Tartarus: Book 3 of the Argosy Trilogy

By Stephen J. Schrader

In Tartarus, all the threads that weave through the Argosy Trilogy come together in a complex, tightly woven skein.

Captain Jacob Brinn, the genius who has challenged the whole world, departs on the voyage for which he'd originally designed the incredible Argo. This is both to decoy the enemy forces into pursuing him, as well as to rediscover humanity's past, and its fate.

Meanwhile, the crack team of Argonauts he left behind begin setting up a worldwide network of covert installations. Once completed, these will allow the Captain to hold the entire world hostage. But that is one thing the forces of order in the world will not allow.

An uncomprehending world watches in shock as the brutal final battle to the death begins.

And so, from the Earth to the surface of the Moon, the future of the human race is spelled out in hellfire itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foremost Press
• Release date: Dec 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452377360

Stephen J. Schrader

You might say that my beginnings were fairly common. Born and raised in central Oklahoma. Grew up hunting and fishing. Earned my spending money as a kid delivering papers, mowing yards, hauling hay, chasing stray cattle out of the brush, mortician's assistant, that sort of thing. I learned to love reading the works of Verne, Wells, Asimov, and Heinlein. By the age of fifteen I'd determined that I wanted to be a writer. I'm a former career U.S. Army Counterintelligence Agent, a disabled combat vet and divorced father of two. When I left the service, I decided to fulfill that childhood dream and started writing science fiction novels. And with each book, each storyline, I've been able to go further and further "out there" challenging people to rethink everything they thought they knew about: first technology and the world, and now God, the Universe, and the very meaning of what it means to be human itself.

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TARTARUS

Book Three of the Argosy Trilogy

Stephen J. Schrader

Published by Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2008 Stephen J. Schrader

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CHAPTER 1

As he leaned back in the in the soft leather and thick padding of his desk chair in his corner office in the L.A. Times building, the Editor-in-Chief of the L.A. Times, William Bill Carstens, was a happy man.

The future was bright. John Jack Cutter’s series on the L.A. gangs was a shoo-in to bring the paper another Pulitzer. The new book that Jack had co-authored with the Times’ tech reporter, Catharine Calender, was on the bestseller list for the eighth straight week.

The court had even decided that his ex’s latest grab for more money was pushing it too far.

Life was good.

Then, his phone rang.

Still glorying in the beauty of the day, he picked it up and had every tone of innocent optimism in his voice as he said, Carstens here! What ya got?

Though he couldn’t really place it, the voice on the other end was strangely familiar, as it said, Ah, Mr. Carstens, it has been a long time.

For some reason Bill felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he asked, Uh, yeah. Um, who is this?

"This is Captain Jacob Brinn, of the Argo."

Carstens’ grin quirked. He glanced down at the caller ID window on his office phone. Seeing that the extension number was in the Times building itself, he chuckled, Yeah, right. Is that you Bob? Don’t you people in advertising have anything better to do than to make prank calls?

He heard the other man chuckling before he answered, Mr. Carstens, I did enjoy the irony of your calling me a moron upon the occasion of my last visit.

Carstens’ mouth went dry as he said, Um, that wasn’t in Calendar’s book . . .

I know. Both she and Mr. Cutter had been removed from your office by the federal authorities by that point in my visit.

Carstens gulped, and looked at the caller ID again. The call was definitely coming from inside the Times’ building. Starting to sweat, he managed, Um, yeah . . . Captain Brinn, how’ve you been?

I am doing well. I wanted to thank you for taking care of my cat during my last hiatus.

Thinking hard, Carstens turned and grabbed a book off the rack behind his desk. He threw the book across his office, where it banged into his office door.

Waiting to see if Betty, his executive assistant, would take the hint, Carstens licked his lips nervously. Ah, yeah, sure. Um, is that why you called?

Actually I was wanting to set up an appointment to meet with Ms. Catharine Calendar and Mr. Jack Cutter. I’m afraid that, despite appearances, they’re still being closely monitored by the government. If you could be so kind as to give them a message?

Getting impatient, Carstens threw another book at the door. How do you know that this line isn’t, um, being monitored too?

Captain Brinn’s tone was totally cool as he said, Oh it is. But, unlike the office phones and cell phones of Ms. Calendar and Mr. Cutter, it’s only being monitored against calls originating from outside the building.

Betty finally cracked his door and peeked in. Carstens frantically waved her over. Into the phone he said, Ah, sure. I can deliver a message . . . He picked up a pen and slid a small notepad out of his desk’s center drawer and started scribbling on it.

Holding the message up for Betty to see, he said into the phone, What’s the message?

Please ask them to meet me for dinner tonight, say seven o’clock, at the Casa de la Brea.

