He stared at his own hands, wondering how he could get himself into such a predicament. Uncle Jaxx is dead? Is the guy on the voicemail lying to me? Is Ann dead because of me?
He went back to the laptop, giving it a distant and empty stare. He covered his face with his hands, trying to figure out his next step. “I can’t do this.”
He started closing the images Jaxx had sent him.
World News Network!
If anyone could keep him safe, it would be the largest news network in the world. If he could get this information out just like Jaxx had asked him, then the big target wouldn’t just be on his back, it would be on Colonel Slade Roberson’s or GSA’s. In fact, this was probably the safest route. If he was killed for some reason or another, the suspicion would be put squarely on GSA and the Colonel. There was no telling if he was safe, or would be safe, even if he erased all the photos. In one way, Jaxx had given Drew the greatest story of this century, perhaps of all time, but on the other hand, he’d just delivered Drew a death sentence. The only way out was to call Hobbs Howell, the Executive Vice President of Corporate Marketing and Communications for World News Network.
He pulled the photos back up, then printed each one off, hearing them fall to the floor after each picture ran through the printer.
Drew picked his phone back up and dialed Hobbs Howell’s number. It was time to make another splash in the world.
16
May 30th, 2018 ~ Underfoot Black, Grenada
Jaxx was standing, his arms spread outward and harnessed to a rope attached to walls on either side of him. His head hung and his chin touched his chest, sweat dripping from his nose. Breathing heavily, he blinked several times, quite aware that he was standing, but unaware of where he was.
In a daze, he shifted from leg to leg. His heart beat slowly. He’d been drugged.
Computers beeped all around and monitors showed images he couldn’t quite make out. It was warm in the room and smelled like machinery.
“Where...me?” he said, his voice raspy.
“He’s coming ’round,” said a voice over an intercom. “Get him to the showers.”
He had been shot, not once, but twice. How was he still alive? He blinked several more times and his vision began to clear. He eyed his chest. He was shirtless, but there was no blood, no indentation, and no bullet hole.
He moved his shoulder. No pain.
Two men came in, both wearing white coats, glaringly doctor-like. They unstrapped Jaxx, placing his arms around their shoulders, dragging his feet across the ground, taking Jaxx out of the room.
Jaxx wanted to walk, but his feet were heavy, uncoordinated.
“Who...you?”
“Keep your eyes forward,” one of the doctors replied.
“I’m keeping…them. My eyes...they’re mine. Don’t...take.”
“That’s not what I meant, Sir.”
They dragged Jaxx down a hall and into a room full of tiles. Shower heads lined the walls. They turned a shower head on and dropped Jaxx on the floor.
The ice water pelted down on Jaxx and he curled up in a ball. If anything, it was waking him up, making him more alert, breathing life into him.
“Leave Rivkah out of it,” he screamed. “She’s my friend.”
Guards waded in and dragged him from the showers. He could barely piece the last few hours together, but the routine seemed to be: sensory deprivation, chemical stimulation, then interrogation and the showers. The sendep tank wasn’t all that bad. At least he didn’t have to listen to Slade’s slimey voice or Donny’s simpering. He grabbed the guard’s lapels and pulled himself level with the grunt’s face. “Don’t let them get to Rivkah Ravenwood. Promise me. Keep her out of this shitstorm. She deserves better.”
Jaxx passed out in a featureless corridor, miles underground and no one topside was the wiser.
17
May 30th, 2018 ~ Chicago, Illinois
The Tribune Tower housed World News Network’s Chicago Bureau, plus TGN’s Radio, broadcasting on 1190 am, and Lowell’s Books on the ground level. The tower was a beautiful, French Gothic Building. Those who had the final say in WNN’s news network’s coverage worked there.
Drew tipped the cab driver and shut the cab door. He wanted to linger and take in the expansive architecture of Tribune Tower’s main entrance, a site he could admire for hours – gorgeous floral designs wrapped in vines etched on the exterior limestone walls. It was a sight to behold, a marvel of early 20th century architecture. “They don’t make them like that anymore.” He glanced at his watch. He was late. That wasn’t good, especially since he’d been allotted an 11:30 am appointment.
“Sharp,” the officious assistant had said. “Not a moment later, not a second sooner. On the dot.” That was how Hobbs Howell worked. What Hobbs wanted, Hobbs received.
Drew hurried into the lobby.
The lobby was heavenly, with a wooden balcony and pendant lights hanging from the ceiling. He stopped for a fleeting second to take it in, then chastised himself internally and hurried to the elevator. He gripped the folder in his hand tightly, knowing that the pictures inside the folder were his trip to safety, perhaps his only shot at not being gunned down late one night.
At the 24th floor a woman sat at the reception desk, a large World News Network sign on the wall behind her.
Drew’s shoes clicked on the Italian Botticino marble floor as he approached, his head held high, acting the important part, though not feeling it. He was wearing a suit, something he wasn’t used to. He hoped it didn’t smell of weed.
“How can I help you?” She didn’t bother looking up from her typing.
“I’m here to see Hobbs Howell.”
She stopped, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Are you Drew Avera?”
“I am.”
