0300 Book 3 - 9. Chapter 9: Fatima Humint

Chapter 9: Fatima Humint

 

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,


In the ranks of death you'll find him;


His father's sword he has girded on,


And his wild harp slung behind him;

—Thomas Moore (1779—1852)
Earth Analogues II, III, IV

 

2009-03-07 USF Charleston

 

Artie had given me a challenge. He didn’t know it, and he didn’t mean it, but it was real, nonetheless.

“Paul, everyone says we need someone on the ground. I know you agree—” Artie’s telepathy was stronger. He was getting better at reading the metas including me, although he wasn’t quite there, yet— “and I know you are afraid because this is different from putting someone on the ground in Australia.

“I have someone who wants very much to help. Someone who needs to help. It’s one of the kids who had explosives strapped to them, and who was going to blow up himself and the Reverends. Most of them were killed trying to destroy the Army’s tanks when they attacked us. This kid was shot in both legs. He couldn’t stand up. He couldn’t sacrifice himself like the others did. And that’s eating him up!

“Please, Paul? Daddy? You’ve got to let him do this!” Artie grabbed me in a hug and put his head on my shoulder. I felt his tears, and I felt his determination.

“You boys sure know how to play your boyfriend and daddy, don’t you?” I asked. There was a bit of laughter in my voice, and a lot of sadness. Artie understood. He stopped crying and looked at me with a grin.

“George is such a good teacher,” he said.

 

“Who is this boy?” I asked.

“Terry,” Artie said. “He’s the one who asked you to adopt him at that first meeting, and he’s the first one who asked to go on a humint mission.”

I remembered the boy. He’d been about twelve, just the age to be most attractive to the Reverends. Had the attack succeeded, they would have welcomed him into their orgy. He was cute, but he was also strong enough to carry the forty pounds of explosives that had been strapped to his body. He was also strong enough to have blown up himself and a bunch of Reverends had the mission succeeded.

“Who adopted him?” I asked. I didn’t have to ask if he’d been adopted. All of Artie’s boys had been adopted by someone in Fleet. Including those who had died. Two of the dead boys were my sons.

“Admiral Davis, sir,” Artie said.

“Nova sol!” I said. “And don’t call me sir unless we’re in public! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“No excuse, sir,” Artie said. I felt his worry, maybe a little fear.

“Artie, son, I love you. You have done nothing wrong,” I said.

“It would have been nice to know, though.”

 

Tobor assured me that the link to Admiral Davis was secure. When the Admiral’s image appeared on my screen, I began.

“Admiral, Prime Minister Lloyd-George didn’t have to put up with a bunch of boys who have been asked to give up their childhood and do things that boys their age shouldn’t have to do. And a couple of those boys including your son have put me in an untenable position. Partly because I didn’t know you had adopted one of my boys.”

Gob-smacked fit Admiral Davis’s face, perfectly.

“You didn’t know about Terry?” he finally managed to ask.

“No sir. Did you know he was demanding to be made a humint resource at Fatima-South Rim?”

“Actually, I did, Paul. I didn’t say anything to you because I assumed . . . I thought . . . Nova sol! I don’t know what I thought.”

“What do I do, sir?” I asked. “And don’t, please, don’t say that it’s my decision. I’ve never had to put Danny or George or Artie in real danger, so I don’t know what it feels like. Please, sir, I’m asking a father as a father. This isn’t something that belongs to the chain-of-command.”

“Paul, sometimes I forget that for all that you are, you are just nineteen years old—no longer a boy, but not quite yet a man—who has been thrust into situations for which no one could be properly prepared. You, too, gave up your childhood.”

I thought of the super-soaker battles at Edmonton, the ice hockey and painting red the thumb of Flinabbity Flonatin. I remembered the cricket matches in India—and nights spent with a brown-skinned boy with black eyes. I thought of theme parks and archaeological digs with Danny and later, with George. Not entirely, sir, was on my lips, but I didn’t want to contradict the admiral, nor interrupt his train of thought. So I remained silent.

