Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  ‘Asylum!’ Lì and Fāng yell and wave arms desperately.

  The guard’s stance is unyielding. The white T-shirt sits flat underneath his pressed brown shirt. Hat solid on his head. Traffic has stopped. Fāng and Lì are only ten yards in front of the men, who are now both yelling to stop. America, seconds away. The guard spreads his legs and extends a hand, instructing Lì and Fāng to stop. A gunshot rings out and Fāng falls to the ground, the momentum carrying him forward, settling at the feet of the guard. Lì turns back and sees the man still running and falls to the ground to avoid being shot. A second shot rings out through the panicked street.

  The guard returns fire then falls.

  Inside the embassy, a sergeant is still focused on the monitor—three CCTVs at various locations watch the entrance and surrounding wall—having witnessed a homeless man being grabbed by two men and carted off in a car. He stayed watching, noticing two men running across the road and towards the entrance. By the time the guard was shot he had already grabbed his weapon from its stand and was pushing folder-carrying diplomats over as he bounded down the stairs, out the front door and down the driveway towards the guardhouse, screaming for backup.

  Lì grabs the guard’s gun and blindly fires two shots at the assailants. Misses. Both pursuers scramble for cover behind a stalled car, its three occupants running down the road.

  Lì throws the gun down and drags Fāng underneath a boom gate. ‘You’re going to be okay,’ he cries out then jumps over the gate and helps drag the guard amid a volley of gunfire from behind the car. A bullet grazes his left arm, Lì screams but continues aiding the guard with one hand, the gun laying hopelessly on the ground. Overcome with exhaustion, he folds to the ground and holds his shot arm tightly, looking up to the sky. After what feels like minutes, he is dragged further onto the stony driveway, he turns and sees Fāng sliding back with him.

  ‘We’re seeking asylum,’ Lì says. ‘We’re seeking asylum. We’re seeking asylum. We’re seeking…’

  27

  U.S. Naval Base, Sasebo, Japan

  I hate you.

  Masen lifts his mouth to the shower rose, gargles then runs a finger over his teeth. He had no idea how Jessica was going to react seeing him. It’s natural the torture she’s suffered is in some way tied to him despite not being his fault she was kidnapped. Feelings of resentment, even hatred. However, knowing it doesn’t lessen the impact.

  He’ll do what’s needed to protect her.

  There was nothing he could do to stop the plan to bomb the building so he walked out of the room to stretch his legs and saw the sign to the showers. His last shower was back in the apartment—he never got wet. He’s glad for the solitude and steaming hot water. Winces pulling a scab. He had put up a fight. Catches himself struggling to think of the last time he fought. He can’t. It surprises him. It might have turned out differently if he wasn’t outnumbered.

  Feels his old self shedding off with the water and disappearing down the drain. Twists and looks down and runs a finger over two puncture holes in his side—small contusions where he was tasered back in the apartment. Rubs the red marks around his wrists where the ties bit into his skin. There had been other instances where he caught himself by surprise.

  Back at the bar when he pushed the drunk away, and more recently with Robertson. There had been determination, a malice behind the actions he hadn’t experienced before, and yes, he supposes rinsing eyes and rubbing the back of his neck, real grit. Conviction with each punch and kick. But they had all been reactions to circumstance, of people pushing his buttons, forcing his hand. Not necessarily growth, maybe a dark corner of his personality coming out, stretching its legs and making itself known. Smiles thinking of De Luca.

  Emotional intelligence.

  Asks himself If he could push back based on a hunch, to take initiative, be on the front foot. Would he recognize the situation and have the resolve and courage to act? Be the first to throw a punch?

  I bet Mooney never hesitates with that gun of his.

  He is being made a terrorist, and the only way out is to capture Black and to shine a light on this whole sordid mess. Maybe it is too late. If he is going to die soon, then all this growth and self-actualization is pointless. Wonders if his parents ever pushed back. If only there were another way.

