by Craig Boldy
She leaned over me, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, looked deep into my eyes and reassured me there wouldn’t be any more issues. For a second, a flash of compassion passed across her face and I smiled politely.
Once again, the hum of the capacitors charging marked the start of my meditation and the corridor formed around me; the second door appearing faster this time with the handle becoming entirely solid almost at the same time as the door.
Hesitating a little, I reached out to the door and pressed my hand against the top of the handle, my fingers closing around it rapidly as I winced in memory of the previous attempt. This time the handle pressed without any issue. My mental image of the door swung open with ease. I readied myself and entered, expanding into the darkness beyond.
The first thing I felt was hung-over, if not a little drunk. I tried to sit up from where I lay, but the awkward position had caused my arm to fall asleep. I opened my eyes and immediately slammed them shut again. The sunlight streaming through the small round window seemed to burn directly through my eyes and into my brain.
I lifted my hand to block out the light, forgetting it was numb and smacked myself in the nose. I reached up with my other hand and tried to rub some feeling back into it. After a few minutes, I attempted to sit up. I got about halfway before the wave of dizziness and nausea overwhelmed me. I forced my host’s body to sit up and began breathing deeply, clamping my jaws together. I made a run for the toilet and just made it in time to vomit into the bowl; not the best of starts.
My original assumption of a problem with the connection soon gave way, as I looked closer at the room. Various empty bottles of vodka were strewn around; one of them would have been the nanite-dosed one, indistinguishable from the standard ones. There was no doubt the guy was hung over, and I would have to complete the mission through the pain.
Once I reached the point where I was confident there would be no more vomit, I turned my head left and right to assess the small room. Sparse was the best word to describe it, with only the bed I woke up on, a sink and toilet on one wall and some sort of trunk or chest.
I hauled myself up on the sink and held my head under the tap, periodically turning to take big gulps of the cold water. When they told me I would feel everything my host’s body was going through, they were not kidding. It felt like I had been doing the drinking. I could even feel the slightly burning rasp at the back of my throat. I needed to rehydrate, and quickly.
After a few more gulps, I risked standing and looking in the mirror over the sink. It showed me the face I had seen in the briefing documents. A large red face and shaved head stared back at me. There were dark circles under bloodshot eyes, probably from a combination of the heavy drinking, lack of sleep and hard retching. He had a few days worth of stubbly beard, interspersed with bald patches where there were scars.
The nose was long and pointed except for where the bridge had been broken. I opened my mouth to find a set of brown teeth with more than a few gaps. His hair was long and greasy, almost surfer style and held back out of his face with some sort of red patterned bandana.
I took in the rest of my host’s body. Hanson was muscular, but the thin kind, this body was almost unwieldy in comparison, nearly body-builder proportions. I tested my strength, assessing the limits of my new body and another wave of nausea swept over me, sending me dropping back to the toilet bowl.
“Too much vodka?” One of the other men in the pictures I had seen in the file had opened the door while I was retching and was now leaning on the door and watching me.
“If you brought us something better than this American piss you call vodka it might not fight to get back up.” I had no idea where the remark came from. It seemed to be a reflex insult straight from the host’s brain.
I didn’t realise as the other man spoke, but his mouth was not forming the words I was hearing, and neither was mine for that matter. I seemed to be thinking in English but speaking in Russian. I did know a small amount of the language but nothing you might consider conversational. It appeared to have something to do with the signals filtering through the host’s brain and along the connection to my own body. It was translating for me.
He laughed and said something about good vodka, which I missed as he turned away and closed the door.
I pulled myself to my feet again and took a few steps towards the door. I was about halfway there when the room lurched slightly and threw me off balance. I put a hand out to the cold metal wall, feeling the large rivets press into the palm of my hand.
I took a moment to listen to what my senses were telling me. I could just make out some of the sounds coming from outside. There was the unmistakable crash of waves and seagulls squawking overhead, all slightly overwhelmed by the deep baritone of the engines deep below; it seemed to resonate up the metal walls and vibrate through the floor.
I must be on a boat. Hopefully, the one they were using to smuggle the shipments into the country. I wondered for a second, how the technology was still working if we were out at sea, then I realised the signal must be transmitted through the satellite phone link, which the ship would be maintaining in case of emergencies.
The gentle rock of the boat was throwing off my concentration. I walked back to the sink and took a few more gulps of the water before dropping back onto the bed. The mission could wait a few minutes until the nausea dissipated.
After a short while, I began to be able to access the host’s memories. It was a slow process; nothing ever came in the right order. One minute I was remembering the layout of the ship and the next I would flash back to some cold winter’s day from childhood. It had been this way when I first took over Hansen, but I had learned to control them for him. It was something to do with the way your brain stores and links memories.
I got my thoughts in order and used the memories to figure out the layout of the ship, I didn’t want to look like Grigory was acting out of character and getting lost on his own ship would definitely seem odd to the rest of the crew.
Eventually, I worked out how to get out of the cabin and out onto the deck of the ship. I was surprised to find it was one of those large trawler-fishing vessels. The kind with the net dragged behind it like a massive underwater parachute. Memories supplied the information moments after I saw it for myself.
