Event

THREE

Major Jack Collins walked into the Gold City Pawnshop at the appointed time. He placed his carryall on the floor and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The air-conditioned shop was a break from the relentless heat outside. With his last ten years in and out of deserts around the globe, heat was something the major was used to, but never really embraced.

Collins stood six foot two inches tall and his close-cropped hair was dark. His features were chiseled from thousands of hours in suns not unlike the Nevada one. He removed the sunglasses from his eyes and let his vision adjust to the dimness of the old shop. He glanced around at several of the items on display, sad treasures people had parted with in order to stay in Vegas, or to get the hell out, depending upon their disposition. Collins himself gambled with items a little more precious than money, usually the lives of men, including his own.

A man stood silent in the back room of the pawnshop. Six cameras arranged throughout the large shop area were motion-sensitive, capturing the new arrival in every detail, from the line of sweat that coursed down the man's temple to the expensive sunglasses he held in his right hand, the nice sport jacket and light blue shirt he wore. The observer turned to a computer screen and cross-matched the image of the stranger with one that had been programmed earlier. A red chicken-wire laser charted the man's body, cutting his head and body into reference points for the computer to match. At the same time another invisible laser read the small glass area that blended nicely with the antique thumb-depression plate on the door handle he had used to enter the shop. On another high-definition computer screen a large, detailed print appeared; this one read the minute swirls and valleys of his thumbprint. A print, perfect in every detail, flashed onto the screen, then the computer broke the print down to eighteen different points; lines indicating matches went from the computer-stored print to the one just taken from the door handle. Only seven points of match were used to convict people in a court of law, but this print matchup called for a minimum of ten. A name appeared in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, followed seconds later by an image of the man himself. In this picture he wore a green beret and sat unsmiling for the camera. The scroll beneath the picture read, Major Jack Samuel Collins, United States Army Special Operations. Last duty station Kuwait City, 5th Special Forces Group, TDA this date to Department 5656. The man behind the door snickered to himself as he read the screen. Temporary duty assignment my ass, the old man thought, not if the senator and Doc Compton have anything to say about it.

Collins looked around again and tapped one of the glass-topped counters twice with the ring that was embossed with the United States Military Academy logo. "Who's minding the store?"

"You break that counter, friend, you're buying it," a voice stated flatly from the back of the store.

The major looked into the gloom of the dingy, dusty pawnshop. Back among the hanging musical instruments and amplifiers, he saw a smallish man appear and lower his bifocals down upon his nose from where they had been resting, propped on his forehead. He had cruelly cut gray hair that showed his scalp.

"What can I do for you, sonny?" the old Hispanic man asked.

Collins left his bag sitting on the floor and walked to the back of the shop. He was aware of the items surrounding him on the walls and in the racks. As he passed by the boxes with old records and other boxes that held their technological replacements, the CD, he saw the old man's eyebrows rise.

"Maybe you can help me," Collins said, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth slightly. "I'm looking to sell a watch and was wondering what I could get for it."

"Depends on the quality, son."

"Well, it's an old railroad-retirement pocket watch, belonged to my father."

"Pocket watches are always nice, just can't get rid of 'em."

That was the answer Collins had been aiming for. He reached into his back pocket, drew his ID out, and placed it on the glass counter for the clerk to see. The man with the gray hair and bifocals looked down at the military identification, then back into the piercing blue eyes of the stranger. The passwords had been exchanged and accepted.

"Welcome to the Group, Major."

Collins looked the store over and grimaced. "I was told this would be different," he said as he looked back at the man before him.

"Don't laugh, Major, this store turns over a nice profit. You'll see the results in the Group's mess hall." The old man came from around the counter and walked to where Collins had left his bag. "I'm Gunnery Sergeant Lyle Campos of the great United States Marine Corps and security for this entrance. Gate Two is what she is," he said over his shoulder. "If you'll follow me, we'll get you started for the complex."

He picked up the major's bag and walked back around the counter, nodding his head for the younger man to follow. They went through two batwing doors into the back area of the pawnshop. Inside were two other men. The shorter of the two stepped forward and took the heavy bag from Campos. The, other, more muscular and bald, walked up to Collins and looked him over. He placed the Beretta nine-millimeter automatic he held at his side into his pants at the small of his back.

"Welcome to the high desert, sir. I'm Staff Sergeant Will Mendenhall, U.S. Army. This is Lance Corporal Frakes, he's a jarhead marine." He gestured to the man now holding Collins's bag. "We'll be escorting you through the tunnel to Group, sir."

Collins was more wary than impressed. The two men wore civilian clothes; the marine corporal had on shorts, and the black sergeant wore an overly stated red Hawaiian shirt and Levi's. Jack just nodded his head and wondered to just what cluster-fuck job he had been assigned.

"Gunny, would you please put the closed sign on the door until we get back?" Mendenhall asked. The old man bobbed his head once and left the office area without further comment.

"You'll have to excuse the gunnery sergeant, Major, he's just a little miffed at recently being placed on the inactive field duty list. He wants to stay with the Group, but he's only allowed gate security, and I suspect even that may change soon enough."

"How old is he?" Collins inquired.

Mendenhall shook his head as he gestured for the major to follow. "No one's commenting on Gunny's age, sir, that's for self-preservation. He may be old, but he's a better man than most men half his age. If I asked him, I'm afraid he would break his foot off in my ass... uh, sir," he said, turning away as he realized he was talking to his new boss. He rolled his eyes at his own conduct.

The two men led Collins into a smaller room in back of the first. The worn-out wood paneling was cracked and peeling in places. A single, shabby desk occupied the space. A computer monitor sat atop it, looking entirely out of place on the ancient desk. A solitary man sat behind the computer and did not rise to greet the three men but gave an acknowledging nod in the major's direction. Collins would later learn that the computer monitor served only as window dressing. The real reason to have a desk and fake computer at all was for the Ingram submachine gun clipped to the underside of the desk, and the man's hidden hand had a finger placed firmly on its cold steel trigger. The computer monitor was equipped with a pressure trigger on the floor that the guard could reach, and if pushed, it would send the back of the monitor exploding outward along with three hundred disabling tranquilizer darts. This was a small gift from the CEO of Pfizer Pharmaceutical.

