Fatal
Fatal
Remote Series Book 2
Eric Drouant
June 1978
The funeral of General Philip Archer was a low key affair. His pallbearers were handpicked from among his family, two sons, a son-in-law, and a trio of trusted subordinates who had served him well in the last years of his long career. While a place in Arlington had been offered the family, it was the general’s wish that he be buried in his hometown of Richmond, Virginia, his final resting place a shaded spot alongside his wife in a small cemetery on the outskirts of the city. There were few military trappings, no Honor Guard, no rifled salute. But he was buried in full military dress, and a flag was draped across his coffin. The mourners gathered in the small chapel and sang low-toned songs of faith. The aging pastor who had shepherded Philip Archer through his long struggle with his own faith delivered a short eulogy. The procession was short, the gravesite being only a few hundred yards from the chapel.
Around the grave itself, which was adorned at the head with a small arrangement of orchids, the friends and family of one of the most powerful — and at the same time least known military leaders — of the current generation were gathered. There was a daughter, accompanied by her husband and teenage sons. The general’s two sons, one wearing the insignia of a captain in the Special Forces, the other a somber suit befitting his status as an attorney, joined their sister with their own families at their side. The oldest son spent a few minutes reminiscing about his father. The daughter recited a poem in a choking voice. The casket was lowered. The group remained at the graveside for a short time, comforting each other on their loss before retiring to the home of the daughter for food, drink, and more talk of the past. In all, it was a typical funeral, set apart only in the minds of those who had known the general well. It marked a turning point in all their lives.
Set back a hundred yards from the gravesite was a small hill to the east. If the general’s family had not been consumed with their own loss, they might have looked into the morning sun and seen a young couple, unknown to them, but well known to the subject of their grief. The girl was a brown-haired beauty, slender; her face was oval, the roundness set off by a sharp nose. It was the eyes people noticed when they first met her, deep brown with a promise to hold anyone’s attention. The challenge would to hold hers. She was wearing a simple cotton dress, banded at the waist with a cloth belt, the dress itself adorned with small violet flowers. The young man stood a little over six foot tall, his wiry frame muscled but not prominently so, the result of work in the gym that leaned more toward endurance than power. He was holding the girl’s hand, occasionally pushing blond hair out of his eyes. The set of his jaw was somber, his face blank, withholding emotion from the world. While the girl was striking, and could draw attention, the young man moved through crowds without much notice. He was average in most ways, his chin square, eyes of light blue.
The couple watched the casket being lowered. As the ropes were drawn up and put away, the young woman moved closer to the boy, squeezing his hand, her eyes welling with tears. Neither spoke. The man in the casket had placed their lives under threat and then he had given their lives back. He had both used them and protected them. Their last five years had been his gift to them, although it had been a gift with strings attached. Without him, those five years would have been miserable or not happened at all. Like a strict father whose lessons were tough but loving, General Philip Archer had alternately coddled and whipped Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore into what they were today, people of intelligence and promise, both with a startling gift that would make them objects of furious interest to some of the worst elements in the world.
*****
Five years earlier, Archer had been a robust man, still four years away from the pancreatic cancer that would seal his fate. Architect of a far flung intelligence organization that spanned the globe, Archer was a man of patience, sharpened with keen insight. He had his finger in every intelligence pie in the federal and military arsenal, all run with the utmost discretion and in complete obscurity. When word came to him that the Russians were investing heavily in the possibilities of psychic espionage he had authorized the implementation of his own research into the subject. While the U.S. Army ran STARGATE, a laughably secret project that would bear little fruit, Archer’s program was an astounding success. COSMOS, as it was called, eventually yielded Cassie Reynold and Ronnie Gilmore.
The success came at a high price. The discovery had ignited the career aspirations of his agent in charge of the program, and resulted in his death at the hands of Cassie and Ronnie. Cassie Reynold, for all her youth, had proven to be more deadly than anybody Archer had ever seen.
A man named Thorne, that agent had intended to bring his young subjects into custody where they could be used at will. It was a grab for power, one that Archer didn’t see coming. Before he could rein Thorne in, the man was dead and the program was in shambles, facing the loss of the most valuable intelligence assets ever to fall under his eye.
Archer abandoned attempts to kidnap the pair against their will. Instead, he met with them openly, engaging their willing cooperation in exchange for minimal interference in their lives. He had kept his word, asking for their help only three times in the last five years. Once to expose a spy buried in the midst of his organization, another time to ferret out a weakness in a Soviet military threat. His last use of their remote viewing talents had been an effort to topple a dictator in a Middle Eastern regime. The result had been successful, but with unexpected results.
Both Cassie and Ronnie had the ability to Remote View with astounding clarity. Given a bare minimum of information, a picture, a piece of clothing, anything that could connect them to their subject, they could literally place themselves next to that person or in that place, returning with eyewitness information unobtainable any other way.
Through it all, Archer had been careful to hold their identities close to the vest. They were protected heavily, though neither of them ever said a word about it. The general had suspected they were more aware of things than they let on. Unobtrusively, he delivered prosperity to their families, and security in the night. As they approached college age, he had arranged scholarships that would allow them to go as far as they wished. In return, they had given him nothing but victories. A grudgingly respectful relationship developed. Over time it grew until Archer became something of a grandfather figure, someone the kids could depend on to keep them safe. Now he was gone.
