Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  Mooney and his friend of over 30 years and whose base he’s now on toured together. Not in a VW around Europe drinking beer and chasing skirt, but war zones—some known, others a week or two in countries neither had ever heard of—fighting side by side. Shared trenches, bullets, and food from a can not fit for a dog. But that was in their youths, when everyone apart from maggots and fleas ordered them around. The scars have hardened as much as the stories.

  The fog of sleep dissipates and the outside world starts fading in. Nash licks lips and swallows. His head is sore and the throbbing split-pea pain that shot through his body earlier is gone. Taking a deep relaxed breath before opening his eyes notices a constant humming noise, which as his perception sharpens, realizes he isn’t in the same hospital bed. This bed sags in the middle and presses in on both sides. Reaching to feel the bandages on this head, restraints halt his right hand, the same on his left. ‘Where am I? What are you’re doing to me?’ Nash thrashes his head side to side, senses his entire body is restrained: legs, arms, torso.

  ‘Please, Peter, you’re fine,’ Dr Carlton says placing a calming hand on his and looking up at Mooney. ‘Could we take the restraints off?’ She unscrews a top off a plastic water bottle and places it to his parched lips. He leans up as much as he can and eagerly gulps.

  ‘Thank you.’ He eases his head back down. Muscles are sore from being strapped to the same position for an extended period of time. He turns. Windows, seats…a plane. Kicks. Legs only manage to throw the blanket a few inches into the air, his body still catching up on the news. Mooney told him before the last test to report only to him, to forget about Black. He can’t remember the day, if it was yesterday or a week ago. But remembers John Masen called and left a message while they were en route to the last test.

  Mooney gestures to the soldiers for the restraints to be removed.

  ‘Ever seen a forest of Cherry Blossoms, Nash?’ Mooney asks standing above him and looking down.

  From his view, Nash can only see up his hairy nose.

  The ground crew quickly find what they’re after. The first of several black containers are carefully pulled forward and placed on the trolley.

  ‘What are you talking about? Where am I?’ Nash turns as a blast of cold air chills the cabin. A black cloth is thrown up the stairs, landing in a pile at Mooney’s feet.

  ‘Japan. We’re secure at a friend’s place. A trusted friend.’

  Nash’s eyesight is blurred. He turns as two soldiers make little effort untying the restraints, then to the doctor kneeling down. He pushes up, stretches and rubs at the redness around his wrists and ankles and sees the same two stewards from the flight between Travis Air Force Base and Kennedy standing by the door.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks irritably, pulling his arm back and hitting a side rail, sending a charge up his funny bone. The doctor starts tugging at the needle. ‘Olivia, call me Olivia.’ He pauses remembering her deep green eyes back at Kennedy. ‘The saline rehydrated you. It won’t hurt.’

  Nash looks away just as the tip of the IV catheter breaks the skin. Once out, she hurries packing up her equipment and exits the plane.

  ‘Sasebo,’ Mooney says watching Nash squirm over a little prick to the skin, then more forcefully: ‘A naval base at the southern tip of Japan. General Chuck Morgan will be our host for the final test. I’ve secured all the equipment you need….Now.’ Rubs hands together. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  Nash swaps from being anxious to being terrified. Mooney is holding a black cloth in his right hand and inching closer. Nash sits with crossed arms and the blanket pulled up. ‘I don’t understand. I have to get back to the—’ Nash stops as Mooney lunges and throws him hard on the stretcher then turns him over.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Nash struggles yelling as his face is thrust into the thin mattress. ‘Gef ough mm.’ Struggles breathing as a knee buries in the small of his back. ‘Argh!’ Arms bent back and wrists secured with plastic ties.

  Mooney flips over his catch and stuffs a cloth napkin in Nash’s mouth. Mumbling and struggling to orientate himself as Mooney hurls him to his feet, Nash’s eyes erupt out of their sockets as a black cloth is slipped over his head, his body heaved towards the door.

  ‘Must be some bad bastard if Mooney’s personally escorting him off the plane,’ a soldier standing on the tarmac says to another as the terrorist is marched down the stairs and onto the tarmac. ‘I’d hate to be that guy.’

  What’s going on? What’s happening? Nash is lost to the confusion of his senses.

