The Seraphs Call - Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

May 2033 – 20:55 hrs Tango-The Gulf of Mexico

Strong, unwavering strokes propelled Preacher through the water.  He adapted easily to the pressure, the form fitting black wet suit conformed to his contours, the equipment an extension of his body.  In his wake, only the air bubbles released with each hollowed breath were the lone disturbance as he glided through the midnight blackness.

Preacher neared the objective and primed his halogen dive light.  The beam cut a bright swath through the gloominess and refracted off murky shadows of life that fled its unwelcome intrusion.  He keyed his dive watch and lit up the GPS receiver on his wrist: 74 yards distance, on heading 186.  With a few powerful kicks, Preacher crested a coral outcropping, and sighted the target.  The eerie mass of an oilrig’s main supports rose before him, sixteen pillars of barnacle-encrusted steel.

Preacher depressed the inflation valve on his buoyancy compensator, and rose slowly towards the surface.  It would be simpler to place the explosives on the center support and collapse the entire rig in on itself.  The safety of the sea ensured no possibility of detection.  However, his employer directed him to erase all evidence of this venture.  That meant placing the charges near the fountainhead to ignite the derrick and incinerate any proof. 

If Preacher did this last job, his brother promised that Sephiroth would be next in line.  One carefully staged accident, then onto his real goal.

This is the last time, little brother.

Preacher surfaced near one of the supports and hooked two lines from his dive rig into a structural eyelet.  The nylon line held taught as the swirling currents around the columns tugged at him, hungry to slam him into solid metal and snap his spine in two.  He attached the second line to his waist, and released the clips and slipped from his dive rig, allowing it to float on the surface.  With the power of a sprinter’s legs, he launched himself off the pylon, kicking hard enough to clear the column, allowing the current to swing him towards the small platform used by the rig divers that led upwards into the interior of the rig.  The current was stronger than he expected and his fingers slipped off the wet steel, but the nylon snapped taught and held.  As the swells swept him back toward the small platform, he caught hold of the maintenance ladder, wrapping his forearm around the thin metal rung preventing the sea from dragging him away. 

Preacher shimmied up the metal ladder to the maintenance catwalk.  He clambered onto the metal way, and rubbed the numbness from his hands.  With no moonlight to guide his way on this stormy night, and only the aircraft warning lights providing him with brief blinding images of the shadowy platform, he moved slowly, using his hands to feel his way along the catwalks connecting the columns.  Reaching the first column, he unstrapped the first explosive from his bandolier, placed it against the metal column and flipped the toggle switch, engaging the electromagnet.  He extracted the detonator key from the armpocket of his wetsuit, placed it into the lock, and turned the detonator switch from safe to armed.  The green light changed to solid red and he tugged on the unit to ensure it held to the column.  Though small, these C-5 explosives packed ten the power of their C-4 predecessor and would have no problem destroying the supports to which they were attached.

A dank hour passed as Preacher crawled through the supports of the rig, repeating the process, placing the nine remaining charges at the key weak points and arming each one with the detonator key attached by a lanyard to his wrist.  He reached the catwalk and unhooked the detonator switch strapped to his belt.  The black clouds overhead had removed nearly all traces of ambient light making it difficult for him to see.  He felt for the detent on the switch and inserted the detonator key and turned counterclockwise.  He knew that once he pressed the button on its smooth black cylindrical surface, there would be no turning back.  With a slow deliberate push of his thumb, the light on the detonator switch changed from green to blinking red, sending the signal to all detonators.  All ten detonators now blinked red, indicating fully armed and synchronized.  A simple turn of the detonator key in the other direction and the two-minute countdown would start, causing all of the charges to explode simulataneously.

Reattaching the detonator switch to his waist, Preacher entered the water, slipped into his gear, and with a quick flick of his wrist, released the connection to the column.  The currents threatened to slam him against the huge metal supports, but he fought them.  With strong scissor kicks, he propelled himself down along the support and into the depths, and away from the rig after he had reached a depth where the currents no longer threatened him.  

