Event (event group thrillers)

by David L. Golemon

  "What is it you want, Senator?"

  Garrison Lee walked back to his position at the head of the great conference table, his cane-aided limp now hardly noticeable. "Mr. President, I know the navy wants to keep a firm hold on this one, and under any other circumstance I would say yes, it's their bailiwick. But since this has possibly happened before, I believe it falls under the Event Group's jurisdiction according to our charter. Because of the nature of the incident in '47 we believe this episode was an Event of immeasurable proportions. Because of evidence we gathered many years ago, and I will expand on that with you and members of this group, I believe this incident today, like the one in 1947, was a deliberate action by an alien force to down that craft as an act of war."

  There was mumbling around the table and the president blinked, but was quiet.

  "What that brings to the table has been filed away since Roswell in 1947.1 have sent a copy of our investigation of the incident fifty-eight years ago to you on a secure link, and you will be receiving it shortly, and I stress, it is highly confidential." Lee took a deep breath and paused for a moment, then let it out. "Niles and I want our people on it, Mr. President, as we don't believe in coincidence." Then he looked from the president to those faces around the table that he knew best, the ones he had groomed for Events this important. "With the same Events so closely related and what we know of the previous one, I believe we are witness to a deliberate act for reasons unknown to bring those craft down in this country. I believe the first act in '47 failed for reasons we learned that night in Roswell, which will be explained, and if this is a successful second occurrence of a similar act, we are in deep trouble."

  This time the conference room was silent as the gathered group looked from Lee to the president, Waiting, waiting for some explanation as to the senator's dire warning.

  The president stood, making only his midsection visible in the frame, and walked away out of camera view. A moment later he returned. He slowly sat back down on the leather sofa with a bundle of papers in his hands.

  "Okay, you damn well better keep me informed, is that clear?" He started looking through the pages that had just been faxed through to him from Nevada.

  "Yes, sir," Lee answered. "And the Carl Vinson airman? We need that man here."

  "I'll get on that after I've had my burnt hot dogs, is that good enough?" the president said, looking up from the papers.

  "Yes, sir, and thank you, we'll be in touch. Enjoy your supper and--"

  "Mr. Lee," said the president, cutting the senator off, "this may be just a little too big for just your agency to handle alone. I've got to bring some of the Joint Chiefs and Security Council in on it at the very least. Everyone across the river is already screaming bloody murder on what might very well be a military matter, regardless of what happened in 1947." The president looked into the camera with a frown as the screen faded to blue.

  The senator walked over to his chair and seated himself, letting out a heavy sigh. Collins saw Alice pat his arm. He turned and smiled at his colleagues and nodded at Director Compton.

  "Okay, people, an Event has been officially declared, the order will arrive shortly giving us the powers of an official presidential investigation. Now, how do we find that saucer?" Niles asked.

  The room was momentarily quiet, and then the Group started making plans for what each of their departments could do to add to the search. Jack and Carl excused themselves. As for Garrison Lee, he sat heavily into his chair and rested both hands on his cane. Alice watched him but made no attempt at checking to see if he was alright. She knew he wasn't.

  SEVEN

  After the meeting broke up, Collins and Everett made, their way to an early dinner.

  "Well, that was different. Didn't like the way the old man looked though," Jack said.

  Everett thought a moment, then stepped closer to the major. "I think the senator's not well. He shouldn't be this involved. Maybe he wants this to be his last hurrah, so to speak, but that's just my opinion, and I would die for that guy." Carl fell silent a moment. "There's scuttlebutt that says the president is thinking about fully retiring the senator, even taking away his advisory status, even though Doc Compton would kill to keep him on." Carl pursed his lips a moment. "Sure would hate to see that."

  "If it does happen, what about all this?" Jack asked, gesturing at the complex around him.

  "Dr. Compton has been calling the shots around here since 1993 or so, with Alice easing him into the position." Everett took the major by the elbow and steered him away from the others, walking slowly along the hallway. "As I mentioned earlier, there have been some serious leaks from somewhere. That goddamn Farbeaux and whomever he is working for have shown up at the oddest places and have done us, the Brits, Germans, and Israelis a lot of damage. A few of their intelligence agencies actually accused the U.S. of harboring this guy and whomever he works for. I'm glad you're here to take command and sort this mess out."

  Jack knew he had a lot of hard work ahead of him.

  Camp David, Maryland

  19.40 Hours, Eastern Daylight Time

  The president of the United States sat for a moment after the view of the Event Center went dark. The president stood and walked over to the blinds and pulled them aside. He smiled and waved at his daughters with the red-bordered file and the pages that the Group had just sent over. The girls, along with the first lady, were playfully tossing the burning hot dogs into the air and letting them hit the grill, accompanied by laughter. He smiled and slowly turned away from the window in thought.

  He had quickly scanned the pages the Group had sent over and felt numb. If what Lee thought was happening was indeed really happening, the president didn't know if they had the assets to stop it. He slowly walked over to his wall safe and opened it and placed the pages inside, then closed it and locked it with his key. He turned away and went to the side door of his office and opened it and waved the Secret Service agent in.

