by SJ Hailey
With a wave the picture vanished to a blue blank screen, Jacob closed the player and returned it to Eli. He remembered Lorraine’s coffee, hurriedly fixed it with milk and returned to the lab.
Lorraine was standing at the box, holding a bamboo tube; she was removing something, her face a knot of concentration.
She let out her breath, and placed the artefact on a protective mat, using the overhead camera to examine it more closely, it was beautiful. The lighting and display showed the large blue crystal running it’s full fifteen centimetre length, four silver metal lines shouldered the crystal, leading up to the top of the object. The top was not ornate like a sceptre, it appeared functional, and a ball shaped top leading into a circular halo, which was engraved or embedded with blue crystal glyphs, a language they had not seen before. There had been a chain attached, but none was found in the box. It was a beautiful object, unique.
She just kept turning it, allowing the high definition camera to capture every pixel possible. Eliminating the need for repeated handling of the ancient artefact.
Jacob like the group was staring at the object, a familiarity to it, some of the markings. Without a word, he moved back outside, the group barely noticing his absence.
He swiftly crossed the hanger and asked Eli to set up a call to Paul Stone.
‘Paul, Jacob, do you have any pictures of the items stolen from the museum?’
Paul’s face smiled back, smugness about it, ‘I have already emailed detailed pictures to you my friend. Why?’
‘We have something here, and I think it is similar.’
‘How can that be, the stolen items were from an Inca city, and you said the boat is Chinese?’
‘Ship, Paul, a ship, fifty metres is not a boat, but yes I did. Look don’t worry.’
‘Anything else Jacob?’
‘Actually, how much damage was caused in the museum from the break in?’
‘None, very professional job, only the crates from the Inca site, and they were re-sealed afterwards, if it had not been for finding the sword, we would not have known for weeks.’
‘So the thief knew exactly which crates to open?’
‘He must have, who had that information, local security?’
‘No need for them, just the curator, display team, but not until next week, and the original dig team.’
‘Jacob, do you suspect anyone?’
‘Old habits my friend, I suspect everyone, until I can prove otherwise. The lack of chemical signature is the giveaway, careless really.’
‘Why I thought not having a chemical signature hides the user’s identity?’
‘Yes and no, the only people who insist on no chemical signature, and get it, are special ops.’
‘U.S. special ops? Surely not?’
‘No there are many agencies and units that use this. I will get back to you Paul, thanks.’
He dropped the connection and downloaded his email.
Moving efficiently and effectively Jacob linked his laptop to the monitors HD display, splitting the screen between the images.
He zoomed in and discovered similar glyphs and markings on both objects.
The team stopped as they all recognised the significance, even Lorraine.
She was first to speak, ‘Jacob what is that?’
‘That is an object found in Tupac, an Inca city on the coast Peru, and stolen from our museum last week.’
‘But the symbols are identical?’
‘They appear so, and now you need to discover why two objects have the same symbols, one in a Chinese wreck and the other in an Inca temple both from the fifteenth century.’
The group separated, Jacob walking over to Lorraine, who had removed her hands from the thick gloves, and was staring at the screen behind her.
‘Jacob, what have we stumbled upon?’
‘I am not sure Lorraine, but the similarity in these two objects cannot be coincidence.’
Outside in the hanger a car horn sounded, a few sharp toots, and Jacob craned his head out the door, Jean had arrived back.
Jacob could see his jeep towing what looked like a burger van, ‘What is this Jean branching out!’
Jean smiled and waved, beckoning Jacob over, the young scientists followed.
‘Jacob my friend, I have borrowed this from a friend, thought I could cook you breakfast.’
‘Jean, you are a mind reader, last thing I ate was on the plane.’
‘That is not food, but what I have, is the best!’
‘Greasy burgers and sausages?’
‘Non Môn ami, this is the best cuts of bacon, and homemade sausages, along with tomatoes, French toast, barn eggs.’
By now all the people in the hanger were listening intently, no one had stopped working all night, and a hearty breakfast would be welcome.
‘Right my friends help me set up, get this table up and cleaned, and can someone shut the hanger door, it is a little windy.’
The storm that Jacob and Jean outran earlier had caught them up, and was now buffeting the exposed hanger, the tin roof flexing in complaint. Within half an hour, Jean had begun taking order and serving food, insisting that all the goods he brought were eaten, and the hot freshly ground coffee was flowing freely. Jacob relaxed and the group spent an hour listening to his war stories, and questions on the Institute and its meagre beginnings.
Eli Rothwell, who was eating at his desk, avoiding getting sauce on the keyboards, came over, ‘Mr Mathias, a call for you from Ecuador.’
‘Lovely, Laurent no doubt, I shall have indigestion after this.’
He reluctantly moved to the communications desk, Laurent and Jacob had never agreed on anything, Jacob did not like Laurent’s ethics, of lack of them, and Laurent did not appreciate Jacob’s methods either.
They had an uneasy truce, Jacob tolerated Laurent as he found many sites and relics no one else could or had, and Paul said he was fairly cheap.
