Season of the Witch

by David L. Golemon

  “How old are you?” Ellenshaw asked.

  “That’s not very chivalrous of you Professor. Never ask a lady how old she is. No wonder you never married.”

  “We need to contact our Group. We need to let then know we’re being held by a mad woman,” Charlie said defiantly.

  “Already in the works, Slim.” She reached for the door.

  “I am sorry for your loss.” She opened the door and that was when Ellenshaw saw two guards outside the open door. Elsbeth Barlow shooed them away.

  “What loss?” Crazy Charlie asked.

  “We’ll talk later Slim. You’re free to move about the estate. Breakfast in twenty minutes.”

  Charlie sat hard onto the soft, down filled bed, and Matchstick flopped down next to him.

  “I think we may be in a little trouble here my friend.”

  All Matchstick could do was nod his head at a fast rate of speed.

  * * *

  Desert Springs Hospital,

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Niles Compton paced outside of the intensive care until as the doctors and trauma specialists worked on Alice Hamilton, when an eruption of noise sounded from the upper areas of the hospital. Sarah looked at Niles and both were worried the commotion had something to do with Alice. They were relieved however when they saw security and other employees of the hospital run through the hallways and then up the stairs. Sarah felt the relief and continued to fight back the despair she was feeling over the possible loss of Alice Hamilton and the sudden death of her friend, Virginia Pollock.

  Niles stopped pacing after the noise had subsided and then sat next to Sarah and placed his arm around her. The small geologist saw the redness of the Director’s eyes and knew he was having a difficult time with what had happened. Coupled with the Matchstick disappearance, the abduction of Charlie and now this, she could tell Niles was close to the breaking point.

  They both heard the automatic doors to the emergency room open with a click and Sarah was relieved to Jack and Carl walk in. Both men had the good sense to wash up before coming in. Sarah stood along with Niles and withheld her desire to hug Jack. She did indicate however that he should see if he could bring Niles back from the despondent state he was in. She walked over and took Carl by the hand so Jack could speak with the director.

  “Tom Wilkerson of the Nevada field office is allowing our people to make the first forensic run at the house. We should have an idea what happened soon.”

  Niles started to say something but stopped. He just nodded his head.

  “Alice?” Jack asked. He turned and saw that Carl was already being informed by Sarah about her condition.

  Compton cleared his throat, started to speak, and then just simply shook his head. Collins understood. He knew because of her age it was never that good.

  “That is by far the toughest woman I have ever met. Hell, she’s tougher than most of the soldiers I’ve known. She’ll fight Niles.”

  Compton was about to speak when several people came through the double-automatic doors. Men in black suits and ties were moving hospital orderlies out of the way as several more men came in. Jack, Niles, Carl, and Sarah all saw what all the commotion had been about upstairs as the President of the United States came in following his security detail. With hair that was almost totally grey and a face that held the lines of worry generated by the eight long and tough years of his administration, he walked up to Niles and forced the man into his arms. He patted the director on the back and nodded at Jack over the director’s shoulder.

  “What’s the word?” he asked as he continued to hold Niles’ shoulders.

  Niles shook his head. “Not good. Total cardiac failure.”

  “What in the hell happened?” He was now looking at Collins as Sarah and Carl joined them.

  “We’re still working on that,” Jack said as he exchanged looks with Carl.

  The president reached out and took Collins by the shoulder and Jack could see up close how the war with the Grey’s and his injuries from the battle of Camp David had aged Compton’s best friend. The president also glanced at Everett and Sarah until they joined them. The five people standing in the intensive care waiting area looked far beyond mere conspirators.

  The intensity in the look of the president said volumes about how he felt about his people at the Event Group. “Honest opinion here, and don’t hold anything back. Did Congressman Briggs have anything at all to do with this…this—,”

  “Hit,” Niles said without hesitancy. “Mr. President, I have not one shred of proof, but as you’ve known since college, I am not a believer in coincidence.”

  “Leads?” the president asked.

  “Nothing other than the fact that Doctor Morales believes that Briggs is getting his information from someone who knows the Group intimately.”

  “The damn Russian outfit?” the commander-in-chief asked.

  “Or someone else,” Carl interjected, ignoring the warning look from Jack.

  “Meaning?”

  Niles looked at his friend. “Major Korvesky said that the old woman and the people that snatched Matchstick and Charlie at Lake Mead is known to her Romanian family. Elsbeth Barlow.”

  The president looked closely at Niles. “Barlow? Are you joking?”

  “That’s what the Major reported,” Carl answered for Niles.

  “Old ghost stories?” the president said as he turned away from the four people in the hallway.

  “Wait a minute, are you saying you’ve heard about her?” Jack asked, wondering if even the president was going off kilter over Alice and Virginia.

  “Yeah, Colonel. They’re what we call part of the Camp David ghost stories told by President’s and their staffs through the years. But that’s all they are, ghost stories about a mysterious lady that comes out of the woodwork from time to time to help the country. Pure bull if you ask me. If it was true where was this mysterious savior when we needed her with the world’s fight against the Greys?”

