“So, what’s in the bag?”
“Some books. My two favorite prayer rugs, one I bought in Saudi after my hajj, a portable drive with all my files and digital treasures, my father’s pocketknife, and more books.” He smiled. “I love to read.”
“And what’s your job on the mission to be?”
“Well, I applied to serve as a Muslim chaplain—I saw it as a way to perform dawa and serve others at the same time—but I also have experience as a contractor, so I am going to help building houses for the people of wherever it is we’re going.”
“Hawaii!” Dash gave a bright laugh to show he understood it was a joke.
“Right.” Murad snorted as he slipped a pair of reading glasses into their case, then dropped it into the bag. “Still, as I understand it, many Polynesian and Melanesian cultures are hard-hit by climate change. The Olympus Initiative could make a real difference in their lives.”
“How long have you been here?” Dash glanced around.
“Ugh!” Murad threw his hands up. “Forever! No internet, no outside communication, and nothing but vegetarian food for those on a religious diet.”
“The five of you?”
Murad shook his head. “Oh, no. There’s also an observant Jewish family and a Hindu family.” He grabbed the duffel bag and threw it over one shoulder. “Fortunately, we’ve had lots of time to exercise in teams and study.”
Dash pursed his lips. “Firefighting?”
Murad grinned. “Yep! How’d you know?”
Dash had done a story on a container ship that took him across the Pacific. The first thing the captain had done was make all guests learn the basics of firefighting aboard ship.
“Just a lucky guess.”
Dash saw a pattern emerging from the swirl of data in his mind. If he accepted that all the groups at the different bases were doing the same basic thing, then there could be no doubt they were going to the same place. All their clothing would be provided? That meant uniforms, probably more of these flight suits he saw people dressed in.
“Now, please excuse me, brother. I must run to the restroom. I’ll see you on the flight line, inshallah.” Murad excused himself and left the tent.
“Inshallah,” Dash whispered. God willing.
Yifei handed Dash his backpack, then the two snooped around the other tents. Packing their possessions occupied everyone, so no one paid them any attention. Most of the tents were identical to Murad’s—partitioned into sleeping quarters, most seem to be filled with families. Dash spotted two pods of bunks with only women in them. He didn’t see rings on their fingers and assumed they weren’t married.
His phone recorded numerous images and video clips, but nothing here would add up to a smoking gun.
He needed more proof. All he had now was the evidence created by his brother, easily dismissed as conspiracist nonsense, and innocuous statements by a Navy captain and an imam, who also worked with a hammer. Without incontrovertible proof, the story would never get out.
Or at least it wouldn’t get picked up.
Dash slipped inside the last tent, which used a much different floorplan.
“This looks promising,” Yifei observed.
Instead of bunks, desks and chairs filled the cavernous chamber. Filing cabinets and lockers lined the left wall, while plastic cargo containers stacked up along the right.
“An office?” Dash wondered.
“More like a warehouse,” his friend replied.
He tried the filing cabinets, but discovered they were used as drawers. Instead of records or folders, he found folded flight suits, desert tan. He glanced at the label on the cabinet, which read ACAD. The next cabinet over said ADMIN and had royal blue flight suits. The MED cabinet had teal flight suits, while MOR had rust-red.
The lockers had other equipment, such as the olive-green duffel bags he’d seen around the camp, boxes of shoes, and undergarments. A few scattered pocketknife and multitool boxes were in one otherwise empty cabinet. Another locker was full of boxes for iPads and Android tablets.
All empty.
Dash opened the square crates and found recreational equipment. Uninflated balls, smaller musical instrument cases, resistance bands, and badminton racquets.
If he was going to make it to the flight line, to see where the Initiative was taking people, he’d need to blend in.
“Come on, let’s get into character,” Dash said. “Grab a bag and anything you think would fit in with the others.”
Yifei nodded once, then rifled through the royal blue flight suits.
