by D W McAliley
Steven chuckled softly. "Yeah, he told me about that. I guess I thought he was just BS'in me like usual."
Eric shook his head. "That one was true. I'd take a cigarette if you've got one, though. My fiancé would kill me if she knew, but given the past few days, I could sure use one."
Steven shrugged. "I wish I could help, but I never smoked. Deer can smell the smoke for a half mile on a windy day. You can keep a dip bottle closed, though."
Eric shuddered at the thought of the thick, oily flavor of the mint infused tobacco, and his stomach lurched and churned. Thankfully, Steven snapped the lid back on the can and stuck it in his back pocket.
"I only got three sleeves of it left," Steven said, glancing down at his feet. "I guess if what your dad said is true, I probably won't ever get any more. Probably just as good. Only way I ever would have quit."
"How is your brother these days?" Eric asked, trying to change the subject.
Steven turned his head and spat to the side. "Don't know, to tell you the truth. He got a job out west, packed his stuff up one night, and just left. Never wrote, never called. He's just gone."
"Wait, he moved out west?" Eric asked, confused. "Didn't even tell you guys where? What happened?"
Steven spat again and fixed him with an odd stare for a moment. "You've been gone a long time, man. He changed."
An uneasy silence hung between the two before Eric finally answered. "People don't change, Steven. Not really," he said, "People are who they are, and that's that. Everything else is just what they've already done or what they haven't done yet. People learn, they react differently, they grow.... but from what I've seen, they don't really change. There comes a point and you just are who you are."
Steven shrugged and spat again, but he didn't make any other response. Eric dropped the subject and tried to find something else to say, but he didn't know Steven as well as he knew Steven's brother. They just didn't have enough in common for such a personal conversation. After a long stretch of heavy silence, Steven snapped to his feet and pointed down the road.
"Somebody's coming," he said.
Eric squinted his eyes, but the lengthening shadows were growing dark with the setting of the sun, and he couldn't make out much. He was just about to tell Steven he was hallucinating when he finally caught the small dark speck of motion in the distance. Eric stood and shaded his eyes, straining to pick out any details he could. "Good eyes, Steven," Eric said softly. Steven spat to the side again and started to raise the shot gun. Eric turned to face him. "Lower the gun, Steven," he said. "We don't want the first thing they see to be a raised gun. Could send the wrong message."
Eric took a single step into the road. "You're on our land, standing watch at our gate. Put the shotgun down, Steven. Don't make me tell you again."
Steven cut his eyes at Eric and reluctantly lowered his shotgun. He even clicked the safety back on, but he kept his finger near the trigger.
"Unless someone shoots at you or shoots me," Eric said in a low voice, "you don't go raising that shotgun, you got it? Last thing I need is you pissing somebody off and gettin us both shot."
Steven mumbled something, but he didn't speak up, and he took two steps back from the gate. Eric stood in the center of the road, his hands resting easily on his M-4 rifle, the barrel carefully pointed down and to the left. He watched as the figure grew closer and more familiar.
"Go and get my dad," Eric said, but Steven stood his ground and shook his head. Eric ground his teeth. "Look, you need to go get my dad, Steven. I know this guy, and Dad's going to want to hear what he has to say."
Finally, with a heavy, impatient sigh, Steven turned and jogged toward the house. He made a show of taking his time as he moved, and he looked back more than once. Before he was halfway across the yard, Steven was walking and kicking at the grass. He was barely more than half Eric's age and had never known a world without cell phones, iPods, and the internet until now, and he was not taking the transition well.
Eric turned back to the heavy gate in time to see Brant skid to a stop in the deep sand under the trees. He was out of breath and sweating hard from the run. He doubled over, gasping for breath before he could speak. When he finally straightened, Eric tossed him a bottle of water.
"Thanks," Brant gasped, then took a long drink of the warm but clean water. "I jogged all the way here, and I guess I'm more out of shape than I realized."
Brant's eyes drifted up and over Eric's right shoulder for a brief moment; then he looked Eric in the eye and shook his head slowly, but he didn't speak. Eric could hear two pairs of foot steps behind him, and he didn't need to turn to know that his father was there.
"Brant," Joe said, "You're a little late for lunch."
Brant frowned not quite sure how to take Joe's comment and even less certain what to say. He finally blinked and with a slight shrug said, "I guess so, Mr. Tillman."
Eric's father gave him a long meaningful stare and then glanced pointedly at the shotgun hanging from a sling on Brant's shoulder. "Open the gate and let Brant in, Eric. Show him where the leftovers are so he can get some dinner. Steven, you stand guard and don't let anyone else get in, okay? I'll send Bill out here to take over, but until then you'll be on your own."
Steven forced a smile on his pale face and patted his shotgun. "I'll be okay, Mr. Tillman," he said, his voice cracking twice. It might have only been puberty catching up to him, but Eric suspected it was more fear than anything. Still, the young man planted his feet firmly in the middle of the road with as much bravado as his hundred and ten pound frame could muster.
Eric unlocked the gate and opened it just enough for Brant to step inside, then locked it back. When they turned, Eric's father was already halfway across the yard. Brant and Eric shared a confused look, but both shrugged it off and started walking toward the house. "I wasn't expecting this," Brant admitted under his breath. "I don't know exactly what I did expect, but it wasn't this."
