The Eyes of Others

by Mikael Carlson

  “Hang in there, pal. We’ll get you out of here,” a voice consoles. Was he the guy dragging me? Who is he? Where’s my team? I can’t see them.

  The soldier is … firing his weapon. Who is he shooting at? I grope for my own rifle … can’t find it. Where did I leave it? I need … to return fire. He tumbles to the ground. I try to grab his … leg.

  “Jesus Christ! I’m hit!”

  There are popping sounds … everywhere. They sound like firecrackers. I can’t hear, I can’t see. My head is swimming. I can’t … stay awake. I need to find my rifle. Where’s my team?

  Another small explosion nearby. I can taste the dirt … it landed in my mouth. Everything is growing dim. I need … to get up. I need to stop this ringing in my head. I try to make my legs move … nothing happens. Everything sounds more distant now. I can’t focus. Everything is … getting … so … dark.

  .

  ~ cHAPTER 1 ~

  GINA ATTISON

  Two years later

  “You’ve been gone forever, Senator,” I tell my boss as he strides through the door and into our spacious space located in the Russell Senate Office Building. “The chief of staff is crying about you missing your last three meetings.”

  “Which is why I hired him to smooth over ruffled feathers,” he responds with his usual charm, despite wearing a dour look on his face. “This was more important.”

  Like most of the politicians I have come to know on Capitol Hill, Senator Robert Ludwick is not a stupid man. He understands the political game and plays it to the utmost of his abilities. Well respected as a team player by most of his colleagues, he’s faithful to his party and a magician when it comes to convincing the voters in his home state of Missouri just how invaluable he is.

  Unfortunately, like most politicians, he is out of his depth when it comes to the actual act of governing. Society has become so complicated that he probably shouldn’t be expected to have the depth of knowledge needed to make informed decision on legislation covering a variety of issues. As few of the men and women serving in this Congress are experts in much of anything, it is the simplest explanation as to why so many legislators are prone to hide behind their party talking points and not make waves.

  “Anything I need to know about?” I ask, already knowing what the problem is. I have enough friends and former coworkers on the committee to know almost everything going on over there before the senator gets around to telling me. Without that inside knowledge, this job would be harder by orders of magnitude.

  “As much as I would love to tell you it was just your typical briefing that ran long, it wasn’t. It was this,” he says, picking the remote up off the table and clicking the six-thirty network news broadcast off mute.

  “Administration officials have made no comment on the massacre, but sources inside the government have said that the members of the village were working with U.S. forces in the fight against ISIS and this attack may have been retribution for that assistance.”

  “Thank you, Monica, for your report from Baghdad,” the anchor concludes before the senator mutes the television again and tosses the remote back onto the table. It’s the same kind of report America has heard night after night for the past few years. No wonder the public doesn’t pay much attention anymore.

  There’s no doubt that there is much more behind the men in that village than what the media is reporting. Most likely, Islamic State militants discovered they were passing intelligence on to our operatives in their country. In that part of the world, when you get caught working with the enemy, there is no mercy and no quarter. The repercussions are swift, violent, bloody, and often deadly.

  Unfortunately, I can’t ask the senator if my theory is correct. The information he deals with is all classified, and although I have a security clearance that allows me to work with him, it’s not the type of thing that should be discussed standing in the middle of our office. Very few members of the staff who work in this room possess that level of security clearance.

  “Everyone is aware of ISIS’s brutality. They’ve been slaughtering and destroying for years now, but an entire village massacred in the heart of Iraq is going to raise international attention. They were trying to send a message to their subjects and the rest of the world,” I surmise. His nod lets me know that I’m on the right track. This was a warning to the population not to cooperate with our forces there.

  “You’re astute as always, Gina, but I knew that when I plucked you out of two-eleven.”

  Room two hundred eleven in the Hart Senate Office Building is the home of my former job and the current bane of existence for the senator. It’s where the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence holds their classified meetings and where I began my career as a staffer on Capitol Hill. The senator has been on the committee since before I began working in Washington and, when he became chairman following the last election, I received a generous offer to join his staff as a special projects manager charged with helping him steer the committee. It was an offer only a fool would turn down.

  “I am eternally grateful to you for getting me out of there. Now it’s time to return that favor.”

  “This ought to be good,” he surmises, waving me out of my chair and offering me to follow him into his own spacious office.

  The Russell Senate Office Building is one of the oldest of the structures designed to house members of the Senate. Over one hundred years old, it is almost identical to the Cannon Office Building where members of the House, including the renegade independent Michael Bennit, call home. The building is connected to the Capitol via an underground passage, but many members and staffers choose to walk outdoors in nice weather.

  With a staff numbering about thirty people, the office footprint is much larger, by necessity, than what members of the House work in. The senator’s office is large, ornate, and well appointed as a testament to his station in the government. He invites me to sit down in the upholstered chair that faces the couch.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asks, easing into the comfortable cushions.

