Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project

by Douglas, Daniel P.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Horner slinked away and spotted Saint Mary’s disinformation officer, Colonel Bennet, on the observation platform. He made eye contact with the Colonel and then winked.

  <> <>

  Bennet understood and nodded.

  Operation Rainbow and the security situation presented challenging assignments for him, but the ease with which the disinformation efforts had taken hold made him feel like he had reached the pinnacle of his career. As he privately complimented himself, Bennet looked at the digital countdown clock mounted on the wall just above the lower set of windows.

  Ten minutes to go.

  He pulled a notepad and pen from his coat pocket, flipped to a page with a short list of “to do” items, and drew a line through “radar malfunctions.”

  <> <>

  Nearby, Stone already stood next to the telephone, awaiting contact from Rainbow One. For some reason, one that eluded explanation, he found himself pondering his predecessor. In many ways, Taylor’s years of work had prepared Saint Mary for an operation much like Rainbow. He’d brought the hybrid program to maturity, modernized the security apparatus, and even supervised the initial research on ELF-oriented weapons systems.

  Yet, he tried to stop us.

  Taylor’s decision eluded Stone’s comprehension.

  Must have cracked.

  As he considered this, another disturbing thought surfaced in his consciousness. His gaze drifted to the other members of the working group, one by one. All of them were equally productive and capable as Taylor. They also knew the secrets, and carried the same burdens. Although he did not like the conclusion, Stone arrived at only one verdict.

  Can’t trust anyone these days.

  With less than seven minutes left in the countdown, Stone took a deep breath and wiped his palms along his trousers. He watched Admiral Horner climb his way back upstairs, joining Bennet and the others along the north row of windows. With raised binoculars, they scanned the sky beyond the airfield, anticipating the impending launch of the experimental.

  Stone stepped up beside them. The view through the windows provided one final reassurance: Saint Mary could control personnel, information, technology, and a myriad of other details. The weather, however, was a different matter. Fortunately, the clear, black sky and calm winds granted Saint Mary optimum conditions for conducting Operation Rainbow.

  “General Stone?”

  Bracing himself on the railing, Stone’s eyes found the communications officer from below who addressed him. This is it. “Yes?”

  “Transferring Rainbow One. Please stand by, sir.”

  Stone’s colleagues turned away from the window and stared in his direction.

  Relax boys.

  The digital clock ticked off another second, reaching the five-minute-countdown mark. Then, exactly on schedule, the phone mounted on the observation platform emitted an electronic trill.

  “Rainbow Control,” Stone said into the receiver.

  “Rainbow One to Control. We are go, say again, we are go for launch in T-minus four minutes, fifty-five seconds, and counting. All systems normal.”

  Stone gave a thumbs-up in the direction of the other officers, and then he faced away from them. An expanding wave of anxiety surged through bones and muscles. His hushed and unsteady voice said, “Uh, roger, Rainbow One. Who is this?”

  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Davila, sir.”

  “Davila?”

  “Yes, sir. And, sir, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to participate in the operation in this capacity.”

  “Participate? Where the hell is Colonel Ritter?”

  “At the tower, sir.”

  Eyes darting, Stone tightened his grip on the phone. “What do you mean, ‘the tower’?”

  “Sir, Colonel Ritter left here about an hour and a half ago. Said he was going to join you and the rest of the control staff in the tower. He said you authorized me to—”

  “He is supposed to be reporting as Rainbow One.” Stone peered over his shoulder at his fellow officers. He nodded and smiled at them. Turning away, he said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Shall we abort or delay?”

  “No, no. Proceed as planned. Rainbow Control out.”

  Stone hung up the phone. Seconds trickled away on the countdown clock. Profuse sweat oozed from his forehead and palms. Short breaths—in, out—overwhelmed his respiration. His vision narrowed into a black, myopic shaft.

