The Omega Option: Rise of Draconis

The Omega Option: Rise of Draconis

Rick T. Hodges

This book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or transferred in any form by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental, other than the fictitious use of some geographic locations and/or indigenous populations.

Text and imagery Copyright © 2012 Rick T Hodges

All Rights Reserved

Release Date: August 2012

Smashwords Edition

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to Amanda Richardson, whose friendship and steadfast encouragement kept me on course through some of the darkest times of the past few years.

Special thanks to my mother, Elizabeth Hodges, for a lifetime of love and support.

I very much appreciate all the encouragement from my daughter, Mandy, and to my test readers who provided intelligent feedback, resulting in a much better novel:

Steve Ashley (lifelong friend and all around good man)

Karen Reed (she who will serve as my warlord once I’ve overthrown the universe)

Stanley Hodges (yep...my brother)

Leah Boone (very intelligent woman and all around great person)

I am sincerely grateful to Mr. Brian Caldwell and the: Oklahoma State University Institute of Technology (Okmulgee, OK), Visual Communications Division, Graphic Design Practicum Class...for producing the fine quality cover adorning this book.

Primary illustrators (contact emails included by permission):

Sharry Mouss smouss2@gmail.com

Tess Ogden tessyapple@gmail.com

Kristie Reed kristie.reed@aol.com

Additional input on cover design:

Amanda Lowe msajlowe@gmail.com

Table of Contents

Prologue

I. Enter the Agency

II. The Silver Sarcophagus

III. Desert Pursuit

IV. Peril in the Abyss

V. Dalton's Return

VI. The Mountain Spirit

VII. Tribal Wisdom

VIII. Sasquatch Hunt

IX. Fight for Survival

X. The Institute

XI. Psychic Reconnaissance

XII. Crypto-Terrestrial Analysis

XIII. Thargonian Agenda

XIV. Death in the Antarctic

XV. Mission Brief

XVI. The Rising Storm

XVII. Operation Thunder Lord

XVIII. Chaos

XIV. Battle for Draconis

XX. Tragedy and Triumph

XXI. Out From the Ashes

XXII. Royal Awakening

About the Author

Prologue

Fear shot through him like an icy bullet when he realized the damn thing toyed with him, stalking him in the dark, relishing his terror. Night in the Lacandon Rainforest turned the world to black, but there was no escaping the carnivore’s pursuit; the blind silence betraying its quieted breath, its pungent odor wafting across stifling humid air. He could feel it…taunting him. Although rare among animals, this one killed for pleasure. Insect life grew silent as it approached his hasty concealment, having tracked him down like a vengeful spirit determined to feed on his disemboweled corpse. How the hell did he ever let it get between him and his hide site…and his rifle?

Without warning, the man-eating primate tore at him even closer than expected; a glint of sharp yellow fangs raining thick saliva onto his face...or was it blood? Barely cognizant of the bite as if watching it happen to someone else, vice-gripping jaws burst his raised forearm into a bloody spray, crushing the bone into fragments. His core instinct erupted, fighting back with strength fueled by sheer terror; plunging his knife into the beast’s throat again and again. Still it tore at him; snarling with a stifled roar, gurgling through severed vocal cords. Blood ejecting through sliced carotid arteries finally caught up with its brain, bringing the savage brute down.

More…they’re coming. Legs empowered by adrenaline, he shoved the dying primate away from him. No time to bind up his mangled arm. In seconds they would be upon him. Panic drove him on through pitch blackness, distancing himself from the pack of cannibal apes descending on their fallen member; its pain inciting their lustful carnage; feeding in a mad flesh-ripping cacophony.

They picked up his scent. Damn. A lone bull tore loose from the pack in ravenous pursuit but he was almost there. Just a few more yards…tripping over his rifle in the darkness, he finally reached the hide-site. He struggled to cradle the weapon in the crook of his broken arm, fumbling to rack a round into the chamber; heart almost failing at the nearness of the cannibal ape’s roar. No time for a sharp aim…only one shot…

I. Enter the Agency

Three months had passed since the events of the Lacandon expedition in the Central American rain forest, but the horror would remain with him. Perhaps for a lifetime.

