An excerpt from
THE SHIELD
Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore
Published by Stone Creek Books
“The presence of unidentified spacecraft flying in our atmosphere is now accepted as de facto by the military.”
Relationship with Inhabitants of Celestial Bodies (June 1947)
~ Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer
Director of Advanced Studies
Princeton, New Jersey &
~ Professor Albert Einstein
Princeton, New Jersey
Chapter 1 – Night Visitor
Big Bear Lake, Colorado
I sat up, startled from sleep. My first muddled thought was earthquake. The walls and windows of my cabin shuddered, shaking a picture off the wall. But then I quickly recognized the thunderous roar of a turbojet helicopter. A beam of bright light shone through the window blinds. Instinct kicked in and I rolled to my side and snatched the SIG Sauer from the nightstand drawer.
The chopper’s spotlight swept away and I used the opportunity to run to the living room with both hands locked on the 9mm’s grip.
From the light seeping through curtains and blinds I could tell my entire front yard and surrounding area were lit up as if the sun had kicked the moon to the curb. The sound of the helicopter landing was unmistakable.
I stood flush against the wall, gun still gripped with both clammy hands.
A rap on the door made me flinch, and I took aim. I’d already been shot twice in my life and had no intention of this being number three.
“Maxine Decker?”
Another strident knock.
“Agent Decker?”
“Who’s there? What do you want?”
“I need to speak with you regarding important government business.”
I edged my way to stand beside the door and pulled on a slat in the sidelight mini-blinds for a view of the porch. Backlit by the brilliance of the chopper’s spotlight was a man of medium height and trim build. Other than that, he was nothing but a silhouette.
“Identify yourself,” I yelled over the noise of the rotors.
“Peter Kepner. I’m with the government and I need to speak to you right away.”
“You must be out of the loop, Kepner. I’m no longer a federal agent. I retired from OSI.”
“I’m not OSI. I’m an emissary from Beowulf.”
“Never heard of it. And if you’re not OSI, then why do you want to talk to me?”
“In times of national security issues, Beowulf has executive authority to recruit CIA, FBI, NSA, even Air Force Office of Special Investigations agents. Retired or otherwise.”
“Tell the pilot to kill the light and shut down the engine. And tell anyone else on board to stay put. Do it now.”
The man relayed my demand through hand signals and his radio. The spotlight dimmed and the rotors trimmed down to a slow idle.
I switched on the front porch light and pulled back the blinds on the sidelight. “Turn around slowly.”
Kepner did a 360.
“Show me some ID. And remember I have my weapon pointed at you.”
“Got it. But for security reasons, I don’t carry any special identification. I can show you my driver’s license and a couple of credit cards.”
“I’m not Walmart, so you’re gonna have to come up with something better than that.”
He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “Agent Decker, I have something for you. I’m sliding it under the door.”
I let the blinds snap back and saw the end of the envelope poke through. I picked it up and switched on the lamp on the foyer table. My curiosity was aroused by the embossed seal—the image of a fire-breathing dragon. Beowulf. I remembered the ancient epic poem I’d had to study in high school.
I checked to see that Kepner was still there. Then with a zip of my finger I slit the envelope.
I withdrew the stationery, shook it open, and held it close to the light. Seeing the letterhead, I whipped around and glared at the door.
Chapter 2 – The Light Brigade
Big Bear Lake, Colorado
My eyes swept the length of the paper. At the top of the stationery was the official White House letterhead. At the bottom was the supposed signature of Guy LeClaire, President of the United States.
Slowly I read the contents, then took a moment to digest it. I retrieved my cell phone from the charger on my nightstand and returned to the living room.
“You still out there, Kepner?” I called.
“Still here.”
I did a quick Google search and came up with the phone number I needed to dial according to the instructions in the letter—the White House switchboard. When my call was answered, I continued to follow the directions I was given in the letter. “I’d like to speak with Tennyson.”
“One moment, please,” the operator said.
A few seconds later, a synthesized voicemail told me to leave a message. I glanced at the letter to make sure I would reply exactly right. “I have read The Charge of the Light Brigade.”
