by David Horne
But Deputy Director Ramirez was not alone, not by a long shot. And Curtis recognized the person that stood by his side all too well. He was tall, slightly above the average height for a young man, but he appeared even taller than he already was because of the short stature of his boss next to him. He was tanned of skin, just like Hartley, and sported the exact same blond hair and facial bone structure.
Their eyes were different, though. Noticeably different. Hartley’s were the color of caramel and this man’s eyes were cold and gray, like skipping stones.
He wore a bright, white lab coat, which was the most pretentious thing ever for a scientist to actually wear, and beneath it, a black bodysuit that looked as though it were made from Kevlar, or some kind of tough exothermal polymer. Curtis rolled his eyes at this. Wearing body armor on an airfield; that had Valon Erose written all over it.
Extra, that was the word to describe him. If there was an unnecessary measure that hadn’t been taken somewhere, Valon Erose would drive several hundred miles out of his way just to take it; for no other reason than safety. He called it cautiousness; Curtis called it gross overkill. So, it really was just a “potato potah-to” kind of situation.
“Oh, look,” Curtis said, with all the enthusiasm of a wooden shelf. “It’s your brother.”
Hartley chided him. “Now, now, Curt, what did I tell you? Be nice. And behave.”
“I will if he does,” Curtis grumbled. Hartley laughs at this.
“If you asked him, he’d say he always behaves,” Hartley said fondly.
“Oh, I know exactly what he’d say,” Curtis rolled his eyes again. He seemed to be doing considerably more than his fair share of eye-rolling lately.
“Remember, we’re here to have fun, not to start World War Three,” Hartley grumbled. “Milwaukee! Let’s go, we’re burning daylight!”
“You two go ahead,” Milwaukee said. “I’m going to park the jet. I’ll see you guys in the Mess Hall.”
Curtis and Hartley proceeded down the steps of the jet onto the tarmac of the airfield below. It was a glorious day, about two in the afternoon, which was playing all kinds of mind tricks on Curtis’ brain. He supposed he was still used to Hong Kong time, which was fifteen hours ahead of Los Angeles. For all his natural skills, acclimatizing to different time zones without jet lag was just not one of them.
The sun was beating down on them, it must have been about eighty, maybe ninety degrees, but even with the heat, there was a gentle wind whipping up and blowing across the airfield, providing a pleasant breeze to stroll in. The wind made Valon’s lab coat flap about in the breeze, making him look even cooler than he already did, which Curtis definitely did not appreciate.
Deputy Director Ramirez, however, smiled widely as they approached, though this smile was aimed mostly at Hartley than it was at Curtis, being that they’d never met.
“Agent Wisconsin,” Director Ramirez said warmly. “Good to see you, my young friend.”
“And it’s so easy to see you, sir,” Hartley repeated his joke from earlier.
Curtis gave him a look, like, “Really? I thought that was our thing.”
“Really, Hart?” Valon asked. “Again, with that same fat joke? I’ve lost count of how many times I must have told you that it’s really not funny.”
It was Hartley’s turn to roll his eyes. “Whatever you say, Valerie.”
Valon went red at this, and Director Ramirez cackled. “Don’t start squabbling now, ladies. And who might this be?” he asked, turning to face Curtis.
“This is-” Hartley began, but Curtis cut him off.
“Special Agent Curtis Holmes,” Curtis said smoothly. “I work for Cicada, nice to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“And you,” Director Ramirez sounded as though he was changing his voice to make it sound more imperious. Curtis had found that his accent tended to have that effect on Americans in particular. He offered Curtis a handshake that he heartily accepted. It was an honor to be shaking the hand of the Deputy Director of Columbus, even if he was wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt and Birkenstocks.
Curtis could look past his strange attire, everyone had wardrobe malfunctions. He was only human, after all.
“I take it you’re here as part of the Cicada delegation?” Director Ramirez asked. “For the event?”
“I guess so, sir,” Curtis nodded. “I’ve actually...ah...just been briefed on it, and this is the first I’m hearing about it, but it sounds like my cup of tea. My slice of cake. Really butters my croissant, if you get my meaning.”