  It had been easier back in the Barn to coordinate a plan, to operate in the shadows, he had space to work and solve a problem—could go for a drive and clear his head, but here, there’s no hiding and no escaping from yourself.

  ‘Didn’t hit your head showering?’ Robertson asks as Masen walks back into the room from which he left so abruptly.

  ‘It should’ve been you who crashed into the Charles,’ Masen replies with a towel slung around his neck. Then looking at Sparks: ‘Some real nice colleagues you’ve chosen.’ His head is in the same posture as when Masen left: staring down at the keyboard. And back to Robertson. ‘I was hoping for an excursion. Always wanted to try squid ink rice. Heard they have a poo museum in Tokyo.’

  Sparks grunts his recognition, but is too wrapped up in his screen to look up.

  ‘Any chatter?’ Masen’s asks but isn’t so sure he wants an answer. If he had his way the mission would be called off, but he hasn’t come up with an alternative plan to stop Black from gaining access to the Barn—at least one that’s acceptable. Figures Mooney is the kind of person who likes blowing stuff up. Probably threw his fair share of cherry bombs in letterboxes as a kid.

  The failure of an alternative is hard to swallow.

  ‘Not yet,’ Sparks says stretching. ‘I’m patching into the CCTV feeds around Technology Square. It’s taking a bit of time with the tech I’m running.’

  ‘You like blowing stuff up Robertson,’ Masen says to coax a response. ‘The things that can get done when the army and CIA work close together.’

  Masen thinks quicker when the pressure is on and his mind is occupied. A throwback to his PhD days when he had multiple deadlines to meet while working on his thesis. Also occupying his mind is Pascal’s letter. Mentioning the CIA Director as someone of interest has been a bug that’s hard for him to shake, not only because it implicates people higher up the chain of command, but it would make stopping the technology from being stolen nearly impossible. It’s one thing faking a communication to coax a rescue, another to take on the CIA. Was it possible Pascal mentioned him so he would cast a wide net so as to leave no one above suspicion, not even the Director of the CIA? It has a certain logic to it.

  Mooney doesn’t trust the CIA, but Masen has started to form his own theory about the power-play unraveling before him. If this theory of his is true, that DUST is in fact a working teleportation device, it’s highly likely, almost certain there would be an internal struggle for ownership, that includes the army, CIA, and any number of outside interests—other nations, private companies, maybe a few extremely wealthy individuals. After 9/11, the public was told, and rightfully demanded given the failings that led to commercial planes being used as missiles, there would be greater cooperation between government intelligence and law enforcement agencies. Intergovernmental cooperation was the public slogan. That was only a part-truth. Privately, there are still plenty of silos, areas of little or no interdepartmental data and intelligence sharing, and no appetite to change the status quo. There is every reason a technology as shining and precious as teleportation would be hard fought over. Sold to another country, the price would be in the billions, incentive enough for people to switch allegiances, to sell out their country.

  But if an Assistant Director of the CIA…

  He starts thinking that maybe he is behaving and thinking like an operative, putting the pieces together, however late in the game, and however trapped he is.

  ‘I need to speak to the General about the security of DUST,’ Masen says to Robertson. ‘And I need to speak to Professor Nash.’

  ‘Look around,’ Robertson says pointing outside. ‘Can’t get more secur
e than being surrounded by the Seventh Fleet.’

  From what Masen can tell out the window, the frantic rush of people, presumably to prepare for deployment, has dwindled to less than a handful. They were all where they needed to be, or their cordoned off section of the base is quiet because it’s designed to keep prying eyes away. He wants to know when the final test is going to happen. He is excited to learn more about this technology. If his thoughts on it prove accurate, he has many questions to ask his old professor. But that might be some way off. He has to concentrate on the problem at hand. And that problem is close by: standing by the door.

  ‘Yes, I worked that one out, thanks,’ Masen replies and wonders how long Sparks is going to survive in Army Counterintelligence, given his many grievances about the CIA.