The unadorned black Jet Ski bobbed on the surface, tethered in place by the sea anchor.  Preacher swam hard, using the GPS unit on his wrist to guide him the quarter mile between himself and the Jet Ski.  The jetski had drifted more than one hundred yards from its original position, putting it further away from the rig.  His legs cramped and his breathing labored as he pushed himself, covering the distance in less than ten minutes,.  The approaching storm was bringing in even stronger waves, making it difficult and he crawled up the back of the jet ski.  With the balance of a tightrope walker, he stood, stripped his dive gear off, and tossed it into the hollow compartment beneath his seat.  He looked up and saw the big wave coming and slammed the cover shut, wrapping his arms around the handlebars just as the wave slammed into jet ski, threatening to toss him into the wild sea.    

Preacher released the sea anchor rope, and now free, the jet ski began to bob mercilessly in the increasing swells.  He grabbed the handlebars and with a quick twist of the throttle, pressed the ignition button, bringing the jet ski to life,   bolting him forward at full throttle toward the barely visible shoreline ten miles to his north

 ***

The sound of a little boy’s excited laughter echoed loudly in the cramped confines of the helicopter causing both his mother and the pilot to cringe from the piercing sound.  Gabriel was excited as any young boy would be, with it having been so long since he had seen his father.  Despite the pained look around her eyes, the young woman still smiled.  Sarah DeMoir shared much of her son’s enthusiasm.   

She leaned forward and tapped on the pilots shoulder.  “I’m sorry about this, Gabriel’s usually so quiet.”

The pilot shook his head and held up his free hand reassuringly.  She couldn’t hear his first response, so he mouthed, “Boys will be boys” and grinned.

 Sarah frowned.  She shuddered, leery at the ever-gleaming smile of this strange pilot.  She did not like the look of this man, even though Jean Phillipe had arranged for this charter himself.  She would say something to him later.  She leaned closer to the front to watch their approach and she heard the pilot speaking on the radio. 

“This is Romeo Delta One, Little Angel is secure, and we are clear to destination.”

She knew most pilots, even if not former military still fancied themselves quasi-military, but using codenames?  Curious, she picked up the spare headset in the passenger compartment and listened.

“How secure is destination, Romeo Delta One.”  The voice came over the headset.

What was going on?  She fought to stifle the sound of her breathing, but gasped,  the sound picked up by the sensitive microphone, catching the pilot’s attention. 

“It’s standard procedure, ma’am, to withhold names over the open-air when transporting the boss’ family members.”  The pilot said.  ‘We wouldn’t want to be the target of opportunity for some stray nut job out.” 

Again, that menacing smile.

Sarah’s hands shook as she sat back.  She wasn’t pleased with having to fly, let alone in such weather, but as they were taking off into the worsening weather, Jean Philipe had come on the radio and reassured her that everything thing would be ok.  Were it not for Gabriel and Jean Philipe’s begging her to visit, she would not have risked this flight.  The anger she felt at feeling manipulated into making this trip still simmered below the surface, but she still loved him and would work on things with him.  Jean Philipe had brought both great joy and great pain to her life and her hazel eyes misted wistfully.  She had not seen him in more than six months and with life’s bump and turns, it was hard for her to remember when they had last spent time together, the hectic business of their life turning those precious few moments into a blur. 

Though angry at him, his call for them to come visit and attempt to reunite their family had been a godsend against the loneliness.  Though living with her son, and having her father nearby for support, Sarah still felt the need for his companionship, for a love that only Jean Phillipe could provide, but she knew that with that love could come a pain as intense.    

Before Jean Philipe left, they had been on the verge of divorce.  Constant bickering between them, what seemed like endless grief and stress caused by fights followed by days of deafening silence from him.  The night he left in anger was the worst of those fights,  She didn’t hear from him for over a month and then finally he called.  asking for another chance and begged her to come to New Orleans and live with him.  At first she was reluctant, but he kept calling, pleading for her to reconsider for both their sake and especially Gabriel’s.  If not for Gabriel, should would not have considered the reunion, but her love for her son and his love for his father tipped the scales.

“This is your last chance, Jean Phillipe.  You better do right by me this time.”  She thought, as she did her best to smile with the boundless enthusiasm of her son.  

***

Jean Phillipe’s lean face tensed with anticipation.  He stood in the control room in front of the radar display, studying the glowing green surface as the invisible beam swept the nighttime sky for the approaching helicopter.  Yes, there it was.  A little dot appeared on the screen on the bearing he had expected.  He pinpointed the little dot with the cursor, ten miles out, less than five minutes away.  He reached above his head, and began to flip the many switches, energizing the lights that would illuminate the landing pad on the deck below.  The halogen lamps flared, and cast the massive shadows of the pumping rigs across the choppy dark water.

