Swarm

by Guy Garcia

  On the horizon, across an expanse of ragged bushes, loomed the dark brown silhouettes of overlapping mountain ranges, the terrain of countless infiltrations, skirmishes, and atrocities. A US flag flapped resolutely in the arid breeze. The chain-link barrier surrounding the base was supposed to keep the turmoil at bay, defining an orderly oasis amid the sectarian madness. But somehow, like the blond dust that rode the air and seeped into everything in sight, the chaos had found a way through the fence and into Westlake’s head. Duggan had no trouble imagining how a howling sandstorm might fray a soldier’s nerves and wipe away all vestiges of human restraint, leaving nothing but debris and unanswered questions in its wake.

  Davis was halfway through his bacon and egg burrito when Duggan arrived at the mess hall. Duggan loaded up his plate with basic breakfast grub and sat down across from his official guardian and guide. Davis took a sip of his coffee and grinned.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t get tucked in with a kiss last night.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind one way or the other.

  “Really. So then why’d you force yourself on them?”

  Duggan finished chewing a bite of his omelet. “The barracks is where Westlake lived. I need to see where he slept, find out who he was spending time with in the days and weeks before the incident. I need to know why he broke routine. It’s possible that one of those men can tell me, intentionally or not.”

  Davis arched his eyebrows. “You consider Westlake’s bunkmates suspects? I thought your mission was to do a tech sweep.”

  Duggan ignored the question. “I’d like you to take you up on that tour of the base. Show me where Westlake worked, where he went to relax and blow off steam. Everything. But first give me a couple hours at the barracks.”

  Davis took his napkin and wiped his mouth. “Anything you want. I’ll pick you up at ten hundred.”

  Most of the men had cleared out when Duggan got back. But his bunk neighbor was still there, bent over some sort of military manual. The stencil on his jacket identified him as M. Wasson.

  Duggan sat at the bench and booted up Westlake’s computer. It took a few seconds for the screen to blink on, but within a few strokes, he knew that, appearances notwithstanding, the computer was not untouched. There was no password prompt, and the mailbox and the trash had both been emptied. There was one other thing that bothered him.

  “Pretty weird, right?” Wasson was looking at Westlake’s computer. “I mean, why did they leave it there like some museum exhibit. Kinda obvious, I’d say.” Wasson was wry and wiry, athletic in an unassuming way, with dark cropped hair. Duggan sensed that he wasn’t hanging around the barracks by accident. He’d been waiting to watch Duggan check the computer, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. This could be an asset or an obstacle. Duggan wasn’t sure which yet.

  “What’s the M for?”

  “Mitch.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mitch. Where’s Fisk?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “I thought we were having a friendly conversation.”

  “I’m not your friend,” Wasson said. “You have to do more than wear camouflage to fit in around here.”

  “In that case, I’m going to do my job now.”

  Wasson rose from the bunk and pulled on his jacket. “Me too.”

  Duggan turned his attention back to Westlake’s machine. He downloaded a couple of industrial-strength virus scans and checked the e-mail folder and drive. No files or messages in or out. He already knew that the only fingerprints on the machine were Westlake’s, but he went through the motions anyway. The network was secure as far as he could tell, no history of wireless networks beside the base log-on. The hardware was working perfectly, and there was no evidence of an outside intrusion. Case closed. But the anger was rising in him like hot lava. Why would the air force call in a cybersecurity specialist from NCSD to check a machine that had already been wiped clean? Surely the military had better things to do than waste taxpayers’ money and his time. Duggan tipped the laptop over to inspect its underside. The Post-it was lime green, three-by-three-quarter inches square. The words were written in pencil, crudely scrawled but legible: Look for what’s not there. A joke? A taunt? A warning? Everything in Kandahar, Duggan mused, was either hiding in plain sight or conspicuously absent.