  A cold wind blows under the hood, his body offering strong resistance as the perimeter is lowered and the soldiers part to make room. The pair approach a doorway.

  I’m going to die.

  The thought tattoos onto his brain. The constant banging of the heavy metal gun strapped to Mooney’s leg presses into the back of his leg every time his right leg steps forward; a reminder of what Mooney is capable of.

  They stop. Nash strains to breathe. His face burning.

  Light.

  He looks down. Swirling around his feet are small pink flowers. His heart pounds and sweat flows over the cuffs and run over exposed fingers. A door opens. A pair of shiny shoes stop directly in front.

  Braces himself.

  Mooney’s words came back to haunt him: ‘I only take her out to play, not to tease.’ Nash pushes back to feel the gun, to make sure it’s holstered.

  Didn’t he say the tests are going to be done here?

  ‘Sloan,’ the man says warmly. Nash feels the two men shake hands. ‘How long has it been, was it—’ Mooney says making a clicking sound with his fingers, ‘Ruth or Wendy…the last time we met face to face?’

  ‘Still married to Ruth,’ the man says then pauses conducting a mental audit of his marriages. ‘You met Ruth…never met Wendy.’ The man laughs. Nash twists his head to try and see what’s happening.

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you, Sloan. Lets get you settled in your new digs. We can catch up later over a drink. Go over the same old war stories. Maybe flesh out a few more tall tales.’

  Nash feels a curtain of air as the door closes behind.

  ‘Thanks for your hospitality, Chuck. It’s a bit cold for me, but the way things are turning to crud back home, I had no choice. The place is full of backstabbing snake eyes, can’t trust anyone, not even sure if I can trust—’

  The man interrupts. Nash turns his head to hear. A whisper, then more loudly, ‘Can’t argue with you on that,’ the man says. ‘Colonel Robertson secured two spooks in a make-ship cell. Their disappearance can be covered up for a few days, but Washington is in a feeding frenzy with all that’s happened. North Korea pissed off a lot of people. Those two we rescued have created a lot of problems. When you leave, make sure to take your problems with you. Last thing I need is an upset China for a neighbor.’

  ‘Sure,’ Mooney says. ‘But we’ve both been around long enough to know these things lose their puff after a while. Remember Iran, the Bay of Pigs?’

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ the man says and chuckles. ‘It’s the reason your office is underground. Say, has it still got that annoying rattling sound?’

  ‘Yeah. Look, it’s not your ass that got chewed and spat out. Think you owe me a bottle of that 1937 Glenfiddich from your collection.’

  ‘Not with a wife who has expensive taste, and an ex-wife that likes to see me bleed. Johnny Walker Black is a stretch these days.’ The man places a hand on Nash’s back as they walk past a guard holding a door open. ‘You’ve never been a political player. And despite what you think, your sudden disappearance has raised some questions.’

  Nash recognizes a change in tone.

  ‘Washington can do without me for a few days,’ Mooney says. ‘Plenty of other butts to kick and asses to kiss.’

  Walking down a corridor, and by the sounds of feet hitting the brightly lit vinyl floor, Nash makes out it is only the three of them
. It has the feel of a hospital. And maybe he is dreaming. But it doesn’t feel like any dream he can remember. They stop at what Nash counted as the fourth door. ‘In here,’ the man says. ‘Has Nash been fully briefed? He’s certainly acting the part. Well done.’

  ‘He doesn’t know a thing,’ Mooney says. ‘I thought it best he knows as little as possible. Hard to un-skin a fox if you know what I mean.’

  The hood is pulled off. Nash winces in the light as wrist ties are cut loose. Mooney cautions Nash to keep his voice down as he carefully withdraws the napkin. As soon as the napkin is freed Nash gasps, quickly exhales and coughs. The chaos of last few minutes masked the pain in his head, the throbbing surges to a teeth-grinding crescendo. Clutching his head, he falls but is caught either side. ‘Wow. Quick over there,’ the man says as the pair guide Nash clumsily to a seat by a window.

  ‘Dr Carlton, in here ASAP,’ the man yells. ‘Take it easy Peter. Here, take a sip.’ He adds offering a glass of water.

