by Jesse Jordan
I go and get my current drawing pad, I've still got three blank sheets in the pack of twenty five pages, and pass it through the slot. Brown opens to my most recently completed page, evaluating the picture inside. “Wow,” he says, looking over the image. “She's beautiful. Is that a West Point uniform she's wearing?”
“Yes. The class uniform. She should be graduating soon, so I drew her studying in order to wish her luck,” I reply, and Brown closes my book, handing it back. “Thank you.”
“Also came by to tell you that your work shift got changed. You got ten minutes.”
I turn and grab my undershirt, pulling it on before buttoning my prisoner's uniform top, making sure I am fully tucked and presentable. I still take pride in my appearance, although after six months I have allowed to grow my hair out a little bit longer than before. “Of course. Someone has to wash the dishes from dinner, no?”
Brown unlocks my cell, his hand on his club, and I step out, my rubber soled shoes squeaking on the concrete. It is funny, the Army won't transfer me to a normal federal prison, I was actually in the military when I turned myself in. But, unused to dealing with confessed foreign national spies, they are unwilling to bend their rules. One of the main rules in the prisoner barracks at Fort Leavenworth is that everyone works if they are medically able or are not a violent threat to the guards. This makes it a little more challenging in regards to me. There is a good chance that I could get assaulted, and while Leavenworth does not have the prison gang problem that some prisons have, they would prefer if I don't get myself shanked.
So I am escorted every time I leave my cell. To the yard to do my two hours of exercise each day, to the kitchen where I wash dishes (they do not yet trust me with washing the knives), and to the shower each evening where I am allowed to shave and clean myself.
I am not afraid of the other prisoners, however. What the Army does not understand is that most of the people I interact with have even less loyalty to the United States than I do. I at least have one reason to care about this country, even if I will probably never see her again. As I wash the hundreds of plastic trays, rinsing them off before setting them in racks to carry to the industrial washer that will wash, sanitize, and then dry them before I haul the burning hot racks to the shelves to be put away for tomorrow's breakfast, I think about Christina.
After my three hour shift, I go back to my cell and sit down on my bed. There are still two hours before lights out, so I take out my sketch pad and one of my pencils, and start work on my next piece. There's six days until Christina graduates from the Academy, and I'd like to have it finished in time. She may never see it, but I can hold out hope.
Work today was harder than normal, in addition to the trays it seems I have been deemed trustworthy enough to wash the pots and pans too. I finish my duties, wipe my wrinkly hands on a towel, and allow the guard to escort me back to my cell. I am surprised when, instead of turning right at the intersection that would take me in the direction of the prisoner cells, we turn left.
I'm even more surprised when we go past the interrogation rooms to the exercise yard, one of the isolated cages that are used by prisoners in the high security unit. Opening the door, the guard gestures, and I step through. “What am I doing here?”
a man says, stepping out of the shadows. He's a Captain, although the gravitas in his eyes says that he's seen things beyond what a normal Captain should be seeing.
The Captain chuckles, and switches to English. “I guess that's the last time I try to impress a native speaker with my mastery of the language. And yes, I did learn at the Academy. That's part of the reason I chose today to come talk to you. You mind if we just sit down?”
“You're not worried that the Mad Russian is going to assault you?” I ask with a chuckle, but I squat down against the fence. These mini-yards are only used by prisoners who are on administrative isolation for violence. I am glad the prison says I don’t have to be here all the time, I always feel like a dog in a kennel inside them. “Better?”
I'm surprised when the Captain sits down too, all the way onto his backside, his hands resting easily on the knees of his ACUs with his feet in front of him. It's a good position, and I can see he's had some hand to hand training. He looks relaxed, and can maintain that position for a long time, but if I did try something, he can defend himself well.
I laugh, shrugging.
Simon Lancaster shifts around, and reaches into the thigh pocket of his ACUs, pulling out an envelope.
I say as he tosses the envelope over to me, the paper scratching on the concrete as it slides the last few feet.
I open the envelope and take out the photo inside. The light of the exercise yard isn't great, but it's Christina, her face smiling at graduation as she side-hugs Karli Franklin, the both of them holding their tubed diplomas up and grinning happily. Still, I can see sadness I think in her eyes, and my throat tightens up, emotions welling hard inside me.
