Stealth Retribution

by Vikki Kestell

  ***

  Like I said, I’d been at my new job for five weeks, give or take a few days. My life was taking on a predictable pattern and shape, and it was a nice shape. I had a living, breathing relationship with God, a great job, dear friends, a young boy I loved, a church that cared for me spiritually, and regular sparring dates with Gus-Gus. It was a good life.

  Yeah, Gus-Gus.

  My VR trainer just would not let up on me! He pushed and prodded me to work harder and perform better. I didn’t mind the work, but I didn’t “get” his insistence that I keep improving. Improving for what? We’d defeated our enemies. Right?

  Then there was Zander. Everything about my life seemed good—except with respect to him. In the five weeks since I’d started my job, we’d seen each other regularly at church, but we’d rarely spoken except to say ‘hello,’ because a resolution to our impasse seemed nowhere on the horizon.

  In fact, as time slipped by, the possibility of an answer for us to be together seemed farther away. Yes, I was still praying, and I believed Zander was praying. But when I asked Jesus about Zander, all I heard was “Wait.”

  So, I waited.

  While I waited, I tried not to worry, but it felt like Zander and I were . . . drifting apart.

  The growing detachment between us tore at my heart.

  Lord, I trust you! Some days, it was all I could manage.

  Still, I couldn’t escape the sense that something . . . something important, something momentous, was looming out there. Moving closer.

  Lord?

  What I didn’t know was that when God chooses to act, he can move mountains in minutes and scale the insurmountable in seconds.

  ***

  It was Gamble’s first day back in the office following a week of vacation. He was perusing the details of a particularly complex report on his computer when his desk phone rang. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Gamble reached for and lifted the receiver. Put it to his ear.

  “Ross Gamble.”

  “Special Agent Ross Gamble?”

  His eyes never left his computer monitor. “Yes, this is he. How can I help you?”

  “This is the White House calling, Special Agent Gamble. Please hold for the President.”

  The Marine in Gamble jerked upright, shot from his chair, and stood to attention. He side-eyed the caller I.D.

  Yup. Bold as brass, the little screen read, “The White House.”

  Holy guacamole.

  He was on hold, so he edged around his desk, stretching the cord as he went, and closed his office door. Locked it to forestall interruptions. Ran down a litany list of possible reasons why the Commander-in-Chief would be calling him—none of which seemed feasible.

  It had to be about Gemma.

  A moment later, a familiar voice came on the line. “Special Agent Gamble?”

  “Yes, sir. Good morning, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, and good morning to you also. Well, Agent Gamble, you must be wondering why I’m calling. In point of fact, I’ve been thinking about you since we last spoke.”

  “Sir?” They’d spoken exactly once—back in December—so that Gamble could vouch for Gemma’s character.

  “Yes—oh, by the way, how is our mutual friend?”

  It was about Gemma.

  Ever vigilant to maintain OPSEC (operations security), Gamble did not miss the casual tone of the President’s inquiry—nor did he mistake why the President had attached no name or gender to his question.

  “Doing well, I believe, sir.” An equally oblique reply, although Gamble had not spoken to Gemma since Christmas. She was, he assumed, starting over under a new identity.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Well, Special Agent Gamble, as I said, I’ve been thinking about you. I’d like to meet with you, have you fly in and discuss an idea I have. Would you be amenable to that?”

  Gamble swallowed. “Of course, sir.”

  “Great. I’ll have my secretary set it up, shall I? You’ll be gone a few days; we’ll square it away from the top down so that your SAC authorizes special duty for you. We’ll tell him you’ve been tapped to present a briefing on . . .” Gamble heard the rustle of papers, “the FBI’s progress against Mexican drug cartel activity in New Mexico.” Your orders will have you fly out of Albuquerque next Monday and report to Quantico on Tuesday. Does that work for you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. Hold the line and my secretary will provide the specifics. Oh. And let’s keep this between the two of us, shall we?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  The secretary came on the line and confirmed Gamble’s email address. “I am sending your itinerary and instructions now.”

