by Patrick Lee
Now an obvious aspect of the plane’s exterior occurred to him, one he’d overlooked amid the clamor of more pressing observations: the outside of the aircraft was completely blank. He hadn’t seen even a tail number.
What was this thing?
He’d watched enough middle-of-the-night programming on the Discovery Channel to know the government maintained special aircraft for dire situations—flying backups, in case command hubs like the Pentagon were taken out in a first strike. “Doomsday planes,” they were called. Billions of tax dollars, which, God willing, would remain wasted forever.
But if this was a doomsday plane, wasn’t it that much more improbable that no one had found it?
Well, someone had found it, hadn’t they?
Travis rose and swept another gaze across the executed bodies and the machines they’d manned.
A thousand questions. No answers.
No need for any, either.
This was none of his business, and there was no helping these people. That was it, then. Time to go. Time to head back to Coldfoot and tell the good folks at the burger shop he’d had a nice, uneventful hike.
He returned to the tear in the outer wall, glancing forward as he went, his now adjusted eyes taking in the space beyond the door in the forward bulkhead. A corridor lay there, stretching a hundred feet toward the nose of the plane, windows on one side and doors on the other.
He’d already slipped his head and one shoulder out of the plane by the time his mind processed what he’d just seen in the hallway.
He shut his eyes hard, though not because of the glare from the snowfield. For maybe ten seconds he hesitated, willing his body to keep moving, to put the corpses and the plane and the whole fucking valley behind him. One quick drop to the snow would seal the decision. His legs would take over from there.
Instead he withdrew his head into the plane again, and turned to face the corridor.
A punctuated blood trail, nearly invisible on the black floor of the equipment room, led onto the beige hallway carpet and stretched fifty feet farther to a doorway on the right, where it turned in. Bloody handprints flanked a heavier trail in the middle. Not drag marks. Crawl marks.
Travis went to the threshold of the corridor. Four doors opened off the right wall, facing the Plexiglas-covered windows on the other side. The blood trail went in at the third. A fifth door capped the far end of the hall, probably leading to the stairwell, then the upper deck and the cockpit.
The bloodstains in the carpet were brown, long since dried; the pooled blood in the room behind him had only remained viscous because there were gallons of it. If the attack had followed on the heels of the crash, then the wounded survivor had been dying in that room up the hall for three long days. No chance of survival.
But it would take only a minute to be sure. Travis stepped into the corridor.
The first doorway was haloed by a constellation of bullet holes, which seemed to have been made from both inside and outside the room, at chest and head level.
Travis came abreast of the open doorway. Two dead men lay against the far wall, downed behind an executive desk they’d upended for cover. Wearing crew cuts, black suits and ties, they looked like Secret Service agents—or, Travis thought, just about any high-level security personnel. They’d been dropped with shots to the chest and neck, then executed for good measure like the victims in the aft section.
Unlike the aft victims, however, these two had been armed. And still were.
It’d been a very long time since Travis had held a gun, and he’d been well out of the loop on modern firearms during his extended stay with the Minnesota Corrections Department, but he easily recognized the M16 variants that lay beside the dead men.
He crossed to the nearest of the weapons and lifted it. The translucent magazine still held about half of what Travis guessed was a thirty-round capacity. Leaning the rifle against the desk, he inspected the second weapon’s clip, found it nearly full, and ejected it. In the coat pockets of the two dead men he found another full magazine each. They had nothing else on them, including identification. Pocketing the ammunition, he took the rifle in hand and proceeded to the next room along the hall.
What he found there gave him a longer pause than the bodies had.
Centered in the space was a three-foot-wide cube of solid steel, cut in half across its waist and hinged. At the moment it lay open; two heavy-duty chainfalls hanging from I-beam rails on the ceiling had been needed to get it that way. Carved into the exposed inner face of each half of the cube, right in the middle, was a square depression perhaps four by four inches across and two deep. If the cube were closed, those twin spaces would form a single cavity at its core, large enough to hold a softball, and surrounded in every direction by more than a foot of steel.
Whatever had required this much protection was gone.
On the side of the cube was a metal plate with simple black lettering:
BREACH ENTITY 0247—“WHISPER”
CLASS-A PROTOCOLS APPLY
SPECIAL INSTRUCTION FOR THIS ENTITY—NO PERSON SHALL
REMAIN WITHIN FIVE (5) FEET
OF EXPOSED ENTITY FOR LONGER THAN
TWO (2) CONSECUTIVE MINUTES.
Something about the steel around the core space of the cube caught Travis’s eye. He stepped in for a closer look, but almost immediately wished he hadn’t. In both halves of the cube, the metal directly around the central cavity was discolored to a dirty blue. The grain of the steel itself had been warped there, pushed outward as if by some unimaginably powerful and patient force.
His mind suddenly full of the frantic rattle of a Geiger counter in the red, Travis retreated from the room. He realized only once he reached the hall that he’d been holding his breath.
