SEAL Together: Silver SEALs Series Page 5

  A small group of protesters, holding hand-painted signs declaring ‘No NBAF’ and wearing white T-shirts with the same words emblazoned across the front, were standing near the front gate. He recognized Chester Thompson, the leader of the local protesting group.

  Alighting from his rental car, he weaved through the automobiles in the parking lot and made his way to the front. The group was milling about, a few shouting the occasional chant but most just waving their signs. The employees that were going through that entrance chatted amongst themselves, paying no attention to the group protesting.

  To a bystander, the small protesting group appeared innocuous. Twelve men and women standing around sipping their coffee, doing nothing more than being a fixture at best, background noise at worst. But, to someone who had served as a SEAL in Afghanistan and other locations around the world, he knew that there was danger in assuming they were harmless. A few of the worst terrorists that he had come up against had been banal in both appearance and early actions.

  Assuring that his press badge was hanging about his neck, he adjusted his glasses as he walked toward the group. No one paid any attention to him until he moved closer. A few of the protesters glanced at him, their brows furrowing before their eyes dropped to the badge proclaiming him a journalist. Then, welcoming smiles appeared on their faces.

  “Good morning,” he called out. “Looks like a beautiful morning here in Kansas.”

  Murmurings of greetings met his ears, and out of his peripheral vision he noticed Chester had turned around and was eyeing him carefully.

  Smiling widely, he exclaimed, “I’m here to do some interviewing, and I set up an interview with someone named Chester. Thought I’d see if he was here today, just to go ahead and meet him.”

  A woman stepped forward, her gray hair chopped in a short bob that did little to flatter her round face. Her white T-shirt stretched tightly across her figure, and her feet were encased in boots that looked better suited for a farm than standing for long periods of time on a sidewalk. “You’d be wanting to talk to Chester Thompson,” she indicated the man in question with a hand toss toward the side. “He handles all our press.”

  Offering her up smile and nod, Eric said, “Appreciate it. Thank you.” As he turned toward Chester, he noticed the man’s eyes raked him from top to bottom before coming back and resting on his face. Moving closer, he stuck out his hand, and said, “You must be Chester. I’m Eric Lopez, with the International Scientific Press Corps.”

  Chester did not offer a wide smile in return, but he took Eric’s hand and gave it a firm shake. Eric knew he was being assessed and found it interesting that the local rancher would be so suspicious.

  “I’m Chester Thompson, as Julie over there mentioned.”

  “Good to meet you. I understand that you’re the leader of this group?”

  “I have that honor,” Chester replied. “Our numbers may be small, but our desire to make sure our lands are safe is just as big as it ever was.”

  Nodding enthusiastically, he said, “I made contact with you last week, so that we can discuss your cares and concerns. I’m very interested in interviewing you and your group.”

  Chester’s eyes dropped down to the badge on his chest once more, and he said, “Aren’t you here just to get your tour where the bigwigs inside tell you that this is all for the good of America?”

  “Yes, sir, I am here for that. But I want to tell the whole story. I don’t want to just take what these people in here tell me and believe it’s gospel. I want to make sure that I have a chance to hear all sides of what’s going on here, and I believe that you’re the person that can give me that perspective.”

  Chester nodded, his eyes less suspicious than when he first approached. He noticed the others in the group seemed to take their instruction from Chester, even if it was just his nonverbal communication. As Chester relaxed, the others seemed to as well.

  “Is there a good time that we could meet?” he asked.

  Chester lifted his hand and rubbed his chin for a moment, then offered, “You’re more than welcome to come out to my place. “

  Surprised at the invitation, he pulled out his phone and looked up expectantly. “If you give me your address, we can set up a time.”

  Chester rattled it off, then said, “If you want to come for lunch, my wife’s a good cook.”

  Pleased that it had been so easy to get the interview set up, he nodded enthusiastically, lifting his hand for Chester to shake.

  * * *

  Running late, Lydia cursed the traffic as she pulled into the parking lot. Normally early, she was used to obtaining a spot close to the entrance but, today, no such luck. Glancing at her watch, she grabbed her purse and headed toward the front gate. Knowing she would be spending time with the journalists today already had her on edge.

  The waving of signs caught her eye, and she sighed. God, I wish they’d give that up. They’ve been doing that for ten years and you’d think, by now, they’d be sick of it. I know I am.

  At least now, the protesters seemed to be calmer than they had been several years ago. When the NBAF first opened, she had been virtually attacked as she tried to walk into work. As she got closer, she glanced to the side, seeing Chester Thompson talking to a man in a suit. Wondering what that was about, it held her attention as she walked by.

  Stunned, she recognized Eric from his profile. Smiling. Laughing. Shaking Chester’s hand. Appearing for all the world to be his best bud. Damn…and to think I slept with him. If she was honest, she had done more than sleep with him. For two days he had filled her mind in a way that no other man had.

  Glaring at the back of Eric’s head, she marched up to the gate, swiped her badge over the reader, and stepped through with a nod toward the guard. Determined to put him out of her mind, she rushed through the halls to get to work.

