State of Time: Beginnings Series Book 6 Read online

  Frank moved on. “I went to my office. I got my gear. I went to my desk. I gasped. Greg did not do his reports again. It is OK. No time to get mad. Just time to get a SUT.” Frank stopped. “OK, now see here is where I show the importance of controlling your ...”

  “Frank!” Joe yelled. “Read the goddamn story!”

  “All right!” Frank yelled back. “This is the good part anyhow.” He gave a twitch to his head. “I went to the back gate. SUTs lurk there. I stopped. I heard a shot. A bullet flies by my head. ‘Fuck!’ I said . . .” A crash, rattle, bang, splash, and scream caused Frank to stop reading. “What?”

  Joe looked sharply at Ellen. “Why are you screaming?”

  Ellen held her stomach. “Henry ripped the suction things from me.”

  “He shouldn’t hear that, Joe,” Henry defended.

  “Frank.” Joe slapped his hand on the table. “You can’t say ‘fuck’ in a kid’s book.”

  “Why?” Frank asked. “It’s a word.”

  Joe winced at the laughter. “Robert. Knock it off. Frank, you can’t say fuck. It’s too strong.”

  “Shit then?”

  “No!” Joe yelled.

  “Joe, if I may?” Jenny raised her hand and stood up. She walked to Frank. “I think the story concept is good. The children need to know about this. And…with some editing, this will be a fine addition to our school’s collection.”

  Amongst the moans, Frank grinned with a clenched fist. “Oh, yeah. I’m an author. And you, little man Dean. are typing...” Frank stopped talking. The chair where Dean sat was empty. “Where did he go.” Frank waved his hand. “Jealous.”

  ^^^^

  Work. That was the main focus on Dean’s mind. Getting back to work. The mobile lab was back in order and samples needed reviewed again. He had to see how much progress they lost on through the attack on the lab. At the very least it would help him forget all that was happening with his body. He wanted to believe it was stress, but he knew better.

  From the stack that needed to go to the mobile lab, Dean flipped open the first folder. He adjusted his glasses and began to read. Taking the pencil he had in his tee shirt pocket he began to lower it to make a notation. As the tip of the lead touched down, a burning throb hit Dean’s left eye, an instant headache which spread like a fire across the bridge of his nose to the other eye. Immediately his words went out of focus and the pencil dropped for his hand. Lifting his glasses up with his hand he rubbed his eyes fiercely wishing he could rub away the pain.

  “Dean?” Ellen called his name softly.

  Dean sprang up. “El.’ He nervously tried to continue what he was doing.

  “You left the reading. The school is going to use . . .” She slowed down when her eyes caught glimpse of his hand shaking. She laid her hand over his. “What’s wrong?”

  Helpless, Dean peered up to her. His eyes were bloodshot form the recent quick episode of pain. “El,” His voice cracked through his breathlessness, “remember how we planned to . . . to do tests. Glucose, diabetes. Precaution. Look ahead because we didn’t know . . . we didn’t know when or how it would happen. Now, El. Now, too soon, it’s happening . . .” Dean raged with confused emotions. “It’s happening too soon.”

  “What’s happening? You’re scaring me. You’re not making any sense.”

  “Yeah, I am. It’s not an illness.” Dean’s shaking hand lifted the hair slightly from his left temple. “It was the knock on the head. And I’m scared El . . .” he swallowed his fear. “My blindness of the future . . . It’s starting to happen now.”

  Ellen’s heart sunk, no words could come from her, only her arms that reached out and embraced Dean.

  ^^^^

  Bowman, North Dakota

  Rolled oats. Mother’s oats. Oatmeal. Whatever name society had given them, the Captain still didn’t like them as food. But they were plentiful and filling enough to sustain him until evening meal.

  ‘The Mess’ as they called it, or mess hall, was where he sat and finished his breakfast. Usually an early riser, the Captain pulled a late night watch, making him the last to enter for breakfast. The mess hall worked well with the rationing of food, but the last one to enter the mess was faced with one of two situations. There was either no food left, or their tardiness was reprimanded with the task of finishing everything off.

