by David Meyer
Graham could only shake his head.
“The press conference was live.” The president sighed. “The whole world saw that fake gold bar. There’s no use pretending otherwise.”
“Maybe we can say it was a mistake,” Donovan suggested. “Or a joke gone wrong.”
“How? By drilling more fake bars?” He glanced at us. “Are any of the bars real?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Beverly replied. “We haven’t found one yet.”
“So, what are we supposed to do?” Donovan asked. “Wait around while the press crucifies us?”
“No, we need to make a statement. Go to the lobby and inform everyone I’ll be addressing the issue shortly.”
“Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. President? I’d be more than happy to address the media on your behalf.”
“No, it should be me.”
As Donovan hurried away, the president squeezed his hands into fists. “Unbelievable. How am I supposed to implement a gold standard without any gold?”
My first thought was to raid the West Point and Denver depositories. But then I recalled him saying how they’d already been emptied due to some international banks no longer accepting the U.S. dollar.
“What a disaster.” The president inhaled a sharp breath. “What am I supposed to do now? Go on TV and tell the world I was just kidding? That Fort Knox might be empty but don’t worry, it’s all going to work out anyway? They’ll never believe me. Come Monday morning, it’s over. People will make a run on their banks. Prices will skyrocket and the economy will dip into depression. America, as we know her, will die.”
“So, declare an emergency holiday,” Graham said. “Like President Roosevelt did during the Great Depression.”
He shook his head. “That will just delay the inevitable.”
Donovan returned and an argument broke out. Potential solutions were kicked around and discarded. And through it all, one thing remained clear to me. President Walters had a big problem on his hands.
And he couldn’t solve it alone.
“Where are my files?” I asked.
Donovan stared at me. “What files?”
“The ones you promised me.”
“Are you serious? You know, I should—”
“Just give him the files,” the president said quietly.
Donovan’s lip curled. But he nodded anyway. “Yes, sir.”
He left the room. When he returned, he carried a small stack of folders. He dumped them in my hands and then joined the others.
The files were all marked classified. I thumbed open the top one and saw a picture of Justin Reed staring back at me. Quickly, I leafed through the rest of it, catching glimpses of the phrases set designer and 23rd Headquarters Special Troops in the process.
In addition to Justin’s file, I’d also requested files for three other people. They—Ross Howser, Chris Hatcher, and Dan Rellman—had been with my grandfather when he’d supposedly vanished in the Appalachian Mountains. There were other people as well, but those three were the only ones I could remember.
Tucking the files under my arm, I strode to the locked door.
Donovan growled. “Where do you think you’re going?”
I ignored him. Moments later, Cruzer met me at the door. He gave me a puzzled look but opened it anyway. Stepping forward, I entered the connecting hallway.
“What a coward.” Donovan snorted. “First sign of trouble and he’s out the door.”
Graham laughed.
“You should be laughing at him, not me. The guy’s a total dud.”
“Shows what you know. I’ll bet he’s already got a plan to fix this.”
“Yeah? Well—” The door closed behind me and the voices fell silent.
Walking quickly, I made my way back to the main lobby. The entire way, I thought about Justin Reed and Milt Stevens. About Malware, the Capitalist Curtain, and Fort Knox’s missing gold.
Graham was right. I had a plan to fix things.
And the first step was finding out what had happened to Fort Knox’s gold.
CHAPTER 61
A short while later, I strode into Milt’s office with the Capitalist Curtain papers, the picture of Justin, and the classified file folders clutched firmly in my hands.
I closed the door, blocking out the sounds of the reporters and camera operators gathered in the lobby. Then I walked to the desk. I searched the other drawers, eventually finding a small leather-bound journal.
I sat in one of the guest chairs, propped my legs up on the desk, and began to study the items.
An hour passed without interruption. Then I heard faint footsteps and voices. The door creaked open. Twisting my neck, I watched Beverly and Graham stride into the room.
