Fuel arrived the next morning and, once inside the helo’s tank, it was time for them to depart. Adili secured Trip in the back and climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. Before starting the helicopter, Kai turned to address their hostage; the look on his face was grave. “Alright Ashfield, I can’t think of any other way to say this: You’re going to have to cooperate. There’s only one way.”
With his hands tied together, Trip scratched the stubble under his cheekbone. He raised one eyebrow, smiled and said, “Ah, but Kai, don’t you see? It always comes down to ‘only one way’.”
“Look, I don’t give a shit about your loyalty to your craft—or HighTower, or whatever-the-fuck it is you hold dear. We need you in order to locate our mates. The fact is, you’ll either help or you won’t. But if you decide not to, I plan to lighten the load in this bird by about 185 pounds right over the Pacific.”
“I believe you, Kai. And I’ve no doubt that your friend here wouldn’t hesitate to do the same thing to me that he did to the merc.” Adili looked back over his shoulder with a scowl as Trip continued, “You’re in a tight spot. There’s nothing more difficult than maneuvering for advantageous positions.”
“I see.” Kai pushed the ignition button and the rotors hummed. The helo rose slowly, parting the grass into miniature furrows. Before long, they were over Queen Charlotte Sound, making top speed. Trip’s mobile buzzed again with a flurry of HighTower messages. Trip studied Kai’s reflection in the pilot’s mirror; his captor wore a strange expression—as if puzzling over a riddle. Several minutes later, Kai said, “Hey cuz, grab that mobile, will ya’? OK, right. Now punch in the word ‘Sun Tzu’, all together in lower case.”
Adili entered the six characters and the screen flashed back to life. “It is telling me that it needs a fingerprint,” he muttered and grabbed Trip’s hand, pressing the stunned hostage’s thumb onto the screen. “Got it.” Adili looked up and grinned.
“Chur, cuz! Good on ya’,” Kai declared, shaking his head. Then, to himself whispered, “Atamai raweni-wahine.”
Bolting forward as far as his restraints allowed, Trip demanded, “How in the hell did you get my password?”
“You’ve gotta be careful what you divulge when sparring with my wife, mate. She’s quite a fan of The Art of War as well—and from what I hear, you two traded a few of ol’ Sun Tzu’s quotes during your little yack, ay?”
Trip raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and collapsed back in his seat. “I’ll be goddamned,” he mumbled.
Wasting no time, Kai accessed the HSA texts and learned that the scientist had been flagged in old Seattle around one AM that morning. Kai replied that Trip on his way and would check in upon arrival. Before long, another message flashed across the screen. “Ashfield—this is Banks. Get your ass to the compound. I want Chen’s family and the journalist ‘disappeared’ ASAP.”
“What’s this about?” Adili asked. “Who is ‘Banks’?”
Trip shut his eyes, rolling his head toward the window. “Guys, I have no problem telling you who Nelson Banks is—look him up for Chrissake. But you’re in way over your heads right now. There’s no way out of this.”
Kai grinned and sent the helicopter into a sudden side-slip toward the ocean. “Hell, that’s just one more reason to go big or go home!” he yelled over the roar of the turbos. “It’s now or never, Ashfield. Do you want to stay or are you ready to swim?” Adili leaned back and made to unfasten the restraint harness.
Trip clutched the grab-rail above his head as the helicopter continued to plummet. “In! Goddamn it—I’m in!” The helo levelled off and ran parallel with the ocean’s surface as Trip closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath. Looking down at the water to confirm that he was still above it, he said, “Alright—alright. We’ll try it your way... We’re dead men either way, so I’ll hedge my bets with you for now.”
A plan began to take shape; as the helo flew over the Canadian Gulf Islands, Kai outlined their individual roles. His attempt at enthusiasm was somewhat lost on Adili, who stared glumly out the window, nodding his agreement. Trip listened passively to the instructions with a cynical expression. Nevertheless, Kai remained optimistic. “If we just stick to the basics—get in and then gap it quick-like, I reckon we stand a fighting chance… Beyond that, we’ll have to wing it.” The others looked at him doubtfully.
