“She isn’t my ‘gal,’ she’s my friend… and yeah, she isn’t very happy right now.”
“Man, I bet when Dot gives someone the silent treatment, it’s really gotta suck. You know, ‘silent’ treatment… Get it?”
“Jeez, is Ooligan always like this?” Táan asked Pasha.
“Ha—just wait until she gets to know you! She’s best behavior now, I am serious.”
Ooligan climbed into her tlúu and grabbed the bags that Táan brought. “Look, I’m just messing with ya’, she’ll get over it. She seems like a pretty cool kid.”
Táan shrugged and picked up a small branch. “Here ya’ go, Archer—go fetch!” The husky sprang after the stick.
“What are you going to do with the dog?” Pasha asked him.
“Well, I thought about asking Dot to take care of him, but I’m not sure that’s an option anymore.”
“Just ask her at the party tonight, she’ll be in a way better mood.” Ooligan suggested.
“Yeah, maybe so.”
“Hey, you pikers wanna gizza hand with Mr. Chen, here?” Kai and Adili came down the path, pushing the scientist in front of them in his wheelchair. Kim gripped the arms of the chair and gritted his teeth as the wheels hit the grooves in the trail. Once they maneuvered the chair across the fallen logs and undergrowth, they set him down next to the two boats. Kai put his hands on his waist and surveyed their packing job. “I don’t know, cuz. It’s fair chocka already, ay? I mean, how’re we going to get Kim in here and have room for the wheelchair?”
“Put the chair in Adili’s tlúu.” Ooligan suggested.
“Yeah nah, can’t do that. We’ve got Táan in that boat with all of his gear.”
“Do you think we should, maybe… ‘try it out’ first?” Kim asked. He looked at the wooden canoe’s interior with trepidation.
“Good idea, let’s suss it out,” Kai agreed. “Hey, Táan—come here for a sec’, we’re going to put Kim into his new ride.”
Kai, Adili and Táan lifted the scientist out of his wheelchair and set him carefully into the middle of the cockpit as Pasha and Ooligan rearranged the baggage around his cast. The best they could manage was to situate Kim in a semi-reclined position with his leg raised over the cockpit rail, his arms hugging the bags at his side. “Uh, guys… there’s no way this is going to work.” Ooligan said.
Kim looked up from his uncomfortable position and asked, “How long did you say this trip was going to take?”
“Aw, shit mate—we still haven’t loaded your wheelchair.” Kai said.
Archer ran up to the canoe and pushed his muzzle into the cockpit. Sniffing, he nosed Kim’s face, licking his ear.
“Archer—knock that off!” Táan pulled the dog away and shook his head. “Hey, can you manage this without me? I told Marta I’d get the grill fired up before she brought all the food over to the longhouse this afternoon.”
Kai said, “Yeah, we’re all good. You go on and get Dot’s party sorted.” He moved a canvas bag behind the scientist’s arm. “How’s it going there, mate?”
“Kim winced as Pasha tried to squeeze the wheelchair under his legs. “Fine—ouch! Yes, very good. See you this evening Táan. Ahh!... Looking forward very much to Dot’s celebration. Ow! Not so fast.”
Táan said, “OK, great. See you all there, then... Hang in there, Kim.” He called for Archer and went back toward town, leaving the fetchers to wrangle with their injured passenger.
Marta ran the spatula along the edges of her round pan, forcing the cake away from its sides. She turned it upside down and gingerly laid it on top of the frosted layer. “Ta da!” She exclaimed, “I’ve still got it!”
The front door opened and their neighbor Simon stuck his head through the doorway. “Marta—you’d better come down to Eli’s store, quick-like. There’s a fisherwoman in there with some news you’re going to want to hear. Hurry now!” Without waiting for her reply, he ducked out, slamming the door as he left.
Marta stared at the door, the cake pan still in her hands.
“What in the hell was that all about?” Ol’ Pa grumbled as he walked out of the bathroom.
