The Seraphs Call - Chapter Twenty One

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Tocumen International Airport, Panama City, Panama

As Dr. Jorge Velasquez left the plane, the Panamanian humidity permeated his clothes, the sweat drenching his body.  Even the air-conditioners, forcing the cold air into the small concourse failed to hold back the dampness that began to seep into his clothing.  He felt the rivulets of sweat form run down his forehead, neck and underarms, as he moved his two hundred and fifty pound frame down the walkway.  At 5’10”, he knew he carried more weight than he should, but all his attempts at losing it had failed.  The long nights researching, the poor meals, the inadequate hours of sleep all contributed to his robust form.  In the heat of tropics, he would feel it even more, the temperature and near one hundred percent humidity slowing his pace as he dragged the heavy carry-on satchel behind him.  He would be miserable for the next seven days, gaining reprieve from the torturous heat with the coolness of the occasional shower.  

Jorge saw the United Nations security detail waiting at the end of the concourse.  They would escort him, under armed guard to the U.N. mission in Panama City.  He felt this unnecessary as he knew the Panamanian people, or at least he thought he did, but agreed to go with them even before he arrived.  The young U.N. Captain who headed the detail stepped forward to greet him. 

“Dr. Velasquez, Captain Timothy Mattox with U.N. Detachment, Welcome to Panama City,” the tall dark haired man barked, the strong rough voice causing Jorge to flinch. 

“Yes.  I am Dr. Velasquez, Thank you, but do you have to yell.” Jorge winced.

The young man’s face flushed red with Jorge’s comment and he changed his voice to a normal level, “Sorry, Sir.  Your escort awaits.  If you will come with me, we will leave for the compound immediately.” 

They stepped from the terminal into the loading area.  Except for the U.N. Convoy, the passenger pickup area lay deserted.  The many taxis, most in state of near breakdown, the many S.A.C.A buses – the cities transit authority, the poor people milling about asking for handouts, all which he remembered, were absent.  The parking lot, normally full of cars, now sat empty.  He eyes swept the complex and saw only uniforms, the United Nations troops in the foreground and the Panamanian police standing watch at their posts in the distance at the airport entrance.  The military barricades blocked the roadway and redirected the traffic that crowded the two lanes leading into the airport to the outbound.  Vehicles jammed the Tumba Muerto Highway, Tomb of the Dead, the memorial highway leading back to the heart of the city, trying to force their way in, poor desperate to escape the plague that ravaged their city. 

In the cases in Panama, the military ruthlessly destroyed all dead and the remains by fire.  They inflamed the desperation of the poor to escape by quarantining most of the areas infected in mass.  Several quarters of the city became virtual prisons and for some mass tombs.

He turned to his escort, “Captain.  What is the state of the city now?”

Captain Mattox shook his head, his expression changing to that of frustration, “Since the outbreak of this Lucifer X virus, the people have been going crazy.  There is looting in certain areas, Chorrillo, and the shopping districts are dangerous to uniformed personnel.  Command sanctioned us to use deadly force after an angry mob attacked one of our convoys, dragged all twelve members from their vehicles and beat them to death.  We will stay on Tumba Muerto, until we reach the old air station at Corozal, from where the mission will be staged.  I recommend you keep your head down, Doctor.  We took sniper fire on the way in, and we must get you to the complex.”

What the Captain Mattox related as they drove dumbfounded Jorge.  He knew Panamanians to sometimes take matters into their own hands, but the wide scale looting and sniper attacks?  Lucifer X caused this rampage, and before the virus ran its course, Jorge was sure the damage would be far worse.

They loaded into the five awaiting trucks, the four in front armed with turret-mounted dual barreled fifty-caliber machine guns, and the rear truck armed with a tow-missile launcher system for long distance targets.  Jorge felt distinctly like he was being girded to go into battle.  He found the reason soon enough as they traveled the Tumba Muerto.  Even along the major artery of Panama City, damage from the war against Lucifer X was evident, abandoned cars in various states of wreckage, buildings riddled with suppressing fire, and every so often a gaping hole where bomb or missile had nearly leveled a building making the rows appear gape-toothed. 

Jorge turned to Captain Maddox.  “What is going on here Captain, it looks like two armies have fought for this city.”

“Not two armies Dr.” Maddox shook his head, “factions of the Panamanian Army.”

“I thought they only had Civil Defense forces?”

“That was until the last election…the new President, Juarez has been actively recruiting to fill the structure of the New Panamanian Military…problem is he’s been recruiting illiterate hill farmers and mercenaries to fill everything past the core Army.”

“I can’t believe Juarez would bring mercenaries into Panama,” Velasquez said, shaking his head.

“Believe it, Sir.  We have three factions, farmers who routinely refuse their orders and open fire on anyone trying to force them, mercenaries who are sacking and pillaging the city because they aren’t getting paid, and the core Panamanian Army aided by us and the U.S. forces.  What we have here is a major SNAFU.  This virus has brought us one major Charlie foxtrot,” the young captain said.

