Said To Contain
Brandon Messerschmidt
Copyright 2011 Brandon Messerschmidt
Chapter 1
The incessant tick-tock of General Tomlinson's treasured nineteenth century cuckoo-clock was deafening amidst the otherwise suffocating silence of his office. He found himself once again subconsciously tapping the weighted end of his sterling silver pen against the mahogany surface of the desk from which he had served his country for the better part of four decades. It was a nervous habit that had followed him through much of his military career, likely a byproduct of the explosive energy that had set him apart in his younger days; when he was a bright-eyed foot soldier hell-bent for the will of Uncle Sam.
The General had been a lot of places and seen a lot of things since his teenage feet sank into the sand at Normandy on D+1, but nothing had caused the butterflies to flutter in his stomach quite like the urgent communiqué he had received early this particular morning. His rank, tenure and prestige amongst America's military brass allowed him the privilege of being aware of what was happening, but the knowledge that conspiracy theorists would salivate to get their hands on seemed more like a cross upon his back than anything else at this point in time. Of all the places on Earth -- of all the ages gone by -- why did it have to land in his backyard, on his watch?
None of that really mattered, of course... it was a situation to be dealt with, just like the countless others that had passed across his desk in all his years. Each had been handled with a degree of diligence and zeal that earned him more medals and merit than any man should receive in one lifetime. There were younger men available for the job, some even working out of Tomlinson's field office, in fact... but the big wigs apparently felt that there was only one person worthy of the assignment at hand. So, there it was -- sitting squarely in his lap.
The tapping of his pen continued, causing an annoying racket which chipped away at his patience in its frenzied cadence, making him uneasy. He counted his pace at five taps per second, every one of them reminding him that precious time was ticking away with the droning movement of his cuckoo's long arm.
"It's not a sprint, Richard." He reminded himself, fighting his nerves in a futile struggle to lock his anxious hand in place. "Slow and steady wins the race.."
Finally, his office door swung open. His old friend Conrad Butler burst in from beyond. The portly man hurried in as though there had been a last call on desserts, firmly closing and locking the door behind him.
"I came as fast as I could, Rich." He explained as he wiped beads of sweat from his brow. Stepping in front of Tomlinson's desk, he didn't bother pulling up the chair stationed before it, expecting a quick dressing down and dismissal . "Are you sure that this report is accurate?"
"Oh, I'm sure." The General replied, unceremoniously flopping his Cross Pen down to avoid further distraction through its manipulation. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life, Conrad."
"And you have it on good account that it is the Polyphemus Project?"
"On good account? No..." He paused. "On my own account, I saw the goddamned thing!"
"Well what the hell is it doing here?"
"How the hell should I know? I woke you up because I thought you might be able to tell me! How much do you know about this big-bad top-secret project that everybody speaks of in whispers?"
"As much as was deemed enough." The visitor answered. "Probably no more than you."
"Yeah? Well try me -- but sit down first, you're making me nervous!"
Butler obliged, though his discomfort was obvious. His anxiety over the situation was evident in his demeanor, leading the keen eye of General Tomlinson to believe that he knew more than he was letting on.
"I know that it's been in the works for quite some time." Butler started. "That it was deployed several months ago. I didn't think it was supposed to come anywhere near us, though."
"It wasn't." Tomlinson barked as he bit the end off of a rather thick cigar. He was violating every rule in the twenty-first century playbook when he lit it up right at his desk, but at eighty-five years old he was set in his ways and not likely to change for anyone. "I'd sure as hell like to know how it got here, -- Somebody fall asleep with their dick in their hand out there, Ambassador?"
"I guess the lines must've gotten crossed somewhere -- a simple miscalculation or miscommunication between departments... these things happen, sir." Butler replied carefully as the harsh smoke wafted into his face. "After all, the best laid plans of mice and men oft-"
"Don't start!" The General interrupted, pointing the glowing stogie aggressively at his guest. "Don't even start with that! I knew it would end up like this! Now it's our problem, just like always!"
"Well -- I apologize, sir, for what it's worth."
"It isn't worth much, Ambassador! Christ, it seems like I'm on babysitting detail around here anymore! Clean this here up, Tomlinson -- clean that over there up, sir! Help us wipe our ass, General! Shit! I should've retired when I had the chance, Butler -- I wish to God that I had!"
The visitor smiled deviously at the suggestion, knowing full well that the General loved every minute of the chaos that this particular post brought to his plate.
