Arrival

By Johnny Johnson

It should be a day of unbounded joy as the world weeps tears of relief and gratitude.
But not everybody wants to hear the news.
The truth has never been more dangerous.

www.johnnyauthor.com/sample

• Language: English
• Publisher: Johnny Johnson
• Release date: Dec 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463578971

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Untold

‘They’ll put you in the psych ward.’

‘Who will?’

‘The authorities.’

‘But we are the authorities.’

‘It’s not us I’m talking about. I mean the people who see these things, who report the sightings, the strange experiences, the abductions. For the most part they’re just regular normal everyday people. That’s maybe why there are so many cold trails. Things don’t get followed up properly because those kind of people are simply not believed.’

‘And that’s the fault of the authorities?’

‘Of course it is. Who else has the resources to investigate such things?’

‘Why would they not want to find out the truth? Isn’t that the most important aspect of this?’

‘Yeah, you’d think. But let’s start from a different perspective. Suppose they already know the truth, but are just sitting on it, don’t want to make it all public.’

‘Because of the panic?’

‘Yeah, exactly, I mean, looked at that way, it’s almost a defensible position.’

‘Unless there’s a better way of telling the world the truth. A less frightening way, less shocking, and more positive, maybe even more stimulating.’

‘What, and undo several thousand years of civilization’s most cherished beliefs. That would take some doing. An almost impossible task really. So who exactly is going to do that?’

Commander Harry Shepperton looked down at his young team.

"We are’, he said.

He hadn’t told them the details of their latest project in advance. That was not so unusual. The Nines were becoming an experienced outfit, already having three successful missions under their belt. They had already dealt with an attempted election hijack, an investigation into the source of The Pandemic, and the perplexing case of the disappearance of the world’s money. None of those had been particularly easy or straightforward tasks, yet all were ultimately accomplished quietly and without too much fuss, much to the huge relief of the teams’ employer, Her Majesty’s Government of the UK.

Being a member of the world’s foremost RRT, the rapid response taskforce who were expected to go anywhere, do anything, fix any problem at a moment’s notice, had plenty of advantages.

Knowing in advance exactly what you’d be doing next wasn’t one of them.

Hazel Ingliss, Harry’s boss, popped her head round the door.

‘Have you told them yet?’

‘Just getting to that part,’ Harry assured her.’ Thought a bit of preamble wouldn’t go amiss first. Considering the subject matter and all that.’

Hazel nodded.

‘Good idea. Let them get their heads around it a bit. Not your everyday type of discussion, I’d imagine’ she smiled.’ Just nipping in to see the PM now so do keep me posted please, there’s a good chap. Lord knows it’s not exactly top of her priorities at the moment, although I cannot for the life of me think of any one thing that could possibly be more important.’

Harry grinned. He’d been around politicians long enough to understand their whimsical moods. Undeniably they did have a lot of stuff to juggle, and obviously the PM had more than most, so under most circumstances choosing exactly the most pressing issue from day to day would be understandably difficult.

But this?

Surely there just couldn’t be anything more important, could never have been anything more important, possibly in the whole history of the world.

‘OK, will do. Good luck.’

And then Hazel was gone, leaving her most seasoned and experienced officer to finalise his latest briefing with his six young charges. They all had a sense of what was coming, having spent the last hour discussing the group text message that had summonsed them to this, their latest get together, as the balmy late spring of 2024 washed over London town. The world had gone through a couple of wars and a global disease in the previous five years and it felt like one of those times in mid cycle when some peace and quiet could, and should, resume. But then they got this -

Code blue - Monday 1 April

Code Blue always meant the same thing. A new mission. Get to the office by 7am for a briefing. The Nines’ messages were always heavily encrypted but, erring on the side of caution, gave away little about the nature of whatever lay ahead. Not by way of direct information anyway, although Harry always found his own way of providing a heads up, of adding a bit of welcome extra context. The full message ran -

Code blue - Monday 1 April. Could be the last of these.

After a brief moment of shock prompted by visions of the team being abruptly stood down, the six individuals quickly realised that the final short sentence must mean something else.

A quick look at the calendar gave them the clue they needed. It would be Easter Monday. A bit of a weird time for a 7am project kick off meeting, which could only mean one of two things. It was either deathly urgent or hugely symbolic. Urgent was always possible of course and yet, plugged into world events as they were, there was no obvious global trigger.

So that left Easter. Religion ‘n all that.

