You see, when I was born, my father and his associates had already made plans for me. They had my future mapped out from the start and at every point in my life where I reached a crossroads, my father was there to take the decision for me. From which school I attended to what classes I took, which girlfriends I chose to date and which books or television programmes I watched; I was being moulded into the person I am today. I guess at the time, there were periods where I was glad to have him take the decisions but as I grew older, I realised that I was never going to have a normal life like the other kids. My objects of affection were placed in front of me, I was offered women to pursue, handpicked from all across the country. They were like me, raised for a purpose by a group of ideological men and women who had a clear long term objective that they were willing to devote their whole lives to. Can you imagine what it must be like to be steered into a single direction, with no deviation allowed. It was not freedom as you know it.
My father belonged to a group of people with an ideology that grew from some kind of utopian dream. It was conceived by a small society of disaffected people shortly after the second world war. It was a group of people who had a strong idea of what their world should be like; they shared a vision of more cohesive and less divisive society. They understood though that war brought out the best in people, a community spirit, an inner strength. It also set aside petty squabbles and pulled factions together under a single, unified and strong leadership. Look how Nazi Germany, a country ravaged by its losses attributed to the Great War almost conquered the world twenty five years later under a strong and motivated leadership. My father looked on at the world and despaired; he would always extol the virtues of strong leadership and vow to put an end to greed and corruption if he had the power to do so. He of course knew that one man could never change the world for the better, it required a number of highly motivated individuals, so motivated that the good intentions that the acquisition of power corrupts, could not be quashed. It would require a race of specialised and capable intellects who had but one purpose in their lives; to carry out the role that they had been born to fulfil.
I know you may think that it is far-fetched but most of the people that now hold power in this country and others around the globe are all exclusively bred members of this nameless organisation that was borne out of nothing and ends in everything. I, as a fully certified member of the club do not even know in certainty who its members are. I'm not even really sure how far its influence stretches although it is clear that it is a global phenomenon.”
Coffey rubbed his chin as he took in the amazing revelation.
“You see Coffey, you may think that this was an intricately produced false flag operation but you don't know the half of it. The whole pretence relies heavily upon the psychology of the average man on the street. Without the overwhelming material evidence to suggest an invasion, our people knew that a deep, almost hereditary awareness of alien culture would be required if they were to carry off such a coup. Of course it is only now that a civilisation is so technically adept that such a grand deception could be carried out anyway, but our guys were patient. They bided their time, knowing that whilst they waited for the capability to carry out the show, they could do all they could to sow the seeds of fear and distrust. Even scepticism was a good thing, it bred debate and brought it further to the forefront of people's minds. The trends caught on, media took hold of the alien imagery and ran with it. The occasional sighting, abduction, it was all feasible and relatively easy to do within time constraints and budgets. The Roswell incident in the fifties was a prime example of a piece of prime propaganda that still lives to this day. The production of hoax video's and photographic evidence became so easy to produce it didn't cost a dime to the organisation but perpetuated the mysticism.
By the time I was ten, my father had already pushed me regarding my education. I was being tailored to work on the Prometheus satellite, it's technology an untried but realistic option for adding the final coup de gras to the grand illusion.”
Coffey was beginning to understand at least why Letterman was involved at this level but his concern was another who had been involved.
“What about Niemechek? Are you suggesting that he too was part of this secret organisation?”
“Absolutely. I don't know what happened there. Maybe he just realised like I did later that this was all one step too far and could not be justified no matter how well meaning the motivation.”
“Except you did your part then decided that it was wrong after the event?” Coffey was brutal in his condemnation. It had not escaped his consideration that if Paul was involved then most likely Jill was too. The anger was building. Perhaps Jill was holding something back when he had last spoke to her. Perhaps she and her children were still alive somewhere, protected by the organisation? If that was the case, then it was a relief but there was no anger like that of having been played for a fool.
“Look, you fail to understand. I was bred for that moment. The expectations of my late father and mother were pretty fucking heavy on my shoulders. I knew I was an integral key in the whole operation. It was my collective experience and intellect that made the damn thing happen. I was under extraordinary pressure to perform from the bottom up. Did you know the President himself rang me on the morning of the mission to personally thank me for my efforts?”
Coffey chuckled and nodded.
“So I guess then being up there delivering your baby to space, I must really have been the fly in the ointment. No wonder I didn’t fit in!”
“Timing was critical. NASA couldn’t afford to put a shuttle up there without a full complement of crew. It would scream out that it was irregular. You filled the gap, you were expendable.”
“Thanks for letting me know before the event.” Coffey huffed at Letterman's callous words.
“So how come you blew your wad then, why are they after you?” Coffey's question was highly valid. Letterman smiled and paused as if having waited for the pertinent moment to deliver his next mine.
