--13--
Three days ago, the captain of Global Airlines Flight 257, his plane caught in a wave of radio static that overrode both his communications and his nav aids, deviated a few degrees off course on the plane's final approach to Elo City. Though relatively minor and correctable, the error took the plane off the regularly traveled airways and over a tiny island twenty miles from the mainland. As the flight crew and two hundred passengers prepared for their landing in Elo City, a bright light flashed up from below them, flaring brighter and brighter until it engulfed the plane. Under clear skies a mere fifty miles from the airport, Flight 257 turned into a diving fireball. As controllers in Elo Center watched, horrified, the airliner's signal faded from all radar screens, and the radio fell completely silent.Within two hours, a fleet of helicopters backtracked through the plane's flight path and landed on the beach of Easton Island. Investigators found pieces of the wreckage strewn across the beach, but barely had time to report in before Galactor snipers fired on them from the bushes.
At base headquarters on Easton Island, GelSadora skimmed the reports. Eager to test their firepower and defend their latest installation, the second guard shift had shot down a passenger jet-- an impulsive defense maneuver, but something they could turn to their advantage. Chuckling, she handed the latest status report back to her waiting assistant, then turned to the window where she stared at the rough face of the mountain temple. "That should get the ISO's attention," she said. "Now let's see who comes to visit."
Rain thundered against the corrugated steel roof of the hangar as Ken worked, stripping the brakes from a prewar Bonanza. Beside the work in progress sat a second small craft, and his own plane was stowed behind both, flagged and blanketed with a tarpaulin. A large space heater huffing industriously at the far end of the hangar held the bitter cold at bay."I've decided to rent out my plane," Ken said, glancing over his shoulder to where Joe slouched against his workbench. "It brings in extra money and I hardly use it now that we're stuck on base all the time. Three other pilots are renting the strip and the storage." He tapped the wheel strut with his pliers in emphasis.
"Smart," said Joe, and took a pull from his Coke.
"I don't know when I'll get back to this." With a sigh he turned back to his work. "Had another fight with Hakase yesterday. I told him that we have to move decisively on our next battle call." The brake caliper fell to the concrete floor with a clatter. "We spent three years fighting stalemates with the Syndicate. Now I want to destroy them before they get more powerful. Of course, you know what he says. We have to wait, to watch, to plan, to defend, the same as before, and it will only end the same way. We lose."
"We haven't lost yet," Joe said.
Ken's head snapped up and he glared at his friend. "What the hell do you call our position now? The Syndicate is back. It's like we've done nothing! And we lost you."
Joe took another swig from his Coke and said nothing. His presence struck Ken as an incongruity, but Ken kept talking, grateful for the company.
"You should see the new mechs. They're insane. Performance tests out all right, but they look like they belong in a circus act. Everyone's upset about it. We've been pushing for new paint, but Hakase is adamant. It seems like we're doing nothing but making concessions." He snorted, shaking his head. "Obedient like trained dogs. No, trained birds."
"How's Jun?"
"The same. She won't talk to me unless we're working or training."
"You should reconsider getting back with her."
"Damn it!" Ken snarled, throwing down his pliers. Metal rang against the floor, echoing through the hangar. "Why must you keep shoving us at each other? We'll get together when we're ready!"
Joe shrugged and silently raised his hands. Ken suddenly felt ashamed, deflated under his friend's sharp gaze. "I can't get close to her again, not now. She has to wait just a little longer. Until the fighting stops."
"If it stops."
"When it stops, I'll ask her again. I'll try to make it up to her."
"She might not wait. She might not give you the chance."
"It's all I can do. If we can stop this war now. If we can crush Galactor before they get a chance to get any stronger...."
"They may already be too strong."
"I hate it when you talk like this. Disaster usually follows."
"It's your conscience talking. You're dreaming this, you know." Joe shoved himself off the workbench and tossed his now empty can into a waste bin by the double doors. "I have to go."
"Why?"
"Don't lose your head, Ken. You're the leader." He slid one of the doors aside, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.
Ken heard no receding footsteps, no sound of a car engine starting. When he opened the door, he saw only the empty runway outside, the rain coming down in sheets and his own breath fogging in the cold. Alone again.
"Damn it."
Turning back to the hangar, he stopped. The planes, his tools, the heater, all had disappeared, leaving the building a hollow metal shell.
