Earth Shine

by Jerry Ahern

  Shaw leaned back in his chair as Devlin shut the door, poured a cup of coffee, and took a seat. “Whatcha got Chief?”

  Devlin slid a file folder across to Shaw, “What do you know about this?”

  Tim opened the file and did a quick scan, “I don’t know anything about it. Where did you get this?”

  The Chief said, “It came in this morning.”

  The file had a single letter in it from the Office of the Secret Service with a single line of type and a signature block. Captain Timothy Shaw was requested at the Office of the Director, U.S. Secret Service at 0900 hours, two days from now; signed by James A. Nixon, Director, Special Officers and Technical Division. Shaw shook his head, “Chief, I have no idea what this is about. I haven’t had interaction with OSS since the brouhaha during Michael Rourke’s inauguration.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely, but I’ll make the meeting and brief you as soon as I get out of it.”

  *****

  Two days later, Jim Nixon, Director of the Special Officers and Technical Division, stuck his head out of his office and waved Shaw to come in. Dressed in a pressed suit, his appearance was much different from when he and his son were killing the Single Malt Scotch.

  “Captain Shaw, pleasure to finally meet you,” Nixon said.

  “Director, what is this about?” Tim asked, setting his fedora on the floor next to his chair.

  “Tim, may I call you Tim?” Shaw nodded his head. “We are in a bit of an issue right now. President Rourke called me into his office last Friday morning for a closed-door meeting. He is interested in making some changes in how the OSS operates; your name came up, and apparently President Rourke appears to know quite a lot about you.”

  Shaw nodded, “Director, I’m pretty sure you already know he is my daughter’s brother-in-law, so just cut to the chase.”

  “Tim, with the current national and international situations this country is facing, the President wants some changes,” Nixon explained. “Don’t ask me what those changes are because neither he nor I have figured all of that out; here’s what we are thinking about.” Nixon handed Shaw a file.

  “The President and I agree the simplest and most intelligent way is to proceed to create a new section within the OSS dedicated to a ‘specific set of tasks.’ The leader will report to me as the Director for Special Officer Positions. You must be a U.S. Citizen—which you are. You must be at least 21 years of age and younger than 40 at time of appointment—which you’re not, but I can waive that requirement.”

  “You must have visual acuity to be correctable to 20/20 in each eye—which you do. You must pass a top secret clearance and undergo a complete background investigation, to include driving record check, drug screening, medical, and polygraph examinations—you have passed everything already but the drug test and polygraph examination—which you can take care of today—if that is acceptable.”

  “You are already familiar with all phases of protective responsibilities sufficient to assist in protective movements, cover designated security posts, and drive protective vehicles. You have proficiency in the use of various firearms, knowledge of arrest techniques and procedures, and your police training will be acceptable for what we need. I know you’re coming up on retirement; that’s in what, two months?”

  Shaw nodded again.

  “Okay,” Nixon continued, “I am authorized to offer you the position of Chief of this new special project if you’re interested. The position would start immediately, and your retirement will not be affected. Upon acceptance, if you do accept, the paperwork will be initiated to place you in a terminal leave status from the department, and your retirement will be moved forward with no loss in pay or benefits.”

  “Why me?” Shaw asked; he was starting to feel uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know,” Nixon smiled a little sardonically. “What I am authorized to tell you is after a search of potential candidates, over 200 of them, your name came out second on the list, and number one had to go on medical leave over the weekend. Ergo, you are the man; seems like you were in the right place at the right time.”

  Shaw squirmed a bit and said, “First time that has ever happened. I have always subscribed to the thought by Steven Wright, ‘When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.’”

  Nixon nodded but pressed on, “Tim, there is only one problem. I need your decision now; the President was adamant the position has to be filled, and development of the Section and its implementation has to begin immediately. Here are the salaries and benefits package.” He handed a sheet of paper to Shaw.

  A low whistle was the only response. “Director, I need a little time here. I have to talk to my Chief before I do anything. How much time can I take?”

