Alpha Omega

By C.W. Kangas

From an "incident" in the Southwestern desert shortly after WWII, a covert technological drama is set into motion. Through decades of ultimate secrecy, countless trials and endless errors, the project (code name: Alpha Omega) finally nears fruition as it finally unravels all but the last dangerous clues enmeshed in harnessing fifth-force energy.
Einstein searched in vain for it from the publishing of his world-shaking Theory of Relativity. Legions of physicists have speculated about it to no end. In theory, at least, it would be unlimited, fuel-free energy and also have a rather interesting ancillary application: anti-gravity.
Jake Lawson had been lucky. A few years after selling a hobby software program, he was able to "retire" and pursue his real passion of photography. He was now independent in wealth and vocation and was perfectly content to enjoy his luck.
Until it ran out.
Quite by bad luck, he photographs something in the Sangre de Cristo mountains in Southern Colorado. Curious, he involves his few close friends in the mystery that unwittingly peels the scab off the secret operation. The ruthless director of Alpha Omega, Marcus Quaid, must stop anyone threatening the final phase of what will change man's existence forever and Jake Lawson becomes his ultimate target.
What is gravity? Until now, there's never been a definitive answer.
Jake, his brilliant buddy, Adam, and the eccentric friend called "Doc" all now have the answer.
Now, if they can only survive to understand it...

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.W. Kangas
• Release date: Apr 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476090467

Book preview

ALPHA OMEGA

Smashwords Edition

By

C.W. Kangas

Copyright 2012 by C.W. Kangas

Thank you for purchasing this book. All material within is protected by copyright and any usage in any form is permitted with written permission only.

All the characters in this novel are products of the imagination of the author and any resemblances to any persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

This story is suitable for all ages.

***

Many thanks to Brad Bowers for spurring the horse out of the gate. What a ride it’s been!

Also, a sincere thanks to all the valiant officials at the Denver Federal Bureau of Investigation for their first official peek at my plot all those years ago.

Of course, none of this would be possible without the incredible support of my wife and family. Thank you for letting me never grow up.

I hope you enjoy the adventure as much as I did making the whole thing up...

ALPHA OMEGA

PROLOGUE:

JUNE 11, 1958

"It was not evident that particular evening would be a subtle turning point in the history of a fragile Earth. Life, as it was defined to that point in time would have to be reconsidered; a new definition was about to be submitted.

History was about to be thrown for a loop or two.

It’s about time…"

-from the notes of Doctor Leopold Fernald

The cool stillness of the desert night was punctuated only by the cries of a hawk roaming the sky in search of prey. It circled lazily on the cool, quiet air, its keen eyes relentlessly sweeping the moonlit ground below. A lone coyote sniffed the faint breeze wandering along the desert floor, picking up a faint scent. The hawk and the coyote were competitors in an endless hunt for survival in the desert. Both were fierce and independent, requiring nothing but what the desert offered: scarce food and even more scarce water.

It was a harsh environment, showing no favoritism among its inhabitants. A brutal yet delicate balance was maintained out here where there were no winners or losers… only survivors. And these two survivors held an instinctive respect for each other; it was this which caused the hawk to turn and head farther away, for it knew the presence of the coyote lessened its chances of catching game while they hunted the same area. The hawk was patient. There would be food elsewhere.

The coyote watched the hawk circle slowly away, then put his nose to the ground and headed off on the scent. He came upon a small, burrowed hole, and sniffed furiously around it before tensely dropping back on his haunches, ears pointing at full attention to the entrance of this small animal’s home. Undoubtedly, the animal living in the hole was quite far down but perhaps if he dug enough, he might be able to flush him out. The coyote began digging rapidly, kicking up plumes of sand then dirt behind him. He would sporadically stop, sharply whipping his head up and around to see if this little dinner of his was escaping elsewhere. Then he would quickly resume his excavation, every innate sense within him keenly alert. He knew desert nuances, and had learned long ago these small animals frequently had escape routes close by to elude hungry diggers like him. The desert had taught him well.

Suddenly, the coyote stopped and lifted his nose to the night air. He sniffed cautiously, then lowered himself to the ground, growling menacingly.

Dinner was now postponed.

The hair on his back bristled. There was a new lesson on the way, one for which the coyote would not be prepared. The deep growling turned to whimpering and the coyote slunk away as fast as he could toward the shelter of the nearest hill.

