Читать книгу Book I: The Disappearance (The Fallen Race Trilogy) - Colin Patrick Garvey - Страница 9

Jonathan Kaley is pissed off. He is raging mad and with good reason. He knows with absolute certainty why those men came to his house tonight, and frankly, he is not surprised at their intentions, only at the swiftness of their response. It is Kaley's own fault for letting his guard down, for not assuming the worst after he and Rushmore witnessed something that was probably not intended for anyone's eyes.

Curiosity certainly does kill the cat, he wryly thinks.

Rushmore is his responsibility and without even thinking of the repercussions, Kaley has put Private Rushmore in serious jeopardy, and now, as is evident, mortal danger.

But how could I know? How could I possibly know what the two of us would see?

Kaley does know that the men sent to his house tonight were professionals. They had killed before and they believed they were going to do it again. They did not plan on Sergeant Kaley, however, a black belt in the martial arts and a man whose temper is equaled by his ferocity when threatened. They certainly fucked with the wrong man tonight.

Kaley floors the battered military-issued jeep like a madman through the streets. He fully realizes that this is not the smartest thing to do, but he is returning to Evans to check on Rushmore, knowing that he must get to him before “they” do.

When their shift ended several minutes after the “incident,” the two of them departed the operations center and went their separate ways, not speaking to one another or to anyone else about what they had seen.

After Kaley asked Rushmore if they could zero in on the signal with another satellite, Rushmore located a satellite owned and operated by a global communications firm. In order for most corporate-owned satellites to keep their birds in space, they not only pay an astronomical fee to the U.S. government for the right to do so, but they must also make available to the military all passwords and access information in the event of an emergency. The information is stored in an enormous database that is supposedly impenetrable, but Private Rushmore is one of the best at finding backdoor codes and access to alleged high-security networks. To their surprise, they realized the military is unbelievably lax and sloppy in maintaining the structure of their enormous mainframe.

Besides, the unwritten rule is that “if it is in the sky, it is part of the military's pie.” Once Rushmore gained access to the satellite, they noticed the signal from Lake Michigan had disappeared. They found something else, however, something much more extraordinary.

The signal, which only moments before was directly in the middle of the lake in a stationary position, was picked up approaching land on the southeastern side of Lake Michigan. Their quick calculations showed that the signal traveled approximately 150 miles in the span of a few seconds. Nothing man-made could traverse that distance without killing every human inside from the g-forces. Furthermore, once it approached land, not only did the signal disappear, but everything disappeared from the satellite's view. Rushmore explained that the satellite did not appear out of range, but rather it seemed that the satellite could no longer transmit, as if somehow it had been jammed.

Less than four minutes later, the satellite was fully operational and it suddenly pinpointed several new moving objects, but the initial signal was no longer present. These objects were distinct in that they were identified as five Apache helicopters, the same ones Kaley assumed Fizer was referring to. It seemed suspicious that these choppers were dispatched to an area over a hundred miles away from where the signal was initially detected. Kaley did not think Colonel Fizer possessed the prescient ability to know where the signal was headed before it had even moved. The colonel evidently slipped on that banana peel.

The helicopters approached land and according to the satellite, low-level blasts could be detected as they dropped something along the shoreline. The satellite detected no human presence when in fact, there were two witnesses to what occurred on that beach, one of whom had seen everything.

None of this mattered as much to Kaley though as the fact, which Rushmore was quick to point out, that according to their bird in the sky, it had detected a massive human presence along the shoreline where the signal was approaching moments before the satellite went down. When the satellite began transmitting again within several minutes, the large human presence had disappeared, which seemed downright unexplainable to Sergeant Kaley.

Where had they gone? How could they all have vanished in such a short period of time?

