The Officially Unofficial Files of Dr. Gordon B. Gray

by Darcy Fray

  Gordon offered to drive. He had slept through the entire six-hour flight from Moscow to Irkutsk. Sleep had not come as easily for Fletcher, however. He knew their odds of survival were decreasing by the minute. They had barely escaped Moscow alive and he was certainly not capable of another major physical altercation. The ligaments in his dislocated shoulder would take weeks to heal and the bullet wound in his other shoulder was far more than a graze. He had cleaned and bandaged it himself, and followed that with a strong series of self-prescribed antibiotics, but it would certainly require medical attention at some point not too far in the future.

  “Sleep. I’ve got this. Really.” Gordon grabbed the keys from Fletcher and took the driver’s seat. Fletcher reluctantly walked around the side of the SUV, spitting out a spent sunflower seed shell, before entering through the passenger door.

  “Don’t over-think the subway,” Fletcher offered, setting aside his normal wisecracking self. “There’s plenty of muscle to replace me, but without you, the ship sinks. Keep the head clear - I know what you’ve been through.” He caught Gordon’s eye for a moment before Gordon turned away, embarrassed.

  Gordon started the car and proceeded toward the airport exit. A light snow was falling, just enough to leave behind a dusting on the road. The temperature hovered around seventeen degrees Fahrenheit. The crunching sound of the snow under the Lada’s off-road tires resonated all the way up through the gas pedal. His weather-beaten saddle shoes had been replaced by a pair of Sorel hiking boots at Fletcher’s insistence - a vast improvement. He had also acquired a new weatherproof parka and gloves. Underneath it all, he still wore the uniform - Scottish-made Taransay Harris Tweed jacket, gray flannel trousers, white shirt and maroon tie. His uniform. It was his last connection to the life he dearly missed.

  Fletcher leaned forward and tuned in the satellite radio to a soft-rock classics station. It was barely audible, but just what he needed to settle his thoughts.

  “Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,” Gordon jokingly sang.

  “You’re learning, mate.”

  Fletcher reclined in his seat and allowed his weary eyes to close. He needed the sleep, but he also hoped Gordon saw it as a sign of his trust.

  •••

  Rysevo, Russia - Farmhouse

  Harper sat cross-legged on the bed, staring out the window. The flurries were just sporadic enough that she could almost count the individual flakes as they drifted past.

  As a child, she often tried to send telepathic messages to her father - concentrating with such a ferocity that it physically caused tension headaches. He would play along and try to read her mind, occasionally guessing somewhere in the ballpark - just close enough to instill a sense of belief in his daughter. To this day Harper still sent out a message to him every now and then. She was silently calling out to him as Peter entered the room.

  “I trust you are feeling better?” Peter inquired with a tone of genuine concern.

  Harper shrugged languidly as she held her gaze on the window.

  “It’s time to contact your father,” Peter said, handing her a satellite phone.

  Harper held the phone in her hand. It was almost identical to her father’s. He travelled everywhere with it. She shut her eyes - one last message. You are in trouble.

  Harper opened her eyes, looked directly at Peter and threw the phone against the far wall. It shattered on impact.

  “Well, that is disappointing.” Peter walked over to the phone and picked up the jagged pieces, which were certainly more than sharp enough to inflict bodily harm. Harper had responded precisely as Peter had anticipated.

  “Nika.”

  Within moments, Nika entered the room.

  “Take this and bring me the syringe.” Peter handed her the shattered phone remnants. Nika left immediately, threw the phone fragments in the bathroom trash and returned with a needle in her hand.

  “What is that?”

  “Scopolamine. It will simply make you more agreeable.” Peter nodded his head in Harper’s direction and Nika obediently charged forward. Harper’s primal kicks and screams were no match for Nika’s strength. After a brief struggle, Harper conceded. If she was going to win this battle it would be through the power of her mind, not her body.

  Nika gently depressed the end of the needle until a bead of liquid appeared on the needle’s tip, before thrusting it in the side of Harper’s neck.

