39 Reprisal
HighTower Office. New Seattle WA. Aug 26. 2033
47°32'59.7"N 122°02'38.7"W
“Computer, play today’s news cycle; correlate frequency of HighTower references, volume medium.” Amanda placed her briefcase on the desk and nodded to Flora as she took her seat. A translucent screen appeared and pixels flickered into recognizable forms. Amanda clicked on the desk top monitor and skimmed through correspondence as she listened to the newsfeed. Flora set Amanda’s latte beside the monitor. “There is a new message from Trip Ashfield on your corporate line. It was sent last night at 2330. Shall I play it, Director?”
“At once, Flora. I need all communications from Ashfield as soon as they arrive—consider it top priority.”
“Acknowledged. Here is the message in its entirety: ‘Loose ends tied up. No threads remain. Following up on a Haida Gwaii lead for Chen. Going dark, will surface within 24 hours.’ End of message. Shall I archive?”
“Yes, go ahead… But what does he mean by ‘going dark’? That’s a bit terse, even for Ashfield… Flora, please pull up the GPS track of his helicopter for the last 48 hours and locate his current position. Send it to my computer.”
“The information has been transmitted, however I am unable to locate any transmission from Trip Ashfield’s mobile device nor a readout from the helicopter transponder since 2300.”
“Have a scanner history run through the main computer.”
“I have checked on this already, Director Terrance. Negative for scanner confirmations on Trip Ashfield after August 15th. Last GPS coordinates: HighTower corporate…”
“Enough Flora. Get CEO Banks on the line for me, please.”
“At once.”
Amanda tapped one of her glossy nails against her lips as she contemplated Trip’s disappearance. Perhaps this is another one of his and Bank’s secret missions. I’m sick of being excluded from their good ol’ boys club. She glanced at the large screen as a journalist in front of the Capitol Building mentioned her name. “Computer, increase the volume to six,” Amanda reached for her latte and focused on the broadcast. A female reporter stood in front of an angry crowd. People shouted, holding signs that read: “HighTower to The Hague”; “Justice for victims” and “Shame on the HSA!” The reporter motioned behind her as she spoke. “As you can see, protesters have gathered on Capitol Hill demanding that the administration come clean about the fate of the Marshall Islands survivors from the July missile strike that killed over 300 refugees. We’ve received no comment from HighTower’s CEO regarding their disappearance, sources tell us that HSA west coast Director Amanda Terrance, has been linked—along with former director Richard Cross, to the attack. Repeated calls to Terrance’s office have gone unanswered. It’s safe to say that with the upcoming election, the administration is feeling the heat. For more on these recent developments we turn to our west coast correspondent…”
“Flora! Get me Banks.”
“My apologies, Director Terrance. Mr. Banks is on another line with the White House. His receptionist declines to put your call through at this time. However, I will notify…”
“Yes-yes, thank you.”
Amanda paced behind her desk. “Computer, show me international news; keywords: immigration, refugees and HighTower.” The screen switched to Globe Press News and Amanda scowled as Raj Kaleka’s features filled the screen. The scrolling text conveyed that Kaleka’s gala would have representatives from hundreds of countries. The “Project Floating Cities” launch had dominated news cycles during the last three days and Amanda was tired of hearing about it. She terminated the transmission as Flora announced that Nelson Banks was on the line. “Thank you, Put him on speaker.”
“Terrance? Nelson here. Make it quick.”
“Yes sir. I trust you’ve seen Ashfield’s recent message? I’m a concerned that we have no trace—no recent flight track since yesterday. There are no RFID records since he left HighTower ten days ago. Is this something to be concerned about?”
“Look Terrance, I won’t tell you again—leave Ashfield’s activities to me. He’s on the hunt and when that boy picks up a scent… well, he’s like a bloodhound. Trip has never let me down before, so keep that pointy little nose in your own business and quit sticking it where it doesn’t belong.” His voice trailed off and Amanda heard several swear words strung together aimed, no doubt, in her direction. “Now that these loose ends are being cleared up, we’ll get the press off this refugee horseshit… We can move on to bigger things, just like always.”
“Very well. I just don’t like my name linked to Richard Cross when it comes to culpability.”
