by Peter Darley
The wind chill beat against his face as he plummeted toward the ground. He deployed the main parachute and sensed the familiar feelings of deceleration and being stood up.
As soon as he was able to open his eyes, a sound similar to a thunder crack in the distance alerted him. He looked to his left and saw a faint orange glow grazing the bottom of the mountain. The helicopter had spiraled out of control and exploded on impact. Treadwell was incinerated.
He continued to glide down, not entirely sure where he would land, but hoped he was flying in the direction of Aspen. Of one thing he was certain—he faced a considerable trek through the snow after he landed.
He watched his ground track as he descended to the south. At least that was a step in the right direction, although he wished he would fly just a little farther. The snow below him took on an ethereal shade of blue in the moonlight.
Using all of his remaining wits, he braced himself for impact and flared the canopy for landing. His feet brushed the snow causing him to run across it momentarily before his entire bodyweight sank down.
He waited for the parachute to float to the ground and collected it up in a tight bundle. Having removed the harness from his shoulders, he crudely stuffed the canopy back into the container. Ultimately, most of it hung out but it didn’t drag on the snow once he’d fed his arms back into the pack.
He took out his compass and switched on the light, adjusted his position until he found north, and then plotted his course back to the cabin.
With minimal energy, he began his torturous hike, crunching his way through deep snow.
Relentlessly he continued, often uncertain as to whether he was dreaming. He was desperately tired and found himself slipping in and out of consciousness. As he came around each time, his heart palpitated with the realization he may have dropped the compass. Nevertheless, it was always grasped tightly in his glove.
Two hours passed. He began to worry he’d landed farther out than he’d originally thought. Finally, he noticed the smoke from the cabin’s chimney in the distance and smiled weakly. The smoke meant he was nearly home and Belinda was still awake.
He looked to his left and noticed the impression in the snow where Treadwell had landed the helicopter. Just another two miles. Pushing himself forward, he prepared to descend the deep slope of the ridge. It was a harrowing ordeal, with his body exhausted, and his spirit crushed.
At just past seven in the morning, Belinda heard a knock on the cabin door. She hadn’t been able to sleep all night.
She made her way to the door and opened it to see Brandon standing before her, his appearance shocking to behold. His eyes appeared sunken, his lips were blue, and his skin seemed a frozen shade of gray-white. “Brandon. What happened to you? I’ve been worried out of my mind.”
He tried to reply but his lips were clearly frozen. “I-it’s over. Treadwell’s gone f-forever. N-need s-sleep. Walked eight miles in deep snow.” He staggered into the cabin, the warmth of the log-fire embracing him as it filled the room. Shivering, he cast the parachute onto the floor.
“Oh, my God, you jumped out of the chopper,” she said. “Let me help you.”
Between the two of them, they managed to get him out of his boots and arctic vestments swiftly, and then he made his way to the bedroom.
As soon as he was stripped down to his underwear, he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.
Belinda knelt beside him and stroked his hair with deep concern dominating her thoughts.
After a few moments, she stood, pulled the duvet over him, and climbed in herself. Whatever had to be discussed would have to wait until the afternoon.
Thirty-Five
Road to a Collision
Gary Payne sat on the edge of the bed in a cheap motel room on the outskirts of Cedar City, Utah. Disheveled and on the run, he knew his only means escape from America was in the hands of another fugitive.
He looked around the basic room. There was no television, a worn, lime-green carpet, and a bathroom in need of cleaning. However, it served his purpose for the moment. Before he could ascertain what his next move would be, he needed answers to vital questions. Who was Brandon Drake? Who were his contacts? Who were his friends? In order to find clues, he needed to delve into the man’s history.
He reached into his suitcase, took out a laptop, and searched through the files. Finding nothing, he decided to initiate a secure internal search for Brandon Drake, using an SDT access code.
Quickly, a statistics file appeared on the screen. Strangely, however, key areas of Drake’s life were blacked out, including the names of his birth parents and—his foster parents. All information pertaining to Brandon Drake prior to two years ago was deemed classified.
He screwed up his lips in annoyance and studied the only information the computer screen offered:
Sergeant Brandon Drake, 82nd Airborne Division.
Base: Fort Bragg, North Carolina, USA.
Commanding Officer: Colonel Darren Woodroffe.
Head injury incurred during rescue of colleague, Sergeant David Spicer.
Transferred to Mach Industries, Arlington, Virginia, 12/6/12.
Immediate superior: Senator Garrison Treadwell.
“You bastard, Treadwell,” he growled. “He was your fucking man all along.”
One particular line on the screen came to his attention. Drake had been injured during the rescue of one of his peers. His former commanding officer would be the last person on earth Drake would contact after going AWOL with a fortune in military tech. But someone whose life he’d saved was a strong possibility.
The more he contemplated the particulars, the more he became satisfied he’d found his man. “That’s the one. Spicer.”
