Camp Valor

by Scott McEwen

  Halfway across the world, by way of the dark net, a laptop computer in a Panamanian gaming company chimed with a new email. There was a photo of a man in a trunk, a U.S. citizen who had been operating in the Middle East. Facial recognition to the high-school photo of Chris Gibbs was at eighty-three percent. The group that abducted the operator called itself the Brotherhood. They would be happy to sell the operator to Pablo, but there was one twist. The Brotherhood was holding an auction of sorts and Glowworm Gaming would be bidding against the U.S. government. The price for the operator believed to be Chris Gibbs had gone up to fifty million.

  Pablo took this news to the Glowworm.

  “I’ll pay fifty million for him, I’ll pay even sixty million. Whatever it takes, if it is the real Chris Gibbs,” the Glowworm said. “But I want proof. Eighty-three percent is not good enough. I need DNA or a fingerprint to match Gibbs. Or I don’t pay. It’s that simple.”

  And so Pablo had his new directive. Find a print, blood, hair, or tissue sample from a high-school student who had disappeared thirty years ago.

  Yeah, real simple.

  CHAPTER 22

  August 2017

  Camp Valor

  The Cave Complex had a locker room and showers. Hot showers. Wyatt took his time. After twelve straight hours of close-quarters pistol training in three different environments and simulated situations—hostage, terrorists on plane, school shooter—Wyatt leaned against the tile wall and let the piping-hot water course down his shoulders, neck, and back. When his muscles loosened and his back was bright red, he shut off the spigot, grabbed a towel, and went back to his locker, where he cleaned, oiled, and stowed his gear. He changed into his now extremely thin Tony Hawk T-shirt, shorts, belt, and sheath with the knife, which he’d officially been allowed to keep since completing Hell Week. He then returned his H&K MP7A1 and Glock to the gun locker and secured the weapons.

  The rest of the Group-Cs had long ago headed back to base camp and to the Mess Hall. They’d learned that to wait for Wyatt meant they’d starve or eat cold food. Wyatt was happy to eat icicles if it meant a little alone time.

  He stepped from the Cave Complex into golden late-afternoon sunlight. He was tired. To his core. But he felt good and clean, like a wet sponge wrung dry. A drone buzzed toward him and dipped its wing. Rory must be at the controls, he thought. Even though she had originally been slated for explosives, Rory had shown a proclivity toward aviation and drones, so the staff transitioned her to that program.

  Wyatt gave a wave. The drone banked hard and disappeared into the mouth of the cave, the image reminding Wyatt of a children’s book he’d read about an old lady inhaling a fly.

  He smiled and started up the interior slope of the Caldera at a crisp pace. He remembered the first day he’d walked up the opposite side of the Caldera and how winded he’d become. The day was hotter than his first day and the interior slope was steeper and he was far more tired, yet he felt like he could start running and not even break a sweat.

  As Wyatt summited the high ridge that ringed the Caldera, he noticed that a second, smaller drone had been following him, but fell off as he crossed out of the Caldera. Wyatt suspected this second drone, the stalking drone, must be manned by Avi. Avi had never warmed up to Wyatt. The security guru was prickly with everyone, but especially with Wyatt, and Wyatt couldn’t understand why. The only thing Wyatt could chalk it up to was that Hallsy clearly liked Wyatt and if there was anyone Avi liked less than Wyatt it was Hallsy.

  The heavily wooded path down to base camp was now in the shadow of the Caldera and was particularly dark. Not quite cool, but cooler than the Sugar Bowl. And it felt good.

  A pebble landed at Wyatt’s feet. He froze and scanned the hillside, searching for movement in the dusky light slanting through the trees. He smelled dinner wafting up from base camp. Who would be out in the woods besides him? He glimpsed movement to his three o’clock and decided to investigate. But instead of taking a direct line to the source of the movement, he ambled down the path and then looped back uphill, around a large rock outcropping. He unclipped his knife and gripped the bone handle.

  He slowly and silently crept up a narrow ravine into a dense thicket of trees and discovered a figure with its back to him, looking down at the path.

  “Dolly?”

  She jumped and put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.” She pointed, indicating they should walk deeper into the forest.

