by Rafael
Janesh slipped away unseen and unheard. Unit Four, preferring to move at night, would not decamp until dusk. Janesh felt confident the unit would close on the site then launch a predawn assault. With hours to go, he had time to plan—and act appropriately.
* * *
Whispered transmissions left the still night undisturbed. “Tiger1 this is Ranger1. We have camp in sight.”
“Roger Ranger1, hold position.”
A quarter mile behind point, the Team Leader switched to a satellite phone. He pressed transmit and waited for encryption to lock the phone to Langley’s operation center. The status light flashed steady green. “TopHat, Tiger1. TopHat this is Tiger 1.” He toned the static hiss down. “TopHat this is Tiger1.”
“Roger Tiger1, this is TopHat. Hold.” Halfway across the globe the Operations Chief cycled through stations confirming they had a green status. An overhead satellite would confirm twelve position signals. They probably had the Deputy Commissioner present to provide final clearance. While his fingers silently drummed the ground, he wondered if his wife would object to having a tiger’s head over the mantle.
“Tiger1 this is TopHat. You are mission go, repeat you are…” Static replaced speech. The Team Leader tapped a finger against the radio’s casing.
“TopHat this is Tiger1. Confirm mission go.” Fingers resumed their drumming. “TopHat this is Tiger1. Confirm mission go. “TopHat, Tiger1. Confirm mission go.”
Crackle and pops hissed over the open channel. He shut off the unit and switched to the point-to-point intercom. No alarm bells clamored. Satellite links came and went. Could be atmospheric disturbance, solar flare, loose transistor. Hell, a bird might have crapped on Langley’s antennae. Besides, TopHat had cleared a go. He hadn’t come six thousand miles to abort on a dropped radio confirm. His earpiece sounded a tone when it linked to the point man. He pressed the mike closer.
“Ranger1, Tiger1.”
“Go ahead, Tiger1”
“Mission go. We’re coming up on your six. Status?”
“All quiet, no movement. Camp asleep. Probable device ID in camp center.”
“Roger, Tiger1 out.”
He hand-signaled Steve, twenty yards away, to move his six-man line up to the point. Interspersed seven across and wearing thermal imagers, the night swallowed them into the undergrowth. He waited for his communications specialist, the paw collector, to repack the radio gear. Together they would hold the rear command position.
Twenty minutes later he came up alongside his point man. From ten yards inside the tree line he peered out across the clearing. Nothing moved. Five huts framed dead spots in the imagers. His whisper matched the night’s quiet. “Take your team across, 50-yard interval. Let’s find out who’s inside those huts. If anything happens, that device has priority.”
The point man clicked the intercom to position his two and three. Seconds later three men crouched low emerged from the woods. The Team Leader scanned left to right. Three thermals filled his imager. Langley operations watched three signals separate toward the camp center. Halfway across, the images disappeared. The Team Leader tapped his imager. Switched it on and off. Gave it a harder knock. Great, he thought. The thermals died. What else? At Langley, three signals continued across the clearing.
“Striker1, Tiger1.” He waited. “Striker1, Tiger1. Steve, you read me?” He switched over to the radioman. “CommSpec, Tiger1. CommSpec, you read me?” What the hell? His radioman too? He turned around to make his way to the strike line where he found Steve fiddling with his imagers. “My thermals are down. Hell of a time, isn’t it?”
“So are mine. So is the point-to-point intercom I think. Can you reach your men?” Steven cycled through six call signs. Only static hissed through the open transmitter. “Damn. Re-establish manual contact with your line. Everybody meet back here in five minutes. The satellite link went down earlier. I need to see if it’s up again.
No one panicked. They trained rigorously to operate without electronics in case a localized electro-magnetic pulse killed communications. They formed a well-coordinated machine and a still formidable threat. The Team Leader reached the Commspec who with practiced, competent hands quickly confirmed they had no radio. “I’ve got the point cut loose with no support.” the Leader hissed. “Follow me back”
Inside the tree line, seven calm, confident commandos waited. The huts remained quiet. It dawned on him not a shot had been fired. “We’ve got no radio or satellite. Take your line across, standard three by three cover. Re-connect with the point. Find out what the hell they’re doing. Safeties off. Anything looks crooked, kill it. Anything in the huts, kill it. Secure the device. We’ll provide rear cover. If you need us, light a flare.”
