Paradise Warrior

by Jack Dey

  "Talking about labs, I sent a sample of the burn mark on the top of Sam's car to an industrial chemist friend in Sydney for analysis. He says it is mainly iron, but it has been superheated and exposed to some type of catastrophic force, to change the crystalline make-up of the particles."

  "What on earth does that mean?" Ryan looked puzzled.

  "I examined the area around the car and the same burn mark continued around the ground, in a circle," Dulcet explained.

  "W-a-i-t a minute! What are you wanting me to swallow here, Dulcet? Sam was abducted by a UFO?!"

  "I don't know what to think. I just know it doesn't make sense. Blair was there with me and he thinks someone is trying to take the heat off the Magician, by creating a diversion. The Magician was in Sam's car and I believe whatever, or whoever, made this mark scared the living daylights out of him and he took off on foot at high speed."

  Dulcet continued, "Why would someone want to take the heat off the Magician, if he was in the car and took off like a frightened rabbit? And then there are the marks on Sam's and Leanne's necks, that neither remember getting and they both complained of feeling like they had been hit in the stomach. Then, your policewoman didn't have the wound on her neck."

  "Come on, Dulcet. I've trusted your judgement up to now. Don't go all kooky on me," Ryan pleaded. "Keep away from the media with this. They will have a field day with you and your career. Not to mention mine."

  "Then what made the burn mark?"

  "I don't know, but I have to go. Don't implicate me by sharing anything of this with anyone," Ryan warned.

  The two men parted company, waiting for the Magician's next move.

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 46

  The council convened for the first time in their new facility; the members were flown in after dark and had no idea where the facility was located.

  "Why the secrecy, Ziegler, and why aren't we allowed to know where we are?"

  "Patience, Chief. When we are all here, we can begin."

  One more person slipped quietly into the room. The small room was just barely large enough to accommodate the table and chairs and the twelve people surrounding it.

  "Now that everyone is here, we can begin. Firstly, welcome to our new facility. The chief wanted to know why you were all brought here under tight security. I can assure you we have good reason and indeed, we have grave concerns: we have a mole in our midst."

  A murmur rippled through the meeting.

  "How can that be, Ziegler? We all have top security clearance and have been checked out by our own countries' finest security people."

  "We cannot security check intention, Chief. We might be committed to the task in the beginning but certainly, it would seem, one of us is developing cold feet, to borrow a human expression."

  "How do you know this?" came a female voice from the rear.

  "I don't intend to divulge our methods, dear professor. It is sufficient to say we are taking every precaution in such groundbreaking work. Your governments are jostling each other to gain the technology secrets we possess and we want your cooperation in developing the seed. Any breech in security will be dealt with swiftly–and determinedly."

  Another ripple went through the meeting at Ziegler's threat.

  "Yeah, what about the seed? I believe we have drawn two blanks," came a voice from the table.

  Ziegler sighed. "As you keep reminding me, Commander. Our representative in the bank has seen the seed. They made a mistake in identifying it, but they assure me that they have narrowed it down to one last sample and that is being dealt with, as we speak. Then the real work can begin, once we have the specimen. All preparations associated with the seed programme are well underway, while the requirements are being met and the equipment is nearly complete. Isn’t that correct, Professor?"

  Ziegler turned his head toward the old, white haired professor and the professor nodded in agreement. Ziegler made the old professor nervous and the threat he had just made dried up his mouth with fear and he could not speak.

  "Don't forget the programme we discussed," another excited female voice drifted from the rear of the table.

  "Yes, of course, Professor. I was getting to that. One of our new projects requires some, shall I say, guinea pigs. I gather none of you will be volunteering for experimentation with our new retrovirus?"

  Ziegler scanned the room, mocking those present with his sarcasm and then nodded to the female professor, affirming her comment.