Hmm. The last of all these. What could that mean and what kind of seismic event could threaten to undo mankind’s most entrenched belief systems, propagated by both true martyrs and charlatans alike over the previous millennia?

That would need to be something pretty big, something absolutely massive, so they were all even more surprised to find their boss slightly less voluble than usual, as he started to reveal the details bit by bit.

‘You’ll all recall our first team meeting’ he started ‘and the explanation that I provided at that time for the rationale behind the setting up of this rather extraordinary team.’

Yup, lots of nodding, they all concurred.

‘Essentially we are a strike force, although not one that does too much striking, our main strength being an ability to stay ahead of the game and head off trouble before it arrives.’

Yup, more nodding.

‘Altho’ datt didn’t help us too much wid datt effin’ pandemic, did it?’ Liam interjected, his Dublin brogue largely unaffected by five years of living in London.

‘Very true, Liam,’ his boss quickly agreed,’ which brings me to another characteristic of our work. Its sheer variety. We seldom know what’s around the corner or what will be asked of us next. That, I would suggest, is probably a key attraction of the work. The projects are always different, always stimulating, and never dull or boring. All key factors which attracted you to the job in the first place, and, in a sense, probably the main reason you’re all here.’

The hand picked team started to look at each other. This was suddenly a bit odd. Was Harry actually waffling?

But they were patient as well as curious.

Mission number four was becoming intriguing.

‘So you won’t be too surprised to learn then, that this morning’s briefing will be a bit different from those which have gone before. There is going to be one key ingredient missing.’

He paused briefly and studied the expressions on the faces of his team, scanning them left to right.

Paul Lambert. Lawyer turned negotiator. Elbows on table, both hands clasped together, both forefingers tipping the end of his nose. Enrapt.

Caitlin Yang. Computer and software guru. Biting her bottom lip. Quizzical, maybe even worried.

Jake Rivera. The chemist and physicist that Harry had barely needed until now. A bit faraway, almost dreamy. The academic was thinking, as befits professors.

JoJo Everett. The team’s baby, everybody’s sweetheart, but a maths major and engineering genius. She might be the hardest. Always needed some logic.

Mark Wright. Weapons and ballistics. Elbows folded across his chest, which is supposed to mean defensive, but he was smiling, so it didn’t. Concentrated.

Liam Dempsey, geologist and champion blagger. Just cool, rocking back and forth in his chair. Nothing ever fazed Liam.

‘Which is the exact nature of the project.’

Liam stopped rocking.

Mark unfolded his arms and splayed his hands out across the desk.

Jake came back from wherever he’d been and tuned in.

Caitlin’s furrowed brow moved up as her eyes widened in surprise.

Paul slid his steepled forefingers up along the bridge of his nose.

The silence can’t have been long, no more than a couple of seconds, but it seemed like forever.

JoJo broke it.

‘How can we carry out a mission if we don’t know what it is?’ she enquired reasonably.

Harry grinned.

‘That’s not quite what I said, is it?’

‘I’m not sure quite what you said, boss,’ Mark quickly agreed with JoJo ‘but it didn’t exactly sound too encouraging.’

Harry started to speak but..

‘Especially given the text wording,’ Paul chipped in. ‘We always appreciate your occasional slight disregard for protocol and the odd clue here and there, boss. But first that and now this. What’s going on? Are we going to be disbanded?’

Now it was Harry’s turn to be taken aback, although suddenly he could see how it must all look to them. He needed to get back on track.

Sharpish.

It was only seven fifteen in the morning.

His day wasn’t starting too well.

Chapter 2 - Mind reading

‘That’s how it feels apparently. Like you’re in touch with them although there’s no speaking. No words. No talking. Just a sense of communication.’

‘I don’t actually find that so hard to believe. I mean there are numerous forms of non-verbal communication. We know instinctively if people are upset, for example. They don’t have to say anything, we can just sense it. That’s how we would describe it, isn’t it? And then what about animals. Dogs can detect fear as well as bad intent. So if somebody’s scared of something happening to them they’ll know, just the same way they’ll know if somebody is about to do something bad.’

‘Several of the abductees reported that they felt they were receiving their thoughts, the thoughts of their captors that is. If captors is even the right word to use.’

Turbanski was hardly an old mate of Harry’s, but he knew him well enough to entrust him with this particular conversation. His newspaper, Al Jazzawa, had always prided itself on the truth, on speaking out, on being bold, being unafraid, of taking on the issues that others dared not touch.

