The Pilgrim Strain

by Edgar, C. P.

  The pilot nosed the plane up and the gear made rough contact with the ground as the Ilyushin landed. He brought the nose down and slammed the reverse thrust recalling the short runway. The aircraft groaned against the force.

  The copilot reached for the rear ramp controls and began bringing the ramp into the mid-open position as the plane taxied quickly to the end of the runway.

  Rainer watched the plane descend from the skies having picked up its form through his optics moments before he heard it closing in. The plane landed with a skip and had barreled down the runway toward their positions tearing up debris in its path and sending it in billows behind the massive aircraft as it thundered down the runway. He watched the plane come to a stop and then turn 180 degrees facing the opposite direction. The blast from the props picked up everything in its path hurling it at Rainer and the team. The ramp of the Ilyushin came down onto the tarmac with a thud.

  “Everyone move, let’s get the hell out of here,” Rainer yelled into the radio over the noise of the props. He stood and shouldered his pack moving in formation with the rest of the team.

  Having made it to the ramp first he turned and counted his men in as they moved up and into the belly of the aircraft. He turned and moved up into the plane and then forward to the cockpit. He saw the pilot and copilot looking backward toward him through their menacing optics and signaled that they were all in with a thumbs up.

  The pilots turned back to the glow of their controls and the ramp began moving up simultaneously with the increase in thrust to the props as the Ilyushin brakes struggled to hold. The pilot released the brakes and the plane lurched and accelerated forward, Rainer having found a seat just in time not wanting to be flung out the rear ramp as the plane began nosing upward toward the sky.

  “Okay listen up,” Rainer yelled to the men. “Change out of your battle dress and stow the weapons and gear.”

  He looked at the pallets strapped to the floor noting that the hard plastic Pelican cases were onboard and already ratcheted down. He inwardly thanked Daggan for being so professional, and for having secured his gear without need for instruction.

  Rainer looked at Kef, “What happened down there?”

  Kef just shook his head and yelled over the plane’s engines, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I’m never coming to this island again…they fucking eat their own here! Where did that munition come from?”

  “I don’t know, but I hope we are clear.”

  Rainer walked over to an outboard window and looked out trying to get a sense of their orientation. The plane had risen a few thousand feet in altitude and was banking hard coming back around for the departure route which was programmed into the navigation system.

  He thought about that munition strike and was wondering why they had not been engaged again since. Rainer was thinking that the team had probably been tracked by the PNGDF and started to say to Kef, “Probably…” when a massive flash of light erupted from the side of the mountain.

  Rainer jumped up and ran for the cockpit, having watched the massive fireball reaching for the sky and their departure route. The plane shuttered heavily and rocked violently as the shockwave washed over the flight path.

  “Where did that detonate?”

  The pilot turned with a look of relief on his face, “I don’t know who you guys pissed off but that airfield just got blown off that mountain.”

  ***

  Washington, D.C.

  The Metro rocked slightly as it sped along the rails. David was standing with one hand on a stainless railing. He was closest to the door having just barely made it onto the Blue Line. His other hand held a copy of The Post, and he was scanning through the World section for any relevant commentary.

  The autonomous voice over the loud speakers announced the train would be stopping next at Crystal City. David looked over his paper at the other people on the train, some beginning to negotiate their way past other passengers toward the doors. He noticed faces, and in particular, eyes and noses. It was a habit taught to him a long time ago. You can change your clothes, your hair, and other things about your appearance, but you can’t change the shape of your eyes, nor the distance of your eyes to your nose.

  Some habits never die, he thought as the train began to slow.

  David walked off into a beautiful Washington D.C. morning. It was a little warm for the time of year but at least it wasn’t raining. A cup of coffee later and David was walking through the front doors of the old U.S. Airways headquarters which had been vacated some years ago.

  Crystal Park Four now housed various consulting companies, beltway bandits, and GSA suppliers. Global Resources Security maintained a small section of the second floor. David used his security badge which was now dangling around his neck and opened the outer door to the GRS space. Inside the entryway, he was greeted by Sandy their receptionist with her usual morning cheer, “Good morning Mister McDaniel.”

  “Good morning Sandy. How'd you do this weekend in the Fantasy Football league?” The office had a particularly grueling league of Fantasy Football and Sandy was this year’s Cinderella story.

  “Very well sir. Redskins defense cost me but I think that after tonight I will win this week’s game.”

  “Defense will do that to you. Did I beat him to the office today?”

  “No sir. He made it in about ten minutes ago.”

  David smiled. The old man beat him in again. David had been coming in earlier and earlier over the past three months trying to wrestle the initial intel feed from the hands of the old man but with no luck.

  He walked to the back-right corner of the office and stopped in front of his door. The sign read “ARTHUR DAVID MCDANIEL” which was his full name. He was named after his grandfather who was a titan of a man. WWII veteran and Sheriff of their hometown, he made a big impact on David’s life as a role model. The older David got, the more his first name mattered to him and he always spent a quick moment in the morning reflecting on this. Some signs hanging in this world were actually useful.