  When Gamble hung up, he pulled up his email program and stared at it. About three minutes later, an encrypted email appeared in his inbox. He clicked on the email, used his government decryption software and credentials to open it, and scanned the message contents.

  Gamble’s preconceptions took a nosedive.

  He would not be meeting with the President in D.C., and he would not be going to Quantico—nor would he be flying commercial. Rather, he was instructed to catch a specified military flight out of Kirtland Air Force Base into Joint Base Andrews on Monday. Early Tuesday, he would be choppered into Naval Support Facility Thurmont.

  Known more widely as Camp David.

  Gamble didn’t need to be told that the meeting would be very private. Extremely hush-hush.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  ***

  Back in Albuquerque the following Thursday afternoon, Gamble placed an ad in the Albuquerque Craigslist. Wanted: Uncut Gemstones. Twenty minutes later his phone rang.

  “Ross Gamble.”

  An unfamiliar voice from an unknown number came over the line. “Hi. This is Jayda Locke. Did you call me?”

  Gamble balked. “I’m sorry—who?”

  “Jayda Locke.” For those two words only, he recognized the voice. And got the point.

  “Right; yes, I, uh, I called. I’d like to talk to you, Miss, um, Locke. Could we meet?”

  He listened to dead air for several seconds before she answered, “Okaaaay.”

  Her one-word response was drawled in that stranger’s voice, but its reluctance was reminiscent of Gemma.

  “How about dinner tomorrow evening? My apartment, say, around 6 o’clock? Oh. You having dinner with me won’t be a problem for your boyfriend, will it?”

  “He’s not—” She stopped herself. “No. It won’t.”

  “Oh, so now he is your boyfriend?”

  “Shut up, Gamble.”

  That was Gemma, if not the voice, then the attitude.

  “Not a chance. And be on time, Miss Locke; I’m making homemade pizza.”

  “Well, you’d better make enough. I’ll be hungry.”

  ***

  I hung up and grinned at my little joke. Then I remembered how Gamble had said, “I would like to talk to you, Miss, um, Locke. Could we meet?”

  His summons—masked in a dinner invite—disturbed me more than I wanted to admit. I was not looking for any more drama. Good grief. Enough was enough!

  Which brought me back to Gamble.

  What could he want? I was done running for my life, done with danger and intrigue. Just done. And when I remembered that I would have to miss Friday evening Bible study to meet with him, I scowled.

  Why on earth did I tell Gamble I’d come?

  ***

  It took some convincing to get Gamble to let me into his apartment. He eyed my altered appearance with distrust. I had to ask the nanomites to temporarily dissolve their disguise before Gamble, with a shudder, conceded that the woman before him was me.

  “Gotta say, I don’t like it, Gem—I mean Jayda. Too weird for my taste.”

  I shrugged. “My tiny friends don’t much like my new persona either, but it’s necessary—and a lot more secure than what WITSEC could have offered me.”

  Gamble showed me to his d
inette table. We chowed down on salad and homemade pizza, but the conversation was awkward. Stilted.

  In an effort to improve the mood, Gamble jumped trains. “So, it’s Jayda Locke now, huh? How did you arrive at those names?”

  He was delaying.

  “The pizza was great—thanks for making two, by the way—but why did you ask me here, Agent Gamble? What do you need?”

  He sighed and eased into the point of our meeting. “You’ll never guess where I spent the early part of this week.”

  “Cut the guessing games, Gamble.”

  “Fine. All right. Here it is.” He rubbed his jaw. “I got an interesting call last week, and flew out of Albuquerque Monday.” He slanted a look at me to gauge my reaction. “I spent Tuesday at Camp David.”

  With a sinking feeling, I stared at Gamble.

  “I met with the President and the head of his protective detail, Axel Kennedy.”

