Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  ‘I think he has a gun in his pocket,’ Masen says looking to Bradbury and kicks Bozeman’s hand as it fumbles and slaps drunk like on the ground. Masen bends down next to his head. ‘Keep still and be quiet unless you want another whack to the head.’ And standing says to Bradbury, ‘Quickly search him.’

  Bozeman shakes his head focusing on the blurry double figure and muffled sound.

  Bradbury kneels and does her best to avoid large hands as they move randomly by his side. She lifts a fold of fabric only to quickly withdraw as a hand comes close, threatening to grab her. After several attempts she manages to pry the gun free and stands, holding it pinched between fingers as if it’s a dead rodent. An effort unthinkable only a few days earlier. She eases her grip as Masen takes the gun with both hands.

  Tagan starts righting himself up off the ground, and coughs sitting up, head bowed between knees, a drool of snot slung from his nose dislodges as he spits on the floor.

  ‘What the hell…?’ Tagan says and stops moving when he catches the sight of a gun waving in his face, nods as Pak makes a shushing sound.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Bozeman asks, not yet fully cognizant. An arm stabilizes his large frame as he twists to right himself onto one knee.

  ‘You’ve been warned,’ Masen repeats himself.

  Bozeman raises his hands. ‘No more, no more,’ he pleads to the familiar voice he can’t quite place. A sharp pain shoots up his leg.

  ‘Masen, is that you?’ he asks in a questioning tone. His vision comes into focus. ‘We ain’t in Japan?’

  ‘No,’ Masen says.

  ‘How? I put you on a plane.’ Bozeman is on both knees and looks between Bradbury and Pak, as if to invite Masen to explain the pair to him. His gaze stays a second longer on the kid holding a gun on Tagan.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ Masen says. ‘Your boss is quite the asshole.’

  But Bozeman is too busy watching Pak bend down and whisper something to Tagan to take notice. Only a grunt is offered as an afterthought.

  ‘You planning on using that kid?’ Bozeman asks and sees across the expanse semi-naked men tied up and seated on a mattress.

  ‘Only if the man doesn’t do as he’s told,’ Pak says and jabs the gun dagger like.

  ‘Ah…Jessica Bradbury,’ Bozeman says and points over to Pak. ‘And you must be…’ And taps his finger mid-air. ‘…Kim Pak.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Masen asks.

  ‘Back in Boston, Jimbo,’ Bozeman says now up on both feet, but hunched over like a coat hanger. ‘Only took a couple of beers before Sparks told me.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Masen asks.

  ‘We’re on the same side. I’m sorry about what happened, I really am, but the word was Zane Black was about to kill you. There was a hit outside your apartment building the night before.’

  The green Lincoln Town.

  ‘No, we’re not,’ Bradbury says and pushes hard into Bozeman who doesn’t moves. ‘Because of your boss I was kidnapped. I was sent to a North Korean prison for four years.’

  ‘You’re here to collect the equipment so your boss can sell it,’ Masen says.

  Bozeman arches his back and cracks his head slowly. ‘Look, I’m no fan of Mooney, believe me, we have history, we stay away from each other as much as possible. But what you’re saying…’

  ‘Mooney’s working with Zane Black. He’s behind my boss’s blackmail and suicide. He hired a woman who goes by the name of Amanda Lane. She’s over in Japan with Sparks and Professor Nash.’

  ‘I have no idea who this Lane woman is,’ Bozeman says. Masen sees he’s trying to piece together how they got here from Japan so quickly. ‘Nash was being protected by Agents Coffey and Rodriguez.’

  ‘They weren’t protecting him,’ Masen says. ‘They kept him under surveillance so they could steal the technology and sell it to the Chinese.’

  ‘And this technology?…’ Bozeman starts to say but stops himself. ‘No don’t tell me, my head hurts enough as it is. Look, Mooney’s a patriot, he would do anything for his country.’

  ‘One agent’s dead, and you’re helping him contain this whole conspiracy. I’m supposedly a terrorist and behind the attack in Shanghai. How is that patriotic?’

