Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  “What about Aurora? What about fiber optics? And the prototypes?” General Lanham said, leaning toward Colonel Bennet and throwing up his hands.

  “Yes, yes, there have been significant adaptations,” Bennet said. He looked at the chairman and twitched. “But remember who we are dealing with. These guys aren’t from our neighborhood.”

  Returning the gaze, the chairman said, “What are you suggesting, Colonel?”

  “Well, we can debate endlessly about the fifth species and the defense profile, but there is another very urgent problem.”

  The colonel’s next words came haltingly. To General Taylor, Bennet sounded either very cautious, or very poorly rehearsed.

  “There is an assumption that, at a certain point, disclosure will occur. This assumes we have control of the situation. We talk about the potential instability or disintegration of society that may happen when disclosure occurs. So we have pursued efforts that will prepare society for that moment. In other words, disinformation has changed the way society views the prospect of life elsewhere in the universe. This is the payoff for carrying the burden of secrecy. The problem now, however, is that secrecy has become the singular driving force behind Saint Mary. We have committed unimaginable crimes. Everything from funding to security is built upon unlawful and illegal means. Distrust is our greatest enemy, not a mysterious fifth species. Gentlemen, our mission, the Saint Mary Project, is complete. All that remains is the truth. And this belongs to the people we serve.” Bennet reinstalled his glasses and then dropped his head.

  The room grew quiet again.

  The chairman waited. He looked around the table at all of the meeting’s participants, searching for weakness and sympathy.

  Then, he reacted.

  “This is not an option, Colonel. Let me remind everyone that secrecy and the security branch are more important now than ever. The Circle’s interpretation is that we face a hostile threat, against which we cannot defend. The need to protect this information is obvious. Our actions in Saint Mary must be commensurate with these circumstances. No weak links will be tolerated.”

  Following this warning, the chairman presented a brief lecture about revised disinformation tactics, the centralized command structure at North Range, weapons systems in development, and other changes necessitated by the new policy. General Taylor absorbed the information, becoming especially interested when the chairman mentioned the hybrid program.

  “Currently under General Taylor, the hybrid program will be consolidated with the security and flight operations branches. When North Range is operational, these functions will move there permanently. General Taylor?”

  “Sir?”

  “The transfer procedures will begin at the end of this month. Transmit your summaries and status reports directly to Colonel Stone. The Nellis staff is at your disposal.”

  “To Colonel Stone?”

  “Yes. Colonel Stone will be the officer in charge of the combined functions that I just mentioned. He will, of course, assume the rank of brigadier general on August first.”

  As General Taylor processed these new circumstances, begrudgingly impressed with the chairman’s selection of an “outsider” to run the show, Colonel Stone rose from his chair and walked toward the chairman. Stone paused, making eye contact with each individual, including Colonel Bennet, whose head swiveled eagerly toward him.

  “The Circle need not be concerned about my commitment to protect the project,” Stone said. “My strong recommendation is that we not only reaffirm the security function, but attack the problem of residual evidence. Colonel Bennet mentioned the criminality of our many actions. This was necessary, absolutely necessary. But it has left, for lack of a better phrase, a ‘paper trail.’ Isolation of government records, documents, publications, and whatever else we may think of, is highly important. This flank must be protected.”

  Colonel Stone’s scrutiny of the working group settled onto General Taylor.

  “The government’s credibility is at stake,” Stone said. “The public’s faith in its governing institutions is the fundamental mission. We will not fail, not on my watch.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” the chairman said. “Any questions? Does everyone know where we stand?”

  None of the working group responded, except for Professor Moresby. “I can accept these changes, but I must insist on further communications efforts. I am certain the Circle would agree.” Like Colonel Stone, he rose to his feet. The old man’s limbs shook, so General Taylor braced him under the left elbow. He felt like it was the most useful thing he had done in a long time.

  Finally, resting his hands on the table and taking a deep breath, Moresby continued, “If contact can be made in a more consistent way, perhaps this conflict we are preparing for can be avoided. I have seen too much war in my day. This is not something you should seek out. You said it yourself, Dennis, the functions work best together, despite the renewed importance of the defense profile.”

  “Do what you can, Professor,” the chairman said. “Meeting adjourned.” He pointed at General Taylor and said, “Not you, Edward. Stay for a moment.”

  While the others filed out, Taylor and the chairman remained seated. Facing the chairman across the wide table, the general tried to clear his mind.

  “What do you think?” the chairman asked.

  “Sir?”

  “About Colonel Bennet?”

  “Who is he trying to flush out?”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Was his performance that bad?”

  “Let’s just say I do my job.”

  “You do, and you do it well. In fact, I cannot say enough how much I appreciate all of your help.”

  The gratitude sounded outright banal, like something a neighbor might say to another neighbor after loading a U-Haul trailer with boxes and furniture. The compliment hardly befitted a career of deceit, fraud, and murder.

  “Actually, Bennet’s smoke screen is to help me out in case anyone’s feathers were too ruffled by the restructuring. His comments may help to bring weaknesses to the surface.”

