CHAPTER EIGHT: REDEMPTION
The Delta-Four civil weather satellite moved along its geostationary orbit, following the rotation of the earth, to record the daily data on the wind and clouds patterns of the South Eastern Pacific Ocean. It was a beautiful day, as any other, nothing out of the ordinary happening, as only a few wisps of clouds were visible against the deep blue of the ocean. The satellite, as it always did, sent its usual stream of information to the relay station below in New Zealand.
The Weather Bureau operators were stunned to see that the latest picture, downloaded a second ago, showed an intense flash of light originating from a small island in the Pacific, located underneath the Equator, west of Peru. At the same time, seismographs around the world recorded the tremors of a large earthquake, with its epicenter located on the island of Nomanisan, latitude 19° 05 South, longitude 112° 20 West.
The flash of light lasted a few seconds. The pictures also revealed that a ring made of compressed gases, the obvious signs the shockwave of an important explosion, shot outward, moving many times the speed of sound to cross hundreds of kilometres before disappearing.
The light faded as abruptly as it had appeared. News agencies around the world now started picking up on a story in which preliminary data gathered told about the possible eradication of an entire island of the South Pacific. No reports on casualties were yet available.
Henri Lebel had difficulty keeping awake as he faced his computer screen. He silently cursed the hierarchy who had forced him to be on the assignment, as it had been a waiting game, boring and endless like most surveillance work, as nothing significant had happened for months now.
It took him a second to react to the fact that his computer screen suddenly came to life. The communication protocol had activated, the terminal in front of him telling him something large had started downloading.
Lebel swore as he spilled some coffee on his pants, jumping forward to better look at his computer screen. When he knew he hadn't been dreaming, he reached for the phone.
"This is Lebel. Get me Dicker. I've got something here."
Lebel got up and started yelling in the handset, as the person on the other side of the line told him the Director was on the phone and could not be reached for the moment.
Lebel swore again and ran to the printer, almost ripping the page as it came out of the machine. He dashed off in the corridor.
He was gasping for air when he reached the office of Richard Dicker, Head of the American Division of Interpol, here, in Lyon. He burst into the reception.
"I need to see Dicker now," he said to the woman behind the desk.
The secretary looked surprised and annoyed. "Mr Dicker is on the phone right now, he won't be disturbed. You will have to wait," she said, rather dryly.
Lebel stared at her. Ignoring her, he went to the door and into Dicker's office, the woman getting up behind him and now objecting very vocally.
Dicker looked up, and when he recognized Lebel, waved his hand. The secretary grunted her disapproval as she closed the door behind them.
Lebel held up the piece of paper. "It's her, Sir. She did it."
Dicker hung up the phone. Lebel went on. "It's Mirage, huh, I mean, agent Moresso… She did it, we've got the data." Lebel leaned on Dicker's desk, giving him the piece of paper. He had excitement in his voice. "Sir, this data is good for twelve hours only. This is it, Sir, now is the time. If we wait, we are going to lose them again."
Dicker looked at him. "Send the data out, Lebel," he said calmly.
"Yes, Sir," said the agent, as he ran out of the office.
Dicker took the phone and dialled an internal number. "This is Dicker. Launch Operation Harvest." He hung up and stared out the window.
Such were modern times. Because of technology, distances and time differences did not matter anymore, as the earth truly had become a global village.
Simultaneously, events happened, discreet, secret even, but none the less crucial.
Phone calls were made, people mobilized. Local authorities moved in. Warrants for arrests were issued, safe houses raided in the wee hours of the morning, computers seized, hazardous material and weapons collected. Assets in numbered bank accounts were frozen. In distant and deserted locations, stealth bombers, precise and economical in their targeting, destroyed hidden camps that had up to now escaped the ever watchful eyes of satellites. Some people died when they resisted as they were confronted by the authorities, to become casualties in a war that they had chosen to take part of.
Within hours, the Sweep had ended.
