The military conference room is much like any other I’ve been in, with little spared for comfort. However, the chilled air feels nice, but I’m still mostly too numb to notice. I’ve had a chance to shower and cat-nap on the way, after having my wounds looked at. I know I have to debrief after each mission while it’s still fresh, but there’s no way I’ll be able to forget what happened. And I’d like to get a little downtime before the kids show up the day after tomorrow. Their smiles and our banter might be a partial antidote to what has happened.
The door opens and two men walk in. One is clad in jeans and a T-shirt, the other in jeans and a sports coat over a button-up shirt. Even though they aren’t dressed in military clothing, there is no doubt that they once served. They are the liaisons who will take notes to put everything into a proper format and then send the report upward. I had actually anticipated men dressed in white with a load of syringes and a gurney to strap me onto after I sent my preliminary report.
One of the men opens a file and reads through several sheets of paper, then looks up.
“You know, I’ve read through this several times, and each time, it feels like I’m reading it in a different language by the time I get to the end. If some of this wasn’t verified by the exfil crew, I would say that you fell victim to some drug within that cave.”
“Believe me, I wish I had. The images and videos circling in my mind still don’t seem real. Were the bodies recovered?” I ask.
“We sent a recovery mission in this morning, but they were met by another team that was already there and told to leave. Apparently, they had clearance to do so. But, we did receive notice that the bodies were located, and they’re being returned as we speak,” the man answers.
“Another team? Who were they?” I question.
“I have no idea, but in addition to showing their clearance, orders were sent to us to recall our team. I’ve learned not to look too deeply into shit like that.”
Having worked for various three-letter departments, I can understand that mentality. When things like that happen, even though it’s difficult to do at times, it’s best to shrug and walk away. The last thing anyone needs is to suddenly find themselves blacklisted or surrounded by large men with 5 percent body fat and “asked” to accompany them.
“Fair enough,” I reply.
“So, let’s go through this from start to finish,” the man says, setting a recorder on the table and pressing record.
* * * * * *
A flock of crows take flight from the front yard as I pull into the driveway. Beams of afternoon sunlight streak through openings in the trees ringing the property, illuminating an acre of lawn that is in dire need of mowing. I live out in the country because I really don’t want to have the hustle and bustle of people around me. I need to unwind without the stress of constant noise. As I turn off the Jeep, I hear the familiar sound of my two Rotties barking at the front door.
Opening the door, I’m immediately beset by the furry beasts with their eager whines and prancing. Their bodies are wiggling so much that I’m not sure if they’re wagging their tails or their tails are wagging them. It’s like trying to pet a barrel full of energetic eels. My youngest forgets herself and jumps up to lick my face, her paws coming to rest on my chest. They may seem ferocious at times, but they’re really just two big hearts wrapped in fur. I scratch their heads and lean down, where I’m immediately engulfed with dog kisses.
“Oh, hey Dad. You’re home,” I hear Robert call from the living room.
“Hey, Robert,” I return.
After a few minutes, I walk through the forest of dog bodies, having to zig-zag left and right to make my way around them. In the living room, Robert is just setting down a gaming controller and rises to give me a hug.
‘How was work?” Robert asks.
“Boring as hell,” I answer.
“Puts food on the table, I guess. Speaking of, Bri asked if we could do pizza tomorrow. I guess she found this really good place.”
Stepping apart, Robert, who is taller than me by a couple of inches, stares back with his blue eyes framed by a closely cropped hair of darker blond as he waits for an answer. He’s eighteen and is staying with me as he attends a local college. I haven’t told anyone what I actually do for a living. To them, I’m a consultant who has to travel a lot.
“Yeah, I’m good with that,” I respond.
“Okay, I’ll let them know. I think they’re planning to come over tomorrow after school. Are you up for a game?” Robert asks, glancing at the Xbox.
“I’m sure I can be talked into one,” I reply.
That night, with two large lumps of fur stealing most of the bed, I stare at the ceiling as I go over every detail of the mission. Accepting the extension and returning was obviously a mistake, considering the outcome, and I can’t believe I allowed us to be talked into it. Wondering about how I could have seen something like that coming and done things differently keeps me from drifting off. Maybe we could have placed ourselves better.
Perhaps if we had all gone in together, we might have been able to walk away. We would have had enough firepower to potentially stall the single creature inside…maybe one of us would have seen it before it attacked. But, that would have left us without anyone covering our backside, which goes against everything I know. I can’t think of anything that would have ended in a different result, other than not going back to begin with.
The spine-tingling shudder I had at the first manor surfaces. I normally listen to intuition, but I’m not sure I can even classify what I felt as that. It both was and wasn’t.