Kaley ordered Rushmore to record the activity to a disc as soon as they gained access to the non-military satellite, and Rushmore made a copy for each of them. While it is inherently risky to have documented evidence of Kaley's insubordination, he also knows that what they were witnessing was extraordinary, even if it is utterly inexplicable. A record of the activity only seemed logical. Little could Kaley know that what they had witnessed and the documented evidence of it would, in the long run, cause more harm than good. The consequences, however, did not weigh heavily in his decision at the time.

What continued to gnaw at Kaley was Fizer's quick assertion that the situation was being handled no more than a few minutes from the time the signal was initially detected. This suggested something more to Sergeant Kaley, something insidious, underhanded and worse yet, something planned.

Kaley ordered Rushmore to keep his mouth closed and not to utter a word of this to his buddies or to Colonel Fizer. Their shift ended at 10:00 PM central time, less than a few minutes after the incident, and they did not speak to one another or to anyone else as they casually departed for their respective homes. Kaley rented a ranch house not far from the base and Rushmore lived in the barracks at Evans.

Evans had not yet erupted in the chaos that would ensue upon hearing news of a “terrorist attack” on American soil. Kaley knew better, however, and so did Rushmore, that this “attack” did not appear to be related to any terrorists or extremists, but something entirely more evil and cunning. Exactly what they possess, or what they could do with it at this point, neither of them know. They do know that what they have is, without a doubt, intrinsically dangerous.

Kaley turns into the driveway that leads to the front gate of Evans and flashes his identification card to the MP, a man named Daltry. Kaley can only hope that he does not appear too nervous or jittery in front of the MP. He is sweating buckets from a mixture of anxiety, his recent physical encounter, and the Midwestern humidity, which does not seem to dissipate even at night. Kaley's agitated appearance does not appear to sound any alarms as the MP likely has other things on his mind.

“How are you, Daltry?” Kaley casually asks.

A telephone rings inside the guardhouse and the other MP, a new guy Kaley has never seen before, goes to answer it.

“A little shocked, sir. You hear what happened?” Daltry asks.

“Yeah, I did,” Kaley answers.

Kaley tries to remain calm as he looks with one eye towards the guardhouse. The base beyond the gate is abuzz with activity as soldiers scurry from one place to another.

“What's been going through the rumor mill around here?” Kaley asks.

“Mostly just guesses, sir,” Daltry answers. “Al-Qaeda at the top of the list, naturally, but nothing substantiated yet.”

Kaley absently nods his head, probably focusing too much attention on the other MP, when Daltry asks, “You back on duty?”

“Well, actually, I-”

Kaley stops in mid-sentence when he catches the other MP subtly glance at him while holding the phone close to his mouth. Kaley reads the man's lips as he says a couple of quick “yes sirs” and hastily puts the phone down. Kaley estimates he has no more than fifteen seconds before both MPs have their weapons pointed at him, informing him that he is under arrest.

As quickly and as casually as he can, Kaley asks, “Hey, you seen Rushmore around anywhere?”

“Actually, sir, Private Rushmore was granted an off-base pass for a couple of days. Just before the shit hit the fan around here. I think he went to the big city,” Daltry offers.

Kaley cannot decide if Rushmore is the smartest s.o.b. in the world for getting the hell out of Dodge or the dumbest for leaving and probably never coming back, an AWOL nut these same MPs would have to track down.

With one last glimpse at the other rapidly-approaching MP, Kaley says, “Thanks, Tim. You boys keep cool now.”

Kaley shifts the stick of the jeep into reverse, slams his foot on the accelerator, and the vehicle lurches backward in a cloud of dust and dirt as he skirts the side of the driveway. In the blur of it all, he sees an open-mouthed Daltry standing there as his partner grabs him by the arm and points at the jeep.

Kaley twists the wheel around and steps on the brake, causing the vehicle to spin out and nearly tip over. He shifts the stick into first gear in one fluid motion and punches the accelerator while easing his foot off the clutch. Kaley's heart skips a beat as the jeep buckles, the typical precursor to the vehicle stalling and worse yet, stopping. The jeep buckles again and then starts to pick up speed.