Mirage saw on the radar screen that the shockwave would reach her anytime now. Her mind raced as she thought of what she could do. In a second, she made her decision. Reaching down near the throttle control, she flipped open the protective cover of a small switch, put her finger underneath it and flipped it up.
The engine booster switch Mirage had just activated would give the plane a few seconds of extra energy, to push itself beyond what it could normally achieve in terms of velocity.
As the engines roared even louder, the burst of power threw Mirage back in her seat. She pulled back on the control wheel, the plane lifting up, heading ever higher in a steep angle, almost sixty degrees to the vertical.
Mirage wanted to reach the upper edge of the stratosphere, the theoretical ceiling of the plane, where the thinning atmosphere would help in making the approaching shockwave less destructive. As she struggled to keep the aircraft in control, the automated warning system kept blaring out with the same neutral, artificial voice, about the imminent collision.
The jet had reached fifty thousand meters when the shockwave hit it.
Mirage instinctively closed her eyes as the shock went through the airplane, the air inside the cockpit suddenly compressing, to sound like a large detonation in her ears that hurt her eardrums. She felt the plane shake and its steel structure twist upon itself as the energy from the explosion crossed through the metal of the airframe. A crack appeared in the windshield, left of her. The energy blast tossed the plane around like a leaf in the wind, totally disorienting her, the artificial horizon spinning wildly in all directions, Mirage not knowing the difference between ground and sky anymore. She had lost control of the plane.
Mirage struggled to regain control, but the G forces prevented her from doing so, as they shook her like a rag doll, flinging her head and limbs violently about. All the controls suddenly turned off for a second, to light up again, every alarm sounding out simultaneously, in a sinister cacophony.
Mirage blacked out, as the G forces were too strong.
The brute force of the blast had obviously strained the plane, but the little jet hanged on. The on board computer, sensing the pilot had lost all control of the aircraft in what had become a critical flight pattern, kicked in, and much faster and precisely than anyone could do so, took control in less than a microsecond. The plane eased out of its uncontrolled spins gracefully and stabilized. It now flew evenly.
It took a few second for Mirage to realize what had happened as she regained consciousness. Getting her bearings, she looked at the radar.
The shockwave had passed. The plane flew normally, as she noticed the autopilot had activated. Mirage saw the crack in the windshield, making her wonder if it would hold until she landed.
Without warning, the engines shut down. Silence now filled the cabin. As the plane had lost power, it had now started to descend. Mirage felt weightless at that moment, her long hair floating up freely, only the seatbelts keeping her in her seat.
Mirage instinctively looked at the controls as the engines had stopped, but the horizon managed to catch her attention again. Her eyes opened wide, as what she saw outside the windshield took her breath away.
Mirage had reached the very limit of the stratosphere. The sky, normally pale, had turned to the darkest shade of navy blue. Stars shined everywhere above her. Below, the earth, silent and majestic, unfurled from one end of the horizon to the other, the curve of its circumference now clearly visible. Kilometers below her, clouds drifted above the waters of the Pacific that shimmered in the bright sun.
The sound of the air against the fuselage told her she was accelerating. Mirage felt the pressure against her ears augment as the plane got lower. The engines had turned on again, as sufficient air flowed through them now. In a minute, it had stabilized at its cruising altitude of twenty thousand meters, much higher than any commercial aircraft, safely avoiding them as the small jet would be dangerously undetectable by their radar. The plane flew steady now.
Mirage felt her body weigh a ton again, as the adrenalin that had kept her alert finally had drained away. She leaned over, slowly lifting her right arm to reach for the control panel, struggling as she flipped switches and tried to set dials. It took her about a minute to program the Complete Itinerary Autopilot. The plane, fully autonomous now, headed towards the destination Mirage had entered.
Time to mend this wound now, Mirage thought. She slowly unbuckled her seatbelts, helping her injured arm out with her right hand. She got up, swayed a bit, but held herself up by leaning on the headrest of the seat.
