The Omega Project

by Ernest Dempsey

  She’d protest during the drive up, as she had on this occasion, but by the time she stepped into the cabin, all her troubles and responsibilities would seem forgotten. She would melt into his arms while on the sofa and stay there, resting her head on his chest for hours before even stirring.

  He loved that woman, more than he had loved anyone in a long time. He'd been in a position that required him to be strong all the time, 24/7. She brought out the vulnerable side of him, exposed who he really was as a person, and could—if needed—be strong enough for the both of them. Emily made it possible for John Dawkins to be human again.

  Fate had brought the two together, an unlikely but beautiful sequence of events that had put them squarely in each other’s space. She'd worked for him as director of his most ultra-secret agency. She reported only to him and that intimacy had led them to an understanding of each other that very few other Americans could comprehend.

  As director of Axis, she had reported solely to him during his terms in office. As time went by, the two developed a strong foundation of trust. It didn’t take long before Emily and President Dawkins grew close in a more personal way.

  Very few outside the Oval Office ever truly knew who Emily Starks was. Anonymity was crucial in her line of work. The less the public knew, the safer they’d all be. Her tasks were often ones that were carried out in the dark of night, deep in the shadows where no eyes dared wander.

  Dawkins could tell she was ready to slow down. She’d been at the helm of Axis for nearly a decade, and it wasn’t difficult to see that her job was taking its toll. Most of the directors had come and gone within five years of taking the gig. The burnout rate was understandably high.

  Dawkins was accustomed to having to make difficult decisions. On any given day, the president of the United States would be yoked with the unenviable task of deciding who had to die somewhere in the world. It might be an unwitting janitor working in a weapons factory in Afghanistan today, a group of terrorists in a training facility tomorrow.

  Each choice he made would have a lasting effect on the world, but more importantly, on a very personal level with someone he’d never met.

  Bombing a weapons factory was an easy decision. Doing it when you knew there were innocent lives that would be lost? That was something entirely different.

  Dawkins took a sip of his beer as if that would wash away the thoughts—the guilt, the lingering doubts—that hung in his mind. He’d done his job the best he could. And he always believed that he did it better than the other guy might have. That was up for debate, but not his debate. He’d let scholars, historians, and talking heads figure it out. They never had to decide whether to push the button or not, whether to drop the ax or sheathe it for another day. It was all well and good until you had to actually make an earth-shattering decision.

  Those types never would be in the position to do that.

  He prayed every day that he’d done what was right, what was just, and that he was forgiven for what sins he’d committed. Dawkins found himself growing more spiritual as he aged. Even though he still hadn’t hit sixty years old, he was already in constant contemplation about the end of his life, what happened after, and if he’d been a good enough person.

  He was thankful for grace in that respect. His faith taught him not to worry about being good enough. That was impossible. Broken vessels couldn’t mend themselves, a pastor had once said to him. They can only be remade by the potter.

  Dawkins grunted at the thought and took another swig, then set the bottle down on the end table.

  A sound outside the cabin roused him from his thoughts. It was low, a thump of some kind. He figured it was probably an acorn or some other kind of tree nut that fell and struck the porch.

  He dismissed it and went back to thinking about his time with Emily.

  She’d been an incredibly beautiful addition to his life, and he loved her deeply. They were planning on getting married in the spring. The wedding would be small. Only a select group of people would be invited, including their mutual friends Sean Wyatt and Tommy Schultz.

  Those two had recently gone through the nuptials and were, as far as he could tell, happily married. They’d apparently found women who were as crazy and adventurous as they were, which certainly made for some interesting dinner conversation around the holidays.

  The fire crackled and popped again, louder this time. A stinging pain burned from a single point on Dawkins’s neck, as if a bee or wasp had planted its sharp weapon into his skin and started pumping venom into his bloodstream.

  He reached up and swatted at his neck, expecting to see some kind of insect tossed to the ground so he could step on it. It had been colder than usual in this part of the mountains, and he was surprised there would be any insects out of hibernation. Now was the time when they began receding back to their nests to wait out the cold season. There had been a few mosquitoes a couple of weeks back, but that was at his Nashville home near the lake.

  He saw nothing fly off his neck and realized that whatever was embedded there was in deeper than he thought.

  Dawkins pushed his palms into the armrests and tried to stand, but a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him. The room spun, and his body felt twice as heavy as normal. He slumped back down in the chair and picked at the spot on his neck. His fingernails brushed against something small and feathery, with a metallic cup attached where the soft bristles tickled his fingertips. He pinched the object and removed it, held it up to the light, and realized what it was.

  A tranquilizer dart.

  His vision blurred and he forced himself to blink rapidly, though he soon realized it was an exercise in futility. Through the haze, he could see dark figures outside the window, silhouetted by the light of the moon through the treetops beyond. He thought he made out the outline of a gun, but his sight continued to deteriorate.

  The sound of the front door creaking open snapped him out of his fog, but only for a second. He saw three figures enter the room, each wearing ski masks and black tactical gear, including Kevlar vests.

  The men strode across the hardwood floor and stopped; the one in front loomed over Dawkins like a terrifying scarecrow.

