Chapter Three
Dr. Hennigan
Dr. Hennigan sat in the back of her stretch limo listening to Wagner’sLiebestodfromTristan and Isoldewith her eyes closed. She’d always felt a sort of oneness with the German composer. She reached over to the bar and opened the small fridge, pulling out a can of juice. One of her requirements was that she had a stocked bar in the limo. She pulled the tab back, popped open the can and held it up to her nose. She breathed in the bitter orange scent, lowered the can to her lips and drank.
Dr. Hennigan was very much a creature of habit. She had juice every morning on the way to work, then a bottle of water on the way back in the afternoon. She expected to have a copy of theNew York Times,Washington Post,London Gazette, Paris’Mondo Timesand Tokyo’sMainichi Daily News. The newspapers lay beside her in a stack. They wouldn’t get read, but she wanted them there in case something important had happened in the middle of the night. If The Foundation pulled off an operation, she would also have a copy of the local newspaper that covered the event. She knew information was power, and in her line of work, she was probably one of the most powerful women in the world.
She didn’t need to open her eyes as the car slowed down and her driver’s window lowered. There was no point. The privacy partition was raised between the back and the driver’s seat. The partition was raised in case of unforeseen events that caused concern for Dr. Hennigan’s safety. She knew the women who worked for her would ensure she was safe and secure.
While she couldn’t hear what the guard at the gate said to her driver, she didn’t really need to. She had been driven every morning for fifteen years to the Vuélo airport twenty miles northwest of El Paso, Texas. This morning was slightly different because she had a new orientation group waiting for her on the plane. She lifted her half-empty orange juice to her lips and finished the can as the car jerked toward the tarmac. The vehicle then stopped in a few seconds. She could hear the rumbling of the plane next to the car. Her driver exited and walked around the back of the car to the passenger’s side to free the doctor. Dr. Hennigan opened her eyes, pulled out a pocket mirror and looked at herself one last time as the driver opened the door. Her hair was still very much in order, and her makeup was sensible yet elegant.
As she exited the limo, she ran her hands down her pantsuit, attempting to release any wrinkles created during the brief trip. Today Dr. Hennigan was wearing a black pinstripe pantsuit with a cream silk blouse that folded across her chest, causing a V-shape right at the top of the crack in her cleavage—very professional, very refined. She reached back into the limo, pulled out a leather attaché case and draped her designer black trench coat over her arm.
“Dara, I won’t need you to pick me up this evening. I am staying at The Complex overnight to oversee the initial stages of the recruit orientation. I’ll call tomorrow to let you know when I’ll be back.”
Dara was a woman in her mid-to-late twenties who wore a bulky, black suit that attempted to hide the woman’s athletic physique. Her raven hair was pulled back into a single ponytail that stuck out from the back of her driver’s cap and flowed down her back, blending in with her suit coat. When in her uniform, most people naturally assumed she was a man. “Yes, Doctor. I called and received confirmation. All twelve recruits are ready for takeoff once you are on board.”
“Thank you, Dara. Are we still on schedule?”
“Yes, Doctor. It is currently five-fifteen a.m. Central Standard Time. You should be at The Complex by no later than five-forty-five, so you won’t miss your window.”
Satisfied everything was on schedule, Dr. Hennigan turned toward the waiting plane. It was a specially equipped V-Twenty-Two Osprey that could quickly and quietly maneuver members of The Foundation to and from The Complex, a hybrid plane and helicopter. With propellers and jet engines, the Osprey could maneuver in and out of locations much more easily than a typical helicopter or airplane. The Osprey has two large propellers on either side of the plane’s main body that tilted from a perpendicular position for lift, like a traditional helicopter, then tilted horizontally for thrust, like a traditional propeller plane. In its resting position, the propellers lay over the length of the plane’s body, making the Osprey easier to conceal than a traditional airplane or helicopter because there is no wing or propeller span. The Osprey was fifty-seven feet long and eighty-four feet wide in flight mode, but only sixty-three feet long and eighteen feet wide when the propellers were folded in. Since The Complex only had limited above-ground storage space, they could store six Ospreys without them being seen through satellite imaging. The main cabin could hold twenty-four people comfortably. Because this was a recruit orientation, only half that many were on board.
When Dr. Hennigan entered, she felt the movement above her as the propellers transitioned toward their takeoff position as the propellers started spinning. She surveyed the new recruits. All the recruits were women, as per the policies of The Foundation.
The Foundation’s primary goal had always been women’s equal inclusion and involvement in politics. While The Foundation was established in the United States, the organization had expanded in the past eighty years and now had branches in most major countries, including England, France, Germany, China, India, Saudi Arabia, Japan and many more. Although only a few people knew the complete infrastructure of The Foundation, everyone who worked for the organization knew it was extensive. And it was often speculated by lower-level operatives that nothing happened in international politics unless The Foundation had arranged for it to occur. Dr. Hennigan knew the rumors were not wholly true, but she felt no need to contradict the extent of her power in the eyes of others.
