by TR Kohler
A return to the autonomy she once had and the undertaking that has been decades in the making.
“To stand here today and try to fully encapsulate what Kari Ma has meant to this country, its national security, and to this administration, would be a task much too great for one afternoon,” President Paul Stanson says. “Not only because it is too darn cold out here for such a thing, but because the woman beside me would never allow it.”
Pausing for the requisite bit of laughter on the heels of his weak attempt at humor, he continues, “As many of you may know, a long time ago, back when I was a much younger man, I played a bit of football. A little larger than I am now, I was an offensive lineman, a position that often toils in obscurity. Far from the highlight reels filled with quarterbacks and receivers, my coaches always used to say to me, ‘The less people know you, the better you’ve done your job.’”
The comparison is one the man has made many times before. A tale Kari didn’t much care for the first time it was employed. Even less with each subsequent telling, long ago realizing the point of the story is more to remind people of his former athletic prowess than to espouse praise.
A seasoned professional at saying one thing and meaning any of a host of others. One of the very best, in a city teeming with people trained to do just that.
Another on the list of things Kari will not miss in the slightest.
“Today, I am here to honor perhaps one of the very best offensive linemen to ever grace our nation’s capital. A woman that has performed a variety of roles throughout the years. Someone that was more than once asked to head up the Departments of Defense and Homeland Security, each time gracefully declining, choosing to remain out of the spotlight, where she believed she could be of the most use.
“Decisions that I didn’t necessarily agree with at the time, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t turn out entirely correct.”
The last line delivered with a smile, it again pulls out the desired chuckle.
A showman realizing he is down to his final days before a crowd, wanting to get every last bit of adoration – forced or not – he can out of them before stepping away.
“So it is with that in mind that I stand before you to give thanks. On behalf of myself, and this administration, and millions of Americans that have lived better, happier, safer lives because of this woman,” Stanson continues. “And to wish her nothing but the best in retirement after a distinguished career spanning nearly forty years in service of this great country.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Kari Ma.”
The final words delivered with all the gusto that can be managed, they do serve to elicit a small pop from the crowd. A swell of applause and cheering that far surpasses its size.
Another thing Kari could do entirely without, her idea of a farewell being to slip away at the end of the day on Friday and never return.
Perhaps, if they must, a gold watch received in the mail a few weeks later.
Options that, unfortunately, aren’t available as she makes her way across the stage. Hand extended, she shakes the hand of the man that was just speaking her praises.
A quick coming together of frozen digits before assuming the post he occupied just a moment before. Stepping up onto the box waiting at the foot of the podium, she stares out at the assembled throng before her.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Chapter Four
Like most events in Washington, D.C., it doesn’t take long for the crowd gathered along the steps leading to the National Mall to disperse. Motivations as disparate as needing to make their next deadline to just wanting to escape the icy chill in the air, they scatter like cockroaches the instant a light is turned on in a darkened room.
As apt a metaphor as Kari Ma can imagine there being.
Lingering on the edges of the scene long enough to pose for the requisite photos and to thank President Stanson for his kind words, the moment an opening presents itself, she slips away. A direct path down the side of the staging area, moving in the opposite direction of the drifting crowd.
A march that sees her move as fast as her leg and the cane will allow. As she does so, not once does she turn to look back. No sign of sadness or wistfulness about what just took place. No search for any final questions that some enterprising young reporter might come running up to offer.
Whatever confliction there might be exists only in the form of if she should slip into invisibility, putting to use what has allowed her to thrive in such an environment one last time.
An option she has to consciously push away, instead fixing her gaze on the black Lincoln Town Car with government plates parked along the curb. The one she knows is there for her, even without there being a single outward indication of as much.
Walking directly into the wind, it takes her the better part of five minutes to reach it, all with her silver bobbed hair blowing straight out behind her. A trek that leaves her thoroughly chilled by the time she reaches the vehicle and slides down into the backseat without invitation.
A post she just barely reaches before the vehicle pulls away, sliding out into the thin line of traffic circling the National Mall.
“Well, that looked...” President-Elect Wilson Pruitt begins. Younger than Kari by nearly half a decade, most of his original head of hair is still present. What isn’t has been replaced by surgical insertion, the colors blended to almost match seamlessly.
One of many small tweaks made since he announced his candidacy eighteen months prior, from the skin pulled tighter on his forehead to the loss of more than a dozen pounds.
A change Kari cannot imagine having come about from a sudden affinity for the gym.
Sitting on the rear bench seat beside her, less than a foot separates their shoulders. A gap neither notices as they both stare out through their respective side windows.
“Cold,” Kari finishes for him. The safest of the many adjectives that come to mind, the man beside her largely responsible for the event.
To that, Pruitt offers a small chuckle. A laugh void of mirth hinting that he recognizes what she was truly getting at.
