Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1

by GJ Fortier

  The halls themselves were alive with activity. There were military personnel and civilians alike, running to and fro. Junior officers diligently making their way through the din to deliver important messages to their superiors. Vendors of all kinds hauling goods to restaurants, dining halls, snack bars, supply rooms, and janitor’s closets. And there was a myriad of voices intently discussing, curtly instructing, and heartily laughing all at once. Most were in motion; the few who were stationary caused Benny to deviate slightly from his course now and then. But he was at home in the commotion and easily tuned it all out. His thoughts were focused on the moral dilemma of his life.

  He had taken the helm of his current assignment two years prior, and he worked at it with the same zeal he had displayed with every new command. But almost immediately, he had found this duty to be among the most challenging of his career. And time was running out. I like my job. Build me something that blows stuff up effectively and I'll recommend it. But this? This is what they're now calling weapons development?

  He regarded man’s manipulation of God's creations as an abomination. He’d noticed that throughout modern history people had used the argument that God gives scientists the intelligence and ability to produce drugs and techniques that can be used to improve quality of life. By that reckoning, he reasoned, God does the manipulating. It was true that people as a whole were being kept alive longer and longer. But as he continued his way through the controlled chaos of the Pentagon, his thoughts darkened. Unfortunately for some, far too long.

  The situation at hand, however, went far beyond blood pressure medicine or hip replacement surgery. From what little he had been told about the project, Benny understood that it involved some form of genetic engineering. Manipulating life at a level that he believed belonged only to God. It had befallen Benny to evaluate candidates and then offer up some guinea pig for government scientists to play God with. And it only made matters worse that he had been kept in the dark about the true nature of the program.

  The assignment had been completely voluntary. He could have simply turned it down and let someone else bear the responsibility. His career was winding down—twenty-eight years in and two to go. Unless he made admiral, which seemed unlikely. It would have been a simple thing for him to take on another assignment and coast to retirement. But that was not Benny’s way. As long as he had his hands in this project, he thought maybe he could do some manipulating of his own. After all, just like Benny, the chosen candidate would be a volunteer. This put him in a position to select individuals that he felt sure would choose not to participate. And in the back of his mind, he held out hope that if enough time passed, funding for the experiment would run out and that would be that.

  But Margaret Kingsley, the incumbent senator from Wyoming, chairperson of the Armed Services Committee, and a shoe-in for reelection, was a rattlesnake of a woman. Once she sunk her fangs into something, she didn't give up without a fight. And Project Pine Tree was her baby.

  When Benny accepted the assignment, he was handed a list of likely candidates from among the uniformed services, and the bar had been raised as high as it could go. Two of the men he had served with personally and a few he knew by reputation, but many he didn’t know at all. Their jackets indicated they were all highly qualified and capable. They were members of Air Force Special Operations Command, Delta Force, Marine Force Recon, and Navy SEALs units.

  Preliminary evaluations eliminated most of the men even before face-to-face interviews were conducted. For some, it was through attrition since they were assigned to other special operations. After all, in these perilous times warfighters like these were in high demand. But most failed to make the cut because of their psychological profiles. The program required a certain amount of combat experience, preferably covert and high-risk, and some men, once exposed to that type of combat, were changed forever. The list, which once contained dozens of names, had been narrowed down to two. There was a certain amount of pride for Benny in knowing that these two remaining candidates were the men he had served with. In fact, they would have been his top choices regardless of how he felt personally about the undertaking. But there was another, far more important quality these men shared, at least as far as Benny was concerned. Both of them were men of strong conviction, one Catholic, and the other Protestant. For these men, their Christian faith guided their lives. It was more than family tradition or church membership. Benny was confident that once they were told the nature of the experiment, they would each, according to their convictions, choose not to participate. The entire endeavor would then grind to a halt.

  Benny slowed his pace a bit, nearing the first of his two destinations for the morning and hearing a familiar voice coming from a short distance behind him down the corridor.

