Jaxx passed out in a featureless corridor, miles underground and no one topside the wiser.
17
May 30th
Chicago, Illinois
The Tribune Tower housed World News Network’s Chicago Bureau, plus TGN’s Radio, broadcasting on 1190 am, and Lowell’s Books on the ground level. The tower; a beautiful, French Gothic Building. Those who had the final say in WNN’s news network’s coverage worked there.
Drew tipped the cab driver and shut the cab door. He wanted to linger and take in the expansive architecture of Tribune Tower’s main entrance, a site he could admire for hours—gorgeous floral designs wrapped in vines etched on the exterior limestone walls. It was a sight to behold, a marvel of early 20th century architecture. “They don’t make them like that anymore.” He glanced at his watch. Late. Not good, especially since he’d been allotted an 11:30 AM appointment.
“Sharp,” the officious assistant had said. “Not a moment later, not a second sooner. On the dot.” That was how Hobbs Howell worked. What Hobbs wanted, Hobbs received.
Drew hurried into the lobby.
The lobby was heavenly, with a wooden balcony and pendant lights hanging from the ceiling. He stopped for a fleeting second to take it in, then chastised himself internally and hurried to the elevator. He gripped the folder in his hand tightly, knowing that the pictures inside the folder were his trip to safety, perhaps his only shot at not being gunned down late one night.
At the 24th floor a woman sat at the reception desk, a large World News Network sign on the wall behind her.
Drew’s shoes clicked on the Italian Botticino marble floor as he approached, his head held high, acting the important part, though not feeling it. He wore a suit, something he wasn’t used to. He hoped it didn’t smell of weed.
“How can I help you?” She didn’t bother looking up from her typing.
“I’m here to see Hobbs Howell.”
She stopped, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Are you Drew Avera?”
“I am.”
“Nice work on the Zapruder Film documentary.”
“Thank you.”
She went back to typing. “Yeah, it’s something we already knew. Everybody knows. It was a conspiracy. I did like how you tied in E. Howard Hunt. I didn’t know much about Hunt’s past. Do you really think he was the guy in the umbrella when JFK was shot?”
“That’s what my research said.”
“Interesting. Okay, well you’re late for your appointment.”
Drew eyed a large clock on the wall. “Just a few minutes.”
“Nine minutes, actually. That’s nine strikes against you.” She pointed to one of the chairs. “Please have a seat.”
After a few minutes, a loud click signaled a door opening. A voice boomed, “Step into my office, Drew.”
Drew straightened his tie. He shuffled quickly into the office, which looked more like a small library. Books lined the walls. A giant desk sat in the middle of an expensive Persian rug. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the blue, cloudless sky.
Hobbs stood and extended his hand, his voice like a bass guitar. “How are you doing, Drew? It’s been a while.”
“Nice to see you again, sir.” Drew looked around for the nearest chair, which was clear across the room.
What a dick.
His footsteps echoed on the tile as he retrieved one, and picking the chair up, he carried it to the front of Hobbs’s desk.
Hobbs leaned back, folding his hands across his lap, inspecting Drew’s outfit. He grinned. “Why are you all dressed up? That’s not like you.”
Drew sat. “Because I’m meeting my boss.”
Hobbs’s grin fell into a frown. He sat upright, serious. “Don’t call me boss. I hate that word. It makes me sound like my father.” Hobbs placed his elbows on his desk, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s see them.”
Drew looked down and hesitated. “Will this hit the news?”
Hobbs stopped rubbing his hands. “My guess is that it will and—”
“If it doesn’t, I have copies of everything. This will go to all other major news outlets and alternative news sources. I’m coming to you first.”
Hobbs’ mouth dropped. “You’re coming to me first because you work for me. You are my employee, Drew. You’re part of the WNN team. Do you know how many articles and interviews and documentaries you’ve conducted on my dime? This story, if I allow you to work it, is your job.”
Drew leaned forward. “I’ve been threatened.”
“Over these photos?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s your source?”
“I can’t tell you my source.”
“Is it within NASA?”
Drew’s shoulders drooped, as he pictured Ann Maddox, a needle hanging from her arm, her face frozen in her final high. “No. Like I said on the phone. These pictures should be coming from NASA, but instead they are coming from a company named Terra Energy Corp. They’re using one of their satellites to take pictures over a Jupiter moon and then sending those images directly to the Global Security Administration, also known as GSA. The GSA is headed by Colonel Slade Roberson. The GSA funds the shit out of TEC.”
Hobbs did a double-take. “Why the hell would the GSA need images from a satellite over a Jupiter moon? And if they need them for some reason or another, why are they using a private corporation instead of NASA?”
“I’m coming to some strange conclusions, here. I still don’t know exactly what’s going on.”
Hobbs walked over to a bar in the corner of his office, pouring one Scotch, and then another, dropping a few ice cubes in each. He stopped at one of the massive windows and stared across the cityscape, both glasses of scotch in hand. He took a sip from one, then nonchalantly walked to his desk, sitting, and slid the other glass of scotch over to Drew.