In the south, the sky began to grow lighter. An orange glow spread across the horizon, casting an eerie pallor across the landscape. The desert awoke in confusion. The rhythm of the night was broken by a dawn unlike any the animal inhabitants had ever seen. It was all wrong; it was still too early for dawn and the sun was coming up in the wrong place. They greeted the new dawn in mute fear, each retreating to whatever sanctuary was available. For the coyote, this was a shallow crevasse in the nearby hill. Its small, cave-like opening and four foot deep, although not nearly deep nor inaccessible enough for his liking, would have to do.

It raced down out of the southern sky, bringing with it a hot, summer-like wind and a whistling roar, which caused the landscape to resonate. It came in low and hit the ground with a thunderous jolt, bouncing off a slight rise. It skipped over the earth in much the same manner as a stone skips across a pond before plowing to rest at the foot of the nearby hill.

The roar and its echoes subsided, the wind died down, and a darker night returned to the desert. Cautiously, the coyote sniffed at the ebbing wind softly swirling inside his shelter. Slight traces of acrid smoke wafted through from remnants of the impact outside and told him this was something to be avoided. He slowly poked his head out into the night and saw a fine mist slowly settling to the ground, covering it like a ghostly blanket. He looked down at the base of the hill and saw the strange object, half-buried, still lightly smoldering. It was so unlike anything he had ever encountered before, the coyote could only compare it to the odd smells of things which traveled so quickly on that hard, flat trail along the nearby water hole. Nothing in his brain told him this was familiar. He simply knew enough not to approach it and stayed in his small shelter, at least for the moment.

After a while, a hole opened in the thing, allowing a blinding light to knife the darkness; shadows from the few terrestrial protrusions on the ground extended like long, dark fingers into the false twilight. Something moved within the light, becoming a silhouette which cast its own shadow onto the desert floor. It struggled out of its wrecked confines into the darkness and up the nearby hill.

The coyote moved farther back into the recess in the rocks as the figure approached. Curiously, even though the strange scents were unlike anything known to him, the coyote felt more confusion than stark terror and only quietly whimpered, scrunching as deep into the rocks as he could.

The strange figure approached the rocks without caution, oblivious to the coyote’s presence. Staggering to the opening of the coyote’s hiding place, the figure reached into the hole and shoved something far back, nearly smashing it into the coyote’s face. The animal yelped and lashed out with his teeth, but didn’t connect with anything. The strange figure was gone. The scent of the figure and the wrapped object it had deposited had been as much confusion the coyote was willing to take.

He pushed his way around the package, gave a few cursory sniffs at the alien wrappings around the object, and nervously looked out of the hole. The night sky had recovered from the bright interruption and returned to its dark tone. In the east, there was just a beginning hint of the dawn a couple of hours away and the stars began to lose their sharpness and former brilliance. The strange creature was nowhere in sight or smell, and the half-buried object was quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the faint drone from the engine of a Piper Cub airplane flying high overhead; a small, narrow cone of light sweeping from its belly to the desert floor below.

Quickly, the coyote emerged from the hole, accidentally loosening a large chunk of hard-packed dirt alongside the entrance. It crumbled down with an unexpected thud, burying the anachronistic package and startling the coyote to sprint away over the hill, looking back only once.

There had to be a better way to find food.

As he got farther away, his mood improved, his pace slowed to a proud trot and the coyote began to hunt again. To him, save for a small new desert nuance learned, this whole recent episode would be forgotten.

***

Major Barney Hackworth clutched the seat of the Willis Jeep as it bounced over the uneven ground of the night desert, every bump and ditch painfully obvious to his sore rear. The driver, a corporal that seemed entirely too young to the Major, was struggling with trying to get ‘there’ as fast as possible while not jolting his superior officer completely out of the Jeep. Between rapidly manipulating the wheel, shifting the clunky transmission and negotiating the rough terrain, he would sheepishly glance over, hoping the Major was not too displeased.

The Major, not occupied with the Corporal’s plight, was beginning to think he was getting too old for this. There has to be an easier way to get out here, he thought, but knew this was the only way.

Just three years prior, he would have paid a year’s pay to have such a ride, but Nazi Germany didn’t spoil prisoners of war with such luxuries.

Three years? It was an eternity ago…

Operation Market Garden had not been successful. He was a Sergeant captured near a bridge; few of his buddies were left and fewer survived their captivity. Within a couple of months, he was on the run as one of three survivors of a daring escape and wound up attached to a gangly bunch of battered soldiers at a cold, lonely village called Bastogne. His battlefield commissions were of necessity and he had come to accept his worthiness.

But the real heroes, he knew, were still at that Dutch bridge and Bastogne.

He was just doing his job and had the dumb luck to survive.

The rest was history.

The most powerful experience he took from it was the fact that he knew from that time on nothing would ever disturb him again.

Tonight just might try that hard-earned axiom.