  ‘Hear him out,’ Tagan says to Masen in a hoarse voice and looking weary at the gun as he shuffles on his hunches trying to get comfortable on the concrete floor. ‘Look I don't know what’s this is all about. I have no idea what I’m even doing here, but Amos stole a helicopter and made the pilot fly it to some army hospital to save…Agent Coffey.’

  Masen studies the man in the dark blue paramedic suit. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Jeremy Tagan, Boston Emergency Medical Service.’ He stops and steadies himself with both hands on the ground and takes a few deep breathes. ‘He dragged a man from the parking lot.’ And looks up at Pak then Bradbury and settles on Masen. ‘As far as I know, he saved the man’s life.’

  Pak lowers the gun.

  ‘Look, I think we all need to calm down,’ Bozeman says. ‘There’s been some kind of misunderstanding.’

  ‘He was prepared to kill everyone to test this new machine, including me,’ Pak says.

  Masen grows tired of the conversation. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter, we need to get out of here.’

  ‘And why is that, Jimbo?’

  ‘Because he’s going to Boston to steal the data. Now get up. We have a plane to catch.’

  48

  ‘Explain to me how exactly are you in a hanger in Florida,’ Bozeman asks Masen who is busy loading computer equipment into the same box the two soldiers came in with. ‘I helped load you unconscious on the plane myself.’ Then points at Pak with a grimacing face: ‘Tic Tac, shoot, or stop pointing that bloody thing at me.’ Looks and points to the three soldiers on the mattress. ‘How about you keep a watch on the Calvin Klein models over there.’

  Masen pauses. ‘In it’s simplest form DUST is teleportation. The hanger is where myself, Jessica and Kim got reassembled.’

  ‘No shit!’ Bozeman says. ‘As in Star Trek, beam me up Scotty?’

  ‘Yes,’ Masen says. Then looking questioning at Bozeman seated on the chair grabbing folds of stomach and pinching it like he’s sealing the ends of a Calzone: ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘If you put me through the meat grinder, think you can un-teleport a few pounds?’

  ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  Bozeman laughs.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘I underestimated you, Jimbo. Had you pegged as a flaky nerd-type with not much keeping you vertical. But you took on Mooney and the CIA.’

  ‘I couldn’t walk away,’ Masen says and shifts the container to the middle of the desk.

  It makes Bozeman think of his own relatively easy existence: unquestioning compliance. The price for a relatively free existence. Don’t ask questions and obey orders. He never once questioned or asked for clarification on any assignment in case Mooney pulled out his big stick and shunted him off to some Third World outpost. Mooney might be the poster boy for the yearly monumental prick award, but this?

  ‘Good for you,’ Bozeman finally says emerging from his thoughts, thoughts marred by doubt. Doubts he admits were sowed back when he picked up the agents at the airport. ‘But how is what you’re doing different to what Mooney wants to do?’

  ‘You told me once only fools believe in coincidences,’ Masen says.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Want me to join the dots for you?’ Masen says shaking his head. ‘You’re off to Boston with the equipment, right?’

  Bozeman breathes heavily. ‘Let’s say, just for a minute, I believe you. What’s your plan? I mean, he has a lot of muscle behind him, and you’re not exactly the flavor of the month.’

  Masen bends down and helps Bradbury place a container full of folders on the bench.

  ‘I haven’t thought that far.’

  ‘He’s dead,�
�� Pak says. ‘Mooney thinks you’re dead, thinks we all died.’

  ‘Not to the CIA and the country, John’s picture is everywhere.’

  ‘They won’t expect me to punch into work,’ Masen says.

  ‘True,’ Bozeman notes. ‘But if you try to get into the building, they’ll ID you immediately. They’d shoot you on sight.’

  Masen thinks about the paper he co-authored with Nash, that there is no chance of enjoying any professional recognition. ‘Probably, but we’ll have a greater chance if you help.’

  ‘Not sure if I’ll be of any assistance in my condition.’ Bozeman grimaces and extends a hand. ‘Give us a boost could you.’

  Masen walks over and helps him to his feet, and notices sweat pouring down his shirt, hair saturated, and he has to takes a respite at the halfway mark, large mitts pushing down hard onto his knees. ‘How do you stay in the army?’

  Bozeman stands and dusts himself off. ‘Well, it’s starting to dawn on me, Jimbo, that I might have been hidden away for a more conniving purpose. It’s taken some time. Might be accused of being a bit lazy. But let’s run this theory of yours up the flag pole.’