Two three-man lines began leapfrogging each other across the clearing with Steve bringing up the rear. The pre-dawn gloom had deepened. So had the quiet. As if the forest had stopped to watch the unfolding horror. Six commandos reached the huts’ outer perimeters practiced hand signals sent them in two by two. Steve rushed up to a hut wall. The eerie quiet remained undisturbed. No sounds broke it. No footsteps, no gear groans, nothing. Crouched low he entered the inner ring.
Five hut entrances stared open-mouthed. Nothing moved. Not an insect, not a breeze, not his men. He crept up to a hut window, popped up, weapon tracking for targets. Empty. Nothing stirred. The other four also stood mute, devoid of life. At Langley, ten satellite signals moved around the huts. He slowly circled in place ready to fire at anything. Where had nine armed men gone? Nothing in his experience left him able to imagine their fates. All nine had stepped into a wormhole. When it closed each had a microsecond to ponder the pitch black and mud bottom they stepped onto before the two miles of ocean above crushed them.
Dead silence began creeping up his spine. Fear—sweat producing, breath shortening fear—followed. Panic began to pound his ear drums. He whirled to break for the trees and his legs collapsed. He didn’t feel pain, didn’t feel paralyzed but his limbs no longer responded. Face to the ground, muddy feet approached. Hands began to strip him of equipment and clothing. Soon denuded, one dragged him away.
Within the trees, the Team Leader and radioman waited. Nothing beyond stirred. “We’ve got to go.”
“We can’t just leave them.” the radioman countered.
“Wake up. There’s nothing to leave. If there was they’d be here by now. Try the satellite. Tell them we’re requesting an emergency extraction.”
“TopHat, TopHat, this is Tiger1 requesting emergency extract. Repeat, request emergency extract. TopHat this is Tiger1, come in TopHat.” The status light glowed steady green but only hiss emanated.
“We’re leaving. Drop everything except weapons, ammo, and medical supplies. We can’t be slowed down.” Both looked at the huts’ vague outlines hoping someone might return or they’d detect something, anything moving.
Together they dropped to the ground. Dreamlike confusion enveloped them. Without any understanding, one moment found them here and the next somewhere else. Alongside Steve, they hung nude from a branch by their ankles, outstretched arms tied at the wrist and fastened to a log beneath. Before them a near-naked man, spear across his lap, sat cross-legged on the ground. Eyes closed, long hair wild as the setting shadowed his face. Behind him on either side two huge dogs sat quietly. Besides their alert eyes, only an occasional yawn betrayed movement.
Without an indication why, he looked up. Three heads swiveled right, stared into the woods. In one fluid motion, the savage rose to his feet. He strode two steps toward the Team Leader. “Do you have children?” The unexpected question stripped him of guard and defense. He began to blubber and cry. Urine flowed down his torso and along his arms, forming steamy wisps that wafted in the cool pre-dawn air. “Yes. Yes, I have children.” The primitive stepped to the radioman.
“Do you have children?” His voice cracked.
“I do. I do have children. Two of them. A boy and a girl.” Perhaps sensing the end, Steven withheld nothing.
Man and dogs again turned right, staring for some moments. “The father comes.” As if in reply a hideous bellow, then another shook the air. It huffed, once, twice. All three began yanking violently trying to wrench themselves loose.
“Please, mister. Let us go. We don’t even know you. Why are you doing this? Please.”
Close, very close, a low, fearsome growl rumbled through the leaves. A hand wave sent the dogs into the woods. Their captor stood in the trees but did not turn around.
“You are not who we are. Karma must be rebalanced. What I do, I do to delay the beasts yet to come.” No one comprehended the answer. Their frantic jerks became more determined.
“Please, mister, please.” Steven shouted. “We’re not animals.”
CHAPTER 48 Means and Ends
Behind him Jithu Ong’s apartment door locked as he strode toward the elevator bank. A retinal scan permitted entry and he had never given thought to being locked out if it failed. No thought at all. It always worked. Like waking up. He always woke up. 13,881 times had made it a thoughtless certainty. As certain as number 13,882.