And what in the fuck were we facing?
I’ve never encountered anything like what was on those jungle slopes, and I can’t wrap my mind around the images playing in my head. There’s a word that comes to mind, but I just can’t bring myself to say it because those things are only found in fairy tales and Hollywood. They can’t possibly be real. But, every time I play back the reel from that evening, there they are, bigger than shit. Part of me believes the images in my head, but another thinks that there must have been some chemical circulating in the destroyed lab that affected my sense of reality.
But, the chopper crew saw them as well. Why were there others already in place when the recovery team arrived? Who were they? And, why were ours recalled?
That aspect alone lends credence to my belief that it occurred the way I see it in my mind. I suppose it could be the DEA was tipped off about the lab and such, but they wouldn’t have the authority to trump our team. And they wouldn’t spirit the bodies away. At the very least, they would be sent to us.
During my introspection, I find myself jumping at shadows and sounds from outside. Each time, I reach for the blades by the side of my bed. I’d reach for a sidearm, but I don’t keep one in the house.
At the age of sixteen, I was with friends when I heard the sound of a gunshot. I ran outside and heard screaming coming from one of the apartments nearby. Running inside, I found a kid of about twelve sitting in a recliner, his head leaning to one side. Blood and clumps of brain were dripping from a hole in the side of his head into a larger pile that had already gathered. The wall behind him was splattered with blood and other pieces of tissue. With his eyes closed, he was gasping for each breath, but it was just synapses firing.
The worst part was another kid about the same age standing near the bottom of a narrow stairway screaming, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to,” over and over again while holding a revolver. I took the gun away and set it on the table, then took my shirt off and wrapped it around the boy’s head, tying it off and keeping pressure where the gigantic hole was. There wasn’t really anything to press against, so I just tried to keep whatever was still in there inside. All the while, the other boy was screaming.
My friends arrived and I told them to call an ambulance and the police—this was before 911 was implemented nationwide—and had them take the screaming boy outside. Then it was just the dead boy and me in the darkened house, him gasping for breath and me, well, it was a fucking mess, but I couldn’t just leave him. I held his head and told him to hang on, that help was coming. He convulsed once, then twice, and then stopped breathing. He died on a sunny summer afternoon, having fun with his friend, with only me by his side. The story is the same everywhere, kids playing with their dads’ guns and someone dies.
That’s why I don’t have guns in my house, locked or otherwise. I don’t want a sunny afternoon turned into some kid dying in a comfortable recliner, especially not mine. Now, knives? Those I have plenty of scattered throughout the house, and I feel confident using them. Flinching at every sound outside, imagining those creatures out in the dark, my thoughts return to the mission.
Calhoun’s team. They were lost on this operation as well. But, their manner of death doesn’t seem to fit with everything else. As far as I know, no one has stepped up to take credit. They were killed without firing a single shot, then they were branded, dragged, and discarded for us to find. What message could their death and branding be? Were they specifically targeted or were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time? If there was a leak on our level, then wouldn’t we have been targeted as well? There are too many questions and no answers.
None of it really makes sense except for the fact that I lost five friends and teammates. I feel horribly guilty and sick to my stomach that I didn’t find out what happened to Baker and the other two I left outside. And that we allowed ourselves to return. They were good men who deserved a little risk-taking on my part. I fall asleep deeply saddened by their loss.
* * * * * *
Bri and Nic walk in carrying four boxes, and the smell of pizza immediately fills the house. Bri is the youngest at sixteen, with fine golden hair hanging down to the middle of her back and bright blue eyes. Nic is a year older, and although the two look like sisters, Nic’s shoulder-length dark hair and hazel eyes are in direct contrast. I’m not sure if the furry ones are more eager for the pizza or to see my daughters. They don’t seem to know either as they sniff at the boxes being carried to the kitchen and alternatively whine to be petted as their tails make great sweeping arcs through the air.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever witnessed a full-grown Rottie’s tail being wagged excitedly, but let me tell you, it’s a weapon that can sweep a table clean in an instant. I don’t think they feel a thing as they slam into cupboard doors with loud, repetitive thumps that nearly shake the entire house. With plates full of pizza slices, we settle into an evening of talk and movies. After the horror I managed to live through, this is exactly what I need, to be surrounded by my kids and furry friends. Life just doesn’t get much better.
The weekend is spent taking walks through the woods with the dogs and playing at the river in the warm weather. We pick up BBQ and watch movies or play games. If there was anything good at the nearby drive-in, we’d pile chairs into the Jeep and make an evening of it. But, it’s not the event that makes it for me, it’s the time we spend together.