Betty read the message, then gave him a puzzled look.

Carstens slammed the message down and savagely underlined the words: Captain Brinn is in the building!!!!

He saw her eyes suddenly widen in shock.

Into the phone he tried to buy some time. Hey, isn’t that the new hotspot down on Wilshire?

Yes, it is. I’m familiar with the owner and have made reservations. Please ask them to not be late.

Betty was hurrying back to her desk as Carstens gulped, Yeah, sure, seven o’clock.

Thank you.

When the other man clicked off, Carstens ran for the door yelling, Get security! Tell them to lock the building down! And I mean right now!

* * *

Angelica Josephina Harriman, A.J. to almost everyone, waited in the anteroom of the office of her boss, the director of the National Security Agency, or NSA, with just a bit of trepidation.

Ever since she’d learned that the Terrorist Mastermind Michael Sykes, and the brilliant inventor, Captain Jacob Brinn whom he worked for, knew about her double identity, she’d known that this day would come.

Her day job was that of a top-drawer analyst for the NSA, working for the United States in the Intelligence wars that were just as brutal and deadly today as they had ever been.

Her other identity was something else entirely. It had been spawned by her being driven to the brink of madness by her working for the same government that had first mutilated, then abandoned to slow, horrid death, the three men in her life. Her father, a decorated Marine who had fought in the last days of Vietnam, had died of dioxin poisoning. The dioxin he’d been exposed to had been dumped on the jungles, and the troops in that jungle, by the US Pentagon.

Then, she’d met and married a proud US Army paratrooper. He’d died from Gulf War Syndrome;. an affliction that the Pentagon, intent on minimizing the money they had to spend on useless eaters, like disabled veterans, ignored the sickness, letting them all die.

Then her son, who had been so handsome in his West Point uniform, had been put into a coma by experimental inoculations that the Pentagon had inflicted on the troops, at the behest of pharmaceutical companies. Companies that made a practice of hiring retired Pentagon colonels for six-digit salaries as consultants. People whose only consulting consisted of going back to their old offices, and telling their replacements what a good idea it was to play ball with the money-men.

Watching her son, lying in his deathbed for the last three years of his life had been too much for her.

But, A.J. wasn’t a normal, distraught . . . helpless, civilian. She had access to the most powerful electronic spy agency in the world. And, she had one of the most creative and powerfully imaginative intellects on the planet.

She’d learned young that nobody liked smart girls. Now, she realized what a powerful weapon her concealed intellect could be.

Thus, AJAX was born. She’d used the knowledge she’d picked up at the NSA to design, then co-opt automated factories to produce, massive, deadly robots.

Her plan was simple: get America’s enemies to finance her decapitation of the government of the United States.

Oh, she didn’t hate the United States. Far from it, she loved it like the daughter she’d never had.

She just hated the American leaders. People whom she viewed as turning her beloved country into the world’s crack-whore.

Those were the targets of her fury.

And, her plan had been working.

Until Michael Sykes and his master, Captain Jacob Brinn, had come on stage.

If the books those two L.A. Times’ reporters had written had it right, and A.J. had no reason to doubt that they weren’t, then, Captain Brinn had to be the greatest intellect of the age.

She shook her head. He’d apparently invented a means of creating anti-gravity. Used it to turn an old Russian attack-submarine he’d bought for scrap-price, into the almost incredible space-capable battleship, Argo.

She still had to shake her head in awe. Captain Brinn and his handpicked crew of Argonauts really had taken on the military might of the whole world. And, fought it to a standstill.

By himself, Captain Brinn had used a heavily modified civilian Hummer to run rings around, and embarrass, everything that the government could throw against him.

Then, the Argo had set sail beneath the waves of the Pacific Ocean; sinking American and Russian submarines at will.

Once his position had been discovered, Captain Brinn had taken his fight to the surface of the ocean. Sinking an American frigate, he then swatted a nuclear missile aimed at his destruction, from the sky.

Then, Captain Brinn had sent out his killer, an auburn-haired beauty named Autumn Brooke, in one of his amazing, lawn-dart-shaped strike craft. Just one, to wipe out an entire American carrier group.

And, he was just beginning. Taking the Argo up even higher, into earth orbit itself, he faced off against all the space-based weapons that all the technologically advanced nations of the world could throw against him.

Even then, he wasn’t finished. He took the Argo to the very moon itself. There he fought the earth’s most closely guarded secret: the combat spaceships of the United Space Force.

And, when his battle seemed lost—he’d simply left, leaving the vaunted USF sheepishly holding an empty bag.

A.J. nervously glanced at her watch. The email she’d received didn’t give a reason for her sudden and peremptory summons to the director’s office. She shrugged. Maybe that was a good thing, she thought.