  “Tim, I’ll tell you honestly. If you are interested, I’ll call and try to get your Chief over here within the hour. You can speak to him privately and give me your answer. If you accept, we have to do the drug test and polygraph test today. If you pass both, you start at 0700 tomorrow. If you want me to call your Chief, I’m placing you into a sequestered state. I need your cell phone, and you are to have no contact with anyone other than your Chief. What do you say?”

  Shaw stood up and started pacing back in forth of the Director’s desk; this was all coming too fast for him to process. Finally, he stopped, facing the Director. He pulled his cell phone out, handed it to the Director, and said, “Make the call.”

  By the time Shaw finally left the OSS, he had obtained not only the acquiescence of Chief Devlin but his congratulations. Shaw gave Devlin his HPD credentials, keys, and a list of passwords. Devlin agreed to forward Nixon Shaw’s file. Shaw had pissed in the bottle, plugged into the polygraph, and passed both. Seven hours after his arrival, very Special Agent in Charge, Timothy Shaw, walked back to his car with a new set of federal credentials and a new mission in life.

  Nixon placed a call a call to the President, “Sir, just wanted to report it all went as planned. Everything is completed, and he starts tomorrow at 0700.”

  “Jim,” Michael Rourke said, “I owe you one. Does he suspect this was anything other than legit?”

  “Not a hint, and Mr. President, I personally think this is a brilliant idea. We can finally create a program that will work the way it is supposed to without all of the territoriality and interagency bickering.”

  “That’s the plan, Jim. Thanks again.” Rourke hung up and smiled at what he hoped would be the best kept Rourke secret of all times and dialed his dad’s number.

  “Okay, Dad, looks like everything is playing just like we wanted.”

  Chapter Six

  Three hours later, Dr. William A. Sloan, the Geologic Anthropologist, John Rourke, and The Keeper were sitting in the Mid-Wake Research Institute’s Linguistics Section’s auditorium. Mid-Wake, the experimental underwater colony, had not only survived The Night of The War but expanded and thrived. It was from Mid-Wake that virtually all of the racial stock of the new United States had originated. As such, Mid-Wake had also positioned itself as the quazi-guardian of scientific knowledge and research.

  Sloan, a short man wearing a white lab coat who, if he stretched, might make 5’6” said, “Paleontology is a science seeking to uncover the history of all life on Earth by examining multiple lines of evidence, including fossils and how they are formed and preserved, stratigraphy, biogeography, histology, chemistry, and Linguistics. Linguistics has shown me that paleo-humans communicated their stories and legends verbally through oral histories.”

  “The guardians of those oral histories were trained to pass those stories down generation to generation without change or interpretation. Around the 4th millennium BC, the businesses of trade and administration outgrew human memory, and writing became a more dependable method of recording and presenting transactions in a permanent form. There was also the political imperative of recording historical and environmental events.”

  “The ancient author H.G. Wells once said that ‘Wri
ting has the ability to put agreements, laws, and commandments on record. It made the growth of states larger than the old city states possible. It made a continuous historical consciousness possible. The command of the priest or king and his seal could go far beyond his sight and voice and could survive his death.’”

  “Writing is the representation of language that uses a set of symbols. It is different from illustration, such as cave drawing and painting. Writing began as a reliable means for transmitting information, maintaining financial accounts, keeping historical records, and similar activities. In both ancient Egypt and Mesoamerica, writing may have evolved through the development of calendars, astronomical records, and a political necessity for recording historical and environmental events. The oldest known use of writing in China was in divination in the royal court.”

  “Historians draw a distinction between prehistory and history, with history defined by the advent of writing. The cave paintings and petroglyphs of prehistoric peoples can be considered precursors of writing but are not considered writing because they did not represent language directly. Language existed long before writing. As simple instinctive animals became more evolved mentally, they needed to communicate; they became sentient. Sentience is the ability to feel, where reason is the ability to think. Wisdom is also the comprehension of what is true coupled with optimum judgment as to action and abstract thought. This appeared to be unique to the genus Homo.”

