Event: A Novel

by David L. Golemon

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am well aware of the capabilities of the A2-6000 Kendall Encoded Bio Engineered Security System. It’s a nice advantage to have, but I could have shorted the entire system out one minute after I walked into the pawnshop. The entire electrical hard line for the security gate is fed in from the Las Vegas power grid. Your backup generator is in plain sight in an unsecured cage just to the left of the back door, which I heard clearly kicking on and charging batteries just before I entered the building. Don’t be too proud of something that isn’t being utilized in a secure manner.”

  The door closed and the elevator moved quickly and silently down its hydraulically controlled shaft. Mendenhall was quiet, not knowing exactly how to take this man who obviously knew his security systems. As he looked the man over, he noticed small scars here and there on his exposed skin.

  The elevator movement was whisper quiet, and the only way the major knew it was an elevator at all was because his stomach was still in the pawnshop. Collins mumbled something under his breath.

  “What was that, sir?” Mendenhall asked, turning to face Collins.

  “Awful lot of James Bond crap.”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  The elevator door slid open and the three men stepped out onto a concrete platform, and Collins was surprised to see it was a train tunnel. The track was different from any he had seen outside of Disneyland, as it only had one rail and that was made from what looked like concrete. It was a single track that ran down the tunnel and had only a metal strip on its left side.

  “We usually bring people in through the Nellis gates and through our regular checkpoints, sir, just as if they were regular air force personnel, but we have those points under security renovation. Director Compton and the senator thought this would be easier”

  “The senator?” Collins asked.

  The two men said nothing.

  “Please step back beyond the yellow line, your transport is arriving,” the computer-generated voice said to them.

  Mendenhall pulled lightly on the major’s shirt as Collins looked down and saw he was an inch or two beyond a yellow stripe that had been painted about a foot from the edge of the platform. He stepped back. Suddenly, a swishing sound came from the darkened tunnel. The next thing Collins saw was a small tube, pointed at both ends and entirely enclosed in glass from waist level up, stop suddenly in front of them. There were no braking sounds at all, just the rush of air and a quick rise of his hair.

  “Your transport has arrived,” stated the computer.

  “Damn, that was smooth,” Collins said.

  “It works on electromagnetism and pneumatics. Power, braking, everything,” the sergeant volunteered, hoping he wouldn’t be slammed again by the major’s knowledge.

  A door slid back and allowed the three passengers to enter. It looked like a smaller version of the monorail system Collins had seen at most major airports, the pointed nose being the only difference. As he took one of the plastic seats in the front of the transport, the door slid closed and the computer spoke again. “Welcome to the Nellis Transport System. There is no standing while the transport is in motion. The distance covered to the main platform will be eleven point four miles and time duration will be two minutes, thirty-three seconds.”

  Collins frowned at the thought of traveling that fast with no one at the controls.

  The transport started humming and moved with ever-increasing forward momentum. The major could see the tunnel was dark beyond the glass with the exception of the blue strip lighting that lined the center of the track. The illumination zipped by until it was a solid line of light. There was a slight downward angle and he realized the tram was traveling deeper and deeper into the desert surrounding Las Vegas.

  Two and a half minutes later Collins felt the transport decelerating. Then a lit platform came into view that was far wider than the one they had just left. This dock had people on it. They wore coveralls and moved about placing crates and boxes onto a lift. As they sped by, a few of them looked up. The personnel were a mix of different colored jumpsuits and sexes.

  “Welcome to Group Platform One,” the computer stated with enthusiasm. The door slid open with a hiss of air and the three men stood.

  “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Mendenhall quipped, then added, “sir,” quickly, as they stepped forward into the underground domain of the Event Group.

  Major Collins watched the men and women loading crated material onto a large lift. The huge elevator was capable of carrying no less than two tanks side by side, but at the moment the thirty-five or so personnel were loading only small crates and boxes onto the monstrous elevator.

  “Please follow me, sir, we have another ride ahead of us,” the sergeant said.

