“Pull her out.” Sam’s shoes clipped on the tiles as he moved toward the elevator. Then he changed tack and headed for the stairs. Not today. Angela stammered on the other line.
“Excuse me? Mr. Reilly, I promise I will give her your message as soon as—”
“Just pull her now. I’ll be at her office in about as long as it takes me to run down these stairs. I don’t have time to wait. A man’s life is at stake.”
Sam disconnected before he could say anything else.
Sam clattered down the steps, the noise echoed loudly, competing with his chaotic thoughts. He had no idea what he should do. Ethan had seemed like a decent fellow, even going to the trouble of reentering the warzone to supposedly help retrieve the key. Why risk all their lives for something he knew would be a wasted trip; unless he had something major to cover up?
Was he in the glue?
Did they have something on him?
Were his actions of his own volition?
Was he under threat and ultimately innocent?
What was Sam going to do?
He reached ground level without reaching any conclusions.
Sam rounded the corner quickly, headed to the secretary of defense’s office and barged in.
The Secretary was sitting at her desk, and with a scowl. Angela, at the desk nearby, looked like she was going to cry. Shit.
“Why the hell did you call me out from a meeting with North Korea?” The secretary was a formidable woman and Sam had huge respect for her. What he didn’t have, was time.
“Well, I didn’t know you were in a meeting with a damn nuclear superpower.” Sam struggled. “I’m sorry, Madame Secretary, but I…”
“That will be all, Angela. You may go.”
Sam asked, “You’re firing her?”
The Secretary folded her arms. “I need a team who can protect me and the interests of this country, not letting just anyone through the damn door.”
Sam shook his head. “Stop Angela, you’re fine. This is more important.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. He faced the Secretary full-on. “I found the key, ma’am.”
“So retrieve it. What’s the problem?”
Sam handed her the summarized report of the forensic analysts. He watched as the Secretary’s eyes widened. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction: Never in his years working with her had he ever seen the secretary of defense frozen with surprise. I guess you learn, or rather see, something new every day.
The Secretary looked up. “If this is true, then others are coming for him.” Her brow furrowed. “He’s a SEAL; he’ll be hard to silence.”
“Which means that his life is in danger.” Sam ran his hands through his hair. “For the most part he’s on a military base, isn’t he? At least on base it won’t be so easy to get to him.”
The Secretary shook her head. “I don’t think he is.” She glanced at Angela, who hovered, uncertain what to do. “Leave us, Angela. We’ll talk later. For now, make sure no one comes through that door – and I do mean nobody – not even Rocket Man himself.” She turned back to Sam as Angela ducked out, closing the door behind her. “Let me bring up his personnel file.”
Sam impatiently waited for the database to load. The largest government backed by the most funding, undisputed, had a technical infrastructure requiring a minimum of 30 seconds to load. If it took this long to spit out a few kilobytes of data, I’d hate to need intel in the heat of battle, thought Sam.
The Secretary sighed. “He’s stateside. He’s had three tours of duty and is finally taking some much-needed and well-earned R and R.”
Sam stood up. Time was absolutely critical. “Where?”
“I mean, his home, right?”
Sam could not believe his ears. Why would the secretary be joking around at a time such as this? He leaned forward and slapped both hands on the desk. “Where!”
Her easy tone evaporated. “Small condo. A mile from the Navy SEAL base, at Little Creek, Virginia.”
Sam was already walking towards the door.
“A thank you would be nice!” the Secretary called after him.
Sam turned around. “The only thank you that’s needed is from you to me after I rescue this rogue soldier of yours.” Their eyes met, level. It was a little far, but he’d had a bad day. “I think we both know what happens if I don’t.”
Sam kept his front to her until he was out the door – barely – then turned and strode swiftly down the hall.
A wide-eyed Angela watched him go.
