"Conrad -- sorry I didn't get a chance to check in with you before I left base." General Tomlinson explained to The Ambassador via his seldom-used cell phone as he stormed towards another Blackhawk helicopter. "I think I've found Polyphemus, but I'm at least four hours behind it as it is... couldn't spare the time to have you picked up."
The General was hot on the trail, the over-weight permits unearthed by Sergeant Dickinson having corresponded to just one of the three trailers he suspected could have been loaded with the weapon. The truck was registered to RJ's Cool Moves Transport; owned and operated by a man named Randy Johnston. Attempts to reach him by phone were unsuccessful; he was either in an area offering no service, sleeping, or had already been hijacked by The Phloxans.
All of DETA's resources were now dedicated to the search for the payload; technicians examined real-time satellite images of I-10, agents obtained Johnston's fuel card activity report and contacted stations he'd used, his cell phone records were scrutinized, a BOLO was put out in all jurisdictions through which he would travel, and the photo from his driver's license was faxed to all rest areas and truck stops between California and Florida, listing him as a wanted man.
Unfortunately, none of it paid off quickly. Precious time ticked by with no further leads as to the whereabouts of the trucker and his cargo. As evening approached, a call had finally come in from the Louisiana Highway patrol. According to the officer, who Tomlinson spoke with at length, an unidentified truck matching the description issued in the APB had been involved in the destruction of a scale-house near Baton Rouge.
The details were sketchy at best, only eye-witness accounts of what transpired available for review. Tomlinson's advisors suggested that a solo driver couldn't have legally reached Baton Rouge in the time since his load-out, but The General was keenly aware that Mister Johnston might be experiencing run-ins with the Phloxans that prompted him to push the envelope. With no other likely trails to follow, he set out immediately.
"It's quite alright." Butler replied. "I'm not up for another airborne adventure just yet -- check in with me next year, if we're still around."
"I'm about to board the chopper now, so we'll have to make this quick." The General noted. "What did the coroner have to say about our two dead friends? What's the common bond?"
"Well, they were both killed by bullets through the brain." The Ambassador quipped. "Other than that, not a whole lot."
"Nothing at all? There has to be something that made these people prone to this possession by The Phloxans. If they could do it to just anybody, I'm sure they would've gotten one of us by now. Anything at all unique about either of them?"
"There was one thing -- but I'm not sure what to make of it."
"Let's hear it." Tomlinson replied as a young officer opened the door of the chopper for him to step in.
"Glen Cross had HIV, and the lady driver -- Annette, I guess her name was -- was a survivor of ovarian cancer."
"That doesn't sound like much of a link."
"Not on the surface -- but that's where it gets strange. Cross was being treated for Kaposi's Sarcoma; a cancerous skin condition associated with AIDS. Remember that lesion on his arm? That's what it was... He was taking Paclitaxel to combat the disease -- a drug more commonly known as Taxol. There were high levels of it in his system, which only makes sense considering it was prescribed to him... what doesn't make sense, though, is that Annette's toxicology report also showed signs of its presence."
Tomlinson was briefly distracted as a man whose uniform identified him as PFC Franklin leapt into the Blackhawk's pilot seat and buckled in. "Ready when you are, sir." He said as he flipped his helmet's sun visor down in preparation for the flight.
"One minute, Private." The General directed. "Taxol," he continued, speaking again to Butler. "I know of that... I thought it was commonly used in association with Chemotherapy? If the woman survived Ovarian Cancer, it's likely that she underwent chemo at some point. She probably took the drug too."
"Right, but she had been in remission for ten years. The coroner assured me there's no way it would still be in her system naturally."
"So she was drugged? Is that possible?"
"Well, in theory -- I guess it could be mixed in with food or drinks. Would taste terrible, though; the target would certainly know something was wrong."
"Is there something about the effect Taxol has on the body that might open the door for The Phloxans?"
"Without knowing how The Phloxans are doing it, there's just no way to say for sure. It certainly changes the chemistry of the body."
"I guess it's a better lead than nothing at all -- have somebody look into it immediately. I'm going to fly into Keesler in Mississippi; I'll head West on I-10 and, with any luck, run in to this Randy Johnston. Are things still secure at The Cape?"
"For the moment -- but reports of purple-eyed people keep coming in from the area. I don't know how long we'll be able to maintain control over there. It's bound to get hairy."
"Hopefully - long enough. I'll give you a call when I'm on the ground. Keep believing, Ambassador -- we can make this happen."
"I wish I could share your optimism. Good luck, Rich -- we're all gonna need it."
Tomlinson flipped the phone closed and tucked it into his pants pocket. Clearing his throat, he buckled himself in and strapped on his own helmet, nodding to the pilot who immediately started the flight rotor spinning.
