20 A Subterfuge

 

White Rock BC. Jul 20. 2033

49°01'37.2"N 122°50'50.2"W

 

“I can’t believe that I’m actually doing this… It is, without a doubt, the most disgusting thing I’ve ever attempted,” Jun muttered as he zipped himself into the plastic coveralls. “I know I should be thanking Douglas but right now, I just really want to punch him in the throat.”

“Jun, quit being such a wimp. Do you want to find out where they’ve taken our parents and Nai-nai or not? Just shut up and do it.” Biyu’s voice sounded muffled coming from underneath the paper face mask.

“Arrrrgh—I’m going to puke, I know it!” Jun shut his eyes as tightly as he could while Biyu continued to smear the foul-smelling goop over his entire body. She wiped a thick swath of it underneath his chin.

“Oh god—look out,” he shouted and spun around, wretching onto the cement. He straightened up and moaned as Biyu finished the body-painting detail. Just then, Douglas pushed his way backward through the plastic outhouse door lugging a five-gallon bucket; its contents sloshed noisily as he waddled toward the siblings.

“Dude—this is the last of it. I can’t get any more crap out of that port-a-potty unless I crawl inside it with a spatula. He plunked the heavy bucket down near Jun’s feet, splashing fecal matter across the parking lot. “Man, you look like a poop-covered Sasquatch, my friend. I wish I still had my mobile—this image would be on your website faster than… Well, faster than shit on a pig.”

“Douglas, now is definitely not the time.”

“Yeah, I suppose not.”

Biyu rotated her brother, ladling a heaping glove-full of waste across his shoulders. She adjusted the mask with her elbow and began working her way down Jun’s back. “Hold out your arms, I need to plaster this onto your sides.”

“I’m having a hard time holding this arm up… that crater you dug into my bicep when you removed the chip still hasn’t healed. Damn, I’ll probably get sepsis from all this.”

Douglas took several steps back and plugged his nose. He glanced at his burner and returned it to his pocket. “OK dude, the driver should be here in ten minutes. He’ll walk through those doors over by the dumpster… That gives us about three-and-a-half minutes to get you shoved in between the bags of dirty diapers before he returns with the next load. Are we all clear on what has to happen?” Biyu and Jun both nodded. “And remember Jun—this guy’s been paid to get you across the border. He made it crystal clear that his obligation ends once you’re through it.”

“Yeah, Douglas. We’ve been over this thirty times. I get it.”

“Well, my fine-fecal-friend, I think you’d be well served to have a back-up plan, y’know, in case this caca-coyote bails on you while you’re going through the Customs inspection. My cousin told me he’d vouch for him… Then again, my cousin’s kind of a douchebag, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Great. I’ll keep that in mind,” Jun muttered through gritted teeth. He motioned for Biyu to pause long enough to inhale and then asked, “Please tell me all this is worth it, because I’m seriously about to pass out, Douglas.”

“They’ve been doing this for years, man. There’s a fake vent box made from copper and aluminum in the middle of all those putrid diapers—that’s where you’ll be. I’m tellin’ you, those dogs that HSA uses are supposed to be able to sniff out a human in anything, but they’ve yet to detect ‘em through this much—well, you know… crap.”

“I can totally relate. OK, let’s get this over with.”

Biyu dumped the last of the bucket’s contents over the hooded portion of Jun’s outfit. She stepped back and admired her handiwork. “That’s it, you are now officially a human turd. Huh, now that I think about it, when I remember all of the dumb pranks you’ve pulled on me.”

“Shut it, Biyu. If you know what’s good for you.”

Jun shuffled toward the warehouse as Douglas and Biyu disposed of the buckets. Biyu slammed the lid of the dumpster as a large white van with a bright vinyl “Nappies 2 Go” logo plastered across its side, zoomed into the vacant parking lot and backed into the warehouse, its reverse-alarm reverberating off the buildings. Exactly as foretold, the driver jumped out of the van, slid the back gate up and then jogged into the warehouse. The crew sprang into action. Douglas and Biyu threw several bags out of the van as Jun scrambled onto the bumper. Douglas handed up the disposable oxygen cylinder and face mask. The heat had baked the van’s contents into a pungent mass of sodden cotton—Jun squeezed into the vacant compartment by curling into a fetal position, he held the mask to his nose and mouth, turning the dial to maximum-flow. Douglas tapped the canister saying, “Take it easy there, buddy—those cylinders have precisely one-hour of oxygen supply. This guy makes the customs run every day, and even though they tend to fast-track him, you’ve still got at least a 30-minute wait ahead of you. Dial that flow back a little.”

