Overlord

by David L. Golemon

  HENRI.

  QONAQKEND, QUBA

  AZERBAIJAN

  Calling the small enclave of mud brick huts a village was a misleading statement, even by Azerbaijani standards. The five or six inhabitants tended herds and pastures that had long gone to seed a hundred years before the intrusion of the scientific teams from the United Nations. The few old men who remained watched as the invaders to their small mountain home packed up to leave after an exhausting six-week search for something that just wasn’t there. Every piece of modern equipment had been used but no sign of a crash had been detected in the mountainous region of the former Soviet Republic.

  Sarah McIntire, barely recognizable as the scarf and hat covered most of her features, handed the last of the soil sample cases to the specialist in the back of the two-and-a-half-ton truck. She heard the Russian army sergeant curse as the weight of the case overbalanced him and he almost fell. Sarah wanted to laugh but was too tired to do so. She pulled the scarf down, shook her head, raised a water bottle to her dry lips, and drank. She looked around the rough terrain. Sometimes she swore she could smell the aroma of the sea in the high pass of the mountain. The Caspian Sea was only fifty-seven miles distant but she knew the smell was more wishful thinking than an actual aroma. She could not wait to get out of Azerbaijan. The saucer crash reported in 1972 just did not happen in this area, if at all. Matchstick had to be wrong about the location.

  Most of the sixteen members of her team were made up of an international who’s who of geologists and crash specialists from all over the world, but Sarah still found herself far more comfortable around the Russian soldiers than she did the scientists. She smiled as she thought about it. Maybe it was only because as a soldier she could relate to the Russians wanting to be somewhere, anywhere, other than these godforsaken mountains in the middle of nowhere.

  She was approached by a Russian lieutenant, who, like herself, was also a geologist. She thought about just how young a man he was and found it hard to believe the boy was a soldier at all.

  “Lieutenant McIntire, we have company approaching from the south.”

  Sarah heard the distinctive thump or rotors. She squinted her eyes against the sun, then placed her sunglasses on. She finally spied the chopper as it came in low over the small clearing between two large mountains.

  “Thank you, Uri. Tell the scientists and men that we will be leaving within the hour.” She smiled at the young Russian.

  The helicopter was a Russian navy bird, a Kamov Ka-27. At one time it was one of the most feared attack helicopters in the world, one that NATO always knew would be a threat in any conflict that would have arisen during the cold war between the two navies. Now it was relegated to scientific duties the Russian Navy conducted in the Caspian Sea. It could hold up to ten passengers and with its twin-boomed silhouette looked amazingly fragile. Sarah hated flying in the thing.

  The helicopter slowly settled to the floor of the valley, making the few people still living there come to their doorways and curse the noise as their few goats and sheep ran off to the wilds of the mountain. The twin, counter-rotating rotors settled and the sliding door opened and out stepped a familiar shape. The man was small and dressed like Lawrence of Arabia, which was exactly the look he perpetuated around the international crew of searchers. Commander Jason Ryan, United States Navy, removed his scarf, shook out his bush hat, and smiled at Sarah.

  “I find you in the strangest places.” He looked around the ancient village as he slapped away the dust raised by the helicopter. “Qonaqkend isn’t much to look at, is it?”

  She laughed, as she never expected to see Ryan all the way out here. The last she knew from her briefing was that the naval aviator was searching for another saucer crash site somewhere in Afghanistan.

  “Are you kidding? This is the garden spot of Qonaqkend. The Marriott has yet to begin construction on the resort they envision.”

  Ryan removed his gloves and hugged his friend. He pulled away and then looked around again. “It’s still better than Afghanistan.”

  “Nothing there either?” Sarah saw the weariness in Jason’s unshaved face.

  “No, and I’m beginning to think that little green bastard has all his facts mixed up about reported crash areas of the past. I’m surely tired of this wild-goose chase.”

  “Well,” Sarah said as she handed Ryan her water bottle, “I guess the goose chase has ended because we haven’t found a damn thing anywhere in the world. Time to go home, I guess.”

  With a sad look Ryan pulled out a sheet of paper from his flight suit and handed it to Sarah. He shook his head without saying anything.

  “You’re kidding,” she said as she reluctantly accepted the note. She opened it and read. “Damn, where in the hell is this, Leschenko?”

  Ryan smiled as he watched the activity around him.

  “The Leschenko is not a place, it’s a ship.” He turned and shook his head. “You ground-pounder types should at least know your major naval combatants in the world’s oceans.”

  “Okay smart-ass, you can just—”

  “It’s a Riga-class frigate of the Caspian Flotilla. She’s Russian and she’s out there.” He pointed toward the distant sea. “And she awaits your lovely face, Lieutenant.”

  “What’s happening?” she asked as she folded the orders from Niles Compton and handed them back.

  “I haven’t the vaguest notion, my dear. But your new friends here aren’t invited. They are to pack up and go home. It’s only us and your Lieutenant Uri … Uri…” Ryan patted his pockets looking for another note he had written.

  “Lieutenant Uri Petrovich.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Well, we’re to report to the Leschenko to meet with a Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Krechenko, a Russian Army type.”

