Midnight Sun

by Basil Sands

“This is where it changes,” Marcus said, then continued reading.

  “Was that night on the marge of Anch-or-age

  When my vengeance loudly screamed.

  There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and

  I hurried, horror-driven,

  With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid,

  of a wedding promise given;

  It was lashed to my soul, and it seemed to howl:

  'You may tax your brawn and brains,

  But you promised true, and it’s up to you to

  cremate those last remains.'

  And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,

  And I looked at my dead loved one;

  Then 'Here,' said I, with a sudden cry,

  'is my cre-ma-tor-eum.'

  There are strange things done in the midnight sun

  By the men who moil for gold;

  The Arctic trails have their secret tales

  That would make your blood run cold;

  The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

  But the queerest they ever did see

  Was that night on the marge of Anch-or-age

  When I screamed, “You should’ve killed me!”

  “Jeez,” Tomer said, “whoever wrote that needs psychiatric help.”

  One of the other agents slowly shook his head and said, “Obviously it’s a threat from one of the terrorists.”

  “No,” Marcus said.

  “What do you mean?” Caufield asked.

  “Kharzai,” Marcus replied. “If I didn’t know he was in town, I’d think the same as you. But knowing he’s here, there is no doubt in my mind it’s his message. And it’s not a threat. It’s a statement. One you should take seriously. He is one of the most dangerous men I've ever met.”

  “Marcus is right,” Hilde said as she returned to the room. “That was Under Secretary Hogan. He just got a communique from the CIA confirming that Kharzai Ghiassi disappeared from their radar several months ago. They said his wife was killed in an airstrike in Pakistan. He blames his CIA handlers and may be out to take revenge.”

  “He knew we would be coming here,” Marcus said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left the note.”

  “The president is going to be here in the morning,” Caufield said. “Tomer, call your Secret Service girlfriend and suggest they cancel the trip.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tomer said with a stutter, his face reddening as the other agents suppressed snickers. “Sir, Tonia’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, right. Whatever you say. I couldn’t care less about your love life. Get it done.”

  Chapter 25

  Secret Service Temporary HQ

  Captain Cook Hotel

  11:30 a.m.

  Tonia Roberts hung up the call to her field headquarters chief, pulled Tomer's contact information up in her cell phone, and pressed the call button. He answered on the first ring.

  “They ain’t doing it,” she said with a matter-of-fact grunt.

  “Why not?” Tomer asked. “We have credible evidence that this guy is flippin’ nuts and hell-bent to kill someone.”

  “It's not a direct statement of intent. With no specific threat against Eagle One, they won’t call it off. There are too many other leaders coming in for them to shut it down.”

  “From what Farris and Johnson said, this Kharzai guy is some kind of death-dealing super spy or something,” Tomer said. “He's like Darth Vader and Jet Li rolled into one. And we don't have a Luke Skywalker or a Jackie Chan to stop him. Hell, from the sound of the guy, even Chuck Norris might get his ass kicked, if that were possible.”

  “We better find some way to get him, honey,” Roberts said, “because they ain’t stopping the show.”

  “Are they at least sending extra security?”

  “Hell, they ain’t even going to tell the foreign visitors. They don’t want to scare them. They’ll just post a few extra snipers and maybe put a couple choppers in the air—otherwise, ain’t no change to the plans.”

  “Where are you going to be during the event tomorrow?” Tomer asked.

  “Me and Lurch are going to be on crowd patrol. You?”

  “I’ll be doing the same thing.”

  “I’ll give you a Secret Service radio so you can monitor our channel at the same time as your own.”

  “Good. Maybe we can hook up a few times during the event.”

  “Tony!” Tonia feigned offense. “That sounds like sexual harassment!”

  “I…didn’t mean….” Tomer stammered.

  “After Eagle is gone,” Tonia added, “you can harass me all you want. I’ve got the whole next week on leave.”

  She could practically hear Tomer’s pulse accelerate on the other end through the phone's earpiece.

  “Oh, my. You are certainly frisky, Miss Ro... ” Tomer's voice suddenly cut off.

  In the background, she heard a door open and a distant voice say something to Tomer.

  He cleared his throat. “I will certainly take your suggestion into consideration and will be sure to accommodate all aspects of the operation.”

  “What?” Tonia asked, her face twisting with sudden smirk as she realized Tomer’s predicament.

  “Agent Caufield just came back in. I’ll let him know what you said. Uh, about the president, that is.”

  “All right, you big stud,” she said, taunting him. “Tomorrow we protect the big guy, and then the next day, you’re in danger. Get your lips ready for some serious non-regulation physical training.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I'll be sure to be...uh...ready for anything.” Tony could barely keep his voice steady. “Thank you, Agent Roberts.”

  Tonia clicked off the phone. Warner walked up behind her and grunted an announcement of his presence. Tonia jumped in surprise.

  “Don’t do that!”

  “Do what?”

  “Eavesdrop on me.”

  “I just came in. I didn’t hear anything you and Tomer were talking about, thank God.”

  Her eyes widened. “Then how did you know it was Tony?”

