by E. R. Torre
“Clever,” Becky said.
“Not really,” General Spradlin countered. “You see, our group has devised ways of proving we are who we say we are just in case an attempt is made to…duplicate us. Members of our group have microchips implanted just beneath our skin. The aliens may not want their chameleon bodies to emit any radio waves, but we don’t have that problem. The signal is very, very high frequency and immune to most communication jamming equipment. I wasn’t sure if it could break the jammer the creatures set up on Bad Penny. Luckily for us it did.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because when activated, the microchip sends out a signal every five minutes for as long as my heart beats,” General Spradlin said. “Alan Robinson had an identical chip. Doctor Evans a somewhat similar one. There was no special code I personally needed to send to stop the bombs from falling and there never was any time limit. The moment the boys out at sea stop receiving all three of our signals, they were to assume we were dead and Bad Penny was lost. At that point, they were to wipe this island off the face of the Earth.”
“You lied.”
“It was part of the game,” General Spradlin said.
“It kept you alive.”
“It kept all of us alive,” General Spradlin said. “It was in their best interests, at least based on what they thought they knew, In the end, the real reason they kept me alive was because they wanted information from me. And I, of course, wanted information from them.”
“You survive another round in your game of poker,” Becky said.
“The cost was so high,” Samantha said. “An entire base worth.”
“Three hundred people died in exchange for Jennie Light’s cell phone,” Becky said. “Was it worth it?”
General Spradlin was silent for a few seconds.
“This cell phone and the information stored within it could be the key to saving humanity,” General Spradlin said. “As a bonus, we’ve also destroyed almost every chameleon on the face of this planet and discovered the Vice President of the United States is one of them. Yes, we lost three hundred brave soldiers. Considering what we got back, it might be a bargain.”
It was Samantha and Becky’s turn to be silent.
“We found out one other thing, too,” General Spradlin said.
“What?”
“Someone in the armada knew we had one of their chameleons.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” General Spradlin said. “Jennie Light was insulated from Doctor Evans’ suicide switch. Up until now, I’ve never heard of any ACU possessing such an ability, so I have to assume this is something the aliens have only recently devised. Which begs the question: Why insulate one of their chameleons from the suicide switch unless they knew we had a chameleon capable of using it?”
“Your contacts within the armada were discovered,” Becky said.
“That’s a safe assumption to make,” General Spradlin said. “They used Jennie Light as a back-up infiltrator on this mission. If by some miracle we survived, Jennie Light would slip under our radar and infiltrate my organization. Had she succeeded, she could have destroyed the entire operation.”
General Spradlin held up Jennie Light’s cell phone.
“This time around, we were a little smarter than them,” Spradlin said. He walked to Becky’s side and laid the cell phone in her hand.
“The cost of getting this device was high,” he said. “Given the…sacrifices…you understand how important it is to guard this device. I’m putting the both of you in charge of doing so. Don’t let anything happen to it.”
“General, we can’t take this.”
“You can and you will,” Spradlin said.
“Why don’t you keep it?” Samantha asked.
“Because I have an appointment.” General Spradlin looked at his wristwatch. “I have to leave the island.”
“Leave? How?”
“Don’t worry about that,” General Spradlin said. “We’ll get back together in no more than two days. The boys listening in to my microchip transmission will see I’m on the move. That’ll be their cue to come in here in full force. When they do, they’ll be understandably suspicious and very trigger happy. You will do everything they say. Get on your knees in plain sight and keep your hands raised high in the air. Don’t do anything –anything– to provoke them. They’ll assume the worst, so be patient while they verify you are who you say you are. Expect to be handcuffed and treated very rough at first. Expect to be searched. And expect them not to be all that nice about it. Once you’re off the island, you’ll be placed in separate cells and debriefed. Tell whoever is interrogating you everything that happened in as much detail as you can recall. Do not embellish and do not exaggerate.”
“Like that’s possible.”
“Please, please don’t forget to tell them that the Vice-President and his personal physician are ACUs. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Samantha and Becky muttered.
“Finally, tell them this phone was a chameleon’s,” Spradlin continued. “You tell them I don’t want anyone to touch it. They are to put it under quarantine until I personally get a chance to look it over.”
“Where exactly are you going?” Samantha asked.
“There are a couple of loose ends that need to be tied,” Spradlin said. He faced Becky. “Please give me the backpack you found.”
Becky blinked. She had forgotten all about the backpack that belonged to the chameleon that killed Alan Robinson. She removed it from her shoulder and handed it to General Spradlin. Spradlin opened it and examined its contents. Satisfied all was in order, he closed it back up.
“We’ll see each other very soon.”
“Then what?” Samantha said.
“Then you get to join my group,” Spradlin said.
