The Rift

by Bob Mayer

“Get to the other side!” the staff sergeant’s voice went up an octave as the bewildered candidates clawed, jumped, and fell off the vertical face of the eighteen-foot-high wooden wall. There were no handholds, just a single tantalizing rope that hung down four feet from the top and was knotted on the bottom. Realizing they couldn’t reach the rope on their own, the candidates began working together, trying to build human pyramids to get someone to the rope.

  No such luck.

  Eagle sat down on a fallen tree, watching with a bored expression. Mac, Kirk, and Roland joined him. Across the muddy path, glaring at them through the rain, Twackhammer suddenly appeared.

  “What are you girls doing?” he screamed. A major was next to him, his green beret soaked and drooping on his head. Everyone in Special Forces agreed that a beret was the most worthless of headgear. Hell, Girl Scouts wore green berets. The major was quiet, watching, observing, and they knew he was the one who could wash a candidate out with a stroke of his pen. He walked with an odd gait, which meant one of his legs, if not both, were no longer flesh and blood, a common occurrence nowadays with those no longer physically fit for deployment duty and slotted to faculty positions.

  “Waiting, Master Sergeant Twackhammer,” Roland said. “The wall’s a bit crowded at the moment.”

  “Get your asses off that log!” Twackhammer yelled.

  They got to their feet.

  “Drop right where you are and give me forty.”

  The four looked down. They were standing in a couple of inches of mud. If Ms. Jones and Moms had wanted to humble the four, they’d succeeded. Being treated like newbies—when they’d all gone through several training programs like this years ago, served in elite units in combat, and were now Nightstalkers, the best of the best, et cetera, et cetera—was hitting home. It was obvious Twackhammer had no clue who they were. The major, on the other hand, had his head cocked to the side, evaluating.

  The major was no fool. He could see the clear difference between these four and the younger men flailing away at the wall, trying to get to the rope, their ticket to the other side of the wall. Besides the obvious scars on Roland and Eagle, all four were older and held themselves differently. Other services and agencies and even foreign governments sent people to go through the Q Course at Bragg, the Special Forces Qualification Course, but even those people were usually younger and more enthusiastic about the opportunity. And most bypassed SFAS, going straight to the Q.

  They dropped down and began doing push-ups, but in a way that said “yeah, yeah” rather than the anxious desperation of a candidate. Any Spec-Ops person who had been through a selection and assessment course, and especially if they’d ever been cadre in such a course, understood the reality of what was going on. Certainly it was important to weed out those who didn’t belong and to evaluate the candidates, but much of the screaming and the yelling was by rote, a routine that can begin to numb one out.

  So they languidly did their push-ups, except Roland, of course, who was done first, knocking them out without even breathing hard. He snapped out five more, just for shits and grins, then hopped to his feet.

  Eagle was last, and he was breathing hard.

  The major ambled over, obviously not worried about getting his feet wet and muddy since he didn’t have feet. He smiled at the four. “Welcome, gentlemen. Someone named Ms. Jones says hi. And gung ho.”

  Then he moved away.

  “What the frak was that about?” Mac asked, wiping a hand across his forehead, which only served to move mud around. “We know Ms. Jones sent us here. She’s rubbing it in.”

  “Gung ho,” Eagle repeated. “That’s it.” He nodded at the other three. “It’s an American version of two Chinese words that were appropriated during World War Two. Gong, which means ‘work,’ and he, which means ‘together.’ In China it was actually the name of a corporation, but a marine major named Carlson decided to use it as the motto of the Second Marine Raider Battalion. Now everyone’s heard of it.”

  “You are just full of arcane stuff,” Kirk said.

  “Huh?” Roland said.

  “Great history lesson,” Mac said. “Couldn’t she have just told us to work together?”

  Kirk spoke up. “How well do words work on you, Mac?”

  Mac bristled for a second, but then his shoulders lumped. “Yeah. I get it.”

  “I work with everyone,” Roland said.

