The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2)

by Col Bill Best

  Fact: Unless he quickly reestablished communications, he would have to make his own decision, before fuel ran out within about one hour.

  Fact: What?!… A sudden itching distracted him. First his scalp, then under his armpits. He tried to concentrate on his third fact, but his right knee was itching…His left foot twitched…he felt it!

  A sense of awe swept over Roger. For the first time since the mid-air collision and crash-landing years earlier, the feeling was returning to his legs. He felt the relief as he scratched behind his right knee, then his left knee. The itching subsided as quickly as it had begun, replaced by a mild but bearable tingling sensation throughout his body. The feeling remained, and he could move his feet and legs! Electric shock? The strange calmness, and the healing of his paralysis; did he experience something like electro-shock therapy?

  Lord, I don’t understand…anything…but thank You!

  For the first time since they strapped him into the aircraft high over Texas, he added the possibility of a safe landing to his list of options. And he removed one option he had seriously considered: A straight dive into a mountain or swamp to obliterate Guardian and its classified equipment.

  At least for now.

  21. JASON MATTHEWS

  Jason Matthews is the Antichrist.

  Well, perhaps not, but there had been speculation by the few who didn’t come under his charismatic spell.

  The man had been ruggedly handsome in his younger days and wasn’t too bad for a man now in his mid-sixties. His dark complexion, dark eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair hinted at a Mediterranean heritage from at least one side of his family. His physical stature was not overwhelming at six feet tall, and a trim-and-fit 190 pounds. But his personality was another matter.

  Jason was an avid student of personal power. Literally. Not as an undergraduate student, or while attaining his Doctor of Jurisprudence. Too obvious. Rather, Jason’s study began years earlier growing up in Chicago, seeing his father cower to the respective powers of mob bosses, political bosses, and labor bosses. Jason hated seeing his father appear weak. And he despised the greater reality that his father was weak. He vowed that he would never be put in that position himself. He learned—and he learned exceptionally well—from his father’s example of using subtle manipulation for survival. From that foundation Jason practiced and perfected what he learned at every opportunity; at home, at school, and in friendships and dating relationships.

  There was the personal power of Attila the Hun: Brutal. No class. Hitler? Far better, using significant personal charisma and backing it up with violence as needed or desired. There were the examples that Jason was personally and painfully aware of, like the gang bosses and corrupt governors and mayors around the time and place of his upbringing. And he’d studied contemporary examples of presidential power and abuses thereof.

  But in every case, and hundreds of others, they had one feature in common. Regardless of how brutal or how manipulative, Jason likened their form of power to world championship boxing. You had to win by being tougher, throwing more blows, and enduring more torment than your opponent. Not very elegant.

  More to his liking, Jason studied and perfected the fine art and science of what he referred to as deep manipulation. He learned to exercise the enormous self-discipline of not showing his power. Ever. The greatest control over others, he learned, was when they didn’t realize how much they were being controlled. Pretty amazing, actually.

  Rule One: Always precede every important conversation with self-talk. State your objectives.

  Quiet. Indirect; nothing anyone can pin on me. A reminder of expectations. Unmistakable expression of disappointment. Imply consequences.

  All in a split second.

  “Mr. Nesmith. Cliff, Cliff, Cliff. How could this happen?”

  He waited an uncomfortable three seconds until Cliff made a stumbling comment, then immediately spoke over him in a slow monotone.

  “You knew what we expected. You knew how much we’ve invested; what’s at stake. A thousand variables had to be manipulated, hundreds of people at the right place at the right time. Even you; you were warm and cozy, ready for your place in our new arrangement while everyone believed you were on a cruise. How did you allow this to happen? When will we ever have such a perfect opportunity again?” Jason let out a long sigh. “Now talk.”

  This time, he let Cliff talk. It wasn’t like Cliff to be nervous or confused. But Jason had that effect on people. Intentionally.

