Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  He thought of Amanda Garrett, his niece, and all that she had been through. He had received an update prior to his departure. A friend had passed him a note that his brother’s house had been burned to the ground. Insult to injury. But that was their way, he knew.

  Then the newspaper article questioning Zach’s integrity. He shook his head, staring absently at the black, granular no-slip pads spaced evenly along the silver metal flooring of the C-17.

  Matt remembered a passage from Sun Tzu which he had always kept in the back of his mind: The wise general cannot be manipulated. He may withdraw, but when he does, moves so swiftly that he cannot be overtaken. His retirements are designed to entice the enemy, to unbalance him, and to create a situation favorable for a decisive counterstroke.

  Poor Amanda had been kept off balance her entire seventeen years, Matt thought. The women that surrounded her were generals in their own battle-space. They directed Amanda around like a pawn, a foot soldier, in their private war to destroy. What had his brother done to deserve such treatment? What could he have done? More importantly, especially now, what had Amanda done to be so abused, to have her memories of her father be tarnished or erased?

  Justice? Matt’s wandering mind tapped on all of the world’s issues, large and small, in the long airplane ride. Where is the justice in the soldier killed on the battlefield where incompetent generals applied insufficient force, and inept intelligence analysts missed all of the signals? Where is the justice in the Marine killed in a war whose causus belli is now proven a myth, a ghost that never was? Where is the justice in a young girl used as a weapon against her father? Millions of children, abused in such a fashion, he guessed, without so much as the hope of a chance for something better. Left to fight for themselves, yet seduced by the luxuries of the high mass-consuming society of today. Most, he presumed, chose not to fight, and simply followed the path of least resistance. In their wake, they left behind the charred remains of a father’s dignity or a soldier’s idealism.

  Better yet, Matt steamed, where is the outrage? Where are those that would stand up for these heroes, the soldiers and the children, sometimes one and the same, who, with immature wisdom, trust our leaders? As in love, he considered, in life we all look for heroes. We overlook obvious faults or flaws. The old saying, “You want it bad, you get it bad,” came to his mind. We all knew intuitively, he simmered, that invading Iraq before finishing the fight in Afghanistan was wrong. Now America’s treasure was just trying to keep pace. He mused that serfs and peasants could rarely influence public policy, but they sure as hell could go die for the same. Life in a kingdom, not a republic.

  He stared at the patterns of rivets in the fuselage, wondering why those politicians who most avoided war in their youth sought it with such vigor in their political careers. In this era of Rostovian High Mass Consumption, the Secular Spiritual Stagnation that has followed not only rots at the collective soul of the nation, but also erodes the individual’s morality, Matt thought.

  He thought about Department of Defense policymakers who were most responsible for the Iraq invasion and scoffed. Morons who don’t know the cost of war. This stagnation creates a disembodiment with our most senior public leaders that manifests itself in a form of irony. Because they have nothing vested, they seem to think they have everything to gain.

  Where was the finesse that should have followed 9-11? Pursue the legitimate war in Afghanistan with enough force to block the egresses into Pakistan. Jump the 82nd Airborne Division into Khowst and Jalalabad while you air assault the 101st Airborne Division into the mountain passes in Kunar, Nangahar, and Paktika. Use Special Forces to embed with the Pakistan military along the border. Then attack with the Northern Alliance from Mazir e Sharif to the south to destroy Al Qaeda first, followed by the Taliban. Contain Iraq and further strangulate that country through diplomatic initiatives with Syria and Iran. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Instead, Matt fumed, we limped into Afghanistan the one time the American public has asked for, and deserved, a head on a platter. Flawed from the start, the plan had allowed nearly all of the Al Qaeda senior leadership to escape while Taliban cannon fodder held at bay the meager forces that were attacking. Inexplicably, the focus was already shifting to Iraq, where we had led with the chin of the American soldier and Marine. He shook his head in disgust and looked across the casket.

