Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  After returning home a decorated Marine Recon Sniper in 1999, Marcus decided to leave the Corps and join his father in running the store. By the time his father passed away in 2001, Marcus had watched the store grow from the back corner of a bait and tackle shop to a 20,000 square foot facility equipped with an indoor shooting range and a fully configurable electronic shoot house.

  When Marcus learned that Spectre had a business degree and extensive web design experience from college, he didn’t feel so bad about giving Spectre a chance. And after only a year, Anderson Police Supply had become one of the foremost online dealers in firearms and tactical gear.

  Spectre arrived at the store well after business hours, but the parking lot was still full. Something must really be going on, he thought. He had spent the three-hour drive going over the possibilities in his head, but none of them seemed likely enough to cause Marcus to be so tight lipped. He really had no idea what to expect.

  He swiped his access card and opened the heavy metal door when the lock clicked open. The access control system had been installed shortly after the latest renovations, allowing better control and tracking of those employees who were able to access the building after hours. He then proceeded inside the large showroom, complete with multiple glass showcases. Handguns of all calibers and types were proudly on display inside each case, organized by manufacturer. Rifles of varying calibers and sizes were mounted behind each of the showcases on the wall. It was a gun lover’s heaven.

  Spectre noticed the staff crowded around the range rental counter of the store. He could barely make out Marcus’s gray hair standing behind it, apparently talking to the staff. He threw his backpack onto one of the showcases without slowing down and continued to where the others were gathered around.

  “No, it does not mean you’ll lose your job,” Marcus continued, apparently already midway through his speech. He paused and nodded as he noticed Spectre joining the crowd.

  “Then what does it mean?” one of the junior salesmen asked.

  “Would you let me finish? Do you think I won’t tell you?” Marcus barked. The junior salesman retreated, his face red. Spectre chuckled. That was Marcus. Patience and diplomacy would never be his legacy.

  “What’s going on?” Spectre whispered to the girl next to him. She was barely five feet tall with long brown hair and bright blue eyes. To Spectre, and to most of the males in the store, she was probably the most attractive girl there. Were it not for his pending engagement, he might have made a move on her. Perhaps even more successfully than the hundreds of guys that were being shot down on a daily basis.

  “The boss just announced that the store is downsizing,” she replied.

  “Downsizing how?”

  She replied with a finger to her mouth and pointed to Marcus, who was still staring down the junior salesman. Even at five foot nine inches and just over 170 pounds, Marcus was an expert in creating the fear of God in just about anyone.

  “As I was saying,” he continued, “we’re not downsizing staff for now. We’re going to move a lot of the floor salesmen... err... salespeople to the corporate accounts, internet sales, and range. We’re also going to be cutting back on the store hours. I don’t want to have to let people go, but you’re all going to have to work with me. This is the best I can do with the shit sandwich we’ve been given.”

  Marcus made it a point to make eye contact with every man and woman standing around that counter as if he were readying the troops for a final charge into battle. To Marcus, that wasn’t very far from the truth. For his business, this was do or die time. They had to either pull themselves out of the red and adapt to a changing economy, or face extinction.

  “That’s all I can say for now, folks. Just know that we’re going to work together and pull this through. Cal, can I talk to you in private?”

  Spectre nodded and walked behind the counter. He followed Marcus into his office and closed the door behind them. Marcus collapsed into his big leather chair and rubbed his temples.

  “Nice speech, boss. The troops are ready for war,” Spectre poked with a grin.

  “War is a lot easier than this shit. Way easier. You have a target. You have an objective. You kill him. This? This is a cluster fuck.”

  “What’s going on? When I left yesterday, things weren’t so doom and gloom. Sure, we had a bad quarter, but nothing we haven’t seen before,” Spectre replied. He was referring to the quarterly financial reports their accounting staff had put together the day prior. As expected, gun sales were down across the board. The only thing doing well was the internet sales department.

  “We were doing fine. Until this morning, and I got this,” he said as he handed Spectre a letter.

  Spectre took the letter and started reading. He couldn’t believe it. It was a non-renewal notice from the local Customs and Border Protection branch. One of their largest government contracts for supplying firearms, ammunition, and tactical gear was being terminated.

  “I’ve got a buddy at CBP; I’ll ask what’s going on.”

  “Don’t bother, I already talked to the Air and Marine Branch Chief in Homestead,” Marcus said, eyes closed as if what he was saying was also physically painful. “The President has cut funding to all Customs Air and Marine branches nationwide. He thinks this one might be closing altogether.”

  “It can’t be! This is one of the busiest branches in the country!” Spectre was beside himself. The Homestead Air and Marine Interdiction branch of CBP was the front line in the country’s battle against smugglers, drug runners, illegals, and terrorists. With a fleet of Blackhawk helicopters, AStar helicopters, Dash-8 surveillance aircraft, and trained interdiction agents, it was second only to the Tucson branch in activity.

  “I know. Fucking Democrats,” Marcus said with an exaggerated sigh.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Homestead, FL

  “I love you, I’m just not in love with you anymore,” she said. Her eyes were watering, but her tone was unwavering and she looked him right in the eyes. There was nothing left for interpretation.

