by Brad Murray
The yellow light switched green and the heavy magnetic lock clunked open. He dreaded pushing open the thick steel door, knowing all too well it required his full, considerable weight to do so. The strain was the last thing he wanted after the worse hangover of his life. As he pushed, the blood surged through his brain, each heartbeat felt like he was being hit in the back of the head with a two-by-four. The door groaned as it opened, and a rush of cool, refreshing air filled Traugott’s nostrils.
He had been all over the world by his early 20’s and had become a student of numerous cultures. By the age of the twenty-five, he had successfully completed assignments in Paris, Montreal, and New York. With each new assignment, he engrossed himself in becoming an indistinguishable amalgamation of the cityscape. He blended in so well, that lifelong citizens assumed he too was a resident, probably having lived there for years, though in reality he had only been there for a few weeks. He spent two glorious months in Shanghai tracking down a promising lead on a possible Super. Shanghai had its own unique identity; a cultural trademark which distinguished it from any other place in the world. The same was true for Paris, and Montreal, and for New York. He thrived in the fast pace of city life and the excitement that each new day brought. In the city he felt alive; he fed off its palpable energy.
And he loved every second of it.
Traugott’s skills and cunning in the Order were unmatched, and Command rewarded his brilliance. As new assignments came down, Traugott typically had his pick. So, when it was mandated that he was to come here of all places, he naturally protested. He hated it at first, the lifestyle and people were so simple, so foreign. It wasn’t a sexy assignment - not by any stretch of the imagination. Life was so slow out in the country; and most importantly, there were so few women. But, as he came to learn much later, this assignment was far more important than any of his previous endeavors. In fact, as important as any responsibility in the Order, he surmised. That had been over seventeen years ago. He’d been in this place for so long that he scarcely remembered what life was like before. The city seemed far away now. Distant. Like a memory from a life that wasn’t his own.
He massaged his temples, headache pulsating. Easing himself into his well-worn chair at the desk, he stared up at the wall of televisions. The third television from the left displayed the bedroom. At this time of the morning he expected to see the boy lying in his bed. The boy was actually a man now, and Traugott often had to remind himself of that fact. Over the last two weeks the boy had returned, the man having regressed. It was hard to watch. The boy – man – had succumbed to his misery and reverted to feeling sorry for himself. It was almost too much to bear. Traugott had grown to know him like no one else did; not even his own mother.
Of course, no one else had the benefit of the televisions.
A camera in nearly every room of the house - except the bathroom - relayed its image back to one of Traugott’s large HDTVs. Yes, he knew this boy like nobody else did. And he knew the man he’d become.
He knew Jimmy Porter.
It was 8:20 now and Jimmy wasn’t in his bed. He searched the images coming from the other nine TV’s and was surprised to find that Jimmy wasn’t anywhere to be found. A part of Traugott was relieved; perhaps Jimmy was finally coming out of his funk. Still, Traugott was concerned; it wasn’t like the Jimmy of recent vintage to be out of the house so early. He knew for a fact there was nothing on Jimmy’s agenda for today. The kid hadn’t had done anything but drink and sit on his ass in the house for weeks now. Perplexed, Traugott exhaled and cursed himself. He sat back and stared at the ceiling, trying to imagine where Jimmy could be, still nursing his throbbing head. A blinking red light caught his eye. He looked over at the bank of cell phones resting on their chargers on the side desk. All four phones blinked red.
“Oh shit,” said Traugott.
New messages - on all four phones. The Order had been trying to reach him.
His mind scrambled, recalling the events of the night before. In his anger, he had stomped downstairs and put all the phones on their chargers. After that, he had walked across the basement hall to the small liquor cabinet he kept in the laundry room. He had grabbed the bottle of vodka, marched solemnly upstairs, and guzzled it on the front porch steps. He had a vague notion of stumbling, bottle in hand, back inside the house and crawling to his bedroom.
It was a mandate that he keep at least one phone by his side at all times in case the Order beckoned. At night he kept a phone on his bedside table. Always. Last night was the first time in seventeen years he hadn’t done so. And now, judging by the blinking red lights, this once-in-seventeen-year mistake was going to cost him. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so selfish? Had he in some way jeopardized his assignment or, God forbid, the Plan?
Just as Traugott picked up one of the phones to check messages, it buzzed. He took a deep breath and tried to collect himself, tried to ease the panic and regain his composure. He needed to portray confidence; that he was on top of whatever unknown situation was occurring. He flipped the phone open.
“Yes,” said Traugott in a deep, commanding voice.
“Joerg! I’ve been trying you all morning, where have you been?” said the voice.
“What’s the situation Hahn?” replied Traugott.
“We’re tracking the Super now. He left over twenty minutes ago. We think Minkowski contacted him. We think Minkowski’s been compromised.”
Traugott knew what that meant. Today was going to be as critical as any day in his seventeen year assignment. And he had been asleep on the job.
“Where is he?”
“He’s heading northeast on I-44, towards St. Louis.”
Traugott sat in silence, trying to comprehend the magnitude of the information. The interstate. St. Louis. Minkowski.
