The general inclined his head again. Without even looking at his watch, he said, “Better get moving, captain. You have a flight to catch. Sorry it isn’t first class this time.”
Turnbull stood and extended his hand. Travis met his grip, then stepped back and saluted. After the general acknowledged it with his own, Travis turned a crisp about-face and marched out of the hangar without looking back.
The flight from Andrews AFB outside Washington, DC, to Joint Base Lewis-McChord in Washington State gave Travis a lot of time to think. The general had been right—the flight was far from first class. He boarded a noisy C-17 Globemaster III, a transport jet even larger and faster than the turboprop he’d flown out of Afghanistan. Filled with a load of soldiers returning home from tours in Iraq, the plane was noisy in more ways than one. On almost every face Travis saw an expression of relief with a little incredulity thrown in, as if they couldn’t believe they’d been lucky enough to walk away from the war alive and unscathed.
Support had filled the cargo bay with rows of seats, five abreast down the center of the plane and a row of jump seats on each side. The plane had no windows, and didn’t offer an in-flight movie. The middle rows of seats looked moderately comfortable, but Travis had been assigned one of the jump seats. As soon as he sat down, he could tell that his butt would hurt within an hour. A master sergeant on one side faced him.
“Looks like we’re stuck with other for the next five hours, sir,” he said. He put out his hand. “Jones. Master Sergeant Hal Jones.”
“Barrett,” Travis said, shaking his hand. “These your soldiers?”
“Some of them. Got most of a company here. A few didn’t make it.”
“Where were you stationed?”
“Diyala Province, north of Baghdad.”
“Stryker brigade?”
“Yes, sir. How about yourself?”
“I’m just hitching a ride, sergeant. I was in Afghanistan and got reassigned.”
Travis made polite conversation with the sergeant for a while, but the enlisted officer quickly got the picture that Travis had a lot on his mind and desired a little solitude.
General Turnbull had given Travis the perfect opportunity to alter the course of events. If Travis could pull off this mission, it would literally be a game-changer. That’s what it was, of course, all of it. A game. A bunch of overgrown kids—boys in men’s bodies mostly, to be honest—in a map room somewhere, surrounded by computers, applying game theory to outmaneuver their opponents. They used people like Travis as pawns in the game, expendable pieces, moving them around the board at whim.
The real irony, Travis knew, was that the biggest gamer of them all, the game-theory genius, was a pacifist at heart. A man who abhorred war. James didn’t understand war’s necessity, didn’t get why countries, religious factions, or ethnic groups couldn’t solve their differences by playing an online video game. Sometimes you could bring those disparate groups to the table and hammer out an agreement. That wasn’t the point. Travis knew that the aspirations and desires of individuals—greed, power, lust—usually outweighed the minor, or even major, differences of the groups they represented. And sometimes the cause was plain evil, pure and simple. Travis firmly believed evil existed in the world. He’d seen too many horrors not to.
Maybe, just maybe, though, this was Travis’s chance to change the game. He’d have to be extremely careful. James wasn’t stupid, and if he got even a whiff that something wasn’t right, the whole thing could blow up in Travis’s face. But if Travis played his cards right, he could take over the whole project, maybe even more, and flush out the threat at the same time. He’d love to see the look on James’s face if he pulled it off. But if he succeeded, James would be out of the picture. Travis went through the pros and cons again.
He came to a decision.
He started to plan, making mental lists of what he’d need.
A few hours later, the big plane touched down at McChord AFB just south of Tacoma. He’d been traveling for more than twenty-six hours, but his watch said he’d left only about fourteen hours ago due to all the time zones he’d crossed. Waiting until all the other soldiers had deplaned, he shouldered his duffel and filed out after them.
Inside, he asked where he could find a car rental agency and was told there was one at the post exchange, or PX, over at Fort Lewis. Travis found it curious that army soldiers served on “posts,” but sailors and airmen served on “bases.” The combined army and air force operations at Fort Lewis and McChord AFB were also called a “base,” though a joint one. He found a map of the base, pinpointed the building that housed the rental agency, went outside, and started walking.
A cold spring rain beat down on his head. Travis turned up the collar of his army combat uniform and tugged his green beret forward a little so the rain wouldn’t drip in his eyes. He longed for his patrol cap. Travis hadn’t walked more than a few hundred yards when a car pulled up next to him. He ignored it, but the passenger window rolled down and a voice called out.
“Captain Barrett!”
Travis turned to see the sergeant from the plane leaning out the window. A pretty blonde woman sat in the driver’s seat.
“Hey, sergeant.”
“Where you headed, captain?”
“Over to the PX to rent a car.”
“Get in. We’ll give you a ride.”
“You just got home. I’m sure your wife has other plans.”
The blonde leaned over the seat. “Not at all. It’s the least we can do. It’s on our way.”
“Well, if you’re sure it’s no imposition.”
Jones turned around and opened the back door. “You heard the lady, captain. Get in out of that rain.”
