“Who was Vance working with at SIS?”
“No idea, he never told me,” Beveridge said. “Although…Vance seemed to be awfully busy in the evening, and the man was chronically single for the entire time I’ve known him. I get the feeling he was seeing a woman.”
“A woman?”
“He never mentioned it, but he constantly had to ‘go meet someone for dinner.’ Vance also called me from Marble Heights once. Not that that’s significant, but Marble Heights is a ways away from his place down in Fullerton.”
“Do you think this woman he was working with lived in Marble Heights?”
“Who knows? I haven’t been working as a field agent in years. You’re better suited as an investigator than I am, honestly.” Beveridge sighed and glanced at the floor. “I’m still surprised Vance got in with SIS to begin with. Maybe that’s why Simon Cray is spooked now. He’s probably worried somebody will come after his own soon.”
That comment caught Gresham’s attention. “Wait, do you think…”
“What, Major?”
“Carl Brighton was found dead a few days ago. He was the head of Alien Affairs and from what I’ve heard he was one of Cray’s most trusted deputies.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“The Zone is overflowing with smugglers and gun-dealers. Brighton may have been targeted by the same ETs who came after Evans. If Vance was working with SIS, information may have made it to Brighton, and he was killed for it.”
“It’s a thought. I have a meeting I need to go to, but please keep me informed about what happens. Vance was – still is, actually – one of my best.”
Gresham saluted smartly and then shook Beveridge’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I’ll let you know what I manage to dig up.”
#
The Palm was one of Santa Monica’s most prestigious restaurants, located about a block from the beach and overlooking the sparkling Pacific Ocean from its second-story perch. It was frequented as much by politicians as by businessmen, celebrities and self-important socialites. More so than anywhere else, it was the premier dining destination of the city.
A bright, ironically cheerful-looking sign announced “No Extraterrestrials Will Be Served” by the front door. Gresham regarded the sign as he waited for the hostess to approach him.
“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?”
“I’m meeting my friend here… The table should be under the name Reed.”
“Oh, of course. Commissioner Reed arrived a few minutes ago.”
She led Gresham up a narrow staircase to the lofty Palm on the second floor. Gresham instantly recognized at least fifteen patrons in the packed restaurant. Waiters hurried around between tables, and the atmosphere was surprisingly hectic.
Reed had managed to secure a table out on the outdoor veranda. He lightly sipped his glass of water and waved when he saw Gresham approaching. “Good to see you, John. How are you?”
“I’m doing fine, thanks. Yourself?” Gresham took a seat, laying notice to a bandage on Reed’s hairline. A gash or bruise from the explosion, no doubt.
“Recovering as best I can. Doctors said I was concussed when I bumped my head, though I don’t know if we’d be here if you hadn’t thrown us both to the ground. I think I might just owe you my life, John.”
“Don’t mention it, Greg. We both bailed each other out of some sticky situations back when we were in the shit. We’ll call it even.”
They shook hands and Reed leaned back. “The explosion made me think of the war. How I haven’t heard sounds like that in close to twenty years. Seeing the injured… brought back some tough memories.”
“Same here. What’d you do after they let you out of the hospital?”
“Went home and gave my wife a big, wet kiss. Then I hugged my kids.” Reed swirled his water. “How’d you cope?”
“From what I remember, went to a dive down on the beach in Malibu and woke up with a skull-splitting headache and a pretty twenty-something in my apartment.”
“I don’t even want to think about how you made it up to Topanga from the beach while you were drunk.”
“Yeah, I don’t either.”
“So anyways… how’s the President?” Reed asked, with understandable concern in his eyes.
“Well, he’s safe last I heard, that’s what’s important.” Gresham said tacitly, electing not to mention his surprise visit from the President the night before. “I don’t think anybody will be taking their eyes off of him for a few days at least.”
Reed nodded. “I’m glad. This has made all attempts at legislative efforts very difficult, as I’m sure you can imagine. The political climate was tense enough already. I’ve never seen so many fingers pointing in so many directions in my entire career. The contractor oversight bill is as good as dead in the water for the time being.”
“A lot of people have been fired already, and more to come.”
“Speaking of which, how’s your job security? I heard you just got reassigned from Section Four.”
“No… I’m still JLOC. I just got given an assignment that involves a little more hands-on work. Where’d you hear that from?”
“I’m on the Military Oversight Committee, remember? Richard Godford usually keeps me in the loop.”
Gresham considered that for a moment. If Godford had told Reed, who else might know he was doing a special job?
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Reed offered, seeking to break the silence.
“Well, I’m not really sure,” Gresham said slowly, before he had an idea. “Hey, actually, what kind of political clout does your membership on Military Oversight carry as far as SIS is concerned?”
Reed waved a waitress over so he could place his order. “I’d like a Caesar salad please, and a beer.” He looked towards Gresham.
“I already ate,” Gresham replied. “I’ll have a beer too.”
The waitress nodded and left. Reed turned his attention back to Gresham. “That’d be the purview of the Intelligence Committee, which I’ve never sat on. Why do you ask?”
