by Lou Paduano
“Bethesda,” Metcalf smiled. “Maryland.”
“I know where Bethesda is,” Ben lied, not meeting her eyes.
“Right. This facility was formerly used for storage—old files and artifacts.”
“Like—”
“No. Not like Indiana Jones.”
“Not a fan?”
She sighed, heading deeper among the cubicles. “Before that, this place was a weapons bunker. We’ve retrofitted it to our needs.”
“Homey.”
She stopped. “Not asking you to live here, though there are living quarters on the fourth level.”
What else is in this place? Ben wondered as they continued. “Speaking of housing…”
“Stephanie has all the details.”
“Your secretary seems out of place here.”
“How so?”
“Too nice, for one. She just here for show?”
Metcalf laughed. “No. Though secretary doesn’t quite sum up her role here. Trust me, Mr. Riley, there is more to Stephanie Atwater than meets the eye. The same can be said for much of our operation.”
“So don’t call her a secretary. Got it.”
“Smart man.”
He shrugged. “When it suits me.”
“Your escort also helped put together some belongings from your apartment. They gathered some clothes and mementos. Things that would go unnoticed should anyone search your place after your tragic downfall.”
“Sounds like the title of a Lifetime movie based on me,” Ben muttered. “My Tragic Downfall. The Ben Riley Story.”
“What else?”
“It’s your tour, Metcalf.”
“Director.”
“Director,” Ben corrected his error. “Lead on.”
She did, taking them to the far side of the open space. Large displays lined the wall. They offered a glimpse at each task being worked on at that very moment. Departments ran along the left, as well as personnel assigned to each case. Priorities were marked in bright red, others denoted in black. New work filtered through consistently.
“Officially, the DSA is a catch-all. We handle the overflow while working under the auspices of a governmental Inter-Agency Council. We follow the edicts and regulations of our sister agencies, funneling resources and manpower where necessary.”
The so-called sister agencies marked the end of each row on the monitors—from the FBI to Homeland Security and more. Specific field offices described the locale as well as points of contact. Each were monitored and regulated by department heads inside and out of the DSA facility from the looks of the monitors.
“Why not keep it internal?”
Metcalf led him under the rear wall, where a wide stairwell took them to the lower level of the facility. “In today’s day and age of public scrutiny? Feeding it to us helps everyone else keep their bottom line clean when they are called up to Capitol Hill for a spanking. The DSA doesn’t suffer the same litmus test of efficiency as everyone else.”
“Why?” The question caught in his throat, and he read her smirk well. “Because no one knows about the DSA.”
She clapped her hands lightly and he offered a bow. “Very few. Yes.”
To the right of the stairs they passed a series of laboratories. Small windows along the doors allowed Ben to peer inside. Keypad codes were required for entry. Multiple people worked diligently within, wearing masks and other protective gear. Some tested chemicals, and others ran medical scans, all with the latest technology in the field. No matter what else Metcalf said about the DSA, it was well-funded.
Beyond the lab, they stopped in front of a fully functional gym filled with exercise equipment. A woman in cargo pants and black boots benched twin barbells larger than Ben’s head. She lifted the bar off her chest in constant repetitions. There was no struggle, only an intense focus to accomplish the task. Unwilling to distract her, Ben quickly moved away from the room for their next stop.
A gun range extended around the first bend in the corridor. Five stations, tucked behind soundproof walls, led to targets hundreds of yards away. Only one station was occupied. The man inside fired off an entire clip in a matter of seconds. He dropped the weapon, securing a second in the blink of an eye before repeating the barrage on the waiting target.
Ben shook his head. Metcalf’s steps led him around another corner. The lower level was an enormous loop with the research team positioned above their heads. More labs and storage rooms were staggered along the long corridor, but he paused before pressing on.
“Wait,” he said. “You said ‘officially.’ What about unofficially?”
Metcalf nodded. She leaned along the left-hand wall. “The DSA is called many names; its current iteration as the Department of Special Assignments is nothing more than a designation offered by the Inter-Agency Council. The original one, the one used by those that formed the organization as field agents like yourself, was the Department of Scientific Anomalies.”
“Seriously?”
Metcalf grinned. “Technology advances daily. We’re on the cusp of breakthroughs on so many fronts. Medical. Engineering. Artificial intelligence. We have the capability to mine the depths of the oceans or journey to the stars above. Unfortunately, not everyone is looking out for humanity’s best interests.”
He didn’t need to be told. The same was true with everything he’d witnessed at the house on Wex. This was more of the same, but on a much grander scale.
Lost thoughts brought something else with them. “Spokane.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It was in the news about a month or so back,” Ben continued, trying to piece it together as he spoke. “A viral outbreak of some kind at a coffee shop? They never said what it was or who was behind it.”
“We handled it,” Metcalf replied. Her gaze shifted down the hall. Along the right-hand wall were a series of plaques. Six rows adorned the wall, names and dates etched along each bronze square—a memoriam for the fallen. “Not without losses, I’m afraid.”
