by Tom DeLonge
“Wenn der krieg vorbei ist,” he said. “When the war is over.”
We slept in bunks in canvas tents. It was cold, but no worse than it had been in the ghetto. Ishmael was wrong about the food. That first night, we were given a small piece of black bread and a fragment of cheese and told it was to last us until lunchtime the following day. Ishmael was first incredulous and then furious at how stupid we had been to volunteer for something so awful. He shouted at a guard and said that we wanted to go back to Warsaw. The soldier struck him on the side of his head with the butt of his rifle, and Ishmael fell heavily to the ground, unconscious.
As I knelt over him, weeping, a spider-thin man, a fellow Jew, crouched beside me and put his hand over the swelling bruise on my brother’s temple.
“That was a stupid thing to do,” he remarked. “If you want to survive for any length of time here, you and your idiot brother will learn to keep your mouths shut.”
“Will he be all right?” I asked.
“He’ll have a hell of a headache when he comes around, but yes, I think so. Unless he does it again. You don’t get second chances here. And to make the point so that you both remember it, I’m going to eat his cheese.”
He did so, sourly and without relish, but I was too drained by our predicament to muster any real outrage.
“Where are we?” I managed.
“They call it the Wenceslas mine,” he said.
“What will we do here?”
“It’s a mine,” he said, bitterly. “We dig.”
But that, as we learned over the next few awful days, weeks, and months, was only partly true. We dug and tunneled, but we also built, pouring concrete and pushing wheelbarrows of rubble out until our hands bled and we couldn’t stand. We toiled beneath the earth like moles, constructing we knew not what, and sometimes we wept for those we had lost, and for what we had become.
That there was more to come, stranger and more hideous than anything we had seen so far, we could not have imagined.
6
ALAN
Camp Leatherneck Marine, Helmund Province, Afghanistan
HE HAD DEBRIEFED AFTER MISSIONS A HUNDRED TIMES. He knew the drill, and usually, nothing fazed him. This time was different. This time, he felt the weight of shame and confusion and with them came the long tail of dread. Major Alan Young was a Marine pilot, to the very marrow of his bones. That identity was encoded in his DNA. It was who he was.
And he felt it ending, and there was nothing he could do to stop that from happening. The damage was done.
He had filed his report the moment he landed at Leatherneck, thankful for the armed escort that had carried him away from Barry’s towering rage at the landing strip. The MARSOC team had lost three men in the barrage from the helicopters. Four survivors had to be stretchered out, and two of them were in surgery with shrapnel wounds.
Alan’s fault.
It wasn’t, of course. He knew that with his head, but in his gut, his failure burned like hot metal. Almost as bad was knowing that the more he tried to explain what had happened, the more he would jeopardize his position. Mechanical failure was one thing, but coming under the influence of an unidentifiable object? That would blow his career in a heartbeat and land him in the psych ward. He had already decided to say nothing about it, to make it sound like he’d just had a weapons malfunction due, perhaps, to a software glitch, one which—of course—was now fixed and undetectable.
Alan chewed his lower lip, his one nervous tick.
The moment the bogeys had opened fire, the strange glowing sphere had vanished, streaking upwards at unimaginable speed and vanishing into darkness. Their work done, the enemy helos had vanished over the hills, winking in and out of radar like ghosts before the Night Hawks could engage them. If anyone had seen the strange object in the sky, they weren’t saying.
The debriefing building a Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility—SCIF for short—was a low cluster of offices plastered in desert yellow. The operations command team was familiar—two lieutenants and a captain who Alan had seen routinely for months, though today they were stiff, formal, and reluctant to make eye contact. He felt like he’d been called to the principal’s office, something he hadn’t felt since his first days at MCAS Cherry Point. Under other circumstances, it might have been funny.
But it wasn’t. He’d filed his report immediately following the mission. The duty officers had sent him back to his quarters to rest while they reviewed the details, ordering him to return at oh nine hundred. He’d slept badly, playing and replaying the events of the night in his head, looking for something that might plausibly explain what had happened that night over the mountains. In his report, he’d said that the weapon systems had failed, and that he’d been temporarily blinded by a bright light. Perhaps it had been some kind of flare launched by one of the enemy helicopters, or some new kind of drone designed to illuminate the target area, there simply to light the position, and his problems in the Harrier were unrelated.
If it was equipment failure, he would know soon enough, because the ground crew was going over his bird to determine what went wrong. They would have a preliminary report by morning, maybe sooner. Alan considered this as he shaved. His blue-green eyes were bloodshot with tiredness, the sockets shadowed, his always lean face looking more than usually drawn and hollow.
“You look like hell, Major,” he observed.
He ran his hands through his short brown hair, noting the way it was graying at the temples, then hurried to the SCIF, hoping to God he didn’t meet anyone who might ask how things had gone.
But everyone would know. You didn’t lose three of your own without the whole base knowing.
“Please be seated, Major Young, sir,” said the intel officer, closing the door behind him. “I’m Captain Thwaite. We’ve met before.”
