“I’m all in,” Hugh said. “I last ate, if that’s the word, with Donald.” Hugh winked broadly.
After Wu left, Hugh sat on the edge of the bed, joining Springer in the meal. In between bites Sprin grew increasingly agitated.
“I’ve never seen you quite so pissed off, Lew. Do you want to talk about it?” Springer really was as angry as any time Hugh could remember.
“Hugh, those rat bag bastards froze all of our company bank accounts.” Springer almost spit his eggs. “Sorry,” he said, reaching for a napkin.
“They can’t do that…What rat bag bastards?”
“Some US agency operating in concert with Torque has done it.”
“Torque?”
“Of course. And they are finally executing a search warrant for our mainframe memory.”
“Really? Can we throw them off by leaving garbage data in the mainframe? A full erasure would put them on alert.”
“Rajeesh did that for us yesterday.”
“Good. They’re not trying to find anything in Nevada are they?”
“Nobody knows about Nevada.” Springer wiped his mouth. “Doctor Sam did very, very well. They already have a copy of the data pack in Lake Disappointment Ops.”
Hugh smiled. Then he immediately sobered. “Lew, what’s the real story with Ruth and the leak?”
Springer stopped eating. “They’re following Sherlock Holmes’ maxim.”
“I get it. All of the possible suspects are good, trusted people, some close to Gael, some to Robertson. When you eliminate the impossible, the remainder, however improbable, is the answer?”
“So they’re eliminating suspects one by one. Falstaff is playing things very tight. We’re supposed to be doing a trap play today designed to finger or eliminate a key suspect. So you are going to Denver, my friend. Close to the belly of the beast. The area is thick with Torque’s agents. You will show up at the Travelers’ Express lounge, trade identical athletic bags there. Yours has money, the other supposedly will contain directions to Ruth’s location.”
“I take it that this is a trap for me as well?”
“Probably. There is the slimmest of chances that an informant will take your money and give us Ruth’s location. But don’t believe that. Treachery is expected. So Wu and company are counting on your usual resourcefulness under pressure and our unreasonable good luck. You will carry a booby-trapped bag. If and when they spring a trap on you, you leave it and run like hell. You’ll be carrying a one-time pad transponder to detonate it from a safe distance.”
“So who is the prime suspect?”
“Jack and Donald just won’t say. Wu just says to tell you that you can trust only him, me, Sam, Finnegan, Jay and Jack. Outside that short list, everybody is suspect as hell.”
“So you figure that Wu knows something suspicious about the target?”
Springer nodded vigorously, but said, “I just work for these blokes, Hugh. Your partner ain’t a mind reader. Donald is just not saying. That’s Donald Wu. Wheels within wheels, my good man. We have to trust both Falstaff and Wu on this.”
“We? Where the hell are you in all this operation?”
“As far as GFE staff are concerned, I’m not.”
“Come on. No backup?” Hugh stared at his partner in disbelief
“Don’t bloody worry so much, Hugh.”
After meeting Springer, McCahan asked Wu if he could locate Dixon right away. “I’ll have him up in a flash,” Wu said. When Hugh returned to the kitchen to get a breakfast roll, he found a small, sallow man with thinning gray hair. He was slouching at the dining table.
“Joe Dixon?” Hugh asked.
“You must be McCahan. I understand you need a lift, sir?”
“Sorry about the late notice.”
“Don’t be. Everything is sudden here.” Dixon smiled.
“Well, it develops that I have an urgent business matter that will require me to fly to Denver as soon as possible.”
“Okay.”
“Can you avoid logging a flight plan?”
“Mr. Robertson doesn’t hire idiots, at least not to fly his planes. What we do in a situation, Mr. McCahan, is log multiple flight plans for a whole host of fictitious aircrafts. Without a flight plan, we’d likely be shot down.”
“Unpleasant. Well, thank you. Let me know when the plane is ready.” Dixon, nodded, grabbed his coffee and left
Hugh sat alone at the table, trying to clear his thoughts. As he reached for a cup, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into Samantha’s face. “How long have you been here?”
She kissed him on the mouth. “Five minutes,” she said, brushing her hair back. “Donald says you have a quick mission.”