I’ve said before that my kids think I’m some sort of consultant, so I’m always taken aback when Bri and Nic seem to hug me tightly when we say goodbye and Bri whispers, “Stay safe, Dad.”
On Sunday morning, I’m notified to report to McChord Air Force Base for a meeting/debriefing the next afternoon. I fully anticipated something like this once my report had been circulated. It’s wild enough to warrant another look, and I fully expect to be notified that my services will no longer be required. In effect, I’ll be blacklisted, which means that a visit to the Walmart customer service desk for an application will be in order. Even though we managed to rescue the hostages, I also managed to lose an entire team.
* * * * * *
After securing my badge for entry through the gates and driving through roads placed seemingly at random, I arrive at the building indicated on what I’ve come to consider my summons. Even though I bitch and moan about going out on missions, I’m actually a little saddened by the thought that it will all be over. Plus, I’d always hoped to be able to leave on my own terms.
Walking into the conference room, I see there are a few people who have arrived before me seated at one end of a conference table. Three distinguished looking gentlemen and a nice looking blonde woman, all carrying a military bearing but not wearing uniforms, are sitting together and give me a nod without saying a word. Feeling like I’ve stepped into the beginnings of an inquisition which could end with being burned at a stake, I take a seat closer to the end of the far side.
A minute later, another gentleman in fatigues and one civilian enter. Seeing the stars occupying the collar of the one man, I stand at a near semblance of attention. My old military habits just can’t help themselves sometimes. I recognize the civilian accompanying the general as one of my contacts. I don’t know who he works for and never really cared. It’s not like I’d be told who the hell I was working for on any particular contract anyway. Our nondisclosure agreements were really just to keep the honest man honest. Yeah, there would be hell to pay for breaking one, but whoever sends us out really just wants that extra layer of security.
“At ease, Captain. Have a seat,” the general says, sitting across from me.
“I’m not a captain anymore, sir. That was a different life and a long time ago,” I reply, sitting.
“Once a captain, always a captain in my eyes, son.”
The general and my contact haven’t even acknowledged the four individuals at the other end of the table. And the fact that a general is here is making me a little uncomfortable, to say the least. Mentally, I’m looking at the exits and gauging my chances to get away when this starts going south. My odds aren’t good, but I’d rather go out trying than be led willingly to my own accident.
“Walker, it’s not like that,” my contact states, seeing my eyes drift toward the closed doors.
“Mmmhmm,” I answer.
“What’s not like what?” the general asks.
“Sir, he’s contemplating how fast he can get out of that door,” my contact answers, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder. “And probably calculating his odds of getting off base without being caught.”
“Traitor,” I mumble.
The general laughs. “And what do you think his odds are?”
“Well, sir, honestly, if he’s able to get out of the door and building, probably pretty good. Of course, we know where he lives, so…” my contact leaves the rest hanging.
“Son, no one is going to hold you here and you’re free to leave of your own volition once we’ve had a chance to talk,” the general says.
Generals are so fond of saying “son” that I let that part go. They want to be seen as protectors, I guess, or it elevates their status. I don’t know and don’t really care. I do know their jokes are supposedly funnier and their stories legend. I guess having a star somehow grows one’s sense of humor, one that begins with an eagle. With that aside, I will say that I respect their position…for the most part.
My contact reaches to his briefcase and extracts a folder, which he then opens and pushes in front of the general. Meanwhile, at the end of the table, the four are saying nothing, looking on at the proceedings with little to no expression. I wonder if they’re my firing squad, no matter what the general says. I contemplate asking them if they’d get me a donut, just to see their reaction, but the little guy in my brain shuts down that idea right away. The four sit there as if forced to watch the most boring television show ever.
“Mr. Walker,” the general opens after a few minutes of reading, this time forgoing my previous rank. “It looks like you have quite the story.’
“It’s not one I’d ever like to have again,” I reply, noting in my peripheral a hint of reaction from one at the other end.
“I can understand that. Losing men isn’t ever easy. I know it may be hard, but I’d like to hear the story from start to finish,” the general says.
I have a sneaky suspicion that this request is made for the four at the end of the table. Honestly, they’d be better suited if they’d hid in another room and watched via a camera setup. It seems they’re being a little too mysterious and over-emoting their position. I don’t know if their being here is supposed to be intimidating enough to make me alter my story or what, but I’ve never liked being intimidated. I wonder what their reaction would be if I casually reached around behind my back and launched a small double-edged dagger their way. And yes, I carried one past security. Even though they checked, if you arch your back, without being overly conspicuous, the lumbar can hide a small knife relatively well with the right precautions—enough to carry you past a pat down. The secret is to have one with a minimal hilt. Mine is taped to the lower middle of my back, secured with the handle down to make it easy to reach.
