Delta Green: Strange Authorities

by John Scott Tynes

  Sonja, Frank, and Allen wandered into the park. They approached several people and asked polite questions, but were rebuffed every time with polite excuses. After the fourth person turned them down, they looked around and realized that the park was now empty. Everyone had left, and they were here alone.

  “Well fuck a dog,” Allen murmured. “They sure high-tailed it away from us.”

  “Yeah,” Frank assented. “Even the ones we didn’t approach.”

  “Even the ones who weren’t anywhere near anyone we did approach,” Sonja observed. “They all just wandered off.”

  “Wait,” Allen interjected. “Here comes someone.”

  A man had entered the park from the far end. He was of average height and build, with black hair streaked in grey. He wore a heavy, dark suit with a white shirt and no tie, and strode with a confident bearing. Soon he reached them.

  “Hello,” he called as he walked up. “Welcome to Promise!” He smiled, showing three gold teeth.

  “Hello,” Sonja responded, stepping forward and holding out her hand. “Nice town you’ve got here.”

  The man took her hand and shook it heartily. He continued smiling. The skin of his face was pale and taut, almost like the grafted skin of a burn victim, but it was clear this had been a feature since birth. “Certainly is,” he said, his Alabama accent coming through clipped and proud. “Certainly is.” He let go of her hand and they all stood there for a moment.

  “I’m Marty Trenthem, corporate information officer for Promise Inc.,” he said. “I understand you folks are reporters?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sonja replied. “We’re doing a story on community rebuilding.”

  “Of course you are,” Marty said cheerfully. “Well how can I be of service?”

  “Well, what is Promise all about? Why the change from Groversville?”

  “Ah, Groversville. A fine little place. Fine town. We weren’t here then, of course. They had a Hantavirus outbreak. Carried by mice, I think. The Centers for Disease Control had a quarantine, and then the whole valley was seized by the state for public-health reasons. The residents were compensated, of course. Once the crisis was over and they gave the all-clear, we bought the land and started building Promise.”

  “And Promise is . . . ” Sonja asked.

  “The wave of the future!” Marty exclaimed. “A planned community, sketched out from the ground up. Owned and managed by Promise Inc. Our residents—most of them old-time Groversville residents, real salt of the earth types you know—don’t own their homes or land. Instead, they own stock in Promise, along with very generous long-term leases that are renewed upon their death, so they have something to leave to the kids, you know? But the lease means they don’t pay property taxes, the company pays for housing upkeep and renovation, and so on. It’s an experiment, a grand experiment, in corporate-assisted community building.”

  “What about employment?”

  “We have an exclusive contract with Message By Mail, the largest direct-mail company in the country. Most of our residents work for MBM, in every conceivable capacity. Administration, marketing, printing, demographics, distribution, you name it. There’s a one in six chance that you’ve gotten something in the mail from MBM—from this very town, in fact—in the last month. Unless you live in the northeast, that is—MBM hasn’t gotten a leg up on that neck of the woods.”

  “Well, that’s a fascinating story, Mr. Trenthem.”

  “Call me Marty,” he replied, gold teeth gleaming in the sun.

  “We’d like to take a look around some more, if you don’t mind. Talk to some of the residents. You know.”

  “Of course, ma’am. Why don’t you follow me in your car over there, and we’ll go to the MBM facility. That’s also where the town hall is, and you can speak with some workers there as well as some of the administration of our fair town.”

  Sonja and Frank exchanged looks. Allen looked bored—but he was surreptitiously recording everything on a little Hi-8 camera stuck inside his jacket. He wasn’t getting any video, but he hoped the mike would pick up the conversation.

  “All right, Marty, that’d be fine,” Frank said.

  Marty beamed. “Glad to hear it.” His eyes slid sideways, then, and focused on something at the near end of the park. He didn’t like what he saw.

  Sonja and Frank turned around. A green sedan was parked on the street, and three people—two women and a man—were striding quickly towards them.

  “Oh dear,” Marty said with a mocking tone.