What are we playing, how many British idioms can we say in sixty seconds? Hartley wondered privately.
Director Ramirez shot Curtis with a finger-gun. “I know exactly what you mean, Agent. Look, most of our delegates have already arrived. Cicada is one of the last, but your people should be shipping in sometime tonight. We’re just having lunch in the Mess Hall at the moment, I’ll explain in more detail while we walk.”
Curtis briefly considered saying something like “spiffing” or “tip-top, old chap”, but he quickly decided against it. That was too English. Like Agatha Christie-level English. Like, related to the royal family-level English. Even he wasn’t English enough to pull that one off! “Sounds good, sir.”
“Lovely,” Director Ramirez grinned. “Let’s walk and talk.”
Base Camp Pendleton was a lot bigger than it appeared at a first glance, and after a solid ten minutes of walking, Curtis still couldn’t see any signs of any recognizable buildings, or, for that matter, any signs of any other factions that had been invited to take place in the Cicada One Hundred. That didn’t seem to be a problem, though, because he and Deputy Director Ramirez had a lot to talk about.
“I wanted to be the one to meet you for your recruitment, did you know that?” Deputy Director Ramirez asked excitedly. “We’d been watching you for months before that day at the USMC barracks in Chicago and plans to induct you into Columbus were already well underway, but I wanted to be the one to bring it home. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t,” Curtis said truthfully. “To be honest with you, sir, I’ve only ever seen your picture a few times before today.”
Deputy Director Ramirez waved this away, as though this were understandable. “That’s understandable,” he said genially. “I generally tend to like to keep a low profile, if you know what I mean.”
Curtis couldn’t resist glancing the man up and down and privately thinking that he had absolutely no idea what the words “low profile” even meant. As if he were reading his mind, Director Ramirez nodded knowingly. “I bet you’re thinking that I wouldn’t know what a low profile is if it kicked me in the head. But you’re thinking too laterally.”
Curtis frowned. “Wait. What?”
Now Deputy Director Ramirez was frowning. “Sorry, that’s my mistake. You’re not thinking laterally enough. It’s one or the other. In any case, you need to think outside the box. You would not think, from a first glance, that I was the Vice President of one of the world’s foremost intelligence agencies, now would you?”
He had a point. Curtis shrugged. “If I hadn’t seen your picture, then, no I wouldn’t have guessed at all.”
“Well there you are, then,” Deputy Director Ramirez nodded. “In fairness, I’m not dressed like this for security reasons, because I’m knocking about a USMC base. It is California after all, and I came here right from the beach. But you get my meaning, I trust?”
Curtis laughed at this, and Valon couldn’t resist putting in a snide comment from behind him. “You can’t expect Holmes to understand simple espionage tactics like that, sir,” Valon was saying. “I don’t know how they do things in England, Holmes, but here in the US of A, our agents are trained to hide in plain sight. We don’t rock up to a beach wearing a tuxedo like James Bond.”
Curtis rolled his eyes at this. “Remind me Agent Miami, which of us is the Field Agent and which of us is the useless lazy bum?”
Valon went red at this. “Support Staff an
d technical agents are just as important as you flashy field assholes!” he steamed. “I’d like to see you last one day out there without weapons, tech or extraction! Then we’ll see who’s the useless bum!”
“You two, I thought I told you to play nice!” Hartley exclaimed.
“It’s okay, Agent Wisconsin,” Deputy Director Ramirez said, amusement in his voice. “This sounds like a grudge match to be settled on the battlefield if I’m not very much mistaken.”
“What?” Curtis was so surprised that he stopped walking to ask. “Valon’s going to be in the combat sim?”
Deputy Director Ramirez clearly disapproved of Curtis neglecting to use Valon’s official agent codename, but he didn’t make too big of a deal of it. “Agent Miami has been training to take his field agent’s exam, I’m happy to fast track it so he can take it tonight and, provided he passes, he can be on the field tomorrow.”
Curtis turned on Valon, a half-triumphant, half-smug look on his face. “Field agent’s exam?! Who’s the “flashy field asshole” now, arsehole?!”
