by David Berko
Alexander smiled and joked, “We’ll have to send you one, courtesy the kind tax payers from the land of the free.”
Damion leaned forward and caught his old friend’s humor. His face creased and gentle rolls of laughter filled the space. “Oh, I could use a good chair like this in Cali. It’s—” he ran his hand along the arm, “--simply exquisite in every detail!”
Alexander steepled his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. “Damion,” his voice low with concern, “we need to talk.”
The smile faded from the billionaire's face. “Sure, that’s why I’m here. What’s on your mind?”
Alexander stared in the direction of the Pacific. Big Alaskan birch trees with trunks nearly as white as the snow that covered them were full in the president’s view. A cardinal nesting on an upper branch of one no more than forty yards out from the mansion caught the man’s eye.
“You seem, distracted,” Damion observed.
“Can I trust you?” the president asked without a trace of a joke in his earnest voice.
“Can you? Well, I would hope so. Your guards didn’t even bother with a patdown at the gate…”
Alexander smiled to himself. His guards took x-ray readings of the guest before he even made the walk-up to the big log cabin in the woods. “Look, we live in a very volatile world. I need to know I can trust you with an important request.”
The cardinal out the window fluttered its wings in alarm. This motion was clearly seen by the president and taken into regard. Alexander’s earpiece chirped suddenly—the head of security’s voice trickled into Toporvsky’s ear: “Eagle, we have trouble. Move away from the windows with caution and head for the tunnel. I’m sending a signal for backup.”
The president did one click to acknowledge message received. He looked at Damion and spoke in code, “Shall we go to the cellar? I’ve got this vat of wine that I’m sure you’d be delighted to see.”
Damion’s antennae was up. He knew there was trouble. His placid face said otherwise, though. “Yes, lets. I've been dying to see it ever since you told me.”
Just as Alexander lifted off his chair a boom echoed from the valley. Damion dove for the president and bear hugged the man for protection. Both tumbled to the fur rug. A split second later the southern window spider webbed. A fusillade of bullets followed up the first shot, sending deadly glass shards in a myriad of directions into the president’s study.
“Mr. President!” Damion shouted, “This way!”
Alexander followed his friend’s lead as the two of them crawled on their bellies towards the exit. Just when they were out of harm’s way and into a hallway, a rocket shot through a hole in the window and exploded in the room.
The fireball and shockwave sent the men flying and careening into a wall, knocking a painting off its peg which broke over their heads. They were met a short distance down the corridor by a security detail dispatched to assist the president to safety. The Lights briefly flicked on and off.
Damion noticed for the first time that the whole building had red lights strobing and sprinklers activated. Then he was grabbed by the crook of the elbow and ushered down a bend and around a corner.
“What is happening?” the president asked the question on everyone’s mind.
“We don’t know Mr. President,” captain obvious spoke. There was more chatter on the man’s radio. He’s pressed a mic close to his head and responded to some of the traffic. “I’m with Eagle and Hawk (Damion)….Yes. Stand by.”
Alexander looked at the men in black. They were in full battle gear: liquid body armor which hardened upon impact of projectiles and helmets with three hundred and sixty degree protection along with HUD (heads up display) technology for the warriors' situational awareness. They carried standard issue assault rifles with add-on lasers that could burn through a target 1000 yards away….The power supply for the state-of-the-art Star Wars weapon lay in a battery pack strapped to each man’s back. It was enough to supply the fighter with a nearly limitless magazine when laser mode was activated. Otherwise, when not firing intense rays of fire, the men shot tracer .45 Cal bullets. They were the best of the best.
The sergeant of the president’s personal detail looked at his wrist-mounted display for tactical data. He quickly shouted orders to the group and then proceeded to lead the president and Damion down the tunnel.
Damion had all he could do to keep in step with the rest. They nearly sprinted. Fire was breathing down their backs.
Whoever was outside was upping the attacks and explosions. Another one rocked the house and rattled its foundation. Damion lost his footing and was hurled into drywall where he crumpled. Debris snowed on him and covered his motionless body.
“Grab him,” the sergeant ordered the man to his left, who complied instantly.
For Damion the light was going out. He heard voices and lights dancing. Flames flickered and men’s bodies were all around him. Friendlies or enemies, he knew not. He slipped into unconsciousness.
--
Chapter 6
Beverly Hills, California
At the Mountain Gate Country Club’s parking lot an orange Lamborghini occupied two spaces. Charles decided to go golfing after all (a day early). He called up a couple of his long-time friends he knew dating back to college: he was in the rare mindset to leave business at the office and get into the swing of things on a beautiful course. Rated as one of the best in the area by locals, Charles had high hopes of a good time.
His swing wasn’t the best per se, but that wasn’t a good excuse not to try. He still rather enjoyed walking the course—and every once in a while, hit a lucky shot of course. He dressed to impress. Wearing all the brands in golf that turn heads--titanium clubs in the bag—there was no reason why he wouldn’t have a good outing.