The Piper Cub which had pinpointed the crash could get to it in twenty minutes, but there was no place to effectively make a night landing, and this was too important to settle for a fly-by. No, he would endure the rough ride to the middle of this nowhere, so he could do his job.

Civilian radar stations across the region had been alerted to the ‘flying saucer’ streaking across the sky and reports were already leaking out that …a UFO had crashed somewhere in northern New Mexico. The Major’s job would be to dispel those rumors; to dismiss the incident as the crash of an experimental plane from the Air Force.

As his jeep wrenched along this remote region of the desert, he couldn’t help but think how fortunate it was this area was so inaccessible, to deter the press hounds long enough to give him time… for what, he wasn’t quite yet sure. But he knew it would involve creating the ‘official explanation’, and time would help him to secure the area and do his job.

The press could be a real pain in the butt at times, but thankfully, they hadn’t been privy to the reconnaissance aircraft’s cryptic radio broadcast and subsequently were unable to mobilize before the National Guard could secure the area and the airspace around it. The ‘somewhere’ in their broadcasts would be a critical modifier; one, luckily, Barney could use. Now the Army was in command and all he had to do was to give security clearance to those who needed it, and to ‘dis-inform’ those who didn’t.

Army intelligence had always been an interesting job, and he found it quite satisfying to his more base instincts to be able to control clandestine operations the existence of which would never be known to the general public.

The jeep bounced to a halt on the edge of a sharp drop-off, and Hackworth was out before the cloud of dust behind it had a chance to settle.

A sweat-drenched Corporal got out and followed with his flashlight.

In the darkness, they walked to the edge of an arroyo, the lip of which was just high enough to allow a view of the crash area a couple of hundred yards away. Between their position and the sight was the wide, dry streambed followed by its far bank and at least one small hill.

At this distance, the crash site and the object seemed fake; an illusion abetted by the emergency lights being used.

Across the dormant streambed was a fast-approaching lone flashlight, its wiggling evidence of urgency. The dark outline holding it scurried up the embankment to meet them.

Major Hackworth, sir, I’m Lieutenant Dexter, Air National Guard, he said as he snapped to a salute.

What’s the status of the site? Hackworth commanded as he returned the salute.

The area’s been cordoned off for five hundred yards in all directions, and an outer perimeter has been set up out to a mile around it, Lieutenant Dexter answered. He was a good soldier; the first job had been executed by an organized, competent man. Three years prior, he was one of the GI’s in the supply chain in England; one of the six to ten behind ever fighting soldier. Barney knew of his background and shared their bond of battle in tacit respect.

Major Hackworth was glad of his precision as the Lieutenant continued, The condition of the wreckage is not ascertainable at this time. We were ordered to hold off close examination until you got here, though it looks to be fairly intact, with minimal damage except to the front of the craft… he paused, a twinge of apprehension in his voice, …or whatever it is.

I see… Hackworth responded, first looking at the Lieutenant noticing the change of tone, then around at the bleak landscape, grateful that, as far out of the way as it was, at least the ship landed here instead of downtown Sante Fe. It made his job easy. Almost too easy.

Lieutenant Dexter stirred uneasily.

What is it, Lieutenant? he asked, surprised at how harshly he blurted it out. Both of them were nervous, after all, in spite of the official facade they were trying to maintain. He didn’t like this situation; he had never seen anything like this before and for the moment had absolutely no idea how to formulate an official response. Do you have any other information for me? he asked, this time a little softer.

No, sir, it’s just… Dexter shifted his stance, never averting his stare from the craft, well, off the record, sir, is it a flying saucer?

On or off the record, Lieutenant, Hackworth said slowly, taking control (at least of the conversation), it is an experimental plane the Air Force was flying over the desert when it lost control and crashed. As business-like as he tried to sound, he knew no one seeing this thing would buy that story.

Yes, sir, I see, sir, Dexter closed his mouth tightly, maintaining a rigid pose.

If you would lead the way, now, Lieutenant? Hackworth said as he gestured down the hill.

Certainly, sir, follow me carefully, Dexter walked ahead of the them, talking as he went, illuminating the path with a wide-beamed military flashlight, the rocks tend to slide pretty easily down this steep of a hill and there’s a lot of cactus.

Dexter started down, aiming his view away from the sentries on the rim and on the loose desert gravel shifting beneath his shoes with each step. Slowly, he and Major Hackworth, followed by the Corporal, picked their way down between the stones and cacti, successfully avoiding both.

The Corporal, perhaps wisely, kept his mouth completely shut and dutifully followed them, maintaining appropriate distance behind the Major.