I say simply, with pride. I may be a prisoner, and I may be amongst my 'enemy,' but I am a man, and if Russia breeds anything, it breeds strong men. And I am proud of my feelings for Christina.
Simon shifts around again, and I wonder why he's so uncomfortable in ACUs. Maybe there's a rock over there, or maybe he has a recording device that he hasn't told me about?
Simon hums, then reaches into his back pocket, and I realize what's been causing him to shift around. He's got more papers back there.
Simon nods, then slides the other envelope across the concrete to me.
Simon stands up, switching to English. “It's pretty simple, actually. I work for... well, let's say I work for an Army unit that is interested in people like you. And my boss got a request from a friend of his, so he asked me to check you out. I think you can be an asset to us. So, you come and work for me, in my unit, and you're granted provisional release. You'll be paid, not much, but it’s a job. For that, you'll become... well, you'll become whatever I want you to become. You will live either in monitored barracks or with an agent that will be assigned to be your partner and your housemate. You do that for six years, and you'll be granted a pardon for the rest of your crimes, and given a new identity within the United States, if you wish. A fresh start. Go ahead, open the envelope.”
I tear open the flap and withdraw the single sheet inside, reading it. “The 52nd Regional Support Command Annex? It says here you work for the Reserves.”
“And you said for quite a few years that you were just a normal cadet,” Simon counters, and I nod in understanding. “We both have masks that we wear, Ivan.”
I understand, and fold up the paper. “Would I be allowed to contact Christina? I know the odds of a reply are low, but I'd like to at least be able to send her a letter. Someone has to have an address, an email, something I can use to contact her. It is all I really care about.”
“You never know. But yes, you'd be allowed to send things through the mail. What do you say?”
I bite my lip, chewing thoughtfully, then nod. “One more condition. I may not have great fondness for Russia, and I certainly owe them no loyalty, but I will not hurt the country where my mother still lives. I turned over the things I did on my mission in order to preserve the peace between us, and to protect Christina. Please do not ask me to hurt Russia any more.”
Simon nods, and offers his hand. “That I can do. You have any other countries you don't want to work against?”
“Well, I always have had a fondness for Canada, and maybe Curacao, it's a beautiful vacation spot,” I joke, and Simon laughs. I shake his hand, feeling the strength in his grip. Something in his smile and his face triggers a memory in me, and I raise an eyebrow. “Wait, just a moment. Simon Lancaster... I-1.... you wouldn't happen to fly helicopters?”
Simon smirks, and pats me on the shoulder. “Ivan, in the past few years, I've done all sorts of things. Come on, lets get your stuff packed. I assume you want to take your sketch pads with you?”
“I wouldn't leave Leavenworth without them,” I reply, then shake my head. “Actually, I would. But yes, I'd like to take them with me. I want to show them to Christina.”
Chapter 17
Christina
My feet ache in my combat boots as I follow the turn by turn directions on the brand-new little navigational system on the dash of my Honda, muttering to myself. I bought it yesterday after spending six hours driving around this gap in Virginia east of Lynchburg, finding all sorts of things (who knew that Virginia has a town called Hollywood?) but not finding the 52nd Regional Support Command Annex. Seriously, how can something be both east of Appamatox and west of Oakville? Is someone trying to jerk my leg?
Not that I'm sure I really want to find out. Except for the three weeks crashing with Karli and her family before she reported in early to Fort Huachucah, the two months of leave since graduation have been nothing but questions without answers.
Nobody can tell me what the 52nd exactly is. I tried calling the G-1 office at the Pentagon, I tried calling Reserve Command, I even actually tried calling the 52nd itself... no dice. The sergeant at the Pentagon that I spoke to said that her files on the 52nd were corrupted, and Reserve Command said the same thing. The phone number for the 52nd itself seems to always be either busy or nobody's picking up. I’m not sure if they’re really, really busy or really, really lazy.
I'm not even sure why I'm reporting anyway. I could contact the Pentagon, or maybe West Point itself, and turn in a letter of resignation. Sure, the Army would jump on me both feet for the hundred grand plus that they say a West Point education is worth, but I'd be in better shape than someone who went to Harvard for four years.