“Don’t blame me,” Beverly said. “It’s not my fault this place is gold-free.”
“Just do some more drilling,” Donovan pleaded as he followed her into the office. “Maybe the gold is—”
“The gold is gone, Keith.” Graham spun around. “Get it through your thick skull already.”
Ben, President Walters, and K.J. walked into the room. While the others took up position around the office, the president strode toward me.
“What a day.” The air seemed to vacate his body as he sagged into one of the other guest chairs. “How could this happen?”
I looked into his eyes. “I think I can answer that.”
He arched an eyebrow. The others gathered around to listen.
For the next ten minutes, I laid it all out on the table. I told them about Malware, Justin’s safe deposit box, Project Capitalist Curtain, and my theory about Fort Knox’s missing gold.
“You think your grandfather took the gold?” the president asked when I was finished.
“At the very least, he knew about it.” I held up the Capitalist Curtain papers for all to see. “These were the notes Malware wanted so badly. The handwriting’s hard to read, but from what I can tell they seem to describe the project in some detail as well as how payment was to be delivered.”
The president frowned. “But how’d he get involved in the first place? Did he work here?”
“No. Let me back up a second.” I held up the leather-bound book. “This is Milt’s diary. Apparently, he faced two problems in 1949. First, he’d agreed to provide gold for Project Capitalist Curtain, but he needed to keep the transfer a secret from his peers. And second, moving a lot of gold is no easy task. Justin and his friends appear to have been engineers of some kind. I’m not sure how they knew Milt, but he hired them to fabricate ten reinforced dump trucks capable of carrying the gold. They were also responsible for driving the vehicles to a drop-off point. According to Milt, the trucks left this facility in complete secrecy on December 14, 1949. They drove to an isolated place called Shrieker Tower in the Appalachians, where they planned to rendezvous with the U.S. Army. At that point, the Army would take charge of the gold.”
“What went wrong?” Beverly asked.
“The transfer area consisted of a large clearing next to a steep rock face. Thick forest surrounded the clearing. The only way to access it was via a thin grassy road.” I paused. “The trucks reached the clearing early and parked in front of the rock face. Milt, driving alone, took up position at the head of the grass road to wait for the Army. Then a cloud of smoke shot into the clearing. Milt turned around. And do you know what he saw?”
“What?”
“Nothing, not even a single tire track.” I stared at the old diary for a moment. “The fleet, the gold, my grandfather, and his crew had vanished.”
CHAPTER 62
“Impossible.” President Walters shook his head. “Ten trucks don’t just vanish. They had to go somewhere.”
“Milt claims the Army searched the area for days. But they never found so much as a trace of Justin or his crew.”
President Walters took hold of the photograph. His face scrunched up as he tried to process the new information. “So, this is one of the trucks?”
I no
dded. “Plus, my grandfather and his crew.”
Ben frowned. “I’m amazed this story never leaked to the public.”
“Milt talks a little about that in later entries,” I said. “It seems that President Truman ordered a cover-up. Foreign leaders, along with U.S. Army officials, were sworn to secrecy. Same with Milt who was, of course, given the task of replacing the lost gold.”
“So, he was by himself when the gold went missing.” Beverly shook her head. “That must’ve been fun to explain.”
“Actually, the U.S. Army arrived first. They saw the trucks in the clearing right before the smoke appeared.”
“Still, I can’t believe he kept his job. You’d think losing ten truckloads of gold bars would get a guy fired.”
“Not in a government job,” Graham quipped.
“I think I can explain that,” Ben said. “Remember, the dollar was still attached to gold in 1949. If word got out about about any of this, it would’ve brought down the entire Bretton Woods system.”
“Do we know how much gold was in those trucks?” the president asked.
“Milt isn’t clear on that matter,” I replied. “But I did see the number 4,500 written a few times in the margins.”
“And how much gold does this place supposedly hold again?”