***
Brandon awoke at seven o’clock in the evening. As his eyes opened he noticed through the drapes that it was dark outside. He hadn’t seen daylight in twenty-six hours. For a moment, he hoped he’d simply dreamed the events of the previous night, but then quickly realized the magnitude of his reality.
He sat upright and saw Belinda sitting on the bed beside him.
“Hi,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
“Groggy.”
“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours. What happened last night?”
Brandon yawned and gathered his thoughts. “I took him to the helicopter. I wanted to make it look like he shot himself in it. I didn’t want any trace of the son of a bitch near the cabin. I noticed a parachute and helmet in the chopper, so I took it up about thirty miles away from here, bailed out and let it crash in the mountains.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Because when, I mean if, anyone finds it, it’s far enough away from here and the explosion will have hopefully obliterated any trace of him having been here. It’ll look like he just crashed.” He stood up out of bed and made his way toward the bedroom door.
“Where are you going?”
“Coffee.”
“Brandon, let me get the coffee. You go watch some TV.”
Almost zombie-like, he turned toward the living room while Belinda walked into the kitchen.
A desperate hope struck him. He was certain he had a photograph of his mother in his wallet.
Urgently, he returned to the bedroom, opened up the wardrobe, and took out his denim jacket. He reached into the inside pocket and seized the wallet. Frantically, he took the bills out, but there was nothing. He searched the credit card slots and the small, inside pockets, but there was nothing else in them. He could’ve sworn he remembered putting a photograph of his mother in there.
Devastated, he made his way back into the living room. He sat on the couch and barely noticed the log fire was ablaze. Belinda had neatly folded up his clothing and parachute and placed them on the recliner.
He looked around the room. Wouldn’t he have had family photographs mounted on the walls? He questioned why he’d never realized there were no such photographs in the cabin. How could he have missed something like that
, especially since it was supposed to have belonged to his father and grandfather? Wouldn’t there have been photos of his grandfather, or something relating to his life?
He looked at the back wall and his heart missed a beat. There was no blood on it. Could all that had transpired the night before have been a dream after all?
“I washed it off while you were asleep,” Belinda said, as though knowing his thoughts. “I spent much of the afternoon on it. It was revolting and I couldn’t stand the sight of it.”
He turned and looked up at her. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
“I can see that.”
“Thank you for what you’ve done. It must have been horrible for you. I wish I’d have been conscious so I could’ve done it myself.”
She smiled appreciatively. “I’ll get the coffee.”
She returned to him minutes later holding two large mugs. Having spent his time in the cabin catering to just himself, he only had his own preferred, macho-sized mugs in the cupboard. Even that raised a question. Were they really his mugs? Or had Treadwell put them there, along with his memories of buying them?
Belinda handed him his coffee and sat beside him. She placed a comforting arm around his shoulders, unable to recall seeing such a tortured look in the eyes of another. He was such a contrast to the man she’d met only nineteen days earlier on the Carringby rooftop. ‘Hold on!’ he’d said to her with such cool, cavalier confidence in the midst of such a hazardous situation. It had surely been his finest hour.
Her heart broke at the thought of what he must be suffering. Compassionately, she tried to imagine what she would have gone through if she’d been told that her mother wasn’t real and her past never really happened. What if, perhaps, she’d never been to college, she hadn’t really worked at Carringby Industries, and it had all been a series of fictional constructs? What if everything that made her who she was had been a fabrication, and she had no idea where she’d really come from? Could there be anything more terrifying?
And yet there she sat, holding the only man she had ever truly loved, who was suffering that horror. She had no words of comfort for him. She could tell him that she loved him, but she knew he would only ask, “Love who?”
“I have to find out . . .” he whispered.
“What, sweetheart?”
“I have to find out . . . who I am. There’s only one man who can help me. Only one man who knows the truth, and I need to see him.”
“Who’s that, baby?”
He gazed at the sat-scrambler phone on the liquor cabinet.
“Who, Brandon?” she repeated. “Who’s the only man who can help you?”
Finally, he said, “David Spicer.”
Thirty-Six
Bugged
Gary Payne gazed at the entrance door from the corner booth of Hooters restaurant, close to the Fort Bragg army base in North Carolina. Several days’ facial growth and a pair of window-glass spectacles enabled a makeshift disguise. Typically for five o’clock in the afternoon, the restaurant had only five customers.
Having kept a close watch on the news, Payne was confident his TV appearance had not been repeated after its one re-run. His name and the names of the two agents who’d been with him hadn’t been released to the public either. From that, he knew there had been some interference from higher up the ladder. The question remained—what did they have planned for him?
For now, his most pressing concern was what he needed from Drake.
An attractive blonde approached his table and gestured to his empty beer glass. “Can I get you another, sir?”
He was about to reply when he noticed three men in civilian dress entering the restaurant. The last of them he recognized as David Spicer. “I’m fine, thanks.” He made his way over to them, timing his arrival at the bar to coincide with the soldiers.
