The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

  “OK, so we find the plane,” Alex said, jumping right to the heart of things, “then what? Call the feds?”

  “I don’t think that would be an option, even if we find it,” Blake replied. “I’d still rather have us continue on our own. They’d have to go through channels; it would take a long time.”

  “Sam?” Alex prompted.

  “I tend to agree with Blake. We’re looking at getting the feds, or maybe the CIA in this case, more likely, to orchestrate an op in a foreign country, based on some disputable satellite imagery and our stories. I don’t think they’re gonna do it. Not fast enough, anyway.”

  She stood and started pacing the little space she had available, between the table and the wall where the map was pinned. She rubbed the back of her neck nervously, grinding her teeth.

  “OK, let’s talk extraction scenarios, then,” she conceded, silencing the self-doubt she was feeling. She wasn’t special ops material; she felt overwhelmed at the immense responsibility hanging on her decisions, her actions, and her judgment. “Lou? You’re the closest thing we have to a special ops expert; I think you should lead the extraction discussions.”

  “Sure, boss, I’d be happy to,” he replied, then went to the whiteboard with a marker in his hand. “We have two tactical issues,” he continued, writing as he spoke. “One, we’re assuming that the people are still with the plane, and they might not be. In fact, why would they be? Whoever holds them needs to feed them and house them, no matter how precariously. That takes space and resources.”

  “Oh, God…” Blake said, “you’re right. We might find the plane, but they could be long gone from there.”

  “Long gone, but not very far, I’d think it’s safe to assume,” Alex intervened.

  “Why?” Lou asked.

  “This is not some random hijacking under the spur of the moment. This was a well-planned op, and, most likely, if they’re housing the people at a certain location, they would have taken them by plane there, or as close as possible—441 people are a lot of individuals to be moving from point A to point B.”

  “Agreed,” Lou said, “sounds reasonable. But that means once we find the plane, we’ll have to go there and find them. This is our first tactical issue,” he specified, writing the number one in a circle on the whiteboard, under the phrase, “Unknown hostage location.”

  “And second?” Blake asked.

  “Having 441 people means a lot of exfiltration,” Lou replied, “a lot of exfil to handle from behind enemy lines, under potential fire. Some might be hurt, weak, or sick. I think the best bet remains the plane. Get them out of there exactly as they came in.”

  “Makes sense,” Alex said, smiling for the first time in days. “We’d need a pilot though. One of the 747’s pilots had a Russian name; let’s assume him hostile. We can’t count on him. I’d rather count on Blake’s pilot. And we’re also assuming that the 747 can still be used.”

  “Yes,” Lou agreed, “we’re assuming that the Boeing is still airworthy, and has enough fuel to get everyone back to Japan. But we need firepower, serious firepower.”

  “Why?” Blake asked.

  “The UNSUB has enough people to control 441 hostages,” Lou replied. “We’re talking about anything up to potentially fifty armed forces, maybe even more. They could have air support, heavy weaponry, surveillance, advanced recon, who knows? We have to be prepared.”

  Alex fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “Umm…and I’m not…I can’t be counted on, you know, I’m no special ops material,” she struggled to say, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I am coming with you, of course, but I’m not that great in a battle. I’ve never been in one.”

  “Nope, that’s not true,” Sam said. “I’ve seen you in action. You’re cool under pressure, you keep your head well-bolted to your shoulders, and you don’t hesitate. I’d have you watch my six anytime.”

  “Same here,” Lou said. “I’ve trained you and I’ve seen you in simulations. I’ve also seen you in the field; you’re a great shot. Just remember your training, and you’ll do fine.”

  She looked at them both, then took in a deep breath and said, “Then we’re set. But we’re still not enough, the three of us. We need some serious help.”

  “Four,” Blake said. “I’m coming too.”

  “Blake, that’s not a good idea,” Alex replied. “We can’t watch over you while we’re out there. You’re better off waiting for us here, where it’s safe.”

  “I won’t need you to watch over me. I’m a damn good shot, and a Desert Storm veteran. Give me some credit, will you? I can’t stand waiting one more second, so I’m coming with you. That’s decided.”

  Sam nodded, and Lou whispered, “Welcome to the exfil team then.”

  “I’m repeating myself here,” Alex said. “We need help, serious help. Where do we find it?”

  “I’m thinking mercs,” Lou replied, “military hired help.”

  “I’ll make some calls,” Blake offered.

  “No, not this time,” Lou replied. “Let me make the calls, I’ll know better what to ask for.” He paused a little, gathering his thoughts. “We can’t hire them in the States, though.”

  “Why?” Blake asked.

  “They’ll need to bring a lot of gear with them, including choppers. We’re pretty sure we’re gonna find that plane, only we don’t exactly know where and when we’ll find the passengers. I’d rather have the four of us do the initial groundwork, stealth. With a dozen mercs or so in tow, and their equipment, they’ll see us coming from miles away.”

  “Then they’ll need to be located in Japan,” Alex said. “It’s the only friendly area that’s close enough to our op zone.”

  “See? What did I tell you?” Sam asked with a chuckle. “You’re already mastering this game. The only thing, just don’t call them mercs; they hate that. Even if they are guns for hire, that doesn’t mean they don’t have principles and a code of honor.”

