Season of the Witch

by David L. Golemon

  Carl who rode in the co-pilots seat next to Ryan turned and saw Will Mendenhall arguing with the newly installed Vietnamese expatriate Van Tram, the new man in the Group who officially no longer had a homeland. A punishment meted out over his cooperation with American forces during the war with the Greys and the incident in Mongolia. Carl raised the right headset from his ear to hear Will explaining why Tram needed his harness on, especially when Commander Ryan was at the controls. He shook his head as the quiet Vietnamese sniper just stared at Mendenhall without saying anything. The harness was still on the seat, untouched.

  Ryan, his sunglasses reflecting the light of the late afternoon sun, watched the desolate terrain slide by the canopy window. He shook his head as the scenery brought him back to the bitter time they had all faced in the summer of 2006 during the Event in the desert involving their friend and missing comrade, The Matchstick Man. It was in this general area where Ryan’s life with Department 5656 had begun in earnest.

  “This is why I rarely go outside at the complex,” Ryan said as he adjusted the speed of the Bell helicopter.

  “Why is that?” Carl asked through his mic.

  “I step on the sand and I expect something to reach up and grab me and pull me under. It’s the only Event file I have ever had nightmares about.”

  “Mr. Ryan, believe me, you’re not the only one,” Carl replied.

  “Ryan looked over at the naval Captain. He saw the sadness there. He mentally kicked himself for even bringing it up. He half-turned in his seat and saw a concerned Will Mendenhall who had heard the conversation over his headset.

  “Sorry Captain, I have a big mouth and even smaller brain.”

  Carl took a deep breath and smiled at Ryan, basically saying, ‘don’t worry about it.’

  When he had brought up the battle in the desert it also brought down a cascade of memories for Everett. The face of his deceased fiancée Lisa Willing was so associated with the desert sands it was quite impossible to separate the two. The manner of her death was a nightmare Carl faced alone.

  In the back Tram listened and looked at Will who just mouthed the words ‘later.’ Meaning he would fill the newest member of the Group in on the story some other time.

  “Okay, there she is,” Ryan said, grateful to have the subject dropped.

  Three miles away they could see the house the Event Group had built for Gus Tilly and his ward, Mahjtic Tilly, better known as The Matchstick Man. Off to the side was Gus’ original desert shack he had been living in when he had discovered the injured alien in the crash debris found high above in the Superstition Mountains. The newer guard shack was the only operational building on the property now owned by William Dawes. Young Billy had been Gus Tilly’s only friend before Matchstick and was now the brilliant business owner of Tilly Enterprises of Phoenix, Arizona. Billy had inherited everything after Gus’ murder and had instantly become a rare responsible billionaire.

  The staff of sixteen guards were quartered in the large Victorian house built for Gus and Matchstick but kept their activities limited to the bedrooms and the main floor. Carl remembered that Gus refused to live in the comfort of the new place, preferring his old shack as he dug for the rich gold strike that was found by the Event Group and given to Gus and Matchstick. The three men sitting in the chopper who had lived through it all watched as the old property came into view and they all had the same, sad feeling of remembrance over the extraordinary Gus Tilly and his little friend, the Matchstick Man. Each man, Will, Ryan, and Everett became silent in tribute to the friends that had died in and around Chato’s Crawl and the Superstition Mountains during the opening battle with the Greys.

  Carl watched as the single on-duty guard walked from the shack and waved at the incoming helicopter. The U.S. Marine guards had been informed that the famous and regulatory ruthless Captain Everett was paying them a visit today.

  The Bell helicopter sat down on the pad between the house and the shack. As Carl stepped out, he ignored the salute from the Marine private who was in plain clothes. Military protocol was not foremost on his mind as he looked around. Ryan stepped up beside him as did Mendenhall. Their eyes went to the single spot all three swore they would never look at. It was the area just off the helicopter pad where Matchstick, Gus Tilly, Pete Golding, and Doctor Denise Gilliam had been gunned down and murdered by cowardly assassins. The area showed no trace of the slaughter but that didn’t stop the ghosts of memory from rising up to greet them. Carl placed the aviator sunglasses on and turned away toward the old ramshackle house Gus and Matchstick had once called home.

  Will pulled the guard aside.

  “You got our communique about the situation with Matchstick?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Marine said. “Been quiet here. Of course, at night, well, you hear things.”

  Mendenhall looked around as the evening sun washed over the desert. His eyes moved to the mountain range high above and he shivered. He did not ridicule the Marine as he knew the place here was indeed haunted, and you would never catch him making fun of anyone who feared it. He patted the young private on the back. After the hell they lived through that long-ago summer, Will had no appreciation for the desert. Like Ryan, he didn’t even like the Nevada terrain as it reminded him of the Superstition Mountains.

  “We’re desperately hoping Matchstick shows up here. From now on order fifty percent alert for all guards and double the scheduled patrols. Get me a breakdown on the available manpower before I leave. There is also the situation about this Congressman Briggs and his people. Place the ‘kill’ signs up. No one comes near this place. If they do place some well-aimed bullets in their asses. My orders, my responsibility.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excused.”

