Copyright 2006 by D. A. Blankinship, all rights reserved
ISBN 1-58597-402-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2006932132
Printed in the United States. All rights reserved.
Leathers Publishing
4500 College Blvd
Overland Park, Kansas USA 66211
The Scoloderus Conspiracy is a fictional work in its entirety. Planet Earth has not been destroyed. There is no United Americas Trade Federation and Libre Voyageurs do not exist. All of the circumstances and characters in this story are also fictional. Any similarity between anyone in this story and you or any people you may know is only a fortunate coincidence; unless you know someone who is like one of the bad people, then it is an unfortunate coincidence.
Ambitious people understand intelligent people far better than intelligent people understand ambitious people; therefore, ambition will always triumph over intelligence. Once you appreciate this reality, civilization becomes clearer and unfortunately, more distressing.
More than 300 years have passed since the Earth ended and began anew. The end began as tremors rippled across every continent, highways heaved into the air, bridges plunged into abysses, and lakes splashed from their banks. In only eight days, all of the world’s cities were shambles of crumbled buildings or they were beneath new oceans.
People survived and eventually they recovered, rebuilt civilization, and re-established a geopolitical order. The books and information they found after the cataclysm, accelerated progress in all of these activities. These materials had been stored in vaults that had endured the worst possible conditions and kept their contents safe from the elements.
Using the vast quantity of information contained in these archives, the United Americas Trade Federation grew to become the major political and military force in the North American hemisphere. One group opposed the UATF and defied their right to rule the continent. Under the leadership of General Gregory Alleena, the Libre Voyageurs Militia fought against UATF supremacy. Their efforts continued for many years. In the year 318, they were on the verge of defeat and they were on the verge of victory—they just needed some cooperation, some information, and a little luck, and they had a plan for getting all three, and the UATF had a plan to stop them.
Use a nighttime offense when the commander and troops are familiar with the terrain, the objective is clear and will be attained quickly, and the enemy is at a disadvantage; otherwise, avoid it.
Colonel Anthony Hammond sat staring intensely at the glowing orange embers of the small, dying fire. Occasionally a tiny flame flickered up from the charred wood and disappeared into the cool, moist night air. Smoke drifted into his face, stinging his eyes. He was tired, exhausted. He had been in the field for almost a week. They had encountered at least three detachments of Libre Voyageur Militia. Each time, the enemy offered little opposition. Their progress along the land bridge had been rapid, perhaps too rapid.
They now controlled forty miles of territory that had been a Voyageur stronghold. They were within fifteen miles of one of the LV’s major supply points. It just did not make sense. He always trusted his gut; his gut told him something was wrong.
“Colonel, you were brilliant today. You showed the LV what superior leadership can do.”
Hammond turned to see who was flattering him. In the darkness, he could see an officer approaching him from his right side. As the officer came closer, Hammond recognized him. It was Captain Marcus, a company commander assigned to his battalion about three months ago. Marcus had not been in combat prior to this assignment; however, in the past five battles, he had proven himself a capable company commander.
Marcus approached Hammond and stood next to him as he surveyed the area. Marcus touched a small communicator clipped to his collar and spoke with authority, “Command secure.”
As Marcus turned to walk away, Hammond said, “Captain, sit down; I’d like to talk with you about today’s events.”
As Marcus sat down, he resisted the panic prickling up his spine. Was he in trouble? Had he performed poorly during one of the engagements?
“Do you think the Voyageurs led us here? Is this a trap?”
Hammond’s question surprised Marcus. He had expected a critique of his performance, he had not been thinking about the enemy’s plans, only his response to them. He did not know how to answer the question.
“Colonel,” Marcus ventured, “the Voyageurs thought they could beat us. It did not take them long to find out they were wrong, so they retreated, and they have been retreating for three days. They don’t want to die in a war they know they can’t win; they know they will never have the resources or leadership to defeat the UATF Army.”
“Yes,” Hammond said. “They could be retreating. They may have been trying to get away from us; however, they never moved too far in front of our lead assault group. They just kept moving. This afternoon we had four skirmishes that all ended within minutes of each other. It was a coordinated cease-fire. I think they were leading us. They want us in this location. I think this is a trap.”
“I’ll get the troops ready to move,” Marcus said. “We’ll be out of here before—”
“Not yet,” Hammond interrupted. “We don’t know our best course of action. Why do they want us here, right now?”
“Perhaps they are going to surround us,” Marcus speculated, aloud.
“Perhaps, but there’s no troop movement to support that,” Hammond said. “A few hours ago, I sent First-Sergeant Kemp and Sergeant Ventosa to run reconnaissance. They found nothing, not a trace of LV anywhere near here. Bravo Recon reported a group of LV about four miles northeast of us: a small group of seven soldiers. The other LV squads have withdrawn further north. The Voyageurs have left us here; without a chaperone.”
“They could be waiting for reinforcements,” Marcus said. “We’re too close to their main territory; they wouldn’t just leave us here and they aren’t going to let us move north without a struggle. They must be planning something for pre-dawn or early morning.”
“Captain,” Hammond said, “tell the lookouts to increase the watch perimeter by 50 yards. Set sensing equipment to the highest levels. The LV know we are here, but they are keeping their distance. We need to be ready for anything and what we do not know can kill us. I will be meeting with the senior officers at 5:00 AM, just before sunrise; I would like you to be there. Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski can fill you in on the plans for the day and I would like to hear your ideas about the LV’s battle strategies.”
“And Captain,” Hammond added somberly, “we are in a dangerous situation. The Voyageurs are aggressive fighters. They would not leave us to rest unless it suited a greater plan, a malicious plan.”
“I will be vigilant, sir, and I will be at the meeting,” Marcus said as he stood and walked away feeling like an important member of the battalion. Colonel Hammond had taken an interest in him. He would be attending an early morning briefing for the senior battalion officers. Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski would fill him in on the day’s plans. He smiled as he imagined other briefings in which he and Colonel Hammond would discuss combat tactics and review the battalion’s performance. Yes, this was an eventful night. He used his communicator to signal the sentries that he would be approaching them with new orders, direct from his meeting with Colonel Hammond.
As Marcus walked away, Hammond turned back to the fire and he thought ‘It has been too long since I talked with a junior officer. They are always so enthusiastic and this is a good time to train them. I need to find more time for these new, young leaders. I should just give up on Zychowski and Ukiah. Major Ukiah has to do everything by the book and Zychowski does not even know there is a book. Oh well, in six months Zychowski will be retiring and in three weeks Ukiah is transferring to the 2nd Shadow Warriors Battalion. Marcus will be here a long time, he is worth the effort; perhaps someday Marcus will have his own battalion to command.’
The late night air was cool and silent as Hammond sat alone with his musings. He turned his attention back to the small fire. The embers faded slowly as he began his ‘hour.’
The ‘hour’ was an important military tradition. Every warrior had one hour in every day in which to meditate, sleep, or engage in any activity that revitalizes the spirit. Hammond typically spent his hour meditating or reminiscing about his family. Over the years, he had learned these places and memories are important. Private places only he knows; places in sharp contrast to the reality of his daily experience.
He sat motionless in a deepening trance; his breathing was slow and regular, and his heart beat at a minimum. His memories drifted to the distant past, to times and places that seemed remote. Images, sounds, and feelings that were not clear but in some part of his being he knew how they should be. He refined each part of the picture, enhanced each sensation, each touch, each thought that made the past real.
He was at a resort in Phreen, Pueblo. His mind focused in on each image, each sensation: he could smell the salt water carried on the wind blowing in from the sea; he could see the bright white pelicans gliding just above the waves and the gulls strutting along the ocean’s edge. Each image, each sensation became clearer with concentration.
It was early summer, in 289. He was 23 years old and completing his advanced training at the UATF Army Academy. He had four days leave before beginning the final phase of his advanced training. On impulse, he and two close friends—Cliff Sloan and Hank Garcia—had packed a few things and journeyed for ten hours to get to a cheap hotel room in Phreen, Pueblo. They had arrived just before sunrise and stayed awake long enough to watch the intense orange-yellow light illuminate the palm trees and the scurrying crabs.
The rest of the day was uneventful, yet that evening changed his life forever. He was sitting alone on the beach with his back to the setting sun, watching his shadow growing longer, moving toward the sea. The sun felt warm on his back and the rhythmic thunder and hiss of the waves was hypnotic. Pushing his feet just inches below the surface, he found cool sand.
As the evening sky drew dark and the breeze shifted direction, he began to feel hungry. He stood up to begin looking for the grocery store he had seen earlier in the day. As he rose, brushing the sand from his legs and hands, he saw two women walking toward him. He could see their path in the sand and they had clearly turned abruptly toward him.
“Is there someplace around here to eat?” the woman on the left asked.
She was pretty, so pretty. He wanted to be with her; to walk down the beach together; to have other people see them and assume they were together, a couple, perhaps lovers. His attraction to her was immediate and powerful, and it embarrassed him.
“I was just going to get something to eat,” he had replied. “I’ll take you there.”
“Do you want to go with him?” the woman asked her companion. The other woman shrugged her shoulders and gave a noncommittal nod. He thought her friend did not want to go, but agreed because she had no other options.
