"True Enterprise Lies" by Kathy Rose (A/R, PG-13) - 2 of 2
Part 1 is here.
True Enterprise Lies, 2 of 2
They were shoved into a ground vehicle that took them to a small spaceport. As they were getting out of the vehicle next to a large hovercraft designed to travel over water, another ground vehicle pulled up. The driver got out and opened a passenger door, and T'Pol, dressed in a skin-tight, electric blue catsuit, stepped out.
"Jonathan Hunter," she said as she approached. "We meet again. I didn't expect it to be under these circumstances, however."
"Hunter? His name is Archer," Malcolm said, looking quizzically at the Vulcan woman. A distrustful look came over his face as he shifted his gaze to Jon. "You know her?"
"She's…ah…a business associate," Jon stuttered as T'Pol ran a hand over his cheek.
Malcolm's eyes narrowed. "What kind of business?"
"Oh, we know each other quite well," T'Pol said. Although Vulcans were said to be without emotions, her tone was laden with spitefulness. "I regret to say all that has probably changed, now that we know what he really is."
They were led onto the hovercraft, Malcolm protesting the whole way. "You think he's some sort of spy? It's because of me, isn't it? That awful business with Travis. I mean, Karles. I'm not a spy. I work in an office. And there's no way Jon could be a spy. He's a salesman for Enterprise Industries, for God's sake! We have a nice home in the suburbs. His uncle, Max, lives with us!"
As they were pushed into seats, a liveried attendant appeared with a tray of drinks. T'Pol helped herself to one before she turned to Malcolm. "A little something before we leave?"
Malcolm opened his mouth but never got a chance to reply. The attendant pressed something to his neck.
As Malcolm slumped in his seat, Jon turned to T'Pol. "That really wasn't necess-" He clamped his mouth shut as his vision blurred and went dark. He'd gotten the same treatment from the attendant as had Malcolm.
Malcolm was disoriented. He'd regained consciousness in time to be prodded off the hovercraft onto a rickety pier. If he was unsure of himself, he knew that poor Jon, walking next to him, must be absolutely terrified. Jon couldn't possibly understand what was going on. He'd never meant for Jon to be endangered by this spy stuff. It was only supposed to have been a little harmless fun. Wracked by guilt, Malcolm blamed himself for getting Jon into this predicament.
They must be on an island or along the coast, Malcolm realized as he took a deep breath. He could smell tropical plants. He didn't get a chance to take a good look around as he and Jon were taken into a large machinery shed, but a few scattered palm trees were an indication they were some distance south of San Francisco.
There was all sorts of equipment inside the building, along with a great number of Denobulans. What caught Malcolm's attention, however, was the cylindrical object that workmen were in the process of pulling out of a large piece of what appeared to be Andorian statuary from the pre-Vulcan conflict era. With his limited knowledge of weapons simply by virtue of having calculated how much they cost, Malcolm knew it had to be a missile or bomb, a bloody big one that had to be very expensive. He and Jon were dragged over to it.
T'Pol had apparently checked all his pockets while he'd been unconscious. On the table next to where she was standing, there was a small stack of his personal items-wallet, keys, coins, a tube of lip balm, and the small homing device he'd been given for his secret mission as Morris.
"A tracker," the Vulcan said, picking up the homing device. With a snap, she broke it in half and threw the pieces on the floor. She began flipping through his wallet. "Fascinating. You have the same address as Jonathan." She came to the picture of him with Jon and Uncle Max. "A family unit, yes?"
Malcolm gritted his teeth and looked at Jon in time to catch a shift in his expression from sheepish to something sterner as a new person entered the shed. It was another Denobulan. Malcolm had never met any Denobulans before, but he'd been told they were a good-natured, cheerful lot. Not this man, however. His unnaturally blue eyes gleamed with fanatical fervor from between his facial ridges as he joined the group.
The Denobulan gestured toward the missile. "Tell me what this is," he said to Jon at the same time as he waved another man holding a recording device to come closer. "I want your government to know for certain that we mean business, and your word should be sufficient to prove that this is what it appears to be."
"Let me guess, Phlox," Jon said sardonically. "It's a snow cone maker."
Phlox glared angrily at him, then switched his gaze to T'Pol, who flicked her eyes in Malcolm's direction. With one quick step, the Denobulan was at Malcolm's side. He pulled a Klingon disruptor from his waistband and held it to Malcolm's head, who gulped. From his work in weapons' cost estimation, Malcolm knew that particular weapon made nasty holes in people.
"I asked you what it is," Phlox said to Jon.
Jon immediately sobered. "It's a class three multiphasic warhead, capable of obliterating a large city. It can be launched from any location on a planet or from space, and have no trouble reaching even the most distant target. It is also capable of penetrating most shielding defenses."
Malcolm's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "How did you know that?"
Jon shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a spy."
Malcolm shifted on his feet, suddenly uncaring that a gun was pointed at his head. He'd been beginning to wonder, ever since the aliens had laughed when he'd said he was the one they were after, if perhaps Jon really did know what was occurring. And now Jon had finally come out and said that he was a spy. The nerve of the man to deceive him like that! How long had this been going on? The entire time they'd been living together?
"You bastard!" Malcolm cried. He launched himself at Jon and hit him in the face with his fist. Several men rushed forward to pull Malcolm away as he continued yelling at Jon. "You lying son of a bitch!"
Phlox turned to face the recording device. "Unless Earth pulls all its economic advisers off my planet, Denobulan Domination will detonate one warhead a week in some major city on Earth. To show that we are serious, we will start with the warhead on this island."
Phlox reached over to the warhead and twisted a key. Red numbers began counting down on a screen next to the key.
Trip was in the back of a surveillance shuttlepod. He and Hoshi were tracking the signal from the homing device Malcolm was carrying. When they'd given the device to Malcolm, Trip had had no idea that they'd actually have to use it. It had merely been intended to lend authenticity to Jon's plan to make Malcolm think he was going on an undercover mission. But when Jon hadn't shown up for work this morning and a check of his house had found no one-not even Uncle Max-Trip had had a gut feeling that something was wrong. Jon and Malcolm might have been extending their romantic interlude of the night before, but if they had done so, Jon, ever the professional, would have called in.
"The signal just dropped off," Hoshi reported from the monitoring console. She adjusted a few controls. "We've lost them."
Trip swore under his breath. "Can you figure out where they were going?"
Hoshi nodded. "There's only one place they could be going if they stay on their heading." She pulled up a chart of the area and pointed to a chain of artificial islands. "The Santa Catalina keys off the coast of southern California."
Trip had never been there, but he knew about them. The artificial islands were connected to Santa Catalina Island, and then the mainland, by a series of causeways. The keys were privately owned by a consortium of wealthy offworlders; few humans lived there. If Jon and Malcolm had been kidnapped by the DD movement, it would be a good place to hide them.
Before Trip could determine their next step, an all-agents alert came over a Section 31 secure channel. Headquarters reported that the DD was threatening to set off multiphasic warheads if its demands weren't met.
Trip reached forward to tap the pilot's shoulder to tell him to return to base. They were going to need more than one shuttlepod of Section 31 agents.
The terrorists were going to torture Jon for information, but they'd decided to try a drug on him first. A creepy old Denobulan injected Jon with something. The man rattled off some long, scientific-sounding name. Jon recognized it as a truth serum. Within moments of it hitting his bloodstream, his vision blurred, and his hearing altered so it sounded like everything was happening underwater. The torturer stepped outside the small outbuilding where Jon and Malcolm were being held to wait for the drug to do its work.
"Jon?" Malcolm asked from where he was tied to a chair. "Does that stuff he gave you really work?"
"Yesssss," Jon slurred, squinting as he tried to make the three Malcolms he was seeing go back to just one.
A crafty expression came over all three of the identical faces. "How long have you been a spy?" the Malcolms asked.
Jon couldn't lie. The truth serum had seen to that. "Seventeen years."
If he could get loose from the handcuffs holding him to a post, he shouldn't have too much trouble. The drug only made him tell the truth; after the initial rush of confusion, he'd easily be able to counteract its minor physical effects. He could tell he was already shaking off the first dizzying effects of the drug as the three Malcolms slowly formed back into one. Behind his back, the fingers of his cuffed hands encountered the pick he kept hidden in his belt. The worried look on Malcolm's face spurred him on to pick the lock on the handcuffs.
"Are we going to die?" Malcolm asked plaintively.
If Jon didn't get out of the handcuffs, the answer was obvious. "Yeah." Then a tiny "snick" came to his ears, along with a release of pressure on his wrists. "No."
Jon tossed away the now-open handcuffs, jumped to his feet, grabbed one of the torturer's tools from the nearby table, and threw it hard at the guard by the door. The man was dead before he even hit the floor. One down, and a whole lot more to go, Jon thought. It was going to be difficult to get Malcolm out of this mess. He could feel his adrenaline kicking in, helping to counteract the last of the grogginess caused by the truth serum.
Malcolm was staring at him, his mouth open in surprise.
"Let's get out of here," Jon said.
He paused only long enough to dispatch another guard who looked into the shed, then he hurried to Malcolm's side and quickly unbound him. Grabbing Malcolm's hand, Jon pulled him up from the chair and over to the door.
