Joseph followed his supervisor into the cafeteria as more gunfire echoed from outside.
STEELE
Fairfax, VA
Steele raced home down VA Route 50. Per usual, traffic had already started to pick up in Northern Virginia. He gunned it around a vehicle putting along blocking a lane of traffic. Survival of the fittest on the NoVA roadways. It was the old three o’clock traffic. A seemingly endless stream of people constantly flowing into and out of the District.
His annoyance with his fellow drivers faded quickly when he pulled in front of his gray townhouse and saw her: a beautiful blonde in tight yoga pants, leaving only a little mystery about what lay underneath. She stretched in the front yard, arms extended over her head.
“Gwen,” he said, closing the car door with a smile.
She smiled. It was an infectious smile. One couldn’t help but fall in love with her. Many previous admirers deeply regretted letting that smile fade from their lives. She bent at the waist, stretching her hamstrings.
“I didn’t expect you back so early. I would have waited for you to go running,” she said.
He threw his pack over his shoulder, watching as she reached down to the ground toward one leg and then the other.
“I picked up an SPD,” he said, embracing her. Special Protection Details were hard to come by, only reserved for the best or well connected, however most of the time it boiled down to babysitting some spoiled politician. The opportunity presented a chance for him to standout a bit to the agency. Check the box on a mission accomplished.
They momentarily locked lips before she quickly pulled away.
“I hate that thing,” she complained, rubbing her chin. He laughed at her. His beard always bothered her.
“Listen, it’s my baby.” He tugged on it a bit. “Do you know how long it took me to perfect this. It’s an art.” Just a bit shorter than some of his buddies’ beards who were special operators, he wore it to cover his identity in foreign countries as well as to blend in where it was customary to have facial hair.
“Where?” she asked, a look of unease registering in her sparkling green eyes.
“Somewhere in Africa,” he said. The corners of her mouth drooped making his heart droop a bit. Making her upset was on the bottom of his to-do list.
“The Red Cross International Division is swamped. Africa is going wild right now. We’ve gotten at least a dozen requests for aid in the last twenty-four hours. I hardly got out of there today. It’s unbelievable how bad it is.”
He readjusted his bag strap. The danger didn’t concern him. Worrying her did.
“At least it’s not the Middle East,” he said, looking at her hopefully. She hated it the most when he deployed there. He understood. It was one of the more dangerous places he deployed. Too many variables and too many people who were waiting for a chance to stick it to the ‘Great Satan.’
“I don’t even know if we’ll be able to deploy enough resources,” she said, trailing off in her own worry.
“Everything will work out,” he said reassuringly. He wrapped his arm around her and walked with her to the house.
They went inside, finding their roommate, a reddish-haired man with a grizzled five o’clock shadow in his late-thirties sitting on their couch. He leaned over a disassembled SIG Sauer P226 .40 caliber, vigorously scrubbing the smokey barrel.
“Mauser, what’s up, man? Did Ops call you?” Steele asked.
Mauser’s anchor-tattooed hand set down the barrel as he turned his attention to the frame of the gun. The muscles in his forearm were lean and sinewy, like they were made with steel suspension cords. Completely consumed by his work, he didn’t look up.
“Just polishing up the smoke wagon here before we head out.”
“Excellent. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go,” he said, hurrying up the stairs.
“Gwen, can you fix up some chow? You know how much I hate airport food,” Steele shouted down the stairs. He crossed his fingers as he dug through his clothing drawers. Tense seconds passed.
“Yeah, yeah,” she shouted up at him. Whew. His gamble could have been perceived in the wrong light with Gwen, but she would always help him out given the chance.
He had met her two years earlier, when they both deployed to New Jersey during Hurricane Sandy. He had been tasked out to assist federal authorities, while she had been stationed with the Red Cross. It had felt like fate, a ray of sunshine amidst a whirlwind of disaster bringing two dedicated public servants together. One who rendered aid like a saint, the other who protected his community like a shepherd his flock. Both unwavering, undeterred, and determined to make a difference. They were a yin and yang of service, both aspects necessary and yet, neither successful without the other.
He gathered handfuls of underwear, socks, shirts and pants; the standard amount of clothing for a few nights. Sometimes when things didn’t go according to plans, he could get stuck somewhere. Across the hall, sat his office, a room he had turned into a shrine of duty. A large old wooden table his grandmother had left him sat in the corner, holding all his gear. A faded ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ naval flag hung above the gear table, a prized possession from his father’s service to his nation. It hung alongside a painting of several firefighters hoisting the American Flag at Ground Zero, a reminder of Steele’s service to his nation. Both he and his father had answered their nation’s call to service in its time of need, his father in the Persian Gulf and Steele years after 9/11. Service ran deep in his veins.
Next to the flags sat a picture of his graduating academy class: a dozen agents lined up in their black suits and black ties. Mauser’s red head poked up alongside Steele’s in the back row, grinning obnoxiously. The academy.
Steele could recall every moment of his first day including how he met Benjamin Mauser. The butterflies danced in his stomach as he stepped into a whitewashed conference room wearing his finest suit. Pictures of agents in plain clothes or in tactical gear lined the room.