She blinked and went back to her reverie.

After escaping the USF, Brinn and the Argonauts had simply disappeared. The two Times’ reporters had written their book. A book that had been received as a high-fantasy rendering of the very same events that the official cover story had attempted to explain.

Then, in a ski resort, high in the Colorado Rockies, Autumn Brooke, and a new player, a petty identity thief and coward, Michael Sykes, had surfaced.

Dragging the hapless Sykes along in her trail, the Brooke woman had brutally murdered a small army of heavily armed terrorists. Then she’d mugged and run rings around both the police and the federal agents sent after her.

Finally, taking the battle to the snow-clad woods, she’d faced off against a full battalion of US Army Rangers—all the while sneering at the thought of using a gun.

A.J. smiled at the memory of the first time she’d seen the on-site films of the reporter, Ralph Sampson, and his cameraman.

Finally cornered, Brooke defiantly faced down a whole company of Army Rangers, and their attack helicopters. She’d stood her ground, even as the order for her death was delivered.

Or that is, it would have been delivered, but for the timely intervention of Captain Brinn.

A.J. heaved a deep sigh. Her greatest regret was that she hadn’t paid enough attention to the wild stories she’d read about and watched. If she had . . . Well, she wasn’t sure what she’d have done differently, but it would have been something.

The first test of one of her combat robots was an overwhelming success. She’d ravaged an American nuclear reactor; stolen the weapons-grade nuclear material her paymasters in the Middle East wanted; and managed to get the Americans themselves to disrupt the entire world by shutting down the Internet.

Oh yeah, her great opportunity had looked like a sure thing. Those useful idiots in the Middle East had provided her with both the money and the depleted-uranium ammunition she needed.

She’d given the mullahs the impression that their plan to have her destroy the amusement-park complex that is in central Florida, and all the children and families that were going to be there for the holiday weekend, was her plan too.

Instead, she’d diverted her robot army to attack the US Government Gold Depository at Fort Knox, Kentucky.

The plan had worked brilliantly. On nothing more than the threat of a terrorist attack, central Florida had dissolved into riot and ruin on its own, satisfying her money-men. The train carrying her robots to Kentucky had delivered them exactly as planned, a few hundred yards from the depository itself. And, well within striking distance of the surprised American garrison, caught assembling in their open parade-grounds.

She could still remember it like it had been yesterday.

She’d actually captured Michael Sykes, the terrorist mastermind, puppet of Brinn. She had to admit, he might have been a poor mastermind, but he was the one who had tracked her down and identified her as AJAX. A feat that nobody, not the mullahs that were paying her to do their dirty work nor the US government itself, had been able to do.

They were watching her army of robots, guided by the deluded nerds attending a SciFi convention who thought it was just a really cool computer game, wipe out the US forces and rip open the greatest, festering cyst the American government had . . .

That’s when Captain Brinn, with his Argo, and his handpicked crew of elite Argonauts had intervened.

Despite this, her robot army had almost done what all the armies of the world had failed to do: defeat Captain Brinn.

A.J. shrugged. Almost wasn’t good enough.

The American troops had finally recovered from their surprise, and arrived in force to save the last of the Argonaut ground forces.

Captain Brinn, Autumn Brooke, Michael Sykes, and the Argo had disappeared, again.

A.J. blinked. For weeks she’d expected any moment to hear the knock on her door of the people sent to get her.

But, the knock never came . . .

She glanced up as the door to the director’s office opened, and the director himself came out. Ah, A.J., thanks for waiting. Please come in.

The director’s words put her even more on guard. After all, why would he be polite? Especially if they were about to give her a long walk to a short rope at Leavenworth? She shook her head thinking, Maybe he’s like a cat, playing with his prey.

Her alarm went up when she saw the other people in the director’s office. That worm from the NSA Security office wasn’t a surprise. Neither was the big, musclebound oaf who had been introduced to her as Captain Raphael of the USF. He’d been the one, along with his two silent companions, to interview her after she’d first encountered Michael Sykes and his lethal red-headed girlfriend.

She didn’t know the third man in the room. He too was a very big and muscular man; though the tinge of gray in his hair, and the careworn lines in his black face marked him as a much older, and perhaps wiser version of Raphael.

The director stepped forward and made the introductions. The older gent turned out to be General Jeremiah Gabriel of the USF, of course.

The director offered the two military men and A.J. seats, then politely excused himself and the NSA security creep from the office.

As soon as they were alone, Gabriel leaned forward and asked, Is it okay if I call you A.J.? Angelica Josephina seems a bit awkward.

A.J. smiled. Sure, it’s okay. Everybody does.

His expression going somber, Gabriel nodded and said, First, let me state that I’m so sorry for the death of your son. By all accounts, he was a fine young officer and didn’t need to die like that.