  "We need to gather a group of guinea pigs who won't be missed, while their bodies will be used to incubate the new RV and study its effect on human tissue. Then, we can develop an antivirus, to inoculate the elect, thereby ensuring our survival in the coming battle. It has been suggested that a large movement of boat people is happening worldwide. These displaced peoples will be perfect for our tests. They are all illegals, escaping countries for whatever nefarious purposes, and without proper identification. We intend to assist their efforts and help them disappear, while our collection methods of the guinea pigs will go unnoticed. Of course, only after being cleared with governments at high level and we have been assured of their cooperation."

  A professor stammered, then cleared his voice, "Is there no other way than to test on humans?"

  "Professor, are we having an attack of conscience? Or do you forget the cost of your own project?"

  The professor went quiet and flushed red with embarrassment.

  "If that is all, ladies and gentlemen, then you will be returned to your respective parts of the world as soon as night falls. I close the meeting."

  *~*~*~*

  Seated at his desk, Ryan contemplated the results of his latest operation with the Magician while writing up his report for senior police. As he transcribed the results of his actions with Tina and the trap they had set, he chided himself.

  "We nearly had the freak!"

  Senior police had been placed under considerable pressure from politicians, and the politicians, in turn, had been pressured from a nervous public, demanding the Magician case be solved. Subsequently, Ryan was under threat to perform or face being relieved from the case. It had all fallen apart when Tina went missing, and feeling the strain, Ryan’s resolve had collapsed and he had found himself on the edge. Then unwittingly, Dan had given him a pep talk, refocusing his mind with his words of encouragement. Unknowingly, the pastor had thrown him a lifeline and at the news that Tina was alive and okay, he had recharged like a battery on steroids. Come what may, Ryan was going to nail this creep.

  At Ryan's request, his office phone had been equipped with immediate trace-and-record functions. Dulcet had warned him that the Magician would try again and he wasn’t taking any chances of missing a lead.

  Ryan was ready.

  He had just finished his report and after a quick proofread, emailed it to his inspector. He expected some form of backlash once the report had been read and then tabled to the Commissioner.

  Ryan had just pushed his chair out, to get a coffee, when his desk phone rang.

  "Detective Ryan."

  "Very good, Detective. I didn't think you had it in you to work out my little riddle. Did you have help? The game has just stepped up a notch, so listen carefully! Once is a gift, but twice is a bonus. Let the performance begin!"

  Then the phone went dead.

  Ryan's mouth went dry as he nervously pushed the recall function. He figured the mobile phone was stolen again, while the trace showed he was on the other side of the city and moving. He gave the information to police tactics and let them handle the phone. It would only lead them to a rubbish bin as before, anyway.

  *~*~*~*

  Dulcet fidgeted with his computer, tidying his files. Blair had disappeared for the day on some official assignment and Dulcet had run out of work. He was contemplating an earlier knock off, when the office phone rang and scared him half to death. He stared at the jangling device, wondering whether Blair had read his intentions and was about to assign him extra wor
k. Hesitantly, he reached for the phone, expecting to hear Blair’s voice.

  "Private Dulcet."

  "Dulcet, it's Ryan. He's made contact."

  Dulcet had to concentrate hard, expecting Blair and hearing Ryan.

  "W...What?! When?"

  "Just a few moments ago."

  "What did he say?"

  Ryan filled Dulcet in with the details and then gave him the riddle. "Once is a gift but twice is a bonus. He's obviously going to try again for Sam the second time," Ryan declared.

  "Yeah, I agree, but that seems a little too obvious to me. And how does he know where Sam is...? No, you are not going to use her as bait, Ryan, so forget that right up front."

  Ryan was quiet for a long moment.

  "Oh, you slime ball!"

  "What, me?!" Dulcet complained.

  "No, not you. Listen to this, Dulcet. Once is a gift: Sam Young. And twice is a bonus: Leanne Bates. He knows the women are together and he is going after them both."

  "Yep, I think you've got it. Ryan, you have to get them out of there!"

  "I have a plan, but this time, I need you to help me."