The warm gulf air whipped through the open window and battered through the dark wisps of his curly hair.  It looked like a bright end was coming to his dark workday.

Arranging the trip had been simple.  Jean Phillipe had come out here to close the books and very the final shutdown on the oilrig.  The crew was gone, and the platform shut down for dismantling. He would finish his father’s business here, and then they would all fly on to the family Villa in Costa Rica.  There in seclusion they could finally spend some time alone without any interruptions.  Jean Phillipe had resolved his feelings.  His life was meaningless without his family.  He knew he needed Sarah and Gabriel in his life, no matter the grief it caused between him and his father.  No matter how significant the problems between them, he would make it work,. 

Gabriel, the boy they thought they could never have. 

Jean Phillipe, infertile, had felt emasculated, not able to give his wife a child.  From an old Cajun family, it felt like a breaking of an oath for him, not being able to produce an heir.  However, his father Damien, among dabbling in other things, owned the Raven Genetics Lab and several of its clinics.  One of them focused on infertility, a problem common among the old rich families of New Orleans. 

Damien had demanded his son seek treatment

The DeMoir family, though having a strong Catholic heritage, had long ago drifted from anything having to do with God.  Damien, as his father before him, preferred a more practical approach--that of science and cold reality, so Jean Phillipe conceded to his father, and underwent the program.  Within months, Sarah was pregnant with Gabriel.  The birth had seemed ordained, only one child coming from the fertilized egg, the baby they were meant to have.

Gabriel’s birth saved their already shaky marriage. 

Jean Phillipe treasured the boy from the start, and gave him every advantage that money could buy and many of those that money could not.  He doted on Gabriel, unlike how his father had treated him.  He had promised himself many times he would be the father his own father had not.  Though he was a model father to Gabriel, he was less than that as a husband.  The upbringing under Damien’s thumb shone through on many occasions, his little richboy arrogance causing many rifts between him and Sarah . It had been during one of their many heated fights that it happened .  Gabriel, only six months old, spoke his first sentence.  .  Their argument was so heated, they didn’t even notice him enter the room.  Gabriel stood there until they both were hoarse and panting, then walked up to them and grabbed them both by the hands.

“Mommy, Daddy.  Why are you fighting?”

Those words still haunted Jean Phillipe.  

For nearly two years, their attention focused more on Gabriel, his intellect the much needed distraction, their marriage surviving only because of the lack of attention to it. 

By the time Gabriel was three, they realized he was not like other children.  Specialist after specialist couldn’t explain his abilities, couldn’t explain his aptitude to learn things children ten years his senior had difficulty grasping.  Genius was a term many of them used, a term which caused Sarah and Jean Phillipe great concern.  These same specialists were the ones that wanted to take Gabriel for more testing, wanted to study him like a laboratory animal, but they would have no part of it, not wanting their son to be labeled a freak.  They tried to get him into a school, and although he far exceeded their standards for admittance, none in Louisiana would allow him to enroll because of his age.  The stress of dealing with an educational system unable to help their son brought their simmering problems back to the surface, igniting both of them into arguments with which they had been so familiar.  Sarah’s father, Joshua, came up with the solution to help Gabriel and indirectly help them save their marriage.  They would home school him until he could be admitted.

With a renewed vigor, and Joshua’s guidance, they researched and learned all the necessary elements for Gabriel’s advanced education and began the difficult process of teaching him things they themselves had difficulty understand.  As a family they grew together, and as husband and wife, Jean Phillip and Sarah felt as if their marriage would survive.  As Gabriel became more intelligent and surpassed even their abilities to teach, their frustration at being unable to help him became evident and the bickering returned,  smoldering with each passing week, the issues that had never been resolved between erupting into arguments so volatile that Joshua was forced to intervene.   It was during the last fight that Jean Phillip has left, his anger seathing more at himself than at her for allowing the situation to return as it had been before.  

Tears misted Jean Phillipe’s eyes as the memories flooded him, bringing to the surface of his mind how much he missed them both.  Wiping his eyes, he left the control room, and descended the ladder to the deck, thirty feet below.  Jean Phillipe walked to the edge of the three large luminescent orange circles painted on the deck.  As he eyed the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of the chopper, the first fat droplets of rain began to fall. 

