by Jerry Ahern
Rourke studied the lay of the land trying to read Michael’s plan. “Has there been any sign of the enemy at all?”
“No Sir, none,” Anders said.
“Then, he’ll evade and try to go to ground somewhere, particularly if he’s injured,” Rourke said. “He’ll be headed in that direction.”
“How can you be sure?” Anders asked.
“Because, that’s what I would do.”
Chapter Twenty
It was about 8:00 a.m. when President of the United States, Michael Rourke, awoke and listened. Peering through his cover, his eyes searched the area; the only sounds he heard belonged to nature. Satisfied that he was alone, he took a sip of water from the last rusty can; he was out again. Slowly and carefully he crawled out of the deadfall shelter until he could stand. His head hurt, and he was a little woozy; the blood seepage from his head wound had stopped again. Opening his flight suit, he pulled off his T-shirt.
“I should have done this yesterday,” he said to himself cutting the bottom four inches of the shirt away with his knife before fashioning a headband out of it and bandaging the cut. He had swelling and trouble focusing his right eye. “Probably a concussion,” he thought as he wiggled back into the remainder of the shirt. Then, he stopped, listening.
Off in the distance, he thought he had heard the sound of a helicopter rotor, but he could not be sure; the sound had faded now. “Well, the good guys are looking for me,” he thought. He could feel the temperature increasing as the sun climbed higher in the sky. “I figure I’ve got about a 75 percent chance of being located today,” he thought before chuckling at something Tim Shaw had told him once, “42.7 percent of all statistics are made up on the spot.”
Gathering his arrows after returning to the stream to fill up with water, Michael started east again. An hour later, the dark clouds had obscured the sun, and the rain started coming down with a vengeance. Another of Shaw’s Wrightism came to mind as he stepped onto a dirt road cut through the hills, “If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.”
He was making better time on the road, but the road could be just as dangerous, if not more so. Taking the easiest way was not always the smartest plan; he knew he was exposed, but he also knew he had to help his rescuers, while trying to escape those who had attacked him. He was slightly nauseated and occasionally caught the taste of blood in his mouth. His back hurt on the left side; Michael unzipped his flight suit and shrugged the top down to reveal a healthy bruise that now reached from his shoulder blade to his waist. He slid his arms back into the flight suit and rezipped it; overall, he thought he was in pretty good shape.
Then, he saw it lying just off the road, a pineapple. He realized it must have bounced off a truck bringing a load to market. The pineapple is actually a multiple fruit, meaning each pineapple is actually made up of dozens of individual floweret’s that grow together to form the entire fruit. He knew that pineapples stop ripening the minute they are picked; there is no special way of storing them that will help ripen them further. He also knew that smell is the most important thing in determining ripeness.
If a pineapple smells fresh, tropical and sweet, it will be a good fruit. The more “scales” a pineapple has, the sweeter and juicier the taste. Using his knife, he cut a chunk out and smelled it; it was fresh. He popped a piece in his mouth and began chewing. It was delicious. It was also medicinal. Bromelain, a proteolytic enzyme, is the key to a pineapple’s value.
Bromelain is approved as a post-injury medication because it is thought to reduce inflammation and swelling. Orange juice is popular because it is high in vitamin C. Fresh pineapple is not only high in this vitamin, but the juice has an anthelmintic effect; it helps get rid of intestinal worms. The only downside is that the pineapple is also known to discourage blood clot development; between it and the sweat of his exertion, the cut on his head had begun leaking again by the time he had finished the fruit.
Thirty minutes passed, and Michael was off the dirt road, skirting it by about twenty yards when he heard the snap of a branch and the rustle of leaves. Michael stopped and listened, backed up against a large tree; slowly, he strung the arrow and waited. He knew he would only have one chance. Michael started “slicing the pie” to look around the tree; he could not afford to stick his head around all at once. That would present a target, and he had only one chance to pull this off. He wanted to keep a small profile by using the cover of the tree.
