Jack Be Nimble: The Crystal Falcon Book 3

by Ben English

  *

  Alonzo watched Mercedes Adams purchase a paperback from the bookseller and walk briskly toward the shuttle for the train station. An old man followed her, struggling under the weight of an enormous suitcase. Really selling your age there, buddy, he thought.

  Before boarding the train himself, Alonzo used his phone to verify that the rental car would be ready for them at the end of the line. The train station in Spokane was several miles from the airport, all the way out in Cheney, so they’d have to move quickly if they wanted to outrun the storm. They’d already filed a flight plan for the QSST to put them back in Cuba before midnight, if Jack’s curiosity regarding the woman was satisfied. If.

  It was a commuter train, a bullet-ride for the Seattle salarymen and engineers who lived at the other end of the state, so naturally it was equipped with rentable cubicles of its own. Free internet. Wouldn’t want any of the tech-heads to have any downtime away from work. Alonzo found himself a small, soundproofed space (sponsored by the company responsible for the operating system running on most of the world’s personal computers), and activated his computer (which ran a different OS, thank you very much).

  The team kept busy in their absence. He read through Ian’s report of the excursion to the island, and the puzzles they’d found. Irene was finishing up the autopsy on the body of the child, and would have the lab analysis completed soon as well.

  She needs to get back to her family, he thought. While Nicole believed Irene’s training had prepared her for field action with the team, Alonzo knew better. He’d known her since middle school, could tell she was nearing exhaustion.

  Irene had mentioned her recent vacation in Forge, had filled him in on all the hometown gossip. She’d need another vacation after her jaunt in Cuba.

  And that night the Cuban police and military would hit Lopez’s processing station. The basic plan looked solid: the drug lab was in the foothills, slightly up-country of Santiago, flush against the southeastern coastal range. The topographical map showed the area was fantastic for farming but remarkably indefensible. A line of soldiers on the ridge above the plant would be able to descend quickly and push any defenders out into a section of flat sugarcane fields, which according to the satellite images were unplanted and fallow this year. The mission plan, drawn up by the noncommissioned officers of the new Cuban special forces unit, looked solid. Either the Tanners’ instructions were sticking or the locals just had a natural gift for tactics. Alonzo hoped the former; a learned ability was ten times better than natural ability or dumb luck.

  Alonzo felt twitchy. In his head he knew the best course of action was to allow the locals all the success and experience they could gather. It was the only way to ensure they had a chance to defend their own country in the future, without outside assistance. Teach a fisherman to light a fire, and all that crap.

  Still. He’d rather be at the tip of the spear himself.

  In reviewing the mission specs, he noted that the source of the intelligence on the location of the processing plant was local as well. Excellent.

  The initial heads-up had come from the air traffic controllers. Cuban Signal Corps had tracked radio chatter and flights in and out of a private airstrip, which was no mean feat. Cuba had a ridiculously large number of airfields for such a small country, over one hundred and twenty. Whoever had ferreted out the location of the drug processing plant deserved a promotion.

  He checked the report. Rogiberto Revillame. Familiar name, but from where? He shrugged, mentally. Alonzo had read so many reports over the past few days he was lucky to remember his own name.

  The crow’s nest was online. Alonzo called in using his computer, giving a thumbs-up to the mission specs. The bandwidth of the train’s internet connection allowed for video.

  “You’re where?” Nicole had changed out of her cammos and put on what looked suspiciously like a Hello Kitty ensemble. “Washington state?”

  “We’re going to roll on both PicoMorph and the drug lab tonight,” said Ian, already in tactical gear. “This baby won’t wait to get born after you guys get back.”

  “Why so soon?” Alonzo asked. “Intel leak?”

  Nicole nodded. “Cuban Signal Corps reported lots of movement in the area, more small aircraft than normal. We don’t know what the Navy is up to, but the Bata’an weighed anchor and pulled out of the bay in a hurry. The press noticed, and they’re hitting some of the local officials pretty persuasively, trying to find out what’s going on. They’re targeting the newly sworn-in officials, the guys who have a reputation to build, so we figure there’s going to be a leak eventually. If the locals don’t move now, they won’t have a target.”

