D Carpenter - Infertile Grounds

The man stood up and said, “Let’s go.”

Chris rose and let the man pass. He walked with a pronounced limp and was only about five two or so. Chris felt like a giant as he followed him out and across the parking lot to his beat-up Oldsmobile Delta 88, probably a ’74 or ’75. The material that had once covered the back half of the roof hung in tatters, some of it haphazardly secured with duct tape – the redneck mechanic’s cure all.

“Something wrong?”

“No. I was just checking out your car.”

The chauffeur mumbled something unintelligible as he opened the door and flopped in.

Chris slid into the passenger seat and said, “I’m Chris Foster.” He extended his hand toward the man.

The man sized him up and then said, “Charlie Martin.”

They shook.

“Pleased to meet you, Charlie,” Chris said as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“Any luck?” Sarah said into the microphone. The radio encryption system, necessity that it was, made it difficult to hear over the roar of the airplane engine – even with headphones on.

“Nothing yet,” Seth replied.

“Have you heard from Bert?”

“He hasn’t found anything either. It’s like the guy vanished.”

“Damn it!” Silence ensued for a minute before she said, “If you can’t find him by tomorrow morning, I want you to evacuate the base.”

“Are you sure? We don’t even know if David told this guy anything.”

She shook her head. Why was she surrounded by morons? Was she the only one capable of thought? “If he didn’t know anything, why would he run? And why would he lie to Bert?”

Seth didn’t respond.

“It’s not so bad anyway,” she continued. “We’re just pushing up the date for getting out of Maine. Everything else stays the same.”

“True,” Seth replied. “I still think we’re going to pick up this guy’s trail, but if we don’t—”

“Just do it like we planned. Make sure that there’s nothing incriminating left here. Especially the lab. There can’t be anything to raise any suspicions.”

“So, we’re sticking with July 4th?” Seth asked.

“I don’t see why not. It’s the perfect day. Besides, all the logistics for the Carriers are based on starting then. I don’t want to have to change everything now. I’ll call you when I get to Camilla’s.”

“Have a good trip.”

Good trip? Was he nuts? She was exhausted, stressed and very nervous about meeting her benefactors. She wasn’t going off on holiday.

Jerry brought the plane down gently on runway 33 and taxied to the general aviation apron of Bangor International Airport, stopping at the waiting Lear Jet.

The Lear pilot met them on the tarmac and said, “Good morning, Ms. Burns. I’ll be flying you to Malibu. Ms. Haywood has asked me to look after you.”

“Thanks,” Sarah replied as Jerry put her bags in the jet and walked back over to her. “How long is the flight?”

“I’ll have you in Malibu in just over five hours,” he replied confidently.

“I’m going to head back up north,” Jerry said. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

She turned from the pilot and said, “I’ll call tonight. I’m going to want an update. If the time has come, then it’s come.”

“Don’t worry.”

She gave him an empty smile before saying, “I know. It’s just that we’re so close.”

“Seth’ll get things straightened out.”

She did a nod-shrug. Seth was very competent but not being there to keep an eye on things didn’t sit well with her. She watched Jerry climb into his plane and taxi back toward the runway.

Sarah said, “Let’s go. We don’t want to keep Camilla waiting.”

The pilot led her into the plane where she settled into a luxurious leather seat and started to recite her speech over and over in her mind, refining the key points. This day had been a long time in the making. She was about to finally meet the people who had funded the research and development effort. To her credit, Camilla had refused to divulge any information about them until Gen96 was ready and Sarah could make the trip to sit down face to face with them.

The news from Ngamiland would be the hit of the speech. As she had predicted, everything had worked perfectly. Goddamn, she was good. They sped down the runway and soared effortlessly into the clear blue mid-morning sky.

She watched out the windows as the busy streets and suburban houses of the mid-state metropolis quickly turned to empty country roads, forests and farmlands as they gained altitude and speed – heading due west. This was her first trip in a private jet, and it was wonderful – much better than that cattle-car feeling of commercial airliners.

“Good morning, sir,” the FBI agent-chauffeur said as Arthur Kent emerged from his brownstone and climbed into the discreetly armored car.

Arthur didn’t respond. It wasn’t a good morning.

“Headquarters?” The agent asked.

“The Hill,” Arthur replied. Starting the day with meetings around the Bureau’s new role made his head ache. He took a swig of piping hot coffee from the waiting travel mug nestled in the console as they pulled away from the curb and headed into DC.

Since 9/11 it seemed he had done nothing but meet with finger-pointing, blame deflecting, predominately stupid-ass politicians. Everyone wanted to take a swipe at the FBI. The despicable vultures had been circling for years and now they were on the ground, nibbling at the extremities, seeing how much life was left, getting ready to pounce and deliver the deathblow before settling in for the feast but he wouldn’t let that happen – not on his watch.

Two years ago he would have said that things could never have been worse than the first half of the 90’s – Ruby Ridge, the World Trade Center bombing, Waco, and then Oklahoma City, four bungled ops in just as many years. He couldn’t complain though. He was fifty-six and held the number three, and arguably most powerful, position in the Bureau – courtesy of the events of the early 90’s. Back then, it had been open season on the Bureau but those all paled to the bellyaching he was enduring now on a daily basis.

He rubbed his temples.

“I need a vacation,” he said.

“Want me to take you to Reagan National? Hop a plane to the Caribbean maybe,” the agent said as he glanced into the rearview mirror, offering a slight smirk.

“Virginia to do some deer hunting sounds more like it. Get out of DC for a while. Christ, I’d rather be back walking point then going up on The Hill.”

The chauffeur was silent for a moment then said, “So a little old lady called 911. When the operator answered she yelled, ‘Help! Send the police to my house right now! There’s a damn Democrat on my front porch and he’s jerking off.’

‘What?’ the operator exclaimed.

‘I said there’s a damn Democrat on my front porch diddling himself and he’s weird. I don’t know him and I’m scared! Please send the police now!’ the little old lady repeated.

‘Well, now, how do you know he’s a Democrat???’

‘Because, you damn fool, if he were a Republican, he’d be screwing somebody!’”

Arthur chuckled – stupid joke to start another stupid day.

Inside the nondescript, two-story brick office building, Chris found a small directory informing him that the FBI was in suite 220 and it looked like the rest of the building was empty. He climbed the stairs and walked into the office.

For some reason, he had assumed an FBI office would be much grander than this. The reception desk had the FBI seal on the front of it and a fifty-something, expansively hipped woman behind it doing a Sudoku puzzle.