Women Rising: A Novel By

Copyright © 2017 Karl F. Milde, Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2635-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2637-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-2636-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911164

iUniverse rev. date: 07/19/2017

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

For the beautiful book cover, I wish to thank Marguerite Chadwick-Juner, a graphic designer and illustrator of extraordinary ability and creativity. She imagined and drew our protagonist, Courtney, and made her real.

Marguerite can be found in an idyllic little village on the coast of North Carolina:

Marguerite Chadwick-Juner

4015 Schooner Circle, Oriental, NC 28571

Phone/Fax: 252-249-2996

I wish to acknowledge and thank Vincent Dacquino, founder and leader of the Mahopac Writers Group in Mahopac, New York, for his invaluable assistance in reading and editing the manuscript of this novel. As the story unfolded, chapter-by- chapter, during the seven months that it was written, Vin provided an invaluable reality check of both plot and character and on many occasions kept this imaginary train from slipping off the rails.

I also wish to thank my friend Steve Griffee for lending his knowledge and expertise on the inner workings of hedge funds, the stated purpose of which is to extract profits from the financial markets, thereby allowing wealthy individuals to continually draw cash out of the retirement funds of hard-working Americans.

And finally, I would like to express my sincerest gratitude to my editor, Pamela Johnson – [email protected] - for her brilliant work in spotting logical errors, changes in POV, weak passages and just plain typos, and for her many, many suggestions for making the story stronger and dynamic.

The desire for sex…always creates some trouble.

The Dalai Lama, on the morning of his 80th Birthday, July 6, 2015

Chapter 1

Courtney Stillwell had the sexes figured out.

Men were the problem.

What bothered her wasn’t that men were such homely creatures. Men were, more often than not, self-centered and demanding. No man would admit it, but deep down they thought themselves superior and their actions reflected this attitude.

It just wasn’t right.

Men also committed the majority of crimes – burglary, fraud and larceny – and the vast majority of violent crimes – murder, rape and robbery.

Life was a daily struggle between the sexes and with her young magazine, Women Rising, she was committed to making women aware. Like her, they should be pissed off at men and fight back.

She sat alone in her office on 44th Street, a few doors west of Fifth Avenue. It was an old building filled with literary history. The small suite – only a small reception area, her personal office and a conference room – took part of the space formerly occupied by The New Yorker magazine before it moved to nicer digs in the city.

Courtney focused on her work, editing one of those stories of a philandering husband that made a woman’s blood boil. Illustrated by the striking image of an aggrieved wife gripping a smoking gun with two hands, it was to be the cover story for her magazine’s October issue.

She became aware of her desk phone ringing and answered just in time before it went to voicemail, hiding her annoyance at being distracted.

I’m so glad I reached you. The voice sounded breathless.

She recognized one of her writers, Veronica, and immediately experienced a wave of mixed feelings. Veronica, whom she called Ronnie was young and inexperienced.

Great to hear from you, she said, injecting an upbeat tone she hoped would elicit whatever potential story Ronnie might have.

"Have I got a story for you. A great story. Breaking news. The intensity of the voice was palpable. Courtney was not in the business of breaking news, but the prospect sounded promising and Courtney always gave her novice writers a chance. It was a tough world out there for writers, as well she knew. Okay, I’m listening."

It’s about my boyfriend…

Right off the bat Courtney saw the story evaporating. She had met the guy once and the image of a bald-headed, tattooed redneck came to mind. One of a band of bikers.

"Billy’s, like, changed Courtney. He doesn’t come on to me any more. He’s lost all interest. He didn’t call for the longest time so I thought he had another girl. He didn’t. I asked around."

This problem didn’t sound life threatening or even interesting. So? What’s the problem?

"I wasn’t getting any, so I called him. Casual like. To find out what’s going on."

Let me guess: He was in a fight with another guy?

"No, no, nothing like that. As I said, he’s lost interest." Ronnie emphasized the last two words as if it were impossible for a guy to lose interest in having sex with her. Ronnie had the looks men went for. Curly blonde locks. A cute face. Hourglass figure. Slender legs. Young. A virtual man magnet.

So, that’s your story? He dumped you? Newsflash: it happens to women every day.

"The story isn’t that he lost interest but why he lost interest. He’s part of an experiment by the U.S. Army."

An experiment? Was she hearing right?

He and his gang. They’re getting paid to try this drug. They’re testing some new stuff they just put in the water and it turns men off. They don’t want to fight any more.

