Origin (2 page)

“What is the course of action, Mr. President? Destroy it?”

“How can we? Is it our right? Think what this means.”

“But what if it awakens? Could we contain it?”

“Why not? This is the twentieth century. We are making technological advancements on a daily basis.”

“Do you believe the public is ready for this?”

“No,” Roosevelt said without hesitation. “I do not believe the United States, or the world, even in this enlightened age, would be able to handle a discovery of this magnitude.”

Stevens frowned. He didn’t believe any good could come of this, but as usual he had trouble going toe to toe with Roosevelt.

“Speak your mind, John. You have been living with this for a month.”

“I believe we should burn it, Mr. President. Then sink its ashes in the sea.”

“You are afraid.”

“Even a man of your standing, sir, must admit to some fear gazing at this thing.”

“Yes, I can admit to being afraid. But that is because we fear what we do not understand. Perhaps with understanding…”

Roosevelt made his decision. This would be taken back to the States. He’d lock it away someplace secret and recruit the top minds in the world to study it. He instructed Stevens to have a crate built and for it to be packed and boarded onto the Louisiana— no, better make it the Tennessee. If Mother found out what was aboard her ship she might die of fright.

“But if the world sees this…”

“The world will not. Pay the workers off, and have them work at night without witnesses. I expect the crate to be locked as this shed was, and the key given to me. Worry no more about this John, it is no longer your concern.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt clenched his teeth and forced himself to stick out his hand to touch the thing; a brief touch that he would always recall as the most frightening experience of his life. He covered the fear with a bully Roosevelt
harrumph
and a false pout of bravado.

“Now let us lock this up and you can show me that canal you are building.”

Stevens closed the lid, but the smell remained.

The twenty-sixth President of the United States walked out of the shed and into the rain. His hands were shaking. He made two fists and shoved them into his pockets. The rain speckled his glasses, but he made no effort to clean them off. His whole effort was focused on a silent prayer to God that he’d made the right decision.

“Y
ou have reached Worldwide Translation Services. For English, press one. Por Español…”

BEEP.

“Welcome to WTS, the company for your every translation and interpretation need. Our skilled staff of linguists can converse in over two dozen languages, and we specialize in escort, telephone, consecutive, simultaneous, conference, sight, and written translations. For a list of languages we’re able to interpret, press one. For Andrew Dennison, press two. For a…”

BEEP.

The business phone rang. Andy glanced at the clock next to the bed. Coming up on 3am Chicago time. But elsewhere in the world they were eating lunch.

If he didn’t pick up, it would be forwarded to voice mail.

Unfortunately, voice mail didn’t pay his bills.

“WTS, this is Andrew Dennison.”

“Mr. Dennison, this is the President of the United States. Your country needs you.”

Andy hung up. He remembered being a kid, sleeping over at a friend’s house, making prank calls. It seemed so funny back then.

He closed his eyes and tried to return to the dream he’d been having. Something to do with Susan, his ex-girlfriend, begging for him to come back. She’d told him that would only happen in his dreams, and she’d proven herself right.

The phone rang again.

“Look, kid. I’ve got your number on the caller ID, so I know you’re calling from…”

He squinted at the words
WHITE HOUSE
on the phone display.

“Mr. Dennison, In exactly five seconds two members of the Secret Service will knock on your door.”

There was a knock at the door.

Andy jack-knifed to a sitting position.

“Those are agents Smith and Jones. They’re to escort you to a limousine waiting downstairs.”

Andy took the cordless over to his front door, squinted through the peephole. Standing in the hallway were two men in black suits.

“Look, Mister—uh—President, if this is some kind of tax thing…”

“Your particular skills are required in a matter of national security, Mr. Dennison. I’ll brief you in New Mexico.”

“This is a translation job?”

“I can’t speak any more about it at this time, but you must leave immediately. You’ll be paid three times your normal rate, plus expenses. My agents can explain in further detail. We’ll talk when you arrive.”

The connection ended. Andy peered through his peephole again. The men looked like secret service. They had the blank stare dead-to-rights.

“Do you guys have ID?” he asked through the door.

They held up their ID.

Andy swallowed, and swallowed again. He considered his options, and realized he really didn’t have any.

He opened the door.

“As soon as you’re dressed, Mr. Dennison, we can take you to the airport.”

“How many days should I pack for?”

“No need to pack, sir. Your things will be forwarded to you.”

“Do you know what language I’m going to be using? I’ve got books, computer programs…”

“Your things will be forwarded.”

Andy had more questions, but he didn’t think asking them would result in answers. He dressed in silence.

The limo, while plush, wasn’t accessorized with luxuries. No wet bar. No television. No phone. And the buttons for the windows didn’t work.

Andy wore his best suit, Brooks Brothers gray wool, his Harvard tie, and a pair of leather shoes from some Italian designer that cost three hundred dollars and pinched his toes.

“So where in New Mexico am I going?” Andy asked the agents, both of whom rode in the front seat.

They didn’t reply.

“Are we going to O’Hare or Midway?”

No answer.

“Can you guys turn on the radio?”

The radio came on. Oldies. Andy slouched back in his seat as Mick Jagger crooned.

