Dead Sky

by Weston Ochse

  Flick.

  Flick.

  Flick.

  All of his chakras turned back on and he slumped, then fell back into the chair. He brought his arm to his forehead and choked back a sob. He’d failed. Again, he’d failed. Why was it so hard? Why couldn’t he do what so many others had done? And then it came to him. Because he’d spent so much of his life concerned about the quality of his body; erasing it from reality just wasn’t in him. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t being erased, that this was just a process, but it was so hard. So hard not to use his body at all and be forced to use his mind. His body had rarely failed him and when it tried, he’d always pushed through.

  Then Boy Scout realized he’d also gotten to the point where he’d act first and think later—or at least it seemed that way. He was thinking of instinctual movement. Wasn’t his mind involved in instinct? Wasn’t his mind already trained and informing his body first? If that was the case, why couldn’t he just trust in Sister Renee’s process and give his mind complete control over his body?

  He remembered when he’d been in The White and how it was only his mind that controlled everything—his mind was his body, inventing it in real time while his real body had been in the putrid water of the cistern.

  He lay there for a time, then fell into a deep sleep. His dreams were filled with things he’d done in foreign lands. Shooting, fucking, kissing, running, so many things that they all flashed into each other.

  Then he slid into a time where he wasn’t himself. He was a small man whose thoughts were simple and clear and whose ideas were so fascinating that Boy Scout didn’t fight the direction they took; instead, he embraced them and in doing so, became entirely the other person.

  Most people believe the sense of sight to be the most important to their daily lives. To not be able to see was so limiting, especially in the remote villages of the Hindu Kush. But for him, sight was an afterthought. It was merely a mechanism that enabled him to get from one place to another or to do things more efficiently. Smell was his most perfect sense, which he realized set him apart from almost everyone else. Who cared really about the sense of smell? Much of the time the smells were offensive, thanks to the Americans. All smell really did was enhance taste, without which more food would be palatable. He could lose his sight and his hearing, but still remain happy as long as he retained his sense of smell.

  His earliest memory was smelling oranges from the fingertips of his mother’s hands. He didn’t know they were oranges then. He thought that was what his mother’s hands smelled like. Then, when he turned six, he saw his first orange and thought how odd it was that the piece of fruit smelled like his mother. He kept the orange until it rotted, then cried when the smell went away. It was all he had of his mother—the smell of oranges. She’d been taken by the Americans, they said, but he’d later learned that it also might have been the Malik—the headman—from the village next to theirs. His eyes coveted his mother like they were hands, traveling where even eyes shouldn’t dare go, his aunt had once told him.

  They liked to blame the Americans for everything. That way those who were really guilty could walk the streets without fear of retaliation. They even blamed the Americans if there wasn’t enough rain, or too much snow: Their airplanes chased it from the sky. But it wasn’t the Americans he was after this day. It was the Malik, who he’d been following for six hours.

  The Malik wore a white ket and a dark brown partug, tucked into his boots. What hair he had was a straggly gray. The side of his face had been burned during a firefight with the Americans, so his beard and mustache grew only on one side. He’d come to Kabul to buy better fighting birds from the Ka Faroshi Bird Market, but had stopped at several tea houses to meet with old contacts and once at an electronics store to buy gifts to bring back to his village.

  He hung back from the Malik, hoping to blend into the crowds of people. He drove a scooter, so was easily able to follow the Malik’s Corolla anywhere. The problem was when to deliver his message, for it was many years of planning that would culminate.

  Now, as the Malik weaved through the bird market, talking in low tones to old bird sellers, he couldn’t help but inventory the smells. And the smells of Kabul were so much more present than those of his simple village, where as a youth he’d developed an inventory of the different smells of rocks and dirt. How granite smelled different than quartz and how basalt had a fragrance he looked forward to inhaling. But not here. In Kabul the smells were ever-present, overlapping until he almost gagged with confusion, his mind unable to parse the effervescence. He’d been forced to reach into his pocket many times, to scrape at the orange hidden within, then bring his fingers to his nose to clear his head. And every time he did, he was reminded of his mother and his reason for being here.

  The smell of a watermelon was particularly joyous. Not only did it bring to mind summers and celebrations, but it covered up the offensiveness of the plastic explosive he was wearing in his vest. If watermelon was the smell of life, then the noxious chemicals in the small blocks all wired together were the smell of death—which was fitting.

  He paused and watched as the man chewed on a watermelon piece.

  No, now would not be the time to deliver his message. He could not do that to one who had just taken a bite of watermelon.

  He continued, taking in the different aromas of each bird and their feed.

  The Malik paused and purchased a chukar partridge. These reddish-gray birds were prized for fighting and looked as if they were bandits with black bands across their eyes. This one smelled of talcum and tobacco, left over from the man who’d handled it. Grizzled with the kind of wrinkles that hid memories in their seams, his face was also colored by the smoke constantly coming from his cigarettes. He could see the pack of them half hanging from a pocket of his ket—Marlboros—once again Americans being American.

  Then the Malik turned, the wicker cage held high above his head. He passed him, heading back towards his car.

