The Stranded Ones

by Jay B. Gaskill

  Wu glanced at Falstaff, then Gael. It was Finnegan who finally answered. Gael’s color had returned, and the old vitality was not far behind. “Not to worry, Joe,” he said. “We needed him for an operation. He reported in. He’s fine.”

  “Where is Jay?”

  “South America,” Wu said; then he instantly thought better of the disclosure, vague as it was.

  “Maybe I could help…whatever he is doing.”

  “We may need you later for something,” Springer said, thoughtfully. “…When we’re certain what the next step is.”

  The tone of dismissal was unmistakable. “Okay, then,” Dixon said lightly. “Let me know if you need me.”

  “We should know something more in eight to 10 hours.”

  Dixon found his way outside the building complex, put on his sunglasses, and stepped into 113 degree heat. He walked quickly to the nearest hangar, where three of the smaller company jets were housed. Inside, he slipped into a small office, snapped on a cooling fan, and sat down at a plain desk. It was not his office, but the occupant rarely used it and never investigated the locked cabinet in the back of the tiny cleaning closet. Dixon waited until he was sure no one had followed, then spun in the chair, rolled over to the closet and pulled open the wooden door.

  Joe Dixon had found the perfect therapy for all of his resentments: betrayal was sweet solace indeed. And it paid very well in the bargain. Dixon brushed away the spiders and stopped. His pattern of deception and disloyalty was now almost two years old. He had sold Mr. Keen bits and pieces of information about GFE’s activities that would cause his bosses trouble, but not actually get anyone seriously hurt. He could rationalize petty revenge easily enough. Even the Toad Hall meeting’s disclosure seemed harmless at the time. How was he to know that his handlers would choose to blow the whole place to bits? Of course Dixon finally realized that he had crossed an irrevocable line, probably long before. Yet for the first time his situation called upon him to take a major step that would directly endanger Jay Robertson. He had to admit that Jay had been good to him. But Gael and Falstaff had not. And Wu? Well the tough little Mongolian was just in the way.

  A few months earlier, Dixon might have tried to convince himself that his treachery was in no way “personal.” But, as he had to admit to himself, the prospect of causing Falstaff and Gael’s deaths had not bothered him at all. What Dixon still could not to admit to himself was that he really craved to witness the destruction of two overly successful human beings.

  Yet, Joe Dixon still hesitated just a second before he pressed the nine digit combination. This was his unauthorized, encrypted SatPhone: his line to Thorander Keen.

  After the keypad to keypad handshake, Dixon’s voice identification, and the latest password, Joe Dixon took a deep breath. “At this time, Jay Robertson is personally engaged in a special operation in South America. I believe Gael and Falstaff intended to follow the Little Enemies’ trail, or whatever you call them, to Patagonia. I assume Wu got a request, maybe from someone who Robertson knows. Otherwise he’s too valuable to GFE to risk in the field. Robertson usually carries the same SatPhone with him. I’m going to use the keypad here to give you that transponder ID. If he uses it, you can locate him.” After one entry, he said, “Repeating.” Then after re-keying the number, he said, “Out.”

  Dixon’s hands were shaking badly. He fastened the case, carefully replaced a spider web, slid the box to the corner, covered it with dirty rags, and closed the closet door.

  Minutes later he was inspecting the wing of one of the planes.

  Patagonia Region, Argentina

  In the pre-dawn gloom, Jay Robertson and his tiny band were hiding among some bushes at the edge of a large grassy meadow, waiting as the eastern sky gathered orange light. Still shadowed from the approaching sunrise by a row of towering granite peaks, Robertson glanced at his watch. Just as the sun’s edge flashed between the bottom of the “V” shape between two peaks, he lit up the SatCom. There was an immediate beep. He heard a string of military acronyms that meant the mission had been compromised. “This is Daddy. FRED compromised! GTFO! Repeat. This is…”

  Shaken by the warning, Robertson instantly hit the kill switch. “Shit!” he whispered.