His eyes were drawn to a plaque dedicated to the agents who had died in the line of duty. Steele started to count the stars, each gold star representing a fallen agent. Stopping at twenty, he found himself looking for a seat in the midst of soon to be peers.
About twenty-five men and women had clustered in small groups, speaking softly to one another. The candidates had sized one another up, judging each other’s worthiness. A couple of guys in the back talked loudly about their previous military exploits. The whole scene reminded him of a grade school bus ride with the cool kids in the back, the nerds up front and nowhere to sit except next to the weird guy in the middle. Steele cut across the row only realizing as he sat down why no one sat by this lone, shaggy-haired recruit.
The only man in the entire group dressed in jeans and a black-and-red sweatshirt bottomed off with sneakers. Steele was beside himself. Just the kind of person I don’t want to be associated with. Tentatively, he watched the man from the corners of his eyes panicking a bit when the out of policy cadet turned his way. He squirmed under the cadet’s gaze. Desperately, Steele thumbed through his paperwork trying not to be noticed. Please don’t make contact.
The underdressed man leaned over to Steele, reached out a worn callused hand and, with a loud booming voice, said: “Hi. I’m Ben Mauser. It’s good to meet you.” It sounded like Mauser was trying to explain directions to a person who didn’t understand English.
Damn. Contact. He politely took Mauser’s hand in his and said: “I’m Mark Steele. It’s good to meet you.”
Steele promptly flipped back open his orientation package, trying to find a way to avoid any continued conversation. Either this guy hadn’t received the memo or he had a big pair to defy dress code on the first day. There’s no way this guy is going to be here long.
Their orientation coordinator shouted from the back of the room cutting Steele’s mental critique short. “Attention. Special Agent in Charge on deck.”
The cadets stood at attention, or what Steele imagined
standing at attention looked like. The Special Agent in Charge, or SAC, strode into the room looking like a million bucks, surveying his new recruits. He marched to the front podium and spun around to judge the eager faces of the would-be CT agents, hands clasped behind his back.
“Sixty percent of cadets fail out of the academy,” he paused for emphasis. “Look at the men and women around you.” Steele kept his eyes forward. He needn't look further than the man next to him.
“Most of them will not make it. Sixty percent of you do not have what it takes.” The SAC’s gaze surveyed each recruit in silence, hoping for some form of weakness to pounce upon, exposing the inferior being in his presence. He scanned the recruits and stopped as his eyes fell upon the causally dressed Mauser. The weak link had been identified.
The SAC’s eyes widened and then narrowed. “Now, what do we have here? A Freddy Krueger look-a-like? You must be the jokester in the group? I’ve seen your kind before.” The SAC floated down the aisle until he stood face to face with Mauser, eyeballing him with severe scrutiny. “I presume you know today’s attire is business?”
Mauser held his chin level, eyes focused directly at the SAC. “SIR, YES, SIR,” he shouted.
“And I presume that you will rectify this situation tomorrow?” the SAC asked, his eyes cutting him down mercilessly.
“Sir, my suitcase was lost in transit, sir. I am told that it will be delivered sometime this afternoon.”
The SAC inspected him up and down. “That’s great, Krueger. But I can not let this violation of the rules go unaddressed. I mean, if we don’t enforce the rules then how do we get you to respect them,” Steele smiled. This guy is going to get kicked on day one. Better his dumb ass than mine.
“Everyone down into the front leaning rest,” the SAC commanded. Steele learned quickly that the front leaning rest was no rest at all, just a different term for the highest point of the push-up position.
Steele’s chin hung to his chest. This guy can’t possibly be serious. We are in our primo business suits. Freshly dry cleaned and pressed, our Sunday best. On top of that, we haven't done anything wrong it was only that guy, Mauser. How could the SAC be so unfair?
As Steele would find out on the double, none of this meant much to the Counterterrorism Division. They would live and die as a unit. None of them were superheroes, or James Bond, this was real life. They had to be tough, smart and watch each other’s backs if they wanted to be successful. If one person failed, they all failed.
The recruits clambered onto the floor to perform their pushups, eking out rep after rep as the SAC harangued them on the importance of policy, following the rules, accountability and — most importantly — making the correct decisions under pressure. They groaned as they reached a hundred reps. Luckily, Steele had put himself in an intensive physical training regimen for months prior to his recruitment. The unprepared were easily singled out as their arms gave out.
Beads of sweat ran down Steele's face. He chanced a look over at this character in his sweater, who accepted the punishment in stride with Steele going rep for rep. There is no way this guy would survive training. He will be one of the many who washed out. He couldn’t even get the first day right.
The SAC had allowed them to break in the ‘front-leaning rest position. “Welcome to the most specialized counterterrorism agency on the planet. If you can’t be smart, then we will make you strong.”
Much to Steele’s initial dismay; he had been seated next to Mauser for every training event at the academy. As their staff ID numbers were consecutive, the two would not only be partnered up for scenarios, but would sit together during endless hours of classroom training and even bunk together.
