Ghosts of Ophidian

by McElhaney, Scott

  Ghosts of

  Ophidian

  By Scott McElhaney

  Prologue

  It was Thomas Redding who first spotted the now infamous oval anomaly that was speeding toward the Earth. He had been sitting at his Quad-Core six gig Mac Pro in his cozy one-bedroom apartment, borrowing time on the NEO array in Phoenix. His Apple desktop had cost him more than the five-year old Ford Focus he’d purchased last year. For all the time he’d spent borrowing telescope time, the extra grand he’d spent on the computer made more sense. After all, how much time did he really spend in that smelly blue car with the cracked taillight?

  While it may have been a hideously early 3:15am in Phoenix, the blue glow of 5:15 on Redding’s coffeemaker in western Maine welcomed Thomas to his second steaming cup. A blueberry Nutri-grain bar remained unopened next to his HP printer.

  As an amateur astronomer, Thomas spent many of his mornings searching for the already catalogued Near-Earth Objects (NEO) for which the observatory was named. It always excited him to “discover” an actual asteroid tumbling out there amidst an unchanging sky of dull blackness. Even though the objects were nothing more than giant rocks, it still gave him a sense of satisfaction to know he could locate them and actually get a visual at such a distance.

  He had just located the NEO identified as “2012 XM16.” Just after he scribbled that one down in his spiral notebook of successes, he noticed something unusual beyond the asteroid. His immediate thought was that he’d finally accomplished an improbable goal of his – to catch sight of one of the satellites that NASA was always sending out to the distant planets and moons in our system.

  He quickly zeroed in on the anomaly and magnified it multiple times. It was clearly a man-made object with its long, somewhat oval shape and half-circle “ears” protruding from each side. Thomas quickly tagged the object and sent a notification to his fellow astronomers at the NEO observatory, the LSST in Chile, and also to Keck I and II in Mauna Kea. If he could get secondary confirmation of the object by others on this side of the planet, he could then claim bragging rights to have actually got a visual on one of our outbound satellites.

  The confirmations would come within a half hour and before Thomas arrived at work that morning, it would also be identified as nothing of NASA origin. It would also be noted that it was approaching Earth at a speed of nearly 5% light speed and slowing down. Nothing suggested it was of Earth origin at all.

  One

  Conner fought against something sticky that insisted on keeping his eyelids shut. He finally succeeded in opening his eyes only to discover yet again that it wasn’t a nightmare after all. His eyes had been sealed shut with his own blood. Though he couldn’t be certain, he believed some of the blood on his face probably came from the very knuckles of the Korean they called Jungjwa.

  He looked down and realized that he was still duct-taped to the same wooden chair he’d been attached to for the past… well, for the past five, six, or seven days. In truth, he had no idea how many days it had been since they’d transferred him from the gurney to the chair. It didn’t matter anymore because he was now fairly certain that starvation or thirst would claim his life soon enough.

  He glanced around the small, dark cell, wondering for the umpteenth time if there was anything he could do to escape or at least to kill one or two of his captors. He had nothing available to him besides the wooden chair he was strapped to; a metal bucket in the corner that should have served as a toilet; and a ragged blanket crumpled near the wall.

  Conner needed to avenge the deaths of Lopez and Jackson, but parched, starved, and strapped to a chair, it just wasn’t going to happen. Jackson had a wife and a newborn son who were probably still expecting him home someday. That was never going to happen now. Lopez, forever the single Casanova, had a standing job offer with a civilian dive school in San Diego making much more annually than Conner could have ever offered him. There would now be a lot of disappointed bachelorettes in San Diego, not to mention a school without a very qualified ex-SEAL instructor.

  Conner could already feel his heart racing as he pondered those meaningless murders carried out by the People’s Republic of Korea. If he ever got out of his urine-scented cell, he would make the whole nation of North Korea pay for their murders.

