28 Damage Control

 

San Bernardino CA. Aug 8. 2033

34°03'45.3"N 117°24'36.4"W

 

“Air conditioning in passenger compartment, power to high; reduce the temperature to 67 degrees,” Trip ordered. The air vents at the base of the bucket seats rotated to and fro as cool air entered the cockpit.

HighTower’s media event was staged in front of the San Bernardino Riverside Treatment and Trauma Center. Rows of press surrounded the stage and caravans of vehicles lined the palm tree laden concourse that encircled the facility—one of HighTower’s many diversified properties. Digital banners that read “Welcome to the Mainland,” and “Every Citizen Matters!” were strategically placed around the parking lot and driveway within camera-range. The pavilion behind the stage was festooned with red, white and blue balloons as well as the Canadian maple leaf flag and the stars and stripes. HighTower’s emblem—gold initials centered in a field of black velvet, flew between the two flags. Bouquets of flowers adorned the front edge of the platform.

Trip muttered to himself, “Banks pulled out all the stops for this one.”

“I’m sorry, I did not understand your last remark.”

“It wasn’t directed at you. Go dormant until I request something of you.”

“Of course.” The Sikorsky-AVX onboard computer shut down temporarily; its green “standby” light blinked intermittently.

Trip watched the proceedings from the helicopter passenger compartment, preferring solitude to the circus atmosphere of HighTower’s press event. He leaned back in the leather seat and took another sip of Perrier water, thinking to himself that Director Terrance looked every bit like the cat that ate the canary.

Several hundred yards from the helipad, a poised and aloof Amanda Terrance stood next to Nelson Banks as he addressed the crowd. Her blonde hair was swept into an asymmetrical chignon, complimenting her Armani jacket. From behind the dark Dolce and Gabbanas, her eyes scanned the audience, alert for any dissenters or nonbelievers. Amanda’s petite frame was dwarfed by Nelson’s six-foot, three-inch stature, and yet she conveyed such steely self-assurance that onlookers were seldom aware of her height shortcomings. Behind the podium, 30 survivors from the Galapagos drone attack were seated in rows of folding chairs. They stared blankly at the sea of cameras—most of them unable to understand the language being spoken—none of them could comprehend the pomp, nor why their attendance was necessary. A HighTower “handler” was assigned to each refugee, outfitted in customary uniforms of therapists, nurses and orderlies.

As CEO Banks condemned the misguided actions of former Director Richard Cross, he vowed to reach out to the people of United States and Canadian protectorates, assuring one and all that the watchful eye of HighTower Security Authority was there for the safekeeping of all North America’s territories. And as further proof; pointing to the refugees seated behind him—HighTower had arranged to accommodate all the survivors in the Riverside Treatment facility, free of charge, until they were well enough for processing and deportment. Nelson pointed to one of the banners that hung overhead, saying, “Just like the sign says, folks: “We take care of our own.” He glanced down at his notes and pronounced the Marshallese words, “Iokwe, iokwe!” by annunciating each syllable, “Ee-oh-kway.” Nelson bowed toward the puzzled islanders with a flashy smile and repeated the phrase in English, “Welcome friends!”

The press snapped photos, recording Nelson’s speech verbatim. As the CEO stepped away from the podium, numerous hands shot up with questions for the HighTower exec, but Nelson Banks ignored them all. He nodded toward the security agents and pointed at the pilot as he left the platform. Amanda took her place at the podium and adjusted the microphone to her height. “Thanks very much for attendance today—we hope that you’ve all had a chance to tour our state-of the-art Riverside treatment facilities.” She smoothly dismissed the refugees with a wave of her fingers and continued her summation. “Unfortunately, there will not be any time for questions this afternoon, as Mr. Banks must leave for another meeting. Thank you all once again. Good afternoon.” Amanda tipped her head in a well-rehearsed gracious gesture, then briskly followed Nelson to the helicopter. Several reporters tried to follow but were blocked by armed security guards in suits.

