by Brad Taylor
“Where are we?”
“On a boat. Somewhere in the ocean, but it’s got to be near the island chain. This thing isn’t big enough to cross the Pacific. I have no idea how long we’ve been out. Could be hours. Could be days.”
She saw his head sag back. He said, “What the hell is going on?”
Before she could answer, she heard a hatch slam onto the deck and saw a spike of light near the engine. Footsteps resonated from someone coming down, and she lay still.
Through the gap in her hood she watched the legs approach, stopping between Mack and her, just next to her chest. She studied the leather boots, waiting.
The man said, “Looks like that needle worked as advertised. I was beginning to wonder if you two was in a coma, but it cleared out just like they said.”
The accent was heavy, and Slavic. Not Irish. Eastern European.
Mack fought to sit up, shouting, “What do you want from us?”
She saw the boot rise, then push McKinley back to the hull, not harshly, but with enough force to show he meant business.
“I want nothing from you. I’m but a delivery boy. We will be stopping soon. When that happens, I’m going to untie your legs and remove your hood. You have some walking to do. If you try to escape, I’ll kill you.”
She felt the boat shift, the engine slowing down. He said, “I want both of you to roll onto your belly. Now.”
She did so and felt the rope around her knees and ankles fall away. She remained still. The hood was removed and she was told to stand. She complied and found she was a half a head taller than her captor, a short, wiry man wearing a wool sweater, with close-cropped black hair and eyes as dull and lifeless as a chunk of burnt wood. He reminded her of a KGB agent from a cartoon. All he was missing was a pencil-thin mustache. In one calloused hand he held a fillet knife, undermining any notion that the man was a comic book buffoon.
He pointed to the ladder and said, “Go onto the deck. Sit down and wait.”
She hesitated, looking at Mack still tied up, and he said, “Do as I say. I’m not going to harm him. I just don’t want two of you loose down here at the same time.”
She climbed the ladder carefully, afraid of tumbling back down below without the use of her hands. She reached the top and was hoisted out by another man, then forced into a sitting position. He showed her a pistol and shook his head. She understood.
She found the boat much larger than the engine room indicated. A fishing trawler with great nets attached to booms on either side. The ladder came up just outside the wheelhouse, where she saw another man steering and cursing. To the left, a third man was lowering a rubber dinghy with an outboard motor, working the cable winch and answering the curses with foul language of his own.
She heard scuffling, and Mack appeared, his hands still tied behind him, the small man from below keeping him from falling backward. He turned to face her, and she was shocked at the damage. His left eye was swollen shut, his lip split, dried blood looking like ketchup stains from a greasy burger underneath his nose and on his chin. He smiled to give her confidence, but it came out hideous, like a caricature from a horror movie makeup room. It did little to ease her fear.
They were ordered to the stern of the boat, where the edge was closest to the water. The dinghy was brought around, and they were passed into it one by one, dropping unceremoniously onto the rigid deck. The original man, now armed with a pistol and wearing a rucksack, climbed in behind them and said, “Just sit still.”
And off they went.
Five hundred meters away, she could see an island. It grew until she could pick out the shore and the jungle beyond. No houses or other signs of civilization. They beached on a short, rocky stretch of sand. They were made to exit, then began walking up a steep footpath, slipping and falling among the roots of windswept brush. They reached the top away from the shore, breaking out onto a road facing a large open area with concrete pads stretching off into the distance.
Mack said, “Holy shit. I know this place. It’s Tinian Island. We’re at North Field.”
The man pushed them forward, saying “Quiet.”
They walked for another hundred meters, getting close to an outbuilding of crumbling concrete and indeterminate usage. When they reached it, he pointed with the pistol and said, “Sit.”
They did so, and he walked fifty meters away, withdrawing a radio from his rucksack.
Seeing he was out of earshot, Kaelyn whispered to Mack, “Where are we? And how do you know?”
