The Seraphim Sequence: The Fifth Column 2

by Nathan M. Farrugia

  The crew circled Nasira and attacked her en masse. Jay paused to watch. She moved calmly, taking them down one by one, sometimes two by two. Her movements were fluid, deceptively fast. The crew got back to their feet, wincing but eager for another go. Nasira hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  Jay nodded. Not bad.

  ‘Hey,’ one of the crew said. He was upon Jay in seconds, shaking his hand. ‘Name’s Rhyss.’ His accent was Australian. He narrowed his eyes. They were the color of ice. ‘Jay, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jay cleared his throat, tried to make his voice deeper. ‘Arming the torpedoes, huh?’

  Rhyss blinked. ‘What? Nah, just training with Nasira, mate.’ He scratched at an impenetrable beard beneath his thin, tapered nose. ‘Crew call me Chickenhead.’

  ‘Chicken … head?’ Jay said.

  Another crew member approached, laughing.

  ‘When he gets excited on the sonar, his head does this,’ the guy said, jerking his head back and forth. It reminded Jay of a pigeon. ‘Like a chicken.’

  Chickenhead gave a forced laugh. ‘And if you haven’t had the misfortune of being introduced, this is Big Dog.’

  Next to Chickenhead’s slender six-foot frame, Big Dog was compact and, well, kind of hairy. If his imposing arms were any indication, he was a regular user of the Perseus’s gym equipment. He wore a gray beanie over shaggy black hair and was one of the few crew members Jay had seen with a clean-shaven face, except for a strange patch on his chin that reminded Jay of a martini glass. But instead of an olive in the martini glass, there was a piercing.

  Big Dog must have seen him staring. ‘First thing I did when we jumped ship off the Fifth Column.’

  Chickenhead pulled back the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a small tattoo of a ship’s anchor on his shoulder. ‘Fuck the system, right?’

  Jay peered closer. ‘That’s … small.’

  ‘I was hesitant,’ Chickenhead said.

  Big Dog winked. ‘Commitment issues.’

  Chickenhead flashed a mischievous grin. ‘Hey, you should join us.’

  ‘Nah, I was just going to do a few sets—’

  Big Dog was shaking his head. ‘That wasn’t a question, dude.’ He slapped Jay on the back. ‘It would be an honor to train with a black operative.’

  ‘That wasn’t racist,’ Chickenhead quickly added.

  ‘Black as in covert,’ Big Dog said. He glanced at Nasira. ‘Well, another one.’

  Jay was quite happy just lifting weights, but now that half a dozen crew members and Benito and Nasira were looking at him he couldn’t really back out.

  ‘Nice of you to join us.’ Nasira didn’t smile.

  Jay shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to cramp your style.’

  ‘We’re just finishing up,’ she said.

  ‘Come on!’ Big Dog said. ‘We’ve been dying to see two of you … um, people go toe to toe.’

  ‘That would be so awesome,’ Chickenhead said.

  ‘You people?’ Nasira repeated.

  ‘You know, operatives,’ Chickenhead said.

  ‘Retired operatives.’ Nasira eyed Jay carefully.

  ‘An operative never retires, right?’ Jay said.

  She squared off, game face on. ‘Since they insist, let’s see what you got, big boy.’

  Jay allowed himself a tiny grin. ‘Famous last words.’

  He moved in, slowly at first. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. He circled her, watching how she moved, where her attention was. Her gaze stayed firmly on his. She didn’t give anything away. Her steps were minimal, even-footed. He’d expected as much. She’d been trained throughout Project GATE, just as he had, including an exhaustive close combat program. Wing Tsun Kung Fu, Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kun Do (the Inosanto way), Filipino martial arts Kali and Modern Arnis, Russian Sambo and even a touch of Japanese Jodo, which employed a short staff as a weapon. In the life of an operative, this came in handy more than one would think. Many things could be improvised as a short staff. But the way Nasira moved suggested she’d learnt something new—or old. Whatever. He still had the edge and he knew it.

