Sichuan—China.
Fifty hours after the Joshua Drake incident, Cheung Xian, one of a ragged group of miners from the Neijiang drilling facility, Sichuan Provence, China, was wondering if he would ever see the light of day again.
A veteran of over twenty years service in six different quarries, he’d arrived at the surface compound of their colliery at 7:00 a.m. that morning, along with more than forty of his colleagues, to the hustle and bustle of one of the busiest shafts in the region. Xian was proud of the fact that their company helped produce the coal providing over ninety percent of their country’s energy needs, and it showed in his work ethic.
While his companions exaggerated stories of escapades from the night before, or boasted of times spent with new girlfriends or loved ones, Xian mentally prepared himself for the ordeal ahead. And like it or not, his fellow miners soon joined him, for the laughing and joking always faded the moment the service elevator taking them to the coalface started to descend. But that was to be expected. If the gut wrenching freefall into the bowels of the earth wasn’t bad enough, then the fearsome racket produced with each jolt and scrape of their fragile cage served to remind them how tenuous their link to life was. Sentiment was a luxury, a distraction that would get you killed. Where they were going, only action drills and procedure mattered.
Arriving at the bottom, Xian had trekked with the others through the gloom for nearly a thousand yards before arriving at the coalface. Once there, he had become an automaton, milling about like every other ant in cramped and claustrophobic conditions while millions of tons of rock pressed patiently down upon their heads.
Those brief pauses taken while fresh charges were laid brought little respite. As everyone had come to learn, sweat soon cooled, bringing on an attack of uncontrollable shivering. Shivering that knotted muscles and only added to the tension preceding the blast that followed. Then, the earth would groan, the ground would shake and dust would fall as men waited for the all clear amid a hacking medley of coughing, muttering and sneezing.
A meticulous practice, made all the more laborious by the long trudge back and the prospect of manhandling tons of intervening rubble to one side before the process of extracting coal from the shattered bed could begin again.
As each excavation was exhausted, men would retreat along the side tunnel – in a gradual leapfrogging procession – toward the main artery, removing supporting timbers as they went. On most occasions, the lode roof would remain intact, and over time, sink slowly down to the floor. At others, it began collapsing as the pillars were removed, trapping workmates and crushing them to death in an instant.
Xian had lost more than thirty close friends that way, and had sworn never to forget the looks on their faces or their stifled cries, though they might haunt him forever.
Sometimes, he rued his lot. Although Sichuan was fully licensed by the State, it lacked much of the modern equipment other legally funded mines had been blessed with. Instead of a bank of diamond-toothed machines stripping rock and clinker away from the coal rich seams crisscrossing the district, miners here did things the old-fashioned way, by hand, in grueling twelve-hour shifts. Nobody needed any reminders that this was one of the filthiest, hardest jobs in existence, in one of the most dangerous places in the world.
Yet fate, it seems, hadn’t been content to leave things to chance.
When catastrophe struck four hours into the shift, it took all forty-three hands by surprise. Instead of being safely huddled together in one of the “blowback recesses” cut into the arterial walls – the usual place of safety each team resorted to as a fresh vein was opened up – most of the crew were still hard at work on the latest seam, and had only just finished reinforcing its walls and roof prior to extraction charges being wedged in place.
The explosion had originated somewhere behind them, in the main gallery, close to where the dynamite was stored. All five demolitions experts working in that area had been incinerated instantly and the ensuing wall of compressed gas and flame had radiated out toward Xian and his colleagues in one direction, and back up the lift shaft in the other, where it vented its scorching breath against a pale morning sky more than a mile above their heads.
The force of the detonation rocked topside buildings and blew away the jumble of mechanized vents and mobile rigs capping the shaft head. Thinking they were the victims of a particularly vicious earthquake, surface worker began to flee to designated safety zones, only realizing during a subsequent headcount – in which all employees were confirmed as accounted for – what had actually happened. In this way, precious minutes were lost before emergency rescue services had been called.
Below ground, Xian and his colleagues hadn’t fared so well.
Restricted to the confines of the gallery and its network of side tunnels, the shockwave and pursuant fireball had flensed more than half of the miners from existence. Of the fifteen or so men who’d survived that initial blast, most – Xian included – had been thrown into the icy embrace of an underground tributary uncovered during their last excavation. Viewed as a pain in the ass to work around at the time, the fast running stream had proved to be a godsend, for Xian and three of his nearest companions had been spared the worst of the ruptured eardrums, burst capillaries and torturous burns that eschewed.
Even so, Xian knew that if he ever wanted to see his wife, Daiyu again, it would be down to a question of remaining calm, and positive leadership. Taking stock, he checked himself for injuries.
Though he couldn’t detect any serious cuts or contusions, that didn’t mean to say they weren’t there. He was sweating profusely, his respiration was rapid and shallow, and try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling of nausea crawling its way up from his guts.
Probably shock, he thought to himself. That’s only to be expected, under the circumstances. But I’d better get a grip. Trauma like this can be a killer if it isn’t managed properly, and if the others see me falling apart, panic will spread like a plague.
Easier said than done. All Xian wanted to do at that moment was curl up into a ball and go to sleep. But if he did that, he knew he’d probably never wake up again and ruin his chances of a better life next time around.
Ignoring the urge to rush, Xian closed his eyes and squatted down on his ankles. Several deep breaths helped calm his nerves and clear his head. In his twenty years in the mines, Xian had lived through a dozen different crises – including a tunnel collapse, wherein he’d been imprisoned below ground for over a week before rescuers could get to him. Unfortunately, he’d never faced anything like this.
And there’s no way we’ll last a week…not in these conditions.
Temperatures were dropping rapidly, and in the absence of generators, the buildup of fumes would quickly become a problem. A thick choking miasma filled the tunnel, coating casualties from head to foot and creating a spectral environment of staggering, dust covered ghouls with black blinking eyes and gaping mouths.
Death walks amongst us in the guise of life.
So thick was that brume, that Xian’s helmet lamp made little difference. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recognize any of those few survivors who stumbled past, encrusted and confused, lost to vagaries of their own personal hells.
He decided to move further along the new tributary where he’d noticed earlier, the flow of water created a light breeze.
Who knows, it might be connected to a separate underground chamber, and we’ll get to survive this after all?
Crawling along on his hands and knees, Xian encountered a mass of scorched and twisted debris, eerily arranged around the scattered forms of other miners. Some lay in outlandish poses, unmarked except for bloodstained ears and noses. Others had been impaled by vicious looking shards of wood, stone and metal, fragments that had, at one time, served to protect them from harm.
Of those he found breathing, most lay still, no doubt asphyxiating or bleeding out from the carnage wrought within their ruined bodies. A few were conscious. Writhing in agony, their moans were muffled, grumbling off into the darkness as bass accompaniments to the higher pitched creaks and occasional snaps echoing back.
Those sounds clutched at Xian’s spine. Damn! The blast took out too many support joists. It won’t take long for countless tons of rock to weaken the integrity of those few remaining timbers. We’re not…I don’t see how we can possibly survive this.
The picture of a familiar face with shining hair that hung in a curtain about rosy cheeks hovered before him. “Oh Daiyu my darling, I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be coming home after all.”
“Xian, is that you?”
Startled by the unexpected question, Xian jumped. Scrabbling to one side, he spotted Longwei, an eighteen year old trainee and the youngest of the crew lying on his stomach. Smothered in a thick layer of sooty grit, he had been almost indistinguishable from the rock about him. Now he’d moved, however, a miniature landslide of ash had fallen away to reveal the splintered pickaxe handle protruding from his back.
He’s not going to make it. “Yes, it’s me. I think we’re the only two still properly awake.”
“We are…then who were you talking to?”
“I was just saying goodbye to my wife, Daiyu. We won’t last much longer, and I wanted to make my peace while there’s still time. I suggest you do the same...?” Xian’s voice trailed away as his spouse’s image began to warp.
I’m obviously beginning to hallucinate. There must be less oxygen here than I thought. Xian resigned himself to the inevitable. Oh well, if I’m going to go, I can’t imagine a more peaceful way than gazing into the eyes of the one I love.
Hang on, we’re almost there, an ethereal pronouncement chimed within his mind.
Daiyu’s profile kept changing. Blossoming, elongating, and filling out into the image of a much younger woman. Her likeness took on a quasi-solidity that Xian imagined he might be able to reach out and touch.
“What? This can’t be real?”
