The Unknown Soldier_a Joaquin Serrano Novel

by Jace Killan

  Joaquin had served time with some of these crooks that had been sloppy enough to get caught. He had heard their stories of their riches and power and even more stories of all those that got away.

  The entire country was corrupt. They all lied to fill their own pockets: the politicians, the lawyers, the giant corporations and their respective puppets on Wall Street. Nobody cared about anyone but themselves. Nobody loved their neighbor or turned the other cheek or told the truth.

  “This is Arlington Cemetery,” Omar said, motioning at the driver’s side window.

  A hush fell over Joaquin, followed by a chill down his back. Rows upon rows of white headstones dotted a brilliant green floor. Somewhere in there rested his brother.

  His mother trembled. Large tears fell from her chin onto a white handkerchief that she clenched tightly as if it were a tossed rope and she the overboard sailor.

  Joaquin read from a street sign, “Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

  “Now that is a special site,” Omar said. “There are guards that watch the tomb round the clock. Rain or snow or whatever.”

  “Is there really someone buried in the tomb?”

  “Three someones,” Omar said. “There’s an unidentified soldier from World War One and another from World War Two and the third from the Korean War.”

  “No Vietnam War?”

  “There was. But they identified the remains using DNA testing so they’ve left that tomb unoccupied.”

  Joaquin wanted to ask the point of guarding a tomb of some dead guy nobody knew, but that’d sound heartless. And he didn’t want to embarrass his mom.

  After circling the cemetery, Omar drove them into a parking lot boasting a wide building of at least five stories, too large to see its pentagon shape. A sign out front gave the building’s identity away.

  Omar parked and helped mom out of the car. “You’ll be staying at the Ritz-Carlton. I will take you there whenever you’ve finished your business here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, looking in her purse for some change to tip the driver.

  He met Joaquin’s eyes and shook his head. “That’s not necessary, ma’am. It is an honor to meet the mother and brother of a hero.”

  He shook Joaquin’s hand. “Your luggage is safe here. Just head up the stairs and see the front desk. They’ll direct you to your meeting.”

  “Thank you,” Joaquin said.

  Nearby stood a memorial plaque dedicated to Flight 77 and those who’d died on 9/11.

  Rain had recently fallen, leaving a refreshing smell and coolness in the air, and moistened ground. Joaquin and his mom headed up the steps into a small lobby. There they waited until greeted by a blonde woman wearing a grey pantsuit. She ushered them into a conference room after passing down a series of hallways.

  A dark blue suited man entered the room, tall with a young face and grey-flecked hair. He hugged Joaquin’s mom.

  “Como fue tu viaje, Hermana Maxwell? Todo bien?”

  “Si, eSpencer. Muchas Gracias,” his mom said.

  “And you must be Jaqui.” Spencer extended his hand.

  Joaquin shook it, saying nothing. He wondered what Spencer had heard about him. He had certainly known about the prison time, but what else? Did he know about Brina? Did he know about the drug addiction? Perhaps Spencer suspected him to be high right now.

  Spencer invited them to sit at the cherry wood conference table, covered in spotless glass. Another gentleman, introduced by Spencer as Barry the analyst, joined the table and presented a large black binder. On its stem read the letters NFNR.

  “No fear. No regrets,” Joaquin said.

  Spencer’s eyes grew wide. “How’d you know that?”

  Joaquin smiled. “Chorch had the letters tattooed on the back of his shoulder.”

  Spencer nodded his head. “Yes, he did. I thought you were locked up when he got that.”

  Joaquin removed his t-shirt and turned so the group could see a similar tattoo on his own shoulder. “He wrote me once in a while. He sent me a picture and I spotted the ink. He didn’t tell me what it meant but I knew. It was a favorite saying of his. So I had my celly give me the same tat.”

  Spencer waited for Joaquin to dress and sit back down. “Well, this isn’t about his tattoo. He and I planned the op with our team.” Spencer opened the folder showing a picture of six men dressed in military tactical gear and holding a variety of weapons.

