“I believe you’ve already met Song.”
Song rose briefly and curtsied. “My liege.”
Grolling went on. “This is Aimie, our program coordinator, and of course, Mr. Fairfield.”
“Ted,” Michael said. “Glad you made it.”
“I could use about fourteen hours under a hot shower, but yeah, I made it.”
“Well then,” Grolling said, “shall we get started?” He took the quiet around the table as consensus and continued. “As of 0800 this morning the Horten had been transported via a local fishing vessel out of Ha Long Bay and into international waters where it was picked up by the Frigate USS Kingfisher. A CIA science team has already begun the initial examination of the plane and barring bad weather, it should be stateside for further study within ten days.” Grolling paused for emphasis. “Given that the recovery of the Horten was your primary mission objective, Langley is pleased with the outcome.”
“The incoming satellite?” Michael said. “What happened?“
“The clear-code you transmitted reinstated standard operating protocol. It self-corrected its course as of 0300 China Standard Time.”
“So you’re saying it worked. After all that time the transmitter actually worked?”
“We’ll know more once the Horten is examined, but yes. For all intents and purposes the transmitter seems to have functioned perfectly, which is fortunate because we got word late last night that the Jiuquan Launch Facility was sabotaged, most likely by one of their own senior people. They couldn’t have reestablished communication with that thing even if they did figure out how to do it. It’s a national embarrassment. I think unofficially the Chinese were happy for the help.” Grolling took a sip of coffee. “In addition, you’ll be happy to hear, Li Tung and his merry gang of thieves are pleased as punch with what we’ve done for them.”
“Which was?” Ted asked.
Grolling looked to Ted. Everybody here, especially a long standing agent like Ted, knew that information was doled out on a need to know basis, and this item was not, strictly speaking, need to know. However, Grolling thought, the mission had gone well, and in all fairness, he had brought it up.
“Which was help Mr. Tung with a particularly worrisome problem his only son was facing stateside. In return for the help he extended us within China’s borders, we agreed to extend our help within ours.”
Ted smiled. “So let me guess, we sprung his little boy from an as yet unnamed facility.”
“In so many words. Yes.”
“What about the other reason we’re here?”
Ted was not one to mince words, but still the directness of the question hit Michael like a knife to the heart. He wanted to ask if there was any more information regarding his father. He had wanted to ask since he awoke. The only reason he had even considered working for the CIA back when Ted had approached him a few weeks after his father’s funeral was to get closer to the mystery of his dad’s disappearance. But now that there might actually be some solid information, Michael didn’t want to hear it at all. He didn’t want to listen because he didn’t want to be disappointed.
Grolling wavered. “The secondary mission protocol was less conclusive.”
Michael finally opened his mouth. “How much less?”
“A lot less.”
“Hold on,” Michael said. “I risked my ass delivering you Kate Shaw. I want to know what you’ve found out.”
“Not so fast, Agent Chase. We’re questioning Ms. Shaw as we speak. We’re following up on the information she provides.”
“But?”
“I didn’t say ‘but.’ We’re following up.” Grolling turned away from the table. “As far as your mission is concerned, the Director and I have agreed, we would like you to keep operating here in the field. Your backpacker cover is intact. There’s no telling where we may use you.”
Michael nodded. He knew he was tangling with the bureaucracy of the world’s most powerful spy agency. He knew that they would let him know what they had learned when they were good and ready to do so. And he knew that the best way to hold his cards was quietly and close to the chest. But he also knew that he didn’t give a damn. This man, Grolling, had made his case to him over six months ago when his dad had been missing only four weeks. He had told Michael that the country needed his help. Grolling had personally fast tracked Michael’s path through the Farm. He had guaranteed that if Michael would help with the very sensitive mission of investigating his father’s disappearance, Michael would be given priority clearance. And most importantly, Grolling had said unequivocally that in return for his help, Michael would never, ever, be left out of the loop. And now it looked like that loop was closed. Protocol be damned. It was time for the CIA to pay up.
“I went along with recruitment to find my father. I trained at your facility to find my father.” Michael looked the Station Chief directly in the eye. “Then I risked my life finding your Nazi airplane and stopped a Chinese satellite from blowing up half the West Coast. I’ve paid for my ticket. Now, you’re going to tell me what you know or I’m done here.”
“Think about what you’re saying.”
“I already have.”
“Michael,” Ted said, but Michael rose from the table regardless.
Grolling said, “We thought you might feel that way.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a letter sized envelope, handing it to Michael.
“What is this?”
“You know your father’s video message was a digital composite. We faked it to acquire the target’s interest. But it was based on a real intercept from eight days ago. The waypoint that led you to the factory, that was real.” Grolling turned his gaze to the garden where the rich pink peach blossoms were blooming. The others around the table were silent, waiting for him to go on. “We don’t know where your father is. We don’t know if he was captured and managed to escape or if he’s still in their custody. We’re not even certain precisely who they are, not yet anyway, but thanks to your work bringing in Kate Shaw, we’re closer than we were.”
