Watchers

by S. T. Boston

“Of course!”

  “Then enjoy Paris. I shall see you in two days.” The line went dead. Buer was never one to say a formal goodbye, he never really said more than he needed to in any situation.

  Switching his phone off and placing it back in his pocket, Finch made his way down to the boarding gate. As usual it was a good five-minute walk, unless one was lazy enough to use the endless line of belt-driven walkways. As far as he was concerned, any chance to give the legs a stretch before being crammed onto a plane was a blessing. he never used the walkways.

  The sleek silver body of the American Airlines Boeing X54 Fast Jet gleamed in the evening sun, and Finch relished the thought that the near-on carbon neutral jet Peterson had been massively involved in, was his transport for the day. The X54s used a revolutionary hydro-oxygen jet engine that was capable of taking its passengers and crew to an impressive two and a half thousand miles an hour in unrivalled comfort. Tickets on these new super liners were not cheap; most travellers still opted to use the slower, conventional jets. Of course, money was no issue for Finch; as long as society was still functioning, he planned to enjoy the best of everything.

  A rather camp-sounding, but strangely muscular-looking steward with a toxic orange tan personally showed him to his seat in first class, where a small chilled bottle of fine champagne was waiting for him. Yes, this will all do very nicely. Within fifteen minutes the X54 was gaining speed down the runway. Once airborne, it banked east and headed out over the Atlantic. Now over the ocean, its massive hydro-oxygen jets kicked in, and the acceleration was breathtaking. Finch felt a small jolt as the plane broke the sound barrier and continued on up to its maximum speed. Once cruising at near two thousand five hundred miles an hour, the ride smoothed out and he couldn't even distinguish any motion.

  Sipping the last of the champagne, Finch took a moment to glance around the first class cabin. He wondered who here had already picked up the virus. He was in no doubt that by the end of the three-hour flight, not one person on board would be free of the infection – not that they would be aware of it.

  Soon after take-off, the cabin crew came around with the evening meal. Finch opted for the Beef Wellington with seasonal vegetables and a red wine reduction. The food was excellent and far beyond the slop they served on the conventional airliners. The standard wasn't far off some of the finer restaurants he'd been lucky enough to dine in, during his time on presidential protection duties.

  Jetting east at supersonic speeds, the sky soon turned dark. Once the dinner service was finished and tidied away, there was a mere two hours of flying time left. Somewhere out across the vast expanse of the Atlantic, Europe was rushing up to meet them. Finch closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep, satisfied sleep.

  The captain's request, for passengers to fasten their seat belts in preparation for landing, brought him around from his slumber. Clicking his belt into place he could feel the jet descending on approach to Charles De Gaulle. Glancing out of the small, circular window, he could see the vast, spider-like web of Paris's street lighting system stretching off into the distance, where it gradually eased off and gave way to countryside. Cars that created no more than pinpricks of light far below, still hurried about the city streets despite the local time being just past three am. The two hours of rest he'd managed to steal during the flight wasn't enough; the past month had been the most stressful of his life and his sleep had suffered for it. Once all this was done, he would take some time to relax, time that was well earned as far as he was concerned.

  As the jet touched down, Finch cast his thoughts to the virus. No doubt every vial had now been deployed. He wondered how many countries it had already spread to. The next thirty odd hours would be a waiting game. Where would it show up first? And how widespread would it be? With the thirty-hour incubation period, Buer estimated that even after the first cases began to show it would still take a good twenty-four hours for airports to be closed and quarantines to be set up. The thought of watching the chaos unfold made him smile. In a few weeks, none of these planes would be flying, none of the cars he'd just seen hurrying about the city streets would be moving. It would be interesting to see how the human race handled the complete breakdown in their society. He was in no doubt that to start with, there would be wide-spread lawlessness and looting, but even the opportunists taking advantage of the brief spell of chaos would eventually succumb. Gradually, the unrest would ease, leaving nothing but a massive clean-up operation. Whilst there was no doubting one god-awful mess would be left in the weeks after the virus had done its job, once the bodies had been disposed of, the towns and cities would remain. Just as Buer had said, it would be like moving into a furnished apartment, just one that needed a few small repairs and a little TLC.