  Joaquin recognized Chorch though he appeared much meatier and tanned. He almost looked Hispanic. Chorch had inherited his father’s Caucasian features, Joaquin his mother’s. Next to Chorch stood Spencer holding a large sniper rifle.

  “Cool gun,” Joaquin said.

  Spencer smiled and nodded as if remembering a fond relationship. “A Barrett M107, 50 cal.”

  “Did you ever kill anyone?” Joaquin immediately regretted the question.

  Spencer shook his head, not in a motion of saying no but indicating the question was inappropriate. “The unit investigated...”

  “The unit?” Joaquin cut in. “Are you saying that you and Chorch were Delta Force?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Then are you saying that you weren’t Delta Force?”

  Spencer glanced nervously at Barry who leaned forward in his chair. “Son. Ma’am. Spencer has tried to get this file declassified so that he can provide you with some answers of what happened to your brother and son. Maybe we should just leave this file with you and let you draw your own conclusions.” Barry rose. “Jorge Maxwell was one of the finest Americans I have had the privilege of meeting. You should be proud of his service. He was a real hero.”

  Spencer rose to leave as well. “I’ll check back in a little while. Know that if it isn’t in that file, I can’t talk about it.” He smiled and left.

  Joaquin turned the page of the binder and read the words aloud. “Operation No Fear No Regrets.” He didn’t start to read but flipped through hundreds of pages of typed paragraphs and sections, though all names, references to equipment, locations, and what he assumed to be other tactical command references were blackened out. The report started with a proposal, possibly written by his brother, followed by a response to the proposal, then a revision and then an official request of assets, both live and tactical. Following these sections, he found a longer report detailing the op’s actual events.

  Toward the back were some photos, identified as exhibits though most of the referenced exhibits were not included. In the back of the binder were folded newspapers dated before, on, and after August 2013 all referencing Syria.

  “I thought Chorch died in Afghanistan?” Joaquin said.

  “That’s what they said.” Mom leaned over to the report. “Does that say something else?”

  “I don’t know, but there are references to Syria.” He had vaguely remembered reading about the chemical attacks in Syria while in prison. President Obama had drawn a line in the sand and Assad crossed it, using chemical warfare on his own people.

  “Qui bono?” Joaquin said aloud, remembering Assad’s comment, indirectly blaming the Islamic radicals. And the US apparently did nothing.

  Joaquin returned to the front page and began to read.

  6

  The employment market had tightened since Jared last looked for a job. He had received many offers over the years, but always went for the carrot, that stock package that he forfeited upon filing bankruptcy. Someone, probably from the company, was able to buy the stock back for cheap and hadn’t even mentioned the transaction to Jared. He got the proverbial middle finger from his bosses. He desperately wanted to return the gesture soon, but had grown weary of job searching.

  Of course, the last time he went looking, he’d held the licenses and hadn’t had to explain a misdemeanor charge with “Fraud” in its description. Even though it wasn’t officially on his record, he had to answer each application truthfully when asked, “Have you ever been charged?”

  Jared had cycled through his list of the better opp
ortunities out there. Then he started in on the comparable ones without luck. Owen Mayhew came last on that list.

  Mayhew ran a Family Office with more than a billion in assets under management. Some of it came from his wife’s family money. A lot of it belonged to Jay Goldstein, who had made his fortune through purchasing and selling television stations. The firm required a minimum investment of $100,000 and Mayhew mentioned on the phone that he wanted to raise that to a quarter million.

  He invited Jared to come in and meet.

  The two had worked together right out of college with a local Registered Investment Advisory firm. Mayhew had stuck with the firm, built his book, then traded up, into his own practice. Jared had chased the big money, the carrot, and now had nothing to show for it.

  But Jared didn’t have pride left to swallow. They weren’t equals—not by any stretch. With luck, Mayhew would be his next boss.

