by Al Pessin
“Right. Sorry. Yes, sir. You’ll have our first draft in seventy-two.”
Jay looked embarrassed to have pulled rank on Bridget. But with her head clearing, she understood. Like he said, it was that kind of day.
“Thanks,” he said. “You can’t beat these guys for symbolism, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“The election is one year from today.”
“Oh, jeez. I hadn’t noticed.”
“In this building, it’s impossible not to.”
“As if there wasn’t enough pressure to respond.”
“The president has been pretty good at balancing politics and policy. Let’s just get results because it’s the right thing to do. Take care of yourself, Bridget. See you soon.” He touched her shoulder and moved to intercept a general on his way out of the room.
Bridget looked back at the papers. The combined casualty toll already rivaled 9-11, and it would surely go up. Was it really only two days ago that they were toasting her in the secretary of defense’s conference room?
Now, she was a statistic among the wounded on the worst day of terrorism in history. Before even reading the terrorists’ gloating, Bridget knew they’d see it as their best day.
Worst or best, it was just another day in the endless war. Endless so far, that is. The President of the United States had just made it her job to end it.
Chapter Six
Bridget had classified attack details on her computer and frantic news coverage on three TV sets bolted to the top of the wall above her desk. At least a dozen bombs had gone off in each city. Casualties were still rising. Disruption to transportation and business stretched around the world.
Her small office on the secure DIA hallway in the Pentagon’s second basement felt more claustrophobic than usual.
Like an elevator.
The fluorescent light was white. The gray carpet was industrial grade. The discolored acoustic ceiling tiles looked like they might come down at any moment. But her door was open and she had a window into the shared workspace where some of her staff members worked.
Everyone was head down, working to figure out what they’d missed or what was coming next. Bridget thought she should call them in for a pep talk—have them sit around her small table or lean on the credenza or literally poke their heads through the doorway if the room was full. She should tell them it wasn’t their fault, that they were only part of a much larger team, that they were the best in the business, and that if there had been any indications, they would have seen them through their vast surveillance network. She should tell them the country was depending on them to get back at it, stop the next attack, and plan the retaliation.
But Bridget didn’t have it in her. Not right now, anyway.
She had washed up and changed into her emergency set of clothes, which was always ready in a garment bag hanging on a wall hook. But it didn’t make her feel much better. She got up to put on her suit jacket. Her office felt unusually cold—maybe another side effect of what she’d been through. She checked the TVs.
Between horrifying footage from the attack sites, pundits were calling it a “massive intelligence failure.” CNN had turned that quote into a banner that ran continuously under their coverage. MSNBC called the attacks the November Nightmare. On Fox, they named it after the president—the Martelli Massacre. The euphoria over the hit on Ibn Jihad—now barely fifty hours earlier—was forgotten. Indeed, some commentators were saying these attacks were retaliation and blaming the president.
Bridget knew such a large-scale event couldn’t have been organized so quickly. But that didn’t stop the criticism.
Her head and ribs hurt. The attack, the pell-mell ambulance ride, and the White House visit had drained her of adrenaline. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open. And it was barely noon.
Bridget picked up her desk phone and dialed the Bethesda hospital’s main number for at least the sixth time. The call still wouldn’t go through. She wanted to check on Will. More than that, she wanted him to know she was thinking about him. But it would have to wait.
Her secure phone rang.
“Davenport.”
“This is Major Harrington responding to your email, ma’am.”
It was not a day for pleasantries, and she knew Gerald Harrington wasn’t much of a pleasantry kind of guy. He was an army intel officer known for managing the toughest operations. Bridget had met him only twice, but she remembered him well—short, bald, muscular, all business. She was one of the few who knew his real name. For the agents he ran, he was only “the major.”
Bridget rechecked her secure computer messages. “Major, for some reason I can’t get an update on the evac of my operative from Afghanistan. How is it that I have clearance for just about everything except that, especially considering that I authorized the evac?”
“Operational security requirements, ma’am. The mission was in progress. I can now tell you that he has arrived safely at his destination.”
“Thank God. He was supposed to be in D.C. hours ago. Wait, he wasn’t at Bethesda this morning, was he?”
“No, ma’am. He’s at Guantanamo Bay.”
“What? What the hell is he doing there?”
“Ma’am, Operations determined—”
“You mean you determined.”
“Yes, ma’am. We determined that he could be a security risk. He’s been living as a jihadi for months, doing the terrorists’ bidding—”
“For us.”
“Yes, ma’am, for us. But that is likely to have messed with his head. He’s young, he’s a first-timer, and he’s been through a lot. Did a helluva job in the end, but it’s best for him, and for us, if he has some secure downtime and a full psych eval. Gitmo provides that.”
“Secure downtime? You put him in—”
“No, ma’am, of course not. He’s in a secure wing of the base hospital. He can’t leave. He’s in news blackout and he has no comms, but he’s an honored guest. He’s getting all the care he needs, whatever he wants to eat, and psych evals starting tomorrow.”
“Still sounds like you’ve taken my man prisoner.”
