by Rick Jones
Then from Becher: “Look, Kimball, my job with you regarding the Vatican’s wishes to aid you in your quest to see the Light is done. I did my task. I did what was required of me. But you’re right about one thing. In the end it comes down to one thing: only you can make yourself believe in what comes next after we leave here. You have to meet that understanding under your own terms…and not by the terms of others.”
That was what Kimball wanted to hear. And that was what Kimball wanted others to realize as well. It was always up to him to realize within himself whether he had done enough in the eyes of God to earn his salvation. And not by the evaluation of others who claimed to know.
And Kimball knew one thing: he knew he wasn’t ready for the Light.
And in his heart, he knew he had not done enough.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Becher. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“Deal?”
Becher nodded and smiled. “When I pass,” he said. “I’ll let you know the mystery of life after life. I’ll let you know if I made it.”
“Really?” Now it was Kimball’s time to smile. “And how do you plan to do that?”
Becher shrugged. “Simple, really. If I die with a smile on my face, then His answer was ‘yes’ and I went to Heaven. If I die with a grimace, then obviously His answer was ‘no.’” Becher then gave Kimball a good-hearted wink. “How’s that for a deal. You get the answer to a mystery that all of us wonder about at one time or another.”
Kimball broke out into a chuckle. “You’ve got a deal. But you still have a long way to go.”
Becher gazed out the window and sighed inwardly. So beautiful, he thought. And then he wished that Kimball was right—that he had a long way to go. Then as if on cue Becher went into a coughing jag and spit up a clot of blood onto the back of his hand, a sure reminder that his time here on Earth was measured by weeks, if that.
After using a handkerchief to wipe away the blood, and though Kimball tried to help him but was gently swatted away, Becher wiped his lips dry before tucking the bloody rag into his jacket pocket. Then he said to Kimball: “It’s all right. It’s a stop we all have to make someday, right?”
Kimball simply stared at the old man, felt for him. So he wondered if he would grow old to become a man who pressed his forehead against a cold pane of glass while looking at the scenery one last time, and perhaps wondering about life after life, whether it be damnation or salvation. And Kimball further wondered if Becher was right after all, that he was Becher’s mirror image forty years from now. A broken old man waiting to die while carrying with him the pain of ‘not knowing’ what existed after we leave here. And ‘not knowing’ was always the worst.
Forty years is a long time, thought Kimball, of ‘not knowing’ if I had earned the right.
Now he could tell that Becher thought the same, despite earlier admissions that he had done enough to make amends. He could see it in the old man’s demeanor—that he still had doubts.
If you smile, I’ll know that you reached the Light.
But if you grimace, I’ll know otherwise. I’ll know that you have fallen into the Eternal Lakes of Fire.
Kimball prayed that Becher would die in gentle repose with a smile on his face.
I hope you make it old man. I really do.
And in the uniform blue sky high above the valley floor, in between two slanting and mountainous walls, were two specks that grew larger with every passing second. Neither Kimball nor Becher thought anything about them as the choppers closed in.
Chapter Twenty-Four
From roomette G-22, where Ásbjörn Bosshart was told to never leave, he saw two small dots closing in from the northeast. At first he thought they were air balloons, the vehicles appearing stationary at such a distance. But the dots that were once the size of pencil points began to materialize into something larger. As seconds passed he could see the outline of the crafts bodies, their fast-moving rotors and skids for landing.
Helicopters.
As the train continued south, the choppers angled to intercept it, taking a straight line between two points. As the helicopters hovered close to the cars and kept pace with the moving train, Bosshart could not see any markings or details as to what organization they belonged to.
After the choppers positioned themselves directly above the cars, Bosshart lost sight of them. But he could hear the rotors chopping relentlessly through the air with a thwuck-thwuck-thwuck sound.
As the train continued at a speed of 140 kilometers per hour, the cars were beginning to enter a canyon with steep walls on both sides.
Nevertheless, Bosshart could hear the choppers keeping pace from above.
…thwuck-thwuck-thwuck…
* * *
Kimball Hayden and Frederic Becher appeared baffled as the choppers approached the cars at terrific speeds from the northeast, wondering if there had been a reported emergency to warrant their presence. Yet there was no way to board or slow the train, especially at such a high altitude where mountain sides closed in like the walls of a vise, or where bridges spanned over 1,000-foot gorges.
“What do you think is going on?’ Becher asked him, the old man watching the choppers keeping pace. “I don’t see any markings. No police or medical.”
But Kimball knew right away, recognizing them as Mil Mi-24 choppers, military-brand vehicles. Then softly with his voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Mil Mi-24.”
Becher looked at him. “Russian-made military?”
Kimball nodded. “Looks that way.”
Becher turned back to the overhead choppers. “Why would they be here?”
“Good question. One I’m sure we’re about to get an answer to.”
And then the choppers, each trying to balance within the crosswinds, suddenly disappeared over the cars.
