by Fiona Quinn
Monitor: Draw the pin.
Monitor: What can you tell me about the meeting?
HET: It’s over. They’re all standing up.
Monitor: Go back one hour in time. Is target at the meeting?
HET: Yes.
Monitor: Is the meeting in progress?
HET: They are taking their seats.
Monitor: What does she hear?
I quickly turned to the next page.
Holy!
It was so hard to look at that sketch. I didn’t want to look at that sketch. I didn’t want to remember any of it. The torment of the nightmares, the hunger, the fear… Death had been sitting on the shelf, staring me down. My breath caught somewhere between my throat and my lungs and dammed the flow of air. This sketch was a sucker punch to the diaphragm.
Target’s physical state is extremely critical. Much of today’s finding are speculative in nature – I gleaned little in the way of concrete, actionable data.
Target seems to possess psychic abilities. Target left her body to view remotely. She reintegrated before the session (04) ended, at which time her conscious state became trance-like. The trance is physical in nature, not psychic in nature. I interpret her high fever and severely dehydrated state caused the trance.
Target seems to be aware of the emotional distractions at her location that I have been experiencing during this and previous sessions.
Target seems to be trying to gain some physical respite by leaving her body.
I interpret her choice in location to RV had to do with the subject matter of the meeting. The participants seemed to be discussing the target. Again, this is speculative, and I am including this in my report because it felt important. It felt connected to Target’s dream in session 03.
Given the state of her health, I cannot tell whether she trained to remote view, or whether she does it naturally, or even consciously. Her psychic activity possibly spurred by her high fever. I believe Target will expire within the next few hours.
In freehand, FUCK was scratched across the bottom. Must have been the general.
That was it.
Okay, Lynx. Cut out the emotional crap and deal with the information, I ordered myself. It was going to take more than an order. I pushed my palms against my eye sockets and rubbed, trying to erase the image. Ghastly. My limbic brain was right back at that moment. Back in survival mode. Sweat moistened my blouse. I vibrated with anxiety. Run. Fight. Run, my instincts commanded.
I forced my eyes open. Forced myself to see what was around me. A highly polished mahogany desk. Thick sand-colored carpeting. The Tsukamoto mobile. I watched the play of prismatic colors, the gentle ballet-like sway of movement. My pulse slowed. My breath deepened. I was safely home. No, that didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel safe at all. But at least I was home.
There were no more pages to turn in the file. There was no picture of the pin. And how curious it was that the whole session wasn’t reported. That the monitor didn’t tell HET to “Come back. Draw your conclusions. Write your report.” There was no end-time signature. Something was missing from the beginning. And something was missing from the end. There had been more, and someone had made the decision to exclude it. Since these were General Elliot’s private files and not part of the mission files, I would have to assume that the CRV team kept that data to themselves.
I looked at the date of the session: March 19th. It was crazy how precise this person was. At the one-month mark of my captivity, I got to shower. They cleaned my clothes. Then they sat me down and made the video of me for my team. They wanted Iniquus to know that I was alive, and doing quite poorly. That it was better to follow through with their demands to release Julio Rodriguez and keep me alive.
The next day was the rainstorm. The guards made us prisoners stand out under the onslaught. The pelting raindrops left bruises on my skin. My immune system couldn’t stand up to it. I was so sick. HET was right. I’d nearly died. Very nearly. But I hadn’t left my body during that time. Had I? I was so weak, hallucinating, passing in and out of consciousness.
What if during those times when I thought I had passed out, what actually was happening was that I was travelling around trying to feel safe? Just like HET “speculated.”
I looked back at the date on the “Sylanos/Spider Dream” session. March 12th. The day before the video. After they made the video of me, I consciously left my body to try and make contact with Gater. If their session had been 24 hours later, these viewers would know for sure that I had skills. They’d also know about Gater. My skin tightened and the little hairs stood on end. Did it matter? Weren’t these supposed to be the good guys?
I wondered who had read these reports besides General Elliot. Whoever had read them would know about my psychic abilities, my connection to Spyder, and that I was going after the Hydra, which included the Assembly and Sylanos. The report didn’t mention Omega. I hadn’t put Omega in the picture yet—that didn’t come until Jonathan Frith and the Omega teams were hunting me down after the plane crash during my escape. So that made sense.
I put my finger where the remote viewer had signed HermanET. Herman. He felt like he was doing a job. That was it. Just one of many jobs he performed on a daily basis. He had forgotten about me already—wasn’t even curious. He probably thought I was dead and buried.
When I put my finger on the word “Monitor,” I leaned over and vomited into the trashcan.
Twenty-Four
My cheek lay against the cold silky surface of the reading desk and my phone pressed against my ear as I waited for communications to put a secure line through to Spyder for me. I didn’t know what to do next. Something. I couldn’t just walk away from this information, and I didn’t want to leave Elliot’s file room. For some reason, it seemed safe here, like a protective womb.
