by Terry James
“I don’t know what I would have done if we weren’t the same size. I couldn’t afford this, that’s for sure,” Morgan said, turning to look in the full-length mirror against the wall to her right.
She walked to in front of the mirror. Jeddy followed, and sat down at her right foot, looking admiringly up at his mistress.
“What you think, Peanut? Is Mommy ready for the Rainbow Room?”
The rottweiler shifted, and growled a happy sound, hearing his pet name.
“Oh, my dear, Mommy is definitely ready,” Kristi said, standing behind Morgan and admiring her friend while Morgan looked at her own reflection.
“Cipriani’s–the Rainbow Room…Rockefeller Center! My, we’ve come a long way from McDonald’s!”
Morgan looked at Kristi’s reflection and giggled. “Yep. That is, if he doesn’t stand me up again.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, he’s a fool if he does.” Kristi moved behind her friend to smooth the midnight blue evening gown that sparkled in the apartment light.
“So, are you going to take the account executive job for his company? You know, that will be a high-pressure position.”
“Oh, I’m not sure of that. I’ll have to find out more about all that’s involved,” Morgan said, making a last adjustment by pinching the snug-fitting dress on either side at its strapless top and moving it back and forth.
She turned to face Kristi, who continued to look her up and down.
“You think this is all just to have a date?” she said, with concern.
“Well, he’s a guy. And he’s human. He likes what he sees,” Kristi said, then became more comforting. “Listen, girly. You are talented and can handle anything that the account involves. Just relax and enjoy the attention.”
Jeddy growled, and let out a subdued bark, shifting his weight while he leaned against the floor-length evening dress.
“See, Peanut agrees, don’t you, big guy?” Kristi bent to pat the dog’s head.
“Thanks for the loan of the dress. And for staying with the Peanut tonight,” Morgan said, hugging Kristi.
“I’m a little envious. But, I’ll get over it,” she said, returning the affectionate hug.
Jeddy stiffened, the black fur on his thick neck standing up. He moved in a threatening posture to the door just as someone knocked.
Clark Lansing studied the laptop computer screen, his eyes moving over Bruce Wilson’s e-mail message.
“April Warmath is a graduate of Colgate. 1999. Major: international relations. Hmmm… Didn’t know there was such a degree. Maybe political science…She apparently went to work with Defense right out of college. Very unusual, seems to me.”
Clark thought so, too. Right at the time of the change from Clinton to Bush. Must have had extraordinary pull to survive the transition. Someone at Defense –an entrenched bureaucrat, or something.
Clark’s eyes returned to the screen.
“Her resume says little else. No mention of Amnesty International or Universal, or whatever they call it… That’s all I got. –BW”
A knock at the door caused him to instinctively click out of his e-mail.
“Yes?” He shouted at the small room’s rough-hewn door several feet away.
“It’s just me, Clark!”
April. He closed the laptop and moved to the door.
“How’s the room?” She put the question in an upbeat tone, awaiting his invitation.
“Great! Just great. Come in,” he said after realizing she was waiting.
“These are a little bit rustic, but they will do,” April said, looking around.
“It has high-speed internet; that’s all I need,” he said, closing the door.
“You aren’t hard to please, Mr. Lansing. Hope I can please you as easily with the story I believe is in these mountains.”
Clark said, with a solemn expression that portended serious questions, “Hope you still think so after I’ve asked a few more of those Journalism 101 questions.”
“Of course. Shoot!” she said, her smile fading to a more business-like demeanor.
“Why call me, a freelance journalist, to rat on a department you’re working for?”
“Because we believe you are, in fact, an independent, fair-minded, freelance writer who will help us change the way of doing things by this government.”
She smiled and, before he could pose his next question, said, “We’ve done some checking, Clark. We didn’t just pick you at random. We know, for example, that you did some good writing in support of investigations into the treatment of prisoners by the military at Gitmo. When the military was taken to task for allowing the abuse of those prisoners, posing them for pictures, and all of that.”
Clark absorbed and digested April’s words before responding. “Yes…Well, you know then that I found little of substance to support the charges that it was a military-wide, a government-wide abuse. Just a few rogues. Just a dereliction of the higher-ups’ obligations to keep a better handle on things at lower echelons.”
“And, that’s the point. You didn’t join with your fellow journalists, who seemed to proceed writing about the abuses from a common template. You were fair-minded, and just reported your findings.”
“And, what if I find things other than you insinuate in this case?”
April smiled, seeming to soften. “We’re willing to accept your findings, Clark. As I said, our research shows that you are fair-minded in your reporting.”
“What about these hairy giant creatures? You said I would learn interesting things involving my nightmares, the facts about these…” He paused, searching for the word he couldn’t avoid that sounded kooky, even to him. “…these Bigfoot things. What do they have to do with the matters involving the Guantanimo prisoners?”
April sat in a chair near the bed, upon which he had taken a seat at one corner.
“Once you know what’s going on, you’ll see where these--things--fit in. That’s why we know you will report on this from the right point of view,” she said, after crossing one long denim-wrapped leg over the other at the knee and smoothing the material.