Wait, you lost me. I thought you were talking about losing interest in sex.

That’s just part of it. They don’t want sex and they don’t want to fight. If this thing works, they’re going to stick it to the enemy – you know, like the bad guys in the Middle East? Turn them all into yooks.

Excuse me?

Yooks. Those guys that guard the harems.

Eunuchs?

"That’s it. Yooks. The sheiks trust them not to – you know, fuck."

You’ve made this up, right?

"No, really. That’s the idea of it. He didn’t say yook, but—"

What did he say, exactly?

He said some military guy – his name was Roger something – approached them and they made this deal: He’d pay each guy ten thousand bucks a month to try the stuff and report on the effects.

Courtney finally realized this may not be a joke. An experiment, like the Army’s use of mustard gas on our soldiers at Edgewood Arsenal? How did you find this out?

"Billy told me. He wasn’t supposed to, but he did when I pressed him. He said it was top secret and he’s signed some kind of confidentiality agreement. But I didn’t sign anything and I want to write about it. You’ll print the story, right?"

Courtney said nothing for a moment. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

After a beat she replied, "Okay, sure. Tell me everything you can find out about this, and we’ll talk about what we do. First, though, let me send you a contract giving Women Rising an exclusive."

"Great. And here’s the best part, Ronnie added. The part that really got to me—"

She waited.

"They call the stuff ‘Ballzoff’."

Chapter 2

By the time he’d reached twenty-eight years of age, Roger was already one of the go to guys in the United States for answers about the potential side effects of new drugs. His abilities as a scientist did not go unnoticed by the government, and the U.S. Army recruited him.

Since age thirty, Roger led an Army research laboratory at Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland. It was a coveted position that nobody knew about, at a lab that nobody knew about either. If you were to ask anyone in government about a biochem skunkworks at APG they would answer, Lab? What lab? Even DARPA, the defense agency research arm that funded the lab’s research, was kept in the dark about the project he undertook.

But that suited Roger just fine. He didn’t care about fame or fortune. He loved only his work, which he found intensely interesting. He had neither a wife nor girlfriend, nor even a dog or other distractions like that.

When Roger was initially contacted to lead the lab, he learned at the first meeting what the Army wanted to do. He was intrigued by the project they outlined - to find a way to change men temporarily into pacifists who did not want to fight – and thought it was doable. This seemed a worthy objective at the time, and he still considered the concept a game changer. Having now achieved some measure of success, as proven by his Stage Three trials to prove efficacy, he had become more and more concerned that information about the program might leak out. He was torn between being elated by the success of the program and anxiety due to this very same success.

Every month, Roger held a meeting with a particularly cantakerous gang of bikers to monitor their behavior. He had chosen these men for human trials because they were the meanest, fiercest, fight-prone group he could find within a fifty-mile radius of his laboratory. If his biochemical compound could pacify these angry individuals, it could do the same for the enemy. And thus far, things were going well. Very well, in fact. Far beyond his expectations. Nearly finished now, Stage Three was providing remarkable proof that his compound, which was really a biochemical weapon, actually worked.

As the biker group filed into the meeting room and took their seats, he stood in front and observed their demeanor. It had changed markedly from that first day, nearly a year ago, when he had welcomed them and explained the program. At that time they were all ego and bluster, each in his own way, and they displayed an attitude with their every movement. Today they were different: Calm to the point of being almost docile and even polite. Mind if I sit here? asked one of them to another. Please do, the bald and bearded biker replied.

When all had assembled and quieted down, looking up at him expectantly, Roger began: How’s everyone feeling? A few of bikers tentatively raised their hands, but Roger continued. I’ll be more specific. Does anyone feel particularly depressed? All the raised hands came back down. None went up.

Roger looked around the room making eye contact with many of the men. All right then. Have you had any fights since you were here last month? Fights with other gangs? Fights among yourselves? No hands went up.

Are you feeling alright? No hands went up. "Are you guys still alive?"

The bikers looked at each other for a moment, then glared at him for the insult. One of them demanded, "What kind of a question is that, you son-of-a—." The man checked himself.

Roger was actually relieved to hear the backtalk. The compound would not meet its specifications if it emasculated the men completely. I don’t mean to antagonize. I was wondering why you’re just sitting there, not responding. That’s not like you.

Just answerin’ your dumb questions, man. A titter of stifled laughter filled the room.

