“How can we? Is it our right? Think what this means.”
“But what if it awakens? Could we contain it?”
“Why not? This is the twentieth century. We are making technological advancements on a daily basis.”
“Do you believe the public is ready for this?”
“No,” Roosevelt said without hesitation. “I do not believe the United States, or the world, even in this enlightened age, would be able to handle a discovery of this magnitude.”
Stevens frowned. He didn't believe any good could come of this, but as usual he had trouble going toe to toe with Roosevelt.
“Speak your mind, John. You have been living with this for a month.”
“I believe we should burn it, Mr. President. Then sink its ashes in the sea.”
“You are afraid.”
“Even a man of your standing, sir, must admit to some fear gazing at this thing.”
“Yes, I can admit to being afraid. But that is because we fear what we do not understand. Perhaps with understanding...”
Roosevelt made his decision. This would be taken back to the States. He'd lock it away someplace secret and recruit the top minds in the world to study it. He instructed Stevens to have a crate built and for it to be packed and boarded onto the Louisiana— no, better make it the Tennessee. If Mother found out what was aboard her ship she might die of fright.
“But if the world sees this...”
“The world will not. Pay the workers off, and have them work at night without witnesses. I expect the crate to be locked as this shed was, and the key given to me. Worry no more about this John, it is no longer your concern.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt clenched his teeth and forced himself to stick out his hand to touch the thing; a brief touch that he would always recall as the most frightening experience of his life. He covered the fear with a bully Roosevelt harrumph and a false pout of bravado.
“Now let us lock this up and you can show me that canal you are building.”
Stevens closed the lid, but the smell remained.
The twenty-sixth President of the United States walked out of the shed and into the rain. His hands were shaking. He made two fists and shoved them into his pockets. The rain speckled his glasses, but he made no effort to clean them off. His whole effort was focused on a silent prayer to God that he'd made the right decision.
CHAPTER ONE
PRESENT DAY
“You have reached Worldwide Translation Services. For English, press one. Por Espaol...”
BEEP.
“Welcome to WTS, the company for your every translation and interpretation need. Our skilled staff of linguists can converse in over two dozen languages, and we specialize in escort, telephone, consecutive, simultaneous, conference, sight, and written translations. For a list of languages we're able to interpret, press one. For Andrew Dennison, press two. For a...”
BEEP.
The business phone rang. Andy glanced at the clock next to the bed. Coming up on 3am Chicago time. But elsewhere in the world they were eating lunch.
If he didn’t pick up, it would be forwarded to voice mail.
Unfortunately, voice mail didn’t pay his bills.
“WTS, this is Andrew Dennison.”
“Mr. Dennison, this is the President of the United States. Your country needs you.”
Andy hung up. He remembered being a kid, sleeping over at a friend’s house, making prank calls. It seemed so funny back then.
He closed his eyes and tried to return to the dream he’d been having. Something to do with Susan, his ex-girlfriend, begging for him to come back. She’d told him that would only happen in his dreams, and she’d proven herself right.
The phone rang again.
“Look, kid. I’ve got your number on the caller ID, so I know you’re calling from...”
He squinted at the words WHITE HOUSE on the phone display.
“Mr. Dennison, In exactly five seconds two members of the Secret Service will knock on your door.”
There was a knock at the door.
Andy jack-knifed to a sitting position.
“Those are agents Smith and Jones. They're to escort you to a limousine waiting downstairs.”
Andy took the cordless over to his front door, squinted through the peephole. Standing in the hallway were two men in black suits.
“Look, Mister—uh—President, if this is some kind of tax thing...”
“Your particular skills are required in a matter of national security, Mr. Dennison. I'll brief you in New Mexico.”
“This is a translation job?”
“I can't speak any more about it at this time, but you must leave immediately. You'll be paid three times your normal rate, plus expenses. My agents can explain in further detail. We'll talk when you arrive.”
The connection ended. Andy peered through his peephole again. The men looked like secret service. They had the blank stare dead-to-rights.
“Do you guys have ID?” he asked through the door.
They held up their ID.
Andy swallowed, and swallowed again. He considered his options, and realized he really didn’t have any.
He opened the door.
“As soon as you're dressed, Mr. Dennison, we can take you to the airport.”
“How many days should I pack for?”
“No need to pack, sir. Your things will be forwarded to you.”
“Do you know what language I'm going to be using? I've got books, computer programs...”
“Your things will be forwarded.”
Andy had more questions, but he didn’t think asking them would result in answers. He dressed in silence.
The limo, while plush, wasn't accessorized with luxuries. No wet bar. No television. No phone. And the buttons for the windows didn't work.
Andy wore his best suit, Brooks Brothers gray wool, his Harvard tie, and a pair of leather shoes from some Italian designer that cost three hundred dollars and pinched his toes.
“So where in New Mexico am I going?” Andy asked the agents, both of whom rode in the front seat.
They didn't reply.
“Are we going to O'Hare or Midway?”
No answer.
“Can you guys turn on the radio?”
The radio came on. Oldies. Andy slouched back in his seat as Mick Jagger crooned.
Chicago whipped by him on both sides, the streets full of people even at this late hour. Summer in the city was around the clock. The car stopped at a light and three college age girls, drunk and giggling, knocked on his one way window and tried to peer inside. They were at least a decade too young for him.
Their destination turned out to be Midway, the smaller of Chicago’s two airports. Rather than enter the terminal, they were cleared through the perimeter fence and pulled directly out onto the runway. They parked in front of a solitary hanger, far from the jumbo jets. Andy was freed from the limo and led silently to a Lear jet. He boarded without enthusiasm. He'd been on many jets, to many places more exotic than New Mexico.
Andy was bursting with curiosity for his current situation, but sleep was invading his head. It would probably turn out to be some silly little international embarrassment, like a Pakistani Ambassador who hit someone while drunk driving. What was the Hindko word for intoxication? He couldn't remember, and since they didn’t let him take his books, he had no way to look it up.
At a little past four AM the pilot boarded and introduced himself with a strong handshake, but didn’t offer his name. He had no answers for Andy either.
Andy slept poorly, on an off, for the next few hours.
He awoke during the landing, the jolt nudging him alert when the wheels hit the tarmac. After the plane came to a stop, the pilot announced they’d arrived at their destination, Las Cruces International Airport. Andy rubbed some grit from his eyes and stretched in his seat, waiting for the pilot to open the hatch.