The Aegis Solution
Read The Aegis Solution Online
Authors: John David Krygelski
Tags: #Fiction - Suspense/thriller - Science Fiction
THE
AEGIS
SOLUTION
John David Krygelski
Starsys Publishing Company
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Jean, without whom The Aegis Solution could not have been written.
There is no warmer heart, kinder soul, sharper mind, or brighter light.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I must thank my editor, Jean. So much more than an editor, she has become
my writing partner as we go through this process together. Thank you, again, to Michael Nolan
for another breathtaking cover. I'd also like to thank Tim Sweezea, Brad Bledsoe, Michael
Hutson, and Jay Crabill for their invaluable contributions in the areas of ordnance, weapons and
jargon. A thank you to Erin Christiansen for helping me to understand surface obs, variable
winds, and anemometers. And, of course, all that is accurate in these areas is to their credit; any
errors are solely mine.
www.starsyspublishing.com
Copyright © 2011 - by John David Krygelski. All rights reserved
The name Starsys Publishing Company, the distinctive star logo and colors, are a registered
trademark
Cover art - Michael Nolan.
Art Direction - Michael Nolan - www.michaelnolanart.com
Editor - Jean Nolan Krygelski
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either
the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Published by Starsys Publishing Company
WWW.STARSYSPUBLISHING.COM
526 N Alvernon Way
Tucson, Arizona 85711
ISBN 13: 978-0-9830528-6-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011945117
First Edition - November 2011
Contents
Other books by John David Krygelski
PROLOGUE
Anarchy is craved by the best among us for what
it affords – and by the worst for what it allows.
Neve Walker stared out her bedroom window at the darkened landscape, tears streaming down her
cheeks. Her hand, almost involuntarily, clenched into a fist, crumpling up the sheet of paper containing
her handwritten note, as if a part of her mind wanted to prevent the chaos her words were certain to
cause.
Drawing a deep and shuddering breath, she attempted to force at least a degree of calm into her
agitated mind. Reluctantly, her eyes shifting away from the window view, Neve looked down and
noticed the balled-up note she held tightly. With exaggerated slowness, her fingers opened and she
dropped it onto the bed. It was ineluctably a symptom of her mental state that the wad of paper
assumed the characteristics of a wrecking ball as it crashed into the quilt which had been handmade for
Neve by her mother.
Focusing what remained of her dwindling reserve, with deliberate motions, Neve meticulously
peeled open the wad and, with her fingertips, gently smoothed out the paper, mindful of the poignancy
as a tear fell from her cheek onto the page.
Satisfied, she turned to the nightstand to stare at the one and only picture placed there. Clipped into
a cheap frame, which she had purchased with her allowance years ago, was a badly taken photo of
herself, sitting between her mother and father. Although, in the time since, she had been given many
posed portraits taken by professional photographers, this shot, snapped by a tourist who had happened
by, was still her favorite.
As she gazed at the picture, her mind traveled back, as it had so many times before, to that
wonderful day. She and her parents had gone to the Renaissance Festival. It had been her idea that they
dress for the occasion. Her mother was resistant to the idea at first, but her father prevailed, as he always
did. She still vividly recalled their stifled laughter as the stranger asked if he could join them at their
picnic table while they ate, their mirthful reaction caused by the unlikely juxtaposition of images he
presented.
"It's not every day," he said to them, sensing their amusement, "that you see a Vietnamese guy
dressed as a court jester from Olde England."
The four of them laughed, and he joined them at the table. This was, she reflected wistfully, back
in the period of their lives when such a thing was still possible.
It was then, just as he sat down, that Neve decided she wanted a picture. She dug the disposable
camera out of her maroon velvet Victorian satchel and handed it to their new guest, asking if he would
mind taking a shot of the three of them. He cheerfully agreed and stood up from the table, backing away
as he stared through the plastic lens, trying to capture the group within the frame. Satisfied, he stopped
and, rather than asking them to say "cheese," remarked, "You realize that I am Vietnamese, not from
Japan, so no guarantees about how this picture will come out."
They all burst into laughter, and he snapped the picture.
Neve stared intently at the photograph, trying to burn the image into her mind. Her father was to
her left, his face stretched in a broad guffaw, a massive turkey leg hovering in front of his chin. Because
the stranger was also laughing as he snapped the shutter, the camera had jiggled and he had cropped off
the top of her father's head, concealing the leather hat with the flamboyant purple plume affixed.