“Joerg? Where have you been?”
Hahn’s questions didn’t register, Traugott was lost in thought.
“Joerg?”
Traugott snapped to. “I was…I was sick this morning and couldn’t reach my phone.”
“I suggest you get well. Immediately. Brumeux has issued the order. Today is the day. Brumeux has mobilized a full team to apprehend him,” said Hahn.
“Apprehend him?” said Traugott. “I thought Brumeux’s idea was to…”
“That was before Porter took off for St. Louis,” Hahn said curtly. “Your orders are to catch up with him on the interstate. Obviously, Brumeux will need you there with him when we bring him in.”
“How exactly are we going to stop him?”
Hahn was silent for a moment. “Roadblock I presume,” said Hahn.
Traugott imagined how Jimmy might react to a roadblock and being forced against his will out of the truck and into the arms of the Order’s security men. Traugott smiled – Jimmy wouldn’t be taken quietly.
“Oh and Joerg? Wear the suit and helmet you were provided.”
“Why? Why would I need it?”
“Don’t ask questions,” said Hahn. “Those are your orders.”
Traugott pressed “end” and pocketed the phone, adrenaline shooting through his body. After all this time - days and years spent tracking, documenting, and reporting on Jimmy Porter’s each and every move - the end was finally in sight. The situation would not be as he had always envisioned, but he didn’t question the Order. And he certainly didn’t question Brumeux. Duty called and he would serve without hesitation.
He jumped to his feet and made a beeline for the metal storage locker on the far side of the Control Room. The adrenaline rush was a cure-all; the effects of the hangover no longer noticeable. He quickly punched in the access code to the locker and yanked open its door. Inside was the custom-made, black helmet and leather jacket. There wasn’t another one on the planet like it. The helmet and jacket were one continuous piece, with the base of the helmet merging with the neckline of the leather jacket through an ingeniously designed section of reinforced nylon polymer. There were four oxygen cylinders lining the b
ack portion of the jacket, each with approximately fifteen minutes of oxygen supply - depending on its occupant’s breathing rate. The oxygen, when activated, fed from the tanks into the helmet through flexible, corrugated tubes that allowed the user freedom to move his head without hindrance.
Traugott had always wondered if he would ever really wear this contraption. It had seemed far-fetched that he would ever actually need it. But, considering the types of god-awful noxious materials the Order had been experimenting with, Joerg realized the suit could one day be his salvation. He had drilled countless times with the suit; putting it on and taking it off as instructed by Command under timed conditions. He could initiate the breathing apparatus and communications systems with his eyes closed. But it took a fair amount of time to adjust to the helmet. Any fighter pilot would have been thrilled with its light-weight design, its comfort, and consideration for center of gravity. But Traugott was no fighter pilot. He found it difficult to walk while wearing it at first, and even more difficult to communicate while the breathing apparatus was operating. A simple push of a button near the underside of the left ear activated the oxygen system; otherwise the helmet provided ambient air. It was a pressure-demand system, meaning the pressure inside the helmet was greater than the user’s torso, so inhalation was far easier than exhalation. It took practice but Traugott adapted quite well, just as he always did.
He flew up the stairs and out the back door of the house, the suit slung over one shoulder. He jogged over to a small, rickety white shed half-covered by limbs from a large oak tree. From the outside, one would assume the shed probably housed nothing but a dusty stack of half empty paint cans and a rusted, broken-down old lawnmower. But as Traugott punched in yet another security code, the old door creaked on its hinges and revealed a gleaming black motorcycle, as flawless as if it were just off the showroom floor. A jet black Honda; powered by six-hundred cubic centimeters of liquid cooled lightning. It had been delivered only a few weeks ago from the Order’s motor corps with no explanation as to why. In that time, Traugott had only driven it once. However, in that test run, he acclimated himself quite quickly and had no apprehension whatsoever about being able to handle the bike today. Traugott swung one leg over the bike seat and wiggled his way into the jacket. The helmet sealed nicely; snug but comfortable. He pressed the button near his left ear and tested the oxygen flow. Satisfied with the results, he toggled the button to turn off the flow. The next check was communications. The jacket held a two-by-one inch console on the left wrist. The console worked in much the same manner as a smart phone, linking to the Bluetooth in his helmet so that he could converse hands-free. With a few simple voice commands, the console could provide GPS turn-by-turn directions, play music, or even order a pizza. A simple touch of the bright LED screen, and Traugott had established communications with Command.
“Traugott reporting,” he said. “Initiating communications check.”
“This is Command, communications confirmed,” replied a female voice. “We have you on tracking, Traugott. Proceed to intercept the Super.”
“Current location?”
“Super is currently located approximately thirty-five miles ahead of your position on Interstate 44, moving east-northeast at sixty-five miles per hour.”
“Affirmative.”
