by David Meyer
He’d faced two problems in the run-up to December 14, 1949. First, the need for secrecy. Project Capitalist Curtain was a clandestine operation of the highest caliber and required outside assistance. Second, the need for engineering expertise. The cargo was simply too heavy for ordinary dump trucks.
Milt focused on one particular face in the picture. The man sported a toothy grin, like he’d just cleaned up at a high-stakes poker game. Milt had met him late in the war. He and his crew were engineers and had been sent to Fort Knox for some kind of top-secret acoustic work. They’d quickly struck up a close friendship. So, when Milt needed someone to help solve his two problems in 1949, the man and his crew had seemed like the perfect candidates.
Milt exhaled. Hiring the man was his decision. And that choice—that moment—had ruined his life.
Briefly, he recalled that fateful day. At first, everything had seemed fine. The ten reinforced trucks were parked on the snow-covered grass in front of Shrieker Tower, with Milt watching from a distance. Just as the U.S. Army arrived, an explosion rang out. Thick smoke shot upward and outward. He’d strained his eyes, searching the area with binoculars.
But the trucks, along with the man and his crew, were gone.
Flabbergasted, he’d turned toward the arriving U.S. Army vehicles. Slowly, Roy had climbed out of a small truck. They’d stared dully at each other for a moment. Then they’d raced to the scene. For days, they and a crack team of soldiers had searched miles of terrain. But they never found so much as a single tire track.
The incident had haunted Milt for years. The trucks were parked in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by dense forest and a near-vertical mesa. Milt’s vehicle blocked the only exit. Simply put, there was nowhere for them to go. So, how’d they leave the clearing?
A loud knock caught Milt’s attention. Grumbling, he placed the photo on his desk. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but he didn’t see how he had much of a choice. He’d already ignored over a dozen calls from Brad Cruzer and he couldn’t afford to have the man start questioning his decisions.
He popped a couple of breath mints and hiked to the door, feeling every bit his ninety years. He unlocked the bolt and Cruzer pushed past him, entering the office. The man’s face was panicked and he spoke in a higher note than usual. “We need to end this.”
Milt closed the door. “Calm down.”
“Calm down?” Cruzer’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a full-blown war.”
“One that we’ll win. Those imposters—”
“They aren’t imposters.”
Milt blinked. “What makes you say that?”
“Umm, let’s see. The guy who’s a dead ringer for President Walters? The Abrams parked on our doorstep? The fact that Fort Knox hasn’t mobilized any forces to help us?”
Milt strode back to his desk and held up the bottle of Steady Shot rum. “Care for a drink?”
Cruzer glared at him.
“Suit yourself.” Milt poured himself another shot. In the process, he studied Cruzer. The man’s right hand hovered mere inches above his sidearm. “You know, I’ve always wondered how this place would hold up under an actual assault. The exterior doors looked impressive, but those automated gun systems were way too easy to dismantle.”
“Listen—”
“You’d cry if I told you how much this facility has spent on defenses over the years. Guess we got gypped, huh?”
“Stop trying to change the subject.” Cruzer exhaled. “Look, I don’t know what this is about. But it’s over.”
Milt’s eyes narrowed.
“The exterior doors may have survived the tank. But my technicians inform me the soldiers—and they are soldiers—have accessed our wiring.”
“The locks will hold up.”
“Not when my men disable them.”
Milt glowered at him. “That’s insubordination.”
“Something tells me I’m not the only one guilty of that.” Cruzer’s hand closed around his gun. “I’m placing you under arrest, sir. Please put—”
Milt yanked his gun out of his gun belt. He squeezed the trigger as he lifted it into the air. Several loud blasts rang out.
Cruzer toppled over, bleeding profusely from his shoulder. Milt smiled. He was old, but he could still shoot a needle out of a haystack.
He shifted his gun to finish off Cruzer. In the process, he discovered his muscles were sluggish and barely responsive. His eyes glazed over. Glancing down, he saw a bullet hole in his stomach.