“Damn,” he said. “I guess I do. Well I should be back within the day.”
“You do that,” Sam said, and kissed him again. “I’ll keep the bed warm.”
Two hours later, the horizon was shot through with dawn, but the wind still cold. Samantha searched the sky for the contrail of the departing ELF 4 that carried Hugh and Dixon. There was a terrible sense of foreboding about all this, heightened by what she had just learned from Don Wu. The good news was that Ruth was alive and apparently well. The bad news was that Torque was using her for all the hostage value he could and Finnegan was on the verge of giving in…whatever that meant.
The Denver Op
Hugh landed in Denver midmorning on a sunny day. While Dixon stayed with the plane, he left on foot for the Travelers’ Express Club where the clandestine pickup/exchange was supposed to take place. Wu’s sources claimed that a clue to Ruth’s location could be bartered for 200,000 American dollars. While darkly suspicious of the offer, Donald and Jack had agreed that the “effort would be instructive.” Hugh was forewarned, if not fully briefed. Wearing a blazer, tie and glasses, he carried an athletic bag full of replaceable currency and booby trapped with an explosive device. He found an unoccupied AutoRide and rode it directly to the club.
“May check take that for you, sir?” The club’s valet pointed at the bag. Hugh glanced around the club. No one had yet noticed his entrance. “No thanks,” he said, flashing a membership card. He tossed his bag on the AutoRide just outside the door, then paused to check his watch. Five minutes early. He headed straight for the lounge, card in hand, through the automatic doors, and selected a table with a view of the other patrons. He ordered a plain soda.
Hugh had chosen not to change his appearance for the exchange and Wu had not disclosed the identity of the person GFE was sending. Hugh carefully scanned the room. In the corner of the room, he noticed a heavy-set man, looking outside the window. His back was to McCahan, but something about the man’s stance set his teeth on edge. Next to the man was an identical athletic bag. Hugh’s survival instincts were triggered. This is too pat. Where is Springer? Backup, hell…Alarm bells ringing in his head, Hugh left a five dollar bill next to his drink and quietly got up. Just as he neared the door, Hugh could see the man’s reflection in the window. The man had abruptly turned around, and for a split second, he seemed to recognize Hugh. It was just a flicker, but one of those lifesaving intuitions had served Hugh well before. Hugh swiftly stepped outside the club.
“Turn around, McCahan.” The door had not closed behind him; the voice from inside the doorway was cold and menacing, particularly because Hugh knew its owner would be armed. Hugh pretended to ignore the voice, continuing calmly to the corner of the building. There he suddenly slipped out of the man’s sightline. Spotting a nearby hangar Hugh sprinted with all the speed he could muster without a glance back. Still no shots…They want to interrogate me…
At the hangar, he faded to the right, finally well out of the line of sight of any pursuer where he found an open door. Hugh quickly stepped in and pulled the door gently closed behind him. Two or three beats later rapid footsteps approached, then stopped. Hugh estimated that his pursuer was on the other side of the door, near the inside edge. Hugh pulled out his heavy L-pistol. Then he noticed another
open door behind him on the opposite side of the hangar. Dashing around a Cessna Eagle, he stepped outside the door, moved to one side and stopped.
The sound of a door opening was followed by footsteps echoing inside the hangar. “McCahan!” The voice was just inside the doorway Hugh had just exited. Hugh’s L-pistol was on full charge. He fired point blank into the building, just to the left of the estimated position of the voice, aiming about chest high. The flash of white hot metal was accompanied by a howl of pain. Hugh leaped into the opening. The man who had followed him was rubbing a smoldering wound in his right shoulder.
His right hand hung loosely at his side, still clutching his pistol. McCahan kicked the weapon hard and it clattered across the concrete, striking the Cessna’s landing gear. The agent cried out in fury, turning to face McCahan. Hugh braced the L-pistol, police style, aiming dead center at the other man’s chest.