"You can step down at any time, sir." He poked. "Just say the word, and it's done."
"What?" The General snapped back. "And sit around waiting to die? You'd like to be rid of me, wouldn't you Ambassador? You'd be much happier if you got to waltz your behind in here every time your people dropped the ball and stare down some baby-faced cadet who can barely tell his ass from a missile silo, wouldn't you? Now that they've struck down don't ask, don't tell -- you'd probably be thrilled to see a strapping young lad sitting in my big chair instead of this dried up war-torn hard-ass you've got to deal with now! Well no chance! I'm here for the duration, pal! So long as you guys keep dropping the rock, I'll be the nasty S.O.B. standing by to pick it back up and smack you in the ass for the trouble! No pretty momma's boy for you, not while I'm still kickin'!"
"I'd miss your charming personality anyway, sir." Butler chuckled.
"I know your type, Ambassador! Shit nibblers we used to call you -- back when men were men. You hide it with your wife and daughter, but I know the real deal! You only got married so that you could wear her skirts when she wasn't around! Only women and Scotsman wore skirts in my time, Butler! And that's the way things ought to be!"
"Was the Polyphemus wearing a kilt, sir?" Butler quipped, still smiling despite the clearly genuine anger exuding from Tomlinson between hits at his Cohiba.
"Your people designed it, if they had one big enough I'm sure it would've been!" The General returned, a heavy nicotine buzz setting in to lighten his mood just a bit. "Anyhow... you should've seen the thing come down, Butler, it was incredible."
"Did you see it in person?"
"No... it came in a little after midnight about a hundred miles off the Pacific coast. Some tourist caught it on their little camcorder -- I didn't know people went out trying to catch a glimpse at whales so late at night, but most of these people are lunatics after all. Damn near capsized their yacht... it took a hell of a lot of storytelling to talk our way out of that one, but we managed. Thankfully, we had a destroyer on patrol nearby. As soon as I got word about what happened we sent them after it. They were able to tow it in before sunrise, thank God, and they brought it here."
"Do we think our friends know where it is?"
"They might not know exactly where it is -- but if they were looking in anything that resembles this direction, they have a pretty damn good idea. It put on a hell of a light show, I'll tell ya' that much. Would've been hard to miss."
"So --" The visitor continued. "What's the p
lan? Return to sender?"
Tomlinson was the one to laugh this time, cackling through a cough at the behest of his blackened lungs.
"You think it's just that easy, don't you?" He grinned. "Just put a stamp on the son of a bitch, pitch it in a little blue box on the corner and let the postman do the rest?"
"No sir, I'm not quite that naive. That is the goal, though, right? To send it back?"
"Of course it is, the goddamned thing certainly can't stay here!"
"So what do we do? Can we send it up from here?"
"Hell no, Ambassador! We haven't got the logistics behind us to pull that off, let alone a cover story good enough to pacify the sooth-sayers out there! It's not gonna be easy, but we're gonna have to get it to The Cape... there's no other option."
"The Cape?" Butler returned, seeming dumbfounded at the very notion. "That's three thousand miles away, sir! If our friends know that it's here, how can you expect to move it across the country without them picking it off?"
"Very carefully."
"I should say so -- I'm not sure how well you know our friends, but I like to think I'm pretty well versed in their ways. With that said, I wouldn't want to be caught dead in possession of that thing if they figure out what's going on."
"If they figure out what's going on, we'll likely wish they'd caught us dead. That's why I wonder why we ever got involved in this mess to begin with. It's your problem."
"You would've been involved one way or another; you should be thankful that we taught you the rules before you were simply thrust into the game."
"Thankful isn't nearly the right emotion, Ambassador. But it is what it is... we'll do what we have to do and get this mess put behind us, where it belongs."
"Certainly The Council told you that there's no way you'll get it moved without, um -- capturing the attention of our friends?"
"They said it was highly unlikely that our efforts would go undetected. With that being said, I think our goal should be to confuse the hell out of them -- make them work for it..."
"You've already got a plan in place?"
"Who do you think you're talking to, Ambassador? Not only is there a plan, the wheels are already in motion! You know as well as I do, there's no time to waste!"
"Don't rush it though, sir... I imagine every craft in the sky large enough to move it will be vaporized on sight. We can't afford to lose Polyphemus, General Tomlinson... it's out last hope."
"We will not lose it, Ambassador... you can mark my words on that. Besides, I didn't say anything about the wings of my plan being in motion, did I? No -- I said the wheels."
Chapter 2