  Roland Davis had been on the presidential detail for the past three years and knew when the president had a lot on his mind. When he wasn't smiling, that meant he was occupied with one problem or another.

  "The staff just made a fresh batch of lemonade, Mr. President," Agent Davis said.

  "Thank you, Roland," the president said as he turned and made his way for the door and his reunion with burnt hot dogs. "After I choke down dinner, I would like to speak with the chief of staff, and get General Hardesty on the horn, in"--he paused and looked at his watch and then outside to his smiling wife--"say an hour?"

  "Yes, sir, one hour."

  The president went through the door and into the nice evening.

  Special Agent Roland Davis slowly slid the door closed, then pulled the blinds closed to offer the first family their privacy. The outdoor security teams were now responsible for the president's safety. Davis then went over and pushed a button on the coffee table in front of the large couch, sending the liquid-crystal plastic conference screen back into its nest in the ceiling, at the same moment he reached underneath and deftly removed a small device he had hastily placed there before the president's conference. He quickly clipped it to his radio on his belt, then turned and walked over to the swinging door that led to the small entranceway. He swung it partway open; sitting at a small desk was the Secret Service duty officer.

  "Stan, I'm going off the air to make a personal call to my wife at work," he said, holding the door open with one hand. "The boss is outside with the family."

  "You bet, just let me know when you're back on the air, and if the boss comes back in"--Stan tapped one of the six video monitors on the desk--"end the call real quick."

  "Sure thing." Davis removed the earpiece from his left ear, and while the duty officer reached into his top drawer, Davis quickly reached down and shut off the radio on his belt, his hand moving so quickly he knew it went unnoticed.

  "Here ya are," the officer said as he tossed Roland his personal cell phone.

  Every agent on the president'
s security detail was required to turn in all personal equipment while on duty, including cell phones. Davis nodded his head in thanks and let the door swing closed. He walked back into the wood-paneled living room and stepped to the small window next to the bar and partially separated one of the hanging blinds. The president was now sitting in a lounge chair grimacing at the hot dog that was sitting in a plate on his lap. Roland let the panel drop back and then walked to the center of the room. He raised the cell phone and dialed a preprogrammed number. The connection was quickly made.

  "Clausins Department Store," a female voice answered.

  "Hi, can you connect me with accounting please, this is Roland Davis calling for his wife," he said, not giving in to the temptation to look around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. The cameras were still on and very much active even though the president was currently outside.

  "One moment please," the voice said.

  There was a series of clicks, and then just like any other holding signal, the gentle swell of a soft and melodic version of "Eleanor Rigby" came into his right ear. The Muzak was a nice touch, he had to admit that.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Davis, she's in a sales meeting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?"

  As he listened to the coded phrase, he quickly reached to his side under his jacket and switched on the miniature digital recorder that he had just attached to his voice-activated radio. The same one he had just removed from the bottom of the coffee table. Then he quickly placed the cell phone by his hip and counted to two; he left it there another four seconds just to be sure. In that short time, a burst transmission was sent three times through the cell phone that was completely silent, or if anyone was listening, such as the NSA, they may have caught the soft sound of hissing like any other cell call. The coded recording of the president's meeting with the Event Group would be heard by others in a matter of minutes.

  He quickly placed the phone to his ear and said, "No thanks, I'll speak with her when she gets home." He closed the cell phone and smiled. He would be paid a nice amount for his treachery.

  New York City

  19.48 Hours

  The Genesis Group had been located on Seventh Avenue for the past sixty years and had passed that time as anonymously as any tree among many in the forest of buildings in one of the largest cities in the world. Few noticed that only a couple of people a day came and went from the nondescript sandstone building, but the ones that did were delivered to the address in limousines and wore clothing few outside of habitues of the largest boardrooms in the world could afford. The Sage Building was sixteen stories of boring turn-of-the-century architecture that drew absolutely no attention from anyone. The ornate interior decorations that occupied its dust-free corners had been purchased from all the best houses of Europe and Asia, but the most outstanding feature of the Sage Building was found five stories below the surface of the busy street.

  The old man sat in a high-backed, electric wheelchair and looked into the glass enclosures before him. The three containers and the craft were there as they had always been. The information gained from them had long since been filed away, and the cabinets that held those files were being covered, he was sure, with thick layers of dust somewhere on the floor below him.

  The largest display in the immense subbasement was to the right of the smaller enclosure containing the three aluminum bio-tanks. This viewing case was filled with the vehicle recovered from Roswell in 1947; its electronics and engines had long since been dismantled and analyzed many, many years ago at the then named Wright Field in Ohio. Little remained of the saucer after all the metallurgy that had been conducted on the debris. But what there was of it had been put back into some semblance of its original shape. The craft was almost unrecognizable as only the front and lower portions had been re-created. The upper dome was long gone, as the scientists and company engineers had had their way with it. He thought back through the years and remembered the excitement among his handpicked people as the technology had been retrieved.

