by Allen Zadoff
“The soldier,” I say. “What happened to him?”
“He’s dead,” Father says.
Father’s voice is matter-of-fact, but his face is tense. When I glance at him, he’s looking forward through the windscreen, refusing to make eye contact with me.
“It’s happened before?” I ask.
“Never.”
I search his face for any sign of an emotional response to losing one of his soldiers, but I don’t detect any.
“You’re wondering what I’m feeling,” Father says.
“I am.”
“My feelings are separate from the assignment. I don’t bring them to work.”
Now it’s my turn to avoid Father’s look. There is an implied criticism here. I had feelings about my last mission, and it affected my behavior afterward. That was unprofessional of me.
“We are at war,” Father says. “There are casualties. I mourn privately, then I move on.”
I think of the girl from my last mission whose face I still see.
She had a name.
Samara.
Father is right. It’s time for me to move on.
“Tell me more about the soldier,” I say.
“He was on a critical assignment when communication was severed,” Father says.
“Do you know for sure he’s dead?”
“We haven’t recovered a body. But he was inside for three months without a problem, and then he dropped off the map. It’s been over a month since we’ve heard from him. There’s no other reason he could disappear for that length of time.”
I try to think of a scenario where I would not be able to communicate on a mission. Not just for a few hours, but for weeks in a row.
“Maybe he’s imprisoned?” I say.
Father shakes his head. “We have protocols for that.”
Father is referring to the prime objectives that govern my operations.
1.Protect The Program.
2. Survive.
The issue is that the first objective can negate the second, because in the highly unlikely scenario where I am imprisoned and my identity is revealed, I must protect The Program first and foremost. If it is not possible to both survive and protect The Program, the organization comes first.
I would have to sacrifice myself.
I’ve never been put in that position, but I believe I have the courage to do it if the time ever comes.
“Do you understand?” Father says.
I nod. “There’s no way he could be alive.”
“That’s right,” Father says.
Whether the soldier was revealed, caught, or captured, he must be dead now.
I think about what he might have faced on assignment, a situation grave enough to overcome both his training and the resources of The Program. I try to imagine what that might have been, but I cannot.
“I’m sorry your soldier was killed,” I say, “but I don’t understand what it has to do with me.”
“We lost the mission,” Father says.
A lost mission. That’s Program parlance for a failed operation. It’s an expression I’ve never had to use before, one I’ve never even heard spoken out loud.
“You’re saying the soldier was killed before he completed his assignment?”
“Yes,” Father says. “And we need you to go in and finish the job.”
CHAPTER SIX
FATHER INSTRUCTS ME TO HEAD DUE EAST IN THE HELICOPTER.
We fly for a while, long enough that we eventually cross the Vermont–New Hampshire border and continue on a nearly straight line east.
“Have you heard the name Eugene Moore?” Father asks.
Something about the name disturbs me. I must have come across it at some point in the past. My memory works like that, memorizing salient facts and sorting them into rough categories so that I can access them later if need be.
Eugene Moore equals violence/danger. That’s what comes up.
“Eugene Moore runs a military camp for teens in rural New Hampshire,” Father says.
That’s when I remember where I’ve heard the name. “It’s not a typical military camp,” I say. “It’s like a training facility for the children of right-wingers.”
“Correct,” Father says. “It’s called Camp Liberty, and he refers to it as training for the ‘other’ army, the army of the people. Say your politics run to the far right—so far right you don’t trust the government—but you want your kid to know how to shoot a gun and run around in the woods. You don’t send him to a standard military academy. You send him to Eugene Moore.”
Father points, suggesting a course correction to the south.
“Wasn’t Moore in the army himself?” I ask.
“He rose to lieutenant colonel before he was court-martialed for disobeying orders.”
“Something political, right?”
“He was attending political rallies in uniform during active duty. They began court-martial proceedings, but he sued and ended up with an administrative discharge. It’s a big point of pride for him. He considers himself a conscientious objector. You take his radical political beliefs, add them to a pile of money from wealthy supporters along with serious tech know-how, and you have a dangerous formula.”
“This camp. Where is it?”
“It’s set in a valley in the mountains north of Manchester, New Hampshire. This is no cabin in the woods. It’s a sophisticated, high-tech operation, nearly impenetrable by ground or air.”
“You said the camp is made up of kids.”
“That’s right.”
“Why does The Program care if kids want to play soldier in the woods?”
Father pauses. “That’s an unusual question.”
“It’s an unusual situation.”
Normally I don’t ask the reason behind a mission. It’s unnecessary, even distracting. My job involves target acquisition, pure and simple. I concern myself with who, not why.
But this time things are different.
I say, “I’m being brought in to complete a lost mission, and that’s never happened before. I need as much information as I can get.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Father says. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here in person.”
