by Leslie Wolfe
Another page, a new category: Computer Skills. Another endless list of selectable options.
...Chapter 10: Friendly Fire
...Tuesday, April 20, 7:05PM Local Time (GMT +4:30 hours)
...Combat Logistics Patrol, Royal Canadian Regiment
...15 kilometers southeast of Kandahar, Afghanistan
"Hey, Lenny, got a light, buddy?" Ryan's dirty hand, holding an unlit cigarette, appeared first, followed by the rest of his body, as he was coming around the front of the Nyala. The massive armored personnel carrier, rigged with multiple antennae and a remote weapons station, was releasing six dust-covered, sweaty Canadian armed forces.
"And you call yourself a smoker, eh?" Lenny said, extending his Zippo. "Fuck, man, you never have a light on you, like, never!" He lit Ryan's cigarette, then extracted one for himself, lit it, and took a deep breath of smoke mixed with the dry dust of the Afghan desert. "Ahhh . . . it feels good . . ." Lenny walked to the edge of the road, in the shade of the Nyala, stretching his legs. "What would ya' do without me, huh? Quit? What's it gonna take to get a stubborn Newfie like you to carry his own lighter, huh?"
"Gimme yours, and I'll carry it for ya', eh?"
"You better pray this baby doesn't just go AWOL on me one day," Lenny said, clutching his fingers around the engraved Zippo, "'cause it's you whose rotting corpse they'll end up finding in a ditch, got it?" Lenny's thumb was slowly going over the engraving on his lighter, feeling the words etched into the metal: To Leonard, with all my love. From Dad.
"Got a light, eh, Lenny?" A third soldier was extending an unlit cigarette, requesting service with a wicked smile on his face. Lenny obliged with a deep sigh.
"I don't get it, just don't. What the hell is wrong with y'all? What would y'all do without me, huh? Good thing I don't have to wipe your lame asses too." Lenny walked away from the road, toward a pile of boulders, not too far out. Farther away from the boulders, maybe half a klick or so, young herders were watching over sheep. They had all turned to look at the convoy. The wind was carrying the stinking smell of sheep, mixing it with the omnipresent, fine desert dust.
"Where you headin', man? You wouldn't be going to take a leak, would 'ya? Do you need my presence? Do you need help with that? Wanna show it to the natives?" Ryan asked, bombarding Lenny with his questions—each question raising more laughter from the rest of the men.
"Ah, fuck off, will ya'll? I can water this desert on my own, thank you very much." Lenny waved a dismissing hand right before stopping at boulders, his back toward the road.
Friendly advice kept pouring in, mixed with roars of laughter. "Don't forget to shake it. That's right. Good boy."
In response, Lenny's right fist rose above his head in a threatening motion. Then the fist continued its journey, raising the middle finger, combined with an upward motion. Unabated, the comments continued, "You're holding it with your left? That's not right—"
A shearing sound interrupted everyone and brought instant silence among the group. Lenny turned, half-zipped, crouching to the ground. "What the fuck?"
A fully armed unmanned combat aerial vehicle, UCAV, was approaching from the south. "Whose is it?" Lenny yelled.
"American. We're fine, there's no action scheduled here today."
"I hate these UCAVs; they scare the living shit out of me," Ryan said, serious now. "With a pilot, you can expect some judgment; but with a machine, you never know."
"Newfie chicken, who would have guessed? They're safe, man, safer than the planes. There are pilots flying them drones, just like they do real planes, only they fly them like toy cars, with remote controls." Jimmy, otherwise quiet, was the group's official geek, always ready to share his knowledge of anything to do with technology.
"Still hate the goddamn things, man," Ryan continued. "Objects were not meant to fly like that and blow things up. Jesus, what the hell?"
"But the robot we send into the mine field, you don't mind, do you? It's just like that, you idiot. It's just a flying robot, with a remote control, so pilots don't get killed or captured. You're too much of an idiot for me to keep explaining shit as simple as that." Jimmy waved away Ryan's ignorant concern.