He knew Commander Shepperton from a few years earlier when they’d both become inadvertently mixed up with an underhand Islamist plot to subvert the election of the US president. Ever since then, like all good journalists, he had maintained the contact and stayed in touch, albeit with a very light touch and from a distance. But you never knew, as his old boss Ali always used to tell him when he was a rookie, you just never knew when somebody would come in handy. Bit of a blunt way of putting it, but the old guard newspaper guys could be like that, a tad rough, directness often getting you to the heart of the story a whole lot quicker.

The fact that he was an Afghan Londoner put him in one of those minority groups of which there were now so many in the first part of the twenty-first century that you could barely call them minorities any more. And few did, apart from the self-serving politicians who would play the race card forever, making matters worse but never caring.

That didn’t bother Turbs though; he was totally integrated and bright enough to know it. He could spot an angle a mile off and detested hypocrisy in all its guises. His loving family had tried to keep him close to the positive aspects of his faith, of which there were many, but Turbs struggled with religion from a very early age. All religions, not just his own. His naturally inquisitive nature readily undid most of the trite assumptions and speculative pronouncements which formed the historic backdrops for all the various church/mosque/temple/synagogue based institutions. He didn’t fight them, for he was, unlike many of their followers, a model of tolerance. Others had their right to believe as he had his right not to. Simple as that.

But that didn’t stop him pondering the great questions, the big questions. And, whenever he did, his mind would quickly wander off into other worlds, the ones we know so little about, although that is now changing fast.

Was God out there somewhere, hidden in the depths of the Universe?

Probably not, he thought, but something else probably was.

‘And then do you know what those who’ve been in some sort of close proximity actually say? They say they feel like they’ve been scanned. Scanned! You know, like a supermarket product or something. I mean fuck, that’s pretty scary, right?’

Harry was in non-committal mode. He had come to listen, not to respond, certainly not to decide. All that would come later. For now he was happy - well maybe not happy but at least content - to have been invited into this inner sanctum of journalists by his old acquaintance.

Turbs had been more than instrumental in helping settle the strange case of Johnny Marriott and The White House patent that had threatened to unhinge democracy a few years earlier. So when Harry received his invitation to come along and listen to the growing concerns of selected representatives of the fourth estate about the increasing levels of official secrecy, he had felt obliged to accept. Harry was sufficiently old school to still believe in some traditional yet fundamental core beliefs.

Always tell the truth was right up there, pretty much at the top of the values list. He personally subscribed to the view that lying made you ill whereas being honest made you shine, made you feel clean, made you grow inside. All a bit idealistic maybe, especially in the upper realms of politics, but he made a conscious and constant attempt to stick by his beliefs on a daily basis.

So this particular meeting was making him feel uncomfortable. The more he listened, the more he found himself agreeing with the consensus view. These people were not idiots. On the contrary they seemed to be an extremely bright and intelligent bunch, curious by nature, as all journalists need to be, unduly sceptical, as most journalists tend to be, and doggedly persistent, as all journalists have to be.

They were also extremely well briefed, either by some third party, or else just as a result of doing their own homework and research properly.

The core proposition was not just an unfocused tirade about Roswell. This was laser focused and bang up to date. They knew about the old and the new. about Pentyrch and Todmorden, about Bentwaters /Lakenheath and Rendlesham, about Kecksburg and Clayton, about Shag harbor and Petrozavodsk, about the Phoenix lights, about the Nimitz tic-tac and about Hernandez, about the BA/Virgin Shannon incidents, and on and on and on.

Harry knew of course that you could get all this stuff off the internet. For heaven’s sake there was even a whole Wiki page dedicated to sightings and other related experiences, all listed chronologically, the detail and clamour surrounding each one becoming ever more distinct and ever louder. He’d read all that stuff himself, not so much professionally, more as an individual and a normal caring citizen who wanted to know and to understand. And as he sat there now, in the back bar of The George in Southwark, that was one of the main things that came back to him. These were all just ordinary normal people, mostly just going about their jobs or daily lives, when these extraordinary things had happened to them.

Somehow that had struck the loudest chord of all with him. The sheer cross section of people involved just seemed to totally preclude any kind of planned conspiracy or organized mischief. Why would they say those things if they weren’t true? It made no sense at all to him, clashing with his own deeply held belief system as it did.