“We have to clear this story with the administration, you know that, Drew.”
Drew held the glass, feeling the cold, wet condensation. His heart fell. “The administration? You mean the government?”
“I sent them the images you sent me in our last email communication. These are highly classified. What you hold in your hands can change the face of history. Hell, the face of humanity. Another civilization, either in ancient human past, or of ET origin, created a mess on Callisto.”
“A mess?”
He nodded slowly, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “Yes, quite frankly, a big shit storm.”
“You’re not going to let this out to the public, are you? You’re going to sit on it. You’re just like them, withholding data from the American public; from the whole world.”
“It’s out of my hands.” Hobbs took a good long slug of his drink.
Drew pulled his folder close to his chest, clutching it. “I have more. Like I said. Copies.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you for the images, but I need your hard drive. We’re going to have to wipe it clean. These images can’t go out without express permission from the highest authority. You understand...”
Drew stood and left without a backward glance.
I’m going to be living under ground for the rest of my life, dodging anyone who looks suspicious.
18
May 31st
Ponteeka Lake, Oklahoma
The doorbell rang. The doorbell hadn’t rung in a very long time. So long, in fact, that Rivkah jumped.
Rivkah Ravenwood, retired SSP pilot captain, hadn’t left the comfort of her log cabin for nearly three years. She wasn’t necessarily afraid of what was out there. No. She was afraid of what others would see. She had terminated almost all communication with the outside world, and if it hadn’t been for her pension, allowing her to purchase items and groceries through courier services, she’d have shriveled away from starvation.
She wasn’t going outside.
She didn’t look the same anymore.
No one was scheduled for a delivery today. Not knowing who or why someone was at the hou
se unsettled her.
Here in rural Oklahoma, where eastern redbud trees were plentiful and flowed atop the hills around her, neighbors were acres away. They left her alone and for years. So, this couldn’t be a neighbor, unless by chance an emergency. Still, nothing of the sort ever happened in rural Oklahoma, and if it did, she never heard about it. And if she had heard about it, she wouldn’t have done a damn thing.
Her coffee shook in her disfigured hand, like it always did. She steadied it with her other hand and took a long sip. The doorbell rang again. If she ignored it, surely the unwelcome visitor would go away. If there was a fire, she’d hear the engines. If it was a flood, well that would be kind of weird. If a tornado...Heck. If a tornado, she’d climb in the bath and hope for the best. She wasn’t going to answer the door. Not a chance.
Another ring. Her apprehension turned to irritation. Could they not take a hint? One ring, give me a minute. Two, perhaps I am in the shower. Three, um, I am not coming to the door, doofus, But four. Four meant you were a straight-up idiot.
She placed her steaming mug on the coffee table and stood, determined to send the intruder away. Her gnarled hand pulled her robe tighter and she walked toward the door.
She shuffled her feet across the wood floor in her sky-blue slippers. She had a lot of slippers; that was all she seemed to wear these days. Practical and comfy, unless there was a flood-borne fire with a tornado at its back. Then slippers would be impractical.
Peeking through the peephole she could see a man in a black trench coat and a black cowboy hat. He held a manila envelope. Weirdo. Trench coats and cowboy hats don’t go together. Everyone knew that. To top it off, he hid his face under the hat’s shadow.
“Ma’am, can we talk?”
Rivkah didn’t reply. If she had, he might say something else. Something persuasive. He wasn’t a neighbor, that was damn certain, so he had to be there for a reason. The trench coat said Secret Service. The cowboy hat said he thought he was a bit of a player. Either way, the man was trained in the art of persuasion. If he said something persuasive, she might be convinced to show herself. Of all things, her face was the worst.
“You’re being called back to service.”
Was there a war? If there was, she was too old and had no ability to serve.
The man cleared his throat. “We’ve found you are the best for the job. We need you.”
A tear slid down Rivkah’s cheek. How she would have loved to have the life she once had. In service of the country, flying Air Wing starfighters, she could go speeds faster than humans thought possible and many times did. In her line of service, she specialized in space-to-space combat and secret operations with her squadron in the Secret Space Program.
Flying a starfighter was impossible now. There was no point in thinking such things.
“I know what happened to you,” said the man. “We can reverse the damages. We have the technology.”
Her eyes narrowed. Was it possible? Could she be set free from her self-imposed prison of shame?
He held up the manila envelope. “This is going to change the entire world, Captain.”
“Who are you?” Rivkah’s voice cracked.
“I can’t say, Ma’am. What I can say is that this manila envelope contains answers to your questions. It also contains a phone number you can call when you’re ready to accept this offer.” He leaned closer to the peep hole, his voice a whisper. “We have a situation on a Jupiter moon.”
She knew what he meant. She had seen things in her old life that few people had seen. They probably needed her to lead a squadron to take out whatever stood in SSP’s way. “How can you fix my body?”
