The Ghost Pattern

by Leslie Wolfe

  She walked outside the dome with the flow of people, and soon reached Blake.

  “Have you seen her?” Blake asked.

  “No, but there are still a couple of hundred people inside,” she replied, standing on her toes, trying to find her among the faces of the running mass.

  “Adeline!” Blake called again, his strong voice covering the commotion of the crowd.

  Somewhere from inside the dome, a distant voice responded.

  “Blake? Blake?”

  Alex smiled widely. Yes! There she was, making her way toward Blake, who tried to push against the flowing crowd to get to her sooner.

  Finally, he got her in his arms, lifting her up in the air and taking her a few steps to the side, away from the stampeding crowd.

  “Oh, baby,” he said, burying his face in her hair.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” Adeline said, choked with tears. “You didn’t give up on me, you came for me.”

  “Always, baby, always.”

  Alex took a few steps to the side, to give them some privacy. That’s when she saw him. A Russian had appeared out of nowhere, and was coming toward them fast. Anger contorted his face, and he bellowed a mix of unintelligible words in Russian. His gun was drawn and pointed at them.

  “Blake!” Alex yelled to get his attention, as she pulled out her Walther.

  Blake let go of Adeline and turned to see what was going on.

  Then she saw the Russian pull the trigger. She fired her weapon, just as Blake stepped in front of Adeline, covering her with his own body. Alex’s bullet tore through the Russian’s shoulder, but didn’t stop him.

  She heard Adeline shriek, but kept her focus on the Russian, and fired her weapon twice more, in rapid sequence. One bullet got him in the head, the other in the throat. He fell forward, hit the concrete, and didn’t budge.

  Alex rushed to the fallen Russian and took his gun. Then she looked behind her, and her heart sank.

  Blake was down, holding the left side of his abdomen with both his hands, while blood oozed from his wound, in small rivulets flowing between his fingers. Adeline held his head in her lap, sobbing hard.

  They needed help. Their situation was turning into a disaster, fast.

  She pressed the transmit button on her radio and called. “Bravo One, Bravo Two, this is Alpha, do you copy?”

  “Bravo One, copy,” Martin responded.

  “Bravo Two, copy.” That was Lou’s voice.

  “Bravo One, Bravo Two, follow my lead. Bravo One, I have a man down, gunshot to the abdomen. I need evac with a gurney, and get one of the doctors ready.”

  The radio crackled a little in her ear, then Martin’s voice confirmed, “Copy. On our way.”

  She remained silent for a few seconds, thinking hard. What could they do?

  “Alpha, you still there?” Lou’s worried voice came through the radio waves.

  “Copy, Lima, still here. Lima, these folks got here by trucks. Load them in the trucks; check them off the flight manifest, one by one. Make sure we don’t leave anyone behind. Verify we have all the dead confirmed by at least two witnesses. Put one or two Bravos in each truck, and get ready to leave.”

  The radio crackled for a little while before Lou’s voice kicked in, hesitantly.

  “Copy, Alpha. Exfil?”

  “We’ll figure it out. I’ll hang back until evac takes over here, then we have some cleanup left in the lab. Five terrorists are in there, waiting to get our attention.”

  “Alpha, Bravo One,” Martin’s voice crackled to life. “Lab cleanup executed.”

  “Copy, Bravo One. Any intel extracted before cleanup complete?”

  “Negative, Alpha,” Martin’s voice replied after a short hesitation.

  Damn it!

  “Copy, Bravo One, Alpha out,” she replied, feeling a sense of weariness. How was she ever going to find V, if no one got any intel from the enemy? Yet she understood Martin’s call. With nearly 450 desperate civilians in tow, they couldn’t deal with prisoner transport and interrogation. By all laws, the Russians were terrorists, caught in an act of terror. They deserved to die. She looked at Blake, shivering, lying in a pool of blood, and felt a lump in her throat, a wave of suffocating anger. Yes, they did deserve to die. Screw the intel; she’d find another way.