  “Uh, I, uh, I told you the exact time it would be in transport, uh, unavailable. How was I to know a paraplegic engineer could fly it?”

  “It didn’t miss.”

  “Uh, yes sir, it did, actually. It really did. I don’t know what they did. But…uh…it did miss. I made sure…”

  Jason let the silence linger. Quietly, deadpan: “Where is it now?”

  “Sir, it must have been vaporized. It couldn’t have survived. No traces!”

  “Good,” Jason spat out, his tone making it clear that nothing about the entire situation was in any way “good.” “We’ll look for another opportunity. You won’t let me down again. You won’t let us down again.”

  Jason ended the call.

  Quiet. Indirect. Nothing anyone can pin on me. Expectations. My disappointment. Consequences. Check.

  Jason closed his eyes, took a long, slow breath, and committed every detail of the conversation to his eidetic memory. He always remembered what he said. And didn’t say.

  Jason had another call to make. Like the first, he used his front-line DARPA prototype phone. His part of the call could not be traced back to him, to the phone, or even recorded as having occurred.

  “Mr. Premier.” The translation was automatic, virtually instant, and as accurate as ninety-nine percent of native speakers. “We have a non-event. We’ll make threats, back off negotiations for a while and wait for another opportunity.”

  “Understood. We’re going dark for now. We’ll await your next call.”

  Just like that, the call ended.

  Jason helped himself to a tall shot of very expensive Scotch.

  All his networks—“his,” in his own mind; Jason would never slip up and say that out loud—were appalled when he had lost the election. His Hollywood friends and other supporters were inconsolable. Many wept bitterly, even threatening to move out of the United States. Jason had just shrugged it off. He had bigger plans. President of the United States memorabilia would be a nice-to-have addition to his I-love-me wall; especially since he would have been the last person to ever hold that office. But, who cares? The presidency, a delay in instigating the One World Peace Now takeover…

  All just minor setbacks.

  He poured himself a second shot. He never had over two shots per day.

  Jason methodically planned his next move.

  He smiled. And began his evening game.

  + + +

  Cliff Nesmith was shaking, sweating, and swearing. His one consolation was that the discussion hadn’t been face-to-face. He took the senator very seriously. He had heard rumors that Senator Matthews was responsible for a number of convenient “accidents” and “suicides.” There was always the implied threat that Jason Matthews had to have his way. Or else.

  He mixed himself a stiff drink. One thing he made sure of was that his shelter had a well-stocked bar.

  How in the world did Roger and Justin pull this off? he marveled.

  When no answer came to mind, his thoughts returned to Jason Matthews, and he scowled.

  The “love-hate” relationship had gone too far in the wrong direction this time. Sure, Matthews drove the phenomenal success of DPI and, therefore, Cliff’s personal wealth, many times beyond anything he ever imagined. But Cliff had earned it. He would have become a multi-millionaire in his own right anyway. It just would have taken longer.

  Would have. But he had seen the so-called writing on the wall. He knew enough from what little Jason had divulged, and from his own research, that a n
ew order of things was coming. It was inevitable. The remaining variables were when, how, and what Cliff’s role would be in that new world order. He knew his innovative manufacturing technology and other patents put him in a unique position to benefit personally. Jason had agreed. But continuing to work under Jason was like selling your soul.

  “Okay, I’ll play the game,” he muttered. “I’ll build your facility in Indiana. They’ve got cheap real estate and excellent access to transportation. But watch out, Mr. Senator…you may be the biggest game in town for now, but you’re not the only one. And the right two or three can take you down, Big Man. I’ll see to it.”

  He hated being bound to the senator. He despised the man almost as much as his Ex. Every month he watched thousands of dollars of his money get sucked up by her and her boy toy for their lavish lifestyle. Cliff knew they’d never marry. Why ruin a good thing and lose all that precious alimony?

  How I wish that bomb had gone off as planned!

  By a pleasant coincidence, his Ex lived almost exactly under the intended Ground Zero.