  “I see.”

  “Also, we haven’t really had too much time to discuss these latest developments about Vaughn, not since you brought them to my attention last week. Work with Stone on it. Get him going in the right direction, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The chairman’s features grew thoughtful. The expression made him seem old, worn out. “Vaughn is after something which she will never obtain.”

  “What is that?”

  “The truth, Edward. I’m surprised her political mind has not already realized that truth is the greatest mystery. It is like the concept of silence. Its existence is a matter of perspective. It eludes accountability. I understand that she suffers the ridicule of her colleagues?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why does she persist?”

  “Faith.”

  “What, in the system? No one has faith in the system anymore. People don’t even vote. Why should they? The system gave them Vietnam, Watergate, Iran-Contra, financial crises, useless government shutdowns, and an ocean of debt. It gave them apathy. It has stolen their future. Who in their right mind cares anymore? Tell me, General, do you think there is anyone out there who still has faith enough to make this system work?”

  Sparks flickered off the cogs rotating in Taylor’s skull. The question, an all too familiar one, triggered a stream of memories and his son’s voice. “Dad, I want to fly. Dad, I got my pilot’s license. Dad, I thought I’d join the air force.” He wrestled against the rising floodwaters. Tactics and strategies wedged themselves forward. Lines connected distant places and objects. Bodies. And a name.

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe.”

  “Hmm, then they are our greatest threat.”

  Restraining the anger was easy now.

  Or our greatest hope, Taylor thought.

  Chapter 3

  The Postcard

  Steady.

  Patient and relaxed.
/>   The shooter’s right hand gripped a stainless-steel Colt .45 semiautomatic handgun.

  Easy breaths.

  The thumb safety clicked, and the aim still held true. His right index finger smoothly squeezed the trigger. At last, the first round blasted down the barrel at its target.

  A hit. The round penetrated center mass.

  “Nice shot, Mr. Harrison.”

  William Harrison barely detected the compliment through his hearing protectors. Remaining focused on the black silhouette downrange, he nodded a polite acknowledgment to Norm, the range master standing behind him.

  More bullets flew toward the target.

  Two, three.

  With each round, a distinct clap echoed off the surrounding cement walls.

  Four, five.

  The warm smell of gunpowder thickened in their nostrils and drifted through the other firing lanes, all empty, of Old Pueblo Guns and Range.

  Six, seven.

  Harrison raised his right hand a few degrees and gave Norm a thrill.

  Eight.

  “Right between the eyes,” the range master said, chuckling. “Let me see your license to kill.”

  While Norm hee-hawed like an excited donkey, Harrison smiled and went about reloading and holstering the Colt. Slipping the hearing protectors from his head, he swiveled in the direction of the husky cowboy watching his performance.

  “Thanks for letting me use the range, Norm.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Harrison.” The grin on the range master’s face, asserting itself through the plump, reddish mounds of his cheeks, nose, chin, and lips, faded quickly. “You all right?”

  Wincing, Harrison limped over to the firing lane’s gun table and braced himself. “Yeah, just my leg.” He rubbed his right thigh and said, “It hasn’t felt like this for a while.”

  The pain did come and go, but his limp was always there and very noticeable. Walking was easy enough, but he was aware that the sight of him maneuvering through a room or crossing the street occasionally made some people nervous. Harrison was tall and solid, with long arms and legs. His broad shoulders and barrel chest, not the result of weight-training, but an endowment from distant Viking ancestors, made him appear top heavy. The limp gave the impression, at times, that he was in danger of losing balance altogether.

  With Norm’s help, Harrison placed his gear into a nylon gym bag. “Thanks. I guess I’ll be in the same time next week.”

  “You have time for coffee?” The range master grinned again and fingered the turquoise clasp of his bolo tie. He wanted to hear another one of Harrison’s war stories from his days working in the FBI. He especially liked accounts about the former special agent’s counterintelligence work. For Norm, knowing Harrison was the next best thing to meeting James Bond. “You can have a smoke in the office if you want to.”

  “You just want to hear a story, don’t you?”

  “Well, it has been a while.”

  Norm was right. In fact, the stories were part of their deal, an exchange for the range master allowing him to come in early every Monday before the range opened for regular business. But lately, Harrison had not felt in the mood to relate past events. The tales reminded him of how bored he had become with his work as a private investigator in Tucson, Arizona.

  “That’s the truth. Can’t argue with that,” Harrison said, taking a step and straightening his posture. The pain had subsided. He ran a hand through his conservatively groomed brown hair and beard. “Is the aforementioned coffee brewed?”

  “Huh? It’s brewed, yeah.”

  “Okay, but I can’t stay too long.” Taking tentative steps, Harrison reached for his pack of menthol cigarettes and stuck one in the side of his mouth. “I’ve got an interview to conduct later this morning.”

  They went to the office with Norm leading the way. As usual, the range master’s blue jeans squeaked with each step. Wrapped tightly around thick thighs and hips, the jeans seemed as though they could burst at any second. The sight amused Harrison, making him feel better, for the moment, about sharing another story.