  “The most significant benchmark or line of demarcation between our pre-human ancestors and early man was not tool-making. Several of our pre-human ancestors had tools; rather, I state it was the development of oral communication that allowed complex information, ideas, and concepts to be shared from one individual to another, or to a group.”

  The Keeper nodded and with a smile said, “As our two sciences began to be ‘developed,’ our two races must accept the fact there...” He paused, thinking of the correct words. “There are a myriad of alternatives or possibilities as to what became ‘scientific information.’ There are a number of roads or theories that will lead to the same result; look at the differences between your science and ours. Science is simply information, and with information, there are also several relevant questions such as: Who has it? Where do they keep it? How do we encourage them to share it? How is it created? Who else needs it? How is it communicated? How is it kept up-to-date? How and where is it stored? Which knowledge is relevant, now and in the future? How much is it collectively worth? Which is the most valuable? Is it used in the appropriate areas/situations? Is knowledge shared between dissimilar cultures to be applied in a different way which results in revolutionary improvements? What results can be created using existing knowledge? And lastly, where are areas of potential knowledge loss, and how can you mitigate that loss?”

  “As for our own Dark Ages, that came when Rome fell,” Rourke said. “Rome had kept things organized, with the paying of taxes and all, not the least of which were roads, a system of law, etc. Major settlements soon became abandoned. Science, especially medicine and architecture, astronomy, and all of the arts took giant steps backwards. The earth was flat, and hell was below the earth’s crust and filled with fire, brimstone, witches, devils, and bad spirits. This is much different from the learned writings of Greek scholars.”

  The Keeper, agreeing, said, “Information is a commodity; knowledge is the manifestation of that information. It can be lost.”

  Chapter Seven

  The U.S. Secret Service’s Office of Research, Intelligence, and Operations, (ORIO) now headed by retired Honolulu Police Department Captain Tim Shaw was going to be unlike anything any law enforcement agency had ever had to play with. It was to be a Federal program that could act as a clearing house of information and intelligence gathering without the petty pissing contests between federal, state and county law enforcement agencies.

  From an operational standpoint, that type of flexibility was also planned. ORIO had the ability and authority to “cherry pick” the best that law enforcement and the military had to offer and to combine them into a more effective unit. The only sticking point was there wasn’t a lot of time to have it functional. By 0730 of his first duty day, Shaw was already running into obstacles. Shaw had thought he was going to be running the show; he didn’t realize he was the show.

  He went to Nixon’s door and knocked by 0745; Nixon waved him in. “I’ve got a problem, Boss.”

  “What is it Tim?”

  “You didn’t tell me I was the Lone Ranger. Where are my Tontos?”

  “Tontos? Are you saying you’re the Chief and where are your braves?”

  “Exactly.”

  Nixon, picked up his phone, punched several numbers, and said, “Bill, can you come down to my office?” A few minutes later, Bill Griffin, the head of Human Resources, arrived. “Bill, this is Tim Shaw; he’s running that new project I spoke to you about.” The two shook hands.

  “Bill,” Shaw said, “I need two things from you. I have to create a staff, and I need to know what authority I have to screen and hire folks.”

  “As I understand it, and correct me if I’m wrong Director, you’re free to hire who you want and need. Of course, you have to decide their pay grades, and you have to stick to our standing guidelines,” which he handed to Shaw. “And, they have to meet these qualifications,” he said, handing Shaw another form.

  “Outside of these restrictions, you can pretty well do what you want to do. By the way, this is the address of where your offices are. I have a man standing by there to give you a walkthrough of the building and explain security and things like that. I have also included my contact information if you need to get in touch with me in a hurry.”

  Shaw turned to the Director, “Do I have a vehicle, Boss?”

