by Dusty Miller
This spoke of duty, and an unwelcome one at that.
The pair of males, of curiously similar features and stature, speaking an obscure dialect of Farsi whenever anyone was in earshot, had dogged him all over the lake the day before. They had gone past him half an hour previously, studiously ignoring his wave and smile. This attitude alone would have drawn attention to themselves, but they had quickly returned to his little end of a much larger bay. He had the rod hanging, a spinner bait out on a couple of hundred feet of line. This was mostly for show. He didn’t much care if he caught anything or not—he had already found a hole along the south shore, not too far from The Pines, where he was pretty sure to pull out a couple of fat rainbow trout whenever he needed them. He was getting a lot more action than his observers.
For surely that’s what they were. The one on the rear seat sat there glowering at him, and the other one couldn’t help but turn and look at Liam from time to time. The action was visible five hundred or a thousand metres away to his keen eyes. It was interesting to look through binoculars, and see a man staring right back at you, also through binoculars. As things stood now, they were less than two hundred metres off. The problem was that Liam had gotten a hit.
There was something down below, just a few metres below the surface. Getting a look at it with them there was going to be a bit of a problem. It was now plotted on the map, for better or worse. On impulse, he turned the prow and opened up the throttle. Cutting back to the east, heading farther up the river and lake complex that was the Spanish River system, his line circled back around and under the boat. For whatever the reason, the silver sides of a big fish broke the surface. It came down sideways, head and gills clearly visible from the belly side, and it seemed like he had another one on the line.
He throttled back.
First, pull in the fish, second, head up the lake…wait a while and possibly come back.
He was only going to put up with so much of their interference.
Chapter Four
Liam’s search pattern wasn’t as random as it might first appear, only enough to keep any opposition guessing. He doubted if they even knew why they were there—only having orders to keep an eye on the tall Englishman and report any suspicious activities. All overseas stations had such low-level operatives. They were often naturalized citizens, stringers called in on odd jobs, where known embassy staff would stick out like a sore thumb. They watch us, and sooner or later reveal themselves, and then we watch them.
Sooner or later we catch one. If they’re small fry, we throw them back and see where they go.
Bigger fish get squeezed, for information. For cooperation—for going double.
Bigger fish ended up in the hot seat. He knew that from experience.
The bigger the fish, the bigger the prize.
By fishing in one bay, then putt-putting along the shore, trying out not the next inlet, nor the one after that, but random inlets, creek mouths and the like, he was eliminating some of the possibilities.
The object, (or objects) as he was referring to it, would light up his display like a Christmas tree when he found it. Theoretically. What was interesting was the vast debris field, mostly mapped now, over hundreds and thousands of man-hours. That debris field covered tens of thousands of square kilometres. This was the heart of its densest area, but that wasn’t saying much. There were three superimposed fields, in an elongated, sort of oval pattern. It was like looking for meteorites, the odds not much better. His own station had low-level field hands as well, but the object (or objects) had eluded them as of last autumn, when the search was reluctantly called off. If they didn’t find it soon, the odds were they would be overtaken by events. What this meant was that EMERALD could be superseded by a newer invention, process or technique. Sooner or later it must happen.
What sometimes happened was that they found out through other channels that somebody already had it somewhere and that they were too late to do anything about it.
So far, all indications were that this was not the case, but the intelligence and anti-terrorism game was nothing if not meticulous—at its best. If the enemy did get hold of it, they would be sure not to advertise it. Not at first. Only when they were assured that it worked and they had their own in place would they let it be known, defying other powers to do their worst. A terror organization might never be able to use EMERALD. They would simply sell it to fund further efforts elsewhere.
At its best, it was a job, a fairly easy one with significant perks.
At its worst, it could be wet work indeed…hopefully that shouldn’t happen here.
The trouble was that one never really knew.
Even now, men and women in ones and twos tramped up and down innumerable logging roads, portages and what was a rarity in these parts, an actual township road, laden with backpacks. They all had similar electronic arrays. Their activities were hidden as well as possible. The whole man-portable version of the array weighed six pounds. There were only a limited number of them. The land-based arrays were mostly gas-sniffers, but the principles were the same. Their covers varied from ornithologists doing field work, to geologists working on a book, to college students on their summer jobs, which involved seismic testing. They drilled holes in the ground, set off small charges and read things off on a screen. They were looking for non-existent gas and oil, but only if someone asked, which people so rarely did. In summer the population was ten times what it was in winter. This made a difference. When everyone was a stranger, nothing really stood out as remarkable.
Slowing, Liam turned into a slow approach to the narrows. The bottom was very yellow and sandy, and yet the swell, returning from two angled shorelines, heaved and crested in sharp pyramids of crystalline water that unfortunately did much to obscure what might lie a metre or half a metre down…hopefully.
