Blind Rage

by Michael W. Sherer

  Travis’s headset crackled to life. The chopper’s copilot turned around to look at him.

  “Captain Barrett?” the copilot said. “We’re bringing you in as close as possible to your transport, but we’re running a little behind schedule.”

  Travis nodded to let the pilot know he understood.

  “You’ll have to hustle, sir.” The copilot flashed a grin. “Crew’s pissed we’re making them wait for you. Don’t expect very good cabin service.”

  Travis smiled back and thumbed his mic. “After five months in the field, hot coffee would seem like first class.”

  True to the copilot’s word, the chopper descended rapidly as it neared the airfield, buzzing low over the ground toward the end of a clay runway that ran parallel to the paved main runway. In the dark, Travis saw the silhouette of one of the big C-130 Hercules turboprop transport planes, airport lights illuminating a painted stripe on each of the spinning propellers. The pilot set the chopper down twenty yards away. As soon as it settled on its landing gear, Travis jumped out the open door, duffel slung over his shoulder. He ran toward the plane, the big open ramp in the rear beckoning him. Two soldiers standing in the opening waved him on.

  The moment his feet hit the metal ramp, one of the crew hit a button and the ramp lifted off the ground. The other soldier spoke into a handheld mic and the big plane immediately began to roll down the runway. Travis dashed the rest of the way up the ramp, and all three of them scurried forward through the empty cargo hold to a row of webbed seats on the starboard side.

  “Sit anywhere you want,” a crew member yelled over the roar of the engines.

  Travis nodded, stowed his duffel, and strapped himself into a seat. The plane accelerated down the runway and gradually lifted into the air, slowly climbing into the night sky. When they reached cruising altitude, a crewman unbuckled his seatbelt, dug into a cooler on the seat next to him, and fished out a bottle of water. He tossed it to Travis, who caught it and nodded gratefully.

  Looks like I’m flying in economy.

  He took a sip of water, closed his eyes, and let the drone of the engines slowly lull him to sleep.

  Nine hours later, the big transport plane touched down in Wiesbaden, Germany. They’d been racing away from the sun, so it was still dark outside when they taxied in to the terminal. He thanked the crew, though they hadn’t done much except watch him sleep, and deplaned out the port hatch. Stiff from the long flight, he tried to work out the kinks as he walked across the tarmac. Inside, he found a bank of vending machines and bought a cup of coffee that tasted terrible and a granola bar, which he consumed in three bites.

  Personnel at an operations desk steered him to another part of the terminal for his next flight. No one manned the gate, and there was no transport plane on the tarmac outside the window, so Travis sat down and waited. When no one showed after fifteen minutes, Travis got up and paced impatiently. Catching a whiff of himself, he realized his uniform was getting a little ripe. He got some toiletries out of his duffel and went looking for a restroom. When he found one, he stripped to the waist and washed up as well as he could, donned a fresh T-shirt, and put on his uniform shirt again. After he brushed his teeth, he went back to the gate and reclaimed his seat.

  Ten minutes later, a female enlistee in a blue Class B dress uniform approached him and stood at attention. She saluted as he rose to his feet.

  “Captain Barrett?” she said.

  Travis returned her salute. “At ease, corporal.”

  She relaxed. “Sorry you had to wait, sir. We’ve been fueling and servicing the aircraft. You’re welcome to board now.”

  A tall brunette, she wore her hair pulled back and twisted in a bun below the uniform black beret. She led the way to a door that opened onto the tarmac. Travis followed, his mouth opening in disbelief when he saw that the transport wasn’t another noisy cargo plane or big troop carrier, but a sleek C-37A, the military version of a Gulfstream V. USAPAT only sent one of its Army First Jet Detachment C-37s for top brass—nothing less than a full four-star general, and usually only for cabinet members.

  “There’s been some mistake,” Travis said as the corporal climbed the folding stairs to the cabin door.

