The Doomsday Conspiracy

He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The kitchen clock read 4:15. He hesitated a moment, then dialled a number. There were six rings, and finally he heard Admiral Whittaker’s voice at the other end of the line. “Hello.”

“Admiral …”

“Yes?”

“It’s Robert. I’m terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I just had a rather strange phone call from the National Security Agency.”

“NSA? What did they want?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been ordered to report to General Hilliard at 0600.”

There was a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps you’re being transferred there.”

“I can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Why would they …?”

“It’s obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don’t you give me a call after the meeting?”

“I will. Thank you.”

The connection was broken. I shouldn’t have bothered the old man, Robert thought. The Admiral had retired as head of Naval Intelligence two years earlier. Forced to retire, was more like it. The rumour was that, as a sop, the Navy had given him a little office somewhere and put him to work counting barnacles on the mothball fleet, or some such shit. The Admiral would have no idea about current intelligence activities. But he was Robert’s mentor. He was closer to Robert than anyone in the world, except, of course, Susan. And Robert had needed to talk to someone. With Susan gone, he felt as though he were living in a time warp. He fantasized that somewhere, in another dimension of time and space, he and Susan were still happily married, laughing and carefree and loving. Or maybe not, Robert thought, wearily. Maybe I just don’t know when to let go.

The coffee was ready. It tasted bitter. He wondered whether the beans came from Brazil.

He carried the coffee cup into the bathroom and studied his image in the mirror. He was looking at a man in his early forties, tall and lean and physically fit, with a craggy face, a strong chin, black hair and intelligent, probing dark eyes. There was a long, deep scar on his chest, a souvenir from the plane crash. But that was yesterday. That was Susan. This was today. Without Susan. He shaved and showered and walked over to his clothes closet. What do I wear, he wondered, Navy uniform or civilian clothes? And, on the other hand, who gives a damn? He put on a charcoal-grey suit, a white shirt and a grey silk tie. He knew very little about the National Security Agency, only that the “puzzle palace”, as it was nicknamed, superseded all other American intelligence agencies and was the most secretive of them all. What do they want with me? I’ll soon find out.

Chapter Two

The National Security Agency is hidden discreetly away on eighty-two rambling acres at Fort Meade, Maryland, in two buildings that together are twice the size of the CIA complex in Langley, Virginia. The Agency, created to give technical support to protect United States communications and acquire worldwide intelligence data, employs thousands of people, and so much information is generated by its operations that it shreds more than forty tons of documents every day.

It was still dark when Commander Robert Bellamy arrived at the first gate. He drove up to an eight-foot-high cyclone fence with a topping of barbed wire. There was a sentry booth there, manned by two armed guards. One of them stayed in the booth, watching, as the other approached the car. “Can I help you?”

“Commander Bellamy to see General Hilliard.”

“May I see your identification, Commander?”

Robert Bellamy pulled out his wallet and removed his 17th District Naval Intelligence ID card. The guard studied it carefully and returned it. “Thank you, Commander.”

He nodded to the guard in the booth and the gate swung open. The guard inside picked up a telephone. “Commander Bellamy is on his way.”

A minute later Robert Bellamy drove up to a closed, electrified gate.

An armed guard approached the car. “Commander Bellamy?”

“Yes.”

“May I see your identification, please?”

He started to protest and then he thought, What the hell? It’s their zoo. He took out his wallet again and showed his identification to the guard.

“Thank you, Commander.” The guard gave some invisible sign and the gate opened.

As Robert Bellamy drove ahead, he saw a third cyclone fence ahead of him. My God, he thought, I’m in the Land of Oz.

Another uniformed guard walked up to the car. As Robert Bellamy reached for his wallet the guard looked at the licence plate and said, “Please drive straight ahead to the administration building, Commander. There will be someone there to meet you.”

“Thank you.”

The gate swung open and Robert followed the driveway up to an enormous white building. A man in civilian clothes was standing outside, waiting, shivering in the chill October air. “You can leave your car right there, Commander,” he called out. “We’ll take care of it.”

Robert Bellamy left the keys in his car and stepped out. The man greeting him appeared to be in his thirties, tall, thin and sallow. He looked as though he had not seen the sun in years.

“I’m Harrison Keller. I’ll escort you to General Hilliard’s office.”

They walked into a large high-ceilinged entrance hall. A man in civilian clothes was seated behind a desk. “Commander Bellamy …”

Robert Bellamy swung around. He heard the click of a camera.

“Thank you, sir.”

Robert Bellamy turned to Keller. “What …?”

“This will take only a minute,” Harrison Keller assured him.

Sixty seconds later, Robert Bellamy was handed a blue and white identification badge with his photograph on it.