  He stepped in and tested her with a sudden jab to her stomach. The last place she would expect. Her fist was a blur, moving into an open hand over his head. Quickly, he withdrew the jab, then realized too late that it was a decoy. She pivoted on the spot, trapping his arm against her other hand and her stomach. His arm was locked straight. She applied pressure on his elbow with one hand and used the other to cover his eyes. Before he knew what had happened, he fell into a sitting position. By the time he could see again, her knee was clamped over his arm and the other hovered over his neck.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said.

  She stood, allowing him to get back to his feet.

  He did so, calmly and slowly. He’d made a stupid mistake and he wasn’t about to repeat it. He tried his best to make it look like this happened all the time. Closing his fists over, he prepared for a second go. He had to take her down on this one or he’d look like a fucking idiot.

  ‘You’re probably a bit rusty,’ Nasira said. ‘Chickenhead, if you don’t mind?’

  Chickenhead loped toward them. ‘Nothing I like more than being an operative’s boxing bag.’

  ‘Jay,’ Nasira said. ‘Go easy.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He gave a thumbs up. ‘Of course.’

  Chickenhead nodded at Jay, then moved in. He feigned an attack and then wheeled to Jay’s right. He was copying Nasira. Jay tracked him, kept his guard up. Chickenhead lifted his knee ever so slightly. Probably an unconscious movement. Muay Thai maybe. Chickenhead could use that knee later. Jay needed to keep an eye on it.

  Chickenhead tossed a few decoys his way. He batted one aside, sidestepped the other. He moved in, but Chickenhead’s knee came up. Jay halted before walking into range, changed tactics and snapped a low kick into Chickenhead’s ribs. Chickenhead’s knee moved. Jay watched it, but it didn’t come toward him. Chickenhead’s shin scooped Jay’s leg up in mid-kick and redirected it somewhere else. Jay watched his leg splay to one side, tipping him forward. To keep his balance, he came down into a crouch. Chickenhead planted his bare foot on Jay’s knee. The knee buckled, flattened his leg out. Jay struggled not to do the splits. Chickenhead’s elbow swung for his head. He craned forward just in time. But Chickenhead had pinned his ankle down, he couldn’t get up. He wanted to twist and roll out, but Chickenhead’s hand covered his face and his eyes, pulling him back. Similar to what Nasira had just done to him. And he’d fallen for it twice. He was flat on his back again and Chickenhead was on top of him.

  Chickenhead offered him a hand, but Jay pretended not to notice and got to his feet. Chickenhead was better trained than he’d expected, which suggested Special Forces.

  ‘Were you Commandos, Tactical Assault?’ Jay said. ‘SAS?’

  Chickenhead shook his head. ‘Nah, haven’t touched a rifle since basic. Navy, sonar officer.’

  ‘Huh.’ Jay dusted himself off.

  He heard Big Dog murmur, ‘I thought he was a super soldier.’

  The crew members slowly dispersed. Jay read disappointment in that and wished he’d scheduled his workout another time.

  He approached Nasira. ‘We had the same training. How did you move so fast?’

  ‘Because I’m free,’ she said.

  Jay watched her walk out. Screw that, he thought. He picked up his pace and caught her in the corridor.

  ‘What you do in there,’ he said, ‘what is that?’

  ‘It’s called training, Jay. You should try it sometime. Watch your head.’

  ‘It’s different from what I—’ Jay banged his head on a pipe. ‘Teach me.’

  She stopped and faced him. She tried to put her hands on her hips, but there wasn’t enough room so she settled for folding them across her breasts. He tried not to think about that. Her breasts, that is.

  ‘Teach you what?’ she said.

  ‘You know. How to … how to fight like that.’

  ‘You already know h
ow to fight. You just need to learn how to move.’

  ‘Fine,’ Jay said. ‘Can you teach me how to move?’

  Nasira arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Please,’ he added.

  She pushed past him and re-entered the training area. ‘Get your ass in here,’ she called out behind her.

  Jay followed her. ‘OK, let’s do this. Shoes off?’

  She looked amused. ‘Do you fight with your shoes off?’

  He looked at her with suspicion. ‘Is this a trick question?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘The last time you fought someone, you wore shoes?’

  ‘Yeah. Boots, shoes, stilettos.’ He shrugged. ‘Depends on my mood.’

  She wasn’t amused. ‘Then you train with your stilettos on. If there was concrete here we’d be training all over that shit. Until then, you got it easy on these soft floors.’