  Mid fourth bowl of oatmeal, the Captain had enough. It was about the same time he discovered the note from Elliott in Steward Lange’s log book, a mere scribble of a response to the Captain request to ‘read the following pages’. Elliott’s note of, ‘I haven’t a clue what I’m looking for. Misspelled words?’, made the Captain rise up from his chair, inform the kitchen crew that during his gluttony he forgot that Sgt Ryder requested the left over oatmeal, then the Captain, with a point to be made, searched out Elliott.

  Elliott was the only one in grey. He was in charge. The twenty men who lined up cross wore the signature blue uniforms. Two feet spread between them, Elliott paced behind them. In the gymnasium they faced forward, arms at sides.

  “Prepare,” Elliott ordered out.

  At the same time, all twenty men with their left foot, pivoted their right shoulder forward while reaching across their waist with their right arm.

  “Stay in synch.” Elliott kept authority to his voice, yet calm. “Draw.”

  The ‘whoosh’ of the twenty swords sounded as one.

  “Attack.”

  A unison cheer of the single word ‘rah’ accompanied the projection of the sword and the swift glide forward of the men toward the bales of hay.

  “Retract . . .” Elliott paced. “Attack.”

  The men took two steps back, then a fast charge forward with an even louder cheer.

  “Retract . . . pull back in formation to . . .” Elliott shifted his eyes, and then snapped straight with a salute. “Attention!”

  As if they had practiced it-and they did--the twenty men in synch, turned to face the back of the gymnasium, and snapped to attention when the Captain walked in.

  The Captain gave a sharp salute. “At ease.” He looked to Elliott as he moved his hands behind his back. “Sgt. Ryder is it possible for you to find a replacement for this exercise. I need to speak to you in private.”

  “Yes, sir.” Turning from the Captain, Elliott faced his men. “Townsend, take over please.”

  The Captain gave Elliott a nod of gratitude, then pivoted in a stern stride, walking ahead of Elliott, and leading him into the hall.

  Almost at an antsy formal stance, the Captain waited in the hall for Elliott. When the gym door banged, it was like a lever to the Captain. His body dropped the tension, and dramatically, he lifted Steward Lange’s log book and whacked Elliott on the head with it. “Misspelled words. What is wrong with you?”

  “What?” Elliott laughed.

  “Come here.” Tugging his sleeve, the Captain pulled Elliott into a room. “Didn’t you read what I asked you to?”

  “Yes. But what am I looking for?” Elliott asked. “You seem to think some big revelation was going to hit me.”

  “Yes. Yes. It should have.”

  “No, no. It shouldn’t.” Elliott shook his head. “If you didn’t pick it up after months of living with the log book how am I supposed to find it after one reading?”

  “True. O.K.” The Captain opened up the log book. “Here Steward Lange mentions that the president returned but failed to secure the Garfield Project. How could Hadley fail to get something unless . . .”

  Elliott’s eyes lifted. “Someone else has it.”

  “Exactly!” The Captain smiled. “If he failed to get something off of someone else then that someone else is? Is what, Elliott?”

  “A pretty strong enemy of the society.”

  “We are not alone.”

  “True but . . .” Elliott held up a finger. “Are they going to end up being our enemy as well?”

  The Captain moaned, “You had to dampen it, didn’t you? Now getting back to my enthusiastic thought
s, we need to find out about this Garfield Project. What it is, where it is. I’m thinking it’s a weapon of sorts.”

  Elliott nodded. “I have to agree.”

  “Good. We also now have to find out about these people that have this invention. If they are friend, when we are strong enough to approach them, we help them in their cause. If they are an enemy, when we are strong enough to face them . . .we borrow this Garfield project, barring it’s not too big for us to carry out.”

  “I would think this project is small,” Elliott said. “It would have to be in order to be hidden. We get it. We bring it here. We have an ace in our hand.”

  “Not that we would use this secret weapon. But . . . it could be a powerful tool.

  “I like what you’re thinking. But how are we going to not only find this enemy of the society, but this Garfield Project as well.”