A loud thump at the door startled him as he was about to pose his next question.
“That will be Brassi, an associate,” April said. “We have some TV for you to watch.”
“It is wonderful to have you with us this evening, Mr. Robbins, the small, graying man said with a mild accent. He bowed slightly toward Morgan. “And you, Miss Lansing.”
She smiled at the maitre d’. “Thank you,” she said with a hint of uncertainty.
Morgan glanced nervously up at Blake Robbins, who held her slender arm in the crook of his own muscular one. She wondered what she was doing in the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center, whose elegance she had nothing in the way of experience to compare to, in the company of this VIP, who had to be the most gorgeous man in New York City.
“We have your favorite location prepared,” the man said with a twinkle in his expression.
“Thanks, Giovanni,” Blake Robbins said, beginning to follow the maitre d’. “This way.” He motioned for the two to accompany him to one side of the entrance. He snapped his fingers and a man in a formal, white jacket and black tie hurried to lead the way to their table.
“Have a wonderful dinner,” the maitre d’ said, admiring the beautiful, young woman in the glittering dress while she and Robbins moved with the waiter toward a raised dining area and huge floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked South Manhattan.
“This is probably my favorite vista in the city,” Robbins said, walking past their table and standing beside Morgan. “From here you can see both the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty.”
He pointed with a wave to another section of the gigantic windows. “From over in that area, we would be able to see the East and West, the Hudson River, the Bridges, Queens, Brooklyn, and New Jersey. But, this is my favorite. These skyscrapers are jewels in the night, aren’t they?”
“Breathtaking,” Morgan s
aid, seeing the golden-hued dome of the Empire State Building shimmering above the other structures. “Just breathtaking,” she repeated in a whisper, transfixed on the light show from their 65th-floor perspective.
“Yeah. I’ve always thought it was pretty cool,” Blake said, while they turned back to the elegantly laid table. He held her chair until she took her seat.
“Yeah, cool, and breathtaking,” she said with a subdued laugh.
After ordering drinks –Robbins’ favorite wine—he sipped from the long-stemmed glass and dabbed at his lips with the cloth napkin. Morgan saw in the bluest eyes she had ever seen a question he was about to pose.
“Morgan, I don’t like to spend a lot of time getting to the point, when something is on my mind. So, may I get to my thoughts up front, so we can both relax and enjoy each other’s company this evening?”
She fingered the tall stem of her own wine glass and glanced at the dark burgundy liquid before looking again into his eyes.
“Sure.”
“I’ve discussed this with Paul Guroix. Just to clear it in case you wanted to make the decision tonight.”
“What decision?” She blurted her question, and immediately was sorry she had posed it at that moment.
“I don’t mean to intrude into your privacy, believe me, Morgan. But, the situation demands that I move rather quickly. I’m on a tight schedule with these matters. If there is a way I can get you to answer with a yes over dinner tonight, I was hoping to move forward with my plans within two days.”
She looked at him with an unchanging expression. “Yes?” she said, with touches of both puzzlement and impatience in her question
A waiter arrived, and both looked to him. He laid the elegantly bound menus in front of each, then made his recommendations for the evening’s cuisine.
“Thanks, Montgomery, we’ll take it from here,” Blake said, nodding.
“Very good, Mr. Robbins. Thank you,” the man said, bowing slightly, then leaving.
Robbins again looked at Morgan, and said, after taking a sip of the wine, “We--that is, Transportec--are involved in some highly classified things we are developing for this country and certain nations in Europe. Whoever works with us in public relations in this effort will have to be thoroughly informed, will have to have some degree of government clearance. And, they will need to be involved in an up-close way, to understand the purpose, mission, and so forth of the technology and our part in it.”
He paused to–she thought—gauge her reaction. She purposely remained silent and tried not to change expression.
He again sipped the wine, wiped his lips with the napkin, and smiled slightly. “Well, I expected some reaction, I guess, from such a revelation. I see you’re not impressed.”
“Well, not yet, anyway. I’m listening,” she said, her eyes sparking with the reflected light of the candle flame that flickered at the center of the table.
“You will need to be available to travel with me--with us--to get that up-close perspective I mentioned. I assure you that I--we--chose you carefully from among a number of people who were considered for this…assignment.”
“Why me? I don’t have any experience in…government secrets, and things like that.”
“You are a blank Word document, a new, unblemished canvas. That’s exactly what we need. To start from scratch, so to speak, bringing someone into these matters. We need someone without preconceived notions.”
“And, you just picked me because I’m a blank page?” Morgan’s tone was mildly incredulous.
Blake smiled. “Guess the analogy lacked finesse. The bottom line is, I--we--want you to handle public relations for us. Will you accept?”
Light beamed upon the jagged crags of the cave that narrowed the farther the troops moved into its interior. It swept side to side to expose any possible hiding niche within the cave walls. The thick, hard-composition heels of the soldiers clattered on the inner-mountain floor and echoed off the solid rock walls while they proceeded.