Okay, thank you. Well now, you know the drill. When you fill out this form, he held up a packet of questionnaires, you’ll receive your monthly check. Oh, and we’re going to do it differently this time. We’re not giving you any more of the special water to drink. When you come back next month, I’ll want to see if the effects of the compound have worn off.

One of the bikers raised his hand. Roger looked his way. Question, Joe?

Yeah. Suppose we want to continue? Can we get more water?

Sorry, no. We’ll need to monitor you when you stop taking it. It’s kind of a drug, you know. We want to be sure you continue to feel all right.

The stuff calms us down. Now you want to take it away? I don’t think so, man.

Roger was taken aback at this remark, but found it interesting and pursued the issue. Calms you down? In what way?

We don’t fight so much. We kind of like each other now. The biker looked around the room for approval and found several others nodding their heads. "This water makes us feel…better. We’re not so pissed off all the time."

I’m glad to hear that. Now you know it’s possible to have some harmony in your lives, maybe you’ll stay that way.

Not with these bastards, we won’t. Joe stood up, holding his hands out, palms up. He smirked, indicating he meant the quip to be funny, but no one in the room laughed.

One final thing… Roger continued. You kept the program absolutely confidential, right? Spoken to no one about it, like it says in the contract you signed?

The bikers looked at each other and nodded. All but one.

No leaks?

Billy’s hand went up.

Yes, Billy?

Can I speak to you, privately?

Sure, come with me right now, while everyone is filling out the form.

Billy rose from his seat and sheepishly went forward while the others stared at him. Start filling out your forms, everyone, instructed Roger. We’ll be right back.

Roger walked out with the biker through a side door and quietly closed it behind them.

What’s on your mind, Billy?

I did tell someone, and I wish I didn’t.

Oh? Who?

My broad, Ronnie. She said I’d changed. She wanted to know why.

She said you changed? Changed how? Roger was interested to learn this.

"We don’t get together so much. You know, sex." Billy nearly blushed.

That’s not a problem for you, is it?

She’s gonna blab.

Blab?

You know. Tell.

Uh-oh. We have to nip this in the bud. Why don’t you bring her in here. We’ll have her sign a non-disclosure form.

I’m afraid it’s too late for that.

Why?

She’s writing an article about it, and it’s going to be published in a fuckin’ magazine.

Chapter 3

Courtney skimmed through the article, frowning. She would have to completely rewrite it, she realized, because it was totally trashy and not really appropriate for her magazine.

MY BIKER BOYFRIEND STOPPED WANTING SEX

by Veronica Miller

On my first date with Joe (not his real name) I could feel the heat. He picked me up from my apartment with his blue and chrome Harley and, while my roommates watched with envy, we roared off to meet his biker friends at a local watering hole. He couldn’t take his eyes off me all evening and treated me like an exotic princess, even with the other members of his gang vying for his attention. In the parking lot, when it was time to go, he pressed himself against me, and my temperature shot through the roof. One of his soul kisses was all I needed. The sex we had on the grass under the stars was the best I’d ever had.

I was hooked from that day on. I lived for the times we could be together. Riding behind Joe astride that Harley could be a bone chilling experience when the outside temperature dropped into the forties, and it could be searing and sweaty when it rose above ninety, but I was having the time of my life. Joe may not have been much to look at with his tattooed, bald head and his scraggly beard, and he talked a lot more than he listened to what I had to say, but I loved the attention and, most of all, the hot sex.

I was biding my time as a typist temp while I struggled to get my writing career off the ground. Fame and fortune as a writer were an impossible dream, it seemed, but I kept at it, waiting for the big break.

My real life was not anything to write home to Mom about either. The two gals with whom I shared the apartment kept odd hours so we couldn’t connect very often. They were my friends, to be sure, but there was a limit on how much I could stand hearing their complaints about their miserable lives. I desperately wanted to move out to my own apartment but that was financially out of the question. My life was miserable too, but at least I had my dream to be the next J.K. Rowling.

And I could look forward to my times with Joe. That was then. Before he began to change.

My experience with men had been rather limited when we started dating, but I knew one thing: You could count on a guy to try to get into your underpants.

Joe was a typical guy in that regard and he wasn’t at all shy about it. He didn’t pretend to hold back as some guys do – the ones you might call gentlemen if they weren’t too nerdy or gay. He went straight for it and, as far as I was concerned, he could have all he wanted. It was what I lived for.

