Fallen Angel

by Jeff Struecker

  "I believe you, but I don't think I could put a bullet in a man on Monday and sing hymns the following Sunday."

  The words stung like a swarm of hornets. J. J. wrestled with this concept many times and knew he would continue to do so. In some ways, he envied those soldiers who didn't have to factor the spiritual into their work. At the same time, he felt sorry for them. Faith is what kept J. J. sane.

  J. J. took in a slow breath. "If you're worried about me being able to pull the trigger when I need to, then you can stop right now. I haven't hesitated yet."

  Crispin fidgeted and appeared uneasy. "Don't get me wrong, J. J. I'm not questioning your skill or dedication to meeting—"

  "You had better not be, Newbie."

  J. J. looked up to see the tall and wide form of Rich stepping into the galley. J. J. wasn't sure if such things were possible, but Rich's black skin seemed two shades paler.

  "Oh, hey, Shaq—"

  "Don't 'Hey Shaq' me, kid." Rich stepped uncomfortably close to Crispin's side of the table and leaned close to the man. Although a few feet farther away, J. J. could smell the seasick sour of the big man's breath. "Let me make this clear. The new guy doesn't question the integrity of the unit or its soldiers."

  "I wasn't doing that—"

  "J. J. has proven himself to many, and this man's Army many times over. He took a bullet doing his job. That makes him a hero in my book. Is that clear, pal?"

  "Crystal clear, but I was just making conversation, Shaq."

  "As the new guy you have the honor and the privilege of doing as you're told. Understood?"

  "Yes—"

  "The privilege of riding the team belongs to me and Boss. I'm here to make sure the team has one good-looking guy and to make sure guys like you follow through on orders. You haven't earned any rights yet. Until you do, I suggest you hold on to your opinions. Is there anything I've said that you don't understand, Newbie?"

  "Yes—I mean no—I mean I understand."

  "Good." Rich looked at J. J. and winked. J. J. suppressed a smile. Rich put a hand on J. J.'s shoulder and gave a crushing squeeze. "And by the way, Colt, you ever mention raw eggs to me again and you and me will have our own little conversation and I won't be using words. Catch my drift?"

  "Understood."

  "I'm going topside for some fresh air." Rich walked from the cabin with as much aplomb as a man his size could on a rocking and reeling boat. A second later J. J. heard him groan. Shaq was one sick man.

  "Man, I didn't think I said anything that deserved that." Crispin's face was whiter than normal.

  "You should have heard the lecture I got when I joined the team."

  Crispin lifted an eyebrow. "He did the same thing to you?"

  "Yup. In fact, you got off easy. My spine still melts when I think about it. He's just making sure you understand the pecking order. He rides everybody."

  "What did you say to trigger that?"

  "I said something derogatory about Broadway musicals. He begged to differ."

  Crispin stared at the table. "Look, J. J., if I said anything to imply—"

  "You didn't. I appreciate the conversation."

  "Thanks."

  "You told me your father is a believer, but you haven't told me what you believe."

  "To be honest, I don't know what I believe." Crispin slid from his seat. "I'll let you get back to your reading."

  J. J. let the man go. Alone again, he opened the Bible but couldn't force himself to focus. His mind raced with other thoughts. He had remorse over every man he killed, but he never hesitated to do his job, to pull the trigger when called upon to do so. Never.

  Would that hold true in the future?

  CHAPTER 9

  VICE PRESIDENT ANDREW BACLIFF sat at the desk for the last time that day and probably forever. The interior of his office in the West Wing combined elegance and dignity with Bacliff's love of simplicity. Tall, gold-colored curtains covered mullioned-arched windows. A walnut desk that once belonged to Admiral Nimitz occupied an area near the windows and looked over two padded yellow sofas and several other chairs. This was his working office. He, like VPs before him, had a set of ceremonial offices in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building near the West Wing. It was where he held interviews and meetings.

