Gene Hewlett flew quickly but carefully through the night sky, a bundle of papers tucked tightly under one arm. He knew what was going on now, and he'd be able to use these documents to finish his story for the paper. Gene had been hired on by the Washington Post to write for their new Patrolling the Patrol column, largely because it seemed he could dig up more information on Patrol activities than any other writer in the U.S. Not surprising, really, since he was a Patroller himself.
Over the past few weeks, however, Hewlett had stumbled onto something rather large. Only two Patrollers operated in the Washington area before Hewlett arrived, and two months ago, they both vanished on the same night. President Clinton immediately launched a major investigation, and then, just two days later, called it off when the bodies were pulled out of the Potomac. "Gang-related" was the term used, and the cops started working double-time in the streets to clean up the gangs.
Gang-related killings? thought Gene. Two highly experienced Patrollers brought down by common street thugs?
As if.
He got on the case, called in a couple of government contacts. Nothing specific, but a rumor was floating around of CIA involvement in the investigation. Even if the feds were called in on a local investigation in D.C., it would fall under the jurisdiction of the FBI, not the CIA. Asked point blank, the CIA laughed off involvement. Off the record, however, it was a matter of Presidential security. Not terribly unlikely, Gene supposed, what with the assassination attempt a while back.
Something about it all rang untrue. The President had welcomed the Patrollers to Washington, was thrilled by their continuing presence, used them in photo-ops, the whole bit. After their disappearance, he was genuinely shocked and hurt over the loss—even a cub reporter could tell the difference between grandstanding and genuine Presidential angst. And these two Patrollers were no threat to the President.
Finally, like out of a John Grisham novel, came the mysterious phone call. Hewlitt was at home with his wife and seven year old boy. They had just sat down to dinner together when the phone rang. A dusky male voice came over the line in slow even tones. Murder, said the voice, in the name of weapons testing. Subordinate organization to the CIA. Real cloak and dagger. An agency set up just to keep the Patrol in line, and it was getting out of control. No names of individual personnel—just an acronym for this special task force: PRIME.
The same night as the phone call, over six weeks ago, mysterious explosions in Arlington. The Pentagon spokesperson called it a "munitions malfunction." No reporters were allowed to inspect the site, and military choppers kept out potential fly overs by press helicopters. They were deadly serious about the whole thing. It smacked of a major cover-up, but this time around the military could care less how it looked. No one was going in.
One highly unreliable witness, an old drunk on the Francis Scott Key Bridge had seen something. With a remarkable sobriety, he told Gene he had seen someone fly out of that area that night, just after the explosions. A Patroller.
Now, after weeks of preparation and nosing around, asking all the right people all the wrong questions, Gene was ready. He flew into the Arlington site, gathered up all the proof he could possibly want, and then flew out. The paper went to bed at four in the morning—he'd have to wake his editor, come clean about being a Patroller, write some fast copy (Of course who was he kidding—stuff this good practically wrote itself!), and get home to his family. They needed to know what was going down.
Gene's mind had just begun to settle back into the present, when he heard a whistling noise nearby. Suddenly the air around him exploded into a collage of bright firecracker lights and ear-piercing white noise. His mind reeled in the confusion and he started to drop, his flying ability suspended with his concentration.
Gene shook his head rigorously as he fell. Snap out of it, he chided himself. Dammit, it has to be PRIME—they're onto me. He started to peel out of his dive, arcing back upward when something cracked against his left shoulder, spattering the side of his face with blood. He screamed in pain, but quickly assembled a perimeter field around him, about ten feet out. He then constructed a tight bandage around his shoulder.
He hovered there, clutching his shoulder, panic and anger playing out a struggle in the lines of his face. He called out, "That's it! I know all about you! I'm blowing the lid off of this—and unless you can crack a Patrol force-field, there's not a thing you can do to stop me!"
Dead silence was the only reply.
He started to turn, to fly away. Then, it was all over him—a small missile kicking loudly through the air. Something in Gene said to run, to avoid it, and he trusted this instinct. He launched himself straight up, and the minirocket altered course to pursue him. It caught up with him quickly and impacted against the force-field. He allowed himself a half-second of relief, then gazed downward, just in time to catch a glimpse of the rocket as it cut cleanly through his defense and detonated. The blast was only mildly disorienting, but with his next breath, Gene began to hack and gag on toxic fumes. His body stiffened, his concentration fell apart, the field collapsed, and he began falling again.
This time the gunshot split his head apart. He crashed loudly against the wet pavement below.

To Be Continued
Next issue: Eric comes face to face with Washington's youngest defender.

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Copyright © 1995, 1997 by Stewart Brower