Mack said, “Northern Mariana Islands. It’s an American protectorate. Way south of Japan. East of the Philippines. It’s the base where the Enola Gay took off from when it dropped the bomb.”
She said, “Enola Gay? How on earth can you tell that from looking at a bunch of concrete?”
“Remember a year ago when I finally got to leave Oki? Go on an exercise instead of working provost marshal stuff? Well, it was to this godforsaken lump of rock. Exercise Forager Fury. The whole point was to establish a forward landing strip for the Marine Expeditionary Force. That was the exercise. I pretended to pull security with a platoon of MPs while they rebuilt the old World War II infrastructure. It culminated with C-130s landing, proving we could project force in an austere environment.” He leaned back and said, “I spent twenty-eight days on this piece of shit, patrolling the perimeter over and over. I’d recognize it in my sleep.”
She took in what he said and instinctively knew the implications: It was an abandoned airfield with new, serviceable runways. They were waiting on an aircraft.
No sooner had the thought entered her head than the man returned, saying, “Get up.”
They did so, and she scanned the sky. To the west she saw a speck, which grew into an aircraft. It hit the ground, and she recognized a Viking de Havilland Twin Otter, a twin-engine plane designed for short takeoff and landing. Used the world over for harsh environments, it was loved by bush pilots for its ability to get into tight, rough spaces. But it wasn’t known for its endurance.
He pushed them forward, and she began to see the plan fall apart. To see their death. She said, “Listen, we’re going to be lucky to get to another piece of land on that thing. I don’t know what the pilot told you, but I’m surprised it made it out here on one tank. Getting back is suicide. You’re going to kill us in the ocean.”
The man said, “Perhaps we should let you fly it, hmm?”
The words caused an involuntary spike of fear, belying his earlier words about being just a “delivery boy.” He knew exactly who she was.
The plane taxied to their location and stopped, the engines still turning. Two men exited, moved to the concrete building, and pushed out a large cylinder on wheels, with a gas nozzle attached. They began refueling, and Kaelyn finally realized how much effort had been put into their capture. How much coordination and preparation.
Which meant the men had something very valuable in mind in return.
15
I stepped out of the train station behind Jennifer, dragging our two carry-ons behind me. She pointed to the street and said, “Guess I was right about the rental car.”
In front of me was a sea of bicycles, all chained and stacked haphazardly as if the Tour de France had decided to stop for a train ride. Well, that is if the Tour de France was run with rusted beachcombers and ancient ten-speeds. It looked like a bicycle graveyard. Which did nothing to help my mood.
My entire plan of attack had started to disintegrate over the Atlantic Ocean, ten minutes out from the British Isles. Knuckles had gotten a redirect. Apparently, the vice president’s son’s car had been found out in the English countryside, and it had been clean with the exception of one clue: a ferry receipt for Tangier, Morocco. It had necked down the potential kidnappers significantly, pointing to three or four different Islamic groups. As hunting terrorists was more of the Taskforce forte, he was given a mis
sion change to explore the connection, leaving the English criminal investigation with the FBI, which meant we were dumped as soon as possible at Heathrow in London, nowhere near Cambridge.
Poking out of the hatch of the Gulfstream, he’d said, “Sorry to do this to you, but orders are orders.” Then he’d smiled and waved before closing the door and leaving us on the tarmac holding our bags. I knew he thought it was incredibly funny, and I felt like a hitchhiker that had been tricked and taken to the wrong destination.
I’d wanted to get a rental car and drive to Cambridge, but Jennifer said that taking a train would be much easier. I’d argued that we needed the flexibility, and she’d stated that she’d done the research on Cambridge University and the surrounding town and that having a car would be more of a hindrance than a help. I’d acquiesced, mainly because I’m the one who had tasked her with the research, so I had to live with the results. But I was sure I’d prove her wrong when we arrived.