  “What was that about?” It was Carlos, speaking out loud from behind.

  “My SatCom is compromised. We need to get away from here quickly!”

  Carlos understood immediately. “We’ll take the forest, then,” he said with brisk resolve.

  “Lead out, Carlos,” Jay said.

  Carlos waved over one shoulder to the little group. “Follow me quickly.” The Little Ones hesitated for a beat. Robertson motioned vigorously for everyone to follow Carlos. Moments later, the two men were struggling to keep up with the Little Ones as they scampered past them, threading a path along a tree shrouded draw that led around the base of the mountain. Panting heavily, Carlos finally regained the lead. Robertson took up the rear, his L-rifle visible over one shoulder as he systematically scanned left, right and rear. The group sped along in single file, as sure-footed as if the escape had been rehearsed. After an hour, Jay brought them to a halt under a granite overhang.

  “What happened back there?” Carlos asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Jay said. “Obviously they called off the pickup because the ID signature of my SatCom was compromised somehow. There could be no other way for Torque’s people to locate…” Jay’s thoughts went silently to a dark place and he felt a deep chill. How did they know that? How did they learn about Toad Hall? Where is the leak? Who is the traitor?

  “We don’t have enough provisions to walk all the way out,” Carlos said. “Somehow we have to sneak back to the village.”

  “Let me think this through…” Jay was speaking quietly, almost to himself. He frowned, pacing for moment; then he stopped. “Carlos, you originally called us on a SatCom. Where is it now?”

  “In my pack. It’s a very small unit. Diablo used it. You’re thinking…”

  “Let me see.” Moments later, Carlos produced the unit; it was coal black, without brand markings, not much bigger than an old model cell phone. Jay turned it over and over in his hand. “Where did you get this thing?”

  “Diablo had his sources.”

  “I don’t get it. Such a tiny antenna! What satellite can this reach?”

  “Actually, it talks to a stratosphere balloon relay. The signal is rescrambled, then routed to a remote satellite. Very clever. Drug dealers here use a very expensive service out of Palo Alto.”

  “I see. Can they trace you?”

  “You are asking about a drug dealer. Diablo paid a fortune just so that it can’t be traced.”

  Robertson thought about it for a minute; then he smiled wryly. “Let’s hope his phone bill is current…” He would call Wu, routed through Citisle’s communications server. The location should be untraceable. “This becomes a life or death call for us, Carlos. Are you sure it can’t be traced? What do you really think?” Carlos shrugged wearily, as if saying, What the hell…Finally, Jay dialed, thinking, What the hell. After his voice ID was confirmed, and the routing codes entered, he heard Wu’s voice. “Jay?”

  “Hi Donald, I’m on Diablo’s phone.”

  “I knew it wasn’t yours. Are you all right?”

  “So far…How did you find out we were compromised?”

  “Two clues: Some very powerful assets were suddenly moved into your area on very short notice. Then we picked up some traffic from one of Torque’s operatives. We couldn’t unscramble all of it but one telltale came through…”

  “And that was?”

  “Your transponder ID, my friend. It was as conspicuous among all those coded transmissions as a nun at a gangsta’ reunion.”

  Robertson paused. “That was my thought. So…who would have had that number string?”

  “Other than you, me, Jay and the bosses? Only four people. All of them are our trusted employees. We’ve detained three of them.”

  “What
happened to number four?”

  “Joe Dixon?”

  “Oh…Then it has to be one of the three you have.”

  Wu hesitated before answering. “…We’re watching the situation closely.”

  “Okay then. Any suggestions about our predicament?”

  “What happened to that ET life-support pod?”

  “It’s under ice in a shallow lake about a five hours walk from here…near where I was originally dropped.”

  “If you can still get it, we have a plan.”

  “I believe I can. What do you have in mind?”

  “We won’t be able to employ any assets for several days. So I’m arranging to get you a truck in the village tomorrow, and some money, some disguises for you and Carlos, other goodies. And Father Ramón did check in. I briefed him and he is still helping at your end. So get in touch with as soon as you get to the village. Can you do that?”

