The Stranded Ones

by Jay B. Gaskill

  The cameras didn’t show it, but Springer’s left shoulder was bleeding copiously where large canine teeth had lacerated suit and flesh.

  The night security guard burst through the steel delivery doors just as Springer approached the fence. The guard immediately slipped on the wet concrete. Struggling for balance, he grabbed the edge of a dumpster with his left hand, while raising his pistol to the shooting position with his right. Squinting in the glare, he tried to track his retreating target as his target abruptly jinked to the right. The guard pulled the trigger. At that instant, Springer dropped a sputtering canister; it bounced on the damp concrete just as the he tossed the stolen gray case over the fence, where it thunked on pavement.

  The guard’s shot, a custom 18-millimeter slug, went clean through Springer’s left thigh, missing the bone. He spun with the impact, bouncing off the cyclone fence near the ragged opening where he first had entered. Bent doubled with pain, Lew lurched toward the hole in the fence. In the meantime, a dense orange gas was gouting from the canister he had dropped. In the next instant, the gas flared with a searing white incandescence. Blinded, the guard felt his feet slipping under him. He shot twice, wildly; then he fell backwards, his upper back slamming heavily onto the cement walkway.

  Silence. It was half a minute before the guard had recovered his breath. Blinking, he fumbled for the radio transponder button on his sleeve.

  “I lost the son of a bitch,” he said. “But I probably winged him. I think there was a car waiting on the other side.”

  “We know. Next time call for backup, cowboy.”

  “Next time, just send me some,” the guard muttered partly to himself as he slowly got to his feet. “That bastard almost blinded me.”

  “We’re on it. What did the car look like?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “You have three minutes to check the scene. Get moving.”

  “I know the drill.”

  The guard found the mastiff just outside inside the fire door. The animal had been heavily tranquilized; it was lying on its side next to an open packing crate. “Idiot,” he growled. The guard kicked the inert body before stepping over it. He glanced through the open door into the parking lot, looking at the perimeter fence, listening to the sounds of sirens and squealing wheels. Then, walking smartly, he followed the trail of packing debris to the secure archive area.

  The burglar’s trail had been obvious. The secure archive area had been torched. Scrape marks led across the worn wooden floor where an opened storage crate had been dragged from the archive, then to a bench. A total of four crates had been opened, and several dozen data boxes were missing. A trail of blood led to the fire door.

  The guard’s com buzzed. “You have one minute,” a voice said.

  “I’m leaving now,” he answered, pressing the button. As the guard cleared the parking lot, he pressed the button again. “I’m at the fence,” he announced. “I’m still opening the gate,” he added.

  “About time,” the voice replied. The emergency perimeter lamps suddenly went dark.

  “Get down,” the voice said. “Now!” Quickly, the guard slipped behind the fence, crouching. A rapid series of muffled explosions followed, then the sound of breaking glass as all the upper story windows in the warehouse shattered outward. Seconds later, the warehouse was brightly lit from within. In half a minute, the heat from the flames was so intense that the guard’s clothing had begun to steam.

  Hours later, fresh from another productive clandestine operation by McCahan, Springer, and Associates, Lew Springer met Dr. Joyce Lendall for one of her unscheduled “house calls.” Following company protocol, Lew had already fed the entire contents of the stolen data pack to their GFE clients, and a secret backup copy was transmitted to McCahan-Springer’s clandestine server, “Big Bird”, in Nevada. This was accomplished via proprietary, secure encrypted lines, and had been followed by the destruction of the original data pack in an autoclave.

  Dr. Lendall’s stitches, applied at three the same morning, were accompanied by her usual lecture on the hazards and dubious morality of her patient’s chosen profession. Springer, weakened from blood loss, had repeated one of the expletives he reserved for life’s occasional irritations.

  “Stop whining, Lewis,” she had said. “You’re as bad as your partner, Hugh McCahan.”

  “With that sodding bedside manner, it’s a wonder you have any other patients,” he replied. This was followed by, “Ouch,” as Lendall drew a suture tight.

