Major General Harlan Cartwright Wilson, Commander, CBRN Threat Analysis, sat at his desk, turned in his chair so he could see out the window, and stared at the parking lot of the Pentagon. He spun a pencil in his fingers, an idle habit without any real function beyond giving his fingers something to do. General Wilson was a tall man, rail thin, with hair out of regulation, a strong chin, and piercing brown eyes. He was dressed in his Class-A dress uniform, a standard for many officers in the Pentagon, his medal rack four high and surrounded by bits of metal and cloth to enhance it. An Expert Infantry Badge, Air Assault, Airborne, all gleamed in the light from his office.
Four days since Hawaiian Airlines Flight 382 had vanished. Its transponder had gone out and the plane had never arrived in Hawaii. Search and rescue had been unable to even find any debris.
General Wilson turned back to his desk looking over the single piece of paper in the middle of his desk. It was a summons by the Senate Armed Services Committee, demanding an update of the status of the dismantling of the Cold War MAD programs.
Since the Soviet Union had collapsed, leaving the United States as the sole nuclear superpower, the powers that be were scrapping the programs as fast as possible. Most of them had never seen the light of day and would now be politically inconvenient to show up now that it was a "kindlier, gentler world" without the USSR.
The sound of his door opening made him frown and look up, irritated that his secretary hadn't notified him of someone entering. What was even the use of having a secretary if she was just going to let someone walk in.
His eyebrows raised as a man just walked in without asking permission, announcing himself, or waiting to be acknowledged. The man just walked up and stood next to one of the comfortable chairs against the wall.
Short height, slim build, watery blue eyes behind rimless glasses, brown hair covered with a "2 Live Crew" hat on his head despite the custom of removing any headwear inside the Pentagon. He wore khaki cargo pants and a Nirvana shirt under an unbuttoned red and black checkered flannel shirt.
He looks like a fool, General Wilson thought to himself as he stared in shock and anger at the man who entered the room.
"Who the fuck are you?" Major General Wilson snapped, sitting up straight.
Another person entered as the small skinny man in the stupid looking outfit just stared at General Wilson. A tall Navy Commander, the insignia on his dress uniform silently proclaiming him to be a highly decorated SEAL.
Wilson frowned at the fact that the man's name tag was missing.
Finally a small woman, shorter even than the man, entered. She wore a severe cut black suit, fingerless black leather gloves like the short man, and her hair was cut in a pixie cut. She had on sunglasses, even inside the Pentagon, with a round scar visible behind the sunglasses on the right side of her face and what looked like a scar on her upper lip from a badly repaired harelip.
Major General Wilson half stood up from his chair. "Who the hell do you three think you are entering my office without being announced and without clearance?" he snapped.
The woman in black shut the door and went to parade rest, just like the SEAL.
"She is Ms. Smith-8741," the slight man said. "The impressive looking gentleman is Mister Johnson, who has been on loan to me for quite some time," the man looked down at his hands, which were tugging on fingerless black leather gloves to cover his palms.
General Wilson felt his stomach clench as the small man fussily arranged the velcro straps on the back of the gloves to give them a snug fit.
"You may call me Senior Analyst Timmons or Mister Timmons," The slight man said. "I am the Assistant Deputy Director of the Department of Analysis, Global Threats Analysis Division, NBC Threat Analysis and Intelligence Section," his voice was cold and empty and General Wilson found himself shrinking back in his chair without remembering having sat back down. "You, Major General Harlan Wilson, will be explaining yourself to me."
General Wilson swallowed and stared at the thin man. He had no idea what warranted a visit in his office from a CIA Deputy Director, a SEAL, and some woman in a suit, but he was pretty sure it wasn't going to be good.
"The subject of your explanation will be one Staff Sergeant Anthony Stillwater, also known as Ant or the Atlas Ant," Timmons said softly. "He may be listed in your files under Chernobog."
"He was on a classified mission when his plane disappeared," Major General Wilson said, smiling with just the right amount of sadness. "Nothing major, just routine inspection."
"I find that interesting," Timmons said, sitting down. The woman in black stood on his left and the SEAL stood on his right. He reached up to the pocket on his flannel shirt and removed a battered green notebook and a pen. When General Wilson went to speak the woman finally spoke.
"Be silent," she snapped. Her voice was empty, cold, void of human inflection.
Wilson closed his mouth.
Timmons was finished thumbing through the notebook, reading a page and nodding to himself.
