by E. R. Torre
The standing officers collected their duffel bags in silence and walked to the vehicle’s entrance. Their faces were stone cold.
“Come on guys, time’s a wasting,” Samantha kidded them.
None of her passengers cracked a smile.
“Tough crowd,” Samantha muttered.
Samantha was the last to enter. She stepped into the cockpit and found her co-pilot, Frank Masters, sitting in his chair and running a check of the chopper’s instruments. Frank was in his forties and, despite graying hair and a band of wrinkles around his eyes, looked youthfully fit. At least from the neck down. To Samantha, he was a no-nonsense old timer who delighted in sharing (or, as others put it, boring) you with stories of the “good old days”. In time Samantha realized the so-called “good old days” encompassed his whole career up to, give or take, the previous month.
“Glad to see you decided to join us,” Frank said. “Mind you, the passengers had plenty of fun standing around in the heat waiting for you to arrive. Almost as much fun as I had baking in this fucking cockpit.”
“You could use a few more minutes,” Samantha said. “You’re still a little pink.”
Frank shook his head.
“I’m going to have to talk to Warren. That boy’s a really bad influence.”
“Are you kidding? I’m the bad influence. Besides, you could have turned the A/C on.”
“Now now, for the betterment of the environment, this man’s army is going green. Such wasteful uses of energy are verboten.”
“Damn, must have missed that memo,” Samantha said. “And here I was, using the high A/C in the hummer all the way here. You know, I just about froze.”
“That’s it, rub it in.”
Samantha chuckled. She stared at the computer displays before her and worked a separate keyboard, checking the helicopter’s systems.
“What’s the weather look like?”
“Winter’s coming in early this year. Weather net says the temperatures in Alexandra are expected to drop into the teens with a possibility of up to two feet of snow. There’s a strong front passing through even as we speak.”
“And there you were complaining about the heat. If I had my choice, I’d take this over temps in the teens any time.”
“You’re obviously not a skier,” Frank replied. “You don’t know heaven until you’ve hit the slopes.”
“I'll take your word for it,” Samantha replied. “Now, are we going to get the fuck out of here or what?”
A sarcastic applause erupted from the cabin. Samantha laughed.
“The natives grow restless.”
“Indeed,” Frank said. “Let’s get everything in order and be off as soon as possible. I’d hate to be the first military helicopter pilot in history to face a mutiny.”
CHAPTER SIX
Michael eased into a depression in the forest floor. His movements were slow and calculated to minimize noise. He pushed aside the leaves from the bush before him and spotted the sniper lying a little over twenty feet away. For several long minutes, the sniper was frozen in place. Michael knew he could stay that way for a very, very long time. Much longer than the British agent could afford to wait.
Michael ran through some options. There was little chance to make it around the sniper, nor any conceivable way to render him incapacitated without alerting his companions. With his silencer, Michael could take him out but, as with the Humvee driver, killing any officer on this island was obviously meant as a last resort only.
As Michael pondered his options, the sniper suddenly moved. For a second Michael’s muscles flexed. He was ready to attack.
Did they spot me? Were they closing in?
Michael didn’t dare breathe. He watched with horror and fascination as the sniper slowly crawled from his position. His hands were on his weapon, but his weapon hung low to the ground. He rose to a crouch before moving away. Away from Michael and toward the shed.
Michael felt a wave of relief. The sniper hurried his pace and reached the rear of the shed. Once there, he stood up and waved to another of the snipers that lay to Michael’s far left before producing an entry card and pushing it into what appeared to be a rusty slot. A small metal panel slid open, revealing a sophisticated hand scanner. The sniper laid his bare right hand over the scanner and it was flooded with a green light. The door built into the shed’s rear wall silently slid open and allowed the sniper inside. Once in, it slid shut.
Probably need to take a piss, Michael thought. One sniper out of the way, but the other guardians remained in their places.
On the plus side, there’s a rear entry into the shed. On the minus side, I need to avoid guards and snipers while somehow producing an entry card and a proper hand scan to get inside. Once in, who knows what other security measures the Americans have waiting.
Michael frowned. Going in through the shed’s front –or rear– entry was impossible. For a few seconds he considered his options. The frown on his face grew deeper.
Are there any other options?
Michael slid back into the bushes. All missions presented unique difficulties as well as possibilities. He reviewed his goal and it was simple: He had to get into that tool shed and find out what the Americans were up to.
The frown faded.
Correction: He had to get into the base below the tool shed.
If getting into the base via the shed was impossible, then he had to find an alternate way in. One that didn’t require hand scans, identification cards, or the scrutiny of security guards. His mission was still borderline impossible, but at least there was a glimmer of hope.
Michael scanned his surroundings. He eyed several trees and bushes and vegetation. Whatever little optimism he had of fulfilling his mission slowly, inevitably, faded. He could spend hours moving through this bush without finding anything. His eyes settled back on the tool shed.
Now what?
He would have to look around, hope to find—
A sound came from his right. Something had pressed down against the dry brush.