“What about the civilians?  How are they reacting to all of this?”  Velasquez asked.

“That’s hard to tell, Sir.  Sometimes it’s calm.  Sometimes it’s a loony bin out there. The only stable places are the Government District, docks and waterfront, and the Canal Zone.  All the streets and other districts major or not, can change hands on a daily basis. 

“We don’t seem to be having any problems so far, Captain?  Aren’t you over exaggerating it a bit?” Velasquez spoke, the look of disbelief starting to cross his brow.

“Dr., the only reason why this one’s safe as it is, is that we’ve set checkpoints within sight of each other with 50 Caliber machine gun nests, and teams of Dragon Missiles strategically placed on the hillsides.  Howard Air Force Base and Corozal Air Station offer tactical support whenever either faction makes an overt movement to threaten the Canal Area, otherwise we’d be sitting ducks.”

“This reminds me of the ‘Just Cause’ invasion, only it looks a lot worse.”  Velasquez said, looking around at the destruction left by the fighting.

“I don’t know about that one, Sir.  I was too young when that one went down, but from what the old-timers say, no offense, is that this one makes ‘Just Cause’ look like a playground fight,” the Captain responded.

  Velasquez was about to respond when the sound of a ricocheting round echoed within the interior of the humvee.  Captain Timothy Mattox slammed his foot into the gas pedal causing the humvee to lurch forward as they accelerated rapidly.  Velasquez watched in fascination as the young man turned the wheel hard to left and then hard to the right, causing the humvee to nearly tip as the four thousand pound vehicle was pushed to its limits, the man strapped into the turret, apparently used to this maneuver, returned fire from the mounted machine guns to the suspected positions of enemy fire. 

Captain Timothy Mattox reached for the microphone clipped to the dash and spoke, “Corozal Air Support, this is Uniform Nancy One.  We are inbound and taking fire.  Request suppression fire. Over. ”

The voice returned over the radio, “Uniform Nancy One. This is Corozal Air Support. Copy.  The birds are in the air.”

They covered the last mile to the Corozal Air Station, zigzagging to prevent the snipers from getting a stationary target.  As they approached the gate, they slowed, only long enough for the massive semis blocking the way to move, allowing them to slip between them and into the safety of the compound.  As the last vehicle made it into the compound, the two large rigs moved back into place and the convoy came to a stop, now shielded by the hilly ground of Corozal and the large trucks blocking the entrance. 

 Velasquez watched as two Cobra J-1 Attack Helos flew over their heads, the backwash from the whisperjet engines buffeting the parked humvees.  Not fifteen seconds elapsed when he heard the telltale sounds of rocket and mini-gun fire erupting from the two helos that had just flown overhead.  Visibly shaken, he turned to the young man in the driver’s seat, and spoke, “Jesus Christ, Captain!”

“No Sir.  That was U.S. Army.  J.C. had nothing to do with it,” the Captain answered as he exited the vehicle, “This time we were lucky,” he stopped and turned, a morbid smile appearing on his face, “there’s usually rocket fire from the hills.”

June 17, 2049 – 0500 Hours U.N Research Facility – Stone Mountain, Ga.

Shelby read the message again.  He was a little surprised to find Illyana’s name mentioned in a communiqué from Geneva, specifically that she was failing to provide the project data as previously instructed.  It was signed by none other than Isaak Morikov, Director of U.N. Intelligence Operations. 

This was the second message in as many days, and he was concerned.  He hadn’t been aware that she was reporting data to Geneva.  No project data was to be transmitted without his review and authority, which meant that either she had bypassed him and gone directly to Gabriel for approval, or worse yet, she was sending data without authorization. 

With recent events, anomalies with the project, experiments gone awry, and disappearances of project personnel, his concern was reaching more than a mere curiosity.  Was someone deliberately trying to sabotage the project?  His first order of business would be to talk to Illyana about this message. 

The phone call to the genetics lab went unanswered.  This had been happening quite a bit lately, and his irritation at lack of protocol was increasing.  He had managed to instill in the members of the project the use of protocol to keep things orderly and it had served them well to date, however, lately people had been letting things slip.  The genetics lab was required to be manned at all times, many of the experiments requiring constant monitor. 

He knew that Illyana, being the early riser, was normally in the lab, heavily involved in some aspect of her genetics research.  Calling again, he let the phone ring and placed the receiver on the desk.  Pushing away from his desk, he exited the room into the hall. 

His office was only 50 yards down the hallway from the genetics lab, close enough to make it before the phone system shut down the connection.  Covering the distance in less than thirty seconds, Shelby passed his badge in front of the card reader waiting for authorization. 

He was rewarded with the annoying beep to which he’d only recently become accustomed and keyed in the six-digit authorization and waited.  Within seconds, the audible click of the locking mechanism releasing allowed him to proceed.  As he entered the external decontamination alcove, the area used for donning the pristine white, but highly uncomfortable coveralls, he glanced into the confines of the lab and saw no one. 

