by Peter Parken
Shelby stepped back from the microphone and Nate took over again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all we have to say tonight. We have digital copies of John Fletcher’s report and his photos of the track—as well, we have photos of the track as we saw it down in Key West before it was dumped at sea. Interested Press members are welcome to contact my office tomorrow and we will provide those items to you.
“As for what happened, we are at a loss to explain why someone would have pulled off such a heinous act. And we are at a loss to understand why a government agency would try to cover this up, and force two people to lie. You can form your own conclusions. In my view, this should now be an FBI matter and I welcome the opportunity to talk to them about this if they’re interested in pursuing it. At the very least, I want the Class Action lawsuit dropped and the good name of myself and my company restored. Thank you.”
Chapter 44
The last two days had gone by in a blur—the uproar raised by the speeches at the convention was all the news; the only news. Immediately after they’d finished saying what they needed to say, Nate, Shelby, and John left the convention hall. Ron stayed behind just to gauge the reaction from the audience and from the convention organizers. According to him, the remainder of the speeches went over like lead balloons. No one seemed interested in the Large Hadron Collider—the buzz was all about Flying Machines Inc. and the shocking revelations that had been made up at the podium.
Some of the Press stuck around, but most of them fled from the convention center, trying desperately to be the first to file their stories. And boy, were there a lot of stories. Twitter was going nuts, every online news page covered the event, including photos and videos, and of course the twenty-four hour news stations were covering it ad nauseum. All of them trying to put some kind of terrorism spin on it, which is pretty much what they tried to do with everything these days.
The three of them had clearly made headlines and now there were more questions than answers. And everyone wanted answers. Nate and his friends had some of the answers, but, following Ron’s advice, they knew they couldn’t share them with anyone. They would be open to prosecution themselves, and that’s the only focus there would be.
Since at least one branch of the government seemed to be involved in the rollercoaster mass murder up to their necks, they would all close ranks and go on the offensive. All would be lost. The Flying Machines executives, Shelby and John, would lose credibility; their chances of coming out clean would be slim to none if they were charged with the federal crime of hacking into government databases.
John Fletcher had spent most of the last two days at the Flying Machines’ offices with Nate and his team. As had Shelby. She took a short-term leave of absence from work and the hospital understood. In fact, they preferred it—with all the publicity, the Press were hanging out at the hospital hoping to interview her. It was disrupting hospital operations.
So, to keep it less chaotic, Nate put out a press release advising that they would all be available for scheduled interviews and photo shoots, for a period no longer than two days. At those sessions, the Press would also be given flash drives with photos of the melted track as well as John’s original inspection report, the one he’d been ordered to bury.
The Press ate it up. They hounded them for as much information as they could get—yet all they got was the same information that had been spoken of at the convention. Nothing more, nothing less. They didn’t disclose the sabotage of the parachutes, and neither did John mention the attempt on his life—for obvious reasons.
At the end of the two days, Nate got the call he’d asked for during his speech—Special Agent Andrew Hopkins of the FBI phoned. He wanted to meet and interview all four of them. Nate eagerly agreed. It was the meeting he wanted.
Finally, something was going to happen.
*****
“We’re going to ask a series of questions, and whichever one of you wishes to answer feel free to just speak right up.” Agent Hopkins started the meeting off with no fanfare. Some pleasant introductions of himself and his partner, Special Agent Angela Norbury, but aside from that, smiles and small talk were non-existent.
They were meeting in the boardroom and, in addition to Nate, there were Ron, John and Shelby. Nate also asked Robin Gilchrist, his Vice President of Legal Affairs, to sit in. Just in case.
Hopkins pulled a small recorder out of his briefcase, turned it on and set it in the middle of the board table. “We’ll just tape this meeting, if you don’t mind.”
Robin reached across the table and turned the machine off. “Put that away, sir. You’re not recording anything.”
“And what’s your job here?”
“I’m the Chief Legal Officer—so, as an officer of the court, you’ll abide by my wishes. As of now, you can consider all four of these people my clients.”
Angela Norbury retorted, “There’s no need for such legal formality. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this.”
“In that case, if you don’t want formality, you’ll abide by my wish that this meeting not be recorded.”
Hopkins pulled a notepad and pen out of his briefcase and asked in a tone dripping with sarcasm, “Are we allowed to take notes?”
Robin answered him in the same sarcastic tone, “I don’t think that question deserves an answer.”
Hopkins nodded. “Okay, then, I’ll start this off. Mr. Morrell, why did you mention the NSA in your speech the other night?”
“Because it was relevant.”
“Why was it relevant?”
Nate frowned. “You obviously have transcripts of what each of us said. Ms. Sutcliffe was approached and threatened by the same man who visited Mr. Fletcher. That man identified himself as being with the NSA. He forced Mr. Fletcher to sign a false investigation report. And he threatened Ms. Sutcliffe to join the Class Action and testify to something that was a lie. Does that all sound relevant to you?”
“Do you know the name of this man?”
“No,” Nate lied.