Malcolm could hear cheering as he and Jon approached the big machine shed where they'd seen the multiphasic warhead. Some type of rally was taking place. They quietly inched closer, but there was so much noise coming from the loud gathering that Malcolm didn't think anyone would hear them. He peeked past Jon around the corner of the building. Large packing cases were being loaded onto ground haulers by Denobulans as Phlox continued to exhort his followers.
"What do we do now?" Malcolm whispered.
Jon turned his head to look back at him. "We have to stop them from using the multiphasic warhead here. Then we'll worry about the ones they're moving."
Their trip around the back of the building was interrupted several times by more of the terrorists who'd been left on guard. Jon dealt quickly and efficiently with all of them. "I married Rambo," Malcolm murmured to himself as Jon single-handedly knocked out three terrorists within the space of as many seconds.
As they were about to enter the building, Jon passed a phase pistol to him that he'd taken from one of the guards. Malcolm studied the weapon. He knew how much every single component in the pistol cost, but he'd never fired one in his life. To tell the truth, phase pistols intimidated him. They were capable of terrible injury, not to mention they could kill someone.
"Damn," he heard Jon mutter as he joined him inside where he crouched on an elevated walkway overlooking the main floor of the building.
Damn was right. The warhead was being buried under a layer of fresh concrete by several Denobulans.
"Now what?" Malcolm whispered.
A shout of alarm from the floor prevented Jon from replying. They'd been spotted. Malcolm ducked behind the railing as the shooting started, but Jon took off along the catwalk, returning fire as he ran.
Then Jon's weapon jammed or ran out of ammunition-Malcolm didn't know which-and Jon yelled at him to shoot. Malcolm hesitated as he saw Jon jump over the railing to land in the midst of the terrorists on the floor below. Gripping the pistol with both hands, Malcolm rose and opened fire, his only concern not to hit Jon accidentally. The terrorists scrambled for cover.
Unfortunately, Malcolm managed to disarm himself. Startled by the bright intensity of the phased energy leaving the barrel of the pistol, he'd dropped it. It went bouncing down the stairs to the main level, its trigger locked on continuous firing. Even Jon dove for cover as random shots fired wildly.
Malcolm, who once again had ducked behind the railing, peered through the slats as the beam of the phase pistol hit first one terrorist, then another. In the meantime, Jon had snagged another weapon and was going after the remaining Denobulans in the building.
Malcolm allowed himself a small exhalation of relief. It was looking like they might get out of here after all, he thought as he straightened up to see better.
What could only have been the business end of a weapon was jammed under his ear.
"You're not going anywhere," came the icy voice of that Vulcan bitch, T'Pol, from behind him.
Malcolm didn't take his eyes from the scene below him. Jon had seen his plight but had problems of his own. Several more armed terrorists had entered the building. Jon had no choice but to make a hasty exit out a side door. Malcolm fervently hoped he would get himself out of the fix he was in, and come back and get him.
"Come," T'Pol said, tugging Malcolm down the stairs to the main floor, holding the gun on him the entire time. "It's not going to be safe around here much longer."
"What do you get out of this?" he asked T'Pol. "You aren't a Denobulan."
T'Pol laughed. That violent departure from Vulcan nature made Malcolm look at her in amazement. She seemed amused.
"You've never heard of the V'Tosh ka'tur?" she asked. When Malcolm mutely shook his head, she said, "We're a Vulcan separatist group. We haven't abandoned logic, but we believe in exploring our emotions. Mainstream Vulcans disapprove of our efforts, so we have to find funding elsewhere." Her expression hardened. "Denobulan currency is as good as any."
"You're in this for the money?" Malcolm asked in disbelief. "Where's the logic in that?"
"Many Vulcans believe that Earth has assumed too big a leadership role in this sector of the galaxy," she replied as she gave him a shove, propelling him outside the building. "The Denobulan Domination movement's aims are the same, although because of their violent nature, a more rapid resolution is probable."
As T'Pol talked, she hurried him toward the same hovercraft that had brought them here. The maniacal Denobulan, Phlox, was waiting for them. Malcolm glanced around frantically as explosions lit up the night sky. The entire compound looked like it was under attack. He caught a brief glimpse of a familiar figure running toward what looked like fuel tanks near the pier. They hadn't caught Jon yet, he thought in satisfaction.
A moment later, that satisfaction turned to icy fear as he saw Phlox lift a rifle and fire. The fuel tanks blew up, great gouts of flame reaching skyward, just in front of Jon.
"No!" Malcolm yelled and stopped dead in his tracks as he lost sight of Jon in the inferno.
T'Pol grabbed his arm to get him moving again. Malcolm unthinkingly lashed out, striking her face and leaving an ugly five-centimeter gash on her cheekbone which immediately trickled green blood. T'Pol retaliated instantly, hitting him with a vicious uppercut under the jaw. Malcolm staggered backward, but all the fight had gone out of him. He didn't resist when T'Pol grabbed his arm again and, with the help of a Denobulan henchman, roughly put him in the back of the hovercraft. He stared unseeingly at the destruction as the hovercraft began moving.
It didn't matter what they did to him now. Jon was dead, blown to pieces by the explosion.
Jon had to dive into the water next to the pier when he saw Phlox aim his weapon at him. There was no place else to take cover. The water above his head turned orange with the reflection of the fuel tanks' explosion. He held his breath as he swam under water as far away from the pier as he could. The explosion's shockwave had pushed the water violently outward, and he rode it as he swam. When his lungs threatened to pull in air against his will, he found a clear patch in the water and surfaced cautiously. He was some distance from shore, but the fires provided enough light for him to see.
Of the hovercraft and the ground haulers, there was no sign. He'd seen T'Pol forcing Malcolm towards the hovercraft before the fuel tanks had exploded, and he hoped that T'Pol had made Malcolm go with her when she'd left the island. When he caught a glimpse of Phlox boarding a shuttlepod, Jon tried to keep to the pier's shadow. As soon as the Denobulan was on board, the pod took off and disappeared into the night sky. Jon swam back to the shore and hauled himself out of the water.
He had just finished checking to make sure the only people left in the compound were dead terrorists when the sound of engines came to him. A formation of TACO shuttlepods was approaching.
Trip, dressed in combat fatigues, was the first person out of the first shuttlepod to set down. "I thought I recognized your handiwork," Trip called as he walked over to where Jon was waiting near the fire-blackened pier.
Urgency kept Jon from making a smart comeback. "We've got to evacuate the keys," he told Trip.
Trip immediately grasped the situation. "We can't stop the warhead's detonation?"
"They've made sure we can't get to it in time."
Trip issued some orders to the TACOs, then turned back to Jon. "Where's Malcolm?"
"I hope he's in a hovercraft on the way back to the mainland."
Trip looked sharply at Jon. "We saw a hovercraft on our way here. Big luxury job. It seemed to be keeping pace with a couple of ground haulers on the causeway."
Jon nodded, his lips set in a grim line. "That's the one. Come on." He took off at a run for Trip's shuttlepod.
"Where are we going?" Trip called as he ran after him.
"To save Malcolm."
Malcolm's numbness was giving way to a simmering anger. He was seated facing backward directly behind the Denobulan hovercraft pilot, the only occupant of the vehicle besides himself and T'Pol. The Vulcan's supercilious smirk as she sat in the seat opposite him, sipping champagne, only fed his anger. She wasn't directly responsible for Jon's death, but she was in collusion with those who were.
Through the open skylight, Malcolm caught a glimpse of two fast-moving objects flying by not more than one hundred meters over their heads in the pre-dawn dimness. A concussive explosion from outside made Malcolm twist around in his seat, trying to see past the driver. The flying craft had fired upon the causeway! One of the ground haulers they'd been keeping parallel with dropped into the ocean through the resulting gap in the elevated roadway. The flying craft fired again, and the second ground hauler went up in a burst of flames, bits and pieces of it falling into the water below. One large chunk of debris hit the hovercraft, making it dip and sway alarmingly.
T'Pol shouted at her pilot to move away from the attack, but he was too busy trying to regain control of the vehicle to pay attention to her. The hovercraft continued its crazy gyrations, tossing both Malcolm and T'Pol around in the passenger compartment. Malcolm took advantage of the distraction and lunged for the Vulcan's throat.
T'Pol blocked his lunge, using her legs to knock him back onto his seat. Malcolm sprang up to lunge again, but he came up short when she pulled a phase pistol from between the cushions of her seat and aimed it at him. He expected her to shoot. Instead, he saw her eyes go wide in surprise at something over his shoulder. He turned around to see what she was looking at, only to recoil. Nothing could be seen through the front windscreen but thick, black, billowing smoke from the attack.
As smoke began pouring in through the skylight, Malcolm grabbed the champagne bottle and swung it at T'Pol, hitting her in the arm. The pistol in her hand discharged, narrowly missing him. Another smack of the bottle knocked her out.
He grabbed the pistol from T'Pol's limp hand and spun around to confront the driver. "Bloody hell," he whispered as he saw what was now in front of the hovercraft.
The driver was slumped over the controls; T'Pol's shot had hit him squarely in the back. But that was the least of Malcolm's worries. The hovercraft had broken through the smoke and was now heading for a massive stone breakwater, and it was going much too fast. Even if Malcolm could drag the limp body of the dead driver out of the way to get to the controls, the hovercraft couldn't go high enough to avoid the unyielding breakwater, and there was no time to alter course.