The buzzing of his alarm brought him back into his dark quarters. A porthole looked out at the ocean, but at G-Town's current depth, the light never changed. His bedside clock read six AM. Time to dress, shave, do his morning workout, then have breakfast with the others at eight and spend the rest of the day on standby. Ken despised the waiting, but today might be different. After the professor's meeting with the UN this morning, they might finally be called into action.
Stretching, feeling the sharp snap of tension across his shoulders, he headed for the bathroom and slapped on the light. As he shaved, staring at his disheveled face in the mirror, he expected the disconnected, dreamlike sensation to fade, but it did not. Perhaps if he stepped through the bathroom door now, he would find himself back at his old shack, the hangar just outside the front window, and his dead friend waiting within.
Don't lose your head, Ken.
"I'm already losing my mind," he muttered.
"I'm glad that's over."Murray slapped a hand around the wall beside the entry and found a light switch. Lamps came on within Eric Getz's apartment, revealing neutral decor--a nondescript beige couch, two chairs and coffee table, mass production art on the walls. It revealed little about the man who'd lived here. But what the hell, Murray thought. It beat sitting outside in the cold, waiting for Getz to come home.
He led the way inside, pulling off his heavy, wet topcoat as he did so. Tony and Darren, two of Murray's associates, flopped onto the couch, propping muddy feet on the coffee table. Adam, their subchief, found the thermostat and turned up the heat before he collapsed into one of the chairs.
"Hey, Murray," Adam said casually, tipping his head back to look at the first man. "Go see if there's anything in the refrigerator."
Murray grimaced, but being on the low end of the pecking order, he went into the tiny kitchen without comment. Yanking open the refrigerator, he found three cans of generic soda and two beers. The rest of the kitchen contained only dry goods, though he managed to salvage a bag of corn chips from the pantry. Walking back outside, he tossed the beers to Darren and Tony. "That's all there is."
"There's a liquor store down the block," said Adam. "Go down and get us a case."
"Hey, Chief said we were to stay here,"
"Chief isn't here. I am, and I rank. Do it." Adam leaned back against the chair, hands behind his head. The other two smirked.
Murray swore under his breath as he shrugged on his coat. Adam's promotion had been a fluke, but he never turned down a chance to use his newfound rank. Murray slammed the front door behind him.
The lift was broken, forcing him to take the stairs to the front entrance, and he thought about how the wet, bitter cold would slam into him when he opened that door; all the worse now for the respite. Damn Adam anyway, and damn this stupid city and its depressing skies and its dirty, icy rain.
Just as he reached for the handle, an arm snaked around his neck and locked tight, strangling his startled cry. Murray flailed for the gun he kept in the right pocket of his coat, but a hand grabbed his right wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back. Still he struggled, kicking back at his attacker, swinging with his free hand, trying to get his balance for a shoulder throw. He connected once or twice, but his efforts were as effective as trying to knock down a brick wall.
The arm around his neck tightened painfully, hauling him off balance. "Not a word, not another move," a low voice growled in his right ear. "Or I rip your head off where you stand. Got it?" Sparks flared around the corners of Murray's vision. He froze, and the grip eased enough that he was able to nod.
"Good." The arm relaxed a little more, and Murray's vision cleared.
Murray caught only a glimpse of a shadowy figure before he found himself spun around and propelled down the dark hall to the end of the building and the locked service entry. His captor shoved him to the side, then kicked high on the thick wooden door, near the deadbolt and chain. Murray gaped as the locks snapped and the door slammed open, cracking hard against the outside wall. The cold air and drizzle enveloped them as they moved down the stairs and into the alleyway.
Murray stumbled for nearly a block, down two side streets and into a narrow, unpaved alley full of junk and rotting garbage. The arm left his throat, and his captor quickly removed the gun from his pocket. Murray twisted his head around for a better look at the man who patted him down, but he couldn't see much; his captor wore a dark gray raincoat with the hood pulled up over his head, obscuring his face. Finding Murray's other gun as well a knife, he tossed the weapons into the garbage pile. "Hey, shame on you," Murray said. "What if a little kid finds those?"
"Shut up."
"So what do you want? You Interpol or ISO?"
"Where's Eric Getz?"
"Hell if I--"
"WHERE?"
The grip on Murray's forearm tightened and the thug felt the bones creak in warning. "Aagh! Damn! Look, I was just ordered to wait for him, okay? Another detail was dispatched to get him."
"You know where he is."