The motorcycle roared to life as Traugott glanced at his watch. 8:32. He quickly calculated that, at a constant speed of one-hundred miles per hour, he would catch Jimmy Porter in one hour. Traugott grabbed the handlebars and leaned forward in the seat. He screeched out of the shed and down the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust and burnt rubber behind. Within fifteen minutes he was zooming down I-44 past the Marshfield exit. He weaved in and out of heavy morning traffic, the speedometer rarely registering below 100. At times the bike’s tires rode the perilous edge of the pavement. At other times, when vehicles were blocking both lanes, the bike glided down the center line.
Traugott did his best to focus on the road, but the momentousness of the occasion kept his mind occupied. Would the test be successful? He worried about Jimmy’s fate; the boy he had watched grow into a man. At 9:25 Traugott was notified by Command Center that he was narrowing to within a mile of Jimmy. He rose over a hill and gazed down at the shimmering mass of vehicles moving over the interstate in ant-like orderly procession.
Somewhere amongst the glimmering windshields was Jimmy Porter.
He maneuvered to the righthand edge and whizzed around a semi-truck carrying a load of new cars. He leaned to the left and darted to the center dividing line, screaming past vehicle after vehicle. At any second he expected to come up on the old white Chevy pickup.
The buzz of radio communications between Command and members of the operation grabbed his attention. Just as Traugott’s eyes caught a glimpse of the Order’s black helicopter hovering above the horizon, its pilot announced visual confirmation of Jimmy’s white Chevy pickup. As Traugott veered around an SUV pulling a boat, an unfamiliar voice shrieked through his helmet.
“Command…we have deployment. Inadvertant deployment!”
A few miles ahead on the horizon, pinkish brown smoke dropped from the belly of a crop duster. Traugott tried to make sense of what was happening, but multiple voices squawked through the radio, talking over each other in panicked tones and barking out half-coherent orders. He could make out only a few words amongst the chaos.
“Shut it off!”
“…gas mechanism partially deployed...mechanical error”
“Command…system integration…re-established…”
“Look out! Pull up!”
The crop duster had arched towards the clouds, narrowly missing the chopper. From what he could make out through the muddled radio chatter, somehow the valve on the crop duster had been opened by accident, releasing a poisonous concoction over holiday traffic.
A thousand thoughts leapt through Traugott’s mind in a millisecond. Why did Brumeux have a crop duster full of noxious gas in the area in the first place? The plan was to release the gas in a controlled setting, not out here in the open.
“Oh my god,” thought Traugott. “All these people on the road, they’ll drive right into it.”
Traugott was so entranced by the spectacle that he had passed Jimmy’s truck before realization set in. He slowed quickly, pulling even with the white pickup. Sixty-five miles per hour felt like twenty after an hour of a hundred plus. Traugott looked into Jimmy’s eyes and saw the same bitter, angry-at-the-world expression he’d witnessed lately on the HDTVs. It was an odd feeling. Traugott sat watching him, much like he’d done for seventeen years. Only this time, Jimmy knew he was watching. Traugott touched the console on his left wrist, opening the link to Command.
“Traugott reporting. Super in proximity. Awaiting further orders.”
Communications amongst the operators was still in disarray. A voice whom Traugott did not recognize asked the question all involved had been thinking.
“Command, do we abort the mission?”
A few seconds of silence, followed by “hold for further instructions.”
Traugott, numb, continued to cruise down the interstate, for some reason unable to take his eyes off Jimmy. This stretch of interstate would soon be sheer chaos, thought Traugott. A lot of people would soon be losing their lives in horrific ways. None of whom had any idea of the hell that lay in front of them. And all because they were driving down the same stretch of interstate at the same moment in time as the young man in the old white Chevy pickup. He gazed at Jimmy’s flush face and wondered if it was worth it all.
Suddenly, Jimmy leaned his head out of the driver’s window and screamed. His red eyes boiled, spit flew from his lips. Traugott couldn’t make out the words with the helmet on, but he didn’t need to. In a few minutes, if Brumeux were correct, they would make him understand. In a few minutes, Traugott would finally be able to reveal himself, no longer hiding in his basement watching Jimmy’s life through television. For the first time in seventeen years, they’d
be able to have a real conversation. Jimmy’s truck edged closer to the cycle; they were close enough to reach out and touch one another. Traugott watched in a daze as the expressions morphed on Jimmy’s face. The rage transformed to apprehension, to fear.
“That’s just like him,” thought Traugott. “Trying to put up a brave exterior.”
The old pickup slowed as Jimmy let off the accelerator. Traugott slowed with it.
“Poor kid,” he thought. “You have no idea what you are; no idea who you are. You are totally and completely oblivious as to how many people have planned for this day, how many have catalogued your each and every move since the day you were born.”
There had still been no response from Command, which was cause for concern. Surely the operation wouldn’t be called off now; the toxic concoction had been released - though not at the planned time or setting. The proverbial cat was out of the bag.
Just then, the command came in.
“Mission is a go. Repeat - mission is a go. The Super will be apprehended approximately two miles ahead. Extraction will be conducted as planned.”
Traugott took one last look at Jimmy, knowing that the next time he saw him things would be far different. If Brumeux were correct, Joerg Traugott and Jimmy Porter would soon able to converse for the first time. If he were wrong, Jimmy Porter would be dead, along with many innocent others.