The Kremlin Conspiracy

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “I’m sure you are, son, but that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He paused, and Marcus immediately tensed.

  “Look, Marcus, you’ve just been through a terrible ordeal,” Mr. Garcia said softly. “You shot and killed someone. You spent the night in jail. That’s a heavy burden to bear, and it’s going to take a toll on you. You were certainly justified in what you did—morally and legally. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not criticizing you. But I think you need to take some time to process what just happened.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “It’s not uncommon for people in your situation to go through some sort of trauma, to have nightmares, anxiety attacks, and whatnot.”

  “I’m fine, sir; really, I am.”

  “You just watched a man die, Marcus, and die at your hands,” Mr. Garcia said. “That’s got to leave some emotional scars. No one your age—any age—should have to go through that. And I’m so sorry it happened. But now I think you need some time.”

  “Time for what?” Marcus asked.

  “To recover, to heal,” Mr. Garcia replied. “Look, I’m not your father. But I think you need to have a serious talk with your mom, and even more with your pastor and maybe a professional counselor. Work this thing through, Marcus. Take it seriously. And then we’ll see.”

  “What does that mean: ‘we’ll see’?” Marcus pressed. “What are you really saying?”

  “Marcus, this isn’t easy for me, but I have to do what’s right for my daughter.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m asking you to take some time off from seeing her, calling her, writing her.”

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s say a year, then see where we are.”

  “A year? Please, Mr. Garcia, I just bought a ring for Elena. I was about to ask you and your wife for permission to ask her to marry me the moment we graduate. Please, sir, don’t do this. I’m fine. And I’m in love. Don’t tell me I can’t see her.”

  “Marcus, I know you two are very fond of each other. I know you’ve discussed marriage. But you don’t seem to appreciate the gravity of what has happened.”

  “I had to do it, Mr. Garcia. I didn’t have a choice. Elena knows that, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m not here to argue with you. I’ve done everything I could to help you, and I’ve done it from my heart. But I’m asking you to respect my wishes. Let’s talk again a year from now.”

  Marcus was speechless. He didn’t need time to process or heal. Mr. Garcia was the one who needed time, not Marcus or Elena. But he could see it was pointless to argue. He certainly wasn’t going to get the man’s blessing to marry his daughter now. But waiting an entire year? Why not just say he could never see her again?

  They drove back to Monument in silence, but Marcus couldn’t actually go home. The house was no longer a crime scene. All the yellow tape had been taken down. But it still needed to be thoroughly cleaned, especially his mother’s room, and that would take several days. So Mr. Garcia dropped him off at the Matthews’ house. They had left town for the week and offered the house to Marcus if he needed it. Mr. Garcia pulled up out front, handed over the keys, and explained that Mrs. Matthews had left some instructions on the kitchen counter and some food in the fridge. Then he drove away, and Marcus entered the large, empty house feeling more alone than when he was behind bars.

  The summer of 2001 was hot, lonely, and cruel for Marcus Ryker.

  He did meet for several months with his pastor and separately with a counselor his pastor recommended. Neither of them believed Marcus was suffering from PTSD or any other side effects from the shooting. It had been a brutal and ugly matter, to be sure. But it had been justified, and neither man saw it negatively affecting Marcus’s emotions or behavior. Marcus asked them to put their thoughts in writing. They did, and Marcus mailed both letters to Mr. Garcia. A week later, he received a brief, typed reply.

  Dear Marcus—I have received and read both letters. Thank you for your thoughtfulness in sending them to me. I wish you well in your senior year and look forward to discussing this matter with you again upon your graduation. Until then, I would be grateful if you would continue to honor my wishes. Sincerely, Javier Garcia, Attorney-at-Law

  In August, Marcus returned to the UNC Greeley campus for his senior year as a criminal justice major, only to find out that Elena had transferred to the University of Denver. Her friends said her father had insisted. Marcus couldn’t believe she hadn’t even let him know.

  At the gym one night, one of the guys he lived with asked what he was planning to do when he graduated. A few months ago, he had been so certain—graduate, marry Elena, become a police officer somewhere in Colorado, hopefully close to home. Now he was all by himself and drifting.

  “I want to do something special with my life, something important,” Marcus said. “I believe God gave me the ability and willingness to take big risks, but why? It can’t just be for me. It has to be for something bigger. But the truth is, I have no idea what.”

  Less than a month later, Marcus woke up early on a Tuesday morning and went for a run, then came back to the apartment he was sharing with several guys in the same program. He was prepping for his favorite class, History 388—Imperial Russia from 1700 to 1917, and had barely finished showering when one of his roommates pounded on the bathroom door and insisted he come to the living room immediately. Marcus dried off, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and joined everyone just in time to see a jumbo jet fly into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Together they stood and watched in shock as both towers collapsed before their eyes. Then they heard that another plane had already crashed into the Pentagon.

  Marcus slowly sat down. He wasn’t going to class. None of them were. He called Elena’s mobile phone. She didn’t answer. He texted her, saying he didn’t mean to violate her father’s instructions but just wanted to make sure she was all right. Then he called his mom. She, too, was watching the coverage on television. They took a moment to pray for the nation and for the president.