 

Trip shifted seats as Banks and Amanda stepped into the passenger compartment. As the three of them buckled in, he casually reached across Amanda to retrieve his glass. “Pardon my reach, Director Terrance.” Amanda backed into her seat with a barely concealed scowl.

Nelson rapped his knuckles on the bulkhead behind him and the pilot raised the Sikorsky-AVX effortlessly off the ground. The nose of the helicopter pointed eastward and, as the propellers engaged, the rotors tilted vertically. The helo reached altitude and shot forward. Checking his instruments, the pilot switched controls to drone operation and confirmed with headquarters that UAV mode was engaged. “HSA West Ops, this is HighTower-one. We’re cruising at 23,000-ft. Speed at 387 MPH. The con is now yours. Over.” The pilot slipped off his headset and unbuckled. Ducking into the cabin, he addressed Nelson Banks, “We’re due to land at Corporate West headquarters at 4:50 Pacific daylight time, sir. Can I make anyone a drink?”

“You make a mean whisky sour, Keith. Get me a round of those, thanks. Oh—and bring out a plate of that… What was it you served last week—pheasant? Got any more of that cold pheasant, son?”

“I apologize, we’re out of the pheasant, Mr. Banks. I’ve got langostino canapes and there’s a bit more of the foie gras with morels on crostini.”

“Well shit, I was surely craving that pheasant. Just bring out some of those alligator meatballs with the Cajun dip—you still keep those on hand, I trust?”

“Never leave home without them, Mr. Banks.” I’ll have your drinks right up.”

As the pilot slid the door behind him, Nelson patted Amanda on her knee. “Fine job, Mandy, well done… Don’t you agree, Trip? I know you’re not into all the show biz that we engage in to keep the hoopleheads in line, but I’d say she put on a pretty good horse and pony show, all things considered.”

Pilot Keith returned with a platter of whiskey sours. Nelson and Amanda took their glasses, but Trip waved his away and requested, “Oban scotch, neat.” Keith nodded and backed out of the cabin.

“Not a bourbon man, Trip?”

“Not a cocktail man, Nelson.”

“To each his own, I say. Me, I like a little diversity in life.” He turned his attention back to his new director and said, “Cheers to you, Mandy!” as he raised his drink, the cherry bobbed precariously toward the lip of the glass.

Trip crossed his leg over his knee, smirking as he watched Amanda struggle to hide her distaste of Nelson’s new nickname for her. Amanda offered a thin smile and raised her glass several inches from the cocktail napkin she’d placed on her lap. Once Trip’s scotch arrived, he made a show of toasting Bank’s new appointee—tipping his glass in her direction. “Yes. To you, Mandy. Kudos and best wishes for a remarkable career.”

Amanda offered a half-hearted clink against Trip’s glass, glaring at him with an expression of one who detects spoiled meat. She turned her attention back to the CEO. “I trust we will be moving forward with refugee issue, Nelson?”

“Well, yes and no. We’ve got that sonuvabitch Kaleka and his lawyers sniffing around Riverside now, looking for anything to run with. We’ll need to be very ‘delicate’ with how we handle this situation. I’m sure you can manage that.”

Trip turned away and looked out the window, catching a glimpse of his spontaneous eye-roll in the reflection, he made a mental note to self-edit more carefully. Nelson continued with his concerns. “I had to use almost all the suction that I’ve earned up on the Hill to get those damn sea-monkeys placed in our custody—I had to play the immigration card pretty heavily. Thank Christ the Marshall Islands are only a protectorate—which puts them within our jurisdiction as far as illegals goes. But I’ll tell you what, that fucking do-gooder Raj Kaleka is using this whole thing as a political chess move. I don’t need to remind y’all that this government contract is our bread and butter, so watch your P’s and Q’s Mandy, that’s an order.”

“I completely agree, sir. We’ll need to update the handlers right away as to this tricky situation with ATHENS.”

