Event: A Novel

by David L. Golemon

  “Sir, you have a message from CAG, he wants to see you ASAP in his office.”

  Ryan nodded and walked a hundred feet down the companionway. This is it, he thought, this was his grounding and the beginning of the end of his career. He paused a moment before knocking.

  “It’s open,” the deep voice of his CAG boomed.

  He quickly opened the door and stepped into the air group commander’s office.

  “Lieutenant Ryan reporting, sir,” he said, standing straight as a board.

  His commander was writing something and didn’t bother to look up.

  “Mr. Ryan, you have orders to report to NAS Miramar. Have your person and navy issue on board the COD at 1055 hours tonight. You are hereby summoned there on National Command Authority, that means the president of the United States, Lieutenant, clear?”

  Ryan didn’t miss a beat. “No, sir, I’m not clear on this. I’m now a Jonah on board my own ship. I would like to stay and get this cleared up.” In his anger, he moved toward the commander’s desk.

  Finally the commander looked up. Ryan could see in his eyes he was still burning up about losing Derry.

  “You are at attention, Mr. Ryan,” he said, pointing his pen at a spot in front of the desk. “Evidently the powers that be, and they are the real power here, mister, want to hear your story, so someone pulled strings and had you transferred. But make no mistake, young Mr. Ryan, we will get to the bottom of this incident. Lieutenant Commander Derry was a close friend, he thought you were the best pilot in the squadron. Therefore, Mr. Ryan, I believe you when you say what you saw out there, but without evidence other than two lost aircraft and three dead men, there’s not a whole lot I can do. Your shipmates will always judge you harsher than even yourself. Dismissed.”

  Ryan deflated. He caught himself and stood up straight and saluted, then turned and left the office.

  Once the door was closed, he stood there in quiet and stunned shock. In fifteen minutes he was going to be catapulted off the Vinson in a C-2 Greyhound, or the COD, carrier onboard delivery, or in this instance, garbage jettison.

  As Ryan started for his cabin to quickly pack, he knew his days aboard the USS Carl Vinson were at an end.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  July 7, 2350 Hours

  The Ivory Coast Lounge was a gentlemen’s club in the loosest sense of the word. The interior was made up in a gaudy African motif, complete with cheap imitation ivory tusks and actual bamboo huts covering the darkened and filthy vinyl-covered booths, giving customers a false sense of anonymity. Ugly plaster ceremonial masks covered the walls, along with shadowy cutouts of native women in erotic poses.

  The dancers plying their trade at this dive were there because they couldn’t find work at one of the finer clubs on the Strip; they were either too old or too young for the legitimate establishments to hire. This was the kind of place that the city fathers were trying to ban from Las Vegas. If they’d known the small club dealt in more than just the exhibition of flesh, they would have moved to close it down even faster.

  The Frenchman had been sitting in the basement of the club for the past twenty minutes. He had arrived at least two hours before the Black Team was due. Every once in a while he would look up from the newspaper he was reading and glance at the closed-circuit television monitor on the desk a few feet away. He was reading a nice little article on a new advance in the software field by Microsoft when the manager of this little piece of Americana cleared his throat, asking for attention.

  “What is it?” he asked without looking up from his article.

  “What should I say to this man? Do I pay him or what?” the club manager asked. “He’s been waiting a long time and is real pissed.”

  Farbeaux slowly looked up, seemingly showing little interest. He carefully folded The Los Angeles Times he had been reading and placed it on the table. He watched the red-head on the monitor a moment and wondered what information he had that interested the big shot in New York or, more to the point, made him so nervous as to want to eliminate a most valuable contact as this man.

  “So this is the man you dealt with before?” Farbeaux looked from the monitor to his host.

  “Yeah, I’m positive; it’s the same weasel that came in here couple a months ago.”

