by B. C. Tweedt
“Yeah, you do swear,” Forge muttered. “Just not very well.” Then he laughed at himself.
“I can throw in some better words. Like some ‘S’s or some ‘F’s, or ‘B’s…”
“No,” Forge said with a huff. “Cursing just doesn’t fit you. It fits most soldiers, but a kid like you…”
I am a soldier! Greyson nearly panicked. “B-but I can do better. I-I can…”
“Relax. Just relax. It’s a good thing. It’s okay to be different, especially when it’s because of something good. Isn’t that what you’re about? Being good?” He gestured at the ‘G’ on Greyson’s hat.
“Doing good.”
“Is it that different?”
Greyson didn’t have a decent answer.
“No,” Forge said, shifting in his seat and motioning Greyson to the seat next to him on the bench. “A man speaks from what’s inside him. If bad comes out, there’s bad inside. If good, clean stuff comes out, then good’s inside. You’re too young to have that much bad in ya.”
Greyson staggered back to the bench and laid his head on the table, sucking in air in long swaths. “I’ve got my demons.”
Forge nearly choked on his laugh. “You? What demons?”
Greyson suddenly felt uncomfortable. He glanced around and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Did I pass?”
After examining Greyson’s face and seeing his hesitation, Forge said, “I’ll give you a breather, but then we leave on the heli.”
On the heli? It had been months since he’d traveled anywhere outside of camp. Forge might as well have said Disneyworld. “What’s next?”
Forge laughed, taking out his knife. He pressed a trigger, releasing the six-inch blade in a snap. Greyson’s head shot up, but Forge started carving in the table. “What’s next, huh? The never-ending question.”
Greyson’s heart began to calm, but his mind was still racing. He wanted to know if he was in. Was it wrong to ask?
“Is that one of your three? ‘What’s next?’” Forge asked.
Greyson shook his head. “No. Can I ask them now?”
Forge spun the knife, sending tiny spirals of wood splintering at the knife’s tip. “Shoot.”
He knew he couldn’t ask anything about Sydney, or any classified mission information for that matter. Everything else was open. He’d spent the last few months writing questions down, crossing some out, and circling others. Finally he had settled on three. “Do you think we’ll ever find our parents?”
Forge smiled, deftly turning the knife with his fingers, crisscrossing strokes across the soft wood. “Absolutely. If it was the Plurbs that took them and not Daesh or Al Qaeda. Most Plurbs aren’t animals. They don’t kill for sport or jihad. They’re alive somewhere. And if your dad is as strong-willed as you, he’s alive. We’ll find them as soon as we stop the bleeding here.”
Greyson let the answer soak in. He wanted to thank Forge for the answer, but he knew it would make him seem desperate. Instead, he went to question two. “When you’re done being a soldier, will you start a family?”
Again a smile. “Of all the questions…but sure. I’ll have to fight for a lady instead of a country, huh?”
Greyson laughed. “Kids? That’s not my third; it goes with it kind of…”
“For sure,” Forge said, digging a divot in the table. “A small army of ‘em.”
There was something reassuring about knowing that. But the third question was already burning on his lip. “How’d you get your name?”
Forge stopped carving for a moment and eyed Greyson.
“What?” Greyson groaned. “That can’t be classified.”
“No. It’s not.” He turned back to his carving. “It’s a long story.”
“The longer you take, the longer a breather I get.”
Forge inhaled. “Fine. I was born in Mexico. My father worked for Los Muertes – a drug cartel. My mother was deeply Catholic. It made for entertaining table talk.”
Greyson grinned despite his manners.
“When I was five, my father began using me as a mule to cross the border. He’d insert the drugs in my body, I’d cross the border, and then I’d find my way to my contact on the other side. They’d extract the drugs, pay me, and send me back.”
The soldier kept carving, flicking away wood chips. Greyson tried to avoid grimacing at the story’s details, but Forge wasn’t looking at him anyway.