  Dawkins was armed, as was normal for him. He carried a SIG Sauer 9mm on his right hip and, being out in the woods, he felt like it was a good idea since there’d been a few cougars and black bears spotted in the area in recent weeks.

  Black bears didn’t usually bother people, but he’d rather be safe than sorry, especially if he was out for a walk and had asked the Secret Service guys to hang back.

  The agents! The thought smashed into his mind and weighed on his chest like a fifty-pound sack of sand. Were his bodyguards dead? Guilt racked him again, but he felt his consciousness yielding to the drugs that were quickly making their way through his blood and into his brain.

  He couldn’t think, couldn’t even form the words he wanted to yell at the men. He desperately wished he could draw his firearm and dispatch these three, ending them in a blizzard of gunfire that they would never see coming, never suspect from a retired politician.

  But the muscles in his arms were useless. They felt like Jell-O, trembling under their own weight. He couldn’t even manage to twitch his fingers, and his eyelids were dragging across his eyeballs in slow, methodical blinks.

  Dawkins could feel it. He was about to black out, and there was nothing he could do to fight it. The drugs were making quick work of him, tugging his mind into the darkness where it would reside until he woke—if he was awoken at all.

  Of course he would wake up. If these men wanted him dead, they would have killed him already. Then again, who went after a former president? They were never targets, horses that could no longer race and weren’t bred for plowing fields. Retired politicians typically only had three options: go into the corporate or media worlds, write books, or fade into obscurity.

  His eyelids continued to grow heavier.

  The figure standing before him shook his head back and fo
rth.

  Dawkins couldn’t see the person’s face, but the whites of his eyes glowed in the cabin’s light. The skin was covered in a black paint, camouflaged for the evening mission that would lead them here to Dawkins’s cabin.

  Why, though? Why would they want him? And who were they?

  The answers he hoped for didn’t come. Instead, he surrendered to the overwhelming fatigue and fell asleep, slumping over on the couch.

  The leader of the assault team touched his finger to the president’s neck, then looked at the others and nodded.

  “Let’s get him out of here.”

  4

  Chattanooga

  The reporters arrived on the scene within minutes of the first responders. Sean always thought it was strange how news crews could somehow get to a scene nearly as fast as people with sirens, flashing lights, and radios. He knew how it worked, at least from a technical aspect. They were like bloodhounds, always sniffing the right channels—often literally—to find the next story. Often, first responders would even tip off reporters to big local stories.

  Sean had tried to slink away, blending into the forest until he and Tommy could get to their vehicle, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  The girl whose life they’d saved brought up the two heroes immediately.

  Sean imagined the live feed on the televisions in most of the homes in the area. They were likely running a banner along the bottom that said something about two guys from the IAA saving the girl’s life.

  He wasn’t sure how they would have worded it, but he’d witnessed enough breaking news stories that he could come up with a pretty close idea. While Sean enjoyed the anonymity of his life and career with Tommy’s organization, there were certainly times when that was flushed down the toilet. During those brief moments, Sean did his best to shove his friend out in front of the cameras and let him do the talking.

  There were, after all, still people out in the world who wanted Sean dead for one reason or another.

  He’d taken precautions, done everything he could to wash his hands of the blood he’d shed over the years that he’d worked for the government. Still, there were some loose ends—demons that could resurface at any time and make a play for his life.

  Sean didn’t know where the attack would come from, but having his face plastered all over the news wasn’t a good way to keep a low profile. Tommy was the IAA brand. He was the one usually put front and center, but the girl they’d saved had wanted to publicly thank both of them.

  At least for now, Sean looked different than he had all those years ago. While at Axis, he’d usually sported a simple disguise: hair color change here, facial hair difference there, put on weight, lose weight, that sort of thing. Now, his scruffy, dirty blond hair would make it hard for his enemies to recognize him—unless they’d kept track of him.

  “These two men saved my life.” Sean heard the girl say, and knew, with those magical words, that the camera would switch over to them.

  The reporter shifted his feet and turned to Tommy, who was closer. “Chris Caldwell reporting. We’re here live with Tommy Schultz, founder of the International Archaeological Agency in Atlanta, hometown Chattanooga boy, and now local hero. Tommy, tell me, what were you and your friend here doing up on that rock?”

  Tommy smiled at the camera the way only he knew how. He was a natural, just like a football coach giving a brief synopsis at halftime. “Well, we were actually here looking for artifacts.”

  “Artifacts?” Caldwell shoved the microphone a little closer to Tommy’s face.

  “That’s right, Chris. We had a lead that there was a Confederate treasure hidden up here on the cliff, in the cliff actually.”

  “Treasure? That sounds pretty fantastic. How did you hear about that?”

  “Well, I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources, but let’s just say they were either wrong about the treasure, or it’s been so long since it was hidden that it’s likely been removed, probably many years ago.”

  “Is this what you normally do, treasure hunting?”

  Tommy chuckled. “No, Chris. This was something my friend here and I wanted to do for the fun of it. Things have been a little slow lately, and we thought it would be fun to do something like this.”