“Aw, crap,” he muttered. Dropping the gun, he sagged into his chair. His eyes caught a glimpse of the photo on his desk. What had happened to the man and his crew? And more importantly, what had happened to the trucks?
Clutching his stomach, he poured himself another shot of rum. Hand shaking, he lifted the mug to his lips. The alcohol, once a comfort to him, tasted like ash as it slid down his throat.
His door flew open. Officers raced into the space. He heard several faint voices, including one he despised with all his heart.
“Officer Stevens has gone rogue,” Cruzer said through clenched teeth. “I’m assuming temporary command. Now, get those doors open and pray to the gods they don’t kill us where we stand.”
Milt’s body slid out of his chair and he sagged to the floor. His gun was close by and he managed to pick it up. He was tempted to turn it on Cruzer. But it was too late for that.
So, he pointed the barrel into his mouth. Closed his eyes.
And squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER 49
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “You might want to back up a few steps.”
K.J. shot me an irritated look. “Why’s that?”
“So that door doesn’t hit you.”
He turned just in time to see one of the exterior doors swinging toward him. Quickly, he vacated the area.
Soldiers grabbed hold of the president and pushed him behind one of the SUVs. Meanwhile, other soldiers found cover and took steady aim at the building.
The massive doors opened all the way in complete silence. A second set of doors also opened wide and I caught a glimpse of an unadorned, yet lavish lobby. Tall walls bordered the room. Dazzling rays of light reflected off their golden facades. Against the back wall, I saw a long mahogany bench, buttressed by matching chairs and two short flagpoles.
Mint Police officers lay spread-eagled and facedown on the floor. At first, they were deathly still. But after a moment, limbs started to twitch. A pile of neatly stacked guns rested nearby. It was in plain view, halfway between the officers and the second set of doors.
Soldiers streamed into the building. First, they shackled the officers. Then they gathered up the weapons and transported them outside. After the area was secure, the president entered the depository.
“Sir.” K.J. stepped forward. “This is Captain of the Guard Brad Cruzer. He’s assumed temporary command of this facility.”
Two soldiers stepped forward, clutching the arms of a tall man with pale skin. His hands were cuffed behind his back. His uniform was slightly bloodied and I noticed bandaging around his shoulder area.
President Walters eyed Cruzer. “Temporary, huh?”
“Yes, sir.” Cruzer took a deep breath. “Please accept my most sincere apologies. We didn’t—”
“Where’s Milt Stevens?”
“He’s dead, sir. I confronted him and he pulled his gun. We exchanged fire. When others came to my aid, he committed suicide.”
“Officer Cruzer claims Officer Stevens ordered the attack on us,” K.J. said.
The president’s gaze remained locked on Cruzer. “And you listened to him?”
“We’re trained to follow orders, sir. And to be frank, we’ve never had reason to question Officer Stevens. He’s been in charge of this facility since the 1940s.”
“I’d like to see his body.” The president glanced at K.J. “What are you going to do with the prisoners?”
>
“We’re going to transport them to a secure facility for processing and questioning.” K.J.’s jaw hardened into rock. “After that—”
“You don’t want to do that,” Cruzer said.
“I know.” K.J. shot him an icy glare. “I’d like to do much worse.”
“You need me to enter the vault. You need all of us. Practically every lock in this place requires the simultaneous input of multiple passcodes. And those passcodes are distributed randomly amongst the officers via a proprietary computer program.”
The president studied the man’s eyes. Then he nodded at K.J.
K.J.’s face reddened. “My apologies, sir. But these men murdered U.S. soldiers in cold blood. They need to pay for their crimes.”
“Justice will be served, Colonel. But for now, please release Officer Cruzer.”
Pursing his lips, K.J. nodded at one of his men. The soldier stepped forward and removed Cruzer’s shackles.
Cruzer massaged his wrists and directed the release of two other officers. Then he walked to a couple of stainless steel doors. The officers joined him and together, they input codes on separate keypads. The leftmost door swung open, revealing a wide corridor.
