Oracle's Diplomacy

by A. Claire Everward

  With him.

  Where are you, George Sendor? was the question with which she had come here and was now contemplating in the endless depths of her remarkable mind, and she had no intention of leaving without it being answered. Where are you? was the echo an indeterminate distance into the temporal dimension later, even as something finally tugged at her attention and she confidently reached for one end of the thread, followed it, knew.

  In the comfortable, dim silence of her office, she opened her eyes again. Her line of thought did not react, was not in the least affected. Darkness and silence had the same peace without as she had within and tended not to disturb her focus.

  It was why she had her office designed this way.

  She ordered a random wall screen on and accessed IDSD Legal. Not under her visible Missions authorization, that of the formal identity she held, of critical mission expert, but under her confidential, untraceable one. The designated mainframe tagged her entry, revving up, ready to alert, then recognized who she was and stepped back obediently, clearing her way through. She pressed on, searching, until she found what she wanted, then rushed through international records, fast, faster as the pieces fell into place in her mind. Finally zoomed in on Europe, went back a decade, then another year earlier.

  Centering on Croatia, on the earthquake that had devastated the island of Cres, taking hundreds of lives and literally breaking it apart, large chunks of it falling into the raging sea.

  The island had remained uninhabited, the tragedy that had occurred on it hindering anyone from attempting to start a new life there. The surviving population had been relocated at its request with the help of the Joint Europe Civilian Command and IDSD Diplomacy’s peacetime ops force, and Cres, or what used to be Cres, had been redesignated for use as a transitional port and airport for both civilian and military uses. This prompted the idea, quite ambitious at the time, to extend its intact remainder by building on its edge and into the sea a fully usable artificial extension. But although the extension was built, the plan for the island didn’t pan out. Everyone was reluctant to use the place, even fishermen didn’t go there anymore. Not even youth looking for a place to party or to swim. It was as if nothing that might represent the continuation of life was allowed there, as if forbidding spirits were standing guard, demanding to be remembered.

  The place was deserted.

  In her office, records were now running on the screen, alongside press releases, internal notices and hearing minutes. The first thing she searched for in these was who had been behind the construction of the artificial platform. That took a deeper look. Most of what she found discussed the disaster itself, the lives lost and the relocation of the too few who had survived. Croatia itself was cited as the final decisionmaker as to the fate of the island itself, and its then prime minister had taken credit for the rebuilding. For all intents and purposes, Croatia had done it all, from start to finish.

  But something tugged at Oracle’s mind, something that had been there for a while and that had prompted her to add to her mental database all information Missions had about Yahna as soon as she had heard about its extremist faction. Yahna’s fall happened at about the same time as the earthquake, in fact when the trials of two of its rogue leaders began the earthquake’s consequences were still being dealt with. Shortly after, the two leaders—and Yahna—were let off on the condition that Yahna immediately cease all its activities against the Internationals. And not only them. Other than the trials of those who had caused bodily harm through acts they themselves had committed, all other trials had ended with a warning, not much more than that.

  She contemplated this, then ventured further in, toying with a theory. She ran assorted data on four views on the same screen, as if limiting the space they occupied would focus them better in her mind. She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, but she followed that sense of uneasiness that was lurking deep in her mind.

  She didn’t believe in coincidences.

  An obscure reference in the ruling in the trial of one of the two Yahna leaders sent her backtracking, then opening a new hidden path and proceeding unseen through IDSD Legal to a junction where she piggybacked on a high internal authorization, one that brought a small smile to her face, then dove into past records of the financial accounts of the Croatian government. She found what she needed in records that were closed to public scrutiny.

  The money for the artificial platform, a substantial amount, came in its entirety from Yahna, in a gesture made by it to prove its intention to mend its ways. It would no longer harm and destroy, but build. Its official statement, made in confidence to the then government of Croatia, went so far as to say that the Croatian members of Yahna, who had previously opposed Croatia’s intention at the time to join the alliance, wished to show their appreciation for the Internationals’ help with the Cres relocation as well as with the severe economic repercussions of the earthquake for the entire region. Apparently the Internationals had, through IDSD Diplomacy, sent search and rescue teams to the devastated island, had paid for the relocation of the evacuees, including doing their best to replicate the homes they had lost, and had provided the survivors, those of Cres and others in the region who had felt the effects of the disaster, with all the help they needed, striving to allow life to return to normal, to the extent possible under the circumstances. Yahna, the statement said, was volunteering to do as the Internationals had, and to find a way to rebuild Cres.

  Oracle closed the statement and frowned. Since then, Yahna had remained out of trouble, keeping its head down. Or at least apparently so. As recent events had shown, that wasn’t quite what happened. Instead, the extremists within it had used it to maintain a low-key facade, while in actual fact working covertly to create a new, more sophisticated and violent faction. The question was how early on they had begun planning their eventual return, and just how they had been preparing over the years. However, that was something that time would determine, time and the kind of intelligence work and investigation that were not part of what Oracle did, nor what she needed right now.