Shit, Michael thought. He had missed one, or more, of the snipers? Had his shaky luck finally run out?
Michael reached for his combat knife. He eyed his surroundings, figuring out where the noise came from, trying to find the intruder who had made it so close to his position.
He saw no one. He saw nothing.
Michael remained still.
Let them come to you.
He flattened his body against the ground. A single bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. A mosquito buzzed by. In the far distance, a bird called out to its mate.
The source of that initial noise, whatever it was, remained a mystery. Was his stalker unsure of Michael’s position? For that matter, was he being stalked? Could the noise have been produced by someone –something– else?
After several quiet minutes passed, Michael backed up into the bush. He took his time and turned his head to the right, to try to get a clear view past the foliage. He couldn’t. Carefully, so very, very carefully, Michael reached out and pushed them aside. As he did, and he saw what lay beyond, the tension in him broke to the point he was forced to keep from laughing out loud.
Walking parallel to him was a small brown rat. The rat walked erratically, moving from side to side as if searching for something. It stepped through a patch of withered leaves, producing almost the exact same sound Michael heard moments before.
Michael turned to his left and looked at the remaining Sniper. The guard was still in place, blissfully unaware of Michael’s presence. Michael let out a very relieved breath.
That was interesting. If it gets any more interesting…
Michael shook his head and put the knife away. His gaze returned to the rat. To his surprise, it was no longer there.
Out of curiosity, Michael tried to find it. He was unable to do so. Michael shrugged. There were better things to do than worry about a rat.
Then again…
Michael looked at the last place
he saw the creature. Though he couldn’t explain why, he was suddenly curious as to where it had gone. He looked around for a few seconds while doubts grew.
This is ridiculous, he scolded himself while crawling to the last place he saw the creature. He spotted the remains of a faint trail in the sand.
What are you going to do now? Follow her home?
Another movement, to his right, drew Michael’s attention. The rat was there, walking past more bushes and eventually stopping before what appeared to be a tree trunk. The tree trunk’s ragged top was covered in dense bush. The rat’s nose was twitching as it stood up on its rear legs. It smelled something within that tree trunk and bush.
Michael watched the bush move gently in the breeze. Something about the movement seemed…odd. There was no breeze at the moment, yet the bush kept moving. Almost as if…
Michael frowned before hurriedly crawling to the tree trunk. As he did, the rat scurried away.
Later, Michael thought.
The British agent examined the thick green bush, fascinated by its impossible dance. Michael reached up and grabbed at a leaf. When he did, his eyes opened very wide. The leaf was plastic! He released it and felt along the length of the bush.
The entire thing was fake!
Michael let go of the phony bush and examined the area around it, searching carefully for any security devices or motion sensors. Satisfied there were none, he gently pushed the bush aside. The top of the tree trunk, he found, was covered in a thick wire mesh. It was from within that mesh, down below the ground, that the stream of air that moved the bush originated. It was an air duct.
Michael felt the tree trunk. It too was phony, sculpted in cement and painted in the colors of rotted bark. The entire illusion was damn good.
Michael again removed his knife from its sheath and reached for the top of the tree trunk. A series of screws kept the wire mesh in place. Michael unscrewed three of them, enough to pull a section of the mesh up. He bent and folded it in half. By doing so, he created a hole big enough to fit into.
Michael put the knife away and, after making sure the remaining sniper hadn’t moved, reached into his backpack and produced a small flashlight. He turned it on and aimed the beam into the dark hole. The light revealed a shiny aluminum tunnel. It dropped five feet down before branching off to the south and north. Because it was releasing air into the outside environment, Michael reasoned it was some kind of purging system, used to rid the underground base of airborne contaminants.
Michael swore. He left his miniature air tanks on the beach. Should something poisonous be released through this duct while he was inside...
That’s a risk you’ll have to take. Look at the bright side: You didn’t have to kill anyone. Not yet anyway.
Michael turned the flashlight off and gave his surroundings one final look. The second sniper was emerging from the shed’s back door and returning to his post. The first sniper waved at him as he did.
You didn’t earn your keep today, Michael thought. It’s time for me to earn mine.
He eased his body into the air duct.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The passengers aboard the Little Charlie waited for liftoff. Becky Waters sat farthest from the cockpit and, true to form, stared out the window while ignoring her fellow passengers. She didn’t purposely do this to be rude: Her mind was on other things. She was nearing the end of her tour of duty and in two months she was a free woman. She thought about falling back into society. She’d do so like a newborn for she had no family, no job to return to, and, at the moment, no serious prospects. She didn’t fear facing this nebulous future. Neither did she have any regrets that her tour of duty was coming to an end.
“Gum?” came a voice to her left. Its source was a short, dark haired and very muscular man seated beside Becky. He held out a pack of green Juicy Fruit and offered a far too-warm smile along with a puppy dog stare.
“No thanks,” Becky replied. Her monotone spoke volumes about her interest in either the gum or continuing the conversation.
The man shrugged. He was experienced in being shot down by members of the opposite sex.
As they say, the soldier thought. When one door slams in your face, there’s always another nearby.
