The Pilgrim Strain

by Edgar, C. P.

  “My grandfather is dead Douglas, he doesn’t believe now.” James had spit those words back at Douglas, savoring the taste of the word dead.

  “Yes James, I am aware. As you recall, I was there when he passed, but his legacy lives on through you. He was specific that I request that you not do anything stupid to upset the balance of power he had spent so many years cultivating.”

  Douglas Cancarra had been the Chief Operating Officer for Sandean Enterprises since the mid 1980’s. James knew that Douglas and his grandfather had served together in the Navy as officers. James often was confused as a child whether Douglas was a relative or not. Douglas always seemed to be around, hidden in the shadows, watching. James’ instinct while growing up was that Douglas was dangerous and was to be treated as such, like a coiled snake suddenly discovered under an overturned rock.

  Douglas was a thin man with piercing eyes which seemed to be in constant search of prey. Sometimes James believed that he could see the evil in the man, like it stirred constantly just under Douglas’ skin. Shifting, flexing, and waiting to burst out and latch onto the closest victim.

  Once, as a child, James had managed to sneak up on Douglas who was eating in the main house kitchen at one of the food preparation tables. Douglas lived in a guest house set behind the main house. James watched quietly as Douglas ate with his back to him. James remembered that it was the first time he could recall Douglas having just a T-shirt on. He must have taken off his dress shirt as to not get it soiled.

  James saw that Douglas, although an older man, was heavily muscled. He wasn't massive, but he could tell there was true strength in his arms and hands. He also had tattoos over most of his upper arms many of which appeared to be words which James could not decipher. The one that he remembered most vividly however was close to his left wrist and it was a human eye inside of a sun. The tattoo was raised and scarred, appearing as if it had been carved into him as opposed to applied artistically.

  The young James thought back for a moment wondering how he had never noticed that tattoo before. The glint of the watch sitting on the table made him realize it was always hidden from view, under the watch when worn.

  “How may I help you James?” thundered across the quiet of the kitchen. James only recalled running. He had been a child running through the shadows of the house, looking for a way to escape a demon.

  Later in life James came to theorize that his grandfather and Douglas maintained some form of special relationship or arrangement. Like a master with his faithful attack dog. He never once asked anyone to define Douglas or to question who or why he was. He just had a feeling that the mere topic was dangerous. James just learned to accept Douglas’ presence. Later he would come to rely on Douglas like his grandfather had, realizing his true purpose.

  James thought back to when he first started to take a leadership role in the corporation after his grandfather passed. He recalled how physically close Douglas had been to him during that first meeting in Istanbul, as if he was waiting to reach out and restrain James if necessary, maybe even kill him. In retrospect, it was probably a good idea. The topics were so foreign to James’ conditioned mind that on more than one occasion he remembered thinking that he needed to stand up and yell, “Are you all fucking crazy?”

  But he had been deeply thrilled by the boldness of topics openly expressed by the members and their unabashed opinions. They truly believed that they were running the world. They believed that they would shepherd the flock. The incapable herd.

  “Should we continue to use the United Nations as a distraction for our real global initiatives or should we just disband it and be more overt with our agenda?”

  “Let’s discuss shutting down the Middle East as a military profit center and shifting resources to Africa and South America.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to rekindle a cold war mentality between the United States and Russia? It was hugely successful at driving economies in Europe and Central America, and those areas have begun to decline recently. China just isn’t resonating with the American public as a true villain like the USSR once had.”

  These topics bored him to death now. He knew that the open session discussions were softballs compared to the red team analyses that were done on a subcommittee level within Billingsmore. Famine, disease, religious expansionism, genocide, slavery, and war. These were the topics taken on by the alternative analysis teams and they captivated him.

  James would leave the economics to the accountants; he had enough lawyers and accountants surrounding him to deal with those things. They ran his company, hell when he took over he quickly found it ran itself. He chose to focus on what he believed matter most.

  Once James understood the power contained within the group and that they were brokering deals at this level, deals that not only impacted the world but steered it, he began to navigate amongst the various subcommittees looking for opportunities to flex his personal agendas.

  The red teams were designed to prove possible outcomes to scenarios and to develop countermeasures which the members would formulate into a plan. For example, they might explore the economics of disaster relief for a tsunami, and generally the analysis would factor a profit margin for the rates of casualties sustained. It takes large sums of money to ship food and supplies to remote locations. Logistics for human support elements would be highly profitable. The plan would be presented as a motion to the council and if agreed upon, would be executed using the members’ spheres of influence.

  James recalled when they had red teamed flu epidemics in 2008 resulting in the Swine Flu Motion. The council was unanimous in its support for that project which was a colossal dud in James’ opinion. H1N1 never got off the ground as a pandemic, and the after-action report showed that the profit margins were grossly overestimated. Sure, money was made on vaccines but it wasn’t sustainable. The same committee was now working on the Zika Virus, but probably would see the same lackluster results. They simply lacked the imagination and intestinal fortitude to make it really work.