“I have no clue. Hide this cake from Dot... I’ve got to go find out.” Marta untied her apron and grabbed her bag. As she opened the door, she looked over at Ol’ Pa and said, “Find out where the scientist is, would ya’ Chanáa?”
Eli Hammond sat on the wooden stool behind his counter. The Old Massett General Store consisted of four shelves and a cooler with a broken-down ice box for crab bait. Pegs hung on the wall behind Eli’s register for boning knives and salmon lures, but most of the pegs were empty now that the sport fishing industry had dried up.
Russel Guujaw and two of the other elders were standing near the counter listening to a strawberry-blonde-haired woman dressed in denim coveralls tell her story. When they saw Marta walk through the door, they paused. “Here she is—tell Marta what you saw, Rikke.”
“Hullo, nice to meet you,” Rikke said with a thick Nordic accent. Marta smiled and took her hand. The woman said, “I’m from the fishing boat Ludvikke. We have just come down the Inside from fishing near Sitka.” She gestured northward with a vague wave of her hand. “We ended our season early after the explosion, my husband is worried they might want to get rid of any witnesses.”
“Sorry, did you say, ‘explosion’?” Marta asked. “Did I miss something?”
“Oh, right—you weren’t here for that part of my story. There was a drone attack on one of the trawlers… four days ago, I’m thinking.” She paused to count the days on her fingers. “Ya, last Friday. It all happened maybe a mile from where we set our nets. Huge explosion… smoke was everywhere.” She shook her head as she described the scene. “And the worst part of it all—there was no warning—that drone just came out of nowhere and then boom! We saw body parts floating in the middle of all the wreckage. And my husband, he says to me, ‘We better get the hell out of here, Rikke.’ And so, here we are; a few hundred pounds of fish lighter, but alive.”
“Damn” said Russell. “They’re at it again, those HighTower Bastards.”
Marta sighed and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m very glad that you and your husband are safe. But this is such terrible news—more lives lost at sea for no good reason.” Rikke’s story brought back painful memories, emotions that Marta worked very hard to keep in her past. She walked over to the counter and picked up a newspaper and paused on her way out the door, “Rikke, we’re having a community dinner at the longhouse tonight. You should bring your husband.”
Russell said, “Yes, good idea—join us. Forget your troubles for one evening.”
“We could use a night among friendly people after this week’s events. We’ll bring some fresh halibut to share. Thanks.”
Táan sat in the grass on the sunny side of the longhouse lawn. He’d started the barbeque half an hour ago and was waiting for the charcoal to burn down. The afternoon sun blanketed the west side of the longhouse and cast spindly shadows behind the totem poles. He absentmindedly scratched Archer’s belly as the dog rolled happily beside him. A heavy gloom hung over him that he couldn’t manage to shake off. He didn’t want to leave Dot this way, especially on her eighteenth birthday. Today should have been a time for celebration—he was finally going to the Greenwood to become a fetcher and Dot was now considered a full member of their tribe. They should be happy, but instead he felt miserable and she was off sulking somewhere. Not even Archer’s loopy dog-smiles could bring Táan out of his slump.
Just then, Marta walked up, her arms loaded with bags of food. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“No, I’m sorry, Marta. Let me grab those things.” Táan took the sacks from her and carried them to the picnic tables near the grill. “Do you need me to get anything else from your house?”
“No, your mom and brothers are bringing the rest of the food, along with the cake and Ol’ Pa.” Marta stopped and looked at
Táan. “What I really want you to do, is go to tell that stick-in-the-mud child of mine to ‘buck up.’ She’s going to forgive you by tonight, or I’m going to… I don’t know what I’m going to do with her, actually.” Marta began to dig through her bags, sorting out the salmon to lay on the grill. “Go find the girl. She can’t ever stay mad at you, Bear.”
Táan grinned. He’d always liked it when Marta called him by his English nickname. It dawned on him, how much he would miss Marta and her crusty, old father. There will be many partings soon. He watched her humming to herself as she laid the bright red fillets of salmon on the table. He noticed the breeze lifting her salt-and-pepper hair from around her shoulders and mentioned off-handedly, “Looks like the wind’s pickin’ up.”
