Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  ‘Fine,’ the older brother concedes. ‘You can wear it on the way to school tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Lì wipes his clothes in the small entrance hall just outside the apartment and lifts his shoes watching water seep out and pool on the ground. Saturated, sore and dejected at Fāng’s stance, he sighs and decides the jacket is a lost cause and thinks of the last words he typed to the American. Shoes squelch and leave a wet outline on each step.

  Inside, Fāng is showering. Lì stands inside thinking of what to take with him, wondering when to leave.

  ‘Hurry up, I need a warm shower!’ he shouts and carefully takes off his shirt to survey the damage in the proper lighting of the apartment. Outside the rain persists, battering the window.

  ‘Just got in, give me a second,’ Fāng yells.

  ‘I have your wallet,’ Lì says slapping it down on the kitchen table and walks into the bathroom prodding his side for a more thorough inspection. He doesn’t notice it immediately—too busy looking down, but when he does, it shocks him. Bewildered, he freezes and stares at the mirror and makes an O shape with his mouth.

  The shower stops and Fāng pulls a towel from the curtain rail. ‘What are you doing?’ Fāng observes the wound. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Leans in for a closer inspection. ‘Don’t worry I don’t think you need stitches. How’d you do it?’

  But Lì doesn’t reply. He is standing like a statue.

  ‘Lì!’

  ‘Someone’s been here.’ Lì raises a hand and points at the mirror. Blood evacuates from his face.

  Fāng grabs another towel and starts rubbing his hair, ‘What, the smudge?’ And screws his face up. ‘I probably did it this morning.’

  ‘No, I was the last one in the bathroom remember? I cleaned the glass this morning. Someone’s been in here. They used the shower or ran the hot water, it steamed up… and they…wiped it.’

  Fāng walks out of the bathroom to inspect his wallet. ‘You think someone broke into the apartment to have a shower and shave? Yeah, makes sense.’

  ‘Maybe the people who have been assigned to kill us broke in to investigate… to get to know us.’ Rubbing his hair, quips, ‘You agreed, Lì.’

  ‘This isn’t my imagination. Look, the hand size.’ And hovers his hand over the ghostly image, comparing it to his own. ‘It’s much larger than mine.’

  Fāng sighs ruffling through a drawer and pulls out a jumper and pulls it over his head. ‘Fine. If it’ll make you happy.’ If it will shut you up. And walks over. ‘Give me a try,’ Fāng says dismissively shoving Lì out of the way. Copying the action, but angling his hand so skin touches the mirror, Fāng’s hand fails to match the width.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And?’

  Thinks, someone broke in. But why? Nothing’s missing. We have nothing…except…except.

  ‘We’re stuffed aren’t we?’ Fāng says. Then more urgently: ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ The reality hits him. Lì watches his friend turn pale. ‘I think you need to sit down.’

  ‘We’ve got to leave now, you’re right… just leave.’

  Winters and Feldman leave for the building under the cover of night, keeping to the shadows and alleyways as much as possible. They use a car hidden under a tarp, parked at the end of a dead-end street they stole yesterday as transport. An abandoned government printing factory Winters previously scouted and where they watched the targets argue a few hours earlier, their destination. Satellite imagery showed it was the most suitable position to stage the attack. Given the weapon choice, the range was near perfect. The only negative being the shallow profile the firing position presents to the front gates of the building. Their primary escape route is the way they enter, and if all goes to plan, the secondary route of smashing through a ground floor window, won’t be needed.

  There was little said during the drive. It took them a little over an hour.

  Winter stands guard outside the building, jostling the heavy duffle bag to his other shoulder as Feldman unlocks the rusty padlock and cranes his head. They push through a slit of an opening, squeezing between the large solid metal door and a stack of wooden boxes teetering precariously against a crumbling brick wall. Winters pushes the duffle bag through looking up at boxes that sway twenty feet above his head, threatening to fall while Feldman moves gingerly, monitoring the look on Winters face as a guide.

