The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

  Without even realizing it, he had grabbed Fortuin by the lapels and was shaking him, pushing him against the wall.

  “Gary,” Jane Crawford spoke quietly, sitting up against her pillow. “Knock it off and get your shit together, what the hell?”

  Somehow, hearing her voice, the American accent reminding him of home, of who he was, calmed him instantly. He immediately let go of Fortuin’s lapels.

  “I–I am so sorry, Dr. Fortuin, I don’t know what got into me,” he apologized, feeling ashamed.

  “Well, I guess it’s all right,” Fortuin replied with cold dignity, straightening his clothing and running his fingers through his silver hair. “We’re all frustrated and desperate, son, don’t let it get the best of you.”

  “I know, you’re right,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks burn. “I just wish there was something we could do. If we could only get more of them in here at the same time, not just one, then my plan would work.”

  “Umm…maybe we could,” Dr. Teng spoke tentatively, keeping his gaze riveted to the ground.

  Gary turned toward the thin, frail man, surprised.

  “How?” he asked.

  Wu Shen Teng’s back bowed a little more, and his head hung low.

  “I–I have…I have been telling Bogdanov things, in exchange for my family’s safety.”

  “You what?” Gary reacted, grinding his teeth and barely keeping his voice under control. “You…betrayed us?” He couldn’t even find his words, suffocated by anger.

  “Yes,” Dr. Teng replied, his voice chocked and trembling. “I thought I was protecting my family. I was wrong, terribly wrong.” He clasped his hands together in a pleading gesture, not lifting his eyes from the ground. “Please, forgive me.”

  Marie-Elise closed her eyes in a silent gesture of disappointment, and Adenauer muttered something in German.

  “Unbelievable,” Gary replied. “Fucking unbelievable.”

  “Oh, no, it’s believable, Gary, trust me.” Jane Crawford spoke. “Just put yourself in his place, for Christ’s sake. You’d do anything.”

  “Let’s stay focused, please,” Dr. Fortuin said. “Dr. Teng, you’re saying you could bring more of them in here?”

  “I think I could,” he replied. “I think I know what to say.”

  “Keep in mind we’re not combatants,” Adenauer said. “Some of us can’t even shoot a slingshot.”

  “I’ll handle the shooting,” Gary said. “Bukowsky can help.”

  “Sure, I can do that, I’m a decent shot,” Bukowsky replied.

  “I can too,” Jane Crawford added. “I used to shoot clay pigeons for sport.”

  “Works for me,” Gary said with a wide smile. “Dr. Teng, you have to get them in here and get them to stay for a few minutes. Even if we use aerosolized anesthetics, we can’t get them to drop to the floor instantly. We have to consider what solution concentrations we can risk exposing ourselves to, and it would take the aerosol a little while to work.”

  Wu Shen Teng nodded.

  Gary started pacing slowly, clasping and unclasping his hands, running the plan details in his mind. It could work...There was definite risk involved, of course. The compounds would need to be precisely titred, the aerosol effect localized, and the antidotes powerful enough to resist a strong, fast-acting sedative without harming them. If the sedation effect was too slow, the Russians would have the time to react and shoot people before falling flat. If it was too fast, it would pose risk to the very people they were trying to save. The doctors would risk becoming drowsy when they needed to stay fast, sharp, and quick on their feet. Not easy, but definitely worth trying.

  “There is some risk,” Gary said after a little while, “but I think it’s well worth it. I, for one, don’t want to die in this shithole.” He searched their faces, and, satisfied with what he saw, he added, “Then let’s get to work!”

  ...51

  ...Tuesday, May 10, 12:27PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...Russian Ministry of Defense

  ...Moscow, Russia

  ...Thirteen Days Missing

  Myatlev finished reading another one of Bogdanov’s reports, and rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. Maybe it was going to work after all. The latest test had been promising, and Bogdanov had cranked up the heat on those doctors, getting them to take their situation more seriously and start producing some real results.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair, then checked the time. He should grab some lunch, but before going out to eat, he wanted another shot.