He doubted he'd survive the collision; hovercraft were notoriously flimsy. With a notion of climbing onto the roof and jumping into the water, Malcolm scrambled up on one of the seats and poked his head and upper torso out the skylight. The water rushing by looked even worse from up there. His old fear of drowning almost paralyzed him. One glance forward to what awaited if he stayed on board, however, was all it took for him to regain his courage. Something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention just as he put a knee on the skylight's edge, bracing himself against the rush of air. Hair whipping in the wind, he turned his head to see a shuttlepod angling in toward him. The hatch was open, a person climbing out onto the pod's landing skid. Malcolm blinked, hoping against hope that what his eyes were showing him was real. "Jon!" he screamed, waving frantically.
"Malcolm! Grab my hand!" Jon yelled back, his words all but torn away by the rushing wind.
Malcolm desperately stretched as far as he could. "You're not close enough!"
The shuttlepod came a little closer. Malcolm managed to barely touch Jon's fingertips when the hovercraft lurched, taking him farther away.
"You can do it, Malcolm!" Jon called encouragingly. "Grab my hand!"
Malcolm spared a second to glance forward. The hovercraft was almost upon the breakwater. He gritted his teeth, watching as the shuttlepod approached one more time. At the last moment, he jumped up. Jon's hand securely wrapped around his and pulled him out of the doomed hovercraft, and as they tumbled onto the floor of the shuttlepod, Malcolm felt it pull up sharply away from the explosion below them.
They landed on the mainland shore near the end of the causeway shortly after dawn. Trip reported that everyone in the warhead's blast zone had gotten far enough away to be safe, then walked off a short distance to give Jon and Malcolm a few minutes of privacy outside the shuttlepod.
Jon put up a hand to shield Malcolm's face from the blinding brilliance of the coming blast. "Close your eyes," he said.
He and Malcolm were still standing with their arms around each other when Trip came over to announce the all clear after the warhead's detonation. Jon looked up to see a mushroom cloud dissipating over the western horizon.
"Jon?" Trip said anxiously. "Can I talk to you? Alone?"
"I'll be just a minute," Jon said to Malcolm.
Trip took Jon's upper arm to lead him away. "Jon, I don't know how to tell you this-"
"Phlox got away."
"Well, yeah," Trip said. "But that's not all. There's something else you should know. Something personal."
Jon stared at the man, not liking what he was hearing. He stopped walking and pulled his arm out of Trip's grasp. "Malcolm's safe. What more 'personal' could there be?"
Trip took a deep breath. "It's Uncle Max. Phlox has him." At Jon's incredulous stare, Trip hurried to give him more details. "They snatched him while he was out with that biker girlfriend of his. Anyway, they've got him in downtown Frisco on the upper floor of some skyscraper under construction. Phlox is calling for a news crew to publicly broadcast his demands. Otherwise he's going to set off another warhead."
"All three of the other warheads went down in the ocean with the ground haulers," Jon contradicted him.
"Two of them did," Trip corrected him. "Phlox had the third one in the shuttlepod he used to leave the island. And because he lost the other two, he's really pissed."
Jon, in motion before Trip finished speaking, ran back to Malcolm. "Something's come up," he told Malcolm. "I've got to go."
Malcolm gave him a smile that was both tolerant and full of pride. "I understand. Go to work, Jon."
An answering smile broke out on Jon's face. Despite the dire circumstances, he was extraordinarily happy. Malcolm had accepted that he was a professional secret agent. "Bye, honey," he said, and ran off toward the same two flying craft that had blasted the causeway. The pilots had set them down in the same parking lot where the TACO shuttlepods had landed. The planes were the latest generation of TACO Aerial Heavy High Assault aircraft. Jon had never been trained on this version of an AHHA, but it couldn't be too dissimilar from earlier ones he had flown. He climbed into the cockpit of the closest one.
Trip was running after him. "Jon, wait! We've got someone on the inside!"
Jon gave Trip a thumb's up and engaged the engine. After a few false starts and one crumpled TACO shuttlepod-they'd landed that vehicle too close to the AHHA he'd commandeered, Jon rationalized as his plane's landing gear rolled over the smaller craft's metallic skin- he managed to get the plane airborne. He turned its nose in the direction of downtown San Francisco.
Hoshi was a little nervous, but excited too. She usually was in the hovervan at the monitoring console on any given mission, but time was of the essence. She had been the only qualified Section 31 operative available when the terrorists had wanted a news crew to broadcast their demands.
Too bad they had to use a real journalist, she thought as she and the reporter were being taken to the top floor where Phlox and his Denobulan goons were waiting. She hoped the reporter didn't blow her cover or, worse, do something stupid. About the only factor in the reporter's favor was that he was a known broadcast personality in the San Francisco area. That would lend credibility to her being with him. Masquerading as a cameraperson, she would be an anonymous technician who did the grunt work, carrying and operating the equipment. Not unlike what she really did for a living, she mused ironically.
She reassuringly touched the case of her vid camera as they were led up the last flight of stairs. The camera was a special mock-up made by Section 31. It really did work like any other vid camera, but it also had a secret compartment where she'd hidden a mini-phase pistol. Her orders were to get inside the terrorists' location and keep an eye on Phlox, but if he tried to arm the warhead, she was to use the phase pistol to take him down.
As they were escorted onto the top floor, she caught a glimpse of Jon's uncle. Max Forrest stood out like a sore thumb. Not only was he the only human among the Denobulans, but he was dressed in a jogging suit while the Denobulans all sported bandoliers of ammunition and weapons. Luckily, Max had never met her, so he wouldn't accidentally give her away. She knew he was ex-military, but being surrounded by terrorists with a multiphasic warhead would make anyone nervous. Even from a distance, she could tell he was agitated. Hoshi added another wish to her growing list-she hoped Uncle Max didn't do anything stupid, either.
Phlox was impatiently awaiting their arrival. He motioned them over to where he was standing in front of the warhead. Swinging the camera up into position on her shoulder, Hoshi pretended to meekly follow the reporter. Phlox began spouting off as soon as the ready light on the camera came on. While he rambled on about the Denobulan Domination, threatening to set off the warhead if their demands weren't met, Hoshi split her attention between running the camera and casing the place, noting where terrorists were positioned.
She also noticed that Uncle Max was slowly moving away from Phlox. Maybe the old man wasn't as senile as she'd been led to believe. If anything, his stealthy departure from the immediate vicinity showed he had a well-developed sense of self-preservation, especially if he suspected that someone in the broadcast crew was a covert agent and fighting would soon break out. She wouldn't be surprised if he knew about Section 31. He had been a high-ranking officer during his service and so had been privy to all sorts of classified information. That would have been before she'd joined the organization, however, given the difference in their ages.
Uncle Max had just moved out of her sight behind a support pillar when Phlox said something about turning a key to arm the warhead.
"Where's the key?" the reporter interrupted him.
Without looking, Phlox pointed behind him at the weapon. "Right there, you idiot."
"I don't see a key," the reporter said.
Phlox whirled around. Hoshi took her eye away from the vid camera's viewscreen and looked at the warhead. There was a slot for a key near the activation controls, but there was no key. She silently damned the reporter-he really was an idiot-for pointing out its absence, for she had come to the same conclusion as Phlox.
"The old man must have the key!" Phlox screamed. "Find him!"
Terrorists began running this way and that, firing their weapons at no particular target as their leader's fury spurred them to action. Hoshi shoved the reporter down, then retrieved the mini-phase pistol from its hiding place. There were so many energy discharges and old-fashioned bullets around that chances were she'd get hit by one if she didn't do something about it. She methodically began taking down the terrorists with precision shots.
When the firing stopped a few minutes later, she cautiously scanned the area. The bodies of terrorists littered the area, but there was no sign of Phlox, or Uncle Max for that matter. Then she heard shouts from overhead.
Hoshi tapped her earlobe twice to activate her personal communications transceiver. As the shocked reporter looked on, she said crisply, "Phlox has chased the hostage onto the roof. The hostage has the key to the warhead. Repeat: The hostage is on the roof with the key to the warhead, and Phlox is after him."
The brief flight to San Francisco allowed Jon to familiarize himself with the AHHA's flight console. Long ago he'd learned that when engineers upgraded anything, they always changed where they put things. This version of the AHHA was no exception. The joystick for flying the craft was in the only place it could be-right in front of him between his legs-but everything else had been moved. When he found the communications controls, he opened a channel on a Section 31 frequency and was immediately patched through to Trip.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Trip barked at him.
"Rescuing my uncle and saving the world in the process," Jon barked right back.
There was a long pause before Trip's voice came back. "Well, all right, then. I've got the address of the building where the DD's holed up. And Hoshi just relayed some information. She says most of the terrorists are neutralized, but there are several of them with Phlox on the roof. That's where your uncle is, too. He apparently swiped the key to arm the warhead and won't give it back."
As Jon closed the channel after getting the building's address from Trip, he shook his head. First Malcolm had been in danger. Now it was Uncle Max. Still, his uncle was a former military officer. Jon wasn't surprised that he was trying to thwart the terrorists. "Way to go, Uncle Max," Jon said under his breath with a slight smile.
