Iris Rising

by Charles Hubbard

  Pak informs them of the tense situation back at Sasebo. ‘The General said something about another option.’

  ‘You think he’s taking the equipment somewhere else?’ Masen asks.

  Pak shrugs. ‘He might have said something after…’ Looks up and turns in a circle taking in the enormity of the building. ‘After…I. Ended. Up. Here…’

  ‘We’re locked inside a secured building, located on a secured military base, armed with a rifle. I’m open to any suggestions on getting out.’ Masen asks them both.

  ‘Call someone,’ Pak says gesturing to the cell in his hand, then looks questioning to the men sitting on the mattress.

  Masen doesn’t have time to explain. ‘Unless some eighteen-year-old is willing to deliver us pizza and drive us out, I’m afraid we’re on our own.’

  Bradbury thinks about what Pak said and allows her thoughts to wander back to Rason, back to the plan they devised for their escape. ‘Maybe Kim has a point,’ she says. ‘I don’t mean a pizza deliver guy, but think. Do you know anybody that can help?’

  ‘No,’ Masen says.

  ‘We escaped from a military base in North Korea using a fictitious general and flooding a nuclear facility. I’m sure the three of us can come up with a plan.’

  ‘Apart from those three,’ Masen says pointing to the mattress, ‘no one knows we’re here.’ Bradbury and Pak switch their attention to the mattress momentarily, then to Masen as he continues. ‘Anything come to mind? I mean I don’t think we can call in a bomb scare and evacuate the entire base. If anything, that will increase security. We can’t shoot our way out.’

  ‘A rescue mission disguised as something else?’ Pak suggests. Masen asks for more information and notices bones poking through stretched skin in his arms, like chicken legs.

  ‘Here, have this.’ Masen hands the gun over to Pak.

  ‘Leaving us already, Slick?’ Bradbury says.

  ‘Just keep an eye on them. Back in a second.’

  Pak points the gun at the soldiers. It feels just like the 3D printed gun he held in his hands back in Rason when Masen sent over the printer. ‘I’ll kill you, no problem,’ he says taunting the men. ‘Don’t move.’

  ‘Hey kid, take it easy we aren’t going anywhere,’ one of the men says.

  Three sets of anxious eyes watch as weakened arms struggle to keep the barrel steady.

  Masen places a metal tray on the table and takes back the gun, so Bradbury and Pak can share the other half of the sandwich.

  ‘Sparks mentioned Bozeman,’ Pak says licking fingers. ‘Can we trust him or trick him into helping us?’

  Trick?

  ‘Maybe.’

  Masen tinkers with an idea. Looking at the three soldiers and back he smiles and nods like he’s measuring up something, or someone.

  45

  Mooney grabs Nash by the neck and drags him stumbling over the ground, yells ‘Everyone, out,’ crashing him through chairs and cables.

  Nash holds arms as solid as tree stumps trying to balance and breathe, but his legs fail and he’s dropped on his back winding him beside the desk where Sparks’ puzzles over the parameters he thought he fully understood, but now feels numb.

  ‘We’re leaving in an hour,’ Mooney says, his voice relieved of the strain.

  Lane looks at Nash scrambling on the ground struggling to regain his breath. ‘At least your technology can be used to make problems vanish.’

  ‘We’re not selling scrap,’ Mooney says. ‘Tell Shào he’ll get his toy in two days. But there’s been a change to the pickup. Oakland International.’ Then to Nash: ‘One day.’ His finger stabs pointing at Nash. ‘You have one day at the facility—’

  ‘That’s not what we agreed,’ Lane interrupts.

  ‘Consider it an amendment,’ Mooney says. ‘You said it yourself. It’s a dirty business, adapt.’ Looks back at Nash. ‘If you don’t figure what went wrong with the test and fix it.’ Pauses. ‘I’ll shoot you.’ His expression says only the timing is of consideration, the deed is as good as done.

  Nash reels back, feels the coldness against his back, a red light casting a menacing shadow on Mooney; eyes sunk into his skull, thinning devilish red hair. And he trembles, wondering how to climb out of this bottomless pit. Despite the cold, feels the temperature rise in his face, heart throbbing in his chest, breathing is shallow. His life was already over in a car accident.

