Marla leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. The first part of the message was easy, because she knew from her father’s last encrypted message that he had been headed for Las Vegas. That meant the first part of the message read:
Left LV
Good; hopefully that meant the first important step in his plan had gone as planned. The next word was clearly “going,” and she knew the last two letters stood for “Love, Dad.” That left only the letter “N,” which must stand for north. But what in the world was north of Las Vegas?
It would be too risky to open an online map of Nevada to find out, but the campus book store was in the same building. Later on she should be able to flip through an atlas without anyone being able to tell what she was looking at.
All she had to do now was remember that the word “NO” had appeared after the “PS” in the message; she was getting the hang of this pretty well. When she saw the same word at the beginning and the end of some future Tweet she’d know her father had something to tell her once again. While Ernie loitered in the hallway outside the restroom, she tore up the chart and flushed it down the toilet.
After Marla had disconnected her iMac from the Georgetown WiFi network, Carl Cummings snapped his own laptop shut. Leaning back, he shook his head in disappointment. Justin Bieber and Oprah Winfrey – my God!
How could a person of his sophistication ever have been attracted to a girl like that?
* * *
15
The Alexandria Project Makes the Evening News
Richard ryan stood center stage in the CBN Nightly News studio. As always, he was impeccably dressed and at ease in a conservative business suit. He shared a last quiet joke with the intern straightening his tie, and then on cue turned to the camera to prerecord the lead-in to the evening’s broadcast. As usual, he read the day’s headlines from the teleprompter with a serious expression. Then, with a warm smile, he concluded with one of his signature phrases: “Now let’s get down to business, shall we?”
That chore accomplished, Ryan strolled over to the expansive news desk from which he would orchestrate the rest of the evening’s show. He settled in as the big digital clock on the wall counted down to the 00:00 display that meant it was Air Time.
Ryan could hear the theme music playing that would provide the bridge between the reading of the headlines he had just recorded and the live portion of the show. Even now, seven years after becoming the anchor and editor of CBN’s nightly news show, he still listened with satisfaction as a taped voice intoned, “From CBN World Headquarters in Los Angeles, this is CBN Nightly News – with Richard Ryan.” All across America, some ten million faithful viewers settled into their couches to watch the leading evening network news show.
As the last bar of music faded at 00:42 on the now forward counting timer, Ryan looked directly into the camera, ready to read the lead story of the day. Right on schedule, his script started to scroll down the teleprompter, and Ryan began to read in an appropriately earnest voice.
Good evening. We begin tonight with the shocking news that the U.S. Government is hiding a threat of global collapse from the American people.
Anyone paying close attention at home might have noticed that Ryan hadn’t mentioned this story in the lead-in just a few moments before. They might also now be noticing the furrowing brows on the news anchor’s face as he continued to speak, less confidently than before:
The danger I refer to is the imminent threat that our government, the military and the financial sector – indeed, all of modern society – will be taken down in one dramatic attack by cyber-terrorists or an enemy nation. It could happen as soon as tomorrow.
What the hell was going on here, the normally unflappable Ryan wondered. Had someone higher up in the network jumped the script at the last minute to avoid being scooped by NBC, CBS, or God help us, Pox News? Why hadn’t someone at least slipped him a note, damn it? Ryan struggled to prevent his growing anger from affecting his voice. But he was also distracted by the video monitor next to the teleprompter that allowed him to see what viewers at home were seeing on their TV screens. It looked like a Greek Temple being destroyed by fire. What was that all about?
But the teleprompter scrolled inexorably on, and all the camera-imprisoned news anchor could do was to keep on reading.
In a dramatic move to expose this threat, a cyber-action group called the Alexandria Project announced today that it will radically step up the rate of contributions it will accept from the White House, governmental agencies, major corporations, universities, and news media, beginning with this broadcast – right now.
With that, the teleprompter went blank. Taken aback, he looked to his stage director, who was staring in bewilderment at the live show monitor. Ryan followed his gaze, and saw that the burning temple had been replaced by an image of a tall building – perhaps some sort of ancient lighthouse. Below it a message glowed in letters that seemed to be etched in flames:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR
CONTRIBUTION
TO THE ALEXANDRIA PROJECT
Faced with nothing but a blank teleprompter and a video he could neither control nor understand, Ryan used the only line he could remember from his vanished script. Staring straight into a camera that no longer mattered, he said, “We’ll be right back.”
* * *
All across the country, some twenty million other Americans were watching the news anchors on all of the other network and cable news shows, each struggling in his or her own way through the same experience. Only on the oxymoronic Pox News cable channel did the anchor continue to read from his appointed script, asking his audience to decide for themselves whether they thought it was just a coincidence that “Obama” and “Islam” each had five letters.
Apparently, the Alexandria Project was only interested in archiving shows that reported actual news.
* * *
George Marchand had no use for what passed for television news reporting. He was therefore not immediately aware that the Alexandria Project had made good on its promise to take its campaign for cybersecurity, whether real or diversionary, to the public. But at 6:03 both his desk and cellphones began ringing simultaneously. As he paused to decide which to answer first, he noticed that new email messages with “urgent” icons were popping up on his computer screen like crocuses on the first warm day of spring.
