Of Days in Defiance

© 2013 L. Gregg White. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 8/23/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1018-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1017-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1016-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013914708

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

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This novel is dedicated to

Michael Wayne Harrelson and

David Jonathan Pittman,

two great old friends who are gone but

not forgotten.

1

U nmarked private jets are a necessity in certain fields of endeavor, especially for those who wanted to remain anonymous. Amidst the shrill din of engines powering down, the tall, gray-haired man strode across the remote tarmac toward the shiny, black Hummer that was waiting for him. Having flown in from an unknown point of origin, the new arrival slid into the right rear seat, saying nothing. The driver knew the man only as the Passenger. He did not want, or need to know why the rendezvous point for this pickup had been set on such an obscure tarmac at Raleigh-Durham International Airport.

Night was just starting to settle in, and headlights popped on randomly up and down Interstate 40, as far as the eye could see. The six-lane highway was still wet from the thunderstorm that had passed through the area late that afternoon and early evening. The Hummer’s tires threw up a cloud of mist that diffused the light thrown by the headlights of the car following a short distance behind. Rush-hour traffic had thinned out considerably, but stragglers were still trickling down the on-ramps in pursuit of their individual lives and lusts.

The Passenger and driver did not speak as they headed toward Research Triangle Park. Each had his own agenda, and each was focused intently on that end. The Passenger took in the landscape in the darkening twilight, as they veered up the exit, turned right, and headed deep into the RTP. Some entrances were poorly marked with nothing more than a street number, for the intended purpose of keeping its research facilities anonymous. Number 7009 was their destination.

Deciduous and pine woods lined the street, adding to the protection of the facility’s identity from passersby. The driver swung the Hummer into the drive and headed onto the grounds. After about one hundred yards, a guard post appeared. An armed man stepped out of a small, fortified structure and held up his hand, signaling for the vehicle to stop. The guard stepped around the front of the vehicle, switching on a small, bright flashlight. He shone it at the glass as the window whirred, disappearing into the door. The guard’s light illuminated the pass that the driver had already displayed. He motioned, without turning to his partners in the building, and a heavy, chain-link gate slid out of the way into a ten-foot-tall wall that disappeared into the trees. The Hummer passed through, vanishing into the dark woods. No words were exchanged between either party.

Two hundred yards later, they rounded a curve and left the trees for rolling, carefully manicured property. On a hill in the center of the expansive grounds sat the research laboratory of Bramble & Meade. They were housed in a building that was very modern architecturally, and sat low in the hill indicating that most of it was underground. Floodlights that were just bright enough to illuminate the building’s features were planted all around its exterior. Despite the presence of armed guards, this was not a military or government facility. It did, however, cater to government and military—as well as private—projects, providing the money was adequate.

Anyone’s money was welcome.

The driver ignored the main parking entrance and drove around the building toward an overhead door accessing the interior. This was the Special Persons entrance. People who were never there entered here. Not surprisingly, there were a lot of Special Persons who visited the facility from all over the world. The driver opened his door and stepped out into the large garage area, which could accommodate at least ten vehicles of the Hummer’s size. He was tall, in the six-foot-three range, well built but not bulky—a linebacker type—and he was fast and could hit like a truck. His shoes echoed on the cement with a click clack as he walked to the rear passenger door. Opening it, he stepped back with military precision—chin up, eyes forward, no talking, no salute.

Dressed in an immaculate black suit, the Passenger stepped onto the concrete and started walking immediately, without giving a command and without looking back. The door of the vehicle closed behind him with a solid clump that echoed throughout the garage. The driver did not follow as the tall, slender man in his fifties strode confidently across the garage, his longish gray hair bouncing with every step. He approached a wide ramp in the far corner that led up to a formidable brushed stainless steel door. To the right of the door was a holographic scanner where the Passenger pressed his right hand. A red light roamed back and forth, up and down, over his outstretched palm and then changed to green. The locking mechanisms of the door sprang to life, humming and clicking as the green light flashed. The Passenger stepped back two paces as the door swung outward. An armed guard met him as he strode through the door and down a long, well-lit hallway, passing the guards’ offices on the right. This time the guard stepped in behind and accompanied the Passenger into the facility as the door hummed to a close behind them. There was no verbal interaction—just the click clack of two pairs of hard soles echoing off the hard block walls with well-spaced camera domes lining the ceiling and watching every movement.

At the end of the hallway, the two men arrived at an alcove that opened to the left. Fifteen feet inside was a stainless steel door, which was the only exit at this end of the hall. The guard stopped short at the corner and positioned himself facing away. The Passenger approached the door and held his hand up to another scanner mounted in the wall to the right, following the same procedure as before. The door silently slid aside, and the Passenger stepped into an elevator. As the door closed, he heard the sound of boots heading back down the hallway.