Out on the deck, the sea was vast and beautiful. I could just see the giant dark blur of a distant landmass on the horizon and nothing but ocean all around. It was a bright day. The sun was blazing in the sky, but it gave out no warmth. The crew around me had thick woollen jumpers and hats to protect them from exposure to the chilly temperatures, overlaid with the various pieces of waterproof clothing and safety equipment. They were diligent in their work and barely looked up to give me a second glance.
The back of the ship was open to the water with a slope down to sea level. A large metal A-frame stuck out of the deck almost at a forty-five-degree angle. A thick chain ran from a winch mechanism at the base of each arm, up to the top and then out in a straight line into the water. I had emerged from the bowels of the ship in time to hear the whine of the winches winding in the rattling metal chain. I watched as the water began to ripple behind the vessel as the buoys emerged from the cold water. Seagulls seemed to come from every direction, squawking as they followed, apparently hoping to take some of the catch.
A few moments later, I watched as the top of the large net emerged from the sea, bulging with fish and rippling with the waves. A few of the fish were caught in the holes of the net and were aimlessly flapping in the air as the net pulsed and shifted like a giant worm.
The rattling continued as the net rose from the water, and the chains began to drag it up the slope towards the waiting orange-clad crew. There must have been thousands of fish in the vast net. As soon as the rattling of the chains stopped, I heard the pneumatic hum of a section of the slope lifting to block the back of the ship once more and revealing the opening to the storage tank beneath. Two of the crew scurried to the en
d of the net as soon as the metal plate was open and proceeded to undo the ties, which held the net closed. Two more rushed to the front and tied a large rope around the net, hooked to the A-frame. Another rattle as it pulled tight and slightly lifted the front.
I watched in awe as the silvery scales cascaded out of the net and into the tank and, as the torrent began to slow, the rattling once again sounded, as the front of the net was lifted from the deck, sending yet more fish flowing into the tank. The crew worked quickly, moving and resetting the part of the net being lifted until finally the last of the catch slapped wetly through the hatch. They cheered at each other to celebrate a good haul and went back to the open door, pulling gloves from hands and helmets from heads as they did. A few stood around the doorway to light cigarettes and chat animatedly before they also left the deck.
I walked closer to the railing to see a glimpse of the fish below as the metal hatch closed over them once more before a wave of apprehension swept through me. I took a step back from the railing and the drop beyond. Bad memories!
I turned from the tank to look out onto the waves and the weather. It was a calm day; the slight breeze carried with it the fresh and salty smell which saltwater spray always leaves behind. It was nice to feel the sea air on my face and arms, and it went some way towards further relief of the symptoms of the hangover, although the smell of fish was slightly hindering this. Below decks, I could hear the whirr of machinery as the fish were processed into their various products before being put into the freezing hold and on ice for delivery. Overall, it was an excellent cover for shipping illegal weapons.
My memories told me the weapons were in a compartment underneath the boxes of frozen fish. They would be in specially sealed containers to stop the merchandise from getting wet.
I gasped a little as my less than helpful memories provided the inventory of the arsenal the ship was smuggling; 200 AK47's and a dozen Remington 700 rifles, not to mention more than enough ammo for a small war. Both were equally dangerous weapons in the right, or wrong, hands, and designed for opposite ends of the market.
I knew quite a lot about weaponry from my days as an active field agent for the Agency. The AK47 is a mass-produced automatic machine gun, otherwise known as a Kalashnikov. It’s quite a deadly weapon, if not overly accurate; it was used by gangs to impart fear in their rivals, and mostly fired in a ‘spray-and-pray’ kind of way where someone would empty an entire clip at a target and hope one of the bullets actually hit them.
The Remington 700 sniper rifle was an entirely different beast. Definitely for the more upmarket client, you would need to be a real connoisseur to want one. The US Army’s sniper rifle of choice from 1988 all the way up to today, although they used the “M24 Weapons System” version, which just referred to a set of readily detachable and modifiable components such as the telescopic sight.
I decided to spend a while playing at my role on the ship. According to my supplied memories, this would mainly consist of walking around the ship, talking to my host’s comrades, chastising various crewmembers, and drinking vodka, all the while trying to figure out a plan to make sure these weapons never made it to their intended purchasers.
Firstly, I had to make sure the weapons were onboard; the memories were not coming as clearly as I needed them, I’d hoped I would be able to access them as quickly as Hanson and I would have access to the whole wealth of information as soon as I jumped into my new target. I had no choice other than to see them for myself before I did anything. I would also need to figure out whether the whole crew was part of the cover. It would be easy enough to find a way to blow a hole in the hull and outright sink the ship, stopping the smuggling for good, but I didn’t want any collateral damage. If some of them were merely oblivious civilians caught up in the smuggling ring, I couldn’t let them go down with the ship.