  They’ve been kept locked-up for several hours now, and they haven’t been told a thing other than it’s for their own safety. All the way to Japan. Not back home, no other safe harbor for them to be taken to. The attack at Kennedy was probably a ruse to get the technology one step closer to the buyer. China is just a hop over a small patch of water.

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t the army that’s dangerous to be around?’

  ‘Just keep shooting your mouth off, Masen,’ Robertson gestures putting a bag over his head.

  Classy.

  Bradbury was watching with weary detachment. She knows there is a lot happening, a lot she doesn’t know about, and that she should have been more sympathetic for all that Masen has done for her, and all he is going through. But she hasn’t exercised that emotional part of her brain for a long time. Years of social isolation has made her more susceptible to uncontrollable emotions; the outburst earlier, telling Masen she hated him. It felt like real emotion, and not real at the same time. Her counselor warned of the side effects she can expect, physical and emotional that will surface, sometimes without warning.

  She walks over and holds Masen’s arm. ‘I understand your frustration. I don’t know the full story, but I can see you’re going through an awful lot.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Masen says. ‘I don’t mean to be insensitive to what happened to you. I just feel helpless.’

  ‘Like your world is falling apart? Like you’re not in control? It’s called giving up.’ Feels her take a deep breath. ‘Don’t give up. You won’t forgive yourself.’

  Masen smiles his understanding and nods in agreement. ‘I recently lost someone close to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Was it to do with what’s happening now?’

  Masen nods. ‘I’m not trained to handle all this cloak and dagger business.’

  Bradbury sighs. ‘Why do you think I declined Peter when he asked me.’

  ‘Yet you were still kidnapped,’ Masen says.

  ‘Kim and I told them everything we know about the North Korean’s nuclear capacities; tonnage of equipment, foreign banks and companies used to smuggle and handle the money for the supplies to build their nuclear weapons and missiles. I don’t understand why we are still here.’

  ‘Sparks was the one who called Byzantine Candor the fraud that it is,’ Masen says thinking he’s close to putting another piece of the puzzle together. ‘He drowned in the Charles River and—’

  ‘You’re going to be blown up in a terrorist attack,’ Bradbury finishes his thought.

  ‘Killed in an explosion,’ Masen says staring down at the floor.

  It’s true, many events are unfolding that are out of his control. Pascal wrote the letter for him to uncover the truth: ‘DUST is too valuable to fall into unknown hands. Do not let this happen.’ Looking around he sees highly skilled, resourceful people who have conquered hardships seemingly above their capacity to handle. It is time to draw on others for help if he is going to secure the technology. Above all, he needs to talk to his old professor. But the agents on their way to bomb the CIA is of immediate concern.

  ‘Do you see my car?’ He asks Sparks feeling Jessica’s hand withdrawing. Instinctively looks behind just as she slumps to the ground. He quickly bends down as Jessica’s body goes limp. ‘Doctor! We need a doctor,’ he yells kneeling down holding her head.

  Robertson opens the door and yells for Dr Carlton.

  Masen brushes the hair from her face. Her breathing is labored, body tenses, wound up like it’s about to convulse. Her eyes are closed and move uncontrollably under eyelids like she’s in an REM state of sleep.

  ‘Jessica!’ Masen gently shakes her, ‘wake up.’ He takes out the napkin and wipes drool from her mouth.

  Pak pulls the tubes from his arm and scrambles around the bed.

  ‘Please, we need doctor.’ Pak yells, his voice cracks in the strain.

  Bradbury’s eyes struggle open and she looks slowly between the pair. ‘I’m okay,’ she mumbles taking the napkin from Masen’s hand. Both Pak and Masen look questioning at each other as if to ask if either heard what she said. Only when they lean in close and she repeats herself do they understand.

  Dr Carlton was already in the building, patting down her statistically charged hair from the plastic suit and waiting for a can of soft drink to drop from the vending machine when she heard the cry for help. She left the can to fall to the bottom and rushed with her bag towards Robertson, hurrying her into the room with gesturing arms.