  Carl and Ryan moved to the old shack while Will and Tram inspected the Victorian house and to check in with Europa through Matchstick’s private terminal in the house’s basement.

  As Everett pulled on the old screen door, the rusted spring and hinges popped free and the door flew off. Carl reverently picked it up. “Gus had always been meaning to get a new one as I recall.”

  Ryan started to say something witty and out of place but stopped short of opening his mouth as he saw the gentle way Carl picked up the screen door and laid it against the clapboard wall.

  “Maybe we can—,” Carl started to say but stopped when Ryan cut him off.

  “I’ll get a hammer and nails and have it back on before we leave.”

  Carl sadly nodded his head and then entered the old shack. He removed his sunglasses as he and Ryan took in the dusty furniture and the dilapidated and broken couch and the springs of the old cast iron bed. Carl wiped the sweat from his forehead as he saw the small baby-like crib that had been Matchsticks as it sat next to the Gus larger bed. Carl cleared his throat and examined the bent and warped wood of the floor. The dust was thick and undisturbed. No one had been inside for a very long time.

  He spied something on the old dresser that Gus had salvaged from some old house in Chato’s Crawl. He walked over and picked up a faded picture in an old-fashioned bubble-type glass frame. He smiled as he saw Gus as a handsome twenty-year old Marine second lieutenant. His saucer cap was tilted jauntily on his head and looked every bit as formidable as any man ever to wear the uniform. He saw the young, cocky smile on his face and knew from his history that would be the last photo of Gus that he would ever be spied smiling in. A year after that photo had been snapped, Gus had lived through the most gruesome battle of the Korean War—the Chosin Reservoir, where Americans had to strap the bodies of their frozen buddies and comrades onto the side of tanks to bring them home again from that frozen, desolate valley. As Carl looked at the photo, he was reminded of Gus saying that was why he always loved the desert. He never wanted to be cold again. His eyes moved to another frame on the dresser. He reached out and lifted a smaller, far more recent picture. He swallowed as he looked at a stern Gus Tilly and in his arms was the child-sized Matchstick Tilly. A young, smiling B
illy Dawes, Gus, and Matchstick’s only friend besides the men and women of the Event Group, was beside them. Carl cleared his throat again and then handed both photos and frames over to Ryan.

  “These go back with us,” Carl said as Ryan saw what had made the Captain go silent upon entering the shack. “No one’s been here. Let’s take a ride up the mountain and see if any of the miners have seen or heard anything.”

  “Matchstick never could have made it this far. We should concentrate our efforts closer to home,” Ryan said sadly.

  “We cover all the bases. We owe the little fella that.”

  “Uh, have Will take one of the SUV’s up. I think I’ll hang out here and fix that door.”

  “You alright?” Carl asked as Jason wiped his nose.

  “Yeah, sure. Its just the dust in this place,” Ryan said in self-defense.

  Carl slapped Ryan on the back as he left the shack knowing that the feelings Ryan had was the exact reason he wanted to leave. The ghosts here were overwhelming.

  Two hours later, the Bell helicopter lifted free of the helipad and the silent crew started their journey home back home to Nevada. They had only managed to bring the haunting nightmare of Matchstick’s, Gus, Pete’s, and Denise’s death back to the forefront of their minds.

  Soon there would be more than just ghosts haunting the men and women of Department 5656.

  * * *

  Houma,

  Louisiana

  The Sikorsky S-92 heavy-lift helicopter was ready for takeoff immediately after Congressman Harold Briggs stepped aboard. Briggs was on a cell phone and ignored the crew chief’s offer of a set of protective headphones.

  “Just tell them I’m a little under the weather after the Baton Rouge rally. No, this is something I have to take care of privately.” Briggs saw the large passenger compartment door close much to his surprise. He hurriedly ended the call to his campaign manager in Houston and pocketed the phone. “What are you doing, we were supposed to be joined by a Mr. Sokol. Or are you just wasting my valuable time?”

  The crew chief did not say anything in answer, but insisted the congressman take the offered headphones. Briggs reached for them.

  “If this means the bastard stood me up, he needs to be informed I am missing a substantial rally in Houston. Your bosses said this man is very important. I have given him the courtesy of this meeting and he stands me up like some lowly congressional aid?”

  The crew chief just raised his brows underneath his crash helmet and then moved away to one of ten empty passenger seats without explaining. There was plenty of room on the flight as the large crew chopper was normally maintained and operated by Felson Air Services, a large company that supplied transport of oil field crew personnel to offshore drilling and production platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. As the Sikorsky shot into the overcast air, Briggs angrily placed the headphones over his ears, meticulously aligning them as not to muss his perfect hair.

  “Now, where is he, this Mr. Sokol?” he said into the mic.

  The crew chief still refused to say anything. His eyes looked out of the window at the passing grey colored Gulf of Mexico as if Briggs wasn’t even present.

  “Good afternoon, Congressman.”

  Briggs pressed the headphones harder into his ears as the voice came across.

  “Sorry about the misdirection, but since you attract so much attention these days, I had little choice.”

  “Who are you and where?” Briggs asked.

  “Oh, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to pilot this wonderful Sikorsky. Did you know he was a Russian immigrant to your country?”

