by Dusty Miller
The bulk of his U.S., U.K. and other suppliers had dried up, just as abruptly as they had clammed up, when sufficient legal pressure was applied or threatened behind closed doors. The Mahdi was also becoming more difficult to appease. If Aubrey couldn’t come up with a handful of light assault choppers, and if their ancillary chain-guns and TOW wire-guided missiles didn’t materialize soon, Aubrey might be lucky to get out of the country at all. To say there was a lot riding on EMERALD was an understatement. He had other irons in the fire, but none of them looked as promising or carried the sort of weight EMERALD did.
“Speck. My man. What’s shakin’?” Aubrey thought he was cool when he was merely insufferable sometimes.
“Things may be heating up in regards to the Dominion stocks.” This was how they always referred to EMERALD. “The future looks very bright.”
“And?”
“I’ve reassigned a couple of our people to another division.”
“Ah.” Aubrey thought it through. “So what happened?”
“A hotshot trader, some new young guy. Made them look silly.”
“Hmn.” Aubrey puffed an indifferent cigar and watched the fan blades lazily circling overhead, feet up on the end of his desk and a wrinkle or two of irritation ruffling his high, patrician brow. “And might I hazard a guess as to who this new young guy is?”
“It’s Kimball.”
Aubrey thought long and hard. Kimball. They said he was good. They also said he was washed-up. They’d put him out to pasture. The thing was to trust your people on the ground and not try to micromanage from the top.
“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?”
“Ah, no.” Speck chuckled.
If Speck could deliver, he stood to make a handsome commission. As for the people on the ground, how they handled their assignments was their business and he had always allowed them a certain amount of leeway. Speck was a businessman, a consultant of sorts. He looked up to Aubrey Herschel, the man who had raised him from the muck and the mire, taught him to abhor blood and violence for its own sake, for this would ultimately be unprofitable. That’s not to say it might not be useful from time to time, for surely it was.
It was very useful. Mister Herschel would get what he asked for if Speck had any say in the matter. However, it was better not to bother the boss with too many details.
Aubrey had to be kept in the loop, as he was financing all of this.
How everything was actually supposed to be accomplished, seemed below his notice at times. What mattered to Aubrey Herschel was results. Speck reported in greater length, and then the two rang off, each convinced the other was a brilliant man but also a fool, useful enough for the time being.
***
Lindsey was at the front desk, still flustered by the angry attitude of Mister Borz and Mister Lom.
It wasn’t just the boat incident, or the fact that Dale had wanted to charge them for the repair until Mark talked him out of it. He said he’d seen it before. It could happen to anyone. It could happen if they went over a board or a log, without even noticing it. As it went past the transom, it could kick up and rotate and take out the drain plug, which was normally expanded in place and held there at low speeds by the outside water pressure itself. At high speed, the boat was supposed to be self-baling, hence the name.
Then there was last night.
Last night was the kicker. She’d seen quite a different side of Mister Kimball.
It might have had something to do with quite a number of errant bottle-rockets, coming from the front porch of a surprisingly-drunk Liam Kimball. She might have been wrong about Liam—he might be capable of losing it as well as anyone, and he had said more than once that he was sick leave. When she asked him to stop, he just laughed and did it again, which made her look stupid and ineffectual. He reeked of booze and seemed playful rather than vindictive. When she finally got him to stop, he’d gone over and apologized profusely, the two dark little men taking it not very well. That might account for their going off in a huff, though. It was just one more thing, although she was sure there was more to it than that.
She charged them a pro-rated daily fee for two days. Lindsey was glad to see the back of them, by the time they strutted out, thoroughly indignant. Their mouths were going in some unknown tongue and no doubt being damned rude. Or, they might just be trying to decide where to go for lunch. It was hard to tell going by tone alone in a foreign language.
It was her impression that they weren’t having a good time and had just decided to chuck it. It happened, of course, and it was best not to be too indignant. The place had been bedlam, with a few parties checking out early on the holiday Monday. These folks had the farthest to drive, or were perhaps hoping to make connecting flights from a larger centre. Hopeful that things would slow down, her mind ran over the guest list.
A young couple entered, the bell ringing and she looked up.
“Hello. How can I help you?”
“Ah, yeah, I hope we’re in luck.”
Lindsey smiled at them.
“We’re looking for a cabin. Ah. We’re not too sure how long we might want to stay. Is that all right?” The young fellow looked at his much taller and quite a bit heavier female companion.
She nodded.
“Ja.” Something Dutch or German there, thought Lindsey.
“Well, uh, sure. We have people leaving later on, but we have one I could show you right now. I don’t know what kind of shape it was left in—the cleaning girls haven’t been in there yet.”
“That sounds good. We can hang around for a while. It’s better than going on and trying the next place.”
“Absolutely.”
She’d seen it before, the overly-optimistic ones who never thought to make a reservation. Brain-dead was what they called them. The funny thing was, most of them didn’t seem stupid.
They paid two hundred and fifty a night good-naturedly enough, taking the one Borz and Lom had just vacated. They began well enough by paying for three days in advance, cold hard cash. It was a bit unusual, but cash was still legal tender last time she heard.
