Dr. Director kept her features carefully composed as the diener manhandled the wrapped figure—her internal voice chided her for her fastidious refusal to use the term corpse —with all the delicacy of a thug conducting a mugging. She couldn't quite control a wince as the body thudded onto the stainless steel autopsy table.
Global Justice's chief pathologist, Friedrich von Recklin, adjusted his throat microphone as the diener placed a body block under the body, forcing the chest outward and providing maximum exposure of the trunk.
“Case 1146,” von Recklin spoke into the recorder, “female, aged 16 years—”
Dr. Director noticed him reading off a tag wired to the stump of one leg and held up a hand, stopping the pathologist in mid word. “How sure are you—can you be— of your identification?” she asked skeptically, forcing herself to look meaningfully at the charred almost limbless trunk.
“Absolutely positive,” the pathologist replied, “both fingerprint and preliminary blood and tissue analysis match absolutely with the data on file for this case.”
“Case,“ Dr. Director thought tiredly, “she's not even a person any more. Just a case and a file number.“
“Thank you doctor. I don't mean to question your competence. But it's very important—”
“It is quite alright, Dr. Director,” the always coldly correct pathologist replied. “But if I may continue?” At her nod, he switched his recorder back on.
“Apparent cause of death are multiple penetrating wounds causing multiple organ failure with concomitant exsanguination associated with traumatic amputation of …”
Dr. Director tuned out von Recklin's clinical recitation, wishing she'd let Will take her place. She hadn't because of guilt …GJ was her creation. And this fiasco —she tried not to think about the remains on the table —was a GJ problem. By extension her problem. Her fault. Her guilt. She had to contact Ron. Wade …Oh god … she shivered as if ice water had been forced into her veins. The family! Had anyone let them know about — her eyes went involuntarily to the obscenity on the table and just as quickly jerked away. Someone had to tell them she was dead. Oh god. Her responsibility too. Drive to the house. Knock on the door. See their faces when she told—
“That's interesting,” von Recklin's voice held a hint of annoyed surprise. He didn't like surprises. That indicated sloppiness.
“What is?” Dr. Director asked, eager for anything that would distract her thoughts.
“Some abnormalities of the mitral, pulmonary and aortic valves. Not what I'd expect in an athlete of her caliber. And the respiratory system. Oedematous pharynx and larynx. In fact with this amount of fluid I'm surprised she was ambulatory. She must have been on the point of collapse. Perhaps a massive infection? That might explain —”
Dr. Director felt the blood drain from her head, feeling light headed. “Dr. von Recklin, tell me again how you ID'd the body.”
“As I said,” he sounded aggravated at the question, “fingerprint and tissue—”
“Yes, yes,” Director cut him off, “but where did you…” she waved a hand at the charred and battered remains on the table.
“Ahhh,” von Recklin's face lit with understanding, “a bit of luck, that.” He turned to the computer console set into the wall next to the autopsy table and punched a few keys. The monitor lit with rows of thumbnail pictures. The pathologist scrolled through them for a second, then selected one. The monitor filled with the image of a charred, ripped gauntlet. “The blast destroyed most of the epidermis, face and extremities. However we did recover the left digitus minimus, the
little finger, which was fortuitously protected by the armoured gauntlet and—”
“My god, she played us again!” Dr. Director sprinted for the elevator, yanking out her communicator and calling for Will Du to meet her on the helipad.
“Mr. Stoppable …Ron?”
Agent Daniel Goldstein had been chosen to lead Ron Stoppable's security detail not least of all because of their shared heritage. The two of them had spent many hours reading the Torah together and debating some of the finer points of the law. Despite Ron's reputation as something of a slacker, Agent Goldstein found Ron had a surprisingly intuitive grasp of even some of the more obscure items of Jewish law and lore. What had started as simply a routine exercise in keeping a ‘package’ calm in order to better protect it had turned into something like the beginning of a genuine friendship. Because of that, Agent Goldstein wasn't sure if his news would be a relief to Ron, or simply a source of new grief. Probably, he thought, as with all of life, a mixture of both.
