“Anything for me, Airman Cook?” he asked, as he rounded a corner in the maze of belly-button-high desk dividers. Cook had been assigned to help him upon arrival, and had generally been as frustrated at the lack of resources the search had been given as he was.
The airman looked up from a spreadsheet and smiled. “I was just getting ready to call you. The overnights came in from our regional towers. There was an unregistered flight that Cheyenne picked up last night. Profile looked like a fast helo or small craft, doing its level best to stay below radar. The terrain out that way won’t allow for that, not totally anyway.”
“Where was it going?”
“West, in a general sense.” Cook manipulated the ball atop his mouse until his monitor showed a detailed map of the Nebraska-Wyoming border.
“Here’s the track. As you can see, it’s pretty broken up, and a lot further west than where we’ve been concentrating our search.” Cook looked back up at him and shrugged. “I only noted it because it did originate in Nebraska, and potentially fits within the profile of an Osprey—though nowhere near the edges, sir.”
“Edges?”
“Sorry, sir. The edges of its performance.” Cook pointed at his screen. “Bottom edges, in this case. An Osprey can fly that slow; they just don’t very often.”
“Your best guess?”
Cook scratched his ear and stared at the monitor for a moment.
“If I was looking at just the track, I’d say a helo busting ass trying to stay in the canyons, which they did, until they hit flatlands and Cheyenne flashed a return.”
“You sound like you have a ‘but’ in there, Mr. Cook.”
“The radar return, when they have it, is really strong. If it was just that alone, it could be an Osprey.” Airman Cook shrugged. “Put the return strength and track together, it fits your parameters. Sortofish.”
“Sortofish?”
“A highly technical term, sir.”
“What does the report say?”
“Dick all, sir. It’s just a notation of an unregistered flight and a time stamp of first contact at oh two thirty-seven to last return at oh two fifty-four, mountain time.”
“Any chance we can get the ISR drone again today? Move its search pattern west to that border area?”
Cook looked at him with an expression that bordered on shame.
“Sir, Colonel Baxter told me this morning that we had more important things to do. That bird is being prepped for transfer to Hill.”
“That’s in Utah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there a contact name for whoever logged the report in Cheyenne?”
“No, sir, just the ATC designator. In this case, Cheyenne Regional.”
“Shit.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Cook sat up higher in his chair and looked over his cubicle’s divider across the room. “The colonel made it clear this morning that unless the ISS was going to tell him why this was so important, we were supposed to . . .”
“Stonewall me?”
“Offer you every courtesy and assistance, sir . . . in strict accordance with our current competing priorities.”
He already knew where he ranked in the Air Force’s priorities; so did Airman Cook.
“Airman, find me transport to Cheyenne, preferably by air, and I promise you I won’t be back. You’ll probably get promoted for facilitating my departure.”
“I just might, sir.” Cook grinned back at him. “I’d suggest you go get some coffee, sir. Let me see what I can arrange.”
It had taken more time than a cup of coffee could eat up, and it was midafternoon by the time he landed in Cheyenne. He’d had to flash his credentials twice and threaten one TSA supervisor to get access and an escort to the small airport’s tower. Once there, he was disappointed to learn the lead ATC official had the exact same information that had been contained within the report he’d read that morning.
“That would have been Dan Long last night, and his trainee, Richie Trahn.”
“Where are they?”
“Dan’s probably fishing, if he’s awake; it’s why he likes the night shift. Richie? I’d bet money he’s probably asleep.”
“Phone numbers, their addresses, and a car,” he listed. “Now.”
“Wait a minute, here. What’s this all about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” He frowned. He was getting tired of that excuse himself.
The portly administrator looked like a heart attack waiting to happen and just stared back at him.
“I am at liberty,” he continued, “and well within my power to mention in my report how cooperative you’ve been in a matter of national security—or not.”
“Anything happening lately that you people don’t consider a matter of national security?”
He didn’t have an answer for that, not one that wouldn’t be a lie. His silence convinced the man.
“Fine, we’ve got a runway truck you can use.” The air traffic controller relented with a roll of his eyes. “Mary, get this gentleman Dan’s and Richie’s contact info.”
He appropriated maps from the control tower after the grudgingly helpful shift chief had drawn in the intermittent radar tracks from the night before. He called the nighttime supervisor, Dan Long, three times, and left messages on the man’s home phone and cell before he gave up and called his own office to report in.
“Afternoon, Tessa,” he said, rubbing his eyes against the harsh sunlight coming through the windows of the borrowed Ford F-150. He imagined his boss’s deputy sitting in her own office, managing people like him in the field like a spider with its legs attached to multiple strings, looking for anything that smacked of treason.
“Agent Starret, how’s the Air Force treating you?”
“They’re done with me, Tessa.” Even he could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “The trail’s pretty cold. I’m onto what I think is a dead end, but I’m going to run it to ground. I’m in Cheyenne, by the way. I just appropriated a truck from the local FAA.”
“That’s Wyoming, right?”
“So I’m told.”