I tell my story, from beginning to end. At the end of it, the general glances quickly down to the end of the table. One of the men nods ever so slightly. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that the group, or perhaps the one man in particular, is truly leading this meeting, implying someone who has a higher authority than a general. It could be that they only have authority in this situation. But, I know that if I gave a head nod like that to a general, it would be a year before they stopped laughing.
“Okay, Mr. Walker. Thank you for your time. I don’t have to remind you that you have an NDA in place and you’re not to mention this mission or meeting to anyone. Now, I’m going to leave you with these gentlemen and lady. They’d like to have a word with you before you go,” the general says.
“Am I free to walk out now?” I ask, rising.
“After you’ve had your word,” the general says.
“So, that would be a no,” I mutter, sitting back down.
“Mr. Walker,” the man at the head of the table begins. “First of all, let me say that we believe your story in its entirety.”
“I’m not sure I do,” I reply.
Ignoring my comment, he continues, “We represent a certain group who can use your skillset.”
“And what will my skillset be used for?” I ask.
I’m extremely worried, as I know there are a lot of shadow groups who use special ops personnel for some very unpleasant tasks. In certain arenas, they turn from taking care of the bad guys to becoming one themselves. As much as I hate some of the things I’ve done, in the end, I’ve always attempted to do what’s right. Now, that may not seem so from the other side’s viewpoint, but it’s how I operate nonetheless. As bad as are some of the things I have to do in order to accomplish a mission, I do have a conscience and I try to listen to it. I try not to be cruel or malicious in the things I have to do.
“That is where we get to the sticky part of the conversation. Unfortunately, it’s one of those things you have to agree to before I can tell you what the job entails. You can sign a dozen NDAs and it won’t make a difference,” the man answers.
“This has a ring of a private military corporation. I’m going to tell you right off the bat that I’m not a fan. If this is an introduction into one, tell me now and we’ll part ways,” I say.
The man chuckles. “I can tell you this isn’t a PMC.”
“Any other hints that you’d care to share?” I query.
“It isn’t cat juggling. Well, perhaps it actually might be like cat juggling,” the man answers.
The others around the table haven’t changed their expressions one iota.
“If there’s a chance I’ll get to juggle cats, then I’m intrigued,” I comment.
“With this, there won’t be any rewards or accolades, other than compensation.”
“Well, I’m not one for chasing colorful ribbons anyway,” I say.
This has the smell of a three-letter department recruiting, but I already contract with those, whether they’re on the paper or not. That’s just common knowledge. What they seem to be offering isn’t much different than what I’m doing already, so there has to be a catch somewhere. I ask the question.
“It will be full-time. No more contracts, but you will respond when activated. And, it won’t be a conglomeration of teams thrown together based on availability. You’ll be working with one team each and every time,” the man responds.
I ask a few more questions, but I’ve had better conversations with brick walls for all the answers I receive.
“What will be the focus of our endeavors?”
“Look, Mr. Walker, I’m not able to tell you much, but I can assure you that it fits in line with the moral standards you’ve shown to date. I’m only going to say this, and it’s more than I should. Do you remember those creatures that took down your team?”
“Yes,” I reply.
He just looks at me. I understand the implication he’s getting at, but my mind goes wild with thoughts. If they’re hinting at going after them, I barely survived the first encounter. And that was mostly because of luck. The prospect they seem to be offering won’t be trying to outsmart people or security systems, but on a whole different level. I’m not sure I want to ever face something like that again.
The man slaps a card on the table and rises, the other three standing with him.
“Mr. Walker. I’ll leave you some time to think on it, with the assurance that you’ll be operating with equally skilled personnel. Call this number if you’re interested. I wouldn’t take forever; the number will be disconnected after twenty-four hours. If you choose not to call, no harm done and you’ll return to your previous status. And, if we don’t hear from you within the allotted time, we were never here,” the man says, then the four of them leave without another word.
Having risen with the group, I stroll over to the table and retrieve the card. There’s nothing but a printed number on it. No identification as to whom the number belongs to. This seems a little overdramatic, and I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of Men in Black.