A painfully bright light stabbed out from the darkness. Piercing the whirling mists with ease, it expanded into an all-pervading halo that washed across Xian and his fallen comrades, forcing him to avert his gaze.
Steady footfalls echoed along the tunnel. Squinting around his fingers, Xian was relieved to see a number of shimmering silhouettes flickering toward him. The nearest one clarified into the spitting image of the oriental female he had just seen during his waking trance.
But how…?
As she drew closer, Xian discerned she was clothed in dark, military style protective coveralls, coveralls that seemed alive with static. What looked like bands of electricity flickered silently up and down her figure, creating a weird eclectic aura that reached out to probe its environment with inquisitive crackling fingers.
Walking directly up to him, his rescuer extended her hand and said, “Hello Xian, I think you’d better come with me. It’s quite a strain keeping the seams in place while we work, and I’d hate for you to get caught after we’ve gone to all this effort to save you.”
Rendered mute, Xian didn’t move at first. Neither did he attempt to communicate, for the young lady possessed a certain charisma that was rather compelling. It took him a moment to break the spell her presence had cast over him.
Cursing himself for his lack of manners, he stammered, “Er, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Thank you,” he turned to indicate all those who had fallen around him, “is there anything you can do for my companions? Some of them might still be alive.”
“Don’t worry about them, they’re our concern now.” She gestured casually behind her.
It was only at that moment that Xian realized other, similarly dressed people were busying themselves at various points around the passage, a passage that only seconds ago had been nothing but a makeshift tomb filled with a maze of rubble and debris.
With quiet efficiency, some of the newcomers bent to tend to the injured while others faded into the shadows, presumably to search for other survivors.
They don’t seem to be affected by the fumes or lack of –?
His redeemer gently – but firmly – took his hand, her manner calm and confident. Xian was quite happy to follow her lead, and allowed himself to be ushered toward the light.
A twinge of suspicion sparked a fleeting fear. “Am I dead?” he mumbled, suddenly horrified of never seeing his wife all over again, “are you of the Divas, a living deity?”
“Far from it, my friend,” she gave his knuckles a squeeze, and smiled, “I’m…well. You’ll find out soon enough.”
They stepped up into all consuming radiance and a feminine voice expanded off into infinity, “though there is something we’d like for you to deliver for us – us – us…”
Everything blazed bright.
Xian gradually came awake, blinking his eyes open to dotted ceiling tiles, fluorescent strip lighting and silence. Scratch that, near silence. The amiable hum of machines stirred in the background, if anything, adding to the ambiance of peace and calm that now enfolded him in its caregiving embrace.
At first, reality refused to register. He’d been having the most wonderful dream about a stunning young woman with a magnetic personality who had personally assured him that all would be well, and then…and then…The disaster!
Snapping upright, Xian found himself sitting on a thick comfy mattress, covered by a crisp white sheet. Next to him, a generously proportioned double glazed sliding window had been left open, through which sunlight and fresh air flowed in equal measure. A small cabinet had been placed beneath that window, upon which his work clothes had been left, neatly folded. Xian could tell at a glance they’d been recently laundered.
Am I still sleeping?
Taking in his surroundings, Xian could see beds on either side, and opposite him. He counted ten in all – five along each wall – nine of which, including his own, were occupied.
Is this our new sickbay or another clinic? I haven’t needed to use the facilities up until now, so I wouldn’t have a clue?
Reluctantly, he swung his legs to the floor and was delighted to discover he wasn’t sore in the least. Strange, I feel more refreshed and relaxed than I have for months? So, who are my fellow patients?
The person in the bed to his left was lying on his side, facing away from him. Padding across to investigate, Xian recognized Longwei. Though still, and attached to several monitors by a plethora of leads, Longwei appeared hale and hearty, and his flesh was imbued with the healthy glow of someone used to living and working outside.
But he was impaled on the end of…? With the greatest care, Xian inched the flap of Longwei’s gown to one side. That looks like an old scar. Just how long have we been here? His head swiveled left and right, then behind him. And are all these people from the disaster?
On tiptoes, Xian scuttled up and down the ward and swiftly established the remaining beds were indeed filled by fellow miners, men he’d presumed lost to calamity. All bore marks and bruises, but in each case, the wounds looked as if they’d been treated by first-class physicians and given the time they needed to heal. What’s more, everyone had been attired, either in hospital robes or pajamas.
Only then did Xian think to look himself up and down. I’m in pajamas too, and…? Something hard in the chest pocket of his jacket pressed against his ribs. Puzzled, he felt inside and removed a small piece of metal with writing on it that had somehow been encased within a thin wafer made from an odd lightweight, transparent material.
Reading it, Xian smiled. Ah, this must be the something they wanted me to deliver. He had a sudden thought. Though she never did say who they were? I really must make –?
A sharp intake of breath and the clatter of what sounded like plastic objects hitting the floor alerted Xian to the fact he wasn’t alone. Spinning toward the exit, he espied a middle-aged woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform standing in the doorway, a mixture of shock and consternation masking her expression. Her gaze skimmed the occupied beds, and then fixed on Xian, as if he was the one solely responsible for a heinous crime.
“Who are you,” she demanded, “and what are you doing here?”
Bowing, Xian replied, “I am Cheung Xian, a supervisor from Neijiang Mine and –”
“Neijiang Mine? Are you here to collect supplies to help in the disaster?”
“Help? No. I was…” Xian swept his arm wide, encompassing his colleagues, “we were working within the main shaft when the accident occurred. All of us were trapped more than a mile underground.”
The nurse didn’t appear to understand properly and repeated the gist of Xian’s statement. “What? Are you alleging you were part of the crew caught in the explosion and subsequent cave-in?”
“Yes. Most were wiped out in the initial blast, but a few of us digging out a new seam avoided the worst of the firestorm. Even so, it didn’t look like we were going to survive long; there was too much damage to the supporting structure, you see, and the fumes...”
“So you were actually underground?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“All of you?”
“That’s what I just…” Xian fell silent. She can’t digest what I’m saying. Perhaps I ought to try a different approach.
Stepping closer, Xian knelt and began clearing the mess on the floor. “Please, where are we?”
His ruse worked. Stooping to join him, the nurse replied, “You’re in the new wing of the West China Hospital, Sichuan University, Chengdu. This section isn’t even supposed to be operational yet.”
“Chengdu?”
“That’s correct. I’m only here now because the infirmary is already fully stocked. I was collecting supplies for those doctors rushing to join the relief effort…” This time, it was the nurse’s turn to edge closer. Searching Xian’s face, she whispered, “You can’t possibly be from the accident? There’s not a mark on you. And how did you get all the way here?”
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. He shrugged. But what have I got to lose?
Inviting the nurse to take a seat on the vacant bed, Xian took a deep breath and commenced explaining the phenomenal events of the day as clearly and concisely as his frayed nerves would allow. Little did he realize his actions were a portent of things to come, for he was required to repeat those details all over again: first, to those paramedics and doctors who came running, to see for themselves the miraculous appearance of nine survivors from the very disaster they were rushing to attend; secondly, to the university administrator responsible for the hospital itself. Next, to officers from the Works Safety Bureau who arrived later that afternoon; and finally, to government officials the following morning.
Cynical disbelief swiftly turned to suspicion, and suspicion to gradual amazement, as one by one, Xian’s coworkers awoke to confirm his extraordinary claims, pointing to their already healed injuries as further – irrefutable – proof of their assertions.
Those few, fortunate enough to have remained conscious in one part of the cave system or another during the rescue itself, were also able to verify the incredible manner by which they’d been plucked from certain death by creatures they alternatively described as, “spirits, demons and angels.”
Needless to say, party officials had been keen to examine the message Xian had been tasked to pass to investigators, a small sliver of metal sandwiched in resin, which read:
“WE ARE HERE TO ASSIST ALL THOSE IN NEED.”
The official Xinhug News Agency of China was uncharacteristically robust in reporting the events of the rescue worldwide, as they believed their mystery benefactors had acted solely for the advantage of the people of China.
They were only partly right in that assumption, however, for in the weeks that followed, further interventions took place that – time and again – revealed these new benefactors as having access to incredible resources and the capability to respond to any kind of crises, no matter where or when they took place.
*
Gold Coast—Australia (Three days later)
Although small, the Tallebudgera Gazette, Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia, got quite a scoop several days after the events in China. One of their reporters, Marie Chandler, happened to be on hand to witness what she described as a “Death Defying Rescue” in Coolangatta, where a family of four was plucked from certain doom.