“Nice work on the Zapruder Film documentary.”
“Thank you.”
She went back to typing. “Yeah, it’s something we already knew. Everybody knows. It was a conspiracy. I did like how you tied in E. Howard Hunt. I didn’t know much about Hunt’s past. Do you really think he was the guy in the umbrella when JFK was shot?”
“That’s what my research said.”
“Interesting. Okay, well you’re late for your appointment.”
Drew eyed a large clock on the wall. “Just a few minutes.”
“Nine minutes, actually. That’s nine strikes against you.” She pointed to one of the chairs. “Please have a seat.”
After a few minutes a loud click signaled a door opening. A voice boomed, “Step into my office, Drew.”
Drew straightened his tie. “Yes, yes. Will do.” He shuffled quickly into the office, which looked more like a small library. Books lined the walls. A giant desk sat in the middle of an expensive Persian rug. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the blue, cloudless sky.
Hobbs stood and extended his hand, his voice like a bass guitar. “How are you doing, Drew? It’s been a while.”
“Nice to see you again, sir.” Drew looked around for the nearest chair, which was clear across the room.
What a dick.
His footsteps echoed on the tile as he retrieved one, and picking the chair up, he carried it to the front of Hobbs’s desk.
Hobbs leaned back, folding his hands across his lap, inspecting Drew’s outfit. He grinned. “Why are you all dressed up? That’s not like you.”
Drew sat. “Because I’m meeting my boss.”
Hobbs’s grin fell into a frown. He sat upright, serious. “Don’t call me boss. I hate that word. It makes me sound like my father.” Hobbs placed his elbows on his desk, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see them.”
Drew looked down, hesitating for a moment. “Will this hit the news?”
Hobbs stopped rubbing his hands. “My guess is that it will and—”
“If it doesn’t, I have copies of everything. This will go to all other major news outlets and alternative news sources. I’m coming to you first.”
&n
bsp; Hobbs’ mouth dropped. “You’re coming to me first because you work for me. You are my employee, Drew. You’re part of the WNN team. Do you know how many articles and interviews and documentaries you’ve conducted on my dime? This story, if I allow you to work it, is your job.”
Drew leaned forward. “I’ve been threatened.”
“Over these photos?”
“Yes.”
“Who is your source?”
“I can’t tell you my source.”
“Is it within NASA?”
Drew’s shoulders drooped, as he pictured Ann Maddox, a needle hanging from her arm, her face frozen in her final high. “No. Like I said on the phone. These pictures should be coming from NASA, but instead they are coming from a company named Terra Energy Corp. They are using one of their satellites to take pictures over a Jupiter moon and then sending those images directly to the Global Security Administration, also known as GSA. The GSA is headed by Colonel Slade Roberson. The GSA funds the shit out of TEC.”
Hobbs did a double-take. “Why the hell would the GSA need images from a satellite over a Jupiter moon? And if they need them for some reason or another, why are they using a private corporation instead of NASA?”
“I’m coming to some strange conclusions, here. I still don’t know exactly what’s going on.”
Hobbs walked over to a bar in the corner of his office, pouring one Scotch, and then another, dropping a few ice cubes in each. He stopped at one of the massive windows and stared across the cityscape, both glasses of scotch in hand. He took a sip from one, then nonchalantly walked to his desk, sitting, and slid the other glass of scotch over to Drew.
“We have to clear this story with the administration, you know that, Drew.”
Drew held the glass, feeling the cold, wet condensation. His heart fell. “The administration? You mean the government?”
“I sent them the images you sent me in our last email communication. These are highly classified. What you hold in your hands can change the face of history. Hell, the face of humanity. Another civilization, either in ancient human past, or of ET origin, created a mess on Callisto.”
“A mess?”
He nodded slowly, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “Yes, quite frankly, a big shit storm.”
“You’re not going to let this out to the public, are you? You’re going to sit on it. You’re just like them, withholding data from the American public; from the whole world.”
“It’s out of my hands.” Hobbs took a good long slug of his drink.
Drew pulled his folder close to his chest, clutching it. “I have more. Like I said. Copies.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you for the images, but I need your hard drive. We’re going to have to wipe it clean. These images can’t go out without express permission from the highest authority. You understand...”
Drew stood and left without a backward glance.
I’m going to be living under ground for the rest of my life, dodging anyone who looks suspicious.
18
May 31st, 2018 ~ Ponteeka Lake, Oklahoma
The doorbell rang. The doorbell hadn’t rung in a very long time. So long, in fact, that Rivkah jumped.
Rivkah Ravenwood, retired SSP pilot Captain, hadn’t left the comfort of her log cabin for nearly three years. She wasn’t necessarily afraid of what was out there. No. She was afraid of what others would see. She had terminated almost all communication with the outside world, and if it hadn’t been for her pension, allowing her to purchase items and groceries through courier services, she would have shriveled away from starvation.
She wasn’t going outside.
She didn’t look the same anymore.
No one was scheduled for a delivery today. Not knowing who or why someone was at the house unsettled her.