  “He’s the only guy I’ve heard you use your ‘super silky’ voice with except when you use it on suspects during interrogations.”

  Tonia’s face blushed a deep purple. “Super silky?”

  “Subconscious, I am sure,” Warner replied. “I have no clue what you two see in each other, but you obviously see something.”

  “You really need a girl, Warner,” Tonia said. “Then you’ll understand.”

  “If you say so.” Warner held up a sheet of paper. “But rather than talk about your desperate sex life, we need to find this guy.”

  “I'll have you know my sex life, and or any related desperation, is none of your cyborg-autobot business,” she huffed. “I bet you’ve never even seen female anatomy that wasn’t in a textbook.”

  Warner shrugged and held out a paper. Tonia snatched it from his hand and looked at it. “Damn, that man is hairy. Is that even a man, or is it a skinny-assed Sasquatch?”

  “Kharzai Ghiassi is his name,” Warner said.

  Tonia's expression sharpened. She stared diligently back at the page.

  “He’s the one Tony was calling about,” she said. “He’s gone rogue or something.”

  “Yeah. And he’s out for revenge.”

  “Well, with all the security we’ve got on that park, I can’t imagine anyone getting a shot off.”

  “When I was in Afghanistan the second time, there was a story some of the Special Forces guys told about a guy named Seirim Al Gul. The name means Hairy Demon. He was supposed to be a CIA plant who made it all the way up the chain in one of the al-Qaeda splinter groups. He was known to appear all a sudden in the middle of a group of soldiers, give them some really useful information, then vanish without leaving a trace. One time, he popped into the FOB—that’s a Forward Operating Base—unannounced and left a package for the SF commander then disappeared. When they opened the box, it was the head of one of the ten most-wanted Taliban f
ighters in the country, with a note saying ‘Happy Yom Kippur.’”

  “Happy Yom Kippur?”

  “Yeah, the captain was Jewish and it was the holiday.”

  “So you think the Hairy Demon is this same guy?”

  “When I saw the picture, I immediately thought of him,” Warner said. “That guy sure looks like the image I had from their description of Al Gul.”

  “Well, if that’s what he still looks like,” Tonia held out the picture and circled his face with her finger, “it should not be hard to find him in a crowd.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Chapter 26

  Delaney Park Strip

  Downtown Anchorage

  Thursday, June 23rd

  5 p.m.

  All along the Delaney Park strip area, maintenance workers labored to clear the park in preparation for the following morning's gathering under the watchful supervision of highly visible members of the Anchorage Police, Alaska State Troopers, FBI, Secret Service, and National Guard Military Police. At the west end of the strip, a group of young men who looked like college students all wearing thigh-length soccer-style shorts and matching neon green T-shirts with black-and-red lettering declaring their group as the Hornets complained to a police officer.

  “Come on, dude,” said one of the young men. “You've seen us out here practicing on the same day every week. The citywide Ultimate Frisbee tournament is next weekend, and we need to be ready. The guys we're up against are killers!”

  “They've got a pro from New Zealand, and two dudes from Hawaii on their team,” said another of the jersey-wearing men. “We really need the practice to beat these guys.” Several of them held up their professional-grade Frisbees and nodded vigorously as punctuation to the statement.

  The officer held his hands up, palms forward in placation of their complaint. “Sorry, fellas, nothing I can do. The strip is closed so we can get ready for the president's visit. Try Kincaid Park or Valley of the Moon instead.”

  “But Team Thor is practicing at Kincaid, our rivals with the bloke from New Zealand. We can't practice on the same field as them.”

  “Try Valley of the Moon park,” the officer said.

  “Valley of The Moon is too crowded with little kids. It’s not safe for us to fling these bad boys around civilians, man,” He held up the heavy-duty professional disc. Noticeably larger and thicker than a kid's Frisbee, thrown from a strong player's hands it could break a child's bones or cause an even more serious injury if it hit them in the head.

  “Nothing I can do, fellas. Play elsewhere—I’m not making any exceptions. Unless you want to bring it up to those guys.” He pointed to the top of an office building. The players glanced up and their mouths dropped open as they watched an FBI sniper team set their rifle on its bipod and scope out the area.

  “Whoa, dude,” said one of them, squinting toward the shapes moving on the roof, “is that for real?”

  “You really want to find out?” asked the officer, a smirk on his lips.

  “Just like Call of Duty Urban Warfare®,” another said.

  “Yeah,” the officer said, “except this ain't a game, and if you screw up, there's no respawning for a do-over.”

  “Let's try West High's football field,” their leader said. “It shouldn't be too busy.”

  “Good thinking,” the officer said with a wink.

  As the young men made their way to a Jeep parked in one of the spaces that ringed the periphery of the grassy park, they noticed for the first time just how many police officers, dog handlers, and men in black suits and sunglasses milled around, checking and re-checking seemingly every corner of the field, the houses and buildings next to it. One of them pointed to a pair of officers coming out of a small brick hut that led to the underground accesses.