  The Frenchman watched the man on the monitor for a moment. So, this was the traitor that worked for Compton and Lee. Well, he thought, whatever information he’d given Hendrix, he would soon know. And if this Purple Sage really was worth something, so be it. Also he wanted to know about personnel eliminations in the forties; yes, he would know that too.

  Farbeaux was growing bored with working for Centauras and needed one final score to make his time with them worth his while. This might be just that nest egg he was waiting for. If Hendrix wanted him left out of the loop, there must be a reason why, and that reason smelled of opportunity.

  “Send him a drink on the house and make sure one of your nicer whores delivers it.”

  “Yeah, I can do that,” the man with the pompadoured hair answered.

  “I’ll be up in a moment,” Farbeaux said, thinking as he again watched Reese on the monitor.

  The club manager smiled, exposing his crooked and stained teeth. When he saw the Frenchman ignore him, he left to do his business.

  Farbeaux turned as three men in black dress entered from the back entrance. Hendrix’s men had shown up earlier than he would have liked.

  Achilles, the tallest of the three men, stepped forward. “Why are you here, Mr. Farbeaux?”

  “If you’ll step outside I’ll explain the change in plan I received from Hendrix.” He stood and patted the taller man on the shoulder.

  As he walked toward the rear door that led out into a filthy alley, Farbeaux half turned. “Your target may have something more to offer than originally thought,” he said as he opened the door. “I’m here to find out what that is.”

  “Is that what New York has requested we do, assist you?” Achilles asked.

  The Frenchman fixed the man with an icy stare and his right eyebrow rose.

  “It is what I request that should be paramount in your thinking,” he answered with a soft growl.

  The three men exchanged looks and then the tallest man in black nodded his head and followed Farbeaux out of the door.

  He was taken totally unaware when Farbeaux suddenly turned and shot him in the head. Then he quickly fired two more times at the men behind him. The third actually had time enough to pull his own weapon before he was felled with a nine-millimeter round to the forehead.

  “Getting old,” the Frenchman mumbled.

  The rented car the men had used was parked against a far wall next to the club. Farbeaux went to the prone body of Achilles and rummaged through his pockets until he found the car’s keys, then he opened the trunk and carefully loaded the three bodies. Before closing the trunk, he shook his head. It was a shame, they had been good men and loyal to their company, but his action had committed him to a course that was now unchangeable.

  Inside, Robert Reese watched the woman’s swaying breasts as a new and much better looking topless waitress delivered him a drink. “Compliments of the Ivory Coast,” she said with a broad smile, then slowly walked away, making sure he had a good view of the exaggerated way she swung her backside.

  Reese followed the shapely figure of the waitress for a moment, then returned to his thoughts. It had never taken this long to receive his payment. Usually it was in and out and no words spoken.

  Without Reese being aware of his approach, a man in a well-tailored white sport jacket and blue silk tie, which stood out against his white shirt, was now standing next to his booth. He wore expensive Italian shoes and his hair was combed straight back. He looked to be about forty. He eyed one of the girls for a moment, then looked over at Reese.

  “Hello, may I intrude?” he asked, gesturing at the other side of the booth.

  Reese cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m just waiting on the owner to retu
rn.”

  The tall man smiled. “You mean the Elvis-looking character; I think we will leave him out of this for now.”

  Robert Reese watched as the man deftly slid into the seat opposite him. “My name is Tallman. Do you mind if I smoke? Mr….?”

  “Reese. They’re your lungs, not mine.”

  “Very witty, Mr. Reese, and, yes, they are, as you.say, my lungs.”

  Reese noticed the smile didn’t make it as far as the stranger’s eyes. “What can I help you with… Mr. Tallman, is it?”

  The man lit the cigarette and eyed his companion through the haze of smoke.

  “It is not I that can help you, but you may be of great service to me… or so our friendly manager here tells me.” The man smiled and took a drag off the cigarette and intentionally blew smoke into Reese’s face. “You contacted the corporation and either gave them information or sent them information by another means. I need to confirm what was said in your communication,” Farbeaux lied.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are. I was given orders to communicate any file that had to do with…” Reese caught himself. He wasn’t going to give this guy anything for free.

