The Aegis Solution

by John David Krygelski

  THE

  AEGIS

  SOLUTION

  John David Krygelski

  Starsys Publishing Company

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Jean, without whom The Aegis Solution could not have been written. There is no warmer heart, kinder soul, sharper mind, or brighter light.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I must thank my editor, Jean. So much more than an editor, she has become my writing partner as we go through this process together. Thank you, again, to Michael Nolan for another breathtaking cover. I'd also like to thank Tim Sweezea, Brad Bledsoe, Michael Hutson, and Jay Crabill for their invaluable contributions in the areas of ordnance, weapons and jargon. A thank you to Erin Christiansen for helping me to understand surface obs, variable winds, and anemometers. And, of course, all that is accurate in these areas is to their credit; any errors are solely mine.

  The Aegis Solution

  www.starsyspublishing.com

  Copyright © 2011 - by John David Krygelski. All rights reserved

  The name Starsys Publishing Company, the distinctive star logo and colors, are a registered trademark

  Cover art - Michael Nolan.

  Art Direction - Michael Nolan - www.michaelnolanart.com

  Editor - Jean Nolan Krygelski

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Published by Starsys Publishing Company

  WWW.STARSYSPUBLISHING.COM

  526 N Alvernon Way

  Tucson, Arizona 85711

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9830528-6-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011945117

  First Edition - November 2011

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Other books by John David Krygelski

  Coming 2013

  About the author

  PROLOGUE

  Anarchy is craved by the best among us for what it affords – and by the worst for what it allows.

  Neve Walker stared out her bedroom window at the darkened landscape, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hand, almost involuntarily, clenched into a fist, crumpling up the sheet of paper containing her handwritten note, as if a part of her mind wanted to prevent the chaos her words were certain to cause.

  Drawing a deep and shuddering breath, she attempted to force at least a degree of calm into her agitated mind. Reluctantly, her eyes shifting away from the window view, Neve looked down and noticed the balled-up note she held tightly. With exaggerated slowness, her fingers opened and she dropped it onto the bed. It was ineluctably a symptom of her mental state that the wad of paper assumed the characteristics of a wrecking ball as it crashed into the quilt which had been handmade for Neve by her mother.

  Focusing what remained of her dwindling reserve, with deliberate motions, Neve meticulously peeled open the wad and, with her fingertips, gently smoothed out the paper, mindful of the poignancy as a tear fell from her cheek onto the page.

  Satisfied, she turned to the nightstand to stare at the one and only picture placed there. Clipped into a cheap frame, which she had purchased with her allowance years ago, was a badly taken photo of herself, sitting between her mother and father. Although, in the time since, she had been given many posed portraits taken by professional photographers, this shot, snapped by a tourist who had happened by, was still her favorite.

  As she gazed at the picture, her mind traveled back, as it had so many times before, to that wonderful day. She and her parents had gone to the Renaissance Festival. It had been her idea that they dress for the occasion. Her mother was resistant to the idea at first, but her father prevailed, as he always did. She still vividly recalled their stifled laughter as the stranger asked if he could join them at their picnic table while they ate, their mirthful reaction caused by the unlikely juxtaposition of images he presented.

  "It's not every day," he said to them, sensing their amusement, "that you see a Vietnamese guy dressed as a court jester from Olde England."

  The four of them laughed, and he joined them at the table. This was, she reflected wistfully, back in the period of their lives when such a thing was still possible.

  It was then, just as he sat down, that Neve decided she wanted a picture. She dug the disposable camera out of her maroon velvet Victorian satchel and handed it to their new guest, asking if he would mind taking a shot of the three of them. He cheerfully agreed and stood up from the table, backing away as he stared through the plastic lens, trying to capture the group within the frame. Satisfied, he stopped and, rather than asking them to say "cheese," remarked, "You realize that I am Vietnamese, not from Japan, so no guarantees about how this picture will come out."

  They all burst into laughter, and he snapped the picture.

  Neve stared intently at the photograph, trying to burn the image into her mind. Her father was to her left, his face stretched in a broad guffaw, a massive turkey leg hovering in front of his chin. Because the stranger was also laughing as he snapped the shutter, the camera had jiggled and he had cropped off the top of her father's head, concealing the leather hat with the flamboyant purple plume affixed.

  To Neve's right, sat her mother, wearing the green velvet dress of a noblewoman, with a lace parasol perched upon her shoulder. She had not yet noticed the large gravy stain on the filigreed bodice, acquired as she had just previously eaten beef stew from a bread bowl.