  “Investigate,” the Captain said with certainty. “If we can learn a little more about the society maybe we can learn about this project they want. The enemy of the society will fall in place.”

  “Short of going east again to infiltrate Quantico, short of waiting until spring until we start scouting out society camps, what can we do? We’re at a loss over here in the west.”

  “Not completely.” The Captain flipped a few pages in the log book. “Lange mentions early on about the President’s stay in a former site in Colorado. If it’s a former society site, cleaned out or not, there may be clues left behind. Maybe about the project, maybe about other things we don’t know.”

  “Colorado really isn’t that far.”

  “Nope,” the Captain smiled, “but it’s not as close as the nearest major bookstore. Check out this . . .” The Captain began to read. “So eerie like. When I first read, ‘Man’s last Stand’ I laughed at the sci-fi picture painted of surviving the plague ridden world. How true his book ended up being . . .” The Captain showed Elliott the page. “How true? Elliott, if want to find out about the Garfield project and secrets of the Caceres Society, why not read a surviving book written by the namesake . . .” His finger pointed to the name.

  “Forrest Caceres,” Elliott smiled.

  “Let’s go.” Snatching the log book from Elliott’s view, the Captain began a quick movement down the hall. “Elliott?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I just told you. Barnes and Noble.” With a smile and tuck of the log book under his arm, the Captain picked up his pace.

  ^^^^

  Former Quantico Marine Headquarters

  “Jess Anthony Boyens,” Jess stated staring out.

  “Your age?” Sgt. Doyle asked.

  “Thirty-seven years old as of two days ago, sir.” Jess kept his eyes forward.

  “What is the creed of the Caceres Society, Soldier?”

  “To be called upon to protect and serve in any military actions. To enforce the right of the new world. To defend against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

  “Define domestic enemies.” Sgt. Doyle walked to behind Jess’ chair.

  “Upon the soil of the former United States of America, an enemy is defined as any one person or group of persons challenging the way of the society, sir.”

  “Do you consider yourself an enemy?” Sgt. Doyle questioned.

  “No sir.”

  “Your actions can be defined as one of an enemy,” Sgt. Doyle stated.

  “I understand. But my actions were purely out of weakness of the moment and from undo physical exhaustion I had been experiencing from three weeks straight of unrelieved duty.”

  “How can you be trusted with the position? How do we know you will fulfill.”

  Jess fidgeted some in his chair. “I believe in the rule of the society and the enforcing of it, sir. I believe in what the society eventually wants to accomplish . . . I . . .” Jess peered down quickly then back up. “I value the life of my family . . . sir.” His last word went cold.

  “Do you know what your particular call of duty is?”

  “To infiltrate such an enemy. Live amongst them. Be trusted, and when call upon by the society . . . betray even at the cost of my identity and position within the society, sir. Even . . . at the cost of my life.”

  Sgt. Doyle nodded. “Are you prepared to do this undertaking?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your training will be long. You will barely see the sun between this training and your normal soldier routine. Is that understood?” Sgt. Doyle asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Before you undertake this, you will not only know what the society expects from you, you will learn the Garfield Project and its key residents, inside and out. You will know who to befriend and how. You will know the Garfield project, the land. There will not be a square inch you are not familiar with. You will be tested of this knowledge. Is that understood?” Receiving an agreeing nod, Sgt. Doyle walked across the room and turned on a television monitor wheeling it to in front of Jess. He handed Jess a remote control. “Your first lesson. Meet what will be your new home. The Garfield Project, A.K.A., Beginnings, Montana.” He stepped away.

  Once Sgt. Doyle was from the room, Jess pointed the remote control and turned on the monitor. Another press of the button began the rolling of a tape. The white static of the screen adjusted and no sooner did the picture turn into an aerial view of a very green Beginnings, Jess’ finger hit pause. The picture freeze framed and he stood up. Almost in awe he stepped closer to the screen. It had been so long since Jess had seen a place so lush and alive. Right then and there, as Jess’ fingers reached to touch the image, he knew he made the right decision.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Beginnings, Montana

  It had reached a point’s end. Joe had to see for himself. Feeling like the idiot for giving his O.K. he headed to the quantum lab to do something he should have done earlier. He stepped from the jeep, closing his jacket to block out the wind that whipped around. Even though it was dark out, he saw what Dean had told him about earlier, the giant hole that was like a trench on the right side of the quantum lab. What was it? Most importantly he had to find out why the two men Beginnings hadn’t seen in two weeks were digging holes in the middle of the night like grave diggers.

