JAMES ANDERSON
SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
“Any entity—no matter how many tentacles it has—has a soul.”
JAMES AND STAN WERE DISCUSSING THEIR MEETING with Dr. Peterson as they walked toward the entrance of FBO, the private jet hangar, for their return flight. To their surprise, they found eight very official-looking men standing near James’s jet, all wearing dark, well-tailored suits. Two more men were in black military gear with machine guns, standing at either side of the entrance to the jet. As James approached the plane apprehensively, he noticed that the pilots were being questioned by a man in a suit in the corner of the hangar.
What the hell? James thought, a knot beginning to form in his stomach.
“Mr. Anderson,” one of the men in suits said as he approached. It was not a question.
“What are you doing with my pilots?” exclaimed James, with a nervous tremor in his voice.
“Sir, could you and Mr. Caruthers follow me, please.” The man walked toward James’s jet and continued up its stairs.
“Well, why don’t you first tell me who you are, and what I can do for you?” blurted James, both defensive and perplexed. “I’m not comfortable entering my own jet with someone I don’t know, particularly while it’s surrounded by men with guns whom I also don’t know, and while my pilots are clearly being interrogated. Hey! You need a warrant to enter my plane!”
Stan had not moved a muscle. The silence that followed was intense.
It became apparent as they looked about that the hangar was empty. There were no FBO staff within sight. The man slowly retreated back down the stairway.
“Sir, I am Agent David Lopez with the National Security Administration.” He flipped out his credentials as if it were a formality and quickly returned them to his pocket. James thought about demanding to scrutinize the badge, but Lopez continued without concern. “The Marines at the entrance of the plane are here for your protection, I assure you. I’m sure you can appreciate that after your Paris encounter and the death of your associate Robert Matson. We’ll talk more after takeoff.”
“What the hell is going on here?” muttered Stan.
“I will explain more inside your aircraft. Gentlemen, please,” said Agent Lopez, pointing the way.
Reluctantly, they followed Lopez into the Citation. There was another dark-suited man already sitting in the back of the plane.
James began to say something, but stopped himself as the thought of Robert’s horrific murder flashed through his mind.
The man in the back of the plane held up his hand as if to silence them. He opened a small black case and took out what looked like a suction cup attached to a small electronic device, and stuck it to the window of the Citation. He pushed a button on the device, and a very low hum filled the cabin of the aircraft.
“Now, Mr. Anderson, we can talk,” he said, as Agent Lopez closed the cabin door. The sound of white noise was all around them. It almost sounded as if they were in flight. Behind this was a deeper pulsing sound, almost unnoticeable.
“What are you attaching to my jet?” demanded James.
“No need to worry,” the man replied. “This device prevents any eavesdropping. It’s an acoustic electromagnetic generator. It is scrambling and muting our conversation while creating a sonic barrier around the aircraft. In effect, we just went stealth.” The man leaned forward. “I am Agent Devon Stinson, and like my colleague here,” he said, pointing to Mr. Lopez, “I work for the National Security Administration. Please, have a seat.”
Lopez remained standing at the front of the aircraft as they sat.
“From this point forward, all of your research and all communications are considered classified—above-top-secret. We want you to know that these are your responsibilities and the expectations associated with your confidentiality in this matter.” He handed each of them what looked like a lengthy legal confidentiality agreement. James flipped quickly through his to the end; it was lacking the signature lines.
“What are you talking about?” he said. “This is preposterous. You can’t simply classify our work. It’s owned by XNA Pharmaceuticals, a private company. We own the intellectual property.”
“Mr. Anderson,” interrupted Agent Stinson, “please. We are the NSA. I have a FISA warrant right here. We have been following your project for nearly three months now: every land and cell conversation, all of your text messages, the incident in Paris. We have all of your emails and copies of your server files. The federal government has a priority interest in XNA Pharma and your research concerning the DNA pattern you identified.”
“How did you even know what we were working on? Who leaked the information to you?” James demanded.
“Dr. Caruthers is a government asset,” said Agent Stinson without pause.
“I’m a what?” stuttered Stan.
“You have been a consultant with the Central Intelligence Agency on a few artificial intelligence matters, Dr. Caruthers,” continued Stinson.
“What are you talking about?” Stan shouted, bewildered. “that was three years ago! And I was working for a software company as a consultant, not for the CIA directly.” Now James was really pissed about bringing this pompous math jackass into the XNA project—though he could tell that Stan was alarmed to learn he had been under constant surveillance.
“Dr. Caruthers, the U.S. government has a vested interest in anyone who has provided services to them, especially those who work indirectly with the government with various contractors on national security matters,” Agent Stinson explained. “Your work was a matter of National Security, after all—so whether you want to be or not, you are a security asset.”