On the control panel there were four selector buttons: Main, Sub-Main, Sub-1, and Sub-2, which the Passenger pressed. The floor seemed to drop away from his feet as the high-speed elevator descended to the chosen level. Slowing to a stop, the door opened. This time the Passenger was met by an armed guard and a man in a black suit almost as immaculate as the one he wore. The two stepped to the side, and the Passenger strode past them. Both men fell in behind him as the trio turned right and walked for about fifteen paces before turning left into another shallow alcove. The guard positioned himself facing away from the door, the Passenger stopped just inside, and the black suit stepped up to the scanner. The door opened. The Passenger went inside alone.

* * *

The Passenger stood inside a spacious office with a desk in the center along the rear wall, a leather high-backed executive chair behind it, facing away, and two leather wingback chairs angled to the center out in front—the classic office arrangement. Side tables along the back wall flanked the desk to the rear. Each table held tall, matching brass lamps with black shades that kept the light localized. In the center directly behind the executive chair was a huge, flat-screen television set into the wall as though it were a window. It showed the grounds outside in real time, giving the office’s occupant a sense of time.

The entire room was paneled in what appeared to be rosewood and was carpeted with deep-blue pile. An enormous bookcase sat on the right-hand wall filled with tomes of all sizes and ages, concerning diverse topics. The office could have been in a Wall Street brokerage house instead of being deep underground in a research facility in the heart of North Carolina, but there it sat.

A deep, slightly accented voice spoke from behind the executive chair as it pivoted toward the Passenger, who then made his way to the wingback chair on the right.

You are two days early, the man said.

His fingertips met, forming a peak in front of his face. The accent was Americanized Eastern European, possibly Czechoslovakian.

Is it ready? the Passenger asked.

You know it is, or you would not be here.

I want to see the results.

We have prepared this for you to see.

The man opened the laptop on his desk, put in a code, and then turned it toward the Passenger. He watched intently as images danced across the screen. At times, even he exhibited a slight grimace at what he witnessed. After about ten minutes, the screen faded to black, with the Bramble & Meade logo in its center.

Impressive. He will want to see this. And the figures?

This unit I have here has all the data you will need to see, the man said as he reached across the desk, carefully handing the Passenger a small, black flash drive. It is encrypted.

What is the code? the Passenger asked as he took the unit from him. Yaaah, it burned me, he exclaimed, looking down at his hand and rubbing his thumb and fingers together. There is no mark. What have you done?

You now have the access code, the other said, revealing a crooked smile.

* * *

Dawn light greeted the matte black HMMWV, which was well out in front of the main group of the convoy. It was proceeding down a back street that led into the southern end of the town. Crossing over railroad tracks that formed a spur line, it immediately turned left onto a short gravel road that paralleled the same set of tracks. Parallel to the tracks on the other side was a rusted chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that was angled in toward the grounds it protected. The road ended at a paved street coming in at a ninety-degree angle from the right, and the vehicle stopped there, its inhabitants carefully surveying the area. There were residences to the right, lining the paved street for three blocks. The man riding shotgun pulled out a pair of binoculars and scanned the business that was located three or four hundred yards from them, across the property that they were about to enter. All was quiet this early Tuesday morning, and the two uniformed men exchanged a smile at not seeing anyone outside. Satisfied that there were also no police in the area, one of them pulled out a cell phone and made a call.

Colonel Neall, the voice on the other end announced. What is the status, Sergeant?

All is clear, sir. There are no inhabitants and no law enforcement in view, he said in a thick Eastern European accent.

Good. Proceed to the destination.

Yes, sir, the sergeant said, giving the driver a go-ahead gesture as he ended the call.

The HMMWV turned left, driving up and over the tracks, going through an open gate in the fence that surrounded the expansive property. A pitted paved road curved through the huge tract of open acreage covered with weeds, which indicated that the facility was not used. They were heading for several buildings sitting in the center of the grounds. At one time these buildings housed the shops that the railroad used to repair and perform maintenance on the locomotives. The five buildings were dominated by the main structure, which was enormous and had been called the Erecting Hall, where steam locomotives were completely disassembled and rebuilt. It was several stories tall, but it was its area that made it so commanding. The other buildings were long and narrow, but they were not in the least small by any standards.

These same shops had been used for many other operations over the years, from manufacturing generators to furniture to a car repair shop, but they had not been in use for a very long time. Now they would be used for a completely different and sinister purpose. It was a property perfect for the impending mission, especially because the main north-south rail line for the eastern seaboard ran a mere one hundred yards from the structures.

All the buildings would be completely refitted for the various objectives that would be carried out in this region, but for now one of the long buildings would be used to hide the initial convoy of thirty-five vehicles. The lead HMMWV pulled in behind the structure and came to a halt in front of a huge roll-up door.