  That night, Marcus and his roommates remained huddled around the television. They watched the commander in chief address the nation.

  “The search is under way for those who are behind these evil acts,” the president promised. “I’ve directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and to bring them to justice.”

  Marcus found himself moved by how the president closed his address.

  “Tonight I ask for your prayers for all those who grieve, for the children whose worlds have been shattered, for all whose sense of safety and security has been threatened. And I pray they will be comforted by a power greater than any of us, spoken through the ages in Psalm 23: ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for you are with me.’ This is a day when all Americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace. America has stood down enemies before, and we will do so this time. None of us will ever forget this day, yet we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world. Thank you. Good night, and God bless America.”

  The following morning, Marcus again woke early. Again he went out for a run, and when he had showered and dressed and eaten some breakfast, he fished out a phone book from the front closet of the apartment, looked up the nearest Marine recruiting station, and dialed. It was busy. Ten minutes later, he tried a second time. It was still busy, and it remained so for the next hour. So Marcus grabbed his keys, jumped in his Mustang, and drove down to the station. It was a mob scene. Young men were lined up around the building and down the block. Marcus parked and got in line. It took him nearly four hours to get inside, fill out a stack of forms, and meet with someone in person.

  “I want to enlist,” he said without emotion. “How soon can I start?”

  The recruiter was impressed with the fact that Marcus was nearly done with college and tried to persuade him to become an
officer. Marcus told him he didn’t want a career. He just wanted to defend his country, kick some terrorist tail, and get back home to start a family.

  The Marine finally relented. On one issue, however, he was adamant. Marcus needed to graduate. There was no point in throwing away all the time and money he and his mother had invested in his education by dropping out now. Marcus could enlist today, but he would not leave for basic training until May, the day after he graduated.

  Marcus looked at his phone. It had been twenty-four hours, and he still hadn’t heard back from Elena. If she was done with him, it was time to move on. He picked up a pen and signed on the dotted line, then drove back to campus and went to class.

  KABUL, AFGHANISTAN—5 MAY 2004

  Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet.

  The line had been drilled into Marcus Ryker and his buddies in Charlie Company by a Marine general they both feared and loved. Not a day went by when they didn’t ask themselves how to live it out, and that was no less true on the fifth of May.

  American Special Forces units had been steadily inserting themselves all over Afghanistan since December 2001, and the Taliban and al Qaeda were on the run. Working with a coalition of tribal leaders known as the Northern Alliance, the U.S. military was systematically strengthening local forces fighting against the jihadists—and hunting for Osama bin Laden—throughout Afghanistan, providing them with professional training, arms, communications equipment, and suitcases full of hard cash. It was a high-profile operation and one the American people were watching closely, eager to know their leaders were responding to the shocking and unprecedented attack on America with decisive speed and overwhelming power.

  The day began as any other in a godforsaken country crawling with radical Islamist terrorists. Marcus expected monotonous hours in a cramped, deafening, sweltering chopper, traversing to and fro across the Hindu Kush. Visits to countless dust-ridden, poverty-stricken villages whose names most of Marcus’s colleagues could hardly pronounce, much less remember. Standing for hours in the blazing sun and blistering heat while a U.S. congressman or senator or deputy assistant secretary of something-or-other met with one warlord and provincial governor after another. Meaningless photo ops. Mind-numbing political speeches. Lousy meals. Not nearly enough coffee. And always the gnawing knowledge that at any time the endless boredom could be shattered by moments of searing terror.

  As Marcus awoke in Kabul, flies buzzing about his head, the Afghan capital was experiencing the ninth day of a historic heat wave. The mercury had reached ninety-four degrees Fahrenheit by eight in the morning and was expected to hit a hundred ten by midday. Dressed in full combat gear and carrying his M4 carbine assault rifle, Marcus was already drenched with sweat as he clambered into the back of the Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion, took his assigned seat, and buckled up. On most days he was grateful the Marines had done their own investigation of the incident with his stepfather and cleared him just as the local DA had. Still, sometimes he half wished his background check had coughed up something disqualifying, something that would have kept him from coming here of all places.

  Climbing in after him as the rotors began to turn were his sergeant and his two closest friends in the theater. William Sanford McDermott was their squad leader. Hailing from Pittsburgh, he got his dark complexion from his Kenyan mother and his toughness and fearlessness from his father, a lapsed Irish Catholic with skin “as white as the wind-driven snow,” he loved to say. Everyone in the squad called him Sarge to his face, but behind his back he was known as Big Mac. He was enormous—six foot five and almost two hundred and sixty pounds—and he literally consumed (inhaled, actually) more McDonald’s burgers and fries than anyone Marcus and his colleagues had ever met.

  Peter Hwang was a Texan, born and raised just outside of Houston, though his parents were from Seoul, South Korea. A hospital corpsman third class, he served as the unit’s medic. He was a devout Catholic, and the guys all called him St. Peter.

  Marcus was probably closest, though, to Nicholas Francis Vinetti. He hailed from North Jersey and was the youngest of a huge family, with four brothers and three sisters. Vinetti had been trained as a sniper. He was without question the best marksman of the lot. But he talked funny, and Marcus had dubbed him Vinnie Barbarino since he sounded an awful lot like John Travolta’s iconic character in the long-defunct TV sitcom Welcome Back, Kotter.

