Dead Water

2

Somewhere in a secret location, Karyn Mason was enjoying a cup of hot chocolate. It was a homemade beverage that she brought in with her, as opposed to the packaged instant mix that she detested. It was exactly one thirty in the afternoon. A light on one of her screens lit up. She immediately put down her cup and focused all her attention on that screen. It was not a typical computer screen but a large, sixty-inch LED state-of-the-art monitor with crystal-clear resolution that allowed her sharp eyes to take in all the details sent back from the Keyhole satellite she was monitoring. She never ceased to be amazed at how clear of a picture she would be looking at, considering it was taken over ninety miles above the planet.

Karyn knew that any given point in time, there were an extraordinary number of satellites orbiting the earth for countless reasons, such as communications, weather tracking, and perhaps the most important, surveillance. The number of spy satellites is completely unknown. Multiple units are programmed for specific purposes. One might make numerous passes far above the earth and file what it sees. When any obvious difference is observed, it immediately turns its attention to whatever is different or out of the ordinary from what its previously filed programs have observed and recorded.

Within seconds, her fingers were moving quickly around one of her many keyboards. She brought up the area that had set off the alarm. No loud ringing bells or buzzers, just a simple red light. She found herself looking at a small lake, but it didn't look like a lake at all. She brought up the image on file to a similar monitor beside the one she was observing. That screen showed a pristine Alaskan lake, water that was a bright blue in color, the result from the reflection of a cloudless sky. She turned her attention back to the original screen. She zoomed in even closer. Finally, it dawned on her exactly what she was looking at, and she audibly gasped. Dead fish were floating on the surface. From shore to shore, it was nothing but a solid mass of dead fish. She could not see a single patch of water — just dead fish everywhere. She noticed birds also. Some were seen on top of the floating mass, others along the shore. She knew the computer program was recording the scene. There was a limited amount of time before the satellite would be out of range, and she would have to wait until the next orbit to continue her observations. She programmed the satellite to hold its position over the area on the next pass. She watched the screen until finally the image was no longer available.

She immediately called her supervisor. "Sir, this is Karyn. I've recorded something you need to see."

Martin Loren replied, "Be right down."

Thirty seconds later, Martin Loren, daytime supervisor at this facility, was approaching Karyn.

"Whatcha got for me, K?" he asked. He always referred to his personnel by the first letter of their first names.

"Major fish kill, sir. Worst I've ever seen or even heard about."

"Roll it."

Quickly she started the recorded image, leaving the original on the second screen. She offered no communication with her boss. She knew he wouldn't want any. She watched as he intently studied the picture.

"Again," he directed after the depiction was lost. He took control of the keyboard. Several times he paused the delineation and looked intently. After three complete viewings, he directed, "Send everything to my desk, now." Four strides later, he was out of sight.

Within thirty seconds, everything had been shipped over to her boss. Her phone rang. Picking it up, she heard, "I've arranged another satellite to cover the same general area, but it won't be available for about six hours. I want you to start keeping an eye out on other lakes in the area for any similar signs. Be sure to brief your relief."

"Yes, sir." She began to set a program for the second satellite as soon as it was available. She would have it scan above and then below on alternating orbits while keeping the original satellite watching the lake in question.

From his office, Martin Loren called Clay Burrows, assistant director of the NSA.

"Yeah, Martin, what'd you see?" Burrows and Loren went way back together, with Burrows the reason that Loren was in his position.

"Clay, we've got a major — and I mean major—fish kill in Alaska. I've never seen anything like it. Hell, you could walk across the damned lake on top of them. There are birds, too, some on top of the floating mass, some on the shore. Don't know what it is, but it sure isn't right. I thought you'd better know."

"Damn straight, Martin. In today's world, you never know what might mean what. I'll be in touch." He hung up.

Instantly, Clay Burrows was on the phone to his boss, Elliott Ragar. "Elliott, you might want to get down to my office. Martin Loren is sending some satellite imagery over that I think you need to see."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't start the show without me."

Elliott Ragar had requested a meeting with the president. When asked what it concerned, Ragar had only replied, "Sir, it could be something major or nothing at all. However, as the old adage goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. This is a hundred times past that."

"All right, Elliott. One this afternoon would be good. How long do you anticipate this conference will last?"

"Impossible to say, sir. Probably would be a good idea to bring some of the others in." This suggestion surprised the president a bit. Ragar wasn't known for his sharing attitude. "All right. See you at one sharp." He hung up. He called his secretary, Alice Pritchard. The two went back almost twenty years and enjoyed a genuine friendship. The president appreciated her sharp, dry wit. "Get Sanderson, Rockford, Backersley, and Merritt here at one this afternoon. Sharp." He didn't wait for a reply.