  He could hear footsteps approaching from somewhere in the distance. The familiar slow pace of those boot heels rapping against the cold concrete could only mean another beating from Jungjwa. Conner closed his eyes and lowered his head the moment he heard the keys rattling outside the steel door.

  The heavy door squealed on its hinges as his enemy entered the room. He continued to maintain a posture of unconsciousness, but Jungjwa would have none of that. Conner received a hard slap on the side of his head.

  “Wake, SEAL,” he shouted in his broken English, “Wake for your photo.”

  Conner feigned unconsciousness, hoping the man would just leave him alone for a while. He strained against the duct tape at his wrists, praying just for one moment that he could tear free from his restraints and bash the life out of the North Korean.

  “SEAL!” he shouted, slapping Conner again.

  “I’m not a SEAL!” Conner spat, “My name is Conner Steele and I am the owner of Steele Salvaging.”

  “You said that already, Navy SEAL,” Jungjwa said, “Story is lie! I see tattoo on your back. Symbol for Navy SEAL. You put secret taps on our undersea phone cables. Tell me now! You ready to tell truth yet?”

  There was a bit of rationale behind Conner’s unwise choice to brand himself with the eagle and trident – a decision he regretted sincerely at the moment. Members of all branches of Special Forces are greatly discouraged against tattooing any such identifying artwork on their bodies. Conner heeded those instructions right up until about two weeks after he received his honorable discharge from the US Navy. As a civilian for the first time in six years, he decided rather rashly that he owned the bragging rights that came with serving as a Navy SEAL. He never once imagined that a time would present itself where he’d wish for that anonymity he once had as an unmarked active-duty SEAL.

  “Steele Salvaging,” Conner repeated, then nodded down to the cheap disposable camera in the Korean’s hand, “Why don’t you take your stupid picture and post it on your Facebook page. Oh wait, you don’t have Facebook here in this hell you call North Korea. Heck, you don’t even have internet in this god-awful country. Isn’t that right?”

  Jungjwa clenched his fist as he glared at Conner. The scabs forming on his knuckles probably made him reconsider the need to punch the American.

  “You want Korea like America? You like all your secrets for all to see. We see all secrets, you know. Your internet tells all,” he said, “Facebook, you ask? Facebook says Conner Steele is US Navy Petty Officer First Class, single man, with photos in Afghanistan. Photos with SEAL team.”

  “Do you even know how to read English, Jungjwa?” Conner spat, “Employment history, you-”

  Jungjwa reared back quickly, then lunged forward with a punch to Conner’s jaw. He then dropped the camera and screamed as he dealt repeated blows to Conner with both fists.

  “You don’t say Jungjwa!” he shouted, punching him so hard that Conner and the chair both tumbled to the floor, “You don’t know me. You don’t know me!”

  Jungjwa knelt down and picked up the camera. Conner felt his right eye swelling shut while the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He lay on the floor, trying his best to turn away from Jungjwa as he snapped several pictures of him.

  “Maybe I post these on your Facebook,” he said with a laugh, “Give me password and I free you from the chair – maybe even let you have glass of water.”

  Conner refused to speak to his tormentor. He dec
ided in that moment that the next words he spoke to Jungjwa would be just before the North Korean takes his last breath.

  . . . .

  Conner was startled awake by a sudden thud. His right eye was still swollen shut and he was currently lying on the cold concrete. His hands and feet were still bound to the wooden chair and he still reeked strongly of urine and feces.

  Now he was wondering what it was that had startled him. He attempted to lift his head from the floor and examine his surroundings, but he was very limited in his field of vision. Suddenly three shots rang out from the hallway followed by another two.

  “Egghead and Spider, you two secure that passageway,” a voice called from beyond his cell.

  “In here!” Conner croaked, his throat too dry to permit the words to pass any louder, “I’m an American!”

  Tears filled his eyes as he silently pleaded for those voices to belong to some form of rescue party.

  “In here!” Conner cried.

