Falling Star (The Watchers)

by Philip Chen

  Taking off his reading glasses, Mike said without a trace of a smile, "Have a seat, Eastwood. What seems to be the problem?"

  With a flourish, imitating what he thought was a grand gesture; Eastwood pulled up one of the heavy mahogany side chairs and placed a huge pile of papers and computer printouts of cash flows on Mike's desk. Eastwood had once read that you could commandeer any situation by encroaching on the other person's space. As a result, Eastwood's pile of papers was now precariously perched on the corner of Mike's desk. Mike looked with obvious disgust at this puny attempt at power politics.

  "I've been working on the Fairington project; it's a co-generation gas turbine plant with a district heating system as a steam host. The project would sell electricity to Phoenix Utilities. I've been working on the preliminary cash flows for the project. There is a dispute with some of the project participants over the construction period interest rate we should use. The financial adviser for General Steam wants to use a very conservative figure -- an unrealistically conservative one. As you may be aware, Mr. Liu, the use of a conservative figure could put the project in jeopardy."

  Mike didn't rise to this obvious put-down by the insolent pup. Of all the generally non-likable associates who worked at Smedleys, Mike particularly disliked Eastwood, a Choate/Harvard/Yale School of Management clone with his perfectly coiffured hair and brilliantly white-capped teeth. Mike didn't need to understand his visceral dislike of Eastwood. He just knew he disliked him, which was reinforced each time he heard Eastwood's whiny voice trying to sound superior.

  "Who's the financial adviser?"

  "Terry Walters of Collins Burns."

  "That asshole hasn't had an original thought in twenty years. I thought Collins canned him after he fucked up the Alaskan telephone system privatization. How did we get hooked up with him?" said Mike with furrowed brow and a frown, but thinking to himself that this whelp couldn't possibly recognize true quality even if he were hit on the head with it. Eastwood probably admired Walters because, after all, Walters was Harvard, ex-Groton.

  Mike's temper was legend on Wall Street and Eastwood felt ill at ease, despite his disdain of this interloper. Whether or not he believed, as did many of the young investment bankers at Smedleys that Mike did not deserve to be a managing director, Eastwood knew that Mike held the power to hire and fire. That balance of power in Eastwood's mind offset his natural instinct to put the usurper in his place.

  Biting his tongue, Eastwood quietly said, "He came with the deal, Mr. Liu."

  "Yeah, I guess you have to take them as you get them. Too bad, the project would go a lot faster without his idiotic posturing. Okay, what do you have?"

  Mike put on his reading glasses and started to look over the cash flows and other papers. He was about to comment when the telephone rang. Ignoring the ring, Mike quizzed the sullen young associate about the Fairington project structure and how the team had picked the appropriate interest rate to use -- the normal questions, routine questions that Eastwood should have known to have asked.

  A knock on the door, Mike's long-time secretary stuck her head in.

  "Mr. Liu, there is someone on the phone and he insists on speaking to you."

  Mike looked up. He couldn't understand why his secretary was forever barging in when she knew he was in a meeting. She didn't seem to be able to screen calls like other secretaries he knew.

  "Can you take a message and tell him I'll call him in a few minutes? Can't you see that I'm busy?"

  "Sorry. He says it's urgent and he needs to talk to you now."

  "What? Can't you ever..." Mike shook his head, annoyed.

  "He's pretty insistent, Mr. Liu. I really did try."

  Mike sighed. "Okay, put him on." He picked up the phone. "Hello, Mike Liu here."

  "Mr. Liu, this is Lieutenant Albert Twoomey, United States Navy. Sir, the star has fallen."

  The message struck deeply. Mike's head jerked uncontrollably and perceptibly back at the words. His practiced calm demeanor was shaken.

  His face tightened -- instinctively, his hand clenched the handset, knuckles whitening. His field of vision narrowed into a long, dark tunnel. He felt his world starting to cave in. His feelings of anger at being interrupted abruptly changed to dark and foreboding worry. Mike had hoped never to hear those words, but knew someday he would. This was his worst dream, the recurring one that had never gone away.

