Project Apollo

Chapter 15

Tobias's Laboratory

Northeast Washington, DC – 4:15 AM

Xander repeated the riddle over the phone to Fiona to ensure every word was accurate. Tobias jotted it down on an old receipt.

"Any ideas?" he asked his wife.

"I don't think there is much there other than the 'Before Anonymous'. Who could that be?" She pondered aloud.

"Maybe someone in the CIA or something marked by a number?" His mind searched.

"Henry Bosco, Caroline Keener?" She reminded him of the loose end from Geneva.

"Maybe but that still doesn't get us anywhere..." He counted throughout the quatrain. "10 syllables per line, it's a couplet with an AABB rhyme scheme..." Xander's mind probed the precarious lines that Tobias had scrawled down.

"Is he referring to a person or a place or what?!" Seamus interjected. An introspective silence swept the room.

"Keep working on it, is he talking to you at all?"

"No, not a word until 4AM. I wonder why he wanted me and only me, if he isn't even talking to me?" Fiona pondered aloud.

"He's playing games, probably wants the team to not trust me anymore. Exposing my lie... Keep your head, Fiona. Don't let him in there," Xander cautioned.

"I'll be alright, talk to you when I have something." The call ended.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lieutenant Dan Walker of the Third US Infantry Regiment eyes opened from his pillow in his dormitory at Fort Meyers. Inhaling the cool morning air, he choked on it and raged into a fit of coughing. He coughed hard and violently, trying to get behind the knot in his throat but to no avail. His eyes lowered to the chill that numbed his lower half. His sheets were crumbled in a ball off the side of the bed. Walker thought it was odd that his sheets didn't stay on him throughout the night.

His mind flashed fuzzy images from the night before.

Walking alone to the convenient store across from base.

Hyman Seafood Truck.

Then, Nothingness.

His head ached as his reflection came into view. He looked different in the mirror. He wasn't sure exactly how, but there was an oddity to his appearance. He attempted to shake the look off his face, but was unsuccessful. Chalking up the vagaries of the prior evening to a bender at Ireland's Four Courts pub, guilt settled in as he remembered his duty and felt the shame of his probable debauchery.

I look like shit. He thought before the mirror, knowing the solemn oath that he had taken included never to curse in public, but this did not apply in the privacy of his small college-like dormitory barracks at Fort Meyers Henderson Hall. Upon getting dressed, he eyed the clock and knew he was running late. He exited his dorm and started to walk across the dark base. He passed the horse stables which secreted a putrid odor of manure. Walker began another coughing fit as the stench invaded his nose. After a brisk paced walk of less than a mile away, he found the preparation facility.

Walker entered and immediately found a quick sip of water, soothing his dry throat of sandpaper. He found his locker and consulted the fine pressed woolen military formal hanging on it. His hands began stroking the gold buttons sewn to the navy blue fabric. Bringing a ruler up to one of his medals, he noticed it was a few centimeters off line. After fixing it, he moved to the Old Guard emblem patch, which showed the Washington Monument, crossed by a sword. Worried that major deficiencies may be present, he surveyed every thread detail of his uniform.

After approving his changing blouse, he moved on to his shoes. For thirty minutes, he sanded down and shined them. During the course of his preparation his steady hand loosely jerked, making such an exact science a difficult task. After his shoes glowed in reflective light, the lieutenant cleaned the common-area. His trembling hands knocked a drink over in the process, but he was able to clean it quickly and ready himself for dressing.

A personal tradition of his was that the last duty of his detailed routine was to inspect the flag patch on his uniform. His eyes settled on the stars and stripes, branding his uniform. Transfixed for a moment a sense of pride filled him. The countless hours of training before a mirror, memorization of facts and credos, and, of course, shining his shoes were necessary for his symbolic role of sentinel.

His white gloves quickly came up to his mouth as he choked on a violent cough. Upon bringing his hand down, he noticed his gloves were stained with blood from his cough. His first thought was not his own health, but rather the unacceptable uniform deficiency before him.

What the hell?

He quickly found a reserve pair and shook off his own deteriorating health, determined to man his post. His gaze returned to his reflection, but quickly snapped from it by a neck twitch.

How am I going to stand guard like this?

The twitching did not cease. His memory visualized the crumbled ball of sheets off his bed.

Did I twitch my bed sheets off of me last night?

Perplexed by the abnormalities of the morning, he dressed with great difficulty and performed the final checks of his uniform before the large mirror, checked his watch and then headed outside for the changing of the guard.

He processed out, marching to meet his commanding officer. As it was the early morning, a dark sky hung over head, still absent of any dawn light. There were no spectators, but the dignity of the ceremony was kept in check, for men of this caliber knew that God and their fallen heroes were still watching. With sharp, brisk motions he positioned himself with his rifle. He clicked his heels to indicate his stopping and awaited his approaching commanding officer.

The officer first took Walker's rifle into his white gloved hands and inspected it from different angles. Muscle memory developed from years of practice made their motions smooth and direct. After handing it back, the officer looked Walker's up and down with stern head movements, inspecting the quality of his uniform and probing it for any minor deficiencies.

And then, Walker's jerked in his stance during the inspection.

The commanding officer raised his eyes to him in a towering look of judgment. An intensity beamed down on him as his CO continued to appraise him. Walker knew that he would be chastised for breaking his stance after his shift.

He is going to lay into me for that one.

The CO then inspected the back side of his uniform and after clearing the check, Walker processed with him to the center of the plaza. Orders were shouted and rifles were adjusted. After the final order the CO marched off the plaza along with the guard, leaving Walker to the black mat. The mat was 21 paces long and Walker walked it back and forth, supplanting the best he could the accelerating twitch in his step. He was marching guard before a large white tomb with the inscription:

"Here Rests In Honored Glory An American Soldier Known But To God."

Upon reaching the end of the mat, he clicked his pivot but then felt something slip down the back of his throat. And then a thin liquid slid down his nasal cavity and rolled off his upper lip. The bead of blood dripped from his nose and splattered on the black mat before him.