  ‘You’re going to help?’ Masen asks.

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ Bozeman says.

  ‘And how do we know you’re not going to hand us over to Mooney the first chance you get?’

  ‘You don’t,’ Bozeman says and stares up at the ceiling. ‘Always fancied the idea of opening a one man detective agency in a warmer climate.’

  Masen looks to both Bradbury and Pak for a sign of their willingness to trust him. After a few seconds, Bradbury nods, then Pak.

  ‘So if Mooney has the gear, why does he need the data from this Barn place of yours?’

  ‘They need all the calibration and program data if they ever hope to use the technology,’ Masen says. ‘It’s useless without it.’

  With the equipment secured in the hold of the plane and everyone on board, the door is closed. The plane taxis, lines up, accelerates and soon lifts into the air. ‘Three hours and twenty minutes flight time,’ the pilot informs over the intercom.

  Packing everything up took longer than Masen though it would, and no one was going to feel safe until they were in the air; the soldiers tied up and gagged could still free themselves and raise the alarm.

  Once they’re at cruising altitude, Masen walks to where Bozeman is seated at the back of the plane punching something into his cell phone—the faint glow illuminating his chin and fingers. ‘Sending a message to Mooney?’ Masen asks sitting on the seat opposite.

  Bozeman tilts the cell for Masen to see. ‘Space Invaders. Going for a high score…’ And goes back to his game. ‘He knows I deliver.’

  ‘Right, so you can keep your comfortable existence.’

  Bozeman ignores Masen, then says after a long pause, ‘Remember Jimbo, this isn’t the A-team you’ve assembled. I’m not fully convinced Mooney’s intentions are corrupted.’

  ‘We can’t blast our way into the Barn,’ Masen says hoping Bozeman can offer something other than sarcasm and a high score.

  Ahead, Pak struggles, fidgets and edges himself higher in his seat, squirming against the seat belt. Bozeman is engrossed in his game but looks up at the ruckus. ‘Easy kid.’ Raises his voices over the hum of the engines. ‘Nothing to get anxious about. Just a flying soft drink can between us and the ground 7 miles below.’ Then to Masen: ‘You sure he escaped North Korea?’

  ‘Brains are stronger than brawn.’

  ‘Read that on the side of a box of cereal, did you?’

  ‘Right next to that detective badge of yours.’

  Bozeman smiles and chuckles. ‘Right’o.’

  ‘Now, can we get serious?’

  Bozeman moans shifting and sits to one side as he extracts a plastic bottle from his jeans back pocket, pops some pills and chews breathing through his mouth. ‘We can’t warn the CIA Mooney’s gunning for the technology. We don’t know how many snakes are in the nest plus you’re the new OJ Simpson. I could always wait for a reward to be posted and hand you in myself.’

  ‘Is that advice?’ Masen asks and twists open a bottle of water and offers it to Bozeman who waves it away. Masen takes a gulps. ‘You could try taking this seriously.’ And turns his attention to Pak as Bradbury has a word in his ear that has an immediate effect of calming him. ‘There’s a lot at stake if we fail.’

  ‘Don’t preach to me. I got a seriously injured agent out of there while all hell was breaking loose. And I’m not in peak form as you can see.’ And snaps the cell closed.

  ‘I see you’ve brought your own personal doctor.’

  ‘Yeah, well…he kind of got sucked into the mission,’ Bozeman says thinking of Coffey and takes that bottle of water from Masen.

  Bozeman takes in a deep breath. ‘…Tell me about teleportation.’ It comes across as an order. ‘The Idiot’s Guide version.’

  Masen spends the next few hours explaining the rudimental workings of the technology. To Bozeman’s credit, he shuts up and listens for the most part.

  ‘And it’s you,’ Bozeman says prodding Masen in the arm with a finger. ‘I mean you were destroyed and put back together again? Those magnets tore you apart at the sub-atomic level and made you into some kind of cloud soup, and the computer sent you as information to Kennedy. You felt nothing?’

  ‘It happened too quickly to notice. One second I was in Japan, then the smallest fraction of a second later…Kennedy. I didn’t even realize until some time after.’