So Harry found himself increasingly tuning out as the eight seasoned and veteran old pros in the room banged on more and more about all the specific cases.

He knew the facts of all of them pretty much, at least as they’d been originally reported, but he now found himself increasingly thinking about the why. Not the why as in why had those people done what they’d done. The why as in, why do all the official responses look like suppression.? FOI - Freedom Of Information - requests being slapped with section 26 notices, admissions that something out of the ordinary had definitely happened, but, in the vast majority of cases, accompanied by the paper equivalent of a stone wall. Sorry, we’re not talking about that, not going to say anything else. Now go away.

The more he thought about it, the more it began to infuriate him, especially when he suddenly recognized an accumulation of frustration which had obviously been there and building up for some considerable time.

Damn, he suddenly thought to himself, as he realised he’d been repressing all those feelings for quite some time, as, in fact, most people do. The difference being that Commander Harry Shepperton was most definitely not most people.

He wasn’t in charge of defending the UK from threats, no one person could be, but he was most certainly part of it. And he had a team at his disposal. The UK Government’s latest RRT, whose specific remit was to watch over the country’s security and act whenever it was faced with danger, real or perceived. The more he thought about it, the more he came to realise this was a major issue. The only surprise was why it hadn’t occurred to him before.

‘It’s bad enough that we’ve been reporting these stories for years,’ George Riley, the most seasoned of the old hacks present was complaining, ‘even worse maybe is the fact that we’re consistently and constantly ignored. I mean there are records of things flying in formation and tracked on radar to be travelling at speeds in excess of four thousand miles per hour. And that was way back in the fifties, and not, I would stress, witnessed by a man and his dog but rather by none other than the RAF and the US air force. The consistently dismissive and semi-mocking tone used to bat all those stories away is all bad enough of course, but the worst of it is that this has been going on forever, for bloody years, I mean for decades as far as we can tell and, quite likely even longer than that. The old saying about there being nothing new under the sun couldn’t be more apt when it comes to this stuff. And yet, what real progress have we made with any of it? As far as transparency, I mean?"

Harry suddenly remembered with a start that the Government department responsible for dealing with all related matters had closed nearly fifteen years earlier in 2009, not in itself an odd decision since organizational change is a regular and common part of the civil service infrastructure. What was odd though was that the hotline, together with the manpower resource who managed sightings, had never been busier than they were at that time, fielding reports of no less than six hundred and forty three incidents from all sorts of normal people right across the UK, which was three times as many as it had been the previous year.

That single fact nagged at him again afresh as he pondered it. Either there had been more and more cranks or there had been more and more activity, the one seeming much more likely than the other.

He considered the number. Six hundred and forty three, almost two every day. Six hundred and forty two of them could have been hoaxes, genuine mistakes or drunken ramblings. Only one needed to have been genuine. Only one out of six hundred and forty three.

And that, he reminded himself, was just across the UK, a relatively small country which comprised barely one fifth of one per cent of the world’s overall landmass.

An almost insignificant little island just off the Northern coast of Europe.

An especially small piece of land.

Especially when viewed from space.

Chapter 3 - U.A.P’s

’No its not new Prime Minister, I understand that. The stories themselves are as old as the hills. But there are extenuating circumstances, driven largely by new technologies which are quite compelling.’

Hazel Ingliss had a good relationship with the PM. It would have been largely impossible to do her job otherwise. Looking after the security of the UK was a pretty unpredictable business, stable relationships and candid speaking could only go so far in solving the many problems which arose, but they certainly helped.

Nonetheless, this was a pretty tricky subject, one which had been much kicked around in the highest of political circles for decades, so the narratives, and the difficult issues surrounding them, were all well-worn tracks.

She immediately sensed the expected reluctance to commit to any action beyond the usual set of denials and obfuscations.

‘We can’t keep blaming weather balloons, Prime Minister. People aren’t stupid and continuing to trot out the same old stuff is not doing anybody any favours. Neither us, nor the public. We need to start thinking about a fresh way to manage this.’

The UK’s first female PM since Margaret Thatcher had been voted in on a transparency ticket in the surprise snap election that had occurred just a few weeks earlier. Hazel was hoping that her reputation for honesty and integrity might prove to have some substance and be more than just spin. This would possibly be her first stiff test. Something of a baptism of fire, given the subject matter at hand.