There is a first aid kit in the back, Mirage said to herself, stepping out of the cockpit ever so slowly, as she could barely walk.
Midway in the cabin, Mirage's knees suddenly buckled, and she silently collapsed to the floor. She did not get up again.
Tourists considered the island of Bora Bora as a prime tropical destination. Its proximity to the equator helped to make its seclusion and breathtaking beauty available year round, sunshine and a cool breeze on an average of three hundred sixty days a year, as weather patterns stabilized in the area.
Martin, one of the monitors on duty at the popular Club Med of the island, was surprised as he saw a small black jet land, a rear tire screeching and sparks flying, on the private airstrip owned by the club. He found it odd, for no planes ever landed there except on Sundays when the regular change of tourists happened.
As he walked up to the plane, he scrutinized it briefly. It had sustained some minor damage, as the windshield showed a crack. He noticed that a blown rear tire hadn't stopped the aircraft from making a relatively smooth landing.
The door of the plane had opened, and a ladder had unfurled. The monitor stood there, waiting for someone to come out but no one did. Curious, he climbed aboard. Martin was shocked to see that the aircraft was empty, except for this most unusual looking young woman, obviously injured, motionless on the floor.
Time ceases to exist for the unconscious mind. Mirage did not know if she had actually regained consciousness yet or that she dreamt still.
Darkness enveloped her as her eyes were closed. Her body felt numb, but slowly, it seemed to her as if she was resurfacing, her senses progressively coming back. Her ears had now filled with a regular thumping sound, continuous and deep. Vibrations slowly shook her body. Fresh air flowed on her face, salty and warm, perfumed as only the sea air could be.
She heard voices.
Two men were talking loud against the wind in a conversation about someone. Mirage sensed it was about her.
"We'll be arriving in five minutes. How is she doing Corporal?" one voice said.
"Her vitals are stable, Sir. It's amazing how fast she's recovering," the other voice answered.
"Yes, she is a Healer, obviously. I've heard about them," the first voice said. "Pretty practical super power... I've never met a Super before. Have you, Corporal?"
"No Sir," the Corporal answered. "But anyway, Super or not, she's hot! Wonder if she has a boyfriend?"
The first voice sounded annoyed. "Hold your hormones, Corporal. Just keep an eye on that I.V. And no, Corporal, she does not need mouth to mouth resuscitation…"
"Yes Sir," the Corporal said, with little enthusiasm.
He suddenly spoke again. "Sir, I think she's waking up… Miss? Miss? Can you hear me?"
Mirage had opened her eyes. She had difficulty focusing on her surroundings. Feebly turning her head on one side, she realized she lay on a stretcher, her injured arm having been taken care of, as it had been bandaged. A man in military garb held an I.V. bag above her. As he saw she had regained consciousness, he leaned close to her face to talk to her.
"Miss?" he said again, talking loud to be heard. "I'm Corporal Lance Johnson, United States Army. You've been found injured on a plane on the island of Bora Bora. You've been out for a couple of hours. You are on a Navy helicopter; we are taking you to the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Omaha. We were doing exercises in the area, we'll be there soon. Just relax, you are going to be fine."
Mirage could focus better now. She saw the young man standing by her side looking at her with a reassuring smile.
"Hey, soldier," Mirage said, in a faint voice. The Corporal leaned closer to her as he could barely hear her feeble voice.
"What kind of weather do you think we'll be having today?" she asked him, as she closed her eyes again.
The corporal looked at the horizon. "Well, judging by the sunrise I'm seeing, it's going to be a beautiful day... And by the way, just call me Lance."
Mirage smiled, her eyes still closed.
For the first time in as long as she could remember, Mirage Moresso felt at peace.
A couple of weeks had passed now, since Dicker had ordered the Sweep. He called up to his office agents Henri Lebel and Lucie De Vrees, both from Interpol's French branch. De Vrees closed the door behind her as she came in.