The General watched the blades of grass on which the chopper sat as they were assaulted by wind generated by the prop. They were so helpless against the power of man's amazing technology... for all their struggle to thrive, they were beaten down in the wake of something far greater than themselves which they had no hope of overcoming. The story would likely be the same for mankind, he thought... the storm was closing in quickly.
Franklin guided the bird in a smooth but hasty ascent, spinning the beast around and tilting forward to the east. Within seconds, the grass that had caught Tomlinson's attention was no more than an afterthought, left far behind them in the dust.
The General leaned his head back against the rest of his canvas seat, fatigue finally getting the better of him. He was getting old; he sensed this might be the last hurrah that his body would allow, even if he were to overcome the odds and survive with the rest of man. If he failed, of course, there would be no tomorrow. Just as so many had speculated in the past, Rich Tomlinson would go out in a blaze of glory -- either way it went.
He passed in and out of a light sleep, waking every time a bit of turbulence shook the craft. A particularly nasty bump woke him up for good not long into the flight. Looking out onto the horizon, he saw a vast stretch of mountains all around them cloaked in rays of twilight.
"Where are we?" He asked the pilot.
"Just passed over Phoenix." Franklin responded.
Realizing there was plenty of time left, The General closed his eyes again. Relaxing was difficult, though, as the moving shadows in the cab made it obvious that the pilot was looking over at him at regular intervals.
Hero worship, he figured... it wasn't new to him; he had been held in high regard throughout his career. Like fame to the famous, though, it had grown rather irritating to him.
"Go ahead, Private." He sighed. "Ask your questions."
Franklin chuckled, his voice being carried directly into Tomlinson's ears by the communication system built into their helmets.
"I don't really have any questions, sir." He said. "I just wanted to say that it's really a pleasure to meet you."
"You've heard a lot about me, have you?" The General said with a chuckle of his own. "Funny how the meaning of the word secret has changed so much over the years. Someone like you ought not have any idea who an old man like me is."
The pilot seemed a bit offended at the comment, pausing for a moment before he responded. "I do hold classified-clearance, sir." He suggested. "I didn't read about you in the newspaper or anyth
ing."
"I should hope not! In the interest of keeping it that way, I think I'm gonna take a little nap."
"No problem, sir." The man replied. "I'll wake you when we're approaching Keesler."
Tomlinson closed his tired eyes again, the gentle side-to-side sway of the bird lulling him to sleep. At the moment he felt his consciousness slipping away, his mind inexplicably filled with images of his past. In the space of seconds, he remembered every incident of consequence that he'd experienced throughout his life.
The visions started with Normandy; blood on the beach and in the water, bodies at his feet. Then came his indoctrination into DETA... the surprise briefing with Ambassador Butler, looking not a day younger than the man he'd come to know as a close friend.
The thousands of classified documents, restricted communiqués and static-drowned radio conferences with The Council Of The Keepers. His climb through the ranks of the secretive operation; culminating in his taking the reins shortly after the debacle in Vietnam. The first images he'd been shown of the grotesque looking Phloxans... the whispers of Polyphemus and a pending offensive.
As quickly as it came on, it was over; interrupted by a violent cough sparked by the memory of the exhaust put off by fifty refrigeration units crying at the strain of running full bore in a building barely large enough to contain them all.
It was a deep, suffocating, chesty hacking that ravaged his throat like a massive swig of coarse damp sand. He shot erect in his seat immediately, the attack growing more painful with each spasm of his lungs. The spell was worsened suddenly by a foul stench wafting through the cramped cabin; a smell resembling the stink of rancid meat festering in the hot summer sun. It was nauseating and vile, turning his empty stomach as though it were a dishrag being wrung out by an overzealous soccer mom.
The pilot took note of The General's plight, reaching for a cup he had stowed in a compartment near his control stick. "Sip of coffee, sir?" He suggested, passing the plastic mug to The General.
Desperate for relief, Tomlinson took it and turned it up. The luke-warm liquid was soothing at first, but that changed quickly when the flavor set in. It was coffee, but a strange brew the likes of which he'd never tasted. The roasted aroma and taste were overtaken by an unusual hint of metal, stinging the fillings in his teeth as though he'd just bitten in to a piece of aluminum foil.
"Damn, Private!" He objected through his continued coughing. "What kind of shit coffee is this? This is what they feed you on base?"
"Don't mind the aftertaste, General." Franklin replied plainly. "That's just the Taxol -- you get used to it after a few sips."
Tomlinson whipped his head over to look at the man, a smile painted ominously across his shadow-shrouded face. Through the dark visor over his eyes, a faint glow could be seen; white with just a touch of violet.
The subsequent dropping of The General's stomach was due, in part, to the fear that overtook him; but primarily the result of the chopper's sudden nose-first descent. Darkened trees on the mountains below grew larger quickly, until the sounds of the pilot's manic laughter were silenced by a sickening and terminal smash that would turn off the lights on General Richard Tomlinson -- forever.
Chapter 20