  Davis was waiting outside when Duggan emerged from the barracks. “Nice day for a ride around the base.” Davis’s tone was so casual that they might have been two buddies about to head off on a fishing trip. “Any luck?”

  “Well,” Duggan replied as he climbed into the jeep, “that depends on how you define luck. No signs of exterior foul play, as far as I can tell.”

  “What about the other kind?”

  In that instant, Duggan realized that the DOD had brought him in to see if he could find something they had missed. Or maybe Davis was just fishing to make sure that Duggan hadn’t stumbled on something they wanted him to overlook. Either way, Duggan was positive that Davis didn’t know about the Post-it crumpled up in his pocket.

  “Westlake’s machine is free of any known virus—no prints or signs of tampering,” Duggan said. He sat in the jeep for a few seconds, letting Davis study his face. “Are you giving me a tour or what?”

  “Yeah, absolutely!” Davis said, regaining his affability as he started the engine. “I thought I’d take us around the perimeter and then over by the personnel rec area. Westlake liked to work out when he wasn’t playing soccer.” Davis was tracing a vague half circle with his arm as he drove. “Then I’ll bring you back to the scene of the incident.”

  “Sounds good,” Duggan said absently. He was thinking about the soft-cover military manual that Wasson had left behind on his bunk. He’d stared at it for a good while, wondering what would be inside a book with a title like Enemy Archetypes and Cultural Profiles. No harm in taking a peek. Duggan picked it up and flipped through pages of drawings and photos of various al Qaeda and Mujahedin guerrillas, some packing suicide belts, others in camouflage or tribal garb. The largest section was made up of long-distance and aerial photographs of hostile operatives, vehicles, weapons and tented camps. Unlike the crisp Post-it, the manual was dusty and dog-eared. And inside the front cover, in neatly penned letters: D. Westlake.

  Their first stop on Davis’s tour was the base recreation facility, aka “the rec.” They entered a large building that reminded Duggan of an airport terminal food court—TGI Friday’s, KFC and Mama Mia’s pizzeria outlets surrounding tables packed with men and women of various ages and ranks in identical T-shirts and fatigues. Davis and Duggan moved on past grocery stores filled with American staples, gift shops with racy postcards and souvenir teddy bears, a gym offering yoga and spinning classes, and other familiar comforts designed to banish the harsh reality outside the gates.

  Duggan’s attention was drawn to a room filled with cubicles equipped with computer terminals. “Yeah, I figured you’d find that interesting,” Davis said. “This is where people can send e-mails to their girlfriends and families, if they have any.”

  “Anybody can use these?”

  “Anybody with a base ID.”

  Duggan watched as troops pecked at keyboards and stared intently at computer displays under framed photos of desert vistas in the American Southwest. “Did Westlake ever come here?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Davis answered. “Probably. But as you know, Westlake had his own laptop.”

  “Did he need special clearance for that?”

  “Westlake was an instructor,” Davis replied. “So, yeah, I imagine he did.”

  On their way to the “incident venue,” Duggan noticed a shadow flitting over the shrubs and craned his neck to see a Predator drone hovering above them. He had always expected the unmanned weapon to look like a toy up close, but as it drifted overhead, its sleek profile glinted with menacing authority. Duggan could almost feel th
e thing scanning the ground and everything and everyone on it.

  “You never said anything about Predators,” Duggan said.

  Davis didn’t bother to look up. “What about them?”

  “What happened to the man in the bunk across from Westlake’s?”

  “You mean Fisk? Lemme think.” Davis massaged his jaw as if trying to remember. “Fisk was honorably discharged. He completed his tour, and he got to go home, lucky bastard.”

  The jeep halted in front of a cluster of outdoor sports fields featuring a running track, baseball diamonds, and even an ice hockey rink. Duggan could see that Westlake’s barracks were just a few hundred yards away. He regarded the open space near the basketball courts.