The three men stepped up to the far wall. A motion sensor activated a small panel that popped free of the chipped plaster. The sergeant punched in a six-digit code on the now exposed keypad, which allowed another doorway-sized panel to the right to slide up and into the wall. Inside was a small cubicle, the floor of which was covered in linoleum in the military's favorite color, puke green (the same found in any government building in the country). The three men stepped in and the sergeant placed his hand onto a clear glass panel as a bright flash lit the small room momentarily, causing Collins to blink.

"Voice print analysis, please state destination," a computerized female voice asked from a hidden speaker.

"Nellis shuttle," the sergeant said.

"Thank you, Sergeant Mendenhall," the voice answered after three seconds had passed for the handprint and voice analyzer to finish.

"The glass read my finger and palm prints and the computer analyzed the pitch and pronunciation of my voice, thus clearing us for Group entrance. It's a security device of bio-mechanical engineering," Mendenhall explained. "If one thing didn't come back as kosher, the computer with the sexy female auditory system would have rendered us senseless with a two-thousand-volt shock." He smiled as he said the last statement.

"Nice, so when do we meet Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock?" Collins asked, not returning the smile. He waited a moment, then turned to the sergeant. "Listen, uh, Sergeant Mendenhall, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am well aware of the capabilities of the A2-6000 Kendall Encoded Bio Engineered Security System. It's a nice advantage to have, but I could have shorted the entire system out one minute after I walked into the pawnshop. The entire electrical hard line for the security gate is fed in from the Las Vegas power grid. Your backup generator is in plain sight in an unsecured cage just to the left of the back door, which I heard clearly kicking on and charging batteries just before I entered the building. Don't be too proud of something that isn't being utilized in a secure manner."

The door closed and the elevator moved quickly and silently down its hydraulically controlled shaft. Mendenhall was quiet, not knowing exactly how to take this man who obviously knew his security systems. As he looked the man over, he noticed small scars here and there on his exposed skin.

The elevator movement was whisper quiet, and the only way the major knew it was an elevator at all was because his stomach was still in the pawnshop. Collins mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that, sir?" Mendenhall asked, turning to face Collins.

"Awful lot of James Bond crap."

"Yes, sir, it is."

The elevator door slid open and the three men stepped out onto a concrete platform, and Collins was surprised to see it was a train tunnel. The track was different from any he had seen outside of Disneyland, as it only had one rail and that was made from what looked like concrete. It was a single track that ran down the tunnel and had only a metal strip on its left side.

"We usually bring people in through the Nellis gates and through our regular checkpoints, sir, just as if they were regular air force personnel, but we have those points under security renovation. Director Compton and the senator thought this would be easier"

"The senator?" Collins asked.

The two men said nothing.

"Please step back beyond the yellow line, your transport is arriving," the computer-generated voice said to them.

Mendenhall pulled lightly on the major's shirt as Collins looked down and saw he was an inch or two beyond a yellow stripe that had been painted about a foot from the edge of the platform. He stepped back. Suddenly, a swishing sound came from the darkened tunnel. The next thing Collins saw was a small tube, pointed at both ends and entirely enclosed in glass from waist level up, stop suddenly in front of them. There were no braking sounds at all, just the rush of air and a quick rise of his hair.

"Your transport has arrived," stated the computer.

"Damn, that was smooth," Collins said.

"It works on electromagnetism and pneumatics. Power, braking, everything," the sergeant volunteered, hoping he wouldn't be slammed again by the major's knowledge.

A door slid back and allowed the three passengers to enter. It looked like a smaller version of the monorail system Collins had seen at most major airports, the pointed nose being the only difference. As he took one of the plastic seats in the front of the transport, the door slid closed and the computer spoke again. "Welcome to the Nellis Transport System. There is no standing while the transport is in motion. The distance covered to the main platform will be eleven point four miles and time duration will be two minutes, thirty-three seconds."

Collins frowned at the thought of traveling that fast with no one at the controls.

The transport started humming and moved with ever-increasing forward momentum. The major could see the tunnel was dark beyond the glass with the exception of the blue strip lighting that lined the center of the track. The illumination zipped by until it was a solid line of light. There was a slight downward angle and he realized the tram was traveling deeper and deeper into the desert surrounding Las Vegas.

Two and a half minutes later Collins felt the transport decelerating. Then a lit platform came into view that was far wider than the one they had just left. This dock had people on it. They wore coveralls and moved about placing crates and boxes onto a lift. As they sped by, a few of them looked up. The personnel were a mix of different colored jumpsuits and sexes.

"Welcome to Group Platform One," the computer stated with enthusiasm. The door slid open with a hiss of air and the three men stood.

"You're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," Mendenhall quipped, then added, "sir," quickly, as they stepped forward into the underground domain of the Event Group.

Major Collins watched the men and women loading crated material onto a large lift. The huge elevator was capable of carrying no less than two tanks side by side, but at the moment the thirty-five or so personnel were loading only small crates and boxes onto the monstrous elevator.

"Please follow me, sir, we have another ride ahead of us," the sergeant said.

Collins allowed the corporal to once again lift his bag and he followed both security men to another set of doors. These doors only had a down indicator light set into the wall beside them. As they approached, the doors slid open without the usual rumble of a normal elevator, and they stepped in. Sergeant Mendenhall nodded his head at the other man, who waved good-bye with a halfhearted salute.

"I'll escort you down into the complex, Major. We don't like to leave Gunny too long without company. He has a tendency to gouge the legitimate customers we get in the shop." Mendenhall smiled as the doors slid closed.