Dash set his backpack on a desk, then grabbed a duffel bag for himself. He emptied his pack into it, set his phone to the side, then took a few of the dark red flight suits in his size. He stripped and changed into some of his new clothes, slipped his feet into a new pair of shoes—black basketball sneakers—and laced them up. He grabbed a pocketknife and a multitool. The multitool went into a slender pouch on his thigh while the knife, a tactical folder with a red grip, clipped onto his front pocket.
Dash didn’t have a shoulder holster, so he couldn’t carry his gun while wearing the flight suit. Instead he wrapped it in a flight suit, stuffed the spare magazines into the pockets, and put it at the top of his duffel bag. The OSI badge, however, he kept with him. His brazen reconnaissance had gone well so far, but he expected to get caught sooner or later.
Better to have a get out of jail free card to play.
Dash walked out of the supply tent and slung his bag over one shoulder.
He scanned the compound and saw quiet bedlam as the initiative people gathered in the center. Excitement animated everyone’s faces. Despite the early hour, no one looked sleepy any longer. Dash inserted himself into the group, smiling shyly and nodding to people who greeted him. Yifei put a pretty smile on her face and walked with confidence, as if she’d always been part of the group. Murad saw them and walked over.
“You’re in Morale?”
“Pardon?” Dash’s blood chilled as he grappled with the question.
“The morale department?” Murad pointed at his sleeves. “Maroon is for the morale group.”
“Ah!” Dash laughed. “That’s right. I’m a writer and a journalist.”
“Mashallah!” Murad beamed. “You can share our stories with the rest of the world.”
“Indeed.” Dash nodded as he took a deep, cleansing breath. “Inshallah.”
“And you? Forgive me, but I don’t know your name,” Murad turned to his friend.
“Call me Yifei.”
He nodded. “And what do you do?”
Yifei glanced down at her blue flight suit, then shrugged. “I’m an accountant.”
Grinning, Murad leaned in and whispered, “Pretty good cover choices, if I may.”
“Innocuous,” Dash agreed.
Two school buses painted blue with Air Force markings drove up to the end of the encampment. Without any prodding, everyone grabbed their bags and made their way to the vehicles. Dash kept an apprehensive eye on Hong and McConnell as he moved toward the bus and made certain to keep his face out of their direct view. McConnell seemed to know people by sight, so he’d need to avoid interacting with him.
Luck, or Allah, as Rasul would say, was on his side.
They boarded a bus without incident and found an empty bench near the back. He scooted over to the window and put his duffel on his lap. Yifei slid in beside him. “So, we’re going to Hawaii?” She asked.
Dash reached over and gripped his friend’s fingers. “I sincerely doubt it.”
Murad took the seat behind theirs while another man sat beside him. Dash nodded and gave him a quick smile.
The new guy, about his age, but beginning to bald, wore a teal flight suit and had a pair of wireless earbuds, through which Dash could hear music blasting. Sounded like hip-hop and it didn’t disturb him in the slightest as he closed his eyes and rested his head against his duffel bag.
“Excited?” Murad asked from behind.
Das
h nodded. “Eager,” he said.
Eager was a massive understatement.
The buses drove for five minutes, winding their way past large, square buildings, and driving out onto the tarmac. Large aircraft waited in the night, but one sat by itself. Ground vehicles surrounded it, including armored Humvees with machine gun turrets.
Dash recognized the plane as the old C-17, a workhorse transport employed by the Air Force since the mid-nineties. It could carry people, pallets of equipment, or even a tank. As the bus approached from the aft, he could make out rows of seats inside the red-lit cargo bay.
Hong’s voice came over the speaker, startling him.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve got your team assignments. Stick together and load in order. Team one will load first and proceed to the front of the aircraft. Team two will sit on the left side seats, team three will sit on the right, and team four will take the remaining center seats. Any questions?”
No one raised their hand or replied.
