was next to Foreman, hooked to the plane's satellite dish. The green light on top began blinking, then it gently puffed out a piece of paper. Foreman picked up the paper and looked at it as a second sheet came out, followed by a third.
    Unlike Patricia Conners, Foreman was not surprised at the hazy triangle in the center that blocked the view, nor did he suspect there was anything wrong with the equipment.
    He reached into a briefcase and pulled out several similar images. He placed a new one on top of an old one and held the paper up to the overhead light.
    A frown creased his aged forehead at what he saw. He reached down and picked up the satellite phone resting on the arm of the chair. He punched in auto-dial. A voice answered on the second ring.
    “Yes?” the woman's accent was strange, hard to place.
    “Sin Fen, it's me. I will be landing in twelve hours.”
    “I will be waiting.”
    “Any activity?”
    “It is as you predicted. I am watching.”
    “Nothing yet.”
    Foreman glanced at the paper once more. “Sin Fen, it is changing.”
    “Smaller or larger?”
    “Larger this time and the fluctuations are severe. More than I've ever seen.”
    There was no reply, not that he had expected one.
    “Sin Fen, I’m going to try the orbital laser. Also I am going to check the other Gates.”
    “It is as we discussed,” Sin Fen said, which was all the agreement he was going to get.
    “Do you--” Foreman paused, then continued--”sense anything?”
    Foreman glanced at another piece of paper. A surveillance report. “Michelet has contacted Dane.”
    “That is also as we discussed,” Sin Fen said.
    “I’ll see you shortly,” Foreman said.
    The phone went dead. Foreman opened up his briefcase and pulled out a slim laptop computer. He hooked the line from the satellite phone into the computer. Then he accessed the NSA and typed in the commands for what he wanted.
    Finished with that, he then punched the number for his superior in Washington. He always believed in acting first, then getting permission, especially when dealing with small minds. The phone was picked up on the second ring.
    “National Security Council.”
    “This is Foreman,” Foreman said. “I need to speak to Mister Bancroft.”
    Foreman listened to the static. He hated talking to anyone else about his project. He was considered an anachronism in the Black Budget Society of Washington, a man with much power dealing with an unknown entity. As such he engendered much animosity. With over sixty billion dollars a year pumped into it, the Black Budget had many strange little cells, searching into different areas, from Star Wars defense systems, to the Air Force's classified UFO watchdog group, to Foreman's Gate program.
    A new voice came on. “Go.”
    “Mister Bancroft, this is Foreman. I'm going to use Bright Eye to take a look into Cambodia.”
    The President's National Security Adviser sounded irritated. “Is that necessary?”
    “The fluctuations are severe. Over forty percent. Another twenty percent bigger and the Angkor Gate will touch several populated areas.”
    “So? It's Cambodia for Christ's sake. No one gives a shit.”
    “Remember the connection to what's off our coast,” Foreman said.
    “The only connection to what you think is off our coast is in your head,” Bancroft rejoined. “You tried making that connection a long time ago and a lot of men died and a lot of careers were ruined trying to cover up for it.”
    “Those men made the connection,” Foreman said.
    “One high frequency radio transmission,” Bancroft said. “That isn’t exactly conclusive.”
    “Something's happening,” Foreman insisted.
    “Yes, something is happening,” Bancroft's voice was sharp. “Paul Michelet lost his plane and his daughter overflying that Goddamn place. Forget to fill me in on that little detail?”
    “It was his decision,” Foreman said, not surprised that Bancroft already knew about the

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