“For Chrissake, Amanda. I don’t have time for hysterics. Grow a pair of cojones and get down to business. You want to know who has a big ol’ pair of cojones? Secretary Gorton does—and how do I know that? Because she’s been reaching down my throat all morning trying to pluck mine out and choke me with ‘em.” Amanda shut her eyes and rubbed her temples. She motioned for Flora to lower the volume as Banks continued. “Now, I’d suggest you get your agents out on the street and help Trip round up that renegade scientist. With all the foreign press and half of the third world heading to your part of the country for Kaleka’s gawddammed spectacle, we don’t need anyone bumping into that Chinaman. Comprendes?”
“I am in total agreement, sir.”
The line went dead. Amanda drew a long sigh, “That bastard is going to throw me under the bus as well.” She closed her eyes, pursed her lips briefly, then with a sharp rap on the table, she walked around her desk and made for the door. “Flora, I’ll be out of the office for a brief time. Please upload the last coordinates that Trip Ashfield transmitted on August 15th. I want them sent to my personal device only.”
“Affirmative. The coordinates are for a town called Old Massett on the northern coast of Haida Gwaii, population approximately 600 year-round residents…”
“Flora…”
“Yes, Director?”
“Please switch to silent-mode until I request otherwise.”
Unnamed Facility. Ho Chi Minh City. August 26. 2033
10°48'57.1"N 106°21'12.8"E
Enlai Hán picked up the receiver, “Wéi.”
“This is Amanda Terrance. To whom am I speaking?”
“Ah—so sorry, Director. This is Hán. So nice to hear from you. How may I be of service?”
“Yes, I’m calling to confirm that all is going smoothly. Are you up and running—is everything there?”
“Yes—yes, we are extremely pleased with the new facility. Our lab is most satisfactory. Thank you for checking on us, we’re so grateful for this opportunity.”
“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it. How soon can I expect a finished delivery system for the Revelations enzyme?”
“Finished? Ha—most of us have not even unpacked our suitcases yet, Director. But I am quite happy with the progress…”
“How soon, Enlai?”
“Well, we cannot rush these things, as I’m sure you are aware.”
Amanda coughed and her tone changed. “I need a prototype within the next twelve hours. I trust you to make that happen.”
“What? No—no, we have not finalized extracting the enzyme from the tissue culture. Our delivery system has yet to be tested…”
“There is a MQ-9C en route as we speak. It is equipped with the last of our Revelations enzyme virus. All that is lacking is the delivery method. I expect you to have it ready by the time the drone arrives at your facility in Ho Chi Minh. Are we clear?”
Dr. Hán responded slowly, “You wish to incorporate our untested delivery system. You are planning to arm the drone.”
“Correct. As I said, this is the last of our supply from Chen’s batch. Don’t screw it up, Enlai.”
“Are you sure this is a prudent decision? Has HighTower authorized deployment without full testing?”
“You answer to me alone.”
“I understand Director Terrance. We will be ready.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Once the weapon has been loaded, I’m to be notified immediately.”
“May I inquire as to the destination? Should we adjust for temperature extremes?”
“There’s no need. It’s going to an island near the Gulf of Alaska—no freezing temperatures this time of year. Just make sure that the system is deployable. I’ll wait for your call.”
“Yes, ma’am. Good bye.” Mr. Han set down the receiver and shook his head, muttering to himself. “Laowai she-devil.”
HighTower Office. New Seattle WA. Aug 26. 2033
47°32'59.7"N 122°02'38.7"W
Amanda burst through the doorway of her office and addressed her assistant. “Flora, I need an eye in the sky on those coordinates. Give me the location of our nearest Mossie.” She sat down and leaned into the desk monitor. The data appeared on her screen. “Thank you, Flora,” she mumbled, adding, “Switch voice activation on.”
“I am retrieving the data for you now. There is a Mossie over Kodiak Island in the Gulf that could arrive at Graham Island in 93 minutes. Should I reroute?”
“Yes, authorize a reroute, ‘Terrance; Alpha-India-four-one,’” Amanda replied.
“The request has been transmitted and confirmation received.”
“When we have a visual, please patch it through. I want surveillance on any potable water storage facilities: Wells, reservoirs, towers… whatever.” Amanda spun in her chair to face the plate-glass window, observing her reflection as she remarked, “That’s how one ties up ‘loose ends’, Mr. Ashfield.”