  “Are the Tanners on point?”

  “Vern will be on the ridge, with the officers, but Mack and Ian will be with Allison and me.”

  Alonzo noted in passing that the major was quickly becoming Allison. He was fine with that. “And the four of you are hitting the PicoMorph offices tonight.” He shifted in his chair. “Sure wish we were there. How far is PicoMorph from the drug processing station?”

  “Barely four klicks.”

  He thought about that. “If you go in tonight, you might be looking at friendly fire.” Despite the months of instruction under the capable Tanners, Alonzo didn’t trust the Cuban military. They were working with too many different types of new weapons systems, hadn’t really mastered anything—and hadn’t used any of their new equipment in actual combat.

  Ian nodded. “Friendly fire is part of the plan. If we run into trouble, we call in reinforcements.”

  “Just be circumspect. You get caught on the grounds or in the building, the locals won’t be friendly. Breaking and entering is also a crime in Cuba.”

  “And we all go to jail. Finally get some time to rest, pick up a new hobby. Something I can do in a small room.”

  “Jack and I will patch in to the tactical station as soon as we get on the plane.”

  Nicole pursed her lips. “Sounds like you’re almost wrapped up there.”

  “Unknown. Jack and I are separated right now, and he’s turned off his microphone. Weather permitting, we’ll exfil out of Spokane in about an hour.”

  “So you’ll be back before midnight?”

  “That’s the best case scenario. Jack’s playing this on the fly. Worse case scenario, we’re here another day.” Alonzo idly wondered how far his friend would take this particular adventure. Might be worth it to book a reservation in his name at a romantic hotel in Spokane, if there was such a thing.

  “Is he with her now?”

  *

  Jack’s heart hammered. Holding up his own side of a conversation with her was more difficult than he imagined. The problem wasn’t that he was so inconveniently happy to see her alive, the problem lay in attenuating his damn memory. Sitting across from her, watching her speak—every expression, each nuance, uncovered another set of images, sounds, and emotion. Memory after memory, unearthed. Layer after layer surfaced each second they spent together. Mentally, Jack was reeling.

  It wasn’t just the layered touchstones of memory which surfaced with every one of her expressions. The tones of her voice, the way she had of plucking odd phrases out of the air, her gracious, intelligent expressiveness—and her Egyptian-green eyes. He remembered these things, of course, but her presence dealt him an almost physical blow. He simply hadn’t expected that compared to his memory, the reality of Mercedes would be overpowering.

  Get it together, Jack. But therein lay helplessness. He felt as though he were drowning under the weight of her personality.

  Too much. It was a knife fight in a phone booth.

  Mercedes fished around in her handbag, coming up with a bright, shiny thing. It was the medal he’d won all those years ago at the State swim meet.

  “Kind of a . . . good luck charm. Been in there awhile.”

  She handed it over, their fingers never quite touching. It was warm, carrying borrowed heat from her hand. He chuckled, and without thinking fli
pped it and rolled it across the backs of his fingers. Would an old man be able to do that? He was dangerously close to breaking character.

  Jack almost gave up the game, right there. Nearly dropped the thin mask. But he took a breath, then another (all the while smelling her hair, apples and pears, apples and pears), and opened himself again to the character, the old man, the acting. I am Gilitano Deguiser.

  He moved within the mental space of the old man, occupying a Deguiser-shaped hole in the universe. It was something he could just do, it was his craft. She spoke again and Jack held out, held on, and didn’t break character.

  But she poured around him like a deluge, and he struggled for breath.

  *

  Near Coron Bay, Busuanga, in the Philippine Islands

  When Toria was still alive

  Much longer under the water and he’d drown. Hell of a way to go, drowning on your honeymoon. Victoria wouldn’t forgive him if he died. He was sure his new wife would find some way to haunt his spirit from the land of the living.