Then I hung up and waited.
In a moment, my cell rang. “Maxine Decker,” I answered.
“Ms. Decker, this is Guy LeClaire.”
His words were steady and unmistakable with that distinctive, crisp Boston accent.
My voice had a small tremor in it, both because I was speaking with the President of the United States and because I knew that whatever the reason for Kepner’s visit, it was of utmost importance. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“I apologize for this late-night visit and call. We have a critical matter that requires swift and efficient measures. You’re needed to participate in a special assignment. Please invite Mr. Kepner inside so he can speak to you. He’ll give you more details.”
Before I could say anything else, he thanked me once more and ended the call. I stood there a minute trying to absorb what just happened. I unlocked the front door, thankful I wasn’t the sheer nightie type, instead wearing long flannel pajama bottoms and a loose-fitting tee.
With a wave of my arm, I invited Peter Kepner inside. I decided to claim the overstuffed chair and leave the sofa to him. Even though I felt confident that the visitor was legitimate, I conspicuously rested the SIG on my lap, one hand atop it. With the kind of business I’d been in for so many years, if I’d learned one thing, it was never to let my guard down. Being betrayed by my partner a few years back had clinched that for me.
I gestured for my visitor to take a seat on the couch opposite me.
Kepner sat, eyed the gun, then looked squarely at me.
“Why the personal visit, Mr. Kepner? Why not a phone call? And why couldn’t it have waited until morning? For drama’s sake?”
Other than a condescending smile, Kepner didn’t react to my jab. “What I’m about to disclose is top secret, and I can’t emphasize that enough. As with all electronic communication, there is the outside possibility of unwanted surveillance. That explains my personal visit. And, we need to move on this ASAP. Waiting until the morning would delay our response.”
Kepner leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, fingers laced. “You were a hell of a civilian OSI agent. Top in the antiquities black market. That’s why you’re Beowulf’s choice for this project.”
“Like I said, I’ve never heard of Beowulf.”
“And that’s a good thing—the way it’s supposed to be, Agent Decker.”
He wasn’t going to let go of the agent title no matter how many times I said I was retired.
Kepner steepled his fingers then aimed them at me. “Here’s the deal. There’s been a serious breach of security at the Beowulf headquarters.”
“Excuse me, but first would you elaborate a little more on what exactly Beowulf is? What’s the function or mission?”
“I can’t give you any more explanation until we are in a protected and secure environment. All I can do at this point is echo the request from the President that your assistance is needed to help with a potentially grave threat to our national security. The United States and its allies are at risk. I would like for you to get ready and leave with me as quickly as you can.”
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t return to my old occupation in any fashion. I’d consulted on one job after retiring and it had nearly gotten me killed. But this . . . this sounded like something critical that truly put the nation in peril. I felt my resolve softening.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”
“So you want me to take off with you to an undisclosed location to help with an undisclosed mission involving a government operation I’ve never heard of? Right now, in the middle of the night?” I plastered a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me expression on my face.
“That’s about it.”
I chuckled. “Who said the government doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
His expression quickly reverted to somber and so did mine. This was obviously a no-bullshit situation.
“Just one more thing. Don’t pack a bag—no clothes or toiletries. But bring your ID, including your passport. Everything else will be provided for you.”
I thought the request to take my passport was strange, especially since he carried so little. “Why my passport?”
“This may eventually require international travel.”
I stood, holding the 9mm at my side.
He pointed to it. “And no guns.”
Chapter 3 – Broken Pieces
Five days earlier. JFK International, New York City
The TSA officer watched the travelers passing through the international security checkpoint. A passenger had been asked to step aside after her shoulder bag was X-rayed. Apparently, something had attracted the attention of one of his inspectors. He observed the strikingly beautiful blonde in a fashionable business suit follow the inspector to a side table. There she placed her bag down and stood back while he unzipped it.
The officer wandered over to stand beside the woman and witness the bag search. The inspector was new on the job and the TSA officer wanted to make sure the search was being conducted by the book.