A point she is not about to let go so easily.
“And entirely unnecessary,” she adds.
Flicking his gaze over her way, Pruitt checks the front windshield. A quick glance to check where they are before settling back into his previous position.
“Not entirely,” he corrects, intently studying something random passing by outside before turning to look her way.
A move Kari can only hope signals he is finally getting down to the reason both for the earlier display on the capitol steps and for her now being seated beside him.
Things that were nowhere near her radar as recently as two days prior, her full attention on finishing a few lingering tasks in D.C. before heading west.
Hopefully, to never return.
“Tell me,” he begins, “how are things coming together out in the desert?”
Suspecting they would eventually get around to the project she will be leaving in a matter of hours to oversee, Kari isn’t surprised at the direct mention of The Ranch. The term given to the entire affair, both a nod to the cover story for the facility she will be overseeing and a play on The Farm.
The tongue-in-cheek name of CIA headquarters where the previous iteration of the project was stationed.
A relocation that Kari was absolutely adamant about when first approached with the idea more than a year earlier.
For a variety of reasons.
“Coming along well,” Kari replies. “Much of the main construction is completed, a first group of recruits have already reported.”
Eyebrows rising as far as his pharmaceutically enhanced face will allow, Pruitt glances her way. “Really? Already?”
“Already,” Kari echoes. “Just a couple. And right now, we still just have a skeleton staff onsite, but hopefully more with time. Once I’m able to get back there, ramp up our recruiting efforts.”
Nodding twice,
Pruitt slides his focus back to the front windshield. Seeming to consider the information that was just shared, he stares out for a moment in silence as they pass the Lincoln Monument and head toward the bridge crossing over into Virginia.
A route fitting with the roundabout approach Pruitt seems to be taking, hinting that the drive will be lasting longer than originally suspected.
“And how long do you suspect that will take?” he asks. “The ramping up and all that?”
In no mood for a continued round of hide-the-ball, Kari abandons gazing out the window. Turning to level her stare on his profile, she waits until he eventually moves to match before simply asking, “Why?”
A single word that is meant in neither anger nor defiance, though contains threads of both. Hints that this very thing was something she addressed head-on the day resurrecting the program was first discussed.
And made very clear she would not abide.
“Because there’s been an incident,” he eventually replies.
“You know we’re not ready for that sort of thing yet.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for dad.”
Chapter Five
“Aloha, Auntie Napua.”
Hair still damp from his morning swim brushes across the tops of Kidman’s shoulders. A quick finisher to the workout that began with Uncle Kamaki along the shore. A closing of the loop that started with running along the dirt road leading to the old man’s house.
A voyage home by sea to massage away any lingering soreness or bruises from the training. A way to push blood throughout his system, ensuring that by the time he arrives home, he emerges whole from the sea.
Split between the tank top he wears and bare skin, he can feel the cool kiss of the damp hair against his neck. A sensation enhanced by a light breeze blowing in off the ocean.
Enough to offset the heat and warmth from the woks working on the far side of the open-air tent. Inverted metal drums filled with concoctions representing each of the local ethnicities, everything from kalbi pork to fried Spam in various states of cooking.
A miasma of smells that rises into the air, filling the space formed by the pointed canvas roof above.
“Aloha, Nicolas,” a woman fast approaching her eightieth birthday replies. Her diminutive form stooped over a carton of fresh mangoes, she answers without looking up at him.
An interaction repeated almost daily, her response steeped in voice recognition.
“You’re running late today,” she adds.
A thin smile rises to Kidman’s features. “Tell that to Uncle. I almost couldn’t walk after we got done this morning.”
Finishing the intricate arrangement of the fruit in the cardboard container, Napua lifts it up onto the folding table beside her. Preparation for the official opening of the roadside stand later in the day and the foot traffic of tourists that will make its way through.
A thin crowd by most standards, far outpaced by those on Oahu or Maui.
A level that is just enough to provide for families like Napua’s without overrunning the original charm of the island.
One of many reasons Kidman chose Molokai as his home more than six years prior.
“You mean to tell me you’re having trouble keeping up with one old man?” Napua asks. Waving a hand before her, she appears to physically brush aside the notion. The expression she wears lets it be known she doesn’t believe a word.
Just another young man putting her on. Making excuses for sleeping in and getting a late start to the day. A possibility Kidman almost wishes was the case, his knee and ankle both left aching after his morning lesson.
To say nothing of the crusted blood that painted most of his face.
Injuries that there is now not a trace of, his body’s healing processes scrubbing away any sign in well under an hour.
“Hey now,” Kidman fires back as he works his way around the interior of the makeshift market. Woven basket in hand, he snatches up papayas and mangoes before moving on to a table loaded with fresh greens.
Bok choy and red chard clustered in bunches, held together by rubber bands.
