Disclaimer:
I do not own any of the series used in the production of this fanfiction. I would list the things that I do not own, but I would prefer to keep the number of spoilers down if at all possible. Suffice it to say that not all of the materials used will be actual full crossovers, but you will likely recognize materials and concepts from a varied grouping of science fiction sources.
Author's Note:
I could have kept on going with this chapter, but I realized that I had already hit around 10k words when I reached a possible stopping point. One of the difficulties I am still adjusting to is that I have a rough outline of all of the scenes from start to finish of this story planned out, but I will never be quite sure how long each scene will end up being once I get it put down into actual prose. For the most part I will allow content to chose the length of each chapter, as I want to choose a logical stopping point for each one, but common sense must also win out over sheer length of each chapter.
With that said, the ultimate goal is to get the entire Book written down so that when we get to future Books in the series, those who have started the journey from the beginning will understand what makes this universe different from Canon.
Magnum Opus
Book One: Exodus
Chapter 2
Undisclosed Location - Tuesday, Nov 4, 2025 - Morning
Dressed today in a rather sharp black three piece suit, with his jacket hanging upon a wooden coat rack near the door, Rafe Holmes was currently relaxing in his wood paneled office. His sock-covered feet were resting upon his ottoman, warmed by the low fire that glowed in his fireplace, burned half down to embers. Light from the wall mounted gas lamps revealed a troubled wrinkle on his brow as he stared at the monitor of his jarringly modern laptop, the single technological device all the indication that he was anything more than a Victorian gentleman at rest.
Handel's Sarabande was playing on a wood and brass, hand-cranked phonograph that sat upon his unused desk at the far end of the windowless room. The classic melody filled the room with life, string instruments and the tinny sound of a harpsichord occasionally backed by the deep resounding voice of drums.
Absentmindedly noticing that the sound quality was not as nice as it had been when he had last enjoyed this particular record, the Director of National Intelligence made a mental note that he would have to have another copy made and sent to his office. He had found when he was in college that this particular melody helped crystallize his thought process, when he had listened to a friend's copy while studying in Cambridge.
While his position was traditionally more of an organizational role, that of overseeing the sixteen different branches of the Intelligence community, Holmes had always taken a more hands on approach to his job. Although he had often been likened to a certain character in a series of old detective novels, which he withstood with a small ounce of chagrin, he considered his own personal observational skills somewhat lacking in a field position. His own strengths lied in sifting through mountains of data, and almost instinctively finding patterns that would elude those around him.
Most of his days were spend in his deliberately archaic surroundings, busy sifting through bits and pieces of information gathered by the numerous intelligence organizations that reported to him, searching for these patterns. It had been under his watchful gaze that it was first realized that those individuals who received the Prolong treatment had been aging at a slower rate, as he compared the case of hospitalizations and obituaries with different medical conditions and prescribed treatments.
Hands stilling upon his laptop keyboard, Holmes realized that he had just spotted another potential pattern to the multitude of reports he had been going over this morning.
Numerous facts had slipped to the news networks and media, many of which had been intended to remain restricted information, regarding the current space launch missions operating out of Kennedy Space Center. Even though only a small amount of information had been leaked, his mind noted that numerous suppliers and technology firms had altered their manufacturing or prices a step ahead of the official reports. This had driven up the operational costs of the space program by a measurable amount. Though the overall financial impact was not enough to impede the nation's efforts, it was troublesome that some of the market's reactions were stemming from facts that could only be attained if one had inside resources with access to classified information.
Holmes created a mental list of those individuals within the Kennedy Space Center that would have access to at least a significant portion of the information needed to cause this effect. He was able to immediately dismiss the head of the project, Major General Stan Lee, as well as several of the top project scientists and team leads, as they had access to information that could have easily caused a much greater effect than he was observing.
Slowly removing potential names from the list as the morning dragged on, hands working furiously at the laptop to bring up files on the different potentials, he was eventually able to narrow down his list of suspects to a very small group of individuals. Fortunately, this process was helped along by the fact that certain things had been leaked directly to the media outlets that, due to the subject matter in question, required a high level of familiarity to adequately pass along. These last few observances allowed Holmes to narrow the list down to one, final suspect.
Air Force Captain Philip Howell was currently flagged as the ARES 2 Lunar Lander pilot for the upcoming Moon Landing mission, where they would be officially placing the first habitat for the Armstrong Moon Base. Unofficially, the mission would be to also scout out the remains of the recently discovered alien shipwreck. Hopefully this mission would return materials and information that would allow humanity to unlock the secrets held within the shipwreck on how the object was altering gravity, and how it had arrived to their little corner of the galaxy from abroad, travelling between the stars.
Luckily, the ARES II crew had yet to be briefed on this particular aspect of the Constellation I mission, thus protecting this information from whatever individual or organization Captain Howell had been feeding classified information to over the last several months. Holmes could well imagine the disaster that would have befallen the nation if he had not noticed this problem in time to prevent utter disaster.
Gently placing his laptop upon the dark oak end table that set beside his overstuffed leather wing back chair, the Director swung his feet down from there they had been resting on his ottoman. Standing smoothly from where he had been sitting, he made his way to the back of his office, socks whispering on thick carpet as he crossed the room with a few long legged strides.
When he reached his desk, Holmes gently reached forwards and lifted the phonograph needle from the record, the absence of music making the crackle of his low fire fill the room. Moving the tone arm inwards until the turntable stopped with a mechanical click, he turned off the phonograph, and swung the arm back to the outer edge and rested it upon its cradle.
Upon his desk, next to the phonograph, sat an unusual phone made of wood, brass, and porcelain. An old style handset sat upon a saddle mount on top of the phone, a dark wooden handle bracketed on either side with brass hardware leading to porcelain cones for the speaker and microphone. The base itself held no buttons, nor even a rotary dialer. Instead, an operative in the outer office that lay beyond his heavy wooden door picked up on the other end of the line when he brought the handset up to his ear.
"Good morning, Nigel," Holmes greeted the man on the other end of the line.
"Good morning, sir," Nigel responded. "What can I do to assist you today?"
"If you would be so kind, I would like for you to get Anastasia Kemon on the phone for me, please," Holmes replied, asking for the head of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.
"Of course, sir."
Lunar Outlook AFB, Administration - Wednesday, Nov 5, 2025 - Mid Day
Rhythmic thumping broke into the silence of Colonel Tanner's office as the sound of an Osprey flying over the base broke through the sound suppressing double-paned windows of his office. Looking over at the two narrow windows that cut through the thick concrete outer wall of the Administration building like the arrow slits on a medieval castle, the Colonel looked at the bright blue sky that was barely visible from the angle of his office chair.
