Albatross

  Albatross: Birds of Flight

  Book One

  J. M. Erickson

  iUniverse, Inc.

  Bloomington

  Albatross

  Birds of Flight

  Copyright © 2012 by J. M. Erickson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3413-7 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3414-4 (e)

  ISBN: 978-1-4759-3415-1 (dj)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911317

  iUniverse rev. date: 07/06/2012

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  O happy living things! no tongue

  Their beauty might declare:

  A spring of love gushed from my heart,

  And I blessed them unaware:

  Sure my kind saint took pity on me,

  And I blessed them unaware.

  The selfsame moment I could pray;

  And from my neck so free

  The Albatross fell off, and sank

  Like lead into the sea.

  —Samuel T. Coleridge,

  The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, IV. 65–6

  Chapter 1

  Anthony Maxwell was just waking up when he felt a burning sensation in his arm and a headache forming in the back of his head. He started to move his limbs, but they were firmly bound to a chair. Maxwell’s eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the room as a result of bright lights shining on him. He had been in the intelligence business long enough to know that he was being interrogated. While Maxwell had witnessed many interrogations and conducted a few himself, he had never been the subject of one. Though he was not fully conscious, he could sense someone was in front of him, sitting and waiting. He was sure the burning sensation in his right arm was an intravenous concoction to make him talk. His mouth was dry, and he wanted to talk; however, his entire body seemed to be devoid of liquids, especially saliva, which made talking very difficult. Maxwell knew he had to collect his wits and try to remember how he ended up in this terrible predicament. He remembered walking to his car after his impromptu meeting with his two contractors to provide a final briefing on a “foreign agent” who was living right over the border in Canada. It was a small mission of information gathering, and the briefing was supposed to finalize the logistics. Maxwell was all about security and being careful; being a senior field agent of the Department of Defense Foreign Intelligence’s Operations Center always meant being vigilant. If you wanted to live, the practice of being vigilant was a lifestyle and not just a good habit. So whoever was able to first track him and then get the drop on him before he was able to discharge his weapon was either very lucky or a professional … or both. With more saliva forming in his mouth, he was better able to croak out a question. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes,” said a soothing, low, and calming voice. Under vastly different circumstances, this voice could have been comforting, Maxwell thought.

  “What do you want?” Maxwell went on. From years of training and experience, Maxwell could tell he was in a room with wooden walls and windows. Maybe a house. If he screamed, he probably could be heard, provided he was still in a populated area. It felt like wood was under his feet. While it took time for his eyes to adjust, Maxwell could tell there was someone behind his interrogator. The man behind his interrogator seemed to stand still and watch the entire interaction. Something about the way the guy is standing seems oddly familiar, Maxwell thought to himself.

  “I don’t want anything. We have what we want. Now we wait,” the voice went on.

  Maxwell shifted his focus back on the interrogator sitting right in front of him. “Look. I’m a senior field agent of the Department of Defense. If I don’t check in with my people in a couple of hours, the federal government will be looking for me. That means they will be looking for you. Do you get it?” Maxwell was attempting to tip the tables to get his interrogator talking. He was hoping for the usual bravado, machismo, or arrogant response to his threat. Though he knew he posed no real danger while he was tied up in a chair, he still wanted to get a dialogue going. What he got was more chilling than he wanted to admit.

  First, the interrogator gave a sigh, which was followed by a very even reply. “You are Anthony R. Maxwell. You are senior field agent of the Department of Defense’s foreign intelligence office assigned to the operations center located in Waltham, Massachusetts. Just so you are aware, the medication flowing in your arm is not any drug that will make you talk. It is a combination of Vicodin and Valium that will relax you and allow you to nod off and fall asleep,” the voice articulated.

  This is bad, Maxwell thought. This guy had his real name and the location of the operations center, and he was not interested in information. That meant these men already had what they wanted. That made Maxwell expendable. It was time for a new strategy.

  “Well, maybe you might want to know some classified data?” Perhaps it was time to make some offers, bargain, and maybe buy some time. It was hard though. Maxwell was getting sleepy. His arms, legs, and stomach started feeling like lead. He had to focus.

  “No, Mr. Maxwell. There is no need for that. We already texted your contact team to meet you here in three hours. They will more likely be here in two hours or so,” the interrogator concluded. But then there was a follow-up question.

  “Mr. Maxwell, you do know what today’s date is, don’t you?”

  Odd question, Maxwell thought. Maybe there is something about today’s date that is either an anniversary or a target or mission date.