“I’m Anthony Hammond,” he announced as they began walking along the beach.
“I’m Kathleen and this is my friend Michelle.”
What a nice name: Kathleen. He had tried to be calm, matter of fact, and glib. However, he had not been with a woman in a social situation for more than two years. They walked in silence for almost a minute. He wanted to talk about himself and learn all about Kathleen. Where did she live? What did she do? Why was she here? The best he could venture was “I think the store is just up there.”
“That’s a grocery,” Michelle announced indignantly. “We want a restaurant.”
He suddenly felt ignorant and lazy. He had spent the entire day on the beach when he should have been learning all about places to eat and things to do in the area. He had no idea where to find a café, and now his ignorance would take this woman away from him.
“A grocery has food, Michelle. You didn’t know that?” Kathleen asked in a manner that both ridiculed her friend and defended him.
Tension was growing between the two women. Michelle did not like the three-some and it was increasingly apparent that Kathleen liked him. He was delighted.
“I’m not eating in a grocery. Everything is cold or processed and I don’t want to eat on the beach; there’s nothing but sand and saltwater spray.”
As Michelle spoke, she had walked slower and slower until she stopped. Kathleen continued to walk and Michelle called to her, “It’s getting late, let’s go back.”
Kathleen stopped between Michelle and him. It was a decisive moment.
“I’m hungry,” Kathleen said. “You go on back and I’ll see you later.”
He was so happy. Kathleen had chosen him over Michelle. She had favored the unknown over her friend. However, what did this really mean? She might go to the grocery, buy some things, and go back to her room.
Michelle began walking away as Kathleen turned to him. “Let’s go,” she said with a smile that made him feel at ease and in love.
As they walked toward the store, he studied the entrance for some indication that the store would accept military script for payment. Most of the country accepted soldiers’ currency. Pueblo and the Arizona Territories had united more than twenty years earlier. However, paradoxically, the goal of a fully united land divided the people. At the time, rumors flourished about a forced consolidation and many people intensely criticized the military for being a pawn of ambitious politicians. Some stores would not serve warriors or accept any kind of UATF currency. It was their way of protesting the growing success of the UATF. He did not see any signs announcing that the store did not accept military script. They walked into the store.
Oh, that squalid little store! He vividly recalled the sand scattered on the wooden floor, the dusty cans arranged haphazardly on the shelves, and the middle-aged store clerk. The woman had watched them suspiciously and asked several times if she could help them find something. Then there was that awkward moment when she pointed to a small sign posted on the wall announcing the store did not accept military script. Kathleen had money; she would pay for everything and they could split the costs later.
As the woman tallied their purchases Kathleen asked her, “Do you sell wine?”
“Do you work for alcohol control?”
“No I don’t and I don’t think the Assembly has the right to tell us what we can and cannot drink.”
The owner looked hard at Kathleen and then at him. “I have a bottle of fruit juices that may have expired,” she said. “If you find that it has fermented bring it back and I will exchange it.”
He was not familiar with this custom: an ingenious ploy to avoid any charges of distilling and selling alcohol. He smiled at Kathleen as the woman reached below the counter and placed a bottle by the cash box.
“How much do you want for all of this?” Kathleen asked as she reached for the bottle.
“Twenty-five,” the woman said, curtly, “Pueblo bills.”
“I only have fifteen,” Kathleen said as she pushed the bottle back.
“I’ll take that fifteen and a ten script from him,” the woman said. This was a ridiculous deal: a UATF ten script was worth thirty Pueblo bills.
“I’ll give you a ten script for the juice and the food,” he announced, speaking to the woman for the first time.
“Old or new script?” the woman asked. She knew a lot about UATF currency for being in such a remote place and, especially, for not accepting it.
“Old script, a ten with the gold leaf inlay,” he replied, now more confident than ever that his money was good at this store.
“Let me see it,” she said extending her hand.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked.
Taking the ten-script note, she held it up to the overhead light, and then said, “Yes, now get out of here!”
They left the store carrying their food and wine. Kathleen pointed toward a peninsula of sand. “Let’s eat over there,” she said and they started walking toward the point.
They sat in the sand, eating their food, sipping wine, and talking for more than two hours. He had felt elated. The wine had eased most of his fears and Kathleen had eased the rest.
He sat, half-drunk, watching Kathleen as she spoke. She was a little drunk, too. He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to smell her fragrance; it was a powerful desire.
“That’s the last of the wine,” she announced as she pushed the empty bottle into the sand.
“I could get some more,” he said.
“No, that was strong and I’ve had plenty,” she said, “and that woman may not want to see us again.”
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“She sold wine to a UATF warrior and—”
He cut her off in mid-sentence. “Listen to me, Kathleen. I am not a police officer. Everyone thinks warriors are police, but we’re not.” He felt increasingly defensive and uncomfortable.
“Anthony, that’s not the funny part,” she said. “My mother is Kara Nevin.”
He recognized the name; still he could not place it. He had had too much wine, too much beach, and perhaps too much Kathleen.
“Don’t you know who she is?” Kathleen asked incredulously and then continued. “No, honestly, you haven’t heard of Kara Nevin? My mother is the Pueblo First Delegate to the UATF. She is the one who wrote and sponsored the Nevin-Steward Law. Get it?”
Now he smiled and felt a little silly for being so defensive. The store’s owner had sold wine to the daughter of Delegate Nevin: one of the most powerful and conservative members of the UATF Assembly. Nevin had co-authored the law making alcohol sales illegal.
Kathleen looked at him and with a mischievous smile, she whispered, “Can you keep a secret?”
“What kind of secret?” he asked, sounding more like a UATF Army officer than a young man on a date with a pretty woman.
“My mother is writing an official position paper for the government. She will announce it in a few more weeks. She is so excited. She told me yesterday she is going to call it the ‘Reunification Ultimatum’ or something like that. The entire Assembly supports her. My dad thinks that someday she might even be elected Chief Delegate.”
At that moment in time, he had no idea that he had just heard about one of the most important events in history. He just sat smiling at Kathleen.
She smiled back and said, “Enough talk—let’s go swimming.”
He looked around the beach. In the light of a full moon, he could see they were alone.
“Go! Get in the water and I’ll meet you there,” she said. “Go and don’t look back.”
As he walked toward the water, he pulled off his shirt and threw it toward Kathleen. As his feet touched the cool, wet sand he felt a slight shiver, then he felt strangely warm. He waded further into the water until he was waist deep. The cool waves rocked against his belly and splashed cold against his chest. He heard Kathleen in the water about ten yards behind him.
Rising and falling with the waves, she swam past, and stopped a few yards in front of him. She stood in the water facing the dark horizon in the distant east. Her long, dark hair draped down her back in sharp contrast to the droplets of saltwater that glistened on her shoulders in the moonlight.
As the trough of a wave rolled past her, the waterline dropped revealing her slender body. Time stopped and, for Anthony, she was the only person in the world.
He studied her intensely. Another wave crested and subsided, lifting her up then returning her feet to the beach’s sandy floor. Another larger wave swelled, lifting her and carrying her toward him. He swam toward her as she dropped back into the water, regaining her footing. The wave’s trough carried the water level down to her waist, then just below. He stood next to her, close enough to touch her. She turned to him, offering her hand. He held her hand and she pulled herself closer to him.
They stood silently; looking into each other’s eyes as the waves gently lifted and then lowered them.
Two years later, they were married.
Meeting Kathleen, buying food and wine at the little store, and swimming in the moonlight had all happened almost thirty years ago; nevertheless, every detail was vivid. His escapes to the past were important for him; they were places of peace surrounded with tenderness and love.
By habit, he began to breathe a little deeper, filling his lungs with the cool night air and raising his heart rate. His hour was ending. He shifted his awareness from his memories to his current situation: his back was stiff and his legs were cold. The fire had died out and did not provide any warmth. As the night air descended, a cold mist spread across the camp. The night’s perfect stillness intensified his senses.
He stood, stretched, and yawned. He fumbled with the tiny buttons on his watch trying to see the time. He touched the right spot and lit up the dial—just after 3:00 AM. He looked up and noticed a large cloud cover directly overhead. ‘We must be in for some rain,’ he thought.
Almost imperceptibly, the tree branches rustled, and then the area was silent again. The night seemed to grow darker as clouds obscured more stars, as if the clouds were lowering to the earth. As he walked around the fire pit, kicking dirt on the few remaining smoldering embers, his footsteps, and movements sounded unusually loud. He did not like to make so much noise. He knew the sounds could panic one of the sentries. Accidents had happened before. Warriors can make lethal mistakes. He had heard of sentries killing warriors because they sleepwalked. That had never happened under his command; still it was always a possibility.
About fifteen yards away a dull red light blinked slowly in the blackness. It was a perimeter motion detector, the newest electronic gadget devised to replace warriors or to make them less alert to danger.
