Harbinger (The Janus Harbinger Book 1)

by Olan Thorensen

  “Similarly, Level 2 staff members are supposed to know to never talk about their work where a Level 1 person can accidentally overhear. Sinclair believes that so far, everyone has kept pretty well to the rules, but one of our jobs is to monitor this. Logan and Harry are placed in Level 1 in positions to keep tabs on any leaks at that level. A cook and a maintenance person both interact with various staff members in different situations. Your job is to be friends with as many people as possible and keep an ear out for anything smelling like a leak.

  “Willie and I will do the same within Level 2, although Willie will be the one to be ‘friends’ with the staff. I’m the only one of us formally associated with safety and security, so people will be less likely to speak freely around me. On the other hand, I’ll have a bit of authority if we need to pressure someone.”

  Zach paused for a moment and looked at his cards. The four of them, to any outside observer, had not lost a beat in the card game. “Harry, Logan, what have you observed so far?”

  “Well,” said Harry, “my first observation about what you just said is that it’s at least partially bullshit.”

  Willie harrumphed as if to suppress a laugh.

  Logan grinned, added some chips to keep the hand going, and said, “In his usual suave style, Harry is right. It’s obvious that there is more to Level 2 than you’re telling.”

  “More in what way?” Zach asked neutrally.

  Harry met Logan’s bet and raised five dollars. “There are two separate communities in Level 2. The Russian and Chinese experts are obviously supposed to be listening in on Russian and Chinese communications. Maybe communicating with agents in those countries, for all I know. But then there’s a lot of Level 2 staff who don’t fit. Language experts, but they don’t speak Russian or Chinese or at least not fluently. More linguists than translators. Then there’s hard scientists—physicists, mathematicians, or whatever. And an awful lot of computer power to simply be listening.”

  “And from that, you infer two groups in Level 2?” asked Zach.

  “The biggest giveaway,” said Logan, “at least that got me thinking, is if you watch carefully. The people who are all supposed to be Level 2 don’t interact with one another as if they were in the same grouping.”

  “Right,” said Harry. “Certain ones tend to sit together at meals. If they go on walks around the area, they don’t randomly mix. Hell, even when they sit for movies they tend to cluster.”

  “But people will always gravitate toward certain others—some they like better than others,” offered Zach.

  “Yes, but it also goes to who certain staff members seem to spend more time with. For example, Sinclair is site commander, but he spends noticeably more time with one of the Level 2 groupings than with the other. That he does this differently for Level 1 and Level 2 is understandable, but why differentiate among Level 2 unless there really are two separate projects within Level 2?” said Harry.

  Zach won this hand. It was a small pot, and he took it with a pair of kings. The cards passed to Houdin, who took his time shuffling.

  “The same with Huxler,” said Logan. “He’s supposed to be the site shrink, so you would think he would spend about equal time with all the staff members. But he probably spends twice as much time interacting with certain people in Level 2 than with the others. When you add how Sinclair and Huxler interact, along with the other factors Harry mentioned, it smells like what you call Level 2 is another cover level for something else.”

  Zach was pleased. He already knew Logan was sharp enough to have spotted something fishy about Level 2, and now he knew Harry was equally perceptive. “You’re right. What we actually have is three levels. We have two cover stories. The radar and weather station activity is a cover for the spying on Russian and China, which is a cover for the site’s real purpose.”

  “And that purpose is . . . ?” asked Harry, although he already knew the answer.

  “Need to know,” responded Zach.

  Harry smiled and threw in his cards for this hand—only a pair of threes so far, nothing worth going past the turn. “Okay, just thought I’d ask.”

  Zach knew Harry and Logan would continue trying to figure out what the secret was, but they would do it within their assignments’ rules. More important, they would go to Zach if they thought they had figured it out. Curiosity didn’t kill this kind of cat, but secrecy among themselves might. Besides, if Harry or Logan knew about Level 3, it might affect how they listened for staff leaks. Zach also made a mental note to talk to Sinclair and Huxler about their unconscious preferences for who they associated with.

  “Zach, what you say is all well and good,” said Harry, “but the powers-that-be don’t want us here just to worry about loose lips. They could have found others to do this job for a lot less money and without our backgrounds.”

  Logan nodded to Harry’s statement.

  “That brings us to the second part of why we’re here,” said Zach.

  “Wet work,” deadpanned Harry. Meaning when actions were needed that fell outside of what could be construed as normal legal channels.

  “Hopefully, not too wet,” answered Zach. “But we need to consider possibilities of physical threats both from inside the site or external. Inside could be literal. For example, someone going wacko or deliberately, for whatever reason, trying to damage the project. If this happens, strong action may need to be taken immediately, and that’s where we come in.”

  “And external?” asked Logan.

  “Unknown,” said Zach. “But in a worst-case scenario, the four of us are a last line of defense of the camp against anything until help can get here. We’re talking any kind of threat, including human and environmental—from an attack on the site to some natural event. In that case, what we are protecting is a Level 3 project and staff as you’ve already guessed are separated from Level 2. All other considerations are secondary, including the Level 1 and 2 personnel.”