   ***

The magnificence of the ocean and the immensity of the oil platform they were approaching enthralled Gabriel.  He never dreamed of anything so enormous, dwarfed only by the vast ocean that surrounded it. 

The intensity of the high-powered lights and gas burn-off stack cast a spectral sheen across the water, the large mechanical pumps, and drilling equipment moving in strange symmetry. 

The smile lit up Gabriel’s face as he saw his father standing near the bright circles painted on the oilrig where the pilot said they would land.  He missed his father so much and was so happy to be able to see him again.  He started jumping around in his seat, but his mother told him jokingly to calm himself or he might make the pilot crash.

***

 Thirty seconds passed and now at a safe distance from the carnage to come, he slowed the jetski to idle turning back toward the rig.  With the platform now a looming ghost on the midnight horizon, its lights fading into the stormy night sky, he slowed the jetski to idle and pulled the detonator switch from his belt.  With one glimpse back, he turned the key on the detonator switch, activating the timers on the explosive charges, just as the sound of a low flying jet helicopter’s engines and rotors pierced through the sound of the approaching storm.

What the hell? 

Preacher watched aghast as the bright beams of the coruscating halogens from the landing deck tore through the blackness of the night, lighting up the platform.  A responding beam shot from the sky above, the lance of the landing lights from the helicopter that had begun its circle for descent.  The platform was supposed to be abandoned, but obviously his intel was wrong.

Preacher ripped an emergency flare from his vest and yanked the lanyard sending the arrow-like phosphorus charge spiraling into the air in the helicopter’s direction, but it didn’t deviate from its course. 

“Son of a b***h,” he swore and kicked the engine of his jet ski to roaring life. 

 “Look, Damnit!  See it!”

The helicopter continued its descent. 

Preacher gunned the throttle, the headlight bobbing up and down in the ocean swells as he raced the Jet Ski towards the platform.  He brought the nose high out of the water on each swell, hoping to attract their attention with the light. 

No time left.  This isn’t working. 

Releasing the handlebars, he snatched the last flare from his pocket, and pointed it directly at the helicopter.  The unexpected flash of light blinded him, causing him to drop the flare.  The C-5 charges had detonated early, the blast of intense heat scorching his exposed skin as the huge orb of fire rocketed into the sky

***

The fireball consumed the platform, unleashing hell’s inferno, incinerating Gabriel’s father right before his eyes.  The boy watched with morbid fascination, for the split second it took the fire to consume his father’s body.  At first, he didn’t realize what had happened.  The whole scene assumed an unreality in his young mind. 

Then the force of the explosive shock waves slammed into the helicopter, sending it into an uncontrollable spin - his mother’s screams snapping him out of his temporary numbness as they careened into the tumultuous sea.  Gabriel’s fear welled inside him and he screamed as the darkness came.  The helicopter now a lifeless skeleton, slipped slowly beneath the surface of the sea, its interior rapidly filling with the black water that threatened to consume Gabriel in its ice cold grip.  Unable to see, and unable to swim, he began to sink, gulping for any breath of air, his screams of panics forcing out what little air remained in his tiny lungs, his little arms and legs thrashing frantically about for any handhold

Gabriel grasped twisted metal, his face surging straight into the clammy body of the pilot.  The man was dead, his eyes staring through the mass of pulped blood and bone.  The boy screamed, flailing away from the sight, sinking into the darkness.  Breathing in water with every ragged gasp, he felt the shivering spasms of his life ebbing. 

Then Gabriel felt lifted from the blackness.  His lungs filled with air as his mother’s hands pushed him to the surface of the air pocket.  The wail of his cries rose, pitched above the fury of the sea.

 

The shock waves that followed the blast knocked Preacher off the Jet Ski, sending him hurtling through the air.  He would have sunk, but the buoyancy of his wet suit bulleted him to the surface.  Stunned, it took a few moments for him to regain his bearings.  He spied the jet ski yards away, slowly churning in circles as if waiting for him and he swam close enough to reach and pull the key from the ignition, allowing him to drag himself onto the seat. 

