Close Up the Sky (3 page)

"May we come
in?" asked Summerhour. He arched his eyebrows and gave a little nod.

"Sure." He
opened the door wider and stepped aside. "I was about to have some coffee.
Would you like some?"

"Sounds good
if it wouldn't be too much trouble," answered Feldon, looking around the
comfortably furnished room.

"No trouble at
all," Leahy responded. "Have a seat." They sank down onto a
burgundy leather sofa and continued their mental inventory of the surroundings.

Leahy walked into
the kitchen and poured the coffee, keeping the men in sight through the open
doorway. He knew very little about the National Security Agency, and was
curious as to why the agents were here. Cases he had worked over the last few
years flickered through his mind, but he could identify nothing that might be
of interest to the NSA. He thought again of Richard Howell, but rejected it.

His older brother,
Edward, worked for the government, but his job was in geological research. Edward
always referred to himself as the "family well digger" because of his
work in seeking potential sources of oil. There was always some kind of trouble
in the Middle East concerning oil, but he could not connect that with anything
in which Edward might be involved. He was certain that he had no affiliation
with companies doing business with Middle Eastern countries. He brought two
cups of coffee back into the living room and sat them on a small walnut table
in front of the sofa.

"Now,
gentlemen,” he said, “what does the NSA want with me?" He sat down in a
large easy chair across from the table and crossed his legs. The leather sighed
as air rushed out of the thick cushion.

"We're sorry
to disturb you at home, Lieutenant,” Feldon said. “We know you've just finished
a pretty exhausting case, but before we begin would you please make a phone
call to your chief? It might make things a little easier if you first hear what
he has to say.” He picked up his coffee and sipped it, looking at Leahy over
the top of his glasses.

When Leahy
hesitated, Summerhour shifted his weight uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “He’s
expecting your call," he said.

Leahy set his cup
down and studied them for a few seconds. Suspicious, he got up and went into
the bedroom, staying where he could still see the other men. He picked up the
phone and dialed Chief Webster's private number. A few minutes later he came
back into the living room and sat down. He stared at the NSA agents for a long
moment.

"He just
cancelled my vacation and ordered me to give you full cooperation. What’s this
all about?" He let his irritation show.

Feldon removed his
glasses, pulled a cloth from his pocket, and began wiping them. He glanced
nervously at Summerhour, who sat staring into his coffee cup. The big man
shifted to the edge of the sofa and continued wiping the glasses, avoiding
Leahy’s eyes. “To be perfectly honest, Lieutenant, we know very little ourselves
about what's going on." He put the glasses back on and stuffed the cloth
into a coat pocket. "We're what you might call coordinators for a special
government project. Our instructions were to do three things: first, contact your
chief and arrange for an indefinite leave of absence for you; paid of course. So
as of right now, you're temporarily assigned to the NSA. Second, make airline
reservations for you to New Mexico on the first available flight. Third, give
you instructions on where and when you'll meet your next contact." He
paused, apparently organizing his thoughts.

"I'm
listening," Leahy’s voice had a guarded tone. Feldon’s attitude of secrecy
was making him uneasy. He shifted his gaze from Feldon to Summerhour, who continued
to stare into his cup. A few raindrops still clung to his forehead.

"Your flight
leaves Atlanta for Albuquerque at five o'clock this afternoon," Feldon
continued. He pulled an airline ticket out of his coat and laid it on the
table. "Your contact will meet you at the Albuquerque airport and give you
further instructions at that time."

Leahy glanced at
the ticket, but resisted the urge to pick it up. "How will I recognize
this contact?" he asked.

"You
won't," Summerhour put in, finally looking up. "The person you're to
meet will recognize you."

Leahy's
apprehension grew. Less than fifteen minutes ago he was on vacation, looking
forward to a long overdue rest. Now, two men from the National Security Agency
were sitting in his living room involving him in a mysterious trip to New
Mexico. He half expected the alarm clock to go off again and wake him from this
ridiculous dream; or was it a nightmare?

