by B. C. Tweedt
“We thought the helicopter would be here,” Greyson said at last, still gaping at the phenomenon as the vehicle stopped.
“Well, you found it,” Forge said, opening his door. “Even though you can’t see it. Now stay close and don’t get in our way.”
The soldiers exited and started unloading gear from the back. Anxious in his seat, Jarryd wasn’t far behind.
“Jarryd…” Avery chastised.
But Greyson was the next out, drawn toward the mirror-waves rising from the middle of the clearing. He stepped closer and closer, glancing back at the soldiers, who were hefting a crate from the back. Though Jarryd had stopped, Greyson continued on; he reached his hand toward the waves, taking ginger steps as if some force would pull him in – a vortex or a portal to another world.
He took another step to where he could almost reach the disturbance. His fingers reached closer and he tensed for the unexpected.
And then his hand touched it. Cold metal.
It was a metal portrait of the foliage beyond.
“What in the world?” His hand followed the metal down, and he let the sensation run from the skin on his fingers to his spine. It scared him, just a little, as if he were touching something that didn’t exist.
And then his hand slid into a gap and wrapped around an invisible handle made of leaves that weren’t there. He exchanged looks with Avery and Jarryd and then the soldiers, who had stopped to watch him.
He turned back and gulped. And then he pulled.
The door to another world opened before him; a giant square of the leaf portrait slid to the left with the door. And what it left in its place was a window to the interior of a helicopter, hanging in the air like a painting hangs on a wall.
As Greyson was gaping, Jarryd jumped into the window and took a seat on the helicopter’s cargo bench. “I’m in a frickin’ invisible helicopter!”
Avery jumped in after him and offered Greyson her hand, but Greyson felt his way around it, removing his goggles and watching the changes in the images plastered on to the metal surface.
“The entire bird is coated in silicon,” Forge explained, walking to them from behind, “and acts like a highly reflective movie screen. There are dozens of cameras pointed at the surroundings, feeding the images to the screen in real-time. When you look at the heli’s side, you’re seeing a composited movie of the foliage directly behind it.”
“No way!” Jarryd opened the other side of the heli and stationed himself on the opposite side of the helicopter as Greyson. Sure enough, an image of Jarryd appeared on the metal surface near Greyson’s fingertips. Jarryd raised his shirt, exposing his nipple. “Sexiest helicopter ever…”
Greyson retracted his finger and turned to Forge with a smile. “Can we make him invisible?”
“Those suits are hard to come by,” he said with a wink. “Plus the technology’s still new and has a lot of kinks. But it works for the bird, making it harder to spot in the air – and from above, too.”
Greyson felt Forge’s stare and turned to meet it. Forge continued, “It’ll help keep us safe.”
There was more behind what Forge said, but Greyson didn’t agree. Keeping Sydney safe didn’t mean giving her a mission.
“When is she getting here?”
“Whenever Dan is finished briefing her. For now, just wait here and don’t touch anything. We have things to do without needing to babysit.”
He obeyed, opting to watch the soldiers’ preparations as Jarryd found an outlet in the trees with a view of the setting sun where Avery joined him, chatting and resting.
Greyson’s heart ached watching them. It wasn’t like they hadn’t suffered – both of them were missing their parents – but there was a light-hearted resilience that inhabited them both that made Greyson jealous. They knew the seriousness of the nation’s problems, the stakes of Rubicon’s mission, but they were able to put that aside, almost as if they were coming back from school without homework. There was a part of him that wanted that ability for himself – and for someone to share it with.
But there was a bigger part of him that hated that thought. When there was something to be done, he had to give everything he had until it was done. He couldn’t let it go, forget it. It was always in his thoughts, nagging him, not letting him truly relax or sleep well until he’d crossed it off the list.
That same feeling boiled inside of him now, marching him to the soldiers who sat on stumps, putting bullets in magazines and prepping their gear. Greyson stopped by Forge and drew every eye but Forge’s. His jawbone clenched and relaxed as he waited for Forge to look up.
Grover pointed his gun barrel at him, even though it wasn’t attached to the rest of the weapon. “Scram, kid.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “But I…”
“There you go being sissy-mannered again.”
Greyson worked up the courage. “I’m not going to scram, Butthole.”
Grover gave a short chuckle. “Better. But you better scram now before I kick your little...”
Forge interrupted, finally looking up. “What is it, Orphan?”
Greyson shifted on his feet. “I know I’m injured…and I know that you probably don’t want me. You probably shouldn’t. But I want to be one of you.”
The soldiers shared looks before breaking into laughter. Except for Diablo. He kept cleaning his barrel.
SmokeStack butted in. “Are you serious, kid? You’re what? Twelve?”
He set his jaw. “Thirteen.”
SmokeStack gestured at Grover, then Diablo, then Forge. “Seals, Rangers, Delta. You would be an insult to everyone who sacrificed and trained so hard to become what we’ve become. Now leave us…”
“Then train me.” He puffed out his chest as much as he could without grimacing in pain. “I let people down a lot,” he whispered, thinking about his dad. “But I wouldn’t let you down.”
Forge put his magazine in his vest.
