“Eighty thirty.” Tull looked at his watch. “Robinwood’s about four hours from here. It’ll be tight, but we’ll be back before the show. Even have time to take a shower and put on a tie.”
Chapter One Hundred One
House of Jack Ledger
Near Robinwood, Maryland
Sunday, October 20, 9:16 p.m.
“Great plan,” I said to Bunny, “and what exactly is our band of ‘bad guys’ supposed to do? Who should we go and rough up?”
“Um,” said Bunny. “yeah … there’s that.”
“Do you have a suggestion, Captain?” asked Church.
“Maybe,” I said. “There’s one name that keeps coming up in this. In the cyber-attacks, in the field of radical weapons and technology … and on the list of possible M3 members Junie put together. Well, guess what, Rudy made a bunch of calls today to UFO experts and one question he asked everyone was who is most likely to be a member of M3. People threw a lot of names around, but there’s one name that appeared on over eighty percent of the lists. Anyone want to take a guess?”
It was Junie who answered.
“Howard Shelton.”
Mr. Church nodded.
“Howard Shelton,” I agreed. “He was even there when your father — or whatever he was — was winning the prizes that got him recruited by DARPA.”
“Wait,” said Ivan, “how could it be Shelton? Those cyber-attacks slammed him. All those dead people at Wolf Trap? The attacks on his computers…”
“If we were discussing someone who was well balanced,” said Mr. Church, “I would be inclined to agree that Mr. Shelton is an unlikely candidate. But I can see where Captain Ledger is going with this. Shelton could be making himself bleed in order to prove that he is a victim and not the attacker. There are a lot of cases of that kind of pathology.”
“Pretty elaborate way to establish an alibi,” said Ivan.
“And pretty effective,” I said. “Especially if the areas taking the cyber-hits were important — but not important to his plans with M3 and the T-craft.”
“Hold on,” said Pete, “I don’t know a lot about Shelton. Who is he?”
Bunny tapped some keys on the MindReader substation and a picture of a man’s face appeared. “Meet Howard Shelton, grade-A scum-sucker.”
The face on the screen was a professional portrait of a sixty-something man with warm brown eyes, silver hair, strong jaw, straight nose, and perfect teeth. He looked like the kind of actor who played the older, wiser doctor on soap operas. He exuded warmth and confidence. The photographer even contrived to suggest the barest hint of a twinkle in his eyes.
“Run him down for us, Junie,” I said. “Why’s he at the top of our list?”
“He’s a billionaire from Pennsylvania,” she said. “Mostly old money, but a lot of it. His family’s been tied to politics since Teddy Roosevelt but none of the Sheltons have ever held office. Shelton’s companies hold defense contracts to the tune of sixteen billion.”
Mr. Church said, “Shelton is also a principal stockholder in Blue Diamond Security.”
“Okay,” asked Pete, “but how does that tie Shelton to UFOs and stuff?”
Junie recapped for the team what she’d said during the video conference, about companies that made fortunes off unexpected and radical design leaps. “If you look at companies that have made more unusual and varied breakthroughs, and you trace outright ownership or significant stock ownership, then again you have a short list of names, and Shelton’s name is always on the list.”
“How much of this do you know,” I asked, “and how much is guesswork?”
“It’s all guesswork,” she said. “No, let me correct that — the financial picture based on radical patents is real. The connection to the DoD and DARPA is real. The connection to every new generation of stealth technology is real. The guesswork is that he’s tapping alien tech as the source. And that he’s a member of M3.”
“The kicker for me,” I said, “is the controlling interest in Blue Diamond. I think if we scratched the surface of these Closers we’d find that most or all of them work for Blue Diamond.”
Pete made a face. “I don’t know if I buy it. I mean, when it comes to big business, how can you tell the difference between someone who really believes in doing what’s right for the common good and someone who does it to make a profit? A lot of industrialists have profited off every war, that doesn’t make them bad guys. And not to sound corny or anything, but there’s still that whole Constitution thing.”
“There is one more factor,” said Church. “Something that Bug found, but it’s not really proof. More a lack of proof. There is no official record of Howard Shelton ever being investigated. Not by a congressional committee, not by the FBI or the DEA. You know that when MindReader exits a system it erases its tracks? Most computers can’t do that at all, and even the very best ones leave a bit of a twitch in the software. Like a scar. However, when Bug looked for any trace of official investigations into Howard Shelton, all he could find were scars in those places where case files or even case numbers should be.”
“So he’s managed to expunge his record?” asked Junie.
“Expunge it and clean it up so well that all anyone — even MindReader — can do is find smudged fingerprints. That has Bug very worried. No known system should be able to do that, which means that there is an unknown system out there. Something that operates very much like MindReader.”
I snapped my fingers. “And that’s how they’re doing the cyber-attacks!”
“That would be my guess,” agreed Church. “With a system like that it would be relatively easy to shift blame toward the DMS. Bug tells me that the system may, in fact, be so harmonious that it’s allowed them to hack MindReader.”
We all turned to stare at the computer.
“Frightening, isn’t it?” said Church.