He was rapidly coming up on the building. It was one of the tallest structures in the city, its top floors still unfinished and open to the elements. He almost overshot the location before he found the vertical thruster controls. He cut the main engines, quickly balanced upward thrust against gravity, and was able to hover in place for a long look at his objective.
A shuttlepod was parked on the roof. It looked like the one Phlox had used to leave the island. Jon could see someone at the shuttlepod's controls, but both hatches were wide open; it wasn't going anywhere at the moment. He tilted the joystick to the side, making the AHHA begin a circuit around the roof. When he reached the far side, movement on a construction crane atop the building caught his eye. Two people were inching their way out on the crane's arm over a fifty-story drop to the pavement far below. Jon almost stalled the plane as he realized Max was the person farthest out on the arm. What did his crazy uncle think he was doing? A flash of light glinted off something Max was holding. It had to be the warhead's key, dangling from a chain. Jon's eyes narrowed as he realized that the person following Max out onto the precarious perch must be Phlox. Jon hoped the terrorist leader wouldn't risk harming Uncle Max as long as Max had the key.
Jon maneuvered the AHHA closer, opening the canopy as he did, and came up right below where his uncle was balanced on the metal struts of the construction crane's arm. "Max!" he called out.
Uncle Max almost slipped as he turned toward the sound of Jon's voice. "Jon?" He goggled at the sight of his nephew in the plane not three meters below him. "Jon! Get me out of here! That crazy bastard's trying to kill me!"
Jon edged the craft closer, noting with approval that Max had slung the chain holding the key around his neck. "Jump in!"
A blast of phased energy flew by Jon's head. He'd almost forgotten about Phlox in his anxiety over his uncle. But the blast hadn't come from Phlox's direction. Jon looked around quickly and spotted the shuttlepod he'd seen on the roof. It was now airborne and coming right at him. He had no choice but to leave Uncle Max and take care of this new threat first. "I'll be back," Jon yelled and tilted the joystick down, making the AHHA plummet like a stone and spoiling another shot from the shuttlepod in the process.
Down and down he dropped, until at the last moment, he cut the thrusters and engaged the AHHA's main engine. The shuttlepod, he was glad to see, hadn't followed him down. He maneuvered around the building, waiting until he'd gone around the side out of sight of the shuttlepod before gaining altitude. He was hoping that what he'd lost in maneuverability by cutting the thrusters would be offset by the advantage he had in speed with the AHHA's engine. He ascended quickly as he continued around the building. By the time he'd reached the top floor, he was on the opposite side of the building from the shuttlepod; he could see it through the openings in the unfinished structure. He locked on to the target. With a grim smile, he depressed the launch button for one of the plane's defensive weapons. A missile blasted out from under the AHHA's wing, streaked through the open upper floor, and struck the shuttlepod before it could get out of the way. It exploded, its fiery remnants beginning the long fall to the ground below.
Jon cut the main engine and engaged thrusters again. Within moments, he was back in position under the crane, urging Uncle Max to jump into the cockpit with him.
Max, leaning forward to gauge the distance for the jump, cautiously let go of the crane's structure with one hand. Jon was encouraging him, holding the AHHA steady underneath, when blood spatters appeared on the plane's forward windscreen. A moment later, his left arm felt like it was on fire, pain shooting toward his back and down to his wrist. As the plane dipped under him, he realized he'd forgotten about Phlox again. The terrorist was using a Klingon disruptor; its beam had bored through his shoulder from back to front.
Max, too far into his leap to pull back, landed with a thud on the front of the AHHA. He was straddling the plane's sleek nose facing Jon, holding onto the top of the windshield's frame for dear life, screaming at his nephew to get him out of there. But there was still Phlox to contend with. Seeing that Max was relatively safe, Jon pushed the joystick to the side, rotating the plane so that its tail grazed Phlox. The terrorist lost his balance and fell-right onto the fuselage.
The resultant dipping of the craft under Phlox's weight almost cost Max his grip on the windshield frame. For a moment, the older man hung suspended over nothing but air as his body slid to the side off the nose of the plane. Only Jon's quick reflexes on the joystick to level the AHHA allowed Max's weight to swing back toward the plane. Despite his age, Max agilely flung one leg over the metal cowling in front of the cockpit. He and Jon were face to face when Phlox's voice rang out.
"Give me the key or I'll shoot the old man!"
Max's eyes were wide as he looked past Jon's shoulder at the terrorist. "He's still got the gun!"
"Uncle Max," Jon said just loud enough for his uncle to hear.
When Max looked at him, Jon tipped his head to one side. The former military officer gulped and gripped the windscreen even harder, and gave Jon a fractional nod. Jon immediately pushed the joystick to the side, making the AHHA tilt alarmingly. Phlox's startled scream came to his ears. Risking a glance backward, Jon saw that Phlox had fallen off the fuselage and was hanging by one of his bandoliers which had caught on the tip of a short-range missile.
As far as Jon was concerned, the hangup couldn't have been more appropriate. With a grim smile, he set the firing controls. Then, depressing the launch button, he said, "You're fired." The missile shot off, a long drawn-out scream echoing from Phlox, and exploded several hundred meters away.
Jon knew that Max was about at the end of his endurance, and coupled with his own loss of blood, he had to set down immediately. As carefully as he could, he lowered the AHHA using thrusters until it touched down on the street below. Only one police ground vehicle was damaged in the landing.
Malcolm hadn't been this content in a long time. He, Jon, and Uncle Max were sitting around the dining room table. Although he wasn't a big fan of poker, he couldn't help but be pleased. All three of them were having a quiet evening at home, enjoying the dynamics of family life, as they played cards for pocket change.
Only a few months ago, Malcolm had found out that Jon was a spy. It was funny, he thought. He wasn't the least bit upset to find out Jon's true profession. Well, maybe at first, because Jon had kept it from him for all those years, but then he'd seen firsthand how well Jon did his job. And it was an important job, much more so than being a computer software salesman could ever be.
And much more interesting, Malcolm thought with a small smile of satisfaction. Once he'd found out what Jon really did for a living, it had opened up a whole new dimension in their relationship.
Uncle Max was raking in the winnings of the last hand when the comm unit beeped.
"I'll get it," Malcolm said, getting to his feet and going to the kitchen to answer the call. After depressing the receive button on the unit, he said, "Yes?"
An electronically distorted voice said, "Morris? We have an assignment for you and Boris."
"I understand," Malcolm said, then cut the connection.
Jon and Max were laughing at something as he walked back into the dining room. He took a moment to savor the relaxed atmosphere before he said to Jon, "We're on."
Jon, in a white evening jacket, and Malcolm, in a black tuxedo, walked into the ballroom of the elegant gathering. Tables were set up around the perimeter of a central dance area, the polished floor reflecting the golden glow of chandeliers high overhead. Most of the men were dressed in formal evening wear, but a few were wearing military uniforms, and not just of Earth. Several other worlds were represented at the party.
"General," Malcolm acknowledged with a dazzling smile as he and Jon bumped into an Andorian in full military regalia. "How nice to see you again."
The general, his antennae stretching out in puzzlement, gazed after them as they moved off. "I don't remember meeting him. Do you?" he asked his female companion, who shook her head.
The transceivers in Jon and Malcolm's ears buzzed, followed by Trip's voice. "Any sign of our contact?"
"Not yet," Jon said quietly.
"But I see someone familiar," Malcolm said, a wicked grin on his face as he looked across the ballroom.
Jon followed Malcolm's gaze. He smiled as he recognized the object of Malcolm's scrutiny: a handsome young man dressed as a waiter. Jon was right behind Malcolm as he gracefully made his way across the room.
The waiter was talking in low tones to an attractive man as he served him champagne. Jon caught a snatch of their conversation-something about spies and covers being blown-before Malcolm reached out and snagged the waiter by the arm to pull him around to face him.
"Karles! We meet again!" Malcolm said to the waiter.
Travis stuttered in surprise, his eyes wide as they went from Malcolm to Jon and back to Malcolm. "I can explain!"
Jon moved in behind Travis so that the man couldn't run. The least Travis owed Malcolm was a little fun at his own expense, and Jon was more than happy to help Malcolm out in that regard.
"I don't want explanations," Malcolm said, taking a step closer to the terrified man. "What do you think, Jon?" Malcolm reached into one of his tuxedo pockets and pulled out a cylindrical tube, which he shoved under Travis's chin. "I want to do him right here."
"Oh, God!" Travis muttered in fright, then wet his pants.
Jon looked at the puddle by Travis's feet, then back at Travis. "Get out."
As Travis skittered away, Malcolm pocketed the tube of lip balm. "That was fun."
"Guys?" came Trip's voice in their ears. "What's going on?"
Both Jon and Malcolm ignored the plea as the orchestra, which had been tuning up, began its first piece.
"Is that a tango I hear?" Trip demanded. "You don't have time to tango!"
The pair was moving toward the dance floor when Trip changed tactics. "Malcolm, I was always on your side. I knew Jon should have told you what he really did for a living, right from the beginning. … Are you two dancing? … Come on, we've got a job to do. Jon? Malcolm?"