  Once inside the lab, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, counting to ten.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Jim asked.

  She jerked her eyes open and plastered a smile on her face, “Yes, I’m fine. I just saw the protesters out front again this morning.”

  His brow furrowed, as he stated, “But they’re out there a lot. At least they’re better than they used to be. Did something happen this morning?”

  Shaking her head, she said, “No. I guess it was just me. I was running late, had to park in the very back of the parking lot, and for some reason seeing them this morning just put me on edge.” Looking around, she asked, “Where’s Beth?”

  “She’s already in the pen, getting ready for us.” He moved over to the changing station and started shoving his feet into his boots.

  Not wanting to hold him up, she tossed her purse and jacket on to her desk and hustled to do the same. By the time they finished with the morning exams, she knew she would have to forgo lunch in order to get her reports ready. Encouraging Jim and Beth to go eat, she sat at her desk, rubbing her forehead in an effort to still her headache. Her mind wandered back to Eric, and that thought only seemed to make her headache worse.

  It’s going to be a long day.

  * * *

  Once Eric had finalized his meeting with Chester, he made his way through the gate, registering as one of the visiting journalists. The guard at the door directed him, and the other journalists that were gathering around, to an auditorium. The visiting scientists had already had their introductory session and were being led into the research facilities.

  Taking a seat, he looked around at the others. Not surprised, he viewed people of a variety of ethnicities, all wearing visitor press badges like himself. The thought ran through his mind that if he was able to obtain the badge, albeit through DHS, it would not be that hard for any terrorist group with some money and know-how to do the same.

  “Hello.”

  Turning to the soft female voice coming from his left, he observed a petite, Asian woman smiling at him.

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked.

  Rising slightly, as hi
s mother had always taught him, he smiled and said, “No. Please, help yourself.” As she sat, he glanced at her badge, more interested in her representation than her name. Thailand.

  “I’m so glad to be here,” she remarked. “I fought for months with my agency to be able to represent them.”

  “Do you have a particular interest in this facility?” he asked.

  Nodding, she said, “Absolutely. I was actually raised on a farm in China and know the devastation that animal diseases can cause. After I became a journalist, I traveled around, interviewing farmers and trying to get my foot in the door to talk directly to scientists. This will be a huge boost, not only to my career, but I’m hoping the work they do here will help us everywhere.”

  Before he had a chance to ask her more questions, the NBAF speakers came to the front of the room. After the initial introductions, a woman stepped forward to the microphone and introduced herself as Dr. Linda Hughley, the assistant director for NBAF and renowned expert on African Swine Fever. Medium height with dark hair pulled severely back from her face, she stared out over the group as she began to talk. For an hour, she lectured about the NBAF, how it came to be, the history of animal disease studies, and the importance of the work that they did at this facility.

  Although he knew everything that was being said, he took notes just like the other journalists were doing. At the end of the session, they were told that they would hold off on questions until the final session several days hence.

  Dr. Hughley explained, “I prefer to take questions from people who are knowledgeable about a subject. Until you have spent time at our facility and understand the scope of our work, I do not think that your questions would be appropriate.”

  A few of the journalists smiled, but he noticed some scowled at the implied insult.

  Another assistant came to the podium, and said, “You already have the schedules that were emailed to you. You will need to be back here at the facility tomorrow morning to begin your tours and meet the veterinarian that will be taking over your information sessions.” After wishing them to have a nice day, the meeting was adjourned.

  Several of the journalists, including the young lady sitting next to him, were discussing where to go to have lunch. She turned and smiled up at him, and said, “Would you like to join us?”

  While he should have been thrilled to take the opportunity to get to know some of them, he declined. “I’m afraid I already have plans for lunch. Perhaps maybe we can meet for dinner or drinks later?”

  It appeared that quite a few the journalists were staying at the same hotel, one that was down the street from his. “I’ll come this evening, and any of us who want to meet in the bar can do so. How would that be?”

  Gaining the acquiescence of most, he smiled as they left the room. Turning back toward the podium, he noticed a silver-haired man walking toward him.

  The man stopped directly in front of him, his gaze assessing, before lifting his hand. “Welcome to NBAF. Paul Royer.”

  Eric had been informed that Paul was to be his DHS liaison. Offering a firm handshake in return, he nodded. “Good to meet you, sir.”

  “Si Branson is an old friend of mine. I trust him explicitly, and he told me you’re the man for the job. That’s high praise.”

  “Glad to hear it. What have you got for me?”

  Jerking his head back toward the podium, Paul said, “Besides this bullshit which anyone can get out of an Internet search, everyone’s going to spend some time inside the facility. Obviously, no journalists will be going into the below-level research areas, but the bigwigs have decided that as much good press as they can get is not a bad thing. Considering that many of the journalists are representing countries that are currently facing an African Swine Fever epidemic, the idea is for them to take back the information to their countries, hoping for more international cooperation.”

  “And you’ve got some serious concerns about that or I wouldn’t be here, right?”