"Flight 382 to Hawaii. Charter plane to Johnston Atoll. Then a charter plane to Marshall Island Chain. Then a Navy destroyer to the decommissioned Paradise Island Training Area," Timmons said. He looked up. "Interesting," then went back to looking at his notebook.
"What is?" Wilson asked, finally breaking the silence.
"No flight was actually paid or chartered to take Staff Sergeant Stillwater from Hawaii to Johnston Atoll or from Johnston Atoll to Marshall Island Chain. No Navy ship was detailed to pick him up and take him to Paradise Island at any time in the last six months," Timmons murmured. He looked up. "That, combined with the plane's transponder going out soon after takeoff seems a bit suspicious to me."
"With the plane having gone missing, there was no need to arrange the other phases of the trip," General Wilson said. He shook his head. "The loss of life is, of course, a tragedy and my thoughts and prayers go out to the families who have lost loved ones."
Timmons nodded. "Of course," He said.
"Be better off to have Fruit Bat pray to an oak tree for those people then saddle them with the prayers of this sack of..." Miss Smith started.
"Decorum, Miss Smith, decorum," The big SEAL murmured.
Wilson noticed that the small woman struggled for a moment to get her expression under control.
"General Wilson, what do you know of Sergeant Stillwater?" the mild looking CIA agent asked, crossing his legs primly, like a dowager maid at a ball, folding his hands on his knee. Despite his goofy outfit he acted as if he was wearing an expensive suit.
General Wilson cleared his throat. "Quite a bit of it is classified under National Security, so I'm not at liberty to divulge much of the information. I'm sure you understand."
Timmons waved his hands. "Feel free to contact the Central Intelligence Agency's information clearing division, I'm sure you'll find all my Special Access Program clearances, SIGMA identifiers, and other clearances in order."
General Wilson felt sweat bead up on his back. "That kind of information shouldn't be discussed in an office that anyone could walk by," he tried.
"And the new laser directional microphones could pick up the vibrations of our voices on the glass of the window," Mister Timmons nodded. "Perhaps a visit to the Secure Information Terminal less than a hundred feet away may be in order?"
Wilson gritted his teeth at the fact the little man was able to counter his excuses and his jaw muscles ached as the small man smiled at him.
"General Wilson, I have been a CIA analyst for over two decades. If you think that attempting to hide your actions or inactions or involvements behind the guise of National Security, you are sorely mistaken in that labels ability to deter my intelligence gathering or analysis," the small man said. The suited woman snorted slightly, amused by the comment and the big SEAL just rolled his eyes slightly.
"May I ask why this is of interest to the CIA?" Wilson tried.
Something ugly moved behind the little man's eyes, almost obscured by glasses and a few quick blinks so that Wilson missed it. His fingers lifted up from where his hand was resting on his thigh and tapped once before going still. Other than that, the little man showed no sign that the question bothered him.
"No, General, you may not," The little man said, his voice still mild and even. "Now, I will ask a final time: What is your involvement with one Staff Sergeant Anthony Stillwater?"
General Wilson smiled, a self-satisfied smug look that made Ms. Smith's stomach clench. "Well, Senior Analyst Timmons, your information is out of date. Stillwater was busted to Corporal two months ago."
Mister Timmons nodded. "A spurious accusation laid on him after multiple attempts to antagonize him into doing something that would allow you to separate him from the military in hopes that you could quickly bury him, one way or another, and remove a possible embarrassment to men such as you, who bravely waited until the Soviet Union collapsed to get involved with things your betters gave their lives, sanity, and health to create, perpetuate, and operate."
General Wilson tried twice to interrupt the little man, but he kept speaking, ignoring Wilson's attempt to interject.
"I am well aware that your former aide, one First Lieutenant Jack Daley, managed to antagonize Staff Sergeant Stillwater until resorting to physical violence, whereupon Sergeant Stillwater replied with overwhelming and shocking, to anyone unfamiliar with him, levels of counter-violence," Timmons said. "I assume by now your former aide no longer has to eat through a straw and has obtained dentures?"
General Wilson flinched slightly at the memory of 1LT Daley's face, beaten until it was misshapen, missing most of his teeth and his jaw wired shut with a feeding tube installed.
"I thought that bitch was just fat, not pregnant, when I smacked her. How was I supposed to know that some random Chief Warrant Officer out of First Cav was Stillwater's wife and pregnant?" Daley had written on a pad.