“Language!” Deputy Director Ramirez barked, attempting to defuse the situation. “This could be exactly the opportunity you’ve been looking for, Miami. The Director doesn’t want me revealing too much about the exact nature of the combat sim, but I can reveal that you’ll start with nothing. And it’s up to you to secure your own weapons, armor, even transport. So perhaps you’ll prove yourself right, that Support Agents are just as important as the ones that are in the field.”
“Do you mean that, sir?” Valon asked quickly. “I can take the field exam tonight?”
Deputy Director Ramirez nodded. “I don’t see why not. You may have to work through dinner, but it should be well worth it for the chance to settle this, whatever this is on the battlefield. The winning team, as you know, gets to run the Invictus, which is a huge honor for any field agent.”
“Of course it is, sir,” both Valon and Curtis said at the same time, and then scowled at each other.
“Good show!” Deputy Director Ramirez was getting more and more uncomfortably English as this “walk and talk” went on, and it was starting to get under Curtis’ skin. “Which, ironically, is exactly what we’ll be getting tomorrow. At least I hope we will. Cicada’s chairman couldn’t make it today, but he’ll be here tomorrow, Agent Holmes, so you’ll want to do your country proud.”
Curtis had to smirk at this. “I always do, sir.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Deputy Director Ramirez said, nodding his head both imperiously and approvingly. “Wisconsin, why don’t you take your friend along to the Mess Hall, I’m sure you know the way. Miami, come along, let’s talk about getting you onto that exam, shall we?”
Curtis had to admit, he wasn’t exactly upset to see the Deputy Director go. In his opinion, that was one weird dude. He watched his two least favorite people on the base walk away, deep in discussion. Suddenly, he felt Hartley step up next to him and slide his hand into his own.
“You’re staring,” Hartley said in his ear.
Curtis involuntarily flinched. He let go of Hartley’s hand. “Hey! What’re you doing?”
“What?” Hartley turned in all directions, where there appeared to be nothing but smooth tarmac for hundreds of yards. “Nobody’s watching. Don’t cry, Curtis!”
“I’m not crying,” Curtis said, pouting in the most immature way possible.
“Well, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Hartley amended.
“I don’t even wear-”
“Oh, right, I forgot, what is it you guys say?” Hartley cut across him. “Don’t get your knicker in a twist?”
Curtis narrowed his eyes. “You know good and goddamn well that’s not it, Hartley Erose.”
Hartley pretended to be taken aback. “Did you just full name me?”
“Damn straight,” Curtis said, still miffed at the non-consensual hand-holding. “So which way is it to this Mess Hall?”
“It’s over there,” Hartley pointed at the biggest distance. “It looks a lot further than it is. And, it’s Monday today. You know what that means.”
“What does it mean?” Curtis asked, perplexed.
“It means leftover roast!” Hartley said in a fake enthusiastic voice that promised that nobody would be enjoying dinner today. “I just love day-old meat and potatoes. It’s the best thing in the world. Ain’t nothing better.”
Curtis shrugged. “Well, you can either eat it or stay out here and lick the tarmac. As for me, I pick day-old meat and potatoes every time!”
Chapter Four
After a lengthy talk with the Deputy Director regarding the particulars of the contest in question, which took a lot longer than expected, Curtis and Hartley hit the Mess Hall for a late lunch—early dinner. Both of them were in extremely high spirits in anticipation of the combat simulation to come, although there were a lot of details that still remained a mystery by design.
It had been Deputy Director Ramirez’s personal idea not to divulge the names of the players on any of the teams until the morning of the actual simulation, just to add an extra surprise twist. Also, nobody had any kind of confirmation about what kind of weapons they were going to be using. All these little surprise nuggets made it that much harder to anticipate the kind of gameplay that they were going to be subjected to. All they knew was that they were to report to the command barracks, Block 19, to be sorted into teams, first thing in the morning, and then report back to their team barracks after breakfast for their first mission briefings.
Curtis, for one, was full of countless ideas about what kind of simulation they were facing in the morning, each hypothesis more colorful than the last.