The article, which later went on to appear in national and international editions of some the world’s most widely circulated broadsheets, read as follows:
“SUNDAY STARTED LIKE ANY OTHER ACTIVITY DAY FOR THE STEVENS FAMILY FROM BRISBANE. A MORNING ENJOYING THE TRANQUILITY OF TALLEBUDGERA CREEK CONSERVATION, FOLLOWED BY A TRIP OUT IN A SMALL BOAT THE STEVENS’ OWN AND KEEP BERTHED OFF THE POINT AT COOLANGATTA, WAS JUST WHAT THESE FOLKS NEEDED TO PREPARE THEM FOR THE NEW WEEK AHEAD.
HOWEVER, WHAT THE STEVENS’ DIDN’T KNOW, WAS THAT THEIR OUTING WOULD HAVE ENDED IN TRAGEDY, WAS IT NOT FOR THE PROMPT ACTION OF TWO MYSTERIOUS PASSERS-BY WHO STEPPED IN TO SAVE THE DAY.
PETE STEVENS, THE THIRTY-TWO YEAR OLD FATHER OF JAMIE, SIX, AND CALLUM, FOUR, AND HUSBAND TO KRISTY, TWENTY-NINE, HAD JUST STEERED THEIR CRAFT OUT INTO THE BAY, WHEN THEY WERE STRUCK HEAD-ON, BY AN ELEVEN METER HIGH PERFORMANCE POWER CRUISER, STOLEN ONLY MINUTES BEFORE FROM JACK EVANS BOAT HARBOR PARK, BY TWO LOCAL MEN WHO ARE WELL KNOWN TO THE POLICE.
THE COLLISION INSTANTLY DESTROYED THE STEVENS’ BOAT AND THREW THE FAMILY INTO THE WATER. AS I PHONED THE EMERGENCY SERVICES TO INFORM THEM OF THE TRAGEDY, I MUST CONFESS, I WAS SHOCKED BY WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!
A YOUNG COUPLE THAT HAD BEEN STROLLING ALONG MARINE PARADE ONLY TWO YARDS IN FRONT OF ME STRIPPED DOWN TO THEIR UNDERWEAR, VAULTED ONTO THE SAND AND DIVED INTO THE WATER. THEY DISAPPEARED BENEATH THE WAVES, ONLY TO REAPPEAR–IMPOSSIBLY–MOMENTS LATER FIFTY YARDS OFFSHORE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOUNDERING PARTY. THEN, IN PLAIN SIGHT OF THOSE LOOKING ON, THE STEVENS’ AND THEIR MYSTERY RESCUERS SIMPLY VANISHED!
IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN, NOT ONE MINUTE LATER, I THEN RECEIVED AN UNLISTED CALL ON MY PERSONAL MOBILE PHONE FROM A WOMAN WHO IDENTIFIED HERSELF AS ONE OF THE RESCUERS.
SHE INFORMED ME THE STEVENS’ COULD BE FOUND SLEEPING ON THE BEACH ADJACENT TO SNAPPER ROCKS ROAD, (JUST OFF THE END OF MARINE PARADE), AND THAT THOSE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MISHAP WOULD ALSO BE DISCOVERED AT THE SCENE ALONG WITH A BRIEF COMMUNICATION FOR THE AUTHORITIES.
AFTER PASSING THESE IMPORTANT UPDATES ON TO THE HARBORMASTER AND THE FIRE AND RESCUE CONTROL CENTER, I IMMEDIATELY WENT TO THE AFOREMENTIONED LOCALE TO CONFIRM THE STEVENS FAMILY WAS INDEED FIT AND WELL. THEY WERE COMPLETELY DRY, HAD JUST WOKEN UP AND WERE UNAWARE AS TO HOW THEY HAD GOT THERE.
THE THIEVES, TOM MCALLISTER AND MIKE THOMPSON–BOTH TWENTY-FOUR FROM ST GEORGE–WERE LOCATED JUST A FEW SHORT YARDS AWAY, STILL UNCONSCIOUS, AND WITH THEIR HANDS AND FEET IN PLASTIC RESTRAINTS.
AS PROMISED, THE UNKNOWN HEROES HAD LEFT A MESSAGE FOR ME – AND FOR YOU, THE READERS – INSIDE A PLASTIC PRISM AMONG THE STEVENS’ BELONGINGS.
THAT MESSAGE SAID:
“SOON, THOSE WHO DISREGARD THE LAW AND HARM OTHERS WILL HAVE NOWHERE TO HIDE.”
WHO THEY ARE, WE MAY NEVER KNOW, BUT PETE AND KRISTY STEVENS HAVE ASKED ME TO PASS ON THEIR DEEPEST, HEARTFELT THANKS TO RESCUERS THEY ARE CALLING THEIR “GUARDIAN ANGELS,” FOR SAVING THEIR LIVES, THE LIVES OF THEIR CHILDREN, AND FOR PREVENTING FURTHER TRAGEDY FROM BEFALLING OTHERS.
ANYONE WITH FURTHER INFORMATION REGARDING THIS INCIDENT SHOULD CONTACT ME:
MARIE CHANDLER – 0455-735-383/FAX: 617- 554 - 73580
TALLEBUDGERA GAZETTE.”
The report was published with a photo of the Stevens family – taken by Marie Chandler on her mobile phone – by the beach off Snapper Rocks road, smiling and in obvious good health. Jamie and Callum had been strategically positioned in pride of place, holding the mysterious token between them in their hands.
Tom McAllister and Mike Thompson were comatose for almost two days before regaining consciousness. And when they did, both surprised detectives by acting out of character and confessing to a long list of crimes going back for more than five years, the majority of which, police were unaware they were connected to.
As time and went on to show, the circumstances behind some of those crimes proved rather revealing.
*
The Skies Above Khartoum—Sudan (the next day)
“Two minutes until insertion,” the calm, measured voice of the co-pilot announced over the tannoy. A soothing red light kindled, illuminating the cramped interior of the BA-157A’s rear hold in crimson menace, “now descending to deployment altitude. Hang on to your hats, gentlemen, things may get a little rough.”
Time to rock n’ roll.
Standing, Captain John O’Neil, a ten year veteran with UK Special Forces, clung on tightly to the overhead strapping as the aircraft began to tip, and indicated that his men should commence their final equipment checks.
No words were necessary. What needed to be said had been spoken long ago, back in the briefing room of their forward staging area at Akrotiri, Cyprus.
Those fanatics responsible for the latest spate of bombings that had claimed the lives of over two thousand people in three of Europe’s capitals – London included – had seriously fucked up.
Acting on information received, police had raided an isolated farmhouse in the Woodstock area of Oxfordshire the night before, where it was believed a terrorist cell were actively engaged in the manufacture and distribution of explosive materials for use by other extremist factions operating throughout the south of England.
The intelligence had proven sound, and in the ensuing combined agency assault, four police officers had been injured when suspects detonated a number of pre-placed incendiary devices, resulting in their own martyrdom, along with the destruction of the target address itself.
Fortunately for the good guys, the terrorists hadn’t prepared as thoroughly as they might have wished. A home computer, two laptops and a good half dozen flash drives had been recovered from the debris, from which, forensic examiners had been able to retrieve a wealth of incriminating evidence and, more importantly, a detailed list of payback revolving around a cluster of IP addresses specific to one location: a small industrial complex in the El Gezira district, situated on the outskirts of Khartoum.
Security surrounding the raid had been airtight. That and the ensuing news blackout had ensured the entire operation had been kept isolated from public attention. As such, not forty-five minutes had passed before SBS X Squadron, Royal Marines, had been put on alert.
An hour after that, two sixteen man troops – Alpha and Bravo teams – were on a jet, heading to Cyprus. En-route, black command, Joint UKSF Task Force, had been kept apprised of latest developments, and local assets already on the ground in the Sudan were able to pass last minute details that had helped determine the most effective strategy.
A drone strike had been judged inappropriate, for while there was every intention to inflict heavy losses on those who would dare to impose their brand of foul bigotry on innocent members of the public, intelligence gathering remained an important objective. However, a straightforward ground assault would also be risky. When looked at from above, the area surrounding El Gezira was a geometrical spectacle of irrigated fields and manmade canals, extending for hundreds of square miles, between the Blue and White Nile Rivers.