"Wonder what this is about," he said aloud. He went back to what he'd been doing, preparing for a showdown with the Democrat leaders of the House and Senate over tax cuts in the impossible task of balancing the country's budget. What a damned mess those clowns left me with. Two entire administrations' worth of screwups. He looked out his window. "If I had my way, I'd have your bankers' heads on a pole in front of the Washington Monument," he said to himself, shaking his head in disgust. I'd like to make greed an offense punishable by horrific death, he thought. Thinking back to the bureaucrats, he wondered, How can you not get it?

His phone rang, interrupting his thought. "Yes, Alice."

"Sir, the meeting for this afternoon has been arranged. I'd appreciate it if you could ask Director Rockford not to be so damned rude. The man's an ass."

President Williams laughed out loud. "I'll take care of it, Alice. Thank you."

"Yes, sir."

Both hung up.

The president thought for a second and then called his secretary back. "Alice, ask Coverley Merritt to be here fifteen minutes early."

"Will do, sir."

Less than a minute later, Alice called President Williams back to inform him that Merritt would be there at 12:45 prompt.

"Thank you, Alice." He returned to his budget problems.

Rijah Ellhad heard the chopper approaching. He turned on his GPS tracker. This would bring the craft straight to him.

The wind had picked up considerably, and the area where he was to be picked up was precariously small and littered with large boulders. When the aircraft was twenty feet above the ground, a rope ladder was thrown out the now open side door.

Great! The lightweight ladder was swinging wildly about, the downward windblast from the helicopter's rotor blades only making the wind much worse. Swearing under his breath, Ellhad grabbed a rung, stepped onto the bottom one, and started a harrowing climb upward. To make matters worse, as soon as he was able to climb two rungs up, the pilot started moving the copter away.

"You stupid ass!" he yelled into the wind, but he was either not heard or ignored. The craft was picking up speed as it climbed upward. Ellhad was hanging on for his life. Agonizingly slow, he climbed toward the open door and safety. The chopper changed direction, which now made the rope ladder swing outward badly. Ellhad was nearly out of his mind with rage, and being loaded down with his rifle and gear only made the climb worse. He didn't dare let go to try to drop the extra weight for fear of falling.

Screaming at the top of his lungs was doing him no good. Gritting his teeth, he managed to make it up two more rungs before he had to stop to rest. Now the helicopter was flying along at close to one hundred miles an hour, and Ellhad found himself nearly horizontal as opposed to vertical. Looking up, he found himself three more rungs to the door. Every muscle in his body was on fire. He knew he had no chance to hang on for the entire ride. He had to make those final three rungs. With every ounce of his remaining strength, he started upward. At this point, he didn't really care if he fell or not. One rung, two rungs, and finally his hands were on the rung two inches below the floor of the aircraft. Two arms reached out and helped haul him the rest of the way and into the safety of the chopper.

He just lay there, breathing harder than he had ever before, glaring fire at the man who had helped him aboard. When he could finally speak, he snarled, "Why the fuck did he take off before I could climb up?"

"He was afraid of being seen."

"Seen? Seen by fucking who? What did you say?"

"I told him I thought you were going to fall."

Ellhad remained silent for the rest of the reasonably short journey. He changed out of his camo clothing and into jeans and hooded pullover sweatshirt.

Except for the pilot and copilot, he was alone. He noticed the copilot was armed with an AK-47, a Russian manufactured rifle. No words were spoken. Rijah Ellhad was ferried over to a small lake just outside of Bethel.

As the chopper touched down and the pilot shut it down, Ellhad grabbed the AK-47 from where the copilot had placed it and rammed the butt of the rifle twice into the pilot's mouth, knocking out several teeth. "Next time, keep the damn copter in place!"

He departed the helicopter and walked two hundred feet to a small dock where a floatplane was tied up. A man was waiting for him. He merely nodded at Ellhad. The door was open, and Ellhad climbed in. He took one of the six seats and strapped himself in. The pilot finished untying the dock lines and jumped aboard. He quickly made his way up to the cockpit, strapped himself into his own seat, and fired the big radial engine up. It coughed, sputtered, belched smoke, and finally set itself into a loud and shaking idle. After about a minute, it smoothed out nicely. This brought a small sense of relief to Ellhad. He was not afraid of flying but had never liked seaplanes. Water. That's why they built boats. Two minutes later, it was skimming quickly across the lake's surface, and then grudgingly, it let go of its grip on the pontoons of the plane. Looking out the window, he had to admit to himself that Alaska was indeed beautiful, as different from his homeland as night was from day. He already knew the plane's destination was just outside of Portland, Oregon. He rummaged through his pouch and found his earplugs. The plane was extremely loud. Time for a nap.