Dark Veil

By Aaron L. Fuller

Lester McNare has spent his last thirty years in solitary confinement, trapped deep in the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. He isn’t a criminal. He isn’t a hermit. And he isn’t insane. Lester McNare is the last President of the United States of America.

Dark Veil is the story of alien invasion. Centaurians, a lust for rare metals driving their fleet, are done scouting the Earth. Lester McNare, head of the Space Command in Colorado, is tapped by President Abraham Murry to lead Earth’s defense. We know they are coming. We have intercepted scout craft. In the opening half of the 21st century, General McNare preps the United States and then North America in secret.

Armies are marshaled, material is sequestered, and plans are made. The trap is Fort Knox in Kentucky. Misleading broadcasts of gold, stockpiles and mountains of gold, fool the Centaurians into landing in Kentucky. General McNare coyly springs his trap with his expert team: Captain Hanna Kowalska, Captain Nathaniel Green, and others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aaron L. Fuller
• Release date: Jul 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311567581

Aaron L. Fuller

I am a Latin teacher in Massachusetts who finally found time to fulfill a childhood dream of being an author. A few years ago I had a New Year resolution to write one page a day. Currently, I have several books on Smashword and the amazon.com kindle store. Enjoy and thanks for all the support!Check out my new boards at https://www.pinterest.com/carpediem77722/and please support my efforts at being an indie author!

Book preview

Dark Veil

Dedication & Acknowledgments

I thank my first readers and proof readers. Grizelle DeSouza, thank you for the incredible cover art. To AJ, Max, and Jonah: thank you for the encouragement in pursuing writing. Who said you can’t teach an old Latin teacher new tricks, eh?

Regards,

Aaron L. Fuller

2015

Preface

Lester McNare has spent his last thirty years in solitary confinement, trapped deep in the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. He isn’t a criminal. He isn’t a hermit. And he isn’t insane. Lester McNare is the last President of the United States of America.

Dark Veil is the story of alien invasion. Centaurians, a lust for rare metals driving their fleet, are done scouting the Earth. Lester McNare, head of the Space Command in Colorado, is tapped by President Abraham Murry to lead Earth’s defense. We know they are coming. We have intercepted scout craft. In the opening half of the 21st century, General McNare preps the United States and then North America in secret.

The Assault on Fort Knox

Thousands of grey-clad squids fanned out from their landing zone in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. Their dropships came and went with a military precision. Like a column of honey bees swarming over a random object, this squid assault force picked this tiny Kentucky town as their headquarters. The quick sunset of October squeezed the last daylight from the sky. As the sunset turned to twilight and turned to dark, Championship Field went from high school football to high panic. Championship Field is a vast sport complex covering several square miles. Twelve tennis courts, two football fields and twelve baseball fields provided the perfect landing zone for the assault on Fort Knox. Fort Knox lay off to the north a few miles, the concrete behemoth of the gold depository drew the squids like a moth to the fire. Squid infantry swarmed over the perimeter and they killed anyone who was in their way, including hundreds of spectators who were watching the Central Hardin High School team play their cross-county rivals.

The pending alien invasion was nothing more than a conspiracy theory fit for Buzzfeed. I did everything in my power to bait the Squids to attacking Fort Knox, but as I tossed and turned, the images haunted me. We couldn’t warn the civilians. The cat had to remain in the bag. Even the nuking of Mar’s twin moons, Phobos and Deimos, was written off as merely an astrological disturbance. Lies, lies, bold lies, and damn lies became the norm for the White House and Space Command in those years before the invasion.

Officer Bertrand Miles was the first hero that evening to kill a squid. He was on routine duty supervising the football game. Barely two years out of Owensboro Community and Technical College, he was waiting for his application to the marines to clear. Bert still had friends at Hardin High, and he loved the swag of being a police officer. His uniform and gun impressed the cheerleaders every time. Squid drop ships were landing on the tennis courts and the baseball fields. More dropships landed north of the football fields. This grassy, weedy area became their main command base. The humans were effectively surrounded. This formed a V with the football fields right in the middle of the V. The parking lot to the east of the fields rested between the tennis courts and the bleachers. Thousands of people packed in the Friday night for football.