“Ron …” he gently touched the sleeping boy's shoulder, at which touch Ron surged out of bed, landing in a defensive crouch even before he was fully awake.
“NO, don't! It wasn't my — what?” Fear and anger turned to bewilderment as sleep left his mind and Ron suddenly seemed to recognize Agent Goldstein.
“Oh …oh, sorry. Sorry.” Ron apologized, sounding as if he weren't sure what he was apologizing for, but was quite sure it must be his fault somehow. He'd had that attitude for quite some time.
“Ron,” Goldstein said gently, “You need to get dressed. We're leaving for GJ as soon as possible.”
“Leaving? But what about …” Ron's voice trailed off and he paled. “Did you …Is she …” he stumbled to a stop, not quite sure if he wanted to know the answer or even if he knew what question to ask.
“She …is not a threat at this time.” Goldstein answered. He'd leave the details for a later time. “We just received orders to return for a debriefing.”
“Orders?” Suddenly Ron didn't seem so vague and unfocused. “Are you sure they're from GJ?”
“Absolutely. Embedded encryption and daily ‘single use pad’ code are a match. We asked for confirmation on a separate channel and got a return signed with Dr. Directors personal digital signature.”
“OK. Give me a few minutes to get ready.” Ron grabbed his clothes off the back of a chair and headed for the shower. Stopping in the doorway he asked, without turning around. “She's dead, isn't she?”
“That's something we won't know until the debriefing.” Goldstein lied smoothly.
Ron's shoulders slumped as he got the answer he'd been dreading and hoping for. And hating himself for hoping for it. “I'll be ready in a minute.”
“I don't understand,” even with the sound deadening earphones Will Du had to shout into the intercom microphone to be heard above the scream of the fast moving helicopter. “we have a positive ID on the body. We don't know where Mr. Load is but Stoppable is still perfectly secure in our ‘safe house', so why all of this?” He waved a hand to indicate the pair of Apache attack helicopters keeping station with their Leopard medium lift helicopter which was crammed with twenty seven heavily armed GJ agents. A second pair of Apaches paced them to starboard while an AC-130 H/U gunship and it's dedicated combat air patrol lead the way. He didn't even want to think about what this was doing to GJ's budget. No single living person warranted this kind of firepower, let alone one who was already dead.
“We have a positive ID on her little finger.” Dr. Director responded, her fist unconsciously beating against her thigh in an agony of impatience. “I'm wondering about the rest of her.”
“Ma'am?”
“What was in the backpack, Will?”
“Ma'am?!” The apparent non sequitur threw agent Du completely off balance.
“The backpack, Will. The very large backpack she was carrying. What was in it.”
“Ummmm… explosives Ma'am.” Will answered, slowly and carefully. As if explaining to a child. Or an adult who might charitably be called ‘slow’. “If you recall, we did a chemical analysis and found evidence of RDX, B4 and—”
“Five pounds would have been enough for the explosion we saw. What was in the rest of the back pack, Will? She could have carried enough RDX to orbit GJ and we'd have needed a squeegee to pick up what was left of her and a microscope for the autopsy. So …what else was
she carrying?”
“I don't understand.”
Will looked honestly puzzled and Dr. Director sighed. He was still so much ‘by the book’ that she wondered if he'd ever make a really effective field agent. But to be brutally honest, she'd missed the clues herself, at first. So perhaps she was being too hard on him.
“Why did we have to identify her using a single fingerprint and DNA?”
“Because of …well, because there wasn't much left …” Will stumbled to a stop, face paling as he recalled the bits and pieces he'd helped collect and bag. “the face was destroyed and the hands. Well except for her little finger.”
“Back pack, Will. Back. Pack.” She waited, and when he still didn't get it she explained. “If the explosives went off on her back, how is it that her face and front took the brunt of the blast?”
Silence, while Will digested this.
