Project Chiron

by Ryan King

  "Not till she gets away from him," he answered, his finger tightening on the trigger.

  Amanda didn't even look at him. Instead, she was applying pressure to the chest wounds. She had taken an EMT certification course at LSU when she had contemplated pre-med. That had been twelve years ago, but everything came back quickly.

  "I'm not going to tell you again, bitch!" screamed Jimmer.

  "Go to hell, asshole," responded Amanda, working to stop the flow of blood.

  Everyone's attention was focused on the standoff between Amanda and the maniac with the rifle. No one noticed as Brian stood up and pulled a long knife from the small of his back. He darted past the other soldiers and pushed the rifle away from his sister's head just as Jimmer pulled the trigger. With his knife hand, Brian jammed it deep into the blond man's neck before yanking it free and turning to the nearest soldier rushing his way. With a vicious upward swipe, Brian stabbed him in the groin.

  Urchart felt movement to his left and turned to see a gigantic black man trying to escape up the hill with a redheaded woman. “Stop them!” he yelled pointing towards the two. "Don't let them escape!"

  Urchart spun back to find a third soldier down with a knife sticking out of his right eye and Brian now had one of the assault rifles in his hands. He expertly cleared the rifle before dropping to one knee and sweeping the clearing.

  Oh shit, Urchart thought, we've got a problem here.

  Brian was about to turn the rifle in Urchart's direction, but there was a noise to his rear and he swept back around. The soldier behind him got off two shots, but they were rushed and went wide. Brian took a deep breath and put a shot into the soldier's chest

  Now or never, thought Urchart. He drew his pistol and moved out from behind a tree toward the killer on his knee with the rifle.

  Brian heard him at the last minute and spun with the rifle, but it was too late. He turned to look into the barrel of a large caliber pistol just before it blew his head off.

  "NONONONONO!" screamed Amanda, moving away from Evan to cradle what was left of Brian's head.

  Urchart motioned to one of his remaining men to take Amanda. He spun to find another holding the redhead down while five of his men were trying to subdue the huge man who was fighting with a fury and had already injured several of them badly.

  Determined not to let the situation get any further out of control, Urchart strode up to the struggling mass of men and slammed the barrel of his pistol down on the black man's head.

  The giant slumped and then tried to get up. Urchart hit him again, and the man became motionless.

  Urchart focused on calming himself. "Situation report!" he barked.

  Lyles spoke from beside him, "Three of ours dead and one badly wounded. We also have two dead civilians and three prisoners."

  Brennan ran up from the lake area. "Sir, they had gear down by the lake. Doesn't look local, probably came in by boat. I'd bet at that cove a half mile north of here."

  Urchart holstered his pistol and ran his other hand through his hair. "What a mess," he finally said.

  "Yes, sir," answered Lyles. "And we still don't have Moses Mitchell."

  Urchart had forgotten about Mitchell. "He's the least of our worries right now. We'll let him be until morning. I'll take Brennan with me to check out the north landing, see if there's a boat," he told Lyles. "You get the rest of the men, these bodies, and the prisoners back to camp ASAP."

  "Should we initiate Chrome Protocol?" Lyles asked.

  Urchart thought for a moment. Activation of that contingency would be an admission of failure by the security company he represented. Failure at his hands that could cost him dearly. "No, not yet," he answered. "We don't know if there was any compromise. We may be able to contain this all here."

  "Roger, sir," answered Lyles, moving to get the remaining soldiers organized and ready to move.

  This is bad, thought Urchart. A homeless crazy person was not credible even if he were to escape and tell everything, but five missing civilians might be noticed. What if someone knew they had come to Bog Island?

  "Lyles," yelled Urchart, "one more thing."

  The man turned back to the captain. "Yes, sir?"

  "Just to be safe, let's go ahead and activate Iron Protocol."

  Lyles looked a little uncertain. "Are you sure, sir?"

  Urchart nodded. "I'm sure. Quarantine the island until further notice. No one gets on or off."

