Chapter 300

Arlene sat in the left seat of the scout with Ann in the right. A five light year jump wouldn't take the scout long. Stopping to check the pickets, spaced only a light minute apart across the solar system, slowed their progress, but it took only a couple of seconds for each stop as the picket downloaded its data to the scout. Arlene laughingly likened their many micro jumps to hiccupping their way across the system. Unfortunately, none of the pickets would have any chance of detecting the alien ship if it did not come straight in from its present location, but they had done what they could in case they lost contact with the aliens. Finally, though, they were almost finished checking the pickets.

Arlene slid a hand inside her pants, then a moment later, brought it back to smell her fingers. "Hmmm. Pussy and our husband's come. A great combination."

Ann grinned back. "Maybe so, but if we don't take a real shower soon, it's going to be rank in here."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Arlene agreed with a sigh. "But wouldn't it be great if Daddy could be here – just the three of us?"

Ann let out a soft chuckle. "And do you really think we would be able to walk when we got back home?"

"Wellll, maybe not," Arlene admitted with a smile, "but it surely would be fun until we got too sore." The tone of her voice changed. "Computer?"

"Yes, Commander?"

"We're coming up on our last picket. When we warp out of the system for our jump to the alien ship, make sure we drop out at least two light minutes behind its last known position, and be prepared for immediate warp if it should detect us."

"Affirmative, Ma'am."

Arlene extracted herself from the command seat. "Let's go take that shower. I'll bet we can both fit in there if we really get friendly."

As soon as Arlene was out of the way, Ann followed her sister-wife down the hallway, calling after her, "It'll be fun to try."

The Ship

Jeff, after congratulating him on a job well done in training his people, had dismissed Lieutenant Mayfield to resume his duties.

As Art walked in the door of the lounge, Jeff called out to him. "If you like, get yourself a cup of coffee or something to drink before you sit with us. And while you're at it, tell Ship to give you a carafe of coffee for the General and me, please. We're going to be here for a while."

Art changed direction to stop by the counter where he ordered coffee for himself and picked up a full carafe already waiting for him there. A moment later, he stood near the table facing the man he knew had to be the prisoner who had been captured in the construction area. His entire focus on the prisoner, he didn't think about pouring for Jeff and the General. Instead, he just set the carafe down near them, then stood sipping his coffee as he stared at the man, wondering why this guy would just walk up to the construction gate and surrender. He was about six feet tall, mid-forties, Art supposed, with brown, short-cropped hair, an average build, and wearing jeans and a tee shirt. There was very little distinctive about him other than his eyes, which seemed to project intelligence.

Jeff smiled as he said, "Agent Art Hanes, this is Ralph Nichols. From what he has told us, I guess you could say he is the 'get it done guy' for Mr. Moreau." Neither Art nor Nichols offered to shake hands. "Moreau is..." Jeff continued.

Art interrupted to say, "Oh, I know quite well who Moreau is, thanks to Hope." The young agent stood staring at Nichols for a few seconds more, then sat without saying anything. "Why?" he finally asked, his voice tight.

Nichols shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Do you suppose I could have some of that coffee now?" he asked, meekly, looking at Jeff.

"I'll handle it," Art said, getting up to get a cup for Nichols.

A couple moments later, Art returned to put the cup in front of Nichols, and after reseating himself, resumed staring at the man.

Jeff poured Nichols' coffee, then casually put the carafe outside his reach. "A face full of hot coffee would really piss me off," Jeff casually remarked as he too stared at the prisoner.

"I wouldn't do that," Nichols hastened to deny.

"Oh, you repeatedly tried to have me killed, yet you wouldn't toss a pot of boiling coffee in our faces now that you're caught?" Art snarled out.

Nichols tried to take a sip of his coffee, but it was obvious his trembling hand was going to spill it if he continued. He put the cup back down and looked toward Jeff, but the Colonel's eyes seem to stare right through him. Instead, Nichols turned to Art. "Mr. Hanes..."

"You tried to kill me over and over," Art ground out. "Had it not been for my wives in the hospital in Atlanta, your assassin would have succeeded ... And if not for Colonel Matthews here and his team, my wives and I, and all the agents in that house, would have died." Art clamped his mouth shut, wanting to choke Nichols instead of sitting there casually talking to him.

"And in addition," Jeff added, "one of the members of my team almost died in the action outside that house."

Nichols picked his cup back up using both hands, miraculously managing to take a sip without spilling any. "Mr..." His voice broke, and he cleared his throat to try again. "Mr. Hanes, I did what I was ordered to do. Oh, my life hasn't been an example of piety, but once I began working more closely with Mr. Moreau, there was no other choice. I had been planning to try to escape the compound when a casual acquaintance there apparently made a run for the wall during the night. The sniper was in the tower waiting for him with a .50 caliber. I heard the gun go off well after midnight. I never saw Carl again. Mr. Moreau bragged that he knew I was thinking about running. He eliminated any possibility of that with the explosive collar. He said that he would send an assassin for me if I got out of range or somehow managed to remove the collar. He wasn't joking. He never jokes. I didn't have any choice about the things I did."

"Bullshit!" Art snarled, slamming his cup down, sloshing coffee onto the table, not even noticing that the spill disappeared almost instantly. "There is always a choice." Then responding to his training, "You have the right..."

