by A. G. Riddle
She felt the air now, the wind and the droplets of rain, heard the splashing around. The splashing went on so long, and the arm was around her, keeping her up, her head out of the water.
There was a loud sound, a huge boat, with lights. It would hit them. It was coming straight for them. She saw her rescuer wave his hands and pull her out of its path.
Another man, pulling her up, and she was on her back, and her rescuer was over her, pressing on her chest, pinching her nose, and… he kissed her. His breath was so hot; it filled her mouth and pushed into her lungs. She kissed him back, and it made her so happy. She hadn’t done that in so long. She fought to lift her arms, but she couldn’t, she tried again, and yes, she reached up, tried to hold him, his mouth to hers. He pushed her arms away, held them down. She lay there, and then it exploded — her chest. Water gushed from her mouth and nose as he rolled her over. The water kept coming in coughs and gags. Her stomach spasmed and she drew air in desperate breaths.
He held her until her breathing slowed. Every breath burned, her lungs still wouldn’t fill, every intake was shallow.
He yelled out to the other man, “Arto! Arto! Tights! Tights!” He drew a hand across his neck in a cutting motion. Nothing happened.
He got up and marched away. A second later, the lights went off and they were moving, fast. The rain whipped at her face, but she just lay there, unable to move.
He picked her up again, just as he had carried her out of the tall tower. He took her below and laid her down on a small bed in a cramped room. She tried to reach for him again, but he was gone. Then back again, then gone, as if appearing and disappearing like magic.
She heard voices. Saw him pointing at a man. “Arto, plop, plop!” He pointed again.
Then he came for her, collecting her in his strong arms and they were off the boat, on land again. They walked along a beach, toward a wrecked town, like something that had been bombed in World War II. They were inside some kind of cottage, and the lights were on. She was so tired, couldn’t stay awake a second longer. He set her down on a bed of flowers, no a floral comforter. She closed her eyes and almost went to sleep, but she felt him at her feet, pulling her wet pants off. She smiled. He reached for her shirt. He would see — the scar. His hands gripped the shirt, but she held them, struggling to hold the shirt down.
“Gate, view half dew foot try blows on.”
“No.” She shook her head and turned over.
“View half…”
She could barely hear him.
He tugged at the shirt.
“Please don’t,” she mumbled. “Please don’t…”
Then he was releasing her, the weight on the bed shifted, and he was gone.
A motor started, a small one. And warm air around her, on top of her, then she twisted and it warmed her stomach, her hair. Her whole body was warm.
CHAPTER 38
Immari Jakarta Headquarters
Jakarta, Indonesia
Cole lay face-down on his stomach, waiting. He had been waiting for almost an hour as the bomb tech fiddled with his vest. He fought not to squirm, not to lose control of his bladder, not to scream. One thought ran threw his head, over-and-over: I’ll never see my family again. He should have never taken the job, regardless of the money. They had saved almost enough — $150,000 of the $250,000 they needed to open a Jiffy Lube. With his money from two straight deployments with the Marines, they would have been fine. But he wanted to have “a little extra” saved — just in case business was light those first few years. The Immari recruiter had said, “You’re mostly there for show, to make our clients feel safe. As you requested, we’ll assign you to a low-security region, definitely not the Middle East, or even South America. Europe requires seniority. Southeast Asia has been very quiet. You’ll love the weather in Jakarta.” Now some other Immari Suit would be knocking on his wife’s door. “Ma’am, your husband was killed in an unfortunate Cadbury Cream Egg incident. Our deepest condolences. What? Oh, no ma’am, this never happens. Here are his cream egg remains.” Cole let out a harsh, almost irrational laugh. He was losing it.
“Hang in there, Cole. We’re almost in,” the bomb tech said from behind a thick curved blast shield. The man wore a bulky helmet and peered through a glass strip at the top of the blast shield. His arms jutted out through two silver accordion-type metal arm sheaths that looked like the arms from the robot on the 60’s TV show Lost in Space.
The tech carefully cut the straps on Cole’s back vest. He lifted the vest slightly and bent closer to the glass slit in the blast shield for a better look.
Sweat drops popped up across Cole’s already soaked face.
“It’s not booby trapped.” Inch-by-inch, the tech peeled the vest back. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Cole almost jumped when he heard the man throw the vest the rest of the way over. Was there a timer? A backup? He felt the man’s hands work quickly at his spine. Then he felt the gloved hands go limp. He heard the screeching of metal on metal as the tech forcefully slid the blast shield out of the way. He worked with his bare hands now.
Cole felt the man lift the bomb off his spine.
“You can get up now, Cole.”
Cole turned, holding his breath.
The man looked at him with contempt. “Here’s your bomb, Cole. Be careful now, you could be allergic to polyester.” He handed Cole a rolled up T-Shirt.
Cole couldn’t believe it. He was embarrassed, but mostly, he was relieved.