I hope someone remembered to switch on the electricity, the sergeant mused.

Yes, I do, as well, the driver said, his accent evident. I would not relish having to use a chain pull on that door.

They looked at each other and walked to the back wall. There was a door to the side that was open. The two soldiers walked in, looking for the door control, and when they found it, they saw that it was newly installed, with not a hint of dust. The sergeant pressed the large, green button, and the door slid up the track, surprisingly quietly, with very little squeaking or groaning, just the drone of the motor echoing through the emptiness of the huge interior.

Both men stepped back outside just in time to see the first group rolling up the road.

Including the vehicle that the sergeant had arrived in, the convoy consisted of ten HMMWVs, ten extended vans, five eighteen-wheelers, five one-ton pickups, and five four-door sedans. All were painted in flat black and did not have an insignia as yet. That would come later. This particular team was for initial construction, setup, and logistics.

The driver climbed into the HMMWV, drove around the concealed side of the structure, and reappeared moments later to help the sergeant direct the convoy. The first group was led by one of the sedans, followed by six of the extended vans. Approaching the door, the two soldiers directed the vehicles into the building, which was easily two football fields long. One by one, all seven vehicles rolled up the concrete ramp and proceeded deep into the building. The sedan stopped and backed up to the outside wall at an angle pointing toward the main door. The other vehicles followed suit. Once they were all parked, doors opened and black-uniformed men poured out onto the concrete floor that covered the entire interior.

Colonel Samuel Neall strode around the passenger side of the sedan’s hood, putting on a black, baseball-style cap with the letters NALE, standing for North American Law Enforcement, embroidered in medium gray across the front. His two aides fell in behind him as he passed the driver’s side. Each van carried a team of eight men who formed up in front of the vehicles. Colonel Neall faced the forty-eight men, who stood at ease, their hands clasped behind them, and began addressing them.

As you know, each of your teams has a Greek designation. So do these buildings.

The men looked at each other.

This is the longest building, but there are two sections, as you can see. This section, where you are standing, is designated Alpha. Alpha Team will be responsible for Alpha and so on. The second section where the roof becomes taller is designated Beta. The next building, which runs parallel to this one, is Gamma. The other building that is also parallel to these two structures is Delta. Delta connects to the big ‘mamma jamma’.

That brought laughs from the men and a smile from Colonel Neall.

That one will be will be named at a later time. Any questions?

Colonel Neall looked at each man.

Good. Let’s get to it. Dismissed.

While Colonel Neall gave his talk, the five eighteen-wheelers had arrived. Each had a small forklift mounted on the rear of the trailer. These trucks were directed to their position by the sergeant and his detail, which had arrived in the seventh van. The rest of the convoy pulled in and were directed to their stations as the teams proceeded to their respective buildings and began planning and surveying the area for its specific purpose.

Men ran to different positions within the complex, carrying weapons and optics to keep watch on all sides of the vast property, which was ringed with a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Security was not taken lightly. Eventually there would be another, taller, sturdier fence strung inside the existing fence line, with guard posts at strategic points along the perimeter.

A man from each team proceeded to a different transfer truck that were now lined up and opened. Long ramps extended from the beds to the ground. Each man drove a forklift up into the truck and retrieved metal boxes containing the tools and equipment necessary for the immediate job. The men then proceeded to their designated areas, where the remainder of the teams were cleaning up. Given the size of the space, this was a daunting task, but that did not faze these men. They were highly trained and disciplined, and they performed their tasks without question.

2

I t was a day like any other day in eastern North Carolina, although for late October the humidity was unusually low. Still hot, mind you, but it felt wonderful outside, even in the afternoon. Leaves on the trees had turned spectacular colors, and they rustled in a mild breeze against a milky-blue sky.

People in the town were busy driving to work, trying to get to school or were pursuing some other daily activity. Some were running late.

Cara Jannsen sped down the long, straight street heading for work. Traffic was unusually heavy, even for this time of the morning. Several blocks ahead of her she saw the reason for the traffic backup. It was a freight train moving oh, so slowly. The black tank cars were like cold molasses oozing down the tracks, with no sign of the caboose. Cara jammed on the brakes, turned to the right, went three blocks, and turned to the left. The crossing was up ahead and there was no train in sight. A grin crept across her face. Dodging cars and watching for the city police, she raced down the four-lane street, trying to get to the crossing before the train arrived. She was running late and, although her employers were somewhat lenient, she didn’t like being put on the spot. Approaching the train tracks, she pumped the brakes, slowing slightly, and looked to her left, to trying to spot the train. There it was about fifty yards from the crossing. Suddenly, the crossing lights flashed, and the warning bell rang. She floored the accelerator, bouncing over the tracks with a bump, bump as the gate began to come down. A block later a red light made her stop, adding to her irritation. A school bus’s brakes squealed as it pulled up behind her, bringing a grimace to her face as the sound crept up her back. Finally the green light popped on, after what seemed like an hour, and off she went, leaving everyone sitting at the light. The tractor trailer in the lane to her left huffed and strained, trying to get its mass moving, pouring black smoke into the air. As she approached the next light, someone turned right on the red, moving directly into her path, and she moved to the next lane.