  “Chloe, I don’t understand. Where did this come from?” Spectre was sitting on the couch right across from Chloe Moss. He was leaning forward, hanging on every word and every gesture from the woman he loved. The woman who, until just seconds ago, he thought loved him too.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, baby. It’s just not the same anymore. You’re not the same anymore.”

  He leaned back on the couch. Where did this even come from? They had been together for nearly five years, the last two of which they had been engaged. And despite no firm date for their wedding, he had never questioned their mutual resolve to be together.

  “What do you mean I’m not the same anymore? I’m the same man you fell in love with when you first showed up to the squadron. What’s going on?”

  From the moment they first met, Spectre thought Chloe Moss would be the only girl he would ever love. With her curly light brown hair and bright green eyes, Spectre was entranced by her the very first time they met at his desk.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me where Life Support is? I need to drop this stuff off.”

  Spectre looked up from his computer in what he’d later describe as a sensory overload. Even in the standard issue flight suit, she was beautiful. Her voice was angelic. She even smelled pretty.

  “Huh?” he replied. He was gawking, and a single syllable grunt was about the best he could have hoped for, given his surprise.

  “Hi, I’m the new pilot here. Lieutenant Chloe Moss,” she said, extending what amounted to her free hand as she struggled to hold her G-suit, helmet, and harness with both hands.

  He sat there for a second, staring at her barely outstretched hand, and then realized what was happening. She was the new Active Duty exchange pilot everyone had been talking about. After regaining his senses, he shook her hand and grabbed the falling harness from her arm.

  “Here, let me help you, Life Support is this way. I’m ‘Spect
re’ Martin. But you can call me Cal. Or Spectre. Or Captain Martin. Or ‘Hey You,’” he said with a sheepish grin. Smooth. Real smooth, Cal. Want to go ahead and tell her the names you just picked out for the children you’re going to have too, while you’re at it?

  Accepting the help, she followed him to the Life Support shop where pilots kept their flying gear.

  “Thanks, Captain Cal ‘Spectre’ Martin. You can call me Chloe. Or Eve since that’s technically my callsign,” she said with a wink.

  From that point on, their relationship progressed at record pace. Within a few months, just as Spectre was about to deploy on what would be the last deployment of his career, the squadron caught wind of their relationship.

  Despite the fact that they were essentially the same rank, and no undue influence existed in their relationship, the leadership was whole-heartedly opposed to their relationship. To them, if it wasn’t bad enough that she was the first female fighter pilot, it was worse that one of their own Reservists was dating her. It could not stand.

  And that began Spectre’s downfall with the Gators. As the leadership pushed back, he refused to yield. What he was doing wasn’t illegal, and they had determined that they were in love. To Spectre, separation was not an option. The squadron leadership even threatened to have her reassigned, and they would have too, if not for a political favor called in by her mother, a former Congresswoman.

  Despite the squadron pushback, their relationship seemed to press on stronger than ever. Spectre deployed with the squadron that had become very much against him while Chloe stayed home and continued her initial upgrade to become a Combat Mission Ready Wingman.

  After being sent home early from Iraq, Chloe and Spectre even took it a step further, opting to move in together with their two dogs. Their relationship continued to speed along as they became more and more committed to each other.

  And although Chloe continued to fly and slowly make progress with her career while Spectre awaited the outcome of his now famous strafing incident, the two never let it get between them.

  Spectre supported her as she struggled through the upgrade program. The squadron seemed to have it out for her, determined to make it painful for her to upgrade. She had re-flown several of the upgrade rides and her instructors had threatened a few times to have her pulled from the upgrade program to give her more time in the jet before trying again.

  Spectre helped her prepare and study for every flight, giving her advice on how to deal with the squadron that had turned its back on him, while Chloe listened patiently and gave him advice while he relived his own life changing moments over and over.

  It had been a tough decision to let it all go, but with his career behind him and the generals giving him a firm “hell no” on returning to the jet, Spectre decided to move on to civilian life. He would not lose Chloe and his career. He could manage moving with her every three years. He liked the stability the relationship gave him. So he finally proposed.

  Now he was sitting on their couch staring at the ring he had given her as she twisted it around on her finger. It had been his mother’s ring. He had kept it after his parents had been killed in a car accident. It had been his grandmother’s ring before that. It was the greatest gesture of love he could think of at the time.

  “Cal, I love you, but the spark is just not there anymore. You and I have grown apart, and I don’t think you even know who you are since you quit flying,” she said. She was no longer looking at him, but staring at the ring as she twisted it on her finger.

  “So what does this mean? You’re done? It’s over? You’re the one! We can make this work!” His eyes were starting to water.

  “I’m sorry baby, but I just don’t think so,” she replied with a tear rolling down her cheek.

  “I thought I was your symbolon, remember? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Spectre pleaded. It was a nickname Chloe had called him since the day he proposed. It was a term coined by Plato referring to two halves yearning to be joined as one. However, as Spectre asked the question, he realized she hadn’t called him that in a while. Maybe they really were growing apart after all.