Whatever was up, it didn’t look good.
* * *
By 8:00 PM that evening, a fuming Carl Cummings was sitting in a cold car parked in a freezing drizzle across the street from an elegant townhouse in Georgetown. With Bert and Ernie and just about every other resource – except Carl – suddenly assigned to tracking down those behind the Alexandria Project, Carl had no choice but to tail Marla in person. According to Bert’s last log entry, Marla had disappeared an hour ago into this tastefully restored colonial residence with a well-dressed, thirty-ish gentleman. Only a single muted light filtered through the closed curtains of an upstairs room. And then that light winked out.
Carl slouched down deeper in his seat. He hoped for more reasons than he was prepared to admit that Marla and her “friend” would momentarily reemerge onto the street. Ten minutes later, he was still waiting.
Carl cursed under his breath and turned up the collar of his coat as the rain turned to sleet. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
Most of a continent away, Frank was driving down an endlessly dark two lane road in Nevada. As suggested by Earl Jenkins, he had headed north on his way to nowhere in particular in search of Ponderosa pines and a secluded place to crack code. But a couple hours out of Vegas, he had begun to think that his first hot meal in three days might taste a lot better coming from someone else’s kitchen than from one of the cans he’d laid in stock for his wilderness mission.
But what the map called Ash Springs turned out to be not much more than a fork in the road, and the next dot on the map to the north that looked any larger (though not by much) was 150 miles a
head. So with the sun setting, Frank turned west on Route 375, hoping that Rachel, Nevada might do better by him, at least to the extent of providing a decent cheeseburger. Had he been looking up instead of down at his map as he accelerated out of his turn, he would have noticed a roadside sign that announced that he was now venturing down “America’s Extraterrestrial Highway.”
It was well after dark when Frank began braking into Rachel, Nevada. Motoring in second gear through what passed for town, he saw only the lights of a scattering of houses set well back from the road. Not until he was halfway through what little there was to Rachel did he spy anything promising ahead. Downshifting again, he read a sign that informed him he had found a motel, bar and restaurant. As he turned into the parking lot, he couldn’t help noticing what appeared to be a flying saucer hanging from the boom of an oversized 1940s vintage tow truck.
Frank switched off the engine and walked across the tumbleweed dotted parking lot. With more curiosity than hope for a decent meal, he opened the door of what the sign had improbably proclaimed to be the Little A’Le’Inn.
* * *
16
You Want Aliens With That?
When frank stepped out of the dark, moonless night of the Nevada desert into the bright light inside, he entered the entirety of Rachel’s commercial district. Part of the cluttered room was filled with a pool table and counters covered with t-shirts and other paraphernalia, but along one wall ran a counter punctuated by the backsides of a couple of patrons sitting on stools; a few more folks sat at tables. Behind that counter stood a waitress of substantial proportions, a cash register, and a modest assembly of liquor bottles that apparently constituted the bar component of the Little A’Le’Inn. That took care of the predictable part of the room. Then there was the rest.
Despite the odd spelling, there couldn’t be much doubt over the meaning of the café’s name. Hung on pegboards, sitting on shelves, and hanging from the ceiling was an impressively random collection of just about anything you might (or might not) imagine could be associated with an extraterrestrial theme.
Frank added his own backside to the lineup at the counter and studied the array of memorabilia covering the wall behind the counter – alien posters, alien postcards, alien pens, alien coffee cups, and dozens of busts of aliens of every shape, configuration, and size. Despite the bizarre range of material, there appeared to be consensus among most interpreters on two central facts: aliens are green, and they have large, black, slanted eyes.
As Frank surveyed the clutter on the wall, he noticed a small mirror, and in the mirror, the eyes of the man sitting next to him. He realized that those eyes were staring back at him intently over the brim of the man’s beer mug.
“Howdy. What’ll it be?”
Frank smiled at the grey-haired, matronly waitress. He looked down and scanned the short menu she slid across the counter. When in Rome, he thought.
“How about the Alien burger – medium, with Swiss. What’s on tap?”
“Bud, Bud Light. In bottles we got Miller, Coors, and Corona.”
“Corona sounds right; thanks.”
Frank felt out of place. According to the sign his headlights had picked out at the edge of town, Rachel boasted all of 98 inhabitants, assuming everyone was home for the evening. That meant about five per cent of the citizenry had decided to have a night on the town. He looked around for something to stare at to feel less like a bump on a log, and spotted a familiar cable show news host peering out from a small TV screen on a shelf in the corner of the bar. Even with the sound turned off, that would do.
A moment later, the camera zoomed in on a monitor behind the news anchor. On it, a familiar phrase glowed red, as if lit by flames. Only now it was in English.
Frank sat bolt upright, staring at the message. “How ‘bout that, eh?” a voice next to him said.
