The Flaming Dumpster Choir

Part 1

                                                                           THE FATE OF THE WORLD

CIA headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Present day

The director of the Central Intelligence Agency scrutinized the photograph of Charlie Thorne, then dropped it on the conference table and gave Agent Dante Garcia a hard stare. "You must be joking."

"I'm not." Dante replied solemnly.

"This is a twelve-year-old girl!" Director Carter exclaimed.

"She's not a normal 12 year old."

"I don't care if she can fly." Carter snapped. "I own shoes that are older than this kid. The fate of humanity is at stake here and you want me to rely on someone who is barely a teenager?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures." Dante said.

"These measures aren't desperate. They're insane!"

"Well maybe it's  time we tried something crazy. The CIA has been using the same old techniques to find Pandora for almost 70 years, and they haven't gotten us anywhere. They certainly didn't work in Bern."

Director Carter's gaze went cold, making Dante think that he'd pushed things to far. But then Carter gave a slight nod, conceding that he was right, and sat back in her chair to think.

Dante had seen the director lapse into deep thought before, but never when he was the only one in the room with her. The previous times, he had been a junior agent, regulated to the background, expected only to observe and keep his mouth shut. Carter's long pauses to think in meetings were legendary at the Agency. She had been known to not say anything for up to 10 minutes, during which she expected complete silence. This could be awkward to the other agents in the room, but they all greatly respected Carter--revered her even--and so they dealt with it.

Jamilla Carter was in her 60's, the rare CIA director who had risen to the job by being an exceptional agent rather than a political appointee. Her piercing brown eyes stood out against her dark skin. She had been an analyst, rather than a field operative, but then, most CIA employees were analysts, and Carter was one of the best.

Carter was in analysis mode now. She picked up the file Dante had assembled on Charlie Thorne and leafed through it for what was probably the twentieth time that day.

Dante grew uncomfortable watching her, so he let his gaze drift out the window. It was January, and the sky was roofed with grey clouds. Squalls of snowflakes swirled outside the window. Even on a sunny day, the buildings of the CIA headquarters were drab; today, they looked ominous and foreboding.

Carter's eyes shifted from the file to the photograph once again.

Charlotte Thorne, aka Charlie, was a mix of many different races, although she didn't look like one more than any other. If Charlie had been 10 years older, this would have been a very huge asset. She could have passed as a very tan white person, a light skinned black person, or Hispanic or Arab or indian, or even partly Chinese. Looks like that could allow you to blend in anywhere on Earth, to pass yourself off as almost any culture if you could speak the language.

But Dante hadn't suggested Charlie because of her appearance. It was because of her intelligence. Her IQ was off the charts. Director Carter had dozens of certified geniuses under her at the CIA, and none of them had IQ's as high as Charlie Thornes. Carter wouldn't of believed that anyone could score that high if Dante hadn't provided her three separate reports from respected psychologists to confirm it.

Carter flipped through the psych reports again. She had read them twice already.