Your orientation might take a while—gotta' be honest with you there. It will be a lot like officer candidate school. You’ll be assigned a Sergeant to show you the ropes. It won’t be me, but it will be a bit like what we’re doing now.
When the leadership sees you’re ready, you’ll move on to the more significant work. And I say it like that because the orientation will be work.”
Arnold paid attention to Mike’s eyes. This was business indeed. He sat and let Mike’s speech sink in. Mike seemed surprised that there was no follow-up, but he respectfully let the silence stand.
They drank their beer and made small talk as they steadily worked on the dwindling pile of shellfish. There were only a few crawfish left by the time they made themselves full. Mike decided to feed the rest to the seagulls. They left hurriedly when that act of benevolence attracted a surprisingly large flock that in turn drew the not-so-grateful attention of their fellow fish market patrons.
There was a parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper of the Suburban.
“Huh…” Mike said, studying the ticket as if it were the baseball card of a little-known player. “Well then…” Mike couldn’t find the rest of that sentence, so he unlocked the truck and they piled back inside. The ticket ended up in the glovebox as a companion to a sizable group of other parking tickets.
They’d burned almost two hours, and traffic was significantly better. Mike wheeled the big Suburban onto I395 and merged onto the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. He stuck to the slow lane and kept his speed just above the limit. Arnold got the jump on him with the radio and dialed in a classic rock station. It was still objectionable, but he had always found classic rock to be an easy compromise in road-trip politics. About thirty minutes later, they took the exit for the Beltsville Agricultural Research Center, and the off-ramp took them to a long, straight country road. It was strange to find a road like this so close to the Washington and the sprawling suburbs.
The USDA kept several thousand acres of farmland in suburban Maryland. The property adjoined a nature preserve and butted up against a substantial NASA property that housed a satellite engineering building, supercomputing facilities and a portion of the spaceflight center. This added up to a huge area of federal land was well-used by several federal agencies. The modest presence of the Unit drew very little attention.
They drove past several hundred acres of open fields with a few scattered cows near the roadside fences that turned their heads toward them with bovine interest. The road turned gently and passed through thick woods. Mike pulled off to the shoulder onto the gravel skirt of a driveway just before the inside of the bend. He dug into his pocket and produced a set of keys to unlock a low gate of tubular steel that barred the driveway. When Mike returned to pull past the gate, Arnold volunteered to close and lock it behind them again. He wanted to get a good look around.
The driveway went on through the woods about half a kilometer before turning. The Suburban trundled around the turn that became rutted and rough. A high crown scraped the undercarriage at several points before the driveway, that was looking more like a short road, opened up into a small clearing.
In the clearing stood a large, tidy, two-story white farmhouse with a green metal roof. The open ground surrounding the house was roughly oval in shape and about the size of a football field. The farmhouse stood at the narrow end of the oval close to the woods opposite the drive. They continued across the thick, green field on wheel ruts that barely made tracks in the grass. They parked in front of a large, covered porch that ran across the entire front of the building.
“Well, welcome to our home away from home,” Mike said, as the two men left the truck and stood by the porch.
The sound of rustling brush turned their heads to the woods. Mike subtly shifted weight to his right heel and his hand moved in the direction of his right hip. It could have been a deer before they understood the familiar sounds of a bicycle. A mountain bike was plowing through the woods, chain clanking, with its rider huffing. Arnold caught motion where a trailhead formed a gap in the tree line. Mike relaxed, having already pieced together the puzzle.
A large man tore through the woods on a mountain bike. The rider powered into the straightaway leading to the trailhead, pumping the pedals in high gear. He stood up and aggressively worked the bike side to side as he dug in with the cranks. He put on a respectable burst of speed before hitting a small ramp at the very end of the trail that was obviously built up there for one purpose. When the rider lifted up on the handlebars and pulled back, the front wheel came up a good meter and a half and the wheel rear wheel wasn’t far behind. He hit the ground with an audible triumphant grunt and made a slow circle before noticing the two men watching him. He pedaled up to the porch and dismounted.
First Sergeant Andre Nichols held up his hand to them in a universal gesture that asked for a moment while he caught his breath. He was just a head shorter than Arnold. Andre removed a bandana from his pocket and mopped the streaming sweat from his deep-brown face that was flushed with red undertones from the heat of his hard ride. He laughed some and bent down for a moment with hands to knees.
“Whew! Been awhile since I rode like that!” He exclaimed.
"Nice jump," Mike said.
"Thanks for making the ramp," Andre replied, and he approached, hand extended. “You must be Lieutenant Triska. Good to meet you. I am First Sergeant Andre Nichols.”
He thrust out a short, strong, blunt-fingered hand proportional to his broad shoulders and short, bulging arms. He offered a reserved smile with the firm, respectful handshake.
“Good to meet you too, Sergeant Nichols,” Arnold replied.
Mike also shook hands with Andre, and the two exchanged curt but friendly nods.
“Andre, Lieutenant Triska will be staying with us for a while.”
He registered some surprise at this.
“Well, welcome then, Lieutenant Triska,” he looked at his watch. It was nearing eight, and the sun was fading. “Have you eaten?”
