Atlantis Venture - Drone Pt. 02

As the story unfolds, the intrepid mercenaries of private consultations, on behalf of the U.S. government, known as M.A.G.I. group, interrogate a terrorist suspect. In the safe aquatic compound, formerly known as the Ft. Jefferson National Monument, the operatives carry out their surreptitious inquiries. Now privately owned, the secret base played a key role to the ongoing subterfuge, for the primary players. Moreover, playful they were. Mercs, privateers and government agents, they were dangerous to say the least. Regardless, they were the last line of defense outside the federal government.

These included the eccentric Dr. Sterling Striffe, a long time senior officer in the clandestine services, formerly of U.S. Army Psyops command. Suave, dashing, rugged good looks and deadly I.Q. In the pseudoscience of psychiatry, the Agency shrink once classified him in the so-called sociopathic category. Likewise, with him, there was his paramour and antagonistic partner, the notorious Black Widow assassin, Myla Trench.

No less dangerous and equal to Striffe, Myla was the consummate femme fatale. Her cover name and identity of course, she was an extraordinarily accomplished professional. She too, in her Agency 201 file, had the designation as homicidal. For balance between the two, and rounding out their ménage à trois, a uniquely open relationship, was their ace pilot, Rusty Petals. A skilled aviator, she could fix and fly just about anything. As a team, they lived on the fringe and worked in the shadows. They were outcasts.

Where Sterling was gallant, debonair and treacherously fit, Myla was a raven-haired olive toned beauty of proud Spanish heritage. Lethal, strong and wickedly skilled, she excelled in the dark arts. As Striffe tended toward an average height, perhaps a little on the short side, Myla had the Amazonian qualities of a tall rugged warrior.

By contrast and in between, Rusty was a curvy ginger flash of red curls, blue-eyed deviousness and creamy dangerous efficiency. Grits, fried eggs and ham; she was the consummate down-home southern belle, but daring as hell. Together, their unity for adventure reached into the shadows of espionage and scaled the summits of intense uninhibited sexuality. Regardless, together, the three would pursue the case of the Atlantis Venture, for which, attention now turned to the suspicious drone attack. Now, they plied their tradecraft on their current prey, a captured counter-operative.

"I can break him in under five minutes," Myla provoked in a deep guttural tone. Among her hobbies, a seasoned dominatrix in her own right, she could break any man. "Go ahead, my love, give me the green light. I will beat this bitch into submission."

"As your apprentice, my honey suckle," Rusty drawled salaciously. "I want to watch. This one who tried to kill us needs a good breaking and especially by a woman. A suspected jihadist of sorts, this assassin discovered how difficult a task that was. Therefore, here we are, in our compound, interrogating an enemy minion who probably hates women."

"Too late for that at this moment, loves of my life, perhaps later." Sterling started. "After that first injection," he continued with a rake of one hand over his freshly shaved head. "He will experience a phase of delirium. The initial juice, code named Cobalt Blue, based on the latest concoction from Area-51," Striffe explained, as Myla arched an eyebrow, "Stimulates the dream state, or what we call the Necrospace. He'll babble."

"I'll bet it was con-cocked-ted in the labs of Dr. Jewels," Myla soured with the grit of her teeth. "Ah, yes, the ever modest seemingly brilliant, yet provocatively submissive, Dr. Perl Jewels. Wonder how long it took you and her to con-cock the potion."

"Now, now, my dear," Sterling offered with a hint of banter. "We appreciate our counterpart to the British Q-Branch. Jealousy becomes you, my love."

"Uh, loves of my life, seriously, a domestic squabble at this moment?" Rusty twanged in her southern style to Myla. "You take issue with that broad?"

"Yeah baby, you know how I feel about that bitch scientist of ours," Myla soured. "I hate those injections she gives us supposedly to balance our metabolisms."

"Dr. Perl Jewels is the most gifted chief scientist and quartermaster we have," Sterling reminded with a grin. "She is a singular genius of exceptional capabilities."

"Uh huh, and plowing her backside in one of the labs was research, right?" Myla hinted a vicious green-eyed streak. "Or, banging her lights out in the armory."

"My dear, you exaggerate somewhat," Sterling added politely. "Stop the mind infusion, you're invading my thoughts," he gave her a smirk. "I'm blocking you."

"Me? Exaggerate?" Myla groaned. "I'll show you what exaggeration is like."