“Train me,” Greyson repeated. “Pluribus has kids my age. No one expects us. Emory’s brother underestimated us. They always do.” He wrestled for more. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”
After a few grunts and snorts, the soldiers went back to work, ignoring him. All except Forge. He examined Greyson’s resolve for another moment before deciding.
“You don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t even know who we are or what we do.”
“You’re Rubicon. And you rescued me. You fight Pluribus.”
“Why?”
His cheeks raised into his eyes. “What?”
“Do you know why we are called Rubicon? Why we fight Pluribus?”
He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know, but he couldn’t let them laugh at his ignorance. “You fight for the good…the good of the country…”
They laughed anyway. A mean chuckle. And Greyson blushed. But he still didn’t move.
SmokeStack pointed at his hat. “That’s what Bartender said your G stood for. That true?”
Greyson gave his answer in the form of a Glare with a big ‘G’.
Forge was the first to stop laughing. “Julius Caesar, a general of the Roman army, commanded his army to the border of Rome at the Rubicon River. By Roman law, if he crossed that river, he’d be declaring Civil War.”
Greyson listened as the soldiers continued doing what they were doing.
“As his army crossed the Rubicon he said, ‘The die is cast’, because he knew, after crossing, there was no turning back.” Forge looked at him. “We were called to this team to be the last line of defense before Civil War. We don’t only fight Pluribus. We fight against anyone who wants war. Anyone. And we’ll do anything to stop them.”
Forge pointed at Greyson’s hat as SmokeStack had done. “Good isn’t so simple anymore. It’s not black and white, good and evil. There are evil men who do good for evil causes, and there are good men who are deceived, doing evil for what they think is good. And then there’s us.”
>
He smiled at the soldiers around him and they smirked back, awaiting his next words. “A rotten type of men who are willing to get into the black or the white and mess up both. To keep the country in one piece, we aren’t afraid to get dirty. After awhile, all the nice white looks…”
“Gray?” he asked. But it had been more of an answer. And it had made the soldiers pause. Even Diablo stared at him from behind his sunglasses and mask.
At least they aren’t laughing.
After a long while, Forge scoffed and started filling another magazine with bullets; eventually Grover pointed toward the helicopter with an unpleasant sneer. “Scram kid.”
Chapter 13
Holding back a flurry of words itching to come out, Greyson retreated to the helicopter, his anger boiling over, forcing him into action. His anger propelled him into the cockpit, and from there, to the nose of the invisible aircraft, wincing with every movement that pulled at his shoulder wound. Nevertheless, he found a semi-comfortable position lying back on the helicopter’s grass-colored windshield, staring into the cloudless sky.
He lay, letting his anger simmer, contemplating his next move for half an hour as the sun began to dip out of sight. His eyes would water, but he’d fight the tears away before they escaped.
Why? he asked, nearly yelling the thought. He wasn’t asking only about Rubicon’s rejection, but for so much more. He had lost everything in a matter of months. Everything. It wasn’t fair. Not even remotely fair. There was no answer to ‘why?’. Maybe because there was no one to answer. Even if there were, there couldn’t be a good answer.
After he’d arrived at camp, stuck in bed for days, part of him had wanted to read the little Bible that had been meant for Liam, but there had been new reservations holding him back. If there really were a God – like for real – not just in books or for pastors to theorize about – then he wasn’t very good. Or he just wasn’t good at being God. Why else would he let things like the Des Moines nuke happen? Or why would he take his father and mother away – and now Sydney?
Heavy footsteps clodded close, shaking Greyson’s thoughts back to the present. He scooted over as Forge climbed up.
“She’s on her way up. Can I join you for now?”
Greyson sighed, but extended a helping hand.
Once settled, Forge handed him a cookie. “Snagged it from the caf’. They come in boxes and are frozen for weeks, but dang, they’re good.”
Greyson took a bite and gave a nod. “Thanks.”
“How are the goggles treating you?”
They were around his neck. He started pulling them over his head. “You need them back?”
“No, no,” Forge said. “I reset them before I gave them to you. They read your retinas and are programmed for you alone. They’re all yours.”
“Why? Because of the tracking device?” Greyson huffed.
Forge scoffed with a smile. “We all have one, to tell friendlies from foes. But that’s not why I gave them to you.”
A breeze rustled the foliage, prompting Greyson to watch the path for a vehicle, but none came. “Then why?”
“You may need them.”
He looked up. Forge was serious. “I want you to help look after the camp when we’re gone. We’ll be coming and going. Could be a week, a month, more, depending where our missions take us.”
He contemplated the offer. It wasn’t becoming part of the team, but it was better than nothing.
“And one more thing,” Forge said as he pulled off a device wrapped around his wrist. He held it before Greyson. “You’ll need help watching over this camp. It’s too big a job for a boy and a dog.”
Greyson knew what the device was. It was a drone’s remote control system. From the pad, one could navigate the drone, put it on autopilot, view its camera, and more.
“It’s a DOC. Short for Drone Operation Control.”
“A DOC?” Greyson laughed, taking it from him.
“We thought of calling it Drone Intelligent Control, but we thought that might be a distraction on the battlefield.”