  Chloe frowned. She pulled off the ring and looked at it. Time seemed to stand still as she offered it to Spectre.

  “Just like that?” he asked. His face felt flush and his heart sank as he took the ring from her.

  “I’ll sleep in the guest room until we figure out what we’re going to do with the house,” she offered as she wiped away the tears. Her tone had suddenly turned very business-like. She got up and walked past him, pausing to touch his shoulder. He grabbed her hand.

  “It’s for the best,” she said. She withdrew her hand and walked into the bedroom, her Golden Retriever following, and closed the door behind her.

  Spectre sat there, head in hands, trying to digest what had just happened. Zeus, his 100 pound German Shepherd, slowly approached and nudged his elbow with his nose. The dog sensed the pain, and was trying to cushion the blow the only way he knew how.

  “What the fuck just happened, Zeus?” But there were no explanations for Spectre, not even from the incredibly perceptive former military working dog.

  * * *

  “Mom, I did it. It’s over,” she said, holding the cell phone to her ear as she collapsed on the bed. Her voice was trembling as she tried to hold back the flood of tears.

  “Good for you sweetheart. He wasn’t good enough for you,” Maureen Ridley responded. Her voice was flat and unemotional.

  Chloe sat up and rubbed her bloodshot eyes with her free hand. Her mom had never liked Cal, but Chloe had always thought she’d eventually come around, especially after Cal solidified their relationship with his proposal.

  “Mom, I know you didn’t like him, but this is still hard,” Chloe said. “Everything is hard right now.”

  “Sweetie, you’re young. You will find the right guy,” Maureen responded reassuringly.

  Chloe hesitated for a minute. Part of her wanted to let her mom know about her secret, but she still wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen and she was afraid of what her mom might say. It was all such a blur.

  “Thanks, Mom. I just feel overwhelmed,” Chloe finally responded after a long silence.

  “Is the squadron still giving you trouble?”

  “Every day is a new battle, just like you told me it would be,” Chloe replied. As a Congresswoman, her mom had seen firsthand what it was like to be a successful woman in a male dominated profession. It was a constant uphill battle.

  “Do I need to make more phone calls?” Maureen asked.

  “No, Mom, it’s fine. They’re just doing it because I’m the first female fighter pilot. I won’t let them get to me. I’ll show them.”

  “That’s my girl,” her mom responded. “You’ll get through this like you’ve gotten through everything else. I’m proud of you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hialeah, FL

  Victor Alvarez waited patiently in his car as he prepared for his next meeting. It was completely dark out, except for the orange tint of the streetlights lining the street. He was parked across from the Hialeah U-StoreIt complex, a two-acre lot of climate controlled storage buildings. He had been very careful in arranging the meeting, reminding his contact to take random routes and ensure no one was following him.

  Alvarez watched as the main gate opened and the white truck gained entry. It was the late model Ford pickup he had been expecting. Just as he had instructed, the bed of the truck was filled with furniture so as not to draw attention. Alvarez would wait for the man to unload the furniture in the storage building he’d secured for them and then, when he was sure no one had followed them, he would meet the man in the alley behind the storage building.

  “My old friend, how was your journey?” he asked as the man rounded the corner into the alleyway. He was 5’8” and average build. He had short black hair with a thick mustache and dark skin. He was sweating from the combination of the South Florida humidity and his recent exertio
n. He was wearing a Members Only jacket and gray slacks.

  “Victor? I am well, thank you for getting me here,” he replied.

  Alvarez approached him with a file jacket in left hand and offered a handshake with his right. The man grasped his hand and pulled him closer into a hug.

  “No need for it, Abdul, it was easy,” Alvarez lied. Getting Abdul Aalee into the United States had been anything but easy. It had taken much time and patience to get everything perfectly into place without drawing the attention of the Americans, and even then, everything had almost been jeopardized at a marina in Marathon Key, FL.

  Getting Aalee out of Iraq had been the easy part. The DGI had contacts in Iran that made it easy for them to get people out of the Middle East once clear of American forces. With the drawdown of forces, there just weren’t enough patrols and surveillance to watch every square mile of the border between the two countries. Once across the border, the DGI agent on the ground in Iran escorted Aalee to Tehran, where travel was arranged under a fake alias and passport to Saudi Arabia. He stayed in the belly of the cargo ship carrying railway carriages produced by Wagon Pars to Cuba, where the DGI held him out of sight of the American spy agencies.

  With a new identity and passport, he flew to Mexico and then to Bermuda. From Bermuda, his hosts had arranged a 65 foot Azimut yacht to take him to America. They used the yacht to blend in with the hundreds of ships celebrating the regatta off the coast of Southern Florida, and then went to port in Marathon Key, FL.

  Despite cutting his hair and trimming his beard except for the bushy mustache, a boater in the marina had managed to spot him. The boater had been retired Army intel, and had recognized the man from the daily threat briefings while deployed in Iraq. The boater alerted local police who stopped Aalee to question him. With convincing American credentials and many threats of filing suit for harassment, Aalee and his handler were able to convince the Americans that they were just boaters enjoying the beautiful weekend weather.