David Golemon - Legacy

The medium-sized man, actually the security chief for Faith Ministries and a former Delta operative, finally cleared his throat. His goatee was closely trimmed and his hair was recently cut.

“You have hired the best men there are from all around the world. You have paid handsomely for the loyalty of all. We will not fail you or your church, Mr. Rawlins. We will kill all who try to blunt the word of God.”

Rawlins finally smiled with true comradeship.

“God bless, Mr. Smith.”

The man known to everyone who worked with him as Smith, nodded once and then turned away, his taller assistant following.

The Reverend Rawlins watched the two men leave as he slid down the knot in his tie. The smile was gone and he felt better for it. He looked up into the girder work of the giant cathedral.

“Yes, Mr. Smith, go about God’s work. And, if need be, bring upon the heathen the Four Horsemen, for they shall deserve God’s wrath.”

Will Mendenhall was up front in the cockpit of the Air Force Learjet taking his flying lesson from Jason Ryan while Jack and Carl studied the latest satellite images provided by the Event Group’s own KH-11 satellite, code-named Boris and Natasha. The images were downloaded into a virtual reality map that showed real-time cloud cover and ocean tides. The in-motion virtual map showed and even measured the snowfall in the Andes. As Jack hit the zoom icon on the side of the plastic map, the image enlarged to the point where he and Carl could clearly see the indentation in the Earth made when the original German excavation was buried after the war.

“Let’s see,” Everett said, counting under his breath. “I count no fewer than four guard towers and three roving SUV patrols. And they claim it’s all for public safety?”

“That’s the claim. They say there are dangerous and eroding mine shafts and such. However, according to the senator, we know for a fact that the operation was an open pit mine, no shafts involved, at least none that can be found by hikers.”

“Okay, do the Ecuadorians know what was taken out of the ground there?” Everett scanned the map for more detail.

“We have no idea. Even though relations are good, they’re pretty hush-hush on what the site is hiding-or, what it hid at one time.” Jack said, correcting himself.

“These SUVs, you notice something?” Everett asked, pointing to and tapping the three roving vehicles outside the thirty-foot chain link fence.

“Nonmilitary, black in color, and expensive,” he said, adjusting the magnification on the virtual reality map. “Maybe a little bit beyond the resources of the Ecuadorian military.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Carl agreed.

“Colonel, we’re starting our descent into Quito, so you and the captain better buckle up back there,” Ryan said over the intercom.

Everett looked at his and then Jack’s seat belts, which had never been undone from takeoff. “Nah, we won’t tell him. He may think we don’t trust his flying,” he said with a crooked smile.

As Jack sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, his cell phone rang.

“Collins,” he said.

“Colonel, Niles here. I have an update for you on several fronts. Number one, the rest of the civilized world has seemingly turned an ugly eye toward us. They are using the excuse that we introduced fissionable material onto the lunar surface.”

“You’re kidding. I suppose they didn’t see the same footage we did on CNN?”

“Well, the president thinks it’s just a red herring, several of the more capable countries seem to be hell-bent on investigating the event firsthand.”

Jack sat up in his seat and then sat the cell phone down on the table between him and Everett. He hit speakerphone.

“Are they running a bluff? I mean, are they capable at this time of getting there?” Jack asked as he mouthed the word Moon to Carl.

“Well, the ESA claims they have not one, but two prototypes ready to go. I personally find that difficult to believe. They could never have hidden the budget from the European Union. But they did go on television just twenty minutes ago stating they were prepared to shuttle components into South America to start assembly of the two Ariane 7 vehicles.”

“Damn, what does CIA have to say about the accuracy of this claim?”

“Jack, all of our intelligence services were caught flat-footed on this one, and I for one won’t start pointing fingers; keeping tabs on the ESA hasn’t been the highest priority. The same goes for China and Russia. CIA counts warheads and missiles, not lunar-capable systems. For all we know they could launch as soon as they get their systems online and their vehicles assembled.”

“Is there anything we can do about it? I mean it’s obvious to anyone who’s been paying attention that there is a mineral up there that would be highly desirable. And the technology those remotes dug up, that’s not a bad second prize either.”

“The president wants me to get with DARPA and NASA to see if we have any alternatives,” Niles said, speaking of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. “I’m flying out in a few minutes to meet with the Defense Sciences Office in Arlington, and then I’m off to Houston.”

“Do we have any capability at all to get back there since the budget cuts?”

“I doubt it, Jack. That’s why you and Captain Everett had better come up with something. We need Operation Columbus and its artifacts found. One more thing, the excavation you’re visiting is owned officially by Hans Dieter Brinkman, a German businessman who leases and sells land out of his Munich offices.”

“What’s the story on this guy?” Jack asked.

“Well, Europa ran a background check on him and it seems our Mr. Brinkman is the son of Field Marshal Karl Brinkman. We have learned that the field marshal was an engineer before and during the war. He died in 1963 in, of all places, Quito. Pete Golding dug deeper and found that our man was a mining engineer. His son took over the business end of things but has never once set foot in Ecuador. Europa, as is her style, surmises that Mr. Brinkman the younger is nothing more than a front for another owner that she can’t find in the fine print of the property ownership papers. So, watch it, Jack. It could be anyone.”

“Is that all?” Collins asked, shaking his head at Everett.

“There is one more little thing. Pete Golding analyzed the material sent from the Beatles and has come up with an approximate age for the lunar site and the remains found inside Shackleton.”

“We’re listening,” Jack prompted.

“Right around seven hundred million years old,” Niles finally said. “Give or take a month.”

“A month, huh? Well, I can see you’re beginning to develop that sense of humor, Mr. Director. We’ll call when we have something.”

“Okay, Jack. I’m meeting with the president and he tells me I’m going to be incommunicado for the next eight hours, so I guess something’s pretty important. Anyway, good luck.”

As Jack, Mendenhall, Everett, and Ryan waited for the only rental car available at the Mariscal Sucre International Airport, Quito’s brand-new facility, they realized from the taxis and beat-up bus service that the airport had yet to see an influx of high-traffic rental car companies and high-end service industries. The services were somewhat lacking as the four men waited at the curb for their rental to be delivered. Ryan had gone to the only open rental counter inside the terminal and found sparkling new counters and floors, but only one company, Quito Express, was open for business. When Ryan returned he was unusually quiet as he waited beside Will Mendenhall.