  “May 1. ‘May Day’ in Catholic tradition. It’s an important day for the old Communist—” Maxwell attempted to keep talking, but he was fading much faster than he thought. It was difficult for him to form thoughts, let alone sentences.

  “No, Mr. Maxwell. Today’s date is
May 2,” the voice corrected. There was no judgment in the interrogator’s voice; this was just a correction of the date.

  The shadow behind the interrogator had been slowly moving toward Maxwell as he was fading. As he was nodding off, Maxwell knew from the person’s build and profile that there was something definitely familiar about it. Maybe it was somebody from his past. The date was also familiar. Maxwell began to feel light-headed and elated. Then, before he completely slipped away, he uttered a barely understandable word. It would be the last cogent question Maxwell would ever ask. “Burns?”

  The shadow stopped moving, and the interrogator crossed his legs.

  Maxwell looked away for a moment to try to focus on something else to stay awake. His mind was wandering. While his first thoughts were on old friends and family, they faded too quickly, he thought. Instead of seeing other friendly faces, he saw the faces of past enemies, victims, and collateral damage he had caused. He couldn’t help but feel weighed down by these thoughts. Maxwell shook his head to clear his thoughts, but the faces stayed in view. Hallucinations? he questioned.

  “Why them?” he asked out loud.

  Maxwell looked at the interrogator, and he was positive the man was Alex Burns—one of the faces he was seeing.

  “Why him?” Maxwell tried to finish.

  But Maxwell reached that critical threshold where he no longer cared about the world anymore. All his cares seemed to recede. The faces were the last to fade. He drifted off into an opiate-driven sleep.

  The shadow waited just outside the backside of the house, where he had passively watched Maxwell’s interrogation. With full knowledge that Maxwell was in a deep sleep, still bound to the chair in the middle of an empty house, the shadow recalled the last time he and Maxwell actually worked together. As part of their business, they never used first names. First names were too personal. Last names only were used both in the field and off. Seeing “Maxwell” in his drug-induced condition did make Burns feel bad. After so many years of Burns being missing, he was amazed that Maxwell did recognize him as “Burns.” He was also amazed that he felt no enjoyment at Maxwell’s situation. In the past, he would have had no empathy or sympathy for his victim. Even though he had good reason to hate Maxwell, Burns felt bad for him. Burns’s companion, the even-spoken interrogator, was not surprised that Burns had empathy for Maxwell. As Burns waited outside the house, he smiled at the interaction he had with the interrogator, David Caulfield, right after Maxwell passed out. David had predicted that he would feel bad for Maxwell.

  “You know, David, for a trained professional, you’re not very good at hiding your emotions, especially when you’re right,” Burns commented. Burns had watched David interrogate Maxwell and had been impressed with David’s natural ability to be soothing even in such a terrifying situation. Burns did find it unnerving that David could guess that he felt some pain for Maxwell. In the past, Burns was unreadable to colleagues, superiors, and enemies. Burns could not remember having friends or close family. Maybe they could read me, he thought.

  “It’s not my first day on the job. Interviewing, that is. It also helps not being able to see what’s really happening. I can pretend I am in an office,” David countered.

  Burns knew David would need assistance to the basement. Once they navigated through the rooms and down the flight of stairs, where David would wait, David said to Burns, “Please be careful.” Burns assisted David into a waiting chair before he left him to wait outside in back of the house.

  An integral part of plan required that David would have to be “found” in the basement by the authorities. After Burns was finished setting the stage upstairs, he would have to assist David ‘get into character.’ He was not looking forward to that part. Burns decided to try to recall more positive thoughts for a moment. It was easier now in the last four years; he had positive thoughts and memories to now draw from. His friendship with David was one of them.