Every development had begun as an aid, something to improve upon the warrior: improved hearing, sharper eyes, steadier aim, faster running. Gradually these devices improved to the point that warriors stopped watching, stopped listening, relied less and less on their own abilities and entrusted the tasks to these devices. Everyone under Hammond’s command knew he would not allow this to happen in his battalion. He had personally sabotaged equipment to test the awareness and self-sufficiency of his troops. Every warrior standing watch knew Colonel Hammond could defeat the devices, sneak up on them, disarm, and demote them on the spot. Hammond’s warriors stayed alert, if only to watch for him.
From somewhere on the far side of the camp he heard a thud. He stood motionless and stared into the blackness of the night. The camp had grown darker from the cloud cover that was blocking the starlight, yet he would have seen even the slightest movement in the dim light. He saw nothing. He closed his eyes and listened as carefully as possible. He heard nothing.
Just as he opened his eyes, an intense white light exploded in the northern sky, shattering the blackness of the night. Seconds later a thunderous boom washed over him as he realized the bright flash had temporarily blinded him. The explosion’s strobe light had burned the camp’s image onto his eyes. He turned, expecting an attack and then he dropped to the ground.
He crawled forward a few feet and huddled behind a huge fallen tree. He tried to see through the darkness. He heard soldiers shouting and breaking out weapons. Someone started firing and others joined in. He could not see the enemy. He was not sure where they were. The bright flashes of weapons firing were everywhere. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a small combat device; was this the time to deploy it?
Where is the enemy? How did they ambush us? Hammond felt desperate as his vision slowly returned and he realized they were not under attack. In their panic, the soldiers were shooting at each other. Sentries fired across the camp at other sentries. They believed the enemy had surrounded them. How could he stop this madness?
He relaxed his grip on the device and began to crawl along the ground next to the tree trunk. He rose to a crouching position and lifted his head to see over the tree. He saw someone stand and begin shooting toward a grove of trees; then others joined in and it appeared they had found the enemy.
Cautiously, he began to stand up. Then he felt an intense, searing pain that began in the back of his neck and shot quickly through to his throat. A sharp pain radiated up the side of his head as his teeth snapped shut and he felt his shoulders hunch tightly forward. The sounds of the battle rapidly faded from his awareness and he lost all sensation in his body, his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. For a moment, he felt nauseous and then he felt cold, wet earth pressing against his face. He could not feel his arms or legs. He could not call out for help. The world was gone; he was loosing consciousness and in his last thoughts, he was sitting on the beach with Kathleen and she was laughing—he wanted to stay there.
On the other side of the camp, Marcus also witnessed the blinding light. He had dropped to the ground and was clawing at the wet dirt as he made his way back to the center of the camp. The explosion, then the deafening roar of weapons seemed unreal at first, and then he realized they were under attack. Hammond was right; this was a trap!
He felt disoriented and terrified. All around him, soldiers were firing their weapons. How should he direct the attack? Where was the Colonel? A warrior fell to the ground, then another. No one knew where to shoot. Soldiers were shouting, falling, screaming, and shooting in all directions. Did the LV have them surrounded? What should he do? He looked around furtively, straining in the darkness to see some hint of the enemy. He could not see the enemy anywhere.
Something was wrong. He could not hear the sounds of enemy weapons, only the continuous firing of his own troops. Yes, something was wrong. There was no enemy, no threat. Fear had invaded them and the warriors mistook each other for the enemy.
Where was Hammond? Marcus looked toward the area where the Colonel had been an hour earlier and he did not see the leader. He turned to the other direction and saw a stand of small trees.
“There they are!” he screamed. “Get them!” He jumped to his feet and began shooting the trees, and then he fell to the ground while continuing to shoot and scream for back up. Several others joined in, and then more and more warriors pelted the trees with everything they had. Bark burst from the thin trunks and a few small trees fell to the ground, sheared off by the cascade of bullets. The soldiers destroyed the grove.
After a few moments, Marcus stopped shooting and called for a cease-fire. Seconds later the shattering staccato of the weapons stopped and a deafening stillness fell upon the camp. Marcus signaled to two soldiers to approach the trees to see if any of the enemies remained alive. He knew he was joining a fantasy of fear, yet he could not think of any alternatives for calming the warriors and regaining control over the situation. Better to join the fantasy and get it over, than to argue with agitated warriors.
He crouched low, watching the soldiers approach the trees. He looked to his left at others huddled down and anxious. Step by cautious step, the soldiers approached the grove. Then they circled in opposite directions surrounding what little remained of the trees. Marcus felt his heart pounding and his hands trembling.
“The cowards have run away!” one of the younger warriors shouted.
“Silence!” another whispered in a forced hush.
However, there was no silence. As Marcus listened, he could hear the pleas of the wounded. He knew he must help them. How much longer will he play this absurd game?
“Torch it!” Marcus ordered as the two warriors completed circling the grove. “I don’t want anyone to go near those trees.”
Three warriors with magnesium thrusters moved toward the trees, still cautious about the dangers that might remain.
“Now!” Master Sergeant Xavier announced. All three fired at the same time. The blazing white chemicals showered the trees making them burst into flames. The roaring fire cast stark shadows across the camp.
“Get the trauma teams here now!” Marcus commanded.
Warriors began moving in all directions. Everyone had a job to do and knew how to do it. Strangely, after a battle, order replaces terror and a sense of purpose springs from senselessness.
“Captain!” someone shouted from a distance. “Colonel Hammond is gone!”
“Where is Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski?” Marcus asked.
“He is dead,” First-Sergeant Quern replied.
“Major Ukiah?”
“He is also dead.”
“Major Kluge?”
“Two serious chest wounds, we must get him to a CTU as soon as possible. He has lost a lot of blood, but I think he will live.”
Now, Marcus was in charge. Everyone senior to him was dead or injured. They needed to get Major Kluge to a central trauma unit as soon as possible. Colonel Hammond was gone, probably dead. Marcus needed time to think, time to put things into perspective. What should he do next?
“What are your orders, sir?” Xavier’s question startled him.
“First, re-establish the security watch,” Marcus said. “Then, I want the trauma team to use every available warrior to help the wounded. Get me a link with headquarters, I need to report this immediately, and then I want the six most senior combat-able warriors to meet with me here in ten minutes.”
“Yes sir,” Xavier said as she backed away and began shouting the orders that assigned warriors to the trauma team, re-established the security watch, and called up Corporal Richards to set up the link with Shadow Warrior Headquarters. The Master Sergeant was one of the best; she set the standard in the unit and inspired confidence.
Marcus took a deep breath and stared at the small grove of trees. What will he tell headquarters? How do you explain an attack that may not have happened? No matter what he reported, he would look incompetent. He had failed either by permitting a surprise attack during his watch or by permitting a fatal panic among the warriors. Who shot first? What was that explosion?
In any battle, some soldiers will die following orders and others will die because they failed to follow orders. The most tragic deaths occur when there are no orders.
Getting through to headquarters had required more than two hours of constant effort. No one was certain whom to notify of a loss of all senior officers in a unit. Could Marcus lead the unit without knowing all the details of the mission? Would headquarters send him the details he needed? Should the battalion retreat now and get back to base? Marcus knew he needed someone higher ranking than him to decide their next steps—he just did not know who that someone should be.
He started by trying to contact Colonel Hammond’s boss, Brigadier General Garcia of the Shadow Warriors Headquarters Command. The general’s aid, a lieutenant colonel, had asked a number of questions. He had never known a battalion to lose all the senior officers in one battle. This was certainly a difficult situation. He then told Marcus that every Shadow Warrior battalion was deployed and that there were no senior leaders available for re-assignment. This fact made Marcus’ situation even more difficult. The aid told Marcus that the Brigadier would know what to do; however, the Brigadier was not at the headquarters, he was in transit. The aid told Marcus that they could try to contact the Brigadier’s helicopter. However, the Brigadier typically flies his own attack helicopter, he has a fondness for acrobatics and low altitude flying, and radio communications are usually extremely difficult or impossible. The aid then told Marcus that under these unusual circumstances, he should contact the Operations & Personnel Command. Perhaps OPC could temporarily assign a colonel until Brigadier General Garcia returned.
When Marcus got through to OPC, the colonel on duty insisted that OPC could not assign a senior leader to a Shadow Warrior battalion without the written approval of Shadow Warrior Headquarters. Marcus explained again that Brigadier General Garcia’s aid at Shadow Warrior Headquarters had told him to contact OPC and request a senior officer for a temporary assignment. The colonel told Marcus to contact the regional major general who could authorize the temporary assignment and then forward the appointment to Brigadier General Garcia for concurrence. The colonel was not going to ‘tell a brigadier general how to run his division.’ It would take more rank than he had to tell a brigadier what to do.
Moments later, Marcus had the regional headquarters on line. He explained his situation to the major general’s adjutant. The adjutant was sympathetic; however, he pointed out that the Shadow Warrior division was an autonomous combat group that does not report up through the regional chain of command structure. Because of this fact, the regional command could not authorize OPC to assign a non-Shadow Warrior leader to the battalion.
Almost to the point of exasperation, Marcus asked the adjutant what he would do if this were his problem.
“I would radio the Office of the Army Chief of Staff at Central Command and ask for Colonel Sloan,” the adjutant said. “He works for the Chief of Staff and he is a former Shadow Warrior battalion commander. He will know what to do and he has the connections to make things happen. Colonel Sloan is the man to talk to and he will get things done.”