Leanne came to the office every ten minutes or so and called out my name. I bet she had her finger on the quick dial for our EMS department if I failed to respond. I could tell from her voice that the longer I stayed in here, the more her nerves frayed at the ends. This last time, I called out that I was on the phone with an operative and would be out soon.
“Lexicon?”
“Hi, Spyder. I’m checking in. Are you in town?” I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder and reached down to pull a knot in the plastic lining on the trashcan before the smell of my Thai lunch filled the room and precipitated another call to the medics. Striker wasn’t around to run interference for me again.
“I am near town. I can meet you at my space if you need me.”
“No rush, but yes, please, I’d like to go over some of my findings. Hey, have you ever heard of remote viewing for the military?”
“I have.”
“Do you know someone who was involved with the program and could answer questions for me?”
“At this juncture, I prefer that you focus on our task at hand. I feel our window for success is narrowing quickly. After we expose the work of our four enemies, I will happily introduce you to my friend, Patrick Coleridge, who was considered a grandmaster in the program.”
I rolled my neck so the desk supported my forehead, and stared down at the tips of my boots. “Honestly, I need to speak to him as soon as possible. Today, if I could.”
“Can you tell me why you need this so urgently?”
“Do you remember when you spoke to me about the difference between white noise versus a pixel that makes things fall into place? That’s what I’m trying to riddle my way through right now. I have a puzzle. The pieces seem like they should come together into a cohesive picture. But I don’t have all of the pieces. I need more information.”
Spyder didn’t respond when I stopped speaking, so I pressed on. “While your goal is to behead the Hydra, I have to tell you that the number one thing that I care about right now is Iniquus. If there is no Iniquus, we will no longer have the resources to go after the bad guys. Who is going to do our specialized work? Omega?”
“And to put this together, y
ou need information about remote viewing. Do you wish for training so that you can accomplish this task?”
I lifted my head to sit upright. “No, sir. When I was apprenticing with Miriam Laugherty, she told me about remote viewing and suggested that route might be one I’d want to consider in the future. I’ve not been particularly interested in doing that kind of work, and I’m not sure I could set my psychic skills aside to follow the scientific remote viewing protocol if I were to decide to give it a go.”
“You understand that the public believes the remote viewing program has been shut down? It’s now black ops. If this is a real-time issue with one of the working remote viewers, that would be an extremely risky undertaking.”
“No, sir. I don’t believe so. I’m sitting in General Elliot’s file room, looking at documentation from four remote viewing sessions where I was the subject matter. I have pictures of the pages, so I can show them to you. These reports coincide with the period when significant negative occurrences took place at Iniquus. I would like some more information to see if there is a correlation, or if this is happenstance.”
“A correlation between Iniquus’ solvency and . . .”
“My being kidnapped and the corporate art being removed.”
“That seems like a disparate grouping of activities.”
“Lynx?” Leanne’s voice reached a higher pitch each time she called. I guessed my time was up if I wanted to keep her in my corner. “Are you still okay?”
“I’m getting off the phone now. I’ll be right out,” I called.
“What is your conviction level? Is this important enough that I should put finding the necklaces on hold?”
“Based on what Lacey Stuart said about the timing of the art shipment, I’d say hours count in our decision making.”
“Pack a bag for very cold weather. Meet me at Dulles. I’ll arrange for a private plane.”
***
Spyder pulled back on the yoke, easing the corporate jet up through the cloud bank. “John Quincy Adams said, ‘Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish.’ I wish you to apply that quote to this moment and tell me your thoughts.”
I peeked out from under my eyelids, which I had squeezed tightly together. I didn’t want to apply quotations; I simply wanted to survive the next five hours with Spyder piloting this Cessna. He was a competent pilot, but this was a blustery day and the turbulence severe. I was experiencing a big old helping of déjà vu from the last time I had been in a plane. It had crashed…
“Come. I wish to hear what you have to say,” Spyder prompted.
I licked the dry stickiness from my lips and tried to think past the drumbeat of my heart. My joints had locked and my muscles braced. I shoved my feet into the floor, pressed my back flat against my seat, and pulled the safety belt so tightly that it denied circulation. “The difficulty I am experiencing right now is fear of dying,” I finally managed; my voice not much above a whisper.
“Exactly. Continue.”
“My goals are to have an enjoyable flight.” I panted between every couple of words. “To obtain what information I can from the resource and return home without having a heart attack from this experience.” My lungs simply wouldn’t cooperate by holding their whole capacity, or even near capacity. “My obstacles, however, are very big. I can’t see around them.”
“Why is this?”
I clenched my jaw and with pursed lips shook my head. I couldn’t. . .
“If you think you cannot, then you certainly cannot. Which will you allow to win: a false emotion, or the truth?”
I didn’t answer.
“Remember, your life will often depend on your brain’s ability to perceive true danger and warn you. If you allow your brain to overreact, it no longer serves as your best defense but becomes an enemy.”
