Conspiracy

A Sighting

She shakes herself out of the memory of times past. The click of her heels echoes in the wide hall, off the polished white and black tiled floor, as she makes her way to the control room. The call asking for her presence had come moments ago, interrupting another meeting. Gav takes note of the mostly bare corridor painted in a calming sky blue. She was mostly responsible for getting this facility together and paid attention to every detail with its construction. After all, there was a chance that they were to be down here a long time — a chance that proved right.

The abandoned, underground government communication bunker was originally forty-five thousand square feet of below-ground real estate sitting beneath over two hundred plus acres that were located approximately twenty miles to the northeast of Denver. She oversaw the renovation of the facility for their purposes; enlarging it to over five hundred thousand square feet. That provided enough room to house the equipment and personnel required to operate as a command-and-control center, along with the battalion of troops on site for security. She also has several reconnaissance and special operations teams to deploy as needed.

Gav passes by large windows, looking into the offices and conference rooms along one wall as she makes her way down the long hall. Most are empty, the vacant chairs circling equally empty tables just waiting for bodies to file in and occupy them. Passing under one of the many air vents, she feels cold, filtered air as it is blown in from the surface after passing through the comprehensive nuclear, chemical, and biological filtration system.

Passing her card through the reader, she glances at her picture and name imprinted upon the white plastic: Gavriella Rosenstrauss. That name seems foreign to her as she had left it behind long ago…in her mind at least. The woman that person was had left the moment her parents were killed by a mortar blast fired from across the border of her old home. The girl who lived in fright from those attacks emerged from the rubble a changed person. After the initial shock — her parents being torn out of her life — the pain of what happened began to surface. Every day she felt that tearing within her heart; a physical pain that she felt she couldn’t bear any longer. But she endured and learned to suppress the agony within until her fear and grief turned to anger. A deep-seated anger without an outlet. She railed at the world. Over time, the fire of anger burned out and coldness was left in its place. At first, that was directed at those responsible for the cowardly attack; later, it was funneled into her operations against that very same enemy. Over time, it just became her job, one she enjoyed doing.

As for the picture, it was a recent one, and, although she never thought about her features much, she has to admit this was a rather good one. Her dark, almost black, flowing hair frames a narrow face with a strong chin. Her dark eyes stare from under thick, dark eyebrows as if daring anyone to cross her path. Her nose…yes, her nose, that part of her that identifies her as classically Jewish, is the part of her she likes the least. Her darker skin, just that color a shade deeper than a tan, blends nicely with her hair. Some have called her beautiful, but she never has paid attention to things like that. Hers is a world of death, and she has had little time or energy for anything else. She has had flings in her life, but they were merely that to her; flings. Her priorities have always been geared toward her work, and she just never wanted to devote the energy necessary to sustain a relationship.

No, that’s not entirely correct, she thinks.

She had actually fallen in love once, and thought her life would change along with those feelings. Her career in the special operations world was going nicely. It sustained her, but she was willing to give up even that. That was before the capture and arbitrary killing of the one she was willing to give up everything for. That event devastated her and killed any thoughts of all further relationships. She turned back to the dark world in which she circulated. It once again became her only family, and one that she felt secure in. Never again would she allow her feelings to go past the mission and her fellow operators.

The door clicks, accepting her card as valid, and she pulls it open. Entering the control room, she lets the door close behind her and surveys the room. Three large screens are set into the wall on her right with rows of tiered workstations set before them. Each workstation has its own large monitor, but each is wired to present information to the larger ones. At present, only the center screen is on, showing an overhead view of the United States and several satellite tracks. It’s the default view kept on screen and only replaced with other vital information during a planning sessions.

The workstations are only partially filled with operators at this time, primarily because nothing much is happening at the moment. They are in a pure monitoring status. The shift supervisor, the one who called her here, looks over when she enters and hurriedly makes his way to her.

“Nahmer, thank you for coming. We’ve picked up something you might be interested in. You know you said that we should—” he starts.

“Yes, yes. Show me what you have,” Gav interrupts.

The supervisor nods and opens his arm in a ‘if you’ll follow me’ gesture. She follows in his wake, her heels clicking sharply on the hardened floor. She always wears heels when she can. The sound of them on the floor adds to the force she already presents. Even though she is not a tall woman, her presence in a room commands attention. The supervisor guides her to one of the consoles where they stand over a lone operator.