Chapter Forty-One
Little Creek, Virginia
Ethan trudged up the street toward the condo he’d called home for the past two years. He still had to count driveways to find which house was his. The rest of the houses looked eerily the same. The grass was brown from lack of water and too much sun. It rustled in waves with every small gust of wind, creating ripples along the road verge, where it slowly disappeared, like Ethan’s thoughts, which floated and fell away.
He flexed the fingers of both hands around the heavy bag of groceries that kept him balanced and resettled his big hikers’ backpack on his shoulders. He could have taken a cab to the grocery store three miles away, but he needed the action. He could think better when he walked. Who was he kidding? He hadn’t walked six miles, round trip, in a summer heat which felt balmy compared to Syria, merely because he wanted to think. In all honesty, he’d walked to the store and back, even though he wasn’t in any mood to cook, because he wanted to not think.
It had been two weeks since his last engagement as a SEAL. He’d made it back stateside without incident and had mostly adjusted to the green and the moisture and the unsettling sights of wood siding and asphalt with yellow lines and small-town signage in English. He’d suffered through the well-meaning salutations and proffered speculation about his tour from the small-town gossips and men who’d known him since he was a boy. He had made peace again with small-town-Ethan and he’d gotten used to showers without waiting in line, but he couldn’t shrug off the feeling of edgy alertness.
It was like a constant feeling that eyes were watching him. That had always been the case here in Little Creek, par for the course in any small town. But now it felt like he had a weapon trained on his back.
Was this the dreaded post-traumatic stress disorder that was whispered about among all the soldiers, but never high-ranking officers? Sure, they had given the SEALs a lesson on mental health and talked about PTSD, but it was only one class. The lecturers just told them to reference the Health Division and their problems would be solved. But he knew friends who’d fallen away to the supposed “disease”. One of them went on a rampage with his family before he was pulled out by the cops and thrown into prison. Others drank themselves into shadows of their former life. Others simply… went crazy. Was it happening to Ethan now?
He shook his head, even though there was no one there, and gripped the bag harder. He had to make sure for himself. No. He knew there were resources out there to help him adjust, but no one had told him explicitly what those resources might be. He was too proud to see a therapist, but he knew deep down that he would have to face his issues someday. He couldn’t run forever.
Ethan wiped his brow in the heat. He paused in the middle of the sidewalk, glancing behind himself. It was 3 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon and the quasi-gated community – with the glorified name of Fox Run – was completely deserted. It was a mile to town, on the edge of the city limits, and it was one of the reasons Sam had chosen this condo. He didn’t want to be bothered and after three tours he didn’t want people to ask questions about his military ways.
The town had changed since he was a teenager and his father had moved them to the area. Back then, he’d raced around without a care, safe in the streets, safe in the security of a small town’s collective care. Now he saw the hollow, empty eyes of junkies on his way home from the bar and, the kids didn’t play on the streets anymore. At least when their parents had anything to say about it. The l
ayoffs had hit hard.
Go off to fight for glory, he thought. For duty. Come back home to shit. Nothing lasts.
Three houses. First double driveway. He double checked the number on the mailbox just to be sure. Yes, he was home.
He turned into the drive, bag in hand. If he was lucky, he’d have two hours before he’d have to listen to the arrival of his neighbors.
At least his house was the same. Despite its vibe of constantly being on the verge of collapse, it was surprisingly sturdy, albeit a little sun-bleached. The white paint had faded to more of a yellow, Ethan noticed critically. He’d have to call the condo management and tell them they’d been slacking.
His small patio greeted him with its sad looking hostas and boxwood. He barely bothered anymore. I should, he thought. Their yellow leaves were depressing.
Ethan unlocked the door with the key he kept stereotypically under the flowerpot full of dying geraniums that he’d bought on impulse his first night back. His mother had always kept geraniums. As he put the key in the lock, he laughed at himself, wondering how a SEAL could be so inconsiderate of his own safety. But the town was small and everyone respected him. He had never had any problems. These people had known him since he was a boy and if they had tolerated Ethan’s father, they would tolerate him, no matter how far down the rabbit hole he fell.