I reached over to turn the computer off.
“That won’t be necessary, Captain,” said Church. “Bug has introduced some aggressive new software into the anti-intrusion system. He believes that MindReader is protected now.”
“Believes or knows?”
Church merely smiled.
Junie looked around the room. “What happens now?”
I stood up. “We get some rack time, and then by dawn’s early light we go and pay a call on Howard Shelton.”
“How? Do you just bust in?”
“Sadly, no. Pete’s right, there’s a constitutional issue. If there’s even the slightest chance Shelton is innocent, then I’m not willing to destroy him because I made a bad call. No, we’ll go in and ask some questions. Like … are you a member of M3? Do you have the Black Book? And did you just kill two hundred of my friends? Questions like that.”
“God, whether he’s innocent or guilty he’ll throw you out.”
“He is welcome to try.”
Chapter One Hundred Two
House of Jack Ledger
Near Robinwood, Maryland
Sunday, October, 20, 9:43 p.m.
The meeting broke up.
There were two full bathrooms at Uncle Jack’s, so the showers were in constant use. As was the kitchen. Bunny and Lydia volunteered to “walk the perimeter.” Right. Brick and Birddog were out there, too, but they were actually working, transferring gear from the Mister Softee truck — which was a rolling arsenal — to Black Bess and the Explorer.
I tried to catch a moment alone with Junie, but she slipped away, vanishing upstairs.
Eventually the only ones left in the den were Church, Ghost, and I.
I dragged a chair over and sat next to him.
“How are you?”
He ignored the question. Instead he nodded toward the chair where Junie had sat. “That is a remarkable young woman.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Some people suffer adversity and become victims of it for life,” he said. “It colors everything they do. In a sense it pollutes their potential.”
I said nothing.
“While others refuse to break. They never allow themselves to be defined by their hurt. Those people are rare and they are precious.”
“She’s dying.”
Church shook his head. “She has cancer,” he said. “But I have seldom met someone more truly alive than her.”
I looked at him.
“Unless I am very much mistaken, Captain, you are acutely aware of that.”
He rose and moved over to the couch, kicked off his shoes, laid down, and appeared to go to sleep. Ghost went and sprawled on the floor in front of the couch. When he looked at me for approval, I gave him a wink.
Chapter One Hundred Three
House of Jack Ledger
Near Robinwood, Maryland
Sunday, October, 20, 10:11 p.m.
I found her upstairs in a small bedroom on the third floor. It had a single bed and big windows that looked out over trees. Pale moonlight painted the room in blue-white softness. She sat on the window seat, knees pulled up against her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. I knocked gently on the door frame.
She didn’t turn to see who was there. She made no specific move and yet there was a feeling of invitation. Or, at least I seemed to sense that. I came in and stood by the window. Moonlight has a way of making everything, no matter how ordinary, seem charged with magical potential — a forest doubly so.
“I love the world,” she said, a propos of nothing.
I sat down on the edge of the window seat.
“No matter what’s happening there’s always something beautiful. I don’t know when I became aware of it, but the first time it really struck me was in Egypt, after the bomb went off. I was hurt, dazed, bleeding pretty badly, and I thought I was dying. I was on my back and all I could see was the sky above me. There was a bird up there, way high, coasting on the thermal currents, hovering almost perfectly. It looked so peaceful, so in tune with what it was and in harmony with its place in the universe. I mean, I knew that it was probably a vulture looking for a dead animal, but that’s part of life, too. Everything dies. If nothing died, then the world would never be renewed, so death is part of a continually unfolding of beauty.”
“Junie, I—”
She leaned against me. Maybe it was an unconscious act, a primal need for closeness deep in the night of an ongoing war. Or maybe it was a very conscious choice. Either way, her body was a solid warmth against mine. I knew she was dying, but the reality of her was so vital. So alive.
I put my around her and she made a small sound of acceptance, or allowing, of pleasure.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” she said.
“No,” I said. “You had no reason to trust me. After all that you’ve been through, I’m kind of surprised you can trust anyone.”
We watched the moonlight.
After a long time I asked, “Are you afraid?”
“Of dying?” Her voice was a pale whisper. When I looked at her I saw tears glittering like jewels on her lovely face. “No. There’s always a light in the darkness.”
She turned to me then, and took my face in her hands and kissed my lips.
“I’m cold, Joe,” she said in that whisper of a voice. “Keep me warm.”
I stood up and drew Junie to her feet and we kissed. It was the softest, sweetest kiss I’d ever experienced. Then we undressed each other with sudden urgency, stripping away the stained and ragged clothes and all their proofs that a harsh world existed. Her body was ripe and lithe and ghostly pale. I drew her into the warm circle of my arms and we stood there and kissed by moonlight for a few scalding moments, and then we were in the small bed. Our bodies moved together with a familiarity and comfort as if we had known each other for years, yielding and receiving, offering and taking, sharing and plunging into that river of sweetness that has flowed since the dawn of time and will flow on until the stars are dark cinders. She buried her mouth against the hollow of my neck to muffle a scream of delight that was not the little death but an affirmation of life. I cried out, too, both of us wordless but articulate in the message we shared, in a statement that we are still alive. For now, in this moment, we are still alive.
