Major Dandridge knew when to play games and when to get
serious. The previous morning's staff meeting had provided
the perfect opportunity to have a little fun with the admin-
pukes by hinting at a security problem, but Dandridge
wouldn't have done it if he had truly suspected a problem.
The latest reports indicated that the situation had
escalated... it was time to get serious.
He sat outside General Keeney's office and waited with
the presence of a glacier. His face showed no emotion, his
body did not wriggle nervously in the chair. As a matter of
fact, one might have mistaken him for dead if it had not
been for the sheer power that emanated from him like deadly
gamma rays from plutonium. The fury that radiated from the
man was more than sufficient to cause the receptionist to
squirm.
The General's door opened, and the Special Projects
comptroller stepped out. He nodded in acknowledgment to the
Major, but was met only by a scornful eye that followed him
as he left. The thought that some paper-pushing son-of-a-
bitch had priority over him raised the temperature of his
blood several more degrees, but it didn't really surprise
him... the general was little more than a political himself.
Sure he'd been a pilot during Vietnam, but that was a long
time ago. On top of that he'd flown bombers-- B-52's. What
a joke... He didn't know what flying was about. He climbed
into the aircraft in the Philippines, set the autopilot, the
navigator told the computer when to drop the bombs, they
turned around and flew home.
If he'd been a real man, he'd have flown fighters.
The phone on the receptionist's desk buzzed. She
lifted the receiver, spoke for a moment, then looked at
Dandridge. "You can go in now, Major," she said as she
placed the phone in its cradle.
When Dandridge entered the room, the General did not
smile. He'd worked with the Major long enough to know that
he didn't make social visits. "I'm not going to hold my
breath on this being good news."
"You'd find yourself low on oxygen if you did, sir."
Keeney, tossed his pencil onto the desk and removed his
glasses. "What's going on?"
"We secured Sgt. Gatewood without incident. His wife
was more than happy to hear that we had found someone who
could help him. She was not thrilled about moving to New
Hampshire, but was packed and ready to go in twelve hours.
I had the phone company forward her number to my office,
where a member of my staff could screen her calls. That
component of the operation went without complication."
"We got the FBI to grab Fletcher for us. Just prior to
the FBI's raid, a CIA operative was able to plant a bag of
cocaine in the reporter's apartment. We had hinted to the
FBI that Fletcher was spying in return for drugs, and that
we only wanted to question him. When they discovered the
coke, they offered to bust him on a possession charge rather
than undergo a lengthy and costly espionage case. When they
assured us he'd do time, we agreed."
"After arresting Fletcher, we realized we might have a
problem. First, he doesn't own a blue Firebird. Second, he
has witnesses that will swear he wasn't in Las Vegas last
Thursday. Third, Mrs. Gatewood didn't recognize his
picture. This information seems to indicate that someone
was using Fletcher's name."
"Shit, Dandridge, you mean to tell me we nailed the
wrong man?"
"Apparently, sir, we were slightly off target."
"I thought you said you were locked onto this guy."
"Our man sensed trouble and dropped chaff-- obviously
he's a little more dangerous than I anticipated. We do know
who he is now, however."
"Excuse my skepticism," responded Keeney sarcastically.
"The man's name is Bradley Dartmouth. He's a recent
college graduate, started with the paper a few months ago;
no substantial by-lines. California DMV has verified that
he is the owner of a blue Pontiac Firebird, switchboard at
the Los Angeles Herald does list him as an employee, and a
call to American Express proved that he was Las Vegas on
Thursday. He spent the night at a hotel in Alamo."
"Alamo? Why would he stay in Alamo? It's eighty miles
north of Vegas, and two hundred miles out of his way back to
LA?"
"Yes sir; but it's less than forty miles from the
HARBINGER compound."
For a moment Keeney sat silently, and allowed
Dandridge's statement to sink in. "How did this happen,
Major? I thought Gatewood was too far gone to be a serious
threat."
"Apparently, Dartmouth is either good at what he does,
or he is just as far gone as Gatewood."
"Can you pick him up?"
"We've tried. We told the LAPD that someone was making
crank calls to an unlisted military number and asked if they
would apprehend him. They agreed, so we had the phone
company set up an auto-trace on Mrs. Gatewood's number.
Someone called from a payphone in Los Angeles, we notified
the police, and they overreacted. They sent a half-dozen
squad cars to the scene. Dartmouth must have realized what
was happening, because he never returned to his apartment
last night."
"So, you've lost him."