Marcus assigned the task of getting through to Colonel Sloan to Second Lieutenant Keats. Within about 15 minutes, Keats had reached the Office of the Army Chief of Staff.
“Sir, I have the Office of the Chief of Staff on the line,” Keats’ voice sounded a little shaky as he continued. “They told me it had better be important. I told them I am with the 7th Shadow Warriors and my commanding officer needs to speak with Colonel Sloan. Sir, General Leland was in the room. When he heard it was the 7th, he said he would take the call. I guess he thinks he will be speaking with Colonel Hammond. I did not have the chance to correct him, sir—I thought you needed to know that.”
Marcus placed the headset over his ears and turned up the volume. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the microphone. General Leland was the Commanding General of the UATF Army; the highest-ranking officer in the military. As Marcus began speaking, he tried hard to control the quivering in his voice.
“General Leland, good morning sir. This is Captain Marcus with the 7th Shadow Warrior Battalion. Sir, I was hoping to speak with Colonel Sloan about our situation. I don’t want to bother you, sir.”
“What’s your situation, Captain?” Leland asked. “I am always available to our soldiers.”
“Sir, I need guidance on proceeding with our mission when we have lost our senior leaders. Regulation 17 dash 9 details succession, but it is not clear whether we continue a mission when we do not have senior leadership, and I am not sure of the mission details, either, sir.”
“Captain, you do know you are speaking with the Office of the Army Chief of Staff?” Leland asked.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Is this a training drill?”
“No sir.”
“Get Colonel Hammond on the line.”
“Sir, the Colonel is not here.”
“Then get me his second in command.”
“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski is dead.”
“Then get me the ranking officer, Captain.”
“Sir, I am the ranking officer. Everyone senior to me is dead or critically injured and Colonel Hammond is missing.”
“What do you mean ‘missing’? Was he captured? Explain yourself Captain!”
Marcus described all that had happened. He began with his meeting with Colonel Hammond and the Colonel’s misgivings about their situation, the attack, and then the events leading up to the discovery that Hammond was missing. He even told Leland about being bumped from one command to another as he tried to get help on the leadership issue.
“This is a bad situation,” Leland said. “You are certain it was not an enemy attack?”
“Yes sir.”
“And it’s been at least four hours since you saw Colonel Hammond?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is Sylvia Xavier still the Master Sergeant with your unit, Captain?”
“Yes, sir, she is.”
“I want to talk with her. Moreover, Captain, if you have any sense at all, you will be talking with her a lot while you are trying to sort this all out; she is one of the best. This situation isn’t fair to you, but you have some outstanding warriors—listen to their advice, get them what they need, stay out of their way, and they’ll make you a good leader.”
Xavier was waiting outside the Communications Tent. Marcus waved her into the tent and handed her the headset. As she adjusted the earpieces, she turned to Marcus and said, “General Leland said to tell you this is a private conversation, sir.”
Marcus left the tent. He was angry that Leland wanted to talk with the Master Sergeant. What could she tell him that he had not already heard? Moreover, he thought Leland had been condescending in lecturing him in leadership. What was going on in that tent anyway?
Leland had only one question for the Master Sergeant, “Do the warriors trust Captain Marcus?”
“Yes, they do,” Xavier said. Then she recounted the events she had witnessed and told Leland that Marcus had brought the situation under control by attacking the grove of trees. Then he had ordered all efforts to caring for the wounded, re-establishing the watch and reporting to command. The warriors trusted and respected Marcus because he trusted and respected them.
“I guess I gave him a hard time when that was the last thing he needed,” Leland said at the conclusion of Xavier’s report. “Marcus is the senior officer in the 7th now, and I expect the best of the 7th; I always have. Tell Captain Marcus I would like to talk with him.”
Xavier called Marcus back into the tent. He placed the headset over his ears and watched the Master Sergeant leave as he once again heard Leland’s voice.
“Captain Marcus, effective this day, I am giving you a field promotion to the rank of Major and a temporary assignment as commanding officer of the 7th Shadow Warriors. The 7th now has a senior leader—and from what I have heard, a good leader. When I meet you, I will pin the clusters to your collars.
“I want you to stay in place until a special unit arrives. That may be late this afternoon. Secure any areas that Colonel Hammond was in from the time you met with him, until he was reported missing. I do not know if the LV will leave you alone for a while or if the 7th is in danger. While I have every confidence in the 7th to fulfill its mission, I want the unit out of there within forty-eight hours: make your plans accordingly. I will contact Brigadier General Garcia and bring him up to speed.
“If you need anything or if any new information develops, contact me immediately. You have direct access to me, anytime of the night or day.”
“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said. “I will contact you with information on Colonel Hammond as it develops.”
“And Major,” Leland said. “I told you earlier to listen to your people and I mean it. Leadership is not a solo sport; if you lead alone, you are not leading. You are surrounded with warriors who have decades of experience. Use that experience for the good of the battalion.”
“Yes, sir, I will listen to my people,” Marcus said, beginning to feel impatient and wondering why General Leland continued to lecture him.
“Major,” General Leland continued, “when I was a Second Lieutenant with the 9th Shadow Warriors, Corporal Xavier saved me from several bad decisions. If I had not learned to listen to her, I would have lost my platoon and the Army does not promote dead officers. I am here because she was there; I thought you might like to know that. Good luck, Major.”
“Thank you, sir.”
At the end of the conversation, Marcus placed the headset down and walked out of the tent. He stood for a moment and watched Master Sergeant Xavier issuing orders and soldiers moving in all directions to follow her instructions. She was the hub of all activity. He wondered how many people knew that General Leland credited the Master Sergeant with making him a leader. He wondered if the Master Sergeant knew that the Army’s Chief of Staff held her in such high regard.
He took a deep breath and began to collect his thoughts, to sort through his priorities. All he wanted now was to sleep; however, there was no time for rest.
As the sun was rising, Marcus sat huddled on the ground in the circle of leaders. The six surviving senior warriors were a tough and experienced group. Marcus had been meeting with them for more than an hour. They had all agreed there had not been an attack; yet, no one had an explanation for the explosion. They had also agreed that they would keep this information secret. Perhaps in a few days or weeks they could tell their warriors that they had killed their friends. This was not the time to increase the pain and uncertainty among the troops.
Marcus took stock of this leadership. The six warriors gathered here could lead seventy-odd troops safely back to their base. He wanted to leave now. He wanted to tell them ‘break camp and let’s get out of here as soon as possible.’ He knew they had to stay until the special team arrived, then they would pack up and get out. He was concerned about their vulnerabilities. Did the LV know they did not have senior leaders? Did the LV know only Keats and he had survived the brutal chaos and confusion just hours ago? Marcus was in charge and Second Lieutenant Keats, fresh from training, was the new ‘second in command.’
“Excuse my interruption, sir. We have evacuated the wounded and we have assembled the dead for the passing ceremony. We are ready to proceed,” First-Sergeant Quern, the trauma team’s senior leader, spoke as if this were a routine event. Marcus felt overwhelmed. He knew this was also a part of leadership. He would lead the warriors in releasing the souls of the dead, both from their bodies and from the minds of the warriors.
“I’m ready,” Marcus announced as he stood.
The other warriors joined him; each assuming a position in line based on rank. This had been his first significant command decision. He had overruled the recommendations of his senior enlisted officers; they did not want to hold the passing ceremony. It would be too conspicuous, they would be tightly assembled, and that would make them an easy target. His senior leaders held misgivings, but he felt compelled to respect the dead and let everyone know that he trusted the battalion’s combat capabilities. He was telling his troops: the LV know we are here, just let them try to attack. To be prudent, he had doubled the sentry lookouts to sixteen soldiers and they had deployed all the movement-sensing equipment in the camp—it had been Xavier’s recommendation.
He brushed the dirt from his uniform and straightened his jacket.
“Let’s begin,” he said as he began walking toward the area for the ceremony. The others walked behind him in a single line.
Each dead warrior lay face up, head pointing due north, hands by the side as if standing at attention. Their uniforms were fit for field inspection; buttoned to the collar, torn cloth repaired, bloodstains scrubbed out, and boots brushed clean of mud. The bodies were arranged side by side in three rows; each row had nine soldiers.
There were so many bodies. As Marcus looked at the group, he felt ill and then he felt numb. He looked at the faces of the dead, familiar faces, now cold and expressionless. Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski was going to brief him at sunrise, now he is dead. Major Ukiah, who knew every rule and regulation in the book, would be cremated ‘by the book.’ Marcus would miss these leaders and he would miss the men and women who he had learned to trust and respect over the past three months.
Suddenly everything he liked or disliked about these twenty-seven people meant nothing. They were dead and he wondered if everyone else would die before they saw home again. For one panic-stricken moment, he wondered if holding the passing ceremony was a bad command decision. Will the LV attack? Are they in danger right now? Getting his fears under control, Marcus turned to the head of the trauma team and said, “Begin.”
First-Sergeant Quern stepped forward, opened a small book, and began reading:
Warriors,
We have come together to mourn.
We have come together to celebrate.
Twenty-seven warriors are dead.