That’s odd.  There’s always someone here.  Where is everyone? 

The decontamination cycle finished and he slid the small panel in the wall aside revealing the sanitary coveralls.  Quickly slipping them on, he pushed the release for the door to the inner laboratory, hearing the hiss as the door slid open and the pressure equalized, the negative ventilation system keeping any airborne pathogens from escaping. 

His first step into the lab activated the pressure pad embedded into the floor and the door closed quickly behind him, the pressure building again, causing his ears to pop.  He was safely within the confines of the genetics laboratory.  Only few were allowed to enter, and yet fewer still knew the importance of what was happening here.  Here was the heart of the Gabriel Virus. 

The first thing that caught his eye not a single soul was there, which meant experiments were not being performed, critical data not being collected.  They were on a strict timeline.  This was unlike Illyana to leave the lab in such a state, and very unlike her to not be here at this time of morning. 

He could still hear the phone ringing in her office and went to break the connection.  The contents of her office were in a state of disarray, very uncharacteristic and very strange.  Something was out of order.  Dialing the number to the security office, he waited…one ring…two rings…three rings…

“Security.  Captain Jackson speaking.”

“Captain, this is Dr. Holiday.  Do you know the whereabouts of Dr. Andropov?”

“Dr Holiday, no offense sir, but we have over three hundred people at this facility.  I have no idea where Dr. Andropov is.  Have you tried her quarters?”

“No, Captain, I have not tried her quarters.  I was hoping she had checked in with you as she is not at her office or in the lab.  Can you check to see the last time she badged in or badged out?”

“Yes, Dr. I can do that.  Is this an emergency?
”In a matter of speaking,” Shelby huffed, his frustration with the Captain increasing, “I need to find Dr. Andropov right away as it’s a matter of U.N. Official business.  I’m sure you understand official business, Captain.”

What an a*****e, Abraham thought.  I’m left in charge of security and I have to deal directly with this guy.

“Doctor, I am very aware of official business.  I will be glad to check on Dr. Andropov if you will give me a few minutes.  Lt. Colonel Reutger left this morning and has left me in charge of the security detachment, which means that I have many more duties to perform.  I will get the information and call you back.  Which number can I reach you at?”

“What do you mean Reutger left?  He’s not supposed to leave this facility if Rathborn is not here.  Who gave authorization for that?”

“I believe that he did.  Doctor.”

“You believe that he did, Captain.  And who gave him authorization to make that decision?”  Shelby quipped.

In a very stern and authoritarian voice, which caught Shelby by surprise, Abraham replied, “Doctor Holiday.  According to standard military protocol, Colonel Rathborn is in charge of this facility and reports only to the head of U.N. Security.  Lt. Colonel Reutger reports to Colonel Rathborn and in his absence, assumes all responsibilities and duties as set forth by U.N. Regulations.  I, in turn, report to Colonel Reutger, and have, with his authorization, assumed all duties as security chief of this station.  Though you are in charge of the project, the security of this facility and control of military personnel is still a military matter.  I will gladly track down Dr. Andropov for you and call you when I have the information.  Will there be anything else?”

Shelby couldn’t believe that this Captain had spoken to him in such a manner, but he could not argue with him.  All it would do was widen the present divide between himself and Rathborn, upon his return.

“That’ll be fine, Captain.  How long may I expect before you get back with me?”

“Give me 10 minutes, Doctor, and I will have everything you need.

Instead of waiting for Captain Jackson to call him back, Shelby decided to take matters into his own hands.  He knew the location of Illyana’s quarters and would be there in five minutes.

June 17, 2049 – 0505 Hours U.N Research Facility – Stone Mountain, Ga.

Shelby left the lab hurriedly and covered the distance in less than five minutes.  He knocked on Illyana’s door repeatedly and there was no response.  As Project director, he was allowed access to all areas of the complex, with the exception of the armory.  He pulled the badge from the retractable lanyard on his lapel, swiping it in front of the card reader.  The light turned green and he keyed the master code, so rarely used, into the keypad next to the card reader. 

The click of the lock signaled his access and he pushed the door open, calling out to notify Illyana of his presence.  Shelby was unaware, but when he scanned his badge and entered the master code, it signaled security that he had accessed personal quarters not his own.  

Abraham was retrieving Illyana’s information when he noticed the alarm indicator on the console.  The screen displayed, “Master Access utilized on personal quarters, Room 1105, Dr. Illyana Andropov – Access granted to Dr. Shelby Holiday.  Picking up the phone, he dialed the extension for Dr. Andropov’s quarters, and it began to ring. 

Shelby was startled when he heard the ringing of the phone.  On the identifier screen, he saw it was the security office calling and lifted the receiver, how do they know I’m here, and answered, “This is Shelby.”