*****
May 1978
The graduation was held in the school stadium, a huge affair made necessary by the size of the graduating class and the lack of adequate space in the auditorium. The city of Slidell was growing rapidly. The senior class represented a wave of families who were fleeing New Orleans for the semi-rural life north of Lake Ponchartrain. A class of three hundred strong filled the chairs on the football field while a crowd of parents, family members, and well-wishers occupied the stands. The roll of names marched through the alphabet. Gowned graduates walked the stage and collected their diplomas, exiting to scattered cheers and claps. Student after student, the ritual progressed. High up in the stands, General Philip Archer sat patiently. He went unnoticed by the crowd, another well-dressed gentleman among many, waiting to hear a particular name, in his case two names, like the rest of the crowd. Archer had come to the small town of Slidell for two reasons. The first was this ceremony. He felt a keenly personal interest in Cassie and Ronnie. He wanted to see them graduate. Both were doing well in their studies, though neither had reached valedictorian status. He was happy with that. The second reason was more personal, and likely to be much more important. He was dying.
His symptoms had come on slowly. The pain in his stomach he attributed to nervous tension, the lack of appetite to stress at work. When he had started throwing up in his private bathroom at the office on a daily basis, he gave in and went to his family physician. The man had run a battery of tests, some routine, some unpleasant. He shuffled off to a specialist for another round of tests. Three weeks after his initial visit, Archer went in again.
The specialist was a small Asian man, highly recommended. His manner was brisk and efficient. In his first visits, Archer had made it clear that he wanted things straight, no window dressing. The doctor delivered the news with no attempt to soften the blow.
“Your results are back and it’s not good,” the man said. “You’ve got pancreatic cancer. What we call an adenocarcinoma.”
“Fine,” Archer said. “What do we do?”
“There are some treatments we can begin, but I have to tell you the prognosis isn’t good. Pancreatic cancer sneaks up. That allows it to spread. Yours has spread. We can slow things down for a time, but the odds aren’t good.”
Archer took the news in stride. He was already thinking ahead. If a fight was necessary, he would fight. If the end was a foregone conclusion, he had work to do.
“What are the odds?” he asked.
The doctor pushed his glasses up his nose with a forefinger, looked out the window. Traffic passed on the street below, but the noise didn’t make it into the consultation room. Patients were usually much more emotional than this man was. He couldn’t decide if that made things more or less difficult on his end. This man was calculating odds, a good sign, but the odds were bad.
“Four out of five people with your type of problem will be dead in a year. Some last longer. Out of a hundred people with an adenocarcinoma, maybe three might still be living five years after diagnosis. We don’t know why they make it while others don’t.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Archer said. He rose from his chair, picking up his coat off his lap as he did. "Schedule whatever treatments you think might help.” Archer left the room, returned to his car in the parking lot, and went back to work, where he threw up in his bathroom again before settling behind his desk.
Thus began a period of increasing symptoms and the beginning of a frantic effort on his part to protect all the pieces in play.
*****
The meeting was unexpected and painful. Cassie collected her diploma, moving off the stage to the left, taking her seat again in the trail of students. Caps went flying into the air as the ceremony ended, then retrieved as keepsakes. Cassie moved through the crowd of students and family outside the stadium, located her own relatives, and cajoled the crowd over to where she could see Ronnie in his own group. Their relationship had begun in a storm, and the ensuing battle, combined with their talents, had brought them closer over the years. They were lucky, she often thought, lucky to have found each other, lucky to survive the years of high school with a shadow over their heads. Archer had given them the chance to live unencumbered without exacting too large a price. Cassie believed they had made the most of it. The uncertainty of the future was still there, but with Ronnie along, Cassie felt confident they could get through whatever came along.
Now she moved amongst the crowd with her family trailing her, got behind Ronnie, and poked him in the ribs with her finger. He turned around, brushed the hair out of his eyes, grinning down at her. “Got a hug for your girlfriend the graduate?” she said, opening her arms.
“Hey kid, did you hear me whistling when you got your sheepskin?” Ronnie asked, opening up for a hug. Their friends pushed and shoved and shouted to each other, moving along in groups. Ronnie took her hand, leading her off to the side.
“You ready for all this?” Cassie asked.
“Am I ready for what?” Ronnie replied, waving at someone behind her.
“The whole post high school, adult life, college career thing,” Cassie said. “It’s the end of an era. From here, we go to school, get married, get jobs, we start having kids. You know, like people do.”
Ronnie laughed. Cassie was a planner. From what he could see, she had their whole life blocked out somewhere in a notebook. It wouldn’t have surprised him a bit to discover she was already setting up a retirement account and investigating old age communities. It was nice though, he had to admit, even if he was more of a wait and see what happened kind of person. Cassie’s leaving little to chance, her wits, and mostly her cool head, had saved his life. He listened when she talked.
His reply was interrupted by the change in her face. He was standing with his back to the crowd. Cassie was looking behind him when he saw her smile vanish, her eyes go dark. He recognized the stone-face of determination she got when the unexpected happened. He turned and saw Archer coming toward them, moving through the crowd in a straight line. He stopped a few paces away.
“Congratulations,” Archer said. “Can I have a few minutes of your time?”