  Thoughts, emotions, theories, questions, memories, hopes, and morbid fears all jumbled together. God, he hoped it wasn't catastrophic. His thoughts went back twenty years.

  In reality, it was almost twenty-six years. Time had passed so quickly. Even though Mike left the agency in the seventies, he had occasionally been called upon for special projects, but this was different. This was what had started it all.

  I wonder what Bob McHugh is thinking, thought Mike. Robert McHugh was Mike's commanding officer during those initial years and had remained Mike's friend and mentor ever since. McHugh had risen in the hierarchy of CSAC and, as a Rear Admiral, was currently Chief of Operations, stationed in Newport News, Virginia.

  Whatever happened had to have been big, perhaps monstrous. The nature of the words spoken by the caller meant nothing less. The code phrase, "the star has fallen," meant that something had happened at one or more of the observation sites and that Mike was being activated immediately. CSAC agents simply disappeared when activated. If all went well, life could be re-entered, often with elaborate cover fabrications as to the events of the intervening months or, in some cases, years. Sometimes, there was no return and loved ones were given no explanation. McHugh had the power to activate any CSAC agent, retired or not, and he had just activated Mike.

  Mike was lost in thought. The worried look on the Mike's face surprised even Eastwood, despite his barely disguised contempt for Mike. Can't show emotion right now, thought Mike, as he struggled to control to control his emotions. His face quickly regained its Asian passiveness.

  Cupping the speaker of the phone with the palm of his hand, Mike focused his attention coldly on Eastwood. "We'll have to cut this discussion short, something has come up. Why don't you talk it over with the guys in private placement? I'm sure that they can give you some good arguments to use in this situation, seems pretty straightforward."

  The abrupt manner of the dismissal caught Eastwood off guard. Like him or not, Mike was smooth and this abrupt change of character was unsettling. Eastwood rose from his chair, quickly gathered the papers from Mike's desk, and backed out toward the door. "Thank you, Mr. Liu. Shall I close the door?"

  "Please."

  Mike quietly watched as Eastwood exited and the door to his office latched with a soft click.

  Mike whispered into the telephone, "Lieutenant, when did it happen?"

  "Sir, I'm not permitted to discuss that. Your car is downstairs."

  "Of course. Thank you, Lieutenant."

  Placing the telephone handset on its cradle, Mike allowed himself a moment's reflection before putting on his suit jacket and took one last look out his window. His now dry lips pursed and relaxed repeatedly as he continued to struggle with the enormity of the call. The Lieutenant had done the right thing, of course. The unsecured line was hardly the place to discuss matters of such urgency. Mike's years away from active duty with the agency had made him soft. For a moment he was lost in thought as he stared out of his window.

  Mike's office, located on the fiftieth floor of the glass encased tower on the tip of Manhattan, had a sweeping view of upper New York harbor. From his vantage point, Mike could see Governor's Island, headquarters of the United States Coast Guard's Atlantic Fleet, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Mike wondered to himself if he would ever see this view again. Mike had worked hard for this office, but the attainments of power were only temporal. What Mike was about to do was different -- the difference measured not only in appearances but in the very existence of Earth itself.

  Walking over to the coat rack, Mike
put on his suit jacket, taking care to secure only the top button.

  Mike picked up his telephone, punched the intercom button, and told his secretary that he would be out of town for several days. His secretary never questioned Mike's need for secrecy, believing that Mike's projects needed the utmost confidentiality.

  After one last look at his opulently furnished office, Mike sighed audibly and walked quickly out. He went down through the dark, wood-paneled halls, and then through the reception area. After taking an elevator to the Sky Lobby on the 38th Floor, he walked across the hall to another bank of elevators. The tall, stainless steel elevators took less than one minute to cover the remaining distance to street level.

  Mike stepped off the elevator at ground level, turned left and walked through the revolving doors into the oppressively hot and humid world of New York in June. In doing so, he left the coolness of the wealth and power of Franklin Smedley Associates for the sweltering milieu of the busiest city in the world.