“Great. Okay. When the loadmaster calls your team, exit the bus and board. Remember, the other bus has members of the same team, so be sure to leave room for them. Sit as close together as you can, so we make sure everyone gets aboard.”
“What about the bags?” Murad asked, his voice booming across the bus.
“Good question. Thank you for asking.” Hong patted the bag next to him. “This aircraft is in troop configuration, which means you can either stow your bag between your legs during the flight—they make decent footrests—or leave them on the ramp and the loadmaster will stow and secure them for the flight. Up to you.”
No one else spoke up, so Hong sat back down.
“I can’t wait to get there. I bet we’re going to the Marshall Islands,” A woman in the row ahead of them said.
A young man, about Dash’s age, turned to look at her. He looked sheepish and cocky all at once. “Why’s that?”
“Their culture depends on the ocean, yet it’s threatened by it at the same time. I bet we’re going to assist with building elevated houses to protect against storm surge and reclaim some land to build dikes for farming.”
His neighbor nodded once. “Makes total sense.”
“Are you a farmer?” Dash asked.
He laughed. “No, no. I’m a doctor. Eli Balaban.” He held out his hand.
“Dash Riordan.” He shook it. “Nice to meet you.”
“Dash?” Eli snorted. “Were your parents into track and field?”
Dash stifled a sigh. “Pretty sure one of them was a Sam Spade fan.”
Eli looked quizzical, then shrugged. “Where do you think we’re going?” He asked.
Dash considered the answer for a moment. “Somewhere no one will expect.”
The buses stopped, and the doors opened. Hong hopped out and walked over to a pair of women in olive-drab flight suits with blue caps on their heads. Dash couldn’t read lips, but the conversation looked innocuous enough.
One of the women marched over to the bus and called out for team one. Dash and Yifei didn’t have an assignment because they were stowaways, but Dash figured they’d follow Murad. The imam was probably the most sympathetic person here.
Moving with efficiency, the loadmaster got teams one through three loaded without a hitch. Eli was in the second group, Murad the last. As he called for team four, Dash and the other dozen members left on the bus exited and made their way towards the aircraft. Dash’s laptop and records were in his duffel. He couldn’t chance damaging them, so he’d have to keep the bag with him. That didn’t bother him—the contents were too valuable.
The whine of jet engines filled the night air and a strong breeze tousled everyone’s hair.
The loadmaster, a woman just a hair shorter than himself, with a sandy blonde bun, and shoulders barely constrained by her flight suit, made notations on a clipboard. Dash panicked as he realized the woman was taking roll. He glanced around, then unslung his bag and carried it with forced awkwardness over to the woman.
“Can I help you, sir?” The loadmaster possessed a chipper voice. It was quite cute.
“Yes!” Dash stumbled forward, shoving his bag into the other woman, knocking her to the ground. Her clipboard and pen went flying and Dash fell to his knees. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
The loadmaster winced as she sat up and rubbed her backside. “It’s all right, sir.”
Dash leaped to his feet and helped the loadmaster up as pages from the clipboard soared around the tarmac. “I’m so terribly sorry!”
“It’s okay.” The loadmaster looked at him. “What do you need?”
Dash stared at his feet and fidgeted. “Um, I didn’t hear what we’re supposed to do with our bags.”
“Not a problem. You can leave them on the ramp and I’ll secure them or keep them with you during the flight and hold them between your knees.” The loadmaster picked up the clipboard and scowled at the paperwork floating away.
“Want me to help pick them up?”
She shook her head. “No time for that, sir. Let’s just get loaded.”
Dash grabbed his duffel bag and waved. “Thank you. Again, I’m very sorry. I hope you’re not hurt.”
The loadmaster nodded and waved him aboard the aircraft.
Dash hurried to catch up with the last people boarding. He glanced around and saw Eli talking with a young black man with thick dreadlocks. Yifei waved at him, then pointed at the seat next to hers.