About a hundred times, thought Alan.
“Captain,” he said.
“And this is Lieutenant Jonah,” the Captain continued, nodding to the woman sitting next to him, who did not look up, “and Lieutenant Simmons.” The burly officer by the door. No one was smiling.
Alan nodded and took the proffered seat.
The Captain’s formality bothered him. The intel guys were always careful, but this was different. There was an air of caution that suggested everyone was covering their ass.
Alan’s heart sank. He could be reliving last night’s fiasco for months, possibly even years, in depositions and reports and interviews.
Captain Thwaite opened a manila folder, rotated it and pushed it across the table towards him.
“This is your account of the events last night,” he said. “Before we start, I just want to be clear; we’re looking for a clear picture of what happened, putting your account together with the data gathered from drones, AWACs, satellite surveillance and other witness accounts. No one is accusing you of anything and your record, which is exemplary, is duly noted. Is there anything you would like to add to the report you’ve already made? Or change?”
The hesitation between those last two sentences had been only a fraction of a second, but it was loaded with meaning.
“No, Captain,” he said.
Another pause, icy despite the still mounting heat of the day.
“Nothing at all? Are you sure about that, Major Young?” asked the Lieutenant opposite him.
He considered her question for a half second. Alan had seen her, a week ago, at an off base restaurant frequented by a British regiment. She had looked—as much as possible in her multicam utility uniform—glamorous, sexy even, in make up that pushed the limits of what was considered acceptable. She had seemed light-hearted, even a little flirty, then. There was no trace of that playfulness now, though she had the decency to avoid his gaze when he said, “No, Lieutenant. I stand by my report.”
The Captain produced another document, slightly dogeared. He considered it thoughtfully, and edged it towards Alan, moving as if in slow motion.
“This is the preli
minary report on your aircraft, from an examination conducted in the early hours of this morning,” he said. “A test pilot will take the plane up later today to do further live tests on its weapons systems, but as you can see, the first pass engineering report says that all systems seem to be operating normally. The flight data recorders show no record of any attempt on your part to engage said systems during the mission last night. Can you offer an explanation for that?”
“No, Captain, I cannot,” said Alan. “Though the loss of power to the systems, which I outlined, would explain why there’s no record of the attempt to deploy. It was off-line.”
“That would be the Sidewinder you say you attempted to launch at the enemy helicopter?” said the Captain.
“Yes. The LGBs worked perfectly. The systems only went down when the helicopters appeared.”
“You think they were somehow jamming you?”
“I don’t know, Captain, but I think that possibility should be thoroughly examined,” said Alan, opting for the same formal professionalism as his interrogators. “I doubt my launch systems failing at the exact time the 35s showed up is a coincidence.”
“Yes,” said the Captain, levelly. “I would agree. Though I’m unsure of any system that could affect your weapon systems but not your flight controls.”
Alan shifted in his chair. He could feel the heat rising in his face. They said they weren’t accusing him of anything, but there was more than confusion in the room. There was skepticism.
The Lieutenant silently moved another sheet of paper in front of the Captain. They did not look at each other, but Alan felt that the action had been discussed, planned. Something was about to happen.
“Do you recall what you said over the radio last night, Major?” said the Captain, looking up.
“Not word for word …” Alan began, but the Captain waved the rest away.
“Of course not, Major,” he cut in. “But do you recall saying, and I quote, ‘I have an unidentified bogey in visual range. Configuration unknown. I think it’s disrupting my weapons systems …’ Do you recall saying that?”
Alan stiffened.
“I think what I meant was …” he began, but again, the Captain interjected.
“Do you recall saying that, sir?”
“Not precisely.”
“Are you doubting the accuracy of the cockpit voice recorder?” the Lieutenant chimed in.
“No,” Alan said quickly. “I just don’t recall using those exact words.”
“Well,” said the Captain, managing a mirthless smile, “I can assure you, Major, that you did, and I’m wondering what you meant by them.”
“Well, as I said,” Alan began, “I was wondering if maybe something on the helicopters …”
“But you don’t say helicopter,” the Captain pressed. “You say unidentified bogey. Configuration unknown. Singular. So it seems you weren’t referring to the three helicopters.”
He let the sentence hang in the air. Alan said nothing.
“Did you see another aircraft last night, Major? Other than the three helicopters you failed to engage when requested to do so by your ground team?”
Alan felt cornered, and he had to fight down the urge to come out fighting. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make the situation worse.
“I feel like I need legal counsel or something,” he said.
“This is a routine debriefing, not a court of law, Major,” said the Lieutenant.
Alan’s lip buckled into a derisive smile. There was nothing routine about what was happening this morning. But then there had been nothing routine about last night either. He considered. It wasn’t their fault that they had to probe him to get a sense of what really happened. If another pilot had told him the same story, would he have believed it?
Probably not.
He would have guessed that this was some trumped up horseshit to cover some more shameful failure. Panic. Incompetence. Even cowardice. These were the words floating in his interviewers’ heads. Ugly words which, if they found their way out of their heads and into any formal account of last night’s debacle, would cost him his career at very least.