“I owe you an answer,” Davis said. “Not only as a father, but as someone who has some thirty years more experience than you.”

Admiral Davis paused to gather his thoughts.

“Paul, Terry wants to do this. He has explained to me why he wants to do this, and I understand his reasons. They are not easy for me to accept, but he is my son. I love him, and I am willing to accept his reasoning.

“Paul? A favor? May I visit Terry before . . . ” The admiral couldn’t finish the sentence. I was barely able to choke out a yes, sir before terminating the call.

 

I summoned Artie and George to my Ready Room.

“Artie, please tell Terry that he will be assigned humint responsibilities at Fatima-South Rim.

“Danny, make sure he has everything our people can equip him with to protect him without revealing our technology. A locator and sub-vocals embedded under his skin. Better get that done immediately so he’ll have a chance to heal.

“George, I want at least one meta watching him telepathically every second he’s on the ground. Task the Ops Team to create a plan to retrieve him . . . just as we have a plan to retrieve pilots. Dedicate the flag shuttle and one of the antique planes from the Enterprise to that task.

“But don’t tell him that his father will visit us in the next couple of hours. That should be a surprise.”

 

It wasn’t hard to conceal Admiral Davis’s visit. Of course, Captain Moultrie had to know. After spending some time with Terry, the Admiral surprised me with a visit. I scrambled to my feet when he walked into my Ready Room.

He looked at me, tilted his head, and asked, “Paul? Didn’t you know I was here?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I knew you were on the Charleston, but . . . No, I didn’t know you were here . . . I mean, outside my Ready Room.”

“I thought you could sense danger,” the admiral said.

“Just so,” I said after thinking about it. “But you are not a danger, sir.”

“Paul, I know you never knew your father, and that you’re a father and a father figure, to a lot of boys.” I didn’t have to hear what he was thinking to understand. He was offering his shoulder, his wisdom, and something more than the already close—albeit professional—relationship we’d developed.

It was a most excellent meeting, and discussion. When it was over, Admiral Davis stood. I rose, and accepted his hug.

 

2009-03-14 Fatima

 

The Army had been busy for several days: trainloads of equipment ranging from field kitchens to water tankers to shovels had been delivered and positioned. Rows of tents a few hundred yards south of the rim had been erected for the soldiers.

Trains carrying the pilgrims had begun arriving in Williams two days before, and shuttled onto sidings. More field kitchens and water tankers served them. On the day before the miracle was scheduled to take place, the trains left for the south rim, nose to tail. Boxcars reminiscent of those that had carried Jews, Gypsies, and Homosexuals to concentration camps in other realities were filled with serfs. The number of serfs who died before the trains reached the south rim was considered acceptable.

 

The night had been unseasonably hot, and the pilgrims had slept little, enveloped in the heated night air and the miasma of trench latrines. By dawn, lines at the tanker cars that dispensed water were already long, as were those at the field kitchens that offered a plain breakfast.

 

A soldier accosted a child who was carrying his breakfast away from the field kitchen.

“Who are you?” Where are your parents?” a soldier demanded.

“I don’t know, sir,” the boy answered. “I lost them.”

“What town are you from?” the soldier pressed the boy for an answer. “Where are your documents?”

Terry stuttered. He’d forgotten the name of the town he was supposed to be from, and was afraid. The soldier raised his pistol. Easier to kill this one than to find out where he’s from, the man thought.

“Tom!” A man’s voice cut through the hubbub. “Tom, where have you been?” A man put his hand on Terry’s arm and addressed the soldier.

“Colonel! Please forgive my nephew. He’s simple, and shouldn’t be here. But my sister . . . you understand, don’t you?” The voice was that of a serf. The man continued. “Please, won’t you let me take him? His mother, my sister, is worried . . . ?”

