by John O'Brien
“I have no fucking idea,” I return.
Chapter Four
The military conference room is much like any other I’ve been in, with little spared for comfort. However, the chilled air feels nice, but I’m still mostly too numb to notice. I’ve had a chance to shower and cat-nap on the way, after having my wounds looked at. I know I have to debrief after each mission while it’s still fresh, but there’s no way I’ll be able to forget what happened. And I’d like to get a little downtime before the kids show up the day after tomorrow. Their smiles and our banter might be a partial antidote to what has happened.
The door opens and two men walk in. One is clad in jeans and a T-shirt, the other in jeans and a sports coat over a button-up shirt. Even though they aren’t dressed in military clothing, there is no doubt that they once served. They are the liaisons who will take notes to put everything into a proper format and then send the report upward. I had actually anticipated men dressed in white with a load of syringes and a gurney to strap me onto after I sent my preliminary report.
One of the men opens a file and reads through several sheets of paper, then looks up.
“You know, I’ve read through this several times, and each time, it feels like I’m reading it in a different language by the time I get to the end. If some of this wasn’t verified by the exfil crew, I would say that you fell victim to some drug within that cave.”
“Believe me, I wish I had. The images and videos circling in my mind still don’t seem real. Were the bodies recovered?” I ask.
“We sent a recovery mission in this morning, but they were met by another team that was already there and told to leave. Apparently, they had clearance to do so. But, we did receive notice that the bodies were located, and they’re being returned as we speak,” the man answers.
“Another team? Who were they?” I question.
“I have no idea, but in addition to showing their clearance, orders were sent to us to recall our team. I’ve learned not to look too deeply into shit like that.”
Having worked for various three-letter departments, I can understand that mentality. When things like that happen, even though it’s difficult to do at times, it’s best to shrug and walk away. The last thing anyone needs is to suddenly find themselves blacklisted or surrounded by large men with 5 percent body fat and “asked” to accompany them.
“Fair enough,” I reply.
“So, let’s go through this from start to finish,” the man says, setting a recorder on the table and pressing record.
* * * * * *
A flock of crows take flight from the front yard as I pull into the driveway. Beams of afternoon sunlight streak through openings in the trees ringing the property, illuminating an acre of lawn that is in dire need of mowing. I live out in the country because I really don’t want to have the hustle and bustle of people around me. I need to unwind without the stress of constant noise. As I turn off the Jeep, I hear the familiar sound of my two Rotties barking at the front door.
Opening the door, I’m immediately beset by the furry beasts with their eager whines and prancing. Their bodies are wiggling so much that I’m not sure if they’re wagging their tails or their tails are wagging them. It’s like trying to pet a barrel full of energetic eels. My youngest forgets herself and jumps up to lick my face, her paws coming to rest on my chest. They may seem ferocious at times, but they’re really just two big hearts wrapped in fur. I scratch their heads and lean down, where I’m immediately engulfed with dog kisses.
“Oh, hey Dad. You’re home,” I hear Robert call from the living room.
“Hey, Robert,” I return.
After a few minutes, I walk through the forest of dog bodies, having to zig-zag left and right to make my way around them. In the living room, Robert is just setting down a gaming controller and rises to give me a hug.
‘How was work?” Robert asks.
“Boring as hell,” I answer.
“Puts food on the table, I guess. Speaking of, Bri asked if we could do pizza tomorrow. I guess she found this really good place.”
Stepping apart, Robert, who is taller than me by a couple of inches, stares back with his blue eyes framed by a closely cropped hair of darker blond as he waits for an answer. He’s eighteen and is staying with me as he attends a local college. I haven’t told anyone what I actually do for a living. To them, I’m a consultant who has to travel a lot.
“Yeah, I’m good with that,” I respond.
“Okay, I’ll let them know. I think they’re planning to come over tomorrow after school. Are you up for a game?” Robert asks, glancing at the Xbox.
“I’m sure I can be talked into one,” I reply.
That night, with two large lumps of fur stealing most of the bed, I stare at the ceiling as I go over every detail of the mission. Accepting the extension and returning was obviously a mistake, considering the outcome, and I can’t believe I allowed us to be talked into it. Wondering about how I could have seen something like that coming and done things differently keeps me from drifting off. Maybe we could have placed ourselves better.
Perhaps if we had all gone in together, we might have been able to walk away. We would have had enough firepower to potentially stall the single creature inside…maybe one of us would have seen it before it attacked. But, that would have left us without anyone covering our backside, which goes against everything I know. I can’t think of anything that would have ended in a different result, other than not going back to begin with.
The spine-tingling shudder I had at the first manor surfaces. I normally listen to intuition, but I’m not sure I can even classify what I felt as that. It both was and wasn’t.
And what in the fuck were we facing?
I’ve never encountered anything like what was on those jungle slopes, and I can’t wrap my mind around the images playing in my head. There’s a word that comes to mind, but I just can’t bring myself to say it because those things are only found in fairy tales and Hollywood. They can’t possibly be real. But, every time I play back the reel from that evening, there they are, bigger than shit. Part of me believes the images in my head, but another thinks that there must have been some chemical circulating in the destroyed lab that affected my sense of reality.