James thought of all the moments in his life when it would have been outrageous and intrusive to have someone constantly listening—and watching. His anger grew. Stan seemed to recoil at the same thought.
“Gentlemen, we are going to make our way to Fort Meade, where you will be briefed,” Agent Stinson went on, oblivious to their fury. “More of your questions will be answered there. We are taking you, your jet, and your servers into custody as an emergency safety precaution. We have a federal warrant, which you are free to peruse during the trip.” From his jacket, he pulled out a federal court order and handed it to James.
“When?” asked James.
“Right now,” answered Stinson. He nodded to Lopez. “Bring the pilots back onboard. We’re taking off immediately. Once we touch down, a car will be awaiting so that we can proceed directly from the airport to NSA headquarters.”
James couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt like a puppet on a string. “We absolutely will not!” he protested, panic rising in his throat. “We have meetings tomorrow in Chicago, and our families will need—”
“—nothing from you right now,” Agent Stinson said mildly.
JAMES ANDERSON
NSA HEADQUARTERS, FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
“… if we consider earthly creatures as ‘brother’ and ‘sister,’ why cannot we also speak of an ‘extraterrestrial brother?’”
After they touched down in Washington, DC, James and Stan found themselves being led to a large black passenger van with three rows of seats. Once inside, they were told they were waiting for others. James sat calmly in the first row in the back of the van, studying his hands in his lap until the door opened and a man entered who, by his outfit, appeared to be a priest.
Strange, thought James.
The priest immediately seated himself in the front passenger seat, without a look or word to the others. As soon as the door closed, James took out his iPhone and began dialing a number. He glanced up at the priest, wondering what in the hell he was doing here. Shit, he looks excited and happy to be here, he thought. Asshole.
The office answered, and James spoke in a hushed tone, occasionally glancing at the priest.
“Look, I have to see to some obligations for the next few days, so … No, this is very important…Yep. Uh, a government contract, but that’s all I can say. Like all of them, there is an NDA involved—No, no, no, no! Look, I’ve got to let you go. Call Serena. She has the necessary paperwork. Yeah, I’ll make sure she gets the numbers…Right… Uh–huh…Bye.”
“Bloody hell. It’s about damn time,” grumbled Stan, who was now sitting in the far back row of the van. “What do you think they would do to us if they caught you calling people? All you business types care about is your bank accounts.”
“I’m sure they are listening. Seriously, it’s the NSA,” James replied. He’d had enough of Stan and his ego.
At this point, the priest tried to politely interrupt and introduce himself. “Hi there. I’m Father Mateo Perez.”
James paid him no attention. “Look, Stan. I never imagined this research would cause this much trouble. I mean, it’s a biological molecule. What does the government know about biology, for God’s sake?” James said loudly, casting an uneasy glance at Father Perez.
Stan slammed his elbow into the seat. “I don’t see why a molecule is all that important to the government either, damn it,” he answered bitterly. “I didn’t sign up for this NSA shit. I’m a professor. I’m not some soulless corporate leech who wants to see if he can still get money out of a deal gone south—”
James tensed and clenched his fists. “Look here, pal—I work over eighty hours a week to earn my paycheck. I pay my taxes on time and give to charity, so don’t—”
“And there it is. It’s still about the money to you. Really, you are a worthless son of a—”
“Stan! Get hold of yourself,” James demanded.
The door opened just then, and a man in traditional Muslim garb holding a black hard-sided plastic case to his chest squeezed his way into the van.
“Who the hell are you?” Stan swore at the new addition to the group.
“Ah, yes, my apologies,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Sati Am Unnefer.”
“And why the bloody hell have you been invited to this party?” Stan spat.
“I, um, am the Egyptian Antiquities Minister,” he responded humbly, as he put one of his hands into his chest pocket, reassuring himself that its contents were still present.
Silence fell on the vehicle for a moment as the five men studied one another carefully.
“Well, I’m James, and Stan is the one with the attitude problem in the back.” James turned to the priest again. “I don’t believe we have the pleasure of your name, sir.”
“Father Mateo Perez, thank you for asking,” the priest said, as if it were the first time he had announced it.
James could not place the thick accent. “Why would the NSA want a priest and an antiquities minister?” he asked.
“I wanted to come,” Sati replied. “In fact, I demanded to follow these artifacts.” He glanced at the case.
James and Stan looked at the man incredulously.
“You wanted to come?” scoffed Stan. “Who would want to be kidnapped by the NSA?”
“This is my life’s work. What I have in this pack will alter our view of history,” Sati said, hugging the case tightly. “Would you just watch your Secret Service agents drive away with your life’s work before you even had a chance to look at it? That is what I was faced with.”
“I understand,” James said, his voice clear and bold.
“Are you here because you want to be, too, priest?” Stan snarled.