  + + +

  A job, a quest, an obsession…as the years limped by, Skylar Brown became more determined to find Karen Lane, if it was his last task working for Senator Matthews. Now past-middle-age, the black man’s knee continued to get worse. So was the harassment from the rest of Matthew’s team. Never to his face; not yet. But it was always there on the down-low. Skylar was still stocky at five feet ten and 240 pounds, which he carried with very little body fat. Yet he had been dropped in seconds by a 150 pound woman, leaving a shattered knee that three surgeries still hadn’t corrected. Worse, he faced a mandatory full knee replacement within the year, putting him back out of action for several more months. And that’s when the younger men would make their collective moves to set up a new Alpha Male and team hierarchy.

  But he would find her. That would keep him Number One. He could continue his search online during recovery as effectively as traveling the United States and abroad.

  Patents. I need to tighten up research on patent applications!

  Skylar took another narcotic painkiller.

  Sometimes he got close to Karen, or Sally, or Joan, or Tammy, or whoever she pretended to be. Several times he missed her by less than a single day. Once his team broke into a small Swiss chalet she had rented for a year—paid in advance—to find her bath water still hot. But she was gone. And one time they did catch her. He lost two good men that night, and several others were compromised and had to be eliminated.

  Untraceable, like a ghost. But in recent years, each time he discovered her current alias and researched what she’d been doing, he had found patent applications for her inventions. To the growing fury of his boss, the patents and royalties typically benefited various 501-C3 charitable organizations, most of which were Christian ministries. And all of her patents were significant, noteworthy accomplishments in some field that caught the world by surprise.

  Karen continued to evade every facial recognition and every other biometric trick they’d used over the years. Even high-definition cameras and other means of scanning fingerprints were no longer any help. Since 2020, it was as if she had new prints with each alias; impossible even with enhanced DNA.

  But behavior? I’ll set up some web spiders to track how she operates. Worth a try.

  Skylar sat back in his recliner in his modest one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Washington, still hating Matthews for moving his team inside the Beltway. He rubbed his knee while planning a new layer of cyber sniffing.

  Matthews wanted her for more research. He needed her, but Skylar suspected that the not-so-good senator was also secretly afraid of her. Skylar knew all too well they had every reason to fear the lady as he often referred to her.

  Yes, Jason, you’d better be afraid. If she ever gets tired of us chasing her…

  Skylar shuddered at the thought as a new stab of pain reminded him of his own encounter.

  Next time it’ll be different. He would eventually capture her and hand her over for the research. He would also take great personal delight in contributing some significant data points of his own. Like, how long it would take for her enhanced DNA to recover from multiple broken bones. And worse. Much worse.

  22. RECOVERY

  Afew taps on his fuel management display brought up Roger’s remaining range as a circle, overlaying a map of airports within that area. Several Navy airfields were within range along the coast, but then he remembered a base in the middle of Georgia with an exceptionally long runway. He’d been told that the Boeing 747 that transported Space Shuttles back to Florida would occasionally rest overnight—RON—there, when weather kept them from flying down to Canaveral. It took the entire runway for the co-joined aircraft to takeoff, but they safely did so on several occasions.

  Robins Air Force Base. That was it. They also once had bomber and tanker wings there, and he believed it now supported J-STARS, the Joint Surveillance Target Attack Radar System aircraft.

  Adequate runway, large hangars, and security.

  Roger disengaged the autopilot and directed the aircraft due west, straight and level.

  Won’t they be surprised!

  Actually, the next surprise was his. Again, it centered on communication, or rather the lack thereof. As he re-entered U.S. airspace, he configured his radar display to show any planes above Flight Level Two Zero. Nothing. No radar images, no transponder readings.

  Okay. No comms, no radar, no GPS, no transponders. Radar altimeter shaky. Am I a figment of my own imagination?

  AM bands. FM bands. Crickets!