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” Kirk said. “You all did the unauthorized mission to help me in Arkansas. And you”—he indicated Roland—“did an unauthorized mission with Neeley in South America. I think Ms. Jones is trying to get us to stay on the reservation.”

  “This ain’t the reservation,” Mac said.

  The cluster of candidates still hadn’t defeated the wall. Some were arguing with each other now, teamwork breaking down in the face of frustration. Lightning flashed in the distance and thunder rolled through the pine trees.

  “Still in loner mode,” Kirk said, nodding at the ones arguing.

  “I think that’s the other point,” Eagle said.

  Kirk laughed as a couple of the candidates jumped as a bolt of lightning struck so close that everyone could feel the static electricity in the air. “City boys.”

  “Gotta remember,” Eagle said, “they’re on short sleep, short rations.”

  “And short brains,” Mac said. “Geez, how long do you want to watch this frak-up?”

  “Hey.” Kirk was pointing. “I think that guy’s crying. You can’t tell ’cause of the rain, but he’s fraking crying. Ranger up, dude. Damn SF weenies.”

  “He won’t make it,” Eagle said. “There’s no crying in Special Ops, fella.”

  “The longer these guys take,” Mac said, “the longer we’re going to be standing here in the rain. How about we gung ho up?”

  Roland nodded. “Let’s finish this thing and whatever else Ms. Jones wants us to do here so we can get back to the team room and just have Moms and Nada give us shit. This is ridiculous. I set the course record on this thing ten years ago.”

  “So you know what they’re doing wrong, right?” Mac asked with a grin.

  “They’re not listening,” Kirk said. “I never went through the Q Course here, but I went to Ranger school. People think the N in Ranger stands for ‘knowledge,’ but we learned to listen to orders. And we had the Darby Queen to negotiate, which wasn’t no cake walk.”

  Some of the candidates were now piling their rucksacks, trying to build a platform, to get them closer to the knotted rope.

  “How did you get over the wall, Roland?” Eagle asked. “It wasn’t here when I went through.”

  “I threw a little fellow up there,” Roland said. “He got the knot and then held on for his life. I jumped, grabbed his legs, used him as part of the rope.” Roland flushed. “Dislocated both his shoulders. But the instructors were impressed.”

  “I don’t think that was or is the correct solution,” Kirk said.

  “Worked for me,” Roland said.

  “You aren’t in the bell curve,” Eagle said.

  “No one here is supposed to be in the bell curve,” Kirk said.

  “The rope is a MacGuffin,” Eagle said.

  “A what?” Roland asked.

  A cluster of candidates had their top man come within a foot of the rope, before the pyramid collapsed into a muddy pile.

  “It’s a term Hitchcock used for something that seems important and everyone is focused on it, when it really isn’t important,” Eagle explained.

  Kirk was the first to get it, as he usually was. “It’s misdirection. What if the rope wasn’t there?”

  “No way anyone could get over that wall,” Roland said. “Even working together with what they got.”

  “Yeah,” Kirk said, “but what was the instruction?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Get to the other side.” />
  Mac laughed. “Well, shoot. Even in Texas we’d figure that out. Eventually.” He shouldered his rucksack. “Ready, guys? Watching these newbies is making me wish I was in a different army.”

  The Nightstalkers shrugged on their weighted backpacks, then simply walked around the wall. Roland was last and he paused, looking at the candidates. “Coming?”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Twackhammer screamed.

  “We’re going to the other side of the wall,” Roland said. And then he was gone.

  The muddy candidates stood confused, staring at the wall, and then at Twackhammer, and then at the Nightstalkers. It was only when the major started to laugh that they got it. They grabbed their packs and followed the Nightstalkers around the wall.

  And they were better soldiers for it.

