I Am the Mission

by Allen Zadoff

  “Out,” Flannel says.

  He waits for me to get out of the truck and into the front passenger seat. Then he closes the door behind me.

  It would be fastest for him to walk around the front, but instead he heads toward the back, walking extremely slowly and disappearing from my vision.

  He’s keeping me waiting, building suspense. It’s a classic move, designed to invoke fear.

  He doesn’t know that I don’t feel fear.

  I use his tactic as extra planning time, recalibrating myself to the front seat, its angles and eccentricities, its dangers and possibilities.

  When Flannel finally climbs into the driver’s seat, he sits there for a moment, but he never starts the truck. He rolls down his window halfway and lights a cigarette.

  I roll down my own window.

  “My name is Francisco,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

  “I was calling you Flannel in my head.”

  He looks down at his shirt and nods. “Makes sense,” he says.

  No smile.

  “I’m Daniel,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I know who you are. Who you say you are.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re a liar.”

  “What the hell? Now you’re calling me a liar,” I say, letting Daniel get offended by this challenge.

  I glance at the visor. Yanked from the roof at the correct angle, it would twist off a piece of metal piping that I could use to strike.

  The throat. That’s where I would aim first.

  Francisco doesn’t react to my mini-outburst. He simply says, “Everyone’s a liar when they fill out an application.”

  “Not me.”

  “Everyone,” he repeats. “People want to get in to Camp Liberty. They don’t tell the truth, because they don’t think the truth will be good enough. And the funny thing, Daniel? The truth is the only way to get in. You have to tell the truth.”

  “Then I’m practically in already.”

  “I’ll be the one to determine that.”

  “I thought it was already determined.”

  By Moore. In the parking lot a few minutes ago.

  “You thought wrong,” Francisco says, pinching the cigarette between two fingers and inhaling slowly.

  It occurs to me that our truck didn’t actually have a flat tire. I’m wondering if the whole thing was staged. To bring this journey to a standstill. To bring me face-to-face with Francisco.

  “The question is not whether you lied,” Francisco says, “because I already know you did. It’s why you lied that I’m interested in.”

  “You already told me why. I wanted to get into camp.”

  “You haven’t admitted that you lied yet. I want to hear it from you.”

  I could play dumb, but I don’t think that’s what he’s looking for. Better to agree with him but add a twist.

  “I didn’t lie,” I say.

  I see his shoulders tighten, ready to attack again.

  “I embellished,” I say, giving the word the hint of an accent.

  His shoulders relax a bit.

  “About what?” he asks.

  “I don’t have a four-point-oh grade point average. I did last semester, but not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  I sigh like I’ve been caught.

  “I fucked up in AP Physics and ended up with a B-minus for the semester. There was this girl in class, and maybe I got a little distracted. Whatever. No excuses. I went down in flames. It won’t show on my GPA until next fall. I haven’t even told my father yet.”

  Francisco nods, considering this. I’ve made it up on the spot, but I can always call it in to Father and ask him to doctor my school records. It’s standard procedure for the hackers at The Program to get into the high school mainframe and insert a false student record there to support my cover story. I make a mental note to remind Father when I speak to him.

  “You really want to get into Camp Liberty,” Francisco says.

  “Totally,” I say.

  “So much so that you’re willing to lie.”

  “Embellish.”

  He nods.

  “So be it,” he says. “Now tell me something: Why Camp Liberty?”

  “Because Weight Watchers camp rejected me.”

  “Humor works on Moore. Not on me.”

  “What works on you?”

  He considers the question for a moment. He takes a drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke out the window. I can see him contemplating something, then he makes a decision.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “No more questions right now.”

  “Good, because I was starting to sweat through my shirt.”

  “I want you to call your father instead,” he says.

  It’s the second time he’s asked me to call. Why does he care about that?

  I angle my body slightly, improving my defensive position if things get physical.

  “You want me to call my dad?” I say casually.

  “You said you needed to call. So call now.”

  “I tried him a few minutes ago.”

  “Try again.”

  “Good idea,” I say.

  He waits as I take out my phone. He holds the cigarette in his lips, his hands free somewhere in the darkness below the wheel.

  I turn on my iPhone. He watches me as I access the home screen and dial Father’s public number again.

  “Put it on speaker,” Francisco says.

  “Why?”

  “I want to know who you’re calling.”

  “You ever hear of the Fourth Amendment right to privacy?”

  “I know all about it,” he says. “We don’t have that at Camp Liberty.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Transparency. That’s how we know we can trust one another. If you want to be one of us, that’s how you roll.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Maybe you can talk to my father. Save me the trouble.”

  I put the phone on speaker.

  It rings three times, the rings loud in the silence of the truck cabin. I wait for the pickup, knowing Father will stay in character on a public line, and hoping that will be enough to convince Francisco.