  He followed. They came to a cavelike cutout that was shielded by the thick pine boughs. Dolly entered, her eyes and posture hyper-alert. She vibed nervous. Borderline scared. Wyatt had never seen her like this. He kinda liked it. Wyatt followed, his breathing quickened too. They had not been alone since the night before Hell Week, when their bodies touched in the water.

  “Yeah, I know this is weird, but I wanted to talk to you, alone,” Dolly said, a little raspy, throat dry. “Avi is all crazy with his drones. And Hud…” She hesitated. “I didn’t want anyone else to see me.”

  They were very close in the enclosure, less than a foot apart. He could smell the soap on her skin. He could even smell her lip balm. Roses. He could feel her breath. Wyatt’s mouth was so dry, he felt like he had a tablespoon of cinnamon in his mouth. He had to say something. “So what did you want to talk about?”

  Her eyebrows scrunched a little. Dammit. He should have just shut up. He felt all the warmth leave her.

  “The Old Man,” she said. “Have you noticed? He’s acting strange. I think something happened. I don’t know. Like in the world.”

  Wyatt thought for a moment. The Old Man and Hallsy had been meeting privately lately, taking long conference calls in the Cave Complex. Everything hush-hush.

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Wyatt said, “but what have you seen?”

  “I’ve heard rumors … of a capture.”

  “From who?” Wyatt asked.

  “Fabian Grant.”

  “Mackenzie’s brother?”

  “Yes, he works closely with Mum so he hears everything. I’m inclined to believe him,” Dolly said.

  “I get it,” Wyatt said. “What did Fabian say?”

  “Supposedly, an operator, a former member of Valor, has been captured by an Islamist terrorist group. They wanted a big price tag, and the Old Man and Hallsy are pressuring the Department of Defense to get the operator back. But the negotiations are complicated. And they don’t know which way it’ll go.”

  Wyatt nodded, leaving out his own experience eavesdropping on the Old Man and Hallsy as well as his sense that somehow he factored into those discussions. Right now, he did not care about anything other than being close to Dolly. Staying close. He just wanted to be a boy with a girl. Not a Valorian. Just a kid again. He told himself to shut up. Don’t move. Say as little as possible.

  “Can we do anything about it?” Wyatt finally asked. “Or can we forget about the outside world … and Valor … for just a little bit?”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Dolly said. “You’re the special one.”

  Wyatt made a face. “Special? They pulled me out of a jail. Like everyone else.”

  “No.” She scowled and shook her head. Wyatt had a hard time not staring at her lips. “They don’t let anyone skip indoc. You did. Hallsy and the Old Man are tracking you. You’re their top recruit. That’s why Hud is competitive with you. He used to be their golden boy, now you are.”

  “That’s not why Hud doesn’t like me,” Wyatt said, holding her with his eyes.

  “What? Because of me?” she said.

  Wyatt nodded slowly.

  “Maybe. But whatever was between Hud and me, whatever happened in past summers, it’s over. Completely over.”

  “I’m not sure Hud thinks that,” Wyatt said softly.

  She grew colder, eyes downcast. “This is why we don’t … get emotional in the program. This is why”—she looked around at the trees and their confined space—“I shouldn’t be out here with you.” She took a step back. “There’s no place f
or any…”

  “Any what?” Wyatt stepped closer to her.

  “Feelings. At Valor. Too dangerous. Getting emotional, thinking with anything but a clear head, can get you killed. We need to clear our heads. For you, for Hud, for me…” She looked up at Wyatt, her breath now heavy.

  “My head is very clear,” Wyatt said. “I only have one thought.” He reached out and took Dolly’s hand.

  She didn’t pull back, sliding her hands up to his face and neck. She raised her lips and pulled him to her. And they kissed. Crushing into each other. Tightening. Having waited so long.

  Time tumbled forward, both lost in the moment until they heard the siren wailing from the base of the Caldera.

  * * *

  “Thank you for joining us, Wyatt,” Hallsy said sarcastically as Wyatt entered the Ready Room. The rest of Group-C sat in folding chairs with their notepads out. Wyatt had given Dolly a head start, so she had taken the seat in front of him. He lowered himself into a chair next to Samy. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Hud glared, jaws clenched, eyes burning. Did he suspect something?

  “The alarm you heard is not a drill,” the Old Man said from the back of the room, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. “Our intelligence network has been tipped off to a credible threat. Sergeant Hallsy will tell you the rest.”

