“In addition, the Air Force has a Boeing E-3C Sentry circling the sky over Washington, D.C. We don’t want anyone sneaking up on us. A flight of F-15 Eagles are also in the air. Another flight of A-10 Warthogs are regularly patrolling the route of our flight. All civilian and service aircraft in the Washington, Maryland and Virginia areas have been diverted. The best part is, if anything strays on to the radar screen, we get to shoot it down.”
“Won’t this make the Russkies a tad interested?” suggested Mike.
“But they can’t do anything about it,” said Twoomey, dead serious. “Let’s go. The old man is waiting for us at NSA.”
The Bell Sea Ranger floated a few feet off the helipad on top of the security building. A platoon of Marines in full combat gear encircled the landing zone, AR-15 assault rifles at the ready, laser sights fully activated. As seen from the helicopter, the red lasers painted a surreal image. Laser beams danced about the heliport as guards scanned the area. The pilot of the helicopter set his machine down on the hard surface of the landing pad with the softest of jolts.
Overhead, the other helicopters guarded the helipad like so many fireflies floating in a summer night. Mike had stopped trying to count the number of aircraft that had been deployed for this brief trip. This time, Mike knew why the commotion. The information he had in the briefcase warranted the extra attention.
Mike was dressed in the same casual clothes that he had worn to New Mexico. His casual appearance belied the seriousness of the situation. He was unarmed, the Walther stowed in his duffel bag. Twoomey was dressed in the short sleeved summer tan uniform of the United States Navy with a holstered .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol on a khaki webbed belt.
Both Mike and Twoomey jumped from the Sea Ranger and ran for the entrance way on the rooftop helipad at the National Security Agency headquarters in Laurel, Maryland. As they left the helicopter, they were immediately surrounded by combat ready Marine guards carrying AR-15 assault rifles. The group made the short distance to the entrance way in a few seconds. Inside the entranceway, Master Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston was waiting. She was there to assure that proper security procedures would be adhered to, despite the excitement.
“Hello, Commander,” said Margaret.
“Hi, Margaret,” said Mike, grinning. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way.”
With a thin smile, Margaret unlocked Mike’s handcuffs and took the briefcase from his wrist. Mike rubbed the wrist to smooth the raw feeling of wearing the nickel-plated cuff for the last twelve hours. Margaret and a troop of Marine guards disappeared into the bowels of NSA with the briefcase.
A Marine guard came forward. “Commander, Admiral McHugh is downstairs and requests that you join him immediately.”
Mike and Twoomey followed the Marine down the stairs into the antiseptic world of NSA. The atmosphere was one of bare, flat walls, bright fluorescent lighting, surveillance cameras constantly sweeping the office areas, and Marine guards at strategic points throughout the building.
The Admiral was in a conference room in the interior of the secured building. The room was most unremarkable in its appearance, a typical blend of plastic chairs and Formica-topped tables. In one corner stood a cornstalk plant. McHugh was sitting with two men in their late fifties. From the cut of their clothes and their demeanor, Mike decided they were probably career NSA operatives.
“Hi, Mike. Come in,” said McHugh. “Mike, this is Robert Telson and James Taylor of the National Security Agency’s Special Action Group.”
“James Taylor, huh?” noted Mike.
“Yeah, but I was James Taylor a long time before James Taylor was James Taylor,” said Taylor wearily.
“What’s up, Admiral?” said Mike.
“These fellows wanted to meet you and find out how you obtained the plate. From your description of the metallic plate, I think we may be on to something.”
“Admiral, what level are these two?”
“They have the highest classification available and are specifically cleared for CSAC, Level One. In addition, I’ve given them Socorro clearance.”
The code word stated, Mike understood that he could now talk about the fourth alien, a subject heretofore taboo to anyone except Robert McHugh.
“Okay. What I surmise is that Johnny Thapaha was given the metallic plate by the alien he tried to nurse back to health. Johnny Thapaha didn’t know the significance of the plate, but he knew that if the object were held up to the rays of light at sunrise, an image would rise from the surface of the plate. This had mystical importance for the medicine man as the hologram showed the four points of the compass. The number four carries religious significance in the Navajo community. The hieroglyphics, of course, were indecipherable. However, Johnny Thapaha was probably fascinated by the images the hologram formed as you adjust the way light plays on its surface.
“When I examined the plate after it was turned over to me, I was amazed to find that holding the plate at an angle where light can skip over the surface, five to ten degrees off of horizontal; the hieroglyphics interchange with Greek symbols.”
“Holy motherfuck,” said Taylor. “The Rosetta Stone.”
“You got it. I called Admiral McHugh immediately and told him in general terms what I had. The Admiral arranged for a jet to bring me from Holloman field in New Mexico to NSA. Here I am.” He sat down.
“You must be pretty tired,” said McHugh.
“I could use some shuteye, Admiral.”
“Why don’t you find some place to grab some sleep? We’ll talk more later.”
1993: War
“Damage Control!” said Captain Carlton Messinger. He had been caught by surprise. The explosion that shook the Watch Station was unlike anything he had experienced before.
“Captain, we had an implosion in the stores module. Automatic isolation procedure of the module took place and the rest of the station is okay for now. We did, however, lose the ELF system, so we have no direct link with command headquarters,” said the engineering officer, Navy Lieutenant Ray Diaz.
“Any casualties?”
“The two crewmen manning the stores module, sir,” responded Diaz.
“Damn.”
Messinger, a career naval officer, was one of the select. Being chosen to command a Watch Station as a brand new Captain made Messinger the youngest of all the Watch Station commanders in CSAC. A Naval Academy graduate, he had a mercurial rise in the nuclear Navy and a resume that had caught the attention of the old man. After the Academy, nuclear training, and a brief tour on a boomer, Messinger had gone to Stanford University in California, where he earned a doctorate in nuclear engineering in less than three years.
His initial work in the nuclear Navy had resulted in the development of a nuclear reactor that literally could fit into the trunk of a car, but which could supply enough energy to run that car continuously for twenty-five years at a constant 55 miles per hour speed, assuming of course that the mechanical structure of the car could stay intact that long. Although limited in civilian applications for obvious reasons, including the shielding necessary for safe operation, the relatively lightweight reactor was an instant success for such applications as powering Benthic Rangers, the principal submersibles in the CSAC fleet. The design of the Benthic Ranger could accommodate the weight of the shielding necessary for the small reactor.
The Mess-I reactor, as it was called, was installed in the new series of Benthic Rangers. The first two were assigned to Watch Station Three as the main and auxiliary vehicles for the station. The Benthic Ranger Model III-NR was the most exotic of all the Benthic Rangers. For example, each of the two Benthic Rangers had been outfitted with the new blue-green laser cannon, capable of firing bursts of energy at enemy targets. Though experimental, the blue-green laser had proven its capabilities in secret underwater tests.