“He’s our man, actually, and he’s not a prisoner. Ma’am, you’ve dealt with enough returning soldiers and operatives to know this was a good decision.”
Bridget couldn’t argue. As long as they took care of Faraz, maybe it was for the best. She sat back in her chair and found a position that didn’t hurt her ribs.
“All right, Major. I want medical and psych updates daily. And make sure he knows he’s a hero, not a prisoner.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be in touch.”
“Good-bye, Major.” Bridget hung up before he could reply, irritated and facing a million things to do and now only seventy hours to do them. She had no time, and possibly not the pull, to fight the major on this. And maybe he was right. Faraz would need to decompress. Heck, she could use a few weeks of secure downtime herself. Maybe a psych eval, too.
No time for that, either. She’d have to rely on her usual self-medication. Bridget picked up her mug and headed for the office coffee machine. She had the germ of an idea and some research to do.
* * *
By mid afternoon, Bridget had to admit that she needed to go home. She was tired and feeling a little light-headed. She’d never ended a workday that early, but she thought if she didn’t go right then, she might not make it.
She read the draft plan on her screen one more time. She was reasonably pleased with it, but she didn’t trust her judgment at that point. Bridget opened a secure email and sent the plan to Liz Michaels, her young expert on all things jihadi.
“Appreciate your eval on this, and back-office capabilities to execute,” Bridget wrote. “Heading home. Talk tomorrow.” She hit Send and stood up to gather her things.
She was about to leave when the phone rang.
“Davenport.”
“Hi, babe.”
“Will! How are you? Where are you?”
&
nbsp; “I’m okay. Still at Bethesda and stuck here for several more days, at least.”
“Oh, jeez. How’s the leg?”
“Not good. Wound opened, ligament stretched. Almost detached, apparently.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No. Hurt like hell, too. But they gave me the good stuff.”
“I may need to borrow some.”
“Ha. How’s your head? Did you make it to the White House?”
“Head is okay. I got to the White House in time to get stitched up by an admiral, no less, and have a shitload of work dumped on me. But I’m feeling a little iffy, so heading home.”
“Wish I could be there.”
They were silent for a few seconds.
“That was rough this morning,” Will said.
“Yeah. So sad about Gabby.”
“And so many others. She was a sweetheart, though.”
More silence.
Bridget felt light-headed again. “Listen, Will, I really have to get home before I pass out.”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow. Take care of yourself.”
“Hey, Will.”
“Yeah.”
“I wish you could be there, too.”
* * *
Faraz was sitting up in bed, working on his lunch—baked salmon, boiled potatoes, and overcooked vegetables. A square of lemon cake beckoned him from the corner of the tray.
Major Harrington walked into the room without knocking. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. How are you?” Although the words were friendly, the tone was matter-of-fact, like he was required to say them before getting to the point.
“I’m well sir, thank you.” Faraz knew the major from the training for his first mission. He saw that the man still wasn’t wearing a nameplate on his uniform. “Why am I here, sir? And what happened? Was there an air strike?”
“I can tell you your mission was successful. You are to be congratulated. Further details will come later. As for why you’re here, a little transition time, R & R, debrief. Just routine.” Harrington seemed to lie easily and smile with difficulty.
Faraz looked at his forced expression. He was catching on to what was happening to him. “Psych eval, behavior modification, loyalty test, maybe?”
“Nothing so dramatic.” Another easy lie. “Take time to rest. Eat some good food. It’ll help you get back into the swing of things.”
Bullshit, Faraz thought. But he wasn’t going to say it. He was reacclimated enough for that, at least. But if the major could give him false cheer, he could return false sincerity. “Great. You got shuffleboard here?”
The major laughed like he thought it was a good one. “I’ll check for you. Meanwhile, get some rest. And enjoy that dessert. Let us know if there’s anything else you need.”
Faraz looked around the room. “Actually, sir, a prayer rug would be nice.”
It was presumably hard to surprise the major, but that seemed to do the job. He recovered quickly. “No problem, Lieutenant. We’ll get right on that.” Harrington patted Faraz’s good shoulder, gave him his best fake smile, and turned to leave.
“Major?”
Harrington stopped at the door and turned back to face Faraz. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“I want to go home.”
“Of course. That’s what every soldier wants coming off a deployment. We’ll talk about it.”
“When?”
“When, what?”
“When can we talk about it? When can I go home?”
“We can talk about it when you’ve had some time to adjust, to gain some perspective.”
“But Major—”
“Lieutenant.” Harrington was giving orders now. “You need to work through this process. Then we can talk about the future. I can’t say exactly when that will be. It depends in large part on you. But we will talk about it at the proper time.” He looked Faraz straight in the eyes to be sure his point hit home.
Serving in both the army and the Taliban had accustomed Faraz to taking orders, so he stifled his urge to argue. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Harrington turned and left, and Faraz heard the door’s lock click. He pounded the bed with his fist. Damn that major. Damn the army. Damn everything! Faraz had felt like a prisoner when he was with the Taliban. Now he was a prisoner of the U.S. military.