The squid infantry were small and highly mobile. They stood about as high as a twelve year old, and their body armor was very thin. Centaurians could breathe Earth air, but they generally wore helmets. We knew from the helmet of the few we had captured that their helmets contained all sorts of combat enhancements such as communication links. Groups of squids started cutting through the parking lots to the football fields. They fired indiscriminately, but after the first car exploded in a gasoline-fueled firebomb, they slowed their advance. The vast majority of the squids headed north to I-65 and the way to Fort Knox.

Bert read science fiction avidly. He recognized an alien invasion when he saw the columns of light descending to the ground. Instant panic followed. Louisville Central High School Quarterback Dejon Walker called the snap right as the first columns of light pierced the sky. His center hiked the ball and he fell backwards for the long bomb, but no bombs fell that day from the sky or his hands. The Centaurians, confident in their superiority, ignored the humans as mere food animals who were in the way of their ultimate objective--rare metals. Dejon and Bert were friends. Back when Bertrand was a high school senior quarterback, Dejon played second fiddle to him before his family moved to Louisville. As the crowds undulated in confusion Dejon ran off the field, football still in hand, and found Bert. Bert wasn’t naïve enough to tell everyone to remain calm. He didn’t even yell out commands to all those looking to him for an answer. He saw Dejon and simply said, Get out of here. Don’t use a car. Get the hell out by Still’s Creek that-a-way. His Kentucky drawl yelled above the crowd.

Bert drew his service piece and headed to the parking lot. He had a bulletproof vest and shotgun in the trunk of his squad car. Bert’s plan was simple: grab his gear, head back to the woods by Championship Field, then cut west toward West Park road. He’d skirt baseball field number twelve, follow the tree line, and escape toward the forest. On his way to the squad car, he ripped off his sheriff’s star, hat, and belt buckle. Anything shiny might betray him.

Bert didn’t hear his car alarm unlock, but the flash of his tail lights told him his cruiser was unlocked. The parking lot wasn’t too full yet, and there weren’t any traffic jams. Part of him wanted to jump into the Ford police cruiser, gun the engine, and simply ride out like in the movies. Behind him, mere minutes behind him, an ocean of people followed. Bert grabbed tube of camo paint from the truck and stuffed the tube into his pocket for later. Then he slung the bulletproof vest over his shoulder like he was Jason carrying the Golden Fleece. Finally Bert’s large hands gripped his pride and joy, a Mossback 590 military issue riot shotgun. He ejected the pellet rounds and loaded some slugs. Just then the first car exploded in a roar of gasoline. The detonation happened a few hundred yards east of him at the edge of the parking lot. Squid infantry were linking up with the baseball field landing zones. Drop ships continued to land and take off from the tennis courts in military precision.

Holly Somerfell, one of Hardin High’s senior cheerleaders, spotted Bert. Bert was pushing his way back to the field through the crowd of parents and students. Most everyone was oblivious to him. The explosions in the parking lot paused the mass of people. They didn’t know which way to turn, and Bert just kept pushing his way through them. Holly, blonde, fit, and tall latched herself to his elbow. Berty! It’s me, Holly! What are you doing? What’s happening? Holly’s outfit was stitched with a glow-in- the dark bulldog, the mascot for Hardin High. Three years ago she cheered her school to the state football championship, but now she was fearing for her life. Her blue eyes locked onto Bert who stopped forcing his way through the crowd. Come with me if you want to live. Deep down inside, Bert knew he couldn’t guarantee Holly’s safety.