Joe Dalton bolted upright in his own bed screaming; flailing at the phantom beast as he thrashed about the sheets, grasping in panic for the rifle that was not there. In a moment his eyes adjusted to the darkness about his bedroom, sweat coating his body, wracked with fear from the recurring nightmare. Dalton ripped the blanket off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet onto the floor. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the warmth of his sweaty palms while letting the terror of that very real memory pass. Even now, months later, it still haunted him in his dreams. After a moment he sat upright, feeling the scars on his left forearm from where the rare, carnivorous primate had bitten completely through the bone. It hadn’t been all that long since the cast came off. Damn ape…damn that thing.

Post-traumatic stress disorder was a devil to live with. After a lifetime of numerous near death encounters, Dalton’s past was catching up to him. He began to wonder if the dreams would ever stop, or maybe just worsen. Needing distraction from the intense nightmare, Dalton strolled into his adjacent office and poured himself a double shot of Jack Daniels before turning on the television:

…series of terrorist attacks on the transit system, derailing the passenger train headed to Richmond. Twenty-seven passengers reportedly killed with numerous others severely injured. Police suspect…

click...

…lost contact with the plane within minutes after the pilot declared they were about to crash. Rescue teams are still searching the mountainous region for wreckage, although blizzard-like conditions severely hinder efforts to….

click…

Residents report cattle mutilations, unusual aerial phenomena, and sightings of what appear to be experimental aircraft, possibly of military origin. The Edwards Air Force Base commander continues to insist that no…

click…off.

Same mess its always been. He knew the world was no better off now than it was ten years ago when he was a Green Beret on active duty. Ten years. In all that time he avoided dwelling on the fact that his own country marched daily towards socialism…or worse…while the sheeple grew dumber, year after year. So he dropped off the map. At least the past decade had proven profitable. It wasn’t a difficult transition, applying the skills they taught him in Special Forces to other endeavors: Liberian diamond mining, South African hostage rescue (even the third world has rich families; corruption pays well) and expeditions to Central America. The Smithsonian paid generously for that last find considering several people died hauling a few very unusual artifacts out through triple canopy jungle. Who would have expected cannibal apes to even exist, much less in the Lacandon Rainforest? Most hostile creature he’d ever seen. Unusually intelligent for a primate. Too intelligent. Took all the wits he had just to capture one of the damned things.

Dalton sat in the dark looking out through the open veranda of his second story office, musing over the state of his life. It was a nice home tucked away in the forested Black Hills of South Dakota; an expansive construction with a log cabin look to the outside, sporting a fully modernized interior. Joe wondered what he was going to do with his life. Was this all there was? Admittedly, his expeditions were rewarding…but so far it seemed only he and his financers benefited. He was the veteran of a thousand perils with a chest full of medals, a wall full of credentials, and a bank account brimming with a small fortune. And yet he just didn’t feel all that fulfilled. Something was missing. Risking everything just to prove another fabled legend didn’t quite have the appeal it used to. He needed something. He needed a…purpose.

Yeah. The light of dormant enthusiasm crept back into his steel blue eyes even as the emerging dawn dispersed long forest shadows surrounding the small hardwood grove beneath his view. He didn’t really miss the years spent with the 3rd Special Forces Group although he missed the team, the camaraderie, and the purpose. At the age of 41 Dalton was far from over the hill. His formerly coal black hair and close cut beard were taking on a salt and peppered appearance. The tiger-striped creases around his eyes branded him with a very distinguished, commanding look but the years had only made him a little older, a little wiser, a little tougher.

Maybe I should consider Graham’s offer, he thought. Special Agent Blake Graham belonged to one of the covert operations groups designed to interdict hostile organizations often responsible for worldwide instability, yet he wasn’t one of the militaristic stereotypes sporting dark sunglasses while projecting intimidation as if it were an essential task. Graham was tall but older, graying at the temples, and sagged a bit at the shoulders as one would expect of a man who carried the burden of having seen far too much and knowing even far more. He was well spoken and thoughtful in his approach to things. It seemed like an eternity since the days when they were both stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Dalton encountered Graham more than a few times at the Joint Special Operations Command headquarters during various classified briefings or joint mission planning cells involving upper echelon military officers. Over time it became obvious that Graham’s consistent stance on doing the right thing had nothing to do with career motives or political aspirations. He stood up to the bullshit. More often than not, he won. Dalton wasn’t naïve by anyone’s standards but during those encounters Joe learned to trust him.