  The underwater world was bright blue-green and beautiful, but he’d gone too deep, stayed too long. Jack had enough air in his lungs for another thirty seconds.

  And other people had drowned in this same spot, years ago. Violently.

  The wheelhouse of the Nipponese gunboat was somewhat protected from the ocean currents, sitting inclined, along with the rest of the ship, at a thirty degree upward angle. It had cracked through a coral reef in late September 1944, after a five hundred pound bomb from an American Helldiver attack plane broke its spine and dropped it fast. Eight of its brothers died that same day, sunk by fighter planes from the aircraft carrier, U.S.S. Enterprise. Local Filipino fishermen still spat in the water when trading stories about this particular Nipponese gunboat, its pilot and crew.

  A shoal of giant pufferfish meandered across the bow.

  His feet braced wide against the ceiling, Jack arched his back and took another hard look at what he thought of as the dashboard. The old fisherman who’d brought him to the site had told him it was a gunboat, but Jack wasn’t sure. Looked more like a submarine hunter, but that didn’t explain the Nipponese naval staff car he’d found in the cargo hold.

  Coral and other marine life coated, covered, and transformed the ship. There were still three rooms left to explore. Jack almost wished he could stay and look further, but he had better things to do. And a lungful of air wasn’t quite enough.

  He and Toria would return tomorrow, or the next day, with scuba tanks and maybe a camera. There were mysteries here.

  A kelp forest waved nearby. Jack watched the dance of the ebb and flow through the fronds, timing the tide, and then launched himself through what had been the front window. Catching the current, he relaxed and let it sweep him over the reef. There were more colors rocketing around him than he could count. He speared upward.

  He broke surface and took a noisy breath, then another. Their little house on stilts was a hundred meters away, and aside from its concrete foundation and Gilligan’s Island roof, there wasn’t another manmade creation in sight. The South China Sea and the green, clustered islands which lay in every direction were theirs to enjoy for another three days, when the old fisherman would return.

  Assuming the man owned a calendar.

  Jack climbed the rope ladder and swept the water from his body with his hands, then got himself a drink from their supply of fresh water. The diving knife he left with his wet clothes—he felt stupid carrying it, but it was Toria’s idea. There were barracudas in the area almost two meters long.

  She apparently retained a high opinion of his fighting abilities.

  His wife sat cross-legged in the central room, examining something. “Daft Jack,” she scolded. “Get some clothes on!”

  “Speak for yourself,” he replied, then saw what she was looking at.

  The little crystal falcon Mercedes had given him. He hadn’t thought of it in months, hadn’t noticed it on his bookshelf for at least as long.

  Jack tried to read his wife, but this was a new expression. He thought he knew them all, so . . . whoops. Her silence was a sharp thing.

  “You brought that all the way to the Philippines?” he asked. Another long pause.

  Toria stood up and looked at him. “Husband. You’ve got as good an imagination as anyone I’ve met. You remember everything.” She switched to Gaelic. “I know you love me.”

  The sun hung like a solid scarlet orb, far behind him. The Nipponese wreck was no longer at the front of his mind. The light, angled and filtered by the tropical latitude, painted her skin pure gold. Her eyes were brimming.

  “You remember everything,” she said, and returned to English. “I don’t begrudge you any of your old girlfriends.”

  She had a habit of throwing around twenty-dollar words, like ‘begrudge’ and ‘contumacious’. He was destined to never beat her at Scrabble.

  “Jack, I’m a real person. I cannot compete with someone from your memory. I won’t compete with a ghost.”

  Jack sensed an imminent speech, possibly involving tears. He gently plucked up the crystal falcon, spun, and launched it as far as he could in the direction of Malaysia. Kissed her without watching where the bird fell.

  They made love again. Jack was beginning to figure things out, and before long she was giggling and gasping.