But, the chopper crew saw them as well. Why were there others already in place when the recovery team arrived? Who were they? And, why were ours recalled?
That aspect alone lends credence to my belief that it occurred the way I see it in my mind. I suppose it could be the DEA was tipped off about the lab and such, but they wouldn’t have the authority to trump our team. And they wouldn’t spirit the bodies away. At the very least, they would be sent to us.
During my introspection, I find myself jumping at shadows and sounds from outside. Each time, I reach for the blades by the side of my bed. I’d reach for a sidearm, but I don’t keep one in the house.
At the age of sixteen, I was with friends when I heard the sound of a gunshot. I ran outside and heard screaming coming from one of the apartments nearby. Running inside, I found a kid of about twelve sitting in a recliner, his head leaning to one side. Blood and clumps of brain were dripping from a hole in the side of his head into a larger pile that had already gathered. The wall behind him was splattered with blood and other pieces of tissue. With his eyes closed, he was gasping for each breath, but it was just synapses firing.
The worst part was another kid about the same age standing near the bottom of a narrow stairway screaming, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to,” over and over again while holding a revolver. I took the gun away and set it on the table, then took my shirt off and wrapped it around the boy’s head, tying it off and keeping pressure where the gigantic hole was. There wasn’t really anything to press against, so I just tried to keep whatever was still in there inside. All the while, the other boy was screaming.
My friends arrived and I told them to call an ambulance and the police—this was before 911 was implemented nationwide—and ha
d them take the screaming boy outside. Then it was just the dead boy and me in the darkened house, him gasping for breath and me, well, it was a fucking mess, but I couldn’t just leave him. I held his head and told him to hang on, that help was coming. He convulsed once, then twice, and then stopped breathing. He died on a sunny summer afternoon, having fun with his friend, with only me by his side. The story is the same everywhere, kids playing with their dads’ guns and someone dies.
That’s why I don’t have guns in my house, locked or otherwise. I don’t want a sunny afternoon turned into some kid dying in a comfortable recliner, especially not mine. Now, knives? Those I have plenty of scattered throughout the house, and I feel confident using them. Flinching at every sound outside, imagining those creatures out in the dark, my thoughts return to the mission.
Calhoun’s team. They were lost on this operation as well. But, their manner of death doesn’t seem to fit with everything else. As far as I know, no one has stepped up to take credit. They were killed without firing a single shot, then they were branded, dragged, and discarded for us to find. What message could their death and branding be? Were they specifically targeted or were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time? If there was a leak on our level, then wouldn’t we have been targeted as well? There are too many questions and no answers.
None of it really makes sense except for the fact that I lost five friends and teammates. I feel horribly guilty and sick to my stomach that I didn’t find out what happened to Baker and the other two I left outside. And that we allowed ourselves to return. They were good men who deserved a little risk-taking on my part. I fall asleep deeply saddened by their loss.
* * * * * *
Bri and Nic walk in carrying four boxes, and the smell of pizza immediately fills the house. Bri is the youngest at sixteen, with fine golden hair hanging down to the middle of her back and bright blue eyes. Nic is a year older, and although the two look like sisters, Nic’s shoulder-length dark hair and hazel eyes are in direct contrast. I’m not sure if the furry ones are more eager for the pizza or to see my daughters. They don’t seem to know either as they sniff at the boxes being carried to the kitchen and alternatively whine to be petted as their tails make great sweeping arcs through the air.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever witnessed a full-grown Rottie’s tail being wagged excitedly, but let me tell you, it’s a weapon that can sweep a table clean in an instant. I don’t think they feel a thing as they slam into cupboard doors with loud, repetitive thumps that nearly shake the entire house. With plates full of pizza slices, we settle into an evening of talk and movies. After the horror I managed to live through, this is exactly what I need, to be surrounded by my kids and furry friends. Life just doesn’t get much better.
The weekend is spent taking walks through the woods with the dogs and playing at the river in the warm weather. We pick up BBQ and watch movies or play games. If there was anything good at the nearby drive-in, we’d pile chairs into the Jeep and make an evening of it. But, it’s not the event that makes it for me, it’s the time we spend together.
I’ve said before that my kids think I’m some sort of consultant, so I’m always taken aback when Bri and Nic seem to hug me tightly when we say goodbye and Bri whispers, “Stay safe, Dad.”
On Sunday morning, I’m notified to report to McChord Air Force Base for a meeting/debriefing the next afternoon. I fully anticipated something like this once my report had been circulated. It’s wild enough to warrant another look, and I fully expect to be notified that my services will no longer be required. In effect, I’ll be blacklisted, which means that a visit to the Walmart customer service desk for an application will be in order. Even though we managed to rescue the hostages, I also managed to lose an entire team.