  She stopped halfway up and turned. “No mistake, Captain Barrett. We need to ferry this plane back to Andrews, and we got a call that you needed a ride. No sense in wasting fuel.”

  Travis shook his head. “If you say so.”

  He climbed the staircase and ducked to enter the plane. Once inside, he had just enough headroom to stand upright.

  The corporal motioned into the cabin. “Take any seat you like.”

  Travis looked at her nameplate. “Thanks, Corporal White.”

  He walked past a galley where a specialist was preparing something that smelled delicious. The corporal helped him stow his duffel, and he took a seat in a comfortable leather armchair. Before long, the plane rolled down the runway and leaped into the air.

  Once they reached cruising altitude, Corporal White came into the cabin with a cup of coffee for Travis and made sure he was comfortable. They chatted for a few minutes, then she returned to the galley and finished preparing breakfast for Travis and the crew. After he ate, the corporal offered him a choice of movies to watch, which kept him occupied for a couple of hours. When the movie was over, he read for a while, then got up to stretch and walk around.

  The specialist he’d seen in the galley, he learned, operated the plane’s communications systems. During the course of the flight, he also met all three warrant officers who served as cockpit crew—a pilot, copilot, and flight engineer. He hadn’t felt so pampered in a long time.

  About an hour before landing, Corporal White served sandwiches to Travis and the crew, after which Travis settled back into the cushy chair and dozed off. He awoke when the corporal gently shook his shoulder and asked him to fasten his seatbelt for landing. Twenty minutes later, at only eight thirty in the morning local time, the sleek jet touched down at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington, DC. It taxied in and stopped outside a hangar near the end of one of the runways. Travis thanked the crew profusely, retrieved his bag, and exited the plane.

  A corporal in fatigues stood at the bottom of the stairs. He straightened and saluted as Travis descended.

  “Captain Barrett, sir.”

  Travis saluted back. “At ease, soldier.”

  “I have transportation for you, sir.” The corporal led the way to a jeep parked a few yards away. Travis threw his duffel in back and climbed in. The corporal started it up and accelerated quickly. Driving around the corner of the hangar, he headed for another large building behind it.

  “When’s my transport out?” Travis shouted over the wind rush.

  “You have a little less than an hour, sir,” the corporal said. “Plenty of time.”

  He slowed the jeep and pulled up in front of a door that looked small in the side of the huge building. Then Travis noticed that the door was cut into a much larger door—one of a set of two on rolling tracks. Another hangar after all.

  “What’s this?” Travis said.

  “Small detour, sir. Inside. I’ll wait out here for you, sir.”

  Travis searched the soldier’s face, but it was expressionless. He shrugged and got out, walked to the door, and opened it.

  The interior of the cavernous building was dark. Travis stood just inside the door for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He spotted a pool of light off to one side, nearly a hundred feet away, and walked toward it. The thud of his boots on the hard concrete floor echoed dully. A lone figure leaned against a workbench at the edge of the lighted circle. When Travis drew close enough to recognize the man, he stopped short in surprise and stiffened to attention, snapping a sharp salute.

  “General Turnbull, sir. Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you, sir.”

  Brigadier General Jack Turnbull returned Travis’s salute. He was an inch or two shorter than Travis, but more imposing somehow. His brush-cu
t sandy hair was turning gray at the temples, revealing his true age of fifty-two, but he appeared to be in the same physical condition as Travis—broad-shouldered and muscular—despite being nearly twice his age.

  “Good morning, captain.” The general smiled, showing white, perfectly even teeth. “Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way—how are you, Travis?”

  “I’m good, sir. Tired, but fine. It’s been a long flight. A couple of them.”

  “Glad to hear it. Come, sit down.” The general motioned to a small table.

  Travis took a seat, but the general remained standing, putting Travis on alert.

  “I understand congratulations are in order,” the general said. “That was good work last night. Intelligence analysts at this morning’s briefings say taking out al-Samara may well have dealt a major blow to al-Q.”

