Falling Star (34 page)

Inside, the office was dark, only the light of the early morning, filtered by drawn shades shone into the office.  In the corner of the office, a woman worked at a computer terminal, the bluish color of the screen bathed the office in an eerie glow.  The tinny mechanical squawks of an electronic voice synthesizer spoke out the words and punctuation marks of the text that the woman was quickly typing into her computer. 

She was completely absorbed in her work and had not heard Mike enter.  The familiar, but faint, scent of Estee` Lauder perfume wafted toward Mike provoking many beautiful and tender memories. 

The woman's honey blond hair hung well below her shoulders.  She was dressed in a white silk blouse.  Her desk obscured the rest of her attire. 

At the corner of her credenza, a slender white cane rested.

Mike's heart rose in his throat.  "God," he thought.  "How many years has it been?"

Suddenly, the woman stopped typing.  She turned toward the quiet visitor.  Her beautiful emerald green eyes also turned to the noise of the visitor, but they could not see.

"Mike, is that you?"

"Hello, Corrine."  He could not move.

"I could always sense your presence," said Corrine Ryan quietly in her soft, Virginian drawl.

The years had not changed the beautiful face of Corrine Ryan.  Her large eyes still glowed with an emerald fire, even as they could not see.  Her complexion was as clear and smooth as the day that Mike first saw her at age nineteen, so many years ago.  She had maintained her slim, athletic build and her soft, quiet presence.

"Corrine, I was surprised to see your name in the office directory.  I had to see you.  I hope you understand." pled a subdued Mike Liu.

Memories flooded Mike's thoughts of the beautiful young, junior student with honey blond hair and brilliant emerald green eyes; eyes that could not see, victims of a degenerative nerve disease early in her life.  The emerald eyes could not have been more aptly put in anyone than this child of Irish heritage.  Corrine was from Annapolis, Maryland, where her father was stationed in the Coast Guard at the time.

The long hours spent reading to one another; she from Braille texts.  They had spent many tender hours listening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, Tchaikovsky's "Pathetique", Simon Garfunkel, and Johnny Mathis.  The long walks around the Lawn and Grounds of the University when Corrine visited Mike.

Despite their race and cultural differences, companionship turned to love and love to commitment.  Then Mike graduated, was commissioned an Ensign, and was sent to Stanford for graduate study.  Corrine had a fellowship to study linguistics at Columbia University.   In the beginning, the letters often passed one another as they flew across the air, but then the separation had its consequences.  It was hard to maintain a romance across the continent.

Then, the day came that changed Mike Liu forever.  The letter began with an apology for not writing and closed with the news that theirs was not to be.

Corrine stayed on the East Coast and eventually married.  Mike later found out that she had divorced, but time and tears had closed that door forever, or so it seemed.

"How have you been, Mike?"  The soft words jolted Mike out of his reverie.  The flood of emotions lifted.

"I've thought about you often," said Mike in a low quiet tone.

"And I, you," answered Corrine.

"Corrine, I ..." 

Mike was interrupted by the two Marine guards who knocked loudly on the door to Corrine's office.

"Commander, the Admiral wants you in his office, now!" stated the Lance Corporal forcefully.

"I have to go.  Can I call you?"

"Please," said Corrine Ryan as she turned back to her computer terminal. 

Mike did not see the tears form in Corrine's emerald eyes, as the two burly Marines escorted him to Admiral Robert McHugh's office.

0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: CSAC Headquarters, Newport News, Virginia

Mike entered Admiral McHugh's office.  Adams was already there.

As Mike entered, McHugh came from behind his massive desk to meet him at the door.

"Sorry, Admiral.  There was someone I had to see," apologized Mike Liu.

Softly and with unusual tenderness, his right hand on Mike's shoulder, McHugh replied, "I couldn't tell you Mike, she didn't want you to know right away.  I hope you understand."

"Yes, sir."

His gruff demeanor re-emerged, the cigar stub returned to its familiar resting spot in the corner of his mouth.   He walked over to his dark oak desk and leaned against its front edge, his arms folded across his chest.

"What do you have?" said McHugh.

