He stepped out onto level two and walked back to the LCC, then took the stairwell up to the LCC on level one. He turned on the lights and went to the kitchen, where he powered on the other coffee maker and brewed another fresh pot. When it was ready, he poured himself a cup and headed to his comms room to check the day’s message traffic. He hadn’t been in the Air Force in fifty years, but he still referred to all incoming news, emails, blog comments, and running private chat-room dialogues as “message traffic.”
News feeds: Media propaganda, lies, and more lies. Only one noteworthy event. There’d been a major earthquake in Mexico City, killing hundreds. Lucky bastards. Better to die now than in the horror of the days to come.
Email: nothing but spam.
Blog comments: nothing but trolls and idiots.
He almost spilled his coffee, however, as he began to read the private chat-room threads. Something big was going on. A member in his trusted circle, a watchdog in Maryland, had observed an unscheduled C-17 flight arrive at Eastern West Virginia Regional Airport. The plane had taxied directly into Hangar 306, and unloading operations were conducted behind closed doors. At 0123 hours, a three-vehicle convoy had departed, heading south. The convoy was trailed by a fourth vehicle, which the observer followed at a safe distance. The convoy drove to Culpeper, Virginia, and the destination was Westfield Dynamics, a long-suspected government front company with ties to DARPA. The fourth vehicle continued on, then doubled back and assumed a surveillance position, making it difficult for the watchdog to do the same. A vehicle swap was required, resulting in a thirty-minute lapse in coverage during the entire observation period. The observer was relieved by a principal who had witnessed an ambulance depart Westfield Dynamics at 0845 for Culpeper Medical Center. Updates would be provided in real time.
This was good work, very good work.
The watchdogs were people like him: retired former military, mostly men. The network was loose and nebulous by design. They all used handles, and their true identities were closely guarded and rarely if ever shared. Principals were members who used their personal wealth to fund watchdog surveillance activities, maintain the secure dark website the organization utilized, provide cybersecurity augments for members, pay bribes for insider information, and hire journalists to investigate perceived cover-ups. A wry smile crept across his face. As much as Josie Pitcher had been interviewing him, he had been interviewing her. They needed a journalist like her—fearless, committed, and smart—a bloodhound who could get to the bottom of mysteries like what was going on at Westfield Dynamics.
He took the locket that hung around his neck between his thumb and forefinger and began tracing the worn ridges of the Celtic knot. The Celtic knot was an ancient, powerful symbol of interdependence and interconnection—an infinite strand, knotted and woven, but without beginning and without end. From a temporal perspective, his and Josie Pitcher’s meeting was a late convergence, over fifty years in the making.
Rubbing the pendant, he couldn’t help but wonder if their fates were now intertwined—just like the strands of a Celtic knot.
CHAPTER 16
0915 Local Time
Culpeper, Virginia
From his makeshift blind in the grass, Dean Ninemeyer raised his binoculars to watch the man in the silver Ford Explorer who was watching the Westfield Dynamics access road. The Explorer was parked among a throng of damaged vehicles in the lot of Windmere’s Autobody & Collision Repair. This vehicle was not the same one that had followed him last night. He’d identified that vehicle, a Mazda CX-9, as a tail within minutes of leaving the airport. He’d driven with a loose offset to follow the convoy, and so had the Mazda that had followed him. The tail hadn’t done anything wrong from a tradecraft perspective; it was just that Ninemeyer operated from the assumption that every vehicle was a tail. This approach was mentally taxing, but it had served him well over the years. When the convoy turned onto the access road for Westfield Dynamics, Ninemeyer had driven on. He’d eventually doubled back, but his tail had had the discipline not to follow suit. Instead of staking out Westfield D, Ninemeyer had driven to Arlington to drop in on Malcolm Madden. That conversation had gone exactly as he’d hoped, with Madden confirming the object’s existence and yielding to his will to collect information like the craven pussy he was.
Now Ninemeyer was back in Culpeper. He’d followed Madden here from Arlington, arriving around seven. Ninemeyer presumed the box from Bagram had been opened this morning on schedule, and he also presumed something significant had happened during the opening because an ambulance had arrived at half past eight and departed at a quarter till nine. The watcher in the Explorer had not left his post all morning, electing, like Ninemeyer, not to follow the ambulance to the hospital.
Ninemeyer was just about to lower his binos when a maroon Mazda CX-9 drove past, heading east on James Madison Highway. He switched targets, following the Mazda. It braked and pulled off into a church parking lot on the same side of the road, in plain view of both the access road and the silver Ford Explorer. He checked his watch, then waited, alternating his view between the vehicles. From his current angle, he couldn’t make out the driver of the Mazda.
When he shifted back to the Explorer, he saw it was making a three-point turn to exit the parking lot.
Mark the time: seven minutes.
Ninemeyer smiled.
Gotcha.
It was a well-executed handoff; the driver of the Explorer hadn’t touched his phone either. Unfortunately for them, Ninemeyer had made the Mazda last night, identifying this as a two-man, two-vehicle team. Games and games. He loved it. This was what he lived for.