There were three pairs of rather informal buoys, plastic jugs lining a channel that couldn’t be over two and a half feet, three at best. Boats of a certain size simply couldn’t make it in or out of this little arm. Rocks were obvious threats, but the weedy growths could snap a shear-pin pretty quickly if it wound up around the prop.
There were two narrow points of land, coming down from the hills above on his left and right. The noise of his motor reflected back off rocks and flat stone faces, and then the water turned green ahead. Liam opened the throttle and was quickly lost to sight around the first big bend.
He had a funny feeling that they would follow.
It wouldn’t be enough to just sit there and wait for him to go past them on the way home. They wanted to know what he was doing.
There was one big bay, a sandbar and then a swamp down at the far end. The prospect of what might be there had been kind of eating at him. The sun stood high in the sky, and he reached for his water bottle. Life would get complicated it they found anything really interesting.
Liam had a couple of big sandwiches in a cooler bag provided by The Pines, a bag of cookies and some other goodies if he got the munchies. He had his pipe, and there was this timeless feeling on the lake.
It was like time lasted forever out there, something he’d noticed the year before.
The object stemmed from Project EMERALD, a Canadian-built orbital surveillance satellite. Its ostensible purpose was to monitor space debris, mapping it accurately so that predictions could be made, as to the safest time and vector to launch rockets. The purpose was ostensibly peaceful, but anyone with a half a brain in their heads could see that the technology might have military applications. There were one or two genuinely interesting bits of kit in there that any number of nations might like a look at.
The public story, as such things often went, was pure bullshit.
The trouble was that such satellites had to be powered. They had to be tested, and eventually put into orbit. This required a launch, and in this case, a crash. There was nothing wrong with the satellite. The problem was traced back to sabotage. The booster had been Indian, in a multi-national cooperative ventu
re. Indian engineers must have picked up a little something about the payload’s capabilities. The news hounds had to be told something, after all, and they were responsible for getting it into orbit. Somehow, word had gotten out about EMERALD. Although there were some who would sabotage any western effort, there were concerns that the sabotage and the payload, rather than just the launch itself, might be related. There were nations who would see EMERALD as a military satellite and consequently, a threat.
But would they try to recover it when they had equal or superior capability of their own?
The answer was a resounding yes.
They would like to know its capabilities. They would like to know how it worked.
And we would like to know who done it.
The presence of his observers might very well confirm someone’s interest in EMERALD.
The only real question was whether it was just routine surveillance, or if they had indeed been blown.
***
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. The sun was barely up, the day was warm already and the dew gone in a thin mist that didn’t hang around long. Flies buzzed in amiable tones and the cheerful voices coming from the dock area helped to lift her spirits, if only in the sense that she would be busy. She shoved certain things firmly to the back of her mind.
She couldn’t help but enjoy the fresh faces of the kids. They paraded around in their new hats and with the rods and lures trailing, a colourful plastic tackle box in the other hand. Proud parents opened wallets and purses, indulging toddler and teen alike.
Liam was over by the kiosk with Mark, buying minnows and filling up the fuel tanks on his boat. She could only wave as she was confronted by a gaggle of thirteen year-old girls, all legs and arms and braces on the teeth, giggling and splitting around her like a rock in a stream. One of them blurted out something incomprehensible. Laughing hysterically, they bolted past on their mysterious errand. Friendships were being formed there that would last forever, or so she told herself.
Mark was having a busy day. They were making money and that was good.
There would always be a little tug on the heart with one such as Liam.
Somehow she just knew it.
She watched as he puttered about the dock and the boats on some obscure errand, then motored off slowly but with a kind of authority. Then there was another sensation as the men from Cabin Seven came down. She had a moment of real irritation as the two mystery men, looking almost hurried for a change, desperately tried to pull their motor into life as apparently their electric start had died. They didn’t want to wait about for a charge, judging by snatches of talk from over there.
“It’s not the battery, it’s got plenty of power.” Mark was taking charge from Dale, who seemed very shaky this morning.
“Lindsey?”
It was Bev, mother of one of two sets of twins presently blessing the camp with their presence.
“Yes, Mrs. Macdonald?”
“I’m terribly sorry, but the toilet is plugged—” She blushed beet red, going no further, standing there wringing her hands.
The Macdonald’s had Cabin Eighteen, which had the best view in the camp. It was at the top of the bluff and the treetops were thin because of the rocky ground.
“Okay.” Lindsey almost smiled.
It really didn’t get much better than this…Mark and Dale were upselling like crazy over at the dockside. Someone in the store would be looking for marshmallows or hot-dog buns or milk or something. They would sell a lot of minnows and gasoline today. Which was what it was all about, when you got right down to the nitty-gritty.
“If you’ll just give me a second, I’ll be right along, Mrs. Macdonald.” She had no choice but to check on the store…
The odds were against it, but the tone was good and the smile came off well enough.
