by A. G. Riddle
The tech carefully cut the straps on Cole’s vest. He lifted the vest slightly and bent closer to the glass slit in the blast shield for a better look.
Sweat drops popped up across Cole’s already soaked face.
“It’s not booby trapped,” the tech said. Inch by inch he peeled the vest back. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Cole almost jumped when he heard the man throw the vest the rest of the way over. Was there a timer? A backup? He felt the man’s hands work quickly at his spine. Then he felt the gloved hands go limp. He heard the screeching of metal on metal as the tech forcefully slid the blast shield out of the way. He worked with his bare hands now.
Cole felt the man lift the bomb off his spine.
“You can get up now, Cole.”
Cole turned, holding his breath.
The man looked at him with contempt. “Here’s your bomb, Cole. Be careful now, you could be allergic to polyester.” He handed Cole a rolled up t-shirt.
Cole couldn’t believe it. He was embarrassed, but mostly, he was relieved.
Cole unrolled the t-shirt. It read, in big black magic marker letters: “BOOM!” Below it, in smaller print: “Sorry…”
39
Batavia Marina
Jakarta, Indonesia
Harto put his arm around his wife and gathered his son and daughter at his side. They stood on the wooden dock at the marina where Harto had retrieved the boat the soldier had told him about. The four of them beheld the machine, no one saying a word. It sparkled. It all still seemed like a dream to Harto. The boat was the most beautiful thing he’d seen since his last child was born.
“It’s ours,” he said.
“How, Harto?”
“The soldier man gave it to me.”
His wife ran a hand along the boat, maybe to see if it was truly real. “It’s almost too nice to fish in.”
The boat was a mini-yacht. At sixty feet, it was capable of travel between the small islands off Java. It could hold up to thirty people above deck and sleep as many as eight below deck in the master stateroom, port guest stateroom, and aft guest stateroom. The upper deck and flybridge would give breathtaking views.
“We’re not going to fish with it,” Harto said. “We’re going to take others fishing. The foreigners living here and the tourists. They pay lots of money for this—to go fishing in the deep sea. And for other things: diving and touring the islands.”
His wife looked from Harto to the boat, then back again, as if trying to assess whether it would work, or maybe how much work it would be for her. “You going to finally learn English, Harto?”
“I’ll have to. There aren’t enough fish in the sea to feed all the Jakartan fisherman. Entertainment is the future.”
Part II
A Tibetan Tapestry
40
Somewhere off the Java Sea
Kate awoke to the worst headache of her life. It hurt to move. She lay in the bed for a moment, swallowing several times. Opening her eyes hurt. The sunlight hurt. She turned over, away from the window. The window. The bed. Where was she?
She pushed herself up, and with each inch she moved, the pain spread across her. Her body was sore, but it didn’t feel like the soreness from exercise—she felt like she’d been beaten all over with wooden spoons. She felt sick, hurt. What happened to me?
The room came into focus. A cottage or some kind of vacation home on the beach. The room was small, with one double bed and some rustic wooden furniture. Out the window, she saw a large porch that opened onto a deserted beach. Not the pristine, well-kept kind you saw at resorts, but the type you might find on a real deserted island—a rough, unkempt beach, littered with coconuts, tree bark, tropical plants, and here and there, dead fish that had washed up from last night’s violent rain and high tide.
Kate pushed the covers off and moved slowly to get out of bed. A new sensation gripped her: nausea. She waited, hoping it would pass, but it only got worse. She felt the saliva gathering at the back of her throat.
She ran for the bathroom, barely making it in time. She collapsed to her knees and dry heaved into the toilet. Once, then again, and a third time. The convulsions sent shock waves of pain through her already ravaged body. The nausea receded, and she rolled off her knees to sit by the toilet, propping an elbow on the toilet seat and resting her hand on her forehead.
“At least you don’t have a walk of shame ahead of you.”
She looked up. It was the man from the van, the soldier. David.
“What are you, where are we—”
“We’ll catch up later. Drink this.”
“No. I’ll just throw it up.”
He bent down to her and tipped the orange concoction toward her. “Give it a try.”
He held the back of her head, and she realized she was drinking it before she could object again. It was sweet and coated her raw throat. She drank it down, and he helped her to her feet.
There was something she had to do. What was it? Something she had to get. Her head still pounded.
He helped her into the bed, but she stopped. “Wait, there’s something I have to do.”
“We’ll get to it. You have to rest.”
Without another word, he maneuvered her into the bed. She felt so sleepy, like she had taken a sleeping pill. The sweet orange elixir.
41
Immari Corporate Jet
Somewhere over the Southern Atlantic Ocean
Martin Grey leaned toward the plane window and peered out at the giant iceberg below. The Nazi sub jutted out of a mountain of ice near the center of the floating island, which covered almost forty-seven square miles—about the size of Disney World. Where the sub met the ice, workers and heavy machinery were hard at work excavating, searching for the sub’s entrance. Cutting into the side was a last resort, but it would come to that if they didn’t reach the hatch soon.
