Delta Green: Strange Authorities

by John Scott Tynes

  Tommy got up and came around the corner slowly. “Everything okay, Mr. Carincola?”

  Frank grinned slyly. “Well, Tommy, I got good news and bad news.”

  “What’s the good news?”

  “I got a videotape yesterday, from a confidential source.” He arched his eyebrows. “Aliens, Tommy! Top shit! It’s gonna put us on the map. That Santilli prick ain’t got squat next to this bad boy.”

  Tommy’s eyes grew wide. “Wow! No way!” Then he paused. “So what’s the bad news?”

  “The bad news is this is such good shit, they might kill us before we can air it.”

  Tommy gulped. “Really?”

  “Really, Tommy. We’re in the big water now. I been here all night, studying this tape. Fell asleep at my desk. I had the door barred just in case those MiB fucks tried to catch me napping.” His eyes narrowed and his face went grave. “Can you bend your little finger for me, Tommy?”

  Tommy just boggled. He didn’t know what to say.

  Frank grinned again. “I’m shittin’ you, kid. Ya gotta laugh in the face of death!” He looked at the scattered cups on the floor and grimaced. “Clean this up. I gotta take a crap. Anybody else comes in, you don’t say jack. We’ll have a news-staff meeting as soon as everybody’s here, so don’t let any of those slackers go out for donuts. In fact, I want you on the horn as soon as you’re done. Make sure they’re on their way in. Anybody still asleep, you wake them up and get them on the road, pronto.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Frank locked his office door and gave Tommy a stern look. “No peeking, kid.”

  The Happy Bear Florist van left the front gates of Edwards Air Force Base at eight o’clock. It took them about an hour to enter the heart of Los Angeles on the San Diego Freeway. They drove steadily through the San Fernando Valley, just another van among the hundreds of thousands of vehicles muscling their way through the extended L.A. sprawl’s morning traffic. At 9:20 a.m. they took the Culver Blvd. exit and entered Culver City, northbound. From there it was just a couple miles until the turnoff into a light-industrial area dotted with warehouses. They found the one they wanted quickly, having come here a few hours earlier to get the lay of the land. It was an old two-story sheet-metal warehouse that once served as auxiliary props storage for 20th Century Fox Studios, over on the other side of the Santa Monica Freeway. Since 1990, a small sign by the main entrance had read Haley Productions Studio E. Inside was Phenomen-X.

  The van came to a stop a block away. A man in a blue jumpsuit got out of the driver’s seat with a bouquet of flowers and a clipboard. He set the flowers and clipboard on top of the van, shut the door, and began smoking a cigarette, just another wage slave grabbing a few minutes of slack time on the job.

  Inside Studio E, things were revving up. The production staff was down on the show floor, checking lights and cameras. The host, David Carmichael, wouldn’t be there for another hour, but the technical crew still had plenty to do. The one thing they didn’t yet have was the final script and video roster for the show. The news staff was supposed to have this together by now, but they were cloistered in the offices up in the loft overlooking the set. Some big meeting was going on. Rumors were circulating among the crew that they were all going to be fired, that Haley Productions was going out of business and the show was doomed. Only Stuart Prendergast, Tommy’s older cousin and an electrician on the show, remained calm. Tommy had slipped him the word that they had some hot video and might be scrapping all the stories for today’s taping in favor of the new stuff. But Stuart, unlike Tommy, kept his mouth shut.

  Frank Carincola pressed STOP on the VCR. He turned to his staff, gathered around a conference table in his office. “So? Whattaya think?”

  Sonja Dewey spoke first. “Those three people at the end, with the guns. Is that who I think it is?”

  “I’m guessing so. You can’t really tell with the blurring they did, but I’m willing to bet it’s our MiB friends from Groversville.”

  Robert Hoggard, their scrawny lead writer, was red-eyed and cranky. “We shouldn’t run this today, Frank. It’s too damn soon. We need to check this out. Besides, if this is the stuff, we ought to promo it to hell, save it for sweeps. Get Tallent to open the pursestrings for once in his goddamn life. I’m thinking big push, video release, maybe even a two-hour special. But don’t run it today, man. Let’s stick to the schedule.”