Although intellectually he knew that it wasn't likely for him to be able to spot the plane from where he was sitting, his eyes were glued to those narrow lines of blue light. Eventually the sound of the passing plane faded into the distance as it headed towards the landing field at the far end of the base, allowing his attention to return back to the report sitting on his desk.
Ever since they had discovered the crashed spaceship on the Moon three days ago the base had been placed on lockdown. Nobody was allowed to enter or leave the base, and all contact with the outside world was restricted until the lockdown was lifted. According the report from Command Chief Master Sergeant Koertig-the man who reported to the Base Commander on the status of the enlisted members-there was already some tension about not having contact with the outside world.
Tanner could understand the men's irritation, as the main complaint was that only the scientists and the officers who worked directly in the Command Center had any clue as to what was going on. Still, that didn't change the fact that orders had come down from the top to keep a lid on things, which was an order that the Colonel agreed with completely.
Most everyone on base knew that the officers and scientists who worked at the Command Center had suddenly been called in on a Sunday evening like a fire had been lit beneath them. When you added the presence of Colonel Tanner and Doctor Hamlin driving at high speed away from the Recreational building together at the same time as all this was happening, it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to know that something major had happened. Next, the logical step would be that they had found something with that very expensive, very new probe they had recently launched.
Due to the regularly low levels of interaction, the secluded desert base normally had with the outside world, it was deemed less conspicuous for them to shut down all non-critical communications until a formal response was formed. This meant that, unless the situation was resolved within the next few weeks, a large number of people would be staying on base for Thanksgiving, despite their pre-approved leave.
If he had known that commanding the 101st Space wing at the Lunar Outlook Air Force Base would have been so similar to herding cats, he might not have accepted the promotion. Of course, that would mean that somebody less qualified for the position might have gotten the job instead, and the work they were doing here had suddenly become a whole lot more important since last Sunday.
Finishing the report, the Colonel closed its folder and placed it in the out box on top of the rest of the folders he had already completed that morning.
Picking up the final folder that was still sitting in his in box, he noticed that it was a logistics report from Doctor Hamlin. All of the final tests had been completed in the first Armstrong Habitat, which was going to be used in the Constellation I mission in a week and a half. With all of the tests done, and the unit packed up and prepared for use, the next step was to get it shipped to the other side of the nation so that it could be added to the nose of the ARES V cargo rocket in final preparation for the mission.
Placing the final needed signature on the shipping request, he closed its folder and dropped it ceremoniously and placed it on top of the report from Command Chief Master Sergeant Koertig. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and brought the palms of his hands up to rub against them to try to drive away the ache that was developing behind them.
A conscious effort was made by the base commander not to take his hands away from his face when he heard the habitual triple-knock of his executive assistant upon his office door. Moments later, the other man entered the room, footsteps soft on the carpeted floor of Tanner's office. With a rustle of paper and cloth, the welcome sound of his finished paperwork being removed from his outbox was music to his ears. Moments later, it was followed by the ceramic clunk of a mug landing on his desk, the smell of the base equivalent of coffee hitting his senses like a Mack truck going eighty.
Opening his eyes and reaching for the coffee cup placed before him, Tanner nodded his thanks to his executive assistant, Major Trujillo. The clean cut officer stood at attention two steps away from the Colonel's desk, the stack of completed paperwork held tight against his side in his left arm. Eyes noticing a brilliant white envelope in his in box, he took a sip of his coffee, mentally swearing once more that the Supply Chief had mixed the labels up of coffee with the industrial cleaners. Leaning back in his chair, he eyed the younger man with a thousand yard stare.
"Do my eyes deceive me, or is there a new file in my in box, Major?" Colonel Tanner asked in a deceptively calm tone.
"Just came in on a courier plane, sir," the olive skinned officer replied. "Your eyes only, and direct from the top if I had to hazard a guess. That courier plane definitely wasn't on the schedule, but all of their codes checked out to allow them on base, even with the lockdown. Their plane is still idling over at the landing field, taking on more fuel, awaiting a response of some kind."
"The hell, you say," Tanner muttered, looking at the sealed envelope like it was a deadly viper waiting to bite him. "Well, I had best take a look then."
Keeping his warm coffee cup in his left hand, he reached the other out and picked up the sealed envelope from the short wooden tray at the edge of his desk. His eyes passed over the bright red, unbroken seal that ran along one edge of the envelope, indicating that its contents had not been revealed since the original sender had placed them within.
Bold red letters spelled the words 'Eyes Only' on both the front and the back of the envelope, and the only other markings to be seen were both his name, rank, and location as the recipient. It had been curious to him that a plane had landed at the air base without rousing the anti air defenses while they were on lockdown, but more curious still was why the informational quarantine was risked for this rather small package.
Gently placing his half-empty cup to the side, he tore the seal tape off, the bright red strip changing to an alternating red and white chevron pattern as the dyes in the tape reacted to the air. Discarding the ruined seal tape into his waste bin, he pulled out the triple-folded piece of paper that was so important as to require hand delivery, and unfolded it so that it lay flat upon the surface of his desk.
Sitting before him were a set of moving orders for one of the more promising young men in his command. First Lieutenant Simon Riggs was being ordered to immediate reassignment to the 45th Space Wing, operating out of Kennedy Space Center. More specifically, he was being assigned to the ARES II rocket, which was scheduled to launch on the Saturday after next, with an ultimate destination of the Moon.
Ever since being assigned to the Lunar Outlook AFB, Riggs had been working underneath Doctor Hamlin as a tester for the tools and equipment planned for use in the Constellation missions. Originally taking this at face value as the Doctor wanting more than just civilian technicians and scientists working on things that men's lives would rely upon nearly a quarter million miles away from the closest assistance, the Colonel was now wo0ndering if the Doctor had planned something like this from the very beginning. Nevertheless, it did not take much of an imagination to understand that all of the skills and experience that Riggs had picked up on this project were exactly what he would need when he went into space.
Thinking back to when he was that age, Tanner's eyes wandered over to his bookshelf, locking on to a framed picture sitting upon one of the shelves.