The wreckage below the sub was even more mysterious; teams were still working on theories. Martin had one of his own, an idea he would take to his grave, if necessary.
“When did you find it?”
Dorian Sloane’s voice startled Martin, and he turned to see the younger man standing over him, gazing out another window of the jet.
Martin opened his mouth to respond, but Sloane interrupted him. “No lies, Martin.”
Martin slumped in the chair, and continued squinting out the window. “Twelve days ago.”
“Is it his?”
“The markings are the same. Carbon dating confirms the age.”
“I want to go in first.”
Martin turned to him. “I wouldn’t advise it. The wreckage is likely unstable. There’s no way of knowing what’s inside. There could be—”
“And you’re coming with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Now Martin, where’s that intrepid explorer I knew in my youth?”
“This is a job for robots. They can go into places we can’t. They can withstand cold, and it will be cold in there, colder than you can imagine. And they’re easier to replace.”
“Yes, it will be dangerous. Even more dangerous, I think, if I go alone, with, say, you left outside.”
“You assume I’m as morally bankrupt as you are.”
“I’m not the one kidnapping kids and keeping secrets.” Sloane leaned back in a chair across from Martin, readying for a fight.
A steward entered their compartment and said to Sloane, “Sir, there’s a call for you. It’s urgent.”
Dorian picked up the phone from the wall. “Sloane.”
He listened, then looked up at Martin, surprised. “How?” A moment passed. “You can’t be serious—” He nodded a few times. “No, look, he had to leave by boat. Search the surrounding islands, they couldn’t have gone far. Deploy everyone, bring in troops from local Immari Security and secured Clocktower cells if you have to.” He listened again. “Fine, whatever, use the media to box them in. Kill him and capture her. Call me back when you have her.”
&n
bsp; Sloane hung up the phone and scrutinized Martin. “The girl got away. A Clocktower agent helped her.”
Martin continued surveying the site below.
Sloane put his elbows on the table and leaned close enough to strike Martin. “Fifty of my men are dead, and three floors of Immari Jakarta have been blown to pieces, not to mention the wharf. You don’t seem surprised, Martin.”
“I’m looking at an eighty-year-old Nazi sub and what could be an alien spaceship sticking out of an iceberg off the coast of Antarctica. I’m hard to surprise these days, Dorian.”
Sloane leaned back. “We both know it’s not an alien spaceship.”
“Do we?”
“We will soon.”
42
Somewhere off the Java Sea
For a while, David leaned against the doorframe in the bedroom, watching Kate sleep, waiting to see if she would wake up again. The Immari thugs had really put her through the wringer, and his rescue hadn’t exactly been gentle, either.
Seeing her sleeping there while the waves rolled in and the breeze blew through the room somehow put him at peace. He didn’t understand it. The fall of Jakarta Station in the face of an imminent terror threat—from the very people he had dedicated his life to stopping—was a nightmare scenario. No—the nightmare scenario. But saving Kate had affected David in some way. The world felt less scary now, more manageable. For the first time since he could remember, he was… hopeful. Almost happy. He felt safer. No, that was wrong. Maybe… the people around him were safer, or he felt more confident. Confident that he could protect the people he…
The self-analysis would have to wait. He had work to do.
When it was clear Kate wouldn’t wake up again anytime soon, he withdrew from the room and resumed his work in the hidden chamber below the cottage.
He had told the contractors he wanted a bomb shelter. They had said nothing, but the looks they gave each other said it all. This dude is crazy, but he didn’t argue about the price, so get to work. They had given the room a strong post-apocalyptic, end-of-the-world motif: all concrete walls, a utilitarian built-in metal desk, and just enough room for a cot and some supplies. It was fitting given his situation.
His next move was crucial. He had deliberated about what to do for most of the morning. His first instinct was to contact Clocktower Central. The director, Howard Keegan, was his mentor and friend. David trusted him. Howard would be doing everything he could to secure Clocktower, and he would definitely need David’s help.
The issue was getting in touch. Clocktower didn’t have any back-door communication channels, just the official VPN and protocols. Those would no doubt be monitored—connecting would paint a target on his location.
David drummed his fingers on the metal desk, leaned back in the chair, and stared at the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.
He opened a web browser and scoured all the local and national news. He was procrastinating. There was nothing here that could help him. He did see a wire release about a woman and man sought in connection with a terrorist plot and possible child-trafficking ring. That could slow him down. There were no sketches attached to the article, but they would follow shortly, and every border security agency in Southeast Asia would be on the lookout for both of them.
David had several IDs in the safe house but not much cash.
He opened his bank account. The balance was almost zero. Josh—he had executed the transfers. Was he alive? David had assumed Jakarta Station HQ was attacked when he had been in the streets. There was something else. Several deposits, all small, less than a thousand dollars. All even dollar amounts. It was a code, but what kind? GPS?