“Pete, pull up the satellite feed from a moment ago,” the supervisor says, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder.

The operator’s fingers fly over the keyboard and his monitor goes dark momentarily. When it comes to life, they are looking down at some region of earth.

“Zoom in a little,” the supervisors instructs.

More fingers bounce across the keyboard and the monitor blurs for an instant before refocusing. There, in the center of the screen, is a C-130 flying across a mountainous landscape. Gav is startled at the sight of a lone Hercules aloft but conceals her surprise behind pursed lips.

“Do we have any idea who it is, where it’s going, and where it originated from?” she asks, her accent betraying her origins only slightly.

“We have no idea who it is, Nahmer, but we did track its source to Joint Base Lewis McChord. Going over some of our footage of the area, it appears to be part of a group from a C-camp. Let me see.” He rummages through several sheets of paper. “There it is, camp designation C-US-4.”

Gav holds her hand out and the supervisor gives her a small booklet. The booklet contains all of the identified gatherings of people and categorizes them. Categories range from A through F; with ‘F’ being just a few families, to a group such as Gav’s, which would be classified as an ‘A’ camp. The classification system includes capabilities with regards to training, numbers, and equipment. So far, they have only found groups classified up to a ‘C’ level, and only four of them within the borders of the continental United States. This group falls within that category.

She turns the pages before coming to the camp information. It’s a location in the Northwest close to JBLM, near the city of Olympia. There are several pictures of the site but they don’t look current to her practiced eyes.

“Any idea of where they’re heading?” she asks, not looking up from scanning the information.

“It’s not a certainty, Nahmer, but from the information we can gather from their flight path, it could be that they are heading to Clovis or Albuquerque,” the supervisor answers.

“And what is there that could be of interest?”

“Albuquerque has Kirtland AFB which was a training base for Air Force special operations and Clovis is near Cannon AFB which is home to an AC-130 wing.”

“I’d put my money on Cannon AFB seeing as they are flying a C-130. They may be trying to pick up an AC-130,” Gav states.

“What would you like us to do?” the supervisor asks.

“Keep an eye on them and let me know what they are up to. Also, task one of the satellites to do a pass-by of camp C-US-4. I want current pictures and keep it monitored.” Gav hands the booklet back.

She turns to leave but stops and looks over her shoulder. “Good find. Keep up the good work,” she says before turning once again and leaving the control room.

The supervisor nods with a satisfied smile on his face, patting the controller on the shoulder.

Later that day, Gav sits with the outgoing and incoming shift supervisors in one of the smaller conference rooms close to the control center. She tries to hold these meetings with them between shifts to ascertain what is going on in the world around them and what needs to be done…if anything. Usually it’s just an update on the various camp activities that they’ve located or to mention another one found or lost.

In the beginning, these meetings had more significance as the scouting of the areas and logging of information began. Lately, they have been short as nothing much different has transpired. Finding a C-130 aloft alters things. It’s the first significant discovery that they’ve found in a while, and it represents a capability they don’t currently possess. That worries her.

“We tracked the C-130 as you requested, and it landed in Albuquerque,” the outgoing shift supervisor continues his debrief.

“Any idea what they are doing there and what their force is comprised of?” Gav asks.

“I don’t have any idea what they may be doing there. They could have landed there due to a large squall line that formed along their flight path. From what we were able to see, which was difficult because of the weather moving in, their numbers were approximately eighteen to twenty, all armed. They managed to meet up with one of the D-level groups we previously identified. It is, um…” the outgoing supervisor says, pausing as he looks through one of the sheets he has spread on the table, “…the group identified as D-US-12. We also re-tasked one of the satellites to do a flyover of camp C-US-4 as you requested. We should have a new set of pictures for you in the morning.”

“Very good. I want that C-130 flight and group under constant surveillance. Call me if you find anything else,” Gav says.

With that, both supervisors nod and leave, one for dinner and rest, and the other to monitor what is left of the world. Gav remains seated at the table. Sipping on her cup of coffee, she mulls over her position and how she arrived at it. More importantly, how everything could have gone so horribly wrong.