The Trigger Mechanism

by Scott McEwen

  “That’s pretty awesome.” Cody beamed, unable to hide his own naïve desire to prove himself.

  “Yeah, well,” Wyatt said. “Doesn’t mean much.”

  “That’s not true.” Cody began reading the inscription under Wyatt’s name, “The truest form of bravery is selfless—”

  “Stop,” Wyatt said firmly.

  “What? Why?”

  “Just don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Fine … Oh my god.” Cody turned his attention to another photo from years earlier. “That’s gotta be Dad. Look at his hair. He was so young.” Cody laughed and began reading the inscription from three and a half decades ago: “Some men are built strong, some men imbued with courage, daring, and grit. Some men are simply built for glory … Cool.”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Dad was a hero. Still is.”

  “I think I know another one,” Mum said, putting her hand on Wyatt’s shoulder.

  Wyatt’s face instantly scowled. “Don’t waste a word like that.”

  Wyatt hated being on the Top Camper wall and he wanted to get away from the faces, from Mum and her insinuation that he was a hero. He looked at the scone and no longer had an appetite. He started putting his rain gear back on.

  “Well, I hope there’s room up there for me,” Cody said.

  Mum studied Cody’s freckled baby face—blue eyes innocent and hopeful. “Sure there is.” She pointed at the hot cocoa. “Need a refill?”

  Wyatt had his head down and nearly barreled into Avi, who burst into the lodge, water from his rain gear pooling on the floor.

  “Wyatt!” Avi called out. “We need some help. There’s a shipment of supplies on the dock on the mainland. It couldn’t get transferred in the weather, and it’s gonna spoil if we don’t get it.”

  “In this?” Wyatt looked out the windows blurred with rain.

  “Just a little drizzle.” Avi pulled his hood back up. “This camp has gone soft.”

  “Let me check with the boss.” Wyatt nodded at his father, who sat by the fire, a letter in his hand, eyes staring out. Wyatt caught the embossed seal of the Department of Defense—an eagle with wings spread—before his father slipped the letter back in a manila envelope and tossed it into the fire.

  “Hey, son.” Eldon looked up over his reading glasses. “What’s up?”

  “Uhh,” Wyatt said, watching the documents burn. “Avi needs my help on the Sea Goat for a few hours, but if you need me, I could stay…”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah. Go on.”

  “Okay. Don’t think we’ll be late.” Wyatt turned, then he stopped. “Dad, what was that letter?”

  “Just a little junk mail.”

  “From the DoD?”

  “Well,” Eldon sighed. “From the man you call Mr. Yellow, about the secretary of defense.”

  “Not McCray. You mean the new SecDef?” Wyatt asked. “Elaine Becker?”

  “Yes,” Eldon said, keeping his eyes on the fire. “She wants to come … evaluate us.”

  “When does she get here?”

  “It didn’t say. My guess is they’d like to surprise us. Could be any day.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Go about our business, and in the meantime”—Eldon rubbed his creased forehead—“I need to make some friends. Valor has survived nearly eighty years because the Old Man had powerful allies. And political instincts. I have neither.”

  “What about Mr. Yellow?”

  “He’s helpful and connected, but the Old Man always had a direct line to the White House. I know Admiral McCray, but he’s out and this new SecDef is clearing out all the old guards. Not sure who will silently take our back.”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “Mr. Yellow, obviously. Avi … and now you.” Eldon’s damp eyes twinkled with firelight. “Avi’s waiting. We’ll talk about this later.”

  Wyatt secured the waterproof wide-brimmed hat over his ears, checked the buttons on his raincoat, and stepped out onto the porch, where Avi was impatiently waiting.

  “Took long enough?” Avi said, charging off into the storm, and Wyatt fell in step behind him.

  Down by the beach, the Sea Goat bucked in the water off the end of the dock. Waves sprayed over its bow as its engines whined.

  “Really want to do this now?” Wyatt yelled.

  “Yes,” Avi replied in his matter-of-fact Israeli accent. “This cannot wait.”

  They hustled down to the end of the dock. Mackenzie eased the boat up, and Wyatt and Avi jumped onto its slippery deck.