A.J. almost lost it. Blinking back a tear, she said, General, he wouldn’t have wanted to go on living as a vegetable. I almost believe that, in his unconscious mind, he willed himself to die.

Gabriel and Raphael both nodded.

Gabriel’s expression changed. It took on a more serious, businesslike mien as he said, A.J., I’m the one who’s been sending the requests for analysis on both the Codeword: Lucifer and the Codeword: Ajax files. It’s the analysis you did on the attack on the US Gold Depository at Fort Knox that bothers me.

Seeing how this was going to go, A.J. thought Ah, to hell with it! She replied, The information you sent me on the attack was bullshit. I couldn’t do anything with that crap, and said so.

Gabriel traded glances with the younger Raphael. Back to A.J. he asked, And, why do you think the information was, um, crap?

A.J. gave a distinctly unladylike snort, and said, You expect me to believe that Michael Sykes is some sort of criminal mastermind, super-terrorist? Hell, General, I met the man. If brains were weapons, he’d be the monkey with a pea shooter . And, the details that you provided. Sykes used a dirigible to blanket Fort Knox with a hallucinogenic gas. This caused the troops to think the dirigible was a flying submarine, and the combat vehicles he launched the attack with weren’t. That they were almost unbeatable combat robots instead?

Gabriel gave her a funny look. "What? You believe there was a flying submarine there? And, that it had flying cars, and supermen that fought off the combat robots, until the cavalry could arrive? Then, it just went poof and disappeared? Come on."

A.J. chuckled. General, have you ever heard about the case of the ‘Singing, Naked Policemen’?

Gabriel blinked. Um, no . . .

A.J. nodded. A few decades ago there was a very smart man. He invented a new means of interrogation. It concentrated on paying attention to the words that people used, not what they were trying to say. Basically, his contention was that people will try to lie. But, the words they use will expose them.

Raphael said, It’s called scanning. We use it as a standard technique.

A.J. nodded. Then you’ve forgotten a key factor in that system. If, somebody tells the most outrageous story, and their verbiage checks out as being truthful—even if the story is so preposterous that it would otherwise undermine their credibility—you must consider the possibility.

When the two officers exchanged looks, she went on, In the story of the Singing, Naked Policemen . . . It happened some decades ago. A big-city police force had figured out a way to beat confessions out of suspects. While they were doing this, three cops wearing nothing but their hats, gun-belts, and nightsticks, would be behind the interrogators, singing, dancing, and prancing around.

She watched as the point began to dawn on the two officers. But, just to make sure they got it, she finished the story. When the suspects tried to recant their confession in court and accused the police of coercion, the D.A. would simply ask, ‘And what else was going on in the room at the time?’ When the defendant told about the naked cops, the D.A. would demand that his recantation and accusations be thrown out.

She shrugged. "It wasn’t until they started getting virtually every defendant telling the exact same story over and over again, that the court caught on to the scam.

"So, you see. When I get several thousand otherwise credible witnesses, all telling the exact same story, with the exact same details—even if it’s so fantastic as to undermine their credibility—I have to consider at least the possibility that they are telling the truth. Then, when their story matches with what else has been going around, like those books the two L.A. Times’ reporters have put out . . ."

Gabriel nodded. So, we send you an information packet with a request for an analysis. You decide on your own hook to blow off the information we’ve provided, and make up your own story . . . which you then send back as an analysis.

A.J. nodded. Yes, sir. Bullshit in, bullshit out. Give me good info, and I’ll give you good analysis.

Raphael spoke up. A.J . . . Why did you insist, in your report, that Lucifer and Ajax are two separate entities?

Because, you know very well that I am AJAX, you idiot! was what A.J. thought. But, her mouth said, Because . . . Well, first thing, if those books are correct about the personality of Captain Brinn, it would be totally out of character for him to throw away the lives of even a few of his precious Argonauts for a symbolic show. She had to choke back the, unlike our own military.

Instead, she continued, Two, it made no sense at all. Why launch the attack, only to be the one to stymie the attack? Where’s the gain? Did he think that we’d suddenly start thinking about him as some sort of good guy? Espescially after we KNOW that he killed several thousand American and Russian sailors in the Pacific last year? No, anybody with Captain Brinn’s brainpower could never think that.

Gabriel snorted. Even if he’s insane?

A.J. snorted back. Being insane doesn’t mean he’s stupid.

Gabriel turned and traded nods with Raphael. Back to A.J. he said, Good. First, let me say that your analysis was dead on. It was exactly what I was looking for. I sent that same packet out to several dozen analysts, and all of them gave me the analysis they thought I wanted, not the one I needed.

Gabriel leaned