So this is what it feels like to be thrown to the wolves. The thought settled into Elijiah Grazier’s brain with the cold certainty of a winter storm. In the past he’d had ample experience with the process—but he’d always been the thrower, never the thrown. Given a choice, he’d settle for the former any day.
He sat on the corner of a conference table in a small waiting room just off the main hallway and down from the Oval Office. The edge of the table ate painfully into his ass, and his legs were stiffening and beginning to ache. Maintaining the posture was an act of self-torture, a way to pay himself back for not thinking the last twenty-four hours through.
How do I get one up on the bastard?
He crossed his arms, heedless of the fact it rumpled his dress uniform. A quick stop at home had allowed him to change and retrieve his clip-on DOD ID card. A man just didn’t show up at the White House wearing a stolen oversized shirt, stupid-looking shorts, and too-tight sandals.
From where he waited, Grazier could just see the polished toes of the Marine guard’s shoes, the man’s uniformed elbow, and part of his jacket sleeve sticking out beyond the doorjamb.
“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you,” he’d told the president after waiting for nearly three hours before the Chief of Staff could fit him in for five minutes. He’d felt nervous, off his game, as he began his briefing regarding Skientia. And who wouldn’t?
Hell, he’d barely gotten through his introduction, before Bill Stevens, the Chief of Staff, had narrowed his right eye and asked, “Are you going to tell us that Skientia, and Prisoner Alpha are a threat to national security? Something ludicrous? Like she’s . . . um . . .” His voice had dropped suggestively. “. . . from another world?”
Grazier had frozen, staring in disbelief. “You already know?”
Stevens had thrown his hands up, rising from the couch, and crying. “Hell, yes! Bill Minor, chief operating officer for Skientia, gave me a heads-up last night. He thought I might want to devise a way to keep a decorated and respected officer like yourself from ending his career by looking like a lunatic. He hoped I’d be able to keep your breakdown quiet.”
Stevens had glanced at the president. “I’m just sorry you had to see it. If I’d known there was any truth to Minor’s accusation, I’d have had the general removed before he embarrassed himself.”
Grazier’s heart might have turned to stone. “Dear God,” he had whispered. “They’re that much ahead of me.”
The president was studying him through thoughtful, half-lidded eyes. Then he said, “General Grazier, if you could excuse us?” He gestured toward one of the secret service agents standing by the door, adding, “Please escort the general to the waiting room.”
And Eli had landed here, waiting, his butt burning as the table edge cut into his flesh. How long?
He blinked. Time had become a fog.
Bill Minor. From Skientia. I will remember that name.
By now Savage and his band should be on their way back from Aberdeen and the meeting with Rogers.
God, right now, more than anything, I need that box to be important.
Bill Stevens appeared in the doorway. The man looked immaculate in his light-gray silk suit and powder-blue button-down shirt sporting a crimson tie. A curious twinkle lay behind his normally placid blue eyes as he stepped in and nonchalantly leaned against the table to Grazier’s right. In a voice barely above a whisper, he asked, “Who’d you send north in that helicopter, Eli? What are they doing?”
“Helicopter? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Stevens’ face bent into a Dr. Seuss smile. “Well, it doesn’t matter. We’ll know when the FAA recovers the bodies from the wreckage. Even burned or crushed, the forensic people will ID what’s left.”
Eli, a leaden weight in his gut, fought to keep his expression fixed and neutral. How the fuck do they know?
Stevens straightened, pulled his suit jacket tight, and tossed off a mock salute as he said, “Be seeing you, General.” Then he was out, leaving Grazier to smother in his own frustration.
Skientia controls Stevens!
He was still preoccupied with the problem when a secret service agent appeared, asking, “General? If you could come with me?”
Eli pushed himself straight, his butt tingling as circulation was restored. He marched stiffly behind the man, surprised as he was guided to one of the elevators. Even more surprising, the agent stopped short, holding the “door open” button and glancing down the hall.
Then, as the president stepped in, the agent nodded, released the button, and backed out.
When the doors slipped shut, the president pressed one of the buttons for the underground levels, and said, “Sorry, Eli. I needed to wait for Bill to leave.”
“With respect, Mr. President, all I’m asking is a review of the science by a qualified outside party.”
The president’s distracted gaze fixed on the flashing lights as the elevator dropped. “I remember the day I first met you. You’d just made captain. They’d appointed you to squire me around.”
Grazier nodded. “You were just a state senator doing all you could to stave off the base closing Congress had approved.”
“We didn’t win.”
“No, sir.” Eli took a deep breath. “I’m not off my rocker, sir. The science is advanced stuff, nearly impossible for our own physicists to comprehend. I’m still not convinced that Gray, um, Prisoner Alpha isn’t playing at some masquerade.”
The elevator stopped, the door opening to a lighted corridor.
“Come on. I want to discuss this in private.”
“So, I’m not being placed under restraint for psych evaluation?” Eli followed the president out into the hall. A secret service agent detached himself from the wall, following discreetly behind.
“What’s your opinion of Bill Stevens?”
“As of today I’ve decided he’s a prick, sir.”
The president smiled. “A good judge of character would have figured that out years ago, as I did. My problem is that he happens to be a very useful prick. He uses me, I use him. It’s a cold, emotionless, and mutually beneficial relationship. Does that bother you?”
Eli smiled coolly as the president opened a thick metal door. “No, sir. Like you, I’ll do what I need to, use who I need to, to complete my mission.”
The secret service agent remained just outside the door as it slammed closed. Grazier found himself in a small room with two easy chairs. A small wooden table sat between them, and a bottle of what he recognized as very expensive single-malt scotch stood between two cut-crystal glasses.
“Have a seat, Eli,” the president said. The man walked to the table, pulled the cork and poured a couple of fingers into each glass.
The president handed one to Grazier as he seated himself, then took the other and lowered himself into the second chair.
Eli sipped the scotch, asking, “So, is this how you treat all your presumptively psychotic subordinates?”
The president leaned back. “I don’t have much time. Tell me the story as concisely as possible. All of it.”
Eli outlined it out as succinctly as he could.
“So I’m supposed to believe this shit about Egypt? Prisoner Alpha? The guy time traveling? Stolen sarcophaguses, weird metal boxes, and . . . and mental patients?” The president stared at him across the rim of his scotch glass.
Grazier sipped his whiskey. “You don’t know it, but you’re president today because Falcon’s analysis allowed me to thwart what would have been that very inconvenient terrorist bombing during your election campaign.”
The president glanced at his watch, scowled, and said, “Enjoy the scotch, Eli. Because I’ve come to a decision about all this. I’ve got some good news . . . and some bad news.” He smiled, as if pained. “And I don’t think you’re going to like the bad news at all.”