  Joining Matt on this journey home was Mary Ann Singlaub, a reporter from Charlotte. She had her story, he guessed, and she was done. Sitting across from him, he saw in her beautiful face the anguish that only true caring could bring. The coffin was situated between them like a barrier. Singlaub was openly weeping as she stared at the flag tucked securely around the metal container. Strangely, her agony helped ease his.

  How much more are we going to take? What is the end state? How much longer can we go on without mobilizing the country? It seemed odd to Matt that Americans were enjoying a peacetime standard of living while their all-volunteer force fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. Eversoll had said to him, “Sir, the military is at war. The nation is at the mall.”

  Yet, neither were they mobilized internally, he reflected, as he began to think about Amanda again. That a child could be so manipulated in plain view only underscored his point.

  The coffin fastened down in the middle of the C-17 would remain an unmistakable reminder of the cost of war, so close and so personal.

  Matt thought about what they had just done—the raid, the fight, the dying, the destruction, and the ultimate personal sacrifice sitting before him. What had it achieved? He wasn’t sure he could answer that question, and that bothered him. Were they fighting now just simply because they could? Was this the modern equivalent to Grant having the Union troops build the cutoff canal across from Vicksburg, not because he ever intended to use it, but because it kept his soldiers busy until they had received all of their supplies? Where was all of this heading?

  They stopped briefly at Ramstein Air Base where he made a short trip to the military hospital at Landstuhl, Germany, conducted his business, and made sure all of the paperwork was in order. It was hard to get back on the plane, but he rejoined the crew for the long flight home. He would be back soon. His mind wandered, searching for purpose perhaps, but randomly pinging against emotions that he knew were useless: anger, fear, frustration. The pinball in his mind rolled to a stop, lodged on a thought.

  Soldiers deserve competent leaders just as children deserve competent parents. He looked at the coffin and thought of Zach, watching him singularly elude Al Qaeda on the full-motion video only to meet a fate he was certain his nation might only marginally notice. His nation had asked him to do this. He was a loyal servant, achieving state ends.

  Likewise with Amanda, and her suffering at the feet of her mother and grandmother with the help of a court system blinded by political activism. Point man, spy, and infantryman in her mother’s fight against her father, Amanda’s youth had been drafted by a field general equal to Rommel in achieving her own goals and end states within the system. But like Zachary, where did that leave Amanda, and what did she get for her sacrifice?

  The parallel was so obvious to him. It was not the individual. Their efforts were almost always heroic. The vacuous soul of a nation—aloof Pentagon policymakers, or a parent, separated from their moorings—created the conditions for both the soldier and the child to ultimately face their destinies. The good soldier, as well as the good child, will find the chance, the opportunity to break free from the ill-conceived plans and fix things from the ground up. An engineer may be able to design a car, but rarely can he fix it once it breaks. And it always breaks.

  Nation to soldier. Mother to daughter. With that thought, Matt began to worry about the predicament that he had learned confronted Amanda. Perhaps there was something to be gained. Matt knew her to be her father’s daughter despite the trials of the past. Would she be able to access those forgotten and repressed memories and instincts? If so, she had a chance.

&nbs
p; The good soldier. The good daughter. Father and child.

  CHAPTER 63

  Charlotte, NORTH CAROLINA

  Friday (Eastern Time)

  The early-morning drive to the Charlotte airport was miserable for Amanda for several reasons. They were plowing through a thunderstorm and the resultant flooded streets. Her mother was giving her instructions on what to say and not say, do and not do, be and not be. And she really missed talking to Jake. She needed him, especially now that she had uncovered that Dagus, the one man she’d thought she could trust, was actually Del Dangurs and was working against her.

  On the airplane, though, she chased away her dark thoughts of Dagus by reflecting on what she had learned last night from her Uncle Matt. How her father was a hero, and the effort they had expended searching for him. They had finally found him lying on the bank of the Kunar River after an Al Qaeda ambush. It was something no daughter should ever have to hear, but something she desperately wanted to know.