“Yeah, and it’s cooling down a little as well. OK then, you’d best bring me a coat when you return with the birthday girl.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Oh—and don’t get too crazy tonight—you guys have a big day ahead of you.”
“I know, I know.” Táan slapped his thigh to summon Archer and they went off in search of Dot.
By 6:30 that evening the entire lawn of Old Massett’s longhouse was packed with town folk. The picnic tables had been pushed together and were laden with side dishes and salmon. In the center of the lawn was a round table with a red check cloth, Marta’s three-layer birthday cake held a place of prominence amid the rest of the desserts. Children played hide and go seek while the adults stood around the grill. Kim sat at one of the tables and talked with a few of the elders until the pain in his leg bothered him too much, then Doc wheeled him back to the house. Kai and Pasha threw horseshoes against Ol’ Pa and Eli Hammond. As Táan led Dot up the sidewalk, everyone shouted “Happy Birthday, Dot!” “k'íina, 'láa ñáay sangáay!” Dot covered her mouth in surprise and took hold of Táan’s hand. Marta was right when it came to her daughter; she never could stay mad at him for very long.
The potlatch lasted until well past ten that evening. Wind startled to whistle through the cedars as the stragglers gathered around the fire pit near the rear of the longhouse. Ol’ Pa placed a hand on Dot’s shoulder as he pulled himself up. “Happy birthday, my girl. Here’s to many more celebrations like this one. Now, I’m tired and off to my bed.” Dot kissed his hand and smiled up at him as he turned to walk home.
“G’night Ol’ Pa,” the others called after him.
Oolie grabbed a log and tossed it into the blazing pit, causing sparks to fly in clusters toward the black sky. Dot sat on the grass, Archer’s head resting on her lap. Occasionally, he whimpered and twitched in his doggy dreams. The glow from the fire lit up Dot’s cheeks as she smiled, illuminating the ringlets around her face. From across the crackling embers, she saw the fetchers’ silhouettes. Adili stood behind the group, his back toward the flames, watching the trees gently sway. Táan’s knee rested against Dot’s shoulder.
Marta observed the group of friends as she packed away the leftovers. She thought about a birthday party twenty years ago—memories of her son’s eighteenth birthday, of people gathering around the same firepit late at night…. Sighing, she pushed her recollections away. This was Dot’s night, no time to dwell on those who resided in the spirit world nowadays. Another time for that.
Russell walked Rikke and her husband toward their boat, stopping by the table to say good night. “Thank you, Marta. This was a nice evening.”
“I’m glad you came,” Marta said. “And thanks for the halibut, we’ll freeze the steaks for our next potlatch.”
“Just let us know if you want any more. We save a few home-packs every time we go north.” Rikke’s husband said. “That is, if we ever go up there again—after what happened to the Tryoshnikov.”
“The name of the boat that they hit was Tryoshnikov?” Russell asked.
“Yes—well, it was a definitely a Russian vessel. The name was something like Trishnikovitch or maybe, Torishnikoff? Yes, something that sounded very much like that—we saw them almost every day before the…”
Marta looked at Russell with alarm. “I’ll tell the fetchers.” As she walked toward the fire pit, Marta tried in vain to steady her trembling hands. She took a deep breath and found an empty chair near the row of benches. “Guys, you’ll need to leave sooner than planned.”
Dot recognized the tension in Marta’s voice at once and got to her feet, knocking Archer from her lap. Kai leaned toward the fire. “What ‘ve you heard, Marta?”
“The ship that brought Mr. Chen to the snakehead’s boat—that Russian trawler? Well, HighTower blew it out of the water four days ago.”
For several seconds, there was a stunned silence around the fire until, from out of the darkness, Billy Telford ran up shouting, “Trackers are coming!”
Táan jumped up, “What?”
Billy coughed and bent over to catch his breath. “Trackers—HSA. They pulled into the harbor in Skidegate this evening. Pete just called me—two ships. The 87-footers. The crew were at the diner in his lodge.”