We will miss them.
They were our friends and we mourn for them.
They died in service to the United Americas.
They died that people everywhere will be free to live and to work for a better world:
a world without borders;
a world governed with compassion;
a world of progress; and
a world with one law that is fair to all.
We celebrate their sacrifice to make a better world.
Slowly, ceremoniously, she closed the book and turned to Marcus. He felt a profound sadness sweep over his body and a thickness in his throat.
“Good-bye,” Marcus announced to the dead. He then saluted and turned his back to the bodies assembled on the ground. During the next few moments, all of the warriors who had gathered said good-bye, saluted, and turned away from the bodies.
Quern continued:
Our friends wish us no burdens.
Their bodies are no longer a burden.
We return their bodies to the ground.
Our friends wish us no pain.
The flames carry our grief away.
We return their spirits to the heavens.
Two warriors activated magnesium thrusters and drenched the bodies with the searing white chemicals. Marcus looked down at the ground; his legs cast shadows across the earth. The heat from the blaze penetrated his neck and back.
“We are finished here,” Marcus announced. The warriors began walking away from the human bonfire.
As Marcus walked away from the burning bodies, Second Lieutenant Keats caught up with him and said, “Sir, I must speak to you in private.”
Marcus motioned to Keats to follow him. They moved to an area a few yards from the rest of the group. Marcus stopped, looked around to make sure they were a safe distance from being overheard, then turned to Keats.
“We have found no trace of Colonel Hammond,” Keats said. “He just vanished. The perimeter devices did not record any movements in or out of the area since midnight. The in-camp monitors recorded your meeting with him at around 1:00 AM and he was there when you left him. There is nothing there: no blood, no signs of a fight, or his communicator. We have tried all of his combat-secure channels and we don’t get an answer on any one of them.”
“We have accounted for each of the dead?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, sir,” Keats responded. “Each soldier was identified by at least three warriors; every body was easily recognizable. Colonel Hammond could not have been among the dead.”
“If he is not dead, where is he?” Marcus demanded.
“I don’t know, sir,” Keats responded, as if he were personally responsible for the Colonel’s disappearance. “He just vanished.”
“Have you talked with Master Sergeant Xavier? Does she have any ideas about what happened?” Marcus asked.
“No, sir, I have not talked with the Master Sergeant.”
“Talk with her and keep looking. We will find out what happened and we will have answers. Until then, Lieutenant, don’t tell anyone the Colonel is missing.”
“As you wish, sir, but everyone already knows the Colonel is missing. Some soldiers are saying he went back to headquarters and others think the LV caught him. Maybe we should make an announcement to the troops. He hasn’t gone back without us, has he, sir?” Keats asked.
“No. He would not do that. I’ll consider your suggestion,” Marcus said, trying to sound like an officer in command of a difficult situation.
As Keats walked away, Marcus stood wondering: Where is Hammond? Why would he leave? Did someone shoot him and hide the body? The enemy did not attack. It was all a disastrous mistake. Hammond should be here; dead or alive he should be here. Marcus had no answers.
What is courage? It is moving forward when fear tells you to retreat. It is fighting for what you know is right when you know it will cost your life. It is the determination to pay any price to end the tyranny of the Trade Federation—any price.
She was waiting for them and the knock at the front door was confident and loud: three sharp raps.
“It’s time,” a woman’s voiced called into the home. “We need Karen.”
Karen Hammont pulled on her overcoat, hugged her mother and her father, opened the front door, and walked out carrying a small ready bag. A few personal things, some toiletries, and one change of clothing left the bag only half-full.
“I’ll take that for you,” a young man said as they walked to the car. He put the bag into the trunk and Karen sat in the back seat.
“You know you are our best hope?” the woman asked Karen. Karen nodded as both women fastened and adjusted their seat belts. They knew the ride ahead would be unsteady.
“I don’t know your names,” Karen said to the woman and the man.
“Our names are not important,” the woman responded. “We just want you to know that we wish we could do what you will do.”
The young man started the car and they drove away from Karen’s home. She turned to look back. She did not see anyone—her parents were not standing outside or at a window.
The house looked beautiful. She had never seen it more beautiful or more inviting—a small cottage, nestled among regal sequoia trees that soared into the pristine blue sky. Behind the house, the highest mountain in the Baja Mountain Range, snow-capped in brilliant white, glistened with the light from the morning sun. When she was a little girl, she had named this mountain her “missing sister.” She made up stories about having a sister who climbed the mountain and got lost. She lived most of her childhood believing that someday she would climb that mountain and rescue her stranded sister.
“We will take you to the airfield in Kingston,” the woman said. “From there you will fly to a meeting point where a man will tell you what to do.”
Karen nodded her understanding.
“This man will ask you ‘how was your flight?’ and you will respond ‘I was afraid I would get lost in the alley.’ That is all you say until he speaks to you again.”
“I was afraid I’d get lost in the alley,” Karen repeated.
“No,” the woman said, sternly. “No contractions: say it exactly as I said it to you.”
“I was afraid I would get lost in the alley,” Karen repeated, without the contraction.
“Then you say nothing more until he speaks to you,” the woman reminded Karen.
“Yes, I will be quiet,” Karen said.
For the next twenty minutes, the car bumped and rocked down the switchbacks of the mountainside. At times the car moved tediously slow along the rough and poorly maintained mountain road. Occasionally, Karen could see the airfield at Kingston through the trees.
They drove up to the terminal and stopped, Karen got out of the car, and the woman walked up to her and hugged her. As she held her she said, “You don’t need anything in your ready bag. Just leave it here. We have everything you need waiting for you at your next stop.”
The two women walked through the terminal and out a side door that led to the runways. The woman led Karen toward a small twin-engine plane.
As they approached the plane, Karen asked, “Am I going in that?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “It’s a trainer plane and you will be taking a flying lesson.”
“Where am I going?” Karen asked, suddenly wishing she knew more about her future.
“I don’t know,” the woman responded.
“Have you flown in one of these before?” The voice was new and coming from the back end of the plane. Karen turned toward the man as he approached her.
“Hi, I’m Brad. I’ll be your pilot and instructor today and I guess you’re ready to get started.”
“Brad, your package was picked up this morning and it has been delivered as you requested,” the woman said. Then she turned and walked back to the terminal. Karen assumed she was the ‘package.’
“Let’s get started,” Brad said and he walked Karen around the plane pointing out each of the checkpoints pilots inspect prior to take off. He helped her into her seat and adjusted the safety harness, then entered the plane and belted in.
He told her about the instrument panel, explaining each indicator and the readings they should have when they are airborne. Karen could not tell if he really believed he was giving her a flying lesson or if he was part of the group assigned to help with her mission.
“Let’s take it up and see some countryside,” Brad said as he started the engine on his left.
The engine turned slowly in the freezing mountain temperatures. As it built speed, a burst of smoke plumed into the air and blew behind the plane. He started the second engine and sat for a moment studying each of the gauges. With both engines running, the interior of the plane was hammered with the loud droning of combustion and wind. The noise was deafening.
“Here,” Brad shouted above the noise. “Put these on.”
He handed her a padded headset that she placed over her ears. They helped with the noise, but not much.
Brad placed his headset over his ears and adjusted his microphone.
“There, that’s better,” his voice was clear in her head. “Let’s see if we can fly.”
Brad advanced the throttle. The engines responded immediately and the plane moved forward. They taxied along the side of the runway toward the end of the field. He brought the plane around in a wide arch as the light from the sun came streaming into the cockpit. For a moment, the bright light blinded Karen and she had difficultly seeing the end of the runway.
“This isn’t my favorite airstrip or the best time of day for takeoff,” Brad said. “But, I’ve done this runway a hundred times before—the secret is to keep it on the runway and make altitude fast enough to avoid these mountains.”
The plane surged forward racing down the runway straight for Missing Sister Mountain. The nose of the plane lifted and Karen felt a floating sensation then a sinking sensation then a floating sensation.
“This won’t last long,” Brad said. “Take offs are always a little bumpy in the mountains…the cross winds and eddies through the valleys can give you some rides that are interesting…everything will smooth out when we get some more altitude.”
“How long before we land?” Karen asked, hoping that the answer would be ‘about ten minutes.’
“We’ll make our first fueling stop in about one hour. Then just five more stops and you’ll be in Icaria.”
Suddenly, Karen felt afraid. No one had told her she was going to Icaria, to the central city of the UATF. She was going to be delivered to someone in the land of the enemy. She would be killed as a spy—she knew it—she would be discovered and executed. They would know she was a Libre Voyageur, she valued freedom from the tyranny of UATF domination, and she could not possibly cover up her loathing of these people. She obsessed over this problem for most of the flight.
Brad commented on the features of the land, and the beauty of the mountains and valleys. As they left the Baja area behind them, they flew for almost an hour over the ocean. Karen could see vast expanses of indigo blue and turquoise areas with scattered dark objects gliding below the surface.
“Do you see any whales down there?” Brad asked as he gently banked the plane for a better look.
“It’s amazing how many colors there are,” Karen said. “I thought the ocean was just blue.”
“The deeper it is, the darker blue it is,” Brad said. “The prettiest spots are thousands of feet deep.”
