Chapter Six – Beans, contempt, and the IQAF
By: recon228
"It's…" Kim frowned and scratched the side of her head as she looked down at the object Ron had discovered. "…what is it?"
The item in question was resting between them in a small crevice formed by two granite boulders. It was a container of some sort; about half the size of the survival kit they had discovered earlier, and made of what looked like high-impact black plastic. The general design reminded her of the foam-lined cases people used to carry valuables, such as electronics, camera equipment… and guns. Given their current situation, Kim felt, none of the above would have done them much good.
Next to her, Ron appeared equally stumped. "You think it came from the plane?" he asked, looking around at their desolate surroundings.
"No," Kim replied, shaking her head. The survival kit they had found the night before was about as antiquated as the plane it had come out of. From what she could see of the plastic case before them, it looked like it was brand new. "It looks too new to have come from the plane."
"How long do you think it's been here?"
"Not long," Kim noted. "Maybe a month or two at most."
The idea that other people had been there recently should have had Kim jumping for joy, but for some reason, it gave her an uneasy feeling deep inside her gut.
Ron, apparently, felt the same way. "So that means someone else has been here." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously and looked from Kim, down to the case. "That's good… right?"
Kim followed Ron's gaze and shrugged. "Yeah, of course it's good. It means we may be closer to civilization than we thought."
After a few silent moments, Ron glanced back up at Kim. "Well," he urged, "are we gonna see what's inside? I kinda doubt it's anything dangerous."
Kim knelt down and reached into the crevice to retrieve the case, but recoiled at the last moment. She glanced back at her friend and gave him a suspicious glare. "Ron, what exactly were you doing when you found this? You didn't… y'know… on this, did you?"
Ron cocked his head and gave her a confused look before he realized what she was implying and his face turned a bright shade of crimson. "Oh, no-no-no!" he assured her. "I was actually on my way back from… that. I just looked down, and there it was."
She allowed her suspicious gaze to linger for a few more seconds before she reached in and pulled the case out, placing it on another rock between them.
"Well?" Ron asked after several seconds of inaction from Kim. "You gonna open it, or am I?"
Kim brought her apprehensive gaze up from the small black case and shrugged nervously. "I don't know. I mean, what if it's a bomb or something?"
Ron let out a sigh and stepped in front of the case. "I guess I just got promoted from 'distraction' to 'bomb-squad', huh?"
Kim watched anxiously as Ron undid the latches and cracked the case open. After a few seconds of silence, he turned his face to meet Kim's; his expression was one of utter confusion.
"What is it?" Kim asked nervously.
Ron turned around and held the case up for Kim to see. Inside the foam interior of the container was a bag of what appeared to be…
"It's full of coffee beans."
---
Back in the living room of the Possible residence, the tension had nearly reached its breaking point. Nobody said a word. In fact, only the occasional muted ring of a government cell phone and the continuing drone of the living room television broke the dead silence that had enveloped the house.
It had been a little under forty-five minutes since the FBI had muscled their way upstairs to search Kim's room. Since then, the families had only seen the men on a few occasions; usually when one of Agent Kryker's lackeys would cross the entryway with an arm-full of Kim's personal belongings.
"Why do they need to take her monitor?" Andrea moaned as one of the agents carried her daughter's computer monitor out the door to his waiting car. "What information could they possibly obtain from that?"
"Honey, please," James warned, placing an arm around his wife and pulling her closer. "They have a warrant. They can pretty much take what they want."
"B-but why?" she sobbed. "Why are they treating her like a criminal?"
The question was directed not at her husband, but at Dr. Director, who had been standing quietly next to them for some time.
"I don't know," the head of Global Justice replied quietly, "but I intend to find out."
Just like the fist time Agent Kryker had entered the living room, nobody seemed to notice him until he cleared his throat. Everyone turned toward the entryway, where the man was standing by the stairs leading to Kim's room with yet another form in his hand.
Smoothing out his tie and buttoning his coat, Agent Kryker walked over toward the grieving parents and held out the paper for James to retrieve. "We're done here… for now," he informed them in a flat tone. "This is a seized property receipt; everything we took from your daughter's room has been listed here. You can call that number circled on the top in a week or two to see about getting it all back."