Jeez, some people, she said as she whizzed around the clueless driver. Three blocks later she turned onto the street where her office was located, muttering to herself, I am going to kill that stupid cat when I get home. If he so much as sprays one baseboard, I will personally castrate him. Making me chase him all over the house just when I’m leaving for work. I’ll get him.

Then the curve she knew all too well was suddenly in front of her, snapping her out of her thoughts. She jerked the wheel hard to the left and made it on squalling tires. The rear end of her car swung around and the vehicle lurched forward, launching into the parking lot, half in the driveway and half over the low curb, causing a violent side-to-side, front-to-back dance. The car had stopped at a forty-five degree angle on the line of the parking spot when Cara’s airbag deployed with a pop and a wheeze. Smoke from the tires and dust from the street was sucked in by the air displacement, swirling around the parked car.

Ohhh… just… great, she muttered with disgust.

She looked to her left when the airbag deflated, a large hank of her long, blonde hair covering half of her face, and she saw Jake standing there wearing a very large grin and waving at the dust and smoke. She lowered the window, sucking dust into the car.

What?

Nodding, he said, Hey, nice entrance. Trying out for NASCAR?

That little SOB. I’m going to use his nuts for fish bait if he messes up.

Giorgio, again? I would hardly call him little at, what, eighteen pounds? And hey, go easy with the nuts thing, okay? That’s not very ladylike.

Shut up, Jacob L., she said, rolling her green eyes up at him.

"Easy… easy, watch saying the middle name."

They simultaneously smiled and started laughing. At that moment, the OnStar operator called, asking if she needed assistance. After she explained her situation, the operator said that they would send someone to her location to fix the airbag. Cara got out of her 2008 Camry with her purse and lunch bag and stood there, looking over the body to see if there was any damage. There wasn’t any. Jake put a friendly arm around her shoulder, and they started toward the office.

Cara was thirty-five years old. She was a lean five-feet-six inches and very much in shape. You could tell from her shapely, toned legs alone, but she also had a great figure. She was athletic, loved the outdoors, and always seemed to have a tan. Her thick, blonde hair—a bit more than shoulder length—framed her face. She had those girl-next-door good looks and was extremely intelligent, inquisitive, and very down to earth. The kind of girl that most guys go for, but only one guy had managed to catch her—Mason Dunn her fiancé of three years.

Jake Wallace was about six feet tall and a bit heavyset. He was still fairly athletic, even at forty-six, and played in an old guy’s basketball league. He had taught himself a Tai Chi form from books and practiced it every day. Said it was good for the joints. Jake was an avid reader. His house had shelf after shelf full of books and magazines. He had a passion for astronomy, guitars, history—especially religious history, although he was not a church person. He loved it. He was very intelligent but had a ton of common sense.

Cara and Jake were great friends. He had been hired at InterDesign as a graphic designer about five years earlier. A year later, Cara came on board as a copywriter. They became friends after a few serious head-butting sessions, and over time they became very good friends. They each came to realize that the other was not a pushover, and it was then that their working relationship and friendship flourished.

As he and Cara walked toward the office building, his flowing, prematurely gray hair, as he called it, blew back in a sudden gust of wind. Sand from the street flew around in a small dust devil that died as soon as it was born.

Striding up the cement walkway to the front entrance, they saw several people standing at the double glass doors. They were either smiling or looking down with hands hiding their faces. One of them was Rick Romain, their supervisor. He was fortyish, of medium height, nice-looking, with an aquiline nose, expressive eyes, and was in good shape. He was a slightly arrogant person who took his position seriously.

Oh… my God, tell me they didn’t see that, Cara said as she turned her head toward Jake, covering her face with her hand.

Afraid so, just walk in with dignity. Pretend they’re naked. I know you would like to see Rick naked, he replied, laughing as Cara hit him in the chest with her fist.

Yeeuuk. Oh, you’ll pay for that one. Just wait.

I know he has a crush on you. Ha, ha, he said, turning away and throwing up a defensive arm.

Keep it up!

The door swung open, and they could hear snickers and giggles from the small assemblage. Rick ran out and, grabbing Cara by the shoulders, looked meaningfully into her eyes, asking, Are you all right?

I’m fine, Rick. Just a little shaky, that’s all.

Do you need a doctor?

"No, thank you. I’m okay. I just want to get to work."

I’ll stop in shortly to see how you are doing. Let me know if you need anything.

Thanks, she said with a forced smile and turned away.