“Maybe she was planting a charge, and it went off prematurely.”
“Fine,” Dr. Director conceded. “But, then where's the backpack? We found pieces of everything else, but not the backpack itself. And nothing that might have been in the backpack.”
Will struggled with that for a moment, then asked helplessly. “Alright, I see that, I think. But then what was in the backpack?”
“She was.” She grinned sourly at Will's astonished look. “The body we've got in the lab. And a finger, neatly placed in a spare gauntlet and planted where we'd be sure to find it and use it to identify a badly damaged body. One too mangled for visual or dental ID.”
“A body?” Will asked faintly. “Who …I mean where …”
“I think a search is going to turn up a stolen body—young … female, probably dead of pneumonia or anaphylactic shock. Something that wouldn't be readily apparent on initial examination. Especially after being blown apart.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “At least I hope to god she stole a body and didn't—-”
“Incoming message, Dr. Director.” Agent Ridgeway, their communications officer interrupted. “Looks like they're getting the com-center back online at HQ after … ummmm … .looks like we're getting our communicatins back.” He trailed to a halt, looking uncomfortable.
Dr. Director sighed, taking the printout from his hand. If people didn't stop treating her like she was made of glass she was going to have to call a meeting. Or throw a fit. Maybe in the cafeteria— she pictured dumping Wednesday's meatloaf on Will's head when the meaning of the words on the paper suddenly broke through her abstraction.
“What the hell—confirm this!” She thrust the paper at Ridgeway who jerked back in alarm.
“Already confirmed, as per protocol.”
“What—” Will Du started to ask.
“This,” Dr. Director snarled, crumpling the paper in her fist. “is a routine receipt of my order, recalling Stoppable and his security detail to GJ headquarters. MY order, which I never sent. Get Stoppable's detail on line.” She barked at Ridgeway. “Tell them that we've been compromised. We're,” she checked her wrist mounted GPS unit, “about 20 minutes from the safe house. Tell them to stand fast until we get there.”
“I can't do that, ma'am,” he flinched at the look on her face. “We're still having communications problems. The attack took out our central node and all of the secondary—”
“One step ahead. She's always one step ahead.” Dr. Director whispered to herself. “God dammit,” she twisted around to face front, “can't this thing go any faster?” This was directed to the pilot who opened his mouth in protest. His objection died stillborn at the look in Dr. Directors eyes. Wordlessly he nodded and the nose of the helicopter dropped as he pushed the cyclic forward. Watching the VNE creep toward the ‘never exceed speed’ and the tachometer settle firmly in the red zone he wondered if a turbine would eat a blade or the rotor would snap off the mast first.
Ten minutes later, and still several miles from their ‘safe house’ destination, GJ agents exited the Leopard as it flared out yards above the ground and sprinted toward three unmarked SUV's that had been assigned to Ron Stoppable and his security detail’. The abused assault helicopter spun and raced away from the potentially dangerous landing zone while the accompanying Apache attack helicopters snarled around the area in a seemingly chaotic pattern designed to provide maximum fire support when needed and simultaneously confusing any unfriendly souls with guns on the ground. The AC-130 orbited in a pylon turn at maximum range for the Viper smart munitions in it's 105mm cannon while it's fighter escort sniffed nervously for any sign of danger to their lumbering and hideously expensive charge.
One SUV lay canted on it's side in a ditch, while a second had skidded to a stop in the center of the dirt road and sat with it's motor running and all four doors open—both empty of occupants like some land locked Mary Celeste. The third vehicle, assigned to carry Ron Stoppable and his personal detail, was turned almost 180 degrees from the other two, as if trying to flee whatever disaster had overtaken it's consorts. It too was empty and the armoured doors on the passenger side lay on the ground, twisted and scorched.
“Wait, Dr. Director,” Will made as if to stop her as she followed the combat team, “the area's not secure. This could all be a trap.”
