‘If a jet instructs me to put this thing down, I’m going to comply.’ The pilot toggles overhead switches and struggles keeping a convincing conflict between collective, cyclic controls and rotor.
‘By the time it gets here we’ll be on the ground,’ Bozeman says then looks behind: ‘Still with us Coffey?’ The base has medical facilities Coffey needs, plus on a military base he can get Mooney to cover up the situation.
Coffey’s eyes are heavy but holds his gaze long enough so Bozeman recognizes the look: Fuck you.
‘Why can’t I declare a medical emergency?’ The urgency in the pilot’s voice crescendos and breaks as he looks over at his petrified partner.
‘They won’t accept a medical emergency from a civilian air ambulance, they’d redirect us.’ Bozeman reaches over and yanks out the pilot’s headphone jack. ‘See. We can add massive communications failure. Can’t disobey orders if you can’t hear ‘’em.’ And points where he wants to land: a patch of grass close to the main hospital building. ‘Just in front of the flag pole, if you wouldn’t mind.’
Underneath, three jeeps speed across the grass and quickly match the helicopter’s path, spaced out in front like a flock of migrating birds. Only these birds have roof-mounted machine guns pointing menacingly at them.
‘Try not to piss these guys off,’ Bozeman says griping a handle with both hands and softens his voice willing the helicopter to do the same. ‘Nice and slow deliberate movements from now on.’
The helicopter calms and the wind gushes hard against the jeeps. Men hurriedly disembark and take up firing positions.
On the ground, the side door opens and reveal a row of soldiers pointing weapons.
‘Morning gentlemen.’ Bozeman raises both his hands and looks to his army ID hanging clutched in his fist. ‘Sorry to drop by unannounced. Colonel Amos Bozeman, Army Counterintelligence.’ And gestures his head to the stretcher. ‘Agent Coffey needs immediate medical attention.’
39
Westover Air Reserve Base, Massachusetts
Picking up Bozeman’s badge, Commander Ted Pullman slowly puts on his reading glasses and drags his chair closer to the desk with the aid of his elbows. Peers over rims looking up, the way teachers address misbehaving children. ‘Counterintelligence you say?’
A round disk of light bounces off a piece of real estate on his polished forehead from dual fluorescent lights positioned directly over the desk.
‘That’s correct, Sir.’ Bozeman squirms in the seat opposite. The plastic making crude squeaking noises which earns him a scoffing gesture. He makes out the two gorilla MPs who marched him here, reflected in the glasses.
‘How did you know to turn into my goddamn airspace at that exact spot?’ Pullman asks, then quickly holding up a finger and shakes his head: ‘Never mind.’ Sits up and rakes a hand over his face. ‘I don’t want to know.’
Not only had an unauthorized helicopter landed on his watch, the intercepting jets were 6 seconds too late. It wouldn’t do to have that stain on his record. And pauses before continuing as if searching for only safe questions to ask. ‘Why the blue blazers didn’t you take him straight to the nearest hospital?’
‘General Sloan Mooney will—’
‘Ah,’ Pullman exhales loudly through his nostrils. ‘I certainly don’t want to know. Word is Mooney’s taken an unscheduled vacation.’ And picks up the desk phone. ‘Get General Sloan Mooney on the line. Tell him one of his problems,’ picks up and studies the ID, ‘Colonel Amos Bozeman just landed in my lap. Ask him if I should shoot and bury, or just lock him up?’ Places the phone back in its cradle. ‘You’d better check out.’ Coughs and leans back into his leather chair.
Bozeman tried to explain the situation he found himself in, why Special Agent Coffey needed treatment in his hospital, on his base, and how a civilian flight crew and a paramedic are being detained on his order, but again Commander Pullman pulled him up short with a finger and pursed lips.
The phone rings, Pullman answers and after a brief pause lifts his head at Bozeman and nods. Bozeman listens as if it’s an expected stay of execution.
‘Yes, Sir, that’s him.’ Pullman then laughs, leans forward in his chair and plants both elbows on the table as if taking it all in is a burden of considerable strain that anchors him with the weight of an anvil. ‘Ah, ha.’