Once James had snatched the form from his hand, the agent turned to face the Stoppables, who already knew what was coming.
"We're going to process your son's room now," he informed them coldly. "Will we be able to get in, or do you need to unlock the house for us?"
"I don't think you'll have a problem getting in," John Stoppable growled. "It's up the stairs and to the right. Think you can remember that, Agent?"
"I was considering writing it down," the fed replied sarcastically. "But I think I'll go ahead and just remember it."
John muttered a barely audible string of obscenities in response, which Agent Kryker casually ignored. He turned to leave the room, but Dr. Director quickly blocked his path.
"Excuse me," she asked in a quiet, yet hostile tone, "but just what the hell do you think you're doing here, Adam?"
"I'm conducting an investigation, Betty," Adam replied, regarding the woman in front of him with contempt and irritation. "Now if you'll excuse me," he began to step around the woman, "I have a job to–"
"Now you listen here," Dr. Director snapped, pushing the FBI agent back a step and moving to get into his face.
Before she could step forward, however, Adam had regained the ground between them and shoved his finger in front of her un-patched eye.
"No you listen, Director!" the man hissed. The speed of his attack caught the woman off-guard and sent her stumbling back against the wall. "You and your 'organization' have been the red-headed step-child of this government ever since you were founded back in 1999," Adam growled as he continued to close the distance between them. When he could no longer push her back any further, he leaned forward until he was within inches of the woman's face.
"You were given an unbelievable opportunity, despite your impaired vision and shady family ties, to head up the Justice Department's new Global Justice network and you blew it! Your one job… one job… was to obtain intelligence data on foreign and domestic terror plots against the US and its assets overseas.
"The Attorney General and Defense Department gave you a nearly-unlimited budget and some of DARPA's most advanced technology to go about safe-guarding this country, and what do you do? You train a teenage Langley drop-out to speak Latin and praise him as your top agent, and you conduct a three-month in-depth study of the benefits of naked mole rats in combat situations!
"Meanwhile, while all of Uncle Sam's money is being wasted on that useless crap, the people you're supposed to be watching out for manage to obtain flight lessons in Florida, and fly jumbo jets into our own god damn buildings!"
As everyone in the room looked on in stunned silence, Adam straightened up and took a few steps back so that they could all hear what he had to say next.
"You, and Global Justice, are a disgrace to this nation; a nation which I take immeasurable pride in. Now if you want to stay here and play grief counselor, that's fine. But don't even think of getting yourself involved in this case or so help me God, I'll see to it that you're black-balled by so many organizations, you'll end up working as a meter-maid in Hicksville by week's end." He once again stepped forward and got right up into the stunned woman's face. "Are we understood?"
Dr. Director, despite being almost twice as old as the man standing in front of her, cowered against the wall. Her facial expression was teetering between fear and rage.
"Are… we… understood" Adam repeated, this time adding force and volume to each word.
"Y-yes…" Dr. Director finally managed to force out.
Adam leaned back and nodded. "Good," he said, turning and heading for the door. When he reached the hallway, he turned and gave her a conceited smile. "Oh yeah; say 'hi' to your brother for me, will you?" Before the Global Justice director could respond, Agent Kryker exited the house and left the occupants in a stunned silence.
Once outside, he walked across the front lawn to where his associates were waiting next to two black government sedans. Agents Marks and Olmo both wore sadistic grins on their faces as they watched their boss approach them.
"Mr. Humanitarian, eh, Adam?" Agent Marks commented from his position leaning against the open door of the lead sedan.
"Yeah," Agent Olmo chuckled, "you should have kept going, man. Maybe you could have made her cry like last time."
Agent Kryker donned a pair of sunglasses and shot his colleagues an annoyed glance. "Yeah-yeah, shut up and get to work processing that shit," he ordered, pointing to the half-dozen boxes of personal property taken from Kim's room.
"What about Stoppable's room?" queried Marks.
"Don't bother," Kryker replied dismissively. "He's just the sidekick; he's useless. Find the info we need and give me a call if anything new develops."
