by Steve Alten
“Nine-eleven?”
“Please. Do you really believe nineteen Saudi hijackers who could barely operate a crop duster managed to take out their targets while outmaneuvering the most powerful air force in history? Dick Cheney’s been a high-ranking member of MAJI since before you were born; he was running war game exercises the morning of 9/11 that placed fake hijacked blips on the FAA’s screens, using them to divert the F-16 interceptors.”
Joyce drained her glass. “Iraq was all about oil, but not in the way you think. MAJI didn’t want the crude; they just wanted to control the flow in order to set the market. Afghanistan, of course is about heroin, a product controlled by the CIA and delivered by MAJI.” She glanced at her husband. “If you knew how they were delivering it …”
“Of course,” the captain said, cutting her off, “none of that compares to the next war they’ve been planning for more than thirty years.”
“Okay … enough,” Joyce snapped. “We have a major problem with this Chris Mull character. Where’s the zero-point device now?”
“I don’t know.” Jessica said, feeling queasy. “He managed to sneak it out of the Hive using the food services. When I order room service tonight the unit will be concealed within one of the serving dishes. I’m then supposed to wait until 2:30 in the morning and bring it to you.”
“It’s a set-up,” the captain stated. “Once you leave your apartment with the zero-point unit they’ll have you on video. That removes Mull from the equation and implicates you. From that moment on, you’re Mull’s pawn. He’ll be able to do whatever he wants with you. Trust me when I say this … there are some pretty sick individuals working down here.”
Feeling the bile rising in her esophagus, Jessica pushed past Joyce LaCombe and hurried down a short hall. Quickly locating the bathroom, she dropped to her knees before the toilet and wretched.
27
Greenbelt, Maryland
IT WAS AFTER TEN P.M. BY the time Adam and his new personal bodyguard, Hershel Eugene Evans, arrived at the Greenbelt apartment. It took the former Air Force Tech Sergeant twenty minutes to tap into the building’s security system cameras, allowing him to observe the parking lot, entrance, stairwells and elevators on his laptop computer.
The two men were in the middle of gorging on take-out Chinese food when the intercom buzzed, indicating a guest was waiting outside the building entrance.
Adam checked the small security screen by the front door; Eugene his laptop. “Captain, you know this guy?”
“Yeah. It’s my old boss.”
* * *
Dr. Michael Kemp looked tired. At 10:52 at night, this was hardly a social call.
Adam tossed an old army blanket over the Kemp Aerospace cardboard boxes stacked behind his sofa before opening the door. “Michael, what are you doing here?”
“Cut the bullshit and let me in.” The CEO of Kemp Aerospace Industries pushed his way inside, pausing when he spotted the armed man seated at the kitchen table. “Who’s this?”
“An old military buddy. Eugene Evans, Dr. Michael Kemp.”
“Adam, is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“Balcony or the bedroom; take your pick.”
“It’s starting to rain.”
Eugene grabbed his plate. “Talk here, I can eat in the bedroom.”
Kemp waited until the bodyguard had closed the bedroom door. “What the hell are you doing to me? I set up a division of my company to develop the prosthetic device you’re wearing; I paid you well. Is this how you repay me—by accusing Kemp Aerospace of subcontracting illegal projects? By threatening the defense contractors who feed us their scraps?”
“Michael—”
“You stabbed me in the back, Adam. And for what? Because you found a few bookkeeping discrepancies? Why didn’t you come to me first? I would have explained those black op projects were funded by the CIA. I know you’re new to the job, but the Central Intelligence Agency is not required to open their books to the goddam Under Secretary of Defense–Comptroller.”
“Do you think I just fell off the back of a turnip truck, Michael? Pahute Mesa is not a CIA project. Neither are the Groom Lake nor Dreamland MOCs. Those names correspond to something entirely different and you know it. And just because billions in funding were wired out of a CIA account doesn’t it make it acceptable or legal.”
“So that’s it then? You’re going to shut me down?”
“No. I was planning on granting you immunity to testify as part of the whistleblower program.”
“Screw your damn whistleblower program. Do you think Lockheed or SAIC or any of the majors will touch us after you subpoena them? You’ll make Kemp Aerospace radioactive. You’ll get nothing out of them, and you’ll get nothing out of me.”
“If that’s the case then why are you here?”
“I’m here as an emissary. The powers that be are willing to give you a sneak peek behind the curtain in exchange for your cooperation. They’ve asked me to invite you to a special meeting scheduled for next Tuesday evening at 7 p.m. at the Wrigley Mansion in Phoenix, Arizona. I suggest you hear them out.”
“Tell them I accept, on one condition: I want Jessica at the meeting.”
Subterranean Complex—Midwest USA
“Dr. Marulli, we’re outside your suite. I need you to open your eyes for the retinal scan. Dr. Marulli?” The nurse leaned over the wheelchair and gently squeezed Jessica’s shoulders until she opened her eyes—
—the retinal scan positioned above the entrance to Suite 512 immediately locking on to her eyes, causing the door to unbolt and swing open. The interior lights bloomed brighter as the nurse pushed the lethargic woman inside her quarters.