  Ivan barged in through the door before Myatlev had a chance to call him. That’s what he liked about his right hand; he was always there, reading his mind, giving him everything he needed.

  This time Ivan carried a piece of paper instead of the shot he’d been craving. He groaned with disappointment.

  “What is it, Ivan?”

  “My man in the field looked everywhere for the four people we saw on satellite running from the hangar, and nothing. No one’s seen anything or heard anything. The only unusual thing he found was that an American private jet, a Phenom 300 had just landed there, at Khabarovsk Airport, just a few hours earlier. Four passengers and a pilot. That could be it.”

  “Who are they?”

  “We have no idea,” Ivan said, hesitantly. “The flight was unregistered, and didn’t even go through customs. Someone bribed someone, that’s for sure. We have no way to find out who they are and what they want.”

  “Ivan, you disappoint me,” Myatlev said bitterly, getting up from his massive leather chair and going to the window to light another cigar. “It’s time to think for yourself, not wait for me to think in your place, and feed you everything you need to do piece by piece, da?” He sounded clipped and impatient.

  Ivan shifted his weight uncomfortably, but remained silent.

  “Well, what will you do next?” Myatlev prompted.

  “Track the plane?” Ivan asked, unsure.

  “Yes, track the fucking plane, Ivan! A Phenom has got to have an owner. Get the tail number, find out who owns it, where the flight originated from, and get video from their place of departure. Cyber Division will help you get all that really quickly. Then ask someone to pull their backgrounds.”

  “Understood,” Ivan confirmed, looking ashamed.

  Myatlev softened a little. Not everyone had it in them to think globally, considering all the assets at their discretion. After all, Ivan was his bodyguard more than his assistant, and Myatlev had selected him for his combat skills and his loyalty, and little else.

  Myatlev’s irritation stemmed mostly from learning that someone had come so close to the most secret of his operations. This secret, if exposed, could bring everyone down, including President Abramovich. There was no way Russia could ever be able to explain the hijacking of a commercial flight. That was an act of terrorism. Those four people, regardless of who they were, needed to be dead and buried before they could compromise him.

  “OK,” he concluded, lighting his cigar. “Find out who the hell they are and why they’re fucking with me.”

  He breathed in the rewarding scent of the Arturo Fuente cigar, letting the aroma soothe his stretched nerves. These days he did little more than smoke, drink, and worry. He was stressed out, and his entire body felt it and screamed its pain. No wonder he was coming apart at the seams, with gastritis, liver pain, back pain, the whole nine yards of a stressful life.

  This operation, instead of being the quick success it should have been, was turning into yet another one of those cases where it seemed like fate was toying with him. It felt like an unseen enemy knew precisely what he was trying to do, and that enemy was doing everything possible to foil his best-laid plans. No matter how hidden. No matter how elusive. How was it possible?

  He felt paranoid again, and hated it. He liked being lucid and cool in the face of an imminent threat, and didn’t like feeling hunted and harassed. But that’s exactly how it felt, and it wasn’t the first time. What if there was, in
deed, someone who was out to get him?

  ...52

  ...Tuesday, May 10, 7:17PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Forest Clearing

  ...Near Mayak, Russia

  ...Thirteen Days Missing

  Alex fidgeted a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. She sat at the root of a tree, leaning against the wide trunk that had her back covered, and kept her eyes scanning the horizon line constantly. Blake sat across from her, watching in the opposite direction, both of them keeping their Tavors clutched tightly, ready to fire.

  They’d found a small clearing in the woods, somewhere near Mayak, a small town lost in the swampy expanses of forest. Every minute or so, she checked the time, impatiently waiting for Sam and Lou to be back with some news. They’d been gone for a while; she was getting worried.

  A snapped twig made her heart stop for a second, and a wave of adrenaline surged through her body. She sprung to her feet, wincing. The sudden move brought a sharp pain to her ribs, right next to her sternum. She positioned her weapon, ready to fire, and listened intently. The sounds of rustling, wet leaves were getting closer, clearer, and more discernible. Someone was coming.