  The old man looked at the lower section, what the eggheads had confirmed had been the cargo hold of the vessel. This section was sparse in its reconstruction, but he could see the many metal containers that had been recovered and, once examined, placed back inside. The one in the center held his attention and had for the past sixty-odd years.

  The large crate was sitting on the Plexiglas floor (that was a prop also, as the original floor had been used for testing as so much of the craft had). The contents, of course, had never been in his possession, but the mere thought of what it must have contained at one time was mind-boggling.

  He closed his eyes as a small pain crossed from left to right across his chest. He knew it wasn't serious but he removed a small ornate Chinese case from his vest pocket nonetheless and quickly slipped a small white nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. All the while his eyes never left the crate where spotlights illuminated it and it alone.

  Again the old man reached out and this time removed a box from a small table beside his large wheelchair. He gently lifted the lid on the aluminum container and stared into the satin-lined interior. He lowered the box to his lap and used his index finger to touch the long and curved claw inside. It was fourteen inches in length and was serrated on both sides. The claw flared on the tip into what looked like two spoons that were arranged on either side just before the devastatingly sharp tip. The entire length curved like the prehistoric claws found in museums of animals long vanished from the surface of this world. He lovingly removed the claw from its box.

  Whatever animal had used this weapon also used it as a digging instrument. The creature had obviously been a bur-rower of some sort, or so his expensive teams of scientists had said. The DNA recovered from the claw was so alien to our universe that the eggheads declared that the sample had to have been severely contaminated. Their analysis of the atomic structure of the sample told them it could never have survived anyplace with a gravitational field.

  Bah! Sons of bitches don't know what they are talking about, the old man thought. An impossibility, they said. Well here it is right in my hand. The claw proved that this animal had existed and he would have loved to have seen it. He had lied and cajoled the old boys in the Agency so long ago, fooled them into thinking there was nothing to it. Even the Majestic 12 council, President Truman's think tank, conceived after Roswell to discover the ramifications of life beyond this world, had no idea these artifacts still existed. Even the old hawks at the time, Curtis LeMay and Allen Dulles, were just as happy never to have to deal with anything from Roswell again outside of the technology they gleaned from it. As for the possibilities of the animal, out of sight, out of mind was their philosophy.

  He placed the claw back into the box and closed the lid. It would go back into his safe upstairs where no one would ever lay hands on it. This was lus only personal claim to the crash at Roswell, and no one would take it from him. He set the box on the small table and looked at the enclosure next to the saucer. They were lined up side by side. Glass viewing plates had been placed in the upper half of the lids for viewing the corpses inside.

  Every once in a while he wondered if the evidence of that night should be shared with the powers that be, but then he would catch himself. He knew that it was he and his company, now his son's, that were the only ones that would be strong enough to lead the way in combating the enemy they had discovered in the scrub brush in New Mexico. Or, if it was handled just right, they might acquire a new weapon for their own country if the chance arose. After all, if it was good enough for use as a weapon outside this world, it would sure enough be good for America.

  "You know, Dad, if you continue to come down here into this cold and dank basement, I'm going to leave orders for it to be locked up." The voice came from an open doorway at the top of the long theater-type aisle. "It can't be good for you."

  The old man turned and faced the man who was backlit by the open door.

  "It's all I have left, and now you threaten to
deny me even that?" he responded, then turned back around.

  The tall man let the door close behind him and made his way slowly down the descending aisle. The basement had been set up like a small theater, and the seats were strategically placed to view the craft. The old man's only son sat in the front row right behind the wheelchair his father had ordered placed on the small riser of a stage so he could see the artifacts better. He didn't say anything for a moment, just watched the old man and shook his head. He undid the waist button of his expensive suit jacket and waited. The younger man had jet-black hair that was combed straight back, and his features were just as his father's had been so long ago, aggressive and unyielding.

  "I've received some information that may be of interest to you... and us," he said as he crossed his right leg over the other. He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from the fabric of his pants.

  The old man didn't say anything. His gaze never wavered from the exhibits in front of him.

  "The president's been having some very interesting meetings with your old friend Garrison Lee and Director Compton."

  At the mention of Lee's name he saw his father's shoulders twitch and his body tense.

  "I take it I have your attention, for the moment at least?" The younger man enjoyed the advantage he momentarily had over the old man. He knew it upset his father no end that Garrison Lee still had people who depended upon him for advice, when his father had been cast aside by the ever-changing environment of a very different world, a world of science and manufacturing, not dreaming about monsters and invasions. Lee had outlasted him and he hated him for it. But the younger man decided to soften his approach. He still respected his father for his strength and foresight when America needed it the most.

  "It's my understanding our distinguished president meets with the Event Group once a week, why should it concern me? It's you and our company that has a misguided interest in antiquities and mysteries from the past, not I," the old man replied without turning.