by Leslie Wolfe
He nodded silently.
“OK, let’s go inside,” she summoned him, putting a little more energy in her voice. “The team’s waiting for us. We need to explore this neuroagent scenario, see where it leads us.”
She turned and walked in, heading to the war room, followed closely by Blake. He’d straightened his back and seemed calmer, more hopeful, recomposed. Good!
Tom was making coffee at the small machine in the corner, taking drink orders and delivering them. Lou had just received a cup of Hawaiian blend from his hands, a little uncomfortable having his boss serve him coffee. He needed to relax a little more; probably his military background was driving behaviors in him that would never go away. After all, he still called Alex, “boss.” When she objected, he always said, “Once a SEAL, always a SEAL, ma’am!” and saluted, making them all laugh hard.
They all took seats around the table, except Alex. She remained standing, pacing slowly in a weak attempt to remain calm and focused. Her blood was boiling with every second that passed.
“OK, so let’s talk the chemical warfare scenario,” she said, sounding more confident than she actually felt. What did she know about chemical warfare? Almost nothing, plus a few hours’ worth of Internet research. “Thoughts? I think this could change things a little.”
“Totally,” Lou said. “This could be a national security threat. We need to call people.”
“I agree,” Alex replied, “but who would believe us? When the entire world is looking for this plane at the bottom of the ocean?”
“Exactly,” Blake intervened. “I know, because I tried really hard, using all my influence. And they didn’t even want to hear me out.”
“Unfortunately, I have to agree,” Sam added, putting his already empty coffee cup on the table with a hint of regret. “They’d probably consider us some loony conspiracy theorists and discard us in an instant.”
“Let’s play this out,” Tom said. “Why would they discard our theory that fast?”
“Well, let’s say we call the feds in on this, right?” Sam started explaining. “They give us a few minutes, not more, and that’s even after us having to explain how we got our hands on deep-level background information for 441 people.”
Lou cleared his throat and gulped a little coffee, swallowing hard, then wrung his hands together. “Oh, boy…” he muttered, “not good.”
“Then, they’d call the airline and ask if it’s even remotely possible for that plane to have landed hundreds of miles from where the airline’s searching for it, right?” Sam searched their faces with his scrutinizing eyes, one by one. They all agreed. “What do you think the airline would say? Do you think it would admit that, essentially, it has no clue where the aircraft really is once it takes off? Or would the airline swear that XA233 simply has to be on the bottom of the ocean somewhere?”
They all remained quiet, watching Sam intently.
“Yes, I’d have to agree, it would be a waste of time,” he ended his argument. “The satellites are going operational later today; I’d say let’s keep going on our own. Until we have some solid evidence, we don’t have a case with any one of the law enforcement agencies. Let’s keep in mind that 441 people are out there, and we’re their only hope. We don’t have time to bet on the government. God only knows what’s happening to them right now, or how many are still alive.”
A long, shuddering breath came out of Blake’s chest.
“Blake, man, I’m so sorry,” Sam said, hopping off his chair and squeezing Blake’s shoulder. “We’ll find her, I promise you. I’m such an idiot, jeez…”
Blake looked up and spoke softly, yet firmly, “You can’t keep apologizing, or constantly censoring your communication, trying to shield me. You’re right, you’re her only hope, so please stay focused on finding all of them, and don’t worry about me. I can handle it.”
Steve watched the interaction quietly, but then asked, disrupting the uncomfortable silence that ensued, “Could someone please explain to me what you’re thinking, jumping from an apparently coincidental group of scientists on a return flight from a conference, all the way to chemical warfare and nerve agents? I must be missing something.”
“We had previously established means,” Alex replied, “when we figured out how it could have been done. We still don’t have a confirmed UNSUB identity connected to those means, but at least we’ve established it was possible to hijack a plane like that. But we were missing motive. Why would someone grab a 747 mid-flight? If you recall, we explored the scenarios of a financially, or politically motivated hijacking, but no calls were made that we know of, asking for any trade in return for the plane and its occupants. We were unable to answer the why question until now, especially why XA233, and not any other commercial flight.”
She looked at Steve, but he still looked a little confused. She continued, “But what if you’d like to conduct ultra-secret research on chemical warfare, specifically on neuroagents? What better way than to hijack the plane carrying the world’s leading experts in neurochemistry, and force them to work for you?”
“Oh, I see…What do you think they’re making, what kind of nerve agent?”
“No way of knowing,” she replied.
Silence engulfed the war room again, equally uncomfortable.
“That’s why you think V is behind this then?” Steve asked.
“Yes,” Alex replied. “It fits.”
“But—” Steve started to say, but she immediately interrupted him.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I have no proof; I have nothing, no hard evidence to back me up. But, to me, it feels right. I know it’s him.”
“You’re saying no one else could pull this off?” Sam asked.
She threw him an angry, disappointed glare. Sam doubted her too.
“You did ask me to keep you true, remember?” Sam added.
She cooled off a little. Sam was right to ask questions.
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I? But you know how these things are sometimes. You just have to follow your gut. Both of you taught me that,” she said, swaying her index finger from Tom to Sam and back.