  Gretchen was sipping cheap white wine and getting a wonderful foot massage, which kind of made up for the trimming of her ingrown big toenail. She put the glass down and closed her eyes. Her mind wandered to that boring morass of wondering what she was going to make for dinner, which was inevitably a few hours from now. She did find it odd, perhaps even ironic, that her wife never cooked. Never learned, never wanted to try, and it was not a subject to be discussed. Nope, cooking was Gretchen’s, except she’d never really learned either.

  You’d think in a marriage of two women that one of them would have learned to cook. What were the odds?

  Gretchen, however, could make a mean smoothie and that’s about it. She tried to remember what was in the freezer because she might have a couple of chicken fillets to nuke and then half scorch. She opened her eyes and reached into her purse, pulling out her phone. She Googled a recipe for chicken. She’d spent thirty-six years working in IT for the government, although her partner thought she’d worked for the IRS. As if. Gretchen had worked deep in the bowels of the Pentagon for Mrs. Sanchez, but much like the women who worked at Bletchley Circle in England during World War II, once she retired, that was it. One never, ever, discussed that world with outsiders.

  There were many reasons for that beyond the secrecy oath they swore. But even that issue outsiders had a problem with; some didn’t think oaths were worth that much, but for those in the covert world, their oaths meant everything to them. Also, outsiders didn’t understand. They couldn’t. One had to live the life, experience it, to understand.

  And last but not least, speaking out of house could bring a very unfriendly visit from the Cellar.

  As she scrolled through recipes, Gretchen smiled as she remembered watching the movie RED with her wife. Her wife had thought it stupid, but Gretchen had just howled and wondered who’d whispered the little truths to the screenwriters. Retired. Extremely. Dangerous.

  The covert was over for Gretchen, even though the closest she’d come to the front lines were the bundles of millions of dollars of cash she and Mrs. Sanchez had prepped to be shipped overseas to be used to bribe, acquire, and who knew what else.

  The woman rubbing her feet was the best and Gretchen tried to remember her name for the next time.

  Then her other phone gave its distinctive Warren Zevon ringtone for the first time and Gretchen was reminded for the first time since she retired that her covert life was almost over. It was like the mafia: Just when you thought you were out, they pulled you back in, even though the Loop was technically, well, out of the loop.

  Gretchen scrambled through her bag and found the second phone at the bottom. She punched the receive button and saw the five letter groupings message on the screen. She nodded, then forwarded it, as she’d been instructed, to the number she’d memorized. Gretchen then sighed and forwarded the message to a second number, not part of the standing operating procedure of the Loop but part of the reality of her continued existence as part of the living. One could only go off the reservation as far as those in power allowed.

  She dropped the second phone back in her bag.

  The woman doing her feet laughed. “You’re naughty!”

  Gretchen was confused for a moment.

  “Only one reason to have two phones,” the woman said with a smile. “You have boyfriend and no want husband to know.”

  Gretchen smiled back and wished she were indeed naughty.

  Maybe she could find someone who could cook.

  The term LoJack was invented to be the opposite of hijack, which was a little too cute for Neeley.

  It was also too easy. Neeley distrusted easy. It wasn’t exactly one of Gant’s rules that he’d pounded into her during their years together, hiding from the covert world. It was implicit. Gant had taught her a lot, some of it skills that civilians paid a lot of money to learn such as skiing, parachuting, mountain climbing, and so on. However, he’d taught her the hard way. In adverse weather. Carrying heavy loads of gear. At night. And they’d done some of it under the most difficult circumstances of all: when trying to track down and kill someone or, worse, when someone was trying to do the same to them.

  But the Support personnel interviewing the driver of the Prius stolen at the Gateway Arch had learned that the car was equipped with a LoJack system. At three in the morning and in a rush, Burns hadn’t had the opportunity to be picky. The VIN and unit number had been sent out to police across the country and it had turned up, driving across Illinois and on into Kentucky. Police were warned to note location of the transmitter but to not approach under any circumstances.