Ben surveyed the plaques. The most recent made up the top row. The closest one to his position displayed the name JACOB GRISSOM with a date that lined up with the Spokane incident. Ben trailed the names back through time until settling on the lowest rung.
“I see dates from the seventies here.”
Metcalf joined him. “The DSA became official a decade back, but there were some, like yourself, that had the notion to serve above and beyond.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Don’t you see it that way?”
Ben didn’t have the answer she wanted, or even one of his own to share. When his father had fallen ill he’d made a promise to continue the man’s work, but to do it his way. Instead of seeing the darkness, Ben viewed the world with optimism that was perpetually beaten down by the events of his career, but never shattered—sometimes lost, but never completely forgotten.
Across from the memoriam was a single door, locked and protected by a retinal scan and keypad entry. The word ARCHIVE adorned the wall next to the security measures. Metcalf input her code and the door clicked open. She held it for him so he could look inside.
Processing ran along the left side of the room—a loading dock for new equipment or departing evidence to their various offices. Twin terminals and a server room stretched along the right-hand wall. Ben wondered what secrets the millions of terabytes stored on the DSA’s mainframes held, what answers could be found in their database. Every mystery that had been solved and hidden away from the public—from the Kennedy assassination to Roswell and so much more.
Beyond the open area at the forefront of the section sat the archives themselves. Files were stored on shelving units that stretched into the darkness. The shelving took up two rows down the center of the area. The outskirts held evidence lockers and the so-called artifacts alluded to by the proud director, who monitored his reaction from the door.
“How?” Ben asked. “You’re talki
ng about science and technology, intricate subjects I have no experience with—like, at all. I was a cop and not exactly the best to begin with.”
“Ben,” Metcalf started. “I have more cases flooding through these halls every second of every day. I have hundreds of analysts looking at the world from a different perspective than top federal agents who have hundreds upon hundreds of hours of expertise in their areas. These analysts come from all backgrounds, the technical to the mundane, all in the hopes of solving the peculiar and the unthinkable.
“Those are the cases my field team takes head on, which you would be part of. I don’t need lab coats and technical advisors. I need grounded investigators, able to read a situation and act accordingly. I need smart, capable people willing to do the right thing no matter the cost.”
“Metcalf…”
Before she could correct him, a voice shouted from the end of the hall, “Director!”
She reached for Ben’s shoulder. “We’ll have to put a pin in that for now.”
“Director.” A frumpy man with dark stubble along his chin fought for breath as he skidded to a halt. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” Metcalf answered. “Zachary Modine. This is Agent Riley.”
“A new field agent?” Zac asked with a scoff. “No one told me.”
“I’m telling you now,” Metcalf said, teeth clenched in an awkward smile. “How about a hello for the man?”
The new recruit held out his hand. “Ben.”
Zac replied to the greeting with a grunt, but ignored the hand. The overweight tech wiped his brow and pushed closer to his superior. “I need you to look this over, Director.”
Metcalf rolled her eyes. “You’ll get used to Zac. Some do, anyway. What is—?”
“Something happened in Ohio.”
The confused director paused. “Save it for tonight’s briefing?”
“Briefing has to be now.”
“Why?” Ben asked.
“Pretty sure I already said it, new guy. Something happened in Ohio.”
Chapter Twelve
The briefing room occupied the end of the hall on the lower level. A large cherry table sat in the center, chairs positioned on all sides. Displays covered the walls. Diagnostics on current operations and briefing notes were fully loaded with the help of the staffers working tirelessly at desks on either side of the door.
Zac rushed away from the approaching pair to finish last-minute preparations. He brusquely shoved past Ben without a second glance. Ben shrugged it off, playing Zac’s behavior to the man’s low blood sugar, but he couldn’t help wondering if more was involved.
What was he doing here? Law enforcement had never appealed to him, and his time as a beat cop had served only as a constant reminder instead of a revelation to some higher calling. Through his job he witnessed the worst of humanity. Petty theft, domestic disputes, murder, and the like. Humanity scared him, left him cold and empty, yet here he contemplated defending it once more.
He wondered if the other agents felt the same. Three sat at the table, waiting impatiently. There was the strawberry blond, hair cut short, from the weight room earlier. Her boots rested on the table as she pored over the shifting displays relaying information. Behind her sat a muscle-bound black man, fingers delicately yet rapidly snapping a Glock back in working order with his eyes closed. Across from him a tall woman with ebony skin and curly black locks down over her shoulders sipped her coffee. Her deep brown eyes caught his stare before dropping back to the table.
Metcalf waited for his focus. “Hang back here.”
“I’m sorry?” Two more staffers rushed through. They passed off graphics to the typists. Zac leaned over them and compiled notes.
“There will be plenty of time for intros later. Right now though? Stand, sit, squat, whatever. Just shut up while the briefing is in motion. Sound good?”
Ben rubbed at his neck. “Quite the team builder.”