Kimball could hear the thrumming of the rotors as the choppers kept pace with the train. Curious, he thought, looking ceilingward. Why would a pair of Mil Mi-24s risk such a dangerous maneuver in such a region?
He would soon get his answer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Warehouse 47
The Outskirts of Zurich, Switzerland
An employee of the warehouse district was driving a forklift to move crates from the storage area to the loading bay, when he noticed a pool of dark-colored fluid leaking from a container and fanning out across the floor. Under the minimal lighting it appeared to be oil, black and viscous.
Stopping the vehicle, the driver got out and hunkered over the slowly spreading stain. Tracing his fore and middle fingers across the liquid and then bringing it to his nose, he expected it to be oil. But the scent was coppery and metallic. Then he rubbed the tips of his fingers together, the fluid thick like oil, but not.
After sidestepping the halo-like spread of the liquid, the driver tried to lift the lid of the crate, but it clung tight. Grabbing a crowbar from the forklift, he returned to the crate, levied the bar between the lid and the box, and began to force the bar up and down as if pumping the handle to a water pump. While nails protested as he lifted the lid, he gave a final yank and pried it free. Immediately he was hit with a heavy scent of copper, the smell reminiscent of entering a butcher’s shop when he was a kid.
Pushing the lid aside, the driver looked inside the crate.
Inside lay a woman who had the surprised appearance of her own mortality. Her eyes were wide in shocking disbelief as they began to film over with a milky sheen. And her throat was slashed from ear to ear, the lips of her wound looking like a second horrible mouth.
Slamming the lid in place, the driver ran from the facility as fast as his legs would take him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Office of the Federal Criminal Police
Geneva, Switzerland
Andolf Bauer was sitting at his desk poring over reports from Interpol regarding Ásbjörn Bosshart, when a call came in from the Zurich command regarding a case he was attached to as a liaison.
Andolf pick
ed up the phone. “Bauer.”
“Investigator Bauer, Lieutenant Acklin of the Zurich Command. How are you?”
“Good, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating a murder here in Zurich, and a red-flag issue which came up on our system. Apparently the victim had been tagged by your agency as a person of interest…as well as showing up on Interpol’s attempt-to-locate status.”
Bauer sat straight up at this mention. Right now there was one case under his belt with a tie to Interpol, and that was the Bosshart case. But if Bosshart was on an express that was heading towards Italy, then the case fell out of his jurisdiction. So this call had to be something exclusive.
“You’re talking about the Bosshart case?” he asked Acklin.
“I am. It appears that a woman was found murdered and her body placed inside a crate in a warehouse here in Zurich. She’s been identified as Nann Bosshart. The wife of—”
“Ásbjörn Bosshart,” Bauer finished.
“That’s correct.”
“For my knowledge, do you have an approximate time of death?”
“The forensic examiner is placing her death within six hours.”
“And the suspects, if any?”
“We’re combing through the videos now,” he told Bauer. “If we receive anything of detail, we’ll send it along to you and to Interpol.”
“And the girl?”
“Emily Bosshart was not on site. So we don’t know where she is.”
“Much appreciated, Lieutenant. You have my fax and email, correct?”
“I do.”
“Thank you.”
After the call was severed, Bauer eased back into his seat and began to consider the facts. Ásbjörn Bosshart had most likely made his way out of FCP jurisdiction, which now made him Interpol’s problem. But the body of Nann Bosshart put the investigation squarely back into his lap, since the murder took place in Zurich. Since Ásbjörn Bosshart was alone when he entered the station and the body of his wife discovered elsewhere, it was unlikely he would abandon his daughter, who remained missing. This told Bauer that Bosshart was at least working under the direction of unknown parties and that his daughter, Emily, was being kept alive for leverage. Nann Bosshart had just been excess baggage. Now with Ásbjörn Bosshart under the command of hostile factions and Emily a victim of kidnapping, Andolf Bauer’s investigative game had just been ratcheted up a couple of notches. The problem was, who were the players behind Bosshart’s movements?
With no time to spare, Andolf Bauer was immediately on the phone with investigative leaders and techs in Lyon. He wanted satellite footage from supporting constituents like the CIA, who operated their satellite imagery from the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency located in Springfield, Virginia. Though Ásbjörn Bosshart was out of his jurisdictional range, he could at least follow the trail of Nann Bosshart’s killers through a series of connecting satellite feeds, starting from the warehouse. Believing that Nann Bosshart’s murder was tied in to the actions surrounding her husband, it would at least be a link he could connect to other links in the chain of events that would eventually lead him to the principals involved.
Soon enough, Andolf Bauer began to piece together the puzzle.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Yeong Che directed his team from one helicopter while his second-in-command, Kwan Ma, directed his unit from another. Orders had been spelled out with everyone knowing their mission plan. Invade. Assault. Neutralize. Acquire the asset. Extract. And the key phrase to this operation: Ten minutes. Not a second more, not a second less.
The commandos in both choppers attached their body-clips through the end-loops of their rappelling lines, slid aside the bay doors, and from both sides of the helicopter, began to descend to the train’s rooftop.