  “My, we are grumpy, aren’t we?” Lendall was smiling. She believed in old-fashioned medicine. No lasers. No local anesthetic. “As you know, I treat only masochists,” she said.

  Joyce Lendall had repeated her standard lecture as she applied the bandages. From her point of view, both Lewis and Hugh were exasperatingly immature adventurers who had wasted first class minds in the pursuit of borderline sociopathy.

  “Just keep taping, Doctor Joyce,” Lew muttered. He was fond of his physician, whom he found attractive in spite of her premature matronhood. Just a few years his junior and more than a little in love with the large Australian, Joyce A. Lendall had continued to treat the former Special Forces Colonel’s occasional occupational injuries in complete confidence. He knew this was a measure of her affection: Her failure to report any one of these episodes was grounds for revocation of her license to practice medicine.

  Although he doubted Joyce would ever admit it, she admired and approved of Lew’s professional activities, if not the man’s tangled and immature personal life.

  CHAPTER FOUR - THE RECOVERY

  Springer was in a very bad mood. His mustache was gone; his eyes were disguised with dark contacts; his face was subtly darkened; and a tight fitting black wig covered his bald head. His left thigh was freshly stitched and bandaged, his thigh muscle having been repaired only a few hours earlier by the good Doctor Joyce. His left shoulder was also stitched where the mastiff had gripped him until the tranquilizer dart took effect. The bandages and stitches pulled with every lurch of the car. All this would he have gladly endured, but metal handcuffs were pinching his wrists as the acceleration of the sedan pressed his hands between the small of his back and the upholstery.

  The steady drone of the electric drive motors was accompanied by splash of water against the tires as the government Ford Phaeton entered the turnpike. The agents on either side of him hadn’t spoken since he had been shoved into the back seat near the Newark Airport. Something in his carry case had apparently set off an alarm. Lew had turned on his heels and tried to exit the airport, only to be stopped. But the “stolen” data (McCahan and Springer still preferred “recovered”) was presumably safe in their clients’ hands, with a backup copy for Big Bird, a secret server located in a warehouse near the Reno, Nevada airport.

  At this moment, under assault by an entire suite of pains and irritations, Lew understood acutely the wisdom of faithfully following all of the company protocols. Destroying original data pack early on was a good thing. But one telltale trace, an encrypted microdot, had fallen off the purloined data pack and lodged itself somewhere in the bottom of Springer’s case. It had triggered an alarm…a bad thing.

  The presence of witnesses in the parking lot had delayed a thorough personal search in Newark. Springer had forestalled a thorough search by demanding an ambulance and screaming “homophobic Nazis!” at the top of his lungs. He was summarily thrust into the back of the sedan to the surprise of about fifty shocked bystanders. He had managed so far with a very cursory pat search. His travel money was still safe in his belt and his L-pistol was an undiscovered presence. Its padded case was hidden under bloodstained bandages on his good thigh opposite the cleaner bandages on the wounded thigh. The bandage bulges were hidden under generous slacks that drew tight as he leaned forward to look out the front window.

  “Sit back, Buddy,” snarled a voice from the front seat. The agent on Lew’s right, a slovenly character in an ill fitting suit, shoved him back with a
large hand on his chest, just missing the shoulder stitches.

  “My name is Robert Shank,” Springer whined, “as you well know from my identification. You are all in for a very bad lawsuit.” Springer raised his voice: “Would anyone care to show me his or her ID besides Agent Reilly here? Reilly, Peter J., number 956042.” Springer’s Aussie-British accent had been replaced with a remarkable combination of a Long Island twang and a nuanced imitation of his gay nephew Ronald.

  Reilly, the solidly built agent on his left, seemed to squirm as Springer recited the ID verbatim. “Tell that to interrogation, Mr. Shank. Whatever you think your name is, we think you have enough contraband in that brief case to get ten years.”

  “You are out of line. You haven’t even made an inventory. Since when is a change of clothes and little pornographic literature a felony in this country? I plan to name you personally, Agent Reilly. Shank vs Reilly, et al. I’ll be suing all of you.” Then Springer seemed to slump back in his seat. “And the judgment won’t be dischargeable in bankruptcy!” At that point the car stopped at a traffic signal. They were at the edge of the airport’s commercial aviation area. Now or never. “Gentlemen, I must relieve myself immediately. I want to pee outside the car…unless you would prefer me to wet the back seat.” Springer/Shanks smiled wickedly.

