Silent Creed

by Alex Kava

  Jason’s eyes darted up and found hers. He yanked at his jacket pocket, suddenly desperate to get Bolo’s rope toy free. The dogs expected and needed to be rewarded. She’d seen Creed do it as soon as he knew it wasn’t a false alert. From the look on Jason’s face, this was definitely not a false alert. But even as she approached she still couldn’t figure out what the object was.

  Jason tossed the toy to Bolo and he caught it, prancing off, proud and pleased. O’Dell and Ross arrived at the same time. Both stopped within three feet of Jason and both stared at the ground.

  There was a snarl of twigs and wet leaves. O’Dell anticipated another partially buried body. Something comparable to the one under the protection of the tent—face half stuck in the mud. But this was already unearthed except for the twigs and leaves.

  The hand was severed just above the wrist and the fingers were still balled up in a fist. It almost looked like its owner had grabbed hold of something and had been wrenched away. Maybe washed away.

  She glanced at Jason. The color had drained from his face but his eyes were intense and focused. She remembered his empty sleeve, and suddenly she felt a rush of heat crawl up her neck.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  “I’ve seen worse,” he assured her, and stared down Ross when the guardsman noticed the connection.

  She wouldn’t insult him with any more attention. Instead she said, “Are those teeth marks?” She squatted down for a better look. Both men joined her, though more slowly and apprehensively than O’Dell. Already she was yanking out her cell phone and taking several photos.

  “Coyotes run in pretty much every county in North Carolina,” Ross said.

  O’Dell slipped her phone back in her pocket and pulled out a fresh pair of latex gloves from another pocket of her windbreaker.

  “That’s probably what this is, right?” With a protected index finger she poked at the puncture marks on the back of the hand. They looked very much like impressions made by an animal’s teeth.

  “Would it rip it from the body like that?” Jason asked.

  Dirt and dried blood prevented O’Dell from examining the dismembered area. All she could be sure of was that it hadn’t been cut clean.

  “You said earlier that landslides can tear a body apart,” she reminded Jason.

  “It’s just that it looks like the poor bastard was hanging on to something for dear life.”

  She couldn’t argue that point.

  “Coyotes won’t eat fresh meat,” Ross said.

  “Excuse me?” O’Dell thought she might have heard him wrong.

  “They’ll usually leave it for days, maybe even a week, sort of let it ripen. I guess it’s easier on their digestive systems. Probably why they left it.”

  It confirmed what O’Dell already believed—that whatever had happened to these men must have occurred just before the landslide.

  36.

  Washington, D.C.

  Mr. Sadowski.” A young woman came out of the conference room and crossed the lobby to where Frankie and his daughter had taken up vigil.

  She was the first person to pay any attention to them all afternoon. They’d been sitting waiting, taking a break only for a couple of sandwiches and mediocre coffee.

  “So sorry, they won’t be getting to you today.”

  “What do you mean?” Susan asked. “We’ve waited all day.”

  “I know, I know. Some of the experts’ testimony ran long. They’ll probably be ready for you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The woman was the same clerk who had told Frankie he needed to be ready first thing that morning.

  “Are you sure?” Susan was more annoyed than Frankie, and he hated that he’d brought her there to sit and waste her time. “Because if it isn’t going to be until afternoon—”

  “No, no, I’m sure it’ll be sometime in the morning.”

  “But probably not first thing.”

  As his daughter bickered with the clerk, Frankie noticed the senators and others leaving the chamber where the hearings had been.

  “I’ll be right back,” he told Susan as he wandered over closer.

  He knew his own state senator was part of this committee. He was a volunteer for her reelection campaign. He’d met her briefly at a rally a few years ago in Pensacola, though he didn’t expect her to recognize him.

  When she came out of the chamber door, he called to her, “Senator Delanor.”

  Hat in hand, he approached her slowly. She smiled, but it was a tight, controlled effort to not keep walking. In this lobby she had to know he wouldn’t be there unless he’d passed through security.

  “I’m Frankie Sadowski,” he said, offering his hand. “From Pensacola.”

  She shook his hand, but her eyes were darting around as if she were looking for someone to rescue her, some excuse to pull her away.

  “You responded to a letter of mine back in July,” he told her. “You encouraged me to testify.”

  He watched to see some recollection take place, but it never did. Now he was a bit embarrassed. Had the reply been written by one of her staff and placed with a stack of others simply for her signature?

  “I’m glad to see you here,” she said. “This committee certainly needs to hear stories like yours.”

  “Senator Delanor,” someone called from behind Frankie, “I have someone waiting for you.”

  Frankie saw the relief on her face before she could hide it.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” She hesitated, as if trying to remember his name, then suddenly decided it wasn’t necessary. “I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.”

  He turned to watch her join the man who was waiting to deliver several folded messages and a tall cup of coffee. He was obviously one of her staff members. She called him Carter. He had a headset over his neatly styled hair so he could talk on his phone without his hands, and from the way he chattered nonstop it looked like he was filling her in on a long list of things.