  He opened the door and entered his office. It was a mess as usual. His co-workers chided him constantly about the clutter. He once received a phone call from a woman who specialized in obsessive compulsive disorder and “hoarders” only to find out it was an office prank. Whoever had orchestrated that one was very clever. David did in fact know where everything was in his office, often stating that there was “a method to the madness.”

  David logged onto his desktop computer using his security badge and his code credentials. The firm was designated as a consulting agency and maintained a close contractual relationship with the Pentagon.

  GRS specialized in threat and risk mitigation focusing on the Earth’s resources as impacted by governments and geopolitics. However, the firm made its bread and butter by analyzing intelligence received from the Pentagon regarding the influence of foreign states on high-value resources. For example, GRS had been conducting a six-week analysis on China’s rare-earth mineral dominance in Eastern Africa and the violent conflicts that spun out from that influence. Thus, David and his co-workers were granted Top Secret clearances in order to have access to some of the United States’ most guarded intelligence.

  David noted with growing agitation that the old man had already sent this morning’s situation report. “He must not sleep,” David whispered to himself. Taking a big gulp from his now lukewarm mocha coffee he opened the situation report.

  The report itself was broken down by region. The old man, or whoever was first in, was tasked with receiving all the reports from the night prior and cutting and pasting them into a master report segmented by region, so that the various analysts could quickly navigate to the issues that were relevant to their work.

  David specialized in African risk management, but had made it a habit a long time ago to review the entire situation report even though it was rather lengthy. David found that little happened in the world these days that was not connected in some fashion, and
felt that sometimes an activity say in Venezuela may in fact have ties to happenings in Indonesia.

  David placed his coffee down on his desk, the coaster resting on the wooden desk in front of a framed picture of David standing tall next to his older brother Edgar. David was wearing khaki cargo pants and a short-sleeved button down looking rather awesome in his Oakley sunglasses and Ed was in full battle gear holding a chopped down M4 and a shit-eating grin partially hidden by the massive beard he had been sporting.

  The two of them had, by chance, run into each other in the Western flank of Afghanistan and only could spend a few moments together. They were obviously overjoyed with having God grace them with just those few precious minutes. Ed had a buddy take the picture which was now a treasured possession of David’s. It was the only visual proof of a life once lived. He gazed at the photo as he placed his coffee down and turned his full attention toward the report.

  David scanned down the header for each intelligence insert within the report. Most times he would only read the entire insert if the header grabbed his attention. He moved over Eastern Europe quickly, not much really going on there other than some low-level weapons trafficking by organized crime syndicates. He continued, stopping at a header titled “Immunization research facility in Papua New Guinea raided by regional terrorist group.” He clicked on the plus symbol under the header expanding the insert to full content.

  “PNGDF initial report that terrorist group, possibly Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM), attacked a medical research facility in Lae, Papua New Guinea. The Lae Medical Technique (LMT) research facility was a hardened compound with a private security force which was defeated by unknown number of attackers. LMT is owned by a British consortium of agricultural corporations with charter to research and test for bovine immunizations to eradicate Transmissible Spongiform Encephalopathy (TSE).

  The research facility had previously been linked to research on Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease; a disease regionalized to Papua New Guinea in the past. The facility had been retrofitted in the 1990’s by British investors during “mad cow” epidemics in England to support the program. OPM has not publicly claim responsibility for the attack. LMT damage assessment due from PNGDF. Special note: HUMINT report dated 17FEB2002 referenced possible biological weapons program at LMT however no corroborative report was found and the topic was closed 23JAN2004.”

  David thought about this report for a moment, the birds chirping outside the window. Why would a terrorist cell attack a medical facility in the middle of nowhere? He knew from previous experience that they wouldn’t. Not unless they either wanted the public relations or the facility held some strategic value. Or maybe they were using the attack as a train up for something bigger?

  He made a mental note to bring it up during the Indonesia Region round table discussion on Wednesday. He was sure there were similar dry runs conducted prior to the Mumbai attacks in 2008.

  He was adrift in a sea of his own thoughts when his computer sounded with the arrival of a new email. He looked down at his monitor and was surprised to see an email with the subject line “Save the Date!” and was equally pleased to see it was from Merissa.

  He opened the email which contained a smiley face followed by a ticket confirmation for two seats on the fifty-yard line for the Washington Redskins versus Pittsburgh Steelers game one month from yesterday. His pulse quickened as he realized that she would be coming home soon. This was her way of notifying him, and testing him as well.

  She knew he wasn’t fond of football but also that he hated being in large crowds of people particularly those gathered in public areas. She would chide him and say his threat radar would be going off. He knew that she would be thinking that he would have to really love her to accompany her under such uncomfortable conditions. God, she had a wicked sense of humor.

