Chasing the Son (28 page)

Twelve Years Ago

She exited the Combat Talon at 30,000 feet altitude and offset from the border eighteen miles. Arms and legs akimbo, she became stable in the night air as her mind counted down as she’d been drilled.

She pulled the ripcord and the parachute deployed at an altitude greater than that of Mount Everest. She was on oxygen, had been on it for forty-five minutes prior to exiting the aircraft. The ground, and objective, were over five miles below vertically and over three times that horizontally, leaving no time at the moment for her to enjoy the view.

She had a long way to fly.

She checked her board, noting the glow of the GPS and then double-checking against the compass. She began tracking to the north and east. Then she looked about. She was high enough to see the curvature of the Earth. To the west, there was a dim glow from the sun, racing away from her, leaving her a long night of fell deeds ahead. Far below there were clusters of lights: towns, not many, spread about the countryside. She remembered the nighttime satellite imagery and aligned the light clusters into a pattern to confirm both the GPS and the compass. While she was reasonably certain the aircraft had dropped her in the correct place, mistakes had been known to happen and it was on her, not the crew racing back to the safety of the airfield. She also had to factor in the wind, which would shift directions as she descended through various altitudes.

Her hands were on the toggles attached to the risers of the wing parachute, specially designed for this type of operation. Despite the thick gloves, the minus-forty temperature at altitude was biting into her fingers.

It would get warmer as she got lower.

Hopefully, not too warm.

She’d trained for two weeks in order to be able to do just this jump. The normal time to fully train a Military Free Fall candidate was four weeks: one in the vertical wind tunnel at Fort Bragg, then three out at Yuma Training Ground, in the clear Arizona weather. Like all her training, hers was quicker, harder and compressed. She’d been assigned individual instructors, hard-core Special Ops veterans who knew better than to ask what the female ‘civilian’ was doing in their school. She didn’t even have a name, just a number.

They followed orders, just as she was following orders.

She shook her head. Too much time to think as she descended. The time was necessary as she was crossing from a neutral airspace into not-so-friendly airspace. She’d already passed the border, the ‘point of no return’.

It did not occur to her it was only the point of no return as long as she didn’t turn the chute around and fly in the opposite direction. If it had occurred to her, she wouldn’t be here in the first place, as such people were not recruited into her unit.

Which also had no name. It didn’t even have a number. It just was what it was. Those in it, knew they were in it. Those outside of it, didn’t know it existed. A simple concept but profound in its implementation and implications.

Her chute did have a slight radar signature, but not a significant enough one to bring an alert, definitely less than that of a plane or a helicopter; more along the lines of a large bird. And she was silent as she flew through the air, a factor that would come into play as she got close to the ground.

She checked her altimeter, checked the GPS, checked the compass for heading, confirmed location by lining up the towns against the imagery she’d memorized.

Halfway there; both vertically and horizontally.

She was making good distance, almost too good. But better to overshoot and track back than fall short. She dumped a little air, to descend faster.

Of course she had to be on time. She had the small window every covert meeting had: two minutes before, two minutes after. Outside of that window her contact had strict orders not to meet. To evade. And the mission would be a scrub. A failure.

It would be a long walk back.

As she passed below five thousand feet, she flipped down her night vision goggles from their position on her helmet. The world below lit up in various shades of green. She could see the outline of the lake she was using as a final reference point, the flat surface reflecting the quarter moon, confirming her location. She focused on the drop zone, a small, square field, barely big enough to allow her to land her chute in it.

A light was flickering in the middle of the field, an infrared strobe light. Invisible to the naked eye, it was a clear beacon in the goggles. It went out for a few seconds, then back on, repeating a pattern.

A pattern that meant it was safe for her to land. At this altitude, if the no-go signal, non-stop flickering, had been present (or no signal at all), she still had time to peel off and land at least a couple of miles away and go into her escape and evasion (E&E) plan.

She dumped more air, quickening her descent, aiming for the light, estimating that she would land about a minute early. At two hundred feet she dropped the rucksack full of gear on its lowering line so that it dangled below her.

As she reached the treetop level, she flared, slowing her descent. The ruck hit terra firma, and then she touched down lightly, right next to the light, the chute billowing down to the ground behind her. She quickly unbuckled her harness, looking about through the goggles. A person appeared, moving out of the tree line toward her.

She was pulling her submachine gun free of the waist strap when the person raised a hand, not in greeting, but with something in it. Her gloved fingers fumbled to bring the sub up.

The taser hit her on the arm, sending a massive jolt through her system and immobilizing her. She collapsed, unable to control her body. As she curled up on the ground, she could see others coming out of the tree line, armed men, weapons at the ready.

Her muscles wouldn’t respond. Not even her tongue.

Someone knelt next to her and reached toward her face. Fingers dug into her mouth and probed. The ‘suicide’ was ripped out of its hide spot in the upper right side of her gum.

How had they known about that?

Compromised. She’d been comprised right from the start.

The person who’d removed her suicide option spoke. “We’ve been expecting you. We have quite the welcome waiting for you.”

Her muscles wouldn’t work as her gear was ripped off her body. And then her clothes, until she was lying naked in the small field. Her hands were chained behind her back, the cuffs cinched down, but not too hard, a small fact she processed but found odd.

Her legs were also shackled, but the restraints were padded on the inside, another strange thing.

Like a sack of meat she was lifted by four men and carried. It was cold, the air biting into her naked flesh, but she barely noticed it, her muscles still trying to recover from the massive electrical shock; along with her brain from the betrayal. There was a van underneath the trees and she was tossed in, onto a carpeted floor. Someone grabbed a chain off one wall and locked it to the shackle chain between her legs.

The chains were thick.