“Correct,” Tom admitted. “I also taught you to keep an open mind.”
“But I am—” Alex said, in a high-pitched tone showing her growing anger.
“We all trust you, Alex,” Steve said conciliatorily, “it’s not about that.”
“Then what?” she snapped, turning toward him. He’d been the first to distrust her, to lose confidence in her reasoning. The first to betray her, to cross the line that had forever changed their relationship.
Steve remained silent for a second, visibly uncomfortable with what he was about to say.
“It’s about your determination with finding V. We don’t want you to have that determination cloud your judgment, that’s all. I guess we’re just a bunch of concerned, overprotective men, that’s all,” he ended with a shy smile.
She couldn’t contain the chuckle that dissolved all her anger in a split second.
“Are you, now? So let me get this straight, I am being sexually discriminated in my place of employment?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Tom said, “we are so not going down that path. I would really like to retire before getting sued for any type of workplace issue,” he stated somberly, but with a smile in his eyes.
Alex looked at them, feeling a forgotten warmth take over her heart. They were on her side, all of them, despite all their questions. Smart people ask questions and want to see proof for everything.
“Look, guys, I know how this looks, especially considering how obsessed I’d become with catching V, the bastard.” She spoke in a softer voice, dropping all her defensiveness. “I am painfully aware that there’s no real evidence, and I’m even more aware that we might end up finding the plane and its passengers, yet still find no evidence of V, or who the real UNSUB mastermind behind this hijacking was. But the clock is ticking, and we only have a few hours before we need to submit our search grids to DigiWorld to dep
loy the satellite search patterns.”
They fidgeted a little, turning their attention to the map. Sam used the opportunity to grab another cup of coffee, and filled the small room with a strong, dark-roast aroma.
“Let’s organize the search grids for now, thinking of two satellites, not three. The third hasn’t been confirmed yet. Do we think China is worth searching? It’s in the neighborhood,” she asked.
“Why not Iran? Libya?” Sam asked. “Anyone could have taken that plane. It could have landed on a commercial airport for all we know.”
“No, definitely not on a commercial airport,” Alex replied. “Too many witnesses. As for China, Iran, or Libya? I don’t know…I honestly don’t. But it just doesn’t feel like it’s any of them. It feels like Russians. To me, this is V’s handiwork, but I am keeping my options open.”
A moment of silence followed, while they looked at one another, unsure what to say.
“We need to make a call, guys, that’s all,” she added, “I am very open-minded right now, conceding the fact that it might not have been V behind this, or not directly. What do you think?”
“It’s your call, kiddo,” Sam said.
“Agree,” Blake confirmed.
Lou saluted, his typical way of saying that he’ll follow her lead, and Steve nodded.
“Godspeed,” Tom concluded.
“Then Russia it is,” Alex decided firmly. “No China, or anyone else for now.”
She took a marker and drew a circle sector on the map, centered on Tokyo, and interrupted at Russia’s borders.
“I’d suggest one satellite scans east-to-west from the north, and the other one starts the same search pattern coming from the south. We could break this down in swatches of about 300 miles in width, before having to reposition the satellites. I think this is the fastest way to get results. It makes sense to me they’d start from the coastline, not from inland. That’s how I’d go about it.”
“Makes sense,” Lou said.
She turned on the TV and projected some images from her laptop.
“We’ve found several strips where the plane could have landed. Airfields, potentially strategic highways. There are quite a few within range, and far apart. This is not actionable info, I’m afraid. There’s no way to tell where they’d have landed just based on this.”
“Why?” Blake asked, a new wave of pallor hitting his face.
“We were hoping there would only be two or three landing strips within range, but we found more than forty. We can’t go into the field and investigate them one by one. They’re many and far apart, most of them isolated. It would take us weeks.”
“What are you saying?” Blake continued.
“I’m saying that satellites are our best bet, maybe our only one.”
She reached for the coffee cup to relieve her dry throat, but it was empty. She put it back on the table with a frustrated sigh.
They all remained silent, concern showing on their faces in different ways. Blake had resumed staring at the floor. Lou’s lips were pursed and his jaws clenched, and he was stomping his foot rhythmically, impatiently. Steve had a rarely seen frown clouding his brow, and Tom had clasped his hands together, probably struggling with this kind of powerlessness. Sam seemed unfazed, looking confident, but she knew him better than to fall for that appearance.
“What are we talking about here, in terms of time?” Sam asked.
“About 36 hours, maybe 48. That’s all it will take, and we’ll finally know. That’s all it takes for the satellites to screen that area at high resolution,” she replied, pointing at the circle drawn on the map. “If there’s a Boeing 747-400 out there, in those woods, they’ll find it.”
“How?” Steve asked, hesitantly. “What if there’s no direct visibility, how will the satellites see the plane?”
“Oh, we’ve thought of that,” she said, displaying a colorful image on the screen. “In recent years, technologies have been developed to use satellites for mining and mineral prospecting. Our satellites will use those orbital prospecting technologies, more precisely infrared scanning, advanced space-borne thermal emissions, and reflection radiometer scanning. Just like how satellites would find metal buried in the ground, they can find the plane, no matter how deep it’s buried or hidden in the forest.”