  Inside, rain filters through a large crack in a corner of the roof, echoing as it hits concrete and large benches, forming a small dark river that weaves around the feet of old printing machines and flows out of sight. Both have memorized the interior of partitioned offices and toilets, ladders and stairs that hug the outer wall.

  Large metal presses covered in dust and cobwebs are slowly being reclaimed by nature in their neglected solitude as if the workers decided one day they wouldn’t work anymore and simply walked out. Cardboard boxes, some sealed and others partially filled, scatter scantly over benches. Clumps of crushed glass crunch under feet as the pair walk towards the stairs. And panes of glass that once shielded the weather are all but destroyed, some large pieces hang as deadly shards in their frames. They hear the faint calls of a karaoke bar across the road and see the neon sign from a convenience store next door reflected as ghostly smudges against the walls and glass.

  Winters looks down at a pile of little red books on the floor as he climbs the stairs which clunk with heavy boots.

  Unlike the ground floor, half of the cobwebbed windows are intact on the second floor. More importantly the window they chose—a cross etched with a metal shard Winters found on the ground—is still intact. A thin layer of grime allowed to stay until now.

  The bag is carefully placed on the concrete floor against the wall and both men take five minutes rest, crouching low under the window, leaning against the wall. Winters flips his watch. ‘Three hours.’ Feldman nods, fiddles with his watch and pulls his knees in close to rest his head. Both men are wet and cold.

  ‘My last message filtered through the Shanghai embassy,’ Feldman says not able to get the mode of delivery out of his mind. It’s been troubling him ever since Dalian and occupied his mind on the long bus ride. ‘Had any concerns your end?’

  ‘Text book,’ Winters says. ‘If you have any issues, bring it up after the mission. Don’t drag me into it.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Feldman says lifting a flap of fabric with his shoe. ‘It’s just something that I can’t shake.’

  ‘Well, fucking do,’ Winters says, his head hidden under an arm. ‘We have to vanish, complete communication silence until we get back.’

  ‘I know the protocols,’ Feldman says.

  ‘It’s been a long assignment,’ Winters says. ‘You’re tired. You know the company changes profiles of missions without warning. Adapt.’ He too hated Dalian and was glad to leave.

  Besides leaving a promising baseball career, Feldman knows little about Winters. Thinks he must have been a pitcher with that hefty right arm of his. Their paths crossed a few time during training on The Farm some years back now, after 9/11 when a lot of bright-eyed kids sent in application forms with promises stapled on of bagging themselves those responsible for the atrocity that unfolded in real time on TV.

  ‘First time they broke protocols without any warning,’ Feldman says.

  ‘Attacking the Chinese on their turf was bound to cause a few issues. Now get some sleep, I’ll wake you.’

  The morning light casts long shadows on the ground. A few blocks away the boy saw what happened and runs to the aid of his younger brother, extends a helping hand as the boy lays crying on the ground trying to hide from his indignant fall, refusing to face the world, refusing to get up.

  ‘It’s okay,’ the older boy says wiping away tears. ‘See, you’re fine. Let’s go to school together.’

  ‘But my jacket,’ the younger brother says looking up with puppy-dog eyes, rakes an arm across a wet nose as a large ball of snot threatens to drip
on his strewn lunch box.

  ‘Come on we don’t want to be late.’ The older boy says picking up books and lunch box. ‘Race you to school.’

  Winters opens his eyes touching his vibrating watch silent, then looks to Feldman’s slouched head. Sunlight spills through the glass to the furthest point on the concrete floor, lighting up the steel rail. A rumble of noises is growing outside.

  A new day starting.

  Winters unzips the bag and extracts each metal piece carefully and places them in the shadow on the floor in order of assembly. Thinks, I only have one shot. Metal legs clunk against the floor as they’re placed vertical and held tight with a few turns of three large screws.

  Feldman stretches waking and watches as the weapon is being put together while pulling over a box packed full of paper, sits on it and spits on a wad of shirt and wipes a small circle in the glass. He takes out the binoculars from his jacket pocket and carefully calibrates the distance on two known objects; the bus stop to the left has been laser-tagged to be exactly one thousand and twelve feet away. The reading is good. Confirms a target to the right, an orange metallic bin on the sidewalk below. It too reads the correct distance.