  Burns was still smiling and moving his feet to stay warm when he had the urge to scratch his scalp where old scars prevented hair from growing. The scars on his hands and arms, however, would itch because of dryness. As always, Burns thoughts refocused back to the plan, and he began yet another process of reviewing possible scenarios. If all went well, Maxwell’s contacts would arrive first, and the FBI agents would be next. It was very dark, and the evergreen trees offered excellent cover. Though he would have preferred a moonless night rather than the new moon in the sky, he was at the mercy of nature if he wanted to make sure everything happened today—not the day before or tomorrow but today. Fortunately, it was not raining. Burns chose this location and this house because it was the only one that was close to being completed and ready for occupancy. He also chose the house because it was located near the woods, which gave him a perfect line of sight on the back door as well as a view of the driveway in the front of the house. For the moment, Maxwell’s car was the only one visible in the driveway. After two hours, a second set of headlights was driving down the road. Before it turned into the driveway, the car headlights turned off and blocked Maxwell’s car. The two occupants exited their car and approached the house as quietly as possible. Burns had watched both of them enter the house cautiously at first—one in the front and the other in back. It had remained quiet in and outside of the house until yet another set of headlights pulled up behind the two parked cars. Though winter was over, New England’s sunrise happened at 5:20 a.m. It was by no means “bright” at 6:20 a.m. inside the house, but it wasn’t pitch dark. The two newer arrivals slowly exited their car. Each looked at the house and assessed their next move. This pair had an air of “law enforcement” about them; they stood at an angle to the house, making themselves less of a target. Their hands were firmly placed on their hip holsters, where Burns was sure they each carried a .9mm semiautomatic weapon. One of the agents was decidedly taller and had a lanky build, while his partner was of average height but clearly stockier.

  As the occupants of the last car were closing in on the front of the house, Burns saw the first pair exiting the back as quietly as possible. As the back door opened, Burns steadied his stance and carefully aimed his own semiautomatic to the left of the back door’s frame. The crack of the gun report was loud in the suburban neighborhood of empty houses. The two who were exiting the house now backed away rapidly as a second report shattered wood on the right side of the frame of the door. The two men in front dropped slightly and produced their own weapons as they approached the front of the house. Burns emerged from the woods and circled wide of the house, keeping his eyes on the windows that were looking into a living room.

  “FBI! Come out with your hands up!”

  Not original, but it was clear. Suddenly, there was yelling from inside the house: “You set us up, asshole!” There was a single shot.

  Burns heard the front door break open. Shouts and yelling erupted inside the house, and the shouts became confusing to understand. Burns decided to take four shots towards the pair he had kept at bay in the house. He planned on giving the federal agents an edge. Shots fired in all directions from inside the house and then there was silence. Burns stood for a moment to make sure there was no movement in the house. Normally, he would have taken the time to collect his shell casings so that he could eliminate connecting his gun to the crime scene. If he really wanted to clean up the crime scene, he would have to eliminate his footprints, dig out the slugs that had to be lodged into a wall or ceiling, and wipe down all of his fingerprints inside the house. However, Burns wanted to make sure there was no confusion that his bullets were not involved with any deaths in the house and wanted a “big X” to show everyone he was outside when his gun discharged. That was important because he want to make sure he was in the clear; he did not want to be seen as a killer. Not today. In the past that would have been unimportant.

  Burns then quietly walked to Maxwell’s car, opened the trunk, and took out a full paramedic case.
He took off his black jacket, which concealed the standard paramilitary white shirt with epaulets, and neatly placed his jacket in the trunk. He then took out and put on the standard, bright orange first-responder jacket with reflective stripes and changed personas from “shadow” to “paramedic.” Even before he entered the building, he applied his latex-free gloves and holstered his semiautomatic gun, which was concealed inside the jacket. Burns carefully entered the house and stated loudly and firmly “I’m a medic. I am unarmed and coming in through the front door. Don’t shoot.” As Burns came through the door, he could smell the carbon of recently discharged weapons. As he opened the front door, he implemented two of the three rules in first aid—survey the area and provide care. The third and final rule, “call for assistance,” he planned to do much later than a real paramedic would in such a situation. The first federal agent, the stocky one, dropped his gun as soon as he saw the “paramedic.” The federal agent then moved his empty hand back to his left shoulder so he could continue compressing his own wound. It was also clear his right thigh had been hit too. Burns dropped beside the stocky agent, opened his kit, and took out dressing and bandages. He applied first aid, and at the same time, he kept monitoring if there was any movement in the other rooms.

  As the agent looked on quietly, he asked about his partner. Once first aid was completed, Burns moved to the tall, lanky agent. The other agent was lying faceup with a shot in his chest and a smaller injury to his ankle. Fortunately, Burns had been recently briefed on assessing such a wound. First, Burns made sure there were signs of life, which miraculously there was. The agent was still breathing. Burns immediately opened the agent’s jacket, applied pressure, and tried his best to dress the wound. Once Burns was satisfied the compression had slowed the bleeding, he wanted to avoid the more serious injuries of the agent falling into shock by dragging the lanky agent to the relatively “healthier,” stocky agent. As soon as Burns had the lanky agent lying next to his partner, Burns started an intravenous line.