Two of the guys in the group gave him a hard time for his uneven tan. In truth, he knew they were right. There was no good reason to stick out like a sore thumb in a community full of beautifully tan people. But he didn’t mind taking a little flak for skin color. Deep inside his competitive nature hoped to one up his tan friends and make fun of their inferiority in the game of golf.
…
It was hole one on the redesigned eighteen hole course and Charles was forced to pull up the course map on his fancy phone. He put the device down on the golf cart’s bench to cue up a holographic representation of all the hazards, twists and turns of number one.
“You done over there Sparky?” one of the guys with a bright blue polo called out.
“You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t like to shoot blind.”
That silenced the guys' taunts long enough for Charles to walk up to the tee box and bend over to stab the earth with his tee. The little white ball with the famous slogan that went something like “just do it” wobbled in the wind and came off the tee right before Charles was about to deliver a crushing blow to it. If that didn’t set the golfer off, it was the snickers from behind him.
“You really put on a show Charles,” his friend Greg said with a chuckle.
Charles took a little mock bow. He wasn’t too stiff not to laugh a little at his own awkwardness on the grounds. Resuming his posture, he waggled his wrists back and forth a few times to get a rhythm. Right there. He had his eye on it. Boom. The trio’s heads swiveled like a bird’s would to follow the white speck on its journey through the royal blue sky. It passed out of sight on the high point of its trajectory. Eventually it came back to earth, bounced, and rolled fifty yards on the right side of the fairway with the green a short iron shot away.
Greg and Jeremy were a respectful gallery. They clapped loudly for their friend’s good shot.
“That is the shiz right there man. Wow!” Jeremy exclaimed. He turned to Greg and smiled. “You’re up Tiger.”
“You can bring up the rear then, lefty,” Greg said playing along. Truth was, he wasn’t even thinking of the famous Phil Mickelson with his comment: Jeremy really was a lefty.
“Hey, we forgot to get some
'dogs with mustard,” Jeremy reflected with his gloved hand over his rumbling stomach.
Greg let the club loosen in his grip. “Well, you’re a big boy. Get us some Conies and make a trail back here. We’ll wait.”
“Be right back,” Jeremy called over his shoulder.
The other two men smiled and really began to enjoy the views and sounds of the day for the first time. The sun was nearly directly overhead (it was almost noon). The bright rays glinted off the men’s clubs. If it weren’t for their sunglasses their eyes would be in a world of hurt.
“How’s the job?” Greg spoke, breaking the impasse of silence.
“Oh, you know, it is—stressful.” Charles was even impressed at himself. That was the first true thing he had said to anybody all day.
“Really? Isn’t it just you and a secretary? What was her na—“
“Renae,” Charles cut him off. “She’s—new.”
Greg looked confused at his friend’s slow speech and frequent hesitations. “Hey, if you don’t wanna talk about it…I completely understand.”
Charles nodded appreciating the man’s understanding mind.
“Me and Beverly are going on our twentieth anniversary cruise next month. Can you believe it? Charles?” Greg said leaning over to see if his friend got the memo.
“Twentieth? My, where does the time all go, Greg? Sheesh. You two really love each other like none other, eh?” He liked his rhyme and wasn’t afraid to show that in his little grin.
“Yup. College sweethearts. Whatever happened to that one woman you were seeing a year ago or so…the pictures on Facebook?”
“Oh that? Psht…that was—”
He was doing it again. The delays and pauses and uncertainty lining his voice made Greg look away.
“Hey, girls these days are so independent. You’ll find one yet. I’m sure of it. Heck, beat me in golf today and I’ll give you a tip of where to go to hook up with someone.”
Charles smelled sleaze in the air. He wasn’t a devout catholic anymore, but what did his friend take him for? A roving teenager, going from club to club? That certainly wasn’t the life Charles led. Certainly he stole a gaze at the women at the pool back at the estate. But who didn’t? Now he felt guilty for going there in his mind.
Just then the sound of an electric motor drew closer. Loose gravel on the paved path crunched underneath the tires of Jeremy’s golf cart. Both men looked up from a conversation that unofficially was on pause and watched the incoming motorist who had both hands up in the air— hot dogs in one, beverages in the other.
“Look out Jeremy!” “Huh?”
The cart swerved a little as the driver took his gaze off the path and concentrated on the voice that cried out in alarm.
“I think he meant your drinks were about to spill,” Charles offered with a grin.
Indeed they were. If it weren’t for the lids keeping the liquid in Jeremy would have had coke running down his good khakis. He laughed at his own lapse in judgment and quickly forgot all about the excitement as the smell of hot dogs, onions and mustard hit him in the senses. “I got enough to go around, fellas. Two for every man, in fact.”
Both men nodded appreciating the kindness. But it was back to the game and silence reigned as the snacks would sit tight with the cart, not knowing when the golfers would return from teeing off.
“Where are you at?” Jeremy was referring to Charles’s first shot.
“Fairway, 220 out; right side—possibly in the light cut. But either way, not bad for not having swung a club in what seems like forever,” Charles said.