  Not trusting his eyes, grasps with both hands. Thinks, you’re both crazy. Takes a sip looking at the pair over the rim of the glass.

  ‘My name is General Chuck Morgan. I’m in charge of this facility.’

  ‘Japan?’ Nash asks for clarification.

  ‘US Naval Base, Sasebo,’ Morgan says. ‘Home to the Seventh Fleet. General Maloney has brought you here so you can do your tests without any problem. I’ve made arrangements for a section of the facility to be quarantined from the rest of the base. Created a fake biohazard incident as cover for a hanger you’ll be using. You’ll have complete secrecy and security.’

  ‘But—’

  Mooney interrupts. ‘I know you’re pissed, fair enough. But I didn’t have a choice.’

  ‘Pissed,’ Nash says fully aware of his surroundings. ‘You threaten to blow my head off, cracked my skull open at Kennedy and abducted me to a foreign country, gagged, tied me up and dragged inside…yes I’m pissed.’

  Dr Carlton bursts through the door and seeing Nash’s head resting against the window takes out pills from her coat pocket. Snaps the top off the bottle and holds out several in her hand. ‘Swallow these. They’ll take effect almost immediately.’

  Nash washes the tablets down with some water and scans the room. He is alone with two generals and Dr Carlton…Olivia. Morgan has a word in Mooney’s ear. Nash takes another sip and places the glass on the windowsill, and looks outside. Cherry Blossom trees dot the shoreline along with the 7th fleet. Catches the growth on his face in the reflection and wishes he could drag himself through a hot shower.

  ‘I thought you had security sorted out,’ Nash says. ‘I can’t do this myself. I need the team to conduct some of the technical aspects of the tests.’

  John Masen interrupts his thoughts. The day Masen handed in his thesis and saw the formulas scrawled on the blackboard. The day he wanted to tell him his work was going to change everything.

  Morgan takes a step forward. ‘Yesterday, CIA Supervisor Pascal shot himself in front of the Director of the CIA on the way to a National Security Council meeting.’

  That’s Masen’s boss, Nash thinks and says nothing.

  ‘Pascal headed the Barn team,’ Mooney clarifies. ‘We can’t trust anyone stateside at the moment. Not even the replacement team I brought in. We finish the tests and go home.’

  ‘I’ve got lectures and a paper coming out. I have to let the university know where I am.’

  ‘It’s been taken care of. You were in a horrible accident on the way home from work. Your car ran off the road, slammed through a barrier and slipped into the cold San Francisco bay. The local authorities located a body. Sad, but you’re here and you’re not dead.’

  A body. Nash thinks of Rodriguez and Coffey, the two students sent by Mooney to protect him, and of his original three team members killed. ‘You’re not joking are you? I mean, it’s not in your DNA to joke.’

  Mooney thrusts out a finger. ‘One hundred and fifty-thousand dollars that little operation cost my budget. You’re safe.’

  ‘Safe!’ Nash protests. ‘Apart from you, who else is trying to kill me?’

  There is a knock on the door. Morgan walks over and opens it.

  ‘This is why I’m protecting you,’ Mooney says as two stick figures dressed in hospital clothes emerge. The door opens wide enough for both to enter at the same time. Two entities struggling to take human form appear to float over the floor.

  Nash is having a hard time understanding the context, but feels intense empathy as he investigates the IV drip that extrudes from both their arms. Unconsciously rubs his own. Clutching a pole for support, with a machine that controls the flow of medicine. He watches what he thinks is a female’s hand gripping the pole. Wrinkled skin where muscle and fat should be, and tiny finger bones, prominent under stretched skin. He almost cries as he quickly looks at her legs, neck and face. Before Nash can fit the jigsaw pieces together the girl speaks, ‘Hello Professor, it’s been a while.’ The southern accent unmistakable.

  I know that voice…Jessica Bradbury?

  She stands in shame and horror in the shadow of his expression, more horrible than any mirror could exact such a heavy emotional toll. And as Nash stands gesturing for her to sit, she feels for the first time an overwhelming sensation of pity. It enrages her. They had only just been brought from their rooms.

  ‘Don’t pity me Professor, don’t you dare.’ And sniffs a tear, pulls her gown tightly in a knot. ‘We escaped, we’re alive. Pity is for those who died and are dying over there, not for the living.’