"I wouldn't say that, sir. We just aren't sure where
he is right now."
Keeney flashed Dandridge a glassy stare, but gave it
up. He knew the major's arrogance couldn't be quelled by
any mortal man. He rubbed his forehead in astonishment: how
could one man cause him so much trouble? He wasn't even a
man-- just a kid: Keeney's daughter was probably older than
Dartmouth.
"This is great; just great. What makes you think
you've got the right man this time?"
"When we realized what had happened, we had Mrs.
Gatewood describe the man she spoke with. We made a rough
composite sketch and showed it to Fletcher. He ID'ed it as
Dartmouth."
"Do you think you can believe what Fletcher says?"
asked the General wearily.
"I interrogated him myself," responded the Major with a
hint of surprise at the question in his voice. General
Keeney accepted the Major's statement.
"If Dartmouth's our man, than how are we going to get
Fletcher off the hook?"
"We're not, sir," responded Dandridge. "He's
collateral damage-- an unavoidable casualty."
Again, Keeney accepted the Major's comment without
question. Besides, to let Fletcher go would be admitting
his arrest had been a mistake. The immediate problem was
Dartmouth. "What's this reporter after, Major? He can't
have the slightest idea what HARBINGER is about."
"I agree, sir. I think he has a mental problem. He
had a folder full of news clippings and a stack of library
books about UFO's. His trash contained an empty vodka
bottle, an empty rum bottle, six empty beer cans, and a
pizza box. Nothing else."
"You think he's an alcoholic, or just some nut-case?"
"Perhaps a little of both. We also found detailed
financial records on a coffee table in the den and several
pages of notes. It looked as if he were trying to find out
how much money he could raise in a hurry."
"Why? He's got to have some kind of plan."
"Since he's a reporter, I think we can assume he wants
to expose HARBINGER to the public: you know how these
reporters think, he probably sees it as a cover-up or
conspiracy."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah... but he's got to have a plan."
"I don't think we should wait to find out what it is."
"Recommendations?"
"We need to activate the Alamogordo site and move
HARBINGER as soon as possible."
"It will take at least four days prep time. They
haven't used Alamogordo in twenty years," explained Keeney.
"Until then, we step up chopper patrols in the north
range. Also, I'd like you to give me control of the NAPATT,
a CH-53, and two F-117's. We can station NAPATT on the
landing pad at HARBINGER and have the patrol choppers watch
for intruders. With the CH-53, NAPATT could intercept them
while they're still too far out to be a problem."
"Your recommendation does not sound too positive. You
don't actually expect this man to cause trouble, do you?"
"Unlikely-- he doesn't have the expertise to pull off
any paramilitary action. He'd probably try to bring a group
of observers in to see HARBINGER and act as witnesses. If
he tries to fly them in, we can use the Goblins to chase
them off. If they try to walk or drive, NAPATT can stop
them."
The General paused for a moment. "I don't think the
situation warrants the use of the Stealth fighters. The
last thing we need is for one of them to crash while
engaging a civilian target. You can have NAPATT, but not
inside the HARBINGER compound: setup at Tonopah."
"Sir, Tonopah is twenty minutes away from HARBINGER by
air. I don't see the problem with putting the troops on the
landing pad," protested the Major.
"Dandridge, I don't want to disturb the research any
more than necessary. It will be hard enough to make the
move to Alamogordo without NAPATT's presence. Make it
Tonopah."
"At least have an interceptor waiting here at Nellis."
"Jesus, Major! How many times do I have to tell you?
No interceptor, no Goblins, and you're not moving NAPATT
anywhere but Tonopah. We don't want to raise any undue
concern or suspicion, and you are not going to start your
own private war over one small glitch in the program."
Dandridge gave up arguing his case with Keeney.
Obviously the man was more interested in protecting his
reputation than HARBINGER. He was too afraid he'd be seen
as a panic-monger if there was no trouble, that he wasn't
going to prepare for the worse. The man was no better than
a political. The Major acknowledged Keeney's statement and
agreed to follow his recommendations. Of course, Dandridge
still had one ace up his sleeve that didn't need the
General's approval.
"I'll make the arrangements to move the HARBINGER,"
started Keeney, "but I don't want any trouble... From you,
or this reporter. Your best bet is to find this man, and
destroy him."
Dandridge rose from his chair and backstepped toward
the door. "Don't worry, sir-- I framed Fletcher because it
was my job. Dartmouth is different: he's pissed me off. I
think it would be safe to bet he'll never write anything
again."
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