Gentry drew back when a pyramid materialized on the Lectern. A bar chart of heat, electricity, and electromagnet radiation appeared next to the pyramid.
Bogle walked to him, placing both hands on the Lectern. “The chart shows exactly what the satellite detected from Callisto’s largest pyramid.”
Heat at minimal levels. Electromagnetic radiation safe. Electricity, on the other hand, off the charts. Energy signatures high enough to power a megalopolis on Earth blipped on the hologram. Either left on by the last inhabitants of the moon, or someone currently lived there.
“Tell the rest of the fleet to remain here. We’re going in for a closer look. This is an asset and belongs to the American people. It’s not going to fall into private hands. If that asshole thinks otherwise, he has another thing coming. Leave Slade another IPC message. Let him know that we know.”
* * *
Gentry sat at his small Lectern in the Admiral Quarters, letting the Rapid Ion Drives—RI Drives—propel his ship closer to his objective, Callisto. Jupiter just off in the distance; a beauty in the darkness of space.
Still no word from Slade.
He dialed up an image of Earth, taken by an SSP satellite in lower orbit. The smell of coffee filled his room. He picked up his mug and took a sip. He moved his finger across the image of the Earth, zeroing in on a target. North America.
Each human had a distinct ID, fingerprints. He touched another portion of the hologram, pulling up Slade’s. “Where are you? Where? Are? You? Where did you take your SSP retired ass?”
He pressed on Slade’s fingerprints and dragged it over to North America. The Lectern ran a search, the results pulling up a few seconds later.
SPECIFY SUBJECT’S LOCATION BY YEAR
LOCATE SUBJECT’S CURRENT AND PRESENT LOCATION
NEW SEARCH
He waived his finger over present location. The Lectern searched. Gentry folded his hands, waiting for his results.
Star Warden flew slowly, cautiously. Just in case. Gentry had been in combat with races from other systems. If there was a race living on Callisto, he didn’t want to find himself and his crew in the middle of an ambush.
Where is Slade? His search on the Lectern took longer than normal. Is he off planet?
He leaned in, resting his chin on his palm. His briefing with his officers and Captain Bogle earlier, indicated that of all places in the solar system, Callisto might be the best place to live outside of Earth. Yes, it appeared to be dead, but it was far from it. It was the most abundantly oxygen-rich object in the solar system, besides Earth. It was out of Jupiter’s radiation belt, but close enough to steal warmth from the gas giant.
The Lectern brought up data, pulling Gentry out of his reverie. “There you are.”
DATES OF FINGERPRINT LOCATION WITHIN LAST FIVE DAYS
MOST RECENT FINGERPRINT LOCATION
NEW SEARCH
Gentry waived his finger over most recent fingerprint location. The satellite, created by the Secret Space Program to find anyone, anywhere, and at any time, was able to pinpoint a subject’s exact location by fresh fingerprint identification. Fingerprints, if not scrubbed, leave a trace for up to forty years. The freshest fingerprints could give someone’s location away in a matter of seconds. In this case, it took Gentry three minutes and forty-two seconds to find Slade. He’d given the man every opportunity to return his calls; he couldn’t be faulted for tracking him down, even if it was considered crass to use SSP hardware to track a colleague. Or, as in Slade’s case, a former colleague.
Slade, however, wasn’t at the GSA headquarters in Plano, Texas, where Gentry tried to connect. He was deep underground in St. George’s, Grenada. No wonder it took so long for the Lectern to find results.
Gentry pressed holographic buttons, bringing up all the phone numbers in the area. Hundreds popped up. He highlighted them, keeping them on the hologram, but erasing everything else. He tapped a few more buttons, pulling up Slade’s vocal recognition, which came up as a microphone icon. He dragged it to the phone numbers. A few seconds later, all phone numbers vanished but one.
“Lectern, call number and use GSA Plano, Texas as our caller ID.”
The phone patched in the number and Gentry heard it ring.