  Neeley knew this was part of why Hannah had been quick to take over the mission of bringing down this Burns fellow. They had his location (the transmitter’s location, Neeley corrected Hannah, which was not exactly the same as the person) and could continue to track him. The issue was whether to take him down now or see where he was going and what he was planning to do.

  While the Nightstalkers might be bitching about having the op taken from them, this really was the Cellar’s area of expertise: tracking down rogue agents from the covert world. If Neeley notched her various guns, there would be a lot of notches. Also her knives, her garrote, and her bare hands. Every niche had its artists, those who took the simple job, the craft, to levels others could barely conceptualize but that the artist could embody. Neeley was an artist in death. She had learned early on that the actual, final act, while important, was not the key to success. It was the preparation, the planning, the consideration of every possible contingency that were the keys to making sure the art went one way and not the other.

  Thus Neeley was in a hangar at an auxiliary airfield at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. A field that was headquarters for the original Task Force 160, the Nightstalkers, to be confused with the Nightstalkers out of the Ranch outside of Area 51. Neeley thought the cover name using a Special-Ops unit another too-cute idea.

  Then again, she thought as she looked at the various displays, she could simply be getting more paranoid, less patient, and just too damn old for this BS. She was seeing ghosts behind every operation lately, although the reality was there were indeed ghosts and shadows and double and triple crosses. She found the Nightstalkers’ outrage that the Cellar was taking over this Sanction a bit ironic considering how straightforward most Nightstalker missions were compared to Cellar operations. They might be bizarre and weird, but they were usually clear as to who or what the bad guy/thing was.

  The Cellar was the Cellar. Few had ever heard of it. Few needed to hear of it. It was whispered of in the world of covert ops and in the halls of Washington, much like not-so-nice parents might tell their children of a horrible beast hiding in their closet that would come out and torment them if they were bad.

  The airfield was near a large fenced compound, where rows and rows of grass-covered concrete bunkers with rusting steel doors had once held a large number of nuclear warheads, a leftover from a supposedly bygone day of the Cold War. Fort Campbell was also the home base of the Screaming Eagles of the 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) and the 5th Special Forces Group
(Airborne). It straddled the Tennessee-Kentucky border, about sixty miles northwest of Nashville.

  Neeley had landed via Gulfstream just a few minutes ago and she was in a Tactical Operations Center (TOC), set up by TF-160. The signal was on I-24 approaching Nashville. From there, it could go in several directions: southwest toward Memphis (doubtful since it would have turned south earlier), south toward Birmingham, southeast toward Chattanooga and Atlanta and beyond, or east toward Knoxville. It might even backtrack north toward Indianapolis, but that was doubtful because it could have turned earlier.

  Since LoJack worked on FM, it was line of sight. TF-160 had a Quick-Fix helicopter in the air, at high altitude and several miles behind the Prius, tracking it. Neeley looked at the large computer display as the Prius reached where I-24 and I-65 joined together above Nashville. In a few minutes they’d have an idea which general direction it was moving on to.

  No one else in the TOC had any clue why they were following the car. The orders had come in from higher and thus they would obey. It was a mind-set Neeley was used to but sometimes found disturbing, because the people at the top sometimes might have their own agenda. She’d traveled to South America earlier in the year with Roland to deal with two high-ranking CIA agents who’d manipulated data for their own personal advancement.

  Neeley trusted Hannah with her life. She had to. Time and again she’d gone on missions, trusting only Hannah’s word.

  But.

  Gant had told her to trust no one.

  Ever.

  But he’d trusted her. He’d died in her arms.

  If it were easy, anyone could do it. The schizophrenic nature of covert operations where the simple operation could actually be a double-cross, which could actually be a cover for a triple-cross, which might simply be some bureaucrat trying to advance their career, not giving a damn how many operatives died because of the lies and manipulations that took their toll.

  What was truth?

  Neeley’s phone buzzed. There was no question who it was, since only one person had her number. Neeley pulled the phone out but paused before activating it. The weight of that thought, that there was only one person who had her cell number, had never pressed down upon her with so much force.