Dash smiled and sat down, grateful to have the seat at the end of the row. He could stretch out a bit more. Eli nodded his head to the beat of his music. Murad tapped his stomach where a seatbelt kept him snug in his chair. Dash did the same, buckling up and praying the doors would close and the aircraft would take off. Once that happened, they could relax about Castillo’s body being discovered. Even if they found the corpse, they wouldn’t be able to link it to Dash without fingerprints and they probably wouldn’t turn the aircraft around if they knew about him.
More importantly, once the doors closed and the aircraft lifted off, they’d be on their way to the big secret.
That’s all that mattered to him. Getting the truth behind the entire crazy story and broadcasting it to the world.
“Inshallah, Rasul,” he whispered, amused at himself for falling into old religious habits.
The loadmaster climbed aboard, put a headset on, and spoke at length to someone, the pilots, Dash assumed. After a minute, she nodded and closed the loading ramp.
As the hatch sealed, Dash’s eagerness increased, but he didn’t have to wait. The loadmaster hung up her headset and hurried to the front of the Globemaster. The engines howled, and the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeakers, but Dash couldn’t understand what he said.
The aircraft lurched forward and turned sharply before coming to a brief halt. The engine howl changed to a shriek as they powered up. The plane vibrated as it strained against the brakes, almost eager to fly—and then it leaped ahead. The ground rumbled beneath them as the C-17 raced to takeoff speed. Yifei tensed beside him, then clasped her hands together and offered a brief prayer. Dash couldn’t see anything outside, but the crimson illumination showed dozens of excited faces. They were starting a grand adventure, but he couldn’t share their anticipation and delight.
Dash wanted the truth.
Twenty-Three
DASH COULD DO LITTLE on the flight. Yifei had fidgeted for half an hour before she closed her eyes and dozed, so he lacked a partner for conversation. The laptop and notes would do him no good in the air. He couldn’t use his phone to call anyone. So, once the wheels retracted into the C-17’s belly and the plane banked to the west, Dash allowed his eyes to close and sleep to claim him.
A tap on the shoulder woke him up.
The red interior lights were off, replaced by gleaming sunlight through a few windows in the fuselage. Several people still slept, heads cocked, mouths agape. Behind him, Murad tapped his shoulder again.
“Yes?” Dash turned, covering a yawn w
ith his hand. He practically had to yell to be heard over the noise of the engines.
“You should stretch your legs,” Murad said, nodding towards the aisle.
“No, that’s okay. I’m—”
“I’ll come with you,” Murad interrupted him.
“Okay...” Dash’s eyes narrowed, but he unbuckled himself and stuck his duffel bag on the seat.
As they walked to the front of the cargo bay, Dash saw a hatch with the word “Lavatory” stenciled over it. He walked toward it as Murad closed in behind him.
“They’re talking about you,” he announced.
“Who?”
Dash couldn’t imagine anyone had made the connection between Castillo’s corpse and his identity, not in less than six hours. Processing the crime scene would take at least two hours after the body was discovered.
“Hong and McConnell,” Murad said.
Dash crossed his arms. “Why would they be talking about me?”
Murad jerked his thumb back to the crowd of people. “He doesn’t know you.”
Dash shrugged. “He probably forgot. I don’t make that big of an impression.”
Murad’s eyes hardened. “Don’t play games with me. McConnell recruited every one of us.”
Shit.
“Personally,” he added.
Double shit.
“Come on, who are you two? Don’t give me any bullshit about being Air Force investigators, either.”
He swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’m Dash Riordan. I’m a reporter for LA Eye and I’m covering a story about the massive number of rockets being launched all around the world as we speak.”
“So why come here? We’re going to support developing communities and work on sustainable living practices.” Murad shook his head. “We’re not launching any rockets.”
“You’re not going to build any communities, either,” Dash said. “They lied to you.”
“Okay. I’ve heard enough. McConnell can deal with your craziness.” Murad turned away, but Dash’s arm jerked him back around.
“I can prove it. Just answer two questions for me.”
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