The Officially Unofficial Files of Dr. Gordon B. Gray

by Darcy Fray

  Ollie tipped the screen of his handheld GPS navigator toward Gordon. “Latitude 61 degrees 52 minutes, longitude 94 degrees 10 minutes.”

  “Go a bit further,” Fletcher demanded.

  “You’re the boss.” Ollie continued hacking away at the bramble. It seemed an exercise in futility.

  Gordon turned his back to Ollie and Fletcher and started walking back toward their snowmobiles.

  “Where are you going?” Fletcher asked.

  “Gotta take a leak.” Gordon hung his head and continued walking. He did in fact have to relieve himself, but he also needed a moment alone to wallow in disappointment. What kind of scientist allows himself to naively place his trust in instinct and the voice of destiny?

  Gordon retraced his steps, then stopped to urinate. He watched the yellowing snow patch slowly expand and melt at his feet. After a lightning quick shake in the sub-zero air, he zipped up and walked back toward Fletcher and Ollie. He resolved to stay strong for Fletcher; he owed him that, at least.

  On his approach, something caught his eye. About fifty feet to the west of Fletcher and Ollie’s position, a fine wisp of steam rose up from the bramble. He rubbed his eyes, not quite believing them. A second look confirmed the first.

  He called out to Fletcher, “Fifty yards to your left.”

  Fletcher quickly turned his head. It was tough to see from his angle, as the filmy wisp blended almost perfectly with the overcast skies. But it was definitely there. His pulse quickened.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Ollie chimed in, not quite trusting his eyes, either. He raised his machete and immediately started cutting a path to Gordon’s curious discovery.

  “Good eye, mate.” Fletcher looked down at his watch. Two hours had passed since the call. “Why don’t you give that to me?” Fletcher said as he grabbed the machete from Ollie’s hands. He cut twice as wide a path in half the time. Time waits for no one.

  The men reached the destination in just minutes.

  “A vent.” Fletcher revealed the source as he removed his glove and held his hand over it. The steam condensed on his hands, tiny water droplets forming. “Exhaust.”

  He bent down to take a closer look. It was approximately 18” x 36” – plenty wide for entry. Fletcher pulled out an elaborate multi-tool from his backpack and went to work prying open the hardened plastic seal around the vent’s edge. It popped out with minimal effort.

  “And we’re in,” Fletcher said, proudly holding the vent cover in the air. As he rose to his feet he experienced that all-too-familiar feeling of cold steel against the back of his head.

  “You. Get back or he dies,” Ollie shouted at Gordon, as he held the gun to Fletcher’s head. It had happened so quickly, Gordon hadn’t even seen Ollie pull the weapon from his waistband.

  Ollie’s voice had taken on a crazed tone, as if they had just struck gold and only one of them was going to stake the claim. “Did you honestly think you were the only ones looking for this? There’s a reason why I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life living in this godforsaken swamp.”

  Fletcher looked at Gordon, confused. Fifteen years?

  “Easy, mate,” Fletcher replied, “I think we may be looking for two different things. Just lower the gun. We can work this out.”

  “Don’t ‘mate’ me.” Ollie’s left eye began to twitch uncontrollably. “Aliens. Underground.”

  Even with a gun held to the back of his head, Fletcher managed a smile. Aliens. There were many Veritas members who held onto strong beliefs in alien civilizations, but Fletcher wasn’t one of them. He would believe it when he saw them with his own two eyes.

  Gordon hungrily eyed the machete lying on the ground, less than two feet away. Fletcher caught his attention and shook his head “no.” Fletcher knew Ollie had already waited too long to be able to pull the trigger. What could have been a quick reflexive execution had now evolved into one requiring thought and intention. The guy didn’t have it in him, and Fletcher knew it.

  “No aliens, mate. But there is a weapon down there that’s capable of making entire populations disappear in mere seconds,” Fletcher calmly explained. “We’re here to stop that.”

  Gordon could see the maniacal look in Ollie’s eyes soften slightly. Fletcher was simply talking him down off the ledge.

  “Did you see the video from Dust, West Virginia? With the blue light?”

  “The UFO video.” Ollie lowered the gun slightly. The talk was already working.