That’s the way it was until he and his gang were recruited to enter some secret government program. Then slowly, so slowly that I didn’t understand it at first, Joe lost his interest in sex. The first thing I noticed was a change in his kisses: They weren’t as fiery as they used to be. When I finally realized this, I thought about it and noticed he had also stopped pressing his body against mine. We continued to have sex, just like before, but it wasn’t the same. It was not like he had to have me. And then eventually he stopped coming on to me and, because I was too shy to come on to him, the sex just stopped. It’s hard to imagine, but it’s true.

I was sure the government program had something to do with my problem so I began to ask questions about it. Although Joe’s a talker not a listener, he wouldn’t tell me much. He said he was sworn to secrecy, and anyway it was none of my business. At first he pretended not to know what I was talking about. He said he still wanted to have sex but his heart just wasn’t in it. He began to enjoy the company of his biker friends more than spending time with me.

As time went on I became more and more frustrated and, yes, even obsessed about sex. It’s what you can’t have that makes you crazy. When I was getting enough – too much sometimes, in fact – I never thought about sex. But now the sex has dried up I think about it all the time. I think about those deep soul kisses and can feel the juices flowing down there where my little Sindy needs to be penetrated and satisfied.

What is a girl to do in this situation? I’m not ready to give up sex and I’m not going to beg for it. If my biker boyfriend can’t deliver, I’ll have to give the bum the boot and start looking for someone who can.

This article would be perfect for Cosmopolitan magazine, Courtney thought, but not Women Rising. Cosmo was all about women reveling in their role as men’s sex objects. Conversely, Women Rising was about women reveling in their role as men’s equal partners.

But the secret government program, now that was interesting. If this program were a success, as it appeared to be, the problems of male violence and male domination might be made to disappear. Men, she reasoned, would become more like women. This was almost too good to be true.

Sensing a sensational story in this government program, she set about the task of learning the what, why, where and when of the secret sauce that could turn bikers into candidates for membership in a Rotary Club.

Chapter 4

Before founding Women Rising Courtney had majored in journalism and, upon graduation from Barnard College, worked as a researcher for Vogue Magazine, fact checking stories before their publication. After serving two years at this editorial desk and learning the basics, she jumped ship and became a free-lancer on a mission to uncover skullduggery. Digging deeply to unearth the secrets of corrupt politicians, the fraudulent schemes of lawyers and businessmen and, though less often, the sexual proclivities of media celebrities, she wrote stories that got real results: Powerful men were cut down to size and some even spent time in Club Fed.

In short, Courtney Stillwell became a Master – or in this case, a Mistress – at finding out whatever she wanted to know.

She started her digging by calling Veronica’s mobile. The wannabe-writer picked up on the first ring.

You liked my story? It was great, wasn’t it?

I was pleasantly surprised, Ronnie. It was really good. Courtney bit her tongue.

I could hug you, Courtney, right through the phone. So you’ll print it?

It needs work, but if you’re willing to make changes, I will.

Needs work? How? Ronnie’s tone turned slightly icy.

It’s too little about Ballzoff, too much about you.

Well, thanks for nothing.

Ronnie was easily offended, Courtney knew, and she needed to get her young writer back on track to get the information she needed. I’m sorry, she said. But my magazine is about what men do to women, not the other way around. I’d like to publish your story if we can just agree on changing the emphasis.

You would?

Yes, I would and I will.

Okay then. Tell me. What do you want changed?

Having gotten the hard part out of the way, Courtney moved to the real reason for her call. I’m sorry about what happened to you and your boyfriend. What’s his name by the way?

Billy. You met him once.

Oh, yes. Billy. What did you say his last name was?

Oh, no you don’t. I know your tricks.

What?

You want to interview him.

So?

No can do. He’s mine.

"Oh, come on. You introduced us. And I need to interview him to vet your story."

And you forgot his name. Shows how much you cared who my boyfriend was.

I’m sorry.

You keep saying that.

Saying what?

‘I’m sorry.’ You’re a phony, you know that?

I’m sorry you think that… Courtney realized she’d done it again. This conversation was not going as planned. She decided to take the direct route. "But I confess, I do want to meet Billy. I need to meet him to flesh out details for your article."

"Fat chance, Courtney. It’s my story or no story." Veronica disconnected.

Courtney sat there, stunned and stumped. Without this smallest sliver of information – Billy’s full name – she had no way of confirming the secret government program.