“I did everything I could,” he said. It was true but it sounded lame and desperate. In that instant Alan knew he had made a mistake. He should tell them everything, let the chips fall where they may. Maybe the AWACs had picked up some anomalous signal which they’d examine more closely if he said exactly what he thought he had seen. His silence was making his situation worse …
“Why don’t we take a break and reconvene this afternoon?” said the Lieutenant. “You can think things over, we can talk to the survivors from the ground force, get the test flight completed, and then we can talk later. See if we can’t connect these dots better.”
The survivors …
Alan nodded.
“For the record, Major,” said the Captain, “Flight Command has asked that you remain grounded until our investigation is concluded. Until tomorrow then. Major—would you wait here, please?”
His debriefers left the room and, for a moment, Alan just sat there wondering what the hell he had been thinking. Maybe if he went after them, told them he wanted to change his story, this might all start making some kind of sense. He got to his feet, but before he could get to the door, it opened and a man came in.
He was middle aged, lean and fit-looking wearing a trim, charcoal-colored suit in spite of the desert heat. “My name is Special Agent Martin Hatcher,” he said, opening a folding wallet and slapping it onto the table so that the three letters printed on the card inside could be read: CIA. “I’ll be taking over this interrogation.”
“This is a Marine corps matter,” Alan said. “You have no authority …”
But Martin Hatcher was unflappable.
“NCIS are aware of my presence,” he said. “I can wait if you’d like to call your superiors,” he remarked, moving around the table until he faced Alan, sitting in the Captain’s former seat. “But that will only waste everybody’s time and you’ll still find that I have all the authority I need.”
His tone was conversational, his manner professional but pleasant, as if what he was doing was ordinary, today’s business a minor shift from normal operations. Alan stared at him, saying nothing.
“Major Young,” he went on, taking an envelope from his briefcase. “I have something requiring your immediate signature.”
He opened the envelope and offered Alan a single sheet of paper, a neatly typed letter, addressed to Alan’s commanding officer. The first sentence read, “I, Major Alan Young, do hereby resign my commission in the Marine Corps, effective immediately …”
Alan looked up.
The CIA officer gave him a level stare, then plucked a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and held it across the table.
“Now, please, Major,” he said.
7
JENNIFER
London
IT TOOK JENNIFER THREE DAYS TO GET BACK TO LONDON. She had to bribe two different sets of South African traffic cops en route to Johannesburg airport. They could spot a rental a mile off and tailed you until they saw something they could claim as an infraction, usually someone straying over the solid line dividing the highway. Normally, she was painstakingly careful and alert to police presence, but she was driving in a furious fog that seemed to thicken with each mile the more she considered her father’s typically high-handed bullshit.
It was so like him, meddling, subverting what she did, what she worked for, what she believed in. She had called once, leaving an angry voice mail that said she was on her way but refused to say when she’d arrive. The call completed, she had turned off her phone and stowed it deep in her luggage so that she couldn’t be tempted to try to reach him again. What she had to say would wait until she was standing in front of him, and she had spent most of the journey crafting in her head precisely what those words would be.
On the outskirts of the Johannesburg, skirting a black township edged with rusty corrugat
ed iron and shelters made of oil barrels and polythene sheeting, she moved into the center lane to avoid herds of wandering cattle and goats, and still had to brake hard when a baboon ran across the road through heavy traffic. She was in sight of the city’s metropolitan sprawl, but it still felt like what her father considered “third world.”
And people like him made it so.
She didn’t hate her father. She was sure of that, but of late, it had become harder to distinguish the man from his work, and there was no question that she had hated his work for a long time. Edward Quinn was a financier. That was how he introduced himself, saying it with a modest twinkle that implied he could, with a click of his mouse, bring half a dozen small nations to the brink of bankruptcy, but it wasn’t a big deal. If money made the world turn, then it was people like her father who controlled how fast it turned, and while she could live with the sickening profits he reaped in the process, she’d learned, as a child, to loathe the idea that channeling money to one place meant taking it from somewhere else. The tasteful excess she had grown up with—the sprawling Hampstead mansion, the Tuscan villa, the scattering of elegantly appointed apartments and hotel suites in every corner of the world, the Jaguars and BMWs, her father’s Saville Row suits, which cost more than most people in Swaziland made in a year—it had all become emblematic of everything that was wrong with the world.
For years now, she had vacillated between her moral outrage at the source of her father’s wealth and the idea that she could put some of it to good use, despite the harm his corporate cronies had done to the world, but she was off balance now. His meddling in her work couldn’t go on. She would sit him down, look him in the eye, and tell him.
She was tired of being held hostage. She wanted no more of his money. Ever.
The irony that she had used her father’s credit card to buy an airline ticket, first class, was not lost on her. Life was about to get very difficult. It would be some time before she could get back to the kind of work she saw as her calling, her cosmic duty to balance the damage her father had done to the world.