Jacob sat heavily in Eli’s padded chair, the screen in front of him blinking a connect icon, he selected it and was surprised by the smiling face that greeted him.
ELEVEN
Isla Joya Verde, Panama.
Forty miles south of the Coiba National Park, in International waters Isla Joya Verde had belonged to the U.S. government on a fifty-year lease from Panama. First established to test US Submarines and missiles in the late forties and fifties, it contained a variety of re-enforced angular grey structures. There were discreet but extensive underground laboratories and test facilities carved out of the bedrock and lined with concrete. Many buildings had also survived above ground, some recently renovated, others left for the surrounding jungle to reclaim. The island had a seaport, allowing hovercraft and seaplanes to land and ascend a ramp to a secure docking area. The original submarine docks long since destroyed and abandoned, were a hazard to most conventional shipping, increasing base security and isolation.
Today the dock welcomed a former European dictator, and recent client of Unit Zero 3, he had been invited to come for a tour before investing funds. His guide was Head of Operations and original Unit Zero 3 operative, Colonel Tom Briggs. At six foot tall, with short-cropped blonde hair, the muscular former SEAL Commander was imposing. His client was a pasty man, wearing a suit from Hong Kong, handmade shoes from Italy and a watch that was the same value as a family car.
He stepped warily off the seaplane, savoured the comfort of solid ground; a hand extended by Colonel Briggs was ignored.
‘Where is The General?’
‘He is currently attending to some other business, and will join us later.’
‘I see he does not have time to greet me, but sends a messenger instead.’
‘Sorry Mr Roditz, I am Colonel Briggs, Head of Operations.’
‘I am sure. Can I see what my money is buying now?’
With a professional smile, Briggs led the way to a tour of the facility, a small golf cart taking the portly politician to save the stress on his costly shoes.
They
saw the assault course, firing range, hangers containing various helicopters and combat aircraft. All of which appeared not to impress Mr Roditz.
They dismounted the cart and entered the operations area, taking an elevator down thirty feet below the concrete complex. Finally Mr Roditz appeared impressed by the vista that opened before them. The Unit Zero 3 and Protection Incorporated joint operations room. A bank of monitors gave satellite feeds, online communications and displays from all active missions across the world.
‘Mr Briggs, I see you run a very professional outfit, despite your external appearances.’
‘The island is meant to be an environmental research facility, so having permanent hardware above ground would compromise our operational integrity.’
Briggs ignored the lack of rank, which he had legitimately earned prior to creating Unit Zero 3 with The General. The group moved around to the research labs, and The General greeted them. He was only five feet ten tall, but held himself with the stature of a larger man. His piercing grey eyes scanned the room, assessing its occupants. A subtle smile fixed, poker face. His hair was swept back, flowing away from his high forehead, abandoning the crew cut years ago, vanity overriding function.
‘Mr Roditz, pleasure to meet you in person at last, you enjoying your tour?’
‘Yes, most informative, can I ask why I cannot enter all the labs?’ He gestured to the opaque glass screens along the corridor. Colonel Briggs interrupted with a scripted response, ‘Sorry Sir but that area is not appropriate for the level of service package you have selected.’
‘That sounds like my TV service at home. General what would get me in that room?’
‘Well Mr Roditz, Colonel Briggs is correct, that lab is two levels up from your current service.’
‘How much General? I can transfer the money now.’
Roditz gestured to his associate.
‘The current rate for that level of service is fifteen million Euros extra per operation.’
‘I will require five operations involving more widespread devastation, so would forty five million Euros be acceptable in advance?’
‘Yes Sir, that would be agreeable, Colonel could you give Mr Roditz’ associate the details, while I escort him personally around the lab?’
Briggs and the associate left to process the transaction, The General and Roditz entering the viewing area of the chemical warfare laboratory. A team of five scientists in protective bio-suits continued working, oblivious to the voyeurs.
‘What kind of weapons do you have access to General Mastasson?’
‘Extensive access to nerve agents, knock out gases, some limited biological agents, poisons, depending on the target area, and desired death toll.’
‘What if I wanted to wipe out a city, and make it look like someone else?’
‘Simple, we would ensure that your opponents were caught in possession of a small sample of the agent, either before or after it was released.’
‘Excellent, one other question.’
However, Roditz did not get to ask it, as General Mastasson struck him across the neck hard, rendering him unconscious, Briggs neutralising his associate in the corridor outside, it was thirty minutes before they both regained consciousness.
Roditz stood up, bleary eyed, not fully conscious, banging his nose on the Plexiglas wall in front of him.
He regained his bearings, and realised he was in a glass box in the centre of a white featureless room. His associate in the adjacent box was fully alert, a fearful look upon his face, his mouth moved, shouted something, but Roditz could hear nothing.
The General’s voice came over a speaker in the roof of the box, about eight feet above him.
‘Mr Roditz, not as comfortable accommodations as you are used to, but it is meant to be practical not pretty.’