  Collins allowed the corporal to once again lift his bag and he followed both security men to another set of doors. These doors only had a down indicator light set into the wall beside them. As they approached, the doors slid open without the usual rumble of a normal elevator, and they stepped in. Sergeant Mendenhall nodded his head at the other man, who waved good-bye with a halfhearted salute.

  “I’ll escort you down into the complex, Major. We don’t like to leave Gunny too long without company. He has a tendency to gouge the legitimate customers we get in the shop.” Mendenhall smiled as the doors slid closed.

  Collins watched as the sergeant repeated the process he had used on the first elevator. Only this time, instead of his hand he had to place his right eye into a soft rubber piece that conformed to his orbital structure.

  “Retinal scans complete, Sergeant Mendenhall. Will your guest please place his right thumb onto the pad to the right?” the computer asked.

  Mendenhall gestured the major forward and indicated the glass plate to the right of the eyepiece he had just used. Collins placed his right thumb to the glass, watching as red laser-tracking lines appeared to wrap around his thumb. The light went off.

  “Thank you, Major Collins, you may proceed.”

  “The computer weighed the elevator and knew that I wasn’t alone in the car, thus knew I had a guest with me. This elevator is pneumatically operated. We’ll be riding air down into the complex.”

  The elevator indicator to the left of the doors told Collins the only choices they had were down, and these read 1-150. He didn’t comment on Mendenhall’s explanation of the elevator as he didn’t really care for the idea of riding air pressure anywhere.

  “Where in the hell are we, Sergeant?” Collins asked.

  The man smiled and said, “Well, sir, the men who will explain that to you are far above my pay grade, but I can tell you”—Mendenhall reached out and pressed a button indicating level 6—“we are on the most northern part of Nellis Air Force Base, below the old gunnery and target range. By the time these doors open, we’ll be on the main level of the complex, five hundred and sixty-five feet below the surface of the desert.”

  “Jesus” was all the major could utter in response.

  “Altogether there are one hundred and fifty levels, equaling four thousand and some change in feet. Yes, sir, quite a ways. The main levels below were excavated from a natural cave formation similar to Carlsbad, only these caves weren’t discovered till 1906.” The sergeant paused, then quoted from memory, “‘This is the second facility for the Group; the original was in-Virginia. But this particular complex was built during the Second World War as part of the expansion under President Roosevelt.’ “He smiled again. “I guess it was a little easier to hide the cost back then. It was designed by the same people who drew up the plans for the Pentagon.”

  “What does the Group do here?” Collins asked, eyeing the indicators.

  “Again, sir, the most important questions you have will be answered by people other than me.”

  The elevator came to a soft halt with only a soft and minute bounce. Mendenhall retrieved the major’s bag as the doors slid open. Collins stepped out into what appeared to be a quiet, well-appointed, and normal re
ception area.

  “Major, enjoy your tour of the Group. And hearing of your reputation, I believe I’ll like being a part of your team, sir,” the black sergeant said as he placed the bag down. Then he leaned back into the elevator and the doors closed. Collins didn’t even have time to say thank-you before he was left looking at the “up” arrow above the doors.

  Collins surveyed the reception area. Three desks were arrayed at different corners of the plush, hunter-green-carpeted room. At two of the desks sat men, busily working at computers. At the center-most station, an older woman sat. Her desk was the largest of the three, and it was this woman who stood, smiled, and walked around her desk. She stepped forward and extended a hand.

  “Major Collins, I presume?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, turning and taking the woman’s small and elegant hand in his own. The woman was tiny and looked to be in her late fifties. Around her neck her bifocals hung from a thin, gold chain. She wore a long-skirted blue suit with a plain white blouse. Her graying-black hair was up in an old-fashioned bun with not a single hair out of place. She wore only minimal makeup, her only accessory a small American flag pin attached on her left lapel.

  She smiled warmly. “Welcome to the Event Group, Major, otherwise known as Department 5656 of the federal government. I’m sure we will make your days here just as exciting as any you’ve had in your career.”

  Collins raised a brow in doubt and the woman caught the gesture. She just continued to smile and patted him on the hand, before releasing it.