  Travis sighed. “Thank you, sir. I hope so. Seems al-Q’s more like a hydra than we bargained on. Ever time we cut off one of its heads, it grows two more.”

  “It won’t always be like this, Trav. With your help, we are winning this war.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without the team this time, general.”

  “Jack, please. We can stop being soldiers for five minutes.”

  Travis looked at him curiously. Brigadier General Jack Turnbull headed up the Strategic Intelligence Collection & Containment unit, and had taken Travis under his wing and into his confidence almost as soon as Travis had joined the unit. Travis had more immediate bosses, like Major Dunphy in Afghanistan, who’d given him his marching orders back to the States. But over the years he’d met with and gotten occasional calls from General Turnbull, checking in on him.

  “Why am I here, Jack?” he said finally.

  “Always on, aren’t you, Trav? Can’t rest for a second. Guess that’s what makes you one of my most valuable assets.” He paused. “Two reasons: first, to impress upon you the seriousness of this assignment—”

  “I always take family seriously, sir,” Travis interrupted, frowning.

  Turnbull held up his hand. “Second, to suggest that this time we preempt the threat.”

  “What, like find out where the threat’s coming from and neutralize it before it happens?”

  “No, I mean carry out the threat before whoever’s planning it does.”

  Travis stared at him, mouth agape. The idea was insane. “Are you joking, sir?”

  “Hear me out,” the general said.

  CHAPTER 6

  I stopped in the restroom to wash my hands and face and tamp down the most stubborn of the cowlicks, then hustled out.

  By now you probably think I’m the worst kind of slacker—a trust-fund baby, spoiled rotten. I prefer to think of myself as having lacked direction, purpose. Maybe the call from Bigsby was just the thing I had needed, a swift kick in the pants to move me off what had been a stationary bike—lots of pedaling that had taken me nowhere.

  I got on my real bike—I don’t own a car since the trust fund only paid for education and basic living expenses—and pedaled back to the cramped efficiency apartment I lived in off campus. After changing into slacks, a dress shirt, and tie in record time, I locked up, got back on my bike, and rode several blocks to a bus stop close to campus. Fortunately, I didn’t wait long before a bus arrived. I hefted the bike onto the rack in front and boarded, feeding most of my remaining cash into the fare box. If Bigsby wasn’t pulling a late April Fools’ joke, I’d have to stretch the few remaining funds I had until I actually started earning money.

  The trip across the lake to one of the east side’s more exclusive suburban enclaves took half an hour, which meant I had about twelve minutes to ride the remaining three miles and find the address. Eleven minutes later, I pulled up in front of an iron gate a little winded and slightly damp. An intercom and magnetic strip key box were affixed to a post on one side. I pushed the intercom button. A moment later a voice answered—the same woman who’d spoken to me on the phone.

  “Who is it, please?”

  “Oliver Moncrief,” I said. “I have an appointment for an interview.”

  “Go straight to the main house,” she said. “Park anywhere.”

  The main house?

  With a click and a buzz, the massive gate rolled back, pulled on rollers by a chain. I walked the bike through, got on, and coasted down a long drive, first passing a tennis court and then what I supposed must be a guesthouse, though it looked as if it could accommodate two or three large families. Finally, a six-bay garage appeared just before the pavement ended in a large circle. At the top of the circle a porte cochere extended out over the drive from a structure that made the house my grandparents Donald and Edith had lived in down in Florida look like a shack.

  I leaned the bike against a stone pillar flanking the steps up to the porch and went up to the front door, a monstrous slab of wood that looked as imposing as a bank vault door. Before I could push the doorbell, the door swung inward, revealing a petite, mousy-haired woman old enough to be my aunt. She looked more foreboding—and harder to get past—than the door. She looked me over, her eyes taking a hike from my tousled hair to the scuffed running shoes I’d worn instead of loafers in deference to practicality.