  Reaching out, Joe tried for the door knob--locked. “Christ.” He knocked on the door.

  “We do note want ta be dust-airbed!” Forrest yelled out.

  “Like I care. I have to see if you two are all right.”

  “We are all-rut.”

  “Yeah, well let me hear from Jason.” Joe knocked. “Jason, are you alive in there.”

  The door opened and Forrest popped his head out. His hair was tossed and he sported a facial growth that could be a beard but spread about his face too much. “Woot?”

  “Begging your pardon, Forrest, but as leader, and to make sure you didn’t kill our Jason, I need to see him.”

  Suddenly, as if pulled away abruptly, Forrest disappeared from the door and Jason, looking so similar to Forrest, poked his head out. “I’m alive, Joe, and we’re close. We are really close.”

  “To what? China? What in Christ’s name is that huge hole out there? If you’re trying to get to the power supply, you go from under the lab in the tunnels.”

  Jason closed his mouth and nodded, “Yes I know, but Forrest didn’t believe me. He said I was full of shit. He dug the hole last night for eight hours, Joe, before he listened to me. He thought I was trying to win the bet.”

  Again Forrest yelled from the background, “Boot you did do a-zear dings to me. Do note deny it, Jay-soon. Ha!”

  Joe, getting even more perturbed by having to stand in the cold, became persistent. “Is everything all right in there? No one has seen you. Just let me come in to make sure . . .”

  “No!” Jason shook his head. “No. We uh . . . we’ll let you know when we’re done. It is vital no one bothers us. Thanks for your concern Joe. Night.” The door shut.

  “Fine.” Joe faced the closed door. “Stay in there and smell. I don’t
give a shit.” He stared back to his jeep. “As long as you fix that damn machine soon.”

  ^^^^

  Denny was so perky as he bobbed his way through the nearly crowded social hall. His hair was combed neatly and drastically to the side--courtesy of Andrea. His clothes fresh, crisp, and clean the way she always made him look when he had a gig at the hall, as if he were going to Sunday services. He carried the papers with him as he approached Robbie, Paul, and James, his fellow members of The Starters. Hitting James first, he passed out the papers. “Hi Guys. I wrote up the set list for you, just like you asked, Paul.” He handed Paul his sheet then one to Robbie. “Here Robbie.”

  “Thanks Denny. And what did I tell you about the hair?” Robbie reached his hand out and messed his hair up.

  “No!” Denny hit Robbie away and then tried to straighten it back up. “I get those girl curls and my mom is coming to see me tonight. Don’t,” He whined. “I’ll tell.”

  Paul laughed as he took off his guitar he was tuning, but the smile left him when he read over Denny’s list. “Den? What the hell does it say?”

  Denny nodded. “Impressed huh? It’s in French. Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in.”

  Robbie remained so in control of his laughter. “It’s like a puzzle, Paul. See . . . this one, it says El-loon’s sung.”

  “How about this one?” Paul pointed. “De old guy sung. Or. . . De sung dat Josef huts.”

  “This ought to be . . .” Robbie saw Frank walk into the social hall. “Let me talk to my brother for a second. I’ll be right back.” He set down his bass and stepped from the small stage area walking over to the bar where Frank was at. “Hey,” Robbie nudged him.

  “What’s up? Why aren’t you guys playing?”

  “In a minute. We’re doing the French rendition of our songs tonight, Frank. You’ll like it. Anyhow, I just wanted to tell you if you want to schedule that extra time-machine-run-through tomorrow, go ahead. I’m up for it.”

  “I will. But . . . with Dean still not well, who are we going to get to play head scientist?”