  “Is that all you know?” Niles asked in all seriousness.

  “No, the story goes, and I hate even bringing this up, because, well, come on, it’s not even that entertaining.”

  “Jim?” Niles said as if reprimanding a child.

  “The story says she’s a witch. Not just a normal witch, but the witch queen.”

  The four members of the Event Group exchanged looks as that description was the exact one given to them by Anya and her wild gypsy tale.

  “Oh, come on. Are you people thinking there’s a shred of truth in that?” the president asked, incredulous.

  “Like the truth that there isn’t a Bigfoot, or a mysterious and highly advanced submarine that plowed beneath the sea for hundreds of years and one that eventually guided us to a place called Atlantis. Or that a small little green man named Matchstick saved our lives in a war with space aliens?” Niles looked angry for the first time in days. “Do you want me to go on?”

  “I get the point baldy,” was all the commander-in-chief said.

  The five people in the hallway surrounded by fifteen secret service agents stood as they thought about the next step they had to take when the door to intensive care opened and a young doctor stepped out. He was immediately surrounded by men in black suits with radio connection’s in their ears. His eyes widened as he took them in.

  “Doctor,” Niles said pushing through the cordon of agents, “how is she?”

  Even Jack Collins had to choke down his emotions before the young man could answer the director.

  “All we can do is keep her stable. What in the hell has that lady been through? I counted seven old bullet wounds and at least three stab marks.”

  “Prognosis?” the president asked.

  Again, the doctor’s eyes went wide in shock at who was standing before him.

  “Sssssir, …all we can do is watch her.”

  “No Doctor, we can do much more than that.” The president nodded at a secret service agent near the door who turned and opened it. Th
e person that came through was a burly man in a black naval uniform. The stars on his shoulder boards announced exactly who he was.

  “Your name son?” the man with beard asked as he removed Alice’s chart from his shaking hands.

  “Hanson. Kevin Hanson,” the young doctor answered.

  “Good Doctor Hanson. That’s a good start. My name is Admiral James Dennison, they call me the Surgeon General of the United States. The President has asked me to supervise your additional caseload. Do you have any objections?”

  “Nnnno…sir.”

  “Good, shall we go in and consult with your team, sir?”

  Both the Surgeon General and the young doctor turned to go into the I.C.U., but the Doctor turned and quickly approached Niles Compton.

  “Excuse me sir,” he said with new-found respect for whoever these strange people were, “but Mrs. Hamilton had this in her hand when they brought her in.” The doctor quickly placed a small object in the hand of the director and then hurriedly turned and joined the head physician in all of the nation.

  Niles unfolded the crushed photo and looked at it. It was an old woman next to several other men and women and who looked like a younger Alice and of all people, Garrison Lee.

  “Doctor, did she say who this was?” Niles called out before the doctors could vanish.

  “All she mumbled was something…something, Barlow. Sorry, that’s all she said.

  “Mr. President, I think we have a better than average lead beside that of Congressman Briggs.”

  “Go to it baldy, I’ve got to get out of here before some dickhead politician finds out I’m missing.” He smiled at Niles and hugged him. “I’ll be praying for Alice.”

  Niles could only nod his head as he gathered his people together for a return to Group.

  “Colonel?”

  Jack stopped with the others.

  “The gloves come off on this one,” the president turned and went in the opposite direction of the Event Group.

  Jack looked at Carl.

  “You heard the man, let’s go find the old woman that hurt our friends.”

  Chapter Nine

  Mystery Deep, Exploratory Well # 3,

  sixty-eight miles off the coast of Louisiana

  Dmitri Sokol stood underneath the umbrella held by one of the rig engineers. His eyes looked toward the roiling rain clouds that hit the Gulf on a regular basis. He spied the rented Bell 525 sleek and speedy executive helicopter. The wind buffeted the streamlined craft until its Russian pilot sat it down gracefully on the helipad high above the main deck. Sokol smiled as he watched the four men step into the rain. Then Sokol nodded his head for his deck crew to offer the men cover as they converged with umbrellas, delaying just long enough for the newcomers to be soaked by the slashing rain. The four men were escorted to the main deck. Sokol stepped forward, never losing his calm demeanor nor the arrogance he had toward the man in the front of the pack.

  “Number Ten,” the rotund man from the committee said as he held out his hand.

  After a moment’s hesitation Sokol relented and shook. “Number Seven, this is a rather opportune time for you to visit our facility. Unexpected to say the least without us being informed, but very much opportune.”

  Number Seven glanced around him at the oil workers moving from place to place as he eyed for any armed security. He saw none.

  “You may not think it is so opportune when you hear what it is, I have to say.”

  Sokol chuckled as if the man had just told a small joke. Instead of commenting which caught Number Seven totally off guard, he held out his hand to the bearded man standing beside Number Seven.

  “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure,” he said.

  The bearded man looked to Number Seven when Sokol’s hand was offered. A barely perceptible nod of his head told his guest to shake.

  “Yes, this is a rather valuable friend of the committee. May I introduce our liaison with Congressman Briggs, his Chief of Staff, Mr. Conway Fleming.”