“Uh no,” Father Perez chuckled. “Actually, I’m on official Vatican business. There is a briefing here, apparently, prior to my continuing on to Paris. I am an astronomer, normally. However, like any priest, I must do as the pope bids. His ways are not always ours,” he added, looking nervously at the others.
Stan snorted. “Yes. Fine. As long as you don’t try to convert me.”
Father Perez cracked a half smile. “Believe me, I will do nothing to try to convert you.”
Agent Lopez climbed into the driver’s seat of the vehicle. Agent Stinson entered the back and sat next to James. “Gentlemen, let’s do without the chitchat until we are safe at headquarters,” he said.
They drove from BWI airport twenty minutes to Fort Meade, Maryland. The van parked in an expansive parking lot, a large portion of which was filled even at this late hour of the evening. Two huge connected rectangular-shaped buildings, one taller than the other and both as black as obsidian, rose from its center. The newcomers were shepherded toward the ominous-looking structure, and a sense of foreboding settled over them. The buildings appeared to absorb the light around them. For James, they looked like the monolith from the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey: intimidating and solitary.
“Welcome to the NSA,” Agent Stinson said, handing them all badges. Inside, the marble flooring was offset by walls covered in insignias and seals of the United States, the NSA, the Central Security Service, and other governmental agencies. Honorary lists with photos accentuated the walls, and a security desk stood alone in the center of the space.
Stan and James exchanged wide-eyed glances as they followed Stinson deep within the building, passing through several security checkpoints and secured corridors without stopping. Finally, they were ushered into a small conference room lit with a very bright fluorescent light.
After everyone took a seat at the table, Agent Stinson said, “Gentlemen, I understand your frustration, and I know it is late. However, very soon you will understand that you are at the center of a global security issue. One that demands your skills, ingenuity, and continued research, as well as your unwavering secrecy.” He looked around the room, ensuring his words were having their intended impact. “We need all of you for continued research on a global security issue. Mr. Anderson, your journey ends here. You will be briefed today in regard to the NSA’s sequester of the XNA technology. This project involves highly technical information of a scientific nature. Your company will be compensated for the time associated with the use of your research at XNA, and that research will be held confidential and proprietary. I’m having the documents assembled right now. An agent will go over the agreement with you and instruct you as to your and your company’s obligations to this issue of national security. I’ll have my assistant come and collect you so you can review the documents. We can discuss this in more detail later this evening—”
“Bullshit! I’m not leaving!” James said, with more emphasis than he’d intended. “I’m staying here with my scientific data and intellectual property. You tell me that there is some issue of national security; you kidnap me and Stan, hijack my jet, and steal my company’s research when I have invested tens of millions of dollars into it; and now you want to continue with our research and kick me out. Are you out of your mind?”
“Mr. Anderson, calm down. I’m sure once I explain, you will understand—”
“To hell with I’ll understand. I’ll have my counsel on this within five minutes of leaving here. You can’t just take my property and research. I’ll blow this up in the blink of an eye in the press and in court unless you tell me what the hell is going on here.”
Agent Stinson regarded him with a cold eye. “Mr. Anderson, we are the NSA. There is no real choice here. Please come with me, and we can discuss this privately.”
“I’m not going anywhere without my intellectual property,” James repeated, “and the same goes for Stan. I want answers, and I want them now. You can’t threaten me that I have no choice. I know my rights. I know what we’re onto with this research, and I have copies of all the data. I’ll have this information published immediately. I’m not letting you lock down my company on some bullshit allegation of national security.”
Just then the conference room doors opened, and a tall, serious man walked to the head of the table. Stinson immediately rose and said, “Sir.” The man looked at James. “Mr. Anderson, I understand your concerns. Can you please come with me for five minutes where we can talk personally?”
It was clear he had observed the entire exchange from outside the room. Everyone looked at James. This caught James off-guard a bit. The man carried himself with the air of authority, his demeanor calm and collected.
“Who are you and why should I go anywhere with you without my attorney?” James said, conscious that his voice was now a little less commanding.
“I’m Mitchell Perkings, Director of the NSA,” the man said firmly.
Everyone in the room became wide-eyed. The seriousness of the situation seemed to suddenly hit James. He slowly stood up and followed the director into a small adjacent conference room. The director pointed to a chair and sat beside James.
“I understand your reaction, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “I do. But we really need your cooperation on this.” He held James’s glare.
In a more even tone, James replied, “I’m not relinquishing anything until I find out what’s going on. This is our intellectual property, and I’m not just handing my data and research over to you and going home quietly. You need to understand—our chief scientist, my best friend, was killed because of this research. I’m not going anywhere.”
The director studied James for a long time. He leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply in contemplation for what seemed an eternity.