  “Captain? Captain Walsh, sir?”

  Benny didn't turn to acknowledge the young officer's approach, but he stopped beside the solid black metal door bearing the nameplate he sought: Lt. Cmdr Daniel M. Carter, PhD.

  He glanced over his shoulder and winced internally as he saw the young lieutenant Bill Murphy weaving his way around the other pedestrians. Bill was a good man, but he tended to take things a bit too seriously for Benny's taste. Only three years out of the academy, he was eager to please but still wet behind the ears. And it wasn’t seawater.

  Trotting the last few steps, the lieutenant snapped to attention. At six foot four, the blond-haired, green-eyed eager young man towered over the captain. Oddly, this gave the lieutenant a bit of an inferiority complex. He kept his eyes fixed on the bulkhead behind Benny, not wanting to look down at his commanding officer.

  “Sorry, sir. I wasn't sure exactly where you were, sir.”

  “As it should be, Lieutenant.” Benny stated matter-of-factly.

  Bill frowned. Since his posting to the captain’s staff, most of his time was spent tracking the man down. Benny was notorious for not carrying his phone with him. “The senator’s aide phoned and confirmed your lunch date … um, appointment … with the senator … Senator Kingsley … Mrs. Kingsley, sir.”

  “Senator is appropriate, Bill.”

  “Yes, sir. I called but you left your phone on your desk. I heard it ringing and I—”

  “Are you ready, Bill?”

  Bill gave the captain a confused look. “Ready, sir?”

  “For our lunch date.”

  “Um … well … I … I didn't … I didn't know …” All the blood drained from Bill's face as he pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. Furiously, he began flipping pages, trying desperately to find anything even hinting that he would be accompanying the captain to lunch with the senator.

  Benny smiled slightly in an attempt to calm the junior officer. “Relax, Bill. It was a joke.”

  Bill forced an unconvincing laugh.

  “Anything else, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.” Bill closed his eyes tightly.

  Folding his arms over his chest, Benny's smile dimmed a bit. “Well, which is it?”

  “Yes, sir. There is something else, sir.”

  Benny waited for a moment, but the young man simply stood there. “Bill?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to take a deep breath,” Benny instructed, attempting to coach the lieutenant through his next remark.

  “Yes, sir.” Bill inhaled deeply, held it for just a moment and then slowly exhaled.

  “Relaxed?” Benny asked, sincerely hoping to coax out what Bill was trying to say.

  “Yes, sir,” he lied.

  “Well?” Benny asked, his growing impatience visible.

  “Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Your wife called and said her car is ready.”

  Benny's eyes narrowed. I'm gonna have to square this young man away, and soon. “Anything else, Lieutenant?”

  “No sir.”

  “That'll be all.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Bill turned on his heels and marched back down the corridor. Benny was sure he heard the word “s
tupid” muttered several times as Bill disappeared around a corner.

  Inside the office, the yeoman seated behind the desk stood immediately and snapped to attention. “Captain on deck.”

  The young brunette had her hair pulled back in a bun and she wore no make-up, an obvious attempt to detract from her striking good looks. The nameplate on her desk read “Kimberly A. Mosley, Yeoman Second Class.”

  “As you were, Yeoman.”

  “Good morning, sir. The commander is expecting you,” she said with a smile. Benny nodded, signaling her to return to her work as he walked through the open door.

  Danny Carter was standing at attention behind his neatly appointed desk. “Good morning, Captain.”

  “At ease, Danny,” Benny said as he offered his hand.

  Danny was only in his early thirties, but he had the reputation of being very good at his job. The six foot former Naval Academy shortstop certainly looked the part of an officer. His lean frame was well maintained, and he wore his light brown hair closely cropped. “It's good to see you, sir,” he said with a smile. His sea-green eyes flashed as he firmly grasped the captain's hand, affirming his words.