It didn’t take long. They quickly navigated the arroyo and the next hill. No one spoke as they hiked up the side of the hill and the crash site, now much closer, loomed before them.

To Dexter, it looked unreal. It was disconcerting even now with an official commander present. As if searching for comfort, the Lieutenant looked around the site’s perimeter, at least what could be seen in the darkness, and watched his men, standing so patiently, quietly doing their jobs, then back at the fresh berm of desert dirt wedged in front of the craft.

They stood at the top of the hill, their eyes taking in the lantern-illuminated object. Four lights were positioned to form a square around it, giving it an eerie, shadowless appearance in the pre-dawn darkness. It was an oblong shape, around twenty feet across at its widest and forty at its longest, flat and egg-like, with stubby little wings at what was probably the rear. The front of the craft was chewed up and scarred from the impact, its nose bent upward slightly and a jagged crack barely visible underneath. Black scorch marks covered its hull, with thin, shiny scratches under the char hinting at its true surface. No windows or doors could be seen anywhere, only small holes almost flush with the hull; these had the appearance, at least, of being some kind of thrusters.

Not one opening or outline of an opening could be seen.

And no indication of an engine of any sort.

No matter what the official story, no craft like this existed in any Air Force.

Shit… Dexter said, then breathed in slowly and let it out more slowly. It made a shaky sound.

Yeah… shit… Hackworth echoed. For a moment, he didn’t feel like a major. Or an adult. Or in control.

Shit… Sir… the Corporal finally spoke… weakly.

No way this thing is from the Air Force, Dexter whispered.

We’d better wait for Colonel Brubaker to get here before we-… began Hackworth, but his voice died in his throat as they saw a hairline slit in the hull appear and slowly widen to become an opening; a hissing sound beginning, rising in amplitude and then falling off. The opening stopped to reveal a door of sorts, completely dark inside, the smell of burned rubber now permeating the area.

The men were now riveted observers, frozen to the ground. The Lieutenant tried to run, but simply couldn’t move his feet.

The Major, too, had lost contact with most of his body, and stared wide-eyed at the dark opening.

The Corporal’s knees began to shake, audibly slapping the insides of his trouser legs.

What the hell is this, sir? the Lieutenant had desperation in his voice as he waited for any form of assurance from the Major.

None would come.

Slowly, out of the darkness inside the craft, a hand reached out, grabbing awkwardly, almost sickly, at the edge of the opening to pull itself out.

Oh, no… whispered Hackworth, as he realized they were about to be the first humans to see an alien from another world.

Oh… my… God… the Corporal whispered.

CHAPTER 1: AWAKENING

His smart phone warbled a pulsing Oriental tune, piercing the silence of his bedroom as Jake Lawson struggled to consciousness from the depths of a wonderful dream. He reflexively jerked his arm out from under his pillow and thumb-punched the phone's screen without opening his eyes, the remainder of his body quite unaware of the motion.

Ah, silence.

Now he could better manage the climb to reality as he slowly propped himself up on the bed with his elbows. In the dark room, Jake gathered his wits and opened his eyes enough to look at the clock. It was six minutes after five.

In the morning.

Before daybreak.

He hated things being so early in the morning. Why couldn’t they be later? Nothing should be this early; not even the early morning should be this early.

Obviously, logic was not this early for Jake.

Saturday morning. Early Saturday morning.

Jake realized he’d already let himself sleep a little too late. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for work. Slowly, he pivoted to a sitting position and stretched his long, muscular arms upward. Then he bounced up and headed for the bathroom.

Work, he thought wryly. It wasn’t work, like a regular job. And it wasn’t just something to get him by or to pay the bills. He was a free-lance photographer; a good one. The hours were frequently lousy and there was no steady paycheck. But he really didn’t need one. Once, many years ago, he had a steady job and a steady paycheck. And a time clock. And an incompetent manager looking over his shoulder.

Some would later say it was luck; others would imply it was unethical what happened at his ‘job’. But to Jake, it was common sense. He had taken the idea to his boss, an insecure man irrationally concerned about being out-done by any underling, and was summarily rejected. So there was nothing unethical about pursuing his own idea on his own time with his own equipment. And he wrote the program.

It was an almost simple program that embedded a tamper-proof watermark on documents and, more importantly, photographs that made duplication on such files nearly impossible. It was from open-sourced on-line communities and, once he had made it work, was locked tight with Jake the sole owner of the keys.

At the time, he had no idea that there would be such demand for it, willing to toil at his data-entry job while dreaming of becoming a photographer. But, with a few key connections willing to help for a small percentage of the potential profits, it began to sell. Then the phone call from Redmond and an offer that sounded, well, like a prank call.