K.J. and a couple of soldiers stepped into the corridor, pushing Cruzer ahead of them. The president, Donovan, and Ben were next, followed by Graham, Beverly, and I. More soldiers took up the rear.
We marched across a marble floor. The walls consisted of scagliola, an imitation marble. Bronze and marble busts of past U.S. Secretaries of the Treasury lined either side of the hallway.
“Don’t you just love government buildings?” I said. “They’re so warm and fuzzy.”
“Oh, yeah.” Graham took a whiff of the air. “And that scent … one part mustiness and two parts marble, topped off with a heap of rat droppings.”
“Shut your mouths,” Donovan hissed.
“In case you’re wondering, this facility is completely self-sustainable,” Cruzer called out in his best tour guide voice. “We’ve got our own emergency power plant and water system, separate from that of the military base. And, uh, well …” His voice trailed off into uncomfortable silence.
He led us up a short staircase and down another hallway. “This is it.” He stopped outside an open door. “Officer Stevens’ office.”
The air still smelled of mustiness, freshly-scrubbed marble, and rat droppings. But I also detected a strong undercurrent of cordite, blood, and seared flesh.
I followed the others into the office. A withered gray-haired man lay in a crumpled mass behind a desk.
“You checked for vitals?” I asked.
Cruzer nodded.
“Too bad.” K.J. growled. “I would’ve handled his interrogation personally.”
“What happened here?” Beverly asked. “Why’d he order the attack?”
“I’m not sure,” Cruzer admitted. “For security reasons, the Officer in Charge maintains sole access to the depository’s biometrics systems. Officer Stevens claimed those systems had identified all of you as imposters. So, we defended the depository as per normal protocols. But when the U.S. Army didn’t send troops our way, a few of us began to wonder if he’d gotten it wrong. I confronted him and that’s when things turned ugly.”
One of the soldiers snorted.
“I’ve worked here for seven years. And do you know how many security incidents I’ve experienced?” Cruzer’s voice cracked around the edges. “Zero. Never in my wildest dreams did I see any of this coming.”
“Go back to the beginning,” President Walters said in a soothing tone. “I want to hear every detail.”
While Cruzer relayed his story, I made my way to the desk. It was clean and well-dusted. Stepping around the corpse, I saw a black-and-white photograph, dotted with drips of dried blood.
I picked it up. It depicted a group of soldiers striking poses in front of a dump truck against the backdrop of a veritable blizzard. The soldiers, equipped with weapons and sporting drooping cigarettes, looked like a cocky, devil-may-care bunch. A handwritten note at the bottom read: December 14, 1949: Shrieker Tower.
My eyes narrowed to slits.
What the …?
President Walters cleared his throat. “That’s fine, Officer Cruzer. Now, take us to the vault.”
“Yes, sir.” Cruzer walked to Stevens’ corpse. Taking a deep breath, he gently touched a silver necklace dangling from the man’s neck. After a moment of hesitation, he unlatched the necklace and removed a gold key from it.
As the others began to file out of the room, Beverly sidled up to me. “What’s that?” she asked.
I pointed at a man in the foreground. He stood on one foot, his other foot balanced lightly on a bumper. He had a toothy grin, like he’d just won the lottery. “Recognize him?”
She took a closer look. “No. But he looks like you.”
“There’s a good reason for that.” I exhaled. “He’s my grandfather.”
CHAPTER 50
“Sorry about this.” Cruzer waved his hand at two officers following in our wake. They carried Milt’s corpse between them. “But I need him. You’ll understand why soon enough.”
As Cruzer led us down another marble-lined hallway, my brain whirled. Malware. The riot. Five Borough Bank and the lost safe deposit box. The Capitalist Curtain. Officer in Charge Milt Stevens. The photo, taken in 1949. And of course, the U.S. Bullion Depository at Fort Knox. They were all tied into a giant knot with Justin Reed at the center.