She lay on the floor, staring up the ceiling as the engine started and they began driving. There were two men in the back with her. Despite her nakedness, they seemed barely interested in her; they had their weapons at the ready across their knees as they sat on seats on either side and their demeanor told her they were professionals, men who knew how to use their weapons. They had small, bulletproof windows next to their seats and gun ports, and they alternated between glancing at her and watching the world outside.

They drove for a long time, hours. Movement returned to her muscles and she covertly tested the restraints, she had to, one never knew, but these were professionals. She was cold but knew better than to ask for a blanket or her clothing. If they wanted her covered, she’d be covered. Everything they were doing was according to a script, one she knew most likely ended badly.

For her.

The van came to a halt and she heard muted voices. The back doors were thrown open and a light shone in. It swept over her, the two guards, and then the doors slammed shut once more. The van moved again,, stopping after only a minute.

Once more the doors opened and two men stepped in, while the guards overwatched. They unlocked her from the chain around her leg shackles. They dragged her out and put her on a gurney. They strapped her down securely with broad nylon straps, then removed the wrist and ankle restraints. Looking about, she could see that she was in an open space, a concrete ceiling about twenty feet above.

There was a vibe in the air. An odor that was visceral and ancient.

Fear.

She was wheeled down a corridor. Shifting her head left and right she saw they were passing doors. Cell doors. Solid steel. No openings in them, but with a small screen next to each with buttons and knobs below.

Observation. But all the screens were blank at the moment.

She could hear music thumping away behind those thick doors. Heavy metal music. Her mind flashed back to SERE training: Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape. They’d also stripped her naked right at the start. It’s amazing what the lack of clothes could do to a person. Many broke right then. It was especially troubling to the military, who valued their uniforms, in fact placed great pride and a sense of self in their uniforms and their badges and tabs. Some of them, tough soldiers, had broken right then, stripped of their accouterments.

It didn’t bother Sarah that much.

And the music. In the mock prisoner-of-war camp where she’d ended up, they’d played music most of the time, keeping everyone on edge, making it difficult to sleep. She had an idea what was awaited her in whichever cell they tossed her in.

A door swung ponderously open and she was wheeled in. Bright lights lined the ceiling, glaring down at her as she was placed near the center of the room. Another person came in, some nondescript woman with shears and an electric razor. She shaved Sarah completely. Her head and her entire body. The woman was not tender and Sarah’s skin was left raw and bleeding in several spots. Then the woman and the two men who’d pushed her gurney left.

And the door swung shut.

She was still bound to the gurney. She looked about, her head nestled in the sheared debris of her hair. The walls were covered with this bright red padding covered them, even the back of the heavy door.

No smashing one’s head against a wall to end it.

There were tiny black spots up in each corner: cameras.

She waited.

Someone else might have called out. She didn’t. In fact, the longer it went without anything happening, the better. The rule was to hold out for forty-eight hours. She knew that her handler, Westland, back in the States had been informed she’d left the plane and had already noticed she had not sent her infiltration confirmation report. And Westland would soon note that there was no initial entry report as required by SOP.

Those two events would initiate a protocol: whatever information Sarah had that could compromise other operations and personnel would be reviewed and action taken to minimize possible damage.

So every minute that ticked by, while it might serve to un-nerve someone else, was almost soothing to Sarah.

Eventually she had to urinate. So she did.

She noticed it was getting chillier in the room. Temperature modification. Something she expected. Nothing she could do about it. Goose bumps rose on her skin. She began to shiver, vibrating against the restraints.

She had no idea how much time had passed.

She eventually lost consciousness.

She woke to her body covered in sweat, the temperature in the room at least in the high nineties. She was badly dehydrated. She could smell her urine and the gurney below her was soaked.

She heard the door open but didn’t turn her head, the only act of defiance left. A woman came into view, hovering over her. A rather striking woman, with short blond hair, well colored, and high cheekbones. She had grey eyes; correction one grey eye. The other was bright red, artificial. No pupil. Just red. She might have been a model (other than the eye), but the lines on her face indicated she was in her thirties at least, past prime for most models and she’d never known the prick of the Botox needle. The heat didn’t seem to affect her in the slightest; she looked like she could walk through a sauna and not produce a drop of sweat. Cold, very cold.

Sarah doubted she was a model.

“What do you know of the color red?” the woman asked in perfect English with an American accent.

There was someone else in the room, on the other side. Sarah shifted her eyes. A man dressed in white. He had an IV stand and a cart. He found a vein in her arm, expertly inserted a needle, checked the drip and then left.

“You must be thirsty,” the woman said. “We want to keep you hydrated. In fact, you’re not really going to be harmed. Physically. Much. No marks at least. Nothing permanent. That’s crass and vulgar.” She pointed at her red eye. “This was crass and vulgar and totally unnecessary so I know of what I speak. But I adapted. Some think it an ostentatious display, my red eye. But it’s a machine. A very expensive one. I can’t see through it; a pity. So I have no depth perception. Ended my ability to do my previous line of work, although it is amazing how we can adapt to almost anything. But the eye is quite useful in my new occupation. It registers your temperature and some other things.” She shifted gears. “Back to the room. Do you like the red?”

Sarah stared straight up.

The woman waved her hand, indicating the surroundings. “Red is a warm color. It, and its neighbors orange and yellow, have the longest wavelengths. Thus it actually takes more energy to look at those colors than the soothing ones, like blue or green. Red stimulates the brain, raises your pulse and your respiration rate.” She gestured toward her red eye. “I can tell both of yours are up. People think a toreador wears a red cape to enrage the bull, but the bull is colorblind. It only responds to the movement of the cape. He wears it for the crowd. The color indicates danger, excitement, hostility and also success. Like the toreador, everything here is designed for you and those like you. Keep that in mind.