To Neve's right, sat her mother, wearing the green velvet dress of a noblewoman, with a lace
parasol perched upon her shoulder. She had not yet noticed the large gravy stain on the filigreed bodice,
acquired as she had just previously eaten beef stew from a bread bowl.
Neve's eyes then fixed upon her own face in the picture. Despite her objections earlier that
morning, her father had prophetically insisted that she dress as a princess, rather than the Robin
Hood-esque character she had planned. A beautiful rhinestone tiara was clipped into her tousled hair,
cocked at a slight angle and looking as if it would soon fall off. Around her delicate neck hung a
matching necklace, which disappeared into the open neckline of the pink chiffon gown. Her eyes were
squeezed tightly shut, her mouth wide open in mid-laugh, and Neve…even on this day…was still able
to recollect the total joy she had felt at that moment.
But it was only the memory of joy which came, not the feeling itself. Such had been the case for
quite a long time.
Tearing her eyes from the photograph, she looked down at the pistol on the bed.
How unfeminine! she thought to herself, knowing that most females kill themselves with pills.
Neve had considered that option during the agonizing stages of planning she had gone through and
decided that pills were too uncertain. The available resources at her father's disposal were so
overwhelming; she did not want to take the chance of being discovered early and a miraculous
intervention occurring which might save her putrid life.
The steel butt felt cold as her fingers wrapped around it. The barrel tasted of gun oil. With one final
glance at the nightstand photo, she pulled the trigger.
Almost before the reverberations of the gunshot died down, the bedroom door was kicked open
and two Secret Service agents burst into the room, skidding to an awkward stop as their trained eyes
instantly absorbed the horrendous scene.
William Walker stood at the podium, his eyes not focusing on the faces before him, his mind
reticulating out the whir and hum generated by the jumble of recording equipment all aimed in his
direction.
He began to speak and found that his throat was tightly clenched. Pausing, Walker took a small
sip from the glass of water which was ready for him next to the microphone stand. It took three
attempts before he succeeded in swallowing. Tentatively, he cleared his throat and began. His voice was
not of the timbre and vibrancy this group and the whole nation had become accustomed to. Many of
the broadcast reporters witnessing the speech would later comment, as they made their on-the-air
analyses, that William Walker, President of the United States of America, sounded weak, tentative, even
beaten.
"I want to begin by thanking the millions of Americans, and our friends around the world, for the
prayers and expressions of sympathy that my wife and I have received over the past weeks. I cannot tell
you how much they have meant to us during these very dark days.
"The loss of our only child, Neve, is an experience no parent should ever endure."
Walker paused and stared into the distance at some unseen vista, causing a silence which quickly
grew uncomfortable for the reporters and technicians in the room.
With multiple blinks of his eyes, the President refocused and continued, "Only God can possibly
explain the reasons for her decision. And those answers will be kept from us until the day we join
Him...and, I pray, once again see our beloved daughter."
Walker hesitated a second time, but only for a moment. His back visibly stiffened and, as he began
to speak, his voice revealed a trace of its former power.
"Many of the religions of the world, including my own, believe that suicide is a sin, an offense
punishable by an eternity in...in a place other than Heaven. In the days since this horrific event occurred,
my wife and I have prayed to God that this not be the case...or, if it is, prayed for lenience from Him.
"During these prayers...during the long days and nights which have passed since Neve's death...I
have come to a conclusion."
Walked paused once more. For the first time, rather than falling into another absent gaze, he
directed his eyes to the lens of the lone camera, shared by all of the television networks for their video
feed.
"I would like to place before the American public the idea...the belief...that no civilized country can
consider itself such without offering an alternative to those who have lost all hope. I am proposing that
we build a place...a sanctuary...open to all who may need it, where they may go when they have nowhere
else to go. It would be a haven for the desperate, a refuge for those who cannot see another way."
Walker paused to take another sip of water before resuming. "For this concept to serve its intended
purpose, the sanctuary must be free from any and all judgment of those who may enter. And it must
be a place where one can go to escape the consequences of his or her own actions, no matter how
extreme...no matter how heinous...those actions may have been.