She speed-dialed her friend Emily, the editor of Cosmo.

Helloo. Emily’s familiar voice came over the wire.

Emily, It’s Courtney. She affected cheerfulness she didn’t feel. "At Women Rising."

I know. CallerID, remember?

I need a favor.

Well, now, the Mountain seems to have come to Mohammad.

"Actually, I’m going to do you a favor but I want one in return."

"Now what can that be I wonder? Giving Cosmo a plug in your highbrow magazine? Sorry, Courtney, but we don’t really need your help. We’re one hundred times your circulation."

Your sexist rag will emulate us someday. Women will turn to my magazine in droves when they finally realize what men do behind our backs. And believe me, it’s not pretty.

"You’re forgetting one thing, my foxy female friend. Sex sells. Helen Gurley Brown proved that with Sex and the Single Girl, thank you very much, and Cosmo women have been on a quest for the big ‘O’ ever since."

"Shameless pandering, but I’m sure you know that. Whatever. Let me get to the point. One of my writers came up with an article that’s so hot it bangs. It could be your next cover story. But before I send it over, I want you to promise me something."

We’ll see—

When you fact-check this story, let me know the real name of the guy.

That’s easy enough to do. Why’s that so important?

I want to know the story behind the story. Get me the name and I’ll do some digging.

Okay, done. If we run with the story, you’ll get your man.

You’re going to love it. Courtney pressed send. I don’t have the rights to this but I’m sure this author won’t mind if you grab it. She’s looking for a break.

Aren’t they all? I’ll take a look and get back to you. Emily disconnected.

Courtney sat motionless for a moment, smiling to herself. The man’s name would enable her to get to the bottom of Ronnie’s story.

Her desk phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She looked at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the name. She had a vague recollection of hearing the name Roger recently, but she couldn’t place the context. She lifted the receiver.

Hello, came the voice. My name is Roger Thornwood. I need to speak to the editor of your magazine.

I’m the editor and publisher, Courtney Stillwell.

Do you have a writer named Veronica Miller? There was something in the caller’s voice that Courtney liked. The tone was confident and self-assured, yet friendly. Damn men, she thought to herself. They’re attractive to women in spite of themselves.

Yes, she replied coolly. She’s freelance. Not employed here.

Has she discussed writing an article about something called ‘Nemow’?

"Nemow?"

Nemow. The word ‘Women’ spelled backwards.

I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?

"How about ‘Ballzoff’? It’s called that too."

Courtney blinked. She realized instantly who this was. She couldn’t believe her luck. Yes, I know all about it, she lied.

You do? Then it’s imperative we talk. Can I see you?

Yes, of course. What date would be convenient?

Right now.

Now?

I happen to be right here.

Where?

I’m right outside your door.

Chapter 5

Courtney got up from behind her desk and walked out to the front door of the office suite. Opening it, she stared for a moment at the face of a man, about her own age, staring back at her with intense blue eyes.

Hello, I’m Roger. He held out his hand. Courtney took it and held it firmly while studying his face for a moment. He was pleasant enough to look at, she thought. Then she remembered her manners, greeted him warmly and invited him in.

You call it ‘Nemow’? She said, making conversation while leading him to her private office. That’s a nice name. Better than ‘Ballzoff,’ don’t you think?

’Nemo’ for short, Roger replied, glancing briefly around her modest office. But it’s a serious matter that has to be kept strictly confidential.

I’m afraid it’s too late for that, isn’t it, Mr. er, what did you say your name was?

Thornwood. Roger Thornwood.

Do you have a business card?

Roger handed her a card and Courtney glanced at it while motioning for him to take one of the two seats in front of her desk. Under his name, which listed him as a PhD, she saw "Director, Bioweapons Research. United States Army." The address was Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland.

Courtney took her seat behind the desk. Now then, Dr. Thornwood…

Roger. Please call me Roger.

Roger that, Courtney winked. She was doing her best to connect with this man but was getting few signals coming back. You’re the one in charge of the Ballzoff program, aren’t you? She held up the card as if she were holding the man himself.

"Yes, I am. But it’s Nemo, not Balzoff. And I’m here to warn you: It’s a top-secret government project. Even the names ‘Nemow’ or ‘Nemo’ are confidential, but I assumed you knew them. Whatever you do know you cannot reveal publicly. That would jeopardize the entire program."

