by Pro Se Press
Roger went flying end over end. All the while he rolled his body around the case to keep the bottles from breaking. He landed flat on his back. The wind went out of him. He fought for breath. He fought to get up. Then small hands touched his neck and shoulder. And pressed hard. The last thought he had for quite some time involved the Vulcan nerve pinch.
***
As soon as the man's head lolled to one side Emily dived and rolled into a now empty booth selling meet souvenirs. All others in the vicinity had wisely fled. She opened her butt-pack to extract her emergency money. Keeping low she grabbed an oversized meet sweatshirt, and a Poplar Park bandana. She slid money under the cash drawer, then slithered off to don her “purchases.”
As she did she saw a man in dark blue trousers, a blue-black suit jacket and clerical collar hurry by.
She looked closely at the trousers. Li Suan's voice spoke in her head, “Always memorize a small detail, Emily. Something the subject will not be able to see well. Or notice.”
And she remembered. In addition to the man's jacket being exactly the same shape, there were a few light splash spots just above the back of the cuffs. That had to be the space buff. In spite of the hair and scrunched up face. She darted behind the judges tables at the balance beam to keep up with him. They arrived at the trouble spot together. He stood in plain sight. She squatted beside a huge potted plant. The three men had bolted into a big knot of competitors and parents. Now each of the three grabbed someone. One objecting father folded up from a kick to the breadbasket. With their hostages they moved toward an emergency exit. Then the man in the clerical collar stepped forward.
“My sons!” said an elderly voice. Just about every head but Emily's swiveled in that direction. “My sons, please think what you do,” he continued. “Stop before somebody is seriously hurt.”
“Back off!” snapped the taller of the two toughs.
“He's right, Father,” said “Luthor” with a touch of resignation in his voice. “We don't wish to hurt anyone. But we will to get out of here.”
The man in the blue-black jacket moved from in front of the distraught parents and coaches to the side. She saw him briefly touch his throat, then lower his hands to his sides. From her vantage point she saw metal handles for fishing rods slide from his sleeves into the palms of his hands.
When the “priest” spoke again Emily couldn't believe her ears. The words constantly changed in tone and pitch. But the intensity could not be denied. Briefly she wondered if the man spoke more like God, or Satan. The hardened trio blanched at the sounds.
“Sean Farrell! Studs Gallegos! Herman 'Slugger' Joyce! Your identities are known. An Operation 100 has been called. Surrender, while you still can!”
From the other side of the potted plant Emily heard the voice of Sam Five whisper, “Everybody listen up! The man dressed like a priest is the Voice. He's drawing their attention away from the other hostages and directly onto himself. Don't make any moves they can see. But be ready to back his play.”
Emily now took her first detailed look at the hostages. A middle aged man she'd seen judging the vault. A woman, probably a parent, clutching a girl's butt pack. And the third, held by the man in a new hunting outfit, was Daisy McTeel.
Emily glanced around. No sign of Captain McTeel. But, he had to be somewhere near by.
***
“Nobody has been seriously hurt,” continued the Voice. “Let them go!”
The two bodyguards held fast as Sean Farrell worked his way backward toward the exit.
“There'll be police at that exit, Ferrell!” exclaimed the Voice. His whole attention seemed to be on the leader of the three. Or so the bodyguards thought.
Emily couldn't believe her eye's as the Voice's arms flashed across his body and upward one impossibly fast after the other. The rod handles zipped straight toward the bodyguards' faces. Each thought at first that the other was the one menaced. For just a split second. But that was enough.
The Voice sprang forward like a Cougar. One man ducked under the handle. That put him and his hostage off balance. The other took the handle right across the eyes. With one hand the Voice jabbed his throat. The other hand snatched the knife from the man's uncertain grip. With the same motion he released the knife over and down. The second bodyguard did not have time to react. Not to hurt his hostage. Not to his buddy's knife pinning his foot firmly to the floor. The Voice grabbed the hand with the knife as he administered a hand edge strike to the temple. Then he pulled the hostage forward and to the side.
“It's over, Farrell,” proclaimed the graveyard tones. “Let the girl go!”
***
Emily saw the man holding Daisy begin to pull something out of a pocket blocked from the Voice's view by the girl's shaking body. She screamed “Daddy, behind you!” at the top of her voice, then dove behind a pillar.
Farrell stopped moving to look around for just an instant. But that was enough. A fourth place trophy came flying in. The marble base smashed into the bridge of the man's nose. His grip loosened. Daisy sprinted for her mother's arms. Her father, still holding another trophy, dashed forward to apply handcuffs to the fallen criminal.
Emily scuttled around the pillar and down a deserted aisle. A couple of seconds later someone fell in step beside her. The sounds of the words were soft now, but still just as eerie.
“Little lady you've got some nice moves. Even nerve pressure points. Get out of sight for a moment. McTeel will be along any second.”
Emily ducked behind a corner of the raised tumbling platform. Sure enough she heard hurrying footsteps approaching.
“Nice throw, McTeel.”
“Seems I owe you again,” said McTeel.