Crosswinds buffeted them, making their descents along the line difficult as they swayed from side to side. The choppers also began to sway, the pilots keeping the vehicles under control for the most part.
Then the train started to go into the turn of a slight bend that was situated between mountain walls that were steep and sheer, the passageway from one wall to another a divide of less than fifteen meters. As the train took the curve with natural ease, the choppers labored to keep pace. But the pilots were skilled and far from novices.
As soon as Che’s team touched down on the rooftop with the train moving at 140 kilometers per hour, they used the magnetic strips along the palm-side of their gloves and their knee pads to secure them to the metallic hull. Once done, they disconnected the clips from the lines and began to make their way to one end of the train, while Ma's team worked their way to the other end to flank the occupants in G-car. Then the choppers peeled back and took position behind the train, the vehicles flying between the walls with little room to spare between the ends of the rotor blades, their courses true and straight.
Ten minutes to achieve the means.
Ten minutes to continue this flight path.
Ten minutes of flying between mountain walls that appeared closer than they seemed.
Then the choppers began to weave back and forth, the winds pushing hard, as the tips of their blades came to within a meter of the wall, on both sides, the tips threatening to scrape and score the rock. But they maintained their path, the pilots wishing for the others to hurry the operation along.
Nine minutes.
Che’s team, with each man carrying an MP7 slung across his back, scrambled along the rooftop to the car’s forepart, and began to climb down the ladder to the platform that divided the cars. Ma’s team went aft and did the same, each man taking the rungs down to the area that connected G-Car to H-Car.
Just as the last man in Ma’s team began to make the climb downward, a gust of wind passed through the chasm and knocked him off balance. The man who went by the name of Hoon Ku began to pinwheel his arms for balance, and then a misstep, Ku losing complete control and slipping to the edge. The choppers rose and fell with the gust a moment before they righted themselves. But Ku continued to hang along the edge by one hand as his legs kicked wildly for the purchase of solid footing, found nothing, the fingers of his hand slipping from the rooftop bar.
“Ku!” Ma quickly climbed the rungs of the ladder and took to the rooftop on his belly. He reached a hand out to his comrade who brought his free hand up, their fingers wiggling inches from each other like the motion of tickling, the digits extending, stretching, their fingertips almost toughing, then grazing.
“MA!”
And then their fingertips curled around each other, the hold tenuous, a brief connection before they eventually lost contact and once again reached for the other, fingertips touching.
Ku’s other hand was beginning to lose its grip, his fingers now sliding along the edge.
“Ku, hang on!”
But he couldn’t. The movement of the train. The buffeting of the winds. Everything seemed to add pressure and weight far greater than what was normal under the circumstances.
And then Ku’s eyes said it all to Ma, that his life was about to come to an awful end.
“Ku…no!”
Ku looked down at the passing landscape five meters below, the train moving so fast that the ground was nothing but a blur to him. He had always thought that he would die a glorious death, a hero’s death, one that meant something in the scheme of things.
He looked at Ma. “I’m sorry I failed you!”
“Reach out!”
But Ku knew that he didn’t have the strength against the dynamic forces. And so the last of his hold gave way, the man falling away from the train with his body bouncing between the rails and mountain wall, his corpse becoming a broken heap and an eventual stain upon the stones.
Ma closed his eyes and swore beneath his breath. A minute had been wasted and a good man lost. Now the team was down to six.
Working his way back to the ladder rungs, Ma looked at the choppers which seemed to maintain their courses with some difficulty. They were moving
from side to side with the ends of the rotor blades threatening to strike the mountain walls.
If this operation doesn’t end soon, he told himself, none of them were going to get out.
After Ma made it to the platform, he, along with the remaining members of his unit, entered G-Car with their assault weapons leveled.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kimball and Becher could no longer see the choppers from their positions inside the roomette, the choppers now above the cars. Occasionally, however, they could see the ends of the rotor blades swing in and out of view, their tips getting dangerously close to the mountain walls that flanked them.
“If those blades hit the walls,” said Becher, “those choppers will go down and probably will be on top of us. The pilots better know what they’re doing.”
“It’s an extraction unit,” Kimball said. “The choppers are staying close to pull the team quickly after engagement to whomever it is they’re trying to pull.”
“It’s a dangerous maneuver,” Becher stated.
Kimball nodded and agreed. “Think about it,” he said. “Up here in the mountains inside the Dead Zone with no communication for an hour or two. Whoever it is they’re after will be long gone before the authorities find out.”
“Whoever they are, Kimball, they appear heavily armed.”
“To risk such a maneuver with qualified soldiers means that someone onboard this train is somebody of great value. This is a high-priority extraction.”
“Great value to whom?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Kimball stated rhetorically.
“Especially when law enforcement would have intercepted the target in Milan or Rome. Whoever these people are, they would never go to such lengths to utilize the choppers in a manner that would jeopardize the lives onboard this train.”
