After arriving in California, Jeremy Rankin's team had set up into a motel somewhere in the northern part of San Diego. In one room were accommodated Rankin, Faraday, and Adrian; and in the other McSweeney, Grewal and Scherrer. In that second room, the logistician and the scientist were working on their laptops on that afternoon of Tuesday August 6th. On his screen, McSweeney suddenly saw a notification telling him he had just received a message from their employer, who had an email address with a cryptic name in order to cover their tracks should the laptop be compromised. The mercenary opened the email and saw that they were asking them for details to make a delivery as part of an operation called Polish Trip.
Ah yes, the coordinates!
McSweeney looked up to look at the notes written on sheets they had hung on the wall. On one of them, a list of addresses had been written, those of farms in northern California. One of them was highlighted:
Murren Ranch
3800 Kings Valley Rd, Crescent City, CA 95531
Until then on the phone in the next room, Adrian returned to McSweeney and Scherrer's room and crossed out another name on another sheet, one with a list titled Potential Little Quislings and the words "Call Jawad". Nearly half of the phone numbers and private email addresses on it had already been crossed out, and soon enough Adrian left to make another call.
Leaning back in his chair, McSweeney then stared at Scherrer's laptop screen. Aerial and 3D images of the Lockwood estate were displayed there and the scientist had started a simulation, which showed a coloured cloud rolling down some kind of dell east of the basin where InGen had built its enclosures. In its course the cloud reached them and stopped in the basin, where still fed by a source on a ridge above the dell, it seemed to thicken and darken. Scherrer was focused on his task but although his simulation seemed to be in line with their expectations, he didn't seem to be satisfied and his face sported a rather gloomy expression.
McSweeney grabbed his phone and called their leader.
"Yes it's me. The boss sent us a message. He wants the coordinates for the delivery."
"Did you found a farm?" Rankin asked.
"Yes."
The former British secret service agent took a deep breath of the San Diegan air. He, Faraday, and Grewal were waiting in a shopping centre's parking lot a few blocks from their motel. Wearing sunglasses and dressed in civilian clothes, they looked like a simple trio of tourists, one among many in a city like San Diego. In this parking lot, they had an appointment with potential allies and watched for their arrival.
"Then send him its coordinates. We'll prepare the place."
"Okay, Jeremy. I do that."
He hung up and while he tucked his cell phone into the pocket of his Bermuda shorts, Faraday pointed to one of the vehicles on the road nearby.
"He's here," he said.
Rankin followed his gaze and saw a black SUV pull into the parking lot and then pull up next to them. Its doors opened to let their contacts climb down…