The Maya 1.14
Previously On The Maya...
The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.
George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.
Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.
Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.
Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.
After disappearing for a few months, Tuscon Sutton II is spotted in Tijuana, Mexico, and then 4.5 years later in Guadalajara. He trades gold for a large cargo plane and supplies he ships by freighter. No one from the mainland sees Sutton again, but over the next 55 years, more than 270,000 renounce their citizenship from various countries to live on the Isle of Use .
Before Kirkegaard can learn more about Sutton, the automated aircraft he and the others are on lands.
Meanwhile, the two unidentified federal officials plotting against Sutton are in a restaurant getting dinner. As they watch anxiously, a blip finally shows up on a portable radar screen, indicating that The Maya has landed.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
PART TWO: THE ISLE OF USE
Kirkegaard was the only one of the jet's passengers to enter the airport. There was a limousine waiting for each pair as they disembarked. For a moment, he thought one might be for him, but the drivers quickly picked out their parties, gathered their luggage and carried them off. Kirkegaard had also hoped for a chance to wave a proper goodbye to Amara, but that too faded as her transport sped away.
The airport entrance was only a few steps from where the plane parked, so he didn't have far to go. Not sure where else Jim might be waiting—if he were waiting—Kirkegaard gripped his bag and walked through the automatic sliding glass doors.
From the outside, the airport appeared to be moderately large. There were some other planes, mostly commuter-sized, taking off and landing, but nothing in the commercial jumbo jet range. A few other business jets were coming and going, as well.
On the inside, there was all kinds of airport staff, passengers, their families and well-wishers either welcoming or seeing off their loved ones. There were different gates at different angles around a circular hub. Kirkegaard was looking for Jim amongst the dozens of people scattered about, when one of the airport security guards walked up to him.
"Right this way, Mr. Kirkegaard," she said with a smile.
Her greeting and her warmth caught him off guard. It was almost like she knew him, which, of course, was impossible. Only her moving away to a counter caused him to follow.
There were four other women at the counter, half of which were engaged with other customers. The security guard took Kirkegaard to one of the remaining two, wished him a pleasant day and then continued on her rounds.
"Good morning, Mr. Kirkegaard," his attendant said.
"Good morning," he replied. Then, he ventured to ask, "How do you know my name?"
"It's your token," she said, pointing to his T-shirt's pocket.
Quizzically, Kirkegaard looked down. Then, he realized what she meant—the black piece of plastic with the smaller copper square he'd been given at the airfield in Eugene.
"You're tracking me." he said, touching the black plastic through the fabric of his shirt.
"Not really," the woman said. Her hand was held out, waiting for him to give her something. "We require all non-citizens visiting the island to have an ident-key to board their respective flights, and to help identify them once they're here. After that, we collect the token and you're free to go about your business."
Realizing now why her hand was out, Kirkegaard fished into his pocket and pulled out the plastic.
The woman took it, looked back down at her screen, frowned for a moment, but then gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, tapped the glass, and looked back up at Kirkegaard.
"It appears your sponsor, Jim Layton, is running a little late, but he's already on his way and should be here in no more than ten minutes," she said.
"Do you know that because you're tracking him, too?"
"No," the woman laughed. "He called."
"Oh."
"You're welcome to have a seat anywhere in the waiting areas, or head toward the exit. We'll make sure Mr. Layton is directed to your location."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure. Welcome to the Isle of Use. I hope you enjoy your stay."
Kirkegaard thanked her again, and then in a somewhat dazed fashion, began walking.
He decided the best place to go would be toward the exit. It would be the easiest way for Layton to find him, even if airport staff were watching his every move. Or something like that. Kirkegaard wasn't entirely sure what was going on here, but he couldn't shake the sense that things were...
What? Off? Different? As he tried to determine what was wrong, he couldn't come up with an adequate description. He took a seat, just off the circular hub in a hall marked exit, and studied what he had just left.
Clean. The first thing he noticed now, was how sparkling everything was. New. Fresh paint, gleaming windows, nice carpet, crisp tile—even the uniforms of the attendants and security guards appeared new, along with all of their equipment. The whole place had the appearance of having recently opened. Somehow, though, Kirkegaard didn't think so. He doubted there was enough people, or area, on this island for more than one international airport.
Then, there was the people themselves, starting with the workers. Courteous and professional on the one hand, young and good looking on the other. That might be expected in a work environment, where a company would want to put their best foot forward. But youthful, beautiful and fit did not just apply to the airport staff. It also could be said of the individuals, couples and families making their way to gates or sitting down waiting for their flights. There just wasn't anyone he could consider ugly, plain, obese, or for that matter, fake.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He expected to see Layton, smiling, reaching out to ask for a hug, but instead, he found a stranger, standing over him. The man was in a suit and was wearing a badge and a cowboy hat.
"Mr. Kirkegaard."
Kirkegaard blinked. "Yes."
"I'm agent Lander Smith with the Island Protection Bureau." He took out a long card with paragraphs of information and handed it to Kirkegaard. Kirkegaard glanced at the top two, which explained that the Island Protection Bureau, or IPB, was similar in function and authority as the FBI in the United States, and that a person was not waving their rights for an attorney or self-protective rights by speaking to him. The rest served as Smith's identification. When Kirkegaard handed it back, Smith took it, then gave him a professional card.
"Am I in trouble?" Kirkegaard asked.
'The Maya' now publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday in the evenings.
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.