He turned in the corridor—not toward the third room but back the way he’d come from. The bright crack in the fuselage wall was just twenty paces away. If he stared at it much longer, he’d find himself slipping through it.
Then, angry at himself, he pivoted and made for the third doorway. This was going to be simple:
He’d find the victim dead and cold.
He’d wipe his prints from the M16.
He’d leave the plane and put three mountains between it and himself, and then he’d brew his goddamned coffee like he’d set out to do.
He was certain of all that until he walked through the third doorway, and then he was certain of nothing.
The victim was dead and cold. But this was not going to be simple.
CHAPTER FOUR
Travis had experienced the surreal before: moments as impossible to accept as they were to deny. What he found inside the third room took him back to one of those, the feeling channeling the past like an obscure scent not encountered in years. Sterile courtroom. Strobing fluorescent lights reflected on the narrow windows, all closed except one. Through the open window, the sound of a girl laughing, somewhere down the block in another reality far from this room and this judge and this sentence. He’d expected it, of course, and deserved much worse, but the gut punch of the moment had swayed him anyway: twenty-five years old, and he would be in his forties the next time he saw a night sky.
Here was a moment as difficult to grasp.
Here was the First Lady of the United States, dead with her eyes open, looking right through him, seated against the wall with a bloody notebook page in her hand.
Ellen Garner. Beautiful even now. Her features, always pale and delicate, had hardly been altered by the loss of her blood, which had soaked into the carpet around her. A single bullet had punctured her abdomen.
Beside her lay something that looked like an early-model car phone, a bulky handset connected by a black spiral cord to a suitcase. It could only be a satellite unit. Dried bloody fingerprints told the story: Mrs. Garner had crawled here from the tail just to get this thing, had taken it from its wall cabinet, found it damaged, and exposed its wires and boards in a wasted attempt to fix it.
Travis set the M16 asi
de and went to her. He knelt and gently took the paper from her fingertips, which death had long since stiffened, and read:
I hope that someone from Tangent finds this. If you are anyone else, do not contact local authorities. Go to a phone as quickly as you can, dial 112–289–0713. Ignore the consulting firm recording and enter 42551 at any time. A human will answer. Tell him/her that Box Kite is down at 67.4065 north, 151.5031 west. All dead except for two captives, taken by seven hostiles. Hostiles have almost certainly encamped within a few miles of this location—Tangent will know why, and will know what to do.
Two blank lines followed, and then the text continued. Here the writing was faint, wandering up and down over the light blue lines, written by a much weaker hand.
I know we are down somewhere remote. Have to assume now it is so remote, will not be found for days, and whoever finds this will be days from phone. Crash happened at 3:05 a.m. local time 26 June. If you find me more than two days after, if telephone is very far away, then ignore above message. Not enough time to call Tangent.
Hostiles are torturing our two people for info within close range of this crash, they will not leave area until they have broken them. (Not a guess, there is a reason they can’t leave before then.) Do not know how long our people will withstand them before breaking. Days I think, but I don’t know.
I am failing quickly—no way I can detail what is at stake. It affects you, whoever is reading this. It affects everyone. It’s bad. I understand that you won’t think you can do this, but I am asking you to kill these people.
Arms locker at aft wall of upper cabin, combo 021602. M16 rifles inside, can do full auto. Kill everyone. Most important to kill our people, captives, even if you fail to kill all hostiles. Kill captives first. I am sorry to ask this.
Another gap, and then a last passage, this portion so faint that Travis had to tilt the page toward the light.
PS—If you kill them all don’t go near the thing they have taken, three-inch sphere, dark blue, just get away and call Tangent.
Travis read the full page over again. By the time he’d finished, he felt a chill his heavy coat couldn’t keep out. He noticed a second slip of paper just visible in the pocket of Mrs. Garner’s shirt. He withdrew it and unfolded it. There were only a few lines.
Richard,
I’m fading in and out a lot, and when I’m out, I’m back in the dorms, back in Room 712 under that quilt with you, watching the snow over the law quad. Lucky life, spent with the only one I ever loved.
Ellen
Feeling like a trespasser, Travis carefully refolded the note and returned it to her pocket, exactly as it had been.
He stood, and saw for the first time the ground outside the starboard windows, above where Ellen sat. Here at last were the footprints. And ATV tracks. Though they terminated at the edge of the snowfield, forty yards away, there was little doubt which way they led.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paige Campbell stared up at the pines and tried to slip into dream lucidity. She’d managed it twice so far, for maybe a minute each time—not much, all things considered, a few crumbs of peace, but oh Christ, they were worth it. Even as something to look forward to, they helped.
She wouldn’t need them to look forward to, of course, if she could just move her head a few inches. Raise it up from the tabletop, then bring it down again as hard as she could, crack open the back of her skull and rupture something, anything. Three or four solid whacks, before the rat-faced man could stop her, and then she’d be gone.
Why was that asking too much? Why was it a pipe dream just to want the chance to die?