"You got it," said Agent Olmo.
As the first two agents headed toward the lead sedan, Adam turned to Agent Johansson, who was still standing beside the second sedan.
"You, come with me."
"Where are we going?" the third agent asked timidly.
"According to the Air Force, the last person Team Possible fought was a mad scientist by the alias of 'Dr. Drakken'. I figure we should go have a talk with him and see what he knows."
Agents Marks let out a muted chuckle as he got into his car and slammed the door shut.
"Uh, would that be an 'investigative' talk, sir, or the kind that makes the US Constitution cry?" Johansson asked.
Walking around the front of the car and opening the driver's door, Adam grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "We'll play it by ear…"
---
"Coffee beans?" asked Kim, staring at her friend as if he had lost his mind.
Ron looked back down at the contents of the case and nodded. "That's what they look like, see?" He brought the case over and allowed her to examine the contents up close.
Sure enough, inside the foam-lined interior of the case was a large plastic bag filled with several hundred small beans. They didn't look like coffee beans, however; their size and shape was different. Whatever was inside of the case more closely resembled hardened kernels of corn with a multicolor spotted hue ranging from black, to light brown and tan.
"Those aren't coffee beans," Kim noted, leaning closer to examine the bag.
"How do you know?" Ron asked doubtfully.
"Because coffee beans are bigger," explained Kim, "and they have a waxier luster."
Ron looked down at the mystery beans and then back up at Kim. "Right, luster… that's one of those school words I'm supposed to know, isn't it?"
Kim sighed and rolled her eyes. "Luster, refers to its appearance." She gestured toward the bag of beans in Ron's hands. "See how those are shiny, almost like glass?"
"Uh-huh."
"Coffee beans are dull and look like they're made of wax. They're also an entirely different shape."
"So what are these?" asked Ron, taking another look at the opened case in his hands.
"I don't know," Kim admitted hesitantly, "but we may as well take them with us. Who knows, maybe they're edible." She took the case from Ron's arms and closed it gently before turning and walking back toward their makeshift camp.
"Mystery beans?" Ron shrugged and followed after her. "Eh, I guess it still beats Cafeteria Lady's cooking."
Kim sighed and tossed the case back to him. "Let's just pack-up and head down to the lake before it gets too late, okay? Maybe we can take a shot at fishing when we get there."
"Take a shot at fishing…" Ron repeated as a wicked grin formed across his face.
"What?"
"Think about it, KP. Who needs fishing gear and bait when you've got a rifle?" Ron announced proudly.
Kim gave him a disgusted look and shook her head.
"What? Well, sure it may get a bit messy, but that's why you only shoot the big ones and–"
"Ron?"
"Yeah?"
"You start acting like Charlton Heston on me, and I'm revoking your rifle privileges. Get it?"
Ron gulped nervously and nodded. "Got it."
"Good."
---
"Why are we not flying low?"
Herbert Whittier turned his head slightly and keyed the inter-aircraft radio button on his control stick. "What's that, chief?" he asked, doing his best to make eye contact with the man sitting next to him, while not taking his eyes completely off the instrument panel of his helicopter.
"I said, 'why are we not flying low'?" the man seated next to him repeated. He was staring straight ahead and made no attempt to look over at the pilot. Any specific facial expression he may have been making was hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard and oversized pair of aviator sunglasses, which also helped to give him an unnervingly calm expression.
Behind him in the rear of the helicopter, his two associates––whom Herb had yet to learn the names of––sat quietly, conversing with each other in what, to the middle-aged pilot, sounded like some form of Arabic.
"Well," explained Herb, "that peak up ahead there is Granite Pass. That's where we're going. I'm gonna bring us up to ceiling altitude so we can just glide right on in." He gestured to the area where the large valley beneath them rose steadily to form the peak of Granite Pass; the highest point in the Western area of the park. "If we stay low to the ground it'll take longer to get there, and the turbulence will be a bit–"
"I don't care!" the man snapped impatiently. "I want you to fly within one-hundred-and-fifty feet of the ground at all times. That was part of the agreement. So if you want your money, get your ass down there!" He turned toward the surprised pilot and pointed toward the ground beneath them.
