In a few moments, the image of a man in a business suit appeared on the screen.
“Vice President Grant’s office,” he said.
“This is Donald Wu. I’m calling from GFE Security. It is urgent that I talk with the Vice President on a secure line.”
“One moment, sir.” The screen blanked. A new image appeared: a marine major in uniform.
“The Vice President will be with you in a moment, Mr. Wu. We are patching…” The scene then changed to display a middle-aged man in an athletic shirt with a tennis racket; he was standing before a concrete background.
“Hello Donald,” he said.
“Hello, Mr. Vice President. Is this a safe channel?”
“Medium safe. Do we need something better?”
“Affirmative.”
“Just a second…” The Vice President turned off camera. “Ernie, encrypt this, class one, and step outside, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The picture was momentarily interrupted, then resumed.
“Safe now,” the Vice President said.
“Two or three Sharks from Elgin base have commandeered the unarmed aircraft of our Security Chief and are proposing to force it to land somewhere. What do they want?”
“They are under Regional Authority command.”
“Damn it, several of our people in Quebec may have been murdered, and several hundred million dollars worth of GFE property destroyed. What can you do for us?”
“What about Mr. Gael’s expensive toy?”
“That shuttle?”
“Commissioner Torque’s assistant called to report that an unauthorized shuttle launched a few minutes after the attack.”
“Am I missing something? What’s the big deal? A minor international functionary calls and you are in a twit? Your boss, the one in the Oval Office, personally authorized all of the shuttle sales to GFE.”
“You and I both know…Donald…that Commissioner Torque carries a lot of weight with this administration where it counts.”
“But who runs your administration, the President or some unelected bureaucrat? And by the way, how did Torque know when the attack occurred?”
“Let’s not get upset, Donald.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I have no idea. Is that all, Donald?”
“Look…” Wu’s tone was even and menacing. “I have reports that beam weapons were used in the attack. You tell me what agency has access to those. Whose fingerprints are all over this? Your administration, that’s whose! Even the Regional Treaty Authority can’t move assets like that in North America without presidential authorization. If there was no permission then the president looks weak. Either way, you know the government of Quebec will go ballistic.” The Vice President was beginning to look apprehensive. “Let me get right to it. We also have certain high resolution videos with perfect sound tracks, time, date stamped, tamper proof, of the negotiations that your boss, the POTUS, conducted with us over the private sale of three surplus shuttles. How would his ‘special friend’ Marius Torque or the prosecutors in the Regional Authority react to cold, incontrovertible evidence of an unlawful, private sale of secret technology? Or for the Oversight Committee to find out how much it really cost? And how much money that boss of yours who lives on Pennsylvania Avenue at taxpayers’ expense is keeping in his secret Swiss account? I’m getting results, Hanford or I go public. Now!”
“…Exactly what do you want?”
“Call off the Sharks. Let Robertson’s plane get to the scene of this travesty.”
“…Anything else?”
“Not for the moment.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You damn well better do better than that!”
The screen went blank. Wu sank back in his chair and sighed. A young woman in a crimson jumpsuit tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up. “Jack Falstaff’s first rule of politics,” he said. Then he slapped the console.
“What’s that, Donald?”
“In politics, the value of truth is subordinate to the question of who finds out.”
She smiled. “You are a good student.”
“Take charge of the monitoring personally,” he said. “Tell me the minute you hear anything.”
Quebec
A few hours later, Jay Robertson arrived unannounced at police headquarters in Quebec City to see Captain Chuck Gouin. “I couldn’t get your home number,” he said.
“Jay, it’s been months…And yes, I know why you’re here.” Chuck rose from behind his desk to shake his old friend’s hand.
“Congratulations on your promotion,” Jay said.
“Hey, you don’t call, you don’t write. Shit happens.”
