by Dave Lacey
The two said their goodbyes and arranged to meet for breakfast the following morning. Nick lazed around for another hour, ate breakfast, then made half a dozen calls to the general’s office with no success. Frustrated with his failure, he decided to make the trip to Maryland to see him in his place of work. He showered then got dressed, and was on his way out of the door when his cell phone rang. The caller display said ‘No number’, which made him pause before he answered.
“Hello?”
“Nick, it's the chief. What the fuck, exactly, are you doing with your time off?”
Taken aback, Nick answered, “Well...sir I'm not sure why that matters. It's my time off, and I’m entitled to do what I want with it. Why the fuck does everybody have to stick their noses into my business? I guess Leshaun spoke to you?” Nick was angry at the intrusive questioning.
“No, why would he? You sound paranoid, Nick.” When Nick didn’t respond, he spoke again. “I‘ve been advised, and you can read into that that I had my ass handed to me, that you’ve been harassing the office of the Director of the NSA.”
“Oh shit. I’ve called a few times, yeah, what’s the problem?” Nick knew what the problem was, but he needed time to think.
“Detective, I don’t have to tell you that investigating cases that do not even come under our jurisdiction in your own time is not something I condone. Apart from that, the man just lost his partner and her daughter, and the last thing in the world he needs is to be bothered by a pain in the ass detective from the NYPD.” The line went quiet for a few seconds before the chief went on. “I was advised that you made more than a few calls, Nick. Now, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but it has to stop. I suggest you take the rest of the day to yourself and come back in tomorrow refreshed and ready to take up your duties once again. Do we understand each other?”
“Was it the director that called you?” Nick asked. He had a sneaking suspicion now that it wasn’t. The chief confirmed this belief.
“No, it wasn’t the director himself. But I don’t see how that makes any difference. Consider it a direct order.” Nick was pissed off with just about everybody right now, and could feel his belligerent streak gaining momentum. He mumbled reassurances to his boss and hurried off the phone. He had made his decision before the call ended. He was still going to Maryland.
***
Ernestine Rook had called Moretti’s boss. Rather than dig them further into the mire by contacting Moretti directly, which he thought would only make him more curious, he had called his superior and sounded very officious when telling him that the ceaseless phone calls to the office of the director had to stop. Or there would be trouble. It was the right move, he was sure of that, but he didn’t like the way Moretti had reacted during the subsequent phone call.
Initially Rook hadn’t considered Moretti a threat; there was very little chance that the detective would stumble onto anybody who could tell him anything worthwhile. But that had changed in the last few days. Somebody must have said something to spur him on. Rook thought about Moretti’s attempts to contact the Miller girl, his tireless assault on the NSA switchboard. Somebody had said something. So, a few days ago Rook had decided to instigate wire taps, which was how he heard the conversation between Moretti and his boss. Rook pondered his next move, hoping that the warning would have the desired effect
This wasn’t the first time this kind of issue had come up. Rook and his associates, including the old man, faced this scenario every couple of years or so. He considered it an occupational hazard, but he never became immune to it, the killing. At times he questioned his entire life, and the work he had carried out during it – all in the name of the United States government. And, sickening though it was, he knew it was essential. If it wasn’t him, it would be somebody else, and the job would still need to be done.
Sitting alone in his office, his mind went all the way back to Mexico, back to the very start. Rumours had circulated back then, rumours about a prediction, about the Mayan calendar. Since those days, the legend of the calendar had become so mainstream that films had been made about the end of the world as predicted by it. Rook knew better; he knew what would really happen. And he knew that, though it made him sick to his stomach at times, his role was essential. The people couldn’t know the truth until they were absolutely ready for it. And that time would come.
Mexico had only been the start of it. He had accompanied Voss on that trip, had been the one who fired the shot that had started the whole cover up. He was very young then, and he hadn’t considered the rights or wrongs of killing a father of children, a husband, a hard working man. He had just followed orders and looked through the sights at his distant target, squeezing the trigger, thus becoming Voss’s right hand man for the next fifty years, give or take.
What a bizarre journey it had been since then: an incredible rollercoaster of edifying highs and stultifying lows. If the world only knew the things that were happening – the preparations being made, the sheer scale of the organisation. If you stood back for a moment and looked at it with fresh eyes, it was breathtaking.
Sadly, most would not find out what was happening until it was too late. It was a regret of Rook’s, the secrecy. But he was fully aware that there was no choice; no alternative.
In the late 1970s, barely ten years into the project, the story had nearly broken, and they had almost been undone. A presidential candidate had been informed of the project and the work required as part of it. In those early days, the special operations group that had been formed specifically to work on the project made the decision to tell all presidential candidates so as to prepare them for the future. Clearly, that had been a major mistake, and one that had been rectified very soon after.