The firey debris and flotsam lay in all directions, surrounding Preacher in the darkness.  The giant obelisk that rose from the remains of the oilrig was a fury of light and flame, heating the water about the drill pipe to a churning boil.  The helicopter’s fuselage floated on its side, its tail twisted and bent from the impact, making it appear like a mortally wounded  sea-creature, rising and falling in its death throes with the ever-growing swells. 

Preacher and his brother had chosen this night to carry out their plan, knowing a storm would erase all evidence, and now, that same storm threatened to capsize the remains of the helicopter, taking with it the lives of those aboard.  He didn’t know how many people were on board, nor if they were alive, but it wouldn't be long before the sinking aircraft settled into the murky depths below. 

His first thought was to let them sink, but even with him, as cold and callous as he had become, a little remained of what could be called a conscience.  With a slight pressure on the throttle, Preacher maneuvered through the burning debris, stopping within inches of the chopper.  As he reached the aircraft, the surging waves turned the helicopter upside down, making a conventional entrance impossible.  He would have go in from underneath. 

Straddling the jetski, he yanked open the seat compartment, inflated the vest, and tossed his dive rig into the water.  Grabbing his mask and fins, he followed.  With great effort, Preacher forced both his arms through the straps of the rig, kicked, and flipped it over his head.  The storm was intensifying, the waves threatened to rip the vest from his body.  He slipped the fins on his feet, mask over his scorched face, and fastened the chest straps of his BC vest and released the air, causing him to sink just beneath the surface.  With no weight belt, he would have to fight to stay under.  He could not see, and pulled the halogen from his vest and pointed it toward the sinking helipcopter.  Its beam was just enough to cut through the murkiness, a burning mixture of oil, water, and jet fuel. 

With great effort he swam, pushing himself deeper fighting the swirling currents and reached the bottom of the near fully submerged helicopter. 

He pressed his masked face against the windshield of the helo, but could barely see.  Was that movement? 

He pulled himself along the side, the buoyancy of the wet suit and vest threatening to drag him to the surface, and grasped the handle on the door.  He tried to turn it, but it would not budge--locked or jammed.  With few minutes remaining before the helicopter would become a watery grave, Preacher pulled his dive knife from the sheath on his calf.  He pounded on the small vent window with the hardened steel pommel, feeling it shatter from the force.

Restricted by the small opening, he pushed his arm through searching for the latch., and flipped it with this fingertips, feeling the mechanism release.  He strained and  and pulled on the door,  but the impact had warped the door, jamming it in place.  He levered his arm, braced his feet against the fuselage and with all his strength wrenched the door open.  The sudden release from the frame caused him to lose his hold and a jagged piece of wreckage sliced his forearm from wrist to elbow, severing tendons and ligaments controlling his hand.  The pain shot through his body, pushing him to the limits of consciousness.  With all motor control to his hand gone, the dive light fell from his grasp and dangled on the lanyard attached to his vest.  He reached to grab the light, but his hand was unresponsive. 

  Can’t stop now. 

He fumbled for the light with his left hand, and fighting back the pain that threatened to consume his consciousness, he used his injured right arm to brace himself from floating to the surface.  He pointed the small halogen light through the open door, and the beam reflected off the shiny interior of the cockpit, allowing Preacher to see the body of the pilot, deformed by the carnage, and a woman, suspended in the cloudy water.  The seawater splashed his goggles as he saw a small pair of legs kicking frantically but failing to stay above the ever-rising water. 

Just a kid, the other two are already dead…gotta save the kid. 

The turbulent sea shifted the chopper farther and the last air began to leak out as Preacher pulled himself into the compartment.  He swam up to the boy, reached with his good arm, and grabbed the boy around the waist.  The boy started screaming and kicking, trying to get away.  Preacher pushed his face into the small air pocket, and flipped his mask up, staring into the boy’s eyes.

 “Look kid, stop screaming and listen to me.”  Preacher yelled over the sounds of the storm.  “This chopper is sinking.  I have to get you out now.  Can you hold your breath?” 

The boy nodded. 

“Put your arms around my neck.  On the count of three, I’m want you to take a deep breath and hold it and don’t let go until we get out of the water.”  Preacher pulled his mask down, and began to count, “Ready, one…two…three.” 

