Some time ago, the historic Fort Jefferson National Monument was purchased by the mysterious investment organization known as the MAGI-Group. Hardly anyone had any idea what the acronym stood for, let alone actually knew what an acronym was. In secrecy, the word hid an intricacy of layered consulting interactions throughout the vast U.S. intelligence network. Even so, within that matrix, MAGI existed in a world it continuously created, fabricated, updated and reformatted as global conditions warranted. Outside the reaches of politicians, pundits and the press, MAGI was invisible.
From the outside looking in, if you were in a position to do that, MAGI-Group seemed like some kind of weird collection of white-collar computer geeks. The Multidimensional Analysis and Global Investigations group had been viewed as an elaborate think tank of egghead type lab-rat analysts. Naturally, such notions were effective in providing a smokes screen. Or, as the founders once conjured, something referred to as the mystical Legerdemain Protocols. Regardless, another reference could be in the direction of the ancient Magi, the plural of magus, magicians or alleged wise men and women.
Nonetheless, among themselves, the key people involved considered they were the angels who keep the watch. That is, watchers and observers, who maintain a balance between good and evil, primarily to protect the United States of America. Believers in an ancient code of chivalry, the code of Bushido, they were ronin by choice. However, there existed another reference in their mythic legerdemain. This nebulous notion pointed to places like Area-51, the Bermuda Triangle, and other paranormal possibilities. However, you would have to be way above top secret to get closer.
Meanwhile, in the Gulf of Mexico, seventy miles west of Key West, the old island fortress became the main operational center for MAGI-Group. Formerly, a national park, and previously a federal military facility, the coastal bastion was sold after a never- ending national debt crisis. As usual, politicians clamored to downsize not only the military, but also certain national recreation facilities. In the face of mounting terrorist activities, global unrest, and elections, officials opted for electoral safety. But, the elusive CEO of the mysterious MAGI Group, Dr. Sterling Striffe, convinced those involved to buy the fort and set up home base at the fortress. They did excitedly that.
The largest masonry structure in the U.S., the fort contained an elaborate command and control center. Manned by a handful of specialists, not counting, armed security personnel, the internal workings were fully automated. With the latest computerized techno-savvy capabilities, as well as other components, the citadel remained completely self-contained. If necessary, you would never have to leave for any reason. From the outside, one might mistake its looks for something historically archaic and antiquated. But, that was intentional, as on the inside, high-tech was the name of the game.
Magi's fortress consisted of a three-tier design based on a hexagonal configuration. Distance from one corner to the next, along each diagonal wall, ranged from 325 feet to 477. Gulf waters surrounded the bastion. And, a protective walled barrier separated the sea from the walls and created the effect of a mote. A small island landing and docking area ran along the western side of the complex. Two helipads, one inside the fort, and one on the island, afforded the landing of various aircraft operated by Magi.
"Incoming aircraft stand by for corporate staff arrival," an alert technician announced to others in the command center. "Helo One is on approach, be vigilant."
"Helo One to Armada Base," the pilot signaled. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as her curly red struggled to remain contained under her pilot's helmet. Her freckles animated a facial expression that showed excitement. "We're approaching LZ-1 on the inside complex. Three minutes to arrival, are we clear for approach?"
"Affirmative, Helo One, you are cleared," the command center radioed back.
"Perimeter defenses are ready for your landing. You have green light."
"Alright you two, hang on to your private parts," the feisty pilot said to her passengers. "I'm gonna do a fast run over the fort, just for kicks, okay?"
"Rusty," Sterling Striffe, wealthy owner of the MAGI group, started to issues one of his playful warnings. "Don't wreck this chopper it's a prototype." His tone contained more jest than seriousness. "It's on loan and the board of directors will be really pissed." Patiently, he commented via his headset microphone and glanced at his paramour partner. "What? She likes to race her aircraft. She's good at what she does."
"Didn't one of these experimental things crash at the European air show last year?" The infamous Myla Trench, exotic operative extraordinaire retorted wryly. "Hmm you know, Sterling my darling, didn't our very own Rusty crash that one?"
"I heard that," the pilot, Major Rose Petals, muttered amusingly to her paramour, Myla Trench. As a threesome couple, they enjoyed the jousting. "Correction, it was not one of these aircraft." She whipped around quickly and threw them both a nod. "Come on people, it's on loan for testing. Yes, it's a prototype. Last time, at the air show in a different aircraft, I might add. The turbine burned up on me. It wasn't my fault. The bird had major engine failure and we didn't design it. At least not at Area-51""
"We had a lot of explaining to do to the U.S. Army," Myla added playfully. "However, I'm certain Sterling will find a way to reimburse any losses. Seems like he's good at covering things up," she teased without mercy and pulled no punches.