The office was spare, but adorned with pictures of Chuck’s family, his Masters’ certificate from the University of Washington, and a framed letter of commendation from the Canadian Mounted Police. Chuck Gouin was a broad, blunt, black man of Jamaican and Irish extraction, with a gray mustache and a merry glint in his dark eyes.
“Maybe you can tell me what’s going on, Jay?”
“We had certain guests attending Finnegan’s secret lodge. Then I heard of major assets moving in your territory. I tried to fly on scene, but my plane was almost forced down until we persuaded the US administration to intervene. I need to take a look as soon as possible.”
Chuck looked closely at Jay for a minute. “You know,” he said, “Finnegan Gael is pretty popular in Quebec, sort of a folk hero.”
“That should make it easy. How quick can you get me access?”
“Wait here.” Chuck left the room and closed the door. After a few minutes, Jay got up and began moving about the room. He was studying a wall map when the door was opened by a young woman in uniform.
“Mr. Robertson, follow me please.” Her French accent was light but obvious. “Captain Gouin has something for you in our conference room. Can we get you some coffee?”
Chuck was alone in the conference room. An augmented satellite map of Quebec was spread out across the table. “I’ve put out a quiet APB on two vehicles that Torque’s people sent to the scene. I’m not letting those Regional Authority cars near the crime scene right now. And yes, we are treating this as a crime scene. If necessary, we’ll pop Torque’s agents for some traffic violation or another.” Chuck placed an index finger in a rural area near a small lake. “The main scorch spot is right here” – pointing - “about an hour outside of Saint-Exupery’s Village. That is the site of Mr. Gael’s personal compound, then?” Robertson nodded gravely. “You will note the circled area about two clicks north? Major construction there was impossible to hide from the satellite surveillance. What was it?”
“A shuttle launch site.”
“No kidding. Did Finnegan get away safely?”
“Think so. But I won’t have confirmation until he reaches Australia. There were injuries. Not everyone got out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why would anyone try to kill my bosses?”
“Don’t know, Jay, but you and I are going there together.”
“Good.”
Chuck grinned. “The Chief thinks it a very good idea that I keep an eye on you at all times. For the next few hours, we will be inseparable.”
By mid-morning, the extent of the destruction was evident at a distance of five miles from the air and there were visible signs a half-mile away on the ground. The fire had spread only to the immediate stands of trees surrounding the Gael Lodge, having been contained by a heavy snowfall, but the residual smoke was looming over the horizon, clearly visible when the CMP Helicopter was still twenty minutes away.
As the ‘copter began its descent, Jay strained against the shoulder harness for a look at the wreckage below. The foundation of Toad Hall still stood, along many of its steel structural members and part of the central chimney. There was a partly exposed passageway beneath the lodge proper that appeared to have taken only light damage. Two burned-out ground vehicles stood smoldering nearby,
one of them partly inside a crushed mass of metal, the former carport.
As the chopper circled, Jay could hear Chuck’s voice in his earphone. “We got initial reports of this last night. The sound of explosions traveled three hundred clicks.” Several men and women, dressed in white coveralls, were combing the area in pairs. Emergency vehicles were parked around the perimeter. “ATTENTION: This is Captain Gouin. Regional Authority representatives are on the way to inspect. Everyone is instructed to keep them at least three kilometers away from the crime scene.” Chuck was seated across from Jay, just behind the pilot. He pointed to a large, smoldering hole in the side of a hill about a click and a half away. “Let’s take a closer look at that hole.”
The pilot complied, slewing the ‘copter over sharply and traveling to the wooded hilltop area Chuck had pointed out. The ‘copter hovered over a deep, concrete lined shaft.
“No shuttle there. You wouldn’t know anything about any unauthorized orbital craft?”
It was an official question. Jay gave him an official answer. “I can only hope for answers,” he said.
“Okay, let’s go down to the lodge area. I’d like to have a look around.”
On the ground, the acrid smell of burned metal, plastic and wood mingled with the still, cold winter air. One badly charred body had been removed.
“Male or female?” Jay was shouting at a man standing near the coroner’s van.