“Should be just around the corner,” one of the men said, his words caroming throughout the cave tunnel and the now more expansive chamber.
The light next struck the man in a red jumpsuit, his back to the high wall that comprised the rearmost of the chamber. His black eyes glistened with hatred and fear while he tried to see through the agonizing brightness of the beam concentrated upon him.
He shouted curses in Arabic and reached to pick a stone from the cave floor. He flung it at the troopers, who easily avoided the projectile.
“We’ve got him on camera!” one of the soldiers shouted. Another framed, in the camera’s viewfinder, the escapee, who continued to search around his feet for more rocks. The light blinded him, and he covered his face with his right forearm while shaking his fist with his left hand at the men who tormented him with the light.
While he again began searching his surroundings, a burst of brightness exploded from the corner of his right eyebrow. His entire body glowed with a thousand points of dazzling, colored lights. He opened his mouth to scream, but there was no sound. The sun-like radiance grew even brighter, then instantly dissipated.
The troops, who had donned protective eyewear moments before the light burst within the cave, rushed forward, removing the black-lensed goggles. They surrounded the place where the prisoner had stood against the wall.
The screen in front of Clark Lansing, April Warmath, and the man she called “Brassi” projected the place where the man in the red jumpsuit had stood. He was gone. It was as if he had never been there.
“What is this?!” Clark’s tone expressed his astonishment.
“Well, it’s not an episode of ‘Star Trek’,” April said. “As you can see, the man vanished.”
“It’s not a camera trick, Mr. Lansing,” the muscular man with the shaved head said. “It’s technology they’ve developed for use against…anyone they choose to use it against.”
“Who?” Clark asked, looking at Brassi. “Who has developed this?”
“Watch. You still haven’t seen the true horror of the thing,” April said, directing his attention back to the large screen inset in the wall.
The scene displayed was that of a room that looked to be a science lab. At its center appeared to be a large round platform on the tiled floor, with a rounded overhang suspended from the ceiling, positioned directly above the platform.
“Watch,” she said, her own eyes affixed in a fascinated stare at the screen.
Light exploded from a single ignition point at the very center of the air midway between the rounded platform on the floor, and the suspended covering above. The entire area between the two round devices filled with excruciatingly bright points of colored lights.
The room became unrecognizable when the light reached the brilliance of the sun. Then the light was gone, and something appeared atop the platform at its center. Barely visible wisps of smoke arose from the glob.
“What’s that?” Clark said, thinking the disgusting-looking mass of pink and red that bubbled at the center of the circle was what April Warmath was about to confirm.
“The man in the red jumpsuit. From the cave,” she said.
Chapter 6
Colorado, the Rocky Mountains, near Crestone Needle
Lighted spots of varying colors flashed or remained glowing in pinpoints upon the high, vast wall. A huge map of the White Mountain region of northern Afghanistan, where the Afghan border met Pakistan, dominated the screen that reached 15 feet high and stretched 40 feet across. George Jenkins pushed a small lever forward with his finger and thumb tips, and the scene on the screen marked “Tora Bora” in blazing red letters drew closer and closer to Jenkins’ eyes, while he squinted to try and lessen the discomfort caused by the brightness.
The graphic next combined computer-generated topographical features with satellite real-time video to give the DOD deputy director as clear a view of the region as had ever been possible. The technology was put into operation within the past 12 hours, and Jen
kins gloated cerebrally that he was the sole person –at least for the moment—besides the president and the chief executive’s closest advisors to be allowed to play with the latest and greatest spy-toy. The president and Jenkins’ advisor-competitors were in D.C., and he was here in the Colorado mountains, the only place on earth the technology existed, for now, at least. He smiled with smug satisfaction while jockeying the lever back and forth, then manipulating several toggles and buttons to maneuver the satellite cameras. His thoughts ran the gamut, beginning with the creatures. Then there were the ongoing experiments, extracting the Guantanimo prisoners from this God-forsaken region. Next would come the payoff.
His thoughts melded somewhere in the center of his brain with the darkness he couldn’t control. Black, wave-like shivers rippled his body, and his eyes became black, glistening orbs, while the minion had its way with his mind.
Remembrance emerged from the evil matrix, and Jenkins was again in the subterranean cavern the moment the subjects were brought before him--the moment the groundwork began to be laid for the masterful plan that would bring to the Oval Office the head of America’s number-one enemy on a silver platter.
The director of the dark ops project saw not fear, but contempt glaring at him from the prisoner. The man, dressed in a crimson jumpsuit, stood, his hands shackled behind his back at the wrist by steel bands connected to a chain that loosely hung to their attachments to each of his ankles by the same type of metal bands.
The Afghani looked with disdain around the room, seeing for the first-time marvels of which he had not dreamed. Western technological magic pulsed and blinked silently, and his visage for the first time metamorphosed slowly to display uncertainty.
“I understand you speak English. Your name is…” Jenkins looked at a document he had been handed moments before by a black-uniformed guard.
“Your name is Musahad?” Jenkins looked at the prisoner after posing the question.