“Captain,” came the reply in a normal voice, “you owe nothing. Just doing your job like you have been is better than anything I could want. Except for a quick way out.”
“I'll cover you there. Gladly. But I'd like to talk to that girl who helped out. Find out her story.”
“Her story will be written in the years to come, my friend. I'm betting she's a future Independent Operator.”
As their footsteps and voices faded away Emily mused, “Independent Operator? What the heck is that? I'll bet Li Suan and Dunklin know.”
***
March 2009
Emily stepped out of her air-conditioned car in business attire including a light jacket. Part of her cover. Plus it let her conceal various gadgets and weapons. She carried an aluminum clipboard with a set of electrical specifications visible. She hurried without seeming to into the lobby of the resort and meeting center. The Pulptress hated the sweaty feeling of her wig in the steamy Florida sunshine. But her scalp began to perspire by the time she got inside.
Once inside she surveyed to lobby. Cookie cutter decoration, she decided. A corporate edict with little room allowed for any local ideas. She whimsically hoped this did not turn out to be what she sought.
She paused briefly at the entrance to the in-house drinking establishment. Again she felt the hand of some never been out of New York designer showing the locals what Florida should look like. She'd rather sit down for a drink in a stable.
A few minutes later she met the manager. He started in on a standard welcome to a potential customer. Number of rooms. Amenities. Three sentences in she raised her hand.
“Mr. Stanley, I know all of that from your website. My client has one special need that's a deal breaker. So let's get that out of the way. Might save us both a lot of time.
“At our meeting we will demonstrate the largest mobile super-computer on the planet. That means we'll pull three long big rig trailers as close to your auditorium as possible. Each trailer has well over a thousand blade servers running Linux all networked together. This sheet details the power requirements of the system. If you can supply that much power without any special charges, other than for hookup and the actual current used, we'll talk further.”
Five minutes later she drove on to her next possible target. Legwork, necess
ary, but boring. Forty-two places within sixty-seven miles of the Kennedy Space Center eliminated by lack of electric capacity.
And twelve more to go.
***
“Janiea Fairfield-Event Planner” read the business card the Pulptress passed out to so many people in the general area of Cape Canaveral. She didn't really enjoy the sales and marketing part of her cover identity. But Janiea had a very smart and lively personality that could be played with humor, if the situation allowed. Janiea had spent the last two evenings at various bars and nightspots taking the temperature of the region as the launch of the Space Shuttle Discovery approached. She fended off pickup attempts cheerfully. For Janiea's looks were a bit above average. And her obviously buff body attracted a good share of attention.
About ten-thirty each night she drifted back to the nearly hidden Bed & Breakfast where she stayed. Once there, unaccompanied, she chatted with the owners and other guests and watched the eleven o'clock news before turning in. Early the next morning she went looking. Looking for a public place with electric power to spare. A lot of it.
Word came down the week before. Of a plot. A plot supposedly instigated by the ultra-hardline faction of Iran's Revolutionary Guard. Of pilfered technology reworked by Iranian scientists into a semi-portable weapon. A narrow beam electromagnetic pulse generator. To bring down the shuttle before it reached orbit. Before it really got a good start. For the multi-day space flight would pass over the sacred land of Iran more than once. Bringing Discovery down with all hands would embarrass America, the Great Satan. And, if the weapon worked, the next version would silence any foreign object that dared pass over Iran.
But, the experts agreed, that would take a huge amount of power. So the Pulptress searched for places with that capacity. She knew she did not search alone. Various official agencies received copies of the purported plot. And someone, or more likely, several unofficial people searched off the beaten path areas for signs of portable generators.
Around noon that day Janiea Fairfield, supposedly of one-quarter East Indian heritage, walked her George Hamilton style tanned body into the lobby of Space Palms.
***
She did her quick look around before heading for the front desk. Nobody told the management of this place what to do about decoration. Anything connected with space, fact or fiction, seemed to be fair game. Real life astronauts rubbed shoulders with Tom Corbett - Space Cadet and some version of the Republic Pictures' rocket-suit characters. Huge Hubble telescope prints of the planets could be compared with pulp cover paintings by Emish, St. John, Gladney, and others.
She broke into a genuine smile at the wacky decor. As she stretched a few driving kinks out of her legs an almost laughing female voice came from behind her.
“Put your eyes back in their sockets, Dudley Do Right. She may be cute, but you're spoken for.”
The Pulptress used that as her cue to head for the desk. She might not have been so hasty, if she had heard the reply.
“Seriously, I know that young woman. From somewhere.”
***
“Those power requirements are a cinch for us, Miss Fairfield. At times we've hosted huge numbers of news teams. And we've put on insanely loud concerts on the beach and on floating platforms. We'll get you the current you need. And where you need it.”
“Excellent, Mr. Lewis,” replied the Pulptress. “I'll need to see the facilities, of course. And, let me repeat, this is a fact finding jaunt for now. But, I'll take pictures to go with your literature. And I have a few more places to look at.”