  The streets smelled of a New York summer. The gagging fumes from gasoline and diesel fuels, the putrid smell of rotting garbage thrown on the street, and the sharp charcoal fumes from street vendors pushing various delicacies intermingled with the dank, humid smell of a wet New York summer morning.

  Pushing his way through the harried office workers and hordes of tourists gaping at the glistening reflections of the glass tower, Mike finally reached the curb. He marveled at the degree to which people could find wonderment in such man-made structures. The irony of where he was headed as he approached the sedan parked at the curb. He wondered what chaos would result if these gapers knew that the star had fallen. The thought seemed obscene.

  Parked at curbside was an unmarked, dark metallic gray Lincoln Town Car with smoked gray windows. Mike opened the door and slid onto the air conditioned comfort of the back seat. As the door closed, the brassy, hustling sounds faded into the background, as did the pungent, intermingled smells of New York. In their place were the quiet serenity of the luxury sedan and the luxurious smell of leather seats, enhanced by a trace of Chanel No. 5.

  "Commander, it's good to see you again."

  The soft voice came from the attractive blonde seated in the rear of the sedan wearing the summer tan uniform of a Master Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy. A leather briefcase sat on her neatly trimmed, uniformed lap. Margaret Marston still retained her youthful beauty despite the passage of years. Mike hadn't seen Margaret in at least five years, the last time that McHugh had called on him.

  "Hello, Margaret. How have you been?"

  She pointed to the leather suitcase sitting on the seat between them. "Commander, the suitcase contains your summer tans and other items. Your Walther PP and holster are in there as well."

  Mike did not own a firearm. However, Margaret was able to get his favorite Walther any time the need arose, despite Mike's absence from the agency of over fifteen years.

  The Walther fit easily in his hand. Even after so many years, it felt as comfortable as a well worn glove or shoe. Someone had kept it in mint condition and Mike wondered if Margaret did that herself.

  Mike took the small .38 caliber, seven-shot auto pistol out of the suitcase and smiled.

  "You know I hate guns. Besides there's no need for them on this trip."

  "Standard procedure," Margaret said, without a smile. "You have to carry it whether you like it or not."

  The holster presented a problem, since he was wearing braces and no belt. Mike opened the suitcase, rummaged through the neatly packed garments and found a standard issue khaki web belt with brass buckle. Threading the end of the belt through the empty belt loops of his expensive, tailored suit pants, Mike positioned the holster in the small of his back. Strangely, Mike felt comfortable with the Walther in this familiar location.

  I'd better remember to keep my jacket buttoned, thought Mike, realizing how odd the khaki web belt and brass buckle would look with his gray, pinstriped suit.

  Mike wondered what his tailor would think about this discordant note to his carefully picked wardrobe. If he had time, Mike was sure that his tailor could find a tasteful way to carry a personal sidearm. However, since very few Wall Street bankers carried a personal sidearm (things were rough on the Street, but not that rough) there were no guidelines on how the well-dressed and well-armed banker should look.

  I'll just have to wing it, he thought.

  The sedan turned right on to West Street and headed north toward the Holland Tunnel, past the now-controlled access to the office tower's parking garage. As the sedan turned right on to West Street, a similar sedan slipped in front of Mike's sedan. At the same time, a dark gray GMC Suburban with smoked gray windows slipped behind Mike's car. Casually looking back at his protectors in the Suburban, Mike wondered why he was required to carry the Walther when the firepower contained in both the lead and the follow vehicles could have easily outfitted several small island armies.

  Unbeknownst to Mike and the others, a late model, tan-colored Toyota sedan with four white male passengers slipped into the stream of traffic behind the Suburban. The occupants of the tan-colored sedan sat with quiet intensity. They uttered nothing as their driver expertly followed the three-vehicle caravan north on West Street over the pot-holed roadway.

