The Mizar Project

Dalton Williams learned about the Bliven Committee's inquiry into the Mizar Project on a Saturday morning while sitting on the patio of his spacious Mount Vernon home reading the Washington Post. He frowned, ran his hand through his sandy hair in irritation and got up. The Post fell to the flagstone.

By the time Martha Dale Williams appeared in the doorway with the breakfast tray, he'd disappeared through the garage and was already backing out his steel gray Trans Am.

As the car swung around the drive she caught a glimpse of him through the dogwood.

'Going to the sweatshop, Marty,' he called out. 'Be back in a couple of hours.'

He gunned the car down the roadway and disappeared around the bend. She went back, picked up the Post, sat down and sipped her orange juice.

She scanned the headlines: BLIVEN COMMITTEE HOMES IN ON YOUTH AND DRUGS Now why should that get him all steamed up, she wondered. But then, she was always wondering about Dalton.

*****

They were already at the Agency when he arrived. He saw their cars and knew they had probably gathered up in Marshall's 'rumpus room'. He was ticked off. They should have called him.

When he strode in, they were having coffee and studying the handouts Marshall had prepared.

David Bernstein, his genial physicist friend, an analyst at the DI, handed him a full cup.

'Sit down Dalt. Join the party.' He noted William's dour face. 'Look pal, I didn't know about this either.'

Carl Beghold, Chief of Logistics, passed him a copy of the handout. It was the Washington Post article.

'We called you. Dalt, but Martha said you'd just left.' Williams looked over his half glasses at Beghold, 'It's a hell of a way to find this out, Carl. A senior member of the Agency, and I've got to read it in the Post.'

Charles Marshall got up and moved over to him. He placed a hand, ever so gently, on his shoulder. The Director of Operations clearly didn't want a scene.

'We didn't want to bother your people with this until we knew how far they were going on the hill. We've only had it a week ourselves, Dalt.'

'I think you guys should've alerted us right away. It's no secret that I'm touchy about Mizar.'

There was an embarrassed silence.

'Well, what does it all mean?' Williams asked, a chill still in his voice.

Marshall walked back to the head of the table. 'It means the public is going to know we sponsored drug studies at some prestigious Universities and used the Navy as a front.' He drew a deep breath. 'The Agency will take its usual bath. We're a bunch of creeps dealing deviously with innocent kids, taking liberties away from civilians or some other non sequitur horseshit. The Freedom of Information Act will take another bite out of the intelligence community and Bliven will have headlines for about two weeks.' He threw his pencil on the table.

'That's not what I read,' Williams said curtly.'My paper says they're going to probe Mizar.'

'Just the cover for Mizar. Nothing about MKX. It's buried. Trust me it'll never come up.'

Dave Bernstein looked around and grinned. 'Great, guys. So what are we here for?'

Over the ten years since they had planned the Mizar Project, Charles Marshall had aged more than the rest. He had put on weight, his West Point bearing marred by a paunch protruding above his sagging belt. However, he still had his animated bounce and quickness of mind. He reached over to the middle of the table and pushed a sheaf of papers toward them.