“They aren’t after me. It's you they want.”
Letterman stared into Coffey's eyes who suddenly felt a chill of extreme peril. Having listened to Letterman's interesting confession, it had lured the astronaut into a sense of security which now seemed to be disappearing at a rate of knots. Coffey's mind raced.
“I guess once you're born into the family that's where you stay huh?” Coffey said knowing that he was in desperate trouble. Letterman continued to stare long and hard into his eyes, the cold piercing blue gaze had Coffey inching for his weapon which he then remembered was left in the car outside.
“Now I see why your sister was so willing to give up your whereabouts.” Coffey surmised as his mind raced for a get out strategy.
“Good old Annie. You see she never was married, she's not even disabled. Her acting talents are however her strong point.”
Coffey realised that he was the subject of another grand deception, an intricately worked sting straight from the CIA handbook. Letterman had been a decoy for Coffey's well meaning agency friends to stumble across and pursue. Coffey suddenly realised that both he and his colleagues were now in real danger.
Coffey looked around the room for an escape route, a weapon, anything. He guessed that Letterman had killed enough time, his signal having reached his masters, the assassins were on their way. With no time to lose, Coffey utilised the only effective object he had to hand and threw the heavy glass tumbler at Letterman's head as hard as he could. With the skill and perhaps luck of a world class pitcher, the glass struck the agent across the brow, bouncing of his skull and ricocheting across the room smashing across a hard piece of wooden furniture.
Coffey leapt to his feet and wasted no time in leaving the property the way he came in, not even looking back to see if the glass strike had slowed or even stopped the agent in his tracks. Sprinting to the car, he stooped to get in and had almost started the car before his trailing leg had entered the vehicle. Slamming the door b
ehind him, he glanced down at his Glock on the passenger seat and picked it up, placing it on his lap. The car revved and spat up a rain of small stones and mud as the wheels span attempting to find a grip.
Coffey glanced up and back in his mirror wondering if Letterman had attempted a pursuit. Any short term relief was short lived as Coffey knew that now the organisation knew where he was, there was little chance of escaping their clutches. It was only a matter of time before the helicopter gunships would be hovering overhead unleashing the hellish breath of its mini-gun. Pounding the suspension of the ailing vehicle, the dirty track made heavy going. Coffey needed to find somewhere more populated to make his escape. There was little point abandoning the car and going on foot. The thermal camera's would have him and a snipers bullet would end this in a matter of minutes.
Full throttle, back on the highway, Coffey headed towards Jacksonville. The cold heavy pistol on his lap was his only defence. Perhaps at this point, it was time to take an alternative view and think about offence instead.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Coffey pulled out the cell phone and punched a series of numbers into it as he struggled to maintain a decent pace in the darkness of the night. He was trying to ring Bradley. He knew without hesitation that if Bradley did not pick up then he was dead already. He cursed himself for his gullibility as the tone continued in its monotonous regularity and with each one passing, indicating that in all likeliness, Coffey's friend had perished. Punching in the next number, the same resulted. Chuck's absence was also sinister and his failure to pick up the phone indicated that again he was on his own and in serious trouble.
Coffey scanned the dark skies for signs of activity. He knew that it would not be a police helicopter sent for him, with a distinctive rotor noise and a shining searchlight. Death would be dealt from afar and silently. A heat seeking rocket from a AFAR gunship his most likely demise. It was several miles onto the more suburban areas of Fleming Island and many more on to Jacksonville. If this was to be his last chance to utilise the information he had worked tirelessly to acquire, then maybe this was a pertinent time to offload the prized data to someone with the capability of using it. Coffey knew that time could be very short and decided to make the call.
With shaking hands and fully knowledgeable in the fact that his call would not be secure and fully traceable, he took the unenviable gamble not only with his own life but with Joshua's as the dialling tone gave away to the familiar ringing chime.
“Hello, Josh Regan?”
“Joshua, it's Roger Coffey. Listen very carefully, I don't have much time. Where are you?”
“I'm at home, just woke up, are you OK, it's a bad line and you sound stressed.”
“Look my friend, I need you to record this conversation, whether you have a device there or just write it shorthand, get something and get it now.”
“Hang on...I have a digital recorder, what’s wrong?”
“I'm about to play a recording of a conversation I have just had. I don't think I have much time, and you won't either. I'm sorry mate I've really fucked up and pushed you into this. They may even try to end this call before it completes so record now and ask questions later.”
“OK, I'm recording. Is this line secure?”
“No Joshua, it's open, wide open. This is my last throw of the dice. If you can't do anything with this stuff then we will have both died for nothing do you understand me?”
“Jesus! Yes! Play the tape!”