  Frankie started to walk away when he noticed two men in dress blues who had just come out of the doors to the hearing room. One man was young, the other old, perhaps even older than Frankie, with wisps of white hair and stooped shoulders. They stopped to talk to another young man dressed in khakis and a leather bomber jacket. There was something so familiar about this man in the leather jacket despite the distance of fifty feet or more. Then the man looked over his shoulder. His eyes caught Frankie’s before he turned away. He said something to the men and left.

  Frankie stopped in his tracks and stared at the man, certain now, recognizing the clipped, confident gait. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and a knot twist in his gut. It was the same man who had warned Frankie about testifying. And he was here with military men who had been a part of the hearings.

  What in the world was going on?

  37.

  Ellie waited until they were clearly out of earshot before she asked Carter, “Did you recognize that man?”

  “The old guy?”

  She noticed he didn’t turn to look at him again. Ellie did, however. She watched the tall, silver-haired gentleman take a seat beside the younger woman who had obviously accompanied him.

  “He’s testifying at the hearing.”

  “I’ve got a long list of phone calls that you need to return. Where do you want me to start?”

  They continued into her office, but she didn’t glance through the papers he had handed her. It was after five PM. She couldn’t think of anyone who couldn’t wait, and Frankie San— No, not San, but Sadowski. She didn’t even recognize the name.

  “He said I replied to a letter of his, encouraging him to testify.”

  Carter looked up at her and let out a sigh. “We send out a ton of letters.”

  “Form letters. It sounded like this was a personal reply.”

  �
��And we send out a lot of those, too.”

  He was off-loading a new stack of files and documents onto her desk, sorting as he piled.

  “He said he was from Pensacola. My hometown. You’d think I’d remember that, at least.”

  Carter was jotting on sticky notes and tacking them to several of the files he was leaving on her desk. She could tell he didn’t care about Frankie Sadowski, but the man was testifying tomorrow. How many people had Sadowski told that she had encouraged him to come forward?

  “Find a way to leak to the media that I encouraged one of my constituents affected by Project 112 to tell his story.”

  Carter’s head shot up. “You’re not serious?”

  “Why not? Those people outside the Capitol are asking that we finally listen to the veterans who were affected.”

  “Listening and encouraging are two separate things. You don’t even know what he has to say. What if he sounds like a crackpot?”

  “Crackpot?” She smiled at him. It seemed like a strange word for someone his age to use.

  “You know what I mean. This old guy probably doesn’t have anything better to do with his time than promote conspiracy theories on the Internet. What if he’s a member of one of those radical groups?”

  “He’s here to testify. Senator Quincy wouldn’t have allowed it if he was some radical crackpot. He said his staff vetted every witness, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know what Senator Quincy’s staff does or doesn’t do.”

  She was getting tired of everyone in D.C. labeling people as radicals simply because they disagreed. There was something about Mr. Sadowski that reminded her of Jimmy Stewart and the roles he played in the old classics like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. He presented himself to her as a gentleman and that was a rare quality these days, especially in this town.

  “You’re always talking about controlling the message, Carter. So find a way to leak something positive. For God’s sake, the man is from my hometown. At least make that connection before the media does or they’ll spin it into something stupid.”

  Finally he gave her a reluctant half grin. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Oh, and Carter.” She stopped him as he was heading for the door. “Find the letters.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We keep copies of everything in this place.” She pointed to the boxes still stacked in her office: the copies of documents from the DoD. They were supposedly from as far back as the 1950s. “I’d like to see Mr. Sadowski’s letter.”

  “Who knows if the guy actually sent you anything.”

  “We certainly have a copy of my reply. Find it.”

  “It was probably a form letter.”

  “Probably. Find it anyway.”

  He frowned as he left. Ellie checked her wristwatch. Her fingers grazed the top of the pile he’d stacked neatly. Even the sticky notes poked out at different intervals so that she could read them with only a glance.

  Then something struck her. Frankie Sadowski had said he received her reply in July. How was that possible? She didn’t even know about this hearing back then, or at the very least, it hadn’t been on her radar. She didn’t nag Quincy about being a part of it until about a month ago.

  Ellie headed out of her office to catch Carter and get his take. She stopped. Then she took two steps back to hide herself against the pillar outside her office.

  Carter was on the other side of the lobby talking to Senator Quincy. They were both looking toward the entrance where Mr. Sadowski and his companion were talking to one of the clerks.

  Carter whipped out his favorite notepad and started scribbling as Quincy seemed to be dictating. Then he clapped Ellie’s chief of staff on the shoulder, pleased and satisfied. Carter was beaming and nodding. Both men set off in opposite directions.

  By the time Quincy passed her office, Ellie was back inside, door closed. She stuffed her briefcase with everything she’d need. On her desk she spread open an innocuous file with a pen and pad beside it. She placed her coffee mug within reach so it looked like she hadn’t left the building. Then she slipped out, heading for the back stairs.