"And why am I
going to Albuquerque?" he asked.

Feldon took a deep
breath and let it out slowly. He picked up the coffee and swirled the liquid
around in the cup. He put his lips to it and made a face. It had gone cold. "As
I told you before, we don't know the details of your assignment…."

Leahy cut him off
in mid-sentence. “Cut the bull. I’m not going anywhere blindly, no matter what
Chief Webster says. You either play straight with me or this discussion is
over." There was no mistaking the anger in his tone.

Feldon was taken
off guard. He looked at Summerhour for support, but got nothing. Finally, he
said, "Since your background has already been checked by the FBI and
you've been cleared to receive certain secret information, I can tell you as
much as I know; which is very little. The government has a top-secret research
facility at a place in New Mexico called Apache Point. That's your destination.
Whatever they have in mind for you will be explained when you arrive. I don’t
know any more than that."

"Apache
Point," Leahy mused. "I never heard of the place. What kind of
research is done there?"

Feldon shook his head.
"As I said, I don't know. Neither of us has ever been inside the facility
itself, only the military police building outside the main complex. It's in the
desert, at least twenty miles from anywhere, and very heavily guarded by
Marines. There's a small road leading to it from the main highway, but it
terminates about two miles from the fence. A military checkpoint is set up at
the end of the road, and from there all transportation is by helicopter. They
also maintain a twenty-four hour air patrol within a ten-mile radius. Nothing
larger than a rabbit gets closer than that without security clearance.”

An image of the
New Mexico desert appeared in Leahy’s mind. He envisioned vast stretches of
white sand and scrub brush, broken by distant mountains. In the middle of the
desert was the secret facility, its outline distorted by waves of heat drifting
in the dry air. Like most people, he knew the military occasionally used the
desert for testing munitions and special weapons, but that was the extent of
his knowledge. Outside a normal concern for the environment, he had never spent
much time thinking about secret military laboratories. His sense of patriotism
had always been strong, and for the most part he trusted the government to do
its job. Besides, there were always special interest groups and anti-nuclear
organizations to ferret out and demonstrate against any project they considered
dangerous. He had always been content to sit back and let them do their thing. He
picked up most of what was going on in the world from TV news reports. Nothing,
as far as he remembered, involved a place called Apache Point.

“You won’t need to
pack for the trip,” Feldon continued. “Everything you need will be supplied
when you arrive.” He stood up, followed by Summerhour. “One last thing,” he
said. “We’ll have to ask you not to say anything to anyone about this
conversation. The FBI background investigation shows you’re not married, so
that won’t be a problem. Just tell any friends who might ask that you’ll be on
vacation.”

“How long can I
expect to be away?” Leahy asked, getting to his feet.

“I don’t know, and
that’s the truth,” Feldon answered, “but your leave of absence is for an
indefinite period. Also, don’t drive your car to the airport or ask anyone to
take you. It'll be better if you take a taxi. We’ve arranged a story to cover
your absence should people in your department begin to question where you are. With
the exception of Chief Webster, everyone will think you’re on an extended
vacation out west touring the Grand Canyon and so forth.” Feldon buttoned his
coat and walked to the door.

“Good luck,
Lieutenant," said Summerhour. "I’m sorry you can’t be better informed
before you leave, but it’s beyond our control. No doubt everything will be made
known to you after you arrive.” He held out his hand. Leahy took it, surprised
at the firmness of the man’s grip.

“Yeah, thanks,” he
responded, following him to the door where Feldon waited. A peal of thunder
rolled in the distance, promising more rain. For some reason it made him feel
cold, and he pulled the robe closer around his neck.

“I know this has
been a strange morning for you,” Feldon said. “I apologize again for not being
more explicit.”

“I’ve been a cop
for a long time,” Leahy said as he shook hands with Feldon. “I understand the
need for security. Who knows? Next time we meet it might be me who can’t give
you any information.”

“See you around,”
said Summerhour with a half smile.