The bag, a leather satchel with a shoulder strap, contained an e-book reader, notepads and pens, some basic office supplies, and a loose-leaf binder full of what looked like design layouts for an advertising brochure.
While the inspector carefully checked the contents, the officer said, “May I see your passport, please?”
With a warm smile, the woman reached inside her purse and removed it—a Canadian passport in the name of Patricia Barney.
“What’s your destination, Ms. Barney?” the officer asked.
“Amsterdam.”
“Beautiful city.”
“Yes, it is. Very European.”
“Ma’am,” the inspector said, “can you tell me what this is?” He held up a plastic baggie containing three small objects rolled in bubble wrap. He opened the bag and peeled back the bubble wrap. The objects looked identical—triangular in shape, slightly convex, and cream colored. Each was about five centimeters across.
“Those are pieces of a broken porcelain vase. I’m taking them to a specialist in the Netherlands while I visit friends, in hopes he can match the color so I can have a replica made. It belonged to my grandmother, and my goal is to have the new one made before she discovers it was broken.” As the woman spoke, she calmly glanced from the officer to the inspector.
The officer took the package from his associate, examined the contents, and then rebundled it. After putting it back in the Ziploc, he held up the bag and jiggled it.
Patricia Barney flinched.
Then he gave it back to the inspector. “Sorry for the delay, Ms. Barney. Sometimes the sensors set off alerts randomly or if an object isn’t recognized.” He gave a slight nod to the other man and watched as the baggie was returned to the satchel.
“Good luck with finding that replacement,” the inspector said as he handed the satchel to her.
“Have a nice day,” the officer said. They both watched her rejoin the rest of the passengers and head for the KLM gate. When he returned to his station, he felt a slight tingle in his right hand. Shaking it seemed to make the tingle lessen. As he watched the line of travelers snake toward the metal detectors, he shook his hand again. Probably nothing, he thought, and turned his attention to the next passenger in line.
Chapter 4 – Night Flight
Big Bear Lake, Colorado
Did I have some kind of death wish? That was the question buzzing around in my head like a nuisance fly. Brushing my teeth before leaving with Kepner, I glanced in the mirror. What was I thinking to agree to this? I’d been enjoying my retirement. Life was good. The nightmares had dwindled, and I wasn’t awakening in the middle of the night in a sweat, my heart exploding in my chest.
Even as I attempted to talk some sense into my brain, I found myself in the closet slipping into khaki pants followed by a pullover sweater and jacket. Next came my high-top hiking boots. As far as Kepner was concerned I’d be leaving my SIG behind. He didn’t need to know about my Walther PPK that I slid inside my boot.
Fully dressed, I emerged into the living room. “All set.” I shoved my license and other ID in my pants’ pocket and slipped my cell into the inside pocket of my jacket.
Kepner opened the front door. “Let’s go.”
Stepping onto the porch, I felt the chilly Colorado night air. It was August and the mountains had the loveliest cool temps once the sun went down. I took a big fat lungful of air, knowing I was going to miss it.
Kepner signaled the helicopter’s pilot and before we reached it, the turbos spun up and the rotors quickly approached full rotation.
I climbed in, followed by Kepner. He handed me a headset, put one on himself, and adjusted the mic.
The rotors roared and we were airborne.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“Grand Junction. Walker Field, to be exact. But that’s all you need to know right now. Be patient, Agent Decker.”
“Sure.” I was being patient. What did he expect? I’d been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because the President said I was needed. But that was basically all I’d been told. If they wanted me so badly, why couldn’t they divulge more about why they needed me? From all the mystery surrounding tonight’s event, I had drawn the single most obvious conclusion. Beowulf was black ops.
Something else was obvious. Kepner wasn’t going to call me by my first name. During twenty years as an OSI agent, I never got completely comfortable with the military environment. After all, I was a civilian agent—a trained archaeologist—working on the fringe of the Air Force machine. My job was to locate and identify artifacts, relics, art objects, and antiquities suspected of being stolen or smuggled by military personnel. I did my job better than anyone else, and that’s why my less-than-straight-and-narrow attitude was tolerated. Despite my frequent nonconformist approaches, they always kept sending me back into the field to track down the bad guys. And that’s what I would still be doing on a regular basis had I not decided I was allergic to lead from one too many bullets. I’d finally had enough and retired to my remote Colorado cabin. But now, here I was. Again.