After the flight over the ocean, the land looked rather uninteresting. They were back over relatively flat areas with little vegetation and few signs of civilization.
“There it is,” Brad said, “just starting to peek over the horizon. Welcome to the largest city in the world.”
Icaria was huge. It spread for miles and miles in every direction.
“How many people live here?” Karen asked.
“About a million,” Brad said. “Is this your first time away from Baja?”
“Not really,” Karen said. “But it is my first time going to Icaria. How many times have you been here?”
“I was born here,” Brad said.
Karen sat in stunned silence. She had been turned over to the enemy and he was about to hand her over to the UATF. She was helplessly strapped into a small plane that was approaching an airport in Icaria. The planed bounced a little as they descended.
“Icaria control tower…this is Charlie Echo Six, Eight, Six, on approach…requesting permission to land,” Brad announced into the microphone.
“Charlie Echo…Icaria control tower…standby for instructions,” crackled back through the headset.
Karen looked furtively around the cockpit. There must be something she could use as a weapon—something that would knock out the pilot and let her escape; but, to where?
“Charlie Echo…Icaria Control Tower…make approach to runway zero, three, two.”
“Copy that control.”
The plane descended smoothly and touched down with only the slightest bumping.
As they taxied down the runway, Karen felt increasingly desperate to get out of the plane and run.
“I guess your people are running a little late,” Brad said as the plane turned off the runway and headed toward the hangers.
“No, they’re not late. I’m going to meet them inside the terminal,” Karen said, seizing the opportunity as an excuse to leave the plane and get away from Brad. The plane rolled about a hundred yards toward the hangers and Brad used the brakes to slow it to a crawl.
“All right,” he said as the plane came to a complete stop, “let me shut down the engines so you don’t get blown away.”
Karen studied his face. He did not look like someone about to betray a Voyageur saboteur. He had picked up a clipboard and was checking off boxes and writing some comments in the margins of the page.
The propellers of both engines stopped spinning.
Karen reached for her seat belt slowly and tried to release it without attracting Brad’s attention. She fumbled with the mechanism for a few moments, and then had to look down to find out how to make the belt release her.
“That thing usually sticks,” Brad said. “Pull the right side in toward the buckle and then press the center piece. Like this.” He wiggled the buckle and the belt released.
He continued marking the form on the clipboard. Karen was beginning to doubt that he was going to turn her over to the UATF authorities.
“How was your flight?” he asked without looking up from his task.
“Well,” Karen hesitated. “It was long and a little bumpy, but we made it.”
“All right,” Brad said, looking up from the clipboard and sounding strangely serious, “let’s try this again: ‘How was your flight?’”
“I was afraid I would get lost in the alley,” Karen said.
Brad placed the clipboard under his seat, unbuckled his seat belt, and motioned for Karen to exit the plane.
Walking together in silence, they went through the terminal, out to a long-term parking lot, and got into a small dark-blue car. As they drove away from the terminal, Karen studied every feature of the land. She had never been to a city as large as Icaria. It was a maze of busy people, winding streets, and tall buildings jutting up to the clouds. They had been in the car about 35 minutes when Brad spoke.
“You will be staying at my place.”
“Since you talked, that means I can talk again, right?” Karen asked. Brad nodded.
“When will I know what this is all about?” Karen asked.
“Soon,” Brad said as he pulled into a parking space and turned off the car. “Welcome to your new home.”
Brad unlocked the door to the ground level apartment and ushered Karen into the front room. As she looked around, she saw a strange device with a yellow light blinking slowly.
“You have clothes and some other things in the bedroom,” Brad said. “Go try some of them on and make sure they fit. You shouldn’t have any problems with them: you look like the right size.”
“What does that flashing yellow light mean?” Karen asked, trying to sound casual.
“I must have a message. Let’s see who it is.”
He turned on the video-port. As it powered up he turned toward Karen and said, “Go into the next room and wait. If anyone calls while the port is on, they could see you. I’ll check my messages and then turn this off.”
As Karen walked into the next room, the image of a man became clear on the screen. Karen peeked around the corner to eavesdrop on the messages. Perhaps there would be some information she would need to know and she did not trust Brad to keep her fully informed.
“Just a quick update,” the man said. “Drake made delivery. Dr. ‘W’ says delivery is good. The nap will end soon; it’s time for work.”
Brad erased the message and turned the machine off.
“When you’ve finished trying on some of the clothes, meet me in the kitchen,” Brad called out toward the bedroom.
“I’m finished,” Karen said, almost immediately. Then joined Brad in the kitchen.
“How much do you know about this mission?” Brad asked.
“My instructions were to come here and I would be told everything,” Karen replied.
“We don’t have much time and we need to get to know each other as well as possible,” Brad said.
“Why?” Karen asked.
“If this mission is going to succeed we must be convincing lovers, because we’re engaged. We are going to get married in a few weeks.”
“Marrying you is the mission?” Karen asked.
“No, that is not the mission. Now, sit quietly and listen carefully,” Brad said with a clear suggestion of impatience. “Your part is not difficult; but, if you fail, many people will die and years of planning will be lost. If you succeed, it will turn the war.”
“I’m listening,” Karen said.
Brad continued, “You are really yourself and playing someone else at the same time. We are supposed to have known each other for almost a year and we have been engaged for about six months. You moved in with me about three months ago.”
“So we’re already living together?” Karen asked, cautiously.
“Yes, we are,” Brad replied.
“How will you explain all this to your friends?” Karen asked.
“That isn’t an issue,” Brad said. “I don’t have any friends. Only one person must believe we are lovers; he must think we know each other intimately. We must be ready to answer any of his questions and we must be reasonably consistent. You must know me as best you can.”
The conversation seemed much less personal now. Somehow being commanded to know someone as intimately as possible made the process more of a task than an invasion of privacy.
“Are we supposed to sleep together?” Karen asked, trying to sound detached and professional.
“That’s not necessary,” Brad replied, a little self-consciously.
“I guess if we want to convince anyone we are lovers we need to know more about each other. Where do you work and what do you do?” she asked.
“I was getting to that,” Brad said. “I work at the Hiles Hospital.”
“And what do you do there?” Karen asked for the second time.
“I keep the place clean, help with the patients, and whatever else I’m told to do. I’m an orderly,” Brad replied.
“Who’s in charge of this mission?” Karen asked.
“You work for me,” Brad said. “I work for someone else.”
“Who?” Karen asked, pressing the issue.
“All you need to know is that I will tell you what to do,” Brad responded, as he felt his patience waning. “And the people I work for have this all well-planned and we have all the support we need to be successful.”
“I’ve met General Alleena,” Karen said, with just a hint of pretentiousness. “In fact, my parents have known him personally ever since I was a baby. I am here at General Alleena’s personal request. I think you need to know that.”
“Never speak of that again,” Brad snapped back. “No one should know about that—even the people you will be working with for the next few days should not know about your parents and General Alleena.”
Karen felt hurt. Her family connection with the leader of the Libre Voyageurs Militia was one of her greatest points of pride. Now it had become something to hide from other freedom fighters. Despite her feelings, she acquiesced. “I won’t talk about it,” she said.
“Thank you,” Brad said. “Now, let’s go on with the mission planning.”
“You are unique,” he continued. “Your part in this mission is to convince a UATF Shadow Warrior leader that you are his daughter.”
“How could I—”
“Let me continue,” Brad said. “You look exactly like his daughter. Your voice, your accent, and much of your past are almost identical to his daughter. We also have clothing that matches what his daughter wears. In the bedroom we have perfume, some small jewelry pieces, and even a ready-bag that is identical to what his daughter owns.”
“This has taken a lot of planning and work,” Karen said. “How did you get all these clothes and jewelry that would match?”
Brad hesitated for only a moment. “I guess you need to know how we did it,” he said. “We followed her for months and bought what she bought. We kept notes on where she shopped, the clothes she bought, and the perfume she used. We even had one of our people wear the clothing so it would not look new. We know her father gave her a necklace on her last birthday and we bought one just like it for you to wear when you see him.”
“There was a lot of planning behind this,” Karen said solemnly. “With this much behind it, it must work.”
“It will,” Brad said, reassuringly.
“What is his daughter’s name?” Karen asked.
“This will amaze you,” Brad said. “Her name is Karen.”
“What?” Karen said. “That is incredible! We look alike and we have the same first name. No one would believe that. Would they?”
“What’s her last name,” Karen asked, tentatively.
“Hammond,” Brad said, watching for her reaction.
“Hammond? Really?” Karen asked. “That is so close to my last name: Hammont.”
“Now it all makes so much sense,” Karen continued. “General Alleena must have known about this Karen Hammond and when he realized how much I look like her and that we had the same first name and similar last names, he must have come up with this plan. That’s how it happened, right?”
“I don’t know how it all happened,” Brad said. “I do know that we are so fortunate that you are who you are and that your parents raised you to love freedom and to know that the UATF is a menace to the free world.”
“Who is this UATF man?” Karen asked. “Why does he need to think that I am his daughter? Do you want me to kill him?”