  “Political fallout, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that ISIS is reading our playbook. Over the past few years, we’ve had countless blown operations and dozens of assets killed in Iraq and Syria. They engaged in bold attacks on our own soil. They’re growing stronger and we’ve been powerless to stop them. Now, the only way that could happen with such efficiency is if they are getting information from one of our intelligence agencies.” That got his attention.

  “What makes you say that?” he questions, unable to mask the alarmed look on his face.

  “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is what’s going to happen next. If things continue on this course, the White House is going to get antsy. Next year is a midterm election and there’s no stability in the region. The success in combating ISIS the president promised during the last campaign hasn’t materialized.”

  “And you think the president is going to blame me?”

  “I don’t know that he will, but if his party suffers in the polls, he’s going to look for a scapegoat, and you’re the chairman of the committee that deals with the nation’s intelligence matters. If there is a leak in one of them, and that mole isn’t found by the next election, the president could use the bully pulpit to convince the people of Missouri to blame you.”

  “You think I should start applying pressure to find a mole in one of our agencies that may or may not even exist?”

  “Yes sir, I do. The people elected you to keep our government accountable and to ask the hard questions. If there is someone betraying our nation, you should be leading the charge to find him.” I don’t bother adding that doing so would save countless American lives over there. Despite their political bluster, that is rarely a priority for most elected officials.

  “That is something to think about,” the senator replies, rising from the couch and walking over to his desk. He starts sifting through the messages and I know the conver
sation is over. He’ll spend a lot of time reflecting on what I just told him. No single issue commands a politician’s attention like the thought of political self-preservation. I don’t expect him to act, though.

  “If you don’t need anything more from me, sir, I’m going to head out a little early.”As if seven o’clock is really early for most people.

  “Do you have a hot date tonight?” Senator Ludwick chides playfully.

  “Yeah, I got into a fight with my fiancé the other day and, after making him suffer by groveling for a few hours, I agreed to let him take me for a nice romantic dinner to make up for his idiocy.” All of that is completely true, especially the idiocy part.

  “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you,” the senator says with a chuckle. “How long have you been with this guy?”

  It’s a strange question for him to ask. The senator is usually all business in the office and never shows interest in the private lives of his staff. I was hired on my professional merits when he offered me this job. He’s never taken an interest in my personal life before. Maybe he’s finally warming up to me after six months.

  “I’ve been dating Boston since he got his medical discharge from the army … so about a year and a half now. He was injured in an IED attack in Iraq eight months into the president’s surge against ISIS. He was discharged right before Christmas and we met at a get-together some mutual friends were hosting at a local bar. We’ve been almost inseparable ever since. He proposed about four months ago.”

  There was more to it than that, but the senator doesn’t need to know the details. There was nothing chance about our encounter. Having survived a long string of first dates with the creepiest of the creepy, I jumped at the chance to meet a manly former soldier with a good job in a field I could relate to. The fact that Boston was only two years older than me at thirty-one, in great shape, and sexy as hell only heightened my interest to shift our courtship into overdrive.

  “His name is Boston? That’s a little unusual.”

  “It’s a nickname he got in the military. Everybody calls him that.”

  “Including you?”

  “Including me, unless we’re fighting. Then it is usually something far more colorful,” I tell the senator with a devilish smile, and eliciting a laugh in return.

  “Well, enjoy your date, Gina,” he says with a pleasant smile.

  “I will. Have a good night, sir.”

  * * *

  “Dinner was fantastic, honey, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Just don’t get any ideas.”

  “Ideas about what?”

  Boston leans in close across the table, his features illuminated by the candle glowing in the middle. My God, he is a handsome man. His short brown hair and bluish-green eyes giving him a sexy Zac Effron look. He’s built like an athlete, and the stubble growing on his face from not shaving this morning is adding a hint of ruggedness that I find irresistible.

  “Getting mad at me just so I’ll take you out for a romantic night on the town,” he finishes.

  With me being stuck at work late, he went home after finishing his work at the Defense Intelligence Agency to the house we share just across the Anacostia River in Oxon Hill. When I was almost ready to leave the office, I called him and we met at this swanky little bistro. Dinner dates are not uncommon for us on weekends, but this is a treat on a work night.

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” I tell him playfully, as I lose myself in his eyes. I let my stare linger.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing. I just wanted you to know that I’ve never been happier than I am now,” I tell him, as we join our hands in the middle of the table.

  “Me, too, sweetie. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I had a talk with a guy who was an analyst for the DIA while I was over in Iraq. He said …”

  His voice trails off as I pull my hand away from his. I shift my gaze away from him, avoiding the eye contact I fear will bring tears, or worse, anger. Here we go again. This isn’t a topic I want to talk about tonight.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “You’re choosing now to talk about the investigation you shouldn’t even be doing, and you’re wondering what’s wrong?” I answer without even attempting to mask the displeasure in my voice.