  “Well, you didn’t come away completely empty-handed. It was lucky that you two were on the scene to save Molly’s life.”

  “That’s true.” Tommy motioned to Sean. “My buddy here heard the screams and reacted. I have to be honest, I’ve never seen him move like that before, especially in a high place like this.”

  The reporter stepped closer to Sean. “Chris Caldwell here with Eyewitness News. I’m speaking to Sean Wyatt from the International Archaeological Agency. Sean, what were you thinking when you made the decision to attempt to save Molly?”

  “Thinking?”

  “That’s right?” Caldwell shoved the mic closer to Sean’s head.

  “I wasn’t thinking. I…I just heard the scream and reacted. It’s what…it’s just an instinct, I guess, something deeply rooted in me. When I hear someone in trouble, I run that direction. I don’t know why.” He lied. He knew exactly why, but the public didn’t need to know.

  “We’ve seen the video taken by one of the observers with a cell phone. What you did was absolutely heroic. I’m sure Molly’s parents will be extremely grateful that she’s safe, thanks to you two.”

  Sean hiked his shoulders and dug his hands into his pockets. He didn’t like being on camera and wanted the interview to end, but it seemed to be dragging on forever.

  “Tommy, do you two have any idea where that treasure might have gone?”

  Back to this old thing.

  “No, Chris, but I assure you, treasure hunting isn’t really our thing. We specialize in recovery, security, and occasionally manage organized dig sites, but we’re not treasure hunters.”

  “Well, there you have it,” Caldwell said as he turned back to face the camera. “Two hometown heroes in the right place at the right time, and with the right stuff. From all of us here in the Tennessee Valley, thank you, Sean and Tommy, for saving this young woman’s life.”

  The light on the camera cut out, and the reporter lowered his microphone. “How was that?” Caldwell asked.

  The cameraman was checking something on the back of his device and without looking away gave a thumbs-up.

  He turned to Sean and Tommy. “Thanks, guys. Great stuff.”

  “Happy to,” Tommy said.

  It was the truth. He was always looking to get a little extra publicity for his organization. The IAA wasn’t exactly a charity operation, though it was essentially a nonprofit. They weren’t trying to make tons of money from it like an ordinary corporation. The main purpose was to preserve as much history as possible.

  Caldwell’s eyes fell over Tommy’s shoulder, and a grave expression crossed his face. “Looks like you two have a few more questions to answer.”

  The reporter slunk away as two men in black suits and ties approached. Their matching aviator sunglasses gripped the skulls that sat atop muscular, veiny necks. The men were stout and had broad shoulders. One was black, the other white, both clearly high-end security guys and both with shaved heads.

  There was an older man behind them. He wore gray slacks and a white button-up shirt. From the looks of it, he’d just gotten home from the office and was about to undress when he got the call to come up to Prentice Cooper. Who he was, though, Sean and Tommy didn’t know.

  “Gentlemen,” the guy said, “I owe the both of you an extraordinary debt.”

  Sean and Tommy shared a curious glance.

  The man stepped between the two bodyguards and extended a hand. His skin was marked with sunspots, as was his forehead. His gray, wispy hair danced in the breeze. Skin hung loose from his chin, and he had deep bags under his eyes. Still, the guy gave the impression he was only in his mid-sixties, not old by most standards.

  “Name’s Maynard, Maynard McIntyre. Molly is my daughter.”
r />   Sean and Tommy looked at one another again, this time with a dash of recognition in their eyes.

  “Mr. McIntyre, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Tommy said, taking the man’s hand first and shaking it firmly.

  Sean repeated the gesture when his friend was finished. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” He looked over his shoulder at his daughter standing by the edge of the forest with her friends. When he returned his gaze to the two men, there was a distant sadness in his expression, perhaps even a hint of disappointment. “Molly…she doesn’t always make good decisions. That’s my fault as her father. I’m afraid I spoiled her from a very early age.”

  “That’s an easy thing to do as a dad,” Sean said. “Fathers love to spoil their little girls.”

  “You have kids, Sean?” There was a hint of hope in the man’s voice.

  “No, sir. I don’t. But I have friends that do, and I studied parenting extensively while in the psych program at Tennessee. It’s a common theme, from my external perspective.”

  The man nodded and grinned. “I suppose it is. Daddies just want their little girls to love them. I guess if that’s a crime, I’m guilty as charged.” He chuckled.

  Sean and Tommy shared a short laugh to be polite.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you two. If you hadn’t been here, my little girl might be…” His voice trailed off, and he cupped a hand over his mouth. Tears welled in his eyes.

  Sean and Tommy stood silent for a moment, letting the guy work through his emotions, his thoughts, his fears that his daughter could have died that day.

  “I want to thank you properly,” he said when he’d finally reeled in a semblance of composure. “I’d like to take the two of you out to dinner, to the finest restaurant in the city.”

  Sean smirked. “That sounds great, Mr. McIntyre—”

  “Please. Call me Maynard.”

  “Okay, Maynard. That really does sound amazing, but we have to get back to Atlanta this evening. We’re about to start on another project, and there are some logistical things I have to work out.”