He was much younger in the picture, dressed in an olive green flight suit with his helmet dangling from his hand at his left side. Looming behind him, larger than life, was his old Fairchild Republic, A-10 Thunderbird II, still covered in the dust and debris of midair combat. Unlike other Warthogs that had shark's mouths or tusks painted on the nose, his sported an impressive rack of giant deer antlers woven throughout with ivy. Written in neat cursive on the plane, directly above his head in this picture, the call sign 'Huntsman' was written in near cursive.
Sitting next to the picture was the same flight helmet, painted dark green, with gold-leaf lettering spelling out his call sign in two wide stripes running front to back. On the other side stood one of the giant 23mm rounds used in the A-10's GAU-8/A Avenger Vulcan cannon.
That had been a day to remember, as he had finally downed his fifth plane, becoming an Ace. He had been young, immortal, and his knees didn't have that familiar ache he now felt whenever it rained.
Many people underestimated the A-10 in the role of a dogfighter, as it lacked the speed and agility that most of the high-end fighter jets had come to rely on. Woe to those who forgot that, when you fly in front of its nose, you also fly in front of the largest flying rotary cannon in the world. When that flight had been over, he felt that he had earned that title, and he was proud of it still.
Chuckling to himself, he looked back down to the orders, then up to the still waiting Major. So spit and polish that he could have stepped out of a recruitment poster, he was still standing at ruler-straight attention, reminding the Colonel why he had chosen the other man to be his assistant. There was no doubt in his mind that the base would have fallen apart if he didn't have this man around, as well as others such as Command Chief Master Sergeant Koertig, to ride herd.
"Well now, it appears that we need to call First Lieutenant Simon Riggs into my office, Major," Tanner told his Executive Assistant in an officious voice. "Apparently, he's about to become someone else's problem for a while."
"Yes, Sir," Trujillo nodded, eyes level. "Shall I send the MPs for him, or call him to your office over the PA, Sir?"
"No, no," the base commander shook his head. "He isn't in any kind of trouble, no need for the MPs. Using the PA system would be a bit overmuch as well... If I recall his schedule correctly, he should be over at the Lunar Simulation building at this time of day. Give a call to Doctor Hamlin to pass on the message we want Riggs to report here as soon as possible. Hopefully we can catch him before he leaves for his lunch break."
"Of course, Sir," the Major saluted, quickly leaving the office once he was dismissed to carry out his orders.
Picking up his cup, Tanner took another large drink of the bitter brew, unable to fight off the grimace that ran across his face at the taste. Even though it might be able to cleanse engine parts, one could not argue with the welcome effects the caffeine had to the desk bound pilot, allowing him to do his job without falling asleep at the stick.
"Well, this ought to be interesting," he muttered to himself, looking down at the orders.
Lunar Outlook AFB, Lunar Simulation - Wednesday, Nov 5, 2025 - Mid Day
Bright light reflected off the pale dusty gray ground, the small rocks and boulders casting harsh shadows creating a confusing mass of light and darkness that threw the senses. Thankful of the gold-tinted visor that covered the top half of his domed helmet, First Lieutenant Simon Riggs fought to maintain his equilibrium in his confusing surroundings. Scalp itching, and sweat beading his forehead, he suffered beneath the intense heat produced by the electric lamps currently simulating the light of the Sun. Pressurized air flowed from the climate control system built into the back of his space suit, working valiantly to keep him cool as he maneuvered around on the fake lunar surface.
His suit could not maintain its proper shape without the air pressure given by the suit's air system, but it also had the effect of making it difficult to bend his arms and legs within the confines of the sturdy material. Worst of all were the gloves, which were formed with a half-closed shape, and capped at the ends with blunt armored tips. It took great effort to flex the fingers due to the resistance, and prolonged use wore out his forearms, the muscles and tendons aching from overuse.
Making sure to be careful with each movement, he shifted the weight of the anchor gun in his gloved hands. Designed to drive anchor spikes into the surface of the Moon, the tool looked like the bastard child of a jackhammer and a bazooka. Airless explosives were used to simultaneously drive anchor spikes into the ground, while at the same time sending an equal yet opposite blast from the nozzles opposite the barrel. This kept it's operator from flying off the surface of the Moon in it's one sixth of Earth's gravity.
Having worked with, or more honestly survived, the anchor gun in many of its previous iterations, Riggs had to admit to himself that this model was so far the best he had handled. Through great trial and error, they had worked through such problems as the ergonomics of man-handling the awkward tool while enclosed in a space suit. By this point, this anchor gun had been tested thoroughly both in atmosphere, as well as in a vacuum, thanks to a large vacuum chamber built into the side of the building.
He shifted the unwieldy device into position with a grunt of effort as he prepared himself for the final test firings before the anchor gun was packed up and shipped off to NASA Headquarters over at Kennedy Space Center. One of the more recent additions was a small, sub-surface scanner that tested for mineral density, showing the results on a small built in display. Squeezing the left hand trigger with his gloved hand, he activated the scanner, a ghostly green glow lighting up on the durable monitor revealing the faint outlines of several large rocks, as well as the darker background of loose dirt.
Taking a deep steadying breath, and slowly releasing it, he gently pulled on the right hand trigger. With a loud coughing sound, a titanium alloy spike was fired into the ground, a small explosion of dust and dirt floating in the air in the bright light in the aftermath. Only the equal force of the exhaust port on the other side of the anchor gun kept Riggs from being shoved onto his back from the recoil. Thanking the engineers who had fixed the timing issue with the recoil, he eased his right hand off the trigger and waited for the debris to settle back down.
Due to the durable construction of the suit, as well as the constant flow of air blowing past his face, Riggs had to rely mainly upon his eyes to keep track of his environment. Everything had been done to create the highest level of realism for the Lunar Simulation room, short of pumping all of the air out to create a vacuum. More often than not, they also had him hooked up to a weight harness to simulate the one sixth gravity of the moon. They had forgone that added dimension for this test, as the straps had a tendency to get in the way of the anchor gun itself.
Suddenly a shadow crossed the dusty gray ground in front of him, causing the young man to look up from where he had been visually inspecting his handiwork.
Standing not ten feet away was Doctor Hamlin, wearing a white lab coat and a pair of black hip waders, fine gray dust covering him from the knee down. Standing just a hair beneath six feet, the doctor was only shorter than Riggs was at the moment due to the added height of the space suit the younger man was encased in. Hamlin's stooped shoulders belied an energetic strength that was deceptive for a man of his age, and his aged hands showed the signs of hard work and constant use.