Until he saw his bank account after the papers were signed. Even after the lawyers and tax collectors, the amount seemed surreal.

A photographer he could now be with no worries.

The way he worked now, he could do as he pleased, which consisted mainly of personal and corporate photography and, when his schedule would stingily allow, nature photography. This was the part he enjoyed the most, the ‘getting back to nature’. Alone in the great outdoors, interpreting natural beauty as he saw it, forever capturing his own visions through his camera: this was the way he preferred to work.

But he also loved client assignments, too. They would tell him the finished desired result and turn him loose to work at his own pace, to do things his own way. And they’d pay for the magic he would create.

Not that he needed the money; quite to the contrary. Payment for services rendered was now a reward, not sorely needed remuneration. Before he made it, this kind of thinking couldn’t have been entertained. But now, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine a more perfect philosophy. He wished he had thought of it this way long ago, even when the bills were always overdue.

Now, it was just plain fun.

Even shooting news for AP and UPI like he was going to do this morning was fun, except for getting up before dawn. He would shoot the Governor’s breakfast press conference, take care of some errands and finally go to the mountains for a long-awaited week of outdoor photography. He found a lot of energy thinking about his excursion and hurried the morning ritual of showering, shaving and dressing a little more than usual.

Twenty minutes later, he was showered and dressed. He ran a hand through his wet hair, checking the mirror as he did so. Every once in a while, his reflection would tell him of his thirty three years; sometimes it would painfully remind him he was no longer the kid he felt himself to be and other times it would give him a sense of pride he had kept himself rather well. His short-cropped, dark blonde hair rested well against the outline of a relatively well-sculpted face. His eyes were a shade of blue which defied an exact description; not exactly sky blue, but not a common blue either. He had the ability to use his eyes like weapons when he wanted to, but most of the time they were found to be benign and attractive, particularly to women. It usually escaped his notice, however, as he was quite shy when it came to the opposite sex. His physique was not overly muscular, but outwardly hinted at a certain power, a physical control.

His looks had always been a subtle asset complementing a rapier wit and an acute intellect frequently leaving him uncomfortable with the world around him. He found with financial success comes a confidence that can be worn well or poorly; he hoped to be the former. He also found that social resentments were a sad part of the human condition, so more times than not, he’d opt to not let on of his lack of need for income. This also helped him stay grounded because he was not one to lie around and do nothing and working as a photographer was a very soothing way of not having to deal with the inevitable questions and, more times than not, resentments of those with fewer options.

He really didn’t like that kind of confrontation.

This morning, however, there was a peace inside him tinged with the anticipation of once again being in the on assignment mode. As he walked into the clutter of his living room, he reached for an all-too-worn camera bag and instinctively shuffled through it to check all the necessary paraphernalia the coming photo adventure would require. He felt the familiar outline of his massive digital camera and all the associated lenses crammed into the confines of the padded cavities within the bag. There’s the back-up camera body nestled in its compartment.

He didn’t really have to look; he knew every piece of equipment as though it were an extension of his own body. The love of the equipment and the technology it represented never ceased to elicit an almost sensual response from some inner recess of his being. If ever there was a person and career completely made for each other, this was it. Jake Lawson was one of those rare people who really loved what he did for a living.

Grabbing the flash gun and its battery pack, he walked through the stillness of a room not quite intended for the photography equipment, books and stereo gear Jake had managed to accumulate. It definitely looked like a bachelor’s work-townhouse although it was one of the more classy types.

One day, I’ve got to organize this mess, he muttered to himself as he stood near the middle of the living room. He probably never would and he knew it; among the many priorities in life, a clean room never finished in the top fifty. Or the top ninety-two, he seemed to recall from some past calculation.

He immediately re-focused his attention to the mental review of all the photographic equipment stowed away in the Jeep the night before: tripods, six lenses (two massive super telephotos among other smaller ones), filters, extra camera bodies and the myriad of odds and ends which were the bane of his profession.

Geesh, he said out loud as he closed the front door behind him, will I ever have enough toys? Before he could answer himself, he walked into the beautiful dawn breaking over the Colorado horizon and spilling onto the jutting ridges of mountain on the city’s west side. From the rolling hills due east of the town the topology made an abrupt change as it entered Castle Rock. Once part of an ancient ocean, this area had been a transition point from ocean floor to the infant Rocky Mountains. Unimaginable tectonic forces of a hundred million years past had roiled and rumpled expanses of earth, eventually forming foothills to the Continental Divide sitting majestically beyond. Swirling winds and waters along with occasional volcanic sculpting left some small ranges as chiseled buttes, one of which giving this delightful little town its name. Somehow amidst the lure of the Colorado magic, Castle Rock had maintained its charm from the early American West, resisting the typical urban sprawl and blight. The small town feel and the foothills of the Rockies formed a very nice place to call home.