As such, an aerial insertion broken into four stages had been deemed the only viable option: In – seek, kill and destroy – retrieve intel – and out. Special Forces were here to send a message to future would-be aggressors: Fuck with us, and we’ll come-a-calling and send you straight to a place with a zip code beginning, 666.
Alpha team had been designated as the strike squad, while bravo had been deployed to provide ground support and extraction.
Thus it was that, less than a day after the farmhouse had burned to the ground, vengeance was winging its way toward some very bad people.
The steady glow from the bulb dimmed abruptly, on and off, twice.
Ah, the sixty second marker.
“One minute until doors open,” their co-pilot declared, as if eager to support the Special Forces commander’s assumption, “switching to internals. Activating covert emergency beacon. Prepping for decompression. Good luck gentlemen, you’re on your own.”
Fifteen visors turned toward O’Neil, and went still, waiting. His chest swelled in a momentary surge of pride. Hot of blood and cold of heart…My men. My killers.
Rapping his knuckles on the side of his helmet – the signal to assemble on the ready line – O’Neil then stood back to allow them room to shuffle past. Some nodded, others gestured by hand, most were lost to the companionship of their own private thoughts.
Dressed from head to toe in kelvex thermal coveralls capable of withstanding temperatures to - 80˚F, hampered by a combined HUD, life-support and secure comms net, numerous weapons, extra ammunition, rations, first aid equipment, and their specialized High Altitude Precision Parachute System – HAPPS – each man was encumbered by more than one hundred and fifty pounds of additional kit. A necessary burden, as they would need to remain wholly self-sufficient until the job was done and they were safely on their way home.
Piston’s hissing, pneumatic latches on either side of the rear hatch retracted. The gantry started to lower, and gentle reverberations gave way to a building roar, a banshee serenade that brought with it the exhalation of a frost giant’s breath.
Immune to the freezing tendrils threatening to pluck him from his nest, O’Neil’s gaze remained firmly affixed on their beacon.
The red flame extinguished, replaced an instant later by a harsher green radiance.
As one, the miniature colony of grotesquely armored penguins waddled forward. Stood upon an ice cliff bathed in the majesty of countless stars and suspended more than forty thousand feet high, each waited their turn before stepping into the obsidian ocean below.
The last one out, O’Neil’s heart leaped and every nerve awakened as he tasted the void once more. Above him, the bulk of the plane banked away, its silhouette nothing but a shadow leaving nubilous vortices in its wake. He just had time to register the purple-blue expanse surrounding him, and then he hit the hill, its gradient sheer and slick, an almost sentient entity propelling his form along at an incredulous rate until – a mere eleven seconds later – he’d achieved terminal velocity.
His earpiece buzzed. “Thirty-nine thousand feet,” the automated tone of the altimeter affirmed.
Still recovering from the initial adrenaline rush, O’Neill’s sense of exhilaration was indescribable. Inhaling deeply, he found himself fighting down the urge to express his elation verbally. We’re not here on a jolly…
Crushing his delight into a screaming nub of intent, he refocused those emotions on a more appropriate form of expression: cold, clinical aggression. That’s better. Once we’ve dealt with the scum who like to murder women and children in their beds, then I’ll scream with delight.
Gradually, all sensation of falling passed and his team came together to form a huge tactical iris in the night sky.
The altimeter chirruped again, “Twenty-nine thousand feet.”
With nothing but a crescent moon to watch over their display, the commandos began their dance; macabre mannequins on a buffeting, spiraling merry-go-round of vapor crystals and isobars, intent on riding the heavens in style.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Peering down, O’Neill could see the phosphorous glow of Khartoum in the distance. At this height, the city looked like a huge, glowing spider’s lair stretching off forever in a northerly direction, a glittering cobweb of human habitation to avoid.
Yes, he mused, if we play our part, they’ll never know we existed, we phantoms of the night, we dispensers of death and justice. By the time they wake up, we’ll be long gone, devils they’ll get to read about in their morning papers.
The minutes counted down, tumbling toward seconds all too quickly.
“Nine thousand feet.” His altimeter pinged, warning him to prepare.
The iris flared as soldiers broke formation, fanning away to ensure they remained on target and giving themselves the space they needed to safely deploy their three hundred and fifty-foot canopies.
Adjusting his thermal imaging scope, O’Neill was amazed by how much the checkerboard fields of the El Gezira district had grown. He checked his instruments. Bloody hell, I’d best be quick…
Scanning his body one last time to ensure his equipment was still strapped securely in place, he counted himself in. Here we go. Three – two – one…?
O’Neill pulled on his toggle and felt a brief shudder as his HAPPS activated. Around him, fellow specialists were yanked away upward as their parachutes filled, arresting their one hundred and twenty mile per hour gravity-fuelled charge in the blink of an eye.
An experienced operator, it still took O’Neill a few moments to realize something was wrong. I’m still falling? But that shouldn’t...
Spreading his arms and legs wide to increase drag and reduce velocity, the stricken soldier arched his head and spine up, and glanced back over his shoulder. A long streamer of twisted fabric trailed behind him, thrumming and oscillating into the night sky like the skin of a deflated, wildly flapping weather balloon.
Fouled lines formed a deathly umbilical between him and the rigging, an ever tightening braid that would surely consign him to an early death if he didn’t do something. And fast.
With only seconds to live, instinct took over. Not on my watch.
Tucking his chin in tight, O’Neill looked down and to his left. Maintaining eye contact with the reserve handle, he allowed his fingers to trail along the straps arrayed along the opposite side of his harness until they snagged the breakaway handle for his main canopy. Grabbing the toggle in both fists, he tugged as hard as he could.
A fluttering sensation notified him of the moment his principal webbing detached, torn from the HAPPS by wind resistance and momentum.
Ignoring everything else, and especially the urge to check how close the ground was, O’Neill then pulled at his reserve ripcord.
Nothing happened.
“Captain?” The concern in the voice of his second-in-command, Lieutenant Barry – Roy – Rogers, was clearly evident, despite the muting effects of the comms system, “did you just eject your primary chute?”
“Hang on, Roy,” O’Neill grunted in reply, “I’m a little...tied up at...the moment.”
He tried again. Then a third time.
Still nothing? But this shouldn’t be...?
Reality, cold and harsh, bit home as the onset of groundrush began, the syndrome strangely warped out of proportion by the vagaries of his enhanced optics.
Shit!
Determined to the end, O’Neill adjusted his vector in a last-ditch attempt to veer toward the mirrored shine of a cluster of well irrigated fields, now only five hundred feet below him.
Too late, but I’ve got to try...eh?
A circular patch of something directly beneath him folded out of nowhere, shimmering as if the still glass surface of a pond had been brushed by turbulence. He threw up his arms to shield his face and splashed into a strangely aqueous environment, an environment that was as transitory as a bursting bubble, and yet which still managed to blow his mind and perceptions haywire.
Before he could register what was happening, O’Neill’s murderous vertical momentum was somehow transposed into a near horizontal trajectory. He hit the ground hard, a glancing blow that knocked the air from his lungs and sent him flailing through a seemingly endless series of closely spaced, spindly bushes. Each scrubby thicket acted as a brake, and in moments, O’Neil found himself on his back, thoroughly winded, and staring up into the vault of a star dusted sky where fifteen lozenge shaped shadows circled down toward a mutual objective only a hundred yards or so distant.
How...?
He caught his breath and froze. What the fuck just happened? Then he flexed his fingers and started prodding himself in the ribs, stomach and legs. Why am I still alive?
Specks of an unknown pale fibrous material covered him like a second skin. The stuff was everywhere, ingrained in the fabric of his coveralls, wedged in clumps between his battle harness and belt, in the sound suppressor attachment of his 5.56 mm Diemaco assault rifle, and stuffed in disturbingly large quantities into the top of his collar and the cuffs of his sleeves. And what the fuck is this crap?
“That’s cotton, the staple crop grown in this area. I’d presumed you would have covered that aspect of the terrain in your briefing back at Akrotiri?”
Reacting instantly, O’Neill rolled away from the source of unexpected trivia and came up on one knee, rifle to the shoulder, his attention sighting along the barrel of his weapon.
A shadowy figure stood to one side, its exact shape and height oddly resistant to the light enhancing qualities of the specialist’s night vision scope. The shape gestured, minimally, and a curious tingling sensation fell like rain through O’Neill’s body.
What the...? I can’t move a muscle!
“Don’t worry,” that same masculine voice said, its manner relaxed and reassuring, “I’ll restore your motor functions once you’ve come to appreciate we’re on the same side.”