“It would help a lot with my investigation if I could get at some of the information Simon Cray is sitting on. Actually, it would make it so that I have an investigation.”
Reed leaned back in his chair and looked out over the ocean. “Simon Cray has been in charge of SIS for twenty-two years. He is the Special Intelligence Service. The man is a reclusive old weasel who hates politicians and military personnel. His sole goal in life is to screw as many of us over as he possibly can.”
“Yeah, I know, I’ve heard the stories. Never met the man, but heard the stories.”
“If Cray is being tight-lipped, there’s not much I can do. However… I do know who on the Commission is perfect for this.”
“Who?”
“I’m embarrassed to even suggest to you that you seek his help, but Jack French and Simon Cray have been enemies ever since French got elected to the Commission seven years ago.”
“Wait… you mean the Commissioner Jack French from Mars? The Allied Socialist who acts as personal crusader for Hessian Engineering and its affiliates and thinks he can beat Paine in next year’s election?”
Reed nodded. “The one and the same.”
“What’s he got against Simon Cray? You’d think two insects like that would get along swimmingly.”
“Well, there’s a variety of theories as to what the animosity stems from. Some say that Cray has proof French fudged the vote on Mars, and others say that French has a deep-seated hatred of Cray because of his insistence on keeping SIS operations free from oversight. French is a strong advocate of more government transparency.”
Gresham pouted and mumbled, “Jesus, this is turning into a huge mess. When do I get to go back to just being a boring old analyst again?”
“There’s wishful thinking if I ever heard it. Tell you what; I’ll set up an appointment for you with French. I’d be stunned if he didn’t offer to help you.” Reed paused with faux severity and
then added with a grin, “That doesn’t change the fact that he represents everything wrong with modern politics. Don’t misread me.”
Gresham chuckled. “Okay, okay, Greg, I won’t. Just let me know what you arrange, the sooner I can meet with Jack French the better.”
“This afternoon work for you?”
“Sure, why not.”
“Then I’ll call him and ask, and let you know.”
#
Gresham reopened Vance’s report on his screen once he got back to his office, staring blankly at the words without really reading them. What had gone wrong?
Lieutenant Jeffrey Vance, Military Intelligence Division
Section One
7/7/42
Los Angeles, California, USA, Terra
With regards to the theft of significant amounts of materiel belonging to the Allied Marine Corps, this report seeks to identify the perpetrators of the crime (perpetrated 7/4/42) at the Alliance Armed Forces Munitions Depository in the Los Angeles Suburban-Designate Sector of Ventura, California.
From preliminary investigations, the weapons were requisitioned under Marine Corps protocol. The authorization for the removal of weapons was given from an unidentified source, using a loophole in the system by which name identification is not directly given.
My earliest suspicion would suggest smugglers operating out of the Southern California Extraterrestrial Zone are responsible. Weapons dealers in the ETZ have long had contacts within the Alliance military with which they acquire their goods. I feel this is most likely no different.
In light of the sheer size of the theft, early evidence suggests there may be a fully fledged smuggling ring with strong backing by someone or some entity in the Alliance bureaucracy, suggesting that the illegal requisition of weapons from Ventura might be an inside job.
In the event that smugglers are not involved and the weapons were merely misplaced by accident, the invoice detailing the removal of the materiel from Ventura will lend itself insight into the process from which the guns were taken out. We still have not compiled a full inventory of what exactly is missing, due largely to the size of the depository and difficulty in the past few days in maneuvering the Marine Corps database, a wholly confusing and unusable system of information.
Gresham rubbed his eyes and read over the report twice again. It was so standardized, so plainly written, so matter-of-fact. He knew Vance was a damn good field agent, but the report was nonsense. It held nothing of real value. He as an analyst could have written better than Vance’s summation of the events.
Something’s off here, he thought slowly, trying to pinpoint what exactly was missing. Why was Vance not including everything in the report? Gresham had the sense that Vance was hiding something that he had intentionally neglected to write down.
Or, perhaps, someone had doctored the report to leave key details out.
He was stirred from his thoughts when his voxcom started buzzing. He picked it up and answered with clear irritation, “Hello?”
“Major Gresham? This is Jack French… Is this a bad time?”
Gresham’s eyebrows perked up. “No, Commissioner French, not at all. What can I do for you?”
“Normally I’d schedule an appointment through my secretary, but I’m on a tight schedule. However, Mr. Reed explained to me that you have something to discuss with me that would be worth my while. What are you doing this afternoon?”
“I’m not quite sure yet, honestly,” Gresham replied. He turned off the holographic report. “I don’t think I’m busy.”
“Good. I have a speaking engagement in Fullerton in a few hours. My LUXR can be at Defense in twenty minutes and we can talk on the way. I’ll pay for your train or cab fare back to Crest Ave if you want, it’s no hassle.”
Gresham considered the offer before pausing and bringing up Vance’s personnel file. He was listed at an address in Fullerton.
“Sounds great, Commissioner French. See you in twenty.”
Gresham hung up and looked closely at Vance’s personnel file. What were the odds that he had something at his apartment that would shed light on the missing pieces of his report?
