The Maya 1.9
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—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 following his friend's directions to the letter, a baffled and short fused George Kirkegaard has just turned into the lot of what appears to be an abandoned airfield just outside of Eugene, Oregon.
And now...the next installment of The Maya.
Kirkegaard parked and turned off the motor. Why hadn't Jim told him he was going to an airport? It had dawned on him coming down that Kirkegaard didn't really know where Jim moved to. In fact, the last conversation Kirkegaard remembered having about Jim's future was it was still up in the air. When Jim gave him the Eugene address, Kirkegaard thought they'd made the move south.
Unless a plane was waiting in the hangar, along with a flight crew, Kirkegaard didn't see how he would be going anywhere from here. Was it even safe to leave his car, or was that what the hangar was for?
Maybe the terminal had a phone. He'd call Jim and sort this out. When he opened the car door, he heard a noise, an approaching aircraft. Then he caught sight of a green dot, descending from the North. The dot gradually grew until he could tell it was a business jet.
That solved one mystery. The field was still in use, and by someone wealthy. Kirkegaard wondered if that was the plane he would be boarding. He'd flown commercially often enough, but never on anything so small or luxuriant.
The jet landed on the runaway, disappeared behind the terminal, then looped back around before disappearing again. He waited a few moments to see if it was taking off immediately. When a few minutes passed and it was still there, he removed his piece of luggage from the trunk, locked the car, and started walking toward the terminal.
There was no one inside, but he could see through the windows lining the far wall there were people near the plane, some of which seemed to be prepping it for takeoff. A fuel line was connected, and a man on a radio was checking under wings and the rest of the exterior. Kirkegaard couldn't see much of the people waiting along the windows, just the back of their heads and shoulders, but there were clearly two men and two women. They were making no attempt to board the refueling plane.
Though the counter in front of the bay of windows was deserted, he went to it, unsure what else to do. He found no one squatting down or on bended knee behind the counter. He waited there, thinking maybe someone outside would come in to attend him, but after several minutes, no one came his direction. Some more minutes after that, the fuel hose was disengaged, and two men, including the one with the radio, saluted the others waiting near the windows and then boarded the light green jet. The plane taxied to the runway and took off in the same direction it came.
No one came inside. Were they expecting another jet? Kirkegaard tried to get their attention, but the one or two times they glanced back, either they could not see him, or they ignored him. Finally, not knowing what else to do, he headed toward double doors at the far end of the counter.
When he first entered, Kirkegaard noticed the five-foot rectangular box parallel to the corner of the counter, but not knowing what it was, he didn't give it much thought. Now, as he rounded it, he saw it had a screen with a list of instructions on it. It was a touchscreen kiosk for passengers, with options and step-by-step directions.
Deciding this was some kind of self-check-in, Kirkegaard did as he was told. He inserted his drivers license into a slit and watched the machine suck it inside. The information on the card appeared, with his photograph, on the screen. Then, corresponding data appeared next to his license information. The readout included an age range of 25-30, which coincided with his birthdate, his height, which the kiosk added three-eights of an inch to, then his weight. There, he was under by three pounds. Information appeared stating that facial recognition points matched, and that his address had been verified.
That done, his drivers license spat back out and he was asked to place his thumb on a square piece of glass to the right side of the screen. He did so. As he leaned in, he thought he saw a red line flash across his face about eye level. It was gone before he could react. As he leaned away, he saw the last set of instructions. Please retrieve your boarding token. Near the bottom of the kiosk, he found an opening, like on a vending machine. He bent down and picked up a small flat square of black plastic. As he turned it over in his hand, he discovered a smaller square of copper on the other side. The kiosk indicated it was through with him and bid him a good flight. Then, the screen went blank.
A low rumble settled over the building. For a split second, Kirkegaard wondered if something had gone wrong with his information gathering, then he saw a second plane land from the south. As it rolled by, he noted it was longer in both fuselage and wings than the first, with gleaming white paint, except for the tail, where there was a rather detailed colored outline of an island. He didn't recognize the land mass, and there was no lettering to identify it. As the jet made its way back to the terminal, the four people waiting outside headed toward it.
'The Maya' now publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday in the evenings (PST).
Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.