  The flight from Charlotte to Washington Reagan Airport was mercifully quick. She deplaned, found her luggage, and began to call Matt when she saw him leaning against the wall, smiling. His head was cocked to the side and she could tell he was measuring her. It had been almost two years since they’d last seen one another. For a moment, she believed she had seen the ghost of her father standing there, they looked so much alike.

  “Hey, Matt,” she waved.

  “Darling, how are you?” He came over and grabbed her luggage out of her hand while he simultaneously hugged her hard.

  “Okay, considering, you know?”

  “I know it’s been hard. This is just something I needed you to do, for your dad.”

  “I’m here, Matt. You know, maybe a month ago I wouldn’t have cared about any of this. But . . .”

  “Things have changed.”

  “They’ve changed,” she acknowledged.

  They found Matt’s old Porsche 944 in the parking garage, managed to fit her duffel bag in the back and then found their way to the Embassy Suites in Crystal City.

  “I got us a couple of rooms at the Suites. We’ll attend the funeral in the morning, and then I’ll drop you back at the airport.”

  “Thanks for the ticket, by the way. No way Mom would have paid for it.”

  She noticed Matt did not acknowledge her comment. Too much class or perhaps too much anger for all the discontent her mother had created, she now saw. But really, what did it matter anymore? she wondered.

  They had adjacent rooms. Matt helped Amanda get settled, and then they walked to dinner at Champs in Pentagon City. It was a loud sports bar that had over twenty televisions playing at least ten different games. Music blared from one corner. A healthy mixture of young professionals and urban dwellers mingled comfortably. Matt found them a small table outside in an area staked off with a black wrought-iron fence. The spring air was relaxing, and she was glad she had worn jeans and a lightweight blue Northface windbreaker over her white knit blouse. She downed a full dinner of salmon and mixed vegetables and was having a nice conversation with Matt when he said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Amanda paused. “Okay, who?”

  “Her name is Mary Ann Singlaub, and she’s doing a big story on your dad. She’d like to talk to you.”

  She looked at Matt a moment. His brown hair was full and soft, tossed from side to side yet not appearing unkempt. He had her father’s face, square jaw and high cheekbones. They could be twins. She knew Matt was younger but had always been impressed with his maturity and love for his older brother.

  “I don’t know, Matt. All this is way too early, too raw. Plus, didn’t you see that hatchet job Del Dangurs did on him?”

  “Just meet her tonight, and then you can decide later. She’s flying back to Charlotte with you. I think you’ll like her.”

  “I’ll meet her. No promises.”

  Matt paused, studying his niece.

  “You okay, really?”

  Amanda looked away, thinking.

  “I’m doing better,” she said. “I’m talking to someone . . . and that’s helping.”

  “Riley?”

  “Yes, Riley. She’s in the hospital or she’d be here, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure. What kinds of things are you talking about?”

  Amanda fidgeted with her fork, put it down.

  “Things like why I treated him so badly. Why I don’t remember the good stuff.”

  “Lots of good stuff.”

  Matt watched Amanda struggle with the conversation. As an interested, but somewhat objective observer, Matt had seen the manipulation wrack Amanda.

  “Remember Faith Hill at Fort Bragg?”

  Matt smiled. “How could I forget? You sat on my shoulders the entire time. I’m two inches shorter because of you.”

  She giggled, displayed what Matt thought was her first genuine smile.

  “But I had no memory of that, Matt, until I went to Dad’s house, our house.”

  Matt cocked his head. “Really?”

  “Riley says it’s all because of the hard drive. The database in my head. Like with a computer, when you delete something you just write over it. The information doesn’t really go away. The database is always there.”

  Matt stopped and put his fork down. His mind was reeling and apparently his face gave away his shock.

  “What?” Amanda asked, nervous.

  “Nothing. Nothing,” Matt repeated. “That’s true. The database is always there.”

  Matt composed himself, paid the bill and they walked the mile back to the Embassy Suites. In the downstairs lobby she spotted a lone woman surrounded by four men with short haircuts. She looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “I think I see your friend, Matt,” Amanda pointed out.