When there was still no response, a muttered curse came over the transceivers, followed by, "Next time, you guys get to stay in the hovervan."
True Enterprise Lies, 2 of 2
They were shoved into a ground vehicle that took them to a small spaceport. As they were getting out of the vehicle next to a large hovercraft designed to travel over water, another ground vehicle pulled up. The driver got out and opened a passenger door, and T'Pol, dressed in a skin-tight, electric blue catsuit, stepped out.
"Jonathan Hunter," she said as she approached. "We meet again. I didn't expect it to be under these circumstances, however."
"Hunter? His name is Archer," Malcolm said, looking quizzically at the Vulcan woman. A distrustful look came over his face as he shifted his gaze to Jon. "You know her?"
"She's…ah…a business associate," Jon stuttered as T'Pol ran a hand over his cheek.
Malcolm's eyes narrowed. "What kind of business?"
"Oh, we know each other quite well," T'Pol said. Although Vulcans were said to be without emotions, her tone was laden with spitefulness. "I regret to say all that has probably changed, now that we know what he really is."
They were led onto the hovercraft, Malcolm protesting the whole way. "You think he's some sort of spy? It's because of me, isn't it? That awful business with Travis. I mean, Karles. I'm not a spy. I work in an office. And there's no way Jon could be a spy. He's a salesman for Enterprise Industries, for God's sake! We have a nice home in the suburbs. His uncle, Max, lives with us!"
As they were pushed into seats, a liveried attendant appeared with a tray of drinks. T'Pol helped herself to one before she turned to Malcolm. "A little something before we leave?"
Malcolm opened his mouth but never got a chance to reply. The attendant pressed something to his neck.
As Malcolm slumped in his seat, Jon turned to T'Pol. "That really wasn't necess-" He clamped his mouth shut as his vision blurred and went dark. He'd gotten the same treatment from the attendant as had Malcolm.
Malcolm was disoriented. He'd regained consciousness in time to be prodded off the hovercraft onto a rickety pier. If he was unsure of himself, he knew that poor Jon, walking next to him, must be absolutely terrified. Jon couldn't possibly understand what was going on. He'd never meant for Jon to be endangered by this spy stuff. It was only supposed to have been a little harmless fun. Wracked by guilt, Malcolm blamed himself for getting Jon into this predicament.
They must be on an island or along the coast, Malcolm realized as he took a deep breath. He could smell tropical plants. He didn't get a chance to take a good look around as he and Jon were taken into a large machinery shed, but a few scattered palm trees were an indication they were some distance south of San Francisco.
There was all sorts of equipment inside the building, along with a great number of Denobulans. What caught Malcolm's attention, however, was the cylindrical object that workmen were in the process of pulling out of a large piece of what appeared to be Andorian statuary from the pre-Vulcan conflict era. With his limited knowledge of weapons simply by virtue of having calculated how much they cost, Malcolm knew it had to be a missile or bomb, a bloody big one that had to be very expensive. He and Jon were dragged over to it.
T'Pol had apparently checked all his pockets while he'd been unconscious. On the table next to where she was standing, there was a small stack of his personal items-wallet, keys, coins, a tube of lip balm, and the small homing device he'd been given for his secret mission as Morris.
"A tracker," the Vulcan said, picking up the homing device. With a snap, she broke it in half and threw the pieces on the floor. She began flipping through his wallet. "Fascinating. You have the same address as Jonathan." She came to the picture of him with Jon and Uncle Max. "A family unit, yes?"
Malcolm gritted his teeth and looked at Jon in time to catch a shift in his expression from sheepish to something sterner as a new person entered the shed. It was another Denobulan. Malcolm had never met any Denobulans before, but he'd been told they were a good-natured, cheerful lot. Not this man, however. His unnaturally blue eyes gleamed with fanatical fervor from between his facial ridges as he joined the group.
The Denobulan gestured toward the missile. "Tell me what this is," he said to Jon at the same time as he waved another man holding a recording device to come closer. "I want your government to know for certain that we mean business, and your word should be sufficient to prove that this is what it appears to be."
"Let me guess, Phlox," Jon said sardonically. "It's a snow cone maker."
Phlox glared angrily at him, then switched his gaze to T'Pol, who flicked her eyes in Malcolm's direction. With one quick step, the Denobulan was at Malcolm's side. He pulled a Klingon disruptor from his waistband and held it to Malcolm's head, who gulped. From his work in weapons' cost estimation, Malcolm knew that particular weapon made nasty holes in people.
"I asked you what it is," Phlox said to Jon.
Jon immediately sobered. "It's a class three multiphasic warhead, capable of obliterating a large city. It can be launched from any location on a planet or from space, and have no trouble reaching even the most distant target. It is also capable of penetrating most shielding defenses."
Malcolm's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "How did you know that?"
Jon shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a spy."
Malcolm shifted on his feet, suddenly uncaring that a gun was pointed at his head. He'd been beginning to wonder, ever since the aliens had laughed when he'd said he was the one they were after, if perhaps Jon really did know what was occurring. And now Jon had finally come out and said that he was a spy. The nerve of the man to deceive him like that! How long had this been going on? The entire time they'd been living together?
"You bastard!" Malcolm cried. He launched himself at Jon and hit him in the face with his fist. Several men rushed forward to pull Malcolm away as he continued yelling at Jon. "You lying son of a bitch!"
Phlox turned to face the recording device. "Unless Earth pulls all its economic advisers off my planet, Denobulan Domination will detonate one warhead a week in some major city on Earth. To show that we are serious, we will start with the warhead on this island."
Phlox reached over to the warhead and twisted a key. Red numbers began counting down on a screen next to the key.
Trip was in the back of a surveillance shuttlepod. He and Hoshi were tracking the signal from the homing device Malcolm was carrying. When they'd given the device to Malcolm, Trip had had no idea that they'd actually have to use it. It had merely been intended to lend authenticity to Jon's plan to make Malcolm think he was going on an undercover mission. But when Jon hadn't shown up for work this morning and a check of his house had found no one-not even Uncle Max-Trip had had a gut feeling that something was wrong. Jon and Malcolm might have been extending their romantic interlude of the night before, but if they had done so, Jon, ever the professional, would have called in.
"The signal just dropped off," Hoshi reported from the monitoring console. She adjusted a few controls. "We've lost them."
Trip swore under his breath. "Can you figure out where they were going?"
Hoshi nodded. "There's only one place they could be going if they stay on their heading." She pulled up a chart of the area and pointed to a chain of artificial islands. "The Santa Catalina keys off the coast of southern California."
Trip had never been there, but he knew about them. The artificial islands were connected to Santa Catalina Island, and then the mainland, by a series of causeways. The keys were privately owned by a consortium of wealthy offworlders; few humans lived there. If Jon and Malcolm had been kidnapped by the DD movement, it would be a good place to hide them.
Before Trip could determine their next step, an all-agents alert came over a Section 31 secure channel. Headquarters reported that the DD was threatening to set off multiphasic warheads if its demands weren't met.
Trip reached forward to tap the pilot's shoulder to tell him to return to base. They were going to need more than one shuttlepod of Section 31 agents.
The terrorists were going to torture Jon for information, but they'd decided to try a drug on him first. A creepy old Denobulan injected Jon with something. The man rattled off some long, scientific-sounding name. Jon recognized it as a truth serum. Within moments of it hitting his bloodstream, his vision blurred, and his hearing altered so it sounded like everything was happening underwater. The torturer stepped outside the small outbuilding where Jon and Malcolm were being held to wait for the drug to do its work.
"Jon?" Malcolm asked from where he was tied to a chair. "Does that stuff he gave you really work?"
"Yesssss," Jon slurred, squinting as he tried to make the three Malcolms he was seeing go back to just one.
A crafty expression came over all three of the identical faces. "How long have you been a spy?" the Malcolms asked.
Jon couldn't lie. The truth serum had seen to that. "Seventeen years."
If he could get loose from the handcuffs holding him to a post, he shouldn't have too much trouble. The drug only made him tell the truth; after the initial rush of confusion, he'd easily be able to counteract its minor physical effects. He could tell he was already shaking off the first dizzying effects of the drug as the three Malcolms slowly formed back into one. Behind his back, the fingers of his cuffed hands encountered the pick he kept hidden in his belt. The worried look on Malcolm's face spurred him on to pick the lock on the handcuffs.
"Are we going to die?" Malcolm asked plaintively.
If Jon didn't get out of the handcuffs, the answer was obvious. "Yeah." Then a tiny "snick" came to his ears, along with a release of pressure on his wrists. "No."
Jon tossed away the now-open handcuffs, jumped to his feet, grabbed one of the torturer's tools from the nearby table, and threw it hard at the guard by the door. The man was dead before he even hit the floor. One down, and a whole lot more to go, Jon thought. It was going to be difficult to get Malcolm out of this mess. He could feel his adrenaline kicking in, helping to counteract the last of the grogginess caused by the truth serum.
Malcolm was staring at him, his mouth open in surprise.
"Let's get out of here," Jon said.
He paused only long enough to dispatch another guard who looked into the shed, then he hurried to Malcolm's side and quickly unbound him. Grabbing Malcolm's hand, Jon pulled him up from the chair and over to the door.