He pushed the tray away, sending the lemon cake careening to the floor.
This was over the line. His whole mission was over the line. That’s what had been eating at him all this time. To protect his mission, the army had faked his death and told his parents that their only son died in a training accident.
Damn them. He had rejected the mission. Then they sent some woman named Kylie Walinsky to mindfuck him. She had convinced him the mission was so important that it justified the lie, justified ruining his parents’ lives.
Why had he listened to her?
All he had wanted to do was honor his cousin Johnny, who died in the first days of the Afghan war. He hated himself for agreeing to that lie.
Maybe, if he could go home, explain it all to his parents, put their world back together, maybe then he could find some peace. That locked door and that by-the-book major stood in his way.
A sudden fierce anger rose inside him. His face turned red, and his breathing quickened. He crushed the bedsheets in his fists.
Faraz forced his breathing to slow. He was a U.S. Army officer. He had to rein in his emotions, evaluate his situation in a professional manner.
He leaned back onto the pillows, rolled to his good side, and closed his eyes. Breathe. Breathe and sleep. Freedom will come in Allah’s good time.
* * *
The dream crept up on him. He was running, out of breath, bleeding, lost, surrounded. A desert wind roared in his ears. He called for help but didn’t hear himself. He turned and came face-to-face with Karch, his pursuer. The man was double his actual size, but somehow Faraz killed him with one swipe of a sword. Then another Taliban assassin came, and another, and finally al-Souri himself, Faraz’s terrorist boss, smiling, holding out his hand to stiff-arm Faraz to a halt, hurting his chest, then raising the hand to his throat and choking, choking. Faraz’s arms were somehow pinned to his sides, and al-Souri was choking and Faraz couldn’t breathe, and his throat hurt, and his chest hurt like the pain might kill him.
Faraz bolted upright in bed and gasped for breath, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes wide, his hands on his neck to ward off the attacker.
As his mind cleared, he saw only the closed door to his hospital room and heard only the soft beeps of the monitors. He breathed in heaving gulps, then slowly settled.
He felt weak. He struggled to pull off the covers and got out of bed, holding onto the headboard for support. He stretched the IV tube and sensor cables to their limit, leaning on the bed most of the way to the door.
He had to get out of there, had to get to safety.
Faraz reached the doorknob.
Locked.
He put all his depleted strength into it.
Nothing.
He leaned against the door, defeated, out of breath, then slowly made his way back into the bed, got his legs under the covers, put his head in his hands, and cried.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Julie brought Faraz’s breakfast—coffee, juice, fruit, scrambled eggs, white toast, and, the nurse reassured him brightly, “turkey bacon.” Then she smiled a smile that said “Aren’t we clever?” and left the room.
No one in the U.S. military had ever worried about serving Faraz pork before. This was odd. His mission, his cover identity, had spilled over into real life. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. He also wasn’t sure whether he would have eaten real bacon. Before this mission, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
No matter. He was ravenous again, and he cleaned his plate.
After breakfast, Julie gave him underwear, hospital scrubs, and slippers, then pulled a curtain around his bed. While he was changing, he h
eard furniture being moved. When he opened the curtain, he saw they had brought a small, square table into the room and set metal chairs on three sides. He also saw stacks of books and magazines on a side table.
The major came in with two men, one in a suit, the other in a hospital coat.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Harrington said. He had a small, rolled-up piece of carpet in his right hand. “Okay if I put this over here?” He stood the prayer rug in the corner of the room, under the windows.
“Sure. Thanks.”
“This is Dr. Ellison. I won’t be introducing the other gentleman.”
Faraz figured the doctor was a shrink and the other guy was a spook.
“Please, join us,” the major said, pulling out a chair for Faraz.
The major and the suit sat across from Faraz. The doctor sat off to the side in the room’s one comfortable chair and took out a notebook.
“What? No bright light shining in my eyes?” Faraz asked.
“I told you, it’s not like that,” Harrington said.
“Yes, you did,” Faraz said, with more than a little sarcasm. Then he corrected himself. “Yes, you did, sir.”
The major and the suit tag-teamed asking him about life in the Taliban, every detail he could remember about the people he met, the operations he participated in, how and why he fled, how he managed to evade the Taliban dragnet. Sometimes, it seemed like they were genuinely interested in the intel he had gathered about Taliban operations. Other times, it felt like a cross-examination—like they were suspicious, didn’t necessarily believe his story, weren’t sure they could trust him.
The doctor said nothing but took copious notes.
It didn’t take long for Faraz to get angry. Screw these guys. I just came off one of the most important covert ops ever undertaken by the United States of America, and I did it alone. None of you could have done it. No one else could have done it. If you don’t believe me, you can go fuck yourselves.
But he didn’t say that. He stared straight ahead and answered their questions.
When they asked about his break with al-Souri for the third time, Faraz lashed out. “Okay, goddamn it, I didn’t escape. Al-Souri sent me to spy on you, to plan the next attack, okay? Move me over to the prison or take me outside and shoot me.”