“We stopped at Clevis Brothers.”
Andre’s eyes widened.
“Yes! Did you bring some?”
“Sorry, Andre. Didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Eh, no worries. You and me next time. Come on inside.”
They mounted stairs and crossed the porch. Arnold noticed how the house was meticulously maintained. The paint was fresh, the floorboards were solid and also held a healthy coat of varnish. Some wicker chairs were arranged on either side of the front porch with a couple of round tables between them.
“This is nice,” Arnold couldn’t help but remark.
“Indeed, sir. It’s real nice. More comfortable inside too,” Mike said with notable pride.
The front door led into an open foyer directly in front of a staircase to the second floor. To the left of the front door was a large living room with low, stained oak paneling with plaster walls above painted soft cream. A large fireplace sat in the center of the inside wall with its chimney running up through the center of the house. A small TV was mounted above the fireplace. A door in the back of the room led to the kitchen.
“Everything is original. It was built in the 1940s to house science workers for the war effort. The way I hear it, this may be where C-rations were born. Anyway, the place is still big on aggro-science–biggest USDA facility in the country.
USDA maintains the whole house and the Unit has a quiet arrangement with them. You know, a little dark budget wink-and-nod between agencies. We pay them pretty good. It’s been more-or-less a permanent deal for years. We do some important work here.
It's a great spot. NSA is right up the street and we have some offices at NASA that we use for some of our other work.”
Andre cast a cautionary look at Mike at the last statement. Mike gave little sign of acknowledgement.
They moved through a formal dining opposite the living room. It held a long table that looked like it could seat about twenty people. Both the dining room and
the living room opened to a large kitchen that ran the full length of the house. A real country kitchen The appliances were dated, but commercial grade and all the fixtures were original. Two double-door commercial refrigerators stood on the wall facing the living room. There were only a few windows as most of the wall space was taken up by cupboards and cabinets. One end was taken up by a stained pine table with six chairs. Arnold guessed correctly that the table was the preferred eating spot.
“We can have more than twenty people here if we have a lot going on. It’s still real comfortable,” Mike said, as he crossed the kitchen to the fridge. He produced a pitcher of iced tea and some glasses for them all and headed over to the table.
“Thanks, Mike. I could use that,” Andre said, still wiping his brow as they sat. Arnold decided it was time for some questions.
“So, this is kind of a group house?” Arnold asked
Andre spoke up this time.
“You could call it that. We have a lot of meetings here. Mostly logistical stuff. We also come here as a breather between missions. You could call it “home base.” I’m just back from New Mexico myself. I'll probably be here long enough to give my after-action report to First Lieutenant Conteh—she’s head of operations security.
They’ll either team us up for another assignment, or meet to make a plan to deal with the last job. This time, it’ll damn sure be about the last mission.”
It was Mike’s turn to cast a cautionary glance. It was obvious they were walking the line between disclosure and acceptance of him as the “new guy.”
“Did they tell you who your mentor would be?” Andre asked.
“Mentor?”
“Yes,” Andre continued. “The Unit is not regular military. We are really a joint task force with a unique mandate. We operate under military authority but our organization is much different. Highly compartmentalized. Chain of command is the same, but protocol is … unique . . .”
Arnold remained nonplussed.
“Huh,” Andre said.
Andre was surprised, as it was obvious that none of this was explained to Arnold. He wondered if that recent business in the desert had anything to do with this oversight. This gap made him nervous.
“Look, Lieutenant Triska, no disrespect,” Andre said. “You’ve come this far, and you’re here, but something is not right.
I’m sorry but, there seems to be some kind of breakdown. You should have been made aware of much of this before getting here. In almost ten years, I’ve never seen a new Unit member get this far without the information I just told you. I wasn’t the one who was supposed to give it to you.
I have to call this in. We need to get you up to speed. Hope you understand.”
“I understand, Sergeant,” Arnold said. He didn’t. Arnold worried.
“Until then, I think we should keep the shop talk to a minimum,” Mike added gravely.
The calculated interaction evaporated. The men seemed genuinely embarrassed. So, Arnold thought, not only is this an above-top-secret post, but it was also a super-secret clusterfuck. Great.
“Please, believe me, Lieutenant Triska, we normally do not operate this way,” Mike offered.
They sat drinking tea. Again, Arnold wondered what he’d gotten himself into. The two sergeants sat uncomfortably for a few minutes until Arnold broke the tension.
“You know, my bag is still in the car, and I could stand to get out of this service uniform.”
“Absolutely,” Mike said. Anything to break the sour mood. “Andre, if you show the Lieutenant to his room, I’ll get his bag.”
“Sure,” Andre replied.
The two headed upstairs while Mike left the house through the kitchen door. Arnold followed Sergeant Nichols up the long staircase to the second floor. Mike was right. The house was very stable and well maintained. There was no creaking from the treads and the carved wood of the bannister held firmly when he put weight on it. The upper floor was divided into many rooms.
A narrow hallway to the right ran the length of the house with doors on both sides. At the very top of the stairs, a door to the left led to a large suite that occupied the entire half of the second floor. Another shorter hallway with three doors overlooked the staircase. Andre opened a door halfway down the long hall.