In the present day, Graham’s scope of influence centered around things uncommon; things unusual; things almost…paranormal. And yet he dealt with the unexplained in all dead seriousness. Wherever the conversation led there was none of the flippancy one consistently encounters with arrogant news media types or bureaucratic cowards. Joe got the impression that Agent Graham always knew more than he let on, but withheld for a purpose. The world simply was not ready to accept some things. This mission was one of them.

Dalton’s accomplishments kept him on the agency’s radar. You don’t find legendary artifacts in extreme environments while surviving hostile governments…and not show up on the agency’s radar. So Blake found him, even years later after Dalton’s departure from the world of military special operations. And now, during the pre-dawn hours on this quiet summer morning, Joe Dalton found himself reliving the impact of that reunion with Special Agent Blake Graham two days prior…

Why don’t you deploy your own agents? Dalton had asked.

We believe it best not to risk that yet, Blake replied. We haven’t been able to prove the occurrences there result in any direct threat to the United States or anyone for that matter. The island is situated deep in the Pacific Ocean but we’re not sure who’s occupying it. The agency doesn’t want to elevate anti-US sentiment abroad what with the current political environment the way it is. If we send in our operatives and something goes terribly wrong…an innocent death or destruction of some privately developed technology, the consequences might not be easily contained. But there have been some unexplainable disappearances. The Russians put people in there; a team of Spetznaz. Of course we intercepted their communications but the last transmission didn’t make sense.

What was it?

Blake’s level gaze never wavered while contemplating his reply, yet his silence spoke volumes. Finally with a heavy sigh, "Oh, something about how they couldn’t possibly exist. We didn’t exactly catch the whole transmission. The end was garbled. We just don’t know any more than that."

Satellite imagery?

Not worth much. The jungle is so thick you can’t see down into it and the open areas reveal nothing except animal life common to the region, although we have images of odd tracks along the sand near the jungle’s edge. As for the craft, we’re not sure where they come from, but they’re always under water as they travel to and from the island. We only capture blurred images of them even then. Too deep. Some are oblong similar to a submarine, but they move too fast. Others are, well, either round or disk shaped as best we can determine. We think at least some of the ones emerging elsewhere from the ocean came from the island. At least the ones that stay within our range of observation.

Dalton asked, What do you mean, your range of observation? Where do the other ones go?

Blake didn’t answer. Joe knew pressing the matter would lead nowhere. Not without sodium pentothal, anyway. Maybe not even then. Dalton moved on. Okay, Agent Graham…

Please, call me Blake.

Okay...Blake. What exactly do you expect me to find? What is it the agency wants?

Anything you can determine, Blake said. We need to find out who’s on that island, who made these craft, and what exactly the Spetznaz found before they vanished.

And what makes you think I can succeed where the Russians didn’t?

Come on, Joe. Your exploits haven’t exactly been a secret. Graham opened a slender metallic briefcase, continuing to talk as he laid out his evidence on the coffee table nestled between the two men. Ever since you left the Special Forces you’ve been involved in researching equipment that could revolutionize exploration; field testing it around the world in the most austere environments. Some of your investors made small fortunes on the results of your expeditions, which in turn further funded your advanced research and expanded your network. Obviously, you steered away from militarily focused missions, preferring to explore and discover things hidden in previously non-traversable territory. You also have an ingenious knack for surviving situations that most people wouldn’t. National Geographic detailed your survival and escape from that group of semi-intelligent man-eating gorillas on the Montes Azules expedition…

Cannibal apes, Dalton interjected.