  All she needed was what she now had, the connection that she had found and that was tangible enough for her to focus on. That and her unique capability, which she trusted to lead her down the right path out of infinite possibilities, toward that which she was seeking, which was no longer hidden in the endless fabric of space and time but was now within her reach.

  Cres’s reconstruction had begun two years after the earthquake. She removed the data from the screen and brought up the construction plans for the artificial platform. Useless. She went further in, searched, and eventually found what she was looking for in the records of the construction company, which in her opinion should have been destroyed long before if what she thought the extremist faction did was in fact what they had done, if they had influenced the construction and had added something that wasn’t supposed to be there, something they had meant to keep hidden. But then, people were careless at times, or perhaps wanted information saved for later leverage, and this, fortunately, was one of these two cases. It was simple, really. The construction company that Yahna had contracted with—and that had been just a little too well paid for the job they had done, a comparison to their other jobs showed her—had kept the blueprints. Archived long ago, and well hidden, granted. But not hidden well enough from her.

  She made a copy of all the available information about the reconstruction and backed out all the way out of IDSD Legal, and was still digging into the blueprints when she made the call to Brussels, to IDSD Special Missions Command. Next was Emero, who would be passing on to Southern Territories the go on the raid on Pohnpei and following it in real time. She called using her critical mission expert ID but received no answer. Not surprising, all considering, she thought, and called again using her Oracle code. The call was picked up immediately, the screen before her showing her it was awaiting maximum security mode.

  “Emero,” was all he said, prompting voice identification that co
mpleted the security check.

  She gave a quiet command, adding an unanticipatable security layer, and then addressed the agent. “Marcus, there’s a structure under the Cres artificial platform, propped on a part of the island that sank and partially integrated with it. Underwater access only. Extremists hot spot.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said after a shocked silence. “They were under where they landed the jet the whole time?”

  “Look at the blueprints I’m sending you, there’s no way you would have found it.” And there wasn’t. No search could have identified the existence of the hideaway, which was entirely submerged and connected to the underside of the platform and was surrounded by a larger frame that was a legitimate part of the artificial structure. This frame made it invisible unless someone managed to go down a substantial depth and then up again on the inside of the frame, which no one had a reason to do. And the internal structure, the information from the construction company had told her, had been designed to have no footprint that would allow it to be tagged by electronic means.

  “Unbelievable.” He didn’t ask how she found it. He never did.

  “Special Missions Command is mobilizing our units at Split, they’re the closest. I’ve already sent them the info.”

  He nodded. “You’ll guide them in?”

  “Yes.” That, she had no doubt she could do, guide them through any security measures, hostiles included. She had enough context in her mind and by now this type of thing came naturally to her. “But not just yet. They’ll stay away from Cres until I give them the go. And Marcus,” she added, her eyes locked on his, “you do the same with Pohnpei. Don’t move yet.” She wasn’t finished with her new finding. Whatever it was that was tugging at her mind was still there, still not entirely clear.

  Emero confirmed without question and signed off. He knew she would never give such an order without a reason. He trusted her without reservation. He had been at the heart of an investigative operation gone very wrong at one time, and she had saved him. But he hadn’t known that until the day he had first been asked to be in charge of her protective detail. She had saved quite a few of his people, his friends, since, and what he had seen her do cemented his trust in her in a way that could not be shaken.

  In her office, Oracle was already immersed in thought again. She still hadn’t found George Sendor. Except, she thought she knew where he might be.

  She called Scholes to briefly update him and the war room outside, and then shut down her communication system. She still had some time before the Special Mission Units arrived near Cres, and she wanted to use it. She didn’t want to stop what she was doing, was too far now into that part of who she was that she needed here, too close to be sidetracked.

  Her office dark and silent once again, she dove deeper into her mind.

  And focused on the life of one man.

  Mission Command shifted its focus even as Scholes’s phone indicated an incoming call. He took it, and Donovan saw him frown, the frown deepening as he ended the call and issued a series of orders to the mission coordinators before turning to Donovan.

  “This”—he indicated the new views on-screen, the step-up in activity—“came from Oracle.” He was already walking to the door of Mission Command, Donovan at his side.

  The door to Lara’s inner office was still closed. This time they stayed there, sitting at the table in her outer office. While they waited, Scholes checked on all the teams standing by to close in on those who were behind the events that were threatening to destroy everything his people had worked for.

  With its presumed destination now known, the Air Assault Team of the Special Mission Unit that was moved to the air-sea base at Split in the recent redeployment of IDSD’s special forces was ready to be in the air and en route to Cres on command, although it would remain on the tarmac until the order was given. Since Oracle had not yet given a go, the assumption was that its destination could still change if Oracle determined there were no persons of interest currently there. At the same time, the Amphibious Ops Team of the Special Mission Unit permanently stationed at Split was already being deployed to Cres in underwater transports, because of the somewhat longer time needed for their departure from Split and arrival at Cres, but it would also remain a safe distance away until the go or a redirecting order would be given.