Collins watched as the sergeant repeated the process he had used on the first elevator. Only this time, instead of his hand he had to place his right eye into a soft rubber piece that conformed to his orbital structure.

"Retinal scans complete, Sergeant Mendenhall. Will your guest please place his right thumb onto the pad to the right?" the computer asked.

Mendenhall gestured the major forward and indicated the glass plate to the right of the eyepiece he had just used. Collins placed his right thumb to the glass, watching as red laser-tracking lines appeared to wrap around his thumb. The light went off.

"Thank you, Major Collins, you may proceed."

"The computer weighed the elevator and knew that I wasn't alone in the car, thus knew I had a guest with me. This elevator is pneumatically operated. We'll be riding air down into the complex."

The elevator indicator to the left of the doors told Collins the only choices they had were down, and these read 1-150. He didn't comment on Mendenhall's explanation of the elevator as he didn't really care for the idea of riding air pressure anywhere.

"Where in the hell are we, Sergeant?" Collins asked.

The man smiled and said, "Well, sir, the men who will explain that to you are far above my pay grade, but I can tell you"--Mendenhall reached out and pressed a button indicating level 6--"we are on the most northern part of Nellis Air Force Base, below the old gunnery and target range. By the time these doors open, we'll be on the main level of the complex, five hundred and sixty-five feet below the surface of the desert."

"Jesus" was all the major could utter in response.

"Altogether there are one hundred and fifty levels, equaling four thousand and some change in feet. Yes, sir, quite a ways. The main levels below were excavated from a natural cave formation similar to Carlsbad, only these caves weren't discovered till 1906." The sergeant paused, then quoted from memory, "'This is the second facility for the Group; the original was in-Virginia. But this particular complex was built during the Second World War as part of the expansion under President Roosevelt.' "He smiled again. "I guess it was a little easier to hide the cost back then. It was designed by the same people who drew up the plans for the Pentagon."

"What does the Group do here?" Collins asked, eyeing the indicators.

"Again, sir, the most important questions you have will be answered by people other than me."

The elevator came to a soft halt with only a soft and minute bounce. Mendenhall retrieved the major's bag as the doors slid open. Collins stepped out into what appeared to be a quiet, well-appointed, and normal reception area.

"Major, enjoy your tour of the Group. And hearing of your reputation, I believe I'll like being a part of your team, sir," the black sergeant said as he placed the bag down. Then he leaned back into the elevator and the doors closed. Collins didn't even have time to say thank-you before he was left looking at the "up" arrow above the doors.

Collins surveyed the reception area. Three desks were arrayed at different corners of the plush, hunter-green-carpeted room. At two of the desks sat men, busily working at computers. At the center-most station, an older woman sat. Her desk was the largest of the three, and it was this woman who stood, smiled, and walked around her desk. She stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Major Collins, I presume?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, turning and taking the woman's small and elegant hand in his own. The woman was tiny and looked to be in her late fifties. Around her neck her bifocals hung from a thin, gold chain. She wore a long-skirted blue suit with a plain white blouse. Her graying-black hair was up in an old-fashioned bun with not a single hair out of place. She wore only minimal makeup, her only accessory a small American flag pin attached on her left lapel.

She smiled warmly. "Welcome to the Event Group, Major, otherwise known as Department 5656 of the federal government. I'm sure we will make your days here just as exciting as any you've had in your career."

Collins raised a brow in doubt and the woman caught the gesture. She just continued to smile and patted him on the hand, before releasing it.

Collins looked around the reception area once more. On one wall hung a massive portrait of Abraham Lincoln, a painting he had never seen before. The oil portrait depicted him sitting and reading a book, of which the title was obscured. On another wall, and a bit smaller, was a portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, complete in his hand-tailored Rough Rider uniform. Next to that was a picture of Teddy's fifth cousin, Franklin. Situated along the walls were glass-encased models of sailing vessels, ironclads, and other distinguished warships. Set back into the far wall were two huge wooden doors, each of which stood nearly fifteen feet in height, and the big brass handles gleamed in the office lights. Above the doors, in gold script engraved on a long oak plaque, was an inscription: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Then below that, in smaller script: In this labyrinth lay the truth of our world, our civilization, and our culture.

"Good words, aren't they, Major?" the woman asked.

"Good, yes, a little ambiguous maybe," Collins answered, looking from the plaque to the small, smiling woman as he turned to face her.

"They will become a tad clearer to you before your duty is up here. My name is Alice Hamilton. I've been with the senator on an official basis since 1947 and now assist Director Niles Compton."

Collins was astounded. This woman, who looked no more than sixty at the extreme, would have had to come to work here when she was in her teens, and that would still make her somewhere in her late seventies. Talk about the years being kind to a person, Jack thought.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you said 1947?"

"I did, Major; I came here when I was eighteen, after losing my husband during the war. It's been a nice stay, and being I was always afraid to miss too much, I refused to go away. The senator, who is now retired from the Group, is here as a special adviser to Dr. Compton, and, well, he always said he would keep me informed if I up and left, but I don't trust the old coot. I like being in the thick of it," she said, clenching her hands together.

She paused and gestured to a man who was typing away at a keyboard at the desk nearest to them. "John, will you be so kind as to take the major's bag down to his new quarters on your way to take your break, please?"

The man stood, smiled, walked over, and took the major's bag. He straightened and said, "Welcome to the Group, Major, we saw you on C-SPAN last fall and admire you for standing your ground."

Surprised at the remark made about his appearance before Congress, Collins looked again at Alice. "I wouldn't think you would need the services of someone like me here. What is this, some sort of think tank?"

"Think tank?" The woman thought a second, knitting her brow as if contemplating this concept. "Why, yes, I guess we are. That and many other things, Major." She smiled that award-winning smile again and stepped toward the big doors. "The senator and Dr. Compton are Waiting and they'll be happy to answer all your questions." Alice grasped both handles and the doors swung open easily, and she stepped aside to let the major enter and then followed.