Travis threw his duffel on the backseat and climbed in after it. He stared out the window on the way across the base, amazed by the activity, the constant motion and noise. Vehicles and planes traveled in every direction. The only movement in the mountains of Afghanistan had been goats and sheep, the occasional Taliban patrol on horseback in the distance, and sometimes a vehicle on the dirt road. Most of the locals were far too poor to own cars.
The sergeant’s wife pulled up in front of a huge building and stopped. Travis got out and thanked them profusely for the ride. They seemed almost embarrassed by his gratitude, so he reined in his emotions and turned away with a wave. Inside, he found the rental counter and filled out the paperwork for a compact. He wouldn’t need much more than that to get around. He didn’t plan on keeping it long. In a few days, he’d exchange it for something more utilitarian for his new “assignment.” He got a map and directions along with his keys, and went out to find his car.
As he drove off the base, he wondered what it would be like to be a civilian again. On one hand, he’d had tremendous freedom in the army to perform his job as he saw fit. Though for the most part that had meant sleeping on dirt floors in huts without running water and cooking over an open fire for the past six years. The modernity all around him was a bit of a shock. The freeway was clogged with commuters driving personal vehicles, wasting gas and fouling the air. Everywhere he turned people were plugged into communications devices, talking or texting on cell phones, or networking on tablet computers. It was as if the world had passed him by.
Not that he hadn’t had the world’s best and coolest technology available to him in the Stans, courtesy of Uncle Sam and James’s company. Communications, weaponry, navigation—all were made possible by the latest in hi-tech gear. They could see at night with infrared goggles, shoot at unseen targets with smart weapons, narrow down locations to one square foot with GPS devices, find and disarm IEDs with ground-penetrating radar, and listen in on the enemy with cell phone interception equipment and decryption software. James had made it possible for Travis to do his job without getting anywhere near the enemy. But here, back in the States, all that gadgetry seemed to isolate people more than connect them.
He drove north, past Sea-Tac airport, along the shore of Lake Washington, adm
iring the beautiful terrain. Water glittered on one side, forested hills rose up on the other toward mountains in the distance. He’d never been to that part of the world, but he could see why James had been convinced to move up there from California. While California held its own appeal, with wildly different topography and natural beauty throughout the state, Travis couldn’t deny that Seattle was pretty, even in the rain.
After twenty minutes, he exited the freeway and meandered through a suburban neighborhood that felt almost rural. The area was hilly and heavily wooded, so the houses were hard to see from the road and unobtrusive. The curvy road wound between steep hillsides and deep ravines, both dense with towering trees and thick undergrowth, in spots blotting out the sun. He finally found the drive that led down toward the water. A house number engraved on a granite boulder at the edge of the drive matched the address he’d committed to memory.
Travis slowed and turned in, stopping momentarily. The property wasn’t fenced and the drive had no gate, making the house below about as secure as a box of tissues. That would be among the first things Travis changed. He eased down the pitched drive, keeping his foot on the brake, passing a tennis court and a small guesthouse surrounded by trees on the way down toward the lake. He pulled up under the porte cochere at the front door to the main house. Leaving his duffel in the car, he went up the steps and rang the bell.
Travis waited nearly a minute. As he reached for the bell again, the door suddenly opened, revealing a beautiful young woman. Travis nearly bit his lip to keep from sucking in his breath with a startled gasp. His niece had grown so much since he’d last seen her that he’d almost mistaken her for his sister-in-law Sally.
The girl gave him a guarded smile. “Can I help you?”
“Is your dad home?” Travis said.
Before the girl could reply, a man’s voice called out behind her, “Who is it, honey?”
“Someone for you, Dad.”
The girl turned and swung the door open, and James stepped into view.
“Hello, big brother,” Travis said.
James’s mouth dropped open in surprise, then a big smile spread across his face.
“Tess,” he said to the girl, “meet your Uncle Travis.”
CHAPTER 9
The ride Alice gave me to chauffeur Tess to school was about as sweet as they get—a BMW 6 Series convertible in titanium silver. The drive wasn’t as pleasant as it should have been in a piece of machinery like that since Tess was as sour as the car was sweet. She hated me. Well, she didn’t know me well enough to hate me, but she hated the idea of me. And I had to admit that seeing-eye dog wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind when I signed on for the position. But I’d only been on the job for an hour, so I figured I’d at least give it a chance. Besides, I still got chills thinking about the call from Bigsby. I needed the money.
Tess sat silently in the passenger seat. I thought she was staring out the window, but then I remembered that she couldn’t see. It would take some getting used to; she didn’t look blind. I mean, she didn’t have that weird visor that was supposed to look like some hi-tech X-ray specs that the blind guy on Star Trek wore. What’s his name—Geordi. She didn’t wear shades to hide atrophied eyes like Stevie Wonder. In fact, she had some of the most gorgeous eyes I’d ever seen. Not that I was swayed by her looks.
I could get used to the silence, too. A mopey, quiet teenager seemed better than a rebellious, loud one. If I was going to spend a lot of time with her, though, it would help to be on speaking terms. I flipped on the charm switch.
“Okay,” I said, “here’s one for you. How many elephants will fit into a Mini?”
“What?” She turned her head.
“How many elephants will fit into a Mini?”
“I don’t know.”