  “Continue,” Farbeaux said, his eyes never leaving Reese’s.

  “This is top-drawer information and I’m uncomfortable with this, I don’t know who you are.”

  “Obviously you believe the intelligence you have in your possession is worth something, or better still, you were told it was worth something, yes?” Farbeaux’s eyes narrowed. “These people don’t scratch an itch without me giving them permission; you are now dealing with me. Now, are you wasting my valuable time, Mr. Reese?”

  Reese looked around and watched as a dancer threw her top into the small group of leering men who lined the stage. Then he swallowed and looked at the man across from him.

  “It’s a military incident involving an… an.” He didn’t know how to continue for a moment. He swallowed, then forged ahead. “An object, but you already know, I sent this to Centaurus already.”

  Farbeaux held his patience well as he blew smoke again at the redheaded computer supervisor. His eyebrows arched as he continued to stare at him with no comment.

  “Two U.S. Navy planes were knocked out of the sky this morning.”

  Still the man said nothing.

  Reese shrugged his shoulders and took a long swallow of his drink, not tasting any of it. “Now understand, whether you like the information or not, I still risked my job and freedom to bring it to the company’s attention, and you people did leave me orders to report anything out of the ordinary, especially where this kind of incident is concerned.”

  “Why try to sell something to us that may already be on the evening news?” the man asked, snuffing out his cigarette in an ashtray that didn’t have the name of this particular club on it, but that of another.

  “The object that destroyed the two fighters probably came down, maybe in the Southwest somewhere, and believe me, the Event Group and the U.S. Navy are the only ones that know about it, there’s no news on the wire, I checked.”

  “And I am to be interested in this because…?” The Frenchman rolled his manicured fingers in a circular motion urging Reese to answer.

  Reese felt this man was dangerous, far more dangerous than the hirelings that fronted this club.

  “My contact at Centaurus said when I was recruited for the Group that anything to do with a UFO attack or anything to do with ‘Purple Sage’ was of the highest priority, and that my payment would be substantial. Now, if you don’t do what is expected here, then I’m walking out and you can answer to the company as to why you lost your number one contact at the Event Group.”

  The man suddenly but gracefully stood and slid into the other side of the booth, not too gently pushing Reese toward the center.

  “Hey,” Reese said in protest.

  “Oh, we are interested my friend. I am also interested in finding out more about Purple Sage, and I suspect you have done a little investigating on your own on that subject where Centaurus is concerned.” He placed his arm around Reese and squeezed his shoulder until he winced. “I need to know a few things about their interest and about possible Event staff disappearances.” The man gestured toward the front of the club.

  Farbeaux had done some investigating on his way to Vegas and found quite a bit of information available on the Internet about Operation Purple Sage. He had found out that the ambiguous title was the old code name for the Roswell Incident back in the forties and was popular with UFO nuts.

  Reese felt his arms and legs go numb as he looked up just as three men arrived and were now standing beside the booth, appearing from seemingly nowhere. He saw that they were all rough-looking and recognized them as bouncers from the club, and Reese decided in an instant they had a definite air of harm about them.

  The music was slowly but steadily turned up louder as the dancer onstage ripped her G-string off and placed a patron’s face in her groin and was rotating to the beat as the men around the runway and stage gave a loud cheer for their lucky buddy, so not one of them noticed the big man in the white suit stand up, quickly followed by three others helping an angry and frightened man to his feet.

  “Look, if you work for Centaurus or the Genesis Group, you should know about it,” Reese said as he looked at the three greasy-looking men holding him.

  Farbeaux squeezed the shoulder harder. “Indulge me, Mr. Reese.”

  “Look,” Reese said, then softened his voice, “it’s rumored in certain circles that Centaurus ended up with the technology from the crash in ′47, even killing other Americans to get at it, and they’re queer for anything concerning UFOs and incidents like the one today.”