"If you're going to kill me anyway, then yaaAAAAAGH!" Over a sickening, muffled crunch, Murray's voice climbed to a falsetto shriek. Engulfed in a cloud of pain, his vision went bright green for a moment, and when it returned, he found himself lying in the mud. His right arm hung uselessly, broken. His captor towered over him, silhouetted against the gray sky. In his left hand he held Murray's pistol, aimed at his midsection.
"I don't have time for games. You can live, die whole or in pieces. It doesn't matter to me." The man's voice dropped to a harsh snarl. "Galactor."
Murray's skin prickled at the last. Three years ago he had heard this voice on surveillance tape, preceding the demise of fifteen men. He'd prayed he would never hear it in person.
"Gatchaman?" he whispered.
"No." The man made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "You'll wish I was."
Gasping, Murray raised his good hand. "Okay, okay! Look. He's at the Prince Hotel. Don't know the room number. I'm not lying, I swear that's all I know!"
"Let's go." The man stooped over, grabbed Murray's lapel and lifted him like he would a wet dishrag. At the abrupt movement, Murray's head spun and then everything plunged into black.
These new Galactor agents were a nastier breed, but still short on stamina. Joe let Murray slump back onto the ground, then pulled a small ammonia capsule from a pocket in his backpack and held it under the thug's nose. He responded quickly, coughing and choking, then suddenly twisted onto his good side. Joe stepped clear as Murray vomited onto the mud, then hauled him to his feet when he was through.
They walked from the alley to a campus road where Joe flagged down a taxi. During the short, tense ride, Murray groaned softly and shivered, cradling his broken arm and glaring through bleary eyes at his captor. Dark glasses obscured Joe's eyes, and what little Murray could see beneath was cold and grim.
The cab pulled in front of the Prince Hotel. Without a word, Joe thrust a roll of cash at the bewildered driver and got out of the car, hauling Murray along behind him. Quickly they walked through the entryway toward the elevators. They had gotten halfway throughout he lobby when Joe froze, cocking his head as if he was listening to something above them. Very faint, above the shuffling of feet on marble floor and the murmur of voices, the staccato pop of gunfire.
"C'mon!" Dragging Murray by the collar, Joe dashed for the nearest lift.
The doors closed behind them and the ancient car began its slow crawl upward. Someone must have pressed all the buttons as a prank, for at each level, the car stopped and opened its doors to admit more passengers. Impatiently Joe jabbed at the Close button, glaring down a gaggle of tourists on the fourth floor and thoroughly frightening an elderly couple on the fifth. Reaching for the emergency control panel, he ripped the cover from its hinges, turned the fire key set the lift on manual control. Though it no longer stopped on each floor, the car crawled upward with agonizing slowness while Joe stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.
Another burst of gunfire sounded, this time clearly audible to both men. Murray smirked. "Maybe they decided to just shoot him. Put him out of our misery." He leaned back against the wall. "What are you planning to do about it, anyway?" Joe afforded him a quick glance, and his expression darkened.
Before the Galactor agent could say anything else, the doors opened onto the eighth floor. Grabbing his collar, Joe half threw him through the opening. As Murray stumbled into the hotel corridor, he caught glimpse of four startled faces: the crew sent to pick up Getz. He saw them jump back; saw the muzzles of their weapons come up. But before he could shout to stop them, a horrible ripping pain blasted through his midsection, he heard the thunder of gunfire, and then nothing at all.
Getz stood beside the bedroom window of his hotel suite, well out of sight, watching the activity on the street below. The suite, the largest the Prince had to offer, had seen better days and was not something Getz would personally prefer, but he and Mako wouldn't be here long anyway. He had received the ISO's recall signal an hour ago, something he had never expected to hear. He'd almost made it. Now he only waited for Mako to arrive. The apprehension he felt over their future discussion was now tempered by relief that his exposure was almost over. Never in his life had he felt so alone.Footsteps, nearly muffled by thick carpet, sounded in the hallway outside the hotel room. Eric tensed, but the footsteps passed by and receded down the hall. He hadn't noticed anyone following him, and was almost confident that he had passed from his old hotel room to this one without being tailed. He let out a long, slow breath, then pulled a cigarette from the carton in his jacket pocket and lit it.
The tension in the air hadn't escaped him either. Before long the fighting would resume full force. He could already see it in the eyes of everyone who lived here: the lost hope, the fear, the resignation. So many would die. Could he take Mako back with him? Once he saw her face, he might not be able to restrain himself, no matter what she thought and no matter what the professor thought. Eric scowled. At any rate, she would be far safer within the ISO stronghold than she would be out here.
