Experience

by Brandt Legg

  They could hear the voices behind them. Tarka counted some angle of breaths and grunts in a formula she’d learned in many dark pursuits over the years. Her guess was the soldiers were eighteen feet behind them. Two minutes more and they would be on top of them. She thought of turning and shooting, but figured that might end the soldiers’ “keep Rochelle alive” order. They might do better as prisoners, but she knew the soldiers would only keep Rochelle. She and the other VS agent would be shot immediately. Her mission was to rescue Rochelle. If she couldn’t do it today, then the next priority was to keep Rochelle alive so someone else could rescue her later. Damn.

  She tried the radio again. “Rainbow, rainbow.”

  Static.

  Sixty seconds later, they’d only moved four feet. The soldiers had gone eight. Now or never, she thought.

  She whispered to the agent and Rochelle, “Turn and fire on three, two, one!”

  Tarka sent a flash bomb as the three opened fire. They took out at least nine soldiers before the shooting stopped. The agent reported “no injuries.” Tarka was also clear. She checked Rochelle—all good.

  At least for the moment, the soldiers had fled back toward the road. The agent and Tarka resumed trailblazing while Rochelle covered the rear.

  Tarka thought they had a chance now if they could do that maneuver one more time and the jungle thinned a little. If at least one of her guys was still alive out there, just maybe, they could make it to the pier. And if the boats were still unprotected . . . A lot of ifs, but it was possible.

  Then they heard the helicopter.

  Chapter Forty

  The jungle was too thick. She could see neither the chopper, nor where the soldiers were. Then it got loud. Really loud.

  Explosions.

  Machine-gun fire from multiple sources—more than ten.

  Screams.

  Shouts.

  “Keep going!” Tarka yelled. The VS agent was less than two feet from her, but he still couldn’t hear. She turned and gave hand signals. All three of them began thrashing violently through the unyielding vegetation. Tarka cleared sweat from her eyes. Rochelle was panting. They pushed and climbed their way across the damp tangle until suddenly Tarka tumbled onto the beach. She slid her night goggles back on and saw the pier and the boats. The area appeared deserted. Most of the gunfire sounded as if it was coming from the area around the crossroad.

  “Let’s go!” There was no time for counting or waiting. Got to get to the boat.

  Tarka held onto Rochelle’s arm as they raced to the pier. They hit the boards in full stride, but were now fully exposed. Tarka released her grip on Rochelle and began running sideways with her weapon aimed toward the crossroad. She didn’t know how many of the three VS agents, who had gone ahead before the soldiers appeared, were still alive, engaging the soldiers, allowing Tarka and Rochelle to get away, but the idea of leaving them behind to die while she escaped was torture.

  The intensity of the firefight at the crossroad suddenly ended, and Tarka knew her team was gone. She called ahead to the last VS agent, who was just boarding the boat.

  “The soldiers are heading this way! Let’s—”

  The boat and the one next to it exploded into a thousand splintered shards of wood and fiberglass. The last VS agent was vaporized. A lethal fireball engulfed them in a split second and expanded outward so fast that Tarka and Rochelle were thrown fifteen feet backwards.

  Tarka crashed down onto the collapsing pier, the wind knocked out of her. As she tried to catch her breath and get up, intense pain in her left arm pulled her back down. It was certainly broken. Wincing from the agony, she called out Rochelle’s name, but after several attempts at yelling louder, she realized she couldn’t even hear her own screams.

  Forcing herself up, she scanned the area. Turning away from the extreme heat coming off the still-burning pier, Tarka saw soldiers heading down the beach toward her. The helicopter that had fired the grenades into the boat landed behind them. She frantically looked for Rochelle, thinking they might still make it back into the jungle. Every moment, Tarka desperately counted—options, seconds, the calculated steps and distance to the soldiers storming in her direction.

  Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of Rochelle splashing in the water.