Dr. Director sighed, her nose wrinkling involuntarily at the sweetish acrid odor of detcord that hung in the air, mixed with the smell of burnt iron, plastic and leather mingled with oil and dust that had all been stirred up by the rotor wash of the helicopter.
“If this were a trap, we'd already be dead.” She dismissed the formidable seeming air cover and ground troops as irrelevant.
She had taken out the heads of the worlds biggest terror organizations as if drowning kittens in a sack and had gone through GJ headquarter's defenses as if they were so much smoke; there was no reason to think this impressive display of military might would have made any real difference.
“No,” Dr. Director shook her head, shaking off Will's hand and walking toward the vehicle that had carried Ron. “she got what she wanted and left.”
Bleakly Dr. Director examined the empty interior of the SUV, idly noting a smear of blood along the leather in the back seat. A flash of light caught her eye and she bent to pick up a spent .40 caliber case, then stopped herself.
“Evidence,” she thought, with not much emotion, “needs to be photographed, tagged.“ Walking around the SUV she noted a thick metal dart embedded in the car just above the wheel well. “EMP rifle. Burned out the ignition and stopped the car …wonder where she got it?“ Turning her head she followed the wires trailing from the dart with her eyes until she lost them in the underbrush next to the road.
“Ma'am!” Will Du panted as he ran up to her. Frowning slightly Dr. Director tried to remember when he'd left. “We've found the security detail. All laid out under a tree. Alive. Some broken bones and one pretty serious burn. They've been drugged but the medic thinks they've all got a good chance …ma'am?” Will noticed Dr. Directors apathy and his voice deepened with concern. “Ma'am? Are you alright?”
“It doesn't matter Will.” Dr. Director stared off into the distance, looking at nothing. “Nothing we do works. We can't find her. Can't stop her. It just doesn't matter.”
“Ma'am, no! We'll find her. You can't just—I mean — I'll work harder, ma'am. I won't let you down!”
The anguish and panic in Will's voice jerked Dr. Director out of her funk. “Sorry Will,” she patted the young agent on the arm. “I'm just tired.” Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly then began barking orders. “Medivac the detail. Use our chopper. Then get that lot,” She waved a hand toward the Apaches circling over head. “sorted out into a search grid. Coordinate with the agents we already have on the ground. Evidence collecting can wait, right now I want clues as to where she's heading.” She paused to give Will time to finish frantically entering notes into his Xcyber. “The gunship” she indicated the AC-130 almost invisible in the distance. “has got the best sensor suite available. I want them thirty …no fifty miles out and moving inward in a search spiral. She had to have some sort of vehicle so have our agents on the ground try to find tire marks or something to give them an idea of what to look for.”
“If they find her? What are the orders?”
“ROE Pyrrhus.” Dr. Director answered steadily.
Will started. Pyrrhus was a ‘shoot on sight’ rule of engagement, regardless of collateral damage. “Are you sure ma'am? Pyrrhus is for stopping theft of weapons of mass destruction or attacks on nuclear power plants. Scenarios where the suspect has to be stopped at any cost.”
“I know what it's for Will. I wrote the damn thing. She's already shown an almost pathological willingness to kill. And cutting off her own finger indicates a level of focus that borders on psychotic. We can't take any chances. If anyone, and I mean anyone, gets a positive ID on her I want her taken out.”
“What about Stoppable, ma'am?”
“My direct order, Will. Regardless of collateral damage, Stoppable included. She's got to be stopped. If she is positively identified —kill her.”
“Ma'am,” Will swallowed, then continued gamely on, “you can't do this. If …if there are civilian casualties they'll throw you to the wolves. You could be charged with murder.”
“Do you recall the story of King Phrrhus?” Will shook his head. “In 281 King Pyrrhus defeated the Romans at Heraclea and Asculum, but suffered bitterly heavy losses. When one of his aids congratulated him on his victory he replied, ‘One more such victory and I am lost’.” She let Will digest this for a moment. “I'm not looking for a win here, Will. I just don't want to lose too badly.”