Decision makers controlling the covert operations acted by committee — no dictators. The first of these secrecy think tanks evolved in the late forties. At the time they worked under the auspices of President Truman, using the codename Majestic 12. Fearing ideological conflicts, future presidents were briefed about the intelligence factions on a need-to-know basis. Majestic 12 included private citizens and individuals from the intelligence and military communities, but not always directors and joint chiefs. Often, assistant directors, generals and admirals were appointed to the control group: dedicated career individuals, unsung heroes not in the public spotlight, with vast resources, finances and contacts at their fingertips. Their purpose? Classified to the utmost degree.
The sensitive operations controlled by Majestic 12 required a unique police force to protect their operations from potential adversaries within the government and abroad. The police force required a trusted leader, a patriot who would devote every waking hour to protecting America’s most coveted secrets.
Damien Owens sat at the head of a conference table overseeing his Aquarius agents. Laptops, notepads and sharply dressed agents had invaded the shimmering black table.
Owens started the meeting as he always did: cigars for everyone. Within minutes a cloud of tobacco byproducts hovered over the table. None in the group smoked cigarettes. Each stayed in top shape, but treated their meetings like a good basement game of poker; the smokier the room, the better the time.
Owens always orated sermons while his men puffed their cigars, but first he had Kayla to contend with. “As you all are aware, I’ve been training a new agent for some time now. Today you shall be introduced.” He dialed Kayla’s room. “It’s time.”
They stood with anticipation, ready to welcome their newest family member. Following a longstanding tradition used to welcome each agent into the lair, they began clapping in unison for their new brethren: CLAP — CLAP — CLAP — CLAP — CLAP. When the conference room door kicked inward, the drumbeat from their palms faltered — CLAP — Clap — Clap — clap — until stunned silence strangled the room. Kayla stood straight-faced in the doorway, stoic, robust, dressed to perfection in black, captivating the mythical agents as she did lusting commoners in public.
“Gentlemen,” Owens said, “we never show our emotions.” He nodded to Kayla, who slowly, but confidently entered. “I would like to introduce you to Ms. Kayla Kiehl, our newest weapon.”
Walking across the room, she stared into the captive eyes of the various agents, giving each a discriminating look as if they had to meet her standards and expectations.
Kayla sat first, then Owens, followed by the others. “Here’s Kayla’s bio,” he said, passing copies. Noticing a prolonged and unacceptable stare from Rico, the DC team leader, Owens asked him, “Is there something unique about her breasts?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you need not stare at them.” Studying the group, he said, “You men have so many muscles in your bodies, strengthened further by strong minds, yet a woman half your size has compromised some of you in seconds. Learn from this and appreciate the benefit of having a woman in our arsenal.”
The introductions lasted an hour. Although they came from different backgrounds, the agents’ stories were similar. Every person in the room had a psychological continuity that bound them together, made them think and act alike, anticipate the others’ needs. And they all had uncommon names, or nicknames: Apollo, Bogota, Ezekiel, Hun, Luther, Rico. One agent even preferred to be called Bastard, proud of his broken home origins. They all fit that profile though, even Kayla. None had immediate or extended family they cared to see.
“Give them time,” Owens told Kayla, “they’ll welcome you into the family with a degrading nickname of your own.”
The teams would be together for several days. Besides meetings, they would practice weaponry and field operations, giving Kayla an opportunity to bond with the group. Now it was time to address more pressing matters.
Owens’ sermon for this meeting was designed to further orient Kayla to their ideologies: “To think that America is the ultimate bastion of righteousness and superiority, is egotistical stupidity. For eons, civilizations have believed they were at the pinnacle of world dominance, and their society would rule forever: the Sumerians, Babylonians and Egyptians reigned for millenniums; the Israelites, Persians and Romans dominated for centuries; and the sun never set on the British empire — until the United States declared its independence. Yet our country is still in its infancy compared to the time these other civilizations reigned. Our moral fiber, however, has changed faster and been spread thinner than any of our predecessors. Someday our political infrastructure will be challenged, and either break or be redefined, like all the civilizations before us. We’re no different, and no better than our worldly ancestors. But I will do everything within my power to see that it doesn’t happen on my watch. Because I do love this country. And I go to sleep at night with the satisfaction that we help to keep it a safer place.
“We’re the brutes who look at the grand scheme and do the dirty work that benefits the greater good of the country. As a result, some people will fall in our wake. That’s why in the past I have stressed the importance of not concerning yourself with an individual’s plight. A few casualties are unavoidable and acceptable, and necessary.”
“Oorah!” Bogota added.
Like amen praises from a congregation, others echoed his sentiment, “Oorah! Oorah!”
Kayla tried to imagine the depths of the cabal’s actions. She knew better than to ask, especially in front of the others, figuring questions about Owens’ integrity might generate questions about her own.
Owens recapitulated his sermon with, “You have to look at it like this: If they are threatening our democracy, then they don’t deserve to be protected by it.” Segueing to a related topic, he turned to Bogota. “What’s the word on this Professor Eldred individual and the anti-gravity documents?”
“No word. I went through the DARPA database. The university isn’t posting any research on anti-gravity. It seems he’s on his own.”
The Defense Advanced Research Project Agency (a division of the Department of Defense) administered a database that tracked proposed and ongoing research projects. Universities and private researchers often shared project overviews with DARPA because it could lead to grant money. The database served a twofold purpose for the government, as it was always intended, by allowing the military to find practical new applications, and monitor America’s researchers.
“Did you finish a profile on this guy?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Bogota passed Owens a bio he had prepared on the professor. “He’s worked with anti-gravity before. Los Alamos in the fifties. He worked with an original team, before anyone knew the potential. When they took it underground, he was denied clearance. ”
Bogota’s partner, Hun, was a steroid-enhanced agent and the freshman before Kayla. Making eye contact, Owens said, “Hun, tell me why they denied the professor clearance when anti-gravity was made top secret.”
“That’s about the time they began using USAPs. They must have realized anti-gravity’s potential, compartmentalized the information in an Unacknowledged Special Access Project, then brought in a new team that didn’t understand the larger picture.”