Watching in amusement as the Doctor's mouth moved unheard, muffled by the suit's material and drowned out by the sound of rushing air, Riggs finally took pity on the excited older man. Taking his right hand off of the trigger guard for the anchor gun, he raised it up to his helmet and tapped the side next to his ear, reminding the Doctor that he couldn't hear through it.
With a chagrined look on his bearded face, the doctor reached down and pulled a small hand radio from a front pocket in his lab coat, and held it up to his face.
"There' that's much better, right?" Hamlin joked, his voice sounding from the helmet speakers. "Can you hear me now?"
"Loud and clear, Doctor," Riggs replied into his voice activated throat microphone.
"Good," Hamlin nodded. "We're done with testing for now. Apparently these people would like something called 'lunch', and want time away from the lab so they can have it."
"Well, not all of us can survive off of science alone," Riggs replied to the joke.
Nonsense, they just are not trying hard enough," the Doctor shook his head. "Be that as it may, I just got a call ordering you to report to the Colonel over at the Administration building as soon as possible."
"Yes, Sir," Riggs nodded. "I had better get out of this suit, then."
"Indeed. It would not do to report to the base commander out of uniform, after all," Hamlin said, chuckling.
Flipping the power switch off to fully deactivate the anchor gun, the space suited man stepped back from where he had driven the last spike into the ground. A nearby crane lowered a steel cable with a small hook at the end as a lab coated technician walked out of the nearby observation room to hook the cable onto the anchor.
This was all part of the ritual, as a scale attached to the crane gave a reading on how much force was required to remove the anchor spike from the simulated lunar surface. They had a fair idea of the minimum amount of strength that would be required to keep the Armstrong Habitat anchored to the Moon's surface. With that in mind, they wanted to be sure that they left a large margin of error to best ensure the astronaut's safety.
Following the technician back to the observation room, Riggs hefted the anchoring gun on his shoulder like a rifle. He made special care not to point the business end at anything that shouldn't have a metal spike driven through it.
Like the technician, for example.
Once they entered the observation room, another technician that had been standing by took the anchor gun off his hands, carrying it through a door and off into another part of the building. He knew that they would be testing all of the parts for wear and tear, so that they could be sure of what parts on the deceptively simple device might need redesigning again, or just have spares made to send with.
Against one of the walls was a metal hatch with a large wheel lock in the middle, replicating the outside airlock door that would be used on the real Habitat. Twisting the wheel with his gloved hands, he opened the door to the air lock and shuffled in, easily fitting through even with the added bulk of his space suit. Turning around inside the small room, he reached out and pulled a mechanical lever that eased the hatch closed from the inside, then spun the wheel again to seal it.
Magnetic filters on the far wall immediately began to attract the imitation Moon dust that clung to his suit, gathered during his recent walk through the Simulation room. Shuffling over to a strange panel on the wall, he turned his body around until he could maneuver the hard, hunch backed shell pack on his space suit into the matching recess.
Once the suit was properly in place, a slight tingle ran across his body as a de-ionizing burst ran from top to bottom of the pack, along with several small bursts of directed air. This final step was to remove any excess Moon dust from the pack before it could contaminate the area beyond.
Due to its fine grain, and tendency to become ionized in the surface conditions on the Moon, the lunar dust was not only a health hazard, but also potentially damaging to electronics and life control systems. Every precaution was taken to ensure that none of this abrasive, dust like material entered the living quarters that would be the Astronaut's only bastion of safety.
Once the automated system was sure that there was no remaining lunar dust on the back of the suit, a green all-clear signal lit up on the interior of his helmet, reflecting off the inside of the visor. Reaching his gloved hand down to a durable lever on his left hand side, Riggs pulled it up in a practiced motion. With a rush of air as the higher internal pressure of the suit equalized with the room behind him, the hard shell back of the suit opened up and swung outwards as part of the final door.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the sensation of having his ears pop, he carefully leaned back out of the suit, removing his arms from the stiff sleeves. His hands then grabbed the grip bar mounted around the small secondary hatch, allowing him to pull his legs out of the suit and pull the rest of his body on to the padded floor.
Rolling over on the soft surface, Riggs pushed himself up on to his feet, feeling amazingly light after shuffling around in the space suit for the last few hours. Since he had not been hooked up into the light weight simulation harness, he had been forced to lug the heavy weight around unassisted. This was made more difficult by the fact that he had to remain aware of his altered center of gravity at all times while wearing the suit.
Once out of the suit, Riggs was left wearing a synthetic fiber jumpsuit designed to keep the space suit from rubbing his body raw as he moved around in it. Shimmering light blue cloth clung to his frame like he had stepped out of an old science fiction movie as he reached his now bare hands up to the zipper that ran from the neckline down to his waist.
Beneath the jumpsuit he was wearing what the people at NASA called a 'Maximum Absorption Garment', which was fancy science talk for an astronaut diaper. In case an astronaut needed to answer the call of nature while fully suited, they would not have the time or even opportunity to remove the suit and go to the bathroom in any amount of time that would matter.
Luckily, in this case, the only thing it was holding other than his butt, was the sweat that had tricked down his spine from the heat and exertion of working in the Simulation.
With the jumpsuit removed and placed within a small laundry hamper, he next removed the MAG and placed it in a biological disposal chute for the system to recycle. Hopping on one foot, and then the other, he removed his socks to follow the path of the jumpsuit. Next he made his way over to the corner of the room where a small shower stood in an alcove, closing the foggy windowed door behind himself as he entered.
Of all the 'innovations' for the Habitat, the shower was one of the things that still tended to freak him out the most. Originally designed with a solid opaque door, and sporting a single light right above your head, all of the testers had decided that the sensation was too close to that of closing yourself in a coffin.
When Stevenson has visited the mock-up to test a portable EM-Dar unit, she had suggested a lightweight plastic window upon seeing the shower. The first time he had showered with the new door installed, he had to restrain the urge to immediately go to his petite friend and kiss her, no matter who was watching.
It was a close call on that one, though.
Hitting a green-lit button on the wall opposite the door, the sandy-haired young man started the pre- programmed shower sequence. Water just above lukewarm temperature sprayed from numerous nozzles placed along the walls of the automated shower, causing him to close his eyes as the directional blasts started from the top of his head and worked their way down. In moments the sweat from his body was thoroughly rinsed off, and he had an even coating of water, preparing him for the next step in the sequence.
Next came the soap, mixed together with another series of timed water blasts. Ph balanced, super concentrated, and bio-degradable, the soap was designed for maximum cleaning power and overall utility. With the right mixture with the water, a small measure of this soap went a long way in covering him from head to toe in a short amount of time.
