The merc responded, “My orders are to stay on your six, sir.”
“Yeah well, try to blend a little then… What’s your name again?”
“Mike, sir.”
“Right. Try and blend a little more, will ya’ Mike?” Trip reached into the cockpit of one of the smaller sport fishing boats and pulled out a dirty cooler. “Here, carry this around. We’ll fill it with bait.”
“Yessir.”
Trip led the way up the narrow street of town. He let his instincts guide him as to where they should stop. They passed a small run down market on the corner of the main street. He spotted a poster in the window advertising the 2033 'Qatuwas First Nations Canoe festival. “Follow my lead, Mike.”
The door creaked as Trip and Mike entered, the tattered screen fabric flapping as it swung shut. A middle-aged man stood behind the counter. “You two looking for something I can help ya’ find?”
“Nah, we’re just browsing,” Trip answered, “This is simply a ruse to convince the wives we’re fishing. We’re just up here to get away from the grind… know what I mean?”
“Nope,” the man replied and went back to stocking the shelves behind him.
Trip cocked one eyebrow and quickly decided against questioning the storeowner. He spied a young woman near the back of the store measuring packages of smoked salmon. Trip nodded at Mike and they approached. “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked her, using his toothiest grin.
The girl blinked in surprise. “Uh… Hi?” she mumbled glancing around to confirm that he was addressing her. “Can I help you?”
“Well, I sure hope so,” Trip pulled the photo of Kim Chen out of his jacket pocket and set it on the counter. “We’re supposed to meet a buddy of ours from work—he came up a few weeks early. Trouble is, he must have lost his mobile or had an accident—we’ve been trying to reach him for days now… Can’t get him to respond. My pal Mike here is convinced he got eaten by a bear. You haven’t seen him anywhere lately have you?”
The girl took the photo from Trip and looked at it for a few seconds. “Hmmm, I saw him, yeah. He came in with Ooligan about a week and a half ago. He was a real quiet guy—he let her do all the talking… But then again, Oolie always does all the talking.”
“I see. Does this Hooligan live nearby?”
“It’s ‘Ooo-ligan’. Nah, she just comes down from Haida Gwaii for the Canoe Festival every couple a’ years. She’s a really good paddler, one of the best.”
“So, is she still here—with the gentleman?”
The young woman shook her head as she tossed one of the packages onto the scale. “Nu-huh, it seemed like they was in a hurry to take off. It was kind of weird to see Oolie so late in the year. The festival was over a month ago.”
Trip idly picked up one of the packets of salmon, turning it over in his hand as he questioned her. “Did she by any chance say where they were headed? Our friend’s due back at work in another week—I’d like to know what to tell his boss.”
“She didn’t say. I’m guessin’ they were paddling back to Old Massett. It makes sense—the weather ‘round here starts to get pretty sketchy further south—at least if they wanted to get home safely before winter.”
“Huh, how about that, Mike.” Trip turned to the merc. “Looks like our old buddy’s gone Native.” Mike shrugged and continued to watch the door.
The girl looked at Trip with a frown and asked, “Somethin’ wrong with Natives?”
“Oh, hell no. He’s a lucky guy—no more punching that old time-card… I’m jealous, truthfully. So, if they were paddling back up to this island, when do you think they’d get there?”
The girl closed her eyes and silently counted off the miles. “If the winds and currents are with ‘em, they might reach Massett Bay in a little over a week and a half… They were here on the sixth, so I guess they might be there by in a few days—that is, if they didn’t stop somewhere on the way.”
The older man behind the counter shouted, “Girl! I’m not paying you to gossip! Talk to tourists on your own time.”
“OK—hey look, I gotta get to work. Do you mind?” she held her hand out for the package of salmon Trip was holding.
“Thanks for the information. May I pay you for this?” Trip handed the girl two large bills.
“Whoa—this is way too much money, Mr.,” she whispered, staring at the bills in her hand. “Salmon’s getting expensive, for sure—but not near this much. Besides, you’re supposed to pay at the register. I can’t accept this.”