  Chapter 7

  Tiffany had been excited when the temp service called her to help cover a 911 line. Most of the jobs were boring and demanding. People treated part-time help with disdain and did all they could to work them to death until they left for some other thankless job. Tiffany couldn't wait until she graduated and could get a real job. Hell, a real career. Unfortunately, the temp job was the only real way to make ends meet while she finished up at the University of Arizona.

  But this job had promised to be different. Manning the city's 911 operators during the summer vacation season certainly couldn't be boring. And how demanding could it be sitting in a chair and answering a phone for a few hours? After three weeks, she was sick of it.

  Most calls were from drunks, or college kids looking for a ride home, or kids trying to be funny. Only once had she taken a call from someone who needed help, but by then, it was unnecessary. The whole switchboard had been lit up by people calling to report the warehouse fire.

  Tiffany looked at her watch. Only an hour left, then she had to go take her biochem final. She felt ready for the test. One good thing about the 911 job, there was plenty of time to study.

  She heard the ringing in her headset, meaning a call was coming in. Tiffany pulled out the official script. It was all choreographed. Say the same things. Get certain information. Remain calm. Call for help if needed. Boring and monotonous.

  Tiffany's hand froze as she was about to initiate the call. The incoming number wasn't local. That wasn't too rare since cell phones were so prevalent and not tied to particular area codes, but she had never seen a number like the one on her display. 881-320-6513.

  "An 881 number? What the hell is that?" she said aloud to Glenda, the lady beside her, but the older woman had a call of her own.

  Taking a deep breath, Tiffany pushed the button to answer the call while looking at the script. "911, what is the nature of your emergency?"

  The seriousness of the voice made Tiffany sit up straighter. "Yes, this is Evan Athers. We have an emergency situation here at—"

  Then machine gun fire and then the call ended.

  "Hello? Hello?" Tiffany paused at the dead line. She stared at the computer in front of her before she punched in the number attempting to return the call

  A robotic female voice connected, "The Iridium subscriber you are attempting to contact is temporarily out of service. We apologize for the inconvenience."

  Punching keys on her keyboard, Tiffany pulled up the digital recording of the call and listened to it again. Eight seconds in all. Tiffany's three second greeting. Evan Athers’ four-second response. Then one second of gunfire.

  Tiffany flipped the control switch, taking her offline for incoming calls and emailed the digital recording to her shift supervisor Randy. She then took off her headset and ran back to Randy's office. She knocked once on the frame of the open door to get his attention before walking in.

  "Tiffany, how you doing? Are you okay?" Randy asked, seeing the tenseness in her face.

  "I just got a strange call," she said. "I emailed it to you. I think you should listen to it."

  "Sure." He pulled up the email and opened the file. "An 881 number."

  "Yeah, what is that?"

  "It's an Iridium satellite phone number," Randy answered. "We get them occasionally because one of their three ground stations is here in Tempe. That call could have come from anywhere in the western hemisphere. The low orbit satellites simply download calls to the nearest ground station. For a normal call, it doesn't matter, but 911 is a local call so it come
s to us by default."

  Tiffany was stunned. "Anywhere in the western hemisphere?"

  "Sure," answered Randy, shaking his head. "I once took a call from a guy on a cruise ship off Chile. He was pissed because their cruise had cut off his line of credit at the blackjack tables and wanted the Coast Guard to come helicopter him to land."

  She pointed at Randy's computer. "This one sounds serious. I think you should listen to it."

  Randy clicked on the file while turning up his speakers. Concentrating, he listened to the file. Then he did the same a second time and then a third, taking notes the last time.

  "Well, what do you make of it?" he finally asked her.

  "Me? That's why I brought it in to you."

  "Yes, but you actually spoke to him," he said. "Did it seem real to you?"

  Tiffany didn't hesitate. "Hell, yes. I think we just heard someone get shot, maybe killed."

  Randy nodded. "I think you're right. Hopefully, it wasn't this Evan Athers."