“Colonel Slade Roberson.”
“Well, if it isn’t Colonel Slade ‘Gumpop’ Roberson.” Gentry grinned. He didn’t need to introduce himself. Slade would recognize his voice and, with any luck, be pissed at the reminder of his old SSP nickname. How he would have loved seeing Slade’s expression.
A pause, as if Slade thought about hanging up. “Admiral Gentry Race.”
“What are your plans with Callisto?”
“It’s above your pay grade, Admiral.”
Gentry rolled his eyes. “I get paid more than you, Slade.”
“Not anymore.”
Gentry needed Slade to talk. “We figured out why you’re interested. It seems that the pyramids give off power like you wouldn’t believe. Can you image that, Slade?”
“What are you getting at?”
“The Secret Space Program has authority over even those in the United States government, black ops or public figures. I’m going to ward off J-quadrant and do a thorough investigation on those structures on Callisto.”
“No, you will not.”
Gentry curled his lips. “This is my investigation now. You could say you’re in my jurisdiction.”
“I have authority from the President of the United States to research and investigate Callisto. This is my baby. Do not touch.”
A warning cropped up on the Lectern, accompanied with a face and fingerprints. He stood, not believing his eyes. “The Lectern is letting me know an old SSP enlistee is near your location. Kaden Jaxx? Why is he near you? Anything connected to his past—people, objects, even smells—will bring back his memories, Slade. Are you nuts? We can’t activate Jaxx. That’d be suicide.”
“I know what I’m doing. He is safe with us. We aren’t exposing him to anything that will trigger that set of memories. He is a good addition and will help us. Goodbye.”
Slade hung up and Gentry gazed at the ceiling. “This can’t be happening. We’re screwed if Jaxx goes public with what he knows.” He clicked on a button on the Lectern. “Special Agent Cole? Please enter.”
Nick Cole, Special Agent and assassin, part of the old Space Marine combat corp used for the first Taiyo raids, now gladly Gentry’s personal guard.
The Admiral’s quarters door slid open and Special Agent Cole marched in, full regalia. Black titanium armor, heavy PPR-9—Plasma Pulse Rifle—magnetized to his back, helmet over his head and face like a medieval knight.
“I’m pulling you from my guard,” said Gentry.
Cole stiffened. “Excuse me, sir? I don’t think that’s wise, especially while approaching an unknown.”
“Understood. This is more important.”
“What is it, sir?”
“A mission. You’ll retrieve someone in E-quadrant. I’ll send the information, the target, and the location to your ship. You’ll bring the target back here to Star Warden.”
“Slade?”
“No, not Slade. Not yet.” The Admiral picked up the crystal carafe that sat on the edge of his desk and threw it against the wall. It shattered into a hundred, beautiful splinters, suffusing his quarters with the distinct aroma of a 300-year old malt.
Cole cocked his head to the side. “I apologize if I overstep, Admiral. Who am I extracting?”
“Kaden Jaxx.”
Cole’s facade cracked. “That weasel is back in play?”
Gentry shrugged. “Find him, extract him, and deliver him to me in one piece. And by ‘in one piece’ I mean alive.”
15
May 29th ~ Charlotte, North Carolina
D-day, as in Deadline Day. The most important day in any journalist’s life. But this deadline was for the Bitcoin story Drew had decided to put on hold, and it was actually days late.
He was on a bette
r story now, a more important story—the GSA and Slade Roberson piece. World News Network was going to be pissed that he wasn’t delivering what he said he’d deliver, but enraging your producer and editor was part of the gig.
Drew scrolled through his missed calls and voicemails. He hadn’t received a phone call from Ann Maddox from NASA yet. He needed that extra intel on Slade. He tossed the phone onto the piles of papers on his dining room table and went back to his open laptop that displayed Jaxx’s photos of other worldly structures tiled on his screen.