  The sound of the cabin doors being opened snatched Finch from his daydream. He was finding himself lost in thoughts of things to come more and more often these days. Gathering his possessions, he made his way out of the jet and into the arrivals lounge. It should only take him a half hour or so to get to the hotel, where he planned to get some more sleep and have a day of relaxation. There were no formal business matters to attend to in Paris; the whole trip had merely been a ruse to get him into JFK's International Departure Lounge, so that the pathogen could be released. In just over twenty-four hours he would be at the HQ in Allentown, back on US soil where he would remain while the virus did its work. This would mean more relaxation; his hardest task would be watching from the bunker as the whole situation unfolded.

  Waiting for what seemed like an age at the carousel for his small overnight bag, Finch turned his phone on. The screen blinked for a few seconds as the small device figured out where on the planet it was. Eventually it found the Bouygues Network, and a text came through, welcoming him to France and informing him of the 4G network service charges. As he began reading through it, more from boredom than interest, his phone flashed to an incoming call. It was Buer. He answered it in the same prompt manner that Buer always managed – allowing no more than one ring.

  “Robert!” Buer's voice thundered from across the Atlantic.

  Finch picked up on a note of anger and urgency to his supervisor's tone, and his heart rate immediately picked up. “Yes… sir?” he managed. The sudden call had made him miss his bag. He watched in silent annoyance as it disappeared through the plastic screen and back into the loading area.

  “There has been a change of plan. You need to make your way directly around to departures. Go to the Air France desk, there's a ticket waiting for you.” Buer spoke quickly and concisely, but there was definitely an underlying tone that warned something was wrong.

  “Air France?” It was all Finch managed to say before Buer cut back in.

  “Yes, Air France,” he snapped. “It's a fast jet service to Denver, Colorado. I'll be meeting you on the ground near the airport. The flight leaves in just under an hour. We took the liberty of checking you in online whilst you were in the air. Make no mistake, Robert. You must be on that flight!”

  The fact that Buer was leaving the New York area did nothing to calm Finch's growing anxiety. Something had obviously happened whilst he was in the air, something which wasn't good. “Yes sir, I'm on my way now.” Finch managed to grab his bag before it commenced another lap. He still had the phone glued to his ear and his hand shook slightly as he followed the signs out of arrivals and through to departures. “May I ask why I'm being flown back straightaway?” His heart was hammering like a drum.

  “There's a problem,” Buer barked at him. “It could be a very big one. There are events unfolding here as we speak which require you to return immediately. You're needed here. We have men on the ground dealing with the situation, but I can't afford to have you swanning around Paris for a day.” Buer paused for a brief second; when he spoke again, Finch could hear the stress in his voice. “I'm afraid, Robert, that as you were the one working so closely on locating the Watchers, there are some questions coming your way. We won't discuss it now. You'll be in Denver in j
ust under four hours, we can talk then.” As usual, the line went dead before he even had the chance to say goodbye.

  Finch slowly removed the BlackBerry from his ear, and he realised he'd stopped walking and was staring blankly at the handset, as if it would suddenly provide him with the answers as to what the hell was going on. Snapping back into action, he hurried to the departures terminal and collected his ticket.

  Just over an hour later, he was back in the air. The French cabin crew busied themselves with serving breakfast. By the time they reached Denver, the local time would be around eleven pm; for now though, they were still operating on French time. A beautifully prepared plate of Eggs Benedict was offered, but Finch was in no mood for eating, he waved the flight attendant off when she offered the meal. His stomach was so sick with worry, he couldn't even handle a coffee, the beverage which was a bit of a French speciality. What the hell was happening in Denver that was so important he was being flown directly there? A quick glance at his watch told him that in just over two hours he'd know – whether he liked it or not.