A quick glance at his watch showed only five minutes had passed: quarter after two. Mako was due at two thirty. He hoped he would see her pull up in front of the hotel. Eric's eyes clouded as he thought of her standing at the door, her small red lips spreading in a wide smile, the feel of her arms wrapped around him, her soft, dark hair tickling his cheek. For the last time? Could he stand it? He wished he hadn't exchanged her ring for the locket, but after all, the locket could be just as much a promise as the ring. All I have to do is drop to one knee and ask her. That's what she's expecting, isn't it? Nambu can't fault my bringing in my fiancee for protection. My wife.
A knock sounded at the door. Eric jumped, turning toward the entry. Had he missed her? She was early.
"Mako?"
The hotel room door burst open with a shower of plaster and splintered wood. Through the opening poured ten men in black business suits, guns ready in their hands. With a stifled gasp, Eric yanked the pistol from the holster beneath his coat, threw himself behind the doorjamb to the bedroom, and longing bitterly for an automatic weapon, opened fire. Three men dropped before the return fire began.
Bullets chewed the wall beside him. Leaping high, Getz cleared the flying debris and pulled a second gun holstered off his belt to replace the now empty shoulder pistol. To his horror, one of the men he had shot kept crawling toward him reaching for his legs. Getz kicked the man in the head; a loud hollow sound, and the thug stopped moving. A bullet tore Getz's jacket and shirt, deflecting off the Kevlar vest beneath. A second followed, bouncing low off his left side.
Two more men fell, but the ones behind kept coming until Getz's ammunition ran out. In the moment it took for him to rip out the empty clip and slam home a replacement, four men had reached the door. One dove for him, and he gasped at the sight of the man's face: a mirror reflection of his own, twisted into a hideous grimace. Getz leaped back out of reach, but now stood exposed in the doorway.
At such close range, his armor did nothing to protect him from the gunshot fired at near point-blank range. Agony exploded through his belly, shattering his spine; his legs, numb and useless, folded beneath him. He returned fire, but the shot went wild as he collapsed. Another bullet slammed into him, this time high on his chest, driving him into the ground with the force of a jackhammer. He didn't feel the other two bullets, only heard them and saw his body jerk like a puppet's. Blood gushed from the wounds, soaking the cheap red carpeting as he lay on his back, gasping, staring at the ceiling.
Two of the black-suited agents stepped on his hands to keep them in place. His double leaned over him and leered. "Loser." Hands quickly searched Eric's body. The agent found the transmitter in Getz's sock; tossed it up and caught it with a flourish. "And here's the ISO passkey. You should have taken our offer so I wouldn't've wound up wearing your ugly face." Eric snarled silently at him, unable to do more.
Turning to the other men who waited, guns trained on the bleeding man on the floor, the double grinned wide. "Now all I do is grab his luggage and head for the rendezvous point at four."
"Then get out of here," said a man standing behind the double, by Eric's guess their leader. "We'll take care of cleanup."
The double half-turned, then noticed the cigarette smoldering on the carpet. "Oops, you forgot something." Kneeling, he picked up the cigarette and stuck it in Getz's mouth. "Pity, though. You'll never find out if these things would've killed you." He laughed.
"Bastard!" Eric hissed.
"Richard, dammit!" growled the leader. "Will you quit fucking around and get out of here?"
With a derisive wave, Getz's double turned and strode out of the room.
One of the goons drew a bead between Eric's eyes. Seeing what he was about to do, the two men standing on his hands yelped and jumped back. Instinctively Eric jerked his head to the side right before the gun fired. The bullet ripped through the floor millimeters from his left ear.
"What are you doing, you asshole!"
"We should finish him off," the man with the gun said, aiming again.
"He's already done for. Don't waste any more ammo. Pick up the casualties and let's go."
Holstering their weapons, the surviving agents turned first to their fallen comrades, groaning as they hoisted up the bodies of the dead and staggered toward the hotel corridor. "Use the stairs to the fire exit," their leader warned.
In the distance, the elevator dinged as the door opened. A man shouted, and the roar of gunfire followed: one sharp machine gun burst followed by five deliberate reports. With a curse, the leader left the room, moving toward the hallway. One more gunshot echoed down the corridor, then silence. Eric found himself alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself on his elbows, fighting to stay upright in a room that spun violently around him, trying to grind him into the floor. Looking down, he realized that the cigarette was still in his mouth. A long cylinder of ash fell from the end and landed on his white shirt, burning a hole down to the useless armored vest. From force of habit, he tried to take a pull from the cigarette, but coughed and spat a mouthful of blood. It dribbled down his chin.