Marta rose and put her hand to her forehead, turning away from the fire to think. If the trackers depart tomorrow morning, they’ll be in Old Massett before lunchtime—unless they’ve already left. She spun back toward the group. “Kai—Adili! Get down to the tlúus! We’ve got trouble.”
12 The Strike
HighTower Operations. Jul 10. 2033
[Classified]
The two drone pilots were seated in the front of the room, their features were illuminated by a pallid glow from the radar and sensor displays. A multi-paneled screen covered the wall and curved around their periphery. They spoke alternately to each other and to mission controllers via small headsets. Behind the pilots, several HighTower staff members sat behind a long conference table and observed the procedure, chatting quietly among themselves as they picked at assorted pastries.
The door opened and Trip Ashfield entered, followed by a young woman carrying a plastic container of files. He brushed past the observers as the assistant set the box at the end of the table to distribute the folders. Trip stood behind the pilots and put a hand on each of the seatbacks. “Fill me in. What have we got in the air?”
“Sir, our bird is an MQ-47C, at flight level two-zero. We have a payload of four Hellfires and four GBU-12 laser guided bombs. Visual, infrared and long range RFID are all operational.” The pilot replied.
“Is there confirmation that our high value individual’s onboard?” Ashfield asked.
“Negative, sir. The RFID scanner has not pinged the HVI's chip from that location.”
Trip exhaled, frowned and then slapped the back of the weapons systems operator’s chair. “Right, go ahead and light ‘em up.”
The pilot turned in his seat, “Confirming sir—the HVI’s signal is not transmitting from the target vessel. Are you still ordering a missile strike?”
“We’re all following orders, Lieutenant. I have mine and now you have yours. Do I make myself clear?"
The pilot responded, “Affirmative, sir. Authorization for missile strike acknowledged.”
The weapons system operator responded, "Target is painted."
Trip jerked his chin toward the monitor, “Release your weapon.”
The pilot counted down, “Three, two, one,” and pulled the trigger. He spoke in a monotone voice, concentrating on the instrument panel. “Missile’s off the rails, sir. Time of flight, 40 seconds."
The staff rose from their seats and the room became deathly quiet as everyone watched the action unfold. Trip leaned forward, resting his arms on the seatbacks as the pilot and WSO maintained focus on the array. Overhead, the image of a Russian trawler in the Alaskan Gulf filled the display; crosshairs centered on its deckhouse. Suddenly, the screens erupted with a noiseless burst as the missile struck its target. Smoke from the explosion consumed the screen and as it cleared, the drone’s camera transmitted footage of a large debris field where the boat had been. The pilot said, “High order detonation. Tar
get is destroyed, sir.”
Trip nodded and quietly said, “Very well. Search your debris field.”
The WSO touched the screen, zooming in on the wreckage. Broken portions of hull floated on the water’s surface amidst oil streaks. Portions of flotsam burned as they sunk. The drone’s cameras scanned for any recognizable human remains, focusing at last on a portion of a torso—blown apart at the waist. The WSO clicked on the image, freezing the frame long enough for an identification scan. “No positive ID on the HVI. All scans are negative,” he said.
The onlookers went back to their table and resumed their conversations as they leafed through the briefing files. Trip squinted at the monitors, then nodded at the pilot and operator. He turned to leave and, as he walked out the door, removed the mobile device from his suit pocket and typed a brief message to Nelson Banks. It read, “Target vessel neutralized. Negative HVI. No runners.”
The glossy limo pulled up to HighTower headquarters’ main entrance. “Front door open,” Trip said and tossed his suit jacket and attaché onto the front seat. The door automatically closed as Trip fastened his seatbelt. A velvety smooth voice coming from the limo’s dash said, “Good afternoon Mr. Ashfield, what is your destination?”
“Heading to Denver International Airport, take Interstate 70, eastbound.”
“Excellent. Are you comfortable with the interior ambient temperature of seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit?”
“I’m ecstatic about it,” he intoned and lowered the visor’s monitor. The car pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic. Trip pushed a button on the monitor and Nelson Bank’s face appeared on the screen. “You get the message?”
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