"Sorry I didn't have the time to brief you earlier on the outcome of Operation Harvest," Dicker said to the agents sitting in front of his desk. "Well, there is not much more to say, than that the operation has been very successful. Organized crime has taken a major blow, and will be affected for years to come, here and around the world." He put his hands together. "I brought you here because I wanted to ask you both if you had any news on the whereabouts of agent Moresso?"
De Vrees answered. "She's Italy right now, Sir. Where exactly, we don't know."
"Speaking of Moresso, Sir," De Vrees added, "I'd like to mention something interesting." Dicker and Lebel listened on. "Intelligence brought the numbers back after analysis and it seems that there were significant movements of funds at the time she was on the island." De Vrees leaned forward. "We can't locate a lot of the money that moved. That is the problem. It seems that they had it in their bank accounts one day, but suddenly, it's electronically transferred, and," De Vrees waved with her hands. "It disappears. We know this because of the bank records we've seized."
De Vrees frowned. "We should normally know where it is sent. But we have no idea where the money went, and most important, who took it."
Dicker and Lebel seemed very interested now. "Sir," de Vrees added, "I don't have the figures to prove it, but I think Moresso is behind this. I think we should do something about that."
Dicker thought for a moment. "Thank you Lucie, but we were aware of that; we had been suspicious for a while, we also had an eye on it too." De Vrees looked surprised as he said that. "But, you are right though," he added. "We are not able to prove she took the money. But one thing we do know is that the money was taken away from our enemies, and that is a good thing for us."
The director waved his hand. "The amount is irrelevant. What really counts is the fact that these criminals have lost its use."
Dicker looked at both agents from above his glasses. "Mirage Moresso is a very good agent. A lot of innocent lives were saved because of her action and for that, we have to be thankful. I'm sure she probably risked her own life many times in the process," he added. "To be brief, it's not worth enough for us to go after her. And you know, having the particular qualities that she has, I wouldn't want her to turn against us."
Lucie de Vrees objected. "But, Sir, I really think we should follow up on this," she said.
Dicker spoke again. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, Mirage never existed in the first place." He stared at them. "You know what I mean by that. We were in a position where we could never have helped her if she had been in trouble. She did a good job, so let's give her a break."
Dicker sighed. "That she gets away with this, I'm actually happy for her. And remember, we can't prove a thing, we have nothing." He looked at his aides. "Mirage is working for us for free, she is a great asset. Let us keep it this way. Just consider the case closed."
He added. "We live in an imperfect world. Some people win, some people lose, and some things are never settled."
Lebel got up and left the office. De Vrees had remained though, still thinking. She nodded, got up and turned to the exit.
Dicker stopped her, asking her one more question. "By the way, I forgot to ask, does anyone know more about the amount that's in question?"
De Vrees looked at him." Well, let me put it this way. If she did do it, she is very rich woman now."
"According to what the data tells us," De Vrees said, "Mirage Moresso should be worth about two hundred and fifty million Euros."
Dicker raised an eyebrow, staring blankly at his assistant. He thought for a moment. "Thank you, Lucie," he finally said. "That will be all." He went back to his work.
The news of the destruction of the island had come and gone from the papers. Months had passed and an uneventful summer season drew to an end.
Mid-September was always a busy month in northern Italy, as the sun-ripened grapes and olives were now harvested. And there, in the country side, even amidst all this activity, time still managed to slow down, to grind to a halt mysteriously as the rhythm of life had adjusted to its majestic surroundings. In the afternoon, as the workers paused for their daily break, only the wind stirred the trees, and the ringing of a lone bell of a distant church, the only sound heard. Life felt good there, as the days were warm, and the nights cool.
Luigi raked the leaves at a leisurely pace in front of the house of his small farm. Like most land owners in Tuscany, Luigi made a few extra Euros per year by offering hospitality for any tourist that might be visiting the area.
Luigi had an eye and an ear for fine things. He recognized, from the sound of the sports car he heard in the distance coming his way that another rich patron would probably be driving to him, seeking shelter for the end of the afternoon had arrived.