“Get out your cuffs,” McCahan barked. “And move slowly. I’ve been known to pull the trigger for no good reason.” While the agent was fumbling at his belt with his left hand, Hugh quickly stepped behind him and picked up the gun from the pavement. It was a custom, 55-mm semi-automatic, a mid-range “personnel control” weapon, one capable of inflicting grievous damage with a single hit. Regular law enforcement agencies weren’t permitted to carry them, but certain irregular shadow agencies routinely did. The man, whom Hugh now assumed to be one of Torque’s agents, suddenly turned on him. Apparently bent in suicidal retribution, the agent lunged for the pistol Hugh had just recovered. Hugh swiftly felled the man with his own weapon, delivering a crunching blow to the chin. The large man dropped like a doll to the pavement. Hugh pocketed the clip of unexpended rounds, emptied the chamber, and tossed the agent’s empty pistol onto the concrete. Hugh left the hangar on the run.
Outside, he heard shouts. He paused long enough to pull a transponder from his jacket. Peering around a corner, he could see four agents standing near his AutoRide, peering at his tote bag, two of them with guns in hand. Hugh activated the destruct signal. The bag exploded and several hundred counterfeit (and a few genuine) bills scattered in the air, many of them spontaneously bursting into flame. The concussion rocked a sedan parked in the Travelers’ Express parking lot, and all four agents fell like wooden soldiers. The blast was designed to incapacitate without killing. In the moments it took for the agents to struggle to their feet, Hugh had looked around unsuccessfully for another AutoRide; then spotted an unattended self-powered baggage cart about a hundred meters away and began sprinting before the agents were on their feet. Not looking back, he reached the cart fifteen seconds ahead of four men who were now running flat out behind him. As he pulled away in the cart, he got off three shots in quick succession at his pursuers, scorching the tarmac just in front of their feet. They scattered and he lost sight of them.
In another minute, Hugh spotted the ELF, fully fueled and in taxi position in a clear runway. He abandoned the cart and began running. Just as the distance between McCahan and the plane closed, the jet suddenly turned and began to taxi away from him. What the hell is Dixon doing? Then Hugh saw a figure climbing on the fuselage behind the pilot. Springer! Lew was pounding on the cockpit bubble with an ax handle. Hugh redoubled his speed as the jet began to turn in a broad circle. Lew continued pounding on the bubble with his ax and the plane drifted across the runway as if out of control.
Now Hugh had a clear shot at the cockpit bubble. While Lew moved to the side, leaving a sightline, Hugh aimed his L-pistol weapon directly at Dixon’s face. He could see Lew’s lips moving, shouting at Joe Dixon. Finally, Dixon touched the control panel, the engine died, and the side door to the craft opened.
Hugh paused, looking in vain for the pursuing agents. “Get in there and hold him, Lew!” he shouted. Springer came down from the fuselage, dashed up the steps and moved directly to the cockpit. In seconds Hugh could see his old friend holding an electric stunner against Dixon’s head. Then Hugh climbed aboard, retracted the stairs, and dogged the door.
When Hugh reached the cockpit, he sat in the copilot’s seat, while Springer continued to hold the stunner against Dixon’s head. “Hold it just above the temple, Lew, for maximum brain damage. Good…in that position. Fill me in.”
“Donald was to get me here well ahead of you, but I was late. Dixon cleverly booked a later arrival, then beat his own time. When I got here, you had just left for the club. So I hid outside the plane watching Dixon. He pretended to be talking to the Tower, but he’d obviously changed the frequency and was reporting to someone else. When I spotted you running, it was obvious what was going on, so I climbed aboard the wing.”
“Of course now it makes sense,” Hugh said. “Somebody had to know about the meeting at Gael’s lodge. Dixon, you knew about the meeting, didn’t you? As Robertson’s pilot, you would have to.”
“And he was one of only four people who knew the ID number of Robertson’s SaCom.”
“You’re so busted, Dixon…” Hugh had taken the stick into his hand and restarted the engines. The plane began taxiing down the runway.
“Hugh can you really fly this thing?”
“Sure…on a simulator.”
“Maybe Mr. Treachery here could be persuaded to help.” Springer pressed the business end of the weapon against Dixon’s skull.
Hugh turned to face Dixon. “Gael may be a bit of a softie, but Robertson or Falstaff will drop you from the air over the ocean if you aren’t very, very nice right now. And I think your employers will vivisect you when we turn you over to them with a story of how you were working for us all along as a double agent.”