The sergeant, who had many more things than a wayward, retarded boy to worry about, nodded and returned his pistol to its holster. The man grabbed Terry’s hand, and led him away.

When they were far away from the soldier, the man released Terry’s hand and faced the boy. “I do not know who you are,” he said. “I know that you do not belong here. I will not ask you to tell me anything, but I will ask that you stay with me. I may be able to protect you.”

 

By 0900, most of the serfs had been fed and given water. Those who had not been would not be. The field kitchens had been closed; the spigots on the tank cars turned off. It was time for the miracle, and Tannoys set on poles throughout the area called the faithful to worship. The music was Bach: Hertz und Mund und Tat und Leben, although neither Robert Bridges nor Martin Jahn would have recognized the words.

“Look to the sun!” the voice from the Tannoy exhorted. “Look to the sun to see the miracle when it crashes into the earth before you!”

The message was repeated and reinforced by Reverends, some in black with white collars, and some dressed as serfs, who moved among the crowd.

Before any of the pilgrims could be blinded by the sun, a breeze between two rifts began to blow across the ground. A second set of unseen rifts opened a few hundred feet in the air. Sand whirled from one high rift to another, blocking the sun. Just enough sand fell that the pilgrims—and the Reverends—believed a sandstorm had arisen. The breeze from the lower rift reinforced the notion that the sand was windborne, and also kept if from falling into the serfs’ upraised eyes.

Dr. Adams, in a cruiser at the edge of space, hidden by distance, played his computer keyboard. The “Geeks with Guns” who had descended from space upon the CERN-Higgs facility had shown him enough that he was able to piece together, and then codify, the science of the rifts.

A sandstorm like none ever seen before whirled above the gathered pilgrims. Sand and dust flew between the people and the sun, and the sun disappeared.

 

“What in the hell is happening?” On the roof of the train station, beside the platform on which a televisor crew had set up their equipment, a Reverend, a colonel, and the colonel’s aide watched. They were under the sandstorm, and saw only that the sun was blocked.

 

A mile farther south, an Inquisitor watched from the crest of a hill. The sand . . . where is it coming from? There’s something unnatural—

He heard, but ignored the putt-putt from the engine of the biplane, and didn’t see the phaser bolt that ended his life.

 

“Who ordered in the air wing?” the colonel demanded of his aide.

“Sir! They’re not ours!”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” the Reverend asked.

“They’re not our aircraft, sir. They’re marked like ours but they’re not!” the colonel’s aide said.

“California?” the colonel suggested.

“You might as well ask if they’re from the people who have the boxy aeroplanes without wings—” the Reverend began.

“That’s exactly who they are! Get on the telegraph!” the Colonel said.

 

It was too late. The instant the first rifts had opened, four puffs of smoke rose from atop the telegraph line cross-arms a few miles from the canyon. The telegraph wires were severed, and dropped to the ground. A phaser bolt from a two-seater biplane knocked out one of four legs of a microwave tower. The tower tilted slowly, and then crashed to the ground. South Rim was effectively isolated.

 

“How long do these storms last?” the Reverend asked the colonel.

“Natural storms, maybe a day or two,” the colonel said.

“What do you mean, natural storm?” the Reverend asked.

“This isn’t natural,” the colonel said. “There’s no sand on the ground, just in the air.”

The Reverend heard this, but didn’t understand. The colonel didn’t hesitate. Natural or unnatural, the storm was going to keep the miracle from happening. His instructions were clear. He turned to his aide. “Relocate the gas generators upwind. As soon as they are in position, start them up.”

 

Along with the Flag Team, I was monitoring the activities from my Briefing Room. Dr. Adams was connected by video link that also carried live images from the Enterprise aircraft.

“What are they doing?” Alex asked, and put an image on the main screen.

“Relocating some equipment.”

“Relocating it upwind. Those are the gas generators. The only reason they’d move them is if they were going to use them,” Cam said.