  “Do it in your pants, Buddy,” the slovenly agent growled.

  “I told you my name, you big, beautiful hunk.”

  “Cut the conversation back there!”

  “Felix M. Jones,” Springer said, “I saw your ID too, and if you are trying to get me to a detention facility somewhere, and I presume you are, there will be a big scene if somebody doesn’t let me take a goddamned piss.”

  “You presume wrong, Mr. Shank,” Jones snarled from the front passenger seat. “Oh hell…Pull over there. We need to do a more thorough pat search, anyway. He can urinate in the parking lot. But the cuffs stay on, and if he opens that mouth of his again…”

  “Won’t you need backup, Felix?” Springer said with calculated sarcasm. “I’ll need special help unzipping my pants. Who would like to help an old fag unzip? Peter, would you be a dear?”

  “That does it,” Agent Felix Jones snarled. “Reilly, you help Mr. Shank exit the vehicle before he stains the upholstery.” Then Reilly and the other agent dutifully exited the car from either side, leaving Springer alone in the back seat. Reilly beckoned grimly to Springer to get out.

  “Jones, where did you get these fellows?” Springer/Shanks called out, grinning insolently. “No manners at all. Actually, Felix actually looks excited. Maybe it’s the prospect of opening my fly. I’m so glad that the Bureau has changed its standards to welcome us gay males into the fold…so to speak.” Lew was watching the agents’ faces carefully for signs of irritation as he slid across the seat with studied awkwardness. An angry agent is a careless agent.

  Springer quickly slid the rest of the way out into the intense, sleeting rain. The driver and the lead agent remained in the front seat. Four lanes of heavy traffic roared on the left as Springer and two agents stood in the parking lot of a darkened hangar building at the edge of the old commercial aviation wing of the airport. This was familiar territory for Springer.

  “Take him around to the side,” Jones yelled, finally getting out of the car. When the slovenly agent pushed roughly on Springer’s back, Lew collapsed, letting his right knee slip to the damp pavement.

  “That hurt, you brute!” he shouted. The agent pulled on his shoulder. “OUCH!” As the agent hesitated, Springer jerked the slovenly agent down with one quick expert sweep of his left arm, then he leapt into the oncoming traffic. All this was accomplished in a single fluid movement, placing Jones and car between Springer and the other agents.

  A truck and trailer shot by inches from Lew’s back. Two cars nearly missed striking him in the next lane. Springer, still reeling in the truck’s wake, seized an opening and dashed across the two remaining lanes of oncoming traffic. He stood momentarily on the raised divider, getting his bearings, then began running along the meter-wide surface in the direction of the main terminals.

  He doggedly sprinted along the divider, eyes squinting against the sleet, his chest burning. After a few seconds, Lew risked a glance to the left rear. There he saw Reilly, gun drawn, tracking him as he ran along the shoulder. Careful not to lose his balance - he was running head down with his hands cuffed behind him - Lew bolted for the overpass, not looking back.

  Springer’s chest was pumping like bellows when he reached the first support pylon that rose from the center divider at the overpass and sought cover behind it. Slowly, he slid down the column, squatting. The pain in his injured shoulder and thigh was masked in the rush of adrenaline. He pressed his back against the concrete support until he could feel his cuffed hands touch his shoes. Deftly, he slipped off each shoe. One at a time, he slipped a cuffed hand over an unshod foot back to front. Sharp pain was searing though his left shoulder.

  Then a flash of blue light passed next to his eyes. Ozone. Burning wig hair. Damn. Lew straightened, bringing his hands up to his face, feeling the cold steel cuffs against his cheek. He flattened against the pylon, waiting for the next shot. He could feel fresh blood running down his thigh. Springer took a few precious seconds to slip his shoes into his pants; then the slovenly agent appeared through a break in the traffic directly across from him, laser pistol drawn. Springer slid around the pylon, trying to make as small a target as possible. The agent appeared to be running back and forth alongside the side of the roadway, seeking a break in the traffic. Surely, he thought, they don’t want to deliver a corpse to interrogation. Springer then unzipped his fly and got thumb and forefinger around the Laser pistol handle, prying the small weapon from its thigh case and tearing the bandages away.