Malcolm could hear cheering as he and Jon approached the big machine shed where they'd seen the multiphasic warhead. Some type of rally was taking place. They quietly inched closer, but there was so much noise coming from the loud gathering that Malcolm didn't think anyone would hear them. He peeked past Jon around the corner of the building. Large packing cases were being loaded onto ground haulers by Denobulans as Phlox continued to exhort his followers.
"What do we do now?" Malcolm whispered.
Jon turned his head to look back at him. "We have to stop them from using the multiphasic warhead here. Then we'll worry about the ones they're moving."
Their trip around the back of the building was interrupted several times by more of the terrorists who'd been left on guard. Jon dealt quickly and efficiently with all of them. "I married Rambo," Malcolm murmured to himself as Jon single-handedly knocked out three terrorists within the space of as many seconds.
As they were about to enter the building, Jon passed a phase pistol to him that he'd taken from one of the guards. Malcolm studied the weapon. He knew how much every single component in the pistol cost, but he'd never fired one in his life. To tell the truth, phase pistols intimidated him. They were capable of terrible injury, not to mention they could kill someone.
"Damn," he heard Jon mutter as he joined him inside where he crouched on an elevated walkway overlooking the main floor of the building.
Damn was right. The warhead was being buried under a layer of fresh concrete by several Denobulans.
"Now what?" Malcolm whispered.
A shout of alarm from the floor prevented Jon from replying. They'd been spotted. Malcolm ducked behind the railing as the shooting started, but Jon took off along the catwalk, returning fire as he ran.
Then Jon's weapon jammed or ran out of ammunition-Malcolm didn't know which-and Jon yelled at him to shoot. Malcolm hesitated as he saw Jon jump over the railing to land in the midst of the terrorists on the floor below. Gripping the pistol with both hands, Malcolm rose and opened fire, his only concern not to hit Jon accidentally. The terrorists scrambled for cover.
Unfortunately, Malcolm managed to disarm himself. Startled by the bright intensity of the phased energy leaving the barrel of the pistol, he'd dropped it. It went bouncing down the stairs to the main level, its trigger locked on continuous firing. Even Jon dove for cover as random shots fired wildly.
Malcolm, who once again had ducked behind the railing, peered through the slats as the beam of the phase pistol hit first one terrorist, then another. In the meantime, Jon had snagged another weapon and was going after the remaining Denobulans in the building.
Malcolm allowed himself a small exhalation of relief. It was looking like they might get out of here after all, he thought as he straightened up to see better.
What could only have been the business end of a weapon was jammed under his ear.
"You're not going anywhere," came the icy voice of that Vulcan bitch, T'Pol, from behind him.
Malcolm didn't take his eyes from the scene below him. Jon had seen his plight but had problems of his own. Several more armed terrorists had entered the building. Jon had no choice but to make a hasty exit out a side door. Malcolm fervently hoped he would get himself out of the fix he was in, and come back and get him.
"Come," T'Pol said, tugging Malcolm down the stairs to the main floor, holding the gun on him the entire time. "It's not going to be safe around here much longer."
"What do you get out of this?" he asked T'Pol. "You aren't a Denobulan."
T'Pol laughed. That violent departure from Vulcan nature made Malcolm look at her in amazement. She seemed amused.
"You've never heard of the V'Tosh ka'tur?" she asked. When Malcolm mutely shook his head, she said, "We're a Vulcan separatist group. We haven't abandoned logic, but we believe in exploring our emotions. Mainstream Vulcans disapprove of our efforts, so we have to find funding elsewhere." Her expression hardened. "Denobulan currency is as good as any."
"You're in this for the money?" Malcolm asked in disbelief. "Where's the logic in that?"
"Many Vulcans believe that Earth has assumed too big a leadership role in this sector of the galaxy," she replied as she gave him a shove, propelling him outside the building. "The Denobulan Domination movement's aims are the same, although because of their violent nature, a more rapid resolution is probable."
As T'Pol talked, she hurried him toward the same hovercraft that had brought them here. The maniacal Denobulan, Phlox, was waiting for them. Malcolm glanced around frantically as explosions lit up the night sky. The entire compound looked like it was under attack. He caught a brief glimpse of a familiar figure running toward what looked like fuel tanks near the pier. They hadn't caught Jon yet, he thought in satisfaction.
A moment later, that satisfaction turned to icy fear as he saw Phlox lift a rifle and fire. The fuel tanks blew up, great gouts of flame reaching skyward, just in front of Jon.
"No!" Malcolm yelled and stopped dead in his tracks as he lost sight of Jon in the inferno.
T'Pol grabbed his arm to get him moving again. Malcolm unthinkingly lashed out, striking her face and leaving an ugly five-centimeter gash on her cheekbone which immediately trickled green blood. T'Pol retaliated instantly, hitting him with a vicious uppercut under the jaw. Malcolm staggered backward, but all the fight had gone out of him. He didn't resist when T'Pol grabbed his arm again and, with the help of a Denobulan henchman, roughly put him in the back of the hovercraft. He stared unseeingly at the destruction as the hovercraft began moving.
It didn't matter what they did to him now. Jon was dead, blown to pieces by the explosion.
Jon had to dive into the water next to the pier when he saw Phlox aim his weapon at him. There was no place else to take cover. The water above his head turned orange with the reflection of the fuel tanks' explosion. He held his breath as he swam under water as far away from the pier as he could. The explosion's shockwave had pushed the water violently outward, and he rode it as he swam. When his lungs threatened to pull in air against his will, he found a clear patch in the water and surfaced cautiously. He was some distance from shore, but the fires provided enough light for him to see.
Of the hovercraft and the ground haulers, there was no sign. He'd seen T'Pol forcing Malcolm towards the hovercraft before the fuel tanks had exploded, and he hoped that T'Pol had made Malcolm go with her when she'd left the island. When he caught a glimpse of Phlox boarding a shuttlepod, Jon tried to keep to the pier's shadow. As soon as the Denobulan was on board, the pod took off and disappeared into the night sky. Jon swam back to the shore and hauled himself out of the water.
He had just finished checking to make sure the only people left in the compound were dead terrorists when the sound of engines came to him. A formation of TACO shuttlepods was approaching.
Trip, dressed in combat fatigues, was the first person out of the first shuttlepod to set down. "I thought I recognized your handiwork," Trip called as he walked over to where Jon was waiting near the fire-blackened pier.
Urgency kept Jon from making a smart comeback. "We've got to evacuate the keys," he told Trip.
Trip immediately grasped the situation. "We can't stop the warhead's detonation?"
"They've made sure we can't get to it in time."
Trip issued some orders to the TACOs, then turned back to Jon. "Where's Malcolm?"
"I hope he's in a hovercraft on the way back to the mainland."
Trip looked sharply at Jon. "We saw a hovercraft on our way here. Big luxury job. It seemed to be keeping pace with a couple of ground haulers on the causeway."
Jon nodded, his lips set in a grim line. "That's the one. Come on." He took off at a run for Trip's shuttlepod.
"Where are we going?" Trip called as he ran after him.
"To save Malcolm."
Malcolm's numbness was giving way to a simmering anger. He was seated facing backward directly behind the Denobulan hovercraft pilot, the only occupant of the vehicle besides himself and T'Pol. The Vulcan's supercilious smirk as she sat in the seat opposite him, sipping champagne, only fed his anger. She wasn't directly responsible for Jon's death, but she was in collusion with those who were.
Through the open skylight, Malcolm caught a glimpse of two fast-moving objects flying by not more than one hundred meters over their heads in the pre-dawn dimness. A concussive explosion from outside made Malcolm twist around in his seat, trying to see past the driver. The flying craft had fired upon the causeway! One of the ground haulers they'd been keeping parallel with dropped into the ocean through the resulting gap in the elevated roadway. The flying craft fired again, and the second ground hauler went up in a burst of flames, bits and pieces of it falling into the water below. One large chunk of debris hit the hovercraft, making it dip and sway alarmingly.
T'Pol shouted at her pilot to move away from the attack, but he was too busy trying to regain control of the vehicle to pay attention to her. The hovercraft continued its crazy gyrations, tossing both Malcolm and T'Pol around in the passenger compartment. Malcolm took advantage of the distraction and lunged for the Vulcan's throat.
T'Pol blocked his lunge, using her legs to knock him back onto his seat. Malcolm sprang up to lunge again, but he came up short when she pulled a phase pistol from between the cushions of her seat and aimed it at him. He expected her to shoot. Instead, he saw her eyes go wide in surprise at something over his shoulder. He turned around to see what she was looking at, only to recoil. Nothing could be seen through the front windscreen but thick, black, billowing smoke from the attack.
As smoke began pouring in through the skylight, Malcolm grabbed the champagne bottle and swung it at T'Pol, hitting her in the arm. The pistol in her hand discharged, narrowly missing him. Another smack of the bottle knocked her out.
He grabbed the pistol from T'Pol's limp hand and spun around to confront the driver. "Bloody hell," he whispered as he saw what was now in front of the hovercraft.
The driver was slumped over the controls; T'Pol's shot had hit him squarely in the back. But that was the least of Malcolm's worries. The hovercraft had broken through the smoke and was now heading for a massive stone breakwater, and it was going much too fast. Even if Malcolm could drag the limp body of the dead driver out of the way to get to the controls, the hovercraft couldn't go high enough to avoid the unyielding breakwater, and there was no time to alter course.