"Well," said Mike.  "CSAC is under attack by agents of an unknown power, possibly renegade KGB, who have been under cover in the United States, sometimes for decades.  Whoever they are; they are well equipped both in weaponry and in training.  For example, we believe that one of their group was an ex-fighter pilot.  He was able to steal a Maryland Air National Guard A-10 even though he was ostensibly only a civilian security guard at the airport.  Also, they have apparently cracked our security and seem to have an uncanny knowledge of where our agents are at any time."

"Can we verify this information?" said McHugh.

"I had one of my agents run a check on Pentagon communications networks," said Adams.  "My agent discovered that one of the management information specialists, Ted Grayson, is very likely a mole for some foreign power.  He had an unusual degree of access into some very sensitive CSAC computer files.  We're attempting to track him down now."

Mike continued the report.  "We're pretty certain that the attacks were coordinated by undercover agents in the United States who received travel information from Grayson.  The female agent who attacked Mildred, Julie Davenport, we now believe was under the control of an agent using the name of Tim Walsh, who posed as an auto mechanic in Minneapolis.  Another member of Walsh's group may have been William Sorenson, who managed a bicycle repair shop in Minneapolis.  The interesting thing is that Sorenson tried to turn himself in as an undercover agent and, in the process, confessed to Winslow's murder.  However, his story was so incredible that the Minneapolis detective thought he was a kook and let him go.  To be on the safe side, the detective filed an InfoNet and a DODNet report on Sorenson's visit.  That's how we discovered him."

"Where is Sorenson now?" said McHugh, becoming most interested.

"Unfortunately, someone reached Sorenson before we could.  He's dead," Mike replied.

"Damn shame."

"Before Sorenson was killed, he told this incredible story to the Minneapolis police detective about a network of undercover KGB agents in America called cicadas, after the hibernating insect of that name.  This group was run by a KGB resident.  What confuses me is why the KGB or renegade KGB would be trying to intercept our messengers."

McHugh was silent for a minute.  "What if I were to tell you that CSAC has long suspected that there are other Sentinels.  Probably ones that surround each of the major continents, including Eurasia.  As you know, Mike, the Oceanographer of the Navy outfitted a Lockheed RP-3D Orion in the seventies to map the earth's magnetic field as part of Project Magnet.  The Orion, unfortunately for obvious reasons, could not map areas close to Communist-held territory.  As we've seen, low altitude flight is the only sure way we can verify the low energy magnetic anomalies associated with Sentinels.  But there were other ways."

Mike was surprised.  He had not been briefed about this fact.  "This would explain the rash of UFO sightings in Russia and South America during the period of the Socorro incident."

"And that is what scares us all," said McHugh.  "Korean Air Flight 007 blundered into the flight pattern of one of our Boeing RC-135’s at one of the suspected Sentinel sites around the Eurasian continent with tragic results.  The Russians thought that Korean Air 007 was one of ours and blew the civilian jetliner apart.  Whatever the Russians have off Kamchatka Peninsula, they're anxious not to let anyone else know about it.  Even with Glasnost, we haven't been able to penetrate that secret.  As you know, non-Russians are still prohibited from visiting many areas of the former Soviet Union.  It seems some secrets are too important to ever divulge -- to anyone."

"What about South America?" said Mike.

"For reasons that we have not been able to determine, there does not seem to be any Sentinel activity in the southern hemisphere."

"The Earth does have a tilt to its axis.  Is there any theory to that?  Maybe these things are focused in some direction."

"You know you're right.  I'll have someone check into that."

Mike said, "What about the messages, have we gotten any interpretation of the data from the Watch Stations?"

"We were able to salvage the cylinder from Winslow's body.  The message was almost lost, but the programmers at the National Security Agency were able to computer enhance the data retrieved from that cylinder.  Thank God for the geniuses at DARPA for designing such a hardy package.  Of course, the information from Mildred's cylinder and the cylinder from Watch Station One were in fine shape."

"Have we been able to interpret any of the data?"

"Only that the analog data from all three seem similar."

"What about Watch Station Three?"

"We're concerned about Watch Station Three.  The last supply robotic submersible made a delivery on the day the message was received at the other Watch Stations, but Watch Station Three had not yet detected any transmissions.  When advised that other Watch Stations had received activities, the Watch Officer initiated procedures to reconfirm no activity."

