Operation Paperclip - Chapter 2
Who's watching who?
Table of Contents if you need to catch up before reading this chapter.
CHAPTER 2
The jungle was quiet again. Another man might consider saying it was too quiet, but Spy Smasher was grateful for the silence, even if it wasn’t likely to last. Hop refuelled the plane, double-checked his systems, and gave Armstrong one last look. He was clearly not happy about leaving his friend to face the enemy alone.
“You sure about this?” he asked.
“Never,” Alan said with a weary smile. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
“Old habits die hard,” suggested Hop. “Just don’t be an old habit.”
“I’ll do my best,” answered Alan Armstrong, as he removed the cowl and goggles and unclipped the cape. With a grunt, he poked his finger through a bullet hole in the black-lined yellow cape fabric. A big one.
“You’d better,” called Hop, turning for his plane. “You owe Midnight for the supplies and you know how she gets.”
“She knows I’m good for it, Hop,” Armstrong shouted back.
“Yeah, but if you die, she’ll take it out of my paycheck,” laughed the Harrigan as he swung up into the body of his small cargo plane.
Hop gave a jaunty salute and after a dangerously short taxi down the uneven track of gravel was nothing but receding engine’s roar, the plane lost in the mist that hung above the jungle canopy. Before long even the engine noise was lost in the cacophony of jungle sounds and humidity.
Left alone, Armstrong dragged the corpses of the attackers into a row and covered them with a tarp from his supplies. The surviving combatants each received a dose of tranquilizer that would keep them out of his hair for at least twelve hours. It would have been simpler to put a bullet into them, but if his suspicions were correct, these men weren’t as guilty or dangerous as their actions would indicate.
When he was finished, he gave himself an injection of vitamins and caffeine, then wolfed down a ration pack without really tasting it.
He made sure the plane was prepped for a quick take off if needed, reloaded the two gun turrets with the ammunition Hop had delivered and deliberately turned a hidden switch beneath the seat until he heard a click and saw a tiny, almost invisible light flash once on the control panel. With that task complete, he pulled out his grooming kit and tidied himself up in his reflection on the silver body of his plane.
He left the Spy Smasher gear stashed in his plane and propped a stylish hat on his head He scooped a camera from his equipment locker and set out to follow the trail the goons had used. Broken branches, crushed grass, the occasional wad of tobacco spit made the path they had taken as easy to track as a well-lit boulevard. The trail opened to a clearing around a village carved into the green, tired, weather worn buildings leaned into each other like tired drunks at its edges, giving way to newer construction that hoped to attract tourist dollars at the centre of town. The men who had attacked he and Hop had either come from this town or at least passed through on their way to the ambush.
The locals gave him friendly, curious but cautious glances as he scanned the streets around him. The town was large enough to be accustomed to tourists, but small enough to still be wary of strangers. His civilian outfit of khaki trousers, an open shirt, informal hat and a constantly clicking camera was meant to convey avid tourist, giving him a reason to look around and peer into shadows. With any luck, he might find a clue that would lead him to the man he was truly after.
He settled himself into the role. Tourist. Aimless. Curious. Harmless. He pointed his camera at random elements in the village, made a show of looking around at the place with curiosity about everything around him, every inch the American tourist. The locals knew there was money in his pockets and proffered their produce, textiles and pottery for his approval. He simply smiled and pretended not to understand their offers. It was a little harder to pretend not to understand their insults when he didn’t buy anything.
He made himself comfortable at the only establishment in town that offered food, drink, lodging, and perhaps three serviceable chairs. The fan overhead did its best to move the thick, oppressive air, but it was punching well above its weight. He ordered a local beer but casually slopped the liquid onto the dirt floor and his tabletop as he pretended to drink.
He had managed to surreptitiously dispose of almost half the beer in his glass when he saw him: a white man in a well pressed suit, perfectly tied tie and a fedora perched like it belonged there. A pencil line of moustache slashed across his face, slicked down with a glistening pomade. A toothpick rolled around his mouth as he chatted up a beaming local girl. His Spanish was halting, his accent definitely American.
Armstrong sipped his now warm drink and watched the man in the mirror behind the poorly stocked bar. Mr. Fedora finished his conversation with a charming nod and strolled off, casual as a cat. He flicked the toothpick into a spittoon and drew a fresh one from a case he kept in his inside jacket pocket. Armstrong waited ten heartbeats, then followed.
Mr. Fedora made his way down a side street, past laundry lines and shuttered stalls, before pausing to glance around. He did a dummy check, quickly spinning, casually stretching and then pulling a loose board almost as if by accident. A signal lever, Armstrong was certain. Then he gracefully slipped under a leaning fence into what looked like a long-abandoned building.
Armstrong gave it a full minute, then followed. Inside, the place was all dust and rot. No sign of Mr. Fedora but there was an elevator, polished, humming, and waiting like it had been expecting company. It was obviously a trap.
Spy Smasher would never step into such an obvious snare, but he wasn’t Spy Smasher at the moment. Alan Armstrong stepped inside. The doors closed without the press of a button. There was no response when he pressed the single button on the panel. He stabbed at it again.
The floor vanished beneath him.
He dropped with all the force gravity could bring to bear. No hand holds, no cables, just a chute slick with oil and speed. He hit a turn and lost a little of his momentum, then another sharp, violent turn was immediately followed by a near vertical drop. He finally landed with a gloppy splash in a glass tank filled with some kind of heavy, clear fluid. Definitely not water. It felt like he was swimming in syrup, the goop going up his nose and sticking heavily to his eyelids when he managed to get his head above the surface. Even his training wouldn’t let him tread water in this stuff for long. After only a few strokes and kicks, he could feel the fight against the dense fluid sapping his strength.
The voice of an instructor rang inside his head. Armstrong and two other men had been dropped in the North Atlantic during a survival exercise, left to tread water in eight foot swells for what had felt like days. When the boat returned to pick them up, the instructor had offered a choice. “You can get in the boat and wash out or find a way not to die until I get back.” Armstrong hadn’t died and he was the only one not to wash out.
He clamped down hard on the panic he could feel surging in his chest and forced his breathing to slow, his arms and legs to stop flailing. There was every chance his body was buoyant enough to keep him afloat with less effort than he was exerting. This trap wasn’t meant to kill, it was meant to immobilize, weaken and humiliate. He just had to find a way not to let it.
He sputtered and spit out some thick, flavourless fluid. Kicking upward, he tried to grasp the top of the tank, but it had sealed behind him. His vision was suddenly dazzled as the tank went from near total darkness to brilliant illumination. Lit from below, he was on display.
A voice echoed through hidden speakers. Calm. Precise. Familiar.
“Welcome, Mr. Armstrong. Or do you prefer… “Spy Smasher?””
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Guess he should've stayed as Spy Smasher. 😋
Also, is this set somewhere in South/Central America? I don't know if that was established anywhere.