“We can’t let them gas all those people,” I said. Or Terry. “Find a way.” I bit my lip to keep from interfering with the team’s deliberations.

“What’s the best way to stop them?” Casey asked.

“Turn off the sand?”

“Can’t let the miracle occur.”

“Phasers from the aircraft?”

“Not enough of them, and they’re not powerful enough.”

“Why not just switch the direction of the wind?” Deacon asked.

I grabbed Deacon and hugged him. “Brilliant!”

Deacon was a bit overwhelmed by his Commodore’s hug, so I released him and whispered. “Be sure to tell Isaac how smart you are, and share that hug with him.”

Deacon grinned, and I got a kiss on my cheek. He’d pretty quickly gotten over being overwhelmed.

“That will take care of the immediate problem,” I said.

Deacon knew what I meant. “We’ve got to take out the generators,” he said.

“Can we wait until dark?”

“I can keep them from gassing the people at least that long,” Dr. Adams said.

“Daddy?” George grinned. “We need to make some big explosions.”

* * * * *

“You are—well, you were—too clean,” the man said. “You were looking around with curiosity, you were looking out and up, and did not keep your eyes cast to the ground as a good little serf would know to do.

“When you heard the sound of the aeroplanes, you looked at them without the fear that is drummed into the serfs.

“You don’t belong here,” the man said.

Terry giggled. “Neither do you,” he said. “You speak too plainly and boldly.”

Terry hesitated, but his need for information overcame his fear. “I saw you shoot the colonel and the Reverend and the other soldier who were standing on the roof. You used a silenced pistol. The Reverends’ Army doesn’t have silenced pistols. Who are you?”

The man pondered Terry’s question and then responded to the boy’s courage and openness. “I am an agent for the Army of California. You, on the other hand, are an agent for the people who fly in boxy aeroplanes without wings and who have weapons that shoot lightning.”

The man saw fear in Terry’s face. “You don’t need to answer that,” he said. “I should not know any more about you, since I still have many, many miles to travel before I am safe. You, on the other hand, need only wait until dark and call one of the magical aeroplanes.

“My name is Major Chastain. If we ever meet again, you may tell me more about yourself. I hope that day comes.”

The man pointed toward a trail that led into the hills south of Williams, Arizona, and handed Terry a canteen of water.

“Be safe, little one,” the man whispered as the boy disappeared into the gloaming.

 

2009-03-15 USF Charleston
After Action Debriefing

 

Cam began the briefing. “Terry was caught up in the stampede that followed the destruction of the gas generators, and was carried with the flow all the way to Williams. He felt an obligation to one of the men he met, and did not signal us for pickup until he reached Williams and could get away into the hills south of town.

“I debriefed him, and then sent him on leave back to Geneva. I understand he and his daddy are somewhere near the South Pole at the moment.”

Cam didn’t say who Terry’s daddy was. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference to the Geeks, but the other boys from U-Cal might have made something of it, and we were pretty sure since Terry and Admiral Davis had kept it from us for so long, that they wanted to keep it that way.

Cam described Terry’s rescue by a man, and Terry’s fear that a soldier would have shot him rather than try to check out his story. “This is a single data point, but it tells us that there may be among the Army a callow disregard for life, but that among the general population, there may be compassion. The former assessment is substantiated by what we learned about the Army’s gas generators.”

“What kind of gas?”

“Nerve gas. Virulent, but not very fast acting.”

Nova sol!

Cam continued the briefing. “Actually, we have two data points. The man who rescued Terry was an Agent of the California Army—if what the man told Terry is to be believed, and we think he was being truthful. Terry said he did not recognize the man. We assume therefore that he was not from the orphanage from which our Artie and his boys came.

“On the other hand, Professor Martin has told us that the orphanage is being turned from a school and farm into an army post. Professor Martin did not know the man’s name, nor did he recognize him from Terry’s description. We assume he was from CIA headquarters in Monterrey.”