Tall and spare, the lady nodded gratefully, eyeballing the two dark foreign men, voices raised, as they desperately tried to get their motor running. She turned back and gave Lindsey a look, and a quick headshake, as if to ask, why would anyone ever want to hurry, and on such a beautiful day?
Surely there was no real need for such language.
The women smiled, more in tune with each other now, and they parted, at least for the moment.
She caught Mark’s voice on the wind, calm and cool as ever.
“I’m sorry, it looks like the spark plug lead has loosened up…I’ll fix that in a jiffy.” She heard him saying something about the damp.
She hovered at the back of the crowd, waiting for the door.
There was a pop, and then another, and for a moment, it looked as if the mystery men might almost cheer. The motor settled into an idle and that was the first time anyone had seen either one of them smile. Mark hurriedly buttoned up the motor-casing.
They dropped into their seats, let go on the bow and stern ropes, and then they were off.
***
Walking on the small rounded stones was bad, and the big ones, looming just below the surface were black with tannin. The rocks were almost invisible, and always seemed to come with sharp corners at shin level. The sandy gravel patches were a lot more attractive. He tended to find a spot and then stand in one place for a while. Tucking the rod under his arm for a moment, he pulled out his pipe and then his lighter. There were times when the world was sublime. This was one of those moments. He also suspected his calves would just ache later tonight, or more likely tomorrow morning. The stiff hip waders put up a lot of resistance to even the slightest movement. There was already tobacco in it, and he hit his oldest pipe with the lighter.
Liam had decided to fish the mouth of a small, boulder-strewn river coming down from the highlands in a foamy green torrent. The water was at its yellowest on shallow gravel beds. He was spin-casting in the deeper pools, not being a fly fishermen per se, and waiting to see if his shadows turned up. There was the roar of a familiar motor coming along just behind a headland to his left, or more or less southwest. The prow appeared and then two familiar figures.
The corners of his mouth tugged, first this way and that, as the man on the motor throttled back abruptly and the man in front hastily swung his lure out over the side.
They were a hundred and fifty metres offshore, but his boat was distinctive enough and he had made sure to wear his khaki vest and a red hoodie. It was a bit bulky, warm on a perfect morning like this. On the plus side the vest had plenty of pockets. He chuckled at his thoughts, but he could have sworn their boat was sitting funny in the water.
Even as he pulled his line in, wading carefully through crystal-clear shallows to a low spot on the bank, there came a stream of loud cursing from out on the river and it seemed as if they might be taking in a little water.
It would not do to laugh outright, so he ignored the bluster and the recriminations as best he could. He picked his way along the river, going upstream a few dozen metres.
It sure was a beautiful day. The rod came lazily back, the arm cocked, and then the lure was spun headlong, if such a thing could be said for a plastic treble-hooked artificial minnow. The contented fisherman watched the shadows beside the bigger rocks to see if any of the resident brookies were interested. The other boat was drifting on the current.
He was invisible now, screened from their sight by trees and brush along the shoreline.
Going by the sounds of things, they were having quite a time out there.
Hell, they might even be sinking. The two male voices were getting higher and higher in tone, and a loud splashing noise and thumps from the aluminum hull indicated that they were baling.
As to why their motor might have been a little hard to start this morning; that was a good question. Perhaps the fact that somebody had pulled the spark plug wire and used a stiff rod to spread it ever so slightly might have had something to do with it.
Someone who was slightly evil might have done it.
***
Liam came down off the end of the trail and out into brilliant sunlight. He
had four or five small speckled trout on a light chain. His lure was hooked through the second eyelet from the end of the rod. With a little light pressure and the catch on, it sufficed to keep the lure safe and out of the way. As a young lad, he’d had a treble hook through the eyebrow once.
Once in a lifetime was enough.
Liam hadn’t seen Billy in almost twenty years.
Every so often, Liam wondered what happened to him, and some of the other friends he’d once had. It was disturbing sometimes, just how few names from his school days he could remember. Getting out of the hip waders was always fun, but there was just no way he could sit in the hot sun wearing them.
He shoved the boat out into water, springing in at the last minute. He’d been in and out a few times, managing to keep his toes dry so far.
They could hardly ignore him, try as they might. His motor fired up with the turn of a switch and the press of a button. The pull-start was strictly for emergencies in his polite opinion. He chugged out in their direction on idle, just enjoying the morning and a brief moment of company. The boat was small, but well thought out.
They stopped baling and fussing with the motor. They sat up straight, as if expecting trouble.
“Good morning. Are you catching any?” He made sure to get the proper inflection, which sounded much like are-ya-ketchin-ennie?
There was probably a word much like it in the Ojibwa tongue, the area’s original inhabitants.
“Ah.” That was no answer, really.
He received a polite nod from the younger one and a surly sort of half-wave from the other.
They were equipped with the usual cut-off bleach bottle. The junior man began baling again. Liam gave them another nod, and then turned the prow around to the north and east again. If they wanted to play games, he could lead them a merry chase if he wanted to.