My parents are this way. She tugged him to the parking lot. You’re going the wrong way. She tugged, This way, Bert, come on! You’re the ***police! The crowd dragged Holly toward the parking lot in a fatal error of judgment. Bert kept his grip on two things, his bulletproof vest and his Mossback 590. In that split second when the crowd decided to press to the cars, Holly released his elbow. She was swept away like a kitten which had been tossed in a sack and then tossed in a river. Bert didn’t look back; he couldn’t. Once the mass of people decided reach their cars, those mobile coffins, then Bert’s progress the opposite direction was all the easier.

Bert ignored the chaos and soon found himself trampling on split bags of popcorn, corndogs, and paper cups of Pepsi cola. Then he burst free of the crowd and beheld a surreal sight: an empty football field on Friday night in Kentucky! Bert raced laterally across the field. The lights from above, both the dropships in the distance and the towering light poles illuminated his sole survivor jog. When at the fifty yard line, right smack dab in the middle of the field, Officer Bertrand Miles did a little end zone dance. I’m still alive! he yelled out to no one in particular. Then right there with thousands of squids closing on his location, he donned his body armor, blacked his skin with camouflage paint, and took off running toward the woods.

The tree line beckoned Bert. He crossed into the mixed stand of oak, beech, and ash then immediately hit the dirt. The ground was thick with fallen leaves, and the temperature cooled the sweat pouring off his brow. Bert’s shoulder radio spit out dispatcher commands with a loud squawk. He yanked the cord out, then removed the whole thing and cast it beside him. The new officer thought back to his days of camping and the summer at the police academy. Survival lay with movement. The situation tempted him to lay low, dig under the leaves, and wait. Aliens in the movies can always see in the dark. No one would launch an invasion in the dark unless they could see in the dark. Survival equaled movement.

Bert removed his Hardin High class ring, slipped the white gold nugget into his pocket. Then he rerubbed black, oily paint all over his skin. Discarding the tube, he began to crouch run through the forest toward baseball field number twelve. The columns of light grew closer and closer, and Bert realized for the first time that the alien ships descended without sound. They did disrupt the air, so a low wind with its windy howl flowed through the forest. Happy Halloween, thought the policeman as he neared the danger zone. A large oak, its limbs held up in surrender, provided the cover. A few hundred yards south of him was the northern landing zone. Already squids had broken into squads and were heading in his direction. He prayed they couldn’t smell since the smell of his own sweat was so powerful and pungent. The only hope lay in speed. He’d have to outrun their line north with his line west. Crossing this deadly T of intersecting vectors meant survival. If he stayed here, he would surely die or be captured. No one comes a trillion trillion miles to the Earth to announce, Hi, we only want your stuff. Thank you, good bye! Bert pretended this was a quarterback sneak play. He started sprinting from the surrendering tree and began running. His powerful thighs propelled him from tree to tree. Bert dodged the trees as if they were enemy linesmen. His Mossback was the ball, and he was the star quarterback breaking into midfield on the run. Years of camping and Boy Scouts provided Bertrand Miles with a cross country runner’s instinct for the woods. The cascading columns of light sparkled on the forest floor. Here a rock, there a branch, here a dip, there a rise in the forest floor. Bert side-stepped, jumped, and sped his way through the T to the other side of the line. The squids were silent and busy moving north to their vehicle drop zone. None of them expected a human, let alone an armed human, here in the forest.