Thinking about the past, I started to get that old queasiness in my gut. And what made it worse was the dark feeling that the Beowulf operation was blacker than anything I’d come across before.
_____
Just over an hour passed before we reached a private aviation area at the northwest corner of Grand Junction Airport at Walker Field. After jumping onto the tarmac, we walked a short distance to a small Lear business jet, its engines spinning at idle, the strobes and navigation lights washing the immediate area with color and flashes. As we approached, someone inside opened the side hatch and let it drop down, forming steps.
“Our ride,” Kepner said.
I tried to pry more information about our destination but he wouldn’t budge. “I’ll fill you in once we’re in the air,” was all he offered.
Kepner’s long paces and fast gait were difficult for me to keep up with. I double-stepped to almost each of his strides.
“Come on. Give me a break. I feel like a puppy at the heels of his master and I don’t like it. Tell me what the mission is all about.”
He turned and looked at me. “You are a persistent one.”
“So brief me.”
“I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
Chapter 5 – Full Disclosure
Grand Junction, Colorado
I settled into one of the six leather seats in the small Learjet while Kepner sat across the narrow aisle from me. The pilot and copilot looked like recruiting posters for military fighter pilots––tall, with close-cropped hair, square jaws, and serious expressions. They acknowledged us as we boarded, and then briefly updated Kepner on the status of the plane, weather, and flying time, which would be just under an hour.
Within minutes, the jet screamed down the runway and pulled into a steep climb. One of my Air Force buddies had once told me that small business jets like this one were as close to a fighter as a private civilian could own. I believed it as we rapidly left the lights of Grand Junction behind and shot into the black Colorado night.
“I’m afraid there won’t be an in-flight movie or cocktails served, Agent Decker,” Kepner said as we quickly reached cruising altitude.
“Tight budget?” My question caused him to smile for the first time.
“I think you’ll soon find that we spend our money where we can get the most bang for the buck.”
“And where would that be?” As we banked left, I glanced out of the window and spotted the Big Dipper and Polaris swinging past. I knew we were on a southwest heading.
Kepner saw me establishing our direction. “The next leg of our journey ends in Flagstaff.”
“Is that our destination?”
“No, only one more hop after that.”
I peered back out the window at the sprinkling of lights from small farm communities interspersed with a black landscape. “I’m still waiting to hear what this is all about. And why me?”
Kepner seemed to consider my question.
“You can at least tell me something about Beowulf,” I added. “Even if your prediction is right and I don’t like it.”
Kepner blinked and cocked his head to the side, then looked back at me. “All right,” he finally said. “Let me start with this. The organization has been around in one form or another since the mid-1980s. It was one of the many offshoots of Star Wars.”
“The Strategic Defense Initiative—Reagan’s program?”
“Correct. One of many byproducts of SDI. Beowulf is probably the last one standing.”
“Probably?”
He nodded. “The handful of other programs I knew about are all gone.”
“So, you’ve been with Beowulf for, what, twenty-eight years?”
“No, I came onboard in 1993 when SDI was ‘dissolved’.” He formed quotes in the air with his fingers.
“You mean Star Wars went on even though the public thought it was shut down?”
“SDI didn’t continue, but some of the darker programs did.”
“Beowulf is a ‘dark’ program.” I repeated his quote gesture. “I kind of figured that out on my own.”
“We’ve covered as much as we need to for now.”
“What do you do for Beowulf?”
Again, he seemed to ponder the question.
“Come on. Are you the boss or the night watchman? I at least deserve to know that much.”
“Head of security.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Would you like to know anything about me?”
“No need, Agent Decker. I know everything about you.”
This ruffled my feathers a bit. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“We don’t recruit anyone without full disclosure of their history. You’ve been thoroughly vetted.”
“Then you know all about my sordid past?”