The office was large; it had flat-screen television monitors mounted every foot around the circular walls, which were covered in rich wood paneling. Behind the mahogany desk hung another portrait of Lincoln--in this one he just sat facing the artist with a closed book in his lap. Next to that was a large portrait of Woodrow Wilson, poised with ink pen in hand.

A man was sitting on the edge of the giant desk, reading some papers he held at arm's length, when he noticed the two people enter the room. He straightened and stood with the aid of a cane, tossing the papers on the desk as he made his way toward Jack and Alice. A second, smaller man sitting in the large chair behind the desk also stood and quickly followed the first, eager to greet their new guest.

One of the most imposing men Collins had ever seen stood there before him. Jack stood six foot two and this man was looking down at him. He figured him to be at least six foot six and appeared to be in his mid-to late eighties. He wore a three-piece, black, pin-striped suit with a red bow tie; his silver hair was swept back from his forehead and was in need of cutting. But by far his most outstanding feature was the black patch he wore over his right eye. A long, jagged scar ran from his jawline up through the patch and disappeared into the wavy hairline. The other man who joined them was quite a bit shorter. He wore glasses and was balding and had at least four ballpoint pens in his shirt pocket.

"Senator, Dr. Compton," Alice Hamilton began, "I would like to introduce the newest member of the Event Group, Major Jack Collins, United States Army. He's with us from the Fifth Special Forces Group, and his last duty station was in Kuwait City, attached to the Ninth Special Operations Team." She gently nudged Collins forward. "Jack, this is Senator Garrison Lee, retired, from the great state of Maine, and former brigadier general, U.S. Army intelligence, and one of the founding members of the Office of Strategic Services, and Dr. Niles Compton, the director of our department."

"We didn't need a history lesson on me, woman," Senator Lee said, looking at Alice, then over at the major. "Major Collins!" the man exuberantly greeted him, shifting the cane from his right to his left hand, holding the now free hand out to the major. Collins shook but didn't say anything in response. "Read a lot about you, son," the senator continued. "Glad you saw fit to join this band of fools." The man stepped aside to allow Jack to shake hands with Dr. Compton, who nodded his head and then pushed his glasses back on his nose.

The senator looked at Alice. "I take it he's signed his secrecy papers and disclosure forms?"

"Yes, that was taken care of at Fort Bragg," she answered with a frown, noticing the senator was a little unsteady on his feet as he greeted the new arrival.

"Thank you, Alice. Would you bring in a tray of coffee, please?"

Alice politely gestured with a roll of her elegant hand toward the credenza against the far wall, where sat a steaming silver service.

"When in the hell did you bring that in?" he stammered with eyebrows raised.

"As usual, you two were engrossed in one of your field reports," she quipped, winking at the major.

"Uh, thank you," Lee grumbled as if he were clearing his throat. "Now get the hell out of here." His one uncovered eye glared at her.

She gave the senator a mock salute, with palm facing out.

"That's a British salute, woman! When in hell are you going to learn?"

She ignored the remark, turned, and left the room, closing the huge doors gracefully behind her.

The senator, after glaring at the door a moment, gestured for Collins to take a seat in a rather large leather chair in front of Compton's even larger desk.

"Please, have a seat, Major; I'm sure you're more than just a little curious about our business." They walked toward the back of the room. "I know your papers say temporary duty, and I know you didn't exactly volunteer for this position." He smiled. "You see, we were owed a favor, and you, sir, are that favor."

Before the senator could continue, Niles Compton broke in, "Major, I'm afraid I must tend to an urgent matter. I'll be back momentarily. I apologize, but my duties since taking over as director require me to be in four places at once."

Jack watched Compton hurry out of the large office.

"Niles is probably the smartest person in the country, that's why the president chose him to be my successor, but he worries about small things too much, not that he micro-manages his people, it's more his taking the time to see they have the tools they need to succeed. Have a seat, Major, and relax," Lee said.

Collins waited while Lee poured two cups of coffee, then sat in the overstuffed chair facing the desk. After the man had handed him his cup and saucer, he watched as the senator maneuvered with a limp back around the desk.

"Just what is it that you and the director expect me to do here, sir? I've been in the service twenty years and have never heard a whisper of this operation, and in the military, that's rare." Collins placed the coffee on the edge of the desk untouched, as if this move said he wasn't having anything to do with it until the man in front of him came clean.

Lee placed the cane along the edge of the desk, sipped at his own coffee, then placed the cup and saucer down and closed his good eye and leaned back as he started talking.

"Jack Collins, Major, United States Army, graduated West Point second in his class in 1988. First combat seen in Panama, first man in the conflict area so I understand." He held his hand up when he sensed Jack was going to say something. "After Panama you spent two years working on your master's from MIT. After that, to the army's displeasure, you rejoined Special Operations. Then a tour with the Aberdeen proving grounds with the top brass thinking you had finally come around to being one of the boys. Only it wasn't that. I think you were angry about Special Operations equipment and wanted answers to why things never worked the way they were supposed to, so you set them as straight as you could on the civilian and corporate side of things at Aberdeen." Lee opened his eye and looked at Jack. "Then again to the chagrin of the army higher-ups, you rejoin Special Operations, and then Jack Collins really went to war. You started in Desert Shield by infiltrating Kuwaiti and Iraqi territory on missions of a rather dark nature. You fought in Operation Desert Storm, winning the Congressional Medal of Honor. Then your tour in Operation Iraqi Freedom."

"You seem to have me at an extreme disadvantage, Senator," Collins said.

Lee smiled. "Previous to your tour in Iraq, you had set up a black OP in Afghanistan. Before you had a chance to deploy your outfit on a most dangerous mission, the army pulled you out, leaving your team with an inexperienced commander to lead them. When you arrived in theater in Iraq, you heard the entire team in Afghanistan was killed during the operation you had planned, because of a mistake that was made at the command level. We won't go into your testimony before Congress here. So, to make a long story short, the president of the United States, who didn't agree with the army's treatment of you after said visit to the Hill, saw fit to give you to us. I asked Niles to request you."