Abraham replied sternly, “Dr. Holiday, Captain Jackson.  You are in Doctor Andropov’s quarters without permission.  Though you have access to the master code, you are not expressly authorized to use it to enter personal quarters.  Might I ask what you are doing in Dr. Andropov’s quarters?” 

Shelby knew he had broken the rules, but his concern had grown.  The lab in disarray, Illyana not available.  “Captain, I called Dr. Andropov’s quarters after speaking with you and there was no answer, so I decided to come down and check on her.”  On a hunch that Captain Johnson had found his information, he continued speaking, blatantly lying, “Captain, I spoke with a couple of her co-workers and they saw her enter her quarters earlier, but she never left.  Can you confirm this?”

“Dr. Holiday, as much as I would like to believe you and I know your intentions are good, but you did not, in fact, speak to anyone on the way to Dr. Andropov’s quarters.  You have to remember that we have tracking devices built in to the security badges, and your pace to the quarters was too fast to be holding a conversation.  We have located Dr. Andropov and she is in the bedroom of her quarters.  I will have to ask you to depart her quarters, and we will gladly send someone from security to check on her.”

“Captain Jackson.  There is a little problem.  I am in her quarters, and she is not here.  I am looking directly at her bedroom area and I do not see her.  Apparently your system is malfunctioning.”

“Dr. Holiday.  Please step outside the quarters into the passageway.  I am sending a team down to investigate.  The tracking system indicates that Dr. Andropov entered her quarters, but never departed.”

Shelby’s curiosity overcame him.  He walked into Illyana’s bedroom, calling her name.  There was no response.  Walking further, he noticed the light to the bathroom was on and the door was slightly ajar.  He called her name again.  No response. 

Pushing the door slightly ajar, he noticed what appeared to be a dark stain on the floor.  It looked like dried blood.  Without further hesitation, he pushed the door all the way open and was startled.  Even with his years in the medical field, a trauma still surprised him.  Illyana was lying prone, in the middle of floor, surrounded by a pool of dried blood.

  His medical instincts took over, the years spent in the emergency room coming back to him in an instant.  He ran to the other room, and picked up the phone, dialing the emergency number.  The Emergency Medical Technician on duty answered, “What is your emergency,”

“This is Dr. Holiday.  I am in Dr. Andropov’s quarters, 1105.  Send a crash cart right away, she has severe head trauma and has lost a large amount of blood, bring the stretcher, 3 pints of ringers’ lactate, stat.”

“Yes, Sir.  We are on our way.” 

Shelby rushed back and dropped to Illyana’s side.  First things first.  He checked, and was rewarded with a weak pulse.  Respiration good, but she had lost a lot of blood.  Her skin color was gray indicating extreme shock as the body had attempted to recover from the trauma by pooling blood into the main cavity and organs. 

He wasn’t sure how long she been down.  He didn’t want to move her head, not wanting to risk any neurological damage to the spinal cord.  He would have to wait until the emergency medical response team arrived with a backboard and collar.  All he could do was apply pressure to the wound to slow the loss of blood.

Three minutes later, the Emergency Medical Response Team arrived and began preparations.  Shelby administered the I.V. drip of Ringer’s lactate to restore the volume of blood loss and helped apply the horse collar.  Once the collar was safely in place, they stabilized her head, rolled her on her left side, slid the backboard in place, and rolled her onto her back.  As soon as she was strapped in placed, they lifted her and placed her on the stretcher, the backboard and collar remaining in place to preclude further injury.  Shelby didn’t know the extent of her injuries, and knew that she would have to medivac’d to the nearest hospital. 

An MRI would be needed to determine if she had suffered any cerebral trauma, and the Stone Mountain facility wasn’t equipped to handle it.  He turned to the nearest EMT and asked for his radio, changing the channel to security, and keyed the microphone, “Security, this is Dr. Holiday.  We need immediate air medivac to the nearest trauma center.  Please have the chopper standing by.  We are on our way to the helipad with Dr. Andropov.  She has been injured, severe head trauma.”

“Roger, Dr. Holiday.  Our pilot is on the way to the helipad and will have the chopper ready for immediate takeoff. 

They sped down the hallway to the maintenance elevator.  This would be the fastest way to the first floor, out to the helipad.  Within three minutes, they had reached the main floor lobby, exiting rapidly.  Security personnel were standing by, and escorted them out of the secure facility to the awaiting jet chopper.  Shelby stood and watched as Illyana was loaded onto the chopper and within seconds, it lifted off, the two EMTs giving the thumbs up that they would take of her.  God speed, Illyana.  God speed. 

June 17, 2049 – 0505 Hours Moscow, Russia

The black Mercedes was still three cars behind.  Isaak had noticed the car not five minutes after leaving his apartment, very aware that he was being followed.  He would not try to avoid this tail.  They had to be either Russian intelligence or Alexi's men, but it didn't matter at this point as he was leaving the country.  He had notified Alexi of his departure, but Isaak knew that Alexi would have him followed to verify what he had said.  Many people had lied to Alexi trying to escape from him and they had not fared well when they were caught.  At this point Isaak could trust no one but himself. 