He enjoyed the leisure of not having a set place to report to at a set time. Nicholas Koh tethered him to a communicator not a desk and he rarely called before noon at the earliest. The ample time made chores a leisurely affair. Today’s began with some shirts and pants to the corner dry cleaner then a quick shop for fresh eggs and tomatoes.
Since dawn, his taste buds had watered for an omelet. If the grocery gods permitted, he’d add an avocado. Divine assistance had become an essential component of acquiring one. The store’s stock always alternated between hard as concrete or soft as mush. He’d even fallen for a kindly neighbor’s suggestion an avocado placed in a paper bag and left in an oven overnight would be ripe the next day. He hadn’t spoken to her since. Still, avocado wedges sprinkled with sea salt around a warm tomato omelet topped with fresh-ground black pepper danced before his eyes. He stepped into the elevator.
An overcast sky threatened rain at any moment. He wondered if the same god who provided ripe avocados also handled requests for delayed downpours. Inside the dry cleaner, internal scanners read his communicator and had his account displayed complete with shirt preferences. “Good morning, Mr. Ong. When would you like this?”
“Tomorrow?”
“After 1pm?” Jithu reflected a moment. A call from Koh might disrupt the afternoon but the likelihood seemed small. Until they heard from Nisha Saha, action surrounding the mysterious device remained stalled. Besides a planned trip to the firing range, nothing else occupied his schedule. He smiled.
“That’s fine.”
With more than a week since she had last communicated, Jithu had begun to consider they might not hear from her. If they didn’t, Nicholas Koh would not have many more options. Everything he had thrown at the problem had failed. If Koh’s enemies decided to take the offensive, Jithu had to consider they might come after him. Perhaps his future needed a new patron. But who paid as well? He entered the market store.
Except for eggs, nothing else in the aisles caught his eye as he continued toward the produce section. Small plum tomatoes fit his need. He picked for two with deep red color and a little give when pressed. Guarded against disappointment, he stepped toward the avocados. Pleasure creased a smile. The second pick proved a winner. It squeezed like a sturdy rubber ball. Feeling like he cheated the gods, Jithu hoped he made it to the cashier before a lightning bolt struck.
The checkout scanner found his pocketed communicator, exchanged information, and registered the purchase. Waiting customers joined the screaming cashier when he collapsed to the ground, his face a dead, blank expression. Hours later, the Medical Examiner’s eyes bulged. When he peered into the chest cavity he had expected to confirm a routine coronary failure. A shattered, fragmented heart the Seer had winked into lay inside.
* * *
With one leg flipping the door shut, Josh Timson dropped his luggage to the floor. No sub-orbital had had an open seat to accommodate his last-minute departure. With a stop in Turkey and a connection in Spain, atmospheric flight had to qualify as torture. He made a beeline for the sofa chair, plopping down with a loud exhale. The chair’s back welcomed his head as he sank in, closing his eyes. Tension accumulated over sixteen hours travelling from India began to seep away. It felt good to be back in DC, back at home. Felt good to be safe.
The support base Indian intelligence established in Tadoba had become a madhouse in the final hours. When lost contact with Unit Four extended to twenty-four hours, India’s Ministry of Defence, fearing a CIA strike team loose within its borders, authorized a helicopter over flight. They found a recent encampment with a tiger carcass, vehicles, and even a helicopter. Langley meanwhile, continued to ask how R&AW could report Unit Four as vanished when they had twelve active satellite signals showing the unit active in the camp area. Two hours later the signals also vanished. The small CIA contingent in Tadoba, led by Tilka Lon, then received an encrypted message. Langley had intercepted radio transmissions from India’s Defence Ministry to terminate Unit Four. Amid the growing tension, suspicions, and accusations, an R&AW officer, Daaruk Kapur, approached asking to speak with him privately. The ensuing questions and probes made it clear R&AW had a leak and Kapur had developed information that might point to him.