  A short woman with bright red hair in a punkish cut—dressed somewhat improbably in a conservative dark suit—was leading the trio, which also consisted of a tall blond woman and a taller, heavyset guy with dark red hair. They reached the group and the short woman spoke. “Who here is from Phenomen-X?”

  The three TV people looked at each other. Marty whistled softly and stared at the horizon, tapping one foot absently.

  “That’s us,” Frank said. “This gentleman,”—he nodded at Marty—“was just taking us to town hall.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the woman said. “You’re leaving town, now. With us.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “We spoke on the phone yesterday. It’s time for you to leave.”

  “You sent us here, for pete’s sake!”

  “I know. And now I’m sending you back.”

  Marty broke in, darkly amused in a strange way none of them could place. “Now ma’am, you don’t want to go interfering with the press. If these folks want to accompany me to town hall, you shouldn’t oughta stop them.”

  “Back off, goldie. They’re coming with us.”

  “Frank, what the hell is going on?” Sonja asked. “Who are these people?”

  “Never mind who we are. Get in your car. Now.”

  “Hey, lady, we’re on a story here,” Allen protested.

  The woman looked back at her companions. Then all three reached in their jackets and drew handguns.

  “Whoa!” Sonja cried.

  “Okay, okay!” said Frank, raising his hands slightly. “We’ll go, already!”

  Marty grinned wide. “It’s hardly midnight, Cinderfella. But there you go, turning into a pumpkin.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the woman replied.

  The three reporters began to move towards their car. As they did, Sonja reached into her pocket and pulled out a microcassette recorder. She thrust it towards the tall guy.

  “Could I get your name?” she blurted. The man grabbed the recorder with his free hand. He pushed the eject button and dropped the cassette to the ground, then crushed it with his shoe. Then he handed the recorder back to Sonja, smiling pleasantly. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he said.

  Sonja took it back gingerly and placed it in her pocket again, then turned and hurried to the car with Frank and Allen.

  Behind them, Marty addressed the trio. “If we want them, we’ll get them.”

  “They aren’t worth it,” Vic replied. She began to back away, accompanied by Abe and Stephanie.

  “You can forget about Mister Nells,” Marty said. “He’s not here.”

  The words—and the cruelly confident way he said them—twisted like a knife in Stephanie’s guts. She stopped backing up and advanced quickly, gun leveled at Marty’s chest. “Where is he?” she demanded, her face flush with sudden fury. “What have you bastards done with him?”

  “It’s not my job to keep track of Mister Nells,” he replied evenly. “It was simply my job to keep him away from here.”

  Stephanie looked into his eyes for a long moment. Memories of David came cascading down, mingled with the humiliation of the morning and this crystal-perfect thought: If he’s already dead, this bastard is the closest shot at payback I’m gonna get.

  Marty’s eyes flicked between Stephanie’s face and her gun, a twinge of a smile growing on his lips at her apparent hesitation.

  That settled it.

  “Fuck you,” she said—and then she pu
lled the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Marty jerked back, stumbled, then hit the ground groaning.

  “Shit!” Abe cried. Across the park, the three Phenomen-X staffers broke into a run and piled into their car. They started the engine and burned rubber.

  Abe and Vic took off as well, back towards the car. Stephanie lingered for a moment, smelled the cordite and noticed how quiet the world had gotten—she was briefly deafened by the shots—before she, too, turned and ran for the car.

  Frank was bearing down on the gate at the edge of town. It was shut. The guard was even now stepping out of the little hut and holding his hand up for them to stop. His other hand rested on the gun hanging from his belt.

  “Oh, no—” said Sonja.

  Frank floored the gas pedal and wrenched the wheel. They shot off the road and into the front yard of the house nearest the gate, crunching a tricycle under their tires and driving through a bed of azaleas. The guard drew his gun and yelled something as the sedan blew past the side of the gate, then swerved back onto the road and roared for the ridge overlooking the valley.

  Sonja took a deep breath, relieved. “So what the hell was all that about? Were those people from that group you keep talking about?”

  “I think so,” Frank said, focusing on the road, “but I doubt anyone’s gonna tell us . . . hey, what the hell was that crap you pulled with the tape recorder?”