The drive to the airport was short and as he exited the car, he noticed that the black Mercedes had pulled into the passenger loading zone five cars behind him.  Casually he exited the car and walked to the rear, opening the trunk, pulling his overnight bag from within.  He slung the strap from the overnight bag over his shoulder and slammed the trunk shut, glancing back to see if anyone had exited the car that had followed him to the airport.

There was no sign of movement, nor could he see who was within the vehicle.  Pulling a 20-dollar bill from his pocket, he handed it, his keys, and very specific instructions on how and where to park the car.  As the valet pulled away Isaak activated the remote alarm-system on his car, which, after the car was parked and secured, would deter most would be thieves. 

Glancing back one final time before entering the terminal, Isaak noticed that the door on the passenger side of the Mercedes was opening and someone was getting out.  Not wanting to give away that he knew he was being followed, Isaak proceeded to the ticket counter to pick up his boarding pass for which he had arranged earlier.  The lines in the Moscow terminal were long, the flights on Russian airlines, much less expensive than the airlines of other countries, extremely crowded.  Although accustomed to the spoils, which he had gained over the previous 10 years Isaak was a man of practicality, saving money when he could, a habit developed from many years having to do without. 

The presence of security mirrors located throughout the airport would aid him in keeping track of those who were following him.  Up to this point, it had been a game for Isaak, eluding his trackers with ease.  He knew he didn't have much to worry about during the flight to London but once he was on English soil, he was fair game.  Alexi may decide to have him eliminated anyway.  From this point on, he would use everything in his arsenal to avoid his trackers, though he would not hesitate to return to his old methods of dispatching any interference, if necessary.

Isaak pulled his identification card from the inside pocket of his heavy overcoat that protected him from the harsh Russian winter, and handed it to the ticket clerk at the counter, mindfully keeping an eye on the mirrors to his left and right.  In Moscow international airport, everyone was suspect making it very difficult for Isaak to identify his would-be pursuers.  The ticket clerk quickly verified Isaak's identification, handing Isaak both his ID and boarding pass. 

One final glance revealed two men in the far corner of the room watching his every move.  To coin a phrase from one of his favorite English authors, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "the game was afoot.”  The years in the spy trade had taught him that evasion and deception were the two strongest weapons he could employ to avoid being followed.  He knew that he still had two hours before his flight, which gave him plenty of time to begin the deception part of his plan. 

Walking to the exit of the airport, he hailed a taxi and jumped in.  They had not expected this and from the rear of his taxi, he saw them run out of the exit and jump into the awaiting black Mercedes.  He instructed the taxi driver to leave the airport drive two miles and then go back to the airport.  The extra $20 he held up gave a taxi driver incentive to have total disregard for all traffic laws. 

Moscow taxi drivers were infamous for their disregard for traffic etiquette and they arrived back at the terminal within only three minutes after having left.  He instructed a taxi driver not to stop but to slow down enough for him to jump from the moving vehicle.  Within agility belying his age, Isaak jumped from the moving taxi, and hit the ground at a fast run, coming to a quick stop to avoid running into the wall. 

At a brisk pace, Isaak again entered the terminal and proceeded to the concourse for his flight, ever watchful for any would-be tail.  Only two minutes elapsed and Isaak arrived at the boarding area for his 9:00 AM flight.  He would have to wait.  He had avoided the first set of pursuers, but he didn't know how many were remaining.  He knew Alexi well enough to know that he would not be easily deterred.  Purchasing a copy of Playboy magazine, a publication of true Western decadence, which he had always enjoyed, he found his seat in the far corner of the boarding area from where he could observe all points. 

The remaining hour and a half passed quickly.  Either his pursuers had given up or they were idiots.  Either way he was safe for the moment.  As he boarded the flight, he handed his boarding pass to the gate attendant and he was halfway down the ramp to the aircraft when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  He turned and was staring into the face of the gate attendant.  In perfect English she spoke, "I'm sorry Sir; there is a problem with your pass.  Could you come back with me to the gate?" 

Without hesitating, he replied, "certainly.  What is the problem?" 

"I don't know Sir.  If you come with me, I'm sure we’ll be able to resolve this issue.”

Not wanting to cause a scene, Isaak followed the gate attendant up the ramp to the boarding area.  Passing through the door, he did a quick scan and noticed the same two men whom he had seen in the ticket area.  Of course, there's a problem with my boarding pass.  They lost me and couldn't possibly go back to Alexi and tell him such.

The gate attendant took Isaak's ticket and appeared to be verifying its validity, though Isaak knew there was absolutely nothing wrong with it.  Two minutes elapsed and she returned the boarding pass to him apologizing for the inconvenience, stating there must have been some type of system error.  Isaak knew that she was doing what she was told.  He thanked her graciously and walked back down the ramp to the awaiting aircraft.  Glancing over shoulder, he noticed his shadows as they began their descent to the aircraft as well.  This will make for an interesting flight.