  “So, just in case you were wondering,” Davis said dryly, “Donald Westlake wakes up one morning and loads his gun and walks over to where some Afghan soldiers are posted—US allies, people he probably knew—and mows them down, kills them all without a word. No note, no explanation, not a sound from his mouth as he blows them all away. Westlake had been acting up, with symptoms of PTSD. They only way anyone could stop him was to shoot him dead at blank range. End of story.”

  It was Duggan’s turn to study Davis’s face. “And you don’t find that even a little bit odd?”

  “The guy snapped—that’s all,” Davis said. “Psych-outs like Westlake’s happen all the time around here.”

  “Where’s the checkpoint where the Afghans were shot?”

  “Over behind the basketball courts, but it’s long gone,” Davis replied. “Bad for morale.”

  “I’m getting out here,” Duggan announced. “I can walk back.”

  “If you’re going to be walking around alone, you should take my rifle.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Whatever, man.” Davis waited for Duggan to get out of the jeep and drove off without saying good-bye.

  The foundation of the razed checkpoint jutted from the mangled earth like overgrown molars. Duggan strode out to the bulldozed area adjacent to the basketball courts and visually traced Westlake’s route from the barracks. The path from point A to point B was almost a straight line, hardly the trajectory of a demented psychopath. Westlake knew exactly where he was going, and he knew what he was going to do when he got there.

  A chorus of boisterous shouts broke Duggan’s concentration. On the other side of the basketball courts, on a flat open space bookended by regulation goals, a group of guys were having a soccer match. Some of the faces looked familiar, and Duggan walked closer to confirm that it was the airmen from Westlake’s barracks.

  Duggan was no stranger to the adrenaline kick of what fans like to call “the beautiful game.” During his salad days, soccer had already started making inroads across the empty lots and urban streets of Chicago, its popularity fueled by globally savvy youths and immigrants from Europe and Japan. In the barrios of Mexico and Central America, where the first rubber balls appeared, the game was revered as the sport of gods and warriors who challenged defeated enemies on the sacred court before detaching their heads and kicking them into the sky, where they continued rising until they joined the sun and the moon.

  The ball skittered and bounced between the men, absorbing energy from the clash of limbs, daring and defying any single player to claim and command its kinetic essence. Duggan watched from the sidelines, and the men did their best to ignore him. But when one of them missed a kick and the object of their attention careened in Duggan’s direction, they were forced to acknowledge his presence. He stopped the black and white sphere and balanced it, still spinning, on the tip of his foot.

  “Mind if I join you?” Duggan asked amiably.

  Before anyone could respond, he took possession of the ball and charged onto the field, maneuvering toward the opposite goal. The stunning audacity of Duggan’s move gave him a window to advance fifteen or so yards before the defenders overcame their incredulity and closed in. The first interceptor was so unprepared for Duggan’s deft dodge and pivot that he was sent sprawling and cursing on a collision course with two other players. He fended off two more attempts to cleave the ball from his control and was about to take a shot at the goal when a sharp blow to his ankle threw him off balance. A well-aimed elbow in the face, and what might have been an accidental scrape of cleats across his thigh as he was going down, completed the message. Flat on his back and tasting blood, Duggan raised his arms in surrender. No broken bones as far as he could tell, but his jaw and leg would stay tender for a while. As would the oozing contusions on his elbows and knees.

  Duggan became aware of a hand outstretched to help him up. It was Wasson.

  “You should probably get off the field before your ass gets kicked again.”

  Duggan nodded, still catching his breath as Wasson helped him to a bench on the sidelines. Wasson stamped his feet and stretched without looking at him. “Where the hell did you learn to play soccer like that?”

  “South Side,” Duggan answered. The abrasion on his thigh looked particularly nasty, but it wasn’t deep.

  “You crazy motherfucker,” Wasson said. “You think you can just waltz in here and everybody’s gonna drop their pants? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Duggan said, “I’m on your side, remember?”

  “Yeah, so are the Afghans.”

  “You left Westlake’s manual behind on purpose, didn’t you?”