Once Jun had situated himself in the center of the heap, Douglas tossed the bags back into the van, allowing Biyu just enough time to rearrange them and conceal her brother. She stood on her tiptoes as she placed the last bag above his head. “Bye-bye, Jun—good luck. I love you. Be sure to call me once you’re safe, OK? Everything’s going to be alright… You’ll probably look back on all this one day and laugh.”

A smothered voice emanated from somewhere in the piles of dirty diapers. “Yep, sure… Bye.”

Douglas glanced around them, pounded on the side of the van and yelled, “Stay chill, bro!”

Biyu and Douglas went around the side of the warehouse before the driver reappeared, lugging the bags of soiled nappies. He threw them into the van, slammed the door and cranked the handle. Leaping into the driver’s seat, he drove out of the lot. As they watched the van merge into the southbound traffic, Douglas raised his arms above his head, yelling, “Yonder goes the conquering hero—victory is ours!”

Biyu ran her arm across her forehead and replied, “It isn’t over until the van is through HighTower’s inspections.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He took the burner out of his pocket and checked its battery. “What a ludicrous day this has been, Biyu. Utterly notable in its absurdity, wouldn’t you agree?” Douglas slapped her shoulder, adding, “I bet this is one job that no one else could ever put on their resume, huh?”

“I think I’ll take a pass on listing this under previous work experience, Douglas.”

 

 

Old Seattle. WA. Jul 20. 2033

47°37'18.4"N 122°20'55.6"W

 

The abandoned complex of the “Experience Music Project” was situated in the heart of the antiquated Seattle Center—the ruins of which were now nothing but cracked and faded panels, graffiti-laden walls and crumbling supports. The remnants of the monorail lay scattered around the building, mangled components left to deteriorate where the Tyee quake had dropped them a decade before. Surrounding the complex was a 15-foot high barrier of high-voltage electric fence and razor-wire. The only access to the site was an unremarkable helipad, located atop the flattened roof of the central structure. The streets encircling the Seattle Center were obscured in weeds and yawning craters. Exposed gas pipes poked from crevices in the pavement’s surface. Buildings that had long been boarded up were now make-shift shelters for the un-remembered homeless and hustlers.

A sleek helicopter descended on the landing zone, its rotors so silent that the pigeons perched along the rooftop were startled into hasty getaway by its arrival. The mirrored glass windows of the helicopter had an iridescent reflection, giving the craft a waspish quality. As the skids touched the tarmac, doors slid backwards and Trip Ashfield stepped onto the pad. He was followed by Amanda Terrance and a uniformed soldier. The group lowered their heads and ran toward the open door where a security guard waited. The guard nodded toward the pilot and the helicopter lifted vertically into the sky, pivoting noiselessly toward the east, as it returned to its HighTower nest in New Seattle.

The security guard escorted Trip and Amanda through the winding stairs of the structure’s interior. Illumination was utilitarian, concentrated only on the routes where HighTower personnel traveled from point A to point B. The guard paused and gestured toward the hallway on his left. Double stainless steel doors barred their way. Amanda walked forward, held her palm flat to the adjacent screen, spoke the authorization sequence, then stepped back. The doors slid open and she motioned for the men to accompany her. They left the security guard and proceeded down the corridor passing by numerous doors on both sides. Each door was solid metal and had a sliding panel in its center, stenciled numbers painted above the panel identified one from another. Amanda ignored the doors, moving briskly toward her destination, she glanced at her wrist mobile for the number and stopped abruptly at number 1109. “Gentlemen, after you,” she purred, holding the door for the two men to pass through. A galvanized steel bucket had been placed near the entrance and a filthy mattress was shoved against the wall, its faded sheet indistinguishable from the padding. At the far end of the room, a soldier stood at attention. Seated next to the uniformed man was a diminutive figure, cringing in the plastic chair. The person was hooded and bound, their dingy coveralls were ill-fitting and soaking wet. At the sound of the newcomers, the person began to shake and moan. Amanda wrinkled her nose with distaste as she stepped around the mattress. She approached the soldier and spoke with an icy voice. “What information have you gleaned from this one?”