  “We’ve been getting threats from protesters since the idea was first conceived. The chatter is that some foreign money is coming into these groups, making them a real threat. As soon as I heard that Dr. Hughley was bringing in foreign journalists, I felt like it was too easy of a target for someone to slip in.”

  “And your biggest fear?”

  “Honestly? North Korea. They would love to get a hold of some of our research. They’re close to developing ways to take down other nations with biological warfare. So, you’re going to be our eyes and ears with the journalists that are here. The doctor that you’ll be with tomorrow has no idea of any of this. She’s a veterinarian, not a researcher. She’ll be explaining what we do here with the porcines and what type of research is going on. She’ll be able to give the journalists plenty of information, without actually giving them anything concrete that someone either from North Korea, or someone who would pass information on to North Korea, could use.”

  Nodding, he indicated his understanding. “I’m gonna spend some time this evening with the journalists in an informal setting. I’ll have one of my team do more digging on each one of them so that we’ll know what we’re dealing with. I’ll also have an opportunity to see if I can find out if any of them has any ties to the protesting groups.”

  With a curt nod, Paul shook his hand again and escorted him out. A few minutes later, as he climbed into his car, he put Chester’s address into his GPS.

  So far, everything was going like clockwork.

  7

  Driving out of the small town of Manhattan, Eric admired the rolling hills of the surrounding prairie. Following his GPS, he made several turns on one country road after another until coming to the address Chester had given him.

  Having investigated Chester before coming on this trip, he knew that he owned a sprawling ranch toward the Konza Prairie in the Flint Hills. As far as the eye could see, lush green hills and valleys spread out before him. Off in the distance, he could see the blackened, scorched earth where the prairie was being systematically burned off. He had read that usually controlled burning occurred in the late spring, but some ranchers would wait and burn in the fall.

  At the end of the road leading to Chester’s house, a long, red brick, one-story house came into view. Several outbuildings and a large barn sat further back from the house. Parking, he alighted from his car and walked to the front door.

  Before he had a chance to knock, the door swung open and a short, stocky woman beamed up at him. “You must be Eric,” she said, unlatching the screen door and pushing it open. “I’m Martha, Chester’s wife. Come on in.”

  He stepped over the threshold and viewed a living room to the left. She invited him to follow her, and he walked down the hall toward the back of the house. Entering what was obviously the hub of the home, they made their way into a large, sunny kitchen connected to a dining room, containing a huge table in the middle. A den was also visible, with much more comfortable furnishings than he had seen in the living room.

  “I was keeping my eye out because I figured a guest would use the front door,” Martha said as she headed around the kitchen counter. “Folks around here always drive to the back and come in this door.”

  The door she indicated opened and Chester walked in, kicking his boots off by the door. Looking up, he smiled at Eric, and said, “Welcome. I see you met my Martha.”

  Martha looked over her shoulder, and said, “Go ahead and wash up, Chester. I’m serving up lunch right now.”

  Chester threw his hands up in the air and wiggled them back and forth, “Washed them in the workroom. Figured you’d have lunch ready and I didn’t want to miss a bite.”

  He listened to the easy banter between Chester and his wife and took the seat indicated to him. The door opened again, and he watched as a young couple, a woman that he had seen this morning outside of the NBAF, and another man that he had not met enter the house.

  Chester introduced everyone, saying, “This is my daughter, Anne, and her husband, Terry. You may
have met Eileen Jenkins this morning. She often meets us outside the gate. And this is her husband, Bertram. He’s a lawyer and has helped us over the years to file various motions. I figured if you were good enough to want to do an interview, then I’d bring in more than just me for you to talk to.”

  Nodding, he replied, “This is wonderful, Chester. To have the opportunity to find out what’s really going on is just what my boss at the news organization wants me to do.”

  Anne and Martha set platters on the table and his eyebrows lifted slightly at the amount of food. Roast beef, ham, green beans, corn, macaroni and cheese, salad, and large, fluffy rolls.

  Martha cackled at his expression and said, “Chester and Terry work hard on the ranch, so I’m used to putting out a big spread at lunch. Plus, when he told me we were going to have a guest, I wanted to make sure we showed you some good, Midwestern hospitality.”

  Taking a cue from his hosts, he did not ask any questions during the meal. Martha’s cooking was excellent, just as Chester had predicted, and he thanked her when the meal finished.

  She waved his praise away, and said, “Go on into the den and I’ll bring coffee in a few minutes.”

  Following the others, he sat in one of the chairs in the large, sunshine filled room. Chester sat in an easy chair that appeared to be molded to his body, and he assumed that was where many evenings were spent. Eileen and Bertram took two of the other chairs, and Terry sat on one end of the sofa. A moment later, Anne and Martha brought in a tray filled with coffee mugs and set it on the coffee table. Once served, they sat on the sofa as well.

  Adopting the expression of the earnest journalist, he brought out his small recorder. “Do you have a problem with me recording this interview?”

  Chester shook his head. “Hell, no. Can’t say that there’s anything new I’m going to tell you that I haven’t been preaching for almost 15 years, so go ahead and record away.”