Darkness of the Soul

Need to Know

William Fowler shifted nervously in his cushioned seat. It was considerably more comfortable than being in a Beoing-17, but he sat with the restlessness of a soldier, braced to jump to his feet at a moment's notice. In his Ranger days, he had seen his fair share of action: being behind enemy lines, jumping out of airplanes, and flying a Raptor way too close to the ground. But he knew how to respond accordingly.

However, being surrounded by top government officials, several of them being his superiors, Fowler found his palms sweating. At least Lieutenant Colonel William Lennox was to his right, under the same scrutiny, and that they sat at a conference table. Instead of a defense table on trial.

To Fowler's left was his superior, a man in his late forties with a number of ribbons that put his own collection to shame—General Bryce. But instead of directing his attention at him, his focus was on another figure. Directly in front of the federal agent, pinning him down with piercing stone eyes, was the Secretary of Defense.

Salt-and-pepper hair, defined features, back straight, and his glare undeterred by wiry glasses, the man looked an experienced general. Former one, at least. The Secretary carried himself with the authority of the head of the United States military.

"Thank you for coming in on such short notice, gentlemen," the man said. As if they had a choice. "General Bryce, I understand you are in command of NEST?"

"Yes, sir," the general hummed obediently.

Spending most of his time confined to a desk instead of a field, the man was more on the plump side, but he still held himself tall and proud. No troublesome hair, broad shoulders, stern features. The Secretary squinted at the piece of paper in his hands.

"Who is the field commander of operations?" he interrogated.

"I am, sir," Lennox spoke up. "Lieutenant Colonel William Lennox."

The Secretary's gaze reminded Fowler of a hawk at it settled on him. "And you would be...?"

"William Fowler," the agent introduced. "I liaise between the U.S. government and the Autobots."

"So then, would any of you know about the arms deal bust last week, where we discovered thirty million dollars worth of alien tech?" The man dropped the file on the table. "Well, black market price, anyway."

Fowler gulped, painfully. He subtly looked to his partners. Lennex had a solemn expression, but was wringing his hands in nervousness. Bryce looked like a stone statue.

"According to the Alien-Autobot Cooperation Act," a second voice spoke up, "we share intelligence and tactics, but not their weaponry. Mind explaining that to me?"

Fowler glanced to see a man sitting next to the Secretary, dressed in a flashy black suit. His pitch-black hair was cut short and wiry glasses balanced precariously on his nose. The liaison remembered his name. Theodore Galloway, National Security Advisor to the President. Or, that was what he was supposed to be. It was Bryce that answered.

"NEST is a joint military force made up of U.S. military and the Autobots," the general explained. "There has to be a degree of trust between us. But the Autobots will not share their technology, because its way more advanced than ours... and destructive."

The man pointedly cut it off at that. Fowler remembered Prime's comment once, that he would not hand over their weaponry because he knew there were humans thatwould abuse it. The alien may have had respect for the significantly smaller and younger species, but he was not blind to mankind's destructive nature. Galloway's jaw clenched, revealing that he did not agree with the sentiment.

"Don't you think that's a little unfair?" the man accused. "They have all the big guns, and we have nothing to defend ourselves. And obviously they are violating the act, because how else would the weapons get in possession of the extremists?"