‘I hope you’re not trying to get me booted out Hazel,’ she enquired semi- seriously.’ I’ve only been here a few weeks and I would dearly like to at least make it to Christmas. Bit bloody embarrassing otherwise.’

Hazel didn’t want to spoil her chances by overplaying her hand but it was tempting to suggest at this point that her new boss could probably go down in history way before Christmas by being bold with this particular issue, something she was clearly well capable of, judging by many of her previous actions. But this, as everybody kept on saying, was something different. Not your run of the mill political decision, like closing down a hospital or rezoning a housing area. This was big, really big, and had proven to be so for legions of politicians all over the world for the past few years, probably longer. She knew she would have to choose her words carefully and avoid the usual old guff. She had thought about this moment a lot in the previous few days, even more so in the previous few hours.

Well, here goes nothing.

‘I’ve got a team, Prime Minister. They’re known generally as The Nines, well at least by those people who do know them, although there’s not really too many of them, need to keep a low profile n’ all that kind of thing, you know the usual security routine, need to know basis only, and not many need to know really, as a result of which…’

‘Hazel,’ the PM fixed her with a steely grin,’what are you blathering on about? I know all about The Nines, I do read my briefings you know. So come on, spit it out girl. What is it you want to tell me? I’m a pretty busy person these days you may be surprised to hear and I haven’t got all day, so what is it. Do you need to tell me something or do you need to ask me something? Which is it?’

Hazel Ingliss was seldom short for words but suddenly she felt all a dither. This wasn’t how she’d played out this conversation in her head. She tried to gather herself and soldier on.

‘They’ve got a pretty broad remit.’

‘Who have. The Nines, you mean?’

‘Yes, the original idea was to recruit a unit who had total flexibility, even to the extent of the individual team members being able to vet and choose their own missions.

‘Fucking hell, I don’t remember reading that in my briefings. That’s very, err, innovative. Does it work?’

‘Well, they’ve had three missions so far. All different, all massive global threats, all successfully concluded. So, well let’s just say that I’m very pleased with how things are working out.’

The PM fixed Hazel with her steely stare again.

‘Three missions, you say?’

‘Yes Prime Minister. Three, that’s correct.’

‘My briefing mentioned the team, even said something about the individuals. Three Brits, two Yanks and a Paddy as I recall.’

‘That’s right, Prime Minister, your memory serves you well.’

‘I know, it always has done. I just happen to be blessed with exceptional recall. So I know for sure that there was nothing about any missions in my briefing. Bugger all. Bit odd, wouldn’t you say?’

Hazel was using to quoting security protocols at people to keep them at bay and safeguard her people. But she could hardly do that in this instance. However, if nothing else, Hazel Ingliss was quick on her feet.

‘They’ll be in the Appendices, I’m sure. Those summaries are specifically designed to get you up to speed without too much unnecessary clutter.’

‘Hmm, I rather think as the person currently in charge of running the United Kingdom I should be able to decide for myself about clutter she miffed. ‘I’m not bloody five, Hazel, for future reference, so please doesn’t censor me. I really don’t like it.’

‘Message received, duly noted.’

‘But while you’re here, and while we’re on about it, you might as well tell me.’

‘Tell you what.’

‘About The Nines, you know, the Appendices. Or should I say the missing appendices’ she winked. It was a decidedly un-Prime Ministerial thing to do and Hazel was temporarily thrown off track. For the second time in almost as many moments she had to regain her stride. Top professional that she was, she found her composure again in seconds and bounced right back.

‘Their first mission was to prevent an Islamist plot to secure control of The White House using technology. The second was to investigate and identify the source of The Pandemic. The third was to get everybody’s money back when it suddenly disappeared overnight a couple of years back. You’ll remember that one I take it?’

Now it was the Prime Minister who was derailed.

She sat upright, pushed her back into her chair, and gave Hazel a puzzled look, half question, half smile.

‘That was your lot?’

"Yup. ‘fraid so.’

‘How did they do it?’

‘Which one?’

‘Well, all of them. But The Disappearance first.’

‘It’s a long story. In fact they all are. Lets just say in that case it was part BitCoin, part hack, part bankers.’

‘I thought it was the bankers who fixed it. Isn’t that what they told us?’

‘I believe it was Prime Minister but it wasn’t, if you see what I mean, they claimed the credit, but Harry’s team actually did all the work and solved it.’