Well, whatever they were. Even the natives knew better than to mess with them, yet you devised a way to haul the captured one out…then went back to retrieve artifacts proving their intelligence. That event alone demonstrated your indomitable will to survive; not to mention remarkable conditioning, field-craft ingenuity, and fierce determination to complete the mission. Let’s talk about your knowledge of the local’s method of producing a tranquilizer from poisonous plants and centipedes, using that to keep the one carnivore-ape-thing sedated. You were only in that jungle a few months, Joe. Anyone with common sense could read between the lines. You obviously developed a strong rapport with the tribal shaman before he revealed the secret of that particular concoction. The whole story was a fascinating read. Mind if I smoke?

With a nod from Dalton, Blake got up and strolled to the veranda as he fished for the pack of Marlboros in his jacket. Joe could tell that he longed for the kind of peace contained in the woodlands of those South Dakota hills. He took a moment to bask in the slight breeze, breathing in the crisp morning air before lighting up. After a moment he continued. "Then there was the Amazon search for that stolen Buddhist idol from a temple that was supposed to be just a myth. The science journal made it sound like those people were about ready to make you their god after you recovered it. Archeologists are still trying to figure out how that thing ended up in the Amazon, and until you went in no one had ever even heard of the Chukawa tribe. I saw the head of that green anaconda you killed mounted in your trophy room. The Chukawa had been after that snake for years, hadn’t they? And there you wake up in your tent with it trying to make a meal of you. How big was that thing again?"

Thirty-six feet, nine inches. Dalton replied.

Pretty damn big rat eater. World record was over 37 feet wasn’t it? How’s it feel to be in second place for a change?

Both men chuckled before Dalton said, I know my own history, Blake. So why relate it back to me?

Graham got to the point, Seriously, Joe. These events and a slew of others aren’t lost on the agency. Maybe we can’t come up with a convincing enough offer to recruit you, but the head shed has long considered the idea of contracting freelancers anyway. Some missions are better off without a government stamp on them.

And if something goes wrong, or I don’t come back, Dalton added, the government has a readymade cover. Just another adventurer who got himself in over his head, right?

Blake shrugged as he leaned on the veranda rail with both elbows, inhaling deep before breathing out a steady stream of smoke. Joe noted the way Blake confirmed unpleasant truths with uncommitted silence. Lightening the conversation a bit Joe commented, Last time I saw you was at JSOC right when Kosovo kicked off. You were the one who stood up and warned the brass that the Albanians would commit the same atrocities as the Serbs if we let them. Turned out you were right, but I didn’t see you around long after that.

Looking down at the grove of aspen, oak, and birch trees surrounding Dalton’s home, Blake’s voice took a nostalgic tone, "I liked being at Fort Bragg. I liked the job initially, too. But the more JSOC became involved with conventional ops, the more I got fed up with the increasing level of politics surrounding major engagements in theaters like Central Command. I decided to move on into deeper waters. After transferring to a more direct support role for Delta Force, I ended up co-located with the Special Operations Command at MacDill Airbase. Over time I gained exposure to the various black ops agencies that even the military elite have little awareness of. The farther you go along that career path the more it becomes less of a career. It becomes a commitment. Hell, it becomes an obligation. It’s not something you just walk away from."

Wondering if Blake was expressing a veiled warning against delving any further along the same path, Joe asked, You regret it?

No. But sometimes I wish… Graham had to pause. How does one summarize years of a life spent probing into things most people don’t even believe exist. How does one go back. Finally Graham replied, Sometimes I wish the world was simple again. After a moment of contemplative silence, he asked, What about you, Joe? You jumped ship and left the Army half way through to retirement.

Dalton noticeably soured as he spoke. I came along after the Army decided to formally establish Special Forces as a career branch. I butted heads with too many people above me. That’s when I left.