Kaley sharply exhales as he hears the faint shouts from the MPs as they tell him to stop. He has more important things to focus on, like finding Rushmore in one of the largest cities in the country.

* * *

The Foundation is quickly learning the craftiness of the formidable Sergeant Kaley, and to underestimate him is to do so at your own risk. Kaley managed to best the “clean-up” squad sent to his home, leaving one man dead and two others severely injured. His whereabouts are unknown and furthermore, the evidence has still not been recovered.

Now there are two fish, possibly three if they include Private Rushmore, all potential witnesses to an event so horrific and utterly merciless that if any of them are to be implicated-

No chance, as Moriah realizes his thoughts are beginning to run away from him. There is no one who can possibly connect any of them to what occurred in Tamawaca tonight.

We are untouchable, Moriah thinks.

And the thing is, he is right. None of the Foundation members can be linked to the events of tonight or over the next 36 hours. Covert plans and secret missions are nothing new to the group, and indeed, they have a multitude of experience in ensuring they are not connected to something that could lead to the group's exposure or worse yet, downfall. While the scope of what they have planned tonight and over the next 36 hours may be on a much grander scale than anything they have ever undertaken, and the stakes are greater than anything that could be imagined, the group members are certainly not ignorant to the risks they take and they never falter when it comes to protecting themselves.

Despite these risks, they do not consider their business a chore by any means, but view it as both a privilege and an honor. In their eyes, they are the true Americans, the ones who bleed red, white, and blue. They know that what they do is something that no Joe Sixpack would have the stomach or the brains for. They know that to be the best, you have to anticipate what the enemy will do and plan for every possibility and contingency, prepared to counteract at a moment's notice. Most importantly, however, you have to be utterly ruthless. You must have sharper instincts and a smaller conscience than most, a standard requirement that each member of the Foundation possesses.

Upon their shoulders rests the burden and the duty entailed in maintaining the greatest country that ever was and will ever be. The latter is what the Foundation has charged themselves with looking after and upholding for the remainder of their lives, a solemn responsibility that can never be thwarted.

Which is why it gives Moriah pause to think of the two men whose disenchantment with the Foundation and knowledge of its more unsavory activities has become a serious liability. Their very existence is a constant threat to expose and destroy the group that has labored in obscurity for nearly a century making the country the superpower that it is. The Foundation does not want these two men hanging over their head any longer.

As soon as this affair is over and hopefully, after its success has been realized, the reward for one man's service will be a swift bullet to the back of the head. The search for the other man has not yielded any results in 40 years, a fact that continues to haunt the group's leadership, despite their almost certain belief that he is dead. Of course, being “almost certain” is not the same as actually laying eyes on a body and confirming what they believe to be true. For Moriah, it is better to avoid thinking about the men altogether.

After the call came through that the mission was under way, the men scattered like cockroaches when the lights come on. They went back to their significant others, some of them returning to empty homes and others heading off to work, knowing that they would be needed there as soon as word hit of the “attack” at Tamawaca.

It is only Moriah and a man named Bellini now, alone in the hotel room at the Biltmore. They received the mixed news and passed it on to the others. Needless to say, no one was pleased with the bad news. In a highly volatile situation such as this one, however, mistakes are to be expected and even anticipated. They know how to tie up loose ends, which is one of the group's specialties.

Bellini shakes his head, causing his jowls to move from side to side, which makes him appear like he is attempting a Tricky Dick impression. He is a man who loses his temper often and with great gusto. He should have been dead of a heart attack long ago as a result of his explosive temperament and penchant for artery-clogging foods.

“Where do you think Kaley is headed?” Bellini bluntly asks.

“You know as well as I do that wherever he goes, he'll be found soon enough,” Moriah reassuringly responds.

“Soon enough may not do it, Moriah-”

“Well goddammit, Paul, what else can we do?” Moriah asks in exasperation. “We have people all over the country looking for him, he can't get very far.”

