by Gordon Ryan
“Yes, sir.”
His gruff demeanor re-emerged, the cigar stub returned to its familiar resting spot in the corner of his mouth. He walked over to his dark oak desk and leaned against its front edge, his arms folded across his chest.
“What do you have?” said McHugh.
“Well,” said Mike. “CSAC is under attack by agents of an unknown power, possibly renegade KGB, who have been under cover in the United States, sometimes for decades. Whoever they are; they are well equipped both in weaponry and in training. For example, we believe that one of their group was an ex-fighter pilot. He was able to steal a Maryland Air National Guard A-10 even though he was ostensibly only a civilian security guard at the airport. Also, they have apparently cracked our security and seem to have an uncanny knowledge of where our agents are at any time.”
“Can we verify this information?” said McHugh.
“I had one of my agents run a check on Pentagon communications networks,” said Adams. “My agent discovered that one of the management information specialists, Ted Grayson, is very likely a mole for some foreign power. He had an unusual degree of access into some very sensitive CSAC computer files. We’re attempting to track him down now.”
Mike continued the report. “We’re pretty certain that the attacks were coordinated by undercover agents in the United States who received travel information from Grayson. The female agent who attacked Mildred, Julie Davenport, we now believe was under the control of an agent using the name of Tim Walsh, who posed as an auto mechanic in Minneapolis. Another member of Walsh’s group may have been William Sorenson, who managed a bicycle repair shop in Minneapolis. The interesting thing is that Sorenson tried to turn himself in as an undercover agent and, in the process, confessed to Winslow’s murder. However, his story was so incredible that the Minneapolis detective thought he was a kook and let him go. To be on the safe side, the detective filed an InfoNet and a DODNet report on Sorenson’s visit. That’s how we discovered him.”
“Where is Sorenson now?” said McHugh, becoming most interested.
“Unfortunately, someone reached Sorenson before we could. He’s dead,” Mike replied.
“Damn shame.”
“Before Sorenson was killed, he told this incredible story to the Minneapolis police detective about a network of undercover KGB agents in America called cicadas, after the hibernating insect of that name. This group was run by a KGB resident. What confuses me is why the KGB or renegade KGB would be trying to intercept our messengers.”
McHugh was silent for a minute. “What if I were to tell you that CSAC has long suspected that there are other Sentinels. Probably ones that surround each of the major continents, including Eurasia. As you know, Mike, the Oceanographer of the Navy outfitted a Lockheed RP-3D Orion in the seventies to map the earth’s magnetic field as part of Project Magnet. The Orion, unfortunately for obvious reasons, could not map areas close to Communist-held territory. As we’ve seen, low altitude flight is the only sure way we can verify the low energy magnetic anomalies associated with Sentinels. But there were other ways.”
Mike was surprised. He had not been briefed about this fact. “This would explain the rash of UFO sightings in Russia and South America during the period of the Socorro incident.”
“And that is what scares us all,” said McHugh. “Korean Air Flight 007 blundered into the flight pattern of one of our Boeing RC-135’s at one of the suspected Sentinel sites around the Eurasian continent with tragic results. The Russians thought that Korean Air 007 was one of ours and blew the civilian jetliner apart. Whatever the Russians have off Kamchatka Peninsula, they’re anxious not to let anyone else know about it. Even with Glasnost, we haven’t been able to penetrate that secret. As you know, non-Russians are still prohibited from visiting many areas of the former Soviet Union. It seems some secrets are too important to ever divulge — to anyone.”
“What about South America?” said Mike.
“For reasons that we have not been able to determine, there does not seem to be any Sentinel activity in the southern hemisphere.”
“The Earth does have a tilt to its axis. Is there any theory to that? Maybe these things are focused in some direction.”
“You know you’re right. I’ll have someone check into that.”
Mike said, “What about the messages, have we gotten any interpretation of the data from the Watch Stations?”