Some story Mooney must be telling him, Bozeman thinks. But which one? He has no idea. Not that he minds. Just as long as his sister remains married to the General, and he did what was ordered, and didn’t screw up too much.
Bozeman subconsciously combs a full hand through his hair and looks around the room. Obligatory photos of family, displayed with pride on a bookcase mixed with photos of men he served with in Vietnam, Afghanistan—and other sandboxes. The photos are a time line of his rise in rank, expanding waistline and receding hairline.
‘Hmm, I see, Sir…yes we can certainly do that.’ Pullman then hangs up with an indignant manner that hints Bozeman isn’t going to enjoy what follows.
Pullman dismisses the guards and waits before the door closes shut to heave out a sigh that says what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-with-you.
‘I share the General’s assessment of you, Bozeman.’ There’s a pause, as to allow the comment to filter through. ‘Apparently he’s not sure what happened. Though I’m sure he does. Probably connected to the explosion in Boston earlier, though I don’t want to know.’ Taps his fingers on the table, checks his watch as if to discount the half an hour the problem has been his and now can be dissolved to nothing if Bozeman fucks off right about now, extends back into the chair, as if he has just resolved some inner turmoil throws up both hands.
‘Well, orders are orders. You’re not my problem anymore, Bozeman.’ And chuckles lowering his gaze to the desk. ‘Get the hell off my base.’
‘I’ll be thanking you for your time then shall I?’ Bozeman says non-committal, eyeing off a box of cigars on the edge of the desk.
Pullman pushes the box away. ‘I’ve been instructed to fuel a plane. The pilot is to take you to Florida immediately, Kennedy. You’re to pick up equipment for him. He’ll send a text.’ And pushes a button on the intercom and asks for an escort for ‘Colonel Bozeman.’
Bozeman stands. ‘Great, never been there. Maybe I’ll take in the sights.’ And pauses remembering something about an ex of his settling with a wealthy property developer down there. ‘I’ll take the paramedic with me—’
‘Yes,’ Pullman says pinching the bridge of his nose and waving Bozeman away, ‘just get out of my sight.’ Pauses thinking. ‘Legal will want a chat with the pilot and his partner.’
Bozeman shrugs with indifference.
Outside the cell Bozeman whistles and turns his head in a grandiose taunt. ‘Like my first rat-infested pad,’ he says to Tagan grabbing the bars and curiously testing their strength. And looks over at the pilot and his partner sitting on a metal bench next to the back wall. They look up.
Tagan leans nonchalantly against a wall studying the ground. Bozeman puts his head against the bars and jerks his head. ‘Over here.’
Tagan leisurely pushes off and walks over. The pilot pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket to snappy objections of his co-worker, which he ignores and lights up anyway.
‘You weren’t kidding being army,’ Tagan reflects kicking something dead on the ground.
Bozeman explains he wants Tagan to fly with him to Florida.
‘You’re crazy,’ Tagan protests with both hands gripping the bars, ‘I’m not going anywhere with you’ Pushes back and walks away.
‘Suit yourself. It’s an easy gig. Pick up some boxes, stuff like that. But if you don’t want…I’m not sure how long you’ll be locked up here. Could be only days, weeks…who knows.’
40
The Barn, Technology Square, Boston
Slumped on the floor of the cupboard, Black smashes his fist into the plaster wall. ‘Argh!’ His head spasms with a rage so
intense froth bubbles in the sides of his mouth. ‘How did all go to shit?’
Dark, hot and pungent smells of sweat and blood. Pain is becoming a fellow traveler, dwelling in his shadow. However, he welcomes the pain, he deserves pain. It isn’t the wall he pummels, but Masen, Sparks, Nash, Lane and Mooney. And it isn’t just his pain, it’s theirs. Every time one of their mocking faces flashes in his mind, smirking with pleasure of how he is a trapped like a rat, he hits hard.