Luigi smiled faintly as the silver grey BMW Z4 3.0i convertible two-seater drove up on the alley to him. The driver, unaccompanied, turned off the powerful six cylinder fuel injected engine, and stepped out of the car. Luigi crossed his hands over the top of his rake as he eyed the stranger that now walked towards him.
"Buongiorno Signore," Mirage said to him, in near perfect Italian.
"Good day, miss," Luigi answered.
Mirage stood there as she looked around. The small farm house was inviting, set on top of a hill that overlooked fields of vines that undulated endlessly to the horizon. The air, perfumed and sweet, was warm and still as the wind had died.
Luigi thought he must have had been blessed with good fortune to have such a distinguished visitor
Mirage stood tall in front of him. She wore a short sleeved pale grey tailleur of the finest silk. Her knee high skirt, fitting, revealed the sensuous curve of her thighs. Sandals of delicate grey leather, laced up to her ankles, as favoured by Italian women, complimented the graceful lines of her legs. The Maison Chanel had truly outdone itself this autumn season.
Mirage had very little jewellery; only a thin row of pearls on her neck, and a large Swiss watch with a bracelet of fine leather, hanging on her left hand.
Luigi knew the woman in front of him had also a rebellious side to her that shone through all the classic touches, as he saw her intense emerald green eyes focus on him.
Through strands of wild, pure white hair, she looked at him, her gaze up above small oval sunglasses, tinted purple, which had a minuscule peace symbol etched on the side of its silver-rimmed branches, barely visible.
Luigi was a curious man. He always wanted to know who his potential guests where, even more when they were as stunning as she was, not minding the fact she traveled alone.
He spoke to her in Italian. "Your accent, Miss, I can't seem to place it… Are you from Rome?"
Mirage smiled shyly and looked at the ground. "No," she said. "Actually, I'm not Italian." She looked up at him. "I've just been around, that's all," she said hesitantly.
Luigi jumped on the occasion to be back in business. "Are you looking for a place to stay for the evening? You're in luck, I just had a cancellation." Luigi told her the truth, but he just bent it a bit, hoping it would help her make a quicker decision.
"At this time of year, and in this late hour, you will have difficulty finding a place to stay for the night," Luigi said, putting his rake aside. "Please Miss, take a break from your journey, I have a wonderful room available for you, and if you are hungry, dinner will be served at eight. I will put out my finest reserve on your table."
Mirage smiled to him warmly. There would be no more driving today. She accepted the offer. "That would be delightful, thank you."
Luigi beamed with joy. "Wonderful. I'll take your luggage up to your room." He turned around to face her. "Miss, I am Luigi Tornatorre. Welcome to my farm. And you are?"
"Moresso, Mirage Moresso," she told him, gently.
Luigi frowned a bit. "Moresso?" He thought for a moment. Luigi hesitated, as he did not want to sound intrusive, but as he looked at her, her face seemed familiar, even though he had never seen her before.
He spoke calmly. "There was a Moresso mentioned in the papers, not a couple of days ago… I read the article quickly. It mentioned a scientist, or a physicist, or something like that." Luigi waved his hand. "Oh, I don't know. I'm just a farmer, but it was something about that man making a major breakthrough in some field of science."
Luigi looked at her with concerned eyes. "Something that could change the world, the paper said."
Luigi could not help himself as he saw Mirage's expression change.
"From his picture, you look like you could be related," Luigi asked her, smiling warmly. "Could you be, perhaps…?" He hesitated, "a beautiful daughter, if I may be so bold?"
Mirage nodded.
Luigi was thrilled. "Well, come along my dear, I will serve you a glass of my finest wine, and if I say so myself, one of the finest in Tuscany."
"Thank you very much," Mirage said, as she followed him inside.
"You must be very proud of your father, Miss Moresso," Luigi asked her.