Bellini pauses and shakes his head again. “How could this have happened? You said the men sent to his house were the best. You said they'd take care of it.”

“Well, they didn't,” Moriah snaps. More calmly, he continues, “For now, we have to stay on an even keel. The next twenty-four hours are crucial to maintaining the mission and seeing it through to its completion. That is our sole priority right now and it will continue to stay that way. The fish are our second priority.”

“Your fish,” Bellini spits.

Moriah's phone on the table rings and he quickly picks it up.

“Yes?”

Moriah listens intently, digesting every piece of information as it comes to him, his face a mask, emotionless, not giving anything away. Without a word, he sets his phone down. Bellini is about to burst, waiting for that first word, which seems to him like an eternity.

“That was Gleason. Well, we know who our escapee is.”

“Yes?” Bellini says, expectantly.

Confirming what he already suspected, Moriah says matter-of-factly, “It's our old friend, the conspiracy professor and ex-Marine, Sean O'Connell.”

Bellini lets out a gush of air as if he has been sucker punched in the stomach. In a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “Jesus…”

“And how's this for a kick while you're down?” Moriah asks.

As if pausing for dramatic effect and possibly to see if Bellini can survive this bombshell, Moriah lets it fly.

“O'Connell and Kaley used to be best friends.”

“….…Christ.”

Chicago, Illinois

Around this time, Private P.J. Rushmore is sitting in a blues bar called Kingston Mines in downtown Chicago on Halsted Street, a place he and a couple other guys frequent on their occasional jaunts into the city. The establishment is separated into two gigantic rooms, with a large stage and bar in each one. There is a method to the madness, of course, for as one band completes their set in one room, the act in the other room fires up as soon as the last chord has been strummed next door. Nothing but blues played every night into the wee hours of the morning. And although the cover charge can occasionally be exorbitant, it remains a great place to kick back and enjoy a few cold ones with the boys, and hopefully, a few select ladies.

But Rushmore is not thinking about that right now. He is not thinking about the cover charge or the loud, raucous music blaring throughout the bar. He is not thinking about the ladies around him or the alcohol that seems to be flowing like water tonight. He feels like he is being watched and, unfortunately for him, he is correct on that count.

Two men, as ordinary and nondescript as two human beings can be, stand at the back of the bar, watching and waiting for Rushmore's next move. They do not drink, their heads do not bounce to the music, and they sure as hell do not take their eyes off of Rushmore. They have the place covered front and back, with another two-man team waiting across the street from the bar's entrance. As soon as they see an opportunity, the young private is theirs. If it is necessary to eliminate his cohorts to capture the private, this is collateral damage that can easily be afforded.

As his friends move towards the stage, Rushmore drifts towards the bar.

“You coming, Rush?” one of his buddies asks.

“Yeah, in a minute, I gotta take a leak,” Rushmore responds, nodding towards the back of the bar.

Rushmore casually looks around, attempting to study every face, looking for anyone who seems to be watching him or paying too much attention his way. Everyone seems to be talking with one another or looking up towards the stage, dancing and clapping along as the lead guitarist begins one of the many lengthy solos he has embarked on throughout the night.

Then there are two faces Rushmore spots who do not seem to be enjoying themselves like the rest of the patrons. They seem oddly out of place, like nuns in the middle of a fraternity party. He makes eye contact with them, two rather large men standing at the back of the bar. Rushmore quickly takes inventory and notes that neither of them holds a drink and the music certainly does not seem to be the focus of their attention. The men do not glance away from Rushmore, as if to avoid detection, and their piercing stares feel like they are boring a hole right through his brain.

Rushmore quickly looks away towards a small television hanging in a tiny alcove above the bar. The television is on mute but the screen shows a reporter standing in front of a beach, motioning towards it. Rushmore sees small patches of embers glowing at various points in the background, dotting the landscape. He sees medical personnel running around desperately as the camera slowly pans over the beach. Although judging from the looks of it, they are far too late.