  I wet my lips; the pizza in my stomach lurched uneasily. “I suppose you’re going to tell me why.”

  Gamble nodded. “First, I want to assure you that your, um, exploits in D.C. remain known only to the President, the First Lady, and Kennedy. And me.”

  “They told you . . . everything?”

  “Not everything, and not before I signed a sworn affidavit on the classification of our conversation. Basically, if I want to avoid a one-way, all-expenses-paid, permanent relocation to federal lockup, I’ll keep my trap shut. And just for your ease of mind, I swept this apartment for bugs this morning, and have two gadgets in place: one generates white noise, the other guarantees no one could be eavesdropping using parabolic listening devices.”

  We, too, have swept the area; no one is watching or listening.

  “Thank you, Nano.”

  I slowly and methodically folded my napkin until it looked like an origami work of art, but my pulse was galloping through my veins. “What . . . did the President want?”

  He leaned toward me. “He wished me to convey his thanks to you for your assistance in December. He didn’t elaborate on the specifics of the assistance you provided, only that your service averted a national crisis—and that the crisis had something to do with the Vice President. From that, I took it to mean that Harmon’s death wasn’t from natural causes, after all?”

  Gamble searched my face, probing for answers. He found nothing but the poker face I’d perfected as Gemma Keyes.

  “The President asked me to tell you that, although the head of the snake was severed, he has uncovered evidence of co-conspirators in the NSA and on the outside of the government who continue to plot against him. The evidence suggests that intelligence gathering is being weaponized to use against the President’s key allies in the government—all with the purpose of taking down his administration.

  “The situation has grown particularly dicey. The single contact whom the President trusted—an individual placed high within the NSA—has disappeared. This means the President is now without eyes or ears on the inside. Meanwhile, every move he makes is watched—perhaps by treasonous elements within the intelligence community using illegal methods to spy upon him. The President doesn’t know who he can trust, and Axel Kennedy is wound tighter than a drum. I think he fears for the President’s life.”

  My brow furrowed in concern for Robert and Maddie Jackson.

  “The President is growing desperate, Jayda. He needs someone who can infiltrate the NSA’s entrenched bureaucracy and provide him with the evidence he needs to clean out that nest of vipers. Someone who can defeat every kind of security, go wherever she wants, search every air-gapped computer, and listen in on the most private of conversations.”

  “H-he wants me?”

  Gamble nodded. “Yes. He proposes providing you with a bogus identity and slipping you inside the NSA in a low-level position. Said you and your unique ‘skills’ could handle the rest from there. But I think—” and here Gamble hesitated. “—I think Jayda Locke is the perfect bogus identity. You even have the right mix of employment skills and experience the NSA might desire.”

  I said nothing, but it felt like the bottom was falling out from under my perfectly reconstructed world.

  “The President was stumped, however, at how to ensure that the NSA would hire you—especially within a tight time frame. I told him to leave that to you, that you and your little friends could manage it. Am I right?”

  I nodded. “If. If I were to agree to the President’s plan.”

  “Let me lay it out for you, er, Jayda. The President wants to transfer me to the D.C. area. Special assignment. We—you and I—would work together.”

  “We? How?”

  “I would be your handler, convey instructions to you, provide whatever logistics you needed, and communicate your information to the President. You and I have worked together; I think we make a good team, don’t you?”

  I stared at the floor. “I’m not looking to make a career change, Gamble. I just started a good job, and Zander and I . . . well, we’ve been talking about getting married.”

  “Congratulations. I’m glad you guys finally figured it out.”

  “No. No, we haven’t. That’s the problem. We’re trying to work out how to deal with my ‘condition.’ Frankly, it’s a total wet blanket on our relationship. A deal breaker, so to speak, for multiple reasons.”

  Lord, I want Zander to court me, have our friends watch us fall in love and get engaged. Get married. This wouldn’t move us closer—it would force us apart!