Because the rat-faced man was good at his job; that was why. Because her head was strapped fast to the wood, like every other part of her. Even her tongue had been clamped to her teeth, to keep her from biting through it and choking on her own blood.
So instead she tried for dream lucidity. It was magic when it worked. All at once no pain, no straps, no clearing in the freezing daylight that never ended. The dream places were familiar, safe. The first one had been the reading nook in her living room. She hadn’t read anything there in the dream; she’d just walked through the space, barefoot on the stone tiles, and run her hand over the soft fabric of the chair.
The second place had been the beach at Carmel, pushing her fingers down into the sand, past the baked surface to where it was cool. She hadn’t been there in years, but the memory of it came back in high definition now.
The opportunities to slip away were rare. It was only possible when the drug started to wear off, in the last five or ten minutes before they injected her again. If she wasn’t careful they’d catch on, and start injecting her sooner. That meant closing her eyes was a no-no, as much as it would have eased the way into dreamland. She’d just have to get there with them open, but that was fine. She’d done it both times.
One trick was to stare at the pines instead of the sky. The light was less intense that way, maybe half the effect of letting her eyelids fall shut.
This time around, though, none of it was working. Too many distractions. The rat-faced man and one of the others were arguing just a few feet away, jabbering machine-gun fast in their language. Once upon a time Paige had loved the sound of that language, had considered minoring in it, going abroad for two semesters to immerse herself in it, and had moped for months when her academic path had swung her away from that option. Now, she thought, if she had a big red button in front of her that would magically tear the tongue out of every man, woman, and child on the planet who spoke it, she’d break her hand on that button.
If her hand wasn’t strapped to a fucking table.
The argument ended, and here came the rat-faced man’s footsteps again. Here came the needle again. No dreamland this time.
Here came the tears, too, even before the injection and the resumption of the pain. She hated that she couldn’t stop herself, hated having ceded that much control to these people.
Her body jerked when the needle touched the skin beside her navel. Then it was inside her, and though the effect would take several minutes to set in, she could feel the drug itself blooming cold and sharp across her stomach.
The pines blurred and swam, her body shaking hard now and jarring the tears. The baffle across her mouth—there to rein in her screams, which might carry unusually far in these mountains—did not prevent her from hearing her own voice, pleading no, over and over like a mantra. She couldn’t stop that, either.
Now came the rattle of the crank under the table, the surface pitching over sideways until it was almost vertical, her body no longer resting on it but held by the straps.
Looking sideways now instead of up.
Looking right into her father’s eyes.
His own straps held him immobile against the base of the nearest pine, his head trapped between the blocks of the casing that kept him from looking anywhere but straight at her.
Her tears spilled out sideways. His remained pooled in his eyes.
Then the rat-faced man moved out of view behind her, and got ready to work on her, the same way he’d done it each time. She could never see for herself what he was doing, but her father’s expression reflected what it must look like better than any mirror could have.
She could picture it, of course. It couldn’t have been more obvious what was happening to her. The very first time—something like three days ago now, just after the rat-faced man had strapped her down—he’d opened her upper arm with a scalpel and parted her triceps wide with a wedge clamp. He’d avoided damaging the artery, of course; it wouldn’t do to let death rescue her that easily. His prize had been the radial nerve, thick as a pencil once he’d freed it from its lubricated sheath beside the bone. After that, he’d been able to access it immediately each time.
He was about to do that now, making a big show of his preparations. She was sure it was part of the torture, the psychological aspect of it, all the cues to whet her anticipation of the pain: the zipper of his tool bag opening slo
wly, the clucking sound of his tongue, like he was sad to have to be doing this, and then the sigh.
Now her father’s eyes moved, because the rat-faced man was looking at him before beginning.
“What kind of daddy you being, then?” the rat-faced man said, his English broken, lyrical. “How you expect you look yourself in the mirror after this? How you let your little girl get hurt this long?”
Then the high-pitched laugh, rapid-fire, like a squirrel chittering.
Her father’s eyes hardened and looked away from the man, meeting hers again, his tears overrunning now.
This was supposed to be part of the torture too, obviously: making them lock eyes while he hurt her. Maybe it worked on some people, but they’d miscalculated sorely in this case. Her father’s eyes were all that made this bearable for her.
Of course, the point of the eye contact wasn’t its effect on her. The eye contact was for him. He was the one they were trying to break.
Was it working? Was it breaking him?
No, not a chance of that. Why had she gone through all of this, if he was only going to submit in the end?
More to the point, he was just stronger than that. Of that much Paige was certain. Her father knew the stakes, which were bigger than this clearing and anything that might be done to them in it. Telling these people how to switch on the Whisper was simply not on the list of options. End of debate.
Blinking through her tears, she tried to look strong, tried to send him assurance. It was all okay. Really, it was okay, even now when she was shaking like this, and so fucking scared, even as she could hear the rat-faced man rummaging in his bag and bringing out the tool, her tears intensifying because any second it was coming, even now, she had to send him the will to bear watching this, because giving them what they wanted was so much worse—