  In the western Pacific Ocean, the IDSD and US Combined Special Ops Task Force-Micronesia was in position and ready to move in on Pohnpei, its Electronic Warfare Detachment prepared to disable the island’s power grid and all communications through a network of combat stealth drones carrying long-range offensive jammers and flying at a predesignated perimeter. On command, Pohnpei and its surrounding islands would go dark.

  And in the United States, Yahna’s members did not realize that the people walking alongside them in corridors, standing with them in elevators, or driving on the same roads as them, were US Global Intelligence agents, who were constantly coordinating with their peers in intelligence agencies worldwide doing the same with Yahna members elsewhere.

  Both Donovan and Scholes stood up when the door finally slid open. Oracle came out, her eyes intense, focused. “Cres, they kept him in that zero-comms underwater structure,” she said. “He and his abductors were there the entire time, hidden and untraceable.” She walked to Mission Command, putting on her headset.

  Donovan’s concern that she would not, could not accept the possibility that the ambassador was dead, surfaced again. “You need to consider—”

  “He’s alive,” she said without turning back, and the way she said it made both of the men following her know not to argue.

  When they entered Mission Command, a mission coordinator informed Scholes that the transports carrying the Air Assault Team that would be serving as the Amphibious Ops Team’s backup were in the air. On the screen, two blank views with off-comms signals were added, one for each of the teams. And in Micronesia, the task force was inching closer to Pohnpei, preparing to raid their targets.

  “When did you give the order?” Scholes asked, and Donovan was taken aback. He had no idea she had the authority to do that.

  She didn’t answer. She had done it earlier and had then taken the time to refocus her mind on all active fronts—Bosnia, Srpska, Brčko and Russia, where tensions had reached a peak, Pohnpei, where she would only step in in an emergency, although she had her reasons to expect the raid teams would not encounter significant trouble, and Cres, where the spearhead of her attention was now that she had a lock on the ambassador. It was crucial that nothing would be missed now.

  “What are these for?” Donovan indicated the two blank views.

  “They have their orders. They will only be in contact with each other and with Oracle until this is over. All eyes are off them,” she said quietly, then addressed Scholes. “They won’t need additional air or underwater support.”

  Donovan looked at her and was surprised to see that she wasn’t looking at the screen, where IDSD secure satellites were tracking all active fronts, all but Cres. Instead, she stood with her head down, her eyes closed.

  “Where are you?” he asked, half expecting her not to hear.

  “Sendor,” she answered quietly. “I’m with George Sendor.”

  Donovan turned to look at Scholes, who shook his head. He had no idea what she meant, he had never encountered anything like this before.

  Hold on, she said deep in her mind. We’re coming for you.

  He couldn’t hear her, she knew. Didn’t know she was there. But she could see him, was with him, would not leave him there alone.

  Hold on.

  Sendor took the pen apart during his meal, doubting anyone would bother watching him eat. And he had been eating alone since his captor had, apparently, left, which made it easier. He had decided on that specific meal because in his mind, in that timeline he had kept for his sanity, it was in fact supper. And it was now, today, that he intended to finally take action.

  He read a little after his meal,
in one of the old print books they allowed him to have, as he did on every what he thought was evening. He waited impatiently until the old man came to clear the dishes, and as soon as the man left he dimmed the light as low as he was allowed to and went to bed, feigning tiredness. He waited as long as patience would allow him, hoping whoever might be watching him would get bored and look the other way.

  Eventually he got up and dressed quietly in the near dark, staying as far out of view of the cameras as he could. He then inched along the wall to the entry door, holding in his hand the pointed edge of the pen he had taken apart, and reached for the handle. Then he halted, reconsidering, and walked over to the desk. He took the notepad they had given him, tore off the many pages he had written in the duration of his captivity, rolled them up and put them inside his shirt. They were important to him, these words he had written. They recounted everything that had happened to him since he had gotten on the jet and everything that his captor had said to him. They included words for the people he had taken under his wing and had fought to achieve the peace treaty for, told of his dreams for them, the future he so wanted them, their children, to have. There were instructions in them for those he knew would do everything in their power to follow in his way. He wanted them to try to make peace happen, no matter what, no matter how long it would take. And last, but by all means not least, there were words there for his family. For his sons, for the grandchildren he might never see grow up.

  He wasn’t sure anyone would ever see them, his words. Although he would try to escape, he placed little faith in his ability to do so. He knew enough to understand that he was not being held by amateurs and that it had taken an elaborate plan to abduct and hold him this way, to use him to hurt whole nations so effectively. But he thought that if they killed him and his body would be found, perhaps returned to his family, those he cared about might find what he had written.

  With the papers safely tucked in his shirt, he returned to the door. It took him some time, but he managed to unlock it with the pen he had taken apart. Whoever was holding him had apparently not imagined him trying to get out, certainly not after a time in which he had been nothing but obedient. As it was, he did, and this door was not electronically locked. It was an old manual door, the type he had not seen since he was a child.