Aggie & Agent X

AGGIE & AGENT X

A Science Fiction Novel

By Gary Alan Ruse

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Gary Alan Ruse

The cover design, Aggie & Agent X logo and the cover

illustration are also copyright 2012 by Gary Alan Ruse.

All rights are reserved.

The photo of the girl in the trench coat is by

Robert Lehmann, licensed through Bigstock Photo.

The photo of Agent X is used with the

permission of Area 51 Central Command.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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ACKNOWLEGEMENTS

Special thanks to a dear friend, Linda Cox, for her ongoing encouragement, support and feedback during the writing of this novel. I also want to thank another friend, Stephanie Abbott, for her advice and knowledge about electronic publishing. Most of all, I want to say a prayerful and loving thanks to my late mother, Virginia Mae Ruse, who not only encouraged my creative efforts from the very beginning, but who also remarkably gave me the name and spooky nature of this tale’s villain, and was an Annie Oakley in her own right.

And Aggie and Sam, thank you for all your help!

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CHAPTER ONE

The Assignment

Am I in trouble, Sir? asked Agnes Westfeld as she entered the Deputy Director’s office at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

Joshua Danton gestured toward the empty chair in front of his desk. "Do you think you should be in trouble, Officer Westfeld?" he inquired with that agency air of calculating innocence that always made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.

Well, no, Sir, said Agnes, sitting down gingerly. It’s just that, as a rookie officer with barely a few months work under my belt, I haven’t seen anyone higher than my supervisor until now. Certainly no-one at your level. You must have at least a Top Secret Clearance.

Ultra Top Secret, but that’s classified, said Danton dryly. So is everything else I’m about to tell you.

Agnes’s posture cranked another few degrees straighter and she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping a bit in both pitch and volume.

Yes, Sir--?

Danton made her wait. He was dressed in an ordinary gray business suit even though he was still technically an Air Force General. His gaze was downcast, focused on Agnes’s file, which was open on his desk. It was a relatively slender file compared to those of many employees at the agency, but still there seemed to be a number of documents in it that Agnes had never seen. Some were no doubt the results of background checks, psychological evaluations and job performance assessments. She was highly skilled at reading upside-down and she couldn’t help trying to make out some of the words on those pages.

Danton’s eyes immediately glanced up to meet hers, as if he had read her thoughts. He studied her pretty face a moment.

Officer Westfeld, has anyone ever said anything to you about the amount of make-up you wear?

Ah...actually, Sir, I don’t wear any make-up, Agnes replied. I have a bit of an allergy.

Danton raised an eyebrow. You’re saying your eyelashes are that full and dark and your cheeks and lips are that color naturally--?

It seems to be a hereditary problem, she explained with a slight twitch of a smile. On my mother’s side, of course.

Danton carefully smoothed the edges of the stack of papers in her file and closed the folder. He crossed his arms and fixed her with a look of mild disapproval.

I have to be honest, Westfeld, he said suddenly. There’s nothing bad in your file, of course, but you would not be my first choice for this assignment. I would rather see an officer with more experience, especially more field experience, doing this job. Unfortunately, it’s not up to me.

Agnes’s ears perked up on two counts. First, she was getting an assignment. Second, she had been chosen by someone higher than the Deputy Director...?

I’ll do my best not to let the agency down, she said. Ah...are you saying, Sir, that it was the Director who selected me?

Danton let out a short huff of sound, his lips twisting into a smirk. "Hardly. I doubt he’s even aware of you. Besides, he’s out of the loop on this project. He’s a recent political appointee, don’t forget. His access to a few... sensitive...topics is still on hold, pending certain evaluations and decisions. That fact is also classified, I hasten to point out."

Agnes cocked her head slightly, sending ripples through her long blonde hair. She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated a second before words came out.

Then I’m confused, she said. "If I’m not your choice and the Director himself doesn’t know about this, then who...unless you’re saying..."