“I’d like to think so,” Metcalf said. “Still haven’t answered my question though.”
“You mean the one directed to a six-year-old stuck in a parent-teacher conference?”
“That’s the one,” she said with a smirk. She tapped her heel to the ticking of her watch. “Becoming more appropriate by the second.”
Ben nodded, hands in the air. “Yeah, no. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Go be bossy,” Ben said. He pointed at the waiting crowd. “Somewhere over there.”
Metcalf straightened her jacket and stepped inside. The agents at the table paused to stand. Metcalf noted the protocol and took her position at the table. Ben settled in the back corner as the last staffer joined the meeting and closed the door behind her.
The lights dimmed. Ben squinted and the center of the table lit up. A holographic three-dimensional image hovered over the cherry conference table: a blue and gold emblem carrying the DSA moniker atop an eagle. Twin swords stood guard on either side.
Metcalf pulled her chair in. “Bring us up to speed, Zac.”
“Right.”
The display shifted once more to an aerial view of a small town. Demographics and general information ran along the right side of the screen.
“I thought the briefing wasn’t until six?” the woman in the cargo pants said. She cast her thumb toward the back of the room. “And who’s the suit by the door fiddling with his tie?”
Ben chuckled and let go of his tie. He didn’t realize he had been playing with it, or that anyone had noticed his arrival. “I’m—”
Metcalf shook her head. “Don’t worry about it, Agent Heller. Zac?”
“Bellbrook, Ohio,” Zac started. He clicked through images no doubt taken from the town’s official website: happy families and bright tourist spots to visit. Nothing of relevance to the current situation that Ben could tell. “Population just north of seven thousand. Home of the Sugar Maple Festival.”
“Seriously?” the tall ebony-skinned woman asked.
Zac shrugged, and his face reddened. “Ohio, remember?”
“Sounds downright evil,” the man holding the Glock said. He chambered a round, the sound echoing in the closed room.
“Let the man finish before you start picking targets, Lincoln.”
Lincoln removed the clip and smiled. “Better talk faster, then.”
Agent Heller threw the man a glare, then dropped her boots to the ground. She slid her chair in hard against the table, hands neatly folded and all business in her posture. “What’s the deal with Bellbrook?”
“It’s not there anymore,” Zac answered.
“What?”
The hefty tech let out a short laugh. “Sorry. It’s there. Of course, it’s there. What I meant was this.”
The display shifted. Satellite images turned to real time photos of the town. There was nothing but empty streets and storefronts, as well as vacant homes. Cars remained present, but they weren’t driving on the roads. Some were parked, others no longer even that, almost like they’d drifted to a halt— abandoned in mid-drive.
“Twenty-four hours ago the town went dark. No phone traffic. Television signals. All we have are these images from one of our friendly neighborhood satellites at the Department of Defense to show us more nothing. No people to speak of. None that we’ve seen, anyway, and we’ve been receiving updates for the last three hours. The city is a dead zone.”
“So where are the people?” Metcalf asked, hand to her temple and glasses tight against the bridge of her nose.
“That’s what I’m saying.” Zac took a breath. “They appear to be, well, not there anymore.”
“Mass exodus?” the lanky agent with the coffee intoned.
Lincoln grinned. “Boredom became too much?”
Zac rolled his eyes. He flipped the display once more. Three images showed on the screen. Two were young women and the last was of an elderly gentleman.
“Some missing person’s cases were filed at first
. The first was over a week ago. Small numbers. Routine stuff. But they increased to a point where they started to look pretty darn suspicious. Then, like a light switch, they just stopped.”
“They were located or—”
“No,” Zac stopped Agent Heller’s question. “There just weren’t any more submitted. We tracked all signals in the area and they all seem to have gone dead.” Bar graphs and charts filled the screen. Agent Heller opened her personal tablet to view them directly. “Using our NSA resources we reconstructed all cell tower info from the last week.”
Each day’s results showed prominently on the screen. They appeared normal with chatter on all fronts noted and recorded. “People are, of course, glued to their phones, so the information is easy to attain. Even in Ohio. Apps, photos, social media, calls too, if you can believe that. All tracked and recorded for our viewing pleasure.”
“Until?” Metcalf rolled her finger to push the tech along.
Zac nodded, focused on the previous day’s results. The graph was empty; the chart displayed no information at all.
“Nothing?”
Metcalf removed her glasses. “Local authorities have been notified?”
“They were, yes.”
“And?” Irritation crept into Metcalf’s voice.
“No response.”
“Why is this coming our way? If anything, this should be Homeland’s problem, right?” Lincoln’s question drew the attention of everyone in the room. He threw his hands up in defense. “What? I’m not trying to pass the buck or anything.”
Agent Heller grinned. “Someone wants more downtime.”
“I happen to like my downtime,” Lincoln said, smirking at the strawberry blond for a long moment.
Their colleague lowered her coffee. “Yeah right. Making bullets and eating take-out from the same diner every night. What a life.”