"I'm sure, my dear," Rusty countered, "they were doing research." She faked a yawn to poke fun at both of them. "In two shakes of lamb's tail, we need to get going." Rusty pouted an impatient glance. "We're burning daylight people, need to do something."

"Where does she get these colloquialisms?" Myla asked with a gentle hiss at Sterling "I've never seen a lamb shake its tail. And, that accent, grits on the griddle."

"The fine state of Georgia," Sterling offered with a chuckle. "You see, Rusty, this goes deeper than anything I may be suspected of doing with Dr. Jewels." Sterling winked and tossed a smile at Myla. "You don't like the doc and there are other things."

"Nope, I don't trust her," Myla insisted and tried to probe his thoughts.

"Stop, my love, you're trying to read my consciousness," Striffe asserted. "Although our neural implants communicate at a preconscious level, I can still redirect your obsession. Oh look, our visitor is starting to come around a bit, so to speak."

"Atlanticus to rise, Americus in demise," the terrorist suspect blurted and blathered in a tone that reflected the maladaptive cry of a misguided soul. This was not untypical of a certain age group no matter what part of the world you ventured. Whining, sniveling malcontents, they are unimaginative. "Plunder the infidels, kill the unbelievers, the holy one be praised. Too late, judgment comes. Help! I'm burning!"

"Well now, there's a tone we're not unfamiliar with," Sterling hinted with a strong flavor of sarcasm, but not to be taken as too obvious. "Good and evil struggle within the bottomless pit of one's unconscious nexus for social stupidity. He's imagining all kinds of things at this point." Sterling craned his head to loosen up his neck and rolled his shoulders to relax himself. "Ah, the serum is doing what it was designed to do."

"Like peeling an onion, going deeper into the memories, thoughts, and emotions," the dangerously beautiful amazon Myla Trench speculated. Her dark olive complexion and jet-black hair deepened her mysterious nature. "Sterling, we got time for this?"

"Physical torture takes time and renders inconclusive results," Striffe explained with a steady affectionate gaze at his Amazon queen. "Whereas, the Jewels elixir provides a more immediate response, with limited neural damage and less to clean up."

"Really, Sterling, the 'Jewels elixir'? Please, spare me the bullshit," Myla shot back, yet her stare skimmed the edges of eternal affection for him. "I'm waiting."

"Well, I'll be hornswoggled, like a young bull in a herd of heifers," Rusty said with a good-natured chuckle as she checked her watch. "The new con-cock-tion worked faster than the last time you used it, Sterling. It's a better version."

"Are you mixing metaphors?" Myla quizzed with a grin.

"We take it one step at a time," Sterling went on to explain. "Too much interaction by increasing stress levels with this new dosage, and we might cause an imbalance, provoke false memories, and so forth. Thus, this method takes time."

"I could beat out of him faster," Myla mildly objected. She huffed, paced, punched her black gloved palm with her other fist and glanced at her protégé. "Rusty?"

"Oh my, my dear, you want backing on this," the cute freckled faced southern belle, Rusty Petals said with coy deflection. "I could peel him in some interesting ways, and perhaps produce a quick painful death for this rodeo clown."

"The game is on our turf," Myla asserted. "We must act and peeling sounds good."

"My love," Rusty answered her with a sexy slant, "Peel me anytime."

"Hmmm, later, I will definitely do that," Myla licked her lips.

"Yes, you could my dear," Striffe replied and focused on the suspect. "I don't have a problem with that, however, I'm concerned about the reliability of the subsequent results." He sighed and then added, "On the other hand, we are in a bit of a hurry."

"Precisely," Myla whispered eerily. "Wake him up and I'll do the rest."

"Not yet, maybe later, my dear, you could apply your exceptional talents for inquiry upon this poor wretched soul." Striffe paused briefly and gave a Sterling smirk to his two partners. "And, later on, when all is done, I could watch you apply your skills to press the petal to the mettle of Ms. Petals. What a pleasant thought."

"I get to lasso you first, partner," Rusty drawled and winked at Sterling. "Hogtie you in a heartbeat, baby. Oh boy, whip you into shape and break you in, once again."

"You two always make my day brighter," Sterling said with a grin.

"Ah yes, I hear that. For this sidewinder right her, he's facing a trial for his fate, so he appears to be coming around to a confession," Rusty offered as to the extent of what she saw. "I'll be hornswoggled again, like a pig in a poke, and you don't want the poke. You know what I mean? This fool might actually tell us something."