Here in rural Oklahoma, where eastern redbud trees were plentiful and flowed atop the hills around her, neighbors were acres away. They had left her alone for years. So, this couldn’t be a neighbor, unless it was an emergency. Still, nothing of the sort ever really happened in rural Oklahoma, and if it did, she never heard about it. And if she had heard about it, she wouldn’t have done anything.
Her coffee shook in her disfigured hand, like it always did. She steadied it with her other hand and took a long sip. The doorbell rang again. If she ignored it, surely the unwelcome visitor would just go away. If there was a fire, she’d hear the engines. If it was a flood, well that would be kind of weird. If it was a tornado...Heck. If it was a tornado, she’d climb in the bath and hope for the best. She wasn’t going to answer the door. No fucking way.
Another ring. Her apprehension turned to irritation. Could they not take a hint? One ring, give me a minute. Two, perhaps I am in the shower. Three, um, I am not coming to the door, doofus, But four. Four just meant you were a straight-up idiot.
She placed her steaming mug on the coffee table and stood, determined to send the intruder away. Her gnarled hand pulled her robe tighter around her and she walked toward the door.
She shuffled her feet across the wood floor. She was wearing her sky-blue slippers. She had a lot of slippers; that was all she seemed to wear these days. Practical and comfy, unless there was a flood-borne fire with a tornado at its back. Then slippers would be kinda impractical.
Peeking through the peephole she could see a man in a black trench coat and a black cowboy hat. He was holding a manila envelope. Weirdo. Trench coats and cowboy hats don’t go together. Everyone knows that. To top it off, he was hiding his face under the hat’s shadow.
“Ma’am, can we talk?”
Rivkah didn’t reply. If she had, he might say something else. Something persuasive. He wasn’t a neighbor, that was damn certain, so he had to be there for a reason. The trench coat said Secret Service. The cowboy hat said he thought he was a bit of a player. Either way, the man was trained in the art of persuasion. If he said something persuasive, she might be convinced to show herself. Of all things, her face was the worst.
“You’re being called back to service.”
Is there a war? If there was, she was too old and had no ability to serve.
The man cleared his throat. “We have found you are the best for the job. We need you.”
A tear slid down Rivkah’s cheek. How she would have loved to have the life she once had. In service of the country, flying Air Wing starfighters, she could go 10,000 mph if she wanted to and many times did. In her line of service, she specialized in space-to-space combat and secret operations with her squadron in the Secret Space Program.
Flying a starfighter was impossible now. There was no point in thinking such things.
“I know what happened to you,” said the man. “We can reverse the damages. We have the technology.”
Her eyes narrowed. Was it possible? Could she be set free from her self-imposed prison of shame?
He held up the manila envelope. “This is going to change the entire world, Captain.”
“Who are you?” Rivkah’s voice cracked.
“I can’t say, Ma’am. What I can say is that this manila envelope contains answers to your questions. It also contains a phone number you can call when you are ready to accept this offer.” He leaned closer to the peep hole, his voice a whisper. “We have a situation on a Jupiter moon.”
She knew what he meant. She had seen things in her old life that few people had seen. They probably needed her to lead a squadron to take out whatever stood in SSP’s way. “How can you fix my body?”
“We have made more advances in medicine than we let on in the media, than we let on in the military in all ranks and services, earth-bound or otherwise. In the news, stem cells are in their infancy, but the truth is we perfected them twenty years ago. We have stem cell sprays and lotions that can reshape your skin. You can look twenty-five again. It’s all about the electrical property of cells. There is more to it at the molecular level, and I know the science may not interest you, but if you come with me, you can see and experience the healin
g science for yourself.”
“Place the manila envelope on the ground and leave,” she said.
The man nodded, placing it on her welcome mat. “We can change your life in a moment, if you choose. Make that moment today, Captain. We need you.” He doffed his hat in an old-fashioned gesture of respect.
She heard him get in his SUV and drive off down her long gravel driveway. She watched until she couldn’t see his car anymore. Only then did she open the door and pick up the envelope, taking a deep whiff of the fresh, hillside air that smelled of lavender and lake. The outside wasn’t bad.
Back on her couch she tore at the envelope. Photographs spilled out, twelve in all, 8.5 x 11 glossies. A sticky note with a phone number was attached to one of the pictures, along with a letter.
She read the letter, then dropped it on her lap and scoured the pictures. Her stomach did flips. It was as if she’d just won the lottery. There were pictures of Jupiter and its moons, including Callisto, the moon outside of Jupiter’s radiation belt. The data was technical, but not gobbledegook. The writer was clear, there was a black ops secret space program in another sector of the government and they wanted her to be part of the team.
The last picture gave her a hearty laugh. It was a close-up of a pyramid. In space. She grinned. “There are Egyptian pyramids on a Jupiter moon. How did we miss that?”
She lifted her phone and dialed the number on the sticky note.
It rang only once before a man picked it up, the same man who had been at her front door.
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“What is the next step?” Rivkah said, foregoing any pleasantries.
“I’ll head back and get you today. We’ll start your regeneration tomorrow.”
“Who are you?”
“Colonel Slade Roberson.”
Atlantis Quadrilogy - Box Set Page 10