Once the shower had completed the pass down his body with the soap, the button turned from green to amber as the program paused. Expecting this, he quickly lathered himself with the soap, making sure to keep his eyes closed even though the soap was designed to be safe for them. He had made that mistake once when he was a teenager, with a much cheaper, much less over designed soap before. Ever since, he had treated soap with great respect when it came to getting it anywhere near his face.
After making sure he had gotten everywhere, he hit the amber button, turning the light back to green. Water once again sprayed on him from all four sides, quickly rinsing the soap off his body and down the drain at his feet. Once again making use of the tools nature gave him, he helped the water take the soap off by running his hands over the areas where it tended to stick a bit.
The final cycle was a burst of dry, heated air that cycled through the shower alcove. The heavy wind stirred his hair around his head as it imitated a hot air hand dryer built to scale for the entire body, quickly driving his skin off as good as any towel ever did. It was no true replacement for a good towel, as it didn't help remove dry skin from the body like a good rub down with terry cloth, but it did the job.
With a 'ding' the automated shower completed it cycle, and the door opened slightly ajar on its own to indicate that it was time for him to exit.
Stepping out of the shower, the young First Lieutenant grabbed a fresh set of BDUs from a small cubbyhole next to the alcove. Dressing with military speed and precision, he soon left the small mock-up, not knowing it would be his last time in an imitation.
Titusville, Florida - Wednesday, Nov 5, 2025 - Evening
Located next to the Kennedy Space Center on the North Eastern coast of Florida, the city of Titusville was just beginning to recover from a double blow of first a failing world economy, then a loss of business and employment when NASA had temporarily shut down its launch program back in 2012. Now that NASA was back in full swing, unemployment levels had dropped dramatically as new jobs, and new money, flowed into the region.
Philip Howell, United States Air Force Captain and Lunar Lander pilot of the ARES II rocket, had left base that afternoon to enjoy the effects of this bolstered economy in the form of a well cooked steak and several beers. Although he was disappointed that his regular company had not shown up that evening, he consoled himself with the thought that she might have had more pressing business to attend to. As it was, the meal had been excellent, and the alcohol he now had in his system helped ease his worries about where she might have gone off to.
Salty sea air fought for dominance with the smell of cooked steak as he stepped outside into the evening, his brown eyes passing over the cars parked in the nearly full lot. Sounds of laughter and loud music spilled out from the open doors behind him as he worked on finding his own car amongst all the others, shaking off his concerns about his lack of feminine companionship that evening.
With the sun just now finishing setting in the west in a brilliant palate of colors, and the street lamps just beginning to turn on, it was somewhat difficult to spot his car amongst all those that had joined it in the last hour or so.
After a few moments, he finally spotted his car parked in the far corner of the lot, closest to the exit to the main road. He always preferred to park next to the exit of the parking lot, so that he didn't have to fight traffic on his way out, even if it meant a bit more walking.
Patting first his red shirt, then his black jeans down, Howell finally found his car keys in his left hand pocket, exactly where he had left them earlier. Normally he wouldn't have to look, but the alcohol in his system was making him a bit slow on the draw this evening.
The thought ran through his head that maybe he shouldn't have drank quite as much beer as he had. Perhaps it would be a good idea for him to take a short, after meal nap in the back seat of his car before he got behind the wheel.
As he approached, the Captain noticed a man standing next to his car dressed in a rather plain black business suit. With both the sunset and the nearby street lamp behind the other man, it was impossible for Howell to read his expression in the obscuring shadow. Caution flooded him, trying to chase the alcohol out of his system as he took in the rather official appearance of the man standing there.
"Can I help you?" he asked, trying desperately to sound sober.
"Captain Philip Howell?" the other man stated.
"Yes, that's me," Howell nodded, hand holding his car keys in a tight grasp that caused the metal to dig into his callused palm. "Who is asking?"
"Agent Trovosky, OSI," the Agent replied, flashing a badge attached to his belt next to a pair of handcuffs. "I need you to come with me to answer some questions down at the office."
Wondering if he had finally been found out, he stumbled backwards away from the Agent as if he were the devil himself. His drunken stumble propelled him only a few scant feet before he ran into something large and immovable, confusion running through his head for a few brief moments before a massive arm wrapped around his neck from behind. Moments later, the other arm joined in the grappling effort as it reached down for his left hand, perhaps thinking that he held a weapon instead of car keys there.
Reacting on instinct, the now panicking astronaut lifted his right leg and dragged the hard heel of his boot down the front of his assailant's shin, and slammed it hard on the arch of the other man's foot. With a loud grunt of hot air passing by his ear, the man behind him loosened his grip in reaction to the cheap shot.
Leaning forward and rolling his body more by luck than skilled coordination, Howell threw the man over his shoulder and onto the ground before him. With an indignant shout, the giant man landed on the pavement with an explosion of air, the breath knocked out of him.
Under the light of the nearby street lamp, he could tell that the man now at his feet also wore the same, nondescript black business suit that the man who had spoken to him had. In the brief flash of lucidity brought on by the adrenalin in his system, he noticed the slim coiled wire of a radio snaking down from the man's ear and into his shirt collar. In the back of his head he noted that was the same kind of radio you saw the Secret Service men wear in the movies.
Moments later his thoughts were rudely interrupted when a fist came out of the twilight and slammed into the left side of his jaw. Stumbling a few steps to the side, he shook his head to regain his senses, barely having time to dodge a follow-up blow. Dressed in an identical black suit, his new opponent stood in a tense boxer stance, tight fists held in front of his chin. Even with the low lighting, he could see a sneer on the other man's face, likely from the fact that he had just knocked out his partner just moments ago.
Accepting the agent's challenge, he also brought up his own hands in a boxing guard, doing his best to shift his weight evenly on his feet. Dodging another quick punch from the man, he tested the waters with a few quick jabs of his own that failed to get through the other man's guard. Deciding to go for his strengths, he did a quick faint with his right hand, and followed up with a brutal southpaw blow that caught the agent off guard.
Excited over landing the blow, Howell failed to react in time when the agent quickly closed inside his guard, and began to hammer him with bare knuckled body blows. Reacting on instinct, he brought his guard down to protect his ribs, trying to weather the storm. Already knowing that he was going to be heavily bruised from this fight, he fought against the pain that was filling his body, and snapped off a quick elbow strike at the agent's head.