Last night the burning question had been, Who was watching whom watching whom? He hadn’t known if his tail had been a convoy tail assigned to follow any ticks the convoy picked up or if his tail had been a third party like him. In the case of the latter, he didn’t know if his tail was interested in him or the convoy proper. Now he’d answered both questions: he and his tail were interested in the same target—the convoy transporting the object. With that settled, all that was left to figure out was whom this surveillance team worked for.
A lone bird called from a nearby tree, breaking the comfortable silence.
Coo-WEO-oo-oo-ooo.
Ninemeyer knew this call—a mourning dove.
When he was a boy of eleven, a mourning dove had taken residence in the tree outside his bedroom window. For three months, the bird’s incessant calling had woken him at the crack of dawn.
Coo-WEO-oo-oo-ooo.
Every thirty seconds, over and over and over again, setting his nerves on fire.
Coo-WEO-oo-oo-ooo.
That summer, he did backbreaking chores for his father to save money for a .22-caliber rifle. By August he’d earned enough to buy relief.
Coo-WEO-oo-oo-ooo.
There had been many kills since that first—both birds and people. Contrary to popular belief, murder is an effective solution for many problems. Especially the types of problems he encountered regularly in his line of work. When someone or something could not be swayed, murder was usually the most efficient and least expensive option.
Coo-WEO-oo-oo-ooo.
He tensed, his aggravation rising.
Now is not the time for petty distractions, he told himself and looked away from the tree. Five minutes passed, but he couldn’t take it. He’d have to forfeit this hiding spot for another. He crawled out of the tall grass and made a wide arc back to his Tahoe. He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and contemplated his next steps. The object was already garnering third-party interest. He could go interrogate the driver of the Mazda. Alternately, he could drive to the hospital and try to learn the names and statuses of the individuals brought in by ambulance. Or he could stay here and watch the access road . . .
The decision was made for him when a Ford Taurus appeared on the access road, leaving Westfield Dynamics. It turned east in the direction of Culpeper Medical Center. The driver was male a
nd sported a military cut. Ninemeyer recognized him immediately: Major Legend Tyree from the Pentagon’s TIMS division. Office 231 and DARPA worked together regularly, and Ninemeyer wasn’t surprised to see him here. He’d been careful never to cross paths with Tyree, especially since he’d stolen plenty of intellectual property out from under the Major’s nose. It was a risk following Tyree to the hospital—which was undoubtedly where he was headed to check on his colleagues—but Ninemeyer quickly weighed the pros and cons and decided the potential payoff was worth it. To find the injured team members, all he had to do was shadow Tyree, and the Army man would lead him right to their rooms.
He put the transmission in drive.
Time to go meet the rest of the team.
CHAPTER 17
Culpeper Medical Center and Regional Hospital
Culpeper, Virginia
Beth Fischer wanted to wake up—desperately, terribly so—but she couldn’t find a path out of the woods.
What is this place?
It was a muddy-gray, lifeless place, devoid of color and feeling. She had no sense of temperature, which she found extremely disconcerting. Waving her hand through the air, she felt nothing—not even the movement of wind against her skin. She pressed her thumbnail into the pad of her index finger to make sure she had not lost the sense of touch. She felt the pressure of the crescent nail indenting her skin. She repeated the exercise on her middle finger, ring finger, and pinky finger, validating that, yes, she could feel.
She walked to a tree and placed her hand on the trunk. The tree was a dead thing, barren of leaves and devoid of color besides muddy shades of gray. Its spindly branches entwined with the branches of other trees beside and around it. She dragged her fingertips over the mottled, gray bark and felt no texture. A fly buzzed around her face, and she swatted at it, missing, of course, but this seemed to incentivize it to harass her more vigorously. Buzzing and dive-bombing, it tried to land on her face with each and every pass. She started walking, picking up the pace and swatting at it, hoping to either escape its territory or drive it away.
She looked at the dirt path she was following, and only then did she realize she was barefoot. Underfoot she registered dirt; pebbles of different sizes; and bulging, twisted roots. She felt pressure and detected size but not texture. Not temperature. A second fly joined the first, harassing her in duplicate.
She cursed them and picked up the pace.
Ahead she spied an arched, wooden footbridge crossing a muddy, meandering brook. She focused on that footbridge, and an understanding came to her that she needed to cross it. When she at last reached it, she walked to the apex of the arch and stopped. She walked to the railing and directed her gaze at the water below—water the color of coffee with milk. It moved without texture or sound: without ripples and eddies, without gurgle or babble. The only reason she perceived it flowing was because the milky gray-brown swirls that delineated the surface moved along en masse.