Cole unrolled the t-shirt. It read, in big black magic marker letters: “BOOM!” Below it, in smaller print: “Sorry…”
CHAPTER 39
Batavia Marina
Jakarta, Indonesia
Harto put his arm around his wife and gathered his son and daughter at his side. They stood on the wooden dock at the marina where Harto had retrieved the boat the soldier had told him about. The four of them beheld the machine, no one saying a word. It sparkled. It all still seemed like a dream to Harto. The boat was the most beautiful thing he’d seen since his wife on their wedding day.
“It’s ours,” he said.
“How Harto?”
“The soldier man gave it to me.”
His wife ran a hand along the boat, maybe to see if it was truly real. “It’s almost too nice to fish in.”
The boat was a mini-yacht. At 60 feet, it was capable of travel between the small islands off Java. It could hold up to thirty people above deck and sleep as many as eight below deck in the master stateroom, port guest stateroom, and aft guest stateroom. The upper deck and flybridge would give breathtaking views.
“We’re not going to fish with it,” Harto said. “We’re going to take others fishing. The foreigners living here and the tourists. They pay lots of money for this — to go fishing in the deep sea. And for other things: diving and touring the islands.”
His wife looked from Harto to the boat, then back again, as if trying to assess whether it would work or maybe how much work it would be for her. “You going to finally learn English, Harto?”
“I’ll have to. There aren’t enough fish in the sea to feed all the Jakartan fisherman. Entertainment is the future.”
PART II:
A TIBETAN TAPESTRY
CHAPTER 40
Somewhere off the Java Sea
That night Kate dreamed that she had been kidnapped by her wicked uncle. She had been riding in an iron chariot with a knight and his men. Her uncle had smashed the chariot and killed the men, casting her knight out into the darkness. Her uncle had taken her to his castle and locked her in a dungeon, deep below the castle walls. He prodded her with questions, demanding she reveal her most secret of secrets. She knew if she told him, he would eat her children and become a powerful monster, a monster no one could kill. He told her lies. Then more lies, believable lies. She wanted to believe them, but she resisted. The more he said, the more she questioned. Did he kill her father? Was her whole life a lie?
His men took her from the dungeon int
o a tower. They strapped her down and gave her a potion, and she felt herself transforming. It was eating her will from the inside out. Just before it took her over completely and she lost the power to resist, the knight kicked in the tower doors and killed her captors. He lifted her up and he flew away, casting fire and death to their pursuers who shot arrows from below. But the castle moat was too wide, and they fell into the treacherous water. She was lost, sinking, but he rescued her again, pulling her from the abyss. His kiss brought her back to life, and she was so happy — happy to be free from her uncle and happy it was the knight who had rescued her.
The knight’s loyal savage friend rowed them far, far away, to a deserted isle with a small cottage. The knight carried her ashore and set her down in a bed of flowers, where the warm wind lulled her to sleep.
Kate awoke to the worst headache of her life. It hurt to move. She lay in the bed for a moment, swallowing several times. Opening her eyes hurt. The sunlight hurt. She turned over, away from the window. The window. The bed. Where was she?
She pushed herself up, and with each inch she moved, the pain spread across her. Her body was sore, but it didn’t feel like the soreness from exercise — she felt like she’d been beaten all over with wooden spoons. She felt sick, hurt. What happened to me?
The room came into focus. A cottage or some kind of vacation home on the beach. The room was small, with one double bed and some rustic wooden furniture. Out the window, she saw a large porch that opened onto a deserted beach — not the pristine, well-kept kind you saw at resorts, but the type you might find on a real deserted island — a rough, unkempt beach, littered with coconuts, tree bark, tropical plants, and here and there, dead fish that had washed up from last night’s violent rain and high tide.
Kate pushed the covers off and moved slowly to get out of bed. A new sensation gripped her: nausea. She waited, hoping it would pass, but it only got worse. She felt the saliva gathering at the back of her throat.
She ran for the bathroom, barely making it in time. She collapsed to her knees and dry heaved into the toilet, once, then again, and a third time. The convulsions sent shock waves of pain through her already ravaged body. The nausea receded, and she rolled off her knees to sit by the toilet, propping an elbow on the toilet seat and resting her hand on her forehead.
“At least you don’t have a walk of shame ahead of you.”
She looked up. It was the man from the van, the soldier. David.
“What are you, where are w—”
“We’ll catch up later. Drink this.”
“No. I’ll just throw it up.”
He bent down to her and tipped the orange concoction toward her. “Give it a try.”
He held the back of her head, and she realized she was drinking it before she could object again. It was sweet and coated her raw throat. She drank it down and he helped her to her feet.
There was something she had to do. What was it? Something she had to get. Her head still pounded.
He helped her into the bed, but she stopped. “Wait, there’s something I have to do.”
“We’ll get to it. You have to rest.”
Without another word, he maneuvered her into the bed and she felt so sleepy, like she had taken a sleeping pill. The sweet orange elixir.