With a sly grin Blake added, "Yeah, I remember you at a few of those planning cells. You know what your problem is, Joe? While everyone else sits around pandering about how beautiful the emperor’s new clothes are, you happen to be the one guy who stands up and says, ‘Not only is the emperor butt-ass naked, but he’s ugly.’ You scare people, Joe. You call them out and expect that will somehow hold them accountable. High level officers, bureaucrats, politicians…those people consider themselves to be the ruling class. They feel entitled. They might seem friendly and concerned on the outside, but underneath the thin veil of civility they’re often ambitious, egotistical, and vindictive. I don’t think you were too naïve to know this; I think you just didn’t care. You refused to be intimidated. You were a great field officer but I think we both know your lack of so-called political correctness would have kept you from ever making it past colonel, even if you had stayed in. Still, that quality of yours is one of the reasons I sought you out for this mission. You’re the real thing, Joe. When it comes to getting the job done, that’s what we need." Blake knew just how to punch a man right in the ego, then build him up again. He took one last, wistful moment to admire the ponderosa pines and white spruce adorning the rolling hillside before turning to gather his items back into the briefcase.

What’s in the file envelope? Joe asked.

After you sign on, Blake said with a wry smile. Can’t be sharing classified information with a non-participant, even though your top secret clearance is still valid. Anyway, we would provide anything you need, and what we don’t have we would come up with if you request it…within reason. Graham headed down the stairs and turned for a final handshake before parting through the door. Think about it, Joe. We know you care about your country. Your service record alone proves that, and the agency respects the way you conduct your affairs. You stick to yourself, but you’re not a recluse. Hell, you don’t even date much, so you must not trust women any more than you trust the government. Wise man! Dalton laughed as the two men parted, yet it struck him how much Blake already knew of his personal life. He also knew he’d be hearing from Agent Graham again…soon.

There the memory ends. After running that conversation through his mind again on this cool early morning two days later…Joe decided two days was long enough. He knew this mission was no tourist run. The unidentified submersed craft demonstrated a technology far superior to known science, leaving very little chance of a team infiltrating the island undetected. Even so, Joe had faith in his uncanny abilities to adapt to uncharted territory and deal with the unknown. Time to call Graham and take the job.

Having slipped on a pair of cargo pants, Dalton stood up from his desk near the veranda and walked to the stairs, stretching his waking body. As is so typical of early mornings, sound traveled well in the quietness of the early dawn. His orange tabby cat purred loudly at the base of the stairs, ready to pounce his way up to greet his master. But something preoccupied him. Sammy was still at the first stair step, rubbing his whiskered cheek along a thin cord glimmering in the dim early light. Whatever it was shouldn’t be there. Joe retrieved his Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver from the desk drawer, stealthily making his way down the staircase for a closer look. About half way down he realized it was a tripwire. He’d encountered them before in combat, usually attached to an explosive charge. It was the only explanation Joe could accept, but who would set a trap for him? And that silly cat was about to spring it. Come on, Sammy…here kitty, kitty. He expected Sammy would simply pounce over the wire and run up the stairs as called. Joe gritted his teeth and crouched low, cursing under his breath as Sammy slinked just under the wire, rubbing the full length of his back and tail up against it. He wasn’t big enough to spring it, but his master’s odd behavior put the cat ill at ease, not understanding Dalton’s sudden apprehension. With the cat past the wire, Joe sat down on the stair step, calling him again. Sammy pranced his way up, purring loudly in anticipation of his master’s petting. As soon as the cat was within range Dalton snatched him up by the scruff of his neck, tossing him up to the second floor behind him. Applying the midair acrobatics that cats are so famous for, Sammy landed on his feet and scampered under a chair before looking back at Joe, thoroughly confused. Sammy cried out with a scolding meow as if to ask, What did you do that for?

The stairwell situated along the wall separating the den from the living room terminated near a doorway leading into the den. Joe strained to hear any revealing noise in the early morning silence. A slight creak of the wooden floor caused by someone shifting his weight alerted Dalton to the intruder’s presence. He knew that whoever placed the trap must still be cornered in the den, poised just out of view. That doorway was the only way out. Joe took a flying leap from the middle of the stairs past the den entrance, rolling as he hit the floor. He came out of his somersault standing up with his back to the living room bay window; revolver aimed at the den’s open doorway. Although the sun was not yet over the horizon, ambient light from the approaching dawn illuminated the room enough for Joe to see the full outline of the dark form in front of him.