9.11
50.00
31.00
14.00
76.00
9.11
9.11—that would be the start and end of the code. The rest: 50.31.14.76. An IP address. Josh had sent him a message.
David opened a web browser and typed in the IP. The page was a letter from Josh.
David,
They’re outside the door. It won’t hold much longer.
I decoded the messages. Click here to read them. I couldn’t figure out what they meant. I’m sorry.
I did find the contact, online at least. He’s using the Roswell Craigslist board to pass messages. Click here to go there. I hope he sends another message and that you stop the attack.
I’m really sorry I couldn’t help more.
Josh
PS: I read your letter and executed the transactions (obviously). I thought you were dead—the sensor on your suit showed no vitals. I hope that doesn’t mess you up.
David exhaled and looked away from the screen for a long moment. He opened the file with the decoded messages: obituaries from the New York Times. In 1947. Josh had done some great work. And he had died thinking he’d failed.
David opened the Roswell Craigslist site, and he saw it immediately—a new message from the contact.
Subject: Running down the clock on a tower of lies
Message:
To my anonymous admirer:
I’m afraid my current relationship has become complicated. I can’t meet you or have any contact. I’m sorry. It’s not me. It’s you. You’re too dangerous for me.
There are 30 reasons and 88 excuses I’ve come up with not to meet you. I’ve run through 81 lies and 86 stories.
I told myself I would meet you.
I even set a date. 03-12-2013
And a time 10:45:00
But the truth is you’re #44 on my list of priorities at this point. And that’s just not enough to pay attention to. Maybe if you were 33. Or 23. Or even 15. It’s just not enough.
I have to cut the power on this and save my kids.
It’s the only responsible thing to do.
David scratched his head. What did it mean? It was clearly a code of some kind. He could really use Josh’s help right now.
David took out a pad and tried to focus. His brain wasn’t built for this sort of thing. Where to start? The first part was pretty straight-forward: the contact was under duress now. He couldn’t meet or send any more messages. Terrific news. The rest was a series of numbers, and the words around them were non-sense. They made sense in this missed connection board, but they had nothing to say and added nothing new to the message. The numbers. They had to mean something.
David began scribbling on the pad, extracting the numbers from the message. In order, they were: 30,88. 81,86.
03-12-2013
10:45:00
#44
33-23-15
The first part: 30,88. 81,86. GPS coordinates. David checked. Western China, right at the border of Nepal and India. Satellite images revealed nothing there… except, what was it? An abandoned building. An old train station.
Next: 03-12-2013 and 10:45:00. A date and time. The contact said he couldn’t meet, so what would be at that abandoned train station? A trap? Another clue? If Josh had read the letter—and followed the instructions—he would have sent everything he’d found to Clocktower Central. If Central was compromised, Immari would know all about the obituaries and the Craigslist board. The message could be from Immari. A set of special forces could be there in China, waiting for David to wander into the crosshairs.
David pushed the thought out of his mind and focused on the last set of numbers in the message: #44 and 33-23-15. It had to be a locker in the train station. Or maybe the number 44 train or car? David rubbed the bridge of his nose and read the posting again.
The sentences after the numbers… It was a different sort of message. Instructions?
“I have to cut the power on this and save my kids.
It’s the only responsible thing to do.”
“Have to cut the power.” “Save my kids.” David turned the phrases over in his mind.
He made the decision: he would go to the coordinates at the specified date and time and see what was really there. He would leave Kate here, where she was safe. She knew something, but he
didn’t know how it fit in. She will be safe here. That was important to him.
Above him, he heard someone walking around the cottage.
43
Al Jazeera Wire Release
Indonesian authorities identify two Americans connected to terror attacks and child-trafficking ring
Jakarta, Indonesia // A string of terror attacks yesterday in Indonesia’s capital of Jakarta have sparked a man-hunt on land, sea, and air. The Indonesian National Police has deployed half of its twelve-thousand-person-strong marine unit in the Java Sea and called in troops from around the country to search Jakarta and the islands surrounding it. Neighboring governments have also joined the search by putting their border and airport security divisions on alert. Authorities have so far been mum on the reason for the attacks, but they have released brief sketches of the suspects.
The woman, Dr. Katherine Warner, has been identified as a genetics researcher performing unauthorized experiments on impoverished children from rural villages outside Jakarta. “We’re still putting the pieces together,” said Police Inspector General Nakula Pang. “We know Dr. Warner’s clinic was the legal guardian of over 100 Indonesian children who were taken without their parents’ consent. We also know Dr. Warner was moving a lot of money via accounts in the Cayman Islands—a common haven for drug smuggling, human trafficking, and other major international crimes. At this time, we believe the clinic was a front for child-trafficking, and from what we can tell, the proceeds may have gone to finance yesterday’s attacks.”
