David Golemon - Event

"Yes, sir, one hour."

The president went through the door and into the nice evening.

Special Agent Roland Davis slowly slid the door closed, then pulled the blinds closed to offer the first family their privacy. The outdoor security teams were now responsible for the president's safety. Davis then went over and pushed a button on the coffee table in front of the large couch, sending the liquid-crystal plastic conference screen back into its nest in the ceiling, at the same moment he reached underneath and deftly removed a small device he had hastily placed there before the president's conference. He quickly clipped it to his radio on his belt, then turned and walked over to the swinging door that led to the small entranceway. He swung it partway open; sitting at a small desk was the Secret Service duty officer.

"Stan, I'm going off the air to make a personal call to my wife at work," he said, holding the door open with one hand. "The boss is outside with the family."

"You bet, just let me know when you're back on the air, and if the boss comes back in"--Stan tapped one of the six video monitors on the desk--"end the call real quick."

"Sure thing." Davis removed the earpiece from his left ear, and while the duty officer reached into his top drawer, Davis quickly reached down and shut off the radio on his belt, his hand moving so quickly he knew it went unnoticed.

"Here ya are," the officer said as he tossed Roland his personal cell phone.

Every agent on the president's security detail was required to turn in all personal equipment while on duty, including cell phones. Davis nodded his head in thanks and let the door swing closed. He walked back into the wood-paneled living room and stepped to the small window next to the bar and partially separated one of the hanging blinds. The president was now sitting in a lounge chair grimacing at the hot dog that was sitting in a plate on his lap. Roland let the panel drop back and then walked to the center of the room. He raised the cell phone and dialed a preprogrammed number. The connection was quickly made.

"Clausins Department Store," a female voice answered.

"Hi, can you connect me with accounting please, this is Roland Davis calling for his wife," he said, not giving in to the temptation to look around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. The cameras were still on and very much active even though the president was currently outside.

"One moment please," the voice said.

There was a series of clicks, and then just like any other holding signal, the gentle swell of a soft and melodic version of "Eleanor Rigby" came into his right ear. The Muzak was a nice touch, he had to admit that.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Davis, she's in a sales meeting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?"

As he listened to the coded phrase, he quickly reached to his side under his jacket and switched on the miniature digital recorder that he had just attached to his voice-activated radio. The same one he had just removed from the bottom of the coffee table. Then he quickly placed the cell phone by his hip and counted to two; he left it there another four seconds just to be sure. In that short time, a burst transmission was sent three times through the cell phone that was completely silent, or if anyone was listening, such as the NSA, they may have caught the soft sound of hissing like any other cell call. The coded recording of the president's meeting with the Event Group would be heard by others in a matter of minutes.

He quickly placed the phone to his ear and said, "No thanks, I'll speak with her when she gets home." He closed the cell phone and smiled. He would be paid a nice amount for his treachery.

The Genesis Group had been located on Seventh Avenue for the past sixty years and had passed that time as anonymously as any tree among many in the forest of buildings in one of the largest cities in the world. Few noticed that only a couple of people a day came and went from the nondescript sandstone building, but the ones that did were delivered to the address in limousines and wore clothing few outside of habitues of the largest boardrooms in the world could afford. The Sage Building was sixteen stories of boring turn-of-the-century architecture that drew absolutely no attention from anyone. The ornate interior decorations that occupied its dust-free corners had been purchased from all the best houses of Europe and Asia, but the most outstanding feature of the Sage Building was found five stories below the surface of the busy street.

The old man sat in a high-backed, electric wheelchair and looked into the glass enclosures before him. The three containers and the craft were there as they had always been. The information gained from them had long since been filed away, and the cabinets that held those files were being covered, he was sure, with thick layers of dust somewhere on the floor below him.

The largest display in the immense subbasement was to the right of the smaller enclosure containing the three aluminum bio-tanks. This viewing case was filled with the vehicle recovered from Roswell in 1947; its electronics and engines had long since been dismantled and analyzed many, many years ago at the then named Wright Field in Ohio. Little remained of the saucer after all the metallurgy that had been conducted on the debris. But what there was of it had been put back into some semblance of its original shape. The craft was almost unrecognizable as only the front and lower portions had been re-created. The upper dome was long gone, as the scientists and company engineers had had their way with it. He thought back through the years and remembered the excitement among his handpicked people as the technology had been retrieved.

The old man looked at the lower section, what the eggheads had confirmed had been the cargo hold of the vessel. This section was sparse in its reconstruction, but he could see the many metal containers that had been recovered and, once examined, placed back inside. The one in the center held his attention and had for the past sixty-odd years.

The large crate was sitting on the Plexiglas floor (that was a prop also, as the original floor had been used for testing as so much of the craft had). The contents, of course, had never been in his possession, but the mere thought of what it must have contained at one time was mind-boggling.

He closed his eyes as a small pain crossed from left to right across his chest. He knew it wasn't serious but he removed a small ornate Chinese case from his vest pocket nonetheless and quickly slipped a small white nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. All the while his eyes never left the crate where spotlights illuminated it and it alone.

Again the old man reached out and this time removed a box from a small table beside his large wheelchair. He gently lifted the lid on the aluminum container and stared into the satin-lined interior. He lowered the box to his lap and used his index finger to touch the long and curved claw inside. It was fourteen inches in length and was serrated on both sides. The claw flared on the tip into what looked like two spoons that were arranged on either side just before the devastatingly sharp tip. The entire length curved like the prehistoric claws found in museums of animals long vanished from the surface of this world. He lovingly removed the claw from its box.

Whatever animal had used this weapon also used it as a digging instrument. The creature had obviously been a bur-rower of some sort, or so his expensive teams of scientists had said. The DNA recovered from the claw was so alien to our universe that the eggheads declared that the sample had to have been severely contaminated. Their analysis of the atomic structure of the sample told them it could never have survived anyplace with a gravitational field.