  “Ramón will be waiting for us in the village, then?”

  “Affirmative. He’ll help see you off.

  “Okay. Where will we be going…ultimately?

  “You will probably exit through the Chile border and we’ll figure a pickup somewhere to be determined. The logical route would take you all the way down to sea level. The Little Ones can detox inside the pod every few hours while you’re below 1,800 meters. We’ll have a plane ready near the coast when the time comes. I may think of a plan “B” and “C” in the meantime…Save the rest of the questions for later, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh…one more thing.”

  “Still listening…” Jay noticed Wu’s dead serious undertone.

  “This extraction is entirely Jack Falstaff’s deal.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that Jack has a special safe haven in mind. Meaning that Finnegan is not in the loop on this aspect.”

  “What’s going on, Donald?”

  “Ruth was kidnapped. The bosses had a falling out. It’s complicated.”

  Robertson swallowed a follow up question. “Copy that,” he said, and powered down. He looked at Carlos.

  “Pod? What pod?” Carlos asked.

  “A special atmosphere for our little friends…I hope to hell that the pod didn’t sink or that the lake isn’t very deep.”

  “Who made thissss pod?” Winsome asked.

  “Falstaff’s engineers modified one of ours to sustain lower pressure, lower CO2 and humidity.”

  “Can we all fit at oncccce?”

  “Barely…Better two at a time. You could do it in shifts.”

  “Then we will jussst manage.” Winsome turned to the other three Little Ones. “It will be like the emergency landing unitsss you trained for. Jussst sssmaller.”

  “Won’t it be broken?” The question was from Funny.

  During this exchange, Carlos and Jay could only hear hissing and ultra high frequency noises, much like an old tape running at high speed. “They’re talking it over,” Carlos explained.

  “I gathered that.”

  Eventually the Little Ones were quiet. “Will this work?” Carlos asked Winsome.

  “It had better,” she said. “Or we will be annoyed.”

  Alien humor, Jay thought. “Okay. We have a long hike ahead.”

  Minutes later, the three Little Ones were singing something in English. “What’s that?” Jay asked.

  “Singing,” Carlos said.

  “I mean what song?”

  “An old Disney tune, I think. I let them watch sometimes…”

  “That’sss right,” Winsome said. “Very good, Robertsssson. Oncccce again: ‘Hi Ho, Hi Ho. It’sss off to work we go…”

  Rural Quebec

  The time for McCahan to leave Quebec had arrived, and he and Sam were having their first argument. “I can’t be certain that all of the data pack got sent to GFE, Sam. I have to assume that our offices in Chicago were raided and that the damage to Toad Hall was total.”

  Samantha turned to face Hugh in the front seat of the car outside the LeFevre ranch house. “I understand that part. You routed the data to Gael and Falstaff through the Quebec line. It was up to GFE to route it to Australia. You are prudent to assume that the attack prevented the transfer. And I even understand why you can’t afford to call them and just ask. Do I have all of that right?”

  “Yes. So I need to go to the backup server in Nevada in person and retrieve it.”

  “But why couldn’t I just use your password and retrieve Big Bird’s archive myself?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “But it can be done, right? You guys must have figured out how you could send a courier if both of you were in a jamb. Am I right?”

  “Sam, for the last time, I’m not going back without the data pack. That’s what we were hired to do. What are you trying to do?”

  “Hugh, they know you were at Toad Hall, but they don’t necessarily know you’re alive.”

  “So?”

  “They don’t even know who I am, let alone that I was there. You didn’t even know I was coming, right?”

  “Actually I did.”

  “Well of course because Finnegan told you my name. But I was a secret addition to the Toad Hall gathering, okay? And your partner Springer was actually arrested for the burglary.”

  “Detained under a false name. So?”

  “So you guys have a certain signature. They will know it was your work. Correct?”

  “Correct.” Hugh sighed.