It’s worth a shot, Gresham thought and opened his desk drawer to retrieve his gun.
#
Twenty minutes later, as promised, a platinum-colored LUXR pulled up to the curb outside of MID’s annex a block from the Defense Department. One of the doors hissed open and Gresham climbed inside and took a seat next to a large, beefy bodyguard, who quickly frisked him and showed surprise at his discovery that Gresham was armed.
“Don’t worry, I don’t plan to use it,” Gresham stated disarmingly, handed the weapon to the guard and returned his attention to his host. “I haven’t been in one of these in a few years.”
“Glad I could make your ride enjoyable,” Jack French replied with a chuckle. French was probably in his early forties, although he looked ten years younger. He was tanned, had a set of flawless white teeth and his dark blonde hair was cut almost too perfectly. Gresham sensed a keenly intelligent mind studying him behind the otherwise unassuming, boyish eyes.
The LUXR started up and zipped down Crest Ave towards the A4, another major superhighway through Los Angeles. Gresham watched familiar buildings zoom by as French poured them both drinks.
“I don’t know the full details of your assignment, Major, but whatever it is you’re up to, I’ll trust you have it under control,” French began. “Greg Reed and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. He’s a good man though, has a lot of integrity.”
“I know. I served under him on Puckshot.”
“Well God bless you both,” French said with genuine respect. “I served eighteen months aboard the ANV Nairobi, but we never saw much combat. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like on the ground.”
Gresham considered his recent spate of flashbacks and dreams, but merely shrugged. “Well, it’s all in the past now. You were saying?”
“Oh, right. Reed mentioned to me that you’re having some trouble dealing with SIS.” French studied Gresham’s expression carefully. “I want to help.”
“I figured you wouldn’t have invited me out here otherwise. What’s in it for you?”
“What do you mean?”
Gresham paused. “Assuming you win the ASP nomination for next year’s election, you will be going against Howard Paine, a man I respect and, honestly, who I regard as a friend. I am also close with Greg Reed, another one of your political rivals. Why would you help me, knowing exactly where my loyalties lie?”
The question seemed to catch French off guard. He frowned, poured himself another drink and took a large gulp. “Politics aside, my issues with Cray come first. If President Paine wants something Cray has, I want Cray to have to give it up.”
“Notwithstanding that Paine leads the Galactic Democrats.”
“Yes. I am not a petty politician, Major Gresham. I believe in pragmatism and bipartisanship.”
“Especially when it gives you a chance to screw Simon Cray.”
French broke a wide, knowing grin. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
“Fair enough. You still haven’t told me how you’re going to help with Cray and SIS. You aren’t on the pertinent committees.”
“It was just an offer. I’ll see what I can do at Shoregrove, and try to force Cray into getting off whatever gem he’s sitting on. Commissioners from both parties would lend me a sympathetic ear in that endeavor.”
“I doubt there’d be much to force him into revealing, Mr. French,” Gresham said with a sigh. “The man just likes to remind everyone that he knows something more than them.”
“Believe me, I know,” French muttered softly, almost under his breath. He scratched at his neck as the LUXR pulled off the A4. “Where do you want us to drop you off? We’re in Fullerton now.”
“Just put me at the transit center, I’ll catch a ride back.”
The LUXR pulled up to the shiny, brand-new Fullerton Tran
sit and Exchange Center and the door slid open for Gresham. The bodyguard, with a cold look, returned his gun as Gresham exited out onto the curb.
French leaned forward and extended his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Major. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you, Mr. Commissioner,” Gresham replied and shook French’s hand firmly. “I appreciate the offer. I’ll stay in touch?”
“Please do, Major Gresham. Have a good day!”
The LUXR sped away down the street, deeper into Fullerton, and Gresham stretched before heading to a large AI hub in the transit center.
He quickly plugged Vance’s address into the machine and waited a few seconds while it calculated a route to his apartment. As it turned out, the apartment was only fifteen blocks south of the transit center, next to a large shopping center overlooking the A4.
Gresham started walking south, taking in the sights of Fullerton, which he had frequented only once before in his time in Los Angeles. It was a boring, dull, middle-class suburban city, quiet and with a noted lack of visual stimulus or engagement. He ducked around a HUVR to cross the street in front of a generic, stucco five-story apartment complex with the shopping center to his back. Vance lived on the fourth floor, according to his address, in an apartment overlooking an identical building.
He rang the buzzer to the building and an AI voice replied, “Good afternoon. Please state name and purpose of visit.”
“Major John Gresham, here to see Jeffrey Vance,” Gresham said, already reaching into his pocket to pull out his viral card, a tool issued to MID officers in case they needed to override simple AI functions, such as cheap apartment security. While most advanced AI could resist viral cards, the apartments here in Fullerton didn’t look like they’d been upgraded in years. Gresham was thankful every day that his home in the Palisades had strong, safe security.
“Request granted. Please enter,” the AI replied and the door slid open. Gresham paused. Someone had to have confirmed him from Vance’s apartment to let him in the building.
Someone was in the apartment already.