“We were able to salvage the cylinder from Winslow’s body. The message was almost lost, but the programmers at the National Security Agency were able to computer enhance the data retrieved from that cylinder. Thank God for the geniuses at DARPA for designing such a hardy package. Of course, the information from Mildred’s cylinder and the cylinder from Watch Station One were in fine shape.”
“Have we been able to interpret any of the data?”
“Only that the analog data from all three seem similar.”
“What about Watch Station Three?”
“We’re concerned about Watch Station Three. The last supply robotic submersible made a delivery on the day the message was received at the other Watch Stations, but Watch Station Three had not yet detected any transmissions. When advised that other Watch Stations had received activities, the Watch Officer initiated procedures to reconfirm no activity.”
“That was almost two weeks ago. Have we received any further information?” said Mike.
“No,” said McHugh with furrowed brow. “That has me concerned. Although the Watch Stations maintain absolute silence, communicating only through the supply vehicles in special encoding devices or through reports from crew members at the change of watch, the commander must have known how serious these events were and should have broken silence. Frankly, it’s got me worried.”
“When is the next supply vehicle?”
“Next Wednesday.”
“Bob, Johnny Thapaha’s funeral is this weekend. I need to attend.”
“Sure, I understand,” said McHugh. “Just be careful.”
1993: Clarity
1100 Hours: Saturday, June 26, 1993: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico
Mike got out of the rental car, a 1993 Taurus sedan. The town had changed little from the day when Mike first saw it with Johnny Thapaha. The narrow main street was still unpaved, the dry reddish gray of the road bed contrasting with the whitewashed paint of the adobe buildings.
The town hall was still in the same whitewashed adobe building in which Mike first met Ruth. Mike wondered whatever happened to Ed McIntyre, the Air Force officer at Holloman, he must have retired by now.
As Mike walked into the town hall, he saw Ruth, older but still attractive with her long silky black hair, now tinged with gray, in two braids over her native dress. Ruth was busy working on a computer and did not notice Mike enter.
“Hello, Ruth.”
Ruth was startled to hear the familiar voice.
“Mike!” Ruth said as she looked up. She got up from her chair and hurried over to give Mike a bone-crushing hug. “Here, let me call Richard,” said Ruth excitedly.
Richard hurried over from the MacLaren Insurance Company down Main Street from Town Hall. Grayer, but still the lean and athletic Navajo Mike had come to know and love like a brother, Richard shook Mike’s hand vigorously.
“Mike, I’m so glad you could come. Johnny would have missed you terribly if you hadn’t come to the ceremony. How many years has it been since your last visit? Must be at least ten years. You were an attorney then, now you’re a big maven on Wall Street.”
“You haven’t done so badly yourself. I understand that you were elected tribal chairman last year.”
“Yeah, can you imagine little Richie MacLaren, tribal chairman? Scary, isn’t it?” joked Richard. “Come down to my office, I’ve got something for you.”
Mike and Richard walked the few blocks down to the offices of the MacLaren Insurance Company. The offices were located in a modern looking building with vast expanses of glass and wood, a rare commodity in
southwest New Mexico.
“Do you like it?” said Richard. “It was finished just this January. Getting the Holloman Air Force Base account really made MacLaren Insurance, Mike. We really appreciated the help.”
“I’m glad I could give you a hand.”
As Richard and Mike walked into the antiseptic but inviting lobby of the MacLaren Insurance Company, Richard announced loudly, “Everyone, come meet Mike Liu, Johnny’s and my friend.”
All the Navajo employees of MacLaren Insurance dropped what they were doing and came forward to shake hands with Mike. Mike was impressed by how well his old friend had done. After the introductions, Richard ushered Mike into his second story office.
The wood-paneled office was impressive. Richard’s large mahogany desk was counterbalanced by the bright Native American colors of the couch and the Southwest Native American art that hung on the walls. On one wall was the skull of a bison behind which were two lances, with eagle feathers and colorful tassels. Distinctive Anazai pottery sat in the bookcase and credenza behind Richard’s desk.
“Have a seat,” said Richard, reaching into his desk’s right hand drawer. He took a package, wrapped in a colorful cloth, from the drawer and put it on his desk.
