Atlantis Venture - Drone Pt. 01

"Well done," Rusty added. "More fun than chasing a greased pig."

"We really need to get her back to the farm," Myla whispered to Striffe.

"Probably a good idea. For now, let's have an interrogation," Striffe replied.

"Of course. By the way, I'm not heavy sitting here, am I?" Myla teased.

"Don't answer that, quick deflect to something else," Rusty warned.

"Not at all my dear," Striffe quickly answered. "You feel light as a feather. Have you lost more weight? You know, I've noticed how thin you're getting and..."

"Oh, shut up, smart-ass." She swung off and slapped him once on the butt.

"No way to win something like that." Rusty comfortably worked her controls.

"Find out how many guests we have on board the phantom boat," he requested of Rusty. "I would like the boat searched from bow to stern, and port to starboard. Plus, ask control to negotiate the usual benign response with the coast guard."

"Uh boat went cloaked on us, high speed suspicious craft, unknown origin, headed for Cuba?" Rusty played along with his hint. "The usual deception, standard procedures and all that special kind of ruse?" She hovered over the fort's helipad.

"Yeah, that sounds good." Striffe released his seat belt upon landing.

"We do this the hard way," she started to ask. "Or, the easy way?"

"Easy way, let's save some time before other feds get wind of this," Striffe casually explained his thoughts as they exited the chopper. "How many?" He asked a female aide who rapidly walked up to him. "And, where are they?"

"Three, total, sir." The aide nodded warmly to Myla. Myla winked in return. "One alive and in the interrogation chamber, sir," the aide answered him confidently, clad collar to boot in navy blue battle dress. Dark skinned, fit and trim, her jet-black hair, like Myla, was pulled tight to the back of her head. "The two dead ones, one at the helm and the other on the rear deck are being taken to the lab."

"Good job, you guys are working hard," he said with a slight bow. "I very much appreciate your efficiency and attention to detail. Okay and what else?"

"We're continuing to search the vessel." The aide smiled at Rusty and discreetly nodded again. Rusty smiled at her with a sly nod. "So far, sir, we have found nothing aboard the craft that would indicate usual information. No I.D.'s, no passports, except three prayer rugs, plenty of explosives, ammunition and several types of weaponry."

"Clowns," Myla said sarcastically. "Interesting situation."

"We'll find something, ma'am," the aide added. "Techs are combing the vessel in the secure dry dock, under the east wall complex." Over her shirt jacket, she wore a snug black nylon shoulder holster with a black pistol. "Comm-center is conducting trans- global traces on everything. As you requested, the coast guard is now heading to the territorial waters off Cuba and searching the Gulf of Mexico."

"Make sure, once we've gleaned everything possible, that boat vanishes," Striffe instructed her further. "No trace is to be found anywhere near the U.S."

"In fact, why don't you leave it on a beach in some wealthy tourist enclave, like Cancun?" Myla joked. "We can fabricate the blame on one of the cartels."

"I kinda like that idea," Rusty agreed with a slight chuckle.

"Well, we could do that, but," Sterling cautioned. "Yet, someone somewhere may have it on satellite. On second thought destroy the craft completely."

"Affirmative, sir, we're on it," the aide answered quickly.

"Excellent. Have the bone doctor fire up the lab," he said to her, as they all walked under an old historic portico toward a red brick wall. "I'd like a complete autopsy on the two decedents as soon as possible. We'll interrogate number three now."

"Roger that, sir, the room is ready and the subject is being prepared," she responded and clicked her booted heels. As they moved toward the solid wall, she went on to say, "Oh, there is one thing, sir." She turned slightly to meet his gaze.

"Oh, do tell, and what might that be?" Sterling held her stare. A moment passed, the eye-to-eye contact in the silent seconds annoyed Myla. Rusty let out a sigh. When the aide blinked and recovered herself, Sterling added briefly, "And..."

"We found this piece of cloth," she told him, pulled a plastic baggie from her pocket, and handed him a torn fragment of smooth stitched fabric. "Feels silky, sir, uh, yet maintains a cotton-like touch of medium grade material."

"Silken but more like cotton, yet the texture is of a higher grade," Striffe said, while he dangled the plastic envelope up close to his face. "Ladies?" He showed what appeared to be the ripped remnant of uniform patch to Myla and Rusty. "What?"

"I'll tell you what," Myla offered him a twinge of a snarl. She gave him a look and then gave one back to the aide. He knew she wasn't jealous. Instead, with Myla, there was a wicked sense of territoriality. "It's ripped from a uniform."