“Join you?” Samantha said. “What if—”
“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter,” General Spradlin said. “We’re fighting for the survival of the human race. Can you possibly refuse to join that cause?”
Neither Becky Waters or Samantha Aron replied.
“That’s what I thought,” General Spradlin said. He walked to the door leading out of the control tower.
“Wait!” Samantha said.
General Spradlin stopped.
“Your injuries,” she said. “You need treatment. If you start bleeding again—”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Spradlin said.
Becky and Samantha blinked. The General did indeed look far healthier than he had since Frank Master took his right hand. His features were no longer as pale and his walk was rock steady. A chill passed through Becky’s spine.
“You’re not—?” she whispered and swallowed.
“Another Doctor Evans?” General Spradlin said. He shook his head. “No. I’ll need a good while to convalesce.”
“Convalesce? This isn’t some cold. You lost your fucking hand!”
“Doctor Evans did a good job fixing me up,” General Spradlin said. “I’ll be OK. We’ll talk again in a day or two.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
By the time he reached the beach, General Spradlin heard the distant sounds of helicopters in flight. The men and women in the choppers would take their time approaching the island, circling from a distance while coming in closer and closer and keeping a wary eye out for any potential threat. Even now at least three spy satellites were pointed at Bad Penny, and someone surely must be watching the General walk along the island’s south shore.
Just in case, he looked up into the sky and waved.
His men would still hang back. They knew enough about the way he operated to give him his space.
General Spradlin strolled further south. He would soon reach the island’s southern tip. Should he choose to do so he could continue walking along the shore as the coast turned toward the north and east, but there was no point in doing this. General Spradlin was certain what he was looking for was cl
ose by.
He searched through the weeds and overgrowth and, after a few minutes, found it hidden under a pile of palms. Once he pushed them aside, a deflated and neatly folded black rubber Zodiac was revealed. Under it was a small plastic case and within the case were three metal cartridges of compressed air and a single black plastic oar.
General Spradlin spread the rubber boat out before screwing one of the metal cartridges to a nozzle on the inside of the craft. It took some effort given his injury, but when the cartridge was locked in place, the hiss of air rushing from it and into the boat was heard over the breaking waves. The boat inflated in a matter of seconds. It was a small boat, meant to be used by no more than two people at a time.
General Spradlin pushed the craft into the water and climbed aboard. He awkwardly paddled out to sea, allowing the current to take him further and further away from shore.
General Spradlin was satisfied with the direction he was taking and leaned back and relaxed. He knew this boat would be hidden at the southern tip of Bad Penny because during the evening and at the most likely time for the British agent to infiltrate the island, the tides pushed from the south and east and toward the north and west. This meant he was dropped off somewhere to the south and east. His drop off point, the General estimated, was no more than two or three miles away.
By midday, the currents shifted and flowed from the west and pushed out toward the east. After recovering his gear, the British spy wouldn’t need to row too hard when he left the island. The tide would take him farther and farther east, to eventually rendezvous with his ride home.
General Spradlin closed his eyes. He pulled the wrapping from his injured arm and examined the wound. The injury was already closed up, covered in a layer of bright new red skin. General Spradlin felt the stub, noting the protrusion that already, a little less than an hour later, was forming.
It would take a year, at least, to grow a new hand. Even then, it would be stiff and awkward, like a limb on a newborn infant.
Spradlin scowled.
He couldn’t help but recall some of the other serious injuries he received since starting this job. The worst of them, like the stiletto a would be assassin jammed into his lower spine at the battle of Gona and, much later, when a grenade took out his legs in a dark alley in Prague, took a very long time to heal.
General Spradlin shook his head and sighed. It was pointless to dwell on the past when there was so much to worry about in the here and now.
He looked back at Bad Penny. The tide was indeed strong and his raft was at least a couple of miles from shore. He saw a single helicopter buzz the island. The others had no doubt already landed. Their occupants, even now, were checking out Private Waters and Captain Aron.
He grinned.
Treat my boys gently, he thought.
The women were in for some serious shit the next few days and things weren’t going to be easier when General Spradlin took them under his wing.
The General’s face hardened.
They’ll survive, he thought. Hopefully, a little longer than Robinson. Or Parker. Or Hendricks. Or…
Dark thoughts swirled within the General’s mind. There were so many names. There were so many people he’d worked with over the years.
So many.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
WASHINGTON, DC
1105 hours
It was very cold in the capitol.
Snow flurries swirled through the busy streets and a stiff breeze blew across the Jefferson Monument, sailing past its cavity and eventually making its way to the White House. Even when the weather was at its most brutal a few brave souls –tourists most often– wandered just outside the White House fence. Many stopped to take pictures of themselves here, while others paused to examine the t-shirts and hats sold from vans parked along the side streets.