In a dry, deadpan delivery, he said, “I know you grew up in Albuquerque alongside your twin sister, Francine. Your mother was a real estate agent and your father taught Economics at the University of New Mexico. You were president of your high school senior class and graduated with honors. You went on to study archaeology and got your masters in the same field. Your sister became an RN and later got involved with global disaster relief organizations.
“Nearing graduation, one of your professors suggested you become a civilian agent for the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. While in civil service, you met and married Kenneth Gates, a fellow OSI agent and computer forensics expert. The marriage ended in divorce. All told, you spent twenty years as an OSI agent before suffering serious gunshot wounds in Iraq—an event in which you shot and supposedly killed your partner, Special Agent Aaron Knox.”
At this point I turned back to the window. My chest tightened at the thoughts of Francine and shooting Aaron.
“After recovering from your wounds, you retired to a mountain cabin until your ex-husband brought you back to OSI as a consultant to assist in tracking down an ancient relic called the Blade of Abraham. You wound up stopping a terrorist threat on the city of Las Vegas.”
Kepner fell silent for a moment. As I turned back to him, he said, “Did I leave anything out?”
“You’ve covered enough.” It was considerate of him not to mention how Francine died.
He nodded. “The main reason we need you is to use your talent for finding things that have gone missing, just as you did with the Blade of Abraham and so many other rare, stolen objects over the years. You are one of the best at what you do, and because of that, we are on a very important journey, one that could change the course of history.”
Chapter 6 – The Abyss
Four days earlier. RAI Center, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Patricia Barney walked across the sprawling entrance hall, had her ID badge barcode scanned at the security checkpoint, and proceeded along what seemed like endless carpeted aisles separating the hundreds of exhibits. Each interconnected building contained different areas of technology—television production, computers, internet, telecommunications, gaming, and others. The names ranged from the giants of technology like Sony, Harris, Panasonic, and Apple all the way down to small software developers and hardware manufacturers vying for attention. The booth Patricia sought was in Hall 4, companies dedicated to communication. She spotted the modest corner exhibit with its brightly colored sign that read Red Star Innovations.
Three Red Star employees, in matching polo shirts and slacks, were putting the final touches on the various product displays as she approached. The man she was to meet—in his late fifties with a dark, close-cropped beard, and dark eyes—saw her and stepped away from the others. He met her with a polite kiss on each cheek. As he did so, he whispered, “Were you followed?”
She shook her head.
“And you have them?”
“Yes.”
“One moment.” He grabbed a briefcase from behind a display counter and then waved to the two co-workers. “I shall return shortly.”
A few moments later, they sat at a small table in the far corner of the food court silently sipping Douwe Egberts dark roast. His eyes roamed the area around them as if taking a mental picture of the hundreds of attendees moving in steady streams throughout the exhibition hall.
Finally, he placed his cup down. “Any complications?”
“The handoff at the motel went just as planned. My bag was inspected at JFK, but it raised no suspicion.” Now it was Patricia’s turn to scan the crowd of food court patrons.
“Is there any evidence of your meeting with him?”
“This was a small motel in a small Arizona town, so I doubt it.”
“You are very good, Patricia.” The man gave a sly grin.
“I believe that’s why you hired me.”
“So,” he said, glancing around again, “it’s time to finalize our business.” He pointed at the satchel still hanging over her shoulder. “Shall we?”
She slipped it off and placed it next to his feet. At the same time, he reached into his briefcase, removed an envelope, and laid it on the table.
“In euros?”
He nodded.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what the objects are in the parcel and why you have gone to such extreme measures to get them?” She watched him remove the baggie of triangular objects from the satchel and place it in his briefcase.
“You will be better off not knowing.”
“Of course. How about this, then? The Beowulf staff has an exceptionally high level of security clearance. How did you get someone to smuggle the pieces out of the facility?”
“Everyone has skeletons in his closet, as the Americans like to say. Threatening to expose them is more than enough motivation.”
“Those pesky skeletons.” They both laughed as she retrieved the satchel. “I’ve been thinking about leaving the game.”
“I can see why.” He patted the envelope just before she took it. “Is this the most you’ve made on a single job?”