  “No. That was this weapon, in use. Twenty-two people disappeared into thin air that night. Same thing happened in Pennsylvania last night. Except they took one hundred and twenty-eight this time. And they used it in China. And in Mexico.”

  “Abduction.”

  “No, sadly, this was the work of human beings. You can shoot me and you can shoot Gordon, but you better have a helluva lot more bullets to take care of the evil empire down below too. Just drop the gun and we can laugh about this over a pint later. Whataya say?”

  Fletcher sensed Ollie’s softening constitution and turned his head to make eye contact. The move startled Ollie. He rammed the gun into Fletcher’s forehead and repositioned his nervous finger on the trigger.

  Fletcher had no choice. He grabbed Ollie’s arms and knocked the gun from his hands just as it went off, sending a bullet into the distance. As Fletcher jumped to his feet, he extended his leg and swept Ollie’s legs out from under him. Ollie grabbed Fletcher’s jacket collar as he was falling, dragging them both to the ground. Ollie had a good six inches and forty pounds on Fletcher and managed to overpower him quickly. This time, Gordon reacted immediately. He picked up the pistol and pointed it at Ollie’s head.

  “Ollie,” Gordon called out.

  Ollie shifted his weight for just a moment to look in Gordon’s direction and Fletcher seized the opportunity. He pulled his right arm from Ollie’s grasp and blindsided him with a blazing right hook to the jaw. For a brief moment, Ollie stared ahead with a dazed look on his face, before passing out cold and crumbling atop Fletcher. Fletcher pushed him off and grabbed his own aching fist and right shoulder. Gordon offered him a hand, pulling him back up to his feet.

  The two men stared down at the inanimate figure.

  “What now?” Gordon asked, uncomfortable with the prospect of killing an unarmed, unconscious man.

  “Can’t bloody well kill the fool like this, can I? Thanks for that. You’re not as cute as the cellist, but you’ll do.”

  Gordon smiled. It was Fletcher’s true gift; beyond all the tough guy training and bravado, he just made people smile.

  “Won’t he remember what happened when he awakens? And the coordinates?”

  Ollie stirred on the ground, moaning.

  “Back to sleep,” Fletcher commanded as he drop-kicked Ollie’s head, sending him back to unconsciousness. “Might not even remember his name after that one.”

  Fletcher pulled the bag of sunflower seeds from his parka pocket and offered it to Gordon. “Calms the nerves.”

  “No thanks. I’d kill for a Yoo-hoo right now, though.” Gordon smiled.

  Fletcher looked at his watch. Four and a half hours to reach Harper. He ran the numbers in his head. They would have to leave now or she was as good as dead. He didn’t like the plan, but he knew what had to be done.

  “Crunch time, mate. If we leave together, we don’t make it back in time. We’re juggling two ticking time bombs here. Save Harper...save the world. Sophie’s choice.”

  “Hmmm?” Gordon asked.

  “The novel. Nazis capture Sophie. They tell her they will spare one of her children if she chooses which one to send to the gas chamber. She chooses her daughter over her son, becomes a depressed alcoholic and then commits suicide.”

  “Spoiler alert.” Gordon quipped. Both men’s forced smiles evaporated into a taut silence. The kind of silence where thoughts screamed louder than any spoken word ever could. “Listen, you don’t need me here anymore. I’m a useless wingman. They want me, so that�
�s what they’ll get.” Gordon averted Fletcher’s piercing gaze. “You’ll see her again. You have my word.”

  The two men stared off into the middle distance, both held captive by their respective fears. It went against Fletcher’s every ounce of being, not chasing after Harper, but someone or something else was making his decisions now. He was a mere dot in a connect-the-dots puzzle, with the bigger picture yet to be revealed.

  “Guess I should be going,” Gordon said. “Remember, if all else fails, press the big red emergency button.”

  Fletcher mustered a smile. The kid really was trying. “Here, take this,” Fletcher said as he handed Gordon his satellite phone and huge wad of cash. “Just in case they call again. Blue farmhouse --“

  “Rysevo. I got it.”

  “And this,” Fletcher commanded, as he handed Ollie’s gun to Gordon. “It’s loaded. Point the end bit at your target and pull the trigger. Don’t over-think it, mate.”

  Gordon smiled and tucked the gun into his waistband. The cold steel sent a shiver through him.