However, no one really felt safe. The UCAV changed its heading and started descending, approaching them. The men were able to distinguish the onboard sensor array cameras, rotating in search for targets.
"Take cover!"
The yell could have come from anyone. A couple of men crawled under the Nyala, whose blast-resistant belly had the potential to provide some protection from air strikes. Lenny was still crouching by the boulders, weighing his chances to make it back to the vehicle.
From under the Nyala, they could hear the captain's voice. "Bravo One, Bravo One, this is Charlie Three, over. Bravo One, Bravo One, this is Charlie Three. Come in, damn it!"
The UCAV took a position and launched a Hellfire missile, aimed at the group of sheepherders. The explosion followed shortly, among the men's screams.
"Charlie Three, this is Bravo One, go ahead."
Lenny crouched tighter, getting closer to the ground. "Oh, God . . ."
"Bravo One, we're taking fire from an American drone, over."
The UCAV slowly circled the area, scanning for more movement and heat signatures. It found a target. Taking position on the new object, it launched another Hellfire.
Lenny's blood sprayed the Nyala's right front tire. His engraved lighter rolled into the ditch, reflecting the sunlight.
The UCAV was scanning again for new targets. It had two more missiles left.
...Chapter 11: Honesty Required
...Tuesday, April 20, 9:40PM
...Ridgeview Apartments
...San Diego, California
Page 26 of the recruiting form was loading on the screen. This last page began with a paragraph of instructions.
Please read each question carefully, and reply truthfully. There are no wrong answers in this section.
The first question came as a shock.
Would you consider doing these things in order to reach your goal?
Alex replied out loud, "Well, depends on the damn goal, now, doesn't it?"
Lie?
She started typing—Yes.
Steal?
She thought, Hmmm. Maybe—Yes.
Kill?
"What?"—No.
Get someone physically intoxicated?
Alex laughed, "Buy them beers until they drop? Why not?"—Yes.
Use false identification?
Yes.
Blackmail?
"Am I going to get arrested, based on what I say on this damn form? Um"—Yes.
Cheat?
"I'd rather not cheat on Mr. Right when I find him."—No. "I'll try intoxication first, then blackmail, and if that doesn't cut it, then I'll reconsider this."
She chuckled, as she continued to fill out the form's numerous fields.
Finally, a field marked Comments concluded the form.
Alex looked at the digital clock on the wall. Four hours and 25 minutes had passed since she had started. It was already late, and she had just wasted more than four hours of her time on one single potential employer, instead of applying to at least 50 jobs during this time. She suddenly felt cheated, tired, and completely exposed. Why did I go through with this insanity? What was I thinking?
She typed a question in the Comments field.
Who are you people?
Then she clicked on the large button at the bottom of the page marked Submit Questionnaire.
A new page loaded on her screen.
Meet us for an interview tomorrow, at 10:00AM, and you'll find out. The address is 8 Corporate Park, Suite 300, Irvine, California 92606.
She suddenly felt she was not alone in the room anymore. Shivering, she copied the address on her notepad, turned off the computer, and poured herself a large Martini on top of the coffee leftovers in her mug.
...Chapter 12: The Interview
...Wednesday, April 21, 8:12AM
...Ridgeview Apartments
...San Diego, California
Alex inhaled the aroma of her freshly brewed coffee.
"Thank God for caffeine," she sighed. She was tired after tossing and turning most of the night, thinking about the 10:00AM interview. She felt awkward at the thought of meeting a prospective employer to whom she had already admitted she was willing to steal, lie, and what not, and she had admitted it in writing too.
Getting behind the wheel of her car, her confidence started building. What do I have to lose? Her car was much like her apartment, with a variety of objects scattered on the seats and floor. It was a red convertible Suzuki Vitara, the only convertible SUV available for her budget. It suited her personality, and although the Vitara was a small-size SUV, the sporty feel of a four-by-four, manual-transmission convertible was able to bring her spirits up, every time she took it for a ride.