The seat in first-class, though not as extravagant as the same seats in other carriers, was far better than the cramped confines of coach.  Though the old Soviet airlines Aeroflot had become privatized following glasnost, the level of service and comfort had remained unchanged.  The flight attendants were still old and ugly, reminding him of the old Georgian women he had encountered during his brief service in the Russian army.  So motherly in appearance, they were far from such in behavior, only willing to provide in-flight service at a very handsome price. 

Though the Russian economy had improved greatly over the past 20 years, the U.S. dollar was still the strongest currency in the world and the most sought-after by Russian citizens.  He knew that a well-placed 20 or 50-dollar bill would give him all the service he would need on the flight to London including some things that he would prefer not to have from these women.  It's still boggled his mind how some of these men can perform sexual acts with women who looked like most of their mothers.  It was a sign that the Oedipus gene showed no mercy, not even to the rich and affluent.

Taking his seat, he placed his overnight bag and his lap, unzipping the side pocket and removing a small black case.  Careful not to expose the contents to any curious onlookers, he opened the small case wide enough to extract a small listening device and receiver, capable of monitoring conversations from over a mile away. 

Closing the case, he returned it to his overnight bag.  If they were going to follow him onto the plane, at least he would know whom they were and why they were sent.  Placing the bag beneath the seat in front of him, he sat up and retrieved the listening device, palming it with his left hand. 

He didn't have to wait long.  The two men who had been following him boarded the plane and nonchalantly walked past him, ignoring his very presence.  As the second man walked by, Isaak reached out his left hand and brushed his palm against the man's elbow, attaching the listening device. 

Pressing the button on the receiver, Isaak activated it.  Had the man not been wearing a jacket, he would have immediately noticed the presence of the listening device as the four leg-like extensions retracted embedding their hooks into the fabric of the sleeve.  This would hold the listening device in place and allow Isaak to monitor at least one of them after they got off the plane in London.

The wireless earpiece for the receiver fit snugly into Isaak's ear.  On close inspection, it was barely discernible.  Though very effective in open areas, he could not activate the device and begin receiving signals until after the plane had taken off due to radio interference from the control tower and cockpit.  He had to be extremely careful as the transmissions from the device could be intercepted, though he seriously doubted that anyone else on the plane had the capability.

Only 10 minutes had elapsed when Isaak began receiving audio from the device attached to the man's shirtsleeve.  He soon learned that both men had been sent by Alexi Morikov and had been ordered to follow him all the way through London to New York.  Apparently, these men were not well trained.  Twenty-five minutes into the flight, they began to order drinks from the in-flight attendant and proceeded to get stupidly drunk. 

Isaak had seen this happen many times.  The pursuers would believe that because of the environment, particularly in situations where their quarry could not escape, they would let their guard down and this would spell their undoing.  Isaak had managed to evade many of his would be pursuers in the past because of their lack of focus. 

Isaak reclined his chair and settled in for the remainder of the flight, closing his eyes, resting, not sleeping.  He could still hear the two men, their voices becoming more pronounced as they consumed more alcohol.  If they keep this up, I won't need this device that all. 

The landing roused Isaak from his half-sleep.  Flying in first-class had its advantages; first to board the plane and first to leave.  This would give Isaak an advantage and a well-needed head start.  

As soon as the flight attendants announced for the first-class passengers to depart, Isaak was first out of the plane and walked hurriedly up the ramp to the boarding area.  Quickly scanning the boarding area, Isaak turned and headed down the concourse toward his connecting flight, occasionally glancing over his shoulder for any sign of his would be pursuers. 

He no longer maintained audio contact with the listening device, the interference too intense, decreasing the range to less than 100 meters.  Should they come close enough, he would regain contact and know they were near. 

London's Heathrow international airport was extremely busy at this time of day, business travelers connecting to New York, Paris, Rome, and other connections to busy cities around Europe.  The heavy Russian coat was becoming quite cumbersome and made him stand out in the crowd. 

He stepped into the closest bathroom, ducked into the nearest open stall, and removed his coat and folded it into a small bundle.  With a practiced precision, he quickly removed his shoes, pants, and shirt, folding them also and placing them in the bag.  The khaki pants and polo shirt he pulled from his bag would allow him to blend in with most people at the airport, taking on the appearance of a common everyday traveler. 

He knew he didn’t have much time it before his pursuers reached his current position.  Dressing quickly, he put on his shoes, grabbed his overnight bag and bundled jacket, and exited the restroom.  As he passed the trash receptacle outside the restroom, he nonchalantly deposited the jacket, blending into the flow of traffic headed toward the main terminal.

The hissing noise in his ear indicated they were close.  He stepped into the nearest duty-free shop, purchased a pack of Americans cigarettes and proceeded down the corridor to the nearest smoking lounge, which gave him a clear view of a foot traffic coming from either direction.  He waited to see if the signal became clearer. 