  “Oh…What should I call them, then?”

  “Military contractors is better.”

  “All right, let’s find us some Japan-based military contractors to help us.”

  ...36

  ...Sunday, May 8, 7:56PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...Vitaliy Myatlev’s Residence

  ...Moscow, Russia

  ...Eleven Days Missing

  Myatlev gave his half-smoked cigar a disappointed, frustrated look, as he rolled it between his thumb and index finger. A wave of humid heat had taken over Moscow, and the polluted, stinking haze ruined his smoking enjoyment, bringing a faint smell of gasoline exhaust to the otherwise perfect Arturo Fuente cigar.

  He flicked the cigar over the terrace railing and leaned back in his lounge chair, thinking, letting his mind wonder, reliving the bear attack. He could have delayed taking that shot just a few seconds, and it could have been no more Abramovich. No more unstable, moody, arrogant bastard to order him around and tell him what he could and couldn’t do. No more having to go to work in his office at the Ministry of Defense. No more fear of having the president’s favor turn into persecution, and no more threat of Siberia looming over his head. It would have been an easy, clean kill, brought to him as a peace offering from destiny itself. Abramovich’s life, offered to him on a silver plate, and he chose to save that life.

  Yet, in the heat of the moment, he’d chosen to pull that trigger and save the bastard, and he didn’t regret it. Despite his unpredictable stubbornness, Abramovich was worth more to Myatlev alive than dead. The possibilities were endless, his to explore, materialize, and reap benefits from.

  Even if that meant, every now and then, yielding to the bastard’s will and doing what he was told.

  “Tvoyu mat,” he muttered under his breath, then called out, “Ivan!”

  Ivan instantly appeared out of nowhere.

  “Da?”

  “Blow up that 747, Ivan, and do it soon,” he said, feeling his jaws clenching at t
he thought of it. Such a waste…a senseless, stupid, cowardly waste. But blatantly disobeying a direct order from Abramovich and irritating him wasn’t an option.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, yes, you heard me,” Myatlev confirmed. “And you heard Abramovich yesterday. It has to get done. ”

  Myatlev stood up, straining, feeling a pinch under the right side of his ribcage. Maybe it was time to give his liver a checkup. So much stress wasn’t good for anyone, and the vodka didn’t help, but he wasn’t going to stop living before actually dying.

  “Send someone you trust, Ivan,” he continued. “Tell him to pack it with C4 and blow it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ivan acknowledged. “Consider it done.”

  “Route a satellite over it and record the explosion, in case Abramovich wants to see some proof.”

  Ivan nodded, getting ready to leave.

  A cunning smile appeared on Myatlev’s lips. “Tell your man to collect some of the plane’s debris after the explosion, and take that out to sea. Tell him to throw that debris in the water near where they said it crashed. This way they’ll stop looking.”

  Ivan smiled widely.

  “Consider it done,” he repeated before leaving.

  ...37

  ...Sunday, May 8, 10:26AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...Tom Isaac’s Residence

  ...Laguna Beach, California

  ...Eleven Days Missing

  A feverish sense of anticipation anxiety crept up on all of them, as they watched the hours slip by and counted each hour obsessively, waiting for DigiWorld’s call to come in with a possible location. They responded to that anxiety in different ways, suited to their individual personalities.

  Sam smoked, playing with the smoke as it left his lungs, at times competing with Steve in the art of blowing the perfect smoke ring. Was cigarette smoke better than cigar smoke when it came to smoke rings? They debated that for almost forty minutes, driving Alex crazy.

  Blake analyzed the news, as he did with every chance he got, looking to the media for any new information about the missing plane. By the bleak look on his face, there was nothing new in the press.

  Tom had started heating up the grill, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, but that was Tom’s stress relief; he liked to cook.

  Alex had nothing to do, just paced back and forth on the patio, occasionally biting on her right index fingernail, so unsettled she couldn’t even sit down. How much longer would they have to wait? Were they still going to find the passengers alive? Or just piled up in a superficial mass grave somewhere? If the UNSUB had taken the plane to get a hold of nine neuroscientists, what about the rest of the people? What had become of them? If satellite scans failed, what other means would she have to find the missing XA233? Has she been wrong all this time, focusing on Russia? Had she been wasting time and people’s lives on her obsession with V? Damn waiting…There were too many questions and not enough answers, and it pissing her off. I hate this powerlessness shit, she thought. Now I’m almost like Lou, I just wanna shoot whoever took that damn plane.

  “Hey, I got us a crew,” Lou said cheerfully, coming out in the backyard with some papers in his hand.

  They gathered around him hastily. Finally, some damn news.

  “OK, here it is,” Lou said, showing them his notes. “We have a crew of fourteen standing by, with two choppers, ready to fly in when we call them. They didn’t seem overly preoccupied with operating behind the Russian border.”

  “American?” Alex asked. “Or Japanese?”

  “American. There’s an American military base in Wakkanai, at the northern tip of the Japanese islands. These guys, Dark Ravens they’re called, are a contractor with troops over there. Starting tomorrow morning at 0600 they’re on the clock, and that’s costing us $160,000 a day, whether we use them or not.”