Coffey laid the cell phone down on the passenger seat and pulled a concealed recording device from his shirt pocket. He had not gone to Letterman's totally unprepared. The quality was poor but he was fairly sure that it would translate well despite the ailing cell phone signal and the howling revving of the car's engine as Coffey made best his escape.
Coffey once again scanned the air and glanced frequently in his mirrors as the bright lights of Jacksonville loomed large in the distance. The recording played out, he only hoped that Joshua was receiving it and planning its use wisely. Suddenly there was an earth shattering blow to the back of Coffey's head and a blackness which sent him reeling into a wild spin. He could feel his arms and legs flailing around being battered against each other and the harsh metal construction of the vehicle.
Coffey opened his eyes and felt the immediate heat of fire and the white hot pain of severe lacerations across his body. The car was on its roof, rocking slowly as it found its resting place. Coffey had the wits about him to move quickly and not wait for assistance. A second strike and a confirmed kill was inevitable. Wheezing and whining, he crawled through the shattered glass remains of the wind-shield and on his knees, wriggled free from the wreckage. With no seconds to lose and anticipating another impact, he staggered to his feet and flung himself away from the burning vehicle just as there was another incredible force which this time hurled him several metres away from the explosion and over the retaining wall of the carriageway. Falling down a steep and grassy embankment, his body tumbled end over end and rested in a heap at the base of the incline. His consciousness waning, he still had the awareness to assess his surroundings as a streak of hot blood race down his scalp and into his eye causing him to blink furiously.
Limping blindly into the dark near distance, only the will to survive kept him from toppling to the ground in a heap. He could see headlights of cars, people standing, watching. He could not tell if they were the very people he was running from or just bystanders shocked to see a sight more common to a battle field or Hollywood movie. Knowing that either salvation or doom lie ahead, he willed himself to carry on. The people grew nearer and the world grew darker, a numbing sensation coursed through his body, a silence, a calm, like the vacuous abyss of space.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The Messenger, Fleet Street
January 4th 2012
Joshua panted heavily as he arrived at the office on his bicycle. Now cursing the machine which he had used as a convenience to negate spiralling fuel costs, he arrived clutching his briefcase as if it carried a ticking time bomb and indeed it did. He sprinted into the lobby and up the stairs, foregoing the elevator in preference of speed. Trying to look casual as he walked in despite looking flustered and bedraggled, he took his seat as other reporters who were on the early shift looked him up and down curiously. Joshua looked a mess, his hair was ruffled and his clothes dishevelled. It was 7:23 and the early print had long gone to the presses and indeed were now arriving at newsagents doors. In that respect he had missed the boat somewhat but in light of the recent events and the various new procedures, a second run was now being printed in smaller quantities with a deadline of eight.
At this point in the morning, neither Jameson or Fernandes were around as yet, although one of Jameson's editors was sat at his desk with his head rested on his hand looking intensely at his monitor. Joshua tried in vain not to look overawed with the nature of what he must achieve and stopped himself short from thumping the computer in frustration as it seemed to take an age to power up and offer the log-in screen.
Joshua pulled a memory stick from his pocket which was attached to his house keys and plunged it into the machine. He had not previously used the device on a work machine through fear of leaving a trace but it was all or nothing now and time was very short.
Joshua had relived the phone call over and over in his head. He had visualized the words spoken from Letterman, he had agonised over the parts which seemed to fade and be obscured by a faltering mobile phone signal. He had pieced together the article in his head and knew exactly how he was going to approach it. Combining it with his carefully worded and meticulously constructed piece which he had already put together, this was the last hurrah and the real key to unlocking the greatest and most audacious conspiracy ever conceived let alone acted upon.
Joshua's fingers tapped away with real intent as he dare not break his concentration for one moment. He offered the odd glance towards the door in fear that at any time, a posse of agents would enter and take h
im away having intercepted Coffey's call. He did not doubt for one second that the transmission was not traced. He had in all seriousness not even planned his escape once his deed was done, it was unimportant at this time. His mission was clear and his unwavering commitment to the cause was commendable.
Glancing up at the clock, time was running short. Joshua's exacting perfectionism would have to take the back seat to content in this article. Who cares if there was the odd typo when the story was this good? Saving the finished piece onto the memory stick, he yanked it from the machine and without any delay, skipped through the office making a beeline for Fernandes' domain.
Knowing that his manager was as regular as clockwork and was always sat at his desk by 7:50, Joshua sat waiting under the curious gaze of Miss Penny for several minutes, clicking his heels and picking at his nails. The moment Fernandes stepped through the door, Joshua rose to his feet and Fernandes stopped in his tracks. Fernandes only had to take one look at the sweating, shivering specimen before him to realise that his employee was about to hold him to his word. He walked forth and waved Joshua in to his office with the same beckoning finger and a nonchalance of a man at the top of his game.
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