  Later, she looked out in the direction he’d launched the crystal. “Thank God,” she said at length. “I thank God you fell in love with her. You knew what it was when you felt it again.”

  He agreed. He learned to do that early on in the marriage. She usually made sense, and besides, at that moment she was strapping on the diving knife. The next words out of her mouth really took him by surprise.

  “But that was the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen you do. That bird looks really good on our shelf. Throwing it away? Nah!” She touched his hand, then stood at the edge of the deck.

  “Things are going to turn out great, Jack. I love every piece of you, even the bits of you that exist because you love her.” She finished securing the knife. “I want the whole kit. All of you. Don’t hold anything back.” She jumped.

  Jack waited a moment, watching the edge for her to reappear. When she didn’t, he grabbed his mask and dove after her. Out and down into the deep, bright green, toward the woman and the little crystal bird somewhere on the floor of the South China Sea.

  Hit ‘em Where They Ain’t

  Cheney, Washington

  Present day

  Jack removed all the makeup and had nearly completed the reverse-aging process by the time they reached the airport west of Spokane. It was the first airport he could remember, since a flight at the age of seventeen, and he always thought of the Spokane terminal as just the right size.

  Once onboard the QSST he stowed their bags while Alonzo used the lavatory. His black t-shirt and jeans were neatly folded and waiting on his chair; Jack marveled at the efficiency of the flight crew. Was there a washing machine and drier stashed somewhere onboard?

  They’d even dusted carefully around the crystal falcon. It remained exactly as he’d left it a few days ago, nestled into a beverage coaster.

  He changed out of the old-man clothes and folded them away, along with the last of the mannerisms and physicality of the character of Gilitano Deguiser. Gil was an interesting person, had a natural gift for putting others at ease. A collector of souvenirs and odd bits of things, like the frog handkerchief. Jack wondered if age and experience would see him grow into any of the people he pretended to be. On a whim, he kept the handkerchief. Cuba was a sweaty place.

  Airport traffic was light, even considering the storm, and by the time Alonzo joined him they were taxiing toward the runway.

  “Were cutting it close, Jack. The team is about thirty minutes from mission,” Alonzo said, spreading a flat, flexible display across the table between them. Jack plugged the display into a computer and married the computer to the cabin’s wireless network. While Alonzo connected them t
o the crow’s nest in Cuba, Jack brought up maps of the area around Santiago de la Cuba on the main display. The program allowed overlay of topographical and satellite data. In a less rural situation, they’d also have access to a number of local video feeds from traffic cams and tourist spots as well, thanks to their resident King Geek. On a good day, or if he was just feeling puckish, Steve could also hack them into private security videos.

  The flight attendant brought warm drinks and a plate of sandwiches. Alonzo watched her retreat and muttered, “Thanks, Mom.”

  Jack smiled. “I was just thinking,” he said, nodding at the electronic map between them. “This feels like playing Axis and Allies on your parents’ table back home.” He fought the irrational urge to look out the window. Spokane was ridiculously close to Forge. The plane could hop them over to the municipal airstrip in a matter of minutes, and while Forge was too small to support a taxi service, Anderson’s Diner on Highway 12 was within walking distance of the hangar. Within an hour they could actually be eating elk burgers and thick-cut fries.

  “Yeah, well. We played a lot of board games back then. This is more high tech, and we didn’t get into computer games as kids.”

  “I don’t remember missing them.”

  “You were afraid of computers back then, Jack. You didn’t even have email.”

  Jack grinned, but let his friend have the last word. It was the only reliable way to shut him up.

  They used the computer to add various items to the touch screen “board”. Jack circled the location of the suspected cocaine lab and added icons of tiny soldiers to indicate where the Cuban forces would mass for the assault on the ridge above. Across the table, Alonzo placed icons around the PicoMorph pharmaceutical plant.

  “Here’s Ian and Mack,” he indicated a section of forest a few kilometers away from the main body of soldiers. “They’ll move downslope to PicoMorph right before the raid starts. Might even be there already.”