by Mark Kraver
“It’s your cellphone,” she said, rolling over and covering her head with a pillow, so he could turn on the lights and answer the phone.
“Who the hell’s calling at this hour? What time is it, anyway?” he grumbled walking to the phone. “Friday night at eleven-thirty? Don’t they know decent folk go to bed by ten?” He turned on his nightstand lamp and pressed the too-small for his finger cell phone buttons. “Oh hell, it’s Washington,” he said, alerting his wife to come out from under the covers and pay attention.
“Special Agent Garth Goodheart,” he said, sitting down on the bed.
Goodheart had wanted to retire from the bureau for the last five years, but the closest he had come was putting in for a transfer to sunny, southwest Florida. He had spent the last forty years serving his country as an FBI field agent. He’d accumulated enough strings to pull to put himself in a great location to spend his golden years lying on the beach and fishing from his backyard. When he joined, there weren’t many African Americans at the bureau, and he had caused more than his fair share of growing pains within the agency over the years.
He listened to the phone message and wrote down what he heard: Meet 85th EIS, Space Command, Keesler AFB, at Page Field, Fort Myers, Florida at 0630. Provide helicopter. Assist in locating RFI. Potentially secret, at your discretion.
He hung up and pressed another phone number. “Potentially secret, at your discretion? What the hell’s RFI?” he growled, waiting for an answer. After four rings, his partner picked up. “Sully? Goodheart. Are you awake? Count to ten. Just count to ten. I don’t want to be talking to some sleepwalker.” He waited, counting silently in his own mind before continuing. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, good. Okay, meet me at Page Field terminal at 0615 with a Huey. Yeah, Huey. Helicopter. I’m not sure. That’s your problem now. Oh, is it Friday night? Yeah, that’s why I’m calling you. No, I’m at home. It’s your turn at the wheel, Agent Sullivan. That’s better. Give my regards to Martha. Now, what time at Page Field? With what? That’s right. Agent Sullivan put the flag on the hill. All right. Good night.”
Chapter 12
Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.
Albert Einstein 1879-1955, Earth
Library of Souls
Angeles National Forest
San Gabriel Mountains, California
“Are we supposed to call this rest and relaxation? We could be home on the couch watching a movie,” Conrad complained. His side hurt with a deep dull pain. “I call lugging fifty-pound telescope fifty miles into the desert, so you can see the rings of Saturn, work.” He stumbled over a rock and resisted yelling out in pain. “Hey—flashlight,” he shouted through gritted teeth. “I can’t see a thing without it.”
“Jupiter, not Saturn,” she corrected, setting-up the giant Dobsonian lens skyward. “Besides, I think this is way better than the movies. Don’t you just love looking at the Milky Way against a new moon in the middle of nowhere?”
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed Jupiter had rings.” Pain continued to ache in his abdomen.
Logan turned to face Conrad, not seeing his grimacing face in the darkness. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things and—hey, I’m looking at Jupiter’s moons, not rings,” she said, frustrated with his confusion as to what they were seeking in the sky that night. She paused to focus her telescope’s precision optics on the Jovian planet’s four visible satellites as she gathered her thoughts. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking.”
He waited quietly. He wanted to talk to her about what was on his mind, too, and this seemed as good a time as any. As he stood still, his pain was subsiding into a faint throb.
“I have been working too hard,” Logan said, “This baby thing has shaken me up. I’m kind of relieved I’m not going to be a mother.” She stopped and looked up at him against the spectacular backdrop of the majestic galaxy. “Or a wife.”
Conrad took a deep breath. “What does that mean? You don’t love me anymore?” He tried to read her face in the starlight, hoping she was in a funk and not slipping away.
“No, no, it’s not that. I just don’t want to put you through any more of my bullshit. You think I’m a bitch. Everyone thinks I’m crazy, and now I can’t even have a baby,” she said, her voice cracking.