Sunrise in Castle Rock. The angled orange light washed these unique foothills in an indescribable luster and one could be forgiven for being thoroughly humbled in the presence of such a magnificent natural specter. It definitely had bewitched Jake long ago and never lost its impact. He couldn’t resist the inclination to pull out his camera and frame up the foothills now being slowly illuminated in a pink glow. He had to take at least one shot and after cramming his elbows into his sides to steady the camera and holding his breath to avoid any shaking, he decided to take two.

Over the years, he had tried many times to capture the vista at this moment; but never quite did. He imagined he probably would keep on trying, though. He paused for a few introspective moments to appreciate the raw beauty of the moment, then climbed into the Jeep Grand Cherokee and fired up the engine.

His reflexes jerked horribly as the radio’s volume had been left on a loud setting from the night before and he grabbed for the knob, thinking it was ‘Day Tripper’ that had been the guilty song. He very quickly decided his near coronary was definitely worth it. Being a Beatles fan had its costs.

Leaving the engine idling, he flipped open his day timer to the list of assignments and errands for the day and mentally went over the morning’s necessary logistics. The only detailed item: to the Governor’s mansion to cover the breakfast.

Environmental Symposium, he mumbled as he read the entry. It was really only a glorified excuse to make a photo opportunity of famous activists with the Gov. There were sure to be plenty of people to gawk at the movie stars who would be attending, and if Jake got lucky, maybe a decent shot for the news wires.

Then on to his online agent, Sammy Ishata.

The internet and, more importantly, ubiquitously cheap computer power had changed everything for photographers. Gone forever were the days of film development, costly pamphlet circulars, mailings and duplicate management. Now, all that was needed was a shot, internet access and a lot of clicking. At first, this was exciting but it quickly became drudgery for Jake. His heart and energies were on capturing, not marketing. Sammy had been with him at the data processing company ‘before’ (as he was wont to remember things now) and they were friends. After the program situation, Jake struck out on his own but soon realized he could ably employ Sammy’s talents and free him from his punch clock as well. Sammy didn’t even hesitate at taking the offer and helped Jake for a pittance; until the Redmond call. Then, Jake basically had Sammy on permanent retainer allowing him to share in the profits of selling Jake’s work. Sammy knew the internet extremely well; it was clear his passions were with computers as much as Jake’s were with photography.

After a quick visit with Sammy, he’d go to print lab to check on his newest poster, hopefully approve the proof and then, finally, off to the wilds of the southwestern Colorado Mountains.

I cannot wait… he said as he looked over his shoulder and backed the Jeep out.

The forty minute drive into downtown Denver didn’t seem quite as long on this morning as Jake kept his mind on the coming events. Security clearance could be a real hassle whenever the Governor had these little get-togethers; there was never a shortage of nuts threatening popular people.

Governor Chris Pendelton had taken some controversial stands lately on issues concerning the environment which left former big business supporters gaping their corporate jowls in disbelief. Two months prior, quite a stir had ensued after the Gov’s jeep had lost its brakes while he was surveying a proposed site slated for future expansion; a broiling issue for both the affected businesses and the always-tightly-wound environmental activists.

The largest conglomerate involved in virtually every one of the agencies affected by the proposed expansion was MacNell-Palmer, which had also been a large contributor to Pendelton’s election campaign and, through various channels of its multitude of subsidiaries, had managed to remain a silent one, at least to the press hounds. One of his top aides was killed when the Land Rover containing the Governor, his aide and a security guard veered wildly, crashing into a thicket along the cliff road. When the dust settled, the aide’s neck was broken but neither the Governor nor his scowl-faced security guard was scratched.

Statistically, of course, the chances of a set of brakes coincidentally going out at that moment were equated with numbers that had to be expressed in scientific notation in the press. Nothing provable. Just an accident.

It wouldn't take much mental scripting to imagine other motivations as it was widely whispered some thing or some one wanted to stop information leaks to the wrong places. To be blunt: he had stepped on the wrong set of toes somewhere. At least that was what had been heavily intimated in the local media without any direct mention because of the accident. From that point on, it became increasingly difficult to obtain an audience with the state’s chief executive; even for a relatively well-known photo journalist like Jake Lawson.

