by Peter Parkin
So, he said his goodbyes to his sad mother, his astonished sister, and even his bewildered ex-wife. He just told them it was a vacation he'd always wanted to take. They bought it.
When he arrived in China, he backpacked through some areas of the country that he remembered studying in high school. And of course, only those areas that the Communist Party officials would allow an American to visit. But he knew where he really wanted to go, so he didn't spend too much time dawdling. He hopped the Longhai Railway system and traveled west—west to the Yuntai Mountain region in Henan Province. Home of the Shaolin Academy of Martial Arts.
He was blown away by the beauty of the region. The greenest of green foothills, rising to majestic snow-covered mountains. Fertile river valleys, primitive people happy with their simple lives. Peace. Heaven. Redemption.
For the equivalent of six American dollars a day, he had his accommodation, three full meals a day, and expert martial arts instruction for seven hours a day, seven days a week. They made it clear when he enrolled that there would be no slacking or he was out. They didn't want his money that badly. And they also made it clear that he would be in extreme pain for the first three months. If he made it that far, he would never feel pain again in the parts of his body that he would be working with. And he would be able to inflict pain and death if he ever needed to, with very little effort.
Dennis discovered, as did the other students, that the instructors weren't lying about the pain. Forefingers, forearms and toes were swollen and torn for at least three months. For him, it was closer to six. For others, it never ended. The dropout rate was seventy percent. Dennis hung in.
His mind gradually came to rest, focused on other things instead. The culture, the rigorous ritual, the mystical discipline that was taught, the mind control—and of course, the constant pain.
Dennis' training at the Academy lasted one full year, after which he was sent home with strict instructions on how to continue the training. The entire regimen of training took three years, but the Academy only provided the first year. After that, students were expected to simply continue the training on their own, following the regimen to the letter.
Dennis did. In three years time, he was an expert in three of the seventy-two Shaolin martial arts. The first one was known in English as 'Diamond Finger', or in Chinese, 'Yi Zhi Jingang.' In this art, the forefinger of both hands was the focal point. Daily training, which consisted of not only the mind control exercises but most importantly the fighting techniques, brought his two fingers to the point of having the strength of a thick tree branch. Along the way, he had had to suffer with torn skin and the swelling of the muscles and sinews—for months. By the end of the three years he was unable to feel pain any longer, and no outward signs on his skin would appear if he rammed his finger into a board, rock or tree trunk. With ease, he could crack a stone into two pieces, put a hole through a board just as if it were drilled, and smash bricks into clumps of cement dust. Just with his finger. It was powerful stuff...and mysterious as hell. He was fascinated by it.
The second martial art he mastered was 'Striking With Foot.' In Chinese it was called 'Zu She Gong.' The training was basically the same as with 'Diamond Finger,' except that it was done with the toes. Toes used singly, or all together. With this powerful skill, the impact against an opponent is delivered at the lower part of the body, and the power of the hit is so severe that the opponent is simply flung through the air. If delivered properly and with the brain focused, the adversary could be thrown up to twenty lateral feet into the air.
The third skill that Dennis learned was known as 'Twin Lock,' or 'Shuang Suo Gong.' This one involved building the strength and resilience of the forearms to the point where they can easily break a person's arm with one hit. And when the forearms are thrust towards each other with an unfortunate victim in between, the effects would be crushed internal organs and shattered bones. The training for this skill involved three years of banging the forearms together constantly. Very painful work—the worst, Dennis thought, of all the three skills. He was told that the forearms would have reached their maximum peak once he no longer felt pain when banging the arms together—and most importantly, when he finally heard a distinctive 'thump' when the arms hit.
After a little more than three years, he heard the 'thump.' The 'thump' he'd been waiting patiently for.
After his year in China, Dennis was welcomed back at work with open arms. He was glad to be back. And he felt much more at peace with himself. The year away and all the rigorous training had done him a world of good.
His career continued to advance over the years, and he knew that that probably wouldn't have been the case if he hadn't given himself that important time away. He was a whole person again.
He was promoted through the ranks to the point that he was now the Chief of Detectives, holding the same position that a very wise man had held twenty years before. A wise man who had seen the troubling signs and encouraged Dennis to go away. Just for a little while.
Dennis came back.
Or, more correctly put, a new and improved version of Dennis came back.
And he had a certain 'thump' about him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Apollo 19?"
Dennis nodded his head soberly, with an almost apologetic look on his face.
"Denny, she's just talking nonsense. Don't fret about it."
They were sitting in Denny's rear living room, while Lucy performed her usual rocking routine up the hall from them in the drawing room. Barb Jenkins was resplendent in a green summer dress accented with a diamond necklace, bracelet and gold high-heeled shoes. She looked fabulous.
"Barb, how the hell can I just forget about it? First, I witness three spooks turning mom's room upside down after she spilled the beans to me about some kind of package. Something that seemed to scare the shit out of her. Then, out of the blue she becomes lucid again and mentions something about a non-existent Apollo 19. And you think I should just forget about it?"
"You just said it. Non-existent. There was no Apollo 19. And no 18 either."