The General reached over to grip Art's shoulder for a couple of seconds, stopping him. "Waste of time. This can never go public, anyway, so there's no damn reason he has any rights. We're going to get all the information out of him we can, then try him. Besides, if we release him to your organization – considering all that has happened – I strongly suspect that the ... person who is responsible for putting that explosive necklace on him would have Mr. Nichols here killed before the FBI could provide a lawyer for him and conduct an in-depth interview."

Nichols was nodding his head. "Mr. Moreau has moles within the FBI, but he compartmentalizes most everything he does, so I have little knowledge of who, or where they are. But the General is right. Mr. Moreau will have me killed, if for no other reason than because I failed in my mission to kill you, Agent Hanes. He attaches no value to human life at all. Initially, the plan was for me to come here as an experienced teacher. I was told that the teacher I was to impersonate died in a fall on icy steps, but I strongly suspect Mr. Moreau caused that death to happen. When Principal Boswell didn't hire me, Moreau changed the plan so that I was to come here as a common laborer for the borer crew. Most probably Moreau again had someone killed to provide me with another identity.

"As soon as I arrived here, I knew his plan could not possibly work. But telling Mr. Moreau no is tantamount to suicide. I would have tried to kill you, Mr. Hanes, if I'd had the opportunity – at least I think I would have.

"Originally, I worked indirectly for Mr. Moreau in another of his locations. I've always been a pretty sharp guy, and I struggled my way to higher and higher positions until Mr. Moreau eventually noticed me. I was asked if I wanted to work more directly for him, and fueled by my greed, I gladly accepted. That turned out to be the worst decision of my life. At first, I was Graham's assistant, and he was Mr. Moreau's personal assistant. After a year, something happened; I never knew why, but suddenly Graham wasn't there anymore. I was offered his job. By that time, I had realized there was no turning back, because I had been involved in many things that were not legal, but still, I really didn't know how truly evil Moreau was. Unfortunately, I eventually found out.

"Moreau owns a vast amount of land in the middle of nowhere, and the main building is a giant structure centrally located on that acreage. The compound is composed of twenty acres surrounded by a decorative, but efficient rock wall. There are several structures inside the compound, chief of which is the central building that I just mentioned. It is composed of his personal living quarters and private offices. Numerous guards patrol the grounds and are assisted in their duties by highly sophisticated technology. After my promotion, as I said, it was too late to leave. Had it not been for my greed," he said in a self-deprecating manner, "I would never have risen high enough in his organization to even be noticed by him, let alone be transferred to his headquarters/home, much less have become his personal executive assistant."

"Where, exactly is this home, or compound, you are referring to?" the General wanted to know.

"It's just outside a really small town in Montana. Hell, he basically owns the town. It has a small hospital that he built with all the latest equipment in case he ever needs it, and he has feathered the nest of the city council until he owns them too. But they think he's just a rich and very generous, if eccentric, philanthropist who values his privacy. If you have a map, I'll show you where it is."

"Ship..." Jeff started, but before he could finish, a hologram so real that it appeared solid, popped up just to Nichols' right, positioned so the others could see it too.

"What the..." Nichols blurted out before he clamped his mouth shut. Most of his tremors were gone, but the hologram brought back the memory of the guards' unusual weapons, their odd helmets, the ramp to nowhere, then this thing, whatever it was, that he was sitting inside.

"It's a hologram," Jeff supplied. "Touch it with your finger and scroll the map just as you would with a pad. Even though it's a hologram, it will provide you with tactile sensation as if the map were real."

Tentatively, Nichols reached out and touched the map, then moved it to show the state of Montana. Using familiar gestures, he expanded the map until he centered it on a small town. "It's there," he said, pointing, "where that small road ends as it enters the compound." Nichols continued to zoom in until a large building appeared surrounded by a thick fence.

"How many people are there?" the General asked.

"I'm not certain. It varies. With the farm and ranch, plus the people who live in the main area, there have to be more than fifty – maybe quite a few more if you count the ones who live outside the compound in the supportive buildings during planting and harvest. I really have only a general idea."

"Shit!" Whitworth snarled. "Just like so many other bastards these days. They surround themselves with innocents to make it more difficult to arrest or take them out. If not for that, it would be simple to eliminate his ass. Out in the middle of nowhere like that, we could fake it to look like a meteor strike something like the one in Russia – only ours would hit the compound instead of exploding high up."

"Even his guards – other than the personal ones who travel with him – don't know the true Moreau," Nichols added.

"Shit," the General grumbled again.

"How can we believe what he says?" Art questioned as he stared at Nichols. "A man who has done the things he has done – ordered or not – certainly can't be trusted to tell us the truth, particularly about himself and his involvement."

"But I..." Nichols started when he was interrupted by the General.

"Oh, I have the means to make absolutely certain he is telling the truth. I've recorded everything he's said so far, and I'll turn it over to my people when they interview him. If he's been lying to us, he'll damn sure regret it then."

"I'm not lying," Nichols hastened to answer. "I'll tell you everything I did, and everything I know about Moreau's organization. But remember what I said about his compartmentalizing everything. Sometimes, the things I did didn't make a lot of sense to me, but I realized that they were part of a whole I wasn't privy to."