Russell Moran - A Climate of Doubt

“How long do you expect us to be in the program, Rick?” Bill asked.

“Can’t say. We’re starting to close in on what looks like a gigantic plot, and we’ll need you two to help us sort it out and to testify in court if necessary. We’d prefer to kill the bastards, but assuming the cases go to trial, you will earn your benefits of the Witness Protection Program. Hey, let’s have lunch and plan your wedding.”

“Something tells me that our wedding plans have been simplified,” Nancy said. “If I understand you correctly, you will pick the guests and we will agree. Or something like that.”

“Exactly like that,” Bellamy said. “My assistant, Sally Boynton, is an FBI agent. I’m sure she’ll be happy to serve as your Maid of Honor, Nancy. I’ll be honored to stand up as your Best Man, Bill. The person who will officiate is Father Walter Gentile, the Chaplain for Federal Plaza. He’s an FBI agent as well as an Episcopal priest. My wife, Ellen, is also on the list. Although it isn’t known publicly, she’s a deputy FBI agent. Ellen’s also my closest aide.”

“Ellen Bellamy, the TV star?” Bill said.

“The one and only.”

“You guys sound like you do this all the time,” Nancy said.

“You got that right, Nancy. The Federal Bureau of Investigation—your perfect wedding planners. We even have a designated shopper who will be here this afternoon to take your shopping list for your new clothes. So, when shall we hold your wedding?”

“How about this coming Saturday?” Nancy said as she looked at Bill.

I dialed a number on my phone.

“Hi Father Walt, Bellamy here. How about a wedding at location Xray Zulu this Saturday at two? Great. I’ll have a car pick you up.”

Nancy and Bill said nothing. They just stared at me.

“I wish we could wrap up investigations as efficiently as we do weddings,” I said. “Let’s have lunch. This afternoon you two will tell us everything you know about the new CEO of the Rosetta Corporation.”

September 13

“Moonwalker, Moonwalker , this is Rosetta, come in please.”

“This is Moonwalker , read you loud and clear, Rosetta. Astronaut David Hardy speaking. With me is astronaut Tim Jordan. We’ve run all tests this morning and I report AOK. Moonwalker is now fully operational.

“David, this is Phil Duncan. Are you ready for a full satellite test run? I want you to take it slow because this will be the first test without input from the former Stargazer astronauts Mullin and Cranston. They had to go to New York. Something about Mullin’s grandmother being sick.”

“Phil, Tim Jordan and I heard a rumor that Cranston and Mullin killed our astronauts who were supposed to take over Stargazer. ”

“Don’t pay attention to rumors that don’t concern you, David.”

“Yes, sir. We’re ready to start the tests.”

“Starting with satellite one, begin the full test of each orbiter.”

After they started the first satellite test, Hardy turned to Jordan.

“I could swear that I overheard Duncan himself say that Cranston and Mullin killed our guys.”

“Hey, Dave, you know how Duncan gets pissed off when people ask too many questions, not to mention Bartholomew. I suggest we do our jobs and keep our well-paid mouths shut.”

“Satellite tests are all positive, Rosetta. I’m commencing the solar panel tests.”

The solar panel tests took another five minutes each, adding 100 minutes for the entire operation.

“The panels on satellite three are not responding, Rosetta. They are going through rotation sequences on their own, as expected.” Hardy said.

“Attempt to use the override switch, David.”

“It doesn’t respond, Phil.”

“Yes, I can see,” Duncan said, smiling.

The mid-September temperature reading was 71 degrees Fahrenheit at the beginning of the test. It read 31 degrees by the end of the test. The clouds thickened, and snow flurries appeared.

The entire test operation was observed and recorded by a new satellite that had been launched by NASA two weeks before. Nancy and Bill Cranston, now married, sat in the mission control building at the Kennedy Space Center, taking a break from the FBI’s beautiful safe-house in New Jersey. I was with them.

“Right on cue,” Nancy said. “After the solar panels began rotating on satellite three, the panels on all of the satellites began to turn. We can see now that they are all angled toward the sun’s rays, reflecting them back into space. Look out the window. I’m guessing snow.”

“The temperature is 31 degrees and dropping,” Bill said, looking at the weather app on his smartphone, “and yes, it’s starting to snow. A beautiful September day here in Central Florida.”

“That nails it,” I said. “The new space station is Rosetta property and Nancy just called the shots as we saw them. Rosetta is the cause of our weather, and Philip Duncan is the prick behind it.”

“But who’s behind Duncan?” Bill Cranston asked.

“Bill, you’re one of us now, but you don’t have a ‘need to know’ the answer to your question at this time. You’ll find out soon enough. Pardon me. I have to step into the next room and make a call to the White House.”

“Mr. President, I’ve seen the smoking gun. Nancy Mullin walked us through what we were watching on the display for our new satellite. Of course, we couldn’t see the switches being thrown, but we saw the solar panels on all satellites rearrange themselves. The temperature here is below freezing and the snow is getting heavy. Philip Duncan was calling the shots from Rosetta headquarters. I have enough to arrest him right now.”

“Don’t even think about it, Rick. I know it’s tempting to nail a guy when you’ve got the evidence, but Duncan isn’t our target, as you well know. He’s just a functionary. Have you been briefed on the results of our operation in Kurdistan?”

“Yes, sir, I have. Bartholomew Martin obviously had a lot of warning before the attack. Do we know where they’ve moved?”

“We’ll know shortly. Our senior guy at CIA is on top of the matter. Nobody gets away from him.”

“Do you mean Buster, Mr. President?”

“Yes. As I said, shortly we’ll know Bartholomew’s new mailing address.”

September 14

“Exactly 142 miles southwest of Tehran, Mr. Director.”

“Knock off the Mr. Director bullshit, Buster. Fill me in on the details.”

“The people who pulled off the escape from Dunkirk in World War II should have had Bartholomew Martin in charge, Bill. Their compound in Kurdistan was stripped bare. They didn’t even bother to leave IEDs or booby traps. They just got the hell out of there. My inside people tell me that they made a mad dash from Erbil to their present position in Iran in just under nine hours. They loaded their tanks onto flatbed trucks and hauled ass. The place where they’ve set up their new compound is an abandoned Iranian Army base. The area is so desolate it doesn’t even have a name, but my guys think they’re calling it by the English words Reformation City , typical of Bartholomew Martin. As you know, the Reformers are darlings of the ayatollahs because they both hate the United States, and they both want to do anything possible to screw us. A land attack through the Iranian countryside is impossible, to overstate the obvious. We blew our shot at nailing Bartholomew and his snakes in Kurdistan, so now we have to come up with alternatives, all of which are above my pay grade.”

“No, it’s not above your pay grade, Buster. You’re the best spook in the CIA, and your thinking always goes beyond mere spying. You’re a strategist, and don’t give me humble pie crap by denying it.”