Cara and Jake headed down the hall of the one-story structure, leaving cackles of laughter behind them. Cara threw up a middle finger to the group without looking back, drawing even more laughs. Offices and work areas lined the passage, and each had an abundance of windows to admit the coveted natural light. The windows were equipped with vertical louvers for certain times of the day when the light was too harsh. Jake peeled off to the left into his office with Cara right behind him.

I’m so embarrassed. Can you believe Rick? Cara asked.

Did you think of him naked?

Jaake…

Sorry. He is a real… something… I don’t know. You’re okay?

Yeah, thanks, she said looking up into his eyes and putting her open palm on his chest.

I’m fine. But I sat on my lunch when I flew off the seat.

She held up the flat, brown bag with something oozing through the paper and dripping onto the carpet.

I’ll take you out for lunch.

They laughed, looking at each other and shaking their heads.

Later, she said.

With that, Cara turned and walked out of his office, showing off a large wet spot on the right side of her bottom, amplified by the gray fabric of her skirt. Jake chuckled, knowing why the group up front was still carrying on.

* * *

Cara and Jake sat at one of the tables on the deck that overlooked the river that ran through town. They had decided on Mexican food. After ordering, Jake sat quietly, looking out over the lazily flowing water, his mind seemingly a thousand miles away. He looked up at the sky and noticed the abundance of contrails. Normally they would dissipate, but lately he had been noticing that they tended to hang around, spreading out into clouds. Today was no different.

Jake had read that when the trails acted like this, they contained certain unnamed chemicals mixed in with the jet fuel for the purpose of secret disposal. The theory was that these chemicals would be burned off in the jet’s turbines, and then dissipate in the atmosphere before they reached earth. Jake however, did not buy into this premise.

The sky sure is hazy, especially since the humidity is so low. You would think it would be very blue.

Looking up, Cara said, half-whispering, You could’ve told me about the spot on my butt before the hostess told me!

Jake still had a blank look on his face.

Huh… oh, yeah… that, a broad smile appeared. It looked so cute, I—

Could have told me this morning!

Sorry. Cara, have you been keeping up with the news?

He had a perturbed look on his face as he stared at the bowl of triangular chips. Cara looked at him, her head cocked, her brow furrowed.

Sure. I mean I get home, and it’s on. Mason watches it. Why?

I’m not talking about the regular, watered-down mainstream news. I mean HNN—Horizon News Net.

Jake, don’t tell me you watch that junk. Mason says those guys are just right-wing fearmongers. You’re smarter than that. They try to scare people.

Well, they are doing a damn fine job. I have learned so much that it is changing my point of view about the world. This… you will not see on 3N, UBC, PNB, or the others.

Well, I don’t think I want to, anyway. Jake, you know I’m not an anything-goes type…

A liberal.

What?

A liberal. A progressive, actually, they tend to have socialistic ideas and views. President Rodale is like that. He has surrounded himself with socialists, Communists, dissidents, you name it. This is not good. One guy he used to hang out with tried to bomb the United States Treasury in the 1960s.

Oh, come on. This is America. Our presidents are not like that.

Jake looked at her sidelong with a raised eyebrow and the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. The waitress appeared carrying two large platters of food.

Chicken fajitas?

Cara raised her hand.

Then the steak fajitas are yours. Can I get you more tea? They both nodded.

The pair ate in silence. When they were about halfway through the meal, Jake said, Cara… forget what I said about the news and all that. I can tell it makes you nervous.

I wouldn’t say ‘nervous’; I would say those people on HNN are trying to control people. It’s too far-fetched.

Oh, it is about control, but not from their side.

Cara just stared back at him in the middle of a bite. Jake threw up his open hand and then waved it back and forth a few times as if to say, Drop it.

On the way back to the office, they returned to their old selves, laughing, talking, and pointing at things flashing by the windows of Jake’s pickup truck. As they got closer to work, Jake grew quiet again for several blocks. Cara did not interrupt his deliberation, but she could not help stealing sidelong glances in his direction, wondering what was going on in that head of his. They entered the building, and as they passed the first office on the right, Rick called out, Cara, would you step in here for a moment?

She rolled her eyes up to Jake and said, Okay, be right there… Hey, thanks for lunch, Jake.

You’re welcome. See ya.

She smiled and pivoted into Rick’s office.

Jake walked into his office and sat down behind his drawing table, drew a few loose sketches, couldn’t get into it, then turned to his computer. On the right side of his desk was a set of metal file racks full of job jackets ordered by priority, then date, and finally No Rush. He looked through the priority slot first. He opened the job jacket and read the job order. Business cards, letterhead, and letterhead envelopes. This was a new company that needed a logo to be developed. So he swung his chair back up under the drawing table and got lost in the work. The next thing he knew it was five o’clock. He didn’t see Cara for the rest of the day. A melancholy feeling came over him as he walked out to his truck. He couldn’t help thinking that he had said something at lunch that put a small wedge between them. Nah, I’m just imagining things.