  “Or tertiary?” questioned Logan. “If this Level 3 is the top priority, then do we assume, in any of your extreme scenarios, that the priority list is first Level 3 facility and staff, then ourselves, and last, the rest of the site and staff?”

  “Correct.”

  “And who makes such decisions?” asked Logan.

  “The president, if the opportunity exists,” responded Zach, “and when the situation dictates, Sinclair, and then me.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be a low-key, soft, and well-paying gig,” mocked Willie.

  “Me, too,” said Zach, “but this is a case where although the likelihood of trouble is remote, the negative consequences can’t be overestimated. Logan, Harry . . . sorry I can’t give you more information at this time, but I’ll ask you to take my word that what’s going on here is world-changing. At the moment, I can’t conceive of any scenarios where our own survival comes secondary, but that’s the way it would fall out if what’s happening here comes under threat.”

  Logan and Harry both shifted in their chairs while keeping eyes on their cards. Zach didn’t need much expertise to know he had their full attention.

  Harry cleared his throat. “Uh . . . where might these extreme threats come from? Internal or external?”

  “Either. But . . . ,” Zach paused, gathering his thoughts on how to phrase it. “For the internal . . . don’t assume only from staff. There are things going on in Level 3 that could become threats, in and of themselves. Sorry, but again that’s all I can say.”

  Willie called out a bet, and they went around the table. All four stayed in, though none were thinking about the cards. Now they knew where they stood. This might be a remote location, literally at the end of the world, but they were here to earn their keep. They were all jaded to different degrees, and the pay was more than generous, but once they made the commitment, Zach believed they would pay the piper if necessary. It was not something many people would have understood.

  Willie raised fifty dollars. He was holding two pair—two tens and two sevens
after the flop. Harry had another two pair and raised another fifty. Logan dropped out.

  “Just out of curiosity. Are we ever to know what is really going on here?” asked Harry.

  Strictly speaking, the standard security answer would have been to remind Harry that the secrets were not his concern; just doing his job was. However, the standard answer was not appropriate for their backgrounds. They had risked too much, too many times, and often for reasons too dubious for Zach to sluff off the question.

  “Officially, it’s none of your business. But my guess is within a year, things will change. Exactly how, I don’t know. But I have a sense that we’re all going to be deeper into this than anyone has yet imagined, including Sinclair.”

  Zach met the last raise and turned over his hand. Two pair, aces over eights, three black and one red. The other three stared at the cards for moments, then Harry laughed, Willie sighed, and Logan shook his head before saying, “Hope that’s not an omen. Aces over eights. Almost the dead man’s hand. Just missed by not being all black.”

  It was the poker hand Wild Bill Hickok was said to be holding when shot in the back in Deadwood over a century ago: two pair, all black. A poker hand thereafter ingrained in gambling legend.

  “Well, I think that’s enough ‘poker’ for one night. Thank you, gentlemen, for a rewarding session.” Zach had been the major winner of the evening, and they each collected their chips and rose from the table. Willie said he was going for a walk to clear his head. Zach and Logan walked together to the dorms, leaving Harry to pass through the other lounge, in case a female staff member was looking for evening companionship.

  When Zach returned to his room, he pulled out the small notepad he used to jot down ideas and tasks. The latest addition was to look into ordering materials to further camouflage site structures from overhead detection. He had spent several hours looking at satellite image downloads Sinclair had collected. Although the existing design was clever, Zach noticed images shot from the more oblique angles gave too many hints of something other than barren Ellesmere landscapes.

  He had hesitated to take action, but his anticipation of this being an otherwise boring assignment meant he needed projects to keep himself busy. Plus, he trusted his intuition, and if it raised a flag that concealment wasn’t as thorough as it could be, he was obliged to do what he could to correct the deficiency.

  CHAPTER 19

  PASSING THE BUCK

  White House, Washington, D.C.

  For James Chesterton, the two months since the election had been even more hectic than he had anticipated—which said volumes. Somehow, he had deluded himself that once the election was over, he would have time to relax. Why exactly he’d had that misconception was uncertain. He was still not accustomed to the reality of being president of the United States, with every moment planned, a dozen daily meetings ranging from political supporters to national security, and photo ops to make the evening news. Today’s luncheon was one of those planned events. It had become a custom that when new presidents took office, they met with past presidents. In place of individual meetings, Chesterton’s political advisers recommended a single photo opportunity with living holders of the office to show an orderly transition and continuity between administrations. It would also give the impression of a commitment to bipartisanship to help dampen resistance to some of the initiatives Chesterton had campaigned on.

  Today he would meet with two of the living past presidents whose health, schedules, or interest in the luncheon allowed them to participate—George W. Bush and Barack Obama. The schedule called for meeting out by the Rose Garden for photographs, short speeches from each of them, and then moving inside for some more photos followed by a private luncheon. Despite the photo-op setting, Chesterton looked forward to the event. He now fully appreciated that only past officeholders could empathize with what he faced being the new president of the United States and theoretically the most powerful person in the world.