  Roger looked outside. He was back over land now, and away from the storm, still somewhere around Flight Level Three Zero. But what should now be a clear night sky was more like the one time he’d seen a full solar eclipse. Dark, yes; and no colors. But a diffused light, like a strange colorless twilight or dawn. He saw the occasional small towns and interstate lighting. But…colorless, in stark contrast to the brilliant colors of his flat-screen displays, controls, warning labels, and everything else in his cockpit.

  Roger debated on whether to set his transponder to the common General Aviation setting. Perhaps it would let authorities see him. He knew that would be a gamble. Guardian was untouchable with stealth cloaking and hypersonic drive at 90,000 feet in attack mode. But the anemic turbojet and mushy low-speed handling meant that it had the survivability of an overweight pigeon. An F-35 with any questions would shoot first, ask questions later. He turned off the transponder.

  Roger realized that he was flying VFR at an IFR altitude. If no one could see him, he’d better make sure he stayed out of everyone else’s way. Warner Robins was a good ninety miles south of Atlanta’s busy airport. But he still suspected there would be a large volume of air traffic, with much of it close to his altitude. For an extra margin of safety, he continued scanning the sky and began a slow decent as he followed I-16 east.

  Roger continued scanning through various radio bands. Nothing. It made no sense. But neither did his survival or the strange phenomenon with the “un-night” sky and lights.

  Then he saw the strange UFO. He could tell that it was coming straight at him because the craft became larger without moving left, right, up, or down. As it came closer, it looked dull gray and had an outline like a civilian airliner, but it moved impossibly slow. Yes, there were flashing lights on both sides, but they weren’t the FAA-required colors for beacons, and their flash pattern was way too slow.

  Amazed and confused, Roger simply lowered his nose to allow the slow craft to pass above him. It was…the outline was clear…a Boeing 787. It should fall out of the sky at that airspeed!

  He scanned the surrounding airspace even more carefully and continued his slow descent. The aircraft passed through 20,000 feet, down to 15,000, then below 10,000 feet about the time he flew over Dublin, Georgia. Roger began a slow spiral descent around Robins Air Force Base while he still had the fuel and no intercept. It gave him a good look at the airfield
and any ground or air activities to avoid.

  Robins Air Force Base. Yes, the runway was substantial. He could have landed a Cessna just on a taxiway. There didn’t appear to be much activity and none near the runway. He saw several J-STARS aircraft on a ramp off the north end of the runway, with a lot of open space around several hangars. That appeared to be a better choice than over in the maintenance area where several C-5 and C-130 aircraft were in various stages of depot maintenance.

  Now under 3,000 feet, Roger went full manual. He had to get used to operating the rudder controls, even though in a formal sense Guardian had almost no rudder per se; most yaw functionality was built into its blended wing design.

  Wow…I can operate the rudders! A distant object appeared to sweep side to side as he pushed in the left and then the right pedal. The tops of the rudder pedals pushed in as he tested his ability to apply brakes.

  I just don’t get it.

  He lined up on runway three-three and pulled back power. The aircraft descended through 2,000, then 1,000 feet. Airspeed dropped to 200, then 180, 160, then 140 knots. He lowered the landing gear and verified three green lights, then set wing configuration to “land.” That’s all; no specific flaps. The wings re-configured to give the greatest lift, allowing him to slow to one-twenty. From there, all he had to do was keep the nose straight and control his descent by tweaking the throttle.

  Touchdown. Smooth as glass, just past the numbers.

  With plenty of runway ahead, Roger pulled the jet back to idle and rolled. He’d apply brakes once Security Police caught up with him. Otherwise, he’d roll toward the end, and turn off on a taxiway toward the J-STARS ramp.

  No Security Police?!

  Come to think of it, tower lights were on, ramp lights were on, and the base seemed normal except for the strange absence of color. But the runway lights were never turned on during his approach.

  At the end of the runway, Roger increased the jet’s throttle to a safe taxi setting and turned right, then right again toward the J-STARS ramp. He had planned to park on the tarmac, but he’d also expected a full security escort.