“Officially, 4,583 metric tons of gold.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“It’s probably not,” I replied. “I’m guessing roughly 4,500 metric tons of gold were lost when the trucks disappeared. Some gold was left behind and later, used to plate the tungsten slugs. Together, it adds up to 4,583 metric tons.”
“4,500 metric tons in ten trucks.” President Walters stared at the photo. “So, each truck had to carry about 450 tons of gold. That’s a lot of cargo.”
“The biggest haul trucks today manage 400 to 500 tons.” I shrugged. “Justin’s dump trucks must’ve been a few decades ahead of their time.”
The president nodded. “Regardless, it seems that every gold bar in here is most likely a fake.”
A look of realization came over Ben’s face. “That explains why Nixon closed the gold window so abruptly.”
I nodded. “Milt’s entries indicate he became increasingly anxious as Fort Knox’s real gold was drained away. In 1971, he mentions a series of phone conversations with President Nixon. I imagine he told Nixon that Fort Knox would be handing out fake bars before long. So, Nixon sealed off the depository and took the U.S. off the gold standard.”
“Ever since then, the Fort Knox depository has been protecting nothing but tungsten.” Graham chuckled. “Ain’t that rich?”
“No wonder Milt went to war to keep us out of here. Imagine being known as the guy who lost 4,500 metric tons of gold.” Leaning his head back, President Walters stared at the ceiling. “Well, that’s that. The gold’s long gone by now.”
“Maybe not,” I replied.
He gave me a look of pure disbelief. “I know he’s your relative, but don’t kid yourself. All the facts are there. He abandoned his family, took the gold, and disappeared, probably to some island paradise.”
“We have to try,” Beverly said. “You said it yourself … without Fort Knox’s gold, our economy is finished.”
“But how?” He sighed. “If no one found it back then, how are we supposed to do it now?”
“By doing what every detective does when investigating a cold case,” I replied. “We return to the scene of the crime.”
CHAPTER 63
“Shrieker Tower is dead ahead,” Chief Warrant Officer Sheila Price announced from her seat inside the cockpit. “We’ll be on the ground in five.”
Our transport vehicle, a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, shifted a few feet to to the right. Glancing out the front window, I saw a thin grassy road cutting through thick forest. After a short distance, the road widened into a large circular clearing. A mesa, known locally as Shrieker Tower, stood on the opposite side of the clearing, framed by picturesque mountains. Its summit was well over one thousand feet above ground level. Thousands of parallel furrows ran the length of its walls, dividing them into hexagonal-shaped columns. Thick vines, covered with big green leaves, poured down the steep cliffs like waterfalls.
The clearing had been cordoned off and a ring of trucks and armed soldiers rested on its outskirts. An ever-changing maze of vehicles, soldiers, portable lights, cranes, modular buildings, and dump trucks rested in a separate clearing, connected to the first one by the same grass road.
“That’s quite a set-up,” I said into my headset.
“We don’t mess around,” Price replied. She was a tall woman with beautiful brown skin and black hair pulled back into a bun. Clearly soft-spoken, she’d said maybe fifty words total to us ever since we’d met her at Fort Knox’s Godman Army Airfield. “Say, if it’s not too much trouble, could I get a picture with you after we set down?”
I frowned. “Me?”
“My kid’s a huge fan of yours.”
“Well, we’re a little short on—”
“Yes, he’ll do it.” Beverly shot me a dirty look. “Come find us after this is over.”
She beamed like the sun. “Will do.”
Graham studied the clearing in front of Shrieker Tower. Over a dozen soldiers occupied the area, pushing wheeled devices across the grass. “I should’ve brought Emma,” he said mournfully.
Like all of Graham’s inventions, Emma was named after one of his old flames. He must’ve been fond of her, because she was one stylish piece of machinery. She was box-shaped, only with sleek, sexy lines. Her metallic exterior, colored silver, gleamed brightly even in the dimmest of light. All told, she looked like she belonged on some big-budget TV show about archaeology rather than at an actual dig site.