"That's exactly the point, Barb."
She cocked her head and stared at him with a question on her lips. "You mean..."
Dennis rose from his chair and went over to the portable bar. "Another glass of wine, Barb?"
"Make it a scotch, Denny. I think I need it."
He poured them each a scotch, and sat down beside her on the couch.
They clinked their glasses. "We should be toasting something, Denny."
"Okay, let's toast to learning the truth." They clinked again.
Denny took a long swallow then looked into Barb's brilliant green eyes.
"Do you happen to know something, Barb?"
"No, I don't know anything about the moon missions. After your mom retired, I moved out of her department and into International Affairs."
"Mom was in Intelligence, wasn't she?"
"Yes, but remember, she was the legal arm of Intelligence. She wasn't an Intelligence Officer."
Dennis nodded. "I understand, but she was the head of the legal team for that department, correct?"
"Yes, just like I eventually became head of the legal team for International Affairs. You have to understand, Denny, the Pentagon is huge. The legal team numbers in the hundreds, all sectioned off just like the Pentagon is, assigned to each discipline of the Pentagon."
"So, only a handful of people know everything."
"Correct."
"That's the way the DOD wants it."
"Correct again."
"So, whom did mom report to?"
"Well in her position, she reported in two directions. Her main report was to the Chief Counsel, who in return reported directly to the Secretary of Defense. Lucy's secondary report would have been to the Undersecretary of Defense for Intelligence."
"Who in the DOD would know everything?"
Barb sipped her scotch, and paused. Silence.
"Barb?"
"I heard
you, Denny. I'm just thinking." She took another sip. "This would just be my own educated guess, but obviously the Secretary of Defense would know everything about everything. And the Chief Counsel would probably be the only other person in the DOD who would know simply everything, just out of necessity. International law is a tricky thing, and warfare today is fraught with legal landmines. The U.S. may appear on the surface to go to war too easily, but trust me, the legal beagles have done their work with the United Nations expeditiously beforehand.
"And they've used our legal leverage vis a vis ironclad contracts over virtually every nation that wants to remain on good terms with us. No one moves on anything serious in the DOD without the Chief Counsel. The Chief Counsel also prepares whatever bribery is needed over nations to get them to agree to whatever it is we want them to agree to. Contrary to what the average person might believe, international agreements aren't made because of a meeting of the minds. In most cases, they've simply been bribed... or sometimes, threatened. The Chief Counsel for the DOD delivers those threats, or at the very least, prepares them."
"And that was who?"
"Well, that's a bit of a strange story. At that time, his name was James Layton. Lucy reported directly to him—until he committed suicide. That was back in December of 1977."
"And that's when mom took over, right?"
Barb winced. "She did...and she didn't. She was appointed Acting Chief
Counsel until a permanent appointment was made. But, several months into the job, she withdrew her name from the candidate list. Then, six months later, she retired. As you know, she was only fifty years old then."
"She got a severance package."
"Yes, she would have. All the lawyers worked on a contract basis, with severance terms spelled out in advance."
Dennis frowned. "Mom never flashed her money around. But she retired a wealthy woman. You know that, don't you?"
"Wealth is a relative term, Denny. Your mother also made a substantial amount of money when she was a corporate attorney, before even joining the Defense Department."
Dennis walked over to the wall unit and fingered an old framed photo of his mom and dad. He ran his fingers around the outline of their images. Talking with his back to Barb, he said, "When she retired, she was paid five million dollars in severance, Barb."
Barb choked on her drink, and broke out into a coughing fit. Denny ran over to her and rubbed her back as she bent over the coffee table. It took a few minutes for her to catch her breath—Denny handed her a bottle of mineral water, and she took a long pull.
"You...must be...mistaken."
"No, I'm not. Melissa and I have that wealth between us now, an amount that has grown exponentially over the decades. It's now worth about twenty-seven million. So I'm quite familiar with my mom's finances. The papers were clear when we took over 'power of attorney.' It was described officially as 'severance.' We had no idea until then that mom even had that kind of money."
"Did you question her?"
Denny laughed. "Barb, come on, get real. We only found out about the money five years ago when she was finally committed to a nursing home. Mom's mind was already pretty much gone by the time the 'power of attorney' kicked in. Sure, we asked a couple of questions, but we mostly got
blank stares—not that we really expected anything more.
"She clearly didn't need to tap into that money. As you say, she always made a high income as a lawyer, in both the private and public sectors. She was a woman of privilege, for sure. And my dad also made big money in his field. So, this severance money, or whatever it was, became simply a nest egg for her."
"Denny, there is no way that money was a severance payment. I'll give you my own example, and I would have had the same kind of contract as your mom did and I retired just a few years ago. My contract required me to be paid two years salary if severed or if I just chose to leave—and I made, at my height as head of International, half a million a year. So, when I left, I got a million. That's in today's dollars—your mom got paid five million in 1978 dollars. Geez!"
Dennis chuckled. "Was mom just a better negotiator than you, Barb?" Barb snorted. "I admired your mom, but I can tell you this—there was no better negotiator than me. So, all joking aside, what she got was not a severance package. It had to have been for something else."