That certainty faded in view of the bicycle graveyard, sending a little stab of aggravation through me. Jennifer said, “Want to rent some bikes? The hotel I booked is right around the corner.”
I said, “And what? Strap these bags to the seat like a Vietcong on the Ho Chi Minh Trail?”
I saw a tiny grin slip out and realized she was screwing with me. Knowing that I had been all set on a big ol’ I told you so, she was returning the favor.
I shook my head, unable to stop my own smile. I tried to maintain my annoyance, but it was impossible with her. I said, “Can we get a cab instead?”
Three minutes later and we were headed to our hotel in downtown Cambridge. It turned out that the university didn’t have a single campus but instead spanned the entire town. Composed of over thirty colleges, each with its own separate green, the school was impossible to separate from the town. And the town was old. I mean, really old, having been founded in 1209. Charleston, South Carolina, prided itself on its history, but it had nothing on this village, something that Jennifer loved.
Getting the history lesson on the cab drive over, I began to regret giving her the research task. Right up until she corrected the cabdriver on his knowledge of the town, which was funny as hell.
We dumped our bags at the hotel and asked directions to Queens’ College, the campus where Kylie was conducting her exchange. A third-year student studying English literature, she should have been finishing up her first semester here. Instead, she’d disappeared, and I dearly hoped to find out it was just a college prank.
Kurt had already smoothed the way with the administration, and they were expecting us, so I didn’t think we’d have any trouble with the school. Her roommate might be a different story.
I tried to get a cab, but Jennifer insisted on renting some bikes from the hotel, and we set out, pedaling through history, the stone buildings and alleys projecting a stoic reticence at our very presence. Allowing us to view them, but knowing we would never appreciate the history they embodied. Well, that’s what I thought, anyway. For her part, Jennifer kept exclaiming one thing after another from her research, making me wish we could explore and let her run around like a puppy in a field. Making me wish we had some time before we began to dig into what had happened to Kylie. Something I was dreading.
After a short ride, we chained the bikes outside of Queens’ College and entered through the arch to the administration building, stepping back in time in more ways than one. The first person who met us was an ancient dragon lady with a dour expression soaking through her wrinkles. Apparently, one of the first to graduate from Queens’ College in the fifteenth century, she was convinced we were a couple of slimy Yank tourists out to deface her beloved grounds. We spent about twenty minutes trying to break through her prejudice, with me growing more and more aggravated.
Jennifer saw me getting pissed and knew my nascent social skills were at the breaking point. I was on the verge of simply walking into the courtyard, ignoring the old prune’s protests. Jennifer glared at me, giving me her disappointed-teacher stare, and I hissed, “Well, you take over then. Before I crack that bitch in the head.”
I saw her face flush at my cursing, her expression looking like she was trying to contain a volcanic eruption. I immediately regretted my choice of words. She clenched her teeth and bored into me with her eyes. I did what every man on earth had done since leaving the cave. I cowered.
She said, “Don’t utter another word,” then turned to the battle-axe, all sweetness and sunshine. After a bit of back and forth, the biddy was on the phone, calling down Kylie’s roommate and giving me the stink-eye. Reminding me yet again how much fun Knuckles must be having chasing bloodthirsty terrorists.
Five minutes later a slight girl with long black hair, glasses, and bushy eyebrows entered the office. She had a piercing next to her right eye, and my first thought was English lit major, but I knew better than to allow that to escape out of my mouth. Jennifer would probably punch me. I decided to let the females handle the introductions.
She shook our hands, then, speaking with a Scottish accent, said, “I’m Blair, Kylie’s roommate, and I’ll help you any way I can. I’m worried about her.”
Which popped any ideas I had about a bender in London and ramped up my concern. I said, “So you haven’t heard from her? At all?”
“No. I haven’t heard from her since she went out the other night. She never came home, and that’s not like her.”
Jennifer said, “Can we see her room? Her stuff?”