  The screens behind Hallsy glowed to life. Photos of two teenage boys: one seventeen years old, dark-complected; the other fifteen or sixteen and fair with large, puppy-dog brown eyes. They looked eastern European, maybe Russian. “Meet Chokar and Jawad Alamariah. Brothers. Both naturalized Canadian citizens and phenomenal athletes. Chokar, the older brother, recently qualified for the Canadian Junior Olympic boxing team.”

  Wyatt stared at Jawad’s face, trying to place where he had seen it before. Something about the boy was unnervingly familiar. Where had he seen him? The screen clicked through images of Chokar brandishing boxing trophies, big thick belts. Smiling broadly.

  Hallsy continued, “The brothers emigrated to Canada from Chechnya in ’02, seeking political asylum. Canadian authorities had been told that their father died of cancer. The Canadians were not told the truth.”

  An image projected on the screen of a radical Islamist fighter holding up a human head, big grin on the fighter’s face. Pure evil.

  Hallsy let the image stay up on the screen. “This was Chokar’s daddy shortly before a U.S. SEAL team eliminated him. Back then, Chokar was three, Jawad just an infant. So you wonder, could the family start a new life in the West? The answer, of course, is yes. They could have and—”

  Hallsy changed the image on the screen to show Chokar and Jawad smiling, arm in arm with their mother. “By all accounts, they had started over. Until last summer.”

  The screen showed Chokar in a foreign land, surrounded by older bearded men. “Chokar returned to Chechnya for a visit. We believe an uncle radicalized him and when Chokar returned to the U.S., Chokar in turn radicalized his younger brother, Jawad, who, it turns out, is not a meathead like his older brother. Jawad is pretty damn smart.”

  Hallsy zoomed in on Jawad, into his big brown eyes. “So smart, in fact, he’s become a master bomb maker.” Hallsy brought up images of a remote athletic facility. “This is a U.S. Olympic training facility for boxers. The Canadian team has been invited to participate in a competition. Chokar has been there for a month. Last week, it was announced that the president of the United States and the Canadian prime minister will tour the boxing facility.”

  Hallsy paused for effect. “Two days ago, guess who decided to pack up his bags and visit his older brother?” Hallsy nodded, “You guessed it. Baby Bamm-Bamm.”

  The image switched back to Jawad’s innocent puppy-dog eyes.

  “What about the Secret Service?” Dolly said. “Haven’t they cleared the area already?”

  “Of course. They found no evidence of a threat. And there may be no threat. We hope there is no threat.” Hallsy paused for emphasis. “So what do we do?”

  “Can’t rely on hope,” Ebbie said, echoing lessons he’d learned since arriving at Valor. “Hope is not a strategy. And the Secret Service is far from perfect. This is one of these tricky situations where a sovereign nation and ally, Canada, is a guest in our country and we suspect a member of their Junior Olympian team may be a terrorist. We can’t send in the cavalry or even the diplomats. We need to come in under the radar and just make sure everything is okay.”

  “That’s exactly right, Ebbie,” Hallsy said. “This scenario is tailor-made for Valor. We can get in and determine if there is a threat. If all goes well, we get out and no one ever knows.”

  Avi entered the Ready Room with a scale model of the training facility and placed it on the center of the conference table.

  “Thanks, Avi.” Hallsy picked up a pointer with a toy helicopter glued to the end. “Our insertion point will be three miles offshore. We’ll make aquatic entry, and utilize diver propulsion vehicles to reach shore. Rory will operate an infrared drone from a remote site. The insertion team will be disguised as attendees at the training facility; however, I warn you—this will not pass much scrutiny. The facility is small and tight-knit. Avoid detection at all costs. From the beach, we’ll split into two teams. Ebbie, Dolly, Samy will be Team One. Team Two is Wyatt and Hud.”

  Wyatt held out his fist for Hud to bump, but it hung in the air.

  “You all right?” Wyatt whispered.

  Hud gazed back, eyes unnervingly empty. “All good.” He smiled. And pounded Wyatt’s fist.

  “The last thing I want to tell you,” the Old Man said, “you have all performed superbly. We are now in the last weeks of summer and you have the opportunity to distinguish yourselves. It is on missions like these where we decide who receives Top Camper and, more than that, who will be with this program for the long haul.”

