by Matt Rogers
Operatives of their calibre had to be obscenely athletic.
This kept them that way.
King wiped a chain of sweat droplets off his forehead and flicked them to the grass below his boots. His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt the endorphins of physical exercise snaking their way through his system. He felt loose, like the tightness of sleep had been uncoiled by the workout.
It would have to be. He knew what lay ahead.
That was a warm-up for the fourth day of the isolation camp.
As he squinted in the sudden glare of the sun rising over the distant treetops, the low growl of an engine resonated across the clearing. The sound came from the same direction as the sun, making it hard to ascertain exactly who the new arrivals were.
When King pressed a hand to his eyebrows to shield his vision, the breath caught in his throat.
‘Ah, shit…’ he muttered.
Dirk mimicked his actions and followed his gaze. ‘Think they’re here about Iran?’
‘Looks that way,’ King said. ‘We’re not supposed to have visitors.’
A khaki-coloured open-topped jeep trawled across the empty field, churning the grass under its thick off-road tyres. There were four occupants — all men, all decked out in green service uniform indicating their importance. The passenger and the two men in the back seat looked to be in their fifties, with greying hair and wrinkled brows. The driver was younger — King guessed he was close to thirty — and seemed out of place amongst the old-school regality of his three comrades. He wore the same uniform, but it didn’t seem to fit right. Like he had no interest in official procedure.
The jeep slowed in front of the cluster of nine sweat-soaked Delta Force operatives, and its occupants got out. The parties exchanged pleasantries in the form of salutes, before the drill instructor stepped forward.
‘I have them for the day,’ he said to the new arrivals. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. What’s this about?’
The driver of the jeep turned to the instructor. ‘I’m Lars Crawford — I’m with DARPA.’
‘Okay.’
‘These men,’ Lars said, gesturing to the trio behind him, ‘have come to verify the proceedings. You should have received word a few hours ago…’
‘There’s a lack of communication out here,’ David said, shoving his way to the front of the group. He kept his shoulders straight and his chin held high. Demanding attention. ‘It’s an isolation camp, after all.’
Lars stared at the man for less than a second before turning his attention to the other members of the party.
King watched the piercing gaze wander from face to face, analysing and dismissing each member in the blink of an eye. Finally, Lars’ gaze came to rest on him.
‘Jason King?’ Lars said.
Informally, without a shred of diplomatic authority.
Like greeting an old friend.
‘That’s me,’ King said.
Here comes the interrogation, he thought.
Several of the other operatives shifted uneasily, probably deep in thought as to what purpose King could serve to the mystery man before them.
‘Get in the jeep,’ Lars said. ‘We’ve got places to be.’
4
The suspension underneath King’s rear shuddered as the jeep diverted off the main trail, darting onto a narrow dirt track that could only allow one vehicle in each direction at a time.
He sat in the middle rear seat, flanked by a stern military official on either side. Lars drove, twisting the wheel from left to right in an effort to battle the loose dirt under the truck.
No-one said a word — not that they could if they wanted to. The lack of a frame meant that the wind was deafening, slicing at their faces and numbing their cheeks. King stared down at the rear footwell to shield his eyes from the icy bombardment.
Cold sweat dotted his brow. He chalked it up to the aftermath of the intense yoga workout, but deep down he knew the truth. He had made a serious error of judgment in Iran, and had been anticipating a response to his actions ever since he stepped foot back on U.S. soil. Briefly, he wondered if the rate at which he’d been yanked out of the isolation camp spelled grave consequences.
Maybe they were carting him off to a CIA black prison.
He’d heard rumours of those…
He quickly sized up the appropriate response if they moved to detain him. Elbow to the throat of the man on the left, headbutt to the right, scything front kick into the back of the driver’s head. The front passenger was in no position to mount any kind of resistance.
Out the door before anyone was the wiser.
Disappear into the woods.
Start a new life…
He shook it off. Such thoughts were ridiculous — he didn’t have it in himself to mount any kind of attack against military personnel. Call it code of conduct, call it morality. But it didn’t stop his imagination from running wild as the jeep pulled up to a large steel warehouse buried in the backwoods of the state park.
The building lay in the centre of a dirt clearing, surrounded on all sides by thick forest. It appeared new. King guessed it had been constructed within the last two years.
‘What’s this?’ he said as Lars killed the engine and thrust the driver’s door outwards.
‘New facility we built a few years ago. Hasn’t been assigned a purpose yet. That’s what we’re here for — hopefully.’
‘Are we still on military ground?’
Lars nodded. ‘The very edge of our territory. There’s some things even the Delta Force shouldn’t know about.’
King gulped back apprehension. ‘Should I be concerned?’
Lars twisted in his seat and flashed a glance back at King. ‘No. Why would you be concerned?’
King hesitated. Either the man was an excellent actor and the question was a front, or he genuinely wasn’t here about Ramadi. King had no choice either way. He had enlisted into the service of the United States Armed Forces, and he would begrudgingly comply with whatever they decided to do with him.