As the television played behind the bar, Payne noticed the casually-conversing troopers turning their heads to the screen. He followed the direction of their gazes and saw the face of Garrison Treadwell on the TV.
Spicer attracted the barmaid’s attention. “Excuse me, Sally. Do you think you could turn the TV up, please?”
“Sure,” she said, and took the remote control from underneath the bar.
The image switched from Treadwell to Tara Willoughby at the news desk: “It remains unknown why Senator Treadwell was in Colorado last night, or what caused his helicopter to crash. So far, authorities are saying it’s an accidental death.”
“Can’t say that I’ll mourn for the guy,” Spicer said.
“What the hell is going on?” one of the other soldiers said. “We get called to either bring Drake in or take him out, and now we can’t turn the TV on without seeing something Drake-related.”
“It’s a mystery all right,” Spicer said. “I still don’t get those broadcasts he made either. He seemed so different. Even his face looked different. Nicer.”
“I’d have to see it to believe it,” the other said.
“Captain Ward saw it too.”
“And hundreds have seen Bigfoot, but I still don’t buy it.”
Payne decided to make his move. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Are you in the army?”
“Yes, sir,” Spicer said. “Eighty-Second Airborne.”
“Thought so. I heard this Drake guy was a queer, is that so?”
The soldiers were silent. After a moment, Spicer retaliated. “What’d you say, man? I don’t appreciate bigots, racists—or thugs.” He moved toward Payne and lightly pushed him with an angry glare.
Payne continued to goad them with an intimidating stare. “Actually, I heard you all were. You all take it up the tailpipe, is that right?”
Spicer spat through his teeth, “Man, I think you’d best get the fuck out of here while you still can.”
The other two soldiers towered over Payne, making it clear they were ready to set upon him at any moment.
“Cock-sucking contests in the barracks?” Payne continued eyeing Spicer at all times. Come on, go for it. Just go for it.
Spicer’s eyes glowed with rage, and Payne decided to force the issue. “Wouldn’t you like to suck mine?”
Spicer lunged at Payne, his fist colliding with his intimidator’s jaw. Payne’s fake spectacles flew from his face as he fell against the bar.
The other two moved in, but David reached Payne first, grasping him by the lapels, and bodily pinning him over the deck. “I don’t know what you’re playing at asshole, but you picked the wrong division to pull this shit on!”
Payne reached up as though he was attempting to persuade Spicer to release him, and placed his fingers on the soldier’s right arm. Keeping his gaze fixed on Spicer’s, he slid a small transmitter with a self-locking pin from between his fingers and attached it behind David’s lapel.
Within seconds, the manager of the bar hurried out of the back with the barmaid. “OK, boys, break it up. What seems to be the trouble?”
“No problem, Billy,” Spicer replied. “I think this clown just needs some air.”
“Actually, I heard everything,” the barmaid said. “That guy started provoking them for no reason.”
The manager turned to Payne angrily. “These men have been regulars here for the past year. They fight for our country, and if you can’t show them the respect they deserve, I want you to get the hell out of my restaurant. You’re not welcome here, you understand?”
Spicer released his grip and stepped back.
Payne brushed himself off and walked away without saying a word. Looking back, he saw the four servicemen watching in bewilderment as he disappeared through the door.
Spicer caught sight of Payne’s spectacles on the floor and picked them up.
“Who the hell was that guy?” one of them said.
“I don’t know,” Spicer replied. “But something about him seemed familiar, especially when these glasses came off.”
The other one laughed. “He’s going to have trouble getting around in the dark without those.”
The evening continued in Hooters with the three troopers discussing the particulars of their lives. Spicer’s two companions, Corporal Steven Wassell and Staff Sergeant Barry Stockton, had been with him in Wyoming on the day of the confrontation with Brandon Drake. Confusion remained as to why they, in particular, had been flown out that day, and why, under congressional orders, they’d been given a month’s leave immediately following it. The validity of those thirty days leave came into question the moment Treadwell disappeared, coinciding with Drake’s claims. With their lives in limbo, they found themselves frequenting Hooters.
“Let’s face it. We stood up for Drake against that asshole earlier,” Stockton said. “But none of us were sorry he got transferred after the explosion.”
Defensively, Spicer said, “Drake saved my life. He fought for America, and he was lethal on the field, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he was. That is what we stood up for.”
“Come on, Spicer. We all know why he saved your life. The guy hasn’t got a noble bone in his body.”
“Maybe, but he was one of us. Don’t ever forget that. He was an incredible fighter, and would probably have made lieutenant by now if it wasn’t for—”
“Being the worst human being any of us have ever known?” Stockton said.
David didn’t answer, but finished his beer and stood to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“I think I’ve had enough. I’m taking an early one.”
“Wimp,” Stockton jibed.
“Sue me.”
Spicer made his way out of the bar and stepped into the night air. He heard the faint jingle of his cell phone in his hip pocket, took it out, and frowned as the LCD displayed caller: unknown. “Yeah, hello?”