In the meantime, they would dump their luggage in the front hall. The girls could clean around it. Mister and Mrs. Bernstein were easy enough to get along with.
They’d had breakfast, bacon and eggs in town. They could buy a couple of coffees right there.
They had their gear all set to go, and they just couldn’t wait to get out on the river. All they needed were some bottles of juice and a few snacks.
Those intense blue eyes were unwavering.
It was like Mister Bernstein was trying to convince her of something.
***
Liam pulled up to the shoreline where a portage trail led up into a tall forest of pines and black spruce. A pink and grey outcropping of bald granite loomed above on a high angle. The rendezvous was right on the dot, which was eight-thirty-four a.m. (plus ten or twelve seconds) and at the appointed place. There was a margin of error of three metres or less—nineteen times out of twenty; a useless piece of information except for the statisticians of the world.
“Hullo.”
“Good morning.”
Ian Spencer held the boat as Liam got out. Ian was another lone wolf. He was dressed casually for the outdoors, dark colours predominating. He wore a ball cap with a Labatt’s Blue patch on the front.
“So. You think you’ve found the damned thing?” Spencer snorted softly. “Or part of it. I guess that’s why they’re paying you the big bucks, eh?”
Ian was as Canadian as apple pie and Blue Jays baseball. He was lucky to be getting five hundred a day plus expenses. Holding dual citizenship, he’d worked in Britain for many years in what was euphemistically called private security. During the real IRA years, some of those people were as tough and skilled at counter-terrorism and counter-intelligence as anyone else.
Ian’s resume was extensive.
Liam liked him well enough and he seemed tough, capable and confident.
/> “I’ve got a major part of her. Almost a certainty.” His morning briefing had said (essentially) that it looked good according to analysis and why not bring it up.
The radioactivity count indicated part of the reactor. Brief exposure would give an increased chance of cancer later in life. The suit would only partially shield him. Getting it out of the mud would take some work.
It was the price one paid for an interesting life.
Ian went back into the bushes and dragged the first of two long duffel bags out onto the bank. Liam stowed the first one in the bottom of his boat, well out of sight as Spencer went back for the other one.
He came out of the woods, gasping and cursing.
“Jesus. I sure hope this is worth it to you.” He cleared his throat and held out a hand, palm up. “What, no tip?”
Liam just nodded and helped him get it aboard. Ian gave a sour grin and bent to it.
Kimball looked up.
“I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.” The tone was absent.
Ian shook his head.
There was another boat, a mile ahead of them upriver, and Liam wanted to get this done. There was a bend in the river and some overhanging branches. With the powerful motors on some of the bass boats in particular, they could be on them in a minute, a minute and a half at best.
Ian stepped back as Liam dropped the second bag and shoved it with a good kick into the centerline. He had one foot in still in the water. He hopped into the boat and Ian shoved the prow off the beach as he reached for the steering wheel and starter button. After some experience, he was now using the biggest boat in The Pines’ small fleet.
Ian had undergone a long hike, portaging back and forth, to bring in all of the equipment. He was looking at another long walk back to his Land Rover. Shorthanded as they were, his partner, who had departed at the crack of dawn on a mysterious errand that took him nowhere but definitely dragged a long tail, was now back home watching the watchers.
Hopefully Liam could pull this off, while the opposition was presumably in disarray.
Ian began walking up the steep trail with barely a look back, almost enjoying himself now that the hard work was done. Sooner or later it would all have to come out again, of course.
There were places he needed to be. The sound of Kimball’s motor droned and faded. He took one last look back, seeing nothing but a patch of blue, sparkling waves and a sea of treetops.
Almost anything could happen next. If he didn’t pay attention, he’d walk smack-dab into a mother black bear with a couple of cubs, or, what was almost worse, a big mess of poison ivy.
He’d had it once as a Scout. It was an experience he would never forget. People got it on their hands and sooner or later they had to pee or wipe their backsides.
Blackflies, mosquitoes and other biting insects buzzed and whirred and clouded his vision. He couldn’t bat them away fast enough. Once off the lake, or off the trail or away from your camp, sheltered from the sun and the breeze, a person just couldn’t get enough bug spray sometimes. With ankle length boots, high socks, and sticking to the trails, he’d been lucky to avoid major slashes from picker-bushes. There were poison sumac and poison oak to contend with, although he’d never been able to tell the difference. Sumacs and oaks all looked the same to him. Poison ivy was one of those variable plants. The leaves were not always glossy green and heart-shaped. You never quite knew what you were looking at. With the temperature near thirty Celsius, and with the humidity climbing, he’d failed to bring enough water. His canteen was almost dry.
The trail just went up and up and then it went up again some more.
His vehicle was a good thirty-five hundred metres from the water. He’d practically busted a nut getting Liam’s gear to him. His lower legs, back and shoulders just ached. When he finally rounded the last corner, he paled to see what someone had done to his vehicle. He stopped dead, jaw open. Every light, signal, and sheet of glass had been smashed. Every panel had been kicked in and dented, scratched, scraped and gouged. The mirrors had been kicked off as well. The license plate was missing from the front end.