"Like what?"
"That's the five million dollar question now, isn't it?"
Dennis put his feet up on the ottoman, and clasped his hands behind his head. "Tell me, Barb. How did that guy kill himself...what was his name... Layton?"
"Shot himself in the head—in his Pentagon office. It was all hush-hush." "Yeah, mom never mentioned anything about it. Just that her boss died, and she was now running things temporarily."
"It was a mess. And the media was shut down completely on it. Those of us who knew had to swear out confidentiality."
"Was there a note?"
Barb cleared her throat. "Apparently, yes. But it was never disclosed to anyone."
"Not even to his family?"
"No. I knew his wife, Margaret, quite well. Lovely woman. She confided in me after it happened. She tried to get a court order for the suicide note, and her action was summarily rejected."
"On what basis? She was his wife!" "National Security."
"What?"
"I know—really makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
Dennis stood up and looked at his watch. "Can I take you to dinner, Barb?"
"Not tonight, handsome. I'll take a rain check—and look at that, it's actually started raining outside!" They both looked out the window. Sheets of rain completely shielded the view of the backyard.
"Okay, I'll hold you to that. There's a lot more that I want to talk about. Including that other matter—did you think about whether or not you could put me in touch with someone in the Pentagon?"
Barb smiled. "I knew you wouldn't forget, you curious devil. Yes, I did think about it and I do have a name for you. In fact, I've talked to her already. She's more than willing to meet with you to chat. I didn't tell her what it was about, just that you had some concerns and questions pertaining to your mom; kind of a family history thing you're doing. She's familiar with Lucy's tenure—Lucy was quite the legend over there."
"What's her name?"
"Fiona. Fiona Perry. A sweet lady, but also tough as nails. She's the Deputy Director of Press and Public Relations at the Pentagon. Well connected. And...not too happy. Very frustrated and worried about being shut out of things she feels she should know in order to do her job. You've probably seen her on TV a few times; she acts as the spokesperson on a lot of Pentagon issues. Trouble is, she has this nagging feeling that most of the time she's lying...but doesn't know she's lying. Just a feeling she has."
"So, she may be ripe to talk—or help?"
"She might. That'll be up to you. I'll have her call you to set up a meet." "I could just meet her at the Pentagon."
"Good luck with that. Even you, Mr. Chief of Detectives, would have a tough time getting past those doors. No, I think you'd better plan on springing for lunch somewhere, you cheapskate."
Denny laughed. "Hey, I'm not a cheapskate! I just offered to buy you dinner!"
"True, you did. But, I do recall that the last time you 'bought' me dinner I got stuck with the check. Remember that, Prince Charming?"
"Hey, I got paged about a murder. I had no control over that, my dear. Duty called."
"Excuses, excuses."
They walked up the hall together toward the front door, then stopped at the doorway to the drawing room. Lucy was still rocking intently, seemingly with some kind of purpose. Barb went into the room and gave her a hug and kiss. Then she turned and walked back, tears in her eyes.
Dennis held her hands in his and squeezed. She allowed a faint smile. "Dennis, there's virtually nothing left of that vibrant woman we both knew so well. It must be so heartbreaking for you. It is for me."
He nodded and lowered his eyes. "She's just a skeleton n
ow, Barb. Just a skeleton."
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was lunchtime at the Pentagon. Bustling, hungry, military and civilian employees together as one long parade of human bodies, making their way in and out of the more than twenty fast food operations. No one had to leave the building; in fact the DOD preferred they didn't. There was plenty to choose from right inside the hallowed halls: Subway, McDonald's, Dunkin Donuts, Panda Express, Starbucks, KFC, Pizza Hut, and Taco Bell—just to name a few. No one in the Pentagon would ever go hungry.
Fiona Perry fought her way down to the main lobby area in the southeast corner of the building. It was like this every lunch hour, and she hated it. Crowds of people fighting for a bite to eat during pitifully short lunch breaks.
Many times, like today, she skipped lunch. Instead she spent the time at the Pentagon Athletic Center, a fully equipped health spa with all the required perks. She just finished an abbreviated aerobics session and felt invigorated, ready to take on the rest of the day.
She looked at her watch—still had about fifteen minutes before she was due to begin yet another meeting. She was meeting her guests at the southeast entrance lobby, the only one designated for visitors. But she wouldn't be able to shake their hands until after they had been dutifully screened by the United States Pentagon Police; or as those in the know called them, USPPD.
Fiona was never worried about being late for meetings. Despite the massive size of the Pentagon, its shape and design allowed for anyone to walk from one point in the complex to any other point in no more than seven minutes. Remarkable.
As she got closer to the main lobby, she passed by a group of students— just one more tour of the Pentagon, led by an experienced Pentagonner. No less than one hundred thousand people toured the Pentagon each year. No surprise—it was one of the most impressive structures in the world.
Fiona smiled as she thought back to the tour she was given when she first joined the Pentagon ten years ago. All the facts she knew that this fresh group of students would be hearing for the first time, all crammed into a one-hour tour.