CHAPTER 41
Immari Corporate Jet
Somewhere over the Southern Atlantic Ocean
Martin Grey leaned toward the plane window and peered out at the giant iceberg below. The Nazi sub jutted out of a mountain of ice near the center of the floating island, which covered almost 47 square miles — about the size of Disney World. Where the sub met the ice, workers and heavy machinery were hard at work excavating, searching for the sub's entrance. Cutting into the side was a last resort, but it would come to that if they didn't reach the hatch soon.
The wreckage below the sub was even more mysterious — teams were still working on theories. Martin had one of his own, an idea he would take to his grave if necessary.
"When did you find it?" Dorian Sloane's voice startled Martin, and he turned to see the younger man standing over him, gazing out another window of the jet.
Martin opened his mouth to respond, but Sloane interrupted him. "No lies, Martin."
Martin slumped in the chair, and continued squinting out the window. "10 days ago."
"Is it his?"
"The markings are the same. Carbon dating confirms the age."
"I want to go in first."
Martin turned to him. "I wouldn't advise it. The wreckage is likely unstable. There's no way of knowing what's inside. There could be—"
"And you're coming with me."
"Absolutely not."
"Now Martin, where's that intrepid explorer I knew in my youth?"
"This is a job for robots. They can go into places we can't. They can withstand cold, and it will be cold in there, colder than you can imagine. And they're easier to replace."
"Yes, it will be dangerous, even more dangerous, I think, if I go alone, with say, you left outside."
"You assume I'm as morally bankrupt as you are."
"I'm not the one kidnapping kids and keeping secrets." Sloane leaned back in a chair across from Martin, readying for a fight.
A steward entered their compartment and said to Sloane, "Sir, there's a call for you. It's urgent."
Dorian picked up the phone from the wall. "Sloane."
He listened, then looked up at Martin, surprised. "How?" A moment passed. "You can't be serious—" He nodded a few times. “No, look, he had to leave by boat. Search the surrounding islands, they couldn’t have gone far. Deploy everyone, bring in troops from local Immari Security and secured Clocktower cells if you have to.” He listened again. “Fine, whatever, use the media to box them in. Kill him and capture her. Call me back when you have her."
Sloane hung up the phone and scrutinized Martin as he said, "The girl got away. A Clocktower agent helped her."
Martin continued surveying the site below.
Sloane put his elbows on the table and leaned close enough to strike Martin. "50 of my men are dead, and three floors of Immari Jakarta have been blown to pieces, not to mention the wharf. You don't seem surprised, Martin."
"I'm looking at an 80-year-old Nazi Sub and what could be an alien space ship sticking out of an iceberg off the coast of Antarctica. I'm hard to surprise these days, Dorian."
Sloane leaned back. "We both know it's not an alien space ship."
"Do we?"
"We will soon."
CHAPTER 42
Somewhere off the Java Sea
For a while, David leaned against the door frame in the bedroom, watching Kate sleep, waiting to see if she would wake up again. The Immari thugs had really put her through the ringer, and his rescue hadn’t helped either.
Seeing her sleeping there while the waves rolled in and the breeze blew through the room somehow put him at peace. He didn’t understand it. The fall of Jakarta Station in the face of an imminent terror threat — from the very people he had dedicated his life to stopping — was a nightmare scenario; no, The Nightmare Scenario. But saving her had changed David in some way. The world felt less scary now, more manageable in some way. For the first time since he could remember, he was… hopeful. Almost happy. He felt more safe. No, that was wrong. Maybe… the people around him were safer, or he felt more confident. Confident that he could protect the people he… The self-analysis would have to wait. He had work to do.
When it was clear Kate wouldn’t wake up again anytime soon, he withdrew from the room and resumed his work in the hidden chamber below the cottage.
He had told the contractors he wanted a bomb-shelter. They had said nothing but the looks they gave each other said it all: this dude is crazy, but he didn’t argue about the price, so get to work. They had given the room a strong post-apocalyptic, end of the world motif: all concrete walls, a utilitarian built-in metal desk and just enough room for a cot and some supplies. It was fitting given his situation.
His next move was crucial. He had deliberated about what to do for most of the morning. His first instinct was to contact Clocktower Central. The director, Howard Keegan, was his mentor and friend. David trusted him. Howard would be doing everything he could to secure Clocktower, and he would definitely need David’s help.
The issue was getting in touch. Clocktower didn’t have any back-door communication channels — just the official VPN and protocols. They would no doubt be monitored — connecting would paint a target on your location.
David drummed his fingers on the metal desk, leaned back in the chair, and stared at light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
He opened a web browser and scoured all the local and national news. He was procrastinating. There was nothing here that could help him. He did see a wire release about a woman and man sought in connection with a terrorist plot and possible child-trafficking ring. That would slow him down, but thankfully there were no sketches attached to the article. But they would follow shortly, and every border security agency in Southeast Asia would be on the lookout for both of them.
He had several IDs in the safe house, but not much cash.
He opened his bank account. The balance was almost zero. Josh — he had executed the transfers. Was he alive? David had assumed Jakarta Station HQ was attacked when he had been in the streets. There was something else, several deposits, all small, less than $1,000. All even numbers. It was a code, but what kind? GPS?