The Fog of Dreams Read online

THE FOG OF DREAMS

  OPERATION: HARVEST (BOOK ONE)

  Second Edition

  ? 2015 by Justin Bell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Wolf's Head Publishing, LLC

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  Original cover art by J. Caleb Design

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  To Jennifer, Megan, and Allison for all that you do and all that you are

  Special thanks to Dan & Roxi, AM, Chris, SJS Editorial Design for the rigorous editing, proofing, and general ass-kicking. Couldn't have pulled this off without you all.

  A HUGE thanks to KAE Editing Services for their invaluable assistance in developing this Second Edition. I wholly and completely recommend them to any authors out there.

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  Table of Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  PART ONE

  THE FIRST THIRTY DAYS

  PROLOGUE

  "Thomas Jameson stunned fellow Senate Republicans this morning with his very vocal and very pointed dismissal of the latest attempt to solicit human trials for a state of the art genetic treatment for auto-immune?"

  The screen flashed to black as if the power was cut entirely, though the thick round thumb pressed tight against the remote's power button was the actual culprit. It remained there, pushed tight, the thumb pink with pressed blood, held down in anger, as if somehow the harder the power button was pressed, the more untrue the revelations from the television screen would be.

  "I thought this issue was resolved," the cool, thin voice asked from behind the tall, arced back of the wooden office chair.

  The room was small and rectangular, opaque shades pulled down tight across a wall full of windows, which normally looked out into the busy path of Pennsylvania Avenue. Narrow, wrinkled fingers rested on the dark, polished wood surface of the desk, flexing anxiously. On a black, leather couch, a well-dressed man sat, his ample rear end pushing the cushions down nearly to the base of the sofa. He adjusted his posture, creaking the leather in the otherwise quiet room. The light was dim, and the walls thick and fully enclosed. It was like sitting in an immaculately designed and finished cave.

  "I thought so, too," the man replied. He sat against the couch, which was situated on the back wall of this small office, the desk and chair to his right. Across from the desk was a matching thickly cushioned chair, upon which sat another well-dressed man. He had broad shoulders, but a slender waist, his neatly tailored suit pulling down over his flat torso, and his dark slacks draping over crossed knees. He rested his hands in his lap and his cool, steel eyes watched the two men speak.

  By the desk, the tall chair turned, revealing a more than middle aged man seated within. His face was a roadmap of shallow wrinkles, the early indications of upcoming senior citizen status, but his eyes were young and tightly focused. They turned on the plump man on the couch, whose own spectacle covered eyes focused on the old man's. A narrow wreath of light hair wrapped around the top of his scalp, but left a circular patch uncovered on top, and he ran his right fingers across the bare flesh, feeling for sweat that he hoped wasn't there. Lionel Hubbard was nervous, that much was clear, but forty years ago his late father's last piece of advice to him had been 'never let them see you sweat.' As he got older and fatter that became far more difficult than it had been back then, but he still tried to follow that ancient doctrine as much as he was able.

  "So how do we fix this?" asked the older man holding his palms out as if expecting an actual answer. "We have a strict timeline."

  "I understand our timeline," replied Hubbard. "We planned for this contingency, Doctor Worthy."

  Worthy's cold eyes shifted from the couch and settled on the chair, glaring at the third man.

  "So I see."

  The slender man left his hands resting in his lap and didn't let his own gaze deviate from the gray eyes staring back at him. He would not be backed down by this gray-haired senior citizen.

  "I don't believe you've met Richard Grace," Hubbard said softly, gesturing towards the man in the chair.

  "Met him? Oh no, I've never met him. I've heard the stories, though."

  Grace nodded firmly but friendly towards the older man who continued his uninterrupted gaze across the small, dim office.

  Dr. Worthy stood from his swivel chair and took three long strides across the carpeted floor, extending his right hand. Grace pushed himself up from the cushioned chair and clasped his own firm grip around the wrinkled appendage, then pumped three swift times.

  "Pleasure to meet you, Doctor," he said confidently. "I've heard the same good things about you."

  Grace lowered himself back into the chair, but Worthy remained standing, touching his fingers to his narrow, white-bearded chin.

  "The National Security Agency, right?" he asked, tilting his head slightly towards Grace.

  Grace nodded.

  Worthy turned and walked slowly back towards his office chair, still looking deep in thought. "I was under the impression that the NSA didn't particularly like getting their hands dirty. What did you say, Mr. Hubbard? 'A bunch of geeks with taped glasses and pocket protectors'?"

  Hubbard shifted uncomfortably, but Grace's smirk didn't falter.

  Worthy returned to his chair, grasping the curved handles and lowered his aging body into it, trying hard to not reveal any hint of frailty.

  Grace smiled thinly. "Your impressions are correct. We are more or less signals intelligence. Intercepts, communications, technology specialists. Technically my work for you would be outside the auspices of the traditional NSA. The NSA just makes for a convenient cover story during budget talks."

  "Certainly you must report to someone?"

  Hubbard replied to this, leaning forward slightly on his bent knees. "He reports to me. Director McKie is in the loop on some of these details, but for the most important pieces, he has my direct line."

  "Fair enough," replied Dr. Worthy. "So what's our next move?"

  Hubbard smiled. "Our next move is what we've been planning for all along. Human trials."

  Worthy returned the smile. "Do tell, Mr. Hubbard. Please, do tell."

  "You've run thousands of samples on animal candidates, correct? All of the results have come back exceeding your expectations."

  "Indeed."

  "Human trials must be the next step. It's the only logical choice."

  Worthy grimaced. "Agreed, but your stubborn Senator Jameson just shot that plan down on the Senate floor."

  "Don't be silly," Grace said, his voice coming out in a low whisper. "We just have to convince them of the value of these human trials. We have to start somewhere."

  Worthy turned towards him, leaning forward slightly. "Sounds like you have somethi
ng in mind?"

  Grace smirked, tenting his fingers together on his bent knees. "I know just the guy."