  “Who?” Briggs asked, totally confused as to what the voice was referring to. He stood and angrily passed by the crew chief and went to the separation panel between the passenger compartment and the cockpit. His eyes widened when he saw a man in not a pilot’s coveralls, but a rich satin suit. The stranger was piloting the large helicopter without the assistance of a co-pilot.

  “I speak of the engineer who designed this aircraft. He was Russian. Small trivial fact I know, but I dare say a prideful one.”

  “Uh, huh,” Briggs said, not very interested at all. “May I ask just what in the hell you’re doing and where is the pilot?”

  The man at the stick applied power and the Sikorsky shot higher into the air. He adjusted his microphone and then flipped a switch and turned a knob.

  “Houma Center, this is Felson flight 102, climbing to four thousand feet. ETA ten minutes to platform ‘Mystery Deep’ exploratory well number three.” All communication was done in clear and concise English.

  After the pilot received a response, he removed his right headphone and looked to his right. “Join me Congressman, I have some questions I want to ask.”

  “Not before you tell me just who in the hell you are!”

  “Why, I’m the man you came here to meet. My name is Dmitri Sokol.”

  Briggs was shocked to see the man in the expensive suit as he manipulated the complicated controls without much effort. The man was dark haired and fit the description he was given on who he would be meeting. There was no explanation as to this man’s value to his campaign.

  Harold Briggs struggled to fit through the tight opening but finally managed to squeeze his rotund frame into the vacant co-pilots seat. “Now, what is this about?” Briggs saw the arrogance of the man as he smiled. “I cancelled a very important rally because—”

  The Sikorsky banked hard to the right slamming Briggs hard into the firewall and window. The pilot straightened the ship out and looked at Briggs. The Congressman didn’t like the way he had been cut off.

  “Apologies old man, it’s been a while. Now, I believe you have a few questions to answer regarding your ongoing efforts to expose a certain Group in the Nevada desert. There are a few things I need to know before I can assist you in this endeavor.”

  “I go through higher contacts than you. I don’t even know who in the hell you are.”

  Sokol turned and faced the rotund man from Washington. The smile was noticeably absent. “The ball has been handed off to me Congressman. That is all you need to know. Any assistance from us that you need will now go through me and my offices.”

  Briggs didn’t like being on the defensive, no matter how dangerous his chief of staff said they were. He stared straight out of the windscreen as splatters of rain danced on the glass.

  “Our aims have always been three-fold, Mr. Briggs. Number one, assist you in your goal of becoming the most powerful man in the world,” he smiled as he considered the saying a bit out of date. “Number two, in exchange for that assistance, we expect you to find certain men and women that can assist in securing a more prosperous working relationship with your country. One that will benefit both nations. Number three, to help bury the hatchet, so to speak, between east and west. The men I represent are not satisfied with the status quo. You will assist us in changing this.” He looked over at Briggs. Now, as your American saying goes Mr. Briggs, the gloves have to come off. You will give us what we want or that elusive Group in the desert will not be the only thing exposed to your countrymen. You will be also. I don’t think your fellow countrymen would appreciate another scandal as far as foreign assistance in a Presidential election. I think that would be just a tad detrimental to your goal.”

  “Just what is it that you want?”

  “You have a list that was compiled of former and current agents of this mysterious Group. I and a colleague of mine needs those names. Of course, our concern in this matter will have no adverse effect on your determination to expose this group. Names, just that simple.”

  Harold Briggs felt his heart speed up. He swallowed his newfound fear, now knowing why this meeting had been called and why the extreme security measure of meeting in the air.

  “The list we have is very protected. Some may not even be former members. I have to say no. I will not expose members of this Group even to you and your bosses.”

  “I believe that is called, you’re mis
sing the point, Congressman.”

  “This was not the agreement. We only put a period on this deal after I become President. You attempt to blackmail me, and I go straight to the FBI.”

  Sokol laughed. This time Briggs could see real mirth in the man’s eyes.

  “Soon you will meet someone who will dissuade you of all treacherous action Congressman.”

  “What do you mean, are we to meet another cockroach like you coming into the light?”

  “Mr. Briggs, if you plan on winning this election,” Sokol reached over and harshly grabbed the congressman in the crotch area and squeezed as hard as he could, “you have to grow a pair of these!”

  Briggs felt his stomach do rolls as the pain hit his testicles. He grabbed the area and rubbed.

  “My home office believes it time for you to understand what is at stake here for all concerned, Harold. I need that list of names and I have just the person to get it out of you.” Sokol hit the radio transmit button on the collective. “Mystery Deep, this is Felson flight 102, requesting permission to land on platform one. Over.”

  “Felson 102, cleared to land. Over.”

  With his testicles aching and his heart once again racing, Harold Briggs looked up and saw the oil platform.

  “What is this?” he asked, pain lacing his question.

  “This is called international waters, Mr. Congressman.” Sokol smiled and this time it was genuine. “And you’re here to meet a very close associate and advisor of my very special group who can explain things in much greater detail than myself.”

  The oil platform was large. Briggs could see many men in hardhats roaming the steel decks as they approached.