  The phone continues to ring, but the familiar sound of Father’s voice never comes.

  There’s no answer.

  “Where is your father?” Francisco says, menace in his voice.

  “I don’t know,” I say. And I mean it.

  “No voice mail?”

  We don’t leave voice mail messages. Calls are securely logged and always picked up. There’s no need for messages. But I don’t tell Francisco that.

  “There’s no voice mail on his personal line,” I say. “He doesn’t believe in it. He’s old school. You either get him or you don’t.”

  “Unusual.”

  “He’s an unusual man, no doubt about it,” I say. “But he does read his texts. I’ll send him one so he doesn’t worry. He dropped me off tonight, so he knows I’m here. It shouldn’t be an issue if I stay over at camp.”

  “You sure?” Francisco says. “I can still take you home.”

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  I type out a text to the public number, something that Daniel Martin might say to his father. Then I send it.

  “All set,” I say. “Are we going now?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

  I’ve been playing chess with this guy, trying to satisfy his curiosity. But I’m tired of being on the defense. I decide to switch to offense and let Daniel Martin get pissed off.

  “Hey, it’s been a while since the others left,” I say. “You needed a smoke, you had some questions. I get it.”

  “Do you?” he says, amused.

  “But it’s Moore who invited me to camp. So why don’t you give him a call. You can tell him I answered all your questions, but now you’re overruling his decision.”

  I watch his face closely to gauge the reaction. Does Francisc
o have the power to keep me out of camp? I note tension at the corner of his lip—just the tiniest amount—and I have my answer. This guy is reaching. Maybe he’s even off the reservation right now.

  “Oh, and when you call Moore,” I say, “how about you put it on speaker. You know, for transparency.”

  Francisco chews the inside of his lip. I notice he doesn’t take his phone out, doesn’t even make a move to do so.

  “I never overrule Moore. I share my opinion with him,” he says.

  “I see. So you’re just an adviser,” I say, pushing him a little further.

  “A security adviser,” he says. “My job is to protect him. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe.”

  “I’m no threat to him,” I say. “In fact, after what I did tonight, you might consider me the opposite.”

  Francisco drags deep on his cigarette. I see him studying my face in the soft glow of the cabin.

  Finally he exhales and flicks his cigarette butt out the window.

  “Point taken,” he says.

  He starts the truck.

  “Finally,” I say.

  WE MAKE OUR WAY UP A TWISTING MOUNTAIN PASS.

  Francisco navigates by memory, his speed faster than anyone should be able to safely manage the route. Eventually he slows to make a hairpin turn, and suddenly the road descends steeply for nearly a mile into a deep valley. At the bottom the forest falls away, leaving an open area of a hundred yards in all directions.

  This doesn’t look like the boundary of a normal kids’ camp. It looks like the perimeter of a military facility. Cover keeps an encampment safe; lack of cover exposes the enemy. Together they make up the yin and yang of a good defensive perimeter.

  We descend into the valley, drive through the clearing, and the wooden sign for Camp Liberty briefly lights up in our truck’s headlights.

  “Home, sweet home,” Francisco says.

  It’s so dark in front of us, I can barely make out a scattering of buildings spread across several acres, their profiles appearing and disappearing in the gray-blue moonlight peeking through the clouds.

  I wasn’t given a map of Camp Liberty in my briefing because I’m not supposed to be here, so I’m going to have to find out everything I need to know on the ground.

  Francisco seems to know where he’s going. He pulls forward and brings us to a stop, a building rising out of the darkness.

  “Ride ends here,” Francisco says.

  “Sorry if I was a little bit of an asshole earlier,” I say, offering him an olive branch.

  “A little bit?” he says, obviously not interested in taking it.

  “Okay, then. See you around,” I say.

  “Guaranteed.”

  I open my door. A flashlight beam comes toward me out of the darkness. It shines in my eyes, briefly blinding me.

  “You made it,” Lee says, redirecting the light to a spot on the ground at my feet.

  The truck pulls away behind us.

  “It wasn’t the most enjoyable ride I’ve ever had,” I say.

  “Sorry we left you like that. It wasn’t our call.”

  “I figured,” I say.

  “And Franky’s not exactly the life of the party.”

  “Franky? That’s what you call Francisco?”

  “He’s an okay guy once he warms up to you.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “I’m still waiting,” Lee says, and I laugh. “Anyway, he’s head of my father’s security detail now, so I’d rather he do his job than be a friend.”

  I note his use of the word now. Maybe Francisco got promoted recently?

  “Follow me,” Lee says. He starts walking through the darkness, turning his flashlight beam back toward the ground so I can see where to step. “It’s easy to lose your bearings out here.”

  He’s right. Without the flashlight, I wouldn’t even see my feet hit the ground.

  “By the way, I’m kind of worried that I didn’t get through to my dad yet.”