  “I hear you, sir,” a voice replied, “Is there anybody else in there with you?”

  “Just me. I’m strapped to a chair.”

  “Are you clear of the door? I need to blow the door.”

  He heard more gunfire erupting in the distance, “You can blow the door. Just please get me out of here.”

  “We’re coming. If you can plug your ears, now would be the time, sir.”

  That wouldn’t be possible, but temporary deafness was a small price to pay for a rescue. He closed his eyes however to at least prevent any more damage to his vision. The explosion wasn’t as loud as he’d expected. The door somehow remained on its hinges as it blew inward, though it was sufficiently bowed near the latch. The two people who entered quickly into the room were dressed fully for war and were indeed a SEAL team.

  “How’d you find me?” Conner asked while one of the men started cutting away at the duct tape, “Why did you even come for me?”

  “They took your boat, Steele,” the man behind him stated, tearing the duct tape from Conner’s wrists, “When an unfriendly nation kidnaps two of our boys, we take notice.”

  “But, I’m not-”

  “We know, Steele. Let’s just say that someone had their eye on your boat right about the time it was being towed into a North Korean harbor.”

  He assisted Conner off the chair and continued to rip away more of the duct tape. Conner looked at the soldier before him, trying to soak in the features of what a true savior looked like. The man had the typical chiseled appearance of a young man in the Teams, even so far as to have his face painted in black camouflage. The man caught his gaze, then smiled and extended his hand.

  “Chief Wrobel,” he said, shaking his hand, “I brought you some pants, a shirt, and a canteen of water. Can you walk?”

  “I don’t think so, Chief,” Conner said, “I’ve been strapped to the chair for several days. I… I lost track.”

  “Gotcha,” the Chief replied, “We’ve got to get you out of here quick, so I’m going to treat you like I would any other hostage in this situation. You got me?”

  Conner knew exactly where this was going. He had no other choice. Finally he caught the Chief’s gaze and offered a quick nod.

  Chief Wrobel handed him the canteen, then rose from the floor with Conner tossed over his shoulder. He was still only wearing a pair of boxers that he was certain stunk beyond measure, but there was nothing he could do about it in his weakened state. Even so, all he was concerned about was drinking from the canteen while he was toted from the building.

  Two

  In less than an hour, Conner Steele found himself on the flight deck of the USS Ronald Reagan being loaded onto a gurney. The medical team that met the Sikorsky Seahawk wasted no time getting Conner below decks. It wasn’t until they got him situated in the medical bay that they attempted to get him out of his dirty boxers.

  “Please slow down, friend,” Conner stated, placing a hand on the wrist of the Petty Officer who was currently tugging his underwear off, “I have a rash that must be bleeding by now and worse than that, I have some important crap glued to… to my butt.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, “We’ll get you cleaned up and drowned in some analgesic cream. That, I promise.”

  “No, I mean that I have some very expensive crap pasting my butt closed right now. I messed myself about three or four days ago and I had no choice but to let it harden between my cheeks.”

  “Sir, please, no need to explain. You’ve been through quite-”

  “My crap is loaded with the world’s rarest trio of diamonds, Petty Officer Jamison!” he shouted, “I’m trying to politely ask that you please don’t flush what you find in my boxers. It’s probably worth a quarter billion dollars.”

  A silence fell over the whole room. The two other enlisted persons who were currently in the process of preparing a sponge bath turned immediately to Conner. An officer who was working on something in the corner was even struck by Conner’s words.

  “I was on a salvage operation in the Sea of Japan when a Korean frigate and a patrol boat decided to kill my crew,” Conner muttered by way of explanation, “It’s a long story.”

  “That’s perfectly fine, Mr. Steele,” the officer in the corner stated as he ambled over to his bedside, “But I’m sure you can understand if ask you this next question. Are you involved in any kind of criminal activity that we should know about?”

  Conner laughed, then shook his head, “No sir, not from me anyway. There was definitely criminal activity regarding those diamonds in my derrière. But the criminals involved in that particular robbery died in a sunken submarine during World War Two.”