Motorcades guarded the heavily fortified black SUVs that often passed through those streets. Sirens blared and those same tourists, for they were the only ones who found this event so unique, craned their heads in a futile attempt to figure out which VIP was passing them by. There was little chance they would find out. The vehicles’ bullet proof windows were tinted a heavy black. It kept their cargo well hidden.
A black limousine left its armada of security behind as it passed through the rear entrance to the White House. Photographers snapped pictures from their reserved spaces a good distance away, aware that any visitors to this place were always noteworthy.
The limousine parked off to the side, beneath the skeletal shade of an elm, and several armed officers took their places. Their focus was on their surroundings; their job to make sure the vehicle’s passenger made it safely across the short distance between the limousine and the White House entrance. Another group of journalists, these with seniority and high level connections, stood a short distance to the side.
They watched as the Vice-President, an elderly, balding, and slightly overweight man, exited from the vehicle. He waved at the journalists and they, recognizing it was their moment to act, shouted questions. Instead of answers, the Vice-President offered his standard sarcastic smile.
“I’m pressed for time,” he said. “Depending on my schedule, I may be available later.”
His tone was amicable, even playful. He would not be available later, of course, he never was.
One of the Vice-President’s aides stood beside the door leading into the White House. He was a very young man, the visual opposite of the Vice-President but a true believer of the cause.
“Welcome, Mr. Vice-President,” he said. His voice was all but drowned by the reporters’ last shouted questions.
The two shook hands. The awe the young man held for his boss was all too evident in his expression. The two entered the building. When the reporters’ voices died down, the aide frowned.
“Rude vultures,” he muttered.
The Vice-President patted his aide on the back.
“Aren’t they all?” he said.
Other White House staffers saluted the Vice-President as he walked down the entry hallway. Those that were on friendly terms with him shook his hand. Others smiled and offered a slight bow before hurrying off to their current tasks.
All the while, the Vice-President moved deeper and deeper into the White House, passing priceless portraits, marble busts, and other stately décor. The hallways were ample and painted a warm antique white. Armed security lingered every few feet. They watched silently as the Vice President and his personnel passed. Most offered hushed greetings while others scanned the floor, their vision not unlike a sniper hunting for an as yet unseen target.
The Vice-President greeted still more staff before finally making his way to an ornately designed double door. Sitting behind a desk beside the door were a trio of armed guards. The Vice-President greeted these guards and stopped before them.
“How’s it going, Glen?” he said while extending his hand. One of the three security guards, a muscular man wearing a dull blue suit, rose from behind his desk and grasped the Vice-President’s hand.
“Well, Mr. Vice-President,” Glen said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a very deep cave. He offered a small, polite smile and motioned the Vice-President toward the door. The room the group guarded looked like an ordinary conference room but was, in fact, one of the White House’s central intelligence areas. Computers hidden behind wood panels had access to a wealth of data and virtually every contact throughout the world.
Glen produced his entry card and, as if seeing him for the first time, addressed the Vice-President’s aide.
“You’re needed in 22a,” Glen said.
“For what?”
“Barbara Sotherby asked to see you,” Glen said. “Something about Sudan.”
“I already sent her an email,” the young man said. He was irritated at the thought of leaving his boss’ side.
“Perhaps she has some other question?”
“Go on,” the Vice President said. “I’ll be here.”
&n
bsp; The Vice-President’s aide nodded.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
The young man walked briskly down the hallway, disappearing around a corner.
The Vice-President’s attention was back to the Security Agent. He again nodded. Glen ran his security card over the scanner. As he did, a low, audible buzz was heard. Glen opened the door and motioned the Vice-President through.
The Vice-President entered the conference room and found it was empty. He faced the Security Agent.
“Where is the President?”
“He should be here shortly,” Glen said. “He asked that you wait for him.”
The Vice-President sighed. He worked in the halls of power for decades. He was not accustomed to waiting for anyone. Even the President of the United States.
“He offers his apologies,” Glen continued.
The Vice-President pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Don't worry about it,” he said. He could barely contain his annoyance. “I’ve got nothing at all better to do. Nothing at all.”
“Yes sir,” Glen said. He closed the doors to the conference room and stood a few feet behind the Vice-President.
The Vice-President reached into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. As he did, Glen’s eyes casually settled on the device. The phone was identical to the one found on Bad Penny a little over an hour before. The image of that device had already circulated among several well-placed White House staffers, including Glen.
The Security Agent bit his lower lip.
For a moment, he felt a series of conflicting emotions. Anger, betrayal, and, yes, even disappointment. There were few both inside and outside the White House who liked the Vice President. The man was notoriously arrogant, ill-tempered, and mean. But he was still the Vice President of the United States, and Glen’s love of country made him respect the man’s office, even if he didn’t necessarily care for the man himself.