  He waited a moment, then turned and followed, passing the nice man with the watermelon breath. The crowds began to thin as the two of them headed toward the end of the street. The smells of the city began to intrude again and once more he scraped the orange and brought his fingers to his nose. Mother. Bliss. A message to be delivered.

  He decided that the time was finally right.

  Everything was in the right place, his memories, the ochre smell of pollution, the sensibility of there being some sort of unfortunate collateral damage. He’d scratched the orange so many times, there was only a tiny patch of peel left, the rest of the fruit covered by the gauzy white of the pith, so similar to the cotton blankets they placed over the faces of the dead.

  He took one last scratch, leaving the orange dead and heavy in his pocket. He brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled intensely. It must have been loud, because the Malik turned around.

  “Why are you following me?”

  He didn’t know how to respond. He just smiled and continued sniffing.

  “I demand to know why you are following me,” the Malik said, furious because of the other’s lack of response.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the orange, now devoid of that which made it smell so wonderful, an ache of an odor that was less than a memory, redolent along the gauzy funeral wrap. He held it out to the Malik, who accepted it without thinking.

  “You killed this. The orange would have lived had you not come to Kabul.”

  The Malik’s eyes narrowed and the right side of his face crinkled, the left burned side remaining unmoving. “What is this? I don’t understand.”

  “You took the smell of oranges from me. Now I will take the smell of everything from you.”

  Before the Malik could do anything, he reached into his other pocket and found the actuator, given to him by the same person who gave him the vest he wore beneath. Everyone has enemies. It was not just the Americans who were targeted. Sometimes, some of their own needed to go. So said the e
nemies of the Malik. The boy closed his eyes, one hand on the actuator, one hand with orange-scented fingers near his nose. He inhaled gently this time and could almost hear the voice of a mother he couldn’t remember. Had he been more attentive to sound than he was of smell, he might have been able to remember what she sounded like. Had he been more attentive to sight, he might have remembered what she looked like. But his attention was on smell and he remembered those fingertips as she held him, as she fed him, and as she traced circles of love on his cheeks. He remembered the orange and the sensation of the smell filled him with joy.

  He depressed the actuator and delivered the message, pieces of him and his memories of his mother’s fingers expanding violently into a universe where the Malik and his fighting bird couldn’t possibly exist. A place where a simple boy with a piece of fruit and a memory could change the life of terrible man with a burned face and a penchant for stealing other people’s mothers.

  And the universe turned volcanic with sizzling white static.

  Chapter Ten

  China Lake, Later

  BOY SCOUT WOULD have fallen out of bed had he not been already on the floor, so disturbing and disorienting was the dream. How he’d gotten into the mind of a suicide bomber he’d never know, except he had. He realized what had happened as he thought those words and sat back, stunned. Apparently, one of his accidental travelers had been a suicide bomber. Did the bomber even know where he was? Did he think he was in Heaven or in some strange purgatory instead in the mind of a middle-aged former US Army ranger? Somehow Boy Scout had been able to connect with the consciousness of the traveler. His mind couldn’t have possibly invented a plot surrounding the orange and the missing mother.

  But why didn’t he know the bomber’s name? Would he know his own name if he wasn’t referred to? He supposed not. It’s not like he was always thinking in the third person.

  A knock came at the door.

  He sat up in the darkness. “What is it?”

  “Got some stuff for you,” came McQueen’s voice.

  “Bring it.”

  The big man opened the door and the light from the hall enshrined him in the darkness.

  “Why are you sitting naked on the floor in the dark?”

  Boy Scout smiled. “Do you really want to know?”

  McQueen rolled his eyes and put two bags on one of the beds. On his way out of the room he said over his shoulder, “It wouldn’t hurt you to get a tan. Just saying.” Then he closed the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, Boy Scout was dressed in generic contractor apparel—tan cargo pants, black polo, combat boots. What really made him happiest was the new underwear and deodorant.

  He bumped into Preacher’s Daughter out in the hall.

  “Coming to get you. I need to show you what we’ve got.”

  “You’ve got something?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “You have no idea the assets Poe has at his disposal. We’ve pretty much tracked down the dervish network.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it? The dervish network?”

  They entered the main suite of offices—two private offices with the doors closed and a main work area with several computer stations and a central conference table. McQueen was currently sitting at the table with a Starbucks coffee cup in one hand and a croissant in the other.

  “Trying out to be the next Starbucks hipster spokesperson?” Boy Scout asked.

  McQueen eyed him over the top of his cup, steam curling around his face, froth on the edges of his Fu Manchu mustache.

  “Let me guess,” Boy Scout said. “Pumpkin spice?”

  “You know it,” McQueen said. He reached into a coffee caddy and handed a coffee to Boy Scout.

  “Please don’t say it’s pumpkin spice,” said Boy Scout, reaching slowly for the cup.

  “You’re safe. Your boring café Americano won’t turn you into a hipster, which I know is your greatest fear.”

  Boy Scout took the cup and inhaled the aroma, relishing in the deep blackness of the brew. As he sat heavily on one of the chairs around the table, he said, “I’d never make it as a hipster. I can barely dress myself and I count on the disapproving looks of others to tell me if I’m matched correctly.”