Ring Road and West Park road ran about a quarter of a mile to the west. Ring Road obviously was an access road which wound around the sports complex. West Park road led back to town, and town meant safety. The roar of the wind stifled any screams from the east, although Officer Miles wasn’t so sure he actually heard screams. He paused at the base of a towering beech tree. Crouching on his heels with his back to the trunk, Bert gulped in air. Silent as he might, his breaths just made a heaving noise. After a few minutes of rest, the young policeman began anew his crouch walk. Tree to tree, but slower and steadier he progressed. Up ahead he heard something savage. The noise struck his ears and made his heart skip a beat. The sound was like a thirsty great Dane slurping at a water dish after a day in hot summer sun. Peeking like a nine year old before Christmas who sneakily steals a look at her parents while they wrapped presents, Officer Miles peeked from behind the tree. There it was! An alien knelt over the carcass of a deer. The alien’s face was deep inside the deer’s carcass. The feeding frenzy of the alien, gross and frightening, immediately made Bert think of zombies. Images of zombie movies and TV shows flashed through his mind, and the single thought emblazoned itself onto Bert’s consciousness. That thought was, Head shot! Officer Miles flicked off the Mossbach’s safety, knelt to a crouch and then whistled as loud as he could. The Centaurian raised its head. Before Bert could see the monster’s face, he squeezed the trigger. His hand, hot and sweaty, gripped the stock as the shotgun roared to life like a rocket launcher. The slug sped through the air and ripped the entire head of the Centaurian off its shoulders. Before the torso hit the ground, Officer Miles sprung forward, cocked the shotgun then started sprinting. Loot the body! He screamed to himself, but an instinct of deep preservation screamed back, Run like hell, brother! Run like the wind.

Lucky for Bert, this Centaurian had run ahead of his mates by a good two hundred yards. As soon as the shotgun blast echoed through the woods, all the aliens slowed down. None of them wanted to be Earth fodder or listed among the first to die on this invasion. Miles finished crossing the T. An old oak provided him cover, and he contemplated his next move between large gulps of air. Bertrand Miles, age twenty one, a common police officer in Elizabethtown, Kentucky had scored the first kill.

The Fall

No one thought the world would end this way. How could we? My generation grew up on such a fodder of Hollywood blockbusters that each and every one of us knew humans would always win. Independence Day, Battle: Los Angeles, War of the Worlds, Battleship, the list drones on and on! Sure, we knew there would be losses. Sure, we knew part of the earth would go BOOM like a mighty fireball exploding from an alien laser cannon. But we also knew, at least each and every one of us thought we knew that humans would survive. Hell, forget survive! We would come out on top, overcome the alien scum, and rebuild our Earth. The reality is that now I am living out the rest of my life in an underground bunker, a hollowed mountain which has become my prison. Who am I? My name is General Lester McNare. I’ve worn many hats, but the longest hat is that of President of the United States. There wasn’t much left of the United States when I became President. Before that I was General. I had access to data, terabytes of data. But what use was all that knowledge?

Knowledge. She is a fickle goddess much like Lady Luck. Back in the Beginning, our superior human knowledge lulled us into thinking the world wasn’t coming to an end, our world, the world, the Earth, you know? But knowledge failed us. That goddess is laughing at humanity now, or at least she is laughing at the last few millions of us left. Are there that many people left? I couldn’t tell you, to be honest. I haven’t so much as checked on the outside world for decades. I’ve lost all track of time down here. My memories, my memoirs, and my hollow mountain are all that are left. Gold? I have crates of the stuff down on level five. Priceless art? Piles of Monets, Van Goghs, and other knick-knacks are in level six. Robotic soldiers, vehicles, and weapons? Sure, crates of them, too, are here and there.

None of that matters either. This journal I am writing, now a book, and now several volumes matters. I don’t even know why I bother to write this account of the Fall and the Dark Veil. Who would read the history of the end of the world? Why would they read it? I guess, perhaps, I have this nagging hope that we humans, whatever is left of us, will still reconquer the earth. I guess the brainwashing from childhood movies runs pretty deep, huh? I know now that we won’t win, can’t win. So why bother writing all this?

Boredom? Sure, life is boring when you are waiting for the world to end. There is not much else for entertainment. I haven’t lost track of the days; I’ve lost track of the years since the Beginning. I think we are living in 2048, but maybe this is 2045. It’s not like I can just open the bunker and take a peak outside. Wouldn’t that just be peachy! Open the bunker, hope that I don’t die from the environment, then find an alien somewhere. Hi, I’m one of the last few humans left. You know, humans? We kinda live here, or I mean did live here. Anyway, what YEAR is it? The aliens would eat me regardless. I learned that early in the Beginning. By the time the Fall came about, we were cattle, sheep, food. By the time the Dark Veil came about we were living on false hope of victory. Still, I will tell a story, and I will tell my story the old way with writing.