  "So what do we do now?" she asked.

  Randy shrugged. "Not much we can do. We don't even know where the call is coming from."

  "Can't we at least call the police?"

  He shrugged. "Which police? Tempe? Arizona State Troopers? Mexican Federalies? Canadian Mounties?"

  Tiffany put her hands out to her sides. "There must be something we can do? Maybe we can Google Evan Athers and at least find out who he is."

  Randy nodded and began typing on his computer before shaking his head. “Yep, just what I thought. There are at least two thousand hits for that name.”

  She dropped her hands beside her and sighed in exasperation.

  "I'll email the file to my friend at the state police," he answered. "He can probably get the satellite phone company to give up information on the number, especially given the nature of the call. With any luck, the registered user is this Evan Athers, which will be tied to an address. The police can then send the info to that local police station to check into."

  "How long is that going to take?"

  Randy's lips tightened. "I'm not going to lie to you. Probably at least a week given the other things everyone has going on. And that's if there's a positive hit."

  Tiffany's stomach sank. "I don't think that caller has a week. Hell, I'm not sure he has an hour. He could be badly hurt or dead by now."

  "I know," answered Randy, "but there's nothing more we can do."

  "This sucks," she said. "The one real call I get, the one chance to help someone, and there's nothing I can do but listen to possibly his last words."

  "It's not your fault," he said kindly. "We can only do so much. It comes with the job."

  "Yeah," she said standing up, "that's what I'm afraid of."

  Tiffany walked out of the office and went to her desk to grab her book bag. She still had a test soon and needed to focus, but after that, she intended to call the temp service and tell them to find someone else to do this crappy job.

  Chapter 8

  Jack lay as still and silent as he could, fists clenched. His tears and grief went unheard. Waves of coldness flooded through him. He hated himself for staying hidden, although he knew there was nothing he could have done to stop the murder of his friends. Now his job was to escape and get help, and he knew he could only do that if he avoided those soldiers...or whatever they were.

  He waited as the men called Urchart and Brennen went in search of the boat. Part of him wanted to rush ahead of them, but that would be folly. He was still hidden in the underbrush less than fifteen yards from the soldiers.

  Jack watched the one called Lyles direct his men to bind a dazed Charles to the handles on the front of a metal fold-out stretcher. They piled the three dead soldiers on the stretcher, and two soldiers each took a handle at the rear while forcing Charles to carry the frontend alone. Jack could tell it was immensely heavy by their straining, but even with what was likely a concussion, Charles appeared to be having an easier time handling the load than the two soldiers to his rear.

  They stacked Brian and Evan on another stretcher carried by two more soldiers. They put the one wounded soldier, gray from blood loss and unconscious, onto another. Jack doubted the man would survive much longer. Brian's knife to the man's groin had likely severed several arteries and, although they had staunched the outward flow of blood, he was certainly bleeding internally.

  Heather and Amanda were bound at their wrists by plastic flex cuffs and then to each other. The soldiers loaded all of Jack's friends' gear into their own backpacks. Lyles grabbed the bound wrists of the two stunned women and signaled for the rest of his men to follow him. With groans of effort, they picked up their stretchers and struggled up out of the bowl of rocks to flatter ground.

  Then they were gone. Jack looked down and except for several pools of blood already fading brown into the undergrowth, there was no sign that he had just seen two dear friends murdered and three others kidnapped. Jack suddenly had an overwhelming desire to take a nap. Part of him recognized that this was ridiculous, but another part hoped that when he awoke everything would be better. Nothing but a bad dream. In reality, he actually was tired. He had consumed a lot of beer and his body was now reacting to a post-adrenaline flood. Just a little nap would do the trick.

  Get going, son, said his father's voice in his head.

  Jack's eyes snapped open. He hadn't even realized he'd gone to sleep. How long had he been out? Jack pushed himself backward out of the underbrush, finding it was much easier to extract himself than it had been to push forward. After a few moments, Jack managed to untangle himself completely from the thick undergrowth. Leaving the cooler, duffle bag, and fishing gear, Jack turned north and began running through the woods.