"Well, that took some creative storytelling," Sterling laughed. "A few miffed colonels and majors were over-ruled by several appreciative generals." He cleared his throat and sucked in a breath. "Plus, with added incentives, investors picked up the tab."
"See how things work out?" Rusty offered jokingly and then went on to another issue. "Okay, see that boat down there?" Rusty called their attention to a strange watercraft cruising near the fort. "That long grey thing moving slowly."
"Yeah, Rus, very good, your visual acuity is excellent. That's a boat down there." Striffe said with growing interest. "An unusual vessel for these waters this time of day, I might add." He strained to look closer. "The configuration is that of a high-speed craft." He pulled out a pair of digital binoculars from an under-seat compartment. "Ease down there," his face grew more serious, while he zeroed in with the computerized three-D field glasses. "Be careful and be ready, I'm getting one of those feelings. It's the kind that annoys intuitive creativity and tugs at lethal perceptions."
"Uh huh, I'm getting that little twitch in the pelvis too," Myla perked up. "Could be something else I need. Then again on another level, there's that unusual craft near our fort," She said in agreement. With her binoculars, she joined the analysis. "You're right, tough guy, narrow beam, heavy engines and steep angles on the hull."
"Looks fast, lots of thrust power," Striffe added to her notations.
"Thrust power is good," Myla said while peering next to him down at the boat. She added with a more investigative tone, "I'm taking some pictures." She pressed a button the binoculars and began a series of snap shots. With her earpiece comm-link, she over- rode helo communications. "Armada you copy that transmission?"
"Roger that, Helo One, transmission on secure link confirmed and we're on it," the command center reported to her. "We're monitoring the phantom craft, which changed course earlier. Navigational trajectory is currently being tracked." Silence interceded shortly, and then the command center added, "I.D. is unknown."
"I could've told them that," Myla snarled and put up a frown.
"Going in closer, we'll do a fly over and make an assessment," Rusty announced to the two of them. "Well that's certainly interesting, what's it doing?"
"Helo One, shall we launch vessel interception?" The command center asked.
"Hold in place for the time being, we'll advise," Rusty responded.
"No particular markings of note," Striffe, aka Lancer Lovejoy, mentioned. "Not even a hull number for registration purposes, or any identifiable insignia. Nor is it flying any flag of registry. We could have the U.S. Coast Guard conduct an inquiry."
"The fort is technically within the U.S. territorial boundaries," Myla clarified. "To summon a response will take time. That craft could disappear quickly and make it to open watch and to who knows where. I say we interdict and enforce no trespassing." She gave off a heavy sigh. "We're outside local jurisdiction, so it falls on us."
"I like that idea." Sterling pulled out one of his expensive cigars. Unlit, he chomped down and continued, "Have base delay Coast Guard notifications."
"Roger that will do. Standby people, closing on target," Rusty advised them. "Coast Guard intervention will be too late. If we're dealing with pirates, terrorists or whatever," she toyed, "we need to act now and find out who they are."
"Instruct Armada Base," Striffe advised her, "to upgrade security status now."
"Armada control," Rusty radioed. "Elevate status and secure the base."
"Affirmative, going to Condition Red," the command center responded. In the background, a klaxon alarm sounded. With the press of a button, the technician put the island fortress in lock-down. "Helo One, we are in secure mode."
"Copy that," Rusty answered. "We going in and assess the situation."
"Affirmative, Helo One," control replied. "Scanners put the vessel near the tip of the northwest island. Off our shoreline approximately point zero nine eight seven nautical miles. Technically, it's trespassing." Static filled the temporary void for a second or two. "Watercraft analysis indicates the profile of a race boat..."
"With twin diesel type engines," Rusty continued where the technician had started. "That's a roger on that. Commence a search of the trans-global registries for a possible match to the craft's visual profile, characteristics, etc., and standby."
"Okay, so it's about two hundred yards out, so what? I hate to be sarcastic," Myla wanted to say sternly. "However, I already deduced that. Why is that information annoying to me, Sterling? It's redundant." She snarled, grew impatient and frowned in her usual readiness to for action. "We're wasting time. Rusty, take us down."
"It's annoying because you want to be annoyed." He smiled appreciatively and nodded at Rusty. "My question is, since when did you not want to be sarcastic?"
"You're gonna get it later, wise guy," she taunted and punched him in the ribs. He smirked at the lightly placed jab. "Smart ass," she added friskily.
"Meanwhile, one of the boat's crew, after giving us the once over, has gone below.