But why tell this story? Why? I’m too old for the zoo. I mean one reason to tell this story is the hope that the aliens might need a pet. I could be that pet, in an alien zoo and retell the story of the Fall of Earth. My English would be like the chattering of a monkey to them, but certainly the aliens have some sort of scientist caste who would keep me alive as a pet. Wishful thinking, isn’t it? I’m too old to spend my last few years in a cage or worse, in an alien laboratory. Old humans wouldn’t be tasty to them. I could live in an alien zoo.

No, I think the real reason to write this story is for history. The aliens, whether they are conquering their first planet or their one thousandth and first planet, they keep records. We know that, know that fact for sure. My book here, this will be the record, the record from the human side. Losers don’t get to write the history books. But this loser is writing the history book. Me. My story. My point of view. Maybe the very last history of Earth… The Fall of Earth--catchy title.

So I’ll write this historical account to the winners. A coffee table book from our point of view… Once they finish us off, mop up the planet like so many cups of spilled milk, they will find this bunker. They will find me, dead or alive in the bunker. History is ruled by winners, losers, and historians. I don’t have their history, but I don’t need their side of the story. I’m very qualified to tell this story from the human point of view. Somewhere down below me, somewhere in this giant bunker complex is an American flag, all fifty-one stars, and Great Seal, and a bunch of old papers. All those trappings of humanity, all that paper, all that authority grants me a title, President of the United States of America. Yep, I led the free world, the Earth, humanity, and all 12 billion of us down the toilet drain of defeat.

So, Squids, if you are reading this book, before you gloat that you have the last words of the leader of Earth, know this one thing. In the troubles right at the Beginning, I ended up the eighth President that year. I was sworn in, and I did not change my army uniform for a suit. You may have figured out also that humans had elections to choose their leader. I was not elected; you killed seven Presidents before me. After that, we stopped even trying to have any semblance of a government. The Supreme Court made me President. All the papers down in bunker 193 confirm my appointment as President of the United States of America. Considering the circumstances, this appointment was perfectly legal according to the laws passed by Congress and the Constitutional Amendments of 2028. Is there anything like an invasion of your home planet to force Democrats and Republicans to work together, eh? I doubt you have enough sense of humor to understand the joke.

The Beginning

So where to begin? I was born in an old industrial city called Worcester in a state called Massachusetts. Worcester is about one hour from the Atlantic Ocean in the continent we call North America. No, scratch that. Why would aliens care about my birth? I think I’ll just start at the Time of Troubles. The Time of Troubles (or TT) as we called these two decades actually came before The Beginning. The Beginning is the date the Dark Veil went up. Funny how The Beginning and the end are about one and the same…

Anyway let me start in the year 2028. Right after the November elections, I was appointed the Director of Space Command, following the retirement of General Woodruf who had served ably since 2018. Now the Space Command had just become independent of the Air Force. Technically we had been our own branch of the military, but back in ’82 (That’s 1982.) President Reagan merged us with the Air Force. I had been an acting base commander at Peterson Air Force base in Colorado. After a whirlwind series of meetings with the new President, congressional meetings, and my daughter’s third grade Christmas pageant the weightiness of my promotion hit me. My wife, Susan, astutely informed me that my most important job ahead was designing new uniforms for the Space Command. I laughed, but agreed with her! Besides her chatting about color sample, the President informed me my old stomping ground, Peterson Air Force base, was being renamed Robert Goddard Space Command HQ.

I think the aliens would care about Robert Goddard. Dr. Goddard hailed from Worcester, Massachusetts, and he invented the rocket. Not the rocket ship, mind you, but the rocket. Since I was from Worcester, the President (an old Princeton alum just like me) joked that all my talk of Robert Goddard back in graduate school finally paid off. So there it was. I, General Lester McNare, found myself in command of the United States of America’s most advanced and secret military force--The Space Command.