With the boy’s arms now in a death grip around his neck, Preacher thrust himself off the ceiling of the chopper and swam out the door using his good arm to pull himself and the boy through the opening,   With powerful strokes, he surfaced near the Jet Ski and pushed the boy onto the seat.  He could only push with one arm, and banged his injured arm against the frame of the jet ski, the flashes of light caused by the intense pain making him lose focus.   

Preacher bit back the curse, and pushed the pain from his mind, his brain subconsciously releasing the endorphins into his system, massive amounts of adrenelin now pumping through his body as the shock caused by the injury began to set in.  Slipping from his dive rig, he climbed onto the jetski, pulled the struggling boy to the front, and yanked open the lid to the compartment,.  The emergency raft lay below and he tossed it to the water, pulled the inflation cord as it left his hands.  The bright yellow raft inflated quickly.  “Get in, “he said as he motioned toward the raft.  He didn’t wait for a response and grabbed the squirming boy by the waist and tossed him into the bobbing raft.  He had no option but to leave the boy here, sure that the Coast Guard was already en route because of the explosion and would find him.

The boy turned and stared at Preacher, reaching out of the raft and glancing towards the chopper, screeching one word, “Momma!”

The look in the kid’s eyes was like nothing Preacher had ever seen.  He didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to help.      

“Don’t worry kid...I’ll get her.”  Preacher shouted above the din of the stormy seas and tied off the raft to the jet ski,   “Stay here and hold on…”

 

From his vantage point on the beach, the short stout man watched through his high-powered night-vision binoculars as the helicopter flew low across the water, nearing its final destination.  The radio crackled with interference.  The small transmitter, at the extent of its range, strained to contact the other end.  “Genesis One, this is Cradle Eyes; subject is in route to final destination.” 

He strained to hear the response from the other end as it came in brief sputtering bursts.  ‘Cradle… hold…..track.”

“Genesis One, Say….Oh My God!” As the words escaped his lips, the bright flash of light filled the skies, causing him to jerk his head to the side, blinded from the flaring in his eyes.  He keyed the microphone, panic evident in his voice, “Genesis One.  Cradle Eyes.  There was a big explosion, status of subject unknown.  I repeat, Status of subject unknown.

The radio hissed in his ear as he waited.  The response was not what he expected, “Cradle Eyes, this is Genesis One.  Roger.  Return to base.  Your mission is complete.  Coast Guard rescue in route.”

“Roger, Genesis One, Cradle Eyes returning to base, out.”

 

Gabriel and his mother would have drowned had it not been for the man in the black suit.  The boy did not remember much after he made it to the life raft.  He saw his mother, not moving, the blood pouring from the deep gash across her forehead.  His young eyes had never seen death or injury; his innocent mind vaguely registering that his mother needed help. 

Gabriel wanted to do something to save her, but he didn’t know what to do.  The fear and shock gripped him, stifling words before they passed his lips.  In the blackness of the night, he could hear the man’s voice, urging him to stay awake, to battle the horrifying numbness that threatened to envelop him.

The Coast-guard chopper arrived within the hour.  Though not injured physically, the horror of the night damaged Gabriel’s mental state, scarring the boy for life, forever changing his world and destroying the stability he once knew.  He felt so alone.

 

Vice President Theodore Porter purpled with rage.  He was awake at 1:00 am because of an emergency phone call from the Director of the NSA.  A black ops experiment that Porter composed in his interim as head of the agency had fallen apart because of one fool.  The man responsible for Porter’s ill mood stood stock-still before from him. 

The NSA director was a pale, thin Oxford type, with a weak chin, and a mouth that quivered when he spoke.  “Sir, in a black-op of this nature we cannot cover all contingencies…”

“No but you should have people with enough wit to think on their feet.”  Porter snapped.

“Sir, we did substitute the charter pilot with one of our own people…”  The man blanched, looking like he wanted to shrink and disappear in front Porter’s wrathful gaze.

“No excuses!  Whoever destroyed that platform and brought the chopper down seems to have better intelligence then we do, and I want to know why!”  Porter hurled the agency report across his desk, barely missing the Director.  He took great satisfaction in watching the man bow before him to recover the brief.

“I will have the analysts and field agents on it immediately sir.  Sir the subject…”

“Never mind the subject!  I will fix your screw-up personally! Now get out!”  Porter barked, his hands clenched, as he imagined leaping across the desk and throttling the Director.

“Yes sir…”  The director clenched the report in his shaking hands.