  Tarka, her survival instincts kicking in without her consciously knowing, somehow got to the edge of the collapsing pier, braced her legs around one of the posts, and hung over. She stretched her right arm, extending her hand to Rochelle. Even in her inverted position, Tarka could see the soldiers rushing toward them. They had obviously spotted her among the fire and wreckage. Rochelle reached out and wrapped a wet hand around Tarka’s wrist. They locked together. Tarka ignored the excruciating injury and hoisted Rochelle back onto the burning pier.

  “Can you run?” Tarka shouted at the soaking wet woman. They could hear, but not well over the echoing ringing in their ears.

  “Yes,” Rochelle replied, gasping. “But where?” Both women looked from the flames on one side of them to the fast approaching soldiers.

  “I don’t know,” Tarka admitted. “But we have to try. Come on!”

  They darted down the debris-littered pier toward the beach. They might be able to slip through before the soldiers reached them, but not if the men decided to shoot. It would be the final test of whether or not the order to take Rochelle alive was ironclad.

  “But there are no boats left, and we’re on an island,” Rochelle yelled as they ran. “We’ve got no way off. How long can we hide in the jungle?”

  Rochelle thought of the still-hidden UPjets. “There is a way.”

  But ten yards from the tree line, the soldiers caught up.

  “Hands on your head,” one of them ordered, menacingly waving a machine gun at them. “Now!”

  As Rochelle placed her hands on top of her head, Tarka’s eyes darted quickly, trying to find a possible escape, any advantage. There was none.

  “My arm is broken,” Tarka pleaded.

  “Do it now,” the man barked, shooting above her head.

  Tarka started to force her lame arm up, gritting her teeth.

  “Kill her,” another solider said. “We don’t need her.”

  “I might need her,” the first man replied slyly.

  “No time for that, you idiot, she’s trouble. Kill her!”

  Tarka eyed their helicopter, the rotors still spinning. She counted the distance, saw the process of getting there. She could reach it alone, but not with Rochelle . . .

  “Don’t worry, I’ll kill her soon enough.” The man licked his lips.

  “Do what you want, but make sure you kill her,” the first soldier said, “because you know damned well our employer will kill you if anything goes wrong.”

  Tarka wasn’t listening anymore. With nothing to lose, a plan formed in her mind.

  Get to the helicopter. She’d come back for Rochelle. If she got lucky, she could kill most of the soldiers from the air. If not, it would be a better way to die.

  “What could go wrong?” The man laughed. “I’ll finish up with her, give her to any of the boys that want a turn, and then she’s fish-food.”

  Before the other soldier could respond, the helicopter blew apart. Shrapnel and debris went flying as everyone dove for cover. Tarka rolled into the sand and brought down Rochelle, pushing their momentum toward the jungle. She kicked a soldier in the face and grabbed his gun in one flawless motion.

  “Look!” Rochelle screamed, pointing to the sky.

  Tarka shot three soldiers before looking up. She might have hit more, but shooting an assault rifle with one arm made accuracy impossible.

  Another helicopter hovered above the trees, sweeping toward the beach. This one appeared more like a military gun ship than the last. Damn it, she thought. More than thirty soldiers were advancing on them. Tarka fired her weapon, hoping to mow down more of them, but the clip was either jammed or empty. Outnumbered and out of options again, she turned to run into the jungle, grabbing R
ochelle on the way.

  The helicopter swung around and opened fire with two M230 chain guns, which sent a near endless stream of lethal 30mm linkless ammunition slicing through at more than three hundred rounds per minute. Hearing the bullets tearing up the ground, Tarka finally admitted it was over. She’d failed not only in saving Rochelle and punishing Bastendorff, but now she would never have the chance to see that evil REMie die.

  Yet, somehow, they reached the jungle. Tarka dropped at the base of a large agathis tree and dared a look back. All the soldiers were dead. The gun ship set down. A voice blasted from a loudspeaker mounted on the side of the helicopter.

  “Tarka, this is Paul Grayson. Booker Lipton sent me.”

  Rochelle, who had run farther into the trees than Tarka before collapsing into the thick underbrush, stood up to look back. “Who’s that?”