“Do you have proof that he was with the NSA?”
“No, but Mr. Fletcher’s superior was in on the meeting when the NSA forced the issue of the false report. Check with him. He must have seen some credentials.”
Norbury jumped in. She was sitting directly across from Nate and had a file open in front of her. “Yes, we’ve talked to him already. Gary Tuttle, Director of Operations at the NTSB. He said he doesn’t recall any other report—that the one on public record is the only one that was issued, and that Mr. Fletcher provided that to him after his inspection. And he doesn’t recall anyone from the NSA being involved in any meetings regarding the rollercoaster investigation. Mr. Tuttle also said that Mr. Fletcher is delusional, and that his employment has been terminated as of today for incompetence and unprofessional behavior.”
John jumped to his feet. “What?! I’m just learning this from you? No one has said anything of the sort to me!”
Robin stood up and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Sit down, John. As of now, I’m representing you in a wrongful termination lawsuit against the NTSB.”
Norbury continued, “The NTSB will countersue for libel and slander. That so-called ‘original’ report and those photos Mr. Fletcher has now distributed widely to the Press, have already been debunked as being forgeries—that they were completed ‘after the fact,’ as well as digitally altered to show earlier dates.”
John jumped up again, only to be gently pulled down by Robin. She responded, “I guess we’ll see the NTSB in court, then.”
Nate was staring across the table at the upside-down notes that Norbury had in front of her. The arrogant little ball-breaker had no idea Nate could read them. Not only read them, but also take a photo in his mind and flip them right side up. He smiled pleasantly and rapped his knuckles on the table. Norbury looked up at him.
“Are you trying to get my attention, Mr. Morrell?”
“Yes, I am.” Nate was looking at her with his
right eye, and watching Hopkins with his left. He saw the man’s hand subtly flick a button on the recorder. Without turning his attention away from Norbury, he said, “Agent Hopkins, I saw that. Pass that machine over here to me—you can have it back when you leave. This is my office and, unless we’re under arrest, you will abide by our rules while you’re here.”
Hopkins scowled, then slid the recorder across the table. Nate turned it off and passed it over to Robin.
Nate stared at Norbury and kept his silence for a few seconds. Then, “Agent Norbury, you say that the NTSB denies meeting with anyone from the NSA, correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Then why do I see in your notes the name ‘Carl Masterson,’ and a title next to his name of ‘Director of Security and Intelligence, NSA’?”
Norbury looked at him in astonishment, then quickly closed the file. “You must be mistaken.
“Oh, really? Do you think I just pulled that out of the air?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to stir up here, Mr. Morrell. You may already be in a lot of trouble with the comments you made at the convention. I would tread carefully if I were you.”
Nate pressed on. “Your notes also contain the words ‘Thermate’ and ‘magnesium fuses.’”
Nate noticed the blood had now drained from her face. But, as an FBI agent, she had been trained to recover fast, which she did. “Well, Mr. Fletcher himself mentioned in his speech the other night that in his opinion Thermate-3 had been used, along with magnesium fuses.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Nate opened his file folder and held up a sheet of paper. “This is the official transcript of our speeches. Mr. Fletcher did indeed mention Thermate, but at no time did he say the word ‘magnesium.’ In fact, he said—and let me quote exactly: ‘radio frequency fuses.’ So, why do your notes use the word ‘magnesium?’ That sounds pretty specific to me. Do you know more than you’re admitting, Agent Norbury?’’
Norbury lowered her eyes. Then she suddenly pushed back her chair and stood, grabbing her file folder. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Mr. Morrell, but you’re in a lot of trouble and you don’t seem to realize it.”
Agent Hopkins stood as well and together the two of them headed for the door. He looked back and said, “Those photos prove nothing. They could be of any track anywhere—you could have melted some track yourselves and used it for your photos. I think you’re a desperate man, Mr. Morrell. Your company is going down because of your gross negligence and you just don’t seem to realize that yet.”
Nate laughed. “Really? You underestimate us. Silly for us to let you come here today, thinking that you might want to get to the bottom of this. It seems to me that the FBI is already at the bottom of this, twisting around in the same pig shit that the NSA is. Oh, before you leave, Agent Norbury, please answer me one more question. Why were the words ‘Virginia Sky Pilots’ also jotted down in your notes?”
*****
“Masterson, you said you were going to tie up loose ends. This fucking mess has gone viral now! What the fuck are you doing over there?”
Carl held the phone away from his ear. The yelling from General Tetford was especially painful this morning after his night of drinking with some old NFL buddies.
“General, something went wrong. My men never got back to me—something’s happened to them.”
“I don’t give a shit if they went to Mars! You’re accountable for this! You were supposed to take care of it. Too late—these people can’t turn up dead now. Call off your dogs.”
Carl winced. “I realize that. But we’re already in damage control. I’ve read all the news reports of their speeches the other night. I’m in tune with you, don’t worry. The FBI is working to discredit them, and we’ve done amendments to all the online records. By the time we’re finished, these people will look like neurotic nutcases.”