  She signaled to Blake, who hopped to his feet, silent as a feline, and lifted his Tavor in a shooting stance. She couldn’t see anyone, and, judging by how Blake scanned the forest, neither did he.

  They appeared from behind a tree close by, Lou supporting Sam in his unstable, limping walk. Relieved, she lowered her weapon, but Lou frowned the second she did that. Surprised and worried, she asked Lou a silent question, raising her eyebrows. His reply came in the form of a silent gesture that meant, “They’re everywhere.”

  Great.

  They huddled together, and while Lou kept guard, Sam briefed them in a choppy, labored whisper.

  “We have a lead,” he said, still out of breath. “There’s an abandoned ICBM site only twenty klicks from here, that way,” he added, pointing northeast. “No one’s used it in many years, not since ’89, when the arms race slowed down.”

  “That’s it?” Alex asked, a little disappointed. “An abandoned missile silo doesn’t seem like much of a lead, Sam.”

  “So, then why are there trucks loaded with food and supplies going in there every couple of days?”

  “That’s more like it,” she whispered, letting a wide grin appear on her face. “Let’s get going.”

  “Gotta be careful, we already ran into a couple of trucks filled with armed men heading back toward the hangar. I’m thinking cleanup team. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Let me get precise coordinates,” Lou said.

  He took out his SatSleeve-equipped phone, wrote a quick message to DigiWorld, describing what they were looking for, then sent it together with a screenshot of the map view with their current GPS location. Within two minutes, a discrete vibration alerted him and he confirmed with a thumbs-up to the rest of the team that he had the coordinates.

  He showed Alex his phone. DigiWorld had sent maps, routing, terrain views, and infrared scans of their target location. Infrared scans showed several clustered heat signatures. Their only lead looked better and better by the minute.

  Lou signaled them to start moving.

  “I think we should call for extraction at this time,” Sam said, leaning into the support offered by Lou’s arm.

  “What if they’re not there?” Alex replied. “What if it’s not them? And I think CIA would need a couple of days to organize an extraction, right?”

  “A few days? In this hell hole?” Blake asked. “Not acceptable…sorry. We can’t wait. Who knows what could happen in a couple of days. We need to move now.”

  “Affirmative,” she replied. “It’s only twenty klicks. Let’s go there, see what we find. Then we’ll figure out options,” she added, briefly looking at Blake, then averting her eyes.

  What she wouldn’t say was, “Let’s see how many are still alive.”

  ...53

  ...Tuesday, May 10, 8:53PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

  ...Undisclosed Location

  ...Russia

  ...Thirteen Days Missing

  They worked feverishly, almost without even speaking to one another. Each of them knew exactly what they had to do, and, for the first time since they had arrived, felt a little excitement and hope. Focused and careful, Gary Davis checked the results of the analysis delivered by the gas chromatograph.

  “How sure are you?” Adenauer asked. “We have to be very precise, or else we’ll die,” he insisted, sounding parental.

  “I know that,” Gary replied, a little irritation seeping in his voice.

  Dr. Fortuin was in charge of aerosolizing the compound, and was running some tests a couple of tables away. Even he, against his typical Dutch coolness, was rhythmically bouncing his left foot, synchronizing it to the beat of his internal anxiety.

  Jane Crawford had left her cot, volunteering to handle the final test on the remaining three lab rodents. She petted the rodents one by one, holding them in the palm of one hand, and scratching behind their ears with another. Then she placed them back in their cage and covered it with the clear Plexiglas casing, to verify the containment of the aerosol delivery environment. The clear casing was fitted with a small tube that could be hooked to the aerosol canister. The tube was taped to the hole, ensuring perfect containment of the tested gasses. Satisfied, she removed the casing, allowing the rodents unrestricted access to air for a while, and then rubbed her hands together, smiling. She was ready to test.

  Marie-Elise approached Gary, curious, carefully eyeing King Cobra, who sat close to the entrance, flipping through a dirty magazine printed in faded colors on cheap, yellowish paper.

  “Have you decided what to use?” she asked, keeping her tone low, almost inaudible, although King Cobra didn’t have the knowledge to understand what they talked about, and he obviously wasn’t paying any attention.