  Jared exited the glass elevator leading directly into the lobby of Northern Investments and Trust. A cute red head in black-rimmed glasses smiled behind a granite receptionist desk.

  She invited Jared to sit and wait. He sank into a gray leather sofa chair facing a tall wall of cascading water, falling over stone etched with the firm’s name. The soothing sound helped Jared relax though he fought the urge to nibble his thumb.

  He examined his fingers, always nervous before shaking someone’s hand that they would feel the roughness or see the raw skin. On the side of his thumb protruded a small dry flake. He couldn’t resist. He bit it.

  “Don’t be nervous,” the receptionist said, “Owen is a nice guy.”

  Like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Jared forced a smile. “Thanks.” He shoved his hand into his pocket and fidgeted with his keys.

  Ten minutes later, Mayhew entered the lobby. “J-Man. It’s been a long while.”

  “Yes it has. How are you?” Jared stood and shook Mayhew’s massive hand.

  “Great. Come on back.”

  Mayhew stood tall at six five. Jared felt short walking next to him down the twelve-foot halls.

  They passed several conference rooms and offices, each as elegant as the water feature in the lobby. At the end of the hall, Mayhew pushed open a door, presenting a massive office, much larger than the offices of Jared’s prior bosses.

  The tall ceilings boasted an industrial chic appearance. Long metal rods extended from above, ending in LED lights that brightened the taupe walls though most of the room was lit with natural light. A window to the outside filled the entire far wall. Mayhew motioned for Jared to check out the view. At nine stories tall, he still couldn’t see much, other than the traffic below and a red brick apartment complex across the street.

  “Nice right?” Mayhew asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I know it’s off Wall Street a little, but I like it.”

  Jared took a seat in one of the guest chairs facing a wide cherry wood desk with an inlaid leather top. A forty-eight inch computer screen rested on a credenza flanking the window.

  Jared said, “You like your back to the door rather than the outside.”

  “Yeah, how did you know?” Mayhew cocked his head. “Oh, you think this is my office. I should have said so earlier. This is your office. That is, if you accept my offer.”

  Jared was speechless for a moment, processing what Mayhew had just said. “Offer?”

  “Well yeah.” Mayhew took the other guest seat. “I could really use you here.”

  Jared relaxed and smiled. Those words opened the release valve of his anxiety. He could breath. “What would I do for you?”

  “I could really use a Chartered Financial Analyst.”

  It had taken Jared four years to earn the designation.

  “No one here has a CFA?” Jared asked.

  “Several do, but they give too much credence to the hype. Did you know that sixty-three seconds after an announcement is made on a publically traded company, the stock price has already adjusted for that information? Investors are like sheep. They follow what was hot yesterday and tomorrow they’ll get into what’s hot today.”

  “Are you suggesting technical analysis?” There were many methods that tracked historical data of stock prices and news, integrating that with market trends and using algorithms to predict where a stock headed. But none of it worked. It was nothing but educated gambling.

  “No, that’s looking at history to predict the future. Too risky for my money.”

  “I agree.” Jared nodded.

  “Listen. I think that all the hype is like porn. It’s sexy, exciting, gets you hard. But at the end of it, it’s nowhere near as good as the real thing.”

  “The real thing?” Jared chuckled. He hadn’t heard this financial metaphor before.

  “Getting laid, my friend. When’s the last time you got laid?”

  “Are we still talking stocks?” Jared shifted in his chair.

  “Sure.” Mayhew’s smile widened. “So I got laid last night. I get laid all the time and it’s not by jacking off to porn. Want to know how I do it?”

  “You’re a male prostitute?”

  “Nah, man.” Mayhew laughed. “I’m married that’s how. You see? That’s my point. My sex life is boring. Routine. It’s not all glamorous like porn makes it seem. But hell, I’ve gotten laid a lot more than any dude that watches porn.”

  “So you’re saying that investing shouldn’t be about the hype.”

  “Exactly.” Mayhew stood and went to the window. “That’s why I need you. You get it. Investing is boring. Let the sheep follow the hype while we make sweet boring love to our wives.”