“We are?”
“Well, I could have just let you take swan dive into the deck?” The inconspicuous outline visibly shrugged, “but you’re here to do a job, distasteful though it is, and things would be put in jeopardy had you met an untimely end.”
O’Neill received a momentary hit of an overhead view of a cotton field, its speckled cream and brown texture marred by the misshapen smudge in one corner. A smudge buried two feet into the soil in a crater that gradually stained the area around it red.
He couldn’t argue with the stranger’s logic. Mentally relaxing, he acquiesced, “So, we’re on the same side then?”
“In its broadest sense, yes. The organization I represent is only now announcing itself to the public at large, so it’s early days yet. You’ll find we’ll be functioning in a much broader arena than you, and in a somewhat more benevolent manner. Still, the protection of life and property, and the due process of law is paramount. We appreciate that society continues to be blighted by the presence of those individuals who, like a cancer, need to be excised. So, until we’re up and running, it’s good to know such people are in lethal hands.”
Something about the mystery benefactor’s demeanor prompted O’Neill’s next question. “So, who is it you represent, exactly?”
“An interested party to whom the peace and prosperity on the planet as a whole is important.” The stranger leaned forward and extended his arm.
Grasping it, O’Neill was infused with an inordinate sense of acceptance, before being hauled to his feet as easily as if he weighed nothing more than a child. Hey, I can move of my own volition again?
The cowled figure pointed off toward the nearby road. “Ah, your guys are just landing and will be eager to ensure you’re alright. Before I go, I’d be grateful if you’d hand this to your commanding officer on your return to Cyprus?” He pressed something into O’Neill’s gloved hand.
O’Neill lifted a small crystalline prism to his visor in which a faintly glowing passage had somehow been rendered: “YOU ARE NOT ALONE.”
“Seriously? That’s gonna raise a lot of quest...?” He looked up; only to find the gist of the message didn’t seem to apply in his case now that his ass was safely ensconced on terra firma. “You sneaky son of a –?
“Captain?” Lieutenant Rogers’ voice crackled over the secure line, “are you there. Captain, please respond?”
“I’m fine, I’m here,” O’Neill replied, spinning on the spot, already knowing he was the proud sole occupant of a wide swath of arable real-estate.
“Thank God for that. When we saw your main canopy go past, we thought we’d be holding a Pusser’s auction over your remains.”
You’re not the only ones. “Sorry about that, my reserve only just opened in time. I went in heavy and my helmet took a knock. I’ve just this second got my comms working again. Tell me, did everybody else make the insertion point without incident?”
“Yes, yes. We’re securing the LZ and are readying to deploy. Are you injured, or are there any last minute hitches we need to consider?”
O’Neill glanced at the message in his hand, its softly luminescent lettering tangible evidence that he wasn’t delirious and lying in a hole somewhere, bleeding out. There’s no way I can distract them with this shit. Not now when we’ve still got a mission to fulfill. It’ll have to wait until we get back, and then I’ll see what the boss and his boffins make of it before they kick me out of the Corps for being a certifiable lunatic.
That thought gave him an idea.
Buuut, if I make sure my HAPPS harness is preserved intact, they’ll have no choice to believe my story...wild as it is.
“Captain, did you copy my last? Are there any problems we need to consider?”
Placing the fleck safely within one of the pockets of his battle smock, O’Neill replied aloud, “Thankfully no. I’m a hundred and ten, maybe a hundred and twenty yards west of your current position. Wait for me there, I’m on my way.”
As he broke into a jog, O’Neill refused to allow his mind to overanalyze things and did his best to make light of his escape. Hey, once they see I’m telling the truth, perhaps they’ll replace my parachute wings with angel wings? Who knows, I could start a trend.
*
Villingili, Addu Atoll—Maldives (fifty-six hours later)
The Maldives are an enchanting series of twelve hundred islands situated to the southwest of Sri Lanka in the Indian Ocean. Separated into a chain of twenty-six atolls, they smile all the way from Ihavandhippolhu in the north, to Addu City in the south, forming a beaming archipelago encompassing thirty-five thousand square miles. Averaging only five-foot above sea level, the Maldives is not only one of the most geologically dispersed countries in the world but is also one of the most sparsely populated, for only two hundred of those sand bejeweled havens are inhabited.
Brian and Beth Cooper from Durbin, South Africa, were a happily married couple in their late forties. In celebration of their silver wedding anniversary, they’d decided to return to the Villingili township, as it was the place they’d first met on individual snorkeling holidays nearly thirty years before. A match made in heaven, as their passion – for crystal white beaches, diving, and of course each other – had never waned.
Regrettably, a storm cloud loomed on the horizon of their scuba-tinted love.
Brian and Beth had always kept themselves in the best of health. That changed, however, when Brian’s import-export business ran into financial difficulties during the global recession of 2034, the year before. Not one to see everything he’d worked so hard to achieve slip through his fingers, Brian had set-to during the past twelve months, making cuts here and adjustments there, in a determined effort to keep his company afloat.
His focused and methodical approach had saved the day. Alas, not without consequences, for though he’d managed to avoid bankruptcy, Brian had since been blighted with debilitating headaches and shortness of breath that rendered him bedridden for days at a time.
As such, Beth had proposed they return to where it all began. A six-week holiday would give them a chance to truly unwind, and Brian the opportunity to recharge his batteries before the Christmas rush that formed the busiest – and most financially rewarding – time of the fiscal year.
So far, she was pleased to see her idea was working like a charm. Having arrived four days ago, the Coopers had ditched their mobile scroll phones, cut themselves off from the cares of the world and made the effort to simply relax. Needless to say, Brian had soon rallied, bounding about with energy of old and taking to the sea with an enthusiasm that warmed her heart.
Throwing himself into the spirit of what this vacation was designed to do; Brian had even suggested they try out the wreck of an old Japanese WWII submarine, lying in thirteen fathoms about a mile offshore.
Beth had initially balked at such an idea. They hadn’t dived for a while and she was concerned that Brian might be taking on too much for their initial foray back into deeper water.
Brian wouldn’t hear of it, assuring his wife that this was just the thing he needed to feel truly invigorated for the first time in an age. Relenting, she’d given in to his proposal, and a little over an hour ago, they’d anchored their locally hired Atlantic Rib inflatable speedboat above the submerged tomb, and prepared for their adventure into the unknown.
And that’s where Beth discovered just how rejuvenated her husband was feeling.
Finding themselves all alone in the middle of a tranquil turquoise paradise, Brian had used the occasion to make the kind of advances that Beth had sorely missed in recent memory. Fifty minutes later than intended, they’d managed to disentangle themselves from each other for long enough to kit up, and begin their slow descent toward the barnacle encrusted cathedral lying more than eighty feet below.
At that depth, they were only guaranteed a measly fifteen minutes to look around. But it had been well worth it, as the huge hole blown into the side of the hull by the six hundred and forty-three pound warhead over ninety years before had created one of the most surreal sights Beth had ever witnessed; a seaweed and crustacean coated grotto full of gaily painted fish and bizarre coral sculptures that captured the imagination and made Beth think they’d be attacked by marauding skeletal pirates at any moment.
Now, more than sixty photographs later, it was time to leave, and truth be told, Beth was relieved. While Brian hadn’t shown any signs of distress, she didn’t want to push her luck.
With Brian leading the way, they commenced retracing their route back from the flooded engine room, through brackish chambers and long caliginous corridors, toward their entry point on the far side of the bridge. A straightforward exercise, as they’d always taken the precaution of laying down a line of twine when diving wrecks. Doing so allowed them the luxury of simply moving hand over hand while reviewing the memories of their latest quest, one they would soon treasure forever.
Every few yard or so, Brian would look back, grinning around his mouthpiece or flashing a cheeky A-Okay sign. In turn, Beth would reward him with a quick flick to the fins or – if she was close enough – an occasional pinch to his still firm buttocks. Secretly, she still marveled at how physically impressive her man was, despite the trials and tribulations of the past year.
Yes, she thought to herself, today has been a very good day. A sign, I think, of better things to come.
A few minutes later found them approaching the midsection of the submarine. Brian slowed to negotiate a series of overhanging jagged metal splinters protruding like broken teeth from the ceiling. Easing his way through, he signaled for Beth to follow. Though smaller than her husband by a long way, her hair nevertheless proved problematic. Voluminous at the best of times, it seemed to possess a mind of its own when wet, and insisted on fanning out in defiance of headbands and hair socks to form an anemonelike frizz to which clownfish in search of Nemo were always drawn.