Taking I-5 north toward Los Angeles, she reached the address in just over an hour and a half. It's not so close to home, but what a ride, she thought, still enchanted by the spectacular views presented by the scenic drive along the Pacific coast. She pulled into a parking spot marked "Reserved—Visitors." Looking up, she saw a three-story building, appearing crisp, clean, and dignified in its white finish, sparkling in the morning sun. Here we go. Good luck, young lady, you're gonna need it, she encouraged herself, while stepping into the elevator.
The elevator stopped at the third floor and the doors silently glided open, allowing Alex to step directly into the reception area of The Agency. So they have the whole floor. Or floors. Good. She stepped up to the reception desk.
"Good morning. I have a 10:00AM appointment—" She abruptly stopped her introduction, realizing she didn't have the name of the person she was supposed to meet. Damn. The receptionist didn't seem to mind.
"Yes. Please take a seat; it will only be a few minutes."
She sat down on a comfortable leather sofa and began looking around. Written on the wall above the reception desk, in golden letters with a shadow effect, the company name, The Agency, made quite an impression, despite its upright, neutral font. The reception area was spacious, decorated with a lot of taste and a lot of money. On the left side was an incomplete wall made of glass bricks, masking what could have been the corridor leading toward offices. Discrete spotlights were placed here and there to emphasize the effect of the sunshine reflections on the glass bricks. On the right side, large windows allowed the sunshine to light up the room, while offering a spectacular view of a park.
The reception desk was a piece of furniture like no other Alex had ever seen. It appeared to be custom made, because it followed the shape and angles of the wall behind it. Three receptionists could sit at this monumental desk without even being able to touch one another. The entire visible surface had an impeccable dark oak, glossy finish.
Showcasing this remarkable desk, the entire office floor was covered in thick, beige carpet, but there was little furniture. Aside from the reception desk and the sofa she was sitting on, there were only two armchairs, with a small coffee table between them, and a cast-iron newspaper holder close to the elevator. Strange.
The elevator was still there, doors open. She looked closely at the elevator and noticed that no controls were visible next to the elevator doors. She turned her eyes to the receptionist. As if reading her mind, the receptionist turned her chair around and touched a button on a metallic panel, marked "Access" bolted to the wall behind her. The elevator doors closed without a sound.
"Good morning, Miss Hoffmann." A deep, powerful voice startled Alex. She stood up, ready to extend her arm for the usual handshake. In the black eyes of the handsome man standing in front of her, there was no willingness to shake hands.
She replied, cautiously, "Good morning. How are you?"
"Please, follow me." The man did not wait for her reply; he turned and walked around the glass brick wall into a dark corridor.
I was right, Alex thought. As the man entered the corridor, a light came on by itself. Neat. He stopped in front of an office, knocked once, and opened the door. He stepped aside, indicating that Alex should enter. Without any introduction, he quietly closed the door and walked down the hall.
"Welcome to The Agency, Miss Hoffmann." The man behind the desk was smiling widely and seemed friendly and open. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tom Isaac, and I'm in charge of The Agency. Please, sit down."
She took her seat and looked around. It was an average office, with common office furniture—a desk, some chairs, two filing cabinets—and a window covered by Venetian blinds, partially blocking the sun. Nothing special about it.
She answered politely, smiling back, "Nice to meet you. Thank you for inviting me." She put down her briefcase next to the chair. Ready as I'll ever be, she thought, waiting for the interview to begin.
"So, please let me begin by asking, what kind of job are you looking for?"
Something to pay the bills and have some fun while at it, if possible, she thought. Instead she answered by the book, her training and experience in interviewing taking over.
"My ideal job is one that incorporates both my education and practical work skills to be the best I can be. Combining my education with a working knowledge of customer operations, my entrepreneurial abilities, computer skills, and administrative skills, I want to utilize my analytical expertise to help people meet their goals. This is exactly why I am convinced that I would be a valuable member of your team."