Greg held his comment back and began to go through the mental routine again of visualizing the shot and then actually executing it. He stepped up and bent at the knee in his stiff pants. A gloved hand holding his ball already on the tee reached down to plant it in the turf. His club of choice was a conservative six iron, setting up for a mid to short iron shot for his second. The shot went off well, landing in the first cut of rough on the left hand side, but within striking distance of the flag with only a bunker to worry about just shy of the green.
Jeremy looked out and eyed the yellow flag. He paid particular attention to which way it blew to know how to play the shot. Unlike Charles, he used his keen golfer’s sense and not some digital caddy of the handicapped golfer. He stepped into the shot and let ‘er rip with a big 3 wood. The sound was crisp and clean and he posed with belt buckle facing his target. With pin-point accuracy his ball dropped, bounced, and dribbled up the middle of the fairway with an easy shot at the flag. Success. The guys weren’t shy about congratulating him on the shot. It might have been the best of the three; all were good shots in their own right though.
The two carts sped off down the steeped path and whizzed by a few trees sporadically lining the descent here and there. All three men let their legs kick out to the sides….The wind hit them in the face and made them feel like boys again. Greg hollered a little bit and Charles nearly thwacked the excited driver on the bill of the man’s hat, but decided restraint was a virtue.
Once they got to the shot furthest away from the hole, the pressure built up again. It was Charles’s turn and he felt his palms sweat a little bit. He undid the Velcro strap on his glove and then refastened it a moment later. After a good neck crack and evening out the wrinkles in his shirt he was ready to take a stab at it. The shot was a little fat and dirt spread a good ways a few feet in front of the divot, but the result was good nonetheless…twenty feet from the hole.
“Ah, that’s the stuff right there,” Jeremy said in admiration, hoping to having the same success with his turn. Greg was up next, though, so he would have to wait. Meanwhile, the aforementioned player was already standing by his ball. Greg tilted his head to one side, then the other. Finally he approached the ball with deliberate strides, ready to strike. His result was disappointing considering all the concentration, but that was the game of golf. It splashed down in the front side bunker. Anger enveloped him. But he would be okay.
Jeremy thumped his friend on the back and said “next time.”
After much deliberation and carefulness on the part of the trio, they were all on the green and ready to let the putters roll. Charles two-putted, sinking a six-incher for par. Jeremy sunk his twenty footer for birdy. However, Greg’s struggles continued and he wound up putting for a bogey. Which, he could have avoided and it showed in his language and the way he tossed the putter at the invisible caddy who wasn’t there to catch it. Charles shook his head, trying to hold back a slight snicker. He looked over at Jeremy and could tell his friend was doing the same.
…
The men were still having a good time and enjoying their day as they made the turn and headed to number ten, but that’s when things got interesting. Charles looked slightly annoyed as an incoming call forced him to pull over and see who it was. His eyes widened in recognition: it was the boss.
“Hello, this is Charles.”
It wasn't Damion though. “This is president Alexander’s chief of staff—”
Charles’s mouth went dry. He had no clue what this was all about. Nor did he want to know.
“Damion will be fine, but he’s suffered a mild concussion.”
“Say what?!” Charles nearly dropped the phone. This time he took off his glove and gripped it in his still sweaty, slightly red palm.
“There was an attack. The president and Damion are OK to my knowledge. Your boss is being treated, as we speak, somewhere secure. I will update you with more info as it comes in. I know this must come as a shock to you, as it does to me and the rest of the president’s staff. We’re doing all we can, I assure you….”
Charles knew the man was telling the truth and he was thankful Damion’s injuries were “mild” and not of the other kind. “Okay, um, thank, thank you for passing that along. Keep me posted will ya?”
“Certainly.”
Charles looked at his phone after the call ended. Fifty- six seconds ago he was enjoying a round of golf worry- fr
ee not thinking or caring about anything else in the world. Now all he could think about was how, who…why?
The other men looked expectant and the first to ask what had happened was Greg. “So?” he let the question dangle in the air, waiting for Charles’s response.
“Damion and the president are in no present danger. But they were--”
“Oh my God!” Jeremy gasped. He looked a little blanched before he took a sip of his drink and swallowed hard, coughing.
“Is it serious?” Greg asked the obvious.
“I dunno,” Charles said softly, letting his thoughts wander. “Look, could we—”
Greg read his mind. “I don’t need to raise my handicap anymore than I already have. I’m good to call it a day if you are.”
Charles smiled. “Thanks guys.”
“That’s what we’re here for man,” Jeremy said with genuine sympathy in his voice.
Chapter 7
Groom Lake, Nevada
Thirty stories below the desert floor of the salt flat…pop culture romanticized, crazies claimed little green men were there and their spaceships reverse engineered…whatever truly was going on at Area 51 continued just the same, however, under a different banner and a change of ownership. Once a CIA black-funded project, Area 51 was given a makeover and control over it changed hands from U.S. government to the heads of Scorpion. All along the shadowy power of post-American culture had its tentacles into places even as secret as the military installation in Nevada, actually.
Google maps and others still didn’t have permission to have Area 51 on their popular satellite maps service.