I usually receive my briefings remotely via social media, the assignment dossiers hidden in plain sight behind ever-changing Facebook profiles.
“I’m going to answer your question,” Father says. “I just don’t want there to be any misunderstandings in the future. This is a one-time deal.”
“I understand,” I say.
Father nods. “We care about Camp Liberty because our assets have picked up indications of troubling activity online, emanating from the camp. They are probing infrastructure in the Northeast. Electrical plants, Department of Transportation computers, and the like. Individually, they’ve been mostly benign computer breeches, but taken as a whole, the portrait is troubling. Our algorithms suggest there’s something big coming, and we can’t wait for it to happen. We have to act now.”
“When are you sending me in?”
Father studies my face, trying to determine something. After a moment he says:
“We’ve got to take care of a few things first.”
Father points out the window to the right.
“That’s Manchester up ahead,” Father says. “We’re going to that set of buildings just outside town.”
He indicates a sprawling structure set off from the highway, one roof marked with a large white cross with an H painted in the center.
“A hospital?” I say.
“When’s the last time you had a physical?”
Father knows when it was. Two years ago, when Mike stuck a knife in my chest during my final exam.
I don’t bring that up. Instead I say, “It’s been a long time.”
“We need you at full operating capacity before your mission.”
On the rooftop, a man in an orange jumpsuit waves his arms at me.
I say, “We’re
not a hospital chopper. We’ll attract attention.”
“We initiated a CDC emergency protocol. The hospital has prepped and cleared an entire floor for us. They won’t know who we really are.”
The Program is invisible in the world. Like me, it can appear to be whatever it wants to be, but I have not seen it use resources to this degree—Homeland Security troops to find me, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention regulations to take over hospital facilities. The fact that they’re using so many resources indicates how important this is to them.
“We’ll get you looked at, then I’ll finish your briefing,” Father says.
I note that Father didn’t answer my question about when I will go after Moore, but now is not the time to probe further.
The man in orange is guiding me in using red flashlights. The way he waves his arms, it almost looks like he’s warning me to stay away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FATHER REMAINS BEHIND WHILE THE MAN LEADS ME DOWN A STAIRWAY INTO THE HOSPITAL.
The floor is completely deserted, gurneys at the ready, machinery hooked up but unused. The man stops in front of a doorway, then without a word, he walks away.
As I reach for the door, it opens.
A beautiful young woman in a white lab coat is looking at me. She has long dark hair and intense eyes.
“I’m Dr. Acosta. Father and Mother assigned me to take care of you today.”
I examine her face, note the subtle hint of makeup around her eyes.
“Lucky me,” I say.
“You haven’t heard what I’m going to do to you yet.”
“Should I be worried?”
“You don’t look like a guy who worries much,” she says.
“I’m more sensitive than I look.”
“Maybe we should send you to the shrink instead of me.”
“You’re not the shrink?”
“I deal with the body only,” she says.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
I note the smile at her lips. It’s quickly wiped away and replaced with a physician’s countenance.
“Let’s get started,” she says. “Take off your shirt.”
She begins a lengthy physical exam followed by a stress test, lung and heart capacity measurements, ECG and EKG, and a full blood workup. Dr. Acosta guides me through the process quickly and professionally with a minimum of conversation. She’s young, but she’s obviously very good at what she does.
With the preliminaries completed, she guides me down the hall to an imaging laboratory. In the center of the room sits a high-tech diagnostic machine. It appears to be something like a CT scanner, but I don’t recognize much of the technology employed there.
“What am I looking at?” I ask.
“It’s a state-of-the-art sixty-four-slice SabreLight PET/CT scanner with advanced assessment protocols. Any more questions?”
“Will you hold my hand during the scan?”
“No, but I’ll give you a lollipop after,” she says.
“Deal.”
“Okay, then. Lie back and enjoy the ride.”
I lie down on the table. Dr. Acosta adjusts a few dials on the side of the device, makes sure I’m positioned correctly, then steps into the safety of an adjoining room, where she can watch me through the glass. It’s dark in her room, and I can just make out her outline hunched over a control panel.
“Are you ready?” she says, her voice coming through a speaker on the side of the machine.
I give her the thumbs-up.
The machine starts to move over me.
I glance toward Dr. Acosta behind the glass. I notice a taller figure has joined her now. I recognize the stiffness in his posture.
It’s Father.
“Take a deep breath and relax,” Dr. Acosta says over the speaker. “Don’t move for a little bit.”
The machine clicks and whirs as the scanner passes over me from head to toe, one full scan. I prepare to get up, when Dr. Acosta says, “Just another minute, please.”
The scanner passes up my body again, this time stopping at chest level.