He paused for a moment, but there were no questions.

“We spotted someone with binoculars watching the South Rim. He was in a position to see the sand appearing at one rift before being pulled toward another. He was wearing a uniform of a sort we’ve never seen before. It was gray. He wore a lieutenant’s insignia. He was executed to protect our capabilities and technology. As soon as it was dark, we landed a shuttle and retrieved his body. As far as the Reverends know, he disappeared. Our assumption is that he is a member of the Arcana.”

Cam did not address the obvious question: why had he been killed rather than captured, especially given the suspicion that he might have been a member of the Inquisitors, what we had nicknamed Arcana. I knew the answer, but I also knew that some of the boys were not sure. So I interrupted.

“Executing him was the best decision under the circumstances. We had no plan and no reason to plan to retrieve unusual people. It was a good call,” I said. “And good intel. I’m glad someone was watching for something like that.

“On the other hand, now that we know the Inquisition is interested, we must include that in future planning.”

I felt Cam’s relief before he continued. “Before the trucks with gas generators were in position, Dr. Adams switched the two lower rifts so that the wind was blowing from the trucks away from the people, but toward the Army troops. There was nothing they could do. It was too late to change their location.”

“As soon as night fell, Enterprise entered the rift and destroyed the gas generators with conventional rockets. They’re more powerful than anything we know of in F-U, but conventional explosions were better than gamma-burst lasers. We believe it will look like someone from F-U made the attack.”

 

2009-03-16 Reaction to Sandstorm:
Fundamentalist Universe

 

Inquisitors

“Our farthest observer is missing. Vanished. I do not believe he deserted. I do not believe he was killed in the attack on the Army’s gas generators. I believe that he was taken by our enemies. He had a suicide pill; however, we must now assume that they know about us.”

“What could he tell them?”

“Only of our existence and overt mission. He knows nothing of the chain of command, our numbers, or this location.”

“One of our observers heard the order to relocate the Army’s gas generators so that they would be upwind of the crowd. He reported that the wind subsequently changed direction, making it impossible to use the generators.”

“Who attacked the generators?”

“Unknown, sir. High explosives, very accurate. Possibly delivered by suicide bombers. We know California used those, before.”

“Did anyone see aeroplanes without wings?”

“The only aeroplanes there were from the Army.”

“They may not have been from the Army,” Lt. Riggs said.

“Explain.”

“Several images of aeroplanes were captured by televisors before the signal was interrupted. Additional images were recorded by our people on the ground. I have examined them, and compared them with images of the Army’s aeroplanes. They are similar; they are painted correctly. However, they are not quite right.”

“Do we assume, then that there is more than one enemy? One with the ability to fly without wings and to fire lightning that burns holes in the sides of tanks, and one that relies on aeroplanes and explosives?”

“California? We know they monitor the Reverends’ televisor signals. They might not want this miracle to occur. They are in the middle of our trade with the Pan-Asians, and would know about our aeroplanes.”

“That is the most likely scenario,” the Colonel-General said. “However, do not rule out the Pan-Asians. Or those with wingless aeroplanes.”

 

Las Vegas Reverends’ Council

 

“Why were they not executed?”

“We didn’t have the resources, sir,” the major said. “When the gas generators were destroyed, the serfs panicked. They overpowered the few troops at the food stations, took all that was there. With the help of serfs who operated the trains, they reached the town of Williams.

“We could not halt the east-west traffic on the main line without starving Las Vegas, as well as delaying shipments destined for the Pan-Asians. I’m afraid that most of the serfs were able to return to their homes.”

“Can we destroy the towns?”

“Do we need to?”

“No. We can isolate the towns. And convince the Scudder to announce that the miracle occurred. Perhaps have a few actors attest to it.”

“Why did we not learn of this sooner?”

“The telegraph lines were cut, and one of the microwave towers that was to carry televisor images was knocked down.”