  He then cradled the L-pistol in his still cuffed hands and jumped away from the pylon, aimed and shot at the agent. The beam lanced through the rain, missing the man by half a meter. Surprised, the agent dropped into a side roll as Lew’s ready charge lighted again. Springer got off a swift shot in the direction of Reilly, who had also raised his weapon.

  While the two agents were seeking cover, Springer held the pistol as far away from his left hand as the handcuff chain would allow, and using his thumb to activate the trigger, he directed a single pulse at the link between handcuff chain and bracelet. The steel glowed red, then white, sparking and sizzling while it parted in a spatter of molten metal. Pain seared his left wrist and fingers while steam rose from the sparks that fell on the pavement near his feet. His hands, though still cuffed, were now separated. Lew was almost free.

  A shot from one of the agents passed over Lew’s head, causing a loud pop as concrete cracked on the beam above. The sound of an approaching siren wailed in the distance. Springer briefly considered trying to scale the pylon, winced at the pain in his shoulder, then dashed across the remaining lanes of traffic. Picking a moment when a large van would block the view from the other side, he moved through the four opposite lanes of traffic. On reaching the shoulder, he ran along it to the overpass entrance. There he stepped up on the right side of the ascending lane and ran until he reached the top. As he looked down, the slovenly agent was frantically waving to an approaching car.

  Lew stepped directly in front of the next vehicle on the overpass, a pickup truck driven by a young man. The truck squealed to a stop. Lew gestured menacingly with the laser pistol for the young man to open the door. When the man hesitated, Springer yanked the door open.

  “Move over, kid. You are voluntarily loaning me your truck,” Springer barked in a tone that brooked no disobedience. He was now using a West Texas drawl. The driver’s eyes widened as he saw Lew’s cuffs. “Sit against the door,” Springer snarled while he gunned the engine, pulling the truck swiftly back into the stream of traffic headed away from the airport. “My name, in case you are asked, is Roberts, Burt Anson Roberts, and I’ve just escaped from kidnappers posing as federal agents. I’m on the way to see my lawyer.”
Lew kept the pistol in his right hand trained on the ashen faced young man, a severed handcuff chain dangling from his wrist. Springer let go of the steering wheel for a second to loosen his pants belt. Tires squealed; then Lew recovered the wheel as the truck lurched to the right. The young man was starting to look sick.

  Lew released the wheel again and pulled his belt free and tossed it to the young man who now looked as if he was about to faint. “If you reveal that you have helped me,” - Lew said this with a chilling grin - you will probably be hunted down and tortured. On the other hand, you don’t need say anything about this encounter. That wouldn’t be very smart. No one saw me get in your truck. I intend to give you a thousand dollars for your assistance. You, of course, will say nothing about this to anyone. Right?” The young man shook his head in eager agreement.

  “Reach into the belt; there is a zipper compartment on the inside – go ahead.” Trembling, the young man did as he was asked. “There is money there. Count out one thousand.” The young man did that. “Put the rest back. Thank you.”

  “I don’t want trouble,” the young man said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Joe Strong.”

  “Well, Joe Strong, place your driver’s license in the seat so I can read it. Do it now.” The young man complied.

  “Excellent. You told me the truth. I will keep my word. And you will be smart to keep yours. Just keep the money and your lips sealed. You’ll be fine.” In a few minutes, the lights of Hotel Row were visible ahead through a curtain of sleet. “I’m taking a cab from here and you are getting back onto the road while I watch, okay?” The young man nodded. “Okay?” Springer repeated.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Springer took the Hotel Row exit, pulled back into the re-enter lane and stopped. There would be no exits for at least five minutes at the speed of traffic. Lew got out, leaving the engine running. “Scat,” he shouted, and as the truck pulled into the slow lane: “Remember: I have your address! Keep the change!”