The mansion for Colorado’s head honcho was not exactly an easy place to get a parking spot, either. The last time Jake was here he was assigned a parking space just this side of Kansas, it seemed, and that was only for a charity barbecue. As he turned the street one block away from the mansion, cars had already crowded access to the front gate. He flipped his sun visor down to reveal a press pass plate, moved unobstructed past the long line of stopped traffic and thought of the insufferable hike he had made the last time he was here. It looked like today would be a repeat performance.

The sharp-angled morning sunlight illuminated the Governor’s mansion with a crispness only to be found in Colorado. In contrast, Jake’s gloom was growing. Dreading the parking assignment ahead, he guided his jeep to a halt at the front gate of the parking area to present his credentials to the rather large black guard.

Maybe not even Kansas this time. Probably Iowa.

His bleached bones found weathering in the Kansas desert; clutching a press pass and a great bag of photo gear. The words save me Gov fingered in the sand by a fossilized metacarpal phalanges. Deep in thought, he rolled down the window and held his unfolded wallet to his left side showing his press pass to the guard while staring ahead with longing at the close-in parking spots.

I’m sorry, sir, the burly voice of the security guard grumbled, but we won’t be allowing assholes on the premises today…

Jake jerked to a face-to-face with the guard, startled. Quickly regaining his composure, he shot back, It takes a piece of crap to know an asshole.

Leave it to you, Jake, the guard smiled as he stuck his enormous black hand into the Jeep’s window and shook Jake’s hand vigorously. An excellent come-back, I must say…

How are you, Billy? I didn’t know times were that tough to make a cop of your stature stoop this low.

Always the diplomat, eh, Jake? Has it ever occurred to you that I just might be the chosen elite, as in ‘bodyguard’? He mockingly adjusted his tie, swaying his head from side to side.

Congratulations, Super Fly! That’s great… but why the guard duty?

Double duty, as it were. Billy’s brow furrowed as he paused, It’s turning into a security nightmare around here now and the boss wants all security personnel to be totally involved in all phases. So we’re all on split shifts. The pay’s good, but we have to deal with more riff raff’s like you looking for parking spots, he laughed.

Which is where, oh, elite piece of feces? Jake bowed in his seat.

For you? Billy stood up straight, pointing his finger in the direction of the reserved spaces. Only the best, my man.

Whoa, Billy, that’s for VIP’s… I really shouldn’t…

…be such a pain in the rear section. Just don’t hang around too long after the conference is over. Consider this one of the ways I can start paying you for the portrait of my kids.

There is a reason I like you, after all, Jake replied, winking at Billy.

They both smiled at each other for just a moment before Jake drove the Jeep over to the privileged spot in the parking lot. Thank you, my friend, he said to himself as he slung his camera over his shoulder and slammed the door shut.

It was a typical press conference with all the typical back-patting, name-dropping, and of course, all the typical photo opportunities. In spite of his distaste for the Hollywood types, Jake took the obligatory exposures of the tanned-faced, white-toothed smiles and listened to the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the clutch of fans kept at bay on the other side of the backyard wrought-iron fence. Before the money as well as now, Jake really disliked pretense. It was always easy to spot in people and the political crowd shared way too much with the Hollywood types. Neither impressed him.

After the star-gazing, star-shooting and incredibly good pastries, coffee and juice, the meeting got fully underway. You could just feel the underlying tension in the air regarding the Governor’s recent predicament and everyone knew as soon as the questions would begin, some mutt from the pack of press hounds would ask about either the accident or his final position on the land leases.

Sure enough, in spite of his vain plea to the contrary, the first reporter to be given attention asked him directly about the incident. The Governor shrugged it off, calling a mandate on brake shoe wear to everyone’s laughter. He again pleaded that questions be directed to the environmental fund-raising event which was supposed to be the subject at hand. Again, the next question was directed specifically to the land leases. He more or less gave up and told the press he simply no longer had enough information to proceed blocking the grant of land to the private sub-contractors requesting the leases.

There was a murmur in the crowd; this would definitely make the news. Jake took only a little notice of the event for his thoughts were more and more into his own land exploration. He couldn’t wait to get out of town and into the mountains. He was looking forward to not hearing about all the political hooey that was sure to be falling out in the coming week; let the city folk have their stories to banter about, just don’t stop his trip. He did twinge just a little, though, when the Governor seemed suddenly uncomfortable and began shifting in his seat while mentioning this latest news. Jake thought immediately of what would happen if someone took a shot at the Gov. His finger instinctively rested upon the shutter release button on the motor drive.

He slowly raised his camera to his eye and framed the Governor in his viewfinder. Through the camera, the man looked depressed. A pallor of despair was apparent on the Governor’s face and Jake immediately focused on the statesman’s eyes. No, it wasn’t just despair. It was… a death feeling of some kind. The camera was seeing what his eye hadn’t notice.