Part Six
Terminal Velocity
Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.
— MARK TWAIN
Seven blunders of the world that lead to violence: wealth without work, pleasure without conscience, knowledge without character, commerce without morality, science without humanity, worship without sacrifice, politics without principle.
— MAHATMA GANDHI
Chapter One Hundred Four
On the road, Western Pennsylvania
Monday, October 21, 4:03 a.m.
We left my uncle’s farm at four in the morning. I was in the Explorer with Ghost and Junie. Top and Bunny were in the backseat.
The rest of Echo Team was in Black Bess. I left Church in the care of Brick and Birddog.
“Whoa, whoa now,” said Brick. “How is it that the young miss gets to go on this raid and we have to sit here and play with our dicks?”
“That’s not how it is, Gunny. Junie volunteered to go. She knows Tull, she understands the science, and she has to be close for us to use the team channel because the other stuff is tapped. She has to come. You don’t.”
“Listen, boss,” protested Brick, “maybe I don’t have a left foot but I can pull a trigger and fire an RPG.”
“What he said, Cap,” agreed Birddog. “They were my friends at the Warehouse, too.”
“Look,” I told them, “I appreciate the offers, but this isn’t a frontal assault. We don’t even know if Shelton is our bad guy. I need you guys to make sure Mr. Church gets to the Hangar safely. The DMS is on the run and we can’t trust our radios. You need to get him to Aunt Sallie and then go to ground. We don’t know what else Tull and these Closers have planned, but hear me on this: If anyone takes a run at Church I want you to give them the worst day of their lives. Understood?”
“Hooah,” they growled.
Church walked us out. “Good hunting,” he said.
He had created the DMS and over the years he’d seen hundreds of his people fall defending the country and the world. Now a fool of a president and a group of maniacs were trying to tear it all down. Even battered and pushed to the edge, I did not believe for one second that Church was going to accept defeat. Not him. Not after everything that had happened. As I climbed into my Explorer I met his eye.
“Good hunting to you, too,” I said to him. He measured out a frozen millimeter of a smile.
The drive to Pittsburgh took a little over three hours. I dented a few traffic laws. Sue me. World in the balance, yada yada yada.
It was also one of the most awkward drives.
We talked about friends who had died in Baltimore.
We talked about Shelton, building our case against him.
We talked about aliens and UFOs, and the fact that we were having the conversation at all. When Junie reminded us that she had alien DNA it shut us up for almost twenty miles. I mean, really, go ahead and story-top that.
When the conversational button reset, we talked about all the things we each wanted to do to Erasmus Tull. I doubt Junie enjoyed that part of the trip. I did, but I was of two minds. Half of me wanted to take about forty minutes and use every second beating the son of a bitch to a finely textured pulp. The Warrior inside my head cheered that decision.
The rest of me wanted to give him the Indiana Jones treatment the second I saw him. If you ever saw Raiders of the Lost Ark you’ll know the scene. Indy is suddenly confronted by this Arab warrior who’s like seven feet tall, packed with muscles and swinging a scimitar. The crowd clears out, leaving a market square empty for what will be the fight scene of the century. But Indiana Jones just pulls his pistol and shoots the guy in the world’s best “oh, fuck you” moment. Turns out, the actor, Harrison Ford, had dysentery and really wasn’t up to filming the elaborate fight scene that had been choreographed. Spielberg
loved it so much he kept that version of the scene in the movie. Every soldier I’ve ever met agrees that it’s the smartest fight scene in the history of film.
Tull was a hybrid who was supposed to be faster, stronger, and more ruthless than anyone. Thing is, I’ve both been there and done that. Genetically enhanced mercenaries amped up with ape DNA. People infected with a prion disease that turned them into zombies. Soldiers who had undergone gene therapy with insect DNA. And last year … the Upierczi. Actual vampires. Okay, they weren’t supernatural or anything like that, but they were easily twice as strong and three times as fast as me. So … I’ve done the whole fight the impossible fight thing and it’s getting old. I’m only in my early thirties and my body is crisscrossed with scar tissue. I’ve had more broken bones than I can remember. There was a time in my life when I thought I needed to prove to myself that I couldn’t be defeated, that I was strong, that the bad guys could never hurt another innocent because I wasn’t tough enough to stop them. But, you know, me and the guys have saved the world. The actual world. A couple of times now. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, and Rudy has been trying to tell me for fifteen years that I never had to prove anything.
So, my game plan, should I see Erasmus Tull, was to put him down like a dog and call it a day.
I liked that plan.
We drove on toward the dawn.
And the one thing we did not talk about — Junie and me, that is — was what happened last night. That was the thing I wanted most to talk about. Something that wasn’t tainted by madness and murder, by terrorist agendas and political corruption. By blood and death.
But as we drove, Junie Flynn took my hand and held it. She didn’t care if the two hulking thugs in the back saw it. Neither did I.
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