“I was good at what I did. The cartel promoted me. Used me other ways. I’d plant evidence on rival cartels, steal things, give messages, be a lookout. I found the work enjoyable. Until our cartel grew too big, too fast. There was a war with the most powerful cartel – Los Fuegos.”
Greyson scratched at his scarred hand.
“I was a look out. I saw Los Fuegos coming; I warned my friends. There was a firefight. More joined in, and more. Soon the whole town was on fire. And we lost. They took me somewhere. Turned out it was only ten minutes from home, but I didn’t find that out for three years.”
Three years?
“They kept me in the basement. Did things to me. Burned me. Nearly every day for three years. I told them everything I knew, but they didn’t care. Sick people. Awful people. The worst mankind has to offer. When I was rescued, I was a different person.”
“Who rescued you?”
“Los Muertes. They hadn’t been looking for me, but they found me. And they weren’t happy that I had told them everything I knew. Apparently they thought I had gotten some of them killed.”
Greyson sunk in his seat. “What did they do?”
“They punished me.”
His knife cut a deep groove.
“Were they Pluribus, too?”
“There was evil well before there was Pluribus.”
Greyson shook away his dumb question. “So then what happened?”
“My father rescued me from his own cartel but was killed in the process. My mother and I fled to America. I remembered how to cross the border. I stole for our food, but we were still starving. I started hurting other people to get money. It’s all I knew. And I got better at it. You think you have demons…”
Forge blew on the carving. “I was put into a juvenile prison when I was 16. Came face to face with the reality that I was on the wrong path. My mother visited every chance she could. She arranged for a priest to meet with me. Turned my life around. Joined the army when I was released.”
Greyson arched his brow. “But…how’d you get the name?”
“Do you know what a forge is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a place where objects are made by heating metal. Metal is forged through extreme heat and sometimes hammering. But when it cools, it’s something altogether different. It has a shape and a purpose. Whatever the designer had in mind for it to be. But all the heat and hammering were necessary to get it there. For me, being a drug mule taught me stealth, caution, how to lie. The cartel taught me how to steal, surveil, and fight. Los Fuertes taught me to endure, to hope. What men intended for evil, God intended for good.”
Forge had been burned. Had suffered greatly. But he’d come out what he was now – a strong soldier fighting for good. Greyson understood the name now. “Who gave you the name?”
Laughing, Forge made a few final touches on his carving. “My name’s Jorge. Drill Sergeant misread it and the rest is history.”
“What?”
“No lies.”
Greyson’s scoff drew into a laugh. After all that, Forge’s name had been a mistake. But then again, he’d made the mistake into something so much better.
Blowing again on his carving, Forge gestured for Greyson to take a look. He slid closer on the bench seat and awed at the miniature sword with sharp, etched edges and proportionate handle and blade. It seemed it would be the perfect weapon for a medieval dog to run through a medieval cat.
“Wow…”
Forge sheathed his knife.
“My process was hard. Your process is hard. But trust your designer. Trust his plan, and suffering takes on a whole new meaning. What is he making you into? What is he forging you to do?”
Forge used his crutches to stand up, continued his stare, and then hobbled away. Greyson stood as well, ran his fingers over the sword, then jogged to catch up.
-------------------------------
The Collins’ basement was like many normal suburban basements. Harper had decorated it with framed nature landscapes, massive vases, and stiff furniture, including the couch that faced a mounted television and two barstools that rested next to the never-used wet bar. Behind a door was an unfinished side room used for storage where plastic bins containing all sorts of seasonal clothes and decorations towered high against the wall. On the opposite wall, the family waited as Jeremy pulled back the tool bench, allowing them access to the hidden room that many suburban basements did not have.
Still sulking from her father’s scolding, Sydney followed him inside the secret room, shielding her eyes from the light as he turned it on. The room wasn’t large, so four people made it close quarters, pressing against the surrounding shelves.
