H.t.K.Y.
The knock at the door was expected, with tension mounting it was a relief. What Gervais didn’t expect was the startling nature of the message, “I am Here to Kill You” the little man whispered, placing heavy emphasis on the last four words. The emphasis was important—it contained the code.
His manner was sincere and forthright, he spoke with a conscious stress, pausing slightly, after each word of his greeting. He was a slight man wearing a rumpled gray pullover with matching gray sneakers. His jeans, nicely pressed, were creased down the front. The thumb of his right hand held snugly into his right pants pocket, while in his left he held a loopy handled brown leather satchel. Dangling out of the zippered top was an array of colored wires, one could easily assume he was an appliance repairman. His bright blue eyes, squinting through dark-rimmed glasses, bemoaned his message. His denim baseball cap twisted slightly to the side, cast a shadow across his nose and small narrow chin. There was also the dimple.
Her day began with a startle; with an earmark of it being a potentially bad day. A year ago, her participation in the witness protection program was her only option, as the threats on her life increased. She was assured no one could discover her discreet identity and location—EVER! In the remote chance her cover was blown, she would be notified and relocated. A signal would come in the form of an SOS; three-dots, three-dashes, and another three-dots; the world standard emergency alert for an impending tragedy. When alerted she was to open the sealed envelope she was given and follow the enclosed instructions exactly as presented.
Fortunately, the window drapes were drawn tight and the shade pulled, when earlier this morning an object crashed through her living room window. Startled awake, she rolled out of bed onto the floor and waited, not knowing what might happen next. It remained quiet as she made her way, on hands and knees, from the bedroom towards the object lying in the middle of the floor—it was a dark red brick. Strangely, she found an embossed message on its bottom. In large capital letters it read; HtKY-SOS. The alarm went off in her head—this had all been prearranged. Someone has known for a while I am in danger or it was always known. Embossed bricks don’t come ready-made, unless something nefarious has been planned.
Gervais stood up and moved directly towards the closet where she kept her safe. Bending down, she dialed the combination and lifted open the lid. The sealed envelope was pulled from its folder and taken to the kitchen counter, silently switching on a small overhead light. The envelope, a blue #10, had an orange wax seal on its backside. The embossing read… S-O-S. She found inside a gray folded sheet of paper containing a typed message, single spaced in bold font. There were three lines.
Gervais wondered; I have never been a social media wonk, why I reposted that silly cartoon poem, I don’t know. A total lapse in judgement and why had I accepted the short-term position in the first place. But the poem and image were funny.
As special assistant to the President, she enjoyed her position and meant no harm. Getting the subpoena to appear before the grand jury surprised her. Assuming it was about the cartoon episode, she was unaware she was witness to a crime. Her honesty betrayed her to the throngs of fanatical supporters of the man leading the country. They wanted blood—Her Blood. Threats on her life came from every quarter. She appealed to the FBI and was summarily placed in the Witness Protection Program.
The verses, one with references to a Great Pumpkin, weren’t meant as a slide on the President’s appearance. As well, the subject of an elephant’s ass in the second of the two poems, was in no means meant to be a reference to his political parties’ mascot.
It read, honestly enough:
“Out in the garden, not far away,
Not for the eyes of the world,
You can’t see it, but everyone there has,
It’s a tree they call the Ellyfunsass.”
A simple sketch of humor about a White House Garden.
The instructions within the folded page read:
(1) A courier will appear at your door attired in blue and gray. He will have a dimple. Trust him–only him.
(2) Pack one bag, only one, it must fit in an aircraft overhead bin. Be ready to leave with him at a moment’s notice.
(3) His greeting will be in code—the last four words will begin with the letters—HtKY. This is your SOS final key.
From your team – Good Luck
After studying the instructions carefully, there wasn’t time to waste, she stuffed her bag and waited anxiously by the front door. When the bell rang, she was prepared to leave.
The President had lost the election fair enough. During the lame duck days before the next administration assumed office, there had been a number of presidential pardons issued. There was one in particular that had a stink associated with it. Because of her close association with the then president, she received an email message to be delivered to her soon to be ex-boss—it was a pardon request. A former business associate of the president had been found guilty of money laundering and was facing a twenty-year sentence in federal prison. The message was direct; “Please, I need a pardon or you know what else happens.”
The former business associate owned a fleet of Gulfstream 650ER aircraft. The price tag on this particular model was 61 million which equates to six hundred and ten thousand dollars for each foot of its 99 ft wingspan. It has a range of 7500 miles at a max altitude of 51 thousand feet. It goes a long way—fast. It wasn’t long after the president left office that his business enterprise had a new Grumman 650ER in its flight departments inventory. It was that reality that fostered the grand jury inquiry of the presidential advisor Gervais, that was now in hiding.
The once presidential assistant, along with her bag that would fit in an overhead compartment, accompanied the man in gray and blue into the limousine waiting at the curb. The man with the dimple mumbled to the driver, “The Marine Air Terminal, please.” The Marine Air Terminal at New York’s LaGuardia Airport, a relic of aviation’s bygone era, once a launching pad for the Pan Am Clipper from the late 1930s till after the Second World War, was still humming. It was home to several corporate private aircraft fleets.
Exiting the limo, the couple proceeded through the main doors of the Art Deco Terminal (circa 1939) heading for the gate area that served business flight operations. Passing through a rear office, they immediately found themselves out on the tarmac where stood a sleek looking Grumman 650ER aircraft. Approaching the airstairs the man hesitated, “I have to leave you here, you will find everything you need in this” he said, handing her a large envelope—it was also blue. He turned and walked away. After ascending the stairs, she entered the cabin door. The stairs folded in behind her. She didn’t know she was in a Grumman 650ER—she took a seat. She was the only person on the aircraft—period.
The 650ER departed US airspace just to the north and east of Bangor, Maine; and continued on a northeasterly heading towards Newfoundland and on to the North Atlantic. Passing south of Greenland, the jet turned east toward Iceland. Not long after passing the island nation, the aircraft made a hard left turn and its radar return disappeared from the satellite tracking system. To the north lay Russia. The aircraft, and its passenger, were never seen again.
In a remote location, 83 miles North Northwest of Las Vegas on the edge of dry Groom Lake, the drone pilot looked over at his partner, sighed and commented, “The handoff went perfect don’t you think?” There were half a dozen trailer houses in the complex, all were outfitted with the latest satellite communications involving control of drone aircraft around the world. Some were active combat drone operations and others involved limited commercial contracts. Then there were the smoke operations. Limited in nature the drone operators knew nothing about the missions. The Grumman 650ER departing LaGuardia was one of those. The handoff into Russian Airspace went smoothly.
A brown leather satchel with looping handles was recovered among the rubble and charred remains of the dwelling at 123 Wilson Ave. There had been an explosion and fire in the wee hours following the departure of the former Presidential assistant. Nothing was left behind.
