A/N: sorry, just a few more little detours before the good stuff starts happening, (don't quote me on the "few", that could mean two or twenty.)
Legacy: chapter 13
The early morning cloud cover over Washington D.C. slowly dissipated, revealing the promise of a beautiful day in the nations capital. The dank, dark office of Thomas James Richards in the bowels of the National Security Agency's Washington headquarters invited no sign of nature's beauty however. He sat alone behind a small metal and particleboard desk with the rooms' only illumination, a desk lamp, to his right, and a phone stuck in his ear.
On the other end of the line, Keith Sheppard relayed an urgent message for the director over his secure cell link. Mr. Richards dutifully copied the message onto a standard form.
"That is all." Keith said, then promptly hung up, as usual.
Mr. Richards laid the handset of his desk phone back in the cradle and stared at the words he had just written. The level of Keith Sheppard's manic cruelty had grown far greater than that of any man he had ever worked under before.
He had been privy to a lot of evil, disgusting things in his day, but what Keith was planning was beyond words.
He had to read it again, to make sure he had really just written it.
Further surveillance of the three secondary targets has shown them to be of great tactical advantage. The primary target will be easily trapped. I wait for instructions regarding the primary target's body. Once the required tissues have been extracted is the body to be discarded with the others, or preserved for future analysis? End.
He let the paper fall back to the desk and sank back into his chair as the full meaning of the words sank into his mind. He had been around this organization long enough to know exactly what Keith had planned. Mr. Richards let out a trembling sigh.
The picture of his grandchildren caught his attention, he picked it up.
Brandon, fifteen, Connie, ten, and Cecei, seven, with their mother, his daughter, Rebecca.
Keith's ominous comment ran through his head: Many… things can happen to
children. Don't you agree?
"Yes," Mr. Richard's spoke to himself, his voice a low, almost inaudible rumble,
"Many things…"
He returned the picture to its spot right beneath the lamp and opened the top drawer on his left. There, on top of the various papers lay a small metal hip flask and a .38 revolver. His hand hovered indecisively between the gun and flask for a moment, then he grabbed the flask, unscrewed the cap and took a long drink.
"Many things…" he mumbled again, took another drink.
Many things were indeed running through Mr. Richard's mind. His whole life was wasted. A brilliant young mathematician, Mr. Richards had joined the NSA as a code breaker in '69 at the age of 24. Shortly after which he stumbled onto a top-secret program. Rather then kill such a brilliant mind, the director at the time had assigned him to the project as a cryptographer. And there he remained, to be the punch toy for every evil bastard in the division up to and including Keith Sheppard.
Mr. Richards was tired of it.
He was 61 years old, a useless lump of an old man. The prized analytical abilities that had brought him so much joy and success were wasting away. He could feel it. Life was draining from his body with each passing day. He was stagnating in the 'project'. For so many years he has just been an errand boy, not putting any of his talents to good use. And like any fine instrument loses its tuning over time, he too was losing his gift.
Mr. Richards knew what he had to do. He had known for a long time. It was only recently that it had become a major issue. It was still an uncertainty, however. No probabilities or statistics could tell him how to act; no graph could predict the out come of the decision. But it had to be made.
This all has to stop somewhere. What better place then here, and now?
With new determination he picked up Keith's urgent message, studied it briefly for one last time. Then pulled the cigarette lighter from his pocket and lit the paper, dropped in the trash can.
The small flames danced in his eyes as he watched the paper curl up into black ash. There was still time to stop, he could rewrite the message, deliver it to the director like the good little messenger boy. But where would that leave him? Here to rot for the rest of his life?
No! The decision had been made. It was too late.
He could take his family and move somewhere far away. Somewhere Keith couldn't find them.
Mr. Richards pushed the still smoking trashcan under his desk and pulled a piece of stationary from his top drawer. He started writing:
Dear Director Critchwell,
It is with deep regret and sadness that I must submit this letter as official announcement of my resignation, effective immediately.
Signed, Thomas James Richards.
Cryptographer
He then folded the paper neatly, sat it on the desk, and took another long drink from the flask. He was going to need it for what he was about to do.
Mr. Richards took what few personal items he had and stuck them in his pockets and small brief case. There was one cigar in the bottom of one drawer. He bit the end off and lit it. The strict anti-smoking rules had kept him from enjoying long ago, but not today!
All the remaining papers were unceremoniously dumped from the drawers into a pile under the desk, which he then lit.
Making his way out the door, Mr. Richards turned one last time to see his cramped little office. A place he hated more then anywhere else on earth. He then closed the door and locked it.
"You can't smoke in the building sir." One of the secretaries said as Mr. Richards made his way toward the elevator. He stopped, bent over and blew a long puff of smoke in the woman's face, handed her the folded letter as she choked.
"Give this to the director." He said, then continued toward the elevator with everyone in the room watching him curiously.
The elevator made it to the ground floor just as the fire alarm sounded. Mr. Richards blew past the distracted security guards and out the front door. Then, for the first time in 38 years, Thomas J. Richards laughed.