- Home
- James, Nathaniel Dean
Origin - Season One
Origin - Season One Read online
Copyright © 2014 Nathaniel Dean James
Nathaniel Dean James is the pen name of author Jonathan Ronnquist, whose right to be identified as the author of this work under that name has been asserted by him in accordance with all relevant copyright laws.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2014 by Millennium Birdhouse Ltd.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored electronically, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities between the characters in this book and any real person, living or deceased, or other fictional characters, is purely coincidental. All references to actual persons, places and events appear strictly for the sake of general reference, and are not to be construed as accurate for any other purpose.
All rights reserved.
Kindle Edition
ISBN: 978 0 992 8446 08
Millennium Birdhouse Ltd.
39 Poulner Close
Bognor Regis
West Sussex
PO22 8HN
United Kingdom
www.millenniumbirdhouse.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Note to the Reader
Chapter 1: Federal Reserve Bank
Chapter 2: The Pentagon
Chapter 3: Federal Reserve Bank
Chapter 4: Federal Reserve Bank
Chapter 5: Skyline Defense
Chapter 6: Federal Reserve Bank
Chapter 7: CIA Headquarters
Chapter 8: Federal Reserve Bank
Chapter 9: Morisson, Vermont
Chapter 10: FBI Field Office
Chapter 11: New York, New York
Chapter 12: FBI Field Office
Chapter 13: Skyline Defense
Chapter 14: Wellfleet Town Pier
Chapter 15: Boston, Massachusetts
Chapter 16: Ipswich Bay, Massachusetts
Chapter 17: Skyline Defense
Chapter 18: Morisson, Vermont
Chapter 19: Interstate 91, Vermont
Chapter 20: Skyline Defense
Chapter 21: Morisson, Vermont
Chapter 22: Skyline Defense
Chapter 23: Sainte Eulalie, Quebec
Chapter 24: New York, New York
Chapter 25: FBI Field Office
Chapter 26: Washington DC
Chapter 27: Lake Commissaires, Quebec
Chapter 28: Skyline Defense
Chapter 29: Chemin des Gagnon, Quebec
Chapter 30: Penn Hills, Pennsylvania
Chapter 31: New York, New York
Chapter 32: Pont-Rouge, Quebec
Chapter 33: Interstate 91, Vermont
Chapter 34: Concord, New Hampshire
Chapter 35: Vermont – Quebec Border
Chapter 36: Houston, Texas
Chapter 37: Lake Commissaires, Quebec
Chapter 38: New York, New York
Chapter 39: CIA Headquarters
Chapter 40: Lake Commissaires, Quebec
Chapter 41: Times Square, New York
Chapter 42: Lake Commissaires, Quebec
Chapter 43: Orlando, Florida
Chapter 44: Lake Commissaires, Quebec
Chapter 45: La Tuque, Quebec
Chapter 46: Churchton, Maryland
Chapter 47: Orlando, Florida
Chapter 48: Aurora
Chapter 49: Merritt Island, Florida
Chapter 50: Somewhere in Virginia
Chapter 51: The Pride of Mumbai
Chapter 52: Aurora
Chapter 53: New York, New York
Chapter 54: Aurora
Chapter 55: London, Heathrow
Chapter 56: Pandora
Chapter 57: Aurora
Chapter 58: Zurich, Switzerland
Chapter 59: Aurora
Chapter 60: Zurich, Switzerland
Chapter 61: The Callisto
Chapter 62: Zurich, Switzerland
Chapter 63: The Callisto
Chapter 64: Utska, Poland
Chapter 65: The Pandora
Chapter 66: Aurora
Chapter 67: Utska, Poland
Chapter 68: The Callisto
Chapter 69: Aurora
Chapter 70: The Pandora
Chapter 71: Utska, Poland
Chapter 72: Zurich, Switzerland
Chapter 73: Utska, Poland
Chapter 74: Aurora
Chapter 75: Utska, Poland
Chapter 76: Aurora
Chapter 77: Utska, Poland
Chapter 78: Zurich, Switzerland
Chapter 79: The Callisto
Chapter 80: Aurora
Chapter 81: Berlin
Chapter 82: Aurora
Chapter 83: The Callisto
Chapter 84: Aurora
Chapter 85: Aurora
Chapter 86: Aurora
Conclusion
Dear Reader
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Appendix A: Cast in Order of Appearance
Appendix B: Names, Places and Objects of Significance
For Nichola
Note to the Reader
The adventure you are about to embark upon is an expansive one. Like many stories born of humble beginnings and modest ambition, this one has since taken on a life of its own, a life that can no longer be said to rest entirely in the hands of the author, if I am honest. My best guess is that by the time all is said and done, it may well reach ten volumes, and possibly more. While this is good news for those who, like myself, savor the prospect of a journey into the realms of infinite possibility, it also presents a number of challenges that we would do well to overcome here at the outset. I am referring primarily to the cast, which, by necessity, is a large one. Many of the people you will meet in this first volume will be with us for the long haul, while others are incidental to the particular events in question. To assist you in this regard I have included two appendixes at the end of the book.
