UNIC Designation: Pheonix
Quantum: 4
Westchester Manor, 20 miles south of Norfolk, Virginia. April 24th 1966. (Local World Time – 27 Years behind Homeline)
Director Mortimer pulled his Mercedes Benz to a halt on the gravel driveway outside the huge eighteenth century manor house.
As he climbed from the car he ran his fingers through his greying hair and straightened his tie.
Locking the expensive German car, something he’d fallen in love with on a vacation to Europe five years ago, he walked briskly up the front steps and in through the large wooden doors that opened as he approached.
There were two men inside, one in the uniform of security, the other in a black suit, not unlike Mortimer’s.
The Director stood still upon entering the house and awaiting the nod from the suited man.
Once done, the man having scanned his mind and finding it to be the one that matched his body, the Director headed for an elevator in the opposite wall.
E keyed floor twelve and the box dropped steadily until he emerged over one hundred and fifty feet below the ground.
Then his journey took him through numerous corridors and several more check-points until he entered a room that resembled a cross between a military command centre and the bridge of some sci-fi spaceship.
Special Agent Thompson dressed in his shirt-sleeves was awaiting him.
“So, what’s dragged me in early today, Mark?” the Director asked as he made his way to the ‘goldfish bowl’ office at the back of the room.
“Sir, we had Maloney, Cox and Litzenberger on Gestalt Over-watch yesterday, experimenting with the psi-detection satellite we launched six weeks ago.”
“The satellite’s working?”
“Eh, yes sir. Everything appears to be working well, but the satellite’s not the issue…”
Mortimer eased himself into his high-backed chair and breathed a sigh of relief. He had been helping his eldest son move into his room at university over the weekend and had strained his back lifting a box packed with god knows what?
“Explain,” he prompted.
“Sir, at 12:36 hrs yesterday they formed the gestalt connection and began running mock checks on a local level. We had Agent Cobecht incinerating trash!” Thompson’s nerdish chuckle received a stony reception; obviously the Director wasn’t in the mood today!
“Right,” Mark Thompson continued. “At 13:07 hrs EST, the gestalt detected a psi-pulse coming from the southern end of the United States, Florida to be exact, probably Miami.”
Mortimer straightened in his chair and swivelled around to look at the huge map of the US on his back wall.
“The southern end of Florida? That’s some distance. So the satellite works well!”
Jack Mortimer saw the look on Thompson’s face and sighed. “Okay, what’s the but?”
“Sir, we hadn’t engaged the satellite link. The gestalt picked the pulse up on their own.”
“Jesus! Those three work well together. Perhaps we could have saved a quarter of a million dollars on the satellite!”
“Jack, I don’t think you are seeing the picture right. It’s not our guys suddenly improving, they detected this pulse because it was a damned powerful one.”
“How powerful?” Mortimer asked before Thompson was able to say more.
“Sir, our third-edition psi-scale ranges one to twenty. This came in on a sixteen!”
“Sixteen? Sweet Jesus,” Mortimer cursed suddenly realising the magnitude of this news. “Who do we have down there?”
“I checked. We’ve got an observation team in Jacksonville, a telepath an Esper, and a healer. None of them have ever rated over eight on their annual assessments. I also rang them last night – all in Jacksonville still.”
“We’ve no one in Miami?”
“No, sir.”
“Shit! Commies?”
“Not sure, but it has to be, doesn’t it?”
Mortimer nodded silently turning to his desk and scribbling a note down.
“Get the Obs-Team over to Miami right away, flash CIA creds if necessary. I want them looking into police and newspaper reports. Anything they think looks odd, they report it in. Who’s our best detection man?”
“Maloney.”
“No, I want him on the gestalt team.”
“Best alternative has to Pearson.”
“Get him on a plane to Miami and link up with the Observation team.”
Thompson nodded and left the glass-walled office.
Damned commies! Mortimer cursed as he turned to the coffee percolator.