  She kneeled next to Blake and Adeline, feeling tears coming to her eyes, not knowing what to say.

  “You’ll be all right, you’ll see,” she whispered. “You’re tough. You drive people crazy with how tough you are. You’ll be fine.” She touched Adeline’s arm and added, reassuringly, “He’ll be fine. We have doctors here, good ones, the best.”

  Dr. Gary Davis followed behind two men carrying a gurney, running toward them.

  “See? Help is here,” Alex said, then stood up to make room for the doctor and the gurney.

  Dr. Davis kneeled and checked the wound briefly, then instructed the men.

  “Let’s load him up, gently. We need to stop by the lab. I have what I need to stabilize him in there. I’ll pack us some first-aid kits too.”

  She walked briskly behind them, but then headed out of the dome, while they went to the lab. Outside, the trucks were pulled in front of the silo’s entrance, and pure chaos ruled. Bravo teams tried to mark people off the manifests as they loaded them in the trucks, but it wasn’t working all that well. People were desperate to secure a place on the trucks, and were boarding the trucks as fast as they could, paying little or no attention to the Bravo teams giving instructions.

  Then it suddenly got worse.

  Two trucks filled with armed Russians approached fast on the road coming from the mountain, not giving them much time to react.

  She yelled into her comm, “Take cover!”

  Then she fired her Tavor, sending a few shots in the air, to get everyone’s attention. People ran shrieking, some toward the field, most of them toward the forest. Those who had already climbed inside the trucks didn’t dare get off and run for cover, but the trucks were not going to shield them against bullets. It was going to turn into a massacre.

  “All Bravo teams,” she yelled into her radio, pressing the laryngophone against her throat, “Russians cannot get to the trucks, no matter what. Copy?”

  “This is Bravo One, copy,” Martin’s voice responded.

  “Copy,” Lou’s reply came in next.

  They had already started shooting. Most Bravos took positions around the front of the building, taking cover behind tree trunks or big rocks. Alex crouched behind a large tree trunk, her Tavor in position to fire, waiting for the Russians to come close enough. She saw Lou running toward the incoming Russian trucks, behind the tree line, holding a grenade in his hand. As soon as the first truck drove by, he threw it in the back of the truck. Seconds later, it blew up, sending smoldering pieces everywhere.

  The second truck stopped and dozens of Russians climbed down, scattering toward the building and shooting their AK47s on automatic fire. Despite the total chaos, Alex remembered Lou’s training in the firing range. “Slow is fast when you fire your weapon,” he had said. “Pick your man and take him out. One bullet is all it takes.”

  She aimed her Tavor at one of the first Russians, and squeezed the trigger. The man fell on his back, firing his Kalashnikov as he fell, sending a stream of bullets in the air. She aimed toward a second Russian, and her bullet hit him in the leg. She fired again, and took him out. A third one started shooting in her direction, providing cover for the rest of the Russians, but one of the Bravos killed him within a second.

  She saw another Russian approach, and aimed carefully, then squeezed the trigger. She missed. Cussing under her breath, she fired again and the second time she didn’t miss. Focused on the targets in front of her, she completely missed the Russian who approached from her left side, hiding behind trees as he drew near.

  She heard footsteps really close and froze, adrenaline shooting up her spine, her heart pumping hard and fast. She turned and saw a Russian holding
his weapon trained on her chest, only a few feet away. She didn’t get the chance to decide what to do. Lou crept up on the Russian and stabbed him in the ear with one swift blow.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “Anytime,” Lou replied and disappeared behind the trees, looking for another target.

  She resumed her position, searching for another Russian to kill. She didn’t see any; slowly, carefully, she headed closer to the silo, using every tree as cover.

  Then she heard the “all clear” message come in by comm.

  She looked up at the sky and frowned. Still cloudy, but toward the west she could see a few stars. The sky was clearing, which meant the enemy could have satellite eyes on them soon.

  She found Lou.

  “Where’s Sam?” she shouted, trying to cover the commotion.

  “In the first truck. A doctor is with him.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, and climbed in the back of the truck.