  “For sedation?” Gary asked.

  Fortuin rolled his chair closer to them, to listen in.

  Marie-Elise nodded vigorously, smiling shyly.

  “I’ve decided to go with a mix of anesthetics after all. I’ve mixed thiopental, for fast induction, with fentanyl and desflurane. I know, I know,” he added, seeing how worried Marie-Elise and Fortuin suddenly looked. “It’s untested, never before attempted, and two of these drugs aren’t typically delivered via aerosol. They’re injected, so we don’t even know how effective they’ll be. No need to tell me that, I know what you’re thinking. But we’re out of options and we’re desperate; I guess you’d have to agree to that statement.”

  Fortuin pursed his lips, and Marie-Elise gave him a reassuring nod.

  “Try your best, you two,” she added, including Adenauer. He had worked diligently by Gary’s side, not stepping away for even a minute.

  “We will, we are,” Gary replied, a frown creasing his brow.

  There was significant risk involved in what they were trying to do. They would be in the same space with the Russians when the aerosol was going to be released. They needed to stay lucid, with their motor functions and judgment sharp and quick, and two of those anesthetics didn’t even have an antidote known to science.

  “It will work,” Adenauer said resolutely. ”It has to. I’ve measured and calculated everything carefully. I even took into account their average weight and their obviously increased metabolic rate, and the high likelihood that they’re steroid users. I’ve considered our group’s average weight, age, and metabolic rates in formulating the antidote. It will work, I promise you.”

  He sounded so sure of himself, so authoritative. Gary envied that composure, that grip the scientist had on the facts, the data, and his own emotions. The man was a rock. An arrogant, slightly unnerving one, yet a rock, and a real asset to any scientific team, especially one in distress.

  “How about the antidote?” Marie-Elise continued to probe. “What will we take?”

  “Well, considering what we had to work with,” Gary di
sclaimed before enumerating, “we’re going to use naloxone as an opioid antagonist, methylphenidate, better known to us all as Ritalin, to give us the equivalent of an adrenalin shot to the brain, and caffeine. With this mix, I am hoping we’ll survive the anesthetic gas cloud bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  Silence fell heavy for a minute or so.

  “There is nothing in that mix to counteract the desflurane, is there?” Jane asked.

  “There is nothing known to man to counteract desflurane,” Adenauer announced pedantically.

  “Then why do we want to use it? It also happens to stink like a motherfucker,” Jane continued, her choice of language bringing disapproval in both Adenauer and Fortuin’s eyes.

  “Desflurane is the only anesthetic with proven aerosol delivery effectiveness that we happen to have in this joint,” Gary replied. “We have no idea how effective fentanyl and thiopental will be if inhaled; I don’t think it was documented anywhere, and we can’t really browse the Internet and do research right now. Both can be lethal if injected in high doses, but I have never seen them used in aerosolized form, without a mask. So pardon me if I wanted some reassurance that they’re gonna hit the deck face down and quickly,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely in King Cobra’s direction.

  No one argued with that logic; there was little that could be said.

  “I do think I have a way to minimize our exposure to desflurane,” Gary added, “but it’s tricky.”

  Adenauer lifted his eyes from the micro-scale’s screen.

  “Let’s play through this, all right?” Gary started explaining. “Let’s assume Teng goes out there and persuades them to come in here by the hordes. Five, six, who knows how many? They can only enter through there, right?”

  He pointed at the huge, rusty door, the only access point to their makeshift lab, and continued. “Then they’d climb down those few steps and, at least for a moment, stop there, around that first table. I’m thinking we could move these other two tables to cut their direct access to the back of the lab, and sort of keep them near that first table. See my point? They’d stay together, waiting on Bogdanov’s direction, for at least ten, maybe twenty seconds. If we release the aerosol right there and then, we’d have a better chance to floor them quickly. As for us, we could huddle toward the far end of those tables. Let’s say we move the lab rats back over there and run a test, give us an excuse to be huddled over there. Declan can stay on his cot; he’s far enough as it is.”