What keeps me going is the memory of what I saw in General Nelson's eyes right after I got my orders. There’s something to the 52nd, and I suspect he has something to do with it, and in the months that I was going to his house, I came to trust the man. He's trying to take care of me still, and part of that I think is him trying to set me up for success, either in the Army or beyond. He did say he talked to an old friend, maybe he's involved in the Reserves?
My car navigation tells me to turn right in fifty meters, and I see a small country road. Trusting the box, I make my turn, figuring that if I get lost I can try and call the 52nd again. Up ahead I see a gap in the trees, this is certainly a very country road, and then a building comes into view. The best I can describe it as is a throwback to the nineteen forties. Tall, curved, and metal, it's a Quonset hut, although one that looks like it should be anywhere but on a backwoods road in Virginia. There's a small brown sign though that reads “52nd Regional Support Command Annex” on it, and there's two cars parked out front. I guess this is it.
I park next to a blue Chevy Tahoe, complete with US Government license plates, which is at least a little encouraging. Whoever's here rates getting a car at least. I put on my patrol cap and walk up to the door, finding it both solid and locked. Next to it is a buzzer, and I hit it, looking up at the security camera, opening the door when it buzzes.
The inside of the hut is somewhat better than the outside, it looks like someone took the time to put up interior walls instead of just leaving the hut a giant cavernous space. There's an open door down the hall to my left, and I go over, calling out. “Hello?”
“In here,” a woman says, and I turn the corner, stopping in surprise. “Good to see you, I thought it'd take you another two hours to find this place.”
“Ashley Carlyle?” I ask, and she sits back, letting me see for the first time the Captain's bars on the rank tab of her ACUs. I snap to attention, saluting. “Ma'am, Lieutenant Christina Logan reporting as ordered!”
Ashley stands up and returns my salute, then grins. “So that's what it feels like, huh? I gotta remember that. Anyway, consider yourself reported in, and let me give you your first order. Unclench your ass and relax, Lieutenant. The 52nd isn't like any other unit you could join. I told you on the roof of Thayer to call me Ashley, that stands for now.”
“Uh... okay,” I reply, scratching at my ear. “If you don't mind, just what is the 52nd? I've spent weeks trying to find out, and the most I can seem to do is buy a car navigation system in order to find my way out here. By the way, your directions are all sorts of screwed up, I had to eventually use the street itself
to find this place. You're not even on Google Maps.”
“That's totally by design. Have a seat, Christina, and let me lay out the 52nd to you. Then I'm going to be giving you a choice. You might just be blown away by what I'm going to tell you.”
I sit down in the office chair Ashley indicates, sitting up straight for a moment before leaning back, intentionally relaxing. Ashley nods, then takes out a manila folder from her desk. “Have you ever heard the term quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
“Latin, right? I think I remember it. Who watches the watchmen?” I answer, and Ashley nods.
“Correct, you win the prize. Now, would you like to trade it in for what's behind door number two?” she wisecracks, then shakes her head, growing serious. “Anyway... the Army understood that problem long ago. While at some point the question becomes one of trust, before we get to that point, the government set up groups like the 52nd. Now, the most famous ones are public, like the CIA, the FBI, and a bunch of the rest of the alphabet soup agencies that run around Washington. The 52nd is... well, it's the Army's version of the answer to that question. Tell me, who deals with crime in the military?”
“The MPs and the JAG Corps,” I tell her, and Ashley nods. “You're telling me there's more.”
“Of course. What happens if a crime is beyond the scope of the MPs or the JAG Corps? What happens if the actions are matters of national security, or matters that aren't quite clear? The MPs have their Criminal Investigative Division, the CID, but what if it's a matter outside their area of expertise?” Ashley asks. “That's what the 52nd was set up as. We're the cleaners, and the people who keep track of the stuff that the Pentagon can't let the general public know about. Most of the time, we're not action oriented, but... well, sometimes we do have missions,” Ashley says. “For that, things can get quite exciting, even if your normal day to day work is usually pretty boring.”