Sure enough, as Beth neared the end of the ruptured portion of passageway, she felt herself become snagged and paused to cut herself free. Bloody tangles, she chided, softly, I’ll have to remember to braid it fully before we come out next time, otherwise...?
It was only at that moment that she discerned Brian was still wending his slow way forward into the gloom. Ah, not to worry, I’ll be free in a few seconds and will soon catch up.
A quick slice of the blade and Beth was free to examine her latest offering to the god of deep-sea divers, much to the enjoyment of an inquisitive bug-eyed porcupine fish that thought it was onto a free meal from a friendly stranger.
Shooing it away, Beth scattered her locks through the water like keratin laden chaff, replaced her knife and set off after her husband in earnest.
Ten seconds later, she entered the control room and was mystified to see Brian’s wrist lamp jerking to and fro in the water near to the hatch leading into the conning tower.
What’s he doing up there? That’s not the right direction?
Aiming the beam of her own flashlight toward him, Beth caught her breath as she realized Brian was clutching at his head, obviously in throes of great pain.
Brian! She screamed at the top of her mind, already moving, already assessing the obstacles standing in her way.
We’re near the hull breach, so it won’t take me too long to get him out. But we’re a mile offshore. Thank God I thought to bring my scroll phone and first aid pack. By the time I scoot him back to the jetty, a medical buggy will be waiting to ferry him across to the main island. Then it’ll be a ten mile run up to Hithadoo. She did the math. Far too long. Shit, shit, shi...Brian?
Brian’s body had gone rigid, from Beth’s viewpoint it looked as if her husband had just been impaled on a spike. Then a wave of queasiness gripped her as an argent cascade erupted from his lungs.
He’s bitten through his mouthpiece? No, no, no! Don’t hold your breath. Don’t hold your breath, honey, your lungs will over expand as I take you back...Right, he’ll have to buddy up with me and...
So intent was Beth on reaching her husband that she’d failed to notice the unexpected arrival of something behind her within the confines of the bridge, something large and powerful. Something moving at an incredible rate of knots.
It wasn’t until she’d been swept out of the way and dashed against the bulkhead by turbulent eddies – sending her torch dancing erratically through the darkness and casting mad patterns every which way at once – that she realized that whatever it was, it had seized her husband and exploded upward, taking him through the hull as if it were nothing but sodden paper.
Was that a shark? Brian?
Out of control, Beth was forced back, corkscrewing ever deeper into the substructure. She flailed helplessly, her mind tumbling in giddy spirals that made her want to vomit, until a vicelike grip fastened around her midriff, halting her descent in an instant.
Winded, Beth sucked in air and blinked. What looked like a human arm had clamped itself around her waist. She couldn’t be sure, for though her torso seemed held in place, her orientation refused to stop circling. Then another arm appeared, this one snaking across her shoulder to grasp her by the ribs. A heartbeat later, Beth was propelled sideways and then upward at an unbelievable velocity.
Pressure kept her chin wedged firmly against her chest. Gawping back along the length of her body, Beth watched, uncomprehendingly as chunks of rusted steel, coral and goodness knows whatever other debris arced away from a new hole blasted into the side of the rapidly receding wreck.
The experience was terrifying. Like a rag doll, Beth felt herself pulled along in an effervescent roaring rush of overwhelming contradictions.
Then, as abruptly as her journey had begun, it ended. Her equilibrium reeled on an elastic band of sound and sensation, fighting to slow down to match the pace of her ruptured stability. Fortunately, a pair of strong hands anchored her in place.
Jesus, I feel as if I’ve just sprinted the length of the island.
Gasping for breath, Beth discovered she was standing waist deep in pale topaz waters mere yards from the shoreline. Endlessly green eyes belonging to a well-muscled middle-aged man bored into her soul.
Are you alright, Beth? I apologize for having to be so rough, it was important I get you away from there as fast as possible.
“Eh? Er...why ye...yes I am,” she stuttered in reply, all the time spinning about, trying to locate the only one that mattered. “Have you seen my husband? Oh my God, Brian. Where is he...?”
Calm down, don’t worry, a soothing voice echoed in her mind: He was unfortunate enough to have suffered a stroke. Debilitating under the best of circumstances, and something you definitely want to avoid while so far underwater. Thankfully, we heard your scream and were able to get there in time...before our friends, in fact. It might take a few minutes, but Brian will be fine.
Tearing her gaze from the guy in front of her, Beth peered across his shoulder to see her husband lying on his back higher up the beach. A slightly younger looking woman was kneeling over him. Ignoring the crowd gathering around her, she appeared transfixed on a vista impossible to see, for her eyes were glowing in tune to the luminescent tendrils seeping from her fingertips in verdant hues.
Held six or seven inches above Brian’s motionless form, her hands swept back and forth between the crown of his head and his sternum, weaving and folding, threading and kneading those strands into a matrix of vibrant power.
Beth was appalled. “What is she doing to him?” she wailed, forlornly, “and who are you people?”
The man beside her spoke again: We are here on holiday. Like you, we needed to get away from the pressures of our job for a while. Fortunately, we never relax fully. Just as well, as our skills came in handy...wouldn’t you say?
“How are you...No?” Beth hissed, suddenly cognizant of the fact he was speaking without moving his lips.
Her unknown savior wasn’t listening properly. Instead, he was chuckling and staring off along the beach toward two other people – both male – dressed in what looked like dark coveralls with hooded capes thrown back, standing close to the jetty.
One faced out to sea, his hand stretched toward a small inflatable speedboat bounding across the waves, empty, engine mute.
An Atlantic Rib...Our Atlantic Rib?
That is was responding to some unseen force being generated by the man in black was obvious and without question. Beth followed it in and watched, confounded, as the ropes moved as if by their own volition, securing the craft in place.
How is he doing...Is he telekinetic? But that’s not possible.
The impromptu harbormaster’s companion seemed resigned, looking alternatively up into the sky and back toward the growing crowd behind her. By his body language, Beth received the distinct impression he was explaining the circumstances of what had happened to someone else, someone as yet unseen. Eventually, he shrugged, turned to the guy standing next to her, pulled a face and then vanished. A second later, his colleague followed suit.
Beth paid no attention to the gasps of astonishment from the growing throng, because it was obvious some form of communication had just passed between the hooded figures and her rescuer.
Laughing aloud, he waved offhandedly and confirmed her suspicions: Don’t pay them any heed, they’re just ticked off we beat them to it... Beth frowned, confused by his allusion. Spotting her incertitude, he rushed to explain: They’re on duty, you see, and should have responded first. But, as we were sunbathing on this very beach, we couldn’t just lie there and ignore your cry for help.
“What are you talking about, and why can I hear you when you’re not actually speaking out loud?”
Do forgive me. This is all very new, for both of us. The man’s voice began filtering through: You’re still in shock and, well...“well, we’re not used to doing things so openly yet. My name’s Luke, by the way, and my...aha!”
His attention snapped toward the woman ministering first aid. “It seems Harper’s just about finished with your husband now.”
Following the line of Luke’s gaze, Beth witnessed the moment the woman’s – Harper’s – eyes extinguished. With a satisfied look on her face, Harper then extended one of her arms and made a fist above Brian’s still comatose form. She squeezed her fingers tightly, and a single bolt of lightning leaped from her hand, striking Brian in the chest. He convulsed, once, expressed a long, loud sigh, then curled up in a ball, snoring.
The swelling assembly murmured among themselves, an escalating babble that became louder by the minute. Some jabbered incessantly into their scroll phones, others made recordings, two and three dimensional. Ignoring them all, Harper jumped to her feet and strode briskly across to join Beth and Luke by the water’s edge.
Sorry I was so long, she thought, by way of introduction: but you have to be careful repairing brain damage, it’s easy to screw things up, permanently. I also had to ensure his lungs were free of residual fluids. We wouldn’t want repercussions complicating things later, would we?
Beth murmured, “Are you trying to tell me he’s...?”
Oh, no, no, no! Don’t worry, that’s all sorted. He’s fine now. What with the amount of water he’d ingested, I had to be careful to take my time. Just let him rest for a day or two, keep the inevitable reporters away, and he’ll make a full recovery,”
“I...I see.” Beth was too emotionally exhausted to say anything more.