  “The USS Mantra, if memory serves,” a familiar voice came from behind Conner, “As I recall, it was two Seaman who were suspected of robbing a visiting assistant to King George the Sixth. What that curious assistant was doing in San Diego at the time or better yet, why he was said to be in possession of Queen Victoria’s Teardrops would be up to speculation for decades.”

  Conner turned to discover Commander Ed Shultz of his old SEAL Team.

  “No offense, Steele, but you reek like a septic tank that had exploded on a sunny day then left to rot in the sun for a week,” the Commander stated.

  “None taken,” Conner said with tears welling in his eyes, “Were you the reason behind my rescue, sir? I’ll freakin’ marry you and have your children if you were.”

  “Now, now, Steele,” the Commander replied, patting him on the shoulder, “I told you that our little tryst was a one-time occurrence. You just weren’t quite woman enough for me.”

  They both laughed like old friends.

  “But no, I have to admit that it wasn’t my idea to come to your rescue. Though it was my Team that performed your rescue. I personally had no idea you had been abducted until I received a call from the Chief of Naval Operations. Apparently, someone from NASA and Virgin Galactic was looking for you,” the Commander stated, “When they did a GPS search for your boat, they discovered it being towed in the Sea of Japan. After no replies from you or from those towing the boat, we knew something had happened.”

  “NASA?” Conner asked, “Please tell me that this has nothing to do with that publicity stunt that started circling the planet a few weeks ago.”

  “Uh, Steele, that ‘publicity stunt’ is a three-mile long spaceship that can be seen with the naked eye on a clear night. If this is a NASA publicity stunt, it’s being done on a scale that would have cost the bankrupt space agency more than a trillion dollars,” he replied.

  Conner looked at the Petty Officer who still appeared anxious to rid the room of the horrible stench. The man nodded in agreement with the Commander.

  “What’s the ship doing up there? I’ve been in a dark cell for a few weeks,” Conner asked, “You’ll have to pardon my ignorance.”

  “It’s been doing absolutely positively nothing,” the Commander replied, “Nothing but maintaining a stable orbit and venting some gases periodically.”

  “B
ut-”

  “Steele, we’ve got less than two days until we drop you off at Pearl Harbor. How about I let you get cleaned up and I’ll return in an hour or two when you stink a lot less,” he interrupted.

  . . . .

  Conner realized just how true it was that they intended to drown him in their healing lotions. He was now fully scrubbed; stitched just below his right eyebrow; stitched on the inside of his bottom lip; and bathed in aloe-infused rash lotions all courtesy of the US Navy. He now lay facedown on his bed thanks to an intense burning that came from the ointment on his sensitive backside.

  He’d already inhaled three glasses of water in spite of the fact that the IV was supposedly rehydrating him via a needle in his left arm. He’d also eaten a grilled cheese sandwich, a granola bar, and half a can of Planters cashews. He knew the salt from the cashews were counteracting his rehydration process, but something in his body craved whatever it was the cashews had to offer. Who was he to argue with his body?

  “I have your diamonds, Mr. Steele,” an attractive young lady stated as she entered the room.

  He lay facing the door at the foot of the bed, so he saw her as she entered his room. She was a Third Class Hospital Corpsman with unusually long black hair. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t seen a woman in weeks or perhaps she truly was as beautiful as he currently believed her to be. Either way, it wasn’t the diamonds that captured his attention when she placed them on the bed in front of him.

  “Please tell me that you didn’t have to clean them, Corpsman Jennings,” he said, reading the name stenciled on the breast of her dungarees.

  “No, sir,” she replied with a smile, “Are those really worth millions of dollars?”

  He finally looked down at the three light blue teardrops resting on the white sheet in front of him. Each one was as big as a large almond – easily five to six carats apiece. All appeared to be identical in cut and clarity to the naked eye.