Expecting to see a black clad attacker, he instead saw a figure wearing civilian clothes and carrying a standard scoped hunting rifle, moving in a direction that would bring him within 10 yards of Michael’s tree. It must be a hunter, Michael thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Then, the figure turned, and Michael saw the face of Captain Timothy Dodd. He gripped the arrow tighter; he was being stalked.
Michael “sliced the pie” on the other side of the tree, spotting two others 20 and 40 yards away. They also were in civilian hunting clothes and carrying rifles with scopes. Armed only with his arrows, Michael could probably hit one; he might hit two, but assuring an instant kill with these primitive weapons was impossible. In any event, the third bad guy would almost certainly kill him. Michael also realized, as President of the United States, he could not surrender. Michael realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to breathe.
By now, Captain Dodd was 20 feet away and looking in another direction. Michael set his back foot and threw the arrow.
*****
John Thomas froze at the sound of the shot; it was a heavy caliber rifle report. He waved the teams forward as a second rifle fired, then a third.
The arrow hit Captain Dodd in the throat slicing through the left jugular and carotid arteries before stopping in the posterior section of the spinal column. It lodged between the second and third vertebrae after effectively slicing through the spinal cord. Dodd reflexively squeezed the trigger firing a round into the dirt at his feet then started collapsing; Michael was already in motion. He had to cover the distance before the other two could line up a shot; his target was no longer Dodd but Dodd’s rifle.
Launching his own body, Michael knocked Dodd to the ground and grabbed the rifle, rolling downhill as fast as he could. The scope rifles were handicapping the shooters; the distance was too close for them to get a sight picture, and they were point firing. Michael rolled under another deadfall for cover and drew a bead on the closest attacker. The heavy rifle slug slammed low into the man’s face, blowing a spray of bone and blood out behind him. The third attacker was advancing slowly and now was taking time to place his shots.
The heavy slugs were blowing chunks out of the rotten wood, and Michael was pinned down. His enemy continued to advance; Michael looked for a way out. There wasn’t one. He tried firing blindly, but the attacker kept coming. Finally, able to draw a bead on Michael’s face the attacker said, “Mr. President, drop the weapon and please stand up. I will accept your surrender.”
Michael dropped the rifle and slowly stood, his A.G. Russell Sting dagger gripped tightly in his right hand with the blade hidden alongside his forearm. He raised his left hand, “Right arm is broken I think.” Michael walked around the left end of the deadfall. He had a plan, but it wasn’t much of a plan; he would need to pull every trick out of his hat he could. If he could not close fast enough, he could make his enemy kill him, and that was preferable to surrender. Surrender was something Michael Rourke could have contemplated, not the President of the United States. Standing there dirty, injured, unarmed, and looking totally defeated, he did not present an imposing, threatening, or intimidating figure. His captor held the rifle in his right hand and supported himself with his left as he took a step on the uneven terrain.
Michael continued to move to his opponent’s right side; his dad had grilled it into him, “If a shooter is right-handed and you are facing him, move to your left; if he or she is left-handed, move to your right. It’s harder to swing your arm and body away from the direction of the firing hand and
shoot accurately.”
As soon as he saw the rifle move off-target and his enemy take a step, Michael moved, the Sting flashing upward in a reverse grip aiming for the left side of the man’s neck. He heard a shot ring out, and he knew he had failed.
Chapter Twenty-One
John Rourke had dropped to his knees and crawled the last six feet to the top of the hill and peered over. He spotted the attacker advancing toward Michael; he flipped the CAR-15 safety lever to fire and drew a bead on the man’s chest. Michael slowly stood and raised his left arm; his right hung limply at his side as he walked slowly around the log he had used for cover. John sized up the situation in a glance, and he saw Michael’s plan.