  “Sharks circling. Let’s save her, what do you say?”

  They approached, and two of the men eyed Amanda until they saw Matt’s steel gaze. Mary Ann was thrilled to see them, as indicated by the way she lunged from her chair the moment they were within eyesight.

  “Nice guys?”

  “The best,” she quipped.

  Matt steered them to some low back chairs in a more private part of the lounge.

  “Mary Ann, this is Amanda Garrett.”

  Amanda studied the woman for a brief moment. She was very pretty. Even striking, but not in a severe way. Her beauty was balanced by compassionate eyes. She was wearing a blue blazer atop a cream silk shirt with a matching blue skirt. Amanda reached her hand out only to be bypassed with a hug from Mary Ann.

  “You’ve been through so much, honey.”

  Amanda surprised herself and returned the hug, saying, “Thank you.”

  They sat in the chairs and began talking about Afghanistan and everything that had happened there.

  At that moment, Amanda knew that she would talk to Mary Ann.

  The woman would be a big help to her plan.

  CHAPTER 64

  Arlington, Cemetery Virginia

  Saturday

  Amanda tuned out much of the funeral, as it was a challenge to absorb everything that had occurred in the last two weeks. She was wearing her black outfit that her mother had selected for her. “You must look the part, Amanda, so don’t let on that you don’t give a damn, okay?” she’d chimed as she dumped her at the Charlotte airport Delta Airlines baggage skycap.

  She stood in the cool spring morning of Arlington National Cemetery, surrounded by hundreds of people, some in uniform, others not. She knew so few of the attendees that she clung closely to Matt, the one person with whom she was not totally uncomfortable. There was a church service at the old brick church that stood atop the hill at Fort Myers, and that was followed by a procession led by a horse-drawn carriage that carried the flag-draped casket to an open hole in the ground. Freshly tilled earth sat beside the rectangular hole in an orange and brown heap in contrast to the crisp maneuvers of the military funeral detail and the perfectly aligned rows of white crosses.

 
So many crosses, she thought to herself. Her mind was wrestling with issues that were so narrowly defined by her own existence that she had a hard time understanding why so many could have sacrificed so much.

  But she was beginning to get the picture. The conversation with Matt and Mary Ann last night had filled in many gaps in her mind. Her sleep had been restless, though, with so many conflicting ideas and emotions. The gravitational pulls on her from multiple directions were enormous. Her mother, her grandmother, Dagus, Brianna, Matt, and now this Mary Ann were competing for her attention and energy. She had a plan, and she needed to stick to her chosen course of action no matter what.

  Standing graveside, watching the funeral, she slipped into an alternate space as she recited in her mind the words to Jessi Alexander’s soothing “This World is Crazy.”

  I’m a part of you; you’re a part of me, too.

  Take refuge in me, ’cause this world is crazy.

  Crazy is right, she thought. In the last two weeks her world had literally been transformed when the major and chaplain had arrived at her house that Sunday morning. Now, the words had meaning. She had an angel watching over her, feeling her joys and sorrows, guiding her through her darkest fears and helping her confront her strongest demons.

  Before she could comprehend what was happening, someone handed her something, which was quickly secured by Matt, and the casket was lowered into the rectangular hole with the awkward pile of dirt. Having only attended one previous funeral in her life, Amanda was not prepared for the emotion connected with this event. The outpouring of support and the strong, almost familial bonds evident between the soldiers and the others were contagious. She could feel the love and understand now the camaraderie of which her father had always spoken.

  She recalled with ease now a time her father had pulled over on the side of the road and picked up a soldier walking upon the shoulder. His car had broken down, but he really didn’t need a ride, especially from a major. Despite the protests, her father had driven the soldier to the auto shop, back to the car, and helped him fix the problem. Amanda and he were still able to go to the mall in Raleigh and enjoy a day of hanging out, her arm linked casually through his as they sauntered along talking about nothing much . . . and everything.