“Of course you do. Your due diligence. But, if you find any place besides us and the Alhambra that can cover your power requirement, I'd sure like to know about it. If you'll follow me, we'll get started. I can show you everything but the upper observation deck. Right now those rafters are groaning from three I-Max cameras and gosh knows what else waiting for Discovery to launch.”
***
She came back to Space Palms. She couldn't quite say why. The Alhambra was completely booked. By a single unnamed high tech company for some kind of experimental symposium. That used huge amounts of power. And employed a large number of security guards. But she came back to Space Palms. More than once. And Mr. Lewis was right. Nobody else had the power capacity.
That's not to say that she ignored the Alhambra. She went there, late the same night, wearing a black cat-suit. And face-paint. And night vision gear. She observed. She probed. Nothing seemed to be beyond normal precautions against industrial espionage. But then, an electromagnetic pulse weapon did not really have to be fired in the open air.
But the Pulptress took no chances. Four blocks over she slipped into the electrical sub-station that supplied the Alhambra. And very carefully hid a few devices. Devices like the one she attached to the power lines entering the Alhambra. The whole setup waited for a timer to run down. A timer that could be extended by her cell phone. Or be activated by it.
***
She spent the following evening at Space Palms' Launch Pad Bar & Grill. Every now and then she felt eyes on her. Not the eyes of horny men, though there were any number of them. And not the eyes of an enemy. Her instincts were good enough to be sure of that.
Later she walked the beach in both directions. She even climbed one of the tall palm trees trying to get a look at Space Palms' upper deck. Her small night-vision and infrared devices only showed a large number of packing cases under tarps. And at least one man keeping watch. Something I'd do, she mused. If I had maybe a quarter million dollars worth of gear sitting out.
***
At the B&B's breakfast table the following morning Janiea Fairfield declared, “My work's done. Finally and thank goodness. But I'm sticking around. At least until Discovery launches. I am now a tourist.”
And act like a tourist she did. She toured the Kennedy Center. She snapped pictures of exotic birds. And she took a helicopter ride. As the sole passenger she made sure that the whirligig passed by both the Alhambra & Space Palms coming and going. Plus any number of strictly touristy spots. All the while she was snapping pictures with her fifteen mega pixel camera.
Just past mid-afternoon she returned to the B&B with two things, Chinese take-out and several gigabytes of images. As usual there wasn't enough ginger in the Moo-Goo-Guy-Pan. But it was tolerable.
She munched as she separated out the pictures of Space Palms and the Alhambra from the fun stuff. Her single-lens-reflex camera and especially the lens did not match the model numbers on them. The camera itself boasted rock solid image stabilization and extremely fast shutter speed. The zoom lens zoomed more than twice as far as it said it could.
Now she examined the Alhambra's roof closely enough to see any cracks in the faux-Spanish roofing tiles. And to read the title on a lurid paperback cover lying next to an ashtray on the upper deck of Space Palms. What type of a person, she wondered, reads things like Biker Sluts at Oxford?
Then she backed up the zoom on her laptop's display program. Just one notch. Something looked... Well... Different. Then her mind pounced. That alarm clock on the small improvised table was not battery powered. The darn thing was spring driven. And there was an identical one next to the folding cot by the back railing. Somebody needed to know the time come Hell, high water, or electro-pulse.
***
15 March 2009
The lithe young woman didn't look like Janiea Fairfield, except for her general body type. Her jet black hair was up in a French braid. Her skin seemed a bit lighter than the event planner. She wore black stockings under a pleated deep purple skirt and a black men's dress shirt. Her small spaghetti strap purse held the tools of the Pulptress' trade. Not to mention a rolled up fedora and domino mask.
Under the name Carla Richardson, of the Cape Cod Richardson's, she had spent an outrageous sum for a tiny table at the back of the large lower observation deck at Space Palms. She slipped a twenty to the hostess who seated her for a root-beer and lack of attention from the wait staff.
In the f
ading light as she arrived she saw the silhouettes of men setting up gear on the upper deck. The one major piece visible from below actually looked a lot like an I-Max camera. But it wasn't. Just a mockup. I-Max films had played a part in her training. She knew every piece of equipment used in productions.
From the moment she stepped onto the observation deck she felt eyes on her. Not constantly, but regularly. But not threatening eyes. Dunklin always told her she had good instincts. To trust them.
She usually did. So she went about her business without serious worries. For tonight's launch the deck was set up like a movie theater with tables. Lit like one, too. So was what she could see of the rooftop “balcony.” Small lights imbedded in the floor defined the aisles and pathways. Even dimmer lights hugged the tabletop rims to barely allow guests to find their drinks. On each table rested a barely illuminated six inch LCD TV carrying the NASA feed of Discovery's countdown.
With just a few minutes before the scheduled launch of Discovery she headed for the ladies' room. Alone there, as she expected, her movements sped up. Her skirt went in the trash. She pulled black gloves over her hands and shirt cuffs. Now her hands released the soles and heals from her shoes leaving only a Kevlar backed non-skid sandal. She affixed the domino mask to her face before slipping into a spandex hood that strapped under her arms. Velcro locked her purse to the small of her back. Finally she perched a black fedora on her head.