They’d been in the air for nearly three hours when Adili asked, “How much longer?” Kai checked the computer on his instrument panel and held up one hand.
“Only five minutes?” Adili mumbled and looked out the window as they neared the shoreline. “I hope this plan of yours will work, Kai.”
Trip muttered, “You’ll need a lot more than just hope.” Adili turned, glaring at the cleaner with the look he used when hunting lions in the savannah. Trip cleared his throat, “Alright, it might work—just don’t overreact like you tend to do.”
A few miles ahead, a red navigation buoy signaling the entrance to the Ballard Locks bounced in the current. Kai spotted it and grinned mischievously. Rolling the bird sideways, he dove toward the water, shouting, “Hang on!” At the last second, he evened their trajectory. The helo buzzed the locks tower as they headed for old Seattle’s Space Needle.
Old Seattle WA. Aug 25. 2033
47°37'18.4"N 122°20'55.6"W
Garance lay on her back and picked at the battleship-grey paint covering the walls of her cell. She kept her other hand protectively over her chest, the bandages barely concealed burn marks on her fingers. The sound of footsteps alarmed her as the door latch clanged open. She moved to the corner of her cot and huddled against the wall. A guard entered the cell, followed closely by two strangers. Walking over to where she cowered, he yanked Garance up by her elbow. She dangled like a rag doll beside him as he addressed the others. “This one’s the journalist—she’s a real hellcat,” he commented, carelessly shaking her arm. Garance kept her head low and peered at the newcomers from underneath her lashes. She could make out a tall black man with extremely broad shoulders. His expression was severe, although his eyes were shielded by the same mirrored sunglasses that all the guards wore. Standing next to him was a slim, blonde-haired man. Garance could tell by the way he leaned upon the other that he was injured in some way. Instinctively, she appraised his appearance: He wore a gold watch, designer shoes, an upscale tailored shirt—and yet, it looked as if he’d worn them for several days. What’s going on here? These two aren’t my regular interrogators. She shuddered at the thought of more questioning.
“Here—take her and good riddance,” the guard muttered as he shoved Garance toward the men. “She’s a feisty bitch. Very uncooperative, aren’t you Frenchie?” The big man caught her and with one arm, lifted her effortlessly over his shoulder. Using his other arm to support his injured companion, he stepped out into the hallway, waiting for the guard to lock the door. From her awkward viewpoint, Garance could see two Asian women standing beside another guard. As she was carried past them, the younger woman looked at Garance and bowed her head. The prison guards escorted the entire group down the lengthy corridor. Metal doors slid open and a cool breeze brushed past them—clean air, unsullied by the damp mustiness of the cells.
As they approached the staircase, a uniformed administrator stepped out of the security kiosk. “Stop please! Mr. Ashfield, shouldn’t I get an authorization? I am not supposed to release these prisoners without documentation.”
Garance felt the big man’s hold on his injured companion tighten. She heard a sharp exhale from the man before he replied, “Don’t be an idiot. Banks orders are that these three are disappeared. That means ‘no trace’ doesn’t it? Go ahead, take a look at the message here on my mobile.”
“But, I must insist… Sir, protocol strictly states that…”
The injured one interjected. “As of right now, there mustn’t be any record of these prisoners—believe me when I say this.” Garance held her breath, straining to h
ear everything he said. “Listen here, Poindexter. There’s obviously no protocol for what happens when HighTower erases prisoners. You don’t want to be the one summoned to testify at a congressional investigation, do you?” He continued, his voice straining the longer he spoke, “As you no doubt see, my leg is killing me. Help us get this cargo to the helo or I’ll call Mr. Banks myself.”
“Very well, Mr. Ashfield. I’ll override the protocol.” With a curt nod the administrator waved his hand and the guards pushed their prisoners forward. The elderly woman moaned as she fell onto her daughter. Garance felt a lump in the pit of her stomach. Is this it then—we’re to disappear now? She remembered finding Callum and didn’t want it to end the same way. I hope it’s quick. The big man repositioned her weight on his shoulders as he stepped onto the stairs. Garance looked backwards as they ascended, watching the doors to her prison grow smaller and farther away.