No, not the President! And as far as that goes, there are a few topics that he and most previous presidents have not been privy to, either. But that’s neither here nor there. Suffice it to say that there is...someone...who has requested working with you.

Someone...?

Danton gave an uncomfortable shrug of one shoulder and squinched his mouth a bit. He’s an agent of sorts. Not an official CIA officer, but someone who has proven very, very valuable to our government and our nation. Within reason, we try to accommodate his requests.

Agnes digested that a moment, then her eyebrows raised and her eyes widened. Oh my God, Sir--you’re not pimping me out...are you?

Danton’s face went ashen and he looked genuinely concerned--almost aghast--at the suggestion.

Oh, no. No, no, no, Westfeld. We never do things like that, he quickly assured her. Well...actually there are times when we do, but this isn’t one of them, and never with a rookie officer. Put your mind at ease. This is nothing like that. At worst, it’s more like babysitting than anything else. You’ve done that before.

She was still puzzled. Yes, when I was in high school six years ago. But I don’t see...

You will, Danton said. Trust me. You will. All will be explained soon enough. Now, do I have your word that you will honor your commitment to absolute secrecy about this assignment? And I do mean absolute, under pain of death, secrecy?

Agnes swallowed hard. Of course, Sir.

Good. Go home and pack whatever you need for a week or two. Whatever fits in one carry-on bag. Anything else you need will be furnished. Get back here in two hours. We will provide transportation to Andrews Air Force Base, where a special plane awaits to take you to your destination.

And my destination is...?

Danton said nothing, instead just staring at her with something akin to a smile, although totally lacking in warmth.

Agnes nodded and rose from her seat. Understood, Sir. I’m on my way. Thank you, Sir.

She briefly considered backing out of the office, but decided that would not be proper protocol for the situation, or even a good idea, and instead simply turned and exited as quickly and quietly as she could.

CHAPTER TWO

The Landing

Agnes peered through the plane’s small window at the terrain below. Due to the time difference, it was still daylight in the new locale, but a quick glance at her watch told her that the light would be fading soon enough.

The transportation Deputy Director Danton had mentioned turned out to be a closed van with an air-conditioning company’s name emblazoned on the side panels and rear doors. It had picked her up discreetly in a rear parking area sheltered from outside view, with Danton himself and several grim-faced men in grey suits supervising her departure.

Sitting inconspicuously on a workman’s jump seat in the back, with her small overnight bag the only ballast to keep her from bouncing around, she had hung on tightly as the van took Georgetown Pike and Dolly Madison Boulevard, then the George Washington Memorial Parkway through the southern tip of D.C. and finally down into Maryland. It took about an hour in traffic. She had never seen Andrews Air Force Base before--actually it was now a joint Air Force and Naval facility--and she didn’t see much of it then, just a few roads and a small office where a jeep and its driver immediately collected her and whisked her off to a runway where the plane waited.

The C-20B twin-engine, turbofan jet was a 12 seater and the military version of the Gulfstream III, with Rolls Royce engines and low key markings of the 89th Airlift Wing. It was regularly used for special transport missions. Her fellow passengers included the Speaker of the House, the Chair of the Defense Appropriations Committee and three high ranking Air Force officers. The rest of the seats were empty, and Agnes had been directed to a seat that separated her from the others.

There had been a brief refueling stopover at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois and one of the officers left the plane there, then they were airborne again for several hours and now circled a portion of the Nevada desert that Agnes thought she recognized from a previous trip to Las Vegas. That suspicion was confirmed when they touched down at Nellis Air Force Base minutes later and rolled to a stop at the end of a taxiway off the main runway.

The engines powered down to a low whine and the male flight attendant, part of the plane’s crew of five, hurried up the aisle and released the locks on the door and swung it open, waiting there as a small rolling staircase visible through the port windows was brought up to the opening.

Agnes watched as another of the Air Force officers left his seat, gathered his gear and headed for the door. The congressman on the Defense Appropriations Committee followed suit, but the other two passengers remained seated, apparently to continue on with another leg of the journey.