  “Careful not to shoot your bollocks off,” chuckled Fletcher. “Take the snowmobile back to the Jeep. From there, it’s about a three-hour drive. Hang on.” Fletcher pushed Ollie’s unresponsive body on its side and pulled the GPS device from his parka pocket. He quickly entered in both destinations and handed it to Gordon. As Gordon took the device from him, Fletcher pulled him in for an embrace. “You’re a good man, Dr. Gordon B. Gray. Tell Harper I love her.”

  Gordon broke free of Fletcher’s tight embrace. “You’ll be able to tell her that yourself.” Gordon turned away quickly and started walking back toward the snowmobiles. Any further delays would result in second-guessing and damp eyes. No time for that.

  He didn’t look back.

  •••

  Rysevo, Russia - Farmhouse

  Harper sat upright in the bed. The headache had returned. Her thoughts were jumbled and her eyes were slow to focus. The last thing she remembered was Nika standing over her with the needle in hand. Everything after that was gone.

  The residual effects of the drug clouded her system, chipping away at her resolve. She wanted nothing more than to collapse in the arms of her father.

  The surveillance camera buzzed to life as she stirred on the bed. She glanced up at it, with her middle finger fully extended.

  The calling wind whistled to her outside the window. She made her decision.

  She would jump.

  •••

  Tunguska, Russia - Latitude 61 degrees 52 minutes, longitude 94 degrees 10 minutes

  The snow continued to fall and despite the thick cloud cover, Gordon couldn’t resist glancing up in the direction of the moon. Nothing felt real anymore.

  He shook off the eerie feeling and donned Ollie’s snow goggles and helmet. It would be his first time driving a snowmobile. The past eleven days had been full of firsts. He felt as if he had crammed an entire second lifetime into the span of a week and a half. Exhaustion nipped at his heels.

  The snowmobile was easier to manage than he expected. If he hadn’t been under such extreme duress, he would have enjoyed the freedom of riding through the uncharted wilderness. He carefully followed the fading snowmobile tracks back in the direction of base camp.

  Ollie’s goggles were a poor fit and steamed up within minutes. Gordon pulled to a stop, removed the goggles and wiped the condensation away with his gloves.

  A gunshot rang out.

  It came from the direction where he had left Fletcher and Ollie. He was sure of it.

  His instincts told him to drive as fast as he could back to base camp, just as Fletcher had instructed him. Fletcher. There was no way he was going to leave him behind. In just a few days he had grown very fond of him. They still might have time to save Harper together, the world could wait.

  That’s when the idea occurred to him. He could save both.

  He pulled Fletcher’s sat phone from his pocket and dialed Wilkinson’s number.

  With each unanswered ring of the phone, Gordon’s heart sank. Finally, Wilkinson picked up. The distinct sound of helicopter blades chopping through the air distorted the sound coming through the small phone speaker.

  “Hello?” Wilkinson shouted over the din.

  “John, it’s Gordon. Please listen carefully -- I only have seconds. They have me in a blue farmhouse in Rysevo, Russia. They are planning to kill me when the moon countdown reaches one hour. I know about the weapon.”

  “Gordon, thank God, tell me--“

  Gordon terminated the call and removed the phone’s battery, tucking it away safely in his jacket pocket.

  •••

  Prince George’s County, MD – Joint Base Andrews

  Wilkinson stepped down from UH-60 Black Hawk onto the tarmac at Joint Base Andrews, the home of two Boeing VC-25A aircraft that fly under the distinguished call sign Air Force One.

  Four Secret Service special agents seemed to materialize from thin air, surrounding Wilkinson as they guided him toward the idling Air Force One. Nods sufficed as introductions. The departing Black Hawk’s thunderous roar would allow for no more.

  With each step, Wilkinson retreated further within his own swirling thoughts. Would he see his wife again? Gordon? Unexpectedly, an image of Caden Crimm surfaced. He wondered how the kid was managing his newfound identity, restored vision and adopted family? Not many people get a chance at a fresh start. It was difficult not to envy the kid.