To be honest, I feel torn. It would be nice to have something full time, but then my time wouldn’t be my own. As it is, I can accept or turn down an offered contract. Of course, turn down too many and the calls stop coming in. And, if I opt in, then I’m in. With these types of organizations, there isn’t an “I quit” option after learning what it’s about. There will more than likely be a termed contract that will need to be signed along with a whole slew of NDAs. Plus, there’s the implication that part of the job might entail meeting up with the same creatures—and yes, the man using that exact term wasn’t lost on me—and I’m not sure any encounter like that could end any differently than it did before.
I’m saved from any further contemplation as the general and my contact return, the contact poking his head in the doorway.
“Jack, there’s one other thing we’d like to show you,” he says, backing up and sweeping his arm.
I stuff the number in my pocket and follow. We enter another conference room, this one carrying a much different atmosphere. There’s a crowd of people standing at one end, some of whom I recognize from photographs, although they’re much cleaner at this meeting.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Captain Walker,” the general states.
The hostages we rescued and some of their family step forward, giving me thanks and shaking my hand. Some of the women give me pecks on the cheek and hugs. One young woman gives me a hug and whispers “I’m so sorry” in my ear. Apparently, they were told about the men lost during their rescue, which makes me feel a little better—they’ll be remembered as heroes in these people’s lives. Even though they were lost after the rescue, it does my heart good.
I know the general is introducing me this way to make it look like a purely military operation rather than a bunch of contractors. The stories told across the world say that a special ops team went in and rescued the hostages.
I really don’t know what to say. Many eyes are wet with tears; moms, dads, family members, and the hostages themselves. I really didn’t need this, but they apparently wanted to meet with their rescuers, only to be informed that five of them died during the operation. I’m not sure if they were told about the other team, but their joy at being alive makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I give the standard phrases: “Just doing my job” and “My pleasure.”
However, seeing their happiness at being alive and their families’ joy floods my heart with the same feelings. This, lives saved and families restored, is why I do my job. I honestly don’t need, or really want, accolades, but I have to say that it’s nice seeing them appreciate the sacrifices.
The senator approaches. “Captain, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Words just aren’t enough. And, I’m sorry about your men. I know that the trade of five men for my daughter, and the others, may not seem fair, but their sacrifice won’t be forgotten. Thank you.”
There isn’t the offer of “look me up when you get out,” and the lack of it makes the thank you all that much more sincere. One young man told me how this experience, his being rescued, and the sacrifices made on his behalf, caused him to rethink his life, and that he was going to make something of it. That he wanted the lost men to be proud of whom they had rescued.
The meeting is short, but filled with emotion. Soon, the rescued hostages and their families leave after another round of thank yous, handshakes, and hugs. I’m both numb and overwhelmed at the same time, cycling through the feelings.
As I’m escorted to the entrance, the general lays a hand on my shoulder. “Son, you have a difficult decision ahead of you. Just know that there isn’t a right or wrong one here.”
The drive home is a mix of emotions. However, the senator’s thank you and the woman’s soft whisper of “I’m so sorry” sit in the forefront of my mind. I haven’t had much of a chance for an emotional release following the mission, and it catches up to me halfway home. I have to pull over as hot tears stream down my cheeks. I’m an absolute wreck as joy and sorrow fill the same space.
It comes upon the soul,
Unbidden, stealthily creeping in,
Then, grabbing sorrowfully hold in its powerful grip,
The painful void in the heart,
Reacts with involuntary tears,
The hot liquid dripping over cheeks,
Once buried under years of compression,
The memories surface,
Their voices crying out to be heard once more,
Sorrow builds to overwhelming levels,
Yet crying through it all,
Triumph rides company,
Through tears that threaten to rip the soul apart,
A hand gently caresses and a voice whispers,
“It’s okay, it’s okay, you made it.”
I’m sure, when I’m older, I’ll just be that bitter guy who cries in the corner while sucking on his thumb.
Back at the house, I only have a few hours before a decision has to be made either way. The competitive nature in me is fighting with the desire for things to remain as they are. I’m not really competitive against others, although it may seem that way at times. I’m competitive with myself. I’m always seeking to learn or improve, no matter in what area. I push myself, sometimes to the point where I’m faced with an “Oh shit, I’m about to die.”
The number lies on my desk in front of me, as if I’m having an internal dialogue with it. I feel like I’m standing on the edge and that, with one phone call, I’ll step over it and into another world. It’s just a feeling I get staring at the ten digits imprinted on the card. I like the time I have to be my own to control…for the most part. I enjoy time with my kids, and I’m not sure how that will change.
The man at the table mentioned that I wouldn’t be facing anything that would go against my moral standards, for whatever that’s worth. Some would view what I do as highly immoral, but I don’t have to live with them. I only have to live with myself, even if that’s kind of a hard thing to do at times.