The academy had forged a friendship for life. The shittier the experience, the closer it brings men in arms. It taught them to close ranks when things went bad, to rely on one another in the face of danger. As years passed, life bound them together like brothers. Because while one needs a brother to celebrate his victories, one needs him more when the enemy screams for his life. Not merely a sibling of your mother’s breast, because that bond sometimes is not enough, but a brother who has tied himself to you through earned respect, shared experience and common cause.
Steele collected his equipment. He carried the standard Counterterrorism agent issued kit laying in neat order, starting with his Death Dealer, the SIG Sauer P226 .40 that he placed into an inside the waist leather holster in his pants. He tossed his stainless steel handcuffs, zip ties and his baton into a pocket of his suitcase. He could never fathom why they had issued the agents a baton, aside that it made them seem more like police when in reality, they were anything but.
Next, he flicked open a spring-loaded Benchmade out-the-top blade, closed it and clipped it inside his pants along with a tactical flashlight. He clipped two extra magazines onto his belt and placed one in his ankle magazine holder. Can’t hurt to have that extra mag when everything goes to shit. This was a common practice among the agents.
Finally, he put his gold-emblazoned tactical badge around his neck. While the badge itself was light, the responsibility weighed heavy, but he had grown accustomed to it and craved it.
The call of duty set him apart from a regular citizen of his great country. It came with massive responsibility. Most people either didn’t want the responsibility or couldn’t handle it. It was much more convenient for them to think evil didn’t exist or could never touch their lives. Steele was a part of the few who formed a thin hard line between order and chaos. He was a shield to the weak. He was a sword to the breasts of evildoers. As a shadow, he stood watch in the night over his people so they may rest unmolested in their beds. If death called his name, he would never fully accept his fate, fighting tooth and nail to the bitter end. For he had sworn an oath, that he would support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. He would uphold the law and bring justice to all those who would do harm to the citizens of the greatest country in the world.
Steele slid the badge underneath his shirt, finishing his preparations as the smell of grilling beef burgers wafted up the stairs. Gwen always made something tasty and decidedly unhealthy for him right before he deployed. He was convinced she was plotting to make him fat. Happy, but fat. He hauled his luggage and pack down the steps.
“So it’s burgers and fries?” he asked.
Gwen’s red lips curved. “You just remember what you’re coming back to,” she said, flipping a patty on a warm toasted bun.
“I’ll think about it,” he teased, not waiting to tear into the burger. He had no problem coming back from missions. By the end of a mission he was so exhausted, that he could hardly drive home.
“You’d better,” she called from the kitchen.
“Man, I wish I had something to eat,” Mauser prattled, opening the fridge and rummaging around.
Gwen smiled and produced a second and a third plate, setting them down on the kitchen table.
“I wouldn’t forget you, Ben,” she said. She sat down and took a big bite out of her burger.
“Where does all of that go?” Steele asked.
She smiled. “Some of us actually run. So this is fuel.”
After he devoured his meal, he leaned back in his chair ready to burst. She is definitely a keeper, he thought. He glanced at Mauser.
“You ready, big fella?” he asked.
“Yes sir. Let’s do this,” Mauser said. Steele nodded, turning to Gwen. He kissed her. “I’ll be okay,” he said.
“I know,” she replied softly, looking down straightening his shirt.
“That’s what all the training’s for,” he said with a kiss to her cheek. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
JOSEPH
US Embassy Kinshasa, DRC
Joseph and Harkin entered the main cafeteria, a large room consisting of dozens of oblong tables. Food distribution staff handed out water bottles and snacks. Embassy personnel from all over the building trickled into the
room. A large crowd had clustered near the panoramic-style windows overlooking the front courtyard and gate. The muffled cries of children in their mother’s arms gave away that the embassy staff’s families were also gathering. It was not uncommon for staffers to have their entire families with them abroad, but to have them all in one spot meant something bad was happening.
Joseph caught a kid, sitting nearby, picking his nose while he stared defiantly at Joseph as if he dared him to do something about it. Joseph turned away, slightly repulsed by the wretched little person.
Joseph never had a family of his own, and as he watched the small children squirm and cry in the cafeteria, he didn’t regret his choice. The truth was, he was slightly afraid of kids. They seemed so naively bold and they were perpetually dirty, excellent hosts for viruses. And what do you talk to a kid about anyway? You could never have a conversation about the merits of using cidofovir as opposed to ganciclovir as a primary treatment for cytomegalovirus. Yet, sometimes when he looked at the families, he yearned to have people around him; his own people.
He placed all of his energy into his work because it could never betray him, but it wasn’t that he didn’t want somebody of his own to love and hold. He had a love interest, of sorts, back in college. She always badgered him about studying too much. She just didn’t understand. In the end, Joseph had ended up alone. He told himself he was better off that way, but he often questioned his own rationale, wondering if maybe he wouldn’t be happier with someone else to share his life with.
Joseph joined the cluster of people near the windows. Normally, it was quite a nice view: a few office buildings, and beyond palm trees and green hills, the more attractive part of Kinshasa. Not today, though. Anarchy had exploded all over the streets. The embassy staff murmured to one another in hushed whispers as they gawked behind the safety of their window within their concrete building, surrounded by Marines, fences and barbwire.
End Time Page 4