When he’d first downloaded the images, he was convinced they were faked. Trick photography or professionally edited photos. Those kids could work freaking wonders with Photoshop these days, just like Jaxx said. But he’d since run the images through error-level analysis on his computer to do some photo forensics and everything had come up clear. These images weren’t doctored. “This is unbelievable. These are real. Holy mother of all shits.”
In Jaxx’s latest email, he had asked Drew to please send these pictures to as many news outlets as he could.
Drew stared at the pictures of other worldly jet fighters and took a bong hit. He held in his breath, scrolling through the next couple of pictures until he landed on an obelisk. He blew the smoke out and was doubled over for his usual, weed-induced coughing fit.
“The GSA is all over this—” he coughed again. “And not one person in the public knows about this discovery?”
He took another hit. The weed had a sweet, buttery aftertaste and he felt the usual all-over body glow creep up from his solar plexus.
“The government is a racket.” Smoke trailed out of his mouth.
Complaining about the “powers that be” was one of Drew’s all-time favorite pastimes. He was on first-name terms with all the leading conspiracists in the country as well as sources in all the major government departments. This shit ran deep. If what Jaxx was saying was true, it ran even deeper. There wasn’t just intelligent life out there—life the starched suits didn’t want Joe Blow to know squat about—but intelligent life that had been here, there, and for all he knew, back again. Jaxx, that pyramid-loving bastard, had been right all along. The Atlanteans had technology that blew our own technology out of the sky. “Damn groovy, man.”
His phone vibrated. NASA displayed on his caller ID, though not Ann Maddox. He answered, “Hey, Keith. How’s it hanging?”
“Yeah, Drew. Got some bad news here.”
Drew stood and made his way to the refrigerator. “What’s up?”
“I’m going through Ann’s voicemails and returning everyone’s calls for her.”
He grasped the refrigerator door handle and pulled it open. Cool air flowed outward, a brief respite from the hot day. “Uh-oh. What trouble did she get into now?” he teased, knowing full well that Ann was a hard worker who kept her nose clean and, while he valued her as an inside source, she wasn’t someone you thought about partying with. The woman probably wouldn’t know how to get into trouble if it rear-ended her on the 405.
“She committed suicide yesterday.”
Drew shut the door. “Excuse me. What?” Drew had never met her in person, but she was more than just a contact. He’d known her for a few years. In a way they had become friends, the way you do with remote people these days. Keith, on the other hand, was her boss and always gave Ann the green light to give Drew what he needed, which tended to be harmless information.
“We found her this morning. Well, her sister did. She had a note with your name on it, so you’re the second person I’m calling. I’d have called you first, but…” Keith’s voice cracked. He held in tears.
“I’m so sorry, Keith. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Uh...maybe.” Keith sniffed. “The guy who I contacted first wanted to know all about you. Things like your childhood, how you did in school, what made you tick. It was weird. He didn’t care two shits about Ann or that she had died. All he said about Ann was that she contacted him a day and a half ago about information on your behalf?”
Drew’s eyebrows squished together. “What was his name?”
“Colonel Slade Roberson. Do you know him?”
Drew tapped his knuckles against his teeth, struggling with his reply. He knew the name, of course and Keith had to know he knew, because he’d listened to Anne’s messages. But with Anne’s death, saying that name out loud had just become a whole lot more dangerous. He didn’t want Keith or anyone else to think it was a big deal. “Not really. His name came up in a routine story I’m working on…” The weed hadn’t addled his brain, but neither was he at his sharpest. He paused for too long. “Just a story on space exploration and shit. You know how well that sells, especially now, with all the cuts.”
“Well, all I know is, he’s some guy associated with the Global Safety Administration. I think he is the head.”
Drew walked to the dining room table and took a seat. “How did Ann take her life?”
“Heroin overdose. She had a needle stuck in her arm when she was found. The dose was apparently three hundred times the lethal amount, but it’s an ongoing investigation. They haven’t ruled anything out.”
Drew had reported on drug beats before and he knew the police’s drill. “Then they haven’t actually ruled it a suicide?”