Trip held his finger to his lips, “Shhhh.” He lobbed the salmon to Mike and winked at the girl. “Keep it—and don’t tell your boss.” The two men walked out of the market and turned toward the dock. Mike tossed the package of salmon on the pier and several seagulls immediately swept down to tear into the plastic wrapping. Trip called out, “Dump that cooler somewhere. Let’s get to the helo and refuel.”
“Are you planning on flying up to that island, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, the charts show that it’s almost up in Bum-Fuck-Alaska.”
“Do you have a problem with that, soldier?”
“No sir, not at all. I’ll go find the fueling station.”
“That’s better. I need to get hold of headquarters and relay this new intel. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be right behind you.”
The HighTower helicopter sat on a bald patch in otherwise densely forested woods. Trip finished his debrief with Nelson Banks and sent the coordinates for Old Massett to the helo’s computer. Heavy drops of rain started to fall as he made his way through grass. The rotors turned slowly as the helo warmed up. Mike stood waiting, his sunglasses on, despite the drizzle and clouds. Trip pulled himself into the pilot’s seat, nodded at the merc as he engaged the engine. The blades made a boisterous chop, chop, chop sound as their speed increased. Mike buckled into the co-pilot’s seat and gave a thumbs-up gesture as the bird rose, tail-first. Trip adjusted his headset mic. “Y’know, you’d probably stand a better chance of blending in with the townies if you lost those standard issue sunglasses. It’s raining—you are aware of that, right?”
“Yessir, I am aware that it’s raining.”
“Still not taking off the BCGs, huh?”
“Sir, I figure these civilians clocked me when I stepped out of this fourteen-million-dollar helo.”
“Yeah, I guess that might be so.”
The helicopter hovered several hundred feet over the pasture before veering northward toward Haida Gwaii.
Old Massett. Haida Gwaii. Aug. 15. 2033
54°02'26.0"N 132°10'33.8"W
“I skunked you!” Ol’ Pa threw his hand on the counter, laughing. “I haven’t seen a skunkin’ so bad since I taught my granddaughter to play cribbage ten years ago!”
Eli shook his head and pulled the pins out of their holes on the board. “It was probably more like Dot skunked you way back then, you old coot.”
“Well maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t—but the point is that today it was me that skunked you, Eli!” Now, hand me down that crossword magazine and I’m out of here. Time for me to take my pills before that crabby daughter starts to fret.”
“How’s the ol’ ticker doin’?”
“I’ll live long enough to hand you another humiliating defeat.”
“Just keep talkin’ Ol’ Pa, it’s what you’re best at.”
Ol’ Pa shuffled out the door of Eli’s store, slamming the screen door closed with the tip of his new cane. He negotiated the steps one leg, then another—slowly balancing his way to the sidewalk. As he passed neighbor’s houses, friends shouted their greetings. Ol’ Pa waved in return as he wobbled towards home.
He opened the front door, tossing his crossword magazine onto the recliner. Catching his breath, he paused for a moment before heading to the kitchen for his medication. The bottles were neatly arranged on the counter, in the exact order that Marta intended for him to swallow them. Ol’ Pa too
k a glass from the cupboard and reached for the faucet. An arm closed around his neck, pulling him backwards. “Whaaaa!”
Mike stepped from behind, catching the old man as he fell. His arm remained across Ol’ Pa’s throat. Slowly and with deliberation, Mike dragged Ol’ Pa to one of the kitchen chairs, sat him down firmly and stepped back. He remained several paces behind the old man and waited. “What’s the meaning of this?” Ol’ Pa shouted, spitting on the floor. He pounded his cane on the kitchen table and yelled, “I demand you move to where I can see you and then we’ll have a fair fight!” Ol’ Pa squirmed in his seat, trying to get a look at his attacker.
“I believe that some water might be in order for those pills you were after, don’t you agree, Mr. Carville?” Trip appeared out of the shadows and set Ol’ Pa’s medicine in front of him. He nodded at Mike to bring a glass to the table.
“Who the hell are you and what do you want with me?”
Mike set the glass near Ol’ Pa and stepped back; his feet spread shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back. Ol’ Pa grumbled, “Tell your G.I. Joe to piss off before I take my cane to him.”