Blair looked at the battle-axe, who nodded, squinting at me as she did so. I almost said, “I won’t shit on the floor, I promise,” but bit my tongue. We left the dragon lady behind, walking to the dorm.
16
Strolling across the courtyard, Blair said, “She was seeing someone, and I figured she’d gone dancing at Cindies, but when she texted to tell me where she’d left my bike, it wasn’t anywhere near there. That was the last thing I heard from her.”
I said, “Wait a minute. One step at a time. What makes you think she was seeing someone?”
“She just was. She was very secretive about it, but I could tell. She spent too much time getting ready. Too much time trying to look nice. It was for a man.”
“So she never told you who it was?”
“No. Like I said, she kept it a big secret. I mean, she wouldn’t even admit to going out with someone. I think she was afraid of being labeled a slut or something.”
Jennifer said, “What’s Cindies?”
“It’s a local dance club. It’s actually changed names from Cinderella to Ballare, but everyone still calls it Cindies. But she didn’t go there. Well, at least that wasn’t the last place she went.”
We turned the corner, walking through an arch in a building older than our entire nation. A wooden bridge spanned a canal, and Jennifer said, “Oh my God, is that the Mathematical Bridge?”
Blair nodded and started to say something about it when I interjected, “Can we stay on point here?”
Jennifer glared at me, and Blair went back and forth between us. I stepped onto the bridge and said, “How do you know where she stopped last?”
“I don’t know exactly where, but she sent me a text telling me where to get my bike—she’d broken the chain on hers and I’d loaned her mine. I needed it later in the night . . . I mean, I was going out as well . . . and she texted where she’d left it locked up. It was nowhere near Cindies, so that’s not where she went.”
We reached the dorm, which wasn’t nearly as old as the original school buildings. It was modern, maybe built in the eighteenth century as opposed to the fifteenth. She led the way up the stairs to the second floor, and I wondered how many people had trodden the same path. I found it a little creepy, with everything built in dark wood and shadowed in a gloomy light.
She unlocked the door to their small apartment and said, “Here’s home. Her stuff is through the kitchen on the le
ft. All of it is still there; her computer is on the desk.”
I said, “Is there Internet in here, or are you guys supposed to learn like the forefathers?”
Blair laughed and said, “Yeah, there’s Wi-Fi. She should already be hooked up, but I can’t help you if she has any passwords on her stuff.”
I pulled a slip of paper out of my pocket and said, “I got that. Jennifer, see what else Blair knows. I’m going to hit the room.”
I left them in the kitchen, walking to the doorway of Kylie’s dorm. It was small, with a simple wood desk and a double-size bed, and had a faint musty smell, reminding me of old drapes left hanging way past their service life. It was clean and tidy, with only a single pair of socks on the floor. A MacBook Pro was on the desk, an open notebook next to it, as if Kylie were coming home any minute. For some reason the scene brought about a melancholy feeling, a sad reminder of how fragile life can be.
I shook those thoughts from my head. There was no indication that something bad had happened to Kylie. Not yet anyway.
I went through the desk first, hoping to find a journal or calendar. From the third drawer I pulled out another notebook. Inside was nothing more than a school assignments list, with most of the notebook pages blank. I pulled out a syllabus from a pocket and a small piece of folded paper fluttered to the ground. I opened it and found a visitor’s pass made out to Kylie Hale for RAF Molesworth. The escort name was TSgt Nicholas Seacrest of the NATO Intelligence Fusion Centre, with the destination being some pizza joint on the post.
What on earth would she be doing at a British air base? How good could that pizza be?
I put the pass away and turned on the Mac, logging in and going straight to her social media. There were a ton of new posts to her Facebook page, but no comments or posts by her since she’d disappeared. I opened her private messages, feeling a little slimy. I went through them as fast as possible, not wanting to pry, scanning the initial sentences and moving on. I found nothing of interest. The same for her Twitter feed. Just innocuous posts about college life.