  Farbeaux removed his hand, looked at the three men, and nodded quickly toward Reese, and they quickly but quietly pulled him away from the booth. Farbeaux then sat back down and thought as they took Reese away.

  Reese looked around hoping to see at least a few of the patrons seeing what was happening, but they were all hooting and shouting at the stripper, who had gone far beyond a mere tease, and as Reese watched, he saw the men by the stage all jump as she shot her G-string into the crowd.

  Farbeaux was quickly calculating what this information would be worth outside of Centaurus. He decided he needed more information. He needed to know exactly what the corporation knew, and Reese, when persuaded, might be able to tell him.

  If the Event Group and Centaurus wanted it, Farbeaux knew he had to have it first.

  Nellis AFB, Nevada

  July 7, 2355 Hours

  The senator was lying on the couch in his office. Lee was under a doctor’s care for his heart and had been warned time and again about stress, and after speaking to the president, even with his medication, he had felt depleted beyond his years. Niles paced by the huge desk and every other minute looked over at his mentor and friend and shook his head. Finally he slowly walked over to where the senator lay.

  “You can’t push yourself like this, Garrison, I mean that. I can’t be here to make sure you stay down.” Niles shook his head. “I’ve borrowed every damn recon bird we can get our hands on; we have depleted the inventory on unmanned drones and are scanning New Mexico like it’s never been scanned before.”

  Lee raised a weak arm and put a hand up. “Shut up, Niles.”

  “Goddammit, I’m the director of this Group and all we need is for you to go and die on us while this thing is going on. Where would that leave you on proving your theory that this may be an attack?” Niles started to pace again, arms crossed and shaking his head.

  The old man sat up. “I’m not going to prove anything. You are.”

  Niles stopped and turned as his normally red-tinged face was redder than ever. His glasses slipped down his nose and he made no attempt to push them back into place.

  “The hell you say?” he said, nodding his head to look over his lowered glasses. Niles stepped up to the couch again and placed his hands on his knees and looked closely at the old ma
n. “Look, Garrison, I need you, so don’t you flake out on me.”

  Lee smiled as he looked at Compton. “I’ll be here, but I want you to be aware you could be alone in this very soon. I’m very sick, if you hadn’t noticed. Look, you’re the most brilliant man I’ve ever worked with, Niles, you’ll get it done.”

  Lee slowly laid a large file he had been holding weakly onto the coffee table in front of the couch. It was a secure file, red-bordered, and on its cover it read, “For Director’s Eyes Only” and below that in bold, “Event #2120—Ros well.”

  Niles didn’t pick up the file as he looked from it to Lee.

  “I didn’t tell you or the Group the whole story today about what was found at that crash site in 1947. I’ve wanted to show you this file for quite some time, since you were named director as a matter of fact. I didn’t show the others because they don’t need to know we may be at war.”

  Compton touched the red-bordered file and traced the red letters with his finger. And then he looked back at Lee’s reclining form. He swallowed and picked up the thick file from the polished coffee table.

  “You’ll be better able to judge how important finding that crash site is after you’ve looked over the file. Share it with Virginia and Major Collins. Jack will be a real asset when it comes to getting advice from the military. If we’re lucky, my theory is wrong and the damn thing didn’t crash at all, but if I’m right and it did go down, for God’s sake, find it and do it fast,” Lee said slowly as he closed his eyes.

  For the first time since Niles had been with the Event Group, he saw that Lee was not only deathly ill, but also scared. Jesus Christ, what was on that goddamn saucer that would scare a man who had seen the horrible things he had seen in his life?

  NINE

  Fort Platt, Arizona

  July 8, 0140 Hours

  Fort Platt was built in 1857 and served as a company-sized staging area for the U.S. Army cavalry patrols aimed at the raiding Apache bands led by Cochise and Geronimo.