“Ma’am, we have been unsuccessful in gathering any intelligence of value from this detainee, however the chief has stepped outside to grab a smoke. He’ll be back in five, and the terp will join us at that time.”

Amanda sighed, “I’m prepared to authorize you to move forward with the enhanced method.”

“Ma’am. My senior will be back shortly. You’ll want to speak with him about that.”

She stepped away from the chair and in a hushed voice asked the soldier, “What about the other one—the male?”

The soldier maintained his forward-looking position, but his eyes shifted toward Amanda. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and muttered, “He’s a cold one, ma’am.”

“Damn. Very well.” She turned to Trip and said, “There’s nothing for us here until they bring the interpreter back in the room. Care to wait outside?”

Trip ignored her question as he stood near the entryway, scanning through several documents on his mobile. Eventually he slipped the device back into his pocket and walked past her, kneeling before the hooded individual. In a reassuring tone he asked, “Meiwenti ba?”

The prisoner jumped at the sound of her language, her head turned toward the source. She began speaking rapidly in Mandarin, her voice crackled with panic and fatigue, “Qing—rang wo zou. Qing, wo hui hen hao.” The prisoner’s frail body swayed to and fro as she pleaded, “Qing… qing.”

Trip placed his hand on her shoulder in a comforting manner, “Ta zai nali? Ni de erzi zai nali—Chen, Kim?” She recoiled from his touch and Trip leaned closer to whisper, “Wo keyi da bashou.”

The old woman sobbed and repeated, “Wo bu zhidao—qing, wo bu zhidao!”

Rising from his position near the prisoner, Trip sighed and wiped his hands on his trousers. He walked past Amanda and turned the handle, saying, “She’s of no use to you. She doesn’t know anything.”

Amanda blinked in astonishment and opened her mouth to respond but Trip was gone. Shaking her head, she caught up with him in the hallway. “Exactly how could you ascertain all of that from your two-minute tete-a-tete? What makes you think that she just doesn’t want to tell you where he is?”

Trip moved at a brisk pace and Amanda had to break into a half-run to catch up with him. She grabbed his elbow, slowing him down long enough to speak. “Alright, alright—we’ve reached a little ‘road-block’ in our assignment… but look, we’re not even close to being finished with the interrogation process on these two. Why don’t you stick around and see what we can accomplish today?”

Trip spun around and pressed his face close to Amanda’s. She backed against the wall as he moved nearer. “Look precious, it’s clear that you’re getting more enjoyment than intelligence out of torturing these civilians. And if what I think I just overheard between you and the jarhead is correct, then you’ve managed to kill off one of them in your endeavor. That is beyond unnecessary, it is impractical. I detest impracticality and waste. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t accept what you are saying. We just pushed him too hard. We didn’t know he somehow…”

“Exactly. You didn’t know. You—did—not—know. You neglected to perform due diligence beforehand and went into this situation uninformed—and now you will remain uninformed, because you did not act prudently.”

“Quite frankly, I object to your condescension, Mr. Ashfield. This isn’t an amateur operation here. We—they—are rather seasoned at what they do here. I had no idea you were so squeamish about the use of aggressive interrogation. You came so highly recommended, I confess to being… surprised.”

“Please, Ms. Terrance, don’t mistake my frustration with your shabby methodology for an aversion to torture. I am intimately familiar with enhanced interrogation—and that might be why you answer to me instead of the other way around.” Trip shook his head and allowed his last comments time to sink in before he continued. “I take it you were briefed that Mr. Tián had been diagnosed with a condition called chronic hypertension?”

“I—we… It may have…”

“Don’t bother, I can see by your expression that you’re unaware of this, which makes sense, because had you known of Mr. Tián’s condition, you would have surely grasped that by decreasing his oxygen, the resulting hypoxia would spike his heart rate and you would have been prepared for the logical outcome. And, had you actually acquainted yourself with his medical history, which I can assure you, I have…”

“Wait—how did you get access to…?”

“…You would have realized that you were setting up the ideal conditions for an aneurism in the wall of his heart to burst. In essence, a trifecta of blunders that would result in myocardial infarction—you know, that pesky little thing that killed him midway through your session? I’ll just assume that you didn’t have a defibrillator on hand during the procedure—I’m referring to the life-saving, not pain-inflicting type—No? I thought not.”