Then the sensation of imminent danger left Jake as quickly as it had come, leaving him to guess it must have been from the pressures the Governor had been under the last couple of months. Now with the camera at his chest, the strain was clearly visible; it didn’t take much to see it when you knew what to look for. Jake had met the Governor more than a few times, hell, was on a first-name basis with the guy, and was surprised he hadn’t noticed the recent change in the man’s countenance. The lens had told the truth again. The pressures on Chris Pendelton must be intense. That had to be it. As if to make sure the danger was simply imagined, he quickly raised his camera and scanned over to the two security men on either side of the Governor, carefully examining their demeanor through the viewfinder. He was relieved to see them only partially shift in their stances. No sign of danger. No piece of history ready to unfold. No outward danger.

Just as well, Jake thought to himself. It had worried him something extraordinary would happen which would require him to stay behind longer than necessary. No, this event would yield no such photo drama. Except for what’s his face; that recently-popular TV-to-movie star that made three movies last year… proof positive one needs no talent when you look good. Now, that will be a good shot!

It all could be trusted to Sammy, the wonder agent, to select the necessary images to be sent to the wire services. Being established did have its privileges.

After the main show was over, Jake walked briskly to his car, unlocking it with an audible chirp. He hopped in and threw the bag and camera on the seat, started the engine and backed the car out of his elite spot. As he passed the gate, he noticed Billy had been replaced by another guard. He waved to the stranger who looked straight at him and didn’t return Jake’s greeting. The man looked too serious about his job and Jake noticed the scowl on the guard’s face was so deeply etched as to look comical; it looked like the guy was continually smelling something stinky. Jake doubted if anyone would ever laugh about it though; the man radiated serious power. As he passed by the guard on the way out, he thought to himself that maybe one day, he could get to know this new bodyguard and turn on the ol’ Lawson charm. Over the years, he had learned to befriend guards; being on their good side could pay off handsomely at special events where their services were required and he wasn’t but wanted to be.

Never hurts to have friends in all strata, he said to himself as he passed the man hidden behind the scowl and the sunglasses. Maybe not… he corrected himself. Oh, well… you win some, you lose some. And sometimes you just piss some people off.

His Cherokee turned on to the main road and headed away. He flipped his car phone up to the wheel and began to dial Sammy’s number as he picked up speed.

Sammy hated working Saturdays. He really liked Jake, but hated the work Jake always tended to generate on weekends. His hatred of Jake’s fecund photographic talents was tempered, however, by the sizable amount of revenue which had come his way due to these kinds of weekends. Not only did he realize how fortunate he was Jake had plucked him from their previously-shared corporate hell a few years back, but also that Jake had become a respected friend. Anyone could do what Sammy did for Jake and they both knew it, but Jake always paid him far more than his services were worth. Marketing, both corporate and personal, at which Sammy was quite accomplished, was brutally competitive in Denver and very much a dime-a-dozen commodity and there was never a shortage of computer geeks. And even if Jake never let on that he would ever look at it that way, Sammy never forgot it.

It occurred to Sammy as he saw the dusty Jeep pull to a halt in front of their obscure office that Jake really didn’t place a whole lot of importance on the acquiring of money even before he had a lot of it. He enjoyed what it gave him the capability to do for other people. Either for his small group of close friends, or some of the local charities, Jake would spend without concern to make sure he could at least try to spread his wealth around. And as corny as it would sound were anyone to describe it aloud, Jake’s intent on being a working photographer was admirable. That it had turned into a real money-maker for Sammy was truly remarkable and, more importantly, gave him a non-stop excuse to acquire more computer toys.

Perhaps Sammy didn’t really hate Saturday’s after all.

This was one of the small ways he could pay Jake back. Special services above and beyond the call of commission. He smiled as he poured some freshly brewed coffee into an ornate mug with the initials ‘JL’ printed in gold leaf on the side.

Special services and your own mug in my office, he said a split second before Jake burst through the front door.

Ola, partner! Jake said loudly as he walked across the tastefully appointed office. Lots of cream...

…and ‘just a little sugar’… I know, I know. Jeesh, Jake, after all this time, one would think you’d get it through your skull that you don’t have to remind me. Sammy liked the verbal jousting with Jake. He also confessed to a vicarious enjoyment of Jake’s profession. He had a very private fancy of being the kind of photographer Jake had become. His talents, however, were more aptly applied to being the channel for Jake’s creativity to a paying world outside.

Jake was never short of dramatic flare for a presentation of just about anything as he put the three digital memory