Luke nodded toward the crowd. With a hint of irony, he whispered, “At least you’ll get to finish your vacation. I think we’d cause too much of a stir if we stayed, eh?”
Giving Beth a quick tap on the shoulder, he handed her a clear, molded triangular paperweight. “Here, my slothful friends gave me this to pass to you.”
Beth found the item surprisingly light and warm to the touch. Before she could examine it closely, however, Harper stepped in to embrace her. “I’m so happy I could help today. We all are.”
In a softer tone, she added, “And I hope you don’t mind my saying, but when I was in your husband’s head earlier on, I could see into the depths of his psyche. You’re a very lucky woman because he loves you more than you know.”
“Oh, I do know,” Beth replied, the conviction evident in her voice.
Harper moved even closer, her gaze intensifying for the merest instant. Smiling, she stepped back, “Yes, I believe you do.”
Giving Beth one last squeeze, she went to join Luke who had moved away a few yards. It was only as Beth studied them together that the penny finally dropped. Oh, they’re a couple too?
Harper grabbed Luke by the waist and hugged him to her. Peeking back over her shoulder, she sent: Yup, and this one is all mine!
Together, they strolled off along the beach, past the rubbernecking multitude, and off toward the nearby water villas.
Hefting the item in her hand, Beth inspected the paperweight more intently and was intrigued to find it contained a silver colored wafer, upon which the following words had been engraved:
“WE WILL ALWAYS DO OUR UTMOST TO HELP THOSE IN NEED.”
Then she braced herself as several of the more daring holidaymakers in the crowd crept toward her, phones, cameras and cambots in hand.
In moments the storm began, to a blinding fusillade of flashes and a never-ending deluge of questions.
It went without saying that when the cabin allocated to a “Mr. and Mrs. Black” from New Zealand was checked later that evening, their suite had already been vacated. And, as they’d paid for their last minute break with cash, and the duty concierge had neglected to record their passport details, there seemed no way to confirm who the mystery Good Samaritans were.
On the plus side, so many witnesses made for an interesting bout of press releases, with the kind of coverage that caused people in both “high and low places” to take note.
*
Final Approach to Fairbanks International Airport—Alaska (three days later)
Delta Airlines Flight FAI57(H)
At two hundred and forty-five feet long, and with a wingspan of two hundred and seventy-three feet, the Aircarrier A390 was a double-decked, wide-bodied four-engine jet airliner manufactured by EAC, the Euro Air Consortium. Possessing a flexible modular assembly configuration, it could seat up to nine hundred and fourteen passengers, and at cruising altitude, was capable of travelling at five hundred and eighty-eight miles per hour over nine thousand nautical miles.
Chief Purser Connie Radcliffe had flown the transatlantic route with Delta for the last seven of her more than thirty years service. Now on her final run before retirement, she had prayed for a quiet, uneventful journey. And providence seemed to be listening.
Although the flight from Gatwick, London, had been full, all five hundred and seventy-eight customers on board had behaved impeccably and her crew of twenty attendants had handled everything smoothly and efficiently. They had even managed to throw a surprise party for her halfway into the eight-hour flight, which delighted passengers had taken to with vigorous support.
Yes, she’d had to tolerate the embarrassment of mincing up and down the length of both decks to the approbation of just about everyone on board, but she suffered that temporary indignity with graceful patience, secure in the knowledge that her team was genuinely fond of her.
Captain Chris Lye, one of the best pilots she had ever worked with and someone she had known personally for over fourteen years, had called her forward to the flight deck, where he’d presented her with a pair of tastefully expensive diamond studded gold aviator’s wings and a complimentary Jeroboam of champagne, which he jokingly reminded her, was not to be opened until they were groundside. Sauntering back to her post, Connie had endured yet more loud applause and congratulations, before interest had finally waned.
It had been one of her most enjoyable flights ever, due in part to an unusually relaxed atmosphere, an atmosphere affecting all carriers over the past few days. News was spreading about a mysterious group, being dubbed “Guardian Angels” – or, as the younger element of the YouTube crowd had branded them, Jedi Knights – who were turning out to be a real life Thunderbirds outfit. Materializing out of nowhere in all sorts of places around the world, they had proven quite adept at saving people in the nick of time from one calamity after the another. In the latest incident, they’d managed to apprehend a gang of armed robbers who had opened fire on police and a roomful of seventeen hostages when their bank heist had gone seriously wrong.
Miraculously, nobody had been hurt in the slightest during the ensuing shootout. And while some of the newspaper reports were hard to believe, she had to admit, video footage captured at this and other incidents globally seemed very convincing. There didn’t appear to be any environment or situation the Guardian Angels couldn’t handle. As such, the sense of safety and security people had begun to feel was clearly evident in the carefree attitudes of those travelling by air.
A native of Alaska all her life, it felt good to be coming home knowing she could at last begin to live out of a closet instead of a suitcase. And anything that made her last day easier was fine in Connie’s book.
Now, just four hours later, they had begun their approach toward Fairbanks International Airport. Patrons were in their seats, stewards were squaring things away, and Connie was looking forward to the meal she had planned later that evening with her husband, Douglas, and that bumper bottle of bubbly.
Even her newest team members were capable and well drilled. Nonetheless, they knew Connie preferred to complete a final check herself of all stations and personnel. She had just commenced those rounds when an unfamiliar tremble ran through the infrastructure, causing her to stumble slightly.
Oops! She scolded herself, before smiling toward the nearest passengers and declaring, “I assure you, I haven’t started on my present yet.”
That smile vanished as a stronger and more aggressive shudder caused overhead lockers to pop open, spilling items to the floor.
She frowned. That didn’t feel normal?
All chatter abruptly ceased. Conversations interrupted, people began gripping their armrests. Wide-eyed, many stared out of the windows toward the engines and wings or at each other. Some looked toward her, assessing her demeanor, or scanning the rest of her staff as if the mere sight of them would help miracle an instant solution to the unknown problem.
A moment later, a muffled bang caused everyone to flinch. Connie saw faces blanch and knuckles whiten. The tempo of her heart increased as that sound was followed by a prolonged grinding, a deep reverberating moan that rumbled through the bulkhead and caused the Aircarrier to roll violently. Fear saturated the atmosphere, prompting a number of individuals to activate their scroll phones and m-pads. Overhead, seatbelt signs illuminated.
They obviously want to call their loved ones, Connie realized, just in case. I’d better make an announcement to...?
Captain Lye’s voice cut in over the noise. “Would all passengers who have not already done so please return to their seats now. We are experiencing a spot of extreme turbulence and request that, for your own safety, you strap yourselves in. Thankfully we have already commenced our descent, so let me remind you that all electronic devices are to remain switched off until we come to a standstill outside the terminal.”
As Connie rushed to her place at the forward galley area of the main deck, a little boy seated with his family in the center aisle was putting on a show of being brave. Having turned to his mother, he was stroking her hand and doing his best to console her, “Don’t worry, mommy. The Jedi people won’t let anything bad happen to us.”
Mommy didn’t appear all that convinced by her son’s assurances, especially as another vicious tremor gripped the plane moments later. Oxygen masks fell from overhead compartments. Lights flickered on and off. The woman wailed, prompting further shouts of alarm that intensified all the more as the rear section dropped without warning, creating a tail end spin that accelerated by the second.
Connie held on for dear life. Listening with dread, she noted how the engines labored, revving and roaring to compensate for the ever-changing conditions threatening to hurl them from the sky. Panic spread like a contagion, and Connie found herself fighting to calm her own mounting fears and dizziness to remain professionally detached.
The rate of yaw increased. Struggling to maintain her footing, Connie staggered forward, intent on reaching the crew area from which she intended to use the phone to contact those members of her team who might have gained their seats.
All I can do is bolster their...“Whoa!” She clutched at a backrest to steady herself as they hit an air pocket. Not that it will count for much if things keep getting worse.
They did.
Regardless of the captain’s request, people were screaming and sobbing into their phones; clearly under the impression they were living their last moments; eager to send a last goodbye before it was too late.
By now, the plane was plummeting and whirling so cruelly, that Connie felt lightheaded. She didn’t see how they could possibly survive. Unbidden, an image of Douglas – his rugged, weather-beaten face and enduring smile – came to mind. Her vision blurred.
Blinking away her tears, she glared at those passengers still babbling into their phones. Lucky bastards! I wish I had the opportunity to thank Douglas for all our years of happiness.