"Like the overalls the three stooges were wearing on the boat," Rusty confirmed.

"They were wearing the black jumpsuit things, you know?" She wheeled around to Myla for the point she wanted to make. "Looks all too convenient. Back on the farm, if the dog doesn't hunt, it ain't a day to go hunting. You can't plow with a lame mule."

"Let me work on the metaphors for a while." Myla grinned affectionately at her protégé. "As such, you're saying it looks contrived to you?"

"You betcha, sweetie, this look like a pig in a poke." Rusty met her grin.

"Well, sir, ma'am," the aide stuttered looked confused by the commentary. "We will continue our analysis and research every aspect for all the details."

"We'll want the film footage from the helo analyzed," Sterling commented to her and skimmed a sinful gaze a Myla. Their connection spanned time, continent and ideology. "So," he continued, looked down at the artifact and assessed the fabric inside of the baggie. Sterling drew in a breath. "Quick work on the part of the recovery team. Thank you for that. Much appreciated. And, the partial inscription looks Arabic."

"Duh, the suspects all look Arabic, act like terrorists, hang around with terrorists, and shall I say, terroristic tactics and weapons too. Of which, the same appear to be from the Middle East, so go figure my dear the implications," Myla snarled.

"Why Myla, my darling," Sterling soothed her reactivity. "That sounds like profiling.

You know how we feel about such things. Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts."

"Oh my god, don't get him going on that issue," Rusty chuckled.

"Yeah, oh please. Anyway, at this moment," Myla retorted sternly and dug the toe of her boot into the brick pavement. "We got the audio intercept down in command and control will confirm the dialect from that region of the planet," Myla grumbled. "The fucking inscription on the uniforms, jumpsuits, whatever you wanna call their drab looking dress code. It's all looking Arabic in nature."

"Not to mention their telltale tactics on the boat," Rusty supported the assertion.

"Why, contessa, my dearest, and Rusty," Sterling said with a smirk, detecting instantly Myla was annoyed by an historic aggravation. "That's profiling based on a bit of skin level superficiality at this moment. However, I'm not in disagreement but would like confirmation." He cautiously measured her intensity. "I want facts my dear."

"I got your profiling, my love, right here." Myla stabbed him with a finger.

"A certain three letter federal agency loves their profiles," Sterling said calmly to the three of them. "We deal in cold, gut wrenching blood spilling evidence." He gauged their collective body language. "We don't do guesswork around here."

"Yeah, yeah, I know by that Sterling Striffe expression. We'll talk later. But, and here's my but on this issue. See that?" She stabbed her finger this time at the plastic container and sucked in her high boned cheeks. She dug in her heels. Her dark complexion seemed darker. "That's a derivation of Arabic lettering."

"Alright, we'll get immediate confirmation," Striffe went along. "Let's see how quickly the cyber system put's it all together for us. Okay?"

"Of course, my darling. Know what though?" Myla insisted. "Wait; let me ask this, why is the patch torn? Hurriedly, perhaps in haste, reattached to a jumpsuit? Hmmm? That little tidbit I want to know and I want to know who did it." She huffed. "That tiny element links to a broader picture of complicity and conspiracy."

"Yes, my contessa, I realize you do want to know that." he answered softly. Their eyes met with ready acceptance. In all likelihood, he knew how often her hunches proved to be right. "Later, I want your best preliminary theory of all the connectivity."

"KGB and Global Insurrection Zodiac?" Rusty whispered to Myla. "Giz."

"You gotta it, sister," Myla answered confidently. "GIZ has many tadpoles in the stream. They are fully funded by former members of the KGB."

"We don't have all the dots connected yet," Sterling reiterated his point.

"To the interrogation room, please," Myla demanded to Sterling.

"Ah yes, a place under the sea, is where I want to be," he answered.

The aide pulled a small hand set from her pocket. With the tap of a button, the heavy red brick wall, with simulated ancient construction, separated down the middle. Two huge panels of the outer façade split apart, made metallic noises, followed by a gush of air. Instantly, the action exposed an entry into the walled fortification.

The sliding movement of the doors opened instantly and made little noise across the inner tracks. Plenty of room through the portal afforded easy interior access for the four of them. They stepped inside an armored transport system. With a sophisticated flare, Sterling Striffe adjusted his collar and tugged the sleeves of his windbreaker. Once on the elevator platform, the lift system took them three floors down below sea level.

