Jaunt

Jaunt - Erik Kreffel

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your skull, Yastanni!”

Special Agent James Gilmour spat, leveling his sidearm against the temple of Doctor Nouhri Yastanni, who cowered on the bedroom floor of his four-star Parisian hotel. His head held taut by Gilmour’s partner, Special Agent Greg Mason, Yastanni answered in his thick Iranian accent, “What’re you doing in my room?! I’m here for the trade show! My government will be very displeas—”

“We don’t care about your leisure activities while you’re in town!” Drawing his face closer to the stunned man, Mason produced a palm-size black canister. “Look familiar?

Where and how did you receive these neutronic particles? Why do you have this canister, which was reported missing from the Sudbury Quantum Laboratory last month?!”

Shivering under the combined grasp of Gilmour and Mason, Yastanni’s mouth contorted, forcing out the weak words, “I’ve...I’ve been producing them for the past sixteen months...since I’ve...received seed particles and schematics for a neutronic device from a mole code named HADRON in North America....”

Gilmour nuzzled the barrel of his pistol into Yastanni’s sallow skin. “And...?”

“The neutronic particles are being funneled to the Confederation government in Russia...they’ve paid me one hundred million euros for every batch of particles I can produce that will yield a neutronic warhead—”

“Who is HADRON’s handler?! What is HADRON’s location?!”

“I—I don’t know...contact was arranged by someone in the Confederation—”

Gritting his teeth, Gilmour fought against every fiber of his being not to strike Yastanni in the gut. “You’d better hope you have a good advocate, Doctor...you’re gonna need one now. Have you got all that, Mason?”

“Every second,” Mason said, removing a circular device adjacent to his left eye; it was a webeye, which had recorded in its blue iris the proceedings of Yastanni’s capture for his prosecution. “He’s going down.”

The agents pulled Yastanni to his feet and smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit jacket and trousers, making him presentable again. Yastanni started to straighten his tie, but Gilmour slapped his hands away.

“I think that’s good enough.”

“Ready for your day in the World Court?” Mason taunted. “You’d better clear your schedule for the next few years....”

“Hey, Chief! We’ve got Nouhri! Web A.D. Leeds!” Gilmour shouted, craning his head back.

“Already on it,” acknowledged Section Manager “Chief” Grant Louris, the pair’s immediate supervisor. He left his observing post at the room’s threshold and walked into the corridor brandishing a holobook—a multi-purpose holographic ledger—in his left hand. Keeping Yastanni in line with his pistol between the doctor’s shoulder blades, Gilmour wore a triumphant smile. “Thanks, Doctor...you just made our sweat all worthwhile.” He glanced to Mason. “I think he’s sorry, don’t you?”

Mason clapped Yastanni’s arm and pulled him forward. “Sorry he got busted!”

Racing out the hotel, Gilmour, Mason, Chief and a squad of Parisian gendarmes headed towards an idling paddy wagon, scurrying before the webmedia converged with their skycraft to witness the catch.

“Keep your head down!” Gilmour barked. A sack had been placed over Yastanni’s head, but he was still lit by the sodium lights from the hotel front despite the agent’s best efforts.

The trio hoisted Yastanni aboard the paddy wagon, but instead of a waiting celebration, another agent, Tommy Bell, pulled the trio aside at the wagon’s rear doors.

“Agents! A.D. Leeds is recalling you immediately! He’s scrambling a jumpjet to take you back to D.C. this evening.”

“What?!” Gilmour flashed an indignant look to Louris, but Chief merely shrugged. Mason not so subtly dismissed the greenhorn’s message. “Agent, we’re going to Brussels to arraign Yastanni. Those’re the laurels, got it?”

“I’m sorry, sir. A.D. Leeds has invoked Clause 452.”

452...that was an immediate recall back to the Intelligence and Investigation Agency’s HQ, with grounds for permanent dismissal from the Agency if disregarded. Whatever the hell was going on, Gilmour thought, Leeds wasn’t fooling around. The only thing he could think of that rated so high in the IIA’s protocols was an international incident on par with Congress declaring war.