Trip set his empty glass on the console between seats. “Are you confident that Riverside’s morgue staff are up to speed on what must be done with the corpses?”

Amanda directed her response at Banks rather than Trip. “They have all been fully vetted and briefed; the bodies will be incinerated within two to three hours post mortem. No autopsies are to be conducted and absolutely no non-HSA staff will have access to the quarantine ward. We’ve installed the triple-bioscan readers at every entrance. Riverside is tight as a drum, Nelson. I can assure you.”

The tray of aperitifs arrived and Nelson held his glass up indicating a refill, Trip nodded as he returned his empty glass but Amanda shook her head dismissively. As soon as Keith retreated from the cabin, Nelson spoke. “Now, with these trials completed in North Africa and the South Pacific, I assume that we’ve disposed of the rest of that Revelations project. But Mandy, I’ll need you to confirm this for me when you’re back at the office.” He reached over the tray and plucked a meatball off the plate, dipping it the sauce, he swallowed it in one bite. “Mmm, you’ve got to try one of these little nuggets. Farm raised alligator—tastes just like chicken. Go on, try it.” Nelson pushed the hors d'oeuvres in Amada’s direction and she wrinkled her nose. “Oh, c’mon now sweetheart, no getting squirrely on us. I expect my directors to have balls of iron and guts of steel—that goes for the ladies as well.” Trip popped a gator meatball into his mouth, watching as Amanda summoned the courage to do the same.

“I recall something in the personnel files about Director Terrance being a strict vegetarian—isn’t that correct, Mandy?” He smiled at her with a look of concerned solidarity. “And gluten-free as well, am I right?” Bending over to dip another meatball into the spicy sauce, he swallowed it whole and licked his fingers. “Ah well, more for you and me, Nelson.”

Banks looked somewhat taken aback. He cleared his throat and pursed his lips. “You aren’t one of those organic, non-GMO vegan freaks, now are you?”

“Oh, no sir. I eat cheese and uhm, I simply adore caviar—I’m a situational pescetarian you could say.”

“Pesky-what?”

“She eats fish when it suits her,” Trip intoned.

“Oh well, whatever. Just… keep it to yourself.” Nelson took his second cocktail from the platter and waved the pilot away. “Look, what I’m saying is that we’ve covered our asses so far. This last little mishap was a close shave, but with Trip’s expertise, they’ll never find the trail. Let’s just be very careful from here on out: no risky decisions.”

Amanda crossed her legs, pulling her hem over her thigh slightly. Smoothing the non-existent wrinkles on her skirt, she sniffed and asked, “Sir, might I inquire about a protocol issue?”

“Ask away, hon’.” Nelson tossed the maraschino cherry onto his cocktail napkin and took a long sip.

“I’d like to clarify a hierarchy matter—in so far as who’s answerable to whom from this point forward.”

“Well, dammit woman, you’re now HighTower’s West Coast Director, I’d think the pecking order’s pretty damn apparent once you’re on that roost.”

Amanda sighed and nodded in Trip’s direction, coughed and clarified. “I’m referring to contractors working for HSA, specifically Mr. Ashfield.”

“Oh hell, Mandy. Trip here’s just a lone wolf who works most effectively under the radar. I like it that way. Y’see, he’s sort of the ‘Lefty’ to my ‘Poncho Villa.’

Trip raised his eyebrow and in a Scottish brogue, quipped, “I’m the ‘007’ to your ‘M’.”

“Oh, hell no, son—I’m Bond. You’d be ‘Q’.”

“And Mandy could be ‘Moneypenny’,” Trip chuckled, raising his glass.

Amanda glowered and pursed her lips. Nelson noticed her dissatisfaction and stifled his laugh. “Now Mandy, we’re all one big family. You can expect all the support you need from Ashfield, I guarantee it. Ain’t that right, Trip?”

“You bet your life on it, Mandy. I’m right behind you, and way ahead of you.”