Conrad put his arms around her. “Don’t feel that way,” he said, hugging her tight against him. “I love being with you. You’re the sexiest smart bitch I’ve ever met.”
Her body shook slightly with a giggle. “You mean nuttiest schizo,” she murmured into his chest.
“Yeah, that too,” he teased.
She frowned and stepped back, out of Conrad’s embrace. “I do love you, but you need more than I can offer. You need a wife and kids. I know you. I’m not ready for that right now.”
“I wouldn’t be either, if I had gone through what you’ve gone through. Maybe you do need a vacation?”
“Vacation?” she laughed, focusing the optics on nothing.
“Think about it,” he said, as she looked up from her telescope through tearful eyes. “Would you think about it?” he whispered.
“The moons are beautiful tonight,” she said, changing the subject.
“So are you. Let’s go home. Somebody must go to work early tomorrow to check all that data and, if you’re feeling up for it, I’m going to let you do it. I’m planning to take the day off—helping my mother with a list of emergencies she dreamed up—and I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“On Saturday?”
“Yeah, just more blood work. HMOs are open on Saturdays,” he said, kissing her sorrow-filled eyes.
“Okay.”
The obituary chamber stirred with thought.
“That is why I avoid loving anyone. Too complicated,” said Nadira.
“More complicated than building a solar system from a dusty nebula?” Lanochee asked.
“Possibly, but those who hurt in their hearts for love, can also protect their hearts from love,” Yahweh lamented.
Chapter 13
Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.
Abraham Lincoln, 1809-1865, Earth
Library of Souls
Cape Coral, Florida
“Here it comes,” Agent Sullivan said, standing on the wet tarmac, looking up at the helicopter flying over the treetops. The first sun rays were beaming on the horizon.
“On time. Where did you get it?” Goodheart asked, looking at his watch.
“Mosquito control,” Sullivan answered, eliciting a rare chuckle from his boss.
“Now if those Keesler boys would show up,” Goodheart said, “and tell us what the hell we’re doing here.”
Scanning their surroundings, Sullivan noticed a van parked on the opposite end of the tarmac. It was large and tan and totally unremarkable, except for the telescoping antenna built onto its tailgate. “Keesler?”
Goodheart nodded. “There you go. Let’s find out what’s going on, shall we?”
They half-jogged, half-walked over to the van and Goodheart checked the doors. Locked. He rapped three times on the back door, then pounded on it. A disheveled, sleepy head appeared momentarily in the window and then was gone. Goodheart held his shield against the window, pounded once more and stepped back so the doors could open. Nothing happened.
“Maybe it’s not them,” Sullivan asked, putting a hand instinctively to the holster under his jacket.
Goodheart shook his head and pointed to the license plate. “Definitely government,” he said. “Those are our guys.”
Sullivan eyed the van skeptically. “They’re just ignoring us? Do you think they actually went back to sleep?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted to do when I called last night?” he asked, feeling sorry for the poor souls who had to drive all night to get here from Mississippi. He looked at his watch. “It’s not quite 0630. Let’s give them a few more minutes.”
Goodheart stepped closer to the van’s back door and spoke loudly. “We
’ll be back at half past, boys. Time to wake up.” He and Sullivan turned and began walking toward the main entrance terminal. “Do they serve breakfast here? I’m hungry.”
“Sorry, just vending machines,” Sullivan said. He had checked before Goodheart arrived. “And the gift shop doesn’t open until seven.”
“Then get me a coffee,” Goodheart said. “I like it black, like my woman.”
Sullivan laughed. “Fine. But those guys in the van better move quickly. That helicopter is rented by the hour.” He pointed to the waiting pilot. “You know how much it costs to have a chopper pilot work Saturday morning on such short notice?”
“Hell, I bet the gas costs more than the pilot,” Goodheart laughed.
At 0630, the back doors of the van popped open, and three people piled out, stretching their arms and legs.