As she crossed the bridge, she heard an unnatural buzzing—the sound of a thousand housefly wings beating the air—getting louder with each second. Ahead, a black-gray cloud floated above the path, converging on the bridge. No, converging on her. She screamed, reversed course, and ran back the way she had come, into the forest. But within moments, the swarm of flies was upon her. They concentrated their assault on her face. Landing and crawling on her cheeks and her forehead, her nose and lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, and they crawled across the outsides of her eyelids. They buzzed and crawled in her ears and in her nose. She screamed and then gagged on the inrush of flies. She swallowed the mass and then vomited.
She could barely breathe.
They were on her and in her.
Buzzing and crawling and nibbling.
And she could not, she could not, she could not wake up . . .
CHAPTER 18
1025 Local Time
Culpeper Medical Center and Regional Hospital
Culpeper, Virginia
“Hey there,” Legend said, smiling down at Beth Fischer.
Although her eyes were open, he had the distinct impression she wasn’t really seeing him.
“Legend?” she whispered, looking straight at him.
“Yeah, Beth, I’m here.”
“Am I dead?” she asked with all sincerity.
He couldn’t help but chuckle at this. “No,” he said, taking her hand and giving it an encouraging squeeze. “You’re not dead.”
“Oh, okay.”
“How are you feeling?”
She blinked so slowly, it really didn’t constitute a blink, more like an incredibly short nap. “Like . . . I got run over . . . by something big . . . and heavy,” she managed, the sentence punctuated with long, weary pauses.
“Fortunately, you did not get run over. You did have a nasty fall when you passed out, however. The docs say you will likely have a concussion. That is, if you don’t have one already.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re checked in at the local hospital in Culpeper.”
“Did you call my mom . . . and tell her about the accident?”
“No, Beth, I didn’t call your mom. You weren’t in an accident.”
“Oh, I thought you said I got run over.”
He had to suppress another chuckle. This was like talking to someone just after they’d woken up from anesthesia. “No, you just had a nasty fall and hit your head.”
“Something’s wrong with my tongue. It’s too thick in my mouth.”
“Yeah, you bit your tongue pretty badly during the seizure. It’s swollen.”
“Oh . . . that sucks.” She blinked several times in rapid succession, and when she looked at him again, he saw that the lights were starting to come on inside. “Legend?”
“Yeah, Beth.”
“Did I get zapped by a levitating, glowing orb, or was that just a bad dream?”
He shooshed her and looked around to make sure they were still alone in her room. “You definitely got zapped, but we can’t talk about that in front of people, okay?”
“I understand,” she said with a sigh. “OPSEC.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, I’ll be careful what I talk about.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Zelda?”
“Yes?” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Is that true?”
“Is what true?”
“Am I really your girl?” she asked, her gaze going dreamy again.
“Do you want to be?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know that’s not the concussion talking?”
“Kiss me and I’ll show you.”
“Not a good idea right now.”
“Why?”
“First off, people would see us, and second, I don’t want to choke on your bloody, swollen tongue.”
This got her laughing, and coughing, and laughing some more. “I needed that,” she said, beginning to sound more like her regular self. She squeezed his hand. “Thanks for being here when I woke up. The dream I was having was not very nice.”
“A nightmare?”
“Yeah, I was trapped in a terrible place . . . and I couldn’t breathe.”
“Ahhh, makes sense,” he said, nodding. “You gave me a helluva scare a little while ago. Your tongue was blocking your airway, and you started choking. I had to call the nurse. That’s probably why you dreamed you couldn’t breathe.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” he said when he saw the pained look on her face. He gently rubbed the back of her hand, and her eyelids drifted closed again.
“How are the others?” she asked after a long beat, opening her eyes.
“Harris is doing a little better than you, and Dixon a little worse.”
“What happened to Dixon?”
“He hit the back of his head pretty hard when he fell. He has a concussion and needed stitches.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry . . .
if I messed up in there.”
“Oh, Beth, you didn’t mess up. None of this is your fault.”
She looked down and after a long beat said, “Were you an only child, Legend?”
“No, I have a little brother. Were you?”
“Yeah . . . both my parents worked, so I was alone a lot. Childhood was awkward for me. I was a lot bigger than the other girls growing up. I was bigger than pretty much all the boys too. I wasn’t a cute kid either. My teeth were way too big for my mouth. My mom cut my hair super short because she didn’t want to have to brush it. Almost everybody mistook me for a boy. I got teased a lot, and, uh, I didn’t have many friends. Hell, I didn’t have any friends . . .”
He nodded, but as much as it pained him, he resisted the urge to placate and just listened.
“God, how I wished for a sister,” she continued. “Sisters are obligatory friends, right? Ah, I know that’s not true in real life, but as a lonely only child that’s what I thought. Eventually, I just started pretending that I had one—you know, like how some kids have an imaginary friend? I had an imaginary sister. The thing was, after a while, she began to take on a life of her own. It was like she became my alter ego—always talking in my ear, goading me to do things to get attention . . . bad things. By the time I was nine, it had become a real problem. Kids are supposed to grow out of the imaginary friend phase by that age. Not me. It got bad . . . real bad. My parents took me to a psychiatrist . . . eventually, they medicated me.”
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