The room was right out of a 1940s movie. The scene declared itself "boardinghouse" or "orphanage." The room was very tidy and well-maintained as the rest of the house, but its features and fixtures were obviously original. A twin-size, steel-framed bed was pushed into the far corner by the window with a dark-stained pine night table beside it. A curved metal desk lamp colored in faded G.I. green sat on the night table. The wall paneling of narrow pine boards displayed so many decades of olive-drab paint that the joinery was obscured nearly to the point of disappearance. The plaster walls above the low paneling showed an orange peel texture that also gave the impression of many layers. Even the black coating on the narrow steel tubes of the bed frame showed where paint had been applied time and again over previous chipping and peeling. The room was half again wider than the bed was long. On the wall opposite the bed, a sturdy pine dresser stood dead center. Sergeant Nichols moved the room door aside to reveal a small sink bolted to the wall facing the foot of the bed. An antique medicine cabinet above the sink showed random lines in its mirror where the reflective backing fell away.
Mike bounded up the stairs with Arnold’s bag.
“There ya’ go Lieutenant.”
Mike opened the wardrobe to reveal bedding and towels neatly folded on the top shelf. Arnold cordially thanked both sergeants by way of dismissal. He wasted no time unpacking his modest gear. Arnold hung his suit on a wood hanger in the wardrobe. After a quick shower, he came back to the little room and changed into an Army athletic uniform. The softer material of the shorts and t-shirt were much more comfortable than his professional dress uniform. Arnold then went back downstairs to find the two sergeants.
He found them in the living room watching TV. Arnold sat in an easy chair and joined them. The sergeants lounged on two couches on either flank of the easy chair with a coffee table between. They all managed to lighten the mood with small talk for the rest of the evening. Their discussion devolved to the standard soldier banter—places they were stationed, time spent off duty, hobbies and girlfriends. The sergeants were still light on the details.
The TV news was dominated by the story of a fallen military satellite in New Mexico brought down by a record solar flare that was causing some trouble with the power gird up north. Arnold thought the story was odd, as he recalled that space junk usually fell into the ocean. Go figure, he thought, before Mike changed the channel to some science fiction TV show. Apparently, the sergeants liked science fiction. They seemed to know the plot of this particular rerun and had a friendly but spirited debate on its finer points. They all parted ways just after ten to get some sleep.
The bed was comfortable enough, but when Arnold stretched out on his stomach, his toes overshot the mattress and made contact with the metal frame. Normally, a thing like this wouldn’t bother him. He’d managed to sleep in the thin mountain air of Afghanistan while tracking down the radio signals of a high-value targets. Mortal peril was part of the job, but now it was career anxiety that kept him awake. He guessed he was just funny that way. A lot of soldiers found it easier to sleep with battle anxiety than things like a bad career move or who their significant other may be sleeping with.
What the hell was this Unit, Arnold asked himself. He had assumed that an above-top-secret Unit would be set in some high-tech underground lair or at least some secure corner of a military base somewhere. He guessed he’d just seen too many movies. After tossing a while, he gave up and decided to go for some iced tea.
He made his way through the dark house to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, grabbed the pitcher, and turned just as the sound of clinking glass made him jump. Someone was in the room. A figure shifted in the shadows.
“What the fu ...” he e
xclaimed, but it sounded more like, “whutha phhuu-ah”, as he jumped away from the refrigerator door. He barely managed to hang on to the pitcher.
A little wave of iced tea crested over the edge of the pitcher and sent a spray down the leg of his shorts. The refrigerator door swung closed. His eyes adjusted to the light difference and a second later the picture emerged of a woman seated at the kitchen table. In the moonlight, he made out the familiar pattern of Air Force BDU fatigues, then he was startled a second time.
Her skin was a deep umber that blended with the shadows nearest him and glowed with filtered moonlight on the far side. The light offered a silver glimmer from eyes the color of polished tourmaline gemstone and shaped like beads of rain about to fall. The full lips of her small mouth were a lighter and more vibrant umber without cosmetic aid. As those lips left the rim of a coffee mug, they presented a tentative smile, directing their corners toward high, broad, cheekbones that were underlined with dramatic effect by the strong edge of her jaw. The clenching in his chest from an unexpected presence turned from startlement to a tingling that began in his belly and traveled downward.
“Well,” came a firm voice on the deeper side of reedy, “I guess there’s no good way to announce yourself in a dark kitchen at two in the morning. Sorry about that,” she said.
Arnold gave a breath of relief that he pronounced, “Whew…”
“Glasses are in the cupboard to the left of the sink. Lots of them,” the woman said.
He hoped that moving to the darker side of the kitchen would hide his surprise and sudden attraction.
“Please have a seat,” she offered with a cordial, professional air.
He took a deep breath as he retained composure. Arnold sat down opposite her at the table with the high moonlight between them filtered by the treetops.
“I’m First Lieutenant Otema Conteh,” She said, pronouncing her last name "con-tay." She offered a small, lean hand with a strong grip. She already recognized him, but let him make the introduction.
“Lieutenant Arnold Triska. I didn’t hear anyone come in.”
The Genetic Imperative Page 13