The man shifted to his left. Sitting to his other side was a much younger female soldier. Her face was filled with anxiety. She looked like she dreaded the upcoming flight. She had the look of a very green recruit.
“Gum?” the young man repeated. His smile and eyes were back in their place, along with whatever charm he could muster.
“Thank you,” the newbie replied.
“My name is Howard Bartlett,” the young man continued. The puppy dog eyes were replaced with a friendly twinkle. Now we’re getting somewhere! He held out his hand.
“Alicia Cunningham,” the newbie replied. She hesitated but shook the man’s hand. “This is some helicopter, huh?”
“She’s a Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk,” Bartlett replied matter-of-factly. The smile on his lips was syrupy.
“You’re a pilot?” Alicia asked.
“No. I prefer keeping my feet on the ground.”
“You didn’t try out at least?”
“Well, you see…”
“You weren’t good enough?”
The smile on Bartlett’s lips noticeably dripped.
“No,” he said. Though he tried to contain it, there was considerable defensiveness in his reply. “I didn’t want them. But enough about me—”
“How fast can she go?”
“You’re real curious, aren’t you?” Bartlett said.
“Knowledge is power.”
“I…guess so,” Bartlett said. “Her top speed is a buck fifty. Her service ceiling is nearly twenty thousand feet.”
Worry filled the rest of Alicia’s face.
“Twenty thousand feet?” she repeated. “I was wrong. Ignorance is bliss.”
“She’s a classic, very safe,” Bartlett continued. “If the pilots fly her right, you’ll hardly know we’re in the air at all.”
“I never did care for flying,” Alicia continued. “I get air sickness real easy.”
She eyed the narrow space between herself and the talkative soldier.
“And when I get it, I get it real bad,” she warned him. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me when we lift off.”
Whatever twinkle was left in Howard Bartlett’s eyes faded. He nodded and leaned in closer to Becky’s seat. While Becky glared at him, she had to fight hard not to laugh. Alicia might be a newbie to the armed forces, but the way she brushed off Bartlett proved she was a veteran at getting rid of unwanted pests.
The man sitting in directly in front of Alicia’s seat, Dan Thompson, was also forcing himself not to laugh. He witnessed the entire conversation and the wolfish eagerness in Bartlett’s approach to the ladies bordered on desperate.
Thompson leaned back in his chair and looked to his right. Sitting next to him was the last of the helicopter’s five passengers, a blonde knockout that couldn’t be more than twenty four years old. Even in her bulky fatigues, Thompson admired the hell out of her curves. But what intrigued him the most were her crystal clear green eyes.
Like Becky Waters, the blonde kept mostly to herself during the wait on the landing pad. She offered absolutely no insight into who she was or where she came from, which intrigued Thompson all the more. He noted the tags on her duffel bag and, thus, knew her name: Jennie Light.
Too bad the flight isn’t all that long, Thompson thought. Jennie Light was most certainly someone worth getting to know well. Unlike Bartlett, Thompson was shy and not the best of talkers. Meeting and greeting women usually proved difficult. He considered a few introductions, subtle ice-breakers that would, hopefully, lead to more (any!) meaningful dialogue with Jenny. But after mentally running through a series of progressively worse introductions, he hit a wall.
They’re all terrible, he thought glumly. He eyed Howard Bartlett and shook his head
. I wish I was carrying some gum.
In the chopper’s cockpit, Samantha finished her pre-flight check. She got out of her seat and stepped into the passenger compartment. The passengers eyed her with a mix of anger and impatience as she walked to the helicopter’s side door and stepped out.
“Now what?” Thompson asked, his mood shifting from sour to downright hostile.
“Relax, grumpy,” Samantha replied. “Gotta give this bucket a quick visual check.”
“No one did that yet?”
Samantha pointed back to Frank, her co-pilot.
“He insisted it was my turn,” Samantha said. “Don’t worry, in a couple of minutes we’ll be out of this paradise.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Michael found the skeletal remains of the rat a few feet from the duct’s juncture. It died nibbling through the exposed wires near a mesh fence. It was curious that no one had removed the body or, even more importantly, fixed the wires the rat cut.
Carelessness?
Maybe. And, equally possibly, a case of hubris. When you have a secret base on a remote island operating for who knows how many years without anyone suspecting its existence, there’s always the danger the powers that be get just a little lazy.
Michael examined the wires the rat chewed through. It was impossible to guess where they led to or what they fed, but he had a suspicion, based on the rat’s level of decomposition, this might have been the source of the base’s nighttime illumination three weeks before. If that was the case, the wires most likely fed some kind of electronic dampening equipment. The fact that the cut wires weren’t fixed suggested the base’s electrical engineers figured out some alternate path to feed this particular charge.
Michael released the wires and focused on the mesh. He removed the screws that held it in place and set the obstacle aside. He then crawled along the length of the duct until it turned ninety degrees and continued straight down. The duct dropped for at least thirty, if not more, feet. Michael held his hand over the drop and felt cold air rising from below.