“See, what’d I tell you?” Goodheart said to Sullivan. They were leaning against the hood of Goodheart’s gold Honda, watching with amusement as the three engineers ambled across the tarmac stretching their tired limbs and scratching their private parts.
Goodheart knew he and Sullivan made an impressive sight, casually sipping coffee in their dress pants and ties. As the first of the trio approached, he flashed his badge. “Agent Goodheart. This is Agent Sullivan. FBI. We were told to meet you here and assist. What’s up?”
“FBI, wow,” Bubba giggled.
Wilson was a civil servant for the Air Force and didn’t have a rank, so he just extended his hand and introduced himself as, “Gregg Wilson,” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the two men trailing behind. “That’s Bill Gruber, and behind him is Bubba.” Wilson’s tone and expression let the agents know not to expect too much from the one called Bubba.
“There’s a coffee machine inside,” Sullivan said.
“We’re okay,” Wilson said.
“Speak for yourself” Bill said to the group and continued toward the terminal. Bubba followed close behind, smiling at the two agents as he passed.
“FBI?” Wilson said. “Sounds like someone is pulling some strings. We learned about this job yesterday.”
“Learned about what?” Goodheart asked. “We haven’t been told squat.”
“Really?” Wilson looked surprised. “About a week ago, some kind of SETI satellite was launched into geosynchronous orbit over the eastern Atlantic. You know, the search for extraterrestrial life.”
“Intelligence,” corrected Sullivan.
“Yeah, whatever,” Wilson said, yawning. “When they turned the thing on, it had some kind of RFI messing with it.”
“And this RFI is?” asked Sullivan.
“Radio frequency interference. It’s coming from somewhere in this area, and Space Command’s in a hurry to find it.”
“And they called out the FBI for this?” Goodheart groaned.
“I guess if it turns out to be some homemade TV genie, you could bust them for violating FCC law. I don’t know,” Wilson said, smiling.
“Somebody’s jerking me around, and when I figure out who it is...” Goodheart said, shaking his head in disgust.
“Oh well, I’m glad to have the help. I’ll drive the van to the chopper and get it loaded up with my equipment,” Wilson said. He looked out across the wet tarmac at the beat-up mosquito control helicopter. “Hope those spraying booms don’t get in the way.”
All morning, the Huey flew over Cape Coral, a canal-striped boomtown across the river from Fort Myers. Wilson, Goodheart, and the mosquito-control pilot who had the name ‘Apollo’ embroidered over his shirt pocket were on their second lap around the perimeter of the Cape’s expansive city limits. Sullivan, Bill, and Bubba drove the van across the bridge to Cape Coral and parked it off the main drag, Del Prado Boulevard, in a dental office parking lot. A flock of white curved billed ibis walked across the lush landscaped lot and into a stormwater retention swale where they spooked up a large green iguana eating the grass.
“Man, this place is the wild kingdom,” Bubba said, jumping from the van. He waved his arms and chased the wildlife away like an idiot. Sullivan and Bill glanced at each other but said nothing as they watched the chubby twenty-something buffo tromp around the parking lot. After a couple of minutes, Bubba returned to his seat with a contented smile and Sullivan and Bill, feeling equally diverted, looked back at their smartphones.
Wilson decided to try out his headset with the pilot who, he had noticed when they first boarded, was unseasonably dressed. “Say,” he spoke into the mouthpiece, “kinda warm for wearing a ski cap, eh?”
The pilot adjusted a small knob on his headset. “Yes sir,” he answered, “not from this area. Kind of a habit.”
“Oh yeah, where are you from?”
“Where it’s cold.”
Wilson frowned.
“Ever hear of the phrase ‘buying swampland down in Florida?’” Goodheart spoke into his headset. “Cape Coral, Florida, was the lie that came true. They sold this land to unsuspecting fools at State Fairs back in the sixties. Now look at it. Paradise.” Goodheart smiled, and the pilot nodded in agreement.