 

Monterrey

 

It took the CIA’s observer much longer to return from the South Rim than it had taken him to get there. He’d traveled to the South Rim by train from Las Vegas, with credentials identifying him as a televisor technician. After the explosions that rocked the encamped serfs and started a stampede for the trains, he’d joined the mob. By the time he’d gotten to Kingman, the Army had found its legs, and established order on the westbound train. He was not the only one who had lost his papers, and he managed to convince the overwhelmed soldiers that he was a resident of Lake Havasu. Unwilling to face another such interrogation, he jumped off the train when it slowed for a curve, and spent the next twenty days hiking cross-country, begging for food when he could, stealing it when he could not.

Once he reached Camp Santa Ana, a telegraphed message brought a motorcar. Another day of travel by car and train, a shower and a shave, and he stood in uniform before the CIA’s Senior Committee.

“It took you long enough, Major Chastain,” the general at the center of the panel said. “I hope what you have is worth the wait.”

Major Chastain bit his lip, composed his features, cleared his throat, and spoke.

“There were approximately 5,000 serfs and 2,000 Army troops. The Army was encamped about 500 yards south of the rim of the canyon; the serfs were assembled adjacent to the rim. The Army had set up food and water stations; the serfs were forced to dig trench latrines.

“I was with a televisor crew from Lynchburg, on a platform atop the train depot.

“At 0900 on the morning of 14 March, the Reverends assembled the serfs, played some music, and began to exhort them to look at the sun. Within minutes, a sandstorm blocked the view of the sun. The sandstorm continued unabated until after dark. At 1500, the Army began to reposition their gas generators upwind of the serfs. It was clear that they were going to execute the serfs rather than allow them to see the miracle fail.

“Before the Army could complete the movement of the gas generators, the wind shifted 180 degrees, blowing directly from the gas generators toward the Army encampment. There appeared to be some effort to move the generators, again, but the only place they could have been put was on the rim of the canyon, itself. But that’s where the serfs were.

“The sandstorm continued until sunset. Shortly after dark there was a series of explosions in the vicinity of the gas generators. I was still on the roof of the train depot. There was enough light from the moon to see the serfs panic, and begin moving toward the trains. I attempted to retrieve the recording of the day’s events, but was unable to do so. I joined the mob, and traveled south to Williams with them,” the man concluded his report. I will not tell them about Terry, he thought. They will blame me for not bringing him here, for not forcing him to accompany me. In their zeal, they sometimes forget their humanity.

“That’s what happened,” the senior officer said. “Now, tell us what it means.”

The intelligence agent hesitated as if to assemble his thoughts. Then, he spoke confidently. “First, the event confirms what we already know, that at least some of the Reverends believe what they preach. There were Reverends at the site; using my credentials, I interviewed several of them the day before. Those I spoke to were, I believe, sincere.

“Second, the event confirms what we already know, that the Army is able to act independently. I asked those I interviewed who the Senior Reverend was, with the thought that I wanted to interview him; none believed that there was a Senior Reverend present. The circumstances under which they would kill the serfs with gas may have been defined at a high ecclesiastical level, but the order to execute was made by the Army commander on the scene.

“Third, the event confirms what we know, that the most senior Reverends do not believe what they preach. Otherwise, the Army would not have been equipped and ordered to kill the serfs should the miracle fail.”

The man paused, and then added. “There is one other thing that I saw, and which troubles me. There is nothing specific to which I can point, but I am troubled.

“There were a number of Army aeroplanes present. They flew below the sandstorm or outside it. They—”

“What do you mean by outside the sandstorm?” one of the Committee members asked.

“The sandstorm appeared to be somewhat localized,” the officer replied. “To the south and over the canyon to the north, the air was clear.”

“What do you think that means?” another member asked.

“I do not know, sir,” the observer said. “But I do believe that the aeroplanes were not from the Reverends’ Army—they resembled them and were painted to match them, but they weren’t quite right.” If the aeroplanes had been from our army, they could and should have told me by now. Therefore, they weren’t. This is something for the Brotherhood to ponder.