Several times, I reach for my phone, even dialing the first numbers. I’ve been in this business for a while, and it’s nice knowing I can quit at any time. I have a little saved up and can survive on that, so that’s not the issue. What’s really stopping me is that I’m not getting any younger. Whatever I’m going to do, these are pretty much the last few years I’ll be able to do it. I’ve lived my life in a way that I won’t have any regrets for not following opportunities…I can sit and not fester over the things I should have taken advantage of.
I pick up the phone and dial the number, my heart pounding as it rings through. The call is answered on the second ring.
“Grab pen and paper,” a modulated voice states.
“Done.”
I’m given an address and time to meet, then the call goes dead with a click.
* * * * * *
I’m in a coffee house, the morning rush in full swing. I glance at each of the customers, trying to see if they’re paying me special attention. A couple make eye contact, smile, and then look away. I hate crowds, and the general hubbub inside is grating on my nerves. A man suddenly appears, pulling out a chair. His ponytail streaked with gray hair swings around like a whip as he abruptly sits and sets a worn briefcase in the chair next to him.
“Mr. Walker?” the man asks.
I nod, not even bothering to ask his name, as I know I’ll be given a bullshit one.
“I can’t answer much, but if you have any questions, now is the time to ask,” he says, our voices barely heard above the din.
“Will my time at home alter much?”
“Not much. But, you won’t have the option to turn down the call. You’ll have what time there is between operations to yourself. Know that you’ll be monitored for the first while, both for your protection and ours,” the man answers.
“Will there be advance notice of any call-ups?”
“We do the best we can to give advance notice, but sometimes, as you well know, that’s not possible.”
“And how long are the standard operations?”
“Well, I’d hardly call what you’ll be doing ‘standard,’ but you can plan on them being a little longer than you are used to. If you’re concerned about time with your three kids, I’d say you’ll get equal time with them, but that’s all I can say.”
It wouldn’t take much to know about my kids, but I don’t like him bringing them up. It feels kind of like a threat, but I also know that’s probably just my protective instinct forging to the front. Fuck with my family, and I won’t bring the rain to your day, your day will just end.
“Life and health insurance?”
“Your kids will be very well off for the rest of their lives. The medical is taken care of.”
“And what do the operations entail?” I ask, knowing he won’t answer, but I’m seeing how far I can go with the questions.
The man just stares at me, then gives a small shake of his head.
“Fair enough,” I chuckle. “I’m done with my questions.”
“So, I’ll need a yes or no. Yes, we move forward. No, I walk out of here and we never met. Your life will continue as before and you’ll not hear from us again.”
“Yes,” I say, knowing I’ve just committed myself to things beyond my control.
It’s both scary and exhilarating. If I didn’t have the kids to think about, there would be no hesitation. Other than fueling my adrenaline addiction, I’ve always felt that what I do has protected my kids in some way. That if I take out the bad guys, there will be fewer around to harm them. I know, it’s out there, but it’s what I carry with me. And, even if it weren’t for my kids, then it’s for someone else’s. But, the thought of facing those creatures again, if that’s what the man truly alluded to, will more than likely end with a life insurance policy being cashed out. But I’ve already given my answer.
“Follow me, then.”
We end up at a table in the library of a community college. He pulls stacks of paper from inside the briefcase and places them in front of me, encouraging me to read every word and assuring me that he has all the time I need. I’ve never been good at reading lawspeak, but the phrasing of the documents is quite clear in its contexts and ramifications. “Tell and you die” is a pretty easy concept to comprehend.
I sign the forms and he stacks them neatly into a manila envelope, sealing it shut. He then withdraws another and hands it to me.
“Your ID and other pertinent information is in there. Follow the instructions in the enclosed letter and report to the facility at the time indicated. Welcome to the team,” he says, rising and extending his hand.
Then he leaves, and that’s that. I peek into the envelope, seeing a military ID card with an associated vehicle tag. Looking at the identification, I learn that it seems that I’ve been brought back into the Air Force as a captain. There are instructions to report to Petersen Air Force Base in two weeks’ time, along with flight arrangements from McChord AFB and notes that I’ll be met at the aircraft. I have to admit that it was thoughtful of them to give me another weekend with all of the kiddos. Stuffing the materials back into the envelope, I leave.
* * * * * *
As I head down the lowered ramp of the C-130, the dry warmth of the high plain of Colorado feels nice after the bumpy ride. I have a lot of hours flying the 130, but it’s definitely a different experience being in the back as opposed to occupying the driver’s seat. I’m met at the base ops building and settle into the back seat of a black Suburban. So far, it’s really not much different than when reporting in for any old contract, with the exception that I have no idea what I’m going to be doing.