"Yes, yes... Very proud." Mirage did not look at him when she said that
Mirage left after lunch the next day. The small roads, sinuous through the mountains and valleys, were a pleasure to drive on. Mirage loved the sensation of having the wind blow in her hair as she drove.
Even though she concentrated on the road ahead, her mind had drifted elsewhere.
Mirage suddenly pulled over the side of the road and turned off the engine. Reaching inside her purse, she took out her cellular phone.
Director Dicker's phone rang in his Lyon office. "Dicker here," he said.
"Hello, Director Dicker," Mirage said, in a quiet and calm voice.
"Agent Moresso," Dicker answered. "I'm glad to finally speak to you. We hadn't since the destruction of the island, and I wondered if we would ever again. Our sources say you are in Italy. Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Yes, sir," she said. "It's beautiful here. I'll go as far as to say I'm in Tuscany right now."
Dicker paused for a moment. "Mirage, how are you? Is everything ok?" he asked her in a concerned voice.
"Everything is fine sir," Mirage told him. "I'm doing very well… Nomanisan, Sir, was difficult, but let me put it this way, very good to me also."
Dicker spoke to her, calmly. "The authorities are in debt to you for what you've done, Mirage. We are very grateful."
"Thank you Sir, Mirage said.
"But I'm asking you," Dicker added, "is there anything you would like to say to me?"
Mirage didn't answer immediately. She had an empty expression on her face as she reminisced.
"I did the right thing, Sir." Mirage frowned as she said that, her gaze hard. "I did what I had to do to survive, Sir."
They had both paused for a second, as they seemed to know what would be coming, but not knowing how to say it.
"What are your plans for the future, Mirage?" Dicker finally asked her, breaking the silence.
Mirage answered nonchalantly. "For the moment, I still want to recuperate and travel a bit." She cut him off before he could speak again. "I know what you're thinking, Sir. To tell you the truth, I'm in a situation right now where I don't have to work anymore if it pleases me."
"You cannot count on anyone but yourself, Sir... I learned that lesson a long, long time ago," she added.
"Well, Mirage, I'm glad to hear your point of view," Dicker said. "But are things so simple, that you would never consider working for us again?"
He paused. "Wouldn't you miss it, Mirage?"
Mirage did not speak for a second. "Maybe," she finally said.
Her tone hardened. "Let me make a deal with you, Director Dicker. If you tell me something will be done about the situation of the Supers, to make them legitimate again, then you will have my full cooperation. I am a Super, Sir, and I want things to change."
Dicker was surprised to hear her talk this way, never having heard her refer to herself like that before.
"Well, Mirage, all I can say is that things are being done right now, as we speak. But they might take time to fall in place. I can't promise you anything. You will have to be patient, Mirage."
Dicker sensed the conversation would end soon. "Look," he said, "take your time, relax, enjoy yourself, you've earned it, but please, Mirage, consider my offer."
Mirage sounded inquisitive. "Oh, it sounds like you might already have something for me. Do you?"
Dicker sounded pleased. "We have some problems in North Korea that would benefit from your special touch, Agent Moresso… You wouldn't work alone, though."
"Keep going, Sir," she said.
"Mr Incredible has shown great interest in that mission," Dicker told her.
Mirage smiled. "I could work with him again, certainly," she said. "It's his wife I would have difficulty with. I could say, we never met eye to eye…"
"Well, the ball is in your court, Mirage. Think about it, and call me back."
"I will, Sir," she said as she hung up, unsure if she meant it or not.
Mirage put her phone away and drove off. She would accept the mission in no doubt, but not any time soon, as it was time for her to rest. Only when ready, would she take action.
Mirage smiled as she stepped on the accelerator, the warm wind blowing in her hair again. She felt free now. Coming upon the top of a hill, she saw the light of the late summer sun illuminate the valley below.
THE END OF ESCAPE FROM NOMANISAN
MIRAGE WILL RETURN IN HER NEXT ADVENTURE
COUNTDOWN TO ETERNITY