  Neve's eyes then fixed upon her own face in the picture. Despite her objections earlier that morning, her father had prophetically insisted that she dress as a princess, rather than the Robin Hood-esque character she had planned. A beautiful rhinestone tiara was clipped into her tousled hair, cocked at a slight angle and looking as if it would soon fall off. Around her delicate neck hung a matching necklace, which disappeared into the open neckline of the pink chiffon gown. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her mouth wide open in mid-laugh, and Neve…even on this day…was still able to recollect the total joy she had felt at that moment.

  But it was only the memory of joy which came, not the feeling itself. Such had been the case for quite a long time.

  Tearing her eyes from the photograph, she looked down at the pistol on the bed.

  How unfeminine! she thought to herself, knowing that most females kill themselves with pills.

  Neve had considered that option during the agonizing stages of planning she had gone through and decided that pills were too uncertain. The available resources at her father's disposal were so overwhelming; she did not want to take the chance of being discovered early and a miraculous intervention occurring which might save her putrid life.

  The stee
l butt felt cold as her fingers wrapped around it. The barrel tasted of gun oil. With one final glance at the nightstand photo, she pulled the trigger.

  Almost before the reverberations of the gunshot died down, the bedroom door was kicked open and two Secret Service agents burst into the room, skidding to an awkward stop as their trained eyes instantly absorbed the horrendous scene.

  

  William Walker stood at the podium, his eyes not focusing on the faces before him, his mind reticulating out the whir and hum generated by the jumble of recording equipment all aimed in his direction.

  He began to speak and found that his throat was tightly clenched. Pausing, Walker took a small sip from the glass of water which was ready for him next to the microphone stand. It took three attempts before he succeeded in swallowing. Tentatively, he cleared his throat and began. His voice was not of the timbre and vibrancy this group and the whole nation had become accustomed to. Many of the broadcast reporters witnessing the speech would later comment, as they made their on-the-air analyses, that William Walker, President of the United States of America, sounded weak, tentative, even beaten.

  "I want to begin by thanking the millions of Americans, and our friends around the world, for the prayers and expressions of sympathy that my wife and I have received over the past weeks. I cannot tell you how much they have meant to us during these very dark days.

  "The loss of our only child, Neve, is an experience no parent should ever endure."

  Walker paused and stared into the distance at some unseen vista, causing a silence which quickly grew uncomfortable for the reporters and technicians in the room.

  With multiple blinks of his eyes, the President refocused and continued, "Only God can possibly explain the reasons for her decision. And those answers will be kept from us until the day we join Him...and, I pray, once again see our beloved daughter."

  Walker hesitated a second time, but only for a moment. His back visibly stiffened and, as he began to speak, his voice revealed a trace of its former power.

  "Many of the religions of the world, including my own, believe that suicide is a sin, an offense punishable by an eternity in...in a place other than Heaven. In the days since this horrific event occurred, my wife and I have prayed to God that this not be the case...or, if it is, prayed for lenience from Him.

  "During these prayers...during the long days and nights which have passed since Neve's death...I have come to a conclusion."

  Walked paused once more. For the first time, rather than falling into another absent gaze, he directed his eyes to the lens of the lone camera, shared by all of the television networks for their video feed.

  "I would like to place before the American public the idea...the belief...that no civilized country can consider itself such without offering an alternative to those who have lost all hope. I am proposing that we build a place...a sanctuary...open to all who may need it, where they may go when they have nowhere else to go. It would be a haven for the desperate, a refuge for those who cannot see another way."

  Walker paused to take another sip of water before resuming. "For this concept to serve its intended purpose, the sanctuary must be free from any and all judgment of those who may enter. And it must be a place where one can go to escape the consequences of his or her own actions, no matter how extreme...no matter how heinous...those actions may have been.

  "Over the next days, weeks, and perhaps months, I will meet with my friends and colleagues in the House and Senate. Together, we will attempt to forge the necessary legislation to effectuate the creation of this new place – an establishment which will operate under our aegis, to guarantee that each and every person, if faced with the most dreadful of choices, has a new, and I believe better, final alternative."

  

  Matt Clements watched the county electrical inspector as he replaced the screw securing the cover of the main breaker panel.

  "Everything look all right, Ben?" he asked.

  Ben Barnes tucked the screwdriver into the back pocket of his jeans and nodded, making a note on his inspection sheet.

  "What else do you have on your list?" Clements asked, anxious to wrap up the final inspection and finally get home to his wife.