“Four. Two in front, two in back.”
“Oka-a-a-y.”
“How many giraffes will fit into a Mini?”
“How many giraffes?”
“None. It's full of elephants.”
Silence.
I tried again. “How do you know there are two elephants in your refrigerator?”
“I bet you’re going to tell me,” she said in a way that indicated she really didn’t care.
“You can hear giggling when the light goes out,” I said. I motored on without waiting for a reaction. “How do you know there are three elephants in your refrigerator?”
“I’ll bite. How?”
“You can't close the door.”
I heard a snort that could have been suppressed laughter and risked a glance at her. She’d turned her head, but I thought I saw the corner of her mouth curl up just a skosh.
“How do you know there are four elephants in your refrigerator?” I said.
She sighed. “Oh, please. Not more elephants.”
“There's an empty Mini parked outside.”
She exhibited no reaction, but I think it took all of her self-control to maintain a poker face.
“Okay,” I said, “last one. How can you tell when an elephant’s sitting behind you?”
“Duh! Like everybody doesn’t know the answer to that one,” she said, her tone about as acidic as espresso. “When you smell the peanuts on its breath.”
“No, actually. I was going to say, ‘When everyone ignores it.’”
“That’s random.”
“I was trying to be subtle.”
“What does that mean?”
“The elephant in the room—or the car in this case—is the fact that you’re blind. Want to tell me how it happened?”
“Not really.” She folded her arms and leaned back in the seat.
“I’m sure I can find out from Alice.”
“A car accident, okay?”
“You don’t want to talk about it. How come?”
She sat up and said vehemently, “Because . . .” But before she finished the thought she shook her head and slumped back in the seat. “Just because.”
“How long ago was this?”
“I said I’m not going to talk about it.”
“Hey, just trying to make conversation as long as we’re stuck with each other.”
“I’m not stuck with you.”
“Until Alice says otherwise, I think you are.”
She was silent for a moment, apparently absorbing the truth of my statement.
“Is that how you see this situation? You’re stuck with me?”
“Let me rephrase it. I’m stuck with this situation because I need a job. I don’t live in a ritzy house with rich parents.”
“My parents are dead!” She burst into tears.
I’m not sure which took me aback more, the shock of her admission or the crying. I was just glad she couldn’t see me trying to wrestle my size-twelve foot out of my mouth. Judging from how hot my face felt, I was sure I turned a bright shade of vermillion.
“Tess, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
But with the amount of time I’d spent in school I should have been smart enough to figure it out—the interview with the housekeeper, no sign of parents in the house. Though they could have been the type who were too busy with their own lives to bother meeting the latest household hire. Maybe I’d been parentless myself long enough that the absence of hers hadn’t registered. At least I’d had Nana and Pop-Pop. And now I’d made her cry twice in the first hour on the job.
Her sobbing eased. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and screwed them in tight. I rummaged around in the center console, found a travel pack of tissues, and managed to pull one out. I reached over and tickled her hand with it, keeping my eyes on the road. She tugged it out of my fingers.
“I really am sorry,” I said. “I’m usually not this big a jerk. Could we maybe start over?”
She sniffed. “A little late for that, isn’t it?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. I focused on driving for the next few minutes and pulled into the high school lot about eight minutes early. All the visitors’ parking spaces
were filled, so I pulled into the handicap space.
“We’re here,” I said.
I got Tess’s pink book bag out of the backseat and went around to open the passenger door for her. She swung her legs out of the car and extended a hand. I took it, helped her stand, and handed her the bag. She slung it over her shoulder. I closed the car door, took her elbow, and walked her across the drive to the walkway leading to the front entrance. I dug into my pocket for her class schedule.
“Okay, so your first class is—”
“I know what it is. I’ve been in school, just not at school.”
“Right. Wait, you mean you’ve been homeschooled? Who’s your tutor? Alice?”
“Alice and Yoshi.”
“And Alice has been teaching you in the same order as the school schedule? English history block with Prescott first? Curb.”
“What?”
I stepped over the curb onto the walkway, but Tess stubbed her toe and would have done a face-plant on the concrete if I hadn’t tightened my grip on her arm and pulled her upright. Her momentum swung her in a semicircle and she crashed into me. I grabbed her other arm and held her steady. When she realized she was all right and standing toe to toe with me instead of lying on the ground, she turned pink and her pretty face twisted up in fury. She wrested one arm loose, stepped back, and took a swing at me, landing a fist hard on my arm.
“Ow!”
“What the heck is wrong with you?” she cried.
“I said ‘curb.’”
“That’s it? No warning? Just ‘curb’ and I’m supposed to get it?”
“Well, yeah. You just pick up your feet. Why don’t you use a cane or a stick, anyway?”
“Why don’t you use one? Then maybe you could find your way over a curb without leading me right into it.”
We’d turned a small crowd of heads, but since class was about to start curious onlookers gaped for only a moment and kept moving.
“I don’t use a white cane,” she said, “because they take a lot of practice, and I haven’t had the time yet. And even if I could use one, I wouldn’t last long before I got laughed out of high school. Bad enough I have you.”
Blind Rage Page 6