It’s breaking news, and my magazine is about to tell the world, Courtney said matter-of-factly. She certainly didn’t have enough information about the program for a news story, nor even a confirmation for that matter. It was time to bluff. We have a good source.

I’ve heard.

You’ve already confirmed the program exists.

I thought you knew.

Then I assume you know our source too.

I do. It’s a man named Billy. Roger made a disgusted face.

Which Billy?

Billy Donner.

That’s true. She smiled while giving herself a silent pat on the back. He told Veronica everything, and she told me.

Then you know what this is about, and you know the program’s a State Secret.

"I know you’ve developed a secret potion, something that can turn men into women. That’s a ‘good thing’."

I won’t confirm anything. I can only say that if used improperly, it could cause havoc.

"It could end war as we know it, reduce the crime rate, eliminate rape." Courtney’s eyes opened wider as she thought of the possible benefits.

It’s not meant to ever be used. Under treaty it is forbidden.

We need it right here at home, right now. It’s the perfect solution to the difficulty with— Courtney hesitated to say "men." She knew not everyone agreed with her that such a difficulty existed.

You have no idea, do you?

Idea about what?

How important this is to our national security. You can’t breathe a word of it. It’s a potential A-bomb.

You tried it on bikers. If it were so dangerous, would you have done that?

That was a very low dose, at least initially. We had to learn its effectiveness and how long it would last. Also the side effects.

Were there any?

That’s need-to-know. I’m not at liberty to say.

You know Veronica has already written an article that’s about to be published?

That can’t happen. You and Veronica can’t reveal anything to anyone.

"I’m afraid it’s too late for that. I haven’t signed a non-disclosure agreement and neither has Veronica. I’m going ahead with my story, and I sent Veronica’s article over to the editor Cosmopolitan magazine. She said it would come out in their very next issue, Courtney lied. And their worldwide circulation is huge."

Chapter 6

Emily Platt sat in her windowed corner office and twice reread Veronica’s article. It had the essential three ingredients for a Cosmo cover – sex, sex and more sex - but more than that it piqued her curiosity: What were these bikers up to, she wondered. Why would they act this way? What was this secret government program?

She lifted the phone and called Veronica. It rang four times and went to voicemail. Emily immediately hung up and called Courtney. She was sure Veronica would get back to her just as soon as she saw who called. Things worked that way in the women’s magazine business.

Courtney answered on the first ring. Well, hello Emily. How’d you like Ronnie’s story?

"The writing is crap, but the topic is spot on what we like here at Cosmo. I might just pull the cover we set for the November issue. With some edits, make it the lead article."

"I knew you’d go for it. You owe me, big time."

Yeah, well, not so fast. We’ve got a lot of t’s to cross before it goes out. We need to contact this Joe the Biker. We have to fact check and get his clearance.

When you do, remember to let me know. That was the deal. I want to interview him.

You’re doing a story too? On what? The badness of bikers?

None of your business.

I don’t want you encroaching.

Don’t worry. Sex is your beat, Emily. Not mine.

I’ll send over the info when I get it.

Maybe you should Google him. LOL

Yeah, or we could check LinkedIn.

I know his real name at least. It’s Billy Donner.

I’ll get his contact info. I have a call in to Veronica.

She won’t tell you. I tried.

We’ll see. When I dangle the publication of her story, she’ll come around.

You may get a call from someone else.

Yeah?

A guy named Roger Thornwood. When he rings up, take the call.

Oh? Who’s this Roger?

He’s the U.S. Military. He’ll want you to kill Ronnie’s story.

Fat chance.

Just saying—.

Bye.

As soon as Emily hung up, her intercom buzzed and she pressed a button. Yes?

A call on line two, Says he’s from the Army. Name’s Roger Thornwood.

Put him through, Chester.

You’re taking calls from the Army now? What gives, Emily?

Something new, Chester. I’ll explain later.

Okay, Here you go—. Emily’s desk phone buzzed and she picked up.

Emily Platt, she said. Courtney Stillwell told me you’d be calling.

Did she say why? the male voice asked.

She told me to take your call. So talk to me, but please make it quick. I just have a minute, starting now.

Did she send you a magazine article by a Veronica Miller?

Yes, she did. What about it?

Did you show it to anyone?

That’s none of your business.

It contains information that’s classified Top Secret. We need to talk.

I’m not following. You’re going to tell me what I can and cannot do? Emily’s voice turned cold.