"I want first crack at cracking the suspect," Myla again instructed Sterling.

"We'll hold on that for now." He wheeled around and caught her steely gaze. A slight smirk curved at the corners of her lips. The elevator vibrated slightly. "Let's try a more unconventional methodology first. So, standby, here we go."

"For now, since time is of the essence, I suppose," she snarled and stood in the back of the lift unit. "I would prefer a good water boarding to those chems you like."

"On good occasion, they work," Sterling said to the rest of them. The elevator stopped abruptly, the doors whipped open, and he directed them down a dimly lit corridor. "Ah yes, Interrogation Room Number 3. This will be fascinating."

"Sir, may I proceed with follow-up operations?" The aide said to Striffe. "I'm getting signaled by the command center. The coast guard is making inquiries."

"By all means, please see to that very efficiently," Striffe told her.

"Hello...," Myla hummed wickedly and stretched tight leather gloves over her hands. As she pulled them very snugly, the material etched an eerie screech in the air. Cracking her knuckles, she approached the suspect, ignored the doctor, and surveyed the suspect tied in a medical examination chair. "Hi there. This will not be fun."

"I will not talk, bitch," he said with a terse tone and spat at Myla.

"Seriously?" She slanted to one side and avoided the flying clump of spit. After which, in a split second, she punched him in the side of the head. "Naughty boy." Myla gently grabbed him by the throat, slammed him back in the seat, and spun the chair around once. On return to the original position, she punched him again. "Doctor?"

"Uh, nice to see you too, Ms. Trench. And, thanks for that." Annoyed, the doctor wiped the ooze of spitball from her starched white lab coat. She went on to add, "Sterling, Rusty, always a pleasure to welcome you back to the fort."

"Thank you, likewise," Sterling greeted her with an inviting smile. Myla huffed from behind the suspect, where she steadied the chair. "Chemo ready for injection?"

"Affirmative, Ms. Trench," the doctor answered and approached a prep table.

"Let's try the Crimson Cobalt," Striffe noted as the doctor retrieved an auto-syringe.

"Our people at Area-51 assure me this is the latest cerebral inducer."

"Hmm, last time I tried a little taste, I was lit for days," Myla told Rusty.

"Tell me about it, it was more potent than an aphrodisiac," Rusty answered.

"That's correct," the doctor said with a chuckle. "It affects people in different ways. But, with men, for instance, it works in an opposing fashion." She grinned and reached for a vial with a blue-gloved hand. The red fluid inside the capsule rested quietly, suspended in a clear jelly-like fluid within a steel tray. "This version," she wanted to explain to Striffe, "as you know does cause cerebral burning sensations." Sterling nodded in response to her. "The brain will seem as though on fire."

"I know," he acknowledged expertly. "Metaphorically speaking, it will blow the subjects mind and dissolve any pretext to a belief system. It gets primal."

"Yes sir, some do not survive the mental breakdown," the doc answered.

"We're always testing, evaluating and simulating." Striffe smiled in response. "However, the technique is more effective and cleaner than physical torture." He glanced fondly at Myla. "Time to turn up the heat, so to speak," Sterling replied with a serious tone. "Well, on the inside of the brain that is. A blaze you cannot imagine."

Stark, sterile and silver whiteness reflected the surrounding circumference of the lab. Lights overhead blazed like surface sunlight on a cloudless day. Stainless steel reflections mirrored the polished cleanness of personnel obsessed with any hint of contamination. The smell of disinfectants hinted the persistent processes of decontamination. As they gathered, all three, like the doctor, put on white protective garb.

"Very well then, let's proceed." The doctor loaded the auto-injector.

"Hold on a second," the suspect started to say. "I said I will tell you nothing." He sweated heavily, swallowed hard and blink in rapid succession. "Kill me!"

"Now, now, none of that is necessary," Striffe encouraged with a sinister hint in his voice. "Don't be in a hurry to die. When the lights go out it gets very dark. There's nothing on the other side you really want. Trust me, I've been there. I'd rather be here."

"He's right," Myla whispered from behind and tapped the suspect on the shoulder. "I went with him. It's the darkness that tears at your psyche. The shadows move and take on hideous forms and shapes. They haunt every horrid memory you've kept."

"Ms. Trench, would you do the honor please?" The doctor invited Myla to assist. "Brace our test subject for injection. I want to get the right dose."

"Wait!" The suspect immediately yelled. "No, this is illegal abuse? I protest and demand my rights under U.S. law. I want my lawyer now!"