Nelson straightened in his chair and put on a serious face. “Amanda, your duties are pretty straightforward now—managing the west coast borders and operations. I’ve got Trip working on projects that are a bit more… fluid. I just can’t have him reporting in to anyone else but me. You understand that.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Now, before we land this bird, let’s make sure we’re up to speed on some of these loose ends. First off: Those two illegals that croaked once they hit port—did we take care of the bodies?”

Amanda nodded. “Yes, the HSA border security confiscated the remains in San Diego. The bodies were taken to our secure facility in Point Loma and incinerated.”

“Good, good. Now—second item, I read about a few of those lava-lamps talking to the press before we could get our handlers on ‘em. We’ll need to get control of that. What do you know?”

“I have the team of programmers working on it. We’ve swept through the search engines and wiped every site that contains any of our target words. I’ll confirm with the team when we return to the office, but I think it’s safe to say that we’ve contained the leaks.”

“I hate the phrase: ‘safe to say.’ That’s the surest way I know of to ensure it’s anything but,” Trip said.

Amanda gritted her teeth and replied, “You are more than welcome to join the programmers, Mr. Ashfield. I’m certain they’d appreciate your vast knowledge on hacking systems.”

Nelson held up both hands. “Cool down, children. I’m not in the mood for squabbles.” He glanced out the window to see Mount Rainier filling the view. “Well, we’ve got about twenty minutes or so before we touch down. I need to cover one more sensitive topic… And this information is not to leave this here bird.” Nelson looked in Trip’s direction and raised his eyebrows. “Spill it.”

Trip inhaled, leaned forward, and said, “We’ve got a lead—it’s not much, but I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“What kind of lead—are we moving in on this guy’s location?”

“Our BC surveillance system pinged an IP from one of the smaller islands up the coast… A fishing town called Bella Bella. It appears that a few days ago, an email was sent to one of the kids from the Tián family—the college boy who’s still missing. It is an old address, but we’ve been monitoring it. This might be our guy, trying to reach out to his family. I want to head up there myself and dig around—like I said, I’ve got a hunch.”

“Why not run the operation from HighTower West? We can send up any number of assets. Heck, Mandy can provide you with whatever you need.”

“Hmm—no thanks, I want to do this my way. I’ll need to talk to anyone who might have seen or heard about this guy. And I’ve been wanting to get a feel for the mood up north for a while. Call it ‘taking the temperature,’ if you like. For some reason, we aren’t getting any help from the locals, it’s time to find out why that is.”

“Well alright—but you’re too valuable to lose. Take one of the pitbulls along for the trip.” Anticipating Trip’s reaction, Banks held up his hand. “This isn’t debatable, Ashfield. Call in one of the special ops, or I will.” Nelson looked down at the landing pad as the helo settled. The buzzing from the rotors caused their glasses to chatter on the console. “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about this Ching-Chong ding-dong, but I need that case of slides he stole from the lab. I didn’t invest seventeen billion dollars into this project to wind up with nothing but a handful of dead refugees on two continents.”

“Understood, Nelson. That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

“Best not to forget that, Trip.” Nelson unbuckled his harness and gestured for Amanda to exit the compartment first. She ducked out the doorway, walked several paces toward the elevator door and turned to wait for the other two. Nelson waved her on. “We’ll catch up in a minute.” Amanda nodded and turned to join the security team. Nelson watched her leave and muttered, “She’s a heartless cunt, but she’ll do right by the company.”

“She’s too bloodthirsty. I don’t trust her to keep the lines straight.”

“Now, don’t be so hard on her, son. She’s an operator, that’s all. Give her a long enough leash and she’ll find her way.”

“…or hang us all with it. But hey, it’s your operation, Kemosabe.”

“Alright, Tonto,” Nelson laughed as he exited the cabin. “Just bring me that gawddammed scientist with my samples and get rid of anyone else. Leave Amanda to me.”