You helped me when things were dark, and I'll always be thankful. I am sorry to have let you down. But this is more important than me.
Yours, M. Inherp
The photographs showed what indeed looked like a missile inside a large crate, followed by several close-ups of the serial number. A nuclear weapon? Is he delusional? His mind raced. Certainly a lost nuclear weapon would have been front-page news. It was impossible. The military had exacting standards, and the press would eat this up as the country and world went into a panic. Maybe that's what they had intended to stop? Could the US government hide something like this? It was beyond credibility.
It could be a delusional episode, he told himself, perhaps born from his deep conflict in loving and hating the military. That could have generated a fantasy that he was correcting the mistakes of the military, his need to join the terrorists to “complete” his mission, and his human side taking over in warning him. Could he have faked the images? Of course he could. It was easy in this day and age of image-editing software. But not the serial numbers. There was a way to address the veracity of his story. Russell shook his head. Dare he bring this up in a serious fashion to the army? Some dent it would make in his reputation if this turned out to be the hoax of a disturbed soldier.
“Michael, what in God's name has happened to you?”
52
Anthony Russell fingered the handle of his briefcase nervously. The secretary had told him the general had been on a very important conference call. Russell had no doubt of it, but the waiting was agonizing. He had known Lieutenant General Fred Marshall for twenty years. The general had become nearly a father figure to him, part of the community that had watched his career develop from a committed therapist to a full-blown researcher and advocate for combat veterans. Marshall was also instrumental in the progression of Russell's career, using his influence at various stages to secure funding and promotion through the ranks. He had on more than one occasion referred patients to him who had failed all other treatments. He had even gone so far as to solicit Russell's opinions and reviews of many of the army's pre-combat training procedures for soldiers, as well as for post-combat care. Russell drew a deep breath. The general had championed his causes, leading to many important changes in how the army handled the trauma of combat. There had been no way to repay him.
Today he felt at a loss for how to prepare for the scheduled meeting. In a few minutes, he would walk into the office next to him and try to make a case for a stray nuclear weapon, the existence of which had been provided by an admittedly mentally unsound former patient. Russell knew the general would hear him out, but he also knew that the general could only believe this was a hoax. The US military lose a nuclear weapon? It was unthinkable. And if the unthinkable had happened, it would not be a secret. They would have mounted the largest search imaginable. Russell could not defeat the logic either. All he had was his professional intuition developed over a span of several decades.
The door swung open, and the general ushered in the psychiatrist. Russell tried to put his emotions aside and focus on the issue at hand.
“General Marshall,” Russell began formally.
“Anthony, it's good to see you again!” The general gave him a strong handshake and motioned him to sit.
Russell managed a smile. “I would agree, General. But, under the circumstances, I find myself mostly in an agitated state.”
Marshall nodded and took a seat behind his desk. “I understand. Then let's get straight to business. Tell me what's going on again. To be honest, your phone call was a bit unsettling.”
“I anticipated as much. But all I ask is that you hear me out. Not only for the potential seriousness of what I have told you, but for my years of service to the armed forces. I dared not take this to anyone else at this juncture. I needed someone I could trust.”
Marshall nodded again while Russell continued. “I have told you about the e-mail I received and its contents. I have brought them here on a CD-ROM rather than e-mail them to you.” Russell handed over a jewel case to the general. “I would rather not spread it beyond my own e-mail account for obvious reasons — that is both for patient confidentiality as well as the sensitivity of the contents. I have removed from the material contained on the CD any clear reference to the individual.”
General Marshall stuck the disk into the tray of his computer. “I understand. So tell me, Anthony, you see this kid as sound enough mentally to trust these amazing statements?”
“Honestly, General, no. I do worry about his mental state. However, I must be clear. He had never evinced any sign of delusional psychosis. Moderate depression, anxiety, but nothing beyond that. I can't speak to what has happened over the last year, however. I have felt in a bind on this. My decision to come to you was based on our long relationship, so if this is a product of a troubled mind, no damage is done. However, if there is some truth to his incredible story, it would be too important not to try to look into it in some fashion.”
“Yes, of course” the general mumbled, somewhat distracted as he examined the images on the disk. “Well, if it's a hoax, Anthony, the missile looks very convincing. Air Force cruise missile, aircraft mounted.” He squinted at the screen. “Oh, now that is interesting. Like you said, we can read the serial numbers. Not too bright if he's making this up, I must say. Easy to verify, although.…That is very interesting,” he trailed off, staring at the screen. After a moment he glanced toward Russell. “Anthony, please remind me where he served.”
“Iraq. Infantry.”
“He's never worked with weapons systems, missiles, conventional or nuclear?”
Russell shook his head. “No, not that I know of. He wasn't qualified. Why?”
The general looked back toward the screen and spoke. “This is very interesting. For a man who wasn't trained with such weapons, he seems to know a lot about serial number format. As someone who has, and whose memory is quite good, it appears to me that he has nailed the digit structure almost perfectly in this image.”
Russell felt his stomach tighten. As much as he would hate to ruin his reputation, the alternative — that he was right — was even more frightening.
“He claims he is a member of this terrorist group, Mjolnir.”
“Yes, so you mentioned.” The general glanced once more at the computer screen, took off his glasses, and placed them on his desk. He turned again to Russell, his expression serious. “I think I need to make some phone calls.”
Russell replied stiffly, a chill running through his body. “Yes, sir.”
53
Blake Morrison walked out to the mailbox and opened it. The usual, he thought: several bills, a pile of catalogs seeking to burst the box, and an assortment of random junk mail. The sun arced over the surrounding hills on its way downward, half-concealed in clouds and throwing off bright beams of light alternating with shade to create a complicated woven pattern in the dimming sky. Sunshine. Something he might be able to enjoy if he weren't working so damn hard writing code all day long.
A gray VW Jetta pulled up the street and came to a stop in the driveway across from his house. The Agent. Everyone on the block knew The Agent, he thought with some annoyance. How anyone came to know he worked for the FBI had been forgotten, but everyone knew. The man didn't deny it if asked, but he didn't offer much either. Keeps to himself, would be the nicer way to put things. Morrison preferred arrogant and aloof. The man never participated in block or neighborhood activities, rarely spoke with his neighbors. Always seemed to have important things to do, more important than the ordinary Joes he lived around. Morrison had spent a lot of time speculating on just what his neighbor did for a living. He had spent even more time speculating on what he did in his home. He never once had seen a woman go in or come out of that house. He had on occasion seen men. For Blake Morrison, that was enough. Damn pervert's a homosexual, he told himself for the fiftieth time as he closed the mailbox. He watched The Agent step out of the Jetta, grab his briefcase, close the door, and try to avoid eye contact with him. What do you have to hide, Agent Man?