The director’s departure reminded Porter of the scampering of a beaten animal, and the Vice President smiled in satisfaction.  He swiveled his chair to face the man that strode from the office lavatory.  “This complicates things.”

The thin, dark-haired man’s nose twitched, a tick that caused Porter to grimace, ”Coast Guard Rescue is already enroute.  They should be at the crash site in less than ten minutes.  Let’s hope we haven’t lost the subject.”

The President responded, “Yes.  Let’s hope not, Roger.  Now get on this and keep me posted.

  Roger Janus strode from the President’s office, already dialing the number to his contact.

***

Huddled in a blanket, Gabriel sat, shivering in the cold dark interior of the rescue chopper, the wind howling through the open door as the screams of the rotor blades cut through the night air.  He watched the paramedics working feverishly over his mother, feeling the sense of urgency, the ticking of the clock counting down the last seconds of her life. 

The Coast Guard crew spoke about the man with Gabriel and his mother, assuming he had drowned, but Gabriel knew differently.  He had watched as the man had placed the small silver cylinder in his mouth and slipped beneath the waves.  Had they searched longer, instead of concentrating on Gabriel and his mother, they would have seen him as Gabriel had, surfacing in the distance, climbing aboard the little black boat, and driving away.  Though Gabriel did not know why, he had not spoken a word to make them the wiser.

***

Five minutes elapsed and there was knock at the door to the Oval Office, President Theodore Porter looked up from his desk and spoke, “Come”

Roger Janus strode through the curved door, “Mr. President, the subject has been retrieved by Coast Guard Rescue and is enroute to local medical facility.

The President smiled and thought, The little rat has proven himself worthy of a bit more cheese, “Excellent.  Take care of the situation”

Now happy with receiving the President’s approval, Janus spoke, “I have people on location, someone perfect for the job.”

“Someone medically trained that can evaluate the subject?”

The man smiled, his needlelike canines making him look feral.  “Yes.  Very well trained.  Should he take the subject into protection?”

“No, that would bring up too many questions…better to arrange something to keep the cover intact.”  Porter turned to the folder on his desk, marked with large red letters: top secret.  “Is the third stage of the development progressing?”

“We have still not overcome the difficulty with the speed of the matrices.  We are continuing to change normal subjects instead; I will put the project back on schedule.”

“It had better be.  I have not given you the latitude you requested just to see you fail like your predecessor.”

The implied warning held in Porter’s reply caused Dr. Roger Janus to sneer more vilely, “I will not fail, Mr. President, …”

***

Lieutenant Rob Davis had applied triage to the woman as soon as the lift had winched her into the coast guard chopper.  Blood stained his dungarees.  It took him several minutes to stop the external bleeding, and attach the monitoring electrodes of the portable EKG to the pale skin of her chest.  His clean-shaven boyish face was tight with concentration, blue eyes intent under the short black hair, as he sought any sign that his patient had stabilized.

 “BP 100 over 20 and dropping.  I don’t think we can hold her,” His assistant, a wavy haired kid just out of coast guard medical barked out the reading from the EKG, breaking Davis’ concentration.  The kid was too tight with procedure and would not have been the first choice for a sub on this flight had David had his way.  Too tight meant, too likely to lose it, when a real emergency came to bear.

The woman started to convulse, and Davis grabbed hold of her trying to restrain her so she would not cause more injury to herself.  She gave a shudder and gasped for breath.  Davis could hear the rattle in her lung as she struggled to take in air.  She wheezed something in his ear as her arms reached towards the boy.  He could barely make out her words.  “Please, my son…”

Her body fell limp in Davis’ arms.  He heaved her back into the stretcher and tapped her neck for a pulse; there was none.  She did not move.  Her chest still; her lips began turning cyanic blue.  “We’re losing her!  She’s not breathing give me an airway!”

The kid struggled to tilt her head back, checking for blockages.  He bagged her, trying to force oxygen into her lungs, while Davis thumped her chest between pumps.  “Breathe damn you!”

The warning blared from the EKG--flat line.

“Cardiac Arrest, 700 mgs of adrenaline stat. Give me the paddles” Davis tried to keep the edge out of his voice, to calm the sense of panic he heard in the kid’s voice.