He pants and falls down kneeling onto his head trying to come up with a plan. ‘I can do this. I am better than you all.’ And falls through a cloud of sentimentality, recounting past stories of his journey, of celebration, conquest; the honey trap, the look on Pascal’s face. How one mobster died easy, the other hard, and the waitress. A faint rush is still pumping in his veins.
He laughs. A tortured laugh. Dry lips smack together as he tries to swallow. All he needs to do is to lie here and die. But dying is easy, lazy, he needs to finish this. He will finish this.
A finger methodically prods the fabric surrounding the tourniquet. ‘The data. I need to get out of here.’ Some areas feel squishy where blood seeps out, while on top of his shoulder and his back where the bleeding has stopped the fabric has hardened.
Thinks, how long have I been here.
He leans into and presses an ear against the door, listening for anyone who still might be searching for him. He cracks it open. In the stillness hears water trickling, source unknown. The prospect of a lone guard making little or no noise is at the front of his mind as he opens the door to the corridor.
With only one direction visible, he moves his head back and forth to gather as much information without opening the door further.
No one.
It is different to the left, where he is blind and tries to see through the thin slit separating door and frame where hinges sit proud of the frame. Annoyingly it only shows the other side of the wall. In case there is someone immediately to the left, he still has the advantage of surprise… and one bullet left.
He pushes the door fully open with gun at the ready. He smiles at his luck. Luck that extends to the stairwell. Free of people, he quickly walks down, careful not to make any noise and peers into the corridor; face turns into the wooden splinters exploded in the door frame where the guard’s bullet hit.
The guard isn’t here, but knows he can’t gain access to the Barn. He’d played his hand and lost. But there is another way. He walks towards the Barn, peering over his shoulder and steps through unseen into the cleaner’s cupboard. Inside the air is thick with the smell of disinfectant. In total darkness he crouches, pushes mop and bucket aside and moves blindly on knees towards the blank plaster wall panel. He holds out his hands and finds the shelving. Fingers brush over toilet paper and plastic soap containers. His hand runs along the top of the shelf towards the back and rests on a small round protruding metal button. He presses it and hears the click. An opening to a dark corridor that weaves its way to the back of the Barn: a secret room behind a glass wall.
Soon he is at the desk, waiting for the workers to return and carves the words ‘Masen’ and ‘die’ into the wood with a pen.
Pain intensifies. He rests and thinks of his next move. Feels the gun in his pocket as he rests hands and head on the desk as if he is a stethoscope listening for a heartbeat.
Masen, a nobody, a kid with too much gumption to stay quiet and not die. ‘Why couldn’t you just kill yourself like Pascal?’
41
Camp 22, North Korea
Not prepared to receive the train and its precious cargo, the driver was made to wait three hours at the controls so workers could manually move winching machines into position and unload, only to then move the train forward in the mountain to repeat the process until all sixteen containers were unloaded.
The enclosed space and poor ventilation exhausts him, the heat, intense despite being below zero outside.
Climbing down the ladder, he walks to the guard who gives instructions to the workers as they lift the last container off, and asks for water. The man smiles, looks down and picks up a cup from a bucket. The driver bows repeatedly and eagerly sips. He looks up slyly wiping his mouth and sees a tall gantry with a nearly completed missile bathed in bright white lights—previously concealed from view by a natural stone wall. Takes small steps to see more. Squinting to see a sign in the distance, makes out a pattern he’d seen before: yellow circle with three black wedge shapes and a black circle at its center. Suddenly, he wants to leave. Smiles and hands back the now empty cup, bows pointing back to his train.
Interestingly enough he didn’t notice any hole in the roof where the missile can fit through. The height of the missile too big for it to fit through the only entrance to the cave.
The guard whistles.
Soon another guard with a pair of snarling dogs either side appears.
The driver starts walking back to his train, the ladder close. He stumbles on wet ground. Another whistle and the train driver turns around only to see two sets of teeth bearing down on him. He screams and runs and has purchase on the metal handle but not solid enough to pull himself up against dogs thrashing and ripping into flesh. He loses a shoe, then the other. Winces in pain as teeth pull him to the ground.