He doubted he'd survive the collision; hovercraft were notoriously flimsy. With a notion of climbing onto the roof and jumping into the water, Malcolm scrambled up on one of the seats and poked his head and upper torso out the skylight. The water rushing by looked even worse from up there. His old fear of drowning almost paralyzed him. One glance forward to what awaited if he stayed on board, however, was all it took for him to regain his courage. Something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention just as he put a knee on the skylight's edge, bracing himself against the rush of air. Hair whipping in the wind, he turned his head to see a shuttlepod angling in toward him. The hatch was open, a person climbing out onto the pod's landing skid. Malcolm blinked, hoping against hope that what his eyes were showing him was real. "Jon!" he screamed, waving frantically.
"Malcolm! Grab my hand!" Jon yelled back, his words all but torn away by the rushing wind.
Malcolm desperately stretched as far as he could. "You're not close enough!"
The shuttlepod came a little closer. Malcolm managed to barely touch Jon's fingertips when the hovercraft lurched, taking him farther away.
"You can do it, Malcolm!" Jon called encouragingly. "Grab my hand!"
Malcolm spared a second to glance forward. The hovercraft was almost upon the breakwater. He gritted his teeth, watching as the shuttlepod approached one more time. At the last moment, he jumped up. Jon's hand securely wrapped around his and pulled him out of the doomed hovercraft, and as they tumbled onto the floor of the shuttlepod, Malcolm felt it pull up sharply away from the explosion below them.
They landed on the mainland shore near the end of the causeway shortly after dawn. Trip reported that everyone in the warhead's blast zone had gotten far enough away to be safe, then walked off a short distance to give Jon and Malcolm a few minutes of privacy outside the shuttlepod.
Jon put up a hand to shield Malcolm's face from the blinding brilliance of the coming blast. "Close your eyes," he said.
He and Malcolm were still standing with their arms around each other when Trip came over to announce the all clear after the warhead's detonation. Jon looked up to see a mushroom cloud dissipating over the western horizon.
"Jon?" Trip said anxiously. "Can I talk to you? Alone?"
"I'll be just a minute," Jon said to Malcolm.
Trip took Jon's upper arm to lead him away. "Jon, I don't know how to tell you this-"
"Phlox got away."
"Well, yeah," Trip said. "But that's not all. There's something else you should know. Something personal."
Jon stared at the man, not liking what he was hearing. He stopped walking and pulled his arm out of Trip's grasp. "Malcolm's safe. What more 'personal' could there be?"
Trip took a deep breath. "It's Uncle Max. Phlox has him." At Jon's incredulous stare, Trip hurried to give him more details. "They snatched him while he was out with that biker girlfriend of his. Anyway, they've got him in downtown Frisco on the upper floor of some skyscraper under construction. Phlox is calling for a news crew to publicly broadcast his demands. Otherwise he's going to set off another warhead."
"All three of the other warheads went down in the ocean with the ground haulers," Jon contradicted him.
"Two of them did," Trip corrected him. "Phlox had the third one in the shuttlepod he used to leave the island. And because he lost the other two, he's really pissed."
Jon, in motion before Trip finished speaking, ran back to Malcolm. "Something's come up," he told Malcolm. "I've got to go."
Malcolm gave him a smile that was both tolerant and full of pride. "I understand. Go to work, Jon."
An answering smile broke out on Jon's face. Despite the dire circumstances, he was extraordinarily happy. Malcolm had accepted that he was a professional secret agent. "Bye, honey," he said, and ran off toward the same two flying craft that had blasted the causeway. The pilots had set them down in the same parking lot where the TACO shuttlepods had landed. The planes were the latest generation of TACO Aerial Heavy High Assault aircraft. Jon had never been trained on this version of an AHHA, but it couldn't be too dissimilar from earlier ones he had flown. He climbed into the cockpit of the closest one.
Trip was running after him. "Jon, wait! We've got someone on the inside!"
Jon gave Trip a thumb's up and engaged the engine. After a few false starts and one crumpled TACO shuttlepod-they'd landed that vehicle too close to the AHHA he'd commandeered, Jon rationalized as his plane's landing gear rolled over the smaller craft's metallic skin- he managed to get the plane airborne. He turned its nose in the direction of downtown San Francisco.
Hoshi was a little nervous, but excited too. She usually was in the hovervan at the monitoring console on any given mission, but time was of the essence. She had been the only qualified Section 31 operative available when the terrorists had wanted a news crew to broadcast their demands.
Too bad they had to use a real journalist, she thought as she and the reporter were being taken to the top floor where Phlox and his Denobulan goons were waiting. She hoped the reporter didn't blow her cover or, worse, do something stupid. About the only factor in the reporter's favor was that he was a known broadcast personality in the San Francisco area. That would lend credibility to her being with him. Masquerading as a cameraperson, she would be an anonymous technician who did the grunt work, carrying and operating the equipment. Not unlike what she really did for a living, she mused ironically.
She reassuringly touched the case of her vid camera as they were led up the last flight of stairs. The camera was a special mock-up made by Section 31. It really did work like any other vid camera, but it also had a secret compartment where she'd hidden a mini-phase pistol. Her orders were to get inside the terrorists' location and keep an eye on Phlox, but if he tried to arm the warhead, she was to use the phase pistol to take him down.
As they were escorted onto the top floor, she caught a glimpse of Jon's uncle. Max Forrest stood out like a sore thumb. Not only was he the only human among the Denobulans, but he was dressed in a jogging suit while the Denobulans all sported bandoliers of ammunition and weapons. Luckily, Max had never met her, so he wouldn't accidentally give her away. She knew he was ex-military, but being surrounded by terrorists with a multiphasic warhead would make anyone nervous. Even from a distance, she could tell he was agitated. Hoshi added another wish to her growing list-she hoped Uncle Max didn't do anything stupid, either.
Phlox was impatiently awaiting their arrival. He motioned them over to where he was standing in front of the warhead. Swinging the camera up into position on her shoulder, Hoshi pretended to meekly follow the reporter. Phlox began spouting off as soon as the ready light on the camera came on. While he rambled on about the Denobulan Domination, threatening to set off the warhead if their demands weren't met, Hoshi split her attention between running the camera and casing the place, noting where terrorists were positioned.
She also noticed that Uncle Max was slowly moving away from Phlox. Maybe the old man wasn't as senile as she'd been led to believe. If anything, his stealthy departure from the immediate vicinity showed he had a well-developed sense of self-preservation, especially if he suspected that someone in the broadcast crew was a covert agent and fighting would soon break out. She wouldn't be surprised if he knew about Section 31. He had been a high-ranking officer during his service and so had been privy to all sorts of classified information. That would have been before she'd joined the organization, however, given the difference in their ages.
Uncle Max had just moved out of her sight behind a support pillar when Phlox said something about turning a key to arm the warhead.
"Where's the key?" the reporter interrupted him.
Without looking, Phlox pointed behind him at the weapon. "Right there, you idiot."
"I don't see a key," the reporter said.
Phlox whirled around. Hoshi took her eye away from the vid camera's viewscreen and looked at the warhead. There was a slot for a key near the activation controls, but there was no key. She silently damned the reporter-he really was an idiot-for pointing out its absence, for she had come to the same conclusion as Phlox.
"The old man must have the key!" Phlox screamed. "Find him!"
Terrorists began running this way and that, firing their weapons at no particular target as their leader's fury spurred them to action. Hoshi shoved the reporter down, then retrieved the mini-phase pistol from its hiding place. There were so many energy discharges and old-fashioned bullets around that chances were she'd get hit by one if she didn't do something about it. She methodically began taking down the terrorists with precision shots.
When the firing stopped a few minutes later, she cautiously scanned the area. The bodies of terrorists littered the area, but there was no sign of Phlox, or Uncle Max for that matter. Then she heard shouts from overhead.
Hoshi tapped her earlobe twice to activate her personal communications transceiver. As the shocked reporter looked on, she said crisply, "Phlox has chased the hostage onto the roof. The hostage has the key to the warhead. Repeat: The hostage is on the roof with the key to the warhead, and Phlox is after him."
The brief flight to San Francisco allowed Jon to familiarize himself with the AHHA's flight console. Long ago he'd learned that when engineers upgraded anything, they always changed where they put things. This version of the AHHA was no exception. The joystick for flying the craft was in the only place it could be-right in front of him between his legs-but everything else had been moved. When he found the communications controls, he opened a channel on a Section 31 frequency and was immediately patched through to Trip.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Trip barked at him.
"Rescuing my uncle and saving the world in the process," Jon barked right back.
There was a long pause before Trip's voice came back. "Well, all right, then. I've got the address of the building where the DD's holed up. And Hoshi just relayed some information. She says most of the terrorists are neutralized, but there are several of them with Phlox on the roof. That's where your uncle is, too. He apparently swiped the key to arm the warhead and won't give it back."
As Jon closed the channel after getting the building's address from Trip, he shook his head. First Malcolm had been in danger. Now it was Uncle Max. Still, his uncle was a former military officer. Jon wasn't surprised that he was trying to thwart the terrorists. "Way to go, Uncle Max," Jon said under his breath with a slight smile.