As she asked her last question, Karen realized that she probably could not kill anyone and she fervently hoped that no one would ask her to hurt anyone. She did not like the UATF; but, she was not a violent person and she had never seen someone die.
“This man is a Colonel in an elite battalion known as the Shadow Warriors. He is one of the best soldiers in the UATF Army. He has information we need. We are going to arrange a fantasy for him and make him think that he has been in a coma for a year. As his daughter, you will visit him in the hospital and just assure him that he is all right and that the war is over.”
“I’ll get you a file with the information you need to memorize,” Brad said as he stood and walked from the kitchen.
He returned moments later with a thick folder. Handing it to Karen he said, “There are names, family trees, pictures, critical dates, and a lot more information in there.”
“This is huge!” Karen said. “Do I need to know everything?”
“Read it at least three times,” Brad responded. “Be sure to know everything that is close to you: your mother’s name, your grandmother’s name and her major accomplishments, your dogs’ names, and your boyfriends.”
“My grandmother is the UATF Chief Delegate?” Karen asked incredulously as she looked up from the file. “Am I going to meet her?”
“No,” Brad said. “Everything you do will be at the hospital or at another remote location.”
“Will I—”
“You have the rest of the afternoon and this evening to read and memorize,” Brad said, stopping her in mid sentence. “We start work in the morning.”
For some people, thinking is effortless—we call them fools.
For others, thinking is harder—we call them students.
For a few, thinking is their labor—we call them scholars.
For a select few, it is not required—we call them tenured.
Professor Allen Taylor was a “professor of reason.” He had earned this title at the completion of his studies at one of the most rigorous degree programs in the UATF territories: the Pueblo Institute for Advanced Research. He had further distinguished himself as a post-doctoral fellow at Graz University, which he had attended as a Phontaine Scholar. He was highly intelligent, impeccably logical, and suffered from a consuming passion for “clear thinking.”
Professor Taylor was a pioneer in human fallibility; he knew all of the many pitfalls that tripped-up even the best scholars. He could take a meager set of facts and deduce every meaningful element, relationship, and conclusion that would be possible. From the conclusions, he could deduce implications and—with an almost mystical ability—he could identify directions and future developments. He was the acknowledged developer and pioneer in multidimensional analysis. His postdoctoral work had culminated with his book “Errors in Deduction in Reason and Research,” a landmark contribution to every branch of science. He had been a scholar in residence at Graz University for more than ten years.
Taylor sat in his office studying his notes for the lecture he would present this morning. Since assuming his post as the Baica Scholar in Residence, he had made sixteen lectures. It was both his duty and his joy to stand before his colleagues and share his observations on science, art, technology, education, or any other topic that he decided to explore. His task was to shake beliefs; blow out the cobwebs that gather so quickly in the minds of those in the academy. Today would be no different, except a small announcement he would save for the end.
He gathered his notes, stuffed them into this ready-bag, and walked briskly across campus to the Central Auditorium. As he entered the lobby, he saw one of his departmental colleagues walking toward him.
“So, what have you planned for us today, Allen?” she asked.
“Just the usual stuff,” he replied.
“Since when have you ever lectured on the ‘usual stuff’?” she asked as she followed him into the lecture hall.
Taylor walked down the center aisle to the front of the auditorium. About a third of the seats were filled, perhaps a hundred people there. Students, colleagues, guests, and administrators sat talking to each other in hushed tones. For the students, attendance was part of their course-work, and for his colleagues, attendance was a professional courtesy. He sat on the first row and watched as the university president stood, made a brief, complimentary introduction, and then deferred to him.
Professor Taylor placed his notes on the lectern, drew a deep breath as he surveyed the audience, and began:
Ninety-one years ago, Dr. Andrea Baica shattered prevalent wisdom by daring to assert that the Earth had done something on its own: it had moved! Just fifty-two years ago, her illustrious student, and one of our most respected and esteemed colleagues, Professor Trevor Kepler, developed and defended his theory of changes in the orbit and rotation of the moon. These two scientific pioneers helped us understand the changes that took place on the Earth more than 300 years ago.
Taylor paused and nodded in recognition to Professor Kepler, an elderly man seated in the fourth row, who shifted to a more upright position when his name was mentioned.
Taylor continued,
We owe a great debt to these two great pioneers of human thought, for we are the keepers of theory and truth, essentially their theories and their truths.
Theory fascinates me. It is the mysterious offspring of assumption. It is an effort to discover order where it may not exist. Theory building is a search for truths, a process of creating a foundation in ideas from which we can understand the past, control the present, and predict the future.
A colleague on the fifth row yawned and looked up at the ceiling. Another on the second row looked at her watch and shifted impatiently in her seat. Taylor continued.
Theory shows a way to a goal, but it is not the goal. Theory offers security, but there are no secure theories. Theories shed light on the past, but where there is light, there are shadows.
Theory building is an enterprise of such noble stature that the only human activity held in higher regard is theory destruction.
Taylor paused as he watched several students on the front row writing furiously to keep up with his comments. He stepped to the right of the lectern and took a few steps forward, toward his audience. A mischievous smiled crossed his lips as he continued.
Today I will explore my theory that we in the academy are useless and essentially a burden on society.
Again, Taylor paused in his delivery. The auditorium was deafeningly quiet. A few people, mostly his students, sat in earnest anticipation of his next words. Toward the middle of the room, the audience appeared indifferent. He turned, scooped up his notes, and threw them down the center aisle of the auditorium. Now everyone was watching. He continued:
Thank you for your attention. Today I will explore my theory that we in the academy are useless and serve no vital function in society.
I have two things I want you to remember of this day.
The first is that we do not know anything that is important. We have our theories, our guesses about how things work but we have not fixed anything using these theories. We have been intellectual thieves raiding the ideas of others and believing their wisdom is now ours to proclaim. The information available in the archives has made us lazy. Every question, every matter of human importance is referred to the archives. If we do not find an answer there, we change the question until we find one the archives will answer. We are out of touch with our lives and we have re-created reality to conform to our expectations by rejecting all theory that violates our expectations.
Our most sophisticated science is little more than the arbitrary creation of precise relationships.
Our greatest failing is that we neglect the significance of a question and obsess over the accuracy of the answer. Therefore, we end up being satisfied with remarkably accurate answers to meaningless questions and dissatisfied with imprecise answers that attempt to respond to the important issues.
I do not know of anything in our society that is more dangerous than obsessing over inconsequential issues. Nevertheless, in the academy, we have raised this obsessing to the status of most praised virtue!
In the back of the room, two professors strode indignantly out the side exit. The doors slammed shut, loudly announcing their dissatisfaction with Taylor’s comments.
“Those who need to hear this will not understand. Those who are willing to discuss it already understand,” Taylor said, as he turned toward his students in the front row.
At this point, you must know I am profoundly frustrated. However, few understand the depth or the cause of my despair. We use our science to search for answers, for Truth! However, our questions cannot come from science. Our discoveries and our formulas cannot be an end in and of themselves. We are getting lost in this effort. We are wondering around in mazes and if a path is open, we walk down it, if it is blocked, we turn elsewhere. Science in the academy does not search for meaning, it searches for answers and hopes those answers will lead to something meaningful—something that will make a difference in our lives; but it will not do that.
Knowledge without action has no effect, action without knowledge will fail—but we have chosen inaction based on inconsequential knowledge and—given our circumstances—that may be our wisest option!
Three more people left the auditorium.
The second thing I want you to remember about this day is this: At any moment, with a single action, you can change your life. You can turn left when you usually turn right. You can run where you usually crawl. You can look at the clouds when you usually look at the grass.
I am convinced we are an island of fools. We tell each other how right we must be because no one disagrees with us and, of course, those who disagree cannot be one of us!
We have permitted a description of a tree to replace sitting beneath the tree; we listen to music rather than play the instrument; and we have let our plans replace our actions.
No scholar can be content with the experiences of others as the only source of wisdom. No teacher has the right to teach without the skills to apply the discipline.
Each day I endure the complaining of my colleagues as they tell me that their students do not want to learn and their students are not prepared to learn what they have to tell them. My colleagues complain that their students do not deserve to be at this University; their students are not interested in learning; and their students will never change.
I tell you now: I do not want to listen to my colleagues anymore. They have allowed their passion for teaching to become a passion for criticism. They have redirected their quest for knowledge to an obsession for gossip. They have lost their confidence in the future because they no longer embrace the excitement of the present.
To summarize my first point:
Truth hides from me.
It whispers to me of its importance and convinces me I must know it, but it does not answer my calls or reveal its being.
Truth is a shadow that laughs and vanishes as I turn on the light to see it.
If truth will not come to me as I beckon it, then I must seek it out.
To summarize my second point:
When the fear of failure triumphs over the repugnance of mediocrity, we must resign ourselves to the status quo.
Every change, every opportunity to do something different, will send us running to hide beneath a cover of excuses and complacency.
Those few courageous souls, who delve into the lands where they risk failure, will be soundly ridiculed.
They will be condemned not because they dream, but rather for making their dreams real, and thereby destroying the illusion that all that can be thought has been thought, all that can be done has been done, and all that can be felt has been felt.