Space Command had some interesting assets. I knew most of them from my tenure as base commander in Colorado--ICBMs, stealth bombers, B-52s, A-9 Satellite killers, orbital observatories, and F-32 low-earth orbit interceptors. Our total manpower was just shy of 100,000 people in over 88 bases worldwide.

The whirlwind of parties following the Inauguration and Christmas is clear in my mind after all these years down here. I was never a pomp and circumstance man, but the party at the University Club in Washington, D.C. took my breath away. The University Club was off 16th Street. President Taft helped found the club back in 1904. On the third floor in the Tip O’Neil room, right under the fat guy’s picture, I was drinking a beer. President Abraham Murry sipped a coffee in the leather chair opposite me. The secret service watched the door, and an endless parade of people came in and out to introduce themselves. The business was simple flattery and congratulations for Abraham. No one thought a New Jersey man could be elected President for a second term, especially one who had been just a Congressman from Newark. In between the flatterers, well-wishers, and close friends a small handful of government officials delivered mini-briefings to me and the President.

Why do I remember all this? The University Club motto, Enter all of ye who have a degree of good fellowship and learning, struck me as very eerie. Back at Princeton, in between my operations research, military history, and Latin classes, I had time to squeeze in Dante’s Inferno. Dante wrote a similar quote over the gates of Hell, Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. Somehow these two quotes burned in my mind. The strange mottos grew stranger as the party moved from drinking beer to drinking whisky. I hope the squid historians find this fascinating.

At the University Club, Washington, D.C. 2028

General, may I bring you another drink? Her nametag read, Penny, and she smiled. Penny wore a short black skirt with a white blouse. Her nametag was bronze, pinned over her left breast, and had an embossed UC for University Club. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was in her mid-thirties, a veteran hostess. I knew she wouldn’t mind serving me enough Jack Daniels until I made a fool of myself.

Thank you, Penny, but two is my limit. I smiled back at her and put my empty tumbler on her serving tray. The ice cubes rattled in the thick glass. She smiled back and turned to the President.

Mr. President, is your coffee warm enough? Abraham was single, the first single President since James Buchanan in 1860. The sweet and sour smell of Kentucky whisky made me stop talking. I swear Penny smiled more at Abe than at me. Abraham often joked with me that being single earned him more votes than any other political position he took. Would you like me to reheat your cup? Penny’s voice and gestures seemed robotic.

The President smiled back, a genuinely affectionate smile. No, that won’t be necessary. I still have a few good sips left. He turned to me, You sure, Les? One more drink won’t cause a White House scandal.

I chuckled, Especially since I don’t know where the red button is yet. Then turning to Penny, One more blackjack, only make my drink a single this time, OK? I didn’t want to be implicated in a White House scandal, Top general passes out drunk at party.

Right away, general, Penny smiled weakly at me then left. I guess the whole age thing wasn’t working in my favor. She ignored me with a distant voice. I will come back with your drink.

She bent just a little, not quite a bow, but definitely a flirtatious move. As soon as Penny turned to leave, the Secret Service at the door let in another flatterer. This guy I recognized from watching CNN; he was the head of the Federal Reserve. After some boring conversation, Abe laughed about appointing him as the Secretary of the Treasury. The two joked about happily printing money, not managing money. Then to seal the deal, Abraham offered me a loan for a house in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington.

I looked at the pocket square of the Secretary of the Treasury. The square, ivory white, was neatly tucked into his suit. Then I looked back at the President. Sir, I’m not moving to Washington. You don’t want me working out of the Pentagon do you, Sir?

At ease, Les. You don’t have to call me, Sir, in polite company. Of course you can stay in Colorado. I was thinking of Susan. She might want to live the Washington social life. God knows Jenny could use the company. Jenny was the President’s sister and another long-time friend of the family. She died when Washington was destroyed. John, the Treasury Secretary, added his sincerity, handed me a business card, and then left. I rubbed my finger over the embossed eagle of the Federal Reserve seal.