‘What do you want Mastasson?’
‘Simple Mr Roditz, your opponents have offered me a substantial amount of money to make you disappear.’
‘So why are we talking?’
‘Because I run a business, and I wondered how much you valued your life?’
‘You would not dare kill me, and besides my associate has all the account numbers, you need us both.’
‘Well actually your associate spilled your account numbers and access codes to us before you woke up.’
The General smiled and nodded from inside the protected viewing area, the double layer of reinforced glass keeping the test area isolated. Roditz cursed in his native language and punched the glass wall between him and his associate, breaking the skin on his podgy knuckles.
‘It is not really fair for you to blame him, considering what we threatened him with. What we require is your other private accounts, the ones he does not know about.’
‘I do not understand?’
‘Oh my dear Mr Roditz, after you killed all those innocent people in your country, you and your friends transferred all their savings and pensions to offshore accounts; and we want that money to let you go.’
‘You are bluffing, you cannot bully me! You are just an arrogant American, with a tin pot rental army.’
Mastasson’s tone changed, ‘Mr Roditz, I am the best supplied most successful contractor in the world, and as far as tin pot, I could destroy your country with my existing forces!’
The General regained his calm, his face returning from crimson to the comfortable mocha created by the tropical sun.
‘But that would not get us the information, so watch your friend very carefully for the next three minutes.’
The associate in the adjacent glass box could not hear the conversation with Roditz, all he heard was the fan in the top of the box going onto boost, blowing air onto his head. Unfortunately for the associate it was not just air, accompanying it was a fine vapour, which covered him and in his panic caused him to inhale rapidly, increasing his exposure.
‘Mr Roditz what you are seeing is the gas immediately inhibits the enzyme that helps transmit nerve signals, causing the entire nervous system to become isolated and uncontrollable. The test subjects muscles all begin to contract as they receive no signals on what they should be doing.’
The associate began to twitch and convulse violently, his body smacking against the Plexiglas, causing his nose and left wrist to break with the force of impact. With blood gushing from his nose, and his damaged arm flailing uncontrollably, the final stage began.
He collapsed on the floor his legs propped against one wall, his face the other. A sustained contraction of the diaphragm, the large muscle below the lungs and above the intestine, restricted his breathing. Roditz watched as he struggled for breath, his body killing itself, face turning purple, eyes bulging. The resulting asphyxiation rendered him unconscious and brain dead within minutes. His twisted corrupted corpse lay staring at Roditz with still, clear eyes.
Roditz was only a few feet away, his back sweating through his linen shirt, despite being pressed against the cold Plexiglas of his container. Mastasson came onto the speaker, his voice calm and authoritative.
‘Now Mr Roditz that was the effect of weapons grade VX nerve gas, we wanted to see if that batch was still lethal, as you can see, it is. We have another batch to test yet, the account numbers if you please.’
Without hesitation, Roditz gave all the numbers and access codes, Briggs entering them into a laptop and transferring all funds within minutes.
Roditz went whiter than Mastasson thought possible for a man of his anaemic complexion, as a familiar face came into his view, his opponent Mr Benesova.
‘Mr Roditz, I am so glad to see you in such a disadvantageous position.’ The Slavic accent making the words more sarcastic than they were meant. Roditz did not reply, but The General spoke anyway, ‘Mr Benesova employed us to recover all the funds you stole and we have achieved that for a generous percentage. Now we need to test that other batch of gas, goodbye Mr Roditz.’
Roditz screamed and shouted in his native tongue and English, jumping between them as his mind attempted to p
ersuade his captors to release him, to no avail. The General had switched off the microphone in the glass box, and was pointing out the gas controls to his other client.
Five minutes later Roditz was dead alongside his associate, his expensive suit soiled and bloody, his face distorted with a tortured expression. Similar to all the men, women and children he had personally tortured and executed. His body would be left for the VX to be extracted and neutralised from the cabinet, then incinerated and the ashes disposed of with the rest of the island’s waste.
General Mastasson escorted his client to the waiting seaplane, handed him a memory card with all the accounts he would need to recover the stolen funds. Briggs remained behind, to supervise the clean-up, he was unhappy at The General’s actions, he felt that their original mission which he signed on for, was not a priority. Over the past few years and months, The General was enjoying the power, rather than the satisfaction that he and Briggs had enjoyed when they began Unit Zero 3. The unlimited power had corrupted his honour, casualties had increased. Briggs would have to monitor the situation very closely if he wanted to protect his men.
The General sat in his fortified office; three-inch thick armoured glass ensured the view from it was not his last. The General’s ego, required more power, authority and control, and by chance he had discovered a potential path to it.
While with a client in Africa last year, he came across an ancient manuscript, it told a story of the Ten Suns, and that perhaps there was a basis in fact for it. He began to research this and discovered various legends around the world with similarities, and so his quest began to find this source of power, and the control of it. His various contacts around the world had begun to piece together the mystery. The Legend of the Ten Suns had a basis in fact, now to find the source.