“Look, we need full cooperation,” he finally said. “Understand this: You were not the chief scientist on the XNA project, and you add little here from an ongoing research perspective, which is what we need right now. You are way out of your league.” He paused for a moment. “However, you are a chemical engineer with project-management experience. It’s possible your deep knowledge of XNA, the history of its research, and your understanding of the findings could add some value. So I’m going to let you stay. But only as a courtesy and a convenience to me. Do you understand?”
James did not answer.
“Frankly, I want this information completely compartmentalized,” Perkings went on. “It serves my interest to keep you within arm’s reach and to ensure that no information about your findings gets out until I deem it appropriate. For this reason, I will allow you to continue with Project Aquarius.” The director sat forward on his chair and leaned in close to James. “But you will cooperate. Not one word of this will go beyond these walls—no more talk of lawyers or press. Are we clear? Or I’ll lock your ass up so fast your head will spin, and I’ll park you in a cell where no one will know where you are until we figure out what in the hell we are dealing with here.” He paused for a long moment.
Swallowing hard and trying not to betray the fear he felt, James nodded.
The director stood up, smiled, and shook his hand. “Besides, who knows?” he added pleasantly. “You may even add value.”
James wasn’t sure the director actually believed that. But he was grateful to not be on his way home.
He followed Perkings back to the main conference room. Agent Stinson stopped mid-sentence when they walked in, a puzzled look on his face.
James looked at him and said, “I’m staying.” As he retook his seat, Stan looked at him with astonishment. James tried to smirk with a triumphant expression, projecting the impression that he’d negotiated his ability to stay. But he knew that was far from the truth. Deep down he had a nervous, sick feeling in his gut.
The director sat in the back of the room. “Continue, Agent Stinson,” he said.
Stinson cleared his throat. “Make no mistake” he continued, “this is the single most daunting security concern we have ever faced. The United States and our partner nations will do anything to ensure that absolute secrecy is maintained. Nothing you have learned thus far, including in your own findings, nor anything you are going to learn from here forward can be shared outside of these walls.
“From this moment forward, you are all members of Project Aquarius. This will be your home for the time being, until we have the full international team assembled. At that time we will be moving to another location: Paris’s European Space Agency headquarters.
“We do not mean to make you uncomfortable, but we need to make sure that you are not tempted to break our secrecy protocols. You will be allowed a short period of time after this meeting to call those whom you need to call who might miss you. You are to tell your families, friends, and business associates that you are consulting for the NSA regarding a hacking threat that concerns your domain of expertise. You will inform them that the matter is of eminent national security. Your presence will be required until the project is complete, which may take weeks to months.”
The team shared exasperated looks.
“Months?” muttered Stan.
“We have drafted our standard consulting agreements,” Stinson said, setting a contract before each of the men. He looked at James. “Mr. Anderson, your company will be directly contracted and compensated very handsomely for use of your research and the consulting services you will be providing. Professor, your university has already been notified of your required immediate absence,” he said.
Everyone shifted uncomfortably and looked around, waiting for the others to react.
“Please be aware that in a few moments, when you make the calls necessary to modify any other commitments you may have over the next few weeks, we will be monitoring you. You will notice a delay between your communication and the person’s response on the other end of the line. Should you say anything we deem inappropriate, the call will be disconnected.
“You will continue working with Project Aquarius until we deem that we have accomplished the goals of the project—at least as they pertain to your collective expertise. We have much to discuss, and a lot of information to equip you with. However, it is now 10:30 p.m., and it has already been a long day for most of you.”
“Yeah, I spent the week sorting out important algorithms, had a meeting with a businessman, was kidnapped by the NSA, and had a flight on a hijacked jet to Washington,” Stan interjected. “I would say that’s more than enough.”
As much as Stan had gotten on his nerves, James knew he could not have said it any better. “Dr. Caruthers,” said Stinson, clearly losing his patience, “we can reengage in our banter tomorrow. I think you will change your point of reference once you hear what we have to say.”
After everyone signed the documents—and there were a few more attempts by Stan to get more information on their situation—they were escorted to a hotel not far from the main NSA campus. It looked like a typical hotel on the outside, though James thought it odd that they entered a side entrance instead of passing through the main lobby.
“Everyone in,” Stinson said, motioning to the freight elevator. Once they were all inside he entered a code on the keypad, and they began moving up. When they emerged, they were on the top floor. There was a small desk with a man and woman in military uniform standing beside it. Beside the desk was a locked, sliding-glass door that closed off the hallway.
“They will be checking in for the night,” Stinson told the uniformed pair. “They are allowed to make calls for the next hour.”
“I couldn’t possibly notify everyone in the next hour,” James groused. “I run a business. They are used to me constantly checking in.”
Stinson inhaled deeply and frowned. “Two hours—and that is all, Mr. Anderson,” he said.
“How cliché,” James muttered when he noticed the man at the front desk was armed, with his hand resting on his gun.