“Nonsense,” the general said. “They weren’t ours, whose else could they be? You are dismissed.”

Major Chastain saluted, turned, and left the room. They are fools, bigger fools even than the Reverends’ soldiers who came to the conclusion that the aeroplanes were from an entirely different enemy.

 

Camp Santa Ana

 

The California Intelligence Agency shared little information with Camp Santa Ana, and it was several days after Major Chastain’s interview that the Don received an abbreviated version of the major’s report. The Don called his staff together to review the information.

“Headquarters has sent us the following message.”

The Don’s staff was accustomed to his reading verbatim all the information he received from the CIA.

“On 14 March 2009 the enemy gathered approximately 5,000 serfs on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon to witness what they proclaimed would be a miracle of fire. We know from communications intercepts that they planned to recreate the Miracle of the Sun, allegedly witnessed at Fatima, Portugal, circa 1917.

“Shortly after dawn on the 14^th, a sandstorm blotted out the sun. The Army, believing the miracle would be foiled by the sandstorm, moved their gas generators to a position from which they could kill the serfs—as well as a number of their soldiers and Reverends who were mixed in with the crowd. The wind shifted, and the Army could not relocate the generators before darkness fell.

“Immediately after dark, the gas generators were destroyed with high explosives. The serfs panicked and commandeered the trains parked at the South Rim. The serfs fled southward, until they reached the main line at Williams, Arizona. Many took trains on the main east-west line and are presumed to have returned to their homes.

“The Scudder has proclaimed that the miracle occurred . . .” The Don looked up and grinned. “We knew that, probably before they did.”

He continued reading. “Several serfs, actors, have proclaimed the miracle.”

The Don laid the paper on the table. “That’s all they had to say. You have seen what televisor coverage we were able to capture of the Scudder and the serfs who proclaimed the miracle. What are your thoughts?”

The Don’s staff was accustomed to this question, too. They knew that the Don would sit quietly while they talked, echoed and built upon one another’s ideas, and created a synthesis for his consideration.

“The most important question is who destroyed the gas generators? Do they think we did it? Or someone else from California?”

“They—the people you call the CIA—don’t know who destroyed the generators,” Hamish said. “If they did, they wouldn’t have said it the way they did. They didn’t do it; we didn’t do it—”

Hamish looked at the Don. “We didn’t do it, did we?”

The Don laughed. “No Hamish, we didn’t. And I believe you are right that no one in California did. Who does that leave?”

“The Pan-Asians, most likely,” one of the men said. “They—”

“No,” Matthew said. “It was the angels; the ones in boxy aeroplanes.”

Matthew’s pronouncement, said with such certainty, silenced the others, but only for a moment.

“He’s right,” one of the men said. “They’re the only likely culprit—if that’s the right word.”

“What does this tell us about them?” the Don asked.

“They took direct action, perhaps at some risk, to make sure the common people were not harmed.”

“The common people, and perhaps some of their own, who would have been there as observers,” someone else added.

“Regardless, they ensured that some 5,000 of the common people were not killed.”

“We need to know,” Dr. Furman said. “We need to know all the agent reported.” He looked at the Don, who nodded.

“I will send a message,” the Don said.

 

The reply from Monterrey was not useful. “They did not make a verbatim copy of their agent’s report,” the Don said. “It is too late to do that, now. His memories would have been corrupted by time.

“Now, what does that tell us?”

 

“That the Committee are idiots?” one of the men ventured.

“They are out of touch,” Hamish said. “They know what we know, because the Don tells them; but, they don’t understand it because they are too far away.”

 

Chapter End Notes: Bach’s Hertz und Mund and Tat und Leben is perhaps better known as Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. The most common English words were written by Robert Bridges; an earlier German version of the lyrics was written by Martin Jahn.