Dazed by the elbow strike which had struck him in the temple, his opponent did not have the ability to roll with his fall. Landing with a sickening thud as his head hit the pavement, the man lay still on the ground before the tired, bruised, and dazed astronaut. After a few moments of watching the still figure, he realized that the other man was not going to be getting up to continue the fight any time soon.
Clutching his ribs against the pain, he took a deep, cautious breath to test them. Immediately regretting this action, he broke out into several deep coughs moments later, driving fresh spikes of pain from his bruised torso. At the same time though, he was relieved that he had managed to defend himself from the two men who had attacked him.
Now he had the problem of finding out wither they really were from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, or just imposters sent to kidnap themselves an astronaut. The idea of going back to lie down in the back seat of his car was sounding even more attractive as the adrenaline began dying down, making him even more aware of the pain that he was now in.
Music and laughter still spilled out from the steakhouse, unperturbed, and perhaps unnoticing, of the fight that had just occurred outside. Of course, with the number of large motorcycles parked out front, they might be used to random fights in the parking lot.
Not noticing the metallic click that sounded from behind him, Howell's world dissolved into a field of stars followed by the darkness of unconsciousness as a slim metal rod slammed into the back of his head. In the confusing twilight melee, Howell had not paid close attention to the fact that the two men he had fought against did not include the first man who had spoken to him.
Kneeling next to the unconscious astronaut, Agent Trovosky reached a hand down to check the man's pulse. Once he had assured himself that Howell was both alive, as well as solidly unconscious from the blow to the head he had given him, the Agent closed up his Asp, and placed the collapsible baton back into his pocket.
Cursing to himself over what a FUBAR this assignment had turned out to be, Trovosky walked over to the larger of his two subordinates. Rolling the man over, he chuckled as he saw the contented look on the sleeping giant's face. Calm, deep breathing told the Agent that all was well with his friend, though he did not envy the headache that would greet him upon returning to the waking world.
Patting the unconscious man on his meaty shoulder, he then went over to the last man to check him out.
Within moments the grin dropped off his face as he saw the state of the final man on his team. Innocent as it had seemed, the fall he had taken from that final elbow strike had caused his head to impact against the hard pavement of the parking lot a lot harder than it had looked from the sidelines. Beneath the man's head there was a slowly growing pool of dark blood, almost invisible against the dark pavement in the half light of the setting sun.
Resisting the almost overpowering urge to take his baton and work out his frustrations on the unconscious man, Trovosky reached down and felt the injured man's neck for a pulse. After a few long moments, he finally felt a pulse, weak as it was. Releasing the breath he had not even noticed he had been holding, he reached his other hand up to his ear, toggling his radio.
"Agent Trovosky reporting," he said into the concealed microphone in his collar. "I have secured the target, but there have been complications. I am going to need a bus sent to my location to retrieve two downed Agents, and I also request further assistance in securing transportation of the target."
"Acknowledged, Agent," a woman's voice spoke into his ear bud with a Greek accent. "Be advised that the immediate priority is securing of the target, and that a nearby van is on its way for transportation. A request has already been made for an ambulance to be sent for the injured agents, and be assured that we will do our best to look out for your men."
"Understood, ma'am," Trovosky replied.
Out of the growing darkness of the evening a large black panel van pulled out from around the corner, its headlights dark as it drove into the parking lot. With a crunch of loose gravel the nondescript vehicle stopped a short distance away from where he was now standing watch over the three unconscious men.
Once the vehicle had come to a complete stop, the side door to the van opened up, releasing several more agents into the evening light. One of them, obviously trained in first aid, immediately went to check the more injured of the two downed agents, pulling out a penlight and gently prying the man's eyelids open to check for pupil dilation.
In a flurry of movement and black suits, Howell was handcuffed with a black bag placed over his head. Moments later the bruised, beaten, and unconscious astronaut was loaded into the back of the van, the door sliding shut behind him. Leaving the medic behind, the vehicle backed out of the parking lot, driving off with its precious cargo.
Lunar Outlook AFB, Lunar Simulation - Wednesday, Nov 5, 2025 - Mid Day
Tired from his time spent in the bulky space suit, First Lieutenant Simon Riggs made his way down the short hallway that led to the main exit of the Lunar Simulation building.
Most of the scientists and technicians that were assigned to the project had just been let out on lunch, their voices bouncing off the plain walls as they talked with each other. Some were discussing the discovery made three days ago on Sunday, while others talked about the work that they had just been doing. Off to the side, two technicians were even commenting on Monday's football scores.
Following the river of people down the passage that led out into the world beyond their laboratories and workshops, he soon came to the large double doors of the exit, the metal slabs held open by a constant press of warm bodies. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out his mirror lens aviator sunglasses. Making sure to keep his elbows tucked in so that he didn't accidentally hit anyone, he placed the shades upon his face to block the bright sunlight he was exposed to moments later.
Since it was now thankfully the beginning of November, the base was actually a fairly comfortable mid-seventies up in the high desert. Having grown up on the shores of Flathead Lake in Montana, Riggs was used to extremes in temperature, but even he had to admit to himself that the heat they had experienced that summer had been a bit excessive.
Not that he would ever admit that to anyone else mind you, since any sane person already knew. One of the most sure-fire ways of starting a fight here was to ask the dreaded question 'is it hot enough for you?'
Few ever made the same mistake twice.
Vaguely noticing the sound of an idling Osprey coming from the nearby landing field, the First Lieutenant jogged towards one of the electric carts at the far end of the parking area, trying to make sure that he would have a chance to get one of the vehicles for himself. Since the electric carts were not assigned, it was not unheard of for someone to end up stranded at one end of the base and have to walk to their destination, since all of the carts had already been driven away.
Ignoring a lizard that was sunning itself on a nearby rock, Riggs sat down in the vinyl seat of the cart, glad that the person who had parked it had arranged for the front seats to be beneath the shade of the cart's canopy. Hearing someone shouting out his name, he paused with his hand hovering over the ignition switch, and glanced up from where he had been looking at the battery charge indicator. Looking around with curious green eyes protected by his mirrored sunglasses, he quickly spotted the person who had called out for him.
Rosa Dominguez was one of the most dedicated engineers that worked beneath Doctor Hamlin, her hands on approach to problems complimenting the often over thought or highly complicated ideas that the Doctor often came up with. Standing at six and a half feet tall, the woman towered over the other technicians and scientists who were still spilling out into the sunlight in search of a break and their mid-day meals. With her height advantage, it was no wonder that she had been able to spot him at the far end of the lot.