* * * * * *
After securing my badge for entry through the gates and driving through roads placed seemingly at random, I arrive at the building indicated on what I’ve come to consider my summons. Even though I bitch and moan about going out on missions, I’m actually a little saddened by the thought that it will all be over. Plus, I’d always hoped to be able to leave on my own terms.
Walking into the conference room, I see there are a few people who have arrived before me seated at one end of a conference table. Three distinguished looking gentlemen and a nice looking blonde woman, all carrying a military bearing but not wearing uniforms, are sitting together and give me a nod without saying a word. Feeling like I’ve stepped into the beginnings of an inquisition which could end with being burned at a stake, I take a seat closer to the end of the far side.
A minute later, another gentleman in fatigues and one civilian enter. Seeing the stars occupying the collar of the one man, I stand at a near semblance of attention. My old military habits just can’t help themselves sometimes. I recognize the civilian accompanying the general as one of my contacts. I don’t know who he works for and never really cared. It’s not like I’d be told who the hell I was working for on any particular contract anyway. Our nondisclosure agreements were really just to keep the honest man honest. Yeah, there would be hell to pay for breaking one, but whoever sends us out really just wants that extra layer of security.
“At ease, Captain. Have a seat,” the general says, sitting across from me.
“I’m not a captain anymore, sir. That was a different life and a long time ago,” I reply, sitting.
“Once a captain, always a captain in my eyes, son.”
The general and my contact haven’t even acknowledged the four individuals at the other end of the table. And the fact that a general is here is making me a little uncomfortable, to say the least. Mentally, I’m looking at the exits and gauging my chances to get away when this starts going south. My odds aren’t good, but I’d rather go out trying than be led willingly to my own accident.
“Walker, it’s not like that,” my contact states, seeing my eyes drift toward the closed doors.
“Mmmhmm,” I answer.
“What’s not like what?” the general asks.
“Sir, he’s contemplating how fast he can get out of that door,” my contact answers, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder. “And probably calculating his odds of getting off base without being caught.”
“Traitor,” I mumble.
The general laughs. “And what do you think his odds are?”
“Well, sir, honestly, if he’s able to get out of the door and building, probably pretty good. Of course, we know where he lives, so…” my contact leaves the rest hanging.
“Son, no one is going to hold you here and you’re free to leave of your own volition once we’ve had a chance to talk,” the general says.
Generals are so fond of saying “son” that I let that part go. They want to be seen as protectors, I guess, or it elevates their status. I don’t know and don’t really care. I do know their jokes are supposedly funnier and their stories legend. I guess having a star somehow grows one’s sense of humor, one that begins with an eagle. With that aside, I will say that I respect their position…for the most part.
My contact reaches to his briefcase and extracts a folder, which he then opens and pushes in front of the general. Meanwhile, at the end of the table, the four are saying nothing, looking on at the proceedings with little to no expression. I wonder if they’re my firing squad, no matter what the general says. I contemplate asking them if they’d get me a donut, just to see their reaction, but the little guy in my brain shuts down that idea right away. The four sit there as if forced to watch the most boring television show ever.
“Mr. Walker,” the general opens after a few minutes of reading, this time forgoing my previous rank. “It looks like you have quite the story.’
“It’s not one I’d ever like to have again,” I reply, noting in my peripheral a hint of reaction from one at the other end.
“I can understand that. Losing men isn’t ever easy. I know it may be hard, but I’d like to hear the story from start to finish,” the general says.
<
br /> I have a sneaky suspicion that this request is made for the four at the end of the table. Honestly, they’d be better suited if they’d hid in another room and watched via a camera setup. It seems they’re being a little too mysterious and over-emoting their position. I don’t know if their being here is supposed to be intimidating enough to make me alter my story or what, but I’ve never liked being intimidated. I wonder what their reaction would be if I casually reached around behind my back and launched a small double-edged dagger their way. And yes, I carried one past security. Even though they checked, if you arch your back, without being overly conspicuous, the lumbar can hide a small knife relatively well with the right precautions—enough to carry you past a pat down. The secret is to have one with a minimal hilt. Mine is taped to the lower middle of my back, secured with the handle down to make it easy to reach.
I tell my story, from beginning to end. At the end of it, the general glances quickly down to the end of the table. One of the men nods ever so slightly. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that the group, or perhaps the one man in particular, is truly leading this meeting, implying someone who has a higher authority than a general. It could be that they only have authority in this situation. But, I know that if I gave a head nod like that to a general, it would be a year before they stopped laughing.
“Okay, Mr. Walker. Thank you for your time. I don’t have to remind you that you have an NDA in place and you’re not to mention this mission or meeting to anyone. Now, I’m going to leave you with these gentlemen and lady. They’d like to have a word with you before you go,” the general says.
“Am I free to walk out now?” I ask, rising.
“After you’ve had your word,” the general says.
“So, that would be a no,” I mutter, sitting back down.
“Mr. Walker,” the man at the head of the table begins. “First of all, let me say that we believe your story in its entirety.”
“I’m not sure I do,” I reply.