She noticed the flight attendant still poised by the door, staring back at her with a slightly impatient beckoning look.

Ma’am...? he said finally. This is your stop, I believe?

Agnes twitched into action, snatching up her overnight bag from the empty seat next to her and hurrying forward. As she reached the young flight attendant she flashed him a self-conscious smile of apology.

Sorry, she said. Nobody told me.

She hurried down the steps as quickly as her sense of decorum and her high heels would permit, reached the ground and started to follow the other two passengers in the direction of a military sedan waiting nearby with its doors open. She only covered a few feet before she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of a commanding voice behind her.

Ms. Westfeld?

Agnes turned and found herself only a short distance from a man she had not noticed before, wearing a lightweight flight suit over a khaki uniform bearing eagles on the collar. He was clearly Air Force, of indeterminate age despite touches of gray at his temples, trim, ram-rod straight and what might be called ruggedly handsome.

Y-yes. I’m Officer Agnes Westfeld.

He extended his hand. I’m Colonel Lee Curtis. I hope you had a pleasant flight here.

Yes, thank you, she lied. The flight was long, tedious and not all that great, but things were looking up now. The colonel seemed quite charming. Ah...are you the person I’m to be working with...?

No, that would be someone else, Curtis told her. I’m more of an intermediary and escort. I won’t say I’m in charge of Agent X, but I am his liaison with the outside world, so to speak.

Agnes cocked her head slightly. Agent X?

Curtis smiled oddly. He likes to call himself that. It’s an affectation, but it does no harm. Allow me to carry your bag...?

Agnes hesitated, then handed it to him. Doesn’t seem the sort of work a colonel should have to do.

How could a gentleman do otherwise?

Agnes felt a bit flushed. She started to remove the fashionable white and black jacket she had worn since leaving Langley. In the desert heat she knew she would be glistening in short order.

It’s a bit warm out here, she said.

You might want to keep it on, Curtis told her. We’ll be airborne in a minute. Follow me.

Agnes tried not to show the puzzled pout she could feel about to display itself on her face. She just got here, she thought, and now she had to hop on another plane? Why couldn’t Danton have booked her on an express flight or something?

She followed him, as ordered, hurrying a bit to keep up with his steady, long-legged pace. They headed around the small building in front of which the sedan had been parked to pick up the others, and ended up on the other side. Agnes’s jaw dropped a bit as she saw what waited there.

Isn’t that an AV-8B Harrier II Plus? she asked.

Curtis smiled. You have a good eye, Westfeld. The Harrier is one of the earliest and best vertical takeoff and landing jet fighters. This one’s a trainer and has an extra seat, which is why we use it as a kind of air taxi for special guests.

I didn’t think our military was still using those.

We’re not, Curtis said, but we keep a few around. This is great for where we’re going because there are a lot of civilian tech groupies that like to hang around the perimeter watching what comes and goes, and these are so old-tech nobody pays any attention to them.

Where we’re going...?

I don’t have a flight suit for you, but the trip is going to be short, low altitude and we won’t be pulling any G-force, so you shouldn’t need it. But there are a lot of things you could snag your outfit on in there, so be careful getting in.

There was a bare-bones rolling ladder leading up to the cockpit, wide enough that he could help her up there, and he gestured toward it. Agnes gave it the once-over then sighed and shrugged. Should have worn my sneakers...

As he got her situated in the student or passenger seat and helped her buckle the harness, Curtis gave her a respectful but impish grin.

You’re rather pretty for a CIA spook, Westfeld.

Hmmm, she replied with a wry look. She had met military pilots before. None of them were bashful. And how many ‘spooks’ do you actually know, Colonel?

More than you think. He handed her the overnight bag back. "Space is a bit tight in these birds, so I’m afraid you’ll have to hold this in your lap. And you’ll need this helmet for communication. The audio jack plugs in there.