"I have no earthly idea what you mean," Myla toyed with her. "I wasn't raised on a farm, didn't have a barn, nor sheep, or horses and the like." She paused in her jest. "You know with farm animals, horses in particular, you spend much time in the barn?"

"We have a saying, what happens in the barn," Rusty toyed with her. "Stays in the barn." She gave her tall friend a wide grin. "Anyway, people talk sooner or later."

"Animal farm aside," Sterling started to say. "We need to move quickly."

"Sorry," Rusty replied fondly. "You missed out, love. You haven't lived until you milk a cow, or help a stallion mount a mare. Or, take a roll in the hay loft."

"Hmm, I can relate a little to the last part." Myla glanced at Sterling. "Speaking of milking. Everything needs a good milking. Like our suspect for instance."

"As far as he's concerned, at least from this somewhat limited perspective of mine, he believes in a supernatural judgment. We make use of that." Sterling winked. "Some mood music please." He turned to a control panel affixed and mounted within the wall structure. "Ah yes, an appropriate theme for the Myla," he teased with a hint of affection. "Oh yes, this one is yours my dear, always reminds when you attacked my cabin." He manipulated the controls and she knew the selection. "Your favorite, my love."

"Oh my, Carmina Barana O Fortuna," Myla whispered with a smile and the musical score from a different era filled the chamber. "Nicely done, my dear."

"Three gallons of sweaty hot in a two gallon bucket," Rusty murmured as Myla responded by simply shaking her head. "Hush my mouth, darling."

"A wonderful pair you two make," Sterling quipped. "As with most ideological dogma, there's the illusion that hope springs eternal for such tortured or valiant souls. Good and evil must always fight to the end to time." He enjoyed the interplay between Myla and Rusty and their intense sexuality. "I'm honored by your presence."

"Oh stop, I don't know if I can hold back the emotion," Myla added sarcastically. "I'm enjoying the music and prospects torturing the fuck out of this terrorist."

For the next few moments, Striffe observed the subject carefully but remained mindful of the time limitations involved. This was a tedious process of interrogation. To guide the unconscious interview, he tossed out an open-ended question every now and then. He kept the captive on track, letting him sink deeper into the dark passages of the dream world. Carefully, they wanted to listen to tone, pitch, rate and words.

Intra-psychic intervention, or simply mental torture, perfected by chemical mixtures, avoided the immediate necessity of unnecessary physical strain. Striffe's assistant at their compound, an accomplished medical practitioner, monitored the suspect's vital signs. She remained silent for the most part and insisted on unwavering loyalty. To her credit, she studied under the notorious Dr. Perl Jewels, her lifelong mentor.

"All recordings and monitoring systems are fully functional," the doc said and gave Striffe a quick once over as if to approve of his physical presence. "The subject is within normal ranges given his current state. The chemical injection is working."

"Excellent," Striffe continued. "He gets an afterlife of eternal bliss in the presence of his god, or damnation in hell. Who knows what he'll confess to?"

"The blue elixir pretty much challenges sacred notions," Myla noted cynically. "You might say it's the near perfect antidote to the stupidity of thinking."

"If I may say so, it certainly gets beyond the mask of any deceptive intentions," the doc said to Myla, who returned an appreciative smile. The doc nodded in a submissive way to the Black Widow assassin. "We're the only ones who have such a potion."

"A kind of proverbial truth serum," Rusty added. "Why my goodness, back where I come from, we just call that being honest with yourself. And don't think you're better than anybody else. Geezus, it ain't that complicated, just common sense."

"The problem with common sense," Striffe started to say, "is that if it's so common, then everyone should have some measure of it. We know that's not true."

"Which most don't, hence the stupidity factor," Myla continued.

"I'm glad I work in the lab," the doctor muttered amusingly under her breath. She blinked her eyes in respectful approval of Myla. "You know, in the shadows."

"Me too," Myla whispered behind Sterling's left ear. Her eye contact with the doc expressed the duality of her inner personality and much more. "Likewise."

"Alrighty, now that our guest is blabbering endlessly," Striffe began again and felt the tingle of the chill down his back, as Myla breathed on his neck. She was turning him on by her mere presence. Lightly, she ran a long slender finger with a sharpened fingernail up his spine. He could feel the pleasure building in his groin. "Let's see if we can make a logical interpretation of all this nonsense and find out what's going on."

"Okay, I'll play first," Myla jumped in. "The patch correlates to the reference in the dead man's dream to an elusive organization known as Glaucus Atlanticus." She sensed something and looked up and around. "Anyway, the clowns attacked us, because someone tipped them off we might be a threat to their plans. Good so far?"