The weekend with the kids was peaceful and filled with laughs, movies, and food that should have outright killed us. This time, the movies playing at the drive-in were worth watching, so we piled into the Jeep and watched with the top down. Those are the times worth living, rather than seeking the adrenaline that I seem to require. When I see them laughing and freely living their lives, it gives me a sense of happiness that makes slogging through jungles and sleeping drenched through a downpour worthwhile.
Leaving the base, we head out of Colorado Springs and down Highway 115. I realize things are going to get interesting when we take the turn off to Norad Road. Other than a large housing development at the base of Cheyenne Mountain, there’s only one place the road leads. The NORAD facility once served as the North American Aerospace Defense Command, but those operations were transferred to Petersen AFB and NORAD was placed in a warm standby mode.
After the checkpoint, we turn onto a side road prior to arriving at the main entrance. The road winds through hills lined with pumice dirt and sparse pine trees until an almost vertical slope rises to one side. Passing another checkpoint filled with concrete pads, we drive through a concrete entrance that cuts into the mountain.
Entering yet another conference room, the lead man I originally spoke with and the woman rise as I walk in.
“Mr. Walker, welcome,” the lead man says, shaking my hand.
“I’m glad to be here…I think,” I reply.
“You can call me Cyrus, and I’d like to introduce Ms. Connell. She’ll be your contact and liaison for your team. She’ll provide your intel and facilitate any requests you might have. She is a prior Army master sergeant and has full knowledge of the contacts within the various intelligence agencies,” the man states.
“Call me Lynn,” the woman says, shaking hands.
“Jack will do for me,” I offer.
I’m both worried and intrigued by her. She is a striking woman with bright blue eyes, short-cropped blonde hair, and a diminutive but toned stature. My concern is that I’m going to have to behave if we’re to keep a working relationship, but it may not be easy as I notice the lack of ring on her finger.
“Are you planning to do a palm reading, Jack?” Lynn asks as I note our handshake lasted a touch longer than was warranted.
“Nah. I’m afraid I’ll find out that you’re more intelligent and will live longer than me,” I respond.
“I don’t need my palm read to know the truth of that.”
“Fair enough.”
“Jack, have a seat,” Cyrus says, sitting. “We have a lot to cover and I’m sure you have questions.”
Cyrus begins to explain what the job entails. As I expected, with each detail, I slip further and further over the edge to insanity. According to what he’s saying, we’re to keep “infestations” under control. Now, that sounds all fine and dandy, but the things he’s talking about are creatures from childhood horror stories. I don’t know whether to take the man seriously or if I’m about to be punked. However, the images of the night in Mexico surface and I can’t immediately discount what he’s saying. He goes on to say that the Organization, as he calls it, is a secret one that very few know exists, but they have the capability to call on a wide avenue of resources…and that’s where Lynn comes in with regards to the team I’ll be assigned to.
“Okay, I’m going to file away everything you just said for a later review. I want to know…” I begin.
“Why you?” Cyrus interrupts.
“Yeah, something along those lines.”
“Well, you’ve proven that you know how to fight them,” Cyrus replies.
“Fight them? Are you insane? I didn’t know how to do much of anything other than to run. I managed to kill, what, one, maybe two, and they went through five highly trained men like we were bugs and they were the windshield of a semi,” I state.
“You actually killed five. One in single combat, one when escaping the cave, and three others with the claymores. That’s not even mentioning the one you knocked off the cliff. I call that a feat, considering,” Cyrus says. “And, before you ask, yes, they were our people who dismissed the rescue team.”
“I get now why you were there, but what have you done with my team?”
“They have been returned to their families and we covered the burial expenses,” Cyrus answers.
“And the other team…Calhoun’s?”
“We think that was a separate incident, but we’ve taken that under our purview as we can’t be overly cautious.”
“And what did you learn?”
“The method used to kill them was entirely different, as you’re already aware. A single wound, most of them non-fatal, most likely the result of an arrow or crossbow bolt. We weren’t able to locate the weapons, but each delivered a cocktail of a fast-acting sedative and lethal, fast-acting poisons. From our initial analysis, it appears that they were hit simultaneously and were immediately immobilized. The poisons then did their work. Considering the results of the autopsies, they were dead within minutes of being struck,” Cyrus responds.
“They were branded,” I state.
“Yes, with what looks like a hajal bird. Do you know what that signifies?” Cyrus queries.
“That they’re some Greenpeace fringe group?”