  The two soldiers would likely use the trail, but it wasn't the shortest route. Jack hoped by cutting through the forest he could beat them to the boat and escape. He turned on an extra burst of speed, ignoring the thorns, vines, and mud attempting to slow him down.

  He started to see an opening in the trees ahead of him and then water further beyond. Jack nearly burst through the trees onto the shore, but stopped as he heard voices. He crept forward silently and saw Urchart standing on the sand while Brennen climbed around on the boat.

  "Sir," Brennen said, "it looks like we have sleeping bags and gear for six, not just five."

  Urchart stared at Brennen. "Damn it to hell! Just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse. Now we're possibly looking for another civilian out there."

  "Could just be an extra," Brennen said.

  Urchart shook his head. "I doubt it. Regardless we can't take that chance."

  "What do you want me to do with the boat?"

  "How well do you swim Brennen?"

  Brennen smiled. "Like a fish, sir."

  "Good, strap all the gear down, take the boat out into deep water and sink it. Then swim back here. Should have just enough light left to do it before dark."

  Jack groaned in despair, much too loud.

  Urchart slowly turned in the direction where Jack was hiding and held up his hand to Brennen. "You hear that?"

  "Hear what?" asked Brennen.

  "Someone. Close." Urchart started walking towards Jack's hiding spot, his pistol out before him.

  Jack held his breath, willing the man to go away, but Urchart kept creeping closer and closer. Fighting the urge to flee, Jack crouched down lower. A branch snapped loudly beneath him.

  Urchart froze. He turned slightly towards the sound and moved with purpose towards Jack.

  Indecision flooded Jack's already exhausted brain. He felt like a rabbit, pursued by dogs. Like the rabbit, Jack willed himself not to be.

  Urchart moved nearer still. He felt he was close. Someone was here. With any luck, it was the missing civilian or maybe even Moses Mitchell.

  Jack was trembling now. He couldn't help it. Adrenaline was flooding into him again. Death was hovering over him. He could smell it.

  Urchart's face came into view. They were only separa
ted by a few branches now.

  Urchart stopped again and stood searching. His eyes were locked on the ground and trees. His head kept turning from one side to the other as if something was off. His eyes froze and began to move up towards Jack’s head. Urchart locked eyes with a face looking fearfully out at him.

  "Hello, friend," said Urchart. "Why don't you come on out of there now. You're safe with us."

  Jack bolted. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, not even looking where he was going. He felt a sharp blow and then searing pain in his right shoulder that almost knocked him off his feet. A loud gunshot echoed behind him.

  I've been shot, Jack thought. Holy shit.

  You're going to get shot again if you don't pick up the pace, his father's voice said.

  Jack followed the advice, somehow finding the energy to speed up. Two more shots followed, but both went wide. He could hear Urchart crashing behind him.

  Legs and lungs burning, Jack wasn't sure how long he ran, but when he fell jumping over a log, he found he didn't have the strength to get back up. He lay there in the grass heaving great gasps of air, waiting for the bullet that would end his life.

  His breathing slowed, and Jack noticed it was getting dark. He listened for his pursuers, but heard nothing but nocturnal insects and frogs. Pushing himself up, Jack cried out from the shooting pain in his shoulder. He reached around to the back of his shoulder and probed at the seeping hole until he could no longer stand the pain. When he pulled his hand back, his fingertips were covered with blood.

  "I need to get to a hospital," he said out loud and was a little frightened at how weak his voice sounded.

  He was also starting to shiver. The temperature was dropping with the sun going down, but that couldn't be all of it. Jack recognized that he likely had a fever and could even be going into shock as a result of blood loss and physical trauma.

  Pulling himself carefully onto wobbly feet, Jack saw a nearby pool of standing water and realized how desperately thirsty he was.

  "No," he croaked. "Get sick. Need to find running water. Clean water."