The door shut behind him with a whining snap and he jumped. He scolded himself even as he moved about, instinctively inspecting the room, surveying for any potential blind spots.
The plastic bag filled with vegetables and fruit cut into his fingers and he heaved them up to put them on the counter out of habit, even though the floor here was probably cleaner than any counter he’d come across back East. Ethan rubbed his fingers against the butt of the pistol he kept on his right hip.
Everything quiet. Everything… normal.
He snorted. Normal. What was normal, anymore?
Ethan stepped down the empty hall and peeked into the bathroom. Cold and dark as ever. His foot kicked the bedroom door wide open. It squealed in protest and bounced off the far wall with an unsatisfying thud. Dead as a doorknob. The blood rushed up to his cheeks when he saw himself in the mirror, shoulders tensed up and feet spread apart – a fighting stance.
He had to stop doing that. He cracked his neck and loosened up his shoulders. It didn’t help.
Ethan entered the room and just stood there. It was the same. And it was different. He shrugged. It was always the same and always different. He blew a thin layer of dust that had collected in the time he’d been gone, off the top of the dresser, noticing that his reflection in the mirror was slightly blurred by dust, too. He looked like a ghost.
Ethan stared himself in the eyes, but wasn’t sure what he saw. Then he sighed long and hard, and paused.
He had free time. What could he do? Back at base, there was always another thing to do, another thing to prepare, whether it be an insurgency ambush, another IED sweep, or even routine housekeeping. But back home, he felt purposeless. The problem? Ethan hated that feeling. Instead of relaxing, he would always end up spiraling into self-doubt and hatred over his lost feeling of purpose. The SEALs and Navy were all about finding your purpose. Ethan had been built up and trained to be a protector of America and its democracy. But, now what? Sleep at twelve, wake at six, go to the gym, make a healthy meal and repeat? I need something to do.
The rage built. Do something, his brain repeated. Like it was stuck in neutral, but his pent-up emotions demanded a shift in gears; start in first, jam the pedal and eat up some open road. This isn’t good, Ethan thought, I just got home. It’s too early to wanna put my goddamn fist through a goddamn door already.
But what could he do?
His drill instructor’s voice flashed into his consciousness. He had found Ethan, green and naive and proud of himself, flipping through a handbook at base. When scolded, he confirmed he’d finished his chores.
The instructor’s face had gone red. “Do you know what happened to the last guy that told me he’d finished his work and I found him sitting around, waiting for orders?”
Ethan was regretting his admission. He’d clasped his hands behind his back in an effort at salvation. “Sir, no sir!”
“I killed him!” the drill instructor roared, literally inches away from Ethan’s face. It had taken every effort to not grimace as spit flew onto his nose and eyelids.
“Get busy! With anything!”
Good advice now too. Ethan turned his back on his room, shut the door and made his way to the garage.
She was right where he’d left her. Cars had always been an interest of his, one of the only things he and his old man had genuinely bonded over. And this one… this was a beauty.
He felt the tension ease up – a bit. Couldn’t help but, in the presence of this, his old NSU RO 80. One of the last European rotary engine cars ever built.
The car had developed an early reputation for unreliability. The RO 80 engine suffered from construction faults, not its only problem, and some of its earlier cars had required a fully rebuilt engine even before it’d spent its first twelve months on the road. Originally, the rotor tip seals had been made in three pieces, out of identical materials. The motor's design caused the center section to wear more quickly at cold starts compared to the other pieces; the worn center pieces allowed the two other parts of the seal to move which in turn, allowed combustion by-product to escape the uneven trio. The tip-seal, center piece, ultimately had to be redesigned using ferritic material and the problem was entirely resolved.
The fact that the rotary engine design had inherently poor fuel economy combined with a poor understanding of the Wankel engine by dealers and service mechanics further deterred the success of this vehicle. By the 1970-model year, most of the reliability issues had been resolved but a necessarily generous warranty policy and damage to the car's reputation had undermined NSU's financial situation irreparably. NSU was acquired by Volkswagen in 1969 and merged with Auto Union to create the modern-day, Audi company.