  Unknown to them as they moved away from the Delaney Park Strip and left for the West High School football field was the consternation of those in charge. The Frisbee team glanced back toward the open space and noted a group of men in suits and uniforms near the half acre rose garden. The seriousness of their demeanor seemed to mar the quiet beauty of the manicured green bushes, their red flowers making the team leader think of blood. One of the men in the group was pointing at something then turned his head and shot a look at the team. The tall red-haired man’s expression seemed to be a not so subtle encouragment to keep walking.

  Caufield and his Secret Service and law enforcement counterparts stood around a table next to the rose garden. Birds chirped and sang from within the thorny tangles that walled off the semi-private area of the park. The area was frequently used to host weddings, formal parties or other ceremonies. Today it was their temporary command post as the park was being setup for the President. The men and women in the group were acutely aware of the threat and all of them were equally frustrated by their seeming inability to turn up any clue as to its embodiment. No explosives had been found. No unexpected electrical signals appeared on scanners. No suspicious radio frequencies came up in the tests. Were it not for the fact that the mere presence of both Kharzai and Farrah were evidence of a likely and imminent threat on its own strength, Caufield would have dismissed the whole thing as ludicrous. As he listened to a National Guard captain detail the positions of Military Police stationed around the outer perimeter of the field, Caufield’s eyes followed a large, bright yellow butterfly as it fluttered past, landing on a rose flower and extending its proboscis into the center of the Everything seemed just too peaceful.

  Sniper teams and counter sniper teams settled in residence on the tallest buildings, viewing the vast majority of the area. Thanks to the open layout of the thoroughly modern downtown Anchorage landscape, few areas were out of their view, and those that were also unusable by a potential shooter. The teams would stay in position until the president and his guests were safely out of the area the next day.

  The young men walked past a pregnant Asian lady who strolled into the park from which they had just been evicted.

  “They probably ain't gonna let you through, lady,” one of them said to her. “They're being real jerks about it all being off limits for the president's visit tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Lonnie replied, “but I've got a pass.” She flashed her badge at them and kept moving until she came up to Caufield’s group.

  The group acknowledged her presence with a few greetings and pleasant smiles, then turned back to their work. That work, no matter how much she worried about it, was not hers. Not this time. The mission was in other people’s hands. Lonnie surrendered to the facts of her condition. While a part of her wanted to be deeper into it, she knew her part was done and she needed to step out of the way of those whose job it was. Marcus split off from the group.

  “Don’t you need to stay here and work with them?” Lonnie asked.

  “No, they’ve got it under control,” He said. “Besides, its not my job. I’m just a civilian here, remember?”

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “Let’s get back to the hotel and get some rest,” He said.

  She didn't protest.

  ***

  Marcus glanced out the hotel window toward the Park Strip and buildings around it. He caught sight of the sniper posts on the roofs of buildings nearer the park, shooters and spotters settling into their deadly task. His memory flared with images of the countless times he had been sitting in just such a position himself, high on a building, on a mountainside, or on a flat-roofed two-story building in an urban Iraqi alley. He thought back to the fear and tension that he’d always felt in the hours before a mission went live, a nervous energy that curled tightly, deep in his gut. It came from knowing that soon you'd be called upon to perform an act that was very unnatural for mankind—to kill another human being. As the moment drew near, the shooter would descend into the battle zone within their psyche. The feeling settled into a low thrum of energy coursing through the body as the sniper calmed and employed the well-practiced breathing exerc
ises, focusing on scanning the target area, broken into quadrants, sections, segments, and positions, the mind seeing the battle space as if overlaid with grid lines. He had sometimes compared the image to a life-sized game of Battleship—only he could see over the opponent’s board and knew where he'd placed his ships. And when the battle came, a surreal quiet descended, like a physical force ebbing through the body at a molecular level. Every ounce of the sniper's being slid into an ethereal existence of man against man. And then it was over. Just like that. Things got packed up, the shooter exfiltrated, slinking through city streets, jungle undergrowth, or a shattered building. The danger never ended until you were back at the barracks.

  Unlike the FBI and Secret Service sharpshooters, when Marcus set out on a mission there was almost near certainty he would be killing men. Luckily for these men, most of them would never see the face of the dead in their rifle scopes. The majority of law enforcement sharpshooters spend their entire career training to deliver personalized death to a suspect, only to retire without ever firing a shot to end another man's life. Marcus prayed this was going to stay true today.

  As he watched them scoping the area, sweeping their fields of fire, getting into the groove of the positions from which they would quietly sit and stare for the next fifteen to twenty-four hours, another realization crept into his thoughts. Two years after retiring from the Corps, he still struggled with the concept of being outside the chain of command. Those in charge, in real positions of authority, would allow him to help to a certain point, but he was no longer a member of the team and wondered if when everything hit the fan in the morning, they would shove him out of the way and force him to the sidelines.

  He turned from the window and looked at his wife, sleeping uncomfortably in the hotel bed. He marveled at how beautiful she was, how lucky he was to survive twenty-plus years in the warrior life to be able to come home and marry the girl he'd loved since high school. He wondered if they'd survive the day.