“On his last day, Johnny said that I should give this to you when his spirit left this Earth.”
He tenderly opened the colorful cloth wrapper revealing a dusty packet covered by an old, tattered cloth.
Richard reverently handed the dust-caked packet to Mike, who realized its significance immediately.
“Richard, I can’t accept this. It’s the medicine man’s talisman, his sacred bundle.”
“Mike, you must. Johnny’s wishes were precise. He said that Cha-le-gai was to have this packet,” said Richard, invoking the name that Johnny Thapaha had given Mike decades ago on that lonely mesa top. “The tribal council was reluctant at first, but they respected my father-in-law’s wish. Johnny’s last words to me were that you would know what to do.”
Mike remained silent.
The moving Navajo ceremony had a cathartic effect on Mike. Just as Johnny Thapaha’s spirit was finally freed from its earthly bonds to fly with the hawks, Mike felt a rush of emotion freeing him from the bonds that had tied his own soul for so many years.
Much later that night, Mike sat in his motel room with Johnny Thapaha’s packet on the desk. Hesitantly, he opened the dusty packet. As he did, pieces of rotted cloth fell away. Finally, Mike was able to examine the contents of the packet. The contents were quite ordinary. Some eagle feathers, some bones of avian origin, a dried salamander, dried peyote buds, and a small cloth packet.
As Mike unwrapped the small cloth packet, he immediately noticed the sparkle of the object’s metallic surface. He picked up the strange thin, chrome-like plate and looked at it, turning it over and over again, wondering how something like this had come into Johnny Thapaha’s possession. The size of a credit card, the thin metallic plate had a luminous quality. There was, however, no writing or other marks to distinguish the plate.
Mike couldn’t see the significance of the metallic plate. It must have been some piece of metal that Johnny Thapaha found in the desert, maybe out in the glide path of the jets landing at Holloman Air Base. He thought that it was funny that Johnny Thapaha had never mentioned this to him, even after the old man had begun to trust the Chinese-American.
Mike experimented holding the plate in a variety of positions, the shiny plate of metal was simply just that — a shiny metallic plate. No matter how Mike held the plate, he could see nothing. Mike wondered what Johnny Thapaha saw in it.
Mike was about to put the curiosity away when he held the plate to the table lamp in a fashion so that the lamp’s light skipped over the surface of the plate like the rays of the rising sun. Out of its shiny metallic surface, an amazingly clear holographic image arose.
“Holy shit,” said Mike.
1800 Hours: Sunday, June 27, 1993: Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
The white T-38 Talon taxied off the active runway and on to the special operations staging area. The screaming of its jet turbine engines abruptly died as the T-38 came to a stop inside the hangar. The hangar was guarded by two platoons of Marines in full combat gear, Kevlar helmets and vests. In their hands were AR-15 assault rifles with laser scopes.
The early evening night was punctured by the brilliant Klieg lighting inside the hangar, beacons piercing the night sky, and the red pencil thin beams of the laser scopes of Marines patrolling the hangar and its surroundings.
A Patriot missile launcher sat on the tarmac, its radar actively searching the sky for any hostile attack.
Overhead, the two flights of F-15Cs that had accompanied the T-38 from Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico, made one final fly over of Andrews Air Force Base and screamed into the night.
The pilot of the T-38 popped open the two canopies of the airplane and Mike climbed out of the second seat.
Mike took off his flight helmet and saw six dark gray Suburbans waiting in the hangar just outside the glaring ring of light from the Klieg lights beamed at the T-38.
Chief Warrant Officer David Lee stepped up to the T-38, saluted and said, “Welcome back to Maryland, Commander Liu.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lee,” said Mike. “I see you’ve recovered.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mike looked beyond Lee at the six Suburbans lined up in the hangar.
Lee noticed the look. “Those just brought us here, Mr. Liu. The President has put CSAC on Priority One, Red, which as you know is tantamount to war status. We’re to transport you to the National Security Agency by helicopter.”