“Those machines can cover more ground,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but they can’t get close to Emma’s depth.”
I didn’t doubt it. Emma was more than just a good looking machine. She was a high-powered ground penetrating radar device and far superior to anything else on the market. Graham could’ve made a fortune by mass-producing her and selling duplicates to universities and militaries around the world. But that wasn’t his style. He didn’t care for mass production. He was a true artist, only with a screwdriver instead of a paintbrush.
My eyes locked on to the mesa. “One moment, the trucks were parked in that clearing. The next, they were gone.”
“And the trucks were huge,” Beverly added. “So, there’s no way they drove through a gap in the trees.”
“That’s not all. According to Milt’s notes, there were no engine sounds. Just a loud whoosh of air. And there were no tire tracks either, even though the ground was covered with snow that day.”
“So, they didn’t drive anywhere.” She frowned. “So, how’d they get out of the clearing?”
“There’s always the mesa,” Graham said.
Beverly arched an eyebrow. “You think they drove through solid rock?”
“No. But they could’ve gone over it.”
The mesa’s walls sloped slightly inward, but they might as well have been perpendicular to the ground. There was no way a bunch of trucks could’ve driven up its steep sides.
“Milt mentioned a blizzard that night. Plus, he was positioned a good distance away from the trucks, waiting for the Army to arrive. And finally, the trucks arrived at least an hour early. So, it was difficult to see, Milt was far away, and Justin’s crew had plenty of time to themselves.” He shrugged. “So, maybe Justin installed hidden rotors on each truck. Then they tossed some smoke bombs and took off.”
Beverly laughed. “With 4,500 tons of gold between them?”
“Do you have a better idea?” He paused. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Anyway flight would explain the lack of tire tracks.”
Beverly gave me a look. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”
I couldn’t picture a bunch of super-heavy trucks taking to the air. Then again, I couldn’t imagine them
disappearing either. Most likely, the U.S. Army had looked under every logical rock back in 1949. So, maybe it was time to start looking under some illogical ones.
“Officer Price,” I said. “Can you take us to the summit?”
“You’re joking, right?” Twisting her head around, she studied my visage. “Good God, you’re serious.”
I smiled.
“You’re as crazy as they say. Well, two can play at that game.” Price called out over her radio and after a brief argument, received permission to fly us to the summit.
The evening sky, backlit by the setting sun, burned like a blazing inferno. Light gave ground as darkness stretched toward us.
Minutes later, Price descended upon the mesa, setting us down on a small patch of flat rock. As she cut the engine, she gave us a look. “Don’t fall. I mean it. My kid would never forgive me if I got you killed.”
I shot her a mock salute and unbuckled my seatbelt. After opening the sliding door, I stepped outside. A quiet breeze drifted past me, rustling pebbles at my feet. A chorus of distant crickets chirped in perfect harmony. Inhaling deeply, I smelled leaves and fresh mountain air.
The wind picked up. I squinted as tiny particles of dirt whipped into my face. Above the sound of rushing air, I heard a high-pitched shrieking noise. It seemed to come from the mesa itself and didn’t fade away until the wind started to die down.
Beverly hopped out of the helicopter. “Well, I guess we know how Shrieker Tower got its name.”
Twisting around, I faced the summit. A small forest lay before us atop a bed of hard-packed dirt. Left to its own devices, nature had flourished over the years to the extent allowed by geography.
The trees, covered by flaky gray bark, were separated by no more than a foot or two apiece. It was Mother Nature’s version of Manhattan, with things packed so tight one could scarcely breathe. The individual trees weren’t especially tall and I estimated the canopy at twenty to thirty feet. Still, their very existence indicated the presence of water along with fertile soil.
I took a few steps toward the forest. The ground dipped and I realized the summit was bowl-shaped. Ahh, that explained the water. Most likely, the trees survived on rain that collected in the area.