  James was brought out of his nostalgic daydream by the heavy sounds of a gavel being pounded on hardwood. Henri was calling for a recess. Good. James needed a drink and had needed to speak with Andres.

  He found Andres outside, near the bar on the central gardens. Andres was a small man with dark flowing hair and fashionable spectacles. He wore an immaculately tailored suit, as did everyone, but his seemed just a bit better. James was going to ask where he tailored but thought against it. It seemed futile.

  “Andres, I can only imagine that the reason I have yet to hear from you is due to lust.”

  “I wish. Where is Judith by the way?”

  James stared at Andres for a short moment. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Judith had allowed Andres the opportunity to sleep with her, if only in spite.

  “I have no time for your bullshit Andres. Did the committee rule on my proposal?”

  “Yes, they have. Have they not sent word to you?”

  “You know damn well they haven’t Andres, you are their fucking messenger.”

  “Oh yes, I had forgotten.”

  James smiled. He had made the right choice in excluding this man from the list of people he would save. Andres represented what he hated most in the elite. These people held power over so many millions of people and chose to spend their time playing childish games and using the world as their personal orgy of pleasure.

  “What was their ruling?”

  “The committee has decided that your motions are reckless and endanger the sanctity of the group.”

  “I see.” James knew this was going to be their judgment weeks ago, and he had moved ahead regardless. He had petitioned to the committee to unseal his recommendations so he would be able to present his motion for a global populace reduction to the entire group for vote. His was the first motion of its kind since the early 1900’s.

  “They just don’t want to hear about it again James. They’ve already been down this road bef
ore and it nearly destroyed everybody. You are scaring them.”

  “Yes, but if the predictions are correct than we are maybe just a few years from the terminal ratio.” James was emphatic.

  “There are other factors now. Socialized countries are seeing dramatic falls in birth rates.”

  “Yes Andres, but underdeveloped countries are exploding well over the exponent used in the original populace calculations. And socialization is not being embraced fast enough in some of the major players.”

  “Enough, this was their final ruling James. You cannot continue to push this agenda or you may end up losing your seat, or worse.”

  James didn’t really care, and he ignored the underlying threat. He was well aware of the group’s ineffectiveness to rally real change. He had long ago realized that almost everyone who attended only really tried to increase their net worth and to seek to fill their egos.

  He felt, however, like he needed to try one last time to convince the group, the whole group, to act upon the inevitable and to lead for true global change for once. To work toward a real solution, for the good of the world instead of leaving it for some other generation to deal with. Now he was forced to lead for them and to make the hard decisions that they were incapable of making.

  “Fine,” James said. “Andres, I appreciate your effort. I’m sorry for appearing so pigheaded.” James gave him a courtesy smile and a half-assed pat to his shoulder.

  “I’ve got to go meet with the financial subcommittee on some OPEC issues. I’ll catch up with you at dinner.” James turned and left without hearing Andres’ response, he was already dead to him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One month prior to the Pilgrimage.

  Marseille, France

  James settled in for the drive in the rear of the Maybach 62. The driver was giving the Mercedes twin-turbo V12 a workout as they sped south along E712 to Marseille.

  He keyed the retractable electro-transparent partition screen into the up position giving him some privacy from his driver. Douglas sat in the passenger seat next to him. He had been silently managing the logistics of the travel including staging the company yacht at the port in Marseille but now had a phone in his hand and held it out for James.

  James placed his now empty glass tumbler onto the arm rest and watched as a tiny droplet of condensation made its descent from the lip of the glass to the base. It reminded him of a tear. It had been so long since he had produced any himself, he was amused that the glass seemed to weep so easily.

  He grabbed the Iridium 9555 satellite phone from Douglas who had already punched in the access codes. The phone established its connection with a low orbit satellite and began searching for its target phone.

  After a few seconds, James heard someone complete the process stating, “standby for encryption.” James waited until he heard a beep and visually confirmed that the key icon was present on the upper right corner of the phone’s screen.

  “Sir, this is Speedwell.”

  “Speedwell, please confirm your status,” said James with a note of apprehension to his voice. The last thing James needed at this point was to be discovered at the very onset of the project.

  “Sir, the package has been secured and there has been no compromise at this time. The team is intact and there is no need to divert from our course. The ship is prepared to sail.”

  James caught his breath having heard the prearranged code phrase. He took in the scene of the French countryside sweeping by the jet-black sedan at breakneck speed. In the distance, he could see a small farm, and a lone elderly man bent over applying his craft to the land beneath his feet. He looked so peaceful amongst his land.

  However, James’ attention shifted to the jagged cellular telephone tower looming above the farm. The elderly man likely had been coerced into leasing part of his beloved estate to some global telecommunications conglomerate. The company having sent a young, quick-witted representative to offer the elderly man a deal he couldn’t refuse. And then they built the tower so that everyone could communicate easier and the world could shrink more.