Thank you, Abe. I’m one-hundred percent ready to lead armies into battle, but nothing scares me more than moving to Washington. I’d be outflanked by the politicians in a single maneuver. I looked around. Tip’s smiled beamed down from his painting. A pool table, mahogany, rested in the center of the room. Fancy card tables covered in green felt filled in the spaces. Susan, however…

You’d have a tough time covering your ass in Washington! The politicians maneuver something fierce! Abe laughed about me having to retreat from social life. You’d be besieged by reporters after a tactical withdraw to a cozy brownstone. The President fiddled with his cufflinks (silver and shaped like eagles) then added, But Susan would love D.C. Give my idea a thought, Les. Aren’t your children on the east coast?

My two children, a son and daughter, were both single and in their early 20s. My son, Tom, lived in Atlanta, while my daughter, Cecilia, still lived in Hopewell, New Jersey. Hopewell is right outside of Princeton and our family home after we moved from Worcester. That’s right. TJ is working for Coke-Cola in Atlanta. Ceci is in law school at Princeton still. I saw Penny outside. The Secret Service let her cut in front of some very powerful billionaires and politicos just to bring me my blackjack. A cold whisky bumped the line of billionaires.

In with Penny walked a scientist. The paisley bowtie was a dead giveaway. The middle-aged man sported a tweed blazer which came from an L.L. Bean catalogue back in the 1970s. He was careful to mind Penny’s tray. She deftly dropped off my drink and said, I thought you two might want some nuts. Penny delicately placed a porcelain bowl of mixed nuts on the small side table between our chairs. I had half a mind to ask her to return to the kitchen, pick out all the cashews, then return the bowl. I hated cashews! Penny bent over just a bit more and smiled at Abraham. I noticed that the top button of her blouse this time was undone. I can’t believe the Secret Service let her in here. Where’s the head of the CIA when you need him? Was she a robot or not? I never found time to ask Abraham.

Excuse me, Mr. President and General McNare. My name is Eric Frontenheim. Eric was a older, sandy blond hair, and smiled with perfect teeth. He appeared confident, not geeky. Eric merely paused as if we would recognize him. I was focused on my new blackjack, and the President was staring down Penny’s blouse. I head the Pegasus Project. While focusing on his words, I tried rubbing my finger around the rim of the tumbler then licking the whisky off my thumb.

I looked into Eric’s eyes. His were blue, deep crystal blue, and then I wanted to poke them out with a pen. I hated, absolutely hated all the pet project names. The government was full of stupid names for usually stupid ideas. A joke escaped my lips, Ah yes, the Pegasus Project. Was that before or after the Centaur Project? Not sure, but definitely after the Cyclops Project, right? The need to stretch came over me. Abe just rolled his eyes and changed the subject. What did all that alphabet soup matter now? Crates and crates of manual mold down below me in this bunker prison. Back then, back in 2028, we created more and more names, agencies, and cover to hide our rapidly expanding defense.

Eric, thank you for coming by! How’s Marsha and the little ones? Twin boys, right? Jack and Max are about seven now, aren’t they? Abraham had a politician’s knack for names and faces. He out- campaigned four veteran politicos in the primaries last year. And who said a Jersey boy didn’t stand a chance of being reelected President for a second term?

Eric softened. The scientist thanked the President for remembering his boys. After some light conversation about sledding and last month’s Christmas shopping, Eric looked around for a chair so he could sit opposite us. Penny had left, and didn’t bother to ask him if he wanted a drink. This night of calling hours limited any one person’s time to a few minutes anyway. I wanted to know when General McNare was coming to inspect the widgets.

The President slapped his knee and almost choked with laughter. "This place is one-hundred percent secure. Make that two-hundred percent secure. Eric, you have five minutes. Why don’t you tell Les