Even if that meant military prison.
With reserved caution, he followed the group out of the jeep and made his way over to the ominous structure. Up close, the warehouse dwarfed him, spearing into the sky like a giant artificial cube. It couldn’t have looked more out of place amongst the otherwise-untouched flora surrounding them.
Lars led the pack, moving to a padlocked set of towering garage doors that led inside the corrugated iron building. He slipped a key into the lock and twisted, yanking the chain out of its slot a second later. He wrapped a hand around each handle and heaved the doors apart. They slid on their tracks with a horrendous groan, sending a nearby flock of birds careering away into the morning sky.
Lars gestured into the darkened space between the two roller doors. ‘After you.’
King said nothing. He stifled a chill and stepped forward, heading straight through into the warehouse. He was steadfastly determined not to show hesitation or weakness of any kind. He had no idea what to expect.
The interior proved to consist of a single cavernous space, with a ceiling shrouded in shadow and a dusty concrete floor almost entirely devoid of furniture. Along the far wall, a thin wooden partition led through to a cluster of offices, which King guessed could be converted into living quarters if given the attention.
He shrugged off the unease as the emptiness of the warehouse revealed itself. This was no secret torture laboratory — it was an abandoned structure dropped into the shadows of the state park, not yet ascribed a purpose. Just as Lars had stated.
Some of the fear melted away.
Maybe they really did intend merely to ask questions.
Lars strode past him, heading for the only object currently in the warehouse — a fold-out plastic table with five chairs scattered around its perimeter. King glanced at a mass of documents sprawled across its surface.
‘This all looks pretty informal,’ he noted.
Lars nodded without turning back. ‘
We’re running on a tight schedule here. Sit.’
His voice rang off the walls, sinister in its volume. King followed the man over to the set of chairs and dropped into one of them. The weak metal groaned under his two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of bodyweight. The trio of seemingly-mute officials who had accompanied them into the space followed suit, surrounding Lars on the other side of the table.
King noted the panel-like composition of the chairs.
The four officials on one side, their eyes scrutinising him, boring into him.
King on the other.
As if he were being prepared for a job interview.
He wondered what for.
Lars let the scrapes of chair legs against concrete fade into silence, until sheer quiet enveloped the inside of the warehouse. There was little natural light — that which spilled in through the high-set barred windows only served to accentuate the shadows. He crossed his fingers together, interlocking his hands, and leant forward across the table.
‘Sorry for the abruptness of all this,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had much time to prepare.’
‘That’s okay,’ King said.
‘We’re going to have a conversation, and I’m going to make you an offer. If you choose to refuse, nothing that was discussed here will ever see the light of day. You’ll return to your camp and pretend you never left. You’ll erase all of this from your memory and carry on with your job. Understood?’
King nodded. ‘Got it.’
‘How’s the Delta Force?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Tell me about your experience transitioning from basic Navy training, to the SEALs, to the Delta Force. It’s somewhat unprecedented.’
‘Is this a counselling session?’
‘I’m simply asking you to tell me about it.’
‘It’s fine, I guess. I don’t have time to think about it.’
‘You don’t shy away from embracing how your career has escalated? Twenty-two is a young age to be dealing with this shit.’
King shrugged. ‘Like I said, I don’t think about it. I just do it.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘It’s my job. There’s not a lot to enjoy. I tolerate it.’
‘But you haven’t considered quitting? Even when the workload increases dramatically?’
‘That’s not my style.’
‘Quite stoic,’ Lars noted.
‘I’m good at my job,’ King said, deciding to voice just a touch of what had come to the forefront of his mind. ‘I don’t have to be cocky to understand that. I seem to have a unique talent for this sort of thing. It’d be selfish of me to quit. Right?’
Lars nodded. ‘That’s what I was thinking. Let’s talk about—’
‘Iran?’
A pause. ‘No. I want to know about your fellow operatives. What do you think of them?’
‘They’re fine.’
‘You get along with them?’
‘We’re in a volatile field. There’s not much time for buddy-buddy talk.’
‘There’s a brotherhood, though,’ Lars said. ‘It’s one of the most important aspects of the SEALs, and Delta embrace it too. You feel connected to your team?’
‘Not really.’
Lars nodded, like he had already made a wide range of conclusions and was simply running them by King personally. ‘You work better alone?’
‘I’ve never worked alone.’
‘Would you want to?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.’
‘If I were to offer you a position in a division specialising in black operations, how would you react?’
‘I’d have questions.’
‘And we’d be happy to answer all of them.’
‘Is this a new venture?’
‘It is.’
‘Off the books?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you come to me based on my performance results?’
‘That was one aspect of it. I’m more interested in your tendency to branch away from the pack. It’s a unique and largely untested aspect of your personality. The lone wolf approach. I’m under the impression that great things can be done with a man like you. I’m giving you the chance to test it.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay — what?’ Lars said.