Collins sat silently. He thought back to the mission he had planned to a tee only to be pulled out at the last minute by military bureaucrats. He would never forget the pain and anger that had flared when he'd learned his team had been killed to a man in a rocky valley in the armpit of the world.

"Requested me for what?" he finally asked.

Both men looked up as Niles Compton returned to the office and nodded. He gestured for Lee to continue.

"Major, outside of certain aspects of the National Security Agency, you have entered the topmost-secret facility in our nation's government. We have been chartered in a roundabout way, since 1863." The old politician took a moment to let that sink in, then continued, "You've noticed the portraits of Lincoln and Wilson, I presume?"

"Yes, sir, they're pretty hard to miss," Collins answered, looking at the two large paintings behind the senator.

Lee smiled. "Well, Mr. Lincoln, although he didn't know it at the time, laid the foundation for the Event Group during the Civil War." Lee held Jack's stare. He liked that the major held his questions. "It's a foregone conclusion of historians that old Abe was far ahead of his time. Hell, most schoolchildren can tell you that, but, anyway, we are secret, because sometimes we uncover things that aren't very popular with the world, or even our own citizens. We roam the dark hallways of our government behind the auspices of the National Archives."

Collins listened to the old man before him and had the distinct feeling he was being set up. But for the life of him he didn't know in which direction it was coming.

Lee looked at Niles and the director nodded. He said each word slowly, thoughtfully, "Jack, the United States is most unique. Its citizens hail from every country on earth and they have a right to the truth of that history, and our job is to find it, process it, and to tell them facts that have led us to where we are, to give information to those that can use it to make better decisions for them. Information is the weapon of the future, and we will never, ever be caught off guard by not understanding the vital lessons of the past, for they have shaped and molded us into what we are. The world is shaped by pivotal Events throughout our past; they have steered us into making not just changes to survive, but civilization-altering changes. We here at the Group try and identify those moments in our current times, helping all to make the altering judgments that will lead us into our future. The current Events we identify will assist us into what we will become. Our job here is to find out the truth as history tells it, for our nation, for us, and maybe, just maybe, this world will begin to know and understand itself, and that can only bring about truth and understanding for all its peoples. The security of this nation is paramount. Oh, the CIA, the National Security Agency, and the FBI can physically gather intelligence, but it's left up to us to find it in the past, things the other agencies are not even capable of grasping. We here learn all there is to learn about everything."

"Yes, sir, I see."

Niles Compton smiled and shook his head. "No, Major, you don't see... yet."

"I know it's a lot to take in," Lee stated as he reached out to push a button on the right side of the desk. Then he flipped a switch and one of the many large flat-screen monitors flickered to life. "This is our computer center. If you know computers, Major, you will understand that the unit you see in the background there is a Cray Corporation prototype, generously given to us by... well, by one of our many friends in the private sector. It's the most powerful unit in the world used for processing raw data. We are 'hacked,' if you will--personally, I hate the term--into almost every university and major corporation in the world, and most governments also. The chairmen of several large software companies based in the Northwest and in Texas assist us in this endeavor. Oh, they fight with the government quite often, but most are very fond of what we do here and are large contributors to our fiscal budget. These chairmen are far more patriotic than they are given credit."

As Collins viewed the monitor's screen, he noted about fifty or so people all working in an elaborate, state-of-the-art computer-processing center.

"These men and women, who are specially trained and hold the highest of security clearances for the Group and the U.S. government, take information from archaeological digs, finds of any kind, reports of strange happenings, myths, legends, histories, new discoveries, and they feed it all into the Cray, where it is analyzed and referenced for historical or Paleolithic importance, and if need be, we send people into the field, either as part of another organization, or in the open as a part of our National Parks Service--even foreign nations recognize our parks system and hold it in high regard. The information gained is used to better understand where it is we came from, and sometimes more importantly, where it is we are going. Only the top chairmen or founding owners of the largest companies and presidents of universities have a hint of our existence, and even they are a marked few."

"And I fit in...?" Collins inquired.

The senator pursed his lips. "Over the years, basically since just after the First World War, we have lost over a hundred personnel in field operations." Lee shook his head. "You see, Major, there are those that either don't want to share the information that's uncovered or deem it valuable enough to eliminate any who stand in their way of getting it and holding on to it. That is where you and your men come in, as field security for site operations and infiltration, and to put it bluntly, Major, I took advantage of your current predicament to get you here as you seem to be a hot potato no one wants to butter up right now."

Collins started to say something, then was stopped by a raised hand of the senator. He rose slowly from his high-backed chair and motioned for the major to follow him. He limped across to a screen that was much larger than the one that had just shown the image of the computer room. Collins, as he followed, noticed the senator looked a little bit older than he had originally thought.

"Your record in both Gulf conflicts warrants you being here, Major. The job you did in the first Iraq conflict, rescuing that downed A-6 Intruder crew, was amazing." The senator smiled. "You obviously have an affinity for dangerous situations." Lee watched Collins for a reaction, then held his gaze.

"And now the hard part. Even though you have been awarded three. Silver Stars and a Medal of Honor, your career is all but over in the regular army. But as I said before, the president didn't hold any grudges, and because he knows you're a true soldier, he sent you to us. And with us you'll be able to stay in the service and continue on with a meaningful career."

Collins turned and looked at Lee. He knew of only a dozen people outside the White House who knew it had been his unit who had rescued the downed naval pilot. And no one really knew about his near court-martial after meeting with the president, Joint Chiefs, and the directors of the FBI and CIA. He was damned lucky after that to have a job at all. Whoever Lee and Compton were, they did have connections, and more than likely the strings on which to pull to get him here, wherever "here" was. So he knew this offer was for real, and Lee's eyes held no lies about how important he thought this was.