  ‘I should be the one who pulls the trigger,’ Lane says.

  Nash looks away and closes his eyes and feels disgusted with himself to be played like this. ‘You people have no morals,’ he says running a hand over his nose and sinks to the ground.

  ‘Move,’ Lane taps Sparks on the shoulder. ‘You’re not dead because he still might be.’

  But Sparks doesn’t move, he turns over his hands, retreating back from the computer as if he received an electrical shock: a shock he killed three people. ‘What have I done?’

  Lane pushes Sparks out the hanger door. Both squint in the light that floods through the opening and blinds them temporarily.

  Machines that were once a source of utter excitement, like they were some celestial present, had become objects of horror. Sparks wants to leave. He wants to be back in the Barn, eating at the cafeteria and complaining about finding and tracking targets. He wants to be anywhere but here.

  Still inside, Mooney explains to Nash the equipment needs to be packed quickly for the flight. ‘Nothing neat, this is an evac,’ Mooney says picking up chairs, and kicking aside a cable. Places both hands on a desk and explains the new plan.

  The change has thrown up a complication Mooney thought was an outside chance at worst he would need to activate. It stings. Chuck Morgan is an old friend.

  ‘We’re going back lighter,’ Mooney says. ‘So we can stow some equipment in the cabin if need be.’ Sighs and bows his head. ‘Stay here and start packing, I’ll send help.’

  The metal door slams in the frame breaking the spring mechanism. The door limp, gently ebbs and flows with the breeze. Mooney rips off his plastic suit, his elbow flings outward as the plastic snaps under the strain and knocks over the coat frame. The shredded suit tossed to the ground as he kicks the metal obstruction from under his feet. ‘It’s time to clean up this mess.’

  The guard heard the door slam into the metal wall, turns to investigate the disturbance and is ready with an open door and a quick salute as Mooney marches past. ‘I want half a dozen men to help the professor pack up.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Back in the room, Robertson springs to his feet. ‘Are we good?’

  ‘No,’ Mooney says shaking his head and loosing little momentum. ‘The technical term is FUBAR. Masen, the girl and the kid.’ Then noticing Sparks and Lane are busy reading something on the laptop has a word in Robertson’s ear. ‘You raided the snake’s nest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get it done.’

  ‘We’re making a visit to the Barn?’

  ‘We leave at the top of the hour,’ Mooney says. ‘Black’s cover is blown. I told you his arrogance would be his downfall. Idiot tried to shoot his way into the Barn.’

  ‘I heard,’ Robertson glances over to the computer.

  ‘With Black out of the picture it makes it easier for us.’ Mooney looks Robertson in the eyes.

  ‘Sparks and Nash?’ Robertson raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Still need them both, but get rid of Lane, she’s a loose cannon.’

  Robertson smiles. ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘And get on the plane.’ Mooney walks over to read the news article. ‘So it’s all stitched up?’ adds loudly. ‘Tarred, feathered and hung.’

  Reads the article: ‘John Masen: terrorist suspect is believed to be somewhere in Boston. The sole suspect in the bombing of a Boston building at Technology Square earlier today that some people speculate is a CIA office. Another suspect is wanted with respect to the killing of a security guard outside the buildin
g. Sources indicate he still might be in the building. The CIA are yet to comment. Masen is also believed to be connected with an attack on a PLA building in Shanghai, where they are still counting the casualties and dead. The Administration will be holding a press conference later this evening. The Chinese are said to be ready to release a statement regarding the allegation made by unnamed sources that John Masen sold them secrets. If seen, do not approach. It is believed he is armed and extremely dangerous. Contact your nearest police station or call 911.’

  Mooney agrees with what Black had said earlier. ‘It would sound better if he had a middle name.’ He leaves the room, turns right and passes the guard whose sole responsibility is to contain the area, nothing in or out unless Mooney has given a direct order.

  ‘Lane,’ Robertson says gesturing. ‘The General wants you to help Nash.’

  Lane puts hands on her hips and makes sour with her lips. ‘Right,’ she grabs Sparks by the arm and leads him out of the room. ‘I’ll supervise.’