The candidate had panicked; he had railed against the organisation and vowed to tell the world the truth. The enormity of the situation had dawned on them: until then, they had naively assumed they could keep the secret indefinitely. As a result, they had panicked. Eventually Voss made the decision that would set them on the course for the next thirty or more years. Before that particular problem, they had only resorted to killing in extreme cases, and never when the problem was as high profile as a presidential candidate.
They immediately rolled into action, and the candidate was shot to death outside a convention centre in Connecticut some four days later, just one day ahead of a scheduled press conference, during which the candidate planned to tell the gathered press his news. The assassination was skilfully carried out; no gunman was ever apprehended. From that point on, only the President, the Joint Chiefs and a handful of other high ranking public servants were ever made aware of the ongoing project. They were all closely monitored during and after serving in office. Rook decided to call Voss and update him on the situation.
“Rook, how can I help you?” The old man was over eighty years of age now, but he still held onto the reins of power with an iron grip.
“I thought I’d call to let you know that the young cop is beginning to make a nuisance of himself. He’s been trying real hard to make contact with Waldron, so I’ve taken the precaution of speaking to his superior officer and advising him to tell his man to back off. I hope this will be enough.” The threat from the young policeman would be obvious to Voss.
“I see. In that case, I too hope it is enough. It would be very unfortunate to have to go to extremes in order to keep a lid on things. What do you propose if it isn’t enough?” Rook was very aware that both parties were working hard to keep the language banal.
“I would imagine we’d have to go down the same route as before. It would be harder to make it seem...natural. I’d really rather not go down that path if I can help it.” Rook sighed audibly.
“You sound tired, my friend.” Voss had never referred to him before as ‘friend’. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine. Sometimes I get a little weary of all the cases we have to expedite.” Rook did feel genuinely tired.
“I understand, but I
'm afraid we may have one more that requires investigation at least. Our facility in the desert is being...observed. It has been for some time now, and I think that due to the comings and goings at that facility, the voyeur in question has started up a blog specifically to address it. The blog speculates on the activity and why it’s required, hypothesizes that there’s a secret organisation using the facility to further its own plans. As to what those plans are...well, I’ll leave you to investigate for yourself.” Voss paused to cough an old man’s cough.
“Okay, so I guess I’ll be digging into this person’s life then. This is all getting very repetitive don’t you think? What do we do with this one? What about the holding pen?” The holding pen was another facility where they held a number of individuals who they considered dangerous or just too important to the plan to risk allowing them to go free. It was a kind of Guantanamo Bay, but one where there was very little hope of ever being released.
“Maybe. Yes, now I think about it the holding pen sounds like a good idea. We don’t want him running round free as a bird, risking all that we’ve achieved to date. We also don’t necessarily want to make things too final. You’re right in the sense that too much of that is a bad thing for us. It’s not good for the soul.” Rook was surprised to hear the old man speak in spiritual terms.
“I really never had you pegged as somebody who considered the possibility of the human soul.”
“You mean you never considered that I had one?” Rook chuckled.
“Well, now you mention it. I’ll be glad when all the cloak and dagger work is done, when we can finally come clean and do what needs to be done.” Rook asked the million dollar question. “D’you think it will actually happen, sir?”
“The coming clean, or the event?”
“The event. Do you actually believe that everything we’ve done will be worth it in the end?”
“I hope so, and I do believe it will yes. We’ll all need help then, my boy – we’ll need each other like never before.”
“Okay. I’m gonna travel to the desert then. I’ll see what and how our new friend found out about us. We’ll see if the detective heeds our warning. If not, I may have to make my way back to New York and take care of business. But I really do hope not.”
Chapter 40
White Sands, New Mexico.
Luke Henderson lay under camouflage cover, high in the hills of the San Andres National Wildlife Refuge. The park overlooked much of the surrounding area, but specifically, for Luke, the NASA White Sands facility in New Mexico. The facility could be reached via Nasa Road, but only by those employed by the administration itself. The public are not granted access, so Luke had taken to scaling the hills every few days to witness the goings on.
He knew it was only a matter of time until they closed him down. His blog and his YouTube videos all but gave away his location when spying on them, and they clearly did not want anybody to know what was going on there. As yet, his announcements to the world about what was happening had not really gathered any significant momentum. Undeterred, he was back there again. There was a great deal of activity around the plant tonight, so he was pretty certain there would be another launch.
They were not like any other launches he had ever seen, and he had seen his fair share. These were small craft, and, remarkably, they made very little noise beyond that of a passenger jet. Luke had never seen or heard of anything like this, and the rest of his peer group were highly sceptical of his assessment. But Luke knew the truth. It was tough going, that was for sure. At this time of year the hills got very cold at night, and his resolve was tested every time he came here. But his fascination drew him here every time.
Luke had many theories as to what was happening, though none of them were based on any facts. His main theory was that it was something to do with the ‘Star Wars’ technology which was so prevalent in the eighties, hence the reason NASA had kept it all secret. And it was secret. After the shutdown of NASA and all its projects, it became clear that the press, the administration and the nation had passed the honeymoon period. So the fact that this was all happening in secret, in the desert, only made it more fascinating.