  He had no need to visit those offices. They would only sprinkle salt in his wounds. He loved his role in politics and his current job. Bacliff made no secret of his desire to be president. The Washington Post once called him an ambitious man with a heart. Power never tempted Bacliff. Power for him was a tool to be used to help others. Now he needed help.

  He rose from his executive chair and paced the deep pile, blue carpet, his hands clasped behind his back. Not one given to visible displays of nerves, he was surprised to notice the clenching and unclenching of his hands, hands moist in the palm.

  Around him were the trappings of power. A short walk down the hall and he could be in the Oval Office, consulting with one of the most powerful men on the planet. He could pick up the phone and summon generals and admirals into his presence. He could preside over the Senate or ring up almost any world leader, and they would feel obligated to take a call from America's second in command. A few days ago he took pride in all of this, satisfaction that he earned such luxuries and influence. That seemed a lifetime ago. Where once his mind was filled with global concerns and how best to represent his office, that of the president, and the American people, his thoughts were now riveted on his captured son.

  For the briefest moment, he envied "normal" parents; mothers and fathers who might know a son or daughter went missing while overseas but knew nothing more. Bacliff not only knew his son was missing in action, he knew he was captured. The intelligence agency sent a blizzard of paper his way.

  That would stop soon. The president promised to keep him in the loop, even letting him attend meetings in the Situation Room. It was a stretch of protocol, perhaps even illegal. President Huffington assured Bacliff that anyone trying to keep the VP—former VP—out would have a fistfight on their hands. Such statements were fine bravado but lacked teeth. What Huffington planned on, and what Bacliff hoped for, was time. It would take weeks for anyone to raise a big enough stink to force the president's hand.

  Not that such an objection was without merit. Technically, he became a private citizen the moment he resigned his office. His office would remain vacant until both houses of Congress confirmed Helen Brown as required by the Twenty-fifth Amendment. That would take a little time, but he had no doubt she would win approval easily. He would pull whatever strings and twist whatever arms necessary. Not that it mattered. He was already out.

  The desk phone sounded. He punched the speaker button. "Yes."

  "Your car is ready, Mr. Vice President."

  Shirley Potts, his longtime, long-suffering secretary hadn't been told yet. "Thank you, Shirley. Please have the staff come into my office. You too."

  There was a long pause. On more than one occasion, Bacliff would have raised his right hand and sworn the woman was psychic. "Yes, sir."

  Time to say good-bye.

  THE SECRET SERVICE DRIVER pulled the 2009 Cadillac—dubbed "Cadillac Two" because of its similarity to the president's limo and as a nod to the VP's airplane, Air Force Two—onto the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory and stopped at the front of a mansion built in 1893. The residence of the vice president looked as if it were built last year, not over a century before. The house at Number One Observatory Circle in northwestern Washington, D.C., served as home to vice presidents since the mid-1970s. It would be his home for a few more weeks, then, for security reasons, Helen Brown would move in.

  Was it possible he'd lose his son, his career, and his home in the same week? Depression followed him like the cloud over Joe Btsfsplk, the well-meaning Li'l Abner character whose very presence caused harm to others. It was an irrational thought, but depression and fear seldom traveled the same road as rationality.

  Bacliff walked through th
e doors of the mansion, set his briefcase down, and turned in time to see the VP limo pulling down the drive, the flags of the vice president's office flapping on their perches atop the front fenders. He had no emotion for the car, but its withdrawal into the obsidian night reminded him of all that happened.

  He moved through the lobby and into the den. There he found his wife, Gertrude, seated in one corner of a sofa, a glass of scotch in one hand. Even in the dim light he could see her red lipstick smeared on the edge of the glass. Next to her was a crystal decanter half-filled with the golden liquid. He was certain it was full when he left this morning.

  Gertrude looked up from the glass. She didn't smile. She didn't speak. She just stared. He removed his suit coat and threw it across the back of a chair, pulled his tie from around his neck, and sent it sailing the same direction. He stepped to her, bent, and kissed her on top of the head. Like her, he had no words. He retrieved a glass from the wet bar, poured three fingers of the whisky, and sat next to his wife.