  He clicked on the reply option and typed, “I hope this means you will be there too, it would be a cruel joke to show up to the game and sit next to an empty seat!” He clicked the send button visualizing in his mind the path that this message would take across the world. From Washington D.C. to network clusters in Europe, down to the United Arab Emirates, bouncing up to a satellite orbiting the Earth, finally dropping at the speed of light back down to her laptop's satellite connection in South Kurdufan, Sudan.

  He stayed there for a moment hoping that he would receive a quick response but none came back. He had hoped they could flirt a little this morning but knew she was probably already done eating lunch and back out to the refugee camp.

  He looked at his watch; it was now 8 a.m. which put her at around 3 p.m. in the Sudan. He imagined her in her khaki pants, her dark brown hair in the wind but maybe tied into a ponytail, and then thought he should probably start working on something else. He didn’t need anyone walking in while he was fantasizing about her.

  ***

  Sudan, Africa

  Dr. Merissa Manzak rode in the front passenger seat of the tan Land Rover. She watched as baobab trees passed by the windows. They seemed so majestic and wise in a land so full of hardship and peril. The Land Rover bumped hard against a rut cut in the gravel and dirt. She hadn’t been on a nicely paved road in months.

  Merissa, looking to the front, saw that the refugee camp loomed ahead. It was identified by the large wooden signs objectifying the area. It’s more like a city than a camp, housing well over 60,000 men, women, and children although Merissa sighed knowing it was mostly women, children, and the elderly. Most of the men in Sudan were either fighting or dead. The conflict running in terms of decades now, rather than years.

  Merissa had visited all the refugee camps in the Sudan. She had seen the faces of the people, a quarter million living in the camps, fleeing the bombings, violent mortar attacks, and the rape of the country. Their faces haunted her in her dreams when she had dreams.

  Most days she was just too exhausted to dream, very thankful that her brain could just shut off. The sadness in their faces could be overwhelming at times but she also found purpose there.

  The temperature was soaring to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Luckily the Land Rover Defender had a working air conditioning unit. Merissa had changed into a pair of pants even though it was likely going to be another scorcher. She wanted to spend some time with the clinic patients after her meeting and although much more comfortable, shorts weren’t exactly the most hygienic of outfits.

  Merissa thought back to her college years in Boston. She and her group of pre-med friends would go out for a beer at Conor Larkins Grill and Tap across the way from the main Boston University campus. They would compare their dreams and pronounce the change they could bring to the world. Merissa remembered how hopeful she was and anxious to break out of the school mode and into the real world. They would yell over the crowd about conflicts and medical crisis, of military medicine, of advances in disease control, of ending pain. They would laugh and enjoy the prospects of the future.

  Merissa cringed at the thought of her naivety. It was possible still, but it was just so damn hard. They had never talked of governmental influence. They never studied the relationship and correlation of economical conquest to human suffering. They never imagined that the super powers of the world would slash and burn a whole continent to claim ownership of its resources. These things that brought better doctors than her to their knees were omnipresent.

  “You ok?” Samir asked from the driver’s seat.

  “Yea, I’m good. I was just thinking of the meeting and the work that needs to be done if they come through for us.” She lied, but the deflection saved her a deeper conversation.

  Samir did not pry further. He just concentrated on the road ahead of him. He was a paid contractor to the United Nations and had been loaned over to the World Health Organization (WHO) for the better part of the last year because of his ability to speak English. Samir was a native of Sudan and cared passionately for its people. He commanded respect from the refugees, partly because of his stature being well over six feet tall, but mostly, Meri
ssa surmised, because he was a black man in his thirties in a country void of black men in their thirties.

  Samir drove up to the refugee camp stopping at the gates to show credentials to the African Union soldiers manning the post. The African Union along with Nigeria were providing soldiers in support of the United Nations peacekeeping mission established in South Sudan. It wasn’t enough force to stop the fighting or the genocides, but it was just enough to portray a level of involvement and support for the refugees. Most of these peacekeepers were wearing what appeared to be pristine uniforms, having never truly been in a situation requiring them to be soiled.

  Merissa was pretty sure that she could use her Costco card as ID with these guards and they would still open the gate. They were just going through the motions like most people around here. Here comes ‘Debbie Downer’ again, she thought.

  “Samir, would you drop me off at the WHO administration building?” She asked trying to shake the negativity from her mind.

  “Yes, Doctor. I will be waiting at the clinic to drive you back when you are finished.”

  “Thanks Samir and for the millionth time please call me Merissa.”

  Samir smiled. Merissa knew he wouldn’t call her anything but doctor but she felt awkward keeping up the formality after having spent so much time with the man. In the Sudan, doctors were held in very high esteem and the formality was hard to shake. She wished people in America still thought doctors were cool.

  The Land Rover came to a stop in front of a single-story block and mortar building. Merissa had reached up and was just finishing tying her long hair into a ponytail. Her Ray Ban sunglasses were pushed up on the top of her head acting like a headband. A couple strands of hair fell alongside her face. She pushed open the door to the truck and hopped out. At five feet seven inches she still had to resort to a form of jumping out of trucks, not able to just step out like Samir could.