I feel a surge of warmth in the area beneath the scar on my chest. It’s followed by a wave of dizziness.
“I’m feeling a little light-headed,” I say.
“We took a lot of blood earlier,” Dr. Acosta says. “It’s not out of the ordinary.”
The sensation of heat beneath my scar increases almost to the point of being painful, and then suddenly it’s gone.
“Better now?” Dr. Acosta says through the speaker.
“Much,” I say.
“A few more seconds—”
The machine whirs to a stop, the assembly moving up over my head and away from my body.
I take a deep breath and glance through the window.
Father is gone.
“We’re done,” Dr. Acosta says.
I rub the area over my scar.
“Can I get my lollipop now?” I say.
“Darn, we ran out,” Dr. Acosta says. “I promise I’ll get you one next time.”
“I’m very disappointed, Doc.”
“Life is filled with disappointment,” she says. “Rest there for a few moments and someone will be in to get you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I WAIT FOR THE RESULTS IN A NEARBY EXAMINATION ROOM.
Twenty minutes go by before Dr. Acosta comes in. She seems more energetic than before, her hair freshly combed, her cheeks ruddy with blush.
“Excellent news,” she says. “You’re approved for assignment.”
“Anything I need to be concerned about?”
“Father will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Father’s not a doctor,” I say.
I turn on the charm, giving her a warm smile. My intuition is telling me I need to see the results of the scan. My hand unconsciously rises to my chest, my finger probing the scar there. I purposefully put my hand back by my side.
“He’s not a doctor,” Acosta says, “but rest assured he understands the information I share with him.”
“I have no doubt,” I say. “But I’m thinking a peek at the results would be helpful. I’m a raw-data man.”
She studies me for a long moment.
“A peek at the results isn’t possible,” she says. “But there’s something else we should do before you go.”
She begins to unbutton her lab coat. It takes a moment to understand what I’m seeing. Then she unbuttons the top button of her blouse and there’s no doubt of what I’m seeing.
“Is this part of the physical?” I say.
“In a manner of speaking. Let’s just say it’s a component of my professional duties.”
“Father’s idea?”
She shakes her head. “Mother thought you needed some R-and-R.”
She undoes the remaining buttons of her blouse, revealing a pink lace push-up bra beneath.
“Nice of Mother to think of me.”
“Forget about Mother,” she says. “You’ve got more interesting things to focus on.”
A hint of perfume rises from her cleavage as she reaches for me.
We kiss. Her lips are soft and warm, wet with some gloss she must have applied before she came back into the room. I think about what’s going to happen, the pleasure and possibility of it.
Then I think of something else.
I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.
“What’s wrong?” she says.
My last mission is in my head. The things that happened in New York.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Can’t?”
“I don’t want to. Not now.”
She searches my eyes for meaning, but I don’t show her any. After a moment she steps back. I suspect this will be included in her report. Mother and Father will wonder about it, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” I say.
“There’s no sentiment here. This is strict
ly professional, which incidentally doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”
She hesitates for a moment, perhaps giving me another chance. I don’t take it.
She sighs, tucking in her blouse as she walks to the door.
“Maybe another time,” she says.
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” I say.
She smiles at me and I smile back. I consider changing my mind, but I don’t. Better to focus on the mission at hand. Everything is easier when I’m on assignment.
She turns before going out. “Good luck with everything,” she says.
“I don’t need luck.”
“I know you don’t,” she says. “But it’s what normal people say to each other.”
I’m not a normal person.
That’s what I think, but I don’t say it.
She opens the door to find Father waiting. She nods once, hands him my medical chart, and continues on her way. Father comes into the room and closes the door behind him.
“Did you enjoy your visit to the doctor?” he says.
“I was too distracted to enjoy it.”
He looks at me, concerned.
“The assignment,” I say. “I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
“I can understand that,” he says.
“You saw my test results?”
“All positive. Dr. Acosta has cleared you for assignment.”
I pick up my shirt, but before I can put it on, Father steps forward to examine the knife scar on my pec. “This has healed nicely,” he says.
I glance at the scar. I think of Samara asking about it before we made love in New York.
“It’s an identifier,” I say to Father. “A vulnerability.”
“We’ve thought about that.”
“I’d like it gone.”
Father nods. “We’ll schedule a plastic surgery in the near future. We’ll cover it up forever.”
“Good.”
“But not now. Now we need you back in the field.”
“That’s what I need, too,” I say.
“Then it’s time to begin,” he says.
Father walks over to an IV infusion pump, the kind commonly found in any hospital. What happens next is not common. He opens a camouflaged plastic port on the side of the device, and out telescopes a small antenna. He then programs a code into the pump. I hear an electronic click, and a blue light begins pulsing in the center of the device.