"Oh fuck," he groaned.
He put the cigarette back between his lips, took a shallow drag and closed his eyes. The familiar motion and the smoke comforted him just a little. More footsteps sounded now, coming closer, treading softly on the carpet. Not now, Mako, he thought. Not now. Please, God. Don't let her see this.
"Getz?" The deep voice was vaguely familiar.
He coughed.
"Getz!"
He turned his head. A man stood in the doorway, dressed in a gray uniform and holding a blood-spattered overcoat in one hand. At the sight of a familiar face, though one of a man he had never met, Getz grinned and the cigarette teetered precariously on his lower lip.
He must have blacked out for a moment, for next he found the man kneeling beside him. One gloved hand peeled back Eric's shirt, revealing the ruin beneath. "Shit," Joe said under his breath. "Getz. You're Eric Getz, right?"
"Aa." Getz coughed. "Either I'm already dead, or you're not."
Joe pulled at the shirt. Fabric ripped, revealing tattered Kevlar and foam and the rhythmic gush of blood. Ripping out the lining of the overcoat, Joe rolled the torn fabric into a pad and pressed down on the worst wound in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. Eric gasped as broken ribs ground together, then coughed. A dark red puddle soaked the carpet around his body, spreading wider. "Damn you--" Getz grated out. "Why--didn't you--tell them--"
"Stay still. We gotta get you to a hospital."
"Don't waste your time." Eric could see his own face, a white, bloodstained mask, reflected in Joe's dark glasses. "Listen. They've got an impostor posing as me... being sent to the Kagaku Ninjatai."
"What?"
His mouth curled into a crazed, lopsided grin. "They wanted me to do the job... spy for them... I said no, so.... Now he's on his way to G-Town."
G-Town. Their new base. "Ken--where are Ken and the others?"
Eric's face twisted into a grimace of pain. "Getz--the fake--please, you've got to go after them. And then... Sorry... I've got something to ask of you." He reached into a coat pocket and brought out a blood-slicked jumble of glass and gold chain. "Give this to a girl named Mako."
His hand wavered, and Joe caught it, clenched over it. "Mako?"
"My girlfriend. Please. That's all I ask."
Joe frowned at him, not knowing what to say.
"All right."
"One more thing... so you know...." For a moment, Eric's eyes cleared as he stared into Joe's face; a bright flash of anger cutting through the fog. "I never wanted to... to be you."
Another spasm shook him; one last, all-engulfing wave of pain before the blackness rose around him and snuffed him out. Eric's body shuddered and went limp, eyes wide and empty. The cigarette dropped from his lips and rolled away across the carpet.
Joe heard the sound of sirens growing louder--the police on their way. Gently he eased Eric's body to the floor. The cigarette was smashed beneath his heel as he left the room.
From an isolated payphone in the lobby Joe called a number and waited as the relay took him to Rafael.
"Is Getz with you?"
"I was too late. He's dead." Blood soaking the carpet a deeper crimson. Eric's face frozen in an expression of shock and pain, eyes empty. Such a waste.
"Take a commercial flight to Elo City. When you arrive, call me again. I'll have private transport arranged for you to the coast, supplies and a boat to Easton Island."
"Why there?"
"I have a lead. I don't think they're watching for you, but be extremely careful."
Joe hung up, staring at the red pile carpet on the wall behind the phone. No questions, just arrangements and a warning to be careful. Nambu would have fed Joe his own lungs for running off unannounced, but Rafael sounded... relieved? Why? Relieved that Getz was dead? That was ridiculous.
"Scientists," Joe muttered, shaking his head. Leaving the booth, he walked through the lobby and toward the airport.
The Chief of ISO Security, stood outside the airlock with a group of guards, waiting for the minisub containing Eric Getz. With the craft already thirty minutes behind schedule, she wondered if it would appear at all, and if it did, the stone-faced young agent would be in it. She didn't relish telling Dr. Nambu they had lost yet another one, their final candidate. I can't say I told you so.
"Ma'am?" She turned to find one of her junior agents standing at her elbow. "Call for you on line two."
The LCD on the phone read only PRIVATE, no extension number. Frowning, she picked up the receiver. "Julia Evers."
"Julia." The familiar gravelly voice knifed through her.
Her eyes widened quickly before she neutralized her expression. "Yes." Why are you calling me here? How did you find out? How did you find me?
"Eric Getz is dead. The man arriving at your base is a fake."