  The truck’s canopy, moist and smelly, didn’t do much for comfort. The earlier rain had soaked it and water was dripping here and there. Sam lay on a gurney toward the front of the truck, near the cabin, and a tall, distinguished-looking man she vaguely remembered from before sat by his side.

  “How is he?”

  “He needs a hospital,” the man replied with a thick German accent. “He’s bleeding internally. I’ve done all I could here, but that’s not enough. He needs surgery.” The man averted his eyes and lowered his voice. “It’s urgent; he won’t last much longer.”

  Oh, no! Where? Where could they go? Sam would know.

  “Sam?” she called gently, reaching out and holding his hand. “You in there, somewhere?” she tried to joke, but felt her eyes well up with tears.

  “Yes, I’m here,” he whispered faintly.

  “Sam, I need your help. We’re going to head out to the coast in these trucks. We have the maps and everything. Where would I take you to a hospital?”

  He gave a long sigh, then closed his eyes.

  “You wouldn’t, kiddo. The Russians would kill all these people. Not worth it. This is the end of the line for me.”

  “Sam!” she protested. “Not an option, you hear me? Think of something, please!”

  She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Sam. No…there had to be a way.

  “If we make it to the coast,” Lou intervened, “we might have a chance. There’s an American base on Hokkaido, near Wakkanai. There’s a Wasp-class ship there we could call in for help. It could come and get us.”

  “Confirmed, I’ve seen the Wasp,” Martin added. “The USS Okinawa.”

  “What’s a Wasp?” Alex whispered, trying to contain her sobs.

  “It’s an amphibious assault ship,” Lou said, “Wasp class. It’s big, and it has helos, six or eight Super Stallions at least. It’s almost like an aircraft carrier for helos and a lot of Marine Corps Expeditionary forces. They could evac all these people in one move. They’d also have surgeons on board.”

  She felt a surge of hope swell her chest.

  “What does it take to call them? How do you get a military warship rerouted here, near the Russian shore?”

  Martin and Lou looked at each other, and Lou pursed his lips before speaking.

  “You mean, in Russian territorial waters? We’d need—”

  “A presidential order,” Sam whispered. “It’s technically an act of war against Russia.”

  “Shit…” she muttered, thinking hard. “Well, what the hell, I’ll give it a shot,” she decided. “Got nothing more to lose at this point. Time to pray is now, people.”

  She grabbed her sat phone and retrieved a number from the phone’s memory. She almost smiled seeing how puzzled Lou and Martin glanced at her. Even Sam had opened his eyes, watching her press the buttons to make her call. She winked in his direction, then put the phone on speaker.

  Someone picked up at the other end of the line immediately.

  “Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, how may I direct your call?”

  “Yeah, hi, I need to speak with Henrietta Marino. This is an emergency.”

  A few seconds later, a woman’s harsh voice answered, “Marino.”

  “Ms. Marino, not sure if you remember me, it’s Alex Hoffmann.”

  “Oh…I don’t have time for this. I’m hanging up.”

  “No, no, please don’t hang up!” Alex pleaded. “Listen, I found flight XA233. In Russia.”

  “If this is another one of your crazy theories, I promise you this time you’ll go to prison and do some serious time,” Marino replied dryly.

  “No, listen, I am here, right now, in Russia, with the passengers of XA233, about 450 people. We need exfil, now. We’re desperate.”

  The line went silent for a few long seconds.

  “Hello?” Alex said, afraid Marino had hung up after all.

  “You better be for real,” Marino replied. “What do you need?”

  “We need a warship rerouted, the Okinawa, so we can all go home.”

  “Send me details, some proof—a picture or something, and hang tight,” Marino replied, her voice sounding a tad warmer. “I’ll text you my number,” she added and then hung up.

  “Whew,” Alex exhaled. “Now let’s hope this works.” She checked the clearing sky again, then added, “We need to hit the road, and we need some backup.”