Tessa Roberts had one of those unfiltered laughs that would launch itself like a firework and die just as quickly.
“Is Archie in? I need to figure out if I quit here, or come back.”
“I was meaning to call you tonight, but I might as well tell you now. Archie was removed this morning. They escorted him out, under guard.”
Stunned or not, he remembered who he worked for. If Archibald Lane had been removed for cause, something was either very wrong in the ISS, or his boss and friend had been the greatest actor he’d ever met. They’d been classmates at the FBI academy nearly twenty years ago. Archie put the scout into Boy Scout. It was because of Archie he’d agreed to go to work for the ISS.
“We’re talking about Archibald Lane?”
“I know you guys were friends; this must be hard to hear.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing criminal. The director and he just weren’t seeing eye to eye. He was told he wasn’t the right man for the job. I think the agency is finally turning the corner on being worried over public perception. The gloves are coming off.”
Since when have we worn gloves? He bit down on what he wanted to say. He knew how connected Tessa was.
“It’s a shock, but I understand.” He was barely maintaining control. He found himself wanting a drink in the worst way. Booze had cost him a wife, his children, and a career. Archie, even though his friend had some of the same concerns he did about the ISS, had offered him a lifeline. The liquor store sign, two doors away from where he was parked, took on a glow. Archie must have said something that he couldn’t take back; or worse, Tessa had let it be known what her former boss had felt about some of the ISS’s tactics.
“This could be an issue for me.” He could see a glimmer of hope that he could go home, get a new assignment, work a normal schedule, and with luck, get back on speaking terms with the kids. “Is there anyone els
e around there that has been read in on my project? Who am I reporting to?”
“That would be me, Marc.”
He was glad it wasn’t a video call. He could feel the blood drain from his face. Tessa was a nice-enough person to anybody within her circle of trusted colleagues and friends. Outside of that, the political appointee had the law enforcement instincts of a hungry Doberman on a raw meat diet. She didn’t care who they arrested or why; they were all guilty unless they could prove themselves innocent.
“I guess congratulations are in order.” He was proud of his own acting.
“Thank you. I sure didn’t want it this way.”
Bullshit. He had to pull the phone away from his face and cover the mic. He could hear his own teeth grinding. He took a deep breath. “It’s Washington, Tessa. I’ve been there long enough to know you take what you’re given, don’t ask questions.”
“Well, I’m glad you feel that way, because I want you back here as my deputy. Together, we can turn Operations into the true action arm the director needs it to be. That is, unless you enjoy sleeping in shitty hotels in the middle of nowhere, missing your family while running investigations that we can’t even talk about?”
Maybe we shouldn’t be doing them, if we can’t talk about them . . . “Sounds like you’ve been keeping tabs on me, although I have to admit, officers’ quarters at the Air Force base beat the last couple of hotels, hands down.”
“Think about it, Mark. Wrap up the lead you’re on; we’ve bigger fish to fry.”
“Will do.”
“In the meantime, do you need anything from us? How’s it going out there?”
He thought for a moment, wondering if he even wanted to succeed at this point in the investigation.
“For the time being, I think I can get more done on my own. One thing, though, if I do need tactical support, I’ll need it without having to go through a dick-measuring contest with every major or colonel I run across. I need to be able to tell them something.”
“I can only imagine how difficult this has been, Marc.” Tessa sounded as if she cared. “We did get a call from the base commander at Offut, demanding answers. I think he now has a more complete understanding of what civilian control means.”
He’d lived with interagency competition his entire professional career. ISS involvement, at least from his perspective, seemed to bring forth reactions that fell into two camps. Some bureaucrats in other agencies could see where the budget money was flowing, and they wanted to know who to contact for a job. Others just saw another Washington asshole from a new agency that was feeling its oats.
“Thing is, Tessa, Archie was committed to keeping it all under wraps. I’ve done my best, but the whole national-security, it’s-above-their-pay-grade thing—doesn’t work too well when you are talking to a general or a full colonel. They’ve got their heads down on their own fish to fry. I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
“For what it’s worth, I agree with Archie on this. Stick to your guns, and give them my number if you need to; I’ll set them straight. That said, if you do come up empty-handed, I get you back here that much sooner, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve just about had it with Big Sky country,” he lied. The scenery, compared to Washington’s, was the one highlight of this investigation. He loved the open spaces. Annie had been from Iowa. She’d always hated Washington and places the FBI had sent them; Jacksonville and Houston hadn’t been any better. He figured she’d still be in his life if he’d done what she wanted; left the bureau and moved to Iowa.
Tessa let out another burst of raucous laughter. “We do have better takeout here; that’s for certain. Hurry back, Mark, and be safe.”
“Will do.”
The call ended, and he sat behind the wheel for ten minutes, just watching traffic roll past the gas station’s parking lot. He considered calling Archie, but quickly thought better of it. His friend would just wonder why the hell he was risking his own career calling a friend. He’d joined the ISS following Archie’s appointment, under the aegis that his friend needed help in throttling back some of the heavy-handed impulses of the new agency. Very few FBI professionals filled the ISS ranks. The agency was staffed for the most part by frustrated hard cases, a mix of former military and local law enforcement who enjoyed the power a federal badge gave them far too much.