  The immediate effects were obvious. Harper’s eyes glazed over and her head fell back to the bed.

  Peter approached and stood over her.

  “That’s better. Now, Harper, I simply need your father’s sat phone number. We just want to let him know we have you here and that you are safe and sound,” he proposed gently.

  “011 - 8816 - 000 - 5552. Tell him I feel so dizzy. Gordon’s not dead.”

  “I know, Harper. Close your eyes. Sweet dreams.”

  Scopolamine had long been used by intelligence agencies around the world as an interrogation tool. In most people it loosened lips and inhibitions and caused short-term memory loss, drowsiness, nausea and light-headedness. Colombian criminals had more recently taken to using scopolamine or burundanga for robbing tourists. They slipped it in the victim’s drink at the bar, robbed them of everything on their person, and then drove the victim to an ATM where they “willingly” withdrew their daily cash limit. The tourist would awake the following day remembering nothing after the drink at the bar.

  When the effects of the drug wore off, Harper would recall nothing.

  •••

  Washington, DC - White House

  Over the years, Chief of Staff Harold Corbin had learned to gauge the president’s frustration level by the volume of the tennis ball’s steady thwonk against the backboard. The president’s strong flat forehand allowed him to unleash his full wrath upon the ball when his mood called for it. On a scale of one to ten, this morning sounded like an eleven.

  Corbin walked straight out onto the court, paying no mind to the “White Soled Shoes Only” sign posted on the gate. Theodore Roosevelt had been the first president to install the court on the south side of the West Wing and President Jack Wakefield had been the first to install a backboard. He had tried yoga, but it just didn’t provide him with the same level of stress relief as hitting inanimate objects.

  “Grab a racquet,” the president said as he pounded one last shot into backboard before turning to face his Chief of Staff.

  It wasn’t an unusual request. Corbin occasionally wandered out during the president’s daily sessions to deliver pressing news and would sometimes pick up a racquet and knock a few shots back and forth dressed in full business attire. The president loved the fact that he was a much better player than Corbin, and Corbin liked the fact that, on the court, he had the president’s undivided attention.

  “Not today.”

  “Oh?” the president asked with an apprehensive edge to his voice that had become all too familiar since the disappearances.

  Corbin directed the President’s attention to the moon, fully visible in the clear early morning sky.

  “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” the president asked incredulously.

  “I wish it was.”

  As if on queue, six Secret Service Special Agents appeared to materialize from thin air as they surrounded the President and whisked him away from the court.

  •••

  Fort Huachuca, AZ - Huachuca Mountains

  Mile six was always the toughest. Wilkinson’s muscles cramped and his mind wandered. He had been a sprinter by nature, but the Army had a way of taking one’s nature and dropping it on its head.

  “Official leave” was killing him. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Without the routine and order the Army had provided him with for the last forty years of his life, he felt purposeless. Running kept him sane and out of his wife’s hair.

  He ran along a dirt trail at the foot of the Huachuca Mountains. He could hear the coyotes running parallel in the tall
grass that lined the path. They followed him every day, just waiting for him to weaken and collapse. A not-so-subtle reminder of the fragility of it all.

  The distant sound of a motorcycle engine caught his ear; its increasing volume indicated that it was heading straight for him. Odd. Occasionally, he would run into hikers, but never vehicles of any sort. It was a simple footpath, after all. He stopped and turned to look back. A rising cloud of dust marked the path of the rapidly approaching motorcycle.

  In a soldier’s reflex, the muscles in his abdomen and jaw tightened. He stepped off the trail into the tall grass. The coyotes scurried off in search of less imposing prey.

  The motorcycle slowed to a stop beside him. He recognized the driver, Pvt. Keith DeWitt from his office.

  “Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant General, but this call couldn’t wait. It’s the White House.” The NCO pulled a satellite phone from his motorcycle side-satchel, pressed a few keys and brought it up to his ear. “Ma’am, I have the Lieutenant General standing by...Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.”

  Pvt. DeWitt handed the phone to Wilkinson.

  “Wilkinson here.”