Dalton didn’t have time to fire. The attacker flowed with his movement, advancing on him even as he gained his footing. Joe’s revolver clattered onto the hardwood floor, knocked from his grip by a heavy clawed hand. Dalton took deep gashes down the center of his chest, avoiding a second claw aimed at his face. Pivoting at a slight angle away from the intruder’s attack, Joe struck his opponent with a spear hand; gouging his fingers deep into the intruder’s eye. High pitched growls of pain ripped through the air like the roaring of a Bengal tiger. Growling…clawed hands. Either Dalton’s adversary was delusional…or else he now faced a monster. The would-be assassin tried to evade, shielding his eye from Dalton’s counter attack. Joe seized the opening, thrusting his right knee hard into his opponent’s thigh. He followed through with a solid elbow strike to the head, sending his enemy sprawling to the floor. As quickly as the intruder fell he spun in place, regaining his feet in a split second, holding one hand over the stricken right eye.

The first ray of sunlight crept through the bay window, revealing the hooded assailant’s uncovered face. In that moment Dalton received the shock of his life as one exposed, yellow, elliptical eye glared back at him from a face coated in short white hair. Teeth bared, fangs projected from both upper and lower jaws. The man-beast had not ceased growling since feeling the sharp pain of Dalton’s solid eye gouge. This can’t be real. But there it was in a black body suit; an intelligent man-beast very intent on putting an end to Joe Dalton. Taking advantage of Joe’s shocked inaction the creature back handed him with the force of a sledgehammer. Joe rolled backwards over a chair, his head smacking against the magnum revolver knocked from his hand moments earlier. Leaping up onto the overturned chair, the man-beast poised to estimate Dalton’s condition before closing in for the kill. Joe frantically grabbed at the gun, taking aim even as the creature leaped to escape, crashing through the living room bay window. Obviously well trained, it crossed its forearms in front of its face, elbows tucked and palms turned inward, guarding his arteries from the breaking glass - booted feet extended slightly forward - taking the brunt of the shattering impact. Almost cat-like, the creature landed in a full run. Dalton’s head was still spinning from the forceful backhand but he did his best to fire several rounds after the fleeing intruder. In a moment the man-beast was gone, swallowed up by the surrounding forest. Joe was careful not to empty the revolver, knowing there could be other assassins lurking nearby.

Stunned by the encounter, Dalton stayed put for several moments allowing his head to clear and the morning light to grow brighter; listening intently for any sound of movement. Even the animal life outside grew silent after the brief battle in Dalton’s home. A shrill cry rang out in the distance, as that of an angry cougar having lost its prey. Joe tactically and methodically moved from room to room, weapon ready, until he was certain his home was clear. Moving about the den, Joe noticed three lengths of detonation cord running from his alarm system control panel. Each cord terminated inside a plastic canister containing an incendiary device. Predictably, Dalton’s house phone was dead; lines cut. He retrieved his cell phone from the upstairs office and got through to Blake Graham on the first call, as if Agent Graham had been expecting him.

Blake stuck him as the overly dedicated type with no family and no real life outside the job. Either that or the job itself did not allow for life beyond the call of duty. Graham? Yeah, this is Dalton. You might want to get over here and bring a bomb squad and a forensics team with you. I’m in. Apparently I’m in this now whether I want to be or not. Joe noticed blood on his phone as he ended the call. Reaching up with his right hand, he felt a three inch gash on his right cheek running at a 45 degree angle. That would leave a scar for certain…one of many.