  38.

  Benjamin Platt hated that Maggie sounded like she didn’t trust him. He knew her well enough to know that trust was a fragile commodity to her. That he had gained hers only to lose it in this way made him angry with himself. And it made him angry with Colonel Abraham Hess.

  Hess had invited Platt to dinner. He knew the man was feeling pleased with how the congressional hearings had been going. He knew that Hess considered these hearings a mere excuse for Congress to cut the DoD’s budget. They had reviewed Project 112 and Project SHAD twice before and done nothing.

  Platt had watched his mentor deliver his testimony, not only captivating his audience but controlling Senator Quincy and the rest of the committee. Now he wanted to celebrate and Platt was far from feeling any sense of victory. In fact, he had no appetite at all, but he wanted answers about North Carolina.

  Earlier when Peter Logan met them after the hearing he seemed to have more questions than answers. He couldn’t get ahold of his assistant, Isabel Klein, and although Logan made it sound like a simple communication problem because cell phone towers had been destroyed by the landslide, Platt could see it was yet another excuse. Frustrated, Platt mentioned that he hadn’t had any problems getting through to Maggie O’Dell.

  What disturbed Platt even more was that Hess and Logan didn’t seem to be on the same page. Hess said something about a special team on-site and Logan looked surprised. He tried to hide it, but Platt saw the irritation. That’s when Hess asked Platt to meet him for dinner and dismissed him with a nod of his head. As Platt left them he could hear Logan firing off more excuses. Platt glanced back in time to see Hess finally cut Logan short with a wave of his hand, and then he heard the colonel tell his deputy to “get the hell down there.”

  Now, several hours later, Platt found the colonel in their favorite corner booth at Old Ebbitt’s. Hess was already enjoying what Platt knew would be a Scotch, neat. As Platt slid into the opposite side, Hess flagged the waiter, who came immediately.

  “May I get you a drink, sir?”

  “Coffee, black.”

  Hess raised his eyebrows.

  “Another Scotch for you, sir?”

  Hess shook his head. As soon as the young man left, he said to Platt, “What’s wrong, Benjamin?”

  “What’s going on in North Carolina? Logan sounded like he had no information and yet it’s been days since the landslide.”

  “Logan.” He said the name like it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “The man has potential. He was a good soldier. I met him when he was a platoon leader in Afghanistan. He was instrumental in testing some of our new products in the field.” He looked across the table at Platt. “You know how important that’s been?”

  Platt didn’t want Hess to get off the subject of North Carolina. He nodded, then asked, “Instrumental enough that you made him a deputy of DARPA?”

  Hess stared at him with narrow eyes, obviously not pleased with Platt questioning his judgment.

  Before Hess could answer, Platt continued, “There are dead bodies being recovered—one of them a scientist from your facility who may have been murdered. And Logan hasn’t even been there.”

  Hess held up a hand, stopping him just as he had Senator Quincy. “Don’t worry about it. I have a special recovery team there. They’ve already started to take care of things even without Logan.”

  “So do you have any more information about the facility?”

  “It appears it’s buried. Gone. Completely shoved off its foundation and toppled somewhere under the mountain.”

  Platt ran a hand over his face and held back his response as the waiter set a cup of coffee and a saucer in front of him.

  “Don’t look so troubled, Benjamin,” Hess said as he too
k a sip of his Scotch. “Down there we can still control things. Up here is where the vultures will destroy us if we let them.”

  By “vultures” Platt knew the colonel meant political vultures. How could he look so content when an entire facility had been destroyed by a landslide and its staff members were gone, one possibly murdered?

  “Have you been able to reach Dr. Shaw?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “By now you must know what was kept at the facility.”

  “My team will take care of it.”

  “Abraham, you asked me to send down an FBI agent. Is there a chance she might be exposed to something?”

  “You know each facility takes all kinds of precautions. We have no reason to believe that anything has been breached.”

  “What were they working on?”

  Finally Platt saw a look of concern. Hess glanced around the noisy restaurant and scooted closer to the edge of his seat, placing his hands on his glass.

  “In the 1950s we worked on a project to breed Aedes aegypti to use the mosquitoes as a carrier, a biological delivery system. The U.S. Army actually did a small, limited trial, doing a release in Georgia and Florida. Probably too small to measure any level of effectiveness.

  “But think about it for a minute. How perfect would that be? If we could either breed insects that already carry certain diseases, like dengue fever or chikungunya, or perhaps infect insects with diseases or viruses, we could release them in areas without the enemy even knowing. Dr. Shaw was fascinated by different delivery methods, especially organic carriers.”

  “What exactly are you saying, Abraham? That she was working on using swarms of mosquitoes as a weapons delivery system?”

  “Keep your voice down, Benjamin.”

  “Do you know what viruses the facility had access to?”

  “I’m working on getting—”