|
Page 50.
 Cruising at about 500 mph (circa 800 kph), the aircraft took about three hours to reach Kansas City, Missouri. There, at a military field on the periphery of Kansas City International Airport, the plane refueled. Jack stepped off onto the tarmac in the fresh evening air to stretch his legs. As expected, a man and a woman walked steadily toward him. They waved—Claire Lightfield and Johannes Rector—and Jack returned the greeting.
As they stood in a circle of three, Jack said: "Must be a big blow."
"It's a Force Five hurricane for sure," Claire said. She wore a business suit in earth tones, and carried a matching field green raincoat over both arms as they stood together beside the waiting jet. A long tanker truck was just now engaged in a mating ritual with the jet, coupling by means of a main fuel line.
"I lost a man in the field yesterday," Rector said. "I need you to pick up the trail where he left off. It’s critical." He wore a more casual outfit, with a dark green pullover, brown slacks, and gray leather shoes. He carried a ski parka, dark blue, with furry white collar, slung over one shoulder. The airport was, at this hour, a bit windy, a bit warm, a bit humid, and generally comfortable. With the smells of rubber, avgas, and oil in the air—not to mention a host of secondary artificial aromas of industry and transport—it was not the great outdoors. It was not the clean air of the D Ranch. But it was livable. And to Jack, it had that comfortable safeness one found in a civilized democracy, where there weren't knocks on the door at three a.m. and unexplained trips to prison, resulting in one's disappearance or transport to a gulag. Having worked around the world, often at the risk of life and limb, Jack exerted a certain amount of paranoia about his surroundings at all times. It was a walking stress-trauma that went with this line of work.
"And what are we after?"
Rector and Claire explained that Anaconda, the world rival of Camelback, was fielding a new sort of sniper rifle that could kill people from orbit. If that wasn't bad enough, it appeared that a new, shadowy power had risen out of nowhere, and stolen the satellite with which Anaconda hoped to offer its services. They could only be up to no good.
"Not a bad line of business," Jack said appreciatively.
After some minutes, as the fuel truck drove away, they boarded the plane. They sat in plush leather chairs, at a conference table, in the midsection. The young airman brought his menu out, but they now ordered only fresh-brewed coffee, variously with sugar and cream.
"What is this new organization nobody has heard of before?" Jack asked.
Rector said: "They've been around for some years. I would describe their core business as murder and terrorism. They are the world's first global terror brokerage. No matter if you are a guy like Osama bin Laden, sitting in a mud hut in Afghanistan, or a young anarchist in Tokyo, or a militia nut in Kansas, if you can ante up dollars, Euros, or gold, you can buy any service you need. Want to assassinate your country's president? They will send a blond, blue-eyed guy, looks like a church pastor, and he'll garrote or shoot or poison your target. Whatever suits the occasion."
Claire said: "Their agents could be an Arab, a U.S. citizen, a Congo bushman, a North Korean fanatic, or an L.A. gangbanger—no longer limited to any typical own ethnic, religious, or other homey group. Police profiling won't work anymore."
Rector added: "As a secondary effect, the crime rate goes up. A lot of these nuts will rob banks and murder people locally to get the money they need to pay Black Umbrella."
"They're not all nuts, Rector," Claire said. "Black Umbrella, from what we're able to tell, is now actively recruiting among what they call the disaffected. The world is full of lost causes, dispossessed kings, downtrodden ethnic groups. The world is run top-down by imperial consortia, who see common people as an ant farm to be exploited or stepped on as the bottom line optimizes itself—on autopilot, running on programs and routines, on indices and parameters, often without human intervention. That leaves not only billions of victims, but also a lot of lost souls looking for revenge or justice in whatever crooked way BLUM offers."
"To kick things off," Rector said, "it looks like they hijacked Anaconda's new toy during the launch and first orbit. Anaconda was symbolically placing their pet, called the Orbital Sniper Technology, or OST, in orbit over the Tropic of Capricorn, which forms the southern boundary of the tropics." He opened up a creamy clamshell computer, built into the bulkhead, to show a 24 inch screen. He brought live a series of informational sites and maps.
Claire interrupted and pointed at a world map on the screen. "The northern tropical boundary runs through central Mexico in the Americas, while the southern boundary runs through northern Chile, northern Argentina, and south-central Brazil. It totally avoids Europe, but passes through the southern Sahara of Africa in the north, and northern South Africa in the south."
"And most of the land in-between is jungle," Jack observed. "The Amazon, the Congo…"
Claire finished: "…the southern half of India, much of southeast Asia, and northern Australia."
"More jungle," Jack said.
"Right," Rector said. "Home to a lot of dictators where someone with an OST can earn a fortune popping them off. Think about it—some tinpot Caesar happens to control huge oil fields, Anaconda can be hired to silently kill him and put someone in place who is willing to be bribed.”
"I get it, stop with the drama," Jack said. "What am I supposed to do in all of this?"
"Find the spider at the center of the web," Rector said in a hard tone. "We know he goes by the name Dr. Night. Learn all you can. Stop them. Kill if you must. And destroy the technology."
"The usual," Claire said sympathetically. Her tone suggested she meant that Jack could have a desk job anytime he asked for one. “Your insurance is maxed out.”
Jack ignored her.
Rector said: "I was running a lowball agent in Europe, trying to follow the tracks of Project David from China to its new home in Germany under the wing of Anaconda. I think my man, code name Ribeye, found out more than they wanted him to know."
"Do you think you'll get him back alive?"
"Rector shrugged. "Pity. Nice young man. Unless they want to ransom him, I'm afraid he'll turn up dead. I'm just waiting to see how imaginative and creative these Black Umbrella people are in handling their victims."
TOP
Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
|