  She leaned against him. Her tears soaked through his shirt.

  He finished the first glass in two gulps.

  GINA MOYER SAT AT her small desk in front of the window of her small bedroom where she lived with her family. The desk was small because the room was small; the room was small because the house was small. Not tiny, but not half the size of the "McMansions" in the next neighborhood over. Her mother and father bought the home when Gina was seven. It was near schools and near Fort Jackson, South Carolina. She was fourteen now. "Fourteen going on thirty," her dad said so many times the phrase lost its humor a while back. She always gave a courtesy giggle whenever he said it.

  She looked up from her American history book and gazed out the window. Gazing back was the reflection of a young lady with straight brown hair and blond highlights.

  Her dad was gone—again. Most weeks he was home in the evening, having dinner with the family and "schooling" the family in digital bowling on the Wii. Truth was, he was horrible at the game, but he took it in stride. He was good at so many things that being lousy at video games didn't matter.

  He often took trips to other military bases, but he told the family about those well in advance of his absence. When he just didn't come home, it meant he was in danger. Gina didn't know all her father did. He never offered details. It was only a few years ago she learned what he really did. She understood he was in the Army, but she seldom saw him in uniform. She should have suspected he did secret things when he sat her and her brother down and taught them "the story." How many times had he made her repeat it?

  "My daddy, he's in business. Sometimes he travels around the country selling stuff. Office stuff." If pressed, she was just to shrug and plead ignorance.

  A sound carried through the open door. Her mother was rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. It was the only sound. The television sat silent, unusual for this house, but Gina noticed a change in her mother. In the past, whenever Dad was away, her mother would watch the news, wondering if a clue to Dad's whereabouts might come over the airwaves. That stopped last year.

  It hadn't been talked about, but Gina couldn't miss the fact one of her father's team came to the monthly barbeque on crutches. She also overheard talk about "Data's recovery." It would be months before Gina met the man they called Data. She learned his real name was Jerry Zinsser. He looked thin, moved slowly, and sat more than stood. She also saw him take pills, pain pills she assumed.

  Mom began to change over the next few months. She seemed more nervous, spent her days cleaning and running errands, where this time a year ago she used to invest hours in reading. Gina did the mental detective work: J. J. and Jerry were wounded on mission, maybe even came close to being killed. If it could happen to them, then it could . . .

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to finish the thought.

  "Hey, Squirt."

  Gina swiveled in her seat, a chair that matched the old desk: a desk that belonged to her grandfather then her father. It was a hand-me-down, but her father preferred to call it "family seepage."

  Her tall, lanky, dark-haired brother stood in the doorway. "Hi, Rat Face."

  "Rat Face? Really? Rat Face. That's just plain cruel."

  "I mean it the best possible way." She grinned. "I suppose it is cruel—to the rats."

  "Still think you're funny?" Rob entered and sat on the edge of Gina's bed.

  "I don't think; I know."

  "I don't think you know, either." He grabbed a pillow from the bed and tossed it at her. She caught it.

  "That joke is as old as the hills." She tossed the pillow back at him. "I didn't hear you come in. How was your first day of work?"

  "This may sound strange; it was a lot like work. I'm tired and I only worked four hours."

  "Flipping burgers can be grueling."

  "I wasn't flipping burgers. I'm too new. The guys who have been there longer get to do that. I cooked french fries."

  "That explains the smell."

  "That is the odor of a man making minimum wage. It won't be long and I'll be rubbing my new iPhone in your face." He set the pillow back at the head of the bed. "Whatcha doin'?"

  "American history. I have a test tomorrow."

  "My favorite class."

  Gina narrowed her eyes. "You barely passed."

  "But I passed and that's why it's one of my favorites. Need help?"

  "Getting a D? No, I can do that by myself." She waited a moment, then added, "I'm okay, Rob."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah. I mean, I'm worried and all, but I'm doing okay. It's not like it's the first time."

  Rob nodded. "I wonder where he is."