“Here,” Jeremy said, grabbing a device from its protective sleeve. He handed the white credit card to Sydney. “Or this,” he found what looked like dried gum and handed it to her. “And this,” he said, grabbing coiled ear buds.
“Won’t he find the card in his wallet?”
“Maybe, but most men don’t look behind their license for months. Unless they get pulled over. Just slip it in there and we’ll be able to track him. But that’s just one option.” He pointed at the gummy penny. “That’s almost indestructible. I recommend sticking it under his shoe.”
She nodded. “And the ear buds?”
“They play music and radio, but we have a secure two-way channel to you as well. You’re not going in alone, again, at least not without us listening in.”
“But,” Nick began, “you can already track him. You replaced his cell with an identical one with a bug inside.”
“That’s his phone, Nick. We’ve listened to all his calls, but he’s given us nothing. And that could be because most people know that phones can be tracked and calls intercepted. He’s not stupid. We’re missing something.”
Nick disagreed. “And a twenty-four hour surveillance camera in the streetlight, a bug on his work phone, a tracker on his car, and everything else has come up empty. Maybe it’s time to move on.”
Jeremy gently pushed Nick out of the room. “It’s too crowded in here.”
“What?” Nick asked, backing out. “Is it hard to hear that you’ve wasted months of work? You want to find something now, just to justify the effort.”
Turning his back on him, Jeremy returned to the room and kneeled to shuffle through the items on the bottom shelf. But his mind was scattered. He stood up and walked toward Nick with heat in his words. “Something’s going to happen in Dallas any day. We don’t know what. Then, in less than a week, Nick, it’s the election and Cicada. What happens then? Another nuke? Again, we don’t know.”
Nick seemed determined to not give away any emotion. This was a duel.
“So when intelligence tells us the executive assistant of the CFO of Redmond is playing with Pluribus, we listen. We’ve mapped out his cell. We know who he’s working with and we’re ready to nab them, but the minute we do, we signal them all to get out of town. But not yet. We need the source.”
“So you send in my sister. A pretty girl into a teenaged pervert’s home?”
Stunned, Sydney put the devices in her pocket. “Nick, it’s okay.”
Nick cocked his head as Jeremy turned to Harper for assistance.
“You’re right, Nick,” Harper soothed, “it’s not something we want to do. But the rest of us have failed where Sydney hasn’t. We all have a part to play, and we need to stay united, or it won’t work.”
Surrendering to the odds of three versus one, Nick scowled. “You’re making a mistake.” And with that, he glanced at Sydney and walked away.
Chapter 23
Greyson stuck his head out the helicopter’s side door and let the wind whip the side of his helmet, nearly pushing him into the ocean of pine trees that seemed to churn like blurry waves below.
“Wooooo!” Greyson let out a shout to mask his fear.
“Excited?” Forge asked from his place next to Greyson.
“Yeah!” He said, hoping Forge wouldn’t hear the waver in his voice. Heights weren’t his favorite. Holding himself so close to the open door made him nauseated. He couldn’t help but to think about the last time he had been flying. He’d ended up jumping out of Dan’s plane, barely pulling the parachute before splattering on the Bahamas.
His palms sweated on the handles next to the door.
“Good,” Forge said, “because you’ll need to jump.”
Greyson had seen it coming. For some reason the mission called for it, and this was another test. At least he’d done it before. “No problem. Where’s my ‘chute?”
Forge’s smirk rose as he raised a silver suitcase, just big enough to have a chute inside. “It’s not just a ‘chute. It’s a suit. A wingsuit. Your wingsuit.”
“No way!”
“Put it on. Your first jump vector’s in eight minutes.”
Greyson’s hands were shaking as he put the suit on. He’d seen YouTube videos of daredevils flying through the air like flying squirrels, the fabric between arms and legs puffing out like wings. He’d heard of the risky base jumps, but also of the common deaths.