  Nash feels ashamed but can’t help but sense he’s in the presence of a miracle. ‘Jessica, it’s you…’ He squints. ‘Jessica Bradbury.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her mouth quivers and contorts as she breaks down at the familiar face, her first in years. A face that brings mixed feelings. He asked her to join the CIA and she was taken.

  Despite his own pain, Nash rushes over. ‘Please, have a seat, sit down.’ Holding onto her tiny frame he guides her to the chair and is surprised he handles her with the delicacy of a ninety-year-old woman, as if she could crack and fall apart. Thinks, Black’s frightened of you?

  ‘Thank you, Professor,’ Bradbury says, then looking at his bandages her face contorts with confusion. ‘Why are you here? Did they take you as well?’

  Morgan, Dr Carlton and Mooney are over near the door talking amongst themselves.

  ‘No…I work for…’ Nash struggles for an explanation and offers Mooney a cursory glance. He has to be careful. He lied to Mooney about not knowing she was in North Korea to protect Masen. ‘You know I work for the CIA? I was only recently told you were abducted to North Korea. I never knew, Jessica, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You just left and were never seen again.’

  She hasn’t said anything about John’s help. Thinks, I won’t tell him anything. ‘Its okay, Professor.’

  ‘Call me Peter.’ More than an effort to drop formalities. It’s guilt rising in the back of his throat.

  Jessica nods and drinks some of the water he offers from the glass sitting idle on the windowsill. Light refracts a rainbow through the glass and makes the small amount of water glow.

  ‘Hello CIA man, I’m Kim Pak.’

  Nash wipes his face and looks to the voice that spoke. Nash manages to smile.

  ‘The only reason I’m here is because of Kim,’ Bradbury explains. Nash makes out his ribs through the light hospital gown.

  Behind the door, Colonel Robertson listens carefully and looks through the crack in the door.

  ‘There have been deaths around a program I’ve been working on,’ Nash says as way of explanation why he’s here.

  Bradbury and Kim Pak look behind as Nash gestures to Mooney.

  ‘Just like back home Jessica,’ Pak says investigating the surroundings and adds. ‘Looks like prison to me.’

  ‘I don’t know much,’ Nash says. ‘You might have had help from John Masen. Do you remember him Jessica, from
your first year at university?’

  Bradbury thinks, don’t cry or look happy, and squeezes Pak’s hand. ‘No, we escaped by ourselves,’ she says staying to script. ‘We had no other help that we know of.’

  Pak nods in agreement.

  Robertson moves closer into the door. He saw Bradbury close her grip and Pak twitch. Thinks, so they know more than they’re telling me.

  ‘Yes Peter,’ Pak says coldly, ‘we escaped by ourselves—’

  ‘Bull dust people,’ Mooney exclaims, erupting out of the huddle. ‘Lets not play games. Great job escaping. You put a real dint in Kim’s nuclear facility at Camp 22, hundreds fled. I was the one who got General Morgan to intercept the ship that nearly started World War freak’n Three. So lets all get along and work together. You had help on the inside and the smart money’s on Masen.’

  Mooney walks over and stands next to Bradbury. Bradbury and Pak are speechless. Like rabbits with lights in their eyes, they don’t know which way to look.

  ‘Do you know how many were recaptured?’ Pak’s voice strains trying to project confidence.

  ‘We think a third got out. Most went over the mountain. The rest are busy fixing the mess you made. There’s been a surge in electricity usage and activity in a few Chinese border towns, which indicate a good deal made it over the border. However, I’m sure plenty died.’

  ‘And what if we had help from the outside, what does it matter?’ Bradbury asks. It’s Pak’s turn to squeeze Bradbury’s hand.

  ‘If it was Masen, then his life’s in danger. His landlord and dog were recently killed in suspicious circumstances. Hell, you’re hauled up over here because dangerous people want to talk to the pair of you. And I don’t mean over a cup of coffee. Some nasty people are trying real hard to find out where you’re stashed.’

  ‘John helped us escape,’ Bradbury drops her head and speaks softly. ‘He helped rescue us from that living nightmare. He’s a—’

  Pent up tears spill out like a bursting dam. Her cheeks saturated as she cups her face with both hands.