"It might be better to show you the fruits of our labors here at the Event Group, Major Collins, and then point out how expertise such as yours, and that of others, has helped us gather some of the wondrous things you are about to bear witness to." Lee paused a moment, then turned back to face Jack. He looked the professional soldier up and down, then looked him in the eyes. "Are you a religious man, Jack?"

"No, sir," Collins responded quickly as he held his gaze on the senator's lone eye. "Never found the time or the need."

The senator smiled, but the sadness of it made Collins wonder why he attempted it in the first place.

"It seems I'm looking at myself so many years ago." Lee lightly tapped the scar that ran under the patch covering his right eye. "I wasted a lot of time proving to myself that God didn't exist, when the question of God wasn't even the right thing to be asking. The right question is, what's the plan for us? The answer is maybe that plan is embedded in our past, now here we are, how did we get to this point, were we helped along, did elements just happen to combine and by fluke of nature we arrived here without us killing each other off?"

"Maybe we are just smart enough to realize how far we can push it. No divinity; maybe it's just as you say, a fluke," Collins countered.

The senator laughed out loud for the first time, then settled and looked at Collins once again. "It's like you read my thoughts of over sixty years ago, son," he said as he punched a button.

On the screen, a color picture flickered to life as the major looked on; the computer-controlled autofocus adjusted the view to fit the screen. When it cleared, it showed a panorama of an immense chamber. Buried into the walls of this chamber were what appeared to be rows of banklike steel vaults built into the solid bedrock.

"The only other person in the world who can tune in to this chamber is the president of the United States, our boss"--Lee hesitated--"and for better or worse, still your boss as well."

Collins nodded his head, viewing the screen with interest. Some of the vaults were enormous, some as tall as 150 feet, others as small as eight. The larger ones had stairs on either side; others had glass-viewing areas built into the sides of the massive steel doors. He saw numerous security cameras sweeping the entire long, curving corridor.

"The president is a frequent visitor here, as every president since Franklin Roosevelt has been. This facility, Jack, was their favorite place to be. And before that, the likes of Woodrow Wilson and Hoover frequented our very first facility in Virginia."

"Okay, Senator, you have my attention," Collins said.

"Good, Jack, good," Lee said as he punched another button on the control panel. A picture came up of what Collins assumed was the interior of one of the larger vaults. The camera shot was obscured for a moment as a man in a white lab coat walked by the lens on his way down a catwalk.

"Here at Group we have over a hundred computer technicians, thirty-five on-staff archaeologists, twenty-five top-notch chemists and biologists, two quantum theorists, four astrophysics people, five forensic specialists, one hundred field security men and women, consisting of army, navy, air force, and marine personnel, and twelve geologists." Lee took a much needed breath. "And this is not counting butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers." He smiled. "These are the best the country can offer, Jack. Their education is ongoing and continued by professors from MIT, Harvard, Jet Propulsion Lab, Cambridge, Princeton, and more, some with longer and far more expensive-sounding names. We spare nothing at the Event Group, Major Collins, and everyone from our cooks to field leaders have a right to furthering and deepening their minds. We don't want nor do we need puppets."

"Who pays for all this?"

Garrison Lee laughed. "There we have made some enemies, I'm afraid. As our budget comes out of the coffers of all the other agencies in the federal government and is hidden amongst their budgets and scattered to the winds, our front agency, the National Archives, takes a beating, but they live with it."

"I could see why that would cause concern with the other areas of government," Collins said.

"Our work is far more important." The senator waved his hand and again tapped the screen with his old wooden cane, drawing Jack's attention back to the largest of the vaults. The doors were closed and looked formidable in size and security.

"Now that looks like it belongs at NORAD, in Cheyenne Mountain," Collins said, looking at the screen.

Collins watched as the older man spoke, his one steely blue eye fixed on the screen, and when he started speaking, he never once turned to face Collins, as if he were concentrating on telling the story right, or he was trying to imagine or live it, so it could be told right. Jack knew this was the hook that was to be fed him. The senator's cane was still held on the large plastic-coated screen by his liver-spotted hand.

"I find myself drawn to this vault quite often," he said softly. "What you're seeing here, Major, was the first Event, what we here refer to as the Lincoln Raid." The senator paused and stared a long while at the screen. Lee's features didn't tell anything much about what the man was feeling. "It's a very well documented Event. Diaries and logbooks, all firsthand accounts, give an almost surreal telling of its discovery and acquisition."

He finally turned and looked at the major with a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "I guess it gives me a sense of peace, indescribable really, or maybe it's just my age." He chuckled to himself at this last remark.

Jack said nothing; he just looked the senator in his one good eye, looking for that flicker of untruth.

Suddenly, Garrison Lee deftly tapped the tip of the cane against another button on the control panel. Collins watched as another camera, from higher up in the vault, he assumed, came on and produced an image of an object that caught the major off guard. He didn't quite know what it was he was looking at, but it was enormous and undoubtedly ancient. Its raggedness gave the giant object a ghostly appearance. Without knowing he was doing it, Jack stepped closer to the large screen. A deeply buried, almost familiar memory started to burrow its way out of his mind. It was an unclear, distant thought, or was it a memory? Perhaps a memory of something he had seen as a child. But the harder he tried to remember, the more elusive it became; like the feeling of deja vu, it came and left, leaving only a bare trace of its being there at all. Jack furrowed his brows and peered harder at the screen.