He took his backpack from behind him where he had used it as a cushion, and opened it up. He took out a meatball sub purchased earlier on his way out west, and groped around inside the bag for his flask of finest single bean Bolivian coffee. He savoured the aroma as he poured himself a cup. He put the backpack behind him again, leaned back, and dug into his sub. It was cold, but nevertheless, delicious. Washed down with coffee he had roasted and ground himself earlier this morning, it felt as good as if he had just dined at his favourite restaurant.
As he finished off the last dregs of his coffee, he paused, thinking he had heard a noise from off to his right. He made no sound for a full minute, but heard nothing more. He shrugged and went back to packing his flask away. There was an abundance of wildlife in the Reserve, it could have been anything. His worry was that one night he would be discovered by a black bear and be unable to defend himself, so at present he was feeling less than comfortable.
Renewed activity around the service roads below re-focussed his attention, and he reached for his night vision binoculars. The floodlights washed the scene shown through the binoculars with a harsh green light, but he was able to adjust the sensitivity a little which made it much easier to make out the action. Things were hotting up now. Shuttle vehicles were taking engineers away from the launch vehicle and back to the main building. He could also make out some figures climbing into another vehicle which would head in the opposite direction.
Considering the size of the ship, there seemed to be a lot of people heading toward it. Surely they weren’t all going up? And if they were going up, that pretty much precluded his idea of the ‘Star Wars’ project having been resuscitated. Intriguing, he thought. Exciting too – the next blog would really ignite things. He took out his video camera, and started to shoot the vehicle making its way out to the launch pad, a distance of around four kilometres.
Luke had first become aware of the activity at White Sands through a friend who had happened to be in the area when a launch took place. His friend hadn’t thought a great deal of it, there was no reason to, but Luke had thought otherwise. White Sands was not a launch site – it was used as a space harbour and allowed trainee astronauts to practice approaches and landings in preparation for the real thing.
At first, he had been a little sceptical of the supposed launch, but decided the only way to find out for certain was to see for himself. So he travelled east from his home in California, packing the car with the usual paraphernalia, and settled in for the long haul. Remarkably, on only his second night in the wilds of New Mexico, there was another launch. He was stunned. Truthfully, he had drifted off to sleep as he had not expected much to happen.
It felt surreal as the craft sped into the dark, clear night sky relatively soundlessly compared to other launches he had witnessed. In fact, surreal didn’t cover it; it was downright strange. He had gone from sceptic to convert almost as quickly as the modern craft had left earth’s atmosphere. He had started his blog just three days after seeing his first launch.
His mission had begun eight months ago, and since then he had seen sixteen launches. That in itself was incredible. So far, though, his revelations had failed to garner any real interest. Many labelled his blog as fake, stating that the footage was computer generated and that none of his claims had any foundation in the truth. Some believed him, but disappointingly most of those were also people who believed that Elvis, Marlon Brando and Michael Jackson all lived together on a distant island far from the public eye.
Part of the problem was that the public had fallen out of love with the space program so nobody really gave a crap about his ‘findings’. Even so, there must be a tipping point; there must come a day when people would sit up and take notice in spite of themselves. Surely somebody would know something about what was happening and contribute to the story? Well th
ey hadn’t yet, much to his chagrin.
The transport vehicle had disgorged its contents at the launch pad and was making its way back to the station. Luke felt certain a launch was imminent. He paused the recording while nothing was happening, lay the camera down beside him and leaned back against what little cushioning he had. The minute he relaxed, his bladder reminded him he had been drinking plenty of fluids for the past few hours, without a trip to the little boy’s room. He had time before the launch took place, so he pushed back the camouflage netting that covered his sleeping bag, unzipped and stood awkwardly.
Jeez he was stiff, must be getting old he thought. He stretched for a moment before making his way to a suitable point to unburden himself. As he stood answering nature’s call, he cocked his head at a cracking sound off to his left, screwing his eyes against the gloom, trying in vain to see what, if anything, was out there. He couldn’t see anything, and the noise had not been repeated. Just then, he caught the faint sound of a disembodied human voice drifting in and out of audible focus on the wind. It was the countdown! He quickly finished his job, zipped himself up, and hastily made his way back to his eyrie.
Abandoning the sleeping bag and camouflage cover, Luke picked up the video camera and hit the record button, zooming in on the scene below. He could hear the countdown better now “... and counting.” Pause. “T minus one minute and counting.” Then a long pause, fifty seconds to be precise. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” The rocket rumbled into full throttle.
He never tired of this moment. The stabiliser arms that had been holding the small craft in place fell away, and at first it looked as if she wouldn’t get off the ground. Then physics took over and she slowly lifted off the pad, lazily at first, then very quickly gathering pace. It seemed the noise levels dropped off as the craft sped up, and Luke looked on through the viewfinder of the camera as it reached a thousand feet.