He let the sweet taste of the smoke roll over his tongue as he slowly inhaled.  The signal was getting stronger and he began to pick up intermittent audio, which meant they were within 100 yards.  He knew it would not be long before they picked up his trail, as he was sure they knew his itinerary and there were only two connecting flights to New York within the next two hours. 

They had been lucky in choosing the correct concourse; however, they were unaware of his change in appearance.  To minimize the risk of his detection, he left the smoking lounge, continuing down the concourse to the next restroom, and made his way directly to the handicap stall.  Locking the door behind him, he placed his overnight bag on the vanity shelf above the sink, extracting a small black case and dark brown wig from the outer pocket. 

Inside the case was everything he needed to change his outward physical appearance.  He attached the dark brown mustache and goatee with the makeup-artists glue, donned the matching wig, and inserted the colored contacts, changing his eye color from vivid blue to dark brown.  A brushing of the false facial hair and wig, and a quick application of skin toner, made him appear Turkish in descent.  Placing his real passport in his overnight bag along with the makeup kit, he extracted his Turkish passport and left the bathroom. 

He had arranged not to fly directly to New York as they assumed he would.  Changing directions, he headed toward the concourse for the flight that would take him into Montreal.  His boarding pass would be waiting for him at the gate.  The audible hiss in his ear indicated they were close, but they would not recognize him.  Closing on the lobby of the main terminal, he began to receive the audio from their conversation. 

He scanned the open area and saw them standing not 10 feet away from him and though he was nervous, he made a point to walk directly in front of them testing the validity of his disguise.  He didn't stop until after he had turned the corner and glanced back to see that they were still searching the main terminal lobby for him.  It had worked.  He had managed to walk right past them and they didn't know. 

I still haven't lost my touch after all these years. 

With a relaxed jaunt, he made his way down the concourse to the boarding area for the flight to Montreal.  The original layover for the flight to New York was two hours.  He had timed his flight to Montreal to allow himself only 15 minutes between flights.  With only minutes to spare, he made it to the gate in time to make the last call for the flight.  This time he had chosen to fly coach as the American carriers had much more room in coach than the Russian airlines had in first-class.  Removing the earpiece from his ear, he casually dropped it, crushed it beneath his heel, and boarded the plane.  

During the flight to Montreal, he avoided conversation with anyone other than small talk with in flight attendants, feigning sleep whenever anyone attempted to start a conversation with him.  Six hours later the plane landed in Montreal international airport and he disembarked and headed for the connecting flight to New York.  He knew someone would be watching for him in New York, but with his new outward appearance, he doubted they would recognize him at all.  It had been easier than he thought.

The flight to New York's John F. Kennedy international airport took only two hours.  Alexi made his way to the passenger pickup area, carefully scanning his entire route.  His contact was waiting as planned.

 

June 17, 2049 – 0530 Hours U.N Research Facility – Stone Mountain, Ga.

The elevator rose quickly and came to a grinding halt at the ground floor of a complex.  Desdin retrieved his bags from the floor and stepped into the lobby.  At this time of morning, there was no one on duty at the main desk.  Though not planned, his exit was well timed, the fewer personnel knowing of his departure, the better.  Walking across the lobby he stepped behind the main desk and opened the key locker attached to the far wall.  Contained inside were the keys to all of the vehicles within the compound.  He selected the keys to Col. Rathborn's sedan, signed the clipboard next to the key number, and exited out the main entrance to the vehicle compound.

Desdin found Col. Rathborn's sedan, backed in to the parking space.  He unlocked the driver side door, tossed his bags across the interior onto the passenger seat, and slid into the driver's seat.  Turning the key, the quiet hum and slight vibrations were the only indications Desdin had that the car was running.  Putting the car into gear, Desdin began the 5-mile trip down the mountainous winding road to the main gate of the facility.

Within minutes, Desdin reached the main gate, and the guard was waiting outside for him.  The guard had known he was coming, the sensors embedded in the road notifying him of Desdin’s approach when he first left the compound. 

An array of sensors had been embedded throughout the entire facility’s grounds, which allowed the security personnel to monitor all movement throughout the 150-acre facility.  Over time, they had learned to distinguish between animal, human and vehicular movement.  The guard maintained his position behind a fortified wall as a security precaution, keeping his rifle leveled and pointed in Desdin's direction while motioning for Desdin to stop and step away from the vehicle. 

Desdin stopped as directed, placed the car in Park, and exited the vehicle.  As per standard procedure, the guard ordered Desdin to step away from the vehicle as he approached, all the meanwhile, keeping the weapon pointed in Desdin's direction.  Though he was one of Desdin's men, he had been trained to follow procedures to the letter. 

Following a brief inspection of the car, the guard turned to Desdin, saluted and said, "You’re good to go, Sir.” 

