Project Apollo

Chapter 14

Broadcast News Association

Washington, DC – 3:30AM

Bradley Spencer paced through the mostly empty bullpen of the Broadcast News Association, or BNA, with a pile of notes shoved under his arm. His other hand steadied the bicycle that served as his only mode of transit. A five o'clock shadow had budded up and down his neck. His pants were wrinkled – his shirt stained. A lose tie hung low from his unbuttoned collar and his tweed jacket's lapel was folded under in an ensemble of unkempt presentation. He was in the middle of another late night of investigative journalism

BNA was a cable news network that once held a command of the ratings charts, but in recent years their ratings had tail-spun. A Canadian-born entrepreneur named Lukas Meeklesen had resurrected the news station from its ashes. Known for his ever-present management, his office stood atop a flight of stairs looking down on the bullpen. He rarely spoke to anyone but delegated through his close assistants and kept the pressure on the producers, necessary to create ratings-worthy TV. He had loosened the fact checking procedures of the station, once arrogantly stating 'It's true if we say it is'.

This shift in ownership had led to the over-coverage of crisis news and weather strikes. Political commentary and foreign affairs had taken a backseat to the more fantastical stories that attracted the casual viewer. The news agency never slept, but at this hour there were few souls apart from the cleaning crew roaming the office.

Bradley Spencer noticed the glob of ketchup on his tweed lapel from his usual late-night diner snack he was just now returning from. He wiped the glob off and then lifted his bag carrying eyes to a tall black haired professional woman, leaning up on her office doorframe.

"Hey Rachel." Bradley pushed his bicycle past his producer.

"Bradley, step into my office when you get a minute," she ordered casually, looking her most struggling journalist up and down. His features had aged quickly, including his hair. There was a slight sag to his skin off his high cheekbones and an exhaustion behind his dark brown eyes. After years of struggling with thinning hair through college, he eventually shaved his head bald, surrendering to his premature aging.

Bradley nodded and continued through the bullpen until he arrived at his cluttered desk. Crumbled pieces of notebook paper littered the space beneath it, while random notes, scrawled out on post-it notes stuck to every service before him. He leaned his bicycle up against his file cabinet and flopped the stack of notes under his arm down on the only clear spot on his desk. After looking over his workstation he saw one foreign object – a note left for him on his chair. Raising the note to the light, he made out its words.

The Four Missing Scientists All Attended A Conference At The WHO Called: "Biological Advancements in the Field of Infectious Disease." Two Months Prior To Their Disappearance.

Bradley had known this already, but welcomed the thought that his assistant was actually digging for information to help him out. He crumbled the note and deposited it under the desk along with all of the other trashed ideas on the subject.

He sighed deeply and trudged toward his producer's office. Before he reached the office, his colleague in the neighboring cubicle stumbled up to him, collecting his laptop from his desk.

"Why coooo....dn't you meettttt.... Usssss for drinks! McFadden's was soooo fun." Bradley feigned a grin at his colleague's apparent drunkenness.