  “Hell of a night for a grocery run, eh?” Mackenzie said as they eased out into the thickening storm.

  “No kidding. You guys are just crazy.”

  “Gotta make sure our Wheaties don’t get wet.” Mackenzie winked at Avi.

  The ferry, sturdy as she was, pitched in the black surf, which was lit only by the occasional flash of white lightning. The lights from the camp receded in the distance and then disappeared as they wound their way through the archipelago toward the mainland dock and depot. About halfway to the depot, Mackenzie glanced out into the darkness through the foggy pilothouse windshield. On one side of the glass, a small heater, on the other, a wall of solid rain. Mackenzie squinted, studying the black water, and then suddenly, he idled the motor.

  “There it is,” Mackenzie said. Through the transmogrifying lens, an apparition appeared. A human form seemingly riding a wave.

  Wyatt leaned in and saw the outline of a black Jet Ski, its rider easing to the side of the Sea Goat. Mackenzie leaned over and grabbed her bow, steadying her as she came along the port side.

  “What’s going on?” Wyatt asked.

  “All right, Wyatt,” Avi said. “Remember when I told you about the gamer Hi Kyto, the Darsie Fellow?”

  “This is related to Encyte?” Wyatt said slowly.

  “Yes. Well, I reached out to Mr. Darsie. Of course, I didn’t speak to him directly. I didn’t hear anything until this afternoon when I received instructions for you.”

  “Me?” Wyatt asked incredulously. “How does he know who I am? Isn’t my identity secret outside of Valor?”

  “Supposed to be. But he’s a former Valorian and has access to people who give him information. And,” Avi sighed, “he’s a billionaire many times over and his businesses are enmeshed in U.S. security.”

  “So what does he want?”

  “You, Wyatt, are to be at the following coordinates.” Avi pressed a phone into Wyatt’s hand. “They’re loaded into the GPS. You need to be there in exactly one hour and forty-five minutes.”

  “I don’t understand the mission. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Move quickly,” Avi said, then gestured to the helmeted Jet Ski rider. “Mary Alice is going to pretend to be you for the next three hours while we make this run.”

  Wyatt turned to a young woman wearing the same exact rain gear. “A girl? Pretending to be me?”

  “With the rain and her attire, it won’t matter. To anyone watching, it’ll just be a body on the boat. They’ll assume it’s you,” Avi said.

  “My only worry is I might actually make you look tough,” Mary Alice said. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Nope.” Wyatt steadied the Jet Ski in the pitching surf.

  “Take the Jet Ski to Logan’s Point,” Avi continued. “In the brush, just up the hill, you’ll find a motorcycle. If you move quickly, you should be able to make it to the coordinates in time.”

  “So wait, I’m going to meet John Darsie or—”

  “I don’t know who’s going to be there,” Avi cut him off. “All I have is a location … for you—and only you.”

  “What if it’s a setup? Could even be Encyte.”

  “Could be,” Avi conceded. “Which is why I brought this.” He handed Wyatt a 45.

  Wyatt waved it away. “Cass already gave me this.” He showed Avi his Sig Sauer P229 Compact and waterproof, clippable holster.<
br />
  “Well, take this too.” Mackenzie held out a switchblade. Wyatt secured the gun to his belt under his rain gear, and feeling around his midsection, tucked the switchblade in place.

  “Can I trust Darsie?”

  “No,” Avi said with an exasperated shake of his head. “You can’t trust anyone. But you should go for one reason.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You told me to find someone to help us move on Hallsy. Well, I did. If you do a favor for Darsie, he’s the kind of guy who will pay it back tenfold. Plus he’s the only person outside the U.S. government who could find him. In fact, he owns the company the U.S. would contract to track him digitally.”

  Wyatt thought, the sideways rain pelting him.

  “Are you going or not?” Avi called out.

  Wyatt snatched the phone with the GPS coordinates.

  “You are set to arrive at 11:38 p.m.,” Avi added. “You have exactly a two-minute window. If you are even a few seconds outside that timeframe, you will miss it entirely.”