  “Lieutenant General John Wilkinson. Follow me please,” the voice of the president’s bodyman, Demarius Johnson, brought Wilkinson straight back to the present. A former Pro Bowl tight end and Harvard poli-sci PHD, Demarius was the perfect marriage of brains and brawn; a man who could break you in two whilst discussing post-genocide Cambodia. Demarius led Wilkinson to the conference room at the center of the aircraft, stopping just short of the door. “They’re expecting you, sir,” Demarius said as he opened the door for Wilkinson.

  The president sat at the head of a rectangular mahogany table that occupied the majority of the real estate in the room. Even seated, it wasn’t difficult to see why the election had been a landslide. Measuring in at a statuesque 6’3”, with Kennedy-esque looks and unyielding charisma, he was a dream candidate. The less winsome Vice President Flynn sat at his right side. It was a first. The two men had never flown on the same aircraft together. It was a testament to the grave complexity of the situation. The Joint Chiefs of Staff and the president’s closest advisors flanked them. If this plane were to go down, America would go with it.

  The president looked up from the situational intelligence briefing resting on the table before him. “John, have a seat,” he said gesturing toward the last empty chair at the table. “Harold, please bring John up to speed.”

  “Certainly,” Chief of Staff Harold Corbin replied. “We’re still working on Dr. Gray’s phone, but we have the Rysevo farmhouse. There’s only one blue house within a 50 mile radius of Rysevo and recent activity we pulled up on the sat indicates it’s the one. Seal Team Six is enroute from Mongolia.”

  Wilkinson glanced up at the state of the art monitor on the far wall. A grainy live aerial view of the Rysevo house consumed most of the screen, while a static shot of the ticking moon occupied the lower right corner.

  “And the moon?” Wilkinson inquired.

  “Well, we now know that the image isn’t projected,” Corbin replied.

  “I’m lost,” Wilkinson said, puzzled.

  “It’s not being projected from a satellite, because it’s coming from within the moon.” Corbin almost sounded embarrassed to utter the latter half of the sentence.

  “I’m still lost. The moon is hollow?”

  “We have our top people at JPL and NASA working on the answer to that very question.”

  The phone resting on the table in front of the president buzzed to life.

  “Mr. President, I have CIA Director Mitchell and Lieutenant Commander Chip Harrow, Seal Team Six, sir,” the voice of the pr
esident’s secretary silenced the room.

  “Put them through please Margaret,” the president said as he straightened his tie. A loud click from the phone indicated that the call had transferred. The president cleared his throat. “Director Mitchell, Commanding Officer Harrow, this is President Wakefield. Operation Golden Boy is a go. I repeat, Operation Golden Boy is a go. Godspeed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Blue Light

  Tunguska, Russia - Latitude 61 degrees 52 minutes, longitude 94 degrees 10 minutes

  A NEWFOUND OPTIMISM warmed Gordon. He felt confident that John had taken the bait. The U.S. Army would be forced to save Harper in his stead.

  He threw down the worthless goggles, revved the snowmobile engine and raced back toward Fletcher.

  As he sped along, a pestering thought hung in the back of his mind. If his plan failed, he could lose both of them. He pushed the pointless distraction from his head and focused on the trail ahead. The snowfall had picked up, allowing him only a few feet of visibility. He tucked his chin to his chest in an attempt to shield his unprotected eyes. The momentary lapse in focus was all it took. A bone-crunching thud was the last sound Gordon remembered hearing before waking up, face-down in the snow, at the foot of a large oak tree.

  He couldn’t be sure how long he had been unconscious, but the tingling numbness of his ice crusted face told him it was more than just a moment. A cursory examination of his extremities confirmed everything was in working order. His neck was tender, but the helmet had surely saved him from far greater damage.

  The snowmobile had not fared so well. It lay on its side a few feet past the large dark object Gordon had struck. What is that?

  He wiped the remaining snow and ice crystals from his face and in the process, tore away the two large Band-Aids from his cheek. His wound re-awakened with exposure to the elements, but the searing pain brought him focus.

  “Dammit.” He pulled the sticky bandages off his glove and tossed them to the ground. Standing proved more difficult than he had anticipated. His legs felt alien beneath him. Dizziness overcame him as he brushed the snow from his body. He leaned back against the tree trunk for support, as he pulled the GPS from his pocket. He was less than a hundred yards from where he had left Fletcher. He removed the heavy, open-face helmet and inhaled a few sharp breaths. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind, “One thing at a time, Gordon.”