  *~*~*~*

  Leanne and Sam had been chattering away like two old friends. They discovered their enjoyment of similar things and they’d hit it off together, straight from the start. They compared their experiences of the past months and examined the scar on each other's neck. In some strange way, the scar represented a form of belonging, a sisterhood. Tom had kept his eye on the two ladies, like a mother hen, and now he had gone home, tired out and was heading for bed. It was close to midnight when Sam announced her intention to retire to her bed in the spare room.

  Leanne yawned. "Yep, that sounds like a good idea," she said through her yawn.

  She picked up Lord Nelson and gave him a quick cuddle and placed him on his bed on the lounge, then flicked off the kitchen light, called a goodnight to Sam and retired to her bed.

  *~*~*~*

  Two darkly clad figures, their faces covered with blackout grease, picked their way through the carport of the house behind Leanne's, while Leanne's darkened house was their signal to proceed. A dog gave the beginnings of a growl and was quickly silenced by a tranquiliser dart, launched from a silenced airgun. One figure crouched down, took in the surrounds and then silently motioned to the other with a hand signal, to continue on. His partner carried a backpack and approached the dividing fence between Leanne's place and her neighbour's. Silently and without effort, he slipped over the six foot high fence like it was a step. He crouched down on the other side and again surveyed his surrounds... clear. He stood next to the fence and waved his hand over the top. Soon he was joined by a second figure.

  Silently, one of them gestured and pointed to a high window above Leanne's bathroom; a flyscreen strip was open to the outside air, to ventilate the room. Acknowledging the gesture, the other figure nodded. Effortlessly, he removed his backpack and then assembled a plastic device, similar to a periscope, and screwed a can to the bottom end and placed the top end against the open, flywire strip. They waited until the can had emptied itself into the house. While the gas was odourless, it had the capacity to tranquilise a large human being for at least three hours.

  The second figure removed a set of latch picks from his pocket and gently played with the lock until it gave way and clicked open under his skilled hand. He pushed the door open, until it was stopped by a security chain, then squeezed his hand behind the door and forced the chain from its securing point, while the door opened into the back of the kitchen. Both figures pulled masks over their faces and entered the house. Then in a fluid movement, the two figures exited the house, carrying a roll of blankets each. Quickly and effortlessly, they carried the rolls over the fence and into the neighbour's yard.

  A block away, a black coloured panel van, parked next to a vacant lot, silently slid its sliding door open and the two figures carefully deposited their rolls onto the van floor. Four more dark figures, carrying assault weapons, joined the two and the van drove off. Silently, the six stole back into Leanne's backyard and waited at the back door, while another container was emptied into the house. Fifteen minutes passed, then one figure entered the house, without his mask. He returned and gave a follow me signal. The six disappeared into the house and the back door closed again quietly.

  *~*~*~*

  At 2.30 am, a dark coloured sedan pulled up out the front of Leanne Bates' duplex. He had done his reconnaissance earlier that day and knew that the women were inside. The old man had gone home and a pair of stone coloured eyes had watched him leave, from a safe distance. It was obvious that the young detective hadn't figured out his little riddle and he felt a little annoyed that this next move was going to be so easy, yet the disappearance of both women was a daring trick he hadn't performed before. He expected his audience would gasp, adding to his fame.

  Leanne Bates' car was parked in the carport, right where it should be. He picked the front door locks; reached his skinny hand in behind the ajar door and flicked the chain off its latch; then silently stole into the dark house; removed a bottle and cloth from his pocket; and found Leanne's bedroom. In the semidarkness, he could see her figure lying in the bed, and with a quick motion, dabbed the cloth with the contents of the bottle and walked towards the figure.

  In an instant, he lost his footing and crumpled to the floor. Before he knew what was going on, his hands were behind his back, and in handcuffs.

  Six large figures were standing over him with assault weapons aimed at his head.

  He couldn't make out the faces of his assailants, but he knew he had just walked into a clever trap.