3

C ara eased into the back door, trying not to spook the cat. Her eyes swept back and forth across the kitchen without her head moving. She simultaneously sniffed the air, nose distorting in an exaggerated up-down motion. No smell yet. That’s a good sign , she thought. She really did not want to punish him if he had messed up, but he had made her angry that morning. She put her purse down on the center island and called softly.

Giorgio… Giioorgiioo… Geeee… where is he? Giorgio…

No cat. Rolling her eyes, she left the kitchen and crept into the great room, scanning the furniture. There was still no smell. This discovery caused her to smile.

Yes.

Giorgio was a good-sized cat who had some age on him, but he was still a fit, outdoor pet. He had large tan spots that merged into each other across his back and down his sides, with a white underbelly. Cara didn’t mind letting him stay outside because she lived in an area of town with space and no main roads.

Moving down the hall, she saw the bathroom door slightly closed. She pushed the door open gently, and there was Giorgio snoozing peacefully in a mound of shredded toilet paper. As far as she could tell, here were three empty cardboard rolls in different nooks of the bathroom and one still on the dispenser. She couldn’t help but laugh.

Giorgio, you look like a huge piece of angel food cake with legs lying in whipped cream. Well, at least you didn’t spray in here… I hope. Come here. Do you know how much stress you caused me today? Almost wrecked my car…

She bent down and picked him up. He started purring immediately. Then she heard the kitchen door open and close. She put Giorgio down on the floor, and he took off toward the noise. Mason walked up to the kitchen island and laid his briefcase flat on the smooth surface. He walked over to the refrigerator, retrieved a Heineken, popped the cap, and took a long pull. Giorgio was weaving in and out of his legs getting a free rub. Tail straight in the air, signaling, Okay, I’m happy.

Hey G… buddy. How was your day?

His day was fine. Go check out the bathroom, Cara said.

Oookay, so how was your day? Or should I ask?

Well… I tried to wreck my car… Jake said I should be a NASCAR driver.

Jake? Where was he? Mason said without humor.

He was in the parking lot at work, and don’t be jealous.

I’m not but you always talk about him. Jake this, Jake that, did I tell you Jake farted, and it sounded like a balloon?

Stop it! Jake is my friend. That’s all. Get over it. Besides, I’m here with you every night… right?

Oh, yeah. What’s for dinner? Thwack! Cara backhanded him on the shoulder.

* * *

After dinner Mason went into the great room and turned on the flat-screen. A familiar industrial-style network news theme gradually increased in volume as the screen’s image brightened. The polished-looking anchorman deftly read the news from the teleprompter with one eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other. A big screen behind him flashed images of the story he was reporting.

Today… President…

What are you watching? Cara asked walking into the room after finishing the dishes.

The news. What else?

Which one?

3N… National News Network, number one in the world.

Oh. Do you ever watch… um, what is it, HNN—Horizon News Net?

Hell no, they are a bunch of kooks! Take my word for it. They hate everything that they don’t believe in, which is everything normal people believe in. They make up stuff to discredit our president and our government, real right-wing.

Oh, Mason, it can’t be that bad.

They say that most of the President’s close advisors are either Communists or socialists. That’s crazy—in America? That there is a secret civilian army being built to protect this country from terrorism. No way! That’s what the Armed Services are for. That’s what the National Guard and Army Reserve are for. They are conspiracy-theory kooks. That’s a fact.

Well, I really don’t care, one way or the other. I am going to the bedroom to watch Mr. Ed reruns.

Cara turned on her bare heel and went into the bedroom. She flipped on a smaller flat-screen and heard, They caaall me Mr. Ed. She had always loved horses and used to ride a great deal when she was younger. Mr. Ed always made her laugh and forget the day. No matter how corny it was when Mr. Ed’s lips moved while he talked. Today, however, Jake’s comments had made her very curious about the news. This wasn’t like him, although she knew he read a lot and knew a lot, so he didn’t go off the deep end for no reason. Something was bothering him, and that was bothering her so much that she had forgotten to tell him good night.

When this episode of Mr. Ed was over—there were three in a row—she started channel surfing. She thought there were way too many channels. You could not possibly watch one quarter of them. Ten sports channels, seven movie channels, comedies, dramas, science fiction… pot growing? There were just too many choices. Then, there it was HNN—the forbidden fruit. She punched in Channel 22.

Oh, Wilbur you know you should have told her that you played golf today…

She hit recall on the remote and went back to HNN then to Mr. Ed. The remote was like a one-armed bandit in her hand. Back to HNN, there it stayed. Curiosity got the better of her.