“Brilliant,” Stan said, looking around at the rest of the group. “This is literally unbelievable. I mean, seriously, even if you told this story to someone, who would believe it?”
“You have food in your room,” Agent Stinson continued. “We will have fresh clothes delivered first thing in the morning. You will find that the bathrooms have all the necessary toiletries. I will collect you at 7:30 a.m.”
“You know my size?” asked Stan.
“Of course,” Agent Stinson replied simply.
Before leaving he added, “Please remember that all your communications will be monitored, and please limit your conversations. Also, you should avoid wandering around at night.” With that, he bid them goodbye and left.
“You will find your rooms down the corridor,” the woman spoke as the door slid open. “If you need anything, feel free to dial zero. An operator will assist you.”
Each of them received what looked like a hotel keycard with a number on it as they walked past the desk and through the door.
Once the last of them entered the hallway, the glass door slid shut. Stan immediately jumped. James glanced backward at the door, but Father Perez, who had been accustomed to captivity, and Sati, who still clutched his black case, were unconcerned and continued to their rooms.
“Jesus,” Stan said. “What the fuck is going on here? Now we’re prisoners of our own government? I don’t have time for this shit. I’m a fucking mathematics professor.”
“Relax,” said James. “There is clearly something of significance going on here. I’m sure we’ll have a better understanding tomorrow.”
“Well then, while you sorry bastards entertain yourselves with musings on ‘something of significance,’ I’m ordering up some beer,” said Stan as he stomped off to his room, his long hair waving as he turned.
James was relieved to find that his suite had two bedrooms and a large living and dining area with a kitchenette. There was even a small buffet set out on the dining table, with more food than he could possibly eat. He smirked, wondering what Stan would do when he discovered he already had some cold beers waiting for him. He threw himself into one of the chairs, setting his laptop on the table.
A few minutes later, after he had downed a beer in an attempt to relax, he felt his head clear. Splitting them into their own suites had been a godsend. He hoped he wouldn’t be working in close proximity with Stan tomorrow.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pulled up “Home.” Here we go, he thought. He knew the kids were waiting for his return, and he was already overdue. Kerri had dropped the kids off at his house with the nanny, Sonja, an older woman who had been indispensable to James since the divorce.
“Sonja, hi. It’s me,” he said when she picked up.
“Hi, how are you? The kids have been asking when you are coming home. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine but something has come up. And now I’m in DC on business.”
“DC? I thought you were in California.”
“Yeah, It’s kind of a business emergency, if you will. So, here’s the deal, I’m going to be stuck here for the next couple weeks.”
“Oh, no. The kids are going to be so disappointed,” Sonja said.
“I know, yeah. I’ll have to call Kerri and make arrangements. Until then, I’ll need you to take care of them for me.”
“Well, of course.”
“You know you can call my mother too. She’ll help you out if you need it.” He felt a deep stab of guilt. “Who’s still up? I’d like to talk to them if they’re nearby.”
“Only Allen is still awake.”
“Great, I’ll talk to him,” James said. Allen was his oldest, and they had always had a bit of a strained relationship. Probably because James had been gone so much when Allen was younger.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” Allen said, a yawn in his voice.
“Hey, pal. Are you guys having a good time?
“Yeah. They’re all in bed. When are you going to be home?”
“Well, I have some bad news. Really crappy news. I’m stuck in DC on an emergency. I’m not going to be back in town for a couple weeks. We’re going to have to reschedule our plans. So I’m going to have to call your mom and make arrangements to have you guys picked up again.”
“Paris for two weeks and now this?” Allen flared out. “You said you were going to do something fun with us, like go to the beach. This is bullshit.”
“Hey, don’t say that,” James began. The phone disconnected.
Crap, thought James, that went well. Guilt weighed heavily upon him.
After leaving a few business voicemails, he tried to find something to eat and opened his third beer. He felt even more alone than he had in Paris. Even if he hadn’t called and rearranged his schedule, he wondered if anyone would have noticed or cared, other than his kids. Shit. It’s always something. He knew all the kids were going to be upset. He missed them so badly already that his heart ached. Not being able to tell them the real reason he was here only made it worse.
Depression suddenly weighing down on him he walked toward the bedroom with the king-sized bed and closed the door.
A few minutes later there was a heavy knock on James’s door. It was Stan, a sandwich in one hand and a pillowcase full of beers in another.
“What are you doing here? They told us to stay in our rooms,” James said in an irritated manner when he answered the door.
“Poppycock,” Stan said, stepping past him through the doorway. “They have us locked in so tight, what’s the big deal? After all, they said they needed us. So, I’m not sitting and drinking beer in my room alone. I’m not rude, though, so I brought my own.” He raised his clinking pillowcase and stepped through the door. “Honestly, I wish I could thank Robert for getting me involved with this bullshit. I’d tell him this is more than I bargained for. I was just trying to help you out—and now I’m stuck here as a prisoner with Mr. Capitalist.” He flailed his arms about, casting crumbs and bits of lettuce from his sandwich around the room.