  Wilkinson continued walking down the trail with the phone pressed to his ear as the president brought him up to speed on the looming situation.

  It was difficult for Pvt. DeWitt to make much of the conversation, try as he might. A lot of “yes sirs” and “I understand, sirs.” Standard military subordinate speak. Wilkinson clearly wasn’t the one steering this conversation.

  Wilkinson terminated the call and handed the sat phone back to the private, shaking his head in disbelief as he gazed up at the moon.

  “Damn curious, ain’t it, sir?” Pvt. DeWitt asked with his eyes cast skyward.

  “More like, damn ominous. I’m going to need a lift back to base, Private.”

  “Not a problem, sir,” Pvt. DeWitt responded as he handed Wilkinson a helmet. “Your skull outranks mine.”

  Lieutenant General John Wilkinson fastened the helmet and mounted the bike behind Pvt. DeWitt. A cloud of dust swirled up around them as DeWitt started the engine and sped off in the direction of Fort Huachuca Army Base. The full moon loomed overhead. A projected image of a digital clock covered its entire surface. The countdown had begun. 7:36:59. 7:36:58. 7:36:57.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tunguska

  Tunguska, Russia - Lada Niva

  THE RINGING SAT PHONE woke Fletcher from his much-needed deep slumber. He bolted upright and reached for his duffel bag in one fluid motion. He had the uncanny ability to open his eyes and fully engage within moments of waking. He had years of SAS training to thank for it.

  “Fletcher here.” Sharp as a tack.

  “Mr. Crisp. I’ll keep this brief. Can you see the moon?”

  “The what?”

  “The moon. Luna, lune, orb of night -- shall I continue?”

  Fletcher wiped away the condensation on his passenger window and squinted to better penetrate the overcast skies. “What the bloody--?” Fletcher’s voice trailed off as his jaw slackened. 6:32:22. 6:32:21. 6:32:20. The countdown continued.

  “You have until the clock reads exactly one hour to come retrieve your daughter alive. It will be a simple exchange. Harper for Dr. Gray,” Peter said in a cool, even tone.

  “Who the hell are you and how do you know my daughter’s name?” Fletcher had been trained to maintain clarity and temperament under pressure, but hearing Harper’s name mentioned in a threatening manner struck his Achilles. He wanted to reach through the phone and strangle the man on the other side, but was forced to settle for punching the dash of the car.

  Gordon hadn’t seen this side of Fletcher; it was all a little intimidating. He observed his passenger to get a better read on the situation, but Fletcher was consumed by rage. Untouchable.

  “My name is Peter, but I hardly think that matters, does it? You’re asking the wrong questions, Mr. Crisp.” Peter had struck the exact nerve he’d aimed for.

  Fletcher’s blood boiled and the pulsing of his jugular revealed his rapidly escalating heart rate. Rage affected him in a funny way. A myriad thoughts raced through his mind, but his tongue lay dormant like a leaden paperweight.

  Peter continued, “What you should be asking is, ‘Where are you?’ The clock’s down to six hours and thirty-one minutes now.”

  “Put her on the phone.” His tone was sharp enough to slit Peter’s throat.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.”

  “If you so much as lay a hand on her head, I will not stop until I find you and erase every trace of you from this godforsaken Earth. You will regret this day.” Fletcher did not so much say those words as spit the words into the phone.

  “Rysevo. We’re in Rysevo. The old blue farmhouse. I have no doubt you will find it. I look forward to meeting you.” Peter hung up.

  “Hello?” No response. Fletcher smashed his fist down on the dash. He checked the time. Three p.m., so LA would be eleven hours behind. Four a.m. He dialed Harper’s cell phone and got her outgoing message. He tried the house. Same thing. Maybe she’s working late. He called her office at Caltech. After a few rings, her voicemail picked up, “Hi, you’ve reached Harper Crisp. Please leave your number and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Have a nice day.” Tears welled in his eyes.

  “What happened?” Gordon’s voice cracked as he broke the uneasy silence.

  “They have Harper...my daughter.” Fletcher hadn’t discussed Harper with Gordon. It was his way of distancing her from the mess.