  “I didn’t think―”

  “No, you’re right, you didn’t think,” I snap, summoning the emotional strength to meet his eyes. “Boston, I have tried to be supportive of you finding out what happened in Iraq. I know it means a lot to you or you would never risk sacrificing your job over it. But I don’t want to share you with this obsession right now. I do that every other day, and I’m tired of it. For just one night … I don’t want to share you. Tonight, I want your undivided attention.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. You deserve better than that, and I never should have brought it up. I guess I’m just overtired. I’m not sleeping well again.”

  Boston is your typical soldier. They are supposed to be tough and build enormous walls that block out the pain and suffering that comes with combat. As a result, it takes a lot to get him to open up. It has been a constant struggle for me, but we’re finally in a place where it doesn’t take as much prodding as it used to.

  “You’re still having problems with those dreams?”

  I’ve never seen Boston have a sound night of sleep since the day we met. Some of the dreams are nightmares about his time in Iraq and others are because of the stress he’s under at work. The third types he experiences are the ones that disturb him the most. He calls them his “special” dreams.

  “Yeah. It feels like it’s getting worse.”

  “What are you going to do? Go back to the VA?” I inquire, as I take his hands in mine.

  He has made countless trips to the VA hospital to have this looked at. After a lot of convincing, they ran a battery of tests on him that included everything up to cranial CT scans. When they didn’t find anything abnormal, the doctors all gave him the same answer. They claimed he’s suffering the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. He swears it’s not PTSD.

  I can’t imagine what he’s going through. He’s the strongest man I have ever met, and what happened over there in Iraq against ISIS is a tragedy. I only hope he doesn’t spend the rest of his days broken like he is now. War is costly, and the effects it has on the people fighting it are never fully taken into account.

  “I could have them check me again, but I don’t expect the answer to be any different. I think I need a different approach. I’m thinking of seeing a dream therapist.”

  “A dream therapist?”

  “Yeah, I know, it sounds crazy.” It does, but if that’s what he wants to do …

  “You know I’ll support you one hundred percent in whomever you decide to see. Let’s not talk about this now though. Let’s get the check instead.”

  “What’s the rush?” he asks, probably thinking of splitting that insanely decadent chocolate dessert with me.

  “You fulfilled your promise tonight, and I have a surprise of my own for you,” I explain.

  “What is it?”

  I grab my oversized designer bag purse and set it on the table. I open it and pull a pink Victoria’s Secret bag out, just enough for him to recognize what it is. He smiles broadly. Any heterosexual man would.

  “I guess you don’t want to stay for dessert.”

  “Boston, my love, this is dessert.”

  He turns and starts waving his arm like he’s hailing a cab. It draws the interest of almost every person in the small bistro other than the person whose attention he’s trying to get. Finally noticing his frantic signaling, the waiter starts to rush over, thinking we may want something more. He’s going to be disappointed.

  “Check please!”

  .

  ~ CHAPTER 2 ~

  Eugene “Boston” Hollinger

  I used to love going to sleep. My dreams were wild, zany,
and generally nonsensical. Most of them were the kind of stuff dream psychologists would drool over. They comprised of first day of school drama, strange army-related dreams, and even an alien invasion in Manhattan once.

  My dreams have changed since the IED attack in Iraq two years ago. They’re no longer whimsical and absurd, but far more serious and confusing. Some of them feel so real, it’s like I am actually there and not dreaming. It’s like standing in a place obscured by a dense fog. All I can remember are vague shadows and fuzzy imagery. I guess that’s just a consequence of the severe head trauma, or so the doctors have told me.

  I roll over and strain to see the digital display of the alarm clock on Gina’s night table. It reads one thirty, and I know I can’t hold out much longer if I’m going to be worth a damn tomorrow. I admire my fiancée for a moment, jealous of how soundly she sleeps. Nothing short of a bomb going off outside our house will wake her before morning.

  I don’t know what I ever did to deserve her. Stunningly beautiful, she has long black hair that shimmers in the sunlight as if she just walked off the set of a Pantene commercial. With an athletic frame, severe intelligence, and a sense of humor to go with her alluring looks, she is the textbook definition of a “total package.” How did I get so lucky?

  I roll back onto my side and close my eyes, embracing the ultimate fate that awaits me. I’m exhausted and know that sleep will come fast. I can only hope another of these dreams that haunt my nights doesn’t come with it. I barely finish the thought before I drift off.

  * * *

  A haze envelops me. A phone rings in the distance. Everything around me is out of focus and nearly indistinguishable. I don’t know where I am, not that I can see much anyway. I can tell I’m seated at a table … or maybe a desk of some sort. But it doesn’t feel right.