“You know, Stan, sometimes you can really be a dick,” James said in disgust. “Robert was killed for this shit. Just relax. Nobody asked for this. Hey, don’t forget, you’re the government asset here! Shit—I’m just as frustrated.” He walked over to the ice bucket to grab a beer for himself.
After a few minutes of silence, he continued. “You know, you really need to step back for a minute, man. Stop reacting and think. I know you’re good at that. We already knew we were onto something extraordinary. My guess is that the NSA knows more than we can imagine. I’m actually very interested in hearing what’s to come tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe they can shed some light on our discoveries.”
Stan finished his sandwich and thoughtfully removed two more beers for himself from his pillowcase, popped the tops, and sat down heavily in the chair next to James. “Ehh, you’re probably right,” he said. “I know you’re right. I just don’t like being told what to do, where to go, when to use the loo.”
There was a long pause and some tension in the room seemed to ease. “So did you make your calls, Mr. Jet Boy?” He smirked, pointing at James with his beer. “Family and all, I assume?”
James felt uncomfortable. “Ah. Yes. The kids,” James said uncomfortably.
“No wife?” said Stan, rummaging in his pillowcase for a bag of potato chips.
“Try this on for size,” James spat. “Four kids, married for nearly two decades, and she decided to fuck the tennis coach.” Immediately he wished he hadn’t said it. But it stopped Stan in his tracks.
“Shit,” Stan said, his smile vanishing. “Sorry, mate.” He handed James a beer and the two men drank in silence.
At 7:30 sharp the next morning, James was fumbling with the hotel-grade, one-cup coffeemaker when Agent Stinson knocked at the door and let himself into his suite.
“I hope you slept well. We have a long day planned,” Stinson said. “You have about thirty minutes to meet me in the hallway.” With that, he was gone before James could say anything to him.
There was another knock. James waited a few moments, expecting the agent to let himself in again, but after the second knock, he went to open the door. Stan slowly stumbled into the room.
“We ready? Let’s get this over with. Do you have any Advil in here?” he said, pushing past James.
“I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” James said, closing the door as Stan made himself at home on the couch.
“Detestable habit. You should really switch to tea,” replied Stan. “Did you know I have a gym in one spare room and an office in the other? This is fucking amazing. I can’t believe they spend our tax dollars on this. The ham-and-egg omelet was actually pretty good,” he yawned.
“Breakfast?” James asked.
“Yeah, you know, room service.” Stan smiled.
James raised his eyebrows and went to the phone to dial. Stan snorted in disgust.
They hurried out to the hall shortly after James finished eating, and found Agent Stinson, Father Perez, and Sati already waiting.
“Well, if I had known you guys were throwing a party, we would have all come,” Stinson said, frowning at them. “Let’s go.”
Back at the complex, they wound themselves through NSA headquarters once again. This time, James took careful mental notes on everything he saw. The building was even more daunting and prison-like after a good night’s sleep.
They were ushered through more security checkpoints. Today, they exited the elevator on the top floor of the building and walked down a long hallway to a door with another security device. Stinson placed his palm on the pad beside the door, and after the pad beeped, he typed in a code.
“Fucking James Bond,” Stan muttered. James smirked in spite of himself.
“Okay, guys, this will be one of the rooms where you will be working,” Stinson aid. “You each need to place your palm here and have it scanned. And remember, as long as you’re visiting, always wear those red-striped cards.” The cards had a large yellow “V” printed on them.
After everyone’s hands were scanned, they entered the room. It was very large and filled with computer servers, file cabinets, and dark, oneway tinted glass that overlooked the parking lot. Several other people, including Agent Lopez, were already hard at work in cubicles on the side of the room.
“Gentlemen,” Stinson said, over the hum of the servers, “this will be your office and lab until further notice. All of the NSA resources for Project Aquarius are at hand.” He waved his arm around the room. “Agent Lopez and I are at your disposal to ensure that you have all the equipment, resources, and expert advice that you may need to continue your research here. The XNA Company servers have been replicated here, so your work is on that terminal.” He pointed to a bank of servers in the corner. “We have team members analyzing the sequence as we speak. All the necessary equipment, including a DNA sequencer, are provided for continued research with our team of biochemists, although our main focus is on the code identified by Dr. Matson and what the hell it is. If there are other items, resources, or personnel that would aid in your research or the expediency of your results, they will be provided.
“Father Perez, the Vatican is now a partner of Project Aquarius. Based upon our cooperation with the Holy See, you will have access to any information or database you need. You will find a reproduction of your Mount Graham files on this terminal.