There are tattered clothes lying about, burnt cabanas, the requisite small doll with a scarred face. Rushmore immediately feels a strange connection to the scene played out on the TV screen, a sensation that he has been there before. Then it hits him: the mysterious signal, the shoreline, the mass disappearance of people.

He can feel his heart beating faster and a knot forming in his stomach when the camera comes to rest on the most indelible of images. Row upon row of bodybags line the beach, their contents fresh and unmistakable.

Suddenly, the band stops playing, the people stop dancing and clapping, and one of the bartenders turns up the volume on the TV and tries to call for silence.

“Hush up over there for a second! Hush up!” he shouts.

The noise level of the place suddenly fades from a cacophony to several conversations asking what is going on, until finally, silence seems to envelop the room.

The people gather around the bar, transfixed by the images on the TV.

Another 9/11?

Not again, people groan.

It is too much for Rushmore. He feels nauseous, as if he is going to be sick. Although the bar is not air-conditioned and the abundance of ceiling fans has done nothing to ward off the July humidity that has seeped in, Rushmore feels like his whole body has been dipped in an ice bucket. A cold sweat begins to coat his skin and he feels the blood leaving his face. He starts to make his way towards the restrooms in the back of the bar when he suddenly feels his legs go weak.

Rushmore realizes why a split second later as he looks behind him and sees a syringe exiting his right buttock. He stares up at the two men he spotted not more than a couple minutes ago, who suddenly have their arms wrapped tightly around him, gripping him as if he is caught in a vice. Before Rushmore can even resist them, let alone utter a cry for help, he senses all feeling rushing out of his extremities, and the only thing that keeps him from falling is the men holding him up on either side.

A young woman notices Rushmore practically falling over and asks, “Is he okay? You guys need some help?”

One of the men responds icily, “He's fine. We're just going to take him home.”

These would be the last words that Rushmore would hear as he drifts off into darkness, which, soon enough, would be his permanent home.

* * *

Sergeant Kaley slams his foot on the brakes as he comes to a screeching halt in front of an orange-canopied bar where a pair of Chicago police cars sit. Something tells him that he has finally struck pay dirt as he sees a couple of soldiers he recognizes from Evans speaking with a police officer outside of a bar called Kingston Mines.

Something also tells him that he may be too late. Kaley throws on his hazard lights, springs from the jeep, and hustles toward the group of men.

He addresses one of the police officers. “Excuse me, Officer, may I have a minute alone with my men?” he politely asks, gesturing towards the two men the officer is questioning.

“And you are . .” the officer asks.

“First Sergeant Jonathan Kaley, United States Army, sir,” he responds, adding a quick salute for good measure.

The officer takes a once-over of Kaley, looks at the other two men, and finally relents.

“Yeah, go ahead, but we still need to ask these guys a few more questions, Sergeant.”

“They'll be with you in no time,” Kaley assures the officer.

The officer walks away and Kaley waits until he is busy with someone else before he turns toward the two soldiers, who offer him a sharp salute.

He returns the salute and asks them, “Was Private Rushmore with you guys tonight?”

“Sir, are you okay? You have blood on your forehead,” one of them notes.

He reaches up and feels the caked blood just beneath his hairline.

“I'm fine,” he says dismissively.

They look at him uneasily.

As if to reassure them, Kaley says, “Don't worry, it's not mine. Now listen, Boyd and Rogers, right?”

They simultaneously respond, “Yes, sir.”

He urgently asks, “Where is Rushmore?”

“We don't know,” Rogers responds.

“He was with us for most of the night and then, in a heartbeat, we didn't see him,” Boyd chimes in.

“It was right after the news broke on TV about the terrorist attack,” Rogers offers.

“Fucking bastards,” Boyd mutters.

“Sir, did you hear about it?” Rogers asks.