  Nixon dialed another number, told someone to have a vehicle for Special Agent in Charge Shaw ready, then hung up and said, “It will be ready for you by the time you get to the motor pool.”

  “Where’s the motor pool?”

  “At the lowest level in the building, you need this access card.” Taking the card, Shaw headed to the elevator. By the time he opened the door to his apartment, Special Agent in Charge Shaw had put in an 18-hour day and was bushed. Setting two alarm clocks, he chocked down a piece of pizza from the evening before and climbed in bed with his clothes still on. His plan was to shower in the morning, and it would wake him up.

  *****

  Shaw awoke with a start but just laid there. His arm had “fallen asleep” under him, tingling as he tried to move it, and he had to piss. It was all so familiar; the memories bubbled up from years past, washing over him and threatening to drown him with their intensity.

  Earthquakes had been frequent then, volcanic ash routinely fell on Honolulu, and a rift was splitting the floor of the Pacific Ocean; that rift was going to destroy what was left of mankind and probably the planet, had it not been for Dr. Thorn Rolvaag successfully deploying nuclear warheads.

  In the span of just a few days, the rift had been stopped and the planet was saved. Dr. Dietrich Zimmer had tried to kill humanity and failed, and Tim’s son Eddie was shot during a SWAT operation. Patrol Officer Linda Cunningham had picked Shaw up at the hospital moments after the doctor’s report; Eddie was going to make it. Mentally and physically exhausted, Shaw had accepted the ride home. Neither Tim nor Officer Cunningham had eaten, and he had asked Linda if she wanted a bite of supper.

  It had been innocent enough; hell, she was two years younger than Emma, and Shaw had known her father for years; it was perfectly innocent. Linda had offered to cook for him in his apartment and then stayed the night. The next morning, his arm was asleep under Linda’s head, which rested on his shoulder, and he had to piss. He figured when she woke up she would leave and that would be the end of it. In reality, it was the beginning.

  For the next eight months, he had been happy coming home and finding her there, when her shift had allowed for it. Since his wife had died, Shaw had crawled deeper and deeper in
to his job. Linda dragged him kicking and screaming back to life. Maybe, he smiled; he hadn’t kicked and screamed that much after all. Then, one night, just after New Year’s, he got the call.

  Linda had gotten the call of a Robbery in Progress at a convenience store about five blocks behind her. She executed a bootlegger turn, reversing her direction of travel, switching on her lights and siren, and running Code Three. At the third intersection she was passing through, she caught a green light and stomped the accelerator. She never saw the truck bust the red light.

  The truck slammed into her driver’s door. Though there was not a mark on her, the impact had snapped her neck. Linda Cunningham had died on impact, killed by a drunk teenage driver.

  When Shaw rolled up on the scene, Linda looked like she was asleep. “At least she didn’t suffer,” was all Tim’s partner Steve could think of to say.

  “Bullshit,” was all Shaw could think to say; he would suffer enough for the both of them. For the second time in his life, the fire in his belly went out. Since that night, Shaw went through the motions of living, not the experiences. He had been with no one else since that night and had vowed he would never be with anyone again. Tim Shaw’s tough guy persona could not protect his heart, and he could not take loss well.

  He did not subscribe to “it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all;” the loss hurt too damn much. This morning, he looked at the alarm clock remembering. Finally, he rubbed his arm back to life and did the same thing he had done that morning so long ago. He wiped a tear from his eyes, got up, took a leak and a shower, and then went to work.

  Chapter Eight

  Shaw sat reading the plaque hanging on his office wall. The brass plate mounted on a cherry wood base was to the left of the door and faced his private desk. “The vision of the United States Secret Service is to uphold the tradition of excellence in its investigative and protective mission through a dedicated, highly-trained, diverse, partner-oriented workforce that employs progressive technology and promotes professionalism. The mission of the United States Secret Service is to safeguard the nation’s financial infrastructure and payment systems to preserve the integrity of the economy and to protect national leaders, visiting heads of state and government, designated sites, and National Special Security Events.”