Once they reached the rooftop, Adili set Garance down and barred the door. Now that she could see the big man in a better light, Garance amended her first impression: his features weren’t as brutal as she’d thought. She imagined that he might have been kind if it were not for their circumstances. I hope it’s him that does it—ends me. I think he’d be the less cruel of the pair. She heard the big man tell the guard, “This is where you stop.”
The HighTower guard scoffed and reached for the door. “Yeah right, pal”
Adili grabbed the guard’s forearm and raised it. They faced each other for a tense moment before Trip interceded. “That’s enough. Look, we need to keep this particular job off the radar—that’s why I’m using the merc here; if I’m caught, there’s still some plausible deniability. But if you walk out there in that uniform, the game’s up. Do you understand?”
The guard’s eyes remained fixed on Adili’s as Trip spoke. Finally, he stepped back and muttered, “Understood, Mr. Ashfield.”
A blast of hot air assaulted the prisoners as the door opened. Garance shielded her eyes from the bright light. The big man leaned Garance against the wall next to his injured companion, then carried the elderly woman across the tarmac as her daughter followed. He returned and helped Garance limp to the waiting helicopter. As she climbed into the cabin, she noticed an unconscious guard slumped on the floor. “Merde,” she whispered, looking at the pilot, “What happened?”
Kai looked over his shoulder and smiled. “That bloke? He asked too many questions of your new mate Adili, right there.” He reached for his headset and adjusted the mic. Once the prisoners were onboard, Kai called back, “Aye, you lot—got your buckles fastened? Because we’re about to get aeronautical.” Garance fumbled with her harness as the bird ascended. Adili buckled his restraints and turned to check on the other passengers, his eyes met Garance’s and he smiled.
They were now several hundred feet above the old city, heading toward Puget Sound. Garance silently observed Trip, staring out the window. At last she leaned over and asked, “Who are you? What are you all about?” she asked.
“What are we about?” Trip turned and focused his icy blue his eyes on Garance. With a bitter smile, he replied, “We are all about to meet a Mossie packing Hellfires once HighTower gets word of this escape. So, like the Kiwi said, ‘buckle up.’”
Garance closed her eyes. Out of the frying pan and into the hellfire.
39 Reprisal
HighTower Office. New Seattle WA. Aug 26. 2033
47°32'59.7"N 122°02'38.7"W
“Computer, play today’s news cycle; correlate frequency of HighTower references, volume medium.” Amanda placed her briefcase on the desk and nodded to Flora as she took her seat. A translucent screen appeared and pixels flickered into recognizable forms. Amanda clicked on the desk top monitor and skimmed through correspondence as she listened to the newsfeed. Flora set Amanda’s latte beside the monitor. “There is a new message from Trip Ashfield on your corporate line. It was sent last night at 2330. Shall I play it, Director?”
“At once, Flora. I need all communications from Ashfield as soon as they arrive—consider it top priority.”
“Acknowledged. Here is the message in its entirety: ‘Loose ends tied up. No threads remain. Following up on a Haida Gwaii lead for Chen. Going dark, will surface within 24 hours.’ End of message. Shall I archive?”
“Yes, go ahead… But what does he mean by ‘going dark’? That’s a bit terse, even for Ashfield… Flora, please pull up the GPS track of his helicopter for the last 48 hours and locate his current position. Send it to my computer.”
“The information has been transmitted, however I am unable to locate any transmission from Trip Ashfield’s mobile device nor a readout from the helicopter transponder since 2300.”
“Have a scanner history run through the main computer.”
“I have checked on this already, Director Terrance. Negative for scanner confirmations on Trip Ashfield after August 15th. Last GPS coordinates: HighTower corporate…”
“Enough Flora. Get CEO Banks on the line for me, please.”
“At once.”