She dropped the envelope in her bag and slid the strap back onto her shoulder. “If you call me for anything else and I don’t return the call, don’t be offended. I’m either on a beach somewhere in the South Pacific or . . .”
“Dead? You’re much too beautiful and smart to be caught. Plus, you will get bored on that beach.”
She winked. “Depends on who I have snuggled up beside me.”
Patricia stood and started to leave but paused. “By the way, be careful how you handle the objects. They make your skin tingle.”
“Good to know.”
She made her way through the crowds on the long walk back to the entrance hall. Outside to the right was the taxi queue with a few people in line. Judging from their conversations, they were mostly booth-setup crews heading back to their hotels during show hours after working all night. A few businessmen and exhibitors also stood in line.
Patricia took the place at the end of the queue and waited her turn for a taxi. A few others came to stand behind her. The line moved along quickly and she soon found herself at the front. The taxi pulled up and she opened the door and slid into the back seat. She felt someone push in right behind her and slam the door shut.
Patricia turned to complain just as the taxi pulled from the curb. “What are you doing?” she asked the man in the suit next to her. “This is my—”
She knew in an instant she had just made the biggest mistake of her life. She was supposed to be a professional and yet she had let her guard down. So enchanted by the amount of money in her satchel and her new life on some tropical isle, she had neglected to scrutinize those waiting in the taxi queue. How convenient that the taxi had pulled into line ahead of the others. Full of her triumph, she didn’t even notice the classic setup. Now she stared at the man pressing his hand against her neck. Patricia knew there was no point in fighting. A second after the sting of the needle, she felt herself surrender to the abyss.
Chapter 7 – The East Rim
Flagstaff, Arizona
The jet touched down in the darkness of Flagstaff Pulliam Airport just after 4:00 AM and quickly steered to a collection of hangars south of the main passenger terminal.
Our Top Gun pilots taxied the Learjet off the single main runway onto the tarmac. As soon as we came to a halt, one copilot emerged from the cockpit, opened the hatch, and lowered it. Kepner motioned for me to get off. He followed.
He placed his hand at my elbow and hurried me to a helicopter parked around sixty meters away, its rotors spinning, its skin painted midnight black. As soon as we climbed in and buckled up, we lifted off. I saw that our Learjet was already racing down the runway. The whole transfer from jet touchdown to helicopter liftoff couldn’t have taken more than three minutes.
Kepner slipped on a set of headphones and pointed to a pair hanging nearby. Once I had them on, I said into the mic, “I really wanted to hit the Flagstaff gift shop during our layover.”
He gave me his now-famous blank stare
“How far this leg?” I asked.
“About seventy miles.”
I estimated that we were heading northwest. Seventy miles would put us . . . “We’re going to the Grand Canyon?”
“Very good. We’re headed to a remote area on the East Rim.”
“I’ve always wanted to see it by helicopter.”
“Unfortunately, Agent Decker, you won’t this trip.”
_____
Thirty minutes later, we landed. I couldn’t see much except what the full moon illuminated. I noticed that before putting us down, the pilot slipped on what looked like a night vision device. This guy set the bird down with as much assurance as if he were pulling his car into his garage for the hundredth time.
Kepner slid open the side door and jumped out with me right behind. We ducked under the spinning rotors and walked briskly away from the helicopter across hard-packed sand and small stones. Once we were at a safe distance, the black machine rose, banked, and roared back in the direction we had come.
After the sand blasting from the rotor wash blew past, the night surrounded us like a cloak—moonlight swept across a brilliant, starry sky. A whisper of wind cleared the air of the dust from the aircraft’s takeoff.
As my eyes became adjusted to the dark, I realized we were standing on a flat expanse of land. In the distance before us ran a dark zigzagging scar gouging the landscape. I assumed it was the Grand Canyon. Not far away in shadow sat a one-story structure the size of a neighborhood 7-Eleven.
“This way.” Kepner started toward the building.
As we cut the distance in half, a number of high-intensity floods transformed our surroundings into daylight.
“One second,” Kepner said, taking my arm.