  The staff was quiet, waiting for Frank’s response. He’d been so insistent and excited at the start of the meeting that they expected him to shove the tape down Robert’s throat for daring to suggest that they wait. But watching the footage in the cold light of day had calmed him down. Frank looked thoughtful.

  “You’re right, Robert. Today’s too soon.”

  Sonja snorted. There’s a first, she thought. She’d come to learn over the last few months that Robert had a major coke habit and was unreliable as hell, though he was a good enough ass-kisser that Frank hadn’t caught on. He’d been sliding downwards through the industry for years, and Phenomen-X was the bottom rung on the ladder. If he blew this job, his next stop would probably be porno, and they didn’t have much call for writers. He could always be a fluffer, Sonja thought, and chuckled to herself.

  “All right, people. Let’s get today’s show taken care of. And keep this under wraps—nobody outside of this room needs to know, understand? Anybody comes sniffing around, you tell me. Sonja, call the Milwaukee PD and drop that charge. Our buddy’s off the hook.”

  As the staff stood up and began filing out, Robert sidled over to Frank and spoke quietly. Sonja rustled her papers and eavesdropped.

  “Listen, man, that tape is gold. We need to play it safe, make some dupes. And ixnay on the echtays, you know? Start the production meeting and I’ll run ’em off while you keep the crew busy.”

  Frank nodded conspiratorially. “Yeah, yeah, that’s a good idea. One of those peons might blab.” He popped the tape out of the VCR and handed it to Frank. “Be careful,” he said. “Don’t let Tommy watch. I shot my mouth off this morning and now he’s all over me. He gets ahold of this and that little fuck will have it on the Internet in an hour, I just know it.”

  “No sweat, boss. I’ll keep it on the Q.T.”

  “See that you do.”

  Down the street, the delivery man crushed his third cigarette beneath his sneaker and took the flowers and the clipboard down off the roof. He hustled across the road to a metal shop and went in the door. A couple minutes later he came back out shaking his head, still with his possessions, and studied the clipboard some more. He looked up and down the block, checking the street numbers, evidently trying to figure out where the flowers were supposed to go.

  Frank called all the techs down to the floor and got the production meeting started. When the first words out of his mouth weren’t, “This isn’t easy for me to say . . . ” they breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was back to normal.

  Up in the offices, Robert slipped down the hall and entered the editing room. He took some blank videotapes out of a supply cabinet in the corner and began setting up the gear to run off copies.

  Sonja followed him. It was quiet in the office; most of the news staff were down on the floor with Frank and the crew. She walked softly over to the door and took a compact out of her purse. She flipped the lid open and angled the mirror so she could see through the little window in the door.

  Robert took the alien-autopsy videotape out of his jacket and pushed it into a deck. He hit the speed-dub button and the machines began whirring. Then he pulled a little vial out of another pocket and began laying down a line of coke on the desk. Sonja’s eyes narrowed as she looked closely at the lights on the dub decks. The SOURCE light was lit next to a blank tape.

  She threw the door open. Robert jumped, spilling coke on the controls. “Jesus!” he yelled.

  Sonja nodded at the decks. “You’re erasing the tape.”

  Robert looked at the decks and back at her, then stood up, blocking her view of the
controls.

  “No I’m not!”

  “Yes you are. You’re wiping it. Boom.”

  “No, I’m just dubbing it! For Frank! You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

  “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re erasing that damn thing.” She stepped forward, moving right up against him. He cowered back against the desk, even though he was at least a head taller.

  “Got a new sugar daddy, Bobby boy? They got to you, didn’t they?”

  His voice was frantic. “What are you talking about?”

  “Paid you off in nose candy. Did they offer you a job, too? A lot of Phenomen-X people seem to get a lot of good job offers. Too good. But I bet you never noticed that.”

  Robert stared, cocaine dusting his face. He was pale.