  CHAPTER 23

  August 15, 2017

  Near Olympic Training Facility, Pacific Northwest

  “You’re up.” Hallsy nudged Wyatt toward the open helicopter door. Some thirty feet below was a frothing sea, only dimly visible in moonlight. Wyatt knew the water was cold and unrelenting. But unlike during Hell Week, Wyatt now wore protection: a 5mm neoprene scuba suit, a pair of flippers, and a closed-circuit MK 25 rebreather, which would allow Wyatt to breathe underwater without discharging oxygen into the environment. That meant no bubbles. He also carried a SubGravity RS scooter, a diver propulsion device (DPD), which would help Wyatt swim up to 280 feet per minute. His kit was strapped to his chest. In it, he carried various mission-critical odds and ends, including a lock pick, night vision goggles, a 9mm Glock, and compact Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun he’d trained with for close-quarters combat. He’d packed four extra clips of 4.6mm rounds for the H&K, in case things got hairy.

  Thanks to the rapid neural growth of teenage minds and the teaching techniques at Valor, Wyatt had become an expert diver, parachutist, and marksman. He was trained to use a vast array of weapons and could operate, among other things, a tank and a Mark V SOC, the souped-up inflatable SEALs use. Wyatt could guide a missile strike from an F-18 with the use of a SOFLAM laser target designator. He could craft lethal weapons out of most household goods. Thanks to Cass’s ordnance classes, if he had five minutes alone in a hardware store, he could make an IED that could take down a tank. He was trained in several forms of martial arts, and if a vehicle had either two or four wheels and an engine, he could probably figure out how to take it on a joy ride.

  Even with all the training that had been packed into his brain and body in the past six weeks, as he prepared for his first mission in the field, he felt like he knew nothing. More importantly, he wondered if he was ready to engage a target. Wyatt was armed to the teeth, and if engaged, might be called upon to use lethal force. Was that something he could do? Would do? Sliding into position, doubt crept into his brain and body, and his legs turned rubbery.

  Hud did not seem to experience this kind of anxiety. Nor did Samy. Or even Dolly. T
o those three, the barrel of a gun looked the same as a garden hose. When you turned it on, something came out the end. If you didn’t want to get hit, get out of the way.

  On the other hand, Ebbie, who had rejoined Group-C after a week recovering from his concussion, had a healthy respect for fear and was transparent about when he felt it. He’d say things like, “Right now, I’m scared as a damn boy can be.” Then he’d laugh and do something insane.

  Because Rory had transitioned to flying drones and did so with surgical precision, she was denied the joys of jumping out of helicopters and staring down the business end of gun barrels.

  For Wyatt, the only thing that made the uncertain feeling and self-doubt go away was action. Action, discipline, and repetition. Stop thinking. Get out of your head. Act. Heart hammering, feeling like a giant cold hand was gripping his chest, Wyatt did what he knew would make him get on point—he leapt into the void.

  * * *

  The fall was brief. Wyatt broke the surface of the water, heels down. The diver propulsion vehicle jerked in his hand at the surface, but then sank with Wyatt as he plunged several feet and everything grew calm. It was dark, but he could see the rest of the team waiting for him ahead, their lights glowing, lights that would be turned off as they got closer to shore, about three miles directly to the east.

  Wyatt used the DPV to pull himself over to Hud. The final member of Group-C to enter the water was Ebbie. There would be no staff supervision in the water or on the land on this mission, as their presence in a youth environment would immediately draw suspicion. Group-C was truly on its own for the first time. No ghosting. It was all them.

  Using hand signals, Samy instructed the five members of the mission to proceed. Wyatt noted with pride that Samy, who had been the poorest swimmer in the group, led the water portion of the expedition.

  Guided by compass, GPS, and Samy, they arrived at the beachhead with pinpoint accuracy. Traveling with the currents at around 280 feet per minute, it took them a little over an hour and a half to reach land. As the teams had rehearsed, they made sure the beach was empty before proceeding onto the shore, which was very un-beachy, in fact. It was extremely rocky with a light wind on an otherwise placid summer night. In the distance over the cliffs that lined the rocky shore, Wyatt saw lights from the boxing training facility and the dorms.