  I must have looked as morose as I felt, because the kind and compassionate Gamble showed himself.

  “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought about the relationship problems your, er, ‘condition’ might create.”

  “You have no idea. And I’ve just established myself as Jayda Locke. If my cover is blown, do you know how difficult it would be to start over? Again? Right now, only a handful of people know my new identity. I want and need to keep my I.D. and ‘condition’ confined to that small group. It’s the best way to keep me and those I care about safe. You know that old saying, ‘The only people I trust are you and me—and I’m not sure about you’?”

  Gamble nodded his agreement. “The President agrees with that proverb. That’s why he called me himself. Outside of him and Kennedy, not a single other person will know that we’ve planted you in the NSA. Nor will anyone suspect your ability to hack the NSA from within or turn invisible and penetrate their most secure areas.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Sorry, Gamble, but no. I can’t run off on Zander. We . . . we’re praying about our relationship and waiting for God to answer. Besides, what you propose is way out of my league.”

  Gamble sighed and sat back. “All right. I hear you. But I’m going to wait a few days before I inform the President of your decision—just in case you change your mind.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I muttered.

  ***

  I went home then but couldn’t settle down. What the President asked of me was scary. Terrifying! What did I know about being a spy—and a spy among the most elite of spies at that? The more I thought about it, the more anxious I grew. Although I wished Robert Jackson well, I was relieved that I’d turned down his request.

  I headed for the dojo, hoping Gus-Gus would pound the apprehension right out of me—I was certainly looking forward to using him as a stress-reducing punching bag. Nothing like a full-on, no-holds-barred fight to banish every thought from the mind except survival!

  Gus-Gus and I punched, hit, pummeled, hammered, sliced, clobbered, and otherwise tried to kill each other until Gus-Gus said we were done. I must have exhausted my excess stock of nervous energy, because when I collapsed into bed that night, I dropped into a profound sleep.

  And dreamed.

  The dream was a vivid, full-color-spectrum affair, lush with cinematic pageantry. The scene was as realistic and intoxicating as it was exotic in beauty and setting.

  I stood at the entrance to a long hall, a vaulted ceiling high above my head. Both si
des of the hall were peopled by men clothed in strange headdresses and long, flowing gowns of silks and brocades. Conversations up and down the hall were conducted in reverent and hushed tones, but I did not understand a word spoken: The language was foreign to me.

  Then I realized that I was the only woman present—and when they saw me standing in the hall’s entranceway, all dialogue ceased.

  At the far end of the hall were marbled steps that rose to a dais. In the center of the dais, a ginormous statue of a rearing lion sheltered a bejeweled chair. Powerful wings, outspread in flight, sprouted from the lion’s back. The lion’s mouth roared and bared fearsome fangs; his sharp claws were extended as a canopy over the glittering chair.

  Within the lion’s shadow, a man wearing a crown sat upon the throne.

  Whispers and hisses—directed at me—intruded into the disapproving hush. The jeering condemnation grew until the king stood and, with his golden scepter extended, beckoned to me.

  I was frightened to walk the long, lonely distance to the throne. Every man lining the great hall viewed me with suspicion or speculation; some eyed me with little-disguised hatred. I was afraid to answer the king’s summons—until a voice whispered, For such a time as this.

  I sat up in bed gasping for air.

  Were you dreaming?

  “Yes, Nano.”

  Was it an important dream?

  “Perhaps.” While the vivid scene replayed behind my eyelids, I scribbled all I remembered, particularly the whispered words I heard before I woke:

  For such a time as this.

  The phrase seemed . . . familiar. I closed my eyes and attempted to place it.

  There! I nodded. “Yes. I remember where I’ve read it. Lord? What are you saying?”

  Dare to trust me, Jayda.

  A thrill washed over me. “Jesus?”

  Those who know me, dare to trust me.

  “Yes! Yes, I trust you, Lord. Show me what you wish me to do, and I will do it.”