  Yeah, right, thought Chesterton. Powerful person as long as you go along with your own party, don’t alienate the other party too much, forge relationships with foreign leaders, keep constituents minimally happy, and dodge the minefield of voracious media always looking for the controversy of the hour.

  His thoughts were interrupted by his chief of staff. “Are you ready, Mr. President? They’re starting to arrive.”

  The entire event was carefully orchestrated to show the appropriate protocol for two previous and one very new president of the United States.

  Chesterton ran a hand over his blond hair and shifted the suit covering his lean frame. “Yeah, Bob, let’s get this going.”

  They left the Oval Office and walked out to the portico facing the Rose Garden, picking up Secret Service agents as they moved from the White House into the open air. The Air Force officer carrying the “football” (the nuclear codes) followed a discreet thirty feet behind and then stationed himself in a pillar’s shade.

  The first car arrived, carrying Obama. Close behind followed Bush’s vehicle. Chesterton walked up to exchange handshakes, smiled for the cameras, and engaged in meaningless pleasantries.

  At the end of the photo ops, the White House protocol chief led them to the Garden Room in the East Wing, overlooking the Kennedy Garden. A round table had three identical place settings to reflect the luncheon’s attendees’ theoretical equality. They continued with pleasantries and reminiscing about the years the two ex-presidents had spent in this same building. By custom, all of the dishes in the entire luncheon were served together, and then the staff would exit to allow the presidents uninterrupted discussion. The fare consisted of a lettuce/walnut/blue cheese salad with vinaigrette dressing, sourdough rolls, and a crisp, chilled sauvignon blanc (all from California); a serve-yourself clam chowder tureen (Massachusetts); a cheese plate (Wisconsin and New York); and a peach/strawberry/apple fruit salad (Georgia, Florida, and Pennsylvania). Heaven forbid that the media ever found out they had served anything but American-produced food. With everything in place, the staff excused themselves, and three humans who had been elected to this office were alone for the first time.

  They began eating. Chesterton noticed a sudden subdued tone wash over the table. The convivial atmosphere had turned somber. He was uncertain what to say, but Obama looked at Bush and said, “George, since you’re the one who started all this, how about you begin with you-know-what? I’m sure it’ll be more memorable than anything James might’ve thought we’d be talking about.”

  Bush’s demeanor changed from his customary pleasant expression to a grim smile as he nodded to Obama. He had been in ill health, and it showed, along with aging.

  “James,” Bush said, “what we’re about to tell you is straight out of those urban myths about government secrets. You know, secrets presidents only pass down to succeeding presidents. The ones about the CIA plot to kill JFK, aliens visiting Earth, or Elvis being alive and living in a nursing home outside Memphis.”

  Taken aback, the new president thought to himself, What the hell? Is this some kind of in-joke with ex-presidents?

  “Of those three crazy conspiracy myths, I’m afraid one may not be a myth,” stated Obama.

  Chesterton’s next thought was, Oh, my God, they’re going to tell me there WAS a CIA plot to kill Kennedy!

  “If I had my choice, I’d pick the Kennedy or Elvis theory,” said Obama. “Unfortunately, we’re not so lucky.”

  Bush cackled, then smiled and shook his head. “No, life would be so much simpler if it was one of those two.”

  Chesterton’s mind whirled. Part of his mind waited for the punch line where the club members revealed the joke on the new member. Another part of his mind sorted through the three options. By elimination, if it wasn’t Kennedy or Elvis, then aliens?

  Bush continued. “It all started in the middle of my presidency while we were absorbed with the Middle East. The military was involved in a joint U.S./Canada maneuver in far northern Canada. Several U.S. personnel stumbled across
something amazing . . .”

  Bush took fifteen minutes to summarize the events on his watch. Little had occurred during his years. When it was Obama’s turn, the summary stretched out to more than half an hour as he reviewed events up to the present, including the years after he left office because those succeeding presidents were not at the luncheon. Chesterton sat through all of this, mainly keeping quiet, listening, alternately watching the speakers, and playing with his food. By the time Obama finished, the plates were empty, and they were well into a second bottle of the wine left by the White House staff.

  “That’s the basic story, James. Naturally, there are more details, but this is the gist of the bomb you’re being handed.”

  Chesterton put down the fork he had been using to push food around his plate and looked up at the two of them. “I guess I don’t know what to say. Something of a novelty for me since the press makes fun of my loquaciousness. My gut reaction is that if this is not some elaborate initiation joke the two of you hatched up, then you’re both out of your fucking minds.”

  Bush and Obama laughed.

  For the rest of the hour, Chesterton peppered the other two men with questions. At exactly an hour since the staff had left them alone, Chesterton’s chief of staff knocked on the door. He peeked in, then retreated when the new president gave a curt head shake.

  “He’s worried about the schedule,” mumbled Chesterton. “Hell . . . I can’t even remember who I’m supposed to be meeting with after this. Fuck ’em.”

  He looked around the table. “I’ll need some time to get my head around this. How is it that I haven’t heard about this during the briefings I got since the election?”