As he was donning the suit, Forge gave him instructions and wrapped a tether harness around his back. “This is a new training system we came up with. These tethers will secure you to the helicopter until you get the hang of it. One hooks you to the front, one to the back. Once you get the hang of it, we’ll release you. Then you have a chute in your rig for the way down.”
Before he knew it, he was lying by the open door, gloved fingers clutching the edge so hard it hurt. His helmet was strapped on tight, his tethers even tighter. The suit fit well, but he felt like he was wrapped in a sleeping bag, bundled up for winter.
[Vector in thirty seconds.]
He heard Grover’s voice in his ear as if he were next to him, even though he was in the cockpit.
He gulped and turned to Forge.
“Wait to extend your wings until the tethers balance out. Then extend gradually and symmetrically. We’ll talk you through it. Take three deep breaths.”
He did as he was told.
“Vector in ten seconds.”
“Don’t worry, Orphan,” Forge said, pushing him halfway over the edge. “If the tethers break, we’ll find someone else for the mission.”
And with that, he fell from the helicopter and was sucked away, straight toward the tail rotor.
“Ahhh!”
He panicked and extended his arms and legs.
The tethers jerked around his torso and suddenly he was being pulled through the air at the speed of the helicopter. The tail rotor chopped at the air feet above him.
[Ball up!] came Forge’s voice.
Still, his limbs were flailing about, outstretched and whipped by the wind as it pushed at the wings. His helmet’s HUD blinked information at him – his altitude, a map, and a spinning orientation leveler.
[Calm down! Stop struggling!] Forge commanded.
But the wind was so powerful. He was at its mercy.
He flailed. He pushed at the wind and his body flew to the left, only to jerk at the tethers again.
“Ughh!” he yelled as he pulled against the wind, trying desperately to straighten out.
The trees swirled underneath him.
[Ball up!] Forge said again.
Greyson forced his knees to bend and pulled his elbows in. Suddenly the wind’s pressure was off and only the front tether pulled him along like a wrecking ball. The straps yanked at his chest and hip
s, but his limbs were no longer flailing.
[Now, slowly extend all your limbs at once. Let the wind take them. Only give back the pressure it gives, nothing more. It’s like ballroom dancing, and you’re the girl.]
“Doesn’t help, ButtWipe.”
As his nerves began to settle, he felt the thumping of the tail rotor above. But the front tether held. He was finally under control. He could do this. He had to pass the test.
Taking another deep breath, he slowly extended his arms and legs at once.
[Arch your back toward the sky. Keep your arms back, too.]
He assumed the position, letting the wind flow into his wings.
And suddenly he wasn’t a wrecking ball, but a soaring bird.
He was flying.
The air billowed under him, lifting him along as the tethers centered him underneath the helicopter.
“That’s it. You got it!” Forge exclaimed.
Greyson smiled, though he was afraid he’d make one wrong move and find himself out of control again.
[Now, steer with your feet. Pushing your right foot down will lift your right side and turn you left. Try it. Little movements.]
Soon he had mastered the side-to-side movements. He was a glider, a plane. A very mobile plane. He felt free, except for the tethers.
[LZ below in thirty seconds,] came Grover’s voice.
Greyson scanned the landscape below for a landing zone. “Don’t see it yet.”
[I’ll input it as a waypoint on your mini-map,] Forge relayed.
Sure enough, a red circle appeared on his mini-map. Northwest, past a rocky ridge was a rolling prairie.
Greyson spotted it. It wasn’t large, but it would do.
[We’ll pass over it, get a good view, then, when we release, you’ll bank left and circle back. Once you’re on a good trajectory, pull the chute.]
The clearing moved underneath as if it were on a giant, slow-moving treadmill. When he circled back, the rocky ridge would be a sharp backboard if he overshot the landing.
He exhaled nervously, anxious to be on his feet again. His fear of heights was still real, still nagging at him, pushing more and more adrenaline into his body. He felt exhausted, jittery, and excited at the same time.