by John Sneeden
Just after the man pulled the dart out of the animal’s flesh, a sharp noise pierced the silence of the mountain. It was a quick, high-pitched whistle, much like that of a teapot. He hadn’t heard the sound in months, so it took a few seconds for it to register.
The phone.
A second whistle sounded just as he pulled the specially modified Samsung smartphone from his pocket. After removing his right glove, he deftly unlocked the screen and pressed the text-messaging icon. His eyes then settled on a text that had no sender name. It was short and simple: F3. Orange 1.
The man’s brow furrowed as he recognized the significance of the characters. After three months of operational silence, contact had been made.
*
Upon receipt of the text, the man’s movements became more hurried. He pulled an antibacterial wipe out of a zippered pocket and quickly cleaned the wound. The animal’s breathing was no longer labored, indicating that the effects of the tranquilizer were already wearing off. He estimated it would awaken in the next half hour or so.
He glanced back and forth in the growing darkness. There was no movement along the steep slope, although the maze of fir trees and boulders prevented him from seeing very far. Apparently, the local coyote population hadn’t picked up the smell of blood yet, and even if they had, they would probably hold back until the human scent was gone. Satisfied the deer would recover, the man quickly gathered his effects and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
After making his way back down the mountain, he set off toward the northeast. Home base was just over two miles away. The route back would take him the entire length of the valley and up through a steep gorge before leading him home.
The man glanced at his watch and went over phone protocol. If he didn’t establish contact within one hour, a second text would arrive. If he failed to achieve contact within two hours, a reconnaissance drone would be wheeled out of a hangar at a secret base in another part of the state. After three hours, the drone would be launched and would fly over the outpost, using zoom optics and thermal imaging to determine who or what was present. If the results indicated trouble, a Chinook helicopter would drop in an extraction team to secure the site.
But the man wasn’t particularly concerned about triggering that series of events. Barring injury or worsening weather, he would be back at the outpost within the hour. He set a goal of forty-five minutes and adjusted his pace accordingly. It was a pace no ordinary man could maintain. He ran along the side of the valley, near the trees and cover. He had rarely encountered people that far out in the wilderness, but he still scanned the surrounding terrain for splashes of color or movement.
Precisely thirty-nine minutes later, two minutes ahead of schedule, the man stood a quarter mile from his destination. Darkness had set in, broken only by the light of an early-rising moon. He squinted until he was finally able to make out the details of the mountain directly ahead.
Despite being pressed for time, he reached into his pocket and drew out a thermal imaging monocular. He focused it on a grove of aspen trees about a third of the way up the slope. Soon he could make out the hints of a structure through the maze of trunks. To the left of the structure, the thermal imaging system picked up a small red blotch. The blotch moved quickly, then stopped. Then it moved again. The size and shape indicated it was likely a raccoon or a fox.
When he swung the monocular back toward the structure, another red blotch appeared, even smaller than the first. It was stationary, without the slightest hint of movement. The man smiled. Sam.
The man then made one final sweep of the mountain, searching for heat signals that might indicate a breach of the perimeter, but there was nothing.
It was time to go in and call home.
*
The structure the man approached was owned by a private clandestine organization known as the Delphi Group. Its mission was to take on operations the US government could not associate itself with, primarily the investigation of the bizarre and controversial. Its genesis could be loosely traced to the infamous events that took place in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. Skeptics declared that the incident involved the crash landing of an alien spacecraft. The military agreed there was a crash, although they maintained it was a high-altitude weather balloon. Unbeknownst to the general public at that time, the government established a unit that operated under the umbrella of the Department of Defense (DOD). Its purpose was initially to safeguard all intelligence gathered at Roswell, and that purpose was eventually expanded to include any and all information not suitable for public consumption. Within a year, the group was also given investigative responsibilities, and it was eventually transferred to the CIA during the Cold War.
The unit continued to operate with varying degrees of activity throughout the next several decades. The first major change came in the years following the Iran Contra affair in the late 1980s. The CIA had fallen under a microscope, which in turn led to the shutting down of a number of controversial programs and initiatives. The small investigative unit was not shut down, but it was forced to go completely black. Only the president, the vice president, the director, the assistant director, and a select few senior CIA officers were aware of its existence. All information that fell under the unit’s authority was kept on a separate server, and all physical meetings could only be conducted in the director’s office or the Oval Office. It was known as the organization of last resort.
In the early 2000s, the director recognized the increasing reach of the media, including online sleuths and bloggers, so with the blessing of the president he stored all of the historic data that had been gathered, and released all investigative power to a newly formed private company. That company was the Delphi Group. It derived its name from the famed city in Greece, home of the mythic oracle that spoke prophetic words to the Greek world.
The company’s current head, Dr. Alexander Ross, was no mystic, but he was one of the most talented gatherers of information in the history of the United States. He was a former Director of National Intelligence and CIA case officer. His no-nonsense approach, coupled with a natural affinity for secrecy, made him the perfect leader for an organization like Delphi.