When they got to the house, Joe was sitting on the front porch alone. A paper plate sat on the top brick step holding a tomato sandwich and some potato salad. Brant barely got out a mumbled thank you before he was eating ravenously. He finished his sandwich and slowed his eating enough to talk.
"Yesterday evening I noticed some smoke on the edge of the pasture across the road," Brant said as he took another long drink of water to wash down the last of the potato salad. "I was on the way to check it out when I heard the gun shots. Only one place they could have come from, and that's the upper pasture. I worked my way around to the back side of it and came through the pine trees. Saw a guy in the field dressing one of the yearlings. We keep the yearlings and young cows in that pasture together, and a pair of big Rottweiler's had them pinned in a corner."
"Did you get a good enough look at the man to recognize him?" Joe asked quietly.
Brant nodded. "I'm pretty sure he's from the other side of Bennett. When we were keeping the meat, we took our cows to a processing plant to get them butchered. Dad would pay the owner once a year with grass-fed prime cuts. He could sell them in his shop for four times the price of regular beef if not more, and it was worth it. I saw him in the back one day taking apart a white tail some hunter had brought in. He was quick and good, and he moved like he knew what he was doing."
"Was there anyone in the pasture with him other than the dogs?" Joe asked, and Brant shook his head.
"I heard a horse in the tree line," Brant said, "but I didn't see it, and once I saw the dogs I got out of there. They were focused on the cows, but I didn't want to risk them noticing me."
Joe sat silent and stared at the concrete in front of him for a long time. "What do you want, Brant?" he asked, finally, looking up at the young man. "Why did you come here?"
"For help," Brant replied, confused and somewhat intimidated.
"Help with what, boy?" Joe demanded. "I'm not the law. I ain't a judge."
Brant clenched his teeth and breathed heavily through his nose to gather his nerve. "I know th
at, Mr. Tillman. But I can't just let this guy take whatever he wants like this, and I know you. I've known you all of my life, and I figured you'd know what to do."
Joe sat back and crossed his arms. "I do know what to do Brant. And it isn't going to be nice, and it isn't going to be pretty. And I'm willing to do it for you, but we've got to come to an understanding first."
Brant's eyes narrowed. "What kind of understanding, sir?"
"I'll help you keep your herd," Joe said softly, seriously, "and I'll make sure no one takes what you got without paying a fair price first. But whatever you take in between now and next spring when we start planting we split fifty-fifty. That means any sales of the cows or any cows that are born, and I get to pick how I'm paid. And you get half of whatever we sell or trade or harvest."
Brant sat trying to digest all that Joe had just said. "When you say you'll help me keep it, what do you mean...exactly?"
"I was a Navy SEAL for more than twenty years, son," Joe replied. "It means I'll do whatever I have to do to make sure the job gets done. We'll rotate shifts guarding the herd, and you and your friends will move here with us for the time being."
"What happens at Spring planting?" Brant asked.
"We both get the chance to reevaluate our partnership and see if it's working or not," Joe answered. "If either of us wants out, it's done. We split the proceeds and go our separate ways."
"And if I say no?" Brant asked softly.
Joe took a deep breath, his eyes hard chips of stone. "Then you're on your own, Brant. I got my family to think about, and I just can't take a risk like that without knowing we're getting something we need in return. I don't think that's going to happen, though. I don't know about you, Brant, but we got nowhere else to go, son."
Brant let out a relieved chuckle, thankful to have someone on his side again. "Ain't that the truth," he said as he stood and offered Joe his right hand, "I agree all the way around, Mr. Tillman. Thank you, Mr. Tillman."
Unshed tears stood in Brant's eyes as Joe firmly shook his hand. He heaved a heavy sigh and straightened his back as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Joe pulled him in for a strong bear hug and Brant broke down. So much had happened in such a short time that it overwhelmed him finally to have a feeling of peace and security, if even for a brief moment.
"All right," Joe said after a moment, clapping Brant hard on the shoulder. "Let's go deal with this poacher."
Ch.28
Sacrifice
Marcus finished his report, and Commander Price was silent for a long moment. Finally, he stood and stepped around in front of his desk. He still wore his sidearm, as did the members of the tactical force he'd used to augment the security service. He'd even advised Marcus to wear his, but to Marcus, it just didn't feel right. Though after the stress and suspicion of the security checks, he was beginning to think the Commander might have a point.
"Let's take a walk, Lieutenant Commander," Price said as he motioned toward the door. Marcus stepped through and then Terry; both nodded to the Petty Officer serving as Commander Price's assistant for the day.
"Sir, I have status reports from the department head you requested," the Petty Officer said, indicating a stack of presentation folders on his desk. "There are a few requests you need to approve as well."
"When I get back, Travis," the Commander answered. The Petty Officer nodded and dropped back into his desk chair and began entering notes or data of some kind, his fingers flying across the keyboard with blinding speed.