Gilmour shook his head and sighed. “Talk about a whimper.”

“I’m sure there will be others that’ll be a bang,” Louris said, the weariness in his voice betraying his decades of service to the IIA. “Agent Bell, web A.D. Leeds our acknowledgement. Boys, looks like we’re going home.”

Fighting off the flight lag back to Washington, Gilmour and Mason put on their best professional countenances and swiftly made their way through the IIA’s stuffy basement corridors—a relic of the defunct Federal Bureau of Investigation—and towards the Level Three Conference Room, where they expected Leeds to be waiting for them. Instead, Agent Bell diverted the pair to the office of Leeds’ secretary.

Harold Leeds and his secretary were inside, as was a slight figure, an Ivy League professor-like look to him. Tension oozed from the place, making Gilmour pause.

“Agent, why are we going here?”

“A.D. Leeds’ orders, sir.” Bell gestured the pair inside, then locked the door. Gilmour and Mason noticed that Leeds didn’t appear particularly pleased by this older man in his battered tweed coat and tie; he had all the hallmarks of someone who normally disdained the work of the intelligence community, let alone be seen wandering the Agency’s recesses.

“Doctor,” Leeds said, “these are my top agents in the Global Intelligence Directorate of the Washington Bureau, James Gilmour and Gregory Mason.”

The visitor, his once-red hair flecked with silvery strands, extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Doctor Richard de Lis, of the theoretical studies laboratory in Ottawa. I have been sent here specifically on orders from Solicitor General Rauchambau and Secretary of Defense McKennitt to secure both of you.”

Gilmour shook de Lis’ hand. “Why us?”

“There is a situation in Ottawa demanding the critical attention of the IIA—”

“Just a moment,” Mason interrupted. “I don’t think you realize the severity of the situation my partner and I are currently embroiled in. We’ve invested years in uncovering the ties the Confederation has with illicit neutronic technology trafficking—”

“I understand, but this operation has been declared a Presidential Priority, trumping all else,” de Lis declared. “Your presence has been requested from the highest echelons, agents. As of now, all other assignments you have are on hold. Without you at my disposal, the balance of power in the world could be lost to the Confederation or the Central Asian Conglomerates. And I don’t mean temporarily.” Beneath the doctor’s near-stoic demeanor was a twinge of fear. “I mean forever.”

“Your sidearms and badges!” the Marine sergeant at the check-in gate barked to Gilmour and Mason as the agents and de Lis appeared. Behind the sergeant were two other Marines brandishing conspicuous M-119 semi-automatic rifles, each weapon twice the thickness of a man’s forearm.

Gilmour opened his jacket, eliciting a stern “Slowly!” from the sergeant. Gilmour complied and handed over his pistol, then displayed his badge prominently enough that the spit-polished and starched MP couldn’t possibly mistake it for anything but governmentissue. After accepting Mason’s two items, the sergeant gestured towards the gate, handed the two agents small RFID chips, then announced, “Cleared. Upon your exit from this facility, reclaim your sidearms from the armory with those chips.”

Gilmour looked to de Lis with contempt, waved a less-than-conciliatory hand to the MP, then walked past the gate, which, he was sure, was now thoroughly scanning his body for other illicit devices or materials.

“Nice welcome mat you lay out here,” Mason said to de Lis once the trio were out of earshot.

“Gentlemen, we’re at Threat Level Red...so expect nothing but the utmost of inconvenience while in the U Complex facility.”

“And what kind of facility is this, Doctor?” Gilmour asked, knowing only the basics he and Mason had discerned on the flight, taking note of the U—Underground—Complex and its mundane, above ground, twin hangar decks. Being all that were visible to untrained eyes, the jumpjet and skycraft landing pads masked the extensive basement levels dug deeply into the Ottawa soil.

“North America’s most premier and revered quantum, particle and experimental extraforces research facility, Agent Gilmour. We also deal with phenomena the government otherwise has no category for.”

“You split particles?” Mason asked, ignoring the latter part.

“Well, they’re usually already smashed before we get our hands on them, but yes, in a manner of speaking.”