“Uncle isn’t that much older than I am,” he adds.
“Shoot,” Napua replies, continuing to prep for the day ahead. A process that now has moved back to the woks, dipping the basket end of her metal scoop into the hot oil.
Actions that send more plumes of aroma into the air, bringing about a rumble from deep in Kidman’s core.
In tandem, they draw out a low whine from Ali’I, his Rhodesian Ridgeback posted up just outside the tent. Her backside lowered to the ground, her neck distends as she intently watches everything going on inside.
“Shame I don’t actually get taller from you pulling my leg all the time.”
Sliding a pair of shrimp tempura from the wok, she places them on wire racks placed atop newspaper to let the oil drain. A process that will continue throughout most of the day, replenished each hour to meet demand.
Just as she has done nearly every day since Kidman’s arrival years before.
Offering a chuckle to the old woman’s crack, Kidman finishes his loop. A quick haul with only slight variation each morning. Part of his daily routine that sees him keep only enough food on hand for his immediate needs.
Force of habit going back decades.
“Oh, come on now,” Kidman replies. “What’s that supposed to mean? Uncle’s in great shape.”
“Not him I’m referring to,” she says. “All of us keep getting older, you seem to stay the same age.”
Raising the scoop before her, the end of it gleaming with hot oil, she points to the basket he carries.
“Must be all those veggies you keep eating.”
“Must be,” Kidman manages to reply, any mirth from a moment before fleeing him. “See you tomorrow?”
Chapter Six
“Good morning,” the long familiar voice of Andre Doctson answers after only a single ring. Despite the hour, he sounds to be awake and alert, a state no doubt owing to the slight slurping sound that immediately follows his greeting.
Long a fan of coffee, the onward progression of time has elevated his affinity to a full-blown dependence. A functioning addict, the drug of choice being something readily available on every corner in the country.
Exhibit A as to why Kari Ma has always made a point of staying far away from the stuff.
“Doc,” she replies in greeting.
“Caught some of your shindig on the news last night,” Doc says. A statement laced with mirth, he says no more, the underlying sentiment obvious.
Levity at Kari’s expense, knowing how much she despises functions such as the one she was forced to take part in the day before.
An event that she has almost managed to push from mind, instead focusing on the conversation she had with the president-elect thereafter.
Ignoring the barb entirely, Kari asks, “How are things there?”
Again, Doc chuckles. This one more obvious than the previous, it is his turn to let it be known he recognizes what just took place.
A back-and-forth steeped in decades of prior interaction, Doc was one of the few people on earth having earned the right to needle her in such a way.
“Same same,” he replies. “Cows are still doing cow things. Headed over for morning PT with the kids here shortly.”
Having checked the time before placing the call, Kari isn’t surprised in the slightest. Not by the attempt at humor up front, or the acknowledgement of impending training on the back end.
That being the reason she chose this time. A few minutes to check in with her new partner, the one currently tasked with getting their endeavor up and running.
A job still in its infancy, despite what Wilson Pruitt seems to think.
“Think you can handle things around there another day or two without me?” Kari asks.
Phone pressed to her face, Kari stares out through a window in the private terminal of Washington Dulles Airport. A small satellite well away from the jetways
of the international hub, this one reserved for private aircraft.
Despite the clock already moving past eight a.m., barely is there any activity around her. Nothing more than a handful of employees, most of them engaged in light banter with one another.
The entire place set to run on a schedule comprised of brief bursts of activity followed by lengthy lulls. Times like this one, when she is the sole person present, the craft she is about to board the only one in sight as it slowly rolls into view.
A sign that soon she will be summoned, told that her crew is ready whenever she is.
A moment she does not want to delay, the journey before her already plenty long enough.
“Of course,” Doc replies. “Everything alright?”
“Need to make a quick trip,” Kari answers.
“Everything alright?” Doc repeats.
“A recruiting run.”
This time, there is a brief pause. A moment to process before firing back, “This have anything to do with that dog and pony show yesterday?”
Watching as the plane continues to move into position, Kari considers how to best answer. The way to summarize everything that took place, from the staged farewell news conference to the underlying reason behind it.
Most of which she can’t begin to fully get into while standing out in the open, quiet terminal or not.
“There’s been a request,” Kari begins.
“By?” Doc prompts.
“The president-elect.”
“Aw, hell,” Doc mutters, the words just barely audible. There and gone before he presses, “Let me guess, a request that was actually a directive.”
Shifting her focus from the plane outside to the glass separating her from it, Kari checks the reflection. A quick look to ensure she is still well beyond earshot.
“Yes.”
More muttering can just barely be heard before he asks, “How bad?”
“Very.”
For a moment, there is no response. Nothing as Doc considers the thin amount of information just shared, superimposing it onto what he likely already suspects. Prior conversations with Kari and concerns they’ve shared.