“I never met Justin,” Ben whispered. “But yes. That man looks like you. He looks like your dad, too.”
“It’s Justin, alright,” I replied. “I was just looking at his photo last night.”
He passed the picture back to me. “And you found this on Milt’s desk?”
“Yup.”
All along, I’d considered Fort Knox a side trip, a brief detour on my way to discovering the truth about my family. But now, I realized it was all part of the same journey. Which was either a big coincidence or an even bigger problem.
I gave him a sharp look. “Can I trust you?”
“Of course.”
Quickly, I told him about Malware and our search for the safe deposit box. When I finished, his eyes were cinched tight and I could tell he was deep in thought. “What happened to the papers?” he asked. “Do you still have them?”
“No.”
That, of course, was a lie. The Capitalist Curtain papers were safely squirreled away in a duffel bag on Air Force One. But I wasn’t ready to tell anyone else about them just yet.
“I need a favor,” I continued. “Malware manipulated me into retrieving Justin’s safe deposit box for her. Now, she’s put me inside Fort Knox. It can’t be a coincidence.”
He furrowed his brow.
“You’ve got to find out who recommended me to the president,” I said. “He or she must be working with Malware.”
His eyes were warm and soft and maybe a little bit vulnerable. “It was me,” he said softly.
“What?”
“I recommended you for this trip.”
“But … why?”
“Because you’re a family friend and a treasure hunter. And because you’ve got sky-high approval ratings. The public might actually accept the idea of a gold standard if they think you’re involved with it.” He shrugged. “But mostly, because I saw you on television the other night. Well, not you, exactly. Keith Donovan, accepting some award on your behalf.”
As we drifted off into uncomfortable silence, my brain went to work. So, my presence at Fort Knox was just a coincidence? It was hard to believe, but also difficult to deny.
Then again, Malware had a penchant for doing the impossible. After all, she’d somehow found out about the safe deposit box and even knew of its contents. So, maybe she’d manipulated Ben like she’d manipulated me. Maybe she’d screwed with his cable box in order to make sure he saw the ceremony at the right time. Regardless of her methods, I felt certain she had a hand in things.
But why? What was all this about anyway? What had Justin done back in 1949? What did it have to do with the Capitalist Curtain and the depository? And why was it coming up now after all these years?
At the end of the hallway, Cruzer opened a door and led us into a large room. I saw a humongous scale with two cups hanging from either end. Although it looked old, it gleamed brightly in the light.
“That scale was once used to weigh gold that entered and exited the depository. It hasn’t been utilized since President Nixon ended the gold standard in 1971.” Cruzer waved his hand to the side. “As you’ve probably already guessed, that’s the vault door.”
I gave Graham a knowing look. “I’ve got this sudden feeling of déjà vu.”
“Me too.” He studied the door. “Let’s hope this vault is easier than the last one.”
“I’d settle for cleaner.”
“Uh, yes.” Cruzer gave us a confused glance before turning to face the president. “The door is almost two feet thick, sir, and weighs in at twenty-two tons. It contains seven layers of steel, mixed in with other materials.”
Three police officers strode to the vault door. They took up position in front of separate keypads. Simultaneously, they punched in codes.
Locks clicked. Slowly and quietly, the vault door swung outward. A soft breeze wafted into the room.
“Follow me.” Cruzer walked through the entranceway and halted in front of a steel-barred door. Reaching into his pocket, he produced the key he’d taken from Milt’s corpse.
“Well?” The president tapped his foot impatiently. “What’s the hold-up?”
“This is Officer Stevens’ key, sir,” Cruzer replied. “I’ve seen him use it, but I’ve never actually used it myself.”
The president arched an eyebrow.
“Forget it. Sorry, sir.” With trembling fingers, Cruzer inserted the key into the lock and gave it a twist. The right side wall started to quiver. Then a panel opened wide and a sophisticated biometrics mechanism slid forward. It consisted of a small stand as well as a pair of lenses.
“Excuse us.”