She had no idea what job she had applied for. She had no information allowing her to be more precise, and this was considered the best possible vague answer to this tricky question. This is going to be tough, she braced herself.
Mr. Isaac was watching her closely, slowly nodding as she spoke. He asked the second question. "How would you describe yourself in terms of your ability to work as a member of a team?"
Standard interview questions, what a disappointment; they promised me none of this dance. Alex almost sighed.
"I have had many opportunities in both academics and work experience to develop my skills as a team player. My experience as a market research team leader also helped me learn the role of team member. I viewed my position as that of group leader and individual contributor at the same time. I ensured that everyone in my group had an equal opportunity to contribute, maintained excellent communication among group members, and coordinated their energies toward reaching our team's goal."
Mr. Isaac looked down at the file in front of him and scribbled something on the print of her résumé. She continued to look directly at him, while smiling and waiting for the next question.
"Are you currently employed?"
"Yes," she lied, without any hesitation, knowing she had a better chance of getting a job if no one knew she was currently unemployed.
"Why would you like to leave your current employer? It is a nice company, from what I hear." Mr. Isaac leaned forward, curious to hear her answer. It came without delay or hesitation.
"I feel I am not challenged enough in my current position. I would like to move toward a more challenging, more rewarding position, which will allow me to fully utilize my skills and my abilities, and also offer me opportunity for self-improvement and professional growth."
"What a load of crap!" Mr. Isaac stood up abruptly, startling her.
She froze. Oh, my God!
Mr. Isaac continued, pacing angrily through his office.
"I promised you a straightforward recruiting process, if you were honest with your answers. Yesterday you were willing to discuss. Today you are giving me nothing but a nicely wrapped, well-rehearsed pile of bullshit. What happened?"
She started to speak, but her voice was gone. She made an effort, cleared her throat, took in a deep breath, and gave it her best shot.
"I am sorry, sir, but the habit of giving these standard answers took over. You did ask me some fairly standard HR questions. You are right, though, I am sorry for wasting your time with all this.
" She managed a faint smile.
"Are you willing to answer some questions without lying, leaving stuff out, or sugarcoating anything?"
"Yes, sir." She could feel sweat at the roots of her hair.
"Be careful, one more time with this kind of crap and we stop right there, understood?"
"Yes, sir." Do I really want to work for this guy?
"OK, again, what kind of job are you looking for?"
She realized she had been holding her breath. Here's your truth, mister. Let's see if you can handle it. She exhaled the air in her lungs and answered, looking straight into his eyes.
"I'm looking for a job that will comfortably pay my bills without boring me to death, have me living in fear, and slowly killing my spirit. I want to have some fun doing that job; I want some flexibility; and I want to work with smart, open-minded people who can teach me a thing or two." She stopped and held her breath again, waiting for his reaction.
"Was it painful?" he asked. His eyes were smiling, but his face was still serious.
Surprise. "Excuse me?"
"To tell the truth for a change." He sat up and walked around the desk toward her.
"No, it was actually quite relieving to hear myself say it." She smiled shyly, aware she was blushing. "I haven't done that in a while." She did not dare look him in the eye.
He was now standing in front of her. She stood up abruptly, ready to run. He reached out his hand and gave her a firm handshake.
"Then it's really a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hoffmann. Let's continue. Please sit down. Are you currently employed?"
"No," she sighed.
"What happened?"
"My boss used to be quite a nice guy. However, one day he went berserk. He started arguing with me without reason. He said I had the wrong attitude, and that a customer had complained that I was swearing while fixing her network."
"Were you?"
"Well, the strangest thing is that I was never with that customer. I was scheduled to go, but traded accounts with a colleague, because that specific customer was close to his home. I figured the boss just wanted me out, and I left. That was no life for me; I can't handle that kind of attitude. There was no fixing the situation; the more I tried to clarify the issue, the more aggravated he would get. His reaction came as a complete surprise. Until then, he had shown only appreciation toward my performance."