The kid’s hands shook as he pawed for the hypo and the adrenaline vial in the emergency kit.  He almost dropped the glass vial before his was able to jab the needle through the rubber stopper.  “700 mgs adrenaline, sir….”  The kid looked faint.

Davis tore the hypo from his assistant’s nerveless grasp and plunged under her fifth rib, into her heart muscle.  He set the defibrillator, wrenching the paddles from the sockets with one hand as he flipped the switch to charge to 300 milliamps.  “Charge 1, 2, 3....  CLEAR...” 

WHOOMP.  Davis touched the paddles to either side of her chest, and her body spasmed upwards.

“Nothing...Damnit...Do it again!”  His assistant reported.

“Charge 1, 2, 3...CLEAR...” 

WHOOMP!

“Still nothing....”

“One more time...Charging 1, 2, 3...CLEAR...” 

WHOOMP!

“Beep...beep...beep…” the cardiac sine wave spiked on the EKG then settled into a steady rhythm.

“OK, we got her back...”  Davis breathed a sigh of relief.

“BP 100 over 40 and holding.”  The kid looked like he was ready to have a nervous breakdown.  This was the last time he would be on an emergency flight.  After what Davis was going to put into his report, the young medic would be lucky if the Coast Guard posted him at a station treating emergency paper cuts. 

“County General, this is Coast Guard Rescue Flight 115.  Patient’s critical with severe internal injuries--request immediate Life Flight Unit to meet us at Pier 27--ETA 15 minutes.” 

The reply from County General came as a surprise, “Coast Guard Rescue Flight 115, County General.  Proceed directly to County General.  Trauma team is standing by.

The voice of their pilot came over the comm.

“Negative!”  Davis yelled over his headset, “We just received word from headquarters to transport her directly to St. Francois Memoria.  Don’t ask my why.  Get a hold of the St. François Memorial and tell them to have a trauma team waiting for us on the roof.”

 

The medics exploded through the door into the E.R., bulleting the gurney carrying the injured woman to the trauma room.  It was 2 a.m. and the attending surgeon was a recently transferred-in 2nd year resident.  A silver clasp bound his long blue-black hair in a ponytail, hawkish young features twisted with worry as he went over the patient with the help of the nurses and orderlies.  Massive internal hemorrhaging, severe trauma to back, neck and skull--without a miracle, Dr. Shelby Holiday knew this one wouldn’t survive. 

Whatever his skills, he’d have to try.  He didn’t feel much like failing the little boy that huddled miserably out in the waiting room.

 

His mother was dead.  Gabriel had seen the look in her eyes, as they wheeled her into the hospital, like a soul escaping into peace.  He could not manage to shed a tear, his mind overwhelmed, feeling stranded, for the first time being alone in the world.  Crouched in some forgotten corner, he called up the strength to let a single tear trail down his young cheek, the diamond death of his spirit.

 

The precious seconds turned into deadly minutes, the E.R. doctors performing emergency thoracic surgery to stem the flow of blood from the woman’s vital organs, but their work was in vain.  Her wounds, deep and many from the impact of the explosion, were more than they could handle, even with four pairs of hands clamping off the many vessels that had ruptured or torn.  As the shift doctor, Dr. Holiday called the time of death at 2:18. 

The task of telling the next of kin was something had never nor ever wanted to become used to, striving to preserve his sense of humanity in a sometimes-cold profession.  Now came the most difficult part for Holiday, having to tell the boy that his mother was dead.  He trusted his training had prepared him for this moment. 

He stepped out and scanned the waiting room, hoping to break the news gently.  A look of worry crossed his face when he noticed the boy huddled under a table in the corner.  The fear he saw on the boy’s face made it clear to him that this was going to be harder than he could have ever imagined.   

Walking to the corner of the room, he crouched, bringing himself to the boy’s level, and began speaking softly.  “Hello, Son.  Can you come out from underneath there so I talk to you for a moment?” 

The boy didn’t respond, staring past Shelby as if he wasn’t there, rocking back and forth as if in a trance.  Shelby reached out to nudge the boy, but before he could, the boy’s hand shot out, and grabbed his wrist with a grip like iron. 

Gabriel looked into Shelby’s eyes and whispered two barely audible words.

“I know.”

 

Reviews

[Hans von Lieven]

This is a good start to the book. There are still a number of little glitches that need attending to but by and large it is there. Excellent writing on to the next chapter

Hans von Lieven