Special Agent Graham arrived before noon by UH-60M Black Hawk helicopter with a three-man bomb squad and a two-man forensics team. The bomb squad sergeant only took a few moments to disarm the mechanism before reporting to Graham, who remained outside with Dalton. It was a pretty simple set up: several pounds of C4 concealed in the steel-backed alarm system attached to the wall. The tripwire connected to a plastic filter separating a lithium battery from the electric blasting cap. A few pounds of pressure on the tripwire would remove the filter allowing the cap and battery connectors to make contact, completing the electrical circuit. That would set off the blasting cap resulting in a detonation of the C4 explosive. It would have blasted through and taken out anyone next to it. Detonation cord ran from the C4 to the incendiary devices, set to ignite a secondary fire in the den. Considering the den contains a small library it would have fueled a fire that would spread, eventually bringing the whole place down. What’s interesting is how the alarm casing still contained some of the system components. That’s pretty clever considering the blast would leave chunks of wood, maybe some nails and a few loose alarm components embedded in the victim. It’s doubtful that local investigators would have reason to search for explosive residue, ruling the trauma occurred when the burning house collapsed onto Mr. Dalton as he was trying to get out. Due to the home’s heavy log construction, the collapsed structure and the fire would have destroyed most other evidence, including much of the body. The whole set up was an attempt to make the intended death look accidental.

Graham replied, Thank you, sergeant. Then turning to Dalton, I’m sure you could have disarmed that rig. Any reason why you didn’t?

I didn’t want to tamper with any potential evidence. It’s also why I requested a forensics team. I’m not an expert in that.

Blake nodded and turned his attention to the forensics team leader. What have you got?

We found a small amount of blood on one jagged edge of the broken bay window, and some white hair and fibers. We’ll run the blood sample through the portable analyzer and transmit the data to the lab. We should have a readout before the day’s end on the DNA specs.

Dalton exclaimed, I thought DNA testing took several weeks to get back from a lab.

Graham replied, That’s because most law enforcement agencies have significant backlogs. And anyway, you aren’t the only one who’s been involved in technological advances. Uncle Sam has developed quite a bit beyond what the general public is aware of. We’ve developed portable versions of previously large and bulky analytical equipment able to fit into man-portable back packs. And of course, the agency is not a law enforcement entity. We fall under national security, so…we pretty much have the world at our fingertips when it comes to investigative gadgetry.

From the front entrance to the cabin, having scoured the surrounding area, the bomb squad team leader reported, All clear, sir.

With a quick nod, Blake replied, Get the team rounded up and pack your gear, Lieutenant. We’ll be leaving shortly. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve debriefed Mr. Dalton.

Yes, sir.

Once again in the upstairs office where they met two days prior, Dalton said, Well, here we are, right back where we started.

Graham acknowledged, Yep. But it appears someone is aware of the agency’s interest in Draconis Island.

Draconis? How’d you come up with that?

"The island is situated in the Pacific, and Asian culture is heavily associated with dragon lore. So, we named it after the brightest star in the Draco constellation, Gamma Draconis. Anyway, whoever’s been monitoring my activity definitely doesn’t want you involved in this. They consider you a threat, alright. Your only safe course of action is to back out now. Having put that option to you, I have to ask if you’re still interested in the mission."

I am, Dalton replied. But I’ll need to assemble a team of my former cohorts. They may be involved in other projects, so I’ll have to track them down.

We’ve got good people who could assist you, and state of the art equipment that I’m sure you wouldn’t need much training on, Blake said.

Thanks, but I’d rather work with my own people. Most of them I know from my years in Special Forces; men who specialize in land, sea, and air operations. I’ve recruited each of them before on various expeditions but this may call for an assembly of all of them. They have varied skills that would serve well in a combined effort to uncover this, whatever it is.

How many men are we talking about? Blake asked. We need to keep this operation small and low profile. Although we’ve already been compromised as observers, the mission to infiltrate the island will have a top secret classification.

Only a half-dozen or so, including myself. There’s also a woman. She’s a scientist; the most brilliant electromechanical engineer I’ve ever known. She developed most of the equipment I used during my expeditions. That’s probably fewer people than I’d have to engage if I allowed the agency to pick them. All we need from your organization is to eliminate the red tape. Allow us to operate as free agents and we’ll report back what we find. Then you can come in and deal with it unless we have to take action on the ground.

This woman you mentioned, the scientist…that wouldn’t be Sunjida Wong would it?

Dalton answered with a tone of surprise, You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?

"We know you worked under her father, Professor Li Jun Wong, prior to his disappearance in Antarctica. In fact, most of your expeditions were financed by his International Institute of Oceanography. The one thing not in your file is how you came to work for Dr. Wong in the