Frank, eyes still wide in shock, turned to see that the voice belonged to the man that had been examining him in the mirror. He was old, Frank saw, but he could only guess how old. Clearly, he’d spent many years in the harsh weather of the high desert; his skin was lined and leathery, and his hair and stubbly chin were grey and grizzled.
Frank was still grappling with the implications of the Alexandria Project going public, and simply nodded.
“Bart Thatcher,” his seat mate said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Carter Columbo,” Frank replied, shaking the hardened hand held out to him. He imagined he saw a look of amusement flicker across Thatcher’s eyes when Frank offered his alias, but concluded the circumstances were making him paranoid.
“Yup. Looks to me like we got ourselves a little problem here,” the old man continued. “Not that I’m surprised. Been expecting it for awhile now, myself.”
Frank hadn’t listened to the radio on his drive up from Las Vegas, preferring to focus on his still-evolving plans. Now he desperately wanted to get back to his truck and find out what had happened. For the moment, though, he figured he’d be safer changing the subject.
“What’s with all the little green men?”
Thatcher smiled. “If you don’t know, I guess you’re just passing through. Fact is, that’s the reason most folks from away come here at all. You ever heard of Area 51?” Frank shook his head no.
“Well, now. Guess I got to start back aways then. Y’see, just a few miles south of here is this ultra-secret test area for new military planes and weaponry. Some folks would tell you it’s a secret place for a whole lot more, too. The government doesn’t even admit it exists, but you just try and get there. You won’t get very far.”
“So how does anyone know about it then?”
“Oh, that ain’t too difficult. We see stuff from time to time that we’re not supposed to. Lights that move too fast and go in ways they shouldn’t. Sounds you never heard before. And we know there’s a mighty big complex back behind those mountains you see to the south. Time was when you could hike up to this one spot and look down and see all these buildings and runways. Nighttime come, and you could sometimes catch yourself a real show.
“Then, back in 1995, the Air Force boys took that spot away from the Bureau of Land Management. Once they did, they moved their surveillance cameras and motion detectors back this side of the ridge, and you couldn’t go there no more. But we’d all seen it by then.
“Not that you really have to go there to see things anyways. Why, one day some new kind of jet plane augured straight down into Route 375, right here in the center of town – pilot punched out just in time, and parachuted in down the road. In no time, they’d picked him up and Rachel was a-crawling with Air Force folks, contractors and armed guards. By the same time the next day you were lucky to find a stray rivet in your yard.”
“Sounds like you’ve got some interesting neighbors. But what does that have to do with aliens?”
“Well, that’s a good question. Maybe you remember the U-2 spy plane? Well, we pretty much know they tested that here, and that takes us back aways, don’t it? The SR-117 Blackbird, too.
“Then there’s those new radar stealthy planes – the fighter and the bomber that you’ve seen in the news? B-1 and B-2? We seen them years before anyone else did – back before anything that looked like that was supposed to exist. Let me tell you, when you see something like that come whooshing over a rise out of nowhere and pass two hundred feet over your head, it makes an impression that sticks with you.
“But now let’s say you try and find out what it is you just saw? Who you going to ask? Not the folks at Area 51, because you can’t get in there, and anyway it doesn’t exist. Hard to get a phone number for something that don’t exist, isn’t it? So some folks start to wonder whether it’s really the military that’s there at all. Maybe it’s somebody else. Or maybe it’s both of them. Maybe you heard about the Roswell Incident?”
“That’s the one where people think the government covered up a UFO crash, right?”
“Bingo. Well, some folks think they brought the debris from that c
rash over to study in Area 51. Maybe they brought back an alien corpse, too. Maybe they even brought back a live one.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Thatcher chuckled. “Me? No, not me. But enough folks do to keep this place open, and sell a lot of t-shirts and trinkets, besides. Yeah, we get some live ones here, you bet’cha. Me, I’m just grateful I don’t have to drive all the way to Vegas to get me a burger. Bad enough I gotta drive sixty miles to get a tank of gas. How’d you like that burger, anyway?”
Frank realized for the first time that it was actually pretty good. Throughout the conversation, he’d been more than distracted, watching the silent TV out of the corner of his eye as the picture switched from network to network, each time showing the same sequence: a news anchor speaking; a burning temple; and then the familiar contribution screen. Holy hell – they must have hacked all three networks, and GNN besides. How long could it be before the whole world was after him?
Frank was suddenly anxious to get moving. “Pretty good. Say, I’m looking to spend some time writing – I’ve got a camper outside – and I don’t know Nevada. Where’s a good place to get away from it all and not be bothered?”
Thatcher smiled. “Well, you’re sitt’n there. But if this ain’t lonely enough for you, just about anywhere else in Nevada should fit your order. Over 90% of the land is public – BLM, National Forest, state. Nobody’s living on it but ranchers, and it’s a long piece between them. Other than the couple highways we’ve got, all you’ll find is gravel roads and Jeep tracks. I hope you got good tires, and recommend you keep a good eye on ‘em, too.”
Frank, the city boy, felt lost. The idea of not having a destination was something he was having a hard time processing.
The Alexandria Project: A Tale of Treachery and Technology (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 1) Page 13