After circling the Cape for the third time, Wilson was developing a good feel for the area. “I can’t believe this place. All the waterfront property and boats—why haven’t I heard about it before?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Goodheart said. “Paradise.”
The loud spinning sound of the banking chopper changing the pitch of the rotors filled the cabin and the three men gazed down over the network of canals when the helicopter pilot’s voice came abruptly through the com system. “Mr. Wilson,” he said, “someone on the line for you.”
“Call me Gregg. I don’t like that Mr. Wilson crap,” he said, hearing the switch to the cell phone connection in his helmet.
“Mr. Wilson? This is Carroll Bogart, satellite tech from the Jet Propulsion Lab. I have a message from Harold. The next spike will be in less than a minute. Do you need to talk with him?”
“No time. I have it. Thanks,” Wilson said, jumping into action. He leaned over, flipped switches, adjusted a few knobs and sat up straight. “Let’s get to work.”
“Merry Christmas, check out those readings,” Wilson shouted over the headset as the numbers on his field intensity meter shot off the scale. “Move that antenna to the right a little,” he said to Goodheart, who stared at him with widening eyes. Wilson cursed and reached across Goodheart’s enormous lap to twist the antenna himself. “Turn starboard ten degrees.”
“Affirmative,” answered the pilot.
“Three more degrees.”
“Three degrees to the starboard, mark.”
“Good. Now stay on this trajectory. We should get a good fix on that signal if we keep plotting along this line. Can you patch me through to my crew on the ground? What roads are down there?”
Bill was scribbling notes as he listened to Wilson’s instructions over the cell phone. “Santa Barbara and Jacaranda,” he repeated looking at Sullivan for directions. “How long will it take to get there?”
“It’s across town. We can take Veterans to Santa Barbara, then it’s a straight shot north,” Sullivan said. “Probably take about twenty minutes from here in this traffic.”
On their way, they passed a trailered backhoe, a large crane, and three flatbed trucks parked in an empty lot, but no one in the van gave it a second thought.
Chapter 14
No one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected.
Julius Caesar, 100-44 BC, Earth
Library of Souls
The Dig
“Good thing this signal came from an empty lot, and not that house next door,” the backhoe operator yelled to the stern-faced FBI agent over the noise of his idling machine. He pointed to the gathering crowd.
“Nah,” Goodheart agreed, reassuring himself as well. “The signal is not coming from the house.”
A growing number of neighborhood children were gathering in the yard to watch. They were more interested in the helicopter taking off
in the field behind the house than the hole being dug next to their friend’s garage. With a sudden high-speed change in sound, the chopper lifted-off and turned to face everyone on the ground. The pilot waved his hand at the children watching, sending squeals of laughter through the group. As the helicopter set off, the kids broke into a run to follow as it disappeared over distant tree tops.
“Are you sure we have a permission to dig up this lot? I don’t want to get in trouble,” said the backhoe operator, still smiling from waving goodbye to the helicopter like an excited little kid.
Agent Goodheart stood next to the hole, searching for anything strange that somebody up the chain of command was itching to find.
“Who’d you say contracted you for this job?” Goodheart yelled to the backhoe operator.
“The FBI.”
“How did you get here so fast?” he asked.
“Fast? I’ve been waiting since yesterday to dig up something in the North Cape.”
“Really?” Goodheart mumbled. Why was he babysitting this project in the first place? The middle of the night call had been obnoxious enough, but from the minute he called in the address Wilson had pinpointed, and was ordered to dig it up, the whole endeavor felt like a joke—a FBI retirement practical joke. If it was a joke, he was going to give someone hell. Headquarters had called this case a potentially secret operation. SETI satellites, strange signals from under the ground—it was starting to sound like something out of a science fiction movie.
After regathering the equipment he’d unloaded from the helicopter, Wilson parked the government van on the road behind Goodheart’s Honda. He spent a few minutes rummaging around before hopping out and walking up to Goodheart with a small black box.
“How did you get the backhoe here so fast?” asked Wilson.