  “Your phone won’t work up here.”

  “Because of the mountains?”

  “We have a central jamming unit. It makes the one at the community center look like a toy.”

  In my briefing Mother told me the compound was cut off from all communication.

  “Why do you have to jam if you’re way up here?” I say.

  “Nothing in or out,” Lee says, suddenly serious. “It’s for our own protection.”

  “Protection from who?”

  “Enemies,” he says, pointing the flashlight in a sweeping gesture toward the mountains. The way he says the word, it sounds ominous.

  “So there’s no way I can call my dad?”

  “We can get a message through to him if that would help.”

  I shake my head.

  “I guess it can wait until tomorrow,” I say. “I sent him a text earlier, and it’s not like I’m going to be here forever.”

  “Who knows?” Lee says. “You may want to stay after you see what we’re up to.”

  “It must be awesome,” I say.

  “You’ll have to decide that for yourself,” he says. “Follow me.”

  Lee guides me forward with the flashlight. He knows the place by heart, his footing sure despite the lack of illumination in the camp.

  “So here’s the plan,” he says. “I’m going to show you where you’ll bunk for the night, and we’ll give you the tour in the morning.”

  I hear something in the distance, a rhythmic pounding like a hammer hitting metal accompanied by the faint echo of industrial sounds. Clanging steel, machinery, engine noise.

  “That’s a lot of noise for a deserted mountain,” I say.

  “That’s the workshop,” Lee says. “It operates twenty-four-seven.”

  “What do you make there?”

  “It’s one of the ways we earn money. Outsourcing electrical components.”

  “But I thought you only had kids here, right?”

  “Mostly.”

  “What about child labor laws?”

  “Ask my father that question,” Lee says. “He’d love to discuss the subject with you.”

  “Is that a sore point between you two?”

  “Don’t get me started.”

  We walk deeper into the camp. There’s no sign of any people, only the strange metallic pounding that continues to echo through the valley.

  “How many kids are here at a time?” I ask.

  “We generally take no more than two dozen for each camp session. But there are no session kids right now. Only permanents.”

  “Permanents?”

  “Kids who live here full time.”

  I think about the English teacher with wild hair shouting about Moore taking her daughter. Is this what she meant?

  “Kids can live here without their parents?” I say.

  “Don’t be so surprised. It’s like military school. Or any other kind of boarding school. You know what that’s like from Exeter, Daniel.”

  He says my name and for a second, it doesn’t register that he’s talking to me. I’m trained to take on identities one after the other, but adjusting to a new name still has a lag time associated with it. Your name is your identity, and you’ve heard it since birth. Without knowing it, you associate everything about yourself with your name on a very deep and unconscious level.

  Changing names is not as easy as people might believe.

  I am Daniel, I remind myself. That is my identity now. Daniel Martin.

  My own name, my real name, is buried in my consciousness. I neither use it nor access it.

  “You okay?” Lee says.

  “Thinking about something,” I say. “It’s not important.”

  As we walk through the dark, I can just make out the outlines of vehicles parked away from the buildings and facing toward the road. Another security precaution. Keep vehicles and their gasoline tanks away from wooden structures, turned outward, keys in the ignitions, ready to start at a moment’s notice. There is no t
ime for U-turns in a battle.

  Is it possible this camp is being prepared for attack? The idea seems ridiculous, but the evidence is mounting. I’ll know a lot more tomorrow when I examine it in the light.

  Lee says, “My dad wanted to welcome you himself, but he’s in meetings now.”

  “It’s late for meetings, no?”

  His tone turns serious.

  “We have to discuss what happened earlier. And other things…” he says, his voice trailing off.

  He looks like he wants to say more, but he stops himself.

  He turns right at a small building and continues on a path that takes us farther away from what seems to be the central area.

  “Just so you know, this kind of thing—the attempt tonight—doesn’t happen to us on a regular basis.”

  “But it’s happened before?”

  “There have been threats,” he says. “Nobody has gotten that close. Especially not someone—”

  “Someone what?”

  “Someone we know.”

  I imagine the scenario last night. The English teacher has a daughter at camp, so they pass her through security without a thorough search, not expecting she has a gun in her purse.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that moment,” Lee says. “How did you know she had the gun? You were on her practically before she got it out of her bag.”

  “Like you said before, I’ve got a real talent for this security stuff. Maybe I should join the Secret Service.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Okay, truthfully? My dad has a carry permit, so I’ve seen him take a pistol in and out of his work bag, like, a thousand times. It’s hard to miss the gesture when you’re used to it. My eye caught it.”

  He nods, processing the information.

  “As for jumping her,” I say, “that was pretty stupid. And pretty lucky.”

  “It should have been me,” he says.

  He pauses, staring into the dark.

  “I saw the gun, too,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Most people wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m not most people. I’m Eugene Moore’s son. He expects more from me.”