‘Sign me up.’
‘What about your old unit? Do you want the chance to say goodbye?’
‘It really doesn’t bother me one way or the other.’
‘I can see that. You hold no connection to them?’
‘They shut me out. Because I’m so young. I guess I’ve been secretly hoping for the opportunity to participate in something like this. I always thought this secret world was a work of fiction.’
‘This particular venture currently is,’ Lars said. ‘Hence our surroundings.’
‘You didn’t have time to set things up?’
‘We were approved two days ago. Due to unforeseen circumstances. Something’s presented itself that greatly interests the people in charge of this division. I’m firing on all cylinders here. If you’re onboard, we have a week.’
‘Until what?’
Lars shook his head. ‘That comes later.’
‘I want to know what I’m getting myself into.’
‘You can’t. Jason, I want you to weigh this decision very carefully. If the nature of the tasks you’ll be elected to carry out bothers you, then I suggest you bid me goodbye and head back to the camp. Your personality’s cerebral, but you need to think hard about this. You’ll effectively adopt the role of a one-man-army, carrying out operations that a SEAL team would be encumbered by. Operations where a single man can slip through the cracks. Unimpeded by fellow squad members.’
‘An assassin, you mean?’
‘No. Anything the government deems appropriate. Personally I see the greatest benefit in hostage extraction, but time will tell. It’s all just theories right now. Smoke and mirrors. If you’re happy to proceed, we’ll make it a reality.’
‘Why me?’
‘Like I said, a number of reasons. You’re aware of your reaction speed, I’m sure.’
‘What?’
‘Your reflexes.’
‘I don’t really pay attention to all the testing they put us through. They don’t share the results with us. I just do my job.’
‘You’re off the charts.’
‘Nice to know.’
‘Here’s my standpoint,’ Lars said, leaning forward. ‘This is all just speculation, but here goes. I think a team restricts you. I think your personality suits solitude, making decisions on the fly, not having to rely on your fellow operatives to form a collective agreement. Subconsciously, you want all the control, because you know you’re faster than everyone else. You don’t like to admit that you’re gifted, but deep down you know that you would prefer to be solely responsible for the operations you’re tasked with completing. You put up with the other soldiers in an attempt to fit into a pre-determined hierarchy of supposed “brothers.” But really, you want nothing more than to handle everything yourself. If any of this is accurate, I invite you to test it out in the field. The United States of America is offering you the opportunity to do your own thing. What do you say?’
King shifted in his seat, weighing every syllable that had left Lars’ mouth. The murky cloud of suppression that had been draped over the thoughts plaguing him for the last couple of years began to lift.
He nodded slowly, looking down at the documents and contracts adorning the table before him. ‘Tell me where to sign.’
5
Mexico
Beyond the limits of Tijuana’s official city grid, a battered Toyota pick-up truck trawled through potholed streets, surrounded on either side by dense rows of shanty town dwellings. It was close to mid-morning, and the air hung thick. The heat was palpable, soaking through the driver’s flimsy shirt. He wiped a handful of perspiration beads off his thick eyebrows and gripped the wheel a little tighter to mask his sweaty palms.
Despite his occupation and his imposing reputation, Joaquín Ramos cared to spend as little time as possible in these parts. He had business to attend to, but once that was taken care of he would be gone. He sliced in and out of the poorer slums with precision, never lingering, never wasting a second.
The violent tendencies of the population out here created unpredictability.
He hated not having control.
Further within the city limits, the civilians were more susceptible to fear. He had learnt that from experience, using a combination of manipulation and terror to coax them into following his demands. Out here, anything could happen. It was cheaper to do business, but at the cost of safety.
No-one was scared to gun down a drug lord in these streets.
They had nothing to lose either way.
Trash blew past on either side of the dirt road as he mounted an incline and gunned the pick-up truck up a steep hill. The dwellings seemed unimpeded by the slope of the land. Ramos guessed that they were only temporary, built shoddily to house those who would otherwise be homeless. He’d snatched one up for half the asking price a few months earlier, paying cash.
That was where he was headed.
He found the low tin building he was looking for and turned into its driveway, almost bursting one of the front tyres as he dropped into a particularly nasty pothole. He yanked the handbrake into position and killed the engine, letting the faint whoops and hollers of illegal migrants trawling the district fill his ears. They unnerved him. He had flourished in his newfound position by consistently acting like a reckless madman, taking risks and making leaps in business that no-one else dared to stomach.
In the shanty towns, he was just as mad as everyone else. Half the people out here had no access to decent sewage and water.
Frontier life was built on shaky foundations.
Ramos stepped out of the truck’s cabin, breathing in the scent of cheap fast food. There was a border brothel somewhere nearby. He heard the muffled shrieks and moans of satisfied customers and poorly-acting whores. Checking left and right for any signs of an ambush, he tucked his head to his chest and hustled up the driveway to the dilapidated front porch.