  “Ah, the man behind the curtain. Tell me Mr. Fleming, what would make an important man like you brave the Gulf weather in the heat of summer?”

  “Perhaps we would be better off discussing our situation inside,” Number Seven said.

  “Where are my manners. Being in America has offered little time for the social graces. By all means, follow me.”

  As they walked toward the elevator that would take them into the bowels of the giant rig, Number Seven looked at the darkening skies one last time as he switched on a small digital locator beacon on his cell phone. As his eyes left the sky as he stepped into the lift, he hoped that very same sky had its ears on.

  * * *

  IIyushin-Il-476 Military Flight,

  Operation Rasputin

  The operation was to be accomplished in two phases. One, the sea operation which had just departed the giant jet aircraft, was to HALO (high altitude, low opening) jump from forty-two thousand feet over the Gulf of Mexico. A unit of commandos would use rubber Zodiac boats to assault the Mystery Deep platform from the sea. The fifty-three other Spetsnatz would come at the rig from the air. The second phase was far more dangerous than that of the first as they would be required to land on the rig in other than nominal weather conditions. This specialized assault element had been specially trained for this type of mission due to the ongoing tense situation in the Persian Gulf. The 15th Special Guards Brigade was the best in the world at seaborn assault with the parameters laid down by the shadow government in Siberia. The rules of engagement—eliminate all personnel and the asset known as Asmodius.

  The man commanding the 15th Special Guards Brigade, Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Petrolovich, closed his eyes as the jet’s engine whine wound down as it slowed for the last element to start their free fall to the sea below. Not a religious man himself, he watched as several of his Spetsnaz crossed themselves in preparation for one of the most dangerous jump assaults of their lives.

  The sound of a buzzer sounded and the large green light over the ramp was illuminated. The ramp started opening as the rain started to fly in and around the interior in earnest. Petrolovich lowered his goggles and then stood. He gestured with his hands for his team to stand. Twenty-five men on each side of the craft stood. They turned, facing the ramp. The Colonel gave them all a small salute.

  As the sun sank beneath the storm clouds into the western Gulf of Mexico, Operation Rasputin had commenced.

  * * *

  As a waiter in a red vest and silky white shirt offered Number Seven and his guest, Conway Fleming wine, Number Seven turned his crystal wine glass over. Fleming did the same. Sokol smiled and held out his glass to be filled.

  “I admire that, business first. So, what can I help you with, or should I say what can I assist the committee with?” Sokol smiled and then sipped his wine. As he did his eyes ventured to the two men standing behind Number Seven. Obvious they were here to protect such a valuable asset as the Congressman’s chief of staff.

  “We are here because there is a concern that you went far beyond our instructions in assisting our friend Congressman Briggs in his quest to expose our main concern in the Nevada desert. Can you explain the deaths that were a result of this failure?”

  Sokol again smiled at Number Seven as Fleming raised his brows, as the American became concerned that their visit may not have come as big a big of a surprise as they thought it would. Sokol nodded at the waiter and he placed the bottle of wine on the table and left the dining area.

  “Wherever did you come by that information?” Sokol asked, feigning concern.

  “Number Ten, we have many resources that you may not be aware of. The deaths that may have been incurred by our nemesis in Nevada, may backfire and send their rather capable security forces in our direction.”

  “Plus, you threatened the very man who will soon become the President of the United States,” Fleming said hurriedly, quickly tiring of the silly game being played by the two Russians. I insist that all communication betw
een your people and our man cease imm—,”

  “Again, it’s amazing how misinformed you are,” Sokol said as he swallowed the rest of his wine. “Allow me to get to the bottom of this misinformation campaign against my project gentlemen.” Sokol poured another glass of wine and at the same moment pressed a small buzzer on the tabletop.

  The automatic double doors opened. Vexilla Trotsky wasn’t bound this time, but she was held by the arm. When the two guards saw what was holding the woman, they reached for sidearms but were immediately thrown brutally against the steel bulkhead. Blood trailed them to the deck. Both Number Seven and Fleming stood as the Grey, seemingly satisfied with his action, relaxed. It stepped into the room and pushed Vexilla harshly into a vacant chair.

  “Gentlemen, may I assume this woman is your source of information?” Sokol stood and poured Vexilla a glass of white wine. She angrily turned her head away in disgust. “Oh, and excuse Asmodius, he really isn’t fond of sudden movement. I apologize for his quick reaction toward your men.”

  “Get that thing out of my sight!” Number Seven said, gritting his teeth.

  Sokol sat back down and just raised his brows at his two guests. Then both men backed away when Asmodius eased into a chair next to Vexilla, who leaned as far away as she could. The Grey smiled as if he were merely joining them for dinner.

  “Please, feel free to ask him to leave,” Sokol said in all seriousness.

  Asmodius turned and looked at the two frightened men. It leaned back in the chair and then with its right hand he waved over the two men and they were picked up and then sat in their original chairs. Fleming turned his head and vomited onto the steel deck. Sokol tossed him a towel.