Lee stepped back to admire the view the vault camera gave them. Technicians were milling around it. Some were chipping away at it with instruments Collins had never before seen, others were writing on clear plastic clipboards, while still more manned huge diagnostic systems arrayed against one of the far walls. The giant object looked as if it had been made out of wooden beams of some kind, but had long ago petrified into near rock. The beams were curved and swept, high at one end and sloping down at a great angle toward its torn and sheared opposite end. As he watched, a three-man tech group was in the interior of the enormous object. They had a small chemical lab set up right there and were analyzing substances he wouldn't even guess at. He looked more closely at the exterior. There were massive holes in its side and on what Collins assumed was its sloping floor, or was it a deck? It now hit him that he was looking at part of a vessel of some kind. The petrified planks of what was once wood were laid out perfectly as a deck would be. It was long, at least three hundred feet from the view they had, and looked as if it was only half there as it ended in a jagged wreck. He was still struck by how ancient the object looked. But that feeling of knowing still struck him like a hammer inside his head. He couldn't help but get goose bumps when he gazed at the strange and mysterious object.

"What is it?" Collins asked of the hauntingly familiar shape.

"Don't you know, Jack?" the senator asked, still smiling at him. "Well, in all actuality neither do we. There are a lot of opinions, but one thing we do know, we can't tell the people of the world we have it, it would stir the souls of men, and we just can't predict how they would react."

Collins continued to study the image as the old man looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying the moment.

"The reason I am showing you this particular vault first, Major, is twofold. Number one, this was the very first Event. And number two, it shows the value of the military in our fieldwork. And believe me, Jack, fieldwork is even far more dangerous today than it was in Mr. Lincoln's time."

Collins's eyes never left the senator's lone one. He nodded in understanding, but said nothing.

"It started in 1863," Lee said, still looking at the major before letting his eye go back to the screen. "After the battle of Gettysburg, when the war had finally turned in the Union's favor, the president of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, was persuaded by a discredited Norwegian immigrant, a history professor from Harvard, to put together an expedition to what was then known as the Ottoman Empire." The senator paused and turned from the screen and limped the short distance to his high-backed chair beside Niles's desk.

"This meeting between the professor and the president brought forth an unusual truce between North and South the history books will never mention, and one you will find no documentation for in the National Archives, save for ours," Lee added. "A meeting was engineered through the office of the then U.S. secretary of state, William Seward, and the expedition was on. It would be mounted by six hundred Union soldiers and captured Confederate prisoners, and six American ships of war."

At this, Collins turned and looked at the man sitting behind that huge desk, then up at the portrait of Lincoln above the man's head.

"Their task," Lee continued, "as ordered by the president, was to search for, find, and bring back an object believed by some to be the greatest archaeological find of all time--not one that would fill the depleted U.S. treasury with riches for pockets already lined beyond measure." Lee had picked up a pen and was tapping it against his blotter. "The mission was to bring back the object you see there before you."

Collins looked at the screen, paused a moment, then glanced back at the senator. Then, slowly his eyes were drawn back to the large monitor.

"In short, Major, the president didn't really believe they would find anything of value. To his way of thinking, just the effort of two warring factions to come together would help in reuniting the North and the South after the war. There was one thing Mr. Lincoln overlooked, and that was the tenacity of the men involved. They brought back to this country, at the loss of three-quarters of the men and four warships, a relic that had sat atop a mountain in eastern Turkey for over ten thousand years. A lot of good American boys were left on that summit and in the slopes and valleys of that harsh and desolate place. And what they brought back, to what turned out to be for a murdered president and a country still divided, where hatred reigned unchecked, was the artifact you see before you. Some think it the Ark of the great flood, the ship that was supposedly built by Noah himself."

Collins saw it as soon as it was said out loud by the senator. All the pictures he had seen in Sunday school, the stories he was told as a child, the ridiculous tales and movies of his adulthood, they all rushed in as if a dam had burst inside his mind.

"You mean to say this... this thing is Noah's Ark?" he finally asked, his eyes glued to one spot on the viewing screen.

"As near as we can determine, the vessel is of pre-Sumerian origin, basically the cradle of civilization found between the Tigris and Euphrates river basins. The size, shape, and material of which it is made are a precise match to all biblical detail. Carbon-14 dating places it at some eleven thousand six hundred years in age, give or take a century," the senator said in a more technical tone. "We haven't any firm belief from science who built it; we have the legends of Gilgamesh and the Noah accounts, but that's not the approach we take here. Science says it's an ancient wooden vessel that's so old it petrified after it somehow landed on top of a mountain."

Collins turned and walked back to his chair in front of the senator and sat heavily.

The senator smiled over at Jack. Every time he had shown this for the first time, he had seen it in their faces: amazement, awe, and fear wrapped up into one thought.

The senator stood and limped to a cabinet next to the credenza with the coffee on it. He reached down, took out a glass, and poured the major a glass of water. He limped back and placed it in Collins's hand. Jack quickly drained it and was glad for the break in conversation. It had been a long time since he could remember being caught totally unaware. This was more than just a little unnerving, yet extraordinary at the same time. The senator started talking again while adjusting himself into his chair.

"Now, do we here at Group live in awe of this one artifact, or do we learn from it? We have gathered so much data it's coming out of every file cabinet we have. The reason this is so important to this country, Jack, is the mere fact that we have learned that the dangers are there and are very real that we could be hit by similar floods in the future. This report has gone up the chain and plans have been made on how to deal with a similar Event if it happens. Before I let you catch your breath, Jack, I must tell you that the finding of the Ark, or vessel, was the first file in the Event Group's long and wondrous history. Altogether there are more than 106,200 files, from everything religion-oriented to possible werewolf attacks in France during the time of the black death, from possible sightings of electrically powered submarines during the American Civil War to a major conflict between Viking clans in Minnesota involving Sioux Indians seven hundred years before Columbus."

Collins held Lee's gaze without comment.

"But that's just history; we study, we learn, we file it. But sometimes there is that golden nugget that can alter our government's way of thinking; for instance, the report detailing the history of the empire of Japan delivered from us to Roosevelt in 1933 by my predecessor warning of the historical tendencies of the Japanese. It was all there to see for anyone willing to dig a little deeper, dig like only the Event Group can. Our Group informed the president six full years before December of '41 that the United States was on a collision course with Japan, and we also gave him options on how to avoid a conflict. You see, we report, but in the end what the president does with the information is learn from it." Lee smiled at Collins. "Maybe he decided that what he learned from our report was that Japan would indeed attack us, and that would be enough to get us involved in a far more dangerous game in Europe with the Nazis. What do you think?"