We halted and stood silently in the bath of light for ten or fifteen seconds. Then the lamps blinked off, leaving us again wrapped in the blanket of night.
After a moment to let our eyes readjust, we continued on until we came to the front of the building. Even in the muted light I could make out a front porch built of rustic logs and rough-hewn lumber. Strange, I thought, there were no windows. As we stood on the porch, a light over our heads turned on. A plaque with the arrowhead-shaped emblem of the National Park Service was fastened to the wall next to the door. And below it, a sign read “Closed. No Admittance.”
“Get many tourists up here?” I asked.
“It’s restricted.”
Kepner placed his face against the wall beside the door. I wondered what the hell he was doing, and then realized he had aligned his left eye with an iris scanner. An electronic buzz sounded and he pushed the door open. We entered a room about the size of a two-car garage. Fluorescent lights flooded the space.
The room was empty except for a small bare office desk and chair in the corner. I looked across the room. “Are those elevator doors?”
Because he didn’t answer, I decided Kepner liked screwing with my head. Either that, or he was just an arrogant dick who didn’t feel it necessary to answer my questions. It wouldn’t be long before he really pissed me off and I’d bail on this whole deal, presidential request or not.
“Come on,” Kepner said. As we walked toward the doors, I heard the click of the lock behind us. The front entrance was secured.
Kepner pushed the down button and the elevator doors parted. We stepped inside and he pressed the number 3 button on the control panel, the lowest of the levels. The lift motor spun to life and we dropped. I had no way of knowing how far we descended, but I guessed at least sixty meters, maybe more.
The elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors slid open. What lay before me caused me to take in a sharp breath.
Kepner stepped out, turned, and said, “Welcome to Beowulf.”
Chapter 8 – Chaucer
Beowulf Headquarters
Exiting the elevator, I noticed a security checkpoint manned by two ominous-looking men holding assault rifles. The Beowulf insignia patch adorned the breast pockets of their black jumpsuits. The floor, walls, and ceiling were a polished gray material illuminated with indirect lighting. A number of small black globes suspended from above told me we were under video surveillance.
Kepner led me past the two sentries and we entered a hallway like those in a modern corporate office, with a slight dissimilarity. The workstations and terminals that sat dark and empty weren’t separated by the conventional portable partitions. Instead, they were divided by glass panels. This was very different from my old stomping grounds at DC3, the OSI headquarters at the Department of Defense Cyber Crime Center in Maryland. To carve this facility out of solid rock had to have been an amazing feat. Money had not been spared.
I assumed that whatever staff occupied these stations would be coming in later, since it was still an hour before dawn. I suppressed a yawn, thinking I should still be home, snug in my bed.
We stopped in front of a set of sculptured stainless-steel double doors that bore the now-familiar Beowulf shield. The nameplate read: Director.
“The director will take it from here. I have some other things to attend to. I’ll check in with you later when I get back.” Kepner tapped once then opened the door and gestured for me to enter. As I did so, I sensed that he stayed behind. I turned to check. Kepner was gone and the door softly clicked closed.
“Good morning, Agent Decker.”
The greeting had come from a man sitting behind a glass and stainless-steel desk. I assumed the 50ish, silver-templed man was the director. He wore a jumpsuit similar to the security guards’. Other than the leather chairs, all the furniture and appointments in the office were also stainless and glass. I wondered what was up with the decor. Fetish or functionality?
“It hasn’t been that good of a morning,” I said. My adrenalin hadn’t slowed much since Kepner arrived at my cabin. The shock of it all and lack of sleep were taking a toll.
He came from around his desk and shook my hand. Above the Beowulf patch was a nametag: Chaucer. As I tried to decide whether that was his first or last name, he picked up on my dilemma.
“Please, call me Chaucer.”
I acknowledged.
“It’s nice to meet you, Agent Decker. You have quite a reputation. All good, by the way.”
He returned to his high-back chair, and with a wave of his hand invited me to sit in one of the chairs across the desk from him.
I thanked him for the compliment and sat.