Then she caught sight of the child again. Managing his own discomfort heroically, he was still patting his mother’s hand and reassuring her in the face of overwhelming odds. Mom and dad still weren’t paying much attention, and seemed more intent on getting him to pipe down than commend him for his courage.
Determined, the youngster defied them both and started shouting over the top of their protestations, “...what you say, they’ll come, you’ll see.”
Sitting back abruptly, he raised his head into the air and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Save us! We know you can. Please, my mommy is frightened. Don’t let us die.”
An ethereal voice out of nowhere cut through the clamor, ringing loudly in everyone’s minds: Don’t worry little man. We’re here...Now!
A blinding flash announced the arrival of five striking individuals. Dressed similarly in dark coveralls and hoods, they stood as if rooted to the carpet, immune to the g-forces wrought by radial and angular momentum.
The man in the middle of the group appeared to be in charge as his was the only uniform distinguished by a silver band at the end of each sleeve. Despite the gravity of the situation, Connie had to laugh the moment she laid eyes on them. So that’s why the internet is swamped with Jedi references?
Though brief, her outburst resounded along the cabin, for the arrival of the mystery quintet had struck everyone mute.
The leader nodded, fore and aft. The two men on his right started toward the cockpit – one mounting the stairs to the Upper Elite Lounge three at a time – while a younger man and women on his left ran in the direction of the rear bathrooms.
Once those Connie could see were in position, they turned to face back along the aisle. Each adopted a prayerful inclination, with heads bowed and eyes shut. An unseen signal must have passed between them, for they raised their arms simultaneously – those at either end of the plane pointing in toward their commander – the commander himself adopting a crucifix position, his hands extended, palms upward, along the line of each wing.
It was one of the most bizarre sights Connie had ever witnessed. The A390 was rotating about its central axis, falling like a misshapen one million five hundred thousand pound maple seed from the heavens. Even so, every one of their rescuers stood frozen in place, as if they had always been an integral part of the décor.
Then the chief Guardian’s head snapped up. Waves of sizzling power commenced issuing from his fingertips, fanning outward in rippling halos so redolent with authority that the tremors afflicting the great craft began to fade.
As the rate of spin decreased, Connie discerned her own sense of vertigo diminishing. Thank God for that, I thought I might pass out for a while there.
Another pulse radiated away from the leader’s form, this one pitched at a different frequency. Connie was momentarily taken aback, for she heard the distinctive whine of the Rolls-Royce T1000 engines shutting down. Her fear was short-lived, however, for the airliner regained an even greater degree of stability almost immediately.
Are they holding the damned thing up? Connie risked a glance out of a nearby exit port. Sure enough, the sickening curlicue cycle was abating, slackening off completely until the plane had regained a more or less even keel. They...they must be.
She pressed her nose to the plexiglass. Hmmm, our decent is now very similar to what you would expect from a normal landing on a windy day...Perhaps a little bit faster?
It didn’t take long for others to pick up on the difference. As they did so, all the accumulated tension drained away. Heads craned from side to side. Incredulous faces peered in equal measure at glimpses of the ground looming outside, and the sight of real life Guardian Angels stood within touching distance.
Soon, an entirely different ambiance filled the cabin with noise as scroll phones and m-pads came back out and abandoned conversations resumed, this time, filling loved ones in on the details of their miraculous salvation.
Connie could appreciate how they felt. To hear about these guys and girls on the news is one thing. But to experience them at work? She exhaled sharply, well; it’s like floating through a waking dream.
Strolling to the opposite side of the gangway, Connie looked out of one of the larger windows and was surprised to realize they were now so low, she could spot well-known landmarks with ease. She watched, numbly, as they passed the North Star Golf Club, Steese Highway and Creamers Field Waterfowl Refuge.
As they crossed Johansen Expressway, the Aircarrier suddenly banked sharp left, bringing shouts of alarm from unsuspecting passengers.
A comforting voice sounded out in response: My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, but we won’t be landing at Fairbanks International Airport. As you can imagine, the A390 is a rather heavy brute to manhandle, so we’re diverting to a nearby military base. The added bonus to this is the fact you won’t be swamped by the massing media as you disembark.
That’ll be Ladd Army Airfield over at Fort Wainwright, Connie thought.
She thought right.
Of the countless landings Connie had experienced throughout her working life, this was the most memorable, for as the six hundred and eighty metric tons of the world’s largest passenger jet curled in to land, it came to a full stop in midair.
There, caught in the cross glare of more than a dozen, four thousand lumen searchlights; it hung, suspended a mere ten feet above the tarmac. As it started to descend – like a feather – the rest of the way, one of the beams cut through the window, blinding her and forcing her to look away.
A gentle bump signified the moment they landed.
The undercarriage isn’t down, so why aren’t we tipping? She glanced toward their rescuers and instinctively guessed the answer. Ah, I should have known.
Then her training kicked in. Grabbing the nearest phone, Connie initiated a blanket in-house call and began issuing instructions for the deployment of emergency chutes and the safe evacuation of everyone on board.
Easier said than done, for though her team worked quickly and proficiently, passengers seemed reticent to leave. Time and again, one person after another would stop on the way out to thank their saviors, by word and by touch, as if those simple acts helped prove to themselves the reality of what they’d just lived through.
The little boy, especially, wouldn’t be denied. One of the last to leave, he gazed up in wonder at the personification of all his heroes rolled into one. Tugging at the commander’s robe, he proudly declared, “See? I knew you’d come. Even when my mommy wouldn’t believe me, I knew you wouldn’t let us die.”
The Guardian Angel looked down and ruffled the child’s hair. Winking, he replied, “That’s no problem, little man. We couldn’t have you being afraid to fly, now could we, especially as things like this are very rare. Now go on, your folks will want to get you home and there’ll be lots to tell your friends about tomorrow.”
White as sheets, the boy’s parents led him toward the door.
Outside, Connie could see distant headlights crowned in flickering blue and red beacons converging on their position. That’ll be the cavalry, come to protect their turf.
Captain Lye strolled confidently toward her.
“Just checking,” he announced, before Connie could ask why he hadn’t used one of the forward exit points. “It is your last day after all, and I don’t think Douglas would ever forgive me if I didn’t make sure you were alright and escorted you off myself.”
She smiled. He has a point I suppose. Douglas can be rather –?
“One moment please?”
She turned to find the Guardian holding a small transparent plaque toward them.
He said, “We’d appreciate it if you gave this to the appropriate authorities when they get here?” His eyes narrowed as the approaching MP’s triggered their sirens. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but we can do without the hassle.”
Taking the tablet, Connie was fascinated to find written text had somehow been suffused within its resinous medium in glowing letters:
“WHILE WE RESPECT THE SOVEREIGN RIGHTS OF EVERY COUNTRY, PLEASE BE AWARE THAT OUR PRIORITY IS, AND ALWAYS WILL BE, THE PRESERVATION OF HUMAN LIFE.
SUCH A TENET REQUIRES BOTH SACRIFICE AND DEDICATION. IT IS NOT A RESPONIBILITY WE TAKE LIGHTLY.
AND WHILE WE WILL ENDEAVOUR TO UPHOLD THE SPIRIT OF YOUR RESPECTIVE CONSTITUTIONS, THERE MAY BE OCCASIONS WHEN EXTREME CIRCUMSTANCES REQUIRE OUR IMMEDIATE RESPONSE IN CONTRAVENTION OF YOUR LAWS, TO PREVENT A LOSS OF LIFE.
YOUR PATIENCE AT THOSE TIMES WOULD BE MUCH APPRECIATED.
WHEN WE FEEL A MEASURE OF MUTUAL COOPERATION HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED, WE WILL APPROACH YOUR LEADERS TO OPEN A DIALOGUE.”
Connie thought that what the communiqué said made a sad kind of sense. Yes, I can see there’ll be some governments who will look upon their actions here today as an intrusion, rather than a blessing. Hopefully, ours won’t be one of them.
She glanced up to find their angelic benefactors had already departed.
But I won’t hold my breath.
The plane groaned and tilted slowly onto its starboard wing. Wobbling up and down for a second or two, it eventually came to rest, an irrefutable monument that life – for everyone, everywhere – was about to change.
Seconds later, the dawn of new beginnings clouded over as the cavalcade of freshly starched, flat-topped testosterone screeched to a halt. Men leaped from their vehicles, weapons were brandished and orders barked, as if the prevention of World War III depended upon their actions.
Unfortunately for them, the people they were trying to impress were long gone.