“Shit.” Reaching for his phone, he checked his watch.
Stepping back into the shade, Ian took a quick look up at the sun, wondering how far Liam might have gotten in the interval.
The movement saved his life. A rotten branch, blue-grey with lichens, exploded inches from his left ear. Someone was shooting at him with a silenced weapon.
Birds twitted and cheeped as he froze in shock for a split second.
Smack.
Jesus, I’m lucky to be alive—
With no idea of where the shots were coming from, he flung himself into the nearest underbrush, clawing at his own little gun.
Smack-smack-smack…no more.
He had time to wonder if the phone was smashed.
He was still alive and unhit.
He was really sweating, now.
It did put the mosquitoes in perspective, though. The nearest help was an hour away. To talk on the phone was to give away his position. To try and text a message was to lose that all-important focus.
Whoever was out there couldn’t see him at this exact moment. The shots had come from off to the right, and the trail, the logging road, led straight ahead.
It looked like a ticklish tactical picture, with the number of enemy combatants unknown.
His next move was obvious enough. Ian drew his weapon and began wriggling towards whoever was out there.
The key was stealth and self-control.
The thing was to see the other guy first.
One shot, one kill, asshole.
And you missed.
Chapter Nine
Liam Kimball cruised the lake for half a day. He was seeing and being seen, rather than avoiding other boats or people and camps along the shore. The paravanes were in the water and he was spin-casting here and there. As long as he looked like he knew what he was doing, no one really cared. Cottagers, with their boats, docks and floating bathing platforms, were much more prominent nearer to town, but they were strung out all over the place. He took pains to wave, to engage in eye contact and cheerful greetings. With land so cheap, and the wilderness right there, private camps were everywhere. When the satellite came down, in February of the previous year, all of this land had been searched. For the most part, the owners were still down south. Their summer houses were boarded up, and not all of them were small shacks, either. Some of them were substantial houses and even mansions in their own right. The word ‘camp’ didn’t always convey an accurate picture of what was actually there.
Quite a number of smaller fragments of EMERALD had been recovered. It was estimated that up to ninety percent of the satellite would be recoverable. The possibility existed that something might have been missed, something of interest. A talkative landowner, finding such a part of the satellite, might have set off a chain of talk that could have led to some interesting places. This was a remote possibility. Since a satellite coming down couldn’t be hidden from the public in a western-style democracy, the public had been informed—that most innocuous of channels, the Weather Network had done it up brown, and then the matter was quickly dropped. There was a brief flurry of interest again when a lucky amateur was in the right place at the right time and photographs of EMERALD burning up in the stratosphere went viral on the internet. Having forgotten all about it, the person had uploaded them five weeks later. Those pictures were still posted in perpetuity, on a thousand different websites and blogs.
The bags in the scuppers wouldn’t come to any harm. They were mostly out of sight, as he stayed twenty or thirty metres off shore. After a while he relaxed, even pulling in a six-pound whitefish which would make for a tasty dinner. Liam went to the trouble of picking a tiny islet. Psychologically it would be difficult for another boatload of people to land. This was where he scaled, fileted, battered and fried in bacon grease seven or eight skinny perch he’d taken over the course of the morning. This site was well
away from where he planned to be working later on. One last chore involved sweeping the boat for tracking devices, using a larger and more powerful tool than just his phone. She checked out clean and he had to take it on faith that the good guys had better technology than the bad guys. They’d be watching that trout all day long. Only when it laid up for the night or whatever fish did at bedtime, would the watchers begin to wonder.
Sooner or later he had to go home and that would be the dead giveaway.
Otherwise it would be time to quit. One of their assumptions was that the enemy didn’t have access to satellite tracking by zoom-video or ultra-high resolution stills. This was only an assumption. Such a system would be defeated by cloud cover, infrared and the like would only present a heat signature—they could never be sure they were actually looking at him and no other.
Accept no substitutes.
He had a cooler, with pop and a couple of cold beers. Liam lazed on the shore, letting a good half hour pass after he’d washed up, noting who was on the lake. After a few days, he recognized boats belonging to other outfitters, boats belonging to The Pines, even quite a few of the faces. In a passing runabout he saw a familiar huddle of kids in their lifejackets, rods tipped up as dad raced past at full throttle, determined to try the other end of the river before dinnertime and maybe prove to the kids that this was really fun after all.
He was feeling distinctly burned out by the time he meandered his way back to the little bay at the end of a long trail, taking the right fork and going up to Goddawannapiss Lake (in the ancient and traditional homeland of the Awful-Nasties) as he had taken to calling it recently. Its real name, Wabagishik Lake, wasn’t much better.
It was the same routine as before. If it was a hard chore the first time, he now had an additional two hundred fifty pounds of underwater sled and onboard weapons.
He sat in the bay, up close to shore, listening intently with the motor off. There were plenty of boats out on the water, but none seemed very close by.