  “You say Big Bird is in Nevada?”

  “Reno. So?”

  “You know you’ll be followed on the way there.”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  “Yes you are. But when did you master the art of invisibility?”

  “Your point being?”

  “That I could do it easily, because they don’t know I was even in Quebec.”

  “Damn it, Sam…”

  “‘Damn it Sam’ isn’t an argument, Hugh. You are needed by Falstaff and Gael, ASAP. It is cleaner for them to pick you up here in Quebec and get you there straight off in one of the company jets. Then I could join you with Big Bird’s recovered data file a few days later…wherever you end up. Or maybe I’d first set up a drop, say on a visit to San Francisco, since I’ll be near the West Coast anyway; then I join you, when it’s safe. It’ll be fairly easy. Hey, it’s a reasonable plan, admit it. Anything along those lines would work better than leading your enemies to Big Bird.” Hugh glowered in silence. “You are probably number one on the ‘most wanted’ list. Can you even take the chance? You could plan the details for me. After all, you’re the professional spook.”

  “That’s why I’m the one who should pick up Big Bird’s files. I’m trained…”

  “That’s right. You’re the pro, Hugh. So think like the cold hearted spy I know you really are.” She smiled. “Any risk to me is negligible compared to your exposure. You have to assume they’re actively looking for you. A reasonable assumption, no?” Hugh nodded reluctantly. “Do you want to jeopardize your entire data repository?” Hugh shook his head. “Have you mastered the art of invisibility?” Hugh looked out the car window, suppressing a smile.

  Gotcha, he thought.

  “Well?”

  Hugh was blushing. “Damn it, Sam.”

  “Don’t be so stubborn.”

  “I meant, damn it, you’re starting to make some sense…”

  Sam started the engine. “I knew you’d see it my way…”

  “Here’s the deal,” Hugh said. “GFE does this stuff all the time. Their safe houses and escape protocols are predetermined. For right now, it is a safe house in Florida. GFE has a whole network of these places all over the world. This one has its own airfield. After you get the data, I’ll work out a drop for you on the West Coast, and a contact who will arrange to get you where you’re supposed to be. Okay?”

  “Deal,” she said grinning. “Now all you have to do is educate me about spy craft. And how to stay in touch.”

  �
�You’re crafty enough as it is, girl.”

  Sam reached across the seat and ruffled Hugh’s hair.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - KIDNAP ISLAND

  For Ruth, an eternity had passed. Her prison was a bedroom in a small compound somewhere in tropical climate. She had been blindfolded for a van ride, a flight and a trip in the back of another van, then taken to this room where her blindfold was removed by some dull functionary who had never returned. Thereafter her food and toiletries were brought and removed twice a day by a dumb serving robot. Keen had checked in silently, coldly only twice, as if he was checking food in a freezer. There was absolutely no communication with the outside world, no further attempts to question her and no news or human contact. Ruth thought she would go mad with fear and boredom.

  At night she could hear the whirring motors of that damn alien’s metal and glass cage. She could smell its stench when it rolled past her door. The highlight of her day was watching small tropical birds flit past the hedge that blocked the view from her window.

  On the morning of her fifteenth day, she looked up from her chair with a start. The door was open. Then her heart chilled when she noticed the alien. It had been watching her quietly from the doorway. By now Ruth was impossibly lonely and so bored that her fear had gradually drained away, leaving a faint residue of anger and worry. She decided to acknowledge the ugly creature’s presence with a curt, “What the hell do you want?”

  “I think I should tell you: your stock as a prisoner has just fallen,” it said. Its artificial voice had the timber and pitch of a bass viol.

  “Is that so? I thought they were just waiting so they could interrogate me,” she replied. The creature’s Life-support Module whirred toward her across the threshold of the bedroom doorway. A rubber tire squeaked slightly on the tile floor in the hallway as the 175 kilo machine lifted the alien and its portable environment onto the bedroom carpet. “So where is that bastard, Keen?”