Herb was not the type of guy who took to being ordered around lightly. Even by his paying customers. But since these three men were offering him what amounted to more than half of his son's college tuition for a one-way trip, he decided to let it drop.
It was rather unusual, however, for a customer to request a specific altitude, especially one so low to the ground. It wasn't that Herb was worried about a collision, he just wasn't used to someone giving such a reckless order without batting an eye.
With in inward sigh, the forty-six-year-old bush pilot brought his eyes back to the front of the cabin. "You're the boss, Mr. O'Day," he replied casually.
Adopting a mischievous grin, Herb eased forward on the control stick and watched the tree-studded ground slowly fill the windshield as the sleek red Aerospatiale went into a controlled dive. If there was one thing he knew would get a rise out of his uptight employer, it was a sudden drop such as this.
After a few seconds, he eased the copter back into level flight just as the needle of the chopper's radar altimeter dipped below one-hundred-and-fifty feet AGL (Above Ground Level). He turned to spy the reaction of the bearded man and found him to be glaring back at him in a very unsettling manner.
Herb nervously cleared his throat and pointed to the altimeter mounted in front of him. "One-hundred-and-fifty feet AGL, just like you asked, Mr. –"
"It's Odah," the man interrupted.
"I beg your pardon?"
"My name is 'Odah', O-D-A-H, not O'Day. Mispronounce a man's name once and it is forgivable, but do it again and it is highly disrespectful."
Though not outwardly noticeable in their earlier short conversations, Herb began to detect a bit of an accent hidden in Mr. Odah's tone.
"My apologies," Herb offered. "I have a bit of a problem hearing sometimes… particularly when the wife tells me to do the dishes." He let out a small chuckle, which was met with a painful silence. After a minute of awkward quiet, Herb decided to give conversation with the strange man another go. "So, Mr. Odah, any particular reason you want to stay at one-hundred-and-fifty feet?"
Though Herb couldn't see it from where he was sitting, in the back of the helicopter, Odah's friends both tensed up slightly and shot each other uneasy glances. Odah himself, however, merely smirked and shook his head.
"Above 200 feet and we will be visible to radar," he stated wryly.
"Actually it's five-hundred feet for civilian radar," Herb corrected. "And you don't have to worry about that anyway." He reached forward and tapped a small digital readout mounted in the center of the chopper's console. "I switched off our Transponder (Aircraft ID) before we left. As far as the FAA knows, this trip did not happen."
Odah snorted and relayed something to his friends in Arabic, which elicited a diminutive laugh from each of them.
"I was referring to military radar, Mr. Whittier, not civilian" the man advised.
"Oh…" Herb nodded, not sure what to make of the man's bizarre logic. "You seem to have a lot of knowledge about flying, Mr. Odah. Are you a pilot too?"
"Years ago, yes, when I was in the Air Force."
'Finally, common ground,' Herb though. "Air Force, eh? I got my flight training in the service. US Army 18th Cavalry 'Aircav'," he announced proudly. "I flew an AH-1 Cobra for almost fifteen years through Panama, Grenada, and the first Gulf War, how about you?"
"Me?" Odah asked, confused.
"Yeah, you… what kind of bird did you fly in the Air Force? Were you in a fighter, a bomber, or were you a chopper-man too?"
"I flew a Mikoyan-Gurevich 21 Fishbed," he stated calmly.
"Fishbed?" Herb sat silent for a moment racking his brain as to what type of aircraft the man was referring to. "Wait a minute, are you talking about the MiG-21 Fishbed? The Soviet fighter jet?"
"It was sold to us by the Soviet Union, yes."
"Exactly whose Air Force did you serve in?" Herb asked suspiciously.
"I was a Commander in the IQAF."
"IQAF? What's–"
"The Iraqi Air Force," Odah elaborated coldly.
At that moment, Herb decided that all further conversation was officially ended. His only objective from that point on was to get to Dusy Basin as quickly as possible and get rid of 'Commander' Odah and his friends. Whatever they did after that didn't concern him one bit…
To be continued...