“Now, now... That’s no mere government soldier. He’s a trained mercenary who works for my employer. Just call him Mike— ‘Mike the Merc’ if you like. But alas, he won’t budge—trust me, I’ve asked numerous times.” Trip pulled a chair out and sat down in front of Ol’ Pa. Crossing one leg over the other, he stretched back in his seat and continued. “So, here we are Homer. You don’t mind if I ask you a few questions, do you?”
“Of course, I mind, you slick sonuvabitch.”
“Take your pills first. I don’t want to feel guilty for causing any health problems while we chat.”
“Shove those pills up your ass, Sonny. I’m not doing or saying anything for your benefit. I know your type—and I know who you work for, so let’s just get this over with.”
Trip sighed briefly and scratched his chin before folding his hands neatly over one leg. “Alright Homer, let’s be reasonable, I certainly don’t want to hurt you, nor do I want to see Mike get any of your blood on this tidy kitchen floor. But on the other hand, I was given some information from one of your helpful townspeople—a charming little old lady named Verna… she figured you’d be the one to ask regarding where I might locate a Chinese man by the name of Dr. Kim Chen?” Trip’s gaze rested on his hostage while he spoke and at the mention of the scientist’s name, the old man’s fingers gripped the handle of his cane; the knuckles whitening. Instinctively, Trip raised one eyebrow and shot a quick glance toward the merc. “I’m going to take a shot in the dark here and wager that you have some knowledge of this man… And I’m also guessing that you’d rather pass this information along to us rather than risk any harm coming to you or your lovely daughter, Marta… That is her name, am I right?”
“You’d better leave her out of this.”
“So, where is Marta anyway? I would’ve thought she’d be home by now, preparing a nutritious meal for her beloved father…”
“I said leave her alone, you black hearted bastards!”
Trip stood up and nodded at the merc. Mike moved forward and took the cane out of Ol’ Pa’s hand, placing it horizontally against the elderly man’s throat. Holding both ends, Mike applied gentle pressure against the trachea, causing Ol’ Pa to cough and gasp for air. As the old man fought to free himself, Trip paced the floor. “Homer, we will find the scientist—if I have to send Mike here into every household of this podunk little shithole to do so. I am really growing impatient with your gruff-old-man shtick and dammit, I’m tired of all this back woods, dirt-road stuff. Therefore, I’ll ask one more time before I tell Mike to use that cane of yours in ways that Charlie Chaplin never would have dreamed of. Where is Dr. Kim Ch…”
A sudden movement behind Trip stopped him in mid-sentence as a blur of white bolted past the table. An animal leapt onto Mike’s shoulders, dragging him to the floor. The chair toppled onto its side as Trip backed away from the table. Ol’ Pa fell to his knees, grasping at his collar as he gulped for breath. Mike thrashed across the floor, wrestling with a large wolf-like beast. It clamped its sharp teeth on the merc’s upper arm and Trip stared at its red gums, visible from across the kitchen. Pulling the pistol from his holster with his free hand, Mike pointed it at the animal’s head and cocked the hammer. As his finger flexed, Ol’ Pa’s cane crashed down on the merc’s arm—the gun spiraled across the kitchen floor. Trip spun around to grab the weapon and found himself staring at Marta. The gun was pointed directly at his chest.
“Who are you—what are you doing in our house?” She demanded.
Trip straightened up and his mind raced for a reaction. He impulsively cricked his neck and, holding his open palms in front of him said, “OK… You must be Marta—am I right? So, Marta, my name’s Trip Ashfield. We’re just here for a short visit. I wanted to have a little chat—an exchange between your father and myself, that’s all. How about we put the gun down? I’m sure you don’t want to hurt anybody. I know I don’t…”
A sharp crack reverberated off the kitchen walls. Trip fell to the floor with a stabbing pain in his right leg. Marta stood still, her arms outstretched, the pistol now aimed at Trip’s head. “You try me again and the next time I’ll aim for your mouth.”
Trip crumpled to the floor and clutched his kneecap. “Goddamned if you aren’t a good shot, Lady,” he muttered through gritted teeth. Leaning against the kitchen archway, he exhaled and, wincing with pain, whispered, “Could I trouble you for a towel?”