  “What do they want?”

  “You.” Fletcher turned to look at Gordon as he addressed him. It wasn’t difficult to see the conflicted desperation behind his eyes.

  “Well, then, I guess you better deliver the package.” It was the only choice. He owed Fletcher. “Where to?”

  “Tunguska.” Fletcher set the timer on his watch. “We’re going to Tunguska.”

  Gordon pulled the utility vehicle over to the side of the road.

  “You know as well as I do. We’re chasing whispers. I don’t know what we’re doing here. We’ve got nothing.”

  Fletcher took a deep breath. Focus. “Wrong. We’ve got you and we’re thirty minutes from Tunguska.” Fletcher looked up at the moon and then down at his wrist as he synchronized his watch. “We’ve got hours to figure this thing out and we’re going to bloody well do it.”

  “Tunguska is just a guess. I’m a physicist, not Sherlock Holmes.”

  “One hundred and twenty-eight people disappeared into thin air yesterday and today the bleeding moon’s been transformed into a doomsday clock. This thing ain’t going away, and by my thinking, if everyone’s after you, then I’m with the right bloke.”

  “Doomsday clock?” Gordon leaned in across Fletcher to gain a better view. “Impossible.”

  “Impossibly real mate.”

  “It’s just that the power and size of a projector needed to create a lunar image of this magnitude is astronomical and you would need a satellite the size of the Earth. Companies have been batting around the concept of moonvertising for years, but we’re just not there – technically speaking.”

  “Well someone is and we’re gonna find out who. Let’s go.”

  Gordon pulled back onto the road. It was an odd feeling -- someone counting on you to save the world. He glanced at Fletcher. He was a completely different man then he had been moments ago. Clear, composed and resolute.

  “We’ll get her,” Gordon offered. “I know it.”

  Fletcher nodded his head as they continued down the snow covered one lane road leading into the heart of nowhere.

  •••

  Tunguska, Russia - Latitude 61 degrees 52 minutes, longitude 94 degrees 10 minutes

  “In the space of a second, eighty million trees were snapped in two, like twigs underfoot,” their guide, Ollie Kerr, said as they dismounted their snowmobiles. “Short walk from here. You know we’re nowhere near the impact zone. Miles in the wrong direction.”r />
  “So you’ve said,” Fletcher responded impatiently. Storm clouds had rolled in, shrouding the moon in a thick wintery blanket, but his ticking watch served as a constant reminder. Time had become yet another enemy.

  Ollie shrugged his shoulders and continued on foot to the coordinates Gordon had discovered in Gregor Chekhov’s journal.

  Ollie looked like he knew his poisonous berries from his non-poisonous. A U.S. expat living full-time in Russia, he had led upwards of thirty Tunguska expeditions from countries all over the world. Russia had been generous with permitting international scientists to study the Tunguska region. It was, after all, the largest impact event of the past few centuries, and there was still much to learn from studying the site.

  Felled trees still covered the region. Gordon could almost picture what it might have looked like when Chekov’s grandfather had first arrived. The scorched earth and fallen forests, framing a perfect post-apocalyptic postcard. Today was a little different, however; a thick blanket of snow covered the ground for as far as the eye could see.

  Fletcher was not quite as receptive to the experience. His mind was elsewhere. He was running on autopilot -- Protect Gordon, save the world, get Harper.

  “Over there,” Ollie said, as he pointed toward the exact location.

  The area was thick with barbed brush, overgrown vegetation and felled trees -- a natural barrier of sorts.

  “Funny, isn’t it? Almost as if someone doesn’t want us to get in there. You’re with the right guy though. Follow me,” he said cockily, pulling a machete from his backpack.

  Ollie carved a path through the bramble and overgrown vegetation to the exact coordinates Gordon had given him.

  “See? Nothing.”

  He was right. Gordon and Fletcher took a good look around them. The heavy brush seemed to continue forever.

  Gordon’s heart sank. He was so sure of the coordinates. “You sure this is the right place?”