  ‘Great,’ Jay said. ‘So, what are we starting with?’

  ‘First I’m gonna teach you how to breathe.’

  She couldn’t be serious. But she was.

  ‘If I didn’t know how to breathe, I’d be dead,’ Jay said.

  Nasira pointed to his chest.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been working out,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re breathing with your chest,’ she said.

  ‘That’s where my lungs are. Um, aren’t they?’

  ‘Shallow breathing,’ she said. ‘That’s how everyone breathes, right? You’re wasting your energy. Overusing those muscles.’

  Jay raised his eyebrows. ‘We’re still talking about breathing, right?’

  She placed her hand on his stomach. He flinched, not expecting her to touch him.

  ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘Breathe from here. In through your nose, draw into your stomach.’

  It made no sense, but he did as she said. His stomach expanded a few inches.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’re filling your lungs properly now. If I’m gonna teach you, you got to breathe this way, you hear me? If I see you breathing with your chest, I’ll punch you. In the face.’

  Jay grinned.

  ‘You think I’m playing?’ she said.

  He dropped the grin. ‘OK, serious face on. Stomach breathing, got it.’

  ‘Whenever people are placed under extreme stress, the first thing they do is stop breathing,’ she said. ‘You’re well trained, yeah? But under stress you’ll switch your ass right back to chest breathing. It’s what you’re used to.’

  ‘Will you still punch me in the face?’

  ‘Depends how I’m feeling. When you’re under stress, that’s the best time to breathe with your stomach. Keeps your lungs full so you can keep up with your brain and body. You with me?’

  Jay nodded. ‘All the way, baby.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘After a while it comes naturally. You won’t even have to think about it. Just like walking. And that shit I’m teaching you next.’

  ‘You’re telling me I’m not walking properly?’ Jay said in disbelief.

  ‘No one does,’ she said. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You walk with your knees. Waste of energy.’

  Jay crossed his arms. ‘So what’s not a waste of energy then?’

  ‘Move with your hips,’ she said, slapping her own hips. ‘Uses your muscles more efficiently. And you move better in combat, you got that?’

  ‘Stomach breathing and now … hip walking?’ Jay said. ‘This isn’t combat training at all, is it? You’re totally grooming me for Victoria’s Secret.’ He shrugged. ‘Actually that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.’

  Nasira smiled. The first smile he’d seen all day. ‘There’s hope for you yet,’ she said.

  ‘Fine. So how do I do this hip walking thing?’

  ‘The best way to teach you is to make you walk your ass backward.’

  Jay waited for her to follow up with a ‘just kidding’. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Nasira said.

  Jay was starting to regret asking for this training.

  ‘Listen to me, Jay. You’ll get it. The moment will come when you’ll be all like, this shit makes sense. And when it makes sense, everything falls into place real quick.’

  ‘What’s the ETA on that?’

  ‘When you can see the full extent of your limitations,’ she said.

  ‘OK, so what is this? Ninjutsu or some weird Kung Fu?’

  Nasira shook her head. ‘What I’m teaching you is much older than Kung Fu. What if Ninjutsu, Eskrima, Karate, Gong Fu, Jujutsu were all splinters of something that was co-opted centuries ago?’

  ‘And this is the something?’

  ‘A big splinter perhaps,’ she said. ‘But first, let’s get you walking backward.’

  ‘Hypothetical: would being really, really good at the moonwalk help in any way whatsoever?’ Jay said.

  Chapter Ten

  Damien woke suddenly, his heart racing. He switched on the bunk light. His arms were glossy with sweat. It was the same dream again. He was in a bedroom, in a house—his house—and the Fifth Column had come for him. He was frozen, paralyzed where he lay. They walked into his bedroom, surrounding him. Jay was among them. He raised his pistol and shot Damien.

  Damien climbed out of his bunk. Jay was in the bunk above, snoring. Damien made his way to the head and splashed water on his face. He was completely awake now, so he shrugged on his overalls and decided to go for a walk.

  He found Benito alone in the infirmary, hunched over a Toughbook notebook.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  Benito jumped out of his chair. ‘Good God, man. Give me some warning before you do that … ninja operative sneaking stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’ Damien folded his arms and leaned in the doorway. ‘Bored and I can’t sleep.’