  “Got it.” Wyatt pocketed the phone and hustled out onto the deck. “I can take this from here.” He nodded to Mary Alice, who dismounted the Jet Ski. Wyatt grabbed the handles and climbed on.

  “Good luck,” Mary Alice said.

  “Roger.” Wyatt squeezed the accelerator, and the Jet Ski rocketed away from the Sea Goat into the night.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jalen Rose, like every other potential candidate, began his summer at Valor with a piece of paper. It was a crisp white document; the letters “CV” were painted in gold in the center, and the inscription read: United States of America * Department of Defense.

  “Here you go.” Mr. Yellow slid the paper over to the boy.

  “Seems pretty…” Jalen scanned the document, searching for the word. “Intense.”

  “Think of it like a Wonka ticket,” Mr. Yellow said dryly. “Without it, you’re not getting in.”

  I, Jalen Alexander Rose, being of sound mind and body, have agreed to commit myself to three months internment at Camp Valor. I swear to keep the existence of the camp and all activities therein confidential. Any mention of the camp and its programs will result in imprisonment. I understand my sole compensation will be the experience itself and the liberty to return to society after a ninety-day period of service. I hereby waive any right to hold the U.S. Government, Camp Valor, and its staff and any participants accountable for any injury, physical or mental trauma, death or dismemberment during my internment.

  Jalen glanced at his parents, sitting sullenly on the other side of the dining room in the safe house, electric animosity between them. He took a breath, then scrawled his name at the bottom of the page.

  “Stupidest thing,” Ronnie said under his breath. “Doing shit and takin’ risks you ain’t need to.”

  “It’s his decision,” Tyra said, but then looked at her ex with more softness than she could typically muster. “But I can’t say I disagree with you.”

  “That should do it.” Mr. Yellow scooped up the paper and tucked it in a manila envelope. “You have twenty minutes to pack.”

  Jalen ran through his room, gathering essentials—underwear, a few T-shirts and shorts, a sweatshirt, two pairs of boots, gym shoes, and an old pair of Gucci sunglasses from his dad. Packing complete, he was led from his home in handcuffs, his next-door neighbor watching from the window as he ducked into the back of a police cruiser.

  It was midday, and the sun shone brightly en route to the Birmingham Police Station. The squad car pulled in front of the building, and from there, a few bystanders looked on as Jalen was transferred from the cruiser to a windowless van.

  “Put this on,” the pale-skinned driver said as she handed him a hoodlike blindfold. She was wearing a midwestern cop outfit and spoke with a thin, eastern European accent.

  “Who are you?”

  “Viktoria. Your staff from Valor,” she said. “Lie down on the floorboard.”

  As the van pulled away, Jalen contemplated his decision in the darkness. It seemed like an hour, but twenty minutes later, the grumpy fake cop again opened the sliding doors.

  “Where are we?” Jalen asked from inside the hood, putting his hands out dramatically.

  “FBO outside of Pontiac,” Viktoria said dryly. “The plane won’t have windows, so you can lose the blindfold for a bit.”

  Jalen did as he was told and followed Viktoria, climbing the rollaway stairs onto a small plane where six other handcuffed camper-candidates sat, waiting to begin the journey.

  “This the last of them?” the copilot called from the front.

  “Good to go.” Viktoria climbed up into the pilot seat as the heavy door slammed closed.

  A few moments later, the plane glided from the runway, the same way the candidates had been seamlessly lifted from their lives.

  * * *

  Several hundred miles away, Wyatt’s Jet Ski tore through the dark water. He had no compass, but thanks to his relentless water training, especially during Hell Week the year prior, he knew the waters around Camp Valor like his own childhood neighborhood, and so he didn’t need a map—or daylight—to locate Logan’s Point. He simply drove, guided by familiar contours lit intermittently by lightning flash.

  Logan’s Point was on the mainland, and it only took him twenty or so minutes to find it. Wyatt gunned the Jet Ski up onto a small beach on the leeward side of the point, got off, and dragged it all the way up to the foliage, hiding it under the low-hanging branches of a cedar tree.