  Chapter 7

  Sam watched the trip counter click past two miles. Neither of them had uttered another word in the few long minutes since leaving the rest area. The rain had eased slightly, but water still flowed down the road like a river, trickling and bubbling over small stones worked loose from the verge. Sam continually scanned the dark brooding skies, any second expecting to see the lights of a helicopter bearing down on them. He watched Adam glancing to the rear of the RV, waiting for any signs that their guest had woken up. He eased his foot off the gas.

  “Why are we slowing down?” Adam spoke so quietly, Sam only just hear the question.

  “Look, up ahead, around the next bend.” He gestured with his head. Through the trees the faint throb of blue lights was just visible. He lifted his foot off the accelerator completely and gently applied the brake. Killing the lights, he brought the RV to a stop. “I think there's some kind of roadblock up there, those lights are stationery.”

  “Oh shit!” hissed Adam. “What the hell are we going to do now?”

  “As I said, this road is pretty much a one-way ticket back to Route 40. I could turn around, but I'd bet my arse there would be another barricade in the other direction.” Sam was gripping the steering wheel so tightly; his fingers were turning white. “We have two choices – try and bluff it and hope whoever is up there doesn't pull the RV to pieces and lets us through, or—”

  “We can't hand her over,” Adam cut in. “We don't know what they might do to her.”

  “Just think for a minute,” snapped Sam. “It's true we don't know that, but on the flip side, we don't know why the hell they want her. What do we really know about her? Nothing!” Sam's head was spinning and he was desperately trying to think rationally. There was no way in the world they should be trying to smuggle this girl off the mountain and back to Denver. If they were discovered, they could be arrested and thrown into jail. It certainly wasn't the way he'd intended to start their trip. They should be parked up by now, enjoying a few beers and planning tomorrow's hike – not be on the run from the law.

  “I know, I know,” Adam said, so quickly the words all rolled into one. “I don't know, any other day I'd agree with you, no question, it's just…” he paused, searching for the right words. “My gut is telling me we need to do this; we need to help her.”

  Sam chewed the inside of his bottom lip. It was a habit he'd picked up back in his army days, whenever he was under pressure. He worried the skin continually, until he started to taste blood. “You do realise that if they search the RV and find her, we could end up in jail?” He watched the last drops of colour ebb from Adam's face.

  “Yes I know. I'm not stupid – I was trying not to think about that,” he groaned, giving his friend a nervous smile.

  “Fuck it, if this all goes wrong, just remember not to drop the soap! Oh, and let me do the talking.” Sam flashed Adam a quick, sly but nervous smile. Flicking the lights on, he got the RV moving again. As they rounded the corner, the lights ahead of them grew in strength, making it hard to see the road. At no more than walking pace, Sam crept up to the two patrol cars blocking their way. He experienced a little relief to see they were local law enforcement from Empire, and not the black government SUVs which had torn past them less than half an hour ago. He hoped the local police wouldn't be quite so meticulous, perhaps they didn't know the full story and would be pissed about having to spend the night out in the storm for a bunch on desk-jockeying suits from DC.

  Bringing the RV to a stop, he counted three uniformed police officers, all clad in full wet-weather gear, standing unhappily on point by their cars. On seeing the RV, one of the men stepped forward and flagged them down using a torch with an orange baton affixed to the top. It looked like something one might see ground crew at an airport use, for directing aircraft. Sam killed the engine and cranked up the parking brake, watching as the officer walked briskly to the driver's side window, gesturing with his free hand for Sam to wind it down. Sam's heart hammered in his chest; he'd operated under pressure plenty of times, this would be no different. He just needed to stay calm and hope Adam could do the same.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” the officer began. His accent sounded more southern than those they'd heard back in Denver. “Would y'all mind if I come aboard? It's not the nicest of evenings out here.” His hat sported a full waterproof cover. The rain was pooling on it and running off onto his shoulders.

  “No problem,” Sam replied, “the door's just on the other side.” Adam glanced at him nervously. He looked like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching car.