"That was almost two weeks ago.  Have we received any further information?" said Mike.

"No," said McHugh with furrowed brow.  "That has me concerned.  Although the Watch Stations maintain absolute silence, communicating only through the supply vehicles in special encoding devices or through reports from crew members at the change of watch, the commander must have known how serious these events were and should have broken silence.  Frankly, it's got me worried."

"When is the next supply vehicle?"

"Next Wednesday."

"Bob, Johnny Thapaha's funeral is this weekend.  I need to attend."

"Sure, I understand," said McHugh.  "Just be careful."

1993: Clarity

1100 Hours: Saturday, June 26, 1993: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico

Mike got out of the rental car, a 1993 Taurus sedan.  The town had changed little from the day when Mike first saw it with Johnny Thapaha.  The narrow main street was still unpaved, the dry reddish gray of the road bed contrasting with the whitewashed paint of the adobe buildings.

The town hall was still in the same whitewashed adobe building in which Mike first met Ruth.  Mike wondered whatever happened to Ed McIntyre, the Air Force officer at Holloman, he must have retired by now.

As Mike walked into the town hall, he saw Ruth, older but still attractive with her long silky black hair, now tinged with gray, in two braids over her native dress.  Ruth was busy working on a computer and did not notice Mike enter.

"Hello, Ruth."

Ruth was startled to hear the familiar voice.

"Mike!" Ruth said as she looked up.  She got up from her chair and hurried over to give Mike a bone-crushing hug.  "Here, let me call Richard," said Ruth excitedly.

Richard hurried over from the MacLaren Insurance Company down Main Street from Town Hall.  Grayer, but still the lean and athletic Navajo Mike had come to know and love like a brother, Richard shook Mike's hand vigorously.

"Mike, I'm so glad you could come.  Johnny would have missed you terribly if you hadn't come to the ceremony.  How many years has it been since your last visit?  Must be at least ten years.  You were an attorney then, now you're a big maven on Wall Street."

"You haven't done so badly yourself.  I understand that you were elected tribal chairman last year."

"Yeah, can you imagine little Richie MacLaren, tribal chairman?  Scary, isn't it?" joked Richard.  "Come down to my office, I've got something for you."

Mike and Richard walked the few blocks down to the offices of the MacLaren Insurance Company.  The offices were located in a modern looking building with vast expanses of glass and wood, a rare commodity in southwest New Mexico.

"Do you like it?" said Richard.  "It was finished just this January.  Getting the Holloman Air Force Base account really made MacLaren Insurance, Mike.  We really appreciated the help."

"I'm glad I could give you a hand."

As Richard and Mike walked into the antiseptic but inviting lobby of the MacLaren Insurance Company, Richard announced loudly, "Everyone, come meet Mike Liu, Johnny's and my friend."

All the Navajo employees of MacLaren Insurance dropped what they were doing and came forward to shake hands with Mike.  Mike was impressed by how well his old friend had done.  After the introductions, Richard ushered Mike into his second story office.

The wood-paneled office was impressive.  Richard's large mahogany desk was counterbalanced by the bright Native American colors of the couch and the Southwest Native American art that hung on the walls.  On one wall was the skull of a bison behind which were two lances, with eagle feathers and colorful tassels.  Distinctive Anazai pottery sat in the bookcase and credenza behind Richard's desk.

"Have a seat," said Richard, reaching into his desk's right hand drawer.  He took a package, wrapped in a colorful cloth, from the drawer and put it on his desk.

"On his last day, Johnny said that I should give this to you when his spirit left this Earth."

He tenderly opened the colorful cloth wrapper revealing a dusty packet covered by an old, tattered cloth.

Richard reverently handed the dust-caked packet to Mike, who realized its significance immediately.

"Richard, I can't accept this.  It's the medicine man's talisman, his sacred bundle."

"Mike, you must.  Johnny's wishes were precise.  He said that Cha-le-gai was to have this packet," said Richard, invoking the name that Johnny Thapaha had given Mike decades ago on that lonely mesa top.  "The tribal council was reluctant at first, but they respected my father-in-law's wish.  Johnny's last words to me were that you would know what to do."