It still bothered Wilson that the witness statements said the fight was less than 30 seconds before Stillwater had taken Chief Cromwell's arm and led her to her office to sit down.
It reminded him that his Expert Infantry Badge was pretty much just a decoration from when he was 24, over twenty years ago.
The small man smiled, a thin ugly thing, and tapped his fingers on his thighs again.
"Now, why did you send him to Paradise Island?" Timmons asked.
"To ensure that the Paradise Island training facility was decommissioned and the island could be sold to private investors soon," General Wilson said. "The current administrations believes that selling the old Cold War infrastructure that no longer serves any purpose will help balance the budget and ease the strain the taxpayers feel having to maintain those facilities and stockpiles."
The big SEAL snorted and the woman rolled her eyes.
"Who is the primary bidder for Paradise Island?" Timmons asked.
Wilson waved his hand. "A Chinese shipping company. Nobody important."
Timmons left eyelid twitched once as he glanced at his notebook. "That 'nobody important' would be the Chinese Ocean Shipping Group, which provides logistical and transportation support to the rapidly building Chinese Navy."
Wilson snarled for a second before he got it under control. "The island is remote and hasn't seen use since the 1980's. I'm sure that it's not exactly a strategic asset. They are offering a significant monetary value for it."
Timmons glanced at his notebook again. "Eight point two million dollars. While that may be impressive to the American Middle Class, it is less than a tenth of a drop in a very large bucket that is the United State's military budget," he looked Wilson in the eye. "What facilities are listed as being sold with the island?"
"It's a deserted island. Decommissioned in 1985. The Navy has it listed as not having any facilities," Wilson shot back. "What are you trying to insinuate?"
Timmons fingers trembled again before he tapped his leg, that twitch showing for a second. "I'm not insinuating anything, you jumped up paper pushing petty time clock punching martinet. I'm flat out saying you and this current Administration busy looting America to sell to the Chinese know jack and shit about the Paradise Island Training Facility."
"How dare you, sir," General Wilson bellowed, standing up. "That is the President of..."
Wilson's words trailed off as he realized he was staring at the barrel of a worn and battered M1911A1 Colt .45 in Ms. Smith-8741's hand. The pistol was rock steady but her cold brown eyes were even more steady. Empty of anything but clear cut purpose despite the slightly dreamy smile she had on her face.
"Take your seat, General," she said softly, her voice soft and with an odd accent. "And restrain yourself, lest their be an unfortunate accident."
Wilson sat down slowly, sweating, and the pistol vanished as if the young woman had performed a magic trick.
For the life of him, Wilson couldn't see where the young woman kept the pistol.
"Compose yourself, General. Ms. Smith has somewhat aggressive reflexes, shall we say," Timmons smiled. Wilson swallowed and nodded, leading to Timmons continuing to speak. "Tell me, General, did you really think I would not find out what Marshall Island reported?"
Wilson's face went gray.
Timmons's face was cold, expressionless, any hint of friendliness or weakness suddenly gone, and it reminded Wilson of the officers who had returned from Vietnam back when he was a Lieutenant.
"Did you really think that I would come to speak to you, a brainless ignorant functionary put in place for his ability to polish the right dicks, if the Paradise Island Training Facility wasn't throwing an error code related to the now defunct Special Weapons program to the Marshall Island Military Complex, the 267 Chemical Company, the Johnston Atoll Thor-Delta Launch Complex, and the Pentagon hardened C&C system?" Timmons asked, his voice bleak.
"It's an old defunct code," Wilson said. "We, I mean, I figured that since Stillwater was part of that Special Weapons Program, whatever it was, he could figure out the code."
The big SEAL growled low in his throat as Timmons shook his head.
"Some things, General, should have been left to find a place to lay down and sleep," He said softly. "If you would have asked the CIA, I could have told you what the code means."
"Then fine, what does it mean?" Wilson asked.
Timmons shook his head. "That you sent Stillwater on a combat mission, then tried to kill him with a bomb on his plane," He looked at the tiny woman. "If you would, Miss Smith."
Wilson frowned for a second, wondering what Timmons meant. When he looked over, Ms. Smith was not where she had been standing.
It wasn't until a thin black dress tie looped around his neck that he realized that Ms. Smith was now behind him.
"Throw the gay porn on his desk. It's a shame the General chose to try auto-erotic asphyxiation during work hours," Timmons said, shaking his head.