  “Oh,” Sonja said, calmer now that they were outside of town. “A long shot that paid off.” She pulled the recorder from her pocket gingerly, grasping the top edge of the unit with just the very tips of her thumb and forefinger. She dangled it in the air and then put it in the glove compartment.

  “Yeah, so?” Frank asked.

  In the back seat, Allen began laughing. “What’s so funny?” said Frank, irritated. “Huh?”

  Sonja was beaming. Allen chortled some more, then calmed down. “Dontcha get it?” he asked Frank.

  “Get what?”

  Allen laughed again, and Sonja whooped. “She got that tall guy’s goddamn fingerprints!”

  Frank paused, then cracked a huge smile. Sonja grinned back.

  “Well all right,” he said. “Dinner’s on me!”

  Three NRO DELTA agents in suits came into the park at a full run, each brandishing an MP5. They reached the man on the ground who was sitting up and clutching his chest, where he had been shot three times. The Delta Green agents had fled.

  “Are you okay, sir?” the lead man asked.

  “I’m fine, son, I’m just fine. Bitch had an itchy finger.” He stood up slowly and began unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the body armor he wore underneath. He plucked three flattened slugs out of the dense material and put them in his pocket.

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  “My orders? Don’t do a goddamn thing. Let ’em go.”

  “But sir!”

  “I said, let ’em go! If you’re gonna flush quail, you gotta get a bird dog. And that bitch just barked.”

  Chapter Three: The Lady of Situations

  Wednesday, February 17, 1999

  It was quiet in the car. Cell T had landed at the D.C. airport an hour ago and they were now entering Georgetown en route to their meeting with Alphonse. All three were tired and cranky from air travel, and more than a little exhausted after the events of the day. They’d taken the very first flight north out of Knoxville as soon as they’d fled Promise, and their haste meant it took them three wearying connections to get to D.C.

  The reporters had gotten away. Vic was supposed to debrief them, but the encounter in the park had thrown their plans to the wind. Under the circumstances, though, she wasn’t exactly angry at Stephanie for killing that gold-toothed fuck. He was asking for it—and given the way things had gone, she could even see granting Stephanie a little vengeance. No amount of rationalization, however, could make her feel very good about watching Stephanie gun down an unarmed man. She might not be angry, but she wasn’t cheering, either; it was, frankly, a shitty end to a shitty op. There just wasn’t any anger in her at this point.

  Abe was driving. As he steered them through the night, their faces passingly illuminated by the headlights of oncoming traffic, he bit his lip. The op wasn’t going well. All the progress seemed to be happening on Alphonse’s end, while they spent several days and thousands of dollars in squandered resources—plane tickets, rental cars, ammunition, motel rooms, the fake P.I. firm—mucking around in Tennessee like a bunch of amateurs. Now they were returning, no doubt to get dressed down by Alphonse. Then there was Stephanie, who had shot some mouthy asshole. Admittedly, he was clearly on the inside of whatever they were up against, but that didn’t make it acceptable for her to just unload like that. He was disturbed by the ease with which she took a life. Certainly there were some mitigating factors: the events of that morning hadn’t left Stephanie in the best state of mind, and there was her relationship with Shasta to consider. No doubt she was looking for a little payback. But damn . . . just bang, bang, bang, like that. He wasn’t comfortable with the way things were going.

  Stephanie sat in the back seat, replaying the scene in the park over and over in her mind. Gold teeth glinting in the sun, the sudden shock in his eyes as she pulled the trigger. She smiled.

  They arrived at the Green Man at 3 a.m. The bar was closed, but Alphonse had told them when they called from the airport that they could come around to the back door. Sure enough, he opened the door just after they knocked—shave-and-a-haircut—and waved them inside. They walked quietly through the small kitchen and emerged into a cozy oak-paneled barroom. A fire was burning in the flagstone fireplace, and several people were already seated and waiting. They’d shoved some rickety tables together to make a rough sort of conference area. Plates and glasses were all over the place, the aftermath of a late dinner. Papers and folders sat in disorderly stacks. Alphonse looked a little drunk.