As Michael’s captor advanced, he steadied himself with his left hand on a tree that’s when Michael made his move. John shouted, “Akiro Kuriname!” and fired. The attacker glanced up toward Rourke then tried to track his weapon on Michael; he fired and missed. The attacker looked back toward Michael just as the desperate leap slammed Michael’s body into him. John’s round missed, but Michael’s charge knocked the attacker over backwards; a heavy thud sounded when the man’s head impact a large rock.
John Rourke charged down the hill toward his son, slinging the CAR-15 and drawing his fighting Bowie from the sheath at the middle of his back. “You okay?” John asked, and Michael nodded. John Rourke looked at the attacker who had not moved. Blood had splattered when his head impacted on the rock and obscured his face as he lay still and unconscious. John ripped open the attackers shirt and with the point of the Bowie started cutting.
Michael stared in shock and shouted, “Dad, what are you doing?”
“The same procedure for what is called an excisional biopsy. I’m taking his tattoo off. Remember what happened to the Captain Dodd clone we captured? His autopsy showed there was a chemical contained in his tattoo that killed him. We still don’t know how it was activated. I believe this tattoo forms some kind of link between the individual clones and the alien force. If he regains consciousness, the aliens can use him as a transmitter to monitor what is occurring. When they wish, they simply activate the chemical and kill him.”
With the outline of the tattoo sliced into the skin, Rourke pulled a Leatherman multi-tool from his pocket and, grabbing an edge of skin, started slicing the connective tissue under the tattoo with the razor edge of the Bowie, while Michael collected the discarded rifle.
“Whatever you hollered at him worked,” Michael said. “I thought he had me, but his shot went wild; when he looked up, he didn’t have time for a second shot.”
Supervisory Special Agent John Anders rushed up to them, knelt, and grabbed Michael’s shoulder, “You okay, Mr. President?”
“Yes,” Michael said. Anders grabbed his microphone and started issuing orders. He called for a medic to examine Michael and sent the rest of his team to set up an overwatch securing the area. He started directing the rest of the force to scour the area for any additional enemy forces.
“Dr. Rourke, what are you doing?” Anders asked disgustedly.
“Give me a minute and I will explain,” Rourke said. “We need this guy to give us answers.” When he was finished, Rourke sat back and said to the medic who had finished his examination of Michael and had dropped down on one knee by Rourke’s side, “I’ve removed a large area of skin. I did a procedure called an excisional biopsy, same way we take a sample for a cancer biopsy of a large area of skin. I need you to cover the excised area with a bandage and check the head wound. He’s unconscious, and I want to keep him that way for a while. I need you to tell me if he’s going to survive.”
Rourke turned to Anders and asked, “Do you have a plastic bag?” Anders opened a pouch and pulled a plastic evidence bag. Then, he handed it to Rourke. John placed the sample inside and sealed it. “Okay, Anders I need this man and this sample secured. When he fell, he hit his head on that rock which knocked him out. He’s going to need medical treatment for that and for this,” Rourke said pointing at his handiwork. “I want him transported to a secure medical facility as soon as possible, and I want him under guard 24/7.”
Anders nodded and spoke into his microphone again.
“Dad, what was it you shouted?”
John Rourke wiped the blade of the Bowie on the man’s shirt, removing the blood before securing it in the sheath. “I said, ‘Akiro Kuriname.’”
“What does it mean?” Michael asked.
“It’s his name Michael,” Rourke said. “Akiro Kuriname was part of the Eden Project crew for Eden 3, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Michael answered after a short pause. “His Captain was Jane Harwood, and the Medical Officer was Elaine Halverson. So, we definitely have another clone?”
“Yes, we do,” said his father. “That’s a damn shame. Akiro, the original, was a good man and a good friend. I wished they hadn’t done this to him.”
The medic examined the head wound first, put a cervical collar on the unconscious man, then turned to the bloody wound on his left upper chest. First, flushing the area with an antiseptic wash, he applied a bandage to cover the wound. “Mr. Rourke?” the medic said as he turned. Both Michael and John answered, “Yes.” John smiled at the medic, “Sorry, we do that a lot. What’s your verdict?”