  <> <>

  Wrists still handcuffed behind their backs, Holcomb and Ridley knelt on the desert terrain. Blood oozed through the bandages wrapped around Ridley’s abdomen. Directly ahead, beams from a Humvee’s headlights glared at both of them. Two silhouetted figures, their escorts from the base, busied themselves around the parked vehicle.

  “We wondered about you,” Holcomb said. “We were worried if you were safe or not.”

  Wearing only a thin blue robe and red boxer shorts, the ghostly pale Ridley shivered in the cold desert air. “Well, I guess you have your answer.”

  “Sorry to have put you into danger.”

  “I’m a cop. I’m used to it.” Ridley said, coughing. “Where’s Harrison?”

  Holcomb rolled his head, gazed up at the dark sky, and chuckled. “Not a clue. Last I saw him we were in Los Angeles.”

  “At least he isn’t here with us.”

  As Holcomb chuckled some more, he heard one of the Saint Mary operatives say, “Get the equipment. I’ll take care of the protocols.”

  One of the silhouettes moved out of view, while the other stepped closer. As he stood over them, he said, “I’ll make this quick, Agent Holcomb.”

  “Oh please, you don’t have to be so fucking considerate.”

  “I’m not being considerate—I’m just in a hurry. My vacation ends tonight.”

  Vacation?

  “You don’t have to do this, Walter. They can’t make you pull that trigger,” Ridley said.

  Holcomb furrowed his brow and said, “Nick, you know this guy?”

  “Yeah, or at least I thought I did. He is Lieutenant Walter Maxwell with the Las Vegas Police Department.”

  Reaching into his coat, Maxwell removed a handgun from a shoulder holster. “Nick, this isn’t personal. It is a matter of national security.” He pulled back the slide and released it. Holcomb winced. The threatening sound echoed through the canyon designated as their final resting place. “You two pose a threat, a serious threat. And I get paid to eliminate threats.”

  “So, you nursed me back to health in order to kill me? Makes no sense. Walter, this makes no sense! And you call yourself a cop.”

  The other man approached them, carrying two shovels and a five-gallon gas can. Holcomb glimpsed this man’s face and recognized him. With such a big nose, the man looked like a fucking bird. And in his black jumpsuit, he looked a like a fucking blackbird.

  “You are the bad guys here, let’s get that straight, Nick,” Maxwell said. And you know what we do with bad guys?”

  “Seriously guys,” Holcomb said, “I’m a veteran, and this place sure doesn’t look like any fucking national cemetery.”

  “A sense of humor in the face of adversity, how noble,” Maxwell said.

  Through bloodshot eyes, Holcomb peered up at his executioner and heard the familiar click of a thumb safety being released. The gun barrel aimed at his head looked like a deep, dark pit that led all the way to hell.

  Images flooded his consciousness: faces, places, cases, Harrison, the color red…On the blackbird’s face.

  The explosive blast reverberated against the stony outcroppings and rushed through the rocky crevices. The birdman’s body collapsed sideways to the ground, the shovels and gas can joining him with a heavy clank. Brains and bone matter splattered onto Maxwell, who spun around in the direction of the Humvee, pointing his pistol into the night. A second gunshot echoed through the canyon. Maxwell’s chest ruptured, the impact sending him tumbling rearward to the ground
. A resounding and final wheeze flowed from his body as he landed a few feet from Holcomb.

  Silence settled over the desert. Holcomb peered at the bodies lying near him. One dead guy…two dead guys…“Killer vacation, man,” he said to the late gunman.

  “And that…” Ridley said, shivering in the cold and struggling to finish his sentence, “…is what happens to bad guys.”

  Another silhouette formed in the wash of the bright headlights and approached them. “Uh, thank you?” Holcomb said.

  “Come, I have a ride parked at the end of the canyon, as well as a coat for you, Officer Ridley.”

  Holcomb struggled to his feet. His handcuffed wrists almost made him lose balance and fall down. Once upright, he turned and faced the man who stood a few feet away. He recognized the face and the name on the uniform and sighed, saying, “Ritter, do you have a key for these damn cuffs?”

