Skip to main content

Chapter VIII

The Chief flipped through Duchampski’s folder, pulling out photographs, inspecting each with faint distaste. Once or twice he sighed, removed a piece of paper and threw it into a waste bin.

“I’m not surprised you decided to enlist Dr. Duchampski, Spaceman, but you are of course aware of his reputation?”


“I’m aware,” said Spaceman, a hot towel draped across his forehead.


Agent Shield stood in the rear of Meeting Room Indigo, his arms crossed, feeling superfluous. The information from the herpetologist was cryptic, contradictory in places. Each paper contained a series of crude pencil drawings, a few mathematical formula and a list of letters arranged in two columns. It was like no code system he was aware of and yet the Chief and Spaceman read it with apparent ease.  After two years as an active agent, Shield saw how little he truly understood about the organization he fought for.


“Well, baby, it was the right thing to do,” said the Chief finally, setting both folders aside. Spaceman patted the towel gently, plucked it up by thumb and forefinger, and dropped it in the trash on his way out of the room. Agent Shield stiffened, expecting another diatribe from the Chief.


“The information the Doctor supplied points in only one direction, Agent Shield.”


“Which is?”


“Gunther Thulewaite.”


The chief sat back, as if waiting for Shield’s stunned reaction. Working his jaw, the agent confessed unfamiliarity with the name. The Chief shook his head.


“Gunther Thulewaite has been a person of interest in the intelligence community for some time. We know he was part of the Dallas Six, one of the original funders for the Kennedy Assasination. He’s got powerful friends in the CIA, NSA, FBI and defense industries. We’ve never been given the green light to go after him, but this might be the exception.”


“Who is he?”


“Kid, don’t you read the files? Gunther is basically THE concierge for the crypto-fascists. He is the man who hosts their parties, funds their policies and provides cover for their mistakes. Nixon? He discovered him. Batista? He supported him. McCarthy? The man basically held his hands during the hearings. The man is a blight.”


“What does he have to do with snakes?”


“Wildlife preserve. That’s sort of his retirement plan, as it were. He runs a ranch in Texas near Waco, where rich types can come and shoot whatever rare, exotic animal they choose. The place is air-tight but the man is connected. He’s got fingers in all of the pies. Now, he’s got this convenient ‘coincidence’ of a fellow Texan sitting in the Oval Office.”


Shield shrugged, still not following.


“Goddamn it kid, don’t you see? If there was one man in all of the United States with the access, money, and resources to raise a farm of Burmese Tiger Snakes, this would be the man.”
Marcus leaned forward, putting both hands on the table. “Then we get in.”


The Chief snorted. From the pocket in his white and black striped blazer, he withdrew an eighth and some rolling papers. Nimble finger bent a strip to appropriate saddle shape and then sprinkled the hash in a neat row. Two corkscrews and the reefer went between his narrow gray lips. “A little help?”


Shield reluctantly fished out his lighter, a silver souvenir from Berlin he never thought would see this use, and obliged him. “We can’t just ‘get in,’” said the chief testily. “The place’s is locked down, buttoned up, and damn near inaccessible. This requires finesse.”


“Spycraft, then. That’s why you recruited me.”


“I never recruited your dumb ass. But I know some people I did, and they might be able to help you.”


The chief scribbled a few names on a second rolling paper and offered it, folded, to Shield.

“Look, this ain’t gonna happen overnight. We’re gonna need aliases for all of your team. It’s a good thing Spaceman is back on board. That cat is a master of deception.”


“I’d like to voice my concerns that --”


The Chief slapped the table, skunky fumes filling the room. “Just read the goddamn list! That’s your team.”


Shield scanned the note on his way down the hall, nonplussed by what he saw.


Link to Next Chapter

Link to First Chapter

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Chapter I

When the light came back on, the room was empty save for a corpse and two baffled agents of Section Starfire, the premier Anarchist Spy Agency employed by the United States government.

Two trained pairs of eyes quickly scanned the room and found it devoid of anything worth mentioning besides an old battle-scarred table along one wall and a book shelf against the other and, of course, the body of the man Spaceman had just shot. For his part, Marcus Delacroix, Agent Shield, stood across the room from him, blinking in the sudden light, unable to focus. On the table by his right hand was a squat metal object about the same color and shape as a wheel of cheddar cheese. Instantly recognizing this object, Spaceman allowed himself a rare moment of panic.

Pushing past Marcus, Space dashed to the door and tried the handle. Inevitably, it was locked.

“Do you know what this is?” said Marcus, slowly regaining his faculties.

“Yes,” said Spaceman as he darted to the b…

Chapter L

It was immediately apparent they were traveling downwards, not up. Marcus wondered aloud what sort of transportation they were going to find at the bottom of the station.

“A submarine,” Simplex answered matter-of-factually.

“A submarine encased in ice?”

“No,” Hugo said. “Open water.”

“This whole station floats?”

“Of course! That is what it is designed to do. No section of ice, however deep, could be guaranteed to support a structure this massive. What would happen if a freak warming spell intruded into the deep Antarctic? The builders of this place designed it to melt a hole through the ice into the cavern and float there like a rubber duck in a bathtub. This underside is a convenient place to store submarines, no?”

“Very convenient,” D said sunnily.

“Ah, we are coming to the first challenge of our escape from the Delta Omega.”

Ahead of them, the corridor was blocked off by a set of heavy steel doors. Each door had a small round window mounted about eye level. Steam and condensation blocked …

Chapter XLVIII

Spaceman found it very easy to leave the station. His coterie of friends kept growing with each attempt at intervention until a kind of critical mass arrived. Whether or not he was a prisoner, or a Section Starfire agent, or a notorious addict became immaterial. Spaceman lead, and those looking to follow did so.

Heading up from the bowels of the engineering deck, they passed by the cryptozoological section. It occurred to Spaceman that his escape would be that much easier if the personnel in the station had something distracting them. A command to Mr. Doubtful cut off the emergency power to the pens, cages, and corrals keeping the cryptids at bay.

He figured the result would be a few sasquatch and sea serpents making a break for it. He hoped there were enough penguins in Antarctica to feed a new population of Big Feet. Big Foots? Spaceman chuckled to himself, bummed a cigarette from another engineer and directed his followers upwards.

By the time they reached the main exit, the station a…