“I have to say, Chaucer, your operation works fast. I feel like I zip lined here.”
“Once we set upon a course of action, we waste no time in getting underway.” He laid his hands palm down on his desk. “I’m sure you have lots of questions, but maybe I can answer most before you ask.”
“Thank god,” I said. “Your head of security stonewalled me.”
“I apologize. He’s very cautious not to give out too much info. Let me see if I can help you out. I’ll start with my name. Chaucer isn’t my given name. It’s a code name.”
An English poet. “Like Tennyson for the President?”
“Beowulf deals with extremely sensitive matters and is answerable only to Tennyson. We never reference the President or use his name. Because of the necessity to operate with ultimate covertness, we are different from other black operations. Congress is not even aware that we exist.” He paused a moment, letting that settle in.
“Then how are you funded? Doesn’t Congress have to appropriate funds even for black ops?”
“Yes. But not Beowulf. Before I continue, I need to impress upon you that what you are going to learn about Beowulf and our project must be regarded with the highest degree of discretion and confidentiality. Any suspicion of a lack thereof will result in the harshest of responses. You’ve been selected for your skills and for your character. Two other things were factored in. You don’t break under even the most intense situations. And when it isn’t easy, you do what you have to do.”
I knew what he was referring to—the tragic death of my sister at my own hands, and when I’d been forced to shoot my partner.
“Do you clearly understand what I have just said?”
I gave an affirmative nod.
“Good, because if you can’t agree with that, we won’t go any further. Look me in the eyes.”
Chaucer held my gaze and then continued. “Your help is needed in a critical matter, vital to this country’s and others’ security and safety. There may be times when you are on your own and things get dicey. I want you to be aware of that. So, if you’re going to back out, do it now, not later. Once you’re in, you’re in.”
“You mean I can’t decide after you explain what the project is?”
“No.”
Whatever the critical matter was, everyone had made it abundantly clear that it was a global-changing issue. If my country needed me that badly, how could I turn my back? My brain urged me to check out now, but my gut said no way. I had too many years of service with OSI embedded in me so my loyalty must have become part of my DNA.
“All right. I’ve come this far. It’s a long walk home.”
“That means you’re agreeing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Agent Decker. Glad to have you. First, I’ll tell you we are a crew of only ten. The fewer who have knowledge of Beowulf, the more secure it remains. There will be no non-disclosure contract for you to sign. There’ll be no paper trail that will connect us. This is a verbal agreement only. Please be reminded one last time that any violation will provoke serious measures.”
Chaucer sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on mine.
I got the picture. “Crystal clear.”
“Then we’ll proceed.”
I heard my breath come out in a noticeable sigh. I’d been on some hazardous assignments in my time, but already I knew this was way beyond anything I’d ever been involved in.
“You asked about funding. I’ll address that briefly, even though it is irrelevant.”
I’d just been reprimanded. For now, I’d shut up and listen. This guy was no candy-ass, and this was no candy-ass operation.
“Every year the Department of Defense has single-line items in their budgets represented by a series of numbers and letters along with a code name—it might read Operation Dragonfly with a vague general description. These line items are simply covers for a black budget. It’s a type of slush fund set up by the DoD. It keeps Congress’s nose out of the DoD’s business—in other words, no congressional oversight. Suppose 2.6 million is budgeted for Operation Dragonfly. But really only 1.2 million actually gets to that project. The rest is funneled to a blacker-than-black op like Beowulf. We are considered beyond black. We arrange to skim enough from each of those line items and, voilà, we have our funding.”
“Sounds like government money laundering.”
“If looking at it that way helps you understand Beowulf’s magnitude and the seriousness of what you’ll be working on, then it’ll benefit us both.”
Chaucer rose and strolled over to a side credenza where a pitcher of ice water and glasses sat. “Would you like some?”
I declined.
He poured a glass and took a deep swallow before returning to lean against the side of his desk.
“Agent Decker, tell me what you know about the Roswell UFO Incident in 1947.”
For more information on Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore, and their thrillers, visit www.sholesmoore.com and follow them on Facebook at www.facebook.com/sholesandmoore