And while the investigation of UFOs and alien life was no longer high on the agenda of Delphi, there were enough bizarre events around the world to warrant the attention of the United States government and the private tentacles that extended on its behalf. Government spooks had discovered that unusual events often signaled valuable scientific advances on the part of other countries.
Delphi’s headquarters were located on the top floor of a modern, mirrored office building on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia. Its employees used a private lift just past the main row of elevators in the lobby. The other occupants of the building had been told that Delphi was a private investment firm that catered to northern Virginia’s wealthiest clientele, but not everybody bought the story.
In fact, one could often hear the true nature of Delphi being debated in the Starbucks on the ground floor. Some declared that the firm catered to criminals. Others maintained the investors were foreigners of ill repute. A third group was convinced that it was an outpost of the NSA. Whatever happened on the top floor, none of the gossipers had ever managed to actually speak to anyone who worked there. They came and went as ghosts.
In addition to the headquarters in northern Virginia, the Delphi Group also operated four field facilities around the country. A simple naming convention was used for each: Facility 1 (F1), Facility 2 (F2), and Facility 3 (F3). The first two included shooting ranges, running trails, rock-climbing walls, and faux towns that were used for urban tactical training. The third facility, F3, was located just northeast of Mount Powell, Colorado, and was known affectionately as the Lodge. The Lodge served primarily as deep cover, a place for operatives to disappear for a period of time following a sensitive mission.
Toward that covert facility, the man in white made his way.
CHAPTER THREE
IT TO
OK HIM about five minutes to scale the mountain and reach the Lodge. He used a barely noticeable trail that snaked up through the maze of trees. He knew it well, and never once used the tactical flashlight that was clutched in his left hand. The man paused only twice, both times to scan for thermal images. Nothing was moving on the slope.
The Lodge was located at the back of a small plateau about three hundred feet up, shielded from view by a thick stand of fir and aspen trees. It was built into the mountain using concrete and steel construction and consisted of three floors. The ground floor was completely concrete with no windows or portals. The two upper levels were covered for their entire length with bulletproof, mirrored glass, so that occupants could see out, but those on the outside couldn’t see in.
The ground floor was used for storage—a snowmobile, weapons, ammunition, and various other pieces of equipment. It was also the main point of entry, one of only two ways in. The other point of entry was strictly in the event of an emergency. It consisted solely of a solid steel hatch at the very top of the building, accessible only by repelling from a cliff above.
Living quarters were located on the second floor. It consisted of three bedrooms, one bath, and a small kitchen, all of which opened off a long hall that was bordered on one side by the mirrored glass. The third floor was mostly empty. It had been built for future expansion and was, in the meantime, used as a place to survey the surrounding terrain for hikers, bears, and other trespassers.
The man entered through the steel door on the ground level. After locking it securely behind him, he placed the rifle in its rack, hung up his Neoprene white snowsuit, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. It was dark inside, and he decided to leave the light off, as was his practice.
When he reached the second level, the man walked to the kitchen at the far end. Knowing he might need a jolt, he quickly sought out caffeine. He opened the cabinet door and searched until he found what he was looking for, a coffee pod. Pure gold. He pushed the pod into the receptacle of the single-serve brewer and hit the small blinking button on top. In a few seconds, the machine sputtered to life, making a familiar whine as liquid energy squirted down into the mug.
Twenty-eight seconds later, there was a loud sucking sound and the flow of coffee ceased. Mug in hand, the man left the kitchen and sat down at a table in front of the long window that ran the entire length of the floor. The view was spectacular; the white trunks of the aspen trees and the snow-laden limbs of the fir trees glowed in the darkness beyond the glass. A slight breeze blew between the trees, making small cyclones of flakes.
A closed laptop lay on the table in front of the man. Just as he reached out to open it, there was a flash of gray and black to his right. Something was moving fast. He wheeled around, lifting his arm instinctively. The intruder landed squarely on the table, hunched in a defensive posture. A stare-down ensued, and after a few seconds the intruder finally let out a loud meow.
“Sam,” said the man, shaking his head. “Still no respect for a trained operative?” The feline ignored the jest and stepped directly onto the laptop, purring and rubbing his nose against the man’s arms.
“Now get going. You know ol’ Ross gets irritable when Daddy doesn’t call home on time.” He lifted the gray tabby and set him gently on the floor. Sam meowed in protest but then retreated to his bowls in the kitchen.
The man opened the laptop and pressed the power button. The processor beeped and whistled as it came to life.
As he waited for the computer to run through its security protocols, the man wondered why he was being asked to make contact with Arlington. He had been seen several times during the last mission in Italy, which would typically require a dark period of six months at the Lodge, and he had only been there for three. To have him come back out at that point would be a violation of Delphi protocol.
Could issues have arisen in Italy since he had returned to the United States? The mission had been deemed a complete success, one of the greatest in the history of Delphi, but perhaps there were some rocks yet to be overturned. Or perhaps the organization they were investigating had more tentacles than they had previously thought. Carmen Petrosino had been left to oversee the cleanup, and she was as competent a case officer as they had.