After they were well out of earshot, Commander Price leaned over to Marcus and whispered, "That young man was a Navy SEAL for six years, then left the teams after being offered an instructor's slot. He worked for five years as a programmer for a bank. The way he got the job was pretty interesting, though. He walked into the bank's corporate loan office one day and managed to land an interview with a senior loan officer under the pretense of asking for a large operations loan. Instead, he told the man he needed to be hired as security specialist or the bank would be broke within five years."
"What happened?" Marcus asked after they paused for a custodian to pass with a cleaning cart.
"The loan officer laughed in his face and threatened to call security," Commander Price continued. "Travis back there whips out a micro-laptop and starts tapping away at it. Before security could get to the office, he'd hacked the bank's network, accessed their secure account data transfer system, created a ghost account and wiped out over three hundred and fifty small to mid-value corporate accounts. He dumped the funds into the ghost account, which had a built in shell program that immediately split the six hundred million plus into seventy three independent transfers to twenty previously established numbered accounts in the Bahamas. By the time the security team got to the office, Travis had them by the short and curlies. He got an immediate meeting with the VP in charge of operations and was hired on the spot to rewrite the bank's security codes for a onetime fee of twenty million. They gave him ten percent up front and the balance was to be paid as a lump sum at the end of the job."
"That took some guts," Marcus said. "He's lucky they didn't just arrest his butt and toss him in a jail cell for about twenty years or so."
"They threatened to, from what I understand," Commander Price said, "but it quickly became clear to their security staff that if they did, they'd have to explain how a man barely twenty-five years old managed to hack their system and wipe out a chunk of their small business credit lines and then get away with the money. Part of his deal for working with them was that he'd not only return the funds but he would also wipe all evidence that they were gone and make it look like a simple network failure."
"What about combat skills?" Marcus asked. Those kinds of considerations still seemed odd and somewhat out of place to Marcus, but he found himself beginning to think of everything in military terms.
"He saw some heavy action in Afghanistan and the first two years of Iraq," Commander Price answered. "He won four commendations for valor in six years of deployment. That says a lot."
Marcus nodded. He looked around at the halls and offices they were passing, as a puzzled frown creased his brow. Commander Price was taking them steadily lower into the facility. It would have been quicker to use the elevator, but instead they were winding their way along corridors and hallways that had a gentle downward grade. The halls would only take them so far, though, and eventually they'd have to get to the elevators in order to pay the prisoner a visit.
"I thought you wanted to stay away from the suspects," Marcus said cautiously. "Worried you'd lose your cool and do something that could compromise the investigations, right?"
"I know," Commander Price said through his clenched jaw, "but after listening to you, I feel like I need to see him for myself. I need to look him in the eye and see if he's lying or if he's really innocent in all of this."
Marcus didn't say anything more, but he didn't think it was a good idea. Commander Price had apparently said all he needed to say as well, and they walked in silence down the last few twists and turns of the corridor to one of the lowest level elevator banks that would take them deeper into the roots of Henry Mountain. A few dozen stories up, the solar panels turned in the bright Utah sun, soaking up energy and spitting out electricity. They weren't head up, though.
Marcus pressed the button, and they waited for the doors to slide open. Once they were inside, the doors slid closed and the elevator started down smoothly and quickly. At the bottom level. Two sentries guarded the door that lead into the security detention area, both of them from the Commander's specially selected tactical team. They both stood at attention when they saw Commander Price.
"At ease, men," Commander Price said, and the men relaxed just a fraction. "Quiet down here, I trust?"
The two nodded. The older man on the left nodded toward the door. "Not one word out of the suspect. No one's been down since the dinner tray was dropped off."
The Commander frowned and looked over at Marcus. "
Did you order a dinner tray?" he asked.
Marcus shook his head, "No. I dropped him off in here and came straight to your office to report."
Before Marcus had finished talking, Commander Price was already through the outer door and running down the corridor of empty security cells. He slid to a stop outside the last cell and fumbled with his keys. Finally, he got the right one and flung open the door.
Petty Officer Jacobs lay on the floor, the contents of his dinner tray spread across the small bed and table. Foam was still dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and his face was a horrible shade of purplish red. A thin, watery trail of blood ran from his nose.
Marcus checked Jacobs' pulse, but shook his head. "He's gone, sir," Marcus said, and he gently closed the Petty Officer's eyes.
"Do you remember who brought the tray?" Commander Price asked the two security guards.
Both of them shook their heads, and the senior one let out a string of curses. "Sir, we checked the tray for any knives, forks, anything looked like it could be used as a weapon, but it cleared. We sent the orderly back up and I brought the tray to the Petty Officer."
"It's not your fault," Commander Price reassured the man. "You two take the elevator up to habitat level F. Seal it and make sure no one gets on until we come up, understand? Once we get up there, I'll send the base doctor back down. No one but the doc, the Lieutenant Commander here, or myself gets on that elevator, men. Understand?"
"Yes sir," both men said together. They turned and marched back down the hallway, leaving Commander Price and Marcus in the room with the dead man.
"I guess we know he wasn't part of it, at least," Marcus said once they were alone.
"Not necessarily," the Commander said with a slight shake of his head, "spies in the sixties used to carry cyanide capsules around in case they got caught. They would use them from time to time too."