The first is a list of characters in order of appearance and a short description of each. My only advice to those using it would be not to stray near those you have yet to encounter as this may reveal details best left to their rightful moment. The second is a list of objects and places vital to the story should one or more of these escape you as we go forward.
Chapter 1
Federal Reserve Bank
New York, New York
Friday 14 July 2006
1600 EDT
Gert Dekker wiped the sweat from his brow with the palm of his hand and took another step toward the curb. The nervous tic in his right eye gave him the odd appearance of a man staring at a flashing disco ball. His attention was fixed on the intersection of Nassau and Liberty Street, where the motley parade of afternoon traffic continued to inch forward under the pitiless sun of a Manhattan summer. Now slowly suffocating inside his wool suit, he had resolved to turn and go back inside when he saw the car.
It was hard to miss.
Unlike most embassies in post 9/11 New York, some still thought it was a good idea to fly the national flag on their cars. The white S-Class Mercedes pulled to a stop at the curb, and a young man in a chauffeur’s uniform got out to open the door for his passenger.
The man who emerged from the car was blacker than the history of Europe and towered a full eight inches above Dekker. He wore a navy suit and a white shirt with a blood-red tie. His hair was cropped in a flattop that made him look more like an action figure than a diplomat.
“Mr. Ambassador, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Dekker said.
The ambassador flashed him a shark’s grin, but ignored
Dekker’s outstretched hand. He stepped aside to let his assistant out, a thin, bespectacled man carrying a dark brown alligator-skin briefcase.
“Right this way, Ambassador,” Dekker said.
Two guards joined them inside the lobby and Dekker led the small procession toward a row of polished brass elevator doors at the end of the hall. One of the guards took a key-card from his breast pocket and inserted it into the slot below the buttons on the panel. A moment later the radio on his hip squawked. “You’re clear for Sub Two.”
“Gentlemen,” Dekker said, “I’ll have to ask you to wait here until we’ve opened the vault. I’ll be back to escort you down as soon as we’re ready.”
The ambassador clearly didn’t like the idea of waiting but voiced no protest.
The sub-level antechamber was a narrow room about twenty feet wide. Four marble pillars ran up the corners to a domed ceiling decorated in a series of murals of Greek or Roman origin. It gave the room the eerie feel of a mausoleum. In contrast, the vault doors were modern. Not the round steel doors you might expect to find in one of the oldest banks in the country, but square and made of brushed titanium. The seam between the frame and the doors was barely a millimeter wide, and there were no visible hinges.
Dekker removed a chain from his neck and inserted a small toothless key into the panel beside the door.
“Allied Bishop Control, go ahead.”
“Vice President Gert Dekker. I need access to 2-A, please,” Dekker said.
“Please scan in, sir.”
Dekker placed his thumb onto the small rectangle next to the screen.
“Thank you, Mr. Dekker.”
Somewhere inside the wall an electric motor began to turn, and the entire door moved out of its frame as if levitating. It extended about a foot, then began to rise, revealing two large hydraulic arms that pushed the heavy door up from the inside.
As both men watched the door rise the indifference on their faces gave way to a look of stupid incomprehension. They leaned forward like a well-practiced double act, then straightened again as the door ascended to eye level and finally came to a stop several inches above the opening.
Dekker walked toward the open door the way a man might approach a sleeping creature of unknown temperament. He glanced back at the guard. “Get the chairman down here.”
When the guard didn’t move, Dekker shouted, “Do it. Now! And get rid of the ambassador.”
The guard ran back to the elevator. Dekker stepped into the vault, his eyes still fixed on the wall. Something toppled over beneath his foot and rolled across the room. Dekker’s eyes followed it. It hit the far wall with a soft clang, and he saw it was a spray can. Several feet above it, written in two rows of large clumsy red letters were the words: SED QUIS CUSTODIET IPSOS CUSTODES?
In some places the paint had run all the way down to the marble floor and formed small pools.
Dekker knelt and picked up the can. There was a sheet of paper fastened to it with a rubber band. When he unfolded it, a small memory card dropped to the floor. Dekker knelt to pick up the card. He recognized it as a standard SD card, the same one his own digital camera used. He scanned the safety deposit boxes along the wall, but saw no sign that any of them had been opened.
The paper was a printout of the vault’s 120 deposit boxes, complete with the names of their owners. At the bottom someone had written the words Back Off followed by a long line of numbers that meant nothing to him.
Dekker was too shocked to hear the guard return.
“Sir, the chairman is on his way. What the hell is going on?”
Dekker turned to him, his eyes vacant, uncomprehending. “We’re fucked, Andy. That’s what’s going on. We’ve just been fucked.”
Chapter 2
The Pentagon
Washington DC
Friday 14 July 2006
1800 EDT
The helicopter was bright red except for the words Skyline Defense painted across the tail boom in thick black letters. It hovered briefly over the landing pad before nosing up and gently settling onto the manicured lawn.
Carl Bosch, chairman and CEO of Skyline, stepped out into the bright afternoon sun and waved an impatient hand at the waiting navy lieutenant.