"I believe I understand the need for secrecy; this information would unnerve a lot of people, and I believe I know why you need me."

"No, Jack, you don't know just yet. We've lost a lot of people, good people, and we are sick and tired of it. The president has ordered Director Compton to take the gloves off. My killing days are far passed; I daresay I was almost as good as you at taking life for the right cause. But I'm an old man and my next big adventure is death. Niles here needs a man that is capable of defending the people he sends into the field, and so I started digging on his behalf and you are what I unearthed. I hope I have stated our case clearly."

"I believe you have," Collins answered.

"By that, I guess you see some of what we are about here and that you accept the task before you, that you are here to train and equip our security teams and make them a viable protective force. Niles and I are concerned over the recent escalation of deadly force against our people."

"We are being pushed around by outside elements, and to put it bluntly and more succinctly, Major, you're here to push back, and push back hard," Compton said, with the emphasis on the last four words.

"I believe I grasp the concept of the Group, but the times dictate how you react to certain situations. For reasons I've tried to explain, and have been banished from the troops I respect and care about for doing so, countries and people smell a weakness in the United States. To protect the people under you, Mr. Director, are you prepared to be offensive in nature?"

"Prepared? I'm ordering it, Major Collins."

"Then you're halfway to really giving your people a fighting chance. Our current world is one based on speed. Everything is moving faster, and to protect your own you have to move even faster than your enemies, and sometimes sadly to say, preemptively."

Niles nodded. "But there is something you must know, Major Collins. There are those here in our own country that believe as you, only they are taking matters to the extreme. It seems there may be a group of superpatriots with highly placed sources that are attacking others and us with impunity. You are right, it's a world of speed and we are lagging behind. Whoever they are, they are killing my people and taking our finds, and I must stress, Major Collins"-- Compton clenched his fist--"that will be our undoing. Our knowledge is being stolen, by either outside sources for political gain, or factors from inside our borders for monetary or political reasons, and I want it stopped. The president says to start offensive operations to root these factions out. Get a light on them and bring them out into the open. And that is what you are here to do." Niles paced and continued, "When the senator brought you to my attention, I thought you might be just a thug, but reading your file and making a few calls of my own, I have found out you are quite intelligent and are constantly thinking outside of the box. MIT, UCLA, and numerous other institutions say you are worthy of being far more than you are. But I believe you were right where you wanted to be, protecting your men. That's why all the higher education--you learned so you could care for your people. I care about mine also, Major, but I can't do what you do." Niles turned and faced Collins. "Protect my people and I don't care how you do it."

Collins looked from Dr. Compton to the senator. He sensed their sincerity about how important they considered the job they had offered him. He felt their sorrow and anger at the loss of their people, but he knew that regardless of the intent, he was out of his element.

"I am a soldier," he started, looking from one man to the other, "one who is still a career officer, even if the army has no more use for me. I will still have to get used to that fact. It's a new position for me you see, being an embarrassment, being one they have to brush under the rug, it makes it hard to look in the mirror. So if you wouldn't mind, I would like to reserve my answer for any permanent assignment until I can evaluate my options. But it would be my duty to start training your Group as best I can while I do that, is that acceptable?"

Lee looked at the floor a moment. He knew this was where Jack Collins would remain. The Joint Chiefs would never allow him to return to active duty. But how do you get rid of a Medal of Honor recipient without CNN crucifying you in the press? You hide him in the darkest closet in the American house, the Event Group. In the end Lee decided to let Jack have the illusion his fate was still controlled by himself, because without the Event Group the major's military career was done.

"Then tentatively speaking, Jack, welcome to the Event Group," the senator said slowly, standing and limping around the desk with his hand extended. "Your second-in-command, Lieutenant Commander Everett, will shed some more light on your duties here. He's good, Jack, real good. He's Navy, a SEAL, and he's been there, and it was he who knew the entire system needed revamping."

The senator opened the twin doors and shook Jack's hand again.

"That wicked old woman will have someone show you to your quarters, and then you'll be taken on a small tour of our vault area. Niles and I have a meeting with Her Majesty's archivist in England and the British prime minister in ten minutes, and the president will be listening in. So I'll leave you in the Wicked Witch of the West's hands because, as I say, we have an argument ahead of us. It seems the Brits want a body returned to the soil of the Empire."

Collins released the senator's hand as he turned away to go back into his office. As the doors were closing behind him, he heard the old man say, "This body belongs to the world, not just the British, damn it!"

Collins was joined by Alice Hamilton, who placed her aged arm through his own and started walking him toward the elevator. Collins figured Alice was one of those people who actually ran things at the Group, the one you went to when you wanted to cut through the crap and get something done. He decided that he would want her ear in the coming weeks and months.

As he entered the elevator, Alice whispered as she kept the doors from closing, "Garrison is really up in arms because he and Niles don't want to give up one of our finds, but the burial site was found on an American naval base in Scotland, so they wanted to keep it a while longer. But as always, they will return it when it's been examined. The senator wants to keep it for good, but Dr. Compton is younger and calmer and knows the British deserve it, so the senator will defer to Niles." She smiled and looked at Jack. "It was one of the senator's pet projects here at Group, proving the existence of a fourth-century warlord named Artorius, in the Latin language, or better known as Arthur, in the English."

As Alice let the elevator doors slowly close, she had to smile, because the last thing she saw was Major Collins's face as he tried to stop the doors from closing. "You mean they found the body of King Arth--" But the doors closed, cutting off his amazed expression and question.

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.

--EDGAR ALLAN POE

"ELEONORA,"I84I