Getz. Dead. A sickening wave of grief washed over her, her fears realized: I knew it. I knew this would happen. We let him go. We let him die. Why didn't I fight Nambu over this?
"I see."
"Play along with him. He will lead you to a legitimate site."
"A trap?" she whispered.
"A trap I will spring." The receiver clicked, leaving her with the drone of a dial tone, and quietly, she hung up the phone.
Rafael. For the past five years, he had been a valuable, if exasperating contact. Julia wasn't accustomed to playing by the rules of others, but Rafael called without warning, then vanished without a trace. She often wondered about his motives, but she played her hunches and followed through, and none of his information had failed her yet.
This time, however, so much was at stake. If she followed along, she would put the Kagaku Ninjatai, the entire base in jeopardy. Was it worth the risk?
The guards murmured among themselves, one man pointing through the window to where lights approached through the ocean gloom. Standing at the rear of the squadron, Julia waited for the craft to dock, the lock to clear and the crew to disembark. Through the airlock's observation window, she saw the lanky young man climb from the sub and onto the deck. She'd interviewed Eric Getz herself. If she hadn't been warned, she could have sworn that was him.
As the landing party left the airlock, she approached him, extending her hand. "Getz. Good to have you back."
He took her hand, looking into her eyes with a cold smile. "It's good to be back." Inwardly, Julia stifled a shudder. Then he was past her and walking toward the exit.
"Escort him to his quarters and don't let him out of your sight," she whispered to her nearest agent. "Be discreet. If he asks, it's standard procedure for the base until he goes through debriefing. I'll contact you when the shift changes." Silently, the man nodded and left, following the entourage.
Julia glanced at her watch. The Doctor would return to his office in twenty minutes if his evening meeting didn't run over. That gave her enough time to formulate what she wanted to tell him.
Anything but I told you so.
"Sir, did I understand you correctly?"
Dr. Nambu paused to let the door from the videoconference arena close before he used a handkerchief to mop the perspiration from his face. "Yes. Let the impostor continue. I will send him out with the Kagaku Ninjatai and wait until he plays his hand. Have there been any communications between this Getz and anyone within G-Town or on ISO channels?"
"Not yet."
"Listen for it. Take as many people as you need to cover him, but be discreet."
"Of course. But sir, doesn't this endanger the Kagaku Ninjatai?"
"No. Not really. Thank you for your report." Turning his back on his astonished chief agent, Nambu continued to his office. The door slid closed behind him, shutting her out.
Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, thinking of the blond-haired young man who had stood on the other side of his desk only two weeks before. His final resource whom he had willingly thrown to the wolves. Another life snuffed out by the Syndicate. However,the appearance of a double gave him one final card to play. All he could do now was see the plan through and hope it worked; risk all so Eric's death would not be for nothing, not like the others'.
He had hoped to call the team in early in order to ease the introduction of Getz the Hawk, but now he canceled those plans. Grabbing his phone, he punched in a number.
"Kamo here."
"Kamo-gishicho, have you loaded the G-6 vehicle onto the New Godphoenix?"
"Yes."
"I want you to unload it. Also, retrieve the uniform and weapons for Hawk Getz."
"What? Is he dead?" The old engineer's voice sounded suddenly weary.
"He's on base now."
"Hakase?"
"Just do it. I'll explain later."
"I understand. But Hakase, are you removing him from the team?"
"No, I plan to make some last-minute modifications."
He could almost hear Kamo bristle defensively. "Is there something wrong with the designs?"
"Not at all. I have some ideas for enhancements."
"What will he use in the meantime?"
"I believe he and G-2 were the same size."
A brief, heavy silence. Then, "I'll take care of it." Kamo hung up slowly and the connection ended with a soft click.
Nambu placed the receiver back in its cradle, but didn't release it. He clutched the plastic handset until the pain lanced through his palm, his knuckles. Anything to stop his hand from shaking.
(To Be Continued) I took a couple of liberties with the G-II script in this section, specifically in dealing with the death of Getz. In the series, Getz's death seems to have taken place at his home, though I could not justify his returning home when he knew enemy agents had to be waiting for him there. I also took the liberty of adding a few more things to Getz's final speech. Eric's statement about Joe not being dead and that he never wanted to take Joe's place , and Joe's wanting to get to a hospital are all "artistic license." My rationale here is, in the episode, Joe only recounts to Mako the key parts of their final conversation. There could have been more that he did not care to discuss.
Shadows 8: Author's note