John Schettler - 9 Days Falling, Volume I

MacRae often thought the crown above that heart was a fine symbol of the loyalty she had for England. Fairchild had served British interests, making a small but vital contribution to the UK’s energy position, for over twenty years. He had signed on as Fleet Captain nine years ago, earning the trust and confidence of his CEO with diligence and due respect. The Argos Fire was a nice little reward, a ship that any other captain in the world would be proud to sail. His relationship with ‘Madame,’ as he often called her in formal situations, had been cordial, professional, and strictly business, though he had to admit a growing attraction for the woman had developed in him over the years. He admired her resolve, the constancy of her temperament, the tight control she had on her emotions in the boardroom—a woman to be reckoned with where cutting a deal required a fine edge.

But yet there was a definitely a woman behind the corporate mask she so carefully maintained, and he had become fascinated with the quiet solitude that surrounded her, pleased that he had been drawn even closer to the inner core of company operations over the years. He had to admit that the occasion of finding himself alone with her, now a close confederate and even a confidant in many ways, had meant a lot to him. With no Mr. Fairchild he even entertained a fleeting notion that he might become involved with her one day, though he had never expressed anything of the sort, or pushed that agenda in even the subtlest of ways.

He was about to make the introductions but, true to form, Fairchild took the matter in hand.

“Mr. Salase, how good of you to join us,” the Fairchild smile radiated her steely beauty, her dark eyes carrying genuine warmth, but an intensity that was very penetrating. Her hand seemed smallish when engulfed in Salase’s substantial palm. She wondered how much money had greased it over the years in bribes, kickbacks and other “compensation” for his valued services as a deal broker.

“My pleasure, as always, Miss Fairchild. You do me great honor.”

“Captain,” Elena smiled and nodded in MacRae’s direction, and they were seated with little more fanfare.

“I hope you had a smooth ride over,” Elena carried the conversation forward.

“Very pleasant,” Salase returned. “Good weather. Clear skies and open seas. Perhaps a good omen, eh? Not so good up north, but that is good weather for business.”

Elena smiled, for Salase was conveying more with his words than it seemed. Of course there had been a round of negotiations on lower levels before this meeting was ever scheduled. Salase clearly felt matters were now favorable for a close, she thought. She certainly could use a new angle right now. Fairchild & Company had been angling for additional business in Central Asia for some time. Salase was well connected, with a good intelligence network to boot. With tensions rising virtually everywhere, her need to close a deal had taken a sudden, urgent turn.

Rumors of a possible big haul prompted her to gather all her spare tankers here in the Med. Her intelligence was very good when it came to fingering the pulse in the pipelines, but one thing she did not know that night was going to change everything and upset her carefully hatched plans. Captain MacRae had a piece of it in his pocket in a recent SIGINT decrypt, and Salase, fat evasive Mister Salase, had the rest in the palm of his greasy, greasy hand.

She could sense it…feel it. Something was wrong, and an inner sense of warning told her it had something to do with that damnable telephone call that had come on the top secret red phone a month ago, and changed her life forever.

Damn you, Salase, she thought. What do you know that I don’t know? Heads are going to fry on this ship if I get another big surprise tonight…Fry in hot, hot oil.

Yes…that damnable phone call. The red phone. The phone in the secret room hidden behind a movable bulkhead at the back of her office. It still haunted her, particularly after the remarkable return of the new Russian fleet flagship Kirov , which had recently been involved in a strange accident in the Norwegian Sea, vanishing and presumed sunk until the ship suddenly reappeared in the Pacific a month later, sailing into Vladivostok’s Golden Horn Bay.

Elena Fairchild knew far more than she wanted to know about that ship, and its disappearance and return sent chills down her spine. She had received a phone call about it on a very special line. The nondescript red phone sat encased in a clear unbreakable Plastifibre dome on a table in her hidden inner office. A little over a month ago a signal had gone out from Royal Navy headquarters to secret outposts and at-sea locations all over the world. Argos Fire was one such location, and when Elena first felt the subtle vibration from her cell phone, reaching into a jacket pocket to see what the call was about, her heart skipped a beat. The screen was alight with two simple characters “G-1.”

She immediately withdrew to the private office and stood there, staring at the Plastifibre dome with a mix of shock and fear in her mind. Reaching slowly, she placed her right thumb on the scanner, then keyed a code on the touchpad. The vacuum sealed chamber opened with a hiss, and the Plastifibre dome slowly slid back.

God, she thought, let it be a test. She would thumb the receive button on the phone and it would read TEST — TEST — TEST, that was all. It had to be a test. It must be a test, for the thought that the entire world she was living in now, everything, all of it, every book, manuscript, song, poem, video…every street, town and city…every human being alive might now be different, subtly changed, was a staggering fear. And some might simply be gone, erased, and completely forgotten, as though they had never even lived. It had to be a test, but when she pressed her quivering thumb to the receive button three words lit up the screen and changed everything: Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo…

With a rising surge of adrenaline she simply closed her eyes, as if afraid of what she might find different or missing when she opened them, and quietly mourned the loss of the life and world she had been living in before that moment. Her hand was shaking when she reached and pressed the second button to confirm secure reception of the message. It was the signal she had waited for, with dread and foreboding, all her life.

It had finally happened, and the saddest thing about it was that only twelve people on the planet knew about it—the twelve senior apostles of the Watch. There were legions in the rank and file these twelve might call to the task they served, but only these twelve knew the whole and complete truth, the real meaning of the three words that had just flashed on her telescreen—and Elena Fairchild was one of them. It was many weeks of quiet inner mourning before she could look outside and accept the world as it was. And many nights she would lie awake and wonder what was missing, lost, changed.

She consoled herself by reading Shakespeare, listening to Mozart and reveling in her art books from the great masters, all untouchable, all as they were, for nothing that happened prior to the year 1941 could be altered. “Ignorance is the curse of God,” wrote Shakespeare. “Knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.” Yet the knowledge she had now was like a bite of that apple in Eden, a forbidden fruit that only twelve men and women on earth had tasted. The world had most certainly changed, yet no one knew how. They were oblivious, accepting the world they lived in as one unalterable reality. But they were wrong.

When Kirov was suddenly reported at sea in the Pacific a month later and apparently bound for Vladivostok, her pulse ran on again. She suddenly realized that there were more than twelve people on earth that knew the whole truth…many more, and they were on that very ship! Shakespeare whispered in her inner ear: “Hell is empty, and all devils are here.”