“The hajal bird was the symbol of ancient Hashashins…commonly referred to as ‘assassins’ in today’s world,” Cyrus explains.
“So, what? This was done by some special ops folks who hate us and have taken up that as their symbol?” I ask.
“We’re not sure at this point, nor are we sure how or why they keyed in on Calhoun’s team. Like yourself, they were contractors. But, whoever did this might not know enough to understand the difference. Or, they might have known and didn’t care.”
“Could the cartels have upped the ante and started training or hiring elite groups of their own?” I question.
“It’s a possibility, but I wouldn’t place odds on it at this juncture. If that was their doing, then there would have been global announcements in order to advance their reputation. As yet, there hasn’t been a word, publicly or on any of the underground sites,” Cyrus explains.
“So, this could be a message, only we don’t know what it is,” I say.
“That’s a possibility.”
“And there had to have been a leak. They knew exactly where to find them and where they were going,” I state.
“That’s being looked into by other agencies, but the circumstances certainly lean in that direction,” Cyrus says.
“So, you’ve inherited a mountain,” I say, changing the subject as I know that thread of the conversation is over for the moment.
“Mr. Walker, we’ve been around a long time and have always been a part of this facility. The other section is on a warm standby status, but we’re still in operation. We utilize certain features here and piggyback on some of the systems. There are others like you, but we need a constant influx of fresh teams in order to keep the infestations under control.”
“By infestations, you mean childhood monsters,” I say.
“Something like that. They’ve been around, and known about, for a long time. That’s why the Organization was created long ago. Our job is to see that they don’t spill over into the main populace and create a panic. They’re in the dark corners of the world, and when we learn of them, we go in and root them out.”
“I’ve been in some pretty dark corners and have never heard of anything like them,” I reply.
“That’s because we’re doing our job. We manage to keep it from becoming known and you hear about them only on the fringes where the tin-foil hats reside.”
“So, that stuff is true?”
“Some is, but not most of it. Most of that is made up to sell the papers and magazines, and some of it is manufactured and embellished by us. That way, anything reported isn’t really taken that seriously before it gets dumped into the lunatic category,” Cyrus responds.
“That makes sense, I guess.”
“Now, it’s not like the world is currently being overrun with them, so we focus on special cases. Aside from tracking down creatures when they get out of hand, you’ll be assigned tasks much like the ones in your old contracts. After all, you have to stay sharp; we can’t very well have you lying on the beach sipping fruity drinks, now can we?”
“Why not? That sounds perfectly fine with me. We could call it training,” I state.
Cyrus chuckles. “Would you like to meet your team?”
“In a moment, but I have a couple additional questions first. This, well, organization. Does it have a name?”
“It’s merely called the Organization. We don’t have patches for you to wear or any formal charter in writing. We operate outside of normal discretions for the reasons I’ve mentioned. That said, I’ll hold to my original promise that we won’t ask for anything outside of the moral character you’ve already displayed.”
“I’m not aware I displayed any moral character.”
“I’ve read the ops reports, so I’ll have to disagree with you there. Although you’ve been involved in some nasty stuff, you aren’t cruel or masochistic about how you take care of business.”
“I still don’t see how you can take out what I ran into without an armada of B-52s carpet-bombing the place. You sound confident that it’s possible, so I’m guessing there will be additional training and some fun toys I get to play with,” I say.
“There are ways, and you and your team will be provided with adequate training and additional knowledge. We have some nice gadgets, but nothing like what the movies portray,” Cyrus responds.
“So, no UV light bombs to disintegrate masses of vampires?”
There, I actually said the word. My mind is still reeling from the conversation I’m having and I am kind of wishing I hadn’t dialed the number. Or signed. Here’s where pushing myself lands me in trouble.
“No, nothing like that. I know this is a bit much to take all at once, but it’s not a joke. This organization is needed to maintain a balance. As you know, there are many different levels to civilization, and many exist below the surface of the majority—terrorist cells, back room business dealings, corruption, cruelty and genocide, depraved individuals on the loose, all of that. This is one of those deeper levels, kept secret, but one that nonetheless exists. Our job is to handle matters before they ever fully reach the surface. Something along the lines of what you previously did.”
“Fair enough.”
“And, we can’t go around carpet-bombing as you mentioned. The things we do must be done in secret. There would be a bit of an uproar if we just up and flattened part of Mexico. There are very few who know about us. We’re well-financed and able to use resources at our discretion, but we can’t do things that will bring the organization into the light of day.”
“And that’s what we’re trying to prevent these creatures from doing?”
“Exactly.”
“I get that. Okay, let’s see what poor souls you’ve sentenced,” I say.