Kaley nods solemnly, “I did, Private. But, listen, I really need to know right now about Rushmore.”

“A lady said she saw him,” Rogers reports, “that he was helped out of here by two big guys wearing black leather coats. But we didn't see anybody who looked like that. She said he looked pretty wasted.”

“But it didn't seem like he even drank that much, sir,” Boyd offers. “And she said he looked like he was struggling with them for a second, like he didn't know them or something.”

Pondering this information, Kaley begins to think out loud, “Leather coats in July…”

He allows the thought to hang there for a moment before continuing his questioning.

“So, what did you guys do next?”

“We called the cops,” Rogers says.

“Two guys in black, leather coats did not sound like people Rushmore would take off with, sir,” Boyd notes.

“We thought they might have robbed him, sir,” Rogers says, “maybe beat the shit out of him and left him out back.”

“We looked in the alley behind the joint, sir,” Boyd states, shrugging, “but we didn't find him.”

Kaley contemplates their story for several moments, eyeballs the two men, and asks them something just to be sure.

“You boys aren't covering for him, are you?”

Both of them shake their heads “no.”

“He didn't take an extended leave of absence, did he? Maybe he cracked and went AWOL?” Kaley asks, mining for any scrap of information.

Both emphatically respond, “No, sir,” in quick succession.

“There's no way, sir,” Rogers says. “Rushmore ain't that kind of guy, and me and Boyd will vouch for him.”

Having been in the intelligence business for years, Kaley likes to think he knows when someone is lying or being less than forthright with him. By all appearances though, these two men seem to be telling the truth, although he almost wishes they were lying, for Rushmore's sake. Two unknown and unidentified men taking Rushmore for a stroll does not sound promising.

Shit, Rushmore was my responsibility and I might have put him directly in harm's way, Kaley thinks. He suddenly feels sick to his stomach thinking of the young private's fate, cursing himself for how careless and rash he acted at Evans, not for one second considering the possible consequences.

But how could I have known? he reminds himself. How could I have known what we would see?

“What did the police say?” Kaley asks, motioning towards them.

“We can't officially file a missing persons report until twenty-four hours have passed, sir,” Boyd says. “But we gave the cops a description and they said they'd keep an eye out.”

“Good,” Kaley nods. “Now you boys better get back to Evans on the double, and let them know about Rushmore.”

“Yes, sir,” they both nod.

Kaley leans in and lowers his voice an octave, “If anyone asks back at Evans, I was never here and you never saw me tonight. That's an order, understood?”

Kaley's voice is firm and deadly serious. One after the other responds, “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Kaley nods.

He turns and starts to walk towards his jeep when Boyd speaks up, “Sir, one thing though.”

“Yeah?” Kaley asks, turning around.

“Well, sir, Rushmore looked awfully fidgety for a guy who just got some R & R.”

Curious, Kaley quietly asks, “What do you mean?”

“Well, sir,” Rogers says, “what Boyd is saying is that Rushmore looked ‘bout a shade whiter than grandma's thighs. He kept looking all around, real paranoid-like.”

“Yeah,” Boyd adds, “like he was being watched or something.”

Kaley nods solemnly, cursing himself again for the mess he has gotten them in.

“Yeah,” he says somberly, “well, let's just hope he'll turn up soon, huh boys?”

They both nod.

Kaley feels another pang of guilt course through him as he realizes that the prospect of finding Rushmore, let alone alive, seems to be rapidly dwindling.

Kaley solemnly nods again, pats them both on the shoulder and heads back to his jeep. He jumps in with his stomach turning cartwheels, and guns the accelerator for destinations unknown.

* * *

Sean O'Connell peeks through the window from outside the home and immediately does not like what he sees. The inside is in absolute shambles, with obvious signs of a struggle. There are upended chairs and a table, a broken bookshelf, and a cracked mirror. There is a streak on the wall that could be a bloodstain. He closely scans the room, but sees no sign of anyone lurking about. Sean does not like what he sees because this is his friend's house and he knows that Jon Kaley is a compulsive neat freak.