In their enthusiastic insolence, they see life filled with possibilities and they know they must chart their own course, even if they must go alone.
“I bid you goodbye. I have chosen to leave the academy as of this moment.” He smiled at his students and began walking up the aisle of the auditorium.
Four or five people clapped. No one joined them. As Taylor walked the length of the auditorium, he heard people talking to each other:
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The most ridiculous display of emotion I have ever seen.”
“I’ve always known he would do something stupid someday.”
“He has never really fit in.”
“I heard he was asked to leave.”
“We don’t need people like him around. We need to be supportive of each other and he’s never been a team player.”
The president of Graz University remained seated in the front row. He had an amused expression on his face. He liked Taylor and in some ways, he would miss him; but overall he was relieved to watch the man walk out. It is easier to lead a university when it is not going anywhere. There are no distressing decisions to make, faculty members do not feel threatened by change, and no one can point to a failure. If you do not have a standard, then who can be accused of not meeting it?
Taylor had been a nuisance, but the president had always been confident that the inertia of bureaucracy would prevail. Mediocrity is a safe refuge, it offers protection from risk of failure, and it pleases most of the people most of the time. He made a mental note to buy lunch for the chair of the faculty senate; then he left the auditorium on his way to an “excellence in education” taskforce meeting.
No one took notice of an older woman leaving the back of the auditorium and following Taylor out onto the campus grounds. After walking behind him for a few moments, she called out “Professor Taylor!”
Taylor turned and studied the woman as she walked up to him. She looked familiar. As she came closer, he knew they had met, but he did not know where.
“Is there someplace we can talk in private?” she asked.
Her eyes had a penetrating seriousness that puzzled Taylor. He thought she was asking a question: Can we talk? Yet, the way she looked at him said quite clearly: We will talk.
“My office is just over there in Hawkins’ Hall,” Taylor replied as he pointed and started to turn.
“Let’s go this way,” the woman said, pointing toward the library.
Taylor looked at his watch. “I don’t have much time,” he said, pretending to be on a tight schedule.
“You have plenty of time Professor; you do not work here anymore.”
They began walking toward the library. After a few seconds, Taylor broke the silence between them.
“Have we met before?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“You are thinking of my daughter, Kathleen. However, you would remember her by her married name: Kathleen Hammond. My name is Kara Nevin.”
Now Taylor knew why this woman looked so familiar, she is Kathleen’s mother. The resemblance was striking. He had not heard from Kathleen for almost twelve years. She was an outstanding student, one of the best he had ever accepted.
“Did you say you are Kara Nevin, Chief Delegate Nevin?” Taylor asked, thinking that he could not be talking with the Chief Delegate to the UATF Assembly. He looked to his left and then to his right. He did not see any security people and this seemed improbable to him. How could the Chief Delegate of the UATF be out walking on a university campus without an escort? Where was the university president? Where was the administrative entourage that would accompany a visit by a person of this importance?
“Yes,” Nevin said. “I am the Chief Delegate; however our conversation is not related to matters of the Trade Federation, it is about my daughter.”
“How is Kathleen?” Taylor asked.
“That is the question that brings me to you,” she responded. “Kathleen told me you have an exceptional mind, even for a Professor of Reason. We need someone who can help us unravel a mystery. Are you interested?”
“Who is ‘we’?” Taylor asked, realizing how awkwardly he had worded the question.
“‘We’ are family and friends, and some members of the military,” Nevin said as they neared the entrance of the library.
“Which ‘members of the military’?” Taylor asked as he stopped walking and turned to look at Nevin.
“Leaders at the highest levels,” Nevin said as she stared into Taylor’s eyes.
He began to feel uncomfortable; he broke eye contact and pretended to look around, as if someone might be eavesdropping.
“This has something to do with her husband, the Major?” Taylor asked as he began remembering more details about Kathleen.
“Yes, it may have something to do with Anthony, but no one is sure; and Anthony is a Colonel now.”
“A Colonel has more information and resources at his disposal than I will ever have,” Taylor said. “What’s he been doing about this mystery?”
“Less than five minutes ago you ranted and raved about the uselessness of your colleagues. I am offering you the chance to apply your skills to help us solve an important problem. Are you interested? Will you help us or were you just talking about the importance of using knowledge to solve problems? I will cover all your expenses and pay you a consulting fee.”
“No,” Taylor said as he turned and started to walk away. Today was a good day to be free of commitments. Free to think about things that mattered. The last thing Taylor wanted was to become entangled in governmental or military affairs.
“Professor Taylor,” Nevin said with a commanding sense of authority. “Who are your five most talented students? Would it please you if each student had a full scholarship beginning today?”
“I am not for sale and my best students already have scholarships,” Taylor said as he resumed walking toward his office.
“Would you like to be the director of the Skinner Institute?” Nevin asked.
“What do you know about that group?” Taylor asked incredulously as he stopped, turned, and walked back toward Nevin.
“They get a great deal of government money and I know the Board of Directors. We are seeking a new Executive Director, someone like you.”
“What’s happened to Dr. Burrhus?” Taylor asked.
“He has been extremely busy lately. He is focusing his efforts on a special project and has asked to be relieved of the overall management of the Institute. I’m not at liberty to discuss any of the details of his project at this time.”
Taylor considered all that had happened during the past few minutes. Chief Delegate Nevin wanted him to help with a problem, something that must be big and secretive—that is how everything must be with the government. She offered him money, resources, and influence. She must know how interested he is in the Skinner Institute. On the typical day, he would be interested in these things, but not today; not when he had just resigned from his position at the country’s most prestigious university. Her timing was bad. He could not go to work for the government now; it would make his resignation appear contrived.
“Professor Taylor, you are my last hope,” Nevin said. Her bottom eyelids began to swell slightly with tears she would not allow to escape. “Kathleen and her daughter, Karen, are both missing. I don’t know what has happened to them. Early this morning, Kathleen called me and told me Karen did not come home last night. Kathleen left her home to come to my house and she never arrived. She is not at her house. I am sure my family is in danger. I do not know why this is happening or who is behind it, and—”
Nevin stopped in mid-sentence and stared beyond Taylor. He turned and saw a young Army officer walking briskly toward them. As the officer came closer he slowed, then stopped about ten feet away. Nevin motioned for him to approach. He saluted her and Nevin nodded in return. He said, “I have an urgent message for you, Chief Delegate.” He handed her a folded piece of paper and stepped back.
Nevin stared at the paper, unblinking, for almost a minute. Then she looked up at the young officer and said, “Please wait for me. Tell General Leland he can meet with me in about 20 minutes at my house.”
“Chief Delegate, we have taken the liberty of bringing your car and providing an escort for you,” the officer said. “I will ensure your safety and the safety of anyone you designate.”
Taylor studied the officer’s uniform. He did not know much about the Army, but he did know about military standards and he knew a few symbols. The officer was a captain, his name patch had Ingram sewn in with black block letters, otherwise his uniform was without adornment: no ribbon bars, no specialty identifications, no longevity marks. He did not appear to have a weapon, a radio, or any other devices that so many warriors wore as standard gear. One would associate the uniform with an academy cadet: nothing special. He looked harmless.
‘Harmless’ was the impression the officer gave at first glance, yet he was the courier for a message to the Chief Delegate. An important message from the Army’s Chief of Staff sent on a folded piece of paper. He had easy access to the information; therefore, he has a high level of clearance. Moreover, he is charged with assuring the safety of the Chief Delegate. It could only mean one thing: this Captain must be a Shadow Warrior—the elite Special Forces unit of the UATF.
“Professor Taylor, we have some new developments and I must leave now,” Nevin said quietly as she folded the paper and pushed it into her pocket. “I will not bother you anymore. I wish you the best of fortune in all that you do. If I can help, if you are still interested in the Skinner Institute, let me know. I will help you because Kathleen held you in such high regard and anyone she respects has my respect.”
“What do you want from me?” Taylor asked, exasperated.
“Help us think more clearly, help me find my daughter, my granddaughter, and now,” she pulled the folded paper from her pocket, “my son-in-law. Someone is stealing my family from me, someone is trying to get to me, to scare me, threaten me, or destroy me. Help me find out who it is and why they are doing this.”
“I will help you,” Taylor said forgetting all the reasons he had avoided any involvement with this situation.
“Thank you,” Nevin said as a wave of relief swept across her face. “We will contact you soon. Please do not tell anyone about our conversation. If anyone asks about seeing me with you, just say I was offering you a Distinguished Professorship in Reason at Phreen University. I am chair of the university board of trustees. I have the authority to make you an offer; after all, my husband and I endowed that Chair.”
Taylor watched Nevin walk down the sidewalk toward her limousine. Ingram walked closely beside her. As they approached the car, Ingram raised his hand high above his head and brought it back down to his side. Three cars pulled into formation: one in front, one behind, and one beside the Chief Delegate’s limousine. Taylor counted at least fifteen soldiers in the escort.
The Chief Delegate motioned to Ingram, they spoke briefly, and she pointed toward Taylor, and then entered the back seat of her limousine. Ingram shouted some orders and four men exited the last car. As the three cars sped away, the four men began walking toward him, and Taylor wondered if perhaps he had made a big mistake.
