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"And if we lose?"
"We can't lose."
Willover looked at him curiously. "Why not, sir?"
The President matched Sandecker's smile. "Because I'm dealing the hand, and I have the greatest confidence in our Special Operations Forces to kick slime like Kazim and Massarde into the bog where they belong. . ."
Several miles west of Washington, D.C., in the Maryland countryside, a large hill rises above the flat surrounding farmland. Passing motorists who take the time to notice the anomaly think of it as merely a geological trick of nature. Almost none know that it was secretly man-made from soil that was excavated for a command center and shelter for the capital city's politicians and military leaders in World. War II.
During the cold war, work never stopped, and the subterranean spread was enlarged into a vast storeroom for the nation's records and artifacts dating back to the first pioneers who settled the eastern coastline in the 1600s. The interior space is so expansive it is not measured in meters or acres but in square miles or kilometers. To those few who are aware of its existence it is known as ASD (Archival Safekeeping Depository).
Thousands of secrets are buried away in the seemingly unending archival storage bins of the depository. For some strange reason, known only to certain very few bureaucrats, entire sections of the depository hold classified material and objects that will never be revealed to the public. The bones of Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan and Japanese records of their execution on Saipan, the secret conspiracy files of both Kennedy assassinations, the intelligence of Soviet sabotage behind American space rocket and shuttle accidents and the retaliation at Chernobyl, staged films of the Apollo moon landing hoax, and much, much more-it was all filed and stored away, never to see the light of day.
Since St. Julien Perlmutter didn't drive, he took a cab to the small Maryland town of Forestville. After waiting on a bus stop bench for nearly half an hour, he was finally picked up by a Dodge van.
"Mr. Perlmutter," asked the driver, a go
vernment security agent wearing regulation mirrored sunglasses.
"I am him."
"Please get in."
Perlmutter did as he was told, thinking to himself that all this subterfuge was a childish game. "Don't you want to see my driver's license," he said acidly.
The driver, a dark brown-skinned African-American, shook his head. "No need. You're the only one in this town who fits the description."
"Do you have a name?"
"Ernie Nelson."
"What agency you with? National Security? Federal Bureau? Special Secrets?"
"I'm not at liberty to say," answered Nelson officially.
"Aren't you going to blindfold me?"
Nelson gave a quick shake of his head. "No need. Since your request to search through historical files was approved by the President, and you once held a Beta-Q clearance, I think you can be trusted not to reveal what you see today."
"If you had dug deeper into my file, you'd have seen that this is my fourth research trip to ASD."
The agent did not respond and remained silent for the rest of the trip. He turned o$' the main highway and drove down a paved road to a security gate, showed his credentials, and entered. They passed through two more guard stations before the road led into a small barn-like structure in the middle of a farm complete with pigs and chickens and wash hanging on a line. Once inside the barn they rolled down a wide concrete ramp that dropped deep underground. They finally arrived at a security station where the agent parked the car.
Perlmutter knew the routine. He exited the car and walked over to a waiting electric vehicle that looked similar to a golf cart. An archivist/curator wearing a white lab coat shook Perlmutter's hand.
"Frank Moore," he introduced himself. "Good to see you again."
"A pleasure, Frank. How long has it been?"
"Three years since you were last here. You were doing research on the Sakito Maru."
"The Japanese passenger-cargo ship that was sunk by the U.S. submarine Trout."
"As I recall, she was carrying German V-2 rockets to Japan."
"You have a good memory."
"I refreshed it while digging out the records of your previous visits," Moore admitted. "What can I do for you this trip?"