  “Who in the hell is that?”

  “The director wouldn’t say. We are to report to the frigate, where all will be explained.”

  Sarah frowned at Ryan, knowing the navy man never settled for surprises. She could tell by that evil smirk of his that he had other information.

  “Okay, Commander Dipshit, what did Europa tell you when you queried her on this colonel fella?”

  Ryan’s features twisted in mock surprise. “Would I do that? I mean, that’s a criminal offense, getting Europa to search for something without Pete Golding knowing about it.”

  “Okay, so you placed a call to Pete and since the good Dr. Golding always kisses your ass, you found something out.”

  “Well, yes. But it doesn’t explain anything—in fact, it makes it far more mysterious than before.”

  “Jason, come on!” she said, grabbing his coat collar.

  “Our Russian lieutenant colonel is the commander of an assault unit operated by the Russian Army, the 106th Guards Division.” Ryan saw the blank look on Sarah’s face. “It’s the Russians’ most elite airborne division. It seems that two thousand of them have been transferred to the Caspian Flotilla. As a matter of coincidence most were transferred to the very same Riga-class frigate where we’re now headed.”

  “Oh, shit,” Sarah said.

  Ryan winked. “My sentiments exactly, Lieutenant McIntire.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The president entered the Oval office with the thick file that had been sent over from the Event Group that morning. The briefing with the small green asset in Arizona had given them one hell of a pill to swallow and the president knew that pill could choke them all to death.

  As he made his way to his large chair behind the Lincoln desk—nodding to acknowledge the five men who had been waiting for him—he paused momentarily by the window, tempted to glance out at the protesters who had grown in number even since that morning. There had been another leak to the press about information pertaining to the expenditures being mounted by the military. The president was close to crying “uncle” and telling the world what it desperately needed to know. He eyed the five men and motioned for them to sit. The faintest of pro
test calls entered the room from the outside.

  “Gentlemen, we have a growing mess on our hands that can no longer be contained.” He opened the folder and scanned the front briefing page. Niles Compton had been direct and to the point with his old college buddy in explaining how important tracking down this possible lead was to the coming fight. He understood what the Overlord plan called for but to go to war over finding the engine they needed was the straw that would break this particular camel’s back.

  The men facing him remained silent. Only the two military men in uniform actually knew about the orders the president had issued six hours before. Now they and the Russian president were in the know.

  “If the power plant is found to be operational, as my sources say it is, we have to move decisively. After that I have to come clean to the American people.” The U.S. president again eyed his guests. “Especially if the mission we have planned fails and the Iranians take nuclear offense. Admiral, do we have any asset we can use in the Caspian area to support the Russians in the assault if it comes to that?”

  Rear Admiral James Fuqua cleared his throat. “Mr. President, we have never had a dependable asset in the Caspian Sea. The Cold War has long been over and that was an area of responsibility we always hoped the Russians would take seriously when it came to a nuclear-armed Iran lurking at their belly.”

  “Director Easterbrook?”

  “Nothing, sir,” the silver-haired CIA director answered. “We will have two KH-11s in orbit over Iran, but not knowing when or even if the Russian assault happens we cannot guarantee eyes-on target. Viewing would be purely by chance. As for the human asset on the ground, we have nothing.”

  The president took a deep breath and then looked at U.S. Marine Corps general Maxwell Caulfield, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “Max, please tell me you had luck with your counterpart in Moscow. Has he relented to allow at least one American Special Forces team in on the assault?”

  “No luck, Mr. President,” Caulfield answered. “It seems some old Cold War jitters still persist on both sides.”

  “So the only American assets we have are a navy lieutenant commander and an army first lieutenant?”

  “Well,” the Marine general said with a small smile on his lips, “that’s more than we knew. Do you mind if I ask just who these officers are?” Caulfield suspected that although he might not know the men, he did have a suspicion where these two sprang from—that quirky little think tank situated under Nellis Air Force Base.

  The president looked up from the file. “The naval officer was in Afghanistan and the lieutenant was in Azerbaijan. They were part of the power plant search. Hell, I guess we’re lucky the damn Russians allowed them in.”

  “I suspect because whoever these two officers are they have an idea just what an alien spaceship engine looks like,” Harlan Easterbrook said with his silver right brow raised.

  “If this alien power plant is found and the Iranians will not give it up peacefully, will they go to war to protect it?” The president ignored the remark about Event Group expertise, but stared at his CIA director.

  “No,” Easterbrook said confidently. “The newly elected president, Rouhani, would never risk his government over something he may not even have control over.” Easterbrook opened his briefcase, then passed around a singular report. “We have made several enquiries since you informed us of this new information. As of fifteen days ago the city of Birjand, a pretty large city in eastern Iran, received a new citizen who’s taken up residence only two blocks from the University of Applied Science and Technology: the former president of Iran, our old friend, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

  A chill went through the president’s body. The ex-president of Iran had been a thorn in the side of every U.S. president since Bill Clinton with his anti-western rhetoric and his outright hatred for the State of Israel. If he was in charge of this project, the president suspected that maybe far worse was happening in fundamentalist Iran than what they knew about.