  Once inside the office, the rich, warm aroma of coffee immediately embraced the pair, and Harrison eagerly accepted a cup. After an appreciative sip, a snap from his lighter followed, and he relaxed, taking a long drag. “My apologies to the surgeon general,” he said, smoke accompanying every syllable.

  “What’s that?” Years of firearms instruction had diminished Norm’s hearing.

  “Oh, nothing.” Harrison found an empty chair in a corner of the cluttered office and settled into it. Trade magazines, stacks of invoices, NRA posters, two battered filing cabinets, and a scuffed wooden desk adorned the room. “So, Norm, how’s business?”

  “Good, good. Seems like we get more of the militia and sovereign-citizen types in all the time. Their unhappiness with the folks in Washington is good for me.”

  While Norm chuckled, Harrison raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, let’s hope their shooting doesn’t improve too much. They should be signing petitions instead of shooting bullets.” He puffed on his cigarette and sipped some coffee. “But I suppose they find potentially holding democracy at gunpoint sexier than peaceful civil disobedience or electoral participation.”

  “Huh?” Norm removed a hearing aid from the desk and inserted it into his left ear.

  Rolling his chair closer, Harrison said, “I really like your coffee. I think I’ll switch to it.” Pain quivered through his right thigh. “What’s the brand?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Something my wife picks out. Yuban, I think.”

  “It’s good.” Harrison set down the mug and rubbed his leg.

  “Does it hurt much?”

  “Once in a while, yeah.”

  “Do you mind?”

  Harrison sipped more coffee, and then set the mug aside. “No, not at all. In fact, Norm, there’s a really good story about it.”

  Intrigued, Norm moved forward in his chair, his jeans squeaking in response.

  Looking at the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, Harrison lifted it dramatically to his mouth and inhaled. Out of respect for the range master’s health, he expelled the smoke sideways, helping it along with a waft of his hand. “The government tells us that these things can kill a person. Well, in my case, that very nearly happened.”

  In college, during the late 1980s, Harrison had picked up smoking by chance. His roommate liked to smoke while drinking. Since Harrison often joined him in outings to bars or fraternity parties, an occasional cigarette found its way into his hands as well. After he graduated and made it through the FBI Academy, the habit grew, becoming a way to pass endless hours of surveillance.

  “Anyway, I’m working in New York City five years ago, listening in on phone conversations between Russian mafia types, and I’m in need of tobacco. The wire taps were helpful, but we were hearing more about Sasha’s wardrobe and Ivan’s chess game than racketeering schemes.”

  “Were they talking in Russian?”

  “You bet they were. Thick Crimean accents too, none of it clean Muscovite.”

  Sensing his fan’s desire for more cinematic flair, Harrison continued, embellishing the details of the shooting incident that left him partially crippled.

  “I embarked on a resupply foray, weaving a path through hookers and street hoodlums before reaching my destination. A seedy, foul-smelling liquor store. Once there, I found myself”—he took a long drag off his cigarette, and then extinguished it in an ashtray on the desk—“in the middle of an armed robbery in progress.”

  “No shit?”

  “Let me tell you, a hundred scenarios about what to do flashed through my mind in an instant.”

  “I bet.”

  “Reflexes took over. All at once, I drew down on the bad guy and ordered him to drop his gun. The clerk behind the counter dove to the floor. The suspect hesitated and then made a fatal error in judgment.”

  The suspect had wheeled to his right and pointed his gun at Harrison, who then fired, stri
king the target center mass. The suspect tumbled backward and slammed to the ground. Harrison sensed what he thought was a strong recoil, only to realize that his balance was upset after taking a round in the right upper thigh.

  “I kept my Colt pointed at the suspect though, unsure if the innocent bystanders were out of danger.”

  Increasingly dizzy, Harrison had collapsed, rapid blood loss rendering him unconscious.

  “So that’s how it happened?” Norm said, almost breathless.

  A seasoned veteran, about to enter management, had nearly lost his life. Physical therapy helped, but his career was over. The FBI medically retired the forty-one-year-old special agent. On the advice of his doctors, Harrison relocated to the warm, mostly dry climate of Tucson.

  “That’s it,” Harrison said.

  “You still smoke.”

  “Yeah, and I still carry my forty-five in case I need to visit a liquor store.”

  Norm’s body undulated. While his double chin and huge belly jiggled and his jeans cheeped, his large mouth released a barrage of laughter.

  Swallowing the remaining contents of the coffee mug, Harrison looked at his watch. “Thanks for the java, but I should get a move on.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Harrison.” Norm settled back and wiped a tear droplet from his bright cheek. “Where you off to?”

  To another dull, routine fraud case, Harrison thought. He stood, placing a hand on the corner of Norm’s desk. “I’ve got to interview a guy about a bogus insurance claim.”

  “You going to put him under the lights?”

  “Something like that.” Harrison smiled. “He’ll certainly wish he’d never heard of William Bernard Harrison.”