"Sir," Starr answered.
"Richard, I wanted to give you a heads-up. That van we've been tracking appears to be a nonthreat at this time. It's believed to be carrying used medical equipment, probably x-ray machines of some type, so your group can stand down for the moment. If anything changes, I'll get right back with you."
"Understood, sir." The call ended.
Starr came out of the communications room at the property he and Styles considered home and then sat down at the kitchen table across from Styles, who was just finishing a cup of coffee.
"Want some coffee?" Styles asked.
"No, thanks. Are you going exploring or something?" he asked, noting Styles's appearance; Styles was fully dressed in camo.
"No, I want to check on a few things over by the bluff," he replied, referring to the rearward side of the property. "Anything up?"
"The Man just called. That van they had under surveillance appears to be okay. It seems to be hauling medical equipment, so we can relax for a bit."
"Good to hear. Not the relaxation but the lack of threat," Styles replied.
"Yeah."
They were back at the Ranch, which consisted of three hundred acres located in eastern Tennessee. It featured the main house, two guest cabins for Christman and Phillips when they were required to be on-site, two barns, and an extensive training course for Styles, including two firing ranges. Styles also had a gym set up in one of the barns. He had a training routine that would make a world-class athlete hurt just to watch. They had been back for less than twelve hours since ending their mission in Saudi Arabia. Darlene Phillips had been dropped off outside of DC so she could return to her apartment, and Christman was in his cabin, probably sleeping. It had been a long and stressful flight, especially getting out of Saudi Arabia.
Starr went into the kitchen, coming back with a pizza that he had thrown into the oven twenty minutes earlier. He tossed it into the middle of the table, along with two plates.
"I swear, Starr, if I eat any more pizza, I don't know if I'll shoot you or me."
"Quit your bitching. It was fast, and I didn't feel like cooking. If you don't want it, don't eat it."
"Bite me," he said as he reached over and grabbed a slice. "Probably oughta call Phillips and tell her we're off the hook for now. We can wait till J. C. wakes up."
"Yeah," Starr agreed. He dialed Phillips, who answered immediately.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"We're standing down. The van doesn't appear to be a threat. Anything changes, I'll be in touch."
"Crap. I just packed two bags."
"Well, now you're ready for the next trip. See? Your time wasn't wasted."
"Thanks, Starr."
"Anytime. Later." He hung up.
Styles just chuckled. "It sounds like she was pretty set to go."
"Yeah, almost disappointed, I think. We got lucky when the president assigned her to us."
"You're right about that. Can't tell her, though." They grinned at each other.
Styles got up, went into the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee, and returned to see Starr toss two strips of pizza crust onto his paper towel that was being used as a napkin. "Didn't take you long to wolf those down," he remarked, receiving a burp in reply.
Starr commented, "That was a hell of a trip we just took."
Styles paused and then responded, "That's straight. I've been going over it in my head, and overall, I think we did a damned good job. We took out some primary targets, and, except for that incident with Phillips, didn't run into any real problems. J. C. did a good job getting our asses outta there."
"Yeah, he did," Starr concurred.
After a few moments of silence, Starr spoke again. "Did you notice that after the president's phone call on the plane, Phillips went to the bathroom?"
"Yeah, I did."
"Think she made a phone call?"
"I'd bet my ass on it. I've got a real strong feeling that somewhere back there, one might find a corpse with no head."
2
Somewhere in a secret location, Karyn Mason was enjoying a cup of hot chocolate. It was a homemade beverage that she brought in with her, as opposed to the packaged instant mix that she detested. It was exactly one thirty in the afternoon. A light on one of her screens lit up. She immediately put down her cup and focused all her attention on that screen. It was not a typical computer screen but a large, sixty-inch LED state-of-the-art monitor with crystal-clear resolution that allowed her sharp eyes to take in all the details sent back from the Keyhole satellite she was monitoring. She never ceased to be amazed at how clear of a picture she would be looking at, considering it was taken over ninety miles above the planet.
Karyn knew that any given point in time, there were an extraordinary number of satellites orbiting the earth for countless reasons, such as communications, weather tracking, and perhaps the most important, surveillance. The number of spy satellites is completely unknown. Multiple units are programmed for specific purposes. One might make numerous passes far above the earth and file what it sees. When any obvious difference is observed, it immediately turns its attention to whatever is different or out of the ordinary from what its previously filed programs have observed and recorded.
Within seconds, her fingers were moving quickly around one of her many keyboards. She brought up the area that had set off the alarm. No loud ringing bells or buzzers, just a simple red light. She found herself looking at a small lake, but it didn't look like a lake at all. She brought up the image on file to a similar monitor beside the one she was observing. That screen showed a pristine Alaskan lake, water that was a bright blue in color, the result from the reflection of a cloudless sky. She turned her attention back to the original screen. She zoomed in even closer. Finally, it dawned on her exactly what she was looking at, and she audibly gasped. Dead fish were floating on the surface. From shore to shore, it was nothing but a solid mass of dead fish. She could not see a single patch of water — just dead fish everywhere. She noticed birds also. Some were seen on top of the floating mass, others along the shore. She knew the computer program was recording the scene. There was a limited amount of time before the satellite would be out of range, and she would have to wait until the next orbit to continue her observations. She programmed the satellite to hold its position over the area on the next pass. She watched the screen until finally the image was no longer available.
She immediately called her supervisor. "Sir, this is Karyn. I've recorded something you need to see."
Martin Loren replied, "Be right down."
Thirty seconds later, Martin Loren, daytime supervisor at this facility, was approaching Karyn.
"Whatcha got for me, K?" he asked. He always referred to his personnel by the first letter of their first names.
"Major fish kill, sir. Worst I've ever seen or even heard about."
"Roll it."
Quickly she started the recorded image, leaving the original on the second screen. She offered no communication with her boss. She knew he wouldn't want any. She watched as he intently studied the picture.
"Again," he directed after the depiction was lost. He took control of the keyboard. Several times he paused the delineation and looked intently. After three complete viewings, he directed, "Send everything to my desk, now." Four strides later, he was out of sight.