As Lee finished his comment, Mike could hear the thumping sounds of helicopters landing just outside the hangar. As Mike, with a briefcase handcuffed to his left wrist, walked toward the Bell Sea Ranger, Model 205, TH-57, he looked up into the sky to see six other helicopters, including four Sikorsky HH-53H Super Jolly Green Giants, floating in the air. Each of the Sikorsky’s was armed with General Electric GAU-2B/A 7.62 millimeter miniguns.
“Holy fuck,” said Mike. “It’s the Apocalypse.”
“We didn’t want anything to go wrong,” said Lieutenant Albert Twoomey, as he joined Mike and Lee.
“In addition, the Air Force has a Boeing E-3C Sentry circling the sky over Washington, D.C. We don’t want anyone sneaking up on us. A flight of F-15 Eagles are also in the air. Another flight of A-10 Warthogs are regularly patrolling the route of our flight. All civilian and service aircraft in the Washington, Maryland and Virginia areas have been diverted. The best part is, if anything strays on to the radar screen, we get to shoot it down.”
“Won’t this make the Russkies a tad interested?” suggested Mike.
“But they can’t do anything about it,” said Twoomey, dead serious. “Let’s go. The old man is waiting for us at NSA.”
2100 Hours: Sunday, June 27, 1993: National Security Agency, Laurel, Maryland
The Bell Sea Ranger floated a few feet off the helipad on top of the security building. A platoon of Marines in full combat gear encircled the landing zone, AR-15 assault rifles at the ready, laser sights fully activated. As seen from the helicopter, the red lasers painted a surreal image. Laser beams danced about the heliport as guards scanned the area. The pilot of the helicopter set his machine down on the hard surface of the landing pad with the softest of jolts.
Overhead, the other helicopters guarded the helipad like so many fireflies floating in a summer night. Mike had stopped trying to count the number of aircraft that had been deployed for this brief trip. This time, Mike knew why the commotion. The information he had in the briefcase warranted the extra attention.
Mike was dressed in the same casual clothes that he had worn to New Mexico. His casual appearance belied the seriousness of the situation. He was unarmed, the Walther stowed in his duffel bag. Twoomey was dressed in the short sleeved summer tan uniform of the United States Navy with a holstered .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol on a khaki webbed
belt.
Both Mike and Twoomey jumped from the Sea Ranger and ran for the entrance way on the rooftop helipad at the National Security Agency headquarters in Laurel, Maryland. As they left the helicopter, they were immediately surrounded by combat ready Marine guards carrying AR-15 assault rifles. The group made the short distance to the entrance way in a few seconds. Inside the entranceway, Master Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston was waiting. She was there to assure that proper security procedures would be adhered to, despite the excitement.
“Hello, Commander,” said Margaret.
“Hi, Margaret,” said Mike, grinning. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”
With a thin smile, Margaret unlocked Mike’s handcuffs and took the briefcase from his wrist. Mike rubbed the wrist to smooth the raw feeling of wearing the nickel-plated cuff for the last twelve hours. Margaret and a troop of Marine guards disappeared into the bowels of NSA with the briefcase.
A Marine guard came forward. “Commander, Admiral McHugh is downstairs and requests that you join him immediately.”
Mike and Twoomey followed the Marine down the stairs into the antiseptic world of NSA. The atmosphere was one of bare, flat walls, bright fluorescent lighting, surveillance cameras constantly sweeping the office areas, and Marine guards at strategic points throughout the building.
The Admiral was in a conference room in the interior of the secured building. The room was most unremarkable in its appearance, a typical blend of plastic chairs and Formica-topped tables. In one corner stood a cornstalk plant. McHugh was sitting with two men in their late fifties. From the cut of their clothes and their demeanor, Mike decided they were probably career NSA operatives.
“Hi, Mike. Come in,” said McHugh. “Mike, this is Robert Telson and James Taylor of the National Security Agency’s Special Action Group.”
“James Taylor, huh?” noted Mike.
“Yeah, but I was James Taylor a long time before James Taylor was James Taylor,” said Taylor wearily.