  “I think I have that covered,” Lou replied. “Remember the recon drones we used to get pictures of the silo? Their operators are willing to fly them in here, armed with Hellfire missiles, as air support. They’ve cleared it through channels using NanoLance connections. The drones are inbound as we speak, but it will take them a while. They’re flying in from Hokkaido.”

  ...61

  ...Tuesday, May 10, 11:19AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)

  ...The White House

  ...Washington, DC

  The cabinet of the United States was in session. The members were assembled in the west wing of the White House, in the Cabinet Room, and running behind schedule. President Krassner liked his meetings to start on time and end on time, yet the cabinet members were constantly veering off the agenda.

  Twelve people sat around the grand mahogany table, with President Krassner sitting at the center of the table, his back toward the large, arched windows that faced the Rose Garden, flooded in the sweet light of a clear-sky spring morning. The cabinet members had been served coffee in small, delicate china cups, and the staffers had since left the room.

  The secretary of commerce frowned, looking disapprovingly around the table, where several sidebar conversations were in full flight, while the president finished flipping through the pages of a brief. As soon as he put down the brief, she cleared her throat.

  “We’re ready to proceed, Mr. President.”

  The room, brought to order, fell silent. The only sounds heard were the occasional paper shuffle and the clinking of china, as coffee cups were set back on their delicate saucers.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Krassner greeted them in his usual manner. “I have one agenda item for today, and that is unemployment reporting.”

  Krassner, famous for his direct, engaging, blunt style, looked straight at the secretary of labor before proceeding. The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “So, what is it, really?” Krassner continued. “Is it 5 percent unemployment, or only 5 percent of the eligible population drawing unemployment benefits? If we’re going to revisit our immigration policy, I want to know first, how many Americans are truly unable to find work. How many have given up searching, but would gladly rejoin the work force if given the opportunity. Is it five million, or fifty million? I’m definitely not supporting this ridiculous race to undercut the American worker in favor of cheaper workers brought on temporary visas, only to benefit corporate greed. Bring me data, data that makes sense.”

  Krassner stopped talking, waiting for the secretary of labor to answer.

  “Ahem…Mr. President,” the secretary of labor replied,
“our numbers indicate—”

  The Cabinet Room door opened, and an apologetic staffer made his way quickly to the secretary of defense, then whispered something in his ear.

  Everyone held their breaths when an urgent message was delivered to the secretary of defense, interrupting a cabinet session no less. Only bad news could be that urgent.

  The secretary of defense turned toward the staffer and whispered, “Are you sure?”

  The staffer put several photographs printed on glossy paper in front of him, and he reviewed them in less than two seconds. Then he stood abruptly, and approached Krassner.

  “Mr. President, if I may…”

  “Go ahead,” Krassner invited him, intrigued.

  “Flight XA233 has been found. In Russia. CIA Director Seiden is on the phone for you. He needs to speak with you immediately.”

  Murmurs, whispers, and gasps took over the Cabinet Room as the president stepped out, followed by the secretary of defense.

  Within seconds, Krassner entered the Oval Office, sat down, and picked up his phone. The secretary of defense continued to stand.

  “Director Seiden,” Krassner said.

  “Mr. President,” Seiden greeted him with deference. “We’ve found Flight XA233, somewhere in eastern Russia. We have a battle group in the area, the USS Okinawa, engaged in training exercises with the Japanese Navy. We need your approval to reroute the Okinawa to extract the passengers and crew, and the team who found them. We need the Okinawa to enter Russian territorial waters and airspace for a couple of hours. We also need permission to open fire if fired on.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  “Terrorist attack, Mr. President. We have proof.”

  “Congratulations to your team, well done!”

  “Umm…sir, it wasn’t my team. They are a private investigations team hired by Blake Bernard, whose wife was aboard that flight.”

  Krassner remained silent for a brief moment.

  “I see. All right, I’ll give the order. Tell them to hang tight, we’re sending in full support. Thank you, Director Seiden.”

  He hung up the phone and pursed his lips, the short-lived look of disappointment on his face quickly replaced by anger.