“We have made more advances in medicine than we let on in the media, than we let on in the military in all ranks and services, Earth-bound or otherwise. In the news, stem cells are in their infancy, but the truth is we perfected them twenty years ago. We have stem cell sprays and lotions that can reshape your skin. You can look twenty-five again. It’s all about the electrical property of cells. There is more to it at the molecular level, and I know the science may not interest you, but if you come with me, you can see and experience the healing science for yourself.”
“Place the manila envelope on the ground and leave.”
The man nodded, placing it on her welcome mat. “We can change your life in a moment, if you choose. Make that moment today, Captain. We need you.” He doffed his hat in an old-fashioned gesture of respect.
She heard him get in his SUV and drive off down her long gravel driveway. She watched until she couldn’t see his car anymore. Only then did she open the door and pick up the envelope, taking a deep whiff of the fresh, hillside air that smelled of lavender and lake. The outside wasn’t bad.
Back on her couch she tore at the envelope. Photographs spilled out, twelve in all, 8.5 x 11 glossies. A sticky note with a phone number attached to one of the pictures, along with a letter.
She read the letter, then dropped it on her lap and scoured the pictures. Her stomach did flips. It was as if she’d just won the lottery. There were pictures of Jupiter and its moons, including Callisto, the moon outside of Jupiter’s radiation belt. The data was technical, but not gobbledygook. The writer was clear, there was a black ops secret space program in another sector of the government and they wanted her to be part of the team.
The last picture gave her a hearty laugh. It was a close-up of a pyramid. In space. She grinned. “There are Egyptian pyramids on a Jupiter moon. How did we miss that?”
She lifted her phone and dialed the number on the sticky note.
It rang only once before a man picked it up, the same man who had been at her front door.
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“What is the next step?”
“I’ll head back and get you today. We’ll start your regeneration tomorrow.”
“Who are you?”
“Slade.”
Rivkah huffed. “I should have known.”
19
June 1st
Charlotte, North Carolina
Drew sat on a white bench, his mother next to him. He eyed his mother’s pink sweatshirt with blue letters that read Tanner Springs Assisted Living Center. It was gaudy, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.
“How are you liking it here, Mom?”
His mom’s curly, gray hair bobbed up and down and her chin shook but her eyes devoid of expression. “I like it a lot.” She extended her hand, shaking Drew’s. “I’m Laura.” Her eyes went vacant again and she asked tentatively, “Who are you?”
“I’m your son, Mom. Drew Avera.” He’d already told her half a dozen times today.
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“How old am I?”
Drew hated this question, and even though she asked it every time he visited, he told her the truth. “You’re forty-eight.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m what?”
“You’re still young, Mom. Don’t worry.”
She squeezed his hand tightly, then patted his hand with her other. “Oh, wouldn’t that be quite the news story.” Her curious eyes gazed into Drew’s. “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a news reporter of sorts, or a journalist. I’m kinda both. In my position, they can be the same thing.”
Drew’s phone rang; the Caller ID read Hobbs Howell. He answered. “You didn’t air it. It’s been almost a week.”
“We’re not going to air it.”
“Hobbs, you know I’m going to send this to every major and minor news outlet. Why aren’t you airing it?”
“To keep peace and order.”
“I’m disappointed.”
“You did an excellent job with your source and getting him to send you those satellite images. We’re cutting you a big check as I speak.”
Drew closed his eyes. “That’s not why I’m a journalist. In fact, I’m already a pretty damn respected one, so I’d appreciate it if you’d treat me that way. If I cared abou
t money, I’d have worked for a tech company that would give me twice the pay. I’m a bona fide genius and you know it, which is one of the reasons why you hired me. Companies are banging down my door just about every day trying to get me to work for them and for a lot more dough.” They weren’t, but it sounded impactful. “I’m not doing this for the money, Hobbs.”
“Drew, we respect you, but you can’t get your way on this one. Plus, I’d get blasted by the GSA, the NSA, and the god damn President, pardon my French, if I were to let this story out into the open.”
“Why would GSA have any leverage?”
“Don’t send the pictures out to anyone. This story is done.”
“The hell I won’t!”
“I can’t defend you, your credentials, or this station if you talk about ridiculous structures on another object in our Solar System. I will discredit you in every way possible. You know we can do it. And you know Joe Public will believe us and not you. We’ve got the clout, you’re a brainy, weed-smoking flake, with a couple of DUI’s and an underage pornography habit.”
Drew stood. “I do not. I’ve not even had a parking ticket and I’m no pedophile. You’re an asshole, Hobbs.”
Hobbs went silent.
“You wouldn’t really do that to me, would you?”
Hobbs sighed. “It’s out of my hands, my friend. This is a matter of national security. We do not dick around with those guys. We’d be in a Federal prison faster than you could say Jack Robinson. Let it go. For all our sakes.”
How Drew wished he recorded their conversation. “You are supposed to defend the station no matter what news is aired. It’s our job to tell the truth.”
“Noted.”
If he couldn’t convince Hobbs, he’d have to convince someone else. Otherwise, the death threat would become his reality.
“I’m sending my emails and pictures to alternative media outlets and major news outlets.”
Ascendant Saga Collection: Sci-Fi Fantasy Techno Thriller Page 11