  Marcus had met Hwang and Vinetti the first day of boot camp in San Diego in May of 2002. They’d been assigned to the Twenty-Second Marine Expeditionary Unit and arrived together at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, to serve on a battalion landing team known as the One-Six—First Battalion, Sixth Marines—which was where they’d met Sarge. Twenty-six additional weeks of grueling training, along with hours of card playing, debates on every topic under the sun, and of course, far too much McDonald’s, had forged some tight bonds, and by the time they were eventually shipped out to Afghanistan to fight al Qaeda and the Taliban in Operation Enduring Freedom, they knew each other better than their own families.

  Now, just before the side door of the chopper slammed shut, a dozen or so civilians climbed aboard, joining them for the day’s tour. From behind his polarized combat goggles, Marcus quickly sized them up, one by one. All were young, certainly under thirty. Seven were career State Department foreign service officers, assigned to the U.S. Embassy in Kabul. Six were political appointees working for the DoD, having just landed in Kabul less than an hour before. They were paper pushers. Bureaucrats. Functionaries. And they were liabilities in a war zone. They’d read about combat, but they had little experience and certainly no training in how to handle themselves in a fight. They were here to take pictures and make notes and file reports and return to the safety of walled compounds and glass-and-steel offices with air-conditioning and leather executive chairs and flat-panel television screens and gourmet meals and Starbucks coffee. Anyone more senior to this group—whomever these young staff members worked for—was sitting in one of the two choppers spooling up beside them.

  The last person to scramble aboard commanded the attention of the entire One-Six. The attractive young blonde with big green eyes and a short shag haircut was Annie Stewart. Marcus remembered her from her bio, distributed during the mission briefing, but she introduced herself to them all just the same. She was a deputy press secretary for Senator Robert Dayton, the Iowa Democrat who was the ranking minority member on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Marcus suspected she was fresh out of graduate school, twenty-four or twenty-five at most. His age, or thereabouts. She was a long way from home.

  As the three Super Stallions lifted off and headed southwest toward Kandahar, Marcus cringed as Sergeant McDermott—predictably—began flirting with Annie almost immediately. It might not have looked like flirting. It was a bit more subtle than that. But Marcus, St. Peter, and Vinnie glanced at each other knowingly—they’d seen it all before.

  What brought Senator Dayton to Afghanistan? Big Mac began as if the answer wasn’t obvious. How does the senator feel the war is going? What do the American people think about the war so far?

  Then came the pivot.

  So how long have you worked for the senator? Just six months, my goodness, that’s not long. Do you like it? Where are you from? Charleston? Really. That’s crazy. I have a cousin there. Love South Carolina. Ever been to Parris Island? So where did you go to school? Sure, I have lots of friends who went to Georgetown. Did you ever expect to come to Afghanistan? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that’s why I signed up. That’s why all of us enlisted—to come here and kill bin Laden.

  McDermott occasionally tried to misdirect the young woman by asking similar questions of some of the folks from State and the Pentagon, but he invariably got back to her. If she was bothered by all the attention, she was too polite to let on. She did make one mistake, however. She asked McDermott if he and his unit had seen any real combat. Marcus rolled his eyes and looked out the window as his commande
r leaned forward with his hands on his knees and began to answer.

  Perhaps they’d given their squad leader the wrong nickname, Marcus thought. Big Mac didn’t really capture the tales he was telling now. Whopper would have been far more appropriate.

  That said, the man was certainly a world-class storyteller—funny, engaging, even mesmerizing at times, if not completely accurate. Marcus didn’t recognize having been part of any of the firefights Sarge was claiming they’d engaged in, but he had to give the man credit. He certainly made the time pass. The cabin roared with laughter. Given how loud the engines were, McDermott had to shout, and everyone had to lean in to hear him. But he had them all eating out of his palm now, Annie Stewart included. Even Vinnie and St. Peter were enjoying the show as one cleaned his weapon and the other one restocked his medical bag with pharmaceuticals.

  Marcus’s thoughts, however, were half a world away. Elena had written him just one letter since he’d shipped off to boot camp. Her father, she wrote, had been impressed when he learned that Marcus had enlisted, but he still didn’t think the two of them should be in contact yet. Not only that, but he had declared that life married to a Marine was no life for his daughter and had suggested it might be time for Elena to move on. Marcus couldn’t tell from the letter how Elena felt about it. He was still devoted to her, but now he was less sure than ever what the future might hold for them.

  Just then he heard his name.

  “Now, the guy you really want to stick close to, Miss Stewart, is Lance Corporal Ryker here,” McDermott said.

  Marcus turned and was surprised to see nearly every eye on him.

  “Really, and why’s that?” Annie replied with a curious smile that Marcus couldn’t quite decide was bemused or slightly flirtatious.

  “Because Vinnie and I are notorious bachelors,” McDermott said, grinning. “And St. Pete—well, don’t be fooled by his cherubic face. But Ryker here, he’s a good Christian and a real family man.”