Wheezing, Ol’ Pa stumbled to his feet and gripped the chair. “Atta’ boy, Archer. Keep him pinned down until I find some rope.” Archer growled a low, threatening rumble in the back of his throat.
Mike looked up at Marta, who now pointed the weapon at his head. “Call him off. I won’t move—just get it off me.”
Marta skirted the table, staying clear of the mercenary. She grabbed a clean dish towel and threw it toward Trip. “Wrap it around your knee—you’ll be fine. I shattered your kneecap, that’s all.”
“Yeah—painfully aware of that. Thanks.” Trip caught the towel, grimacing as he pressed it onto the wound.
The front door slammed open and Eli, Doc Gravin and Billy Telford spilled into the front room, stopping short at the sight of events unfolding in the kitchen. “Marta—Ol’ Pa! Are you guys OK?” Eli shouted.
“What’s happened here?” Doc asked.
Ol’ Pa backed into the kitchen counter and clenched his chest. Marta waved the gun, “Doc, get him his Nitroglycerin—it’s on the table.”
Doc jumped over Trip’s outstretched leg as he sped past. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just stay here out of the way… bleeding,” Trip mumbled.
“Who the bloody hell is he?” Billy asked.
“I don’t have any idea who he is, but I can tell you exactly what he is: HighTower,” Marta answered. “I can smell it on him.”
“Holy shit, are you telling me that HighTower is here—in Old Massett?” Eli whispered.
Billy found a coil of rope on the back porch and cut a length to bind the merc’s hands. Pushing Mike up to a sitting position, he fought to release Archer’s death-grip on the prisoner’s arm. “Marta—call off Táan’s dog, will ya?”
Marta whistled and slapped her leg, making sure to keep the weapon aimed at the mercenary with her other hand. Archer reluctantly let go and returned to Marta’s side. Bright red dots of blood seeped through Mike’s sleeve. “Good dog,” Marta whispered.
Doc checked Ol’ Pa’s pulse and said, “I think we’d better get your father over to my office. I’ll need a better reading on his heart rate.” Trip rolled his head in the direction of the doctor, his face was blanched, his expression ironic.
“What do we do with these guys in the meantime?” Billy asked.
Marta glanced down at Trip. “Take this one with you and patch him up. Leave the other one here with me for now. …And somebody get Russell ove
r here. We need to make some decisions quickly.”
Billy grabbed the remaining rope and helped Eli hoist their wounded hostage upright. Trip flinched as they jostled his leg, but managed to hobble out of the house without losing consciousness.
Ol’ Pa threw an arm around Doc’s shoulder, leaning heavily on his cane. “Ah—careful there… not so fast.” As they passed by Marta, he tweaked her chin and chuckled, “You’re a right chip off the old block, daughter. I’m darn proud of you.”
“Get on with yourself, Chanáa—no dying of a heart attack tonight, old man.” Upon hearing the front door close, Marta pulled up a kitchen chair. She collapsed into the seat, uncocked the hammer and laid the pistol across her lap. The merc sat with his back propped against the cabinets, warily eyeing the dog who remained motionless in the archway. Marta propped her elbow on the table, rested her chin on her hand and sighed. “Well,” she mumbled, “where in the hell do we go from here?”
32 Purchase Agreement
Elliot Bay. Seattle WA. Aug 17 2033.
47°36'30.9"N 122°20'57.6"W
The opulent mega-yacht moored in the middle Elliott Bay looked out of place in front of Seattle’s crumbling waterfront. The six-story, multi-tiered decks gleamed and its multitude of windows reflected the sun’s glare skyward. From the aft patio, with its two crystal-blue swimming pools and bleached white teak decking, one could gaze upon the vista of Mount Rainier and the Cascades—avoiding the derelict buildings and broken high-rises of the city’s skyline in the foreground.
The 600-foot vessel was no ordinary luxury yacht. Its customized features were specifically tailored to its new owner, with many of the add-ons designed by the man himself. Lavish staterooms, spas and salons were offset by the presence of two laboratories, a research submarine and onboard hospital. A movie theater and helipads occupied the main deck alongside a marine mammal rehabilitation facility and conference room.
Sea of a Thousand Words Page 29