  “Here’s the deal. I’ll take the fall for this. I hit the wrong buttons and oops, silly little Sonja erased the tape.” As she spoke she briefly tossed her head from side to side and made a ditzy face, then went back to glaring at him. “Frank needs me too bad to fire me. But you give me the phone number.”

  “Wh—what phone number?”

  “The number you’re supposed to call to tell them the tape’s wiped. So those goons in the florist van don’t come in here and shoot every-body.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you didn’t notice that, either? Gosh, I guess nobody did but little old me. They’ve been sitting up the block for over an hour. I took some gear from Allen and made them through the back windows. There’s six of them sitting in there. Six people in a florist van, up the street. What do you think they’re here for, Robert? That’s why I haven’t hit STOP, you dumb shit. I don’t want to die. But I do want to nail these guys. And you, candyman, are going to help me do it.”

  “Uh—”

  “Shut up. Starting now, you’re my bitch. We’re gonna erase that tape, then I’ll go boo-hooing to Frank while you make the call. You’ve got to string them out, promise more help in the future so they’ll keep in touch with you. Later today I’ll run the number and see what it turns up, and try to get a make on that van. It’ll take time, months or more, but we’ll nail ’em. You and me, Bobby boy. I’ll make a reporter out of you yet.”

  Robert’s eyes were huge, his pupils dilated. He was trembling before this elfin little woman.

  Sonja gave him a big TV smile as she quoted the show’s motto.

  “‘Can you handle the truth?’”

  An hour later, the delivery man finally found the right address. He left the flowers at the front desk in Studio E, with a card addressed to Robert Hoggard. Hidden inside were three more little vials of cocaine.

  The man left the studio and headed down the street as Sonja watched from a parked car. He climbed into the van and started the engine.

  “Goddamn,” Adolph Lepus said from the back. “I hate these goddamn diplomatic solutions.”

  The five NRO DELTA assassins began putting away their weapons and stripping off their gear, grumbling.

  “I know, boys, I know,” Lepus said. “But the trip’s not a total loss—Club 33’s just around the bend and the steaks are on me.” He addressed the driver. “Corey, get back on 405 eastbound.” He grinned, gold and white. “We’re going to Disneyland.”

  Jean Qualls was deep asleep in one of the bedrooms at Cell N’s Watergate suite. She’d finally gone to bed shortly after Cell T left that morning, with Nick and Nolan standing watch in the main room. She dreamed terrible dreams—blood and viscera, swelling bodies leaking sweet smells. When Agent Adam shook her awake, she was ravenously hungry. She spun around and snarled, lips wet.

  Adam jumped back, hands up and empty. “Whoa! Whoa! It’s okay! It’s me!”

  In the main room, her handlers shared a knowing laugh. “She’s hell in the mornings!” Nolan called cheerfully. It had been a long, tense time and they were grateful for the relief.

  Jean sat up and rubbed her face. “Sorry.” She looked up sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s okay. Alphonse is in intensive care. He’s not out of the woods yet, but his chances are improving. He’s a tough old bird.”

  She sighed. “That’s a relief.”

  “Where’s Cell T?”

  Jean looked away and composed herself for a moment. Adam looked at her sharply. “What?”

  “They went to Puerto Rico. For Shasta.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Look, it’s the rules. They hit us, we hit back.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Adam muttered. “Those idiots! Why didn’t they tell me?”

  “Probably because you wouldn’tve let them go.”

  “You’re damn right! Oh, shit.” He sat down heavily in a chair and put his face in his hands for a moment. Then he spoke.

  “It wasn’t them. It wasn’t Lepus.”

  Jean stared, a cold shiver passing through her body.

  “The shooter turned herself in to the cops a couple hours ago. It’s Shasta’s mother. She blamed Alphonse or something, she was ranting about ghosts. I don’t really understand it. But we were wrong. Everything’s fine. We’re still within the rules of engagement.”

  “Until Cell T gets to work, you mean.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to call them.”

  “They left their phones. You said not to trust any of the protocols.”

  “Damnit! Do you know where they are?”

  “Somewhere in Puerto Rico, I imagine.”

  Adam rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “This is terrible. This is really bad.”