  Benny settled himself into an overstuffed couch and took a moment to look around. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, stuffed with tomes of every sort, partially obscuring the view out of the ordinary mullioned window. There was no surface in the office, apart from the floor, not covered with books. Except for the highly polished desk, which was devoid of even a computer. There were only Danny's nameplate, a green-shaded brass lamp, a single brown file folder, and a Dunkin' Donuts Styrofoam cup.

  “The last time I saw you was at the admiral’s New Year’s Eve party, right?”

  “I think so, sir. How's Mrs. Walsh?”

  “She's well. She had a little fender bender last week, but no one was hurt.”

  “Sorry, I hadn't heard,” Danny said, genuine concern showing in his eyes.

  Benny waved him off. “And how's Carla?”

  Danny smiled. The captain had a reputation for remembering the details. “She's well. Thanks for asking.”

  Benny painted on a serious look. “Did you know that there is no marble in this building?”

  Danny was puzzled by the out-of-left-field question. “Really? No, I didn't.”

  Benny wasn’t usually one for small talk, but he was stalling. “That's right. None at all. Well, maybe some plaque or statue somebody brought in here, but none was used in the original construction.”

  Danny smiled slightly. Reading people was his job, and he could tell that the captain was uncomfortable. “Hmm,” was all he said.

  “Know why?”

  Danny shook his head.

  “Because of the war. World War II. They broke ground on the Pentagon on September 11, 1941. Exactly sixty years to the day before Flight 77. Isn't that something?” Benny paused for a moment as if he just realized the irony himself. “And at that time, just about all of the high-quality marble on the planet came from Italy.”

  “I didn't know that.”

  “Yup, we were enemies. That's why they didn't use any marble in the Pentagon's construction.”

  Danny gave the captain a sideways look and acknowledged his acceptance of the marble fact by changing the subject. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Benny offered a half smile. He appreciated Danny for wanting to get right to the point, and it really didn't make sense for him to drag this out any longer. After all, he had to have another conversation with another psychologist immediately after this one. “How's business lately?”

  Danny had returned from Germany a year ago. There, he had dealt almost exclusively with the needs of men and women suffering from PTSD. “Not too bad. Since I got back, it's been pretty mundane. Divorce, parenthood, depression, that sort of thing.”

  “How long has it been since you took Carla on a vacation?”

  “Vacation? As a matter of fact, we just returned from Grand Cayman Island three weeks ago. Did some sailing and scuba diving.”

  “Well, this will be more of an extended working holiday.”

  Danny leaned back in his chair. “Working holiday? What did you have in mind, sir?”

  Looking out the window at the blue sky beyond, Benny noticed some dark clouds gathering in the southwest. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should wait until after his meeting with the senator to assign Danny and his wife, another Navy psychologist, to the task he had prepared for them. But he knew his meeting with the senator would require an update of his progress, and she would expect him to present his final selections. Brushing those thoughts aside, he turned his attention back to the Danny. “I was thinking South Carolina.”

  3 The Vice Chairman

  18 June 2010

  THE SOFT BLUE LIGHT from the clock of Sergeant Kelly Mueller’s patrol car was muted next to the myriad of other instruments vying for his attention. 5:47 a.m. Just over an hour until the end of his shift. Through the driver’s side mirror, he glanced at the welcome sight of light peeking over the horizon as he drove the loneliest section of Highway 96 in Houston County, Georgia. It had been a quiet night for the twelve-year veteran of the local sheriff's department. He occupied his thoughts by resuming the list of things that needed to be accomplished before his head could finally hit the pillow.

  “Time fer some coffee,” he said, unaware he had uttered the words out loud.

  Kelly could already see the lights of the convenience store ahead, just across the railroad tracks. He had witnessed every stage of the new store's construction during his patrols and had looked forward to its opening more than six months ago. It was nice to have the place in this remote area for snacks, bathroom breaks, and some light conversation.