  Barnes looked at him and grinned. "Don't tell me you're in a hurry to get out of here."

  Matt laughed and glanced around at the cavernous main electrical room, deserted except for the two of them. "I think twenty-three months in this place is long enough."

  The inspector, a retired general contractor who had built more than a thousand buildings in his career, set the clipboard on a transformer and slowly looked around the room. "This is a first for me. I'm sure for you, too."

  "What do you mean, Ben?"

  "Have you ever built anything, especially anything this massive, knowing that after you walk out, you'll never see the inside of it again?"

  Chuckling, Matt quipped, "I hope I don't."

  Barnes did not join his former general superintendent in the laugh, a somber expression remaining on his face. "I just don't know about all of this. I'm not sure it's right."

  Pulled down into his former employer and mentor's mood, Clements fell silent.

  Only moments passed before Barnes snapped back to the here and now. Picking up his clipboard, he scrawled a large X on the box next to "approved," separating the bottom sheet from the two-part form and handing it to Matt.

  They walked without the banter they normally shared, exiting the electrical room and turning down the main corridor toward the entrance. Their footsteps echoed back at them, amplifying the unease they both already felt as they made their way to the elaborate door system, which was currently secured in the open position.

  For the last time…, Clements thought to himself, as he and Barnes passed through into the sunlight. Squinting against the brightness of the day, he saw the four members of the U.S. Marshals Service clustered around their point of egress, sweating. The Arizona sun is unforgiving enough this time of year, he thought, without compounding it by wearing black.

  He was about to inform them that the final inspection was complete, when Barnes, without slowing his pace, announced, "That wraps it up, boys. It's all yours."

  Stopping by the marshals, Matt called out, "Ben…."

  Not breaking his stride, Barnes looked back over his shoulder at his old friend and said, "I'll catch up with you later. Call me after you get home to Lisa."

  Matt watched as his friend climbed into the white truck with the county emblem on the door, started the engine, and promptly drove off.

  One of the marshals – Clements had not bothered to learn their names – turned to him and inquired, "Is that it?"

  His eyes still on the receding truck, he barely nodded, noticing that the rising heat from the pavement was now causing the shimmering effect known as a mirage. Barnes' truck seemed to be suspended a foot or two above the asphalt, as it disappeared into the distance.

  He looked away from the horizon and focused on the federal officer. "Yeah, as he said, it's all yours," he answered, holding up the final inspection.

  "Well, you beat most of them," the marshal said.

  "Most of whom?"

  "The other countries who followed Walker's lead. According to the news, there are at least three other versions of Aegis going up overseas. The only country to get theirs built quicker was Japan."

  One of the other marshals tilted his head in the direction of a large temporary tent, which had been set up a hundred yards from where they stood. "I guess these folks will be happy to hear that the place is ready for them."

  Matt glanced at the tent. His tone somber, he commented, "There are even more here now than when I went inside this morning."

  "Yeah," answered the marshal, "they just keep coming."

  Squinting once more in an attempt to see the faces of the gathered, Matt said quietly, "It feels like a funeral."

  "In a way, it is."

  The marshal turned to his men and instructed, "Okay. Go ah
ead and let them know. Escort them."

  The three men began to walk toward the group, when the lead officer cautioned, "Remember, all of you stop at the door. No one takes a step inside – unless you want to stay, that is."

  One of the three departing men turned back and gave their supervisor a look expressing his surprise at the last comment. One glance at his boss's expression dissuaded him from any sort of a comeback remark.

  As Clements and the marshal watched, the federal entourage reached the group. The assembled strangers immediately surged forward.

  "My God," Matt gasped, "they're acting as though it's opening day at a new shopping mall."

  His companion was silent for a time, before finally saying, "I guess I was wrong."

  "About what?"

  "I didn't think anyone would take us up on this…whatever it is."

  The group, numbering more than a hundred, moved rather quickly in their direction. The two men had to step off the concrete walk to give them room.

  Now getting a better look at their faces, Matt saw that they were all staring forward at the yawning maw of the entrance as they hurried past. They were a mixture of almost all ages, from teens to octogenarians.

  He remembered his wife, Lisa, telling him that it had been decided there would be no formal ceremony for the opening and that all media coverage was banned. As he watched the strange group file past him, he decided this was probably a good idea. His mind visualized a gamut of broadcast reporters lining the walkway as these people entered, shoving microphones in front of their faces and shouting the usual tasteless and insensitive questions.