Carl could hear Tetford cursing under his breath. “Make sure we’re on track for Operation Backwash. None of this needs to change any of our timetables. Agree?”
“Nothing has changed. These assholes are just an annoying distraction.”
*****
John Fletcher walked into the backyard of his shitty little rental house. What a joke the yard was compared to what Linda had created back at their dream home. He stomped on top of the two graves that he’d dug. The grass seed was already starting to take—little sprouts were popping up here and there. Soon, it would look normal again. He made a mental note to get out tomorrow and water them again. These seeds needed lots of moisture in the early days after planting. He’d learned that from Linda.
Back in the house, he took the stairs down to the basement. He just stood there, staring up at the noose that was still hanging from the ceiling. For some reason, he hadn’t discarded it yet. Didn’t know why—maybe it was just an important reminder to him that he’d almost lost the opportunity to carry out his mission.
John went back upstairs and sat down in the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten dinner yet, but he wasn’t hungry anyway. He could tell that he was losing weight—his appetite wasn’t what it was. Perhaps that was a sign that the end was coming? His doctors had warned him that might be one of the first signs that motor signals weren’t getting through. That, as well as the gradual loss of other functions. But he didn’t think so. He figured it was just the stress of what was going on, and the single most important thing on his mind: the ‘thing’ named Carl Masterson.
John picked up the phone and dialed Ron Collens’ home number.
Ron answered on the first ring. “I was expecting your call, John. Don’t know why, maybe because of how agitated you were at the meeting today. I was agitated, too—but somehow I managed to restrain myself.”
“Yeah, I am agitated—but also more focused than ever, Ron.”
“It sure was hopeless with the FBI today, wasn’t it? So much for justice and the search for truth. Those clowns are out to bury us. I thought Nate was brilliant, though. Making sure they knew that we knew what side they were on was a clever tactic. They’re on their guard now.”
John smiled as he thought about the way Nate had thrown those curve balls. “He is a brilliant guy, for sure. And how the hell was he able to read all that upside down?”
Ron laughed. “Oh, that’s a long story. Nate has a few gifts that were given to him on the football field when he was a teenager. They come in handy sometimes. He’ll probably be willing to tell you the story over a beer one night. Or maybe four!”
“I’d love that—except that I’m running out of nights. I’ll have to pin him down on those beers soon.”
“Yeah—I understand.” Ron coughed. “So, John, what’s on your mind?”
“Carl Masterson is on my mind. And it’s clear from the meeting with the FBI today that we need to find out what Operation Backwash is all about. And I think you and I can do this without Nate or Shelby being involved. We should keep them out of it, I’m sure you agree.”
Ron was silent for a few seconds. John held his breath and waited for the former Navy Seal to take the bait—bait he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Tell me what you need from me.”
John sighed with relief. “First of all, I’ll need your help. Secondly, I’ll need you to obtain three items.
Ron whispered when he asked his next question—almost as if he knew what the answer was going to be. “What items do you need?”
“Three items that I know with your background and connections you’ll be able to get for us: Thermate-3; radio frequency magnesium fuses; and a remote control programmed to the fuses.”
*****
John was lying in his new replacement bed looking up at the ceiling. He missed the bed that he and Linda had shared for so many years. That one had fit his body perfectly, and had a lovely imprint that Linda’s body had created on her side of the bed.
On nights when she was up late reading, he would go to bed and run his fingers down the subtle curve in the mattress. It had
always given him comfort. When she wasn’t there, it was a reminder of her. Almost sacred, like the Shroud of Turin.
Now there was nothing. There was just him. All alone, without the one he’d been selling his soul for to make sure she’d be taken care of. He could still see her lovely face calling down to him from the second storey window that fateful night. Could see the worry lines on her face at smelling the gas. Calling down to him, fear in her voice. Then the explosion. And when he’d struggled back to his feet, her gorgeous face was no longer in the window. At that moment, even before he’d climbed the tree, he knew in his gut she didn’t have a chance.
A sweet innocent person like Linda didn’t deserve to die that way. Not any way. He was the one who was supposed to go first, not her. The hate in his heart was overwhelming. Someone was going to pay.
He started drifting off. He knew that he was drifting because bizarre images started appearing in his mind. The beginnings of dreams—he marveled at how amazing that was. He always knew that he was seconds from falling asleep as soon as irrational images and ideas popped into his head.
Suddenly she was there.
Her pretty face right in front of his eyes. John thought his eyes were open, but in this state of early REM he wasn’t quite sure. She smiled at him, and then tenderly kissed his lips. Her hair was flowing down on either side of her face, and she was wearing his favorite dress. He glanced down at her left hand and saw the wedding and engagement rings that he’d picked out for her all by himself decades ago.
Then he saw her hands rise from his shoulders. She was floating now, face still close to his, but her hands and feet were no longer supporting her. Instead, her hands were on his head. Rubbing, massaging. He sighed—those hands were so familiar to him. No one else’s hands would ever do—these were the hands he loved.