  “No, but I’m sure these gentleman won’t mind if we use one of theirs.”

  <> <>

  Jaw clenched, Stone continued pacing in short steps.

  Ritter?

  With forty-two seconds remaining in the countdown, a rising suspicion hurled through Stone’s thoughts and then dominated them. It gripped him, burning his face with fiery rage.

  He had worked with Harrison too. He met with him at the Tucson park. My God!

  He froze.

  My God, they have the power cell!

  <> <>

  Radar operator Lieutenant Palmer yawned and rubbed his eyes. He stopped and focused on his radar scope, leaning closer. A new return appeared along its upper periphery, the northernmost area of the monitoring range.

  MiG or firefly?

  On a steady course, the single target tracked southward.

  What’s this?

  A second target, and then a third, registered strong returns on the display. Three more signals joined the formation. Six large aircraft flew directly at them, moving fast.

  Balls to the wall.

  Palmer’s jaw dropped. Just as he was about to report, another controller called out, “Rainbow One is airborne.”

  <> <>

  Stone shook his head and solemnly watched the other senior officers gaze northward through binoculars, trying to spot the experimental in its initial ascent. A yellowish ball of light streaked toward the heavens, and then it hovered motionless against a backdrop of twinkling stars.

  Once again, Palmer attempted to inform the observers about the multiple targets on his radar scope. But a broadcast through the overhead speakers from one of the mobile air-traffic-control units drowned out his words. “Intermittent signal, western quad.”

  Palmer availed himself of the hasty break in the transmission and said, “Multiple targets, distance ninety-five miles, bearing three-six-zero degrees, course one-eight-zero.”

  Stone bounded down the staircase and stood next to Palmer.

  Another mobile unit’s broadcast crackled through the speakers. “Intermittent signal. Uncorrelated observation. Southwest, estimate distance at twenty-five miles. It’s disappeared now.”

  Stone focused on Palmer’s screen. “What do you have, then?”

  “Sir, six steady targets inbound from the north.”

  “What’s their ID?”

  Tapping at a keyboard, Palmer said, “It’s coming up now, sir.” Next to each of the six returns, the computer assigned designations, identifying the targets. “Wow, they’re way off course. Is this part of the exercise, sir?”

  “There it is again!” an operator at the console behind Stone said. “Unknown bearing southwest. Now it’s gone. Undetermined altitude and speed. A little closer this time, though.”

  “Transmit what you can to Rainbow Two,” Stone said, shouting. He looked back at Palmer’s scope and lied. “Yes, Lieutenant, it’s part of the drill, damn it!”

  <> <>

  Janice and Professor Moresby noticed the console’s computer screen flashed the transmit message. Below the message, a string of commands that the control tower’s main computer had sent ended with the statement, “Rainbow Two activated, targeting unknown, southwest, range twenty miles.”

  “Okay, proceed with the first sequence. Peace, land, union,” Moresby said.

  Janice steadied herself in the chair. She intended to transmit the message, but if she felt it necessary, she would warn them off and suffer the consequences later.

  Taking long, slow, deep breaths, Janice closed her eyes and felt her consciousness slip away. The psychotronic generator and her mind interfused in a symbiotic connection. She flew away from the base, toward another source of thought—another soul, a pilot. Through the darkness, she saw his approaching craft. Blacker than night, it sliced through the air. A shiver quivered up her stiffened spine.

  A flash of colors—brilliant colors—and thick bolts of lightning, ruptured her surroundings, shattering the connection.

  Conscious again, Janice said, panting, “How long?”

  “Only a couple of minutes. What’s wrong? Are you all right? Janice, what’s going on?”

  Through heavy breaths, she said, “They…are here.”

  <> <>

  At the control tower, the working group’s officers heard another status report from below them. “Intermittent signal, southwest, practically on top of us!”

  Together, they hurried along the catwalk to the windows on the west side of the building and raised their binoculars.