  “There’s always remedial training,” McQueen said.

  Boy Scout was about to reply when Preacher’s Daughter broke in. “Boys. Will you please stop?”

  They turned their attention to her and Boy Scout noted for the first time that Poe was standing behind her as she sat at a computer workstation.

  Poe stood ramrod straight, his head cocked to the side as he watched them—more a scientist observing animals in their natural environment than a lieutenant in the US Army.

  Boy Scout took a sip of his coffee, leaned over and grabbed a croissant, then gestured toward Preacher’s Daughter and Poe. “You may begin.”

  Poe mouthed the words as if he couldn’t believe them, then turned slowly to Preacher’s Daughter. “If you please,” he said to her.

  “While we were trying to find out about the things inside of you, Poe has been tracking the dervish network. With the help of CYBERCOM, he was able to lock down seven static IPs, which then allowed him to tap into CCTV systems, both private and public, to obtain visual identifications for future biometric searches.”

  She stood and went over to a whiteboard, then spun it to face them. Pictures of twelve faces were taped to the board with names written below each one in red marker. The faces were arranged in a circle with a big question mark in the middle.

  “We’ve identified that these twelve individuals have been actively searching for you.” She grabbed the red marker and put an X over three of the faces. “These three were killed at the monastery, which leaves nine.”

  “How can we be sure there aren’t more out there?” McQueen asked.

  “We can’t,” Poe said. “But now that we have these nine, CYBERCOM helped with a biometric algorithm that’s been sent out to all the ALPRs in SoCal. With automated license plate readers recently cued to also conduct facial recognition, we’ll not only be able to track where these nine are, but who their friends are. It helps that all of the dervishes are Turkish. Using predictive technology, the ALPRs will notify us if any new predicted threats are near any of these nine. Meaning if the program thinks the person might be of Turkish descent, then it will catalogue and follow that person as well.”

  “What about—” McQueen began.

  “In the event one or more of the nine are partnering with someone not of Turkish descent, then the ALPRS will catalogue that individual and inform us.”

  “Where are they now?” Boy Scout asked, finishing his croissant.

  “Three are in Beverly Grove. Their consulate is off Wilshire Boulevard.”

  “That’s high cotton,” McQueen said.

  “How do you know there aren’t more than this? There have to be more people of Turkish descent in LA than these guys,” Boy Scout said.

  “We don’t,” Preacher’s Daughter said. “If they don’t have a link to one of the known targets or the Turkish Consulate we ignore them.”

  “So, there could be more,” Boy Scout said.

  “Or less,” she said. “But we are pretty sure about the ones we’ve identified. Four more are near the monastery, probably trying to conduct an investigation, find out where we went.”

  “Not if de Cherge has anything to do with it,” McQueen said.

  Preacher’s Daughter nodded. “The dervishes know there’s a general police BOLO out on them, so they’re being careful.”

  “Wait,” Boy Scout said. “Why did we inform the police?”

  Poe grinned. “We didn’t, but our hacker friends set up a fake website a week ago and dangled information that there was a BOLO on you three, which lured the dervishes to our site. The dervishes think that they’ve hacked LAPD Command Central, but they’re only on a mirrored front page. All the subordinate links are ours.”

  Preacher’s Daughter nodded. “It’s genius, really.
We can dangle information in front of them and also see the sort of information they’re trying to get. Knowing what the enemy doesn’t know is almost as important as knowing what they know.”

  “So the police really aren’t looking for them. The dervishes just think they are,” Boy Scout said.

  “Correct.” Poe nodded. “And the remaining two are at Long Beach Airport.”

  Boy Scout and McQueen looked at each other.

  “You know what that means, right, boss?” McQueen asked.

  Boy Scout’s mouth tightened. “Anyway we can release a real BOLO on those two?”

  “It might be too late,” McQueen added.

  Boy Scout said. “What about it?”

  “You’re worried about the pilot,” Poe said, eyeing Boy Scout.

  “I am.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve already been in contact with him. When we saw where they were heading, we sent information to Mr. Noaks and recommended he find another place to roost.”

  “Who did you say you were?” Boy Scout said.

  “A friendly three letter agency who is friends with Boy Scout.”

  “A three-letter agency could be anyone. But with your name attached, it was more easily believed,” Preacher’s Daughter said.

  “Do we know where he went?” McQueen asked.

  “Vegas. Mr. Peter K. Noaks is in Vegas,” Poe said, then paused as his telephone beeped. He answered it and everyone watched as his eyes widened. “I’ll be right there.” Then to the room he said, “We have a visitor.”

  “What? How?” Preacher’s Daughter asked.

  “I’m not sure, but she asked to see Boy Scout, Preacher’s Daughter, and McQueen,” Poe replied. “Any idea who it could be?”

  Everyone shook their heads then watched as Poe left the room, an expression of contemplation and worry playing out across his usual stoicism.

  Chapter Eleven

  China Lake Command Center

  WHEN HE LEFT, Boy Scout filled the others in on his dream with as much detail as he could.