They had pretty much been phased out of the automobile industry, save for Mazda and a few other sports cars. While the ordinary piston-driven engines had multiple pistons and each one performed all the roles of intake, compression, combustion, and exhaust, a rotary had only one moving part, with four chambers for each of the stages.
What drew Ethan to these antiquated, yet somehow barely relevant engines? He thought maybe it could be the fact that it was so unique – and worked completely different – from everything else. It could be merely because they were COOL: power wrapped up in a sleek package. A combination of impracticality and efficiency you rarely saw in a military base. Or maybe it was because Ethan himself sometimes felt like a car with a rotary engine: on the surface, all cars look ordinary, just like Ethan when he was in his civilian clothing. But pop the hood and take a look and it was a whole different beast. Ethan’s muscles twitched with a different energy, and his brain brewed akin to storm clouds, building close by, but not quite close enough to feel the thunder’s intensity.
It was still a curiosity, how he got the car. Wasn’t even that long ago, he mused as he ran his fingers over the rusty housing. He tucked in his shirt, hitched up his shorts, and slid under the body.
He had walked into the sleepy and quiet auto store for no particular reason at all and before his decision to join the SEALs and realizing he wouldn’t be needing a car. Then, he’d been fresh out of the Navy, seeking the American Dream: a wife, a house, and a car. Maybe some buds to have a beer with now and then, shoot some shit, some pool. But there wasn’t much money left after his down payment on the condo at the edge of town; it was a bit far to walk to work, but it was also a distance from Ethan’s childhood home and after his father’s death, there was no way he was going back there.
Ethan recalled having smoothed his almost empty pockets and wandering into the showroom, just for fun.
It was a new place, put in after he’d left for base. Of course, the place
had its pride and joy of sports cars lined up in the front. Folly, he had thought as he went straight to the sole person working there. Ethan looked around. Other than the conspicuous zoomers, their other selection looked solid: normal cars for a normal price. Just like he wanted. Ethan sized up the attendant as he approached and was glad he’d worn his uniform. The man looked the type to appreciate it. Maybe he wouldn’t walk out of here empty handed, after all.
“How may I help you?” The man was clearly eager for some amusement from a slow day, no doubt.
“Just looking around.” Ethan smiled. “Say, you have any cheaper cars than these?” He spread his hands. “Fresh outta base and looking to start. Gives you muscles, but it don’t give you cash.”
The man laughed. “You sound like my son, son.” He beckoned. “We got all kinds of course, just follow me.” They navigated the maze of autos to the back side of the store. The employee opened a door to a garage and turned on the light. Inside, were rows of dejected-looking cars that had clearly not seen the light of day in months, maybe years. Ethan’s heart sank. These looked like something even his dad would pass up and cars were the only challenge the old man had never passed up.
Then, off to the side, he glimpsed something promising. Maybe. A beat-up, old, wine-colored sedan. Ethan pointed at it.
“Which one is that?”
“Heh, never have had anyone ask about that one. It’s an NSU RO 80. Discontinued in 1977.”
For some reason, it called to Ethan. He had no wife. He barely had a house. He wasn’t entirely sure he had a legal, unexpired driving license. But without a second thought, he had bought it then and there.
The manufacturer had gone out of business a long time ago, swallowed up by Volkswagen, along with Audi. The parent company attempted to rebrand the car as an Audi 200; the campaign largely failed and it fell to obscurity. Ethan sometimes liked to think of himself as one of the only owners of this car left.
In a remarkable twist of coincidence, the car seller claimed the antique originated from a warlord’s collection in Syria. The man had fallen instantly in love and pulled whatever strings he could back then to have it shipped stateside. He didn’t expect for it to work, but somehow, here it was, in Ethan’s garage.
The Labyrinth Key Page 20