  If ever someone could do a strip search by simply staring, she’d be the first. I was about to suggest the TSA might be very interested in talking to her about replacing their scanners at airport security when she offered a faint smile and put her hand out.

  “Mr. Moncrief, won’t you come in, please? My name is Alice. Alice Pemberton.”

  “Call me Oliver, please.”

  Anything but Ollie.

  I shook her hand—she had a firm grip—and stepped inside a foyer that was two stories tall and tiled in Italian travertine marble. I recognized it thanks to an art history class—the travertine marble part, at least. The Italian part I deduced, since that’s where a ton of the stuff comes from, and a guess that whoever built the house wouldn’t settle for less than “the best.” Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you don’t learn anything in college. A sweeping, curved staircase in warm cherry wood rose up to the floor above.

  She looked past me, then turned to me with a puzzled look.

  “Where is your car?” she said.

  “I don’t have one. I biked and bussed.”

  For a moment her brow furrowed in annoyance, but she shrugged it off and closed the door.

  The entry opened out into a three-story great room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the lake and the mountains beyond. Not easily impressed or taken to using words like breathtaking, even I have to admit the view made me forget to breathe for a moment. The room was tastefully furnished in modern pieces with clean lines, nothing garish or foo-foo. My entire living quarters could easily have fit into one of the room’s sitting areas.

  Alice led me down a long hallway filled with framed black-and-white photographs and colorful paintings and past a huge kitchen with so much stainless-steel-and-white cabinetry it looked like a hospital operating theater. Alice stopped at the doorway to a small room just beyond it and gestured inside.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  The room was laid out like an office, with a desk, filing cabinets, a bookcase on one wall, and two chairs. I took the chair closest to the wall and perched on the edge of the seat as Alice rounded the desk and sat across from me.

  “Did you bring a résumé with you?” she said.

  “It didn’t seem appropriate. I have nothing to put on one.”

  “You really have no work experience at all?”

  “I worked in one of the campus dining rooms for a semester. I don’t think I’m suited for a career in foodservice. But I was a TA in my master’s degree program. It was a requirement.”

  “Teacher’s assistant?” she sighed. “Well, that’s something. Quite a lot, actually.”

  “I can give you names of several professors who can serve as references. Do you want to see my transcripts?”

  “No, that�
�s fine, Oliver. We will, of course, conduct a thorough background check before we offer you the position—if we decide to, that is. Since you can’t tell me about your previous jobs, tell me about yourself. Are you from the area?”

  I gave her the abbreviated version of my life, skipping all the family history, and answered a bevy of questions as honestly and enthusiastically as I could. She stumped me with one about what I want to be when I grow up. I think that’s why I’d been a professional student for so long—not because I didn’t want to grow up, but because I didn’t know what I wanted to be. Alice looked at me for a very long minute before she nodded her head.

  “Barring any criminal activity or other unsavory behavior turned up by the background check, I think you’ll do,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, but I missed the part where you described the position,” I said. “What, exactly, will I be doing?”

  “I guess that’s a fair question.” She paused, as if trying to figure out what to say. “There’s a young lady in this house who was ill for some time. She’s a student, like you, and she’s about to return to school for the first time in a year. She needs a personal assistant who can help her organize her schoolwork, take notes in class, serve as her secretary and type her papers, tutor her if necessary, and in general act as her escort and companion. You’ll be responsible for getting her to and from school. We’ll have to add you to the insurance policy as a driver and let you use one of our cars.” She scribbled a note to herself. “And you’ll take her wherever else she needs to go—errands, shopping, extracurricular activities, to visit friends, etcetera. Do those duties sound as though they’re within your abilities, Oliver?”

  “I think so, ma’am.”

  What she was describing sounded like a gofer to a spoiled little rich b____ (rhymes with “itch”)—excuse me, girl. But slackers can’t be choosers. And how hard could it be, really?