Endworlds - Nicholas Read [69]
Kriegmacher sucked in a long breath, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, his eyes transfixed, mind racing. “It looks like physics just gave you a Hail Mary pass to get this working! But as you say, it’s only any good if you can do more than watch at a distance, and surely only if it really is unaffected by what happens to the planet in this dimension.”
“Moving from window to walkway will be the primary mission of your command, General,” said the Belgian. “And in doing so, you will be rendering a service not only to your country but to the survival of our species. You want those stars and stripes to keep flying? This is the surest way. There’s no greater act of patriotism, as a letter in your folio spells out for you. Read it.”
He looked down at the manila folder in his hand, and opened the cover. On top of a thin ring-bound file was a white sheet of paper headed by an eagle clutching an olive branch, arrows in its talons, and a striped shield with stars on its chest. Below the Seal of the President of the United States was a handwritten note, addressing him by name.
It spoke of founding principles, of freedom and liberty, and of the pioneering spirit that marks every great leap forward. It reflected on courage and faith being touchstones of a national legacy, and invited him to exercise faith now to believe the unbelievable, and to serve the needs of all nations whose needs were as One Nation, One World, with One Destiny.
Scratching his short grey hair, General Ari Kriegmacher tried to collect his thoughts. His gut was a reliable compass, and he knew he didn’t trust these people no matter how impressive their demonstration. He didn’t like the idea of secret societies operating on his home soil. But he followed his commander-in-chief. And he knew he’d sleep better knowing that if such an operation were to be run, it was watched over by someone who could be trusted to preserve his own country’s interests.
Someone like himself.
He told them of his acceptance and the blonde lady entered the room, shed her coat and brandished her tablet computer, motioning for him to raise his hand to its glass surface.
“Blondie, I already gave you my print,” he snapped.
“Yes you did,” she replied flatly. “And now I’ll administer the antitoxin to the film of poison you pressed your thumb against last time, just in case you refused the role. Consider it your first bonus, General.”
THAT HAD BEEN two years ago, and today like most days as his timetable grew shorter, Lt. Gen. Ari Kriegmacher was in a lousy mood. He angrily snorted out thick plumes of smoke from a Cuban Cohiba he was mauling between capped molars.
Complicating his smooth running of operations, logistics and security, espionage was becoming a real headache. Spies like that Russian scientist now nosing around the base. Did she think him blind? He’d been running black ops when she was still in diapers—every secret keystroke may as well have sent up a flare! He was in two minds about how to deal with her.
Publicity around a security breach in so sensitive a facility would only panic an American public already wound up way too tight since 9/11. She should be handled internally and quietly. He was sure the county authorities would sweep any action under the carpet in the interests of national security. And it would send a message to the other foreign embeds who he knew were onsite, picking their way through Fermilab’s encrypted databases for their own governments.
He’d have someone deal with it20. So much of his operation was now spent working on plausible deniability.
It was inevitable that someone, somewhere would put two and two together and throw certain ideas into the public arena. To head that day off, standard practice as taught by those funding him was to run concepts out through film and tabloid press as lightning rods to allow inquisitive minds to spend their energies away from the government domain, where such topics would dissipate as mere fictions.
But no matter how tight a lid he kept on things,