Desdin returned to salute, climbed back into the vehicle and waited for the guard to open the gate.  The guard stepped back into the gatehouse and turned the lever to open the inner gate.  Desdin pulled forward and stopped the vehicle so that the front wheels were resting short of the outer gate.  There were sensors embedded in the concrete pad of which the front wheels would cause the inner gate to close automatically.  The outer gate would not open until the inner gate was completely closed. 

This entrance was the only one for the whole facility, the remainder of the grounds protected by two fences lined with razor wire and anti-personnel mines laid every five feet between the two fences.  Sensors were also buried between the two fences to detect any attempt at illegal entry.  The inner gate closed and the outer gate opened, allowing Desdin to exit the facility. 

Two miles later Desdin was pulling onto the main highway that would lead him down interstate 75 to Marietta Naval Air Station.  At this time of morning, it only took Desdin 45 minutes to drive to the Naval Air Station.  Not knowing how long he would be gone, he chose to leave the vehicle at the main gate, locking the door and making his way to the guard shack.  Fishing his military ID from the pocket on his sleeve, he showed it to the guard and was motioned past. 

Hailing one of the on-base taxis, he instructed the driver to take him to the helicopter squadron building.  Within five minutes, he had reached his destination, paid the taxi driver, and proceeded to the main entrance of the building.  At this time of morning, all of the facilities were secured, and he can see no one at the main desk.  Pulling his cell phone from his belt, he dialed the number to the squadron commander, a longtime friend from his special operations days.  Three rings, and there was an answer, "Capt. Davidson here.  Why am I being called at 430 in the morning?"

"John.  Desdin Reutger.”

“Desdin Ruetger.  Why does that name sound familiar,” came the response.  Desdin knew right away that John had recognized in his voice.

“Desdin.  Why are you calling me at 4:30 in the morning?  I haven’t heard from you since Christmas, and now I get a call at this time of morning from you.  Is everything ok?”

“John, to tell you the truth, everything is not okay, but I cannot discuss it over the phone.  I am at the base squadron building, and I'll fill you in when you get here."

"Understood.  I'll be there in 15 minutes."  The line went dead.

The 15 minutes passed quickly and John arrived as he said he would, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip-flops and it was only 40 degrees outside.  The same old John, Desdin said to himself.  John jumped from his Jeep and trotted over to where Desdin was standing by the main door, thrusting out his hand grabbing Desdin's and shaking it violently, pulling Desdin close and bear hugging him. 

“How are you, you ol German son of a b***h.  It’s been a long time.”

“Very good, John.  I’m stationed up at the U.N. Viral Research Station north of here running Security under Darryl Rathborn.

“Great.  Glad to hear it.  How is Darryl and what’s so damned important that you had to drag me out of bed at 4:30 in the morning?  You know I’m not an early riser,’ he chuckled.

“John, Darryl’s in some trouble and I need to keep it hush-hush.  I need transport immediately to Fort Bragg.  I’m not sure how much time I have and you were the only one I could turn to on such short notice.”

“If transport’s what you need, transport’s what you’ll get.  I’ll call one of my boys and have them over right away.”

“John, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d rather not have anyone else involved.  This is some serious s**t, and I can’t risk compromising anything.  The fewer that know the better.”

“Alright.  I’ll fly you myself.  Give me five to get suited up and we’ll head over to the hangar.  I’ll call my on-duty crew to get the bird ready.  It should only take 20 minutes or so.”

“Thanks, John.  I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Desdin.  Is there anything else that I shouldn’t know?”

“John, the less the better.  If you don’t ask, I won’t have to answer.”

“Fair enough, Desdin.” 

The navy helo pilot was dressed and back out within 5 minutes as promised.  He motioned for Desdin to hop into his jeep, and they were on their way to the helicopter hangar.  By the time they arrived, the helicopter crew had pulled the MH-60 Blackhawk helo from the confines of the hanger, and had it ready to fly.  With a thumbs-up from the crew chief, the bird began its spin up and they lifted off. 

June 17, 2049 – 0615 Hours Marietta Naval Air Station, Marietta, GA

Capable of speeds in excess of 200 knots, the Blackhawk helicopter, though large, was highly maneuverable and in the hands of a skilled pilot, was very adept at treetop level flying.  The experienced navy helicopter pilot, 20 years of flying under his belt, pushed the Blackhawk’s performance to the limits, skimming the treetops, skirting the civilian aircraft radar, and making a few illegal passes over residential areas. 

With the helo running in a black out condition, no visible lights, Desdin wondered how John, even using the FLIR (forward looking infrared radar) could maneuver the bird with such skill.  So, this is how he’d been able to make 20 years in a profession where the life expectancy was less than 30 seconds in combat.  The trip to Fort Stewart and Hunter Airfield, home of the 106^th Special Operations Aviation Squadron, would take a little over an hour at this rate, giving Desdin time to catch a catnap, allowing his friend to concentrate on keeping the skids out of the trees.  The clock was ticking for Rathborn, and Desdin hoped they weren’t too late.