Timson rubbed hands across his face. Insane, he thought. Except for his having to leave, nothing made sense. And where were the scientists? He looked at the luggage. He’d unpack tomorrow—maybe. Right now a stiff scotch, a hot shower, a stiffer scotch, and his own bed would suit him just fine. He made to stand up. Disbelieving shock staggered him. A man popped out of thin air. He blinked rapidly trying to clear a brain he thought fogged by jet lag.
An arm snapped out. Python-strength fingers closed around his neck, constricted the airwave, lifted him out the chair. The instinctive reflex to breathe caused Timson to punch, kick, and scratch. A fist slammed into his gut, paralyzing nerve and muscle cells. It emptied lungs that couldn’t refill. On the verge of passing out, he hung limp, near lifeless.
Fingers loosened. In spasms, he gulped for air. Oxygen rushed into vacuums. His eyes opened to two pitiless, lifeless orbs staring back. Despite the near nudity and longer hair, recognition flickered. “Janesh McKenzie.” The words brought a coughing fit—along with dismay. He cycled through options none of which had a chance. The thought arose he might not either. His voice quavered.
“What do you want?”
“Who are you working for?”
“The National Scien…” Fingers throttled his windpipe. Asphyxiation jerked his body. They loosened again. Gasps and coughs wracked his lungs. “It’s the truth. The National Science Foundation pays me.” Reduced to pathetic bluff, Timson glared.
Shock grew across his face. From behind McKenzie a silver sphere floated out and began to glow orange. With bell-like clarity it emitted the sounds of access codes dialing and connecting. Jithu Ong’s voice answered. His own began detailing Ekani Jayaraman’s activities and whereabouts. His heart sank.
“You dug into my past and found Ekani. All he ever did was save my life and become a faithful friend. Because of that he’s dead.”
“I didn’t know they were going to kill him. I didn’t do it. Two men from Australia did.” A cold, pitiless smile displayed.
“They have met their fate.” Panic grew, adrenal glands fired.
“I’ve got money. We can work this out.” The smile widened, fingers tightened.
“Your bank accounts have already been emptied.” Neck bones snapped. Josh Timson never felt death. One moment he was. The next he wasn’t.
CHAPTER 49 Served Cold
As each division head finished their summary, Nicholas Koh had no doubt his empire had come under assault. Across the globe, banks scrambled to contain the financial chaos centered on Singapore Worldwide Capital. Cash transfers to point X wound up at Y. Cash deposits at Z appeare
d on Q’s books. Other profit centers reported no cash deposits or found they had grown five times the size over the previous hour.
Delivery dates changed forward and backward. Product orders disappeared altogether or had their quantities increased. Phone calls to Japan connected to Canada. From one minute to the next computer data appeared and disappeared or transferred itself to another division. Pay checks added the taxes and issued at gross. One by one vendors, clients, and suppliers disconnected their systems afraid the virus running rampant through Worldwide would infect them. His firm had become a media sensation and Nicholas Koh squirmed under the spotlight’s glare. Whispers began his underworld connections had erupted into internecine warfare. The IT President concluded his briefing.
“Our only option at this point is to shut everything down. We can then come up computer by computer until we can corner this virus.” Even though it meant financial disaster, nods around the conference table agreed.
“How long will it take?” Nicholas asked. The IT man shrugged.
“Impossible to say. This is unprecedented. We’re electronically isolated and no one else has been infected. We have nothing to measure possible solutions or timetables against.”
Contrary to any common sense, logic, or reason his gut continued to whisper Janesh McKenzie. But how? He had neither the reach nor the scope. He inhaled sharply. The CIA. It had to be the American government. They must have learned what the device could do. They wanted him out. More than ever, he suspected foul play in Jithu Ong’s death. He needed a pipeline into the CIA. Josh Timson could provide it. “Well. If we have no other choice our choice is made for us isn’t it. Inform me the instant anything changes.”
Everyone began to file out. He glanced at the two lawyers. Scowls did not hide their ‘we told you so’ expressions. Nicholas departed, taking his private elevator down. Homeward bound, frustration deepened with his communicator’s every ‘Fail’ message. He thumbed ‘End’ when the thought crystallized Josh Timson might never answer. Home required a march past the media horde’s flashing lights and shouted questions.