  "Nightingale One... suspect secured... game over!" a whispered voice called out in the darkness.

  A voice responded over his shoulder transceiver, "Nightingale Base, confirming you have suspect in custody. Good job!"

  Another black van arrived out the front of Leanne's place. Five dark clad figures climbed into another van, carrying a roll of blankets, and sped away. The sedan started its engine and followed the van, while the street remained quiet and undisturbed.

  No one would know what had just taken place in their own backyards.

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 47

  Billiton Island had proved to be a Godsend, even though it had cost them precious days. By the time the Rocky Point Lighthouse had come into view, the old plank boat was leaking so badly, it was beginning to sink. Entering a small, protected bay, the old man had steered the vessel for the calm shore and beached the boat on a sandbar, just into the falling tide. His hope was that the soft, white sand would act like a cradle and support the vessel, holding it upright, once the water receded. The old wooden boat was way overloaded and if the sand didn't support the weight evenly, the vessel would roll over, crack, or worse: snap in half.

  Some of the local people saw the boat arrive and at an inflated price, supplied the old man with a large barrel of pitch. The old man waited anxiously, watching the water run out, leaving the old boat high and dry. He jumped over the side, sinking to his ankles in the moist, white sand, then dropping to his haunches, he examined the hull, listening for telltale cracking noises. When it looked like the sand had trapped his boat in an upright position and supported it evenly, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  While the gaps halfway up the hull were wide enough to cause significant leakage and sink his vessel, the sticky tar would temporarily seal the leaks and hold the planks watertight.

  The passengers watched the old man taking handfuls of tar from the barrel and force it into the gaps between the planks. They soon caught on to the need to coat the old planks, before the tide came rushing back in. They followed his example, taking handfuls of the thick, sticky substance and pushed it into the open gaps.

  Except for a short reprieve, the sun beat down on the small group nearly all day, burning their unprotected skin. A small, dark cloud lazily hovered over them, as if captivated by curiosity, before losing interest and mo
ving on, while exposing them once again to the mercy of the full sun. The sticky, black substance, once it came into contact with skin, did not remove easily and had to wear off vulnerable body parts, but the discomfort of sticky fingers was far outweighed by a leak-proofed boat.

  They were just applying the last drops of tar as the sun was sinking and the tide was rising. Once they had finished, the hull looked like a modern era patchwork art. But most of the black and brown splotches were below waterline and invisible to the searching eyes of the authorities. The hope of their future, lay in the promise provided by the sticky contents of the pitch barrel, and if this fix didn't work, their hopes would be as empty as the barrel the sticky substance came in.

  The little band of intrepid boat repairers watched anxiously in the twilight, from the protection of the sandbar. The rising water swirled around their legs and gently lifted the old boat from the sand and it began to float again. Soon the group reboarded, checking the bilge carefully for leaks. For now at least, the boat was watertight.

  The old man cranked the engine into life and the familiar pop, pop, pop alerted all that the boat was underway. He steered the vessel to a nearby dock and tied up, then shut down the engine once more. The tired out passengers made their way to the shore, and the first solid night sleep since Natuna Besar, over a week ago.

  In the morning, the process of taking on drinking water, fuel and supplies began for the second time; the old man painstakingly aware that this was the last stop between Billiton Island and Australia. The treachery of the open Indian Ocean lay ahead of them, taunting them, daring them to challenge the great expanse of water and survive its calculating and unquenchable fury. He swallowed heavily and doubted whether anyone else aboard had any idea how slim their chances of survival really were. It would be imperative to make their provisions stretch, lasting for two to three weeks, if they had any chance at all. Conserving every drop of water was critical.

  The sail needed to be used as much as possible until they entered the South Java current, and before the prevailing southeast trade winds made the sail useless. The Java current would be their only propulsion, leaving the engine for emergencies only. If the boat drifted too far south, a current travelling in the opposite direction would grab hold of them, turning them around and taking them deep into the Indian Ocean and away from their destination.