  “Evening,” he said to them as they entered the room behind him. “Can I get you a drink?” Alphonse padded over to the bar and started taking down glasses.

  “Scotch,” Abe said. “Balvenie if they’ve got it.”

  “Hard cider,” Vic requested.

  “Cocoa?” Stephanie asked hesitantly. “With some Bailey’s.”

  “Coming right up,” Alphonse said reassuringly. The head of Delta Green liked playing bartender. He nodded towards the group sitting at the tables. “Go ahead and introduce yourselves.”

  Cell T turned somewhat nervously to address them. Vic gave their code names politely.

  In return, they were introduced to Agents Adam, Nancy, Nick, and Nolan. Abe suddenly recognized Adam from the academy at Quantico—he was a Deputy Director for the FBI. Abe stared, agog. Adam winked and placed a finger to his lips.

  “Adam was just leaving, actually,” Alphonse said from behind the bar as he placed the drinks on a tray. “But he wanted to say a few words to you first. Adam?”

  Adam stood up from the table and waved Cell T forward, gesturing to the seats opposite him and Cell N. “I just wanted to ask Agent Terry a question. Terry, can you describe the man you shot in Promise?”

  Stephanie had just sat down and now looked up at Adam, a bit uncomfortable. “Well, he was an older man. I’d guess late forties, about the same age as—as Agent Shasta. Caucasian, dark hair going gray, wearing a heavy suit. He had several gold teeth. His accent sounded local.”

  Adam nodded and folded his arms. “I see. Tell me, did you bring back his severed head?”

  Stephanie stared for a moment. “Uh . . . no.” Alphonse handed her the cocoa, and she took a nervous gulp.

  Adam smiled. “Just kidding. What I mean is that if you didn’t, he’s probably not dead.”

  “I shot him three times, sir, center mass. We were as close as you and me, maybe closer. He had a white shirt on under a dark suit, no tie. I couldn’t miss.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. Was there any blood?”

  “Well, not that I recall, but we left immediately.”

  “
Have you ever shot someone before, agent?”

  “No, sir. I’ve shot at someone before, but—”

  “You described his suit as ‘bulky,’ agent, can you tell me why you think that might be?”

  Stephanie paused, then looked down into her cocoa. “I see.”

  “So the bad news is, I can guarantee you he was wearing body armor, and that means he’s not dead. The good news is, if you see him again, nothing would delight me more than if you blew his damn head off.”

  Stephanie looked up sharply. Vic and Abe—who had been looking elsewhere so they would flinch less when someone started yelling—did the same. “Sir?” Stephanie said.

  “I just wish I could’ve seen the look on that S.O.B.’s face. It must have been priceless.” Adam was smiling slightly.

  “He did have an air of surprise about him, sir,” Stephanie said, smiling a little in return.

  “I’m sure he did.” Adam dropped the smile. “You got lucky, Terry. You went off half-cocked and shot a man—thought you’d killed him, in fact—because you were having a bad day. We all have bad days. Get used to it. The next time you try to murder some guy who ticks you off, he might not just happen to be on our most-wanted list. You got me, agent?”

  “Yes sir,” Stephanie replied firmly.

  “All right. That’s all. Except—if you do see him again, don’t let him see you first. He won’t give you a second chance.”

  “Yes sir,” she said again.

  “Good night, agents. Alphonse will take it from here.”

  “Sir?” Stephanie interjected.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s his name? The man I shot at?”

  Adam looked at her for a long moment. “He has so many that frankly, it doesn’t matter.” He nodded to them sharply and then left the room. Everyone’s attention turned to Alphonse.

  Alphonse had settled leadenly into a chair at the head of the assembly. He started to speak, then paused and looked around the room. He shook his head. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done this.” The others looked at him, a little baffled. “Chaired a meeting like this, I mean. A bunch of agents, a hasty meeting room, no real names exchanged, dangerous business ahead. I’ve been doing this work for fifty years plus, did you know that?” He took a sip of his vodka tonic and shook his head again, looking out the window. “Never seems to get any lighter outside.”