The Caliban Program
by Richard Fox
Copyright Richard Fox 2013
2002
Second Lieutenant Eric Ritter was well and truly lost. He knew his location, a private plane, but he had no idea where the plane was or its final destination. After countless hours in the air, he could cameto terms with being lost. As the only passenger of the aircraft, the problem was his alone.
Ritter looked out over the wing and into darkness. He counted the steady blink of the wing lights and scanned for any sign of civilization. The location of the last refueling stop was also a mystery since the pilot lowered all the window shades by remote before they landed and kept them down until they were back in the air. Ritter wasn’t sure if that was to keep him from looking out or to prevent others from looking in.
Banging on the cockpit door and demanding answers accomplished nothing other than receiving a stern “Return to your seat!” over the PA system. The only doors open to him were the restroom and a refrigerator stocked with soda and freezer-burnt microwave meals. Ritter sighed and rummaged through the fridge for the eighth time, finally deciding to eat what might be a bean and cheese burrito.
Not having questions answered had turned into a trend since a rather well-built major intercepted him outside a the lecture hall at Fort Huachuca. The major told him that he was being pulled from the Military Intelligence officer’s basic course and reassigned, effective immediately. Ritter had new orders that would be explained at a later time and he was required to leave with the major, also immediately. No chance to share farewells with his fellow lieutenants or to sign out in the company log book. The major, Jones according to his name tape, then led him to a white van with government plates and drove Ritter back to his apartment.
“No cell phone. No government identification, uniforms or electronic devices,” were the only words Jones said as Ritter had changed into civilian clothes and grabbed a small bag of toiletries. Ritter had asked if he could make a call to his parents, but the look of near-murder in Jones’s eyes as he brought out his cell phone told him that idea was a no-go.
They left Ritter’s apartment and drove to a small civilian airport just north of Fort Huachuca. A motley assortment of single engine planes crowded the only hanger; a larger private airliner waited on the tarmac, stair lowered and impatient engines whining. Ritter had started to utter a protest, but stopped when he saw the tremble in the major’s lip and his ogre hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to cause a groan in protest from the steering column. Ritter concluded that if he didn’t get on the plane at full combat speed he would be thrown on in a less-than-gentle manner.
The stairs rose as soon as Ritter stumbled into the plane which lurched into movement soon after. No pre-flight safety briefing, no stewardess and no reminder about the FAA’s stern policy against smoking. That was eighteen hours ago, by Ritter’s watch.
Ritter tossed the mystery burrito into the microwave and hoped for the best as he watched the microwave’s timer tick down. Was there even a pilot in the cockpit? No one had come out to eat or use the facilities since he’d come aboard. He chided himself for such useless speculation, and went back to speculating why he was even in this situation.
Had his father’s foreign contacts triggered some sort of alarm with military intelligence? As one of the world’s leading petroleum engineers, Ritter’s father was well traveled and well known to every country with hydrocarbon reserves. Perhaps one of those Russian venture capitalists was involved in something treacherous and—the PA system chimed, interrupting his speculation.
The fasten seatbelt light came on, and Ritter felt the aircraft press ever so slightly against his feet as it began its descent. Ritter looked at the still cooking burrito, and sighed heavily. He plopped down and buckled himself in before looking out the windows as the shutters slowly closed by their own volition. Automatic shutters, on an otherwise no-frills aircraft, struck Ritter as an odd feature.
Below him was a sea of densely packed lights, a highway filled with head and tail lights bisected the city. Just before the shutters slid shut, Ritter noticed a distant patch of blackness surrounded by smog smeared pinpoints of light. Must be a lake, he thought.
The plane touched down moments later. Ritter stayed seated as the plane taxied down the tarmac. He felt the ambient air seep into the cabin, hot and humid.
The plane jerked to stop. Ritter stood and stretched. He wondered how long this stop would be before they moved on. The PA system’s static hiss filled the cabin. “This is your stop,” came over the speakers, and then went silent.