On the screen there was a slender man, maybe midfifties, with short, dark hair, sitting behind a simple desk with papers strewn all over it. As he talked, he would reach out across the desk and know exactly which piece of paper to grab with the precise information he needed to make his point. Cara was enthralled by his ability. Images were shown on the big screen behind him. She could not look away. He was talking about some revolutionary in the 1950s. About how young people these days were idolizing this man, had his portrait on T-shirts, about how no one taught them that he was a cold-blooded killer, but that he had rebelled against the evil, corrupt government and become a hero of his country, thus leading to another, even more corrupt and oppressive government. The commentator shook his head and exhaled his exasperation.

He went on to explain that many of the so-called elite earlier in the twentieth century were not who they appeared to be. A famous poet stated on film that people who were useless to society and had no worth should be killed. Cara couldn’t believe what she saw and heard, but there it was on film. One US president had been approached by one of his advisors, who said that certain enemies of the state and subversives should be rounded up and put in camps. The idea was rejected, but just the fact that it had been suggested was shocking. The show went on for another thirty minutes. She was sucked in by the program’s honesty and by the information that was presented. This was a history that no one taught or intended to teach. Footsteps shook her out of her trance, and she quickly hit the recall button on the remote… They… caaall me Mr. Eeeeeed.

Are you still watching Mr. Ed?

You know I love him. What a hoot, she said, smiling.

Come up front. Let’s watch a movie.

Okay, be there in a few minutes.

Cara pulled her bare legs up to her chest. She was sitting on the bed and could not get over the show. She thought, That guy didn’t seem like a kook. Should I tell Jake that I watched this show? I know that he will run with it if I do. No, I’ll give it a while. Maybe it’s not always like this. Maybe the commentator was having a good night. He was damned convincing and had the evidence to back it up. He said something about a radio show that he aired every day. I wonder what station? What time?

Cara pulled her hair into a ponytail, exposing her long, graceful neck where she sprayed a touch of perfume. Walking down the hall, she wondered which movie they were going to watch. She hoped it was a romantic comedy, especially after the program she had just watched. The surround sound system was up, and she knew that there was not going to be any romance or laughing on the screen tonight. The noise and the buildup were thunderous… da, da, dum, dum, da, dum. The music hammered the same cadence with horns coming in over the top. She rounded the corner into the great room just in time to see a skeletal foot made of metal crushing a human skull. The camera panned up the entire metal skeleton until it stopped at the humanlike skull with red lights in its eye sockets. Oh, wonderful, she thought. She went to the kitchen and poured a generous amount of Canadian whiskey over some ice and then flopped down on the couch next to Mason. Romantic . . .

4

T he Passenger walked down the carpeted corridor, which even at 10:00 p.m. was abuzz with activity. Secretaries with handfuls of paper and folders walked with purpose from office to office. Stern men in black suits were stationed strategically along the hallway, hands clasped in front, at the ready for anything. Rounding a corner, two high-ranking military officers walked side by side, talking quietly and gesturing. They did not appear to be happy . Military types never leave the office very happy , thought the Passenger. Turning the corner, he saw that there was very little activity in this wing of the building. After about twenty paces, he met two more black suits on the left side of the hall, standing on each side of recessed double doors. They checked his badge and opened the door to an office where a middle-aged woman sat at an English reproduction-style desk.

Looking up, she smiled and said, Good evening, Mr. Beale. Mr. Novenski is expecting you.

Nodding and saying nothing, he strode across the room to a single door, opened it, and stepped through. Standing with crossed arms in front of the large, steel-framed window was a balding man of medium build and height. Seeing him on the street, you would never have suspected that he was the president’s terrorism czar. His wire-rimmed glasses just added to his disguise. When he spoke, however, you knew that he was an authority figure.

Mr. Beale walked confidently across the office toward the sleek modern desk. This was quite different from the office in North Carolina. Mr. Novenski turned and asked, A successful trip, Mr. Beale? I trust it is satisfactory?

Mr. Beale opened his case and laid a laptop on the desk. Opening it, he put in a code and then placed his thumb on a bioreader. An orchestral stab sounded, and the laptop sprang to life. He turned the screen toward the other man. Flashes of color danced across the man’s face as he watched the screen, slowly sitting down in his chair with a stunned look on his face. Ten minutes later the presentation was over. Mr. Novenski sat back in his chair, turning to one side, handkerchief in hand, and wiping his forehead in complete silence and contemplation. Mr. Beale closed the laptop, offering no comment as he placed it back in his case. Mr. Novenski swung around slowly with a tight-lipped smile and said, Well done, Mr. Beale.

The other nodded.

Did you… cover your… tracks?

Another nod.

"Good… good. He will want to see this. I will need access to this computer."

No, this computer is dead. There was a destruct sequence entered as soon as I accessed it that was triggered by the last image. The entire system is… mush, as it were?