He was rapidly coming up on the building. It was one of the tallest structures in the city, its top floors still unfinished and open to the elements. He almost overshot the location before he found the vertical thruster controls. He cut the main engines, quickly balanced upward thrust against gravity, and was able to hover in place for a long look at his objective.
A shuttlepod was parked on the roof. It looked like the one Phlox had used to leave the island. Jon could see someone at the shuttlepod's controls, but both hatches were wide open; it wasn't going anywhere at the moment. He tilted the joystick to the side, making the AHHA begin a circuit around the roof. When he reached the far side, movement on a construction crane atop the building caught his eye. Two people were inching their way out on the crane's arm over a fifty-story drop to the pavement far below. Jon almost stalled the plane as he realized Max was the person farthest out on the arm. What did his crazy uncle think he was doing? A flash of light glinted off something Max was holding. It had to be the warhead's key, dangling from a chain. Jon's eyes narrowed as he realized that the person following Max out onto the precarious perch must be Phlox. Jon hoped the terrorist leader wouldn't risk harming Uncle Max as long as Max had the key.
Jon maneuvered the AHHA closer, opening the canopy as he did, and came up right below where his uncle was balanced on the metal struts of the construction crane's arm. "Max!" he called out.
Uncle Max almost slipped as he turned toward the sound of Jon's voice. "Jon?" He goggled at the sight of his nephew in the plane not three meters below him. "Jon! Get me out of here! That crazy bastard's trying to kill me!"
Jon edged the craft closer, noting with approval that Max had slung the chain holding the key around his neck. "Jump in!"
A blast of phased energy flew by Jon's head. He'd almost forgotten about Phlox in his anxiety over his uncle. But the blast hadn't come from Phlox's direction. Jon looked around quickly and spotted the shuttlepod he'd seen on the roof. It was now airborne and coming right at him. He had no choice but to leave Uncle Max and take care of this new threat first. "I'll be back," Jon yelled and tilted the joystick down, making the AHHA plummet like a stone and spoiling another shot from the shuttlepod in the process.
Down and down he dropped, until at the last moment, he cut the thrusters and engaged the AHHA's main engine. The shuttlepod, he was glad to see, hadn't followed him down. He maneuvered around the building, waiting until he'd gone around the side out of sight of the shuttlepod before gaining altitude. He was hoping that what he'd lost in maneuverability by cutting the thrusters would be offset by the advantage he had in speed with the AHHA's engine. He ascended quickly as he continued around the building. By the time he'd reached the top floor, he was on the opposite side of the building from the shuttlepod; he could see it through the openings in the unfinished structure. He locked on to the target. With a grim smile, he depressed the launch button for one of the plane's defensive weapons. A missile blasted out from under the AHHA's wing, streaked through the open upper floor, and struck the shuttlepod before it could get out of the way. It exploded, its fiery remnants beginning the long fall to the ground below.
Jon cut the main engine and engaged thrusters again. Within moments, he was back in position under the crane, urging Uncle Max to jump into the cockpit with him.
Max, leaning forward to gauge the distance for the jump, cautiously let go of the crane's structure with one hand. Jon was encouraging him, holding the AHHA steady underneath, when blood spatters appeared on the plane's forward windscreen. A moment later, his left arm felt like it was on fire, pain shooting toward his back and down to his wrist. As the plane dipped under him, he realized he'd forgotten about Phlox again. The terrorist was using a Klingon disruptor; its beam had bored through his shoulder from back to front.
Max, too far into his leap to pull back, landed with a thud on the front of the AHHA. He was straddling the plane's sleek nose facing Jon, holding onto the top of the windshield's frame for dear life, screaming at his nephew to get him out of there. But there was still Phlox to contend with. Seeing that Max was relatively safe, Jon pushed the joystick to the side, rotating the plane so that its tail grazed Phlox. The terrorist lost his balance and fell-right onto the fuselage.
The resultant dipping of the craft under Phlox's weight almost cost Max his grip on the windshield frame. For a moment, the older man hung suspended over nothing but air as his body slid to the side off the nose of the plane. Only Jon's quick reflexes on the joystick to level the AHHA allowed Max's weight to swing back toward the plane. Despite his age, Max agilely flung one leg over the metal cowling in front of the cockpit. He and Jon were face to face when Phlox's voice rang out.
"Give me the key or I'll shoot the old man!"
Max's eyes were wide as he looked past Jon's shoulder at the terrorist. "He's still got the gun!"
"Uncle Max," Jon said just loud enough for his uncle to hear.
When Max looked at him, Jon tipped his head to one side. The former military officer gulped and gripped the windscreen even harder, and gave Jon a fractional nod. Jon immediately pushed the joystick to the side, making the AHHA tilt alarmingly. Phlox's startled scream came to his ears. Risking a glance backward, Jon saw that Phlox had fallen off the fuselage and was hanging by one of his bandoliers which had caught on the tip of a short-range missile.
As far as Jon was concerned, the hangup couldn't have been more appropriate. With a grim smile, he set the firing controls. Then, depressing the launch button, he said, "You're fired." The missile shot off, a long drawn-out scream echoing from Phlox, and exploded several hundred meters away.
Jon knew that Max was about at the end of his endurance, and coupled with his own loss of blood, he had to set down immediately. As carefully as he could, he lowered the AHHA using thrusters until it touched down on the street below. Only one police ground vehicle was damaged in the landing.
Malcolm hadn't been this content in a long time. He, Jon, and Uncle Max were sitting around the dining room table. Although he wasn't a big fan of poker, he couldn't help but be pleased. All three of them were having a quiet evening at home, enjoying the dynamics of family life, as they played cards for pocket change.
Only a few months ago, Malcolm had found out that Jon was a spy. It was funny, he thought. He wasn't the least bit upset to find out Jon's true profession. Well, maybe at first, because Jon had kept it from him for all those years, but then he'd seen firsthand how well Jon did his job. And it was an important job, much more so than being a computer software salesman could ever be.
And much more interesting, Malcolm thought with a small smile of satisfaction. Once he'd found out what Jon really did for a living, it had opened up a whole new dimension in their relationship.
Uncle Max was raking in the winnings of the last hand when the comm unit beeped.
"I'll get it," Malcolm said, getting to his feet and going to the kitchen to answer the call. After depressing the receive button on the unit, he said, "Yes?"
An electronically distorted voice said, "Morris? We have an assignment for you and Boris."
"I understand," Malcolm said, then cut the connection.
Jon and Max were laughing at something as he walked back into the dining room. He took a moment to savor the relaxed atmosphere before he said to Jon, "We're on."
Jon, in a white evening jacket, and Malcolm, in a black tuxedo, walked into the ballroom of the elegant gathering. Tables were set up around the perimeter of a central dance area, the polished floor reflecting the golden glow of chandeliers high overhead. Most of the men were dressed in formal evening wear, but a few were wearing military uniforms, and not just of Earth. Several other worlds were represented at the party.
"General," Malcolm acknowledged with a dazzling smile as he and Jon bumped into an Andorian in full military regalia. "How nice to see you again."
The general, his antennae stretching out in puzzlement, gazed after them as they moved off. "I don't remember meeting him. Do you?" he asked his female companion, who shook her head.
The transceivers in Jon and Malcolm's ears buzzed, followed by Trip's voice. "Any sign of our contact?"
"Not yet," Jon said quietly.
"But I see someone familiar," Malcolm said, a wicked grin on his face as he looked across the ballroom.
Jon followed Malcolm's gaze. He smiled as he recognized the object of Malcolm's scrutiny: a handsome young man dressed as a waiter. Jon was right behind Malcolm as he gracefully made his way across the room.
The waiter was talking in low tones to an attractive man as he served him champagne. Jon caught a snatch of their conversation-something about spies and covers being blown-before Malcolm reached out and snagged the waiter by the arm to pull him around to face him.
"Karles! We meet again!" Malcolm said to the waiter.
Travis stuttered in surprise, his eyes wide as they went from Malcolm to Jon and back to Malcolm. "I can explain!"
Jon moved in behind Travis so that the man couldn't run. The least Travis owed Malcolm was a little fun at his own expense, and Jon was more than happy to help Malcolm out in that regard.
"I don't want explanations," Malcolm said, taking a step closer to the terrified man. "What do you think, Jon?" Malcolm reached into one of his tuxedo pockets and pulled out a cylindrical tube, which he shoved under Travis's chin. "I want to do him right here."
"Oh, God!" Travis muttered in fright, then wet his pants.
Jon looked at the puddle by Travis's feet, then back at Travis. "Get out."
As Travis skittered away, Malcolm pocketed the tube of lip balm. "That was fun."
"Guys?" came Trip's voice in their ears. "What's going on?"
Both Jon and Malcolm ignored the plea as the orchestra, which had been tuning up, began its first piece.
"Is that a tango I hear?" Trip demanded. "You don't have time to tango!"
The pair was moving toward the dance floor when Trip changed tactics. "Malcolm, I was always on your side. I knew Jon should have told you what he really did for a living, right from the beginning. … Are you two dancing? … Come on, we've got a job to do. Jon? Malcolm?"
When there was still no response, a muttered curse came over the transceivers, followed by, "Next time, you guys get to stay in the hovervan."