The chairwoman position in The Foundation was passed down in a matriarchal fashion. Her grandmother, Sara Hennigan, was the current chairwoman. When she died, Dr. Hennigan’s mother, Deborah, would take over. Then it would be Dr. Hennigan’s duty to run the operation. Dr. Hennigan’s real name was Philippa, but most people called her Dr. Hennigan simply because it was the easiest way to distinguish between the matriarchs.
Dr. Hennigan glanced over at the twelve women with black sacks over their heads, who were sitting evenly spaced out around the Osprey. Having read all the recruits’ files, she knew that among the new recruits was a pathologist from the University of Denver Medical School, a high-powered Constitutional law scholar, a housewife, a couple of ex-CIA operatives, three former special operations marines, two politicians, a prison warden and an actress. Dr. Hennigan had twelve weeks to turn this motley crew into members of The Foundation. Blindfolded, with small duffel bags in their laps, the group looked very stoic, but she knew they were terrified.
She entered the cockpit, sat in the co-pilot’s seat and nodded to the pilot.
“We’re ready when you are,” the pilot informed the doctor.
“Let’s get going then.”
With that, the pilot pushed forward on the lever between her legs and the Osprey ascended straight up. Dr. Hennigan heard a quick yelp from one recruit and stifled her laugh.If you’re scared by this, you won’t make it to the end of the day.
Unlike previous tiltrotor planes that went from ninety to sixty-degrees angles in one stroke, causing the transition from lift to thrust to be very jerky, the Osprey transitioned from ninety to forty-five to sixty-degrees, which allowed for a smoother transition from lift to thrust. In a matter of seconds, the plane arced, then leveled off as it switched into thrust mode, propelling the aircraft forward through the early morning sky.
“Dr. Hennigan, how do the new recruits look?”
“Honestly, there are a couple I don’t think will make it past today. And if they make it past today, I doubt I’ll keep them through the week. With that said, the pathologist and actress have real promise. It will be interesting to see how quickly I can find their breaking points.”
The two sat in silence for the next few minutes. The New Mexico branch of the Rocky Mountains was quickly below the Osprey. In the early morning dawn, the mountains were pitch black. Not a single living soul lived in this remote and desolate part of the state. The Foundation’s International headquarters was in a valley north of the Mesa Juamenes Mountain Ridge in southern New Mexico. The valley was approximately three-fourths of a mile and about three-hundred yards wide. From the sky, the landscape looked empty. What could not be seen from satellite photos was the runway, which was purposefully designed to mimic the terrain’s appearance. The storage for the Ospreys was a carved-out hangar in the side of the Mesa Juamenes Ridge. Since the ridge was primarily made of rock and not dirt, the carving out of the hangar had not been too difficult.
“Alpha Niner Epsilon, this is The Complex. Your ten-minute entry window will occur in five, four, three, two, one.”
The Osprey’s propellers moved from thrust to descent, and the plane was on the ground in eight minutes. “Alpha Niner Epsilon, welcome to The Complex. Your window closes in one minute and fifty-four seconds. Please move to pad five in the hangar.”
Since the advent of satellite technology, planes were required to maneuver skillfully in and out of The Complex in a fashion that couldn’t be seen by satellites. The satellites hovering over the valley got blocked for ten minutes every two hours. And since leaving during the daylight was unthinkable, people could only leave and return six times daily, starting at eight p.m. and ending at six-thirty a.m. Most of The Foundation members had residencies in two locations, The Complex and wherever they called ‘home base’.
The pilot switched off the propellers. Dr. Hennigan could hear them locking into position on top of the plane. With forty-seven seconds to spare, the pilot had secured the Osprey on pad five. Dr. Hennigan opened the main door, and her lab partner, Ms. Wilson, entered the Osprey with a team of ten armed technicians.
“My name is Dr. Hennigan. I will process you during your orientation phase. As you were told when you were recruited, you are all women here. Modesty will not exist. Without taking off your blindfolds, stand up and take off your shirts, then brace yourselves against the plane’s wall. As a medical precaution, you will receive a quick injection.”
Each of the ten technicians, Ms. Wilson and Dr. Hennigan held one of the gun-like apparatuses—AZ-five-hundred-fifty—and placed the nozzle to the lower right of the spine below the liver where a fatty bed existed that could easily be penetrated with high enough pressure. The AZ-five-fifty delivered a small microchip into the recruit’s body using a high-air-pressure cannon. The microchip served as the recruit’s permanent ID tag and could monitor their vital signs. “On the count of three. One…two…three…” The sounds of the AZ-five-hundred-fifties against the skin were muffled by the quick yelps. Dr. Hennigan learned long ago the only effective way to administer the chip was to inject all recruits at once when no one knew it was coming.
