and a young woman with dark hair. Her face was familiar, though Wesley couldn’t understand why. He found the older woman studying him with a small smile.

The younger woman spoke. “Américain?” Her voice was high, with a thick accent.

His brow lifted. “Oui.” Yes. A second passed, then: “Comment avez-vous deviné?” How did you guess? The words were hesitant, yet there was a measure of confidence behind them, indicating the speaker was not native to the language. The girl’s face registered surprise for a second. Then she laughed, a tinkling, full laugh. Her head tilted toward his partially zipped jacket. “Only an American would wear his bomber jacket open like that.” Now it was time for him to be surprised.

He smiled. “And only an American would wear a Yankees cap backwards like that.” glancing at the final member of the group, a young man with a hard, merciless face. No, not a man, he was no more than a teen, Wesley decided. Yet there was an air about him that said he had seen more than most grayheads. The young man levelly met his gaze, with a straight face. He held it for a second, then scoffed. Standing, the man stuffed his fists in his pockets and turned to the girl. He impatiently raised his eyebrows. She stared back.

Some invisible communication seemed to pass between them, until he shrugged, and made as if to walk inside the apartment. Passing Wesley, he paused. “Fortes fortuna-” He abruptly cut the sentence off and stared aggressively at Wesley. The words were spoken as a challenge, in perfect English with a crisp New Englander accent.

Something inside of Wes stirred. Some long-lost memory, triggered by the sentence, tried to surface. He groped for an answer. Then suddenly, an impulse hit him.

“Latin, isn’t it? ‘Fortes fortuna adiuvat... Fortune favors the brave.’” A second passed. Then the man straightened his already impossibly straight posture and sauntered into the apartment.

The girl laughed again. Rising, she walked over to Wesley. “You know, he wants you to follow him.”

Wesley looked at her. “Why?”

“Because of your response. I suggest you do as he wishes.” Yet her eyes betrayed her. They were screaming a warning at him. He began to feel uncomfortable as she pushed her way past him. Somewhere in his brain, a small alarm began to go off. He turned to look at her as she walked in through the door. Uneasy, he stepped again to the railing, trying to forget the strange encounter, and again focused on the dominant sunset. All those colors, blended together as though...Who were they? He sighed. No, seriously, who on earth was that? Rubbing his temple, his focus lost, Wesley turned back to the now-empty table. Littered on it were the remains the strangers had left behind. Something caught his eye....a napkin...with black marks on it. He stepped closer, the sunset forgotten. Pulling the small square of napkin off the table, he studied it closely. Several small black marks were drawn on it, not anything like letters, nor anything like any drawing he had ever seen. Must be a doodle.

He put it down and turned away, but something kept nagging him. The urge impossible to ignore, he once again picked up the napkin and looked closer at the marks. Something tugged at the back of his brain. He looked closer. Then suddenly, he understood the marks. A warning. A single word exploded out at him. Run. Every cell in his body was screaming the same word at him. RUN. Without a second thought, he dropped the napkin and vaulted over the edge of the railing, just as the apartment behind him exploded in a brilliant burst of white light, with a sound like thunder. As quickly as it had happened, it was gone, leaving nothing but a pile of rubble below the porch where he had been standing.

Wes landed flat on his back, winded and gasping for breath. His lungs seized, and everything spun. He lay there for several minutes, struggling to stay alive. The last thing he heard was sirens slowly getting closer as the darkness closed in, and he surrendered to the blissful peace of unconsciousness, free from all pain.

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