After thinking it through, Greyson blushed. Then he turned to Forge. “I think I might be more mature than you guys.”
Forge laughed as Greyson strapped it around his left wrist. Slim and flexible, the screen wasn’t much bulkier than his forearm. And not only was the device the highest of high-tech, it controlled a drone prototype that was two years beyond the drones in the sky. Greyson and his friends had seen the drone in action on the battleship, and Nick had given it a name.
Forge reached and pushed a button on the DOC. “Let’s call Liam.”
The drone zoomed over the treetops, banked hard, and swooped over them, hovering at eye level. Like a truck’s tire, it was disc-shaped and thick, made entirely of metal except for a strip of black glass on the perimeter where a red dot glowed at them. Hanging below its center was a foot-long gun barrel. Painted in stencils on its exterior were four digits. 714-M.
A smile worked its way through his skepticism. “Seriously? I can have Liam?”
Forge gave him a single nod. “Absolutely. We have others.”
“Why?”
“You’re welcome,” Forge said, reaching over and typing another command.
In an instant, Liam zipped away, its low hum fading into the distance.
“I mean, thank you,” Greyson muttered. He immediately regretted his lack of manners. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”
There was an awkward pause as Forge seemed put-off, retreating to his thoughts. “I saw your testimony,” Forge said at last, looking into the trees, his eyes contemplative. “And I see potential in you like someone saw in me once.”
Greyson took in a deep breath. Potential. An adult word for current failure.
After another long pause, Forge sighed. “I know it’s hard to wait,” he said looking at the peaks. “To be patient when every fiber of your being wants to act, to go, to make it happen. You know?”
Greyson slowed his chewing, listening.
“When you feel that you have every right to get what you want. When you are convinced that what the world needs now, is you, and they cannot wait. In your mind, to wait is to let the world suffer.” Forge gestured at the world. With the peaks jutting up like fibers on a carpet, the world seemed very large. “But really it’s you who suffers. And sometimes what’s best for the world, and what’s best for us, is to suffer.”
Greyson swallowed. Suffering is best? Forge might be a great soldier, but he isn’t the best philosopher.
Forge seemed to sense Greyson’s disagreement. “Suffering takes on many forms. Physical, mental, emotional. It’s painful. But it changes us better than anything. It gets our attention, demands our attention.”
Forge swiveled on the heli’s hood. “You believe in God, Orphan?”
Greyson pursed his lips. “I used to.”
The soldier watched the boy spin the cookie in his fingers. “Well, if you choose to again, He may have an answer for you.”
“An answer to what?”
“Why you are suffering. Why did He take your mom and dad? Why is He letting us take your best friend away from you?”
A feeling of deep dread fell over Greyson. The questions were his and they begged for answers, but he didn’t trust in anyone who would give them. Because deep down, he knew there were no good answers. Still, though, he wanted to know. “So, why does he? I mean – if he exists – why does he allow suffering?”
Forge’s face drew serious. “So that we can make those we hate suffer.”
Greyson’s eyes averted and locked on some distant point, reflecting on the dire thought. And then Forge chuckled. “Just kidding. Kind of. But really, I don’t have the answer. But you have to keep asking. Just don’t give up when you don’t get an answer right away. He’s working even while you’re waiting.” A smile curled at his lips. “A wise person told me, ‘If you don’t see God’s hand, trust His heart. Then be God’s hand.”
Greyson pondered the words. He was just supposed to trust God? About everything? That seemed a little too easy. Now, being God’s hand seemed more like his taste.
Forge unsnapped something on his combat vest and held it in front of his body.
It was a grenade.
Greyson jerked back. He’d never been so close to a grenade.
“This grenade could ask, ‘Why am I waiting? I’m ready now’. But if a grenade were to explode before it was supposed to, it wouldn’t be a very good grenade.” He pumped his brow and laughed. “No – a grenade’s purpose is meant to be fulfilled only when its master says it’s ready.”
Gulping, Greyson gingerly reached for the explosive. But Forge wrapped his fingers over it and withdrew. They met eyes.
“You’re a grenade, Greyson.”
Chapter 14
The bright Iowa sun streamed through abundant windows onto Sam Reckhemmer’s back as he lay by a scattered pile of envelopes in the governor mansion’s sunroom. The heat felt good on his back, relaxing him. He loved this room. It was like a private sanctuary, tucked on the back of the mansion that had once belonged to the University of Iowa’s president.
Beyond a canopy of leafless trees, there was a beautiful view of the shimmering Iowa River, snaking its way south, splitting the university in two. Sam often did his homework here, but today a campaign assistant had given him a task. He was to reply to a select few of his fan-mail letters. The rest would be given a form letter and a signed photograph.
He sifted through the envelopes, a mix of emotions giving him indecision. It was still exciting getting fan-mail, even after so many months. But then again, he thought it ridiculous. Most of the writers, if not all, were young girls who hoped beyond hope to somehow meet him, kiss him, or marry him, even though they had never met. Some letters contained proposals, others duck-face selfies, and others had such objectionable photos or flirtations that he had to put in a separate pile to be reviewed by the legal department.