Then his mind moved to other possibilities: did they have questions regarding the final report that only he could answer? He doubted it. Carmen knew the operation as well as he did. And if they simply had questions, then why code orange? Perhaps there were problems with other operations, but that seemed unlikely. He was their best operative—that wasn’t arrogance; it was simply a fact—but he was familiar with all of the ongoing missions and couldn’t envision a situation that would require him to come out. The whole thing was a mystery.
The Windows chime brought him out of his thoughts. The desktop had loaded. There were 3 USB cables lying on the table in front of him, each of a different color. He chose the yellow one and inserted it into the side of the laptop. As soon as he did, there was another loud beep, and a login box with four fields appeared. He entered his username and then a series of three different passwords, all with fifteen or more characters.
The screen then darkened a moment before finally transitioning to a photograph of the ruins at Delphi, Greece. A line of text appeared at the top of the screen: THE DELPHI GROUP—VIDEO CONFERENCING BEING INITIATED.
The man, whose name Zane Watson, took a sip of coffee while he waited for the connection. A former Navy SEAL, he had been honorably discharged after suffering a severe knee injury while on duty in Yemen. Disappointed at not being able to serve but determined to make the most of his life, Zane enrolled in computer science at North Carolina State University. He was able to obtain a bachelor’s degree in only two and a half years, a testament to his strong work ethic and intellect.
The injured knee was later repaired to near normal, using advanced surgical techniques developed at Duke University, but by then the former SEAL had settled into a civilian career as a flight instructor, based at Raleigh-Durham International Airport (RDU). It was at RDU that Zane reconnected with a former high school classmate named Claire Williams, a flight attendant for a regional airline. The two fell in love, the seed having been planted years ago when they were teenagers, but the time spent apart eventually brought the relationship to a halt. Many still predicted the two would get married one day. Zane had his doubts. As he often said to those who inquired, sometimes when a ship sails, it never returns to port.
Zane was single, childless, and enjoying life as a flight instructor when approached by Dr. Alexander Ross, otherwise known as the Oracle, in the mid-2000s. The Oracle was determined to make the former SEAL the senior operative of the Delphi Group. He had heard of the man’s reputation through various channels; Zane was known as a fearless soldier with a mind like a steel trap. It took a number of flights between Reagan National Airport and RDU, but the Oracle was eventually able to bring Zane on board by agreeing to let him live in Raleigh. The new operative would even be allowed to give flight lessons, as time permitted. The shrewd Oracle knew that it couldn’t hurt to have a point man who was also a trained pilot.
On the screen of Zane's laptop, the face of a girl wearing a headset appeared. She was in her early thirties with auburn hair. She broke into a large grin when video contact was established. “Nice to see you, sir.”
“Nice to see you too, Kristine.”
“I’m patching you through to Dr. Ross.”
Almost immediately, a new face appeared. It was the face of Dr. Alexander Ross, a man better known in the business as the Oracle. He was late middle-aged and had a thin build. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed straight back, and he wore stylish, wire-rimmed glasses. He appeared to be sitting in a dark office with a glass window behind him. The lights of a city twinkled in the distance.
“Zane Watson, you are still alive. Three more minutes, and we were going to have to send out another text. That might have put us over budget,” quipped Ross.
The o
perative smiled. “You know me—never early, but never late. If you ever have to send me a second text, it'll mean I died of old age.”
“I’ll have Kristine make note of that in your file,” replied Ross. “By the way, nice beard… and nice hair. Trying out for a Christmas play?”
“Unfortunately I didn’t have much choice. It seems Kristine forgot to have a razor waiting for me at the Lodge, and the Rocky Mountain wilderness isn’t exactly crawling with barbers.”
“Haven’t spooked the neighbors, have you?”
“When you say neighbors, are you referring to the resident population of spotted skunks, black bears, and mountain lions? Or are you referring to the old woman who keeps marching across the property and setting off the sensors?”
Ross chuckled. “Ah yes, Margaret Honeywell. When O’Brien stayed at the Lodge, he was convinced she was a foreign operative. He made us run a full diagnostic report on her. It seems she’s a bona fide naturalist, a retired professor of botany from the University of Colorado at Boulder. We even sent an agent out to her house, disguised as an insurance salesman. A little flirtation got him in the door, and he was able to talk to her for several hours. It turns out she is quite feisty and doesn’t seem to like men very much. Something about three bad marriages.”
“She does seem to have issues,” Zane replied. “I followed her a few times. She likes to mumble to herself.”
“Did she ever get close to the Lodge?”
“Never. Apparently our stand of aspen trees isn’t botanically significant.”
“Good. I’d hate to think of the stories she might tell if we had to run her off.” The Oracle stared off camera, as if gathering his thoughts.
“Why the code orange?” Zane asked.
The Oracle leaned forward, put his arms on the desk, and said, “We need to pull you out early.”
“I’m sorry, I must not have heard you correctly,” Zane replied sarcastically.