After his escape from the beach, Sean trekked through the woods for over an hour before deciding it safe to emerge. He hated to take advantage of the trusting nature of the Michiganders, but he did not feel he had many options at that point. He boosted an old, beat-up Camaro sitting in someone's driveway, the keys teasingly dangling in the ignition. Sean made the trip to Kaley's house in a little over two hours, practically a record considering the distance. He abandoned the car several blocks away in a supermarket parking lot and continued the rest of the way on foot to Kaley's pad.

Sean creeps around towards the rear of the house and finds that the back door is slightly open. He opens the screen door and kneels down for a closer inspection of the lock, but sees no sign of forced entry. If the intruders chose this as their entry point, they left no marks, a certain sign of a professional at work.

Who the hell did Kaley get himself involved with? Sean thinks.

He knows Jon does not gamble and thus, that eliminates any angry bookies or their associated muscle arriving to claim a debt. Sean immediately discounts drug peddlers or gangsters because it simply does not mesh with Kaley's persona. He is a fucking Boy Scout, a do-gooder, someone who would help an old lady across the street. He would not be involved with low-lifes like that, Sean is certain of it.

Sean enters the house and conducts a thorough search of the kitchen, the bedroom, and most of the rest of the one-story. The kitchen looks as if it was cleaned yesterday. Knowing Kaley, it probably had. The bedroom, too, appears undisturbed. The sheets are made and perfectly creased at the corners, leading Sean to conclude that if Kaley was interrupted in the middle of the night, they did not catch him while he was sleeping. The only other part of the house that appears out of the ordinary is the counter in the bathroom, where Sean finds a small streak of blood. Besides that, everything is normal, or as normal as can be considering the living room is a total disaster area, as if a twister ripped through this area of the house.

Sean stands in the middle of the living room and assesses everything, attempting to pry the smallest piece of information from any of the objects in the room. As if simply by standing amid this chaos, the scene that played out here will eventually reveal itself. When Sean, at last, realizes that he is not a vessel for ESP or able to glance back in time, he frustratingly sighs and shakes his head. He is about to leave when he notices a faint light coming through a crack in a closet door directly off of the living room.

Sean cautiously approaches and pushes the closet door open to find that it is, in fact, no longer a closet, but rather Kaley has converted it into a small home office. The room is cramped, with no windows, bookshelves occupying three of the four walls, and a small desk. On top of the desk are a computer and a tiny lamp, which emits the light he saw from the living room. Sean also notices that the computer monitor is on, but the screen is blank except for a small American flag floating across the top, an obvious screensaver for a man like Kaley.

Sean moves the mouse and the computer hums to life, followed by the screen slowly defining itself as it comes into focus. The desktop appears with several file folders and the basic Windows applications.

He reads some of the file folders: “Contacts,” “Military 1,” “Military 2,” “PJ,” and “Command Structure.”

Sean clicks on the file marked “Contacts,” and instantly, a box pops up prompting him for a password.

Shit.

Knowing the intricate security measures Kaley likely established to protect against “unauthorized” eyes viewing something he does not want them to, Sean is about to abandon hope of finding anything useful on the computer when he notices at the bottom of the desktop a small box. The box is labeled, “PJ,” and it is open, minimized at the bottom of the screen.

“What the hell is this, Jon?” Sean says out loud.

He clicks on the box and it opens up. At the top is a heading: “Personal Journal.”

The cursor is flashing at the end of a sentence, waiting for its next command. The previous entry was last night, July 4th, only several hours ago. Sean begins to read:

July 4, 2011 11:58 pm—What is it that we have witnessed tonight? Something horrible I imagine. Something I hope our government is not behind, and yet I have this terrible suspicion that it is the very institution I unquestionably serve that has committed an act I am unable to understand. How else to explain the fact that F knew so quickly of the situation, and steps had already been taken in response?