I kept the vodka intake to a minimum. Whatever my plan, I would need this body to be at its more responsive. Even though the failure of the mission had no repercussions other than the weapons reaching their destination, I still felt I had something to prove. Failing the first mission would not set a great precedent, and I was happy to continue my little personal miracle.
I resigned myself to spending my time searching for the name of the contact. Even if I couldn’t stop the shipment while I was aboard, I would be able to give my team the information, and they would be able to send the authorities to pick up the shipment, the smugglers and the contact all while the delivery was being made.
I searched my host’s memories for any piece of information which might betray the identity of the person buying the weapons; Grigory had never seen the face of the contact, and it seemed all communication had been through burner phones and dead drops. As far as I could tell even the money transfer was anonymous; international wire transfers between untraceable Cayman accounts. It seemed the group would be happy to keep shipping weapons into the country for as long as the money appeared as scheduled.
Grigory did not seem the kind of man for facts and figures, I needed someone high enough up in the network to have the information, someone with their eye on the bank accounts. I needed their moneyman.
After a few minutes pacing the ship, trying to get my thought in order, I found the man I was looking for; Yegor was Grigory's second in command. He was a short man with balding grey hair and was my host’s childhood friend and later criminal partner. There were memories of my host and this man growing up together and the things they had done, I repressed them quickly as I walked along the corridor.
He smoked horrendous cheap cigars; I didn’t even have to think about which cabin was his. I could follow the stench all the way to a door emitting a constant stream of smoke, my eyes begin to water as I entered but soon cleared as I noticed the half-naked woman asleep on his bed and bottles of various spirits littered around her. She moaned in the same way I had, when the effects of the hangover hit me, opened her eyes to look right at me and turned over in the bed pulling the covers over her head and exposing her bare behind in the process.
I spent a little too long staring at the pale cheeks before I noticed Yegor sat, bare-chested, in front of a tiny television. I looked at him for a moment, there was a large tattoo of a dragon wrapped around his arm and up onto his shoulder. At some point, he had been very muscular, the bulk of the muscles were turning to fat as he crossed into middle age. The remains of one of his horrid cigars smoked slightly in an ashtray on top of the set. He turned from the TV and saw me watching him as he bit the end from another, spitting it into the corner of the cabin before lighting it.
"This trip is boring me," I told him in flawless Russian. "I'm going to get one of the sniper rifles and shoot targets from the side of the boat."
This was the only thing I could think of to find out if the crew were all part of the gang; a man firing a sniper rifle from the side of the ship would create fear in someone who was only fishing if Yegor let us do it at all.
"I think it is time to have a little more fun." He said as he lifted himself from the chair. Before leaving, he gave the woman a hard smack on her bare behind with one hand and retrieved his shirt from underneath her with the other as she jumped and squealed. We walked out together with her swearing at him in Russian and him laughing over it.
We walked down a couple of decks to where the catch was being stored; a large door led to a storage room almost the size of the ship. Hundreds of boxes lined the walls floor to ceiling, leaving barely a corridor down the middle.
Yegor walked about halfway down the ship before reaching up and pulling the cardboard front from one of the identical boxes revealing a handle, which he began to pull; four columns of boxes swung outwards on a rig exposing a door in the void. He retrieved a key from one of his pockets, opened the door and we stepped through.
The inside of the room was cold, I looked around at the rows of storage cases and large wooden crates which would contain the weapons. Yegor walked up to a stack of thin metal cases, dragging one from the top of
the pile unceremoniously. It hit the floor with a clatter, and he bent to open the catches on either side.
I just caught the glint of the light off the steel barrel as his back eclipsed it. He began to put it together expertly before turning and handing me the complete rifle. He had even clipped the telescopic sight to the top. He grabbed a couple of ammo clips on the way out and shoved them clumsily into my already full hands as he turned to relock the door.
I resisted the urge to hit him over the head from behind and drag his unconscious body back into the storage room but thought better of it. You never could be sure how long a blow to the head would knock a person out for, if it didn’t outright kill them, and I still needed information.
I stood holding the rifle in one hand, and the two clips in the other as he pushed the secret door closed, handing them back as we walked back up to the top deck and to the back of the ship. Yegor took the rifle from my hand and, with the ease of someone used to handling weapons, proceeded to inspect, load and cock it. He passed it back, and I examined it myself, opening and closing the breach and cocking it again, before placing the end of the weapon on the side rail of the ship. I got down on one knee and looked through the telescopic lens, adjusting it slightly for the distance.
The Remington 700 had a range of 1500 meters, almost a mile, using the .338 magnum rounds which were loaded into the magazine. At that distance, it is hard to be accurate, especially when bobbing and swaying on the waves, but I didn’t need to be overly accurate to do what I had planned.
I fired the weapon into the water three times in quick succession and saw the small splash as the bullet hit the water and broke up into pieces. That’s the funny thing about water; they say jumping into water from a great height is like hitting concrete, and it’s due to the speed at which you hit; it's no different for bullets. You can be safe just a couple of feet underwater even from the most powerful of weapons. Handguns have a slower muzzle velocity so they can shoot pretty well at something underwater but something like a 50-calibre rifle would just make a big splash.