“Not much left. Male.”
“Are those red coveralls GFE?”
“Yes. There may be another uniformed male.” Jay turned to Chuck Gouin. “That would be one of the two caretakers they lost.” The two men stood at the edge of the ash-covered area near a patrol car that was parked, engine and heater running. It was 3:00 PM, and daylight was quickly running out. Workers were removing large flood lamps from another van. Metal girders that had formed the inner skeleton on the lodge were twisted like blackened tree trunks after a forest fire.
“Look at this,” Chuck said. The two strode a few meters into the ash to make a closer inspection of the nearest girder. The white ash was sodden and mixed with black mud. After a few steps, their progress was slowed by the clinging weight of the muck on their boots. The girder had been a corner support. It was bent slightly inward and ended abruptly at shoulder height. The steel had been sheared off at a sharp angle; the rest of the girder lay half buried in ash and mud.
Chuck slowly ran his fingers over the cut; it was smooth, but slightly rippled, as if it had been melted through with a torch. Along the metal just below the cut, droplets and spatters of steel rippled along the otherwise cleanly machined surface. “Son of a bitch,” Jay muttered.
“What?” Chuck said.
“Beam weapons,” Jay said.
The distant sound of a siren grew louder. Gouin turned around. On the road about half a click away, a lone black sedan was approaching with its lights on.
“That will probably be a Regional Authority car,” Chuck said, as he stamped his feet on the pavement. He picked up his radio. “Stop that car,” he growled. “Confiscate any weapons.” Two patrol cars immediately pulled out and blocked the sedan. Mounties walked to the window, guns drawn. The occupants got out and were searched. After a time, the agents reentered the sedan, minus their own firearms. The black car turned, spitting snow and mud, then pulled away.
“I’d like to have heard that conversation,” Jay said.
“Too bad you missed it,” Chuck said.
One of the emergency workers in coveralls in the center of the ash-covered area near the base of the chimney shouted. Two more arrived and stood looking at something on the ground. In a moment, one of the workers, a woman in coveralls, returned to a tech van where Gouin and Robertson were standing.
“What is it?” Gouin asked.
“A female body. Older gal, it looks like. White hair…This…” The woman was holding up a piece of fabric, “…is definitely part of a dress.”
Jay studied the fabric, making a mental note.
“Anybody you know?” Chuck asked.
“I don’t think former Australian Prime Minister Elizabeth Hoopes can be accounted for.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - FIND THEM!
Commission Headquarters, Denver, Colorado
Commissioner Torque arrived at the anteroom of the “Senior Advisor’s” quarters, dressed for the occasion in a protective suit with its own air supply. The alien’s apartment was in Torque’s office building, occupying the entire ninth and tenth floors. Most of Torque’s scheduled conversations took place at the same times each day in the apartment’s anteroom, an austere, windowless box, divided from the Advisor’s living quarters by a thick quartz panel. Behind the panel, the Advisor could be seen glistening and moving on a bed of sand.
On the rare occasions when the Advisor came outside its protected environment, he/it was inside a bubble attached to the cowling of a mobile life-support unit (MLSU) that had been adapted for its occupant’s exotic needs. The smell of rotting eggs followed the Advisor wherever it went due to a design flaw in the filtering system.
On this occasion, the Advisor was comfortably settled in its own environment, deadly to any unprotected human. As Torque approached, the Advisor was reclining on an elevated sand bed. Its coils were glistening black, with red spots and fine blue veins. They supported a gelatinous sack of several quivering orange orbs. The whole creature seemed to pulse slowly. It spoke through a hidden speaker: “Mr. Keen told me that you have completed the operation as promised. But I am holding you personally responsible for its ultimate success.”
“Gael’s facility has been completely destroyed.”
“Your inspection team is on scene, then?”
“The Quebec authorities secured it as a crime scene. For now they are barring access.”
“By whatever means, your agents must investigate…including the launch site.”