Amanda sidestepped along the wall, retreating from Trip’s onslaught. She stammered, “I was given the authority—the ‘go-ahead,’ from the top…”

“The green light doesn’t excuse you from not thinking. You acted impulsively, which is not practical. Don’t you see, Amanda, that impracticality creates more work. For instance, you now have a dead civilian to erase, a foreign government you’ll have to appease and a dead man’s kids to locate before they learn what’s happened to their father—and by whom. You’ve unnecessarily tampered with an elderly woman until she’s of no value—even to herself. This is incredibly wasteful, and in this line of work, waste is destructive. Ponder and deliberate before you make your move.”

“Director Cross seems to think I am approaching this in the correct manner.”

“Richard Cross is a stuffed shirt with his head up his ass. I answer to Nelson Banks alone.”

“I see. “Amanda took a deep breath and pushed her hair behind her right ear, taking a moment to regain her composure, she said, “Mr. Ashfield, I would respectfully ask that you wait for the senior officer to return. I’m certain that once we’re finished with the old woman, he’ll be able to extract something of use to us from the younger one—Chen’s sister. And since Director Cross has given me full authorization to continue forward, I’ll repeat: ‘Would you please wait?’”

Trip looked down the length of the hallway and ran his hand through his hair impatiently. “You’re asking me to stand around in this hell-hole while you get your rocks off watching some 80-year-old grandma undergo a round of pointless waterboarding—because, let’s be honest, that’s what you are really waiting for, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure what you are insinuating, Mr. Ashfield, but I take offense…”

“Pointless.” Trip sighed and rolled his eyes. There was no transportation out of the compound until HighTower’s helo returned and he didn’t relish waiting upstairs until it was summoned. He nodded with pronounced exasperation and strode back toward cell 1109 pausing long enough for the deputy director to catch up. Trip bowed and held out his hand, “Please, by all means, lead the way. If this can’t be avoided, then let’s at least make sure that it’s done efficiently.”

 

 

Peace Arch Park. Blaine WA. Jul 22. 2033

49°00'07.6"N 122°45'25.7"W

 

The two German Shepherds paced back and forth near the van’s rear door. One of the dogs placed his front paws on the bumper and sniffed the latch. The HSA officer stood nearby, arms crossed as he allowed his dogs to go about their business. The van’s driver stood behind the officer, fidgeting. The dogs completed their initial patrol around the van, circling the cargo compartment twice before sitting obediently near the rear door.

“Alright. You can open it now,” the officer said.

The driver hurried over to the van and unlatched the door. As he slid it upwards, an overpowering stench filled the inspection bay. The officer stepped back and fanned his face. With an expression of disgust, he shook his head. “Christ! Be quick boys—check it out.” The dogs promptly stuck their noses in the van and sniffed at the bags. The air was stifling in the enclosed bay and the officer held his elbow across his nose and mouth while the dogs performed their inspection. Finally, he removed his arm long enough to call out to the driver, “That’s enough, we’re good here. Close that door.”

The driver grabbed the handle. At that moment, one of the dogs barked and jumped onto a bag of diapers. The other dog ran over and began to aggressively sniff at the floor of the compartment. The driver nervously glanced at the official before daring to proceed. The officer ignored the barking and shouted at the dogs, “Clint—Bosco! Come—come here boys. Heel!”

At last command, both dogs reluctantly left the van and returned to their holder. He clipped the leashes on their collars and waved the driver away. “You’re cleared. Keep to the right lane and follow the arrows onto the highway.”

The driver jumped back into the van and carefully maneuvered out of the inspection bay. Entering traffic, he breathed a sigh of relief and adjusted his rear-view mirror, muttering, “HSA cocksuckers.” The van continued down the southbound freeway, turning right at the Blaine exit. Backing into a rest area, the driver hopped out of the cab, walked around the van and opened the door. He pulled a pack of smokes out of his jacket, drew a few puffs and ambled away. After several minutes, one of the bags tumbled out of the van. Jun lurched to the ground, gasping for air. He straightened, inhaled deeply and unzipped his foul jumpsuit. Ripping off the hood, he stepped out of the garments and peeled off the rubber gloves. With a quick glance in both directions, Jun sprinted towards Semiahmoo Bay, vanishing into the dense foliage.