  Collins looked around the reception area once more. On one wall hung a massive portrait of Abraham Lincoln, a painting he had never seen before. The oil portrait depicted him sitting and reading a book, of which the title was obscured. On another wall, and a bit smaller, was a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, complete in his hand-tailored Rough Rider uniform. Next to that was a picture of Teddy’s fifth cousin, Franklin. Situated along the walls were glass-encased models of sailing vessels, ironclads, and other distinguished warships. Set back into the far wall were two huge wooden doors, each of which stood nearly fifteen feet in height, and the big brass handles gleamed in the office lights. Above the doors, in gold script engraved on a long oak plaque, was an inscription: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Then below that, in smaller script: In this labyrinth lay the truth of our world, our civilization, and our culture.

  “Good words, aren’t they, Major?” the woman asked.

  “Good, yes, a little ambiguous maybe,” Collins answered, looking from the plaque to the small, smiling woman as he turned to face her.

  “They will become a tad clearer to you before your duty is up here. My name is Alice Hamilton. I’ve been with the senator on an official basis since 1947 and now assist Director Niles Compton.”

  Collins was astounded. This woman, who looked no more than sixty at the extreme, would have had to come to work here when she was in her teens, and that would still make her somewhere in her late seventies. Talk about the years being kind to a person, Jack thought.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but you said 1947?”

  “I did, Major; I came here when I was eighteen, after losing my husband during the war. It’s been a nice stay, and being I was always afraid to miss too much, I refused to go away. The senator, who is now retired from the Group, is here as a special adviser to Dr. Compton, and, well, he always said he would keep me informed if I up and left, but I don’t trust the old coot. I like being in the thick of it,” she said, clenching her hands together.

  She paused and gestured to a man who was typing away at a keyboard at the desk nearest to them. “John, will you be so kind as to take the major’s bag down to his new quarters on your way to take your break, please?”

  The man stood, smiled, walked over, and took the major’s bag. He straightened and said, “Welcome to the Group, Major, we saw you on C-SPAN last fall and admire you for standing your ground.”

  Surprised at the remark made about his appearance before Congress, Collins looked again at Alice. “I wouldn’t think you would need the services of someone like me here. What is this, some sort of think tank?”

  “Think tank?” The woman thought a second, knitting her brow as if contemplating this concept. “Why, yes, I guess we are. That and many other things, Major.” She smiled that award-winning smile again and stepped toward the big doors. “The senator and Dr. Compton are Waiting and they’ll be happy to answer all your questions.” Alice grasped both handles and the doors swung open easily, and she stepped aside to let the major enter and then followed.

  The office was large; it had flat-screen television monitors mounted every foot around the circular walls, which were covered in rich wood paneling. Behind the mahogany desk hung another portrait of Lincoln—in this one he just sat facing the artist with a closed book in his lap. Next to that was a large portrait of Woodrow Wilson, poised with ink pen in hand.

  A man was sitting on the edge of the giant desk, reading some papers he held at arm’s length, when he noticed the two people enter the room. He straightened and stood with the aid of a cane, tossing the papers on the desk as he made his way toward Jack and Alice. A second, smaller man sitting in the large chair behind the desk also stood and quickly followed the first, eager to greet their new guest.

  One of the most imposing men Collins had ever seen stood there before him. Jack stood six foot two and this man was looking down at him. He figured him to be at least six foot six and appeared to be in his mid-to late eighties. He wore a three-piece, black, pin-striped suit with a red bow tie; his silver hair was swept back from his forehead and was in need of cutting. But by far his most outstanding feature was the black patch he wore over his right eye. A long, jagged scar ran from his jawline up through the patch and disappeared into the wavy hairline. The other man who joined them was quite a bit shorter. He wore glasses and was balding and had at least four ballpoint pens in his shirt pocket.

  “Senator, Dr. Compton,” Alice Hamilton began, “I would like to introduce the newest member of the Event Group, Major Jack Collins, United States Army. He’s with us from the Fifth Special Forces Group, and his last duty station was in Kuwait City, attached to the Ninth Special Operations Team.” She gently nudged Collins forward. “Jack, this is Senator Garrison Lee, retired, from the great state of Maine, and former brigadier general, U.S. Army intelligence, and one of the founding members of the Office of Strategic Services, and Dr. Niles Compton, the director of our department.”