  Wasson shrugged. “It’s a free country.”

  “And the Post-it?”

  Wasson shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  “What happened to Fisk?”

  “He went home.”

  “Davis told me he was discharged.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” Wasson seemed to hesitate before adding, “There’s usually a party at the rec on Friday nights. I bet you could use a drink.” He ambled toward the field and signaled for the ball. “He’ll live,” Wasson announced.

  “Too bad,” someone said, as sneakers resumed their aggressive shuffle on the baked brown dirt.

  Duggan limped back to the barracks alone, trying not to wallow in self-pity. This whole assignment had been a sham and a set-up, an orchestrated farce to simulate an actual investigation. But there was nothing to investigate and nothing to find because the evidence had long since been erased or carted away. He might as well have written his report before he ever got here because nobody was interested in finding out what had actually happened, and those that knew were already doing their best to bury it or forget. Duggan didn’t blame the soldiers one bit. They had come to the gates of hell to risk their life for their country and watched one of their own go berserk right under their noses. And just when things had started to settle down and seem halfway normal again, Duggan appeared out of nowhere like the grim reaper, resurrecting Westlake’s ghost, asking questions and rattling chains, reminding them that no matter how much they rationalized their situation, how much they pushed the nightmares away, their continued presence at the scene of the crime contaminated them. They were all implicated, all guilty of mindless murder, all, to one degree or another, crazed assassins.

  The barracks were blessedly empty when Duggan got there. He gingerly removed his bloody clothes and took a long shower, running different scenarios and outcomes through his head as the water trickled over his wounds and the steam fogged the mirrors over the sinks.

  Swarm3524: hi, lucy

  LucyintheSky: who’s this?

  Swarm296: a friend

  LucyintheSky: do i know you?

  Swarm6481: in a way

  LucyintheSky: who is this, really?

  Swarm2970: it’s Swarm, from the flash mob on the 4th of July

  LucyintheSky: is this a joke?

  Swarm9432: no joke

  LucyintheSky: u can’t be

  Swarm4405: why not?

  LucyintheSky: because Swarm doesn’t really exist />
  Swarm9460: are you trying to hurt my feelings? I should have been a pair of ragged claws/Scuttling across the floors of silent seas

  LucyintheSky: you just quoted my favorite poet.

  Swarm2215: really? You like T. S. Eliot? Looks like we’ve got something in common after all.

  LucyintheSky: And I’m supposed to believe you’re actually Swarm, the Swarm

  Swarm3337: I am no prophet … I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker …

  LucyintheSky: ha—okay, then prove it to me

  Swarm609: remember Operation Uncle Sam? You had white stars on your body. Two of them were, well, strategically placed

  LucyintheSky: nice try. lots of people watched it on TV

  Swarm7626: not what I saw on camera 3. Do you remember kissing the camera lens?

  LucyintheSky: …

  Swarm1389: you still there?

  LucyintheSky: omg—it can’t be

  Swarm5896: why not?

  LucyintheSky: how did you find me?

  Swarm2586: that’s a silly question. You wanted me to find you. admit it.

  LucyintheSky: sorry, I just …

  Swarm2852: just what?

  LucyintheSky: why?

  Swarm534: you mean what do I want?

  LucyintheSky: yes

  Swarm6892: watching you that day, I felt you could see me, yet I knew you couldn’t. I’d never felt that before … from anybody. I had to find out if you were real

  LucyintheSky: Do I dare/Disturb the Universe?/In a minute there is time.

  Swarm249: exactly. It can get pretty lonely here in the silent seas of cyberspace.

  LucyintheSky: I’m not an idiot, you know

  Swarm250: ?

  LucyintheSky: you can’t be lonely when you’ve got thousands of followers. everybody knows you.

  Swarm9643: do they? i can get people to collaborate. they follow my tweets and augmented reality breadcrumb trails, but that’s different from personally connecting.