  Instantly she knows the reason for the urgency as she runs into the room and sees the huddle of people. Running over, she fans out her arms calling for room and kneels down beside Bradbury, careful not to pull on her drip line with her knees.

  ‘Pillow please,’ she asks unclipping her bag.

  Pak jumps up and grabs a pillow and places it under her head. ‘What’s wrong with her Doctor?’

  ‘Give her room,’ Dr Carlton says and places a stethoscope down her gown, and clicks on a small torch.

  ‘I said I’m fine, I’m okay,’ Bradbury protests groggy-like pushing the doctor’s hands away. Pauses thinking, there’s something familiar about her.

  Shinning the light in both eyes, Dr Carlton holds and thumps on her wrist estimating a pulse. ‘I’m a doctor, nod if you understand.’

  ‘I feel funny, but I’m okay…I think I just fainted,’ Bradbury says and watches the doctor take out a small vial and a syringe from her bag. She puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m going to give you a sedative. It will calm you down.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Masen asks standing back and leaning over watching as the doctor checks the IV drip is still connected.

  ‘She needs rest,’ Dr Carlton says pulsing the bag of clear liquid and inspecting the flow and drugs being administered, pauses as she reads the name on the sticker around her wrist.

  She stands and brushes out the crease in her skirt. ‘…Could you two please help Jessica over to the bed?’

  Without hesitating, Masen and Pak kneel either side and slowly lift Bradbury to her feet and help her over to the bed. At first she resists, then pushes their hands away with increasing strain. ‘Please, I can get into bed myself.’ An annoyance fills her face as she studies the name written on the napkin Masen gave her. An anger Masen hasn’t seen, but looking at Pak, he can see he had.

  Dr Carlton backs up and watches as Bradbury is made comfortable. She never expected them to be so frail.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pak says smiling and looking over to Masen who looks disturbed by her change in behavior.

  Dr Carlton smiles curtly, packs her bags and promptly leaves.

  Pak moves away and ushers Masen to towards the end of the bed for a private word. Masen huddles close. ‘We were recovering on the boat,’ Kim says softly.

  ‘Sorry.’ Masen snaps out of a reverie.

  ‘We were lying on the boat and I heard Jessica mumbling something. She was angry…very angry.’

  Both turn back and watch as Bradbury folds the napkin in half and closes her eyes, her head drops to the side.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She was just like that…’

  ‘And?’r />
  Pak scratches his head and screws up one side of his mouth, ‘…She was moaning a name.’

  ‘Do you think we can rustle up some food?’ Sparks asks looking up from the laptop.

  ‘That’s Colonel Robertson, or Sir, to you Sparks,’ Robertson replies.

  ‘Sir.’

  Robertson pushes out from the wall. ‘There’s food in the next building.’

  ‘Great.’ Sparks rubs his hands. ‘Show me the way.’ His stomach grumbles. ‘Nothing like the spread at the cafeteria back at the Barn, hey John.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Robertson says making moves to leave. ‘I’ll grab sandwiches and drinks for everyone.’

  ‘And Red Bull,’ Masen says remembering the steward on the plane told him there was Red Bull in building C. Stands seeing a hand catching the door as it closes, thinks it might finally be Nash.

  ‘Good to see you’re all fine and getting along,’ Mooney announces stepping holding the door open, not yet fully in the room.

  Masen sits down and looks behind to Bradbury who is only now starting to sit up, repositioning pillows and sheets. He wants to hear more from Kim about what he said earlier, about hearing a name but his attention is drawn to the door.

  Professor Peter Nash takes a step forward and stands next to Mooney holding a bundle of folders under his arm, rubs hands together and rocks on his heels.

  The cat that just caught the canary. Nash, what have you been up to? And sizes up the man who taught him, bailed him out of jail, supervised his PhD, requisitioned him into the CIA, and ultimately into this mess. But he doesn’t look like the Nash he once knew. Not even when they met in his office not so long ago when he looked weathered. He has aged and then some. Wearing army fatigues, he looks army, just like one of them. Did I misjudge which team he’s on?