“No.”
“Any signs of a struggle?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything more.”
“I’ll take a look at it when the time is right. The police will be quiet on it for a while until their discovery is complete.”
“I’d appreciate that, Drew. Her family would appreciate it.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah, me too. We’ll get through this.” His voice cracked again.
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
They said their goodbyes and Drew stared at his phone, assessing the situation. He’d never met Ann, but she’d never slurred her speech or nodded off during their phone calls. She never complained of constant sickness, or a running nose, or nausea. Being phone friends wasn’t the most reliable way to notice someone’s addiction, but she didn’t strike him as a heroin addict.
To say nothing of the fact that three hundred times the amount above the dangerous level seemed excessive, even for someone trying to commit suicide. Could they even function pass the fifty times above dangerous mark? Wasn’t that the very definition of “overkill?”
His phone vibrated again. An unlisted number. He put it down and let it go to voicemail. He was late on bills and after a certain number of calls, bill collectors usually stopped leaving voicemails, so no harm no foul.
The voicemail sound beeped and his head flinched back slightly.
He picked up his phone and listened to his voicemail.
“Mr. Avera. You have never met me and you never will. Please stop your investigation. If you don’t know what I’m speaking about, then know that we have Kaden Jaxx and access to his emails. He is no longer alive. The more people you contact, the less chance they have of surviving.”
The man hung up.
Drew’s hand went limp and his phone fell to his lap. “What the hell?”
He went to his window and stared at the street, the people walking by, and the cars parked next to the sidewalks. Nothing out of the ordinary. No unmarked cars and no government license plates. He shut the curtains and the room became darker.
He stared at his own hands, wondering how he could get himself into such a predicament. Uncle Jaxx is dead? Is the guy on the voicemail lying to me? Is Ann dead because of me?
He went back to the laptop, giving it a distant and empty stare. He covered his face with his hands, trying to figure out his next step. “I can’t do this.”
He started closing the images Jaxx had sent him.
World News Network!
If anyone could keep him safe, it would be the largest news network in the world. If he could get this information out just like Jaxx had asked him, then the big ta
rget wouldn’t just be on his back, it would be on Colonel Slade Roberson’s or GSA’s. In fact, this was probably the safest route. If he was killed for some reason or another, the suspicion would be put squarely on GSA and the Colonel. There was no telling if he was safe, or would be safe, even if he erased all the photos. In one way, Jaxx had given Drew the greatest story of this century, perhaps of all time, but on the other hand, he’d just delivered Drew a death sentence. The only way out was to call Hobbs Howell, the Executive Vice President of Corporate Marketing and Communications for World News Network.
He pulled the photos back up, then printed each one off, hearing them fall to the floor after each picture ran through the printer.
Drew picked his phone back up and dialed Hobbs Howell’s number. It was time to make another splash in the world.
16
May 30th ~ Underfoot Black, Grenada
Jaxx stood, his arms spread outward and harnessed to a rope attached to walls on either side of him. His head hung and his chin touched his chest. Sweat dripped from his nose. Breathing heavily, he blinked several times, unaware of where he was.
In a daze, he shifted from leg to leg. His heart beat slowly. He’d been drugged.
Computers beeped and monitors showed images he couldn’t quite make out. Warm, the room smelled like machinery.
“Where...me?” he said, his voice raspy.
“He’s coming ’round,” said a voice over an intercom. “Get him to the showers.”
Shot, not once, but twice. How was he still alive? He blinked several more times and his vision began to clear. He eyed his chest. Shirtless, no blood, no indentation, and no bullet hole.
He moved his shoulder. No pain.
Two men entered, both with white coats, glaringly doctor-like. They unstrapped Jaxx, placed his arms around their shoulders. They then dragged his feet across the ground, taking Jaxx out of the room.
Jaxx wanted to walk, but his feet were heavy, uncoordinated.
The Complete Atlantis Series, Books 1 - 5: Ascendant Saga Page 9