Amanda tapped one of her glossy nails against her lips as she contemplated Trip’s disappearance. Perhaps this is another one of his and Bank’s secret missions. I’m sick of being excluded from their good ol’ boys club. She glanced at the large screen as a journalist in front of the Capitol Building mentioned her name. “Computer, increase the volume to six,” Amanda reached for her latte and focused on the broadcast. A female reporter stood in front of an angry crowd. People shouted, holding signs that read: “HighTower to The Hague”; “Justice for victims” and “Shame on the HSA!” The reporter motioned behind her as she spoke. “As you can see, protesters have gathered on Capitol Hill demanding that the administration come clean about the fate of the Marshall Islands survivors from the July missile strike that killed over 300 refugees. We’ve received no comment from HighTower’s CEO regarding their disappearance, sources tell us that HSA west coast Director Amanda Terrance, has been linked—along with former director Richard Cross, to the attack. Repeated calls to Terrance’s office have gone unanswered. It’s safe to say that with the upcoming election, the administration is feeling the heat. For more on these recent developments we turn to our west coast correspondent…”
“Flora! Get me Banks.”
“My apologies, Director Terrance. Mr. Banks is on another line with the White House. His receptionist declines to put your call through at this time. However, I will notify…”
“Yes-yes, thank you.”
Amanda paced behind her desk. “Computer, show me international news; keywords: immigration, refugees and HighTower.” The screen switched to Globe Press News and Amanda scowled as Raj Kaleka’s features filled the screen. The scrolling text conveyed that Kaleka’s gala would have representatives from hundreds of countries. The “Project Floating Cities” launch had dominated news cycles during the last three days and Amanda was tired of hearing about it. She terminated the transmission as Flora announced that Nelson Banks was on the line. “Thank you, Put him on speaker.”
“Terrance? Nelson here. Make it quick.”
“Yes sir. I trust you’ve seen Ashfield’s recent message? I’m a concerned that we have no trace—no recent flight track since yesterday. There are no RFID records since he left HighTower ten days ago. Is this something to be concerned about?”
“Look Terrance, I won’t tell you again—leave Ashfield’s activities to me. He’s on the hunt and when that boy picks up a scent… well, he’s like a bloodhound. Trip has never let me down before, so keep that pointy little nose in your own business and quit sticking it where it doesn’t belong.” His voice trailed off and Amanda heard several swear words strung together aimed, no doubt, in her direction. “Now that these loose ends are being cleared up, we’ll get the press off this refugee horseshit… We can move on to bigger things, just like always.”
“Very well. I just don’t like my name linked to Richard Cross when it comes to culpability.”
“For Chrissake, Amanda. I don’t have time for hysterics. Grow a pair of cojones and get down to business. You want to know who has a big ol’ pair of cojones? Secretary Gorton does—and how do I know that? Because she’s been reaching down my throat all morning trying to pluck mine out and choke me with ‘em.” Amanda shut her eyes and rubbed her temples. She motioned for Flora to lower the volume as Banks continued. “Now, I’d suggest you get your agents out on the street and help Trip round up that renegade scientist. With all the foreign press and half of the third world heading to your part of the country for Kaleka’s gawddammed spectacle, we don’t need anyone bumping into that Chinaman. Comprendes?”
“I am in total agreement, sir.”
The line went dead. Amanda drew a long sigh, “That bastard is going to throw me under the bus as well.” She closed her eyes, pursed her lips briefly, then with a sharp rap on the table, she walked around her desk and made for the door. “Flora, I’ll be out of the office for a brief time. Please upload the last coordinates that Trip Ashfield transmitted on August 15th. I want them sent to my personal device only.”
“Affirmative. The coordinates are for a town called Old Massett on the northern coast of Haida Gwaii, population approximately 600 year-round residents…”
“Flora…”
“Yes, Director?”
“Please switch to silent-mode until I request otherwise.”
Unnamed Facility. Ho Chi Minh City. August 26. 2033
10°48'57.1"N 106°21'12.8"E
Enlai Hán picked up the receiver, “Wéi.”
Sea of a Thousand Words Page 37