  ‘No,’ Robertson says grabbing Sparks’ arm. ‘Just you.’ His expression hardens.

  Lane lets go. ‘Fine.’ And walks out the door and makes for the hanger while Sparks walks back to his laptop.

  Robertson looks out the window and waits until he can see her walking through the hanger door, walks to the door of the room and bends down —makes sure Sparks is too busy looking at his laptop—and unstraps the gun from his ankle then screws on a silencer taken from a pocket.

  Outside the locked cupboard he checks the magazine for bullets. He counts six. The action is pulled sliding a bullet from the magazine into the chamber. Thinks, It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. Tied up for two days with nothing to eat or drink, the two spies Black sent over are likely to be drowsy. The dark haired one is only marginally taller, but a choice has to be made, and height might as well be the determinant factor as anything else.

  Robertson unlocks and opens the door.

  Wide eyed, the two men struggle against the restraints as eyes fixate on the gun. Legs push hard against the floor, trying to push themselves through the back wall.

  Whompf.

  The man’s eyes almost bolt out of his skull; the masking tape seethes with frantic breath and silent screams. Turns as the body slumps on his shoulder, turns back only to see a flash.

  Whompf.

  Robertson closes the door on the mess, but a leg shoots out just in time to wedge itself, jerking as the dying brain scrambles electrical signals. Pushes the foot back in the room with his shoe and closes the door with both hands. Unscrews the silencer and places it in his pocket next to the gun.

  After nearly an hour passes Lane’s voice is heard arguing with Nash as they emerge from the hanger. ‘Your turn, Lane.’

  General Chuck Morgan is a capable and competent officer, and this reflects in his stellar career trajectory through the ranks, resulted in him being in charge of the Seventh Fleet. Never a Washington political type, like Mooney, his skills were learnt at West Point and galvanized in the theatre of war. A squeaky clean record including seeing combat in the Bay of Pigs, Korea, Vietnam and various roles enforcing UN sanctions resulting in illustrious medals such as the Medal of Honor and the Purple Heart. His fourth star was given to him by President George Bush Snr. at the White House. The picture is framed on his desk next to the photo of his only child, a daughter, dusted by himself every morning—his daughter’s picture always first.

  Mooney storms through a series of long interconnecting corridors that pass through several buildings, pushing through doors with increasing force, as if to fortify his actions. ‘Think of the end game,’ he keeps telling himself. Chuck is a friend and that’s what you do when you’re about to stab a friend in the back.

  Focus intensifies the closer he gets, his speed increases, salutes preemptively at lesser ranked soldiers, gaze unflinching. The gun sways perfectly with his stride; only singing off beat as he turns.

  Outside plain looking doors a captain, hair twirled and tied in a neat bun and perfectly pressed uniform looks up as he bursts into the waiting room.

  ‘I need to see him, now,’ Mooney orders pointing to the door, and not waiting for a response, walks through. Closes the door then takes out his gun.

  ‘Sit down, Chuck.’

  General Chuck Morgan is standing with his back to him, a bottle of scotch in his hand is being poured into a heavy glass tumbler. He turns around and nearly drops the glass seeing the gun.

  ‘Sloan, you gave me a fright,’ Morgan slows his words as the gun comes into focus. ‘…I nearly…dropped…’ Morgan stops as the captain opens the door and gestures if everything is all right. Morgan raises his glass and nods. ‘Close the doors.’

  The doors close.

  ‘You don’t approve of the accommodation?’

  ‘Nice drop?’ Mooney waves the gun as signal to take a seat.

  Morgan raises the glass. ‘I would offer you one, but you’re not here for that drink I promised you earlier.’ And slowly sits raising the glass to his mouth, averting his eyes away from the gun.

  Mooney also sits, adjusting the angle of his gun and rests it on crossed knees.

  Morgan sips, holds the glass up to the light then swallows.

  ‘I need a few things—’

  ‘Reality check is what you need,’ Morgan interrupts. ‘A fucking heist.’ And slams down the glass down, liquid splashes. ‘Is that what this is about? Holding up the seventh fleet for fuck sake?’

  ‘Yeah balls of steel and all that crap. I need a plane out of here, now.’