“And Dr. Unnefer, you have a team over there and the table space to do your work on the tablets. Also, we have appointed one of our men as your assistant. He is an expert in hieroglyphs, and originally from Egypt as well.” The man glared at Sati coldly. He was older than Sati, short but fit with graying short hair. His brow was heavily lined.
Stinson exited the room with everyone in tow. He led them further down the hallway, stopping outside a large conference room and motioning for them to follow him inside. Once inside, James was surprised with the quality of the furnishings. The conference table was solid walnut and there was a matching credenza along the wall. The chairs were Herman Miller Aeron chairs. The computer system and audio/video system were all state-of-the-art. The entire back wall of the conference room was an LCD screen running from floor to ceiling.
“More of my tax dollars at work,” James grumbled to himself.
“Let’s get started, gentlemen,” said Agent Stinson. Everyone took a seat, with the exception of James. He walked over to the credenza and poured himself a cup of coffee, making sure to take his time.
“Would anyone else like some?” James asked after he had taken a sip.
“Oh, why not?” Stan sighed. “This looks like it might take awhile.”
Sati declined. James noticed he was still clutching his case, and wondered if he had slept with it.
Despite his air of confidence, James had not slept well. He hoped the dark shadows under his eyes didn’t betray him. He set his coffee down and took a seat.
Once they were settled, Agent Stinson passed out a small binder to each of them.
“Gentlemen, this is a brief overview of what each of you have discovered,” Stinson stated. “Please take a moment to review it, and then we will discuss it together. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
They each read the ten-page binder, forming their own opinions about what was mentioned. When Stinson finally came back to the room, the tone of the meeting had changed dramatically: everyone was talking loudly and excitedly asking questions of one another.
“Yes. The excavation revealed three books of gold,” Sati was saying. As Stinson entered, his eyes flashed over at the agent and his grip on the case tightened. “They are inscribed with hieroglyphs unknown to Egyptology on their covers and evidence an advanced construction and technology. I invited the Americans into the excavation. And how was I repaid? They tried to steal these from me.” He said, squeezing the case. “Had I not threatened the president directly that I would go public with a claim that an Islamic artifact had been found during the excavation and stolen by the Americans, I would likely not be here with these books that rightfully belong to Egypt’s people.”
“Seems to be a lot of that going around,” James muttered.
“What’s the meaning of the hieroglyphs on these books, doctor?” Stan asked.
“We do not know, but some of the markings we have identified as ancient Sumerian,” Sati stated. “These markings roughly translate into the word Wisdom.”
“Let’s see the books,” James said.
Sati hesitated for a moment and surveyed the others. Then, very carefully, he unpacked the books and placed them on the table where everyone could scrutinize their perfect form and dimensions. They appeared to be solid gold, but were much lighter anyone than expected.
James was awestruck. He remained quiet, observing as the others all began speaking at once. Why would the NSA be bringing this group of researchers together? he wondered.
As the last of them finished looking at the books and sat back in their seats, Agent Stinson addressed them.
“The presence of the anomaly in the DNA code is difficult to comprehend,” he said. “We understand that the question of why or how it got there is of utmost importance, so this is what we seek to answer first.
“Here is what we have, gentlemen. The first civilization on Earth, the Sumerians, encoded the location of these gold books on ancient stone tablets that they described as the Ascension Testaments. These stone tablets, I’m told by Father Perez, speak about the creation of man, and therefore may open up more information on this DNA anomaly.”
“What are these markings on the tablets?” Stan asked.
“They appear to be some kind of star chart,” Sati said.
“What do you think about that, Father?” Stinson asked, Father Perez.
“Yes, it appears to be some sort of star chart,” the priest said. “This chart matches charts from ancient Sumerian tablets within the Vatican archives. We have determined that this is Virgo, with Jupiter and Mars here. We believe this is the sun, and this the moon.” He paused for a moment.
“What do you mean by Virgo?” James asked. “The constellation?”
“The constellation of the zodiac, yes.”
“You mean like the Virgin Mary?” James asked.
“Correct. Anyway, this star map and these ancient stone tablets tell tales of great cataclysms. It is something my fellow Catholics interpret as Armageddon.”
Everyone sat quietly, absorbing what the priest had said.
James sensed that there was more to the story; it looked to him as if Perez wanted to say more but had decided against it.
“Look at this, gentlemen.” Stinson stood and organized the gold books in a row. A sound like two magnets attracting each other occurred as each book connected to the next. Down the middle of all three books was now a single large glyph, made up of two snakes twisted around each other.
“Oh my God,” James said, realization hitting him. “The snakes on the books are twisted like a strand of DNA.”