Dressed casually in a collared white shirt and tan slacks, Bosch made no effort to hide the gray in his hair, which was cut short and complemented by a thick salt-and-pepper mustache. As the head of one of the Pentagon’s less advertised contractors he enjoyed a number of rare privileges and exuded a corresponding arrogance that endeared him to few.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bosch,” the officer said. “The admiral is waiting for you in his office.”
“Where else would he be waiting?” Bosch said.
They made their way down the concrete path toward the north face of the building. Inside, a marine gunnery sergeant handed Bosch a photo ID and put the briefcase he was carrying through the x-ray scanner.
Five minutes later, he stepped into the office of Rear Admiral James O’Connor. O’Connor was a tall, thin man with gaunt features and a sharp nose. He was standing at the window overlooking the inner courtyard. He didn’t turn around when Bosch entered, only looked down at the tumbler of scotch in his hand and stirred the ice cubes with a shake of the wrist.
“Thank you, Adam,” the admiral said, and the aide promptly left the room.
Without waiting for an invitation, Carl sat down on one of the two leather chairs facing the admiral’s desk. “I didn’t realize inflation was running so high.”
The admiral put his glass down and smiled. “Christ, Carl, you should be thanking me, not complaining. I had to call in a lot of favors on this one.”
Bosch set his briefcase down on the desk blotter. “Happy retirement.”
The admiral walked over, opened the case and ran an absentminded hand over the bills inside. “What’s so important about this ship, anyway? Why not just sail her around the Cape?”
“She’s on a tight schedule,” Bosch said. “She also represents a sizable investment. The last thing we need is for her to be stuck off the coast of Somalia for three weeks while the insurance people haggle with the locals over ransom money.”
The admiral opened the top drawer of his desk and handed Carl a sheet of paper. “The USS Princeton will be authorized to leave her patrol zone for twelve hours. That will get you into Egyptian waters. After that, you’re on your own.”
Chapter 3
Federal Reserve Bank
New York, New York
Saturday 15 July 2006
0900 EDT
Special Agent Mike Banner pulled up to the loading-bay entrance on Liberty Street and stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in an empty coffee cup on the passenger seat.
Both security guards in front of the door were carrying shotguns. To his bemusement, one of them retreated to a covering position as the other approached the car. Mike lowered the window. “Afternoon. Mike Banner, FBI. I should be on the guest list.”
The guard wasn’t amused. “I’ll need to see your ID, sir.”
Mike handed it over. The guard took it, then stepped back and conferred briefly with someone over his radio. When he handed it back, he said, “Sir, are you carrying a weapon?”
“Just my service issue,” Mike said.
“I’ll have to ask you to leave it here, sir.”
Mike was about to ask why, but the look on the guard’s face suggested it would be a waste of time. He reached over, pulled the Glock 23 from the glove box and handed it over. A moment later the doors began to open.
Mike recognized the black Chevy Suburban parked at the bottom of the ramp as one of their own. He got out and approached the woman at the top of the steps to the loading platform. “Afternoon, boss.”
Mary Winters, the assistant director of the New York field office, looked tired. Her hair, normally her most striking feature, had been tied back in a simple ponytail, and Mike didn’t think she was wearing any makeup.
“Thanks for coming in
, Mike,” she said. “I appreciate it.”
“Not at all, I could use the overtime. Especially now that Susan wants us to find a place in Nassau.”
When she didn’t smile, he said, “What’s going on?”
“Follow me,” she said.
She led him through the door at the back of the loading bay into a small room filled with monitoring screens, then through another door at the back of the room into a long hallway that ended in a narrow flight of steps. At the top was yet another steel door that looked even thicker than the previous two.
The room was a larger version of the one downstairs. There were at least thirty screens mounted in an arc around a wide counter with two keyboards and a joystick built in.
Two people were waiting for them inside. The first was a portly, bald man with a thick gray beard. He wore no tie, had rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, and looked to Mike as if he hadn’t slept in a week. The assistant director introduced him as Paul Shaffer, chairman of the bank’s board of directors.
Shaffer held out a hand. “Mary you know. This is Gert Dekker, our vice president. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Banner. Mary says you’re her top guy. I sure hope she’s right. Gert, show him the video.”
Mike, who knew neither what was going on, nor why he was there, watched as Dekker walked to the control terminal. A loud burst of static issued from the wall-mounted speakers; then the video feed began to run on one of the two large screens above the counter. The picture was only a moving blur at first, then it settled. It took Mike a moment to understand that the camera had been mounted somehow to the head of the person making the video.
When the picture came into focus Mike could just make out a door in the dark, grainy image. There was a click and the door opened. The view suddenly blurred again as it swung back to the door and a hand reached out to close it. As soon as it was closed, the image was suddenly flooded with light, presumably from a flashlight also mounted on the person’s head. After that things moved fast.
Less than three minutes later, Mike, who was now dizzy from the constantly moving picture, saw the elevator doors open on the sublevel antechamber. The man (Mike assumed it was a man) turned right and approached the control panel next to the vault door. For several seconds the image was static; then the door began to open. Mike watched as the figure stepped inside and walked to the far wall. There was a loud rattle as he shook the spray can and began to write. When he was done, the view swung back to the door and the video stopped.