  Stone, still standing among the radar operators, heard the announcement too. He remained busy contemplating his options. He knew there was no way to stop the advancing troops from the Eighty-Second Airborne. They’ll be here and on the ground in—

  Shouting above him, Colonel Bennet said, “Aw, shit!”

  Rushing to the lower set of windows, Stone overheard a chorus of similar phrases from his colleagues. As he focused night-vision binoculars on a ridgeline to the southwest, the unknown became visible.

  But there’s two of them.

  They raced in low, and then made swift, graceful left rolls, turning north.

  “We’re screwed,” Stone said, muttering.

  In an instant, two United States Air Force F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighters swooped over the airfield. They dropped their bomb loads and destroyed key chunks of the main runway, precluding fixed wing aircraft from taking off. One after another, bright flashes lit up the entire length of the airfield while deafening blasts blew debris in all directions. Thunderous shock waves jolted the tower, shattering windowpanes and throwing the senior officers to the floor.

  Glass shards trickled off Stone’s uniform as he pushed himself to his feet. He ran up the staircase, grabbed the phone, and called the command bunker.

  <> <>

  “What the hell is going on?” the chairman said, answering the phone. His superiors clutched themselves and their nurses reentered the room.

  Stone’s voice trembled with anger and dismay. “The runway’s been hit. Airborne troops are enroute. Ritter betrayed us. He and Taylor set us up!”

  “How long do we have?”

  “Fifteen to twenty minutes, if we’re lucky. We can use the medevac choppers.”

  “I’ll get the Circle outside and call Moresby. Put that bird down right next to the bunker.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  <> <>

  Hanging up, Stone ordered a communications officer to dispatch one of the medevac choppers to the command bunker and to have another one stand by on the tarmac near the tower for departure.

  “Stay at your posts!” Stone said, hurrying toward the elevator.

  The other working-group officers already clustered at the elevator. Apparently knocked out of commission in the attack, its doors remained closed. Without further delay, Stone headed for the nearest fire exit. He abruptly halted his steps when he noticed one of the senior officers slumped above him on the catwalk, unmoving.

  Blood trailed down Admiral Horner’s neck and across his chest; a glass shard dangled from his throat. His thick hands and stubby
fingers clawed without any success at the wound.

  Stone fled into the fire exit’s stairwell, the other officers already ahead of him.

  <> <>

  On Timber Peak, the ELF technicians remained focused on their equipment despite the explosive blasts and ensuing confusion on the radio. As they awaited the “omega” code authorizing activation of their equipment, an icy draft blew against their backs. In unison, all three of them looked over their shoulders, glimpsing just in time to see General Lanham disappear out the doorway.

  <> <>

  Inside the command bunker, nurses and an orderly lifted the Circle members from their chairs. At first, Dr. Barnem found himself dropped into the wrong wheelchair. While he was shifted into the correct one, his legs knocked over an associate’s IV stand.

  “Watch yourself, Barnem!” the associate said upon seeing his medication spill onto the floor.

  “Don’t blame me, Fitchberg. It’s not my fault.”

  Fitchberg grumbled, but his attentive nurse attempted to calm him, saying, “Everything will be all right, sir. I have more of your antibiotics in the plane.”

  Fumbling to open the door, the chairman overheard the nurse’s comment and approached her. “Uh, we won’t be returning on the plane. Just tell him you’ll administer the medication later.”

  “Oh. Oh my, but he needs it right—”

  “Just tell him everything will be fine,” the chairman said, gazing toward the video display. A momentary explosion of sparks jettisoned from the console and landed on the floor. Most of the screens displayed darkness or a fuzzy snow pattern.

  “I understand,” the nurse said, lifting the IV stand into its proper position. She helped her patient place his aging hands on the walker. They inched toward the exit.

  Ahead of them, the man with a cane hobbled over bits of broken ceiling tiles and pushed open the door. Barnem followed, jamming his electric wheelchair past the orderly, who carried his oxygen tank. Once the other Circle members and their attendants left the room and headed up the exterior access ramp, the chairman placed a call to the security bunker.