  As he pulled into the large, well-lit lot and snaked his way through the gas pump islands, he took note of the Mayflower moving van parked on the side of the building. It had been there all night, which wasn't at all unusual. Even before the store first opened for business, there had always been a truck of some kind parked in that spot. It seemed odd to him at first, so he had asked Cindy, the manager, about it. She’d set his mind at ease, saying she had encouraged several of her truck driver friends to park there. She felt safer with the extra layer of security it provided. Still, it took a few months for that I'm-just-not-sure-about-this feeling that all cops have to pass into the recesses of his mind.

  If it weren't for the Mayflower truck and a Budweiser delivery truck parked along the opposite side of the building, the lot would have been empty. After finishing his usual slow circle of the property, he parked in front of the store where he could see Jackie and Stan, the night shift employees, finishing up their housekeeping.

  I’m glad they stay open all night, but they sure don’t do any business until after daylight.

  As he stepped from the car, Kelly was not an imposing figure, standing just five foot nine. But under his uniform he was a solid 180 pounds with the biceps to prove his mettle. His closely cropped light brown hair betrayed his military pedigree. Inquisitive piercing green eyes completed the cop package. As he closed the door, he couldn't help but notice the pearl-colored Cadillac as it wheeled into the lot, disappearing behind the Mayflower truck.

  “I've told her and told her not to park back there when it's this early,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Out here in the middle of nowhere. Anybody could be hidin’ in them woods.” It had been a sweltering night, with the Georgia humidity already beginning to settle in for the summer. Kelly absently wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead as he walked slowly around the corner and waited to cast a disapproving eye on the Cadillac's driver. He slid his thumbs into his utility belt, drummed his fingers impatiently on the patent leather, and stood next to the Mayflower truck as the car nimbly slipped into a slot next to two others in the back. For the first time, he noticed how dark the area was in contrast to the rest of the lot. The lamp in the corner over the cars flickered eerily as a petite black woman wearing ca
sual clothes and the signature red Lightning Quik Mart vest stepped out of the Cadillac. If she can afford that car, then I’m in the wrong line of work.

  “What's it gonna take fer you to start listenin’ to me, Cindy?” he shouted over the truck's engine.

  “What?” she asked, screwing her face up in an uncomprehending frown as she walked toward him.

  “Some redneck with a gun is gonna come out from behind one of them trees and take that flashy car from you. And maybe that ain't all they're gonna take.”

  “No they won’t.” She smiled.

  “Do you have any idea how many times I've heard from folks who thought like that right before somethin’ happens to ‘em?” Kelly sneered.

  “I can take care of myself.” She patted the oversized brown leather handbag slung over her shoulder.

  Kelly shook his head. Cindy Lattice was a retired police officer from up north, and he was well aware that she carried a nine-millimeter automatic for protection. But he still thought she was being reckless. “Okay, Quick Draw McGraw. Just remember, retired cops ain't bulletproof.”

  “Ahhh,” she moaned, waving him off as she walked past.

  “Y’all need to get that light fixed. Especially if you’re gonna keep parkin’ in that corner.”

  Cindy glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, they're supposed to be out here in the next day or two to fix it.”

  Satisfied, Kelly followed her inside.

  “Good morning!” Cindy greeted, opening the door wide as she entered. “How are you guys?”

  “Morning.” Stan, a man in his thirties with an athletic build and a mop in his hand, called back to her with a wave.

  “Hey, Cindy,” Jackie answered with her usual infectious smile. She was a sweet-looking young blonde. Kelly had actually demanded to see her I.D. upon their first meeting, not believing that she was old enough to sell alcohol. “You're late.”

  “I am?” Cindy checked her watch. “I am not.”

  “Hey, Officer Mueller,” Jackie greeted cheerfully.

  "Hey, sweet thing." Kelly made his way to the coffee machine.

  The only other occupant of the store was a man in a khaki shirt with a Budweiser patch over the pocket. He came out of the walk-in cooler, pulling an empty hand truck. “Mornin’, Officer,” he mumbled as he passed, nodding at Kelly, who nodded back as he reached for a cup with one hand and a pot of steaming liquid with the other.