  “Whoa,” Alex said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Blake dismissed her reaction to the cost of the operation. “I just wish we knew where to tell them to go.”

  “Will fourteen be enough?” Alex asked, thinking of Lou’s estimation of potentially fifty armed forces working for the UNSUB.

  After a quick moment of silence, he frowned a little, and then replied, “They’ll have to be.”

  ...38

  ...Monday, May 9, 10:24AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Undisclosed Location

  ...Russia

  ...Twelve Days Missing

  Dr. Adenauer sat on a lab stool, hunched over the tile-covered table, rubbing his forehead obsessively. He couldn’t do what they asked; yet he had to. There was no way out. All these people were there, enduring captivity because of him, so if his soul was going to burn in the hell of his conscience, then so be it.

  He stood and walked toward the cot where Declan Mallory lay, breathing shallowly and sweating profusely. The heat was unbearable; it was getting hotter from one day to the next, and that made it even worse for Mallory. Every breath he took must have been excruciatingly painful, regardless of the improvised pain medication they’d been able to offer. Luckily, so far there didn’t seem to be any evidence of internal bleeding, a common side effect of the type of trauma he’d been subjected to.

  Dr. Adenauer summoned everyone to join him around Dr. Mallory’s cot.

  “There’s no other option,” he spoke, his voice heavy with the burden of conscience. “We have to increase the strength of the compound.”

  “No, you can’t do that!” Gary Davis said. “They’re people, for God’s sake; you can’t test that on people! You could kill them!”

  Dr. Adenauer rubbed his creased forehead again.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else. But what you fail to understand is that if they decide we’re worthless to their…their quest for this drug, they will kill us all. All of us, including the hundreds of others who were on that plane. Everybody.”

  His words fell heavy, bringing deafening silence with them. He knew he was right, and he knew he was the one who needed to make the difficult decisions the rest couldn’t stomach.

  “Can’t we at least find a way to test safely?” Gary Davis insisted. “Can we ask for lab rats?”

  That made sense; Adenauer had to admit, although the precise dosing of the compound in their makeshift lab would probably pose some issues. It did make sense, nevertheless.

  He approached King Cobra, who was watching them from a distance, with his eyes half closed, succumbed to the heat.

  “Tell your boss we need lab rats,” Adenauer said firmly, “and by that I mean rodents, not people.”

  ...39

  ...Monday, May 9, 1:31AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...DigiWorld Corporate Headquarters

  ...Los Angeles, California

  ...Twelve Days Missing

  Despite the very late hour, none of them felt anything but eager anticipation. Alex had been so anxious to get there after receiving the call, that she didn’t even replenish her coffee. She’d just grabbed her jacket and left, waiting for Blake and Lou with her engine running, muttering “C’mon, c’mon,” every ten seconds.

  Now the three of them stood in front of DigiWorld’s huge screens, squinting hard and trying to see what the operator was saying.

  “We’ve brought you here,” the operator said, “because we’ve captured an image, a ghost as we call it. See? It’s right here.”

  They stared some more, but were unable to discern anything.

  “It's a faint haze, almost thin as clouds, but the haze shown on the image is displayed in a pattern compatible with that of a plane,” the operator clarified. She looked very young for her job, but seemed sure of herself.

  “Where?” Alex asked.

  The operator moved her mouse and circled a certain area on the huge screen that showed a stretch of forested land with small puddles of water, maybe a swamp.

  “Right here, see? This is where we think we have what we call a ghost pattern.”
/>   “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that while it’s not really the discernible image of a plane, this haze has a few points in common with the plane’s shape. It’s almost as if we captured the ghost of the plane…that’s why we call these types of images ghost patterns. They look like wisps of thin cloud. Umm…they look just like how ghosts are shown in the movies, but match the pattern, the shape of our search subject, the 747-400.”

  She touched a few keys and grabbed the image of a 747-400 from a library of images. Then she rotated it a little around the horizontal and vertical axes, positioning it at a certain angle, then overlapped it on top of the ghost pattern she was seeing.

  The screen flickered green dots where the two images matched. There were twelve green dots on the screen, blinking.

  Blake was holding his breath. “What does this mean?” he asked, pointing at the screen.

  “It means we’ve found your plane, Mr. Bernard. It’s hidden under something, it’s shallow, not buried deep, yet still hidden somehow. Because the plane itself is hollow, not solid, the resonance scanner sees it as a ghost pattern rather than a solid, well-contoured shape. But it’s there.”

  “Bring the satellite to focus on that area, as close and high-res as possible,” Alex said. “Give me maximum zoom; let’s see what we can learn about that place. Lou,” she turned toward him, “can you see if there are any drones in Japan we could use? Maybe that military base has some?”

  “I’m on it, boss,” he replied, yanking his cell phone out of his pocket and taking a few steps away to make his call without disturbing anyone. “If I remember correctly, NanoLance had a testing program in place in Japan, a dual research project on fully automated UCAVs. I happen to know some people,” he added with a wink, “I’ll make some calls.”

  “Where exactly is this place?” Alex asked.