  “We didn’t need a history lesson on me, woman,” Senator Lee said, looking at Alice, then over at the major. “Major Collins!” the man exuberantly greeted him, shifting the cane from his right to his left hand, holding the now free hand out to the major. Collins shook but didn’t say anything in response. “Read a lot about you, son,” the senator continued. “Glad you saw fit to join this band of fools.” The man stepped aside to allow Jack to shake hands with Dr. Compton, who nodded his head and then pushed his glasses back on his nose.

  The senator looked at Alice. “I take it he’s signed his secrecy papers and disclosure forms?”

  “Yes, that was taken care of at Fort Bragg,” she answered with a frown, noticing the senator was a little unsteady on his feet as he greeted the new arrival.

  “Thank you, Alice. Would you bring in a tray of coffee, please?”

  Alice politely gestured with a roll of her elegant hand toward the credenza against the far wall, where sat a steaming silver service.

  “When in the hell did you bring that in?” he stammered with eyebrows raised.

  “As usual, you two were engrossed in one of your field reports,” she quipped, winking at the major.

  “Uh, thank you,” Lee grumbled as if he were clearing his throat. “Now get the hell out of here.” His one uncovered eye glared at her.

  She gave the senator a mock salute, with palm facing out.

  “That’s a British salute, woman! When in hell are you going to learn?”

>   She ignored the remark, turned, and left the room, closing the huge doors gracefully behind her.

  The senator, after glaring at the door a moment, gestured for Collins to take a seat in a rather large leather chair in front of Compton’s even larger desk.

  “Please, have a seat, Major; I’m sure you’re more than just a little curious about our business.” They walked toward the back of the room. “I know your papers say temporary duty, and I know you didn’t exactly volunteer for this position.” He smiled. “You see, we were owed a favor, and you, sir, are that favor.”

  Before the senator could continue, Niles Compton broke in, “Major, I’m afraid I must tend to an urgent matter. I’ll be back momentarily. I apologize, but my duties since taking over as director require me to be in four places at once.”

  Jack watched Compton hurry out of the large office.

  “Niles is probably the smartest person in the country, that’s why the president chose him to be my successor, but he worries about small things too much, not that he micro-manages his people, it’s more his taking the time to see they have the tools they need to succeed. Have a seat, Major, and relax,” Lee said.

  Collins waited while Lee poured two cups of coffee, then sat in the overstuffed chair facing the desk. After the man had handed him his cup and saucer, he watched as the senator maneuvered with a limp back around the desk.

  “Just what is it that you and the director expect me to do here, sir? I’ve been in the service twenty years and have never heard a whisper of this operation, and in the military, that’s rare.” Collins placed the coffee on the edge of the desk untouched, as if this move said he wasn’t having anything to do with it until the man in front of him came clean.

  Lee placed the cane along the edge of the desk, sipped at his own coffee, then placed the cup and saucer down and closed his good eye and leaned back as he started talking.

  “Jack Collins, Major, United States Army, graduated West Point second in his class in 1988. First combat seen in Panama, first man in the conflict area so I understand.” He held his hand up when he sensed Jack was going to say something. “After Panama you spent two years working on your master’s from MIT. After that, to the army’s displeasure, you rejoined Special Operations. Then a tour with the Aberdeen proving grounds with the top brass thinking you had finally come around to being one of the boys. Only it wasn’t that. I think you were angry about Special Operations equipment and wanted answers to why things never worked the way they were supposed to, so you set them as straight as you could on the civilian and corporate side of things at Aberdeen.” Lee opened his eye and looked at Jack. “Then again to the chagrin of the army higher-ups, you rejoin Special Operations, and then Jack Collins really went to war. You started in Desert Shield by infiltrating Kuwaiti and Iraqi territory on missions of a rather dark nature. You fought in Operation Desert Storm, winning the Congressional Medal of Honor. Then your tour in Operation Iraqi Freedom.”