Innocent Americans have been taken or killed, by what or whom I cannot fathom. The news reports have started to trickle in and they are all saying that it is a “terrorist attack.” I am afraid that what I have witnessed tonight along with R was no terrorist attack, and furthermore, what we have seen may place us both in extreme danger. There is evidence of what we have witnessed, or at least evidence of something, but I fear there is no culprit that can be brought to justice for this…

I hope my friend didn't go to the beach this weekend

they're here

Sean rereads the journal entry and the same chills inhabit his skin now that did the first time he read it. The second to last line even references Sean. Although he has not spoken to his friend in several weeks, Kaley knows that Sean and his family typically spend the Fourth of July holiday at the beach house in Tamawaca.

Kaley saw something surrounding the events at Tamawaca Beach, something “horrible” he imagined.

That means the military is somehow involved, right? How else would Kaley know about what happened there?

Sean's mind flashes to the image of the soldiers storming their way up the beach.

Who are “F” and “R”? What was the situation “F” knew about and the rapid response to it?

The fact that Kaley wrote that “innocent Americans” had been “taken or killed” and he suspected the government, specifically the military, was responsible, make the situation seem all the more surreal. Kaley does not appear convinced it was a terrorist attack, an opinion that Sean is in complete agreement with. Certainly Kaley and the mysterious “R” were not knowing participants in whatever occurred. If anything, it seems that what they have seen could get them both hurt.

But what had they seen? What evidence do they have?

And then the ominous last line…

“They're here.”

Obviously, Sean can figure out what this means based on the current condition of Kaley's home. Unfortunately, since there are no bodies, Sean cannot determine the outcome of what subsequently ensued.

Sean slams his fist down on the desk, creating a loud, cracking noise that sounds like a gunshot in the empty house. Sean's temper begins to flare as he thinks of the possibility of the United States government behind the events of last night. It seems inconceivable that the American military would be involved in the disappearance of his family and over a hundred other people from the beach last night. Still, he thinks of the sleek Apache helicopters and the soldiers storming the beach and it suddenly does not seem so far-fetched.

One thing Sean is certain of is that Kaley was interrupted. His friend knew he was in danger and yet he still wanted to leave a record of it in case someone stumbled onto his journal.

Suddenly, something else occurs to Sean, a distant memory from his childhood. When he and Jon played “soldier boy” in the woods with the other kids on the block, it always seemed that it was the two of them versus everyone else. As a result, the two of them devised a secret system whereby they used a subtle marker that indicated they were still “alive” and had not been captured by the other team. When one of them found the marker, he picked it up and placed it at another strategic location where he believed the other might see it, with the top of the marker indicating which direction he was headed.

Sean scrambles up from the desk and begins looking around for it. He checks the floors, the counter top in the kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom. He looks around the office once again, but to no avail. It is possible that Jon forgot about the marker, too. After all, Sean's memory barely conjured up the forgotten child's game.

Then, Sean glances at a picture on the wall of the two of them on graduation day from high school. Such young, vibrant faces ready to go out and tackle the world, like nothing can stop them. They appear as carefree as two kids can be with an uncertain and unknown future stretching out before them.

Sean approaches the wall, less focused on the picture than the frame itself, which is slightly askew. Knowing Jon, even after a brutal fight, he would probably adjust the frame to ensure that it is straight. Sean lifts the frame to look behind it and a huge grin ripples across his face.

The marker.

It is not green like they always used in the woods and it is certainly not the real thing, but rather a drawing. A crude drawing at that. Sean can understandably sympathize with his friend's artwork. Sean stares at it and knows that Jon is alive, for now.

He allows the frame to fall back over the marker, a shamrock that has been hastily sketched on the wall using, at the time, what was probably the best available material: blood.

Sean only hopes it is someone else's.