Waiting for the woman to approach, Riggs suppressed a chuckle as he saw several people instinctively shy away from the engineer.
Often hanging out with Stevenson and him on their off duty hours, Dominguez had become one of their few friends on base. Since the staff that worked within the Command Center were often viewed by the enlisted men as a snobby-though rare-elite, there was not much of a chance of finding friends on base. Even most of the civilian staff of scientists and technicians tended to shy away from them, as some considered the Air Force sensors technicians to be taking jobs on base that other, more 'qualified' civilian contractors could have filled instead.
Dominguez had dark, reddish brown hair that spilled out around her head in loose curls that she currently had pulled up against the back of her head, held in place there with a butterfly clip. Her deceptively soft looking oval face held a strong nose, and striking gray-green eyes, and a single loose strand of hair of was tucked behind her right ear highlighting her features.
Long, almost languid looking strides brought the woman over to where Riggs sat waiting on the driver's seat of the cart. Due to her height and the length of her legs, she could appear to be taking a leisurely stroll, and outpace most people when they were jogging.
She was dressed in a pair of khaki cargo pants tucked into a pair of light brown leather boots, a sand colored t-shirt peaking out under a button up cotton shirt matching her pants. Her shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms and hands callused by hard manual labor in the machine shop.
The way her clothes hugged her frame hinted at the kind of body strength that comes not from steroids and weight lifting, but from steady manual labor. Overall, Rosa Dominguez was a picture perfect example of a Hispanic Amazon.
"Hey there, Riggs," Dominguez greeted with a Pacific Northwestern accent. "I think I finally got rid of that timing issue with the anchor gun recoil assist. I saw the results of the test, but I would appreciate your opinion."
"Yeah, you got it fixed up alright," Riggs agreed, nodding to his friend. "I didn't notice any jiggle in the gun when I fired it today... unlike that time that it tried to jump out of my arms."
"God, that was embarrassing for my team," she said, snorting a moment later as she thought of that occasion. "I swear, Zykowski wouldn't speak to me for a week. He swore that I had tried to get him killed with the damned thing."
"Hell, Dominguez," Riggs shook his head, "Zykowski thinks that everyone is out to get him, it's not just you. You should have seen the looks that he gave me after that incident."
"Well, I still say he should have known better than to be in the testing field when you had live ammunition," Dominguez said, before changing the subject. "So, I happen to notice that you are sitting in a perfectly good cart, and I appear to be in need of a ride to the Mess Hall. Are you headed my way?"
"Crap," Riggs muttered. "Actually, I should already be on my way over to the Admin building at the other end of the base. Doctor Hamlin told me that I need to report to Colonel Tanner as soon as possible...
"How about this, I usually try to avoid the Hub when it's this time of day when I need to get anywhere, but my conscience will not allow me to leave you high and dry. Hop on in, I'll drop you off, and hopefully be able to fight my way through the traffic so that I don't have to leave the Colonel waiting for too long."
"Oh goody," Dominguez said, walking around to the passenger side of the cart. "I knew you would see things my way!"
As the tall woman sat down in the front passenger seat of the cart, the frame of the vehicle tilted slightly to the side as her weight settled. Although nobody in their right mind could consider the woman fat, even behind her back, there was a definite presence to her that could not be denied. Despite the dense muscle packed into her frame, she was a very attractive woman with curves in all the right places, just grown to a larger model scale.
Chuckling at his friend's antics, Riggs finally started their cart, the electric hum of the engines barely audible beneath the gentle mid-day breeze that swept across the Mojave Desert. With a slight hesitant jerk, the cart pulled out of the parking spot and followed behind the ant line of matching carts that were winding their way towards the Mess Hall at the center of the Base, knobby tires gripping the pavement.
It was amazing to Riggs that, despite the discovery that they had just made at this very base, people were still going along with their everyday business, and following the same routines. In fact, the only reason that Riggs' own schedule had changed at all after the fact was because Doctor Hamlin had managed to commandeer the young First Lieutenant for some final testing over in the Lunar Simulation.
Earlier that day they had finished packing up the final production model of the first Armstrong Habitat that was going to be used on the Constellation mission at the end of the following week. It was odd in a way to finally see the Habitat packed up for shipping, as it had been a part of his life for the past several months as he helped stress test the different systems that went into it.
Honestly, the less said about the initial problems with the water reclamation system, the better. Some things did not bear remembering, let alone reminiscing about.
Riggs had to pay more attention to the traffic as they neared the center of the base where the Mess Hall and Recreation building were located, often called 'The Hub' by those who lived on base. Although it would take a few minutes to reach his friend's destination, the number of electric carts humming around on their knobby tires had increased to the point that the absent minded courted an accident.
"So, do you have any idea what the XO wants you for?" Dominguez asked her unusually quiet friend.
"Not really," Riggs told her, keeping his eyes on the road. "The Doctor didn't give any indication as to what it might be about, so all I can do is make a few WAGs."
"Well, that's better than nothing," Dominguez chuckled. "So, what kind of 'wild ass guesses' do you have?"
"Ah, well," the sandy-haired man stumbled. "If I had to hazard a guess, it probably has something to do with what we found on Sunday. Maybe another debriefing on what I saw, who knows."
"Or maybe," Dominguez wondered, "they have decided that they really do need you in the air, and that General made the wrong decision when he had you pulled out of the cockpit."
Riggs snorted.
"Not likely," he replied. "I've had to resign myself to the fact that the only way that they are going to let me into anything flying at this point is as a passenger. No, the closest I get to piloting anything at this point is in the Lunar Lander flight simulator that Doctor Hamlin has tucked into the back of his lab."
"And don't think I don't notice how much time you spend in that thing, either," the Hispanic Amazon told him, shaking a finger in his direction. "I swear, with all the time that you spend over in the Command Center with Stevenson, as well as working with the Doctor, it's amazing that you get any sleep done with the amount of extra time you then spend in that tin can."
"Hey, now, I won't stand for someone insulting Blue Bess," Riggs said, defending the Lunar Lander flight simulator. "That thing is the same exact model that they use over at Kennedy to train Captain Howell for a real life Moon landing with the ARES II. If it's good enough for real astronauts, it's good enough for me."
"Calm down there," she chuckled, raising her hands in defense. "I'm just saying that there has to be time for sleep too. Besides, Stevenson hasn't gotten to see much of you outside of work the past few days, and she's getting worried that it's something she said. Personally, I think she's worried that you think she was showing you up with her skills with the EM-Dar."