“It could be Capture the Flag,” he said, as Hartley and he sat across from each other in the big, brightly lit Mess Hall, dining on freeze-dried roast chicken and potatoes. “I know Capture the Flag is seen as a bit of a... well...boy scout game, but it’s a classic! Can’t go wrong with a bit of Capture the Flag.”
“I know, right?” Hartley said, who’d been struggling to get a word in edgeways through his friend’s excitement. “Or-”
“Or it could be Sabotage!” Curtis cut across him without even realizing that Hartley had been speaking. “You know what Sabotage is, right? Remember that night operation that we ran in Lagos a few years back? Basically that. Infiltrate a stronghold, plant a bomb, destroy it. Nice and simple. Another classic, Sabotage is.”
“Yeah, Sabotage,” Hartley tried again, pushing potatoes around his plate with his fork. “Or what about-?”
“What about good old Team Deathmatch?” Curtis cut him off again, waving his plastic fork in the air, one eye closed as if it were a gun. “You can’t get more classic than that, to be honest, just good, old-fashioned “kill everyone”. Of course, we won’t be using real ammunition, at least I hope we won’t. Maybe we’ll be using rubber bullets or-”
“Or!” Hartley suddenly barked very loudly and aggressively, so much so that Curtis stopped in his tracks, looking very taken aback. For a moment, Curtis thought that Hartley looked a tad remorseful at snapping, but then he smiled, very clearly happy to finally have his moment to talk. “Or,” he said again, much more softly this time. “Maybe it won’t be a carbon copy of a game mode that you’d find in Call of Duty.”
Curtis smiled sheepishly. “That game taught me everything I know about being a soldier. It’s why I joined the Marine Corps.”
Hartley couldn’t resist scoffing with no small amount of derision. “You joined the United States Marine Corps because of a video game?”
“Damn straight!” Curtis said, with a severely displaced bravado. He attempted to place his hand over his heart but picked the wrong side of his chest. “Per Mare, Per Terram,” he recited solemnly. “By Sea, By Land, and all that.”
Again, Hartley snorted with derision. “You’ve got the wrong side,” he said shortly.
“Beg your pardon?” Curtis raised his eyebrows.
“I said, that’s the wrong sid
e,” Hartley repeated. “It’s right hand over the left side of your chest. That’s where your heart is. How do you not know that?”
“I did know that!” Curtis lied, scowling. “I just...I wasn’t doing the oath properly, so I used the wrong side of my chest because unlike some people, I take oaths seriously.”
“It wasn’t an oath, that was a motto,” Hartley corrected him again. “And you got it wrong. It’s not “By Sea, By Land”, that’s the motto of the Royal Navy. The USMC motto is “Semper Fidelis”. It’s Latin for “always faithful”.”
“Really?” Curtis blinked, not even bothering to pretend this time. “That one sucks!”
“I agree,” Hartley nodded, glancing down at his plate as if to check that the food was still there. “But they live up to it, at the end of the day, because to this very day, there has never been a mutiny in the USMC. Like ever.”
This was always their old pattern that Curtis and Hartley fell into, whenever they were together. It’d been established when they’d been partnered up in basic training; Hartley was the bookish type, who always knew the answers to academic questions, and despite having a rapid learning ability, Curtis seemed to be able to only apply it to physical studies, such as the several forms of martial arts that he’d mastered, including the use of nunchucks and a bo staff.
Languages were the exception to this rule, as Curtis quickly found out; while he wasn’t particularly proficient when it came to the fluency of accent, he was able to learn what would be considered a complete vocabulary in a staggeringly short space of time. But even so, when Hartley and Curtis were partnered up, it was as though they both illuminated and reinforced each other’s weaknesses.
Hartley was never particularly physically strong, but Curtis was top of his class at every form of hand-to-hand combat from jeet Kune do to krav maga. And Curtis was never an academic genius, but when it came to knowing things, it was almost like Hartley knew everything. To voice the truth of it, that was one of the things that Curtis found so attractive about him. And he knew that Hartley liked to be told it, too. When he had accepted what he liked and found Hartley matched the criteria rather profoundly almost everything about him become attractive to Curtis. It was strange how their relationship changed from just friends to more almost as if it had meant to be that way.