“How would infrared work, in this case?” Lou asked. “That’s more for weather applications, right?”
“Right,” Alex confirmed. “Keep in mind the specific heat of metal is lower than the heat of the forest, or any surrounding natural surface materials, like rocks, vegetation, and dirt. It would stand out simply because it’s colder.”
She looked at everyone in the room, feeling a little overwhelmed again. There were 441 lives, all depending on her judgment calls. Oh, God… please help me be right about this.
She shook her doubt away, straightening her back, and raising her head with a confidence she forced herself to feel.
“Guys, we’re almost there. One more day and we’ll know where to go.”
“Great,” Lou said, “it’s about time. I’m dying to go out there and shoot the motherfuckers who thought this shit up.”
...34
...Sunday, May 8, 7:42PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Undisclosed Location
...Russia
...Eleven Days Missing
Dr. Davis looked up from the gas chromatograph’s screen, searching for the source of the annoying little buzzing sound. There it was… a mosquito had just landed on the tile-covered lab table. He slammed his palm hard, killing it, and making some test tubes rattle in their stands. He also gave Dr. Chevalier a start. She was sitting at the microscope just a few feet away and looked at him disapprovingly.
“I apologize, Marie-Elise, it was just reflex,” he said in a gentle tone of voice.
Instantly, her eyes welled up, and a silent tear started rolling on her cheek.
He pushed his chair closer to her.
“What’s going on, huh? Would you like to tell me about it? Maybe I can help…”
She sniffled, a little embarrassed, keeping her eyes pinned to the floor and her shoulders forward, seeming small and vulnerable. She hugged herself tightly.
“It’s—it’s my husband. He had a heart attack just a month ago,” she said, her voice strangled by tears. “I don’t even know if he’s still alive. We might never get out of here, you know?”
“Marie-Elise,” Gary whispered, “you have to hold on to hope. You have to—”
The sound of the massive door springing open silenced him. Everyone watched silently as an enraged Bogdanov walked through the door, followed closely by Death and One-Eye, both carrying their automatic weapons.
Without any provocation, One-Eye grabbed Dr. Mallory, who was closest to the door, and shoved him hard on the floor at Bogdanov’s feet. Declan Mallory fell hard and stayed down, probably dazed, too shocked to react. The quiet, composed Brit didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body.
Gary gasped, then covered his mouth. He grabbed Marie-Elise’s hand and squeezed it tightly. Like threatened animals in the wild when predators are near, they all huddled closely together, finding some comfort in one another’s presence.
He heard Wu Shen Teng’s stifled sobs somewhere behind him. He turned and looked at him, trying to offer an encouraging look. For some reason, what he’d intended as comfort had the opposite effect on Wu Shen Teng, who covered his mouth with both his hands to silence the sound of his renewed sobbing.
Bogdanov reached down and grabbed a fistful of Mallory’s hair, forcing him to his knees.
“If I don’t have a successful test in 48 hours, he will die,” Bogdanov said in a quiet voice, a threatening, growling whisper. He looked at them with eyes filled with hate, then spat on the floor.
They all stood quietly, huddled together closely, holding their breaths. Gary felt the urge to step forward and do something; he wasn’t sure what. He took half a step forward, but Marie-Elise clutched his hand tightly and wh
ispered, “No!”
Then Bogdanov spoke again.
“You’ve been sabotaging this from the first day,” he said, surprising Gary, and probably the rest of the doctors.
How the hell did they know? They’d been careful, keeping their voices down whenever they spoke, and taking turns keeping their guards busy and discreetly supervised. They thought they had a way to buy themselves some time. They’d been wrong all this time. Fuck!
“You think you’re smart, da?” Bogdanov continued, his voice filling with contempt. “You think you can stall us, and we’re just dumb Russians and we won’t know? We know everything!” he shouted, punctuating his statement with a boot kick to Declan Mallory’s stomach.
Declan curled up on the floor, groaning and writhing with pain, trying to breathe, gasping for air.
Marie-Elise’s grasp on Gary’s hand tightened, as anticipating what he was thinking of doing. But he didn’t have time to act.
“You do that again and you will die, one by one,” Bogdanov added, drilling his eyes into theirs. “From shock,” he continued, his menacing voice dropping to a whisper again. “I will break every bone in your body, one by one, slowly, until your body gives up on you. That’s my promise to all of you lying cunts.”
Bogdanov nodded toward One-Eye, who brought the stock of his Kalashnikov brutally down on Mallory’s rib cage. They all stood there, paralyzed, hearing the bones cracking and Declan scream. Gary felt a wave of nausea hit him.
“This is your final warning,” Bogdanov added, then left briskly, followed by his men.
...35
...Sunday, May 8, 8:22AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Tom Isaac’s Residence
...Laguna Beach, California
...Eleven Days Missing
The early morning air pushed through the open window, helped by a scented breeze heavy with spring blooms. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee almost covered that, as one after another, cups filled at the machine, and the team members took their seats around the small table, steaming cups in front of them.