"That's crazy," he said, rolling his eyes from behind his mirrored aviators. "We both know that she is better with the EM-Dar than I am. My skill lies in information gathering and collaboration. She's better at calibration, while I'm better at troubleshooting and repair. We're a good team, it's not some kind of competition."
"Well, you might want to remind her of that the next time you talk," Dominguez told him, watching out for the feelings of their mutual friend.
Nodding to himself, the sandy-haired young man admitted that she was probably right. The next words that would have come out of his mouth died as he noticed that they were almost on top of the Mess Hall, the parking lot over-full with empty electric carts like a cattle rustle gone bad. Pulling up as close as he could to the front entrance of the building, he came to a gentle stop and turned to face his passenger.
"Here we are," he told the tall woman. "Say hi to Stevenson for me, will ya?"
"Sure thing," she replied, stepping up and out of the cart, then leaning back down with her hands on the edge of the canopy. "Remember what I said, okay?"
"I will, don't worry," Riggs assured her. "Now, if you don't mind, I am still needed over in the Colonel's office."
"Don't let me keep you, then," Dominguez told him. "And if you have enough time, come and join us for lunch. I think it's 'Meatloaf Surprise' today. You know, where the surprise is whether or not it's actually meat."
Shaking his head at his friend's antics, Riggs waved her off, and engaged the engine again to head his way from the Mess Hall to the Administration building at the other far side of the base. Weaving around several electric carts that were still arriving, filled full with airmen and civilians alike, he fought his way out of the Hub and along the short spur that led towards the western side of the base.
Lunar Outlook AFB, Administration - Wednesday, Nov 5, 2025 - Mid Day
Although the drive seemed longer without companionship, it was actually a much shorter distance from the Administration building to the Mess Hall than it was from the Mess to the Lunar Simulation. In a very short amount of time, the building swam into view as he rounded a corner around the Northern wing of the Recreation facility.
Lunar Outlook ABF Administration was a large mass of tan concrete, sitting two stories above the arid desert floor with tall, narrow windows spaced along its sides reminiscent of the arrow slits in old medieval fortresses. The building itself was in the shape of a large hexagon with an inner courtyard that managed to stay at least half in the shade during most of the day. Large halogen lamps sat along the top edges of the building awaiting nightfall, and large spotlights hung on their mounts at the corners.
Driving up to the building, Riggs spotted an empty parking spot about thirty feet from the main entrance. Smoothly pulling into the spot, he engaged the breaks, and killed the motor. When the ever present hum of the electric engine died out, Riggs became even more aware of the quiet that hid beneath the sound of the desert wind.
Climbing out of the bucket seat of the electric cart, and making his way towards the main entrance, he was startled as a large black shadow swept across his path. The loud croak of a raven called down from above, making him look up at the edge of the roof of the Administration building. Dark brown-black eyes stared down at him as the pitch black bird watched him from the concrete ledge, shadowed by one of the spotlights.
When the raven shifted, his trained eyes spotted the half-circle of white feathers on the shoulders of its wings, instantly identifying this as one of the mated pair of ravens that called the base home. Stevenson had called them Hugin and Munin, Thought and Memory, after the ravens of who reported to Odin about the state of the nine worlds.
The petite Second Lieutenant had thought it a good omen that they had them watching over the base, and had told him that it gave them luck. He was just glad that last spring's fledglings had already left the nest, as the young birds had not been nearly as charming of mascots as their parents had turned out to be.
You couldn't argue with results, really, as their luck had held firm last Sunday when they had discovered the crashed alien ship on the moon by sheer chance. If they had not developed the EM-Dar, and mounted the Gravimetric sensors on the Lunar Ghost II probe, he had no idea how many years, or decades, it would have taken them to find the crash.
If they ever did.
Nodding thanks to Hugin, Riggs made his way over to the large double doors that stood as the main entrance to the Administration building. Unlike the Command Center, which had a coded keypad linked with an ID scanner, the entrance to the Administration building was guarded by two armed airmen standing watch from just inside the entrance. Removing his aviator glasses and tucking them safely back into his breast pocket, the First Lieutenant walked the last few steps towards the door.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by the unsmiling faces of those two enlisted men dressed in full tactical vests, pistols at their sides. Removing his ID badge from the clip it hung from on the flap of his pocket, he displayed the multi colored plastic to the nearest guard. With practiced ease, the guard removed a small tablet PC from a sleeve on his tactical vest and held the high definition camera first towards the badge, then towards the First Lieutenant's face.
Proprietary face recognition software compared the face on the badge, as well as the face of the man presenting it, with a database system that stored records of everyone allowed into the Administration building. Giving a cheerful ding as a positive match came back from the servers, the small hand held computer sent a signal that allowed the second door to open with a clunk as the magnetic locks disengaged.
Walking into the no hat no salute building, Riggs took an immediate right at the first intersection and headed towards the Colonel's office, which sat at the corner just counter-clockwise of the main entrance. Unlike the beige tan color of the building's exterior, the inside of the building itself was painted a pale eggshell white, with colored chevron lines showing the way to the different areas of interest inside. Having been in meetings with the Colonel before, Riggs already knew where to go, even though his eyes did instinctively glance at the red line that indicated his path.
As he reached the outer door to the base commander's office, Riggs fought off a sudden spike of anxiety that twisted its way through his guts. Running through his head was the thought that somehow he had done something wrong, and was being called to task. Fighting off the disquieting thought, and reassuring himself that if he had done something wrong they would have sent the MPs instead of a message, he reached out and opened the door.
Sitting behind a solid looking Maplewood desk in the outer office was Major Trujillo, the Base Commander's administrative assistant. Momentarily ignoring the intrusion into his domain, the Major finished typing the next few lines on the report he was working on at his computer screen before acknowledging the First Lieutenant's presence.
"First Lieutenant Simon Riggs, reporting to Colonel Tanner as ordered, Sir," Riggs stated, saluting the Major.
"At ease, Lieutenant," Trujillo ordered, returning the salute and then reaching over to hit the button on his desk phone. "Colonel Tanner, sir?"
"Tanner here," the other man's voice came from the speaker. "What is it, Major?"
"First Lieutenant Riggs has arrived," the Major advised his superior officer.
"Send him in," Tanner ordered, the line clicking as it disconnected.
"Go on in, the Colonel is waiting," Trujillo said, nodding to Riggs, then going back to his report.
"Right," Riggs nodded, walking over to the Colonel's closed office door.