“So again,” Michael said, holding up the envelope. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Michael tore open the envelope. Inside was a slip of paper no bigger than a grocery receipt. It consisted of a string of numbers which Michael immediately recognized as a GPS waypoint. He committed the waypoint to memory. From the look of it, it was a location in Turkey, Istanbul most likely.
“An NSA analyst picked it up last night. It was identified on the same frequency where we found the first message.”
“So you think it’s him again?”
“It’s no more than a series of digits so it’s impossible to be sure. But it’s his assigned frequency. And the coordinates were encrypted in his preferred algorithm. So yes. We think it’s him.”
Michael sighed. The news was not definitive. But it offered hope. Real hope that his father was still alive. And Michael would go to the ends of the Earth for that.
“You’re willing to have me investigate his whereabouts in my current capacity?”
“Yes we are.”
Michael sat there, considering what Grolling had just said. “Same rules apply? Special liaison to the CIA. Current cover. No long-term contract?”
“No long-term contract,” Grolling said.
“And full disclosure regarding any new messages or intelligence as to where he might be.”
“Yes.”
Michael didn’t need to think about it. He could feel it. Before that fateful day, just over half a year ago, he had been floundering. Even before his father had gone missing he was unsure of his course in life, bouncing from option to option, waiting for something that felt right. That his purpose had been revealed to him in the horror of his father’s disappearance was unfortunate, but it didn’t have to be tragic. Even the events that had marked him so many years ago didn’t need to be seen through that lens. His experiences had changed him. But they had also made him stronger. He knew tha
t now.
He also knew in his gut that his father was still alive and that working for the CIA offered the single best shot he’d have at finding him. Plain and simple. But he didn’t have to make it easy for them. Not if he got even a hint that they were holding back. Still, almost in spite of himself, Michael felt a smile growing on his lips. At some point over the course of the last few days he had become something. He had become an intelligence operative. And for this small moment, in the confines of this room, he didn’t care who knew it. Ted must have known the feeling because he lifted his cup.
“Kid,” Ted said.
“Yeah, old man?”
“Welcome to the Circuit.”
LETHAL CIRCUIT
A Michael Chase Thriller
by
Lars Guignard
***
Copyright (c) 2011 by Lars Guignard
Published by: Fantastic Press
www.fantasticpress.com
E-book ISBN: 978-0-9877753-0-6
Version 2011.11.15
***
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, locations, media, corporations, institutions, organizations and incidents in this novel are the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, are used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and/or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
***
About the Author:
A former television writer, Lars Guignard is a graduate of both McGill University and the American Film Institute in Los Angeles. Lars's work can be seen on television screens across the globe in series as varied as Beastmaster, Big Wolf on Campus, and Mentors. A member of the Writer's Guild of Canada, Lars's work has also been produced for film and published in magazines.
Ever since attending high school in the Indian Himalayas at the age of fourteen, Lars has been an avid backpacker and traveler. Lars now makes his home in the Pacific Northwest where he is busy completing the second Michael Chase thriller for release in early 2012.
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(A STRANGE INVESTIGATION)
A Novella by
Lars Guignard
A scientist is missing...
Alaskan fishermen are getting their fingers bitten off...
And the fish we eat is at the root of a conspiracy that will change us all.
Paranormal detective Sterling Strange faces his most horrifying case yet. Alaskan fishermen are getting their fingers bitten off. Soon after, they disappear. Sterling's quest to determine the fate of missing men takes him to a wilderness fish farm. But the investigation takes a back seat to survival when Sterling finds himself next on the fish farmer's list.
BROOD is a 20,000 word novella that takes the reader on a wild and frightening ride deep into the wilderness where fish are being bred for more than their meat.
Readers praise BROOD:
"This is a novella for all seasons. Stephen King watch out!"
"This was quite possibly the coolest novella I've ever read. Interesting characters, gripping plot -- can't wait to read more from this writer!"
Read an excerpt from BROOD.
(A STRANGE INVESTIGATION)
A Novella
By Lars Guignard
IT WAS A grey day on the Pacific, the sun hidden behind progressive banks of low purple cloud. Rocking gently among the forested islands, a wooden fishing boat plied its trade. The forty-foot boat rose and fell on the swells, its big rear drum humming as it hauled in the day’s catch. On deck, a young fisherman in full foul weather gear and thick rubber gloves removed the catch as it was drawn in. He went by the name of Jay and he had seen something in the net that bothered him a great deal. One of the silver salmon he had been tossing into the hold had been ripped entirely in half.
“Some kind of thing's been at it again,” Jay said.