  He imagined that every morning the old man came outside and was crushed to see that his land, an inheritance from his forefathers who acquired the property over generations through sacrifices, was now scarred because he had sold out. It was painful for the old man. He would die soon from sorrow, and it would be the tower's shadow cast upon the land that fed it.

  James felt a rush of understanding wash over him, a tsunami of feelings crashing against him, cleansing his soul. He was holding his breath; the moment had literally taken the air from him. So, this is what these moments feel like? This is what it feels like when one man changes the world forever?

  His thoughts slowly adjusted back to the mission at hand. “Speedwell, you are cleared to depart. Godspeed, gentlemen,” James said with no hint of trepidation to his voice. He looked down at the satellite phone cradled in his hand and terminated the connection throwing the phone into Douglas’ lap.

  James looked back out the window to the countryside and tried to find the old man in the field but he was nowhere to be seen. The driver, having found a stretch of straight road in the route, mashed on the accelerator causing James to be sucked deeper into his seat. A single tear appeared below his right eye, trying to keep its purchase on the rim of James’ lower eyelid. A sudden blink and it was gone.

  ***

  Papua New Guinea

  Deep in Chimbu Province within the Central Highlands of Papua New Guinea, the team leader of Speedwell, a covert action unit, sat on a rock outcropping overlooking the valley below. In his hand, he gripped the now silent satellite phone. It was time.

  He tucked the satellite phone into a pouch attached to his tactical assault belt making sure it was secured.

  Christopher Rainer and his team had been conducting reconnaissance on the landing strip etched into the mountainside for two days. They had broken their six-man element up into two watch teams rotating two up and one down throughout their observation. They had not detected any counterassault teams and Rainer was confident that they had slipped away from the facility with the merchandise without warning to the outside world. No leaks.

  He thumbed the Silynx mini C4Grip attached to his rifle and said, “Number Two up.” The Bluetooth device allowed him to activate the bone microphone contained within his earpiece without the need to take his hands off his weapon. Moments later his second-in-command, Keffer Davidson was at his side and had taken a knee. The two men were wearing identical tactical battle dress uniforms patterned in A-TACS camouflage.

  Kef, as the close-knit unit referred to him, took a drag of water from the tube attached to his hydration system. It wasn’t hot on the mountain, but it was arid and the elevation and exertion sucked water from their bodies at a heightened pace. It was such an amazing contrast from the rainforest they had traversed during their infiltration. Kef knew that Rainer must have official news or was onto something serious. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have referred to him as “Number Two” which he knew Kef absolutely hated to be called over the net.

  “What’s up boss?” Kef asked.

  “We’re a go for exfil,” Rainer said as he brushed his hand through his greying hair.

  “Cool, I’m getting sick of lying down next to Daggan, he smells.” Kef gave Rainer a smile letting him know he was joking but he wasn’t at the same time.

  “Bring the men up online, final weapons checks, and make sure the merchandise is still secure.”

  “Roger that.” Kef stood and left at a slow trot disappearing behind a large rock formation. Rainer was happy to have Kef with him. His whole team was solid but Kef was a longtime friend. They had seen a lot of shit together. Rainer was surprised sometimes that the two made it out of half of their missions alive.

  They had made the transition from government men to private contractors together, which was harder than either would have thought. They had helped each other through the first few deals, talking the other off the ledge
after the reality of what they had done hit them. There was no honor to killing for the sake of money. They had long talks about how sick it made them, but there were no alternatives. They couldn’t go back. The system was done with them, they had become spec ops orphans.

  Rainer leaned his Colt CM901 against his right leg with the barrel facing toward the heavens. He pulled out a set of binoculars and took another look at the southern side of the airfield. This is the direction that they would be assaulting from. Rainer noted that the airfield looked quiet. He recalled from his preoperational briefing that this airfield had originally been constructed by the Japanese during World War II and had been a secret command and control base during the New Guinea Campaign in 1942 before the Australians wiped them from the area in 1943.

  The southern end of the airfield had been refurbished in the 1970’s with a hangar, a maintenance facility, and some sort of small administrative building. Behind those, tucked into the wall of the mountain that stood above the airfield was a handful of hut-like buildings that looked to act as sleeping quarters. Although, from the reports from Rainer’s team who had conducted a quick sneak and peek from the outer perimeter of the airfield, they seemed uninhabited and in rough shape.

  Rainer eyed the airstrip one last time before putting away his binos. It would be dark within the next two hours. They would have to snake approximately three kilometers down rough terrain and switchbacks to get to their assault phase line. Then they would have to assault the airfield neutralizing anyone unlucky enough to be there. Anyone with a pulse and the capability to talk before the bird touched down for exfiltration and the short hop to the coast would be silenced.