  “Jesus,” the president said. “Harlan, I need to know if the new Iranian president is backing this project if it is in existence.”

  “Hassan Rouhani is a moderate cleric who is attempting to end the hostility between Iran and the West. Our intelligence analysis of his demeanor does not support him as the hardcase here. He’s trying desperately to heal old wounds and keep the peace with the more hardline clerics. No, sir, I am adamant in my belief this new president would not be a part of this—if this is really happening and they actually have a saucer engine.”

  “Just look at the satellite photos of that damn resort that magically vanished, Harlan,” the president said angrily. “That should give you an idea about the validity of this event.”

  “Yes, sir, I stand corrected,” Easterbrook said.

  “Sidney, I need to speak with President Rouhani, ASAP. Can you arrange it please?”

  Secretary of State Sidney Washburn nodded his head vigorously as he removed the cold pipe from his mouth. “Most definitely, Mr. President, and I concur one hundred percent that this is the way to go. He may even come in handy if the situation … well … worsens to the point that Ahmadinejad, if he is the culprit here, utilizes what we know the Iranians have been hiding in that nuclear closet of theirs.”

  “Thanks, Sidney, give me an hour and then arrange the call. I’ll need you in the room with me as he may take some convincing. The last I knew Rouhani hadn’t been briefed on Magic and assuredly not on Overlord. The Russian president has to be conferenced in and I want to speak with him fifteen minutes before the Rouhani call. He has to kowtow to the Iranians if he doesn’t want a bunch of dead Russian boys out there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. President?”

  The commander-in-chief looked up from writing his order to the secretary of state and into the eyes of the man he had very little respect for in the few meetings he had been involved in. No, you could say Assistant Director of Operations Daniel Peachtree was not a presidential favorite over at CIA. He knew whose man Peachtree was—Speaker of the House Giles Camden.

  “The ever silent Mr. Peachtree, what can help you with?” The president leaned forward to complete his order.

  Harlan Easterbrook cringed, knowing he had made a mistake in bringing the man to the White House. He also knew any operational questions would have had to have been directed at his operations man, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He waited to see what Peachtree had to ask.

  “Sir, it would be most helpful if I could get briefed on this asset you keep referring to. If I’m to make a strategic evaluation, that would go a long way to—”

  “That is none of your concern, Mr. Peachtree,” Easterbrook said before the president could do so himself.

  “He’s right, Mr. Peachtree,” the president finally said with a withering look at the AD. “The Chato’s Crawl information is on a need-to-know basis, and you, sir, don’t need to know.” He smiled broadly for the first time in what seemed weeks. “Neither does the Speaker of the House.”

  The room went silent as the other men wanted to shout that it was about time the president called a spade a spade—or, more accurately, a spook a spook.

  “Okay gentlemen, let me have my talk with the Russians and Rouhani and see if we have a larger mess on our hands than we previously thought.”

  As the five men stood it was Harlan Easterbrook who saw the two words that Daniel Peachtree had written in his notepad, but he didn’t think anything more of it at that moment.

  Chato’s Crawl.

  Peachtree closed his notebook and followed the others out of the Oval Office, a light but confident smile on his lips. The president had obviously not intended to say the name of the location aloud. A location that the assistant director of Operations at the CIA knew well.

  Chato’s Crawl, Arizona, was where Harlan Vickers’s search for the mysterious asset would start.

  4

  GEORGETOWN

  WASHINGTON, D.C.
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br />   Speaker of the House Giles Camden listened to the man he had pushed into his position at the CIA, Daniel Peachtree. His eyes kept flitting toward the man who sat in the high-backed chair next to him, Hiram Vickers, with apprehension as Vickers kept looking at his watch and his cell phone. Peachtree thought they had a golden opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

  “I don’t see how the president can get out of this one,” Camden said. “I mean, starting a war over this silly space engine? The American people would crucify him, and they will after he has to go public with the fact that we and the Russians are taking on the Iranians over a possible fairy tale.”

  “I’m beginning to think that it may not be as big a fairy tale as you may think,” Vickers said. “Back in 2006 during another administration, the CIA filed some very strange reports on an incident in the Arizona desert. I’ve sent the reports to your e-mail and would like your opinion on them.”

  Camden eyed the man and then cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Peachtree has informed me of the president’s little slip about Chato’s Crawl and I did some snooping on my own. Yes, the CIA did make an attempt in 2006 to acquire that very same asset the president is leaning on so heavily, but was informed by the field commander at the site that the alien involved was killed during the event. Our predecessor never pursued it.”

  “So this action in the desert actually did take place?”

  “As far as I can tell, yes. And that in and of itself backs everything the president has deemed necessary for us to hear in order to get his military toys in order. Everything else regarding Operation Overlord is being guarded from the public and certain aspects of our government in a far more secure manner than even the Manhattan Project was in the forties. Yes, gentlemen, I believe there is something imminently bad happening and it’s scaring the hell out of not only our president, but the Russians, Chinese, French, and British. And when all of those military machines start getting scared other bad things are bound to happen.”