Mr. Beale reached into his pocket, pulled out the small flash drive, and carefully handed it to Mr. Novenski, who grabbed the device and immediately dropped it on the desk.

It shocked me or something, he said, rubbing his fingers together.

You now have the encryption code to this flash drive… sir.

Picking up his case, he turned and strode toward the door.

Mr. Beale…

As he was grabbing the door handle, the man turned back in the direction of the voice.

You will be needed again, he said turning in his chair.

Mr. Beale nodded with a slight bow, opened the door, and disappeared through it into the outer office. Novenski reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cell phone, and entered a speed-dial number. A voice answered.

Yes.

Beale was here.

And?

It was a success. I have a unit with the demonstration for you to see. As well as details, specifications, delivery system—

I do not want to know.

Sir?

Implement.

Sir, you should see this before—

The call was terminated.

5

C ara’s alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. The whiskey from the night before had acted like a sleep aid, because she had never felt Mason get out of bed. He had a forty-five-minute drive to work in Raleigh, so he was up at five thirty. She did not know how he dealt with all that traffic going into the capital city, day after day, but he coped with it. Fortunately his office was on the eastern side of the city, so he did not have to deal with the traffic on I-40 going through the Research Triangle Park. Sometimes it was like a huge parking lot that stretched for miles.

Three times a week Mason would go to a gym nearby the office after work and exercise, thus avoiding the eastbound traffic. He was thirty-four and in great shape. He loved lifting weights, and it showed. He had fine, satin black hair parted on one side. He was always dressed and pressed for success, even when trying to be casual. Every detail was perfect. His blue jeans were even pressed. More often than not, people took him for a stuffed shirt. Cara wondered whether he really loved her and she him, or were they just a photogenic couple about whom people would speculate behind their backs as to what level of higher beauty their children would ascend.

Cara swung her shapely, bare legs over the edge of the bed. She always wore bikini panties and a tank top to bed. It was comfortable. Mason would rather her wear some frilly gown with garters and crap, but she had nixed that very quickly. Hopping to the floor, she walked to the kitchen, rubbing the corner of her eye with her index finger, bare feet making a soft, slapping sound on the hardwood floor. She smelled the coffee well before seeing the coffee maker. Pouring a steaming mugful, she added a bit of sugar and took a tentative sip. She put the mug on the counter when she heard a metallic thlank! at the back door.

Morning, G, she cooed, opening the wooden door. He was sitting there on the deck, looking up at her through screen and glass. His head was moving in that barely perceptible up-down, side-side motion that was an indication of excitement. Before she could unlatch the storm door, he launched himself onto the coarse metal screen that covered the window, clinging to it in a spread eagle position, tail swishing below. He let out a long meeeeoooooow! I’m hungry!

Holy crap, G, get down. You’ll wake everybody in the neighborhood! she half-whispered. With that, Giorgio peeled off the door like a furry aircraft falling out of formation. He landed on the deck with a thud and pranced into the kitchen with tail straight in the air.

You’re not going to do what you did to me yesterday morning, you little shit, she said as she knelt down and rubbed him affectionately. He raised his whole body up so that his head met her hand. He was purring loudly.

She fed him on the deck, then showered and dressed. By 7:30 she was in her car backing out of the driveway as the cat watched her leave from the top rail. Cara watched him in the rearview mirror as she slowly drove away. She could see him raise a paw up to his face to start his cleaning ritual.

See you later, buddy. I love you, she said toward the mirror. Then he was out of sight.

* * *

Jake walked out into the yard toward his truck. He clicked the remote, and the doors unlocked. He dropped his backpack and lunch in the backseat of the crew cab. Opening the driver’s door, he slid into the seat and fired up the engine. Jake had fed his cats an hour earlier, and now they were all arrayed on the large, covered porch of his house, cleaning and preening. Some of them were Giorgio’s brothers and sisters, but they were not quite as large. Cara fed him well. As he pulled out of the driveway, his cell phone rang. The display showed Shawn Rackley.

Hey, Shawn. What’s up?

Hi, Jake. What are you doing after work?

Don’t know. Why?

Can you come over and help me move a sofa?

Umm… sure. Didn’t we just do this last month? he asked, rolling his eyes.

Yes, but I like it where it was before.

It took you a month to decide this?

Well, yeah, you know, you have to live with it for a while.

Yeah, yeah. Ha, ha. I’ll see you after five.

Thanks, I owe you.

They hung up.

You always do, he said to himself, smiling.

Shawn was an old friend from way back. She was a couple of years older than he, but she was still a knockout at five eight, with long, light-brown hair. Jake and Shawn had worked together for many, many years and were still close friends. They did not see each other that much anymore because Jake lived way out in the county, but they kept in touch and helped each other out. Jake had tried to talk to her about what was happening in politics and the