He sat the phone down on the seat next to him. Better to wait until he got back to Washington, see which way the wind was blowing and how hard, before reaching out. None of this was what he’d signed up for twenty years ago. He resisted the impulse to look at himself in the rearview mirror. There wouldn’t be anything there that would make him feel better.
He thought back on the call; “bigger fish to fry,” Tessa had said. He didn’t know how to take that, other than to assume she thought the disposition of Sir Geoffrey Carlisle was no longer as important as it had been. Like Archie, he wanted to get to the bottom of the story. The government needed to know whether there was any truth to the multiverse. To him, that was the important question. Tessa and her masters just wanted confirmation that Sir Geoff was already dead in a plane crash or located so he could be dealt with—like General Gannon had been dealt with. “We got bigger fish to fry.” Tessa’s words, as always, were loaded with the promise of more work that was . . . just wrong. God help him, what else could he do? He’d probably end up helping her.
He dialed the number for the other air traffic controller on duty last night, the trainee, Richie Trahn. He couldn’t help but recognize his own disappointment when a sleepy voice answered.
*
The new director of the ISS’s Operations Division set her phone back in its cradle and just stared at it for a moment before unlocking her desk drawer and pulling out a cell phone. In the moment it took the phone to power up and find the network, Tessa Roberts made a decision. She was tired of having to walk on eggshells around these former bureau guys. It had been bad enough having to work for one; she’d be damned if she was going to put up with their lawyerly bureaucratic bullshit now that she was in charge.
She liked Starret; or, she realized, she could have. The guy was a gifted investigator; people liked him, and they talked—usually to their own detriment. But his heart wasn’t in this; she’d heard that in his voice. He’d always have questions, and concerns. She was done with that; more importantly, so was the director as well as the president.
“He’s moved west, to Cheyenne. Still working the lead.”
She nodded at the questions that came back—purely tactical concerns that were music to her ears. If the search for Carlisle was a dead end, it would have to stay dead.
“He’s in a vehicle he borrowed from the FAA at the airport. I’ll have the tracker activated and send you the feed.”
*
Idaho, Earth
“Doc, what are you working on?” Kyle was going a little stir-crazy; they all were. They were ready, had been ready for two days, waiting for the Osprey they’d been told was coming. Jensen and much of his team had been in a self-imposed exile within the phone booth itself since he’d exploded, days ago. He found himself spending most of his time outside the mine, in the small camp they’d built a hundred yards further up the small canyon. He’d just found Jensen sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor with two laptops, and scraps of paper spread out in a circle around him.
“Took your words to heart, Kyle. I’m trying to figure out a way to turn this bucket around quick.” Jensen jerked a thumb behind him toward the telephone booth.
“Sorry for going off like that; I know you’re up against the laws of physics.”
“Physics?” A smirk danced across Jensen’s face. “That would be easy; this is quantum field theory, emphasis on the word theory. There are no laws. Well, there might be . . . depends on if you’re looking for them.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry, a bad physics joke there. I’m damned lucky to have Dr. Kovarik with me. He might have hit on something.”
He did
n’t know the older Czech scientist well, but he and Elisabeth had become pretty close with the man’s daughter, Teresa, who was about to marry Jason Morales back on Eden.
“Did he figure out how to recharge the batteries faster?”
“No.” Jensen gave his head a shake and looked up at him. “Not yet, but we’re working the problem.”
“What do you have?”
“We’re not sure it will work.”
“What is it?”
“The phone booth, as is, develops an inside-out quantum field.” Jensen started gesticulating with his hands. “It envelops the whole contraption—translates the whole thing. This is opposed to our translation chambers we have back on Eden, or had in the HAT; they both develop their field from the outside in—they translate everything within the chamber. The chamber remains. You with me so far?”
Jensen slowly picked himself up off the floor, with popping knees and a groan as he straightened his back. He pointed to the cavern-filling telephone booth. “This beast translates itself with an inside-out field.”
“You said that already.” Kyle scratched his head. “I think.”
“Sorry.” Jensen shook his head. “We think we might be able to change the field it generates to act like the chambers on Eden; send what’s inside, while the device itself would remain.”
“It wouldn’t have to be recharged in New Seattle to come back here?”
“If it works . . .” Jensen nodded. “That’s correct.”
“That’s great, Doc. I think.”
“You’re half way to correct,” Jensen shook his head. “Remember, technically speaking we could just shove it or anything into the translation chamber in New Seattle and send it right back – but it wouldn’t have a charge to use when it arrived. Our ability to recharge this thing is much improved, much faster in New Seattle than it is here or particularly at any remote site that Jeff has identified.”
“So . . . still makes more sense to operate it as is?”
New Shores: The Eden Chronicles - Book Three Page 21