“Launch?”
“Yes, launch. You should know that several vehicles were able to escape the area.”
“We know about some cars and a small plane. We’ve been tracking them. And we have captured one high value target, Gael’s companion, a woman who tried to escape in the plane.”
“Yes, we know all of that that. Did you know that one vehicle entered orbit?”
“Surely not…”
“We are not wrong about such things. This is dangerous.”
“I assure you that we will find it and destroy it.”
“Perhaps you will…perhaps not. But the capture, interrogation, and eventual execution of any survivors are imperative.”
“We will find them.” There was no reply. After a pause, the Advisor signaled by a wave from a single tentacle that the interview was over. “Good resting then,” Torque said. Again, there was no sign from the Senior Advisor. That was typical. After a respectful delay, Torque left the room, all too happy to be able to remove his noxious safe-suit and take a shower.
Over the Andes, a few days later
Before the Toad Hall disaster, Jay Robertson had been fretting about his proposed “frigging ET pickup”, as he had put it. Now Jay was looking out the window at the distant spine of the Andes 75,000 feet below. He thought of the moment Donald Wu had called him. In Robertson’s rage and horror at the attack in Quebec, he had sidelined the earlier distress call from Ramón.
Jay had been just leaving the Quebec crime scene when Donald Wu called bearing good news and bad news. “Jack Falstaff and Finnegan Gael have safely landed in Australia. Mr. Gael is going to be fine. But while you were gone, your friend called again from Patagonia…that Argentinean priest named Ramón Carrera you served with. He says the situation there is urgent. I consulted Jack Falstaff. He said to tell you that this rescue is very important to him personally.” Jay immediately called Ramón back for details. Torque’s people, with the help from another group of ETs, were actively hunting the “Little Ones” using “major air assets”. As Wu put it, “This crowd doesn’t give a damn about collateral damage to humans.” Jay
also had learned that his regular trusted pilot, Joe Dixon, had been called back to GFE’s Australian facility. He had objected, but after a few calls Jay located a brilliant replacement, a trusted friend from the old days with combat flying experience.
Equipment was quickly ordered and mission-modified. So the objections of former Colonel Jay Robertson, whose “field work” skills were a bit rusty, had been met. And Jay could locate no one who could be trusted to run the operation as well as he could. So Jay was to personally perform an ultra high altitude jump into the Andes, to reconnoiter, rendezvous, then lead four ETs out of danger. He would transport them to a pick up point on the Chilean side of the Andes, signal from that location…and wait with them for air rescue. Like all hasty plans it was simple in outline and impossible in execution without a series of lucky breaks. In other words, it was Robertson’s special kind of problem.
Jay stared out the window of a rocket-assisted jet that was carrying two EEVs: Emergency Escape Vehicles. They were escape pods, equipped with retro-rockets and parachutes, adapted from space shuttle surplus. Pod Two was specially outfitted for “a special biological environment” (ET ambulance), prepared to specs derived from Dr. Delaney’s hasty analysis of the recovered data pack.
My first ultra HALO jump…and I’m carrying a pet cage for little green men…Jesus H. Christ. This is why they pay me the big bucks, he mused ruefully. But, for Robertson, it wasn’t about the money at all.
“I believe we have a tail.” It was good to hear that familiar voice coming from the cockpit. Jay vowed to thank Wu. After all his kvetching about Wu’s interference with the operational details, he had to admit this pilot was a better choice than Dixon. “They don’t look like tourists, colonel.”
“Copy that,” Jay said while unstrapping his harness. Then he activated his throat mike and stood. “Are we close enough for the jump now?”
“Almost…Time to strap into your EEV, buddy.”
“Will they be able to see the pods?”
“Not if they’re blind.” His friend had a gift for inappropriate humor.
A few minutes later, Jay was hunched over in the cramped hold. “I’m almost ready,” he said, using his throat mike. Like hell, he thought.
The Stranded Ones Page 14