Gilmour flashed a pleasant look to Mason, as if he’d just placed the next-to-last piece in a log-jammed puzzle. “Doctor, do you deal with anyone who plays with neutronic particles?”

“Quite a few.” De Lis lifted a finger. “You pair are quick...I think I have chosen correctly. I was a little concerned at your apprehension, but you’ll do nicely.”

Gilmour put his hand on de Lis’ arm. “We’ll do nicely?”

“Follow me...it’ll speak for itself. I am loath to explain in these...corridors.”

Gilmour furrowed his brow as de Lis sped ahead. The corridors de Lis mentioned were cramped, and positively ancient, not exactly what one would have expected for the government’s “premier quantum research facility.” Fluorescent light bounced off the tile floor, reminding Gilmour of the Washington Bureau; some things were the same no matter where.

De Lis led them through the corridor for several minutes, passing dozens of doorways. Only after they appeared to come to a dead end did de Lis cross over to a particular door. Producing a set of pass keys from his pocket, he selected one and slid the card through a slot on the panel, which beeped, accepting it.

Gilmour noted the room’s denomination as they were led in: U5-29. Instinct told him this would be the first of many treks here.

Mason took a few seconds to study the sparse room. The cream walls contained their only other companions—an oval, chrome-inlaid conference table with a dozen chairs. No holobooks had been set out, only a few pens. Green-shaded secretary lamps extended from the table’s edges at each chair’s location, providing a traditional look to the otherwise hodgepodge office.

“Make yourselves comfortable at the table, gentlemen,” de Lis said, gesturing. “The remainder of our contingent will be along at any moment.”

The pair sat down and subsequently noticed a smaller oval concavity at the table’s center, which appeared to be merely for decoration. Gilmour’s hand brushed against the smooth gold polish, which was cold to the touch. Tapping it with a finger, it sounded solid.

“Quite a piece you got here.”

“No wonder the rest of the place is falling apart,” Mason quipped.

“This is just a small example of a larger facility—the gallery,” de Lis explained. “You’ll find out that appearances aren’t everything.”

The door beeped behind him, admitting a man and a woman, both of whom were dressed informally in denim trousers, short-sleeved shirts and bruised trainers. The two newcomers nodded to de Lis, then hastily sat themselves, placing a stack of holobooks on the table, paying almost no heed to the visitors.

De Lis seated himself between the newcomers. Picking up a holobook, he scrolled through the device’s virtual interface for a moment before saying, “Sorry...I just needed to update myself on the latest intel. The situation here changes almost second by second.” His eyes glanced to the two mystery people, then back to the agents. “Allow me to introduce two of my colleagues: Doctor Stacia Waters, out of the DoD’s Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, and Doctor Javier Valagua, an old friend on loan from the IIA’s historical department, specializing in twentieth century research.”

Waters and Valagua nodded, voicing light pleasantries.

An historian and a theoretical scientist; Gilmour sensed this wasn’t going to be the usually sanctioned IIA case. Whatever this Presidential Priority was, it was definitely out of their typical domain. But yet, here they were.

“Let’s get down to business,” de Lis started. “Secretary McKennitt notified this facility at oh-three-twenty GMT yesterday of the detection of a crater in the Himalayan Mountain Range, twenty-nine degrees north by eighty-three degrees east. The Global Security Network’s topographical and spectral analyses have determined that this crater could not have been created by any known, natural object, nor has NORAD reported any man-made, orbital objects as lost.”

Valagua tapped a button on his holobook, bringing the table’s concavity to life; within the gold ring a topographical holograph of the Himalayas materialized, an image obtained by the Global Security Network within the past few days, Gilmour surmised. The level of detail was extraordinary, even as Valagua commanded the magnification below sub-meter scale.

Peaks lining the range flew past the holograph’s circular border and out of view while the image scaled down to a crater situated in the center. With the magnification paused, the holograph added a red outline that hovered over the crater, bringing the arguably hard-todiscern impact to light. Mason grabbed a holobook to review the statistical analysis of the crater. “Doctor, the Confederation routinely performs flyover maneuvers of the Central Asian Conglomerates. Could they have lost an atomic bomber?”