"Please, my dearest, continue," Striffe acknowledged with a nod.

"Sounds darn good to me," Rusty said. "We have grits around here?"

"I think we're out of grits," Striffe answered her.

"Well that's just wrong. Okay, I'll toss in for seconds here," Rusty interjected with a chuckle. "Stir the hornets' nest so to speak. So, all this nonsense for what? Call us out; get us involved, expose our operations, while this nitwit goes on jihad. That's goofy."

"Not bad for starters," Striffe agreed. "Yes, it is a waste of resources, unless there's a deeper meaning. There usually is. And, we have our link to a possible mole in our network. Based on what the poor unevolved subject has alluded in his quest for atonement. More likely, just a nosy information source used for provocation purposes."

"He mentioned something about a ledger, a journal dedicated to exposing lies and cover-ups, conspiracies, and an infidel supporting the jihad," Myla toyed with the conversation. "Yes, it's a probe because someone is messing with us."

"The young fool here blathered something about the eagle and the lion," Striffe noted and pondered the meaning. "What's your collective wisdom?"

"Well, at this point, I'm not buying a pig in poke," Rusty said to Myla.

"That's why I love you, my dear," Myla said to her with an appreciative hint. "An eagle, a lion, and sea slug, whatever that Glaucus thing is, remains very interesting." She huffed purposely as if to claim a bit of sarcasm for the moment. "The strong has a song, and it is doing what is right, with all things of might. Two symbols of potent western alliance. They don't like us. Okay, the U.S. and the Brits against the jihadists, right?"

"Hmm," Rusty hummed quietly. "The sea slug is also poisonous and cleverly hides below the surface. This creature has very deadly venom, not unlike the black widow spider. I'd say the analogy is a dangerous and elusive enemy that can be anywhere."

"Fascinating," Striffe offered in his aloof manner. "A Trojan horse perhaps."

"Politicians are stupid that way, that's why we exist," Myla toyed. "I do like the black widow reference." She caressed Rusty's arm at the mention of her code name.

"And, what about the numbers he splooged a moment ago?" Rusty smirked. "Three, six and nine, so what's with that? Adds up to nine by the Striffe equation."

"Uh, work on that for a few seconds, my darling," Myla murmured.

"She's correct," Striffe added thoughtfully. "Nine could be a discreet reference to ancient lore. That is, the coming of the end and the darkness of eternity."

"Writings of the secret kind," Rusty muttered with her usual southern tone.

"Sure, no doubt at some level, but back to the journal as a possibility. What are the odds that relates to the Ledger Journal of London?" Myla proposed. "That's a mysterious connection indeed, even after the first injection, the clown is blabbering like a politician under indictment. Not unlike one of Sterling's girlfriends after a few drinks."

"Thank you my dear, for that," Striffe groaned and shook his head. "Very good, my dear, I think we're on the right track. After a few drinks there are many possibilities. We need to get all this data collected and transmitted to Groom Lake a.s.a.p." Striffe looked at the doctor. "Our subject needs to be packaged and shipped as well for further analysis."

"Copy that, sir, I'm on it," doctor confirmed confidently. "Standard ops, pack, sack and ship. We were never here and this never happened," she added.

"Thank you, appreciate your expertise," Sterling said softly. "Everything is to be sanitized as per the Legerdemain Protocols. Have our agents make sure this fruitcake makes it to the party and disappears for eternity when everything is done."

"Among other things," Myla murmured ever so discreetly.

"Now with no further interruptions, we'll consider our next move," Striffe accepted that and winked at Myla. "Since you mentioned it, I'm thinking of a special kind of meddlesome and annoying life form. An armchair computer keyboard activist."

"Oh yeah, I'm on this," Myla said with an eerie smirk. "I'm willing to bet that little deviant is involved in this. A hack here, and a hack there, and who knows."

"A techie clown," Sterling continued and watched as the doctor summoned an assistant. While those two cleaned up, Sterling continued, "Dweeb Tome. The rather obnoxiously arrogant owner and operator of the well-financed tabloid newspaper, the Ledger Journal. He has a penchant for conspiracy theories, as well as fake news."

"Wait, don't we own that mullet wrapper?" Rusty queried.

"Of course, Rusty, sleight of hand, it makes things grand," Sterling quipped.

"That worthless piece of yellow journalism," Myla snarled, "has global distribution and brings in a ton of funds for reinvestment in our more exotic adventures."