  “How do you justify your fees if you’re basically saying that it’s easy?”

  Mayhew turned and leaned his back against the glass. “Boring, yes. Easy, no. We are the voice of reason to our clients. We train them to know that what they see on television is pure B.S. It’s porn. They need to avoid porn. Instead, we do some serious fundamental analysis and find the alpha. You know what alpha is right, CFA-Man?”

  “Of course.”

  “What is it?” Mayhew folded his arms.

  “It’s outperforming the benchmark.”

  “Right. But more specifically it’s earning more with less risk.”

  “And that’s what everyone else claims to do. Without insider information, it’s really only speculation and just as risky. Alpha is a myth in publically traded securities. It’s an efficient market by design.”

  “You’re exactly right,” Mayhew said. “I would say that everyone else, isn’t you or I. They don’t have our brains. And I like to temper the portfolio with inefficient markets.”

  “Like what?”

  “Real estate for one. Small businesses. That’s how Warren Buffet does it. And Mitt Romney.”

  “Venture capital?”

  Mayhew smiled. “Hells yeah. I’d like to convert maybe a tenth of the portfolio to small businesses over the next year. But I need a CFA who gets it and can avoid the hype.”

  Jared understood now. “Why didn’t you just say that instead of talking about getting laid?”

  Mayhew laughed. “Where’s the fun in that? So what do you think? You won’t be playing the stock market much. But you’ll need to follow market and sector trends closely. To find the alpha we need to identify the inefficiencies.”

  “I like it.” Jared stood and shook Mayhew’s hand. He clenched his jaw in excitement.

  “Starts at $150,000 a year. Bonuses based on fund performance. I want a hundred million reallocated to small business and real estate within the next six months. You good with that?”

  Good? Mayhew didn’t hold a carrot out there. He handed Jared a key to the garden.

  “Absolutely.”

  Part 2

  Debt

  Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We didn’t pass it to our children in the bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected, and handed on for them to do the same. – Ronald Reagan

  7
/>   Night had fallen by the time two Ospreys and one Black Hawk left the base in Western Anbar near the Euphrates.

  Operator Spencer Rockwell cradled his M4 Carbine with its barrel pointed to the ground of the Osprey.

  Across from him sat Jorge Maxwell, his C.O. and best friend, whom the team affectionately called Chorch. Spencer and Chorch attended West Point together where they were selected for SEER training and eventually recruited to the Unit.

  The two had talked about becoming Navy SEALS, and there wouldn’t have been much difference in action, but Chorch’s father had been Navy, so Chorch wanted to make his mark elsewhere. Spencer followed his friend to the Unit and the two had served side by side through dozens of missions.

  Recently their attention had focused on Syria with its civil unrest between a powerful dictator and the advances of ISIS—with the Syrian people held hostage in the middle.

  The Osprey followed the Euphrates for a while, keeping low to the terrain. Their mission: an exfiltration op, their target: a CIA operative that had been captured in Syria while infiltrating the ISIS network. They’d taken him to a compound where at least a dozen more hostages, Turkish rebel fighters, were held.

  As a bonus, analysts determined that the compound also housed Aladin Musad, who oversaw most of the business and financial operations for ISIS, like the growing number of oil ventures and kidnapping-ransom exploits.

  Though straight forward, the mission wouldn’t be easy. The Unit had trained for nine-days. They studied the compound’s blueprints. They practiced in virtual simulators. They ran through their first, second, and third contingency scenarios. And now, they were ready.

  Spencer prayed as he did before every mission. He closed his eyes and thought his plea to God for protection, asking the Divine to help his brothers and him return safely.

  When he opened his eyes, Chorch stared directly at him, smiling. Chorch knew of Spencer’s rituals and had even joined him on occasion.

  “No fear, manos. No regrets,” Chorch said in the comsac. The comment was followed by a unanimous and unified “Hoo-ah.”