  “Now what?” he said under his breath, but it only took a little searching before he discovered it: a dirt bike, lying on its side under some freshly cut pine bows. The bike, he recognized, was a KTM Freeride E-XC 2018 NG. He pulled the handlebars, lifting it into a rideable position—it felt light, maybe just over a hundred kilograms. The bike was electric and had knobby tires and no headlamp—a strictly off-road vehicle.

  “How the hell am I going to ride this?” He peered into the night, picturing himself flying down dirt trails through the dark forest.

  And then he noticed something tucked under the pines—a camouflage bag. He unzipped it and inside, a tactical helmet, fitted with night vision goggles. He checked the coordinates one more time, and zooming into the map, he loosely plotted a course to the meeting spot twenty-seven miles away. He studied the device, puzzled. The red dot on the map was literally in the middle of a forest—ten miles from the nearest road, in the center of a remote, protected woodland area.

  Who the hell was going to meet him in the middle of the woods, in a two-minute window? A billionaire? It felt like a setup. He suddenly thought about what his father had said. About unsanctioned missions. But there was no time. He had to ride, trusting in Avi’s judgment and the Sig Sauer clipped to his belt.

  He started the bike, slipped his phone under his rain gear, pulled on the tactical helmet, and the dark night was suddenly outlined in green. He tugged the chinstrap and gunned the bike out of the small ravine and onto a narrow path so indefinite that Wyatt assumed it had been worn down not by humans but by animals seeking access to water.

  He pinned the throttle and felt the tremendous torque—at least 40 NM, he guessed—from the electric motor. It was oddly quiet, the bike silent except for its tires grinding on the muddy path and the cold wet wind whistling past. It was slow going, somewhere around fifteen to thirty miles per hour. He worried he might not make it to the rally point. It was stop and go, Wyatt constantly getting off the bike to move around fallen trees and black rushing rivers. He wiped out four times, each time getting up, thankful he was only bruised and battered. He didn’t know what he would have done if he’d broken a bone alone on the dense forest floor.

  Wyatt reached the rally point with less than three minutes to spare. He rode down the hiking path, jumped off the bike, and ran toward the location—a damp, mossy gully thirty yards away. There he waited, panting, and at exactly 11:38, he heard the click of a metal spring, similar to the sound of an IED. He froze,
and this time he thought of his mother. She was right. He had made the wrong choice. Death. But then, something above him drifted through the air. It looked like a floating jellyfish, but as it came into view, he realized it was a parachute with a note attached. He unfolded it and studied the hand-drawn map. The paper was so fine, it literally began to dissolve as soon as it was unfolded. The map revealed another five-mile leg of travel and on the bottom of it were the words seven minutes.

  Wyatt ran back through the wet foliage, righted the bike, and gunned it toward the new checkpoint. The map, which had completely dissolved in his clenched fist, was seared in his mind as he followed the trail up a very steep cliff then leveled off to a plateau with a wide open plain. The rain had let up, and the moonlight shone through the thinning clouds as Wyatt rocketed across the flat ground, his destination visible, just on the other side of the thick copses of trees. He arrived at the destination and saw a raised railbed that glistened in green night vision. He put his hand on the rail, feeling the vibration before he heard the train roaring down the track.

  “Holy crap!” Wyatt backed up ten feet just as the train screeched up the tracks. The locomotive before him looked like no other he’d seen in his life. It was matte black, newly built, elegant, but as he strained to look closer, he saw it was covered in thin armored plating. The train cars were windowless, so clean and dark that the surface ate all available light and hardly registered in his NVGs. A phantom train cutting through the night.

  Wyatt pushed his rain gear down and eased the Sig Sauer out, keeping it clipped to his belt but still accessible over the gear. The engine pulled ten cars, all armored and custom built. Once the last car lurched to a stop, a garage-like door clattered opened and a ramp eased out and anchored into the rocky railbed.

  In the light of the boxcar, a figure appeared—a man—tall, thin, wearing khaki pants and a cardigan. Wyatt recognized him immediately from the Wikipedia page back on the plane: the elusive, eccentric billionaire John Darsie.

  “Coming aboard?” he asked.

  Wyatt said nothing, staring into the bright compartment.

  “This train is leaving in thirty seconds.”