‘Ah yes, the redoubtable Harry Shepperton. There was reference to him in my briefing as well, but not really too much. All in the Appendices again I suppose?’ she commented, raising her eyebrows to the heavens and sighing for effect ‘He manages the team doesn’t he? ‘

‘Yes, that’s right, he does. And they’ve got a great working relationship despite being a generation apart, him and the guys. He sort of looks out for them, in general. In return, I think they’d probably all trust him with their lives. Not that that theory has ever been tested. Hope it never is.’

‘He’s ex Army, isn’t he, Commander Shepperton, him and his fixer mate, Billy Poppitt?’

Hazel was thrown again. There was definitely no mention of Billy anywhere in any of the briefings. This was a PM who clearly did her own legwork.

‘Yes, and all the discipline is definitely still there. Plus all of the leadership qualities.’

‘Bit of a mixed bag from what little I’ve been told by others about the team. But then I gather that’s one of their core strengths, the mixed abilities, ready to take on most anything, pretty much everywhere at the drop of a hat.’

‘Yes, exactly. That was the whole recruitment strategy. Try and build the complete unit. Capable enough to address most issues. Small enough to be able to move quickly and unnoticed. Pack a toothbrush and go. ‘

‘Yes, I saw there’s only six. Not many is it really, to sort out the world’s problems? And unarmed as well. Talk me through that.’

‘That was Harry’s idea, Prime Minister. He thought that with proper planning and decent execution it should be possible to avoid killing anybody. So far, I have to say, he’s been absolutely right. Less bangs, more bucks, as he likes to say.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We don’t need an armaments budget. Even for a small team of six that’s easily going to run £70 to £80k each with reserve ammo, servicing and maintenance.’

Harry was right of course, as he usually was, although in the wlld and wacky world of military budgets and arms spending this was a laughably small sum of money.

Spending levels would have been bad enough if every planned activity or new piece of hardware came in on budget. But they never did. The final cost of the UK’s two new aircraft carriers, deemed vital for their ability to provide a fighting base anywhere in the world, came in at £7.6bn against the officially projected cost of £6.2bn which had been given to The House in a written statement in 2013.

In that context, Harry Shepperton’s cost savings were virtually insignificant, his philosophy for his team being driven more by his desire to reduce unnecessary violence and killing than improving financial discipline.

‘Well, that’s very good, Cost savings are always appreciated, no matter how small. God knows, in these post Covid times the price of everything just seems to double every time you look at it. I’m so glad I’m not Chancellor, but next time I see him I’ll mention what you just told me. I’m sure there’s a lesson for us all in there somewhere. Now, thanks for that quick update, but what exactly is it that you’re planning on doing with this splendid model unit of economic efficiency. I assume its something pretty extreme. They don’t seem to do much else. You started talking about the aerial defence of the UK. Well, what about it?’

Hazel steeled herself again.

This was likely to be as good a way of approaching things as any.

‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Prime Minister, I suspect we may have been compromised.’

‘By whom.’

‘Well, that’s rather the point. I don’t think we’re entirely sure.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, these are not your typical incursions. The evidence is clearly there that they exist, that these things have happened, we have the radar footprints, but beyond that our ability to be more specific is not great.’

The PM had been piecing Hazel’s slow dance together in her mind as the stuttering conversation had slowly unfolded over the previous half hour.

‘Is this a UAP discussion Hazel?’ she enquired, rather matter of factly, helping her Intelligence chief along considerably with a welcome icebreaker.

‘That would be a great starting point Prime Minister, but it’s actually about much more than that.’

‘OK. I’m all ears. Go on.’

‘Well maybe the best way to approach it would be to let Commander Shepperton tell you in his own words about a meeting he had with some senior journalists last week. He’s waiting outside. May I ask him in?’

Chapter 4 - The JPL

Colonel Hank Wyatt had retired from the US Air Force several years earlier. Having enlisted in his twenties and worked his way up through the ranks, he had suddenly found himself with a generous pension from Uncle Sam at the relatively young age of fifty. Not being the type to lie back and relax for the rest of his days, Hank had set himself up as a General contractor, a job description that was sufficiently vague to allow him to pretty much offer his services to anybody anywhere as long as the task at hand had a vague fit with his own background and skill sets.

The military and the Intelligence communities often work very closely together and maintain operational links at most levels and across most territories. As a result Hank knew Harry Shepperton well and, over the previous few years, had found himself seconded to help out on a couple of The Nines’ projects. Being based in