  Such comments from Rob still surprised her. A year ago he wouldn't have talked about their father except to criticize him. Rob changed. Some of it was age, but much of the improvement came from the time her brother was spending with Chaplain Paul Bartley. It was Bartley who reached out to Rob when their father was on mission. Being an Army brat was more difficult than people realized. Being the son of a Spec Ops team leader was worse. Yet Rob moved from wishing his father would die on mission to worrying about him when he was gone.

  Of course, Rob would deny it all. He was like Dad in that way, but Gina could tell.

  "He'll be all right, Gina. He always is."

  "I know."

  "I wish he were here. I want to tell him about my first day."

  "Tell Mom."

  He shrugged. "I will, but it's different. I—" Rob stood, his eyes directed out the window.

  "What?" Gina turned but saw nothing.

  "I thought I saw something."

  "Can you be more specific?"

  "A shadow."

  "Um, it's nighttime, Rob. Not many shadows out there."

  "Near the streetlamp, Squirt." Rob moved to the light switch and flipped it. The room went dark.

  "Hey, it's hard to study in the dark."

  "Hang on." He moved to the window and leaned close to the glass. "I could've sworn I saw someone in the yard."

  "I don't see anything."

  "Maybe it was a dog."

  "Yeah, that must be it: a two-legged dog."

  He lowered her blinds and then turned to the door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To make sure the doors are locked."

  CHAPTER 10

  THE KOMAGATA MARU ROSE and fell with the swells, its bow plowing through six-foot seas. "I suppose we should be grateful."

  Eric Moyer turned his eyes from the churning sea to the smooth Asian face of Sam Sasaki. "How's that?"

  "Seas are cooperating. A little choppy, but not the twelve-footers I thought we might be riding."

  "Only a Navy man would call this calm seas."

  "You only have to ride out one North Pacific storm to appreciate how tiny these waves are."

  "Spoken like a man who's staying on the boat."

  Sasaki chuckled. "Yeah, well there is that. In some ways, I wish I were going along."

  "Really? 'Cuz I c
an make that happen."

  "No, not really. Do I look crazy? If I wanted to ride a rubber boat over cold waters in the middle of the night, I would have become a SEAL."

  A crewman stepped forward and whispered in Sasaki's ear. "Very well. Make ready the CRRC." The crewman gave no acknowledgment. He slipped from the forward deck to an area behind the wheelhouse where a door waited for him.

  Moyer walked through that door several times over the last few hours. It led below decks to the crew's quarters, galley, heads, and another companionway leading into the belly of the ship. Where once tons of crab were kept alive for market in the hole, it now held sophisticated tracking equipment meant to spy on communications from the nearby mainland and to keep an ear out for submarines prowling deep below the surface.

  Moyer and his men were given a short and vague tour of the operations. Sasaki spoke of receivers and passive sonar without giving details. Moyer knew better than to ask. He was, however, impressed by the amount of equipment the decrepit, beleaguered-looking fishing boat held.

  Moyer risked one question. "Do I want to know what happens if the ship is boarded by hostiles?"

  "Then the hostiles go to the bottom with the rest of us."

  Moyer's opinion of the man and his crew rose several levels. Salty spray came over the bow as the steel hull dug into a swell, bringing Moyer's attention back to the moment.

  "Time to kick this pig, Sergeant Major. You may want to get your men."

  Moyer nodded and followed the same path walked earlier by the crewman. He moved slowly, partly to make sure of his footing on a wet, moving deck; partly to avoid stumbling over anything he couldn't see in the dark. Commander Sasaki ordered lights out an hour before. They were making fifteen knots in pitch black. Not even a cigarette, whose glowing end could be seen at a distance, was allowed on deck.

  Once through the door beneath the wheelhouse, Moyer descended a stairway in the dark. Another doorway opened to the crew's mess. In the soft glow of a single low-watt light, Moyer found his team. Four played cards. Crispin sat to the side, earbuds in his auditory canals. Every face turned his way when he crossed the threshold.