Chicago whipped by him on both sides, the streets full of people even at this late hour. Summer in the city was around the clock. The car stopped at a light and three college age girls, drunk and giggling, knocked on his one way window and tried to peer inside. They were at least a decade too young for him.

Their destination turned out to be Midway, the smaller of Chicago’s two airports. Rather than enter the terminal, they were cleared through the perimeter fence and pulled directly out onto the runway. They parked in front of a solitary hanger, far from the jumbo jets. Andy was freed from the limo and led silently to a Lear jet. He boarded without enthusiasm. He’d been on many jets, to many places more exotic than New Mexico.

Andy was bursting with curiosity for his current situation, but sleep was invading his head. It would probably turn out to be some silly little international embarrassment, like a Pakistani Ambassador who hit someone while drunk driving. What was the Hindko word for intoxication? He couldn’t remember, and since they didn’t let him take his books, he had no way to look it up.

At a little past four
AM
the pilot boarded and introduced himself with a strong handshake, but didn’t offer his name. He had no answers for Andy either.

Andy slept poorly, on an off, for the next few hours.

He awoke during the landing, the jolt nudging him alert when the wheels hit the tarmac. After the plane came to a stop, the pilot announced they’d arrived at their destination, Las Cruces International Airport. Andy rubbed some grit from his eyes and stretched in his seat, waiting for the pilot to open the hatch.

The climate was hot and dry, appropriate for the desert. The pilot informed Andy to remain on the runway and then walked off to the terminal.

Andy waited in the powerful sun, the only human being in sight, his rumpled suit soon clinging to him like a close family. A minute passed. Two. A golden eagle rode a thermal in the distance, circling slowly. Andy wondered when his ride would arrive. He wondered why this town was called The Crosses. He wondered what the hell was so important that the leader of the free world woke him up at 3
AM
and flew him out here.

From the opposite end of the runway an Army Humvee approached. Andy noticed the tags, Fort Bliss. The driver offered him a thermos of coffee and then refused further conversation.

They drove west on Interstate 10 and turned onto highway 549, heading into the desert. Traffic went from infrequent to non-existent, and after they passed the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant; a large complex fenced off with barbed wire, they turned off road and followed some dirt trail that Andy could barely make out.

The Florida Mountains loomed in the distance. Sagebrush and tumbleweeds dotted the landscape. Andy even saw the skull of a steer resting on some rocks. This was the authentic West, the West of Geronimo and Billy the Kid. He’d been to several deserts in his travels; the Gobi in China, the Rub al-Khalia in Saudi Arabia, the Kalahari in South Africa… but this was his first visit to the Chihuahuan Desert. It left him as the others had—detached. Travel meant work, and Andy never had a chance to enjoy any of the places he’d visited around the world.

The Humvee stopped abruptly and Andy lurched in his seat.

“We’re here,” the driver said.

Andy craned his neck and looked around. Three hundred and sixty degrees of desert, not a building nor a soul in sight.

“You’re kidding.”

“Please get out of the Humvee, sir. I’m supposed to leave you here.”

“Leave me here? In the desert?”

“Those are my orders.”

Andy squinted. There was nothing but sand and rock for miles and miles.

“This is ridiculous. I’ll die out here.”

“Sir, please get out of the Humvee.”

“You can’t leave me in the middle of the desert. It’s insane.”

The driver drew his pistol.

“Jesus!”

“These are my orders, sir. If you don’t get out of the Humvee, I’ve been instructed to shoot you in the leg and drag you out. One…”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Two…”

“This is murder. You’re murdering me here.”

“Three.”

The driver cocked the gun and aimed it at Andy’s leg. Andy threw up his hands. “Fine! I’m out!”

Andy stepped out of the Humvee. He could feel the heat of the sand through the soles of his shoes.

The driver holstered his weapon, hit the gas, and swung the Humvee around. It sped off in the direction it had come. Andy watched until it shrank down to nothing.

He turned in a complete circle, feeling the knot growing in his belly. The only thing around him was scrub brush and cacti.

“This is not happening.”

Andy searched the sky for any helicopters that might be flying in to pick him up. The sky was empty, except for a fat desert sun that hurt his eyes. Andy couldn’t be sure, but the air seemed to be getting hotter. By noon it would be scorching.

He looked at his watch and wondered how long he could go without water. The very idea of it made his tongue feel thick. A day, maybe two at most. It would take at least two days to walk back to the airport. He decided to follow the truck tracks.

“Andrew Dennison?”

Andy spun around, startled. Standing twenty yards away was a man. He wore loose fitting jeans and a blue polo shirt, and he approached Andy in an unhurried gait. As the figure came into sharper focus, Andy noticed several things at once. The man was old, maybe seventy, with age spots dotting his bald dome and deep wrinkles set in a square face. But he carried himself like a much younger man, and though his broad shoulders were stooped with age, he projected an apparent strength.
Military,
Andy guessed, and upper echelon as well.

Andy walked to meet the figure, trying not to appear surprised that he’d just materialized out of nowhere. The thoughts of vultures and thirst were replaced by several dozen questions.

“I’m General Regis Murdoch. Call me Race. Welcome to Project Samhain.”