“He has a depressed skull fracture,” the medic said. “That’s not a good thing; we need to get an x-ray and get him to surgery as soon as possible. The brain will already be swelling, and we have to remove the pressure as soon as possible. That’s what I can tell you right now, Mr. Rourke; I can’t say he’ll survive. The neurosurgeon will have to make that call, but I believe the head trauma is the only injury. Or, I should say was the only injury until you started cutting on him.”
Anders keyed his microphone. The medic dug in his pack, pulling out and unfolding a field litter with handles heavily stitched along each side of the foldable stretcher. Carefully, with John’s help, he stabilized the unconscious man’s neck, and then, they rolled him onto the stretcher. Anders sat on the ground with an area map stretched out before him. He gave the chopper pilot the coordinates and selected two of his strongest men to transport Akiro Kuriname to the landing zone.
John and Michael joined the carry crew grabbing the handles toward the unconscious man’s feet, and two escorts accompanied the team to provide security. Anders primary missions were to secure the President and to attempt contact with any enemy forces still in the area; he had accomplished the first and now set out to coordinate a further attempt at the second.
*****
By the time the chopper had arrived at the King Kamehameha Trauma Center, Natalia and a squad of Secret Service agents had commandeered an entire floor of Honolulu’s main hospital. Dressed in a black body suit and high-topped leather boots, she ran to Michael as soon as he cleared the chopper’s rotor arch and as soon as his unconscious attacker had been placed on a gurney; they were escorted to a private room on the commandeered fifth floor. Michael was checked over by the presidential physician and declared fit, except for a little dehydration and minor exposure, before they moved upstairs. He would be spending at least one night.
His attacker was rushed to the third floor neurosurgery department where he was x-rayed and taken directly to the surgical suite. Tim Shaw arrived and joined John Rourke outside the neurosurgery suite where an operation was already in progress to relieve the pressure from Akiro Kuriname’s swollen brain and repair the damage to his skull. “Our teams have searched the area around the two hits,” Shaw said. “Nothing was found except the vehicle that brought that hunter team into the area after Michael.”
Rourke nodded, “That doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is they were not so much interested in killing Michael as capturing him. I still haven’t figured out what their game is.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Phillip Greene, the former Progressive presidential candidate, and his “fellow travelers” sat in the War Room of the party headquarters. The War Room was routinely swept for
bugs and electronic surveillance; no one could be privileged to the conversations of this group. Every person, excepting Greene, had insinuated themselves into sensitive positions within the government. They were the ones who fed Greene information. At the far end of the large conference table sat Greene’s primary advisor, the man known as Captain Dodd.
Greene, red-faced with the veins pulsing in his forehead, slammed his fist into the table, “What the hell went wrong? The plan was perfect. A low-level trip for a public relations visit, a wide open area, and we still missed. What the hell went wrong?” His “team” squirmed in their chairs.
Finally, a man in uniform spoke; Brigadier General Jimmy “JJ” Jones said, “Sir, it should have worked. The plan was tight. If we had brought my forces in instead of Captain Dodd’s men, we would have been successful; no offense Captain Dodd. We simply could have put more boots on the ground.”
Dodd smiled, “None taken, General. You may be right; we simply won’t know now. Had we been successful that would have moved our agenda forward; it ended up being more of a non-event, didn’t it? The good news is we learned something without giving our enemies an upper hand. Our attack craft was not detected, and our ground forces were eliminated without giving up any information.”
“You’re sure?” Greene asked with sweat rolling down his pudgy cheeks.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Dodd said. “My Principal has assured me that all contact was lost with the hunter team. That only occurs when the ‘units’ are terminated. Unfortunately, we gained nothing of intelligence value; fortunately, neither did the governmental forces. I believe that concludes our meeting for today.” Dodd stood and exited the room, leaving everyone somewhat stunned with their dismissals.