Up front in the wheelhouse, the wizened captain sighed. His name was Max and he had been through this before with his deckhand. The kid was constantly complaining. “Ain’t nothing but the new net,” Max said.
Jay did his best to accept Max’s words as he removed the mutilated salmon from the black nylon mesh. Then, the electric drum wound to a standstill. They used the large aluminum drum to wind in the fishing net and it looked like the mechanism was jammed up again. Jay made his way up to the drum and fiddled with the lever. As he worked on it, there was a ripple in the inky black water below. It looked like a small black-tipped fin gliding toward the stern of the boat. But Jay was preoccupied. All he saw was the drum and the gears driving it as he struggled to free up the mechanism.
“Got it,” Jay said.
The drum started with a grind and Jay returned to his work at the stern of the boat. The drum wound up a few more feet of the huge gill net, then ground to a halt for a second time. It was starting to look like the problem was with the net. It was hung up on something. To add insult to injury, there was another half-eaten salmon caught just below the waterline. It was hard enough to make a living out here without something eating your catch, Jay thought. He reached into the inky black water to release the dead fish. Jay grasped the mutilated salmon by the gills to remove it. Too bad, it was a really nice catch. Maybe forty pounds. Worth good money if it hadn’t been bitten in half. Jay held the half-fish in the black water about to let it go. Instead he screamed.
“Damn it all to hell!”
Jay’s features contorted with pain. Something had clamped on to him. He wrenched his hand from the water. But whatever had bitten him, it was too late. Jay stared down in horror to see that his two middle fingers were missing, blood streaming down his bright yellow glove.
• • •
SEVERAL MILES AWAY, up a wilderness fjord, a ramshackle ocean fish farm sat anchored two hundred feet from the shore. The fish farm was comprised of two and a half acres of galvanized docks with a two-story feed barge anchored at one end. The docks supported the deep nets which held the fish farm’s stock. On these same docks, the fish farmer, a rough looking woman named Bergit, plied her trade. Bergit was no more than a few inches over five feet tall and almost as broad, but despite her years, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. She was a woman accustomed to hard work and long days, a woman who possessed the kind of strength that couldn’t be bought in a gym.
Bergit focused straight ahead as she stalked the length of the metal dock in her patched rain gear and giant rubber boots. She walked as though she was expecting someone, or something. A twelve-inch gutting knife hung from her meaty hand, and as she strode, she saw what she had been waiting for. The black-tipped fin. Without breaking her stride, Bergit reached into the dark ocean, and in one smooth move, scooped a three-foot dogfish out by the tail. The dogfish, really a vicious cold water shark, bucked violently, but Bergit was more violent still. In a strong, fluid motion, she smacked the dogfish
's head against the metal dock and slit its white belly wide open with her knife. Without hesitation she reached into the shark’s stomach and pulled out two bloody fingers. Bergit calmly inspected the fingers as if she'd been expecting the delivery. Then she kicked the eviscerated, still quivering dogfish into the ocean and walked back down the dock.
ACROSS THE COUNTRY, and a world away, Private Investigator Sterling Strange sat quietly behind his thick oak door, staring at his iPad. Outside the double-hung window, the traffic of lower Manhattan crawled beneath his tiny Chinatown office. Sterling wore a white t-shirt and jeans. Casual day at the office. Of course every day was casual day when you were the boss. Sterling was in his mid-thirties and in decent shape. He was six feet two inches tall and about a hundred and eighty-five pounds. His eyes, the last time he checked, were blue, and his dark hair, which he still proudly possessed, showed only a hint of grey. Sterling considered himself young enough to still care about what the world threw at him, but old enough not to get too worked up about it. He used to get worked up about it, really worked up, but that was a lifetime ago, back in law school, back when a single, simple event had altered the course of his life. Now that it was behind him, investigations, specifically investigations on the unusual end of the spectrum, were his business. And today he’d landed a case that more than fit the bill.
The client had stepped out of his office more than two hours ago, but Sterling still reviewed the details of the case. On his brightly lit iPad screen sat an image of an abandoned fishing boat washed up on shore with two State Troopers investigating. Sterling flipped the image to another shot of a similarly abandoned vessel. He paused on the photo, taking a moment to reflect. It was the old debate he had with himself before every case. He knew he’d make better money if he took on more of the standard P.I. fare: cheating wives and insurance scams and the like. Those cases generally paid more, but the truth was they just weren’t as interesting to him. Besides, if he were to do that he might as well get out of the P.I. game entirely. Put his law degree to work at a Midtown firm. His very proper mother had been hounding him for years to do just that. No, Sterling thought. He’d keep investigating the cases he did, the weird ones that nobody else wanted, until such a time came that doing so just didn’t make sense anymore. Or he got abducted by little green men. Until then, he’d plod along. One case at a time.
Lethal Circuit (Michael Chase 1) Page 25