Florescent light and the whine of re-cycling engines invaded the cabin as the stairs slowly lowered and the door opened. The plane was in a rusted hanger, bare concrete floors marred with oil stains. A beat-up white sedan sat in front of an open car port door. Ritter grabbed his bag of toiletries and stepped off the plane.
There was no one in the hanger and no welcome signs. The sedan doors opened, and two men got out with eerie synchronicity. The bearded men wore long white tunics typical of South Asia, but to Ritter’s eye they walked like Westerners. One of the men, olive skinned and broad shouldered, approached him quickly. As he neared, Ritter saw a pistol in a holster under his left arm.
The man stopped arms length from Ritter and looked at him over with tired eyes, “You better be Ritter.” Ritter’s gaze lingered over the vein-like scar running down his nose.
“That’s right. Second lieu—“ the man held up his hand.
“No more rank, kid. Come with me.” He turned and walked back to the car.
Ritter, caught flat-footed, jogged to catch up. “Hey, ugh, I didn’t catch your name.” Ritter kept glancing at the large caliber pistol under the man’s arm. The other man popped the trunk as the two approached.
“I’m Carlos, that’s Mike.” The other man nodded. “Now get in and we’ll explain more later.” Carlos stopped next to the open trunk, the interior lined with carpet.
Ritter tried to step around Carlos in order to make his way to the passenger door. Carlos blocked him with his linebacker mass, his nostrils flaring in annoyance.
“I told you, ‘get in,’” Carlos said, pointing to the trunk.
Ritter blanched, “What? I just spent the last God knows how long on Twilight Zone Air. I don’t even know where the hell I am and now you want me to get in the trunk?”
Carlos stared at him with indifference, and then glanced towards the other man. Ritter turned to face Mike, who took a calm step towards Ritter. Mike smiled, and then moved with snake-strike quickness; grabbing Ritter by his neck and wrist. Ritter had the brief sensation of falling before slamming into the trunk. The trunk slammed, casting him into darkness.
“Kid,” Carlos’ voice was muffled but understandable, “you’re in Pakistan.”
Ritter’s new waiting area might have been a small bedroom at one point. The off-white dry wall was scuffed at waist height along the walls, as though a bed had been systematically dragged along the walls in order to find the perfect location. Mouse droppings in the corner meant that this room had been empty for a long time, or the current homeowners just didn’t care.
Compared to the trunk of the car, the room was a step up for Ritter. He couldn’t keep track of the numerous sharp turns the car made as it traveled from the airport to wherever he was now. Ritter figured Carlos must have taken a complicated route to the house to offset any attempt to remember the route from the airport. At least, that’s what Ritter would have done if he had someone in his trunk that didn’t need to figure out the location of a safe-house. And Ritter was pretty sure that a safe-house was where he was.
He strummed his fingers on the beat up card table in front of him, the only piece of furni
ture in the room besides the folding chair he sat in and another chair resting against the wall. It had been fifteen minutes since the car pulled into the garage and Carlos had silently led him to this room. The door wasn’t locked, but Ritter was sure Mike was standing outside to dissuade any urge to explore the rest of the house.
The door opened, and a woman swept into the room. She was tall and carried herself with the poise of a fitness model as she grabbed the folded chair and shook it open in a violent motion. She tossed the chair next to the table and sat down. Her errant black hair framed an oval face with a set jaw. Her half-Asian features eluded any immediate distinction, but were on the edge of middle-age.
She placed a manila folder on the table and snap-clicked a pen that she put on top of the folder before looking at Ritter with blood shot eyes.
“Lieutenant Ritter: age 23 graduate of the American University of Beirut with a dual degree in physics and history, odd combination. You speak near-native Arabic, French and Spanish. You enlisted last year. Completed basic training, officer’s candidate school and were commissioned into military intelligence. You were all of two weeks in to your basic course before we procured your services.” She recited all of this by memory, which Ritter