42
Building 7, Space Center Kennedy, Florida
The colonel wakes suddenly. Hears his snore echo in the emptiness and isolation of the vast building and gasps. Head shoots forward and shakes in annoyance to the sound of the steel door opening. Yawns and stretches out the boredom.
His half opened eye catches the long beam of light across the concrete, illuminating motes of dust that sparkle like tiny fireflies, and watches in growing awareness as a hand retrieves the bucket, replacing it with an empty one. Allows his eyes to follow the light from the door to half way up one side of the metal box. Concludes he’s had enough of the isolation and lets gravity do its work.
Masen twitches hearing the gunshot. Everything is spinning. Everything is dark. Images sparkle too quickly in his mind to make out anything. He tosses and moans on the ground.
It didn’t work.
The colonel turns his ear to what he thinks is a noise inside the box. Maybe it’s the last test and I can get out of here, he thinks. Then he sees the computer flashing and knows. He drags his feet from the table, pushes the chair back and stands. Pausing a few feet from the handle he looks back at the rifle resting against the table, the barrel pointing his direction, curses his basic training drill sergeant about always carrying a weapon.
With the gun swung around his shoulder, he cautiously prizes the door open. A surprising chill pushes into his face and sighs relief when nothing confronts him. Last time the inspection team cleaned up the mess and left pronto. He only had to talk to the General—and that wasn’t too long ago. Positioned just inside the doorway where little light is cast, looks down to where he saw some kind of bird, but mashed up like it had been put inside a food processor.
Wonders why it’s cold and rubs his hands for warmth. Looks back and checks the computer. Something was sent through. There is no reason to doubt the signal although he never expected tests this close together.
The floor illuminates a dull red tinge with enough energy to spill a few inches inside.
Masen opens his eyes. A faint light.
The colonel places a foot inside, leans back and grabs the edge of the rubber seal and pulls the door into himself. It’s no use. Two minutes pass and his night vision eludes him and wishes for a torch. He thinks it must be close to 7 P.M.
There is no other option but to shuffle in a search pattern around the room prodding with his boots. He soon feels an end corner and turns back on himself, carefully listening and hoping not to drag a foot through blood and flesh.
Masen feels the sting and surging pain of a migraine and lays tightly curled, knees press hard into his chest and eyes clenched to allay the pain. The coldness starts to retreat and his bre
athing slows, allowing thoughts to form. Opens his eyes, nothing. And listens for voices, for gunfire.
You’re not suppose to hear the bullet that kills you. Am I somewhere else? Then remembers the ambush in De Luca’s bathroom, the advantage he enjoyed over his attacker quickly evaporating in twenty-thousand volts of electricity. And Robertson on the plane. He vowed never to let it happen again. Thoughts turn to the rest of the team. He remembers pushing Lane and Nash and running into darkness. Then nothing, he just stopped, and now. Too afraid to yell out, he listens.
Let them come to me.
Masen isn’t sure how long he was out for, he is still receiving messages from various body parts. Fingers work, hands and legs. He breathes, a long full sustained inhale that inflates his lungs to capacity. Fingers search for a wound. Wincing, his teeth grind as fingers run over a sticky mess, not from a bullet, or maybe it is. Maybe the bullet nicked his head, that’s why it feels like he ran into a wall.
The colonel’s boots scrape along the metal floor. A few more steps and he puts his hand out and feels for the wall. This time he will turn right and walk back to the other end, conscious his military boots might miss the subtlety of anything delicate. He lifts a hand feeling the end as his foot presses into something soft.
Masen pushes back feeling something lightly pressing into his stomach. Without hesitation, he pulls the mass towards him.
‘Argh!’ the colonel shrieks in surprise and falls as something wraps itself around his ankles and pulls him forward, taking the support from underneath him. Too late to react, his hands thrust outward to protect his head from hitting the floor. Only managing to twist mid-flight so to land on the edge of his shoulder, his right hand takes the full brunt of his head as it sandwiches between the floor.
Iris Rising Page 23