  Jean pulled her knees up to her chin and shivered some more. The heat was off in the room and she was cold.

  “I’ll have to warn them,” he said wearily. “I have no choice.”

  “But how? They could be anywhere.”

  Adam looked at her gravely. “I don’t mean Cell T.”

  Jean realized who he meant. “You can’t do that!”

  “What else can I do? They went down there on their own. They’ll have to take their chances. Maybe OUTLOOK will beef up security enough that they’ll just come home and forget this crap.”

  “They’re going to a whorehouse,” Jean blurted. “In Luján. Yrjo goes there sometimes. They’ll grab him and make a play for Shasta. Tell OUTLOOK to keep Yrjo out of that whorehouse and Cell T will be stuck. They’ll come back. They’ll have to.” She really wanted to believe what she was saying.

  Adam glared at her. “You know, I’m not very happy with your role in this. You had my number at the hospital. You could have gone to a pay phone and warned me. You could have discouraged them from even going.”

  Jean was angry. “Look, we were all really freaked this morning. So were you! We thought the hammer was coming down and they decided to take their shot. Can you really blame them?”

  He looked at the floor for a moment. “No, I can’t. But I still have my duties. I have to protect the organization, and that means I have to call Lepus. Maybe you’re right. Maybe they’ll keep Yrjo’s dick in his pants and Cell T will come home.”

  “Let me go down there. I can find them.”

  “No. We need you here. Alphonse isn’t in the clear.”

  “Then send someone else!”

  “No! This thing is way too big and way too out of control as it is! Anyone we send down there is gonna be a walking target. They’re on their own.”

  Jean shook her head, her voice breaking. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re going to snitch them.”

  “It’s the only way, Jean. You know it is. We can’t risk a war.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes and she buried her face in her hands. Adam got up and left.

  “I hate this world,” she whispered, trembling.

  Stephanie’s plane touched down in Leavenworth, Kansas, around six o’clock that evening. She rented a car and drove swiftly to Fort Leavenworth Army Base. The U.S. Disciplinary Barracks had visiting hours on weeknights from seven until nine-thirty. She drove onto the base and stopped to get directions from a passing
MP, then headed for the USDB and parked in the visitor’s area. The weather was cold as she walked to the entrance. She spent half an hour waiting in line behind other visitors before she was finally let in.

  “I’d like to see Captain Forrest James,” she told the admitting guard, a tall, stocky man in uniform.

  “Have you been here before, ma’am?”

  “No.”

  “You on the list?”

  “List?”

  “The list of authorized visitors. If the prisoner hasn’t put you on his list, we can’t let you in.”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Stephanie Park.”

  “Just a minute, ma’am.”

  The guard stepped behind a desk and began flipping through some files. Stephanie waited anxiously. She hadn’t spoken with James since she put him on a plane after the Roscoe op, almost two years ago, and had no reason to think that she’d be on any list.

  “If I’m not on there, could we contact him? Get his permission?”

  “Just a minute, ma’am.”

  He looked through some more files. Stephanie fidgeted.

  “You’re on the list,” he said. “You’re the only one on the list, in fact.”

  Stephanie smiled, a glow of happiness stealing over her entire body for the first time in what seemed like forever. There were butterflies in her stomach. Hello, James, she thought. Hello.

  They told her the rules. They emptied her pockets, searched her, and ran her through a metal detector for good measure. Then they escorted her into a large open room with chairs scattered around and vending machines against one wall. Prisoners in brown uniforms and their visitors were everywhere—wives, children. Guards moved here and there amongst the chairs, keeping an eye on the little groups. Stephanie took a seat, her pulse racing.

  A buzzer sounded. Two guards brought James in through a large metal door. He spotted her immediately and winked. They led him over to a chair and he sat down.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice deep and kind. Prison had agreed with him. He was better-fed than he had been when she’d last seen him, though he was still in good shape, and his blonde hair had mostly turned a very distinguished gray. The mustache was gone, and the sharp angles of his face had softened. It looked good on him. He looked altogether mellow, a word Stephanie would never have thought to apply to him before.