"Sorry, sir, you're technically on private property," Rusty commented matter-of-factually with a casual hint in her voice. "We're not the government and you're outside the U.S. territorial enforcement limits." She sighed comfortably with a big grin on her freckled face. "Why back where I come from, up yonder," her southern drawl intensified, "You look like a few miles of bad road on a stormy day and a flat tire."

"Where does she get these things?" Myla asked Sterling.

"Hey, don't look at me, you're training her." Sterling shook his head.

"I demand my rights!" The suspect complained, jerked up and down, and struggled against his straps. The exam chair swiveled and rocked side to side. "Help!"

"Oh please, don't be such a sissy," Myla snarled very darkly. Looming presence alone could be very intimidating to most people. "We could cut off body parts." Immediately, she gripped his head and slammed him down with a forceful thrust. "Not the same is it, when the tables are turned. You're gonna wish you were beheaded, dick head."

"Do it," Striffe instructed the doctor, glanced at Trench, and pointed. "Myla, brace his shoulders and tighten the straps." Striffe ensured that the chair's bindings were securely in place. He fastened the shoulder harness. "Use the ball gag, let's keep his mouth shut," he told her. "I really don't wanna listen to this clown whine and complain."

"Woo, kinky, now we're talking," she answered him excitedly. She quickly fit the gag piece on the suspect. "Wish I'd brought my black leather outfit."

"Surprised you didn't, you usually dress in black," Rusty chimed in and helped.

"And, any complaints?" Myla toyed with Rusty in their usual antics.

"Nope, none whatsoever, my dear," Rusty added.

"Put it in the carotid artery," Striffe said to the doctor.

"Roger that, doc, incoming," the doctor aimed for the side of the neck.

"Hold that head very still," Myla advised the suspect after security his mouth. She firmly twisted and angled this head for the injection. "There we go, not bad."

"Alright, the juice is in." The doctor looked at Striffe. "Ten seconds." Gently, she retracted the auto-injector and placed with the other instruments. "With a sterile pad, I'll clean up the sight. There's a little spillage of blood fluid. It was a potent shot."

"Ten, nine, eight, seven," Striffe continued while checking his watch. "Fascinating, the neural networks are starting to respond. He's in an altered state."

"Wow, that's fast," Rusty said softly with rapt attentiveness. Her red curls seemed to bounce on the top of her head. "Well, butter my backside and call me a biscuit."

"Pardon me, Agent Petals?" The doctor inquired.

"You don't wanna know," Myla discouraged the doctor from further inquiry.

"It's surprising how fast the potion worked. Much quicker than when I did it, oh say, months ago." She noted his features strained, the body had stiffened, and the subject appeared in a state of shock. "His eyes are wide open and the pupils are pinpoints. Geezus, he went under fast, you know, like a frog's tongue on a firefly."

"I'm not sure what that means," Myla teased and nodded with amusement.

"However, I will go along with those quaint colloquialisms, as with the rest of your observations." She arched one dark eyebrow and smirked. "He's in the psychic alternet."

"Psyche synthesis," Striffe added. "Essence, being, and the fusion of separate identity beyond the material realm. Mysteries of what some call the mind."

"He looks like a cadaver," Rusty described. "A living dead guy."

"A zombie of sorts, who, in all actuality, he already was," Myla sought to elaborate from her special perspective. "And, not unlike the rest of drones out there."

"Stupidly adherent to a belief system," the doctor entertained the idea.

"Unevolved, regressive intentions toward extinction," Myla persisted.

"Yes, there's that, as with the majority of the human species. Most will resist change. And, the lights went out quickly," Sterling added with a reserved posture of scientific curiosity. "Our individual quests are many faceted and cover an expanse, physical and non-physical, conscious and unconscious. He's in dream state."

"The eternal depths of sepia tinted shadows," Myla murmured further.

"Uh huh, he's crossed over with the help of the Crimson Cobalt," Sterling explained what they already knew. "Near death, eventual death, eternal sleep for a short time. When we sleep, we go there and find explanations about many things."

"Time?" The doctor inquired of Sterling. "Ready for the helmet?"

"Yes, one minute more and then encase his head." Sterling looked at her.

"Got it," the doctor said. She went to one side of the instrument table and grabbed a rolling framework. Attached to it, there were connecting cables linked to a white helmet. From the headgear, wiring reached out to a monitoring console. "Helmet ready."