  Tarka didn’t know if it was a trap. “I don’t know.”

  “Tarka,” Grayson’s voice came again, “Bastendorff’s got reinforcements on the way. If you want to live, get in now!”

  Her arm throbbed, and so did her head. She glanced quickly at Rochelle and the wall of foliage beyond her, still unsure.

  Grayson jumped out of the chopper. “Tarka, if we weren’t trying to save you, you’d already be dead.” He pointed back to the missiles mounted on the attack helicopter. She easily recognized them as AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-surface missiles, or “ASMs.” Tarka knew it would take less than a second for those weapons to wipe her and Rochelle off the face of the earth.

  “Okay. We’re coming out!” Tarka yelled.

  “You sure about this?” Rochelle asked.

  “Yeah,” Tarka lied.

  As Grayson helped them aboard, she wasn't sure if they were going to take Rochelle back to Booker, or if they would let her go with the original plan, which meant a trip to see Vonner. There was also the possibility that Tarka, or both of them, would be dumped into the Pacific.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Paul Grayson turned out to be the angel he claimed to be. After receiving medical treatment for their injuries, and a brief stay on one of Booker Lipton’s remote islands, Tarka and Rochelle were released. Hudson immediately messaged the Wizard.

  “She’s free!”

  The Wizard, in turn, let Gouge know. The three members of the Tire Shop Gang all felt a little freer themselves, and more relieved than they ever could have imagined.

  Vonner set Rochelle up with a new identity, complete with social security number, driver’s license, passport, and even a bank account containing $25,000. For now, he wanted her to stay in a small rental property he owned in a secluded area on the Hawaiian island of Oahu. He promised that once it was safe, she could resettle near her family in Ohio.

  Hudson, pleased with the news, instructed Fitz to find a reason for him to visit Hawaii. Vonner gave his approval, as long as it remained secret, but it would still take at least a month before Hudson could get there. Presidential schedules and logistics were immensely difficult to arrange.

  He’d waited decades to see Rochelle again, and was anxious to talk to her. In the meantime, both he and Vonner braced for Bastendorff to use whatever he had learned from Rochelle against them.

  During the next few weeks, NorthBridge launched more attacks, specifically targeting the 3D system, NSA, and even one directly at Covington's office. Covington declared that the attack on his office proved NorthBridge was lying.

  “These animals know we’re getting close to their leadership. The hundreds of arrests that AKA-whomever pretends weren’t real terrorists, have given us innumerable leads to the heart of NorthBridge,” Covington said on a news show. “Their faux outrage and the attacks on me personally verify that the vermin we’ve detained were members of NorthBridge.”

  The female host fawned over Covington, who was used to the attention. He was a handsome man with thick black hair, and at six-foot-four, he could have been a star athlete. Instead, he’d pursued connections and money. Covington had cultivated his aura of power for decades, and had reached the zenith of his success. But the frustration caused by Pound’s insubordinate actions left him constantly furious.

  He pulled out a roll of Necco wafers, carefully peeled back the wax paper, and offered the pretty host a pink one, the only flavor of the classic sweets he didn’t like. Covington actually loathed the pink flavor, and normally took great pleasure in crushing them under his shoe, reveling in the crunching sound as the intruder of his otherwise candy utopia was destroyed.

  That day, on his show, Thorne said: “The United States is becoming Nazi Germany. FaST is the SS, and Covington, while maybe not Hitler yet, is certainly Joseph McCarthy, the 1950s senator who made false claims about many Americans during the ‘red scare,’ when fear of communism overtook the nation. ‘McCarthyism,’ which destroyed many innocent lives, became synonymous with the term ‘witch hunt.’ One day, I predict the name Covington will be equated with these dark days when anyone who disagrees with the mission of the state, dictated by the elites who hold the leash of politicians, will be unjustly imprisoned, tortured, and destroyed. A time when Three-D cameras invade our every moment, and the most private conversations are monitored and recorded. Even Orwell and Kafka could not have imagined the extent of the power wielded by American intelligence agencies. The media calls him a hero, a savior. To me, David Covington is the Antichrist!”