He watched the two
men walk down the hallway and out the door. When they were outside, he walked over
to the exit door. Keeping close to the wall, he peered through the glass window
and was just able to see them get into their car. It was a late model Ford with
black-wall tires.
Standard government
issue
, he thought. As they drove out of the parking lot he made a mental
note of the tag number.

Linda Moore, his
neighbor from across the hall, was just getting home from her midnight-to-seven
nursing job at the hospital. She came through the door and shook rain off her
umbrella, slinging water across the carpeted hallway.

“Rain’s been going
on all night,” she complained to Leahy.

“Yeah, it’s been
quite a morning, too,” he responded. He said goodbye to the woman and returned
to his apartment. He picked up the phone, and dialed the number of the police
department’s crime information center. Dottie Fitzgerald, one of the dayshift
clerks, answered.

“Hi, Dottie, this
is Matt Leahy.”

“Well hey, honey
child! How’s the hero today?” she kidded.

Leahy grinned. “Thinking
of you, as usual,” he answered.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,”
she laughed. “What can I do for you, Matt?”

“Can you run a tag
registration for me?”

“Sure, what is
it?”

He gave her the
tag number from the NSA car and waited. He could hear her punching data into
the computer.
A few seconds later she came back on the line.

“Sorry, Matt, but
it’s not in the registration files. Do you want me to call DMV and get them to
do a manual search?”

“No, that’s okay,
Dottie. Thanks.” He hung up and walked over to the coffee table where the
airline ticket lay. He picked it up and slipped it out of its paper jacket. DELTA
FLIGHT 207 ATLANTA TO ALBUQUERQUE was printed across the boarding pass in bold
letters. Outside, a flash of lightning lit up the darkening sky immediately
followed by thunder. Storm’s getting closer, he thought. He glanced once more
at the ticket.

The section
reserved for return flight information was stamped ONE WAY.

T
he engines of the big jet dropped in pitch as it rolled to a
stop at the arrival gate. The passengers stood and began pulling packages and
carrying cases from the storage bins along the top of the cabin. Muted
conversations filled the confined space as people reached across each other for
their belongings and crowded into the narrow aisle. Late afternoon sunshine
slanted through the oval windows, its yellow glow contrasting with the sterile
white of the cabin lights.

Leahy kept his
seat while the other passengers filed down the aisle and began exiting the
plane. He had spent most of the flight mentally examining them for anything
that might indicate they were NSA agents or other federal operatives. He
finally decided he was being paranoid and gave it up. When the aisle cleared,
he rose and followed the last of the passengers to the front of the plane. As
instructed, the only luggage he carried was the raincoat he was wearing when he
departed Atlanta. Two pretty flight attendants with frozen smiles nodded
mechanically as he exited the aircraft.

The covered ramp
led into a large waiting room crowded with people. Leahy stopped just outside
the entrance and scanned the crowd, looking for the unidentified contact that
was to meet him. Everything appeared normal. The usual variety of people were
scattered around the waiting room, most of them looking bored and sleepy. A
young soldier sat slumped in one of the seats, legs extended before him. He
turned from looking out a large window over the tarmac long enough to give
Leahy a blank stare. Leahy smiled and nodded. The soldier ignored the courtesy
and resumed his vigilance of the concrete expanse beyond the window. Two men in
business suits were sitting against the wall to his left. Both were reading
newspapers and showed no interest in the milling crowd. If his contact was
waiting for him, he or she was not obvious.

Across the room a
young woman wearing a buckskin jacket and jeans caught his eye. Her long blonde
hair was braided and held back by a red headband. They made eye contact and he
waited while she worked her way through the crowd toward him. As she
approached, Leahy noted the worn out moccasins on her feet and the leather
thong holding up her tight jeans. A young man, similarly dressed, watched her
from across the room. The girl put on a brilliant, white-toothed smile and held
up a cardboard can with a money slot in the lid.

“God bless you,
sir, and
may
the sweet light of Jesus brighten your
day,” the girl said with well-acted enthusiasm. “Would you like to make a
donation to the Church of World Hope?”