  Mike's caravan, followed by its uninvited hanger-on, rolled into the Holland Tunnel, still in its perennial repair and reconstruction phase, the missing ceiling tiles looking for all the world like an elongated crossword puzzle. Minutes later the caravan emerged in New Jersey and then connected to the New Jersey Turnpike extension.

  After they passed Newark Airport, Mike settled back for the drive to the Naval Facilities Command in the southern part of New Jersey.

  From the briefcase lying on her lap, Margaret took out a red metallic folder with diagonal stripes of yellow and black. The top of the folder was marked: "Level One -- Top Secret; Project Watch."

  Before handing the folder to Mike, Margaret took out a gray metallic box from her briefcase. The box, about the size of a cigar box, was activated when Margaret encoded a short alphanumeric sequence on the keypad. She handed the box to Mike as she quietly slipped her other hand underneath the briefcase. Mike looked into the glass eyepiece on the box; a quick burst of white light startled him, causing him to blink once. Instantaneously, the circuitry in the gray metal box had compared at least thirty reference points in a library identification file against the image of the blood vessels lining Mike's retina.

  Mike then took his right thumb and pressed it onto the glass plate next to the eyepiece. In a similar fashion, the image of Mike's thumb was electronically compared to approximately two dozen reference points on file copies of Mike's fingerprints.

  Finally, Margaret asked Mike to repeat: "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country," into the microphone of the gray box. Mike's voice was compared to file copies of his voiceprint registered in the machine. The phrase randomly selected by Margaret was one of several contained in her duty instructions.

  Mike would not, as a matter of security, know beforehand what he would have to repeat. By having Mike repeat the randomly selected phrase, which itself was specifically encoded at the moment of the test to the reference points in the voiceprint analysis algorithm, Margaret could be certain within a probability of one in sixteen billion that a proper identification had been made.

  In less than one moment, the digital readout, seen only by Margaret, flashed the following: "Liu, Aloysius Xavier Kang Sheng, Commander U.S.N.R., DOB 12-20-43, Level One - XR2907.33."

  Without a change in facial expression, Margaret removed her hand from underneath the briefcase, leaving the Glock semi-automatic pistol on her lap -- the pistol she would have had to use if any of the measurements had gone wrong.

  When the voiceprint analysis was completed and proper identification established, the security box activated the folder release sequence.

  Margaret ran the top edge of the red folder through the slot on the
side of the gray box, rendering the folder's explosive mechanism inoperative, and handed the folder to Mike, who put on his reading glasses and broke the metallic seal. The message:

  NAVOPSCOM

  CSAC

  DIVCONOOD

  Top Secret - Project Watch - CSAC Category XX

  10 June 1993

  To: Liu, A.X.K.S., Com., U.S.N.R.

  From: McHugh, R.M., RADM, U.S.N., CO - CSAC

  Activity noted Watch Stations 1, 2, 4. Time of activities CSAC Classified CSAC Category Need Only -- Oral Only. Suspect messages being transmitted. Encoding in progress. No activity Watch Station 3. Watch Officer activating RECOM procedure.

  You have been activated pursuant to CSAC Directive Number 1. TDY Newport News, Virginia. Report immediately to Watch Station 1. Advise CSAC CNet ETA.

  1200 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: Naval Facilities Command, New Jersey

  Situated just west of Interstate Route 95, the United States Naval Facilities Command looked like a battleship that had stranded itself in a cornfield. The superstructure of the building was designed to resemble the command deck of a naval vessel. Despite the rather open nature of its outward appearance, observable daily by thousands of commuters going south on I-95, the building was a highly secure facility. McHugh designated the facility as a safe point to pick up Mike.

  The gray caravan turned off I-95 and turned on to State Route 1 and proceeded north. Finally, the cars reached the rather nondescript access road to the facility. A prominent sign by the side of the road stated simply, "Private Road -- Do Not Enter."

  The three vehicle caravan sped down the dirt road, a traveling dust cloud following each car. Mike was glad the air-conditioning in the Lincoln Town Car enabled him to keep the car window shut and spare him from having to breathe the gritty air.