  ‘Calibration is good,’ Feldman says turning binoculars towards the gate of the building and sweeps right to where the targets will be coming from. ‘Target not acquired.’ Its complicated circuitry searching for a lock-on to the radioactive isotope on the jacket.

  ‘Two minutes until completion,’ Winters says.

  The Chinese made PF-98 anti-tank missile system is taking shape, three feet back from the window. Its height adjusted back at the apartment to save time and to lessen the chances of screwing up. The main assembly and muzzle are quickly snapped and screwed into place with an American trajectory computing system mounted atop. Winters arms the projectile and places it in the chamber, then switches on the computer. It connects with the binoculars instantly. Feldman anticipates the small blinking dot top left in the binoculars and says, ‘Successfully connected.’

  The small nine-inch LCD computer display is unfolded and shows what Feldman views through the binoculars.

  ‘Vision acquired,’ Winters says.

  The cross hair on the LCD display compensates for distance and wind variables, like a computer game showing where the projectile is estimated to hit when fired. Targeting data is sent from the binoculars to the LCD display. Winters tracks the cross hairs and makes tiny manual adjustments.

  The red light starts flashing. ‘Target found.’ Feldman sees the target through the binoculars but wants visual confirmation, so looks quickly with his own eyes. Even at this distance he makes out the jacket, then through his own set of binoculars. ‘It’s him, jacket confirmation, someone else is running behind, confirm,’ watches for the computer to lock on. ‘Wait for acquisition.’

  ‘Affirm,’ Winters says seeing the target and the highlighted radioactive isotope on the jacket in his screen. He notes to himself they are six minutes early.

  Two soldiers are sentinel at the gate. The pair are fast approaching, then slow down and look behind. Winters adjusts. The computer compensates to the target’s speed, though the blast radius is generous.

  ‘One hundred feet kill radius, keep a lock,’ Winters orders.

  Feldman keeps the target centered. The explosion is guaranteed to take out both targets.

  The buzzing sound and a red cross in the display orders Winters to fire. The missile smashes through the glass and streaks towards the gate. Winters is already brushing off glass and starts to stand when they hear the explosion.

  ‘Direct hit,’ Feldman says flinching. The explosion much greater than he thought.

  ‘Go! Go!’ Winters yells. The pair ran to the stairs, jumping two at a time, then outside, casually walk out the door and away from the ensuing mayhem. ‘Good job,’ Winters says as they nonchalantly part ways. Feldman takes out a satellite-encrypted phone and sends a text confirming the hit.

  17

  U.S. Naval Base, Sasebo, Japan

  ‘How do we stop Black from accessing the Barn?’ Masen asks hovering over Sparks and leaning on the back of the chair. ‘We can’t alert the Director.’

  Sparks cranes his head back. He’s already figured out the best option. ‘Someone on the inside.’

  ‘Backup in case Pascal didn’t play ball,’ Masen notes. ‘It’s hard to know who to trust these days…’ Sparks had called him brother in the Barn only yesterday. Knuckles whiten tightening on the chair. ‘I thought you had my back and look where that got me.’

  Masen is right to think the room a prison. A prickly silence falls as a blanket, suffocating and depressing. Robertson is in the periphery, walking over. In his hands is a pair of reading glasses which he hands over to Sparks. Sparks then shuffles in the seat, performing his ritual preparation of squaring himself to the laptop.

  Sparks sits silent, gently touching the keys with both hands as if reading Braille. Guilt can do that to a person, paralyze them. Others lash out. But Masen already has Sparks worked out. He learnt the hard way. People react unpredictably when placed under stressful situations. Sparks won’t surprise him again.

  ‘Why is it important to stop this Mr Black?’ Bradbury asks. ‘It’s why Nash is here, isn’t it?’ Her voice raising. ‘It’s why I was kidnapped.’