“Right. Which brings us back to our principal enigma.” Stinson walked over to the LCD wall and touched one of the file images projected on it. On the screen, DNA microarray imaging software launched, and the sequence that Robert had identified appeared. “It is our opinion, both within Project Aquarius and among a few NSA cryptologists who have analyzed the sequence, that this is statistically impossible as a biological anomaly. In their view, it cannot be a natural occurrence. A random DNA mutation would not have found its way into every human’s chromosomes with this unique pattern. We believe that these books and the DNA pattern are connected, and may provide information on the origin of mankind.”
“Well,” Stan interjected, “even incidents with relatively small probabilities can occur, but I agree that it was most likely deliberately inserted into our DNA—but it could be a random insertion. Goodness knows we have seen very odd things when we’ve studied nature.”
“And what do you mean by that, professor?” asked Stinson.
“Agent Stinson, I’m really not interested in wasting my time while you play coy. The bottom line is that this is either random or something that was engineered by an intelligent source. You called on us to work this out for you; my input is that we need every scientist in the world to see this data, and soon. I say we share this, so the work can be corroborated and expanded.”
“Professor, you have just given two possible answers to this riddle. One is that it is just random. What would be the point of exciting the entire scientific community—or worse, the general public—about a random occurrence?”
“The scientific community thrives on collaboration,” Stan countered. “Excitement over the questions this sequence presents is precisely what we need.”
“That may be the case. If this is simply a naturally occurring phenomena, then the scientific community is more than welcome to have the information. However, should your second hypothesis hold true—that it has been intentionally placed into our DNA structure—think of the incredible impact on society. It would challenge our fundamental views of life as we know it. Everything here, including those books, supports this conclusion.”
Agent Stinson held Stan’s gaze. “Do you seriously expect us to just present this information publicly? It would be socially irresponsible. Surely you must acknowledge that you cannot just make the statement that everyone has some form of a foreign marker in their DNA. What would you say about it? ‘Well, it may be nothing, folks, but it could have been put there by a god or an alien creator.’ You would disrupt civilization on Earth irreparably in an instant.
“Until we understand what we are dealing with, and decide that the world is ready for whatever information we find, it will remain above-top-secret in its classification. After the President of the United States and the member nations of Project Aquarius have been fully briefed, no public comment will occur. Now, Dr. Caruthers, we have more important items to cover today. Sitting here and arguing about something that isn’t a real choice is a waste of our time.”
“I don’t see disruption as bad,” Stan shot back. “It encourages growth. I also don’t see why it isn’t a choice. Isn’t America a democracy?” demanded Stan. “You cannot restrain the truth. People have a right to know about this, and should know, damn it! This isn’t Plato’s Republic here. We shouldn’t be holding back this information.”
“You’re sounding a bit like a reasonable libertarian here, Stan,” James chimed in. “Mind you don’t betray Karl Marx, now.”
Stan threw him a glare.
“Professor Caruthers is on step forty. I am trying to prepare you for step one,” Stinson told them. “If any of this information gets out before we fully understand what we are dealing with, immediate turmoil will ensue. Financial markets could collapse, fundamental religious tenets would be challenged, and many other institutions could be threatened with invalidation and violence. We—”
“World War III could break out,” Sati said softly.
They all turned and stared at the Egyptologist. He was staring out the window into the sky. Suddenly, he realized everyone was looking at him and flushed.
“The bottom line,” Stinson continued, “is that we have an obligation to fully understand these matters first. Let the people who were elected to lead the nations of the world decide if and when this information is provided to their people.”
“I understand the need to verify a hypothesis first—probably more than you do!” challenged Stan. “I’m not suggesting we go running to TIME magazine with the latest gossip, or even our assumptions. I just believe that if scientifically verifiable evidence is obtained, we should provide it to the scientific community in peer-reviewed journals for validation and further research.”
Stinson pursed his lips, clearly, he was fighting the urge to throttle Dr. Caruthers. There was a long pause while he attempted to regain his composure.
James glowered at Stan, “Stan, shut the hell up and let’s get on with this,” he said.
“That isn’t necessary, Mr. Anderson,” Stinson said in a soft voice. “Professor Caruthers, you mistakenly believe this is an issue open for discussion. It is not. I don’t have the luxury, or the burden, of making this decision, nor is it open for your interpretation. You can continue arguing with me as long as you like, but for every minute you continue, you will be keeping this information from the others for that much longer in the end. We will proceed exactly as I explained last night. You will not breathe a word of this finding to anyone outside of this room. If there is any breach of this policy,” he added, and paused again, sternly looking at each of them in the eye, “you will not like the ramifications.” The conviction in his tone ended the argument. The seriousness of this threat was palpable. It startled more than Dr. Caruthers. Stinson began to pace. “I’m going to resume now,” he said, his tone decisive. “I am the lead on Project Aquarius inside the NSA. As some of you know, there are counterparts from several nations’ security organizations that basically occupy the same role I do. This particular NOC, or network operations center, is not the only one. There are five additional locations across the globe…”