  ‘Jesus, the rumors about you and this whiz-bang technology of yours must be true.’

  ‘And what’s that Chuck? Jealous you’re not getting your hands on it?’

  ‘You’ve lost your marbles. You want a plane? You could have asked. Forget I agreed to help?’

  ‘You’re coming with me,’ Mooney says.

  Morgan dips a finger in the glass and licks it. He knows Mooney is a little unhinged but he isn’t stupid. This is part of a plan that in his mind works.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Morgan finally says. ‘Think you can shoot your way out of here?’

  ‘Don’t have to. I have Bozeman in Florida.’ Mooney sees the confusion in his eyes. Looks to the frame on the desk. ‘Your daughter, Molly, lives there doesn’t she?’ Watches Morgan calculate the odds of it being a bluff.

  Morgan runs his finger round the rim of the glass making it sing. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You understand plenty,’ Mooney says smiling thinly then stands and holsters his gun and instructs Morgan to inform his assistant he will be boarding a plane for the mainland, and that his second-in-command will be filling in for him for a couple of days.

  ‘Was Masen your idea of a smokescreen?’ Morgan asks. ‘I read that bullshit piece in the paper not twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘I hate all this cloak-and-dagger crap,’ Mooney concedes.

  ‘Then walk out and I’ll forget about our little meeting.’

  Mooney chuckles, reaches over, picks up the bottle and pours himself a glass. Sculls. ‘Airborne within half an hour…for her sake.’

  46

  Leaning against the wall, a shoe pressing against the door of the cupboard, Robertson waits. He checks his watch. It’s not long before the plane is due to leave, and knowing how pedantic Mooney is, the wheels will be leaving the runway not one second late. He knows nothing of Mooney’s plan other than they’re going to pay the Barn a visit and that there is something wrong with the technology. Only the second thought troubles him. He’s been promised money, a big pile of the stuff. More than enough to disappear and retire the uniform, change his name, wear civilian clothes and not give a damn. Maybe he’ll learn to surf and dive and live amongst whitewashed houses of some Greek island he has trouble pronouncing, drink wine, eat olives and chase skirt. But that can only happen if the sale goes through. He thinks of how far they’ve come in the last four years. It
is a remarkable achievement, but the body count is edging a bit high for an unproven technology. It was bound to flag interest and ripple through agencies hungry for control.

  Rodriguez was a good soldier.

  But in all wars, good and bad fall in equal measure. Wishes Bozeman was behind the wheel instead of Coffey and Rodriguez.

  He teases open a Twinkie packet with his teeth and accidentally drops the highly processed cake on the floor. Reaches down to pick it up but stops at the sight of a molasses pool of blood seeping underneath the door. He touches and breaks the surface tension with his shoe. Some sticks to the rubber sole. He wipes his foot clean on his trouser leg and looks up to see Nash shuffle into the building with a stoop, his white suit tied around his waste. Lane follows closely behind.

  After inspecting the food, Robertson takes a bite. She has a spring to her step like a lioness that caught dinner for her cubs. Robertson takes a step away from the blood so as to not draw attention.

  ‘Everything packed up and ready to go?’ he asks.

  Nash nods leaning into the vending machine. He looks dejected and tired. Lane has a word in Nash’s ear as he takes a soft drink can.

  Robertson looks past them and sees men outside the hanger finishing loading containers onto a flat luggage trolley, ready to be taken straight to the plane. ‘Time to board then,’ he says and inadvertently drops his gaze to the floor.

  Nash walks past him to the room leaving Lane banging on the glass of the machine, her other hand loose by her side. Feels the gun in the small of her back in the strain. Retrieving the can of drink she looks over to Robertson and notices something out of place. Straightens up and smiles pulling the ring, thinks, what is it?

  Robertson looks up and catches Lane’s eye. A connection that holds a fraction of a second too long. He puts his hand in his pocket, hoping she will be slow. Lane searches for an answer and sees it on the floor: blood pooling on the vinyl floor. A slight bulge. She knows a clean up job when she sees one. She drops the can. Her slender fingers reach around and clutch the gun’s handle while watching Robertson fumbling for his.