  Masen looks over to Robertson for a visual clue of his intentions. ‘Nash has been working on a secret program.’

  The comment is ignored.

  ‘If it weren’t for you,’ Bradbury says. ‘I wouldn’t have been kidnapped.’

  Masen hoped the comment was for Robertson but it’s not. She is looking straight at him. ‘Professor Nash had a choice who to recruit for the CIA. You or me?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Masen says. ‘I don’t have any answers, yet, but I will.’

  ‘I hate you!’

  The words hit as hard blows and he remains silent because he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know why she was taken. Maybe they’d spent all their energy escaping, and the road to a full recovery is measured in months, years, decades. He might never know every detail of how Kim and Jessica managed to escape, knows it’s nothing short of hitting a home run with a soggy toothpick.

  ‘Sorry, Jessica’ Sparks says. ‘I forgot to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Bradbury says.

  ‘I leaked information to a blogger in Austin that you were found alive. No sources, just said authorities. Left a few breadcrumbs to follow. It’s generated some momentum which will hopefully apply pressure to release you. Hashtag bring Jessica home.’

  ‘Hashtag?’ Jessica asks looking perplexed.

  ‘Twitter,’ Masen says. ‘Social media…You didn’t get any news from back home?’

  Has his answer as Bradbury lowers her head.

  ‘Oh, it may not have been…a thing,’ Sparks adds, his voice trailing off. ‘…Twitter that is.’

  ‘Hey Robertson,’ Masen says. Waits until he shifts on his feet to continue. ‘Care to inform Jessica why she isn’t drinking warm chocolate and feeding molasses to her horses right about yesterday?’

  ‘You want to be useful?’ Robertson’s eyes narrow, nostrils flares. ‘Use that overrated brain of yours and come up with a plan to secure the Barn…’ Looks at Sparks. ‘besides blowing it up.’

  ‘We’re not doing that,’ Masen says looking between the two.

  ‘Think about it?’ Sparks says.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Masen says. ‘No.’

  Masen never chose sides, however it’s obvious he isn’t playing catch for Team Army. The only question remaining is which side Nash plays for. After their meeting in his office at Stanford, Masen is left wondering. He confided in his old professor about Jessica being held prisoner in North Korea. And later back at the Barn when he discovered the program and woke Nash and asked for the name of the general linked to DUST. It isn’t a stretch to connect Masen to the fake CIA communication. But for his own reasons Nash hadn’t told M
ooney, but had told Black, Nash’s CIA handler about the meeting. He gave just enough to navigate a safe path between Black and Mooney like a car carefully steering through witches hats without knocking any over.

  Probably reported it to Black as soon as I left his office. But he hadn’t give him up to Mooney.

  ‘A bomb scare would only be temporary.’ Sparks pushes back in the chair and heaves out a rushed breath, and nods as if it’s a done deal, resolved, an internal conflict he’s accepted as inevitable.

  ‘We can’t blow up the CIA,’ Masen protests and looks back and forth between the two. ‘You’re both insane, it’s murder.’

  ‘Not if we detonate in the parking lot,’ Sparks says. ‘A car that’s expecting to arrive early, to minimize damage. Given the window on this, it’s the only way.’

  ‘No!’ Masen says shaking his head knowing where Sparks is heading. ‘Not my car you’re not. I know you enjoyed your death, but I like my life. I’m not going down as the perpetrator of a domestic terrorist act.’

  Back at Maloney’s Bar & Grill, Masen thought of calling Megan Treagle at work before he was attacked and kidnapped, but he’s put that idea out of play. She was working on a project with Pascal. He remembers the conversation in the bathroom. Some secret squirrel thing.

  ‘That would lock everything down,’ Mooney says announcing his arrival as he walks in the room. ‘Zane Black or whoever else he has on the inside couldn’t get to the data. Well done, Sparks.’

  Masen remembers the news report about the milk truck spilling near The Park shutting down traffic. ‘A hazardous material spill on Portland or Main Street would seal off the area.’