The bands tightened around my chest, and I struggled for survival. If only to make this horrible feeling stop, I moved my lips. “I stole a plane when I escaped the Honduran prison. I flew it through what turned out to be more than a rainstorm but a tropical storm that forced me to land in Cuban territory. The flight was beyond turbulent. I thought with every drop in altitude that I was going to die.”
As if on cue, the plane dropped, and like a fun ride at a carnival, my stomach stayed up while my body fell. I shrieked and clutched at the console. Spyder reached out and patted my knee. I wished he’d keep both his freaking hands on the yoke.
“Every time we hit a rough patch . . .” I worked to push sound through my voice box. “My body’s remembering my last flight and is reproducing those hormones and sensations. I can hardly function, I’m so scared right now.” My fingers clutched at the armrests as if that tenuous grasp on something solid could save me if the plane were to plummet from the sky.
“You must breathe in order to speak. You know that an important tool to reduce anxiety in a highly charged situation is simply to speak. So continue.”
“I had no choice but to fly the plane again towards the United States. I crashed in the desert when I ran out of fuel. No one knew where I landed. The inside of the plane baked me like an oven. Outside of the plane was like being spit-roasted over a fire. No food. Only sips of water. I spent torturous days before my team got to me. Striker said I had gone into cardiac arrest. When they found me, I was dead. They defibrillated me back to life. We are, right now, flying over empty space where people would have a hard time finding us and getting to us if this plane were to go down and if we were to survive the crash,” I croaked out.
“See? Already you have enough breath for longer sentences.”
He was right.
“Continue with the quote,” Spyder said, reaching down to flick a switch.
“In this case, perseverance would be saddling up the horse and riding again. If I were to swear off planes, my fear would become a phobia. By flying with you today, I have an opportunity to feel that this is a relatively safe way to travel.”
“And you will be the pilot on the return flight.”
“What? No. Spyder, that’s a very bad idea. If I were to freeze. . .”
“You will regard this flight as an opportunity to practice overcoming your emotions in a difficult situation. This is an important ability and can make the difference between life and death. Mastering your breath; thinking sequentially, logically, and factually; speaking aloud; these are the techniques that one must practice under truly stressful activities in order to become proficient. Think of this opportunity as a blessing.”
“A blessing. Yes, sir.” I tried to pull up something like gratitude for this chance to practice my skills, but I couldn’t muster anything that at all resembled appreciation. It smacked more of nausea, to be honest. “My teammates had to deal with their adrenaline surges on the battlefield. It’s not like we’re getting shot at. We’re just flying in a freaking plane. If they can do it under truly dire circumstances, surely I can do this.” There was about a spoonful of conviction in my words.
“We all have our battles. Today, you are fighting one of your own. I have every confidence that you will succeed. Remember, ‘Fear does not prevent death, it prevents life.’”
“Naguib Mahfouz, yes, sir.”
“Now, I wish for you to focus on your breathing techniques. Once you have your emotions under better control, I would like you to practice a meditation cycle, and then I have a delicious treat packed. You will enjoy this very much.”
Food is about the last thing I want to think about.
The plane took a sudden plunge.
Twenty-Five
We didn’t land at an airport, but on a barely paved highway, and then taxied into a freshly mowed field. The last bit of light melted over the horizon, as we sat beneath the massive pines. I laid a map of Wyoming across my lap and tried to figure out how far out into nowhere we had travelled.
A pickup truck made its way over the grass and parked beside us. Spyder jumped down from the plane and hugged the giant
who emerged from the truck’s cab. I had never seen Spyder hug a man before. This guy had my instant respect.
As I made my way over for introductions, I was startled by the sheer size of the guy. I was used to huge men – Randy and Deep were the smallest guys on my team, and they were both six feet tall. Jack was the largest, at six-foot five. This man, well, I think he might give LeBron James a run for his money. He wore jeans with dust caked into the seat and thighs, and his boots could have walked a few hundred miles, they were so worn down in the heel. He had plaited his hair into a long, thin silver chord, tied at the end with a bit of red cloth, and hidden on top by his black cowboy hat.
That was all the observation I got in before his arm swooped me up, and I got hugged while my feet dangled a good foot and a half off the ground. Seemed hugging was a requirement around this guy. But that was alright. There was something incredibly safe and kind about him ,and the embrace felt like a gift.
“General Coleridge, this is the daughter of my heart, Lexi Sobado.”
“Lexi, awesome!”
So not what I expected out of a general. Not his look, not his demeanor, not his choice of words. I decided right then and there I’d better put my paradigms aside. I was in for a mind-bending conversation.
The general went around the back of his truck and pulled out a bison skin. He hefted it over to a fire circle and laid the rug down, covering a log and spreading it across the ground. He gestured me over, and I happily snuggled down into the fur, using the log as a backrest. The general squatted to light the campfire already stacked and ready for a spark.
The fire he had coaxed blazed up from the middle of the circle. I welcomed the heat shining on my face. The temperature had dropped off with the sunlight. It must have been in the teens. I couldn’t check my phone for weather information; there was no cell service this far from anywhere.