  An assistant ushered Linh and another man onto the expansive back porch of the Florida beach house. After the president hugged Linh, she introduced him to the man she had brought along.

  “Mr. President,” she said formally, “this is the person I told you about. The one who, like you . . . died.”

  Hudson looked into the man’s eyes as he shook his hand. He could tell immediately that the man had also seen something that few others had, might even know what Hudson saw, what he felt like. “How long?” the president asked. Anyone who’d had a near-death experience knew what the question meant. How long were you dead?

  “Seven minutes, seventeen seconds.”

  Hudson nodded. “How?”

  “Same as you,” the man said, his gentle eyes squinting, as if in pain. “Took a few bullets.”

  Hudson glanced at Linh. She hadn’t told him the man had also been shot. Hudson had only agreed to meet him because Linh asked for the favor, said it would help the man. Hudson knew she’d probably thought it would help him as much as the man himself.

  Maybe she was right, he’d thought. Although he’d received thousands of letters from NDE survivors around the world, he’d never actually talked to one. He really hadn’t wanted to, because even though he relived those nine minutes every day, Hudson would have been happy to never think about them again.

  Still, here he was, face-to-face with another person who’d “slipped the surly bonds of earth.”

  The two men strolled up the beach, side by side, talking quietly while Linh trailed behind, the ever-present Secret Service agents a bit farther back, a few more walking ahead of them. Half an hour later, an assistant jogged up and told the president his next appointment was waiting.

  “Thank you, Linh,” Hudson said as they bid each other farewell. “And I look forward to seeing you again,” he added, gripping the hand of Paul Grayson.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The president’s next guest might have been more surprising than a man who had also been shot to death. Even several aides, who hadn’t been briefed, were stunned to see the president greet one of his most vehement political opponents.

  “I'm amused that you actually went through with this meeting,” Thorne said as Hudson ushered the shock-jock out to the beach.

  “I did it for two reasons,” the president began. “First, I wanted to know if your obnoxious and arrogant personality was real, or just a front that you put on for your show.”

  “There is only one Thorne, and I'm as sharp as they come,” he said, smiling proudly, as if he’d said something profound. “We both know I should have your job, and you
should be mixing colorants into gallons of paint, maybe duplicating car keys. But, like always, the voters were tricked.”

  The president stopped and studied Thorne’s face, trying to decide if the radio commentator was being serious.

  “So, now that you’ve got that answer,” Thorne said with a straight face, “let’s hear your second reason.”

  Hudson still couldn’t tell for sure if it was an act. He hoped so. Hudson narrowed his eyes, and in a tone sharper than Thorne’s attitude, said, “We may have a lot more in common than it seemed during the campaign.”

  “I doubt that,” Thorne replied, caught by the president’s tenacity.

  “Hear me out. Specifically, we might have a mutual enemy.

  “Who might that be?”

  “Assuming you aren't actually a member of NorthBridge,” Hudson said, giving Thorne another long, probing stare.

  “I can tell you this,” Thorne said. “I sure as hell don’t consider NorthBridge to be my enemy, if that’s who you think we share a dislike for.”

  “You'd be surprised to know that I’m interested in true, perhaps even radical change, as you are.”

  “I must be on candid camera,” Thorne said, looking around as if he were part of an elaborate practical joke.

  “Seriously,” Hudson said firmly. “I’m hoping to break the grip of those wealthy elites who seem to think the world’s governments and their populations are pieces on a chessboard, pawns to be played with.”

  Thorne returned the president’s stare with an incredulous look. “You work for one of those wealthy chess players you just described.”

  “So do you,” Hudson said, raising a brow.

  “No,” Thorne argued. “That's the difference between you and me. Vonner may own the company I work for, but that doesn't mean I work for him. Your situation is different, he actually owns you.” Thorne had the smug smile of a man who had just landed a blow and knew he could handle whatever was coming back his way.