“I wasn’t. You wouldn’t,” Dixon choked.
“It’s one of the hazards of double dealing, mate,” Springer said. “Neither side can ever be sure of your loyalty. It’s why turncoats can never buy life insurance.”
“Of course, with me at the controls…” McCahan drawled, “…and four agents trying to shoot at us, you won’t live another ten minutes anyway.”
Springer tapped the stunner against Dixon’s temple. “On maximum power, this can permanently damage your brain, without stirring a hair. Why don’t you get us off this bloody runway, flight plan or no flight plan?” Hugh noticed two running figures closing on the right, and a large sedan approaching directly ahead. “Or maybe you want to spend your last days drooling in a nursing home…”
“Now!” Springer shouted and Hugh gunned the throttle.
“I’ll fly now!” Dixon said. Responding instinctively, Dixon expertly maneuvered past the approaching car and got the little jet in the air in a record distance.
An hour later, it was apparent that the jets built-in EEC program (“Encryption, Evasion & Confusion”) had baffled any pursuers in the crowded air space.
McCahan then opened a secure channel to Wu. “Donald,” he began, “I’m in Jay’s ELF a little behind schedule, ETA 14:00 hours. We’ve confirmed the source of your security problem. Tell Sam to pour some scotch for four.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN - ALIEN TRICKS
The Andes, on to Chile
The truck rolled down the Western side of the Andes range, while two men and four aliens rode in silence. Finally Jay spoke from the driver’s seat: “We don’t have an altimeter?” Jay was addressing Carlos as the truck bounded down a dirt road. But Carlos was asleep in the tiny back seat. “Carlos!” Jay shouted. “When is altitude a problem for the Little Ones?”
“The Little Ones get sick at lower elevations.” Carlos offered this while leaning over the seat, rubbing his eyes. “I’d start worrying at about 5,600 feet or so.”
“When exactly does this get to be a problem, then?” Jay asked.
“Tomorrow about noon,” Carlos said, “when we descend after the next pass.”
Jay stared at the road in silence for a while. “Carlos, can you see them? Are they okay?” Carlos peered out through the slide window in the rear of the cab in response to Robertson’s concern. The truck bed was the old-fashioned hoop and canvas design. It
had been loaded like the wagon it resembled with a jumble of fuel cans, household objects, crates and canisters. The recovered life-support pod, mud-smeared and draped in an old blanket, was nestled toward the front, under a crate of empty soda cans. The Little Ones had pulled up the canvas on the truck sides a few inches so they could watch the passing alpine landscape. Ramón waved out his window, and Winsome (or was it Funny?) waved back from under the canvas. “I think they’re okay for now,” Carlos said.
By nine, the truck had reached dry pavement. At midnight they stopped in an empty pullout near a cleared place where a campfire someone had made, then abandoned, was still smoldering in the cold air. The Little Ones clattered eagerly outside and made themselves busy preparing food while Carlos and Jay gathered firewood. The two men watched in amazement as the aliens produced small utensils, bottles and cans, then swiftly produced three bowls of complicated looking gruel. Winsome approached with an extended arm. She was holding out a cup. “I couldn’t,” Carlos said.
“Harmlesss to uss both,” she said. “Drink ssssome, pleassse.”
He took a cautious sip. It was hot coffee. “Delicious,” he said. “How did you heat that up?”
“Alien trickssss,” Cherish said. Funny and Winsome giggled.
Then Robertson finally started the fire using his own high-tech expedient. “A laser weapon?” Carlos sputtered. “That’s cheating.”
“Old soldiers always cheat,” Jay said.
Later that night, Carlos watched the Little Ones as they stared at the stars. He was afraid to ask the obvious question (“Can you see home from here?”) and they didn’t volunteer. The long moment passed in silence; then one by one they filed into the truck bed for the night. It was impossible to miss the aura of immense, wrenching sadness.
The next day, Carlos pulled off the highway at 11:00 AM. “We’re close to 1,900 meters and descending,” he said. “They may start getting sick from here out.”
When Jay opened the rear of the truck, he could only see three Little Ones. “Where’s…?” He paused, embarrassed he was unable to name the missing one.
The Stranded Ones Page 20