“What happened?”
“You had an accident on the Maglev track; you have a second degree concussion.”
“Why am I so sleepy.”
The I.V. we gave you at the clinic contains a sedative to help you rest. Do you want to lie down on the sofa or in bed?”
“Help me to the recliner. What time is it?”
“Nine-fifteen … at night.”
“No wonder I’m so hungry.”
“Concierge, report.”
Ingrid appeared in the living room mirror. “My goodness, Jessica. What happened to you?”
“She had a little accident on the Maglev. Order her some dinner and see to it she rests. If she needs any further medical care, summon me at once.” The nurse held her I.D. badge up to the smart mirror and then left.
The Swedish woman tut-tutted. “I warned you that your blood sugar was low … when will you ever listen?”
“Just order me some food.”
“I already did.”
The front door opened and a waiter entered, pushing a cart. “Will you be dining on the terrace tonight, or should I just set you up in front of the recliner?”
“Right here is fine, Mr. Guzzo. What did the concierge order?”
“Your favorite—the lobster thermidor with the crabmeat and garlic whipped potatoes, and the chocolate crème brûlée for dessert.”
* * *
Jessica picked at her dinner, barely able to keep her eyes open. She yearned to sleep, but first there was work to do.
Having dismissed the computer-generated concierge, she unscrewed the inside of the metal container that had covered her main course and removed the zero-point-energy device. She located her hoverboard in the canvas pouch of the wheelchair and popped open the compartment that held the leash. Sliding the device inside, she closed the lid, leaving the hoverboard on the recliner.
Lying on the couch, Jessica summoned Raul. “Wake me at two a.m. please.” She was asleep the moment she closed her eyes.
* * *
Jessica’s body jerked awake as the doorbell rang. “Raul … who is it?”
“Logan LaCombe.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten-fifteen p.m.”
“Let him in.”
The door unbolted and opened, allowing Logan to
enter. “Jess?”
“Over here.”
The teen laid his hoverboard on the recliner next to Jessica’s board and knelt by her side. “How do you feel?”
“My head still hurts, but I’m okay. Thanks for getting me to the clinic. They gave me a sedative … let me sleep, okay?”
She closed her eyes and drifted off.
Logan waited another moment then grabbed one of the hoverboards and left.
* * *
Jessica’s eyes flashed open as the doorbell rang again. “Raul?”
“It’s Logan LaCombe. He says he accidentally took the wrong hoverboard.”
“Pain in the ass kid. Let him in.”
The front door opened and the teenager entered. “Sorry. Guess I grabbed your board by accident. It’s set to your fingerprints or I would have ridden it home.” He grabbed his board, left hers on the recliner, and was gone.
Jessica rolled over, but this time sleep evaded her. Sitting up, she reached over to the room service tray and collected the dessert plate and a fork, consuming the chocolate crème brûlée in three bites. Shuffling in her stocking feet to the bedroom, she entered the master bath and showered, washing the dried blood from her scalp.
When she crawled naked into bed it was 11:47 p.m. …
* * *
“Jessica? You asked me to wake you. It is oh-two-hundred hours … two in the morning.”
“Thank you, Raul. Now go fuck yourself, please.”
“I’m sorry. How do I—”
“Consult the concierge manual.”
Forcing herself out of bed, Jessica selected a black unitard and matching sweatpants and sneakers from her closet and dressed. Her head was still sore to the touch, her legs a bit wobbly, but she was dealing with a small window of opportunity. Checking the time, she realized she was ahead of schedule.
Don’t want to get to the elevator too early …
She entered the bathroom and feigned using the toilet, wondering if she was peeing into a urine detector. They probably know everything that’s going on inside my body …
She brushed her teeth and checked the time.
2:18 …
Exiting the bedroom, Jessica retrieved her white lab coat from the closet and put it on; verifying the small device Captain LaCombe had given her hours earlier was in the side pocket. She was nearly out the door when she remembered the hoverboard. She located it on the recliner and left her suite.
The thoroughfare was empty, the lighting dimmed to simulate the lateness of the hour. Crossing the Maglev track to the southbound lane, she placed the hoverboard on the track … and hesitated.
If you’re questioned, how will you justify using the hoverboard with a concussion? Force of habit? Or you could just say you forgot … although it’s obvious to anyone watching that you’re thinking about it now.
Retrieving the board, she tucked it under her arm and walked back to the cushioned jogging track, calculating how long it would take her by foot to reach the elevators. Don’t go too fast, you don’t want it to appear like you’re on a schedule.
She reached the Level-5 lobby at 2:29. Elevator-7’s doors opened as she approached, beckoning her in.
Scanning the internal panel, she noted there were no levels listed below the Maglev Train Station on Level-9.
“Lab 3-C. Half speed please, I’m nursing a concussion.”
Sorry, Mr. Mull, there’s been a change of plans.
* * *
Jessica entered the Hive at 2:35 a.m. She hurried across the assembly area to Sarah’s private office, her head pounding with each painful stride. Locating the security panel outside the door, she noted the current time on the built-in digital clock as it advanced to 2:38.
Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, she removed the matchbox-sized device Captain LaCombe had given her and pressed its magnetic side against the wall directly below the keypad, moving it around until she felt it adhere to the circuits embedded inside the wall.
She watched in amazement as the digital clock on the security panel rotated backwards to 2:31 a.m., the electronic dead bolt clicking open.
You’ve only got seven minutes … move!
Opening the unlocked door, she entered Sarah’s office.
The twenty aluminum carrying cases were piled in four stacks of five on the floor by her assistant’s desk. She quickly located the metal attaché labeled Station-3 and removed the fake zero-point-energy unit given to her by Chris Mull. Selecting the Station-16 attaché from the last stack, she swapped out the two devices, placing the working ZPE generator into the Station-3 container, the fake device inside case sixteen.
She had explained her plan to Logan’s parents after the captain had showed her how to use the scrambler to “loop time” on the Hive’s internal security system.
“I’ll order dinner and place the ZPE unit inside my hoverboard as Mull instructed. Send Logan down to check on me around ten o’clock. Have him ‘accidentally’ take my board when he leaves. As he walks out to the Maglev track, he needs to remove and pocket the zero-point-energy generator, using the board to conceal what he’s doing from the security cameras. When he gets out to the track the board won’t power up. Realizing his mistake, Logan will return to my apartment, swap boards, and leave. Instruct him where to hide the unit. If he gets caught with it—”
“We’ll handle it. What about you?”
“At 2:30 in the morning I’ll enter Elevator-7 with my hoverboard as instructed, only instead of delivering the device to you at Level-23 I’ll go up to the Hive. After I deactivate the lab’s security system, I’ll swap Mull’s fake device for one of the real ones we removed from the satellites. If Mull is setting me up, the ZPE unit in attaché three will be real, eliminating any evidence against me—and you’ll have a real zero-point-energy generator.”
* * *
Jessica returned the two attaché cases to their proper stacks and exited Sarah’s office. The security scrambler was at 2:36, forcing her to wait another two minutes before she could power off the device. The moment the scrambler’s digital clock advanced to 2:38, she deactivated the unit, watching as the time jumped ahead seven minutes, resetting the Hive’s internal security to 2:45—
—as a heavy baritone rumbling suddenly rattled her eardrums.
Her heart raced—could her actions have triggered an alert? Was the Hive being sealed?
Then she realized the source of the disturbance—the subterranean complex’s roof was retracting!
Were they preparing to launch an Atlas rocket? If only there was only a way to sneak a quick peek without having to open a section of the Hive?
Then she remembered the leaking air conditioner duct.
Crossing the lab to the nearest satellite work station, she removed an anti-gravitics vest and helmet from the supply wall, contemplating her next move carefully.
I could say I was in the Hive catching up on some work when the ceiling started shaking and panels started falling. So I flew up to take a look, afraid the entire A/C duct might collapse on one of the satellites … Bring a roll of duct tape with you to secure the damaged panels.
She located a tool belt which held a roll of silver duct tape as the rumbling abruptly ceased. Slipping off her lab coat, she placed the tool belt around her waist and then slid her arms inside the anti-gravitics vest. Tightening the straps, she secured the helmet’s chin strap and powered up the antigravity unit—searching the ceiling for the gap.
There …
She had barely focused her eyes on the water-stained spot when she felt herself levitate off the concrete deck, the vest accelerating her toward her intended target.
She slowed to hover beneath the six-foot-in-diameter hole, catching her breath. The octagonal ceiling panels surrounding the gap were moist, giving her the confidence she needed to proceed. Prying loose the most damaged of the neighboring panels, she allowed them to fall to the ground in sections before levitating inside the twelve-foot-wide gap.
She found her way easi
ly around the labyrinth of ducts and cables to a thin cobalt-colored tin foil sheathing she knew separated the Hive from the tunnel. Searching her tool belt, Jessica removed a large screwdriver and used it to slice open a three-foot slit in the foil ceiling, making a mental note to duct tape the hole closed when she was done.
Ignoring the sudden urge to pee, she pushed herself head-first through the opening.
From her vantage atop the Hive, she had a clear view of the massive launch tunnel. Ahead were the vertical gantries supporting the twenty Atlas-V rockets. At the far end of the site, it appeared as if a section of the subterranean roof had indeed retracted, the gap outlined by a rectangle of green lights and a sliver of starry night sky.
For several long minutes nothing happened. And then, just as she was about to abandon her perch and return to the Hive, the UFO appeared.
The ship was disc-shaped—about a hundred feet in diameter, with a coned top. Around the edge of the disc were dazzling multi-colored lights—red, blue, green, and yellow. While the disc was spinning counterclockwise, the lights were circling in both directions—fusing and blending into one another in seemingly random patterns, the intensity and quality not of this world.
And yet by its presence within the subterranean structure, Jessica knew the vessel had to be man-made … an Alien Reproduction Vehicle.
She watched, incredulous, as the ARV set down.
I’m too far away to see. I need to be—
Before she could curtail her internal thoughts Jessica shot out of the top of the Hive like a bullet, soaring past the first six gantries before her mind could shout the telepathic command to stop.