  “Much appreciated.” The officer tipped his hat in thanks, and a small torrent of water ran off the brim and down the front of his jacket. Clicking off his baton torch, he made his way past the front of the RV, his fluorescent tabard catching the dimmed headlights. As they both watched the officer through the windscreen, two short sharp thumps came from beneath the bench seat. Sam whipped his head around, just in time to see the cushion ride up as their hidden passenger pushed on the seat's plywood base. After being shot and almost drowned, waking up in a box the size of a coffin was bound to be a cause for concern.

  “Shit!” spat Sam, quickly swinging out of the large captain's chair and into the living area. This was possibly the worst time for her to come around. Just one strange noise and the game would be up. The officer was almost at the door, so Sam crouched down by the soaking cushion, “Listen, if you can hear me, I really need you to just shut the hell up for a few minutes.” His voice was hushed, but loud enough for Adam to make out. He just hoped the rain still pounding on the roof masked his speech enough. “We're trying to help you, but if you make a sound in the next few minutes we're all fucked!” As he finished the sentence, the door creaked and swung open, Sam stood bolt upright as if he were standing to attention.

  The tall, wet, oppressive figure of the officer stepped up into the RV, removed his hat and shook it off. “That's some godawful weather out there tonight!” the officer commented, placing his hat on the draining board, “Sheriff Johnson,” he said politely, offering Sam a very wet hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Sam began. The Sheriff had a good, strong grip. His greying hair was matted to his head, a neat line indenting it where his hat had been. “Samuel Becker, and my friend up front is Adam Fisher.” Sheriff Johnson kept pumping his hand during the whole introduction. Sam placed him in his early fifties; the deep wrinkles on his brow along with his grey hair led Adam to believe he'd spent much of his working life doing shifts. Aside from that, he looked in pretty good shape for a man of his age.

  “You boys British?” he asked, standing back slightly so he could take them both in at once.

  “Yep, arrived today, just on a bit of a road trip,” said Sam, trying to sound calm. The Sheriff nodded his head slowly. “Is there a problem up ahead? We thought all this rain might have closed the road off.” Sheriff Johnson s
hook a little water off his sleeve; it dripped down onto the floor Adam had recently cleaned.

  “Road's fine,” he began, “it gets closed plenty in the winter months but never due to a drop of rain. This the RV the chopper saw, parked back up on Trail Ridge?”

  “Yep, that was us; we drove up from Denver earlier, hoping to find somewhere to camp up for the night,” chirped Sam, as Adam made his way through from the front.

  “Yeah, I told him there would be nowhere to camp, but he had to see for himself,” Adam confirmed. Sam shot him a look that told him to shut up and let him do all the talking.

  Sheriff Johnson eyed them both and nodded suspiciously through narrow, testing eyes. “Yep, you can't camp in any of the picnic or rest areas overnight,” he began, flicking his alert eyes back and forth between them. “Unfortunately, folk seem to have a habit of leaving all manner of junk behind when they do. Where are ya'll heading now?” He leaned back, resting some of his weight against the small kitchen unit.

  “Just back down to Empire,” Sam said, cutting in before Adam got a chance to speak. “Maybe Idaho Springs. Find a parking lot we can get on for a few hours before making a fresh start in the morning. We're both pretty beat. It's been a long day.”

  The Sheriff took a good look around the RV, soaking in every detail.

  “You didn't tell us what the problem was. Are we okay to carry on? If not, we're a bit stuck.”

  “Sorry, the Fed boys have the whole area on lockdown,” the Sheriff replied, snapping his eyes back to Sam. “We don't get many vehicles through here at night, but right now, we have to check anyone passing through.” He paused for a second and wiped a drop of water off his nose. “A few hours ago, the FBI received some intel to suggest a small jet they were tracking from Canada contained three domestic terrorists. Our Air Force boys brought it down. They have two dead in the wreckage, but one made it out alive. A female. They pursued her for a mile or so, but lost her down by the river, not far from where you boys were stopped. Chances are she fell in, trying to get away, and drowned. The water gets pretty fierce after a storm, what with all the runoff from the mountains and all, but they don't take any chances with things like this. Those boys won't be happy until they have her body.”