  ‘Jesus, at your age I was at the top of the neighborhood ladder in how much I could jack-off to Sophia Loren.’ Then whistles. ‘It sure would sell for a pretty penny.’

  ‘And kill for.’

  Masen looks at Bradbury. He can tell she’s anxious and nervous about coming home. He feels sorry for her, and a fair degree of guilt in not thinking this as her homecoming. There should be people waving banners, the world’s press, family members crying and rushing forward as she walks down the stairs. But that isn’t going to happen.

  A thud from the landing gear is felt through the floor. The engines pitch higher as the plane prepares for landing.

  ‘Do you always have to be such an asshole,’ Masen says then stands. ‘You play cop, okay, good for you. But for the rest of us this isn’t a game.’

  ‘Woo, woo, wait,’ Bozeman says lowering both hands as a sign he’s willing to at least listen. ‘Maybe I have something. Nothing exotic, more your one flavor bag of crisps—take it or leave it deal. Sit.’

  Bozeman points to Tagan. ‘We use Tagan to help us get some uniforms?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Tagan protests hearing his name. He didn’t catch all of it, but thought automatically disagreeing is the right choice. ‘You’re leaving me at the airport. I’ll make my own plans.’ And tears open a packet of biscuits.

  ‘Help us, then go,’ Masen says.

  ‘His first stop should be a hospital,’ Tagan says.

  ‘Promise,’ Bozeman says.

  They’re interrupted as the pilot announces their arrival at Hanscom Air Force Base. ‘Estimated touchdown eight minutes. Traffic is clear for a final approach.’

  ‘First time?’ Masen asks Pak who looks more relaxed. However his body is still stiff and his breathing shallow. Pak nods wearing a tense smile.

  49

  The Barn, Technology Square, Boston

  Black wakes woozy. Short bursts of consciousness announces itself with increasing lucidness. The expanse of the desk fills his vision in the low light. His wounded arm hangs down, numb. Fingers brush carpet like useless twigs hanging from a dead tree. Every breath dries him out. His feet are no better. Pins and needles ache him to stand. Chasing the end of wooden fibers which blend into a mirrored finish as the desk vanishes, he is confronted by his own reflection. A face that peels off the surface. Drool has dried, sticking his bottom lip to the desk.

  Asks himself how long was he out for.

&n
bsp; Sirens abated long ago as well as sprinklers and emergency lighting. He feels a surge of panic course through him, a fear that he might still get caught and not finish his work. It is a nightmare he can’t shake.

  Five shots, one bullet left.

  The failure torments him, more than the pain and discomfort, more than his incredible thirst. One bullet would have to do. There is nothing to do but wait. Wait for the time to strike. Wait for a lone worker to stray from the pack. ‘Get close to your enemies, blend in and be patient. The last person who blinks wins.’

  His head falls forward on the desk as does his eyelids as Megan Treagle opens the Barn’s door repeatedly asking and receiving assurances from the guard the room has been swept several times for missing Assistant Director Zane Black. She stands momentarily fixated on the computer stations that Masen and Sparks once occupied.

  50

  Hanscom Air Force Base, Massachusetts

  ‘Looks just like a North Korean sky,’ Bradbury says to Pak who is standing in a hypnotic stance on the tarmac, head tilted back, mouth ajar. She too looks up. Sunlight clips the tops of the cluster of buildings enclosing one side of the airport. There’s a slight chill in the air which holds a promise of warmth.

  ‘But it isn’t,’ he says, his smile growing. ‘It’s freedom.’ A tear rolls down his cheek. ‘I’m here…’ and raises an offering to the sky, ‘I promised I’d bring my family and friends with me.’

  ‘We made it,’ she says. ‘We really did…’

  In the plane, Bozeman has the pilot requisition transport and listens as the pilot speaks with the control tower and repeats the reply for Bozeman’s benefit. ‘Affirm, one SUV for five pax.’

  ‘Excellent work,’ Bozeman says. ‘Tell Mooney his equipment is nicely tucked away in the back. And if he asks if I was with anyone else…’ Pauses then pats him on the shoulder looking outside for a plane Mooney would have flown in on, but can’t see one. ‘Don’t get yourself into trouble.’