  ‘One of those nights?’

  ‘Every night,’ Damien said. ‘Guess it’s insomnia or something.’ He changed the topic quickly. ‘Is … um … this might be a strange question, but is Sophia OK?’

  Benito seemed confused for a moment. ‘Well, all things considered, I think she’s doing quite well.’

  Damien noticed a half-full syringe on the hospital bed beside a white cell-phone-shaped device. Benito saw him staring.

  ‘That’s a point-of-care blood analysis system,’ he said. ‘I’m analyzing Sophia’s blood work. And there is one problem.’

  Damien didn’t like the sound of that. He moved further inside the infirmary. ‘Which is?’ he said.

  Benito shook his head, rubbed his eyes under his glasses. ‘That’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know. I was actually hoping you could help me.’

  Damien stared at the Toughbook screen. ‘I’m not sure how I’d be able to help.’

  ‘Under the UN headquarters in New York, you injected Sophia with four syringes, correct?’ Benito said.

  Damien nodded. He and Jay had known what was inside the syringes Sophia had taken from Cecilia McLoughlin. One contained the Axolotl Chimera vector, one contained the anti-psychopath Chimera vector, and one contained the antidote to the engineered flu virus Cecilia had triggered inside Sophia.

  Jay had been able to recognize the Chimera vector colors because he’d injected them into Damien to save his life, and had also injected himself. But neither Damien nor Jay had known which of the remaining two syringes contained the flu antidote and which was something else entirely. So they’d injected Sophia with both.

  ‘The fourth one,’ Damien said. ‘I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘I guess no one knows,’ Benito said, ‘except Cecilia. And unfortunately Sophia killed her, so that rules that out. Without a sample of Sophia’s blood before the injection, I can’t run a comparison.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the Fifth Column have a sample somewhere?’ Damien said.

  ‘Yes. Desecheo Island.’

  Damien frowned. ‘Yeah, that’s kind of blown up now.’

  Benito sank back into his chair. ‘She’s been blacking out recently. I don’t know if it’s
connected to that fourth syringe or whether it’s something else.’

  ‘How’s she been holding up since she released the Chimera vector?’ Damien asked.

  Benito shook his head. ‘Some days better than others. I don’t know how she does it. I couldn’t.’ He looked up at Damien. ‘You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?’

  Damien felt a pang of guilt. He’d never doubted Sophia before, but now he was starting to. She wasn’t the Sophia from Desecheo Island with cunning and split-second instincts. She was the Sophia with post-traumatic stress disorder and a few too many regrets.

  He shrugged and forced a smile. ‘When am I not having second thoughts?’

  ***

  Jay woke to the sound of Damien mumbling softly in his sleep. He’d heard Damien return to bed earlier, so it was good to see he was getting some sleep for once. He dug under his pillow for his hip flask. It was exactly where he’d left it, beside his false New Zealand passport. The flask was two-thirds empty, which concerned him because they were only halfway through their travel. What day was it? Three, four? He’d lost track already. Whatever it was, he just wanted this to be over. He still hadn’t approached the skipper about a drop-off on the New Zealand’s western coast.

  He put his lips to the flask to let the Irish whiskey do the talking and, for the briefest of instants, saw the last six months of his life align like planets in orbit. It looked depressing, unremarkable. He started feeling sorry for himself, which started to annoy him. He capped the flask and tossed it back under his pillow.

  In the mess he found half his group at their usual table. This time there were no crew with them. The skipper was nowhere to be seen. At another table, he recognized Chickenhead and Big Dog. They were doing a bad job of pretending not to notice him. Either that or their breakfast was intensely interesting. Jay ignored them back, glad he didn’t have to deal in pleasantries, and, like an automaton, filled his plate with bacon, eggs and a very sad-looking sausage. He planted himself beside a very tired-looking Benito.

  ‘Didn’t sleep well?’ he asked.

  Benito shook his head and sipped a cup of orange juice.

  Sophia was sitting opposite him, with Nasira tucked in the corner. Nasira seemed to be the only one actually in a good mood. Sophia ate slower than usual; Jay could tell her mind was elsewhere.